Legion III

Garrison was rushed by ambulance to Bounty Hospital on the edge of Bounty, the quicker picker upper of cities. In Bounty, everyone has what they need, hence the name. Since they al have what they need, they all watch out for themselves. Anyway, he was rushed via gurney into Bounty's hospital. His fat, lifeless body limply pooled itself across the hard cushion like a puddle of molten bree, his skin the ashen rind. Destination: the ER.

Four nurses congregated around a computer screen, all of them behind a screen designed in such away that anxious patients, their family and their friends couldn't see what the nurses were doing. But these nurses were standing up and laughing, they were on break. Meanwhile, a woman who began vomitting every twenty minute or so about 6 hours earlier, before moving on to dry heaving, began vomitting blood. In a gesture of good will, the nurses had given her a green waste paper container in case she needed to do something other than dry heave. All across the waiting room the other forty or so victims of severe trauma watched as the woman made Christmas.

Garrison's wound was luckily serious enough to merit a free pass to the head of the line. No waiting for Garrison. His throat got slashed. After pumping blood into Garrison and ghouling their way around his body with needles and knives, the doctors had brought him back to life and he lay sprawled across a white sheet, Scrubs at his side.

He woke up four days later.

"Gurpleblurplewurple," he said.

"Don't try talk uhm, mister, Bill."

The doctor tried to stifle his laughter but could not. Garrison moaned in anguish at his predicament and moved his head from side to side, leering uneasily out of the cheaply adorned hospital window. Stiff and dun, the curtains hung, framing the dew as it rose off of Bounty. He was in pain, his doctor was a cretin and it was dawn.