L
Walking the concourse, he recalled being short of breath. Flushed in sweat, he was panting. His carry-on pack felt heavier than normal. He knew he packed it heavy with all of his electronics, second wallet, travelling documents, and reading material. He was forced to stop and lean on a recliner to gather his breath. That’s it. Nothing after.
‘Copenhagen airport?’
‘Yes. You were found unconscious on lassiez-faire seating in the departure lounge-
‘Suspected intoxication-
‘You were moved to emergency triage where symptoms manifested.’
‘What symptoms?’
‘We’re waiting on test results. Rest now. Lunch is being prepared. We’ll discuss any concerns when I return with the results.
As soon as the doctor left, pandemic sounds of crisis infiltrate the medical bivouac, growing louder, closer, more intense. Louie capitulated to his unquenchable desire to peel back the plastic curtain.
The marquee maze of gabled white peaks trapped a swell of stricken urgency, order, and subdued panic. Flight crews and civilians traipsed past Louie with stunned expressions and heavy gaits, dragging luggage, looking lost. Jostling around them and hurrying between were emergency workers dressed in white coats or blue medical scrubs with surgical mask. The only way Louie could identify them was by the bottom of their clothing and their shoes and there were all sorts. A bedlam of trainers, clogs, work boots, heels, sequined sandals, dress shoes.
Louie weaves like smoke to the short end of the row of examination tents. A small, old oriental woman squats on her haunches over a camping stove, frying a slab of pink flesh. She looks up at Louie.
‘Your lunch. You shouldn’t leave.’
‘What is it?’
The woman shrugs, ‘Duck?’ then adds, ‘I never cook before.’
Louie sees the sides of the skin start to yellow like a nicotine stain.
‘Keep cooking it skin down until super crispy, turn over, take off the heat to let it rest in the hot pan and you’re done.’
The woman nods, giving Louie no indication whether she understood or cared what he had said. Mirrored alleyways of temporary shelters fork off in all directions, loitered with dislocated travellers and more hawkers. The clinical fluorescent white lighting buzzing from the high rafters shadows a shantytown desperation, and Louie feels a seafaring dizziness rising. He tries to focus. Sounds are drowning in a plangent noise droning inside his ears. Where was his family and why was he in Copenhagen? And why can’t he remember where he was headed? His thoughts are fuzzy and adrift, and he gets distracted trying to work out how he knew so precisely how to cook duck. What is duck? He didn’t eat duck did he?
Louie’s balance slips. He grimaces and fights to maintain concentration as he returns to a vacant enclosure. He hears a sharp, distant PA broadcasting garbled updates. Is it even in his own language, he wonders. Louie can’t make sense out any of the announcements and waves at a passing troop of armed military guard with gas masks for faces. One stops, urging the others to keep going.
‘Sorry I can’t understand what’s going on,’ Louie squints, pointing upwards.
‘Personnel announcements. No need to worry.’
‘How do I leave? I don’t think I belong here.’
There’s a muffled chuckle.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I… ummm-
‘Home, I guess.’
‘Where’s home.’
Again, Louie hesitates and stammers, hoping the right words will come. His mind is blank. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember,’ Louie finally admits, ‘long haul flying, am I right?’
‘Do you know what year it is?’
‘2023,’ Louie confidently states and as soon as he says it, he doubts himself.
‘Well, this is home for now,’ the guard replies, his jovial fleer supplanted by a softer tone Louis recognises as pity from behind the expressionless mask.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You try finding someone here who can remember how to pilot a plane,’ the guard explains while turning back around to face the arena of fear and doubt.
That’s when Louie senses the collective dread. Something is deeply wrong, and the cold, quiet terror of not knowing stiffens like mind hackles. He tries to remember other details but it feels like he’s grovelling in the dark and starts get a headache. The guard is about to resume his duty when he stops, as if remembering something.
‘Just don’t forget to hold on to what you’ve got.’
‘Okay,’ Louie replies, confused.
He looks around and see a duffel bag and daypack on a white plastic foldup chair. They must be his.
