Busted Flush by George R. R. Martin Page B

more or less toward the setting sun, so Drake figured they were headed west. They might be flying over Pyote. Hell, it could be New Mexico or Arizona for all Drake knew. Desert didn’t look like much from the air. The soldiers spoke to each other every now and then in some kind of military talk that didn’t make much sense to him, but most of the time they were quiet.
    Drake was already tired when they took off, and by this point he could barely keep his eyes open. The seat hurt his butt, but the discomfort didn’t keep him from sliding off into sleep. He couldn’t tell when the dream started.
    He was naked in the middle of a landscape covered with fires. His feet burned. His ass hurt. Even his nose and eyes hurt. The
whoop-whoop-whoop
of helicopter blades caught his attention and he began waving his arms. The chopper door opened and something silvery fell heavily to the scorched earth.
    “Pick up the garment and put it on,” boomed a voice. The helicopter settled to the ground, sending a cloud of dust into Drake’s nose and eyes.
    Coughing, Drake unfolded the silvery suit. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before, one-piece, but zippered everywhere, and he struggled to get his arms and legs inside. He was relieved to have something to cover himself with, but this was bulky and he’d sweat like a pig in it. There was a hood with dark plastic where his eyes would go, but Drake didn’t pull it over his head.
    A person dressed in a suit like the one Drake had just put on beckoned to him from an open door. Drake squinted and ducked down as he moved toward the helicopter
    “Hey, kid. You okay?” The soldier on his right side was nudging Drake in the ribs.
    Drake sat up straight, straining his belly against the confines of the safety belt. He was still having the dreams, even without the medication. Maybe there was still some left in his system. That must be it. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    The helicopter slowed and descended rapidly. Drake craned his neck and peered through the window plate. The chopper was kicking up a bunch of sand around the small, asphalt landing area that was ringed with a few blinking lights. There were more soldiers, or guards of some kind, waiting when he stepped outside.
    One of the soldiers from the helicopter held Drake aside while the other one talked to a uniformed man who’d been waiting for them. The man was young, Hispanic, and built like an athlete. His uniform was sharp and pressed, but it wasn’t the same as the soldiers’ outfits. Drake squinted and made out the letters “BICC” on a badge he was wearing. The soldiers got back into the helicopter and the BICC man walked over to him. Drake felt a powerful hand on his shoulder.
    “Hello, Drake,” he said. “Welcome to your new home.” He headed down a concrete ramp with Drake in tow.
    “I don’t need a new home,” Drake puffed. “I want to go back to Pyote, where my family is.”
    They reached a large, metal double door with guards on either side. One of them waved Drake and the BICC man through. The door opened into an elevator. The man guided Drake in and waited for the doors to close, then inserted a key and turned it. They began to descend. It took a long time. In fact, it was probably the longest elevator ride of Drake’s life.
    “Who are you?” Drake tried unsuccessfully to push the hand off his shoulder.
    “You can call me Antonio,” the man said. “Or you can call me Justice. It’s up to you, but use a respectful tone in either case. That goes for how you speak to everyone here.”
    “Yes, sir.” Drake almost choked on the words. The doors opened into a reception area with more guards and a couple of people sitting behind their desks, typing or maybe just trying to look busy. They all stopped what they were doing when they saw Drake.
    Justice guided Drake over to the nearest desk. There was a woman sitting behind it. Her pinched face and ugly-ass hair made Drake think she hadn’t had any fun in her entire