Chapter Text
"Stand back!" He attempts at authoritativeness, but his voice is shrill and frantic, no different, no more composed than the men on the other side of the wall. The men do not seem to heed his instructions. A spike of irritation, followed by fear, panic—but he still has his wits about him and he lets them fall muted under a wash of directed urgency. No matter how he feels, their lives are in his hands and he must act. Now.
He tries again, firmer, louder this time, but his words are still strained and no more audible against the din. The canvas continues to bulge and writhe as the men struggle against it. The tent glows with light, and he can feel the heat just on the other side. His grip tightens around the knife in his hand. There is no other option.
He plunges the knife through the canvas and into flesh, down to the hilt. The motion is familiar, as are the subtle vibrations transmitted through the knife handle as it sinks in. The familiarity is not a comfort.
He forces the knife upwards in stuttering steps with a series of grunts; it is not a clean cut by any means. It is not the fault of his knife, he knows, but his own technique. He cannot be faulted for such performance under the circumstances, but still, an odd sense of shame settles over him.
Doctor McDonald is the first to emerge from the gash in the tent. He sways precariously, eyes wide and incredulous with shock. Hickey meets his gaze, and the feeling of shame grows. He hopes, inexplicably, that the man will survive his injuries—a forgiveness in itself—but when he looks into his glassy stare, he finds no future, no forgiveness; there is nothing at all. MacDonald only chokes up a mouthful of blood and staggers forward. Hickey reflexively recoils in disgust, quickly stepping aside to avoid the doctor falling upon him; McDonald hits the ground with an icy crunch.
In an instant, the writhing mass of bodies spills forth from the tent. Hickey is buffeted on all sides, forced backwards, while he watches the doctor trampled underfoot. He resists, attempting to reach for the doctor, but a moment's thought tells him the man is most certainly dead by now. He lets himself be swept away by the tide.
He finds himself in the center of a milling crowd. Around him, the men commiserate. Some cheer, some embrace, some weep. Hickey does none of these. He is hollow, simply resonating with the thrum of living men around him. It is a heady towering feeling, and he revels in it: they are here because of him—but still, it's undercut by something cold and dark, gazing upon him in judgement, and under its relentless pressure, soon the entire structure is washed away. No, he will not get their gratitude, nor will he ask for it. To do so would invite ruin. Like many other secrets, it will be one he keeps by himself.
Distantly, wood and canvas continue to burn.