Alcohol Kills Germs

Posted on 07 Aug 2024 @ 7:04am by James Flint

620 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Stranded
Location: Fat Alice's

Barman’s log, Stardate.. Flint’s forehead scrunched up in thought momentarily, I think it’s Tuesday. Space, the final happy hour. The USS Fat Alice continued her indefinite mission: to explore strange new levels of intoxication, to seek out new life and see what happens after a few, to boldly go where no man has been to sober to go before!

A grin spread across James Flint’s face. He was enjoying his new role more than he expected. The transition was considerable, but now the bar top was his bridge and Fat Alice’s his command. His grin inverted momentarily at the name he had inherited; who the hell came up with Fat Alice’s anyway? He shook away the thought, shifting his gaze to the two teal clad crewmen who were his sole patrons currently. A brief non-verbal exchange confirmed their libations were in good standing.

James began to turn away when the entire room abruptly turned around him. The moment of extreme violence was followed by darkness and silence. Even though he now found himself laid out on the floor, James had managed to instinctively catch the unlabeled bottle that flew out from underneath his ‘bridge’. Priorities, after all. His other instincts kicked in as he absorbed his situation, the silence interrupting his thought process. Silence. No. Moving with a much greater sense of purpose, he crossed the room as much by feel and intuition to the two member’s of the ship’s crew.

They were silent, unmoving. Flint cleared a space, laying the two in the clearing. The first was breathing, although not conscious. Good, not great, but good enough. The second was not so fortunate; the amount of blood on the young man’s uniform was telling enough before the bartender could even begin. Despite moving as quickly as he could, it took some time to find all the injuries and defer treatment towards the most severe. The gash to his face that turned his teal uniform a sickly red was not much to look at, but relatively superficial. The red caught Flint’s eye, “There are easier ways to the bridge, son.” He whispered to himself with a dark grin, “Not losing a red shirt on my watch.”

The leg injury was most troubling, deep on the inner thigh. Tearing portions of the damaged uniform free, he packed the wound and created the closest thing to a pressure dressing as he could make with what was at hand. His patient involuntarily recoiled in pain the first aid was applied, bringing the faintest glimmer of hope to Flint, if he could feel then he’s still alive for now. Popping the flip-top off the saved bottle, the clear high-proof liquor made a fine anti-septic as he did his best to dress the less pressing injuries. James took the comm badge off the crewman, mentally chastising himself for leaving his own behind the bar.

“Flint to..” He stopped talking, hoping he just didn’t hear the familiar chirp. Another attempt to activate the device was met with silence. Slowly the emergency lighting began to flicker across the room, but only just. At the same time, James realized the second crewman began to roll onto his side. Taking stock of his situation, James began to realize how dire the Cygnus’ circumstances most certainly were. No communications, surely catastrophic damage, unknown casualties. He couldn’t do much from his placeon Deck 19, but the plan was already forming to help those he could.

The crewman and barman locked eyes with one another before Flint spoke, “Good morning, sunshine. I could use another pair of hands.”

OFF:

Serving up first-aid at Fat Alice's;

James Flint
Bartender, USS Cygnus

 

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