Evacuation in Wartime: The Journey Begins.
As she approached the bus, Carla was feeling both nervous and disappointed, but mostly nervous. The scene in front of the large blonde 18-year-old was full of activity, as the luggage which was strewn all over the broad sidewalk was being slowly stashed into the underneath of their coach. Many of her fellow evacuees were assisting Marco the bus driver, to stow the items, as others lined up to get aboard the coach. As she deposited her own bags, Carla was feeling the anxiety keenly.
The cause of her anxiety was clear enough. The day before they arrived at Douglas, they were told about the surprise cruise missile attack, which had taken out the bridge over Willow River, on the main highway from Douglas to Port Sirius. They had been informed that this cut to the highway would keep them in Douglas for several days, so after they arrived at the deserted Residences late the previous night, they had expected a welcome break in their trek from Darlington. Now they were unexpectedly on the move again, going to join with a military convoy.
The war had been dragging on for nearly a year already, and the front was dangerously close to the city of Darlington. For many weeks, coaches like theirs had been evacuating children and youths. Their group was headed to Port Sirius in two big new busses. One was for the children and the four middle-aged women from the Evac Agency who ran things, while their own coach was for the older girls. Boys, and some especially warlike girls and non-binaries, had stayed behind, and were in the Civil Defense or Ambulance Brigades.
As she stood among the bustling luggage handlers, Carla felt her stress levels go through the roof. All she heard was talk of missiles, and it was making her ill. She shuffled forward, past the line at the front of the bus, in search of some quiet. It was the middle of the afternoon, barely two hours since they had been given notice to get ready for the next leg of the trip, and her enormous lunch was not sitting well at all.
There were some big travel cases propped against the wall up ahead, and Carla carefully eased herself down onto the furthest one. A hundred yards further along, she could see the other bus. In front of her were several other assorted bits of luggage, waiting to be stashed. However, Carla could not stop thinking of the missiles. The combination of worrying, and all the good things she had eaten at the Special Lunch, was making her feel like throwing up.
Another five minutes, and Serena paused while grabbing some bags, to observe the busty blonde perched on the large case. She hefted the luggage, turned towards the bus, and made her way towards the side of the vehicle, where both of the enormous hatches were up. The Fox Twins, Ellie and Emma, were passing, headed to the scattering of bags near where Carla was.
‘Hey guys. You might wanna check on Carla there. She does not look too good’.
‘Sorry, what?’ The twins paused.
‘Oh, it may be nothing. But I was just over there, and Carla seems a bit … sort of … off’.
By now, Carla was queasy, and she knew that she was going to puke. The stress, and the Special Lunch … oh dear, what a deadly combination. It was not really her fault. She could not have known that they were going to be directed back on the road, and in an army convoy of all things. And the Special Lunch had been such a great gesture from the Douglas Evac Committee. All that lovely food, after they had been living off sandwiches, and biscuits scavenged from army ration packs, for the previous two days.
The twins approached Carla, and began to pick up bags.
‘Hey Carla, you might need to get up in a minute, we will have to grab that case you’re on’. The other twin took a closer look at the stricken girl.
‘Hey, you don’t look too good. Are you OK?’ She had turned quite green.
There was a long pause, as Carla tried to get it together. Eventually she spoke, in a wobbly voice.
‘I’m going to vomit everywhere’.
The twins exchanged meaningful glances. Carefully putting down the bags, they took up their positions on either side of Carla, and very gently lifted her to her feet.
‘OK, don’t worry. We’ve got you. Let’s get you over to the side of the pavement’.
The number one priority of the Fox Twins was to get Carla clear of the luggage, before she blew chunks. As for Carla, all she was thinking about now was the plethora of little cheese quiche pies and custard tarts and apricot-filled pastries, and other delicious things, which now filled her stomach. It was all wanting to come back up. Everything. She desperately swallowed another mouthful of salty fluid. Where did it come from? When they were not far from the gutter, she suddenly felt deeply nauseated, and she shook free from the twins. She rushed to the edge of the sidewalk, and crouched forward.
The first thing Carla felt, as she leaned further over, with her hands on her legs just above the knees, was a tight clench and heave, and then her stomach pushing out a gush of hot, bitter liquid. The thin lumpy vomit sloshed down, splashing all over the road surface. Then it was finished.
Behind Carla, the twins and Serena stood in a group, staring at the modest puddle of pale peach-colored barf on the road. The other person who was staring at the mess was Lauren, who was leaning on the side of the bus just in front of the door, only a few inches from the headlamps. Fresh puke splatter was absolutely the last thing Lauren needed to see right now.
After briefly feeling better, Carla was now about to throw up again. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and felt another heave wrack her body. A plume of lumpy sick erupted out of her, exploding forth with unexpected strength. This was a big one. Feeling like a bag of vomit, Carla hurked-up more and more sick. It eventually ended, but then she puked again, just as violently.
The gush became a sloppy dribble, and then it dripped to an end. Little by little, Carla recovered from the awful experience. She stood up straight. Try as she might not to look, she could not help glancing down at the pile of chunky hurlage in front of her. The sight of all the chunks and splatter made her want to throw up again, and so she crept over, several yards towards the bus, and leaned heavily on a power pole there. While the twins and some others cleared away the luggage, Serena went over and stood with her, making sure that she was OK.
‘Are you feeling any better?’
‘I was, but now I think I’m going to be sick again’.
At the bus, Lauren was trying desperately not to look at the pile of puke on the road up ahead. She had been feeling sick all day, although for some reason she had a good appetite when they were at the Special Lunch event. When she had taken up her post at the coach door an hour ago, she intended to supervise the operation, but all she could do was to lean on the bus. Her normal role as unofficial leader of the evacuees was not relevant, as the nausea rose.
With her mouth watering unnaturally, Lauren looked in horror as Carla placed one hand on the power pole, and the other on her leg, and assumed the position. Leaning forward over the gutter, Carla prepared herself for the surge of vomiting, but it never arrived. Burping, and spitting out saliva, she waited in vain, and eventually resumed her former posture. She still felt like she was about to toss her cookies, but nothing was actually happening. It was frustrating.
When Lauren saw Carla resume the crouching position, she prayed that it might be another false alarm. So did Carla, although something told her that it was definitely not going to be a false alarm this time. After a momentary pause, she felt an overwhelming sick feeling sweep over her body, as her abdomen heaved, and her stomach gave up much of its contents.
What Lauren saw then, was Carla dip forward, open her mouth, and then erupt like a volcano. A mostly white avalanche was gushing down for a few moments. It narrowed to a pour, and then continued, until there was a pile a couple of inches thick spread all over the road and into the gutter. After a short hiatus, another long outpouring took place. In the end, the splatter of peach-white barf was at least double the size of the first one. Everybody had stopped what they were doing, and they were transfixed by the spectacle.
After initially stepping away, Serena was now next to Carla, stroking her back, while trying not to breathe through her nose. One of the twins drifted over, with a handful of tissues. It was Emma, and Ella was keeping away, because she had also eaten too much, and was keen to avoid any stimulus that might make her feel unwell.
‘Here you go. Some tissues’.
‘Thanks’. Her voice was harsh and raspy, from all of the vomiting. She began to spit out lumps and clear her nose, and was thankful that she had tied her hair up.
Meanwhile, Lauren had adjusted her position at the front corner of their coach. The small but amazingly fit blonde-brunette had inched her way forward, so that she now had a clear view of the gutter, just in case. The strong aroma of freshly puked up vomit was all around. Feeling dizzy and really unwell, Lauren was cursing herself for lacking discipline, and eating nearly a whole plate of mini apple pies, each one topped with sugar and a dob of cream. They were repeating on her now.
The two big square hatches came down, and were securely locked, as the last few evacuees in the line stepped up into the coach. With Serena and Ella escorting her, Carla also ascended into the coach, and was sat down in the window seat directly behind the driver’s compartment. Outside, Lauren was still leaning on the front corner of the vehicle, preparing to throw up everywhere. Her whole body was aching, and she was coming to the conclusion that she had the stomach flu.
With hands on his hips, standing on the sidewalk, Marco the driver watched the last but one of his passengers go aboard. Then he waited for Lauren, who was the boss when the Committee ladies were not there, to give the all clear and get aboard. She seemed not to notice him.
‘Excuse me’. Nothing happened, and in fact Lauren was getting ready to hurl all over the road in front of the bus. ‘Excuse me. Miss Lauren!’
When Lauren turned, she saw Marco pointing anxiously to the open door of the coach. It was time to go, and she forced herself to not feel like hurling everywhere. With a brave face but as pale as a ghost, she labored up the steep steps, and across the section of floor next to the driver’s compartment, then she stepped up to the aisle. She would definitely be needing to get off the bus to throw up, and it made sense to take the first aisle seat, next to Carla.
When Marco was behind the controls, he used his phone to check with the other driver, in the bus in front of them. Then, both busses roared into life, and they pulled out, slowly making their way to the main road out of town. Slumped in her chair at the front of the coach, Lauren was having difficulty keeping her lunch down, as they drove towards the checkpoint on the outskirts of Douglas. Next to her, Carla had tilted her chair back and appeared to be asleep.
Since shortly after the missile had destroyed the bridge, trucks and other vehicles had been obliged to pull over and form a long queue. The soldiers waved the two busses through, past the long line of stalled highway users. They were heading to a place called Base Delta, located a couple of miles beyond the military checkpoint just up ahead. They would be joining the convoy which was to traverse a newly enhanced back road, by-passing the defunct bridge.
The bus trundled through the checkpoint, waved on by soldiers in uniform, and was headed to Base Delta, when Carla suddenly opened her eyes. Without any warning, she pitched forward, and puked on the floor. She was bent right over, retching again and again, but except for the initial gush of barf, hardly anything was coming up. The smell was not good.
By the time the Base was visible, to the side of a gentle rise, Lauren was swallowing bitter saliva, and she thought that she was about to blow for certain. Feeling a heave coming on, she quickly slapped her hand across her mouth. They were nearly there, and all she needed to do was to hang on until they stopped at the Base, then she could get off, and hopefully find a bush to be sick behind. That was the plan.
From small beginnings at the start of the conflict, in a field used to graze sheep, Base Delta had become a large gravel square, surrounded by rows of trucks, mobile artillery, shipping containers, and a large array of army tents. The two coaches drove into the square and parked, near some other vehicles painted army green, and a cluster of uniformed military people. The door opened, and Marco swung across onto the floor area, then down the steps, and out.
Through the open door swept the acrid scent of diesel fuel and exhaust fumes, making Lauren once again grip her mouth, and narrowly escape hurling. She glanced at the open door. Now was her chance to escape from the confines of the bus, and finally do what had to be done. There was no bush to dash behind, but she did not care anymore. She began to stand up.
Just as Lauren started to rise from her chair, there was a flurry of activity. Having received curt instructions from the captain, Marco had re-entered the coach, and was bounding up the steps. Confused, Lauren subsided back down in her chair. The engine roared, the doors slammed shut, and the coach began to exit the compound. As they left the Base, and joined the military trucks on the road, all Lauren could think of was the apple pastries, and the cream which was bringing her so close to throwing up.
The convoy crawled up the remaining part of the rise, and at the top, turned off onto a narrow side road. Everywhere there was evidence of the army engineers, roughly fixing up the humble country road, so that large trucks could use it. And busses.
As the coach headed down a long and mostly straight stretch, Lauren felt a weird sick feeling, and her face became hot. They were halfway down, when she jumped up out of her seat, stepped down onto the floor next to the driver’s alcove, and began begging Marco to pull over.
‘Stop the bus. I’m going to throw up’.
‘No. You don’t understand. I need to be sick. … *URP* … You have to stop the bus. NOW’
‘Really sorry, Miss Lauren. We’re not allowed to stop. We’re in convoy. No stops allowed. Back to your seat’.
He did not say it, but Marco was very concerned that Lauren might blow chunks all over the controls of the coach. He wanted her as far away as possible, and was furiously waving her to go back. Just up ahead was the first bend of the eighteen which would take them zig-zagging up the steep hill.
Defeated, Lauren turned away from the driver, and faced the coach full of evacuees. She took some shuffling steps to the edge, and was about to step up to the aisle, when they hit the tight bend. Almost losing her balance, Lauren grabbed the corner of the barrier, which was between the first two seats on the non-driver side, and the steps to the door.
As she tightly gripped the rail, she stood there, and looked at the faces. Many of them were staring at her. The bad feeling had returned, and before she could stop it, her body shuddered, her stomach clenched, and a fountain of sick began flooding out of her. As more and more puke poured forth, Lauren went from a standing posture to a bending one. There was spew going everywhere.
They were out of the bend, and headed for the second one, when Lauren barfed up another torrent of lumpy white vomit onto the floor at the end of the aisle, thickly covering it. She barely had time to get her breath, when a third cascade blurted out, further inundating the aisle. This one refused to stop, as the half-digested pastries and liquid kept pouring down. It finally ended, and she stepped up and resumed her seat, just as they were about to negotiate the second switchback bend.
Most of the passengers had stared at Lauren as she threw up, with those in aisle seats getting an especially good view of the entire catastrophe. What a way to begin the journey.
