Joe awoke in the hyperbaric chamber, the pure oxygen flooding his veins with fire, unused parts of his brain blossoming into semi-life.

“Where am I?” he asked, the external speaker crackling.

“You’re on Air Force One,” Kamala said, looming into his viewport. “You’re Joe Biden, the President of the United States and I am your Vice-President, Kamala Harris.”

“I know all of that, Jack,” Joe snapped. “I’m light-headed and woozy and I need a phosphate to settle my stomach.”

Kamala worked the controls on the side of the chamber and Joe smiled.

“That feels good,” he said, eyelids heavy and happy.

“Too much, too much,” Kamala muttered to herself and upped the methadrine flow.

“I need you sharp, Joe, real sharp,” she said into the microphone.

“Why? Why?” Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“We going to Georgia, Joe.”

“The Devil went down to Georgia!” he astonished.

“It’s alright,” she cooed as she worked her phone.

 

 

“I taste metal and cold,” Joe whispered.

Kamala made the medication adjustment and frowned.

“He was looking for a soul to steal,” Joe said, tears welling up his eyes. He took a deep, rattling breath and coughed, blood-flecked septum splashing against the viewport.

“We are going on a Civil Rights walking tour, Joe,” she said.

“I know what’s good for the South, and good for the Negro and good for the Black in the South,” Joe said. “Superpredators. I have to protect them from themselves.”

“No, this is the voter turnout push, Joe,” she said and winced. “But don’t say that, of course.”

“Say what?”

“Historic, Joe. Voting Rights. Republicans bad.” Kamala bit her lip and sent a jolt of electricity through the reinforcement system.

“I was at Selma,” Joe said. “I was bitten by a firehose.”

The plane thunked and shuddered as the landing gear deployed.

“Fuck it, close enough,” she said as felt the plane begin to descend.