My (yet untitled) sub-themed short story

[juk321]

I started to write it one evening after playing Cold Waters. I thought it might be a good way to improve my knowledge of the language and to write something about two of my favourite topics (navy and Southeast Asia) at the same time. English is not my native language and i don't really have much experience with English language literature, but tried my best. Hope you'll like it! Tell me whether you want me to continue it!
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The first thing i felt was a terrible banging in my head. Like a huge bell ringing deep inside my brain. Besides that, it was just darkness. I could not open my eyes, but i used the fact that my brain was slowly starting up already, and tried desperately to figure out what the hell happened, but i falied. The last thing i remember was beign at my house in Bali, talking with someone, a young man. But who was that?
Just as i thought that, my eyes started to work again. At first, my vision was blurry, but then I begun to differentiate shapes and colours. I was in a small, dark room lit only by a caged red lamp on the curved celling. A young man of Asian face wearing a red shirt and a surgical gown (it was only half-tied, propably because of heat – i couldn't feel it yet, but the man's face was definitely sweating, and i knew the natives sweat only when it gets really hot) was leaning towards me. As soon as i felt a rubbery touch of medical glove on my arm, I jerked violently, but the man only smiled and pointed a finger downwards. I saw his lips moving, but wasn't able to hear what he's speaking. Am i deaf forever?
I looked downwards. I was lying on a bed, still wearing the same flowery shirt and cotton shorts i wore at home. The bed was made of green leather, like in an old doctor's office, ad my extremities were strapped to it with leather belts so tightly it almost stopped blood circulation in them. In my left arm was stuck an IV, connected to a bag of fluid hanging over my head and swaying repeatedly from left to right. Am I on a ship?
I finally started to regain hearing. Silently at first, then louder, but I started to understand the man's speech. He was speaking English, but with a very strong accent
'OK, OK, it's OK, pak! Don't move!' he said repeatedly with a calm voice „You will damage your IV if you move a lot.”
'Where...where am I?” i asked in Indonesian, hoping that he will understand me.
„You will learn soon, pak” The doctor visibly winced when he heard the language, which was quite strange, but answered in it „We will need your services!”
He turned his head away towards the table and started manipulating with the surgical tools lying there on a metal tray
„Can...can you unstrap me?” I asked
„Not now” he answered, making a forbidding gesture with his finger „The agent already left your brain, but it is still in your legs and hands. This is why I placed turniquets there. If I release the straps now, you would fell back into coma!”
I immediately got goosebumps all over my body.
„What, ****ing, agent!?” I asked furiously, trying to force the restrains free „Who the hell wanted to kill me?”
„It's a combination of our traditional ingredients and our allies' technology” the doctor said with a pride „It's called M-67. It can have some dangerous side effects, but it is the best when it comes to actions like this”
At that moment my sense of temperature finally returned. It was boiling!. The air in the room was damp and hot. I could feel a smell of unwashed bodies and moisture.
„I'm sorry for the heat, pak” The doctor noticed i'm soaking with sweat and gave me a plastic cup of water. It tasted like it was treated with chlorine „We're rigged for silent running, and the ventilation is off!”
Silent running! So we're on a submarine! That explains everything!
Suddenly, the door opened and another man appeared, wearing a strange uniform of red shirt with rolled up slevees (i could see tattoos on his arm) and a black beret with a black-and-white feather stuck into it. He started talking with the doctor using a language I didn't know, the only thing I understood from the whole conversation were some Indonesian words like „commander” , „ship” and „doctor”. Finally, the newcomer spoke to me in Indonesian. Like the doctor, he visibly hated this language.
„Pak, the commander asks you to the conn. Come with me, please.”
The doctor unstrapped me, and I got up without thinking. My head was still spinning and I almost tripped at first, because I still couldn't feel my legs.
I left the room and entered a small corridor, locked with watertight hatches from both sides. The boat was certainly on battle stations.
I noticed my guide has a submachine gun slung over his shoulder. The weapon was Chinese, although its' owner was, like the doctor, surely of Southeast Asian descent. I also noticed Chinese labels on switches and control panels haphazardly covered with duct tape, on which were written new labels in a mixture of Indonesian and another unknown language.
„Move!” the officer waved the gun's barrel in the direction of the hatch in front of us. They clearly didn't trust me. If they did, they certainly would not bring me here with this supercharged roofie they used.
I stopped at the hatch, he opened it, alternating his attention between the mechanism and me, and with one finger close to the trigger all the time. In this manner, we passed another two compartments, one of them was a mess hall, and another propably a crew quarters, untill we finally entered the command room.
It was flooded with weak red light and considerably more cramped that the ones on boats I was used to. All positions were occupied by crewmen, all wearing blood-red shirts. Some of them – propably officers or NCOs – were wearing familiar black berets with a varying number of black-and-white feathers. One of them – who was standing close to the periscope in the center of the room and talking over the phone – had his shirt unfastened, so the tattoos on his chest were visible, and a tooth of some animal as a necklace. When he saw me and my guard, he replaced the phone receiver and smiled to me, opening his arms wide. I saw a long machete behing his belt. What the hell is this boat? A floating asylum or what!?
„Hello, our friend!” the man, who was propably commanding this contraption, said „I'm Commander Sono, and this -” He pointed downwards „- is my boat, Jata. Beautiful, isn't she?”
„I don't know who the hell are you, but the embassy will, sooner or later, know about you, and you will have special forces after you!” I decided for a harsh approach „Who are you? ISIS? North Korea? China? I guess so, this floating prison is clearly Chinese!
Sono bursted into laughter, and i noticed his teeth were dark from chewing betel nut. I actually noticed most of crewmembers were chewing something and spitting red saliva. A freakin' submarine of betel chewers. What the hell!?
Sono finally stopped laughing.
„First of all: Your country? And you think who the hell gave us a clear pass through the Goverment airspace to airlift you from Kuta when you were sleeping like a log? They know you're a very idealistic person for a naval warfare expert, and that you would never agree to cooperate with a bunch of Chinese-backed rebels like us. Fortunately, your government is a little bit wiser than you, so they knew that they will have to make you cooperate with, well, less delicate measures. Second, we actually saved your life!”
„What!?” My common sense refused to believe in what I heard, but I guess I had no choice.
„Exactly what I said” Sono got calmer, ceased to smile weirdly, crossed his arms and started to walk around the command room. I trotted behind him. „Two hours after we brought you out of your house fast asleep hidden inside a couch, some „unknown perpetators” fired on your house, burned it to the basement with Molotovs and driven away. They were paid by a foreign company, or some corrupt official perhaps, but fortunately for us and you, they were late. If you stayed in the country a little bit longer, you would be dead sooner or later.
„T-thanks” I stuttered „But who the hell are you!”
„We” Commander Sono pullled out the machete. It had a carved grip, to which were attached feathers and beads. I spotted a little, gold hornbill pin on his beret „Are the voice of opressed. We're the armed hand of those who were forced to give away their own, distinct culture, their languages and ways of living, in the name of money and profits for foreign companies, burning out our sacred forests and drilling through our sacred mountains. This is who we are!” As he was speaking, his voice changed to a tone of a charismatic leader. He raised his machete to the celling. The red light reflected on the blade, making it look like bloodstained.
„Freedom!” he shouted „Freedom for the peoples, my brothers!”
„Freedooooom!” A shout rolled through the command room, making me instinctively afraid that whoever we're hiding from, running silently, will hear us, followed by a cacophony of tribal war chanting.
I momentarly shivered with fear.