The first snowfall came, appropriately, on the day after Thanksgiving. Oh, and what a Thanksgiving it was! I had never heard a doorbell ring the number of times ours uttered its hollow bing-bong that festive day. Since the day we arrived in Polestown, I had an inkling of an idea of how friendly and accommodating the people of the town were, but was never prepared for a reception like this one.
Early in the morning, it started, like the first trickles of water through a dam approaching bursting point. The doorbell rang. Still in my pajamas, I answered the door, coming face to face with what appeared to be an older lady behind piles of dishes and trays… an assortment… no, make that a buttload of food and goodies!
And this soon became a pattern – a doorbell chime, or a knock at the door…. A curiousity, who could it be this time? A man, woman, family, sometimes pets, laden for food as if they planned to empty out their refrigerator on that day, bearing the fruits of their baking labor as Thanksgiving gifts… each one overly willing to welcome us for the umpteen thousandth time to Polestown, “I hope you’re doing well here,” “How do you like things in our town?” “Just a token of our friendship.”
Heh, friendship! It had to be some sort of conspiracy! But I liked it anyway.
Oh, yes, the snow. Well, the very next day we saw the first flakes, which multiplied and divided and begat more snowflakes, and soon we had our first true initiation to colder weather, and a full-on one at that… a genuine Tennessee white-out.
Mom flipped on the Weather Channel to listen to in the background as we struggled to find room in the fridge for the incredible excess of food (Did they sell box freezers in Polestown?she thought aloud). Incredibly, as cold as we were feeling it that day, the guy in the warm studio and the three-piece suit who I’m sure got his kicks out of the hurricanes we used to face yearly told us to BUNDLE UP because it was just going to get more DOWNRIGHT FREEZING. Oh, joy. And we hadn’t even gotten around to buying parkas and snowshoes yet.
Around mid-morning, we heard a low, distant rumble, which slowly got louder, soon making our windows rattle slightly. I stepped to the window and tried to peer through the blinding whiteness at our front yard and street beyond. I could make out, very barely, two lights, apparently headlights, progressing steadily and slowly down our road. The rumble led me to conclude that it was a pretty large truck, and as it grew closer I could see a gigantic plow attachment on its front end slicing through the drifting clumps of snow and forcefully shoving them to the streetside. Its driver must have spotted me, because the plow stopped in front of our house and a short, plump man crawled out of the truck and waddled up to our front door, face thick with stubble and crusted with half-melted snow. The doorbell rang.
Oh no! I thought. More dang food!
I opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief. The man was empty-handed. He wore a huge frozen grin and waved. I cracked open the door, goosepimples breaking out all over from the extreme chill.
“Hiya there, “ he offered, extending his hand to shake mine vigorously, “Name’s Joe. Joe Cotton. You the man of the house?”
I sighed… it was obvious the guy didn’t know about my dad and all, and how incredibly ironic his statement turned out to be. Gritted my teeth, I replied, “That I am. I’m Jim.”
“Nice ta meet you, Jim…. Say, I know yous all are new here, so I thought I’d let you know we do something special after our first snowfall… kind of a celebration.”
I wasn’t really fond of cheesy community events, but listened politely as my mom approached Joe and I, placing her hands on my shoulders. Joe looked up at her and smiled broadly, revealing several gaps where dentists quite possibly could have intervened a lot sooner. “Howdy, maam,” he said, “Your son, was just tellin’ him about our snow fair.”
I wasn’t all that interested, but my mom sure sounded excited. “Really? How nice! Is it like a fair?”
“That and more, Miss. That and more. We have all kinds of fixins, and games, and the big event is settin’ up for our holiday snowman display.”
Mom leaned forward. “Snowman display? That sounds unique.”
“Sure is, ma’am. Only one I know of. All shapes and sizes, too! And if y’all want to come by, celebrate with us, everyone’s invited… and we love newcomers, so we can show off and all!” He tipped his grimy baseball cap backward in satisfaction.
I groaned inwardly. My mom’s ecstatic interest meant only one thing – I was probably going to be forced to attend.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
LAST GAS
As the last streetlight, the remaining vestige of civilization for miles, faded into the distance, I glanced over at the wrinkled sheet of paper in my passenger seat, the scribbles and lines spidering across its surface in the darkness somehow offering little assurance that the directions my brother gave me would direct me to the intended destination.The red glow of the dashboard was the only connection I had at this point with modernity, or civilian, or even the warmth of familiarity. Like a strobe, hypnotic and redundant, the yellow broken lines in the middle of the dark asphalt flickered and pulsed monotonously ahead in the headlights, which seemed ineffectively weak against the encroaching darkness. Every so often, I would hear a faint 'tick', then another, like lonely drops of rain - errant bugs whose flight path led them to their doom in the fearsome teeth of my grille, or spread like mustard on the surface of my windshield.
It was dark, almost stifling, as if a black wool were stretched out over the horizon. The glowing center line indicated a straight path, which almost certainly led straight ahead into infinity, but of this, I could only see a meager few feet ahead. I could not be certain what, if anything blocked my path. It would be just my luck if an inquisitive deer or wild pig just happened to be crossing my path outside the reach of my headlights.
Boredom began to set in. I was familiar with these long stretches from camping trips in the desert in recent years; this was, according to my brother, only a 40 mile trip. I would have left earlier, sparing me the monotony of darkness and fatigue, but getting out of the city was more troublesome than usual this particular evening; and now, the stress and frustration of being stuck in traffic and spit out into the middle of a vast expanse of nothing was taking its toll.
I flipped on the radio. The volume had been increased as I had been trying to pass the time earlier in the traffic jam by listening to the local pop station, and I winced as static came gushing out of the same speakers, at the same obnoxious, deafening level. I quickly adjusted the volume and began scanning for anything audible to listen to, to keep me alert, awake, and occupied. It wasn't long before I had reached the opposite end of the dial, finding nothing. No music, not even classical. No late-night talk, or health advice, or even the final innings of a baseball game. I was, for sure, in the middle of nowhere. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, and glanced down at the odometer... 28 miles to go.
Seconds seemed like minutes.... no, hours. The incessant drone of the engine, the blinking, that incessant blinking ahead of me... no other cars in sight, nothing for miles... not a sign of civilization other than the occasional tacky billboard for Howie's Country Store or Ralph's Stop n' Go... on and on... I sat back, and tried to relax, get focused, just a little, but it just... wasn't... working...
In the distance. What was that? A faint whitish dot grew steadily larger and brighter... it was a light! No, several lights, illuminating what appeared to be a service station in the distance. A giant QUIK STOP logo on an enormous pole towered over a squat facade and a single pump. Yeah, I was feeling rather thirsty, not to mention fatigued. It was time to dose up on caffeine and tough it out for the last 20 or so miles. I slowed and pulled into the loose gravel of the gas station's parking lot, easing the truck into a narrow space right in front of the door to the little convenience mart. Gathering my keys, I exited my pickup and walked inside to the sound of civilization - chimes. An elderly man with two-days facial growth was sitting behind the counter, deeply engrossed in one of those tabloid rags with a picture of boy-bat on the front.
I sidled over to the soda fountain. Just my luck - a huge handmade sign covered its length. It read, "OUT OF ORDER." Wonderful, I thought, as I headed over to the fridge and grabbed a 20 ounce Mountain Dew. As I approached the counter, reaching for my wallet, the old man - his name tag said "Bart" - looked up, expressionless. I tossed a couple bucks onto the counter.
"You're probably going to need to fill up on gas, sonny," he told me.
That was ridiculous - I had just filled up and had over half a tank to go 20 measly miles. I refused the kind and thoughtful offer.
"Are ya sure?" he asked. "This is the last stop fer miles, last gas you'll find in this hellhole.You'll want to be prepared, you know."
I replied, "That's ok. I've only got a few miles left.. I'll probably stop on the way back."
He looked at me quizzically, and snickered. "You can never be too sure..."
I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes, and walked away.. this guy had obviously lost contact with reality. I let the chimes announce my exit as I strode out the door.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who needed a reprise from the monotony of the road. Across the pump from me was now parked a blue Buick, and its owner was partially obscured by the girder holding up the canopy above. He was busy pumping gas into his car. In the passenger seat, I could see the outline of a woman's head with her hair in a bun. I approached my car, and the man spotted me. He looked down, as if in thought, then looked back up at me again. It was as if all of a sudden he was hit with a jolt of electricity. He shuddered visibly, then his eyes grew dark and narrow, and an angry expression overcame his features. "YOU." he muttered ominously.
Me? He was looking at me. Now he had taken his hands off the pump, was rolling up his sleeves, and began to walk in my direction. "Do I know you?" I asked.
"It's you. You son of a-"
What?
"You killed my wife!" And with this his pace quickened, and I backed away, stumbling over my feet as he was now charging, arms raised, spittle flying from his suddenly clinched mouth...
"Wha? I don't... what are you....huh.." I didn't have time to form a full sentence before he was about on top of me... I fell to my side and scampered out of his way just as he dived in my direction. Regaining my balance, I tore for my car, the man furiously lunging at my legs... I wrenched open my truck door, and shut it before he slammed into it with both arms like a giant hammer.
"You killed my wife! Come out here, I'm going to beat the living... I'll kill you!"
"What are you talking about?" I pleaded, now that I was in the (apparent) safety of my truck, doors locked, man pounding at the window just inches from my face. "I don't even know you... and isn't that your wife in your car?"
He knelt down slowly, stopping for a moment the incessant beating, and stared darkly into my eyes. "You don't know yet," he muttered. "You're a murderer, and don't know it. Look at the friggin' car, see what you did!" ..and he stepped aside.
I had not looked so closely at the Buick, but now I was compelled by nothing other than sheer fear to examine it, I noticed that it didn't look quite right. At first, it seemed intact, but every so often, like bursts of electricity, would blur, and the car would assume a much less... functional shape. For an instant, it looked as if the roof had caved in, and the door was gouged a couple of feet, and the windows shattered... until everything popped back, and the woman looked back at me from the passenger seat, and smiled. And then another blur, and the face turned into a grimace, a rictus, the jaw dangling from a single fibrous tendon, blood smeared around the inside of the car, all over the seat, bony hand with ripped flesh mocking a salutatory wave.... and then back to normal. God, I needed that MD right away... but first, there was the business of this psycho whaling on my car and threatening me. He moved back into my field of view,
"That's enough time!" he yelled. "If you don't know by now, it don't matter. I'm gonna kill you!" and reared up, this time wielding a very large tire iron. I drew back as he slammed it into my window, shattering it into tiny glistening shards. Now was the time for action! I wriggled the key into the ignition and turned it just as he was doubling back for another blow, hoping to strike home this time. The truck roared to life. The man swung, and glanced my shoulder painfully as I squealed off into the night, trailing behind bits of gravel and sand and spraying them in my wake, obscuring the man, who was shaking his fists and yelling at me as he disappeared in my rear view mirror and the last light of civilization dimmed behind me.
I couldn't have killed this woman, I thought, as I took a swig of Mountain Dew... I mean, she was really alive. She smiled and waved! That other image... had to be just a dream. I stepped more firmly on the gas, pushing 80, 85, 90.. hoping to leave that car in the dust, and gain a little distance before I was able to turn into the safety of my brother's driveway. The dim light had now faded to nothing, and I was left once again with nothing more than my dashboard light and that darned flickering of the yellow road lines to break up the dark emptiness that led into oblivion, for all I knew.
Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing like a good healthy confrontation to heighten my senses, right?
Odometer check. Good... picked up another ten miles, shouldn't be long. I check behind me. No sign of the maniac with the Buick. I nervously tap my steering wheel, whistling some tune I remembered from earlier this evening, in less troubled times. Funny that a traffic jam could now be considered 'less troubled.'
Ahead, another dim light. Odometer says I still have a little while to go. Wonder what this is. Look down at map... funny. Bro didn't mention any more landmarks along the way. Maybe he missed this...
HOLY CRAP.
Tall sign, up ahead. I can barely make out the letters, but the logo is unmistakeable.
"QUIK STOP"
The lights bring more into view; I can see the pump, the canopy above, the convenience store. And parked right below, stocky man with moustache, coddling a large crowbar, a green Buick, straight out of my worst nightmare. Impossible! I hadn't turned, or encountered anything other than a straightaway... my odometer tells me... wait. This can't be possible. I look beside me as I come upon the gas station. The man spots me and smiles, tapping the crowbar against his open hand. Just sitting there, as if he knew something I didn't.
(You don't know yet)
I put the pedal to the floor, engine revving to the redline, topping 100, 110. This had to be some mistake. I look back down at the directions, and up again. The gloom once again deepens to blackness again. And those blasted yellow lines, the sound of crickets audible through my shattered window, the chill night air lifting the hairs on my arms.
I hear a sputter, a cough from my engine, a short hesitation. I was doing so good. My car rocks as the engine hesitates again. Back to my gauges. Oh, Lord - I'm almost on empty! It couldn't be far, seriously couldn't be long before I see the driveway, and the mailbox with BROWN on it, and the friendly welcoming face of my brother, sister-in-law, their two kids...
I push harder, the truck relents.... and finally, in the middle of nowhere, dies, and I struggle to keep control to maneuver to a stop along the narrow emergency lane on the roadside. I mutter a profanity.. this is the worst possible time to run out of gas.
(This is the last stop for miles)
I open the door, and the reading light winks on. Beside me, in the same position they were when I first pulled into the Quik Stop, lay the directions in my brother's handwriting. I pick them up, and reach under the passenger seat for my flashlight.
I continue to think I'm not too far from Jack's house, though I can't be sure now. That most certainly had to be a hallucination, right? I didn't just see the gas station with that crazed guy sitting on his car's hood.... I'm just tired. Really tired. I've been driving too long. I resolve, directions in hand, to walk the remainder of the way to safety. It couldn't be more than 5 miles. At most. I shut the truck off, lock it up, and begin walking along the grass beside the highway, dodging the occasional broken bottle and tire tread. The comfort of the red dashboard light, the familiar monotony of the illuminated center line are both gone, replaced by the faint beam of my mag light, moving back and forth as I try to maintain a steady pace forward.
The crickets are loud, and as I trudge through the tall grass, I can feel a soft breeze on my face, hear it whispering through the trees in the distance. An owl offers a lone, wistful challenge to my invasion. The isolation surrounds me like a scratchy blanket, and I shudder in the chill nighttime air, briskly trudging forward.
I stop, because there's something else I hear. It's distinct, and growing louder. A nervous lump lodges in my throat as I turn around and face what I had dreaded would happen... a distinct pinprick - no, two, - a faint pair of eyes growing wider apart and brighter, and the sound... a low rumble, the hum of an approaching car. I take a deep breath, face forward once again, and speed up, moving my legs as fast as they can go, a growing ache spreading through my thighs, cramps threatening to overtake me, my lungs feeling a stinging, spreading fire. Sweat beads on my forehead, my arms sway, I hasten into something of a run, but the rumble grows louder still, and the lights illuminate the ground in front of me. I look back again, and notice that the car behind has sped up and has begun to veer toward the right, almost off the road, directly into my path.
I yell for help, running faster still, stumbling but pressing onward, as the fury of the engine and the green, monstrous beast behind the wheel of which is someone I had never met but who even now craves my blood all over the pavement, roars like a predator lured by the scent of living, breathing prey. The noise is deafening, the light now blinding as I look backward, and can't see anything but bright light and the speckles of dead bugs on the windshield and the reflection of yellow lines, so familiar but so foreign... and the light encompasses my entire being, and becomes infinitely bright, and flashes out, leaving nothing but blackness...
****************************
Blue. Red. Flickering. Lights pierce the darkness of isolation. Two men wearing uniforms bent down over a broken figure, one with a penlight and the other lifting a blanket over the prone form.
"Oh, man. Doesn't look like this guy's going to make it, either." ,the first man sighed.
The second looked up at his buddy. "I thought he had a fighting chance, at least. The folks in the Buick over there never saw it coming, didn't even have a prayer."
"It's horrible. Woman's jaw got clean sheared off."
The second man replied, "Looks like the guy here just fell asleep, and just happened to slam into the only other car on the road for miles."
"Good thing ol' Bart there heard the commotion. Seriously, I thought the old coot was as deaf as a rock." First man pointed to the bright, welcoming light of the Quik Stop in the distance. Below the logo, a smaller, less well-placed sign read, "Last Gas For Miles".
"Yeah, well sometimes I wonder about his mental health, talking about seeing ghosts all the time. I think the isolation gets to him."
First man looked up. "Doesn't it get to everybody around here?"
Second man sighed, and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over the dead man's face, as the blue and red stobes danced across the crumpled, overturned pickup in the brush just a few yards away.
It was dark, almost stifling, as if a black wool were stretched out over the horizon. The glowing center line indicated a straight path, which almost certainly led straight ahead into infinity, but of this, I could only see a meager few feet ahead. I could not be certain what, if anything blocked my path. It would be just my luck if an inquisitive deer or wild pig just happened to be crossing my path outside the reach of my headlights.
Boredom began to set in. I was familiar with these long stretches from camping trips in the desert in recent years; this was, according to my brother, only a 40 mile trip. I would have left earlier, sparing me the monotony of darkness and fatigue, but getting out of the city was more troublesome than usual this particular evening; and now, the stress and frustration of being stuck in traffic and spit out into the middle of a vast expanse of nothing was taking its toll.
I flipped on the radio. The volume had been increased as I had been trying to pass the time earlier in the traffic jam by listening to the local pop station, and I winced as static came gushing out of the same speakers, at the same obnoxious, deafening level. I quickly adjusted the volume and began scanning for anything audible to listen to, to keep me alert, awake, and occupied. It wasn't long before I had reached the opposite end of the dial, finding nothing. No music, not even classical. No late-night talk, or health advice, or even the final innings of a baseball game. I was, for sure, in the middle of nowhere. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, and glanced down at the odometer... 28 miles to go.
Seconds seemed like minutes.... no, hours. The incessant drone of the engine, the blinking, that incessant blinking ahead of me... no other cars in sight, nothing for miles... not a sign of civilization other than the occasional tacky billboard for Howie's Country Store or Ralph's Stop n' Go... on and on... I sat back, and tried to relax, get focused, just a little, but it just... wasn't... working...
In the distance. What was that? A faint whitish dot grew steadily larger and brighter... it was a light! No, several lights, illuminating what appeared to be a service station in the distance. A giant QUIK STOP logo on an enormous pole towered over a squat facade and a single pump. Yeah, I was feeling rather thirsty, not to mention fatigued. It was time to dose up on caffeine and tough it out for the last 20 or so miles. I slowed and pulled into the loose gravel of the gas station's parking lot, easing the truck into a narrow space right in front of the door to the little convenience mart. Gathering my keys, I exited my pickup and walked inside to the sound of civilization - chimes. An elderly man with two-days facial growth was sitting behind the counter, deeply engrossed in one of those tabloid rags with a picture of boy-bat on the front.
I sidled over to the soda fountain. Just my luck - a huge handmade sign covered its length. It read, "OUT OF ORDER." Wonderful, I thought, as I headed over to the fridge and grabbed a 20 ounce Mountain Dew. As I approached the counter, reaching for my wallet, the old man - his name tag said "Bart" - looked up, expressionless. I tossed a couple bucks onto the counter.
"You're probably going to need to fill up on gas, sonny," he told me.
That was ridiculous - I had just filled up and had over half a tank to go 20 measly miles. I refused the kind and thoughtful offer.
"Are ya sure?" he asked. "This is the last stop fer miles, last gas you'll find in this hellhole.You'll want to be prepared, you know."
I replied, "That's ok. I've only got a few miles left.. I'll probably stop on the way back."
He looked at me quizzically, and snickered. "You can never be too sure..."
I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes, and walked away.. this guy had obviously lost contact with reality. I let the chimes announce my exit as I strode out the door.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who needed a reprise from the monotony of the road. Across the pump from me was now parked a blue Buick, and its owner was partially obscured by the girder holding up the canopy above. He was busy pumping gas into his car. In the passenger seat, I could see the outline of a woman's head with her hair in a bun. I approached my car, and the man spotted me. He looked down, as if in thought, then looked back up at me again. It was as if all of a sudden he was hit with a jolt of electricity. He shuddered visibly, then his eyes grew dark and narrow, and an angry expression overcame his features. "YOU." he muttered ominously.
Me? He was looking at me. Now he had taken his hands off the pump, was rolling up his sleeves, and began to walk in my direction. "Do I know you?" I asked.
"It's you. You son of a-"
What?
"You killed my wife!" And with this his pace quickened, and I backed away, stumbling over my feet as he was now charging, arms raised, spittle flying from his suddenly clinched mouth...
"Wha? I don't... what are you....huh.." I didn't have time to form a full sentence before he was about on top of me... I fell to my side and scampered out of his way just as he dived in my direction. Regaining my balance, I tore for my car, the man furiously lunging at my legs... I wrenched open my truck door, and shut it before he slammed into it with both arms like a giant hammer.
"You killed my wife! Come out here, I'm going to beat the living... I'll kill you!"
"What are you talking about?" I pleaded, now that I was in the (apparent) safety of my truck, doors locked, man pounding at the window just inches from my face. "I don't even know you... and isn't that your wife in your car?"
He knelt down slowly, stopping for a moment the incessant beating, and stared darkly into my eyes. "You don't know yet," he muttered. "You're a murderer, and don't know it. Look at the friggin' car, see what you did!" ..and he stepped aside.
I had not looked so closely at the Buick, but now I was compelled by nothing other than sheer fear to examine it, I noticed that it didn't look quite right. At first, it seemed intact, but every so often, like bursts of electricity, would blur, and the car would assume a much less... functional shape. For an instant, it looked as if the roof had caved in, and the door was gouged a couple of feet, and the windows shattered... until everything popped back, and the woman looked back at me from the passenger seat, and smiled. And then another blur, and the face turned into a grimace, a rictus, the jaw dangling from a single fibrous tendon, blood smeared around the inside of the car, all over the seat, bony hand with ripped flesh mocking a salutatory wave.... and then back to normal. God, I needed that MD right away... but first, there was the business of this psycho whaling on my car and threatening me. He moved back into my field of view,
"That's enough time!" he yelled. "If you don't know by now, it don't matter. I'm gonna kill you!" and reared up, this time wielding a very large tire iron. I drew back as he slammed it into my window, shattering it into tiny glistening shards. Now was the time for action! I wriggled the key into the ignition and turned it just as he was doubling back for another blow, hoping to strike home this time. The truck roared to life. The man swung, and glanced my shoulder painfully as I squealed off into the night, trailing behind bits of gravel and sand and spraying them in my wake, obscuring the man, who was shaking his fists and yelling at me as he disappeared in my rear view mirror and the last light of civilization dimmed behind me.
I couldn't have killed this woman, I thought, as I took a swig of Mountain Dew... I mean, she was really alive. She smiled and waved! That other image... had to be just a dream. I stepped more firmly on the gas, pushing 80, 85, 90.. hoping to leave that car in the dust, and gain a little distance before I was able to turn into the safety of my brother's driveway. The dim light had now faded to nothing, and I was left once again with nothing more than my dashboard light and that darned flickering of the yellow road lines to break up the dark emptiness that led into oblivion, for all I knew.
Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing like a good healthy confrontation to heighten my senses, right?
Odometer check. Good... picked up another ten miles, shouldn't be long. I check behind me. No sign of the maniac with the Buick. I nervously tap my steering wheel, whistling some tune I remembered from earlier this evening, in less troubled times. Funny that a traffic jam could now be considered 'less troubled.'
Ahead, another dim light. Odometer says I still have a little while to go. Wonder what this is. Look down at map... funny. Bro didn't mention any more landmarks along the way. Maybe he missed this...
HOLY CRAP.
Tall sign, up ahead. I can barely make out the letters, but the logo is unmistakeable.
"QUIK STOP"
The lights bring more into view; I can see the pump, the canopy above, the convenience store. And parked right below, stocky man with moustache, coddling a large crowbar, a green Buick, straight out of my worst nightmare. Impossible! I hadn't turned, or encountered anything other than a straightaway... my odometer tells me... wait. This can't be possible. I look beside me as I come upon the gas station. The man spots me and smiles, tapping the crowbar against his open hand. Just sitting there, as if he knew something I didn't.
(You don't know yet)
I put the pedal to the floor, engine revving to the redline, topping 100, 110. This had to be some mistake. I look back down at the directions, and up again. The gloom once again deepens to blackness again. And those blasted yellow lines, the sound of crickets audible through my shattered window, the chill night air lifting the hairs on my arms.
I hear a sputter, a cough from my engine, a short hesitation. I was doing so good. My car rocks as the engine hesitates again. Back to my gauges. Oh, Lord - I'm almost on empty! It couldn't be far, seriously couldn't be long before I see the driveway, and the mailbox with BROWN on it, and the friendly welcoming face of my brother, sister-in-law, their two kids...
I push harder, the truck relents.... and finally, in the middle of nowhere, dies, and I struggle to keep control to maneuver to a stop along the narrow emergency lane on the roadside. I mutter a profanity.. this is the worst possible time to run out of gas.
(This is the last stop for miles)
I open the door, and the reading light winks on. Beside me, in the same position they were when I first pulled into the Quik Stop, lay the directions in my brother's handwriting. I pick them up, and reach under the passenger seat for my flashlight.
I continue to think I'm not too far from Jack's house, though I can't be sure now. That most certainly had to be a hallucination, right? I didn't just see the gas station with that crazed guy sitting on his car's hood.... I'm just tired. Really tired. I've been driving too long. I resolve, directions in hand, to walk the remainder of the way to safety. It couldn't be more than 5 miles. At most. I shut the truck off, lock it up, and begin walking along the grass beside the highway, dodging the occasional broken bottle and tire tread. The comfort of the red dashboard light, the familiar monotony of the illuminated center line are both gone, replaced by the faint beam of my mag light, moving back and forth as I try to maintain a steady pace forward.
The crickets are loud, and as I trudge through the tall grass, I can feel a soft breeze on my face, hear it whispering through the trees in the distance. An owl offers a lone, wistful challenge to my invasion. The isolation surrounds me like a scratchy blanket, and I shudder in the chill nighttime air, briskly trudging forward.
I stop, because there's something else I hear. It's distinct, and growing louder. A nervous lump lodges in my throat as I turn around and face what I had dreaded would happen... a distinct pinprick - no, two, - a faint pair of eyes growing wider apart and brighter, and the sound... a low rumble, the hum of an approaching car. I take a deep breath, face forward once again, and speed up, moving my legs as fast as they can go, a growing ache spreading through my thighs, cramps threatening to overtake me, my lungs feeling a stinging, spreading fire. Sweat beads on my forehead, my arms sway, I hasten into something of a run, but the rumble grows louder still, and the lights illuminate the ground in front of me. I look back again, and notice that the car behind has sped up and has begun to veer toward the right, almost off the road, directly into my path.
I yell for help, running faster still, stumbling but pressing onward, as the fury of the engine and the green, monstrous beast behind the wheel of which is someone I had never met but who even now craves my blood all over the pavement, roars like a predator lured by the scent of living, breathing prey. The noise is deafening, the light now blinding as I look backward, and can't see anything but bright light and the speckles of dead bugs on the windshield and the reflection of yellow lines, so familiar but so foreign... and the light encompasses my entire being, and becomes infinitely bright, and flashes out, leaving nothing but blackness...
****************************
Blue. Red. Flickering. Lights pierce the darkness of isolation. Two men wearing uniforms bent down over a broken figure, one with a penlight and the other lifting a blanket over the prone form.
"Oh, man. Doesn't look like this guy's going to make it, either." ,the first man sighed.
The second looked up at his buddy. "I thought he had a fighting chance, at least. The folks in the Buick over there never saw it coming, didn't even have a prayer."
"It's horrible. Woman's jaw got clean sheared off."
The second man replied, "Looks like the guy here just fell asleep, and just happened to slam into the only other car on the road for miles."
"Good thing ol' Bart there heard the commotion. Seriously, I thought the old coot was as deaf as a rock." First man pointed to the bright, welcoming light of the Quik Stop in the distance. Below the logo, a smaller, less well-placed sign read, "Last Gas For Miles".
"Yeah, well sometimes I wonder about his mental health, talking about seeing ghosts all the time. I think the isolation gets to him."
First man looked up. "Doesn't it get to everybody around here?"
Second man sighed, and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over the dead man's face, as the blue and red stobes danced across the crumpled, overturned pickup in the brush just a few yards away.
BIRDSEED
The old man, wrapped snugly in an oversized trenchcoat, leaned forward across the stone chess table in the park. His breath came in sporadic bursts of white mist, which drifted slowly to nothingness in the chill atmosphere of this brisk winter day. He wore a knit black cap and heavy leather gloves, and his nose was two shades darker red than normal. He sported a ragged white beard peppered with shards of grey, dripping condensation beading on the hairs in glistening, half-frozen pearls.
Overhead, a coo and flutter. The pigeons had arrived, right on time.
The man produced a plastic bag from one of his coat pockets and placed it on the table in front of him. The birds, despite possessing a minimal memory, nevertheless had become familiarized with his presence each and every morning for what seemed to them a lifetime - and perhaps it was. They hovered gently and settled to the ground, and one or two of them got brave and landed on the table not far from the old man's reach. They waddled to and fro, back and forth, in ecstatic anticipation.
"Patience, my little fellows," the gentleman whispered. "I think I have enough for all of you."
The wind whipped icily from the north, and the man produced something else from his deep pocket - a scarf, which he wrapped slowly around his face, and let trail down the back of his jacket.
"Ah," he continued, "Much better. Now, where were we?"
Gingerly, as best he could using his bulky gloves, he opened the plastic bag and scooped out a handful of the precious seed. The birds pranced around excitedly, bobbing up and down like miniature oil derricks. He lifted his hand and, with one swift swipe of his hand, spread the seed over the concrete surface of the patio. Within seconds a pulsating mass of feathers and claws was upon the booty, plucking each seed up with frenzied delight.
"Good... now eat up."
For a few minutes, the elderly man watched the birds wipe up the last of the seed particles, until all traces of the pigeons' food were gone. He smiled, lifting the scarf ever so minutedly, and eased himself up off the stone bench. He brushed himself off, making sure none of the seed had lingered on his coat or slacks, then ambled off carefully, as he had for the last several months, toward his humble apartment.
As he looked back, a portion of his bushy eyebrow had fallen, getting into his eye. He pressed it back against his tan forehead, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then continued home.
If anyone had been around that moment, they might have heard him mutter something through the protective wrap of his scarf, something that sounded vaguely like, "Allahu Akbar."
If anyone had seen this man, or known of his intentions, they might indeed have tried to stop him... or perhaps not, considering his harmless daily routine of feeding the birds.
But indeed, nobody noticed the hunched old man walking away from the chess tables in the middle of the park, where pigeons hungrily stabbed at seed, and were cooing happily, oblivious to what they were being fed. And hours later, the park worker, armed with a scraper and a pail, paid no mind to his daily chore of scraping bird excrement off of the concrete. He wasn't getting paid much, but it was enough to let him hold on to his humble abode, and keep out of this godforsaken weather. He went about his duties, marveled at the redundancy of the chore, then left, satisfied with a job well-done.
Once the respiratory distress started days later, the man didn't know what hit him. Nor did the boy who insisted, despite the protests of his mother, that he chase the birds and let them land on his shoulder and peck at the brass buttons on his snowsuit. But the old man, looking very distinguished indeed on a seat close enough to observe his work, yet far enough away... just far enough away.
The soft tinkle of bells alerted him to the presence of customers. He whisked toward the front of the store and watched as a family of three - a man, his wife and young daughter - scanned the shelves of bird food. He grinned briefly, then inserted himself between man and wife and asked, "Good morning, folks. How might I help you?"
"Ur, um," the husband replied, "We're just getting some food for our lovebirds, that's all."
The storekeeper nodded and flashed his yellowed teeth through his dirty grey beard. "I tell you what, sir. I just got a shipment in of some brand new seed. I think your birds would absolutely love it."
"Well, if you don't mind, um, we prefer to get, you know, the cheapest brand. We're on a budget, you know."
The old man scooted backward and gleamed as if he had come up with a brilliant idea. "Indeed, indeed. I understand. Let's make a deal, okay? You can buy one bag of your birdseed at regular price, and I let you try a bag of this new stuff absolutely free? How about it?"
"Well, sure, why not?"
The storekeeper winked. "Trust me, you'll really appreciate this new seed."
The family picked up the two bags of seed, paid for their order, and left as quickly as they arrived. As they walked out the door, the old man noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and froze. The door shut, and the man exhaled. Moving over to the far corner of the store, he replaced the blanket that had slid off the birdcage that housed two green parakeets, now lifeless and stiff.
Overhead, a coo and flutter. The pigeons had arrived, right on time.
The man produced a plastic bag from one of his coat pockets and placed it on the table in front of him. The birds, despite possessing a minimal memory, nevertheless had become familiarized with his presence each and every morning for what seemed to them a lifetime - and perhaps it was. They hovered gently and settled to the ground, and one or two of them got brave and landed on the table not far from the old man's reach. They waddled to and fro, back and forth, in ecstatic anticipation.
"Patience, my little fellows," the gentleman whispered. "I think I have enough for all of you."
The wind whipped icily from the north, and the man produced something else from his deep pocket - a scarf, which he wrapped slowly around his face, and let trail down the back of his jacket.
"Ah," he continued, "Much better. Now, where were we?"
Gingerly, as best he could using his bulky gloves, he opened the plastic bag and scooped out a handful of the precious seed. The birds pranced around excitedly, bobbing up and down like miniature oil derricks. He lifted his hand and, with one swift swipe of his hand, spread the seed over the concrete surface of the patio. Within seconds a pulsating mass of feathers and claws was upon the booty, plucking each seed up with frenzied delight.
"Good... now eat up."
For a few minutes, the elderly man watched the birds wipe up the last of the seed particles, until all traces of the pigeons' food were gone. He smiled, lifting the scarf ever so minutedly, and eased himself up off the stone bench. He brushed himself off, making sure none of the seed had lingered on his coat or slacks, then ambled off carefully, as he had for the last several months, toward his humble apartment.
As he looked back, a portion of his bushy eyebrow had fallen, getting into his eye. He pressed it back against his tan forehead, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then continued home.
If anyone had been around that moment, they might have heard him mutter something through the protective wrap of his scarf, something that sounded vaguely like, "Allahu Akbar."
If anyone had seen this man, or known of his intentions, they might indeed have tried to stop him... or perhaps not, considering his harmless daily routine of feeding the birds.
But indeed, nobody noticed the hunched old man walking away from the chess tables in the middle of the park, where pigeons hungrily stabbed at seed, and were cooing happily, oblivious to what they were being fed. And hours later, the park worker, armed with a scraper and a pail, paid no mind to his daily chore of scraping bird excrement off of the concrete. He wasn't getting paid much, but it was enough to let him hold on to his humble abode, and keep out of this godforsaken weather. He went about his duties, marveled at the redundancy of the chore, then left, satisfied with a job well-done.
Once the respiratory distress started days later, the man didn't know what hit him. Nor did the boy who insisted, despite the protests of his mother, that he chase the birds and let them land on his shoulder and peck at the brass buttons on his snowsuit. But the old man, looking very distinguished indeed on a seat close enough to observe his work, yet far enough away... just far enough away.
The soft tinkle of bells alerted him to the presence of customers. He whisked toward the front of the store and watched as a family of three - a man, his wife and young daughter - scanned the shelves of bird food. He grinned briefly, then inserted himself between man and wife and asked, "Good morning, folks. How might I help you?"
"Ur, um," the husband replied, "We're just getting some food for our lovebirds, that's all."
The storekeeper nodded and flashed his yellowed teeth through his dirty grey beard. "I tell you what, sir. I just got a shipment in of some brand new seed. I think your birds would absolutely love it."
"Well, if you don't mind, um, we prefer to get, you know, the cheapest brand. We're on a budget, you know."
The old man scooted backward and gleamed as if he had come up with a brilliant idea. "Indeed, indeed. I understand. Let's make a deal, okay? You can buy one bag of your birdseed at regular price, and I let you try a bag of this new stuff absolutely free? How about it?"
"Well, sure, why not?"
The storekeeper winked. "Trust me, you'll really appreciate this new seed."
The family picked up the two bags of seed, paid for their order, and left as quickly as they arrived. As they walked out the door, the old man noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and froze. The door shut, and the man exhaled. Moving over to the far corner of the store, he replaced the blanket that had slid off the birdcage that housed two green parakeets, now lifeless and stiff.
EARLY EXIT
When Jim decided to leave the party early, he had meant to escape the approaching nasty weather. Unfortunately, he still got stuck in the middle of the raging torrent of blinding rain, gusty wind, and brilliant flashes of lightning. Switching the wipers to maximum intensity, he pressed onward, turning right at the final light before the long stretch of rural road leading toward home.
The rain wasn’t the only reason for his early exit from Don’s house. He realized, though he was trying his best to keep somewhat temperate, that the room was beginning to spin around him, and if he downed another drink prodded on him by one of his giddy friends, there was no way he was going to make it home. He had a long day of work in front of him, thanks to his tyrannical boss, and unfortunately he was the most sober individual in the house that evening.
So here he was, guiding his pickup through a wall of wind-driven water, leaning forward, closer to the windshield, as if that was going to help penetrate the silvery darkness. A couple of times the truck hydroplaned, nearly sending Jim’s head into the windshield and compressing his heart like a sponge with fright; and on top of all this, he wasn’t even sure if he was sober enough to tell if he was actually on the right side of the road. It made for a very harrowing ride, and the indentations in the lining of his steering wheel showed an incredible tension that made him want to turn back, now -- screw work.
The rain continued to fall in steady, rippling sheets, chattering on the glass of the windshield like millions of tiny marbles, subduing Jim’s attempt to focus solely on the road ahead. Continuous vivid flashes of lightning seared his vision, leaving slowly fading imprints on his retinal walls which never really had a chance to disappear before the next blinding flash. Thunder shook the road under him as the lightning sought targets in the trees nearby.
CRACK!
Just ahead of Jim’s truck, lightning managed to hit a power pole, causing a loud popping sound and spraying sparks in every direction. Still unsure of exactly what happened, Jim swerved left into the other lane, trying to avoid the flying pinpoints of light shooting out from the transformer…. And then he felt and heard his worst nightmare, a loud “thud” and a vigorous tremble from his truck, as the tires ran over something.
He had run over something back there.
His nerves iced with fright, he slammed on the brakes, pitching himself forward, spinning the truck around, momentum pushing it into the grass , pitching gravel and turf, very nearly tipping into a roll, seatbelt pushed to its limit…. Until the vehicle finally came to rest facing the road, about three inches away from a large tree. Jim struggled momentarily to regain his breath; it was difficult getting the thought processes working again.. odd how in these situations, pissing one’s pants nearly became more reflexive than breathing.
Other than a mild ache in the back of his head, Jim pondered, he didn’t seem to be hurt. He wearily clicked open his seatbelt, pulled the door latch, and leaned outward, nearly spilling out of the truck in a somersault. He nearly fainted from the sudden wave of dizziness and nausea that came upon him as he exited his truck onto the cold, damp grass. The rain had settled down into nothing more than a drizzle. If I had waited just a few minutes more, he thought. Now I nearly killed myself, and God knows if I killed somebody back there.
Yes, in his panicked reaction to the lightning strike, Jim had definitely hit something of substance, and he had to find out what. Trying to contain his spinning environment, he slowly ambled forward along the road to where the truck had begun to spin out, and further still, taking his time, until he saw what he had hit. He couldn’t see it very clearly through the steam rising from the road and the soft raindrops trickling into his eyes. It looked like something small, like maybe a raccoon, or a cat. Shuffling ever closer, he squinted at the object resting in the emergency lane, until he could get a make on what it was exactly. Then he could go home and not –
Ohmygod
It was a human arm.
Retching, Jim collapsed to his knees, emptying whatever hors d’ouvres he had eaten with his Jack and Coke earlier. God, he had killed somebody!
He quickly came to his senses and began stumbling around, looking for the rest of the person he had hit, but it was so hard to see, and he could barely keep himself upright without tumbling to the ground.
God, what do I do? If anyone finds out about this, I’m toast… they’ll know I was drinking. I’m a murderer. What can I do now? Nobody can find out about this.. it was just an accident…
In what seemed to be pure instinctive reflex, at least to him, he kicked the arm, sending it flying into the overgrowth beside the road. At least they won’t find the guy until I’m well away from here, he thought, and walked as hurriedly as his weakened legs could carry him toward the truck. He climbed back inside, clapped the door shut, and started it up. It came back to life with a throbbing rumble, further heightening his nausea. He slowly put weight on the gas. The pickup’s rear tires coughed up mud and pebbles briefly, whining as the truck struggled out of the muck on to the highway, until finally he was back on the road again, fleeing whatever carnage he may have caused in his drunken hysteria.
About fifteen minutes into his flight, his conscience had grabbed hold of him. He was certainly wary that he had probably done the wrong thing, that it was an accident; that the alcohol would probably be gone from his system by the time the cops arrived. He eased off the gas as he considered going back and doing the right thing. Yes, the rain was easing up a lot now, and visibility was much better….
Wha-
A figure appeared in front of him in the road, waving frantically. For the second time in an evening, Jim had to step on the brakes, screeching the tires and nearly skidding out of control. Fortunately, the truck managed to stop well in front of the person outside, who was now running toward Jim’s side of the truck.
It was a young man, in drenched jeans and a dripping rain poncho, He was clean-shaven, with long black hair. There was a large cut on his cheek that appeared fresh.
There was apparent confusion in the man’s eyes as he approached Jim’s window and knocked on it. Hesitantly, Jim rolled it down.
“Hey, could you give me a ride? I about hit a tree over there and left my cell at home,” the man quickly said.
Jim looked around nervously. No suspicions need be awakened. “Uh, sure. There’s a gas station about five miles up the road. Hop in.”
As the man walked to the passenger side, Jim noticed that he was wincing in pain with every step he took. The man opened the passenger door and eased in delicately.
“Hey, are you ok?” Jim inquired. “You look hurt.”
The man looked back at Jim, and replied, “Yeah, I guess. I hit the tree pretty hard, as you can see. Big mess. I’ll be alright, just need to find a phone and a tow. By the way, name’s Mike.”
“Jim. Alright, then,” Jim said, and resumed down the country highway. Driving forward, he could see the car more easily, its crumpled hood emitting wisps of steam and smoke. The windshield had been shattered, the steering wheel pushed back against the driver’s seat. The guy, indeed, was lucky to be alive.
“Boy, am I glad you came around when you did,” Mike offered. “I was beginning to think that nobody travels this road at night… been waiting for hours for someone to show. What brings you this way?”
“Uh, had to leave a friend’s house early. Work tomorrow. This is the shortest way home.”
No mention of a party, or drinks. Good. Nobody needed to know. All this crap was enough to sober up the sottiest drunk.Glowing warmly just ahead was the tall Citgo sign and the bright security lamps around the service station’s pumps. Jim eased the truck into the parking space beside a pay phone in the shadows beside the gas station. Both Jim and his passenger got out, and Jim caught Mike’s eye and motioned to the store. “I’m going to pick up something with loads of caffeine while you do what you need to do. Want anything?”
“No thanks,” replied Mike, who began flipping through the yellow pages as Jim entered the store. Looking back, Jim saw Mike pick up the phone, begin dialing, and Mike waved at him. Jim helped himself to a large cup filled with ice and a generous amount of Mountain Dew, picked up a pack of mints to erase whatever scent of alcohol remained on his breath, paid the cashier, and left.
Mike was still on the phone, now hunched over and focused on his conversation, maybe with the insurance company, or the wrecker, or the police, or –
The police?
Jim picked up his pace, stepping it up to a sprint, determined to find out who Mike was talking to. At first, he didn’t notice the large figure rising from the bed of his truck, from under one of the tarps he kept there, but as he drew closer to the truck, he spotted the large man climbing out, favoring his left side, apparently not seeing Jim, but moving menacingly toward Mike, who was still absorbed in his phone conversation. The hefty man sneaked closer and closer to mike, still clutching his left side
No! it can’t be!
- With his right hand, which also seemed to be holding something long and shiny, like a knife –
He’s missing his left arm!
Taking advantage of the situation, seeing that the man was still unaware of his presence, Jim quickly circled the truck and reached into the bed, praying that what he was looking for was still there. His hand sought, and found, a large two by four that he had been saving to repair his fence.. thank God it was still there.
He had to think, and act, quickly. The man obviously had harmful intent, as the knife in his right hand was now raised as he approached Mike, revealing a bloody stump that had once been a left arm. Jim ran as fast as he could, lifting the two by four like a battle club, and yelling, “Mike! Look out!”
Obviously surprised, Mike looked behind him and saw the hulking man move toward him, dropped the phone and ducked just as the stranger closed in and slashed at him with the blade. Jim leapt forward and swung the two by four at the man’s head with all his might. Wooden splinters, blood, hair, and sweat sprayed from the impact of wood and skull, as the large man toppled to the ground, stunned.
“Quick, grab his knife!” Jim yelled, still waving the plank warily around the crumpled form. Mike kicked the stranger’s hand and the knife clattered to the ground underneath the phone. Mike then scurried over and picked the long bladed weapon up, brandishing it, and moving closer to the man lying on the parking lot, now bleeding profusely from a gaping wound on his head and quite unconscious.
Mike looked closer at the thwarted killer. “No…” he mumbled as a look of strange recognition appeared on his face. “You’re.. you’re still alive…”
Jim, puzzled, asked, “What are you talking about? Do you know this man?”
Mike looked up. “I didn’t tell you this.. I didn’t want to tell anyone; who would believe me? I thought he was dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The accident..” Mike struggled to keep his composure. “He was waiting in the car for me. I don’t know what he wanted… but as I was driving down the road, he attacked me. Had this big knife with him….I had to do something. It was raining, foggy… I drove off the road, into the tree back there. I had my seatbelt on… but he flew over my head, threw the windshield.. caught his arm on some of that glass and nearly…ripped it off.. I checked. I thought he was dead!”
Strangely, both relief and horror consumed Jim simultaneously. So I didn’t kill the guy, what a relief. Now we’ve got some sort of homicidal maniac lying on the ground in front of us, who’s going to wake at any second and…Mike stepped forward and crouched over the figure. “I’ll take care of him,” he said in a pained voice. Then he clutched the knife tightly and plunged it into the man’s neck, severing his artery. Blood spurted everywhere, and Mike quickly backed away and beside Jim. “We’ve got to take care of the body before someone else sees this. Dump it somewhere.”
Strangely, Jim wholeheartedly agreed. This whole evening had been a nightmare. He just wanted to put this behind him. He had too much to worry about, let alone the police. He’d nearly had a heart attack a few too many times. “Sure, “ he replied. “Let’s load it in the truck.”
They stooped down, Jim at one end and Mike at another and struggled to lift the heavy body into the truck bed. When at last the body was fully in the bed, they wrapped it with some of the tarp the man had been hiding in before he had attacked.
They both then got back into the truck and pulled slowly out of the gas station, checking behind them to see whether the attendant had seen or heard any of the commotion outside. He was busy reading a men’s magazine, oblivious to the outside world. Good.
“So where to now?” Mike asked. “Where’s a good place to dump a body?”
“There’s a lake a few minutes more down the road, at a turnoff. We’ll head down there.”
“OK.”
The rain had totally cleared by now, and steam rose in greater intensity from the damp road. The full moon peered out silently from behind its cloudy cloak, illuminating the pickup with a spectral glimmer. Minutes passed, and Jim noticed they were about a mile from the lake road. Then Mike spoke up.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate your help, Jim. I bet this must have been some evening for you. God, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“No problem, man. Honestly, I thought I ran the guy over before I saw you. Almost got into a crash myself. I skidded out, and when I got out, I found this guy’s arm lying on the road….”
Mike grinned. “No, seriously, man, I just wanted to thank you.” His teeth glistened as he looked ominously at Jim, pulling the bloody knife out of his belt. “You can’t imagine how long I’d been standing on the roadside, waiting.”
Jim looked back, stunned.
Mike drew closer. “I knew I shouldn’t have picked such a big muscular guy. He was too much work from the beginning. Good thing you came along to rescue me, eh?” Chuckling madly, Mike secured his seatbelt and touched the tip of the blade to Jim’s neck. “So do you want to pick the tree, or should I?”
The rain wasn’t the only reason for his early exit from Don’s house. He realized, though he was trying his best to keep somewhat temperate, that the room was beginning to spin around him, and if he downed another drink prodded on him by one of his giddy friends, there was no way he was going to make it home. He had a long day of work in front of him, thanks to his tyrannical boss, and unfortunately he was the most sober individual in the house that evening.
So here he was, guiding his pickup through a wall of wind-driven water, leaning forward, closer to the windshield, as if that was going to help penetrate the silvery darkness. A couple of times the truck hydroplaned, nearly sending Jim’s head into the windshield and compressing his heart like a sponge with fright; and on top of all this, he wasn’t even sure if he was sober enough to tell if he was actually on the right side of the road. It made for a very harrowing ride, and the indentations in the lining of his steering wheel showed an incredible tension that made him want to turn back, now -- screw work.
The rain continued to fall in steady, rippling sheets, chattering on the glass of the windshield like millions of tiny marbles, subduing Jim’s attempt to focus solely on the road ahead. Continuous vivid flashes of lightning seared his vision, leaving slowly fading imprints on his retinal walls which never really had a chance to disappear before the next blinding flash. Thunder shook the road under him as the lightning sought targets in the trees nearby.
CRACK!
Just ahead of Jim’s truck, lightning managed to hit a power pole, causing a loud popping sound and spraying sparks in every direction. Still unsure of exactly what happened, Jim swerved left into the other lane, trying to avoid the flying pinpoints of light shooting out from the transformer…. And then he felt and heard his worst nightmare, a loud “thud” and a vigorous tremble from his truck, as the tires ran over something.
He had run over something back there.
His nerves iced with fright, he slammed on the brakes, pitching himself forward, spinning the truck around, momentum pushing it into the grass , pitching gravel and turf, very nearly tipping into a roll, seatbelt pushed to its limit…. Until the vehicle finally came to rest facing the road, about three inches away from a large tree. Jim struggled momentarily to regain his breath; it was difficult getting the thought processes working again.. odd how in these situations, pissing one’s pants nearly became more reflexive than breathing.
Other than a mild ache in the back of his head, Jim pondered, he didn’t seem to be hurt. He wearily clicked open his seatbelt, pulled the door latch, and leaned outward, nearly spilling out of the truck in a somersault. He nearly fainted from the sudden wave of dizziness and nausea that came upon him as he exited his truck onto the cold, damp grass. The rain had settled down into nothing more than a drizzle. If I had waited just a few minutes more, he thought. Now I nearly killed myself, and God knows if I killed somebody back there.
Yes, in his panicked reaction to the lightning strike, Jim had definitely hit something of substance, and he had to find out what. Trying to contain his spinning environment, he slowly ambled forward along the road to where the truck had begun to spin out, and further still, taking his time, until he saw what he had hit. He couldn’t see it very clearly through the steam rising from the road and the soft raindrops trickling into his eyes. It looked like something small, like maybe a raccoon, or a cat. Shuffling ever closer, he squinted at the object resting in the emergency lane, until he could get a make on what it was exactly. Then he could go home and not –
Ohmygod
It was a human arm.
Retching, Jim collapsed to his knees, emptying whatever hors d’ouvres he had eaten with his Jack and Coke earlier. God, he had killed somebody!
He quickly came to his senses and began stumbling around, looking for the rest of the person he had hit, but it was so hard to see, and he could barely keep himself upright without tumbling to the ground.
God, what do I do? If anyone finds out about this, I’m toast… they’ll know I was drinking. I’m a murderer. What can I do now? Nobody can find out about this.. it was just an accident…
In what seemed to be pure instinctive reflex, at least to him, he kicked the arm, sending it flying into the overgrowth beside the road. At least they won’t find the guy until I’m well away from here, he thought, and walked as hurriedly as his weakened legs could carry him toward the truck. He climbed back inside, clapped the door shut, and started it up. It came back to life with a throbbing rumble, further heightening his nausea. He slowly put weight on the gas. The pickup’s rear tires coughed up mud and pebbles briefly, whining as the truck struggled out of the muck on to the highway, until finally he was back on the road again, fleeing whatever carnage he may have caused in his drunken hysteria.
About fifteen minutes into his flight, his conscience had grabbed hold of him. He was certainly wary that he had probably done the wrong thing, that it was an accident; that the alcohol would probably be gone from his system by the time the cops arrived. He eased off the gas as he considered going back and doing the right thing. Yes, the rain was easing up a lot now, and visibility was much better….
Wha-
A figure appeared in front of him in the road, waving frantically. For the second time in an evening, Jim had to step on the brakes, screeching the tires and nearly skidding out of control. Fortunately, the truck managed to stop well in front of the person outside, who was now running toward Jim’s side of the truck.
It was a young man, in drenched jeans and a dripping rain poncho, He was clean-shaven, with long black hair. There was a large cut on his cheek that appeared fresh.
There was apparent confusion in the man’s eyes as he approached Jim’s window and knocked on it. Hesitantly, Jim rolled it down.
“Hey, could you give me a ride? I about hit a tree over there and left my cell at home,” the man quickly said.
Jim looked around nervously. No suspicions need be awakened. “Uh, sure. There’s a gas station about five miles up the road. Hop in.”
As the man walked to the passenger side, Jim noticed that he was wincing in pain with every step he took. The man opened the passenger door and eased in delicately.
“Hey, are you ok?” Jim inquired. “You look hurt.”
The man looked back at Jim, and replied, “Yeah, I guess. I hit the tree pretty hard, as you can see. Big mess. I’ll be alright, just need to find a phone and a tow. By the way, name’s Mike.”
“Jim. Alright, then,” Jim said, and resumed down the country highway. Driving forward, he could see the car more easily, its crumpled hood emitting wisps of steam and smoke. The windshield had been shattered, the steering wheel pushed back against the driver’s seat. The guy, indeed, was lucky to be alive.
“Boy, am I glad you came around when you did,” Mike offered. “I was beginning to think that nobody travels this road at night… been waiting for hours for someone to show. What brings you this way?”
“Uh, had to leave a friend’s house early. Work tomorrow. This is the shortest way home.”
No mention of a party, or drinks. Good. Nobody needed to know. All this crap was enough to sober up the sottiest drunk.Glowing warmly just ahead was the tall Citgo sign and the bright security lamps around the service station’s pumps. Jim eased the truck into the parking space beside a pay phone in the shadows beside the gas station. Both Jim and his passenger got out, and Jim caught Mike’s eye and motioned to the store. “I’m going to pick up something with loads of caffeine while you do what you need to do. Want anything?”
“No thanks,” replied Mike, who began flipping through the yellow pages as Jim entered the store. Looking back, Jim saw Mike pick up the phone, begin dialing, and Mike waved at him. Jim helped himself to a large cup filled with ice and a generous amount of Mountain Dew, picked up a pack of mints to erase whatever scent of alcohol remained on his breath, paid the cashier, and left.
Mike was still on the phone, now hunched over and focused on his conversation, maybe with the insurance company, or the wrecker, or the police, or –
The police?
Jim picked up his pace, stepping it up to a sprint, determined to find out who Mike was talking to. At first, he didn’t notice the large figure rising from the bed of his truck, from under one of the tarps he kept there, but as he drew closer to the truck, he spotted the large man climbing out, favoring his left side, apparently not seeing Jim, but moving menacingly toward Mike, who was still absorbed in his phone conversation. The hefty man sneaked closer and closer to mike, still clutching his left side
No! it can’t be!
- With his right hand, which also seemed to be holding something long and shiny, like a knife –
He’s missing his left arm!
Taking advantage of the situation, seeing that the man was still unaware of his presence, Jim quickly circled the truck and reached into the bed, praying that what he was looking for was still there. His hand sought, and found, a large two by four that he had been saving to repair his fence.. thank God it was still there.
He had to think, and act, quickly. The man obviously had harmful intent, as the knife in his right hand was now raised as he approached Mike, revealing a bloody stump that had once been a left arm. Jim ran as fast as he could, lifting the two by four like a battle club, and yelling, “Mike! Look out!”
Obviously surprised, Mike looked behind him and saw the hulking man move toward him, dropped the phone and ducked just as the stranger closed in and slashed at him with the blade. Jim leapt forward and swung the two by four at the man’s head with all his might. Wooden splinters, blood, hair, and sweat sprayed from the impact of wood and skull, as the large man toppled to the ground, stunned.
“Quick, grab his knife!” Jim yelled, still waving the plank warily around the crumpled form. Mike kicked the stranger’s hand and the knife clattered to the ground underneath the phone. Mike then scurried over and picked the long bladed weapon up, brandishing it, and moving closer to the man lying on the parking lot, now bleeding profusely from a gaping wound on his head and quite unconscious.
Mike looked closer at the thwarted killer. “No…” he mumbled as a look of strange recognition appeared on his face. “You’re.. you’re still alive…”
Jim, puzzled, asked, “What are you talking about? Do you know this man?”
Mike looked up. “I didn’t tell you this.. I didn’t want to tell anyone; who would believe me? I thought he was dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The accident..” Mike struggled to keep his composure. “He was waiting in the car for me. I don’t know what he wanted… but as I was driving down the road, he attacked me. Had this big knife with him….I had to do something. It was raining, foggy… I drove off the road, into the tree back there. I had my seatbelt on… but he flew over my head, threw the windshield.. caught his arm on some of that glass and nearly…ripped it off.. I checked. I thought he was dead!”
Strangely, both relief and horror consumed Jim simultaneously. So I didn’t kill the guy, what a relief. Now we’ve got some sort of homicidal maniac lying on the ground in front of us, who’s going to wake at any second and…Mike stepped forward and crouched over the figure. “I’ll take care of him,” he said in a pained voice. Then he clutched the knife tightly and plunged it into the man’s neck, severing his artery. Blood spurted everywhere, and Mike quickly backed away and beside Jim. “We’ve got to take care of the body before someone else sees this. Dump it somewhere.”
Strangely, Jim wholeheartedly agreed. This whole evening had been a nightmare. He just wanted to put this behind him. He had too much to worry about, let alone the police. He’d nearly had a heart attack a few too many times. “Sure, “ he replied. “Let’s load it in the truck.”
They stooped down, Jim at one end and Mike at another and struggled to lift the heavy body into the truck bed. When at last the body was fully in the bed, they wrapped it with some of the tarp the man had been hiding in before he had attacked.
They both then got back into the truck and pulled slowly out of the gas station, checking behind them to see whether the attendant had seen or heard any of the commotion outside. He was busy reading a men’s magazine, oblivious to the outside world. Good.
“So where to now?” Mike asked. “Where’s a good place to dump a body?”
“There’s a lake a few minutes more down the road, at a turnoff. We’ll head down there.”
“OK.”
The rain had totally cleared by now, and steam rose in greater intensity from the damp road. The full moon peered out silently from behind its cloudy cloak, illuminating the pickup with a spectral glimmer. Minutes passed, and Jim noticed they were about a mile from the lake road. Then Mike spoke up.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate your help, Jim. I bet this must have been some evening for you. God, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“No problem, man. Honestly, I thought I ran the guy over before I saw you. Almost got into a crash myself. I skidded out, and when I got out, I found this guy’s arm lying on the road….”
Mike grinned. “No, seriously, man, I just wanted to thank you.” His teeth glistened as he looked ominously at Jim, pulling the bloody knife out of his belt. “You can’t imagine how long I’d been standing on the roadside, waiting.”
Jim looked back, stunned.
Mike drew closer. “I knew I shouldn’t have picked such a big muscular guy. He was too much work from the beginning. Good thing you came along to rescue me, eh?” Chuckling madly, Mike secured his seatbelt and touched the tip of the blade to Jim’s neck. “So do you want to pick the tree, or should I?”
UNGRATEFUL
The housekeeper flinched as Thompson's booming voice shook from the living room nearby.
"Where is my breakfast! I asked for it fifteen minutes ago!"
She nearly dropped the tray containing his eggs, toast, and juice as she slowly recovered her composure and entered the room.
Sitting sullenly in an electric wheelchair was Franklin S. Thompson III, the luckiest man on earth, and perhaps the nastiest one as well. About two years earlier, he had been a victim of a multiple shooting. Thompson claimed it was a burglary attempt, and that he had driven the robbers back as far as he could before dropping to the floor, unconscious. Of course, anyone who knew Thompson knew differently. He had just ticked one of the people he came into contact with off just above what a rational human could take, they snapped, and walked in on Thompson, guns blazing. Of course, nothing was stolen or missing from the manor.
Thompson had a lot of money, you see, and he desperately clung to the notion that life wasn't worth living if one had to die. His greatest endeavor was to achieve eternal life, and he would stop at nothing to gain it. After the shooting, which had left him in a coma for months, Thompson may have gotten what he wished for; the world's most advanced bionic heart and circulatory mechanism. Some doctor had apparently cared more for a second estate in the Hills than for the miserable lives of the acquaintances of Franklin S. Thompson III.
Unfortunately for Thompson, however, technology couldn't quite master the neurological damage sustained from a shattered spine and severed cord, and so the wealthy grouch was confined to a wheelchair.
Thompson grumpily grabbed the tray from the distraught maid and waved her off with a rumbling growl. It wasn't long, however, before he summoned her back with an ear-splitting holler, "You incompetent wench! What is this, leaving an eggshell in my food? You want to kill me slowly, don't you!"
She shrunk before him like a withering leaf, shaking and red-faced with embarrassment and hurt. "But sir...." she murmured.
"Shut up and let me finish, you inconsiderate - I want you to take this disgusting crap and shove it where it belongs, in the garbage can! Then you're going to make me an entirely fresh breakfast with eggs done the right way, understand?"
She meekly took the tray and turned to go, but not before Thompson could insert one last comment.
"Oh, and by the way, don't be so sure you can kill me. I'll be around long before your children and grandchildren rot in a swamp somewhere. If, of course, you have any; your looks aren't exactly stellar, you know."
The small light steps broke into a sprint as she exited the living room. Halfway down the hall, she almost ran into Claude, the chauffeur, who saw her panicked face and held her steady as she broke into uncontrollable sobs.
"I know how you're feeling, Janelle," he said soothingly as he comforted her, embracing her as he walked her into the kitchen. "I'm not sure I can stand it for much longer, this abuse."
She sniffed and nodded. "It hurts so much."
"I know," Claude said, "But is it worth all the money he gives us to live in a hell of his choosing? Surely there must be others who would be more grateful for our services, or at least polite to us."
"But he can ruin us if we leave," Janelle replied. "He can destroy us and all we have worked our whole lives for."
"What have we worked for? For this filth? This is not work, it is abuse. And I'm not sure the solution is that we just leave."
Janelle looked at Claude quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we take matters into our own hands and never allow Master Thompson to harm anyone else again."
"You mean -"
"He says he's invincible, that he can't be killed. The man's lived for ages and has always pursued a long life. Let's test his theory. And tomorrow we leave."
"But how?" Janelle asked.
Claude closed the door to the kitchen behind them. "Let me explain..."
A cold and dreary afternoon, turned into a gloomy evening, rain pounding against the roof of the mansion, echoing fervently throughout its spacious chambers in a persistent drumbeat. The chandelier in the great hall winked on as Janelle wheeled Thompson to his bedroom on the opposite end.
"NOT SO FAST!" he screamed. "Why do I have to remind you every day.. has anyone ever told you how worthless - watch where you're going!"
She carefully wheeled him into the bedroom and positioned him next to his four post bed. Manipulating a series of levers, she got the wheelchair seat to tilt and swivel, then lift Thompson's paralyzed form to bed-level.
"-Be careful, idiot! You drop me, I dock your pay for six weeks!"
She gingerly eased him into bed, ignoring the grating comments from the bitter old man. When he was positioned correctly, she unfolded the bedcovers over him. Then she punctuated her effort with, "Would you like anything else, sir?"
He looked at her rudely, giving her slender form a sweeping glance. Like a wolf on the hunt, he licked his lips. "Er, no. Just get out of here... you bother me. Maybe when they find a cure for my paralysis..."
She shuddered, suddenly sick to her stomach at his leer, turned, and quickly stepped out the door, shutting the bedroom door as she left. Claude was waiting there, hiding in the shadows nearby.
"Do not worry," Claude whispered. "We will be out of here before dawn. Life will be much better soon."
Thompson awoke with a start. At first, he did not know what had awakened him, but soon his senses caught up with his consciousness and he noticed the smell, a faint sharp odor of burning wood. He looked around, still dazed.. a smoky haze filled the room, getting thicker with each passing second. His eyes burned. A cough forced itself out of his lungs.
"Wha- Janelle! Get up here now! Are you deaf? JANELLE! I think something's... burning!"
Fire.
He could hear it creeping up aggressively, licking at the door. He could see the flickering of the hungry flames as they reached through the cracks of the door frame. He struggled to catch his breath, looking through the smoke to see if that stupid girl was doing anything to put it out. There was no sound but the crackle and pop of the fire just outside his bedroom door.
He had to do something. Propping himself up on his good elbow, he slid himself out of bed and plopped noisily on the floor. It was a long drop, and his right shoulder streaked with sharp pain. Wonderful, he thought. The shoulder was probably dislocated.
With his hand, trying his best to overcome the pain, he creeped along the floor, slowly, just under the cloud of smoke that continued to build. The temperature in the room was stifling, and the flames were making short work of the door. There was a fire extinguisher propped up on the wall in the near corner; he only needed to be able to reach that with his crippled body, and he would at least have a fighting chance against the raging fire.
He inched closer, closer...
CRACK. The door gave. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, and the flames spread to the surrounding rug. The heat was barely tolerable. A lick of flame emerged on the bed's blankets, and soon the whole bed was engulfed. A sheet that was aflame fell to the floor, landing on Thompson's leg.
Paralyzed, he did not feel his pajama pant leg catch fire.
He did not feel the skin peel away from his legs, or his pubic hair singe to dust.
He did, however, feel the sting of burning flesh as the fire advanced above his waist, blistering his stomach, consuming him.
He screamed for a long time, as long as it took before the intense heat shriveled his tongue and blackened his eyes. There was infinite pain, infinite suffering, until the blackness caught up with the agony and he finally lost consciousness.
Two heavily protected men in yellow firemen's uniforms walked through the smoking, steaming rubble, panning their flashlights around what looked to have been a master bedroom.
"Joe! Over there!" one shouted to the other.
Joe walked over to where his partner was pointing. A blackened husk of a human figure lay on the floor, charred and barely recognizable.
Joe walked around the body, and said, "This must be Thompson. Looks like we're in his bedroom, Steve."
Steve replied, "Poor guy. Looks like a pretty painful death."
"Well, from what I hear, a lot of people aren't too sympathetic. I hear he was an arrogant turd."
"Whatever, it's too painful of a death for anyone to have to endure."
In the blackness, he heard voices.
What did they call me?
It would be their jobs when he got well again. He would wait, bide his time, get the feeling in his legs back, and teach them a thing or two about respect when he was healed. He had plenty of money to get it all done. Plenty of money, and all the time in the world.
He wanted to shout out to the men, show them he could hear everything they were saying, but he could not manage to speak. He wanted to flail around and show them a hand gesture or two, but could not feel his hands. There was no sensation but his consciousness and his hearing.
TWO DAYS LATER
How could they insult him like this to his face... all those people calling him perverse, nasty names behind his back. It was a matter of time, he knew. His heart still pumped furiously like it had always done. His thoughts were lucid, complex, and focused on revenge. Revenge on all those fools who thought they could do him in by lighting his house on fire. That Justine! She needed a man who would be more powerful, more domineering than she had ever dreamed. He knew his iron grip turned her on.. it turned him on. He could almost sense the pleasure, what it would be like when his nerves and sense of feeling were restored.
He felt motion. It was eerie, as if he were being lowered. The sounds had grown muffled and faint, as if he were underwater. Then the familiar sound of rain pattering on the roof... a steady thump thump that echoed above him, a comforting sound that always seemed to lull him to sleep, as the voices grew fainter and fainter and fainter, until there was no sound at all.
No sound, for a long, long time. Nobody dared bother him, not until he healed and was able to wreak vengeance.
Silence.
Timeless silence.
Then a faint click, and another. A rustle. A wet, slippery sound. The sounds slowly multiplied, grew louder, a cacophony of chorus, a symphony of hums, clicks, and clatters. They drew nearer and louder, nearer to his ears over time, until...
.... he felt something for the first time in ages...
Something had entered his ear.
Strange discomfort, an invasion by something the likes of which he could not describe. It was filling his ear, others followed.
Then, sharp pain.
It fed. They fed.
As his consciousness slipped away, as his brain was slowly being eaten by whatever vermin occupied this cramped, dark space with him, he realized where he was... where he had bided his time for so long... and so futilely.
And as his brain became digested matter to feed another generation of scavenging insects, the sweet nectar of life, his life blood, continued to pump, his mechanical heart beating as hard as it ever had, sustaining the shell of an angry man forever.
"Where is my breakfast! I asked for it fifteen minutes ago!"
She nearly dropped the tray containing his eggs, toast, and juice as she slowly recovered her composure and entered the room.
Sitting sullenly in an electric wheelchair was Franklin S. Thompson III, the luckiest man on earth, and perhaps the nastiest one as well. About two years earlier, he had been a victim of a multiple shooting. Thompson claimed it was a burglary attempt, and that he had driven the robbers back as far as he could before dropping to the floor, unconscious. Of course, anyone who knew Thompson knew differently. He had just ticked one of the people he came into contact with off just above what a rational human could take, they snapped, and walked in on Thompson, guns blazing. Of course, nothing was stolen or missing from the manor.
Thompson had a lot of money, you see, and he desperately clung to the notion that life wasn't worth living if one had to die. His greatest endeavor was to achieve eternal life, and he would stop at nothing to gain it. After the shooting, which had left him in a coma for months, Thompson may have gotten what he wished for; the world's most advanced bionic heart and circulatory mechanism. Some doctor had apparently cared more for a second estate in the Hills than for the miserable lives of the acquaintances of Franklin S. Thompson III.
Unfortunately for Thompson, however, technology couldn't quite master the neurological damage sustained from a shattered spine and severed cord, and so the wealthy grouch was confined to a wheelchair.
Thompson grumpily grabbed the tray from the distraught maid and waved her off with a rumbling growl. It wasn't long, however, before he summoned her back with an ear-splitting holler, "You incompetent wench! What is this, leaving an eggshell in my food? You want to kill me slowly, don't you!"
She shrunk before him like a withering leaf, shaking and red-faced with embarrassment and hurt. "But sir...." she murmured.
"Shut up and let me finish, you inconsiderate - I want you to take this disgusting crap and shove it where it belongs, in the garbage can! Then you're going to make me an entirely fresh breakfast with eggs done the right way, understand?"
She meekly took the tray and turned to go, but not before Thompson could insert one last comment.
"Oh, and by the way, don't be so sure you can kill me. I'll be around long before your children and grandchildren rot in a swamp somewhere. If, of course, you have any; your looks aren't exactly stellar, you know."
The small light steps broke into a sprint as she exited the living room. Halfway down the hall, she almost ran into Claude, the chauffeur, who saw her panicked face and held her steady as she broke into uncontrollable sobs.
"I know how you're feeling, Janelle," he said soothingly as he comforted her, embracing her as he walked her into the kitchen. "I'm not sure I can stand it for much longer, this abuse."
She sniffed and nodded. "It hurts so much."
"I know," Claude said, "But is it worth all the money he gives us to live in a hell of his choosing? Surely there must be others who would be more grateful for our services, or at least polite to us."
"But he can ruin us if we leave," Janelle replied. "He can destroy us and all we have worked our whole lives for."
"What have we worked for? For this filth? This is not work, it is abuse. And I'm not sure the solution is that we just leave."
Janelle looked at Claude quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we take matters into our own hands and never allow Master Thompson to harm anyone else again."
"You mean -"
"He says he's invincible, that he can't be killed. The man's lived for ages and has always pursued a long life. Let's test his theory. And tomorrow we leave."
"But how?" Janelle asked.
Claude closed the door to the kitchen behind them. "Let me explain..."
A cold and dreary afternoon, turned into a gloomy evening, rain pounding against the roof of the mansion, echoing fervently throughout its spacious chambers in a persistent drumbeat. The chandelier in the great hall winked on as Janelle wheeled Thompson to his bedroom on the opposite end.
"NOT SO FAST!" he screamed. "Why do I have to remind you every day.. has anyone ever told you how worthless - watch where you're going!"
She carefully wheeled him into the bedroom and positioned him next to his four post bed. Manipulating a series of levers, she got the wheelchair seat to tilt and swivel, then lift Thompson's paralyzed form to bed-level.
"-Be careful, idiot! You drop me, I dock your pay for six weeks!"
She gingerly eased him into bed, ignoring the grating comments from the bitter old man. When he was positioned correctly, she unfolded the bedcovers over him. Then she punctuated her effort with, "Would you like anything else, sir?"
He looked at her rudely, giving her slender form a sweeping glance. Like a wolf on the hunt, he licked his lips. "Er, no. Just get out of here... you bother me. Maybe when they find a cure for my paralysis..."
She shuddered, suddenly sick to her stomach at his leer, turned, and quickly stepped out the door, shutting the bedroom door as she left. Claude was waiting there, hiding in the shadows nearby.
"Do not worry," Claude whispered. "We will be out of here before dawn. Life will be much better soon."
Thompson awoke with a start. At first, he did not know what had awakened him, but soon his senses caught up with his consciousness and he noticed the smell, a faint sharp odor of burning wood. He looked around, still dazed.. a smoky haze filled the room, getting thicker with each passing second. His eyes burned. A cough forced itself out of his lungs.
"Wha- Janelle! Get up here now! Are you deaf? JANELLE! I think something's... burning!"
Fire.
He could hear it creeping up aggressively, licking at the door. He could see the flickering of the hungry flames as they reached through the cracks of the door frame. He struggled to catch his breath, looking through the smoke to see if that stupid girl was doing anything to put it out. There was no sound but the crackle and pop of the fire just outside his bedroom door.
He had to do something. Propping himself up on his good elbow, he slid himself out of bed and plopped noisily on the floor. It was a long drop, and his right shoulder streaked with sharp pain. Wonderful, he thought. The shoulder was probably dislocated.
With his hand, trying his best to overcome the pain, he creeped along the floor, slowly, just under the cloud of smoke that continued to build. The temperature in the room was stifling, and the flames were making short work of the door. There was a fire extinguisher propped up on the wall in the near corner; he only needed to be able to reach that with his crippled body, and he would at least have a fighting chance against the raging fire.
He inched closer, closer...
CRACK. The door gave. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, and the flames spread to the surrounding rug. The heat was barely tolerable. A lick of flame emerged on the bed's blankets, and soon the whole bed was engulfed. A sheet that was aflame fell to the floor, landing on Thompson's leg.
Paralyzed, he did not feel his pajama pant leg catch fire.
He did not feel the skin peel away from his legs, or his pubic hair singe to dust.
He did, however, feel the sting of burning flesh as the fire advanced above his waist, blistering his stomach, consuming him.
He screamed for a long time, as long as it took before the intense heat shriveled his tongue and blackened his eyes. There was infinite pain, infinite suffering, until the blackness caught up with the agony and he finally lost consciousness.
Two heavily protected men in yellow firemen's uniforms walked through the smoking, steaming rubble, panning their flashlights around what looked to have been a master bedroom.
"Joe! Over there!" one shouted to the other.
Joe walked over to where his partner was pointing. A blackened husk of a human figure lay on the floor, charred and barely recognizable.
Joe walked around the body, and said, "This must be Thompson. Looks like we're in his bedroom, Steve."
Steve replied, "Poor guy. Looks like a pretty painful death."
"Well, from what I hear, a lot of people aren't too sympathetic. I hear he was an arrogant turd."
"Whatever, it's too painful of a death for anyone to have to endure."
In the blackness, he heard voices.
What did they call me?
It would be their jobs when he got well again. He would wait, bide his time, get the feeling in his legs back, and teach them a thing or two about respect when he was healed. He had plenty of money to get it all done. Plenty of money, and all the time in the world.
He wanted to shout out to the men, show them he could hear everything they were saying, but he could not manage to speak. He wanted to flail around and show them a hand gesture or two, but could not feel his hands. There was no sensation but his consciousness and his hearing.
TWO DAYS LATER
How could they insult him like this to his face... all those people calling him perverse, nasty names behind his back. It was a matter of time, he knew. His heart still pumped furiously like it had always done. His thoughts were lucid, complex, and focused on revenge. Revenge on all those fools who thought they could do him in by lighting his house on fire. That Justine! She needed a man who would be more powerful, more domineering than she had ever dreamed. He knew his iron grip turned her on.. it turned him on. He could almost sense the pleasure, what it would be like when his nerves and sense of feeling were restored.
He felt motion. It was eerie, as if he were being lowered. The sounds had grown muffled and faint, as if he were underwater. Then the familiar sound of rain pattering on the roof... a steady thump thump that echoed above him, a comforting sound that always seemed to lull him to sleep, as the voices grew fainter and fainter and fainter, until there was no sound at all.
No sound, for a long, long time. Nobody dared bother him, not until he healed and was able to wreak vengeance.
Silence.
Timeless silence.
Then a faint click, and another. A rustle. A wet, slippery sound. The sounds slowly multiplied, grew louder, a cacophony of chorus, a symphony of hums, clicks, and clatters. They drew nearer and louder, nearer to his ears over time, until...
.... he felt something for the first time in ages...
Something had entered his ear.
Strange discomfort, an invasion by something the likes of which he could not describe. It was filling his ear, others followed.
Then, sharp pain.
It fed. They fed.
As his consciousness slipped away, as his brain was slowly being eaten by whatever vermin occupied this cramped, dark space with him, he realized where he was... where he had bided his time for so long... and so futilely.
And as his brain became digested matter to feed another generation of scavenging insects, the sweet nectar of life, his life blood, continued to pump, his mechanical heart beating as hard as it ever had, sustaining the shell of an angry man forever.
POLESTOWN AT DUSK, PART 1
We arrived at Polestown on the 15th of November, car stuffed enough to warp the windows of our minivan. There was only the two of us - my mom and I; our faces were both sagging from near-exhaustion as we crossed the township line.
WELCOME TO POLESTOWN
Greetings with arms wide open
Tacky, I thought, adjusting my slump in the passenger seat; but it'll certainly do. Anything but the ghosts of the past would be welcome, as the townfolk apparently say, with arms wide open.
Certainly, our personal baggage far outweighed and outnumbered the bags and boxes that stuffed our van. Dad came down with a serious illness last spring, and without warning, died in bed. Mom was hysterical. She wouldn't leave his side as they wheeled him into the waiting ambulance. But he was already gone, my mentor, my constant source of fatherly advice; my coach; my fearless leader.
I leaned my head against the cold window and exhaled, rippling a warm fog across its sheen. I just wanted, somehow, to forget that there was a hole in my soul. I didn't want all of this responsibility; I wasn't ready to become 'man of the house' on the spot... but here it was, thrust upon me like a bandit's ambush.
Mom looked over at me. "Are you OK, Jim?"
"Fine, mom," I replied - my stock answer. I was sure she was hurting too, probably still a million times more than my resilient self. It wasn't time to make things worse by venting on her. Man, how I hoped there were some decent people for us to meet in Polestown.
The semi-rural road suddenly became a Main Street, and trees became storefronts and offices as we drove into town. I noticed a small grocery, outside of which an old man was sweeping the walkway. A young girl was riding a bicycle with a little red-and-yellow basket perched on the handlebars. The proprietor of what appeared to be a barber shop, striped pole and all, noticed our loaded van, guessed what we were here for, and waved enthusiastically at us. We drove past the town hall, a modest brick building trimmed with grey and topped with a large clock with roman numerals.
This was nice, I thought, a bit of a reprieve from the constant noise and confusion of the city suburb we had come from. I leaned back and watched the townspeople going about their daily business.
The car rumbled and shook as it pulled right into the parking lot of a handsome stone office building. Mom motioned me over to her side as she got out of the car. She was holding a twenty in her hand. "Jim, go have yourself some lunch. It looks like there's a diner over there. It shouldn't be long. I'll meet you inside when I'm done closing the house."
I took the bill and jogged toward the cozy diner down the street. A large, faded sign hung above its screen door: "Bab's Country Cafe." Sounded quaint enough, I thought.
Inside, the setting resembled something out of the dustbins of the past, or a time-warp to the "Andy Griffith" era. A stark white counter spanned the length of the narrow room, dotted at intervals with polished round metal stools, the kind that I noticed could send a young child into a spinning frenzy with a push of the hand off the counter's side. There were booths near the eatery's windows, and what appeared to be the only customers sitting at one in the far corner, busy eating and taking sips of their milkshakes. I sat down at a stool near the middle of the counter, and pulled the menu from its holding clamp.
A waitress, hair piled like a cord of wood on her head, rapidly chewing a wad of bubble gum, noticed me and approached me from her station near the grill where she had been jawing with the cook.
"What can I do for you, dearie?" she rasped. She sounded like she had a severe smoking habit. "Our special today is our world-famous meatloaf. Would you care to try some?"
World famous, I thought, like that twenty ton ball of twine in the Guinness Book? What the heck, I thought, I was too tired to read.
"Sure."
"How about something to drink?"
I replied, "Coke, please."
She walked away, snatching the menu from my unprepared hands; as she adeptly plucked it, I noticed something unusual about her hands.
Was that blood?
I shrugged it off. The hamburger must've put up a fight, I thought. Something like that. No need to concentrate any further - I was tired and hungry.
The meat loaf may not have been world-famous, but it was delicious. It was spiced just the right way, with little bits of onion and mushroom and breadcrumbs... and ooh, the tomato mixture on top. I scarfed it down with my heavily iced Coke, and the folks in the corner eyeing me strangely as if I were some sort of zoo animal. I smiled back, and finished eating.
My mother joined me in the diner about an hour later, by which time I'd downed about seven Cokes. She had a tremendous grin on her face; when she caught my eye upon entering the establishment, she dangled a fairly impressive set of keys in front of my face. "It's ours," she said confidently.
I ran to her and gave her a bearhug. At last, perhaps, we would settle down and restart what had been lost.
As we left the diner, I noticed everyone was looking at us, as if they had expected us to give a speech or something. I shrugged it off as small-town nosiness.
WELCOME TO POLESTOWN
Greetings with arms wide open
Tacky, I thought, adjusting my slump in the passenger seat; but it'll certainly do. Anything but the ghosts of the past would be welcome, as the townfolk apparently say, with arms wide open.
Certainly, our personal baggage far outweighed and outnumbered the bags and boxes that stuffed our van. Dad came down with a serious illness last spring, and without warning, died in bed. Mom was hysterical. She wouldn't leave his side as they wheeled him into the waiting ambulance. But he was already gone, my mentor, my constant source of fatherly advice; my coach; my fearless leader.
I leaned my head against the cold window and exhaled, rippling a warm fog across its sheen. I just wanted, somehow, to forget that there was a hole in my soul. I didn't want all of this responsibility; I wasn't ready to become 'man of the house' on the spot... but here it was, thrust upon me like a bandit's ambush.
Mom looked over at me. "Are you OK, Jim?"
"Fine, mom," I replied - my stock answer. I was sure she was hurting too, probably still a million times more than my resilient self. It wasn't time to make things worse by venting on her. Man, how I hoped there were some decent people for us to meet in Polestown.
The semi-rural road suddenly became a Main Street, and trees became storefronts and offices as we drove into town. I noticed a small grocery, outside of which an old man was sweeping the walkway. A young girl was riding a bicycle with a little red-and-yellow basket perched on the handlebars. The proprietor of what appeared to be a barber shop, striped pole and all, noticed our loaded van, guessed what we were here for, and waved enthusiastically at us. We drove past the town hall, a modest brick building trimmed with grey and topped with a large clock with roman numerals.
This was nice, I thought, a bit of a reprieve from the constant noise and confusion of the city suburb we had come from. I leaned back and watched the townspeople going about their daily business.
The car rumbled and shook as it pulled right into the parking lot of a handsome stone office building. Mom motioned me over to her side as she got out of the car. She was holding a twenty in her hand. "Jim, go have yourself some lunch. It looks like there's a diner over there. It shouldn't be long. I'll meet you inside when I'm done closing the house."
I took the bill and jogged toward the cozy diner down the street. A large, faded sign hung above its screen door: "Bab's Country Cafe." Sounded quaint enough, I thought.
Inside, the setting resembled something out of the dustbins of the past, or a time-warp to the "Andy Griffith" era. A stark white counter spanned the length of the narrow room, dotted at intervals with polished round metal stools, the kind that I noticed could send a young child into a spinning frenzy with a push of the hand off the counter's side. There were booths near the eatery's windows, and what appeared to be the only customers sitting at one in the far corner, busy eating and taking sips of their milkshakes. I sat down at a stool near the middle of the counter, and pulled the menu from its holding clamp.
A waitress, hair piled like a cord of wood on her head, rapidly chewing a wad of bubble gum, noticed me and approached me from her station near the grill where she had been jawing with the cook.
"What can I do for you, dearie?" she rasped. She sounded like she had a severe smoking habit. "Our special today is our world-famous meatloaf. Would you care to try some?"
World famous, I thought, like that twenty ton ball of twine in the Guinness Book? What the heck, I thought, I was too tired to read.
"Sure."
"How about something to drink?"
I replied, "Coke, please."
She walked away, snatching the menu from my unprepared hands; as she adeptly plucked it, I noticed something unusual about her hands.
Was that blood?
I shrugged it off. The hamburger must've put up a fight, I thought. Something like that. No need to concentrate any further - I was tired and hungry.
The meat loaf may not have been world-famous, but it was delicious. It was spiced just the right way, with little bits of onion and mushroom and breadcrumbs... and ooh, the tomato mixture on top. I scarfed it down with my heavily iced Coke, and the folks in the corner eyeing me strangely as if I were some sort of zoo animal. I smiled back, and finished eating.
My mother joined me in the diner about an hour later, by which time I'd downed about seven Cokes. She had a tremendous grin on her face; when she caught my eye upon entering the establishment, she dangled a fairly impressive set of keys in front of my face. "It's ours," she said confidently.
I ran to her and gave her a bearhug. At last, perhaps, we would settle down and restart what had been lost.
As we left the diner, I noticed everyone was looking at us, as if they had expected us to give a speech or something. I shrugged it off as small-town nosiness.
A DAY IN THE DEATH
Cool mist kissed George Markus's cheeks as he took one deep breath, then another. He wavered, swayed a little bit as his body relaxed, then steadied again. He opened his eyes to midnight darkness, illuminated only faintly by a distant streetlight and a lamp shining from a dinghy far below. The girder George was hanging on to was slick, but he didn't pay it any mind... there would be no use for a handhold shortly. It was all going to end in the next few minutes, the culmination of a sick and sorry life. He looked down at the inviting water lapping at the support columns of the bridge.
So it had come to this, had it? Divorce, bankruptcy, ruin; it had all come with this life, had it not? Now, this eve of Thanksgiving, he found himself broke and alone, with nothing to look forward to, ever. His accounts were all looted by the tag team of his ex and her snipe lawyer. His home was a twenty-by-twenty roach motel that charged a special hourly rate for the depressed, with half-mildewed sheets and a virtual zoological garden behind the sink. Life, indeed, had settled in the toilet of the universe and settled there to rot and bask in foul stench. It was time to flush, to end the slow erosion of his daily existence.
He said a prayer, to who or what he didn't know, but perhaps he would be forgiven. Surely the Almighty would understand; or perhaps even hell was better than his current situation. He took another greedy, lung-stretching breath, perhaps his last. Closing his eyes again, he stepped off the girder into the open air, beginning his hundred-foot plunge to the base of the bridge below.
He felt a tremendous blast of upward-rushing air, the gravity tugging at his clothes, beckoning downward. His muscles relaxed; he felt well at ease, tumbling end over end into the darkness below.
Down.
Way down.
Dark.
Nothing.
But wait.
There was feeling, something familiar after the darkness. It wasn't the tunnel of light one read about in new age novels. It was a memory that was being relived, a feeling.
Dampness.
Against his face, the mist settled.
He opened his eyes, and gasped with unbelief.
He was still standing on the girder.
No, no, this couldn't possibly be.. his reality was quite vivid, he could remember the feeling of falling freely through space, then darkness. But alas, he was still here, getting chilled to the bone by the frigid breeze blowing from the northeast. He looked around, frantically, forgetting how slippery his hold was on the beam, and let go prematurely; he felt his left knee bounce off of the platform he had been standing on, as he tumbled once again into the depths below. The scenery whizzed by him at hyper-speed, a blurred black-green-yellow mass, making him suddenly dizzy and disoriented and weak, yes this had to be it
He looked down, and could see the surface of the water below before he blacked out again.
Darkness returned.
So did the damp breeze that penetrated to the bone.
Other than the chill ache of his joints, nothing else seemed to hurt. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again.
He was still alive, still holding onto the slippery beam, still shivering.
This was madness.
Was he?
He looked back at his car, seemingly miles away, on the other end of the railing, parked by the side of the road. Shakily, frustrated, he turned and slid across the girder to the railing and climbed back over it to safety. He walked toward the car, and unlocked it, easing slowly into the driver's seat. This wasn't going to work. He slumped over, took a few deep, painful breaths, and started the car.. after a few false turns, it hummed to life. He put the car into gear, and made slow progress toward his house.
The idea came to him as he drove, spotting a glimmer in the distance, twinkling lights of headlights approaching him. A fall couldn’t kill him. How about a crash? Yet… yet, in his self-indulgence, he didn’t want to harm innocent people. He paused a bit, shrugged off the thought of a head-on collision as the first set of headlights whizzed by him, and came to something of a decision. Concentrating on another gleam of light, this time off the embankment to his right, he swerved in its direction, toward the solidly planted light pole just ahead. He closed his eyes, took his foot off the brake, stepped on the gas, and waited for the moment of impact.
And waited.
Seconds passed, but the moment never came.
George opened his eyes.
This was impossible – the pole was still as far away as it had been before he had turned his car toward it and shut his eyes! He cursed violently, stomped on his brakes, sending the car into a spin, until it blocked the road, facing sideways.
It was time to give up. George had to at least go home and rest – this was far too much for the regrettably living. He unblocked the road, and continued his drive home.
The neon signs of the seedy motel mocked him as he parked in its pothole-peppered lot. He dug out his key card, getting out of the car, not bothering to lock it behind him. Sliding the keycard into the slot, he turned the handle when a green light signaled a key match. He was buffeted by a gust of stale, smoky air from within. A roach the size of a small rat scuttled out of his way and under the queen bed. George unbuttoned his shirt, then picked up the TV remote and clicked the television on. He was just in time to catch the local news.
“…. Tragedy has hit the community of Valencia this evening, as it has now been confirmed that two have been killed in a multiple suicide at the Flanders River Bridge. Tom Hutchins is there with the latest. Tom, what have you found out?”
George paused. The scenery looked familiar, terrifyingly so.
“Well, Carol, in an unusual series of events, two young men have committed suicide by leaping, one after the other, to their deaths from this very spot…”
No. That was his spot. The one he had intended to end it all from. How…
“It appears that the second victim might have actually bounced against a lower-level platform, as there appears to be severe damage to one of his knees…”
His left knee throbbed faintly. Was it possible?
These two innocent people had actually taken his place?
“Another breaking news story just in. A family of four has died as their minivan collided with a pole along State Road 55 and burst into flame. All the occupants of the van were dead before the emergency personnel arrived.”
Now his head was spinning.
Somehow, as fate had allowed it, he had been responsible for those deaths! He flipped off the television set and began pacing around the room. If not him, then who? And why? Those other people had not deserved to die for his inane, selfish motivations. His life may have been worthless, but the lives of those others were over, completely, forever.
He had to call someone.
He had to let the police know about this.
Maybe they would understand, and he could turn himself in.
He was a murderer!
Yes, yes, he would pick up the phone and dial 911. They would probably think him crazy, out of his mind, but maybe there was the faintest glimmer of a chance that someone would believe him. He had wanted so much to exit this earth, but not at the expense of others – certainly not to see innocent people die in his stead.
He picked up the phone and began dialing.
9…
The handset felt cold and metallic in his hands as he lifted it to his ear.
1…
It settled into his hand as he touched it to his head.
1…
But there was no sound, no dialtone, nothing.
He turned and looked at the handset, that wasn’t a handset.
The gun went off, blowing a tremendous hole in George’s head.
***
The shivering man waited in the hotel lobby in his bathrobe, looking visibly embarrassed and perplexed.
“That’s r-right. I l-locked myself out of my room. D-don’t know how it happens, I was just—“
And then the man stopped mid-sentence. He didn’t want to say anything further.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve never seen you here before. And that room’s registered to a Mr. George Markus,” the desk clerk said.
“That’s impossible! I checked in this afternoon! Ch-check again.”
This was truly baffling. The man had been in the room just seconds earlier, contemplating his true lot in life, pointing his eternal destiny at his head. It was better than the drunken stupor he had been living for the past few months… and then, not BLAM… but POOF he was outside of his room, barely dressed, and clutching, not his prized revolver, but the handset of a motel phone which had been ripped from its jack.
The clerk was suspiciously eyeing the broken phone as he replied, “Sir, I’m sorry. Mr. Markus has been in that room for a good month now.”
Just then, an elderly gentleman sporting a handlebar mustache and overly decorative shorts burst in the office. “Come quick! I think there’s been a shooting in the room next door! 138!”
The clerk nodded and picked up his desk phone.
The man sunk to the floor in disbelief… as somewhere, half a block away, a troubled teen opened a box of razor blades in a back alley beside a dumpster... And the circle continued.
So it had come to this, had it? Divorce, bankruptcy, ruin; it had all come with this life, had it not? Now, this eve of Thanksgiving, he found himself broke and alone, with nothing to look forward to, ever. His accounts were all looted by the tag team of his ex and her snipe lawyer. His home was a twenty-by-twenty roach motel that charged a special hourly rate for the depressed, with half-mildewed sheets and a virtual zoological garden behind the sink. Life, indeed, had settled in the toilet of the universe and settled there to rot and bask in foul stench. It was time to flush, to end the slow erosion of his daily existence.
He said a prayer, to who or what he didn't know, but perhaps he would be forgiven. Surely the Almighty would understand; or perhaps even hell was better than his current situation. He took another greedy, lung-stretching breath, perhaps his last. Closing his eyes again, he stepped off the girder into the open air, beginning his hundred-foot plunge to the base of the bridge below.
He felt a tremendous blast of upward-rushing air, the gravity tugging at his clothes, beckoning downward. His muscles relaxed; he felt well at ease, tumbling end over end into the darkness below.
Down.
Way down.
Dark.
Nothing.
But wait.
There was feeling, something familiar after the darkness. It wasn't the tunnel of light one read about in new age novels. It was a memory that was being relived, a feeling.
Dampness.
Against his face, the mist settled.
He opened his eyes, and gasped with unbelief.
He was still standing on the girder.
No, no, this couldn't possibly be.. his reality was quite vivid, he could remember the feeling of falling freely through space, then darkness. But alas, he was still here, getting chilled to the bone by the frigid breeze blowing from the northeast. He looked around, frantically, forgetting how slippery his hold was on the beam, and let go prematurely; he felt his left knee bounce off of the platform he had been standing on, as he tumbled once again into the depths below. The scenery whizzed by him at hyper-speed, a blurred black-green-yellow mass, making him suddenly dizzy and disoriented and weak, yes this had to be it
He looked down, and could see the surface of the water below before he blacked out again.
Darkness returned.
So did the damp breeze that penetrated to the bone.
Other than the chill ache of his joints, nothing else seemed to hurt. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again.
He was still alive, still holding onto the slippery beam, still shivering.
This was madness.
Was he?
He looked back at his car, seemingly miles away, on the other end of the railing, parked by the side of the road. Shakily, frustrated, he turned and slid across the girder to the railing and climbed back over it to safety. He walked toward the car, and unlocked it, easing slowly into the driver's seat. This wasn't going to work. He slumped over, took a few deep, painful breaths, and started the car.. after a few false turns, it hummed to life. He put the car into gear, and made slow progress toward his house.
The idea came to him as he drove, spotting a glimmer in the distance, twinkling lights of headlights approaching him. A fall couldn’t kill him. How about a crash? Yet… yet, in his self-indulgence, he didn’t want to harm innocent people. He paused a bit, shrugged off the thought of a head-on collision as the first set of headlights whizzed by him, and came to something of a decision. Concentrating on another gleam of light, this time off the embankment to his right, he swerved in its direction, toward the solidly planted light pole just ahead. He closed his eyes, took his foot off the brake, stepped on the gas, and waited for the moment of impact.
And waited.
Seconds passed, but the moment never came.
George opened his eyes.
This was impossible – the pole was still as far away as it had been before he had turned his car toward it and shut his eyes! He cursed violently, stomped on his brakes, sending the car into a spin, until it blocked the road, facing sideways.
It was time to give up. George had to at least go home and rest – this was far too much for the regrettably living. He unblocked the road, and continued his drive home.
The neon signs of the seedy motel mocked him as he parked in its pothole-peppered lot. He dug out his key card, getting out of the car, not bothering to lock it behind him. Sliding the keycard into the slot, he turned the handle when a green light signaled a key match. He was buffeted by a gust of stale, smoky air from within. A roach the size of a small rat scuttled out of his way and under the queen bed. George unbuttoned his shirt, then picked up the TV remote and clicked the television on. He was just in time to catch the local news.
“…. Tragedy has hit the community of Valencia this evening, as it has now been confirmed that two have been killed in a multiple suicide at the Flanders River Bridge. Tom Hutchins is there with the latest. Tom, what have you found out?”
George paused. The scenery looked familiar, terrifyingly so.
“Well, Carol, in an unusual series of events, two young men have committed suicide by leaping, one after the other, to their deaths from this very spot…”
No. That was his spot. The one he had intended to end it all from. How…
“It appears that the second victim might have actually bounced against a lower-level platform, as there appears to be severe damage to one of his knees…”
His left knee throbbed faintly. Was it possible?
These two innocent people had actually taken his place?
“Another breaking news story just in. A family of four has died as their minivan collided with a pole along State Road 55 and burst into flame. All the occupants of the van were dead before the emergency personnel arrived.”
Now his head was spinning.
Somehow, as fate had allowed it, he had been responsible for those deaths! He flipped off the television set and began pacing around the room. If not him, then who? And why? Those other people had not deserved to die for his inane, selfish motivations. His life may have been worthless, but the lives of those others were over, completely, forever.
He had to call someone.
He had to let the police know about this.
Maybe they would understand, and he could turn himself in.
He was a murderer!
Yes, yes, he would pick up the phone and dial 911. They would probably think him crazy, out of his mind, but maybe there was the faintest glimmer of a chance that someone would believe him. He had wanted so much to exit this earth, but not at the expense of others – certainly not to see innocent people die in his stead.
He picked up the phone and began dialing.
9…
The handset felt cold and metallic in his hands as he lifted it to his ear.
1…
It settled into his hand as he touched it to his head.
1…
But there was no sound, no dialtone, nothing.
He turned and looked at the handset, that wasn’t a handset.
The gun went off, blowing a tremendous hole in George’s head.
***
The shivering man waited in the hotel lobby in his bathrobe, looking visibly embarrassed and perplexed.
“That’s r-right. I l-locked myself out of my room. D-don’t know how it happens, I was just—“
And then the man stopped mid-sentence. He didn’t want to say anything further.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve never seen you here before. And that room’s registered to a Mr. George Markus,” the desk clerk said.
“That’s impossible! I checked in this afternoon! Ch-check again.”
This was truly baffling. The man had been in the room just seconds earlier, contemplating his true lot in life, pointing his eternal destiny at his head. It was better than the drunken stupor he had been living for the past few months… and then, not BLAM… but POOF he was outside of his room, barely dressed, and clutching, not his prized revolver, but the handset of a motel phone which had been ripped from its jack.
The clerk was suspiciously eyeing the broken phone as he replied, “Sir, I’m sorry. Mr. Markus has been in that room for a good month now.”
Just then, an elderly gentleman sporting a handlebar mustache and overly decorative shorts burst in the office. “Come quick! I think there’s been a shooting in the room next door! 138!”
The clerk nodded and picked up his desk phone.
The man sunk to the floor in disbelief… as somewhere, half a block away, a troubled teen opened a box of razor blades in a back alley beside a dumpster... And the circle continued.
TO FLY, TO FALL
On fly wings
Through the tickling wisps
Of stratospheric delight
Circling mountains with acrobatic ease
The daydreamer
Heavenbound
Outside the grasp of gravity
Reaching to blazing star tendril
Through passage of time, sucked
Mortality released
Fate's hand
Fly wings are plucked like fruit
Whirligig groundward spiral
Carom off leaves trampoline
To a fateful drying husk death
On the ground below
Day fades, Night
Creeps on rotting fly corpse
Sudden awakening lightning flash
The daydreamer pauses, looks down
From stories up above
No wings, no easy choice
Through the tickling wisps
Of stratospheric delight
Circling mountains with acrobatic ease
The daydreamer
Heavenbound
Outside the grasp of gravity
Reaching to blazing star tendril
Through passage of time, sucked
Mortality released
Fate's hand
Fly wings are plucked like fruit
Whirligig groundward spiral
Carom off leaves trampoline
To a fateful drying husk death
On the ground below
Day fades, Night
Creeps on rotting fly corpse
Sudden awakening lightning flash
The daydreamer pauses, looks down
From stories up above
No wings, no easy choice
OUT OF THE INVISIBLE
The clock ticked like a repetitious drum in the cramped cubicle belonging to museum security guard Chester Murrow. His eyes moved lazily back and forth between the glow of the perpetually switching monitor in front of him and the engrossing spy thriller propped on his lap. In between sips of overcreamed coffee, he flipped a page. The ticks were getting on to Chester’s nerves. If only I could… he thought, and then thought otherwise, as he, like he had many times before, resigned himself to the fact that the clock was the true measure of freedom in his job where he was assigned to do, basically, nothing…. Nothing but guard a few measly artifacts and jewels that were already heavily alarmed and which would draw out a SWAT team upon the slightest tickle of the bulletproof glass. He looked up at the ticking annoyance, and sighed. Three hours left.
He awoke from his reverie with a start. He had heard a faint clatter in the distance, down the hall. Probably a rodent, he thought, but knew he had to check anyway. He struggled to get up from his rolling office chair, nearly falling on his pudgy butt when it slid out from under him. Patting the weapon at his side, a trusty Beretta, and the nightstick on his other side, he trudged forward with a Mag lite into the blackness ahead.
Soon he saw the source of the noise, or at least the result – an umbrella rack near the door to the Rare Jewels collection was tipped over. He propped it back upright, and shone his flashlight in broad circles, hoping to catch the culprit in action. The critter couldn’t have gotten very far. He stepped slowly into the Jewels room, turned to the security access switch, and punched in a few numbers to temporarily deactivate the lasers that protected the amazing wealth within. He cast light on the tile floor, noting a few dust bunnies that the early evening janitors had missed – the miscreants – but little else. Resetting the security as he left the room, he glanced backward and felt reassured by the gleams and sparkles emanating from the display cases… all intact. Resigned to success, perhaps in at least scaring the nasty rodent back into the dirt hole it came from, he settled back down for his last three – he smiled – no, make that two and a half, hours.
Unseen, something watched Chester from the shadows, waiting for daylight and opening time. This something was carrying a small black bag with the real blue diamond in it, replaced in its case by a fragment of a blue glass vase he managed to find at an auction for a much, much cheaper price.
The shadow had made quite a hefty profit.. minus, of course, some scores he had to settle downtown.
The door leading to the dimly lit, highly air-conditioned office shuddered as someone entered the lobby outside. A thin, pale individual wearing bottle cap glasses waited for the expected buzz from the doorbell… and there it was, as harsh as ever. Pressing a button underneath the top drawer of his desk, he got the door to magnetically unlock. It opened, and closed, but it appeared that nobody had entered. Appeared, yes. But Sam Lockhart knew otherwise. Upon entrance, a visitor had to enter a narrow gateway ringed with cameras of different sizes and shapes and multiple flashing red LEDs. Sam switched on his computer monitor and typed a few commands. An image of the gateway popped up on the screen, a tall, stocky figure taking shape. Soon, computer processing power enhanced the image, and the face became recognizable. Satisfied, Sam pressed another switch on his desk, and the high voltage electrical field guarding the exit from the gateway switched off.
He cleared his throat and drawled into the loudspeaker, “Come on in, Josh.”
Infrared cameras trailed the Josh figure as he moved to a reception window. Sam moved over to the window. “So….” Sam asked, “Was it all it was cut out to be?”
A voice, seemingly out of the blue, replied, “Piece of cake. Though it’s hard to get used to, you know, figuring out how to grab stuff and maneuver, you know? I couldn’t see a dang thing I was doing.”
“You get used to it,” Sam replied.
“Yeah, well, the sooner I get back to the real world, the better. I never thought I would have ever said I was more impatient to get a stupid shot.” A black bag materialized out of thin air.
Sam glanced at the bag. “I see you got what you wanted,” he said, “You got the money?”
“Yeah,” Josh’s voice replied, “As soon as I cash this in, I can get you your ten grand.”
Sam scowled. “You obviously didn’t read the contract. We’re expecting more than that.”
“What do you mean? I signed for the ten thou deal.. one day of complete invisibility. What gives?”
Leaning forward toward the thick glass partition separating them, Sam replied, “You didn’t read the fine print. Let me refresh you.” He pulled out a legal size sheet of paper and slowly read from it. “It says here, ‘An additional sum may be incurred in the event the invisibility is used or involved, directly or indirectly, in the commission of a crime.’”
The voice heightened, obviously increasingly nervous. “A crime – how did – what-“
“What, you think I don’t read the papers? That’ll be fifty grand, in my hand, or no shot.”
“You – you – can’t do this! I need to be able to get the heck out of town. What about my girlfriend.. my –“
Sam smirked. “Dude, that’s not my problem. It’s in your hands now. Get me fifty grand, you get your shot. Until then, have a nice day.”
Panic. “But-“
The microblinds pulled down over the partition window and snapped shut. The invisible man banged and banged but came nowhere near even budging the reinforced glass.
“I’ll get you!” Josh-thing screamed. “I’ll find a way, trust me!” In seconds, the door leading back out to the lobby swung open and slammed shut, rustling the clipboard of papers hanging by the door.
Josh panicked. Without fifty thousand dollars, how was he even going to begin to cash in the jewel? He slumped against the concrete outer wall of the office building he had just stormed out of – confused, angry, and now alone. He had to get back in somehow and get to that weasel, find a way to make himself visible again.
Yes. He came to a realization.
Invisible. Unseen.
He would wait until dark, just as he had in the museum.
Right on schedule, the lanky Sam Lockhart trudged out the double doors leading to the office building, keys in hand. Looking both ways, he stepped out into the night, seemingly oblivious to Josh’s invisible figure coming up behind him with a shard of broken glass picked up from a nearby alley. Josh pounced. Both tumbled to the ground in a mass of dust, Sam appearing to struggle with himself and a solitary piece of sharpened glass. “What, what do you- you want?!” Sam screamed, as he found himself on the losing end of the battle, dagger pressed firmly against his neck.
“You know exactly what I want, idiot,” the invisible voice growled. “You’re going to make me visible again right now.”
“I – well – don’t hurt me, or else you’ll never be, uh, visible again,” Sam whimpered, caught in an invisible chokehold from an obviously larger, stronger man.
“Well I suppose that’s true,” the voice replied mockingly, “But then – you wouldn’t want to be in serious, chronic, bleeding pain for the rest of your miserable life, now would you?” The glass dug deeper into Sam’s neck, drawing blood. “Give me the shot or you’re in some serious pain, twerp.”
Sam suddenly managed to squirm away from Josh’s vicelike grip and stumbled to the ground, breathless. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “I’ll take you up and give you the shot.”
He looked decidedly resigned as he walked slowly back to the building, through the double doors, and into the elevator. He pressed the button leading to the seventh floor.. the door closed, and after a few minutes, they were in front of the nondescript office once again. It was only by word of mouth and reputation that Sam turned his miraculous invention into a modern-day novelty, for pure profit. He had amassed many thousands of dollars sending the wonder of invisibility, not questioning the motives or ambitions of his clients… but they always managed to repay him kindly with gratitude. Until now.
He walked slowly through the lobby, slid a key card through the reader on the wall, and swung open the entry door after it clicked itself unlocked. The electrical field had also disengaged, and he walked straight through the gateway to the door leading to his office. Swiping his card through another reader, he walked the invisible Josh into the dim, chill, cramped space that was his laboratory.
Sam looked around. “Have a seat,” he muttered, pointing to a chair that vaguely resembled a dentist chair. He opened a small white cabinet, glancing to his side as indentations appeared on the chair, letting him know that Josh was now sitting down awaiting his injection.
He returned to the chair with a syringe and a small vial of brown liquid. He poked the needle into the vial, which sipped up the liquid into its barrel-like tube, tapped out the bubbles from the syringe, and stood over the reclining invisible man. From his right pocket he pulled out a pair of what looked like sunglasses.
“Here,” Sam said, “Please put these on. One side effect of rematerializing is that your eyes will become sensitive to any and all light for a few hours.”
The glasses popped from his grip and floated in midair above the headrest.
“Please put your arm on this brace.” Sam pointed to a circlet sticking out from the chair. “This is where I will make the injection.”
Raising the syringe, Sam bore downward on the arm brace, felt a little resistance, and pushed more firmly. A small sigh escaped the chair. A minute passed. Then Sam spoke.
“Josh, you can take a look now.”
Josh looked down over himself and grinned with satisfaction… at last, visible again! And nobody would ever suspect him in the biggest jewel heist in the state… no, certainly not if nobody saw anything. Slowly, though he was having trouble maintaining his balance, he lifted himself out of the chair. He turned to Sam, who, clad in a white lab coat, was grinning fearfully, and extended a hand out to him. Sam returned the handshake.
“Thanks, Doc,” Josh said, making his way toward the door. “You’ll get your ten grand in the morning.” And he walked out, whistling all the way to the elevators outside.
Sweaty and trembling, Sam stumbled out of his office, following the gleeful man at a distance. “Indeed I will,” he mumbled.
The open door, the fresh air, the freedom was the last thing he remembered before – PAIN. Intense, spiking, throbbing pain. First, in both arms, then spreading inward to the chest, convulsing, contracting, twisting his heart like a dishrag. Josh collapsed weakly to the pavement, very near to where he had stalked the good doctor just an hour earlier.
Bright lights, blinding, flashing – searing his brain, etching like fire, as he watched his limbs pulsate with untamed energy. What was happening.. what did the guy give him now? If he ever got through this, he would rip off the man’s skull and eat his brain… unnhh…
Light. Heat.
Black.
Waiting patiently inside the entryway, Sam casually walked outside. He was wearing glasses much like those he had given Josh. Ah, yes, those were very valuable, he thought, and gently lifted them off of his face. They were much more so, in fact, than the invisibility serum… one needed a way to see the invisible, just in case. And in this case, he simply didn’t want to waste any of the valuable serum, so the glasses bought some time for the fatal drug overdose to work. Ah, he noticed. Don’t want to forget the bag. He removed it from the dead man’s grasp. Humming to himself, he continued the much-delayed walk to his car, and the short ride home.
A teenager, bouncing a basketball on his way to the courts a couple blocks down, passed the dull gray building. He was making his way alongside the entry doors when he tripped on something and fell clumsily, sending his ball bouncing away into the hedges surrounding the building. He pushed himself up on his hands, trying to see what it was that tripped him. He saw nothing but a sharp piece of broken glass. Shrugging it off, he gathered himself, looked around to see if his aura of coolness was disrupted, and gathered his ball, double-timing it to the basketball court so he wouldn’t be the last one there.
He awoke from his reverie with a start. He had heard a faint clatter in the distance, down the hall. Probably a rodent, he thought, but knew he had to check anyway. He struggled to get up from his rolling office chair, nearly falling on his pudgy butt when it slid out from under him. Patting the weapon at his side, a trusty Beretta, and the nightstick on his other side, he trudged forward with a Mag lite into the blackness ahead.
Soon he saw the source of the noise, or at least the result – an umbrella rack near the door to the Rare Jewels collection was tipped over. He propped it back upright, and shone his flashlight in broad circles, hoping to catch the culprit in action. The critter couldn’t have gotten very far. He stepped slowly into the Jewels room, turned to the security access switch, and punched in a few numbers to temporarily deactivate the lasers that protected the amazing wealth within. He cast light on the tile floor, noting a few dust bunnies that the early evening janitors had missed – the miscreants – but little else. Resetting the security as he left the room, he glanced backward and felt reassured by the gleams and sparkles emanating from the display cases… all intact. Resigned to success, perhaps in at least scaring the nasty rodent back into the dirt hole it came from, he settled back down for his last three – he smiled – no, make that two and a half, hours.
Unseen, something watched Chester from the shadows, waiting for daylight and opening time. This something was carrying a small black bag with the real blue diamond in it, replaced in its case by a fragment of a blue glass vase he managed to find at an auction for a much, much cheaper price.
The shadow had made quite a hefty profit.. minus, of course, some scores he had to settle downtown.
The door leading to the dimly lit, highly air-conditioned office shuddered as someone entered the lobby outside. A thin, pale individual wearing bottle cap glasses waited for the expected buzz from the doorbell… and there it was, as harsh as ever. Pressing a button underneath the top drawer of his desk, he got the door to magnetically unlock. It opened, and closed, but it appeared that nobody had entered. Appeared, yes. But Sam Lockhart knew otherwise. Upon entrance, a visitor had to enter a narrow gateway ringed with cameras of different sizes and shapes and multiple flashing red LEDs. Sam switched on his computer monitor and typed a few commands. An image of the gateway popped up on the screen, a tall, stocky figure taking shape. Soon, computer processing power enhanced the image, and the face became recognizable. Satisfied, Sam pressed another switch on his desk, and the high voltage electrical field guarding the exit from the gateway switched off.
He cleared his throat and drawled into the loudspeaker, “Come on in, Josh.”
Infrared cameras trailed the Josh figure as he moved to a reception window. Sam moved over to the window. “So….” Sam asked, “Was it all it was cut out to be?”
A voice, seemingly out of the blue, replied, “Piece of cake. Though it’s hard to get used to, you know, figuring out how to grab stuff and maneuver, you know? I couldn’t see a dang thing I was doing.”
“You get used to it,” Sam replied.
“Yeah, well, the sooner I get back to the real world, the better. I never thought I would have ever said I was more impatient to get a stupid shot.” A black bag materialized out of thin air.
Sam glanced at the bag. “I see you got what you wanted,” he said, “You got the money?”
“Yeah,” Josh’s voice replied, “As soon as I cash this in, I can get you your ten grand.”
Sam scowled. “You obviously didn’t read the contract. We’re expecting more than that.”
“What do you mean? I signed for the ten thou deal.. one day of complete invisibility. What gives?”
Leaning forward toward the thick glass partition separating them, Sam replied, “You didn’t read the fine print. Let me refresh you.” He pulled out a legal size sheet of paper and slowly read from it. “It says here, ‘An additional sum may be incurred in the event the invisibility is used or involved, directly or indirectly, in the commission of a crime.’”
The voice heightened, obviously increasingly nervous. “A crime – how did – what-“
“What, you think I don’t read the papers? That’ll be fifty grand, in my hand, or no shot.”
“You – you – can’t do this! I need to be able to get the heck out of town. What about my girlfriend.. my –“
Sam smirked. “Dude, that’s not my problem. It’s in your hands now. Get me fifty grand, you get your shot. Until then, have a nice day.”
Panic. “But-“
The microblinds pulled down over the partition window and snapped shut. The invisible man banged and banged but came nowhere near even budging the reinforced glass.
“I’ll get you!” Josh-thing screamed. “I’ll find a way, trust me!” In seconds, the door leading back out to the lobby swung open and slammed shut, rustling the clipboard of papers hanging by the door.
Josh panicked. Without fifty thousand dollars, how was he even going to begin to cash in the jewel? He slumped against the concrete outer wall of the office building he had just stormed out of – confused, angry, and now alone. He had to get back in somehow and get to that weasel, find a way to make himself visible again.
Yes. He came to a realization.
Invisible. Unseen.
He would wait until dark, just as he had in the museum.
Right on schedule, the lanky Sam Lockhart trudged out the double doors leading to the office building, keys in hand. Looking both ways, he stepped out into the night, seemingly oblivious to Josh’s invisible figure coming up behind him with a shard of broken glass picked up from a nearby alley. Josh pounced. Both tumbled to the ground in a mass of dust, Sam appearing to struggle with himself and a solitary piece of sharpened glass. “What, what do you- you want?!” Sam screamed, as he found himself on the losing end of the battle, dagger pressed firmly against his neck.
“You know exactly what I want, idiot,” the invisible voice growled. “You’re going to make me visible again right now.”
“I – well – don’t hurt me, or else you’ll never be, uh, visible again,” Sam whimpered, caught in an invisible chokehold from an obviously larger, stronger man.
“Well I suppose that’s true,” the voice replied mockingly, “But then – you wouldn’t want to be in serious, chronic, bleeding pain for the rest of your miserable life, now would you?” The glass dug deeper into Sam’s neck, drawing blood. “Give me the shot or you’re in some serious pain, twerp.”
Sam suddenly managed to squirm away from Josh’s vicelike grip and stumbled to the ground, breathless. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “I’ll take you up and give you the shot.”
He looked decidedly resigned as he walked slowly back to the building, through the double doors, and into the elevator. He pressed the button leading to the seventh floor.. the door closed, and after a few minutes, they were in front of the nondescript office once again. It was only by word of mouth and reputation that Sam turned his miraculous invention into a modern-day novelty, for pure profit. He had amassed many thousands of dollars sending the wonder of invisibility, not questioning the motives or ambitions of his clients… but they always managed to repay him kindly with gratitude. Until now.
He walked slowly through the lobby, slid a key card through the reader on the wall, and swung open the entry door after it clicked itself unlocked. The electrical field had also disengaged, and he walked straight through the gateway to the door leading to his office. Swiping his card through another reader, he walked the invisible Josh into the dim, chill, cramped space that was his laboratory.
Sam looked around. “Have a seat,” he muttered, pointing to a chair that vaguely resembled a dentist chair. He opened a small white cabinet, glancing to his side as indentations appeared on the chair, letting him know that Josh was now sitting down awaiting his injection.
He returned to the chair with a syringe and a small vial of brown liquid. He poked the needle into the vial, which sipped up the liquid into its barrel-like tube, tapped out the bubbles from the syringe, and stood over the reclining invisible man. From his right pocket he pulled out a pair of what looked like sunglasses.
“Here,” Sam said, “Please put these on. One side effect of rematerializing is that your eyes will become sensitive to any and all light for a few hours.”
The glasses popped from his grip and floated in midair above the headrest.
“Please put your arm on this brace.” Sam pointed to a circlet sticking out from the chair. “This is where I will make the injection.”
Raising the syringe, Sam bore downward on the arm brace, felt a little resistance, and pushed more firmly. A small sigh escaped the chair. A minute passed. Then Sam spoke.
“Josh, you can take a look now.”
Josh looked down over himself and grinned with satisfaction… at last, visible again! And nobody would ever suspect him in the biggest jewel heist in the state… no, certainly not if nobody saw anything. Slowly, though he was having trouble maintaining his balance, he lifted himself out of the chair. He turned to Sam, who, clad in a white lab coat, was grinning fearfully, and extended a hand out to him. Sam returned the handshake.
“Thanks, Doc,” Josh said, making his way toward the door. “You’ll get your ten grand in the morning.” And he walked out, whistling all the way to the elevators outside.
Sweaty and trembling, Sam stumbled out of his office, following the gleeful man at a distance. “Indeed I will,” he mumbled.
The open door, the fresh air, the freedom was the last thing he remembered before – PAIN. Intense, spiking, throbbing pain. First, in both arms, then spreading inward to the chest, convulsing, contracting, twisting his heart like a dishrag. Josh collapsed weakly to the pavement, very near to where he had stalked the good doctor just an hour earlier.
Bright lights, blinding, flashing – searing his brain, etching like fire, as he watched his limbs pulsate with untamed energy. What was happening.. what did the guy give him now? If he ever got through this, he would rip off the man’s skull and eat his brain… unnhh…
Light. Heat.
Black.
Waiting patiently inside the entryway, Sam casually walked outside. He was wearing glasses much like those he had given Josh. Ah, yes, those were very valuable, he thought, and gently lifted them off of his face. They were much more so, in fact, than the invisibility serum… one needed a way to see the invisible, just in case. And in this case, he simply didn’t want to waste any of the valuable serum, so the glasses bought some time for the fatal drug overdose to work. Ah, he noticed. Don’t want to forget the bag. He removed it from the dead man’s grasp. Humming to himself, he continued the much-delayed walk to his car, and the short ride home.
A teenager, bouncing a basketball on his way to the courts a couple blocks down, passed the dull gray building. He was making his way alongside the entry doors when he tripped on something and fell clumsily, sending his ball bouncing away into the hedges surrounding the building. He pushed himself up on his hands, trying to see what it was that tripped him. He saw nothing but a sharp piece of broken glass. Shrugging it off, he gathered himself, looked around to see if his aura of coolness was disrupted, and gathered his ball, double-timing it to the basketball court so he wouldn’t be the last one there.
FACES PAST
As the frost licked at the panes of glass like a silent predator seeking entrance, I rubbed away the sweat from the inside of the window and waved goodbye to my dad as he backed out of the driveway this chilly morning. His taillights faded into the distance, swallowed up by the stark black pavement surrounded by the chill whiteness of the fresh snow. I sighed, clasping my hands, letting the curtain drop as I stood and contemplated the day’s schedule.
It was a monumental occasion; for the first time ever, I was given the privilege of staying home alone for more than six hours at a time. Dad had to go away on an important business assignment, one that might find us the beneficiaries of a new job position or a grand-scale pay raise. Neither mattered more than the freedom I was bestowed this weekend.
I scurried up the stairs in my slippers and plaid pajamas (rule number one of home-alone-ness: don’t bother to get into your decent clothes) and plopped into bed butt-first to catch a few hours of late-morning Z’s before I tackled the dilemma of what to eat first from the newly-replenished pantry. Closing my eyes, hands behind my head, I settled down atop the covers and dazed off into whatever dream world I could conjure up.
BRAAAANNNNGGGG! The phone rudely interrupted my nap and reminded me futilely once again to turn the blasted ringer down. I coughed, rubbed my eyes, and sat up before the next ring grated my senses. I reached over to my nightstand and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” I mumbled blearily.
No answer, just a few clicks. “Hello? Anyone there?” I repeated. Nothing.
I replaced the phone, and dropped back down, annoyed, but not thinking much of it.
In dreams, you don’t know what to expect. Nor do you expect to remember the sublime. I did, this time, but only in pieces.
Blue sky, cold chill much like today.
In an unfamiliar car, strapped to what appeared to be a child seat. I was young.
Exhaust leaving steam trails that faded slowly as they dragged skyward.
In front, driving… who was that man? Black haired, close-cropped, eyeglasses. Friendly-looking. Glancing back at me with a smile. Who was he? He started to say something as he looked behind…
“David…”
And I awoke.
It wasn’t the phone that woke me; this time it was definitely pangs of hunger. On a normal schedule, one that I had complied with ever since I remembered, dad would have woke me a couple hours ago to get ready for school or camp or whatever we needed to do together, then he would fix a nice breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs with a little bit of chopped mushroom and onion inside. Beat the heck out of me how to cook something like that so efficiently, but I was going to try. I raced downstairs into the kitchen, tore open the fridge, and got out some eggs, milk, an unopened package of bacon, and a can of mushrooms.
First, I went to work frying the bacon gently in our cast iron skillet; its familiar scents and crackling sounds of its little packets of fat being released made my tummy twinge even more forcefully. I pressed on, whipping up the mushrooms and egg together with a little bit of milk, keeping an eye on the bacon so it wouldn’t get too overly crisp.
Soon I had the eggs going, and within minutes I had a delicious breakfast, not unlike the meals that my dad had made for me, but certainly not as skillfully prepared as his, either. I took a Mount Everest-sized heap for my plate, then sat down in the dining room near the bay window to enjoy my concoction.
I was in the middle of a bite, when I caught sight of the car in my peripheral vision. I turned, and dropped my fork with a clatter. Squinting, I moved the curtain framing the window further aside. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, parked and idling in front of the house, was the car I had been dreaming about, and that man with the short black hair inside it. He was definitely looking into the house.
I eased around the table slowly, trying not to catch the man’s attention. Was this a family friend? Why else would I be dreaming about him? He looked oddly familiar, yet I wasn’t sure what to make of his actions. It aroused my suspicion enough to grab the wall-mounted cordless phone from the kitchen and run to the front door.
If you see any strangers, my dad had warned, give me a call right away. I decided to wait, just a second. I cracked the door ever so slightly, peering out the crack with one squinting eye. The car was still there. It no longer had the car seat in the back, like I had dreamed. Gathering whatever foolish courage I had, I swung the front door open slowly and walked outside. The man’s eyes caught mine… there was a gleam, a movement in his facial features…. And then the car sped away before I could get any closer. There was definitely something going on. I decided right then to call dad and let him know what was up.
“Did you see what he looked like?” asked dad, frantically as I related the incident outside with the car and the black-haired man.
“Well, yeah. He looked kind of short, with short black hair and glasses.. kind of chubby face,” I replied.
There was brief silence, and a soft gasping sound at the other end of the line. “Da-David. You need to lock all the windows and doors right now. Make sure they’re completely secure.”
“What’s wrong, dad? Do you know this guy?”
“Yeah, sorta… David, you’ve got to trust me. Don’t let anyone in the house. Anyone. Understand me?”
“Should I call the police or something?”
“No,” he insisted, “If this guy gets wind that we called the cops.. he could do… anything… David, just promise me you won’t let anyone in until I get home. God, I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
Aw, crud, I thought, selfish pig that I was; so much for my alone time.
Dad continued, “I’ll be home as soon as possible. Give me a call on my cell if anything happens, k?”
“Alright, dad. I’ll be okay.”
I checked all of the locks in the house, to make sure everything was locked tight. It was. Breathless from the circle around the house, I slouched back in the dining room chair where my plate of half-finished eggs and bacon had gone cold. I glanced back outside to the snowy lawn and road beyond. There was no car there anymore. The birds were chirping merrily, oblivious to the chill surroundings.
I closed my eyes. I usually did not forget a face. I remembered that man. I remember his smile, which seemed genuine in my dream… the way he looked back at me. Someone from long ago and far away… a friend… gone bad?
I jumped. There was a loud knock at the door!
Again… it was commanding, very loud, like it was the..
“Police. Please open up!”
… the police!
Sure enough, when I looked back up and out the window, a white cruiser with flashing blue and yellow lights was parked askew on the front lawn, an officer waiting beside it.
Don’t open the door for anyone…
Anyone? No police?
“Hello? Anyone home? This is the police! We need you to open this door!”
The knocks were louder and more demanding.
I crept slowly to the front door, not knowing exactly what to do. Surely the police wanted to help. Maybe dad had called them. Yes, that had to be it.
“David? We know you’re in there. Please open the door. We need to talk to you.”
Yes, maybe they knew about the stranger that was stalking the house, and had picked him up.
I reached over to the latch, and cautiously turned it to the unlocked position.
I opened the door to a large police officer, whose face looked deathly serious. He stared intensely straight at me.
“David,” he said hurriedly, “You need to come with us.” He glanced around, as if looking out for something, or someone. “Quickly.”
He grabbed me by the arm firmly; it hurt a bit. They didn’t need to do that, really. I turned to the officer and asked, “Did my dad call you and tell you…?”
As we scooted to the patrol car, he looked back at me and replied, “Well, yes, David… but not exactly. We’ll explain it to you when we get you to the station.”
Station? Was I being arrested or something? What was going on?
My mind racing as I was being escorted inside the patrol car, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that car again… and the man with the glasses, not smiling this time, but somber, almost to the point of tears.
“He’s here! He’s here!” I wanted to say but couldn’t, I was so confused and scared, and tired.
Dark.
They had taken me to a dark room, and explained to me what was going to happen.
It was imperative, imperative, they said that I try as hard as I could to cooperate so they could figure out what was going on.
How, when I didn’t even know was going on.
A short, bald man with a graying goatee stepped in the room, temporarily immersing the barely furnished room in yellow light. He smiled, and sat in the chair in front of me. I was in the more comfortable of the two chairs in the room, a plush easy chair that reclined slightly. I was afraid, but at least I was comfortable.
“I know you don’t understand what’s going on,” the man said to me warmly, as he brought out what looked like a tiny penlight from the pocket of his sports jacket. “Probably less than we do. That’s what we’re here to do.”
I nodded. “I just want to know why I’m here,” I said meekly.
”You’ll know soon enough. First I want you to tell me what you know about that man you’ve seen following you in recent days.”
They know! My skin tingled. Perhaps they’re just trying to find out who this guy is and what he wants. My dad came through after all… but why don’t they ask him? I blurted, “My dad… where is he? Did he call?”
The man frowned. “Actually, he did not. We were concerned about your safety.” Moving closer to me, he continued, “You will have to trust us on this. We have been looking for you for a long time.”
I didn’t know much of what to say, except the whole thing was overwhelming. I felt like a rat in a maze, being led along with a small bit of cheese that kept moving away from me as I felt secure that it was in my grasp. Yet I thought something positive might happen if I complied. I was uncomfortable, but somehow I trusted these people. Again, I nodded positively.
“Good,” he said, switching on his light. “Then, let us begin. Please focus on the light.”
He led me down the dark, murky corridors of my memory. I did not remember much about my childhood. Our family had survived a major house fire with little. Sentimental treasures were lost. As I journeyed back, I did not see the fire. I saw remnants of things buried of which I only had vague recollections.
A lock ahead. You have the key. Remember the car. Remember the strange man.
The lock is opened, the gateway swings ajar, white winter light floods into my vision.
I’m back in the car on that chilly day, strapped in my car seat.
Man with black hair and glasses is looking back at me, smiling. I look closer. He’s wearing gloves he squeezes my knee gently.
“Be back in a second, ok Brian?”
Brian Brian who is Brian that’s not my
The man turns back around to face forward in his seat, and opens the driver’s side door. The car is parked around the side of a brick building, which looks like the entrance to a corner store. The road is icy, and the man nearly trips scooting around the bend, winter overcoat flapping around him. Then he’s gone.
The man I know that face he’s not a
Quiet. Alone.
Then I see someone out of the corner of my eye come from behind the building on the right. Tall. Curly hair.
Dad?
No smile, just determination. He walks around the car, passing the driver’s seat, to the door near my seat. He peers in.
Dad? NO
“Daddy!” I scream. “Daddy!”
He opens the door. I scream louder.
“Daddy!” The belt is unlatched, and he grasps me firmly and yanks me out of my seat.
I kick. He holds my feet.
Man with black hair comes around corner.
Dad.
“DADDY!”
Daddy sees me. Horror. Bad tall man with curly hair runs swiftly into small green pickup.
Shoves me into pickup.
Daddy…. Growing smaller. Curly haired man speaks.
“I’m your daddy now.”
My daddy now my daddy now no strangers my home my home
My home for 10 years.
I awake, screaming, mouthing the exact same words I had when I was four years old.
“Daddy help me!”
This time Daddy is here to help me. Sitting beside the hypnotist, he finally smiles, wiping away the fountain of tears streaming down his cheeks. He gets up, takes me by the hand, and pulls me up, practically throwing me into his trembling arms.
I knew it was going to take some time to adjust.
Ten years was certainly a long time.
As my Dad – my REAL Dad – and I walked closely together out of the police station, I noticed a picture hanging above the desk sergeant’s head. The sergeant looked where I was staring, noticed the picture, and pulled it down. He handed it to me, saying, “I don’t think we’ll be needing this.. you can have it.”
I looked down at those innocent eyes, those eyes completely unaware of what was to come, my eyes in better days. Perhaps there were more pictures to look at and piece together the life I truly should have had for so many years. Looking back at Dad, I knew there would be.
I never saw the man I called my dad for a decade ever again.
It was a monumental occasion; for the first time ever, I was given the privilege of staying home alone for more than six hours at a time. Dad had to go away on an important business assignment, one that might find us the beneficiaries of a new job position or a grand-scale pay raise. Neither mattered more than the freedom I was bestowed this weekend.
I scurried up the stairs in my slippers and plaid pajamas (rule number one of home-alone-ness: don’t bother to get into your decent clothes) and plopped into bed butt-first to catch a few hours of late-morning Z’s before I tackled the dilemma of what to eat first from the newly-replenished pantry. Closing my eyes, hands behind my head, I settled down atop the covers and dazed off into whatever dream world I could conjure up.
BRAAAANNNNGGGG! The phone rudely interrupted my nap and reminded me futilely once again to turn the blasted ringer down. I coughed, rubbed my eyes, and sat up before the next ring grated my senses. I reached over to my nightstand and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” I mumbled blearily.
No answer, just a few clicks. “Hello? Anyone there?” I repeated. Nothing.
I replaced the phone, and dropped back down, annoyed, but not thinking much of it.
In dreams, you don’t know what to expect. Nor do you expect to remember the sublime. I did, this time, but only in pieces.
Blue sky, cold chill much like today.
In an unfamiliar car, strapped to what appeared to be a child seat. I was young.
Exhaust leaving steam trails that faded slowly as they dragged skyward.
In front, driving… who was that man? Black haired, close-cropped, eyeglasses. Friendly-looking. Glancing back at me with a smile. Who was he? He started to say something as he looked behind…
“David…”
And I awoke.
It wasn’t the phone that woke me; this time it was definitely pangs of hunger. On a normal schedule, one that I had complied with ever since I remembered, dad would have woke me a couple hours ago to get ready for school or camp or whatever we needed to do together, then he would fix a nice breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs with a little bit of chopped mushroom and onion inside. Beat the heck out of me how to cook something like that so efficiently, but I was going to try. I raced downstairs into the kitchen, tore open the fridge, and got out some eggs, milk, an unopened package of bacon, and a can of mushrooms.
First, I went to work frying the bacon gently in our cast iron skillet; its familiar scents and crackling sounds of its little packets of fat being released made my tummy twinge even more forcefully. I pressed on, whipping up the mushrooms and egg together with a little bit of milk, keeping an eye on the bacon so it wouldn’t get too overly crisp.
Soon I had the eggs going, and within minutes I had a delicious breakfast, not unlike the meals that my dad had made for me, but certainly not as skillfully prepared as his, either. I took a Mount Everest-sized heap for my plate, then sat down in the dining room near the bay window to enjoy my concoction.
I was in the middle of a bite, when I caught sight of the car in my peripheral vision. I turned, and dropped my fork with a clatter. Squinting, I moved the curtain framing the window further aside. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, parked and idling in front of the house, was the car I had been dreaming about, and that man with the short black hair inside it. He was definitely looking into the house.
I eased around the table slowly, trying not to catch the man’s attention. Was this a family friend? Why else would I be dreaming about him? He looked oddly familiar, yet I wasn’t sure what to make of his actions. It aroused my suspicion enough to grab the wall-mounted cordless phone from the kitchen and run to the front door.
If you see any strangers, my dad had warned, give me a call right away. I decided to wait, just a second. I cracked the door ever so slightly, peering out the crack with one squinting eye. The car was still there. It no longer had the car seat in the back, like I had dreamed. Gathering whatever foolish courage I had, I swung the front door open slowly and walked outside. The man’s eyes caught mine… there was a gleam, a movement in his facial features…. And then the car sped away before I could get any closer. There was definitely something going on. I decided right then to call dad and let him know what was up.
“Did you see what he looked like?” asked dad, frantically as I related the incident outside with the car and the black-haired man.
“Well, yeah. He looked kind of short, with short black hair and glasses.. kind of chubby face,” I replied.
There was brief silence, and a soft gasping sound at the other end of the line. “Da-David. You need to lock all the windows and doors right now. Make sure they’re completely secure.”
“What’s wrong, dad? Do you know this guy?”
“Yeah, sorta… David, you’ve got to trust me. Don’t let anyone in the house. Anyone. Understand me?”
“Should I call the police or something?”
“No,” he insisted, “If this guy gets wind that we called the cops.. he could do… anything… David, just promise me you won’t let anyone in until I get home. God, I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
Aw, crud, I thought, selfish pig that I was; so much for my alone time.
Dad continued, “I’ll be home as soon as possible. Give me a call on my cell if anything happens, k?”
“Alright, dad. I’ll be okay.”
I checked all of the locks in the house, to make sure everything was locked tight. It was. Breathless from the circle around the house, I slouched back in the dining room chair where my plate of half-finished eggs and bacon had gone cold. I glanced back outside to the snowy lawn and road beyond. There was no car there anymore. The birds were chirping merrily, oblivious to the chill surroundings.
I closed my eyes. I usually did not forget a face. I remembered that man. I remember his smile, which seemed genuine in my dream… the way he looked back at me. Someone from long ago and far away… a friend… gone bad?
I jumped. There was a loud knock at the door!
Again… it was commanding, very loud, like it was the..
“Police. Please open up!”
… the police!
Sure enough, when I looked back up and out the window, a white cruiser with flashing blue and yellow lights was parked askew on the front lawn, an officer waiting beside it.
Don’t open the door for anyone…
Anyone? No police?
“Hello? Anyone home? This is the police! We need you to open this door!”
The knocks were louder and more demanding.
I crept slowly to the front door, not knowing exactly what to do. Surely the police wanted to help. Maybe dad had called them. Yes, that had to be it.
“David? We know you’re in there. Please open the door. We need to talk to you.”
Yes, maybe they knew about the stranger that was stalking the house, and had picked him up.
I reached over to the latch, and cautiously turned it to the unlocked position.
I opened the door to a large police officer, whose face looked deathly serious. He stared intensely straight at me.
“David,” he said hurriedly, “You need to come with us.” He glanced around, as if looking out for something, or someone. “Quickly.”
He grabbed me by the arm firmly; it hurt a bit. They didn’t need to do that, really. I turned to the officer and asked, “Did my dad call you and tell you…?”
As we scooted to the patrol car, he looked back at me and replied, “Well, yes, David… but not exactly. We’ll explain it to you when we get you to the station.”
Station? Was I being arrested or something? What was going on?
My mind racing as I was being escorted inside the patrol car, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that car again… and the man with the glasses, not smiling this time, but somber, almost to the point of tears.
“He’s here! He’s here!” I wanted to say but couldn’t, I was so confused and scared, and tired.
Dark.
They had taken me to a dark room, and explained to me what was going to happen.
It was imperative, imperative, they said that I try as hard as I could to cooperate so they could figure out what was going on.
How, when I didn’t even know was going on.
A short, bald man with a graying goatee stepped in the room, temporarily immersing the barely furnished room in yellow light. He smiled, and sat in the chair in front of me. I was in the more comfortable of the two chairs in the room, a plush easy chair that reclined slightly. I was afraid, but at least I was comfortable.
“I know you don’t understand what’s going on,” the man said to me warmly, as he brought out what looked like a tiny penlight from the pocket of his sports jacket. “Probably less than we do. That’s what we’re here to do.”
I nodded. “I just want to know why I’m here,” I said meekly.
”You’ll know soon enough. First I want you to tell me what you know about that man you’ve seen following you in recent days.”
They know! My skin tingled. Perhaps they’re just trying to find out who this guy is and what he wants. My dad came through after all… but why don’t they ask him? I blurted, “My dad… where is he? Did he call?”
The man frowned. “Actually, he did not. We were concerned about your safety.” Moving closer to me, he continued, “You will have to trust us on this. We have been looking for you for a long time.”
I didn’t know much of what to say, except the whole thing was overwhelming. I felt like a rat in a maze, being led along with a small bit of cheese that kept moving away from me as I felt secure that it was in my grasp. Yet I thought something positive might happen if I complied. I was uncomfortable, but somehow I trusted these people. Again, I nodded positively.
“Good,” he said, switching on his light. “Then, let us begin. Please focus on the light.”
He led me down the dark, murky corridors of my memory. I did not remember much about my childhood. Our family had survived a major house fire with little. Sentimental treasures were lost. As I journeyed back, I did not see the fire. I saw remnants of things buried of which I only had vague recollections.
A lock ahead. You have the key. Remember the car. Remember the strange man.
The lock is opened, the gateway swings ajar, white winter light floods into my vision.
I’m back in the car on that chilly day, strapped in my car seat.
Man with black hair and glasses is looking back at me, smiling. I look closer. He’s wearing gloves he squeezes my knee gently.
“Be back in a second, ok Brian?”
Brian Brian who is Brian that’s not my
The man turns back around to face forward in his seat, and opens the driver’s side door. The car is parked around the side of a brick building, which looks like the entrance to a corner store. The road is icy, and the man nearly trips scooting around the bend, winter overcoat flapping around him. Then he’s gone.
The man I know that face he’s not a
Quiet. Alone.
Then I see someone out of the corner of my eye come from behind the building on the right. Tall. Curly hair.
Dad?
No smile, just determination. He walks around the car, passing the driver’s seat, to the door near my seat. He peers in.
Dad? NO
“Daddy!” I scream. “Daddy!”
He opens the door. I scream louder.
“Daddy!” The belt is unlatched, and he grasps me firmly and yanks me out of my seat.
I kick. He holds my feet.
Man with black hair comes around corner.
Dad.
“DADDY!”
Daddy sees me. Horror. Bad tall man with curly hair runs swiftly into small green pickup.
Shoves me into pickup.
Daddy…. Growing smaller. Curly haired man speaks.
“I’m your daddy now.”
My daddy now my daddy now no strangers my home my home
My home for 10 years.
I awake, screaming, mouthing the exact same words I had when I was four years old.
“Daddy help me!”
This time Daddy is here to help me. Sitting beside the hypnotist, he finally smiles, wiping away the fountain of tears streaming down his cheeks. He gets up, takes me by the hand, and pulls me up, practically throwing me into his trembling arms.
I knew it was going to take some time to adjust.
Ten years was certainly a long time.
As my Dad – my REAL Dad – and I walked closely together out of the police station, I noticed a picture hanging above the desk sergeant’s head. The sergeant looked where I was staring, noticed the picture, and pulled it down. He handed it to me, saying, “I don’t think we’ll be needing this.. you can have it.”
I looked down at those innocent eyes, those eyes completely unaware of what was to come, my eyes in better days. Perhaps there were more pictures to look at and piece together the life I truly should have had for so many years. Looking back at Dad, I knew there would be.
I never saw the man I called my dad for a decade ever again.
RULE BOOK #1
Unlike ee cummings, there's going to be some ground rules for postings here. Nothing repressive or inhibitive, just a few things to make the site look uniform.
This applies to posters only, not to those who care to visit the site and leave comments. Offenders will be subject to a loud dose of onomatopoea.
1. Remember to fully categorize each story submitted, using the Multiple Categories option near the title. This includes author, form, and genre.
2. The general rule for posting is if your writing is longer than a short-form poem or paragraph, insert the first paragraph in the entry body and the remainder of the text in the Extended Entry section. This will allow readers to skip past EXTREMMELY long entries to get to what they wish to read.
3. For the most part, I'd prefer it if frequent profanity/erotic/adult content were kept to a minimum. I know most consider it as art, and on a creative level, it may give the author a unique form of expression. However, I would suggest that its overuse detracts from the finished product and the goal of this blog, and thusits use is implicitly discouraged.
4. For all intensive purposes, this is a fiction blog. Opinion is what the rest of the blogosphere is about. Keep it outside of the realms of reality, if you can. Critique belongs in the comments.
Hopefully, these won't discourage anyone from volunteering. There's a lot of gray matter left unused out there.. and hopefully this will allow blogizens to use more of it and give people impetus to use their imaginations and share them with others a little.
This applies to posters only, not to those who care to visit the site and leave comments. Offenders will be subject to a loud dose of onomatopoea.
1. Remember to fully categorize each story submitted, using the Multiple Categories option near the title. This includes author, form, and genre.
2. The general rule for posting is if your writing is longer than a short-form poem or paragraph, insert the first paragraph in the entry body and the remainder of the text in the Extended Entry section. This will allow readers to skip past EXTREMMELY long entries to get to what they wish to read.
3. For the most part, I'd prefer it if frequent profanity/erotic/adult content were kept to a minimum. I know most consider it as art, and on a creative level, it may give the author a unique form of expression. However, I would suggest that its overuse detracts from the finished product and the goal of this blog, and thusits use is implicitly discouraged.
4. For all intensive purposes, this is a fiction blog. Opinion is what the rest of the blogosphere is about. Keep it outside of the realms of reality, if you can. Critique belongs in the comments.
Hopefully, these won't discourage anyone from volunteering. There's a lot of gray matter left unused out there.. and hopefully this will allow blogizens to use more of it and give people impetus to use their imaginations and share them with others a little.
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