Fuck.
It's cold. I'm outside, in the dark. It's smoky, and turning to my left
I can see Mt. Diablo, still erupting. I am still in this hospital gown,
my right leg in a cast. The journal, the pen and the utility knife were
left behind. How come the gown and the cast come with me? I should
have taken some painkillers. I'm behind a building. I'm ...
Jesus, I'm back in the Compound. Am I here for Chauncey? Must be. Could this be any more difficult? I'd be only slightly more visible if I wore a neon sign and brought along a Mariachi band.
Okay, what did Future Me say about where Chauncey is? Stand of trees behind barn, I think. And this is the barn. Okay, looking behind me I see a stand of Oak or Bay downslope, and I think I can get there dragging myself. I'm already laying on my side, can't stand in this cast. It's cold, but at least it's not raining. It hurts, but at least I'm in a cast.
I start to drag myself past the back wall of the barn when I hear a voice. I freeze. It sounds familiar. I edge closer to the back wall of the barn and listen, then drag myself back the way I came. There is a slight sliver of light coming from a crack in a wooden plank of the wall. I press my eye to it: I can see the door at the far end of a room. There's a voice, whispering, murmuring; I press my ear to the crack and listen. It fades in and out of audibility, but I pick up:
" ... I'm speaking to you in your dreams. Dream of me, and stay asleep. I need to tell you about this guy, this Prophet. Remember his name: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley ... "
Wow. That's me in there, whispering to Veronica.
Footsteps crunching on gravel to my left, it sounds like someone is coming around the barn from that side. I throw myself to my right and grunt, dragging myself around the right side of the barn in hopes that I can avoid detection. Was the grunt too loud? I'm panting. It hurts. I need painkillers. That would make everything easier.
And right in front of me is a building that feels familiar, though I've never seen it before. It looks like a house. A large McMansion, with nice landscaping around it, but next to it there's what sounds and smells like a pigpen.
"You there! Halt in the name of the Prophet!"
This voice comes from behind me to my right; choosing flight over fight, I duck, launching forward into the dry brown grass in front of me, dragging myself down to the right, downslope of the landscaping, toward the back of that house. Maybe I can hide in there. Footsteps running on gravel, and another voice:
"Evening, Ezekiel. Is there trouble?"
The running steps stop, but I keep crawling. Sticks and rocks scraping at my abdomen, my legs, my junk. Ouch. Dragging myself with my arms and left leg, I try to get on top of grass and slide along it; this almost works, but sticks and rocks still interfere with my plan. I can hear the voices behind me:
"Yes, Ezekiel. I spotted an interloper," this is the first voice. I'm glad they're not following me -- yet.
"Another interloper? What did this one look like?" the second voice is awfully familiar. I almost turn to look back, but Orpheus comes to mind. I keep crawling, looking instead at the landscaping above me and to my left. It meets with a small deck which seems to run the length of the back of the house. I keep crawling. The voices are fading behind me:
"She was wearing a white dress and one thick, white leg warmer. Otherwise, I think she was ... naked," says the first voice.
Good to know that in the dark I look like a woman.
"Really? Where is she now? I'd love a taste of this naked, dress-wearing interloper from 1982," the second voice is calm, relaxed, mocking. The second voice sounds so familiar that I almost think it's me for a second. Vision swimming, I realize that I'm probably confused because I'm getting close to myself, somewhere. I need to "click back in" at some point. That's what makes the other voice sound like me, maybe.
Glancing up to check my progress again, I see a small set of stairs coming down from the deck. Three steps. I can do that. All I have to do is drag myself up the slope from where I am, then butt-crawl backwards up the steps. Then get into the building. Then search it for painkillers.
Altering my course, I feel something pull or jerk deep in my right leg and the pain juts up through me like a splintered pole and I vomit loudly in the grass, still somehow crawling forward. Then I'm done. I can't go any further. I lay here in my puke, feeling a cold sweat break out as heat seems to fill my face and arms, my whole body. I'm shaking. And very comfortable. I could sleep here.
I do.
My dream is odd. In my dream, I'm standing watching myself twitch in my own vomit. Lots of vomit since the earthquake. I can't touch me because of the seizures, so I whistle. And from a long, long way away comes a horse galloping.
The galloping horse arrives and it's very small, smaller than a pony but taller than a miniature horse. It's black. It licks my face, panting, and it's not a horse anymore. It's Max! Max, the Wonderdog! He's wearing a red cape and his golden tag glints with heroic canine goodness in the night. Standing me tells Max to drag pukey me up onto the deck.
Max sits between the two of us, looking confused. He looks from Standing to Pukey and back. Standing repeats the order. Max stands, moves toward Pukey, looks back. Standing repeats the order, a trifle exasperated. Yep, that's me alright. Max takes the upper right shoulder of the hospital gown in his teeth, looks at Standing for confirmation. Standing says, "Good boy," and sounds just like the voice that was behind me near that barn.
Max the Wonderdog begins to pull me up the slope toward the steps. It's only about 20 feet, Max is very strong and it's pretty quick going -- maybe too quick, because Standing Me steps forward to put a pad or some cardboard or something over a rock, but Max is a Wonderdog and very enthusiastic in his work. He drags me over a rock jutting from the ground and --
"Holy FUCK!" I shout, as my junk slams into a rock and someone lets go of my hospital gown and whimpers --
-- Standing me has slipped trying to get to us in time and accidentally touched my left arm --
-- nuh-nuh-noh-noh-noh-hhh-hhh-hho-hho-hoh-hoh --
Everything goes black.
When I open my eyes, I'm on the deck, on my stomach. It's still dark. I feel like I have a fever, even turning my head hurts and creaks. Nobody is here. No Me. No Max. Nothing.
About two feet from where I'm lying is a door with a window in it. I try to pull myself toward it. Not good. Doesn't work. I close my eyes. Everything swings wildly.
I open my eyes. I am closer to the door. I must have pushed myself.
I put my fingers between the slats of the deck and pull myself a couple inches. A couple more. I reach one slat further. Pull. Closer. Another slat. Pull.
I can touch the door. I push on it with my fingers. It's closed. Too much to hope. I carefully ease myself up onto my left elbow, trying to reach the doorknob with my right hand. It's too far. I move my left elbow right next to the door, pull myself closer, hearing my cast drag on the wood as I feel its vibration deep in my broken bones. A brief wave of nausea, then I'm breathing and it has passed.
I reach again and can close my fingers over the knob. I turn it.
Locked.
Footsteps on gravel, near stomping, close to the left.
"Halt!"
Okay, what did Future Me say about where Chauncey is? Stand of trees behind barn, I think. And this is the barn. Okay, looking behind me I see a stand of Oak or Bay downslope, and I think I can get there dragging myself. I'm already laying on my side, can't stand in this cast. It's cold, but at least it's not raining. It hurts, but at least I'm in a cast.
I start to drag myself past the back wall of the barn when I hear a voice. I freeze. It sounds familiar. I edge closer to the back wall of the barn and listen, then drag myself back the way I came. There is a slight sliver of light coming from a crack in a wooden plank of the wall. I press my eye to it: I can see the door at the far end of a room. There's a voice, whispering, murmuring; I press my ear to the crack and listen. It fades in and out of audibility, but I pick up:
" ... I'm speaking to you in your dreams. Dream of me, and stay asleep. I need to tell you about this guy, this Prophet. Remember his name: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley ... "
Wow. That's me in there, whispering to Veronica.
Footsteps crunching on gravel to my left, it sounds like someone is coming around the barn from that side. I throw myself to my right and grunt, dragging myself around the right side of the barn in hopes that I can avoid detection. Was the grunt too loud? I'm panting. It hurts. I need painkillers. That would make everything easier.
And right in front of me is a building that feels familiar, though I've never seen it before. It looks like a house. A large McMansion, with nice landscaping around it, but next to it there's what sounds and smells like a pigpen.
"You there! Halt in the name of the Prophet!"
This voice comes from behind me to my right; choosing flight over fight, I duck, launching forward into the dry brown grass in front of me, dragging myself down to the right, downslope of the landscaping, toward the back of that house. Maybe I can hide in there. Footsteps running on gravel, and another voice:
"Evening, Ezekiel. Is there trouble?"
The running steps stop, but I keep crawling. Sticks and rocks scraping at my abdomen, my legs, my junk. Ouch. Dragging myself with my arms and left leg, I try to get on top of grass and slide along it; this almost works, but sticks and rocks still interfere with my plan. I can hear the voices behind me:
"Yes, Ezekiel. I spotted an interloper," this is the first voice. I'm glad they're not following me -- yet.
"Another interloper? What did this one look like?" the second voice is awfully familiar. I almost turn to look back, but Orpheus comes to mind. I keep crawling, looking instead at the landscaping above me and to my left. It meets with a small deck which seems to run the length of the back of the house. I keep crawling. The voices are fading behind me:
"She was wearing a white dress and one thick, white leg warmer. Otherwise, I think she was ... naked," says the first voice.
Good to know that in the dark I look like a woman.
"Really? Where is she now? I'd love a taste of this naked, dress-wearing interloper from 1982," the second voice is calm, relaxed, mocking. The second voice sounds so familiar that I almost think it's me for a second. Vision swimming, I realize that I'm probably confused because I'm getting close to myself, somewhere. I need to "click back in" at some point. That's what makes the other voice sound like me, maybe.
Glancing up to check my progress again, I see a small set of stairs coming down from the deck. Three steps. I can do that. All I have to do is drag myself up the slope from where I am, then butt-crawl backwards up the steps. Then get into the building. Then search it for painkillers.
Altering my course, I feel something pull or jerk deep in my right leg and the pain juts up through me like a splintered pole and I vomit loudly in the grass, still somehow crawling forward. Then I'm done. I can't go any further. I lay here in my puke, feeling a cold sweat break out as heat seems to fill my face and arms, my whole body. I'm shaking. And very comfortable. I could sleep here.
I do.
My dream is odd. In my dream, I'm standing watching myself twitch in my own vomit. Lots of vomit since the earthquake. I can't touch me because of the seizures, so I whistle. And from a long, long way away comes a horse galloping.
The galloping horse arrives and it's very small, smaller than a pony but taller than a miniature horse. It's black. It licks my face, panting, and it's not a horse anymore. It's Max! Max, the Wonderdog! He's wearing a red cape and his golden tag glints with heroic canine goodness in the night. Standing me tells Max to drag pukey me up onto the deck.
Max sits between the two of us, looking confused. He looks from Standing to Pukey and back. Standing repeats the order. Max stands, moves toward Pukey, looks back. Standing repeats the order, a trifle exasperated. Yep, that's me alright. Max takes the upper right shoulder of the hospital gown in his teeth, looks at Standing for confirmation. Standing says, "Good boy," and sounds just like the voice that was behind me near that barn.
Max the Wonderdog begins to pull me up the slope toward the steps. It's only about 20 feet, Max is very strong and it's pretty quick going -- maybe too quick, because Standing Me steps forward to put a pad or some cardboard or something over a rock, but Max is a Wonderdog and very enthusiastic in his work. He drags me over a rock jutting from the ground and --
"Holy FUCK!" I shout, as my junk slams into a rock and someone lets go of my hospital gown and whimpers --
-- Standing me has slipped trying to get to us in time and accidentally touched my left arm --
-- nuh-nuh-noh-noh-noh-hhh-hhh-hho-hho-hoh-hoh --
Everything goes black.
When I open my eyes, I'm on the deck, on my stomach. It's still dark. I feel like I have a fever, even turning my head hurts and creaks. Nobody is here. No Me. No Max. Nothing.
About two feet from where I'm lying is a door with a window in it. I try to pull myself toward it. Not good. Doesn't work. I close my eyes. Everything swings wildly.
I open my eyes. I am closer to the door. I must have pushed myself.
I put my fingers between the slats of the deck and pull myself a couple inches. A couple more. I reach one slat further. Pull. Closer. Another slat. Pull.
I can touch the door. I push on it with my fingers. It's closed. Too much to hope. I carefully ease myself up onto my left elbow, trying to reach the doorknob with my right hand. It's too far. I move my left elbow right next to the door, pull myself closer, hearing my cast drag on the wood as I feel its vibration deep in my broken bones. A brief wave of nausea, then I'm breathing and it has passed.
I reach again and can close my fingers over the knob. I turn it.
Locked.
Footsteps on gravel, near stomping, close to the left.
"Halt!"
LOL'd @ "one thick, white leg warmer" & "dress-wearing interloper from 1982."
ReplyDelete"It's Max! Max, the Wonderdog!"
ReplyDeletePlease bring him back :)