Taylor walked over to Hawg and stared down at him. "What makes you think you're ever going to leave this car alive?"
The whites of Hawg's eyes widened. ”Come on, man. Don't joke around. You've gotta go get me some help."
After a moment, when Taylor didn't respond, "You're going to burn in hell for this. You will."
Taylor gripped the heavy staff in his two hands. Felt the weight of it. Wondered what it would feel like to smash it into the man's face—the man who had killed his son. The man who had taken his future from him—who had taken away any chance he had of making it up to Peter for all those trips. What would it feel like to jam the staff into the man's eyes? First one, then the other. Then into his nose, and mouth. Again and again.
He lifted the staff over his head, pointing the end towards Hawg's face.
Hawg was babbling by this time, his words almost incoherent. "Man, no man. Don't do it. You hear? Please, sweet Jesus. Someone help me. Son-of-a-bitch. Someone help me." He whimpered softly.
Taylor was less than a second away from ramming the staff against the man's skull. He did not. Suddenly, an image appeared before him of a baby monkey nursing at the native woman’s breast. The image was replaced by a second one: the agonizing screams of the mother monkey as it roasted over the fire. The screams were not all that different from those of the man, and the sounds of the baby nursing at the native's breast sounded much like the man’s soft whimpering.
Taylor lowered the staff to his waist. Tears streamed down his face. Tears for the utter unfairness of the world. The cruelty. The hatred and stupidity and unfairness that would allow a seven-year-old child's life to be snuffed out by such a pathetic figure of a man.
Taylor poked at the man's arms and legs to confirm his suspicions—paralyzed from the waist down. He turned and walked towards the door of the car. He stopped, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and picked up the gun with it, shoving it in his pocket.
"You going to get me some help, aren't you? Please, man. Don't just leave me here." The words hardly more than a whisper.
Taylor stopped at the door and turned around. "I'll get you some help. Death is too good for you. Better you spend the rest of your life behind bars as a invalid. It still won't make up for what you did, but a living hell on earth is a start."
He turned and jumped gingerly out of the car. He didn't bother to look back. Despite the sapo, the loss of blood from the shoulder wound was beginning to drain his energy. It was time to get to a hospital. Then what? Somehow you need to get on with the rest of your life, the answer came.
Taylor was on the edge of the freight yard when he stumbled, feeling himself falling into blackness. I must be weaker than I thought, he realized, but it didn’t feel like he was passing out. Instead, he found himself back in the jungle, the air suddenly much warmer and humid with wisps of fog curling around him. Disoriented, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Off in the distance, he saw a small figure approaching him through the fog.
It was Peter.
Taylor stared at his son, too overcome by emotions to speak. The boy stopped a few feet from his father holding his right hand out in the shape of a fist turned up. He slowly opened it to reveal a beautiful tree frog, one unfamiliar to Taylor. He stared at the frog for a moment then back to Peter who smiled and nodded. Taylor continued to stare at his son, trying to remember every detail of the boy’s face before he slowly faded away. The jungle faded away next replaced by the sights and sounds of the Atlanta freight yard.
Taylor closed his eyes and shook his head in an effort to clear it. When he opened them again, he saw a familiar looking car about thirty yards away with its driver leaning against it. Moises had returned for him. Taylor wasn’t that surprised. Over the years, Moises had developed an uncanny ability to show up when he was most needed. This was certainly one of those times.
“Where to now?” Moises asked when Taylor approached. He pushed himself away from the car and opened the door on the passenger side.
“First we need to get me patched up,” Taylor replied as he climbed into the car. “Then we have a new frog to go find.” He described the frog he’d seen in his vision.
“Ahhh,” Moises said nodding. “That’s Kambô. Very beautiful, strong medicine, and very rare, but I know someone who will help us find it.”
Chill Out
I stared at the 12cc syringe. A sliver of late afternoon sunlight from the window of the penthouse office glinted through its clear fluid and formed a prism of light on Dr. Powers' desk.
"You're kidding, right?" I looked first at Powers than at Mother. "The 'nano-something-or-others' are inside there and they're supposed to filter out all the over-stimulation my nervous system is absorbing from my environment. So with one simple shot, I'll be cured of this terrible behavior. Is that what you're saying?"
"Well, you may be over simplifying things a bit," Dr. Powers said. He turned the syringe in his hand, gazing at it admiringly. "But yes, essentially that's it. The five different nano-agents will migrate to the synaptic junctions of your five senses. Through them, we will be able to govern the input your brain will receive. It's why we call it the Neuro-sensory Governor."
But I don't want my senses to be governed, my mind screamed. Panicking, I turned to Mother. "This really isn't necessary, Mother. I know you haven't cared for some of my art lately . . ."
"Art! You call trashing the front yard with junk missile parts from God-knows-where, art?" She sat there with every blue strand of hair in place, wearing a French designer outfit meant for someone half her age and accused me of bad taste.
"That was my 'Salute to the Anniversary of Disarmament’,” I said.
"And painting the roof of the house with obscene graffiti?"
"My 'Acknowledgement to Picasso and Warhol’,” I replied.
"And I suppose the orgy with over 150 scantily clad boys and girls was in the name of art as well."
"Body sculpting, Mother,” I said. I looked pleadingly at Powers. "Okay, okay. Maybe some of my artistic expression is a little weird but this..." I pointed to the syringe. "It's overkill."
"No, Dillon," Dr. Powers replied in a calm voice. "It's an effective treatment for hyper-neuro-sensory overload, or HNSO for short."
He patted my hand where it rested on his desk. I jerked it away. "You needn't be concerned, Dillon. The nano-agents will only tone down your senses. You will still be able to see as well, hear as well, everything. After a few days you'll hardly notice any difference, except your behavior patterns will just naturally begin to conform to a calmer, more rational pattern.
I jumped out of my seat. "But I don't want to be calmer or more rational. I'm an artist. I like my behavior." I paced over to the window. "I like seeing colors and patterns other people don't see," I said, pointing out the window. "Hearing melodies in the chatter of a crowd, smelling the fragrance of rain in the breeze of an approaching thunderstorm."
I turned around. There they sat, calm and rational with condescending, sympathetic smiles on their faces that said, in effect, “There he goes again, poor dear. Let him get it out of his system. He'll feel so much better in a few days.”
I glanced at the door, but remembered hearing the click of the automatic lock as Pamela, Powers' receptionist, had shown me into the office. The fragrance of her perfume still lingered in my nostrils and the rush of adrenalin coursed through my veins from her accepting my luncheon invitation, despite the age difference. The excitement of the clandestine rendezvous was suddenly dwarfed by the threat at hand.
Trapped -- just as Mother had trapped me into coming to a stupid psycho-neurophysiologist for an evaluation by threatening to ship me off to military school. Not to mention the off-handed remarks about how she’d have to put Millie, my 12-year old beagle, to sleep if I went off to school. Clever, Mother, blackmailing me with the death of my dog.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I thought. I'd fight it. I'd overcome whatever the nano-thingamabobs threw my way. I guess I knew e
ven at the time how absurd an idea it was, but it was the only way I could walk back to the chair, lay my arm out on Powers' desk and let him give me the injection. I had to fool myself into believing it was all going to be okay.
****
He lied to me, I thought as I studied Pamela's hand resting on the table, touching my hand. Powers had claimed that in a few days I wouldn't notice the difference but it had been a week since the injection and I still noticed. Pamela was one of the most seductive women I'd met in the eighteen years of my life and at twenty-four she was also my first experience at being attracted to an older woman, or at least the first one that had returned the interest.
Only a week before, watching the flutter of her long lashes over her pale blue eyes or her tongue wetting her rosebud lips would have made the hair on my arms stand up and pay homage to her beauty, not to mention other areas of my anatomy. Now, here I sat, her hand caressing my hand, a worried look on her face -- a look of compassion for me. Yet, I felt nothing. Well, not quite nothing. I could have handled nothing, but there was something. There was the awareness of what was missing.
"How are you feeling?" Pamela asked.
I shrugged. I'm not, I wanted to say. It's the difference between being born blind and becoming blind later in life. I knew what I was missing. I had at least some inkling as to what I could be feeling, what I should be feeling. I was angry, except, instead of ranting about it, screaming, throwing things around, swearing to get back at the injustice of it all — I sat, calm and rational.
I knew Pamela tried to look into my eyes. I kept my gaze down, studying our two hands. This was a bad idea, I thought. I should have canceled our date. It's not working. I'm a zombie. There's nothing to say, nothing to do. I should go home. I didn't move.
I picked up the glass of soda and took a sip. Flat, except the waitress had said it wasn't flat and Pamela had tasted it and agreed. In three days, I had lost three pounds, but not from exercising. I hadn't budged from the house before today. I just wasn't eating. Nothing tasted right.
"I think I can help," Pamela said after several minutes.
"How?" I asked, though I wasn't interested in hearing what she had to say. I'd had enough of people helping me.
"The nano-agents are controlled by computer," she said.
"Yeah, I know. What about it?"
"I can get you a copy of the program and the pass code."
It took me a moment for her words to sink in. So what, I almost said, then it dawned on me what she meant. I'd be able to adjust the nano-agents myself.
I looked at her for the first time in several minutes. "You mean it? You could do that?"
She nodded. "Dr. Powers is very busy and very organized. He only checks his patients once a week unless someone calls in with a problem. I'll check your records to see when he is scheduled to monitor your progress."
"Progress?" I asked. "He didn't tell me about that.”
"He's able to check your settings and your neurological condition through the nano-agents and make any necessary adjustments. It's all done by remote from his computer."
The waitress brought our food. Neither one of us spoke while she set the two soy burgers in front of us. Dry cardboard with bland grass, I thought as I stared at the food. Once, soy burgers had been one of my favorites. Maybe they would be again.
"Okay." I made my best effort to smile. "I'd like it if you could do it soon."
She patted my hand. "Tonight. I want my young artist friend back. Can you come to my place, and bring your laptop?"
I smiled in earnest this time. It would be good to feel the effects those words would normally have had on me. I'd be sure to remind Pamela to say them again.
****
"Have you figured out how to keep your family from finding out about this?" Pamela asked as we waited for the program to load on my computer.
"Not yet," I replied, "But they left for Europe two days ago, as soon as they decided I was 'cured.' I'll figure out something before they return."
The program flashed on the screen. Pamela unfolded the sheet of paper she had had clipped to the flash drive and typed in the code number. In a few seconds, a set of five sliding scales came on the screen.
"It's a simple program," Pamela said. "The nano-agents are what makes it special. Each scale represents one of your senses. The blue markers on each scale are the normals for the particular patient, the red are where they are currently set."
I studied the screen. "Wow, he really set me low, didn't he?"
Pamela nodded. "I heard him speaking with your mother after you left your last appointment. She insisted the settings be set lower than normal. I guess she was worried you wouldn't respond."
"Yeah," I replied, "She's had her heart set on their trip for some time. Could we please get on with it?" I was nervous something would suddenly happen -- the power would go off, Dr. Powers would rush in or Pamela would have a change of heart.
Pamela aligned the red markers with the blues. "It'll take a little while for the nano-agents to make the adjustment in your neurotransmitter levels. It varies with each patient and each of the senses," Pamela said as she made the final adjustment. "It's important you remember to reset this before 9 am each Tuesday morning. That's when Dr. Powers will be checking your levels. Also, set it at least a day before your office visits to give yourself time to adjust back to the levels of the settings."
"Understood," I said. I felt better already. Maybe it was too early for the change to occur but suddenly, sitting so close to Pamela aroused my interest. I'm coming alive, I thought and started blushing.
"What is it?" Pamela asked.
"Oh, nothing. It's just good to be alive."
****
I've never found it easy to stay on good behavior but I did pretty well for the first two weeks, until I received a call from Mother informing me of her plans to return from Europe the following week.
I'd been thinking it over since the first night at Pamela's. I'd already experienced life with suppressed sensory organs, and in the last two weeks I'd been careful to keep everything pretty much in line, as Pamela had instructed. Besides, seeing Pamela two or three nights a week was almost more stimulation than I could stand.
Unfortunately, despite subtle suggestions by Pamela, her age and experience intimidated me. I'd been acting like a scared kid, too nervous to fulfill my dreams. Consequently, I returned home each night from our dates in a good deal of pain. Pamela didn't seem to mind, although I wondered how long it would be before she would tire of me and go find someone who wouldn’t just talk a good game but would follow through.
Right after the call from Mother, Pamela called to invite me to dinner. We bantered back and forth with increasingly erotic overtones. As usual, I played along, becoming more aroused with each passing minute. By the time I clicked off, I had begun to formulate a plan.
I sat in my room for several minutes, pondering the opportunity quickly sliding away from me. Within a week, Mother would return, perhaps discover my trickery and return me to the life of a zombie -- a virginal zombie, no less.
Quickly, I ran to my computer and pulled up Powers' program. I studied the five scales for a couple of seconds, and then slowly, one by one I adjusted each of them upward.
Smiling to myself, I started to back out of the program then changed my mind. I nudged each bar up another couple notches above my normal levels. Finished, I flipped open the phone and called Pamela.
“How are you with surprises?" I asked, as soon as she clicked on.
"Pleasant surprises?" she asked.
"The most," I replied. "And very artsy."
"Sure. I love your art."
"Good," I said. "Come over around eight, dress comfortably and be ready for anything."
By the time I ended the connection, the nano-agents had started to take effect. I rushed out to shop for my art supplies.
****
Eight o'clock. The doorbell, previously three simple computer-generated tones was now a compl
ex blend of half tones, overtones and harmonies. If it had not been Pamela pressing the button, I would have let it ring several more times to enjoy its complex melody.
Instead, I walked across the soft rug in my bare feet, the tiny synthetic fibers tickling my soles. I wore only a loose, oversized t-shirt, emerald green in color, and a pair of white cotton pants with an elastic waistband. Even so, my skin tingled wherever the fabric rubbed. Perhaps I had overdone it with the tactile sensory setting.
I opened the door and stood for a moment in quiet shock and admiration of Pamela's exquisite beauty. She wore a simple full length gown of shimmering royal blue, her bare feet sticking out from beneath its hem, one tanned leg exposed up to mid-thigh by the slit. The off-the-shoulder cut of the long sleeves accentuated her long neck and a small bow of the same blue fabric pulled her shoulder-length blonde hair away from her face on one side, exposing an ear.
"You like?" she asked as she slid by me, smiling at my opened-mouth expression.
I nodded, afraid if I tried to speak, my voice would crack. I followed her into the living room, marveling at her graceful movement. I was still marveling when she turned, took a step towards me, threw her arms around my neck and planted a moist kiss on my lips, her tongue darting between my lips for a brief moment.
We stood kissing for several minutes, her warm body pressed firmly against my own. My hands caressed the silky smooth flesh of her back where the cut of her gown left her exposed almost to her buttocks. With each breath, I inhaled her fragrance, not of a flowery perfume but of a clean, aroused woman.
Finally, she pulled away long enough to notice the bottle of wine and the tray of cheese next to the bouquet of roses. She walked over to it, poured two glasses of wine and handed me one. We toasted.
"To art and beauty," I whispered as we clinked glasses. I had intentionally avoided eating or drinking anything until this moment so I could enjoy the full effect of my sensory evening with Pamela. I'd clipped the wine from my father's special stash. I'd never tasted anything quite like it. Its bouquet tickled my nose while the dry flavor puckered my mouth. I feared drinking more than a sip or two would turn me into a babbling idiot before the climax of the evening so I only dipped my tongue in it. Even so, the taste was most refreshing.
Hunt Along the Iron River and Other Timeless Tales Page 4