“Then I'm the man you should see,” Cinni says.
“We see you now,” she says.
“Then I will get you a ride out of here.”
“I haven't seen an engine for some time,” Cider says.
“How will a car drive in this mess,” she asks.
“Mess, you’re as filthy as the rest of us,” the boy snaps defensively, pointing to her soot soaked clothing. Though triggering her remorse in reddening the pavement with that man's life to resurface.
Sniff sniff.
“What's that smell?”
“You don't know the sweet smell of sensi?”
“Of a skunk, of course I do,” Anna says before Cider can answer. Cinni takes a large hit of an already lit, crooked brown cigar to his lips. It's smoke trail rises like a tiny spiral staircase with small people climbing up them, and finally dispersing ten feet above their heads. The burning cherry whips out small solar flares as he breathes deeply from it into his iron lungs. Passing it to Cider, who tokes the smoke, and Anna accepts the offer, pulling politely.
“Now who's smoking?” Cider teases her, as she inhales, expanding her lungs with pine tasting fumes and holding her breath, staring at it and passing it to her left, then coughing uncontrollably.
“Dammit,” she shouts, noticing she passed it to the apparently titan lunged youth.
“You will travel faster in one of these,” Cinni says waving his arm and welcoming them to a mint condition depression era car swerving from behind a building. Drifting sideways through soot drifts and sliding to a rubber skidding stop a few feet from the three. The driver gets out and walks away, vanishing into the shadows without a word. The antique engine runs smooth, sounding like the clopping of a galloping horse running under the hood of the pearl painted automobile.
“That was fast,” Cider says.
“That’s a sweet ride too,” Anna says.
“And are you?” Cider asks.
“I've never driven before,” she shuts him down.
“Then you must,” Cinni says.
“Uh, maybe another time. These streets seem kinda thin and tangly,” Cider says and Anna agrees, only wanting to leave the heavily sooted sandstorm suffocating her senses to the point of sensory starvation.
“Thank you for your help, and good travels,” she says.
“Good travels to the two of you as well,” Cinni says.
“Yeah you too,” says Cider.
“Thanks for the ride,” she gives him a friendly hug goodbye, then gets into the passenger side of the small mint green interior of the automobile.
“Oh, here,” Cider says shuffling through his pockets, pulling two hands full of chips and cash.
“What's this?” Cinni asks.
“Money and some chips,” he answers.
“It's okay, I don't need it,” Cinni waves.
“Who doesn’t need cash?” he asks.
“I am the richest man of the all Soots, and yet I stand out of the shadows, finely dressed alone and with not a breath of fear,” Cinni says with swagger in his voice.
“I'll take it,” says the soot faced kid.
“It's yours,” Cider says tossing his ill gotten gains to the ground around the dusty youth before slamming the car door shut.
“Seatbelts,” he says cheerfully.
“Did you just give all our money away?”
“Yeah it's useless,” he shrugs, putting the key in the ignition.
“I've never heard of money being useless.”
“You've never heard of revenge? though this is not that.”
“I have, though then why?”
“Where leaving, so the money’s usually useless anywhere but here, like tickets to an amusement park or something,” he says.
“Why though? aren’t they all connected?” she asks.
“Yeah, infinitely and an infinite number do and don’t take the money, sure, but the norm is the money, even jewels and things often don’t take. The other Alto’s usually don’t have the same values. I mean they do have InterAlto currencies, but how do you value them, they’re ridiculous. If you wanna take it for keepsakes, no ones stoppin’ ya. I used to do that but you’ll end up walking weighing a hundred pounds more,” he says.
“Yeah, sure,” she says, thinking he leaves with nothing every chance he gets, empty handed and hungry as a vagrant hitching to the next stop. The next town, the next Alto over, over and over again. Forever for another fix of being flush with adrenaline, and playing the odds for fortune and fun.
“Roll down your window,” he says. She wheels the hand around tens of turns to open it only halfway before tiring.
“Hey,” Cider shouts.
“What is it?” Asks Cinni.
“Which way to get out of here? And where are we going?” he shouts across her face.
“You don't know where you’re going? Hahaha. Go straight and keep left. The roads will narrow and twist and bend like bolts of lightning. Whatever you do, don't stop, these little shadow sharks will eat you alive,” Cinni says.
“Hey I take offense to that, I do.”
“You shouldn't” Cider says, to the soot youth.
“You're right, I don't, do I sir?”
“No.”
“Until when?” she asks.
“Until you are where you’re going, the bottom of the well. Good travels to the two of you,” Cinni says waving them off.
“And to you.” he says.
“You too, goodbye,” Anna says, rolling the window up as quickly as she can, which isn't quickly at all. Cider shifts to first gear with a cranking bark, and puts his foot to the pedal and the pedal to the floor. The car leaps harshly to a high speed, leaving the Rasta and ruffian far behind in a puff of soot. They ride rapidly through a kaleidoscope of snowy black soot washing over their auto and whipping into a thinning tail of trailing powder. Illustrating and sifting in the wind of their slipstream as they easily plow through four foot high soot drifts.
They continue careening through the webbed intersections and tangled streets of a slum haphazardly assembled over centuries. Cider's wildly driving, he is either not good to drive or not too good at the driving. Either way she's terrified, bracing herself on the dashboard and shouting at the twisting turns. Squirming in her seat as they speed through the slim streets while seeing nothing but soot covering the windshield. The only light inside the car is from the reddish cherry of his lit smoke. They could barely see a thing through the soot other then the sparks of the wheels and sides of the car scraping against the curb and walls. The walls are only inches wider than the curb on either side of them. The sand like soot is stripping the car’s paint as the cobbled walls take off its side mirrors. The soot storm fades in intensity and wipes off the windshield in an instant of white bright flashing light blinding their wide open eyes.
In an instant the powder covered car is bouncing and skidding on the perfectly flat black asphalt of a two lane country highway. The Auto is speeding away from a standing tsunami of churning charcoal black dust reaching forever wide and masking all but the highest heights of the time mosaic city’s skyline. Anna watches it fade from the view of the rear view mirror, staring until to the last city spire and grain of soot falls under the horizon behind them.
CHAPTER NINE
An unsettling stillness
Sailing along the black top at a top speed of forty miles an hour for hours after the wall of churning soot gave way to swathes of pillowy white puffs standing across the sky. The cumulus clouds spread at their height to form an unmoving wall stretching a hundred thousand thousand miles above them. Dotted with blots of pastel blue at the bottoms of massive, miles wide wells bored through to the show the other side of the sky, as though eaten through as a worm through an apple.
There are no shadows cast from the clouds, or trees or brush to cast one either. Not a shred of shade no matter where she looks. Only an unblemished asphalt road woven between a sea of untouched emerald hills gently sloping away to eventually melt into
a hazy green horizon. Windless, everything is still, even the air is standing stagnant. There is no noise aside from the percussive clopping of the engine's gallop, and the squeaking of brakes breaking up their conversation. Sitting without seat belts to be comfortable, she braces with her feet as the brakes usually proceed the car swerving to stay on the two lane road.
It's been hard to tell the hour since his pocket watch stopped, since the sun doesn’t move through the sky, nor does a single blade of grass ever budge or sparse sprouted oak tree's leaves ever waver in the wind. The air is scentless and devoid of any motion. Even with the window down at full speed Cider’s second hand smoke fills the shape of the cabin, only moving when their bodies move. The gasometer ticking down to E is the only measure of time they have. Trickling down by the drip, it's lever dips lower with each drop of dwindling fuel consumed, carrying the two down the seemingly unending serene scenery surrounding them. Of a meandering unblemished asphalt road cleaving nearly indistinguishable pristine green slopes starkly standing against the immense ivory clouded sky. Fresh from a drooling nap on his shoulder, wondering about breakfast and why she isn't actually hungry or thirsty. Her muscles ache with the stiffness of being seated for days on end. The stillness was subtle and forgettable, but is now an inescapable mind teasing void. Unnerving them to think introspectively after yammering until exhausting conversation to avoid it.
He grips the wheel, it reminding him that he's something that physically exists. She occasionally pokes her head through the window to see the spinning wheels for a sense of motion at work to ground her drifting thoughts. Days more pass by the feel of their flesh and rigid joints, though still not feeling the slightest bit sleepy. The gas lever dripped to nearly empty, by now feeling like they've next to each other and in their own thoughts for a week. He's thinking of his life of recurring chaos, trying to remember what his memories felt like as he was first making them. Of himself in mismatched clothes as a dustbowl child. Of conductors, and countless scores. Scores of flashing muzzles and bar fights, and the endless beds of brothels. Though unable to recall any emotion with many of his recollections, as though he's only looking at advertisements of himself through another person’s eyes. He peeks over to her, in seeing she’s there he remembers that he has the present while persisting in this landscape of sense perturbing stillness.
She, forgetting the breakfast that she has no want for, drifts into contemplating existence as being a collector of thoughts and sensations. That to live, is in a way to grow one’s own ever evolving string of blurred images and emotions. That each memory becomes part of a wake left by your perception meeting the present you're in. By perceiving in the present what is pleasing to oneself and to be receptive of the reality around her, is to be alive. That to leave a beautiful wake to remember is to live a life worth living. She looks over at him, wondering what's next to come, to be indulged into memory.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“How would I know better, I've been with you the whole time.”
“How long till we're out of fuel?” she asks.
“Won't know until we stop.”
“Then what? We'll have to leg it?”
“At least there’s daylight. Perpetual, unchanging daylight.”
“Can I drive?” she asks.
“No.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“Please.”
“Can you drive?” he Asks. She looks away, over the hills to the scene so simple for so long, it now seems like nothing for the mind to grasp. He loosens his grip, figuring she can't possibly crash.
“Fine.”
“I can? really?”
“Really what? it's a fine afternoon, perpetually,” he says. She folds her arms and leers at him unflinchingly for several still minutes with her honey eyes standing starkly against the ceaseless green behind her.
“I'm not gonna break,” he says.
“But you just have,” she replies as he takes his foot off the brake.
“Ha.”
“What's the worst that happen?” she asks.
“You'll crash.”
“Into what? there's nothing here but grass and clouds.”
“Yeah, and you'll crash in to one of em.”
“Oh shut up.”
“Okay,” he drops the conversation and feigns attention to the road.
“No! let me drive,” she says grabbing for the wheel.
“Hmm, no.”
“You don't let me do anything.”
“Sure I do, I don't stop you from doing anything.”
“Yeah maybe, but you’re not letting me do this.”
“Okay.”
“Yes!”
“I’ll think about it,” he says. He continues ribbing her until she aches of it, and her face flusters and flushes red, so she elbows him sharply in the ribs.
“Stop.”
“No,” she says.
“Ha, owww, stop.”
“I'll think about it.”
“You’re already gonna make us crash.”
“Into what? dummy.”
“Fine, fine you can drive.”
“Thank you,” she says triumphantly, ceasing her flurry of pointy elbows as he rustles in his coat back to comfort.
“You said I can drive,” she says a minute later.
“Okay,” he sighs, “one minute.” The car stops and she hopes out. The smoke stays the shape of the cabin, but follow her out of the car. Giddily running across the headlights and jumping into the driver's seat. she settles in, nestling herself into the shape of his indent, and fidgeting with the mirrors,
“Okay ready!?” she asks.
“Are you? then shift into gear,” he says shrugging. Trying to relieve her of the worry of crashing.
“Okay,” she strains to jerk the old mechanical lever into first. She exhales then puts her foot on the pedal, feeling like a momentous moment to her. The car roars, then shaking off the rumble of its starting, gallops in place. He watches her excitement as she giddily taps the gas a few times, like dipping her toes into cold water before she jumps. Hardly moving a quarter mile forward before the gas meter falls to empty and the engine slows then stalls and the car shakes.
“What? did I break it?” she asks.
“No. Haahaha we're out of gas.”
“I hate you,” she says, and they drift for a hostile hundred feet before coming to a silent stop. The smoke of tens of cigarettes still doesn't budge, retaining the shape of the cabin with the doors wide open.
“Hey,” she says sweetly.
“What is it?” he says with his body half through the door, she holds his attention then shoves him off the seat. His fumes follow him like webs as he flops to the ground. She stretches her legs, then steps out onto the grass whistling victory. Anna stares at him tapping her foot as he sits up rubbing his head.
“Idiot!”
“What'd I do?” he asks showing her his palms. Anna's stare is as unchanging as the fields all around them. His blushing puppy dog face wears on her and spreads a smile across her's. He stands and the two stretch their cramped feeling limbs.
“Alright let's get going, ah somewhere,” he says brushing himself off. Starting on the leg stretching march down the long unchanging road.
“Ahh. Feels good, good to be out in the open, out of that cramped cabin,” he says.
“Feels good to be walking about, in the fresh air, refreshing. Tiring,”
“I'm sorry for lying to you.”
“About what?”
“Telling you it wasn't safe for you when that wasn't the case,”
“You mean in that first place?”
“Yeah. It's just that it was your first time in a new place, and I was worried you might get lost or something.”
“Or something. Like running from any form of authority alongside a self indulgent, compulsively intoxicated, who gambles his life in the chances of near death for fun,” she says jabbing at the scab off his remorse for
the danger when in his presence.
“That's nothing to worry about,” the still handed killer says as he looks away. She sees he's nervous, or at least caring enough to be mindful of himself to her. She relaxes from the worry of reaching anything, a place, a gas station, or any sign of civilization. Comfortably marching alongside him, down the side of the meandering road. The pristine grass seems like an emerald green desert stretching for a far as can be seen.
“Look, Look,” she shouts pointing, and jumping up and down in glee.
“What? gold?”
“No over there you see that?”
“I don't see anything.”
“That, over there, on that hill, the gray patch.”
“So?”
“It's a difference, a change,” noticing the sides of the hills slowly become spotted with blots of thin silvery gossamer. Spreading and webbing, thickening and blotching over the dewy emerald hills accompanied by a creeping eerily serene feeling.
“Reminds me of a summer camp as a kid, the first time I was out of the city, out in the open, but this is ceaseless.”
“Ceaseless? who talks like that,” he says.
“It's English, you were taught English in school weren't you?”
“Not really.”
“Oh,” she says.
“Look over there,” he shouts pointing to “A fence, a white picket fence,” she says jumping for joy at the first sure sign of people. Stout steep steps made of slabs of mossy stone lead six feet up the side of a slope crowned by a three foot high unblemished white picket fence. Fencing off a flat flowerless bed of off color green contrasting the emerald everywhere else. A still pool of water that's white as the wall of clouds standing still high above them., beside a reddened bark sycamore tree with deep green leaves hanging without shadow over the field and water.
“Sit in the shade?” he asks.
“Not even the tree has a shadow.”
“And look at our footsteps,” he says, pointing to the imprints left by each step like they’re footprints left in snow.
“Seems like we've been the only people here in, forever,” she says.
“If nothing else has left their mark, then maybe.”
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