by Vin Carver
A gym bag slid across the bed of Nathan’s pickup truck and shoved Warren into the wheel well. He grabbed the bag and slid into the opposite wheel well. Around every corner, the old man corrected and over-corrected, fishtailing through Lake Forest. A shovel smacked Warren in the head, and he let go of the bag. He grabbed the shovel, pulled his butt up, and sat on the wheel well. The pine trees blurred together as they sped out of the forest and headed toward the culvert where Warren had talked with Hellhole Cameron.
Rocks bounced around Warren’s feet like kernels in a corn popper. The old man hit a pothole, and Warren bounced like one of the rocks. Throngs of pain shot into his lower back, and he dropped the shovel. The wheels locked up, and they skidded into a slide before slanting left, and running off the road. Warren grabbed the shovel and jumped out. He held it above his head and walked to the cab like a French soldier marching into battle.
The old man’s body was straight, rigid, and shaking. Warren had seen seizures on TV, but never in real life. He wanted the old man dead, but not yet.
What is a temcor?
He considered trying to give CPR, but he didn’t know if that would work, and he hadn’t paid attention in gym class.
The odor of whiskey and cigarettes filled the cab. Plastic bottles and brown paper bags fluttered amid the old man’s shaking. Red pepper flakes of drying blood—Nathan’s blood—fell off the old man’s shuddering face. Warren’s hand shook. He let go of the shovel and made a fist. This geezer had murdered Nathan. He had slit the throat of Warren’s hero, and he had laughed while doing it. An army of furious black ants filed into Warren’s heart, set up base camp, and opted for war.
The tip of the old man’s box knife peeked out of his dirty jeans. Warren wanted stab him with it. Warren wanted to take the knife and slice the old man’s throat. He gritted his teeth and reached for the knife. The old man’s eyes opened, and his bony fingers wrapped around Warren’s throat.
“You ijit. I’m busy. Goldurnit.”
The whites of the old man’s eyes glowed gray, and streaks of red ran through them. Warren couldn’t breathe. He pulled on the liver-spotted wrist, but the grip was too strong. He jerked his body away from the truck, and the old man tumbled out on top of him. They landed on the shovel, flipping it into the air. Their noses touched, and the putrid odor of ash and alcohol made Warren sick. The old man’s pupils dilated, contracted, and sucked on Warren’s essence. Before the shovel came down, everything went black, then white.
Warren still couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t have to anymore. The weight of the world had crushed him, and he floated in an endless sea of white. He was worried. He had nothing to worry about. One of two faceless faces smiled without smiling. The other did not. The other said, “You have broken temcor removal rules number 5, number 4, number 3, number 2, and number 1.”
The old man said, “Oh yeaaaah.” His voice rang out loud, clear, and silent. Warren heard the old man without hearing. “Tell me, you stupid ghosty fellows, how you figure I broke number 4?”
“You did not stay in your assigned region.” The smiling faceless face stopped smiling. “We know about Canada.”
“Nah. I was in Pine Creek.”
A wall of white behind the faces became whiter and larger. It curved at the edges like a convenience store security mirror. Warren reached for something to hold onto, and everything let go of him.
“Look here.” The old man’s eyes shifted and emitted a mist, spattering Warren’s face in droplets of white desperation. “I brung you the temcor. He’s the temcor of all temcors. He’s all kinds of temcor. That ought to be worth something, hadn’t it? How about you fellows forgive me?”
A low hum rumbled across the void, and the vastness shook without shaking. White eyes appeared on the white faces, confused and disturbed. They moved where Warren would be if he were there, and he was. One faceless face faced the other. “He is alive. He is a temcor, and he is here, but he is not removed.”
Fear and terror gripped Warren’s soul, and he pushed it away with the calm of a Buddhist monk.
“He cannot be here,” the other faceless face said. “He cannot be alive and be here.”
Warren said without saying, “Where is here?”
The faceless faces did not look at Warren. “It is their power. Lysos is growing stronger. As we feared, they imbued this temcor with the quintessence of time.”
Panic, muffled by wisdom, forced the eyes of the second faceless face to close. “They will destroy us, and the lines of time will run together. The teaching will end.”
The old man said, “I can stop them, I’m sure I can. Look, I brung you the youngin. He’s my pride and joy, my own boy. Hee, hee.”
When the old man spoke, waves of white droplets swirled over his featureless features in gray splotches, hiding random pieces of him from view. Warren moved his eyes away, and he too floated behind splotches of white. The old man’s voice was softer, less raspy, and more like his father’s than anyone else’s could ever be without being.
The faceless faces floated back to the old man’s formless voice. In unison, they said without saying, “You have broken temcor removal rules number 5, number 4, number 3, number 2, and numbe—”
“Well fine then. I quit. You and your durned rules…always telling me how to do my business. The joke’s on you fellows anyway. Don’t you want to know what I was doing in Canada?”
The faces twisted and swirled behind the old man’s spray.
“I’m quitting because I got myself these new bosses now. I guess you could say they imbued me with the quintessence of time too, or whatever the hell.”
In white unison, the faces said, “Lysos.”
“Yeah, Lysos—them red fellows. They give me this.”
Gray mist wrinkled into a hand and emerged from inside a blue flannel sleeve. The hand held a rectangular red mirror with a black frame. The faceless faces recoiled.
“That’s right. Back away you ijits. My new bosses said I can kill whoever I want, whenever I want, and I’m starting with you.”
“Send him to Dryland. Send him now.” One faceless face hid without hiding.
The other faceless face said, “I can’t. The mirror—”
The old man thrust the mirror toward the closest faceless face. A young girl with blond hair and a birthmark in the shape of Montana reflected in the mirror, shimmered, and cracked the glass. The faceless face became a face, solid and fleshy. Her cheeks quivered and tears flowed out of her blue eyes. The other faceless face pulled on the girl without pulling. “Move away.”
The young girl turned toward Warren. “Help.”
The old man's laugh echoed without echoing. His eyes glowed red, and he waved the mirror from side to side—an exterminator spraying for cockroaches.
The rim of the urn appeared first, then Warren’s hand materialized. He pushed without pushing, and the blue ceramic flowed beneath the ivy gold inlay. He pushed the urn toward the old man. With all his ethereal strength, he pushed against every worry he’d ever had. His parent’s voices—their yelling—echoed in the distance and disappeared.
The old man’s eyes cracked, and his laughter sizzled.
Warren wasn’t afraid. He forced the urn into the old man’s face and reached for the mirror without reaching.
The old man raised the mirror, and it touched the urn. Shards of red, reflective glass exploded throughout the vastness, and hung in the air. The old man fell back, and Warren floated through him without floating. The old man’s fear and guilt seeped into Warren without seeping. He saw the old man’s past in the shards of glass. He saw himself as a child, lost in Lake Forest.
He saw a rototiller and a fat man standing next to a stack of boxes followed by a little blond girl pushing up piles of mud in his parent’s driveway. A name tag filled a large shard of glass. It read WATLEY’S: WE’LL GO ALL THE WAY TO MAKE YOUR DAY. MY NAME IS GORDON. HOW CAN I HELP YOU? The next shard showed a bloody-faced man sitting in a freezer next to a box of frozen
waffles.
Warren shivered in disgust without shivering. He tried to close his eyes and expel the old man’s guilt, but he couldn’t escape it. In another shard, the old man’s hand held someone’s head underwater. Warren winced and turned away. A large shard floated in front of his face, and he saw the old man’s knife slice open Nathan’s throat.
Warren gripped the urn without gripping. He pulled it to his chest and surged above the shards of glass.
The young girl looked up at Warren. “Thank you.”
Her fleshy face melted back into a white facelessness, and she turned toward the old man. Warren had never felt a fury like hers. She made her long, white fingers appear in the mist. Her hands came together, palms out, and she tore an opening in the white nothingness. The opening consumed the shards and pulled on the old man.
The old man’s voice blew out a red mist. “Nah, don’t do that! I didn’t mean it. I didn’t think it’d work. I’ll follow your rules. I—”
A dry, red spot appeared in the opening, and grew into a sheet of clay. The edges of the clay swirled like water in a dust storm and absorbed the mist.
Warren’s eyeless eyes dried, and he blinked without blinking.
The old man said, “You can’t send me back. You just can’t. No, not to Dryland.”
The faceless faces waved without waving, and the clay moved toward the old man. “Marion Renner. You have broken temcor removal rules number 5, number 4, number—”
“Don’t call me Marion, you ijits. Please, I’m begging you, don’t send me back to Dryland. I can't go back there. I just want to go boating.” He pushed against the clay.
“Number 3, number 2, and number 1.”
The old man yelled, “This is all your fault, Gordo, you pathetic saphead. I’m going to find you and show you what hell’s all about.”
The clay shook, and clumps fell without falling. In the center, particles of red spiraled into a tornado. The old man’s hands broke into fragments and spun with the tornado. He let out a cackling scream, and his yellow teeth exploded. His eyes turned black, broke apart, and merged with the red particles. The tornado pulled the rest of him in, and the opening closed without closing.
Warren flew. He fell. He floated. He stretched his arms out as far as he could, and they never came back.
The eyes of the faceless faces looked up at Warren. “We protect the lines of time, and you have protected us. You have protected us from the evils of Lysos. We are in your debt.” The eyes faded away. “Everything happens for a reason. We are the reason all things can happen because we follow the teaching. We are Paros.”
The white vastness turned to black, and the muscles in Warren’s abdomen contracted causing his knees to hit him in the face. He tipped over, banged his head on the shovel, and groaned.
There you are little fellow—
Warren opened his eyes and sat up. He swore he’d heard the old, raspy voice, but no one was there. The old man’s clothes were in a pile next to Nathan’s truck—crumpled and empty.
Warren felt nauseous. He stretched his arms out as far as he could, and his back cracked. He had a moment of relief, then agony. He had read an article about atrophy in astronauts and how re-entering the earth’s atmosphere always made them sick. His muscles ached. He crawled over to the truck, gagged, and threw up on the old man’s clothes.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
A Black Inkling
Warren stared at his vomit—his personal mess—and wiped his mouth off on the sleeve of his blue sweater. He leaned back to stand up and almost passed out. His butt hit the ground, and he waited for his head to clear. An urge to run hit him, and he felt like he could do it, but a wave of confusion crushed the urge. He needed time to think things through. He needed to look ahead, sleep, and not run away.
Warren stood up, gripped the side of the truck for a moment, and then grabbed the gym bag that had slid into him earlier. Inside it, he found two pair of shoes, a singlet, shorts, and a towel. He took the towel and walked down the embankment to the culvert pipe. A stream ran out of the pipe and spread across a field of cattails swaying in the dark. On the road above, Hellhole Cameron had given Warren a hug and told him the next time they saw each other they would be in Nirvana. They had made a plan together. The old man, the white ghost faces, Nathan’s throat, Toothpick, the forest fire—none of it would matter in Nirvana. A perfect life in a perfect world awaited Warren. A perfect world that already had Tanner in it.
Treeeforrrt.
Warren jerked his head toward Lake Forest. He had a strange feeling that Tanner was near, and that Tanner was in trouble. Warren shrugged and shook his head. He had no reason to worry about Tanner. He had no reason to worry about anything. Warren had left Tanner in Nirvana where everything was perfect.
He took his backpack off and put it on the edge of the stream outside the culvert. He gazed at the sky, and magnificent, luminous stars gazed back. He crawled inside and sat as he had earlier that day, his back against the corrugated metal. The moon hung low and cast a faint light into the culvert. Warren rubbed the back of his head, and his fingers didn’t get stuck in his hair. Tanner had done a good job. Warren ran his hand over the thick sweater, and he realized his black hoodie was probably gone for good. Soon, he would be gone…for good.
He wadded up the towel and put it next to the stream. He leaned over to rest his head, and a black puddle expanded across the backs of his eyes.
Treeeforrrt.
Warren sat up straight. Tanner was not okay. Warren put his hand down to keep from falling over, and the black puddle grew stronger. If what happened before was happening again, then the black would turn into white. The floating eyes would appear, and he would get nauseous.
They had said Lysos imbued him with the quin-something of time, but Warren didn’t know what that meant, and he didn’t care. He wanted to go to Nirvana and throw the urn away. He wanted to go to Nirvana and live with his perfect parents. The black puddle consumed him. He had an inkling, a black inkling, that Tanner needed him. He wanted to go to Nirvana and help Tanner.
Tanner had been lying on the grass when the silhouette shot the gun. The silhouette hadn’t shot it at Tanner, but that didn’t mean Tanner was okay. Tanner’s skin had been cold, and he hadn’t moved, but somehow, Warren wasn’t worried. Tanner was okay, he just needed Warren to skip over to Nirvana and help him.
Skip over to Nirvana.
The old man had called it skipping, and now that Warren had time to think about it, that’s what it was, skipping. I’m a time skipper. Warren smiled. Maybe time skippers are known as temcors to the white ghosts.
The black inkling drained away, and Warren’s backpack materialized before his eyes. His aching body relented to a new strength, and he put his hand on his bicep. He flexed. His arms weren’t bigger, but he felt as if he could punch a hole through the steel culvert.
He gazed at his backpack. He could open it, take out the urn, and go to Nirvana right now, but that wasn’t the plan. If he waited, he could meet up with Hellhole Cameron, and they could find Tanner together. The three of them could decide what to do next.
Soon, Warren would wrap his arms around a mom and dad that loved him, play football with his brother, and go on dates with girls. It was going to be great.
Despite his newfound strength, and his excitement for the future, Warren was exhausted. He patted around the culvert until he found the towel. He shifted it away from the stream and rolled onto his side. With his knees in the water, and Nathan’s towel under his head, he drifted into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
On the Edge of Catatonia
The old man pulled out a knife and thrust it towards Nathan’s neck. Tanner couldn’t believe this was happening. He reached for his brother, but Warren pulled him backwards, and he fell to the ground. He looked into Nathan’s eyes, and the old man cut Nathan’s throat. Blood spewed into the air.
Tanner tried to stand by grabbing Warren’s arm, but Warren pulled away. Warren sh
oved his hand into his backpack, pulled out the urn, and—
POP
Tanner got up. He had to stop the old man. He ran toward Nathan, and a brilliant flash of light blinded him. He shielded his eyes and tripped over Warren’s backpack. He fell face-first onto the lawn and a sharp pain exploded in his head. Everything went black…
Warren said, “Tanner, are you all right?”
Tanner smelled something funny—something like breakfast—and tried to lick his lips, but his mouth wouldn’t open. His eyes wouldn't open. His hands wouldn't move. He was frozen. Paralytic.
His head felt as if he’d fallen off the monkey bars again. Flashes of the wicked old man scratched the backdrop of his mind. Laughing, jumping on top of Nathan, pulling out his box knife, and—
No. It’s too horrible. Don’t think about it. Think happy thoughts. I’m happy. I’m in love with life. I’m in a relationship with life, and I’m not going to hurt myself.
The backdrop of Tanner’s mind shifted, and night became day. The old man vanished, and a young Tanner tackled his brother. He stuck his fingers in his brother’s armpits and wiggled them.
Nathan laughed. “Stop it. Stop tickling me.” He pushed Tanner off him. “You got me that time, buddy. Let’s do it again.” Nathan pulled his knees to his chest and flattened the bottoms of his feet to the sky.
Tanner sat down and held onto Nathan’s ankles.
Nathan said, “One…two…three…blast off.”
Tanner flew into the air with his arms held out like a little wild man. He landed, did a summer salt, and used a stick to mark the spot. “That’s a record. Can we do it again?”
Nathan said, “No.” He sat up, dropped his shoulders, and frowned. “We can’t.”
“Why?”
Nathan’s eyes sank into his head. “Because. I’m dead.”
A gun blast cracked the night, and Tanner sat up straight. He turned toward the lawn. Nathan and the old man had vanished.
How long have I been passed out?
“Hey. What are you doing over there?” Warren stood at the edge of the house, holding a gun. His voice sounded strange, but Tanner recognized the hoodie. He scrambled to his feet and turned toward the deck.