Cooling. Cooling…
Sitting on the floor, the ashen reminder of the chair and his clothing swept to the baseboards, but not away. He needed the constant reminder here, where he found salvation, away from the turbulence of duties and the people who inspired him to carry on with said duties, to better acquaint himself with the depth of the power the drug—the Centipede—wielded. He needed to know there was something more potent in the world than Rudolf Chernobyl.
Need like this was a new religion, one he could put his hands together and pray to—hallelujah!—or put his hands around a throat in order to get to know his new god better.
Legs crossed, he was locked into the lotus position. Naked. No wasting clothes this time.
The buoy had bobbed up after hours of waiting patiently to reconnect with Marlon. Rudolf was hooked into Marlon Teagarden, taking in the imagery, though this time, darkness, roiling and magnificent, was the most prominent detail he obtained. A darkness that seemed alive.
At first he was angry. Usually, the images were lucid. Well-lighted or, at least, lighted in some way. He realized as his anger simmered, the only light in this imagery sputtered inconsistently, undecided as to whether it wanted to participate or not. With this thought, he realized it was true light, true to where Marlon Teagarden was. Anger was the wrong response. Just pay attention and trust his eyes, his gifts.
Where was Marlon?
In this stage, before he injected the drug and abruptly cut off the internal homing device, it was easy to decipher his location. The map brought up by his internal radar indicated Marlon Teagarden was in Louisiana, somewhere around Lafayette. On the outskirts, not quite digging in.
This did not matter—
—curled into the fetal position, a reminder of beginnings, his feeble mother, his true father, but fading as a humming, singing tone framed in harsher sounds—as if fingernails were scratching at his pleasure centers, the endorphins anxious and spreading wide to take the assaults, wanting more—
—as he was not going to make the mistake of losing track this time, running to a destination found, yet lost upon attainment. Not after the last time.
Sitting again, focused. Determined. Hungry…
He watched more, the images like cracked glass, chiaroscuro impressions pulsing on the periphery, yet all he could do was watch. Watch and wait. At some point, Marlon Teagarden would take the drug again, the Centipede—
—moaning, sweating; screaming rode the moans to a pitch that threatened to shatter focus, sheared off anything but intent, need. Need. So hungry, his veins. His mind. His body. Him—
—Leaning forward, a puddle of drool on the floor.
Upright again, eyes sealed shut, internally watching.
Patience was a bitch in heat without a cock to fulfill the need.
The need.
He had a moment within his own thoughts, mesmerized by the cracked glass imagery and a sense of ponderous dread that wrapped around him as an army of octopus tentacles would, dragging him down to its murky depths. A neon declaration of a moment, bright as the addiction to which he had succumbed. Not even knowing what it was, only the how, and this path. The moment itself was unclear, yet the stained quality was what muddied his being in a way he could not comprehend, yet he needed some thing, this drug, as he’d never needed anything before.
The singing in his head was not voices, but vibrations. Tones tinted black and made to suffer if not for the promise whittled within the process. It remained constant, unwavering as he followed Marlon Teagarden as the journey continued, past the cracked glass and into something that made even Rudolf blanch.
Holding on. Holding on. Because he had to. Because he must.
—sprawled on the floor, contorted, distorted, all willpower aborted for the new god, the only one that mattered. The Centipede…
But first, this—
Chapter 23 Blake
Blake had no patience for any more of this, no gumption, no courage. He rushed for the door, slamming through the fragile exit. Wood disintegrated as his body crashed through. His foot sank into the aged, termite-riddled wood of the porch; termite-riddled, or some kind of freak insect he could not comprehend. They flourished here, quite obviously. He yelped in agony, a shocking sound coming from a man of his stature, yet circumstances demanded a yelp, so a yelp was to be had. Nonetheless, it did not stop his forward momentum as he lifted himself from the deluge, swiping an array of strange creatures from his pant leg.
Glancing back, the buzzing amplified, his eardrums quaking at the intrusion, the outlandish aural assault. Dozens of fat bees passed through the doorway, a mish-mash of bumper car colliding bodies swarming toward him.
“Wouldn’t you like to stay for tea, Blake?” His name: the clap of gunshot in a distant field; again. “Wouldn’t you like to stay for tea and destiny?” Solon said, the vocalization more akin to white water rapids than anything remotely human.
Blake was up and running, listening to the din behind him, but not turning to look for fear of seeing his pursuers…or Solon. At his car, he fumbled for the keys, suddenly realizing his right hand was throbbing with pain, something the tumble outside the front door had magnified from the usual dull reminder that lived in the crooked fingers, the knobby, nuts-and-bolts knuckles.
To open the door, he switched the keys to his left hand, rendering the act slightly off, unnatural, not by rote but by jittery function. Concentration was necessary, willing the fingers to just slide the damn key into the hole and turn.
Time held its breath. The buzzing intensified. Solon’s laughter had nothing to do with laughter; it was a malicious thing. It was taking roost in the flayed carcass of Blake’s withered sanity.
Blake stumbled into the driver’s seat, cranking the ignition, again with the clumsy left hand, reaching around the steering wheel just to get the key inserted. It started up immediately. His foot slammed the pedal to the floor and the rental exploded into motion, kicking up clouds of dirt, gravel.
The bees thumped at the roof, the windows to the right side of the car. The windows cracked at such blunt insistence, but the bees did not splat to death as might be expected. They bounced off like rubber balls.
The dirt road ended and he yanked the car onto asphalt. The rubber gripped hard and fast and Blake punched a hundred before his breath caught up with him. The rearview told no lies. The fat bees and Solon were somewhere beyond view, perhaps in a realm where nightmares held the reins, but not here, not with him as he sped back to Jane, to relay this mad news, yet not to deny it.
Solon implied Burroughs was still alive. Blake knew Burroughs was dead. Yet, with what he’d just experienced, he was more inclined to believe the former.
He prayed to a God he barely acknowledged, said out loud, “Dear God,” but the prayer turned to mist as they always did, nothing more than a moment of weakness inspired by Solon.
Within less than a half hour, the airport cut across the horizon, a control tower dead center, a small plane landing to the right, a larger one lifting into the deep blue. The Hilton and a lobby and a bar, sweet Jesus, a bar…
“What did you find out, Blake?” Anxious to know now, not five minutes from now, but this moment. Jane’s impatience sharpened the fresh lines across her forehead.
Blake finally felt he could breathe again, so he held up his hand and wandered into the bar.
“Tell me something.”
He ordered whiskey, straight up, no frills. The burn as he swallowed it was as close to heaven one gets on this earth, he thought, tapping the counter, refilling, and slugging it down without delay.
Jane sat next to him, her eyes pensive.
Blake saw this and ordered two more shots.
She said, “No.”
“You’re going to need this.”
She took his word and they both tilted their heads back, taking it all in, burning as one, and the world seemed to simmer to bearable.
“Did you…” Jane stopped.
Blake’s actions ans
wered her question. Get to the point.
“What did Solon have to say?”
There was no dancing around the lunacy of the tale. Get to the point, indeed.
“Solon said, more or less, but more, much more, William S. Burroughs is alive and to ask him what it’s all about.” Blake smiled. It was a chipped mask.
“Burroughs…what? He’s been dead for almost twenty years. He’s dead—”
“Well, my inclination is to believe the hard evidence, yes. But after going to that house, with all its rare accoutrements and squirming inhabitants, I’m banking Burroughs is still in the game. How, why and where, well, these questions are outside of my scope of knowledge. Outside of my former understanding of the world I live in.”
“But he’s dead,” Jane said, her voice trailing off: shadows leading the day into darkness.
This day was winding down. They had no game plan.
The silence was external. Inside his befuddled mind, the machinations of thought ground gears into dust, and logic into folly.
“Burroughs died in Kansas City,” Jane said, the look in her eyes searching, pulling up information through the clutter.
“Your point?”
“If he’s still alive…”
“Was he buried there?” Blake rearranged himself to face her, swiveling on the barstool.
Jane closed her eyes, movement underneath the lids. “No. St. Louis.” Still digging, the spade of thought sinking deeper. “Bellefontaine Cemetery. St. Louis, Missouri.”
Blake chewed on the information, not liking the taste, though he did not feel strongly about it, he said, “I guess we’re off to St. Louis, then.” Conviction lacking, yet what other options did they have?
“Wait!” Sitting taller, she scooted the barstool closer to him and started to laugh, a delirious undercurrent to whatever was next.
“Wait what? Tell me.”
“A green limousine. A blue ranch house.” She started to slap the palm of her hand to the counter.
“Another?” the barkeeper said, toweling a tall, thin beer stein dry. Jane shook her head, no, no.
Blake leaned into her, questioning: “What’s going on?”
Her eyes were lit with a lunatic sparkle.
“A green limousine. A blue ranch house. Do you know what Burroughs’ home was in Lawrence, Kansas?”
Blake awaited the revelation, eager but silent.
“A red cottage. A red cottage!” She leaned back, her left foot seeking the floor. Ready to run.
Their eyes met and the mutual laughter of the borderline insane erupted between them. The bartender, short black hair combed into a gel stiffening helmet, gave them a wary look.
“Barkeep,” Blake said, exaggerated gesticulations adorning his words. “One more for each of us.” Looking at Jane, knowing all common sense had left the building with Elvis, and perhaps with a devious locksmith intent on keeping common sense out forever, and said, softer, “One for the road.”
With glasses filled, they clinked them together, an unspoken toast to a path most daft, shook their heads, and welcomed the burn one more time.
The end was nigh. The end of this journey. With the evidence at hand, perhaps it was the end to reality as they knew it. So be it, thought Blake, never one to coddle this reality with much enthusiasm anyway, no matter what waited for them at a red cottage in Lawrence, Kansas.
Chapter 24 Teagarden
The door shut behind me without my assistance. A soft snick and silence. The shimmering crystalline skin fades to shadow here. The walls of the chamber are chiseled much like the door. Though the geometry is all edges, there’s roundness to the color, if that makes sense. Ebony dominates, yet there’s lights flowing within the walls. A swimming luminescence that reminds me of video clips I had watched of creatures found at the deepest depths of the ocean. I take it in, fascinated by the architecture, yet the circumstances stain the fascination with a layer of fear I’ve never experienced in this life.
This is the realm of the Reptile Queen. If the rumors are true—and we know about rumors, don’t we, dear sister?—her intentions, her passions, her existence, is not one my presence wants to discourage.
Give her what she wants and move on. Give her what she wants without hesitation and move on.
But we know how humans are in situations steeped in dread, don’t we?
I remind myself of the Centipede, and why I am here.
I bear down, take in the area, the chthonic wonder…and, at the far end of the cavern, I see her in all her monstrous splendor.
My gorge rises, not as a reaction to her grotesque magnificence, more so because the fear is solid now, a weight floating within me. It binds my feet. My steps are clumsy, hesitant, as I told myself not to be. My thoughts whir as an unhinged saw blade, dulled teeth unable to bite through the terror stifling my blood flow, my purpose. Frozen, I feel as if I am in an iceberg. I’m trapped, yet my slow progress melts the iceberg, leaving a puddle of water and perhaps urine, my solid dread made liquid.
She sits, squirming, constantly moving. Ripples dance across her body, at least as far as I can see. Clarity confuses the issue as I approach her. Kinetic is the word: her body is kinetic as the walls outside of her domain. Alive. Everywhere. Scales reflect the lights that abound in the chamber walls. Flat, shaped as arrows, rippling as she breathes.
But what part of her breathes?
There is a head adorned with a crown of snakes to rival Medusa’s heinous headdress. One large eye with two pupils, rubies red as blood, yet rimmed in emerald shadows. In seeing this, there’s almost a faux 3D affect, the orbs pulsing outwards, toward me. I do not see a nose or ears, but, of course, being related to reptiles—though something more, quite obviously something more—these might be buried amid the nest of agitated snakes coiled around her head. Snakes, awakened by my presence, snap at me, tongues split, tongues pierced—so odd, this addition—and fangs, two or three layers, the mouths long and lean, dripping venom. It sizzles on her scaly flesh, yet does not seem to annoy her.
The mouth, though…her mouth. Her mouth splits wide as the head is tall, including the pompadour of snakes. No lips, but a smooth, leathery, cauterization-of-the-wound look to the smile. And she is smiling, leering. Her mouth, curled at the edges, her glee is obvious. No fangs, just a row of jagged teeth, like crags across a mountain-top. Uneven. Prominent. Vicious. What will she want in order to get me what I need?
What I need.
What I demand.
But there’s more to her that meets the eye, and blinds it with such perversion. Her limbs, many of them, with pincer-like appearance and spikes at the tips, are sealed with an armor of scales. Her breasts, many of them as well, with…uncertain nipples, large areola with thick protuberances jutting from them, have a sense of fluidity that lends them a quality of malleability.
She seems a shape-shifter, waiting to shift. I’ve only seen two shape-shifters in my travels. Her inconsistent, fluid qualities reminds me of them.
Finally, at the center of her, a large vagina trimmed in teeth like a shark’s. Drooling in anticipation. The lips of her crimson labia pucker and blow me kisses. They join the mouth on her head in leering, her undefined desires worn on her sleeve…if she had one.
Below the vagina dentata, the dark nub of her anus, equally as preposterous—yet wondrous as well; different, remember…different—the spoke-like creases puckering as the lips would, no teeth here, but a tongue of shit protrudes, slick and shiny. An oily tongue from within the vagina snaps out and wraps around it, this soul kiss of the blackest designs one to mesmerize as these tongues battle to no end, yet beads of moisture rise along the genital tapestry.
I turn away, and her voice invades my head.
“Too much for your puny human mind to comprehend, aren’t I?” The words are clear, the voice almost beautiful, feathery, ethereal. The contrast is staggering.
I can show no weakness.
“I’ve been a traveler of the dark frontier for years. My mind
has acclimated to the eccentricities of this world, and welcomes them.”
“A traveler of the dark frontier?” she says, her voice soothing as butterfly kisses. “A bridge, only. You’ve no idea what you’ve got yourself into.”
The large mouth curls upward in amusement, with knowledge I’ve yet to attain. The snakes haloing her head laugh, their “voices” as hers, almost soothing. I feel light-headed, adrift in the ether, the wispy tones affecting me somehow, some way…
I shake my head from the distraction, the mind in flux.
“I know what I’ve gotten myself into. I want to Ride the Centipede. There is no other goal—”
“Of course. The Centipede. Such a meager aspiration, but you humans and your puny minds cannot envision more than that, without sinking into madness. Unless you’re already there, eh, Marlon?”
“How can a desire to partake in the ultimate experience be construed as being mad?” I say, defiant in my quest.
“It’s all semantics, I guess,” she says, the body in motion, adopting an eel-like shrug. Almost human in a way, yet so alien amid her incongruent anatomical construction. “No need for me to question the inadequate designs of humans. I like William.” She nods, as do the snakes, all in appreciation of Burroughs. “I do this for him as much as for myself. He tells amusing stories and I like to hear them. But they are human stories. That is my interest. Sociological, I suppose.” She laughs, the feathery tones joining as one, a wing, sweeping away my contentions, yet I do not care. I am close to my goal. No time to linger here longer than necessary.
“What do you want from me, to get me through the final leg of my journey, to Burroughs and the Centipede?
“So eager, Marlon. I don’t think you’ve got what it takes to go all the way, though you are the first to make it this far. I never contemplated one making it to me. And what I want.
“No games. No more delays. I need—”
“What I need,” she says, completing my sentence but the statement is one for both of us.
Riding the Centipede Page 17