Dead Religion

by David Beers

  “What brought you to Mexico, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  It wasn’t an odd question, something that would come up in nearly any conversation that took place on this bus while riding through this lonely desert. Yet, it stuck Daniel as strange. Maybe the cadence of his speech, or that he asked when Daniel was obviously trying to return to a ride of solitude—either way, he didn’t like it.

  Daniel turned his head just slightly to answer. “A patient.”

  “Oh, you’re a doctor?”

  “Yes,” Daniel answered, his head already facing the window again—he wanted this conversation over with.

  “Did you help the patient?” The tailored suit asked the back of Daniel’s head.

  He squinted as he listened to the question. The answer to it was a resounding no, but why did this man care? Daniel turned around again, all the way this time so that he faced the man directly.

  “Hey, look, I’m sorry but this trip has been horrible for me and I’d really like to just be left alone.”

  The man didn’t react to Daniel. His eyes held a sparkle, as if he still expected an answer to his question. “It’s important that doctors help, don’t you agree?”

  Daniel looked at this Keith Rome with hard eyes; his mind screaming that he needed to move, to get out of this seat and away from this person.

  Stop sitting here staring at him and just move your ass to another seat.

  “It was nice talking to you.” He pulled his way out of the seat, steadying himself in the aisle. He moved to another open one, scooting to the window again when he sat.

  And goddamnit if he didn’t hear the footsteps. There was no need to turn around this time because the man sat right next to him. No smile now, just a somber face—looking at Daniel as if he had committed a terrible sin, one that stirred pity instead of anger.

  “Can I help you?” Daniel’s irritation was obvious and maybe his fear too. He glanced quickly around the bus, seeing if this was drawing attention—no one noticed anything. They only stared forward, all of them, not speaking. Daniel was alone here; a bus full of people and not one noticed him.

  “I’m sorry, but I need you to answer my question. The patient, did you help him?” The old man’s eyes were a dull brown, soft with concern. The answer mattered; this man cared one way or another.

  “If I answer, will you leave me be?”

  The man, Keith, didn’t move his lips—they were frozen in a thin line on his face.

  “Why the fuck do you care?” Daniel asked.

  “Because if you haven’t helped, why are you leaving?” His words weren’t quite a whisper but close.

  Daniel leaned forward, grabbing the back of the seat in front of him. “Sir!” he yelled toward the front of the bus, wanting the driver’s attention. “I need you to get this man out of my seat!”

  The bus driver’s eyes didn’t break from the road, not even to check the mirror above his head. He didn’t turn around, made no movement at all besides tiny adjustments to the steering wheel.

  “Excuse me, driver!” Daniel shouted without a care who heard—a cold hand of panic closing over his heart.

  The bus driver only drove.

  Daniel looked to his left. Keith still awaited the answer.

  “What is this?” Daniel dropped back into his seat. The bus didn’t divert an inch, but kept rolling onward.

  “I’m not sure what you mean?” Keith responded, never once glancing in the direction of Daniel’s shouting.

  “Why won’t he look back here?”

  “He is,” Keith answered, not checking to see if it was true.

  Daniel’s eyes flashed to the front, finding the driver’s eyes immediately. He was completely turned around, one hand on the steering wheel but paying no attention to the direction of the massive vehicle.

  “Is that what you wanted?” Keith asked.

  The bus driver was no longer the uncaring man he had been when Daniel walked on. His eyes were furious and his entire face contorted to show his contempt.

  “What’s happening?” Daniel began to look around the bus, or expected to, but his head only turned a few inches.

  The passengers had circled his seat and were staring at him with angry, accusing faces. No one spoke, and maybe no one breathed—such was the silence. The bus made the only sound, white noise as it rolled over black pavement, keeping course even with the driver staring at Daniel.

  Daniel scrambled, trying to move as far away from these people as he could, pushing back against the side of the bus and putting his legs in the seat—creating a weak barrier between himself and the crowd before him.

  “What the FUCK is going on?”

  “Your patient, Daniel, did you help him?” Keith asked, his face the only one not angry.

  “NO, GODDAMNIT! NO I DIDN’T FUCKING HELP HIM!” Spit flew from Daniel’s mouth. Rage and fear both broke from his chest, but the man in front of him showed no reaction.

  “There’s nowhere to go.” The voice came from the left, rattling off like machine gun fire.

  “You can’t run away.” It came from someone else in the crowd, the same dead pan rapid fire.

  “You got to go back.”

  “No running.”

  “No hiding.”

  Everyone, except for Daniel and the man he sat next to, began speaking, firing off statements so quickly nearly all of them were lost in the increasing cascade of voices. Daniel looked around, looking at the people whose eyes cried murder and heard bits and pieces of their rat-tat-tat speech. When his eyes fell back to Keith, raw fear began taking over, possessing his thoughts and controlling his movements.

  “You need to go back, son.” The bus silenced when Keith opened his mouth.

  Words wouldn’t come to Daniel.

  “You must know there’s no returning home, that you’ll never see Atlanta again. Not after last night and now.” The man dropped his head a little, his eyes lowering to the space between Daniel and himself. “No that would never do. You’ve got to go back.”

  “Got to go.”

  “Got to go back.” The voices erupted all around the man, echoing and morphing his words at the same time.

  Daniel shut his eyes with such force that he hoped they would never open again; his flesh simply growing together over his eyes. All to block out the madness around him.

  The voices quieted, but Daniel remained blind.

  “You can help him. You know it’s not too late for that. You can make all of it stop for them, and yourself, too.”

  “Kill them.”

  “Kill them both.”

  “End ‘em.” The passenger’s voices began anew, all whispering, all saying something different and yet the same.

  Daniel opened his eyes. The dull brown irises of the man before him were gone—replaced by a black depth that could have run forever, filling his entire eye. His eyelids were gone as well, leaving those bottomless orbs to float unblinkingly in his skull. Pale skin replaced what had been tan, a pasty white that glistened with ages-old oil. His skin stretched across the bone so tight it could rip if the man spoke too quickly; his ears were pulled nearly flat with the stretch. Daniel sat in front of an alien form, a disgusting abomination inside a suit made for beauty.

  “If you kill them, they don’t have to see me anymore. You don’t have to see me anymore. Everyone is free from…what did you call it?” The thing smiled, lips pulling back over pointed teeth the size of butcher’s knives—each one huge and stretching into the thing’s head further than possible. “Free from this cold Alex is spreading.”

  If Daniel looked any longer, stared at the dripping, oily face anymore, he would lose his mind. Lose himself somewhere in the holes of those eyes and never return—his brain a mass of misfiring connections for the rest of his life, only able to piss and shit himself when his body said it was time.

  He bolted. Hurtled over the bus seats, not looking back, only trying to leave the insanity. He turned, barely seeing the descending steps, and hurle
d himself at the bus doors. They gave with ease and then he was falling.

  He landed hard, his shoulder colliding with the carpeted floor of the hotel room. He stopped as soon as he made contact—no rolling or scraping across a highway littered with sand. He opened his eyes and saw Brittany’s blood stain in front of him.

  Daniel knew with complete certainty that his mind had been infected. A disease of reality, one which warped and polluted everything, controlling his world. Because he understood that this disease was shaping his reality, Daniel couldn’t be termed insane, only ill. Either way, he was trapped in a world that didn’t follow the rules the Good Lord had laid out for Isaac Newton.

  He rode that bus twice more. Spoke twice more with the man in the suit, and each time ended with him staring at an aberration. Always back to the same hotel room, whether or not he jumped from the front or the back of the bus. Daniel’s watch said only a couple of minutes had passed during it all.

  Along with his infection, Daniel was certain he couldn’t return home. It did not matter how many times he boarded the bus, or really any other transportation, he would only end up in this hotel room.

  He stared up at the ceiling, his head on a pillow, wondering what the hell he could do. The air conditioner ran full blast from the window, but did little to squelch the heat.

  Brittany went south and so had Alex. To The Hotel Indigo where Alex’s parents had given him what they thought his birth rite. Going north wasn’t possible for Daniel. He could spend a life time trying and never make it past the door to this room. This infection said he had to murder Alex. Actually, murder both of them. It was nonsense, regardless of how many times he jumped from a moving bus and fell to his hotel room floor—he wasn’t a murderer. Finding them could be helpful though; especially since they were all infected now.

  Was a bus heading south actually the way home? Would that end this Groundhog Day madness? The black pools that were His eyes would trap Daniel soon if he kept having to look. If he went south, he wouldn’t have to see those endless pits inside that alien skull.

  Hours after he had decided his life must diverge from the Valdez’s, Daniel decided to find them.

  17

  Present Day

  Brandon

  Brandon looked at the bottle of pills. What a great idea they had been, made him sleep all night just as the doctor had said. Made him run from dream to dream knowing death ran right behind him, unable to wake up. Looking at the pills this morning, he decided to flush the fucking things. He wouldn’t sleep ever again, if that’s what it took. He wouldn’t look at those green, thick waters anymore. Whatever lived in them was evil and wanted Brandon—maybe needed him.

  He knew what it sounded like. If he told his friends, or even James, they would think him foolish at best and a lunatic most likely. What it sounded like didn’t change what it was though. He should tell James, but then what? His brother would worry and send Brandon to more doctors which would lead to more pills—none of which Brandon wanted. Maybe this would end on its own, just drift away one night leaving him to sleep. God, he hoped so.

  School started in an hour and a half, and given that he’d slept (ran) all night, there wasn’t much excuse to skip again. He would go and try not to think about tonight, about what would happen when his eyes became tired and his brain wanted to shut down. Exhaustion would set in sooner or later, leaving Brandon less and less capable of making the choice to remain awake.

  Don’t think about it.

  Brandon walked to the bathroom with pills in hand, listening to them rattle inside the plastic bottle. He stood over the open toilet and removed the plastic cap. If he flushed these, it would be difficult to get more. Not impossible, he could probably tell the truth and get another prescription—but that would mean describing his nightmares, would mean even more doctor visits. If he kept these, he could take them when he absolutely had to, when burnout occurred. He could use them, simply, to make him sleep when staying awake became too much.

  He placed the cap back on the bottle and put it on the sink. He stared at it, his thoughts oscillating between last night and the orange bottle.

  “I’ve got to go to school,” he said aloud. He could worry about tonight, tonight. The dreams wouldn’t come for hours—that’s what those little pills bought him, another day or two of not seeing green viscous shit coming for him. A day or two of peace.

  Brandon didn’t know why he thought about this now, perhaps because the car radio was off, or maybe he just missed his brother—but his mind returned to the Tennessee Aquarium, when he was eleven or so and James had taken him. He barely saw the road as he thought back, allowing his subconscious to drive to school for him.

  The aquarium was massive, universal to Brandon at that age. Now, he thought it would still be large but no longer mythical in size. He had traveled through it amazed and thrilled; his brother’s presence always next to him even though it wasn’t the focus of Brandon’s attention. He walked along, looking at beings from other worlds that were oblivious to his attention.

  How long had he lived with James then? A year? His parents being dead another year or two beyond that? Those thoughts were always with him back then, resting on his shoulders as sure as a book bag would at school. On that day, those thoughts disappeared in front of the gigantic fish tanks. Did James know what would happen? Probably not. He probably only understood Brandon was dealing with tough things and wanted to take his mind off of it for a little while. No light switch flipped off after the trip, allowing him to forget his parents and completely embrace his new life—but it did help the lights dim on one side and brighten on the other. It was, most likely, the beginning of life with his brother.

  Brandon would never remember what type of fish he had been looking at and that was fine. He could remember what they looked like and doubted he would ever forget it. They had been colorful, beautiful hues of blue dancing along their bodies. Two of them swam near the glass, unaware they were changing a little boy’s life. They moved in harmony, as if they were one fish. When one swam up, the other didn’t follow but moved in sync—no lag time between them. They swam in front of Brandon, perfectly together.

  “Look! They’re married.” Brandon pointed in near awe.

  James watched in silence for a few seconds as the fish continued moving together. “No, they’re brothers.”

  Simple, but three words changed Brandon’s life—began the adjustment that he needed to move on. Driving to school, he realized if that short conversation had not happened, he wouldn’t be who he was. Perhaps James and he wouldn’t be a family.

  He finished the drive without much thought, not about James or the dreams either.

  School remained unchanged, everything moving on with or without Brandon. He kept silent about his absences, offering the universal excuse of sickness.

  Friends spoke and Brandon responded, but for the most part he remained quiet. He laughed at the right parts and spoke along the same acceptability. He mainly thought about James though. About their lives together.

  In eighth grade, possibly the worst grade there is—besides ninth, where you have the honor of perhaps being the lowest in your class and your school—Brandon had to create a volcano. He brought the assignment home to James, and over the course of the weekend they planned it, shopped for it, and began creating what they believed would be 'A' material. The concept was huge and intricate with detailed painting and a pumping system that would allow homemade lava to be pumped from the inside to the outside of the volcano.

  They worked all Sunday; each of them building, painting, and collaborating on the feat. The grade was Brandon’s, but they were a team—each of them vested in the other. They both wanted it to work, wanted it to be great, wanted…to succeed together.

  James lay on his stomach, painting the bottom of the volcano. Brandon went to the kitchen to grab their Hungry Man microwave meals a few minutes earlier. His feet were the betrayers, as evil as Brutus was to Caesar. The plan had been to eat while work
ing, finishing up in an hour or so, and James taking some time off tomorrow to help carry the damn thing to school. The plan, as throughout human history, was wrecked by two conspirators intent on letting no good ever happen.

  Brandon tripped, simply one foot on the other. He fell, James looking up at him, eyes wide. His hands could have either protected the food or protected the volcano—perhaps they were part of the conspiracy, because they held on to the plastic trays. He fell chest first into the hours of planning and work, flattening it as a hammer would a beetle. The trays of food flew forward, tipping and then skidding across the floor—the mashed potatoes and gravy spreading across the carpet like jelly on bread.

  He lay there, his face on the floor and his arms spread to either side. Neither spoke and Brandon didn’t move. The project, the volcano, was destroyed. The only thing probably still working was the tubing for the lava under the crushed cardboard.

  “Shit,” Brandon said, speaking directly into the carpet.

  James sat up, his face splattered with paint from his immediate reaction to Brandon’s fall. He crossed his legs Indian-style and put his chin in his palms.

  Brandon still didn’t move.

  “Well, we can probably buy a plastic one from Toys-R-Us,” James said.

  Brandon heard him and a small laugh came from his mouth. He turned his head to the right to look at his brother and saw a smirk there. The laughter came harder then, Brandon rolling over on his back, crushing more of the wasted project.

  James was laughing too. “We could just take a picture of all this and turn that in.”

  Brandon’s arms crossed his stomach and his eyes closed tight from his laughter. “Gravy, too,” he managed to get out.

  They broke up; James falling backwards and Brandon rolling around on the floor, unable to stop himself. Hours of work gone in an instant, but it didn’t matter. Not to either of them—even when they had to pick up the trash.