by R. W. Ridley
Bones’s eyes nearly jump out of his head at the sound of Chester’s voice. He whispers to me, “Remember who helped you today, boss. I did.”
I nod.
“That means I get to go back with you.”
Still approaching, Chester shouts. “Break it up, you two. Get back to your rooms.”
“Back?” I say to Bones, but Chester thinks I’m talking to him.
“Yeah, back as in return to your rooms now!”
“On it, Mr. Chester,” Bones says, all the while still looking at me. “Back is the only way to go.”
“Back,” I say.
Bones turns and walks with almost a skip in his step. “Back is the only way out of here, ain’t that right, boss man?” The question is directed to Chester, but I know he’s talking to me.
“Ain’t no way out of here, thin man,” Chester says as he passes Bones. He stops a few feet from me. “Back, up, down, east, west, anyway you go all leads to one place, you understand me?” Chester asks.
I don’t answer.
“Here,” he says. “There is no other place in your life except here. You ain’t near as crazy as the others in this place. You want to hold on to what you have left of your mind you remember that one thing. Here is all there is.” He steps past me. “Your room, now.”
***
As I drift off to a restless sleep, the dead gather at the foot of my bed. Their eyes are inert and penetrating at the same time. A woman, her head flopping on a broken neck, reaches for me and touches my foot over the blanket. I jerk my foot back, but it is a reflex. I am not afraid of her. I don’t know if it’s because they’ve visited so many times that I’ve grown used to them, or if it’s because they look different. They no longer look angry to me. They look sad. They look like they need my help.
I throw back the covers and stand. The dead follow my every move. I take a step toward them. A hand reaches out from under the bed and grabs my ankle. I am back to being scared. I jump back and shuffle across the room, ramming into the door. A loud click echoes through the room and the door opens. The dead smile.
I wait for someone to enter, Nurse Kline or Chester. They surely were close by. The door does not just open on its own. They are monitoring my every move. But seconds turn into minutes, and no one comes. The dead are inching their way closer to me. They want me to leave. I don’t want to. If I’m caught out in the hall, I will be... I don’t know what will happen to me, but I can’t imagine it will be good.
The dead creature that had grabbed my ankle begins to crawl out from under my bed. He or she or it is not like the others. It is big and... not human. It’s a huge hulking beast that is covered in hair and slime. It’s a Taker, and the anger that was absent in the other dead is frighteningly apparent in his tooth-filled snarl.
Suddenly, being caught in the hallway is the least of my worries. I pull the door open and run out into the corridor. The brightness of the flickering fluorescent lights nearly blinds me. I squint against the glare and wait for someone to come running, to be busted for escaping my prison, but no one comes. I am alone in the hallway.
I look back at my room. The Taker snaps its jaws in the doorway. Going back is not an option. I run fully expecting to be stopped by someone on the hospital staff at any moment.
I do not pay attention to the corridors I turn down. I just run. When I started, I was following the yellow line, but the line beneath my feet is now blue. I am not authorized to mingle with the blue line people. I am in real trouble now.
I run until I can’t catch my breath. I stop and pant and grunt and wallow in general misery. I don’t know how far I’ve gone. A sharp pain throbs from underneath my rib cage. My throat is dry. I hear a crash from behind me and decide to walk quickly to the next series of hallways just ahead.
The lines end here. No blue, no yellow, no red or green. Nothing. I have an option to go left or right, but both hallways are dark, almost black. Another crash from behind me convinces me going back is not a viable choice, and a scream from the hallway to my left makes my decision somewhat easier. The pitch-black hallway to my right is the least of the three evils. I slowly make my way down the hall.
A whisper floats through the dark air, “Oz.”
I exhale through pursed lips. I am walking into something, an ambush, a slaughter, an end to my rather confused existence.
“Oz,” the whispering voice repeats. But I realize its not traveling through the air. It is in my head. I hear a series of heavy clicks. They come from all around me.
All light is gone now. I cannot see anything, but I can feel movement all around me. I stop. It’s pointless to go on. Something brushes against my leg and I can feel movement beneath my bare feet. I reach for the wall to my right, but it’s not there. I reach to my left and feel a cold, damp raised surface. It is a rock.
I hear more clicking and what sounds like water dripping. The stuffy air of the hospital is gone. The air is cool and damp. A sliver of light appears above me, ten feet or so. My immediate surroundings become illuminated. I am in a hole... no, it’s a small cave. I can see the rock wall to my left, but the right wall is out of sight. A small creek clicks and gurgles and burps on the cave floor to my right. It disappears underneath a wall of rocks in front of me.
There are a series of footholds leading up to the sliver of light. I climb and only then spot the source of movement beneath my feet. The cave floor is covered in millions of bugs, some of which are still clinging to my feet. I frantically shake them off and climb as fast I can.
The sliver of light is a tiny crawl space. I cannot tell how long it is, and there is just barely enough room for me to fit. I look back and see that the bugs are now making their way up the cave wall. I push my way through the opening and hoped the crawl space either gets bigger or leads to an opening I can fit through, because it is apparent I could not go back.
I crawl on my belly, pushing myself forward with my elbows. I can hear the bugs entering the opening of the crawl space. Their tiny legs make horrendous scrapping noise as they make their way toward me. I crawl faster, my back now touching the top of the crawl space. It isn’t getting wider. It is narrowing, and the source of the light is no closer.
I flatten myself as much as I can. No longer pushing myself forward with my elbows, my arms are extended forward, and I’m pulling myself with my finger tips. My butt is wedged. I can no longer pull myself forward. I feel the bugs probing my feet. A slight stinging around my ankles as I imagine some have begun to bite.
I feel something grab my wrists. I am dragged forward. This is not a bug… I hope. Because if it is, it is enormous. I look and see... mud covered hands pulling me through the opening. I am pulled with such force, the crawl space is expanding all around me. That’s when I realize the space is made up of a sludge like clay.
I burst through the opening and fall to the creek on the cave floor. I have made it through to the other side. I sit up on my hands and knees. I am covered in mud. I turn to watch the bugs flow through the opening like water coming out of a faucet, but they never appear.
I stand, anxious and breathing irregularly. I am in an enormous chamber made of clay walls that are some forty feet high. Bright fires are peppered throughout the cavern making the temperature considerably hotter than on the other side of the crawl space. I estimate the square footage of this place to be about 1,500 to 2,000 feet. It is the closest thing to a naturally formed grand ballroom that I have ever seen.
A silhouette of a man stands in front of the nearest fire. He is scrawny and crooked. His posture suggests a feeble old man, but given the strength of this grip I know that appearances can be deceiving.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He does not answer. His white eyes shine through the
darkness. Strands of long, thick hair hang from his head.
“You arranged for this... You wanted me to come here.” I say. A snicker is followed by a grotesque hacking.
I move to the right trying to get a look at his fa
ce. I see purple faces peering out of the darkest corner of the cavern. Startled, I fixate on them.
“You are the key,” the old man says.
My attention back to him. “The key to what?”
More hacking. “Must you ask the same questions every time?”
Confused I say, “We’ve done this before?”
“A thousand times. More.”
A slash of light reveals a portion of his face. It is... purple. His eyes are milky white. He is Délon. I ready myself for an attack.
“You are the key to the Source! I must have the Source!” It steps into the full light. His body is as feeble as his silhouette hinted. His face is cracked and wrinkled. When he talks, I can hear his blackened tongue rubbing against his mandibles.
“The Source?”
“Yes. The Source!” He groans. “I cannot take this endless loop. The Source. Bring me the Source.”
“I don’t...”
“You don’t know what it is. I know that. You’ve told me more times than I can count.”
“Why would I help you?”
He pounds the clay wall next to him. He is on the verge of a fit, but restrains himself. He points to the corner of the cavern where the purple faces are peering out at me. “I’m too tired to escort you over there. See for yourself.”
I hesitate. I take a step in that direction and then pause. I wipe my muddy hand across my face. I resume my journey to the darkened corner. As I get closer, I discover the purple faces are attached to disembodied heads crammed into the clay walls of the cavern. I am so mesmerized by them that I don’t see the body on the gurney until I nearly run into it.
I look at it closely. The face is hidden beneath a shunter. It is a young boy, fifteen... sixteen. It’s me. A young curly headed boy of the same age, so caked with mud that he blends in with the cave wall, steps out of the black corner. Gordy.
“I’m watching him for you,” he says.
“You’re real,” I say not knowing if it’s true.
He looks at me strangely. “Well, duh.”
“I don’t understand. Why am I here?”
“To help us decorate the place, why do you think, you moron. C’mon, we can’t keep doing this.” He directs his attention to the old Délon. “Can’t you give him some kind of memory jolt or zap or whatever? We go through this every time.”
“I’m not a magician!” The Délon shouts.
Back to me. “Listen,” Gordy says. “The purple pile of puss needs the Source to get his power back. You are the key to the Source. He knows it. I know it. General Roy knows it. Every Destroyer on the planet knows it.”
“Destroyer?”
“Monsters, freaks... the things the Storytellers created to get back at the world for treating them like a pile of dog crap. Understand?”
I look at myself lying on the gurney. I shake my head.
“It’s not important.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Focus. The Source. You have to find it. The Délons have got you trapped in here.” He taps the shunter, and it squeals. “This little guy is drilling out your brain and replacing it with purple mush. Everything you think is real ain’t real. You got to find a way out and get back to finding the Source, and you got to do it soon because I am bored out of my ever-lovin’ mind down here.”
I turn and watch as the old Délon begins to wheeze and cough. “Why is he helping us?” I ask.
Gordy stifles a frustrated scream. “Oz Griffin meet the Pure. Pure meet Oz Griffin.”
“The Pure?” I say. I examine his twisted body. “Canter wasn’t lying.”
“He was,” the Pure croaks. “He always lies.”
“He said you were alive.”
“He had no idea it was true. No one knows I’m alive.”
“What am I?” Gordy snaps. “Chopped liver?”
“Pardon,” The Pure moans. “No one of real consequence knows.”
“Nice,” Gordy says shaking his head. “After all I’ve done for you, and this is the thanks I get? Insults? You ugly bag of bones.”
With that, the Pure leaps across the cavern and lands on Gordy forcing him to the ground. “I should tear open your skull and dine on your useless gray matter.” The Pure is indeed not as feeble as he looks.
Gordy screams.
I push the Pure off of him. The old Délon snaps his mandibles in anger and frustration.
“What is our deal?” I ask the Pure.
He looks at me. He is breathing heavily and staggering. The leap across the room drained what little energy he had. “Your world for the Source.”
“My world?”
Gordy stands. “Home, Oz. Home.”
“You mean...”
“Everything as you remember it. As I’ve told you a thousand times before. Your world.”
My mind tries to grab hold of the concept, but I can’t. A lump forms in my throat, and I fight back a tear. “I don’t remember.”
“You do,” Gordy says. “Or you can again.”
“How?”
He walks over to the nearest clay wall and writes with his finger - Millie B. Story.
I read the name over and over again.
“Who...”
“Shhhhh,” he says. “The next session is about to start.”
The light slowly begins to lose way to the darkness. Within a matter of seconds, it is pitch black. I soon hear muffled voices from overhead. I stand on my toes to see if I can hear the voices more clearly.
My eyes begin to acclimate to the darkness. Slowly, I can make out shapes. A mop handle, a shelf with cleaning supplies. I am back in the janitor’s closet.
“Getting sleepy, now,” Dr. Graham’s voice says traveling down from the vent. “Almost there. You’re feeling relaxed and safe. Safe, Archie. We are back in the woods with your friends.”
Scoop-face
SEVEN
“We didn’t fair too well without Lou and the others. Barely a week had passed when April squatted in a patch of poison ivy. She was covered in red welts.
“Tank caught a nasty cold shortly after that. He was snorting, sniffing and basically leaking mucus from every hole in his head.
“We found a box of fruit cocktail behind an abandoned backwoods convenience store. The cans were rusted and beat up, but I was hungry so I took a chance none of the others would. I threw up for three days.
“Little Bobby was the only one who seemed to be doing better. His bite was on the mend , and he was in general good spirits. For most of the waking day, he sang the only song he knew, ‘I’ve Got Friends In Low Places.’ And by the second hour of the first day he took to singing, the rest of us hoped to the heavens above that Garth Brooks had survived the end of the world so we could find him and give him the beating of a lifetime for writing that damn song.
“His choice of song did lead to an interesting conversation though. April began to wonder out loud where all the famous people were. The ones she used to read about in supermarket tabloids and on the Internet.
“‘Like Paris Hilton,’ she said as she scratched her forearm raw. ‘You reckon she survived.’ “‘Lord, I hope not,’ Tank said with a nasally tone. ‘That girl wasted all her pretty in normal times. I can’t imagine God would give her a second chance.’
“I laughed. ‘What makes you so sure God’s got a hand in what happened here?’
“Tank gave me a perplexed look. ‘God’s got a hand in everything.’
“‘Those crab things we saw,’ I said. ‘And the purple... people and the Bashir.... You think God’s got a hand in that, too?’
“Tank spat a big gob of snot on a nearby tree. ‘I ain’t a preacher. Don’t know nothing about the Bible. I just know what my momma taught me. God is everywhere and has a hand in everything.’
“‘What about Angelina?’ April said ignoring our religious discussion. ‘You think she made it?’
“Tank’s eyes lit up. ‘Now, that I wouldn’t mind. She was pretty and smart and did stuff for poor people... or something to that effect
.’
“‘Oh, and Brad, too,’ April said excitedly. ‘I bet he made it.’ “‘Ahh, don’t nobody need him around,’ Tank moaned. ‘I’d like a crack at that Angelina without him interfering.’
“April howled with laughter. ‘Angelina wouldn’t have you if you were the last man on earth.’
“‘Hell,’ Tank said. ‘I ain’t far off.’
“‘What about Archie,’ April said. ‘He might like to hook up with her.’
“I shook my head. ‘Nah, Tank can have her.’ The truth was I was still in love with my wife. The end of the world didn’t change that. Tank was welcome to all the Hollywood starlets and models and beauty queens we came across. My heart belonged to the one and only woman I ever loved.
“‘I hope Homer Simpson is still alive,’ Little Bobby said. ‘He was funny.’
“We all stopped to look at him.
“‘What?’ he asked.
“Tank was about to say something, but I stopped him. ‘Nothing, Bobby.’
“Tank, April, and I began to laugh as we resumed our travels.
“That’s how we traveled most of the time. We talked about nothing important and stopped to laugh at little Bobby whenever the occasion presented itself. We were living as trivially as we did when we had bills to pay and movies to see and games to watch. Nothing had really changed. It felt wrong at times, but most of the time it felt like we were doing exactly what we were supposed to, not matter. As far as we knew, all the folks that mattered, the scientists, the politicians, the doctors, the engineers, were all dead or worse. The best we could figure is we were alive because we didn’t matter. In all our travels, we didn’t come across one person who made a difference in normal times. Those people seemed to be gone. Our greatest survival skill was having no skills at all. I guess sometimes it pays to have no ambition.
“Now of course Tank wouldn’t agree that he didn’t matter. He was a truck driver after all. Drove a big rig. Delivered everything from lumber to stuffed animals from coast to coast. He mattered.
“Never mind that driving big rigs ain’t a skill that matters a lick in this world. He still thought highly of himself.