She reanimates. “Carl, don’t leave, I’ll be right back.” She hurries away.
What the heck is her problem? It’s like I said the magic word. Did I? And what was it? I’ve never seen her act so weird, like she’s on drugs. That’s idiotic. I’m the guy on drugs, with a mind off imagining who-knows-what new paranoid nonsense, the same as always. A few minutes more, all will be fine, once that Duprixol kicks in. Yeah, time to sit and relax, get comfortable, and enjoy the ride.
* * *
The cook delivers the deluxe meal of scrambled eggs. Oh how sick I am of this. All runny, like they haven’t been cooked enough, yet the eggs have a distinct burnt flavor. Maybe it’s a spice called burnt, and someone thinks it’s tasty, like all spices that cover up the real taste. Not me, I want egg-fried toast.
As the cook heads back to the kitchen, I call out to him, “Hey, what’s up with Sandy tonight?”
He halts, how Sandy did, like a robot switched off. Then he turns slowly to face me. “I have no opinions to offer you. I simply work here. You do not. Do not talk to me.”
Wow, I was just trying to make polite conversation. Do not talk to me? Not polite enough. He heads for the kitchen to resume his duties, which apparently include treating the customers as rudely as possible. Past the portal where he trades orders for food, he picks up a butcher’s knife and stares at me. I get the hint. The dude is in no mood to speak with anybody, more likely dice them.
Here we go, another pile of runny eggs. The flavor and texture are nauseating, but hurling is a worthwhile risk—the pain of hunger is surpassing the migraine, which is easing up just a bit thanks to that dose of Duprixol. My head almost doesn’t hurt. Almost doesn’t is like a dream itself, a possible release from this agonizing torture. A teaser, nearly removing all the pain, but leaving just enough to remind that it’s still there, sure to ignite again later.
At the counter’s end, Sandy is talking on the telephone, but something is wrong. She looks concerned and keeps glancing this way. Now she’s staring at me. Is she talking about me? Nah, I’m a nobody. Enough paranoia for one night.
One last bite and the plate is clean, other than the greasy coating left behind. Now if all goes well, the runny mess will stay in my stomach long enough to be digested.
Sandy returns. “Carl, you need to stay here awhile. Some people are coming by, and they want to speak with you.”
Something is wrong. No one has ever wanted to speak with me. Sounds like trouble.
“I don’t know, Sandy, I got things to do.”
“Don’t be silly, Carl. You have nothing better to do than wait in this warm, dry place, for the nice people coming to see you.”
Nice people? Coming to see me? Okay, this is weird. I may not know much, but I know how to feel, and right now the feeling says danger. I have to get out of here. But I don’t want to appear frightened or alarmed. That’s what they say about animals, right? If you act confident, the critter will have respect. By not showing fear, it tells them they don’t actually need to hurt you. What utter nonsense. But it sounds good, so I’ll pretend it’s not nonsense.
“Thanks for the meal, Sandy, that was great, really, but I have to go. I have a meeting, I mean, an interview. I don’t want to blow it, you know?” I rise from the seat and prepare for a graceful exit.
Sandy leans over the counter and stuffs me back down. “Don’t be ridiculous, Carl. No one has an interview in the middle of the night. Just sit and relax.”
What’s wrong with me? I’m trembling. I don’t even know why. Overwhelming instinct obscures all that—I must go, immediately. I spring from the seat and go for the door. When it swings open, three men are blocking the exit, and they don’t look friendly.
The coward in me has glued my feet to the floor. I’m such a wimp, though occasional thoughts let me feel otherwise for a moment, if only a moment.
* * *
“Carl Brown?”
One of the strange men calls out my name. I feel naked, standing here before a trio of thugs as people in the diner look on with morbid curiosity.
“He just left,” I tell them. “I bet if you hurry, you might catch him.”
Hoping that saved my butt, I let out a huge sigh of relief, then cling to my next breath, in case I’m still in trouble. Unfortunately, fear has a revealing effect on the body. He doesn’t fall for it. He doesn’t even look away.
“You are Carl Brown, yes?”
This time I make no excuse, though I fear my new response is no better—no response, other than a nervous twitching that rattles my knees. He understands what’s going on, and it doesn’t help when Sandy points to me and nods.
Having found the elusive Carl Brown, the strange man becomes oddly elated. “I see that Carl is present. Excellent. We have been looking for Carl.”
The way he talks sends shivers up my spine, like he’s not really the person he pretends to be. No, he’s some kind of thing. All three men are dressed the same, uniforms perhaps, though too casual for that. Black sport jackets, the cheesy plastic kind that pretend to look expensive, over black turtlenecks, and they wear black slacks, along with black boots. No problem coordinating colors here. And the boots, polished to such a shine that light reflects from the glossy surface. These folks are well-to-do. You can always tell by the shoes. Good shoes, not a loser.
Their hair is odd, black as well, and cropped short in the shape of a helmet. Looks stupid like a goon. More peculiar is their haircuts are identical, as if they’re copies of the same person, only with slightly dissimilar facial features. But very few, since they all wear nearly the same expression—hardened people pretending to be pleasant. Creepy, that’s what I call it.
The strange man continues, “The Association understands much of Carl’s behavior, but it is time that we understand more, most importantly, Carl’s present tendencies, his innermost thoughts, and of course, views on life, social conduct, and future events.”
What did he just say? I study the leg of his slacks, searching for tiny wires near the floor, leading off to some machine that fed him all that nonsense. Nope, no wires.
Easing back a step, I hope to lure the thugs into the diner just a bit. “What would you like to know?”
The strange man becomes excited, a fake kind of excited, like my supposed willingness to participate activated his I-should-be-excited circuit. “Carl understands of course, he must answer specific questions under controlled conditions, otherwise the information we seek may prove erroneous, and certainly, that would be most unfortunate for all concerned. The time has come. We have transport. Carl is prepared to join us, yes?”
Here I am standing before a man—or robot—as he speaks to me, yet he uses my name in the third person. Is this weird? Carl thinks so. Carl doesn’t like this conversation. Carl should get the heck out of here.
Now would be a great time to wake up. But this couldn’t be a dream—I just wondered if it was. This experience isn’t passing the dream test. I’d pinch myself to check, but I’m sure it would just hurt.
* * *
A threatening situation is an amazing stimulant. The mind churns, working out a solution, while the body retreats a step, another and another, which the goons match. I have successfully drawn them farther into the diner, away from the door.
In a burst, I slice between them and out the exit. Down the slippery steps and onto the sidewalk, I run for my life. Miserable or not, I don’t care to explore other options right now. Any life away from here will do.
The weather is painful, the cold rain acting as tiny daggers stabbing my face as I charge ahead. Adding to the torture, my skull may soon explode. The migraine is back, and this time, the truck driving through is chased by a runaway freight train.
Regardless of weather, migraines or goons, running for one’s life is hard work. Every gasp for breath feels empty. Not only my skull, my heart and lungs may soon explode. Within a few blocks, my stamina fades. I’m no athlete. I slow to a jog and glance over my shoulder, hoping that str
ange encounter is behind me. No! I mean, not behind me. Idle thoughts are traitorous. The strange encounter is right behind and closing fast—here come the goons.
Terror injects a new supply of stamina. Back to a furious sprint, I scramble across the street and duck behind a building, hoping to lose them in a dark alley. Behind a warehouse, I leap onto a loading dock and hurry across only to have it end suddenly, leaving me to soar off and crash into a cluster of garbage cans. Damn, be quiet!
Cloaked by darkness, I keep low and peer over the loading dock, fearing my little accident may have betrayed me. Hurried boot-steps grow louder, slapping the wet pavement. They don’t turn—they have continued forward along the alley, assuming I had done the same. I am not such a loser after all.
Around the warehouse, I sneak back to the street where our chase began. A sonorous humming fills the sky as an aircraft descends from the clouds, a helicopter perhaps. The black, rain-slicked craft sets down in the street near the diner. A stream of men emerge from a hatchway like a colony of rampaging ants, all copies of one another, the same black outfits, the same helmet hair, a steady flow of black. Each carries a thin rectangular device with shoulder strap. Weapons? As the men disembark, one waves and hollers instructions. He’s pointing this way. Following his command, the men charge forward, splashing through puddles in the street.
I pull back, out of view, and stand petrified against the cold wall. I have to think but can’t—too scared. I can’t cross the street, I’ll be seen, then either captured or killed, whatever it is they intend. They must want to talk real bad. Or they want me dead. There must be somewhere I could hide.
Towering above, freeway interchanges crisscross overhead and block out the stormy sky. The network of motorways connects to the nearby bridge, which has concrete staircases leading up to the elevated highways. Before this moment I had not imagined a reason to explore any, but now their value is clear—the perfect place to hide, up high and out of sight while the goons scurry along the rainy avenues below. Better still, I may discover access to the bridge and get across the river. Surely, the bright lights of downtown are no place to slay a person. I could find safety there. Someone would understand. Someone might help.
I hurry back to the loading dock, crouch and peer over—the way is clear. Across the street and along the next block, I cling to the building, masked by shadows. At the corner, I spy around—careful! Lean out too far and I’ll get my head blown off. Looks okay, no goons, or anyone else. Salvation is just across the street. I make a dash for the stairs, around the concrete barrier and up the first step. A whizzing sound approaches, rising in pitch. BLAM! Chunks of concrete scatter as I vault up three steps each stride. I’m halfway to the top when the whizzing comes again. BLAM!
I thought they wanted to talk.
The stairs end at an unpleasant surprise—a solid wall of concrete. Seems the purpose of this structure is for no one to get anywhere, and tonight, that no one is me.
In the streets below, the goons are taking shots at the staircase, and more are coming to join them. Their thin weapons emit a sizzling beam, torturous whizzing, and once striking their target, explode another spray of pulverized concrete. The stairs are crumbling fast.
Overhead, a power line leads to a warehouse across the street. I can slide along it, to the rooftop, and escape. I can? Have I gone mad? I’ll have to deal with that later—madness is a minor flaw compared to dead.
Sizzling blasts pound the staircase as I climb onto a slippery handrail. I wrestle the buckle loose and pull my belt from its loops, then slap it over the power line. Their barrage demolishes the staircase, all support drops from under my feet, and I’m left to dangle. Soaked by rain, the power line is slick, and my ride is swift.
Here comes the whizzing. Scorched air sizzles at my back, narrowly missing as I whoosh past. The belt whines, sliding along the line, carrying me to my only escape. The wet strap is slipping from my grasp, but my perilous flight is not delayed. Sailing onward, I’m almost to the rooftop.
The power line snaps, and like a rubber band, it coils away into darkness. The fall should be slight—I’ve made it. I’m over the warehouse. Over a skylight. I plunge into the fragile pane and burst through shattering glass.
* * *
Glass isn’t so tough, but too bad this floor is bare concrete. Some carpeting might have helped. Look at that, I didn’t even make a dent. And to think migraines could hurt. What migraine? That discomfort is a whisper compared to this body’s shouting pain, screaming from head to toe.
Inside the warehouse is dark, thanks to my latest stunt. Nice work busting the power line. Some light streams in through a window, but not much. The room is stuffed full of machines. Maybe drill presses. Lathes? Or grinding equipment. Rows of identical contraptions fade into darkness, all large, tall and across. Something is manufactured here, or maybe it’s a print shop.
Everything is covered by fine powder, and touching it leaves my moist fingertips spotted with dust-turned-mud. Seems the place was abandoned ages ago. No need for any remorse over the power line. The electricity was off long before I showed up.
As I examine my muddy fingertips, a dark pool collects in my open palm, then begins dripping between my fingers. Something warm, flowing from inside my coat. When I try taking it off, a sharp pain explodes like a lightning bolt, screaming from shoulder to fingertips, which have suddenly gone numb.
Aw, crap. A giant chunk of glass is sticking out of my arm.
Pain and experience are funny things. Maybe I’m going into shock, that might explain it. Here I am, arm impaled by a jagged shard, and I go about exploring the room, oblivious of the injury. But once I see the wound, see the blood, oh how the pain comes alive.
I search the dusty workbenches and find some crusty shop towels, probably full of germs or other toxic substance, but there’s no choice, I have to fix this. Using a rag for a glove, I keep from slicing my hand and give the shard a tug. Sure sounds easy, and we’ll just have to feel the pain later—pull harder. I yank the shard free and toss it to the floor where it shatters into a spray of harmless granules. Pieces that small when I hit the skylight would have been nice.
I wiggle out of the blood-soaked coat, hoping to find a minor flesh wound, but it’s just not my night. I’ve never seen so much blood, especially my own. But then, nobody sees that much of their own blood and talks about it later.
Cinched tight around my arm, the dirty shop towels serve as a crude bandage, effective enough to slow the bleeding. Hardly the work of a qualified physician, but forced to play doctor, we do our best. One crisis resolved, I’m back to the original—it won’t be long before the goon patrol shows up. As if cued by my thoughts, an abrupt scuffle downstairs signals their entry into the building. They holler to one another, something about which exits to cover, and to get upstairs, that’s where he is. Of course, they’re referring to me. If only it could be someone else.
* * *
What I need is a weapon. Let’s make this contest fair. I fumble in darkness, searching workbenches and digging through drawers, only to discover a bunch of junk. Old parts, manuals and small tools, nothing capable of much harm to anyone. A large tool chest may contain the perfect weapon, except the damn thing is locked. There could be a machete inside, or better still, a machine gun. I’d settle for a hammer.
The goons are coming. They’ve made it to the second level, smashing down doors and shouting. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I can imagine— “Where is that little weasel? I’m going to blow his entire head off!”
I need a weapon. I need that chest open.
Could the key be hidden under the chest itself? It’s not very large, and doesn’t appear all that heavy. Under the chest would be a great hiding place. Nobody would think of looking there. But I just thought to look. Right, a nobody like me. This time my logic makes perfect sense.
I tilt the chest back and reach a hand underneath. Nothing, so I reach further, then lose my grip and the chest crashes dow
n. I take it back—this chest is plenty heavy. Add a smashed hand to my slashed arm, but something is sandwiched between my palm and the workbench—a key.
Making a guess and being right is infinitely rewarding pain relief. I don’t feel any of it other than thrilled. I hoist the chest up and seize the key to my defense.
The goons are closing in. They’re awfully noisy, knocking around furniture and banging down doors. Not a very stealthy bunch. Their boisterous approach provides a glimmer of hope. I am one, silent in a veil of darkness. They are many, loud and clumsy. I have an advantage.
Digging through the chest, I hope to find a bazooka, or better still, a magic portal that will get me the heck out of here. What is this? Some kind of puller for removing wheels or disks from machines. Maybe I could pull their brains out. No! Drawer after drawer, the search turns up an assortment of weird tools, little gadgets really, nothing very threatening. All hope is fading, and the approaching racket doesn’t help. This may be the end. They’ll storm in here and blow my head clean off, I can just see it now.
The last drawer seems to be stuck. Reaching under the concealed edge, I find something caught between it and the drawer above. I fiddle the thing loose and the drawer pops open. What is it? Without better light, it’s difficult to tell. A dark color, almost black, with a rough texture. Heavy, metal, and well over a foot long. A large wrench? Yes, and adjustable—an enormous adjustable wrench, for really big nuts. Just what I was looking for.
Weapon in hand, I cling to a wall, and creep toward an open doorway.
Their voices are clear, just around the corner.
“Check in here, I’ll check across the hall.”
I have reached the door. Any farther and I would be in the doorway itself.
The first goon steps in.
* * *
They all look the same, black on black. B-O-B. Bob’s the name, all with the same cheesy jacket, the same goony turtleneck, the same helmet hair.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 2