Jigsaw World

by JD Lovil

  Another sign claimed that the Arkansas border was 211 miles, which was interesting, since that meant that six hours of travel had only eaten up a hundred miles or less. He knew that time could pass slowly when on the road, but he really doubted that the RV was making less than twenty miles to the hour. Maybe this effect is what happened to the French Napoleonic invasion of Russia way back when. The cold coupled with the miles that never ended could have defeated any invading army.

  For the last few moments, it felt as though the Interstate had begun to navigate a grade. Soon it was an actual and steep grade uphill. Not only was this stretch of highway nothing that Tom remembered to exist along this stretch of Interstate, but it had already been a good 15 minutes or more after they should have found the good town of Walkin.

  Thirty minutes later, they were still chugging up a mountainous incline. An hour after that, the road finally flattened, and the RV was driving down a gently curving road in a mildly rolling landscape. It was now very chilly, almost cold, and it was difficult to tell where the clouds ended, and the fogs began.

  About forty-five minutes more passed, and suddenly the road was blocked by what could only be described as the edge of a glacier. Tom parked the RV, and they discussed the situation. Everyone agreed that such glaciers did not belong anywhere close to their location, and everyone understood that this had to be another one of those schisms that were connected to the existence of the monstrous incursions in the real world.

  Having no other options, they decided that they would have to backtrack the way they came, and find an alternate route. With that decision made, Tom put the vehicle in gear, and swung her about in a ponderous about face. As the vehicle finally was aimed back in the direction she came from, the part of the group that was gazing out of the windshield was surprised to see an igloo, and a man in a parka getting out of it. It had blended in very well with the white of the snow and ice, but the movement of the piece of cloth that served as a door served to draw attention to the igloo shape.

  The scene necessitated another unanticipated stop while they quizzed the man about the situation. He turned out to be an Inuit named Igaluk, and he was surprised to see a bunch of white people cruising around Northern Alaska in such a un-ice-worthy vehicle. He suspected that the group was insane, since they insisted that the location was in the lower 48, when he knew that the Chukchi sea was a scant two hundred miles north and west of his current location.

  Igaluk had traveled inland to hunt for red meat to supplement his family’s diet. His preference was a good sized caribou, but he would take what he could find. Strangely, he had not yet laid eyes on a single caribou in a country that should have been swarming with them.

  Instead, he had been seeing the occasional animal that looked suspiciously like the deer that lived in other, less harsh areas. Igaluk was afraid to take down any of those, thinking that they might have something wrong with them. Also, he was a little afraid that he could not find his way home with one of them. The countryside seemed a little different, a little odd.

  Igaluk told the group that another reason he was surprised to see them, was that the whites had basically left the whole area after the Holocene ended, when it was obvious that the ice would eventually crowd them out anyway. In the last five years, he hadn’t seen any white faces, even that time he had gone to Barrow.

  After a few minutes of conversation with Igaluk, it was obvious that he had nothing useful to contribute, other than to serve as an example that this was one of those spasms that the world had been going through, in this case mixing together geography, and apparently also timelines, or perhaps worldliness.

  After getting assurances from Igaluk that he neither needed or wanted a ride or any other assistance from a group of crazy white demons, they parted company with him, heading south on the badly paved narrow road toward what they hoped would be the real world. In a matter of minutes, they were jostled down the road at the brisk pace of 25 miles per hour. This was the fastest that Tom was prepared to run the RV in these precarious conditions. It had even started to snow soft flakes, and coupled with the melt-water streams to either side of the road, and the almost impenetrable fog that had rolled in, Tom was tempted to send someone out to walk ahead of the RV to scout for dangers.

  The descent seemed even steeper than the ascent had been. They reached a point after a short period when the grade of the downward slope was verging on thirty degrees, and the big RV felt like it was going to lose traction at any time and skip out of control down the hill, hydroplaning all the way until it ended up in one of the increasingly common pools of water.

  Finally, they rounded a curve around one of the many hills that none of them could remember as being there before, and Tom had to slam on the brakes to avoid driving the big rig off the bank into the raging floodwaters. When he came to a stop, he inspected their situation. About five feet from the front of the RV, a flood-swollen river rushed around a curve; at first glance, it seemed that their options of travel were now limited to returning in the direction they had just come from. They certainly couldn’t for that river in front of them. It looked to be about as wide as the Mississippi is at normal times, and the rushing water would be deadly.

  “Hell, it looks like we are stuck here, unless we want to go back North.” Tom said. “I suggest we stop here for a little while, maybe just tonight, and think about it as we take a well-deserved break. Someone break out the snacks and start a campfire.”

  Everyone thought that was a good idea, another chance to get out and stretch their legs, to straighten out and cook something over an open flame. In short order, they had done as Tom requested, the site was set up as a camping site, including a roaring fire with embers floating toward heaven, a chest with cokes and beer in it sitting beside the lawn chairs around the fire, the close by the sound of rushing water to ensure the frequent pee break on the part of the drinkers, and scads of wieners and other such pseudo foods to keep everyone full of toxic calories.

  An hour slipped by, and then another. Tom noted that several persons have abandoned the fire, and he got up and strolled to the RV to check on everyone’s condition. Going into the vehicle, he still didn’t see the missing folks, so he opened the door to George’s small bedroom. The first thing he saw was the shining faces of Sally and George, and hiding behind them, the slightly embarrassed face of Charla, all nude and obviously somewhere in the middle of some sort of strange Ménages 'a Trois. All three of them were nude, and they seemed to have been in the midst of some sweaty work.

  “Get out of here!” Sally yelled. Tom’s evaluation of her intelligence, which was already low, dropped a fair distance at that point. He turned on his heel, and returned to the fire. It was best not to tell Sidney that his little Sweetie was playing the field, and switch-hitting at the same time.

  A few moments later, the three of them rejoined the others around the fire. Tom glanced at George. “I guess size doesn’t matter, after all.” George turned a cherry red.

  Another hour and a half went by, and Tom decided that it was time for him to turn in. Gathering up the items that he was responsible for, he returned to his bunk in the RV, and sat down for a last smoke. Bailey had taken this break to work on chewing the last bits of his old favorite finger. Somehow, it had retained the fingernail through the whole chewing process, and it had been slowly chewed away to the last joint, so what was left was essentially a fingertip with fingernail. As Tom watched, Bailey finished off the last of the finger, with a final bite or two aimed at the fingernail itself before it finally disappeared down the dog’s gullet.

  It seemed almost anticlimactic for Tom to just go to sleep at this point, but he was Okay with that. Ten minutes took him into a deep sleep.

  I am walking down a hallway of white, searching through a building that is a pure flood of white, almost flaring white. I am looking for someone who is fleeing me. I feel the Berzerker rage that burns within me. I hunt he who hunts the innocent and the unwary. It is he who is called ‘Slasher�
��, for he is known for his wanton killings, using his long knife to bring out his victim’s blood and their terror.

  I seek him, and my only weapons will be my hands, which itch to rip and tear into his flesh. I will tear into his guts, and I will drink his blood as I watch the light fade from his dying eyes. It enrages me that he knows not the ways to honor those who die, he kills without reason, and he does not pay the price of knowing the Death, and he allows those he kills to die alone. I shall guide him to his death, but I shall desecrate his dying.

  This place that I hunt him, I do not know if it is a school or an asylum, since it shares the character of both. I feel the fear of the Gray Soul as he flees me, but soon I shall have him. I run through the swinging double doors that stands before me, and I see the back of my quarry before me. I leap forward, surfing upon the crest of my rage, and my hands grasp upon him, and my left hand takes the knife from him, as my right hand cups his neck, and I raise the arm until the Gray Soul hangs suspended before me.

  Now at last I unleash that thing of fire and outrage, that beast that dwells within me which is more savage than any monster I have known. My left hand takes his gut and tears, and as he sings the song of screams, I remove his guts and I stress his spinal cord before I dislocate his hip. I stretch out my hand, and I remove from him forever his manhood. I bring him in close into an embrace, bringing my hands behind him to press my bloody fingerprints into his back until at last I hear the satisfying snap of his back. Now he cannot walk away, but it is not the end of his agony.

  Now at last I bring my bloodied left hand up to cup the back of his head, to guide it in close where I can take his throat with my teeth. I sink them deep into his neck, and I shake violently back and forth, and press forward to bite down even harder.

  Now is my mouth filled full with flowing blood, as I watch the labored last breaths, and watch as his eyes cloud and death at last takes him. Death may take him, but there is no heaven that I will permit him. All is as I have vowed, and his victims are at last avenged. With blood on my hands, and its salty and metallic taste in my mouth, and something much like satisfaction in my chest, the world of white about me fades into blackness.

  Tom woke up with a sigh, and a bit of a hard-on. He got up, and poured himself a cup of the coffee from the coffee maker that someone had forgotten to turn off last night. The coffee was a bit burnt, but it was also strong. He pulled a cigarette out and lit it, then went to sit on the lawn chair outside beside the still smoldering campfire.

  He had just about finished the cigarette off when he caught a whiff of Lavender; it seemed to be thin but pervasive. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. He quickly turned toward it, and saw an absolutely statuesque black girl, with everything in the right place. There was a bicycle lying on its side in the sand nearby, obviously her means of transportation.

  He motioned her over with a smile. She seemed a little shy in her approach, but approach she did. As she glided toward him, he admired the way she moved. Damn, that girl was healthy! She was the sort of girl that a man might regret not sleeping with decades after she was gone.

  “Hello there, my name is Tom.” He said. “What is your name, and what are you doing here?”

  “I am Veritasia, and I was bicycling the canyon in Tucson.” She replied. “I don’t remember anything like this place around there. It is way too cold, and I know that that river, or whatever it is, doesn’t belong here.”

  It turned out that Veritasia was a student at the University of Arizona, and she was majoring in Computer Science. She had gone out biking that morning, and somehow ended up here. Tom told her about the Innuit that they had met the day before, who thought that they were somewhere in Northern Alaska. He advanced the theory that geography didn’t mean much here. She had to reluctantly agree.

  It was modestly hard for Tom to think about anything but this vibrant, gorgeous Lavender scented girl. He had not gotten back with Sally since her little threesome, and this looked like a more than acceptable replacement. They discussed the situation at length while the others languished in the last vestiges of sleep, oblivious to their visitor. After covering her options, she agreed to accompany the group, at least until she could find an alternate method of returning home.

  Shortly thereafter, Tom and Veritasia went into the RV, where Markus had finally risen and started a fresh pot of coffee. Everyone clustered around the table, nursing cups and getting filled in on the situation.

  “Okay, I have one way to go, and that is north.” Tom said. “I know that it was Innuit country yesterday, but this is a one-way version of Tucson today, so I think there is at least a decent chance that we can find our way out of here by returning north.”

  The group had finally decided in favor of the northern trip, and when they had finished off the coffee, they loaded up and started up the road. After a few moments, they realized that the way was no longer mountainous, and the visual signs of a cold climate began to disappear, along with the temperature inching upwards towards eighty degrees. Soon, the road widened into Interstate dimensions, and then the signage appeared to confirm it. They finally came to a sign that said that it was the off-ramp to Walkin, and Tom took the ramp.

  A few moments later, they were sitting comfortably around a table in a place called Rosie’s Café. The waitress had been by to take their orders, and for a few seconds, they were excited to be served by the cafés owner. Only for a moment, and then George noticed that every waitress in the joint had a tag that called her Rosie.

  A half hour later, they had finished the food, and they were sipping some excellent coffee while they discussed the next step in the journey. The waitress had told them that it was about forty miles to the Arkansas border, and cautioned them to be careful about the dragons. She also advised them to avoid the sand pits as they left the town. Several people had disappeared while they were around them.

  When they pressed the waitress about the nature of the ‘dragons’, she admitted that they looked more like dragonflies than they did the reptile variety. Other than that, and not spitting fire, they resembled their namesakes in that people had witnessed the thirty foot long forms taking cattle and people off the ground, never to be seen again.

  They finally finished off their stay at the café, and soon enough, they were loaded up in the RV, and headed back out toward the interstate. They stopped at the gas station that ‘Rosie’ had told them about, got the same dire warnings about the dragons that the waitress had made, and without incident, they completed their refueling, and continued on the trip.

  It was as they were passing a green pasture that the shadow passed over the vehicle. Looking upwards through the windshield, they saw a giant dragonfly looking thing, but all of thirty feet long, and maybe fifty feet in wingspan. As they watched, it dipped in its flight to the field, grabbed a cow by its spine, and flew away to the south.

  A half a mile further on, they ran into sand dunes. These were unusual for this sort of topography, and the rainfall in this area should have prevented their formation. They stopped at one point where the dunes came right up to the edge of the road to discuss it. Sidney, who had become estranged from Charla since her little threesome, volunteered to go investigate, and Tom and Markus decided that they had better go back him up.

  Markus sidled up to Tom on the way up the near slope. “Tom, I think that I know what is going on here. Have you ever heard of doodlebugs?”

  Tom admitted that he had heard the term before, but he really didn’t understand it. Markus told him that the bug got its name by the sort of random track it left in the sand as it traveled.

  “The adult form of the doodlebug is sometimes called an Antlion, sometimes by other names.” Markus said. “Both the larvae and the adult form eat prey insects. The adults fly to hunt, and the larval form digs a sand-pit, and waits at the bottom to ambush whatever falls into it.”

  By this time, with Markus and Tom bringing up the rear, Sidney has reached the top, and started down the other si
de. By the time the pair had reached the top, Sidney was in obvious distress, finding that the sand shifted each time he wanted to go up. He could only go down. He was already more than halfway down the slope.

  Markus caught Tom’s arm as he was about to go after him. “It is too late, if you go down there, you will be trapped too.” He said. “We can’t save him.”

  They watched as Sidney finally reached the bottom. The sand beneath his feet erupted into motion, and a very ugly bug that had to be all of ten feet long, and at least four or five feet wide emerged, bit him on the shoulder, and took him under the sand.

  Tom was about to go down to help Sidney anyway, but Markus grabbed him while he spoke urgently to him. “He is already dead. The bugs have a neurotoxin in their bite. We have to go.”

  It was a much more chastened group that prepared to continue the trip a few moments later. Everyone agreed that there was nothing else to be done here, and it was time to head out. A few moments later, they were on the Interstate, continuing on toward the border with Arkansas.

  ******

  12 All Gods Fade

  Something soft and pliable surrounded his face, and his hands were clutching the same sort of thing. Tom still smelled the aroma of Lavender. He opened his eyes, and looking up slightly, he saw the well proportioned navel in the black landscape that was Veritasia. His hands gripped her beautiful ass, and her legs were wrapped comfortably around him. Being properly positioned, he went in for a quick kiss on the lips that never speak.

  This must have served for waking her up. The next few moments were taken up by the need to renew and reinforce some late night memories that they had created last night. Tom had always considered Halle Berry to be an ideal womanly body of sorts, but he would not have traded the acrobatics that he and Veritasia engaged in last night, even for Halle. If there was anything wrong with Halle’s body, it would be that her boobs were just slightly too big. Veritasia’s was perfect.