by Mark Tufo
I still faced much more immediate threats than death; I could hear more werewolves traipsing through the woods. It wouldn’t be long before they smelled what was going on here and found me. I rolled off my back, nearly blacking out as I rolled onto my bitten shoulder. I pushed up with my uninjured arm, and once I got into a wobbly sitting position, I sheathed my knife and grabbed my rifle. I wasn’t completely sure how I was going to shoot with only one arm, but better to try that than risk allowing a werewolf to get in tight again, where it would easily be able to finish the job off. The werewolf whose neck I had pierced had dropped to his knees. He glared at me as only one can at the person that sent them on their journey across the River Styx. Even took a half-hearted swipe at me. Would have knocked me over if he’d connected.
I didn’t spare him a second glance because, truth be told, I couldn’t. I was struggling as I stumbled away from there. Running was out of the question, as was engaging again. Hiding was my only option. That was when I came across what could only be described as the earth’s asshole. There was a darker spot on the ground ahead of me than the rest of the woods. At first, I thought it was a werewolf lying in wait, but I knew he had not much of anything to fear from me, especially if he’d watched my staggering approach. I absently wondered why he hadn’t attacked as I continued forward. If it wasn’t foe I could possibly hope for friend. A friend with a handful of opioids and a couple fingers worth of vodka to wash them down with. Gonna do it, you might as well do it right.
As I got closer I realized it for what it was—some sort of drainage pipe partially obscured by roots that had grown over the opening. I had a great fear of tight, enclosed spaces, but I had a greater fear of being eaten alive. Now the question was, should I climb in head first and see if this leads anywhere or should I back in just far enough that I could hide and keep an eye on the surrounding woods? I caught a whiff of something as I turned to crawl in. I was truly concerned that at some point I may have crapped myself. Honestly, I mean, could you hold that against me? I had been in so much pain, it had literally pushed out every other thought. Maybe that wasn’t all that had been pushed out. Maybe I’d barely held on to enough of me to be considered human. But that wasn’t it. There was no way I’d eaten anything that could have possibly caused a smell like what I was catching whiffs of. Run-over skunk, deep fat fried in hippopotamus grease and layered with boiled cabbage and wart encrusted feet, hinted at what I was smelling. I surmised then that it was coming from the very hole I was about to climb in. That’s how I came up with the earth’s asshole thing.
Every nasty thing that this poor planet had to swallow was processed deep within her shell and seemed to be eliminated from this very anus. If I thought the whiffs I was catching from outside the rim were bad, they had nothing on the stench that rose when I stuck my legs in. Like I’d displaced a physical entity, a thickly wadded waft of foul air blew past me. I started to scramble out, realizing that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Like, what if the Earth’s sphincter began to close down and around me? Being stuck in the blocked up bile-filled bowels of the planet did not sound like such a good idea. Would have crawled out, too, if not for the sound of footfalls coming closer and at an accelerated speed. Somehow I found it within me to push back farther. I could not dispel the image that I was like a turtle shit.
What? You have no idea what I’m talking about? Well, put down your food, this may take a second. It’s when you know you have to take a crap and maybe you’re out and about and you release a little pressure in the form of some flatulence, only instead of merely gas escaping, you feel the beginning of a magnificent turd poke from between the now clenched-tight walls of your asshole. That’s a turtle poking its head out and a clear and present danger that you’d better find some privacy so you can take care of your immediate needs. I slipped down farther, or, back up, if you will, my shoulders pressed fairly tight against the walls. It might have been cement once upon a time, but it was caked so thick in layers of slime, mold, fungus, and whatever else, it now had a very real, living tissue-type of feel to it. Which added to my unease.
I saw two large shapes step into my field of vision, which had been greatly narrowed. Could have been a platoon of them out there—I wasn’t liking how they now traveled in pairs. One was looking in my direction, but was he smelling me, or the noxious discharge? I had a brief moment where I wondered if I was in some sort of waste pipe from a nuclear facility and was even now absorbing massive doses of radioactive waste. I even almost had myself convinced that two of my teeth were now loose as I pressed my tongue up against them. Although, that probably had more to do with the punch from the werewolf. The two had their heads cocked, one to the left, one to the right. On puppies, it would have looked super cute and would have rated a picture. On these two monsters it meant they were curious about something and that something was me. That made it terrifying.
Sometimes things don’t make sense until after they are done and then you wonder just why you didn’t figure that shit out beforehand. They say hindsight is 20/20; did they ever tell you that it’s also a grade A dick head? Always willing and able to point out every one of your fuck-ups without ever once offering a way to avoid them. They were coming closer. At some point, they would realize I was in there and one raking claw against my head and face would likely be enough to finish me off. What a fucking horrible place to die. I maneuvered my rifle, which was in front of me; I couldn’t lift it because of how I was wedged in, but I could rest it against the bottom of the pipe. I steadied it as best as I could against my shoulder. I don’t think I’d ever shot a rifle one-handed, but there’s a first for everything. There was great success—followed immediately by terrible failure. Let me explain. Between resting the rifle on the floor of the tube and how close the werewolves were, hitting them was a foregone conclusion, especially since I had it on “burst” and it was mostly their heads they were poking in. The bullets very effectively ended up spraying their lives onto the forest floor behind them.
That was the very, very good part. The partially bad was that I did not know if more of them were out there. The very, very bad were the resounding percussions echoing outward from that extremely confined space. Instead of absorbing some of the sound, the slimy mold seemed to amplify it. I’d shot off two, three round bursts and dropped the rifle as I cried out. I’d burst my eardrums; I could feel blood running down the sides of my face. And to make matters worse, I was deaf. Stone cold deaf. I couldn’t even hear my pleas for help. At this point, I would have welcomed another werewolf who would graciously put me out of my misery. The rifle fell out of the hole as I wormed my way after it. I couldn’t even think straight as the pressure in my ears pushed against my brain. I dropped out of that hole like a bleeding, wet rag and rolled pathetically to the side. I pressed my hands tight against my skull; the injury to my shoulder wasn’t even an afterthought as I did my best to relieve the pain.
I know I was screaming out because of the rawness of my throat. At that point, I didn’t care that I was sounding the dinner bell. Nothing else mattered, for I could think of nothing else. I balled up into the fetal position. A baby with a rattle could have beat me senseless before I could have done anything to stop him. It was in the deepest depths of the night when I finally unfurled, somehow still clinging to this thing we call “life.” I took my hands away from my head and spoke. I heard nothing. This was not looking all that good. To make matters worse yet, I could not see much more than a foot or two in front of me on that moonless, cloudy night. I would have missed Metallica playing right behind me. Then there was the crucial bit about me having lost a decent amount of blood, and to top it all off with a beautiful shiny cherry, I didn’t even know where Azile was, or if she and my babies were still alive. I couldn’t stumble to her just yet because I might still bring unwanted attention their way, but once the morning came and hopefully Lunos marched on, I would need to find her posthaste if I wanted any chance to continue my journey.
I alternated second to
second between outright terror wrapped tightly in panic, all the way down to a peaceful zen-like acceptance. I had done all I could in this world, except kill Lunos, and then I would start the cycle again. I could feel my willingness to live being leeched out by the various wounds I had. My only chance was to get up—to keep moving. To lay there was to admit I was finished. A part of me knew I was screwed because I was talking about not wanting to leave until I had taught the kids how to drive or watched them head off to prom…things that weren’t going to happen even if I somehow made it. I’d walked ten miles or ten feet—it was all misery; I don’t remember at what point I realized I hadn’t grabbed my rifle. I did a slow three-sixty, thinking that maybe I could orientate myself the right way and go get it. The problem with the deep black of night is how much it all looks the same, and now I was even less sure about the direction I needed to go in.
“What’s the fucking point?” I said aloud, although I guess I wouldn’t have known. I’d gone from absolute deafness to having the bells of Notre Dame banging through my skull. “Tormented” scratched the surface of how I was feeling. Lying down, curling up, and calling it a life sounded like just about the best thing in the world right now. So I took a step, then I took another step. I was really just too fucking stupid to die. That’s about all it boils down to. I plodded—maybe in circles, maybe towards a huge precipice, maybe farther away from Azile so she wouldn’t have to see what had become of me. I plodded; even though every time I lifted my foot I felt like I had a zombie attached and they wanted to drag me down into their clutches. My legs wanted to give out, I kept going even when I started babbling incoherently. I kept going even when I forgot why I was. All I knew was that I was in motion, so that must be my natural state.
Higher function and reasoning was no more. I was running on the most basic of impulses. Movement meant life; to stop meant death. That was all it boiled down to. I’d not even taken note that I could now start to see what was in front of me. My nose would greatly appreciate the assistance of my eyes, since I’d broken it by slamming it into a tree some time ago. I’d hardly taken any notice of it even after I’d crushed it up against some fauna another three times. Sight just became another crutch with which to stay alive, but I really didn’t know what to do with it other than that. I wasn’t even sure where I was trying to go anymore. My body was starting to fail; I fell to one knee. It had to be a full minute before I figured out how exactly I needed to move to stand. I did realize that the gonging of the bells had dropped down to the baritone buzzing of insects burrowed deep into my ear canals…or possibly the hum of a huge electrical generator that I’d had the misfortune to lick with my tongue.
I felt something touch my side; had no idea what it was and really didn’t give a fuck. For some reason, I needed to keep moving. I came to a dead stop as whatever was behind me pulled on my clothing. With unfocused eyes, I turned to see a thick branch become the weathered arm of someone I felt that I should know.
“I told you, man, those ticket lines can get brutal.” I was staring at the face of someone I thought I knew from long, long ago. “Did you get them, though? Geez, Ponch, how much mescaline did you take? I was hoping you were going to save some for me.”
I could not get a clear picture of what, or whom, was in front of me or why I could hear them.
“I sure could use a beer, Ponch. Those brownies I made were pretty dry. Maybe less hash and more chocolate would have made them better, or maybe not. I guess I’ll worry about that later. Because right now, man, I’m tripping balls. Man, earlier today I was in Seattle, at a Phish show, and now I’m here trying to figure out if you got the tickets for Widespread. Funny how life works, isn’t it? Want to know what the really weird shit is though, man? I saw a dog walking around on two feet. Wait, wait, wait, I mean, I know people think I’m a few marbles short of a full deck. Is that the way that goes? No, man…like, I saw a bunch of them. I was waiting for one of them to bust out a card table and watch ‘em sit around it and play some pinochle like the ones in that famous Monet—you know the one that’s painted on the black velvet? Also, like, I’m trying to figure out if Keechie sold me some bad mushrooms because even for me, Ponch, this has been a really strange day. And I’m telling you, man, I’ve had some really strange days. Like…wait. Do you remember what I was saying?” At this point, he started fumbling around in his pockets.
“Why are you here?”
He pulled out a cupcake from his jacket that looked as if a semi had run it over, backed up and then drove over it again just for good measure. Thing couldn’t have been much thicker than a nickel turned on its side.
“Frucking delicious,” he said as he shoved the saucer-sized thing into his mouth. He made sure to catch all the crumbs that came out. “Rant rum?” he asked, holding up the orts. He wiped his chocolate covered hands on the front of my shirt.
I could only shake my head in negation.
“Oh reah. I rent to rell rou…you’re redding in the wrong rirection, man.” He turned me about ninety degrees. “Ree you at the row!” He walked away. Within three steps he was enshrouded in a sudden, heavy mist, and was swallowed whole.
I plodded on, not even knowing if who the hell I saw had really been there or if it had even happened. I didn’t change my direction again, though, what was the point? One felt pretty much like the other. If indeed that had been Trip, odds were I was heading in the direction of an old Frito’s factory and away from Azile. Even the wildly improbable thought of Trip spanning time and space to help me faded into the background in a relatively short period of time. I was still rapidly finding my way to death, or it was rushing to meet me. Either way, in the end, didn’t matter much in which direction I plodded. I fell over when I felt something wrap around my ankle. Considering how weak I felt, it could have been a pissed off chipmunk that had a beef with me. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to protect my face. I don’t think it matters much what part of you is the most demolished when you arrive at your final destination. Though there was another blinding burst of pain as I slammed my already busted up proboscis into the dirt. Could have done without that. Maybe, if I survived, I would protect that part at least, next time.
I felt an incredible warming heat upon my body, almost like I’d been shoved in a life-sized toaster. Right now, that wasn’t wholly unpleasant, although I figured that my comfort level would change soon enough as I began to char.
“A little butter and I bet I’ll taste delicious.”
“What are you talking about, Talbot?”
“Trip? You’re still here?” My head was scrambled; I was having a difficult time even trying to remember what a coherent thought looked like.
“Mike. It’s Azile. Stay with me, please.” I remember a desperation in her voice I don’t think I’d ever heard before.
“Toast is good…but I’d rather have an English Muffin. No. Cupcakes. For some reason I have a big hankering for cupcakes.”
“I swear, Michael Talbot, if you stay alive I will bake you two entire tins of cupcakes.”
“The kind with filling?” The pain had subsided some. She’d given me something to take the sharper edges off of the blistering discomfort, but it had added significantly to the fog settled deep into my membranes.
“Cherry?”
I vomited, and not only because she’d named a taste I’d had an aversion to since I was seven and was spoon-forced cough syrup.
“Is that your subtle way of telling me you don’t like cherry?” She was attempting humor, but when one is marooned in terror, it’s a difficult emotion to pull off. There was a singeing sting on my back and the very pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with rot. It wasn’t anything I wanted to ever experience again. If I lived, I figured I could add Lemon Scented Lysol to the list of things I could not stand. And then I passed out. I knew I hadn’t died, I’d, unfortunately, had enough experience to spot that. How many others could say the same? Why was…this something uniquely special to me? And then I dreamed. Most of it involve
d music festivals being attended by bipedal dogs, although, not the snarling kind in my waking nightmare, but rather the friendly, sociable kind from Trip’s famous painting.
Seemed they liked music festivals as much as the next person. There were fried biscuit stands and cat dunk stations. Everything was normal enough; conversations, purchases, small jokes, until suddenly they just bent over to sniff at the butts of any and all the other dogs that passed by. I wondered how well that would go over if I did that to some of the women that walked past? Seemed like a pretty good idea, but then I tried to figure out why I would want to do that. What could I hope to smell? Had to figure with an insensitive, human-type snout, I would only be able to smell some of the not-so-pleasant odors. We just weren’t built to take in the nuanced bouquet of fragrance that dogs can. I’d probably have the luck of catching up with a girl who had eaten a half pound of broccoli bathed in cheese and who had a severe case of intolerance to lactose.
I gave myself a little bit of hell for being so weird and then traveled blissfully into the darker nodes of nod where not much of anything happened.
Chapter 9