I Will Rise

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  I wait a few more seconds hoping for her to reappear but it never happens. Biting my lip I remind myself that we will be together for real, in the flesh, very soon.

  The farther I get from the Jeep, the better I feel. My mind relaxes a smidge. Talk about intense. Annabelle just told me she loves me (or at least I think that’s what she said) and barring the warmth inside, I can’t even begin to think about it, I can’t revel in it or turn it over in my mind or rethink my ex-unrequited feelings. No celebration here just yet. Not while residue from the close call bubbles in my head.

  What the hell happened back there?

  With me: crazy, bloodlust, savage, thrill kill, and with them: organized aggressive mob mentality?

  Sitting at the bus stop, the sorrowful eye wall rises and brow-beats me into sorry submission. I never want to kill again. Not the way I feel. Not the way guilt and sadness unglue my insides, strong as hurt, subduing even these feelings of love.

  I picture Mr. Meathead, my hands in his abdomen, and I shudder with remorse. It’s getting worse. I am going kill crazy. I am losing control. The first gas station was scary, Vegas intense, the rest stop brutish and this last gas station a nightmare. It’s like my brain is being consumed and the need is taking over. There is no abject fear or guilt or sense. I move on autopilot, kill mode, aggression and lust and power. I feel like a wild, predatory animal. No, worse, I feel like a wild, predatory man because believe it or not there is pleasure. Somewhere, underneath it all, I enjoy the kill. I get a sick satisfaction from the destruction.

  I picture Mr. Motorcycle, body pulping beneath the wheels of the Jeep. I picture hundreds of eyes watching me from the perimeter of the gas station, soon to join the wall, soon to pollute my mind. Guilt floods.

  Soon: the weight of the world in my head.

  Soon: the end in my head.

  Down deep, beneath the dense guilt and fruiting love fighting for control of my emotions, a perplexing question takes root and rises: how did the Gas Station People of Nowheresville, USA, get their shit together and surround me so quickly?

  True, I was literally gone for a minute or so, lost in my killing head, but still, how did they group so damn fast? It was like they were expecting me. It doesn’t seem possible, yet there they were, staring, waiting, hoping to corral me and see me brought to justice by their eternally slow police force.

  How did they do it so quickly?

  Something inside the human anima must have just clicked.

  Survival.

  Communication.

  The concurrent realization.

  The will to survive is strong and the fact that I am a threat has settled within the human collective. They may not always pay attention—like now, waiting for the bus, I see people everywhere—but they don’t notice me. But, if I do something to trigger concern, like dramatically killing a man in broad daylight for instance, they will notice. The news reports, the papers, the whispers that move like fire consuming oxygen. They will notice. I have to be extra careful. No more showboating or giving in to deathly desires, no more losing control. From now on it’s just quick, effective, simple touches, brushes and accidental contact.

  The Mesa city bus pulls up in an explosion of jarring squeaks and hisses and I am startled to my feet. I shuffle aboard and start for a seat when the driver yells after me, “You didn’t pay! Get back up here, buddy!”

  I turn around, keep my eyes glued to the floorboards, and approach the driver pretending to look for the change I know I don’t have. When I get to the front, the driver regards me with disgust. I am a mess yet again, covered in Mr. Beer Spiller’s beer and eyeball crud and Mr. Meathead’s blood and my own ripe, dead stench. My hands are particularly bad, stained red and caked with dirty gunk. The bus driver continues to unapologetically make discerning faces.

  Asshole, I think.

  I should drain the egotism out of his fat head. And goddamn me, I am tempted. Everything goes abuzz and the black rose pushes its evil way through the goopy gray of my brain.

  The trigger, I caution.

  Awareness, I caution.

  I have to swallow back pride and keep my head down. If the bus driver, or anyone who may be watching, associates me with the news of the day, there’ll be trouble.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I grovel. I try to slur my voice and go for the homeless drunk routine.

  “Put a buck in the feeder, or get off my bus,” he snarls back.

  ASSHOLE.

  Smug, cold motherfucker.

  It’s real easy to get past the guilt with this one. Dollar-less and fighting with myself to keep it together, I stumble off the bus and plop down onto the bus stop bench.

  The bus doors hiss shut.

  Fuck! I gotta get a buck. Just one fucking dollar stands between me and my Annabelle. The bus continues to idle and I keep expecting it to rumble away, but after a few seconds the door reopens.

  “It must be your lucky day, pal,” calls the bus driver. A man, midforties, wearing a kick-ass black suit, nods at me and feeds a dollar into the money-eating contraption.

  The bus driver pipes up again, “Come on, buddy, I don’t got all day.”

  As I board the bus, my benefactor stands his ground, smiling a big white straight smile and motioning for me to pass. He looks like a lawyer or a businessman or something high post. I nod at him and squeeze by. Our bodies touch and I give him a weak smile and say, “Thanks.”

  “It’s nothing, man.” He smiles wider. “So long as it helps you get where you’re going, I’m happy to help.”

  Too nice. Soon dead. Another one bites the dust, my body bestowing the twenty-four-hour death sentence. And it sucks biting the hand that feeds you, but there’s nothing I can do. Oh well, I’m probably doing him a favor; it’s probably better to die in these first few days anyway. Who knows what the world is going to become before it ends.

  The bus is nearly full and I make my way down the aisle, accidentally/purposefully brushing against numerous riders. Little bursts of black and red detonate behind my eyes. By the time I find an empty seat, the insides of my head are spinning. I feel like a black hole. Hugging myself, I rest my head against the cool Plexiglas of the window.

  My benefactor comes strolling down the aisle and I get worried that he is going to sit next to me and try to talk to me or something. He paid my way and if he wants some company for his buck, I suppose it’s the decent thing to do. Unfortunately for him, I am not decent, and I am not a whore and I couldn’t care less if snubbing him is construed as rude. Fortunately for me, he passes by and takes the seat behind mine.

  The bus vibrates along and I keep my eyes and ears open for the Alton mall. A few stops in, my benefactor leans forward in his seat and says, “Where you headed?”

  I fucking knew it. I ignore him and continue to stare out the window.

  “Hey, man, where you headed?” He leans way forward, jutting his neck out over the adjoining seat, trying to make eye contact.

  “The Alton mall,” I say standoffishly. I look at my lap and pick dried blood from one of my hands.

  “Are you okay there?” The man gestures with his head at my hands.

  “Paint.”

  “Oh wow, are you an artist?”

  “Yes.” Of sorts.

  “Have you done anything, um, famous?”

  “No.” I exhibit all the personality of a rock.

  The man senses this and says, “I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just a people person, you know? I like to talk and get to know all different kinds of people. That’s why I ride the bus.” I don’t respond and he takes my silence for invitation and moves into the empty seat beside me. He extends his hand and introduces himself, “Jim.”

  I raise my hands and display the blood.

  “Right, paint,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “Well it’s good to meet you anyway… What did you say your name was?”

  I didn’t. But alas, I can’t be a total dick. “Charles,” I respond, not friendly, not rude.

  “C
harles! That’s a strong name. A man’s name!”

  “Right.” A little weird.

  “You know, Charles, I couldn’t believe the way that bus driver treated you. No respect. It’s not about the money. A dollar? Big deal. It’s about the way we talk to one another. Well don’t worry, I got his ID number right here”—he taps his head—“and I intend to call up the transportation department and report his behavior straightaway.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, I do, I have to. I have to.” The man’s voice lilts in odd directions and I notice he is starting to sweat. “I have to, because we can’t treat each other like that. Maybe stupid people like him! But not us. We have to protect the welfare of our fellow man.” His voice drops to a gravelly whisper. “I know who you are.”

  Okay, now I am fully uncomfortable. “What?”

  Harsh whispering: “We can stop you. Just look around.” Jim gestures with his hand and I follow. Almost everybody, except for the bus driver and a random person here or there, is staring at me. Eyes upon eyes, staring, accusing, like in my head, like at the gas station, but real and closer. I quickly avert and stare at my hands. I shiver and flush and go white with fright.

  Jim continues to whisper, “We almost lost you. That fat idiot, I got his ID number right here”—he taps his head again—“almost let you get away. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t dream it. But don’t worry there, Charles, I do and so do they.” He gestures again.

  I keep my eyes on my hands. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. At the next stop, we get off. We got a lot to go over.”

  “Look, man, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about!” What the fuck? I am growing way nervous and a little annoyed.

  “Oh Charles. Charles, Charles, Charles.” Jim shakes his head and makes a tsking sound with his tongue. “It’s all in here.” He points at his head yet again. “Not just for me either. I’m not crazy. I’m not delusional. I know you. We all know you. The cop, the police dog, the little kid, your girlfriend, we’ve seen it all. Every night when I go to sleep you’re there and every night it gets worse and every morning the bullshit carnage you inflict is all over the news. Well now, finally, it’s my, our, chance to get involved and do something about it.”

  “I…” I don’t know what to say. I’d play dumb and keep asserting that I have no idea what he is talking about, except I don’t have to play—I really don’t know what he is talking about. Well, I know what he is talking about, but I don’t know how the hell he knows.

  The bus lurches to a stop and Jim gets up. I stay seated.

  “Get up,” he demands.

  I notice that many of the people who were staring at me have exited the bus. They shuffle away from the bus in a group.

  “Where are you going to go, Charles? We’re everywhere. We are attuned and ready. We will find you, like at the gas station, like here on the bus. Shit, maybe you really don’t know what I’m talking about. In that case, I can help you. I can help you to help all of us. Come on, get up.”

  The bus driver yells back, “You getting off?”

  Jim shouts back, “Yes, just give me a second,” and looks at me anxiously. “I would drag you off if I could, but I know what you are. I know about your powers. I know everything. I know the truth behind the lies your girlfriend’s been feeding you. Don’t you want to know what you are? Don’t you want to know the truth? We could tell you.”

  I look out the window and ignore him.

  “Okay then, I guess we’ll have to kill your girl. She’s your guide and you won’t get anywhere without her. We were hoping to avoid such messy tactics, but if we can’t have you, she’ll have to do.”

  I continue to ignore him.

  “Just hear me out, Charles. Five minutes and I can change everything. I’ve dreamed all of this: you, your girlfriend, this bus ride. I can change everything. Besides, if you don’t get off this bus with me, they will kill her, I swear, it’s been planned and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Except make sure you get off this bus with me.”

  “You really have her?”

  “We nabbed her about three minutes ago. Hot redhead. Feisty.”

  I look out the window. Fuck.

  “Look, Charles, I won’t lie to you. You can trust us, we can help you. Remember, if you help us, we will help you.” He turns to leave and—damn me, damn curiosity, damn my desire to protect Annabelle at all costs—I am on my feet and following.

  I don’t know if the girlfriend thing was a ruse. I don’t know if Jim knows anything of importance. I don’t know what he intends to do with me. But I do know he can’t touch me. Nobody can. My killing hand is primed and ready to suck the bastard dry. He wants to talk, we can talk, but so help me, if he lays one finger on Annabelle…

  I follow Jim across a parking lot toward a grocery store; the group from the bus is nowhere to be seen.

  “We have to go someplace private where we can talk. You won’t regret this,” he says.

  “Where did your friends go?” I ask.

  “They’re not my friends, they just had the same dream and took the same bus. I don’t know what happens to them from here on out and I don’t know why I’ve been chosen as the spokesperson—it’s just the way it went down in the dream.”

  “So what exactly do you mean you dreamed this?” Play dumb.

  “Just like with you and your girlfriend. She goes to sleep and visits you in her dreams, I go to sleep and watch the whole thing like a movie. Lots of us do and in the dreams we interact and comment on what we’re seeing. It’s been happening for a few months now. When things started to come true, like the cop and the dog, a whole nation of us went to sleep and made plans. We arranged appointments and phone calls and discovered that each of us was a real, breathing person, sharing the same dream. What’s more is the dream shows us what to do. We not only see you and her, but we dream the future. We dream what we should do. Most importantly we are shown the truth, not like you and your girl—you two are a couple of pawns. This way.”

  We enter the grocery store and again I take note of Jim’s suit. Sharp. I start to wonder how I’d look in something stylish and expensive like that when Jim asks, “You really don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “No. I mean, I’m going to visit my girlfriend, but I don’t know what all this dream shit is about.” Pawns? More dreamers? What the fuck is going on? I consider dropping the innocent act and asking some direct questions, but I figure I should hold off a little bit longer.

  As we make our way through the frozen foods section Jim motions, “Back here,” and we pass through a pair of swinging doors into the bowels of the store. Pallets of crackers and cookies and various dry foods line the hallways and there is a dank aroma tainting the air. My plan is to do what I have to do to get Annabelle to safety. Maybe I’ll learn something helpful in the process. Maybe I’ll kill anyone involved in her abduction. Unless of course they turn out to be on our side, and then maybe I’ll gain some allies.

  “In here.” Jim walks a few feet down the damp hallway, opens a door and gestures for me to enter. It’s dark and I look at Jim questioningly. He motions a little more emphatically, says, “The light switch is to the left,” and then shoves me. Hard.

  The moment I stumble inside I feel an army of arms grabbing at me. I hear men and women yelling and a thought, a mushroom cloud of comprehension, rips through my brain. I rewind and see Jim on the bus.

  He says, “Hot redhead. Feisty.”

  Hot redhead? Feisty?

  They don’t have her. They don’t even know what she really looks like. They only see her as I dream her. Annabelle, in reality, is overweight and blind and admittedly timid. They probably don’t even know where she lives.

  Sometimes I can be so stupid.

  But alas, to my credit, Jim and company may know these things. He may have only been referencing her dream presence for ease and clarity and, well, effect. />
  Sometimes I can be so stupid.

  I hate it when I reach an epiphany, my mind filling with wonder and clarity, only to rethink things and negate the eye-opening lucidity, leaving me deflated and empty.

  Logic, the dream killer.

  Illogic running rampant in my brain and here I am, subdued, held. The center of my brain begins to fuzz and blacken and funnel and my body, not just my hand, but my entire body begins to radiate waves of instant death. My arms drop and release and in the dark I hear pained moans joining the screams. I hear thuds, flesh and bones to the concrete and a zillion collapsing souls.

  There is shuffling and groaning and before I can react, the fallen arms are quickly replaced. The dead funnel expands, my head a cavernous pit, and the black rose blooms. More arms fall away, more thuds reverberate across the hard concrete floor, and again before I am able to run, they are replaced.

  I feel straps, assorted gags, flesh biters, digging into my neck, my wrists, my torso, and a metal folding chair slams the back of my legs, collapsing my knees, bringing me down. The cold metal greets my ass, my back, and before I am fully seated the dark room, the groaning people, the army of arms disappear and I am gone, lost in the cavernous depths of my death-tripping mind.

  * * *

  A world of nothing.

  A world of markers.

  A world of staring, filmy eyes. Headstone planet. I float, disembodied, through the dead gray skies of a dead gray world.

  The eyes close.

  My eyes close.

  Here but not really here.

  * * *

  At long last I am back. My eyes open and instantly go to battle with bright overhead lighting. I squirm and get little to no leeway.

  “Charles?” I hear Jim call my name.

  Everything begins to come clear, but I am still extremely disorientated. Reality filters in sporadically, in steps:

  1. I am sitting at a wooden table, tied to a metal folding chair. My feet are bound to the legs of the chair with extension cords. My middle is wrapped with packing twine. My forearms are bound to the table, secured with thick leather straps that enwrap each arm and disappear into two holes cut into the wooden tabletop. The straps are fastened somewhere below, out of view.