Take Me Away

by Jerry Cole

  “What? What are you saying?” Isaac murmured, in the midst of the chanting, which grew louder still. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Get down!” Wyatt finally hollered, just loud enough for Isaac to hear.

  “SILENCE!”

  Everett McLean thrust both hands into the air and drew them into fists. Slowly, Isaac forced himself to acknowledge Everett’s eyes, which had chosen Isaac as a target. A shiver wiggled up and down his spine. The cult stopped chanting, seemingly confused. Most remained with their heads down, but a few had turned their noses toward Isaac, seemingly hungry for the drama of it all.

  Isaac was wearing the same clothes he had the day before; he was very much the same specimen, the same strange being, an outlier. He realized, now, that Wyatt had only fallen forward to ensure that he could maintain his position as “just another member” of the “group,” so that the story he was writing could carry on.

  “IT’S YOU AGAIN. ISN’T IT?” Everett called, keeping his hands high above his head. “I didn’t imagine you’d cause such stress for me, whoever it is you are. Why don’t you come forward, hmmm? Come forward. You seem to think you’re too important, much more so than the rest of the group.”

  Isaac felt as though someone had frozen his legs. He couldn’t imagine bending his knees. His eyes tore back toward Wyatt, hoping for some sort of assistance, but Wyatt had spun his nose back to the ground, seemingly hoping not to be noticed at all.

  “I dare say you’re not frightened?” Everett boomed. “It’s only so apparent that your confidence falters the moment I give you any attention. You’re like a boorish child in a schoolyard, willing to bully until someone bullies you back.”

  Isaac felt like he needed to make some sort of move, show some sort of strength of character or of body. He imagined tearing forward, ripping a punch across Everett’s cheek. Wasn’t that what the people in the cult needed to see? That Everett McLean was fallible, just like the rest of them? But of course, Everett’s bodyguards remained close, their foxlike eyes hunting him.

  “Come along,” Everett said. He began to pace back and forth, turning his head each time to keep his eyes upon Isaac. “Come on up here. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you’ll find it. Up here.”

  Isaac took a slight step forward, between the two cult members in front of him. The girl on the right’s blonde hair was so wild, so long, that the tip of his shoe caught it. She didn’t move. He lengthened his stride, forcing himself to meet Everett’s gaze. Everett’s smile grew long and thin, like a Cheshire cat.

  All too soon, Isaac felt as though he’d been given birth to, that the cult had churned him into the emptiness near the RV. Immediately, Everett swung his arm around his shoulders, like a buddy in a pub. He called out, “SAY IT AGAIN!”

  In response, the cult members hollered, “THE PAST DOES NOT DEFINE ME.”

  From within the circle, the words felt ominous, charged, textured with over fifty souls. Isaac shivered. The hand atop his shoulder didn’t feel like a living human hand. It felt strangely bony, like it was made of talons.

  “Now, what is your name, son?” Everett asked. “I dare say it’s a difficult thing for me, having taken up so much time for the likes of you—when it’s rather clear to me that the rest of the community needs my attention, as well. But perhaps this is a sign from the great Venus beings themselves. Perhaps it’s a sign that we were always meant to meet. Perhaps you will serve our community better than most, if only because you initially didn’t believe. For those who come to the truth through strife ultimately hold onto the truth harder than anyone else.”

  Isaac longed to roll his eyes back. He imagined his New York friends seeing this kind of tomfoolery. Their cynicism was their root to “truth,” if there even could be a universal truth.

  “I’m Isaac,” Isaac finally uttered, sensing that he needed to play along just a bit. He spotted Wyatt in the crowd, drawing his head up a bit, like a sort of prairie dog in the field.

  “Isaac. Isaac.” Everett sprung up in front of him, now dotting both of his hands on both of his shoulders. He held his nose just a few inches from Isaac, so that Isaac could smell his breath. It was oddly minty, as though he’d recently chewed a piece of gum. The thought of a cult leader chewing gum made him chuckle inwardly, although he was careful not to show it.

  “Isaac, let me ask you something. Are you here to make a mockery of all of us?” Everett asked, his voice still strong, thick. “Are you here, in what was once Rhode’s Pike, to show us that what we know to be true is a thing to be made fun of?”

  Isaac paused. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He felt over one hundred eyes upon him, attempting to peer into his soul. Was he one of them? Did he look entirely different? He felt there was a mark on his back.

  Behind him, there was a volatile shout. Something about it made Isaac’s blood run cold. Every single muscle on his body grew tense. Slowly, Everett turned his eyes toward the location of the shout—a shout that had carried forward, spewing words along with it.

  “IF YOU MONGRELS DON’T GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY, I SWEAR TO CHRIST!”

  Although Isaac hadn’t heard the voice in years, he recognized it instantly. It was the voice of Thomas Baxter, the father who had ridiculed him, belittled him, and ultimately moved out on him and his sisters and his mother years and years before.

  Everett’s face was difficult to read. He allowed his hands to fall to his sides, away from Isaac. After a moment, he returned one of them to the air, palm flat toward the ranch house.

  “Howdy there,” Everett called back, his voice like candy; too bright, too sweet.

  “DID YA HEAR WHAT I’M SAYING TO YA?” Thomas Baxter returned loudly. “YOU AIN’T ALLOWED ROUND HERE. THIS HERE IS PRIVATE PROPERTY.”

  According to nearly every single thing Isaac knew regarding the property his father owned in Rhode’s Pike, the cult had just barely edged into Thomas Baxter’s property. The property lines were hazy in the ghost town, as the entire place was a bit of a muddle, anyway. People had left it behind, casting empty lots to the masses.

  The cult had begun to rise to their feet, sweeping their palms across their dusty knees. They grinned at the ranch house, seemingly grateful for a bit of gossip. Isaac paced round, trying to go to a place in his mind that was void of emotion, so that he could see what he was about to see without giving away everything. He imagined himself bursting into immediate tears, there in the midst of everyone, and giving himself away. He couldn’t do that.

  The man standing on the porch of the ranch house was like the ghost of Thomas Baxter. For a moment, Isaac pondered about whether or not his father had passed. This was truly his ghost doing what he did best—screaming at the world and demanding it act better, or more in line with his own personal values.

  But no. Thomas Baxter had aged a great deal since Isaac had seen him. His hair was a white sheet over his head; his skin was splotchy, as though his liver had begun to plump it up with purple. A shotgun was wrapped around his body, like a messenger bag, with the gun part in the back. Isaac had little doubt that it was loaded. In his free hand, his father held his cowboy hat, one that seemed very much like the one he’d worn when Isaac was a child. Isaac supposed it must have been the same, as Thomas was a creature of habit.

  Everett took several steps around the RV, making his way toward the ranch house. The people who’d circled the RV began to break apart, creating a sort of part. The whole thing was almost Biblical, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

  It seemed that Thomas hadn’t yet noticed Isaac standing in the midst of the cult. His evil little eyes remained on Everett as he approached, seeming to count his steps. Everett walked with complete control, sans a second’s worth of insecurity. Isaac wished he could bottle it.

  Everett appeared beneath Thomas. Thomas peered down at him, fondling the edge of the rifle strap. Isaac took this opportunity to duck back into the crowd, beaming back toward where he and Wyatt had first joined. He found Wyatt scribbling furiously, his e
yebrows tight over his eyes. When Isaac tried to speak, Wyatt had ripped a single finger upward, telling Isaac that this wasn’t a good time. His brain had latched onto work. Isaac wished he could join him in that mania, but instead he was in the “real” world, watching a cult leader attempt to reason with his asshole father.

  “Whatever hippie-dippy bullshit you think you got going out here, you need to take it someplace else,” Thomas Baxter boomed, his voice forceful. “I ain’t had to use this gun in years and years, but you know I will use it on you if you test me. God knows, this here is my property. And you’re trespassing.”

  Everett remained smiling. “I know you must feel that it’s important, where the lines of property are drawn. But I’m here to tell you that actually, none of what we ever thought before can ever be so again. As you can see, it’s been difficult for us to convince many members of your ilk and status to join us. Everyone is quite stuck in their ways. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “I ain’t understanding anything,” Thomas howled. “I don’t see nobody ‘cept who I want to see. It’s been that way for years.”

  “It sounds like you’ve lived a lonely life. We have the answer to that,” Everett continued.

  Still, Wyatt continued to scribble. Isaac longed to drop beside him, to ease his hand over his, to whisper, “Please. Don’t include this man in the article. There’s so much you don’t understand about me.” His head swam with anxiety, wondering if Wyatt’s lust for him was entirely fleeting.

  Taking a risk, sleeping with someone new; it all meant Isaac’s head would swim with these questions until he was either safe, or it was over.

  “This is good stuff, huh?” Wyatt finally muttered, turning his eyes toward Isaac. “I can’t believe it. A real turf war. Doesn’t he look, like, exactly what you imagined an old cowboy to look like around here? He looks like he eats dust for breakfast.”

  Isaac took a few tentative steps back, unsure of how to respond. Wyatt didn’t seem to mind. His pen tossed across his page, seemingly hungry to write additional notes. When Isaac took yet another step, his elbow fell back against something chilly. He spun to find Marcia standing there, her eyebrows stitched together. The chilly bit on his skin had been a bowl, filled with what seemed to be potato salad. Just like any other woman might, she’d allowed it to cool in the fridge for a few hours, prior to taking it out into the desert.

  “What’s happened? He got out of bed?” she asked, almost barking it. “He’s not supposed to get out of bed.”

  For the first time, Isaac had a better sense of the density of the relationship between Marcia and his father. Her eyes quivered, holding onto tears she surely wouldn’t allow to fall. Her fingers gripped the bowl of potato salad with ferocity, growing bright white.

  Everett continued his course for several minutes, alternating with Thomas. It felt as though the two were performing two different plays, neither privy to the other’s script. Both sounded absolutely insane.

  “I’ll take out my rifle. I’ll take it out right now,” Thomas blurted.

  “If you want nothing more than earthly pursuits,” Everett cried in return, “Then I dare say you should take out that rifle. What could be more rewarding than taking someone else’s life? Every man wants to play God. But, my dear sir, we aren’t God. Nobody is. And Venus, they are coming.”

  Thomas grumbled. Marcia drew herself onto her tiptoes, whispering into Isaac’s ear.

  “He looks like he’s losing steam.”

  Almost on cue, Thomas Baxter began to fumble backwards. His hand traced through the air, seemingly hunting for something to grip. He dropped the cowboy hat. Everett let out a callous laughter, seemingly viewing this as a victory. He spun and strutted back toward the cult, raising his flat palms high. The cult, in turn, clapped wildly, affirming some sort of idea that Everett, although several decades younger, and far stronger than Thomas Baxter, was a fit match for him—and had ultimately won.

  Suddenly, Monica burst from the side door, looking half-crazed herself. The cult members fell into fits of laughter, seemingly looking at this display of Isaac’s world, his old life, as a bit of a clown routine. And, Isaac supposed, any passive viewer might think that. His heart surged with fear as Monica flung toward their father, ensuring he didn’t fall all the way back. God, her movements were steady, so sure, as she held onto his arms, careful to ensure she didn’t touch the rifle. Isaac couldn’t fully make out what she whispered to him. In the midst of it, Trudy appeared in the door, as well, her hand drawing over her mouth. It was clear that his “escape” hadn’t been expected.

  In the hubbub, Monica dragged Thomas back into the house. Wyatt flung up from where he had been seated, scribbling notes. He reached for Isaac’s ear, drawing his eyes toward his. They glittered, lit with a kind of electricity.

  “This is absolute madness,” he said. “Can you believe this?”

  Isaac wasn’t sure what to say. He floundered, lost in Wyatt’s beautiful gaze. He hadn’t the energy to tell Wyatt the truth.

  “It’s going to be the greatest story I’ve ever told,” Wyatt murmured.

  And, before Isaac could speak, Wyatt reached forward, dotting a single kiss upon his lips. It held within it a kind of promise, an assurance that all would be all right. Isaac knew better than to believe it, but he clung to the idea like a sinking life raft.

  Wyatt stepped back, spun, and rushed back toward the buildings behind them. Isaac hadn’t a clue where he was off to. His heart beat somewhere near his throat, showing him the depth of his own anxiety. Marcia latched a hand around his elbow, bowing her head toward the now-empty porch at the ranch house.

  It was time, Isaac knew. He was being called home.

  Chapter Six

  Wyatt

  Wyatt’s thoughts were a strange blur, words whirling past his eyes. Already, his fingers grew hungry to type out the events of the previous days, but he sensed that first, he had to assure his editor of the greatness of this story. Much like the long-lost days of his acting pursuit, he felt called with a specific force. He knew to lean into it, to usher the power within him, and to use it.

  As he flung himself back toward the line of ghost town homes and abandoned buildings, he felt a hand grip his elbow. He swung back, his heart bumping wildly. Marney had latched onto him, grinning wildly. The cult’s circle had disbanded, seemingly taking the strange altercation with the old cowboy as a reason to break.

  “Did you see the way Everett handled that?” Marney sighed, allowing her bird skeleton shoulders to fall forward. “He’s absolutely stunning, isn’t he? A true poet. At Berkeley, everyone said he would become something. Someone great.”

  Wyatt gave her a smile, although he wasn’t sure how it read. Kenny burned up behind Marney, his own face sour. Clara and Randy trudged behind. Randy sweat more than the others, and his white t-shirt seemed thick with it, making the black hair beneath the fabric show dark beneath.

  “Hey guys,” Wyatt said, feeling strangely, genuinely glad to see them.

  “I think he overdid it,” Kenny murmured, his eyes shifting. “The old man is clearly senile.”

  “You know what Everett says,” Marney offered, arching her brow. “He says that anyone who stands in the way of the mission must be stood up to. It’s almost as though you haven’t been listening the entire time, Kenny. I spoke to you about this endlessly on the way. You said you understood. You said you felt it inside your bones.”

  Kenny grumbled something Wyatt could hardly make out, something about—not knowing that Everett had been a part of the equation. Wyatt yearned to write a sort of human-interest piece, which glossed over how far a “love” could go, in the midst of a cult environment. But that wasn’t the quintessential story. He had to abandon it, at least for now.

  “Where ya off to, Wyatt?” Randy asked. He slid his hands across his sweaty chest. “God, I’m starving.”

  “I was thinking I could cook us all something for lunch?” Marney offered, her voice brightening. “Eve
rett gave us all those dried beans and rice. Won’t take much to boil them.”

  Wyatt’s stomach rumbled. He joined the others in nodding, affirming this sounded quite all right, before following them back toward the ghost town buildings, where they trudged up the steps to the third floor. The reached their brand-new, busted-window apartment, with a hole in the floor where the refrigerator had once stood, and a beautiful, if dusty, Mexican tile floor that stretched across the entire room and into the three bedrooms.

  “This one is your room!” Marney hollered to Wyatt, stretching her palm across a thick wooden door. “We know you need your privacy.”

  “Where was it you wound up last night?” Kenny asked, kicking the apartment door closed. “We looked for you after the meeting.”

  “Right. What happened?” Clara demanded.

  Wyatt held flashing images of his night; Isaac’s thick lips over his cock, his semen like icing over his chin, his kisses coming fast, wild. Wyatt’s heart hadn’t ached with need for someone in years. He felt the adrenaline adding to the story he wished to write, as though lust for Isaac had strengthened him.

  “I thought I had to get a hotel or something,” Wyatt shrugged, not sure he wanted them to know about his link with Isaac, especially since it seemed Everett hadn’t exactly taken a liking to him. “Since I wasn’t sure what was up with the housing. I ended up at a place down the road.”

  “That’s silly!” Marney cried. “We’re all in this together. You know that.”

  Marney busied herself in the dusty cupboards, drawing out various bags of spices, of rice, of beans. In the fireplace, she began to try to light a match, grunting to herself. Kenny hovered over her, poised to attack if anything got out of hand. Randy reached across the space between him and Clara and squeezed her ass. Wyatt felt it was time for him to gather his notes, email his editor.

  After that, he would erupt back into the world, dive deeper into the cult-happenings—and, of course, find Isaac in the hubbub. His head filled again with thoughts of him, about the life he’d given up back in New York.