The Black Seas of Infinity (22 page)

Suddenly everything freezes. Time stands
still in an eruption of brilliance. White light bombards me, and my
body spins forward in a slow motion glide through the air. It’s an
eternity and a brief moment all at once. The back of my head
crashes into stone, and I tumble into a falling loop of circles, my
momentum diminished with every glancing collision against the
pavement. It all ends in mere seconds with me a crumpled mess on
the side of the road. I crawl to my knees and try to get my
bearings. Off to my left, in the center of the road, is a heap of
flaming wreckage. Long tongues of fire dance skyward, the edges
fading into a thick morass of blackened smoke. Above the crackle
and pop I can hear the thump of helicopter blades dicing the air.
They just shot a missile at me! Somehow they found me, and taking
no chances, they blindsided my ass! The pickup—they must have
reported me! But I could have taken any road? How did they know to
follow Route 10? I don’t have time for questions; I have to get out
of here.

I duck down in a crawl and scuttle toward the
shadow of a tree line. With luck the smoke and flames will blind
them momentarily. Melting into the darkness of the woods, I start
running. I strain my vision but fail to make out anything. Tree
trunks sprout up in front of me. My feet catch as I stumble
through, the underbrush and roots resisting my progress. I collide
with a stump, the blow to my pelvis spinning me sideways and
toppling me over. A searing beam of light penetrates the canopy off
to my right, the sheltering leaves coming afire with a heavenly
glow. I keep running, the trunks slightly more visible in the
spotlight as a maze of pillars. The glare sweeps away, and I
collide with a suddenly invisible column of wood, the impact
throwing me backwards. Bouncing off of rocks, moss scrapes free and
pelts me in the face as I tumble. My fall slows and a beam of light
erupts inches from my face. Time pauses, and out of instinct I try
to hold my breath. The spotlight wanders back and forth, probing
the forest floor. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it curtly
vanishes, the pummeling whip of the helicopter blades trailing off
into the distance. I struggle to my feet. I’m not even sure of my
direction now. I pick left at random and start walking. Moving any
faster would likely bring pursuit, if not because of the heavy
footfalls then because of my random collisions.

I edge forward with my hands outstretched,
probing the blackness for obstructions. My feet shuffle through
piles of dead leaves, bumping into rocky outcroppings. One of my
feet slips under a root, jerking me to a halt. I yank my foot, and
a spray of dirt shoots up into my face. Just as I wipe the dirt
clear, the overhead clouds shift, thinning into a translucent haze.
The cold light of the stars bores down, my heightened vision
elevating the ambient illumination into a pale blue. Much
better.

The trunks thin out, falling away as I wander
out into a field of knee high grass. A thin grove of trees wanders
in on the far left, a brief peninsula that precedes a darkened
forest ahead. I have no idea where the fuck I am.

The forest seems to stretch on forever. Thick
glens of trees give way to open fields of grass, only to swoop in
again and reclaim the terrain. Lofty trunks jut up out of a tangled
mess of ragweed and ferns. Sabal minor palms sprout erratically,
breaking through the foliage to spread out their appendages like
strutting peacocks. A breeze passes through, the effect slight in a
flurry of leaves amidst the forest, but much stronger once I reach
the open fields, pitching the tall meadow grass about like a body
of water. A dirt road opens up in the distance, burrowing a crisp
track through the wild cord grass. I step out of the waving blades
and onto a path of soft sand. The surface is marred by old tire
tracks. Pausing, I glance up and down the trail. In both directions
it flows off toward the horizon, disappearing in the predawn mist.
I think I’ll stay away even from the chance of populated areas
right now. Crossing the road, I step back into the grass.

The dregs of modern society recede. Man is so
small in the vast scheme of nature, yet he somehow manages to fuck
up everything. I wonder if our otherworldly visitors have noticed
the petty squabbles and self-destructive behavior of the human
race. There are a lot of strange things that would generate more
attention if people weren’t so caught up in shallow news on
celebrities.

We shot nuclear missiles at the moon, and
magically they all failed to reach their target. Mars Observer
launched by the US, and Phobos Two by the Soviets, functioned
perfectly until they reached Martian orbit. Some scientists
theorize that the Earth is under quarantine. It’s all speculation,
and the extraterrestrials could be caught up in the same politics
and pointless internal disputes that sink all grand schemes. It
would be a shame to think that the pedestrian squabbles of mankind
take root in more technologically advanced races.

C
HAPTER
XII

EVEN MORE OF THE GREAT STATE OF
TEXAS

It’s been hours. Trees give way to open fields, some
plowed, the vast majority unruly plots of overgrown weeds. I
occasionally spy houses in the distance, and alter my path to avoid
encountering them. Small roads cross through as a dusty passage of
worn asphalt, decaying in the backwoods of rural Texas. Weeds and
knotted yellow grass crumple underfoot, the blades complaining in a
throaty rasp as I plow through. The sun slowly crosses the sky, the
trees casting long shadows in the dying afternoon light. When I was
a kid, I thought this was the best time of day, a golden ripening
of maturity. As I grew older, it became depressing—the daytime was
dying and all I felt was the oppressive weight of age and decay.
Now I’m almost ambivalent, the old constraints of time and place no
longer having the same pull. I start to feel a twinge of regret. Am
I losing the emotions that frame my world? No more passion, no more
sentiment, just a cold, calculating resignation? If I no longer
have any of that sensibility, is it still really me? How will I
feel in a hundred years? Will I bear any resemblance to my old
self? Will the whole issue of mortality be a phase long since
passed?

Everything changes and evolves with time. I
don’t have close friends, but everyone I know is going to grow old
and die. I feel very alone all of a sudden. Are emotions a leftover
impulse from the human body that will fade as the chemicals that
feed them are no longer present? Do I want them to? I start to
panic. Am I going to lose myself? Become some wandering, unfeeling
immortal?

In my youth I was far more consumed by the
things that interested me than I was in my thirties. What about in
a hundred years? Maybe that’s a natural progression and you become
more immune to everything. I wonder if the designers of this form
installed some failsafe. I don’t think this body was meant to be
inhabited for long periods of time, and if it were put to
scientific use, weighing clinical reason over tenuous emotion might
be advantageous. Then again, gut instinct seems to be an emotion
that serves many scientists well. That might be a primarily human
thing, and it has led to some horrible blunders. Come to think of
it, I wonder how long this body is meant to last? What drives it?
From where does it derive its internal energy? For all I know I’ll
keel over dead tomorrow. I keep walking.

Three days have passed. Three days of
increasing restlessness as I tromp through seemingly endless
landscapes. Wild grassy plains segmented and intersected by woods
and roads, all in varying states of capaciousness and
deterioration. I cross a few highways, forsaken expanses of
concrete that look strange and antiquated in their abandonment. The
distant forms of small, squat houses break through the vegetation
occasionally. Something tells me they belong to the type of
hardscrabble people I don’t want to steal from. They will feel the
loss far more deeply, and their vehicles probably mean a great deal
to them. Then again, I have little choice. Events have become so
chaotic, I doubt me and my motives rank as much of a priority for
them. But if I take too long getting to the border, things might
solidify on a statewide level, leaving me in a far more complicated
situation. I pause and look to the right, where the furrowed
reddish mounds of a plowed field trail off toward a distant tree
line. Peering to the left, I see the field slopes upwards, the far
end a wall of high grass. Just cresting the horizon are the
contours of a house. I turn and start walking, the grooved soil
crumbling beneath my feet. Small clouds of dust ascend behind me,
twirling lazily, caught up in the wind as a hazy miasma of reddish
orange. The effect borders on supernatural, resembling as it does a
trailing mist of dried blood. I’m the Devil, and I have come to do
the Devil’s work.

Cresting the hill, I stand in the tall weeds
and gaze at the worn structure spread out before me. It’s a
two-storey dwelling that has fared poorly in the elements, the dark
wood paneling heavily weather-stained. A shed made of the same
rotting wood stands a few feet off, linked to the house by tire
tracks that grind through the grass in dirt ruts. The whole thing
looks like something out of some ’70s horror movie. The ramshackle
front porch harbors a rocking chair and rope hammock, sheltered
under its wooden awning. A couple of old, gnarled trees cast
mottled strips of shade over the roof.

The house is buried in the backwoods, but I’m
sure that dirt road trailing from the driveway leads somewhere.
There’s a red F150 parked in front of the house. It looks like a
1970s model, rust slowly eating away at the wheel wells. Raw primer
mars the body in patches of gray. I debate the pros and cons of
stealing it for a moment, deciding it might be the best bet I’ll
see for miles. The wind whips through in a swelling surge, roaring
in my ears as I wade through the lake of grass. No signs of life
come from the house. A side window, half-cloaked by a yellowing
curtain, interrupts the flow of white paneling. I strain my vision
and glimpse a darkened foyer, furnished with a red velvet couch, a
small oak table just beyond. I up the intensity of the ambient
light, and the darkened interior becomes visible. The floorboards
are coated in a thin layer of dust, the planks half-smothered by a
worn crimson rug adorned with a strange Indian pattern. That seems
a little unusual—and a touch extravagant—for such an isolated rural
setting. I circle around to the porch. The timber creaks as I
ascend, bending precariously under my weight. An atrophied wooden
door flaps slowly open and closed with the wind, its streaming
shreds of screen undulating lazily in the breeze. I push it aside
and grasp the brass doorknob. It’s an old, L-shaped lever, and
fights rust as it turns upward. I shove, and the door creaks open.
Glancing around, my eyes instantly adjust to the gloomy light.
There’s a couch, its decorated antique wood curving into circular
designs at the edges, squatting off to the left. A glass-topped
coffee table sits in front, its pillars of support contorted rails
of black iron. An old issue of American Rifleman lies on the
surface, a copy of Shotgun News peeping out underneath. An
elaborate amber ashtray shoulders the periodicals. Off to the right
a small TV surmounts an oak stand. I wonder how long the house has
been in this state. There are no cobwebs, no coat of dust, but
everything appears abandoned. I should just take the truck. It
might not even run, but it’s worth a try. Catching a glimmer of
light down the gloomy hallway toward my right, I swivel around. The
corridor ends in a closed white door, and I could have sworn I saw
a glow coming from underneath. I turn and slowly wander down the
passageway. Stopping at the door, I listen closely. A slow, viscous
drip pads into something liquid. Turning the knob slowly, I gently
push it open. A soiled old toilet greets me, the view expanding to
include an old, cast iron tub to the left. A green light filters in
through the small window above the latrine. A filthy shower curtain
is drawn partially around the tub, and I can hear a muffled dribble
coming from within. Stepping in, I grasp the edge of the curtain
and yank. A woman, maybe in her early forties, lies half-submerged
in a shallow pool of water. Her large, pallid breasts fall limply
toward her sides, the brown nipples partially submerged. Her eyes
are frozen wide in a terrified stare, the brown irises fixated on
something long since departed. The mouth hangs open in a cry that
looks like it never quite made it out, her wavy raven hair twisting
in moist tangles as it falls from her temples and into the water.
There is a small hole in the center of her temple. A thin trickle
flows out of the gash and down her forehead, curving around the eye
socket and plunging down the cheek. Drops pool at the jaw line,
tumbling into the murky water with a familiar padding noise.
Despite being dead, she looks a little too fit and attractive to be
a domestic housewife. A hooker? A stripper? A small heart tattoo
decorates her upper left breast, the banner flowing through the
center devoid of a name. I turn and stroll back outside.

The truck tires are fairly well inflated,
suggesting it couldn’t have been sitting for too long. The driver’s
side window is rolled halfway down, exposing a raised lock tab.
Theft must not be a big concern out here. A quick duck under the
steering column, a couple of yanked wires, and the engine sputters
to life. I jump in, slam the door, and pull the lever into reverse.
The engine coughs like a lifelong smoker and dies a grumbling,
vibrating death. Shoving the stick back into neutral, I duck down
and brush the starter wire against the ignition, and the truck
sputters, rejoining the land of the living. Slowly raising my head,
I angle around the steering column. Just as I surmount the
dashboard, something slams into my forehead, shoving me into the
passenger seat. The driver’s side window collapses in a cascade of
glass. I sit up, the door panel slowly falling to reveal a fat,
white-trash-looking man, garbed only in boxers, a hairy belly
flapping over the waistband. His bearded face is topped by a mess
of greasy brown hair. Eyes that have seen way too much stare
through me as he pulls back the bolt. I grab the wheel and pull
myself over into the driver’s seat. Shoving the transmission into
reverse, I stomp on the gas, spinning around in a cloud of red
dust. A slug punches through the passenger door and smashes into my
ribs. Shoving the lever into drive, I peel out. The back window
shatters, pelting me with a rain of glass.