|
Episode 084 |
|
|
“I have a ‘carpe diem’ mug and, truthfully, at six in the morning the words do not make me want to seize the day. They make me want to slap a dead poet.” Joanne Sherman With no shelter, no blankets, no bedding, and no pillow, waking up this morning may possibly be the worst morning I’ve ever had in my life. I’m strangely thankful that I didn’t dream, only realizing after I realize I’m awake that my dreams couldn’t be any worse than what’s going on right now. I sit up to find Slate already awake. She’s staring down at the ground in the early-morning rays that are coming out of the mist that surrounds us. I notice for the first time in the light the large arrow she carved in the dirt, pointing the direction we had been traveling. And the woman’s cleverness continues to amaze me. Next to her is Patrick, our newest member. He’s still asleep in his charcoal-gray and black-highlights uniform, still cradling his boys in his hands. Can’t say I blame him. Had Slate’s grip happened to me, I would have just curled up and died. Hell, I practically did it just watching. “First things first,” Slate declares in a low voice, her face dust-stained. “We’ve got to get out of this place. Patrick said there isn’t another population center now. Just the base.” I sit for a moment, wishing for some breakfast. “Then we get out,” I say, looking up at the monotone sky. The ground is featureless yellow-brown, just like the featureless white-blue sky above it. There isn’t a sky really. There’s just the horizon and then the color just kind of stops. “Easier said than done,” Slate says, looking over at me. “We’ll have to find an access hatch first.” She stands up slowly. As she does, I look at her indention in the soft ground. And I see blood. “Slate,” I say, staring at it. I look up at her. “Are you okay?” I ask. She turns and looks at me. “Why?” The small stain of blood on the ground looms in my eyes. “You’re bleeding.” And then I feel the thump on the top of my head. “Of course I’m bleeding you idiot,” she yells after hitting me on the head. “I’m still on my period and we don’t have anything I can use to…” “Hey hey HEY!” Patrick shouts from the ground, stuffing his face back into his arms. “Keep it down you two.” “Bite me,” she shoots back. He holds up a finger. I just marvel at the two of them for a moment. If it wasn’t so unnerving, it’d be funny. “Get up, Patrick,” I say. “We’ve got to get moving.” “Give me another ten minutes,” he says, shifting a bit in his semi-fetal position. “No, come on, man,” I say, standing up with Slate. “You’ve got to show us where an access hatch is.” W e w a l k i n s i n g l e f i l e . Patrick is in front. I walk behind him. Slate brings up the rear. Our foot prints are pretty well ruined by the steps of those behind us. Slate carries the machine gun, the sling thrown over her shoulder. We keep good time, making our way from nothing, through nothing, into nothing. I ignore my stomach growling as we walk, wiping my forehead from time to time, then licking the sweat. I know it’s salty and all, but at least its wet. I keep my eyes out for some type of hallucination. You know, like the one in that cartoon with Donald and Goofy, where Goofy thinks he sees a restaurant in the desert and keeps ordering floats, but they disappear because it’s a hallucination. I wonder if I’ll see that weird genie that was in the cartoon. But I don’t see any hallucinations. No water in the distance or anything. Just more nothing. And then for a second, I only hear two sets of steps. I stop and look behind. And I hear Patrick stop as well. Slate’s standing still, her body craned around behind, the gun aimed into the desert. “Um, Slate?” Patrick says, the wind picking up, blowing sand against us. “What are you doing?” “I heard something,” she says, her voice as hard as her forearms as she holds the machine gun steady, aimed into the desert. I glance at Patrick but he just shrugs. I head back towards her and he follows. “I’ve been hearing something for a little while now.” “What did it sound like?” I ask. “It sounds like desert paranoia,” Patrick says before she can answer. “A lot of the guys have gotten that. They think that they hear something or see something. Don’t give in, Slate,” he cautions, putting his hand on her shoulder. The gesture seems so paternal, I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious. “All the talk of vampires and zombies and everything, it’s just your mind playing tricks.” “My mind doesn’t play tricks,” she says, still staring into the desert. “I heard something.” “Slate, there’s nothing out here,” Patrick insists, wiping sweat from his deeply tanned skin. “Yes there is,” she maintains doggedly, her eyes breaking off the sights for just a second. But they turn to me, not Patrick. “Slate, it’s impossible,” the military man keeps trying sensibly. “So is a guy appearing out of thin air and beating the stuffing out of a whole military installation,” she retorts, shutting him up. Patrick looks at me, then shakes his head. “You’re losing it,” he says. “No I’m not,” she shouts back at him. “No I’m not.” I turn back at Patrick. He stops and looks back at me and Slate. We both look at her. “Was that…” I start to ask. “Sounded like it came from…” Patrick says, staring at Slate. He turns and looks out into the desert, “out there.” Slate and I turn to look. And
the desert horizon opens up and devours us. |
|