Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (18 page)

“Looks like Mister Happy is done. No more permagrin.”

They all laugh, and I go stumbling out the door.

* * *

Jerry and his trusty taxi are waiting just outside. Madison hauls me toward the open back door.

“Wait!” I cry. Something bad is about to happen, and I don’t think Jerry would appreciate it in the backseat of his taxi.

I stagger to the curb, drop to my knees, and hurl the contents of my stomach into the gutter. One violent purge, followed by a few tremors, leaves my lips coated with yuck. My tongue strains to collect the slimy remnants and spit out the nasty flavor. Oh, this is gross. Matt was right about me and the gutter—my mind’s in it now, along with my stomach, and maybe a few other organs.

From behind, Madison tugs on my shoulder. “Honey, you okay?”

I can’t answer, but I can think—do I look okay? What is okay? I can’t let her see me like this, I must look terrible. She wouldn’t want to kiss me now.

“Let’s go, baby,” she says. “I’ll take care of you.”

Yeah, that’s better, I need to be taken care of. I’m completely out of control, barfing, falling over, a genuine drunk. I am
not
okay, that much is painfully obvious by now.

Madison resumes her struggle, wrestling me into the backseat where Emerald is waiting. I’m a lead weight, more than she can manage. She’ll have to, I’m nearly incapable of functioning at this point. Next thing I know, I find myself slumped in the backseat between the girls.

“Take us home,” Madison says to Jerry.

He turns around, eyes wide. “Like I said, you’re one lucky dude.”

Lucky? What, once you vomit, you win the drinking game? Dork. Good thing I can’t talk right now, or I’d call him that and end up in a fight to top it all off. He’d kick my ass anyway. I wouldn’t know which of the four of him to punch.

Madison brings her lips close to my ear. “We’re going home, honey. You’ll be okay. This is Tina, by the way. I thought you should know her real name, since we’re going to get personal.”

“I thought her name was Emerald.”

The few remaining words squeeze past the yuck coating my lips, which I thought by now had sealed my mouth shut. Better than another purge blasting it open. Either way, those may be my last words for a while. I’m slipping from reality.

“That’s my stage name,” Tina says. “You know, to keep the weirdos away. You guys are cool, you can know my real name.”

Weirdos? A great description for me in this condition. Strange, I was right. Was it me? Or the beer mind? Or my regular mind, is it still there? Hello, are you there? Was it you? How did we know her name wasn’t Emerald? How?

What an odd thing. I call to my mind, but it doesn’t supply an answer. Instead, it gives a completely different response.

“Go to sleep, you are done.”

I promptly comply, passing out cold.

Chapter 5

The thrust, the power, roaring between my thighs, of all the bikes I’ve ever owned, this ride is my favorite. A splendid machine, perfectly tuned, its maximum potential is realized. My skill as a mechanic is evident this fine day. The clever tweaks aimed at boosting the engine’s output have produced outstanding results. The motorcycle purrs, the exhaust mellow, until twisting the throttle and launching my rocket along the winding route, so much force unleashed, I can barely hang on to the beast.

The afternoon is bright and clear, perfect weather for a motorcycle ride in the mountains. The air is thin at this high altitude, but cruising at intense speed slowed only by the winding turns, the oncoming stream tears at my face and fills my lungs. I am well protected in a sturdy leather jacket, and my hands are sheathed in a pair of riding gloves. They are quite snug, yet offer exceptional freedom of movement, allowing me to keep this roaring monster under control.

Past the road’s edge and far below, a grandiose valley stretches across the land. On the opposite side, the winding route follows every contour of the mountain, wrapping around then bending out, and again the oncoming road curls around the next ridge.

The mountainside is blanketed by tall pines that reach for the sky. Trees are an amazing example of life. They must be infinitely wise, having amassed a fortune of knowledge as they stand rooted in one spot, slowly inching upward while bearing witness to every event occurring in their presence. They might even recall events eons ago, a countless number of our lifetimes. If only they could talk and share their thoughts, what tales we might learn.

Soaring through the next turn, I marvel at this nimble machine. I spent all of yesterday working on it, and today the bike performs flawlessly, a potent machine purring between my thighs. The results are so pleasing, I have extended my journey, pushing deeper into the rugged slopes. Through every turn along the winding route, the heated rubber clings to the road like glue.

Streaming past, the rush of oncoming air rumbles, and somehow, it sounds like a whisper.

“Slow down.”

That’s just the wind, and besides, this bike can handle any turn I throw it into. I twist the throttle, lean the bike far, and stick to the centerline. The curving roadway slips from view beyond the next ridge. When the road straightens out, I glance down at the speedometer. Nice, we made it through that one at eighty-five. This bike is awesome.

I look up—to see a woman in the road. A woman of such beauty she may be a goddess, casting a disapproving glare as if provoked and commanding time to crawl.

I swerve to miss her and dump the bike. Foot pegs carve asphalt showering sparks, and the road grinds away one boot’s smoking sole. I cling to the handgrips, hanging on for dear life, as her intent stare tracks my perilous journey past.

The bike is heading for the shoulder, the valley side, and no guardrail. Too fast, letting go won’t work. I’m committed to this course either way. My heart drops into my stomach. No, the bike will right itself and get up. It has to. Please, no.

The road is only so wide, and I have found its edge, only to leave it behind. There is nothing left. Nothing left but sky.

The bike rips from my grasp and spins flat, flinging away like a boomerang, leaving me to plummet and slam into the mountainside. The blow is bone crushing, but death is delayed, saved for the ultimate impact waiting farther below. I bounce away and soon return, crashing into the mountain and tumbling past rocky outcrops.

There is no hope of surviving, but I must try. It’s not over till it’s over. I claw at bushes streaming past, branches, anything, there must be something. My outstretched hand hooks on an exposed root, I seize hold, and like a slender thread unwinding, it rips from the soil and halts my descent in a stiff jerk. I dangle over certain death, straining to catch my breath.

“Help!”

Someone must hear.

“Please, someone, help me!”

There is no reply. I am doomed. In a short time, I will lose hold and fall to my death. Terror fills my last moments alive.

No, I do not agree. I will not succumb to the fear of death and let it take my life. I will not. I will talk to my savior. The root has come from a tree. A tree that can save me.

“Lend me your will to survive.”

“That hurt, you know.”

“Who said that?” I ask, as the slimy root inches through my grasp.

“Who did you decide to talk to?” the voice asks.

Higher up the mountainside, there are only trees. But one has a face. A face? The face of a grumpy old man.

“Didn’t hear me?” the tree says. “I asked who you decided to talk to.”

The wooden mouth moves, the tree is talking. How can this be?

“Are you talking to me?”

“You’re talking to me, aren’t you? So I get to talk back, right?”

“But you’re a tree. Trees don’t talk.”

“How often have you decided you could talk to a tree?”

What is this,
a logic tree?

“Never, I’d have to admit. This would be the first time.”

“Then what’s so surprising? If this is the first time, which means you’ve never tried it before, how do you know a tree wouldn’t respond?”

It
is
a logic tree. Did I miss something? Okay, this is totally weird, but my grip is slipping, nearing the end of this fragile tether, and I want to live. Any chance will do, no matter how crazy.

“Can you help me?” I ask.

“I can only help you if you help yourself.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“What kind of answer would you like?”

The tree avoids the question with another question. Yes, one of those tricky, logical types.

“I want you to answer yes, and get me out of this mess, that’s the answer I want.”

“Very well.”

Like a giant whip, the root comes to life and flings me to the sky. When I crash down, I’m back on the road, right where I started. How is this possible? And where is the woman responsible for this brush with death? She has vanished.

Now another tree has the face, the same face.

“Is that better?” the tree asks.

“I guess, but I don’t understand. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for your help, but I’m awfully confused.”

“What is confusing you?”

“How any of this is possible.”

“Take a look,” the tree says. A branch creaks, and like an arm, it points over the cliff.

I creep toward the edge and crane my neck to look. That’s a long way down. Far below, my motorcycle is smashed to pieces splattered across the land. The sight brings me terrible sadness, a wonderful machine I had worked all day to perfect, now it’s trash at the bottom of a ravine. What a waste. I’m grief-stricken over the loss of my bike, it was my favorite.

“What do you see?” the tree asks.

“My bike, mangled beyond repair. I’ll never be able to fix it. The thing’s ruined.”

“Look again.”

“All right, but I’m sure it’s still there.”

Looks about the same, and sure enough, the twisted heap of metal that once was my bike hasn’t gone anywhere. But there’s more.

I’m down there.

My body is at the bottom, mangled beyond repair, bloody and broken, surely dead. But I’m standing right here. How is this possible? The truth hits and I’m grief-stricken over the loss of my body, it was my favorite.

“Have you learned anything?” the tree asks.

I look down at the ravine. “Bodies and bikes don’t like cliffs, that’s for sure.”

“Good,” the tree says, and the wooden mouth smiles. The tree appears satisfied and says no more.

Satisfied? Who cares if any tree is satisfied?

“What the hell is going on?” I ask.

The tree creaks, leaning toward me, and brows of bark squeeze tighter. “Talk of Hell is dangerous. Wouldn’t want to go there, you know.”

That’s it, all I can stand of people telling me about Hell and how I’m going there. I have an answer for this tree, sure to blow its mind. Does it have a mind? It must—it talks.

“Listen here, Woody, I want to go there. That’s right, I want to go to Hell. And you know what happens when I get there? I’m tearing it down. I’m going to take it apart, that’s what’ll happen. That place will cease to exist when I’m done.
I’ve had it with this shit!
”

“Good, you have passion. If that is your path, do follow it. But remember—hostility will not aid your endeavor. Anger only serves to hinder your true strength.”

What else should I expect, talking to any tree so perfectly logical. A regular wise guy full of smart-ass comebacks. But I already told myself that, how wise trees are. Now look at me, getting all testy with this one. Maybe he’s right.

I ask the tree, “Are you saying anger makes me weak?”

“Do you consider that anger makes you weak?”

Again the tree poses a question when it should be answering one. Regardless, I consider the question. Does anger hold me back? It could be true. Free from the strangling emotion, I’m able to mold my surroundings. My thoughts become paramount, they become truth. Like the root, and the tree, I decided they would help. Not out of anger, hatred or even fear, not really. The determination came from a place where none of those emotions exist, all are without meaning. The decision was a product of
me,
stemming from a will to survive. But I died anyway. I’m dead? Then this is just my imagination. No, there’s more to this. It’s all screwy, like a dream.

A dream?

I’m having a dream.

But that violates the dream rule. I can’t dream and know I’m dreaming, or it’s not a dream. Or is it? This can’t be real, it’s all too strange. No, this isn’t real. I was somewhere else before this. I was drinking, there were some girls, a taxi, I was sick. What am I doing here?

If I am dreaming, I can make it end.

“I’m going to wake up now.”

The wooden face smiles. “Okay. Good-bye, and good luck.”

* * *

My eyes snap open and I gasp for air. I was dreaming, and I knew it. I have control. This scares me—but is also thrilling—to think I might conquer a curse that renders me helpless each night. That tree stuff was weird, especially the part about Hell and getting angry.

Early morning daylight leaks in through the living-room window. I’m lying on the sofa. How did I get here? And what happened last night? I was going to watch the girls play, and with any luck, maybe get laid. I can’t remember what came last.

A skimpy blanket barely covers me, too short to reach my bare feet, chilled by a cool draft. There must be a window open. Worse than the drafty room, I am alone. Where is Madison?

Perhaps she was part of the dream. Last night, and all the nights before, all of it could have been a dream. Madison makes better sense as a figment of my imagination, a lively fantasy willed into creation by desire. How else could anyone be so enamored with me? Her being a dream is a rational explanation, and the rest was probably a dream, too. All the mysteries, and so much that didn’t make sense. That’s what dreams are, a bunch of crazy stuff that doesn’t fit together, and that’s how I remember it. And when I finally told myself to wake up, I did, for real this time.

I’m dressed in underwear and a tee-shirt. When did I put these on? I can’t remember. Sitting up doesn’t go so well. Feels like a truck is driving through my skull. I need something for that. And something to eat. I get up and stagger to the kitchen, wobbling the entire way. Damn, my head hurts
bad.
Is that thing still in there? I wonder. But that was part of the dream, wasn’t it?

There isn’t much food in the fridge. But lots of empty space, plenty of room for—that’s where all the beer was. Where did it go? Maybe I’ll have some eggs, but I’m in no mood to cook anything. A slice of bologna, that’ll do. I don’t even look for bread.

Past the kitchen window, the beach looks deserted, other than a few early morning surfers catching some sets before the masses invade the shore. Wise. Not too sunny today, a little overcast, possibly even a hint of drizzle. That’s more sensible, too, after a dream with sun, sun, and more sun, or nothing but cold, dark rain. Back to reality and its moderate weather.

“Would you like some egg-fried toast?”

I whirl around to see Madison leaning against the kitchen doorframe, arms folded across her open robe, almost revealing her breasts, but in plain sight her slender tummy, and lower, a neatly trimmed thatch of hair.

But she was a dream. Wasn’t she? All I can do is stare at her. I don’t know what to believe anymore.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“My freakin’ head’s gonna explode!” Old habits die hard—a hand goes to my scalp. Useless. Bone’s too thick to feel the pounding on this side, or let my fingers do anything about the throbbing ache inside. “Did you put that thing back in? Why would you do that? Did I misbehave last night?”

She ties her robe and strolls past, to the stove, where she heats a skillet. “One question at a time, okay? First of all, no, I didn’t put anything in your head, so that answers the next question, why I would, which doesn’t need an answer since I didn’t. As for you misbehaving, yeah, you’re one naughty boy. I should give you a good spanking.”

What did I do? My legs feel like rubber, like I spent all night climbing a mountain, or something. Whatever it was, the expedition drained my muscles and turned them to putty.

The smell of a hot skillet tells me a meal is on the way. Good, I’m dying here. I make it to the kitchen table and drop into a chair.

She opens a cupboard. “Now, about your head, that’s normal, a real headache. They call it a hangover. Happens when you drink your brains out all night. You need to learn some self-control.”

“Don’t worry, I’m never doing
that
again.”

She glances over her shoulder. “You say that every time.”

“I really mean it this time. I feel like shit.”

She shifts to the sink and fills a glass of water.

“Here, take these.” She passes the glass and opens her palm to offer three tablets.