I Will Rise (14 page)

“I can handle myself, you know.”
I’d like to think it’s not just Annabelle and the earth keeping me afloat. I mean, I am in control here, I am making decisions.

“I know and I have to have more faith in you too, it’s just that this is a long time coming for me. The earth has been priming me mentally, in a direct fashion, for years. I’m ready, I’m aware. This is all so new to you. How can you be expected to evade law enforcement? Your conditioning was a lifelong clandestine process. You’ve been trained to hate and wired to infect and I kept wondering how the earth planned on carrying this thing through if it just expected to drop it in your lap and say, ‘Here you go, surprise, now run.’ I should’ve realized it wouldn’t let something as simple and messy as human organization stop you.” She crinkles her nose as she says this.

“So we’re in the clear? I’m safe driving this stolen car?”

“It looks that way. Fortunately, you are okay and fortunate for us all, these deaths are strange and jarring and executed in such a manner that you and I have time to breathe and carry on. Their inexplicable nature sends shockwaves of confusion and frustration throughout the community in question. By the time the police begin a thorough investigation, all of the detectives and officers involved in the case will already be dead or dying.”

Annabelle takes a second and then explains, “This first round, the five dead apart from Lumpy and the dog, were a special circumstance. The process is complicated, but on a basic level it works like this: the longer you touch someone, the quicker they die. Like charging up a battery. You drained Lumpy right then and there; he died instantly and his body retained the intensity of your touch. The residual charge flowing through his corpse was so great that the officer, the two paramedics and the two firemen who touched the body moments after you fled the scene all died within fifteen minutes. Their corpses also retained an exceptionally powerful charge, killing all who came in contact with them within a couple hours. This third wave of victims in turn infected a fourth group that died another four hours later. The charge finally diminished, equalizing within this fourth collection of victims and the people they have touched, before death and after at the crime scene or on a slab in the morgue, will die within the standard twenty-four-hour period.”

This crazy shit makes my brain ache. What am I?

Annabelle keeps on, speaking matter-of-factly, no big deal, “Since the newspaper went to press this morning seventy plus people have died, mostly police officers and hospital employees and their loved ones. That’s why no one is after you. Walnut Creek is in a state of upheaval. It’s all over the televised news, the radio, and will be all over the papers, local and national, tomorrow. Still, nobody even knows about you. The initial disturbance, you and Lumpy and Paunch, have all been forgotten, overshadowed by this huge crisis. At this rate, if you keep touching and moving, you will never get caught.

“If you drain someone like you did Lumpy, you release an explosion of instant and quick death. If you continue to only brush a person or lightly touch them, the death spreads nice and even. If you stick to the latter, these twenty-four-hour time frames allow for the infected victim to extend the touch to a wider range of people, thus extending it to an even wider range of people. Either way, the proliferation is rapid and eventual. Town after city after state will fall, and before we know it, it will be time for the final joining. ”

Her we go with the esoteric bullshit
. “The final joining?”
I think to her.

“Yeah. I tried to explain it to you after Lumpy shot you. It was too early, there was simply too much going on for you to comprehend what with your transformation, and the idea of our mission was still too fresh in my mind, too unformed to gel and come out right. Remember when I said that there is another?”

“Sort of.”
I’m really getting the hang of this mental telepathy thing.

Annabelle flickers, disappears for about thirty silent seconds and then reappears before I have a chance to process. She frowns. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I almost forgot. I have to take care of something. My alarm’s going to go off and I’m gonna fade soon. I just hit snooze. I’ll keep explaining until it wears off. Before I go on, do you still have my address?”

“No, I…”

“Write it down this time.”

Reaching across Annabelle, I pop open the glove box. Score. A smattering of pens spill forth and I manage to catch one. The rest hit the thinly carpeted floorboard and roll under the passenger’s seat. Keeping an eye on the road I search out a scrap of paper, an old grocery store receipt, and attempt to hand it to Annabelle. My pen-and-paper-laden hand goes right through her and bobs in time with the vibrating car hovering where her transparent left breasts jiggles. I turn a hundred shades of red.

“I’m not really here, remember?”

“Right, right.”
I position the receipt on the steering wheel and get the pen ready. Annabelle recites the address—a residence in Mesa, Arizona.

When I finish, I exclaim (mentally),
“Got it.”

“Good. Anyway, as I was saying, once we’ve carved a substantial rift, touching everyone we can, we have to meet up with number three.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s not really important right now. What is important is that we meet and destroy the human disease once and for all. The details are still fuzzy in my head, but they will come. Right now, I know you have to come to me and then I have to guide you and then when we align with number three and he’ll do the rest.”

“He?”
Something sick and woozy raises a lump in my throat. I am used to envy, wanting to fit in and all, and not having any girlfriends and/or desires toward girls I am rather unfamiliar with jealousy, but lo and behold there is no mistaking the feeling—jealousy, big and thick, spreads its gauzy wings in my throat. I don’t like it one bit.

Annabelle is intuitive. She smiles at me. “As I said, it’s not important. He’s not important.” And under her breath, words teeming with smoke and fire, filling my chest with odd heat, “Don’t worry. He’s not you. Not even close.”

She winks and then snaps back to business. “It’s important that you get here as soon as possible. Oh, and beyond important is that you remember not to touch me. Until the joining I am susceptible to your touch. We have to be extra careful, if you so much as brush by me, it’s finished. We also have to make sure nobody you touch gets close enough to touch me. I suppose your role at this point, other than touching as many people as possible, is protecting me. Do you think you can do it?”

Chapter Ten

Anti-luck

The sun is just beginning to set and for the past few hours I have been doing nothing but thinking about Annabelle. Driving and thinking and getting pissed because alongside thoughts of Annabelle I am thinking thoughts about him, number three, and I am angry at myself for thinking about him because I am not excited about meeting him, nor I am excited about this so-called “joining.”

Who fucking cares, right?

And why do I feel such hostility?

Why does it even matter? It doesn’t, but it does, it does, it does and something hideous inside feels threatened. Weak and envious. Colorless. Helpless and gooey. I am the only one that matters. I am the anti-savior. What am I scared of? And what is up with the red rage spreading itself over my brain when I think not only of him, but of him and Annabelle together, communing, learning, her guiding him and educating him and making him feel special and important and caustic just like me?

I feel petty and trite and stupid and pedestrian and trivial and irrelevant and paltry and any other word that fits. The land is darkening, the town of Walnut Creek is diminishing, and ten random citizens—a baby and countless numbers of loved ones and strangers—are dying, Eddie is still sleeping, snoring away the time, and thanks to a careless handshake still dying, and here I am seething with jealousy. Jealousy! And I don’t even like people, especially not in the romantic sense. The very idea of it, kissing and courtship and time spent talking, spooning, emotionally expanding until presto: the coup de grâce—the extremely unsavory act of exchanging bodily fluids—makes me sick. Well, at least it used to. Now I feel frenetic, kinetic, and spiky things leap about my rib cage when I think about her. I feel swimmy and tingly. A short time ago, nothing, but now Annabelle, big as sin and sinking in, has taken root. My heart smiles and aches for her return.

What is happening to me?

Is this love, infatuation, adoration?

For sure.

And for all of this inner turmoil, for all of this jealous worrying, I am flying. I am smooth. I am as sweet and cool and warm as a hot fudge sundae.

Enough. Stop. Come down.

The transformation, I know.

This is only precautionary, I know.

Keep him dumb and in love and he will do what he is told. Annabelle is my guide, she is the party planner if you will, and as long as I follow her everything will go as planned. Everything will cook right along and we will meet number three (three’s a crowd)…and why does he have to be involved anyhow?
I
have the touch.
I
am the most important man in the world. Me. That’s what Annabelle said, isn’t it?

I think this preventive measure, this love initiative, is working far too well.

Enough then. Push it from mind, but like Sisyphus rolling the rock, it just keeps on coming. Gritting my teeth I try for something else. As I begin to get my thoughts around the love thing I am able to center on Eddie.

From the heights of love I fall and tumble, end over dizzying end, into the depths of sorrow.

What am I going do about Eddie?

If Annabelle (oh, lovely Annabelle. Stop!) is right, and I have no doubt she is, the little guy is sleeping away his last night. There is nothing I can do to save him and it breaks my dead heart. I have to do something, but nothing comes to mind and I fight with myself for what seems like forever. Suddenly, out of the blue and clear as day, it hits me full force: I can make his last hours worthwhile. Ideas like weeds: we’ll be in Vegas within hours. I’ve never been, but I’ve seen pictures, and if my memory serves me correctly, there are a few roller coasters. Maybe even upside-down ones. There’s no better feeling in the world than that of overcoming your fears. Eddie deserves as much and given the circumstances, it’s the very least I can do for him. Besides, there are shitloads of people for me to brush up against and that should make Annabelle plenty happy.

Hot dog, it’s a plan, and I am just about to wake up Eddie when I realize I have no idea what to say.

Do I tell him?

Should I let him know he is going to pass away tomorrow morning?

How can I?

There’s no way, I can’t do it, but am I right in holding out?

Would I want to know?

If it plays out right, we will have a blast and stay up all night and hopefully, in the morning, he will peacefully fall asleep and never wake up. If the fates are merciful, he will never know.

Just then, as if to punctuate my thoughts with a cruel burst of laughter, the fates throw a monkey wrench into my pleasant little Vegas plan. The engine chortles like a constipated bull and then cuts out. I coast along for a few pathetic miles until the car slows to a stop. My eyes settle on the instrument panel. The gas gauge reads
E
.

Fuck!

I knew it. I noted it even. I said to myself:
Self, get off the freeway and get another car or somehow steal some gas
. Self, the foolish procrastinator, responded quite coolly and calmly:
Soon, man, soon
.

Soon?

Fuck me, I am an idiot. I cross my fingers and give the engine a crank. The car roars to life, my heart flutters, I jam my foot down and take off. This stretch of highway seems to be mostly desert and animals, traversed by sporadic amounts of traffic, interspersed with huge stretches of empty spaces between desolate little towns. Unfortunately, we happen to be in one of those empty stretches of space. Not a town or a gas station in sight. After about three minutes the car sputters and dies and I coast onto the dirt shoulder of the highway.

“Gas?” a quiet, sleepy voice asks from the backseat.

So much for making Eddie’s end a memorable one. Gee, sorry buddy, looks like we get to spend the rest of your short life stranded on the side of a desert road. Or, my apologies, but instead of conquering a roller coaster and marveling at the lights of Vegas we have to flag down a hapless Samaritan and beg for a ride or perhaps attempt to steal their car.

“Charles?” Eddie’s voice is delightfully scratchy.

“You called it. Gas.”

“I dreamed I was dead.”

Appropriate. “Well, here we are, not dead, just stranded.” Not really very cheerful, but uplifting considering the imminent alternative. I go on, “Got any ideas?”

“I just woke up.”

“Right, and you were dead, but now you’re back. Genius intuition?”

This gets Eddie going and he sits up straight and exclaims, “All we have to do is wave someone down. They’ll stop because I’m five. No big deal. No rush.”

If he only knew.

I get out of the car, stretch, and then open Eddie’s door. “Come on, we don’t want to let any cars pass. We don’t want to miss our chance.”

“This is a major highway,” Eddie starts in as he touches his socked feet to the dirt shoulder, “there will be plenty of chances. We won’t have to wait long. Are you feeling better?”

“Better?”

“At the gas station where we should’ve gotten gas”—he rolls his eyes—“you looked sick.”

“No. I mean, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. You fell asleep fast.”

“At my age there isn’t much I can do about it. I woke up around three a.m. and then stayed awake all through breakfast and past my naptime. This causes extreme exhaustion and before long I fall out of sync and am unable to control myself. It’s frustrating. Five-year-olds need to follow a stringent routine. It’s good for our mental and physical health. Deviations from the day-to-day schedule tend to make me crabby and apt to fall asleep at any moment, kind of like a narcoleptic with an attitude problem. In any case, I feel better now, but I am famished. I don’t suppose we have anything nourishing to eat?”

“Not unless you have something buried in that mound of clothes.” I point to the backseat. Eddie yawns and stretches away sleep. The sight of the little guy brings a grin to my face. He is still wearing his pajamas and his hair has gone nappy from sleeping at odd angles. I look even worse for the wear, greasy and most likely smelly, although my nostrils have since acclimated and there’s no telling.

“No, just clothing.” He sighs. “I really am hungry. I have never gone without a meal. Logically, I should be fine for a while. The human body, even at five years, is remarkably resourceful and capable of fasting for long periods of time. Nevertheless, despite reason, I feel that if I don’t eat soon, I will waste away.”

Waste away. Yes, indeed, despite reason, Eddie will in fact waste away very soon whether he finds a meal or not. I struggle to push the idea from my head and move on, but it refuses to budge and sits heavy on my brain. A little voice echoes inside:
Tell him. He has the right to know
.

And he does, but not from me. As smart as Eddie is I’m not sure his brain can handle it. He may know a lot, but he is still just five and doesn’t need to hear it. What we need to do is get cleaned up and off this highway so we can fill his head with an eventful memory.

“What are you struggling with, Charles?”

I ignore him and focus on clearing my head. A few cars pass and I wave but they blur by without even slowing

“Do you have something to tell me? I can’t see it, but there’s something.” Eddie persists.

I continue to ignore him. “Is there anything you can wear in this pile?” I lean in the car and start rummaging through the clothing. “We have to look presentable if we want someone to help us out.”

“I told you earlier, they’re women’s clothes. Those are my mama’s goodwill clothes. She goes through her closet, gathers up what she no longer wants and then throws them in the back of the car until she gets around to taking them to the Salvation Army, which usually doesn’t happen for a long, long time, but it’s okay because I like the way they smell.”

“Yeah, well, we gotta find something because you’re a cute kid, but not that cute, and nobody wants to help out a filthy pair of bums like us.”
Tell him
, the inner voice persists.

“If there is something you have to tell me, even if it’s negative, I can take it. I want to know.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I turn from the clothes. “Eddie.” I say his name very solemnly, enunciating every letter for emphasis and effect. I want him to understand how very serious I am. “Stop trying to read my thoughts. Stop trying to drag things out of me that have no business beyond the confines of my skull.”

“I was just—”

I don’t let him finish and continue hammering home my point, “Are you my friend?”

“Of course. I have only just met you, but you are the best friend I have ever had. In actuality, you are the only friend I have ever had, not to debase the fact that you are the best. If I had others whom I considered friends, there is no doubt in my head that you would still be the best. You treat me fairly. Almost like an equal. You are my best friend.”

“Good, and I like you very much and consider you a friend as well, but you have to respect my head space. You can’t read a friend’s mind unless you are invited to do so. Understand?”

“My apologies.” Eddie steps around me and begins sifting through the clothes. He finds a dark green T-shirt and holds it up. “This will probably fit you. It isn’t too feminine, is it?”

The green shirt is very feminine and it clings to my torso in uncomfortable ways, but it is worlds better than the filthy, mucked-up sweater I have been wearing. We rummage some more and find a pair of gray sweatpants that serve as a suitable replacement for my supersoiled pants. Before I change I am sure to remove Annabelle’s address from my old pocket and stuff it into my left sock for safe keeping. For Eddie we find another dark green T-shirt—this one a little smaller, although it still looks too big on him. We have no luck in the pants department and much to his chagrin his pajama bottoms will have to do.

It is almost dark and there haven’t been any cars in a while. Eddie and I sit on the hood of his mother’s car, ridiculous in our green women’s T-shirts, and scan the horizon for approaching traffic.

“Charles, did you like being a kid?”

“It was all right,” I lie.

“Did you get along with other children?”

“Sometimes. I guess I did. I didn’t really have problems until I was a teenager,” I lie again.

A pair of headlights appear in the distance. I jump off the hood and motion for Eddie to follow. “When this car gets closer, we have to start jumping up and down, okay?”

“Okay. Was it because of your hand?”

“Yeah. It ruined my life.” I motion for Eddie to pay attention to the oncoming car.

He nods and keeps talking. “In my dreams I trust you, but your hand is evil. What’s wrong with it?”

“It causes seizures. Wave your hands.”

“You’re epileptic?” Eddie raises his arms.

“No, it’s just a weird phenomenon. The seizures come from here.” I show him my left hand and point at the smooth palm.

“Hmmm. That doesn’t make sense. How can your palm cause a seizure? Seizures are neurological disorders.” Eddie furrows his brow and looks ready to go off on a related tangent, but shakes it off and gets back on track. “Regardless, why would seizures cause you so many problems? Lots of people live with medical conditions.”

“They disrupt everything and people don’t care, they don’t have the patience for them. When you have a seizure in junior high school, when you have twenty seizures a week in junior high school, kids tend to make faces, talk mess and stay away. Everything just sort of went downhill from there. Here it comes.”

The car nears—it’s a black minivan, and we begin gesticulating wildly. Our frantic signaling works and the car pulls over a few feet up the road.

“Yes!” Eddie cheers. “Come on, friend,” he calls as he runs to the minivan.

Friend. Cute. I follow and start turning over plans in my head. Do I kill the driver? Do I get rid of him or her and commandeer the car for myself, or do I state my direction and sit back and enjoy the ride? If Annabelle returns and I have acquired another friendly human, or worse a set of friendly humans (it
is
a minivan), she is going to be royally pissed. Ordinarily I couldn’t care less, but the treacherous swells of heat and joy I feel when I think about her tell me otherwise. It matters and I have purpose so it’s probably best that I kill him or her or they as soon as I get the chance. I’ll urge him or her or they to pull over at the next gas station or town or rest stop, lure him or her or them away from Eddie and the minivan and drain them. Then it’s off to Vegas for a few hours of reprieve before Eddie passes.