I Will Rise (15 page)

My thoughts turn over endlessly and an alternate plan is beginning to form. I am mere feet away from the black minivan when my toiling thoughts crumble around the horrible sound of Eddie screaming. I catch a glimpse of his tiny frame being pulled into the van as its sliding door slams shut. Before horrendous disbelief has the chance to set in, the van speeds away in a cloud of roadside dust.

I stand stunned.

For a second my brain just sort of drops out and I feel like so much nothing. I feel like we will all probably feel when this thing is over. I feel like Eddie will feel in some hours. I feel empty, airy, unmade and surprisingly content. No more Eddie. No more feeling. A guy could get used to this. No one can get used to this.

It starts at my feet, I think—the burn, the river of heat, not the good Annabelle love heat, but the fuck-you-all, flesh-to-puddles heat—and it begins to travel upward steadily and evenly. When it reaches my head, I know I will come unglued and I will become the antithesis of these nothing feelings. I will become irrational rage, raw and ready and frustrated to the point of detonation. Seizing upon this momentary calm, I rush to the car and turn on the headlights. I flex my left foot to make sure Annabelle’s address is still there and then I run around to the front of the car and stand in the flooding glare. A car will come by soon, and when it does, I will get the driver to stop. By any means necessary I will get the driver to stop and then I will tear this highway to fucking pieces until I find him.

And then what?

Save him from death?

Protect him from a world that is dying?

No, none of these things, but something new, something like the love implanted inside for Annabelle, something good in a dreadful world, something I haven’t felt in years if ever at all. If I am lucky enough to find him, I will offer him my friendship: total friendship and the lost ability to reciprocate concern and kindness.

In the short time I have known him, he has shown a legitimate concern for my physical and mental well-being and he is the first person to ask me about myself, who I am and what I feel—in ages. Granted, I have constructed a self-imposed wall and don’t let people in, but Eddie sensed this and pushed through anyway. He noted the pain in my eyes and the sorrow in my heart and he didn’t shrug them off, or ignore them, or even delude himself into thinking that everything was okay. He wanted answers and he wanted to know what was wrong with me so that maybe he could help. The fact that he couldn’t is moot. I have to stick with my initial plan and do everything I can to save him and make sure his last few hours are worthwhile. Besides, the idea of some monster hurting him makes me fucking crazy.

Flames eat my brain and it feels as though my heart has been pulled from my rib cage. Why does shit like this happen? Can I get any deader inside? I mean, what are the fucking odds? Anti-luck, from day one. Poor Eddie—my friend, my only friend—I am the worst thing to ever happen to him.

I squint and stare hard into the night. No car lights in either direction. The minivan is gaining a tremendous lead and I kick the ground in helpless aggravation. Waiting, always waiting. I feel like I am drowning.

The fucked-up thing is I can barely remember what the minivan looks like. The incident happened so damn fast and the whole time I was plotting the fate(s) of Eddie’s captor(s). It’s ultimately indicative of why I am here and why this world deserves the sickness I am about to unleash upon it. Everybody’s constantly plotting, constantly thinking about themselves. This alone doesn’t necessarily warrant mass extinction. Self and survival are important things, but they must be tempered with compassion and an exterior awareness. Humanity is far too audacious for its own good. I never considered for a moment that the minivan driver was a threat. He or she or they, with their twisted abduction plans, probably never considered me a threat.

The end is coming and I am proud to bring it because humanity as a collective can’t possibly think outside of itself. It can’t even recognize the harm it may or may not be doing to anything other than itself because it only thinks about itself.

The crazy, esoteric details of my mission, the stuff I struggle with, the notion that the earth is dreaming us and we are somehow infecting it, a dream consuming the dreamer, makes little to no sense, but the idea that we as a species are forcing our will and mindlessly corrupting something of beauty, enslaving it and bending it to our whims makes complete sense—after all, it’s what we do.

And it’s a shame because the Eddies of the world are suffering for mistakes they haven’t yet made. “Yet” being the operative word. Even Eddie, if given the chance to grow old, would eventually give up on poking around in other people’s minds and he would get lost in his own.

A loud horn blares. While absorbed within myself, thinking idiot thoughts, I failed to notice the car that has pulled onto the shoulder.

The car looks very fast, a Porsche, I think, though I am pretty bad with car names. I run up to the passenger door and the window rolls down. A man with dark, oily hair and wild, wild eyes yells over the roar of his engine, “Are you all right?”

“I need help,” I respond and the man motions for me to get in. I do, but then he says, “Your lights. You better turn off your lights.” I nod and get out and run back to the car.

A minute later we are tearing down the road.

“Name’s Logan.” The oily-haired man sniffs hard and extends his hand. He is wearing leather gloves with cut-off fingertips. I pretend not to see his hand; I don’t know if this guy will be able to help me and I don’t want to infect him just yet.

After a second he withdraws his hand and puts it on the wheel. “So you broke down, huh? Need a lift to the next town?”

Words don’t come. I don’t want to spook him, but I am trying to figure the best way to explain. He looks strong and potentially mean and he may be an asset if he hates kidnappers as much as the next person. Not that I need any help what with my killing hand, but it’s nice having a driver—it gives me more time to think.

Logan takes his eyes off the road and gives me a long stare. “Have you been crying?”

I wipe my face. I guess I have. Embarrassment blooms. “Thanks for stopping.”

“No prob. You look like you needed some help is all.”

I decide to lay it out for him. In quick, concise words I tell my story. Me and my friend, um son, were driving along when we ran out of gas and a black minivan rolled up and on and on.

Logan sniffs a few more times, steps on the gas hard, and then starts shaking his head no. “I can’t fucking believe it, man! I cannot fucking believe it! Don’t worry…What did you say your name was?”

“Charles.”

“Don’t you worry, Charles, we will get your boy. We will find those sons of bitches and cut their goddamn balls off. We will shove their cocks down their slimy throats!”

Fishing around under his seat, Logan brings out a big, shiny gun and then says low, under his breath, “We’ll blow their fucking heads off. You’re lucky I picked you up, man. This is your lucky day. We’ll blow their heads off. Their big heads and their little heads if you catch my drift.” His volume returns. “You catch my drift?”

“Loud and clear,” I say.

“Loud and clear, that’s good.”

Logan’s head is still shaking no and he sniffs another couple of times. Something is off and I am starting to feel uncomfortable. It’s good to see he is so eager to help, but why does he have a gun tucked under his seat? Why is he so fidgety and high-strung?

“So Chuck, I have to ask, and forgive me if you take offense now, but are you queer?” He looks at me and nervously chews his lip.

Is this a baited question? Is he some queer-hating murderer? Well, who cares, what’s he gonna do, kill me? “No, I’m not a queer.”

“That’s too bad.” He rests his gun hand on my left leg and I am about to use my killing hand to remove it when he returns it to the steering wheel. “I’m queer as fuck. That’s why I stopped; for some action, you know? But don’t get me wrong, just because I prefer men don’t mean I can’t kick some child-snatching motherfucker’s head in. Don’t be nervous now, I’m going to get your son back.”

Crude, yes, but there is an honest gleam in his eyes and the vibe in the air evens out. “Thanks,” I say and he smiles as he shoves the gun back down under his seat.

“For safe keeping.” Logan continues to feel around under the seat and this time comes up with a thumb-sized vial filled with white-yellow powder. He extends it toward me and says, “Wings?”

“No thanks.”

He shrugs, “Don’t mind if I do.” And with one expert hand he has the vial uncapped and up his nose.

I don’t do drugs for fear they will get me sick or too high or whatever it is they do and I am glad I don’t because chances are this isn’t the first time Logan has shoved that vial up his nose. The idea of taking it and shoving it up my nose after it has been up his makes me cringe.

Logan sniffs and shakes his head and shouts, “Like a bat out of hell, my friend. I cannot wait!”

Me either. I am struck by a funny thought and I look down at my tight-fitting shirt. “It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”

“Say what?” Sniffle, sniff, sniff.

“The reason you thought I was queer.”

“Maybe. It’s a queer shirt if I ever seen one.”

“It’s Eddie’s, the boy, um my son’s mother’s shirt.”

“Your wife?”

“No.” I think about Eddie and go gloomy.

“You just keep positive. That minivan can’t do over a hundred, I guaran-fuckin’-tee it. Basic math says we’re bound to catch it. Where you from?”

“Walnut Creek.”

“Holy shit. The epicenter, man.”

“What?”

“The epidemic, man. That little city is up in arms. All these people started dying up there. The shit spread like wildfire and then it started popping up in San Fran. I’m getting as far away as I can from any major city. I’m gonna lay low somewhere in the Midwest. You must be getting away too? Hot shit, look at us, the only sane men in all of California. I was worried the roads were gonna be jammed in all directions. People are too fucking proud, man. When words like
epidemic
and
virus
start popping up, you can count me out. Where were you headed?”

“I was just taking Eddie to Vegas.”

“You’re taking your boy to Vegas?” His eyes go wide with disbelief.

I nod and stare out the window. No taillights for as far as the eye can see.

Logan shakes his head violently. “You don’t want to do that, man. If I were you, I’d stay out of any cities for a while. I’d stay away from large groups of people. This is probably some government shit. Chemical warfare or something most likely. You know about chemical warfare, man?” Sniff, sniffle, sniff, sniff.

I shake my head and Logan begins to tell me all about it. I pretend to listen and think about Eddie. He’s tough, what’s more, he’s smart. He’ll figure a way out. He’ll outsmart whoever has him. He’ll escape.

“…and there’s no escape. You hear that, Chuck? There is no escape.”

“There never is,” I mumble, unaware of what we are talking about.

“That’s right, there never is. You know why? Because they put it in the food! They hit us right where it hurts. They know what’s up. They know if they take out the food source, they take us…” and on and on and on, sniff, sniff, sniffle.

An hour and a head full of Logan’s speed-fueled conspiracy theories later, there’s still no minivan. We cruise the casino parking lots at the state line. Logan slumps down low in his seat and slits his eyes in spy mode. Searching, combing every inch of asphalt, we come up empty and then blow through the forty-minute drive to Vegas in just under twenty minutes. About ten miles shy of the city, Logan pulls off the freeway into a virtually deserted rest stop. A few dark cars litter the dark parking lot.

“You see that?” He gestures into the distance. A skyline of mountains glows, backlit by the brilliant illumination of the city beyond. “Vegas is just over that ridge. I can’t go down there. I was hopin’ we’d catch your boy by now, but the bastards must have gotten a bigger lead on us than I figured. Either that or they pulled off somewhere along the way. It fucking blows because I want to help you out, but I really can’t go down there, not now. My head feels mushy from the crank.” He digs under his seat and retrieves the gun. “With this, I would kick some major asshole-age. Down there in that crazed mess I won’t be able to keep it together. Paranoia, you know?” He looks around for emphasis.

“It’s okay,” I say and open the door.

“Hey!” Logan reaches past me, grabs my arm (your twenty-four hours starts now) and then pulls the door closed. “I’m not gonna fucking abandon you! Hell no. Shit, let’s double back and look real careful. Do you think they pulled off somewhere?”

“I don’t know.” And I really don’t. It’s getting late and I don’t see how I am going to find Eddie by dawn or ever. I don’t see how combing the dark, dark desert is going to yield results. Vegas is just as much of a long shot, but it makes more sense to keep moving forward.

Logan talks quietly. “I don’t want to choke your chain. We kept our eyes peeled the whole way here. As much as I want to believe backtracking will help, it probably won’t.” The volume returns. “But don’t fucking give up! Your boy is kicking the bastard’s teeth in and running. I know it. I bet you he’s down there, maybe at the police station or something. Shit, get out!”

“What?”

“Get out of the car!” Logan jumps out. I do the same and he motions for me to come around. “Get in!”

“What?”

“Take the car! Find your boy and put a hot fucking bullet in those bastards who took ’im.” Logan hands me the gun. I hesitate, but he shakes it at me and I grab it. “Cap those motherfuckers! Get in!”

I jump into the driver’s seat.

Logan holds the door and leans in a little. “I ain’t gonna lie to you, the gun and the car aren’t mine, they’re hotter than diarrhea, so it’s probably not the best idea to go rolling up to a police station. Just be careful and remember, whatever happens always have faith. Situations like yours really floor me, they really throw everything into perspective and make my stupid problems seem weak, but they also remind me that for every kid snatching fuckwad there’s a hundred decent folks like you and me. There are millions of us.” Sniff, sniff. He looks around nervously.