I Will Rise (19 page)

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Annabelle whispers.

“Fuck that. First off, all these fuckers are dead. Mr. Meathead, the corpse out there, is a fully charged battery of death. He is radiating as we speak and every one of these pompous fools is already dead.”

“Charles?” Annabelle looks lost and ready to burst into tears.

I scan the crowd. There is one spot unobstructed by a substantially sized vehicle. A motorcycle and an old Volkswagen beetle are butted up against each other. Their owners stand defiant in front of them. Idiots. There isn’t much room to maneuver, but a few sharp turns should get me out. I crank the engine and then rev the engine. The crowd shifts. Murmurs and nervous energy and the intensifying blare of sirens charges the atmosphere.

Taking a deep lung-bursting breath, I punch it. The Jeep’s tires squeal and a loud thunk resounds as the gas pump is ripped from the gas tank. The vulnerable spot is to my right so I yank the wheel. The Jeep fishtails and crushes a few people, slamming them against a white, er, red motor home. I press the pedal to the floor and yank the wheel one last time. The Jeep careens perfectly and slams into the Bug and motorcycle. The bike flies up and over, its owner isn’t so lucky and the Jeep’s tires crush him. Blood and gunk splash the windshield. The other people, the Bug’s owner and a few stragglers, luck out and dive to freedom. The Jeep fights with the Bug for a second and then rips its front end to shreds.

A few disorientating seconds later I am speeding down the highway and Annabelle is screaming, “I love you, Charles, I love you!”

Indeed.

I am smiling so big it hurts. If you could see me, you would undoubtedly think there goes the happiest motherfucker on earth.

Indeed.

Chapter Thirteen

Unwound

Ditch the Jeep. Priority one. And it’s a shame because we are so close. Annabelle’s house is less than twenty miles away and it would be so easy to just keep the gas pedal depressed and take it all the way. Regardless, the Jeep has to go, it’s simply too dangerous. Every cop in the world is looking for it by now. Oh well, I am happy to get rid of it, the
My Other Ride is Your Girlfriend
bumper sticker is flat-out embarrassing and the more I drive it the more I miss the Cadillac (which, by the way, contains the boss coat I ganked from the Excalibur. Shit.).

It’s weird because the cops should be on us. They’re not, and I’m not sure why, as the sirens were awfully close by the time I crashed my way to freedom. The ease of our getaway, our speeding down the freeway unobstructed, makes me awfully nervous.

Annabelle bounces in the passenger’s seat singing my praises and I am beaming, my dead insides pseudo-alive with adrenaline and warmth, but unfortunately I am unable to fully enjoy the invigoration or adoration or lifelike feeling, what with me having to worriedly look in the rearview mirror every two seconds.

Twelve miles scream by and still no pigs.

“Confusion and chaos,” Annabelle says. “Keep them confused and they will never catch us.”

We arrive in Mesa, Arizona. I exit the freeway the first chance I get and pull into a crowded shopping center. I start looking for a car to steal, sliding my eyes from side to side, when Annabelle suggests I take the bus.

“The bus can get you within two miles, or so I’ve heard, I’ve never actually taken it, but there is a shopping mall a couple miles from my house. Alton Mall. Can you remember that? I am sure there is a bus stop. The walk from the mall should be a piece of cake and when you get here, we can use my parents’ car.” Annabelle starts to flicker. “Shit, I think I am starting to wake up.”

I pull the Jeep into a parking spot and hop out.

“You still got my address?” Annabelle is really starting to go fuzzy.

Kneeling, I pull the address from my sock and show her.

“You’re awesome. Just ask someone at the mall for walking directions.” She smiles and then disappears completely, leaving me staring into space. After a few seconds, just as a big, sick ache (the missing-Annabelle kind) starts to set in, she rematerializes. “I really mean it, Charles—about you being awesome, that is. I love”—more flickering—“and remember, Alton mall.” And then much to my dismay she’s gone again.

I wait a few more seconds hoping for her to reappear but it never happens. Biting my lip I remind myself that we will be together for real, in the flesh, very soon.

The farther I get from the Jeep, the better I feel. My mind relaxes a smidge. Talk about intense. Annabelle just told me she loves me (or at least I think that’s what she said) and barring the warmth inside, I can’t even begin to think about it, I can’t revel in it or turn it over in my mind or rethink my ex-unrequited feelings. No celebration here just yet. Not while residue from the close call bubbles in my head.

What the hell happened back there?

With me: crazy, bloodlust, savage, thrill kill, and with them: organized aggressive mob mentality?

Sitting at the bus stop, the sorrowful eye wall rises and brow-beats me into sorry submission. I never want to kill again. Not the way I feel. Not the way guilt and sadness unglue my insides, strong as hurt, subduing even these feelings of love.

I picture Mr. Meathead, my hands in his abdomen, and I shudder with remorse. It’s getting worse. I am going kill crazy. I am losing control. The first gas station was scary, Vegas intense, the rest stop brutish and this last gas station a nightmare. It’s like my brain is being consumed and the need is taking over. There is no abject fear or guilt or sense. I move on autopilot, kill mode, aggression and lust and power. I feel like a wild, predatory animal. No, worse, I feel like a wild, predatory man because believe it or not there is pleasure. Somewhere, underneath it all, I enjoy the kill. I get a sick satisfaction from the destruction.

I picture Mr. Motorcycle, body pulping beneath the wheels of the Jeep. I picture hundreds of eyes watching me from the perimeter of the gas station, soon to join the wall, soon to pollute my mind. Guilt floods.

Soon: the weight of the world in my head.

Soon: the end in my head.

Down deep, beneath the dense guilt and fruiting love fighting for control of my emotions, a perplexing question takes root and rises: how did the Gas Station People of Nowheresville, USA, get their shit together and surround me so quickly?

True, I was literally gone for a minute or so, lost in my killing head, but still, how did they group so damn fast? It was like they were expecting me. It doesn’t seem possible, yet there they were, staring, waiting, hoping to corral me and see me brought to justice by their eternally slow police force.

How did they do it so quickly?

Something inside the human anima must have just clicked.

Survival.

Communication.

The concurrent realization.

The will to survive is strong and the fact that I am a threat has settled within the human collective. They may not always pay attention—like now, waiting for the bus, I see people everywhere—but they don’t notice me. But, if I do something to trigger concern, like dramatically killing a man in broad daylight for instance, they will notice. The news reports, the papers, the whispers that move like fire consuming oxygen. They will notice. I have to be extra careful. No more showboating or giving in to deathly desires, no more losing control. From now on it’s just quick, effective, simple touches, brushes and accidental contact.

The Mesa city bus pulls up in an explosion of jarring squeaks and hisses and I am startled to my feet. I shuffle aboard and start for a seat when the driver yells after me, “You didn’t pay! Get back up here, buddy!”

I turn around, keep my eyes glued to the floorboards, and approach the driver pretending to look for the change I know I don’t have. When I get to the front, the driver regards me with disgust. I am a mess yet again, covered in Mr. Beer Spiller’s beer and eyeball crud and Mr. Meathead’s blood and my own ripe, dead stench. My hands are particularly bad, stained red and caked with dirty gunk. The bus driver continues to unapologetically make discerning faces.

Asshole, I think.

I should drain the egotism out of his fat head. And goddamn me, I am tempted. Everything goes abuzz and the black rose pushes its evil way through the goopy gray of my brain.

The trigger, I caution.

Awareness, I caution.

I have to swallow back pride and keep my head down. If the bus driver, or anyone who may be watching, associates me with the news of the day, there’ll be trouble.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I grovel. I try to slur my voice and go for the homeless drunk routine.

“Put a buck in the feeder, or get off my bus,” he snarls back.

ASSHOLE.

Smug, cold motherfucker.

It’s real easy to get past the guilt with this one. Dollar-less and fighting with myself to keep it together, I stumble off the bus and plop down onto the bus stop bench.

The bus doors hiss shut.

Fuck! I gotta get a buck. Just one fucking dollar stands between me and my Annabelle. The bus continues to idle and I keep expecting it to rumble away, but after a few seconds the door reopens.

“It must be your lucky day, pal,” calls the bus driver. A man, midforties, wearing a kick-ass black suit, nods at me and feeds a dollar into the money-eating contraption.

The bus driver pipes up again, “Come on, buddy, I don’t got all day.”

As I board the bus, my benefactor stands his ground, smiling a big white straight smile and motioning for me to pass. He looks like a lawyer or a businessman or something high post. I nod at him and squeeze by. Our bodies touch and I give him a weak smile and say, “Thanks.”

“It’s nothing, man.” He smiles wider. “So long as it helps you get where you’re going, I’m happy to help.”

Too nice. Soon dead. Another one bites the dust, my body bestowing the twenty-four-hour death sentence. And it sucks biting the hand that feeds you, but there’s nothing I can do. Oh well, I’m probably doing him a favor; it’s probably better to die in these first few days anyway. Who knows what the world is going to become before it ends.

The bus is nearly full and I make my way down the aisle, accidentally/purposefully brushing against numerous riders. Little bursts of black and red detonate behind my eyes. By the time I find an empty seat, the insides of my head are spinning. I feel like a black hole. Hugging myself, I rest my head against the cool Plexiglas of the window.

My benefactor comes strolling down the aisle and I get worried that he is going to sit next to me and try to talk to me or something. He paid my way and if he wants some company for his buck, I suppose it’s the decent thing to do. Unfortunately for him, I am not decent, and I am not a whore and I couldn’t care less if snubbing him is construed as rude. Fortunately for me, he passes by and takes the seat behind mine.

The bus vibrates along and I keep my eyes and ears open for the Alton mall. A few stops in, my benefactor leans forward in his seat and says, “Where you headed?”

I fucking knew it. I ignore him and continue to stare out the window.

“Hey, man, where you headed?” He leans way forward, jutting his neck out over the adjoining seat, trying to make eye contact.

“The Alton mall,” I say standoffishly. I look at my lap and pick dried blood from one of my hands.

“Are you okay there?” The man gestures with his head at my hands.

“Paint.”

“Oh wow, are you an artist?”

“Yes.” Of sorts.

“Have you done anything, um, famous?”

“No.” I exhibit all the personality of a rock.

The man senses this and says, “I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just a people person, you know? I like to talk and get to know all different kinds of people. That’s why I ride the bus.” I don’t respond and he takes my silence for invitation and moves into the empty seat beside me. He extends his hand and introduces himself, “Jim.”

I raise my hands and display the blood.

“Right, paint,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “Well it’s good to meet you anyway… What did you say your name was?”

I didn’t. But alas, I can’t be a total dick. “Charles,” I respond, not friendly, not rude.

“Charles! That’s a strong name. A man’s name!”

“Right.” A little weird.

“You know, Charles, I couldn’t believe the way that bus driver treated you. No respect. It’s not about the money. A dollar? Big deal. It’s about the way we talk to one another. Well don’t worry, I got his ID number right here”—he taps his head—“and I intend to call up the transportation department and report his behavior straightaway.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No, I do, I have to. I have to.” The man’s voice lilts in odd directions and I notice he is starting to sweat. “I have to, because we can’t treat each other like that. Maybe stupid people like him! But not us. We have to protect the welfare of our fellow man.” His voice drops to a gravelly whisper. “I know who you are.”

Okay, now I am fully uncomfortable. “What?”

Harsh whispering: “We can stop you. Just look around.” Jim gestures with his hand and I follow. Almost everybody, except for the bus driver and a random person here or there, is staring at me. Eyes upon eyes, staring, accusing, like in my head, like at the gas station, but real and closer. I quickly avert and stare at my hands. I shiver and flush and go white with fright.

Jim continues to whisper, “We almost lost you. That fat idiot, I got his ID number right here”—he taps his head again—“almost let you get away. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t dream it. But don’t worry there, Charles, I do and so do they.” He gestures again.

I keep my eyes on my hands. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. At the next stop, we get off. We got a lot to go over.”

“Look, man, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about!” What the fuck? I am growing way nervous and a little annoyed.

“Oh Charles. Charles, Charles, Charles.” Jim shakes his head and makes a tsking sound with his tongue. “It’s all in here.” He points at his head yet again. “Not just for me either. I’m not crazy. I’m not delusional. I know you. We all know you. The cop, the police dog, the little kid, your girlfriend, we’ve seen it all. Every night when I go to sleep you’re there and every night it gets worse and every morning the bullshit carnage you inflict is all over the news. Well now, finally, it’s my, our, chance to get involved and do something about it.”

“I…” I don’t know what to say. I’d play dumb and keep asserting that I have no idea what he is talking about, except I don’t have to play—I really don’t know what he is talking about. Well, I know what he is talking about, but I don’t know how the hell he knows.

The bus lurches to a stop and Jim gets up. I stay seated.

“Get up,” he demands.

I notice that many of the people who were staring at me have exited the bus. They shuffle away from the bus in a group.

“Where are you going to go, Charles? We’re everywhere. We are attuned and ready. We will find you, like at the gas station, like here on the bus. Shit, maybe you really don’t know what I’m talking about. In that case, I can help you. I can help you to help all of us. Come on, get up.”

The bus driver yells back, “You getting off?”

Jim shouts back, “Yes, just give me a second,” and looks at me anxiously. “I would drag you off if I could, but I know what you are. I know about your powers. I know everything. I know the truth behind the lies your girlfriend’s been feeding you. Don’t you want to know what you are? Don’t you want to know the truth? We could tell you.”

I look out the window and ignore him.

“Okay then, I guess we’ll have to kill your girl. She’s your guide and you won’t get anywhere without her. We were hoping to avoid such messy tactics, but if we can’t have you, she’ll have to do.”

I continue to ignore him.

“Just hear me out, Charles. Five minutes and I can change everything. I’ve dreamed all of this: you, your girlfriend, this bus ride. I can change everything. Besides, if you don’t get off this bus with me, they will kill her, I swear, it’s been planned and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Except make sure you get off this bus with me.”