The Black Seas of Infinity (26 page)

The ground starts sloping upward. A few more
feet, and I break the surface of the water. The rain has stopped, a
cloudy gloom having overtaken the sky. Mist curls up from the water
in gossamer spirals of condensation.

I intuit that I’m on the Mexican side, as if
I possess some sort of intrinsic mapping system. I just have no
idea how to exploit its properties. I tread up onto dry land. A
lonesome savanna of rolling desert stretches out before me. It’s
desolate terrain marked by an endless maze of flowing hills, the
sandy dunes blanketed by pygmy trees. The Chihuahuan Desert.
Stumbling forward, I slowly crest the bank, wandering forward into
the barren wasteland.

I had planned to disappear down here. To hide
out at least until the US authorities stopped looking for me. But
the situation has changed. In the midst of all this strife, I doubt
anyone is looking for me. I wonder if the people in North Carolina,
now that they are separate from the politicians in Washington, even
know what they have. I wonder if that bunker is still in one
piece.

I wish I could be there, in the US, to
witness everything going to hell. Though it was purely by accident,
I probably picked the perfect time to steal this body. I amble
forward, into the wilderness.

The rolling plateaus offer up an unending
parade of restless sand, the dunes crossed by the macabre shadows
of deformed trees. The sky is dark and depressing, casting a pall
over the land. As I climb, the demesne grows more aggressive, the
terrain curving upward into increasingly steeper hills. Trees start
to take over, transforming the late evening desert into a shadowy
forest. The woods deepen, their canopy of leaves sealing off the
sky. The landscape feels strange and remote, throwing my mind into
an unfamiliar bent. Not that anything is normal any longer. I’m
miles from anything I would ever have considered home, mentally and
physically, and continually burnt by the endless venom of people.
There is no safe ground. We all fight a losing struggle until we
don’t so much die as wear down, and get surpassed by the hungry new
generation, always at our heels.

The wind rustles through the leaves, and a
shaft of starlight pours down. The day has finally died off, veiled
under its cloud cover. I didn’t even notice. But why only a single
star? A wispy patch of sand and brush ahead of me is illuminated, a
strange tunnel of blueish light descending from the star. The
forest is deathly silent, even the wind now drawing no response. I
feel strange, my vision blurring at the corners. The air is tense,
kinetic, like it’s filled with electricity. I see a dark form,
moving among the trees, just beyond the circle of light. I can’t
seem to focus on it—every turn of my head is a split second too
slow. A glimpse of long black hair, and a human shape bobs through
the trees. I... can’t... quite... get a clear view. A gentle
humming fills the air, the sense of electricity even stronger now.
Slowing down, I peer intensely at the surroundings. Pale blue flits
across the trunks, casting wavering shadows in its wake. The
underbrush is pressed down, flowing in concentric circles away from
the descending glow. A blur of movement on my periphery, and I spin
around. Nothing! A flicker of noise, and I turn my head back to the
light.

Brilliantly illuminated in a florescent
tunnel burning down from the heavens is my dead wife. She’s naked,
except for an exquisite belt of silver and an armband of metallic
rings. Her black hair floats around her head as if suspended in
liquid. She looks right past me, her gaze focused on something far
beyond, and raises two silver cups.

I don’t know what to do. Is one meant for me?
Both? What does it mean? I’m elated, overjoyed at seeing my
beautiful little girl. I knew she wasn’t dead! She’s come back for
me!

A trickle of blood forms on the edge of her
lips. Suddenly spilling over, it cascades down her chin. She raises
the cups. I reach up to take one, but I can’t move. My body is
frozen. I start to panic. Have I been in this body too long? It was
never meant to be inhabited permanently! I know I could get her
attention, get some sort of response, if only I could reach
her!

She tips the cups, and blood pours out,
dousing her chest in a torrent of crimson. A sense of distance
fills the air, and even though she doesn’t move, I can sense her
pulling away.

No! She can’t leave yet! There is so much to
be said...so many questions...

I struggle, try to lash out! My mind is in a
frenzy, but I can’t move! In an instant, she’s gone, and I feel the
crushing weight of defeat. My breath falls short, and I scream out
silently in my head! I feel tears well up in my eyes, and I can
barely see.

I find myself staring at the silent pillars
of trees. Noise has returned, the nighttime forest now a cacophony
of sound. Leaves rustle, animals scamper, insects crawl. Movement
has returned, and I swivel my head around, desperately looking for
something?

Some sign! Some presence! No! It isn’t
fair!

My eyes are dry, and I no longer feel any
sense of breathing.

It’s all in my mind? Nothing happened! I look
down at my arm, smooth and black. I order it to move, and it
rotates. I can’t tell if it’s more responsive than it was or less.
I feel like I’m coming down from a head rush—not dizzy, but not
fully in the here and now. Is this because I can’t dream? Maybe
humans are meant to dream, and because I can’t, my mind doesn’t
know how to cope? But it didn’t feel like a dream, it felt real!
Sad and depressed now, I start walking again.

CHAPTER XVI

NEITHER MOUNTAIN NOR RIVER NOR
ALL THE KING’S MEN?

I’ve spent days, almost a week, tromping through the
hills and forests of Mexico. Steep inclines carpeted with trees
flow throughout in a complex labyrinth of wilderness. The
vegetation is dwarfish and overbearing in the low-lying areas, but
rises up into lofty coniferous trunks in the steeper foothills.
It’s a beautiful view, the steep hills rising up into mountains,
losing even the isolated cabins as they ascend.

I’ve seen a few people, usually picking up
their ambient noises long before they approach. It’s not hard to
avoid them. It’s striking how Spartan some of the lifestyles are in
this region. Small, wealthy chateaus for the tourists are
intermingled with loosely thatched huts. The walls scrabbled
together out of branches, the floor bare plots of dirt. Inhabited
by isolated mountain folk that probably still believe in spirits
and monsters. Come to think of it, some have probably seen me,
going to great pains to avoid my passage. It makes me wonder what
stories I’ve inspired along the way. Good to know I’m
single-handedly keeping legends of the supernatural alive. I might
not be some monster from the depths of Hell, but the story behind
my presence is at least as fascinating, and could probably be
interpreted as equally metaphysical. There is more than one line of
thinking that links most ancient mythical and religious encounters
to actual extraterrestrial sightings. They were obviously distorted
by time and faith into theistic visitations, but so was everything
unexplainable by man at one point. With no knowledge of science,
there were gods of fire. Gods of wind, earth, and water. Gods—or
the actions of gods—to explain the days and seasons. Native
Americans first viewed the arrival of the Spanish as a visit from
the gods. Look how that turned out. So in that sense perhaps I’ve
become a god by default. There is something nice and cynical about
that.

I’m roughly following Route 57, which I know
cuts a swath through much of Mexico. I’ve been hiking through these
hinterlands for longer than it took me to travel from upstate New
York to the border, but in effort expounded, it’s been far
less.

I’ve crossed dune-speckled savannas, wandered
like a long lost spaghetti western cowboy through loose clusters of
dwarfish shrubbery, and scaled steep, rock-studded hills. Forests
come and go, the rugged terrain intensifying into shaded woodland
for long stretches. These are the step hills to the Sierra Madres,
and probably the safest route, but I’m growing bored with the
journey. I have yet to feel tired, but I trudge forward day and
night through harsh terrain, avoiding all contact. Mostly I stick
to the remote woods. Isolated pockets of cultivated wealth pop up,
small chateaus secluded in the backwoods. Dirt roads cut across the
harsh terrain. I pass a rail line, the slender tracks chiseling a
twisting circuit through the slopes. Something tells me that,
sooner or later, sheer boredom is going to drive me into another
dangerous situation.

I crest yet another hill, one of the
countless stunted embankments at the base of the mountain range.
I’m on a low-lying peak, and I can see Route 57 on the far right.
Below me is something too good to be true. A light blue FJ 40 is
parked in front of a weathered old ranch house. I’ve always had a
thing for those old Toyotas.

Sauntering down the hill, I stroll out onto
the asphalt driveway. The whitewashed brick house is luminescent in
the bright midday sun, the pavement in front cracked and warped.
The whole abode has seen better days.

The old Land Cruiser doesn’t have any side or
rear doors, and the lustrous white roof props a rusting shell of a
hardtop. Splotches of corrosion mar the wheel wheels, the brown
oxide nibbling a haphazard trajectory along the fender. As long as
it runs, that’s all that matters. I duck under the dashboard. A
twist of the wires, and the engine coughs to life. I pull out my
head in time to see a stout Mexican, his tousled black hair jutting
up in the throes of interrupted sleep. His eyes are focused on me
in an impassive gaze. I don’t see fear or anger, just a dry,
impenetrable look. The breeze rustles his tan trousers, the only
clothes he’s wearing. He doesn’t move, his brown eyes looking at me
evenly, the mouth closed and inscrutable. I crawl in the seat,
keeping my eyes trained on his face. Shifting into reverse, I pull
around in a semi-circle and shove the lever into first. The engine
responds sluggishly, trembling and shaking with the sudden demand
placed on it. Recovering almost immediately, it thunders forward,
picking up steam as the RPMs rise. Glancing in the rear view
mirror, I see the owner is still staring after me. I wonder what’s
going through his head. Maybe I’m like some mystical creature come
to life and he dares not meddle?

I thunder forward, the wind whipping around
the corners. The springs creak and moan with every vibration, the
rusty carcass rumbling as it rolls down the highway. These Japanese
cars seem to hold together under conditions that would have long
ago retired any American-made vehicle.

The Mexican interstate is a little
surprising. It’s not at all the ramshackle cliché you often hear
about. Metal guardrails, broad pebble-strewn shoulders, and
overhanging metal signs in the typical glossy green demarcate the
route. Hills and small mountains are spliced through, their rocky
intestines on orderly display as the road chisels a horizontal
niche through their bowels. Squat, whitewashed cement huts
occasionally dot the roadside, the structures only slightly more
austere than in the States.

The crisis in the US isn’t having nearly the
same effect here. I’ll bet heavy truck traffic is lower due to the
suspension of North American shipping lanes, but a decent amount of
local traffic still flies past. The cars look a little older and
more run down, although I’ve seen more than one Hummer 2 and a few
upscale sedans. The flow isn’t considerable, just a car every
twenty minutes or so, but it’s a lot more than I’d grown used to in
the US.

The sun has begun to fall, an overcast sky
blanketing the firmament and deepening the shadows. No cars have
pulled up alongside of me—and in the dimming light the passing cars
probably wouldn’t notice my appearance—but I bet at least one of
the oncoming drivers caught a glimpse of something strange. Given
my previous luck, I’m running on borrowed time.

Route 57 progresses into Route 57D. The sun
finally makes a fatal plunge beyond the horizon, a thin line of
orange above the mountaintops signaling its final death knell.
Light glows off the underbelly of the clouds, casting an orange
iridescence over the treetops. It’s at once beautiful, alien, and
familiar. I pull the light switch. Surprisingly, both headlights
work. It’s smooth sailing at the moment, but something tells me it
won’t last. I’m in a stolen car, in a foreign country, and without
a human face. I’ll be lucky if I make it a day.

Route 57D opens up as I approach the
outskirts of Ciudad de Mexico. Formerly the resplendent
Tenochtitlan, it has been debased by centuries of foreign meddling
into the Mexico City of today.

The roadway widens into a four-lane
thoroughfare, an island of vegetation the dividing barrier.
Warehouses skirt the roadway, followed by a cluster of houses. The
windows glow in the darkness. Large manicured fields replace them,
their open savannas veiled by a smattering of roadside trees. A
giant mass of water overtakes the fields, plunging the landscape
into a rippling basin. The fields fall back in as the lake passes,
but it’s only a brief intermission, as a legion of houses crushes
in on the sides. It’s an unending train of slapdash buildings, the
darkened structures a Latin American version of suburban sprawl.
Trees crop up, cloaking the swarm of domestic lights behind
fleeting pillars of black: Mexico City... and I’m only on the outer
fringes.

The mob of windows fades in and out of view,
the intervening fields growing smaller and less frequent. Giant
gloomy warehouses crop up on my left, the silhouettes of mammoth
silos looming in their dusty recesses. This place is huge. It
rivals Manhattan in size, but feels nothing like New York. It’s
much warmer and more chaotic. Giant shopping malls and batteries of
domiciles push in, burying me in a swarm of industrialization. Cars
in various states of disrepair throng around me, the traffic
picking up as I approach the epicenter. People honk and yell, the
shouts muffled by the pounding exhaust. I try to maintain a stiff
posture, eyes straight ahead. I’m hoping no one can get a close
look. I listen intently for any of the ambient noise being directed
at me, but don’t dare swivel my head.