Cannibal Corpse, M/C

Slaughter hopped on the hardtail and waved to him and Frank Feathers waved back, both knowing they’d never see each other again. At least not on this side of the pale. Slaughter followed the dirt road out to the pavement and opened up the hog until he could really feel the wind biting into him. He rode like that for maybe twenty minutes until he felt a weird anxiety taking hold of him. He wasn’t making the turns in the road so good anymore. He was sweating. He was shaking. A town appeared before him and a green sign said: EXODUS, pop. 1200. He pulled in and followed deserted streets, getting tangled up in a weird snaking labyrinth that was partly physical but mostly in his head. He parked his scoot at a little grassy park and stepped off, falling face first into the grass which was so vividly green it seemed to reach up to him, every blade a separate finger of hallucinogenic color. The smell of it was intoxicating. He pulled himself to his knees, grounded by waves of intense nausea. He vomited but had no temporal memory of it, thinking it had happened many hours before except that the bile on his chin was wet, so very wet. It smelled like a freshly-cut lawn.

He stood uneasily, sweating rivers.

Before it went too far, he grabbed his road bag off the scoot which contained the Combat Mag and extra speed loaders and his Kukri. It was important to have these things with him, he decided. In his mind they were totemic. He stepped through the vibrant green grass, making for a peeling bench bordering a monument. The earth felt squishy beneath his boots. He was aware of the blades of grass crushing beneath his step, the sound they made. It was almost like they were crying out in pain.

The bench.

He fell into it.

And went for a ride…

* * *

He was shivering in the sun and sweating hot rivers, his limbs feeling numb and his mouth oddly dry. The sky above was so brilliantly blue that it was like neon. The monument was a great slab of stone that seemed to rise higher before him like a monolith. It sparkled like silica. He was getting off good and he seemed to know it without actually knowing anything but the whisper of the wind and the clarity of all things like his eyes were truly open for the first time in his life.

“What was that Indian’s name?” he heard his voice ask. “Did he have a name?”

He put his hands to his ears because his voice was loud and booming and he could see the sound waves moving through the air like ripples in a pond, picking up speed, flying off towards the hazy mountains in the distance and then rolling back at him, each individual wave hitting him like breakers and making him cry out. The words were turned around and pulled inside out and they echoed around him, hitting him from all sides.

“THAT…”

What?

“DID HE?”

Stop it!

“NAME WAS THAT…”

He was shaking now, begging for it to stop.

“INDIAN DID HE WHAT WAS…”

“Auuughhhh,” he moaned and shook with dry heaves.

“NAME HAVE WHAT WAS…”

“Shut up,” he managed.

“DID NAME HAVE HE INDIIIIIAAAAAN…”

Breathing in and out now, he remembered that a long time ago he heard echoes in a dream and maybe it wasn’t a dream at all and where the hell was he and where had the other Disciples gone? He could feel them near, his brain replaying bits of conversation from years past that sounded new and recent.

He felt heights of exhilaration and lows of terror, everything in-between. He tried to speak but his mouth would not work. His hands felt numb and he flexed his fingers but was afraid to look at them because he feared they would be gone. Everything was disjointed and unreal and in its unreality had a weight and a physical presence beyond anything he had known before. The tangible was intangible and the unknown all-too apparent. With altered perception, he could not be sure how long he had been in the park or how close or far away objects were.

He looked at the trees in the park and wondered how their limbs moved with no breeze and wondered why all the houses in those tight little neighborhoods flanking the park had suddenly become tombstones that were gray and chipped and flecked with lichen. Or had they always been like that? A squirrel raced by his boot and Slaughter was certain it had been laughing at him. He saw a bee. A big fat bumblebee. It hovered in the air before him and Slaughter was thinking how bright were the yellow bands encircling its body. He could see its eyes and the careful smirk on its little bee mouth and the wings, moving so fast they buzzed…but if he concentrated, they moved very, very slow and then he was aware of how many hairs the bee had. Black hairs. Yellow hairs. Bulging sacs of pollen on its legs that looked to be the size of fanny packs. When the bee moved, it left a trail of pollen behind it that shimmered like golden fairy dust.

“Pay attention now,” said the bee and flew off.

Hey, asshole.