Day 19: Loose Allegiances

Day 19: Loose Allegiances

This isn’t hard to deduce if you’re here. During said gap, I was told that Wolfman Patrick wanted everyone to catch up to the most notable now of our research. The two shifts typically saved for this exercise were spent getting shouted at by Coldman Jason in his office for insinuating that the Brochure has nothing new to contribute, starting the tenacious argument that will go on for days. He asked me to be open-minded; I scoffed at the disrespect and refused to apologize for throwing the book. Details were to be strictly ordered in chronological order, as remembered; my 'tampering' will not be tolerated, apparently. However, once the storm started, it became clear who paid attention to Harvest-woman April’s briefing. Fucking taking fault for anything that went wrong would be a gross additional neglect of attention to facts that are so ghastly important. Anyway, Day 10: The ‘Reign’ Begins.

No drinking on the ground floor until there was no more drinking period during work hours. Fair. It should be at your own risk, but that corrosive sway of our safety systems could be loose a screw, an atom bomb of gas canisters would kill us all. Thus, Harvest-woman’s yelling is justified. But also, fuck her, I was a champion swimmer; had to pay for college somehow. The first night details our fates, Snow-woman Shawna said. We were on the back wall, way in front of bunk rooms 3 and 4. From here, we could see a sizable chunk of sky pissing on the rain gutters as if the invitation was sealed by the Queen. Every now and again, bland, damp fire would piss off the lights for a second, sick of us if the ignoring-the-generic-brand-light-show of fireflies amongst the timid lightning said anything. Orange emergency warmth radiated off the half-price bulls strung between the vertical fluorescent near the rear of the cavern, making me miss the buzz but not enough to risk them on. The waterfall of descent placement kept the splashing low, depending on the heaviness of rainfall. That’s where she fell off the collector role, and bypass channels were a decent placement. let it age grossly in the higher ups, so to speak. That’s where she wanted to leave it. Not quite fair enough.

“Can I get something—anything? What I did, you gonna make it?”

“Why does it matter?” She responded. “We weren’t scientists; we’re artists, and unseeable as anything but collateral, right?”

“NO. I was a professor.”

“Then why Kieth? You’re nothing—”

“Whoa, Bluemoon had that done. Maybe Max—I got the shit kicked out of me so—”

“Is that why you—Oh, that makes more sense. *gasp* Is she framing you?”

“Wolfman practically handed Ron to me with a candle distracting me from the fuse. Playing politics for the long con.” After her forehead bounced on the tip of her thumb knuckle for the 5th time. The railing vibrated in a deep hum to every hand, elbow, or lower back along the walkways from where she stood hunched over. I handed Snow-woman Shawna the loose page in my notebook. “I’m sorry about Kieth either way. I don’t know if you read this one, but I found it on one of the back trails.”

I tried to keep her from noticing I was giving her a bit of room. That dreaded flip to the back and focused on the trail of lightning stretching beyond the puffy vale. The page fell to the ground floor, heavy with her tears. She fell into my arms, I had to go with her to the steel-grated floor. Once she quieted down and I snuck out my flask, we sat leaning our backs against the railing. Ill-advised per the Harvest-woman, but she was working with the Coldman's blood pressure. We didn’t talk outside of a thanks in the ambience of the sideways downpour.

“HEY! What the fuck did I say about the fucking FLASK?” Harvest-woman April yelled.

End of Day 10

I borrowed a rain poncho from Iceman Xavier, who was surprised that his boating services weren’t required with it, and Harvest-woman April approved the mysterious risk. He only had fifteen, so I assume that’s where his attitude actually brewed from. Surveying the eroding land and shifting wildlife habitats helps him go through a decent amount of fuel. Also, on the sign-out sheet, this was the second time this seating combination did a trip without him. His prying could’ve been genuine curiosity, but I wondered if the confused expression came from the possibility that maybe there was a name mix-up. The distraction was Bluemoon June more than me from the pier; calling it a mission may have made it worse. I figured her and Jerith’s racket was quick lift and flip, with a profit as an informant ordeal, absent the drugs and organs. Possibly, couldn't put it past them yet. Yet, forever the whirlwind, this had an actual stealthier lean. She was confused by my term lean. Day rain in a swamp starts with a delay that can disorient your perception of how heavy the rain pours. Canopy of varying thickness rewrites a long-lasting drizzle into a consistent shower. I’d be lying if I didn’t miss the exaggerated loop of open waters. But know we’re a couple miles away from base, enter the thickness Lake Grand Ecallie, through a path as a rear entry to Port Sulphur. Entering the thin pass marked the end of speed-boating but prompted us to dawn mask in whatever form I could improvise with what I could find. They could have told me I was in the supply room.

I used my sweatbandana to my instant regret, but anyway, we were amongst the boat dwellers. This late in the evening gig, we’re just shy of looking like assholes in our Wall-Mart Gilly suits with the low-hanging cloud cover. Never mind Bluemoon’s insistence on being silent on barely-ground sloshing in the meaty morass soup that should be high grass. You think I would’ve asked by this point why all the secrecy—who’s worth this trouble? You would be right. Nearly an hour and a half of silence amongst the droplets and sinus clearing over a single word. 20 or so feet from the Ever-clear Sight vessel, I was abruptly asked by Harvestman Jerith, “Can you pilot a boat?”

“What? Never driven anything without an outboard engine.”

“Then you’re with me; June, it’s a straight shot out of the harbor. Just—”

“Turn right, got it. Don’t kill’em, Neilson.”

I don’t get time to defend myself, and the ridiculousness of that assumption and the sheer audacity. Not explaining the plan brings me to, in that moment, excessively focus on figuring out the next possible obstacle rather than living in the now. Their recommendation overall. Her explanation of the plan’s logistics was a tightly tied scarf, and Jerith declared vocal silence as soon as his skull-cap turned into a part of his balaclava. My own purple bandana must’ve dampened my questions so much I might as well have been speaking to the deaf. Darkness fell in saturated terms, isolated from the luminescent trash of any street lamps worth a damn over the pier. We crept in low and slow, only pausing for Jerith to slap-palm the back of my neck to point me to the correct houseboat. June went ahead of us to leave to board with our pillowy steps towards the door of the boat’s cockpit and living quarters. He pulled out a Walter PPK/s 22 pistol so smooth, my blink couldn’t break the transition from holster to cocked and in a two-handed firing position. Untamed waters fading on the shore make for great rocking beds if you can stomach the capsizing potential. We were able to board and set up a small block of their own furnishings and grill on the side. And with that done, while the occupant remains nestled under a thin, midday-nap blanket, I took my position with the hinges to be ready to pull the recently picked knob on 3. Then, I was hit with the door.

The tip of Jerith’s hood had spooked the man onto his feet. Then again, my head shattered a pane of glass on impact, so maybe needing a second try on the knob gave away my position. On the ground, I watched them struggle arm and arm to prevent the rogue shot. Jerith led the fight back into the boat. June was behind me, undoing the ropes tying us to the dock. She tilted her head in a forceful fashion at my useless feat of frozen action. Back at Jerith, losing the upper hand, the one he played keep-away with, shifting the results. An alibi for the break-in would’ve consisted of a one-round ‘stop shooting yourself.’ Without standing, I kicked the back of his knee. Jerith took the assist, did some kind of two-piece combo, and overpowered him to the deck, where I became a landing pad. No weapon would deter the man, and the pistol whipping was only half as effective as it needed to be. I’d flail if the weight of both of them didn’t steamroll feet to the high bottom of my rib cage. Jerith’s choking and hitting was becoming a hassle in favor of saving his own skin and keeping his mask from being turned away from the eye holes. “Choke hold, asshole.” He forced with a second or 2 of air left.

“I don’t—” June hopped to the wheel after searching the boat for whatever the hell. She called out—"hey, boot licker,” then she mimed the arm configuration and reeled in till she was hugging the back of her neck. I thought it was a Frodder Priest insult. Gripping his throat, interlocking as quickly as possible made me the new targets, and my face started taking another beating from the fat-handed bloke who hadn’t trimmed his nails in quite a bit, nearly tearing the cloth off me. I got him hiked up, so he kicked, slid us across the deck until my head painfully closed the door. Good for getting Jerith left behind, but arching his back shoved me in the corner, giving me some shoulder leverage. He’s getting a grip of the back of my head, trying to pull at my overgrown mane. Jerith lifted his balaclava to spit bloody saliva over the side. “Umm…UMMM!”

He returned to where he tried to avoid his hairy hands reaching for anything; the scratches behind my ears felt like tears despite the water lubricating the oily man's hands. Jeez, who’s going to quit breathing first, the guy or the guy choking the guy drowning from the increasing downpour? Jerith’s pistol whip hit us both, but only the guy passed out. His force wasn’t entirely his fault, as the boat rocked, his loss of grip turned his haymaker into a warhead. One hand signal from him, and she kicked the accelerator in the teeth. “Help—help me up,” Jerith said.

Down the Mississippi River into Empire, through the gap that flowered under Hwy 23 into Adams Bay, we went. We cruised, although I’d more accurately say weaved through the archipelago, getting a break from the lack of Dramamine, and we were out in the center of Billet Bay. I asked if we were making good time to distract from the massive ham-fisted man, now tied, praying repeatedly. Jerith said I was fine helping June with the contents of the cabin that might be useful, although I don’t know how much of that was her scavenger reflex. The man raised his head for the first time in 20 minutes, readjusting his bound position on the floor. And yet, he figured out where we were going and tried a little screaming. It only brought June to his aid.

“We know the Island; we know which stilt house hotel, we need the room number. Keep your lies to yourself.”

“That?! You’re insane. I like my peaceful life,” he said, “Lilian, what are you doing?”

“Nothing you want to be a part of, nothing you’d object to five years ago. We’re almost there. You take over,” she said and waved over Jerith.

“Fine, but when you find it, leave me out of it. It’s not worth dying over.”

“That’s the plan. The number, please?” she uttered.

“Light blue cabin of the Blue Dolphin lot on the end row. Not in but under. Face on, middle pillar two in, two steps left of it. Now, send me on my way,” he said.

Jerith dropped us on the island near a quarter-mile from the end road, Peach Lane. With a strike of lightning in the slight distance, bringing the noise, the rain picked up, eliminating any worth of this poncho. Another 10th of a mile to the stilts under the peculiarly light-blue house. From her binoculars, she could see inside and tapped me to assure me the coast was clear. Up close, I began to hesitate, but her insistence left me wondering if the white flood lighting on either corner of the house, one front left, one rear right, was throwing off my vision. I’d say Sea Foam green or…huh. Underneath, she lined up the position and counted out the two feet. “You dig, I’ll watch. Then handed me a trowel. “You see where, right?”

The rain spoiled us with cover. Headlights, rogue in the pitch black of the invisible horizon, crept by with less than a care to devote to our general direction. Could’ve been a slow-tourist-check-ins Tuesday. If this were a movie, one of us would have called it too easy. I dug facing June, prone to making signals silently and acting on impulse. I was off the center mark, but it’s more of a testament to the wide gate of that behemoth guy. When I managed to pull the 2-foot by 1-foot case out of the moistened dirt, the latch on the lid broke. I want to believe it glowed, except the night wouldn’t acknowledge it, compressed it back in place, but maybe I had some water in my eyes. A ray of something I couldn’t recognize with such little sensational evidence to explain the feeling of its absence, is what I’m reporting. Were my pupils contracting?” I know I wasn’t losing it if not completely lucid at the moment when she shielded her eyes as she shut the case. “You got any way to lock this? It would be nice to have a handle.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’ll seal it in the boat.” Quietly, she radioed Jerith. “It’s here; on the way.”

“Copy.” I thought a splash was interrupted by her ending her transmission and turning the volume down, but maybe it was a rush of static. However, when returned to the rendezvous, the big brute wasn't there. Guess we have a new boat...

End of Day 11

I still feel what I felt when the case first opened. Not a lingering but a pulsating resurgence corrupting my perception as it inserts itself in the rooms of past scenes where I believed she wasn’t around. Can’t tell whether she was going out of her way that day to cross my path and subtly acknowledge it every time. I was starting to notice that Wolfman Patrick does not work as closely as I figured, given their own proclivity for showing favor to their title. By the end of the day, I ask out loud, but to no one in particular, but why? The big-ticket item or sellable rainy reward, and technically what she open carried was a golden Ruger pistol, simple white ivory on the grip, black holster. It was meant to be a sweetener for one of Jerith’s 12 ½ miles-out deals. The thought of that thing going off in the echo chamber, fine-tuned to make even the quietest gushy missionary sex an erotica audio play that at times has spread the sentiment in reverb, I still can’t see her going anywhere without it. I think she’d actually just join the pirates. Harvestman Jerith must be a hell of a fence to offload the terrible items, still carrying the damned sensation of the dead previous owners that haunts as soon as money changes hands. Maybe they are a mercenary sect doing middleman gigs. Wolfman Patrick believes my sensitivity is due to contact with said owner of said pistol, but from a past life. It was an odd piece of machinery that he detested with a passion.

More of Harvest-woman April’s rules are pissing everyone off more than the rain, but no incidents yet. Dull day otherwise.

End of Day 12

The left gutter gave way. Its repair started at 08:53 in the morning by Cornman Wendall, who needed a teether to implement the backup system on the current, wildly pouring into the cove. Stormman Winters got help from Cornwoman Cecilia to carry the backup gutter outside in two pieces. Each one is made of multi-layered sheets of aluminum, like a super-sized Hot Wheels track curve. Run off left a deepening inch-deep layer of water, prompting Mead-woman Mary to break out the water-vac and volunteer me to run 3 hoses down to the first floor and a 4th in one of the bunks with a leak in the ceiling. Our final result ended up trapping us on the shelf for a time while the heavier rain from the compromised gutter made the path down more risky than anyone wanted to see again, the way she grabbed me to prevent my second attempt. She said, “If you’re going to go, let me push you. It’ll save us watching it drag out.” It got the water out of the Atrium, and they were going to keep arguing until it was shin-deep, so hanging out there wasn’t that bad. Mead-woman Mary agreed they needed a bigger whatever-the-hell-you-call-that kind of system of unknowns, and she hates the Growing-woman. Called her a paradox, the empty vessel still, somehow, full of shit.

Not much of any real significance, I saw. Snow-woman Shawna and I talked about Ron and Kieth while the repairs of the original gutters and the leaking ceiling continued. Most of it was regret for ignoring Keith’s warning, feeling stuck here regardless of the permanent pit in her stomach. Questioning one’s beliefs is my bread and butter, but my own predilections paired poorly with my gracious nature, regardless of Ron. It was a ranting session more than anything else that morphed into the list of suspects who laid the final hands on Keith. She asked after a long, attentive silence in our new favorite spot, why she won’t just take the risk away from this joyous hell, so far, old paths she took drift away. I thought it was rhetorical, so I told her I didn’t want to insult with a one-liner.

I did, however, tell her, “Your time here has greatly influenced your view of existence, and while you’re terrified, you fight, or flight has frozen like a non-option. Not a paralyzation, but a reflective stagnation period to what the world will be in your new perspective.”

“I’m scared; what a funny way to waste a bunch of words.”

“No, but since when are rebellions easy. You’re stunned solid by your oppressor. Plus, if you truly don’t have a heading, the journey has no start. Hard to motivate yourself with a non-starter destination in mind. My guess, anyway.”

“Why aren’t your essays this direct?”

“Those are for the Dr. Patricks and Dr. Jasons of the world. Maybe I shouldn’t have worded it better for them.”

“You think…..Waterfall is nice tonight,” she said.

“Very.”

End of Day 13

The in-town crew went for groceries, fuel, and replacements for broken tools. It wasn’t intentional, but Coldman Jason, Cornman Dennis, and I stumbled on a line in one of my essays that, if altered slightly, could be used in an occurrence. It could be my love of surprises, but I couldn’t be fucking bothered. Quite possibly, it’s the random ways in which murder and mayhem are easier to implement than world peace or the cures for diseases. Cliched as shit, sure, but some people get tired of visceral guts sprawled out for two basketball courts only to be dragged by a hook in the back to be Pac-Maned over my guts, pinched carcass until every inch is slurped up. I gather I should care more then, make changes again, and realize those people use efficiency to disguise their fooling around with someone else's half-started chemistry set, none of the beakers are labeled, and the concoction list is in unreadable Latin.

End of Day 14

At the end of the day, this is a scientific commune of talents, skills, and/or abilities shared for the betterment of the whole. Books are sought after by way of knowledge shared from hunters like Corn-woman Brittany and Cornman Max, who are sent to, essentially, prove that Wolfman Patrick and Bluemoon June aren’t the only ones. My perception made them look like a flood dodger at the worsening of the rain. We make a decent amount of headway in lines, thoughts, and untimely text. As the Brochure arrives in someone's life like a prophecy that’s futile to dispute, the authenticity of the found fragments of Cult Ded Moone is the undertaking for the annotated few to challenge themselves. Coldman Jason took time between drying-railings of the misting off the waters in the heavy winds to explain why my work missed the mark in the minds of my contemporaries--or failed to sync up. It was everyone’s responsibility to dry railings periodically whenever noticed. Many of us carried medium-sized towels of toilet paper fabric to wipe sweat or rain from our faces as we worked anyway, so if yours is dry and the railing isn’t, get to it.

The texts were considered too blasphemous for the museums to display, no place for the vulgar. Religion had a slight tilt on the subject; however, its proof of age deterred the curator from seeing the historical significance. 10 or more years were spent connecting pages from centuries prior that, in themselves, were separated by generations, yet appeared to have a similar narrative. Unknown writers, based on the Italian old, it’s practically Latin, started in a dead-ish language, still manages to end in an English word. I was assured by the Coldman of its authenticity and that the modern English was an accurate continuation of the tale, translated to its most accurate interpretation. It’s about an entity, not a god nor a devil, whether they acknowledge it or not, that wanted compliance, claiming it on a temporary basis. This bit of the 3 browned pages covered in crease marks beyond its breaking point looked rage-filled to the folly of neatness, and the last line made that clear if I believed it. “Why can’t I understand—whose voice wrote this nonsense?”

“No matter the origin,” Coldman Jason began, “They all go mad in the ethereal since—an almost over-knowledgeable type of insanity. Their language, when translated, remains in a remnant of its original form. The entity’s language could be protecting itself.”

“Bizarre. They couldn’t have been—”

“There’s more, but let’s skip to the part at the end. In the early 20th century, a journal was thrown from a church fire held by the only survivor of the Mayaguez Theater Fire in San Juan. Killed 150 people. You may not be familiar with it, but it matches a 1919 fire to the date in public records. Devastating. How the blaze was started is speculated but unknown—hell, even the death toll is iffy. But a piece of the Spanish journal was considered during the short investigation, and since it became a property matter, what the readable pages said was ignored. Here, tell me—careful care. Tell me what you find.”

Explaining that I am not bilingual since flawless Pig Latin didn’t count, but he sat me down anyway, where the book was sprawled. Each turn of the page is a tentative practice in respecting the delicacy of a once plastic-wrapped scripture. Even as the page landed on the softened cover, its bend displayed a hardback’s former gooey state from being doused. Entire sections were smudged to no end, and at Miguel’s first readable words, I sensed the accomplishment of a journey to start. Entering his Spanish journal, I tried to ignore the Coldman's patient stare.

Pen strokes scratched, dug into a layer of the page where the ends of letters shot off into the moon. Most led in to the next line, inadvertently misspelling the words in the lines above or below. Victor, no last name, is mentioned repeatedly, and the surrounding swears said an untoward fellow. It didn’t deter the manic scribbler's appetite for proper order. Vague notions brought some theories to mind: the capture of some vile villain, with clues to pin on the correct torcher of the theater. Voices, whispers entered my head as I casually flipped through that I wrongfully attributed to Coldman Jason, and checked the rest of the library, remembering my final dose. Visualizing the virtual placement of the ink, as if the pen (or equivalent) refused to function any further, as I waited for the change.

Inner margins held notes with arrows pointing to its proper place for understanding in tiny letters. Integrating the side objectives into the text slowed my skimming in such a way my fingers camped on the corner since I started turning the pages a minute or so ago. I admittedly began to see style in the blunt honesty, in Miguel reliving mistakes in the third person, like Miguel were not explicitly Miguel. Important details were being underlined left and right, at times, connected by arrows to notes in the margins, angled peculiar to the body. Ignoring the Coldman got easy, I’ll give it that.

Like my own work, still waiting for the language shift, it’s a curtained, scattered brain property that made the entity controlling the hand uneasy. Legitimacy in his claims 4 days prior to the fire may have been part of his report’s incredulity. Losing his mind was the least of his problems once the entity found some guilty party that would need to be stopped, the entity believed. Lunacy ensued as the entity decided that fire must cleanse the spirit in the questioning, and somehow Miguel found common ground. Listlessness ruled his eyes as the entity did their work, and as the case was solved, only his last rites of forgiveness remained.

“Any record of Migual prior to this—well THIS Migual prior to this?” I asked.

“No. Somebody, if anybody. What do you think of the entity?” he asked.

“How would I know?” I asked.

“I see. Then tell me what you think the case was? You did say you thought that’s what the D stands for.”

“Who could say,” I started, leaning back in his chair. ”Wasn’t a human-centric case, the names are just our interpretations.”

“Oh, so the fire—”

“Was the cure? Migual caves to something supernatural. He was just terrified to be a part of the spiritual altercation he didn’t ask for.”

“How’s your Spanish again?”

“I—” I looked back at the final page, then the rest of the pages. “Shit.”

Nightmare addition: Lesser nightmares omitted.

Tied, strapped to a chair. Voices outside are muffled, but the rage is character-building meant to preview what’s to come. Of course, I struggled in my restraints, complaints from another guest tragically squirming to my west. None of my calming words are helping; they know something I don’t as the door opens to a vacuous void. Pulling us, the guest goes first, and a viciously swallowing burned my eyes until my eyes sown themselves shut, one miniature copper barbwire strip at a time. Peaking through a needle hole, the blood is cold, the doors can’t hold the wind so cold, and now my chair is sliding. I fall over to get a grip, but my feet fall prey to the living void. The slow crunch causes me to scream; is it agony, is it laughter? Slam my head on the ground to wake up, but I can’t take a hint while I’m awake, so…the teeth I missed, blending into the background, until they are blood, they thicken the blood smoothy. I swallowed thrice.

End of Day 15

The Atrium floods a bit. The Gutter holds, yet the torrential downpour hasn’t let up. Getting the second water pump working required cranking the third generator, which was an hour-long nuisance ordeal in itself. Harvestman Jerith had to explain to Cornman Wendall that not running it for so long was the crux of the problem, so kicking it would not help. A dip into the fresh fuel reserve got it going in time to keep the bar from joining the swamp. Channels of water are everywhere, not always signaled by the occasional stalactite, all aimed to drown the Atrium in an emergency first. Harvest-woman April implemented a rule everyone hated that barred all from the kitchen, making all meals cold until further notice. I wasn’t worried; Cornman Doug makes a mean Dagwood. Hare-woman Kath was the only one allowed in the Kitchen. Maybe this is strange, and maybe it’s the curiosity in not having a clue, but no one talks about the kitchen. It's not like there are plaques out of the bunk with the bunk and picture with notable alumni who stayed; it’s not even the cooks say anything in reference to the fridge, stove of sorts, appliances, pantry stock, size…. It’s nothing, but not in their journals either. And she lets people in...every so often.

That aside, the food situation led to an obnoxious yet surprisingly entertaining group. Eating in bed made the most sense. Ribs and all. For some reason, last night’s nightmare had put me off speaking. That hypocritical brain meld of refusing to be opened but dying for a second opinion. Plus, my jaw didn’t quite enjoy the artisan buns that paired as perfection incarnated with the Dijon Mustard. Snow-woman Shawna wasn’t having it, and while I was reaching for my can of Duke Staff Cola, she stacked her box on mine and carried them both back outside of my bunk’s entrance. “I’m not sitting out there with these lunatics by myself, Iceman Nealson,” she said. I was too hungry to call her bluff and go to bed risk it going missing before the morning. I save soda rations for chasers.

Every Ded Moone member sat or stood along the walkways on levels 2 and 3, in whatever positions they could tolerate. The top of the railings is only just flat enough at the top to hold the tray, but one should never consider it stable. A few of the chairs from the library were claimed, but otherwise the ambiance was everyone two-handing a Dagwood to the ambiance of evening showers. It was broken by Wolfman Patrick calling out my tardiness to an array of jovial boos. My lack of response only further antagonizes them.

“Hot shit, stud over there—we taking you from your candelabra?” Bluemoon June asked.

“What’s that?” I asked. Turns out, it’s a candle holder for fancy people.

“What’s your deal, by the way? I mean—do you want to be here?” Growing-woman Gwen asked.

“Sure!” My answered cause more boos.

“Haven’t you caught on to the open forum yet? How are still given one-word answers?”

“Now, now,” Wolfman Patrick started, “we have our favorite way to share ourselves, Harvest-woman April. He's still here.”

“After the deaths I’ve seen since I got here, the clipper apathy hasn’t hit me yet,” I said. No boos, sucked teeth, and groans; improvement.

“How are you with your dreams? Harvest-woman April asked. Keep in mind, we’re all yelling.

“Hasn’t that clued you in on why I hate this gun-free zone?” More somber murmurs.

“That does bring me to something I would call a weakness, Iceman Neilson. Why are you in search of a fantastical death instead of an equally fantastical cure?” Wolfman Patrick posed.

“You answered your own question, so thank you. Snow-woman Shawna stared, and from the Wolfman’s smile from across the cave, diagonally from her bunk entrance, no one cared that it saved us the ink or graphite. “Do you believe I haven’t looked? You think I’ve had a wee-wee dream as a 46-year-old man, that’s why I just can’t take the incon-fucking-vienence to the point death is my best case scenario?”

“No—absolutely not. I simply—”

“Sleep studies, pills labeled medicine, therapist—I bet they’re freaking the fuck out after what I last said. Teas, travel from India to Chile to Zim-fucking-babwa, meditation, heroin, Acid, shit shrooms, experimental surgery—you have promised answers for questions I didn’t know to asked so credit owed for that. How many more attempts do I need to just be sick of this shit? Would you like waking up to having beaten yourself, lover, doors in a terror-mare, and the police don’t even know how to charge after they wake you? Consistent vicious, heinous, gruesome, depraved visions, and they don’t leave, they meld in a collage of the universe’s worst killings, tragedies, accidents—fucking heartbreaking universal calamities from the perspective of an ant. All of it stirred with my memories, trying to meld them to my history. I don’t like or condone violence—no one should be getting killed for science, especially without knowing the risk. Since we’re all about this honesty shit, to Gwen’s question, fuck being here; luckily, you’re all interesting people at least—you cunts are insane I kind of love it.” I took a bite of my sandwich and gazed toward the cave mouth. I didn’t care about their murmurs and, like any venting outburst—session, the catharsis was golden, interrupted by Wolfman Patrick, who cleared his throat.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked.

“Shit has got weird. I’m curious about the surprise—”

Bluemoon June wiped her mouth of her final bite, put the trash in the rectangular box, and dropped it at her feet. “Gun-free zone, my ass,” she uttered. She pulled out a revolver from her back holster concealed under her windbreaker. There's nothing I saw that said there was a holster; maybe she’s a renegade cop from the last decade, and it was in her waistband. All this distracted me from her slow pacing her way toward Snow-woman Shawna and me. For dramatic effect, I gather, she spun the cylinder with enough rounds scare the shit out of Harvest-woman April to run up from the second floor on her way to intervein. “You’re finished, huh? Out of options. How about that?” she asked nonchalantly, implying she wasn’t looking for my answer. She fought off the protestors, Growing-woman Gwen and Cornman Wendall, respectively. The Wolfman followed, attempting to slow her, failing to get past the crowded path, breaking the weight-capacity rule about pooling. NO one was more upset about that than the Harvest-woman.

“Lilian, I know where you’re going with this—Lilian!” His bellowing tone echoed to no one, based on the stunned audience. Meanwhile, she set up a round or two in the slots. I’d be more accurate, but between all the pushing, shoving, and rounds dropping, Coldman Jason, Corn-woman Brittany, and Cornman Dennis were in the way as she flippantly dropped one and put a 3rd, maybe, in a slot. Her pockets were full of them, still, and I respected she wasn’t the only one disrespecting the no booze rule. I was sure when she forgot to acknowledge the Snow-woman, mistaking her for some protruding rock. She still apologized as she spun the cylinder and flicked it shut.

“Bluemoon, you will not test the stability of a person’s—”

“Why don’t you save your therapist the grief—give them closure. We’ll even get creative with your obituary.” The gun was shoved into my chest, and I caught it as it slid down my gut.

“Iceman, we don’t expect you to take this seriously. She is the dramatic type—”

“She’s winding you up.”

“Don’t listen to her, she wants to see what you’re capable of, just like the rest of us—she wouldn’t have brought you here if it was bull shit.”

“It’s fine to just put it down. The joke is funny, hahaha. There’s nothing to—”

“Lilian,” I said with my eyes wide as I could get them. "Gun barrel under the tongue?"

“Go ahead, suck it like you mea—” *CLICK*

“Hold on; got it. You were off by one. No worries, in the mouth, right?” Wolfman Patrick snatched the gun from me in a nervous laughter that did little to soften the nothing-to-see-here vibe he wanted to send out. My head vibrated from the barrel tapping a tooth on the way out.

“Alright, we get it; you’re struggling cope, and he feels broken with a truly tragic affliction. Is this over, please? We like the both of you, fine! Can you stop this now?” Harvest-woman April asked.

“Guess it’s pretty bad,” Bluemoon June said.

“Blinking too often makes me puke.”

She walked away and paused for a second, rechecking the cylinders, then kept going, disappearing into the second level in the silence of awful gazes. “Coldman Jason, do you have any Douglas Adams in your library, by chance? Otherwise, I’m going for a nap,” I said.

Nightmare addition:

Me, standing, staring at a mirror, cutting, carving off lips, then nose, then each, ignoring the bluntness of the blade of glass digging in my hands. That done, I started cutting my face in thin stripes across the forehead, diagonal down the cheek. I woke as the last eyeball was severed from the optic nerve. Well, there was this gushy squash just as I woke up, chewing for some reason. Fuck this no drinking rule

End of Day 16

Not much happened, probably due to yesterday. Even the Wolfman side-eyed me. Strangely enough, that night, Blue Moon June caught me sneaking booze. As long as we shared and stayed out of Hare-woman Kath’s kitchen, we toasted before she left with a flask later. I prefer a thermos.

End of Day 17

The storms backed off a bit. Not enough to lower the Harvest-woman’s blood pressure even a decimal point. I was told to expect a moist everything for two weeks as the heat and humidity replace the chill, but that’s not why she stopped me from heading outside. Heading to the summit post to admire the drizzle from on high, she sat me down at the bottom of the 3rd level steps. In a former life, she may have been a great youth pastor of some kind, propping a knee up next to my thigh, planting an elbow on top to make me feel hugged without contact, who could scare anyone straight. It refused to align with her somber demeanor once she stopped trying to rap with me.

“What about a therapist?” Harvest-woman April asked?

“You?” I responded.

“Hell no. I mean—no.”

“That’s what it’s come down to? This again? I’m going to let you know, the validity of your plan has a fatal flaw.”

“For the sake of argument, Cult Ded Moone’s investigations are back-burnered a sec.”

“Fits given the symptoms. Won’t from experience,” I snapped back.

“But, not knocking how seriously you are taking this issue, you could attempt a different type or try a different perspective.”

“Thought that was the purpose of the journals, why they’re pushed on everyone.”

“There’s more than one difference.”

“Stocked lab like this makes sense, you think you got something special. It is, regardless the cause or the work you do—, a lot of you. Now, with that on the record—”

“Privately. What do you say stays with them?”

“Do you believe it’s externally sparked?” I asked.

“The subject isn’t—”

“—important? I’m not a soul of trauma or a fucked-up childhood. I learned what suicide was from my nightmares. It’s just broken.”

“It’s the ‘now’ we need to focus on. The fugue states, nightmares, hallucinations—”

“I never said—”

“Mean that stressors will only make you worse. Being cure-or-nothing is great on the mainland, but to be frank—can I be frank? It seems more your speed.”

“Please do, Doc.”

“You’re fucking scary, but believe you can be good around others or are desperate enough to keep trying anyway. Can't blame you, it's nature. It’s an illness, not you, and not the end of your sense of self. I’d rather you leave—fuck it. I very harshly suggest you fuck off.”

“But?” I think it bothered her that even after the reflective silence, I still managed to read the conflict in her demeanor. Her refusal to face me for the first time as if my eye contact was positively charged and hers switched to the same.

That’s when she stopped, to hand scooch me over to make space on the step. There was just enough for closed knees to have a gap. Her grip over her need for personal space was lax enough for her to get comfortable in the wide berth I gave her regretfully. From the pocket of her leather raincoat, insulated for winter, but not a one of us didn’t have a cold or flu we were fighting, she pulled a pack of smokes in a resealable plastic bag. The pack said Winston unfiltered, yet I lit the one she handed me wreaked of cheap menthols. I had smoked before but found making it a habit difficult, too forgettable maintain long enough for the nicotine. I seemed pretty accustomed to it regardless. She returned the kit immediately, double-checked the pop-pop of the squeezable snaps, put them back in her pocket, then lit her own. Her exhale gave way to a slight orgasmic flutter in her eyes. It took 3 to return to her thoughts.

“My practice fell apart at the height of my medical career, like finding my peace outside city hospitals never happened. Doctors without Borders for a few years in Central and South America, practicing in a state-of-the-art John Hopkins facilities then flip off my friends when I venture on my own to help people where the people are at. I found it around that time, thought nothing of it, and never really considered throwing it away either. I didn’t think it came from the post office, which is why it skipped the shredder for so long. I thought I did. My partner’s spending had finally become more than I could bury my head in work to avoid. It was that second warning from the landlord that I knew he had to be at least in it with me enough not let us lose the building. We hoped to buy it outright one day. I guess I did. I was crying over credit card bills that made American Express debt collectors drool. I can’t believe I waited so long—he was bold—too bold when I finally lost it. His mad dash to Australia or New Zealand or some shit did me in.”

“I’m sorry. Really hate that for you.”

“Why? Cause I ended up here?”

“No. But you’d allow me in some way to be Frank junior….”

“Would you shut up. Jeez, you, cut up. Anyway,” her next exhale was from a deep drag. “It stopped me right before I was going to really let him have it. Police inquiry, lawyers, spit in his face, and cry a bit, the works. It’s lunch time, I’ve got my evidence, and I don’t remember bringing it to the office, but I couldn’t split focus to that weirdness and the face-up rhetoric that I understood, but as I said, wouldn’t bother with. I swear, I think a sentence switched places; rewritten to fit my feelings. Then, this bastard sends his trumpet or his mistress, to empty our safe—gave her the combination in the car. He wasn’t going to tell me, and if I hadn’t left my office door open, I would have missed the redhead in sunglasses walking away from the waiting room. I know I confronted her immediately and blocked the entrance to get him to realize something was wrong and bring his ass here to face me. The coward. She had already emptied it. It’s all his if the business is his, she claimed. I can even remember the demanding tone of Dr. Bryant’s apology, like I deserved to get fucked over it for not seeing his unhappiness, or my translation, for being a sucker. Where it all gets fuzzy--BLACK is I'm put in the back yards of my private practice while the flames feel like they’re giving me wax level hairlessness at every part of me that faced it. Bryant made it to the door threshold, crying for mercy. Or it was the girl; wasn’t a lot left.”

“The Brochure.”

“Whether it or I started that chain, I was responsible for pulling them back and reaching the bag of money that had been thrown out the window at some point. Guess what was on top?”

“So you’re a reluctant believer, then. Can't deny, but can't see a reality that lines up.”

“Nothing like that has happened to me until you. All that Wolfman Patrick swears by has wild causes that could be explained by better researchers, but that god damn green pamphlet that led me here—led us here was enough. Then, you had to go and improvise.”

“Plus, the dream thing….”

“I will not convince you to stay; however, it puts a vague responsibility on your shoulder I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking anyone to shoulder unless—”

“They mean it. Maybe I did pick wrong.”

“No, you didn’t. I hate that you word it like that, but no, no. Don’t overstay your own welcome. Let me know by tomorrow.”

I sat alone after that, retreating up the hill, hiking used to really help me think as a teenager. Hikes to fishing spots and swimming holes done alone or with friends to kill a Saturday. I missed those days when each dream was a benign, harsh truth of how my brain functioned loosely, biased by the week’s events. They weren’t worth mentioning. I didn’t have to bring them up. A few of them were thought to have helped shape my career choices. In my mind’s more liable days, I could see myself dropping by college campuses, setting hearts aflutter with existential thought processes meant to ignite the critical-thinking muscles. Granted, I never believed I’d flip French Contemporary Existentialism on its head or debate Christianity out of the devout. The peace of mind was no peace of mine, according to the ramblings. I gave genuine consideration when believing you’ve turned ‘God is dead’ to ‘A god is dead, but inside is where they rebuilt.’ I was committed on the spot and handed my pages to see what caused them to worry. How could anyone pen a name on such a document? Working on a follow-up essay, when the Dean, who had been by my side through it all, cornered me, I had written a good couple thousand times, ‘a thousand cuts is not enough to kill me more, thousand more.’ Couldn’t deny it in my handwriting. They had to shut down the lecture hall as I broke in late to fill every inch of the chalkboards, reached the high ceilings, and needed to find a ladder to reach some lines.

I guess I should remember how a journal works by now. Flatly expressed the mind’s eye without those fucking filters of human sensibilities. Formally, those attempts turn to self-loathing like no other. Separating myself from the subconscious hellscape has been my debilitating limp, turning my doctorates into debt earned and paid off for nothing—a nothing of a mind that is too curious to be worth the trouble. I’m troubled by the food fight that wastes sustenance on hollow wreck that needs a caved-in head. I might as well spit on the charity while my hands are still out asking for more. No other path available. Well…. I swear I’m not what challenges me to leap, eyes first, into a 1 3/4th -foot diameter manhole lined heavily with rusted razor to a swear over the time when I assume in envision, dichotomy continues to fade, drain me with every wild piss until….I’m here. Some Brochure.

End of Day 18

Thus, Day 19: Those allegiances

This morning, I woke but stayed on my cot until everyone went down to breakfast, which I think was a bad idea. Nightmares don’t vacate normally, more like fade into the infinitely filling skull. Not quite gone, but without a memorable day or date, it's logged in my black hole of a bottom drawer of the cabinet. Today, still, staring at the ceiling, I’m always waiting for the cave-in, one rogue pebble on the grated walkway at a time, I replay the nightmare at slower speeds—something wanted a careful eye. It was much like the others, so it’s nothing but a bore—now, as it runs me scene to scene wearing a long brown coat just soaked in chunks, there were indications this was a play back jammed in my sockets as if virtual reality were placed on two eye contacts. Shit, I hope the rumors aren’t true that they are creating screw-to-your-face V.R. goggles as we speak. Anyway, there were zoom-ins and out. I wondered if strange places can mean staff like everyone else’s.

Being late and skipping the chow line to sit at the bar made them think my mind was made up on queue, and probably because I helped myself to two shots. Bluemoon June broke the silence. I didn’t need to turn around to know everyone was put off by the blunt without a courtesy brace for impact. I think Wolfman Patrick wiped his mouth before welcoming me to stay, hoping the vote would be interrupted.

“No hard feelings,” I started,” You’re serious people, I’m not to be trusted to maintain a stable state of mind. Pick your poison,” I said, filling my third to rub it in Harvest-woman April’s face for her lockdown going away regardless. I turned to face the short wall of coolers and unplugged neon light.

“You’re leaving it up to us?” Bluemoon June said.

“You got me. I’ve got nothing and no one I want around me; I’m not going back home. No reason to push if I’m not needed, curious to get a feel of everyone I didn’t get to know well.”

They must’ve mastered non-verbal communication because the most I heard was exuberant breaths and a wobble on the never-even-roughly-surfaced. I kind of hated the rug, providing a home-drawn disillusionment, making my expectation when I first sat on a stool.

“Why are you lying about not having people, besides the obvious? You NEVER mention them.”

“To them, I was a lost cause by stretched-sleeves stint 3 no matter what mainland research says. Cost them too much money, grief, and I grew tired of apologizing for being an immovable object. I was too much for them, and whether I want to—”

“Did your wife agree?” she interjected.

“For her, I can’t care about that. At least I told her I was leaving. Cut the suspense, you know? A cure would only leave me with 35 years of backlogged images—movie-length clips in storage.”

More deliberations, I assume, led me to ask about the light under the kitchen door. Coldman Jason’s turn.

“When exactly did the Terror Walks begin? The exact—or night. Not the date, describe the day.”

“Day in the life—okay. The morning was freshly out of hospital socks, normal, where I didn’t have to work, and she made me breakfast before heading to work. I spent the day answering the phone of curious folk in my life, running through their concern with my brother cutting the bull shit, but forgetting that we’ve tried that new thing he’s suggested four times. I want to go for a walk, and did some reading that put me on researching on campus during school hours at the library. Reading into Le Myth de Sisyphe, first draft to glean some sort of message, since none of the astrology books she bought were of much enlightenment outside my head. Suddenly, I was out of my head, must’ve bounced off the desk, because when I came to, I was holding my forehead with the other arm stretched out, doing frightened crowd control. Went home after that. That night, I awoke fighting my ex-wife without a bell or provocation. I never mention being married, not even in the event journal. Don’t make me dig.”

“No—no, it’s fine,” Wolfman Patrick started. “You’re right, I search for someone like you. The demonstration Corn-woman Brittany witnessed that day proved essential to our work. Yes, I left this out of my journal because the work is maybe far from publishable in the public eye, but his cadence, his use of his, assertion—it fits. This does not include dreams. Are there more questions?”

“Yes, but it’s for everyone,” Snow-woman Shawna started. “We’re condoning death more and more. Would anyone care to explain why any of us should continue when the most devoted is granted the title because of how much he wants to die? Does anyone care what we’re chasing after, where the suicide guy is number 1 in our recruitment guidebook?”

“Blame yourself. Your brother had that point already—I say we keep him.”

I guess that was worth facing them. All of them probably stared at Blue Moon June as she mopped up the grits on her plate with toast, paying them less attention than I did.

“Excuse you?!” Growing-woman Gwen said.

“Should I bark too?” I remarked.

“See it from the—our research capacity. Doctor Patrick,” Bluemoon June said with a heavy emphasis on the DOC and TRICK. “We have a willing participant with a strong connection to the Cult Ded Moone energies that isn’t asking for pay. Has to be protected for a greater purpose, obviously. His input has already been fascinating since his biased perspective on the Atrium yields results. Bonus, the memory thing, it’s strange—”

“A bit more than stran—”

“It’s strange. I want to figure it out. With—your—permission,” she said, forcing the words through cheesy potatoes with too much pepper. I respected the struggle for the starch.

I want to say Wolfman Patrick put on the Pyramid of Pinal thought. In a question, he’s not sure he wants to answer with a lie. So he planted his elbows, slow, first one, then the second, with a thud. Then, he interlocked all but the indexes, which he planted on his bottom lip; no higher. The thud clued me in. Then Shawna—

“I’m leaving—it doesn’t matter,” but when she stood, judging by the fallen chair that would have slid on the surface they were designed for.

“No your not. Well, maybe—I’m refusing to support Cult Ded Moone if he stays untreated. If he can be allowed neutral private counsel—”

“Therapy?!” Snow-woman Shawna laughed.

“Unless any of the Corn people are license therapist, it can’t be anyone Growing-woman Gwen or greater. That is, until you place him in the hands of the persons who brought him. Wolfman Patrick sent the order, but obviously wants the volunteer test subject. I get the voting thing, but—” Harvestwoman April said.

“Me?”

“Hates the way things are run but aided in our—” Harvest-woman April started.

“But the mistake is made, someone must pay,” Bluemoon June said.

“Wait, no—”

“And, Hey! We talked about this, Wolfman Patrick. About your practices…” The Harvest-woman said. “Too much death—senseless death.”

Finally, Bluemoon June’s fork stopped just before the death part. I think she hit the Wolfman based on his little British bullocks, but maybe Jason. He’s pompous enough for a yank.

“I’m leaving because I don’t want to learn shit at the cost of human life.”

“Then take him with you because you brought him, but I’m not living with him otherwise,” Harvest-woman April said. “No offense, Iceman.”

“Not to worry. And obviously if I leave, it’s not like I’m glued to you, Snow-woman Shawna.”

“He gets it.” She responded.

“Snow-woman,” Bluemoon June started. “You and your brother weren’t by accident either. Want to explain the name of the retail store you worked for? Or should Iceman?”

Damn it. I hoped that wouldn’t come up. "I figured out who Ron’s informant was on day three. Order of his operations, really. She’d tell him who to hang around with, and Jerith would send Cornman to run interference by leaving him with false leads on his hidden tape recorder. Bluemoon June started her verbal tirade with the bitch of the hour, so...”

“Ron coaxed Shawna with finding out what happened to Kieth. I tried to warn him, but Bluemoon June was on to them—came across a journal page not long after that.” Not my actual context at the time.

“She was left with Ron anyway. I said if he stays, her punishment is to baby her mess. The slimy, skanky-Snow-woman Shawna—sorry.” Blue Moon June said.

“You’re right, but you heard her. You’ll be talking a doctor pending her approval of a backup therapist. And Snow-woman Shawna, while Bluemoon June is harsh, you were going to betray us, but stayed for weeks. You owe us for that,” Wolfman Patrick said.

“Then I want the name. Who killed—”

“Cornman Max with Cornman Dimetri, but that’s my guess,” I said to a stunned silence.

“There it is. In addition to Snow-woman Shawna’s ejection, Harvest-woman April's vacation. Hands up if he stays.” After the count, the Growing-woman stormed off.

Nightmare Addition:

Nothing visible but a dim red laser sight right in the eye. I was moving. Air is tightening even as painfully gasp repeated. I could almost sleep, but had the urge to kick—I didn’t care what I hit. Not that I had the air to spare, the scream was hoarse, and it was mine. It’s never my voice. Suddenly, my attention was grasped by the slushy sketch on the page to stop and forced me into the back of the backseat. I flipped in time to see the light of the opening trunk lid open to greyish gloom before the bat… I woke up.