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Our Paranormal Chernobyl
Close. Close. You were almost there. Your heart was about to burst from the ache of it. All day long you’d heard them calling for you, like distant church bells. You’d roved the streets, straining to pinpoint those two voices that sang in such silvery, echoing tones. You’d gone west at first, then south, then north again—following the call of first one, then the other. The singers seemed to move about the city, but in different directions, at different speeds. It was so frustrating you could cry. Or curse. Or throw a tantrum. And at different times during the day you’d done all three. But you didn’t give up. You were filled with a kind of nervous energy that made you feel like you could walk for days. You’d awoken this morning feeling twenty years younger, your old bones and stiff joints loosened like putty. You still ached in your shoulder and back where they’d injected you, but that no longer mattered. The frightening doctor and his nurse were fading from memory, an unpleasant experience you’d left behind in the fog. Now all that mattered was the music. Your heart longed to bring it closer. Two hours ago, one of the voices stopped moving, yet continued to sing to you. You began to hurry, pushing your cart fast through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Miraculously, you could hear the other voice drawing close as well, as if they were two lines of a fugue, spiraling in to one melody. With each step, the voices became clearer and clearer. You walked along the fence, hearing their keening grow louder with each step. They were— — in danger. Now. Right there. You rammed your cart against the gate, but it didn’t open. Between the slats you could see the padlock on the other side. No way under it. No way ‘round it. Got to go over. You tipped the cart onto its side, your possessions spilling over the sidewalk like common rubbish, and climbed up. The gate was still high, but with a strength that surprised you, you leaped and got your stomach and shoulders over the top. Then you rolled over and dropped to the ground below. You fell on your side, head striking the concrete. The impact would have broken your hip yesterday, might have even killed you. But your brittle bones had gone soft and flexible, and the fall didn’t even hurt. You easily rolled to a sitting position. The small parking lot contained about fifteen cars, a few junkers but most of them new, expensive cars in various states of disassembly. At the rear of the lot was the garage: a small office and three bays. Beside the office was a fenced-in dog run, the gate open. One of the cars just in front of the gate was a sleek black convertible, driver’s side door open. A man was leaning inside the car, face obscured. Just beyond the convertible stood the artificial woman who’d injected you last night. She’d dropped the nurse’s uniform and was dressed in some schoolgirl’s idea of a business suit—a lime-green mini-skirt and jacket with a white top, and towering lime-green high heels. Her arms were outstretched, holding a man and a dog aloft by their necks. The Doberman in her right hand was whimpering, eyes wild. The fat man in her left was trying to pry her fingers away, but she paid him no attention. She was staring at you. "What are you doing here, sweetie?" The man in the car stood up. It was, of course, the plastic man, now dressed in a square-cut black suit and red tie. "Saving us a trip, I suppose," said the man jovially. In his left hand was what looked like a miniature Gattling gun. You could still hear the voices. One called to, weeping from inside the convertible. And another, also nearby. But where? "All right, dearies," you say, calmingly, as you begin to rise to your feet. "No need for the rough stuff. Just let an old lady get up, and…" With an agility to which you’re growing accustomed, you leap upon the trunk of the convertible. "Help!" you scream. "He’s got a gun! "Yes I do," the plastic man said jovially. "And a fine one at that." Behind you, you see the red-clad man you’d seen on the street a moment ago suddenly flip over the front gate and land gracefully on the balls of his feet. Immediately he dives for cover behind a shiny green pickup, his hands already reaching for the bow on his back. "It sure is good to meet you in person, Crossfire!" the plastic man says cheerfully. He’d swiveled his arm to follow Crossfire’s movements, and now the gun was aimed at the vehicle that the archer had taken cover behind. "I’ve been hearing a lot about you today. But you should drop the bows and arrows, or we kill the dog." "Don’t forget the stinky man!" the woman said. "And the bag lady. And the girl in the shiny helmet on the fence." The plastic man glanced at the gate and laughed. "Maggie Thorin! The gang’s all here. Okay, come on over, and we’ll kill you too." You look down into the back of the open convertible, and see an arrangement of men’s clothes spread out on the seat: a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, blue jeans, black workboots. All in their proper places, half-filled by some gooey, translucent substance, like a clear-plastic mannequin that had melted in a fire. The face is nothing but a featureless blob, the limbs protruding through the sleeves nothing but stumps. It is in pain, and it’s calling to you. You have to go to it. You leap toward it, heedless of your own safety, and it reaches for you at the same moment. You feel his/its arms go about you. You feel his/its entire being envelop you hungrily. And you are gone. Invitation. Journey. Longing. Embrace. Bliss, but with a hollow center. Thoughts came to it ("It"? Why not "him"? Why not "her"?) in a gummy rush. It thought of how everything had happened. How desperately it had called out. How long it had followed those calls (Its own calls?) across the city. And how lovely things are now that it had found itself. The gooey, translucent substance swirled happily, splashing clothing about the back seat of the convertible. What joy! What… Suddenly, it sloshed to a halt. It had heard another cry, very much like its own cry had sounded, moments before. Once again, it was powerless to resist. It found itself drawn to the source of the cry. Taking the most expedient route, it flowed beneath the front seat, dripped out of the open driver’s-side door and began its journey toward the small office on the other side of the lot. Never rising more than six inches off the ground, it was a quickly-moving puddle of determination. Gallons and gallons of perseverance. Nothing would prevent it from reaching its destiny. Not far away from the convertible, between the driver’s-side door and the office, stood the artificial woman, still holding the fat man and the dog in the air. She looked down. Something large and squishy was flowing over her lime-green shoes. The plastic man was instructing the plastic woman—"B" he called her—to kill the dog or the fat man, but B was screaming. "Eeeek! Get it off me!" B, still holding the dog and the fat man aloft by their throats, danced sideways to get away from the goo. She threw the dog to the ground, and the animal yelped and lay still. A simple slither across the lot was become rather complicated. Events were distracting the gelatinous heap from its mission. It was relieved to see (See? Using what for eyes?) that the dog had escaped the plastic woman. If only the gelatinous heap had been so lucky in its encounter with "B" and her plastic partner. But Luck had never been on its side. Luck, which always favored the rich and the pretty, had allowed the plastic people to inject it with something painful. (Twice, if it recalled correctly.) Clearly, cruel Luck was also working against the fat man, who still dangled in the plastic woman’s grip. It was time to oppose Luck and all its random unkindness. The gelatinous heap flowed to a point beneath the dangling feet of the fat man, then coalesced into a globby sort of pillar. It enveloped his feet. Then his legs. His current situation vis-a-vis the plastic woman was a frightening one. The fat man might have thought that his face had already expressed all of the terror it was capable of expressing. Yet, somehow, this feeling of rapid envelopment inspired his face to a new and greater expression of horror. His waist and chest were covered next. Then his neck. The plastic woman squealed and dropped the man before the substance could reach her fingers. "Oh, like yuck!" she exclaimed. She reached into her jacket and withdrew a dainty pistol made of translucent pink plastic. "Pay attention, darling!" the plastic man called to his partner, and then he stooped and ran at the pickup, his legs churning. He dropped his shoulder and struck the front fender with a tremendous bang. He’d struck low, pushing up with his legs and hands gripping the underside of the frame like a Sumo wrestler grabbing his opponent’s belt. The right side of the vehicle flipped into the air. It happened so suddenly, and yet the moment seemed to last and last. Funny how life is like that sometimes. The gooey, translucent substance should have been paying attention to the woman’s assault on itself and the fat man. Or to the plastic man, who was preparing to crush the archer with a pickup truck. Instead, its attention was turned heavenward, to the top of the garage roof. There, standing tall and glistening in the afternoon sun, was a glob. No, not merely a glob. An angel. A vision among globs, its obvious purity of spirit undiminished by its roguish good looks. Speechless before this handsome stranger, the substance could only watch as the stranger surveyed the landscape beneath it, its upper portion furrowed with concern. Obviously the stranger had spotted something below. Some wrong, perhaps, that it must put right. Had it seen the predicament of the gooey, translucent substance? Briefly, the substance fantasized about being rescued by this brave, noble yet misunderstood hero. But such a thing was not to be, for the stranger had spied a creature in greater peril. The substance nearly swooned as the handsome stranger thrust into action. The stranger catapulted itself from the rooftop and formed its wriggling body into a firm, taught wing shape. Gaining speed as it descended, the stranger rocketed itself, not toward the admiring substance, but in the direction of the plastic man and the archer. Somebody, the substance thought, is gonna get a beatin’. The stranger struck the archer at the top of his body, wrapping around his head and shoulders. The blow knocked the man backwards several feet, and the two of them crashed to the ground, just as the pickup truck slammed down, wheels in the air. The substance swelled with despair. Had the beautiful stranger entered its life, only to dissipate like a rain puddle stomped by a child? No! The substance practically leaped for joy. The bed of the upside-down truck formed a slanted roof, and in the sheltering space beneath, the archer lay, unconscious, while the stranger slowly drew itself back into an even more luscious shape. Somehow during the few seconds the substance had been entranced with the stranger, the plastic man had been encased in thin strands. "Don’t worry, K, I’ve got you!" the plastic woman said. The substance saw the plastic woman jump overhead (No, not over head: over top? Over sunward side?) She grabbed her partner about the waist with one arm. With the other, she aimed her pink plastic gun at the gate, and fired. It was some kind of explosive charge. The woman in the shiny helmet suddenly disappeared. The gate blew open, metal and wood flying everywhere. When the smoke cleared, the helmeted woman could be seen laying in the middle of the road. The woman squealed excitedly." I hit her, K! I hit her!" "How could you miss with that thing?" the man said. He flexed, and the strands snapped and popped off his body. "There, that’s better. B, dearest, I think it’s time we took our leave." B surveyed their handiwork: the exploded gate and Maggie sprawled in the middle of the street, unmoving; the archer buried somewhere under the truck; the Doberman trembling with fear, too scared to even run; and the fat man covered with the goo that had rushed out from the car. "Do we have to?" she said, pouting. "This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks!" K gave her a look. "Oh, all right!" she said, removing first one high-heeled shoe, then another. "Last one there’s a—" But the plastic-skinned man was already moving, running towards the back of the lot at amazing speed. As fast as a…
The thought appeared in the substance’s consciousness, then was gone, leaving in its wake the shimmering image of a sleek motorcycle. "No fair!" B said. In a blur, she was gone too. As the gooey, translucent substance tried to take in the scene—the handsome stranger, the explosion, the sudden absence of homicidal plastic people—it felt a pathetic sort of rumbling from within. The fat man had just whimpered a word. A noise, really. Something somewhere between "mupple" and "nunf". Difficult to be sure. Releasing its grip, the substance trickled down the man’s body and created a large puddle at his feet. The man stared at the puddle for a long moment, then turned his head to the side, and threw up. Oh god, now there were two puddles. He pushed himself away from them both. The substance decided that the man was okay (by some heretofore unused definition of the term "okay") and, pooling itself into a two-foot high mound, it swiveled its attention to the overturned pickup truck where it had last seen the handsome stranger. It emerged from beneath the truck, it’s translucent body bending the sunlight in aesthetically intriguing ways, and lunged forward. To the substance, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. A breeze ruffled the viscous edges of the stranger’s being. Music swelled from some unseen, underwater orchestra. The fat man covered his eyes. The stranger arced over the distance, and the substance rose to meet it. In mid-air, they merged. Enemies of luck. Salmon under moon. Knowledge, memory. Essentially me. |