Into the flashback, p.20
Into the Flashback, page 20
She gazed out at the sky beyond the canopy and the dark, tumultuous clouds, and at what we’d dubbed the Blue Borealis, with its queer, shifting patterns and multicolored lights. “Where do you think they are? The millions—the billions—who disappeared?”
She turned and raised her head at me, her pale eyes flicking up and down my face, her full lips close to my own. “Are they in Heaven, you think? Was there—was there a Rapture, like in Left Behind, and we just, we just sort of didn’t make it?”
I felt my blood quicken as I looked down at her, and my groin begin to tighten. “No. No, I don’t think so.” I glanced at the strange lights, like so-called healing crystals hung from a rearview mirror, or diamonds in an LSD trip. “I don’t think we’ll ever know. The important thing is—”
But she was no longer looking at me, having focused instead on something beyond me, something—I turned and followed her gaze but saw only another pump island, beyond which lie the food mart. “What? What is it?”
She stepped around me and approached the island, namely the support column next to it, a white concrete edifice plastered with posters and flyers and other miscellany. “Isn’t that strange ...”
I walked over to the thing and examined it with her. “I guess I’m not seeing it.”
“Sure you are,” she said. “Look closer. Or stand back a little.”
I stood back a little.
“Nope,” I said, and cocked my head. “Just flyers. Just—”
I stared at the largest poster—which depicted a man in an ebony robe playing an electric guitar, which sparked and smoked—its colors as crisp as they were lysergic, its blacks as deep and dark as the pit. PRIMAL CULT, it read, FEATURING FIREHANDS JACK. LIVE AT THE FOUNTAIN EVERY FRIDAY, SATURDAY, AND SUNDAY. JOIN US.
“It’s practically new,” I said. “Like it was hung only yesterday. Today, even.” I reached out and touched its smooth, straight edge. “It’s not even damp.”
That’s when we heard it—Penny’s scream; coming at us from the food mart, riding the moist air to our ears. Stopping abruptly, as though someone had placed a hand over her mouth.
“Your gun,” I said, but didn’t wait, taking off for the convenience store in a pulse-pounding dash, getting there in time to see a woman lying unconscious even as Penny was loaded into the back of a pickup (which was already moving). Targeting its tires—unsuccessfully—as it backfired and sped into the vespertine dark.
I bolted for the Cuda—passing Linda going the other way—even as the Hemi leapt up with a full-throated roar and its headlights came on, creating cones of rain.
And then I could only watch as the midnight-blue Mopar followed the pickup and its gears ground, causing me to wince. As the two vehicles motored up South Union Avenue and disappeared in the shadow of the moss-covered capitol building, the dome of which loomed, burnt and pitted, like a ghostly green moon.
“Where—where am I?”
I circled the woman as she stirred in the office chair and became aware of her bonds (heavy-duty bungee cords which had been stretched taut and wrapped tight), at which she struggled violently (but briefly) and seemed to surrender—looking up at me smolderingly, begrudgingly, seeming to take my measure.
“You’re going to regret this,” she said—blowing the hair out of her eyes, “You know that, don’t you?”
I knelt in front of her and cocked my head. “I’m sure. But in the meantime why don’t you start by telling me your name. Can you do that for me, you think?”
She snorted through her nose. “How about you go fuck yourself?” Then she laughed. “Pamela Des Barres. How about that?”
I looked her up and down, studying her. The patchwork denim and groupie chic; the colorful furs and knee-high boots. “Close, but trashier. Courtney Love, maybe.”
I glanced at Linda as she returned with the rex piss and set it down, then twisted the cap off and slid it toward her—causing her to gag almost immediately.
“It’s dinosaur piss,” I said. “Ready to drink? I have to warn you, though. It burns.”
She shook her head, breathing heavily, then tried to shirk away. “Valerie,” she said, “Valerie Bennington.” She struggled against her bonds. “What’s it matter, anyway?”
“It matters because your group has taken one of our friends,” I said. “And another one is missing.” I ran a finger along the inside of the can’s opening. “So we need to know who you are. And also,” I sniffed my finger and wiped it on my trousers. “You took my car, you fuckers. And I want it back.”
She lifted her chin and stared at me—petulantly, defiantly. “Yeah? Well, that’s not going to happen; like, ever. No matter how much dinosaur piss you throw around. Okay? It ... it belongs to Blake now.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Is—is that who sent you? ‘Blake?’ Why would he do that?”
“Talent like his doesn’t need a reason. He wanted your car ... and now he has it. That should be enough.”
Her sense of entitlement infuriated me. “And Penny? Did he want her too?”
Her heavily made-up eyes narrowed. “The fat-bottomed lady?” She laughed. “Why would he, when he can have me—or any of the other dancers?”
“Then why take her?” My anger was beginning to boil over.
She looked at me and just smiled, the corners of her lips curling like withered leaves, her eyes sparkling. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Ha. Wouldn’t you just like to—”
I stood abruptly and raised the back of my hand—but was restrained by Linda, who had inserted herself between us. “That’s enough! Please—Chris. Enough. She’s not going to tell us.” She backed me away from the girl. “But I have an idea ... if you want to hear it.”
I yanked away from her and began pacing, furious at the stranger but really angry with myself—for losing my cool in front of my crush, whom I’d liked since the moment we’d met (at the Coke machine in the Community Room, about a month before the Flashback). And for sending them—Penny and Fred—to the food mart in the first place, ostensibly to save time but really just so I could be with Linda.
“I—I’m sorry. Jesus. It’s just that—”
She came to me and put a finger to my lips. “Shhh. Forget it. All right?” I tried to look away but she forced me to look at her. “All right? Listen. We know which direction they went. So ... why don’t we just—take Valerie here—and go looking for them?”
She turned to face the young woman. “She’ll point us in the right direction—won’t you, Little Miss Sunshine?” She glared at her menacingly. “If she ever wants to see home again.”
And she was right, of course; I knew it and the girl knew it.
And so I reconfigured her bonds so she could travel and we doused ourselves in rex urine— including Valerie (for who knew how far we’d have to go or how long we’d be exposed to potential predators), and we headed out; walking up South Union Avenue toward the capitol even as Compies watched from the undergrowth and I thought I saw a face: simian yet strangely human, animal, and yet somehow not—peeking at us briefly from between two fronds. Staring at us, passively, almost meditatively, like a great ape behind glass; or a manatee through green, hazy water.
I had to admit, Firehands Jack—or Blake, as we’d come to know him—knew how to put on a show, nor was he without talent—as his electric rendition of AC/DC’s “Squealer” continued to prove while we watched from the hedgerow on the other side of Capitol Way and looked toward the Tivoli Fountain; which, while not actually on, had been filled with something—gasoline, maybe, based on the smell (although it was hard to tell through the powerful ammonia of the rex urine). None of which changed the fact that the psycho had lashed poor Penny to a cross while yet another totem stood nearby, its crucifee covered with a tarp so that we were left to wonder if it was, in fact, Fred. More—as if all that weren’t enough—the dude was playing his guitar from the top of my ‘71 Cuda while wearing a black Halloween robe (with the hood thrown back, as was everyone) and big, black engineer boots, which would dent the fucking roof. So—you know. He and I weren’t going to be Facebook friends any time soon. I could say that with some confidence.
Linda and I, meanwhile, had decided on our plan.
“Penny for Valerie,” I repeated, confirming—and Linda nodded. “A one for one exchange. Plus the car.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Valerie—but quieted when the stegosaurus looked up (for it had been feeding on the hedgerow opposite us, oblivious to the concert and the crowd, even before we’d arrived). “Whatever, Boomer.”
Linda, meanwhile, was eyeing the grazing herbivore. “Is he going to be a problem, you think?”
I watched the stegosaur as it mulled the bushes, breaking off the coarse branches with its beak—that’s what it looked like, anyway—moving its jaw side to side. “I don’t see the Flashback in its eyes, if that’s what you mean. Shouldn’t be a problem.” I looked beyond the crowd and the scaffold and the trash-strewn park, at the ruined capitol building. “Okay, then. Let’s do it.” I gave her a little wink. “Knives out, baby.”
And we stepped out: Linda aiming her gun at the crowd even as I gripped Valerie’s arm and did the same—but targeting Blake, specifically. The proverbial front man. The head of the snake. Nor were we noticed—at least, not at first; that is, until the stegosaur reared up suddenly and unequivocally and mewed, loudly, alerting those in the back but also ourselves—to the predator. The allosaurus. Which was directly behind us.
“Fuck! Go!” I managed—even as Valerie headbutted me and bolted and I fell, briefly. Even as the dinosaurs hissed and parleyed and finally collided and the people in the back of the crowd trained pistols—telling us to drop our weapons, which we did (after which they rushed over to bind us). Telling us to face the makeshift stage and to listen—even as the band seemed to falter and Blake looked our way; and said into his headset simply but decisively: “Y’all need to stop.”
After which, somehow, someway, everything did—stop, that is—even the warring dinosaurs (for the stegosaur had fallen and was now being eaten). After which, at last, there was silence, or nearly so, for the sound of flesh being rent and devoured continued. Until Blake strummed his guitar once, declaratively, starkly (letting the note hang, letting it dissipate), and said, brusquely, “For those about to rock, or, as the case may be, to offer themselves on our behalf, we salute you!”
And the crowd, as they say, went wild.
I looked at Linda and she looked back—even as our captors held us firm—each of us, I think, wondering what that could mean: ‘to offer ourselves on their behalf;’ each of us feeling frightened and helpless, like lambs before the slaughter.
“Look at them,” said Blake, indicating first us and then the animals, as if to contrast. “See how the beasts have but followed their natural instincts, which is to eat and be eaten, and troubled us not at all.” Cheers welled up throughout the crowd, like so much glitter and tossed confetti. “How instead of pursuing us they’ve merely fed on the plants and on each other—the way God intended. The way it was meant to be.”
More cheers, more applause.
“And rightfully so. For we have slaked the New Gods’ bloodthirst with our festivals and our sacrifices, our music, and now walk the earth free of want, and of fear—aye, free even from predation, as only the pious can. Indeed, as only the Architects of the Flashback would allow.” He pointed at the lights in the sky, dramatically, ecstatically. “The Architects! To whom we offer our blood and souls!”
At which the crowd roared, shaking the very earth, rattling the air.
“These three shall be our gift today—our gift to Them, the lights. These three, for whom the bell tolls; whom Valerie has led back to us through their—the Architects’—savage and beautiful night. And may their blood be enough to keep the power on and the beasts at bay—if only for a while longer.”
And then we were being jostled through the mob toward the front even as I lashed out at random and struck someone in the nose, squashing it like a plum. Then we were being forced to our knees in the mire even as thunder rumbled and Linda cried out and something steel hit the back of my head—exploding my vision like a supernova; rendering me totally unconscious.
As for how long I was out, who can say—maybe it was a matter of minutes; maybe it was an hour. All I know for certain is that by the time I came to we had been lashed to wooden crosses and raised, vertically, so that we were even with Penny and whoever had been covered with the tarp—probably Fred—easily a full 10 feet off the ground (or rather the fountain, for the crosses were secured somehow beneath whatever filled it; something I was now convinced was gasoline).
Blake, meanwhile (who was still on the roof of my car) was busy playing; soloing, working his guitar like a demon as Valerie danced naked on the hood and the crowd waved lighters and the band laid down a muscular beat—all of which had proven too much for Penny, who had passed out on her cross so that her head hung heavy and the rain, which had passed, continued to drip from her hair.
And then all of it just stopped—stopped as if on a dime, whatever that even means, and the mall and its capitol lay silent as Blake rested his hands on his guitar and Valerie stepped down from the hood (and into a waiting black robe) and the clouds continued to rumble—at which Blake gazed out across the crowd, his crowd, and said, commandingly, peremptorily, like he was fucking Caligula, “Enough! Now is the time.”
“Now is the time,” they repeated, and raised their pointy hoods.
“Time for our honored guests to know what we know—and to see what we have seen.” He put up his cowl so that only his mouth and chin were visible. “For a devil has fallen from the firmaments; a devil bearing the likeness of the Flashback itself. And this devil spoke to us—not in words but the language of dream—and he said to us: Pay me homage and I shall protect you; yea, even from the beasts of prey shall I protect you, if you but honor my name, which is Algrathach. Do this and ye shall thrive; but fail this, and ye shall surely die.”
He turned to look us and at me in particular, I have no idea why. “And now you will see the truth of it; which is that the Flashback, the time-storm, more than just an unfathomable, impersonal force, has physical form. It has a face. And that face is looking upon us even now.” He raised a hand and brought it down, crisply, decisively. “The face of Algrathach, of They Who Walk the Clouds. Yea, his very body—to whom we offer these three souls!”
And then the tarp was being pulled free (even as the fountain was ignited), sliding from the shape like an octopus, clinging to it—briefly—like tentacles, as the thing on the cross was bared for all to see and Linda gasped, fighting her bonds—as I looked at it and saw something vaguely human (but with tapered eyes and a tapered head, goat-like horns, bird-like shanks) and knew—in a way I cannot explain—from whence all our demons had come: our devils of myth and legend, our dragons from the east of Eden, and so, also, where the saurians of a parallel dimension had gone; for they had evolved into this, this demon named Algrathach, this fusion of man and monster.
And I knew, too, why they were here: which was to right a wrong (as they perceived it) and to recreate their origin—to play God. And to reinvent evolution as they saw fit.
None of which mattered as the flames licked our crosses and Blake resumed playing: picking and sliding and working his instrument like a virtuoso; causing the audience to cheer and make horn-hands. Lending our deaths a soundtrack as the wood started to heat and the wind began to gust and I looked at Linda to find her staring up into the storm—a storm through which a vast, black object (an object shaped like a rounded arrowhead) could be seen, blotting the sun like an eclipse, rotating—ponderously, almost imperceptibly—like a giant Ouija planchette.
“Is that—is that part of it?” —Linda, bound only several feet from me and yet seemingly light years away. “Oh, God. Chris.”
I peered at the object, at its perfectly black surface—like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey—which nonetheless generated light; light and color, though of a wavelength that hurt the eyes; hurt the mind. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Don’t look at it.”
“For you!” cried Blake—drawing my attention so that I saw him gazing up at the thing. “Everything for you, at last!”
He raised his arms in supplication even as the cloak’s hood blew back and his hair cycloned—like he was standing in a vortex. Like he was standing before God.
“Lapithae!” he shouted. “Your kingdom is come!”
At which the thing’s shadow fell over him—fell over us all—and it gradually came to a stop (for it had been descending all the while): hovering above us like a storm cloud, which rumbled from deep inside; turning like a tempest, which whipped the crowd’s dark cloaks. And upon which, too, Penny awakened—and, seeing that everyone was looking up, quickly did the same.
And screamed.
Which of course is when it happened—when the thing just opened, blossomed, rather, like a flower, and unleashed its great and terrible light. When it loosed its awful threads (for lack of a better term) on Blake and the crowd and “wove” them, in a sense, into a kind of circuitous loop—and then sent something through that loop so that they were electrocuted one by one. So that they exploded into clouds of blood and bone and viscera even as more threads appeared and began probing Penny and Linda and myself—ultimately abandoning Linda and I to focus on Penny exclusively.
Until she too had been released and the things retracted, engulfing the crucified alien as they went (cocooning it, I suppose); carrying it into the object’s belly and vanishing, along with the ship—into the tumultuous, tempestuous, wine-dark sky.
Who knows how long we remained there—just hanging with our bad, crucified selves. It was long enough to realize what kind of trouble we were (still) in, I know that. For while there was an overwhelming sense of relief—even euphoria—at having survived the ordeal (indeed, and at the vortices having quenched the fire), the fact remained that we were now just going to die a little slower of thirst, starvation, or exposure. That is, if we weren’t eaten alive by a predator first—that allosaur, say, which couldn’t have gone far.
