R³, page 12
The leader swung his rifle and, cutting through the air, smashed it into one of the crystal spikes, snapping a sharp “arm” off. He picked up the pronged ice shard, wrapping his arms around it. It was heavy.
Releasing a primal growl, he lifted the object above his head, using every ounce of strength left in him, and speared the crystal into the ice, producing a mild crack. He approached the point of impact, finding a deep dent marking the spot. Thin cracks fanned out elegantly like veins in the thick ice.
Excited by the result, he retrieved the crystal and once again, gathered all his strength to raise it above his head. Every blood vessel in his body burst as his face boiled red with untamable anger. Anger towards this new governless world. Anger at the irrefutable lack of logic he had come to face. Anger at being abandoned by his lucidity and bearings, which all his life had held both his feet secured to the ground, to his reality. When his back let out a dry snap, causing him to release the heavy crystal mid-lift.
The leader recoiled in agony, tears freezing around his eyes. He reached out for his backside, hoping to minimize the pain, but he could barely move, prisoner to his decaying mechanics.
Feeling defeated, he rolled to his side. The crystal spike had shattered, chunks the size of his fist scattered around him. Hope was becoming a fading concept, withering, along with everything else in his life. Until he saw it. Hiding between the crystalized wildlife, a dark fissure painted on the ice. The unexpected darkness hidden in the depths became his ray of hope.
The leader crawled towards the cavity—it was about a few feet wide and several feet long. He pressed his face inside, but was unable to see anything; only absolute, dense unperturbed darkness. He peered over at the young man, who slept undisturbed. Or at least he hoped he slept. The leader grabbed one of the crystal rocks and dropped it inside. It bounced off a dry surface, echoing loudly. Perhaps five to seven feet deep, but no water? he thought.
Curious, he crawled inside, down the rabbit hole, the mouth just wide enough for him to squeeze past, allowing himself to be swallowed whole.
The interior was cavernous and uneven. Filtered sunlight beamed through thin patches of ice above him, illuminating areas of the narrow passage. Feet first, he crouched and slid down the sole opening, a low tunnel, watching his head for stalagmites of ice. The shaft ended abruptly, leaving him hanging off a shallow ledge. His feet easily touched the ground below, allowing him to drop with confidence. Wary, he turned around, looked down and stopped. A pit; so deep and so wide, it could hide a skyscraper inside. And stairs. Dozens upon dozens of narrow and slightly uneven pieces of rock jutting out of the smooth wall cascaded into a spiral.
The leader faltered. Terror immobilized his every muscle. What is this place? Tremors took over his body as he descended—his breath hanging, growing icier and icier.
Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two… he counted every step, the walls growing wider and wider with every circular loop. Three-hundred-and-fourteen steps later, he reached the firm bottom. He found himself suddenly surrounded by barren walls, save for a hole in the ground in the shape of a perfectly proportional square. It was wide enough for him to squeeze through. Knowing he was about to go out of light’s faint, protective reach, he took a deep breath and continued down the orifice.
After a few seconds of attempting to readjust to the darkness, his dry eyes squinted, straining to focus. He was inside a perfect cube. He counted his steps, rubbing his hand against the smooth, cold wall and ceiling, hanging just above his head. The missing presence of ice surprised him. Whatever material was used to create such a room was heavy, and unyielding. Yet perfect smoothness had been attained through impressive craftsmanship.
Walls, ceiling and floor, however, didn’t touch. A thin crevice, just wide enough to allow him to squeeze his fingers inside, held all six pieces apart. If they are not touching, what is holding the walls in place? Gusts of wind squealed in and out of the crevices with unnerving frequency and precision. The constant rhythm resembled that of a ticking clock, or even a heartbeat. Where is all this high-pressured air coming from? he pondered, but even that became a secondary concern once he discovered the cardinal object in the room.
A cube sat like an altar at the exact center of the chamber. The wind gusted around it, maintaining its steady rhythm. He kneeled and tried to move the cube, but it wouldn’t budge. Intricately carved lines adorned the surface, presumably nothing more than geometric patterns. His hands made their way over the entire surface, reading it like Braille, examining the patterns in the dark. He could tell the grooves in the rock were made with extreme care and precision. Not a single scrape or chip out of place. Every line, every pattern, flowed smoothly into the other.
That’s when he noticed the silence. Ear-splitting silence. The winds had stopped. Unnerved, his heart pounded audibly, almost too loudly, alerting the world of his panic. Far above, somewhere on the safer surface, he could hear the young man coughing violently. Without warning, the winds returned, roaring through the crevices in a tempestuous outpour, propelling him against the walls with tornado-like strength.
Short of breath, the leader exited the chamber and made his way back, sprinting up two steps at a time. He clawed his way out through the fissure, digging his nails into ice and rock, pulling himself out, not stopping until he was a good ten—safe—feet away from the opening.
And then I woke up. I think.
I remove the hat and bloody bandages and discard them unceremoniously. Dry blood encrusts my scalp. I can feel it; a slit on my head emanates a faint glow in the darkness of the room. I see myself, floating, examining myself from above, staring at the thing growing out of my head… a tiny, nebulous, semi-opaque membrane. The itching has stopped.
“We are now connected. We are now one. Wake up, John. You know what you have to do,” I hear Nina’s voice inside my brain.
Somewhere inside.
Deep inside.
Air pushes out of my lungs in the form of a dry gasp. Suddenly a beam of white light pours out from both my eyes and mouth. Objects around the room begin to levitate. The wooden floor begins to ripple, as if it had suddenly liquefied—projecting outwards, holding me at the center.
Chapter 21: Everything falls in this reality.
Everything falls in this reality.
Bill weeps in a corner lamenting the loss of his holy glass jars. He digs out a gun from inside a drawer and accommodates the muzzle inside his mouth. Holding back tears, he squeezes the trigger tightly, about to make the decisive pull.
When a thought interrupts him. A thought he can’t make sense of. Something disguised as a memory. He sees himself; his younger self, in a rundown motel, brandishing the same gun. His younger self opens the metallic sphere containing the glass jars and holds one up, admiring the beauty of the light filtering through the yellow serum. This triggers another memory, transporting him to a different place and time; to the yellow serum exiting the glass container into the iron-lung incubator, into Dr. Hammond’s arm, inside his garage.
A sudden sense of recognition takes over Bill. A vision. His connection with the serum suddenly revealed to him its current location, as if communicating a message. It’s talking to him.
Bill slowly lowers the gun.
The vacuum.
Light-flares have increased in frequency, radiating colorful, geometric pixelations, all on a black canvas. A constant fluidity of rapidly shifting perspective, waves in and out, interlocking with each other, fading into sand-like dust, faster and faster.
The shiny, metallic object moves swifter than ever, cutting through the amalgamation of color in the space-like environment.
Dr. Hammond’s house is suffocated by darkness. Street light filters through partially open blinds, painting streaks onto the wooden floorboards. The door creaks open.
Bill holds his gun still, the handle warm from sitting in his hand, and moves through the shadows on full alert. He makes way down the hallway and kicks open the door connecting to the garage, aiming with a steady hand. His anger is instantly replaced by terror.
Dr. Hammond lays on the chaise lounge connected to the IV. Blood specks on his face and shirt. His hand clutches the bloody hammer. His eyes are open, but clouded. He doesn’t seem to notice Bill’s sudden, unwarranted presence. He’s in a different world, in some kind of self-induced trance.
On the floor, next to Dr. Hammond, lays Isaac. His skull bashed in. Dead with his eyes agape. The missing body finally materialized.
All the loose and continuously-multiplying time lines are merging into one… Dr. Hammond, Bill, mother, me…
Bill approaches the large glass container holding Nina’s serum and observes it, longingly. His eyes soften. Following the tubes exiting the container, his eyes land on the iron-lung incubator. He frowns in suspicion, what is that?
He approaches the large device, finally viewing its contents: John asleep. Me. Or so it appears to be.
Incredulous, Bill approaches, examining closely, resting his hands on the glass. He notices a faint glow beaming out of my head. I can sense his eyes widening as he moistens his thin lips. The third eye.
Bill lifts the glass open and grabs a knife off the worktable, ready to extirpate, when her voice interrupts.
Wake up.
My eyes flip open, waking up from Dr. Hammond’s hypnosis experiment. Cloudiness no longer obstructs my sight, exposing my iris’ clear, diamond shaped colors. Bill gasps, dropping the knife with a subtle thud.
The R³ bottle sits on the table. The TV is on; static. This is mother’s home. I can smell it. Musty. Thick. Memories take over, memories of the past, memories of when I was a kid.
You will provide me access to your subconscious, Dr. Hammond had said, maybe even access to secrets you’ve been keeping from yourself…
Mother is passed out on the couch, clutching an empty wine bottle. I’m nowhere in sight.
A shadow creeps in through an open window, quietly crawling around the furniture, remaining hidden in the shadows. Young Bill stealthily pokes his head around the couch, observing his surroundings.
Everything is motionless.
He tip toes to the kitchen and goes through all the cabinets and the pantry. He opens one particular cabinet and halts. Smiles. Two packs of at least twelve R³s each. He grabs them and stuffs them inside a black duffel bag.
Oh, Bill…
Happy with his find, he heads back to the front door but stops at the sight of an open R³ bottle sitting on the coffee table; the one mother had been previously feeding me. His eyes sparkle with greed as he reaches out to grab it.
He can’t see me coming.
The TV box cleans up the static dust until the screen is pure white. My tiny frame pushes through the framed glass, crawling out of the box and into the other side. Bill’s side.
My mother sleeps on the couch. That’s when I see young Bill, his back to me, packing the last R³.
My R³.
I have no fear.
I know no fear.
The floor creaks under my small feet. Feeling my eyes on him, Bill turns and jolts at the sight of me; only four, wearing fire truck pajamas. He attempts to slowly hide the gun behind his back and presses his index finger against his lips: “shh”.
I calmly exit the incubator in Dr. Hammond’s garage. Bill stumbles, stepping back with his gun pointed at me in trembling hands. I approach him, getting incredibly close, cornering him like a dying animal. Bill aims, scared, but can’t seem to pull the trigger. Like before.
With a soothing smile, I press my index finger against my lips: “shh”. That’s when I begin to glow. Sounds crackle, muting everything else. Bill opens his mouth wide in terror but no sound comes out.
Only light.
Young Bill squints as he gets lost in my innocent, kaleidoscopic eyes. Drawn in by some hypnotic gravitational pull, he reaches out to touch my little-kid shoulder. His curious frown instantly inverts itself upon impact.
Uncontrollable glimmers of light and images all speed past young Bill’s eyes for a tenth of a second, much like when he’d touched Nina’s capsule.
His body is shoved backwards as if repelled by an electric shockwave, landing him on the floor. Freaked out, young Bill bounces back onto his feet and rushes towards the door. But just as he’s slipping out, the door swings violently, crushing his arm against the frame. He lets out a piercing shriek.
Neighbors get stirred up next door. Mother doesn’t even move.
Determined, he pulls, trying to free himself, feeling the R³ bottle wrapped securely between his fingers. But the door tightens, crushing his shoulder and humerus; bone splinters packed between muscles and skin. His nerve endings weaken, his blood vessels choke. His arm is slowly dying.
I push the door harder. Bill lets out a broken whimper, followed by a pitiful wail. The grip of his hand loosens. The R³ bottle begins to slip…
When a banging pain on the side of my head makes the world tilt sideways. In reality it is me who is falling; my feet leave the floor, my body lands gently atop the shaggy rug.
The door releases Bill immediately, who bolts and doesn’t look back, taking my R³ with him.
My mother allows her wine bottle, her treacherous weapon, to slip out of her hand, landing softly next to me on the rug. Everything falls in this reality, everything falls and lands, I remember thinking, as my mother wrapped her arms around my small, limp body, muted tears streaming down her cheeks, unaware that the coloration in my eyes was languidly fading like a candle burning off the last inch of its wick.
Young Bill grabs an R³ bottle and rations it, spreading it into several small containers. He labels each one with the date, month and year, and places them inside the mini fridge provided in the motel room. He drinks one rationed serving. His body shudders with pleasure. His shapeless arm is deeply bruised. Dark purple capillaries have begun to crawl, extending towards the tip of his fingers. He can’t move his hand. But he doesn’t care. Not right now. He’s somewhere else.
In front of him sits a pyramid of stacked R³ bottles.
A lifetime supply.
A house of cards.
Young Bill creeps into a run-down locker room with an engorged, black duffel bag in hand. He stores it inside locker “314”.
Same bag.
Same locker.
He slams it shut.
Chapter 22: It’s time, isn’t it?
It’s time, isn’t it?
A reflection in a mirror: Nina, she touches her own face smiling.
“I’m so beautiful…”
But Nina is only a deceiving image on the reflective glass. Lost in her distortion, lost in Nina’s reflection, Rose caresses her face, her skin sluggishly melting off as if it were made out of wax.
A hand extends out toward her seemingly asking permission for a dance. An orchestral version of the jingle plays on the radio. A comforting lullaby inundating her living room.
“Oh, you’re such a doll,” my mother mutters, teeth falling out with every word, like leaves off a tree in autumn.
She accepts my offer and slow dances with me, pressing her chin on my shoulder. The top of my head continues to emit a faint glow.
“You came back.”
“I’d never let them hurt you,” I say warmly.
“Oh, sweet bug,” she looks up at me, her eyes moist with longing, tired of carrying the burden of guilt on her shoulders. “You were born with your eyes open on the brightest of days, the one most suffused with sun.” She smiles and looks down, caught up in a thought. “It’s time, isn’t it?”
Merging into one…
I nod, smiling.
“How do I look?”
“Beautiful,” I confess with unpolluted honesty.
“I’m ready, sweet bug. Momma is ready.”
And then, I begin to glow.
Chapter 23: John.
John.
The leader sits close to a crackling fire in the middle of a vast rocky plain; no snow in sight. Stars glitter brilliantly in the moonless night sky.
Opposite him, by the fire, the young man sweats and shivers under a blanket on the ground. A severe fever. He tosses and turns; releasing weak moans.
The leader nods off, hugging his rifle; large bags hang under his eyes. Unable to keep his heavy lids open, he slowly drifts into deep sleep, perhaps dreaming. Or perhaps not.
A coyote howls in the distance.
The leader’s head falls forward, causing him to awaken. The fire has dimmed to an orange glow in the firewood. Amidst the surrounding darkness, his eyes catch an intruder.
Now alert, he reacts instinctively. Getting up on his feet, he aims his weapon at the mysterious figure crouched by the sick man. “Step back! I mean it!”
Protect him with your life, they said.
The crouched figure rises from the ground; a Native American man, withered by time, with skin like dry leather. He holds a small bowl in one hand, having fed some of the contents to the sick young man whose weak lips move, yearning for more.
“What did you give him?”
Confused, but not afraid, the Native American man looks directly into the leader’s bloodshot eyes. He doesn’t even blink. He takes a step forward causing the armed man to take a step back, never lowering his weapon.
“I’m warning you!”
The young man begins to move, slowly awakening, groaning. Distracted, the armed leader lowers his guard, allowing the Native American to crouch, in an attempt to return to the sick man’s side.
