I lose focus as exhaustion crawls back up my body.
Darkness closes in.
***
As my vision clears, so does the numbness in my arms. They're still heavy, dead like I've slept on them all night, but I have enough strength to drag them around in front of me and press my palms against the chilled floor. Pushing down, I arc my back away from the steel platform like a snake rearing from the ground. With the wind crashing into my face, I blink to try and clear the fog from my mind.
I still can't feel my legs. If I couldn't see them, I wouldn't believe they were there.
Lowering myself down, my fatigued arms shaking from the effort, I rest my bare chest against the cold steel. A chill spreads through me as though its icy reach is trying to grip my heart.
The effort of lifting a heavy arm creates stars in my vision. I drop it down on the back of my right thigh. I only feel the contact on my hand.
Repeating the process, I drop my dead arm again with the same result. It's as if my legs don't belong to me.
Resting my forehead against the floor, I take heavy breaths as I stare at the gray steel.
***
Pins and needles run an electric dance up and down my arms as I regain control over them.
Pressing down on the floor, I lift my torso from the ground again. It's impossible to control the shake, but I stay upright. Blinking does nothing to stop my sweat from stinging my eyes.
Falling forwards, my chin crashes against the metal, and white-hot pain explodes across my tongue as I bite it. The hot, iron taste of blood fills my mouth and coats my throat.
Repeating the process, I lift myself from the floor and fall forwards again. The air leaves my lungs as I smash down, chest first, against the rigid platform. I feel like the evolution of a species, a creature not suited for this environment but fighting for survival.
There's nothing to grip. Nothing to use to drag myself along.
Despite the Arctic gales, my face is on fire. Sweat runs down it, my entire body turning slick from the effort.
With the plughole close enough, I stretch out in front of me. Slipping three fingers into it because that's all it's wide enough for, I pull myself forward.
The weight of my body and the sharpness of the hole tears at my fingers. If I pull too hard, will the tips shear off completely? I have to see what's down there. I have to know.
"Argh!" As I pull again, the muscles in my shoulders snap taught like over-burdened ropes. Fire runs down my arms. How long has it been since I've used my body? Where was I before this? All I want is my mom and brother. Despite being seventeen, it's the comfort of my family I want most. What are they doing now? Are they worried? Taking deep breaths, I fight to settle my spinning head and galloping heart.
One last pull, and I get to the hole.
When I look through it, all I can see is a dark mist below. Thick and swirling, it's like being in the middle of a cloud. But what's that noise? It's heavy and rolling. It sounds like a landslide.
A gap opens in the clouds, and my stomach lurches. It's a long way down. It's a river of some sort. Churning and writhing, it tears a furious path through the land.
Where's the froth and foam? Where's the white water? Twisting and turning, it's as if it's treacle running below me. Or maybe even blood. It's a huge, obsidian eel. My nose twists at the smell of salt. Salt and metal.
Resting my face against the cold floor, my eye pointing down, I watch the river as the gap in the cloud slowly closes over.
***
The chill of the platform spreads through my sinuses, giving me brain freeze as I keep my face pressed against the hole. I've been waiting too long for another gap to appear in the clouds.
Looking up, I finally see the chains. They surround me on each side, forming a cage, its perimeter about the size of a bus. They hang heavy, gated like a portcullis. What the fuck?
Above me is a sheet of chains tied to supports outside of the cage. It's like some kind of medieval tent. The entire thing shakes in the wind—a spider's web hosting a freshly caught fly. It's entirely see-through, but the holes are too small for anything other than my eyes to penetrate.
More of my environment comes into view, my vision clearing quicker than ever. I'm on a bridge, but where does it go? The clouds of fog make it impossible to tell. Even with the strong wind, it hangs heavy and impenetrable in the air.
***
My vision may be clearer, but the sting of a spreading migraine wraps my head, and the mist limits my view.
But what's that? A silhouette standing in the fog just outside of my cage. No, it can't be. A cold chill snaps through me. The dryness in my hoarse throat robs my words of their power and I wheeze, "Adam?" He's here.
But he doesn't hear me.
Swallowing, the taste of blood lining my throat, I try and call my brother again. "Adam."
He doesn't turn. Instead, he continues looking over the side of the bridge. The black river must be as fascinating for him as it is for me. He looks terrible. His normally perfectly styled hair hangs limp. It's been years since I've seen him looking like this. He's normally so well-groomed.
Why are his lips moving? What's he saying?
"Adam."
Why can't he hear me? Using the grooves in the floor as leverage, I pull my useless body around to face him, wincing as the sharp ridges tear at my exposed skin.
Then I see something next to me. It's a clear plastic freezer bag with a ziplock. It's exactly halfway between him and I. Was it even there a few seconds ago?
Dragging myself towards it, my torso burns as the ground tears a thousand scratches across it. My legs drag behind me. They're still no more than a dead weight.
Squinting, the gales stinging, I lift the bag from the floor, the wind tossing it in my grip. Inside is a small bottle of liquid, some chocolate, a gold coin, a protractor, and a Band-Aid. Sliding the ziplock across, I keep a tight hold on it.
The liquid in the clear plastic bottle is black. Has it been taken from the river below? It doesn't have a label. My throat is dry and sticky. Twisting the lid, I hear the carbonated hiss of soda. As I lift it to my nose, the wind blows across the top, ringing a low note. A sweetness fills my nostrils. It smells like cola.
Pressing the bottle to my lips, I tilt my head back. Sweet familiarity punches my taste buds. It is cola. Upending the bottle, I gulp hard, the bubbles burning on the way down.
Staring at the empty bottle, a gassy burp escaping me, I toss it to one side. The wind takes it and it collides with one of the chain walls near Adam.
He doesn't move.
I put the bag down.
Focusing on Adam, I dig my fingers into the grooves of the floor again. But hang on, where's the bag gone? It's not where I just put it. What the hell?
It's back where I originally found it. It's been resealed, and there's a fresh bottle of cola inside. But the old, empty bottle is still where I just threw it, rolling around in the strong wind.
The only person I can see is Adam. "Okay, who's doing this?" The wind smothers my words.
Leaning over, I pick the bag back up, remove the next bottle of cola, open it up with a hiss, and drink it again. It tastes like the first, saturating my dry throat.
When I look away, the bag has moved back to the original spot again and has replenished once more. I drink another bottle.
Sitting on the floor, slightly nauseated from the full stomach of sugar and caffeine but still thirsty, I ride the wobble running through me as the stimulants take control of my nerves.
I get another cola, open, hiss, and sip. I let the bag replenish and have another one. Then another. Then another.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… I burp and throw the latest empty bottle over with the rest of them. Ten, enough to set up a skittle alley. Although each one crashed louder against the chains than the previous, none of them get Adam's attention. Why's he here? Where is here?
Burping again, the liquid swills in my stomach
like stagnant pond water. The caffeine sends my pulse thumping like a bass drum, dizzying as it crushes my temples.
Looking at my brother, my legs as useless as ever, I shake. "Adam, help me."
Nothing.
Suddenly, my guts writhe and burn. I drank too much. Folding over, I let out a weak groan as a black hole of searing pain tears open inside of me. My whole world turns dark as it drags me in.
***
When I come to again, I see the chains of my prison above me. The foggy sky is turning dark as night settles in. The cuts on my chest have crusted over, scabbing like grilled cheese.
Sitting up, I stretch my arms out, the bite of sharp stings running across my body like a line of firecrackers as the wounds rip open again. Each one is a gummy mouth screaming in agony, a trapped and tormented soul disturbed during its eternal suffering. The pain makes my eyes water.
I rub the blurriness away. I can see further ahead than before. There's a cage in front of me made from chains. It's identical to mine as they line up end to end like a train running down the middle of the bridge. I'm in the second carriage.
But the cage isn't important. It's the green glow beyond it at the end of the bridge. It's two emerald irises staring at me. It's the statuesque calm. It's the half smile. The man looks like he's Japanese. Thickset with closely cropped hair, he sits serene and all-knowing. If anyone understands my fate, it's him. In front of him is a wooden chest that's no bigger than a shoebox.
When I open my mouth to shout, nothing comes out other than a dry rasp, my throat stinging from the effort. The cold wind continues to burn my eyes, turning my world blurry again. Reaching for another cola from the bag, my stomach twists in anticipation of more poison hitting it. It's like drinking tar, but with a lubricated throat, I can call out. I take a sip. "What is this? What do you want from me? Why am I here?" I nearly vomit from the exertion, the cola swimming in my guts.
The only reply he grants me is an impassive stare.
"Excuse me, sir, can you please tell me why I'm here?"
Remaining mute, he wears his same smug smile.
"Fuck you then."
Nothing.
***
There's no point in trying to stare him down. This man will be here long after I'm gone. He's as constant and ageless as the atoms he's made from. He just is.
Turning to my brother, I shout louder than before. "Adam!" He flinches like he can hear me, but he continues staring over the side of the bridge.
"Adam!"
A frown creases his features, but he won't take his attention away from whatever he's staring at.
"Adam, it's James, your brother." An itch leaps into my esophagus, and coughs explode from me, snapping my body with each raking bark. Thick, warm, and acidic coke rises up in my throat like an air bubble from the bottom of a thick bog.
Groaning, I look up again. Adam's lips are still moving. What's he saying?
Keeping the bag in my hand, I drag my useless body closer to him.
"And he took the ball along the wing and ran past three players. He crossed the ball, and it landed square on Lampard's head. Obviously, it was a goal, and we were three nil up."
Why's he talking about the soccer? It feels like being a kid again. When we shared a bedroom and I couldn't sleep because of the night terrors, he'd talk about soccer to me. Such a patient older brother, he'd stay up with me for hours sometimes, telling me about all the matches. But who's he talking to now? And why isn't it me? I need him more than ever. "Who are you talking to, Adam? It's me, James. I'm right here. Adam, please?"
Nothing.
Dragging myself closer still, cuts opening up on the tips of my fingers, I remove the gold coin from the bag and toss it at Adam. "Here, take this." I watch it roll along the steel floor, hitting his foot as it comes to a rest.
Nothing! How can he not see me?
There's another coin in the bag. What the hell? It was in my hand the entire time, and the other one's still resting against Adam's foot.
As I toss the next coin at him, there's a slight tug on the bag in my hand. It's been re-sealed, and another coin's inside. What's happening?
Flicking another coin, I watch the bag instead.
Nothing happens.
I watch it for at least five minutes, trying not to blink despite the wind drying my eyeballs. Still, nothing changes.
Finally, I look away to check where the other coin has landed. It's on the top of Adam's shoe. How did he not feel that? When I look back, there's another one in the bag. A limitless supply of gold. It feels so useless now.
***
The gold is now piled around his feet and still nothing. I don't know how long I've been throwing the coins. I can't see his shoes anymore, and he's given no more than the slightest reaction to me. "Why are you ignoring me, Adam? I need you, mate. What's happening to me? What's going on?" I know he can hear me, I just don't think he realizes it yet. It's as if he's sleeping and hasn't woken up.
I flick a coin at his legs.
Nothing.
The next one hits his torso.
Still nothing.
Finally, I catch him in the face. Although he flinches, he doesn't react.
"Jesus Christ, Adam! What do I have to do? What have I done?"
Why is now the time I have to learn that my big brother can't always be there for me?
***
By the time I've finished, Adam's planted in gold coins. Other than the occasional twitch, he continues with his calm ramblings.
Then he turns his head in my direction. Black bags sit beneath his distant stare. He looks like a corpse.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "I'll stay here as long as I damn well please."
"I'm not asking you to go, Adam." I fight to continue talking past the lump in my throat. "I just want you to talk to me. Just acknowledge that I'm here." But he's gone again, staring into space and gently mumbling once more.
***
The tracks of my tears turn cold against my cheeks. How long have I sat staring? Ten minutes? Twenty? However long it is, nothing's changed. Adam continues to look over the bridge, mumbling words with seemingly no meaning. Why can't he hear me? Why won't he listen?
Reaching for another bottle of cola, trembling from the junk inside my body already, I lean against the chains again and ride the bucking wall. Closing my eyes, the fierce wind screams in my ears.
If there's a god, please help me out of this.
***
My brain feels like it's melting. The headache is so sharp, it's like hot pokers are being driven through my frontal lobe.
Heavy breaths help me ride the wave.
I watch Adam. Anything to distract me from the pain. He's still talking about soccer. "Adam, please listen to me. What are you doing, man?" I listen to the sound of my own whining voice. "Adam, please."
Nothing.
A thunderous rumble rocks my stomach. I need something to soak up the liquid burning in my swilling guts. Bread or crisps, something savory. But all I have is this stupid bag with the chocolate in it.
Removing the sweet's golden wrapper, I release it to the wind and watch it fly away like a demented bird. It hits the chain fence for a moment before working itself free and disappearing into the darkness.
As I stare at the chocolate, jagged pain tears through me. What's this going to do to me? Taking a deep breath, I place it on my tongue.
The chocolate melts, coating my throat with a sweet and viscous sludge that pushes the bile back into my stomach.
Once the nausea eases, I look down. The chocolate's returned to the bag. I eat another piece.
***
Cramps tear through my guts like something's trying to eat its way out. My tongue lifts forward, a heave coming from the pit of my being. Then a rancid stench hits me. Sharp and acidic, the putrid reek burns my sinuses.
Pooling on the platform where I'm sitting is diarrhea like I've never seen before. It's thick and black like the river below. It has blood in it.
I watch the gloop fill the grooves in the floor and then roll towards the plughole. Even while this is happening, hunger gnaws at me. A parasite that's impossible to sate.
I try another piece of chocolate.
Bitter bile rides the sweet mucus that shoots back up my throat, clogging my airwaves. With my pulse galloping, I pull on the air around me, my windpipe constricting with each breath, my own desperate bark of suffocation calling out to deaf ears.
Looking at Adam, him as oblivious as ever, I grasp my throat, gasping.
Stars flash in my vision.
Everything goes black.
***
Regaining consciousness, my throat burning with the sweet taste of chocolate sick, I look away from Adam. Why am I bothering? He's a lost cause.
Who is the man at the end of the bridge? He smiles like he knows everything, but he keeps it all to himself.
Making a fist with my right hand, I stare at his fat nose. Would he still be smiling if I turned it to a pulp on his face?
"What are you looking at, baldy?"
Nothing.
"Why am I here?"
Nothing.
"When will you let me out?"
The man just smiles.
He just is.
***
I finally look away. Trying to stare him down is like trying to intimidate a monument. The statue will always win.
Why are these items in the bag? What are their meanings?
Removing the protractor, I wedge it under one of the bolts that clings to the floor, pinning the cage down. I lift it. It shatters.
Zombies, Vampires, Aliens, and Oddities: A Collection of Short Stories and Flash Fiction Page 7
