Standing on Quicksand

by Ric battaglia

The Emerald Influence

  No matter how much liquid he drank it seemed that his thirst was never satiated. Perhaps because the water was always luke-warm or even down right hot on occasion. It kept him hydrated but it sure wasn't satisfying, let alone refreshing.

  By late morning the temperature began to get really warm so you knew that by mid-day it was going to be downright blazing with little or no wind to mitigate the stale air from stagnating low on the desert floor. The tiny air conditioning unit in the cab was barely enough to keep the heat at bay. It seemed just enough to keep him from drowning in a puddle of his own sweat.

  The dry heat might have been bearable if it weren't for the dust. It was everywhere, settling on surfaces great and small, into the thinnest of crevices, creeping into places that had even been sealed like the inside of the gauges on the dashboard. Sometimes he even thought he could feel the calcium carbonate building up along the walls of his throat like a drainage pipe slowly getting filled with silt. Even if the plume cloud that the crew generated with all their equipment ever had a chance to settle he imagined still being able to smell and taste the chalky residue.

  Werner Gremkle was one of three men on an advanced preparation crew for a road construction project. He was working for a sub-contractor of a sub-contractor, heck he didn't even know who the general contractor was he was so far removed from the contracts and suits. Werner probably could have found out if he cared, but he didn't. He had a job to do and that is what he was focused on. Technically he was in charge of the crew because of his superiority but out here in the middle of literally nowhere it just didn't matter much.

  There were three pieces of heavy equipment that they used, really there were four if you counted the old RV that they all used as a mobile domicile. Werner was in the first piece of equipment, before the 'moto-grader' and 'pad-foot drum roller/compactor' followed to complete the road bed. He was in the largest and most expensive of the pieces of equipment. In his distant past he knew there was a formal name for it but it had been lost in the fog of his memory. He had only ever known it by its nickname “the masticator”. This term was usually used to describe the chewing and re-chewing of food til it was thoroughly broken down and ready for easy digestion. That is essentially what this machine did but its substance was soil instead of food. Well, “soil” is a pretty liberal term that people in this part of the country would scoff at. It would be like referring to “snow” to an Eskimo, who is so intimate with the substance that they have 52 different names for the various types and subtle differences. This was more than just soil that they were working thru in this desolate back-country expanse of west Texas. This was surface hard-pan, sometimes known by other names such as “caliche”, derived from the Spanish word for lime, a main ingredient in concrete. It was essentially a layer of calcium- carbonate mixed with fine sand and silt forming a dense layer on top of the desert that had been baked under the intense sun for centuries, heck even the rain water, on the few instances when it occurred, would just run off it for miles collecting in geographical low spots, commonly known as 'buffalo wallows'. It was nature’s own version of concrete that took a giant grinding machine to crack thru the crust to a level of looser sand and gravel.

  The center line of the future two lane road had been staked out by a survey team in the previous weeks leaving only a long stretch of wooden stakes about 100 yards apart with bright pink plastic tape dangling loosely from the tops.

  He'd always be the first one out in the morning, running the 'masticator' up one side of the stakes for a couple of miles and then back the other side, leaving a chewed up furlough in its path. As the other two workers were beginning to awaken Werner would run the machine back up the middle of the future road, chewing up the stakes in the process until he reached the point where he had turned around earlier. At this point the process would start all over again and it progressed for most of the day unless there was an occasional obstacle encountered.

  Over the years he became intimately familiar with the machine and the subtle resistance as it encountered a thicker or thinner layer of 'caliche', or the gentle vibrations felt up through the pedals as it tried to chew its way thru a section of stones from a dried river bed. He could read it well and it was far more temperamental than you might imagine a giant monster of destruction to be.

  Besides the heat and long days the job was not too taxing. At least he didn't think so when he compared it to other jobs he had earlier in his life, like fence building or construction grunt. These jobs had been both arduous and physically challenging jobs that had left him sore at the end of the day, but of course he never would have met his beloved Sarah if he hadn't gone thru these trials and tribulations, paying his dues. She had been a secretary in the front office trailer of the large construction project where they had both worked. There had been a long courting period as she took a little more convincing of the earnestness of his admiration, perhaps because it struck him so quickly and strongly but also because there were many other workers she had rebuffed over the course of the project. Those early years had been happy ones. Back then he had always been able to get a job locally because he didn't care too much about the pay. All that he cared about was spending time with her, going to BBQ, out to hear country music which they both loved, and out to “watch stars” on some deserted oil rig access road. Then of course there was the unexpected pregnancy which normally might have put a wrinkle in things if they were not both so in love. They had welcomed their beautiful daughter into the world and lived quite content for many years before the illness came to visit and the problems started. As the disease slowly crept in on Sarah the health care costs mounted. They were backed into a corner. He had no choice but to take higher paying contracts that took him away from home for weeks or months at a time while his in-laws looked after their daughter. The sickness dragged on for nearly 4 1/2 years. On the occasions when he could make it home he spent most of his time at her bedside. When someone doesn't know what the future holds nor how close the end is each moment becomes more precious. Warner didn't realize it at the time but while his wife withered away on wisps of heaven’s wind his own daughter had become estranged from him. He regrets that the long stretches of time away on jobs had become the norm by then and his relationship seemed unrecoverable, the gap too large to span. He seemed to spend longer and longer stretches away, perhaps to avoid the guilt he felt at having lost touch, perhaps because whenever he saw his daughter it only reminded him of his beloved Sarah and took him back to the hole he felt in his soul, how much he missed her. It was always easier to avoid these feelings than face then and Warner was nothing but consistent in taking the path of least resistance.

  This job gave him time to sit and think which could be both good and bad.

  He was startled from his ruminations by a subtle resistance and vibration change that had risen up thru the machinery to the metal gear lever where his right hand rested. He down shifted and slowed, feeling if the subtle shutter was still present. Sometimes it was just something in the machinery changing but usually it was a change in the geotechnical make-up of the soil. More often than not it required some investigation so as not to damage the grinding wheels. Perhaps it was an old river bed with stones sprinkled about or even the rare instance when the bedrock came close to surfacing thru the valley floor. Either way it was a pain.

  Werner reluctantly reversed about ten yards, disengaging the teeth rotor before stopping the giant vehicle and turning the key switch. Everything rumbled and hissed to a halt under him like a giant beast of burden given a brief respite. He reached for the door handle but hesitated for a moment to open it and let out the small amount of cold the AC had provided. He knew the inferno was inevitable but before doing so reached first for the 0.22 rifle wedged behind the seat. While the company regulations were pretty clear about there being no firearms on a job site, most of the advanced work crews working remotely were allowed some leniency seeing as the danger of coyotes and rattle snakes was always present. There
was always the possibility of bagging a rabbit or the rare armadillo, both rewarding dinners, supplementing their meager rations with something more substantial.

  Once down on the desert floor he stretched and surveyed his surroundings while sipping some warm water. The ground vibration didn't seem to have disturbed any snakes as was often the case. Occasionally they'd BBQ rattle snake for dinner, kinda tasted like chicken when prepared and spiced right. He looked out towards the low lying rocky hills. The perspective was mis-leading because they appeared like mountains and much closer than they really were. It was just another optical illusion of the desert, because the flat desert slopped gentle, almost imperceptibly, at a slight incline to the base of the range thus fore-shortening the view. The late afternoon sun spread long shadows from the scrub brush further deceiving the distance.

  He sauntered over to the front of the machine, hiking up his jeans once there. The earth had been disturbed but not enough to tell what had been causing the issue so leaning his rifle against the machine he went to retrieve a shovel, a jug of water, and a solid steel rod about 3/4” round and 4'-0” tall, blunt-pointed at one end. He stepped out just beyond the disturbed soil and rammed the rod hard down. Removing it from the small hole created Warner poured in water then reinserted the rod, and started a rhythmic procedure of lifting and ramming the rod down over and over. Occasionally he would extract it and pour in more water. He had learned a long time ago this age-old method for sinking a post into stone hard caliche, water was natures lubricant and could soften just about anything.

  About 8” down the steel rod would go no further; it had struck something solid and impenetrable.

  “Shit” he exhaled under his breath.

  After drinking some more water he wiped his brow and adjusted his hat. He would have to dig down to see if it was bedrock as he had suspected. Lifting the shovel he chose a portion of hard pan that had been broken up by the masticator a few yards away and started to dig down. He had to hand it to that machine; it did its job pretty thoroughly. In little time he had dug a good portion of loose chunks from an area down to the level at which the rod had hit something solid.

  He used the flat end of the shovel to scrape a portion clear and knelt down to inspect it. It was strange, instead of bedrock as he had assumed he found a loose herringbone pattern of rough looking rectangles. They were definitely manmade but the only people having any history in these parts were Indians. Oh, he hoped they hadn't stumbled on some sort of Indian burial site or some such. That would really put a kink in the road plans. They'd have to call out some sort of archeologist who'd take forever to extract a bunch of worthless fragments of pottery. No that is definitely something he did not want. The whole fiasco would be likely to put him even more behind schedule.

  Grabbing the shovel he cleared off a little more soil until he seemed to find an edge, lined with one straight row of blocks into which the herring bone pattern died. It seemed to be some sort of ancient path or road that ran almost perpendicular to the road they were building. He wondered for a moment how wide it was or even where it went. If he followed the edge, visually extending the line it disappeared off into the desert, swallowed by its unrelenting appetite. Further on the horizon it seemed to line up with a double peak in the low mountains. This was not something he was going to be able to figure out this late in the day so he sank the tip of the shovel into one of the joints and pried some of the blocks up. They were dirty and caked in desert rime but he grabbed one and took it with him back to the equipment cab along with the tools. In the cab Warner grabbed the radio.

  “Brady, TJ, Come in” He barked into the hand set.

  “We hear ya”, “What'sup” came crackling thru the static.

  “Ran into some hard stuff up here, not enough time to go thru it today so I'm starting back to the RV. You guys finish up your stretches and I'll meet you back up here”

  “10-4” They both echoed.

  It was going to be a long walk back to the RV, sitting where they had left it earlier that morning about four or five miles or so back up the road bed they had just spent preparing. He grabbed the jug of water, put the block he’d dug up in his satchel, and swung the rifle over his shoulder before heading off into the desert. After trudging about a hundred yards out he turned and continued on a line parallel to the new road bed. This kept him clear of the dust and disturbance of the other machines still working and gave him a better chance of bagging something that might be nice to roast for dinner.

  The well-worn cowboy boots he was wearing were definitely not the best footwear for such a long walk but they were practical in other ways such as protection from rattle snake or scorpion bites. Even if Warner had a desire for something more comfortable he could never bring himself to give up his boots, too many memories pooling in their dark recesses. There was one photo that he had of his daughter that always stared up at him from the window inside his wallet. He had taken it almost tilting his head straight down and there in the frame was his daughter riding these boots with one foot on each and her face beaming upward a wide smile only children can feel. He longed to see her again. His grandson was probably about the same age now as his daughter had been in that picture.

  There had certainly been some regrets in his life and not just the relationship with his daughter. He'd once heard it said that people grow old because they become slowly weighed down by life's regrets over time. Warner bobbed his head nodding a lazy agreement; his sinewy frame was no exception to this aphorism. When a person starts thinking about the past more than the future it becomes a slippery slope from which it is hard to arrest yourself. Everyone's regrets live in dark places to which he occasionally descend.

  The long walk back to the RV gave him a lot of time to stir these thoughts. When he did finally arrive the sun was waning in the sky, hanging by a loose thread. He started dinner before slumping into the driver’s seat. The keys always hung in the ignition, no need to hide then out here in the middle of no-where. The drive up the newly created road bed didn't take long at all. The crew was all showered, satiated and sitting in folding picnic chairs outside the RV around a small fire drinking beer in no time. First one then the other excused themselves and shambled off to the RV to collapse for the night leaving only Warner sitting and sipping.

  It wasn't too long before he remembered the block that he had tossed in his satchel and went to retrieve it. He wanted to give it a good look so he could decide what steps to take in the morning.

  On closer examination it was clear that the block was not of native-American origin, the edges were far too sharp. The dimensions seemed to be consistent and the mix was very even. It was almost like it was more akin to a brick, but who would have ,or even want to, build a road out here in the middle of the desert that literally lead nowhere. He ran his knife blade across it and barely made a scrape; if it had been an Indian mud brick it would have gouged it. There was something odd about the scrape. The bricks were still coated in dirt and sand so he poured some water over it while he scrubbed with his course, callused hands. Slowly the surface of the brick became clean. He held it up to the fire just to make sure but it was true that the brick seemed to be a bright yellow color. Well what do you know, he thought, a yellow brick road. Whoever was crazy enough to build the road it didn't matter now as it seemed to go nowhere. To have been covered under so much hardpan it sure as hell had been out here a real long time.

  He grabbed another beer out of the small cooler next to him and continued drinking. He was tired, not just from the day’s work, but of missing the life that could have been with Sarah and the daughter he hadn't seen in years. A memory sparked itself in the back of his mind.

  “Yellow brick road” he mumbled with a squinting brow, “I know that from somewhere”. Out of the depths of his past came a memory of his daughter getting dressed by his wife for Halloween. The costume had been of a farm girl in white shirt and blue plaid dress with her hair in two braids. He kidded them that that didn't seem to be any kind
of an outfit, it was dressing up as a girl and she already was a girl. That is when his wife laughed at him and joked that Werner could be her cowardly lion. She had said that if only they had a yellow brick road they could skip down then they could make any wish come true. That was it, the memory can flooding back, that it was a story that Sarah had read at bedtime about a lost farm girl going to an emerald city to meet someone that would grant anyone’s wishes.

  He got up and slowly made his way out from the camp fire in order to relieve himself. When you are way out in the desert with need to conserve water you go to the bathroom outside.

  There was little moon this early but the desert was quiet and lite with a thin glow from the massive sheltering starry sky.

  As he finished and was zipping up his pants Werner saw something that caused him to cock his head to one side. Near the peak of one of the low mountains on the horizon a green light appeared. At first it was intermittent but then became more prominent the longer he starred at it. It was really more of a sparkle. He thought it an illusion. After he was done relieving himself and zipping up he continued gazing at it. Maybe it was on a cel phone tower or some such but the strangest thing was that the light seemed to oscillate and shift like it was shining from under the surface of water. It clicked in his mind that the yellow brick road he had encountered buried in the desert had continued its unseen trajectory towards those two peaks.

  “Wow, I wonder if there really is someone up there who’s listening for wishes. I sure wish that I could go back and have my Sarah back, reconnect with my daughter like I should have from the start. Now that would sure be a wish I’d like to make” he lamented aloud standing there looking out into the desert. He felt compelled to go to the light, an urge deep in his soul, like he was under a spell. His mind was swimming, perhaps it was a little of the alcohol, but he couldn't keep the compulsion from pushing him to walk blindly on out into the desert towards the light, following a trajectory out across the desert towards a chance at change, carrying his wish, in search of someone to hear it.

  The next morning when the other two members of the road crew got up, the campfire still smoldered within a loose circle of rocks. They searched for Werner, yelling and firing the rifle into the air, but the desert only responded with the buzz of the morning cicada and silence.

  Interlude #6

  The most direct, surest path to success is thru a minefield of failures. The sooner you get started exploding them the quicker you will stumble on your goal.

  The Surgeon

  The surgeon tilted his head upwards, gasping for breath as if air near the ceiling might contain an atom or two more oxygen, “I don't think I can do another” the surgeon spat out, his surgical mask dangling limply on his chest.

  “It's OK doctor, we know you must be exhausted” stated the skinny nurse to his right as she started mopping his brow with a clean white towel.

  “Just one more, then we can all take a much deserved rest” reassured the stocky nurse on the opposite side of the gurney. Both nurses were fully clad in teal surgical outfits and their voices were slightly muffled and garbled through the surgical masks which they still wore.

  “I just don't know” he said doubtfully.

  “Don't be silly, we promise not to eat your eyes out” stated the skinny nurse plaintively.

  The surgeon’s thick dark eye brows crinkled ever so slightly and his head shifted her direction, “What was that? I couldn't quite hear you.”

  “She said that we, ‘promise not to leave until this guy’s out’” asserted the other nurse staring intently at her skinny associate, “If you don't get a break than we don't either”. This nurse had an unmistakable wisp of an English lilt to her accent.

  “OK, let us continue then” relented the surgeon while proceeding to the hand-washing sink behind him to scrub his hands before lifting the straps of his surgical mask up around his ears. One of the nurses held out open surgical gloves for him to slide his hands into while the other tidied a tray of surgical instruments, readying it for the operation. He exhaled heavily and shuffled to the operating table. He spent a short time looking up and down the figure on the table, most of which was still covered with a white sheet, with only the patient’s head revealed at one end. The entire face was concealed by a large rubber mask with various hoses protruding from it.

  “There needs to be more light, I must have more light.” pensively pleaded the surgeon. Both nurses retrieved hanging oil lamps from the perimeter of the operating room and hung them from the bar grating above the table. The lamps had been ingeniously equipped with a convex mirrored hood that wrapped around the upward glass spout. This hood directed much of the light down while allowing the heat and smoke to still exhaust.

  “OK, let us proceed” exhaled the surgeon.

  One of the nurses drew the sheet back, folding it at patient’s waist. The body before him was a gruesome sight, quite clearly a male of older age, clothing just barely hanging from the thin frame. The patient’s body had many scratches and scraps but the most striking feature was that the arm closest to the surgeon had been mangled quite severely. From just below the shoulder to the wrist it had been twisted and broken in multiple locations such that the splintered bone stuck through the skin at odd, un-natural angles. One could not immediately tell shirt from skin as they were intertwined.

  “Cut the shirt away, peel it away above the shoulder as far as it will go and expose the Pectoral muscle entirely.”

  The nurses worked in tandem each with a pair of serrated ring-scissors to complete the task of cutting back the tattered shirt while the surgeon waited patiently, both hands held stiffly upwards as if as if the prone figure before him were attempting a mugging.

  Next the surgeon probed the tissue and looseness of the arm around the shoulder before stating his conclusion. “We will need to take the entire arm off at the shoulder joint, cutting the muscles and tendons at the attachment points clean enough to facilitate a potential reattachment if we are able. That is the best I can do, there has been too much tissue damage and this break is too high on the humerus bone to save any of the arm whatsoever.”

  “Sure does seem a mess from over here” stated the stocky nurse on the other side of the table.

  “Scalpel”, the surgeon’s right hand reflexing opened and thrust upward. The tool was quickly slapped into his hand.

  He began peeling away the outer layers of skin and tissue to expose the muscles and tendons within the upper arm. He carefully cut them back all the way to the scapula and clavicle bones.

  He had to be very careful and leave the ends of the muscles and tendons intact as much as possible. After this was done he firmly grasped the exposed humerus, upper arm bone, and jerked it out of the shoulder socket thus freeing the mangled appendage from the body proper. The nurse to his side couriered this discarded arm carefully over to the hazardous waste bin on one side of the operating room.

  The surgeon examined the resulting hole with muscles and tendons hanging limply where an upper arm had once been. He requested a hand mirror so that he could direct focused reflected light into the shoulder socket. Once in position the nurse to his side held the mirror and he ran his fingers around to clean out any residual cartilage but also to gauge its size as well.

  “There does not appear to be any damage, that is most fortunate. Hand me the calibration tool” he stated, right hand reflexively held out. The measuring tool was delivered promptly and he took some measurements of the socket; depth, width, height.

  Next he wearily proceeded to one of several sheet-covered bins at the far side of the room, just past a large ornate divan couch. He gently pulled back the sheet with one hand, transferring it to the skinny nurse who methodically laid it over the opposite corner. The nurse then reached to a gas lamp protruding from the wall just above and dialed its flame slightly higher. There was a dilapidated chalk panel hanging askew from the front of the bin, barely visible on it in faded white printing were the words ‘Right arms’. Th
e surgeon began his task of wading through the contents to find a suitable replacement, not as easy a task as one might think. The bin was filled with a heap of arms all of varying sizes, thicknesses, and colors. The arm must have a similar size knob at the top of the humerus bone, thus the reason for the calibration tool which the surgeon occasionally lifted to verify if there were any possible candidates. One by one he eliminated arms and placed them in a growing pile in the out-stretched arms of the adjacent nurse. Even if the arm had the right size knob it may be too withered or fat thus it would look odd on the patient. Balance and appearance were critical.

  Upon picking out a likely replacement arm the surgeon held it up one more time to the light and took some measurements, “Yes this one will do fine”. The nurse dumped the armful of appendages back into the bin before replacing the sheet on top.

  Meticulously the Surgeon fitted the new arm back into the socket, stapled the tendons and muscles back into place before sewing the skin together thus closing the wound. He tilted his head, ear to shoulder both sides cracking stiff vertebrae. Blood and gore dripped from his gloves as he looked down admiringly at the newly attached arm. The nurse to his side had sponged it clean and the black thread weaving its way up the jagged scar stood out dramatically against the light skin. “That is as much as I can do” he exhaled a sigh.

  “Excellent job doctor, I think it’s about time you’ve had a rest. We can finish straightening up” The stocky nurse reassured. The surgeon turned away from the operating table tearing the gloves from his hands and tossing them into the hazardous waste container. He undid the mask and without even taking off the soiled apron collapsed into a heap upon the soft pillows lining the divan. He had no sooner closed his eyes when the soft snoring began.

  “Aaahh, sleeping like a baby” the skinny nurse said, “well, better get this fellow on his way”

  They both began unstrapping the body from the gurney. Once the rubber mask was removed the withered face underneath came into full view. The eyes were dull grey flickering back and forth and the mouth was chomping incessantly.

  “Now there you go, good as new” one nurse said as they both helped the patient to an upright position, his feet firmly on the ground, “Off you go, now”. As they let go of the man’s arms he lurched forward, shuffling towards the double action spring entry doors. Mouth still chomping the patient raised his new arm as he reached the door and pushed his way through.

  “Hard to believe that man signed the Constitution” said the skinny nurse with a tinge of awe, looking towards the door as it swung back and forth, settling to rest.

  “Well, not with that arm he didn't” replied the other nurse. Both nurses looked at each other and erupted in cackling laughter that reverberated throughout the tiled walls of the operating room.

  The stocky nurse went over to the pair of swinging doors and opened one leaf. On one side of the dimly lit corridor the patient that they had just dismissed was shambling away while on the other side strung a queue of the most motley, decaying individuals one had ever seen. She looked up and down the line, “We’re taking a little break, so everyone hold yourselves together” she paused, “Get it, “hold yourselves together”?” she cackled loudly as the figures moaned. She knew that there was no place else for them to go, this was their last hope and they would wait forever if they had to. She went back inside.

  There was a dank and dirty sign that hung above the door, in beautiful Victorian script was spelled out,

  Dreary B. Smiley M.D.

  Surgeon to Undead

  Interlude #7

  At some point in life you will have the tendency to start looking backwards instead of forwards. At first it will be just a glance over your shoulder but eventually, before you know it, you are staring, waiting to trip over your own future because you can’t see it.