A Journey of Souls

by Michael McKinney

  “No survivors,”

  “God in heaven,”

  The frantic urgency of a rescue effort is instantly transformed into the grim resignation of a recovery operation to identify the dead. As members of the medical team enter the bus, a news van suddenly arrives. A camera man and a female reporter quickly start filming the awful scene and interviewing by-standers. A small crowd of on-lookers has gathered and are learning about what just occurred. Shane Keller, still standing in the same spot, is shocked by the appalling scene he wanted so much to prevent. The news woman, and her camera man walk toward him along with many others. Before he has time to consider what he'll say, a microphone is held only inches away from him, and the all-seeing circular eye of a camera lens is staring at him.

  Before he can think, he's abruptly asked a question by the news reporter.

  “Sir, did you see what happened here?”

  “Well yes, I was walking, and uh—”

  Before finishing his answer, a voice is loudly heard from the growing number of onlookers gathering around him and in bitter indignation, a woman points at Shane Keller.

  “That man, that man right there, he saw it all. He watched the whole thing happen. I saw him from my window. He stood there for five minutes before that bus caught on fire. He didn't make a move to warn those poor kids. I watched him, no good bastard.”

  “Is that true sir?” the reporter asks.

  “Well, I tried but—”

  “He didn't try to do anything. I saw him. I don't know how you can live with yourself, mister.”

  “No, I wanted to help those kids. I did, but—”

  “But what?” the reporter asks.

  “I, I tried to move my legs but, I couldn't. For some reason, I just couldn't.”

  “You say you couldn't move your legs. Why didn't you yell, or say something to warn them?”

  “I wanted to but I couldn't speak. I tried. I did.”

  “There's nothing wrong with your voice now though. Is there?”

  “No, ... there isn't.”

  Again, the woman's bitter reproach is loudly heard.

  “He's a liar. I watched that man with my own eyes walk down the street no more than twenty minutes ago. There's nothing wrong with his legs. You expect us to believe that?”

  “No, it's true. I couldn't. I couldn't move my legs.”

  “You say you couldn't move your legs or speak but you can do both now?” the reporter asks.

  “I know it's hard to believe, but it's true. I, I wanted to help. I really did.”

  “And you expect us to believe that?”

  As the burned out shell of what used to be a school bus filled with children is thoroughly drenched with water, word spreads to rescue personnel about the man across the street being questioned about passively watching the tragedy unfold. Suddenly a woman runs up to the fire truck and frantically confronts the crew chief.

  “Where's my daughter? Where's my daughter? Her name is Lauren Scott. Where is she? Please tell me where my daughter is.”

  “Please ma'am, we don't have that information yet.”

  “I wanna see my daughter. Just tell me where she is,” she desperately asks before falling to her knees. After she's helped away, the fire crew chief looks over to where Shane Keller is standing and walks toward him. Seeing his approach, the news team shift their attention to him hoping to get all the information they can but he says nothing as he walks past them. Still carrying the ax he used to enter the school bus, he ignores the reporters’ questions and instead walks directly up to Shane Keller.

  “Come here. I wanna show you something,” he says.

  The restrained but intimidating demeanor of the stout fireman is enough to convince Shane Keller to follow and after being led up to entrance of the bus, he is told to enter. Upon making his way into the scorched ruin a grisly image immediately presents itself. The visceral impact of seeing piles of charred corpses where children clung together in a hopeless attempt to protect themselves is almost unbearable. As Shane Keller stands transfixed by the ghastly image before him, he hears the voice of the fireman standing behind him.

  “I don't know what you did or didn't do mister, but if you stood by and watched this happen when you could've done something to prevent it, then I hope this haunts you forever. ... Have a good look.”

  Having made his point, the fireman leaves Shane Keller standing alone in the steamy, water soaked death trap. The intense urge to get away from this terrible place is overwhelming, and as he hastily turns to exit, he slips on the wet floor of the school bus. To break his fall, he reaches for something to support him and mistakenly grabs the charred shoulder of one of the dead children. Startled by the frightening mishap, he lurches back and bumps into another corpse. Then, wiping the sweat from his face, he inadvertently smears it with the blackened ash of what was once living human flesh. Beside himself in panicked confusion, he exits the school bus as fast as he can, quickly walks past the gaggle of onlookers, and finally retreats from the awful scene. Unsure of where to go, he retraces his steps the way he came. This time however, those same houses, and porches that were so empty an hour ago when Shane Keller walked into this neighborhood are filled with the icy stares of countless faces who coldly watch his every step. As he walks on he sees people pointing at him and hears them whispering. His face, still smeared with black ash marks him as the one who watched as the terrible school bus fire killed so many children. A feeling of intense discomfort impels him to quicken his pace but instead his gait becomes slower as if his legs are weighed down by some invisible force. Each step becomes labored and deliberate as he trudges onward. Occasionally looking back at the unfriendly expressions of censuring disapproval, Shane Keller feels the eyes watching him as if they are needles piercing his flesh, and wonders when this nightmare will end. After what seems like an interminable length of time walking block after block, house after house, and porch after porch, he finally reaches the last house.

  As he passes, he looks over to see the face of an oriental woman that bears the unmistakable resemblance of the young girl on the school bus who caught his attention before it erupted in flames. Was this her mother? Looking at her face, he thinks, how could it not be? Her eyes seem to plead more bitterly than any words ever could, and in their unspoken anguish he could hear one word uttered plaintively: ‘why?’ Shane Keller looks into the caustic stare of the newly bereaved mother and tries to speak, but before he does she dismissively turns away as if saying, ‘there's nothing you can say to justify yourself. Your words are not worth hearing.’ The poignant intensity of the moment is more than he can bear, and he feels an irrepressible urge to escape from this place as quickly as possible. He continues walking and finally reaches the open highway leaving behind the town’s residents and the gauntlet of their incessant stares.

  Relieved to have such a terrible experience behind him, Shane Keller keeps walking as he tries to make sense of what just happened. He thinks this must be a nightmarish dream he's going through. It can't possibly continue. How can it? Everything about this place defies logic and rational explanation. It can't be real, and yet at the same time it feels intensely real. What could it possibly mean? Whatever it is, Shane Keller senses he has no choice in being part of what's happening around him. An unsettling intuition seeps into his mind that this reality, and his reality are now the same reality. As a somber fatalism takes hold of his thoughts, he continues onward and in the distance he sees a figure walking toward him. As he gets closer the discernible image of the woman, he encountered earlier becomes clear, the same woman who welcomed him to this strange, unfriendly world. Moments later she re-greets him.

  “Hello Mr Keller.”

  “I remember you. You were the first person I saw when I came to this place. You were the one who said I wanna help you get to your destination. That was you. ‘We all have destinations.’ You said that. Remember?
”

  “Of course.”

  “Well lemme tell you somethin’ lady. You didn't do anything to help me with my destination as you put it. Instead you welcomed me into a nightmare. That's what you did.”

  “What happened Mr Keller?”

  “I'll tell ya what happened. I watched a bus load o’ kids get burned to death, and though I had nothing to do with it, I was blamed. That's what happened.”

  “Well, at least you didn't have to get involved Mr Keller.”

  “What?”

  “I said at least you didn't have to get involved.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “No more or less than what it implies.”

  “If you're talking about what happened back there with that fire, I wanted to warn those kids. No, I, I wanted to help. I did. I didn't choose this place. You did. You created this place and whatever it is, it's worse than bein’ in hell.”

  “I didn't create or choose this place Mr Keller. You did.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No, but sometimes I think it might help.”

  “What are you talkin’ about? How did I create this place? That's ridiculous.”

  “There are an infinity of worlds Mr. Keller, realms known and unknown, visible and invisible. There's always one to perfectly match every personality and this one matches yours.”

  “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “You will.”

  “Lady, you must be insane. How does this place match my personality?”

  “It's very simple. You wanted to live in a world where you didn't have to get involved. This is that world Mr Keller, but a world where people don't get involved is a world prone to calamity, like the calamity you witnessed back there.”

  “I don't belong here and I'm not staying here.”

  “I'm afraid you have no power to leave this place Mr Keller. Look on the bright side; you'll never have to get involved.”

  “You keep saying that. That's not who I am.”

  “You are Shane Keller aren't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “D. G. I., don't get involved, that was your credo. Do you remember the last person you spoke with before you came here when you were at home in Chicago?”

  “You mean my wife Diane?”

  “No, after that.”

  “I don't know. I was- ... you mean the cable guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you remember the advice you gave him? D.G.I., don't get involved is what you said, and it's also what you lived Mr. Keller. How revealing it is that the last thing you would leave to the world is advice to a stranger counseling him to close his mind and heart to pity and empathy. That's really what D,G,I implies. Isn't it Mr Keller?”

  “Come on. I said a lot o’ things.”

  “You sure did. You sure did.”

  “What about my wife? I can't stay here. She needs me.”

  “Yes, your wife Diane, that good woman. You don't have to worry about her. She'll be fine. She'll mourn your passing, more from her integrity, then your deserving. She doesn't need you as much as you think, more likely the contrary. You treated her more like an attachment to your life than its partner. For twenty-eight years she stood beside you in silent patience. How many of her happy hours, rightfully hers, has she traded for your inconsiderate stubbornness?”

  “I worked hard for my family for those twenty-eight years, almost never missed a day o’ work. Who do ya think I did that for?”

  “Mostly yourself; but yes, you paid your bills on time didn't you Mr Keller?”

  “That's right, all of them.”

  “But even if you were a bachelor, you would've had to work and pay bills like anyone else.”

  “I did my part.”

  “What part is that Mr Keller?”

  “Are you saying I didn't provide for my family?”

  “You provided shelter, but little comfort. You provided food and clothing, but not much love. You did what was required, and very little that wasn't.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “You'll continue on your journey Mr Keller. Right now, for you that means; just keep walking. The next town is only a few miles away, and then after that the next, and the next, and the next.”

  “And what if I refuse to go?”

  “How long do you think you can stand here Mr Keller, a day, a year, a million years? Your destination will always be waiting, for as long as it takes. You will move on. You have no choice.”

  Silent and crestfallen, Shane Keller stares blankly at his counterpart as she bids him goodbye.

  “Well, I have to go. I have to see my new apprentice.”

  “Wait, I'll, go with you.”

  “That's impossible. We must wear those garments that we've woven from the fabric of our lives, you yours, and me mine.”

  Perplexed, Shane Keller turns his back on the woman named Brianna as if turning his back on all he's heard. When he turns again to look at her, she's gone. He calls out, but to no avail. After several minutes Shane Keller begins walking again.

  Chapter Three: The Sex Addict

  On a gray Tuesday morning, a woman is walking down a side street in one of the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia and she's doing so for a reason. Her slow pace and alluring appearance signal to those who drive by what her intent is. She doesn't want to do what she's doing, and she never made a conscious decision to earn money this way, but she lives in a world where economic opportunities are scarce to nonexistent, and where the raw edge of economic need is a daily experience. With a four-year-old daughter and very little financial help from others she feels very much on her own. She doesn't think of herself as a prostitute, but as a person who's just struggling to keep her life together and tells herself this is only temporary until things are more secure. As she walks onward, she regularly looks in both directions and is always wary of the police. Her furtive world is very stressful and can sometimes be dangerous. In this illicit game she frequently finds herself riding in a stranger's car with only the hope that he'll bring her back unharmed. She wears a cross on her necklace and trusts in providence.

  Glancing ahead, she sees a man turn into the parking lot in front of her. With the car waiting in place and the engine running the driver sends an unspoken signal, and when he rolls down the window and looks directly at her, he makes his intent clear. Seconds later she gets in the man's car and looks at the face of her day's first customer. His name is Keith Chandler, and he's a compulsive sex addict. Mr Chandler is a man who has succumbed to a personal weakness that's become a serious fault and is now a crippling vice. For Mr Chandler sex has nothing to do with the joyful affection shared between two people physically expressing their love for each other. For him the act is nothing more than a form of self-gratification. The overwhelming sensation of pleasure he experiences when he copulates with a woman blinds him to the fact that he's essentially doing nothing more than masturbating with a human prop, an experience completely devoid of any emotional intimacy. Though married, he prefers prostitutes to his wife and is uncomfortable with the genuinely honest affection she offers. After inheriting his father’s real estate business and rental properties, the added income provided the time, money and cover needed to lead the double life he lives. The plausible rationale of needing to meet clients and tenants effectively screens his clandestine involvement in the illicit world of sex for money that he inhabits. Maintaining an apartment kept secret from his wife gives him the privacy to indulge his powerful habit and minimizes the risk of being discovered.

  Keith Chandler has copulated with hundreds of women since he took his marriage vows. Once the visual trigger of seeing a woman's healthy body claims his attention, an irresistible pull that always ends in sexual gratification seizes him. It's an urge as difficult to resist as any
heroin or cocaine addiction and for some like Keith Chandler resistance is next to impossible. That ultimate throb of orgasmic delight that floods his brain with the chemistry of intense pleasure, is now its master. For the past three years it has driven him to act out his sexual urges at least several times a week, but in the last few months he's increased the frequency of his encounters. Another aspect of his escalating compulsive behavior has dramatically augmented the health risk of his reckless promiscuity. To heighten the erotic intensity of sexual intercourse he has stopped using condoms. Abandoning even a semblance of restraint, his life has essentially become an extension of his neurotic fixation on sexual pleasure, and now he's sitting in his car, alone again with a willing female. She tries to feel him out and begins with the same question she asks every man she encounters.

  “You ain't a cop are you?”

  “No don't worry.”

  With this terse reply he drives away and they disappear into the common flow of traffic.

  Meanwhile twelve miles away Mrs Keith Chandler who believes her husband is showing a property this morning, is feeling uneasy about things in general, and her husband in particular. She's known for some time that her marriage is in serious decline. The near complete absence of intimacy with her husband she naively ascribes to what she believes is the demanding work he's engaged in. Dealing with so many people in managing a real estate business and its properties she assumes, must be physically and emotionally taxing. This could be why he's so inattentive, but this reasoning is not as plausible as it once seemed. Her husband's behavior has in recent months become even more cold and unresponsive and she's reached a point where she can no longer ignore the crises that now threatens her marriage.

  Laura Chandler is not an unhappy person by temperament, and she will not allow herself to be made unhappy by the actions of another, including her husband. She is wise enough to know that the beautiful home she lives in can never be a substitute for a stable happy marriage. She earnestly wants to save her marriage and is resolved to find the reason why her husband is so aloof and uncaring. Her suspicions center on one hunch; there must be another woman. With these thoughts occupying her mind, Laura Chandler is beside herself as she walks into her kitchen this morning. After pouring a cup of coffee she sits down and reaches for something in her pocket. It's a key, inadvertently left by her husband in his jeans the she washed earlier. Not thinking much of it at first, a thought crosses her mind. Could this be the key to the room in the back of the garage that's always locked. Told by her husband that it contains expensive tools and must be kept locked for security, she never had a reason or the means to open its door. She looks at the key and sees no connection to anything that might cause her marital problems. As she sits thinking about her situation, she feels the key touching her fingers. The subtle, tactile quality of its touch is an almost imperceptible presence in the background of her agitated thoughts.