The Black Seas of Infinity

by Dan Henk

  The shadows grow longer and the road gloomier as the sun falls from the sky. Huge clouds sweep by overhead, mottling the interstate in a writhing monstrosity of darkness. I roll under a broad sweep of arching roadways, mammoth square pillars rising up out of the concrete banks on either side. I pass under the first two spans without incident. Just as I’m exiting the third, a wallop bludgeons the side of my truck, throwing me into the next lane in a squeal of rubber. I nudge the brakes and glance sideways. A prone form lies doubled over, adorned only in white underwear, an orange burlap sack concealing his face. Blood seeps from a hole in his chest. Another body crashes into the pavement beside him, and I peer up. There’s a row of four men lined up on the bridge, all of them wearing underwear and that fatal shroud. A crack peals through the air, a wispy plume of blood erupts from one of the captives, and his body tumbles over the concrete sidewall, hitting the asphalt with a wet thud. They are executing people! I don’t know if they are criminals caught by whatever is serving as the law or vice versa, but I’m out. I hit the gas and fly forward, skidding around a bend as the road veers from the bridge’s line of sight. The thoroughfare levels out into a straightaway. Houses fly by, their occurrence dwindling as the wilderness slowly regains its hold.

  The sun is sinking, the thin wisps of clouds a brilliant orange as they glide across the sky. The periphery of trees grows dark, a cooling gloom settling in with the coming of night. My truck casts a narrow beam before me, the rays trundling an undulating river of stone. Still ahead of me is San Antonio. One last major city in the US, and that should be a breeze. I hope.

  An hour passes, and night has closed in, the last vestiges of reflected light dying out in the sky. A whistling gale buffets the truck, tearing in through the open windows. I start to hear a buzz in the distance, and I strain my hearing. It’s a mechanical whine, reminding me of the helicopter that pursued me in North Carolina.

  Suddenly everything freezes. Time stands still in an eruption of brilliance. White light bombards me, and my body spins forward in a slow motion glide through the air. It’s an eternity and a brief moment all at once. The back of my head crashes into stone, and I tumble into a falling loop of circles, my momentum diminished with every glancing collision against the pavement. It all ends in mere seconds with me a crumpled mess on the side of the road. I crawl to my knees and try to get my bearings. Off to my left, in the center of the road, is a heap of flaming wreckage. Long tongues of fire dance skyward, the edges fading into a thick morass of blackened smoke. Above the crackle and pop I can hear the thump of helicopter blades dicing the air. They just shot a missile at me! Somehow they found me, and taking no chances, they blindsided my ass! The pickup—they must have reported me! But I could have taken any road? How did they know to follow Route 10? I don’t have time for questions; I have to get out of here.

  I duck down in a crawl and scuttle toward the shadow of a tree line. With luck the smoke and flames will blind them momentarily. Melting into the darkness of the woods, I start running. I strain my vision but fail to make out anything. Tree trunks sprout up in front of me. My feet catch as I stumble through, the underbrush and roots resisting my progress. I collide with a stump, the blow to my pelvis spinning me sideways and toppling me over. A searing beam of light penetrates the canopy off to my right, the sheltering leaves coming afire with a heavenly glow. I keep running, the trunks slightly more visible in the spotlight as a maze of pillars. The glare sweeps away, and I collide with a suddenly invisible column of wood, the impact throwing me backwards. Bouncing off of rocks, moss scrapes free and pelts me in the face as I tumble. My fall slows and a beam of light erupts inches from my face. Time pauses, and out of instinct I try to hold my breath. The spotlight wanders back and forth, probing the forest floor. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it curtly vanishes, the pummeling whip of the helicopter blades trailing off into the distance. I struggle to my feet. I’m not even sure of my direction now. I pick left at random and start walking. Moving any faster would likely bring pursuit, if not because of the heavy footfalls then because of my random collisions.

  I edge forward with my hands outstretched, probing the blackness for obstructions. My feet shuffle through piles of dead leaves, bumping into rocky outcroppings. One of my feet slips under a root, jerking me to a halt. I yank my foot, and a spray of dirt shoots up into my face. Just as I wipe the dirt clear, the overhead clouds shift, thinning into a translucent haze. The cold light of the stars bores down, my heightened vision elevating the ambient illumination into a pale blue. Much better.

  The trunks thin out, falling away as I wander out into a field of knee high grass. A thin grove of trees wanders in on the far left, a brief peninsula that precedes a darkened forest ahead. I have no idea where the fuck I am.

  The forest seems to stretch on forever. Thick glens of trees give way to open fields of grass, only to swoop in again and reclaim the terrain. Lofty trunks jut up out of a tangled mess of ragweed and ferns. Sabal minor palms sprout erratically, breaking through the foliage to spread out their appendages like strutting peacocks. A breeze passes through, the effect slight in a flurry of leaves amidst the forest, but much stronger once I reach the open fields, pitching the tall meadow grass about like a body of water. A dirt road opens up in the distance, burrowing a crisp track through the wild cord grass. I step out of the waving blades and onto a path of soft sand. The surface is marred by old tire tracks. Pausing, I glance up and down the trail. In both directions it flows off toward the horizon, disappearing in the predawn mist. I think I’ll stay away even from the chance of populated areas right now. Crossing the road, I step back into the grass.

  The dregs of modern society recede. Man is so small in the vast scheme of nature, yet he somehow manages to fuck up everything. I wonder if our otherworldly visitors have noticed the petty squabbles and self-destructive behavior of the human race. There are a lot of strange things that would generate more attention if people weren’t so caught up in shallow news on celebrities.

  We shot nuclear missiles at the moon, and magically they all failed to reach their target. Mars Observer launched by the US, and Phobos Two by the Soviets, functioned perfectly until they reached Martian orbit. Some scientists theorize that the Earth is under quarantine. It’s all speculation, and the extraterrestrials could be caught up in the same politics and pointless internal disputes that sink all grand schemes. It would be a shame to think that the pedestrian squabbles of mankind take root in more technologically advanced races.

  CHAPTER XII

  EVEN MORE OF THE GREAT STATE OF TEXAS

  It’s been hours. Trees give way to open fields, some plowed, the vast majority unruly plots of overgrown weeds. I occasionally spy houses in the distance, and alter my path to avoid encountering them. Small roads cross through as a dusty passage of worn asphalt, decaying in the backwoods of rural Texas. Weeds and knotted yellow grass crumple underfoot, the blades complaining in a throaty rasp as I plow through. The sun slowly crosses the sky, the trees casting long shadows in the dying afternoon light. When I was a kid, I thought this was the best time of day, a golden ripening of maturity. As I grew older, it became depressing—the daytime was dying and all I felt was the oppressive weight of age and decay. Now I’m almost ambivalent, the old constraints of time and place no longer having the same pull. I start to feel a twinge of regret. Am I losing the emotions that frame my world? No more passion, no more sentiment, just a cold, calculating resignation? If I no longer have any of that sensibility, is it still really me? How will I feel in a hundred years? Will I bear any resemblance to my old self? Will the whole issue of mortality be a phase long since passed?

  Everything changes and evolves with time. I don’t have close friends, but everyone I know is going to grow old and die. I feel very alone all of a sudden. Are emotions a leftover impulse from the human body that will fade as the chemicals that feed them are no longer present? Do I want them to? I start to panic. Am I going to lose myself? Become some wandering, unfeeling im
mortal?

  In my youth I was far more consumed by the things that interested me than I was in my thirties. What about in a hundred years? Maybe that’s a natural progression and you become more immune to everything. I wonder if the designers of this form installed some failsafe. I don’t think this body was meant to be inhabited for long periods of time, and if it were put to scientific use, weighing clinical reason over tenuous emotion might be advantageous. Then again, gut instinct seems to be an emotion that serves many scientists well. That might be a primarily human thing, and it has led to some horrible blunders. Come to think of it, I wonder how long this body is meant to last? What drives it? From where does it derive its internal energy? For all I know I’ll keel over dead tomorrow. I keep walking.

  Three days have passed. Three days of increasing restlessness as I tromp through seemingly endless landscapes. Wild grassy plains segmented and intersected by woods and roads, all in varying states of capaciousness and deterioration. I cross a few highways, forsaken expanses of concrete that look strange and antiquated in their abandonment. The distant forms of small, squat houses break through the vegetation occasionally. Something tells me they belong to the type of hardscrabble people I don’t want to steal from. They will feel the loss far more deeply, and their vehicles probably mean a great deal to them. Then again, I have little choice. Events have become so chaotic, I doubt me and my motives rank as much of a priority for them. But if I take too long getting to the border, things might solidify on a statewide level, leaving me in a far more complicated situation. I pause and look to the right, where the furrowed reddish mounds of a plowed field trail off toward a distant tree line. Peering to the left, I see the field slopes upwards, the far end a wall of high grass. Just cresting the horizon are the contours of a house. I turn and start walking, the grooved soil crumbling beneath my feet. Small clouds of dust ascend behind me, twirling lazily, caught up in the wind as a hazy miasma of reddish orange. The effect borders on supernatural, resembling as it does a trailing mist of dried blood. I’m the Devil, and I have come to do the Devil’s work.

  Cresting the hill, I stand in the tall weeds and gaze at the worn structure spread out before me. It’s a two-storey dwelling that has fared poorly in the elements, the dark wood paneling heavily weather-stained. A shed made of the same rotting wood stands a few feet off, linked to the house by tire tracks that grind through the grass in dirt ruts. The whole thing looks like something out of some ’70s horror movie. The ramshackle front porch harbors a rocking chair and rope hammock, sheltered under its wooden awning. A couple of old, gnarled trees cast mottled strips of shade over the roof.

  The house is buried in the backwoods, but I’m sure that dirt road trailing from the driveway leads somewhere. There’s a red F150 parked in front of the house. It looks like a 1970s model, rust slowly eating away at the wheel wells. Raw primer mars the body in patches of gray. I debate the pros and cons of stealing it for a moment, deciding it might be the best bet I’ll see for miles. The wind whips through in a swelling surge, roaring in my ears as I wade through the lake of grass. No signs of life come from the house. A side window, half-cloaked by a yellowing curtain, interrupts the flow of white paneling. I strain my vision and glimpse a darkened foyer, furnished with a red velvet couch, a small oak table just beyond. I up the intensity of the ambient light, and the darkened interior becomes visible. The floorboards are coated in a thin layer of dust, the planks half-smothered by a worn crimson rug adorned with a strange Indian pattern. That seems a little unusual—and a touch extravagant—for such an isolated rural setting. I circle around to the porch. The timber creaks as I ascend, bending precariously under my weight. An atrophied wooden door flaps slowly open and closed with the wind, its streaming shreds of screen undulating lazily in the breeze. I push it aside and grasp the brass doorknob. It’s an old, L-shaped lever, and fights rust as it turns upward. I shove, and the door creaks open. Glancing around, my eyes instantly adjust to the gloomy light. There’s a couch, its decorated antique wood curving into circular designs at the edges, squatting off to the left. A glass-topped coffee table sits in front, its pillars of support contorted rails of black iron. An old issue of American Rifleman lies on the surface, a copy of Shotgun News peeping out underneath. An elaborate amber ashtray shoulders the periodicals. Off to the right a small TV surmounts an oak stand. I wonder how long the house has been in this state. There are no cobwebs, no coat of dust, but everything appears abandoned. I should just take the truck. It might not even run, but it’s worth a try. Catching a glimmer of light down the gloomy hallway toward my right, I swivel around. The corridor ends in a closed white door, and I could have sworn I saw a glow coming from underneath. I turn and slowly wander down the passageway. Stopping at the door, I listen closely. A slow, viscous drip pads into something liquid. Turning the knob slowly, I gently push it open. A soiled old toilet greets me, the view expanding to include an old, cast iron tub to the left. A green light filters in through the small window above the latrine. A filthy shower curtain is drawn partially around the tub, and I can hear a muffled dribble coming from within. Stepping in, I grasp the edge of the curtain and yank. A woman, maybe in her early forties, lies half-submerged in a shallow pool of water. Her large, pallid breasts fall limply toward her sides, the brown nipples partially submerged. Her eyes are frozen wide in a terrified stare, the brown irises fixated on something long since departed. The mouth hangs open in a cry that looks like it never quite made it out, her wavy raven hair twisting in moist tangles as it falls from her temples and into the water. There is a small hole in the center of her temple. A thin trickle flows out of the gash and down her forehead, curving around the eye socket and plunging down the cheek. Drops pool at the jaw line, tumbling into the murky water with a familiar padding noise. Despite being dead, she looks a little too fit and attractive to be a domestic housewife. A hooker? A stripper? A small heart tattoo decorates her upper left breast, the banner flowing through the center devoid of a name. I turn and stroll back outside.

  The truck tires are fairly well inflated, suggesting it couldn’t have been sitting for too long. The driver’s side window is rolled halfway down, exposing a raised lock tab. Theft must not be a big concern out here. A quick duck under the steering column, a couple of yanked wires, and the engine sputters to life. I jump in, slam the door, and pull the lever into reverse. The engine coughs like a lifelong smoker and dies a grumbling, vibrating death. Shoving the stick back into neutral, I duck down and brush the starter wire against the ignition, and the truck sputters, rejoining the land of the living. Slowly raising my head, I angle around the steering column. Just as I surmount the dashboard, something slams into my forehead, shoving me into the passenger seat. The driver’s side window collapses in a cascade of glass. I sit up, the door panel slowly falling to reveal a fat, white-trash-looking man, garbed only in boxers, a hairy belly flapping over the waistband. His bearded face is topped by a mess of greasy brown hair. Eyes that have seen way too much stare through me as he pulls back the bolt. I grab the wheel and pull myself over into the driver’s seat. Shoving the transmission into reverse, I stomp on the gas, spinning around in a cloud of red dust. A slug punches through the passenger door and smashes into my ribs. Shoving the lever into drive, I peel out. The back window shatters, pelting me with a rain of glass.

  The front windshield now sports several holes, the perforations arcing out in a spiderweb of hairline fractures. The shocks must be ancient. The truck bounces up and down, the engine wheezing and sputtering with every hard jolt. Tufts of dirt pelt the sides as bullets kamikaze into the surrounding weeds. I think he’s trying for a body shot, but the fitful jerking of the truck prevents a clear target. If he were smart, he’d try to shoot out my tires. But he isn’t. Not that he looked like he was in his right mind to begin with.

  The trail curves off to the right, angling through the wall of grass in a stretch of tire ruts. I head toward the path, the truck rising up on two wheels in the sharp turn. Thudding do
wn on all four wheels, the rubber spins a moment before catching, pushing me toward the gravel road ahead. The grass falls away as I spin out onto a slightly better road.

  The truck vibrates like it’s going to fall apart, but without the old Chevy I would be tromping through this wilderness on foot. A hard bump, and the gravel road abruptly morphs into asphalt. The fuel gauge says the tank is half full. This thing probably gets ten miles to the gallon. Gas will be a problem sooner rather than later.

  The road dims as it slips into a tunnel of oak trees. Sunlight perforates the overhanging veil of leaves, irradiating the sandy asphalt in hazy yellow beams. Deep potholes mar the path, and I jerk the truck violently in an attempt to avoid them. The loose dirt throws the truck into a controlled slide, the sudden maneuvers around crevices almost whisking me off the road. It would be way easier if I slowed down, but the sooner I’m out of here, the better.

  About a mile down, and the street ends in an intersection. I slam on the brakes and look around. I can go right or left, down identical roads. In front of me and on all sides is a labyrinth of trees, the floor an untamed clutter of dying vegetation and half- buried boulders. There are no street signs. I pause for a minute and decide to go left. It’s a roll of the dice, but I have nothing to lose.