The Black Seas of Infinity

by Dan Henk

  The sleepy glow of dormant pickup trucks and shuttered buildings rolls into view. Trees curl up out of the morning dew, their slim trunks casting long, thin shadows. A quick blur of rural domiciles, and I’m back into the wilderness.

  The horizon has lightened, the rising sun burning away the blanket of night. The backwoods spread out as far as I can see.

  I speed through another bucolic village. The sign I just passed identifies it as “Val Verde Park.” The roadside unfolds into the dull warehouses and sandy lots of provincial trucking outlets. The ubiquitous McDonald’s and Chevrons commingle with palm trees and graffiti-stained walls in a dilapidated train. The small town blows by quickly, flagging into a small community of houses.

  The road grows into four lanes, a sign announcing my entry into Del Rio. The gas gauge shows a quarter of a tank. I’m starting to have a bad feeling about this. Houses and businesses crowd in on the sidelines. Cars and trucks start to pass me on the opposite side. This is way more traffic than I’ve recently become accustomed to. I cross a narrow river. Just beyond, the outspread lots of small buildings take over in a blanketing litter of cut-rate franchises. Flagging telephone poles line the sides of the road in a tattered array of slanted pillars, drooping bundles of cable that crisscross the highway like an emaciated canopy. A few vehicles dot the sandy parking lots, and I spy some citizenry traipsing about. This Chevy is an attention grabber, a loud, bright blue monster truck snarling through an otherwise peaceful small town morning. Not good. Route 90 arcs off to the right, and I swerve to follow, the suspension creaking as the truck leans dangerously to one side. I need to slow down. This vehicle is conspicuous enough, and speeding through town is only going to draw more attention. Which, from the looks of it, has already happened.

  A few of the locals are whipping their heads around, displaying an unhealthy interest in my presence. I can’t make out details. I’m trying to stare straight ahead, denying them the chance to take notice of my lack of a face. I don’t know whether to slow down or speed up. Going faster would draw more attention whereas going slower would allow a more thorough inspection. The sidewalks are small and unpopulated. The citizens seem to be clustered in small groups occupying the parking lots. I just need to get through this. I could swear the hairs on the back of my neck are bristling. Then any luck I might have had runs out when the light a few yards in front of me changes to yellow.

  Damnit! I could stomp on the gas, but running that light, or even worse, causing an accident, is too big a risk. I roll to a stop. The light turns red, and a few waiting cars rumble by. The car throbs, vibrating with a hearty growl. The windshield has become a quivering sheath of glass, the dashboard pulsating with the rhythm of the motor. Seconds tick by. I stare straight ahead, blindly hoping that no one gets a good look at me. The opposing lights convert to yellow. Then red. Why is it moving so slowly? My light flashes to green, and I stomp on the gas. A siren pierces the air. Fucking cops! Glancing in my rear view mirror, all I see are flashing red and blue lights. I don’t think I have a choice. I floor the gas pedal. The V8 bellows with the challenge, pouncing forward in a flourish of horsepower and exhaust. The wail of blaring sirens trails after me. A slow moving white sedan squats in my path, rapidly closing in as I speed up. Swerving in an attempt to avoid it, my cab tips perilously to the left. I spin the wheel to the right, trying to right the car. For one hair-raising moment, the vehicle threatens to pitch to the right, then it bounces back to the left and finally teeters back into a shaky balance. I mash the gas pedal to the floor again. Glancing in the rear view mirror, I see the cop car is still right behind. Fucking A!

  I turn back around just in time to see I’m running a red light. Before I even manage to face forward I’m thrown sideways into the door. Time slows to a crawl as the cabin around me whirls clockwise in an exaggerated freefall. The eerie moment of slow motion comes to an unceremonious close with a ferocious crash. I fly forward, my head bouncing off the roof as I tumble around in the deflating compartment. With a loud crack, the truck smashes into a tree, the impact throwing it into a screaming, sideways skid across pavement.

  A violent crunch into a brick wall hurls me back into the crumpled roof, the stone barrier extinguishing the last of the momentum. The truck groans in its final death throes, and I fall, crashing shoulder first into the passenger door. By now the wail of multiple sirens pierces the air. Digging my fingers into the canvas seat, I try to pull myself up. With a screech the fabric pulls apart, and I fall backwards in a shower of foam. Tearing in again, I burrow down until I reach a metal frame, and pull myself erect. Reaching up, I align my fingers and jab into the seat again, delving through a layer of padding until I hit metal. A couple more improvised handholds, and I reach the mangled driver’s side door, which now serves as a roof. The glass has smashed out of the window, the rubber sill framed in a jagged queue of shards. Grasping the sill, I pull myself through the mutilated frame. I’m in a small lot pancaked up against the back of some building.

  A white police sedan bounds up into the lot and screeches to a halt in a spray of sand. A wall of noise hits me in waves, the shrill racket of the police cruiser commingled with the sounds of rapidly approaching backup. Just as I hear a door crack open, a round impacts my head, throwing me from my perch.

  I crater the asphalt, tumbling over into a crouch and springing up into a ready stance. The shadow of the truck falls over me, hiding me from the patrol car. Glancing around, I break into a sprint, arcing around the building.

  Tromping through a high patch of weeds, I hurdle a short concrete wall and break out into the blinding daylight of a sandy lot. To my right is a warehouse, white paint peeling away in total neglect. To my left is the roadway. I should follow the road—probably my best chance of escaping this town. I bolt forward, bounding over the small banks of vegetation. I’ve only just vaulted the last bank of grass when a thumping noise erupts beside me. It’s followed by a pelting spurt of sand. I start to turn my head when a slug impacts my left shoulder, shoving me into a forward stumble. I lurch upright and spy a middle-aged woman off to my left. She is standing in the entryway of a Dollar General, evidently frozen in terror. The brick wall of a hotel chokes off my path, and I turn toward the highway. A pummeling sound beside me is followed by a shower of asphalt.

  The shrieking din of sirens is now augmented by the squawk of radios. I hear the patter of multiple pairs of feet chasing me, the ground vibration intensifying with the addition of pursuing vehicles. I flit around the brick wall and dash by the hotel entrance, jumping a curb and continuing into the lot of a local Hertz dealer. Pausing for a second, I swivel around, the thought of stealing a new car running through my mind. There is a red compact parked maybe a hundred feet away. I hear shouting voices, and twist back to see not only cops, but a couple dozen angry citizens running toward me.

  A police car passes on the left, screeching into a spin as it turns around to face me. The door snaps open, and a brown-attired officer in a tan cowboy hat jumps out, using the door as a shield as he raises a Mossberg. I dive forward, tumbling into a roll just as a blast pierces the air. Scrambling to my feet, I jolt forward, zigzagging my stride. Projectiles explode all around me.

  With a shredding groan, holes erupt in the metal sidewall of the rental car. The front windshield collapses. Changing course, I head back toward the road, dash around the yellow Hertz sign, and stumble into the lot of a small bank. A middle-aged man in a dress shirt and Dockers is cracking open the door of a Ford Explorer. I run toward him. His chiseled face turns to see what all the commotion is. A look of shock rolls over him and I pounce, ripping the keys out of his extended hand and shoving him away from the door. Over the escalating roar I hear the wet sound of bones cracking. Goddamnit! I keep forgetting how strong I am! I slam the door, plunge the keys into the ignition, and stomp on the gas. The SUV bounces forward, convulsing as it clears the concrete embankment. The rear window collapses in a deluge of tinted glass. Rounds punch through the sheet metal, one bounci
ng off my leg. I speed down the street, the automatic transmission slowly shifting through the gears. The angry howling of the mob resounds behind me, trumping the blare of sirens in a seething milieu of fury.

  I can’t take this truck all the way to Mexico, what with the angry mob of locals and law enforcement hot on my tail. Just ahead, at the intersection, is a roadblock of police cars. I jerk the wheel to the right, popping up over a curb. With a crunch my rear differential catches on the yellow parking barrier. I jerk the shifter into reverse. Metal screeches and rubber squeals, a rear tire spinning helplessly in midair. Fuck!

  I spin and kick out the door, the metal shell flying into the McDonald’s parking lot. Lunging out, I take a sharp right and dash down the street. A police car squeals around the corner behind me, closing in with a blare of sirens. The midday sun beats down in a blistering glare, blurring the edges of everything in a haze of brilliance. There are no fucking trees! No shadows! Goddamn this state!

  I tear to the left, passing through a sandy lot hidden behind a reddish orange building. Out of nowhere, a crack of thunder rips the air, and it starts raining. Big, sloppy drops, the impacts cratering the loose sand and buckling the blades of grass. The sprinkle quickly progresses into a torrential downpour, the water cascading downward in long queues of glistening silver. Visibility decreases to a few feet as everything is plunged into a disorienting fog. Stumbling through a tiny strip of waterlogged lawn, I barge into a small cluster of trailer homes.

  A battered picnic table hovers nearby, the legs lost in the storm, its surface a glistening mirror of pools. I shuffle forward, slender pillars erupting out of the maelstrom and clogging my path. I flounder sideways, a wall of white paneling emerging out of the storm and cutting off the right side. This is probably the side of a trailer. I shuffle forward, the slick vegetation underfoot giving way to the hard veneer of concrete.

  The rain lets up slightly, and I find myself on a side street. Commercial buildings are on my left, the trailer homes I just passed on the right. I jog forward, glancing around for some kind of landmark. The street ends with another cluster of trailers, and I swing to the left.

  The path ends abruptly, the street T-boning into a slightly larger road. I dart right, skirting an Exxon station and copier store before blundering into a four-lane highway. An empty flatbed comes grumbling down the street, shedding torrents of water. I dive out into the road and swivel to face the oncoming truck. Against my expectations, he speeds up! My last-minute leap isn’t quite enough to keep him from winging me.

  Flying over a dotted white line and into the oncoming lane, I come crashing down into a roll. I hear the squealing of rubber, and quickly raise my head to see a rapidly approaching Nissan Titan pickup, the gleaming silver grille molting water ferociously as it bears down on me.

  The truck grinds to a halt just inches from my head. A door cracks open and boots emerge, hitting the side steps with a muffled thud. They are followed by dark jeans and a red flannel shirt, finally coalescing into a bearded man in his forties.

  The pouring rain buffets his trucker’s cap, the pooling water dribbling off in small rivulets. Creases score his grizzled face, clustering in spiderwebs at the corners of his eyes. He pauses in his step, surveying me in a hard-boiled gaze. Then he starts to back away, still staring intently.

  I lunge forward, pushing him aside and leaping into the truck. Slamming the door, I look out to see him standing there in what appears to be either calm reserve or mild shock. I can’t quite tell. Pulling the automatic into drive, I stomp on the gas and surge forward.

  The rain intensifies into a scathing barrage, the massive drops pelting the windshield as the wipers fight a losing battle. I can barely make out the road. Buildings and what looks like a power line flow by on the right. The road splinters, and I bear left, the tires sliding in a watery curve that thrusts me into a spin. I twist the steering wheel to the right, but the truck doesn’t respond, the vehicle looping in an uncontrollable doughnut as it whirls through the intersection. An abrupt jolt over the curb, and I glide sideways across a parking lot. The whole wayward odyssey ends with a violent sideways crash into a parked car, the collision throwing me into the door.

  My elbow hits the window, smashing straight through in a shower of crystal shards. With a shudder of groaning metal, the cab tilts back, the shocks bottoming out as the tires reconnect with the asphalt. Rain starts to pelt me through the shattered window, a slow mist rising up around. I pull myself upright and flip the key. The engine thunders back to life, and I mash down the gas pedal. With a gnashing shriek the truck frees itself and lurches forward. The front end rises as I fly over the curb, nosediving in a bounce as I spin out onto the main road.

  A shiny Exxon sign looms out of the storm, and I angle left, away from the side of the road. As I push ahead, buildings flow by in a shifting train of blurred shadows. A distant gleam turns into approaching headlights, the beams piercing through the milky downpour. I must be at an intersection, and the last major road I was on was Route 90. I decide to chance it. I spin the wheel, sliding into a wide-angled turn. A violent wrench and I’m thrown forward, my outstretched elbows all that save me from kissing the dashboard. That fucking knob must have hit me!

  Grinding to a halt, I glance in the rear view mirror and see the crumpled grille of a white sedan. The windshield is a shattered mess. I stomp on the gas pedal and take off. As long as they were wearing their seatbelts, they should be fine.

  The gray shroud closes in, the steady patter of rain muffling the roar of the engine. I don’t even think I have adrenaline anymore, yet I could swear I feel something surging through me. Something antagonizes my thoughts, whispering the need to hurry. Maybe I’m cracking up. This body probably wasn’t built for human consciousness, and for all I know it might be slowly driving me mad. I keep driving.

  CHAPTER XV

  MEXICO

  The rain thins out, the monsoon progressing into a funereal downpour. Endless pillars of telephone poles flow by on the right, dourly strung up in slumped columns, their foundations smothered by squat bushes and low-lying trees.

  The Amistad Reservoir should be close. That’s probably my best chance for a border crossing. It is sufficiently isolated, with a Mexican shoreline that leads up into badlands that precede the Sierra Madre mountains. The precipices and basins of that mammoth strip stretch all along the western seaboard. By the time that finally peters out, I should be delivered into the depths of the rain forest and not too far from the Mayan ruins. It’s a long trek, maybe a month or even more, but the landscape is beautiful. I’m in no hurry, and that would be far safer than attempting a pass through the Gulf of Mexico. If I were discovered and pursued by military ships, where would I hide? If I were on a boat that I scuttled, I’d have to try my luck crossing the ocean floor. Not only would that slow my progress considerably, I’m not even sure I would be able to point myself in the right direction. I could spend months underwater. If the isolation and dark didn’t drive me crazy, I might end up on the coast of Africa. It might be longer and more arduous, but a trek through the Sierra Madres is far safer. I have a surplus of time, and an odyssey through the mountains should hold plenty of new experiences. The isolation will be a welcome change of pace, a chance for me to feel out the properties and limitations of this body. I’ve been on the run for a long time, and a revamping of my course is way past due.

  The highway steams in a hazy sheen, the condensation swirling up into a milky fog. The roadsides have disappeared, their walls of foliage bludgeoned into a misty blur. I must be near the reservoir. I can’t see anything in this soggy mess, but the borders have melted away and I assume I’m almost on the bridge. A slight jolt of the suspension, and the front of the trunk starts to angle slightly upward. Leaden queues of silver flit in and out of the fog. Guardrails. Off to the left I can make out the skeletal structure of something manmade. Maybe it’s another bridge, or an old rail line? As long as it’s not an impediment to Mexico, I don’t care. I can’t
imagine the US building any sort of barrier across this entire body of water.

  I let up on the gas and drift to a halt. Pushing open the door, I crawl out and face what I presume is Mexico. The rain hasn’t let up, and stepping out in the storm turns the incoming assault into a downpour.

  The silhouette across the water from me, looking more than ever like an old train line, drifts in and out of view. As I advance, my feet bump into a rail. Gripping the balustrade, I lean forward slightly and vault over.

  For a moment I float through whistling air, accompanied by large, drifting drops of precipitation. Suddenly, I’m swallowed by a writhing mass of liquid. I register a drop in temperature and the tug of currents. It’s a feeling of displacement, as if I am observing the pushes and pulls of the water, yet all of it swirls as if part of a lucid dream.

  Is this what life has in store for me? I feel less attached to my surroundings without the human responses to cold and lack of oxygen. I wonder what would affect me. This body was built to explore worlds in which the temperatures range from hotter than Venus to colder than Neptune. Pressures as low as Mercury or as high as Saturn. If conventional explosives and firearms do nothing, what would? A nuke? I wonder if I would survive even that.

  The currents are strong, a writhing mass that continually pit themselves against me. Something, probably seaweed, tugs at my feet, pulling me toward the sea floor. Kicking softly, I free myself and move forward. I strain my vision, but still can’t see anything. I wish I had a compass. I had one in my Mustang, but that seems like eons ago. I wouldn’t be able to see it in this darkness, but I’m sure it would come in handy in Mexico. It is gone, lost to the aggressions of small-minded people. Which brings us to another recurring theme in the history of man. We’ve lost so much as a species to the limited vision of small-minded zealots. The ruins I’m visiting would be much more thoroughly documented if it weren’t for the Spanish, who burned all the writings they could get their hands on. Mankind is such a petty animal. The creators of this body would probably be horrified to know that a homo sapiens had found his way into it. I float through the churning dark, my feet losing their stride and drifting aimlessly. I shouldn’t experience any chemical-based emotions, but I feel depressed and more than a little doomed.