The Black Seas of Infinity

by Dan Henk

  The ground starts sloping upward. A few more feet, and I break the surface of the water. The rain has stopped, a cloudy gloom having overtaken the sky. Mist curls up from the water in gossamer spirals of condensation.

  I intuit that I’m on the Mexican side, as if I possess some sort of intrinsic mapping system. I just have no idea how to exploit its properties. I tread up onto dry land. A lonesome savanna of rolling desert stretches out before me. It’s desolate terrain marked by an endless maze of flowing hills, the sandy dunes blanketed by pygmy trees. The Chihuahuan Desert. Stumbling forward, I slowly crest the bank, wandering forward into the barren wasteland.

  I had planned to disappear down here. To hide out at least until the US authorities stopped looking for me. But the situation has changed. In the midst of all this strife, I doubt anyone is looking for me. I wonder if the people in North Carolina, now that they are separate from the politicians in Washington, even know what they have. I wonder if that bunker is still in one piece.

  I wish I could be there, in the US, to witness everything going to hell. Though it was purely by accident, I probably picked the perfect time to steal this body. I amble forward, into the wilderness.

  The rolling plateaus offer up an unending parade of restless sand, the dunes crossed by the macabre shadows of deformed trees. The sky is dark and depressing, casting a pall over the land. As I climb, the demesne grows more aggressive, the terrain curving upward into increasingly steeper hills. Trees start to take over, transforming the late evening desert into a shadowy forest. The woods deepen, their canopy of leaves sealing off the sky. The landscape feels strange and remote, throwing my mind into an unfamiliar bent. Not that anything is normal any longer. I’m miles from anything I would ever have considered home, mentally and physically, and continually burnt by the endless venom of people. There is no safe ground. We all fight a losing struggle until we don’t so much die as wear down, and get surpassed by the hungry new generation, always at our heels.

  The wind rustles through the leaves, and a shaft of starlight pours down. The day has finally died off, veiled under its cloud cover. I didn’t even notice. But why only a single star? A wispy patch of sand and brush ahead of me is illuminated, a strange tunnel of blueish light descending from the star. The forest is deathly silent, even the wind now drawing no response. I feel strange, my vision blurring at the corners. The air is tense, kinetic, like it’s filled with electricity. I see a dark form, moving among the trees, just beyond the circle of light. I can’t seem to focus on it—every turn of my head is a split second too slow. A glimpse of long black hair, and a human shape bobs through the trees. I... can’t... quite... get a clear view. A gentle humming fills the air, the sense of electricity even stronger now. Slowing down, I peer intensely at the surroundings. Pale blue flits across the trunks, casting wavering shadows in its wake. The underbrush is pressed down, flowing in concentric circles away from the descending glow. A blur of movement on my periphery, and I spin around. Nothing! A flicker of noise, and I turn my head back to the light.

  Brilliantly illuminated in a florescent tunnel burning down from the heavens is my dead wife. She’s naked, except for an exquisite belt of silver and an armband of metallic rings. Her black hair floats around her head as if suspended in liquid. She looks right past me, her gaze focused on something far beyond, and raises two silver cups.

  I don’t know what to do. Is one meant for me? Both? What does it mean? I’m elated, overjoyed at seeing my beautiful little girl. I knew she wasn’t dead! She’s come back for me!

  A trickle of blood forms on the edge of her lips. Suddenly spilling over, it cascades down her chin. She raises the cups. I reach up to take one, but I can’t move. My body is frozen. I start to panic. Have I been in this body too long? It was never meant to be inhabited permanently! I know I could get her attention, get some sort of response, if only I could reach her!

  She tips the cups, and blood pours out, dousing her chest in a torrent of crimson. A sense of distance fills the air, and even though she doesn’t move, I can sense her pulling away.

  No! She can’t leave yet! There is so much to be said...so many questions...

  I struggle, try to lash out! My mind is in a frenzy, but I can’t move! In an instant, she’s gone, and I feel the crushing weight of defeat. My breath falls short, and I scream out silently in my head! I feel tears well up in my eyes, and I can barely see.

  I find myself staring at the silent pillars of trees. Noise has returned, the nighttime forest now a cacophony of sound. Leaves rustle, animals scamper, insects crawl. Movement has returned, and I swivel my head around, desperately looking for something?

  Some sign! Some presence! No! It isn’t fair!

  My eyes are dry, and I no longer feel any sense of breathing.

  It’s all in my mind? Nothing happened! I look down at my arm, smooth and black. I order it to move, and it rotates. I can’t tell if it’s more responsive than it was or less. I feel like I’m coming down from a head rush—not dizzy, but not fully in the here and now. Is this because I can’t dream? Maybe humans are meant to dream, and because I can’t, my mind doesn’t know how to cope? But it didn’t feel like a dream, it felt real! Sad and depressed now, I start walking again.

  CHAPTER XVI

  NEITHER MOUNTAIN NOR RIVER NOR ALL THE KING’S MEN?

  I’ve spent days, almost a week, tromping through the hills and forests of Mexico. Steep inclines carpeted with trees flow throughout in a complex labyrinth of wilderness. The vegetation is dwarfish and overbearing in the low-lying areas, but rises up into lofty coniferous trunks in the steeper foothills. It’s a beautiful view, the steep hills rising up into mountains, losing even the isolated cabins as they ascend.

  I’ve seen a few people, usually picking up their ambient noises long before they approach. It’s not hard to avoid them. It’s striking how Spartan some of the lifestyles are in this region. Small, wealthy chateaus for the tourists are intermingled with loosely thatched huts. The walls scrabbled together out of branches, the floor bare plots of dirt. Inhabited by isolated mountain folk that probably still believe in spirits and monsters. Come to think of it, some have probably seen me, going to great pains to avoid my passage. It makes me wonder what stories I’ve inspired along the way. Good to know I’m single-handedly keeping legends of the supernatural alive. I might not be some monster from the depths of Hell, but the story behind my presence is at least as fascinating, and could probably be interpreted as equally metaphysical. There is more than one line of thinking that links most ancient mythical and religious encounters to actual extraterrestrial sightings. They were obviously distorted by time and faith into theistic visitations, but so was everything unexplainable by man at one point. With no knowledge of science, there were gods of fire. Gods of wind, earth, and water. Gods—or the actions of gods—to explain the days and seasons. Native Americans first viewed the arrival of the Spanish as a visit from the gods. Look how that turned out. So in that sense perhaps I’ve become a god by default. There is something nice and cynical about that.

  I’m roughly following Route 57, which I know cuts a swath through much of Mexico. I’ve been hiking through these hinterlands for longer than it took me to travel from upstate New York to the border, but in effort expounded, it’s been far less.

  I’ve crossed dune-speckled savannas, wandered like a long lost spaghetti western cowboy through loose clusters of dwarfish shrubbery, and scaled steep, rock-studded hills. Forests come and go, the rugged terrain intensifying into shaded woodland for long stretches. These are the step hills to the Sierra Madres, and probably the safest route, but I’m growing bored with the journey. I have yet to feel tired, but I trudge forward day and night through harsh terrain, avoiding all contact. Mostly I stick to the remote woods. Isolated pockets of cultivated wealth pop up, small chateaus secluded in the backwoods. Dirt roads cut across the harsh terrain. I pass a rail line, the slender tracks chiseling a twisting circuit through the slopes. Something tells m
e that, sooner or later, sheer boredom is going to drive me into another dangerous situation.

  I crest yet another hill, one of the countless stunted embankments at the base of the mountain range. I’m on a low-lying peak, and I can see Route 57 on the far right. Below me is something too good to be true. A light blue FJ 40 is parked in front of a weathered old ranch house. I’ve always had a thing for those old Toyotas.

  Sauntering down the hill, I stroll out onto the asphalt driveway. The whitewashed brick house is luminescent in the bright midday sun, the pavement in front cracked and warped. The whole abode has seen better days.

  The old Land Cruiser doesn’t have any side or rear doors, and the lustrous white roof props a rusting shell of a hardtop. Splotches of corrosion mar the wheel wheels, the brown oxide nibbling a haphazard trajectory along the fender. As long as it runs, that’s all that matters. I duck under the dashboard. A twist of the wires, and the engine coughs to life. I pull out my head in time to see a stout Mexican, his tousled black hair jutting up in the throes of interrupted sleep. His eyes are focused on me in an impassive gaze. I don’t see fear or anger, just a dry, impenetrable look. The breeze rustles his tan trousers, the only clothes he’s wearing. He doesn’t move, his brown eyes looking at me evenly, the mouth closed and inscrutable. I crawl in the seat, keeping my eyes trained on his face. Shifting into reverse, I pull around in a semi-circle and shove the lever into first. The engine responds sluggishly, trembling and shaking with the sudden demand placed on it. Recovering almost immediately, it thunders forward, picking up steam as the RPMs rise. Glancing in the rear view mirror, I see the owner is still staring after me. I wonder what’s going through his head. Maybe I’m like some mystical creature come to life and he dares not meddle?

  I thunder forward, the wind whipping around the corners. The springs creak and moan with every vibration, the rusty carcass rumbling as it rolls down the highway. These Japanese cars seem to hold together under conditions that would have long ago retired any American-made vehicle.

  The Mexican interstate is a little surprising. It’s not at all the ramshackle cliché you often hear about. Metal guardrails, broad pebble-strewn shoulders, and overhanging metal signs in the typical glossy green demarcate the route. Hills and small mountains are spliced through, their rocky intestines on orderly display as the road chisels a horizontal niche through their bowels. Squat, whitewashed cement huts occasionally dot the roadside, the structures only slightly more austere than in the States.

  The crisis in the US isn’t having nearly the same effect here. I’ll bet heavy truck traffic is lower due to the suspension of North American shipping lanes, but a decent amount of local traffic still flies past. The cars look a little older and more run down, although I’ve seen more than one Hummer 2 and a few upscale sedans. The flow isn’t considerable, just a car every twenty minutes or so, but it’s a lot more than I’d grown used to in the US.

  The sun has begun to fall, an overcast sky blanketing the firmament and deepening the shadows. No cars have pulled up alongside of me—and in the dimming light the passing cars probably wouldn’t notice my appearance—but I bet at least one of the oncoming drivers caught a glimpse of something strange. Given my previous luck, I’m running on borrowed time.

  Route 57 progresses into Route 57D. The sun finally makes a fatal plunge beyond the horizon, a thin line of orange above the mountaintops signaling its final death knell. Light glows off the underbelly of the clouds, casting an orange iridescence over the treetops. It’s at once beautiful, alien, and familiar. I pull the light switch. Surprisingly, both headlights work. It’s smooth sailing at the moment, but something tells me it won’t last. I’m in a stolen car, in a foreign country, and without a human face. I’ll be lucky if I make it a day.

  Route 57D opens up as I approach the outskirts of Ciudad de Mexico. Formerly the resplendent Tenochtitlan, it has been debased by centuries of foreign meddling into the Mexico City of today.

  The roadway widens into a four-lane thoroughfare, an island of vegetation the dividing barrier. Warehouses skirt the roadway, followed by a cluster of houses. The windows glow in the darkness. Large manicured fields replace them, their open savannas veiled by a smattering of roadside trees. A giant mass of water overtakes the fields, plunging the landscape into a rippling basin. The fields fall back in as the lake passes, but it’s only a brief intermission, as a legion of houses crushes in on the sides. It’s an unending train of slapdash buildings, the darkened structures a Latin American version of suburban sprawl. Trees crop up, cloaking the swarm of domestic lights behind fleeting pillars of black: Mexico City... and I’m only on the outer fringes.

  The mob of windows fades in and out of view, the intervening fields growing smaller and less frequent. Giant gloomy warehouses crop up on my left, the silhouettes of mammoth silos looming in their dusty recesses. This place is huge. It rivals Manhattan in size, but feels nothing like New York. It’s much warmer and more chaotic. Giant shopping malls and batteries of domiciles push in, burying me in a swarm of industrialization. Cars in various states of disrepair throng around me, the traffic picking up as I approach the epicenter. People honk and yell, the shouts muffled by the pounding exhaust. I try to maintain a stiff posture, eyes straight ahead. I’m hoping no one can get a close look. I listen intently for any of the ambient noise being directed at me, but don’t dare swivel my head.

  There seems to be no end, the mammoth structures on both sides of the highway closing in. It’s like I’m in some strange movie, the pawing horde trying to pull me into their deranged world. Headlights dart around me in droves, like giant insects fluttering down the corridors of an industrial hive. This is the first major metropolis I’ve been in since my transformation, and it’s a foreign city to boot. I feel a bit overwhelmed and out of place. I hear someone yelling at me in Spanish. Twisting my head, I see a red pickup truck has pulled up next to me, the passenger screaming his head off. I stomp on the gas, the FJ 40 jerking forward with a grumble. The truck easily levels with me, the passenger still shouting something. I turn my head and stare at him. It’s a young Spanish guy, early twenties, with a backwards baseball cap and wispy black mustache. The leering eyes and upturned mouth collapse into a look of astonishment, followed quickly by fear. His back arm slaps the shoulder of the driver, and a sheltered blur turns toward me. A piercing screech fills the air as the pickup jerks backwards and out of my view. He must have slammed on the brakes. A minute later, the grating sounds of smashing metal fill the air, followed almost instantly by a drove of squeals and collisions. I glance in the rear view mirror to see a multi-car pileup. It’s kind of amusing, but probably spells only trouble. I’m sure it will bring the local law enforcement. I turn back and notice the fuel needle is almost on empty. When it rains it pours. As if on cue, the blare of sirens erupts behind me.

  It’s a dark blue sedan marked “POLICIA FEDERAL,” the front grille sporting a bull bar that partially cloaks the headlights. Beams flare from the roof, drenching the street in a blaze of glory. It looks like a Dodge Charger. No way I can outrun that. Time to change tactics. I stomp on the brakes. The worn tires instantly lose traction, and I spin wildly out of control. The wheels collide with the concrete curb, the whole frame slamming to a halt with the sudden impact. Untethered by a seat belt, I fly out the open door. Sailing over a concrete island and through an open lane of traffic, I just miss an oncoming truck as I smash into a huge pine tree. The trunk convulses violently, dousing me in a shower of needles as I plunge face first into the weeds. I lift my head just in time to see the spinning carcass of the FJ 40 heading toward me. I start to pull in my legs, almost making it as the crumpled shell hits me, flinging me out in a semicircular spin across a lane of traffic and into a tree.

  I blast through in a volley of wooden strips and sap. Cratering the sandy asphalt, I land elbow first and fall forward into a roll. Just as I struggle to my feet, an eighteen-wheeler honks its air horns, bearing down on me in a mass of corrugated metal. I spri
ng into a dash, bounding across a parking lot filled with delivery trucks. Running along the wall of a warehouse, I slip around the rear corner and tear forward into the night. A grove of trees, a short stretch of grass, and I stumble into a small backyard. Glancing around desperately, I dart off to the left, into a thin wood line.

  Past the woods, I emerge on a one-way street. A blue Nissan pickup is headed straight for me, the shrill warning of its horn heralding its approach. It slows down as it draws near, its headlights enveloping me in a blinding glow. I step to the side of the truck and pounce forward. My fingers tear into the passenger door. Grasping the frame of the truck with my other hand, I rip the door off its hinges.

  The passenger, a chubby, middle-aged man decked out in a black T-shirt, gapes back in terror. A moaning gibberish escapes his lips, and he fumbles his way through the door, almost falling as he staggers out. His feet catch the cement, and he flees in a mad dash toward the neighboring trees. Climbing in, I grab the wheel and step on the gas. The truck flies forward, passing a few buildings before rolling into an intersection. Some sort of park is ahead of me, and skyscrapers rise up in a jumble of suspended lights to my left. I spin to the right, hopefully away from downtown and toward Route 57D.