Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  “They won’t last, Mr. President. Some will fold within months. They’ll destroy themselves. Besides, we can always starve them out with a total blockade, denying them food and medicines and so forth. But I don’t think it will come to that. The ones who are talking about a common-sense form of government . . .” He slowly shook his head. “They just might make it. That form of government is mighty appealing to millions of people.”

  The President, being a career politician, did not have the foggiest notion what a common-sense form of government might be. To make matters worse, he’d been a lawyer before running for political office. So a common-sense approach to day-to-day living and law and order was as alien to him as quantum physics to an ape.

  “How about these religious fanatics?”

  Again the general shook his head. “We believe they will be the most difficult to convince that the nation should be whole. Those holding a moderate view will be no problem. But we anticipate a great deal of trouble with the fanatics. They are not, well, reasonable people.”

  Mason sighed and nodded his head in agreement. The general thought the man had aged a good ten years since the madness (as it was being called) had swept over the land. “What about this rockabilly music that so many people are now reporting having heard?”

  “I don’t know how to explain that. I guess these, ah, space travelers are doing it. The whole goddamn thing boggles my mind. It’s like a bad dream.”

  Music suddenly filled the office. The sounds of the fifties hit: “Sh-Boom, Life Could Be A Dream,” sprang out of the air.

  The music faded and wild laughter took its place. Aides to both men filled the room, looking all around them.

  The pitcher of water on the President’s desk was picked up by some invisible force and the contents dumped on James Edward Mason’s head. A voice screamed, “I now baptize you in the name of the Republican party, you pompous prick!”

  The glass pitcher was hurled at General Stovall’s feet, the pitcher shattering on the floor.

  The laughter faded. The room became silent.

  The President wiped his face with a handkerchief as one of the general’s aides rushed around trying to locate a broom and dust pan.

  “Those . . . things have a very strange sense of humor,” President Mason said.

  “That is certainly one way of looking at it,” Stovall said, brushing bits of broken glass off his trousers.

  “Sir?” another aide said, sticking her head into the room.

  “What?” both Mason and Stovall said.

  “We’re receiving frantic communiques from our embassies around the globe. Some of them don’t make any sense. They’re garbled. Communications are being disrupted by some . . . force. Our engineers don’t know what is causing it. But there isn’t a stable government left in the world. This . . . madness has apparently circled the globe. It’s chaos.”

  “It ain’t exactly calm here.” General Stovall’s comment was very drily given.

  Book Three

  We cannot know how much we learn

  From those who never will return

  Until a flash of unforeseen

  Remembrance fall on what has been.

  —Edwin Arlington Robinson

  One

  It was a dream. Cole knew it was a dream. But he couldn’t bring himself out of it. Could not shake free.

  It was the strangest dream he had ever had, or that he could consciously remember having.

  And he had the feeling the dream was not taking place on earth.

  Weird.

  But his surroundings were very pleasant. The grass was green and lush, the trees offering plenty of shade from the sun. Far in the distance he could see shining buildings. They were white, the sunlight reflecting off of glass windows. But there was something out of place about his surroundings. Everything was touched by an almost invisible mistlike quality, just enough so to gently distort.

  Where was he?

  He didn’t know.

  Cole heard a dog barking. Very familiar barking. It spun him back in memory. He turned. A German shepherd was running toward him. A joyous expression on the animal’s face. Cole felt the sting of tears. It was old Buck. His parents had given him the dog on his fifth birthday, and Buck had been a faithful and constant companion until Cole was fifteen years old. Then a neighbor had poisoned the dog. Nobody could prove the neighbor had done it, but Cole knew. One of the neighbor’s punk-assed kids had climbed the fence surrounding the Youngers’ property and Buck bit the crap out of him. The man had sworn he would kill the dog. Not punish his son for trespassing on posted property, but kill the dog for protecting his fenced territory. Such is the mentality of some parents.

  Years later, when Cole had returned from Vietnam, he had looked up the man and whipped him so badly the man was hospitalized for several days. Then he had looked up the man’s kid, who was a year older than Cole, and put a good ass-stomping on him. Father and son shared a room at the local hospital.

  “Buck!” Cole yelled, but the yell was not a yell. It came out as no more than a whisper.

  Then Buck was all over him, licking his face and barking. But the barking was strangely quiet and undisturbing.

  Cole and Buck rolled around in the flowery meadow for a few moments, then Buck stared at him for a few seconds and turned to go.

  “Buck!” Cole called.

  But the dog would only turn his head, look at him, and keep on walking.

  “Buck!”

  Buck slowly walked away and disappeared into a deepening mist that seemed to hover right at the edge of Cole’s vision limits.

  Cole stood for a moment, hoping in his dream that Buck would come back and play with him.

  But the dog was gone.

  Then he saw a group of people walking parallel to him, some distance away. He shouted. But at first they seemed not to hear him. Finally, one turned toward him and the others stopped. Cole started jogging over to them and soon found he was nearly breathless from the slight exertion. He slowed to a walk and caught his breath. He walked to within a few yards of the group of men and women, all dressed in street clothes. A man held up his hand.

  “Stop! You must not come any closer.”

  Cole stopped and stared. Somehow, in his dream, he knew these people were all very old, but in appearance they were ageless, looking to be in their mid-years, and in the peak of health.

  “How did you get here?” a woman asked.

  “Where am I?” Cole questioned.

  The entire group smiled at that. “Someplace you are not supposed to be, my friend. Not yet,” a man replied.

  “I’m dreaming.”

  “Perhaps,” a woman said. “And perhaps you are one of the lucky few to see beyond your present confines before your time. It happens occasionally.”

  “My . . . present confines?”

  Again, the group of men and women smiled. “You will understand someday,” a man told him. “But not on this visit.”

  Cole was beginning to pick up on a few things. Their voices had a strange ring behind the words. Not ominous, but very pleasant-sounding. And they all appeared to be, well, contented was the word he finally settled on.

  “This . . . visit?”

  That was not greeted with smiles, but with frowns.”

  “Be careful,” a woman warned him. “It’s not over. Be very careful.”

  “Yes,” a man said. “Be careful.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. Have a good journey.”

  The group turned and walked away, not looking back despite Cole’s repeated shouting.

  “Well . . . golly!” Cole said. He frowned. Golly? He had meant to say something somewhat stronger. He could not make the words form in his mind.

  “Doggone it!” Cole said. Again, he frowned. Doggone it?

  He gave up trying to swear. The effort was causing sweat to pop out on his forehead. At least he guessed that was it. Something sure was.

  And it wasn’t the
climate. The weather was very pleasant. In his dream.

  “Over here!” the shout came from behind him.

  Cole turned, putting the shiny but yet misty city to his back. He turned around to take one more glimpse at the city . . . but the city was gone. It had vanished. He was standing only a few yards from an ugly, foreboding-looking swamp. He could see large snakes slithering silently through the dark waters and on the protruding knolls of land.

  “Hey, you stupid son of a bitch!” the shout spun Cole around.

  A man was standing about fifty feet away. Cole stared in astonishment. The man’s hair was long and matted. His clothing was no more than filthy rags. His feet were bare. Cole could smell the awful body odor from where he stood.

  Cole didn’t answer.

  “Chicken-shit!” the man sneered at him, as a group of men and women walked up to the filthy person.

  They looked as bad as the first man. And smelled worse.

  “You think you’re so damn much better than us!” a woman yelled at him. “You just made the middle level, that’s all. So that means you sure as hell ain’t no saint, you prick.”

  The group of raggedly dressed, filthy men and women began making obscene gestures at Cole, jeering and calling him the vilest of names.

  “What the heck is going on?” Cole said. As before, he could not swear.

  “Oh, little goody two-shoes is really one of them!” a woman shouted. She picked up a rock and threw it at Cole. The rock struck him on the upper part of his leg and it hurt! Cole grunted in pain and backed up.

  But not too far, for the dangerous-looking swamp was very close.

  “Middle level, middle level!” the men and women taunted him. They began throwing rocks at Cole, but this time he was able to dodge the stone missiles.

  “Stop this!” a man shouted, and the men and women ceased their hurling of small stones and whirled around.

  Cole stared at the sight. A large man, dressed in trousers and striped shirt, perhaps six and a half feet tall and heavily muscled, stood just behind the gathering. He carried a long staff.

  “Get out of here!” he commanded, waving the heavy staff as if it weighed no more than a toothpick. The men and women cowered in fright for a few seconds, then ran away, giving the big man a wide berth.

  “It’s all right, friend,” the big man called. “You can pass in safety now.”

  Cole hesitated.

  “Come on, friend. You’re safe. No one will harm you. I’ll escort you to the door.”

  “The . . . door?”

  The big man laughed, and it was a friendly chuckle. He motioned for Cole to come to him, and Cole hesitantly walked toward him.

  “Sorry about that,” the big man said. “Come on, walk with me. You’re premature. I’ll take you back.”

  Cole stared at him, speechless.

  “I know,” the man said, as they walked along. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Cole tried to speak, but no words would form. He was very tired.

  “Don’t try to talk,” the big man cautioned. “You came very close. Just about as close as I’ve ever seen. I’m the Guardian, by the way.”

  Cole nodded his head in understanding, but he really didn’t. He had never felt so confused in all his life.

  “My job is to stand between portals, to try to prevent what just happened to you. But I’ve been so busy lately.”

  Cole stared at the man.

  “Things must be really frantic on the outside.”

  “You can say that again,” Cole managed to mutter.

  The Guardian laughed. “Confusing, isn’t it?”

  Cole nodded his head and tried to keep pace with the big man.

  “I don’t mean to hurry you, but time is short. I don’t want you in here when the gate closes.”

  “Which side are you . . . I mean . . .”

  “I know what you mean. Don’t talk, save your strength. Believe me, you’re going to need it. I’m on this side, the dark side. But I’m working my way to the other side. You can do that. Many have before me. Ah, we have ample time. We can rest for a moment.” He pointed. “See. The gate. Beyond the meadow.”

  Above the meadow, the clouds were dark and ugly. On the other side of the meadow, the sun was shining brightly and a calm mist swirled gently close to the ground.

  “When you enter the mist, walk slowly and deliberately; stay on the path. You’ll be tempted. Don’t listen to the pleadings. Stay on the path. Feel better?”

  Cole nodded his head. “Yes.”

  “Good. It happens that way. You were in a terrible place. The people there are not nice.”

  “Can they, ah, well, work their way out?”

  “No. They are doomed forever.”

  “Where am I?”

  “I think you know.”

  “This is not real. I’m dreaming.”

  “Yes and no to both statements.”

  “That is confusing.”

  The Guardian smiled.

  “How did I get from the shining city to that __swamp?”

  The Guardian laughed at the unspoken phrasing. “You were being sent back. It might be a test, but probably not.”

  “How did you get to be a Guardian?”

  “The Keeper of the Gate and the Tenders of the Book saw some good in me. It’s about time for me to hand the staff to someone else.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Time holds no relevance here.” The Guardian stood up. “Come.”

  Lightning danced through the dark clouds as they began walking across the meadow. Thunder rolled in threatening peals.

  The Guardian waved his staff and sneered at the elements. “Bah!” To Cole: “It is nothing. In this area, one may suffer pain, but not death again.”

  Cole did not choose to pursue “death again.” It was only then that Cole took closer note of the Guardian’s manner of dress. The trousers were of a cut popular in the late 1700s, he guessed. The shirt was pull-over, cut square across the top. He wore a small, round gold earring. Pirate, Cole thought. The man was a pirate. He said as much.

  “You’re very observant, Traveler,” the Guardian replied. “I was shanghaied. Very much against my will. Sometime later I was keelhauled. Why, I don’t know. That is all I remember. Then I was here. And that is all that matters.”

  “Will I remember any of this?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  The Guardian smiled. “Perhaps. This is a world without end, Traveler. Boundless. Limitless.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “That, I cannot answer. Stop. I can go no further.” He pointed his staff at the mist that crawled and swirled just a few feet away. “There is the path to the Gate. Remember what I told you. Have a safe journey.”

  The Guardian turned and walked away.

  Cole blinked his eyes.

  The Guardian had vanished.

  Cole turned to face the mist. He sighed. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered.

  He stepped into the mist.

  Two

  Cole walked slowly, for the path was ill-defined, the mist thick on either side of the narrow trail. This no longer felt like a dream to him; it was far too real.

  And maybe it was.

  “Wouldn’t you like to step over here?” a female voice called out softly.

  Cole stopped and looked. The woman was beautiful . . . and naked. She smiled at Cole and moved her hips suggestively. Cole smiled and walked on, putting the woman behind him. She cursed him in a shrill voice.

  “Oh, please help me!” a man’s voice begged from the other side of the path.

  Cole paused and stared. The man had been savagely beaten, his face bloody and bruised. He was naked from the waist up, and his upper torso was streaked with whip marks.

  “Sorry, pal,” Cole told him, and walked on.

  The man cursed Cole, loud and long.

  Cole continued on through the thickening mist. The path was getting more
difficult to see.

  “Please stop, please stop, it hurts,” a girl’s voice sprang out of the mist.

  Cole paused, and the mist on one side of the path cleared enough for him to see a naked young girl being attacked by two men. One was holding her down while the other hunched between her thin legs. Cole hesitated, the young girl’s pitiful cries painful to hear. Then he shook his head and walked on.

  The girl began laughing at him, her voice ugly in tone and horribly profane in content.

  “Give it to me, baby,” the girl cried out.

  Cole sighed and walked on. The mist closed and the girl’s cries were stilled.

  After a few more steps, Cole could see a light in the distance, its glow penetrating the now thinning mist. He walked toward the light. Men and women lined either side of the path. They were filthy, hair matted with dirt and grime, and their body odor almost overpowering. They cursed Cole as he walked, calling him the vilest of names, but he did not stop. He put them behind him, and the shouting and cursing stopped.

  Now he walked in utter silence.

  He stepped out of the mist and into a small meadow. Wildflowers grew in abundance and the air was cool and sweet. The path was now well-defined and smooth. Cole walked on until the path ended. It just stopped. He looked around, but he was alone. He put out his hand, probing tentatively. The hand disappeared. Cole jerked back, startled.

  “The door,” he muttered. After a few seconds, he said, “Time to end this dream.”

  He stepped through and went spinning into a maze of lights. He could not keep his eyes open. He let unconsciousness take over and was plunged into an inky blackness.

  When he opened his eyes, he was looking into the lovely face of Katti.

  * * *

  “. . . And then you just collapsed,” Katti told him.

  Cole was sitting up in bed. He felt fine, except for that slight feeling of fatigue one experiences after being on a long journey. “A spider bite?” he questioned.

  “Something bit you,” a man said, closing his black bag. He smiled. “I’m Dr. Monroe, Mr. Younger. I think it was a black widow . . . but I’m not sure. I am sure it was not a brown recluse. You have no symptoms of the bite of that particularly nasty little critter. You’re fine now, all vital signs perfectly normal. I’ll stop in tomorrow.”