bear that had long ago grown grey haired and long in the tooth, and was occasionally trampled by herds of wild Mack trucks.
I took aim, and opened fire. Gray dust and flecks of rust enveloped the towering golem, in a fine cloud that was punctuated by bright flashes where lead collided with steel. I held my trigger down until I=d exhausted every last bullet in the clip. I threw my gun to the floor in disgust. There was about half a second of silence before the beast wailed, a high-pitched wine. It opened its mouth, closed it again, lowered its head, and charged. It was movin= at about Leon=s walking speed or a little faster, scrapin= and clackin=, chatterin= away with it=s SccCChhhh MmmoOoorrr RnnnnAAaag Ggghhhhh Bizzz mumble, so I turned and started runnin= a hell of a lot faster than that lumbering thing ever could.
The machine creature picked up a metal crate, about half its giant size, and threw it at me. It went flyin= over my head at about fifty miles-an-hour, it seemed, and came crashing down ahead of me, tumbling and skidding, yellow sparks dancing out from underneath it. I reached the door to the stairs with the jeep, and almost fell down them in my headlong haste. I unplugged the cord from the jeep=s electric engine, jumped into the driver=s seat, turned the key that was already in the ignition. . .turned it again. . .gave it some gas, so to speak. . .turned the key again. . .and nothing happened. The pang of fear that stabbed through my heart in that next instant, with the Scrape Clacker coming closer and closer by the split seconds, almost made me lose my mind right there on the spot.
Just by the sheerest of dumb luck I spotted the dull yellow button next to the ignition key. It read, in clear black capital letters, DOORS.
I hoped and prayed in the same brief flashing instant, and pushed the button. I heard a clanging rumble from the huge steel doors, and felt a brief flash of relief as they began to open outwards, slowly. So-goddamned-slow. I squeezed through the opening when it was wide enough, and only two steps later I heard Rust-o-Man crash his way through the doorway above the long staircase, and come crashing down the concrete stairs.
As I ran past one of the massive concrete support pillars of the deserted parking lot, I could=ve swore that damned static talkin=, Special Robotic Olympian motherfucker behind me yelled, AHelp me! Kill me! Dammit, why don=t you put me out of my fucking misery! Finish me! Kill me!@ Then again, I was just as likely hearin= things.
Scrape clack, scrape clack, scrape scrape clack clack followed me throughout my entire mad run, constantly fading into the distance, but never quite leaving my range of hearing. I thought I would hear that sound forever, until I made it into the glorious, fresh-tasting air of the outside=s pre-dawn sky. I didn=t stop to see if I could close those doors from my side of the exit, but it didn=t matter. I was outside, and dammit I was gonna rest until I could see that damned clacker again. He was a slow fucker though, so I had plenty of time. I crossed the road to the soft green ground, and lay down. All I had to do was rest for a minute or two, and I=d hear his clackety clack ass comin= anyway. I just needed to rest. . .
* * *
Scchhhhworble WahwahworBle pop sisssss Rryyyuuuuu TrrriiIII to Hurtmessss
roum romromromrom --
AAhhhhhhh!!!@ I screamed so hard I think I tore my throat, and when I looked up for only a brief instant, I screamed again. My next thought wasn=t conscious, and thank God Fear is a powerful dope-pusher. I think so much adrenalin was flooding through my veins it was boilin= my blood, and burnin= everything else. Perhaps I only pissed my pants to put out the fire, but whatever the hell was goin= on, I narrowly avoided being stuck on that goddamnedly horrible metal-man=s foot. He=d brought it down so fast and so hard his foot was firmly lodged into the forest=s loamy soil. I ran toward where the sun had not quite yet peaked the treeline.
It took that thing about two seconds to tear its leg out of the soft ground. I only looked back once to see it ripping a tree from the ground, the spruce=s dangling roots showering the ground with chunks of raw earth. I didn=t look back after that. Didn=t have time to. Almost an instant later I=d ran into a wide clearing, with a small hill in the distance.
Something flashed from atop that hill, and the giant garden-tool logger behind me exploded. I turned to see the million little burning fragments already settling gently to the earth. I looked back toward the hill, and a curious urging pulled me toward it.
Only a few steps later I began to hear what at first was only an indistinguishable sound. A few steps later I could tell it was music. Rhythmic, catchy with a smooth groove, something akin to the music white devil log thumpers played when they returned to their slave quarters every evening, wherever they might be living. I can still remember the lyrics quite clearly, or at least one part of them. The voice was a strange baritone:
Inna godda da vi-da baby
don=t you know that I lo-ove you-ue
Inna godda da vi-da honey
don=t you know that I=ll always be true-ue
Anyway, the closer I got to that hill, the more a certain black dot became clearer, and naturally, the louder the music grew. The black dot slowly became the distinctive sharp lines of a black, freshly-waxed 2023 Cadillac Mackdaddy Town Car, a sweet classic, and a fine ride. On the hood, sitting Indian-style, was a skinny old White Devil, wearing nothing but a dirty loincloth and a long, dirty white beard. His arms were spread wide, palms held to the sky.
At just about the same instant I saw him open his eyes, the crest of the sun finally broke the horizon, and the pale-red color of the sky was indeed beautiful.
The instinctive anger I would=ve normally felt when I saw that dirty old devil on the hood of such a fine ride melted away in the old man=s kind and steady gaze. I soon felt at peace, and very. . .calm.
AHey!@ the voice of the old man cracked. AYou need a ride sonny?@
ASure,@ I said in a daze.
AWell, come on then, young man. I=m headed your way.@
AWhich way is that, old timer?@
ABack where you came from.@ His eyes flashed a gentle blue, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the front seat=s passenger side, adjusting the controls to the stereo, adding a little more bass.
ANot too much bass,@ the old man said, shifting the gears into reverse. AI don=t like too much bass.@ He smiled. AYeah, that right there. That=s fine. Fine.@
Inna godda da vi-da baby
We started drivin= down the incline of the hill, and got out onto a narrow dirt road. The old man rolled up the tinted windows, and turned on the vent to let the cool, early morning air in.
ADon=t wanna let the smoke get away from us, you understand.@
AOh. Yeah.@ I said, understanding.
AAnd it=s already rolled up. You like blunts?@
AMy favourite.@ I said with a slowly spreading smile. AHow>d you know?@
The old man only smiled. AIt=s in the glovebox. There should be a lighter in there with it somewhere.@
I opened the glovebox, and found the fat brown blunt right off. I took a small moment to take a whiff of its pleasant, unburnt aroma. Digging around in the compartment for awhile eventually produced a bright blue disposable lighter. I lit the blunt, inhaling deeply.
AAhhhh. . .@
AGood shit, ain=t it? Pass it this way, m=man.@
ASure thing.@ We passed the blunt back and forth, and it was burnin= good. I think we were about half-way through it before the last thing I remembered was laying back and watching the treetops pass me by, the first drops of a drizzly rain beginning to speckle the windshield. . .
The wipers went whump whump, whump whump. . .like a slow metronome. . .
Whump whump. . .
Slap. Slap. Jim. Slap. AJim, wake up boy. Aw hell, you had me scared there for a minute.@
My eyes came into focus, and I was looking up into the face of the shaman, a bottle of the drink in his hand, the roar of thunder pounding overhead. Heavy pellets of rain thudded against the stretched leather doorway.
AWhat did you see, my child?@ The shaman asked.
AI. . .I. . .I saw some really fu
cked up shit. I -- @
AWatch your language, boy!@ He gave me a stern look, then smiled, and laughed. AIt=s already morning, boy. Do you realize how long you=ve been out?@
ANo. . .I. . .where=s your mirror?@
ASame place it always is.@
AWhere=s that?@
AOver there in the trunk with the rest of my stuff,@ he said, pointing. I tried to stand, but ended up crawling my way over to his beat-up old brass-bound oak trunk. I carefully opened it, because it was very old, and I didn=t want it to fall apart. I scrounged around until my fingers touched something smooth and cool beneath a patchwork blanket.
The small round mirror had no frame. I gazed at it through bleary bloodshot eyes, and smiled. Pity I never saw what I looked like in my vision or whatever the hell you would call it. Yep, I was still the same old handsome devil I always thought I was, long black multi-braided hair with brown shiny beads, large brown eyes, pale white chiseled features. . .
AThat sure was some good shit, old man.@ My smile was broad, and full of teeth. I returned the mirror to its niche in the trunk, and closed the lid.
AI know it,@ he said.
AWhat the hell did you do to me?@
He scratched his brown cheek, and smiled. AI showed you the shit, my son. Was the shit not good?@ He took a deep swig from his bottle.
AIt was something,@ I said with good-humored rue.
AIt sure as hell was,@ he said, raising his eyebrows. He tried to pass the bottle to me, but I politely declined. AThanks though. I=ll see ya
The Shaman Page 8
