See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die)

by Nicholas Black

  Ms. Josephine leans in over me, “Jack, are you ready to do this? You haven't crossed over in several weeks.”

  “I was born to die,” I tell her, acting all cavalier.

  “Let's hope not,” Ricky says as he hangs the bag of normal saline. He has a stopwatch hanging from his neck, like he's about to time me in the 100-meter dash. He's hooked me up to the Lifepack-10 cardiac monitor/defibrillator, placing the sticky patches on the upper right side of my chest, and another one on the lower left side of my chest, near my ribs.

  Somewhere around here is a syringe full of hydrogen sulfide. What that will do is inhibit my cells from using oxygen, thereby leaving me in a place of suspended animation. Kind of dead, but not dead dead. At some point in the adventure, if he needs to, he'll shock the piss out of my heart, stopping it, so that it can reboot on its own.

  There are so many ways a stunt like this can go wrong that it's best not to question it. Leap boldly forward, now, and deal with the aftermath later, that's my motto. Well, one of them, anyway.

  Ms. Josephine leans down beside the bed and pulls up her bag of horrible, creeping things, and extracts a necklace with a little leather pouch on it. At least, I hope it's leather. She then leans back over me, placing the necklace around my neck and fastening it.

  “You know what dis is for,” she said, reminding me of the still horrible method of getting back from Deadside if I lose my body. The memories of crawling, stinging, biting, poisonous insects having their way inside my mouth and throat are still far too fresh in my mind.

  Yes, I know. But it isn't going to come to that. Hopefully you can help me find her.

  She nodded, turning her hand over and gently brushing my forehead with the back of her fingers. “We'll find her. One way or another.”

  I turn to Ricky, who looks primed to watch me die for a while. He nods at Billtruck, “You got your gizmo ready?”

  “I'm good,” Billtruck says, kneeling over a laptop that he's typing furiously into. “This should be . . . enlightening .” He looks up. “Kill him at your leisure.”

  Thanks, guys. I don't know what I'd do without you.

  Then Ms. Josephine tells me to close my eyes and focus. I know what's coming. I know it's going to be horrible. And still, there's just no way to get used to it. I fear that I will always hate drowning myself. I start my counting. I take big deep breaths and slowly exhale, counting . . .

  10 . . .

  9 . . .

  I'm imagining Jesse. Trying to keep her image in my mind.

  8 . . .

  Angela's face, and how completely full of despair she was during those hours we spent in the hospital, waiting for the bad news that we knew was coming.

  7 . . .

  Ms. Josephine is talking to me, her words nice and slow, a particular cadence to them that puts me into the most relaxed state of consciousness. Just barely above sleeping. Her words start to shift and pitch. My body wants to give up and fall into sleep, but my mind is still very much awake. And she's talking me down towards the water.

  I smell pine trees.

  The air is thick and moist.

  6 . . .

  I'm in this dense wooded area, it's blue outside. Everything is a shade of blue. And there is a kind of dark serenity to this place. In the middle of the trees, there is a clearing. I make my way through the wet grass towards this small lake. The water is completely black, and there is steam rising off of it.

  And I feel this rumbling sound, almost as if a pressure is being exerted all around me.

  5 . . .

  She talks me to the edge of the water, and I step in, inch by inch submerging myself into the lake's warm embrace. And I feel this peacefulness and calm that I can't explain. Like I'm lowering myself into sheets of warm silk.

  4 . . .

  Ms. Josephine's voice is the only thing that remains of the Earth plane. She continues to instruct me with her soothing words. My mouth is just above the surface of the warm liquid. And I feel every fraction of a millimeter that my body lowers. The black liquid, it's creeping towards my bottom lip. I take every last breath I can manage, though Ms. Josephine constantly reminds me to just, let go .

  3 . . .

  I'm completely submerged, now, sinking into the darkness where there is no noise, no light, no earth. I feel weightless and abstract, like a copy of a copy of a copy of me. I'm still here, but I'm trying to find me before my air is gone. I struggle to hold my breath, despite Ms. Josephine's instructions to the contrary. My lungs are on fire.

  “ . . . let go, Jack.”

  “ . . . let go .”

  2 . . .

  My air is all gone. The fire in my chest is burning out of control. I don't have a choice now. I can't fight it. I know I'm supposed to submit to my worst fear. But I can't. I'm shaking and quivering, and in so much pain that I can't feel the roar anymore.

  I lose.

  That's it.

  I can't win this battle.

  And so I take a breath, the warm water rushing into my mouth, traveling to my lungs. I'm drowning now, and the burning has been replaced with an intense stabbing pain. Like sharp barbs being thrust into my chest and lungs from every direction.

  Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.

  I try to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth. This losing battle with life, it's in vain. Now comes the truly ghastly part of this . . . while the pain starts to collect each and every cell in my body—like a virus—all I can do is wait.

  I'm watching me die. Full horrifying, tormenting suffering.

  This isn't Death Lite, it's the original, with all the flavors, sweetener, and preservatives.

  And there's no point fighting. The pain can't get any worse than this.

  So I give up.

  1 . . .

  This quicksand of my worst phobia.

  My passage from life, through an imagined death.

  I'm being killed to be alive . . . among the recently deceased.

  “ . . . look for da light, Jack. You know it's dere,” Ms. Josephine's voice tells me, trying to be as comforting as possible. Her voice of honey and flowers and mist. I trust her more than anyone I know. She's leading me to my peaceful death.

  That water that was suffocating me, now it's a warm blanket.

  Normally, I would have been a raving madman at this point. But I've done this before. Dying is just a part of my job description. Man up or back down. That's what Detective Todd Steele says.

  And really, this is my environment. It's in my mind. This drowning I'm doing is only to conquer some kind of block my mind has on dying. I have to cross that barrier each time in order to access the Land of sorrows.

  And right then is when I start to see the little bits of light. Nothing more than glittering flashes here and there. I start to swim towards them, the dots becoming thicker and longer. The streaks of broken light becoming rays of warmth. These filtered specs are now turning into a solid, bright line.

  And I reach out my hands as far as they will extend, grasping in the warmth for the surface. I finally grip the edges of this brightness and pull myself towards it. As I kick and fight towards the surface, I feel a rush of cold as my head breaks through.

  I blink, opening my eyes as I climb out of my own chest.

  49

  The Loft, Deadside.

  Moments later . . .

  The light is bright at first, but as my eyes acclimate I realize that it's just as dark as ever in the Land of Sorrows.

  I claw and slither my legs and feet free of my slowly cooling body. When I get to the floor and turn around I see just my body. Of course, all the furniture is skewed and altered as if it had been melted in some giant microwave and then suddenly frozen. The normal colors are gone, replaced by shades of blue and grey. I am the only thing that still has symmetry.

  I stand, unsteady at first, and look at my chest and arms. They're glowing a deep bluish-white where all of the tattooed markings and symbols are. My body is stronger, bigger in this place. I am not jus
t Jack. I'm like me on steroids. I'm formidable. I feel like I could just start walking through walls, but because Ricky is paying so much for this place, I don't even dare.

  I look down at the gaping hole in my dormant body's chest. Every time I see that it looks awful. That's where the gatherers had their way, cutting and pulling at my soul for 67 minutes. And then I look beside my body where Ricky was. There's nobody there.

  Where Billtruck was, kneeling with his computer, there's just a twisted end table that can't possibly support the warped lamp that rests on it.

  I look to where Ms. Josephine was sitting. And although she's not there, her eyes are clear as the midday sun. They seem brighter than before. More penetrating than the last time I crossed over. She's getting stronger, too.

  I see you, Ms. Josephine, I tell her.

  “ . . . I hear you, child.”

  What do we do, now?

  “ . . . go to the balcony and see if you can find anyone.”

  I walk out of the bedroom, ducking slightly, and then head to where there used to be a large glass door that leads to the balcony. The glass, it's all shattered and mostly gone. Where there were blinds, there are loose rags waving back and forth as the cold wind etches through the loft.

  I make my way out onto the balcony and it's all bent and scary, with the guardrail so messed-up that I'm just asking for trouble. If I slip I'm a goner, for sure. Carefully I look out over the edge, my eyes searching for any signs of life.

  Above me is a starless sky, as dark and wet as black oil paint. Below me I see nobody. I look all around the loft, across the courtyard where normally there are little birds pecking for bugs. Nothing.

  I walk closer to the edge, almost enough to look down and see the empty place where I sit and eat pizza at Luigi's .

  There's no pizza.

  No Luigi.

  “I can't find anything,” I say to nobody in particular. I hope I'm speaking to Ms. Josephine.

  “ . . . leave da loft,” she says. “ . . . go outside and try and make contact wit somebody. Anybody.”

  Alright, I say. But the moment I turn around to head back I see a pair of eyes disappear into the loft. These eyes are light blue, and look like they're in some nightmare. Which, really, they are.

  I call out, Who's there? I won't hurt you.

  I hear some noise as whoever it is races through the loft, heading towards the door that leads to the hallway and the elevators. Normally I'd run as I gave chase, but as irregular as everything is, I'd trip and fall on my teeth . . . or worse. I start to jog after them.

  Those eyes are familiar.

  I get into the loft, and cross through the doorway to the hall. There's nobody. I could be hallucinating, but I'm not even sure that's possible here. I jog down the hallway, speaking calmly. “ Hello , is anyone here? I'm looking for somebody. For a friend. Hello?”

  “ . . . what's 'appening?” Ms. Josephine asks tensely.

  I saw something. I'm trying to find them. They're hiding.

  I stop at the end of the hall, near the elevators. I know they're not working so I race ahead to the stairwell entrance. I tiptoe my way to the edge, looking down to see if anyone tried their luck with the misshapen stairs.

  I see nothing but crooked steps.

  I hear nothing but biting wind.

  And then I get this feeling somebody is behind me. I turn slowly, my hands up so as not to alarm them, saying, “I just want to talk. I'm trying to find my friend. She's lost, and she's scared.”

  As I make my way around I hear somebody weeping in the hallway. They're not crying. No, this is a dreadful, heart aching moan. And I see somebody slowly falling to the ground, hugging their knees to their chest. It is a man. It is our old neighbor, the Lawyer Ricky was going to hire.

  Damn , I think to myself. I never thought to talk to him.

  I approached him very slowly, me taking small steps, him sobbing and burying his head in his knees. And then he slightly raises his head, his eyes barely more than thin slits of blue.

  “We're neighbors,” I say, trying to smile.

  “We used to be,” he says.

  And I realize that to try and explain all of this to my dead neighbor would be in poor taste, and probably just send him over the edge of my balcony.

  “I live in that loft, now,” he says between cries. “You need to find your own place. But watch out for the winged creatures.” Then his head lowers again.

  I sit near him, pulling my knees up to my chest. I don't really think he wants my comforting words right now, so we just sit. Him and me. He's dead. I'm kind of dead. We both share the same loft, just on different sides of life.

  And all I say is, “I'm looking for my friend. Her name is Jesse Taylor, and she's alone and scared. If there is any way you could help me find her, I would be grateful.”

  He looks at me for a second, as if he has a glimmer of recognition. But he doesn't answer.

  And I don't ask again.

  “You can have the loft,” I say to him. “It's too expensive for me, anyway.”

  And it's right about that time that I start to get the chills. I hear Ms. Josephine's faded voice, “ . . . to come back now, Jack . . . 's time . . . come back . . . ”

  “I can't come back, yet,” I tell the darkness, hoping that Ms. Josephine hears me. “I haven't found Jesse.”

  The original plan was that Ms. Josephine would have given her some place to meet during those terrifying moments before she died in the hospital. I would crossover, meet Jesse, and explain her new life . . . or death, or however she looks at it. But she's not here and I'm not getting much out of our old neighbor. In a way, he's kind of a squatter in our loft, but I guess that's being petty.

  A cold shiver moves down my spine, touching each and every vertebrae. I haven't started shaking, but it's only a matter of time. My visits to this place are limited to 67 minutes. After that, I'll be dead dead, and this will be my permanent residence.

  “You . . . you're glowing,” the lawyer says as he squints at my tattoos. “How come I'm not glowing?”

  I shrug as I sit next to him, both of us leaning against the uneven wall, “I'm cursed.”

  “And I'm not?” he spits as he opens his hands out into the darkness. “This is my forever? This is my eternity . . . my reward for being a good litigator?”

  “It's not forever,” I tell him, not knowing his name. I really should have learned something other than that he was one of Dallas's most eligible bachelors. Something real.

  I extend my hand, “I'm Jack . . . and I'm damned. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I'm Edward, but my friends call me Edward,” he says, kind of laughing sadly to himself.

  Edward, I say, I'm looking for a very special girl. She's got light blue eyes and she's new, and I need to find her. I have to make sure she's safe until I figure some things out.

  “I haven't seen anyone around here for weeks, or months . . . I'm not even sure how time works here. First couple of days I wandered around, trying to find those monsters that chopped me up. I have some choice things I'd like to say to them.”

  It's not their fault, I tell him. They're just doing what they're told. Following orders.

  I hear Ms. Josephine's voice again, “ . . . eed to come back . . . ow. Please . . . ome back . . . your body is cold.”

  I glance briefly at my necklace, not relishing the idea of having to swallow a bag full of the most poisonous, hungry insects. Stingers, and teeth, and pinchers, and red dots, and little brown fiddles, and hourglasses.

  “I've got to go, Edward. But I'll be back.” I stand up slowly, a little slower than I had expected. My body is starting to get weaker as my temperature drops. I turn to him, “Can you find her, Edward? Her name is Jesse Taylor, and she's probably scared to death about all this.”

  “I'll look around,” he says barely above a whisper. “I've got free time.”

  I walk towards our loft, stopping at the threshold, “Edward?”

  “Yeah?”
/>   “Don't hate God for this.”

  He laughs, “Why not? He apparently hates me.”

  And as much as I'd like to convince him otherwise, I'm not so sure I disagree.

  “Jesse Taylor,” I say, “ . . . find her and bring her here.”

  And then I head inside the threshold of our loft apartment, take a right, and make my way back to my bedroom. There's my slowly cooling human body. A heavy, dormant flesh suit. I crawl up and across the bed, and then climb back into my earth body's open chest wound.

  That's never comfortable, by the way.

  Next thing I know, I'm gasping for air while Ricky checks my heart rate. “It always comes back stong,” he says to himself. “Just breathe, dude, nice and easy . . . ”

  50

  The loft, Earth plane.

  An indescribable moment later . . .

  I instantly feel the cold overwhelm me. My body feels like it's been packed in ice for days. Everything aches. Every muscle, joint, bone, and tendon—they're frozen solid, not wanting to bulge an inch. On my chest is a folded-up heating blanket to stack on top of the three wool blankets I'm already covered in.

  I try to open my eyes, and as I see Ricky and the others I say, “Scare crow . . . ”

  I look to Ms. Josephine, “Aunty Am . . . ”

  I see Billtruck shaking his head at his laptop, thumping it, “Tin man . . . ”

  Ricky's grinning around the syringe in his mouth. That big-assed needle, it's for when my heart stops during one of my little voyages to the Deadside. Not if , mind you. When . He says it's only a matter of time.

  “I had this terrible dream,” I tell them. “There was this giant tornado. And there were witches and midgets, and this yellow-bricked . . . ”

  And then I hear this soft voice. “So does that make you Dorothy?”

  I blink my eyes trying to see who's talking. I try to sit up but Ricky's having none of that. And then I feel these warm little hands gently stroking my left wrist. I look over and I see Angela and Ms. Josephine sitting next to each other.