The sidewalk is more interesting. The sections of concrete are aligned with exquisite precision, making them fit together exactly, with lines between the slabs perfectly straight. I am irresistibly drawn to this otherwise meaningless characteristic of the pavement. It seems important, but I have no idea why.
Beyond the park is a factory, an ominous edifice of dark red bricks. Tall chimneys eject thick plumes of black smoke that blend with the cloudy sky. This is a bad place. Dread urges me to run away, but it doesn’t work. I want to run, I’m trying to run, but an unseen force has taken hold, and each stride results in a minuscule distance gained. Frustration mounts as every effort to escape only increases the restraining force. Determined, I lean forward and slip ahead a fraction. Leaning further, I make progress, and once my body is at a steep incline, each stride begins to cover a distance I would expect. Inclined, I can get away. But I must keep barreling forward, for if I do not, I may fall flat on my face. My speed increases until I’m moving rapidly, which pleases me. Then I elongate into a thin dart and shoot up into the clouds.
I’m somewhere else, another park, grass beneath my feet. I have shoes again, along with the rest of my clothes, all black. Other people dressed in black are gathered around one spot. This isn’t a park, it’s a cemetery.
Carefully, I ease closer to the mourning crowd, but keep enough distance to remain unnoticed. An old man is lying in a casket suspended over a fresh grave. He seems familiar, but I couldn’t say why. Then, his lifeless body crawls out of the casket, and he pushes through the crowd. They don’t seem to notice him, or me, the mourners just keep sobbing. The old man emerges from the crowd and approaches.
“Don’t let them bury me,” he says.
Despite an incredible urge to speak, I cannot make a sound.
“Please, don’t bury me. I’ll have to stay here while the insects eat my body, until it’s gone. Don’t let them do that to me, that’s horrible. Please, take the body away and burn it.”
I feel sorry for the old man. He may be related to me, and asking for help, but I don’t know what to do. No one else has noticed our conversation. The mourners remain gathered around the casket while a man reads from a book. I can see the old man lying in the casket, clearly dead, yet the same old man is standing before me, pleading for my help.
He comes closer, and reaches out to my face.
I flinch.
He caresses my cheek. “Please . . .”
What the hell is this?
“Please . . .”
Soft fingertips brush against my face. This old man, especially a dead old man, could not possibly have a touch so soft.
A distant sound grows louder—a rhythmic thumping of deep bass, accompanied by an electrified twang, contained in a playful melody. A guitar, an electric guitar, weeping as its strings are manipulated into the sound of . . . music?
The old man strokes my cheek, and the scene fades to black.
“Please, Adam. Wake up.”
* * *
Madison gazes at me while stroking fingertips across my cheek.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe, before that crazy dream.”
“Anything good?”
“I wouldn’t call any of it good. A bunch of nonsense like always.”
The darkened compartment gives few details. Together we’re wrapped in a doublewide sleeping bag hanging from the ceiling. Or is it the wall? Where did up go?
Her grin is sly. “You know, it’s not always nonsense.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“We’re talking about your dreams, not mine.”
“How about I lend you a few, and you tell me what it all means.”
“You know we can’t do that.”
“At this point, what I know, or think I know, I have to wonder if any of it’s even true.”
She ponders that a moment. “Well, you know what they say—what you think is true is proved wrong by what you don’t think.” She winks.
“Now you’re giving me a headache.”
“Stop it, Adam. Your mind is trying to tell you something.”
“Maybe it should speak more clearly.”
“Or you should listen better.”
Of course, all my fault. I shouldn’t even be dreaming. “So the dreams are supposed to mean something.”
She fiddles with a mesh netting that holds us in the bag. “That’s for you to decide, not me. All I can say is pay attention, and at least try to figure out what your mind is telling you.”
“Okay. Falling should be scary and dead relatives ought to be burned. The rest is complete nonsense, and even those two are a stretch.”
“For now, but later, once you think about what you’re not, the rest might end up making more sense than you realize.” She loosens the mesh and wiggles out of the bag—naked.
She hears my gasp and twists around. “What’s the big deal?”
Oh my. She floats like an angel, slowly drifting away. Her dark hair spreads out in all directions, an odd sight, like she’s underwater. She reaches up to collect the wandering strands and secures a pair of pigtails. Exposed from head to toe, her silky skin is golden brown, except her nipples, much darker like chocolate. She has the ultimate female body, every feature curving smoothly, well-defined hips, tight tummy and petite breasts, limbs that suggest athletic potential. Her thighs could crush me, an experience I may not mind.
Near a wall, she pushes off and glides back. She reaches past me for a handhold, then brings a palm under my chin and coaxes it up, closing my mouth, which apparently has been hanging wide open.
“You’re gawking,” she says. “You act like you’ve never seen a naked woman before, and I’m pretty sure you have.”
She is close. I can smell her, and nearly taste her skin.
A familiar sound captures my attention—an electric guitar moaning sweetly, relaxed and easy, in time with mellow bass delivering a cyclic pattern of soft tremors. Wonderful. I haven’t heard music like that since . . . when? Music, the other lost treasure, forbidden in their utopian society. There ought to be music wherever you go, a symphony of sounds at all locations.
Madison is naked. And she was in this blanket, sack, whatever it is, in here with me. I study myself. I’m naked. Well, one part of the dream wasn’t complete nonsense.
“Madison, we didn’t . . .”
“What?”
“You know.” I rattle the baggy blanket thing, suggesting how the same might have moved earlier.
“Oh, Adam, not while you’re snoring.” Then her eyes light up. “But now that you’re awake . . .” She reaches past my shoulder and pulls herself near, until her nose is brushing against mine.
I tense up. “Ah, that’s not such a good idea, is it?”
What am I saying? It’s a great idea. I’ve been lusting after her every minute since we met. Her gaze is unwavering. Her eyes say it all—she wants me. But surely, someone may disapprove. So what, let them disapprove. This moment is mine. However, I wonder . . .
“Can we do it without gravity?”
Her grin turns wicked. “We can do it any way you like.” She shifts to the side, and her lips begin exploring my neck, where she plants a tender kiss, then roams further, up to my ear, her tongue tickling. More sweet kisses as she nuzzles my neck, then she slips one hand into the sleeping bag and slides her fingers across my chest, wandering along my belly and farther down.
We’re startled by a sudden exhaust of air pressure, then a sharp clank as a latch snaps open. Light streams in through a hatchway and brightens the compartment. A silhouette hangs in the entry.
“Hey guys, we’re almost—” Matt floats in through the hatchway. “Maddie! Get off him!”
She withdraws her venturing hand. “Get off him?” She pushes off and floats away. “Or get him off?” She giggles.
“You make me sick. Get dressed.” Matt slips out the hatchway and propels himself along the connecting passage, back to wherever it was he cam
e from. I wish he would’ve stayed there in the first place.
* * *
Madison can’t stop giggling, amused by our being caught, as if she enjoys it. She wrestles into a tight bodysuit, shiny black. A treat itself, watching as she wiggles and squirms. She zips up and seals herself in, then pulls more clothes from a locker.
“Wear these,” she says, and tosses the items. “You’ll like them better.”
Faded blue jeans, white pullover, and a black leather vest.
“I need a shower first. I’m filthy.”
She grins. “A dirty old man, though I doubt any shower will ever fix that.”
“Ha-ha, real funny. I’m talking about my skin.”
She glides close and pulls me from the sleeping bag, naked as the day I was born. Without the aid of gravity, my dangling member slaps like a wet noodle. Not a very impressive first impression. But then, she’s probably seen me naked before, I just don’t remember. Regardless, this is embarrassing.
Past the grime coating my skin, she seems to find a pleasant sight, increasing the width of her grin. She pulls me into a narrow passage and points to a small hatch.
Before I go, there is something I must say. “Madison, thank you, for everything. I’m so glad you found me, and saved me. Really, I am. I was so lost, and would’ve been even more lost by now. I really mean it, Madison. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now wash that dirt off, you slime-ball.” Her open palm smacks my bare ass. The sting is unpleasant, but knowing it came from her, I almost enjoy it.
She leaves me to my bathing. I was hoping she might assist.
* * *
Beyond the hatchway is a small compartment for bathing and relieving oneself. A good idea, I’m overdue. In what resembles a urinal, a narrow funnel hangs from the end of a tube. They can’t be serious. Well, better than spraying all over the wall. But really, it would probably end up all over me. I plug into the strange apparatus and let it flow. A vicious sucking ignites, whooshing away the waste product well before I’m done. I try getting loose but the damn thing is tenacious. Actually, if I relax, this could be exciting. No! It’s just a hunk of cold plastic. Relieved—physically and of filthy thoughts—I pull free of the potentially pleasing energetic vacuum.
Next to the urinal is a tall cylinder with a glass door. As I glide near, the door slides open to reveal a narrow tube constructed of stainless steel. Maybe this isn’t the shower, seeing how it lacks a spout or drain. When I slip in, the door snaps shut in a whoosh and the portal seals tight. I try to escape but the door won’t budge. An ominous noise begins—growling. A mist of hot steam fills the tube, then the growling escalates to a piercing whine, and a gale-force wind churns the moistened air. This shower is weird, more like getting dry-cleaned. Seconds later, the mist evacuates followed by a brief storm of heated air. The cyclone ends, the latch clicks, and the door slides open. Yeah, I knew that.
I glide to a wall-mounted mirror. Haven’t had a good look at myself in a while. Is that really me? Must be, but somehow it doesn’t seem right. Time for some grooming, that’s the problem. Wild hair, nearly to my shoulders, and a frizzy mess after that crazy shower. My beard is worse, all scraggly. The man in the mirror isn’t me. He’s a barbarian.
Inside a cabinet, I find an electric trimmer and a pair of scissors. Using the trimmer, I reduce my beard to an acceptable length, nice and tight, close to the skin. Now beard clippings are floating everywhere. Madison might get upset about the mess. The urinal will help. Armed with the vacuum hose, I go after the stray whiskers, capturing the little suckers—with the big sucker. Rather fun, like a game.
Now the hair. I can’t really give myself a proper haircut without a view of the back, but at least I can trim the bangs and get it out of my face. Maybe I could use the earlier trick, and view myself from outside the body. No, I’ll tip over and stab myself with the scissors, probably right in the eye. Not a good idea. Maybe later, when no sharp objects are in my presence.
I comb the wet hair forward, aim just above the eyebrows, and cut straight across. Well, as straight as can be expected. It might help if I was standing with feet on the floor like a normal person, instead of slowly rotating. Now the sides look too long, like a girl with bangs. And in all truth, I can reach some of the back without going exterior, at least enough to even out this mess. Clumps of wet hair orbit my head, which I must swat away. Time for that sucker again. Madison will never know how messy I’ve been.
After a few corrections, which only shorten the hair further, I’m satisfied. Better, but still, the man in the mirror is a stranger. Those eyes, they don’t seem right, like they’re not even mine. Green around the edges with a brown ring in the center, moving outward like flames on a golden star. So which is it? Green, brown, or gold? All and more—hazel, eyes of shifting color.
What happened to my clothes? Every time I let go of something it drifts away. Gravity has value, unrealized until it’s gone—keeping things where they belong. Back to the berthing compartment, I chase after the apparel and corral each item one by one.
Madison was right, I do like these clothes better. The jeans are long since new, faded and supple, though still cling well to my thighs and butt. The pullover is not so snug, but does follow my shape, heavier fabric than a typical tee-shirt, and long sleeves with thick elastic cuffs that stick in place when pushed higher up my forearms. But most attractive is the black leather vest, which encases my torso rather well, as if custom-tailored. Inside a locker, I find a pair of tall lace-up boots, black with thick, durable soles. They fit perfectly, just like the rest. How is it they have clothes, in a style that would please me, all exactly the right size?
* * *
The lack of gravity has been challenging, but I’m getting used to it. Using rungs along the corridor, I propel my body and soar into the cockpit, targeting the copilot seat. My aim is perfect, I come right to it. Or it comes to me. That’s part of the disorientation. Am I moving? Or is everything around me moving while I, in fact, remain motionless? With everything weightless, including me, it feels impossible to tell the difference.
Dave glances over as I slide into the seat. “Morning, Adam, how’s—” He’s horrified. “What the hell happened to your hair?”
Busy at a console, Madison spins around. She’s not too happy, either. “Aw, Adam, why did you have to go and do that? You looked so good before.”
Matt turns to look and his eyes go wide. “You could’ve at least made it straight, you knucklehead.”
I reach for my bangs. The hair is a lot shorter than I expected, now that it’s dry.
Madison comes up from behind and tidies the mess, running her fingers through and flipping the choppy strands side to side. “Oh, Matt, it’s not that bad. He’s still cute.”
“Like you should talk,” I say to Matt. “At least my hair’s clean.”
He doesn’t catch the insult, too busy tossing his own. “Sure, but it looks like you had an accident with farm equipment.”
Dave laughs. “You should’ve waited, I know a good hairstylist. A professional, not a hack like you.”
I’ll live with the hack job. Better than plastic yellow doll hair sticking out all directions.
Madison spins the seat around and yanks me out before I’ve a chance to buckle up. As she conducts a survey of my features, her eyes undress me all over again. “Wow, Adam, you look good. Real good.” Her seductive gaze crawls back up my torso, to my eyes, and we lock stares. After an uncomfortable silence, her grin turns wicked—like I’m on the menu, and she’s starving.
“Check it out,” Dave says. “We’re coming in.” He points out the forward view and urges me to strap in.
We’re still in space, but swiftly approaching a planet. The atmosphere looks detached from the globe, like a giant pink bubble surrounding the fragile world.
As we enter the atmosphere, gravity returns, and with it, a myriad of strange sensations, worst of all the rocks rolling around in my gut. We descend through bright day
light, scattered clouds whipping past, then glide over a coastline where ocean waves crash and burst, thrust against towering red cliffs. The steep rock walls rise to lush plateaus that blend with forested land, and farther in the distance, snowcapped mountains. Lower still, we soar above a stretch of white sand, waves lapping the shore. People crowd the beach, sunbathing in bikinis and flashy swim trunks, others playing in the water. The scene reminds me of something, a better time, a better place, but I can’t see it. The memory is cloudy.
Dave talks with someone over the radio. Our speed decreases and the craft drops, then he flips switches and the landing gear extends. “Let’s see how well you did, Matt. Hang on everybody, this might be bumpy.”
“It’s going to hold,” Matt says. “Have I ever let you down before?”
As the ground approaches, Dave ponders a memory. His thoughts remain private, but judging by the foul expression forming, the experience wasn’t pleasant.
“That’s not fair,” Matt says. “I already told you, that wasn’t my fault.”
I remark, “So Mister Genius isn’t all he’s cracked up to be.”
Dave laughs and Matt doesn’t say another word.
The craft sets down, a solid boom, followed by creaking and groaning, giving Dave an expression as if his face is making the noises. A few moments pass, the unsettling racket eases, and all is quiet.
“Told you so,” Matt says.
Dave’s reply is almost apologetic.
“Okay, you did all right. This time.”
* * *
Dave pops the hatch, the small steps fold out, and he starts down. I follow him out, Matt and Madison trail behind. Off the last step, I pause to enjoy the warm weather and fine air, fresh and sweet. The pink sky is full of puffy white clouds, sunbeams slicing through it all, a gorgeous day.
As we cross the landing platform, a creaking sound comes from behind, and grows to a screech of twisting metal.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 11
