“…I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you.”
Thomas wandered into the barbershop, closer to the radio as if in a trance.
“…So I'm happy tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”
Thomas felt a sick twist in his gut. It was coming. He knew with certainty that his vision was going to happen, and it sounded like Dr. King knew it was going to happen, too. Thomas ran from the shop back to his room. He tried to think of what he could do, how he could stop this tragedy from occurring. He thought about telling a doctor, or calling a newspaper, or trying to get hold of Dr. King himself. But he knew that was useless. They would all think he was insane. He was insane! He believed he saw the future! They would put him in an institution if he told them this crap!
So he didn’t do anything, and he kept his mouth shut.
That night, Martin Luther King was assassinated…exactly how Thomas had seen it.
Thomas stayed away from the brothel for several weeks, shook to the core. But now he was haunted by questions. They nagged him incessantly, worse than any headache he’d had before. It’s the questions that have brought him back. Now he is desperate for answers.
Thomas throws the spent cigarette onto the ground and wills his feet to climb the stairs. He forces himself to press the doorbell before he can chicken out, and he waits, awash in shame and fear of the unknown.
What would Mother think of me? Visiting a whorehouse? What would she think of her delusional son?
Stiletto heels click across the hardwood floor behind the door, and the shame and fear are displaced by strange relief. Like Pavlov’s dog, Thomas emotionally salivates for what lies beyond. Because he needs this place. He needs Misty. He needs her magic potion to help him make sense out of what is taking place inside his mind.
The door unlatches.
“Hello, Thomas. We’ve been waiting for you.”
∞
Aislen stepped out of the man as he entered the foyer. She didn’t want to go inside. Sigmund was in there, and Aislen had a sick feeling that something bad was going to happen.
But this man, this Thomas, he was what was important about today. He was why Lange wanted her here. And he had dreams like her–dreams that weren’t really dreams. He was a Walker, traveling like she does, and he was just as lost and confused. Aislen felt an irresistible need to understand him, no matter what her great-grandfather had planned.
Before Misty shut the door on her, Aislen slipped back into his space.
∞
While Misty makes him a drink, Thomas finds a space on the couch. He passes the time watching the other guests make their selections for the evening, while in reality the girls are making their selections for them.
Misty doesn’t take long. She is back quickly, drink in hand. She’s made more of an effort tonight, her hair freshly done like he’s her first client of the evening, a robe over her cheap lingerie.
She hands him the drink, then slides seductively onto the davenport next to him.
Thomas slams the whiskey. The sooner he gets into it, the better he will feel.
“So, honey, I only made you a straight cocktail tonight.” She looks up through her lashes as she breaks the news.
Thomas pulls the empty glass from his lips. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to try something a little different. A little stronger perhaps.”
Thomas hesitates. “Um, I don’t know about that. The other stuff is pretty powerful. I don’t think I need anything stronger.”
Misty puts what is supposed to be a reassuring hand on his thigh. “I know, baby. That’s why I was thinking this might be better. Maybe something stronger would be more relaxing for you…more controllable.”
Thomas weighs this. “What is it?”
Misty draws her finger up his thigh. It makes him uncomfortable, but the whiskey is already dulling the edges, so he doesn’t stop her.
“They call it Buzz. All the boys who have tried it like it so much better than the sugar. Really mellow. Really deep.”
She draws her finger back down and circles his knee. She usually doesn’t touch him; it is an unspoken agreement, not what he is here for, but he doesn’t protest. He’d become used to her presence over the past year, had felt her nearby in his visions, heard her like an angel calming him during the terror.
She moves her finger up to his hand and slowly traces it up his arm.
“The other boys have said the visions are way more pleasant, that they can control them better… that they can leave when they want.”
This sounds appealing, having more control. And if the drug is stronger, maybe he can finally prove they aren’t meaningless visions–that he isn’t really crazy.
Misty circles a fingertip on his shoulder. “And the boys say they don’t feel as sick to their stomach because you don’t drink it. It’s just a little shot in the arm.”
Thomas grabs her hand and puts it down in her lap. “No shots. No needles.”
“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in meek surrender. “I understand. But there is another way. You can inhale it… you know, like laughing gas. Just a quick puff. Would you like to try that?”
Thomas considers this. The opportunity to get the answers he wants is very tempting, although trying something new is not. If he had never come here, he’d never have had the vision in the first place. To up the ante is risky. But Thomas needs to end this once and for all. If this doesn’t clarify his situation, he is done. Never coming back. It is his last visit one way or another.
“Okay. I’ll try it.”
A look passes across Misty’s face, a mixture of uncertainty and relief. Thomas almost changes his mind.
No. Let’s be done with this.
Misty stands up and takes him by the hand. “Follow me.”
Thomas follows her up the stairs, noticing the peeling wallpaper and the frayed carpet. Usually, he’d be stoned by now. He’d never noticed these details before. The hallway at the top of the stairs has several doors. More doors than Thomas expected. Misty shows him into room #6.
There is the bed and Misty’s chair. There is a canister next to the bed that had never been there before, a steel canister with an oxygen mask. The mirror on the wall seems more conspicuous tonight. Before, it blended in with the surroundings. Now, it looks strategic.
The room doesn’t seem like a brothel; it feels like a doctor’s examining room.
Thomas drops Misty’s hand.
“Wait a minute.” It is coming together now. This is a part of it. He should have known better. None of this was ever to help him. He’s a guinea pig. How could he have been so naive?
“It’s all right, baby. I’ll take care of you. You want answers right? You want to know what’s happening to you? Let me help.”
Thomas is torn. Part of him wants to turn and run out the door as fast as he can. But part of him has to know…has to know what is happening.
Reluctantly, he moves to the side of the bed.
“Take off your shoes so you can be more comfortable.”
Thomas does as she told, on automatic pilot now, trapped by his need, a slave to his destiny. Misty places the mask over his face.
“This is just oxygen, honey. It will help. Just sit back and relax. The Buzz will be administered through the oxygen.”
Thomas’s heart begins to race. He’s gone too far. This is all a mistake. Yet, whoever is running this operation, if the Army knows what is really happening, then maybe they know what they are doing. Maybe this will help. He’ll make sure to ask questions after.
The oxygen comes on, a gentle hiss. Thomas leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes.
At some point, Misty touches his hand. “Would you like some water? Or orange juice, hon?”
Thomas opened his e
yes.
Has he been asleep already?
He feels as if he has.
Is it over?
He’d felt nothing.
He nodded his head. He is starving.
“Just relax, I’ll be right back.”
Misty leaves the room. And Thomas closes his eyes.
Misty touches his hand. “How are you doing, love?”
Thomas opens his eyes.
Why won’t she let him sleep?
The mask is off.
Misty is in a chair next to the bed. She looks tired. There is a table there now, with a half-empty glass of juice. Thomas doesn’t remember drinking the juice. Has he really been asleep? But he’d just laid down.
He looks around the room, feeling a bit dizzy, motion sickness like the bed is floating on water. He feels the familiar fade of reality and slips into a gauzy space. The mirror on the wall is beginning to melt, and the sinews holding matter together start snapping.
Thomas feels his heart slow down. It thumps harder in his chest but only intermittently. That isn’t how it usually works.
Misty senses something and touches his arm. “Close your eyes now, dear.”
He closes his eyes, and his brain shatters into a thousand sparks of light.
He moves through a tunnel of white and gold rays at an incredible speed. He no longer knows where his body really is. He only feels the spinning of the light and a floating sensation. Thomas takes a deep breath, and the light opens up.
He is in a large room surrounded by a large crowd. As all the brightness dims, Thomas tries to orient himself. It reminds him of when he was in the church, but this is a ballroom. And like the church, this room is filled to capacity.
Red, white, and blue cloth swags are draped behind a podium across the wide stage in front of the crowd. Balloons cover the ceiling. The air is electric with excitement. A sign on the front of the podium reads “Los Angeles Ambassador Hotel.” This means nothing to Thomas. Hanging askew below it, a smaller sign reads “Kennedy.”
Thomas recognizes Bobby Kennedy standing behind the podium. His golden brown hair is parted on the side; a toothy, boyish grin spreads across his face.
“We are a great country, an unselfish country, and a compassionate country. And I intend to make that my basis for running in the period of the next few months,” he tells the ecstatic crowd.
The scene is similar in look and zeal to his visions of Dr. King. Thomas had listened to King’s speech, too, and the next night, King was dead. A sense of impending doom envelops him.
It is going to happen again. It isn’t just a hunch or faint inkling; Thomas knows it with clear, unadulterated certainty. And it is going to happen tonight.
While Thomas couldn’t stop it from happening to Dr. King, he feels sure he can stop it from happening to Robert Kennedy. He just has to get near enough to tell him.
Thomas starts moving through the crowd. Although it is packed solid with people, it is easy to get through them because he is a ghost.
Thomas makes his way to the end of the stage just as Kennedy is finishing his speech. As Kennedy and his entourage start moving in his direction, Thomas swoops in and steps in front of him.
“Sir, I have to tell you something,” Thomas starts. Kennedy walks right through him, and the group follows, leaving the stage and completely ignoring his existence.
Thomas follows, circling back around Mr. Kennedy, “Sir, please! I need to speak to you, it’s important!” He tries yelling louder, but still, no one flinches or reacts.
Of course they wouldn’t! I have no voice! I’m not here! This is a hallucination!
Thomas feels helpless. There is a static charge of danger in the air that only he can feel. He follows the crowd out a side door through a service way and into the kitchen, catching up with Kennedy as he is signing a poster for a supporter. Thomas begins circling him, trying to generate enough energy to stir Kennedy into noticing, trying to make him stop and pay attention for just a moment.
And then he does stop. It worked! Thomas starts to warn him, but Kennedy turns his head away, reaching out to shake a supporter’s hand. The young Mexican busboy is holding his hand when Thomas feels the energy shift behind him.
He swings around and is face to face with the gunman.
“Kennedy, you son of a bitch!” the man screams as he raises the gun.
“No!” Thomas screams, jumping in front of the weapon, trying to block the bullets.
The impact shoots through his chest, agony radiating through his body. His heart feels on fire with pain, beating wildly. As Thomas falls backwards, his heart races faster and faster, and he can no longer breathe. A blazing vortex opens up, and he falls into darkness.
∞
The impact of the bullets threw Aislen out of Thomas’s body. She staggered backward and watched as Thomas’s ghost disappeared from the dream, leaving her there alone.
Rigid in a pool of blood, arms splayed wide open, Robert Kennedy lay crucified on the kitchen floor. The young Mexican busboy dressed in a pure white smock knelt beside him. One breath ago, he was shaking a great man’s hand; the next breath, he was cradling a dying man’s head.
“Is everybody okay?” Kennedy asked the boy.
“Yes, everybody’s okay,” the boy assured him in a voice ragged with fear.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” the man said.
The boy took a rosary out of his pocket and placed it into the dying man’s hand.
In shock, Aislen slipped out of the vision, following Thomas into the dark portal and finding herself back at his bedside in the brothel.
Thomas was hyperventilating, clutching his chest and gagging for air.
“Thomas!” Misty was starting to panic. “You’re okay! Everything’s going to be okay!”
“Kennedy! Kennedy is shot!” Thomas managed to say between gasps for air.
Aislen watched helplessly as Misty tried to calm Thomas down, but then he began convulsing, his eyes rolling back into his head.
Misty held his body to stop it from shaking.
“Mr. Lange!” she yelled. “Please help!”
The door to the room swung open and Sigmund barged in, a storm of wrath carrying a large syringe. He was immediately upon Thomas with the syringe.
“No! Please don’t!” Aislen yelled out involuntarily.
Sigmund stopped cold, whipping around to face her. Aislen could feel the heat of his attention. Had he heard her?
Thomas stopped convulsing and lay still on the bed. Foam bubbled from his lips.
“Mr. Lange!” Misty pleaded. “Hurry! I think he’s dead!”
Sigmund turned back toward Thomas and raised the syringe high above his head, pointing the needle at Thomas’s chest.
“No!!!” Aislen cried out as Lange slammed the needle into his chest and injected its contents.
Sigmund immediately got up, stormed across the room to Aislen and screamed in her face.
“Get out!”
Aislen fell back into the blazing vortex and was swept away.
PRELUDE TO A DECISION
Bad Wings ~ The Glitch Mob
Eleven
Raze stood outside the massive steel doors that led into the Sanctum Sanctorum, collecting his final thoughts before Qi’ing himself in.
He was late. He’d kept The 8 waiting, absolutely forbidden, but it was part of his plan. He welcomed their wrath. The more they threw at him, the better. He had only one shot at this. If he failed, he wouldn’t make it back out these doors.
At least Aislen would make it out alive. Infinium would be at the warehouse immediately to deconstruct The Womb, and they would find her. But in that scenario, alive would be the only good thing about it. She’d wish she was dead.
Raze was as confident about this course of action as he was going to be. If it was his last breath of freedom, so be it. He placed his hand up toward the Qi reader and projected his signature frequency.
Nothing happened.
Either The 8 were
pissed, or they had already left. But Raze knew they would never leave an emergency session. They were fucking with him.
He dropped his hand and took a deep breath. Fuck these clowns. They don’t own me. I’ll beat down these doors if I have to.
Raze straightened his jacket, reset his posture and raised his hand to the Qi reader.
Fuck. You. All. The doors slid open.
Raze paused a moment then walked purposefully into the center of the large, circular boardroom. Bright sunshine beamed down through the stained-glass dome ten stories above, projecting the II shadow onto the floor where he was to stand. He stood on top of the logo within the beam of light.
The 8 were in disarray. Number 7 and 5 were seated while the rest were gathered around in a heated discussion.
They turned in unison to glare at Raze.
“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Tanis?” snarled Number 7, the self-appointed speaker for the group. “You have some nerve calling an emergency session, then taking your sweet-ass time getting here.”
One always stood at attention before The 8, but Raze crossed his hands behind his back and relaxed at parade rest. “I’ve been busy,” Raze responded, sounding bored.
“You’ve been busy?” Number 7 spat at him. “Dare I remind you, Raziel, that the last time you were here, you were put on notice: to accomplish our objectives cleanly and succinctly after your failure to do so with the Parrish Project. Do you remember that conversation?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“And you remember that you were advised of the consequences if you failed in your tasks?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Well, it doesn’t take too much deduction for us to figure out that your call for an emergency session was not to share any good news with us.”
“You are correct, sir.”
A disgruntled rumble moved through the group. Raze soaked it in.
Time Walker: Episode 2 of The Walker Saga Page 8
