I Will Rise

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  We stare at each other for a moment—I, locked in attack mode, arm raised, death dancing—he, taut, sweating profusely, begging for his life with gentle eyes. I relax a bit and decide to give him a chance to explain. With a little internal coaxing my tendrils snake their way home. The man lets out a huge, wet sigh and doubles over. He braces himself on the bed and says, “You almost gave me a heart attack—I thought I was a goner for sure.” He wipes a ton of sweat from his glistening forehead, takes another deep breath and then straightens up.

  “What do you want?” I try to play it cool, in charge, give a take-no-shit sneer and demand: “Get your friends away from my girl or I’ll fuck you up.”

  “They won’t hurt her. Nobody wants to hurt anybody here.”

  “Get ’em away,” my voice resonates with power and menace. Cool.

  The nervous man nods his head and walks to the door. He nods at me again and then opens the door and signals for his men to disperse. Shutting the door he takes a few careful steps past me. This bastard is huge. Like a bear. Except his movements are fluid, smooth, gentle—like his eyes. Mopping his eternally sweating brow, he stops by the TV and motions for me to have a seat on the bed. I turn back to the window and look outside. The others have left. Annabelle is still in the passenger’s seat and I still can’t tell if she is awake or sleeping.

  “She’s safe, Mr. Baxter,” the large man assures.

  Continuing to stare out the window I say, “I gotta check on her.”

  “No, Mr. Baxter, you have to hear me out first.” Again, he speaks with nothing but the utmost sincerity.

  “Fuck off!” Regardless, no one tells me what to do. I make for the door.

  “Stop!” The man shouts and it’s the sound of a thousand hearts breaking. “Do you want her to die? I can help you and you have to listen to me now, there isn’t any more time!”

  Drawn by his sorrow, I turn and the man gestures for me to have a seat. He has composed himself and I no longer feel so in charge. The way he is looking at me makes me feel about five years old. The fact that he is like ten feet tall (okay, I exaggerate, but he’s pushing seven feet and that’s still pretty damn tall) doesn’t help. The fact that he is older than me (how old? It’s hard to tell, but there is a patriarchal air to him) doesn’t help. The fact that he can break me in two (he’s built like a freaking tank), well could, before the change, doesn’t help.

  I am just about ready to follow his instructions and have a seat on the bed, but alas I shrug off the intimidation or guilt or respect or sadness or whatever is tugging at my heartstrings and remind myself that I am the man. I am in control here and if this fuck—no matter his stature or presence—doesn’t recognize, I am more than willing to prove it.

  “Are you threatening me?” I all but growl.

  He stammers a little. “No, no. We aren’t going to kill her, but if you don’t listen to me, she will die. Not at our hands, but at yours. We will all die.”

  “Sit down,” I command.

  The man shrugs his shoulders and takes a seat on the bed. “Thanks.” He half smiles at me before his face goes all business and says, “Don’t worry about your girl. She’s sleeping now. Okay? We’ve got problems, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Yes, you do,” I reply (rather cleverly, if I do say so myself).

  The man snorts or guffaws or whatever and shakes his head from side to side slowly as if tsking me. “You have no clue, Mr. Baxter. Not one.” He rubs more sweat from his brow and his glistening head. “I was scared to come here. I guess I am still scared, but not in the same way.” He slides over and makes room for me at the edge of the bed. “Have a seat, let’s talk.”

  I stand defiantly, but the large black man gestures at me, and smiles wide and his earnest eyes say everything is going to be all right—once again I believe him. It takes a second, but there I go: strength dropping out, my stomach liquefying, feeling about five years old. I sit on the bed.

  “Where to begin?” The man bites at his lower lip in thought and then his face brightens. “Introductions, right? I got so damn freaked out and nervous that I forgot to introduce myself. Charles Baxter”—the man points at me, and then himself—“Meet Clarence Jackson. I’d shake your hand or pat you on the back or something, it’s my way and all, but you know how it is.”

  I nod.

  “Right, well it’s good to meet you and I truly do mean it, seeing as how you and I are going to work shit out and save this godforsaken world.”

  More theories?

  Another dream freak come to save the day, come to rid the earth of my pesky presence?

  I want to tune him out and go to Annabelle and drive off—my bed is made and I only wish to lie in it. I don’t need advice or cautioning or threatening. We have a plan and I intend on sticking to it—but again, this man is endearing and again his eyes are two of the kindest I have ever seen and he seems easy and pleasant to talk to and I’ve been running so hard and so long that half the time I don’t even know where the hell I am going, maybe a little friendly company will do me some good. Maybe this guy knows something more. Maybe he knows something true.

  “You sure Annabelle’s safe?” I double-check.

  “I am not here to hurt either of you.” Clarence sighs heavily and shakes his head in slow, sad arcs. “We have a struggle ahead of us. Shit, man, to be quite honest I feel sorry for you. Things are definitely going to get a millions times worse and then they are going to get even worse than that, but if we—and I am not just talking about you and me, I am talking about all of us—if we all pull our shit together and channel our faith, one day things might turn around. That’s what I’m betting on. That’s why I volunteered to come here and talk to you. Well that and geography.” Another huge, affecting smile.

  “That guy who tried to cut you up”—Clarence gestures at my, er, Jim’s suit—“he wasn’t a bad guy, just hasty. And scared. Hell, we’re all scared, that’s why nobody tried to stop him. That’s why he had a strong group of followers willing to risk their lives in trying to stop you. It’s a shame, but they got scared and read the dreams wrong and reacted. They thought if we got rid of you, then we would be safe. They thought the reason we were all dreaming you was so that we could prepare ourselves and stop you before things got out of hand. What they didn’t understand was that we aren’t supposed to destroy you, we’re supposed to help you.”

  I shift a little and Clarence watches my movements. Relax, I say with my eyes and then, trying to mask my intrigue and odd trustingness with a little cold attitude, I say aloud, “None of this makes sense and frankly I don’t give a fuck.” Sneering and trying to look menacing I add, “I was built to destroy you and I will. Annabelle communes with the dreamer and the dreamer—”

  Clarence is completely unfazed and has the audacity to cut me off. “That’s all bullshit, my man,” he says, brimming with confidence. “Listen to me. Really listen to me, okay? I am going to break it all down for you. I am going to open your eyes.”

  He stares at me for what feels like a long time. Ordinarily this would do nothing but annoy me. Don’t you freaking hate it when people stare for uncomfortable bouts of time? I sure as hell do, but Clarence’s gaze is different. It’s nothing short of intense and everything inside of me swings.

  Go ahead, open my eyes, I want to say half joking, half serious, but instead I keep quiet and let him go on.

  “You are a time bomb, Mr. Baxter. Though I forgive the man who took your hand, though I forgive his eager followers, I also condemn their foolishness. They couldn’t have known what was going to happen, but they almost trashed everything. Whatever it is inside of you wants out. Whoever or whatever is behind all of this wants you to explode, plain and simple. It wants that evil planted inside of you to flourish. Your hate, your anger, your fear, your jealousy, they are all catalysts. If any of those feelings ever become too intense, all the evil inside of you will be unleashed upon the world. The evil behind this nightmare is banking on you losing it.”

  I swallow
hard and stare at my stump. “I am in control of me.”

  “Not quite true, man. Where to begin…” Clarence scratches his head in thought and then says, “First off, your girl is wrong. She’s sweet and dedicated and her head and heart are in it for the right reasons, but she is lost. This dreamer, this digital void bullshit is nothing but a smokescreen. She is being fed an idealistic fantasy, a dream she wants to believe in. The reason? To get to you, to get inside of you and twist around in your guts, to make you fall in love with her and listen to her without question. But she isn’t doing it on purpose, as I said, as far as we can tell, she’s sweet. Something is working on her so that she will work on you. The dreamer is her fantasy and something is keeping her hope alive. She is your fantasy and something is prompting her to make sure you keep hope alive. She follows the dreamer. You follow her.”

  I want to disagree, but his expression, the force and passion exploding from his face, wipes away any impending sarcasm or hostility or smug naïveté. There is a wealth of virtue and morality, something pure and clean and untouched by peccadillos, pulsing inside of him. It’s an odd thing to see in a man. Whatever he has to tell me he truly believes. Whatever he has to tell me means the world to him. My bravado, my ill mood, slink down deep and fold in on themselves.

  Clarence continues. “The question we are all asking ourselves is who is leading her? We can’t see it. When we dream, we can only see you. We can only feel things about you. We know of her and her feeling for you because you feel strongly about her and there is an uneasy energy enveloping the two of you.”

  I interject, “If this is all based on feeling, my feeling, and what I know, then how is it that you know more than I know? How do you know that Annabelle isn’t right?” None of this esoteric shit makes sense.

  “Because though we can’t put everything together, we still see more. We see lots of different things from lots of different angles; there are millions of us and we are all working together, sharing information and divergent points of view.” Clarence dabs more sweat from his brow. The salty everflow has died down a bit and save for two large, unsightly sweat stains pooling out from each armpit, he looks almost dry. “I would have learned so much in the past few days. Others have been dreaming you longer, I just started, but you’d think I have lived a million lifetimes. When I sleep and I join the others, it’s like we all share one mind with a zillion pairs of eyes. Things inside me have opened up, Charles. My eyes have opened. There is a deep understanding, a pure truth binding all of us. Our outlooks have changed. We know that there is meaning and peace and value in this life and now, more than ever, we can’t let you destroy that. We want you to see what we see in hopes that you will come round and help us to help you.

  “In any case I am getting off track and ahead of myself. There is just so much to tell. Before I get to the big picture”—he spreads his arms wide—“just let me assure you that nobody will hurt you or your girl Annabelle. Nobody thinks you are evil or at fault. We all understand that you are only doing these things because you think they are right and that you have no other choice. You do have a choice, Charles. If you know anything, namely who or what is behind this, anyone else associated with you and Annabelle, anybody else in on it, let me know. We’ll check them out like we did with you and perhaps we can get closer to the truth before it’s too late. Do you have anything I can work with?”

  Allen Michael.

  I want so badly to say the name.

  I want so badly to sick these cultish dreamers on his slick ass.

  I could say the name. I could do it. I could make shit up and tell them he is the mastermind, I could tap into Clarence’s implications and tell him that it is Allen Michael trying to destroy the world, it is Allen Michael forcing Annabelle to make me love her.

  I could tell him, but it all sounds so ri-fucking-diculous in my head. Nobody is forcing me to love Annabelle. Maybe her dreamer, but certainly not Allen Idiot Michael. He’s nothing more than a pawn. He has no power here. I’m the fucking time bomb. I’m the fucking man. I am in control.

  Unless?

  No.

  I am in control here.

  So tell him.

  And I want to. And the vile name is on the tip of my blasted tongue. And I am about to spill.

  Clarence’s eyebrows go up in anticipation.

  I hold.

  “All I know is what Annabelle has told me,” I say. Coward. As much as I want Allen Michael out of the picture, I can’t do it. I can’t risk my relationship with Annabelle. Not now. Not after our dream. If she says we go to the Hollywood Roosevelt to meet this fool, then we go to the Hollywood Roosevelt to meet this fool. Turning in Allen would be equivalent to stabbing Annabelle in the back. It would be a loud-and-clear declaration of mistrust. It would be the end.

  “You sure, Charles?” Clarence stares at me hard.

  “Yeah.” I stare at the floor, at my ragged shoes.

  “In a matter of hours the shit is going to hit the fan, my man. Think hard. We can’t kill you or cage you, so there has to be another way this thing can be stopped. There has to be something we can work with. Let’s get back to the big picture for now. If you remember anything that might help, stop me and let me know, okay?”

  I nod.

  “Okay, sometime in the next twenty-four hours, three days from the moment you killed that police dog and got yourself shot up, the dead will rise.”

  I am about to start asking questions, but Clarence raises his hand. “Now wait, before you start in, let me explain what I know. First of all, just so we are clear, I have no idea about these time frames. I don’t know why the dead are going to rise three days after your first kill. I don’t know why this whole thing—you, me, the living world as we know it—is supposed to end shortly after the dead rise. I just know it. I just know it the way Jim knew to meet you on that bus or the way those people at the gas station surrounded you or the way I am sitting here in this out-of-the-way hotel explaining the unexplainable. I just know it the way you see a world of the dead, a world of tombstones, in your head.”

  I stare at the ground.

  Clarence continues, “These are things we all feel indelibly. They are facts, irrevocable truths and that is why it is critical that you cooperate with us. In a matter of hours the dead will rise and they will devour the living. We would fight and we could stand a pretty good chance in containing them, hell, we want to fight, but according to our cryptic, yet so far dead-on prescience, it won’t matter because around this time tomorrow something is going to set you off and that evil caged inside of you is going to swallow the earth.”

  Pausing for effect, I think, he gives me a pained look. “This is what we see, Charles. This is where we are headed. Many of us want to capture you and drug you or sedate you or find some way to keep you together, but most of us fear that won’t work. I could ask you to come with me. We will give you a safe place to hide out, to keep cool and hopefully in our dreams we will see the future change, but I don’t think it will matter. I think, we think, it is entirely up to you. So unless you have something to offer, a solution or a lead of some sort, all I can do is warn you and plead with you to keep your head. Our lives depend upon it.” He breaks off and I think he is done, but then he adds, “I could go on and on, but my brain feels like a crushed melon. I can’t keep all of these messy facts straight. There is just so much to tell. If you remember anything, remember this: we are in some serious shit and you are the only one who might be able to get us out.”

  My turn. I stand and say, “And why should I believe any of this? Some strange shit has happened—I am even more of a freak than I was before and I’ve seen some weird stuff—but who’s to say what you see is true? Jim and company didn’t foresee their own deaths. They—”

  Clarence cuts me off. “Yes they did. They saw the end and they assumed it meant yours as well. They were willing to take the risk.” He keeps on with his piercing stares and now I am starting to get a little annoyed.

  What do
es he want me to do?

  Things are the way they are.

  He and his collective of dreaming humanity are in such vehement opposition to Annabelle’s version of events that they can’t let themselves believe that they might be the cause, that they might be the virus. Maybe they are right and the dead will rise and I will explode and wipe everything out or whatever. Who cares? Maybe it’s all in the dreamer’s plan. Maybe this is supposed to happen.

  And I tell Clarence so. And I ask him, “Would all of this be so bad?”

  “How can you ask me that?” He shakes his head disapprovingly for a third time. “Of course this is bad. I’ve got children, Charles. I’ve got a wife and family and friends.”

  “Maybe they’d be better off not having to deal with the world around them.”

  Clarence keeps quiet and just stares.

  I go on, “Maybe the world would be better off without them. Maybe we deserve to die. Instead of fighting this and preparing for some foolish war, why don’t you give in and prepare your family for the end. Tell them to give themselves over to a noble, worthy cause. We don’t belong here. We are destroying beauty.”

  Clarence scoffs, “That girl has you whipped up, man! There is nothing noble about this shit! There is no grace in giving up and dying. Lastly, there is no pristine, pure dreamer suffering at the hands of humanity. This is about good and evil. Life is beauty. The dead want to destroy that.”

  “I am dead, Mr. Jackson.” I raise my arms for effect.

  “No. You’re not dead. Not like the horrors we dream. You’re nothing like what’s coming, Charles. The dead are cold; you burn inside. The dead are empty; you love and hate. The dead are indifferent and godless and ready to suck the world until it is as lifeless and barren as they are.”

  “Godless?”

  “Yes, godless.” Clarence’s eyes burn with sorrow.

  “And what about that?” I goad him. Where does he think God fits into all this?

  “Huh?”

  “You’re a religious man?”

  Clarence nods enthusiastically. “I am a blessed man.”