I Will Rise

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  “I can tell. You have tremendous confidence. What about God then? Where does he or she or it fit in to all this?”

  “Right here.” Clarence places one of his enormous hands over his heart. “Right here.” He brings the big hand to his forehead. “Same as it ever was. God is always with us. He lives inside of us. He will see us through. Win or lose, he’s got my back. Win or lose, he’s got your back, Charles.”

  I snarl, “Nobody’s got your back, nobody’s got mine. I believed in God. I believed too much and leaned on the idea for most of my life. I let my belief coupled with my affliction turn me into a freak. The only thing that’s real, that I know is completely real, is me. And after all of this crazy bullshit, I’m not even so sure of that. The only thing that matters now is this.” I raise my stump.

  We sit in silence for a minute—me staring at my shoes, Clarence staring at my stump. I let out a sigh and say, “I envy you, Mr. Jackson. You make it sound so easy.”

  “Because it is.” Clarence pauses for a second and then says, “You just have to allow yourself to believe. Why do you think I am here? If you were evil and godless, this wouldn’t work. I’d be dead the moment you woke up. You don’t want to kill, Charles, partly because deep inside you still believe in God, your God, the conscience deep inside you, and partly because you believe in us, you believe in humanity. You’ve had a hard life. I know this. We all know. We all feel your pain because we all go through some sort of shit. And you know what, man? It’s all relative. No matter the situation or circumstance, it hurts. We are all in pain and ready to throw in the towel. What defines us is whether we do or don’t.”

  “I gotta check on Annabelle,” I say.

  Clarence stands and dwarfs me. “And I gotta go. I’ve pleaded my case. You have a better idea of what’s going on and I hope you do the right thing when the time comes. I wish I could have given you some more specifics. I wish you could have given us something more. In any event, please think about all of this. You are a reasonable, intelligent young man and I will be sure to tell the others. Watch for the signs. Be careful. And no matter what, keep your cool. Try to remember that this all hinges upon you keeping it together. Try to remember that everything happens for a reason and try to see those reasons from all sides. You think you were built to destroy. Maybe you were built to save.

  “I have faith in you, Charles. We all believe in you and we all want you to succeed. There is value in living and you will find that out soon enough, you just have to be patient and strong. When the time comes, if you haven’t found what you need inside yourself, think about me. Think about me and mine and the millions of people out there like us that are counting on you.”

  I don’t know what to say so I shrug and weakly nod my head.

  Clarence heads for the door, opens it and says over his shoulder, “I’ll be fighting the good fight on the other side. Perhaps we will meet again.” The door closes on his final words.

  Weird.

  Impactful?

  I guess.

  If I consider things in Annabelle’s terms and think of Clarence Jackson as one of Humanity’s Do-Anything/Say-Anything Tactical Strategies, then that was kind of a weak effort. You can’t just throw a nice man at me, prop him up on a soapbox and expect me to buy in.

  However, if I look at it from a humanistic point of view, it was rather effective. I mean, that was probably the nicest conversation I have ever had with an adult. Respect, consideration, attentiveness—these are things grown people generally don’t give me. It’s hard to discern respect from someone with raised eyebrows or a lump of pity in their throat. Mr. Jackson, on the other hand, treated me like a real person. Shit, he did so even knowing I am far less of a real person than I have ever been. I will always appreciate his regard, whether I utilize anything he has said or not,.

  Annabelle.

  I dash out to the car and am relieved to find her soundly asleep. She tosses this way and that and makes adorable scrunchy faces. I debate whether to wake her. It’s close to midnight and I am anxious to get on the road.

  Running back to the room I gather our things, shut off the lights and hightail it back to the car. Just as I am about to pull away Annabelle mutters, “Allen,” kind of cooingly in her sleep. The “evil” inside me roars and I feel as if I am imploding. I stomp the brakes and the car lurches to a jarring stop. The force awakens Annabelle. She sits up straight, stretches and says, “Charlie?”

  “Morning,” I say, biting my tongue.

  “We’re leaving? It’s twelve?” Annabelle’s mute eyes blink to life.

  “Yeah.” Cold.

  “You okay, sweetie?” The words drip from her lips like traitorous honey.

  Sweetie?

  I want to shout: What about Allen! But instead I arc my mouth into a smile so I sound okay and say, “I’m fine. How are you?”

  She says, “Sleepy,” and slides back down into her seat.

  My left arm twitches. My blood boils. My heart beats sick. My stomach twists. My teeth ache. My brain pounds. My inner vision goes red and the eye wall rises—gigantic, fluttering, guilt laden, pulsing sick with death and accusatory vulnerability.

  The road before us stretches into infinite darkness. I grip the wheel tightly with my good hand and step on the gas.

  Chapter Eighteen

  So Much Depends Upon a Red Wheelbarrow…

  Here we go.

  Driving through the dead hours—not quite night, not quite morning—I see movement. I see night demons and sand zombies and aliens of wispy, dense fog. I see phantom brush and skeletal Joshua trees. I see the desert as an ocean of shadowy decay, a deep, dark mouth gaping in everlasting dread, slowly sucking the life from all ends of the earth.

  Sometime in the next few hours the dead will rise.

  Sometime in the next twenty-four hours (considerably sooner now) this will all be over.

  Annabelle sleeps, cooing and humming, keeping me in a perpetually bad mood, filling my bursting head with more dreck. I see her and Mr. Michael dancing, laughing, fucking, holding. The old, slick motherfucker grinning from ear to ear.

  What about Mrs. Michael, I want to ask him.

  What about Alice?

  “What about her?” He giggles his infuriating giggle and dips Annabelle’s lovely dream form.

  I shake them from my thoughts and stare into the night. There is definitely movement in the dark. Lots of it. Lots of mystery shapes and pseudo-beasts. Lots of dead-walkers and dreaming humans. Have the dead already risen? The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I try to concentrate on the task at hand. I keep the accelerator pinned at eighty-five. Steady. Driving one-handed has become second nature. Unfortunately, our gas will be running low soon and I’ll have to make a stop. After that though, it’s straight on through. After that it’s a string of endless road signs pointing me along. I should be in Ontario, California, by morning.

  In my stomach a well of discomfort.

  I chew the soft skin of my inner cheeks. I am slick with a cold sheen of nervous sweat. Jealousy. Fear. Paranoia. The living desert is hungry. The world is out to get me and I wonder: How many know? How many dream me along with Jim and Clarence? How many see me coming and know they are going to die? How many keep quiet and allow the destruction of my touch, allow themselves to be sacrificed for the greater good? I am a problem with no solution. I am death making way for death. And what of the dreamer?

  There is something in my brain that knows more than I do. There is a hidden layer of consciousness that I can feel bubbling up beneath my cerebrating. Clarence kept things simple, but there is more. Much more. Beyond the dreamer, beyond the dead, there is more. And it is frustrating as hell because a sink pit inside me assures that I will never know the full story. Unless?

  Unless I keep my cool?

  Unless I hold it together when I am supposed to fall apart?

  Unless I give in.

  Unless I let go and explode.

  And more fucking questions: Can I control myse
lf in either case? What is going to set me off? Is Clarence full of shit? Is Annabelle full of shit?

  All my life I have been lied to and I have grown pretty good at not caring. At the same time my ability to discern truth from untruth has atrophied to the point of uselessness. I guess now, in this time of crisis, it doesn’t matter. Annabelle’s reality, Clarence’s reality—they offer the same basic options: death, death and more death. What did the poet William Carlos Williams write about perception: “So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow…” in the rain, by the chickens, whatever? Oh well, who cares—perception is moot when in the end there is only death, death, death.

  It’s really weird how so much is hinged upon what I do or don’t do, when in the end, I am forced to make a decision and do something, yet it won’t matter one iota. I am the most important man in the world until I do my duty and send things this way or that and then I am the most worthless man in the world.

  A new world, a dead world, a living world, a nothing world, they will have as much use for me as my world of old.

  Why continue? Why not pull over and let the desert have me? Why not wander into the vast empty and pray for an end? Pray. There is always that hope. There is always the years upon years of devotion. Sure, I’ve killed and denounced belief, but I’ve paid my dues. I am owed.

  I am damned.

  Nobody owes me shit and the audacious notion that I can let myself think that I am owed something, if even for a second, proves as much.

  What am I then?

  Lost. Loss. Timid. Inactive. Unloved. Unable to love.

  These past few days of experience and interaction and opportunity have gutted me. Inside I am gray and utterly bloodless. I am the way I am, the way I have always been, because I am me. It’s not my hand’s fault—there are cripples who love life, who succeed. It’s not my anti-parents’ fault—there are orphans and people from abusive situations who love life, who succeed. It’s not my low intelligence or unsightly appearance or many inadequacies—there are people worse off who love life and achieve success no matter how small. It’s just me.

  Clarence spoke of value, planting seeds, hoping I would find something within that would make the world worth saving. Clarence is sweet and idealistic, but he has no idea. None of you do. None of you dreaming fools can fathom the sickness in my heart. I am not your run-of-the-mill depressive. I am damaged through and through. The question then isn’t whether I will save the world. The question is how badly can I fuck it up?

  I say this out loud for those who might be dreaming me, “How badly can I fuck up the world!”

  To my slumbering audience I shout, “How badly can I fuck up your world? Can I reduce you to ash with the flick of a wrist? Can I herd the lifeless, build an army and lord over the charred remains of your dead carcasses? Can I put you through the insurmountable hell you have put me through? Can I look at you with pity, with empathy? Will a lump clot my throat and a nervous chuckle escape? Will I feel sorry for you?”

  I pull off the interstate and cruise Annabelle’s parents’ car into a lonely, dimly lit gas station and continue my soliloquy at a muted volume.

  “When we are all dead, will we at long last be equals? Will I deserve your respect? Your kindness? Your light?”

  Annabelle begins to stretch and yawn.

  My voice drops to a whisper, “Will you love me? Will I be able to love? When we fall apart, will we be reborn better and stronger and right with the world. When I die, will I be what you want me to be? When I die, will I rise?”

  “Charles?” Annabelle’s silent eyes dart beneath her flickering eyelids.

  I leave her to her waking and get out of the car. She calls out my name again, this time with a little worry lilting between each syllable. “I’m here,” I say. “Just getting gas.” I don’t want to be mad but I feel hostile nonetheless, toward her and her boyfriend Allen Michael.

  Let it go.

  I’m about to shut the door and approach the gas station attendant—a young man stares out at us from his lonely minimart enclosure—when Annabelle asks, “How?”

  I lean back in the car. “What?”

  “Are you going to kill the clerk?” The way she stares off into nothingness, unseeing, but seeing everything at the same time is amazing. It’s beautiful. I am absolutely mesmerized.

  “Charles?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t kill the clerk.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve been instructed to take it easy, keep a low profile between here and Ontario.”

  Kill. Don’t kill. Kill. Don’t kill. Annabelle has carved a place for herself in my heart, and as much as I want to deny it I can’t, but this sudden about-face is frustrating. What happened to her insatiable bloodlust?

  A little annoyed, a little worn-down, a little ready to be done with this horseshit, I say, “How am I going to get us gas without killing the clerk? Ask him for it?” The young man continues to stare at us from his attendant’s cage. I wave a friendly wave and he waves back.

  “There’s a credit card stashed under the front seat. My dad keeps it there for emergencies.” Annabelle gestures in the vicinity of the driver’s seat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We could have paid for our room. We didn’t have to kill the clerk.”

  “Our instructions were to kill anyone we came in contact with, hotel lobbyists and gas station attendants included. Our new instructions are to hold off for a while.”

  I shrug to myself and dig for the card.

  Pumping gas, leaning against the trunk of Annabelle’s parents’ car, I take in deep breaths and try to fill myself with cool night air. My insides are unaffected, colder than the outside air and only disturbed by the constricting constriction of my inhalations. Defeated, giving up, looking up, I notice that the young man in the attendant’s booth is still staring. I wave again and again he returns.

  Does he know?

  Working night shifts, I don’t suppose he would dream me, but maybe he dreams me during the day. Maybe he sees everything I do all day long. No doubt he thinks I am a vile, disgusting, pathetic creature. No doubt he wishes he could stop me. No doubt he wishes he could come out here and kill me. Become the hero. Save the world. Save his own ass from the inevitable end.

  His stares are beginning to make me feel uncomfortable.

  My left wrist begins to buzz.

  Sweat beads on my forehead.

  There’s no question that he knows me. He recognizes the car. He recognizes the suit. He is looking at me like the eyes in the eye wall. He is too far away from me to really discern these things, but I feel them nonetheless. My wrist feels them and a thunderous wrecking ball of heat blossoms in my chest.

  Kill him. Now. Kill him and put an end to everything that he knows I am not.

  Tendrils tidal-wave from my wrist, a surging ocean of decay and death; I’m not moving but I am.

  Here but not really here.

  My brain funnels down. Dark need roils in my guts. I’m not moving but I am and suddenly I find myself standing across the counter from the clerk.

  His eyes go wide and white with surprise and fear. They belong in my head, on the wall, not out here pitying me.

  I’m not moving but I am.

  At home he has somebody. He has a wife, maybe children, maybe a mother or father who loves him. He works here—an all-night gas station—not the best job, but a job, a steady job that belongs to him. That he is good at. He lives his life and doesn’t feel overly inadequate or ill fated. He smiles. He laughs. I can’t take it. He doesn’t belong. I belong. He doesn’t belong. Not anymore. Not him or his world of well-adjusted, happy living things. I am the most important man in the world now. I am the new order. I am the shape of things to come and he must be destroyed.

  My tendrils strike and cleave the clerk’s head from his shoulders. It sails through the air, mouth yammering, eyes blinking spastically, neck trailing slick red streamers, before slamming against the cash register and thunking to t
he floor.

  The funnel in my mind spins out of control and spreads. Inside I am hollowed out and coated with malevolence. I’m not moving but I am.

  Mushroom clouds in my head.

  Burning monks in my head.

  Atom bombs in my head.

  Time is a blur and next thing I know I am opening the car door and throwing a bundle of the clerk’s clothing into the backseat.

  Annabelle asks, “What’s going on?”

  Quick breaths, I jump in, crank it, and speed away.

  She reiterates, anger raising her voice, “What the fuck is going on, Charles?”

  More deep breaths. My insides ache something fierce.

  Annabelle’s tone changes to one of concern. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t speak, just more breaths.

  “Charles?” Fear, worry.

  Winded I try to explain. “I can’t”—breath—“control”—breath—“myself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  And I wish I knew. I wish my head would stop spinning. The eye wall rises, two eyes higher, and puts on the pressure. I fight with my respiration and try to continue with Annabelle. Talking helps my head slow down. “Something inside me wanted to kill the clerk.” Breath. “I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t even try to stop it. It just took me over.”

  “Don’t worry, Charles. It’s almost over. We’re getting so close.”

  Annabelle’s voice helps and I feel my systems start to even out. Composure creeps and the eye wall flickers. I take another deep breath, grip the wheel with my good hand and then proceed to break the fuck down. Huge, glassy tears river down my cheeks and my breath comes in hitching stops and starts.

  “Hang in there, sweetie,” I hear Annabelle say, but she sounds a million miles away. What have I become? I mean, I know I am here to wipe out the human race, but I’ve always felt like I have been afforded the opportunity to do it my own way, on my own terms. I’ve never felt pressured or controlled or helpless. Until now. A few strains of thought, a little envy, and there was no way I could stop myself from killing the clerk. Whatever is inside me has grown stronger. It has grown beyond my control and I am afraid Clarence’s warnings to keep cool, to keep in control, are going to be harder to heed than I expected.