by Mark Tufo
I had one hand on Bob, hoping that he didn’t digest it by accident. He was still moving with conviction. Church, I think, had night-vision as he was moving steadily behind me without any aid. I had a sudden, irrational fear that Bob and Church now had me exactly where they wanted me. That maybe these first two aliens I’d encountered upon being removed from my hole had been in league with each other from the beginning. I was in the dark, separated from everything, and at their disposal. It had to be more than a simple murder, though, Bob for sure could have taken me out a dozen times over. Soon the plan would be revealed, and I would be at the mercy of whatever it was. Then it got worse.
“Milk,” Bob said as he pulled up short.
“We’re here? Where’s here, Bob?”
Church moved in closer; this did nothing to ease my trepidation.
“Kill,” Church stated in the usual fashion. “Kill fear.”
Great words to say, if not nearly impossible to execute. Bringing oneself back from the edge of panic is no easy feat. Bob, who was continually surprising me with his abilities, began to glow softly, a subtle luminescence that bathed the tight walls around us in a soft red. I was thankful for the light; now I only hoped I would be happy with what I could see. I wasn’t. Not by any measurable factor. We were at the end of this tunnel. A wall to our front was broken up by a small opening that looked very much like an earthen asshole. It was mostly round and had small pucker lines around the entirety of it.
“What the fuck, Bob.” The end of a tunnel with only a sphincter as an egress? Didn’t need to be much smarter than a Marine to see where this was going. I’d rather take on a dozen whistlers with a stuffed animal than move through what appeared to be the route we were going. Pretty sure Bob wouldn’t have a problem getting through; odds were he could elongate himself to the point he was no thicker than a pencil, but the hole looked like it would be tight for someone of my stature. As for Churchill, I couldn’t see any possibility of him getting through.
“Bob.”
I had to pause. “Yeah, I trust you, Bob, but I…I can’t. I’m terrified of small spaces. And what about Church?”
He directed me closer to the hole. The light he shone intensified, the opening was tight, but not quite as bad as it had looked from ten feet away. I could see a few feet in, and it opened up. Nothing palatial, but it did look as if crawling on hands and knees was doable. Even then, it was going to be tight for Church, and who knew what happened after. It could potentially dwindle to the horrific rock-raping scenario that I'd once played out with Trip, something that still caused me to startle awake some nights in a cold sweat. Not so much due to where a rock had wedged, but, rather, in my nightmares I am unable to move either forward or backward as the walls slowly constrict, wedging me in even tighter before cracking my rib cage and plunging bone shards through my lungs, causing my breathing to become even more shallow and ragged before I shuddered my last fear-choked breaths.
Bob nudged me out of the swamping of my mind. I looked down to see he had produced what seemed like a small step for me to climb on and get to the hole.
“Me first? Why?” I knew why, but how did he? If Bob and Church went in, I’d tell them I’d be right behind as I turned and found a whistler. I’d beg for mercy and leniency as I willingly shot bolts into the ground for the rest of my life. Maybe it was even possible I would begin to enjoy eating the entrails of others. “Fuck,” I hissed as I stepped on Bob. Instead of having to hoist myself up, the stair rose slowly. I poked my head in. “I hate you, Bob,” I said as I wriggled my shoulders. My left got hung up then popped free, I dragged my right in and used my free arms and hands to pull myself further along. I stayed close to the opening until Church’s massive head filled up the hole, plunging me into the claustrophobic darkness only being surrounded by earth can produce. Instead of being calmed by the addition of another, the panic began to well, because he was now blocking my way of escape. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I could not quell the turmoil I was feeling; my extremities were tingling, my heart racing. I wanted to push his face back out and join him in the relative spaciousness of the corridor we had been in.
Church had been grunting and scraping, forcing the edges of the non-elastic walls to accept his girth. I was thinking we should have brought some of Trip’s giant oil drum of lube, but this was already too much like a literal ass-fucking, and I wanted no part of it. The little bit of light that had occasionally leaked around the edges of Church’s shoulders completely stopped, as did Church’s furtive movements. Something was going on because, well, what was already going on wasn’t bad enough. I’d turned around, stapler at the ready, but fish in a barrel was an apt description of our current state. Church was suddenly pulled out or extracted himself, same result. Bob’s face entered.
“Milk!” he said urgently.
Run. He wanted me to run. Well, crawl away fast—I knew what he meant.
“Now!” That he had not used our slightly telepathic mode of communication, which may or may not have been subjective to my interpretations, was telling. He didn’t want or couldn’t use my help, and, from what it sounded like, it wouldn’t matter. It was more paramount that I escaped. To where and to do what…how the hell could I know? Especially without my gluey, glutinous guide. I turned back around and reluctantly headed down the path. I could hear a scuffle going on behind me, but the walls had narrowed sufficiently that I could not turn around without some serious effort and contortions on my part, and there wasn’t a point. At best, it’d be like looking in a keyhole from across the room…what was I going to see?
22
Mike Journal Entry 7
When I’d first taken off from Bob and Church, I’d been moving at a somewhat decent clip, as fast as one can crawl in the dark, anyway. But now that the immediate warning and threat had worn off and I realized I was alone in the dark, in a narrow, compressed area with no idea what had happened to them and no idea where I was going, I slowed. I was convinced that at any moment, I would put my front leading hand down into nothingness and plunge into a hole, and this one wouldn’t be endless, just long enough that by the time I crashed against the debris on the bottom, I would be broken and paralyzed. Then I'd live just long enough to suffer for a good long while, each breath becoming more difficult to catch than the previous until, finally, I choked on my tongue.
It was getting more and more difficult to place my hands down after I collected a series of small cuts upon my fingers and palms. Dirt was clinging to the sticky mess, making a bloody mud mixture, but still, my knees hurt more. I’d long ago ripped through the material of my pants; I could feel sharp rocks scraping against my kneecaps. I'd become a strange, warbling wobbling creature as I adjusted between awkward, uncomfortable postures, depending on which part of me was making contact on the ground, doing my best to avoid the most painful points of press down. It was like trying to walk barefoot on nails, hoping to find the dull ones. It was at this point I wanted to have a good, eye-soaking cry; maybe I would have, too, if I didn’t think it would speed up the dehydration process.
“What do you think the odds are a food drone will find me here?” My scratchy voice startled me. I’d taken a break and managed to turn over, clearing the ground beneath me as best I could to make it somewhat bearable. I was doing my best to pretend I was in my bed back in Colorado, the kids were young; it was Saturday, and we’d had a day planned to go skiing in the wide-fucking-open Rockies. It had a modicum of success, until I reached up with my hand and touched the hard ceiling not that far above. I absently kept scrolling the words, I was here onto the surface. I wondered what the longevity of blood on rock was. Would young whistlers, on a field trip many years later, see my finger painting and wonder at the meaning? Astonishingly, I fell asleep. The tank had run dry. Not sure if I was ever going to replenish it, but I slept, nonetheless.
At some point during my slumber, I’d turned onto my side, which was a good thing because I awoke with a start, and if I had still been on my back, it’s a g
ood bet I would have slammed my forehead against the rock. I can’t say I’d gained a steely resolve while I slept, but I did have the will to continue, if only for a cold glass of water and the ability to pee standing up. Not once in my entire life had I a desire to piss like a dog, but if I wasn’t able to stand soon, there would be no choice. I’d not gone more than a hundred yards before I opened every single slightly scabbed-over wound back open and even created a few more just for the fun of it. It was getting to the point where it felt like I was crawling atop an electrified surface. I stopped every once in a while, to pick out the larger debris, but that only gave me time to think about the growing cramps within my stomach and how the roof of my mouth was sticking to my tongue.
I used to watch Bear Grylls’ show back in the day, before it was revealed that ninety percent of the shit he did was staged. He’d once advocated drinking urine if it became necessary. I wasn’t quite to that point, and considering I didn’t have a glass, canteen, or any other sort of container, the logistics were going to be difficult. I could only imagine lying on my back, trying to get the arc right while I stuck my tongue out. That would probably be the moment the caretaker at the insane asylum I resided in would flip on the lights to see how I was doing. If nothing else, I released a few endorphins as I laughed. There was something to dying with dignity, and, even if no one else was there to witness it, I wasn’t going to be found with my own piss running down my face or soaked in my excreta, at least, not intentionally.
I wondered how much locomotion I could get lying on my back and pushing with my legs. The pain in my hands and knees so extreme as to give this idea merit. The effort needed and the results that would come from it made me turn back over. I would have sold my minimal kingdom for a pair of gloves and kneepads. I was moving slower as I did my best to clear out each hand and knee fall. My recuperative powers were much better than the average person, but they weren’t without limits, and not having any sustenance only further dampened my perceived enhancement. The only good thing that came out of the pain was I was distracted from the terror of the endless darkness. Yeah, it was still there, an underlying current of fear that I would forever be lost, but pain has a way of taking over all of your thoughts. It was impossible to know if I’d missed some critical junction point, like I should have taken a left at Albuquerque. I couldn’t backtrack, I didn’t have it in me.
My internal clock had no accurate way of knowing how long I’d been here, but my sleep cycles were telling me it had been somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-four hours, although it could have just as easily been forty-eight. This was further propped up by my intense thirst, which was now beginning to push the pain to the back as dehydration rushed to the forefront. If I didn’t find water soon, all of this would have been for nothing. I did not want to die alone, underground, and in the dark, but it was looking more and more like that was the eventual outcome.
“Trip, I wouldn’t mind if you popped in right now, I might only punch you once or twice for leaving us here.” The words came out raspy and dust coated. I coughed, then my chest seized, and I racked through a violent expelling of air from my lungs. I was on my side in a fetal position until I finally succumbed. I was exhausted and couldn’t see any reasonable reason why I should continue. Dying here would prevent further injury. It seemed like the best plan I’d had in a great long while. I’d just begun the process of retreating into my mind, a trick I’d become very adept at during some of the more difficult times in my life when everything changed. I felt the most tender caress flow across the top of my head, like a loving spirit dragging a cold finger along my crown and down my forehead.
My body jerked as I peered hard for the specter that had joined me. I expected to see a white, shadowy outline or possibly an impossibly darker form, as death revealed itself. I got nothing except another touch, this across the entirety of my face.
“A breeze?” If it was, it was not the spring-soaked smell of iris and lavender, this was more the smell of meat on a grill, not steaks, burgers, briskets or sausages, but something more like roadkill. A hefty skunk or perhaps a slow-shuffling porcupine that had met its fate at the wheels of a speeding Ford truck. Maybe whatever was cooking might not be my cup of tea, but I’d yet to attend a barbecue that didn’t have a cooler full of refreshments. With a renewed determination, I began moving again. It seemed another hour had passed, and I’d not felt another wind; it was getting to the point where I thought that perhaps I had imagined the whole thing. It would be just like my mind to conjure something like that. I’d be out in the desert, and instead of a mirage oasis, I’d get a Clown Motel with a pool full of green water and topped off with floating, bulbous red noses.
Then there was light! Not like in the Bible where one moment it was dark, the next bright, but rather like someone had finally found the dimmer switch and was dialing it up as slowly as was fucking possible. It was maddening and invigorating. I wanted to make haste. Not only was I becoming increasingly impatient, but I was also getting to the point where, without some lubrication in the form of water, my joints were going to seize solid, just like the Tin Man. It was already challenging to stretch them out, and I was forced to rest more often to prevent crippling cramps in my arms and legs. I could barely move ten feet and would have to stop, drop, and stretch out; it wouldn’t be long before ten became nine and finally a foot. By now, my shoulders, hips, and back had filed a formal protest and were expressing their pain alongside the rest of me. I was getting to be about as fucked as one can be and still be alive. How many poor bastards had died with salvation in sight? And was I going to be added to that list?
“Gotta keep moving, Mike.” I wasn’t thrilled at all that I’d begun referring to myself in the third person or that I didn’t recognize my voice. The odor, which had been mildly sickening, was somehow getting worse and better. My intense hunger was attempting to derail my sense of smell. The light was strong enough that I could see the damage to my hands; the skin was peeling away from them in thick swaths, looked like I was wearing a pair of shredded latex gloves. I didn’t bother assessing the damage to my knees; no point to it, and I didn’t need something else to gross me out. I was close enough to whatever was producing the light, scent, and wind that I could finally hear something. It was the rhythmic sound of machines. Assembly line, if I had to hazard a guess. That was good in the fact that automated machines meant no hostiles, but bad because they didn’t tend to need water, or food, for that matter.
With my head hanging low, I slogged on. By the time I brought my neck up to look around, I was staring at a way out, though it took me long moments for my addled mind to see the hole for what it was. Calling it an escape route was a bit of a misnomer; I wasn’t sure I could fit my head through, much less my shoulders. I came up on it slowly so that I could spy through first. I got the sense that the area I was looking out at was vast, but I couldn’t see much except the shiny metallic surface not more than a foot from the edge of the hole I was peering from. There was some relief in the knowledge that I could fit my head through, but that was about it. There were a lot of logistical problems here. The first was the size of the hole, second was the machine in front, and just to make it all that much more fun, the hole was twenty feet up in the air.
“What the fuck, Bob.” In terms of a way out, it wasn’t the absolute worst it could be; I mean, there could be a crocodile-filled swamp below me and trees above filled with anacondas, but yeah, on the spectrum, it was on the right side of shitty. The rock around this hole, unlike the one I entered, had some give, in that it would break apart with some work, like sandstone might. Now I had to hope I had the strength needed to perform the task. It was likely that the heat and humid conditions from the work being performed had helped in the weakening of the rock, really it didn’t matter the how of it, just that it could be done, I thought. It hurt to put any pressure on my hands and fingers, using them like prying tools was worse.
I’d begun to sweat when I first started working at it; that I
had stopped sweating an hour later was not because I’d stopped trying, but instead, I was out of fluid. My head was pounding, nausea ripped through my gut, my mouth was all but stuck shut, and my heart was racing. It wouldn’t be long before my vision began to tunnel and I would brown-out and slowly fade to a complete and utter black-out from which I would not recover. I’d cracked some of the rock opening away, not nearly enough for an easy exit, but my physical window was closing; it was now or never. I poked my head through, having to dip it down as it rested against the machine back, then I had one shoulder and one arm through. I was doing what I could to grip anything, to pull or push my way, depending on what arm or leg we were talking about. The sides of the hole had dug an oozing wound into my neck and halfway down my shoulder, where I was wedged tight.
“No, no—I will not die like this.” Just because I said the words didn’t mean I believed them. How many people in the history of the world thought they would die in the most glorious fashion possible? Perhaps saving a loved one from certain death or helping defend the freedom of a nation but instead died on the shitter as a stroke blew out their brain in the midst of a massive shit? No glory in taking a dump. Relief, sure, glory, no. The rock that had been digging a groove was now firmly entrenched; it had completely broken through the skin and was now slicing through muscle. The slickness of the injury helping me to move, but at what cost? I was struggling with panic, I couldn’t move forward—or backward, for that matter. I was wriggling from side to side. I could hear, as well as feel, things in my shoulder being severed through. I’d managed to struggle far enough that I was now hung up on the ball joint of my shoulder. I gritted my teeth as the point of the rock etched its name directly into my bone.
