AWOL: A Character Lost (11 page)

He looked around for his cats, but they were nowhere to be seen. Usually they were somewhere on the bed, but tonight they were absent.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he had to grab the bed or else he might have fallen over. He looked over at the clock, and it said 3 A.M. Something wasn’t right about the clock or the way he saw the digital time. His vision was distorted, and he could tell he was only seeing out of one eye.

Where did this come from? He thought to himself. He was fine at dinner and when he went to bed. This had come on suddenly, probably while he slept.

Paul found his legs, stumbled to the door wearing only his boxer shorts. To hell with the guest he had. There was no time to cover up because he thought he was going to puke. He made his way into the bathroom and slammed the door.

The character looked up from the couch when he heard the door slam. He muted the TV and Motorhead, a band that is known for one of the loudest concerts ever, fell silent.

The character slid on his shorts and shirt and made his way over to the bathroom door. He stopped there and listened to Paul rummage around for something. Then the light came on, pushing its way out of the room by the space under the door. A second later, Paul screamed, and then fell onto the floor with a loud thud.

The character reached for the handle, and it came back locked. “Paul! Are you okay in there?”

As the character listened, and tried to figure out what to do, Paul started to vomit, and the man wasn’t just vomiting; this was projectile based. The character could hear the splash as it landed hard inside something porcelain – either the tub or commode. There was no water splash, so the character assumed it was the tub. He now knew it was time to act, and he did what anyone would do in a situation like this. He used his might and his shoulder to break down the door.

It wasn’t easy.

In fact, it took at least six good hits before the character found the sweet spot of the door. It exploded into a million splinters as the character, on bare feet, went stumbling and bumbling into the bathroom. He wasn’t able to stop himself when he reached the slick bloody floor, so his speed carried him across this blood and into the tub with a splash. Paul did most of his upchucking right into that tub. The character tried to get up in a hurry, but something stopped him. Sitting in a pile of blood and vomit was no longer an issue; its warmness soaking into his clothes.

Paul was slumped over, head on the bathroom sink, covered in blood from head to toe; but that wasn’t what froze the character in his spot, even though seeing Paul like that was a shock to the system. The thing that sent out the real shock waves was this little monster that was crawling out of Paul’s right eye socket. When Mary gave birth to her creature, it had been violent; but this birth wasn’t. This creature was burrowing out; and now it was hanging, half in and half out, hissing and screaming as it tried to be born into this world.

The character pushed himself up and onto two wobbly legs. He could feel the chunks of vomit and blood running down his leg, as it dripped and splashed at his feet, but he didn’t even think about it. He was too preoccupied with the thing crawling out of Paul’s eye.

The creature was now almost entirely out, and it was only by a tail that it still hung there, like an eye ornament.

The character found his feet, hopped out of the tub, slipped and slopped across the room, and charged out into the hallway. Slamming shoulder first into the wall, pictures fell, scattered and shattered.

His mind and pulse raced, as he stood there catching his breath. A gun, that’s what he needed. Men of Paul’s age always had some kind of gun around.

Bingo!

The character found the gun in Paul’s room, and the shotgun was fully loaded. Satisfied with the weapon, he made his way back out into the hall.

There were no sounds coming from the bathroom – just silence.

The character pointed the gun forward and walked towards the bathroom door. A shaft of yellow light cut the dark as it fell out of the room and onto the floor and wall. Pictures of family and friends sparkled and gleamed, as the light reflected off of them.

With cautious steps, the character approached the open door. He let the tip of the gun barrel go just barely past the opening. He paused, gave himself time to find his nerve, calm his racing pulse, slow his rapid beating heart.

While he waited, he cussed the author for putting him into a story like this. For letting him think this might be something different. For letting him feel safe and secure, at peace for a change.

When he was ready, he swallowed hard and jumped in front of the door. The creature had made its exit and was gone. Paul’s slumped-over body was all that was in the room.

The character walked into the bathroom and knelt before his friend. He didn’t know the guy all that well, but he felt sorry for the loss. Paul seemed like a really nice guy. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t need to go out like this. The character closed Paul’s good eye, used the gun to stand, and decided it was time to get out of the house.

He made his way out into the hall, gun barrel pointed forward, looking for any kind of movement, clothes drying, clinging to him, smell starting to build. He went into the living room, where he was resting comfortably not an hour or so ago. How quickly things had changed.

King Diamond screamed out something in silence on the television screen as the light from the box showed movement beside the couch.

The character trained his gun, on that spot and there it was. The little creature was reared up like a snake, and it was hissing at him. It hadn’t started to grow yet because its birth cycle had been interrupted by Paul’s house shoes, which blocked its entrance into his body. It had to feed now or it would never grow forward.

The creature started to move, and it moved fast, faster than the character thought it would. He tried to get a shot off, but it misfired beside the monster so the monster kept coming, aiming directly for his left foot. The character was able to register what was about to happen, so he stepped out of the way; and the creature went sliding past him, just barely, mere inches. The creature stopped sliding, steadied itself, stunned by the character’s sudden shift. It really needed to eat, so it knew the next charge had to be the one that mattered.

The character had his chance. He lowered the gun, as the creature got ready to charge. This time he didn’t miss.

The creature charged, and the gun blasted. The monster disintegrated from the direct shot, and pieces of it went everywhere. Well, whatever pieces there could be from something so tiny.

The character dropped the gun on the floor, walked over to the couch, and sat down. Motley Crue was now going through some silent number on the screen.

A second later, the video cut out for Breaking News.

People were talking silently about what was happening in the world today. The character reached for the remote, and punched the mute button.

He listened for a moment, and he wondered if this story was the final straw. Was this the one that did him in? He wondered if the author could just erase him and go on to someone else. He was exhausted, covered in vomit and blood, and just plain old sick to death of all this tired. He knew his family was depending on him to pull them all back together; but if they were also suffering the horror he was suffering, maybe it would be best if all of them were erased. He sighed and pushed the thoughts away. That was crazy thinking, and he knew it. He had to see this through to the end even if it meant he would go insane doing it.

On the TV, the reporter on the scene at the local hospital was doing his best to stay focused, but it wasn’t an easy thing to do. The guy looked like he was fresh out of college, the person they probably send to places like this when the veterans know well enough to stay away.

The character watched as a man stumbled by the reporter, and the camera caught this guy’s face in a perfect frame. His right eye was completely swollen, about to burst.

“It is just lunacy. I have no idea what I am witnessing or seeing.” The reporter paused and turned towards a cop. The cop was short, stocky, big beard, no mustache. This cop was trying to guide a woman through the door and help with crowd control. “Do you guys have any idea what is going on around here?”

“We need you to step back. Let these people through,” the cop replied.

The reporter and his crew stepped back as a woman of about sixty dropped down to the ground. The thing in her eye socket was hanging about half way out, screeching mad. The camera crew zoomed in on the monster, and it ducked back inside like a turtle going into its shell. A second later the whole right side of this woman’s face exploded when the creature birthed itself. This face bomb covered the reporter and the people closest to her with all kinds of human stuff, blood, brains, bones, flesh and teeth.

The monster, of course, had to find a feeding host. The woman it had popped out of was wearing tennis shoes, but there were plenty of people around who weren’t, some in sandals, some in just bare feet. It had its choice, free range.

Panic ensued.

The character moved his finger towards the power button on the remote. He had seen too much. He was done with all this. Then something stopped him, stopped him with his finger just poised above the red button.

In the crowd he saw another cop; and this cop was carrying a small child, keeping him safe from the mass panic that was now taking place. Other people were now dropping down; parts of people were flying like confetti, covering everything as more monsters found their way out into this world.

The character strained his eyes onto the screen as the camera turned away from the cop holding the child. It was only a matter of seconds that the character saw this child, but he was sure it was his other son.

The character didn’t even bother to hit the power button. Instinct took over, and he was off the couch and heading towards the door.

He ran across the small house, reached the front door, and opened it.

He never saw the outside because he was tumbling again, out of this current story and back into the author’s mind.

The character tumbled out of the Monster door, bounced hard against the wall, ricocheted off of it, and into a pile on the floor.

The door flashed out, now there were 5 to go.

I didn’t write anything on the wall right away for him to read because I knew he was filled with so much rage. I let him lie there and stew, hoping his anger would pass.

I could tell while he laid there (one shoe off, knocked free from the impact with the wall) that it was going to take some considerable convincing if he was to step back into another story. After putting him through all I had put him through, I had finally come to the conclusion that the Alien genre held some great importance. It was the one story he needed to go into. I’m not sure how I knew that, but I just knew.

The character stood up, grabbed the light, turned it on, and sat back against the wall. He put the light beside him, took off his other shoe, and threw it across the room.

I decided to help him out.

I thought of a boom box, with some soft music playing.

It appeared beside him as he sat there.

The character looked over at it, able to see it in the dark by the few lights the box held on its dashboard. He let Rocky Mountain High ease his soul, for a moment.

I thought I had him back with me, but nope, I didn’t.

He grabbed the boom box and tossed it across the room. It smashed into a thousand pieces. John Denver fell instantly silent.

“Fuck you.” He said to me as he sat there pissed.

I was unsure of what to do next. Everything I had put him through was essential for the lead up to this point in the story. I had to bring him back to my side, my way of thinking; or it might all be undone. The character would just sit in this room and die. His body would mold and fester, creating a negative impact on the creative part of my brain. I couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Did you hear me? Fuck you!” He had nothing to throw at me, so he just flipped the wall a bird.

Tick tock goes the clock.

I just wasn’t sure what to do next.

The character got up and moved around the room. He kicked the pieces of the boom box, threw some of them at nothing, and just muttered cuss words under his breath.

I decided to let him work out his anger, so I sat back and watched.

The cursor blinked as I waited.

“I had him.” The character was composing thoughts in his head. “He was right there in fucking front of me, and then he wasn’t, my son.” The character walked and tried to find his composure. “Why Paul? Why do that to that story? It started out so peaceful, and then you had to put those things into it.”

I decided to speak to him, the words flashing on the wall as I typed. “It’s just the way the story had to be written. I had no control over it. When I write, I have to be true to what will work in a given situation. I’m sorry for Paul, but that’s the way the story had to conclude.”

The character read the words on the wall and said nothing. He walked and let the anger slowly die.

I decided to give him another break. “There’s a shower head in the corner, dials underneath it, towel on the towel rack, soap in the dispenser, and clean clothes. Go over and get your mind straight. I’ll wait.”

The character looked down at himself, still covered in what was left of Paul’s blood-vomit, not noticing the dry stickiness that covered him or the smell because of his anger. “Just answer me one thing, one thing only. Did my son make it out of there okay? I just need to know that those things didn’t get to him.”

“He’s fine. I know that much, but I can’t tell you if he made it home or not after that story. Take your shower. I’ll wait. We’ll talk once you’re done.”

The character walked over and looked the shower over. He turned the water on and then stripped down.

I let him have ten minutes. Enough time for me to grab some food, maybe a quick blog post.

When the time was up, I went back into my mind to talk to him some more. “Are you done?”

The character took a seat, completely clean, wearing jeans, warm winter boots, and a long sleeve shirt. “I’m done.” He paused, calmer now than when he fell into the room. “What about my other son or my wife? Do you have any thoughts on them?”

“No. Sorry, but I do know that the next story you go into they figure heavily.” I paused. “You’ll also need this to go over your clothes.”

The character looked down as a jacket appeared at his feet. He put it on and then looked up at the wall. “You know I’m tired. I’m tired of all this. I’m sure your audience is as well. Is there anyway this next story is the one?’

“I honestly don’t know, but I do know you have to go in if you want to get back to your wife and kids.”

“Which one is it?” In the dim light, the character looked up at the doors.

“It’s the one with Alien on the door.”

The character hung his head. He had been chased by all kinds of crazy things since he had stumbled out of his story, and now he was being asked to do it one more time. He just didn’t know if he had the heart for it or not.

“Look, I know it’s tough, but you got to push on,” I wrote, trying to give him some kind of reassurance.

“That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t been used like a puppet, now have you?”

The words stung, but I deserved them. My clumsy writing had gotten us both into this, and he had to suffer the most for it.

The character stood up and stretched. He still wasn’t sure he was ready for another adventure, but he so wanted to be home. He was at that point where we all get when we have to do something we don’t want to, but somehow we manage to do it.

The character walked over to the Alien door, opened it, and stepped through without saying anything else to me.

I had a feeling this would be the last time I would talk to him. The story he had just entered was the link to home.

“Good luck my friend.”

I watched the blinking cursor for a moment, wrote this last line, and concluded this section of the story.