When you are
alone and adrift in an empty sea, you must count your resources. The single most important resource of
all is drinkable water.
If you have this
most basic thing, then you might have a chance to survive.
You simply need
to understand its value.
Christopher heard
an old man shouting in his ear. He
wanted to go back. He
didn’t know what the hell was happening.
He saw the other
people staring at him, and they looked scared. He had never before seen such fear in
the eyes of those who beheld him.
What had he done
to deserve such regard?
Christopher just
wanted to leave, to head back to his woman. He would be safe there, in her arms,
looking in her eyes.
It was the only
thing he had ever wanted. It
was why he had been earning money and saving it all this time. Whatever it took, whatever the means,
he did not care.
You see, there
are no laws, there are no rules, there is nothing that exists to be broken but
for the promise to your One.
The old man
yelled: “WHERE IS MY SON?!”
The other faces
in front of him shrank away from the ferocity of this scream, and then he heard
his own voice come out of the old man’s mouth.
He said, “Your
son is gone.”
To each, a One.
He felt the
release of the old man on his
…what?
His soul?
His being?
He yanked and
brought the knuckles of the lady who held his right hand up to his mouth as he
thrust forth to take a bite of them.
He felt the old
man’s spine crack as he leaned over way too far and then both chairs tipped
together and fell to the floor like a young couple seeking a hidden kiss under
the table.
Such lovely old
chairs, dried out in the arid desert for decades in the elegant room; They
broke apart.
He used what
little strength was left in the old man’s body to wrench himself out of the
mess and attack.
He crawled with
the armrests of the fancy chair still bound to his frail wrists, and he pummeled
his neighbor. He felt his
forearms break as he swung them sticks of wood at her head, but he paid no
mind.
He was hungry.
He bit deep into
the side of her neck and pulled away a greasy mouthful of fat and chewed.
The searing pain
of his broken arms surged his adrenaline, and he spat out the skin and globules
of hot fat and went for her face.
As her blood
spurted out all over his broken arms, he heard the others shout.
“Stop him!”
“What is
happening?!”
“He’s killing
her!”
“He’s eating
her!”
Then he heard his
own mouth shriek. It was the old man whose body he now inhabited. “My Son is gone! My son is Gone! My One is Gone!”
It echoed through
the darkened room on that fine, sunny day.
He felt a sharp
pain at the back of his head, and his ears rang.
Then all was
black.
In a bit, he saw
the frail body of the old man convulsing below him. Christopher was watching from above.
Again.
He saw one man
swinging a piece of the old chair at the old man’s head over and over again and
another man dragging away the body of the woman he had just killed.
There was a mess,
like one might see on the floor of a slaughterhouse for beef.
The séance was
over, evidently.
But now, two more
Walkins had been born.
One was the high
priest of them Purple Robes.
The other was his
wife.
Why would a man
allow his wife to participate in such a dangerous exercise as to try to
communicate with the dead?
Only one group of
people had a clue.
The Purple Robes knew
that such a thing was possible.
They simply
hadn’t thought it would ever happen.
Now they had a
clue.
Thirst by
City And Color
Christopher The
Chauffeur still did not know what was going on. As the life ebbed from the old man’s body,
the room darkened even more.
Christopher found
himself in the blackness of eternity yet again.
Something was different. The ring
of tiny gems, the lights of each around the séance, them Purple Robes in a
trance, well, they were gone.
Yet, two tiny
lights floated about him. They were
colored with a purple tint.
Indeed, he was as
lost as they were.
He knew that if
he could find another tiny gem, he could enter it. The other two, the old man and his wife: they did not.
He felt the
weight of a million years press upon him like the heft of a heavy blanket. In such isolation, it could drive a man
mad.
He looked across
the pitch black space all about him and he indeed saw another spark. A window.
An entrance.
A Walkin can
enter only a living soul who is unconscious.
He moved towards
it. It was quite far off.
He had no idea
about the distance. Was it a hundred
yards? Was it a hundred miles? Was it a hundred lifetimes?
As he neared, he
felt like he was being chased.
He turned about
as he sped, and saw that the other two sparks, them purple ones, were following
him.
They did not see
anything either, in the vast dark of emptiness.
They saw only him, in his own glint of light, as he sped to the other,
distant one.
How long would it
take to reach the spark? It did not
appear to grow larger, and he wondered why it was taking so long. If this was truly a dream after all, why
couldn’t he just…
…suddenly…
…be there?
And then he was.
He neared the
tiny gem and as he hovered about it, he saw them tiny purple glints as a single
spark, far off. Then, they slowly became
two distinct points of light.
They were coming.
He peered into
the gem and saw the vantage point of the soul that gave off the weak light.
He grabbed this
tiny gem.
It was the body
that had been run over by Seen in his stolen Jeep. She was unconscious. Her body was mangled.
As he saw her
weak light flood over him, he felt all of her physical pain in a single moment,
and it made him scream.
Seen turned back
from Lenny and his eyes were wide. He
said, “She looks like she will need more tenderizing.”
Christopher felt
his new body from the inside to outward.
Her left arm was
broken, her knees were shattered, and her face felt like it had been scrubbed
with a cheese grater.
The pain was
exquisite. Her body had expended its
amount of endorphins released from the devastating injuries, and now there were
only pain messages available for him in the synapses.
He rolled over
and got to his knees. Although the
splintered patellas exploded with white hot fury, he found an odd sort of
pleasure underneath the pain.
It was the
infection of the cannibal torturer that caused this.
Many were like
him now in the asshole of the ugly king of the desert, the southern parts of
the city of Fuckno
Christopher felt
his left arm give way with the shards of broken bone, so he steadied himself
with the other one. He could not stand.
Instead, he began
to crawl away on the cartilage of the ends of each thigh bone, and he felt the
skin split around each knee.
Soon, raw bone
would meet asphalt.
He was alive, and
he wanted to get away.
Certainly them
purple tiny sparks that had followed him would be nearby. Perhaps they would find other bodies to
inhabit.
The infected part
of the megalopolis held many folks who would unwittingly lend their bodies to
any Walkin.
You see, there
were no rules anymore.
If you had a
hankering for drugs, then you probably knew who held them.
If you held such
a thing, then you were in great danger.
Everyone who
wanted such a thing would be knocking at your door by now.
And partaking of
heroin, crack, etcetera. Those who
passed out in their intoxication from such imbation were now vulnerable to new
Walkins.
These would
include the two Purple Robes whom had followed their Chauffeur to the dark part
of Fuckno. The High Priest, and his
wife, the High Priestess, well, they were in for a party.
Do I Wanna Know? By
Artic Monkeys
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
.
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