Read Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead Online
Authors: John Siwicki
If you take his picture while he’s here, he’ll be locked in this place with me forever. Here, we’re a reflection of time. It’ll just be Holiday and me, here in this place, running and chasing each other for eternity.
Wait a second, and, where am I now?
Right now you’re in the air, and on the ground, hurt I suspect from the accident. By the way, did you find the bones?
The bones? What bones?
Holiday’s bones.
What? The bones! he said. Images of finding the bones flashed in Sam’s head. I remember, now. Holidays’ bones?
Correct. Holiday kidnapped and killed Alan Rogers years ago. And, yes, Holiday wants you. If he get’s you, and leaves the air, he’ll be on the ground. He thinks he’ll be free on the ground, but he’s wrong. I’m not giving him the chance. He’s staying here with me.
So, if I take his picture, he’ll be stuck here with you?
That’s right.
What about me? What happens to me?
You’re leaving, and telling the world how Alan Rogers died.
How did he die?
Holiday wanted money. Lori wrote it all down in the journal. You know the one she carries around with her. It has the whole story about how Holiday killed Rogers. How we picked him up when he was hitch-hiking. How we drove to Roger’s house after talking about what a wonderful place it was. How he took money from the safe in his house and killed him. That’s why Holiday wants it. It’s all written in the book, take it. He wants to keep it a secret, and take his son’s body.
His son’s body? The dentist, Sam said.
Yes, his son, the dentist.
How did he kill Rogers?
He poured gas on him after tying him to a tree, and he burned to death. Holiday’s a monster.
How do you know how he died?
I was tied to the tree next to him.
You’re dead?
He took Lori from me after we got back from Japan. She wanted to see my old shop, and when we were driving there we picked up a hitch-hiker.
Holiday? Sam said.
He was friendly at first. We talked about a lot of things, then about Alan Rogers. He forced me at gun point to drive him to Roger’s house. Then walked into the woods near a stream next the house. I’m buried there.
Don’t know how I got here, or by the tree where we met. I just remember seeing everything around me floating. Carving our names in the tree had something to do with it, and that’s why you’re here.
So, the bones are Holiday’s? How did they get there?
He had an accident at the same place as you. The car was never found, and covered by the overgrowth. Your car’s there now, too.
And, what do we do, now?
Just wait.
Wait for what?
Holiday!
Outside the rain stopped, and only a few drops fell into puddles, onto cars, and drummed on the window. The wind yelled, offbeat, tearing through the trees that surrounded the hotel, squealing through the gaps of the windows.
I don’t like it, Sam said with tension in his voice.
Don’t worry, and just be ready with your camera. You need to take that picture of Holiday. No matter what happens, no matter what, Sam, take that picture of Holiday.
I’ll handle my end, but you’ve got to hold up yours. I suspect you’ve got something planned, and I wish you’d fill me in, so I can play along.
You’ll see soon enough, Sam. Just keep your eyes open, and your finger on the shutter. All the memories, good and bad, will be captured forever!
I’ve got to make a pit stop pretty soon, drummed in his head as he hammered the clutch to the floor and downshifted into 3rd gear. The engine growled up the palisades, then like an airborne lasso, swung around the rim, and latched onto a hair-pin corner. The driver’s eyes snapped open, and followed the steel guardrail stitched along the twisting asphalt vein.
Damn, I’m gonna fly off the road! he thought, and downshifted into 2nd gear as his field of vision moved from the road to the red-lining-tachometer. The car hugged and rounded the corner with no problem, landing at a section with a panoramic vista, and window, to a place that seemed to emerge from a land beyond.
Man— it’s like being in the theater at the beginning of a show when the curtain opens, he thought.
The Flame of Apollo, he whispered, turned the steering wheel like a captain gliding and swaying on waves of morning breakers curling on a bow of a ship. He parked, and watched the blinding golden majesty bubble from the horizon. He let his worries go, turned off the engine, and waited to admire how the solar splendor would sprinkle life over the earth. Moments later a peaceful golden ray rose on the steamy rolling hills and valleys, illuminating the horizon, and opening the dark unseen corners of the world.
Look at that, he thought. I’m getting some shots of this.
The driver grabbed his camera from the seat, set it on the dash, and waited for the moment—just the right moment.
It’s . . . amazing, he muttered as he watched the jaw-dropping sky transform from dusk to dawn through the bug smeared windshield. Light’s the key, he whispered. He linked his thumb and fingers, then leaned out the window. He held his hand to his eye, and peered through the opening, adjusting the size like the aperture of a camera lens.
Light-is-the-key, he repeated while panning the horizon, generating random pictures and rendering the visual ideas, like a painter holding a pallet and brush. He raised the camera to his eye, and focused on a rolling dell that walked off into the horizon forever. These shots will look great! This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
I guess the light show’s over, he thought.
He put the camera back on the seat, and headed down the valley he’d just photographed. With the car in low gear he coasted into a tunnel of trees that funneled and filtered the early sunshine. It became dark all around with only flickering lights beaming from the sun. Crisp shadows danced on leaves, and reflected in the chrome metallic veneer of the car. The driver looked up to an open spot in the branches above and watched a hawk circle around and around. It seemed to be spinning away into vortex of blue, but fought, and held its ground, floating between earth and sky.
It’s hunting for food, the driver whispered.
Being awake all night was catching up with the driver. His heavy eye-lids opened, closed, blinked more and more. The flashes of sunlight trickled through the trees and created a hazy distorted vision as he drove under the green canopy. In the windshield he watched the shapes reflect, then roll up and over the glass. Shadows covered the sky with loneliness, and a cold feeling surrounded him, so he focused on his destination, driving faster. Up and down the looping roller coaster trails, left and right, riding a perpetual Foucault pendulum—swinging back and forth.
I need more shots of scenery for the magazine article, he thought, concentrating on staying awake, watching the trees, and keeping an eye on the road.
It seemed to be an unending course as the car penetrated the lofty trees. He drove through wooden walls of nature as scenery melted into a montage of foliage, meadows, and the occasional red barn blotch outline of a distant isolated farm.
The only decent pictures I’ve taken so far are the ones of the sunrise.
He meandered on the up-down trail in a quasi-delusional-delirium unaware, with time idle, not perceptible or changing—stuck in the moment.
I feel like I’m the only person on the planet, he thought, then scanned the terrain. I’m really in the sticks. Just me, my camera, car, and landscape. It looks serene with the sun coming up, though.
As he drove, warm sunshine fell on his face. Thoughts, images, and ideas, changed as fast as he blinked. A rainbow of images switched on and off, reminding him of strobe lights in a dance hall, bodies moving in slow-motion fashion, mechanical and machine-like.
Who’s in control, a creator? The environment? Me? he whispered. Is everything just a single solitary moment? Is time eventually used up, then gone forever? Where does time come from, and where does it go?
Gripping the wheel he steered into a stereo kinetic parade of images. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Man, are my eyes ever bloodshot, and I look like hell.
He bulked out a yawn as he studied his weary face in the mirror.
I’m drained.
Fighting to stay awake, he inhaled the minimal amount of oxygen needed to sustain human existence, then glanced at the speedometer with a head that bobbed like it had no nuchal ligament.
Eighty-five miles an hour . . . I’m moving at a pretty good clip, he said.
He stuck his face outside, let the wind smack him, and inhaled some cool morning air.
That feels good, he thought.
Momentarily refreshed he looked in the rear-view again and focused on his mouth. Words of sincerity tumbled off his lips as the imaginary peal of church bells rang in his head.
When I finish this job I’m calling to pop the question, and buying her a ring, he said.
He watched the reflection of a blissful grin materialize in the rear-view.
The prettiest one in the store, he shouted out the window, then with satisfaction stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The grin turned into a big fat smile, and to celebrate, he jabbed at the horn—it blared! He yelled out the window again. And—I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I give it to you!
The driver sat back in a hypnotic state. He focused on the disappearing center line, and watched it being devoured by the machine that he controlled.
He looked up. Why is this happening to me?
The smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings. His vision was binocular—zooming in—following the animal as it jumped from the tall grass on the side of the road.
Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop and plant itself in the center of the road, it stood there gawking back at the driver.
In a glint of time and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.
The driver calculated the options.
A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view, and said, I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then cranked the wheel, and slammed the brakes down hard.
Tires screeched—the car whirled.
The scene in the windshield warped into a spinning whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag blowing in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again. His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune musical instruments. Gritting his teeth, and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out and across to the other side.
This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.
Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.
He waited for impact.
Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air, twisting, flipping, and crashing into the car. The driver raised his arms to cover his face, to block the flying broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded on the wheel, the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Finally it waddled sideways, and stopped in the center of the road.
The driver sat staring straight ahead, trance like, breathing hard, his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched around the wheel in an iron grip. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, leaned forward, and rested his head on the steering wheel a moment, then sat back.
What the hell just happened? What was that? A little farther, and I’d have gone off the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.
The driver blinked, and crushed the wild nerves that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like him. Couldn’t have been, though. There’s no way. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.
Man that was . . . close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around and confirming he was okay.
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the car, put in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
He is fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there. He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car; it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; and had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle grazing in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over the hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky, and those clouds up there a fleet of ships floating on an upside-down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is. This’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood. No chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves. No sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What—? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.