Mad Powers (Tapped In)
MAD POWERS
Written By
Mark Wayne McGinnis
PART 1 — TAPPED IN
Chapter 1
Apparently, I had fallen asleep at the wheel. I imagine it was only for an instant—a gentle respite against the endless monotony. It happens. Eyelids got too damn heavy after a thousand miles of sameness and double yellow lines—lines that stretched out towards a distant horizon—a horizon I never reached.
Just sitting there, I had more than enough time to contemplate my situation. Without a conscious driver at the wheel, my car meandered on down the highway, maybe even for a few hundred yards. Eventually, it found its way onto the soft-sandy shoulder. 80 mph went down to 75 mph or even 65 mph. Then, of course, the inevitable was bound to happen. My car would crash into something. What I didn’t know at the time was there are a variety of wood telephone poles: poles made from southern yellow pine, Douglas fir, jack pine, and western red cedar; the latter is the most commonly used tree pole throughout the country. But, on that one particular late afternoon, driving along a desolate highway somewhere in Arizona, my telephone pole of no-choice was a Douglas fir.
I awoke to darkness and pain. I tried to move. Nothing happened. So darkness and pain and, apparently, paralysis. Or worse, was I to spend the rest of my life like this? A floppy piece of meat—moved from location to location—akin to a carcass dollied from delivery truck to Vons’ freezer section … nothing more than a burden on society and my family? Did I have a family? I couldn’t remember. Again, I tried to move. But I couldn’t feel my arms, specifically my right one. The one I wanted to use to wipe the blood from my eyes. That’s when I realized I couldn’t possibly be paralyzed—not with this much pain racking every inch of my body. I lost consciousness.
How long was I out?
I wondered.
One hour? Two? More?
It did seem lighter outside, or perhaps I was just getting used to the darkness. Something was pressed tight against the back of my skull. I tried to move my head. No can do. My visibility was restricted to just how far I could move my eyes within their sockets. I looked around; I had no idea what model my wrecked car was prior to the crash. Nothing all that fancy—must have looked like any other mid-sized economy car on the road. The smell of tar and chemicals permeated the air. My guess, I was right up against a utility pole. Things strewn about: a soda can, junk food wrappers, a lone shoe, blood—lots of blood, and a cream-colored envelope with stylized letters spelling “
Rob,”
written in a feminine cursive style, with a little red heart added for emphasis. My view to the outside world was limited to the passenger-side window, or what was left of the window—just an open, jagged gap that pointed back down the highway, presumably from the direction I had come. I needed to sleep again.
* * *
A scream—my own scream, pulled me back to consciousness. There was something coming. I heard the low rumble of a diesel engine and then it slowly appeared, perfectly centered in the open window gap—a large vehicle heading in my direction. The truck was moving along at a good clip. Perhaps the driver was making up for the time he’d lost spent over scrambled eggs and ham at a greasy spoon in Modesto or Indio or Blythe.
The big tractor-trailer rig disappeared, falling below the horizon line into one of the subtle contours of the road. Only its two big vertical exhaust pipes stayed visible. If I could move even one iota, this would be the time to start squirming in my seat. Would the rig driver notice my small import tightly wrapped around a telephone pole at the side of the highway?
As the truck got closer and its exhaust pipes rose above the horizon, the speed of the vehicle seemed to increase. As the rig broke above eye level, I could make out the driver—even from this distance. The truck was close. The inside dome light was on. Perhaps he’d been looking at a map. The driver was a big, meaty-looking fella. He met all the stereotypical checkpoints: brawler-type, wide-brimmed baseball cap, grizzly muttonchops. And he certainly wasn’t looking in my direction as he cleared the rise. No, it looked like something else had grabbed his attention. His eyes, wide open enough for me to see the whites above and below, were looking at something in the middle of the road. Something substantial enough for him to put his entire weight down on the brake pedal. Tires instantly screeched; black smoke poured from vaporized rubber.
The tractor-trailer began to turn sideways, as if in slow motion, and in a frantic, sickening blur, the rig lost all contact with the highway. It spun in the air—like a child’s weightless toy—before smashing down again onto unyielding pavement. Horrendous sounds cracked across the desert landscape. Tractor, now separated from trailer, continued to slide along the road in a wash of bright yellow sparks. Even after the tractor came to a complete stop, with the driver hanging half in and half out of the front windshield, the trailer continued on down the highway until it hit something. By the sound of it, metal crashing against metal, another car had been hit. Then I saw it. The vehicle had ricocheted off of the long metal trailer, not unlike an aluminum bat hitting a ball, a ball that would find the most vulnerable recipient … me.
I didn’t black out this time, but I wish I had. The impact was jarring and violent. A salty metallic taste—blood and something else—permeated the inside of my mouth. My wrecked car spun several feet and was now separate from the telephone pole. I could see the pole in my peripheral vision. Sounds came from above. The separation left just enough space for a high-voltage power line to drop into my car. The line swayed back and forth, like an inky black cobra ready to strike. The big cable finally came to rest mere inches from my forehead.
There was no mistaking that this line was live, and still connected to a substation somewhere. I strained my eyes in their sockets looking up at the cable. It hummed and vibrated. I tried to inch further away. If anything, I was more jammed into place than before. It didn’t take long for the headaches to start. Blinding pain radiated down from the top of my head and into my eyes. Bile burned at the back of my throat from the nauseous smell of my own singed hair.
I’m being radiated! I’m being fucking radiated!
* * *
It felt like hours but was probably closer to minutes since the truck crashed in front of me. My view of the accident, the carnage, was slightly different now. I could see more of the highway and even part of the other vehicle … a bumper, a side-view mirror, and broken safety glass. I’d avoided looking in the direction of the truck and its driver, but now my eyes were drawn there.
With every glance a wave of guilt and dread passed through me. The high-powered cable continued to stare down at me: a Cyclops, its ionized breath, like tiny needles, caused searing pain to come and go in waves. My vision was now blue-tinted from the cable’s constant humming energy field. Inexplicably, I was drawn to it. And there was—something else … like something forgotten that needed to be remembered, or something that was right there, on the tip of my tongue, or like a familiar song that reconnected the dots to long lost memories or experiences.
Other sounds from outside encroached into my consciousness—w
hat the hell?
Like crying—no, more like wailing. That was it, like eerie sad sounds of women wailing. I’d heard these sounds before. Coyotes. A whole pack of them were out there. They were hungry.
How did I know that?
They were curious about the smells: fresh meat, blood, feces. Their cries took on a more rhythmic yipping aspect, more frenzied. The pack’s leader was old, but still formidable. The other males feared the older coyote. At first he would investigate alone and get the lion’s share before the others could abscond with the quarry.
How did I know that?
Then I saw him: a scraggly, gray coyote. He took slow tentative steps, sniffing the air as his thin body weaved back and forth. He crouched below the driver’s lifeless, outstretched arm. Carefully, the coyote rose up on its hind legs and sniffed again. I didn’t want to watch this.
Just leave the poor bastard alone,
I thought to myself
.
Still up on his hind legs, the coyote froze—as if hearing my thoughts. I wondered, had he maybe sensed me here, deep in the dark recesses of this mangled clump of metal and plastic? Was that possible? Am I next on the menu?
The coyote’s attention was back on the driver, where he nipped at the man’s blood-drenched shirt, then pulled, tugged, and ripped it. The sleeve came away at the shoulder. The coyote whipped and flailed the sleeve like a puppy with a new toy, only to drop it and return to the driver’s exposed arm. The coyote licked at the skin, almost lovingly. Teeth bit and pulled into flesh, which peeled away in long, bacon-like strips. A wave of nausea came over me. That, and anger too. No, not anger—pure unadulterated rage. My thoughts, first radiating fear of the ever-pulsating high-power line dangling in front of me, were now filled with white-hot rage.
Get away from him, you mangy piece of shit!
Immediately, the coyote jumped back, seemingly scared, and quickly ran off into the desert.
Chapter 2
The pain was less—in fact, I felt almost … good. Something alive, even intelligent, was emanating into the confines of the car. I felt snug and nurtured as I listened to its pulsing language—something that was more like music than actual speech, but a form of communication just the same. My memory was still a total blank but, truth be told, I really didn’t care. It would be hard to imagine life without this connection: this new and strangely intimate relationship. Had I ever felt this close to my own mother, father—a brother or sister? Could I possibly have felt, ever, this same level of belonging—of oneness? Christ! I needed to snap out of this. What was happening to me?
I awoke to the distorted voice of an Arizona Highway Patrol dispatcher. Blue and red lights bouncing off the pavement flickered on the tractor, the dead trucker, and the hood of a shiny black and white Highway Patrol cruiser. I could hear the patrolman talking on the radio.
“Yeah, Louise, this is a total clusterfuck here. What a mess. Looks like three vehicles, including an eighteen-wheeler, a minivan, and a small import, probably a Hyundai or a Kia—can’t really tell what the hell it is. No survivors—three DOAs, so just send the wagon, OK? Oh, and let Burt know we’ll need three tows. The tractor and trailer are overturned; it’s going to take some work.”
“Ten four, Garry … Out.”
I took a deep breath and yelled, “I’m in here.” My voice was barely a squeak.
The cop, now off of his radio, walked around to the front of the cruiser. I could see his legs and shoes through the open gap. The beam of his flashlight played over the accident scene. A reflection. Something wet on the pavement. I could smell gasoline.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, I’m in here … Christ, can’t you hear me?” The problem was I had no saliva; my throat and vocal cords were dry as a bone. Nothing discernible was coming out of my mouth. More like a croak. I heard something else. Actually …
thought
something else.
Just what I need—and at the end of a long shift, too. Shit. Now I’ll be here all night. What I should do is have Burt pick me up something to eat. Maybe pizza. God, I could eat a horse right now. Wonder if Domino’s delivers way the hell out here. That would be sweet.