(no subject)
All the bus' windows are open, which might be a relief in any other climate, but in rural Mexico, it just allows the scorching wind to blast his eyes. He would rest his arm on the metal sill, but it's nearly as hot as a stove burner. A teenager sitting next to him has an old Sony Discman, and he can hear tinny fragments of music seeping through the headphones.
He bows his head and tries to read his paperback, but the wind dries his eyes out faster than he can scan the words. Sweaty thumbs smear the ink into the margins on either page. It just frustrates him, gives him a headache to try to decipher the garbled text.
As he returns the book into a knapsack, the bus lurches, throwing him forward into the the back of the next seat. His knees hit first before he can plant his feet and slap his palms against the hot, plastic leather.
What sounds like armloads of pottery shattering fills the air. He glances up at what remains of the other passengers. Images of Emperor Qin's terra cotta army come to mind. Maybe the ashen victims of Pompeii. No matter, they shatter and burst like either example, filling the air with fine dust and littering the floor of the bus with rolling limbs and porous chunks of stone.
And the bus is still rumbling out of control, the gas pedal probably pressed against the floor by a petrified leg. That's when a pot-hole skews the front wheels, and it takes a sickening plunge to the right, into a drainage ditch. Before the front of the bus plows itself into the earth, and as he can feel his stomach drop, his body thrashes itself into a wakeful state . . .
. . . nnnng . . .
. . . back in his bed, in tangled sheets and a slightly sweat-dampened pillow. He waits for his heart and lungs to slow down before extracting himself from the covers, and reassuring himself with the realness of sensation: the cool air of the apartment, the feel of the robe sleeves pulled over his arms.
He fetches a glass of water from the kitchen, more of an excuse to walk off the lingering dream than to quench any real thirst. He hasn't had such a vivid nightmare since his pre-Vorapate days, when violent dreams were usually a signal that Vayu needed to feed.
Seated on--no, sinking into the couch that-was-Tot's-and-is-now-Vic's, Gale stares unseeingly at the collage of his and Vic's wall hangings -- a few small photographs, framed newspaper articles, an easily recognizable Embryon banner . . . that kind of thing. Around the front door, there's still a little charring from the fire, but he's slowly getting that cleaned up.
He uses the ball of a foot to drag a small, Moleskine notebook across the surface of the coffee table and into his reach. He opens it to a marked spot -- the most recent record of his Vorapate dosage. It's increased by more than 300% since he began taking it -- most of that attributed to an exponential growth in the last few weeks. Since his return from the alternate Junkyard, really.
Putting pen to paper, he jots a few notes, taps the opposite end of the pen against the notebook and sets it aside.
The strategist tries to mull the dream over, but the incoherent thought of exhaustion gives way to heavy lids. In very short order, Gale is slumped on one of the armrests, asleep again.
REM-stage eyes open on the desert once more. He knows if he looks behind, he'll see the bus planted at the end of its nosedive. Ahead is a well-worn dirt road writhing in the heat of a black sun. Here around the equator there's no escape. Not a bit of shade with the sun dominating directly overhead.
There's nothing to do but walk, walk until he feels himself start to dry up. His hands begin to stiffen and turn first. He can feel it, but he can't bear to look. In time, his feet turn to stone as well, and so his walk becomes slow agony.
It's okay, though. There's a couch, just in time to break his fall as his feet crack. The cushioning is thin and uncomfortable enough to urge people to move on. Don't stay for long. A waiting room couch in the middle of the desert . . . why not?
He realizes he's sharing this seat with someone. The rest of his body has just as suddenly become fixed in place. He can't turn his head to see her, but he can feel her there.
"Jenna," he breathes. As if this were the word to activate such, his dream vision shifts to the woman's perspective, and he can see his petrified body. Only his face is still supple.
"Yes, David?" she responds obligingly.
"That's not my name."
She laughs a little. "Then what is it?"
"My name is . . ." He swears he can feel his diaphragm rise up to crush his lungs into dust as he laughs. "I can't remember what it is."
He wakes himself up again with a violent coughing fit; his lungs trying to convince his body that yes, they're still their spongy selves. When he recovers and wipes the water squeezed from his eyes, he can't remember his name.
It's on the tip of his tongue . . .