Running Jump (928 hits)
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Submitted by UberMadness! (View user info) at 2006-10-24 10:30:18 EDT
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Entry 1
Open the notebook and that damn letter falls out. The old lady. Don't want to be reading that now, you vagabond, you. Nothing but tears stored up in those folded pages. May as well go snort some vinegar instead.Fool.
Focus on the road; the next few days; the next few months. The Bahamas. Cat Island. Joshua Tree. Bivvy well.
Man, it's tough to write in the truck. Semi. None of that pussy Ford shit. The floating seats; the imperfections of the I-5 -- they come together in a matrimony of motion sickness. Writing in here is stupid. Been at it just a few moments and already the rest stop coffee wants out.
"Boris, Boris, my love -- would you mind stopping the truck?"
"Stopping the truck? Why stopping the truck?"
Boris killed Afghans for the mother land. This truck will stop for nothing.
"Just kidding. When's the next stop?"
"Next stop, San Diego." His Russian accent is round and clumsy. And San Diego is at least one-thousand kilometers and two nights away. I wonder, what the fuck am I doing? And the desperate sadness I have eluded even through all the good-byes and see-you-soons catches me, quite some distance down the highway.
The CB crackles. CB is not dead. Ask the two truckers who converse of John and his sleepless braggery. We all know why he's not sleeping, and this thought troubles me, bouncing airily in my seat, amidst the small-town traffic and the Johns.
"Why for are you writing?" inquires the ever-interested Boris. His obtuse inflection and features seem to suggest he is a human of a lesser order. But he is not. He smiles beautifully, aware that he has interrupted me, in no way ashamed.
"I am writing a story, to take my mind off..."
He stares blankly, but still enthusiastically. He nods his head, but has no idea what I mean.
"I'm distracting myself."
He frowns.
"I am trying to forget."
"Ahh, you have much to forget?"
"Yes, Boris -- very much," and I squint through the bug-peppered windshield and chew at the inside of my cheek. But that's awfully self-indulgent, isn't it? And he is interested. And far more intelligent than his understanding of English suggests.
Boris deserves more than my melodrama.
"I left my girlfriend, Boris."
"Yes, you are here with me, but you will see here when you are gone home." His eyes -- standard-issue Russian -- dart from mine to the highway.
"I'm not going back. I have left everyone and everything."
He looks appalled. "Why not?"
"I don't really know." Which is kinda true, when I really think about it.
We both sit silently. A town created for nothing but the freeway passes us by, and the signs return to indicating dancing deer. Deer Dancing, next seven miles. The thought of deer, or anything else being that happy cripples me, and the great uncertain sadness comes seeping back into me -- an enormous, bubbling wave of it.
"Because I'm crazy, Boris."
He doesn't seem to be bothered by this admission. "You know, I am little bit crazy too you know."
I look over, eyebrows arched, offering him my incredulous face. Me -- crazy? He is smiling though, and it is a joke of sorts. "I was only eighteen," he says, "I didn't know really what I was doing. I get two months," he holds up the fingers, "two months training, then: okay, go. I don't even know what go mean. What does go mean? But I go and live in tent for two years and fight."
I have no idea what he's talking about. Afghanistan? Just smile. He is crazy.
"Yeah, well, I'm living in a tent now," I say, pointing over my shoulder to my backpack. "Is it fun?"
He laughs. "How old are you?"
"How old do you think?"
"Twenty-five; twenty-six," he says, wobbling his hand.
"Twenty-four."
He laughs again. "You will want house soon."
And it is true. I know I will. And kids. And a wife. And a dog too, probably. And the ignorance of my misery fades -- the conversation blowing off what little dust had accumulated.
Fucking Boris. No more talking. I try to write, but the pen bounces wildly.
"Is it okay if I sleep?"
"Yes, of course. You sleep when you want sleep. It is no problem."
"Okay -- I sleep now then," I say, dumbing down my English like an asshole. "You wake me up if there's any trouble," and I laugh goodnaturedly. He does too, but for what reason, I couldn't really say.
The upper bunk of the sleeper is narrow, and slick against my sleeping bag.
"Hey Boris, if you brake really hard, will I go flying?"
"No, no -- it is no problem," he assures me.
I slip into the bag, fully clothed, head resting on my sweater. It creaks against itself and in my ear with each bump. Which is to say, constantly.
I cannot sleep. But I must. These idle brain cycles will be put to use otherwise. Thinking about the old lady; the old bed; the old life. How I used to be spoiled. The steady job, steady money, steady friends, steady pussy, steady drink. All of that now gone. Many miles of yawning American interstate behind me. A fucking stinking mattress beneath me. Perhaps my face is on the end normally reserved for feet? Get used to it, you vagabond, you. Heck, you should be used to it -- you've been without bed or house or car or anything really for six months now. Quit the job, sold the car, bummed around the Bahamas, California, British Columbia -- sleeping wherever, as Tom Waits likes to say, you laid your head.
Started as a walk, I suppose. Moved to a trot. Quickly becoming a run. Running from all responsibility. Running from health. Running from the rain. Running from the family. Fucking running. It was damn hard though -- leaving it all. It took the changing of the leaves to get me out. That day my toes were cold in my sandals, I was out. Time to go.
Time to go.
And so, here I am: drooping lids, poorly rested, cruising in the floating chair down the I-5, only two-hundred miles from Sacramento now. Boris drove while I slept; slept while I slept; drove while I slept. I woke once, cold, while the truck was stopped, then again, sweating, once it started again. The life of the lifeless.
Then the truck stop -- heart of the American interstate experience. It is an amazing sight, the sea of semis, sizes and colours as varied as their license plates.
"This is crazy," I marvel.
"What is crazy?"
"Look at all these trucks!"
"This is nothing; this is half full. Normally like this," and he makes a sweeping gesture with his arm.
I nod in mock appreciation.
"You like boofei?"
"Boofei?"
"Boofei," and he pretends like he's picking out food from beneath a sneeze guard, one hand busying the tongs and the other steadying the plate.
"Ahh -- buffet! Of course."
The truck stop: my new home.
I look around, at the boofei and its enormous island, filled with the staples of the American breakfast, and the forty or so baseball hats, jeans, and plaid-covered guts. They sit solitary and slow. Some appear tired, others well-rested, and more still, high on something. Jaws move. Eyes dart. The washroom calls me.
Rather nicely, actually. It might have been an email, now that I think of it. For its courtesy, I oblige, wondering if everything they say about the truck stop washroom is true.
08-02-06
Cute bottom
Looking to fuck - Let's cum together tonight!
Channel 27 - all nite
Handle: Tadpole
Indeed it is, says the carving into the toilet paper dispenser, and the countless others like it. On the mirrors, on the door, on anything that can be carved, or written upon really.
My asshole squeaks. Diarrhea already? I've only been gone a day and haven't even hit Mexico yet. Less certain with every passing moment that I can actually do this, I think, looking at my sandal-clad feet on the piss-stained tile. I can't live without her. And even if I could, do I really want to?
"Boris, I want to go home."
"You want I should get you tent?" he asks, laughing his deep, eastern laugh.
It is infectious, and I laugh too. It is a shallow, unconvincing laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. The first few months will be the hardest, I concede -- stay aloof. Forget about it.
Back in the truck, the highway worsens. Not only does the chair bounce up and down, but forward and backwards as well.
"Road is bad, from chain," he explains.
"Left lane looks good," I joke. It is a sad attempt at ESL trucking humour. Boris looks confused, then his eyes light up, and he looks confused again, and then he smiles. We sit silently, listening to the crackle of the CB.
"Jackass, jackass, come in jackass."
"Yeah, jackass, go ahead."
One guy starts making donkey noises.
"You shouldn'ta answered for jackass, ya jackass," says another.
Boris screws the side of his head with a finger and turns off the radio. We ride in silence -- if anything like it ever existed in a truck -- and another day goes by and another couple hundred miles of rolling, straw-covered hills. Much of it is burned from the careless or uncaring motorist flicking their cigarettes. I am amazed how -- burned or unburned -- all of the land on either side of the interstate is claimed. All of it. Cordoned off by unconvincing fence posts, topped with barbed wire. The intelligent farmers have overturned a patch of soil several feet wide along the path of their fence to prevent the spread of fire from the highway.
I am happy with my observation, having put thought into the purpose of that grass-less path running parallel to the fences, and I consider sharing this revelation with Boris. I look over, and decide against it. Those would be two hours I would never get back.
We roll and bump along. Sleep was weak and diluted and short. But San Diego is close, man, and I swear I can smell the Mexican border.
"We go through downtown, for you."
The city skyline opens up before me. Glassy buildings and small mountains creeping into the sky of the rising sun and the open ocean. The pollution gives a warm glow to the morning's light, and I don't mind.
"Where are we going to stop?"
"Yeah, yeah, it is no problem."
"You know a good spot?"
"Yeah, yeah, it is okay."
But it's not. We roll right on through San Diego -- passing downtown and it's impressive harbour, filled with the ships of war. Looks like we're going to go unload first.
In Otay Mesa.
We wait. Much cursing in Russian. A problem with the paperwork. We eat homemade bread and tomato and kielbasa. Unloading takes a long time and that means nothing but idle thought. San Diego. No money. Nowhere to stay. I would have preferred not to think about it -- just go on in, ready to face the day's challenges. Ready to figure it out. But here, with all this thought, the sadness and doubt come rolling in once again. It tickles my tear ducts and irritates my throat.
The old lady -- such a beautiful creature. Loves me so much. Would do anything for me really. Yeah man -- I need her. Or is it just the shock of this new life? Is it the feeling of an empty bed? Bed, no -- tent. The feeling of an empty tent.
Boris comes back, scowling, cursing gibberish. "Reefer is broke." Reefer is what they call the air-conditioning unit that cools the trailer. 'Reefer is broke' means two things: rotten tomatoes, and no San Diego. And there's that fucking doubt again, gnawing away at me. Really, a wrench in the plans of the plan-less should be no big thing, but it kills me. Murders me, in the second degree, I accuse.
"No San Diego?"
More cursing, and searching of the cab.
"So, no San Diego, Boris?" I hazard.
"Scotch?"
"Scotch?" I ask back, concerned by his desire to drink.
"Scotch tape."
"Ahh -- no. Only first aid tape."
He laughs. "Reefer first aid!" And he pulls the straw from his Burger King cup, then jumps from the cab. I dig through my bag, and it occurs to me: everything I want is always at the bottom. How is this possible?
Outside, the sun and the heat are horrendous. Between the cab and the trailer, I spy Boris, cleaning the fuel line of the reefer from the opposite side of the truck. He sees me, and smiles broadly and pulls at the line like he's jerking off. "Reefer first aid," I say, ignoring his joke and producing the tape. I toss it through the gap and he catches it, rather unathletically, it must be said.
He holds up the fuel cable for me, and it drips greasy diesel.
"Some eedyoten crash trailer hook-up into cable."
"It is no good?" I ask, speaking in the now-familiar vernacular.
"It is no good," he states with finality, and then, suddenly optimistic, "but reefer first aid!" I watch in horror, as he cuts the fuel line with his pocket knife, severing in my mind, the line itself, and my chances of making it to San Diego today. Diesel flows freely.
"Did you turn off fuel?" I ask. Like I'm retarded. Boris just glares at me, shaking the severed hose. Still it comes, but gloriously, slows, and finally stops. Could it be? And he cleans the lines with a paper towel, once again laughing at his masturbatory motions, and then slips the straw over one end. It is way too loose, and slides right back into his hand.
"Cut it down the middle and wrap it tightly around -- then tape," I suggest.
Boris glares once again. "It is okay. You see," he says, and begins wrapping each end of the hose with tape. I feel like an eedyoten, for it is a cardinal rule of living with very little: do not destroy what can be kept whole. In this case, I had forgotten that, and demonstrated a very small perspective. I thought the straw was too big -- Boris, that the hose was too small.
Better to add than to take away.
He finishes up, and starts the reefer. It runs, and the straw bulges, but nothing leaks.
"San Diego," I yell, jumping to my feet and clapping my hands. Boris just stares. "Boris, I am going to kiss you!" And I begin running around the truck. I hear him yell in protest, but I keep running. When I round the corner, he is in a fighting stance, and I remember Afghanistan.
"How about a handshake," I offer, holding out my hand. He obliges, and we are friends once more. "I love you, Boris," I say quietly.
Off we go -- my sadness, replaced by joy. Apprehension with acceptance. The simple philosophy of the road reigns supreme: there is no purpose to life, other than to enjoy it. And I do. And I pack my stuff up in the back with vigour. I throw on my boots in anticipation of the walking ahead. I roll down the window, and set my feet out upon its sill. I long for a beer, but want for nothing more than that, and the open road.
"San Diego, Boris," I proclaim, pointing towards the city growing in the distance.
"Yes," he says, smiling and nodding. "Where you want I drop you off?"
You know, I hadn't really thought about it. Downtown? Shit, do I dare sleep on the streets downtown? What would my mother say? What will the crackheads say? "Hey you -- middle-class white-boy with the tent and top-notch kit -- give it here." In broken Spanish, or Ebonics most likely (no offense!). No -- fuck the city.
"Right here."
"Right here?" he asks, pointing to the floor and laughing. He thinks I'm kidding.
"No, no -- right there," I say, pointing to a small building off the next exit from the highway.
He hesitates, pushing slightly on the brakes. "For really?"
"For really, Boris," and the truck leans heavily forward.
I shake his hand. "Thank you, Boris. You are a very good man." I smile warmly, benevolent, and magnanimous in our triumph over misfortune.
"You are good too. Good luck to you."
I grab my bag and heft it out of the truck. It sits beside me and I lean on it, holding the door open, about to bid my final farewell. He looks sad. Company is always good. Loneliness, not so much.
"Good luck to you, Boris. Drive safe," I say, shutting the door. He waves, and honks the enormous horn as he pulls away.
I hear a tremendous, tense snap. Sparks. Right beside me. A power line has come down, caught on his truck. Its sizzling end sits a moment on my backpack, which catches on fire along with the grass beneath it. Boris is sitting at the stop sign just in front of him, and I am offered a moment for reflection.
Going to die. To run is to die. To stay is to die. To do nothing, is, at the very least, to lose all my stuff. My bed. My shelter. Is on fire. There is white gas for my stove inside. Boris inches forward and the cable falls to the pavement. The fire in the grass is growing, but my pack has died out. I pick it up, and run, and jump. And fucking run and jump.
Some distance away, I put it down. I think back to grade-school power safety assembly. I almost died. The rubber on the bottom of my boots, maybe?
Boris is gone. He didn't even notice. Or he chose to ignore it.
So here I am. Outskirts of San Diego. A tumbleweed rolls by. I swear to God, a tumbleweed. The grass beside me burns inconsequentially.
What the fuck am I doing?
Running, I know that much. Mostly running, I hope. Occasionally jumping. Out of danger, hopefully.
I look at my bag -- no big thing. Just a little melted. Still good though. I laugh. "Fucking hell," I say to no one but myself. Time to walk now. And I do, down the dusty, lonely street. No real direction really -- just the future, uncertain.
Which is pretty damn okay with me.
- VS -
Entry 2
Ms. Lasner, a pale first-grade teacher with a body like a matchstick, said, "Your daughter Emma is extraordinarily accelerated."Mr. and Mrs. Greene sat in small chairs in their daughter Emma's first-grade classroom at Richmond Elementary School. Emma herself, a petite little girl with dark hair and dark eyes, sat between them. Mr. Greene, a small business consultant, adjusted and readjusted the curling lapels of his white dress shirt. Mrs. Greene, a fashion designer who was currently "between jobs" was busy caressing her daughter's shoulder. Emma, in her too-big, dark green sweater looked down at the floor, silent.
"Accelerated how?" Mrs. Greene asked.
Ms. Lasner replied, "She's just off the charts. She excels at reading, mathematics, and even science. I have to ask, have you ever gotten her tested?"
"Tested?" Mrs. Greene asked. Her red plastic earrings jangled annoyingly.
"Yes. IQ tested. She's reading at a college level. Surely you must've noticed."
Mrs. Greene recalled putting several Sesame Street readers in Emma's playroom, and had left her alone with them. She had rarely seen her daughter reading. After all, who had all day to spend with their children nowadays?
"I know she's a big reader," Mrs. Greene said, "But college level?"
Mr. Greene shifted uncomfortably in his too-small chair.
Ms. Lasner nodded. "Emma's been taking out some of the most advanced books from our school library, and she's able to tell me what they're all about. Also, she shows a mathematical aptitude far beyond any grade schooler, or actually any junior high schooler that I've ever seen. Have you noticed any of this sort of behavior?"
Mrs. Greene tussled Emma's hair. Emma frowned slightly. Mrs. Greene said, "That's our little sunshine! She's always been the smartest one in the family." Mrs. Greene laughed and glanced at her husband. Mr. Greene had been busy wondering (again) why his daughter's hair was so dark, when no one in his family or his wife's family had such dark hair. Maybe it was just genetics. Maybe.
Ms. Lasner said, "Well, the school district has recommended that she be tested to see if she can in fact place out of first grade."
"You mean skip a grade?" Mr. Greene asked, speaking for the first time, anxious to appear concerned.
"That's right. Although in Emma's case, she might be able to skip more than just a grade. All I know is that she's leaps and bounds ahead of any other first-grader I've ever seen."
"Wow," Mr. Greene sat back, pleased with himself, "Talk about starting school with a running jump, eh, kiddo?" He tussled Emma's hair. She frowned again.
Emma was scheduled for two days of testing with a Dr. Marianne Landon, Ph.D. The child psychiatrist administered Rorschach tests, free association exams, and a multiple-choice IQ assessment. The highest score Dr. Landon had ever previously witnessed was that of a gifted individual, clocking in at 142.
Emma fell into the cognitive designation, "extraordinary genius." She scored 170.
Three national papers picked up her story, and she was even interviewed in USA Today. "Of course, she learned pattern recognition and her more creative side from me," her mother beamed to the Washington Post.
Emma was packaged and shipped off to a private charter school, to do whatever it is that young geniuses do all day.
One day, not long after, Robert Heller, another student in Ms. Lasner's class began showing signs of extraordinary scholastic aptitude. "I could hardly believe one student in my very own class," she said to the New York Times, "But to have two students with genius IQs? The odds must be incredible."
Naturally, Robert was also taken out of school. He was placed in a pre-collegiate program at a local college, where his mathematical prowess stunned the faculty.
Two weeks went by with the superintendent of schools, proud parents, and even Ms. Lasner herself taking public credit for the extraordinary burst of genius taking place in the first grade at Richmond Elementary. Ms. Lasner was featured on the cover of Teacher Magazine. The mayor of Richmond himself declared a town holiday in honor of the prodigies and presented each family with the keys to the city.
Clearly, something special was happening in Richmond.
This could not have been made any more apparent than by the revelation, a week later, that five more students in the Richmond School were suddenly showing signs of inexplicable mental prowess. Two of them, a pair of fifth graders, were not even in Ms. Lasner's class, and two of them, a fifth and first grader, were brother and sister.
The mayor hit the airwaves again, boasting about Richmond's spectacular public schooling system. After one such one-sided interview, he took a call from Washington D.C.
"This is Mayor Rogers in the smartest city in America. Can I help you?"
"Mr. Rogers, please hold for a call from United States Surgeon General Ellen Hastings."
A slight, sickening wash flowed down through the mayor's chest. What could the surgeon general want with him? A moment later, a deep female voice came from the other end of the line.
"Mayor Rogers? This is Ellen Hastings."
The mayor sat down in his leather chair. He idly swiveled it back and forth. "Yes, Ms. Hastings. Can I help you?"
"Doctor Hastings."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nevermind. Mayor Rogers, I've learned that a group of children in your community have recently tested high on intelligence aptitude tests."
Mayor Rogers grinned. "That's right! Calling to find out our secret? Heh."
"Mr. Mayor, it's a bit of a statistical anomaly for so many students with no prior evidence of above-average intelligence to suddenly, 'smarten up,' don't you agree?"
The mayor rolled his eyes. "Ms. Hastings, call it whatever you will. The fact is that we have a magnificent educational system here in Richmond. We were a national blue ribbon school of excellence in the mid-nineties—"
"The President has authorized me to send in inspectors."
Mayor Rogers felt that strange feeling again. "What? Why? What's this got to do with—I mean, what's this all about?"
"Mr. Rogers—"
Mayor Rogers suddenly felt a momentary tingling sensation, as if his brain was a sponge and someone was slowly wringing it dry.
"Agh—!" He slumped down in his chair.
"Mayor Rogers? Are you all right, sir?"
The mayor was silent for several moments. He closed his eyes and opened them. Everything seemed brighter, and at once, he knew exactly what to say.
"You're not allowed to send in any sort of government team without filing a US-109 form of intent, filled out in triplicate with a copy sent to myself, the state government, and one kept in your office for your own records."
The silence on the other end of the line gave Mayor Rogers time to wonder how he had known that information.
By the end of the day, close to one-hundred people in Richmond found themselves far, far smarter than they had ever been before. Whatever it was, it was spreading.
The surgeon general (who took special care to fill out form US-109) sent in her team. By the time they arrived two days later, most county residents had developed the strange intelligence bug. It became the top national news story, and the international press had also noticed.
The government team interviewed scores of the new geniuses. Warm, happy people who seemed at a loss with their newfound abilities greeted the inspectors.
"It's incredible, I know things that I never knew before and I see the world in a whole new way. Everything makes perfect sense."
"I feel like I majored in everything in college."
"I finished a New York Times crossword puzzle for the first time!"
When Dr. Hastings called the inspection team leader later that week, she was surprised to find that he sounded far more intelligent than she had remembered.
"The team and I believe, Dr. Hastings, that we're dealing with some sort of contagion that affects the neocortex. Whatever it is and however it developed, it seems as though it not only increases rational intelligence, but it's also highly contagious."
It was a disease that made you and everyone around you smarter. The media called it, "Emma's Gift." Within ten days, most of the eastern United States had been infected. Emma herself was taken out of school and placed in the government's custodianship for study.
Then, the United States closed it borders, claiming to need time to "decipher" the outbreak and "contain" the fallout. Aside from essential trade shipments, no one was allowed into or out of the country. After all (to quote one of the joint chiefs), "Superior intelligence would do us no good in the hands of our enemies." Foreign tourists and diplomats who had caught the bug were placed under varying versions of surveillance, their communications monitored.
In less than a month, most of the country's population had been infected with Emma's Gift, or HSS—Human Superiosis Syndrome.
A spokeswoman at Harvard Medical School said in a press release, "Its cause appears to be a new strain of bacteria previously undiscovered. We're investigating how it performs this miraculous, beneficial symbiosis."
The United Nations played host to more and more screaming matches between delegates from developing nations and the United States regarding how beneficial HSS could be to the world at large. Public officials were at a loss. Doctors worked overtime. Clearly, this would change everything. Everyone was waiting for something.
They didn't wait long. One night, something was announced live on several news channels.
" . . .in a resolution spearheaded by Venezuela, 124 countries have signed a petition demanding that the United States open its borders to allow free access to HSS. Of particular note is a clause refusing to rule out pre-emptive sanctions or military strikes against the United States should it continue to restrict the spread of HSS. President—"
The anchor suddenly put his hand to his ear, where a small receiver was hidden. He listened for several moments before speaking again.
"This just in, Emma Greene, the first person diagnosed with HSS, has gone missing from Logg Military Base in Junction, Connecticut. Again, 8-year-old Emma Greene, who had been undergoing study at Logg Military Base in Junction, Connecticut, has gone missing . . ."
Emma paused in the dark for a moment under an elm tree by a marsh in Clayton, Connecticut. Thankful that military dogs weren't affected by HSS, she had thrown off her light jacket and a sock miles away, hoping to slow them down. She heard their faint barks and the not-as-faint approaching helicopters. With a shudder, she reflected that they must've factored in her potential escape as a true possibility, given how quickly the pursuit had been organized. It didn't matter, she thought. In less than an hour, she'd be out of their reach.
After the helicopters had passed overhead with their searchlights, the dogs and soldiers sounded much closer. She turned south and ran.
"The fate of the world probably rests with me," she thought momentarily, but quickly reprimanded herself. "Such thoughts will only slow me down."
A half-hour later, she was at the foot of a gated driveway in a wealthy neighborhood. There were no streetlights and her pursuers sounded farther off. She pressed a white intercom button and felt a raindrop on her right cheek.
"Hello?" a female voice asked through the intercom.
Emma glanced over her shoulder, then said, "Is Ambassador Ilkin home? It's an emergency!"
"I'm sorry, the ambassador doesn't take guests at this hour—"
"He'll take me. I'm Emma Greene."
The gate opened.
A few minutes later, Emma was ushered into a white-upholstered and dark wood-finished living room before Ambassador Baki Ilkin, permanent representative of Turkey to the United Nations. He was in a dark blue suit, dressed as if in a hurry. He smiled, didn't shake her hand, and pressed a finger to his lips. He handed her a folded piece of paper. She opened it.
"I am being monitored."
Emma looked up, just as the sounds of commotion came from the front foyer. They had found her.
Ambassador Ilkin took her hand. "This way! Quick!"
He yanked the little girl through the house, pulled a small two-way radio out of his pocket, and spoke into it. "Asil, get ready to receive passenger."
They made it into the garage, where a white Toyota was waiting. Ilkin explained, "Our foes will be expecting a black town car. I have an emergency route that they won't know."
He opened the side passenger door and Emma climbed in next to a 20-something driver with dark amber eyes. Before Ilkin closed the door, he said, "I think I know why you came to me. There's a ship at Kyelin Point. We have not stopped them, but we will give you a running jump. God keep you."
Shouts and barking came from inside the house. In less than a minute, they would be upon her.
Ilkin hit the roof of the car twice and it sped through an underground emergency tunnel that opened out to a hidden entrance on interstate 95.
Emma turned to the driver, whose white knuckles firmly held the steering wheel. She asked, "Will I be taken out of the country?"
The driver nodded.
Emma sat back and smiled. She wondered if she'd have time to pick up warmer clothing.
Less than an hour later, she was on a small cargo ship bound from Long Island Sound to Nova Scotia. She had met the captain and told him what he needed to know. He gave her a little room in a hollow, dark cargo container with some old blankets and a pillow.
Emma dreamed.
A pair of gray (green?) eyes watched from the sky as she climbed an icy mountain with surprising ease. The eyes bore no menace and yet were cold. They simply were there. It was a good dream. Emma woke up. Someone was banging on the cargo door.
A young shipman opened it. "The U.S. Coast Guard has asked permission to board and inspect our cargo. We've got to get you out of here. Captain's orders."
Emma was momentarily sad to leave her little space, but realized that it, like all things, were transitory. It, like all things, would remain. She couldn't help but smile again as the shipman led her through the maze of cargo containers towards the aft deck. He stopped just before the end of a container row and knelt to the ground. Emma watched as he inserted a small silver key into a tiny crack in the metal floor. A panel, which had previously been set into the deck and nearly invisible, popped open.
Emma watched as the crewman pulled out bags of marijuana and cocaine, piling them up hastily alongside the compartment. He then beckoned to her. She looked down into the newly emptied contraband nook. It was dark and seemed just barely large enough for an 8-year-old girl. She asked, "You'll let me out once the coast guard leaves?"
The crewman nodded. She slid into the compartment and he closed it shut behind her.
Three hours later, he returned to let her out. They had passed inspection and had been instructed to lay anchor ten miles off of Nova Scotia in order to prevent the transmission of HSS to any Canadians. Another coast guard team, in protective gear, would meet the ship and unload its cargo onto a barge, which would then complete the journey to the mainland.
Emma returned to her cargo compartment. Many hours later, they arrived in Nova Scotia. Her container was loaded onto a barge and moved into a warehouse at the docks. When she heard nothing outside, she opened the container door and slipped out of the building.
Nearby was a small airfield. "As I figured there would be," she thought to herself. She made her way to the business office through the chill morning mist, where a big man who hadn't shaved in three months greeted her.
"Can I help you, little miss? Looking for mommy and daddy?"
Emma shook her head. "Actually, I need transportation."
"A-ha ha ha! And where might you be off to, mmm? Tell Papa Henry."
Emma smiled. "As far east as you can take me, Papa Henry. I'm going to Varanasi, India."
Henry stared at Emma. She thought that he was going to belly laugh again, but he bent down over his desk and spoke in a serious, low voice. "Why would you want to go to Varanasi, eh? What's there, little one?"
Emma shook her head. "Not what. Who."
Henry frowned and sniffed at the air, which smelled vaguely of gasoline and body odor. He said, "What say I make you some warm soup and call your mommy and dad, little angel? They must be worried sick about their little one."
"I doubt that highly. However, if you could bring me as close to Varanasi as you could, I'd make it worth your while."
Henry folded his arms. "How would you do that, little miss?"
"I'll give you HSS."
"Ha!" Henry laughed, "Ha ha hoo! You're pulling Papa Henry's fat leg, little angel. There's no way to get that 'cept in America. Guess they're the only ones allowed to be smart. Makes sense, if you think like they do . . ."
"I can give it to you, and what's more," she leaned in towards the giant man. He knelt down and tilted so that his ear sat close to her whispering lips. "I already have."
Henry stared at Emma for several moments. His mouth opened and he didn't blink. "Lord save us," he whispered, "You're her . . .that little girl on the news. I knew you looked familiar. Your whole country is looking for you. You've got to be the most valuable little girl in the whole world right now."
Emma took a step towards the door, suddenly wondering if Henry would turn her in. He asked, "How did you get here? What's your plan?"
"Are you going to turn me in?"
"Fuck no! Begging your pardon. You want to spread HSS, I'm on your side. I'm just amazed, you'll have to forgive me, amazed that you're here. You. Here. Who's in Varanasi?"
"Krishnanda."
"Beg pardon?"
"Krishnanda. He—or she—is a Hindu mystic. Probably the smartest person in the world without the aid of HSS. I'm going to see him. Or her. Nobody actually knows his or her gender."
Henry stared.
Emma added, "He—or she—is around 3000 years old. Formed at the coupling of a human woman and a snake, or so the legend goes." Emma shrugged.
"A woman fucked a snake? Beg pardon."
Emma sighed, "That's just a legend. Nobody really knows much about Krishnanda. What I do know is that I must see him or her, and that he or she is very likely expecting me."
Henry looked away for a moment, wondering what to do. Emma said, "Wherever we land to refuel, I'll infect some more people with HSS. That'll upset my government, and you'd like that."
Henry couldn't help but smile. Emma continued, "And the incubation period seems to be a few days to a week, so they should be a few days behind tracking us, at any rate. Unless they have another way to tell if someone's infected. I'm not sure."
Henry smiled at the little girl, remembering his own mother's mantra, "God put you here a-purpose, Henry lad. He has a special plan for you."
Henry wiped his brow. He put on a faded Blue Jays hat and grabbed his keys. He switched off the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling and followed Emma out of his office. He flipped over a sign on the door that said, "Back in..." and had an image of a clock with two red plastic hands. Henry looked down at Emma, who gave him a smirk. He pulled the hands off of the sign and tossed them to the ground.
"We're going to have to stop in Greenland," Henry said as he lifted Emma into the passenger seat in his small private plane, "To refuel and plot the rest of the course. I probably can't take you as far as you want to go, but I know some people who can help us."
"Thanks, Papa Henry."
After refueling stops in Greenland and Iceland, Henry and Emma landed in Oslo, Norway. From his many years of flights, Henry knew someone who knew someone who was a low-level civic official.
The Norwegian government, pleased to learn that Emma was willing to infect the populace with HSS, quietly arranged safe passage for her through a private commercial carrier.
Henry hugged Emma goodbye before she boarded the jet. "Thanks to you, I've just come up with a new engine and wing design that I'm going to build as soon as I get back home. You take good care of yourself, little angel. You go and change the world."
"Thank you, Henry. I'll never forget you!"
Emma boarded the Norwegian flight and took off, bound for India.
Back at the runway, a broad-shouldered Norwegian diplomat in a dark suit turned to another and asked, "Did we just do the right thing? The U.S. is going to find out that we've just let their number one missing person escape."
The other one, a tall woman with a pale face, replied, "Our people are more important than any ally."
They both walked away in silence.
A day later, a phone call came in to the U.S. Secretary of Defense. "Sir, our intelligence in Norway tells us that a pocket of HSS has spontaneously sprung up out of nowhere. The symptoms are showing in a few people, it seems to be spreading fast through the population. We've sent you a briefing."
The Secretary of Defense typed into his computer monitor. "Hmm," he muttered, using his HSS-enriched intellect, "How long do you think it would take for a little girl to make it from Connecticut to Norway?"
There was silence on the other end of the line. Nothing more needed to be said.
The Norwegian flight, having received special diplomatic permissions, landed in Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi. A car from the Norwegian consulate was waiting to whisk her nearly 500 miles to Varanasi. In the back of the car was a small portable tape player, a pair of headphones, and a package of Hindi language tapes. Emma placed the first tape in and began listening.
It was sunrise as the car drove over the Kaimur hills that overlooked Varanasi, the holy city. The Buddha himself was rumored to have given his first sermon nearby, and the gods themselves were said to have walked the streets.
The car snaked its way to the Viswanath Temple. Dedicated to Shiva, it was easily one of the holiest shrines in eastern religion and philosophy. Its distinctive gold cupola shone brightly, as if competing with the morning sun.
Many saffron-robed monks came out to greet Emma as she stepped out of the car.
"You have been expected," they said.
She was ushered into the temple and robed.
At that very moment, a convoy of U.S. Marines under special orders from the United States government (and given hasty permission by the Indian parliament) drove up the ridge into Varanasi.
Emma stood alone in Viswanath Temple's main room, waiting for further instruction. The tremendous room glowed greenish-blue from an unseen source. She smelled incense. She looked up at the interior of the great dome, her eyes tracing the beautifully painted images of Brahma sacrificing ten horses for Lord Shiva. An old monk with a shiny, bald head came up to her. He spoke in Hindi, and Emma understood every word.
"The Holy awaits you. You do not speak to Holy. Holy speaks to you. You do not look at Holy. Holy looks at you. You do not hear Holy. Holy hears you."
Emma nodded and was led into an anteroom, a long hallway with a six-foot long, black image of Shiva on the floor. The doorway into the innermost sanctuary lay just beyond where Shiva's head had been painted hundreds of years ago.
The monk said, "You must not step on Shiva. You jump over Him."
Emma took three steps back, ran, and jumped over the image, landing neatly on her two feet on the other side. When she turned around, her guide was no longer there. She turned again and faced the innermost sanctuary. With a nervous tickle in her throat, she entered the room.
She walked into what seemed to be a smaller version of the main hall. Blue and green tapestries hung from the pillars and walls. A shaft of sunlight hazily illuminated an altar against a wall at the far end of the room. In front of the altar was a thin, smoky blue veil and behind the altar was the vague shape of a sitting person. It was Krishnanda.
Emma kept her eyes low and concentrated on the sounds of her bare feet on the strangely warm stone floor.
Far from where she could see or hear, against the protests of the monks, the Marines unloaded their convoy and shoved their way into the temple.
Emma stopped less than ten feet away from the veil. She bowed low and kept her eyes to the ground. She heard faint breathing, but it seemed to come from inside of her.
Inside of her mind, the image of a scrawny, ancient human appeared, with skin like painted wax. He—or she—was hairless, and his/her mouth seemed permanently pulled into a smile. Emma couldn't help but smile herself, in awe and respect.
A soft voice inside of her head said, "You are here. Thank you for your gift."
Emma nodded.
Krishnanda continued, "Popular wisdom tells of the pilgrim asking the sage three questions. I therefore ask you three questions."
Emma nodded again.
Krishnanda asked, "Where is Heaven?"
Emma smiled and pointed to her head.
The shouts of many men came from outside.
Krishnanda then asked, "Where is Hell?"
Again, Emma pointed to her head. Krishnanda nodded imperceptibly. The shouts sounded closer.
Krishnanda asked, "And where are you?"
Emma hesitated for a moment, guessing the answer to be different from the previous replies. The soldiers had entered the inner sanctuary's anteroom. In moments, they would be upon her.
Emma focused on the sunken, gray (green?) eyes of the mental image she saw.
She extended her arms outward from herself and swung them around slowly, pointing in all directions.
Krishnanda smiled like a small child as the government agents swept into the sanctuary.
A voice rang unsullied and clear in Emma's mind.
"Exactly."
Entry 1:
august_sobriquet
BadAssJulie
charminglybeef
Crystle
Davros
DrogoRoch
EchoBoxing
Jack_McCallum
MandaPanda
nrduncan
ParlorTrick
pen_name
sicosemen
Stagger_Lee
14 eligible votes (14 total) *
Entry 2:
Allyson
apollo88
Bigmike
Bubba2341
CaptainThorns
Coyote
ghola
Hirilnara
HotWillie
Impassive-Digressive
indoninja
intellismartness
JMG114
JoeyG
JonnyX
lechuza
MadameDestrukt
Magicaddict
NerfHerder
Orgasmatron
peckerhead
Pentameter
rad1101
redskieslookfake
Shaun_Rocks
sparkle_pink
SPECIALk
stevie_says
supadupapupa
Susie_Derkins
The_taste_of_Monkeys
The_Yellow_Dart
29 eligible votes (32 total) *
* Eligible votes are those made by users who had either (A) posted 3+ messages OR (B) written 100+ [lowered from 750+] reviews as of the beginning of the UberMadness! competition.
User Reviews
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-10-27 06:19:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-10-27 05:23:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Could have been a little pithier - but still good.
Submitted by Shaun_Rocks (user info) at 2006-10-27 04:14:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Bigmike (user info) at 2006-10-26 23:21:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by NerfHerder (user info) at 2006-10-26 22:11:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
These were both pretty damn fucking awesome to the xtreme.
But #2 was incredible-er.
Submitted by peckerhead (user info) at 2006-10-26 20:59:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You guys both just raised the bar in this competition. I'm going with Entry 2 -- only because it had more meaning for me personally. Thanks to both of you and good luck in the next round.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-10-26 20:55:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
My fucking eyes are bleeding after all of that.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-10-26 18:48:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Both of these needed to be cut down like that guy in New York city who was reaching for his wallet and got blown all to shit by the cops.
#2 was okay, but Indian mystics bore me. So does the their whole religion. I mean, they worship a blue guy who wears mascara. What the hell, man?
#1 was sort of meandering (and that may have been the point) but had a lot of littles touches I liked.
Submitted by SPECIALk (user info) at 2006-10-26 16:58:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2006-10-26 15:45:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
tough call
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2006-10-26 15:16:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
this was a bit tough to decide. one was a well written sketch of a short time frame, i was confused for a bit about the old lady thing. he's 24 and calling his girlfriend the old lady? I enjoyed the story despite all the vague references to something that had driven the kid on the road.
two had some humorous bits... I feel like I majored in everything in college... I just finished a NY times xword...those testimonials stuck in there were funny. the US closing the borders as the superior intelligence would do us no good in the hands of our enemy.
In the end i could not suspend the logic that was saying...yeah, as if they'd be able to close all the borders..and it just isn't possible for a bacteria to impart knowledge to someone that they'd never had an occasion to come across...etc...
blah blah blah
Submitted by lechuza (user info) at 2006-10-26 13:19:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2006-10-26 09:31:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Entry 1 gets the vote.
Entry 2 was good, but something was wrong with it. I can't put my finger on what.
-Dave
Submitted by intellismartness (user info) at 2006-10-26 05:04:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Number one was too disjointed. Loved number two.
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2006-10-26 04:07:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
This was actually a tough choice, both were very different yet enjoyable. #2 was a bit easier to follow
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2006-10-26 02:20:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Entry 2 is max. I liked how it was all a max disease, instead of some horrible death plague sweeping the world.
Submitted by ParlorTrick (user info) at 2006-10-26 01:37:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very interesting story #2, but I ultimately gave into the writing style of #1. "His obtuse inflection and features seem to suggest he is a human of a lesser order. But he is not. He smiles beautifully, aware that he has interrupted me, in no way ashamed." for example.
This was a difficult choice, both well done.
Submitted by MadameDestrukt (user info) at 2006-10-25 17:03:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2006-10-25 14:52:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Pentameter (user info) at 2006-10-25 12:01:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I absolutely 100% love entry 2.
My favorite in UM so far, and I must say, it will be hard to top. Very hard.
Submitted by Magicaddict (user info) at 2006-10-25 08:51:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
That was a couple of works of absolute genius. Very little to choose between them, and I'm sorry one of them had to lose at all.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2006-10-25 05:08:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Both were excellent entries and it's a shame to pick one above the other.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2006-10-25 00:18:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2006-10-24 23:52:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Both of these were better than the third option of finishing my work.
I ate too many chips and now I have tummy ache....
Submitted by Allyson (user info) at 2006-10-24 21:24:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (user info) at 2006-10-24 21:07:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Loved entry two.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-24 21:04:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by The_taste_of_Monkeys (user info) at 2006-10-24 18:42:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
liked it a lot
Submitted by Hirilnara (user info) at 2006-10-24 18:16:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I liked the idea behind entry two. One was very well done, but it just didn't appeal as much.
Submitted by BadAssJulie (user info) at 2006-10-24 17:29:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
looked shorter?
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-24 17:08:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
These are both good entries, I'm guessing from a 2-0 matchup.
#1 was interesting, but had a few technical errors, like it doesn't take two nights to get to San Diego on the I-5 from Seattle, unless you're doing 30 mph the whole way.
#2 was a neat concept, and I half expected the human race to be wiped out again in fine UberMadness tradition, so that was a nice twist.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:16:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
random
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:13:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Entries like these make me sorry I posted what I did.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:06:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sweet merciful crap, these were long.
I really enjoyed #2.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-10-24 15:33:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2006-10-24 15:23:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Tough vote. I like road trip stories, but Hindu mystics rock my rocks.
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-10-24 15:09:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I really enjoyed both of these.
Submitted by The_Yellow_Dart (user info) at 2006-10-24 14:51:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
This was tough. I loved the voice in entry one and the small quips that went along with it. Entry two was more of a story, and a well written one too. In the end, I have to go with the one that was clearer in its intention and direction.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-10-24 13:50:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
meh.
Submitted by EchoBoxing (user info) at 2006-10-24 13:45:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
i can't wait til the forfeits come out.
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-10-24 12:58:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by MandaPanda (user info) at 2006-10-24 12:50:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Fuuuuck. It's really hard to concentrate with my cat pawing compulsively at my printer and the roofers banging around.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:47:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Both solid pieces, but #2 just seemed to do more with their concept.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:30:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
the second one rambled on a little too long, but it started well
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:30:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Names like krishnanda need to be killed.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-10-24 10:55:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment