Heads Up-Range, pt. 3
Light flutters as it does when clouds thicken, when the day plays more dead, and shadows stretch. William’s eyes must work to form edges, to make sense of lucid hints.
He lay on his back. The pounding in his skull means he tripped, fell on a rock, and otherwise conked out. He turns his head, but his body cannot keep pace with the swirl. He knows the sense of spinning is mostly invention; the neck’s firing synapses cannot lift body or arms when they’re as heavy as sandbags.
The body—his body—feels sloppy drunk while the mind, it bulges, sways, floats, recedes. His vision hasn’t decided if it wants to coalesce. He’s not stressed, though he should be. Logically, he’s more sure than ever he struck his head.
‘You were growling in your sleep.’
The domed-shaped den—sprinkled with bone—carries the sound out from everywhere. A soft voice, not predatory, possessing nothing—yet knowing each thing—each iteration of affect, perfectly.
‘Strange,’ William says.
Avoiding anything untoward; he knows he cannot move. Like some natural force has commanded that he stay, collect, process—before walking back the trail and driving home. Before he calls his aunt to spin a yarn about trudging into the boondocks and leaving with a bruise. He closes one eye like the Scouts taught him, which helps the rods or cones do something or other.
‘Oh God—oh, my,’ William says.
‘Easy, easy,’ says the form, stacking bones in the corner. Thighs beside thighs. Wing over wing—and so on.
‘You’re a—’
‘Just tidying up.’
The firmness—still polite—settles William. There are rules here, not unlike a house call. His face swells hot for being rude. The figure’s deformations include a head larger than its torso, and a waist barely rising to one’s knee. He hobbles to pick up a broom made of twigs, requiring a hand to brace every wobbly step with its outward-bending “knees.”
‘Did Jimmy Carmel give you those?’
Meaning the bones.
‘Who?’
‘Jimmy…he lives down the way. Where this path ends.’
‘There are many paths here, William.’
‘How do you know my name?’
The person holds out a spindly, long-nailed finger. In the relief, despite the dying-ember light, their nakedness is clear, as is their pointing at William’s nametag.
‘You got a pet dog…or something more exotic crawling around here? I thought I saw—’
‘It’s the tranqs; they’re strong,’ the person says.
William isn’t surprised at the feeling. He’d seen the effects each time he uses his gun.
‘You mean I fell on my Bidley? I’m on tranqs?’
‘Try not to move your entire body. There’s some water by your bed.’
It’s a feculent little pool, good for only a few slurps. William appreciates the critter trying, but declines stagnant bone slime until a greater desperation.
‘You get on alright? Up here, by yourself?’ William asks.
‘I’m where I need to be.’
‘Right.’
‘You’re getting nervous.’
‘I am. I’d also like my tranq gun back, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘So you can do what?’
‘So I can get home.’
‘What happens when you arrive home?’
‘I suppose I’ll have a bite of supper. Just a normal night.’
‘Normal? You’d go back to normal? After this?’
‘I work in animal control, friend. This ain’t abnormal. Maybe it’s the tranqs talking and I need some time before operating a vehicle; but surely you see where I’m coming from? I’m not against what you’re doing here. I imagine there’s a certain freedom to it, but—’
‘Not where you prefer to be.’
‘No, it’s not,’ William says.
‘I didn’t always live here. Used to be all sorts of cared for. However, time and space—life, really—jettisoned me away. I wasn’t always as I appear, nor always am.’
‘Haven’t you found a purpose here? Taking care of creatures, maybe?’
‘A Master cannot deign purpose.’
‘Can’t you receive purpose?’ William’s more settled when he asks questions that catch the person’s interest.
‘In my experience, service only staves off barks and bites.’
‘So you do care for the creature?’ William feels a rush of blood to the head. Body and mind, free to conduct. ‘The one I followed in here?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite incisive, my Master.’
‘Your Master?’ William asks, straining. His foggy mind, no longer what’s holding him down.
‘William, I’m going to need your help.’
‘Hold on, wait—you’ve bound my feet and hands! Let me go!’
‘I pose no danger to you now, I promise. And I much prefer being down-range. Please, I need your help.’
‘Untie me at once!’
‘William, there’s not much time. I’ll explain everything later.’
The person’s hands start to bulge and sway. The little slack between William’s wrists and waist tells him all his cartridges are gone.
‘What do you want?’ William strains.
‘I need to know where you keep your tranqs.’