Doug awakes to find all humans and beasts asleep in the sweat lodge — and meets an old friend who he hitherto thought was lost…
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“AGAIN…”
Doug gagged on the frothy kombucha gurgling up his throat. A mouthful of fizzy green bile spewed down his shirt and jacket. Doug rolled over and finished vomiting out the contents of his stomach.
“Moon. Regret. Ancient…” The words chanted through his thoughts.
After the nausea passed, he rolled onto his back. Above him, the tent roof flapped in the strong mountain wind. Through cracks in the billowing textile, Doug could see that the sky had turned violet, and the first stars of the evening were twinkling through.
“Refuse. Actor. Witness…”
He sat up and wiped a small bit of vomit from the side of his face. He looked out through the gloom at the slumbering mass of bodies, humans and dogs nuzzled in cozy piles across the floor. The herd of deer had passed out as well, creating a low, brown-haired and antlered wall around everyone.
By the stage lay the passed-out figures of the red-robed and orange-suited cohorts. Among them, Bacon snored loudly. Mayor Mike, treasurer Stan, Dr Hubble and Osmar, had collapsed against each other, forming a propped-up pyramid of snoozing figures. Cuddled up with them were a few scraggly lapdogs.
“Myth. Bomb. Never. Myth. Bomb. Never…”
The wind intensified and the roof shuddered, letting in a chilly gasp of cold air that made Doug shiver. Across the tent, on the small stage, Doug could see all the little bronze cylinders gleaming on the appendages of the contraption. They stirred a bit, and jangled like a crystal chandelier. He felt his jacket pocket rise, as if something was pulling it up. He looked down. Protruding through the fabric was the shape of Doug’s glass cylinder, pointing toward the other cylinders on the contraption, like a magnet.
“Collapse. Practice. Feed…”
In a stupor, Doug navigated through the crowd of sleeping animals and humans, toward the contraption, his jacket pocket sticking out in front of him, leading the way. He circled around the contraption several times, the cylinder in his pocket jerking from side to side as it passed each appendage. The bronze cluster rattled with the movement, attracted back toward Doug’s cylinder. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled — he could feel an intrusive hum coming from the bronze cylinders, one that he imagined something highly radioactive might give out. But also entrancing, enticing.
He reached out. The shock of an icy burn ran up his fingers. He stifled a yelp.
“Fuck it,” Doug whispered. If these were so valuable to Golden Years, he reasoned, he might be able to use them as leverage to get his friends back. To try and get rid of Golden Years, and all the other crazies and freakish things that had washed up on Sternum.
He adjusted the grimy bandage on his hand, widening it out to form a ragged glove-like padding. Holding his jacket pocket open with his other hand, piece by piece Doug knocked each bronzed cylinders from its appendage. They flew into his pocket. When finished, Doug’s jacket bulged with the bronze clump, now encompassing his dirty green cylinder.
Tip-toeing through the slumberers, Doug had to jump over a couple sleeping deer, the cylinders clinked slightly in his pocket. One of the deer snorted, nuzzled its snout into a nearby human’s armpit, then settled again.
Inside the tunnel leaving the tent, it was pitch black and the wind roared outside.
“Despair. Creek. Road…” the chanting voices in his head stayed strong.
A blasting cold wind greeted him outside, chilling the perspiration that covered his body. The driftwood kiosks sat empty, some of the structures had been knocked over by the powerful winds, the woven branches and boughs that had decorated them and the surrounding buildings had all but completely been torn off by the wind. A missing poster of July blew past, its bright pink paper fluttering off over the roof of a nearby prefab.
“Again. Ice. Least. Kingdom…”
Further into the canton, from deep inside the structure that housed the Golden Years servers and crypto miners, a glow of warm light diffused through its translucent covering. The sign reading “Technology Thing” had come loose in the wind. Dangling from one end, it knocked against the entrance doorframe. A whining came through the wind. One of the doors was open. Just inside in the dark sat Ramses, looking back at Doug.
“Ramses!” Doug whispered. He started toward the dog, his movement making the heavy clump in his jacket tinkle.
The Great Dane’s ears pricked up, and he rose from his haunches, growling, white fangs gleaming through the darkness. Doug froze.
“Ramses! Good boy! It’s me… Dougy,” He whispered again.
Ramses stopped growling and looked at Doug, tilting his head to one side.
“Ramses… Where’s mommy? Where’s July?”
Ramses let out another short whine and then disappeared back into the building.
Doug followed. Above, the stars twisting over dark trees that jerked violently in the wind. From the blackness of the surrounding forest lunged writhing shapes — he was still high from the kombucha, or affected by the cylinders, or something else, he thought. Doug was now jogging toward the soft glow of the building, away from the threatening trees, cradling the clump in his jacket pocket.
“Moon… Regret… Ancient… Least…”
CHAPTER 53: Awaken