Chapter 25 - Run, Ginger, run

I don’t know who or what I am right now. I’m tired. So mightily tired. I physically can do nothing, yet my body is restless, so much so that I can’t do nothing, which is all that I can do. My mind is a mess. I have no idea what has been going through my mind. My day has been shit and I’ve faced a number of humiliations, so much so that I just wanted to cry. It started off when walking through town I had to walk in an unhinged state, mentally insulting everyone I saw, wondering if the façade I was wearing on my face was actually the same as the confusedness inside myself. Shop windows gave me the answer, only that I looked the normal way that I look with a glass-eyed accessory. And then some French person says excuse me. I carry on for two paces before stopping and tentatively turn around to face him. I don’t know why. He asks me what the time is, as if that was not what he was originally going to say, and I tell him whilst his mate sniggers. At me. I hate them both, forever. In the shop, I need to buy some eggs. Forgetting the soap, obviously. I go to another corner shop, someone barges past me to the front of the queue, then looks the other way, allowing me to be served. I ask for some cigarettes. He asks me for money. I take pity on him. He looks rough; his face is cut up. I give him a small amount of change. He grabs my cigarettes as my change is being handed to me and runs. I chase, grab him, he gets away, I decide not to follow. It’s only cigarettes. But I’m already so confused, angry. I automatically chased him and then I had no desire to chase him, to know it was pointless, to know that whatever I could do, I would not get them. The thought of physical violence had not yet entered my mind, I turn around, shook up, humiliated, wanting to cry and I announce “cunt”. The shopkeeper is laughing at me, at the situation. I have no idea how to handle it, other than to announce that it happens all the time, that I always get suckered and fall for the pathetic tricks. I buy another pack, half-hoping the shopkeeper will give me one out of pity. Bollocks, he does. I leave, about to cry, shaking, stumbling, tired, exhausted, drained emotionally, weak, feeble. A twat. A cunt. A knob. A loser. A wanker. A tosser, a freak, an arse. That is who I am and I know this because I write all these words on my body. I drop my bag of shopping, hoping that the eggs have not been cracked. I get home. One egg did crack. But that doesn’t matter, because, from a box of six there are actually only four in there. Obviously. My mother hassles me. I can’t do a single thing. I cannot get myself sorted. Who am I? What am I. Why me? Is there a reason why I’m here, ‘cos I have a feeling that there is and that’s to provide whatever forces that control this life with a laugh, a cheap, cheap laugh at my expense, daily, hourly. I cannot never humiliate myself. Because I am. And I’m scared, worried and sticking up to foolhardy bravado. My bravery is non-existent. Can I not see that? Hello? I am scared. Scared, because I don’t know what’s out there and what am I going to do? Out where? I don’t know because I’ve never seen it before. Am I scared, or nervous? Actually, I would say I’m nervous, but that’s still not a state to be in. How is that going to help me, when I can’t aim my pistol properly because I’m shaking all over the place. 

I try explaining this to you, Holly, here in this darkened room, but you tell me to stop being stupid. Sometimes, you just have to do things and they may not be pleasant things, but you still have to do them. If you worry, that’s always the worst because you try to delay and the best thing, really, is to get it over and done with. Wisdom from a person who’s never had to face three planets worth of aliens. I try telling you about the brave face I’m putting on and you say good, that’s the way to go about it… but I interrupt you to continue that even my bravery got scared and ran off, leaving me to myself. Never a good thing. You pat me on the back and tell me that Dee Dee will be waiting for me when I come back. Yet, that promise just seems empty. Not like it used to be.

I am currently waiting to die, sitting here. Every second I know that the door is going to get opened. Every second I know that I am going to die. They will come because they blatantly know I am here. They are evil bastards and I am a sitting duck. The cruel bastards are even making me wait. Oh well, I at least managed to get here. Much more than I was expecting, I suppose. Must be my lucky day after all. Ha! Now what? Except for being buggered, I haven’t got the foggiest what to do. I suppose my best bet is to get out there and blast all these alien chappies to hell and beyond. Then again, judging by the size of this ship, I think that my best bet is to just hope like hell and pray like mad.” A mental slap tells me that I’ve been talking to myself. And another voice adds itself to the melee. “Who are you?”  

I have no sense of fear. I have, after all faced death many times. Even just today. But I do gain a sense of extreme nervousness, right now, when I hear this voice. I first of all notice that it is in English. There is a queasy, uneven feeling in my stomach. Why is this voice in English? Are these actually English people come from the future? Are they trying to alter the past in order to change the future to the way they need, in which case due to the changed timelines, they may never be born and not exist? Will this cause them to fade away, which may or may not actually mean that history could revert back to the way it was, which may or may not (it has not been proven, any of this) enable them to come back, in order to try and alter the past (present for me) and let these huge interstellar events continue, creating a time continuum, meaning that the universe can never die, trapped as it is in this finely contained scale of events, only stopped when somebody breaks the cycle. It’s a long, boring argument, that I have a lot of interest in. It’s the type of argument, that although you (think you) understand it, you try explaining it to someone else who (thinks they) understand it and you argue until there are no more seas on the planet, all evaporated into clouds on which the entire population of the world has emigrated to and are currently building a time machine in order to go back into the past in order to get you to shut up about it all in the first place. And so the continuum continues. 

And the first of the insects starts moving in my stomach, only aiding my nervousness to build up, as I become physically aware of it. The insect scurries along my intestines, little feet (hundreds of them) scrawling along the lining of my inner tubes. Little hooks scratching, bits of fluff tickling. 

The voice was not only English, but it came across loud. It was scratchy, throbbed and had a growl about it (maybe caused by the volume) that made it sound inhuman. If these are monsters, as I originally suspected, why do they speak English? Is this actually a sign of how powerful the English nation and its empire is? Of how powerful it is that it needs to be destroyed? Maybe they’ve actually taken the time to learn English to tell us this, which may unconsciously be seen as a sign of some kind of twisted honour? Who fucking knows? 

I am not here. These people do not exist. I am asleep, or I am some kind of abstract construct in some twisted imagination. These people are about as unreal to me as the Germans were in the war in which I have just played a part. Some part of my mind is struggling to come to terms with the safety of the new post-war reality, building up a construct for me to face up to the fears that I would previously have to come to terms with on a daily basis. However, as much as I know all this to be true, I know that it is not helping me out. I have to face up to all this. I faced up to the war, and that went away. 

The insects are stampeding in my intestines, through holes in my stomach they emerge, scurry, my insides bruised battered, bleeding from the rush, the escape horrors which I know I will have to face up to. If I was scared, these feelings would be immediate. I am nervous. Causing avoidance techniques to draw out the inevitable. Nervousness is a form of fear. But not from where I am sitting. I am wasting time. I have to make a move, and I have to make a move now. I may die, but the time is now. 

Shit! How do I open the door!? I push my body against it first, hoping that that will open it, but of course it doesn’t. There… there is a handle, somewhere, I know it. I have to open it using that. But I have handle blindness, and I can’t see it. Where is IT? My hand is scraping all over the door, hunting, looking for the fucking handle, but why does it hide from me? Is it so evil? Is this part of the alien plan? I’m trapped in this machine, doomed, a sitting duck. My body is slamming against the door, I can feel the floor moving as I’m pushing it, knocking the machine over. I force and I slam and I’m still trapped here. Why can’t I get out? I want out. I need to get out. I’m slamming harder and my arm hits something. The door opens. I tumble out.

Immediately I see four of the aliens running towards me. They are pointing a THING at me and it looks bad. I’m sprawled on the floor and I know that they know that I know that they can aim and shoot in less time than it will be possible for me to pick myself up off the floor and hide. There is only one thing to do now. Try anyway.

Scrambling up, feet slipping underneath me, suddenly scorched by an explosion just centimetres away, causing me to jump, I duck another shot and quite simply fall into the machine. 

One, two, position, four, run, six, dodge, find place, hide, ten. I’ve tucked myself in-between two huge stacks of boxes. This is some kind of a storage depot, or something. It looked to me like the guards were wearing big armour. Very big armour. And I realise now that I’ve trapped myself. The only exit is in front of me. One, two, compose breath, four, get ready, six, run, eight, now where?, ten. 

Things aren’t so easy now. There is nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide. I’m trapped in a vast expanse. And all I know is that there is a rattling in my pocket. Of course! My house! I have a plan now. My house is safety, my house is light! I reach into my pocket, still on the run, stumbling, fumbling in my pocket, and I place my house in front of me, putting it on the floor. Of course it’s very small, that’s how I got it into my pocket. But that’s only because it’s in the distance. 

I sprint towards my house, faster, explosions in front of me, behind me, and I sprint, my house getting bigger, getting closer. Never have I been so glad to see home. I get to the front door. Keys, shit!! They are in my pocket. They are in my pocket. Found them. Key in door, turn, open, in. Close door. Lock door. Run to the back of my house. Safety inside. Out the back door, keep running. The aliens can’t get through the door and there is still my house in the way. 

The nearest bit of cover I can see is not for a long way away. So I must continue to run. I look around, my house is small enough now, so I pick it up and put it in front of me. But the aliens have a clear shot of me again. So I must sprint. I am tired, so I stumble, falling forwards onto my knees, rolling onto my hips, my legs swing above me. They hit the floor and, gracefully, pull me up. I can run again and just as well as I am nearing my house now. 

Again, I must unlock the door first, but this time I have my keys with me. Ready. Opening the door, I go in, lock it, run to the back of the house. I’m out and running. Nearing the wall, where I know there can be cover. I run and I run. My legs do not appear to be my own any more. They feel unnatural, and as I look down, I wonder where they are because I can’t see them. It does not matter if they are there or not because what’s keeping me going is an unstoppable momentum, anyway. My legs seem irrelevant. 

I can pick up my house now, though exposed I will be. There is not really enough space to try the same trick again, now, so I am just going to have to look for cover. Reaching huge rows of boxes, I must find the suitable row for cover. Passing one, two, three, four, on the fifth one I find what I feel should be right. I duck in, hoping the movement to be so sudden that maybe the aliens won’t know into which aisle I have disappeared. There are boxes around me. There is a wall directly in front of me. A hard, solid wall. The floor is an obvious problem, but I have my solution.

Checking that my house is safely tucked into my pocket and that I haven’t dropped it, I climb the boxes, and reaching up to the ceiling above me, open the grille. I pull myself inside. Fortunately, it is just as I place it back that I hear the shouts “This one, he went in this one!” I see them appear at the opening of the aisle and I have to duck back out of sight. I am out of breath, gasping, silently, but my heart still beats fast because I know I can be caught. I know I should carry on, but I want to stay and catch my breath. Another part of me also wants to know; will I be found up here or not? So I have to stay to find out. 

I look around myself, but first, I notice the breeze, the loving breeze. It picks me up and carries me along these long, smooth, but metallic grey corridors. The breeze carries me horizontally because it is too small an area to stand upright. The breeze relaxes me and it soothes, it kisses and it teases. It helps my now aching body, attempting to repair some of the injuries that I have picked up over the course of the day. My left arm has been rendered practically immovable, now. I feel that I have picked up some new injuries, though I am not sure when. I think that my head has also been wounded, as there is still some wet blood on the left-hand side. How much of my face the blood covers, I cannot be sure. But my head hurts, so I fear it may be serious. Yet the breeze does help to soothe these pains.

I am in an air duct of some kind. Everything about where I am suggests that I am in an air vent, but I idly wonder to myself, would aliens need air vents? How can I be sure I am in an air vent as I have never been in one? Especially not an alien one. But then the loving breeze betrays me as it brings up the voices of the aliens. I wonder if it is taking down my sighs of pleasure. How much will you betray me? In a blissed out fear, I check my pistol. I have to know what ammo I have got. It is loaded, to my relief. Part of the breeze tickles my neck. I breathe in deep. But I know that I have only one round. Not enough. But will they know that? Will it kill, if needed? The machines were able to deflect bullets, what if these aliens can too? What if they are made out of the same material? My gun certainly is not as powerful as the gun on old Bessie.

I look at it and, aided by the caress of this breeze, I will my gun to change into something more powerful. It morphs, it grows, it is big. But alas, it is the same gun and will always be the same gun. Now the breeze begins to chill as the sweat on my body cools down to this lowered air temperature. The breeze has turned evil and I can hear the voices distinctly. I begin to want out of here, but there is still one thing that I need to know.

“Where did he go?” someone shouts, I presume it is the team leader and I imagine that he would be shouting at some poor guard.

“I don’t know, Captain Yertjuk,” replies the guard, confirming my suspicions and handily providing me with a name.

“How could you have let this happen!?” There is the sound of a smack as, I guess, the guard has been hit by Yertjuk who continues to shout at him. But firstly I must say that it is not his fault. He does not need to be hit. It is my fault, I ran away.

“Those human things, you know that thing with pink skin, they don’t just disappear into thin air you know!”

It sounds like a second guard has decided to step in.

“Well, we don’t actually know that, Captain.”

“They are only a primitive race. They have absolutely no idea about matter transference,” says Yertjuk, who appears to have calmed down quite significantly by now. Or maybe he hasn’t. I don’t know. The first guard dares to speak, now that Yertjuk appears to have stopped hitting people.

“Well, we don’t know that for sure, Captain.”

I imagine that I can hear Yertjuk turning quite sharply and I think that he is hitting the first guard again. I can even see his fist now, going into…INTO…the guard’s head and coming out the other side, the force is that powerful.

“We don’t know about matter transference, so how the hell are they going to know!?” Matter transference sounds interesting. I wonder if that means having a face turn yellow, like Yertjuk’s is, right now.

  “Well, I don’t know,” says the first guard to himself. I know. I just know that Yertjuk has overheard him and is daring him to say it again, the force of his glare strangling the guard, who falls to his knees, thrashing arms, flying back onto the floor, with eyes closed and will never move again.

“Well, where has he gone then?” asks a fourth guard, not knowing that this has just happened, like I know.

“I don’t know, do I? And it’s his fault for letting it happen.” Yertjuk points at the first guard, whose dead carcass bursts into tears.

“But I didn’t do anything,” the dead body says.

“Precisely.”

Yertjuk hits the guard again. This time for good measure. But it will do no good, for the guard will never know the pain. The nerve endings have stopped sending messages to the now non-functioning brain. I sleep.