The First One
Everything was black—not just dark but a greasy cloak that blotted out even the light on his chest. One long continuous roll of thunder hammered his eardrums. He was deaf and blind, wanted to scream but knew it would make no difference Even though he couldn’t see his two buddies he knew they were there, on their hands and knees just like him.
Under his bulky gear, his uniform was drenched. Each breath sent shards of ice into his lungs. His arms and legs were lead, his lips cracked from the beginnings of dehydration. If his vision returned, it’d be blurred by sweat.
Crawling along, he thought of all that could go wrong. For a brief moment he wondered if he’d ever see his family again. The weight of the huge vibrating snake in his left hand provided some comfort—at least he could follow it back out.
Just crawl, shuffle the knees and keep your right hand on the wall.
He crawled for an eternity, his head wrapped in black linen, submerged in oil. The searing heat, the blindness and the raving of a thousand deranged voices terrified him. His mouth was full of gravel.
Something thumped into his shoulder and the crown of his head. Collision with some unseen barrier sent a wave of panic through him, his stomach threatened to climb up his throat. Trying to crawl back would cut him off from his crew; leave him even more vulnerable than he already felt. That was all it took for the nightmares of his unconscious to breach his mind’s flimsy defenses.
I’m lost.
I’m gonna die.
The barrier spun around before his wide eyes, a pale shaft of sickly yellow light cut a trench through the pitch. Eyes and teeth gleamed dully in the deep haze.
“Watch it, dipshit,” even with the earsplitting fullisade he knew there was no malice in the admonishment. A huge meaty paw clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing good.” He nodded at his smiling buddy, hoping the fear didn’t show in his eyes.
Abruptly the blackness returned as the eyes and teeth spun back around. A series of short jerky movements played out in front of him and more of the dark ooze choked his straining eyes.
Something pounded him on the shoulder from behind and a voice yelled: “Hold on to it, probie!”
The three rose to their knees and hugged the surging canvas tube to their chests. His hands rubbed raw and the muscles in his shoulders threatened to tear free from the bone under the stress. The hose was possessed, bucking and twisting in his grasp. More than once he was afraid it would escape and with it the respect of his two peers. His bruised fingers dug into it with renewed vigor.
First the roar got worse; it was less a sound and more a living force intent on pummeling his organs into jelly. And still he saw nothing but a twisting, dancing night.
Slowly the black faded to a dirty gray, deep and angry as the beast died. Wisps of greasy fog wrapped around his face and moisture beaded on his mask. He could make out shapes: the guy on the nozzle, a mangled chair and coffee table. The color had been scorched from everything in the room—soot covered everything like some kind of demonic snowfall.
The roar cracked into a hiss and finally nothing at all but the sound of his own breathing, heavy and ragged in his head. Light was pouring into the dead room from a jagged hole chopped through the ceiling.
All at once the spasmodic seizures of the hose ceased. He slumped back on his heels and let out a long, exhausted breath.
The eyes and teeth had morphed into a sweat crusted, ash streaked face bisected by a wide but slightly crooked grin.
“Not bad for your first time.” The man said as he mask dangled from his shoulder.
When his own mask came off, he could only choke on the still acrid air in response.
5/1/05 Nick Stabile
Under his bulky gear, his uniform was drenched. Each breath sent shards of ice into his lungs. His arms and legs were lead, his lips cracked from the beginnings of dehydration. If his vision returned, it’d be blurred by sweat.
Crawling along, he thought of all that could go wrong. For a brief moment he wondered if he’d ever see his family again. The weight of the huge vibrating snake in his left hand provided some comfort—at least he could follow it back out.
Just crawl, shuffle the knees and keep your right hand on the wall.
He crawled for an eternity, his head wrapped in black linen, submerged in oil. The searing heat, the blindness and the raving of a thousand deranged voices terrified him. His mouth was full of gravel.
Something thumped into his shoulder and the crown of his head. Collision with some unseen barrier sent a wave of panic through him, his stomach threatened to climb up his throat. Trying to crawl back would cut him off from his crew; leave him even more vulnerable than he already felt. That was all it took for the nightmares of his unconscious to breach his mind’s flimsy defenses.
I’m lost.
I’m gonna die.
The barrier spun around before his wide eyes, a pale shaft of sickly yellow light cut a trench through the pitch. Eyes and teeth gleamed dully in the deep haze.
“Watch it, dipshit,” even with the earsplitting fullisade he knew there was no malice in the admonishment. A huge meaty paw clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing good.” He nodded at his smiling buddy, hoping the fear didn’t show in his eyes.
Abruptly the blackness returned as the eyes and teeth spun back around. A series of short jerky movements played out in front of him and more of the dark ooze choked his straining eyes.
Something pounded him on the shoulder from behind and a voice yelled: “Hold on to it, probie!”
The three rose to their knees and hugged the surging canvas tube to their chests. His hands rubbed raw and the muscles in his shoulders threatened to tear free from the bone under the stress. The hose was possessed, bucking and twisting in his grasp. More than once he was afraid it would escape and with it the respect of his two peers. His bruised fingers dug into it with renewed vigor.
First the roar got worse; it was less a sound and more a living force intent on pummeling his organs into jelly. And still he saw nothing but a twisting, dancing night.
Slowly the black faded to a dirty gray, deep and angry as the beast died. Wisps of greasy fog wrapped around his face and moisture beaded on his mask. He could make out shapes: the guy on the nozzle, a mangled chair and coffee table. The color had been scorched from everything in the room—soot covered everything like some kind of demonic snowfall.
The roar cracked into a hiss and finally nothing at all but the sound of his own breathing, heavy and ragged in his head. Light was pouring into the dead room from a jagged hole chopped through the ceiling.
All at once the spasmodic seizures of the hose ceased. He slumped back on his heels and let out a long, exhausted breath.
The eyes and teeth had morphed into a sweat crusted, ash streaked face bisected by a wide but slightly crooked grin.
“Not bad for your first time.” The man said as he mask dangled from his shoulder.
When his own mask came off, he could only choke on the still acrid air in response.
5/1/05 Nick Stabile
posted by Nick Stabile at 12:23 AM
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