Chapter Fourteen
The Replacements
by
Larry Van Zandt
In a curious, morbid manner, given the inordinate amount of time he spent on the road, Walt always wondered what it would be like to be involved in a head-on car crash.
He sat on what remained of the Mazda Miata driver’s seat, with his left arm caught in the wrinkled sheet metal of what used to be the driver’s side door, and left foot jammed into a small crevice created by the front left tire and wheel being shifted backwards two feet by the huge, bloated GMC Yukon (at least he thought it was a Yukon, there’s a “GMC” badge at the base of the windshield) that had just drilled him, and that same tire and wheel collapsed into the footwell under the steering column, trapping his left foot, and possibly severing it at the ankle.
It was also at this time that his thoughts began drifting away from the mechanical savagery that had just occurred, like a lone, lazy cloud inexorably inching across the otherwise-empty, noontime desert sky to either dissipate or vanish over the horizon, and Walt began to ask himself that same question he always did lately, but in this instance, he now had some fairly definitive answers.
“Would it hurt?”
Hell, yes, it hurts. Oh my God, it hurts.
“Would I die?”
I don’t know. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t move my left foot. I think my nose is broken from the airbag. I can’t feel my left arm…and I can’t feel my left foot, either, now that I think about it. I’m also starting to feel like I’m going to pass out. Is this what happens to other people when they die in a car crash? I just thought the lights would go out. I know that if I ever get out of here, I’m gonna kill the bitch driving the GMC, and then go after her goddamned family!
His thoughts immediately shifted to a friend of his who was killed instantly a couple of years ago when a Blazer (how convenient, he got killed by a stupid bitch driving another General Motors product) with a lift kit and huge, pointless tires, piloted by some other stupid bitch (I wonder if these two stupid bitches were related..?) who wasn’t paying attention to the road, suddenly swerved left-of-center on the two-lane highway they were both traveling on, like some incredibly boring version of ‘two ships pass by in the night’, but in this case, the Blazer met the friend’s car, head-on, and used the front of the Subaru Outback as a ramp, the front differential housing crushing Todd’s head between the roof and the head rest.
For some reason, Walt was initially angry that the driver of the Blazer took the easy way out, after it was discovered that Todd’s killer had somehow hung herself in her jail cell, however, that feeling of hopeful retribution suddenly went away, and in its place, a growing paranoia begin settling in the back of his mind, taking into account he spent so much time on the road, especially of the two-lane, unprotected-center variety, the same type of highway that had killed Todd.
For some inexplicable reason, whether it be due to the strange, euphoric giddiness caused by the pain of many broken bones that was attempting to pull him into the deep, dark, crawlspace of unconsciousness, or a nervous reaction to having just been involved in a bad hit, Walt began mentally replaying the moments up to the crash, both reliving them in his mind, and verbally, talking to no one but himself as he attempted to determine what had happened.
“The trucks really need a highway of their own”, Walt repeated to himself and nobody in particular, remembering how the oncoming Fed-Ex truck had had a tandem-trailer setup behind it, and the tail end of the second trailer slightly crossing left-of-center over the double-yellow no-passing zone one usually finds in a corner, and then casually wondering, yet again, as he bled to death (wait, am I?) in the Miata, asking himself why he talked out loud while he was driving alone. He did this often, as he always traveled with the radio off, preferring rather to talk to himself about ideas, politics, technology, whatever worked to help pass the miles.
Oh yeah, I forgot, the Mazda has a shitty radio in it, and the wind noise with the top up or down drowns it out, so there’s no point in buying a decent CD player anyway.
At the point where the collision was being replayed, he screamed out. “AAAAGGGHHHHH!!!!!”
With that exclamation, sensation had returned to Walt’s left arm, and it wasn’t a good one. He turned his head to the left, to view what remained of his arm that was wadded up in the door, and noticed that his hand was touching his elbow, which was impossible, unless it had been snapped in the middle, and folded over like a book.
Oh God this hurts! I can’t move my fingers! Can’t get out! Is that gas I smell? Oh, fuck!
Walt attempted to pull his left arm out of the door, however, the slightest twitch caused pain spikes so horrific, he thought he was going to faint.
It was at this point when the driver of the Yukon must have come to, as she began a panicked-stricken, hysterical screaming.
I think it’s a she. Fucking screams like a woman, anyway.
He shouted at the other driver, “Shut the fuck up! I hope it fucking hurts, you stupid fucking bitch!!! You had better fucking pray to God that I don’t get out of this car alive, because if I do, you’re FUCKING DEAD!!! AGGGGHHHH!!!”
Walt screamed, as he twisted some to better yell at the other driver, and almost fainted from his wasted effort and the blinding pain it caused.
Shouldn’t have yelled, shouldn’t have yelled, shouldn’t have yelled, that really hurt, shouldn’t have yelled…what, is she sobbing now? Wait, it stopped, oh shit, is she dead?
“Hello, there! Is everything okay?”
Startled, Walt snapped his head around violently to see who was there, because he hadn’t heard anyone else pull up, and immediately wished that he hadn’t turned his head, quickly returning his dazed cranium back to the original forward position, after wrenching both his pretzeled arm and his origamied left foot and ankle.
Shit, I hate this car. I should have bought a goddamned Lincoln, as least I wouldn’t have this fucking steering wheel jammed up my nose.
It was a bit difficult to hear anything over the explosive, wispy release of antifreeze from the ruptured cooling systems of both the Miata and the GMC, and in one of the vehicles, Walt could not tell which, something stinky was cooking on an exhaust manifold, sounding not unlike an idiot cook having put three pounds of frozen potatoes into an overheated French fry cooker, accompanied by the sound of the water reacting violently with the hot oil. The stench from the cooking anti-freeze was a sick-sweet smell, immediately and distractedly reminding Walt of all those dogs that supposedly died after drinking anti-freeze, although he can’t actually recall anybody personally who had a dog kill themselves in such a way. Stupid bastards had it coming, who the hell drinks green shit anyway?
After the nausea, pain, faded memories, and fuzzy vision faded a bit, having learned his lesson about how one with horrific injuries wouldn’t be wise to turn their head quickly, he slowly again turned his head to see who or what had stopped to help.
“Oh, my, you don’t look good!” said the stranger.
Well, no shit, genius. I just got hit by another car.
“No need to swear, my good man. I’m just stopped to help.”
Wait, I didn’t say anything to him.
“Yes sir, I know you didn’t ‘say’ anything. Before you say anything else, my good fellow, allow me to me get right to the point of this very important conversation.”
The gentleman pulled his tan slacks up a bit, braced his right hand on the body panel right next to what remained of the driver’s side door of the Mazda, and then kneeled down, putting his head level with Walt’s.
He also noticed now that the man was wearing a peculiar white buttoned shirt, with weird, rounded lapels, like someone might see on a picture from the late 1800’s. He couldn’t see anything else, but Walt had seen enough to know that something was not right about this guy. There was evening something wrong with the guy’s voice, as it sounded like something he might have heard from an old video of Teddy Roosevelt spea
king at a campaign rally, or Henry Ford speaking to the public. American accent, but it sounded old.
The newcomer began speaking.
“You see, I did not stop to help, By Jingo.”
Who the hell still says, ‘By Jingo’?
“Well, sir, actually, I do. But the nature of why I do that is not of an important matter, or is my ability to hear your thoughts. I am here to discuss our future.”
“What do you mean, ‘our’ future?”
“What I mean, kindred sir, is that first you need to cease speaking in your mind only, simply because I can hear it when you speak that way.”
“But…”
“Second, you are about to die, and I do not, and cannot, in good, honest conscience, wish to see that happen, at least before I might make you some sort of deal.”
Oh shit, thought Walt.
Hello, Walt, dear sir? I need you to speak to me in person, or I may have to take a rather imperious and scurrilous action to ensure that I have your undivided and undiluted attention. Do I now have that attention, kindred sir?
As is struck by lightning, Walt replied back.
“Yes, sir. What do you want from me?”
As he said this, he glanced at the steering wheel and remains of the exploded airbag, only inches from his face. He could also make out the stench of cordite or whatever the hell it was that was used to fire off the airbags, the one in the steering wheel that mule-kicked his face and his chest, before the steering wheel came to rest upon his rib cage, and the other, over on the passenger side of the dash, which protected…nobody, a useless gesture that looked good on paper and in the sales brochures, but since most people traveled alone most of the time…almost wholly pointless.
“Now, that is indeed a marked improvement. A jolly good one! By Jove! While I do not normally mind speaking to you directly, consciousness to consciousness, I find that the individual thoughts and voices get a bit muddled, given that you are the only one typically talking in your own mind, and are not used to someone else mucking about in there. I also note that…”
Walt interrupted the newcomer by again talking to himself mentally.
…I wonder when he’s going to get to the point; I don’t know how long I can keep it to...
It was at this point where Walt experienced a somewhat-sudden onset level of pain and torment unlike ever before, completely drowning out the heretofore-excessive levels of suffering coming from his chest, left arm, and left leg, something akin to an entire 114-piece symphony orchestra of agony suddenly playing at a booming full volume, immediately engulfing the quiet violin solo of affliction that he previously thought was already entirely too loud, as it shot up the length of his body, as if a python constructed of pure energy was wrapping him, no, definitely devouring him in coils of biting electricity, giving the mental impression of a controlled explosion from feet to head.
Not only was it a physical level of pain causing Walt to scream out, his mind also screamed out in unison, as a loud tinkling of crushing, impending doom exploded in his mind, with whoever or whatever was doing this to him saying, this is only the merest of glimpses into the torrid depths of what awaits you if you do not do everything exactly as I say, old chap.
Before the attack, he was already close to fainting dead away from the shattered left arm that appeared as a contortionist’s wildest dream, hand touching elbow, and the loudly-throbbing pulse of fire that shot up from his left ankle, a slow, loud, Morse-code ‘dit dit dit’ reminding Walt that something was horribly, horribly wrong. This sense of darkness was also gathering allies: the Miata was a poor choice of automobile, and it was already an incredibly tight fit around him in the best of times, Walt’s body being a hand forced into a plastic and steel Isotoner glove that was at least two sizes too small.
Now, with the car effectively collapsed around him, and the steering wheel jammed into his chest, previously-unknown pangs of claustrophobia also added to the chorus of noise that represented the mountain range of pain and suffering that Walt was going through. With the newcomer (presumably?) now attacking him…while he was fully aware that he was being attacked, he also had the mental image of someone who might be having an out-of-body experience, as he alternated back and forth between someone who was jammed into the car, being electrocuted, tortured, whatever was happening, and was also standing next to the oddly-dressed man, looking at himself thrashing inside of the car.
As he stared at his disembodied self, and at the same time felt the complete and total punishment that was occurring to his body, Walt was able to ask himself one question:
Why am I not dead?
The stranger quickly replied.
Walt, I’m not going to let you black out from this experience. This is why I am both attacking you, and keeping you awake, to let you know, with the utmost importance, that I have something incredibly important to say to you, and that I need your full attention. Do you now understand what I am capable of doing to you if I have not your full attention? You will speak when I tell you to, and remain silent the rest of the time. Return now to your body.
As if a gigantic electronic throw switch were being disconnected at a power station somewhere, the continuous explosion of energy shut itself off, and collision-of-galaxies-level of symphonic, musical pain quickly subsided to the previous violin and snare-drum solo still being played by his arm and leg.
Between ragged gasps of breath, in which his chest had limited movement due to the close proximity of the spectacularly-bent Miata steering wheel, Walt barely croaked out, “Who are you, and what….what…what do you want?”
“As I said previously, my good man, you’re dying. Heading for the happy hunting ground. At this point, you are probably wondering why nobody has stopped to assist you, even though the traffic through this rather vital arterial highway vein is quite heavy. The fact is that if you are going to die, but I might be able to save you, but in a limited fashion.”
“What…do you mean?”
“I am actually not alive in the sense that you imagine. I need a body. You have one, that while initially in perfect shape, it will need considerable repair. However, to fix it, I have to ‘gut the fish’, which means, dear chap, that I have to scoop out what you might consider to be your ‘soul, and replace it with mine when I am done fixing you up.”
“Screw that….I’ll take my chances, and wait it out….go steal from the bitch over there in the truck, she’s the one who hit me.”
“No, sir, she is already an empty vessel, and unable to make the choice.”
Walt felt his consciousness rapidly dimming.
I don’t want to die, but I can’t handle this. I must stay awake, someone will stop, Jesus Christ, there were dozens of cars on this goddamned road a moment ago.
“Sir? Do I have your attention, still? Your wife and children do not wish for you to die, either. However, I can at least spare them from your untimely demise. Think about it a moment. Your two sons and one daughter get to keep their father. Your wife gets to keep her husband. I will of course be the one they remain in love with: your kids will have me being the one who is reading to them at night, and afterward, your wife will be embracing me instead of you, although she will continue to assume, however incorrectly, it is you in bed with her.”
“Fuck you. I think I hear someone stopping.”
Walt’s heart picked up as what sounded like the clatter of a late-model diesel pickup began decelerating, dropping to an idle as the driver applied his brakes. However, his hope slowly fell to the floor of his soul, like a torn bag of popcorn kernels slowly releasing its contents onto the floor, when it was apparent that the driver was not coming to a complete stop. Whoever was in the truck was simply slowing down to rubberneck the accident…and then cruelly accelerate away again, resuming his journey.
“You…you fucking bastard!! Come back!!”
In Walt’s mind, never had there been a more brazen reply of ‘sucks to be you!’ ever heard in his short life. He simply assumed that someone
would eventually stop to help, but a growing fear began to manifest itself that it might be possible that no one would.
“Sorry, my good man. They are too busy with their own affairs to stop and assist their fellow human being. Sorry state of things, really. I find it rather jejune and boorish of those self-absorbed simpletons, however, it is a sign of the times, and indicative of the downfall of mankind, which you are now a witness to its effects.”
Walt let his head slump against the steering wheel, and let out a small gasp of defeat.
“Walter? Sir? Let us get back to business, as time is at a premium. You have two choices. You can allow me to replace you, as my kind have been serving as ‘replacements’ for centuries, and have replaced everyone from slaves to royalty.
“Or you can simply die in torment, bleeding to death in that Japanese vehicular monstrosity you have allowed yourself to be killed in, wondering if your wife and children will ever recover from your passing…”
“I’m going to live, sir, someone is gonna stop. They have to fucking stop! I’m blocking most of the goddamned highway!”
The newcomer ignored Walt’s protestations, and continued speaking.
“Remember, however, that I do not do this gladly. Oftentimes, those who I replace have miserable lives, with some of them tricking me into extending their worthless existence, when dying was a pity, and I have suffered greatly, as I am unable to die until the husks I inhabit either pass on from natural causes, or are killed…Oh my, sorry to interrupt my story, but it appears you have a problem, sir, and unfortunately will not have a lot of time to make your decision…which I must have in order to proceed…my, my, look, the other vehicle has caught on fire.”
Walt, his consciousness slowly ebbing away, now smelled the stench of plastic and rubber burning, saw through the spider webbed, broken windshield that the stupid bitch’s Yukon had caught on fire, and that the nose of what remained of his Miata was now fully engulfed.
Walt screamed, “NOOOO!!! I don’t want to burn! HELP! AGGGHHHH!!!”
He began thrashing wildly, now that self-preservation adrenalin reserves from sheer panic were kicking in. The smoke from the fire now began wrapping around the broken windshield, and choking Walt as he gasped in breaths of air between screams.
Walt. I can save you.
“I don’t want to die!”
It’s too late, Walt. Nobody is coming. Save yourself. Save your family.
“Fuck you! HELLLP!!!”
And with that last scream, he began wrenching himself back and forth, violently. His left arm pulled free of the sheet metal embrace, and even though his forearm was pointed straight forward, the mangled mass ahead of the elbow drooped down like a much-overcooked dinner sausage. Now, if he could only get that foot loose…
Walt, it’s too late. Look at the dash, Walt. Look at the floor.
In between cracked-open sections of the destroyed, plastic dashboard, flames were beginning to poke through melting grommets in the firewall, dripping burning rubber and plastic onto the carpet, which was also beginning to alight.
“No, No, No, No! I’M NOT GONNA FUCKING DIE!!!”
Smoke inhalation had other plans, however. Toxic fumes from burning plastic and rubber filled his lungs, overpowering the adrenaline boost coursing through Walt’s veins, and he slumped, quickly beginning to lose consciousness.
This is your last chance, Walt. I can fix you. I can make you better. I can save your life.
“…no…wait…I think I can…hear…a fire truck…or something….”
No, Walt. You must be mine. You will not escape me.
“Fuck you….you look...like…a fucking…sissy...anyway.…”
And with that last statement, Walt passed out, denying the strange man his chance at collecting another soul for his master. And as the fire and rescue unit pulled up, and immediately began dousing the flames, with EMT’s rushing in to assess and revive the victims, a keening sound which began at a low, grinding, demonic howling, ranging from a level too low for the human ear to process, to a high-pitched squeal that sounded like ten thousand nails being forcibly dragged across a hundred chalkboards, this cacophony of noise thinly disguised as anger began emanating from both the ground and open air.
The vibration at the lower ends of the howling shook chunks of asphalt loose from the roadbed, knocked firefighters and EMT’s off of their feet, and vibrated both a fire truck and ambulance around several feet in every direction, almost flipping over the fire truck as it slowly began moving away from the crown of the highway, and into the ditch. This shaking was also violent enough to separate the two vehicles locked in a metallic embrace, and so loud as to permanently damage the hearing of everyone present, with the range of sound being so high that the open, vacant eyes of the deceased woman in the doomed GMC exploded out of their eye sockets under the pressure.
Angry was the unseen demon that had just been denied his spoil, and his vengeance was terrible, the actual target of the newcomer being not Walt’s body…but something else entirely.
After an entire minute of full, absolute terror, the sound disappeared as abruptly as it manifested itself, never to be heard ever again.
Whatever it was that occurred, which was conveniently left out of the accident report, was better left unsaid by those who witnessed what happened, but it was never forgotten, especially by the demon who would lay in wait for Walt’s soul through the remainder of Walt’s life, however short or long it would be.
As Walt later briefly regained consciousness in the Miata, as the full fury unleashed by a hastily-aimed fire hose hit him in the face, waking him immediately, a voice could be heard in his mind.
I’ll be waiting for you, Walt. By Jove, your soul is mine.
Author Bio
See more of Larry’s work at https://www.larrylandpress.com/
Chapter Fifteen
Devils Er
A Samuel J. Bass Poem
Driving off onto the 101 rush hour concrete jungle, there are no exits, only obligations to stay stuck in my mobile cubicle moving at the speed of slow.
Hidden flowers on the hillside bloom away mocking my insanity, they cheer me on to see beyond these gray prison bevels.
Gray blocks hollow until they're filled with my humanity, making me take the choices reaped with devils.
I feel like I've lived a day in one hour, it's so early it could be midnight.
Twisting and turning in my brain, the sun suddenly ridicules, feeding me a fresh case of insane.
I'm at a point of sorrow, sorrow of an exceptional quality, Grade A-farm raised, take two tomorrow.
The raven croaked nevermore, Juliet is the sun, dangren-burang
1.We have to go. I'm almost happy here
2. Complacency rots insides, then refills with fear. So - Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make
3. Clamoring for sight.
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to kill. There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof4. Filled with truths, synapse salvoes, loves, and drugs. We love what we eat and eat who we are. GERManic germs looking for psychological thrills. You work the guns, I'll rattle the hills.
Smoking cannabis to an over-extent, hope lost, old kung-fu and 80's movies won, I eat smoke for breakfast.
This sun is still mocking me, “Start your day, be productive, make a baby, then expiry.”
Stepping into society, I'm a satanic leaf-tailed gecko wanting freedom, abdicate, and let go your kingdom.
Halfheartedly half washed dishes in my sink; this entropy roller-coaster of highs and lows drives me to drink and think, then drink and smoke, making life one strange syrupy green swirl of mammarys and calamities filled with brevity’s of rarities.
5,000 images, 2 comedies, and a numb right arm later I've turned into dark matter, invisibly pulling all that matters together into a forever stretched infinitely, literally making synergies out of life-energies.
1)Yield to nobody when one is doing what is right
r /> 2). 2) Ender's Game, Ender Wiggin
3)3) Bram Stoker's Dracula 4) V For Vendetta
See more of Sam’s work at https://www. SamuelBass.com
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