Precious Things II: Hunted
A funeral was being held. Not a person came. A congregation of twisted smoking machines lowered the body of a man named Trevor six feet into the earth. They filled the hole in with dirt, and they left.
Trevor lay motionless, lifeless in his coffin. The machines were not there to help him anymore. They had cared for him for decades, and now they had moved on.
“…the dead remain in the waking world.”
Trevor gasped, his eyes opened. He saw nothing but dark. He heard nothing but the deafening hiss of silence. Panic stricken he pounded and scratched at the inside of the coffin lid. Punched the barrier in front of him until his hands felt sticky. [Blood] hinted his subconscious. Ignoring it he started screaming as loud as he could, calling to the machines to let him out, to help him. Still punching, scratching, pounding, kicking. The inside of the coffin was hot and sticky, Trevor began to hyperventilate. If he died again, would he just keep coming back, and dying, then coming back, and immediately dying? A never ending cycle of torment and suffocation. Once the air was used, there would be no more. Would he repeatedly awake to pain for the rest of eternity? The Machines should have known better. Why did they believe it this time? Trevor had died so many times, they always waited, never believing he was truly gone.
As Trevor lie in his dark tomb, hope faded quickly. He became light headed due to the lack of oxygen. His breath was shallow, his heart rate slowed. But the machines did not know this. They no longer monitored him, they no longer cared to. The experiment of Trevor was over. Then; knocking. Once… twice… silence lifts him. His hopes start to rise. The machines had come to save him, they realized they made a grave mistake. His subconscious wondered if his pun was intended. He ignored it. Once… twice… again and the stillness exits. The lid flies off the coffin and a blinding rush of sunlight smashes him in the face. Trevor squints, reaches his arms out to embrace his savior, and tries to make out the shape that stands before him through the water forming in his eyes. But the light was too much, too painful. He covers his eyes with his hands and screws up his face in pain. The only noise he can seem to make is a guttural squeal through clenched teeth.
“Foolish man-pig,” Says the shape in a deep threatening shriek. “you’ve let yourself go too far this time…” Underlining his disappointment with a sigh. “It’s out of our hands now.”
“W-w-w-what is? W-who’s hands? My hands? No, that makes no sense…” stammered Trevor in between gasps and squeals.
Two hands grab Trevor by his one collar and lift him out of the coffin. “Squealing man,” rattled the voice “why do you make such… noises?” Trevor peeked out from behind his hands, not only was he out of the hole, he was being held six feet above where the hole began, from the ground. He tried to look at the shape again. It was keeping its back to the sun. This time Trevor could see the silhouette of a man, or at least a man shaped being. It shook him by his collar, his limp legs swaying and dangling ridiculously. “We had so much more to show you.” It grumbled and tossed him to the ground. Trevor landed hard on the leaf blanketed ground a few feet from his grave. The air had been knocked out of him and he struggled to breathe. His cheek could feel the leaves against it, his eyes began to adjust and he saw the hole he had just been pulled from. It took all of his strength to get to his hands and knees, and through slightly blurry eyes he surveyed his surroundings. Nothing but bare autumn trees and a ground covered in colored leaves. Where was the house? Where were the machines? Where was… he? He shut his eyes again and wondered how long he had lay in his grave before he awoke. He wondered if the machines had waited for him to come back before giving up. He wondered how long had passed since his last memory. He opened his eyes again, they ached, not yet fully adjusted to the light. He could only see a few feet, glancing behind him, Trevor saw a shape larger than a tree. It was the house. The machines had buried him in the backyard of the very house they kept him in. He stood up and looked around. He was surrounded by ten, maybe thirteen other graves. All empty. How many times had they buried him? “Ignore these terrible lies.” He said to himself. He looked around for the figure that pulled him out of the grave.
[Nowhere]
Trevor limped to the house, to the back door but it was locked. He made his way around to the front, and the side door, both locked. He knocked but got no response, Once… Twice.... and he heard it echo through the empty house.
The room then went all too suddenly silent. The machines had noticed and acknowledged Trevor’s presence, a moment passed. One of those moments that eat away years. They responded with anger. Trevor heard buzzing, saw red lights. They chased him back out the window he came in, only now; on the way out he fell two stories to the ground. He lay in the leaves winded from the fall, and he had sliced his foot open on a shard of glass while falling out. Trevor knew the woods surrounding the house went on for miles, maybe tens of miles… maybe hundreds of miles. He also knew the machines would chase him, hunt him down, and punish him. Kill him. They would never give up. Despite this knowledge he decided to run anyway, in an attempt to defy inevitability.
As he ran past the small graveyard he had escaped from he tripped, landing near one of one of the other graves. The name on the tombstone read: ‘Andy’. The noise of the machines giving chase arose behind him, he clamored to his feet and began to run. His subconscious scoffed at how cliché it had been for him to trip and fall whilst being chased. He ignored it. He kept running until he could no longer hear them. He kept running until he had no breathe left in him. He kept running until he could run no more, and yet still, he kept running.
[Time passed]
Alone Trevor sat in the cold damp woods. Hardly clothed, hardly fed, barely alive. Two weeks he has survived on his own. Evading the machines, eating whatever he could find, drinking from puddles and streams. Fourteen days alone, without any assistance from the machines. Considering how his life was lived previously; all watched over by machines of loving grace... it has been extremely difficult. He has noticed the forest here is not like any he has known. The light never seems to completely go away, night time never fully embraces the trees. Some of the trees are a little too perfect, and they stand unwavering against the horizon, never ending. A low hum remains constant. As if this forest were run on batteries. The trees sway, even though there is no wind.
He knows he must be cautious, every breath bringing him closer to his last. He can feel the machines tracking his every step. He can hear the pounding of his heart: Louder, louder, so loud it almost takes over his ears. His feet and hands bloody. His eyes are tired, his muscles are tired, his entire body is sore and rotting. He wishes the machines could make it all stop, take it all away. He almost wants to surrender and let it all be over. But they are no longer on his side, and the fear of dying infinitely, and forever is not something he wants to face. His head pounding, bombarding the inside of his skull with painful thoughts. So tired, but to rest would surely mean capture. So he keeps moving. The forest itself seems to be keeping track of him. Something in the shadows always lurking.
Trevor’s fear is the only thing that keeps him going. It keeps him company at [night], keeps him alert, alive. But its making him so crazy. He can feel the insanity boasting inside. Begging to kick its way out screaming. His forearms are covered in scratches where he will not stop dragging his nails. The depression is kicking in (five down, only one more stage to go). Things will never be the same.
Trevor’s body is only human, with no help he starts to drag. His eyelids start to drop. His body becomes overheated, overworked, dehydrated, hungry, tired, dying. His head swoons, the woods spin and dance.
He falls to his knees....
Then to his hands…
Then collapses over on his side…
Lying fetal in the never decomposing leaves.
Footsteps behind him. [Footsteps beside him]. Shadows swarming all around him. They make no noise and move like ghosts. The silhouette of a man slowly rises from beneath the leaves and towers over him. Trevor realizes now that this is all the creature is. A silhouette no matter the light. Smaller shadows emerge from behind the trees and lurch around him. Trevor is almost happy to have been caught by the shadows, instead of the machines. The smaller shadows bounce and dance around him, pointing and laughing. Cheerfully goading him. They scold him. They join hands and begin to circle around him.
They chant:
“Your life, your love
The sky above
Falling, waiting, crushing, hating
The emptiness hold hands with darkness
The lives you lost have come undone
Open your heart…
For here we come”
-It repeats over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over-
Getting faster and faster until its nothing more than a noisy babble. Laughter rings out over everything. Millions of children laughing. The wind picks up, the forest glows, the trees lean over to hear Trevor's voice. They wait for him to speak. The small childlike shadows spin faster in a ring around Trevor. They become a blur. The large humanoid silhouette raises its arms to the sky. A hole; darker, appears where its face should be, and things begin to disappear. The stars zip like lines of light into the hole. The leaves upon the ground lift and are sucked in as well, but the trees stay put. Waiting to hear Trevor's voice. The small shadows now begin to sing: “Ring around the Rosey, Pockets full of poison, ashes, ashes you all fall dead.” Trevor opens his mouth, he expels every ounce of noise he can muster.
His screams cannot be heard. His body will never be found.
….To be continued
