Day 365 - 365

365

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The weather report called for rain, but the sky was empty and the land was dry. She poured his coffee high and a drop splashed out onto the table, but neither of them seemed to notice. The man added a hint of the half and half because the last cup she brought was a little bit burned. After taking a sip, a tiny trail ran down the side of the cup, leaving a stain in its wake. The turkey and ham were fat and tough with gristle, the toast was burnt and the lettuce seemed like it had been left out. He would have sent the whole plate back but was slightly afraid of what the kitchen might come up with next. The road was long and he had hours to go. The diner was a welcome respite, but he couldn’t waste the time. The meal would have to suffice.

The rain never materialized, or maybe he was driving in the opposite direction. There were plenty of reports and videos of waves and floods and cars losing control. He had miles and miles to go and couldn’t be troubled with what could have been him. There was still too much to be done.

The piano man looked like a brawler, with his baseball cap and beard and stocky build. His shirt was three buttons undone and his sweat and chest hair glistened in the spotlight. The bass was heavy and a man played slide guitar, while an out-of-tune singer belted out something resembling pain and sorrow. A couple was making out in the hallway towards the men’s room. The graffiti told him he was old and out of touch and no longer knew the right slang or symbols or codes. Still, there was a metal trough to piss in, which told him he was in the right type of dive bar. A woman by herself had eyed him all night. Her hair fell forward and her face was long and thin. The darkness hid what the darkness hid, but he couldn’t help but wonder what she was really after. He was a stranger in town and strangers didn’t often attract attention, unless something else were amiss. His pride wanted it to be because he had fought the rapidly increasing years, but his heart couldn’t help but worry about his empty wallet or else what sort of damage would make someone so young so interested in someone like him.

The sun hadn’t even cracked when he got on the road. The miles stretched and there was gas to burn and radio stations to scan. Somewhere further on down the line were old friends to laugh with and road side diners to try. The wide-open countryside called out and he couldn’t help but answer. There was nothing to tether him. No one to pull him back or keep him down. As the song says, he was free. Slip out the back or a bird with wings or whatever analogy the singer wanted to sing. The lonely road was his calling companion. Somewhere someone was waiting, calling, thinking of him. Somewhere some adventure was to be had. Nowhere to go but forward. That was the only way to move. The only thing back was faded photos and dusty roads he’d never see again. There were a smile or two that haunted him still, but he tried not to think about them.

Day 364 - The Mathematician

The Mathematician

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

He did the numbers and then he ran them again. Because he was obsessive. Equations and theorems, symbolic reasoning both past and present. Over and over to see if he could prove the impossible and make the theoretical real. He sometimes referred to it as PyschoMath, only half joking, only half aware he was making some sort of reference to some theory from long ago. Once people were obsessed with a perfect ratio, and thought there was an answer within. Others believed in the helix or the hexagon, as proof of order, or proof of a simulation. Someone went insane thinking they could find God within the number Pi. The mathematician didn’t bother with such theories. He had long ago given up on proving other people’s dreams. He wanted to know if life, the universe and everything could be added up into one equation and within find meaning and answers and control. If it was a simulation, then there would be a numerical code. If it was intelligent design, the same idea should apply. Hashing out a string of zeros and ones could explain anything. Enough chaos, enough repetition, and any order could be stumbled upon by accident. There were too many variables. He could tie things together, but it hardly made sense. But he kept on counting. Kept on adding. Kept on trying and dreaming and going down the rabbit hole.

Day 363 - Jungle

Jungle

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

How many days had they been in the jungle? Between the vomiting and liquid diarrhea, Mario had forgotten. He was pretty sure the Hepatitis vaccine had failed. That, or his water purifier. The heat was unbearable. The rain never seemed to stop. Even with constant rain, they were so close to the equator, Mario felt a constant sunburn on his neck and cheeks.

“Jon, what are we doing here?”

“Standing guard.”

“No, I mean it. What are we doing? This is going on forever and there’s no reason to be here.”

“We’re being paid. Man gets what the man pays for.”

“I’m dying out here.”

“You’re not dying. You’re just a little under is all.”

“If they were going to dig, they’d dig. If someone was going to stop them, they’d stop them. We cleaned the villages out. The man bribed the governor. If anyone was going to come stop him, it would have happened. All we’re doing is sitting in the shitty mud and rain and catching malaria.”

“You don’t have malaria.”

“You don’t know what I have. I don’t know what I have. I haven’t eaten in a week. I can barely drink anything.”

“Calm down, Mario. Rick will be here soon. You can go back to the tents and get some sleep.”

“The tents are soaked and smell like piss. People are pissing in the tents rather than wander out ten feet into the jungle. What does that tell you?”

“That nobody likes getting soaked in the rain.”

“That’s fucking right. This shit sucks.”

 

 

 

Mario’s dreams were full of blood and images of machetes. He watched as one man has his hands chopped off. Another had his hand crushed by a hammer. Mario, for his part, defending himself, smashing one man against a rock, but he was no match for the shadow with the machete.

When Mario awoke, he didn’t know if it was day or night. Days were basically twelve hours long all year long at the equator. It could have been early morning or night, but he couldn’t tell. How long had he slept? Was he better? His head was still warm. His stomach was silent, but hunger had not returned. It was impossible to tell yet what would happen once he ate.

He ventured out of the tent, but found no one else at the base camp. Mario wandered back towards the construction site where no construction ever actually occurred. The site was eerily quiet.

When he found Jon, Jon was on the ground with a shovel sticking out of his chest. Rick and Barry were still missing. Mario pulled his gun, on high alert, when he heard a moaning behind him.

Slowly he turned.

Jon was standing, shovel protruding from his chest. He moaned like a wild animal. Mario took a step back, unsure. Jon took a step forward. Then another. Mario yelled at him, told him to stop. He begged him to stop. But Jon just took another step. He didn’t seem human anymore. Didn’t seem alive. Mario issued warning after warning until he felt he had no other choice.

He fired his gun.

Jon slumped, but the shovel hit the ground first, and kept his body up. Slowly, Jon’s weight leaned more and more into the shovel’s handle. The shovel cut deeper into his chest. His body slumped lower. Eventually he slipped and fell to the ground. The shovel fell the other way.

Mario almost threw up.

What the fuck happened here, he wondered. And where were the others?

Jon was moving again. His body convulsing, twisting and turning.

Mario wasn’t sure if Jon was alive, or if there was some last gasp of seizure as the last of his neurons fired.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jon was his friend. Mario hated that he had to kill him. Jon was his partner. His friend. Jon was—

Jon was moving again. Trying to get up off the ground.

Mario fired again, then turned and ran for one of the vehicles.

“Fuck this,” he screamed. No paycheck was worth this. Mario ran and tried to forget the image of Jon’s broken and twisted body, dead and disfigured, but still fighting for life.

Day 362 - Pax Aeterna

Pax Aeterna

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

Smeared, the message read “Pax Aeterna, 2999 auc.”

“What do you think?”

“I think someone plans on having a celebration.”

“You don’t worry something bigger than that?”

“No. Graffiti doesn’t scare me.”

“Novo Roma scares me.”

“The dream of an eternal empire? Every few years it’s the same thing, people dreaming of some past that never happened. The empire that was and always will be. They get riled up, wear costumes, hold marches, but it always ends the same. With alcohol and other bacchanalian delights.”

“Unless the knives come out.”

“Unless, unless, unless. You’re too worried all the time. Let the people have their fun. We were both young once.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I just think we worry about different things.”

“Well, maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, Vince almost said, but knew it would just prolong the argument of opinions. Novo Roma had dreams of destiny, and that destiny included reestablishing an empire through blood if necessary. The graffiti didn’t worry him, just that it was appearing more and more often. Pax Romana had been the rage a few short years ago, but that didn’t seem very menacing. This was something more than expansion. This was how men talked when they felt divine inspiration, when they felt they were owed something, deserved it and more. Always more. If there were no line, no boundaries, then they would take. And enough was never enough.

“I think we need to add more men to the watch…”

“You can do that. I plan on having a bottle in my hand.”

You fool, Vince wanted to scream. Marc was the sort of man who would follow. He didn’t care who was in charge. Rules and laws were just things people wrote down and said, but they didn’t matter. They weren’t holy or even necessary. Marc always thought he knew what was right. If one consul or another said something similar or close enough, then Marc was content. Force and violence were just things that had to happen sometimes. Death was inevitable. As long as he was allowed to keep clinging to what was his and fight anyone that dared look at him wrong, he was a happy man. A simple but happy man. Vince hated his simplicity, but was envious sometimes. Not right now though. Right now he was afraid.

Day 361 - Sibling Rival

Sibling Rival

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

If there was one person Ian wanted to beat in any game they played, it was Pete. If there were two, it was Pete and Arthur. Beating Pete was more important though. Ian would come in second or third or any place as long as it wasn’t last, and as long as Pete was behind him. It seemed as if Pete felt mostly the same. Arthur liked to win. He didn’t care too much else about who he beat or what order they lost in, just so they lost. Healthy? Perhaps not always, but it certainly did give the boys motivation.

Pete didn’t have very many friends, not like Ian did anyway. Ian could be the life of the party. Ian could talk to women. Pete was fun and entertaining and his jokes were standard and passable, but by comparison it made everything he did seem just a little hollower and more contrived. Pete didn’t mind that Ian was the fun one. He consoled himself with having fewer, but deeper relationships. Or so he wanted to believe.

At the end of night Ian would find Pete and regale him with stories, recapping adventures and wild trysts. Pete laughed and smiled and was rarely jealous of his brother. He was often there for the adventures, even if Ian didn’t always remember it that way.

Arthur had no interest in stories. He had no interest in retelling events or living vicariously. Arthur found his own path and made his own love and luck and if he had something interesting to tell, he told it to himself and remained a mystery to the other two boys.

Arthur went to college and when he came home from break, he brought his new best friends, Adrian and Jean. They had secret codes and inside jokes and often snuck out at night to smoke cigarettes and take a nip of brandy from a flask. Ian and Pete were not invited. On the weekends, they’d go into town, and Sunday morning they would return, singing and giggling and still inebriated.

Pete began to hate Adrian and Jean.

“Who do they think they are?” he’d say. Ian had no answer. He didn’t understand his brother’s preoccupation and tried to distract him with a game of pool or darts or tales of the Murphy sisters or inspire him by dreaming about some upcoming cookout or party of their own. Pete didn’t care about any of that anymore. He was strangely obsessed with these two schoolmates that were stealing his brother away.

“Why them?”

“If you want to go to the party, just ask. I’m sure they’d let us.”

“No. They’re from Arthur’s class. They wouldn’t want us there anyway.”

“You don’t have to be so bitter.”

“Arthur was never like this before. He never drank. Or ran around after midnight.”

Ian thought his brother was sounding more and more like their mother, but kept that to himself. He could beat Pete at a lot of things, but if Pete were in the mood to tussle, he could give out a mean punch or two before Ian cold do anything about it. Ian had felt the bruises one too many times.

One night Pete snuck out his window and headed behind the barn, where he found Adrian and Jean, smoking and drinking.

“Are you going to offer me some?”

The boys looked at Pete and shrugged and passed him the flask.

Pete began to imagine slipping something into the flask, making them sick and watching them puke. Maybe they’d puke on each other. And Arthur would see it and laugh at them. Pete chuckled to himself. He would find some ipecac or soap or something awful. The summer would be ruined and maybe they’d go home.

Arthur appeared, a little surprised to see his younger brother there.

“You drink now?”

“I do.”

“All grown up.”

“We were about to take off, go see about some girls. You want to tag along?”

Pete thought about Ian, wondered what he was doing, wondered if they should invite him. But Ian was boisterous and loquacious and would probably steal the attention of any girl Pete liked. Fuck him, mumbled Pete.

“What?” asked Arthur.

“I said fuck yeah. I want to go. Let’s have some fun.”

The others nodded and smiled and they passed the flask around again as they headed off.

Day 360 - As the dream lay dead

As the dream lay dead

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

“Charlotte? Charlotte, are you okay?”

Charlotte stood there in a state of shock. Her fingers twitched. Goosebumps on her arms. Her lips trembled.

Ramsey grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards him.

“Don’t look. You don’t want to see.”

He tried to pull her towards him, to hug her, to shield her eyes. She resisted, stiffened her body.

“No.”

Ramsey let go but tried to keep eye contact.

“Charlotte, it will be okay. I promise. I’ll take care of it. But you don’t have to.”

Her eyes were red. Her mascara blotted with a streak down her face. She had seen the worst and come out on the other side.

This was nothing, she told herself. This was just the final step. One last thing to do that didn’t really matter. The worst was over. The worst was over. The worst was—

“…over,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m okay. It’s all okay.”

Charlotte pushed Ramsey aside and turned back to look. There were streaks of blood on the ground, the wall, a bloody hand-print on the kitchen island and a pool of blood soaking into the tile floor.

“She would have killed me,” said Charlotte matter-of-factly. “Me or her. One or the other.”

“We’ll clean it up. I’ll call Eddie and he’ll bring his van. He’s good for it. He’ll understand. Once he sees, he’ll understand.”

“She wanted to kill me. I didn’t want to kill her. I didn’t even know she existed until tonight. But she had known all along that she wanted to kill me.”

“Don’t think about that. Whatever it was, whatever she was after. It doesn’t matter now. We clean this up, it’s like none of it ever happened.”

“Don’t be naïve. This will haunt us forever.”

Ramsey was silent. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to have an answer. But he was afraid she was correct.

“She may be dead. But she’s not dead. Not really. She’s here. In us. Forever.”

“I’m going to call Eddie now.”

“Whatever.”

Charlotte knelt down beside the body. She rolled the woman onto her side and looked in her eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. A cracked funhouse mirror from Hell, but a mirror nonetheless. Her double. Her shadow that would haunt her. The woman who would have taken her life, taken her love, taken everything from her. The woman that would have replaced her and not given two thoughts about it. All that she was and all that she could have become. This was her.

And now, what was she? The leftovers. She was the broken, the remains. The thing that came after. The woman had stolen it all from her. Even though she was shattered and dead, she had taken it with her. Charlotte was something new now, though what, she wasn’t sure. The brilliant, the hope, the possible were all things of the past. The cracked remains, the dead and rotting were left. Where once she could have been something, the dream lay dead.

Day 359 - Echo from a hollow planet

Echo from a hollow planet

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The trees were four hundred feet or more and the green filled the sky above with a brilliance Ethan had never seen. He had walked and slept and walked more. There was no end to the forest. A mountain towered in the distance. Green with a dusting of white at the top. No indication that life had touched let alone conquered. But it was a point he could aim towards. A spot a million miles away perhaps, but a spot nonetheless.

The air was crisp in a way he wasn’t used to. Everything was open. And high. Like he was lightheaded from altitude or something close to pure oxygen. The sky was clear with little hint of clouds or birds. Foraging for food had proved mostly unproductive, but if there was no sign of birds or other wildlife, then any trip he was taking anywhere were going to be futile very quickly.

Solitude had always been appealing. Now it signaled death.

There was no value in focusing on that. He had to move. He had to try. There was moisture in the morning. His camping skills were beyond rusty, but there was a chance to stave off dying of thirst. Of hunger though? Shut up, he commanded himself. He would eat leaves and dirt if it gave him a chance to take one more step. Somewhere on this god forsaken planet there would be something.

He was alone. As an obvious statement of fact. But he was alone meaning he had come here alone. There was no one else with him. That was an important fact. Perhaps. But being alone meant the others were elsewhere which meant there was always a chance of rescue. A very small chance, but enough that he couldn’t give up. He would find water. He would find food.

The mountain never seemed to grow closer. The travel was long and exhausting. The lack of food made him irritable and cranky. He wanted to nap but dared not stop.

The ground turned wet and muddy and the mud turned swampy. Ethan realized he had been descending, but not by much. When he looked back, he could see he was feet lower. But it was unclear what he was walking into or why. But the path forward would have to wait. He couldn’t trudge through mud. Tired already, there was no way he could power through. Plus, he had to way to dry wet muddy clothes. He would have to go around.

The sun began to set, and the trees thinned a little and little sparkling glimmers began to appear. The sunset was reflecting off water. A lot of water. A lake that went forever. Inches deep, but enough for him to drink deep. In the distance the trees continued, growing out of the water, for miles and miles and they appeared to sink lower. The lake was more like an ocean. But he drank the water and it seemed crystal clear. A fresh water ocean? Perhaps. There didn’t seem to be any motion, so no sea life? There didn’t seem to be any waves or tides, so a lake. Just a really really big lake that seemed to go forever.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to get to the mountains now. Even if he did, what was the point? He had hoped that from higher ground he would be able to see signs of human life. Fire. Or buildings. Or something. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen. And he doubted he was going to find much wildlife anyway. Maybe he had a week or a month. His body would slowly eat itself. If he stayed here and didn’t exert himself maybe he could get two or three months. In a dream scenario. Would that the others enough time to find him? It was a grim reality and he didn’t want to think of it.

What had they done? Why had he ended up here? There was no one there to tell.

The sun set further and he realized he should have been working on some sort of shelter. Maybe the water would rise at night. Maybe he needed to retrace his steps and head back inland further.

The sky was clear and the stars were bright, like there had never been an ounce of smog to block them. And then Ethan saw the rising moon. The moon was splintered, with debris trailing behind it in the night sky.

That’s different, he thought. Probably not good. Like he needed another thing to add to the list.