Episode Three
Two days. It took two days for us to leave the cenote and find the road. For at least a day we could hear the sounds of traffic—the crunching of tires on gravel, the roar of car engines speeding past. We tried hollering for help, but the screams floated away on the wind, drowned out by the rustling of leaves and the creak of metal frames bouncing past. It was a struggle to keep hope alive. Even though we were closer to salvation than we had ever been, it always seemed just out of reach. Until the evening of the second day.
Somehow, we found ourselves amidst a thicket of thinning trees. The last rays of a dying sun filled the cracks above, gold and red fingers of light winding their way between leaves, casting an eerie pallor on the ground. With each step we took, the noise of the road grew louder, and the sound spurred us on like a cattle prod. When at last the first glimpse of the road was visible through the trees, we ran. We were hungry—for food, for safety, for contact with someone outside of our circle. By the time my feet crested the gentle slope of the road, I felt sick with excitement. As loose soil turned to packed dirt and dust beneath me, I threw myself into the middle of the road. I didn’t think then what I must have looked like, a wild man with feverish eyes waving his arms with reckless abandon. Several cars passed me by as the girls approached the side of the road.
If drivers felt wary of stopping for a wild, lonely man, they shared no such compunction for the group of young women huddled together next to me. The first bus to pass slowed to a halt mere feet away, and from it, a tour guide emerged.
“Are you folks all right?” he called in a thick accent. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his words, and the sound that escaped my throat was somewhere near a croak.
“We’ve been on the run from the cartel for days,” I managed, stumbling closer. “They ambushed our tour group on our excursion.”
The guide studied us for several minutes, his face carved of stone. Then he nodded, opening his arms to usher us to the bus. “Come on,” he said, and I’d never heard words so sweet. “Let’s get you back to your resort.”
In all, we’d spent four days alone in the jungle. Sometimes I looked back on those moments and they seemed surreal, as if it was someone else that had experienced them. Memories of the foray played on a loop when I closed my eyes, scenes flickering past in perfect clarity on the backs of my eyelids. But even when I could recall the musty way the dirt smelled in the morning when the dew was still fresh or the bite of the thornbushes as we scraped our way along their thousands of prickly teeth, it still seemed distant. I could feel everything, remember it all as if we’d never really left the jungle. Even so, they felt like someone else’s memories.
By the time we returned home, I resolved to forget the whole thing. Nightmares crept into my sleep, nightmares where the dead rose from the blood-stained earth and reached gnarled hands toward me. They begged with silent mouths to be freed from their pain, their milky eyes watching my every move. I’d awake shortly after, soaked through to the bone, a cold sweat gleaming on my brow. I hoped that Gael and the rest were in a better place, that they’d found some measure of peace after their torturous ends. But I couldn’t go on living in the shadow of what happened to them. I needed to put it behind me, to put the past to rest so that I could continue living. And I thought I had. Turns out, it wasn’t that easy.
—
Valerie crept through the crack in the door, her feet silent as she made her way back to bed. I watched her from the corner of my eye, half of my face buried in the softness of my pillow.
“How is she?” I asked, voice muffled by the cloth around my mouth.
Valerie sighed, pulling back the covers and perching at the edge of the bed. “Another nightmare,” she replied, and there was a melancholy weariness about her words.
“We’ve only been back a few days,” I said softly, rolling over onto my side to face her. “And it was traumatic. For all of us, but Meadow especially. At least you and I have seen death before. Maybe not like that, but still…”
“I won’t pretend like I haven’t had nightmares about it,” she said, tucking her legs beneath the blanket. “But I think it’s more than that, Rhett. She looks sickly. She’s pale, and she won’t eat anything I bring her. And tonight I kissed her forehead, and it was burning hot.”
“Do you think she’s sick?”
“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “Who knows what parasites or bugs might have been out in the jungle? I was so focused on getting from one hour to the next that I never stopped to think about what we might contract, or what it could do to us.”
“I’m sure she just needs some rest,” I said, my voice more confident than I felt.
“You’re probably right. But if she isn’t feeling better tomorrow, I’m taking her to see Dr. Kershwick.”
I waited for Val to settle down into the blankets and close her eyes, listening to the gentle ebb and flow of her breathing. I didn’t tell her the fears that closed in around me, didn’t tell her of the worries that clawed tracks along the insides of my skull. It would only frighten her, to know the things that troubled me. And after all that we’d been through, the last thing any of us needed was more trouble.
—
I awoke to the sound of screaming. I had been dreaming of soulless eyes and necks with gashes that smiled at me like toothless mouths. The mouth-necks whispered my name over and over. “Rhett,” they called to me. “Rhett. Rhett. Rhett.” I stared at the gaping wounds, bits of blood trickling from the corners as they chanted my name.
Rhett. Rhett. Rhett.
Their chanting grew faster and louder, their garbled voices clearer each time they repeated my name until-
“RHETT!”
My eyes popped open at the frantic scream. It took me a moment to understand that I was alone in bed and that the faceless specters of my dream were gone. I glanced over at the space next to me, brow furrowed as my sleep-addled mind tried to make sense of things.
“Valerie?”
“Rhett, call 911.”
Valerie appeared in the doorway then, her eyes too wide, her face devoid of color.
“What’s wrong?”
“Meadow’s not breathing,” she choked out in a sob. “Her fever’s really high.”
Panic clawed at my throat, sucking the air from my lungs. “Go,” I said, pulling back the covers and reaching for the phone. “Go do CPR. Compressions. Don’t stop until the paramedics get here.”
She was gone in the blink of an eye. I didn’t have time to think about my baby girl laying lifeless in her bed, didn’t have time to wonder what else we could do. I smashed the buttons on my phone with trembling fingers, shouting for an ambulance the moment the line picked up.
Somehow, I made my way to Meadow’s bedroom. It was unnerving to see Valerie’s arms pumping against Meadow’s chest. Meadow looked impossibly pale, with dark circles like bruises beneath the hollows of her eyes. She lay there, unmoving for several moments before she gasped and sputtered for breath. Her eyes flickered open, the faintest whisper of blue before she shut them again with a moan.
“Stay with me, honey,” Valerie whispered, pulling Meadow’s head into her arms and cradling her tight. “Help is coming. Help is coming.”
I feared the worst, but to my relief, Meadow held on until the ambulance arrived. They placed her on a stretcher, tapping a vein for an IV drip, and in the span of a breath, they were out the door. Val and I followed close behind, both of us shoving our way into the back of the ambulance. We sat in silence, watching the paramedics work, and I pulled Valerie into the circle of my arms. Her body felt frail against mine, weak and trembling as she stared on with glassy eyes. I lifted a hand to push the stringy, sweat-soaked strands of hair back from her face, fingers brushing her forehead.
“Val, you’re burning up.”
She shook her head against the crook of my shoulder. “No, I’m okay,” she insisted. “You’re the one that feels hot.”
“No, Val, listen to me. You’ve got a fever. I think you might have whatever Meadow has.”
She shook her head again, but there was something different about it this time. Her head rocked violently against my chest, her body convulsing in my arms.
“Help her!” I shouted, but there was no need. I swallowed around the hard lump in my throat, disentangling myself from her as the paramedics stepped in to help.
“Jesus Christ, what is happening to us?” I whispered. I glanced down at my hands, alarmed at how light they suddenly felt. Was I going crazy? Or was there something very wrong with us? It felt as if my heart would explode, so quickly did it race, and as I turned my eyes back to my now still wife, I had the sudden urge to be sick.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, tongue stumbling around the words. It was all I could choke out before bright spots peppered my vision, dancing like pinpricks of radiant light.
“Mr. Mayes?”
The voice sounded garbled and distant, as if it had traveled a long way to reach me. There was a hint of pressure on my eyelids, soft and fleeting, and in its wake came a dazzling yellow light.
“Mr. Mayes, can you tell me what day it is?”
My jaw worked hard to speak, but no sound came out.
“Start him on an IV. What the fuck do these people have?”
What do these people have?
It was the last thing I thought before the world tilted and turned black.
—
Warmth cradled me, held me steadfast in its grip as I slipped slowly from the clutches of darkness and back to the world of the living. With eyes still closed, I nestled deeper into the comfort of the blankets, relishing the simplicity of the moment as I grappled with my memories. They were hazy and disjointed, like random bits and pieces of a movie spliced together. There was nothing cogent or coherent about them, and as I parsed through them, I struggled to put them into any recognizable order. At last, I gave up. It seemed an impossible task, and the longer I tried, the more frustrated I became. Resolved to sort it out later, I opened my eyes.
What waited for me was not what I expected. I had thoughts of a stark hospital room, one with draping wires that covered every inch of my body and an oxygen tube stuffed up my nose. I imagined worried nurses fussing over my chart or some other banal thing, measuring out pills that would somehow cure me of my ailments. But none of what I’d envisioned was true. Instead, it was an intimately familiar sight that greeted me—my bedroom.
I pursed my lips, my brow furrowing as I looked over to Valerie’s side of the bed. It was empty, but unkempt, as if she’d been there only moments before. Stretching a hand across the distance, my fingers grazed the rumpled sheets. They were cool to the touch.
“Well, that’s strange,” I murmured. How very unlike Valerie. With an inward shrug, I flipped the sheets away, rubbing a palm into my eyes. An unsettling exhaustion filled me, but I chalked it up to whatever had made us all so sick. Or had I simply dreamed that? Flashes of gaping necks melded with the memory of Meadow gasping for air, and I wasn’t sure what to believe.
Dressing quickly, I made my way downstairs. The moment I stepped into the kitchen, an eerie feeling crept over me. It prickled along my skin and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something about the room wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The countertops and appliances were all the same, white marble and steel, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different.
“Anybody home?” I called. Stony silence was my only reply. “Guess not.”
Shaking my head, I dipped behind the counter and opened the fridge.
“Soy milk?” I muttered, picking up the carton to glance at it. “Why in the world would Val buy soy milk?”
God, I hope she isn’t trying to go dairy free again, I thought to myself. Rummaging through the drawers, I found some cut-up fruit and heaped it onto a plate. My fingers traced the golden edge of its porcelain face, lost in thought.
I swear we got rid of these plates months ago. Guess we must have had some in storage.
Shrugging it off, I sat down at the table and picked at the fruit. Despite the hunger that gnawed at my stomach, I had a hard time eating. The more I stared at the surrounding rooms, the more I noticed just how strange things seemed. There were little differences, minute things that seemed oddly out of place—a change of curtain color here, a different pillow fabric there. Was it possible that Valerie had switched these things without me knowing? I had to admit that it was. I’d never cared about the nuances of home decorating, never wanted to be part of that discussion. Valerie took pride in our home, and it wasn’t unusual for the face of it to change with the seasons. But this felt different somehow. More intentional. It wasn’t an overhaul of winter whites to spring florals and pastels. It wasn’t rugs and pillows and blankets and curtains, all changed to dramatic effect. It was a series of subtle alterations, things that did nothing to change the space. Maybe I was reading into things. But it made me wonder, what was the point of it all?
Abandoning the fruit, I made my way into the living room. That was when I saw it. My heart thumped against my chest, a dull ache spreading between my shoulders. Even if Valerie had changed the curtains or the pillows without my notice, she couldn’t have changed the fireplace from stone to brick. I stared at the fireplace for some time, trying to make sense of it. This was undeniably my house. And yet it wasn’t. Confusion danced with a splinter of panic in the middle of my chest, and whispers of doubt filled the empty spaces in my mind. How was this possible? Was any of this real?
Forcing myself to walk, I approached the mantle with my heart in my throat. Pictures adorned the fireplace, and I was relieved to see Valerie and Meadow smiling up at me from within them. But even they were different. Valerie’s face was slimmer, her usually honeyed eyes now a mossy green. Her hair was more chestnut than the auburn I knew, her face framed by a set of wispy bangs I’d never seen before. Meadow was different, too. My heart ached to see the sallow pallor of her skin, her face no longer dotted with the fine freckles I adored. The usual blue of her eyes was now a muddy brown, and it dulled the unparalleled whimsy of her face.
They were mine, my family. And yet they weren’t. They were as much strangers to me as they were familiar, as much imposter as beloved companions. The truth of it all stared me in the face, daring me to act, challenging me to rip apart this sham of a house and this lie of a family. But I couldn’t. It was still mine, even if it wasn’t. And destroying any part of the fake them would destroy a real part of me.
I needed air. I turned on my heel and darted for the door, nearly tearing it from the hinges as I stepped outside. But if I thought I might find relief from whatever nightmare I’d found myself in, I was wrong. Because the world outside my door was nothing like the world I remembered. It was something altogether different.
It was summer in California. At least, it should have been. But rather than the bright, empty skies typical of the season, I was met with dark-bellied clouds swollen with rain. They loomed overhead, dark and foreboding, hanging so low to the ground I thought I could reach out and touch them. In the distance, impressive mountains thrust towards the sky, jutting, imposing figures that had never been there before.
It was then that I knew I was dreaming. There was no other explanation, no other reason for this world to exist. Somewhere in my sick-addled brain, I’d created a place that was both haunting and familiar, a comforting place twisted by the horrors I’d seen, the dark things I’d tried to repress from the moment I saw them. It wasn’t all that surprising when I thought about it. Weren’t all dreams just the mind’s way of rationalizing things it had felt and seen?
Swallowing a deep breath, I leaned into the world around me. Knowing it was a dream made the changes easier to bear. They seemed less threatening than before, and as I stepped off the porch and headed for the road, I found myself appreciating the subtle changes of this world.
In my waking world, the street that I now walked was filled with bungalows with manicured lawns, each perfectly square patch divided by expertly trimmed hedges. But in this world—this strange dreamland—that wasn’t the case. Here, small bungalows were trapped between fourplexes and small apartments, and the lawns that should have existed were nothing more than bits of scrub and hard-packed dirt. The quiet suburban neighborhood had become a crowded city street, complete with a series of convenience stores and small markets. It was strange to walk around the city I knew so well and see it so irrevocably altered. In a weird way, it felt like stepping into an alternate universe, a place of what-ifs. What if the subdivisions hadn’t been designed? What if the city had been allowed to expand organically of its own accord? Is this what it would have looked like?
My eyes found the ring of mountains in the distance, and I wondered what they meant. In dreams, everything had meaning. At least, that was my understanding of things. So, what did the presence of mountains mean? And why did they fill me with a deep-seated sense of dread? No matter where I walked, I could see them. They watched me, studying my every move with their blank faces as if to memorize every curve of my face and every step that I took.
Eventually, I came to a park I’d never seen before. It didn’t exist in the waking world, yet in this dreamland it seemed that every turn corralled me here. I noticed immediately that this was the only patch of land with grass. No, not grass. Clover. The park was filled with it. It grew in thick patches beneath the metal slides and near the drinking fountain, in the shadows of towering maples and against the grounding poles of the swing set. But for all its thickness, the clover seemed almost sickly. It was a pale sort of green, the edges of its leaves dried and brown, fragile stalks yellowing and bending beneath the weight of its own demise.
It struck me as odd that the park was deserted. Even on a cloudy day, I expected to hear the giggles and shrieks of children at play. Yet there was nothing. Not a single soul.
Add that to the list of weird things about this dream, I thought wryly. It should have been easy to dismiss, but it gnawed at me. As I left the park and made my way toward what should have been the edge of suburbia, I realized that I hadn’t seen anyone since I got here. I was alone in this weird world, a lonely soul still puzzling out where I was, and why.
The longer I walked, the more the idea troubled me. Everything in this dream was so detailed. It felt real, as real as if I had been plucked from one place in the waking world and placed in another. Thunder rolled over the sky, a deep rumble that echoed throughout the city, and with it the first few drops of rain began to fall.
“Great,” I muttered, wiping the cool splashes of water from my face. I kept a brisk pace as the rain continued, no longer sure of where I was going. Maybe it didn’t matter. I’d never had control of my dreams before, if that’s what I had now, and I wasn’t really sure what to do with it. I walked on, deciding to let my feet pick their own path, until the houses and apartments and shops faded away, slowly turning into sprawling fields of dirt. My pace slowed as I reached the edge of civilization, finally grinding to a halt.
An eerie feeling crawled over my skin. I had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was watching me. Fighting down the sliver of fear that clogged my throat, I cast a quick glance in all directions.
That was when I saw it. A shadowy figure stood outlined against the horizon, no more than a mile away, the shape of a man clad in black. My heart chipped away at my ribs as the figure took several steps closer, face obscured by the murky gray that surrounded us. I opened my mouth to call out, but the words died in my throat as the figure turned away from me, staring at a point ahead of where I stood. As if pulled by strings, my head twisted about, and I saw what it was he was staring at.
There, several feet in the distance, stood a sign. Its face was cracked and broken, a series of fractures splintering out like spiderwebs across the sea-green surface. In the waking world it would have said Welcome to California, but it didn’t. I read the sign, a chill wending its way into my body.
Now Surveying Alta California.
I stared at the placard for a long time, trying to make sense of it. I’d never heard of such a place, and seeing the sign, so real and solid before me, was unnerving. I crossed the space between me and it, unsure of what to believe. If this was just a dream, then why did the sight of it leave me feeling so unsettled? At last I stood before it, and with trembling fingers reached out to touch the surface. It was dusty and gritty, its paint chipping and peeling back in hard flakes. It was amazingly detailed, right down to the rusting post on which it stood, and the reflective border that gleamed a thousand colors in the dying light of the sun.
I’d never had much of an imagination, had never had dreams so vivid as this before. And the idea that my mind could create a place both hauntingly familiar and strangely altered was a disturbing one. Still, I knew it must be a dream. The only question I couldn’t answer was why? Why this dream? Why now? What did it all mean?
Turning back to the horizon, I thought to ask the dark figure that waited there. But, as it turned out, I would never get the chance.
By the time I turned back to him, he was already gone.
(Read Episode 4 by clicking the Page 2 Link Below)