No.
I’m sorry.
I won’t be going into sordid details. There won’t be any car chases, either. No
guns or bombs. No shootouts. No torture or harrowing feats of physical
punishment or endurance. No dismemberment or gore. No teenage lesbian sex
scenes. And no genitalia exploding in slow motion. Nothing more violent than
bruised toes.
Remember—you
were warned.
We had sex.
That’s all you need to know.
Call me
old-fashioned, a prude, whatever, but I’ve never had much time for descriptions
of the mechanics (hydraulics?) of sex. They remind me too much of instruction
manuals for DIY model planes. Tabs, slots, insertions, rotations… Titillating,
stimulating, perhaps, but how relevant? So someone’s good in bed, or
pedestrian, easily amused, inventive, submissive, athletic, fond of
strawberries, or yodels a medley of national anthems during climaxes? Would you
buy a used utopia from them? Would it make any difference?
Anyway,
Yvette and I did it. In our bedroom. A thunderstorm raging, animal instincts
ageing.
A relevant
detail: Yvette was on top. Compensating for my alleged tiredness (and doing an
admirable job of it). Not that I hadn’t been interested when she’d made her
desires clear to me, I was just worried another chest pain would flare and let
the cat out of the bag. For once, my thoughts were dominated by my heart, not
my groin. And a long forgotten memory of a trashy tabloid headline reporting an
ex-politician’s death as occurring ‘on the job’.
“Has it
been a fortnight already?” I had said to Yvette, trying to replace the tabloid
with my most reliable anti-arousal image: a protracted film clip seen years
before of a gaunt prime minister and prim wife—his tie fluttering, her hair
blowing—waving, endlessly waving dutifully at a jet taking an eternity to lift
off (inside: the Queen, undoubtedly wearing the same grim bored expression,
longing too to get away).
A
mouth-corner smile from Yvette, clearly not amused.
Spring fever? I mused. After all our years together?!
An
especially loud roll of thunder erupted, and rain finally fell, pounding on the
roof and windows, soon drowning out all other sound. The storm, building for
hours, now unleashed itself in a fury.
An omen? I wondered—but I could never have guessed to
what extent.
The house
blacked out. Common enough in storms. Annoying, but it made the lightning even
more dazzling.
Yvette drew
closer—but not from fear of the storm. With familiar assured means, she soon
made it impossible for me to resurrect the image of those poor duty-bound
people, waving, waving. Instead, they saluted, and against my better judgement
and claims of tiredness I gave up.
What
followed was marred only by intermittent anxiety about my abilities to disguise
the agony of a chest pain as a surge of ecstasy.
I’d never
before experienced pains like those of the preceding few weeks. Always sudden,
brief, and occurring unpredictably only after sudden activity, my doctor
couldn’t decide whether they were muscular or a sign of heart trouble.
There was
enough circumstantial evidence for either option. Desk-bound, with no more
regular exercise than paperweight-lifting, why not cramps on the rare occasions
I did do anything vaguely strenuous, like running for a train? But then, why
always in the chest? Were clogged arteries warning me of an impending heart
attack? My father had the first of his seven attacks when he was 48—for me,
less than a decade away.
Heart or
muscle? I’d been fretting about the results of the tests ever since taking them
but I only had a day to wait before I’d know (so I thought). I hadn’t told
Yvette—no point worrying her about what might be nothing. Especially when I was
doing enough worrying for both of us. Even during…
When the
inevitable overtook me, my arms were outstretched, grasping the steel frame of
the bed’s headboard. Yvette and I were not touching except in the obvious way,
she riding frantically towards her own inevitability, the rain thrashing the
windows with white noise, thunder bellowing, lightning flaring…
You know…
the usual…
… then, in
my last gasps, Yvette in the midst of hers: lightning bright enough to have
been
It was as
if she was not there at all—I felt no weight pressing against me, no tactile
sensations of any kind, not even of the headboard I was gripping; and beneath
me, a similar absence of feeling. Had my sense of touch been obliterated,
confused by precedings?
Unable to
see, feel or hear anything but the rain’s roar, wind and thunder, the thought
came to me that perhaps we’d been strenuous enough to bounce from the bed.
Then,
gradually, a feeling—something beneath me: not carpet, and certainly not soft
sheets—something rough, uneven, scratchy.
We couldn’t
have bounced out the window?!
Vision returned,
snail-pace…
Yvette was
nowhere in sight.
More to the
point, I was no longer in bed, or even in my bedroom or house. I was alone,
lying on my back on soft buoyant wet grass, my arms stretched behind my head
but gripping nothing. And it was no longer the early hours of the night but
day-time.
I sat up—abruptly,
to say the least. A jittery scan of the surroundings…
I wasn’t
even on the lawn of my house. I was on tall native grass in a place I didn’t
recognise: thick bushland full of towering trees and dense shrubs, devoid of
people, houses, any sign of civilisation.
“Ooooookay,”
I said, eyes darting from side to side. “The earth moved, but…”
It was
warm, despite skies full of storm clouds rapidly receding. All around me: signs
of recent rainfall, though none was then falling. Occasional lightning.
To say I
was mystified is about as much an understatement as suggesting a basketballer
would be inconvenienced by having a leg amputated. Had I lurched into a dream?
It didn’t feel like one—it felt eerie but real.
I stood up
in something of a panic, only to immediately feel worse. My head swam, and my
entire body felt uncommonly tired, out of proportion to recent (relatively)
leisurely activities.
I sank back
down to my knees—absently noticing that I was not simply still naked but
proudly so, anatomically speaking (though not for long).
I massaged
my temples, perplexed, thinking: I must be dreaming. After setting a new record for
falling asleep after sex. I’m going to pay for this in the morning.
Then I
noticed the grass beneath me was marred by a narrow line that curved back on
itself, its shape that of my own, arms outstretched. The grass within and
around the line was tall and healthy—but along it, burnt almost to the ground.
It reminded
me of a chalked outline in a murder case.
I started
to panic.
Wild
desperate paranoid explanations sprang to mind. Was I a victim of a high school
or university initiation prank? Or were the perpetrators myopic buck’s night
celebrants who’d mistaken me for the groom? Had I been kidnapped and drugged,
my tiredness an after effect? By aliens who’d wiped my memory? Perhaps I was
simply hallucinating. Maybe someone had spiked the water supply, and not just
me but the whole city was in a state of delirium. I’m just a bank manager, after
all. Why single me out?
I even
wondered if Yvette was behind it all, if one of her many interest groups was
more sinister than appearances suggested and had persuaded or brainwashed her
to play some grim joke on me for their own deluded reasons. Could she somehow
have spiked our sex!?
Or had she
suffered a similar fate?
Perhaps the
worst idea: had a heart attack left me deliriously immersed in the phantasms of
my own mind? Had I been blinded by a lightning flash as I thought, or was this a
side effect of a massive coronary? Like a tunnel of light in near-death
experiences. Hallucination by oxygen deprivation.
What the
hell was going on?
Staying put
was not going to answer that question, so I gradually quelled my panic by
dwelling on the realisation that wherever I was, I could not be far from
civilisation, and sooner or later I would find it—then I’d discover the true explanation for my baffling
transportation. Or wake up. Whichever came first.
Summoning
my energy, I again stood up, this time more cautiously. I scrutinised my
surroundings, scanned a full circle, sought for a direction.
Distinctive
white-barked trees were oddly familiar. One was like a gum outside our bedroom
window, only taller, and with thicker limbs. Another was positioned relative to
the first just like another at home, with a neat scar, too smooth to have
occurred naturally but in the same spot as where I’d sawed off a dead branch on
the tree at home. I was sure of it. But this tree too was taller than I
remembered ours, and the scar was much older. And it had other branches
missing.
Had I been
dumped here deliberately, so the contradictory familiarity of these trees would
heighten my confusion? Or was it just the sort of thing I could have expected
from a hallucination? Or from exhaustion? Or maybe to me, all trees simply
looked alike.
Endless
thoughts, when the need was for action. Nothing hinted at an obvious direction,
so I chose the one least likely to drain my depleted energies. Downhill.
“It could
have been worse,” I reassured myself. I was naked, but not cold. And the grass
was thick and luxuriant enough for my soft feet not to greatly miss their
habitual protection of shoes.
After a
featureless, seemingly endless, gently sloping hundred yards or less, the bush
suddenly ended at a narrow bitumen road, devoid of traffic, curving across the
sloping ground. I could not see far in either direction, but it was not
familiar.
Exhausted,
dazed, and disoriented, I took to the road. Again, downhill.
The next
hour or so is a bit blurred. The road curved back and forth, with no streets
crossing it, and I kept walking, slowly, fighting weariness. Several times when
moving uphill, chest pains struck. Mercifully, they passed quickly, but they
did nothing to help my state of mind. About the only other thing I remember is
my hands cramping from being held so long in the same position—over my crotch.
At no stage
did I see a car or other vehicle, nor people, not even a farmhouse or power
line. Just thick bush on either side of the road. And a profusion of wildlife:
mobs of grazing kangaroos; occasional wallabies and echidnas; a dozen or more
varieties of snake and lizard; uncountable species of birds, from tiny blue
wrens to wedge-tailed eagles; even koalas and one small herd of emus. And
surprisingly close to the road but too big to be anything else, several wombat
burrows.
“I must be
a long way from home,” I decided. I’d seen many of these creatures near our
house at one time or another, but they were rare sights, and never in such
numbers. I couldn’t think where so much wildlife might be found. Even the more
distant national parks I’d visited hadn’t seemed so abundant. Or, for that
matter, some zoos.
I found it
threatening, and my apprehension and sense of dislocation increased—especially
when I almost stepped on one large black snake as it suddenly darted onto the
road, before slithering back as soon as it saw me. I hate snakes.
The terrain
did not alter until the road crossed a creek with steep banks, clear flowing
waters, and frog choruses. Thirsty, as well as tired, I stopped to drink and
catch my breath. It hadn’t rained since I’d started my trek, but the light was
dimming as another thunderstorm built, deep rumbling thunder and dazzling
lightning bolts gradually drawing near.
I stretched
out on the grass adjacent to the creek, and found myself gazing at a nearby
hilltop, again vaguely familiar. It had an odd shape, something like an ancient
Mayan truncated pyramid. Its very flat broad top was covered in thick tall gum
trees. Without the trees, I’d have sworn it was a hilltop a few kilometres from
home—also not far from a creek, though one more often dry than not, and dirty
and impoverished despite Yvette’s and others’ efforts to re-vegetate its banks.
A sharp
splash in the creek prompted me to turn in time to see a platypus gliding
gracefully near the far bank. “Definitely not the same creek,” I said. Just
another coincidence, like the trees I first saw. Or some side effect of the
drugs I’d been slipped.
I resumed
my walk, worried that if I rested too long, I might fall asleep. But I’d barely
covered any distance when my tiredness grew extreme and I indeed found it hard
to stay awake. The mounting thunderstorm began to spill its rain, in a handful
of large drops. “Not a favourable development,” I muttered, before lurching at
the shock of the first cold drop hitting my bare back. The ordeal mounted—but
my attention was diverted.
From where
I stood, the road now stretched straight in front of me for some distance, and
through the increasingly heavy rain, the dim light, and the blinding lightning,
I could see, perhaps a kilometre away, a vehicle of some sort, approaching. It
was too distant for me to detect any details other than that it was a car of
some description, with an unusual deep violet colour. And I knew I could not
expect to be seen from so far away. Yet I could not resist waving my arms and
jumping in the air, trying to catch the driver’s attention, in the process
gradually growing used to the shock of the rain’s coldness on my skin.
Just when I
thought it was definitely close enough for its driver to see me, I suddenly
remembered I was naked. Still uncomfortable about this, and also abruptly aware
the car might have people inside responsible for my situation and perhaps ready
to make it worse, I darted off to the side of the road and crouched behind a
thick bush. I peered between the bush’s branches, but my view was hampered by
the dense vegetation, the dim light, the pouring rain now draining constantly
through my hair into my eyes, and the glare of occasional lightning bursts.
Without a
sound, the car stopped almost directly in front of me, mere metres away, its
middle portion dimly visible between a narrow gap in the bushes, the rest
hidden. Try as I might, I could not see inside the tinted windows.
The
driver’s door opened and a tall figure left the car, its build too burly to be
anything but that of a male. His back to me the whole time, he hurriedly put on
a voluminous raincoat, and placed its bulky obscuring hood over his head. He
extracted something small and rectangular from a coat pocket and tried to
shelter it from the rain by bending over it. He watched it studiously, pointing
it first away from me, then gradually swinging it round to point directly at me—even
though the bush I was hiding behind must have obscured me completely from his
sight. He moved forward, out of my view briefly as he went round the car
bonnet, then approached, a small waterfall tumbling over his hood. When he
stopped barely a metre from me, I could still not see his face, but I knew he
was looking straight at me.
“There you
are at last,” he said in an unusually deep voice, with a slight but quirky
accent. “Are you all right?”
If his
words implied that he knew me, indeed that he was expecting to find me, then I
did not recognise his voice. I didn’t reply. Instead, I remained motionless and
wary, trying to study him through the bushes.
“What
happened to your clothes?” he said, pocketing his rectangular instrument.
Still
silent, I moved the bush’s branches in a mostly futile attempt to better hide
myself.
“Well?” he
said. “Are you coming with me?”
I
hesitated. I was not just uncomfortable about being naked, but unsure whether
to trust him.
“You prefer
to just stay here in the rain, do you?” he said. “Come on. I think I have some
sort of explanation.”
I was too
tempted by this—and surprised—to resist. Abruptly, I stood upright, but was
overcome by a wave of giddiness. More exhausted than ever, I gripped my head,
staggered a step around the bush towards the stranger, then stopped aghast.
A
particularly intense lightning flash behind me lit up the stranger’s face,
allowing me to see it for the first time.
It was the
face of a scaly horned demon.
Fresh
horror clambered feverishly onto the back of my exhaustion and disorientation, and
they tumbled together in a heap. I managed to turn to flee, but probably didn’t
take even one step. Instead, as a massive burst of thunder erupted, I felt the
now familiar pain in my chest strike without warning, and much more intensely
than usual.
With a
vague sense of falling, darkness overwhelmed me.
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Chapter 2![]() |