Vox Mentis - Printable Version

You grab the shotgun again, and with your free hand reach down and grasp Tom's wrist. By the time you get Tom out of the cabin, the transport is close. You jump into deep, shadowed snow. You begin to forge forward. You make it out of the shade of the pickup and your shadow stretches before you, long and thin and sharpening at the edges, coalescing into something vulnerable. The ground shakes. There's a shriek of metal and you think, It's through the railing; it's thirty feet away, and you don't need to turn and verify this but you do anyway. The transport bounces toward the pickup and swats it aside. The idea of running suddenly seems very stupid to you, because the transport is as big as a mountain. It's going to run you down no matter what you do.

Tom grabs you by the ear. The transport hits deep snow and throws it up in a wave. You hadn't factored in the snow: That will slow it. You realize you can survive, or could have, if you'd thought of this about ten seconds ago. The truck plows toward you, fountaining snow. It slows and stops. Its tires spin. You reach out and touch its bull bar.

Tom holds an open hand out to you. "My gun. Now."

"No, I don't think so," you say. "I'll be holding on to it for now; I'm not really in the mood to have shotgun pellets in my back, thanks. How about you trust me for once?"

(04-02-2015, 01:42 PM)Schazer Wrote: »If you've got time to argue, ask why he doesn't just "make" you hand over the gun.

"Besides," you add, "I'm sure if you really wanted it you could just-"

The butt of the gun connects with your face, and you release it as you fall to the snow. Tom's hand is on the barrel. "Right."

(04-02-2015, 01:22 PM)Crowstone Wrote: »Ehhh alright. He's better at using it anyway

Tom climbs the grille and raises the shotgun. The driver is a woman, you see. Early forties. Glasses, kind of bookish. Not the sort of person you would expect to try to kill you with an animal truck. She looks at Tom with an expression of mild intent and reaches for a pistol that lies on the dash.

Tom fires through the windshield. You look away. In the light, the snow is diamonds. A trillion tiny diamonds.

Tom drops beside you. "Move."

You trudge through the snow. You and Tom don't speak. Beyond the reach of the transport's headlights, the snow grows waist deep. Your breath steams. Eventually, you say, "I can't keep going."

Tom looks at you. There's something off about his face. Tom looks at the cattle yard. Then, abruptly, he sits. You sit beside him, panting. The transport is perhaps five hundred yards away, its lights blazing. You can see the hole in its windshield. You shiver, and only now realize that you're still just wearing a T-shirt. Tom's head hangs as he stares at the ground, one arm across his knees, the shotgun in the other.

Anything you want to talk about?

You take a breath. "What is Wolf?"

"Not what," says Tom. "Who. Virginia Woolf."

"Ah," you say. "Another poet. Right. Was that Woolf?"

Tom looks at you. "What?"

"That woman."

"No," Tom says.

"Oh."

"If that was Woolf, I would be weeping tears of joy."

"Oh."

"Your hometown, Broken Hill? Woolf did that. Not a chemical spill. Woolf. I would be dancing a jig if that was Woolf."

"Got it," you say.

"Not Woolf," Tom says. "Not Woolf."

You sit in silence. Nothing moves but the wind. "Did you know that woman in the transport?"

"Yes."

"Why did she try to kill us?

Tom doesn't answer.

And your friend? And what about those people sitting in the mud? We could have gotten away. You just had to run over them."

"Yeah," Tom says.

"Why didn't you?" Tom doesn't answer. "You shot that woman."

"Austen."

"What?"

"Her name was Austen."

"As in... Jane Austen? An author name?"

"Jane Austen wrote poetry too."

(04-02-2015, 07:15 PM)Sai Wrote: »The man - your former friend, I suppose, called you Elliot. I'm going to start calling you that now, too.

"Okay," you say. "I get it. That guy called you Eliot. You're Tom Eliot. Right? T. S. Eliot. You're a poet."

Eliot sighs. "Was."

"You were a poet? So what are you now?"

"I'm not sure," Eliot says. "Ex-poet, I guess."

"So your friends... this "other group" we were supposed to meet up with... they turned bad?"

"They were compromised."

"What does that mean?"

"Woolf got to them."

"What does-"

"It means she's very persuasive."

"Persuasive? She's persuasive?"

"I told you, poets are good with words." Eliot stands. Snow falls from his coat. "Time to go."

"So let me get this straight. You're telling me Woolf persuaded them to try and murder us? As in, she said, 'Hey, how about you trap your buddy Tom Eliot in a cattle yard and try to run him down with a truck,' and they did? Because she's persuasive? What, is this fucking mind control?"

"I said very persuasive. Get up."

There's nothing but snow in every direction. "Where are we going?"

"I had a thought," says Eliot. "Maybe the plane really is here."

~

You trudge through blackness and snow until you can no longer feel anything. Your nerves retreat somewhere deep inside where there's still warmth. Your nose is a memory. You've not only never been this cold, you never understood this degree of cold was possible. You begin to hope poets find you, because whatever happens at least it'll be warm.

You stumble. "Aha!" says Eliot. "Runway." You can't see him. "Let's try... this way."

After a few minutes, the stars begin to vanish. There are noises. Eliot takes your arm and you find steps. At the top of those, the air is different. Warmer. Dear God, Warmer.

"Sit," says Tom. "Don't do anything." He moves away and you hear banging and switches flicking somewhere far away.