Vox Mentis

Check the vehicles nearby for keys and take whatever works. If not that, get some tubing from the ambulance and siphon some gas out of it.

You study the roadway ahead, filled with bones and rusted metal. “I can find gas. I’ll be five minutes. Can you not die for five minutes?”

Eliot’s chin dropped.

“Don’t lie to me. If I have to, I will cut you open.”

“Ff,” says Eliot. “I. Fine.”

You eye him. But you won’t learn anything from Eliot’s face that Eliot does not want you to know. “Sure,” you say. “You’re fine.” You climb out of the car.

~

You find a dust-coated SUV with keys in the ignition and gas in the tank. This is a much better option than trying to reintroduce life to the disintegrating piece of shit that is the Valiant, so you climb in and steered around wrecked vehicles. The interior has an odd smell, which you try not to think about. When you get close enough to the Valiant, you put the SUV into neutral and jump out. Eliot seems to have deteriorated in the meantime: His skin is papery, his eyes unfocused. “Hey!” you say. “I found a better car.” You pull open Eliot’s door. “Throw your arm around me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You. Go. I. Stay.”

“No, that’s not what we’re doing. You’re coming with me. That’s the plan. We’re taking you to a hospital.”

“Bad. Plan,” says Eliot. “Gets you. Killed.”

“You have an alternative?”

“North. Two miles. Dirt road. Then. Cross-country. Forty miles. To blacktop. Town. Kikaroo. Then. Any way. You want.”

“Is there a hospital in Kikaroo? No. So we’re not doing that.”

“Must.”

“I tell you what. Look me in the eye, tell me you believe I can do this without you, and I’ll leave you here.”

Eliot eyes you.

“Unconvincing,” you say. “Put your goddamn arm around me.”

“No.”

“Get the fuck out of the car!”

“No.”

You lean in to grab him. Eliot’s head pivots to hit you in the nose: a small movement, but enough to knock you back, your vision flaring. “Mother fuck!” You turn in a circle. “You prick!”

Eliot's demanded so much of your cooperation, I think it's time to make him reciprocate?

You lunge across Eliot and grab the towel. “I’ll fucking make you!” You begin to unwrap it.

“No.”

The intensity of Eliot’s tone stops you. “Then-”

“Never.” For a moment, you think Eliot is climbing out of the car. But he's only leaning. “Never. On me.”

“Okay,” you say, intimidated. “Point made, fine.” But then Eliot slumps back in his seat, becoming less terrifying and more fragile, and you change your mind. “You know what? I am going to use it.” You peel the towel from the petrified wood. It catches on a sharp protruberance and rips. A noise comes out of Eliot, something halfway between a snarl and a moan, and his head turns away. You have to twist him back to face the bareword, then realize Eliot’s eyes are closed. “Goddammit.” You try to thumb up his eyelids while keeping a grip on the word. “Open up!” You force open one eye. The pupil dilates and the fight drains from Eliot’s body. “Okay, now,” you say. “Get out of the car.”

Eliot’s hand shoots out and grips the door frame. You retreat a step. Eliot’s other hand comes out and twitches around like a spider until it finds purchase. His body begins to shake.

“Are you, uh, okay there?” you say.

“Harrrgh,” says Eliot. His expression is very intense. He's trying to pull himself out of the car, you realize. Straining, but lacking the strength to do it. You move forward to help and realize that Eliot’s entire body is vibrating, his muscles tight bundles of wire.

“There,” you say. Eliot straightens. He throws out a foot in a jerky, searching motion. You release him. Eliot falls to the pavement. “Oh, shit! Sorry!” Eliot’s hands scrabble at the concrete. “Jesus! Eliot! Let me help you.”

“Ghee.”

You wrap your arms around Eliot’s torso. “Come on. This way.” After four steps, Eliot vomits. His eyes are wide and staring, the pupils milky. He looks dead. “Eliot, I’m sorry. But it’s just a little farther.” Eliot’s foot slides out and you maneuver it to touch the ground. “That’s it.” Eliot makes a noise like it might become a cough one day. “Please, Eliot.” Eliot's not going to make it. He's already dead, and you're making him walk to an SUV. “I’m so sorry. But I can’t let you die.”

“Haargh.”

“Don’t die! Do not die!” You're still holding the bareword and try to wave it in Eliot’s face. Whether Eliot can even see anymore, you don’t know. “Don’t die.”

Eliot’s body convulses. Flecks of spittle fly from his mouth.

“Fuck!” you say. You're inching toward the paramedic van, and you wonder if there is a sedative in there, something in a syringe, which you can use to knock Eliot out. Then Eliot will stop being so much like a reanimated corpse. “Come with me!”

You prop Eliot against the rear of the van and Eliot keels over. You climb inside anyway and begin ransacking drawers. The sensation that you've been here before descends again, more strongly this time. You can feel memories scratching at the underside of your mind, just out of reach. But you don’t have time for that. Eliot is lying in the dust and you have to get him to the SUV. You should use a fireman’s carry. Why have you been shuffling along, holding Eliot by the arm? That's stupid. You want to move someone, you put them over your shoulders. Everyone knows that. Anyone in emergency services has practiced in drills a hundred times. You look around the van. This vehicle isn’t just familiar. It's yours.

You crawl past the trolley and into the cabin, dropping into the driver’s seat. You put your hands on the wheel. Eliot is bleeding to death back there. But it's calling to you. You have the feeling you're a paramedic.

You pop open the compartment between the seats and rummage through the junk inside. Among the loose change and plastic wrappers is a yellowed newsletter. You glance at it and almost toss it aside before realizing the picture on the front is of you. You look different. You're standing with a bunch of other people in front of the emergency room. Everything is clean and bright. Your hair is long. You have a tan. Your shoulders are broader. You're relaxed in a way that you can’t ever remember feeling. You read the caption and count the figures from left to right, to be sure. DANNY WALKER. That's you. Your name was Danny.

Memories are flooding back. What do you do?