Water walls and solid air.

I ran into my childhood room, climbed under the bed filled with squirming maggots, tried to hold my breath.

I couldn’t move.

I was in a room. Blinding light shining through large windows. A long wooden floor and shiny mirror walls.

Someone started throwing stuff at me. I jumped through the window onto soggy grass.

The bed rose up.

He was in the room. He was all around.

There was no where left to run.

***

Henry wakes with a start, beads of sweat standing on his forehead, trickling down his pale face. The sun is coming up slowly lighting the dead earth feebly through the grey clouds. He breathes in deeply, closes his eyes, pushes his fists into his eyes, and breathes out.

It doesn’t make him feel any better.

He opens his eyes again and looks out at the skeleton trees, the brown grass, and wants to stay in bed forever. He wants to go back to sleep.

No he doesn’t. He would still be there, chasing. Always chasing. He’s sick of running.

He swings his legs out from under the heavy blankets, his wet skin shivers in the cold air. Plodding across the cold wood floor half-asleep, he stubs his toe on the table.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he breathes out silently, clutching his toe, awake now, and hobbles to the bathroom.

His piss is dark yellow and smells like beer. He stares at himself in the mirror. A drawn white face stares back through hollow, blood-shot eyes. Everything has started drooping, falling. He flips off the light and walks back into the living room, flips on the computer sitting on the table, and slumps down into a cheap nylon chair behind his desk. Cars are starting to move as people head off to work, to class, to life. He stares at the naked branches for a little while before reaching into a small wooden box in front of him, pulls out a small glass pipe and a pinch of pot.

He packs the stuff into the pipe, rummages around the clutter looking for a lighter, finding one, he lights the green material and sucks in until his lungs are full. He feel a little better and turns on the radio. The room is filled with the light angry sounds of Ani Difranco and he relaxes in the chair and watches the early birds flying from branch to branch. One of them, a small inquisitive looking fellow, perches outside his window. Its head moves quickly from side to side, up and down. It sees itself, he thinks. Or maybe it sees him and isn’t sure what to make of it. It flies away and he thinks how lucky it is.

He walks over to the computer. Email. Internet. A connection to the outside world. He sits down and goes through the steps of connecting. The dial, the long shrieking noises over the modem, the familiar and comfortable sound of a connection. He clicks on the browser, go to his email.

He checks his email some twenty-five times a day. It’s absurd. A few summers ago he went out west and was away from computers for days, he was anxious to check the mail as soon as he got back. Who had written? There were no messages. He’s not sure why he bothers any more. He doesn’t have anything better to do.

The Internet is running slowly this morning. Fucking dial up connections. If he had any money he would upgrade. But he has no job and gets by on his veteran’s pension which is barely enough for rent, pot and alcohol. His mail comes up. There’s a new message waiting and his heart lightly flutters with a vague excitement.

Nick Cave is screaming about being under fifteen feet of pure white snow and he smiles, takes another hit. The inbox opens slowly and he wonders who could be writing him. Maybe an ex-girlfriend from high school wanting to get back together. Maybe something to cure erectile dysfunction. It’s from someone he doesn’t know. Francis Kwame.

Francis is an unlucky man from Africa trying to get at his dead father’s substantial wealth. Francis claims that his father’s account has five million US dollars and fifty kg of raw gold and he will share it with anyone willing to help him get it.

He stares at the message and smiles. Taking another hit from his pipe, he sucks down hot ash and starts coughing. “Shit shit shit,” he cries out jumping up from his chair. He remembers the beer in the refrigerator and takes one out, still coughing. He opens it, drains it, his throat feeling better, grabs another one and goes back to the table. He rereads the message, hits reply.

“Hello Francis,” he starts. “How are things going in Africa? Is god in control there? From what I’ve read I would have to say he certainly isn’t, but what do I know? Wow. You’re dad was fucking rich. How did he get all that money? I don’t understand why you can’t get the money if you’re listed as the next of kin, but I guess all countries have silly laws. I’m breaking one of mine right now. Well, not right now. Hold on a minute.”

He stands up, the second beer finished, and wobbles back towards the desk with the pipe, fills it again, grabs another beer, opens it, and sits back down.

“Okay,” he starts again, “much better. Anyway, laws are silly are they not? At least some of them. I guess the laws against killing people are okay. But who am I to say who should and shouldn’t be killed. I’m losing my point. What was my point? Oh yeah, your dead father’s money. Fucks to you Francis, you’re going to be a very rich man once you find some poor ignorant fuck to call you back. I have to say I’m a little jealous. My dad left me fuck all when he died. At least he died, though. It was the least he could do. Fucking bastard.”

He sits back and stares out the window, surprised with his violence.

His father.

***

“Are you getting up?” Alex asked. It’s dark and Henry can’t see him.

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty,” Alex answered. “Hurry up or Sergeant Skin will have your ass.”

“Fuck Skin,” Henry cried out, getting up quickly.

“Fuck it’s hot,” he said to Alex. Alex was busy gathering up his gear and weapons.

“Wait until you get outside,” he smirked and pushed the metal door open. The desert light and stink came in. Another fucking day.

“Henry, nice of you to make it this morning,” Skin sneers out. Henry nods at him, ignores him.

“Listen up second squad,” Skin starts. Henry doesn’t pay much attention. They’ve been through this thousands of times. The sun is still hanging low in the sky like a bloated orange, throwing its heat at them violently. Henry watches a massive bird perched on the building over them. It watched them with reserved interested, picking at itself every once in a while and letting out shrill calls to unknown things.

“Henry, are you listening to me?” Skin yelled out.

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Oh yeah? What did I just say?”

Shit.

“You were talking about driving down a road. I’m following your vehicle and trying not to get blown up. The same shit you say every morning.”

Skin glared at him but didn’t say anything. What could he say? This place grew more like Vietnam everyday. Henry read about Vietnam when he was just a boy and was fascinated by it. Those soldiers shot at their leaders if they pissed them off. “Shine your boots soldier.” “Fuck off.” Pop-pop-pop. Henry would stare down at his machine gun, the thousand rounds hanging off his shoulders like Rambo, and Skin would slink away and say nothing.

Henry stayed with his mom for two weeks before deploying. Every night they walked a paved trail under bright leaves in the cool evening air.

“Do you want to see your father before you leave?” she asked one night. His father was living alone in a retirement home. Heart problems and an ugly demeanor put him there.

“No,” Henry answered, surprised as soon as he did.

She looked at him. “Why not?”

“I’m not sure.” He was an asshole. Treated them like shit.

Henry can still remember his breath, dark and dangerous, on his face as he threw him around rooms, yards, lobbies. His face drawn back as he barked orders. Running away from him when he got old enough, fast enough. Henry didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

“He doesn’t want to see you either,” she said dryly.

They walked back to the car in silence. It hurt. He was being stupid, hypocritical. He felt as if he had the right of first refusal. But he didn’t want to see Henry. What had he done to him?

Skin wrapped up his briefing and they climbed into their trucks. All the armor and equipment made it nearly impossible. Henry wedged himself behind the steering wheel and brought the truck to a sputtering start. Alex climbed into the seat next to him and Reed clawed his way into the turret. The thick smell of diesel fuel and burning shit hung in the air. Skin did his radio checks and they drove slowly out the gate, through the dragon’s teeth, and out into mayhem.

He should have noticed it. Alex should have noticed it. Skin should have noticed it. None of them noticed it. Women and children were running as fast as they could away from the road. The trucks zoomed past kicking up dust and rocks. They had reason to run. Convoys drove in the middle of the road as fast as their trucks will take them and don’t stop for anything. Anything.

Henry couldn’t hear anything when he woke up. They sent him home after a year with a medal and a handshake. He enrolled at the local college, started classes and drinking himself into oblivion.

Nothing meant anything anymore.

***

Henry stares at the message. It seems so stupid. He erases it, stares out the window, turns off the computer, stumbles to the bedroom, falls into bed.

***

Running running running.

Through trees and water, a dark lake and dark sky.

He’s following me.

The police are chasing now too.

I’m worried. I’m embarrassed. Am I?

–yes, I’m fucking naked. How did that happen? I remember the feeling of clothes.

Where did they go?

Trees, nothing but trees.

Buildings all around.

They’re closing in.

I go as fast as I can. I’m not moving.

They’re catching me.

Dead birds fall like autumn leaves. Their colors brilliant and deep.

I feel his fat, slimy hand grab my shoulder.

No where left to go.

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