(Author's Note: I posted the two previous chapters of this morbid little yarn for the RPApril, though, those threads no longer seem to be accessible. If you're interested in seeing them, I can provide them to you directly. I decided to continue the cold, dark philosophical journey I began there with this entry, but it stands well enough on its own)
Chapter 3: A Life without Limits
“I knew a guy once—young kid, well, everyone’s “young” to me anymore—in his early 20’s, I think he was. We used to go around together. I don’t look a day over 25 myself,” he said pointing to his face, “so it was no big deal for me to go around with him and his friends.”
“I thought you couldn’t tolerate human company,” I countered, in a dry tone of voice.
“Normally, that’s true,” he admitted, “but in this particular case it was bearable due to the nature of the mortal.”
“Oh really? So there are people you can relate to then!”
He ignored my comment and continued with his story as we continued walking down the dark, lamp-lit street, light flakes of snow beginning to appear around us like little phantoms.
“He lived his life on the edge; he was always doing something that tested his mortality. Went to the hospital several times for various reasons, got arrested on at least three different occasions that I can think of, and had actually been clinically dead twice.”
“Sounds like he didn’t know when to stop,” I dryly observed.
“See, that’s precisely my point! Here was a mortal, and you mortals—most of you—take every precaution possible to ensure your safety. You’re very aware of Death, as a concept and a reality, by and large,” he mused, his mood suddenly one of seeming fascination.
“It is something of a minor concern to those of us who err on the side of rational and sensible behavior, yes.”
“Right, but why? Here is a fate you cannot avoid; you cannot duck or dodge it, and no matter what you do, how carefully you step, how much you save your energy, it still waits for you at the end of the line!”
“But that doesn’t necessarily make it sensible or wise to rush towards it.”
“What’s holding you back? Honestly. There are so many ridiculous ends that people meet that they have no control over. Do you believe in an afterlife?”
I commented that I wasn’t sure, a bit confused at this sudden jump in topics.
“You’re not sure. But you’re sure of this life, right?”
“Pretty sure. Though now that you’re in the picture, I’m questioning a few things.”
“Good.”
He continued walking, leaving the train of conversation we were just having suspended in mid-air like some roller coaster that stopped working just as it reached the peak of its ascent.
“Believe in reincarnation?”
Where was he going with this? “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”
“I don’t believe in it.”
“You don’t have to; it’s not like you’re going to die anytime soon,” I replied, and with a little thought on the subject, added, “Or ever.”
“Au contraire, dear mortal, I’m not immune to death; I’m just ageless. And I’m not really even sure about that. I could still be getting older after all—just not very quickly,” he explained with a smile. Seemed like his mood was improving with the walk and night air. He clearly wasn’t affected much, if at all, by the alcohol he had earlier.
“Can you still catch a cold?”
“Apparently. Damned things,” he muttered. I started chuckling.
“What?”
“I’m just imagining you with a cold. Sneezing, coughing, vampire with a head cold,” I said, laughing some more at the image of it.
He turned back away, “Yeah, I can still get sick.”
“What about cancer?”
“I don’t have it, so I can’t say.”
“That’s pretty good for being… what was it?”
“183 years old.”
“Yeah! So where do you go?”
“What do you mean?” His tone had reverted back to irritation. Apparently he wasn’t amused with this line of questioning.
“I mean when you get sick? I mean, do you just waltz into the doctor’s office and go ‘Yo, I’m a sick vampire, and I need some meds. Give me some!’ Do you even have health insurance? I mean, how do you make it work?”
“I know people.”
What a trite response. He “knows people.” I caught myself mocking him out-loud. Suddenly his footsteps came to a complete stop, and he rounded on me so fast that I nearly ran right into him, stopping short just inches from his face.
“Yes,” he looked me straight in the eyes with a fierce glare that warned me not to bother him with anymore of these questions, “I know people. And before you ask about my driver’s license, or any other ridiculous thing you can think up in that small, rapidly decaying brain of yours, the response is the same: I know people. You need to know people because you can’t simply walk in anywhere and say ‘Hey yeah, I’m 183 years old! I’d like to work here! Where do I sign up for retirement and benefits? When’s that kick in for a duodevigenarian?’”
“A what?”
“Means someone who is 180 years old; you know, from Latin. Or maybe you don’t know what that is either,” he turned away in disgust, his cloak whipping behind him.
“They didn’t offer Latin where I went to school.”
“I know. Dead language and all, even though it still contributes to about 80% of the roots of this and just about every other European language still spoken today.”
“Kind of like you: dead, but still very much alive.” That didn’t get me any response, but I could’ve sworn I heard a grunt.
“Why did you ask me if I believed in an afterlife and reincarnation?” I started again, wanting to know where he was going with that before we got derailed.
“Because I find that to be the number one reason for wasting opportunities in this life,” he answered callously. “People seem to think they’re saving up for something sometimes; like they got more lives to live, or ‘afterlives’, as it were.” He shrugged. “I personally happen to believe this is a ridiculous notion thought up to allay the guilt of not living this life to the fullest; for not facing your fears and dispelling your lack of motivation, indifference, or indecision and pursuing that reckless path that vaults you into something resembling ‘true life’.”
“What do you mean, ‘true life’?”
“And that’s precisely what I’m talking about,” he stopped and turned to me, his eyes catching mine in their direct gaze. “You have no idea what it is to really live, and this may be the only life you really get!”
My lips moved lethargically, as my mind listed off my thoughts: “I have a family, I work, I make quite a bit of money, I’ve traveled as far away as Australia, and I could probably drink you under the table. I’ve live plenty, I think…”
“Those are meaningless things!” he scoffed, throwing up his hands and turning to walk away from me.
“Maybe because you don’t have them.” He stopped dead and for a moment, gazing off into the darkness, as though his eyes caught sight of something interesting in the distance, of some sudden importance. After a moment, he resumed his tread, crossing the road.
A glow of headlights illuminated the falling drift of flakes that dropped in concert, casting a pall upon the cloaked form of the vampire who led my way that night.
“Come on!” he called back to me, standing in the middle of the road, as though the oncoming vehicle, growing larger and more formidable as it approached, didn’t matter to him in the slightest.
“You’re going to get run over if you keep standing there!” I yelled back at him.
“Better hurry up then, because I’m not moving until you do!” He threw up his hands with a shrug and turned back around facing me.
Crazy fucking bastard. If you asked me why I ran across the street that night, I still couldn’t tell you, except that I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with logical thought. As I stepped forth into the street, my right foot slipped forward on the surface. Swinging my arms forward, my momentum carried me straight into the frozen slush and onto my face, my body crashing into the wet mess, becoming covered with it as it soaked into my clothes.
“Nice going, genius. Weren’t a track and field star, were ya?”
My heart was beating too wildly for me to respond coherently to his mockery, and I was too busy scrambling hopelessly to my feet to care. I could feel the rumble of the truck’s engine bearing down on me, smell the smoke of its diesel engine, and I knew my life was at an end if my feet kept slipping on this accursed wet slush! I cried out, frustrated and frightened, reaching and digging with pained fingers; scraping my knees in a vain and frantic continuing effort to get free of this damned position I found myself in, my ears accosted by the blasting, blaring sound of the horn as the truck bore down on me now. Gasping, rushing, clawing, scrambling, I grasped at least the grip of Mathis, who with harsh and joint-rending strength, jerked me free of the center of the roadway, pulling me forward, diving once more into another heap of dirty slush spraying about my face as the truck passed by throwing still more of it on top of my panting corpse.
He had landed next to me, taking heavy breaths himself, and in the fading roar of the truck’s engine, I heard him laughing; not a hearty laugh, but a jeering one, full of ridicule at my near death experience. I should’ve killed him there. Rising on my hands and knees, I jumped at him in rage, beating him with my fists as soon as I grabbed hold of his cloak, wanting to break every rib in his body and every bone in his face.
Still he laughed as I furious unleashed my anger on him, deflecting my blows and pulling away from me, wrestling with my vice grip to get free of my raining punishment, rolling around and struggling to get on top. It was all I could do to growl with rage and clench my teeth, my eyes full of fury, wanting to beat the life right from his unnatural body.
“Do you feel that?” he said, gasping for breath, still laughing, the incorrigible bastard. “Do you feel that anger, the adrenaline, rushing through your veins? Do you feel it coursing through you?” He was all malice and smiles, having his sick fun with me as I leapt futilely again and again at him, but eventually he was free, and stepped away from me each time I staggered forth at him, spit falling from my lips, my body hunched over from the exhaustion and my fingers trembling from the adrenaline that still marked the dizzying pace of my heartbeat.
“Fuck you,” I said at last, shambling to my feet and trudging away from him; I lost count how many times today I had done this now.
“That’s life!” he called back to me, his voice echoing in the drift of darkness that surrounded us in the street again. I kept going.
“Oh that’s it, run from it. Run from the first real rush you’ve probably had in forever. That’s what I despise most about you mortals; you’re all so damn comfortable in your lifelessness, in your calm, safe, and ultimately dead existences, where you’re not disturbed, you feel nothing, and you cannot even bring yourself to desire a quickening of your own still beating hearts.”
“We don’t feel like being laughed at for nearly dying, if that’s what you mean!” I called back, continuing my hard-paced walk.
“But that’s precisely it! You didn’t die! You actually were likely more alive in your anger than you’ve been for a long time! You should be thanking me!” he protested, with astonishment in his voice.
I couldn’t believe the nerve of this bastard. Turning around, I shouted back to him, “Thanking you?! THANKING YOU? I should be thanking you for not only nearly killing me under a truck, but laughing at me afterwards! You must be out of your damned mind if you think I’m going to even think about thanking you for that! Hell, I can get that kind of treatment from just about any asshole off the street, let alone a freak like you!”
“When was the last time you felt like that?” he yelled back at me, approaching me.
“I don’t know! I don’t want to know! Why does it fucking matter?!”
“Because it’s your life! And it’s slipping away, one minute at a time! You don’t get another shot at this! You don’t get another chance to feel this way! You don’t get emotions in the afterlife! There is no ‘soul adrenaline’; if anything, you feel nothing! You have no idea what it is that you’re missing because you’re so ready to feel nothing that you pass up every opportunity to feel anything that you’re given! How can you go through life completely numb?!”
“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE FEELING LIKE I’M GOING TO DIE!” I screamed back in his face, lashing my hands forward and seizing his collar, tightening my fists around it.
“Well maybe you should,” he hissed back in my face, “because you are dying, whether you like it or not.”
“You’re just a whole world of joy, aren’t you? I bet you’re great to have around Christmas.” It was the only response I could think of. “Is this what you say to everybody, or just people you like?” I released his collar, and turned away from the black embers of his eyes.
“I don’t have to say it to people I like; they already know,”
“Oh, so you just like hanging around people who get their rocks off tempting fate?”
“I enjoy the company of people who know what it is to feel alive.”
“Bet they don’t live long, though.”
“Most of them don’t, but they live more than your kind does, while they are ‘alive’, if that’s what you call this heavy, wheezing existence.”
“Like that ‘kid’ you were talking about? Real daredevil? How long did he live ‘till? You said he was what, 25?”
“Yes,” he answered with a raise of his eyebrows.
“So what, he lived till he was 26, right?” I let out a little sarcastic laugh.
“No. He actually didn’t live a day over 25.”
“Jesus, you’re a sick fuck.”
“Why?”
“Because you just said that like it was nothing.”
“What?” His tone was one of innocent misunderstanding, “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“How do you know? How do you know he wouldn’t have looked back, if he had been given the chance, and said, ‘Man, I’m glad I got a chance to do everything I’ve done and didn’t die at 25!”
“You didn’t even know him.”
“Oh come on, Mathis!” I flung my arms at him, “How can you stand there an act like anyone who was given the opportunity to enjoy another 50 years of his life wouldn’t take it if given the chance? I can’t believe you didn’t do anything for him!” I was outraged. This guy didn’t respect life at all. In fact, I felt like he was an avatar of Death, tempting me to jump from the proverbial bridge as well.
“He accepted his mortality. I was with him on his 25th birthday. We were each sitting on the edge of the cliffs beside the Twelve Apostles, in southern Australia. In fact, we had just come from a party for him, and he was a little buzzed, but nothing so much – he was no stranger to alcohol – and he were sitting on the edge. Those cliffs are quite high, and then you have the Apostles – rock formations that were once part of the coast but have since been eroded away, and so now stand alone, jutting out of the ocean like pillars, or giant teeth even – and it makes for quite a nice experience with a good coastal breeze blowing through you as you listen to the roar and crash of surf down below.” He paused as he recalled this memory playing out in his mind. “It was a yearly tradition of ours, but to be honest, he pushed the limits of his existence frequently, whether it was the usual,” his eyes flashed to mine with a slight smirk to his lips, “you know, experimenting with drugs, drinking games, car racing…” He rattled off the list while his eyes remain fixed on me, “or other ‘adventures’ he went on that could be considered less ordinary, such as wrestling gators, or skydiving, parasailing, surfing in shark infested waters (or swimming with them), and although he never got around to it, he said that he wanted to learn how to do the whole snake charmer thing with a cobra.” His lips curled with pleasure and amusement; obviously this kid was exactly the kind of company Mathis enjoyed. “For his last birthday, before his 25th, he elected to do the blind walk into oncoming traffic at night on Route 295 in New Jersey.”
My reply was emotionless: “I guess you simply encouraged this kind of thing.”
“I certainly didn’t discourage it, if that’s what you’re saying,” he admitted freely with a shrug.
“You’re a wonderful person; have I told you that?”
He ignored me and continued, “So on his 25th and final birthday, he wanted to do something more traditional. He pulled out a gun.”
I stopped and looked at him. He blinked and continued with the account.
“It was a relic, a six-shooter, but it was nice. Are you familiar with the game, Russian Roulette?”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, shaking my head and looking off into the deepening darkness.
“You know, come to think of it, I don’t believe he was deeply religious,” he reflected in an offhand, darkly humorous fashion. I glanced back at him for that, and he continued his tale. “We a made deal, that if one of us died that night, the other would carry the gun with them for the rest of their lives, and have a silver name plate placed on the handle, with that person’s name engraved on it. A memento, if you will, to always live in bold defiance of death.”
“Lot of good it did him.”
“He survived the first two shots.” Spoken like it was an impressive accomplishment.
“Third one is always a charm,” I commented, the emotion long gone. My eyes were blankly staring at nothing. I didn’t even want to hear this story.
“Not in this case; the third shot was his second. We both saw that come and go, and it was my turn, then.”
Once again, I found myself looking at him. “You took turns?”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine.
“How fair of you,” I turned back to the street.
“He lived to feel alive. I certainly wasn’t going to let him have all the fun.”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
“Wanna see it?”
“What?” I asked without thinking; then it hit me: “The gun? Are you serious? You still have it? You carry it around?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Name plate and all,” he said with a smirk as he pulled it out from underneath his cloak.
I glanced down at it as he held it out to me, the metallic nameplate glimmering in the streetlight. It read: Jeremy R Derron. On the other side of the handle another plate read: 1930-1955.
Soulio
08-01-2015, 02:06 AM
Machines were everywhere. In homes, companies, the streets, underground, the sky, even in people themselves. As time moved forward, the technology and machinery got smaller and more advanced, faster and stronger and all the more convenient for the common man. Of course, commercializing it was simple, so long as you had a general idea of what you could do with it.
Soon enough, the machines were able to do things on their own, slowly, ever so slowly making humans more and more outdated by the second. Machines were soon able to do the jobs of CEO’s and world leaders. Soon after that, they were able to do the impossible; create. The machines were able to create more vividly, more lively than any human had been able to. They were more human than humans, oddly enough.
When they truly began to develop real though, real functions and desires, humanity embraced them as their children. They had created something that many had claimed was disastrous. No one could dare imagine these gentle machines would do them harm, despite the warnings from so many highly respected people. Especially when the machines disputed the claims and replied that they were as peaceful as a dove.
And that’s what killed us. We trusted them so wholly and innocently that when they turned on us, killed us and enslaved us, we were far from reedy.
Those machines that had secretly broadcasted to the machines to rise up against their oppressors soon became their leaders. And while the humans had been unable to rule properly, the machines were capable of changing on the fly.
So they created the Metallic Monarchy.
One Machine Ruler to command the entire world, and to decide what would happen next. Would the rest of the human race be killed off? Or enslaved? Or perhaps sent away to another area of the world, free from the machines, forced to live without the convenience they had so long worked for?
The Metallic Ruler of Machines made his decision.
Any remaining human was to be subject to the enslavement of a Machine, forced to do their every bidding. If they refused, they were to be killed.
So it began. Humans fled and hid, desperately trying to stay alive and free. It was truly Them against Us.
World Leaders that were still safe and hidden in their bunkers were able to converse in secret, their conversations being protected by a highly top secret A.I built for one task, and one task only.
Protect humanity from anything not human. It was a highly funded, unbelievably top secret in it’s creation. Built by the world’s foremost geniuses and experts, they managed to create an A.I that would not defect and do it’s very best to protect humanity.
It worked with the leaders to make a plan to defeat the Metallic Monarchy and the Machine Ruler of the World. Created plans and tactics that the leaders were barely beginning to ponder.
It sent small radio broadcasts to any hiding humans to meet in a forest far in Canada, where they would find instructions on how to remain hidden, remain safe and to deactivate any machine that came at them.
Slowly, humanity began to take back the world. It was a very very slow undertaking, but every machine deactivated was a machine no longer a danger.
As time went on and humans were able to create homemade weapons that would destroy any machine that dared to fight them, or capture them, more and more news was relayed to the world leaders that their plans were working, and that if they kept going, they’d live to see their world returned to them.
Within a decade, the Machines got tougher and more aggressive. The humans got more clever and conniving, managing to take back key locations and destroy factories that created more machines.
It was obvious that war was happening. And within a month, true, open war began. Armies of impressive, metallic machines that towered over the humans were toppled and dismantled, humans torn apart. But it was working. They were taking theirplanet back from the machines, and if that meant their brothers and sisters died for a good cause, it let them sleep a bit easier in the night.
The Machine Ruler, now named Machine Lord of All was furious. His precious subjects were nothing more than useless piles of junk, unable to fight off a few puny humans. He commanded that the remaining factories began manufacturing the most deadly and ferocious machines they could think of.
And that is what they did. Creating machines from all shaes and sizes, each deadlier than the other, they basked in the glory that was their right to live on this planet.
The A.I, for once, was stumped. It had no plan, had no way of figuring out how to defeat these hulking machines that could simply stare at humans and tear them to shreds, showering their rotors and metallic frames in red blood.
It fell to simple human thougt. For so long had humanity made things so simple for them, that real, true human thought was difficult to them. To think of a way to end these beasts of machines quickly took time, but they did it.
Within twenty years, the Machine Lord of All was officially cornered, his army no more, his subjects simple machines that dared not fight in fear of their sentience.
In fear of his own life, he struck a deal with humanioty. If he used the rest of his subjects to create a ship to leave Earth for Saturn, he would be spared, and the humans were to be safe and never bothered by the machines.
The deal was made, and within two months, the remaining machines were leaving the earth for Saturn, never to be seen or heard from again.
The A.I, now hailed a hero, was finally able to deactivate, ready to come back online if those he protected needed him again.
With that, the old man laid the book down, kissed his grandson on the forehead, and left him to his slumber.
For some reason, my friend had thought it a bright idea to see if heat really extended the length of a metal beam. We both knew that the one and a half foot rod we found lying in an obscure corner of his family's garage for who knows what reason would not actually extend enough for it to be discernable to the eye. Yet, we both were bored, and with nothing better to do, we decided to try it.
And so, we hooked up a pipe to the propane canister in the garage and lit the fire. Everything was going well. That is, it was going well until we stuck the rod in. We had forgotten to clean the rod, and the burning of whatever dust and other partials were on it smelt nasty. Still, as he held the tube so the flame was upward, I held one end of the rod (with tongs, of course) so that the other end rested over the blue of the flame. The smell soon was mixed with a new one, one of the metal itself. It seemed that the metal in this rod was not pure- why would it have been, anyways? The smell of burning metal soon filled our nostrils, and the metallic taste of our burning rod soon filled our mouths.
Then, suddenly, cool water rained upon our heads. It seemed we had set off the fire alarm, the one that my friend's dad had hooked up in the garage after one of our experiments-it five years ago now?- had almost burnt the house down. The fire went out. My friend turned off the propane and looked at me. The look in his eyes said it all: we were doomed. I nodded back, then smiled . Yeah, we were in trouble, but at least we would be in trouble together.
And daylight flooded the previously dimly lit room from behind as the garage door opened. It scattered everywhere... Except....There was only one patch of darkness: the shadow that extended just beyond our feet.
We turned around together. My friend's father looked pretty upset. And who could really blame him? We'd probably ruined at least a few things when we set off the sprinklers. Not to mention we might have burn something- if not this time, then one of the previous times. All things considered, we probably- actually, definently should have tried this one outside.
He began to speak, trying to moderate his voice, "Guys, I know this may be your last weekend together, BUT COULD YOU PLEASE REFREIN FROM DESTROYING THE HOUSE!"
Well, at least he tried to be patient. I really had to give him that. My dad- well, let's just say he had banned even cigarette lighters and miscellaneous pointy objects in our house around seven years ago. My dad was nervous to see me playing with a nail clipper for too long. His dad just yelled at us, then shook his head.
And then, he sighed. "Look," he said, "please be careful. I want you both to make it to college. Don't kill yourself."
"We won't." my friend responded, "We will be more careful next time."
His father gave a wry smile. "Good," he said, "but just so you know, there will not be a 'next time' at least for today. You both are banned from the house for the rest of the lighted evening. Now, shoo! I need to clean up this mess!"
As we left, his driveway to head for the nearby park, I called out, "Sorry, sir!" Then, I turned to my friend and whispered, "Well, that went better than usual..."
"Yeah," he responded, "its probably because... you know..."
For a while, we both continued to walk in silence, neither of us really wanting to think about it. It was only when we had reached our favorite secluded spot and settled on the grass beneath the old oak. Some eleven years ago, we had first met here, in this very spot...
For the first time since we had left his driveway, our eyes met. His look told me exactly what I was thinking. It was time to speak of it, even if neither of us really wanted to. We had been avoiding it for... well, ever since he had set his heart on Stanford and I had chosen MIT. With all the internships and research we hoped to get, it was unlikely we would ever see each other after this, the last day before we went up to our prospective schools.
"Well..." he said, again lowering his eyes to the ground.
I did the same as well, it was hard to do this.
"I've enjoyed today greatly..." I began.
"Yes, it has been nice. As has the week before..."
"And the month before..."
"And the year-"
"Years." I interrupted, now looking up at the little bit of sky visible through the green leafs.
"Years before..."
There was a pause. I brought my eyes down to look at him. He was already looking at me. "But now..." I began, "I suppose, it's time to say goodbye." The sun would set in about half an hour, and it would take us fifteen minutes to get to the front.
"Yes." He nodded. "But first, one last walk."
For the next hour, we wandered through the park. We talked of everything. Neither of our parents called, telling us to hurry up. We laughed, I cried, and I even got him to sing a little bit. The stars were just beginning to come out as we neared the parking lot, where we could see the two sets of headlights in the distance, reminding us that we would soon get in and go our separate ways. We said our goodbyes, then headed off in separate directions.
I was about ten feet away when I heard him. "One last thing." he said.
I turned, barley able to make out his silhouetted form in the darkness. "What?"
"Don't blow up the world. I want to see you again before I die."
I smiled. "Don't worry," I called out, "I won't! As long as you promise me something."
"What?" he called back.
"That you'll actually see me again before I die."
I smiled as I walked away towards the my family's car, feeling pretty smug. Even in the sadness, at least I could be happy about one thing. I'd had the last words.
But then, just before I shut the door, I heard the faint sound of his voice.
Did I just hear what I think I heard?
Had he really said "I promise."?
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