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"I hope you get your girl back. And don't get black brained, that's just the fuckin' worst. So long, bub."
Behind him on the highway, twin headlights point away and disappear over the San Gabriels, their black shoulders the only boundary between the dust of the desert and the pale-edged clouds rolling with distant thunder. The storm keeps the landscape from slipping into complete silence - that, and the scratch of grit under Johnnie's shoes as he continues to walk toward the dull haze that marks the city's location on the horizon.
Alone, again. Johnnie breathes.
He's not sure he needs to. It's habit, that's all. Just like he probably doesn't need to sleep or eat now, though time will be the judge of that. He's just making guesses, here. Being a ghost isn't something people talk about, outside of the movies. What if they got it all wrong? They probably got it all wrong. People get shit wrong all the time about everything.
The second smoke doesn't last any longer than the first. Johnnie discards it into the dirt off the shoulder of the road, lets the dark snuff out the last little fading ember, and laughs a bitter laugh.
Get fucked, cigarette.
Get fucked, Zazo.
It's not a thought connected to the cigarette. It comes up abruptly, fills him with blind rage. Johnnie has nowhere to let it out, though - best he can do here and now is to kick a rock really fucking hard, so he does that once he finds one, only it's really just a pebble, and once it's airborne he loses track of it immediately. A crack of thunder drowns out any sound it might have made on landing.
"This is bullshit!" he shouts at nobody at the top of his lungs. "Fuck!"
Yeah, he's here, he's not dead dead, but what the fuck did he do to deserve any of this in the first place? They could've made a deal, he could've found another way, there could have been anything other than fucking abducting him and pouring so much vide noir down his throat he damn near suffocated on it before it could even get him high. Sure, Alex will get revenge - if that guy he just met makes it to the clubhouse - but Alex shouldn't fucking have to.
"Fuck," he sighs to himself, and pats his hip to find his knife. Still there, somehow. Those fucking morons didn't take it off him. But he never got it loose of his belt, never got to draw blood on either of them, and that's just fucking pathetic. He really should have done better. Should have watched his own back better. Probably should have had some of the crew with him, honestly, but he was already disobeying Alex by sticking his nose around in that arcade. He didn't really need to drag anyone else into defying his brother's orders. Nah, this was his own fuckup.
But he didn't fucking deserve this!
After a while, with nothing to turn his seething rage against out here on the highway, it subsides to a low simmer. There are worse things in his head than his own anger. That's just the most familiar challenge, the easiest one to deal with. The more difficult ones, well. It's looking like he'll have lots and lots of time alone with those tonight. He's not entirely sure which road he's on yet, but if that guy had come from out East heading straight to LA that really only gives him a few good options. He'll know when he finds a highway sign exactly how far out he is, but it's probably over a day's walk to get back down into the city. Maybe more. Worth it, though, every step, because he has to get back there. The guy he met might get there sooner, but there's no guarantee he'll find Alex.
Thinking about how far he has to walk is a distraction. Keeping his eyes on this barely-visible strip of white paint is a distraction, though he's thankful for it. It keeps him from slipping into that endless sea of black at his feet that threatens once again to swallow him whole. Every dim flash in the clouds keeps him here too, gives him a split second to remember that he's still right here on Earth, right where he wanted to be. Right where he fought to be, and fought hard. The glow of city lights in smog, that pale haze forming the rim of the mountains, shining like the world's shittiest beacon powered by car exhaust and construction and a dead fucking river shackled in concrete and lights that burn all night long, well. That's what keeps him moving in the right direction. Follow the white line, go home. Stay out of the fucking void that laps at either side of his heels.
Because it is lapping, he can fucking feel it. Like little claws, little hooks, that grab at the soles of his feet and try to drag him backward, downward, through the Earth. Or up, maybe, past the protective blanket of storm clouds to the watching eyes of the stars above and to the ancient things that swim and flow and lie in wait between and beyond them. There he was weightless, watching a scene he had seen before a thousand times over, in his dreams, in his trips - the chorus of the dead, those lost souls streaming in their many-mouthed parades as their airless lungs give horrible, eternal voice to that which lies beyond the known. The things there that collect them, the things which become more powerful as the endless march of time brings decay and disorder, those remained unseen but he could feel their presence.
There is nothing. He is in free-fall, desperately grasping at starlight to slow him from becoming one of them. They call, they sing, they urge him to join them, because isn't it inevitable? Why fight it? To die is not to revel in an afterlife. It is to lend the pieces that are you back to the universe from which you borrowed them, and what was you, the part you thought made you more than meat and impulse, that fills the cosmos with song, beckoning others to join.
Life holds no meaning other than what you give it for your short stay. This has never been news to him.
But death has meaning. Death is the release of a single note into a grand eternal tune. On the tiniest of scales, each death may look like a point of light snuffed out, but zoom all the way out and the flow of information is constant - but not cyclic. It is a pattern of reducing all order to chaos, all messages to static, all elements to fragmentary waves that reverberate across a dark and endless sea. All becomes equal. And there are those far beyond the known edges of time and space who wish to hasten this transformation, to bring the universe to its ultimate stage. To speed the actions of death and decay, and to reduce all - mountains, insects, billionaires and the destitute - to ash.
Johnnie cannot conceive of why anyone would want that, even if he also understands the truth of it. He's heard it a hundred times (the fair, the brave, the good, they all go the same eventually). And now he's seeing again firsthand how the remnants of those once alive now swirl and flutter like crumbling leaves, wielded as tools to collect those like him and bring him to peaceful unity, to become another element in the vast cosmic song as time marches onward and carries entropy in its wake, leaving the universe in a grand state of eternal, perfect balance.
I already said no I already promised I already told you let me go let me go back -
He's shivering, cheek to the pavement. January nights are cold here in the foothills of the San Gabriels. The storm stopped ages ago. Johnnie picks himself up again, fingers trembling.
What was that, the third time? The fifth?
Fuck, he has no cigarettes. He really needs one.
The hallucinations keep coming in waves. He'll manage to walk for an hour or two before they overtake him again and leave him out cold as he fights once again not to lose himself to them, but he'd like to think each time they hit, he claws himself back up to the world of the living more quickly.
"Bastard," Johnnie mumbles at the darkness. "I can't fucking do what I promised if you keep fucking trying to drag me under again."
Wind rustles dry grasses. Pods of winter seeds, still clinging desperately to dead twigs, rattle like the dry bones of their parents. The change in the air brings the stars out, clear and vivid against the black, and Johnnie shudders and turns his gaze earthward as he zips up his jacket.
"Don't watch me, how'm I supposed to do any fucking thing when you're fucking staring? Goddammit, can't a guy just walk? Shit."
Man, he has really lost it if he's talking to himself here, as if the wind and the night sky are the things Out There.
Somehow, capitalizing those words in his mind makes sense to him. Out There. It's not like he has better words for that bullshit.
Headlights from behind illuminate the pavement at the same time as he hears the engine, and Johnnie whips around to face the vehicle. He backs off the road and holds out a thumb. But the vehicle - a truck? flies on past, tail lights suddenly blazing. The driver must have hit the brakes in a panic when he suddenly emerged out of the dark, but fuck off, he doesn't have a light or reflective clothes or some shit.
Wait. Wait, he totally does. Johnnie digs out his lighter and flicks it - yep, just barely enough fuel in there to get it going. He may not have smokes, but he has fire. He holds it up, watching the truck with wide, hopeful eyes, until it does, in fact, stop, and then start to reverse.
"Yes! Oh, holy shit, oh fuck, thank you," he gasps as he trots toward the truck to meet it.
It's an older pickup. '59 Chevy, by the looks of it. Someone's trying to save their money, driving this thing around still. But Johnnie doesn't give a shit, he just needs a ride. The driver leans over to roll down their window, so he hops on over to their door, an extra spring in his step now.
"Hey! Oh man, I didn't think you were gonna stop! I've been walking fuckin' hours -"
He stops himself. The driver, a middle-aged fellow with a coffee stain on his lapel, stares back. And maybe it's the bad lighting out here but he could swear this white dude's gone extra fucking pale.
"Your face… Are - Are you okay, son?"
"Oh shit, sorry, yeah. Look, don't worry about that. I'm good. You goin' into town? I'm tryin' to get to Boyle Heights but hell, I'll take just not having to walk over these mountains, y'know? I got cash if you want gas money," Johnnie offers. He's not sure if he has cash, he hasn't exactly checked his wallet, but it doesn't really matter.
The man stares a moment longer, and Johnnie watches his hand push the stick out of park. "Sorry son, I'm not going that way-"
It's not an answer he has time for, not an answer he's willing to accept. Johnnie reaches inside the door immediately to open it even if it's locked, right as the man steps on the gas. He throws himself into the truck as the pavement pulls away, crawling over the stick and into the passenger seat, holding on for dear life (or should it be something else now?) while the driver swerves, his door flapping open uselessly in the battle to stay on the road.
"Get out!" he barks, and at the same time Johnnie flips open the blade of his knife and presses it against the guy's neck. He doesn't really want to hurt him here, but the threat is very real, regardless. He will if it becomes necessary. And it changes the driver's tune real quick, too - he stops yelling right away, though he does hit the brakes and bring them to a gradual, careful stop this time.
"Look, bub," Johnnie says, calm and even. "I'm askin' you nicely. Just drive me down to the city. Hell, I don't give a shit if you wanna drop me off in fuckin' San Bernardino, okay, I'll figure it out. But if you don't step on the gas in five seconds, you're gonna find out what pavement tastes like."
Johnnie counts, and the man presses his foot down on the pedal, careful and easy, probably afraid of the blade at his throat. But as they get moving, eventually Johnnie relaxes in his seat. He keeps his knife in hand, visible, but it's fucking awkward leaning over for too long and he'd really rather be comfortable.
"Hey… You got any smokes?" Johnnie asks after what feels like an eternity of silence, although the clock on the dash suggests it was probably about two minutes tops.
"Glove box," comes the shaky reply, so Johnnie helps himself to rifling through the guy's stuff. Cigarettes yeah, and a lighter. Some old receipts, a stick of gum, a broken pencil. Johnnie snorts and grabs the pack of cigs.
"Dude. Boring shit in there. Where d'you keep your pot, man?"
He doesn't get an answer to that while he lights his cigarette, unfortunately. With a satisfied exhale of smoke, he tosses the cigarettes on the dash and shoves the glove box shut with his knee.
"What, you ain't even gonna talk to me now? C'mon, dude. I only threatened you a little 'cause you wouldn't fucking drive."
"You're one of them," the driver says. His fingers grip the wheel tight.
"One a' what? World Enders?" Johnnie guesses, unbothered.
"That's right," the man replies. "I've heard about you."
"Well I'd fuckin' hope so," Johnnie snorts. "Y'know, the last guy I met didn't have a clue? But he was from fuckin'…. Shit, I forget where. Montana? No, that ain't it. I dunno. Somewhere else. I shoulda asked him for a ride, come to think of it."
But his head was all kinds of out of sorts. Waking up on the pavement, freshly back from having to fight to still exist, head full of nightmares, it just isn't real conducive to thinking smart things like asking for a ride.
"Man, he woulda given it, too! I'm a fuckin' idiot. Oh well. I got you now, bub. What's your name anyway, huh?"
No response. Johnnie frowns as he stares at the man, who looks like he's taking the whole eyes-on-the-road thing way too fucking seriously. Like looking at him is a danger in itself.
"Well, I'm Johnnie."
Silence.
"Okay! Well, I'mma call you … I dunno. You like a Frank. You're Frank now, man. You like music, Frank?"
Johnnie reaches for the radio, but "Frank" holds out a hand to block him from reaching the dial.
"No. I don't. I'm going to get you down out of the mountains, and then I'm dropping you off, and that's it," Frank mutters.
To which Johnnie gapes in mock horror. "You don't like music? Are you some kinda goddamn monster? Here you are all fucked up about me, but you won't listen to music? Nah fuck that, you can't get away with that. 'Cause you know what I fuckin' hate? Silence. And you're full of that shit. And I just had hours of it while I was walking on the fucking highway all by myself, so since I'm the one with the knife, we're gonna listen to some music."
He turns the volume up first, and until he can find a station broadcasting late at night, the cab is filled with static.
The rising sun coats the buildings of the Inland Empire with pink as Frank coasts down the hill out of the mountains. Johnnie has the radio turned up loud to the only station he can find airing anything at all at this hour - it's the fucking weather, the morning news, the reports on what his friends got up to last night and also some dumb something-or-other about a football game. Johnnie discards another cigarette butt into a cup holder while Frank signals a turn and waits at a light.
"We're going to park at the New Moon, and you're getting out," Frank announces, interrupting Johnnie's yawn.
"Oh yeah? Sure, man. Hey, let's agree on one thing, though. This never happened, you got it? You don't tell people you gave me a ride," Johnnie suggests. There's lots of good reasons to ask this, he figures - right now he's got too much shit to sort out and he probably has more walking to do if he can't jack a car out of the lot real easy, and anyway, if he's dead, maybe it doesn't matter? But if he's not actually dead, then what?
Frank gives a tired-sounding laugh. "Oh, don't worry. They wouldn't believe me if I did."
Johnnie raises an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
Frank glances over at him, one of the rare moments where he seems willing to acknowledge Johnnie's actual presence in the passenger seat rather than talking to the air. The glance is quick though, just a flick of the eyes, before his brows knit and he regains his single-minded focus on the view ahead. "Really?" is the only word he gets in reply.
Puzzled, Johnnie grabs the mirror and yanks it toward him. Now that it's daylight, he can see his own face for the first time, and he winces, recoiling. Yeah, okay. The whole fucking right side of his head is practically torn open, dripping with black ooze. The skin around it is tinged gray, his right pupil is dilated. Steeling himself for further exploration, he turns to look at the raw mess of void-black tissue on the side of his face, and by adjusting his jaw, he can manage to see his own teeth through a jagged hole in his cheek.
He looks at his hands, then, too. Paler than they ought to be, but streaked with black, especially under the nails.
It comes back to him in a sudden rush, how he screamed and clawed at the rush of knowledge flooding into his head, how he tried to tear it out physically in a desperate bid to keep himself from succumbing from information alone, things that no living human ought to know or see. How the vide noir bubbled in his throat, burned in his flesh, how he needed to rid himself of it and spare himself what he could of his own self if he was going to survive with anything of himself left intact at all. It wasn't just that he fought and plead and ultimately agreed to the promise which he is now bound to, no - no, he was desperate enough to tear his own face apart in order to keep the void from burrowing its way in deep, coiling around his brain stem. He couldn't just spit it out on the pavement, it wouldn't leave, he had to make it leave -
And he did make a promise. He did become something else, in order to preserve what was left of him. He was owned the moment he swore those oaths to join the gang, but now he's owned twice over. And now he more fully understands just what it means to pledge himself to the goals of the World Ender, to hasten the spread of entropy, to reduce everything and everyone to the particles they were once loaned. Too many had chosen paths that upset the balance of things, and the quickest way to fix it would be to tear it all down to its components and rebuild anew.
Where is his knife?
They're parked. They've probably been parked. Frank isn't watching him, Frank has a cigarette. Frank has turned off the radio.
And Johnnie thinks hard for a moment, as the pale pink reaches the hood of the truck, and as the sky turns from gray to gold. Is this what he was asked to do?
"Thanks for the ride, man."
It would be easy. But this isn't the way to do what the Ender asked of him. He can't draw attention to himself just yet. He has to bide his time, has to find his way home. Has to help rally them so they can tear down those in the city whose deaths will make the greatest impact, because time is fleeting and life is short, and just because he's been given a second chance doesn't mean he can't still fuck it up.
Johnnie hops out, slams the passenger door behind him, and watches as the pickup drives off.
He'll find his way home soon, no problem. His brothers will want to know where he's been.
