Temporarily called it Tempton Bay, which is the FICTIONAL name of the small Eastern-Canadian town in which the story takes place. I thought I hit gold, but the whole thing turned out to be yet another flop. I gotta stop doing that...
Without further ado, one of my failed attempts among many:
“Ry-an! Ry-an! Ry-an! Ry-an! Ry-an!” The crowd’s chants of my name pushed me harder and harder as I skated up the ice handling the puck and dodging everyone in my way. I passed the Cobras’ blue line with four seconds left on the clock, faked left at the hash-marks, pulled the puck back and let it buck. My sight sharpened intensely while the crowd’s noises faded slowly in a dream-like way. In slow motion and eerie silence experienced only by me, the puck lifted off the ice and shot under the goaltender’s glove, where it bounced off the mesh at the back of the net with a soft swish and dropped to the ice, echoing around the silent rink. Immediately, all my other senses came back to me; the red light above the net flashed, the siren wailed, and the crowd went ballistic, drowning out the buzzer that signaled the end of the game. Tempton Bay Wildcats – 4, Herbert Cobras – 3.
“Jeez Cade, great game,” some old guy said to me and slapped my back as I was carrying my hockey bag through the lobby of the rink toward the doors. “You really mopped the ice with those Herbert kids.”
“Thanks,” I said, grinning.
“You too, Walter,” said the old guy again, referring to my friend walking alongside me. He walked off toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, right,” said my friend and teammate, who plays Defense, Corey Walter.
“Did you see the way I couldn’t catch not one pass? And my slap-shot’s gone to Hell.”
“Nobody even gave you a pass, moron,” I said, then added with a chuckle, “’Cause we all know you can’t catch ‘em.”
“Eh, get bent,” he said. “You know I’m the heart of this team.” I just laughed.
Walking out the door of the lobby, I felt a refreshing cool breeze brush my flushed right cheek and sodden, slightly long dark red hair. I took a long pull of the clean night air and sighed, “Great.”
“Huh?” said Corey beside me, one eyebrow cocked.
“I just… It’s… Well –” I started.
“Well, uh, just… no,” Corey said, mocking me, “weirdo.”
“Hey, shut up or you won’t get a ride home,” I said, tossing my hockey bag in the back of my black ‘91 Ford F-150 4.8L V8 before Corey did the same.
“I can easily walk, Ryan,” said Corey, “the only reason I ride with you is because, one day, I’m going to steal your truck and I need to know everything I can about it now.”
“Oh that’s it, is it? In that case, why not skip the middle-man?” I said, and tossed him the keys.
“Ha-ha, I knew you’d cave eventually,” Corey said with a grin, and hopped in the driver’s seat. I walked around to the driver’s door and pulled him out with ease.
“Yeah, you thought so, didn’t you?” I said, and started the truck. “Next time, lock the door.”
“Man… So close.”
“Get in,” I said, and closed my door.
The thing about life is that everyone assumes it will go on forever. But what if one day, it just stopped … Or worse yet, it manipulated itself in some way so that the idea we’ve come to know and expect of it is abruptly shifted, and we must adapt accordingly or perish…?
I twisted the old black knob on my truck radio and concentrated on the static, listening for a hint of music or voices or anything other than the loud emptiness of the space between stations. The little needle that displays what radio station you’re listening to is, for some reason, gone in my truck. It was never there when I bought it, and I never thought to replace it. It’s just another part (or absence) of the vehicle. Besides, after a time I got quite skilled at radio tuning-by-ear.
Music. A song. Billy Idol – White Wedding. I stopped turning the knob and started gently nudging it different directions, trying to find the clearest spot. I did, and Corey noticed.
“Hey, not a bad song,” he said with a few head-bobs to the music. He reached for the volume knob, and at the same moment, I saw another truck on the road ahead, this one a newer and nicer Chevy Silverado, preparing to go straight: my intended route. I recognized the truck: Glen McCain’s, a defenseman on my hockey team. He has curly hair, so we call him Curly Fries. McCain’s curly fries… Yeah, yeah, I know. I figured he must not be going home right away, because of the many other people sitting in his compact truck cab and the many hockey bags piled on one another in the box.
I hit the gas, speeding up toward his navy blue ’01, and quickly cut right, pulling along side him, narrowly missing the feeble ditch on a count of the icy roads. I looked left out of my window at his passenger window, past a cute brunette sitting the passenger seat. Startled, he looked back, recognized me, and grinned all evil-like. I threw my truck into neutral and stepped on the gas. A deep, climbing, rumbling sound that turned into a sharp squeal erupted from all around me. God, I loved that sound.
He took the hint and held up three fingers. I put my truck back into first and braced myself. He dropped his ring finger, leaving two. I adjusted my mirrors. One finger left. I gripped the steering wheel with my left hand and the stick shift with my right, left foot ready on the clutch. He dropped his last finger and threw it forwards, indicating “go.” I stomped on the gas and my 4x4 V8 lurched forward and gripped the ice with surprising gusto. The truck swerved a bit under the power, but I stuck it. I hadn’t yet looked at my opponent, because I had to jam on the clutch, throw it in second and let the clutch out, allowing my truck to start to open up. I looked at Curly Fries out of my window. It was apparent because of his truck’s obvious slowing down and sudden jerk forward he had just shifted from first as well. I heard the familiar whine of my gears wanting to be changed, so I shifted up to third and gripped the wheel with both hands. I looked at my speedometer: 60km/h. Precisely the reason I loved this truck.
Obviously, because I was so cocky, I felt no need to look at the road ahead, only my speed and my opponent, who I was gaining on. I was just about to raise my right hand and give Curly the finger in mockery, when he went wide-eyed, the people in his truck screamed, and he quickly slammed on his brake. I checked my mirror to see what was up, but it was Corey that brought me back to my senses. He yelled and went for the steering wheel just as I looked out the windshield and saw water rushing up toward me. That’s funny, the ocean wasn’t for another two miles … I screamed, but before I could do anything, my forehead collided with the top of the steering wheel, and suddenly, all was black.
* * *
“Can you hear me?”
“Wake up, boy.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
Ryan Cade, lying in a hospital bed, slowly opened his eyes to see a man and a woman standing over him wearing face masks. His head was throbbing loudly and he couldn’t move his body without immense pain.
“Eugh… Wha – Uh, four?”
“Tsk, tsk,” said the woman, putting down her two fingers. “He needs more rest. Doctor, stay with him. I’ll go check on the other one.”
“Other – one?” Ryan stammered.
“Sit down and rest, boy; you were involved in a car accident.”
“Accident?” Ryan said, coming to. “Holy man, yeah … The water …”
“It’s OK, you’re suffering from post-traumatic shock,” said the doctor, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“How’s my truck?” Ryan asked.
“Um, sorry son, our first priority was you and your passenger,” the doctor said with a funny glance at Ryan.
“Oh yeah, damn, Corey…” Ryan said. “How’s he?”
“He’s just fine. We think he’s also in shock, but no worse than you.”
“Can I see him?”
“Later, boy, later,” said the doctor, patting Ryan’s leg under the sheet. “Right now, let’s get acquainted. My name is Robert Victor, MD.”
“Ryan Cade.”
“Nice to meet you, Ryan,” said Victor. “And for your information, your truck will be all right. It’s being looked over and repaired as we speak. Besides being filled with water, it’s surprisingly all right.”
“Yeah, that old beast’s been through a lot,” said Ryan with a grin. “And our hockey bags?”
“We didn’t find anything else around the truck, sorry,” Victor said apologetically.
“Eh, it’s all right,” said Ryan, “I was planning on getting some new stuff anyway.”
“The important thing is that you’re OK.”
“Yeah…” said Ryan, nodding slowly. He finally looked around the room he was in. Expecting the well-known plain white walls and clean windows and plants, he saw a hospital room he’s never seen before. He had been fairly familiar with most of the Tempton Bay Medical Centre, and this looked nothing like it. White-washed brick walls, no windows or plants, a heavy steel-plated door with no handle and, strangely enough, chains dangling from the edge of the solid steel bed that was bolted to the floor. There was one steel table, also bolted to the floor, with nothing on it but a syringe and vial, both filled with different liquids.
Ryan started to fully come to, and in doing so realized that he was in a strange place fit for a violent mental patient. He saw a straight-jacket hanging on a hook on the wall and instantly became very worried about where he was.
“Uh… Where am I?” he inquired of Doctor Victor.
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Victor, laughing. “Bet this scenario unnerved you a little bit, eh? To answer your question, you’re in a special underground wing of the Tempton Bay hospital, probably one you’ve never seen.”
“Why? Why not just a normal room?” Ryan asked, cocking his eyebrows.
Victor sighed. “I guess now’s a good a time as any,” he said. “There has been a … an epidemic recently in this town; a sickness that we can’t place. It’s not fatal, but the symptoms are quite severe, so many people have come to the hospital, as you can imagine.”
“Wha – What? As of when?!”
“As of a few days ago. You’ve been unconscious for that long.”
Ryan gaped at Victor. How could this have happened? What was it? How are my friends and family? Do I have it?
“I bet you have a lot of questions,” said Victor, reading Ryan’s mind.
“Yeah … Tell me everything.”
At that moment, something on Victor’s waist buzzed quietly. He looked down and grabbed at his beeper.
“Sorry Ryan, gotta run,” he said, making for the door.
“Wait!” Ryan protested, sitting up, but Victor had already pressed his thumb on the keypad next to the door and rushed through it, the door making a loud hissing sound as it closed after him.
“Damn it,” Ryan mumbled, falling back down in bed. How am I gonna get out of here? He got out of bed, but his vision was blurry and he stumbled back onto the bed.
Whoa… Take a breather, here. He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, until he felt ready to stand up again. He did, and he felt fine. He walked over to the door and looked at the keypad. There was a stamp-sized blue pad that was filled with some kind of gel and a small gray LCD display screen. There was nothing else he could do, so he pressed his thumb on the pad. Instantly, a red message appeared on the small screen:
UNKNOWN PRINT. ACCESS DENIED.
Ryan sighed, and out of desperation, tried all of his other fingers. Expectantly, he got the same message for each one. Disappointed, he looked around the room.
Startled, he spotted something on the other wall – a door he hadn’t noticed before as it was camouflaged with the brick wall. He walked over to the concealed door and looked for a way to open it. He found nothing but the three tiny lines no bigger than the width of a piece of paper that outlined the door. Is it even a door? Yes, it has to be a closet or something.
He pounded on the brick, but nothing happened. He felt around the edges of the door and in the centre for a keyhole or other means of opening it, but again found nothing; just more white-washed brick with three very thin cuts.
“Damn it,” he said, looking down. He looked back up at the door, but instantly threw his head down again. There, on the cement floor near this mysterious closet door, was a depressed section, maybe only half a centimetre deep, about the size of a shoebox. He instinctively stepped on it, but nothing happened. He stomped a bit harder, and he felt he could feel something move. He threw all his weight into his right foot and pounded it into the little dropped part. This time, he definitely felt the depressed section move downward. I need something heavy. He looked around the room, but found nothing he could use. The table, bed and even a small steel chair he never noticed before were all bolted heavily to the floor.
OK, maybe I don’t. That’s a stupid way to open a closet anyway. He got an idea and put both feet into the small section, facing the door. Only the balls of his feet would fit, but hopefully that would work. He then ran his hands very gently over the edges of the door until he felt two extremely small indents hardly distinguishable from the rough brick on either side of the door, half-way up. Suddenly, he realized what he had to do, like it was from memory. He tried pushing the insides of the circles inwards, but his fingers were much too large to fit. Now I need something tiny. He tried a few hairs from his head, bitten-off pieces of fingernail, the edge of his pillow and sheet, but nothing would work. Putting the pillow pack, he saw something on the indestructible table beside the bed: the syringe.
He picked up the syringe and went back to the door, stood in the dropped section like before, and realized he would need two syringes in order to press both buttons. He tried with one button anyway, finding that it pressed in extremely easily, but with no result. He contemplated what was in the small syringe, because he would have to do something that could allow the substance to get all over him. He looked at it closely: it was clear in color, much like water, but quite a bit thicker, like molasses. He squirted some onto the steel table, and with satisfaction, saw that it didn’t eat through the stainless steel. He took a whiff, and much like water again, it didn’t have a scent. He decided to risk it, so he wrapped his bed sheet around his hands and, with a bit of force, broke the needle clean off the syringe. Immediately, he threw the now-needleless syringe onto the table, where it leaked a little bit onto the steel surface. He looked at the sheet, and once again was happy that the molasses-like water didn’t eat through it. He gripped the small needle with both hands through the sheet now, and with quite a bit more force broke it in messy halves.
He felt a sharp sting of pain in his right forefinger, and saw that blood was seeping into the sheet and mixing with the substance, causing a most peculiar effect. The combined blood and molasses-water turned a violent shade of green and started to smoke, then eat through the sheet. So now it decides to eat through stuff. He dropped the sheet onto the cement floor, holding both needle pieces in either hand. He again felt a sharp pain in the same finger and noticed the piece of the needle was touching his open wound, and he immediately moved the piece to another finger. Uh-oh. I hope that isn’t gonna be serious. He saw nothing turning green and smoking on his finger and he felt relieved. He moved toward the concealed door to try to use the two pieces of needle to press both buttons at the same time, but abruptly, with the blink of an eye, he found himself in a very different environment, far away from the psycho-ward and engulfed in an extremely shocking scenario.
* * *
Ryan Cade stood on the roof of a building he didn’t recognize in a town he didn’t recognize, covered in blood, standing over the dead body of a middle-aged man with a dark red cut on his throat. The man’s face was pale and contorted with horror, and his blood-seeping eyes and mouth were open wide.
“Oh my God …” Ryan stammered, clumsily stepping backward and tripping over a drain pipe. He tore his eyes from the body and made to run in the opposite direction when something in his right hand caught his attention. A blood-stained butcher’s knife was being gripped tightly with his red fingers. He started at it, then at the man, then back to the knife.
“Holy – Oh my God – Wha –” he blurted out, unable to comprehend what was obviously the case. “I killed – Oh God – No way!” He dropped the knife with a clatter and looked for the roof exit, but before he could find it, a sharp electric shock ran through his spine and dropped him to the floor face-down, only inches from the knife blade. After a minute or two of being temporarily paralyzed, he felt cold steel, and realized a heavy chain was being secured from his wrists behind his back, up to and around his neck and back down to his wrists.
“You’re lucky he was only a patient, boy,” said a strangely familiar voice. “If you had killed a staff member, you’d be lying next to him.”
Ryan gradually got feeling back in his body and attempted to flip around, but got struck forcefully in the side of the head.
“Ah! Who the hell –”
“Sorry boy, but it’s for your own good,” said the familiar voice above and behind him. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that call.”
Suddenly, Ryan knew who the voice belonged to.
“Robert!” he shouted. “Robert Victor! What are you doing?! I didn’t kill him!”
“Wrong,” Doctor Victor said seriously. “You have no memory of killing him. That doesn’t mean you didn’t.”
“What do you mean?!”
“Do you want me to analyze the DNA of the blood on your hands and the blood from the man? Do you want me to take your fingerprints from the man’s neck and the knife?”
“My fingerprints are nowhere! I didn’t touch him! I was in that room I was in before, and then all of a sudden, I blinked and I was up here looking at the guy!” Ryan protested, feeling a growing sense of dread.
“OK, OK,” said Victor. “I’ll take you back to your room and show you what you did to it.”
“Look, I’m sorry I broke that needle and got the sheets all dirty, but that’s no reason –” Ryan started.
“Oh no boy, it’s much worse than that,” Victor interrupted. Ryan felt himself being dragged to his feet, and he struggled against the effect of the electric shock to stay standing.
“What do you mean, ‘much worse’?” He said, looking at Victor, who was no longer neatly kempt: his balding hair was ruffled, his cheeks were flushed and he was sweating around his hairline and upper lip.
“I’ll show you,” Victor said as he beckoned Ryan to follow him.
“Where’s Corey? Can I see him?”
“He’s … just fine,” Victor said with hesitation. “But you can’t see him yet.”
“Why not?!”
“Because I said so,” the doctor said as he opened the door to the roof exit and pushed Ryan through.
----------------
Yes, I know it's terrible, no need to tell me.
Anyway, I just thought I'd post it. If it confused you, then you know part of the reason for its fall. The first "part" is written in first-person perspective, then it abruptly changes to third. I thought it would be a cool thing to do, but it just ended up confusing the reader. Meh, oh well. Gotta fail sometimes, I guess.
Comment if you wish. Continue if you wish. Edit if you wish. Just don't make it awesome then publish it for millions without giving me a slice.
Gandy
