-26-
"Behind the Eyes"
Ding!
The dead man's stubble was caked with sand, giving him the look of an ancient, grizzled hillbilly. With a tilt of his head, Greg leaned in for a better view. Not a pretty sight but interesting. Interesting...and kind of cool.
Those lips were bloodied, as bright as cherry candy, with sparkling patches of grit mixed in for a decorative flair. Flies were beginning to gather around the face, touching on the cheeks, the hair, as if they were curious too. The shiny crimson tongue lolled from the mouth like a fat crustacean peeking from its shell. Tiny bits of scrub stuck to the the dead man's chin, his brow, his wide, staring eyes: vegetation taking root, already starting to grow. Through it all, like a reminder, the diamond stud glimmered from his earlobe--like a star, brighter than the relentless glare of that fireball in the sky.
The back of the dead man's shirt was saturated: deep crimson, almost purple...
None of this bothered Greg, because it didn't matter.
It should bother you.
"Don't care," he said aloud, his voice carrying no further than a fleeting thought.
Over there...that guy.. whassizname?...his name...
already forgetting names...things...because only one thing matters...you know what it is...
Mark!
He would have been proud of himself, had pride been an option. But a trio of bullets wrenched that option away. There could be no more pride or vanity or
ego...
Surprise! They were as dead as-
Ding!
Only one thing...matters.
Mark leaned against the van, not daring to step onto the field of slaughter, where all that adrenaline pumped Spike TV action had taken place. To do so would be inviting the sharks to gather, to surround him, turn him into roadkill just like...
Just like...the man you used to be.
You know, you really should care.
"Why?"
The silence was as thick as the blood pooling, scarlet fingers reaching for him from beneath the body.
...my body has been a good friend, but I won't need it when I reach the end...
In the end a body was just a heap o' spare parts: cooling limbs, dead tissue and a heart that didn't wanna diddy-bop no more.
From the nozzle of Mark's pistol, tendrils of smoke drifted, a sure sign that whatever took place here happened only moments ago.
But time had no bearing. Not anymore. It would again, once he reached his destination--and got on with what mattered.
And what mattered was...?
Ding!
From somewhere...that regal woman of the desert appeared.
her name...was...
Stacy.
The brave queen took the initiative, taking the walk, approaching the decomposing form that wasn't goin' nowhere. She sat on the step and folded and unfolded her hands, peering into those eyes. Finally she touched his face.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"Dammit," the man growled from his safe haven, "get away from him."
His name...again...whazzit?.
The lovebirds plummeted into argument mode, the squabbling was practiced, an easy yet biting round of the old back and forth. Their caustic banter was most likely the usual precursor to more passionate endeavors like sex and eating and
killing?
Oh, wow. Here come the perks. Suddenly Greg saw things, knew things. Cool things...like six days from now, Bonnie and Clyde would be found in a hotel in Reno. Cops would bust the door down a little after midnight, arrest the two of them for carjacking, kidnapping, murder...
It didn't matter. Only one thing did...
Ding!
Rising from the step, Greg turned and looked past the body, the abandoned rest stop, the scrub and the mess and the blood, out toward the horizon. The air shimmered golden. Between the blue of the sky and the arid, dead earth was a marker, a tear, and the sound
Ding!
compelling him to make tracks toward where he needed to go.
Allowing himself one final look back, he watched the man and the woman begin their slow trek down the highway. They would hitchhike their way to Bakersfield, keep on the straight and narrow for the rest of their journey until the law caught up with them.
That body on the ground, the one that used to fit him so well, play music, make love, wear itself out, was a husk now, a non-entity. It no longer was. Was that good or bad? It didn't matter; these facts had no bearing on anything.
Now...only one thing did.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened. The car was packed with nurses, doctors, patients, and relatives of the infirm who, he knew, would rather be anywhere but here. The throng flanked a trembling, liver spotted man in a wheelchair, who was taking up an inordinate amount of space. Some less ambitious souls opted to wait for the next car, but waiting was for wimps, gimps and sissies. Easing his way inside, Greg slipped through a space the width of a pencil, brushing lightly against a few fellow passengers in the process. Those in the know might have experienced an inexplicable shiver, an uncomfortable cough they would attribute to a case of flu or an unchecked fever.
Booga, booga, booga! he shouted. An round-eyed orderly with a pencil thin moustache flinched and pressed his palm to his cheeks, his forehead.
No telling what you might have picked up in the ICU (heh, heh...)
This was kind of fun. The memory of the desert was fading quickly. It would soon be a distant half remembered dream, as would everything about the 'other' place. This was the new real and true: this was Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital, and that was the real James Wilson standing over in the corner of the elevator car. Wilson folded his arms across his chest, head tilted slightly back, his eyes steady on the lights denoting the passing of each floor. He wore a white lab coat. On its lapel was a badge that proclaimed him the King of Oncology.
Woah...
Again, it meant nothing. Not really. This was not why Greg was here. Still...it couldn't hurt to follow Wilson, to see what was new and cool on this side of the universe.
Ding!
Out of the elevator he went, then down the corridor. No cane was necessary. He was all air and light, soaring, dipping, bounding off walls, keeping his subject in sight...
...floating behind Wilson, hovering by the ceiling inside the glass walled office. Of course he knew this office, or one just like it.
And there she was, the Dean of Medicine, wearing a lacy, black thing over an lacy white thing. Lovely as always. If it were possible, he would have caught his breath. But of course he no longer had breath to catch.
It didn't matter. Only one thing did.
Cuddy and Wilson were talking now, yammering away. Their words were a funny, garbled mash, as rhythmic and goofy as a nonsense rhyme. They made no sense but Greg liked the flow. He sensed that once he reached his destination, it would all mean something.
One actual word stood out, clear as the ding! that brought him here.
House...
They were talking about House. Cuddy threw her hands in the air each time the name fell from her lips. She was agitated, incensed. He remembered liking her this way...
somewhere else...
Out...out...OUT!
Down the corridor again. Now he was whooshing, zipping through rooms, offices, past reception desks, where the personnel was familiar but strange.
How could that be?
Does it matter?
Not one bit.
He was slowing now, not of his own accord...just along for the ride...passive...
go where I got to go...
By the window of Diagnostics, he hovered, floating, peering in at the long table. Here were useless coffee cups, empty, stained Styrofoam. One had fallen on its side, a dribble of tan liquid bleeding over its lip. There were legal pads, pens, paper clips tossed away, discarded. Once upon a time it would have irked him. Time-
-no meaning-time has no-
The doctor wiped the whiteboard clean, stared at the blankness for a half a minute before heading for the door. He was leaving, done with whatever work had gone on in this room. His face showed no sense of accomplishment, nothing that could be construed as satisfaction. It was just another day.
You know that face, that look...
It's yours.
Doc leaned hard on his cane, as if his leg was giving him a particularly bad problem today. Greg was well acquainted with days like these; even though he was no longer a member of the corporeal club, he could still sympathize.
Down the elevator, into the corridor, then out the door. Step into the garage, time to ride the Repsol home, wherever home was now. Turning right instead of left would have brought him here in the first place. This is what mattered. This was true.
Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe, hey, hey! he shouted into the ear his other half.
The doctor--Dr. House--faltered, his cane slipping from his hand, dropping to the cement floor. It landed a few feet away at the moment Greg sidled closer to this lanky, lean partner in crime. He felt the warmth of the man's breath, his agitation, the quickening tattoo of his heart. The last step was a doozy, like tumbling down a ravine. Easy, now, Easy. There! In like Flint! Behind the eyes.
You and me, babe. Hey, hey!
Yeah, man.
To his credit, the good doctor managed one weak push of resistance, nothing G-Man couldn't handle, then... a slow, cool wave of acceptance, as Greg luxuriated in the blood pulsing around him, warming him, fueling him, welcoming him...
(the only thing that mattered...)
...giving him that much coveted all access pass to the show.