Part 1
Walking was boring.
The mechanics of it, one foot in front of the other and the incredible slowness of progress. He thought about jogging, breaking into a run, but then dismissed the idea. In order to run you had to have something to run towards, some purpose and, with nothing but an endless vista of sand and rock ahead of him, it was hard to summon up the enthusiasm to hurry. Besides - he glanced up, squinting at the sky for about the fiftieth time that hour - it was a nice enough day, and not so hot it made walking unpleasant.
The only thing that bothered him slightly was his lack of water which, he had a dim memory, was important. Licked his lips, and felt the the skin dry out again almost instantly. He needed to find something to drink pretty soon or he'd be in trouble. Stopped. Shaded his eyes and again and scanned the horizon.
But where?
A low wind started up, pulling the fine sand from the ground to whisper in the air around him and he blinked irritably, rubbing away the grit that seemed to be constantly collecting in his tear ducts. At least there weren't any flies. Bloody hated them.
He started to walk again, just because there wasn't really much else to do. Made a steady comforting rhythm with his feet in the dirt.
Thump-tuff.
Thump-tuff.
Thump-tuff.
Started to sing softly to himself, picking up the pace a little with the beat.
"She went a-way...for the holi-days.
Said she was go-ing...to L.A,
But she never got there...
She never got there...
She never got there they sa - ay."
It was a bad choice, the timing was a little off. He grunted, tried to think of something else, something with more of a bass line. Maybe from the golden age of The Clash. Slowed. Stopped. And a gradual silent tilt of the head.
O.K.
::Name all the Ramone's decent albums::
::All? Come on...let's face it. 'Animal Boy' was pretty much the Alpha and Omega::
O.K. So he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of prototype punk, what did that really say about him, other than he was obviously a discerning man with a timeless sense of good taste? One hand strayed to his face again, felt for the lines he knew had to be there. O.K. So he was no kid. He was...what 30? 32? Couldn't be any older than that. Tried checking the big five off on the fingers of one hand.
::Ramones::
::Stooges::
::Clash::
::Pistols::
::New York bloody Dolls::
All late 70s. Frowned, and rubbed a finger along the length of his nose thoughtfully. OK. 35, maybe. But not 40 yet. No way. His feet pushed onwards, and after a minute or two he started to hum again. Just because it was...uplifting. Carried the fast easy rhythm to his feet, and just went with it.
It seemed like a whole day he walked. An ocean of dirt and pebble and harsh grey scrub never diminishing, always stretching on. Sometimes he wondered if maybe he was on a treadmill, the same ribbon of dirt constantly revolving under his ceaseless feet. But then he'd pass a rock shaped like a hunched over Dutch woman or notice a particularly phallic saguaro, and he'd know that there was still more to come. Only the sun never changed, although it's path across the sky eventually brought it lower and directly into combat with his eyes. He found himself squinting almost constantly, keeping his gaze directed at his feet, so it was with a stir of surprise that he eventually noticed the shape moving far off in the distance.
Low to the ground, it was just a smear of red, seeming to hover several feet about the desert's surface. It's colour slid - blending into the air - making it's outline amorphous, a scarlet disc skimming at incredible speed, and it was only when his straining ears finally caught the faint familiar roar that he allowed himself to finally believe.
Oh thank fuck.
And break into that run he'd been promising himself.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"You break down?"
The truck's cab was fabulously cool, the soft thrum of the air-conditioning like the sound of some exotic insect. He craned his neck to one side, and let the sweet current just bathe his skin, before he even tried to speak. Blinked. Blinked again, slower. Made sure his eyeballs understood just what a close call they'd had.
"Ah, yeah."
It seemed like the truth anyway. The most likely scenario, and he tried to visualise the car he must have been driving, the accident that had scrambled his brain.
"Yeah, just...back a ways."
And attempted a grateful smile,
"Glad you came along when you did."
The guy was a huge fleshpot of a man, massive wiry sideburns and a face that looked like someone had been strip-mining it. He grunted, mashed big meaty fingers around his steering wheel.
"British."
The word was spoken gruffly, matter-of-fact, and it took a good long moment before the implication of it sunk in.
"British? What...I'm British?"
And he listened to that word on his tongue, batted the whole idea back and forth for all of a millisecond.
"Yeah. British."
Paused, frowning.
::Really?::
"Yes. Sorry about that."
A smirk, and another kind of snarling grunt that might pass for a laugh, and just the merest mean-ass darted glance sideways. Fingers mashed down on the steering column again.
"Your Daddy's fault, boy. Not your's"
Another snort, and then silence.
Outside the desert skimmed by, it's power neutralised by the mighty force of refrigeration, and he studied it abstractly. So fucking barren. Why on earth would he have chosen - blinked - trying to reach for it again, make the memory tangible, but it wouldn't come. Sliding with the dust, out and away over the miles of arid dirt that surrounded him.
Unable to stop himself, he yawned. Covered his mouth with a hand.
"Truck-stop up ahead, bout 15 mile. Drop you there."
It wasn't a question, but he nodded anyway.
"You like Tammy Wynette?"
He eyes slid over to meet those of his saviour's, felt his expression obediently arrange itself into a blank emotionless mask.
"Can't say I ever met the lady."
A small, easy shrug.
"But you're driving mate. Play what you like."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Brakes barking, the rig curled to a standstill in the vast dustbowl of the truck-stop, and he had only a moment to vocalise another lukewarm thank you before his companion was turning away. Fingers already reaching down for the volume control. Watching the smoking silver and black hulk roar off down to the next junction, he scuffed a toe gently in the dust before pushing a hand into his back pocket again. Glanced over at the yellow-lit windows of the nearby diner.
No money.
Fucking miles from anywhere.
Sighed soft and low as he realised that, in fact, his situation hadn't actually improved much beyond the whole death by dehydration scenario. Now he'd just do it slower. And all for want of a plate of buffalo wings.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The music inside was lower but still more of the same; selections from The Greatest Hick White-Trash Album In The World Ever. Took in the suspended ceiling, flaking paint work, cracked counter top and the signed photograph of Kenny Rogers behind it in one bone-tired and largely unemotional glance. Slid onto a stool and rested his elbows between the napkin holders and the maple syrup.
The waitress had a figure like an unruly mattress, but seemed inoffensive enough. A slight smile in his direction, and she left off cleaning out the coffee machine, wiped her hands on her apron and walked on over.
"What can I get you?"
::short stack, four sides of bacon, sausage, three eggs, five rounds of toast::
"Just a glass of water."
::with bacon and cheese::
And she didn't even blink, just smiled - easy, like he liked his eggs - went over and filled him a good tall glass with plenty of ice. Flicked over the counter with the edge of her cloth, and then turned away and silently went back to her filters.
It wasn't that he wanted to talk. He didn't crave company, but the silence inside him was so complete - it was odd. A little unsettling. And maybe more so because it felt unfamiliar, like he wasn't at all used to the quiet. Every thought was as a word written on clean white paper, with no point of reference either in front or behind. His throat worked, dry and thick, and he lifted the glass and poured water down it. Wished it was beer.
A T.V set flickered to life above his head, a woman's face in close-up - smiling, and his eyes drifted to it. Stuck. Just adverts at first; some miraculous bollocks that made your windows sparkle like game show host's teeth, and then back to the news; a bronzed man looking down the lens with a suitably bland expression. The guy's mouth worked silently with the sound down, eyes conveying nothing but apathy as an inset shot of a traffic-accident slid in behind, and swallowing the last of his water he looked around for the rest room.
A last parting glance at the T.V, and he saw the accident scene dissolve to be replaced by the woman Anchor's face. Another shot, this time a helicopter view of a disaster. A vast crater in the earth, miles across. Hundreds of houses and buildings faintly visible through the haze of dust and smoke. A scene of almost epic destruction.
He blinked. Managed to stop his hand this time before it got to his pocket.
::Sunnydale, California::
A face coated with dust pushed towards a microphone. Stuttering lips, tear-tracks. A name below: Mrs C. Symonds, Sunnydale Resident, and then back to the long aerial tracking shot, what could have been a white church spire crumbling like a toy.
"Terrible thing."
The waitresses voice had a Southern twang to it. She leant forward to get a better view from behind the counter, stared at the screen with a deep frown, clicked her tongue.
"All those poor people."
Glanced over at him with worn denim eyes.
"They say it was mine-shafts. All the old shafts just waiting to collapse. Could have gone any time."
He stared back at her and after a moment or two she nodded, rested a heavy hand on one hip.
"You need anything else?"
"Just the toilet."
"Out back."
Reached under the counter and tossed him a key, then turned back to the T.V and twisted up the volume.
"...and emergency services. Fatalities are still being calculated, but estimates are that over five hun...."
The door closed with a snap behind him, cutting off the sound, and he stood. Warm dry air bathing him as a fiery desert sun slid into the ice-blue skyline.
Sighed.
::Fuck it.::
Wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and, for about the hundredth time that day, longed desperately for a cigarette.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A sudden rough jerk brought his jaw up with a snap and he awoke, tasted fresh blood in his mouth.
It was dark, and there was a deathly stiffness in his joints brought on by the cold. A moment or two passed before he could make any sense of anything, and then he rolled under the sheet of tarpaulin he'd dragged over himself, twisting his body up into a hunched sitting position. Pulled his legs in, hugged them. The deafening roar of the truck's engine had finally lulled him to sleep, albeit a numbing, brain-jarring kind of sleep, and for a while he'd slipped into a strange kind of semi-consciousness. He rubbed his neck muscles hard with one hand, stretched out the painful kinks. Fuck. If this was what being rested felt like, he'd have been better off staying awake all night.
Ripping out from under him, the I-15 stretched out - a grey strip lit faintly now as the sun threatened the horizon with white. Either side the desert lay silent, blue and cold, and he squinted at it in the morning light, digging out the sand from the corners of his eyes. He didn't have a watch of course. A watch would have been a clue, something that might have told him a little about the man he was, had been. Pulled his head down between his knees, pushed up under the base of his skull and dug his fingertips in, coaxed his scalp slowly back to life.
It was early, he thought maybe 5.00, 5.30 a.m. He knew for a fact that it had been well after two when he'd finally found someone to give him a ride to the nearest town. The guy had a flatbed Toyota and three fucking massive German Shepherds, but had graciously consented to let him ride in back, providing 'he didn't mess with nothing'. Now, looking around at the tangle of old car parts, rope ends and chewed plastic containers in the rear of the thing, his passenger was a little confused by the request. Shrugged, lifting a rusty exhaust pipe. Weird what some blokes considered precious.
On the left a highway sign flashed by, and he only had time to glimpse the one name - Barstow - before it was gone again, disappearing into desert mist. It had a somewhat familiar sound and, closing his eyes for a moment and visualising, he found he had a good idea of where he was. A clear internal map that zoomed in on request, and although he couldn't say exactly how or why, he knew with a sudden dim certainty that he had been here before. This exact same route in fact, and just to prove his own point, opened his eyes a split second before another larger sign hove into view over his shoulder, already mouthing the words on it.
::Calico Ghost Town::
So he must know the road well, and letting himself drift - deliberately not focusing on details, he found he knew other stuff too. Like that Barstow was a big dead dustbowl of a place. 30 odd square miles of yellow-brown nothing; just train tracks and ghost towns and an economy that hadn't moved a muscle since the goldrush. A couple of blocks north of Main Street there was a steakhouse called the 'Idle Spurs' that, despite all appearances to the contrary, served a half decent rib-eye. He blinked twice rapidly, seeing the big lame-ass cartwheel sign hung outside and then, for some inexplicable reason, also remembered that near it there was an ice-cream place called 'Fosters'. Made their own triple mint choc-chip, and the stuff tasted like fucking ambrosia. But that was all. Nothing more. He shook his head.
Jesus.
His brain was just chock full of useless crap. Now if only he could just figure out a way to lever his own name out of there, his zip code, he'd be home free.
The flatbed's engine climbed down from a roar to a throaty snarl, as the driver finally entered city limits. Seeing four sets of beady eyes checking him out in the rear-view mirror, he mimed to the driver as they neared the centre, indicating that he could let him out anywhere. The Toyota barrelled to a standstill, Dog-guy gunned the engine impatiently as he climbed down, carefully picking his way around the truck's seemingly precious cargo.
::S'ok Fido. Not touching any of your shit.::
A curt nod and the truck sped off, leaving him choking on exhaust fumes. He stretched, cracked his neck,
"Prick."
and stepped gingerly up onto the sidewalk.
A clock in a nearby window told the time as 6.00am, although he'd pretty much worked that one out for himself by now. About seven, maybe eight people on Main Street, a few lights on, minimal traffic; the soft familiar sounds of a city making itself ready for a new day. The air was clear and light, still cool, and wrapping his arms around himself he started to walk up the road. Glanced in the window of the bank to see the date blinking: May 22nd, and wondered if he should feel anything about that. Was today special for any reason?
::May 22nd, 1455: Battle of St.Albans. Henry VI was defeated by the Yorkists. Start of The War of the Roses:.:
Fuck, now that was just...weird. He shook his head grasping for more, but again his brain just refused to co-operate with him; the information inside only released to him in tiny useless chunks, and without any discernible pattern. He grunted. All in all, his memory behaved a lot like the US Military. Rubbed his eyes and stared at the clock again, daring it to unlock something else. The LED glowed redly back at him for a minute or more, but there was nothing else and he grumbled softly to himself. No idea what the bloody War Of The Roses was even about.
Fucking stupid brain.
Without warning his stomach growled audibly, and hearing it he suddenly remembered the hunger he'd been subduing for the last eight hours. Christ, he hadn't eaten a single thing since he'd woken up yesterday, and god knows how long before that. Probably the only things preventing his stomach lining from completely dissolving were a pint of ice-water and the two sticks of Juicy Fruit he'd cadged off the truck-stop waitress. He grimaced again, pushing a fist into his gut to dull the pain. Surely there had to be somewhere a man with no memory or money could get something to eat around here?
The thought had barely entered his head when, drifting on the air, the scent of frying bacon suddenly transfixed him. A few hundred yards further up the street a small old-fashioned diner was already wide awake, it's open door sending all kinds of tempting aromas out into the morning air, and helplessly following the almost palpable flavours he walked slowly towards it. Despite the early hour there was a busy chatter of voices, and drawing closer he saw that at least six people were already sitting down to breakfast inside. Three men in dusty grey overalls sat up at the counter gabbing noisily with the cook, while in front of the plate-glass window an old man was hunched over a stack of pancakes, his eyes fixed on the T.V set behind them. He tried not to drool at the sight and smell of so much good food, but suddenly it felt like he hadn't eaten for a century and, taking a step or two inside he glanced up at the menu board, hopelessly feeling around inside his pockets.
His fingers closed around the metal amulet again and he frowned, pushed it back down. It still wasn't telling him anything. Like his brain, it's secret was locked tight, inaccessible to him - at least for now. But maybe, it would come to him soon. He just close his eyes and know it.
::Yeah, just like the bleeding Battle of St.Albans.::
When he looked up again, the cook was staring back at him.
"Getcha something?"
And just like that, he decided. A man with no name still had to eat didn't he? And a man like that, with no money and no means of getting any, certainly couldn't be blamed for just trying to avoid starvation. Involuntarily, he licked his lips and took a quick glance up the counter towards the three workmen.
"Is that the ah...Early Bird Special?"
An easy nod, and the cook was scribbling it down on his pad, turning back to the stove.
"You want coffee with that?"
He blinked. Opened his mouth, and then shut it again as he saw a huge slab of bacon hit the griddle with a hiss.
"No. Thank you."
Frowned,
"Could I have a really big glass of milk though?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
For all he knew, the breakfast was probably the best he'd ever eaten and, wiping his plate clean with his last piece of bread, he told himself that no matter what the consequences it had been worth it. The ache in his stomach was long since forgotten, thanks to the five eggs and countless rashers of bacon he'd warmly smothered it with. Four generously buttered rounds of toast had followed, chased by several quarts of cold milk, and it was only on the almost aggressive insistence of Phil The Fry Cook that he'd managed to force a slice of peach pie in on top of it all.
"My Mom makes it. Her own peaches."
And his mouth full of it, he could only nod back.
"S'ver g...d!"
He seemed a really nice guy though, and somewhere deep inside he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at conning an honest hardworking stiff, like he supposed he himself was, out of hard earned money. Watching him grinning at the customers as he wiped his cloth up to his end of the counter again, he cleared his throat and tried to give him the friendliest and most apologetic smile he could muster.
"You can tell your Mum from me she's a bloody genius."
The cook's face split with a proud grin as he tore off the check, slid it across to him.
"But ah...Phil, mate? I'm sorry. I can't pay for this."
A stunned silence greeted him, and it seemed like a full minute passed before anyone spoke. The old man by the window rattled his fork down on an empty plate, half stood up.
"You want me to go get Claire, Phil?"
The cook's eyes flickered over to meet the old man's.
"Just stay right there, Andy. I got this."
Phil's gaze slid back to fix him in place again, all traces of friendliness now completely gone.
"You're saying you don't have the money to pay for this?"
Determinedly, he tried to think about how good all that food felt sitting snugly in his belly.
"I don't have any. Sorry."
Sighing, the man clenched his jaw, all ten fingers gripping the edge of the countertop in front of him.
"Mister, either you pay for what you ate or I call the cops. Which is it?"
The Cops.
Of course the Police would want to know his name. His address, next of kin; answers to all the questions he didn't have any for, and when he couldn't answer them, what then? There had to be some way they could find that stuff out; his fingerprints, test his DNA, scan his retinas, forensic shit like that! They'd probably have a database or something, type a description in and his name would pop right on out. Thinking of it he almost broke into a grin, almost sighed out loud with relief. Wondered why on earth he hadn't thought of it before.
"Go ahead and call 'em."
He was a person missing a life. Stood to reason that someone's life had to be missing him