Chapter 5

Jesse Pinkman was so thirsty, and hungry, but he had nothing resembling money on him. He looked over the vast desert, so beautiful even in his starvation. Not an oasis in sight, but he remembered something about barrel cactuses in some junior high science class. The teacher believed, rightly, that his students would remember things about their special, local flora and fauna better than about distant old growth forests, California sequoias and counting rings. Such practical information could save their life someday, too.

Jesse broke off the radio antennae of the ancient, bruised and battered truck. This was an old trick and vicious weapon when it came to fending off junkies in crack houses. He thought he would be able to whip open the top of a juicy, fat cactus, and then there would be all this wet pulp inside. He remembered from that old science lesson that it was okay if the taste was a little bitter, just not too much, and that if you looked closely you might see some red or green stubs that were their fruit randomly sticking out of them. He didn't care about the taste. The water was sweet on his tongue and whatever vitamins were in it was far fresher than anything given to him in weeks. He did find a few fruit in taller Joshua trees, and they were so deliciously sugary to him, despite the innumerous hard seeds which he also swallowed gladly.

I'm going to be shitting like a goat, he thought, if I can get any more food into me.

When he was through with his foraging, he tried to figure out where he could go. He couldn't go home, who knew what was waiting for him there. He couldn't go to Andea,

Andrea. Brock. The sting of tears came to his eyes, though he still didn't have enough water in him for more than the pain.

Brock. He would have been long gone from that rented house he made possible for them. His grandmother would have taken him in, but where was she? Did Brock even want to see him? Did he hear Jesse's name spoken when his mother died? If Brock heard any of the conversation from his front, bedroom window upstairs, from his semi-awake dreams, now nightmares, he had to have heard that "Jesse's here, I brought him." Did he blame Jesse?

Brock, I'm so sorry,... I'm sorry I can't see you, I'm sorry for everything. I hurt everyone that knows me. Could he ever make any of it up? Was he Heisenberg too? Does Heisenberg turn everyone he touches into him?

I can't be like him, I have to make my mistakes right. I can do it, I have to do it, I'm still alive.

…

Justin saw an image flash up on his cell phone. He couldn't believe she did it, she actually sent out a picture. Old bag must have pushed the right buttons. The photo was a little fuzzy and too close, but he saw the haggard, lined face of Heisenberg take up the entire screen. He was missing the hat and sunglasses, and he was about a thousand pounds underweight, but that was the guy. His aunt even left a little tag under the photo, the software always asked if you wanted to. Oh my God, she's taking care of him? That was so cool. His homeroom would just die if they knew who his aunt was taking care of. Why wasn't she on the news yet?

Justin wondered what his "Just Message" would be about this photo. He had to do something with this cool pic, something extraordinary, he had to present it just right. How did he feel about the Meth King? What did he have to say?

Even for an old fart, Heisenberg was kinda badass. Then he noticed his aunt's picture tag went on for quite a bit. She typed some long*sh*t* message to him, -wrong place aunty, but, oh well- and it seemed rather passionate. What did she want? He pushed talk when his cel asked him if he wanted to reply to the sender.

(I think this is going to be, like, a hundred parts? Mostly disorganized, unpredictable, and HTML challenged. Oh, I also tend to add a little more to the previous "chapter." Forgive me, and for reader frustrations. You've been warned. ;) :)