Chapter 7:

"I suffer mornings most of all.

I feel so powerless and small.

By ten o'clock I'm back in bed,

Fighting the jury in my head."

Have to Drive – Amanda Palmer

Somewhere along the interstate, he lost an entire day, maybe more.

The very last thing he recalled before snapping back to himself and fighting to keep the bike on the road from the shock of it was pulling out of Loving, a feeling of hope and warmth clinging to him despite himself. And now he had no idea where in the hell he was.

Sunrise smelled like it wouldn't remain under the horizon much longer. He had maybe an hour until he'd need to find shelter and...apparently he was smack dab in the middle of a fucking desert.

The moon light cast the entire landscape into a bright, silvery glow, the black highway cutting across it like an infected wound. It was almost painful to look at. The wind was gusty and peppered his exposed skin with sand, making him feel raw and burned. The sand had drifted onto the shoulder of the road in places, the contrast startling no matter how many times he'd seen it, and he suddenly knew where he was. The surreal, bright white color of the sand should have clued him in much sooner.

He'd been in this area before.

He remembered the frantic journey, with Drusilla tugging on his arm and whispering in his ear, her voice lost and broken, and she wouldn't eat, or sleep until they got there.

"The sky will catch fire and only shadows will remain, Spike, Iand I must see it/i, I must. Oh please, we have to go, where the blood will burn for years and years, the earth itself as vile as poison; I must go..." and on and on until he was half mad himself.

They hadn't made it in time, of course. The world's first nuclear test had been in the morning anyhow, no way for them to watch. He knew later that she hadn't been talking about the test at all, but what happened a world away a month later. It'd been years before all the details came out, but when they did she pored over them, her hand trembling over the text like she was divining its secrets, muttering under her breath.

In the end, he was glad they'd missed it. She had cried for days before he was able to distract her from it with three small golden haired children. She'd kept them for almost a week, until...

He gasped and shook himself, tearing the memory from his mind with a jerk of his head. Not. Going. There.

He stared at the brilliant ivory sand curling like wisps of sugar around the front tire of his bike. A green and white sign about five yards ahead reminded him not to stop for long periods of time, and thank for you visiting White Sands Missile Range!

He'd slowed down dramatically due to his musing, and narrowly avoided a semi truck that screamed past him, its driver laying on the horn. The whole bike shuddered in the wake of its passing, and he desperately tried to reboot his brain. He pulled on the throttle to avoid another accident, and frantically searched his memories...nothing. He took stock of himself, as best he could at 70 mph, and was startled at what he found.

He was still achingly empty and exhausted, but the pains he'd carried since Africa were gone, replaced by something new. So, not only had he lost enough time to have mostly healed, he'd injured himself again the in the mean time. His wrists were incredibly sore. Any gust of wind that kicked up sand stung like hell. He wanted to examine them, but as much trouble as he was having simply keeping the bike on the road, he knew it'd be dangerous to check.

So he kept on, and rolled into Las Cruces ten minutes later. There were plenty of shit hole hotels to choose from (the kind that didn't ask questions no matter how thrashed you looked) in a town this size and this close to the border. It wasn't difficult to find one that wasn't well lit, with salmon colored paint peeling from the stucco and large pot holes littering the parking lot.

This town had changed quite a bit since the 40s. It was much bigger for one. For another, absolutely everything was painted a god awful combination of salmon pink and turquoise. Who ever had thought of that color scheme needed to die a horrible death. And he did not feel guilty about that last thought, as if thinking it would make some poor sod stuck in Santa Fe be eaten by coyotes or something, not at all.

He ignored the fact that he still had the same amount of money in his wallet as the last time he'd checked, despite the near full tank of gas sloshing around in the bike. The man at the front desk ignored him as much as possible. It was nice not to have to put forth the mental effort to come up with a decent alias. No words were exchanged after money was, and he made his way to the best room 20 dollars could buy.

As soon as the door was shut he sagged against it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes with bruising force. He gulped in frantic breaths to try to still the shuddering that was suddenly racking his entire body, but it wasn't working anymore. His legs buckled, and he slid down to the floor, giggling helplessly at the mental image of shaking apart and shattering all over the floor in a shady motel.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and blew out another breath, focusing as much as he could under the circumstances. Opening his eyes, he caught sight of his hands, and they were filthy. Dark brown blood clung under his nails, which oddly, were mostly broken. He didn't recognize his own hands. This had him laughing again, a desperate sound that tore out of his throat for want of screaming.

He continued his examination, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up on his left arm. His wrist was swollen and bruised, a red scabby ring circling it like a grim bracelet. The other sleeve was quickly pushed up and he found the same on the right. He'd lost control of his breathing again, becoming almost detached as he noticed that it was bordering on panicked.

Suddenly he wasn't alone anymore, and there were hands holding him down, pushing and pulling and cutting, dark hoods hiding stinking breath and scarred faces, and it was so silent apart from the screaming, and that'd be why his throat was sore. Then the silence was over and something was speaking, the words curling like snakes in his brain, and he longed for the silence again and the hands and the cutting, because this was worse, and...

He'd thrashed enough to slam his head hard against the door of the motel room, and apparently that was enough to jar him back to himself. He was panting and shuddering like a blown horse, nails digging into his own palms.

Dragging himself to his feet, he blanked his mind. He ignored the whisper of laughter that followed him when he slammed the bathroom door and scrubbed his skin raw again, only satisfied when not a trace of blood remained on his hands. He went through the motions of shaking sand out of his clothing and boots before climbing naked into the bed. Spike held himself completely still and stared at the wall for some time before he registered the voice, and a thrill of terror crawled up his spine.

"Now now, pet, none of this sulking. Up you get, must learn to be a good dog before I let you out."

He turned his head and stared wide eyed at Drusilla. She was standing at the foot of the bed, a pure white gown clinging to her curves.

A short time later, he forgot this night too.