Hangover

Justin awoke.

And he was completely frozen where he lay. This was usually because of the cold; any other day, and the cold would be the culprit. But it was more so because of the terrible feeling manifesting inside him.

It was rotten. He felt it—inside and out—as if covered in amniotic fluid, so silkily disgusting. He wanted to get up, ride the Mongoose as fast as it would carry him to the city, rush into the community showers and just stand there for an hour. He'd rinse and scrub and wash and do it some more until his skin peeled, he felt so dirty. But his mind was numb, far number than any other time in this mind-numbing existence of Traxus IX. So numb, he couldn't move.

What was perhaps more horridly strange, was that he hadn't known anything of last night after the strange voice entered his head. He blacked out—because he certainly didn't remember how he found his way to the couch and fell asleep. He'd had occasions like this before, though. Yet somehow he always remembered his wild, narcotic experiences later on down the line. After moments and hours of monotonous and wearisome work at the factory, his mind would eventually rest on the prior night's happenings. Though this time, he was afraid the memory was gone.

He was always supposed to be in control. Always had been.

And he still couldn't move. He felt angry at the mere notion of pitying himself, staying frozen any longer. It only barely outweighed his fear.

He rose out of the couch, some of the bacteria-ridden moisture clinging to his clothes upon his departure. He sensed that maybe the igloo had grown colder; how rare indeed because Traxus IX was quite stable in its morbid climate. However, he was dread-cold right down to the bones. He could barely feel his face. He made for the outer door to check the sun and check the sky. Maybe the cloud layer had descended more than usual for some crazy reason. No—he stopped. Hunger churned inside him. He had to eat something. But there was hardly anything in this shelter that could offer him the kind sustenance he required. It felt as though he just emerged from hibernation. No—he should be going to the heater room right about now, being on the verge of hypothermia. But something overrode that instinct. Cognitively, he knew he was in deep shit and had to act fast. But emotionally, he was perfectly fine. Something was indeed wrong, even though he was perfectly content to let it stay this way.

His mind and body was all over the place. He didn't know what to do with himself. He knew it would feel good to step in the heater room, or even to go outside to get some water. Or both. Or…none of the options he considered. Anything was fine at this point, but also unacceptable as well.

He paced back and forth across the dirt floor of the atrium, so fast that he kicked up dust that rose halfway up his body. He could feel warmth circulating at least—it just barely registered in his cognizance. One mission accomplished. But he couldn't even begin to put a finger on whatever else was going on inside his mind. Or body. Or wherever the hell this feeling resided. He had never felt so insecure.

Then, he remembered…

"Justin," he said unto the air around him, "didn't you just take a trip down the rabbit hole last night?" He smiled, and the memory of Solomon's hideout surged back into his mind. The trip across the open plains back to the igloo, and the guys all sitting in a circle and getting wasted together off this strange, golden flower. "Yes, you did!" he replied to himself. He smiled again.

Clarity, Justin now held. It was all just a bad experience, one of many he had. But this was by far the strangest. That would explain his current state of mind.

It was confirmed. Nothing to worry about.

All in my head.

He breathed easy.

In Justin's perfect moment of lucid transparency, a sudden convulsion sprang in him from the gut up. A gag reflex completely owned his whole body. He just barely caught it before he ran to the door, massive hiccups in his windpipe.

Once outside, he let the flood gates open and vomited all over the dust-smothered clay.

He heaved and gagged, completely out of breath for nearly half a minute while stomach acid and bile and undigested food poured from his open mouth to the deck. An immense dry heave followed and he was almost passed out form lack of oxygen. He remained in a pseudo stance, though—hunched over with the weight of his torso buttressed into the knees through his arms. Once able to take in air, he stood up. It felt like he was ten pounds lighter. He felt able to walk to the water pallet around back. He felt capable of running two marathons back-to-back. That's when he doubled over again and let loose one last, triumphant volley of chunky fluid gushing to Traxus IX.

Once completely drained, he caught his breath until he felt whole again. He stood up…

…And then a torrent of voices surged into his mind, ringing his ears with screams of agony and horror.

"Ahhhhh!" he screamed into the cold, lifeless plains.

They kept coming and wouldn't stop, filling Justin's ears with pure horror. He screamed again. The noises were so loud, it actually started to hurt.

Then, all at once, it stopped. Justin gasped for air once again.

There was just silence and a gentle, cool breeze all around. Justin scanned the horizon: nothing. Not a soul in sight. Nothing around for miles that could make that kind of racket. Yes, it was inside his head. I'm going crazy. Justin thought. No, you're not going crazy. It's just the flower. Just the flower…

He glanced all about once more: there was still nothing except the nothingness of Traxus IX. He sauntered into the igloo and looked around: everyone was still asleep, either on the floor or in a cot. Not one person had woken up besides Justin, and not even after he screamed at the top of his lungs—twice. Something strange was happening.

He went to the cot where Pete lied and shook the frame. All Justin got was a moan and rapid eye movement; Pete was in a dream and was lifeless for the time being. It would be even harder to wake the bastard up than times before after last night. Justin moseyed over to a sleeping bag where Ken slept. He shook Ken himself but he was unresponsive as well. That left Bill and Chris, next to one another in other sleeping bags. He looked at both their faces. Justin would rather talk to Bill than Chris. Bill was Justin's closest and most trusted friend and surely the best listener out of any. He would understand, or at least try to.

He shook Bill—no response. Again—no response.

"The fuck?" Justin whispered to himself.

"—What was all that yelling?" Chris asked, startling Justin.

"Jesus, kid. You scared me."

"Were you yelling at someone outside?"

"No. I stubbed my toe."

"In your boots?"

"It was before I put my boots on." Justin took a seat on the dirt floor, avoiding Chris' eyes for the moment. "How come you're not asleep?"

"Your scream woke me up."

Justin nodded, the horror in his eyes barely kept a secret by the hard lines of his face.

"What's with the others?" Chris asked.

"I don't know. I tried to wake them, but they are out of it."

"You tried to wake each one of them?"

"…Yeah."

"Well…that's not good. They could be sick from the flower you guys smoked up. We should check them."

"Right, I'll take their pulses." Justin ran over to Ken first. He was zonked out on the floor, his blonde hair draped half over his limp face. Justin could see a white spot where Ken's drool dried on the wool material from his open mouth. Justin knelt down and placed his index and middle finger in between Ken's jaw and neckline—the carotid artery. Justin slowed his breathing and vested all his concentration into his two fingers. There was a pulse—slow and weak—but there was a pulse. "Ken's good." Justin said, making his way to Bill.

"Pete's good." Chris said.

He checked Bill's pulse—good. Slow and weak, but nevertheless present.

Justin stood up and scratched his scalp in confusion.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked.

"Did Pete have a weak pulse?"

"You know what? I thought I noticed he did." Chris said. "The others?"

Justin nodded. "Slow and weak."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not entirely sure. But check your pulse for me."

"…Okay." Chris said warily. He did so and said, "Feels normal to me."

Justin immediately checked his own. He let his arm fall to his side a moment later.

"…And?" Chris asked. He could now make out the haunted look in Justin's gaze. "Like the others. You think it's from the flower?"

"Couldn't imagine what else it'd be from."

"Should we consult Solomon?"

"No. Too far of a drive. I'm gonna go to the factory…get some medication, see what's wrong."

"I wanna go."

"We're all going."

So far, the plan wasn't working as conceived. The others were in a coma-like slumber.

"We'll just have to wait for them, then." Justin said.

Justin and Chris brought in water and inventoried what non-perishables there were in Justin's meager stockpile. After one whole standard hour of these activities, the others slowly awoke, one by one.

Justin and Chris watched them, perfectly silent and observant. They were groggy and disoriented as they left their places of rest. Pete nearly fell over as he negotiated standing himself up from the cot. Justin and Chris took notice and idly stood watch as the rest of them moseyed around the igloo, seemingly lost and confused, and even unaware to Justin and Chris' presence. Slowly but surely, they picked up the pace and either brushed teeth, put on heavier clothes or did whatever else they did in their monotonous routines.

"How'd you guys sleep last night?" Justin asked, his voice easily permeating the conglomerate of steel walls.

For what seemed moments later, each one of them—Bill, Pete and Ken—worked their way to the atrium where Justin and Chris stood firm.

Two men stared at three across the room, and vice versa. Another moment went by.

"I slept…okay." Pete finally said.

"Same here." Bill replied.

Ken shrugged. "So-so."

"Just like that?" Justin asked the three of them. "No tosses or turns?" They each shook their head. "…How do you feel now?"

No answer came for about a whole minute. "…What?" Bill asked.

"I said , ?"

"…I'm fine." Bill replied. His deep, throaty voice was heavier than usual and very groggy. Justin even detected an uncharacteristic hint of irritation. That wasn't Bill.

Justin then looked to Pete. His face was puffy like he'd just gone three rounds with a pride fighter. "And you?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?" Pete said. He walked off into the heater room.

"What's up, Ken?" Justin asked, hesitant to hear the answer.

"I feel…okay. I guess."

"You guess." Justin confirmed, nodding bitterly. He walked around to the couch and sat down, eyeing some comic books on the floor. "I'm fine and I guess doesn't sound like definitive answers to me." Justin declared, his voice even louder.

Chris took a seat on the floor, nervous about something in the air. Justin's voice seemed to make the metallic walls ring. Tension was building. He could see it on everyone's faces, in everyone's bodies. A cloud of negative energy.

"I'll say it again," Justin said, "I'm not very convinced here."

"What the fuck do you want to hear from us?" Pete said from another room. "That we need you to hold our fucking hands? You gonna make us a bed-and-breakfast?"

"Whatever." Justin said, and walked outside.

"Where are you going?" Chris whispered.

"To get some water. I'm fuckin' thirsty, okay?"

"Okay. All I did was ask."

Justin opened the door firmly and stepped outside. He was back in a moment later with two water bottles.

"Everyone get ready for work. We're all going in today."

To Justin's great content, there was no argument.

Everyone was slow in getting ready. Much slower than usual. And they were usually pretty slow.

Justin only had to splash some water on his face and put on another overcoat. Chris, much the same. A quick brush of his teeth and he met Justin outside—prepping the 'Goose for the ride to the city. One by one, Pete and Bill and Ken sauntered out of the igloo with their ski equipment. They clumsily donned their goggles, gloves, boots and warm clothes. As if their first time. Justin actually congratulated himself on the inside for putting up with their movements—they were like molasses going uphill. It seemed impossible for them to take any longer. But eventually, they snapped into their bindings and Justin immediately darted off.

Justin wondered how long it would take them to start blowing chunks on the fast-moving ground beneath them. Not long.

Ken spewed his insides out directly in front of him. Much of the matter wound up on his boots and shins. Some overspray caught Pete next to him, who didn't even have the will to react. A wince was all that could be detected over Justin's shoulder. Pete hadn't bothered to clean himself. They were definitely somewhere else and far from lucid. Justin slowed to a brief stop and swiveled to face Bill, Pete, and Ken.

"Look," Justin said with a sting of annoyance, "are you fuckers gonna start dropping like flies if I continue to the city?"

"Since when did you ever start giving a shit, Justin?" Pete responded in kind. "How do you even know we're gonna drop the rope?" Pete listed to one side where he stood.

"I don't know much of anything right now." Justin fired back. "Which is why we all need to give each other some assurance."

"What the fuck for? You want to go to the factory, I think everyone else does too. So just carry on and drive, dude!"

"I'm just saying...don't keep going if you can't even stand up. If we're gonna ride, we're gonna ride hard and fast so we can get some meds, some antibiotics or something. We need to recover from whatever the hell this is, because I think this might be pretty serious."

"Now, now, Justin," Pete barked, "you're gonna scare our resident holy-man."

Justin slowed the ATV to a halt again after another mile. "How long until this goes away?" Chris asked as Justin dismounted.

"Like Solomon said, you never know. Everyone is different. Hell, any one of them could still be in another world. Shit, I'm still pretty hammered."

Chris swallowed. He didn't like the sound of that.

Justin worked his way to the three skiers, two of which were hunched over and out of breath, Bill and Ken. "You guys gonna be able to make it the rest of the way?"

No answer.

"Pete." Justin said.

Pete was looking straight into Justin, but his eyes were squinted, like slits, nearly shut. A grin was all that could be discerned from Pete's mental state. He was absolutely delirious. "I can fuckin' make it." he nevertheless said.

"Fucking better, 'cause if I have to turn around at the home stretch for you, I will drag your ass all the way back. Lazy bastard."

Chris stood up and left the Mongoose and walked towards them, slowly. Something was happening between Justin and the rest of them. The wavelengths were off. Something was brewing. A fight? It was more than probable, Chris thought. The remains of the flower in their system were doing something. Amplifying their already pent-up aggression. It had swelled in all of them for who knew how long. The only source of tranquility was Bill. But he was on the verge of blackout himself. If Chris had to defuse a situation, he'd need him. As if to confirm Chris' suspicions, Bill lost balance and dropped to the dirt.

"Stand him up!" Justin ordered Pete.

"What?"

"I said get him on his feet!"

"Why are you asking me?!"

"Because you're standing right next to him. Now pick him up before I beat your ass!"

"Fuck off, Captain!"

Justin dove into Pete.

Chris' eyes widened as they scrambled over one another, dirt and chunks of clay thrown everywhere as they wrestled. Justin gained the upper hand and was now on top of Pete, and he didn't waste a single heartbeat, reached back with bawled fists and threw hard body shots into Pete's ribs. His thick parka rippled and dented as Justin pummeled away. "Stop!" Chris shouted. He jumped into the fray and grabbed a hold of Justin's arm as he was about to throw a right hook to the jaw. It would've put Pete out of commission—maybe for good.

Next, all Chris knew was that he was on the ground, totally out of breath. He sat up and looked around—fuzzy. Slowly, he regained his bearings and found Justin back on top of Pete, swinging away again. Bill was still passed out on the ground while Ken was in another world, maybe pretending that none of this was happening. The pure horror of the situation had somehow eluded all of them except Chris.

He ran over to the Mongoose and made for a metal fuel canister still mounted on the chassis from their trip to Solomon's. He sorted out a full one and unfastened it. He hefted it with all his might and ran over to the squabble. It looked like Pete's defenses were all but vanquished. He could no longer cover his face and skull. And Justin was now wound up for a massive strike, clubbing his hands together high above his head for smash-down blow to the forehead.

That's when Chris lifted the canister high over his own head and brought it slamming down onto the crown of Justin's. The ring from the metal-to-bone contact was louder than a firecracker. Justin slumped over.

And Chris began to cry.