contact before but now that we have that capability, I expect it and am a little concerned that we can’t. I still have the sense of the other one but without a return statement like last night. We cross the river without incident and continue to navigate streets drawing closer with each turn. I’m hesitant about this as I don’t know exactly what I’m sensing other than it’s different and there is more clarity about it.
We are out of the town and passing through a golf course. The greens can no longer be named that and the once pristine fairways are now fields of brown grass. Turning around what once looked like it was an open field driving range, we enter a lot with a single pickup truck parked close to the pro shop. I have the Stryker halt at the edge of the lot and see a man walk around the corner of the shop carrying a golf club in his hand.
The man looks startled at our appearance but continues to stand by the pro shop entrance watching us with a hand shielding his eyes. The.50 cal isn’t pointed directly at him but its aim point is certainly in his vicinity. I look around through the magnified optics searching for others. I can’t imagine one person being alone in this world and we’ve always come across a group of individuals regardless of how big the group is. I see no one in the area and the sense I have in my mind is coming directly from the man in front. I have the ramp lowered and walk out with the rest of the teams flowing out and taking up a perimeter.
I look to see that the middle-aged man hasn’t moved. His medium-length brown hair hangs limply and in disarray. The dirt-stained jeans have holes in the knees and tattered hems cover sullied white sneakers. His plain gray sweat shirt is a little cleaner but shows stains of various natures. He stares at us with interest. I walk up to him making sure to keep clear of the club he is holding in his hand.
“Are you the one who was in my head last night?” He asks, eyeing me up and down.
“I do believe I was. And you are?” I say, unbelieving that what I sensed is actually another person.
The sense of him still feels something like a night runner and then the light dawns bright in my mind. He is like me — this is what I must feel like to him. He is much the same as me with regards to being able to sense others.
“I’m Ken. And you would be?”
“Jack, Jack Walker,” I answer, shouldering my M-4 and holding out my hand. “Did you get bitten by the night creatures and survive?”
“Yes, I did,” he replies. I nod at the verification of my thought.
I tell him my belief about what happened and is happening with regards to our ability to sense each other. I send a simple thought image to him which he returns. That further verifies the concept of what surviving a bite brings. I never thought for a moment that there would be others similar to me. This has interesting implications. We finish conversing about our remarkable connection. His shoulders relax.
“I thought I was going crazy and thought sensing you last night was part of my insanity. With you standing right here, it’s obviously real. These others that I see nightly are driving me crazy though. I can’t get them to shut up and luckily, I’ve been able to keep them out. They are here every night,” Ken says.
“I thought I had lost it when I first came to and found these images running through my head,” I respond.
“I was pretty sure my mind had turned and, to be perfectly honest, I was about ready to pack it in,” he says. “I can’t take any more nights of this shit but having you arrive and knowing I’m not going insane helps. I’ve actually heard a couple of others like us some nights. I haven’t felt them in a few nights though.”
“Well, Ken, you are more than welcome to join up with us,” I offer, explaining out situation.
“I was going to hit a few more balls and maybe play a round or two but what the hell. Give me a second to get some of my things and I’ll be ready,” he replies, accepting the offer.
With Ken’s small pack loaded up, he tells of where he last sensed the others. Loading up once again, we head toward the nearest one picking up a woman hiding out in a storage facility. She seemed a little shell-shocked but mostly relieved to find someone else alive and joins with us willingly. I’m curious as to why I could sense Ken but not the woman named Linda.
“I had to shut all of them out before I went insane. The ability to do that came about accidentally,” Linda comments.
The third is strangely back in the abandoned industrial complex we passed earlier. We pull up to a small, cinderblock warehouse located toward the rear of all of the other foundries, manufacturing plants, and warehouses. As we disembark and spread out, a man about my age opens one of the heavily sealed doors and emerges.
“Get out of here. You aren’t real,” he shouts, waving a couple of long knives about.
“We’re plenty real,” I reply.
“No, you are in my head and I’m imagining you,” he says.
“Do you think the night runners are pretend?” I ask.
“Who? What the hell are you talking about?” I go on to describe who and what I mean.
“Oh, them. No, they’re real alright,” he states.
“How is it we are figments of your imagination then?” I ask.
“Because I’m the last one alive and my mind is fucking with me. This is what happens when you are the last one left,” he answers.
“So, why are you talking with me if we’re merely something you made up?”
“Because, it’s what the mind does when there’s nothing left,” he replies.
“So, if I shoot you, say, in the leg, you won’t feel it or bleed, right?” I say. He hesitates pondering that question.
“See, that hesitation means you believe that we’re real. At least a part of you does,” I state.
“Now you’re just trying to fuck with me.”
“That would mean you’re fucking with yourself,” I respond.
“Aaaaaaah… get the hell away from me and leave me alone,” he loudly says.
“Dude, just for a moment, wrap your mind around that we’re real. Have you ever seen a vehicle like this?” I ask, waving at the Stryker. “I mean anywhere… TV, books, movies?”
“No. I can’t say that I have,” he answers.
“Then how can you imagine something you’ve never seen or imagined before? You have to base imagination on experience.”
“No, that’s not true,” he says, but I see that he is perhaps contemplating the situation differently.
“Okay. If you’re imagining something you made up, wouldn’t it change each time you looked at it? In some small way?” I ask. He rubs his chin, coming close to shaving his eyebrows with one of the long knives.
“Perhaps,” he responds.
“Well, had it changed?
“No, but I wouldn’t know if it had if this is all imaginary,” the man states.
“You know, we could go back to shooting you in the leg,” I say.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, taking a step back.
“What do you say you come with us and see just how imaginary we are? I mean, what do you have to lose?”
“I could wake from this and find myself stuck out at night with those nasty creatures about to come out,” he replies.
“I tell you what. Why don’t you try coming with us. If you find that you are still imagining all of this shit before dark settles, we’ll bring you back,” I offer.
He hesitates another moment and then responds, “Okay. I’ll try that but you better bring me back long before the sun sets.”
“You know, I could still shorten this and just shoot you,” I state, chuckling.
“I’d really rather you didn’t,” he responds.
“I’m Jack,” I say, offering my hand.
“Randy. Just so you know, I still don’t think you’re real,” he states, returning my shake.
Randy gathers some gear and comes with us and, by nightfall, begins to believe we are real.
As the sun begins to set behind the hills in the west, I try calling base but don’t get a response from the satellite phone. I try Captain Leonard with silence my only answer. I keep trying until night falls before giving up. Maybe the satellite finally decayed enough to quit working. Who knows? For whatever reason, we are out of
