Refraction | Part 1 | Darwin's Steroids
31) Rifts
Here’s how it happened.
Israel got his ass out of there. Car alarms howled their pointless howls the length of the block, lights began to click on in the upstairs windows of the houses, and that car. That thing was de-stroy-ed. So Israel hot footed it home. He was covered in arterial blood, from a legendary beast that couldn’t be. He was surprised at the cool temperature of the blood until he gave it some thought and realized it was after kind of a big lizard-ish. Then he realized what he was thinking about and quickened his step, anxious to get back to the relative safety of his rooms. He began fumbling for his keys a half a block away from the house, his normally calm demeanor shattered, the combat rush of hyper focused brain activity sliding into a disarray of impossibilities that made Israel want to physically shake them free of his mind. When he arrived outside the stoop he took a deep breath, gathering himself and looking for signs of wakefulness from within the building. He saw none. Thus encouraged he walked across the sidewalk to the trash can, lifted the lid and vomited his pie and coffee into the trash.
Israel replaced the receptacle’s lid, and stepped beyond it to the high wooden gate that closed off the small walkway between buildings. He reached over the top and undid the hasp on the inside, then stepped aside to pull open the gate. He entered the small alley and slowly closed the gate behind him, quietly letting the lock snick shut. He turned on the faucet at his feet, undressed and washed himself and his clothing as best he could with the garden hose. He then entered his building through the back entrance, went up the stairs and let himself quietly into his rooms. He stood, cold, wet, confused, naked and trembling, in the dark, a roll of wet clothes and his house keys in his left hand, an arrow from another universe in his right.
First things first.
Israel locked his door, walked into the kitchen, dropping his clothes, shoes and keys into the sink. He took a bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey down from on top of the fridge, and sat down at the table. He quickly downed the water remaining in his glass from before he left. (waste not want etc…) He poured himself two fingers of the light brown liquid, thought about ice, and drank the whiskey as his crossed back to the fridge. He opened the icebox and pulled out the ice tray. When he attempted to crack out the ice he realized he still had the multi-dimensional arrow, clenched tightly in his fist. He walked over to the table, placed the missile on its surface, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and drank them as he walked back over to the ice tray on the counter.
Then he made himself a drink.
After girding himself with a drink Israel took a hot shower, put on a sweat suit, and returned to the table in the kitchen to gather his thoughts and take stock of his situation. He reviewed the events of the last hour in his mind. Israel had long believed that living in big cities drove some people insane. The overwhelming anonymity that city life forced upon one tipped some people over the edge, that was the way it was, and Israel had come to terms with that. But to feel that imbalance in his own life frightened him deeply. The only thing that helped Israel hang to reason was the arrow that lay on the table in front of him. He sat for some time looking at it, sipping a drink. Occasionally he would reach out and touch the shaft or the flights, reassuring himself that it was indeed a solid object, and not a hallucination. When he felt enough of his old self had returned, that his inner being had settled from a stormy sea to a calm pool, he reached out and picked up the arrow, giving it a thorough examination.
The dart was made of a very light, very strong, hollow metal tube. It was about three feet long, the shaft was shiny red, and it flexed just slightly when he tried to bend it. He peered into the tube from the shaft end and saw a dot of light coming through from the tip, a bizarre, vicious looking affair, that was, rather than one solid piece, four small wings surrounding an opening into the shaft. Inscribed on the flight end of the arrow were the words Banshee Buster 3000 on one side, and on the opposite DragonTeck. Taking in the new information about its design, and adding it to the events of earlier that night, Israel realized how ingenious the missile was. He remembered the pink foam that appeared at the flights of the arrow that brought down the dragon. It was built to be a kind of tracheotomy device. The dragon (a banshee, Israel decided) had used its powerful scream as a weapon, and these arrows were designed to punch a hole in the wind pipe of the beast, essentially disarming it. As a former military man, Israel had to admit he was impressed at the simple elegance of the design. He knew an effective weapon when he saw one, and he had seen this one at work.
Fatigue washed over him suddenly. Israel decided that there was nothing else to be done this night, so he locked the arrow in the gun cabinet in his bedroom, and laid down on the bed. His thoughts swirled and tumbled through his mind, until at last settling on a calming mantra that carried him into sleep.
“I am”, Israel thought as he drifted toward unconsciousness, “too old for this shit”.
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