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DOOM MAGNETIC!!! - CHAPTER THREE:
WET FUJI
William Pauley III
Gusto’s tired pink eyes flick open as thunder grumbles and rattles the metal body of the burrito van, jarring so violently that for a second he thought they were all goners, that the van had been struck by lightning and that all of them had been electrocuted or shaken to death, if that was even possible.
He tightens his grip on his backpack, digging his fingers into the sides of it, trying to feel if his cargo is still there, still intact. His cargo, of course, being the jar of fluid that contains the head of Edokko legend and controller of the Doom Magnetic, Master Qoser. It is still there, still intact, well, as far as fingertips can tell.
Pete watches Gusto as he does this from the corner of his eye. Just what’s in that bag? Pete wonders. Something valuable, no doubt. Why else would he refuse to part with it? Why else would he wake up every five minutes or so just to check and see if whatever it is is still there?
The questions eat away at him as he continues driving the wet winding roads of Black Fuji, which is not only the tallest mountain in all of Tokyo, but also in the entire planet of Japan.
The unique thing about Black Fuji that separates it from all the rest of the planet’s peaks is its odd shape. The tip of Black Fuji is a staggering 795,129 feet (approximately 560 miles) from ground level. To truly understand the terrible nature of the beast, compare it to the height of Mount Everest: 29,029 feet. Or even better, compare it to the height of the stratosphere, mesosphere, thermosphere, ionosphere, and the exosphere, of which it surpasses them all. The tip of Black Fuji isn’t in Japan’s atmosphere, it’s in outer space.
Another strange fact about Black Fuji is that it isn’t part of a mountain range, it’s only a single peak, and not a very wide peak at that. It almost looks like a thick black arm reaching out from the planet’s core, as if the planet itself had seen god and decided to grow an arm so that it could catch Him and bring Him down to play with all the rest of us.
And maybe someday it will.
Pete reaches back behind his seat and removes an 11oz can of refried beans from a case sitting on the floor. He digs into his shirt pocket and pulls out a shiny metal object, about the size of a harmonica. It’s an oil can spout. He holds it up in front of his face, squinting one of his eyes and using the other to check for any debris that may be blocking the mouth, giving it a quick blow, even though his eye hadn’t caught anything—just in case. He pops the spout into the top of the can, a challenge that requires both hands, then pours as much water inside as it will hold.
Even though his hands leave the wheel for only for a second, the van immediately loses traction and begins to turn sideways. Pete tosses the bean can and grabs ahold of the wheel with both hands, frantically trying to straighten the wheels before it does a full 360, or worse—hits the edge of the road, the ledge, and they all tumble down the side of the mountain, falling for miles and miles and miles before reaching the bottom (and he knows damn well that none of them would even be alive by the time it would make its final stop).
This sudden jerk of the wheel, of course, causes everyone in the van to jump awake from their slumber. Reynold is already screaming, even though he has no idea what’s going on. Gusto immediately covers his head with his arms and presses his feet against the dash, assuming there’s about to be a collision. Divey quickly makes his way to the front and yells, “What the fack?!” right in Pete’s ear. By this time, Pete has already regained control of the vehicle.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Pete yells back at Divey. “Stop screaming in my fucking ear!”
“Holy shit, Pete! You almost killed us all!” Divey yells, even closer to his ear this time.
Pete reaches back to maul him, but Divey ducks into the darkness of the back of the van.
“I swear to god, I’ll drive right off this goddamn cliff if any of you fucks get anywhere near my ears again!” Pete punches the dash, then reaches down and picks up his can of beans from the floorboard, angrier at himself than anyone else, but he’ll never admit it. “Christ!”
Another bolt of lightning splits the sky in half, allowing Gusto to see just how far up Black Fuji they’ve traveled. He feels sick to his stomach.
“Hey, man,” Pete says, looking at Gusto. “Sorry about all that. Hope I didn’t scare ya too much.” He holds up his can of beans. “I was just trying to grab me a bite to eat and I guess I lost control for a second or two. Everything’s good now, though. I don’t want ya thinkin’ I’m falling asleep or anything like that. I’m solid, I’m good. I can go another ten hours on the energy in my veins, if I had to.” He laughs nervously.
Gusto wipes the sweat from his face on his sleeve and says, “S’okay. No harm, no foul, right?” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not gonna lie though, that shit scared the bejeezus out of me, man. I don’t think my nerves will allow me to sleep for another ten hours now either. Know what I’m saying, bro?” Gusto lets out a short, nervous laugh and fingers at his bag. Pete notices.
“So,” Pete says. “You wanna bite to eat?”
Gusto looks over at Pete and watches as he gurgles down a mouthful of bean sludge by sucking it directly from the spout.
“Ah, no thanks, man.”
Pete licks bits of bean from his lips and tosses the empty can behind him. “Yeah, I know beans ain’t much of a meal, but with the shortage of meat around these parts, we can’t afford to eat any better. Any scraps of meat we manage to come across must be saved. We’ve got a business to run, you know.”
Gusto nods and stares out at the darkness beyond his window, not much in the mood for a chat.
Pete anxiously chews at his lip, eyeing the pack on Gusto’s lap. He’s waited long enough. He needs to know. “So whatcha got in your pack there?”
Gusto unconsciously tightens his grip on the bag. “Excuse me?”
“Your bag. I can’t help but notice you’re always grabbing at it, like you think any minute now it’s gonna sprout legs and hop off without you knowin’ it.”
The door…
Gusto silently continues staring off into the dark distance, now clutching his bag even tighter than before.
The door, Gusto…
“Must be something…important, huh?” Pete asks, his voice slow and deep.
THE DOOR!
Gusto slowly reaches for the door handle. Just before he’s able to make contact, he feels the unmistakable cold steel nose of a pistol pressed up against the back of his skull.
“I’m through askin’, you son of a bitch,” Pete says. “Hand over the goddamn bag or else me and the boys are gonna solve our meat dilemma right here, right now. Either way, I’m gonna get that bag.”
Gusto just sits there, wide-eyed and pokerfaced. He’s concentrating…
Give him what he wants…
Hearing something…
Do it…
Within.
NOW!
Gusto hands the backpack over to Pete. Pete squeezes the pistol between his thighs and takes the pack from Gusto.
“Smart move, amigo,” Pete says, giving a fake toothy grin as he pulls back on the zipper of the bag. Gusto watches in fear as he digs his hand into the pack. Pete isn’t sure what it is he’s feeling. It’s cold and seems to be mostly composed of glass. Wires and tubes jut out from the end of it.
“What is this? Some kind of giant ass light bulb?” he asks, pulling it out of the pack. “Whatever it is, it’s heavy as shit! It’s probably worth hundreds, maybe thousands! This could very well be the big break the boys and I have been waiting for.” He looks over and smiles at Gusto. He loves to milk fear out of people, to feel that false sense of respect. It made his balls feel bigger, or something.
A streak of lightning flashes through the sky, illuminating the object for a half second before fading to black again, but that half second is enough. Pete now knows exactly what he’s holding in his hands. He knows it, but he doesn’t believe it. He’s holding the severed head of Qoser, the man with the cue-ball eye. At least he thinks it’s him. He looks much different now, older, more rugged. His skin is pruned and dyed green from formaldehyde. But it had to be him. That face is unmistakable. And that eye…
In that half second of stupefied wonder, Pete’s mouth opens and begins to speak, but before a single word is spoken—there’s NOISE. Gusto cannot hear this noise. Neither can Divey or Reynold, who are still asleep in the back of the van. Not a single soul can hear the NOISE—except ol’ Pete—and he hears every bit of it. Every pop, crackle, and spit is crisp and clear. The NOISE shrieks in his ear like a blaring television that’s lost its signal—static, white noise. His eyes are locked on Qoser’s one good eye—his black vacant eye, like a black hole sucking him into the current. He can’t look away. He can’t even think for himself anymore.
The van loses traction again and hydroplanes across the muddy, wet pavement, but this time Pete doesn’t regain control. He reacts in no way whatsoever.
Gusto tears Qoser from Pete’s grip and pulls desperately at the door handle, but the door won’t open.
The van does a 180 and slides towards the edge (or more accurately the ledge) of the road at an incredible speed.
Gusto pulls back on the handle and slams his body against the door with all his weight. The door opens and he and Qoser fall out, rolling down, over into the strip of mud at the edge of the road.
Gusto looks back at the van just as it hits the ledge and disappears into darkness.
Paid subscribers! The next chapter of this story will be posted on May 23rd! Stay tuned for The Electric Moon.
Wet Fuji
© William Pauley III, 2011
All rights reserved.
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