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Free will is an illusion. People always choose the perceived path of greatest pleasure. (Adams)
Carl wondered what day it was. The last time he saw a calendar, it was day 115. With the time that passed, he guessed that it was now around 130. Not that it mattered. The once-upon-a-time sunny skies were nothing more than a constant grey haze. The cool air felt comfortable for hiking, though he worried that it may get cold at night. With only a roll of tape around his wrist for supplies, his concern for being warm, having food and – most importantly – water turned into a slow-rising fear.
Beyond the wall of brush on his right-hand side, a gentle slope rolled down towards the river. Over time, he was being separated from the river as the pile of brush nudged him away. The path in front of him was free of any twigs. Dead grass and weeds on the path parted in the center like a bad haircut, similar to a Mohawk. A nearly perfect line of charred earth ran down the middle. On the other side of the pile, debris lay scattered about. In spots, the refuse consisted of bricks or cement; in other places, logs lay half-rotted. Branches were strewn about: some rotting, some dry, some scorched.
The river moved lazily along. Carl listened. From his distance, the water didn’t make any sound. He wanted to go to the river, to drink deeply from it as his thirst started to grow. But remnants of houses dotted the shores and his fear of getting caught outweighed his need to drink. He didn’t care to see any more people, his last encounter still fresh in his mind. Instead, Carl walked on, waiting to see if all signs of civilization would disappear. Then, he could make a trek to the river to drink and wash.
* * *
Charcoal sketches dimmed to darkness. Unable to see the path ahead of him, Carl laid to the side, near the continuous pile of brush. He smacked his lips together, wishing that he had taken the risk of going to the river. Heading there now would be too dangerous. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face; the depth of darkness was too great.
Unsettling quiet crept in when he stopped moving. The dead land soundless. Silence swallowed his breath, furthering Carl’s unease, though he took some solace in feeling his heart beat a steady, constant rhythm.
A chill descended from the dark. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his knees, hoping to stave off some of the cold. Exhaustion finally won; his eyes closed.
* * *
The first night proved to be restless. Sleep broken by chills and moments of panic in the harsh darkness made the grey morning a welcome sight. As soon as Carl could see the outlines of his path, he rose to his feet to continue his journey.
Journey. The word amused Carl. Didn’t journey imply a destination? He was simply heading north on a whim.
Carl kept checking his right-hand side, waiting for enough light to see the hill descending towards the river. Waiting for his chance to finally get a drink. Night clung tightly to the beginning of day, obscuring his vision. He didn’t want to sit and wait, so he continued forward, handling his thirst and the headache that accompanied it.
* * *
The dark finally let go, revealing the bleak sky and colorless landscape. At some point between evening and morning, the path had drifted away from the river. Out of mindless routine, Carl continued walking along the path, all the while trying to decide if he should head off to try to find the river or move forward with the hope that the two would meet up again. He weighed the pros and cons of each, often forgetting and repeating the same ones to himself. His mind lacked precision, details sometimes getting confused amidst the tightening grip of dehydration.
Ultimately, he continued walking forward with the hopes that the river would come back around. If he traveled off the path and lost site of the brush, he didn’t feel confident that he would find his way back. With debris strewn everywhere beyond the protective barrier of brush, Carl feared that he would walk in circles. At least on the path there was a clear indication of direction.
Walking all morning proved useless, with no sign of water anywhere. Carl took a rest. He sat down, feeling wet warmth rush down his chest; a fresh scarlet flower blossomed on his shirt. Frustrated, he leaned back against the pile of brush and let out a scream. Genuine, guttural, angry. He screamed a second time. Carl put his head between his hands. He wanted to laugh at himself for making the journey without any supplies; he wanted to cry because he remained in constant pain. Even though he wanted to stay in this spot and die, the pilot light that had thus far kept him alive continued to burn. Carl rose to his feet and continued.
* * *
The only indication that any time passed was the slowly darkening sky. Ahead, sticking through a few twigs on his left, the end of a pale blue tarp flapped against the pile that guided him. Carl cleared away a section of the mound to dig out a canvas. Although brittle and freckled with holes, Carl’s spirits lifted by the discovery, knowing that he would at least be a little warmer during the night.
He tucked the tarp under his arm, then continued for a while longer, until only faint outlines of the guiding piles remained once more. He laid down on the dead grass, placing the tarp over him. He rolled into a ball to try to ease the cramps in his abdomen, but the vice-grip clench would not yield. The headache that persisted throughout the day only became worse. Decidedly, his first action at the break of day would be to go off the path to search for the river. He hoped that it wasn’t too far away.
Carl closed his eyes and listened to the silence. Interrupted by a twig snapping in the distance, he shot up to a seated position. He stared wildly in the darkness. Unable to see, he called out, “Who’s there?”
Only silence.
Trying to settle his mind, Carl convinced himself that it was all in his head – an auditory hallucination that signaled his increasing need for water. His tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth. His throat closed when he tried to breathe. He knew that sleep wouldn’t come easy.
He settled back in, waiting out the dark.
* * *
Carl stayed curled up until there was enough light to see through the grey abyss. He rose to his feet, dizzy and nauseous. He took the time to make sure that he didn’t fall. His first task was to go over the wall of brush, which he knew would be difficult.
His first step into it caused him to sink up to his hip. Climbing over wasn’t going to be an option. He took a handful of twigs and tossed them aside. He found that the task, while tiring, might be his best option.
Moving slowly, he continued to remove handfuls from the pile until only a knee-high wall remained. He carefully stepped through the remaining brush until he finally found success. Once through, he sat down to take a moment for rest. The job taxed Carl to exhaustion.
A light breeze felt good. He closed his eyes to enjoy it. A vision of the water came to Carl. He reached his hands out to scoop the life-saving liquid towards his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see his hands at his face.
Carl swore he heard something rustle in the distance. He looked to his right to see nothing except more scattered debris. Moving through this wasteland would be difficult and slow. With that in mind, he again stood and took his first step perpendicular to the pile, hoping that this was the correct direction. He checked his side one more time but couldn’t make any sense out of what he saw. The world spun around him. Cramps tightened. His head squealed. When it slowed enough, he continued walking away from the established path.
* * *
Carl’s heart pummeled his chest like a speedbag, the rhythm getting faster, harder with every step. He sucked air, trying to fill his lungs with short gasps that required quick release. One more step, he begged himself. Instead, he stood, wavering from side to side, trying to steady himself against the swirling world.
He turned to look back, thinking he heard a noise. Dim light poking through dense cloud hammered at Carl’s head, as if he stared directly into the sun. He shuffled in a circle, unsure of which way he was supposed to go. He had to stop. Again.
The knot in his abdomen twisted harder. He clutched at his mid-section, cursing the pain. One step in a random direction was all that he could manage before thinking to himself, just a quick breather.
He tried to set himself gently on the ground, but as he tried to sit, his legs buckled. Crashing on his side, Carl laid for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. His eyes rolled back; he fought the darkness. He became irritated by his decision to rest. With all of his strength, he rolled to his front and pushed himself up to one knee. Straightening himself, Carl managed to stand momentarily, but dizziness caused him to stumble forward. Balance eluded him; gravity forced him back on his knees. Carl rolled to his back, giving up.
He smiled into the grey abyss above him. Not because he was happy. Rather, he was mystified as to why he didn’t bring food or water on this journey. He cursed himself for not going to the river when it was close by. At the time, the need to stay hidden outweighed minor thirst. Now, the consequence of severe dehydration threatened his existence. He wanted to get back to the river, but he didn’t know where it was. He didn’t even know which direction he was going any more. Even worse, he didn’t think he could stand again.
Carl closed his eyes and tried to laugh at himself. Barely a squeak left his mouth. What was he thinking, trying to enter this godforsaken wasteland by himself with no supplies? Still on his back, he dreamed about opening a bottle of Ocean Surge. Wet bubbles danced against his tongue, bathing his taste buds with refreshing fruit-infusion; small bursts of happiness made his lips sing an ode to joy.
But forget that fantasy: sulfur-ridden tap water would be just as good. Carl knew the taste would not equate, but its effect would invigorate. Carl smiled, his eyes wide open, staring into the dim sky, into the nothingness that surrounded him. He envisioned gulp after glorious gulp of imaginary liquid until he couldn’t keep up, showering his face with it until a puddle formed around him. That puddle turned into an ocean and Carl sank to the bottom, his faint breath weakening further. The light grew dimmer. He tried to reach up, to reach out of the depths of his hallucination, but his arms felt too heavy, as if the pressure at this depth couldn’t be overcome.
A shadow hovered over him. Carl tried to speak to it, but words didn’t make sense. The shadow spoke back with a meaningless, muffled slur. Water entered Carl’s mouth, nearly choking him. Nonetheless, the delicious wet felt so good, like ocean refreshment in every bottle. That was the slogan, right? Carl laughed. Or cried. He couldn’t tell. For all he knew, he was dead. The shadow grew, saying something that he couldn’t work his mind around. Darker. Darker. Clock, what the hell was that clock song? Darker. The shadow drew nearer. Or maybe it was the darkness. It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born, And was always his treasure and pride... Ah yes, there it is. But it stopped short – never to go again – When the old man died. That’s the one. Darkness.
