Dislocated Read online

  Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightening tears through the clouds, ripping open the seams, spilling their insides upon the earth.

  I stand near the payphone stationed next to the vending machine and men’s room for shelter against the rain, but I’m still getting wet. I can’t stop shaking even though it’s still seventy degrees.

  I think of Valerie.

  I think of Leslie.

  Ma.

  Dad.

  My brother, Russell, in New York.

  I think about dialing random numbers on the payphone until I get someone. Then I’m thinking I should have brought along some quarters.

  I pick the phone up and slam it against the receiver over and over until I’m certain I’ve broken it.

  I contemplate death, and life, and family, and I contemplate that I might be the only person left contemplating anything at all.

  I close my eyes, begging for sleep. And for the first time since Valerie left, it’s coming easy. With my back against the wall, I slide to the cold concrete, lowering my head, my hands in my pockets and my chin against my chest to help control the shakes. The collar of my jacket popped to help keep out the rain.

  And I sleep.

  The pay phone rings.

  Seven rings before I’m on my feet.

  “Hello?”

  My voice is exasperated, defeated, yet so full of hope.

  Nothing.

  No one. Not even a breath.

  “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

  My heart sinks. My stomach sinks lower.

  I’m dreaming.

  Certainly I am dreaming.

  I go to place the phone back on the receiver when I hear: “Is this William Alan Scott?”

  It’s hard to hear over the weather. This could be the rain talking for all I know.

  “William Alan Scott,” the voice says again. “Is this with whom we are speaking?”

  I say yes because I don’t know what else to say at all.

  “William Alan Scott, son of Judith and Roger Scott of 758 Jaguar Drive?”

  Yes!

  “William Alan Scott, graduate of Kent State University with a Bachelor’s of Science in business and computer programming? Winner of the Annual Brighton Falls Science Fair four consecutive years? The William Alan Scott accused and arrested but never convicted of computer crimes against the N.S.A.?”

  Yes! Yes! And no fucking comment.

  I pinch myself until I draw blood.

  I want answers. “Now who are you? Where are you? Everyone here is dead! Everyone I love is gone! What is happening, what is happening, what is happening?”

  There’s a muffled sound, like someone is passing the phone along, or a hand going over the receiver. I make out voices. There is talking. “It’s now seventy-two hours after the zero hour. Subject is in communication.” Zero hour? Subject? Me? There is lots of talking. Arguing? Cheering? It sounds a lot like cheering. And I hear, “It’s him. He survived. Just like you said he would.”

  Then the voice says to me, “Stand fast, son, we’re coming in to get you.”

  10

  VIRUS

  Helicopter blades cut through the air, whipping rain and leaves and grass into a tornado around me. I stand in the field behind the rest stop, watching the chopper descend upon me.

  I don’t move. I don’t shield my eyes.

  The machine lands with grace, but the blades do not cease.

  I step forward.

  My boots sink into mud.

  I take another step.

  The blades continue to spin.

  I half-expect the thing to lift off before I can get any closer. But I manage to make my way over and I’m soaked. I duck down so I don’t lose my head.

  “Hello?” I scream, but the words are lost to the wind.

  The windows are blacked out.

  I reach forward to pound on the side of this metal beast.

  “Hello! It’s me. William Alan Scott!”

  The door slides open with a roar, and three men in thousand-dollar suits stare at me through the eyes of gasmasks. I instinctively hold my breath the way I did when I first encountered Roderick, but it’s a useless exercise. If I’m not dead yet, I’m clearly the one immune bastard who ends up being humanities last hope. I consider the responsibility. If they ask, I’ll have to sleep on it. For now, I’m just thrilled I’m not the last man alive.

  The image before me is almost comical. I have to fight the urge not to shut the door on them so they don’t ruin their suits.

  “What’s going on?” I ask them. “Do you have an extra mask for me? “I point at their masks. “Shouldn’t I be wearing one of those?”

  The three men look at each other. They each nod, one by one, before looking back at me.

  “What is it? Is it a virus or something? Do I need to be wearing a mask?”

  “No,” one of them answers. “You don’t need to be wearing a mask. You are the virus.”

  THE END.

  Find more answers.

  Experience Dislocated as a graphic novel at

  dislocatedexperience.com

  @getDislocated

  Facebook.com/dislocatedexperience