Marin's Dale

III

It was the kind of bullshit Michael was tired of hearing: "Out of our jurisdiction. If it's a problem, we'll hear about it. But it ain't our problem."

Michael sat inside his cruiser, parked away from the others. The rusted iron fence rattled around the white rectangle of the police station. He had stopped by to report the explosion. That flash from the mountains was unlike anything he had ever seen. In Denver, the boys would've at least taken a look to see what was what. But here... here in the Dale, the saying was simple: if it's beyond the valley, it's beyond our concern.

Michael frowned. The sun looked like a sweltering cherry bomb. It was so red, Michael couldn't remember the last time it was so red. He tapped his computer. It bizzeeped and bizzurped as if a faulty robot. The damn thing was fried. Nothing was working.

Inside the station, his chief was too worried about the loss of technology to focus on some "explosion in the trees."

Of course, the point Michael had tried to make was simple: the "explosion in the trees" could be causing the equipment problems. If power lines or frequencies were somehow disrupted by whatever had made that big flash...

Michael wasn't an expert at this stuff for christsakes, but he had enough sense to question it. And why his buddies in uniform didn't take the time to question it too, was baffling.

Michael had patrolled up until 7, and that's when his equipment had gone south. Immediately following the flash, he had called it in. But these weren't the kind of things you just reported over the airwaves and forgot about. After hours of mindless patrolling, as the sun had finally come up and the rest of the world awakened, Michael had thought it necessary to make a personal appearance.

The guys were acting strange today.

Michael rubbed his head. The dull throb was still there, like somebody slowly tightening their fingers on his brain. He peered into his Excedrin bottle, to find that it was empty. Cursing, he stared into the rearview mirror. The lines and tread marks of his face were beginning to show—he really did look like shit, didn't he?

Amazing what a period of bad sleep could do to you.

Michael squinted. He already had a few silver hairs along his head. And that's when he noticed his eyes. The normal coffee hue of his irises seemed fainter. The eyes themselves were glassy. But the pupils...

They were so small, they looked like pinheads.

                             ###

Students filtered in to Malcolm Ghulic's room. Some offered greetings to the teacher; others dragged their feet, heads down, eyes baggy with sleep deprivation. The homeroom bell would ring at any moment.

Mr. Ghulic looked once more to the television screen. It was turned off, because it didn't work. Not a single channel worked.

A senior of athletic build, with pajama pants and a faded red shirt that said, SWOOSH, strolled into the room. He sported a thick black beard, and an even thicker mane of hair. His dark olive eyes discerned the teacher, awaiting a rote response.

Malcolm allowed himself to smile. Despite this student's mediocre grades, he was quite a joy to have in the classroom. Every class needed a clown, and in those unexpected cases where such tomfoolery could be coupled with a genuine curiosity, Malcolm was not averse.

"Mr. Diehl, how are you this morning?"

"I came ready today, Mr. Gaylick."

Tyler plopped a large notebook on his desk and assumed his seat. He offered a sly grin, as Malcolm was sure the surprise in his eyes was evident. It wasn't every day the lackadaisical student came with the required reading. In fact, it was maybe 6 days—6 or 7—a semester. That was all.

"That I see, Mr. Diehl. Dare I say this is the start of something good and consistent?"

"Don't be too optimistic. Ty's not one for consistency."

Tyler shook his head with a chuckle as Audrey wiggled an index finger into his shoulder. Then, placing both hands on his shoulders, she leaned over and gave him a kiss.

"Merry morn to you as well, babe," Tyler shot.

Audrey flicked his ear playfully before assuming her seat at the back of the classroom. Other students filled in around them, and Mr. Ghulic acknowledged each with a "hello" or "good morning," occasionally interspersing with "Haven't seen you in a while."

A chubby boy with squinty eyes and a ruddy face made way to the center of the classroom, pausing at each seated person to be granted passage through the tight maze of desks. He finally reached the destination and plopped down. A wrinkled notebook paper was in his right hand. Answers were scrawled illegibly in dark pen.

"Barkly," said Ghulic, a little louder than usual. "How does this day find you?"

The student stood up and removed the backpack, letting it plop to the floor. Then, lowering back into his seat, he placed the wrinkled paper on the desk in front of him. He smoothed out the paper with both palms. At last, he seemed to exhale.

"I'm..."

He breathed.

"O K."

                             ###

Michael stared into the mirror of the empty bathroom. He wanted to fuckin break it. This thing—this.. pain—it was killing him. He never got headaches. Not like this. It was like they were pumping acid through his forehead.

And everybody in the station was yelling. He stared into the mirror. Why was everybody yelling? They were either yelling or standing still, not saying a thing.

Everybody was acting strange. Michael slapped his face. The face in the mirror was slack and white like paste. It was a disgusting face. Michael shook his head. And slapped his face.

He looked like crap—like he used to in his days of frat parties. Waking up for 8 am classes. He used to have to wake up for EIGHT A M classes. That used to be tough to him—a stressor. Boy oh boy, he hadn't had a clue about stress back then.

Michael slapped his face.

Why the fuck are you doing that

Michael turned.

He turned back to the mirror. His teeth were tainted. And was that... corn? He felt along the once-smooth enamel. Something brown. What had he eaten? He couldn't even think straight anymore. His thoughts were like circles. This sleep deprivation thing was really getting to him.

Michael turned on the faucet.

Still nothing. It didn't make sense. Why the hell wasn't the bathroom running?

Michael slapped his face.

You need to stop doing that

But it did make sense. It made perfect sense. Everything else was screwed. The whole system was screwed. It was like a mouse on a wheel or; it just went around and around, but it was all the same

system.

Michael stopped himself. He turned the faucet off. There was a plop. He knew he had heard a plop. Between the thoughts and the mouse and the headache and the... the.. damn corn in his teeth. He was tired, he just needed to sleep was all. That was all he really needed. Michael nodded.

Sure.

plop

Michael turned toward the sound. It had come from one of the stalls. He waited a second. It came again. He waited a second. It came again. He waited a second. It came again. He waited a second,

"Got ya, ya sunnavabitch!" He jumped on the fourth stall down and ripped open the door. The lid was up. The toilet was empty.

"What the fu..."

And that's when thick red goop, like tomato paste, bubbled into the white basin.

                   ###