Mycenea, N.M.

Episode 11: Into the Dark

The radio knob is missing. Nothing in this truck, actually, seems to work very well. The gear-shift sticks, and looks Jerry-rigged from a length of rebar. The whole thing rattles  like it's about to collapse with you inside. A rolling maraca, shimmying through the night.

You push down the winding road that leads towards the mountains--you've got no map, no real guide other than the stars. But fortunately you learned to read those in the Air Force. You recall the mountains as east of town--the sun set on the opposite horizon, and now the black hulks of peak outlines blot the sky in one direction. Easy-peasy.

Bo Crusty...

The name sounds familiar, like a piece of food stuck in your teeth for days that you keep tasting and tasting, but can't identify the source. The syllables stick in your craw. If you could speak you'd be sounding them out, testing them, probing. Because you swear you've heard that name before.

In dreams.

The desert is eerily peaceful, out here at night. The terror you felt back at the house is leaching away. You're worried about Freddie, of course--he's the only person who's showed you anything like kindness, and you can sense the not-men won't be happy with his behavior. But he's not their target---their prize. You are. They'll move on from him... and they'll pursue you across this inky depth, implacable.

You see your knuckles standing white over the wheel, under moonlight. You can't see much else out here. One headlight illuminates the road ahead, occasionally wobbling in its housing, sending the light-beam dancing madly over the dirt and sandy scrub.

In the stretching darkness, your mind wanders.

You lived in fear ever since they found you--always hounded, always running. But here... things are different. You've met at least one person who doesn't think you're crazy, and while the people of Mycenea haven't been kind, they haven't been malicious either. Except for the Airstream. But you suspect they weren't responsible for that. They don't seem... well, they just don't seem cruel enough for sabotage.

Living stories... Tell me another one.

Foo fighters are one thing--those are real objects, or at least "real" enough to lead you on a wild goose chase towards something terrible. But these people aren't monsters, and they aren't mythical beings, either. They're something else.

Probably desert-dwelling kooks, whose guardian has convinced himself their behavior's supernatural. You know what isolation does people, and its work is quite advanced out here in Mycenea. It's a whole town of basket-cases.

Up ahead, the road curves into a wide, wandering switchback. It wriggles between boulders and appears partially collapsed in places. You've got a rough ride ahead.

You switch on the radio, twisting the metal stick where the dial's supposed to be. You want to beat the silence off, banish it. But nothing comes out. Just static.

At least it's something.