The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 13: The Long Way Home (Parts 7 & 8 of 8)

R.J.'s already parched tongue blistered with the thick, chemical taste of plastic.  The urge to gag and expel the object holding his jaw open was held at bay by his inability to move.  His whole body felt bruised and swollen.  The withered puffs of cotton that his eyes had become, tracked the doctors and nurses, who busied themselves with the readouts on the machines.

In his post-surgery stupor, the hum and beeping of the monitors took on a methodical purpose, like Morse code being sent from a distant star or an android's lullaby. 

A nurse caught him watching her and came over.  She checked something on his arm and said, "Get some rest, hon."

"He's fighting it," a woman said.

A man answered, "He'll be out...."  His voice faded into a strange yodeling: "Soo-ooo-oh-oh-oh."

The wavering sound yanked R.J. deep into a pit.  He forced himself up out of the darkness.  As he rose up and broke the surface, a deep, desperate gasp was stopped by the tube running down his throat.

A different man spoke, "...if he makes it through the..."

R.J.'s eyes burned with searing pain.  They were so tired.  He was so tired.  He rested them for a second and when he opened them again, everyone was gone.  He was strapped to a metal slab in some basement.  The lights flickered in the constant staccato rhythm of a dying fluorescent tube, but he couldn't see where it was coming from.  Why was he down here?  Was it the morgue?  Had he died? 

Despite the seriousness of the question, R.J. was unable to muster up anything more than minor curiosity on the subject.

It was cold and quiet down here.  Peaceful.  Nothing hurt.  It wouldn't be so hard to stay here forever.

Blackness.

There was a sway to the table beneath him.  A gentle rocking that matched the sounds of waves.  Water was gently lapping against the side of the boat.  Why had he thought he was lying on a table?

"Are you okay?" Mila asked.

Feeling foolish, R.J. sat up on the deck and yanked out the SCUBA regulator from his mouth.  "Yeah, fine.  Just a little tired."  The bright sunshine burned his eyes.

Mila was leaning against the port bow.  Her hip rested on the ledge as she stared out at the water.  He pulled himself to his feet and joined her.  He hesitated to put his arm around her, afraid she might disappear at the touch.  The feeling of her body under the fabric of her shirt awoke a strange, deep emotion. He worried if he gave in to it, he would fall to his knees with his arms wrapped around her waist and weep.

"I love afternoons like these," she said. 

Lake Champlain shimmered like crumpled tin.  The wind carried the smell of the pines and the earthy scent of the forest.  If he were an artist, he would paint this scene.  He would put the painting over the window in his living room, so every day could end this way.

The boat was bobbing on the waves all alone with nature.   There wasn't a soul in sight.  "It's so beautiful.  So empty," R.J. said no louder than a whisper.

"Don't worry.  We'll track it down."

He hadn't meant it that way.  R.J. saw the emptiness as a sign of tranquility, not their failure.  They'd been trying to find evidence of the lake monster for months.  He should have been discouraged by their lack of success, but he wasn't.  They were never going to find anything here and that didn't bother him.  Amy was out there somewhere and that washed away all the disappointment.  He wanted to tell Mila this wonderful news but it was a secret.