ELYSIAN FIELDS
A/N: Hey Guys, I meant to update the other story (People Watching AKA Peeping Lew AKA Peeing Lew) first but this chapter got written in only a few days. I'm going to give you the warning that from here on out things are going to get and remain M-Rated throughout for violence and death. A death does occur in this chapter (spoiler alert right) and will further be examined in next chapter (so do your required readings and come with 3 study questions). I'm doing this now, because you will NOT get warnings for the next death(s). Buckle up. You're going down. Elysian Fields Chapter 3 Those Are Pearls That Were His Eyes 10:42am(?) Marshlands wallow inside her head. Stagnant and brackish. Drab olive surface efflorescent with algae clouds. Plumes and blooms which harp and heel. Ripple and seal when a concrete rock, meant to skip the surface, plunges below the rotten flicker. Tacky mud slung to the back of her neck muzzles the collar of her coat to her skin. Bulrushes thrust wildly from the ground. Buckle on mercurial stalks. Waver and bend into her eyes. Constantly in her eyes. "Where did they go again?" Tongue laps her bottom lip. Wets it like the brim of an envelope. Travels over stony mead where moss grows. Tastes vegetables. Chlorophyll. Tongue bathes for relief in the equally stagnant air of the well. Heated and dry. "Sam and Spike went to examine the debris by the stairs." Lips smack off the moldy aftertaste. Swallows algal pond water down the gully of her throat. "Ed is upstairs trying to find a way down." Raf closes his barren eyes. Head rolls up against the chunked painted brick. Cookies dipped in coffee by a window watching the April rains. No water. No rain. Drops in the form of a million fragments of concrete. In her shoes, in her pockets, in her pants, in her hair, in her soul. "If he does get down. I want you guys to go out first. Let me go last." "Injured go out first." Lids slip closed. Silhouettes of summer canopies. Leaves and keys imbricating against a radiant backdrop. Spear of sun slashing through. Naïve, inquisitive, then abrasive. Another flashlight in her eyes. "What about that seniority stuff?" Laughs. Coddles the base of her skull, where dirty whorls concentrate, and laughs. Burden eyes reopen a sliver to observe his lack of movement. "I have seniority over all of you. Injured go out first." "Isn't everyone injured?" Everyone is, but not as bad as him. Spine stalks up, presses flat against the wall. Pressed flat between two pages. Distantly, shoes crunch. The first snowfall, perfectly formative but unique flakes. A flash frost with a crisp layer, quick feet don't sink through. They skip across the surface. "Why don't you want out, Raf?" Exhales. Chest deflates under the shell of his coat. Leafy sheathe like husk on a corn stalk. "If you were me, would you want out?" "Isn't it better than the alternative?" Head bobs, top heavy like the over blossomed flower on an extravagant plant. One that flourishes too young and wilts too soon. "You don't believe in God, do you?" Bulrushes in her eyes again. Vast fields of wheat billowing in a dry September breeze. Cloud of dust stirring at her knees, spiraling upwards and thrusting pebbles into her bared skin. Gravel sowed in her skin, her shins and knees through her pants. The palms of hands supine to the ground. Knees trunk out of the ground, elbows rake down her skin, shave to the bone until resting with puzzle piece coordination against her thighs. Forehead falls to her upturned forearms and her eyes submit again to closing."Which one?" "God. Buddha. Shiva. Zeus. Any one?" Forehead slips against the dry crinkle of her coat. Autumn leaves in ambered colors. Slides like sap down a bough until her chin hits her chest. "Not really. No." "You can tell because you're afraid of what comes next." "Yeah?" An eyebrow plateaus, heavy blossomed head whips around in a semicircle until upright again, hair serpentine down her back and into the mud like crawling ivy. "How can you tell this isn't a test for that?" "Because God ends pain, he doesn't prolong it." "Which one?" He chuckles at his own folly. The roots of her fingers curl around his. Sweat from his hand activates the soot to a gummy liquid form. "This kind of reminds me of this one time when I was seven." "Yeah?" Legs furrow beneath her, grow firmly into the well. The empty cistern. "Me and my dad were using the subway and there was a blackout. I—" "Guys, there's another bomb." Ed's voice filters through the comm. link. Igniting like a rock off flint. Stability is shaken. Body, including connected hand, violently flinches. "What?" Hand releases hers and the air is a hot breath on her clammy skin. Relaxes her muscles like a person caught in an undertow. Smells soils, earth in the soil and salt. "What's wrong?" "There's another bomb." Can't hear the placating crunch of shoes over rubble. Just a three man conversation occurring at a round robin in her ear canal. Hands plant on thighs, watches the darkness for a sign of him, for a sign of accosting rays. "Where? Upstairs. If the—" The dialogue stops midsentence. Raf's mouth hooks slack before his brain does a mental reboot."This kind of reminds me of this one time when I was seven." "Raf?" Skitters from the abyss, from the doubts and the need for snow crunches. Snow cones on the street in August. His falls to the pavement, melts between concrete cracks and tenacious weeds sprouting in an inch of dirt. Chomps a crescent into hers, and she sucks purple syrup off his chin. "We were—" Stiff and still. Straightened out and staked into the ground. A human scarecrow in a cornhusk jacket. Button eyes stitched in place. "But the white keys? No pedals." "Raf. I need you to answer a few questions for me okay?" Head rotates, circles on his neck a few times like black birds hovering over his field. Hovering over his carcass. Roots with his hand again, his fingers twitch in her palm like Sam's fingers on her toes when she sleeps. "What's your full name?" "Rafik Rousseau." "What's your job?" "SRU officer." "Where are we?" "In the subway, the lights went out." Lips purse together, mossy covered rocks on the seal of an envelope. "Oh Raf." "I need your PDAs now." Spike's voice carries in the well. In the water tower. Echoes and swirls in natural torrents around raised river rocks. Can almost hear the trickle. The crunching ceases because water seeps from the snow, dribbles down into the gulch. Fluid shapes flutter from the abyss. The weak beams bounce onwards. Raf's flashlight bathes them like a slow, spring drizzle. He over illuminates for a brief moment before stepping out, towards her, glows only in the tail of his own beam. "Raf, has—" Spelunks against the coffee and cream walls. The rain on a Sunday afternoon outside the bay window of a corner café. His hand swooping across the table, thumb licking a dab of froth away from her bottom lip, then dipping into his mouth. "He's altered." Staggers, blossom headed forward. Each rock a raindrop. Each raindrop frozen to giddy feet, dizzy with the prospect of being replanted. He stops her mid-tumble, a log rolling down a hillside, with a nonabrasive hand to her shoulder. "Easy standing up. Take a few seconds before trying to walk." "He—he doesn't know where he is. He's confused and—" Intelligence plummets ungracefully. Everything inside her chest wants to spit out of her mouth at once. Needs to say every word, half word, and sound simultaneously flashing through her brain. "Raf." Spike crouches at the side of their teammate. Left hand fumbling to tap his conscious hands. "I need you to try to find your PDA for me okay? Mine is broken and Ed is sending pictures of the bomb." "I don't know where mine is." Hands wilt from his forearms, frees one of her biceps from the hug of his hand. Starts to slap random coat and pant pockets in search of a stupid phone. "Jules—" "I don't know where—" "Jules." Fingers coil tighter around her bicep. Not forceful, not for injury. For a stone's skip. Cultivates her awareness. Awareness through swaying bulrushes. "You left it in the rig. In the console between the seats." "Yeah." Smile teeters off the corner of her lips. Moss crumbles. "Yeah I remember." Passenger's seat. Corner kept stabbing her through her pants. Tossed it in the cup holder. "I forgot Sam. I forgot—" "Hey." Cradles her head, hand at the base of her skull. Phantom pantomiming previous motions. Sturdy arms without the threat of a breaking bough. Envelops her before the first tear. Pre-hydration. "It's okay Jules. You're okay." Knows her panic, her fear, the reason behind the rustling bulrushes which he brushes aside. "Just think about how many times I forget my wallet in my pants when you do the laundry." Grins through melting tears. Snow to the river. Head bowing to his chest. Knows the abandonment of his wallet in his jeans is purposeful. Every Sunday he goes to the bank for pocket money for the week. She never has the time, so he withdraws double and leaves the money in his wallet and his wallet in his pants. She started stealing her share as negative reinforcement for him to remember to take his damn wallet out of his pocket. "Yeah." His thumb strums up her jaw and by her ear lobe. Wishes they were at home in bed. Silky, clean sheets. Pillow pliable on her weighted head. Him passed out on his chest next to her. Arm anchored over her stomach in unconscious love. A clamorous click interrupts the embrace. A click which flows through their ears daily. Which is the rationale for him to whirl them. Stops at a half gyration and she floats like gossamer. Like a dandelion spore. The action is so immediate the click still resonates through the well, still billows through the bulrushes while she factors in her own displacement. "Raf, that's not your PDA, Buddy." 10:37am(?) A clack. The noise brings familiarity like a recognizable face on the street. A maple tree branch tapping the bedroom window on a turbulent night. The crack of balls being broken against a cloth table on a pub date. The security of a locked door. The familiarity is not welcome. Not mirthful, but malice. The hollow beat. The turbine. The roulette. A metallic version of the waterwheel. The beat always hollow no matter who stands on the other side. Him. Jules. Some unknown escalating subject. Hollow beat hollow because the action is always faithless. Sleek surface falling flaccid in typhlotic hands. Heedless, violent, irrational in a state of eternal darkness without spotlights of dancing fireflies. Without dapples of diamonds mirroring the love of the past five years. The past five lifetimes. The diamonds. The cherry blossoms. Foot falls out of line with her, through fragrant realm of natural mysteries. Inquiries. Hollow beat hollow. Stands before her. Ahead of her. Crag of shoulder to her head. Less than feet. Foot. Toes. Inches. Fingers can tap like tree branches against her window if he wishes. Hollow beat hollow and safety is off. No net to catch the swinging act. No spotter. Just a sidearm wavering drunkenly in the air, a false sense of superiority around it which they all adhere by. A sixth overlaps her, because the gun wags like an old dog's tail. "Raf." Spike is nearest. Palms down but fingers splaying up defenseless. It's a fruitless effect. A tree with cherry blossoms snowing down. Eyes dart behind and she's safe. Quarter shielded by his lumbering shoulder. Diamonds in her eyes circumflexing. Raf's irises hold no color. Hold the same color, but no color. Not even the abstract color certain rings discharge on heated fingers. No emotion for no color because there is no color. His images are masticated by a violating, concentrating hue of black. The soot, dust and ash wiped clean from their corneas, but permeated his. Two carious tubers instead of rods and cones. Hollow beat hollow. "That's not your PDA Buddy." Joviality, in the nervous chuckle tying the end of the sentence. "Why don't you pass that to me—" Spike's foot undulates forward through the rubble, crunches down seed-sized pieces of concrete. Sidearm convulses. Perks up in two stumbling hands. Palms thumping around the handle and fingers curving to the trigger. Aimed out, not in. Aimed into the cavern. The temple. The tomb. The gaping maw full of darkness and angles ripe for ricochet. "Raf." Spike halts immediately. Shoe precarious in weight and slant. "Raf's got—He's got his sidearm. It's aimed out—Not at Spike. He can't see—No. Not—The safety's off." Tender voice trips over its own sentences behind him. Words pricking the air too quick. Jerking with unplanned breathes. Body writhes behind him. Petals plucked. "Let's talk about—" "I can't." Sobs. Mouth opens and a spray of spittle slaps against the handle. "You're not thinking straight." Breaks protocol. No more than one person negotiating at once. But they're his team. She's his family. Needs to get them out. Knows what it's like to be in the dark. In the desert with no diamonds or blossoms. "There's pressure in your brain, and it's making you think some crazy things." "Won't be able to use the pedals. On my bike. On my piano. Hot pavement. Cool grass. Waves at the lake. A sunset. Steam from a cup of coffee. Worms after it rains." "The pressure probably caused your blindness. It might be reversible, we don't know anything yet." Sidearm languishes. Barrel aims at a nonsentient group of rocks. "Let's just work together to go home." Treads away from her to retrieve the gun. She stirs suspended actions. Possibly to follow him, possibly to beg him back. Is even with, then surpasses Spike. Foot and leg a dilapidated wooden shack. Trembling in a whispering breeze. Almost to Raf. Almost to the gun. Then to the bomb. Then to the outside. Then to bed flat on his chest with his arm sinking around her stomach. Almost out of the desert. But the shack collapses. Spike's foot shatters all debris with a loud, grainy roar. The gun becomes erect and fires. A game of pinball erupts with the first bullet. Sheet metal and pipes ping. A brief strobe effect occurs with the clashes of metal against metal. Dashes with his back against a man literally shooting blind. Hollow beat hollow in the clangs and clacks of trains exploding in a stairwell. Of deserts exploding in his ears. Grabs the collar of her coat and drives her down. Shoves her to the earth. Earthbound. Keep her centered. The slab they used earlier rests on a slant. Buries her under the protective lip rising upwards. Only exact math will hit her, exact and equated math. But no other bullets bounce by. Turns back to Raf to determine if the shot was a fluke. Numbers two and three hit him. Hollow. Beat. Hollow. Beat. Sails backwards through a curtain of cherry blossoms, aromatic as ever. Through a map full of dancing diamonds. Hears her scream. Back of legs mold over mountainous rubble. Wheezes in as immolation begins in his lungs. Two furnaces set ablaze. Breathes out and can't breathe back in. Expanse of back flattens against the ground. A flat palmed slap which knocks free the raindrop's worth of air he has left. Skull smacks again. Lolls to the side. Hears her voice. Not hyper breathed. Heavy with his name. Same darkness that claimed Raf's vision overtakes his, but he hears it. Number four. 10:50am Another shot. Another bullet. A torpedo locked and loaded with the violent roar of a half mast flag. The sound of murderous thunder, a blitzkrieg at the touch of a trigger. Instant injury. Five and six. Almost halfway through the magazine. Finger pounding away until the passive click. "Buddy, think about—" "Sam. Sam speak to—" "What the hell's going on in there Eddy?" Yells over the booming. The metallic pressure and twang. The rusty flavor of bloody dribbling from his bit lip. "I don't know Greg; I'm trying to disarm the bomb." A bomb. A gun. Five sacrificial lambs. Safe. Safe in the cradle of the hood of a rig. Safe away from rubble and metal. Away from bullets and buttons. Away from clicking triggers and ticking numbers. Safe in a street surrounded by sentries of squad cars. A boss, a teammate, a friend, a father. A man, his body flayed with each cherished scream. "You're hurting us. You're not—" "—You have to get up." Seven. Seven. Seven. And soundless. The sibilant static cackles into his ears. Floods his canals. Suez. Panama. Venice. Water in the streets. Water in his eyes. Fire in his throat as his chest seizes. Flag snaps off to his side, the ends becoming frayed. At his feet a wrapper crumples by, tumbles into the slits of a sewer grate. "Status," bellows it like a breaching whale. Balled fists slam into the hood of the rig. Scorn its protection. Lingering officers pop away from their conversing poses in case he's addressing them. "Team One status now." Seven. Silent. Saturninity. Soundless. "Situation Contained."
On a lighter note, Happy Birthday KateEals.
On an appreciative note, thanks to everyone who reviewed and read. I know the style is a little hard to understand but you guys are trying. So I'm willing to keep at it.
Back Home Flashpoint Main Page Next