2018-07-31: Claire Fever dreams
She’s running, desperately running and ignoring the burning sensation in her legs, the stinging sweat falling into her eyes, the cuts and bruises on her skin. The jungle is so dense and her breath comes in short, painful bursts as rain soaked leaves the size of bath towels slap her legs, arms, face. She can’t see where she’s going, but it doesn’t matter when you’re hunted. When you run for your life, you just run. Behind her, far too close for anything but panic, rustles and rocks rattling away in the underbrush tells her where the hunter is. The panther. She’s seen it, in snatches of light between the leaves, with wild staring eyes over her shoulder. It’s darker than she thought an animal could be, and at the same time glossy as if its fur was also wet and glistening like the leaves. It’s yellow eyes seem to shine with an inner light that screams of murder, of tearing to pieces, of gorging on flesh. Her flesh. She sobs, and runs, wildly.
Then suddenly the world explodes, goes up in flame, and she staggers forward when the waves of heat roll over her. She didn’t think the jungle could get any hotter, but there it is and she cries from relief. The panther is gone, as is a large part of the vegetation some ten steps behind her. Stumbling, she turns, tries to find the source of this magical rescue. And there, standing steadily between two palm trees with a smoking RPG on his shoulder, is Tam. She cries out, a strangled sound bereft of any resemblance to words, but he doesn’t answer. Simply continues reloading the weapon, slowly and deliberately, without taking his eyes from her. Hefting the RPG on his shoulder again, squinting slightly to mark the path. To her.
Fear clenches her innards like an iron fist and she has just the time to scream before…
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“She’s burning up, goddammit! She needs a doctor!”
“No doctor. Quiet!”
“Pizdets svolach! Idi na hui!”
Clanging noises, as if metal on metal, and a squeal. Then silence.
No matter, she’s drifting, darkness lurking, swelling, encompassing.
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She’s in the back of the car, as usual. The vistas outside not very interesting, as usual. Her bag is heavy, straining a bit around the throat, and she tries to find a more comfortable position. It seems she’s twisted her labcoat a bit when getting into the car, and with the strap of the bag and the seatbelt, it’s really holding her firmly in place. Dmitri would be pleased, she thinks, and if thoughts were a summons he’s suddenly outside her door, as usual. Watching everything but her, his gun at the ready, his Georgian training kicking in as usual. She sighs and tries again to loosen the straps around her, but succeeds only in tightening them it seems. It’s starting to get harder to breathe, and isn’t it very hot in the car? She mutters a curse and hopes that Dmitri will be satisfied with his scrutinizing of the shrubberies and ditches soon, and let her out.
But it’s really hot now, and the air seems stifling. Air. Not enough, actually. The seat belt lies across the hollow of her throat, she’s a bit too short for this seat, and it makes her uncomfortably aware of every breath she draws. Has to struggle to draw, actually. And the lab coat makes it impossible to move her arms much, making her feel even warmer. Why isn’t Dmitri letting her out? He usually opens the door, so she can ask him for help with the seat belt then. Soon, surely.
But he starts to walk away, his gun raised and his focus far, far from her. She shouts, then, tries to get his attention, but no reaction. She can’t even bang on the window, her arms secure at her sides now. Sweat glistens on her temples as she judges the distance to him, and then slams her head into the window. Again. Hoping the sound is enough. It sure hurts. And as she realizes that Dmitri truly doesn’t hear her, she also realizes that the bag has slid down from the seat and is pulling around her throat, and air becomes even scarcer. Panting she feels panic rise from somewhere deep inside, trying again to hit the window but with the only result of her throbbing headache increasing. No air. So warm. Breathe, she must…
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“Run! Run I said!” She does, she really does. Or tries, anyway. There’s sand everywhere, and she can hardly breathe despite the mask she’s wearing. Or is it because of the mask? It’s close fit rubber edges seem to burn her skin, causing sweat to mingle with the unrelenting material and making every breath seem to be taken in a furnace. She blinks behind the glasses, wondering again why she’s running and failing to remember. She falters, again, tries to slow down just to catch her bearings, but he’s adamant. Giorgi pushes her forward, a hard shove in the back that makes her yelp with surprise and stumble even more. Waving her arms in front of her, she manages not to fall but misses a breath and loses all control anyway. She shakes her head, tries to convey to him that she needs to rest.
Another shove, this time to her left shoulder. Strange, she could have sworn he was on her right, but the sand blurs everything and makes her forget what’s up and down and left and right. She cries now, dust getting stuck in her eyelashes as they catch the tears held there. Everything stings and burns, from the inside out, and why is she running? Why won’t he let her stop?! Then another shove, to her right, and immediately after to the left. A hickup catches in her throat, a sob held back by terror, as she glances backwards. Yes. There’s two of him now. Two Giorgi, running with grim faces and guns at the ready, ignoring her desperation and shoving her the moment she slows down just a tiny bit.
She clamps down on a scream and runs, sure it’s an illusion from her tired mind. You do get such things, illusions, when in the desert, right? But then another comes running, loping up to them from the side, and then another from the other side. Four of them. “RUN!” Their voices echo in her head, their hands burn with a wrongness when pushing her onwards, and she can’t help it, she screams, she…
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“Ssshhh, there now, don’t scream, be quiet, sshh…” A blessedly cool hand on her forehead, water trickling down her temples. She longs to drink it, devour it even. But all that comes out of her mouth is a croak and the person in the other end of the cool hands doesn’t understand. Keeps hushing her. She whimpers, tries to remember where she is. Somehow, she knows that she doesn’t want to open her eyes. But behind the eyelids lie more throbbing pain and fire, and she has no strength to resist it. “Sshhh now…”
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Dima’s eyes are like pools of darkness when they bore into her skull, and she wants to get away but knows that it will be worse then. “Do you understand? You can’t just call him over anytime you want, you have to go to him! He’s in a spot where I can defend him, that’s why he’s over there. You pull him out of that spot, you’re likely to get him killed!” She feels like a sulking child being chastised, not a very nice feeling. “I didn’t mean to..!” He cuts her short, ignoring her speech of defense. “It doesn’t matter! Now, if you want to tell him something, you go to him!”
Suddenly Dima is gone and she’s alone, in a maze of some sort. Where are the others? She wanted to tell Gabriel something, so she should go look for him. Yes. She takes a step, and realizes as a hundred other Claire’s move with her that she’s in a maze of mirrors. Crap, she always hated these things as a child. Impossible to find a way out. Another step, and then she’s gone from all the reflections. She has time to wrinkle her brow, no more, before Dima appears on every surface. His face is large, as if zoomed in, and his eyes as stern as ever before. “Don’t call him out! You go to him!” His voice echoes in there, and she involuntarily crouches a little. Why is he so angry? He looks really… angry. Hurriedly she moves deeper in among the mirrors, among the myriad of Dimas who glare down at her. His voice is booming now, sending reverberations through her head that make her grit her teeth with pain. Slowly easing into a run, she tries every surface for truth, hits the mirrors with outstretched hands as each one tells her no, wrong way, turn back.
What if she never gets out? Dima won’t come for her, he as much said so, and she’s truly lost now… Breathing heavily, she tries to plead with him. Tries to ask forgiveness, to explain. No use, he probably can’t even hear her. She feels smaller, even, the mirrors larger, her breaths echoing from the flat surfaces. Where does she go? And then the mirrors behind her start falling inwards, crashing down against each other and Dima’s face becoming a million shards of exquisitely sharp glass aiming for her. She gasps in disbelief, doesn’t get her feet going until the first shards hit her and leave trailing lines of red on her arms and hands. Then, she runs. And Dima laughs, as if he’d known this would happen all along, as if he’d planned it all. His laughter cascades down at her with the shattering mirrors and she falls to her knees, crumbles and tries to protect her face as she screams forgiveness into the chaos...
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Parnell grins down at her as he throws another shovel of dirt on the bags of white opium they’re hiding. She smiles back, tense but certain of the spot. No one will find the ingredients here, especially not after they’ve covered the ground back up again. “Hey Parnell, hold up a second, let me just get out of here before you start filling it up!” She demonstratively brushes off some of the dirt he managed to throw at her as well, and gets to her feet.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps smiling, keeps shoveling. Dirt rustles down the sides of the pit they’ve dug, onto the chemicals but also onto her. “Hey, stop!” He takes no notice, just shovels. Starting to get angry, she reaches up to hoist herself up and out of there. Parnell stops shoveling, his smile waning just a bit, and steps on her fingers. With a cry of equal parts surprise and hurt, she stumbles backwards into the pit and stares uncomprehendingly at him. He resumes shoveling, no emotion on his face whatsoever. A chill runs down her spine and she turns it into anger, tries again to get up.
This time, he hits her with the shovel. Her head rings as her knees go out underneath her and she blinks away tears from the impact. Above her, Parnell digs deep into the pile of sand and soil, and throws it down at her. And then another. And another.
Soon, she’s covered in heavy soil and she can no longer stand up. She cries, pleads, threatens. He doesn’t care. Just shovels. More soil, pushing her down, back into the ground. Now it’s up to her chest and she tries to get her arms up, but it doesn’t help much. Her movements are slow, druggish even, and she wonders if she accidentally broke one of the bags and inhaled too much of the ingredients. She has no chance of sweeping the dirt aside at the same pace as Parnell shovels it onto her. More pressure on her chest now, her breath becomes shallow and she gets it in her mouth every time she tries to say something, every time she gulps for air. On her face, now, she has to close her eyes, has to spit crunchy bits of gravel and roots out continuously. No more talking. No more pleading. Soon, no more breathing. She draws one, heavy breath just to call out once more, and…
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“No! Please stop!!” “Claire? Are you awake?” The pressure on her chest vanishes, and there’s blissful air. Sweet, wonderful air. She gulps it down, cries and almost throws up as her body clenches in imagined panic. “Calm down Claire, you need to slow down.. Here, some water..” Hands on the back of her head, something cool against her lips. She sips, sloppily, and cries again at the beautiful velvety smoothness of the tepid water. It’s the best she’s ever had.” “You have a fever, Claire, your wounds… Claire? Can you hear m…”
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The floor is tilting, it must be that. She didn’t have that much to drink! Laughing, she leans heavily on Mitch’s arm as he leads her further into the tea house, gawking at all the strange sights. Here, a man dressed as a pig being hunted by a woman in a samurai armor, there three geishas batting an enormous russian doll with stuffed peacocks. At last she thinks the birds are stuffed, and not alive. The paper walls seem to slide and shift with every step and she staggers to the side, trying her best to stay on the path. The floor is painted in every weird pattern there is, changing from stripes to swirls to checkers and back to even more stripes without any seeming logic. Hanging from the ceiling are baskets full of monkeys, their chattering deafening in the enclosed space. She points at them, asking Mitch about them, but he keeps moving forward and she has to follow.
A train passes through the building and they pause, avoiding the japanese men riding horse-sized scissors and waving their cowboy hats around before continuing. Her head spins, this is all too mad! Sure Mitch had told her of the chaos in a japanese tea house, but this is… She ducks as a pack of dogs with fireworks tied to their tails come flying by, hunted by a crew of old women running upside down on the ceiling, cackling with laughter that almost sounds like screams. Through the odd window, she can see a sky that’s neither purple or pink or orange but a menacing mix of all three. Mitch slides another paper wall aside, this one painted as if it was the curtain of a very old theatre, if any old theatres were built by bones and skulls. “Here Claire, there’s some people I want you to meet…”
She starts to say something in return, eyes sparkling as she turns from him to look inside the room. The empty, wooden boards seem incredibly stark in comparison to the hysterical colours before. The silence deafening compared to the incessant shrieks and laughs outside. The strict costumes of the men and women sitting crosslegged around the low, japanese table extremely dull compared to the outfits seen earlier. And the terror in her heart a complete and staggering surprise as she spots the Interpol badges adorning all their chests. Their eyes are fastened on her, their smiles like those of abiding hyenas.
Her mouth goes dry and she tries to back out of there, tries to run, but Mitch has her in a strong grip and she gets nowhere. “Where are you going Claire? These nice people have been waiting for you a long time. Come and meet them!” Doesn’t he see? Or… does he know, and has been working with them all along? Terror constricts her throat, keeps all words locked inside her head, but her eyes are wide open as she searches his face for any trace of understanding. Finding none. And his grip is strong, too strong, but she tries to struggle, she really does, and… “They just want to talk to you, Claire.” She screams.
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The clouds abate and leave nothing but impossibly white sand, lush trees granting some shade and turquoise water sparkling like in a fairytale. She allows herself one moment to get her bearings, feeling the soft sand trickle between her toes as she wriggles them. She smiles, at ease, knowing that no one can get to her here. Her own island, who would’ve thought?
He doesn’t need to call out for her, she already knows where he’ll be. His luxurious yacht is tied at the docks, the only place to tie a boat here and his the only one that ever comes. He’s just now stepping down onto the beach and coming towards her. Her smile widens and she closes the distance, pleased that she managed to match his white linen costume with one of her own. Now they truly look like one of those perfect commercials for a dream location only celebrities can afford to go to.
But he stops as he sees her coming, and she has time to wonder why before she’s already there, by his side. The look on his face makes her usual greeting wither and die before she can even utter it, and she feels her stomach sink. What’s wrong? In the distance, a loud rumbling causes a flock of birds to rise from deeper in the woods, but she pays it no heed. “Gabriel? Is something the matter?” His eyes hold such sadness, such… disappointment. She swallows the lump of dread that rises in her throat and waits, tries her best at this patience he always speaks of. Yet instead of answering, he turns away and starts walking back to the boat.
She lingers, has no idea how to deal with this situation. He always talks, always says something at least, and this… Why would he come here, if not to talk to her? She hurries to his side, tries again. “What’s wrong? Is there… Have they found me?” Another rumbling, seemingly a rise in temperature in the gust of wind that tugs at her hair. Still he doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at her, but he doesn’t have to. The look that she got was enough to unnerve her, to tear her safety to shreds. “Gabriel? Jay?" She reaches for him, and he shrugs her hand off. Starts to untie the yacht, unwinding the rope in slow, deliberate movements. She stands dumbfounded, not knowing what to do at all. Is the sky darker? It seems like it is, and the air is full of dust, making her blink to regain her vision.
In her chest, her heart beats faster and she goes up the docks with him. If he’s mad, let him be mad. Just… not leave her here like this. Without any explanation. But as he steps onto the yacht, it immediately swivels out towards open sea, and the gap between the docks and the huge vessel is far too big for her to cross. He stands at the railing, rope hanging forgotten in his hands. His green-gray eyes fixed on her, and the look on his face… Oh God, the look on his face. Tears are rolling down her cheeks before she knows it, her insides in turmoil and her heart crying out for him to stop, wait, forgive her! For what, she does not know, but only something terrible can cause such a devastated, hopeless look that he now wears, surely.
The rumbling is louder now and the water ripples, hissing where glowing pieces of ember fall from the sky. Behind her, a cacophony of shrieks and howls rises as trees fall to the ground. Another heat wave strikes and she stumbles, feeling her pores open at once to regulate her own temperature. To no avail, she can see the lava run down the mountain even from here. She turns back to the sea, to where Gabriel stands looking at her as his boat carries him
away from fire, destruction, and her. She cries, helpless, calling for him. By every name she knows, trying, trying to reach through his numb barriers. He doesn’t answer. Just looks at her, conveying a world of hurt and sorrow and disappointment across the boiling waters, and she cries. Burning, she cries as his yacht vanishes on the horizon and leaves her standing on the erupting island.
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She sits up with a gasp, terror flooding her body and making her muscles clench as if for a fight. Pain soars, she has time for another gasp, this time for air, and then she falls back down on the rags that serve as a pillow. By her side, Ekaterina stirs and mumbles, then awakens. “Claire? Finally, I never thought it’d break… Thank the Lord!” She cries, her heart still wrenched by a feeling of utter and complete loneliness. Her leg hurts as if it’s on fire, and she realizes that the bandages are off. There’s a stink that seems to be coming from her, and her torn clothing is soaked with sweat. “Wha..?” “Sshh, don’t talk. Here, have some water.” She drinks, it’s the loveliest sip of tepid liquid she’s ever had. Smooth, velvety water, a bliss in her raw throat. Ekaterina glances towards the cage door and lowers her voice another notch. “It’s morning soon. You need to fake unconsciousness, you hear? The guards, they will not take you then. You’ve been in and out for three days, and me, I think they’ve given up hope. I did not. And you’re back now. Praise the Lord.” The woman places a kiss on her forehead and mumbles some words of prayer in Russian. Herself, she tries to make sense of everything. Three days? But surely they just stuffed her in here, surely it was just last evening that… No, don’t think about that.
Ekaterina smiles, the lines on her face drawn as if she hasn’t slept in a long while. “Good, now rest. I come back in the evening, yes? Sleep, Claire. Your body needs to heal.” She can do unconscious, if she has to. At least the guards won’t beat her if they think she’s already out.
It’s the last thought she has before sinking into a blessedly dreamless sleep. It seems the fever has broken, after all.
Then suddenly the world explodes, goes up in flame, and she staggers forward when the waves of heat roll over her. She didn’t think the jungle could get any hotter, but there it is and she cries from relief. The panther is gone, as is a large part of the vegetation some ten steps behind her. Stumbling, she turns, tries to find the source of this magical rescue. And there, standing steadily between two palm trees with a smoking RPG on his shoulder, is Tam. She cries out, a strangled sound bereft of any resemblance to words, but he doesn’t answer. Simply continues reloading the weapon, slowly and deliberately, without taking his eyes from her. Hefting the RPG on his shoulder again, squinting slightly to mark the path. To her.
Fear clenches her innards like an iron fist and she has just the time to scream before…
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“She’s burning up, goddammit! She needs a doctor!”
“No doctor. Quiet!”
“Pizdets svolach! Idi na hui!”
Clanging noises, as if metal on metal, and a squeal. Then silence.
No matter, she’s drifting, darkness lurking, swelling, encompassing.
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She’s in the back of the car, as usual. The vistas outside not very interesting, as usual. Her bag is heavy, straining a bit around the throat, and she tries to find a more comfortable position. It seems she’s twisted her labcoat a bit when getting into the car, and with the strap of the bag and the seatbelt, it’s really holding her firmly in place. Dmitri would be pleased, she thinks, and if thoughts were a summons he’s suddenly outside her door, as usual. Watching everything but her, his gun at the ready, his Georgian training kicking in as usual. She sighs and tries again to loosen the straps around her, but succeeds only in tightening them it seems. It’s starting to get harder to breathe, and isn’t it very hot in the car? She mutters a curse and hopes that Dmitri will be satisfied with his scrutinizing of the shrubberies and ditches soon, and let her out.
But it’s really hot now, and the air seems stifling. Air. Not enough, actually. The seat belt lies across the hollow of her throat, she’s a bit too short for this seat, and it makes her uncomfortably aware of every breath she draws. Has to struggle to draw, actually. And the lab coat makes it impossible to move her arms much, making her feel even warmer. Why isn’t Dmitri letting her out? He usually opens the door, so she can ask him for help with the seat belt then. Soon, surely.
But he starts to walk away, his gun raised and his focus far, far from her. She shouts, then, tries to get his attention, but no reaction. She can’t even bang on the window, her arms secure at her sides now. Sweat glistens on her temples as she judges the distance to him, and then slams her head into the window. Again. Hoping the sound is enough. It sure hurts. And as she realizes that Dmitri truly doesn’t hear her, she also realizes that the bag has slid down from the seat and is pulling around her throat, and air becomes even scarcer. Panting she feels panic rise from somewhere deep inside, trying again to hit the window but with the only result of her throbbing headache increasing. No air. So warm. Breathe, she must…
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“Run! Run I said!” She does, she really does. Or tries, anyway. There’s sand everywhere, and she can hardly breathe despite the mask she’s wearing. Or is it because of the mask? It’s close fit rubber edges seem to burn her skin, causing sweat to mingle with the unrelenting material and making every breath seem to be taken in a furnace. She blinks behind the glasses, wondering again why she’s running and failing to remember. She falters, again, tries to slow down just to catch her bearings, but he’s adamant. Giorgi pushes her forward, a hard shove in the back that makes her yelp with surprise and stumble even more. Waving her arms in front of her, she manages not to fall but misses a breath and loses all control anyway. She shakes her head, tries to convey to him that she needs to rest.
Another shove, this time to her left shoulder. Strange, she could have sworn he was on her right, but the sand blurs everything and makes her forget what’s up and down and left and right. She cries now, dust getting stuck in her eyelashes as they catch the tears held there. Everything stings and burns, from the inside out, and why is she running? Why won’t he let her stop?! Then another shove, to her right, and immediately after to the left. A hickup catches in her throat, a sob held back by terror, as she glances backwards. Yes. There’s two of him now. Two Giorgi, running with grim faces and guns at the ready, ignoring her desperation and shoving her the moment she slows down just a tiny bit.
She clamps down on a scream and runs, sure it’s an illusion from her tired mind. You do get such things, illusions, when in the desert, right? But then another comes running, loping up to them from the side, and then another from the other side. Four of them. “RUN!” Their voices echo in her head, their hands burn with a wrongness when pushing her onwards, and she can’t help it, she screams, she…
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“Ssshhh, there now, don’t scream, be quiet, sshh…” A blessedly cool hand on her forehead, water trickling down her temples. She longs to drink it, devour it even. But all that comes out of her mouth is a croak and the person in the other end of the cool hands doesn’t understand. Keeps hushing her. She whimpers, tries to remember where she is. Somehow, she knows that she doesn’t want to open her eyes. But behind the eyelids lie more throbbing pain and fire, and she has no strength to resist it. “Sshhh now…”
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Dima’s eyes are like pools of darkness when they bore into her skull, and she wants to get away but knows that it will be worse then. “Do you understand? You can’t just call him over anytime you want, you have to go to him! He’s in a spot where I can defend him, that’s why he’s over there. You pull him out of that spot, you’re likely to get him killed!” She feels like a sulking child being chastised, not a very nice feeling. “I didn’t mean to..!” He cuts her short, ignoring her speech of defense. “It doesn’t matter! Now, if you want to tell him something, you go to him!”
Suddenly Dima is gone and she’s alone, in a maze of some sort. Where are the others? She wanted to tell Gabriel something, so she should go look for him. Yes. She takes a step, and realizes as a hundred other Claire’s move with her that she’s in a maze of mirrors. Crap, she always hated these things as a child. Impossible to find a way out. Another step, and then she’s gone from all the reflections. She has time to wrinkle her brow, no more, before Dima appears on every surface. His face is large, as if zoomed in, and his eyes as stern as ever before. “Don’t call him out! You go to him!” His voice echoes in there, and she involuntarily crouches a little. Why is he so angry? He looks really… angry. Hurriedly she moves deeper in among the mirrors, among the myriad of Dimas who glare down at her. His voice is booming now, sending reverberations through her head that make her grit her teeth with pain. Slowly easing into a run, she tries every surface for truth, hits the mirrors with outstretched hands as each one tells her no, wrong way, turn back.
What if she never gets out? Dima won’t come for her, he as much said so, and she’s truly lost now… Breathing heavily, she tries to plead with him. Tries to ask forgiveness, to explain. No use, he probably can’t even hear her. She feels smaller, even, the mirrors larger, her breaths echoing from the flat surfaces. Where does she go? And then the mirrors behind her start falling inwards, crashing down against each other and Dima’s face becoming a million shards of exquisitely sharp glass aiming for her. She gasps in disbelief, doesn’t get her feet going until the first shards hit her and leave trailing lines of red on her arms and hands. Then, she runs. And Dima laughs, as if he’d known this would happen all along, as if he’d planned it all. His laughter cascades down at her with the shattering mirrors and she falls to her knees, crumbles and tries to protect her face as she screams forgiveness into the chaos...
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Parnell grins down at her as he throws another shovel of dirt on the bags of white opium they’re hiding. She smiles back, tense but certain of the spot. No one will find the ingredients here, especially not after they’ve covered the ground back up again. “Hey Parnell, hold up a second, let me just get out of here before you start filling it up!” She demonstratively brushes off some of the dirt he managed to throw at her as well, and gets to her feet.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps smiling, keeps shoveling. Dirt rustles down the sides of the pit they’ve dug, onto the chemicals but also onto her. “Hey, stop!” He takes no notice, just shovels. Starting to get angry, she reaches up to hoist herself up and out of there. Parnell stops shoveling, his smile waning just a bit, and steps on her fingers. With a cry of equal parts surprise and hurt, she stumbles backwards into the pit and stares uncomprehendingly at him. He resumes shoveling, no emotion on his face whatsoever. A chill runs down her spine and she turns it into anger, tries again to get up.
This time, he hits her with the shovel. Her head rings as her knees go out underneath her and she blinks away tears from the impact. Above her, Parnell digs deep into the pile of sand and soil, and throws it down at her. And then another. And another.
Soon, she’s covered in heavy soil and she can no longer stand up. She cries, pleads, threatens. He doesn’t care. Just shovels. More soil, pushing her down, back into the ground. Now it’s up to her chest and she tries to get her arms up, but it doesn’t help much. Her movements are slow, druggish even, and she wonders if she accidentally broke one of the bags and inhaled too much of the ingredients. She has no chance of sweeping the dirt aside at the same pace as Parnell shovels it onto her. More pressure on her chest now, her breath becomes shallow and she gets it in her mouth every time she tries to say something, every time she gulps for air. On her face, now, she has to close her eyes, has to spit crunchy bits of gravel and roots out continuously. No more talking. No more pleading. Soon, no more breathing. She draws one, heavy breath just to call out once more, and…
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“No! Please stop!!” “Claire? Are you awake?” The pressure on her chest vanishes, and there’s blissful air. Sweet, wonderful air. She gulps it down, cries and almost throws up as her body clenches in imagined panic. “Calm down Claire, you need to slow down.. Here, some water..” Hands on the back of her head, something cool against her lips. She sips, sloppily, and cries again at the beautiful velvety smoothness of the tepid water. It’s the best she’s ever had.” “You have a fever, Claire, your wounds… Claire? Can you hear m…”
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The floor is tilting, it must be that. She didn’t have that much to drink! Laughing, she leans heavily on Mitch’s arm as he leads her further into the tea house, gawking at all the strange sights. Here, a man dressed as a pig being hunted by a woman in a samurai armor, there three geishas batting an enormous russian doll with stuffed peacocks. At last she thinks the birds are stuffed, and not alive. The paper walls seem to slide and shift with every step and she staggers to the side, trying her best to stay on the path. The floor is painted in every weird pattern there is, changing from stripes to swirls to checkers and back to even more stripes without any seeming logic. Hanging from the ceiling are baskets full of monkeys, their chattering deafening in the enclosed space. She points at them, asking Mitch about them, but he keeps moving forward and she has to follow.
A train passes through the building and they pause, avoiding the japanese men riding horse-sized scissors and waving their cowboy hats around before continuing. Her head spins, this is all too mad! Sure Mitch had told her of the chaos in a japanese tea house, but this is… She ducks as a pack of dogs with fireworks tied to their tails come flying by, hunted by a crew of old women running upside down on the ceiling, cackling with laughter that almost sounds like screams. Through the odd window, she can see a sky that’s neither purple or pink or orange but a menacing mix of all three. Mitch slides another paper wall aside, this one painted as if it was the curtain of a very old theatre, if any old theatres were built by bones and skulls. “Here Claire, there’s some people I want you to meet…”
She starts to say something in return, eyes sparkling as she turns from him to look inside the room. The empty, wooden boards seem incredibly stark in comparison to the hysterical colours before. The silence deafening compared to the incessant shrieks and laughs outside. The strict costumes of the men and women sitting crosslegged around the low, japanese table extremely dull compared to the outfits seen earlier. And the terror in her heart a complete and staggering surprise as she spots the Interpol badges adorning all their chests. Their eyes are fastened on her, their smiles like those of abiding hyenas.
Her mouth goes dry and she tries to back out of there, tries to run, but Mitch has her in a strong grip and she gets nowhere. “Where are you going Claire? These nice people have been waiting for you a long time. Come and meet them!” Doesn’t he see? Or… does he know, and has been working with them all along? Terror constricts her throat, keeps all words locked inside her head, but her eyes are wide open as she searches his face for any trace of understanding. Finding none. And his grip is strong, too strong, but she tries to struggle, she really does, and… “They just want to talk to you, Claire.” She screams.
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The clouds abate and leave nothing but impossibly white sand, lush trees granting some shade and turquoise water sparkling like in a fairytale. She allows herself one moment to get her bearings, feeling the soft sand trickle between her toes as she wriggles them. She smiles, at ease, knowing that no one can get to her here. Her own island, who would’ve thought?
He doesn’t need to call out for her, she already knows where he’ll be. His luxurious yacht is tied at the docks, the only place to tie a boat here and his the only one that ever comes. He’s just now stepping down onto the beach and coming towards her. Her smile widens and she closes the distance, pleased that she managed to match his white linen costume with one of her own. Now they truly look like one of those perfect commercials for a dream location only celebrities can afford to go to.
But he stops as he sees her coming, and she has time to wonder why before she’s already there, by his side. The look on his face makes her usual greeting wither and die before she can even utter it, and she feels her stomach sink. What’s wrong? In the distance, a loud rumbling causes a flock of birds to rise from deeper in the woods, but she pays it no heed. “Gabriel? Is something the matter?” His eyes hold such sadness, such… disappointment. She swallows the lump of dread that rises in her throat and waits, tries her best at this patience he always speaks of. Yet instead of answering, he turns away and starts walking back to the boat.
She lingers, has no idea how to deal with this situation. He always talks, always says something at least, and this… Why would he come here, if not to talk to her? She hurries to his side, tries again. “What’s wrong? Is there… Have they found me?” Another rumbling, seemingly a rise in temperature in the gust of wind that tugs at her hair. Still he doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at her, but he doesn’t have to. The look that she got was enough to unnerve her, to tear her safety to shreds. “Gabriel? Jay?" She reaches for him, and he shrugs her hand off. Starts to untie the yacht, unwinding the rope in slow, deliberate movements. She stands dumbfounded, not knowing what to do at all. Is the sky darker? It seems like it is, and the air is full of dust, making her blink to regain her vision.
In her chest, her heart beats faster and she goes up the docks with him. If he’s mad, let him be mad. Just… not leave her here like this. Without any explanation. But as he steps onto the yacht, it immediately swivels out towards open sea, and the gap between the docks and the huge vessel is far too big for her to cross. He stands at the railing, rope hanging forgotten in his hands. His green-gray eyes fixed on her, and the look on his face… Oh God, the look on his face. Tears are rolling down her cheeks before she knows it, her insides in turmoil and her heart crying out for him to stop, wait, forgive her! For what, she does not know, but only something terrible can cause such a devastated, hopeless look that he now wears, surely.
The rumbling is louder now and the water ripples, hissing where glowing pieces of ember fall from the sky. Behind her, a cacophony of shrieks and howls rises as trees fall to the ground. Another heat wave strikes and she stumbles, feeling her pores open at once to regulate her own temperature. To no avail, she can see the lava run down the mountain even from here. She turns back to the sea, to where Gabriel stands looking at her as his boat carries him
away from fire, destruction, and her. She cries, helpless, calling for him. By every name she knows, trying, trying to reach through his numb barriers. He doesn’t answer. Just looks at her, conveying a world of hurt and sorrow and disappointment across the boiling waters, and she cries. Burning, she cries as his yacht vanishes on the horizon and leaves her standing on the erupting island.
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She sits up with a gasp, terror flooding her body and making her muscles clench as if for a fight. Pain soars, she has time for another gasp, this time for air, and then she falls back down on the rags that serve as a pillow. By her side, Ekaterina stirs and mumbles, then awakens. “Claire? Finally, I never thought it’d break… Thank the Lord!” She cries, her heart still wrenched by a feeling of utter and complete loneliness. Her leg hurts as if it’s on fire, and she realizes that the bandages are off. There’s a stink that seems to be coming from her, and her torn clothing is soaked with sweat. “Wha..?” “Sshh, don’t talk. Here, have some water.” She drinks, it’s the loveliest sip of tepid liquid she’s ever had. Smooth, velvety water, a bliss in her raw throat. Ekaterina glances towards the cage door and lowers her voice another notch. “It’s morning soon. You need to fake unconsciousness, you hear? The guards, they will not take you then. You’ve been in and out for three days, and me, I think they’ve given up hope. I did not. And you’re back now. Praise the Lord.” The woman places a kiss on her forehead and mumbles some words of prayer in Russian. Herself, she tries to make sense of everything. Three days? But surely they just stuffed her in here, surely it was just last evening that… No, don’t think about that.
Ekaterina smiles, the lines on her face drawn as if she hasn’t slept in a long while. “Good, now rest. I come back in the evening, yes? Sleep, Claire. Your body needs to heal.” She can do unconscious, if she has to. At least the guards won’t beat her if they think she’s already out.
It’s the last thought she has before sinking into a blessedly dreamless sleep. It seems the fever has broken, after all.
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