PURSUIT: A Novel – 1: Storm

Kansas University – Friday Evening, March 3, 1989

The smell of burnt motor oil tingeing his nostrils was the first sign that Jerry might still be alive. He felt steam rise from the pavement that covered him in a damp, ghostly fog as rain splattered his face and assailed the hot asphalt, shattered to a mist. He lay motionless in the deserted street. If someone had witnessed the event, they would have given him up for dead. No one survives a direct hit.

He felt like he was waking from a deep sleep or anesthesia—that state of mind when eerie voices fade in and out—but no sense of life as if paralyzed. The white light within his closed eyes was so intense—retinal rods fused like white-hot iron. He scrunched his eyes as if to block out the searing light, but the piercing presence of its brilliance remained. He lay there in the street and feared that he was dead, but if he were dead, he wouldn’t feel fear. Or would he? What is it like to feel dead?  

When he did open his eyes, it was like looking at an over-exposed photo turned on its side—everything was at a right angle to what his mind expected as if he were plastered on a wall looking at a picture tilted on its side, rather than lying face down in the middle of the street. Hazy forms of trees and buildings glowed with shades of white, the blaze of the thunderbolt etched in his vision like a ragged photo torn in two.

A trumpet blared. Or was it a car horn? Possibly a tornado siren? Thunder rolled. Anyway, it sounded like thunder to him, but the words, “Jerry, you are not alone,” were clear—even if nothing else in his mind was. His body twitched as though life within wanted to escape. The sound of his name like thunder rolling in the heavens . . . you are not alone . . . not alone. His eyes fluttered and closed.

The rain stopped. All was still. Deadly still.

A bird chirped, a single ray of light.

A vision of a boy prancing through tall grass and wildflowers, chasing, chasing . . . a butterfly . . . chasing, chasing, chasing . . .

He jerked up his head. Eyes wide open, magnificent colors of Oz. Golden streets, spiraled towers of crystal, trees blossomed with fragrant perfume, a fountain of water cascaded over smooth stone boulders.

With no effort, he moved his arms underneath his chest and pressed up against the dead weight of his body, scooted his numb knees beneath his waist, and slowly, cautiously began to press up from his feet to stand. He felt strength course through his body. Amazed, he looked at his fleshly hands and feet, his body radiant brilliance. He felt pure . . . peace. He looked up, the glowing cloud parted, and the intensity of the light blinded him. He closed his eyes. The voice was clear, no thunder this time.

You have received the power of my spirit . . .  

You will be my witness wherever you go . . .

Receive me as your first love and you will be a new creation, a new man.

In awe of the presence of the light, he raised his hands and held them straight out from his sides, palms up, soaking in the light shining in its strength. Warmth flowed from his head through his arms and then filled his belly and legs. It may have been seconds. It may have been minutes, even hours. He did not know. The sensation within him was nothing he had ever experienced, a feeling of total void, yet completely filled . . . as if time were suspended.

v v v

Old Towne, Kansas – Saturday Morning, March 4, 1989

The crack of thunder outside Jerry’s Meier’s bedroom window caused him to bolt upright in bed. Panting rapidly, his head darted around his room, lost as to where he was. Forms of recognition, the pyramid of Budweiser cans in the corner, the dark TV, his desk piled with books and papers, the closed door.

Lightning flashed and illuminated a poster of Pink Floyd’s masterpiece, a prism refracting white light. He looked to the wall by his bed and the image of a supermodel looked over her bare shoulder and back, seemingly studying him, arm covering her nipple, showing just enough breast to tantalize. Wind drove rain that pelted the window. His breathing slowed. The chill of the room against his clammy and damp skin sent a shiver down his shoulders.

Silence. Wind and rain had stopped. Erie silence.

A fluttering of wings . . . swoosh, swoosh . . . the beer cans toppled. The alarm glared—4:44. His heart pounded, the thumping in his chest accelerated, a tingling wave from within ran down his arms, hairs standing on end. Something is in here. The air is charged. It’s just a storm. It’s just a storm . . . It’s just a . . .

He grabbed around his neck finding nothing but air. Clawing at his throat, he sought whatever it was that clenched his windpipe shut, but in vain found nothing. His chest pulled to take a breath, pulled harder and harder against the suction, tugging with all his might against a closed door. He strained to break it loose, but nothing. The pressure built, his nose filled with blood, his eyes bulged. His fingernails dug into his neck, streaks of red raw flesh exposed, scraping, scraping against an invisible noose that closed tighter and tighter. His head pounded—baboom, baboom—wet lip, taste of blood—metallic, coppery, sticky—the smell of rotten eggs, eyes on fire ready to explode, head hot as hell. The pulsing in his ears—swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.  His vision blurred, the walls seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart . . . faster, faster . . . He willed his legs to move, to stand up and fight back, but there was no presence of them. His hands fell from his neck, arms limp then convulsing in flailing fear. Whatever It was held him upright, his neck stretched taut from heavy, sagging shoulders, and a dead limp body.

 A vise grip around his chest like he was a sponge squeezed him, blood to his veins popped like winding rivulets on his arms and legs. Searing pain bolt down his arms, his groin felt wet, his bowels hot . . . I’m gonna die . . . He tried to scream, mouth wide-open . . . all he heard was the roar shattering his eardrums. The roar . . . the roar . . . the roar is coming from the door! Bulging eyes blurred, the room faded . . . faded . . . walls closed in . . . closer . . . closer . . . only the closed dark door remained . . . trimmed with a line of light.

Explosive light, deafening crack of thunder, blinded.

Piercing scream.

Brilliant radiance. White-hot light.

I’m dead.

Bones snapped, suffocating vapor exploded, acrid sulfur burned. Glass shattered—whoosh—vapor sucked from the room.

Blackness.

Collapsed on the bed, only a shrill wheeze. Chest swelled. Dizzy, spinning, falling . . . falling, faster, faster. Endless falling . . .

Then floating . . . floating down . . . floating above something familiar. Getting closer, closer. A man. I have to help the man . . . the man in the street. I can't see his face. Who is he? Is he dead?

Jerry’s eyes popped open and stared at the ceiling.

Where am I?

He propped up on his elbows and looked around. Beer cans piled in the corner. TV screen full of static. Alarm flashed—4:44. A prism refracting light. Papers blown throughout the room, books scattered. Supermodel smiling . . . as she looked at him . . . lying naked in bed.

Where are my clothes? The clothes hooks were vacant. Am I dreaming? He slowly raised his hands to his neck. Sticky. He looked at his hands. Bloody. His nose tingled and he wiped it with the back of his hand. More blood.

Jerry, you are not alone.

He jerked his head to the window. Shattered.

You have received the power of my spirit . . .

He jerked it back to the door. Open.

You will be my witness wherever you go . . .

He looked down at his feet. Toes wiggled.

Receive me as your first love and you will be a new creation, a new man.

Puzzled by the words that ran through his head, it seemed he had heard them before. Slowly he moved his legs over the edge of the bed, uneasy that It was still in the room . . . whatever It was that had strangled me. He moved his legs silently over the edge of the bed and cautiously felt for the floor. Planting his feet he stood, ready to fight . . . It.

Looked over his shoulders—nothing behind him . . . except for the girl, still smiling.

He took a step towards the heap of clothes in front of the dresser.

“Shit! What the . . . Aghhh!” Piercing pain.

He hopped on one foot to land on the bed but lost his balance, his spine scraping down the bedpost.

“Damn it! Aghhh!”

He sat gasping for air, staring at the window . . . the shattered window.

“How did that happen?”

A steady stream of blood pooled under his foot, and he found the source of his pain. An inch long shard of glass still embedded in a piece of its frame protruded from the ball of his foot. He pulled it out. “Ugh!” Another inch of glass was covered in blood.

He tossed the glass at the window and pressed on the gaping cut. His fingers were covered in blood. It felt like he was in a horror movie, trapped in a dream, but the slice in his foot hurt like hell. He was fully awake, his senses primed. He was ready to kill. He looked around the room, but everything was peacefully quiet—no street noise, no storm, no thunder, no lightning. He looked at the clock. The red numbers still flashing—4:44.

“What the . . . what time did I get home? How did I get home?”

He scrambled up to get to his clothes. Now! I want to know what happened. Now! He scooted across the bed leaving a trail of blood. Damn it! He didn’t care any longer. He hobbled to the clothes heap, his foot slimy with blood, and squatted down pressing his foot hard against the floor to stop the bleeding. He tossed his boots from the pile, then his soaking wet jeans. He lifted the drenched white shirt stenciled with Affliction across the shoulders and held it front of him. He stood, bewildered by what he saw, by how it smelled. Burnt motor oil. A shiver went down his spine.

“A cross?”

A zap of electricity shoot from the top of his head down his arms and to his feet.

“Oh, my God, it really did happen.”

v v v

Copyright 2017  © Jeff Cambridge

Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge, a writer of transformational fiction with characters that tell life-changing stories.

This is a pre-published scene.

To read the scenes sequentially, begin with

“PURSUIT: A Novel – 1: Prologue”

Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Simply check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at bycambridge@gmail.com.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.