Heroic Measures (continued)

Blood roared in Walter’s ears. He could hear the sound of his own breathing and tried to slow it. To him, it sounded like he was panting from fear. Yes, he was more than a little nervous, but he made no move to resist what Abigail was doing. In fact, he had already aided her efforts.

What breath he had caught as her fingers probed and tentatively stroked beneath the fabric of his jeans. For an instant, he feared that he might end the moment right then and there. He was saved from such a fate of unspeakable embarrassment when she removed her hand. What she had planned to do with it next he never knew, for they were interrupted by an echoing crash of thunder, followed by a sharp gust of wind.

Those events, of themselves, would have been only a mild distraction had Abigail’s sweater not been carried away. Walter saw it take leave her side on the blanket. Abigail had apparently not seen it take flight, but something in Walter’s expression or eyes told her that something had happened worth noting. She turned and looked, and then stared at the place where it had been snagged on the tall, dry grass, stopping to flap limply in the heavy breeze.

Walter’s eyes turned toward the fluttering garment and then to Abigail. He thought for a moment that she might wish to just let it go, but he knew that the spell of the moment had been broken. Stumbling to his feet, he refastened his jeans and belt, while accelerating into a full run after the wayward sweater.

He was less than a yard from it when it freed itself and glided away on the next burst of wind. Growling quietly with frustration, he forced his legs into an even faster sprint. His fingers barely brushed the fabric before it was carried off again. The grass was shorter here, but more dense, making it more difficult for him to move as quickly. He nearly stumbled several times as his sneakers encountered tangled knots of exposed roots. A part of him wondered if Abigail was finding his continually thwarted efforts to retrieve her errant piece of clothing to be entertaining. He was not amused.

While he believed that there was a God, Walter did not believe that he was deserving of so capricious and petty a reprisal. After all, they had not actually done anything. And, it had been Abigail’s idea. Well, Walter deduced wryly, it was her sweater. So maybe there was something to that.

The garment quivered on the thin branches of a barren shrub, seeming to taunt him for another dash at it. All evidence so far to the contrary, he knew that he should be able to catch up with and capture the sweater. However, the dubious gratification in chasing it down had now worn quite thin. Before charging off after it again, he quickly considered the situation and his efforts to resolve it so far. He fully expected his next attempt to be as successful as had all of his previous ones: the sweater would be snatched out of his reach just as he neared it. It was time for a different strategy.

Taking a deep breath, Walter dashed forward again. This time, he deliberately shot past the recalcitrant article of clothing. He slowed, forming a wide arc, and headed back toward where the sweater still waited. There was another gust of wind, but this time his fist closed on the knitted material before it could be carried away. Gripping it tightly, he held it aloft in triumph. He saw Abigail still standing on the blanket, but he was now too far away to see her expression. If she called to him, her voice was lost in the increasing roar of the wind. Surprised at how far he had come, having been so focused on his pursuit, he started to walk back to her. Thunder boomed overhead, and then seemed to roll across the sky and open field. An instant later, the dark and heavy clouds above him released their contents.

He was soaked within seconds. For a moment, he considered using the sweater to shelter his head from the rain. Instead, he tucked it tightly under his arm, hoping to keep it as dry as possible. He moved through the now-sodden grass, the path now even more difficult than before. This time, he saw the bright flash of lightning a few seconds before hearing the bass roar of the accompanying thunder. Out of habit, he silently counted the delay. Four seconds: it was nearby.

A few moments later came a fainter, more distant echo. He had not seen the flash, so he assumed that it had come from behind him. Ahead, he saw Abigail standing beneath the high canopy of the tree. For the moment, she appeared to remain dry, except for whatever moisture the wind blew in her direction. She seemed to be smiling and, he was pleased to note, not laughing.

Intense radiance seemed to suddenly form all around him. A part of his mind imagined it as the light that filled the gateway to Heaven. He wanted to flinch, to clench his eyes closed against the glare, but they refused to respond. A moment later, he felt a searing heat, followed by a convulsive searing surge of pain. The moment after that, that light was replaced by darkness.

#

August 30, 1977 . . .

Walter awoke to a jumble of light. It was as if he peered through twin kaleidoscopes, for the patterns that refracted his vision in each appeared to be similar and yet different. He swallowed, but his throat felt dry and raw. His mind felt jumbled, unable to hold onto a single thought for more than the briefest fraction of a moment. His body tingled, ached, and itched, although not necessarily in that order nor even in the same way all over. He tried again to speak, felt the small muscles of his jaw move, but they refused to form words. His tongue felt rough and swollen, or was it numb, as he retrieved the flash of a memory from childhood visits to the dentist.

The colors before his eyes slowed their fragmented motion. They did not yet solidify into recognizable shapes, but they formed more distinct geometries. Noises now came to him. They seemed to be either rustling whispers or something like the hushed hiss of escaping air. Am I leaking? came the reasonable, if somewhat absurd, thought. All of the impressions felt strangely distant, as if he was experiencing them from afar, through some kind of filter between himself and his senses.

He tried to move his head, but all that managed to accomplish was to renew the kaleidoscopic vertigo. Swallowing again came a bit easier, but he felt terribly thirsty. Thirsty? But there was water, water, everywhere . . . He paused in that thought. It was raining, wasn’t it? He paused again. He did not feel wet. In fact, he did not feel much of anything. No, that was not true either. He gave an annoyed mental sigh. He was not sure what he felt.

The prisms of color in his vision softened into vague patches of increasingly subtle color. On the surface of his left arm, he felt something that was definitely a touch. New sounds coalesced from near his right ear, trying to form comprehensible patterns. What had happened? The thing he could remember was that he had been chasing . . . a flag?

The vague shapes before him seemed to begin to move more swiftly, although he still could not identify them. He felt additional points of contact on his skin; each like being stroked with different grades of sand paper. New sounds also came into being, but they all still defied recognition. Voices? That would make sense, as they seemed to vary in pitch. He wished that he could understand them. Maybe one of them could explain what was happening to him.

A bright pinpoint of light suddenly appeared in his field of vision. He wanted to turn away, shield himself from it, driven by the reflexive memory of the last bright light he had experienced. That had been . . . what? When?

The diffuse dot of light moved in what seemed a random path. After spending some amount of time following this phantom trail through his vision, it left it entirely. The vague shapes returned and then were replaced by a large, darker object. It remained there was several moments before it too disappeared.

Something buzzed dully near his ear. There was a brief silence and then it returned again. The third time it came, he thought he could understand it.

“Walter?”

It was his name, if that was what the sound truly was, but it sounded like it being pronounced by a swarm of bumblebees at the bottom of a shallow dry well.

If it was his name, the polite thing to do would be to answer it. He tried to swallow again. He felt the jaw muscles move, even his lips as well, but if he made a sound, he could not hear it.

There was a renewed collection of noises now, all of which teased at his comprehension. He wanted to tell them to be quiet, to come one at a time, but could not perform beyond the thought. His mind felt somewhat clearer, but still disorganized. It felt akin to great fatigue or intoxication, yet unlike them both. He had never tried drugs, aside from being in the occasional proximity of a lit joint at a local concert, so he was uncertain whether it might be that. Whatever it was, he wanted it to either go away or let him rest. He had a feeling, though, that he had already had enough sleep.

“Walter?”

Yes, it was definitely his name. It sounded more recognizable than before, but still heavy with what seemed like static. He tried to speak again, but only managed an infinitesimal grunt that died before it left his throat.

“Walter,” the voice returned. “Move your hand if you can hear me.”

My hand. Yeah, Walter thought with increasing optimism. I can do that.

He focused on finding his hand, remembering which muscles moved it. A distant part of him reasoned that he should be a great deal more disturbed that he had to invest so much thought into such a simple action, but he felt generally detached from his emotions for the moment. He was driven by the need just to understand. He mentally traced down to the muscles of his right hand and focused on flexing them; the smallest movement—any movement—would be enough.

After what seemed like several minutes of effort, Walter gave up. If he had been successful in getting his hand to make any motion at all, he had been unable to feel it. The voice that he had heard provided him with no indication of the result either.

Well? he inquired silently. What’s next?