BIT-STRING ENTRY #7
Jeremiah is shrouded in fatal darkness now, having glimpsed the source code of THE PROGRAM during his last moments of consciousness.
I wade out deeper into the surf, head submerged, uttering the trinary Cetacean language of whistles, clicks and telepathic sonar pulses at a crystal clear 110kHz decibel. The troops of Tursiops Truncatus that have responded to my call quickly echo-locate my Chosen One, forming an air cone vortex (bubble ring) that lifts Jeremiah upward from his watery grave to the surface and into my grasp.
I drag him out of the shore break and onto a patch of dry sand. It is within reach of my portable stomach pump and charcoal enema kit. Fortunately, there’s nobody around to witness my felonious form of CPR, one that spares no orifice.
The pod of dolphin rises up out of the water and express their concern. On cue, a spark of life shoots through Jeremiah and he responds with a strangled, elongated breath before rolling onto his side to retch out the toxic stew of drugs and alcohol.
I lift a hand and give my Cetacean cousins a fist pump as Jeremiah slips back into a semi-conscious state. The largest bottlenose of the pod executes a stellar tail kick, sending Jeremiah’s White Diamond hurtling toward shore. No sense losing a good surfboard, right?
About twenty minutes later, Jeremiah awakens on the flatbed of his Ford Ranger wrapped in a spare pair of custodial overalls, eyes blinded by the setting sun. I’ve left a bottle of electrolyte-infused brew within arm’s reach which he downs a tad too quickly, igniting another spectacular heave-ho that dislodges the last remnants of charcoal I shoved down his throat.
I’ve re-parked his truck in a proper spot so that it will not get towed. My Chosen One can’t find his ass with two hands, much less his keys — and he’s still trying to figure out how he got out alive, never mind how his surfboard got stowed and locked inside the truck cab.
I slowly cruise up on my Ural M-71 and open the sidecar door. “You’re in no shape to drive, much less try and kill yourself again,” I tell him.
Disorientation gives way to anger. “Who the hell are you?! What the fuck are you doing here, you freakin’ mutant!” he hurls back. “Why are you fucking stalking me?!”
This vitriol toward a rescuer is to be expected after a thwarted suicide. Idiotic as it sounds, failing to cross death’s threshold is downright embarrassing to the self-saboteur whether he awakens in a hospital ER or on a deserted beach. Why? Because you (the rescuer) have denied them (the self-saboteur) that one decision that they thought they had complete control over.
“So let me get this straight — you’re pissed off that I was concerned enough about your emotional well-being to follow you? As opposed to being glad that I followed you?”
“My life… it’s none of your business.”
“The business of you trying to end your life, you mean?”
His weak and scrambled mind tries to reach for some clarity now, and then the tears start flowing (always a good sign). “Where are my fucking keys?”
“Ask them,” I say, nodding out toward the water. Jeremiah does a double-take when I offer up another 110 kHz Cetacean shout-out. Six of my bottlenose buddies instantly shoot up out of the water, sound a cheerful reply, and perform a few acrobatics.
“The two on the left got you to shore,” I tell him. “The one to your right kicked your board in, and the one in the middle is holding your keys.”
He looks at me like I’m insane (I know, the irony, right?). “They understand your conundrum, Jeremiah. And so do I.”
He remains wary and confused, but I keep vibing back that white light, the one the cetaceans carry with them even when they find themselves netted and facing slaughter.
He slides off the rear bumper, sinks to his knees, tries to stifle a sob…
“Let it go,” I tell him. And he does so, heaving up a piece of his wounded soul.
“I don’t know why the fuck I’m alive… I’m just sucking up space. I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore…”
“Do what?” I ask.
“This! Life! Everything!”
“You mean, The Program.” I say.
That resonates. He looks at me, curious now. And afraid.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” I say. “On those tunnel walls leading to oblivion.”
He turns inward, remembering, and then gives an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ve been programmed.”
“You all have,” I tell him. “But its malware, dude.”
“So then… there’s nothing I can do.”
“Wrong answer,” I say, tossing him a spare helmet, opening the Ural’s sidecar door.
“Get in.”
Get in.