Lying Beneath the Virgin

By C. W. Wilson

WARNING: CONTENT MAY BE DAMAGING TO RELIGIOUS BELIEFS
In 1995, C.W. Wilsons life was changed forever when he discovered satanic iconography veiled in the Catholic Churchs venerated Our Lady of Guadalupe. He shares this insight in a new novel inspired by actual events.

The leaders of the most powerful religion in the world are not who they claim to be... And they have a secret.

In the shadowed underworld of the illegal narcotics trade, Kentucky, a seemingly normal young man of questionable morals and principals, unwittingly discovers a blasphemous subliminal image in one of the worlds most beloved icons, and his search for answers uncovers a deception so malevolent it could destroy the very foundation of Christianity.

In a world void of physical and mental limitations, Kentucky struggles to come to grips with Christianitys darkest and most closely guarded secret. Will the promise of an eternal life in heaven still hold sway once the world discovers death is merely an option?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462030019

C. W. Wilson

Throughout his life C.W. Wilson has documented the events following his discovery and ultimately succeeded in writing the novel millions of people will argue as the most controversial, desecrating, and faith-shaking piece of literature ever to be made public. C.W. Wilson currently resides deep within the Sonora Desert,forever exploring the infinite possibilities of the total human experience.

Book preview

Lying beneath the Virgin

C. W. Wilson

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Lying beneath the Virgin

Copyright © 2011 by C. W. Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-3003-3 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3002-6 (clth)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3001-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910229

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date:07/08/2011

The faithful believe that the

teachings of the bible are indeed gospel,

that life does not end with death,

but why wouldn’t they …

John 11:26, "And whosoever liveth and

believeth in Me shall never die.

Believest thou this."

The following chronicles the events

that took place between August 1995 and

September 2002,

Believest thou this …

Contents

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PART II

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

Part III

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART IV

Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART V

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER TEN

Part VI

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART VII

Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO

FINAL CHAPTER

Author Bio

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

One

AUGUST, 1995

The Ford Bronco’s oversized tires sang as it headed into an area of downtown Phoenix that for all practical purposes was northernmost Mexico. The night was oppressively hot, and even with the trucks windows sealed tightly to keep out the desert heat, Stevie Ray Vaughn’s hit single Tightrope could clearly be heard blasting from the stereo as it rumbled past. Just barely visible through the thick, recently exhaled clouds of crack cocaine smoke, the two occupants could be seen arguing in the dim blue glow of the interior lights.

Cover that flame when you light up! I screamed for the umpteenth time. Are you tryin’ to get us pulled over?

Ah Tuckster you know they can’t see us I’ve got the cloaking device engaged, joked Jake.

You’ll think cloakin’ device when we’re waitin’ downtown for someone to post our bail!

Hey that was Cindy! Jake shouted spinning around in his seat to track the passing car, turn around Tuck, I need to talk to her!

No can do bud, I said, thinking here we go again, that wasn’t Cindy. That one wasn’t even close. Cindy’s car is gray. That car was dark blue.

Dark blue? puzzled Jake, You’re sure?

Yeah I’m sure. That was a dark blue four door Honda and a black dude was behind the wheel.

A black guy’s driving Cindy’s car, turn around! Jake panicked.

No damn it! That was a black guy drivin’ his own damn car, but he’s probably headed over to Cindy’s to give her some dick because you’re too fucked up to get it up anymore! I exploded losing my temper.

Stunned by my outburst Jake just sat there in shock with his mouth hanging open, but only for a moment. Thoughts of Cindy were shuffled to the back of his mind as he realized he was still holding the glass crack pipe. Smiling like a little kid with his favorite toy, he lit up and surrendered to the euphoric rush. You’re just fucking with me aren’t you Tuck? his words slurred as he exhaled the sweet smelling smoke.

Yeah I’m just fuckin’ with ya’, I said feeling thoroughly ashamed.

Jake is in the final stages of cocaine addiction. Every time he hits the pipe, if he gets a full pull, an ear ringer the users like to call it, he spots Cindy. No matter where he is she will magically appear. Tonight she was driving by in her car. Tomorrow, who knows where Jake will see the ex-love of his life. Of course she is only a ghost, a left over memory from Jake’s prior life that replays itself every time he tries to escape the misery of his new non-life by using cocaine. Mental self—destruct. A masochistic memory loop compliments of whatever’s left of the mind he is so determined to destroy.

Jake Babbott; born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a heart of gold, troubles all started when he learned how to use that silver spoon to free base cocaine. By the time our paths crossed Jake had already dropped out of life, been mostly disowned by his family, and was picking up speed on his downhill slide into the gutter. Highly intelligent, college educated with all the opportunities in life open to him, and completely lost, all thanks to the glass pipe he keeps constantly attached to his lips.

We had just turned east onto Monte Vista off of 35th Avenue and I was lecturing my friend on how I expected him to conduct himself during our visit. He was responding with his usual okays, and I knows, when suddenly he yelled, WATCH OUT! I came down hard on the brakes causing the big truck’s front bumper to dive towards the asphalt in a tire squalling stop.

What the hell! I demanded.

Didn’t you see that guy? Jake came back, he ran right out in front of us!

I didn’t see anybody! Jake you’ve got to stop doin’ that!

Sorry Tuck, he apologized, I swear it ran right out in front of us.

It, I thought you said it was a guy?

Did I say it? questioned Jake, I mean he, I think. Whatever it was it was running on two legs, running fast. I can’t believe you didn’t see it.

Well I didn’t, I scolded. It seems like you pull this stunt almost every time we head over here after dark. Man you’re goin’ to give me a fuckin’ stroke.

Two

Jake’s cries of wolf were annoying, but not the least bit unexpected. After all a ghost is a ghost, regardless of whether it’s in the form of your ex-lover, or a shadow that darts across your path. In fact, I am personally acquainted with the shadow people. Ten years earlier, and fifteen hundred miles east of this God forsaken desert, the shadow people had come to be my constant companions. Though I wouldn’t touch the stuff now, at the time my own cocaine addiction was running its course, destroying everything in life that was dear to me.

Unlike my friend Jake, I was quick to recognize the shadow people for what they were; hallucinations brought on by near toxic levels of cocaine in my system resulting in sleep deprivation and complete loss of appetite. With the insatiable cravings produced by free based cocaine it’s easy to sustain these deficiencies long enough to create the condition needed to experience the waking dream. Fatigue and starvation, both requisite components in ceremonies practiced by American Indians to open the gates to the spirit world, and necessary steps in the Buddhist Monk’s quest to achieve nirvana. It was a perfectly logical explanation that allowed me to maintain my sanity when reality became undistinguishable from my dreams.

Three

After Jake’s outburst I slowed to a crawl as I steered us through the maze of half lit streets that made up the poverty stricken southwest Phoenix barrio. I kept thinking Jake’s ghost could easily have been some kid chasing his ball into the street. Besides, I needed time to knock back a few ounces of my 101 proof nerve tonic before I was ready to deal with the task at hand.

Jake why don’t you put that pipe down for a minute and take a pull off that bottle of Wild Turkey I’ve got in the glove box. I know I could use one.

This stuff is like drinking gasoline, he coughed as he lowered the bottle from his lips and passed it to me.

You don’t know what’s good girly-boy. Oh yeah, that’ll cure what ails ya’. Want another pull little buddy? He didn’t.

We had arrived. I turned into the wide gravel lot that ran between two rundown mobile homes, and parked behind one of the dozen-plus cars that always seemed to be there. Way in the back looking like the office of a used car lot was the fifty-year-old framed duplex that served as one of the Mexican drug cartel’s safe-houses.

We exited the cool comfort of the truck’s cab and stepped into the blast furnace-like heat of the desert night. The smell of an early evening barbecue still lingered in the air as the oompa-oompa sound of canned mariachi music drifted out from the duplex. Except for the small patch of light that escaped the house’s curtained front window the entire lot lay in darkness.

As we worked our way through the rows of parked cars I heard my Mexican nickname being called from the front porch of one of the trailers. Kentucky fried shicken, qu’e ‘onda. It was Poppy, the cartel’s guard dog, and in truth the only one of these Mexicans that I felt I could really trust, and actually considered to be my friend. He stepped out of the shadows reeking of recently smoked marijuana and smiling his ever present gap-toothed grin. Kentucky you have amplifica? he hoped.

Si amigo, por supuesto, it’s in the truck, I said tossing him the keys.

Muchas gracias hermano, muchas gracias, Poppy’s smile widened as he hurried off to collect his gift.

What the hell is an amplifica? Jake asked.

Amplifier, I explained, for his car stereo. Though why he needs a thousand watts to listen to accordion music I’ll never understand. Come on we’re late.

As I said before, it serves as a safe-house and is owned by a family of one of the smaller Mexican drug cartels. I know what you’ve seen in the movies; glamorous mansions manned by expensive suited Mafioso, but in real life it is not like that at all. The small, weathered ranch-style house is little more than a slumlord’s hovel. Each side of the duplex consists of living room, kitchen and bathroom. With the exception of a rickety old kitchen table and a couple of chairs, this side of the house has no furniture. The only door leading to the outside is paper thin and doesn’t even lock. No high tech security system is needed, not with Poppy lurking outside in the shadows.

The men that stay here don’t mind the sparse living conditions. This is not their home; it is merely a place to rest before sneaking back across the border into Mexico for another load. But rest doesn’t come easy. They all sleep in the living room on mats, or in sleeping bags around the house’s only closet.

They sleep with one eye open because stored in that closet are several well worn and frequently used suitcases; each containing obscene amounts of highly illegal, extremely valuable bags of cocaine and methamphetamine. That’s why I’ve come here. Tomorrow, like I’ve done many times before, I will escort the contents of these suitcases to waiting customers on the east coast.

Without knocking I pushed open the flimsy door on the smoke filled room of carousing already drunk Mexicans. The room fell silent and beers sloshed as they whirled around with guns drawn to face down their intruder. Then over the tinny accordion music blaring from a cheap boom box were cries of Kentucky fried shicken as they welcomed us to the fiesta.

Jake and I shouldered our way through the crowded room, shaking hands and taking slaps on the back from my adopted family of illegal aliens. To these guys family is everything, and not too long ago they accepted me into theirs. They trust me and would do anything for me, just as long as I keep the money rolling in. Of course I knew that if the money ever dried up all bets were off.

Standing on the far side of the small kitchen leaning against the bathroom door frame is the soft spoken baby faced young man I have come to meet. Barely over five feet tall with neatly trimmed hair and mustache, this twenty-five year old man’s clean cut, almost childlike appearance is deceivingly convincing. The way men twice his age jump at his orders without question leads me to believe that the rumor of his murderous exploits across the border in Mexico are all too true. Martine is the undisputed boss, The Jefe (Pronounced hefay).

As is evident by the poster tacked on the wall beside him, Martine, like most Mexicans, take’s his Catholic religion very seriously. The image on the poster is known as Our Lady of Guadalupe, and almost without exception can be found in every Mexican dwelling and Mexican owned business establishment. In their country she is unanimously considered to be the patron saint and savior of their people. I had glanced at the poster a thousand times without ever paying it much attention, but tonight this venerated icon was about to change my life forever.

The Lady in the poster I am referring to is none other than the Virgin Mary herself, floating in the center of some expanding holy aura with head bowed and hands held together in prayer. She is dressed in a long flowing patterned robe that drapes over an upturned crescent hovering above and behind this welcoming baby angel whom is positioned beneath her. Beyond that, all I knew about the icon was that the outlaws who stayed there never left the house without bowing down and offering her a quiet prayer. One time I asked Martine why, and he simply told me that she protects them. I remember thinking well she’d better cause that flimsy front door sure ain’t gonna do it.

Back to that night in the kitchen. Well I’m standing there nodding my head pretending to understand some elaborate, and apparently funny story Martine and his cousin are trying to relate to me in broken English when the crowded room parts to give me a clear view of the poster. I don’t know if it was the way the light was hitting it, or the fact that I had been awake for almost a week; I’ll get to that in a minute, hell maybe it was divine intervention. For whatever reason, my eyes were drawn to the baby angel with outstretched arms. Except what I saw was not an angel, it was the sneering face of Satan.

At first I thought my imagination was working overtime; that I was inventing what I was seeing like finding animal shapes in the clouds. I rubbed my eyes and moved a step closer, but focusing only caused the demon to grow more prevalent. I was more amused than shocked or scared, and I think I may have actually laughed out loud when I considered how ironic it was that all these grown men were unknowingly praying to an icon that contained the subliminal image of their feared Satan.

I should probably explain exactly what I mean by subliminal. Even though you are blissfully unaware of it you are subjected to this type of imagery on a daily basis. It’s a common practice used in advertising to make your mind see things that your eyes miss. But I never expected to find this technique being used in such a sacred religious icon. It had to be a fluke.

It’s not as if there is actually a clearly intended picture of the devil beneath the Virgin of Guadalupe, but when you take the shape and features of the baby angel and combine them with the upturned crescent, the unmistakable form of Christendom’s Satan appears to be hiding there.

The torso of the angel creates the chin, or jaw line, and the outstretched arms become the cheek bones that give the demon’s face its shape. The little angel’s bowed head forms the snout, complete with nostrils. And in the open spaces above his arms the conveniently placed back bone of his wings look remarkably like the elongated pupils of two slitted yellow eyes. The folds in the bottom of the Virgin’s robe appear to drape over the beast’s head, and the two ends of the upturned crescent could not be positioned more perfectly to form the demon’s horns. This was no fluke.

Now the first thing you want to do when you spot something unusual, or out of the ordinary, is share it with someone, if for nothing else to confirm that you are actually seeing what you think you’re seeing. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to realize that my discovery might be considered blasphemous to persons of the Catholic faith, so I ruled out telling my Mexican friends. Instead I elbowed my buddy Jake in the ribs having no idea he too was Catholic.

Hey Jake, check out the bottom of that Virgin poster over there. Now stay with me… Imagine that the tips of that crescent are horns, and that space above the little angels arms are eyes…

That was as far as I got. Jake dropped his beer and seized my arm in a death grip as he screamed out at the top of his lungs, We’re having a fucking vision! We’ve got to get the hell out of here!

The color drained from his face and his eyes were wide with shock as he turned and bolted for the door. Jake parted that crowded room of outlaws like Moses at the Red Sea; knocking one guy flat on his ass in the process. And just that quick he was out the door and gone.

All hell broke loose. Now my amigos are some friendly guys, but they don’t like surprises, and they didn’t care too much for Jake in the first place. He was a junkie after all. How he made it out of that house and off the property without catching a bullet in his back is a miracle in itself. That by no means meant this unneeded emergency was anywhere close to being over. All eyes were on me expecting an explanation. Guns were drawn pointing in every direction. Men were rushing to windows and out into the yard in anticipation of a raid. At any moment the outlaws expected the house to be shaken by the sheriff department’s helicopter as the Phoenix Drug Task Force came crawling out of the woodwork.

Calmar, no problemo, calm down, I pleaded trying to get a handle on the fiasco I’d caused.

Kentucky, why Jake run, is Jake policia?

No policia, no problemo, I assured them.

They were not convinced. For the next thirty minutes I waited on pins and needles while half the men searched the perimeter, and others circled the block in their cars. I knew if they came across anything suspicious my fate was sealed. Luckily they didn’t, and finally decided there was in fact no problemo.

I didn’t dare share with them what had spurred Jake’s hasty exit. I told them he had smoked too much crack and simply gone loco. This they seemed to believe. They had seen what their product does to their customers, so all was forgiven.

Still I was read the riot act of which I barely understood a word. I got the part about how I shouldn’t associate with junkies, and I was never under any circumstances allowed to bring Jake anywhere near them again. I tried to steer the conversation back around to the business at hand, but the little vision I had shared with Jake had ruined any chance of that.

After things calmed down a bit I explained to Martine that I had to go look for Jake. He might be a junkie, but he was my amigo and I had to make sure he was alright. I promised him I would return later to spend the night so we could discuss the trip back east in the morning. He didn’t like it, but he agreed.

Four

It was now one o’clock in the morning. I had spent the last three hours combing the streets getting propositioned by prostitutes each time I would stop one of the late night wandering pedestrians to ask if they had seen my friend. Junkies, prostitutes, and the occasional police cruiser are about all you’re going to find on the streets of Phoenix, Arizona between the hours of midnight and daylight. Since I thought it might not be wise to involve the police, my possible witnesses were severely limited, and definitely unreliable.

I was backing out of Jake’s driveway for the fifth and final time after scouring every possible route he might have taken, had he chosen to walk the ten mile journey between there and the safe-house. Either he hadn’t made it home, or he was hiding inside too paranoid to answer the door. The latter would have been my first guess had he still been in possession of his cocaine, but in his haste he had left his play things in my glove compartment. This by far concerned me the most. Jake’s cravings hath no fear, he would not hesitate to enter a burning building to retrieve his stash. The fact that I had his dope, and my pager and cell phone were silent was a very bad sign.

When I arrived at the safe-house at two in the morning I was greeted by a very sleepy Poppy. I had intended on getting some sleep, but I could tell he was exhausted so I offered to take the watch for a couple of hours. He gladly accepted and headed straight into the house to find his pallet in front of the closet. As I said before, I hadn’t slept in several days, and it didn’t take long for the silent shadows of the yard to lull me close to sleep. I knew if I was going to stay awake I would need a distraction, so I decided to go inside and get something to eat.

Except for the sound of a few random snores coming from the living room the house was eerily quiet. The only light in the kitchen was the flickering of two candles someone had placed on a chair directly below the Our Lady of Guadalupe poster. In all the excitement I had almost forgotten about my earlier discovery. Funny, now that I was alone in the dimly lit room I had trouble finding the amusement I had previously experienced. Instead, I was filled with apprehension when my eyes were magnetically drawn to the bottom of the poster. And there he was, the devil himself, waiting for me.

Thoughts of sleep became a distant memory as I moved closer and positioned myself in front of the makeshift altar to study this out of place demon in their most sacred religious icon. This couldn’t be an accident. Someone had to have intentionally arranged these various images to create Satan’s sneering likeness; probably the work of some anti-Christian artist working at the poster company in need of a good laugh. The little angel was surely an addition that didn’t even appear in the original icon.

Opening my mind to all possibilities I began to analyze the demon image. The more I studied it the further in I was drawn. I became hypnotized by the sneering face, unable to pull my eyes away from it as my thoughts seemed to no longer be my own. I had no idea how long I had been standing there snared by the unnatural attraction, but I suddenly realized I was freezing. Could I actually see my breath? Then I felt it, a presence. Someone was in the room with me! Frantically I tried to turn and confront whoever was there, but I couldn’t move! I couldn’t feel my body, and there was this sound like high voltage electricity growing louder and louder, vibrating painfully inside my skull.

Jake had been right about one thing, something was definitely fucking wrong! I had to get out of there. Summoning all of my willpower I forced my stare from the demonic face, and with all my strength thrust my left hand against the wall to physically push myself from in front of the altar.

The strangest thing happened. The room went deafly silent. The warmth of the desert night slapped me in the face, and like the freezing temperature my panic vanished.

Realizing I was in fact alone in the room, my fear dispelled, and my curiosity got the better of me. I slowly moved back to my position in front of the altar. The temperature plunged and the roar instantly returned inside my head. A single step to the other side of the poster returned everything to normal. This was by far the craziest thing I had ever experienced. There was a shoulder width area directly in front of the poster that defied explanation.

It was like wading through a pool of ice water while this oscillating electrical hum coursed through my brain, but there was something else, something less tangible, but more ominous, something that can only be described as pure unadulterated fear. Each time I moved into that space I was overcome by this all encompassing fear, like the last moment of hesitation before leaping off of a too high diving board, or almost stepping out in front of a speeding car as you cross the street. Except this fear needed no catalyst, it was the essence of the emotion.

I had lingered too long. In a fleeting moment of awareness I realized I was caught. I fought desperately for control of my thoughts, willing my frozen limbs to help me escape. The oscillating electrical hum climbed to a skull splintering crescendo that forced me to scream out in agony. The hypnotic hold was severed! I lunged for the flimsy door that led out of the house, twisted the knob and jerked hard enough to pull my arm from its socket. The door didn’t budge! Grabbing hold with both hands, I placed my foot against the jamb, and with straining shoulders pulled with all I had. It was no use. The door was nailed shut. Where were my friends, hadn’t they heard my screams?

With my will crushed and no strength left to fight, I dropped to my knees and surrendered to the icy roaring presence that was consuming my very being…

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

Complete silence. The room was perfectly quiet and calm.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

Through tear filled eyes I gazed up at the unyielding knob, feebly reached out, and with no effort whatsoever pulled open the door. Standing over me was Martine’s tiny, wrinkled, one—hundred and three-year-old great grandmother. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find me curled up on the floor trembling and soaking wet with sweat. She just smiled at me with the warmest, caring, crystal clear eyes I’ve ever seen, and said, Kentucky, you meet Gallu… Si?

CHAPTER TWO

One

Ninety six hours later with fourteen hundred and fifty miles lying between me and the Arizona boogey man, I was finally beginning to relax. My business was concluded and everything had gone off without a hitch. I was staring at myself in the vanity mirror of a five hundred dollar a night hotel suite in downtown Atlanta, Georgia, thinking: God I look like a drug dealer . . . Still, not bad lookin’ for almost forty . . . If it wasn’t for this hair to the middle of my back and that close cropped beard of a death merchant I could almost blend in with society . . . Can’t disguise the look in those eyes though, you’re the man . . . Damn crooked nose, things didn’t go so well that night . . . Maybe I should get it fixed . . . Nah . . . Gives me character . . . Who in the fuck is Gallu..?

I hadn’t made it back to Martine’s that next morning as promised, and because of this business had been delayed for a couple of days. Martine’s great grandmother hadn’t said a word about my hysterical condition as she walked me to the truck that night. She did make me promise to come see her after I had taken care of her great grandson’s business, but had offered no explanation as to whom this Gallu might be. I had just gone home and spent the next twenty four hours in the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

When I arrived back at the safe-house a full two days later everyone was in good spirits. They were just happy to see me. There were no complaints, and wouldn’t be any as I had total control of the distribution end of the business. The men in the east were my customers, not theirs, and I kept my Mexican friends absolutely clueless as to where all the money was coming from. It was all that kept me in the loop, not to mention alive.

We had casually carried the drug filled suit cases out to a late model Lincoln Town car and loaded their contents into custom built hiding places in the quarter panels. The Lincoln was a throw away purchased solely for the purpose of the trip and would be left with its contents at my destination in Georgia.

I had looked for Martine’s great grandmother while we were loading the car, but she was nowhere to be found. She lived in the other side of the duplex and would usually make an appearance when I came around, but not this time. Her door had been closed and it didn’t look like she was home. My burning questions would have to wait, as would my search for my lost friend Jake. I still hadn’t heard from him and had carelessly taken the unnecessary risk of stopping by his home in the drug laden Lincoln before heading out of town. If he had been there I couldn’t tell. I spent every mile of the twenty seven hour journey to the east worrying about my friend and trying to figure out what the hell had happened to me two nights ago at the safe-house.

My reflection smiles back at me in the vanity mirror of the Atlanta luxury suite as I savor the sensation of the awakening. I haven’t slept in four days, and a couple of hours ago just before I traded in the Lincoln for a duffle bag full of cash, the eye opening experience had arrived right on schedule. I can almost set my watch by the onslaught of the awakening, and in a way I guess I do.

Without fail, for as long as I can remember my fourth day without sleep has been my time to shine. My mind kicks into overdrive as I enter a state of acute hyper-awareness. I become ten feet tall and bullet proof. Able to make life or death decisions in an instant, and to date at least, make them correctly. For the next thirty six hours, well into sleepless day six, I will experience the superhuman feelings of supreme self confidence, and since my business is already concluded, I will spend those thirty six hours enjoying the hedonistic, totally self-indulgent advantages of my dangerous lifestyle.

How is it that I reach my physical and mental peak at a time when a normal person would be a babbling idiot asleep on their feet? The answer is simple, better living through chemistry. Until now I’ve been careful not to mention my own indulgences while analyzing my junkie friend Jake’s problems, but that’s only because I don’t really consider my addiction to be a problem, at least not to me.

I am a speed addict, have been for many years and in no way do I consider myself to be a junkie. There are those who would argue there is no difference between the two, but they would be wrong. I have found that chemical dependency is no different than any other human need. Like food or water, it only becomes a problem when you run out, and unlike the careless junkie, I never run out. Since I never experience cravings that aren’t immediately satisfied, I am allowed to concentrate on more important matters, like making lots and lots of money and spending it on myself.

Normally when I come to Atlanta I end up in the V.I.P. room of the Gold Club or the Cheetah Three Lounge; dropping thousands of dollars in my endless pursuit of pleasure. I’m friends with the managers of most of the classier clubs in town, and to say they welcome my patronage would be an understatement. When the strip clubs close down at four A.M., I usually load half a dozen of my female friends into a limo and head to an after hour’s hot spot known as the Crystal Palace. After a full night of intense partying I will usually catch a flight back to Phoenix sometime during the day and be drinking cocktails with my amigos before dark.

But not this trip; this time I will be driving back. Along with payment for my merchandise had been a small token of my customer’s appreciation. They had given me a beautiful two tone silver-gray, mint condition, 1978 anniversary edition Corvette. The last thing I needed was another car, but I will have to admit it was the perfect addition to my drug dealer motif. A perk I just couldn’t bring myself to refuse.

If I had left Atlanta right then like I should have, I would have easily made it back to Phoenix within the thirty six hour window I mentioned earlier. But my hedonistic roots run deep, so of course that’s not at all what I did. The increased libido produced by methamphetamine is all but undeniable. The stuff just makes you hornier than hell, so instead of leaving I remained true to form and spent the next two days locked in my hotel suite drinking alcohol, snorting drugs, and having indescribable sex with a couple of gorgeous feature dancers from the Gold Club. God I love my job.

Forty eight hours, three grams, two fifths, and a dozen orgasms later, I am once again staring at myself in the mirror and about to snort another healthy line of speed, but this time I’m looking into the rear view mirror of the Corvette. I’m taking no chances. I’ve pulled the car into the west bound emergency lane of the interstate highway on the outskirts of Atlanta. This time when the libido kicks in I’m going to eat up the miles between Georgia and Arizona instead of eating up those sweet Georgia peaches.

The mint condition sports car now smells of cigarette smoke, soured alcohol and sex. I snort the line and dump another quarter gram of the rocket fuel into the coffee I have just purchased at the Love’s truck stop. The familiar acid like burn hits the back of my sinus and hairs all over my body stand on end. I wipe the tears from my eyes, take a sip of coffee and mash the accelerator to the floor. Smoke rolls from the rear tires as the car’s powerful engine presses me into the seat. Houston, we have lift off.

Two

I have made this cross country trip more times than I can count. Too many times really, but in no way am I complaining. In fact I’m looking forward to it. I suspect my new hotrod Corvette will provide me with the perfect time machine for making the journey. Time machine? Well kinda’. When I drive by myself at night, all night, I find the experience to be remarkably similar to time travel. Alone behind the wheel I enter into a meditative state of deep contemplation that allows the hours of darkness between sunset and sunrise to pass almost instantaneously. Except for the time I inevitably spend stopping to refuel, the night seems to pass in the blink of an eye.

And just like that it is tomorrow. The flux-capacitor in the Corvette has performed flawlessly. A moment ago I was watching the sunset in the humid tree covered hills of Georgia, and now as the sky grows light in anticipation of morning I’m looking out across the dry featureless dust bowl of Texas. Not a tree in sight along the endless black ribbon of highway stretching to the horizon. I haven’t slept in going on one hundred and forty four hours, but I feel particularly exuberant this fine morning. Time travel can be very refreshing.

I plan on being rid of the great state of Texas by noon, and if I make good time and don’t get sidetracked by some good looking chick during a gas stop, I should reach the mystical deserts of western New Mexico by sunset. My sleep deprived, drug enhanced mind tells me it is absolutely essential that I do this. I’m already driving too fast, but the rewards I seek far outweigh the risk and I push the Vette’s speedometer up to one hundred miles per hour as I race to meet the magic moments.

The magic moments occur during that period of lingering light that lives on after the sun sinks below the horizon. Call it dusk, call it twilight, but in this strange subdued light the eyes can play tricks on one, or is it one can see more clearly when the blinding glare of the sun is no longer present? Whatever the reason, when I combine this magical time of evening with the mystical vistas of the western New Mexico desert, and add in no sleep for days on end, wondrous things start to appear.

Though I have yet to prove it to myself, I am convinced these things that I am sometimes able to see are not merely hallucinations, but glimpses into a dimension that may always be present if only one learns how to see. These visual apparitions are to say the least intriguing, but seeing them is really only a harbinger of things to come. When the eyes become able to see, the mind becomes open to what can only be described as enlightenment.

My meth addiction may provide me with all the decadent luxuries of life, but material possessions tend to lose their value when compared to the metaphysical benefits I reap from using the drug. For over ten years now I have been on a sort of vision quest. My search for the truth began when I accidentally opened the door to the afterlife during a night of careless experimentation that resulted in a near death experience. I was allowed a glimpse of things one should only see after he goes through that door and closes it behind him. For one brief, yet timeless moment, I almost understood how and why everything exists… almost.

Since that night my life has been consumed by this unanswered question. Over the years I have come to believe that this knowledge is available without paying the ultimate price of death, and tonight in the New Mexican desert; as I have done many times before, I will once again push past the preconceived boundaries we have placed on ourselves as mere mortals, and open my mind to the infinite capabilities of being truly conscious.

Three

Traffic is all but nonexistent. The radar detector has been silent all day and I’ve crossed what was left of Texas and the eastern half of New Mexico in record time. The sun is descending in the west, so I lower the cars visor to block the intense glare. It has been shining down relentlessly from a cloudless sky since rising this morning, and is showing little mercy as it bakes the parched desert landscape.

I’ve been running the car hard all day, only shutting off the engine at gas stops. I’ve also had the A.C. on max since leaving Georgia without ever taking into consideration that the Vette is almost twenty five years old. I start to get a little warm, and think it’s due to the sun shining in my face until I place my hand over the vent and feel nothing but warm air. Looking at the temperature gauge I see that the damn engine is running hot. I quickly shut off the A.C. and roll down the windows. The roar and turbulence is unbearable. There’s no way I can maintain my high rate of speed in this blast furnace heat, so I slow down to seventy. I notice the Vette has T-tops, and pull over into the emergency lane to remove them. They come off in a snap, and after placing them behind the seat, I tie my hair into a ponytail and climb back behind the wheel.

It’s still hot, but that no longer seems to matter. With the windows down and the roof off I feel like I am part of the open desert. I’m relieved to see the car is running cooler. This is no place to break down. I celebrate by lighting a cigarette, and get about four good drags before the wind burns it away.

Far up the road ahead of me I watch the horizon waiver in and out of focus through the heat that’s rising up from the asphalt. What appears to be reflective pools of water retreat to the edge of the roadway like black snakes that vanish completely with my changing perspective.

The large green road sign coming into view tells me I’m on my own for the next twenty seven miles, but the billboard that follows says I’ll have a chance to buy food, fuel, and use the restroom when I get there. I’ll also be able to purchase authentic Indian crafts; probably made in Hong Kong, and visit a sacred burial ground complete with rattle snakes; probably in aquariums, and view a poor old starving coyote; undoubtedly sentenced to life in a cage.

It’s a little after five o’clock in the afternoon and something isn’t right. Has my mind slipped into the Twilight zone three hours ahead of schedule? That sun is setting way too fast . . . Like time lapse fast! No that’s not right . . . The sun is stationary. The horizon is moving? Reality check . . . Am I still awake?

Pinch. Ouch! Yep I’m awake . . . But I still see it. Alright, looks like I got myself a fuckin’ phenomenon . . . Fan-fucking-tastic!

I love it when shit like this happens. Time for some deductive reasoning. The sun is about thirty degrees above that point in the distance where the road disappears on the horizon. Am I looking at a mountain? Where did that fuckin’ mountain come from? It wasn’t there a minute ago.

Suddenly the desert is bathed in strange amber light as the sun drops below the advancing edge of the mountain to become a dim red ball in the sky. Wait a minute . . . That’s no mountain, it’s a cloud, a very dense brown undulating cloud . . . The damn thing covers the whole horizon!

The sun is no longer visible. The desert ahead of me is becoming engulfed in darkness, and finally I have my moment of realization. That’s no cloud . . . That’s a dust storm! The mother of all fuckin’ dust storms . . . And I’m driving directly into a thousand foot tall wall of sand and dust at seventy miles an hour with my windows down and no roof on the car.

Locking up the brakes I skid to the edge of the highway to batten down the hatches. Outside the car the awesome spectacle of nature is mesmerizing. Above me blue sky is rapidly being eclipsed by ominous shadows cast by the enormous advancing wall of sand. The damn storm looks like it’s alive.

I consider turning around to try and out run it, but that would be pointless. Hell, it’s only blowing sand . . . How dangerous can it be? Surely I can make it a couple of more miles down the road before it hits. I climb in, roll up the windows and floor it.

Extremely bad idea. Completely blind, I slow and feel my way onto the highway’s emergency lane. The car rocks on its suspension as it’s buffeted by wall after wall of vertical sand. Just like rain, the storm is carrying the sand in sheets that allow brief moments of visibility. During one of these lulls I notice that I have company. Not twenty feet away an old man with blowing gray hair longer than my own is crossing the road right in front of me.

I blow the horn and flash my headlights, but he doesn’t see me. The roar of the storm is deafening as I crack my window to shout at him. Is this guy blind and deaf? He looks ancient. Well if he stays out in this he ain’t gonna get any older.

I grab my leather jacket from the luggage compartment, wrap it around my head, and open the door to go after him. I step out and am hit by the brunt force of the storm. The wind damn near knocks me down and the sand stings like needles on my face and hands.

I can just barely see him heading out into the desert. Leaning into the wind to regain my balance, I make my way around the front of the car and off the edge of the highway. The winds gusts and he disappears in a wall of sand. There he is! I quicken my pace catching up to him and reach out to grab his shoulder. Suddenly he turns and we are nose to nose.

What the fuck! His eyes! The two shining black orbs pull me in. Silence. No wind. No sand. No roar. Nothing. I am enveloped in the peaceful black void of space, complete with faintly flickering stars. The answer to my quest beckons to be revealed…

CRASH! I’m yanked from my ecstasy by this horrendous explosion of ripping metal and breaking glass. Whipping around I see my car being ground beneath the wheels of a huge mechanical monster. Smoke rolls from squalling tires and lethal projectiles of wreckage fly in all directions as the fast moving tractor trailer runs completely over the top of the low profile Corvette. The heavy pipe laden trailer pushes the tractor’s rear end around like a toy, flipping it onto its side. The load breaks free and huge steel pipes crush the cab of the truck as they scatter over the highway like pick-up-sticks. I am dumbfounded, I stand there wide eyed, oblivious to the storm as my ears, nose and throat fill with sand. Then it hits me.

I become so weak I fall on my ass and almost black out. I was sitting in that pile of crumpled steel not ten seconds before it was hit! The shocking realization washes over me making my blood run cold as the sliding wreckage skids to its final rest. If I hadn’t tried to help that old man?

I look over my shoulder to see if he is alright, but no one is there. I am completely alone. I gaze back at what had almost been my grave and see my foot prints leading from the side of the highway. One set of prints leading right up to my feet. I look around again for the old man already knowing I won’t find him. There are no foot prints leading away from me in any direction, but why would there be? There are no such things as foot prints in the space between realities.

A wall of sand slaps me hard enough to bring me to my senses. I’m not out of the woods yet! Slowly I struggle to my feet; suffocating on airborne sand with every breath. I try to protect my eyes by using my hands to cover my face as I search for shelter! Peering through the cracks between my fingers I see that little is left of the Corvette. Its wreckage is scattered for hundreds of feet down the sand covered roadway. Damn I’ve got to get out of this! The truck! The truck driver? Fighting my way over to the rig, I take refuge on the leeward side of the overturned tractor. I wait for a lull in the storm, and quickly move around to the front of the truck for a look inside the cab.

The tractor is resting on its passenger side, ripped and crushed from the load it had been hauling. The hood of the long nosed Peterbilt is torn away exposing a hot smoldering engine, and diesel fuel is gushing all over the road from rips in the huge stainless steel tanks. The contents of the sleeper are strewn everywhere. Wind snatches up a photo of two young children; whisking it off into the opaque desert before I can grab it.

Climbing up on the oily wreckage I peer inside what is left of the cab. OH MY GOD! Recoiling in shock I lose my footing and fall hard to the pavement. Lying against the passenger door in a smear of brilliant black-red blood had been the lower half of the driver’s mutilated body. Part of an arm and a hand were still there among the splintered bone and coils of intestine, but his head and torso were completely gone.

Throwing up, and too weak to get to my feet, I crawl to the shelter of the downwind side of the truck, unknowingly shredding my palms on the glass and oil covered asphalt as I go. I huddle close to the vertical underside of the greasy chassis, burying my face into my knees as images of the bloody carnage replay over and over in my mind.

Startled conscious by the silence; I am awakened by the absence of sound. The howl of the wind roaring through the wreckage is no more. I must have blacked out. I have no idea how long I have been curled up in the shadow of the overturned tractor, but it feels like a lifetime. Looking at my watch I see that less than twenty minutes have passed since I pulled to the side of the road. The sandstorm has been furious beyond description, but short lived. Through raw scratched eyes I squint into the rolling brown fury as it continues its destructive journey east.

Carefully I climb to my feet using parts of the truck’s under carriage as handholds. My hands are cut and bloody from crawling through the broken glass, and I’ve smeared the blood all over my face trying to protect my eyes. I am covered in a layer of diesel fuel soaked sand, and my back is black with road grind from huddling so close to the belly of the overturned tractor. Looking at me you would never guess that I had watched the collision from the sidelines.

Stepping around the truck I face west into the cloud filled sky responsible for the storm. Towering backlit thunderheads pierced by golden rays of light call to mind an artist’s rendering of heaven. How can such beauty follow so much death and destruction? The hell with this, I need to move!

Climbing back up onto the tractor I can’t resist taking one more look inside the mangled cab. Knowing what to expect I brace myself. The sand sticking to the exposed flesh has soaked up the blood and it’s hard to tell what I am looking at. No doubt about one thing though, this poor guy is history. I experience a slight tinge of remorse, but self-preservation quickly overrides the useless emotion.

I make my way over to a large chunk of metal that doesn’t appear to be part of the truck, and tremble involuntarily at the thought of what had almost happened. Searching through the debris scattered along the highway I see a shiny silver corner sticking up through the sand. My briefcase! I rush over and feverishly start digging.

Everyone had made fun of me for spending five hundred dollars on the top of the line brushed aluminum case, but now I have the last laugh. It is a little dented and worse for wear, but besides me, it is the only thing that has survived the crash. I open it and find my cell phone, pager, 9mm pistol and the all important bank deposit bag still safe within their foam lined compartments. The cut-out that held my radar detector is empty. The Escort had been clipped to the visor of the Corvette. I take out the phone and press the power button. Thanks to my five hundred dollar briefcase it still works.

Now you might expect me to dial 911, or have the operator connect me with local law enforcement, but I can’t do that. In my line of work I don’t have the luxury of calling the police to solve my problems. In their eyes I am the problem. However, I am not completely heartless. If the truck driver had needed an ambulance I would have called one, but all he needs is burying, as does the evidence that will connect me with this accident. I call the boys back in Georgia.

After assuring the man on the other end of the line that I am fine, and more important, that there are no witnesses and this in no way affects our business, he gives me a name and number to call to make my problem go away. The phone is answered at one of his automobile dealerships outside of Atlanta, and I am put through to the lady that will remove my problem. In the sweetest southern drawl she says, Okay shoog, you just git all yore personal belongins and git outta there pronto. You neva saw that car. The line went dead. Those guys in Georgia are some heartless S.O.B.’s. As long as the pipeline keeps flowing they could give a shit about that Corvette, or dead truck driver, or me for that matter.

Okay, so all I need to do is get out of here. She made it sound so simple. If only here wasn’t the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. I start walking and make it less than a mile before I see a car coming towards me out of the west. The old CJ-5 Jeep with primer paint and homemade bikini top is across the median and on me before I have time to get my story straight. But I’m in luck. I won’t even need a story.

The driver of the jeep is sucked-up, bedraggled, and skinny as a rail. He’s shirtless, wearing a filthy sleeveless Levi jacket that proudly displays his numerous prison quality tattoos. When you have been in the business as long as I have you know a doper when you see one. My junkie in shining armor. He pulls up beside me smiling a rotted tooth grin and says, Awesome fucking storm, like crazy man. Bro you look like shit, what the hell?

Car trouble, got caught out in your awesome storm, I reply.

How’d you get so bloody? Looks like someone beat the shit out of you man.

Not as bad as it looks. Fell down, cut my hands, I hold up my palm, must have rubbed my face.

Cool, his head nods, need a ride?

The storm had left the highway covered with sand and impassable in many places. The old CJ-5 was in its element however, having no problem crossing even the worst hit sections. There was some traffic, but it was at a standstill. In the first ten miles we passed at least twenty cars that were stuck in the sand. My chauffeur noticed how other four wheel drives were assisting the less fortunate and saw the opportunity to make a profit as stranded motorist desperately tried to flag us down for help. I had to keep him moving. Throwing caution to the wind I ask, You do glass?

Hell yeah bro! You got some? he drooled.

I’ll give you a hundred dollars and an eight-ball if you get me to the next town.

You gotta deal! Mind if I do a blast first? he asked, already pulling to the side of the road.

Fine by me, long as you get me where I need to go.

As if by magic a syringe appears in his dirty hand. He fishes an empty beer can from the floorboard, flips it upside down; and from the dregs of a discarded bottle of water, pours a small amount of liquid into the concave bottom of the can. From the glass vile in my pocket I add the final ingredient, being careful not to overdo it.

This guy’s an old pro. He expertly draws the solution into the rig and quickly deposits it into the tracked tissue on the inside of his left elbow. Then with a lung clearing cough he caps his syringe and pulls back onto the road.

At the next town I have him drop me off at a service station that’s within walking distance of a cheap motel. He hasn’t shut up the whole way, and I haven’t heard a word he’s said. I pay him what I promised and send him on his way. As he drives off he’s still talking as if I’m in the Jeep. Might have over done it on the dosage a little. Oh well, another satisfied customer whose life I’ve helped to destroy.

I don’t even know the name of the town I’m stranded in. Not that it matters. They all look the same. The storm hasn’t been kind to the little community, but it will survive like it has a hundred times before. I walk unquestioned into the service station’s restroom. Everyone’s too busy clearing away sand and righting overturned trash cans to notice the stranger.

Staring into yet another mirror causes my knees to get weak. I don’t even look human! Not like a live human anyway. I’m covered in dried blood. God I’m tired. Maybe I can clean myself up enough to rent a room without raising too much suspicion. A few sink full’s of water and a half a roll of paper towels cleans away the worst of it. It’ll have to do.

Coming out of the restroom I see an old broken down Chevy truck parked in the corner of the lot with 4-SALE written across its windshield in white shoe polish. Tired as I am I know what I have to do. The remains of the Corvette are