A Dyad in Time Read online

  A DYAD IN TIME

  by

  D. D. Prideaux

  Copyright © 2019 D. D. Prideaux

  All rights reserved.

  Edition 1.0

  978-1-9160141-9-0

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE - SURVIVAL

  CHAPTER TWO - CAPTURED

  CHAPTER THREE - THE FOG

  CHAPTER FOUR - DISTURBANCE

  CHAPTER FIVE - OLD FRIENDS

  CHAPTER SIX - A SLOW MADNESS

  CHAPTER SEVEN - MONITORING

  CHAPTER EIGHT - INTRODUCTIONS

  CHAPTER NINE - THE MASTER

  CHAPTER TEN - RESCUE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE DOOR

  CHAPTER TWELVE - MYSTERIOUS HAPPENINGS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - BREADCRUMBS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - TALL TALES

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - DECISIONS

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - UNDERSTANDING

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THE HAMMER

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - MOVE

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - PORTALS

  CHAPTER TWENTY - A THIRD

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - THERE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO - WHY?

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE - CEILINGS

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR - EXPLANATIONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE - COINS

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX - SHATTER

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN - SOMETHING AND NOTHING

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT - GRANDMOTHER BEAR

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE - PUZZLES

  CHAPTER THIRTY - SHIRTS AND SHOPS

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE - DRIFT

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO - INCONSISTENCIES

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE - BLUE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR - DECEPTION

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE - TENDING THE GARDEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX - ROLL THE DICE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN - REGROUP

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT - POOLS

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE - CROSSED PATHS

  CHAPTER FORTY - CHILDREN

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE - DEBT

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO - JUDGEMENT

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE - BUBBLES

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR - AIRBORNE

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE - A FAVOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX - PAYING THE PRICE

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN - HAMMER AND BLADE

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT - SCARS

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE - PARACHUTES

  CHAPTER FIFTY - COLLARS

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE - NEW FRIENDS

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO - THE TEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE - THE STORM

  CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR - THE FALL

  EPILOGUE - OLD BOYS

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  CHAPTER ONE - SURVIVAL

  All I can taste is iron. That bitter, raw, metallic flavour that has become so familiar and incongruent to me after countless blackouts. To render these times of nothingness impotent, I call them “episodes”, but even naming them this way doesn’t help. After my investigations and lifetimes of having them, I instinctively know the outcomes, as I would know the outcome from dropping an object - it drops. I know, with absolute certainty, what the result of the blackness brings. Blood and chaos. And this time is no different to the others, I’m lying face down on the concrete, naked and battered. The right side of my face feels bruised to the bone and is stuck. Stuck to the concrete with dried sweat, saliva and blood. So much blood. I want to believe that it’s my own, but I know it’s not, my mind is sluggish, and my heart knows the truth. I’m tired to my very core. But tired isn’t right, it isn’t intense enough. I can feel every atom in my body, and every single one of them is screaming at me not to move, to just give up. Go back to sleep and slip into the long darkness that I’ve yearned for almost daily since it happened. But I can’t, she needs me.

  That’s all I need to shrug off the initial inertia, so I open up my senses. Once I work past the bitterness in my mouth I start to pick up smells in the room with the sharp, strong aroma of urine, faeces and fear floating to the front of my mind. The first two are of no surprise to me, other than the fact that they’re so visceral and close, but smelling fear? I’ve experienced it before, but not as intense as this. It’s too animalistic, too unfettered and too unrestricted for me to deal with right now, so I focus on the other clues, working through the murkiness of my brain.

  There’s a musty, dank undercurrent in the air which sparks little pockets of recognition through my memories and I start to place what type of environment I’m in. Somewhere hidden, disused, out of site and underground, but I’m jumping to conclusions. So, I listen. Nothing. The only feedback I’m getting is the sound of my heart beating in my ears and the slow grinding sounds of my chest heaving. My rib cage groaning at the effort of holding me together. There has to be more. Then I notice some kind of fluid running away from me, rhythmically pulsating with my heart. It’s strangely comforting, the beat of the redness relentlessly marching on, but I can’t take any comfort from it. I’m bleeding heavily.

  I slow my breathing and reduce my heart rate to still the rising panic within me, to slow the progression of the uncomforting red leaving me. I tell myself I’ve been in worse shape. I’ve been here before and will be fine I lie to myself. There has to be more I can pick up beyond my body, but I’m met only with silence, broken by the occasional scuttling of cockroaches. Opening my eyes is always the least useful thing to do after my episodes. My head and heart whine when I realise I need to see. I need to see the outcome of dropping the object. It can be the most deceptive sense if it’s all I rely on, pushing me to jump to early conclusions that don’t always pan out. Trusting what I have seen through blurry eyes and a fuzzy mind has turned more situations sour than I care to remember, but I need to confirm what happened to the object, and my sight is the last one to join the group who can help me figure out what is happening to me this time.

  My brain fires off a few signals, telling my eyes to open but it’s not enough. I need to will my eyelids apart and fight this deep exhaustion that has riddled my body. Slowly, they start to open and as expected, I’m greeted with a watery, unfocused kaleidoscope image which is both vivid and like something out of a dream. A partial memory, slipping through the fingers of my consciousness into a deep well. I blink a few times in quick succession, which seems to steal away my energy reserves more than I thought it would, and I’m greeted with something horrifying and sadly familiar. When I see it, I actually feel my pupils dilate rapidly and my entire being focuses on what’s in front of me.

  Laying in a pool of blood and shreds of flesh there’s what’s left of a man’s face. Although that’s just a figment, an imagination, a word I use to try and place what I’m reacting to. It’s not really a face, just a mangled mass of fat, gristle, bone, muscles, hair and other tissue that should be where a face is. From what I can decipher, the features are exaggerated and deformed to the point where it looks like they’re exploding away from the centre, like a hammer has smashed a watermelon. Such a terrible sight I know well and coupled with the brain remnants oozing from parts of the crushed skull I easily confirm what caused this atrocity. Me.

  I slip into my old habits of over-explaining and analysis. I try to order things neatly and catalogue what I can to make sense of it, but there’s nothing that’ll help me rationalise what’s happening right now, it’s too raw and primeval. My body reacts, and I find the strength to move, but not how I want to, all I can do is muster the energy to vomit the entire contents of my stomach towards what used to be a man. I’ve never hated myself more than that moment because the contents of my stomach revealed a darker secret inside me that I’ve been hiding from for years. I can see pieces of human amongst the blood and bile that left my mouth. Partially digested fingers, chunks of limbs, clothing and intimate body parts
from close contact. Although contact isn’t an accurate description of what happened here. It’s a feeble word. A simple figment. Unimaginative. This was a massacre.

  I do all I can do in that exact moment, cry. No sounds escape me, my energy reserves depleted from opening my eyes and vomiting. My body is entirely still, almost lifeless, but the tears run silently and effortlessly down my face for what seems like a lifetime. I want to disappear, removing myself from this war zone filled with rage, sorrow and shame. I’ve caused so much damage and don’t want to move in case I see more carnage.

  I’m tired, not just from the now, but something that runs much deeper. It's not something that pushes me down. It's not the weight of some inconceivable thing on my shoulders, it’s more than that. I feel like I’m made of lead and the planets of the solar system are attached to me, dragging me towards my sun - the ground. My place of comfort is the cold, solid thing that's constant and known. I want it to swallow me up and keep me safe.

  Not today though, I’m not ready. My dishevelled and broken core reacts, and something buried inside me, some dark corner of my soul kick starts my desire to survive. Inertia will be the death of me which I cannot let happen. Not yet. Full awareness and control of my system is needed for what’s next, so I single-mindedly focus on every specific piece of me, visualising energy and strength flooding through my entire existence, forcing adrenaline releases into all parts of my body. I’m welcomed by bone shattering pain in my right thigh, ribs and chest and it’s, a welcome feeling, because I know I’m alive.

  It’s a funny word, alive. A funny concept. In the strictest sense, I’ve been that way for a very long time, drifting in and out of society, letting the years pass me by. Living, but not living. Alive but dead. Connecting with the people that came and went was one way to feel life, yet it always felt forced. The conversations flowed, but were dirty with contaminants, and undercurrents disrupted the nature of the words passing easily. The water of those connections changed, moved, bubbled, ebbed and un-flowed. I could be present, fitting in with society when needed to keep my complicated existence a secret, yet I always yearned to be elsewhere, the curse of being alive a burden. People consider it a blessing, the breath of life, or God, or some spiritual concept bestowed upon unworthy beings, but ever since losing her, life has been grey. Indifferent. For me, life has been that space in between pain and slightly less pain. A state you would pity if someone described it to you and still I’m here. Still I choose to stay alive. It’s been the only driver for me these last decades, a small hope kindled in me that I’d see her again, knowing it wasn’t possible. Foolish and hopeful. Simple logic for the lost, where being dead means I have no chance of seeing her. Occupying this body until someone ends that agreement is my only choice if I want my wish granted. This mass of meat, bones, blood and sadness that needs exploring.

  Gently, forcing feeling into my body, I become acutely aware of how much I ache too, but I need to move, I need to assess what damage has been done to me. I know what’s coming but it still doesn’t quite prepare me for the agony of movement. I feel like an alien in my own body, like I’ve woken up on a distant, unknown world and need to survive in that desolate, hostile, strange and complex place with no support. I know this world though, parts of it are recognisable and I begin to piece the puzzle together, one tile at a time. Right now, even the simplest acts like blinking require intense concentration. Sending a series of complex commands to each individual muscle in my face to just open and close my eye is exhausting, but at least I know how to do it. That familiarity spreads through me and I feel like I’ve been given a map to this extraterrestrial world, I have the pieces I need to force my body into action. Tensing parts of the right side of my body in preparation for the manoeuvre causes a little discomfort. I’m lying to myself again, the pain threatens to paralyse me here for eternity. Then, bit by bit, muscle by muscle, I imagine that someone is pulling me onto my back using my left shoulder as an anchor, dragging the rest of my seemingly lifeless, sagging carcass with it. My entire body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending and muscle screams at me as I move, shouting to stay still, to rest, to go quiet. Tears run freely down the sides of my face as I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling with confused, wet vision - there’s something scrawled on the concrete above me.

  I blink away the remaining moisture in my eyes and try to make sense of the symbol. The tears made the blemish look complicated, but it isn’t. It’s a circle, with a perfect triangle nestled in the middle, that has a horizontal line cutting across the top of it about two thirds of the way up. I felt like I’ve seen it before, but why in the God's green hell hole is there a symbol on the ceiling? Questions simmer into arm's reach in quick succession, like bubbles breaking the surface in a boiling pan of water, just long enough for me to recognise them before they are swept away in the torrent of others that swamp my consciousness. The answers aren’t important. What should be occupying my waking thoughts and rapidly depleting reserves of energy are the bigger problems of; a bullet wound in my thigh, multiple lacerations across my chest and a throbbing heat that’s aggravating the whole of the left side of my rib cage. Where’s my Bjørneskinn when I need it?

  As my motor skills return to me, I slowly try to take in my surroundings and start to build a picture of what happened here, only to see the results of my latest journey into the unknown. Six dead bodies in various massacred states of being, all wearing jet-black military gear, a solitary table violently knocked aside into a corner and a blue door. It’s a beautiful door. Rich hues of blue that seem to coalesce in front of me and float across the ornate carvings of angels and demons in their eternal struggle against each other. Gold adorns the angels armour and wing tips in stark contrast to the dirty red and rusted iron that protects the demons from the angels ferocious decent. The entire scene inescapably draws you towards the central two figures perfectly poised to attack each other in the centre of the panelling. They appear calm and unperturbed in the middle of the maelstrom, wise old adversaries who have seen the countless eons of strife between good and evil, knowing that there is no winner in this endless fight. Only pain, suffering and purgatory mixed with the fleeting, ephemeral moments of joy, kindness and love.

  The excruciating pain that’d gripped me moments earlier seemed to falter whilst I fell under the doors spell and after following the gaze of these dancers of the eternal struggle, I notice the handle. In contrast to the rest of the scene it seems lost amongst the highly detailed carvings and otherworldly decorations. It’s ugly. A misshapen, knot of termite ridden wood that looked like it would lacerate your hand. Who am I to judge though? A door is a door. A handle is a handle. Whether it’s uglier than sin or more awe-inspiring than a child's first smile doesn’t matter for a second. It’s a way out. A way out I can’t get to until stop the red procession.

  I need to patch myself up, reduce the bleeding and get moving. Turning my head causes sharp pains in my neck that shoot down my spine, tugging at other muscles who also want me to cease and desist. I spot some shredded clothing within reaching distance and gingerly, inch by inch, I drag the tattered remains towards me. A couple of the lengths are in relatively good shape and long enough to wrap around my ribs. As my alertness increases, I feel my strength returning and the fire deep inside me burns a little brighter with each passing moment, fuelled by her. I start by plugging the major bleeding points with smaller strips of cloth and errant pieces of material, finding that my hands know the routine well. I worry about infections, then don’t. The last couple of centuries does not bring any bouts of illness to mind but recognise the need to stem the flow as a priority. It’s hard and it hurts. By the time I’ve plugged the worst of my injuries I memorised the map to my extraterrestrial body. The movements become more intuitive, my hands and body mechanically going about the business of repairs. Wrapping the longer pieces of material around my ribs is awkward, the bruising causing a dull pain with every move. The edges of the lacerations provide sharp, unwanted remi
nders that I am in bad shape and I’m grateful. Grateful for not being dead or in the same state as those around me.

  Assessing the eviscerated man nearest me I notice that his body armour is almost entirely intact but getting to him will take some effort. Rolling onto my front and crawling fills me with dread, so I prop myself onto my elbows and drag myself very slowly onwards, towards this vestigial beacon of hope, of resources I badly need. I’m sweating within moments and can feel the moisture running down my back and my limbs. Elbows slip every now and then, fresh pain causing me to collapse into a panting mess, trying to catch my breath. It takes time, the hardest part turning myself so that my dragging efforts would take me towards my goal quickly and efficiently. Quick and efficient are not words I use to describe my faltering progress though. Three feet is a long way when your body is in tatters.

  Finally, I get close enough to fall against the corpse and take a few cleansing deep breaths whilst my head rests on his lifeless and still chest, preparing for what’s next. My hands explore the poor soul’s torso in search of the release clips and one-by-one they fall away with heavenly click sounds. Each time I heard the satisfying snap, I felt a little more human, a little closer to getting out. As the man's head is a pile of malleable meat, it’s easier than I think to lift the front piece of the protective clothing over it. I find the retching a welcome distraction compared to my other ills when I find the man’s lying on his back plate, connected at the shoulders to the rest the armour. All I need to do now was roll him away and I can get what I came for.

  Pain comes like a car crash, hitting me from everywhere and I realise staying calm and collected isn’t going to help me. I will die here unless I do something. I need an adrenaline rush to push my crippling pain aside long enough to do what needs to be done. My brain slows, my hands works, and I fashion a tourniquet above my leg and sit there for a few minutes, focusing. I have to access more of myself. Rage and sorrow in equal measure will be my allies. The reckless abandon of a cornered, helpless animal is required to punch through. The purposeful actions of a well-drilled soldier a companion in the darkness so I channel them first, arranging the sequence of events in my head. Visualising each step and repeating it to myself for what seems like an age, I commit it to muscle memory as some sort of mantra; roll the man, pull the armour over my shoulders, clip in, remove his trousers, take off the temporary tourniquet, pull his trousers on, attach the gun holster to my thigh as the new tourniquet. Breathe. Always breathe through the pain.