America and now, choosing to reinvent herself for the digital age, she apparently had decided she no longer required their services. This struck Campbell as an extremely dangerous proposition; he was just too exhausted to explain why. But perhaps that was best: He was growing weary of theory and wished he could somehow just reinvent himself like a pop star.
By now, the sun had dropped below the horizon, the last rays of light extinguished as dusk stole across the desert floor. Campbell snapped back to the immediacy of his situation, of the fact the temperature was dropping. He needed to find shelter.
After maneuvering his way back down the same fire escape-cum-exterior stairwell, Campbell cut around the side of the control tower and into the main freight yard. Traces of limestone and coal mingled with broken glass crunched under his feet as he pressed deeper into the yard, scanning the abandoned freight. The boxcars, the ones with the already half-open doors, would be the best bet for shelter, he reasoned.
The desert wind was intensifying, strafing Campbell’s eyeballs with bursts of sand and debris as he struggled to make his way through the train yard. Before he could make it any further, however, his left foot snagged the inside of a train track, catching itself on the intersection of steel and wood. Seconds later, he was tumbling forward, the earth rising up to land a body blow. Campbell’s shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but the unpleasant crash landing was nothing compared to the pain that exploded just above his right kneecap. Campbell screeched in agony. His hands shot down to his knee and when he pulled them away they were sticky with a warm liquid. He was cut. Badly.
As Campbell probed the wound, his fingers closed around something cool, metallic, and very sharp. He looked down: A large rail spike, twisted out of its natural place in the track and curled toward the sky, had helped to break Campbell’s fall. Unfortunately, it had done so by driving itself through Campbell’s calf. It was difficult to discern exactly how deep the wound was, although judging by the amount of blood, it sure as hell wasn’t a paper cut. The pain was excruciating and he realized it was only a matter of moments before he would pass out. Summoning every last bit of will left in his body,Campbell, digging his nails into the desert floor, dragged himself forward, sliding on his belly like a serpent. Pain laced through his leg and Campbell’s consciousness began fading in and out like poor radio reception.
And then he was free of the spike, fresh, hot blood pouring out of the now-gaping wound, splashing out onto the earth as Campbell continued to crawl across the desert floor, gagging as the wind kicked the dust up past his cracked lips before mingling with the cold metallic taste rising in the back of his throat.
The last thing Jonathan Campbell remembered was wriggling toward one of the forgotten boxcars, its sliding side door slightly ajar. Another asterisk in a circle, barely discernable in the last seconds of dusk, was tattooed across its exterior. And then there was nothing but the howl of the wind.
The nightmares came hard and fast, accentuated by the fever-induced delirium gripping Campbell as darkness crashed across the land. Sprawled out on the boxcar floor, the desert winds rattling the freight’s loose steel frame, Campbell spent the night in a haze, crying out as each of the creatures he encountered in Morrison’s lab paraded through his dreamscapes. There were other visions as well; strange men and women creeping across the desert, moving in and out of Campbell’s boxcar, working silently under a starless sky. His left leg was paralyzed with pain and, as a result, Campbell could only lie on the floor, covered in a blanket that may or may not have been in the freight last night, staring up at the side of the car, losing himself in the simplicity of the symbol tagged halfway between the floor and the
By now, the sun had dropped below the horizon, the last rays of light extinguished as dusk stole across the desert floor. Campbell snapped back to the immediacy of his situation, of the fact the temperature was dropping. He needed to find shelter.
After maneuvering his way back down the same fire escape-cum-exterior stairwell, Campbell cut around the side of the control tower and into the main freight yard. Traces of limestone and coal mingled with broken glass crunched under his feet as he pressed deeper into the yard, scanning the abandoned freight. The boxcars, the ones with the already half-open doors, would be the best bet for shelter, he reasoned.
The desert wind was intensifying, strafing Campbell’s eyeballs with bursts of sand and debris as he struggled to make his way through the train yard. Before he could make it any further, however, his left foot snagged the inside of a train track, catching itself on the intersection of steel and wood. Seconds later, he was tumbling forward, the earth rising up to land a body blow. Campbell’s shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but the unpleasant crash landing was nothing compared to the pain that exploded just above his right kneecap. Campbell screeched in agony. His hands shot down to his knee and when he pulled them away they were sticky with a warm liquid. He was cut. Badly.
As Campbell probed the wound, his fingers closed around something cool, metallic, and very sharp. He looked down: A large rail spike, twisted out of its natural place in the track and curled toward the sky, had helped to break Campbell’s fall. Unfortunately, it had done so by driving itself through Campbell’s calf. It was difficult to discern exactly how deep the wound was, although judging by the amount of blood, it sure as hell wasn’t a paper cut. The pain was excruciating and he realized it was only a matter of moments before he would pass out. Summoning every last bit of will left in his body,Campbell, digging his nails into the desert floor, dragged himself forward, sliding on his belly like a serpent. Pain laced through his leg and Campbell’s consciousness began fading in and out like poor radio reception.
And then he was free of the spike, fresh, hot blood pouring out of the now-gaping wound, splashing out onto the earth as Campbell continued to crawl across the desert floor, gagging as the wind kicked the dust up past his cracked lips before mingling with the cold metallic taste rising in the back of his throat.
The last thing Jonathan Campbell remembered was wriggling toward one of the forgotten boxcars, its sliding side door slightly ajar. Another asterisk in a circle, barely discernable in the last seconds of dusk, was tattooed across its exterior. And then there was nothing but the howl of the wind.
The nightmares came hard and fast, accentuated by the fever-induced delirium gripping Campbell as darkness crashed across the land. Sprawled out on the boxcar floor, the desert winds rattling the freight’s loose steel frame, Campbell spent the night in a haze, crying out as each of the creatures he encountered in Morrison’s lab paraded through his dreamscapes. There were other visions as well; strange men and women creeping across the desert, moving in and out of Campbell’s boxcar, working silently under a starless sky. His left leg was paralyzed with pain and, as a result, Campbell could only lie on the floor, covered in a blanket that may or may not have been in the freight last night, staring up at the side of the car, losing himself in the simplicity of the symbol tagged halfway between the floor and the
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