Twisted Psyche

TWISTED PSYCHE

CHAPTER ONE

Montgomery Hyatt boarded the bus. He glanced around and saw only five other people, all asleep, which wasn't too unusual since it was almost three in the morning. One passenger, a dark-haired woman with full lips and silken hair, was snoring quietly near the front. Two more women shared a seat in the rear of the bus. One had thin lips and big red hair, and the other had a shaved head and a lot of makeup.
Monty shook his head at the bald one, and chuckled softly to himself. With all that black eye shadow, she looked like a raccoon. He moved down the aisle, and took a seat near the middle of the bus. In the seat in front of him was a handsome young man, probably about twenty-six or twenty-seven. He was sleeping silently, his ball cap pulled down over his eyes, not moving a muscle. The only thing that gave away the fact that the guy was alive, was the movement of his chest each time he took a breath.
On the seat across from Monty was a simple-looking elderly gentleman. Monty guessed he was around sixty years old, maybe slightly older. The old man's glasses had slid down his beaked nose and rested on the very tip, and there was a small string of drool running down his chin.
Monty stared out of his window, and sighed silently. He was thirty-two, and had just been let go from his job of twelve years. He had worked as a counselor of sorts, helping recovering drug addicts and alcoholics gain solid ground in their lives once more. He didn't need a degree for what he did, and never attended any type of college in hopes to get a degree for anything. Monty knew how to talk to people. He was better at it that most of the professionals; the ones with the degrees. He always managed to draw the best of someone's soul from them, even when he was a child. The one problem he had was the fact that even though he could help anyone get through a rough spot, he couldn't seem to help himself. Monty was manic depressive, and his superiors didn't think it was such a keen idea for a manic depressive to try and help other people. Well, who better to help someone through hell than one who had been there and might still be there? He had been manic depressive since he was sixteen. He had gone to therapy, taken medication; and the meds helped for a while, though not for too long. Apparently, after a few years of taking the medication, his body had built up a resistance, so after a while, the medications ceased to work like it should have. His therapist told Monty that maybe there was something missing from his life, that he needed closure of some kind. His therapist was the one who suggested helping other people with the same kind of problems, and provided him with the job. Maybe then Monty would find the closure he needed.
His therapist had died late last year, and Monty knew, in the back of his mind, his job wouldn't be secure for much longer. He was right. Being a pessimist was one thing. Being a pessimist who was usually correct in his pessimism, was another thing entirely - it was a pathetic excuse for an existence.
As Monty continued to stare out the window at the passing shadows the street lamps made, he realized that the void in his heart and soul was still empty. Helping other people with their troubles had not helped him. He wondered if there was anything on God's earth that would release him from this inner hell.
He sighed. Being terminated from his job didn't help his depression any. He rubbed his face vigorously, trying to shake off the drowsiness that was overtaking him. He wanted to sleep, but not on the bus ride home. He wanted to wait until he was in his bed, where he could bury his head in the pillow and pull the covers up under his chin, in some futile hope of being shielded from what had happened tonight.
Maybe tomorrow would be better. Ever the pessimist, he didn't really believe this, but he tried as hard as he could to do so. He'd wake up refreshed, and scan the newspaper, maybe even the Internet, looking for any kind of job for now, until he got back up on his feet. If he didn't procrastinate, and could find a job quickly, he wouldn't get behind in his bills.
Worry, worry, worry.
Monty seemed to be a master at worrying. It seemed as though that's all he ever did was worry. Worrying about money; worrying about how long he would be single; worrying about his parents' failing health; worrying about the cleanliness of his apartment; worrying about whether or not he'd ever get a car; worrying about the most ridiculous things like what to fix for dinner. He even worried what was wrong with him when he got the slightest sniffle, or when his allergies acted up.
Worry, worry, worry.
Damnit, he thought, and punched the back of the seat in front of him. I worry too Goddamned much. With the sound of his fist hitting the seat, the bus driver glanced up into his rearview mirror and glowered at Monty. Monty frowned and sunk deeper into the seat, as if he could become the seat itself. He hated it when people looked at him like he was crazy. He wasn't crazy. Just depressed.
Or was he? Maybe I am crazy, he thought, with a mixture of sadness and anger. It might be a lot easier to be crazy. Monty sighed again, glanced out the window, then scanned the empty seats on the bus. Lying on the seat next to the old man across from Monty was a newspaper. He leaned across, as quiet as he could, and gently picked up the newspaper.
He scanned the front page and noticed the cover story on the serial killer, which the paper had dubbed "The Dream Stalker." The killer had been given the name because he always attacked people in their homes, while they were asleep, without so much as waking them. There had never been a visible sign of forced entry, and never a sign of a struggle. He had murdered six families, fourteen people in all, and the police didn't have a shred of evidence. They had no leads, and absolutely no idea who this guy could be. Or if it even was a guy. It could be a woman, for all they knew. Hell, as clueless as the police were with this little situation, the killer could have been Bigfoot.
Monty continued to frown as he skimmed over the report, knowing full well he should not be reading something this depressing. His heart went out to the friends and extended families of the people who had been killed. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one, his father and mother having died in a plane crash when he was eight. After that, he had gone to live with his Aunt Shelley and his Uncle Clark. They were wonderful, loving, surrogate parents. They treated him as if he was their own child. He never wanted for anything while he was living with them, except for the small need he had felt with wanting to be with his parents again. He still had that small need inside of him. God, how he missed them. If they were still alive, he knew they'd be willing to help him until he got his life back on track.
Quickly, he folded up the paper and tossed it on the seat beside him, not wanting to become anymore depressed than he already was.
Still, the mysterious identity of The Dream Stalker intrigued him. He would love to get his hands on the killer, face him down, direct all the rage and revenge from all the families onto that man. However, Monty feared that if he did happen to come up against The Dream Stalker, he may allow himself to get killed. Constantly being depressed gave way to almost constant thoughts of death and suicide, wondering what it would be like had he never been born; if his dying would remove a burden from the shoulders of those he cared about; what it would be like to just . . . die. To suddenly cease to exist. Just become nothing.
He shuddered and tried to push the thought out of his head. He was becoming increasingly morbid as of late, and he didn't like it. More than once in the last few months, he had become interested in the thought of self-mutilation, and had started to carve and slice into the flesh on his upper arms. Thank God for the long-sleeved shirts he wore to work to cover up the cuts and scars, because if any co-worker or patient had discovered them and began to ask questions, he had no idea how he would be able to answer them.
He had managed to stop himself from cutting his arms up over the last couple of weeks, but he wanted to start again. It was an odd sort of release which "normally adjusted people" could not even begin to comprehend. He was hurting inside, and he figured he'd might as well hurt on the outside, too. Better him than his friends or family. By cutting into his own body, it was as though he was actually releasing some of the pain he felt for himself, and for everyone around him; cutting into himself helped let go some of the worry he had, letting it escape. By cutting into himself, he imagined he was making exits for the inner demons that haunted him, and it actually made him feel better. But, he had stopped the self-mutilation for fear that it may lead to something worse, and that he may actually work up the nerve to kill himself, finally.
Monty wanted to die, yes; but, then again, he didn't. He knew by dying, he'd relieve his friends and family of the heartache of having to watch him go through this inner hell. He also knew, than by killing himself, he'd bring about new heartache and pain for those that actually did care about him. That thought, the images of his friends and family mourning him, crying for him, dying inside without him, was what had kept him from doing away with himself all these years. Without warning, Monty started to cry. It wasn't just a simple sniffle and a couple of tears, it was an out-and-out sob.
He leaned his head forward, covering his face with his hands. He began to whimper and sob loudly into his cupped hands. The bus driver again looked into his rearview mirror when the sobs started to progress into wails, a mixture of concern and annoyance on his portly face. Monty began to punch the back of the seat in front of him with tightly balled fists. Then he began to pound on it. He pounded and punched the seat so hard, his fists began to hurt, the knuckles becoming white, then swelling with light bruises.
"Hey!" the bus driver called back to Monty, still staring into the rearview mirror, not quite paying attention to the road like he should have. Pretty much all of his attention had been diverted to the wreck of a man in the back. "Do I need to stop and let you off? I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here and let you use this bus as a punching bag!"
Monty, who's face was red not only with anger and frustration, but with embarrassment, waved a hand at the bus driver, trying to signal that he was fine. The commotion that Monty had caused by pummeling the seat, had made the old man across the aisle wake with a snort and stare at him. He pushed his glasses up onto his face, wiped his mouth and chin, and glared at Monty.
"Is that really necessary, young man? Carrying on the way you're doing?" The old man's voice was withered and exceptionally crass. He continued to stare at Monty through his thick glasses, as Monty looked back at him. He frowned and snorted, and pushed his glasses up onto his face again. "Well?"
"‘Well,' what?" Monty asked, shrugging, after taking a quick look around, letting out a mental sigh of relief as he noticed no one else had so much opened their eyes. He snuffled and wiped his eyes.
"Well, is it really necessary?" the old man asked again.
"Live my life old man, and then ask me that question again," Monty said, the annoyance in his voice quite recognizable.
"Oh, please," said the old man with a scoff. "Your life can't be all that bad. You're a hell of a lot younger than me, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I swear, you young people nowadays seem to think that your lives are so bad and terrible, yet you have all these electronic gadgets to keep you company. All these home computers, and pocket computers, and cell phones, and wide-screen televisions, and DVD players, and internet providers." He scowled at Monty, ignoring the wide-eyed look of absolute exasperation on the young man's face.
"Old man, allow me to let you in on a little secret about us ‘young people' nowadays." He glared at the old man, the fire, the anger, the indignation behind his eyes evident. He narrowed his eyes and leaned sideways on his seat, leaning across the aisle to look the old bastard right in his near-sighted eyes. "Our lives are not as easy and wonderful as you may think, anymore. I get so sick of hearing about all the problems your damn generation had when you were younger. So you didn't have TV's, and you didn't have computers, and you didn't have cell phones, and you had to walk everywhere. Well, old man, the demons I carry around with me are more dangerous, and more deadly than anything you have ever come across in your life." He jabbed a finger towards the old man's nose and gritted his teeth, his eyes still narrowed. The dim light inside the bus flickered across his eyes, almost making them seem to glow. "How about mental and emotional disorders such as schizophrenia, manic depression, bipolar disorder, multiple personalities, disassociative disorder, obsessive/compulsive disorder, anorexia, bulimia, agoraphobia, acrophobia, and a hundred other problems I can name?
"I highly doubt that you had to grow up with all of these things surrounding every aspect of your life. Oh, granted, they probably did exist when you were a kid, but I highly doubt half of your generation even bothered to find out what they were, or if you even cared to find out what they were. Most of the time, these problems were dismissed, misdiagnosed. Or people were just tossed into a padded cell on account of just being ‘crazy.' Don't you dare sit there and tell me that my generation has it easy in this day and age. If anything, my generation has it harder. Look at the statistics of teen suicide, of teenagers becoming mental patients at barely the age of fifteen, and other shit similar. You have no idea, absolutely no idea, of what it's like to grow up in this ‘modern world.'"
The old man went to say something, but the look on Monty's face shut him up before he spoke one word, knowing full well that he wasn't finished speaking.
"I'm thirty-two, old timer, and I see absolutely no reason why I should look around and be thankful that I'm here. I lost my parents at the age of eight, I'm manic depressive, and to top it all off, I've just been fired from my job because of my depression. There isn't a day goes by that I don't wish I was dead, that I don't wish that God would suddenly erase me from this existence. You think I enjoy living with these thoughts in my head? Wondering what it would be like to put a bullet through my brain, or thinking about how it would feel to drop a hair dryer into the tub with me? I hate, I fucking hate, these Goddamned thoughts. I wish I could be well-adjusted and emotionally stable like you, but I'm not. I have to struggle every single day with what goes on inside of my head. I have to force myself to find a reason to wake up every morning and drag my ass out of bed. I worry constantly if I'll ever find a way to be happy because of what's wrong with me.
"I may not be as physically old as you, but I can Goddamn guarantee you that I am emotionally and mentally older than you'll ever be. In comparison to you, I'm ancient."
With that, Monty jerked himself back to his own seat, crossing his arms over his chest and staring out the window. His nostrils flared with anger, his breathing was shallow, and his whole body shook with unspent aggravation. He closed his eyes and tried his damndest to relax. He forced himself to calm and slow his breathing. With much physical effort, he managed to stop himself shaking. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, and gritted his teeth, sighing through them.
The old man stared at Monty, his mouth agape. He closed it quickly and jerked his head to the front, staring straight. He didn't think it would be wise to say anything to this man again, for fear the guy might try to eat his face. He tried to clear his throat silently, swiping quick glaces from the corner of his eye at Monty, making sure he was still facing the window.

CHAPTER TWO

The bus driver, who had been watching the entire scene between Monty and the old fellow play out in the rearview mirror, had not once looked at the road in front of him during the entire time. Bright lights flooded through the window of the bus and the driver snapped his head back to the road in front of him. He screamed and jerked the wheel hard to the right as he saw a semi heading straight for them.
Monty was thrown out of his seat, across the aisle, and into the old man's lap, who had, in turn, slammed against the window, his glasses shattering. The two women in the back --instantly jolted awake by the sudden swerve-- were thrown forward and to the side with a scream, and the bus driver slammed on the breaks and tried to avoid the semi. The young man sleeping near the front, ball cap pulled down over his eyes, was thrown forward against the metal bar across the top of the seat in front of him and knocked unconcious without first waking up.
The semi driver, who had lurched out of control with his own attempt to avoid hitting the bus, lay on his horn as he careened into the side of it. The bus flipped onto its other side, and skidded across the asphalt, sparks pouring out from under it. It crashed into a car parked next to the curb and bent in half with a sickening scrunch. The semi, not able to stop even with the bus becoming immobile with the use of the car, flipped its back end upwards, its nose digging into the bus which was now bent in the middle at a forty-five degree angle.
The semi landed halfway on the bus, its back tires in the air, horn blasting loudly in unison with the bus'.

* * * * *


Montgomery groaned. He had the beginnings of a migraine, and every muscle, joint, and bone in his body screamed with pain. He placed a hand over his face and moaned softly. What happened? Why did he hurt so bad? It felt as if he'd been hit by a semi.
The semi!
Monty sat bolt upright, pain shooting through his body which he tried desperately to ignore. He snapped his eyes open. For a moment, he thought the crash had blinded him for he couldn't see anything. Everything was dark and misty. Then, slowly, the world around him began to swim into focus. He looked around, confused, one hand on the back of his neck. He narrowed his eyes and winced. Partly from the pain in his neck, but mostly because nothing around him looked . . . right.
As he let his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he noticed that he seemed to be sitting on a rusty old bench. The buildings which lined both sides of the street were cracked, crumbling, dilapidated. Giant, gaping holes looked out at him from the walls of the buildings. Windows were shattered and broken, save a very small handful. Construction beams poked out from all sides of the falling-down offices, donut shops, and coffee houses. Even the road looked ancient. Giant cracks and gaping crevices filled the road as far as he could see in the distance. The sidewalk was cracked, as well, and even looked corroded.
Monty shook his head, hoping to throw off whatever daze he was in, praying that what he was seeing was only in his mind, a result of the bus/semi wreck he'd been in. But, wait, he thought. Where's the bus? He looked around again. A few stripped and demolished cars were scattered lightly around the area, but no bus. There was also no sign of the semi they'd hit, either.
"What the hell? What's going on around here," he said aloud, more to himself than anything. He glanced up at the sky, squinting. It was dark, yet seemed to swirl with an odd color arrangement of purples, blacks, and blues. He could see neither one single star, nor one single cloud. Just the oddly pulsating sky.
Groaning, and placing a hand at the small of his back, he stood up slowly, and tried to stretch. His body popped and crackled, to which he responded with a yelp that quickly died into a moan. He rubbed his eyes with the base of his hands, and took a step away from the bench and off the curb into the street, narrowly avoiding a small hole near his feet. He scratched his head and began chewing on his bottom lip. Where the hell am I? He was no nearer an answer to that question, than he was to knowing whether or not snails farted.
He took another apprehensive step into the street and stood there, pondering. He slowly looked up one way and down the other, noticing that everything seemed to look the same for as far as he could see. He didn't see any signs of life, either. "Where is everyone?" Still chewing on his bottom lip, he slowly wandered across the street and stopped in front of what he guessed probably used to be an old high-rise office building. The two sets of double doors, along with the revolving doors, were shattered. The only thing that remained in the revolving doors were small, jagged shards of glass. One set of double doors were actually off their hinges and lay on the floor, just inside the building.
Monty slowly rose his head upwards, trying to see the whole of the building. He blinked as he noticed that the top floors of the sky-rise were missing. It looked as if they had literally been tore off. Twisted pieces of I-beams stuck out in all directions from where the missing floors once were. He walked closer to the door that had fallen inward and peered inside. He craned his neck from right to left, looking around. It had been an office building. Desks were strewn about. Office doors were either lying on the floor, ripped from the frames, or split and cracked. He took a step inside, and placed one hand against the wall to steady himself as he nearly stumbled over the door on the ground. He continued to look about, not really believing what he was seeing, but not disbelieving it, either.
"Jesus," he muttered to himself. "What the hell happened here?" He walked over to an overturned desk, and bent down. He slid his hands under it, and slowly tried to flip it upright. It groaned and cracked as he lifted it and turned it onto its legs. The sound seemed to echo through the building, and into his bones. Monty shuddered. He brushed a hand along the desktop, and only succeeded in smearing around whatever was on it. He let out an "ick" and furiously wiped his hand on his pantleg. He bent down over the desk, trying to get a better look at what looked like words burned into it. It was still too dark to make out what they said.
He felt his pockets, smiled a bit to himself, and pulled a lighter from his right-hand pocket. Monty didn't smoke, but he did carry a lighter around with him just in case he'd ever need one. He flicked it a few times before it finally sparked to life. Nodding once, he bent over the desk again and held his lighter over it. His eyes widened at what he saw. Some words were scorched into the wood, others seemed to have been written in blood. "DEATH," and "KILL," and "BLOOD," were just a few. "FUCK YOU," "I"LL EAT YOUR LIVER," "GOD CAN FUCK HIMSELF UP THE ASS," were some of the others. Monty winced and shoved the lighter back into his pocket. He shuddered, suddenly more nervous than he was before reading what he just had.
He looked back to the door he had walked in through, getting the distinct feeling that he should not be in here. As he took one step toward the door, he heard a loud crashing sound behind him. Monty jumped back and to the side, and fell backwards over the desk, landing on his shoulder. He let out a strangled cry as pain shot through his whole body once again. Shifting himself around on the floor, wincing with each movement, he peered under the desk toward the sound of the noise. He didn't think it would be wise to stand up again until he had found out what was causing the racket. More crashing sounds, followed by the noises of something scuttling around. He squinted to help him see better, knowing full well that using his lighter again at the moment would probably cause his death.
He gasped softly as he saw the thing that had been making all the noise come scurrying through the hallway that he had had his back to only a few moments ago. Jesus fucking Christ! That's impossible! A ripple of sheer terror went up his spine and through his body as he watched it stop just out of the hallway, apparently listening for whatever it had heard. The tarantula, which was slightly larger than a Great Dane, slowly bobbed up and down on its eight hairy legs. Monty's breath had caught in his throat; he didn't dare breathe with this thing sitting not more than ten feet from him.
The tarantula scurried around in a circle to look behind it, then back to its previous position. It's eight glassy eyes seemed to radiate with the blackness of the room. There was a soft crashing sound outside in the street, then a thump. The tarantula bounced at the direction of the sound then took off across the floor toward it. It leapt, crashed through one of the few remaining windows, and went after whatever had made the noise. There was a loud, echoing screech, then a crunch, then . . . silence.
Monty jumped up to his feet and rushed over to the door he had entered through. He peeked outside, jerked his head quickly back and forth, seeing no sign of the huge fucking spider, and dashed out through the door, down the sidewalk, and ducked into an alleyway a few yards from the office building. Shaking violently, his breath coming out in ragged shudders, he fell against the Dumpster, and slid down the side of it. He covered his face in his hands and tried to breathe deeply. He couldn't stop himself from shaking. He couldn't have seen what he'd seen. No way. No possible fucking way. Giant spiders didn't exist. He snapped his head up and glanced around, his whole body tensing almost immediately with a sudden fear that the damned thing may come looking for him. He slowly got to his feet, and began to trot down through the alleyway. Every few seconds, he glanced behind him, just to make sure nothing was following him.
When he reached the other end of the alleyway, which spilled out into another street, Monty let out a sigh of relief and fell back against the wall, just outside of the alleyway. He swallowed hard, trying to catch his breath. He rubbed his face, sighed again, and took a look around. He furrowed his brow and his mouth dropped open as he took in what he saw around him. This street, just as dark and ragged as the last one, was different in one aspect: the buildings here weren't collapsing or demolished. They were sheen, shimmering with a glossy black, almost as if they were made of metal. They shot straight up into the sky, some ending in dangerous looking points, others zigzagging and just ending. Not one of the bizarre buildings looked like a regular building. Some of them bent at odd, sharp angles, others were round and slick.
Without thinking, Monty took a step onto the curb, stood there in awe of what was around him, then stepped off into the street. He flew off his feet, and slammed onto the pavement on his back with a hard thud, the wind being knocked out of his lungs with a sharp and painful exhale. He tried to flip over onto his stomach, and found he was having extreme difficulty doing so. He just couldn't get enough of a hold on the ground under him to provide him with the friction he needed to turn over. After about two or three minutes of struggling to flip with no luck, Monty growled softly and kicked his feet against the ground. To his surprise, he slid back against the curb, smacking his head. This time, he didn't feel the pain; he was in shock over what had just happened. He pressed his hands down on the ground on either side of him, and gently moved them back and forth. They slid around effortlessly, as if they were moving upon the most perfectly smooth surface in existence.
With a confused grin, Monty reached along the ground above his head, grabbing a hold of the curb and grappled with pulling himself back up onto the sidewalk. He hoisted himself onto his butt, scooted back on the sidewalk a bit, and stared out at the street. He scratched his head and just gaped. The street, black and shiny, seemed polished. It looked frozen; sleek with a shimmering layer of ice. He looked around the immediate area of where he sat, grabbed a small rock and gently tossed it out onto the street. It didn't stop once it hit the ground. It didn't even slow down. Instead, it slid across the ground, bounced off the other curb at an angle, and continued to bounce back and forth from curb to curb like a pinball, into the distance, until Monty could no longer see it.
"This is just too fucking weird."
Shaking his head, and getting to his feet with a small chuckle (although it was without any kind of humor), he brushed himself off and looked behind him, toward the alleyway. "I'll take my chances with the fucking spider," he said, and started back down the alleyway. As he exited the way he came, he jumped backwards into the shadows with a silent scream when he noticed the tarantula sitting in the middle of the road. He watched it for a moment, and realized it wasn't moving. Hesitantly, he took a couple of steps toward it and blinked when he saw that it wasn't sitting. It was, in fact, on its back, legs curled in the air. He continued to walk closer, still nervous and unsure, until he came within a foot of it. Yes, it was dead alright. But what had killed it? Monty anxiously looked around, wondering if whatever had killed it was still lurking in the shadows. He glanced back to the tarantula and figured that whatever was outside the office building that the tarantula had decided to attack, turned the tables, and killed the tarantula instead.
He quickly looked around, and began jogging down the street, darting his eyes into every corner and every shadow, observing everything, wanting to be able to make a quick escape if anything jumped out at him. Confused as Monty was, and as careful as he was being, he was terrified beyond all belief. He had never been so scared in his life. One thought kept repeating in his head: I'm dead, and this is Hell. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had literally wandered into a nightmare as a result of the crash. Maybe I'm trapped in some sort of purgatory for accident victims? But, if that were true, then this was a purgatory he had never heard about. All of the stories about purgatory he had ever came across, pretty much mentioned the same thing: that it was a boring place where one waited to be taken to Heaven or Hell. Then, I must already be in Hell. Monty's heart sank to his feet. Depressing as his life was, and as many times as he thought he would be better off dead, he wasn't so sure now. He didn't really think about an afterlife, because he was never really sure that one existed. If he was dead, and this was what awaited the dead, he didn't think that dead people were very fortunate anymore.
Monty stopped a moment and leaned against one of the less-demolished buildings, trying to catch his breath. He looked back the way he came, then in the direction he had been running. He figured he'd ran at least two or three miles, and he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. Everything still looked the same, with the exception of more and more decay and destruction as he went on. Jesus, this place goes on forever!
Monty pushed away from the building and started walking down the cracked sidewalk, carefully avoiding the gaping holes along the way. If he was stuck here, he might as well take his time and look around. Providing he didn't get killed along the way. He glanced up at the sky again, noticing that it hadn't changed except for the quickening of the swirling colors. He turned his eyes away, fearing that staring at the sky for too long would either give him one hell of a headache, or draw him into madness . . . if he wasn't mad already. He walked for what seemed like an hour. His legs had began to grow weak, which wasn't surprising seeing as what he had just been through.
"How long have I been here, anyway?" He glanced at his watch, and blinked in surprise at it for a moment. It wasn't telling the time. Instead, the hands were swirling around and around the face as fast as they could go. Watching it reminded Monty of that old "we're using his clock as a fan" joke he had heard so many times. This time when he chuckled, it was with humor. He couldn't help it. After a few more minutes (he thought it was a few more minutes), he removed his watch and went to shove it into his pocket. It slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He stopped in mid-bend as he reached down for it, only just then realizing something else about this place that was odd. The sound of the watch hitting the ground seemed to echo everywhere. The more he thought about it, the more it dawned on him that that had been the case from the moment he arrived here. Every single little sound echoed throughout the city (or wherever in the hell he was at). It not only echoed, but seemed to reverberate through the air, through every building, through every shadow. Without picking up his watch, Monty stood straight, and rapped his knuckles against the lamppost next to him. The tinny "bong-bong-bong" did as he expected: it echoed off into the distance, as if the noise had suddenly been granted life and was exploring the neighborhood.
This unsettled Monty even more. He was already as terrified as anyone could have possibly been, and this wasn't helping in the least bit. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called into the distance, "Hello?" There was no answer (of course, he didn't think there would be), but his voice fuzzed off into the distance, each echoing "hello" simultaneously overlapping the previous one then rolling into the next, until it had faded off into what sounded like a soft electrical humming noise before disappearing altogether. As he stood there, contemplating whether or not to keep walking, he heard rustling coming from one of the shadows up ahead. He quickly ducked behind a rusted car sitting nearby. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest. He didn't trust any noise in this place after he had seen that damned spider. I'm gonna get eaten alive, munched to bits by some mutant slug. I know I am. He cautiously peered over the trunk of the car, listening quietly, trying to determine where the rustling was coming from. Everything was still. Then: "H-hello? Is anyone there?"
Monty's heart skipped a beat and he jumped up. "Hello? Yes, I'm here!"
"Are you friend or foe?" The voice asked. It sounded just as terrified as Monty was. Exceedingly happy to find someone else wandering around this place, he completely ignored the resounding echoes and grinned. "I'm friend. At least, I think I'm friend. I hope I'm friend," Monty answered with a chuckle.
A figure moved from the shadows across the street, stopped when it saw Monty, and then rushed to him. "Thank God. I thought I was alone, here." It was the old man from the bus. The one Monty had snapped at. He suddenly regretted having yelled at the poor guy, seeing him now. He looked older and more tired than he had been on the bus. He was shaking something awful, and his glasses were cracked. Monty thought the old guy was going to break down and start crying, for his bottom lip started to quiver. "Thank God, I'm not alone. Thank God, I'm not alone." The old man let out a very long, very relieved sigh and placed a hand to his chest.
Monty stood there, silently, not sure of exactly what to say, still feeling guilty at having yelled at him. After a moment, he offered his hand. "I'm Montgomery Hyatt."
The old man grinned and took the hand, shaking it weakly. "Crass. Crass Barton. Believe me when I say that it's a pleasure to meet you."
Monty smiled, for although the guy's voice shook with each word, he seemed to be holding up well for his age. "And the same to you, Crass."
Crass sat himself down slowly in the bench near him and leaned his head back, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes and face. "Uhm . . . ‘Montgomery' is it," Crass asked after putting his cracked glasses back on.
Monty nodded. "Yessir. But you can call me ‘Monty.' Everyone does." He shrugged.
"Okay, Monty it is, then. Hey, I gotta tell ya, I'm extremely sorry about that little . . . altercation on the bus. I didn't realize that you were going through such a hard time."
So he had recognized Monty. He didn't think the old man knew who he had spotted, since he didn't say anything about it upon meeting. Then again, he figured Crass was just happy to have found someone else. Monty couldn't blame him. He felt the same way at the moment.
"Eh," Monty shrugged. "It's okay. I lost control of myself. I didn't mean to snap at you like I did. I shouldn't have flipped out on the bus." He felt his cheeks flush.
Crass shook his head and peered up at Monty, who had continued to stand near the bench. "You have nothing to apologize for, young man. You were right. I didn't stop to think about what you may be going through, and I commented when I shouldn't've. You had every right to get angry. So . . . I'm sorry."
Monty nodded, not exactly sure of how to respond, so he just patted Crass' shoulder gently.
"Do you think," Crass began to ask as he stood up, "that there's anyone else around here? Anyone else from the crash, I mean?"
Monty frowned. "I don't know. I hope there is, but I wouldn't put my money down as of yet. I'm surprised I'm still here after what I came across."
Crass tilted his head to the side, closed one eye, and squinted at Monty with the other. "You didn't happen to spot the Cheshire Cat, did ya?"
"I'm sorry, the what?" Monty asked, not sure if he heard right.
"The Cheshire Cat. You know, that cat with the shit-eating grin from ‘Alice in Wonderland'?"
"The Cheshire Cat?" Monty stared at him, not sure whether the guy was off his rocker, or if he was just pulling his leg. Monty had seen a rather huge spider, but that was more believable than coming across the Cheshire Cat. "No. I haven't."
Crass let out a sigh. "I was hoping that I hadn't suddenly gone crazy. For a moment, I thought I had. I was over across the way –the road on the other street over there is like an oil slick– and he came sliding up to me, grinning as broad as he could.
"I thought I was seeing things, o'course. He was about as high as my waist on all fours, he was shaved, an earring in the tip of his left ear, and strange tattoo-type symbols all over his body. He looked . . . evil, is the only word I can use to describe him. I actually let out a whimper when he came and stood next to me, peering into my face with those black eyes of his." Crass shook his head.
"H-how do you know it was the Cheshire Cat?" Monty asked. He was doubtful, but still intrigued. He sat down on the bench next to him, folding his hands between his knees.
"Because he told me he was," Crass stared at Monty, surprised, as if it was an obvious answer that anyone should have known. "Opened his mouth and spoke right up. Said, ‘I'm the Cheshire Cat, recognize my grin? I think I'll eat your liver; shall we begin?'" Crass' hands were shaking violently. "Scared the livin' shit right out of me. Surprised I didn't leave a trail when I took off."
Monty believed him. Hell, in this place, anything was possible he figured. Licking his lips, he sighed. "I saw a giant tarantula." His voice cracked. He grimaced when it came out of his mouth. He sounded like someone who had an exceptionally bad case of paranoid arachnophobia.
"No kiddin'?" Crass blinked at Monty. He looked surprised, but he didn't sound all that surprised. "Where'd'ya spot it?"
Monty didn't know whether he had come from the North, South, East, or West. He didn't bother to try to figure it out, this whole place confused him enough already. Instead, he pointed down the direction from where he'd ran. "Down that way. Probably about three, maybe four, miles. In one of the office buildings. Came scurrying from down a dark hallway. I'm just glad I was hiding under a desk when it popped out, or I'd probably be lunch right now."
"No joke." Crass frowned.
"Of course, the spider didn't last too long, itself. It heard something outside and went after it. Whatever it had tried to attack, killed it instead."
"Well, then, that's lucky for both of us," Crass said with a grin. Slowly, his grin faded. "D'ya think whatever killed it could still be hanging around?"
Monty was still wondering the same thing. He nodded. "It's quite possible, which is why I ran. So, maybe we ought to get a move on? I'm not so sure it's all that wise to be sitting here like we are."
Crass nodded and slowly rose to his feet with a soft grunt. Together, they began to walk in the direction Monty had been. They walked in silence, opting instead to just keep an eye out for anything else out of the ordinary. Which was a slightly funny thought to Monty, since this whole place was out of the ordinary to him. They continued to walk in silence for a while longer, Monty almost forgetting his fear, when Crass latched a hand around his wrist. "Shh," he said quietly, putting a finger to his lips.
Monty looked at Crass, who pointed across the street to a shadow that seemed to be moving. Monty froze. He didn't blink, he didn't breathe. He just stood there, silently. Watching. Waiting. He didn't have to wait long, for whatever had been hiding in the shadows stepped forward. Two figures, one distinctly cat-like, the other female-ish, emerged. The cat-like figure was grinning. Holy shit, the old man was right! It's the fucking Cheshire Cat! It looked just as Crass had described it.
Crass' grip on Monty's wrist tightened, shooting pain up his arm. Monty winced but kept his eyes on the figures across the way. He thought that the Cat's tail was curled in a grip around something. Monty couldn't be sure, but it looked like a straight-razor. The Cat let out a very high-pitched, crazed giggle.
"Crass, who's your friend? You owe me a liver! Would your friend mind giving his to Alice, here? She's hungry and wants her dinner!" The Cat's tail swished the razor back and forth, menacingly.
The female figure, whom Monty now knew was an extremely twisted version of Alice from "Alice in Wonderland," grinned an evil grin and raised her left hand. In it, she held an extremely large butcher knife. Monty eyed the knife for a moment, then let his eyes glance over her. She wore a blue dress with a white apron, which was covered in what looked to be blood-stains, and her hair was midnight black. Her blue eyes seemed to glow with an odd intensity as she stared at them. Alice laughed, and that was enough to send Monty off running. He grabbed Crass' hand and yanked him behind him. The old man panted as he held onto Monty's hand and struggled to keep up. His lungs tightened and weakened, forcing him to slow to a trot behind Monty.
"Come on, Crass!" Monty hissed as he tightened his grip on his hand.
Crass waved his free hand, not able to speak at the moment being completely out of breath. He stopped and flopped backwards against a wall. Monty stopped to wait for him, slightly annoyed and shaking with anticipation, his eyes darting around. He looked back the way they came. They had ran four blocks in what seemed like less than one second, and Monty was overcome with relief when he saw no one following them. He too, realized he was out of breath, and leaned against the wall next to Crass.
"Sorry," said Crass breathlessly.
Monty weakly waved a hand in the air. "No prob," he panted. "They aren't behind us, so catch your breath." Monty looked up at Crass, then grinned in an odd sort of way. "I can't fucking believe it! The Cheshire Cat and Alice. This is getting too fucking weird."
"You're (pant) telling me (pant), sonny." Crass looked around, squinting to see through his broken glasses. "Think we're in Hell?"
Monty stopped breathing for a moment and blinked at Crass. "I've been asking myself that same exact question, my friend. Then again, I'm beginning to wonder. I mean, we can obviously feel things. We're out of breath, our bodies are still sore from the bus wreck. We can't really be dead and still feel pain, can we?"
Crass shrugged, either not knowing an answer or not wanting to think about it. He pushed himself away from the wall and moved quickly out into the street. He stood there, jerking his head around. His mouth hung open.
To Monty, he looked as though he was about to panic, and take off blindly. Monty slowly came up behind him. "Crass? What is it?"
"I know where we are, Monty!"

CHAPTER 3

"We're still in Utah! We're in Carlisle!" He snapped his head around and stared straight into Monty's eyes. "We're still home!"
Monty shook his head. "We can't be in Carlisle, Crass! Just look around at this place! It doesn't even resemble home!"
Crass began to nod furiously. "Yes it does, Monty! Seriously, look around for a moment and think to how Carlisle looks! Over there," Crass pointed across the street and rushed to the building he was pointing at. "This is the old Carlisle Post Office, the one that sets near the North end of town! Look at it!"
Monty walked to the building, his lips tightened into a frown, thinking the old man had finally lost it from being in this place. He stood in front of the building and looked it up and down, shaking his head. Then . . . the more me continued to stare at it, the more familiar it became. It began to become recognizable, if only vaguely. He stretched out his hand and ran it down the side of the crumbling brick. He chewed on his lip when he realized that the corners of the building were rounded off, just like the Post Office. He looked upward, and saw a small blue-and-white canopy hanging just above the door. It had a faded picture of the United States Post Office logo printed on it. Of course, the logo on this canopy was only a mild resemblance. This logo had an evil, jagged grin, with blood coming from its beak.
Still, the old man was right. This was the old Post Office. "Well, I'll be damned," Monty whispered.
"See! See!" Crass was grinning now, obviously delighted at what he'd figured out. "We're still home!" His old, weary green eyes, hidden behind his cracked glasses, seemed to shine softly with glee.
"Hold on a sec, Crass. One thing I don't understand, though. If this is Carlisle, then how come it looks like . . . well . . ." He waved a hand around, motioning to the scene around them.