A Note On The Travel Industry

How far he’d travelled and in what direction he had no way to measure, for all he knew he might be staggering back toward the ICU, back toward public humiliation and slate-breaking . . . he lay weakly against an ash-laden pile of waste, watching the orange break mean and omnipotent, every day was bathed in the colour of lunacy. He no strength left and his willpower reserve had been exhausted - he could already feel his tongue swelling. He drifted in and out of consciousness, dreamed intermittently of Chico Ink and the Paperboy and the Weatherman, all imaginary no doubt, no more embodied than him . . . and as the dark loomed menacingly he heard the sound – a known sound – or another cruel vision manufactured by his failing mind. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, they would find his remains like this, praying to the rotten earth from whence he’d come, his mouth full of blood-caked words and crumbling enamel, testament to the futility of a worthless orifice on a pitiful being. Death they said was just another hallway, another route into another dimension or story, someplace where it was dark and still for a while until the insidiousness of real time existence grabbed one again for its own amusement. Maybe he’d come back when the sky was blue, when there was other life apart from mutated humans and rodents, a place where the sun shone and life wasn’t full to the brim with one-armed bandits and twisted metal head cases. The soft notion buoyed him, his own mental anaesthetic kicking in to drift him away to a better place.

The pain jerked him back to cold reality, the pain in his right arm. He groped for it with his other until he stopped and felt fur. Had he already been recycled again back into the universe? He focused his eyes on his arm and adjusting to the dimness saw what it was . . . a dead desert rat pinned to his arm by its tail. He sat up and yanked the rodent away, taking a small piece of his own flesh along with it – and there between his legs, several vials of . . . of desal. Purified water . . . was the Machine Girl? No, the Tool Man had back-tracked - bringing him food and water, what craziness was unfolding now, a game of dare and double dare? He popped the top on one vial and drank slowly, the fluid making his tongue reel in horror until finally it succumbed greedily to the life preserving nectar. He had to make fire, cook the rat, and boosted by the water he set about finding kindling. They all carried flint, making fire was a base skill, and once he’d got it going he shoved a rod deep into the rats mouth until it was secure enough to roast. By orange up, fed and watered, he was ready to go . . . and there, not far from him, was the route marker firmly hammered into the blackened ground, and, at its base, six more vials of desalinated water. He gathered them up tenderly and stashed them, then set off dutifully in pursuit of a thing that had been trying to kill since whenever, but was now, apparently, protecting him from a fate worse than death by murder; protecting him from him-self.

He walked until the discarded and burned trash finally petered out and there before him began the Wages of Sin desert, stretching to the horizon like some fiery red magic carpet. Six vials of desal wouldn’t get anything across this and once he was in it too far, there’d be no about turning. He sat there as the heat it threw off slow roasted him, what now, there was no directional marker that he could see. They said the hallucinations out there were monstrous, that people had been devoured whole by sand worms and, that head-shrinkers and bone breakers acclimatised to the extreme conditions continually wandered the shifting landscape looking for victims. Those faceless ‘theys’ had a lot of scatological data at their fingertips apparently, but, if people had come out, no matter where, with these kinds of stories, then at the least he knew that it was possible to come out – alive. There was also the matter of the Tool Man, because if it had entered the desert, then the math followed that he could do so too. The Tool Man obviously had no intention of letting him perish out here, so, there was nothing to lose. There would be signs and route markers and water, all he had to do was put one foot in front of the other and not left the heat fry what was left of his brains. He stood up, ripped off his filthy shirt and tied it around his head, checked his canisters and took the first tentative step onto the burning red sand.

He’d only walked for a while, disorientation already creeping in, when he’d come across a booth. It was just there, in the middle of nowhere, shut up by the looks of things and hardly surprising, what the shit kind of entrepreneurial enterprise could be run from such a location. Passing trade was non-existent and there would be plenty of slow days for the fool who ran it,

to ponder bad business decisions and their financial ramifications on. He sat by it, utilising the meagre shade it offered, and popped another vial, three down already, three left, a fine film of sweat having already consumed his body he could only protect the mind from here on, use the ravaged human framework to transport his brain from here to eternity. He was about to struggle to his feet again when he heard noises behind him, emanating from within the booth. He moved away from it slowly on all fours, the sand scorching the palms of his hand as he did so. Walking was one thing, crawling was another, but he wanted to keep his profile low and his shadow compact, there was no telling what was in that booth preparing to open up shop for another deathly quiet day of risky business. He didn’t look back as he heard the booth’s hatch creak open, there was a dune not far ahead and if he motored slowly he could crest it and be out of sight, the sand would swallow all trace of his activities before he’d even slid down the other side of the dune to temporary insanity.

He crawled back up the dune, curiosity finally overcoming his better judgment, and as he reached its summit a shadow engulfed him. He looked up, and there, holding a tray with a jug and a cup on it, was an immaculately attired woman, a real one too by the looks of things. ‘Drink?’ She said to him through a beaming smile.

    He nodded, feeling rather stupid, and stood up brushing sand from himself to accept the cool water the woman had poured. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ she said gaily, obviously unaffected by either the stifling heat or his dishevelled appearance, ‘I’m the Tour Guide, thinking of crossing are you?’ she finished, sticking out a refined hand. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with it but in the end he stuck his grubby one out as well, it was obviously some antiquated greeting protocol still utilised in the desert. She shook his hand with hers quite vivaciously, her flesh cool and soft. ‘There’s so much to do and see out on the Wages of Sin, really, it’s a wonderful destination for students and eco-tourists to really unwind, or simply get back to basics and study history.’ She said excitedly, getting back to basics was what everyone was doing anyhow, he thought to himself, but he didn’t want to usurp her obviously ebullient sales pitch.

    ‘I’m not actually on vacation.’ He replied, removing his shirt from his head, ‘I’m on my way to Dot Com.’

    ‘Wonderful!’ She clapped, startling him, ‘Dot Com is really booming, becoming the must see destination!’

    ‘Fantastic.’ He burped.

    ‘It is! But if you’re heading that way anyway why not avail yourself of the amazing opportunities the WOS offers?’

    ‘The WOS?’

    ‘Oh, just a travel industry acronym for the desert, we’re funky like that.’

    He nodded as if he understood whereas in reality he didn’t have the first clue as to what she was on about, what the shit eating sun dog was the travel industry?

    ‘Yes,’ she continued happily, ‘a whole new future of vibrant opportunities awaits everyone after the ICU re-branded everything.’

    How long had he been wandering since he’d first left ICU on the Sackcloth Whore’s ticket? This woman, this real girl, was talking about the ICU as if it were the most go-get authority on the planet and not the iron-fisted overlord it had been when he’d fled. ‘So many self-employment and sub-contracting opportunities have sprung up in Trauma Ward that we’re being encouraged to spread out and prosper, wonderful isn’t it?’

    Or perish, he thought.

    ‘Wonderful.’ He agreed with scepticism.

    ‘Now, I’m sure you’d like a little time in the shade, why not take the weight off a while in my office, it’s air conditioned you know.’ She smiled that half-moon smile again and he was unable to prevent himself from following her back down the dune toward the booth. She held the door open for him and he stepped inside to be immediately greeted by ice cold air. He looked around in surprise, inside - the booth was five or six times larger than it appeared on the outside. ‘I know,’ the Tour Guide said, ‘it amazes everyone, quite the venture isn’t it?’

    ‘Quite.’ He replied.

    ‘I live downstairs of course, would like the tour?’

    He shrugged, why not, her time obviously wasn’t worth money and it was hardly as if she had a queue of impatient clients to attend. He followed down a flight of stone steps to the slightly warmer air, and there, at the bottom, he could only marvel at the spectacle. There were huge excavations in every direction all nicely arranged with homely touches. ‘I had to deconstruct this first of course, before I erected the booth above.’

    ‘You did all of this?’ He asked in amazement.

    She nodded with obvious pride, ‘Just me and a pick axe.’

     ‘How long did it take?’

     She glanced at the sun dial on her wrist, ran a few mental sums and then said ‘Well, I started the dark before last and I was open for business yesterday so not too long really, would you care to peruse some brochures perhaps?’ She said, gesturing him back up to the office. Either he was nuts or she was, no one he knew bar Moleskins could excavate a burrow like this in such a ridiculously short time span. He sat obediently at her desk - he was becoming proficient in sitting at desks at least.

‘Now,’ she began in a very business-like manner, ‘have you heard of the skull caves?’

    He shook his head, she careered onward to greater sales figures ‘Oh well, you absolutely must! They’re the premier drawcard of the WOS, indeed, startling - they’ll blow your mind clean off I guarantee it, here, look at the brochure!’ She thrust a slick sheet of oil paper into his hand and he studied the images on it, they were gruesome, who would want to pay to see such a horror. He placed the pamphlet carefully on her desk and tried to smile.

    ‘Not your drug of choice?’ she said, with no hint of disappointment, ‘Well, how about wormholes, ever been down a wormhole?’

    ‘Not recently.’ He smiled back.

    ‘Then there you are! Oh, they’re simply fantastic, a real eye-opener into the workings of things that live below.’

    ‘I’m sure,’ he said, about to stand, ‘but I really have no time for side trips or half day excursions, I’m kind of pushed for time and . . .’

    They both looked at the door in surprise when it clattered open letting the heat and sand assail the cold air with gusto. He saw it first, the Tool Man, red sand falling from him as if he were some kind of mechanical hour glass. ‘Do take a seat!’ The Tour Guide said with obvious delight, ‘I’ll be with you just as soon as I’ve sorted out this young man’s itinerary.’

    ‘Uh, he’s with me actually.’ He tried to smile at the Tour Guide. ‘Wonderful!’ she cried, ‘trips with friends are always the most enjoyable.’

    ‘Anyhow, we must be going.’ He said, standing abruptly, ‘but it’s been fascinating making your acquaintance.’ He stuck his hand out again and she pumped it firmly. ‘Are you absolutely sure I can’t write you up a travel plan, I mean, there aren’t any route markers out there and . . .’

    He still had hold of her hand as she fell backward dragging him across the desk. He looked at her crumpled on the floor, a bolt protruding from her otherwise perfect forehead. He let go of her still hand immediately and rounded on the Tool Man still stood in the open doorway embalmed in the heat haze. ‘What? What the shit fuck did you do that for you mother fucker!’

    ‘ICU spy.’ The Tool Man grunted, his words dripping with oil.

    ‘A spy, out here? What the shit dip for? Look around you metal head, there’s no one here but me and you! Man, you need to learn some serious fucking enterprise bargaining skills.’

    The Tool Man clomped over and studied his handiwork briefly with disinterest, ‘Get up, we’re leaving, there’re assassins nearby.’

    ‘Ha! You’re a fine one to be talking about assassination!’

    The Tool Man turned back toward the open door, ‘Suit yourself aqua boy.’ It spat, and then strode out into the desert’s hot loving embrace.

    He stayed there a while longer, all that work and endeavour just to be shot dead on the whims of a tin pot demi god, so much for the travel industry and its bright new future. He closed the booth’s door solemnly behind him as he left; no need to let the place fall into a state of disrepair – maybe some other investor would take it over and make a mint into the bargain. He started off after the fast-vanishing footprints of the only thing out there that had his vested interests on its agenda – whatever its agenda actually was.