Jenkins

by Jessica Maison

  Tremors shoot though my left, and then my right hand, fire crackling along electrical wiring. Tandem helicopter blades rotate across the bright blue summer sky with a womp-womp-womp, circling closer and closer to the ground at the wrong angle, sending wobbly vibrations across the airfield right before an explosion rocks our small office, shaking my body to its core. I cup my hand and sprint toward the fire, rallying other nearby Marines. The CH-64 transforms into a flaming inferno, but we charge just like in training. We’re on the turret truck attacking the flaming wreckage, covering the burning aircraft in foam before we even have time to think of our own families. Firefighters can lose their lives in the backflash when the plane explodes a second time while their pulling out the crew, so I’m sure to cut the electrical before dragging the charred soldier out of the melting metal, unable to take my eyes off the blade buried deep in his burnt and bleeding skull. Dry heaving, sobs wrack my chest and torso. I know the face. I like the face. It’s the face of a friend, a captain. He’s got a wife and two kids. A second explosion detonates in my heart as I drag my friend from the pilot seat, hot air drying my tears and scorching my skin as my trembling body goes into autopilot, does what the Marine Corp. trained it to do. Serve.
  Waking up sobbing, hands shaking, I rub my fingers one at a time. I push off the couch, swaying, waiting for the light-headedness to pass and to feel balanced enough to walk to the sink. Burnt hair and a chemical odor burn my nostrils and the back of my throat. Iron and rotten eggs on my lips, the dream so vivid, remnants of the fire following me from my couch to the kitchen. Gulping down a glass of water like I just fought that fire from long ago, tears cascade down my tanned, wrinkled face like I just lost that young friend all over again. I say I never saw the real shit, war ended before I shipped out. When that peace treaty was signed, it was the happiest day of my life. I never wanted to kill a man. Never did kill a man. Still, I pulled some good men out of some bad shit fighting fires for the Marines. Doc calls it PTSD. I just know I see the captain’s face on more nights than I’d like, especially when the tremors wake me. Water tastes like metal and chemicals against my gums and tongue. I spit it out. The taste remains. Better make some coffee.
  The coffee helps me drag my ass and my Martin down to the lake. Gonna rip through a few blues songs as the sun comes up, hopefully work my way through the hard parts that used to be easy. Playing the guitar always helps, always has, especially as Parkinson’s and I wage war against one another. In fairness, it started this fight. In group, they say the disease really sneaks up on you. They speak the truth. One day I’m playing Hello Cowgirl in the Sand perfectly, and the next I’m fighting to pluck a few of its chords. Still, the guitar helps, always will.
  The blue light of dawn guides me to my chair on the quiet shore, one lone mallard gliding off the lake. The water is glass, reflecting those damn spiraling shadows, a terrifying constant for the last few months. My head jerks up to home in on the black, vertical clouds that span across the skyscape, ascending rapidly like twirling giant squid with tentacles trailing as they return to their shimmering shitholes in the ozone. I blink, and they disappear with the last bit of night, replaced with sparkling trails racing by the corner of my eyes and a droning hum that I swear comes from under my skin.
  The sun peeks over the pines, chasing any remaining shadows away, and the bay reflects that light back to the heavens. For a moment, things are as they should be, and the incessant humming stops. I can think straight and remember things just right. I can see every major event of my life in perfect detail with absolute clarity. Looking up into the clouds as they take shape in the morning light, I’m a young man with a young mind again. As the sun rises higher, an iridescent veil descends from the home of the shadowy spirals, engulfing each cloud it passes, shimmering across the sky as if pulsing in-and-out of wormholes between universes. I reach my hand out toward the shimmering, and the floral perfume my wife wore on our first date hits my nostrils, and then cracks open my soul. I’m wide awake, entranced, and transported far away from my lake, back in time, training once again to be a firefighter. We’re running a drill, spraying foam on a burning partial plane, and through my helmet I spot the same iridescent patterns except much smaller, hardly noticeable. Back then, they came and went, and I only saw them when wearing my helmet. Nobody else mentioned weird shit in the sky so I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t need a bad psych eval. on my record. They would appear like openings to another universe, or hell, maybe they were a warning. Come to think of it, when I saw these things back then, the water tasted funny, just like this morning. When I asked my commanding officer about the water, he assured me it was fine, not to worry about it, so I kept drinking the shit. Much later, long after I stopped seeing the strange patterns, we learned that the water was indeed not fine. It poisoned everyone who drank it, left me with all kinds of gifts, the final cherry on top being Parkinson’s.
  A tremor shoots through my hand holding the travel mug, slopping some of the coffee out. Probably shouldn’t drink it anyway. I flip the cup and dump the rest, keeping my eyes on these patterns. Briefly, a fog rolls in, and I’m wondering if I’m the only one seeing this shit, been too afraid to ask… wait, no, that’s wrong, it’s been on the news. Others are seeing the shadows and shimmering this time. Lynn sees it, too.
  I drop the twentieth case of water onto the living room floor, staggering and sweating.
  “Jenkins, what the hell are we gonna do with this?” my beautiful, fed-up wife sputters.
  “I told ya, something’s wrong with our water.”
  Lynn keeps her face neutral, long-hair dyed raven black and make-up subtle, eyes flashing. The woman looks twenty years younger than me. I swear she doesn’t age, just gets smarter and angrier. She hesitates too long so I know she’s worried, thinking I’ve finally lost it.
  “You see that shit in the sky, same as me?”
  Lynn nods, glancing outside, frowning. “They’re not saying what it is. Maybe we wait before freaking out and messing up my house.”
  “It doesn’t hurt to have extra supplies, does it?” I ask, pleading silently with her not to think I’m crazy or worse say it.
  She shakes her head and smiles. “I guess not.”
  “Promise not to drink the water until it goes away?”
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Fine.”
  Good. She’ll be safe. Now, to warn the others.
  Twelve awkward looks from the circle tell me that most of group doesn’t think this phenomenon is connected to water contamination. I tell them that the authorities use that vague, somewhat pleasant word because they have no clue what it is and what it can do to us. Don’t want us to panic. I insist that they avoid the tap water, at least until we get some answers. Mostly, they nod politely and agree to stock up. Tom, our soft-spoken leader who definitely saw the shit, limps up to me after group and suggests I make an appointment with my doc. He places a strong, comforting hand on my shoulder. “This strange weather’s agitating everyone. Especially us vets. Get the support you need, brother, and call me anytime.”
  I place my hand on his shoulder. “And you get some bottled waters and call me anytime.” Tom never laughs at me, even when I’m being outrageous. I love the hell out of him for it. He nods, “I’ll get the waters.”
  The explosion rocks the airfield. I jump on the turret truck with the other men. This time, as we prepare to foam the plane, a second explosion slams into our truck, setting us ablaze. Flesh and fat drip off my bones in globs and chunks, my screams a vibration caught in my chest as my mouth and throat liquify. The patterns in the sky reveal themselves as I melt into the asphalt, flames licking my convulsing body.
  I gasp awake, hands trembling, tears running down my face, sweat drenching my shirt. As the taste of smoke dissipates, the clarity I get when staring out across the water in the early morning rushes over me, and I know what’s in the sky. The first time I saw the shimmering in 1972, it was the result of a cosmic-level explosion, one that barely touched our atmosphere, one only a few noticed, hell, maybe only I did. The universe always did speak to me more than others. What’s happening now is the backflash, an intergalactic one. It’s bigger and more dangerous than the first fire, and it’s contaminating our water, maybe even our air. I won’t keep quiet this time
  Doc stares, mouth agape, waiting for me to say more like she always does. I shut my stupid mouth. I can tell by the look on her face I’ve said quite enough. She takes too long formulating her words, so I grab my coat. “My mind’s perfectly fine.”
  “Not arguing with that, but it’s possible this phenomenon is triggering your anxiety around water. It’s got us all crawling out of our skin, but we need to wait until the experts figure it out before jumping to conclusions.”
  “The people in charge are gonna let us die like last time, you get that? Or you too freaking programmed to save your own ass? Huh? HUH?!” My finger jabs too close to her forehead before I realize I’ve crossed the room and a line.
  “I get you’re scared…” Her words distort as a pinhole shape forms in the center of her nose and begins swirling and expanding like those snakes kids light on the 4th of July. Her face opens like a charred peony, slowly revealing a mini-blackhole, edges shimmering. From the swirling hole, a vibration carries a loop containing offkey chords, a guitar string breaking, the womp-womp-womp of helicopter blades, and flames blazing. Smoky tendrils reach toward my face, trying to latch on and pull me inside. Staggering back against the wall, I struggle to open the door. Eventually, I’m running down the hallway with the burning face in pursuit. Surrounding faces similarly defragment, and the sounds of fire, guitars, and helicopters form a cacophony that trigger agonizing tremors, disorienting me until I melt down the wall, covering my face and screaming for my wife.
  I can’t keep my eyes off Lynn. Won’t keep them off her, not now, not ever. Her face looks like it always has, calm and fierce, beautiful and grounding, a home. No burning, charring, or swirling. No smoky tendrils trying to consume me.
  “I believe you, babe, something’s definitely wrong,” Lynn whispers as I strum Let it Be, her favorite.
  The first explosion was more than enough to carry. No one reported the truth on that one, not until they had to, so why would the backflash be different? I know it’s here, cloaked in shadows with a ghastly gift for all it touches—mine, a daily battle to keep Lynn’s face whole. Still, I’m at home with my girl, and I got my guitar, and it’s helping.

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