In the Land of the Living

A bewildered Rob slowly regains consciousness and discovers that he is lying facedown on the ground. He peels one cheek away from gray mud—boggy, sticky, wet, as barren as uranium ore. His already enormous eyes fly wide open. Pushing himself up with both hands, he struggles first to his knees and then to his feet. He feels weak. He surveys the unknown, overwhelming landscape around him. He is no longer in Happy Drunk Liquor Store, much less in West End—not even in Stormport. A cold, steady drizzle falls over him as he turns to look around. He stops. Jolted by a sudden, sharp pain, he hastily examines his abdomen.

Around his navel he finds three stitches that look fresh; he touches them gingerly with his fingertips. Someone has tended the wounds inflicted by his good friend Dan. He does not know how, or who. Soon afterward, he also discovers a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist that reads: El Horgas 66. He touches it. It does not belong to him. Confusion takes hold. Suddenly he raises his eyes and senses someone nearby. He looks, but the silver mist clouds his vision.

"You're surely the direct result of some despicable deeds. I know, because that's exactly what brought me here. Pile up enough bad decisions over the course of your miserable life and, sooner rather than later, you'll pay dearly for them." A man speaks to him from shadows blurred by fog and rain.

The voice sounds strange to Rob. He turns as the drizzle becomes heavy and abundant, leaving him able to see only a few paces beyond where he stands. As he looks around, he sees dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of hills of garbage filling the landscape in every direction. With effort, he finally makes out, amid the gray scenery, the stark silhouette of the man who spoke. He strains to see him and moves closer until he can make out his face.

"And who the fuck are you? This isn't prison. Or is it?" Rob asks, furious.

"I wish. Prison is paradise compared with this."

"Where am I? And who are you?" Rob insists.

"I'm no one. According to this"—the man shows him the inside of his left wrist—"my name is El Horgas 59 now." He waits. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"What? How? And Dan? Where is my friend Dan?"

"Your friend? They brought only you."

"Who brought me? Who? This can't be happening. It isn't true. Help! Help!" Rob shouts desperately in every direction.

"Idiot! Don't shout! They'll come." Rob grows frightened, turning to scan the surroundings in every direction.

"Tell me this isn't the Wastelands. Please."

"I know as much as you do. They abandoned this area and everyone in it years ago. At some point, decades back, somebody said, ‘Hey, I've got a great idea. Let's put all the garbage Stormport produces in this area and figure out what to do with it later.’ And here we are, decades later, and they still haven't decided what to do with all of it. There's more every day."

"No, that isn't true. I have rights. I demand a fair trial, like the other times. Where can I get a lawyer?"

Gabriel approaches through the driving rain until they stand face-to-face. Rob studies him closely, but certain noises force him to turn his hard-boiled-egg eyes toward hills of garbage wrapped in dense, damp haze, darkened by the downpour. Rob spots silhouettes atop the hills. One after another, they multiply in every direction.

"Every time they've tried to bury me, I've risen again. They tried to bury me in the land of the dead, but for me this will be the land of the living. Not even Brittany Condon—or whoever the bitch who sent me here may be—will make me succumb in this stinking exile," Gabriel says as he comes closer.

"Did you say Brittany...? What are those things?"

"This entire region is overpopulated. Food is scarce and there isn't enough drinking water. Rat nests like Lawrence Island or the Condominiums will disappear with the next hurricane."

"That isn't true! Help! Help!" Rob screams toward every point of the compass as loudly as he can.

Gabriel shoots out a hand, seizes Rob's right wrist, and fastens a shackle covered in bells around it. That done, he gives him a hard shove, then disappears, sprinting through the heavy rain. Rob lands on his ass in the mud.

"No! Nooo, no, no! What did you put on me? Get it off! Get this fucking thing off me, you son of a bitch!" Rob screams in desperation.

Rob examines the bells clamoring on his wrist and yanks at the shackle, trying to remove it. He cannot. He scrambles to his feet and runs with everything he has. The bells ring out scandalously. Silhouettes that had stood motionless in different places suddenly race after him. He runs until he reaches the bank of a broad river of black water carrying remains, excrement, filth, refuse, and tons of every kind of garbage. Rob looks left and right. He takes a running start on the muddy bank of the polluted river, then leaps, throwing himself toward water whose current at least promises to carry him somewhere. While he is still in the air, a woman deformed by virulent blisters intercepts him.

Other silhouettes reach him as well, hurling themselves atop him one after another beneath the pounding rain. Rob releases a shrill, desperate howl as these attackers, their bodies riddled with swellings, pierce him everywhere with sharp objects. They suck the blood pouring from his wounds and bite into his flesh with frenzied violence. Rob's scream finally drowns in purple gurgles, while the bells on his wrist continue their deafening jangle.