Microdose Mountain

Blackness, then stars. Colors Henry couldn’t comprehend danced around him. A pain shot through his left leg, from ankle to hip crease, as consuming as the cosmos. Slow your thoughts, allow sensations to pass through you, breathe through the pain. The stars formed a canopy to cradle him. There had never been so many colors. Each one carried a sound. Blue was A minor: A requiem for nothing. He laughed. Blue was A minor and his pain a symphony.

If he couldn’t get the car to start he’d just hitch a ride. What was the worst that could happen? He’d get serial killed? So what? It’s not like he had a lot left to live for. He pulled off his flannel. He stood in his tank and combat shorts, using his battered flannel to wipe the sweat from his brow. He’d eaten the chocolate about an hour and a half prior. Still, mushroom dosage was an imprecise science.

Henry had known the name of the neighboring town before the shrooms kicked in. He must be pretty far from town now. And the way the trees were breathing indicated that it was going to be a hell of a ride, even if he found a ride. He hadn’t seen a car in a couple of. Hours? He had water in the car, Henry reminded himself. Damnit. He must want to live. Otherwise he’d forget the water. He wanted to forget anything to do with his human body, but the persistent pain in his leg tethered him. How had he been injured?

Sunflowers sprung up like bandits. They towered over him. Were the sunflowers talking about him? A community of elders determining his fate? The sunflowers hadn’t been there earlier. Had they? One of the sunflowers bent toward him, in confidence. Henry knew he ought to pay attention. The stars swirled.

“I didn’t know sunflowers were so active at night. I thought you only came out during the day. You’re sunflowers. It’s in your name.”

“Nothing is in a name. Names are meaningless,” the sunflower whispered.

Henry slowly made a 360. He saw no mountains. Where were the mountains? He’d hiked up a pretty steep mountain slope. He’d even fallen, reinjuring his leg. Reinjuring? What was the original injury? The stars winked out then blinked twice before rebooting. Life in the simulation. One never really knew what to expect. Disorder. Shifting landscapes and timelines. Too many colors, too little time to adapt between reboots.

On the bright side, his leg no longer hurt. Maybe it was the psilocybin. Maybe it was the reboot. He might die before he figured it out. Hell, maybe he was already dead. Although, somehow, this time something seemed. Different.

A cactus to Henry’s left confirmed, “Yes, that’s correct. I wasn’t here before. How are you in the desert? Where are the mountains? The sunflowers? It doesn’t matter. It’ll reboot again before you do.”

Henry squinted at the typed words on the prescription bottle, but they were swimming. He shoved it back into the pocket of the army jacket he didn’t remember putting on. He hadn’t owned a military jacket in years. The contents of his car flashed through his mind once again: heaps of clothes, bottles of water, weapons, pictures of his daughter. Wait. He could remember the license plate number, but not the make and model of his car.

Before he could give it more consideration, a figure appeared on the horizon. The cactus was no longer there. Just as well, it hadn’t been very helpful. The approaching figure was bipedal. It moved like a human. Henry held up a hand and waved awkwardly. The figure didn’t return the gesture, it merely persisted in its forward motion.

Henry relaxed into his Tai Chi posture, standing straight with his tailbone and chin slightly tucked, a microbend in his knees. Sarge would call him into activity duty any moment. Gunfire in the distance. An explosion. He'd be behind enemy lines within a few hours.

“Better off practicing hand to hand drills while you wait,” Sarge grunted.

Henry knew he meant Krav Maga or Muay Thai, but he preferred the meditative quality of Tai Chi.

“You’re too soft, you’ll never make it out alive,” Sarge taunted.

Henry glanced down at the prescription bottle again, inexplicably in hand. The typed words no longer swam, but appeared to be petroglyphs.

“He overdosed you. You think that was an accident?” Sarge asked.

“It’s the simulation, not the psilocybin,” the cactus smirked.

An urgent tug at his sleeve, the horizon figure was upon him. His nose was crooked and flat. Broken too many times. The horizonman’s skin was burnt sienna, and he was wearing a makeshift turban tied Romani style. Glitch or psilocybin? Henry hated the dessert. God he was thirsty.

“Man up,” Sarge barked.

Horizonman rolled his eyes, echoing Henry’s sentiment: Sarge could be an absolute prick. Horizonman wordlessly handed Henry a canteen. After the briefest of contemplations, Henry obliged, taking the smallest sip his thirst would permit. Horizonman nodded, touching Henry’s elbow, indicating he drink more. The water was impossibly fresh and cool. The man nodded. The cactus laughed.

Irritated, Henry turned his attention to Horizonman, “You got a name?”

The man shrugged, “Whatever name you give me.”

Fine. Be as obtuse as the cactus.

“What happened to you?”

Henry laughed, “What hasn’t happened? Abuse, accidents, war, friendly fire, unfriendly fire, drug deals gone wrong, drug deals gone right. The usual. Why?”

“Because you’re losing a lot of blood. I mean, look,” with an exaggerated gesture.

“Dang. That’s messed up. Why don’t I feel anything?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Blank stare.

“You’re bleeding out, man.”

Blank stare.

“You’re dying.”

“We’re all dying, every second.”

#

A familiar sound. From another timeline. Roaring; squealing. Bright white lights, humming, buzzing, frantic motion. People shouting urgently. Was he behind enemy lines? Maybe his copter had been hit? Or his parachute hadn’t deployed?

“Hey? Stay with me. Do you know your name?”

Henry attempted to rattle off his name, rank, and serial number, but that only caused the hot liquid in his throat to bubble and froth.

“Listen, you’ve lost a lot of blood. You need a transfusion. Your leg has multiple fractures, but we need to take care of your head wound first. We’re taking you to the OR now.”

“Doctor, I think it’s a bullet wound,” from the attending nurse.

“It is.”

All eyes turned to Horizonman, “I shot him. 40 caliber, Glock 22, standard issue. One shot; I grazed his temple. He’s lucky, I was shooting to kill. He ran off, took a nasty tumble down the cliff onto the road and got hit by a car. The driver absconded before I made it down the slope, but I got the plate: Alpha Charlie 719-28 Bravo Delta.”

Complete silence. They rushed Henry into the OR, but the nurse who’d identified Henry’s injury as a gunshot wound lingered.

“Why bring him in? If you were shooting to kill?”

Horizonman shrugged, “I admired his moxy.”

“We’re going to need to get a statement. We’ll need you to wait here until the police arrive.

What’s your name?”

“Names are meaningless. But he called me Sarge.”

#

Detective Nawa threw the file on Sargeant Buford’s desk. Buford picked up the folder and opened it. Atop a pile of documents, a picture of a severe looking man in military attire stared at him with dead eyes.

“Sergeant Kaktis. What am I looking at here?” He asked as he rummaged through the paperwork.

Before he could read the details, Nawa summed up, “He was dishonorably discharged three years ago for the unlawful assault of one of the rangers, Souffleur, in his squad. Huge scandal.”

Buford held up a paper almost entirely blacklined with redactions, “He attacked one of his own men? ” scratching his head, “There’s bound to be more to the story. What else do we know?”

“Not much. Yet. But take a look at this,” Nawa replied, pulling up a photo on his phone,

“This is Ranger Souffleur.”

Buford cocked his head, “Is that our mountain man?”

“That’s right. And the man who brought him in, identified only as Sarge, evidently touched the glass door on his way out. CSI lifted dozens of prints,” Nawa paused to amp the suspense.

“Don’t tell me we actually have a suspect?”

“Suspect. Or possible witnesses. Someone we urgently need to locate, in either case. Guess who two of the prints belonged to.”

“Sarge Kaktis,” Buford concluded, “Well, looks like we’re headed back to Sisters of Mercy. Any word on the vic’s status? Or sign of our alleged hit and run vehicle?”

“Nothing yet - on either. No match on the plate numbers, and we’re still trying to locate next of kin. It appears both of Souffleur’s parents are deceased. No siblings, but there’s an estranged wife and daughter out there somewhere. Matter of time.”

“Right, let’s head to Sisters, see if we can trace a path back to the mountain. I’d also like to have a chat with the attending surgeon, see if the vic’s injuries track with a hit and run. Maybe our ranger will wake up soon and be able to give a statement.”

Nawa’s phone rang: Sisters of Mercy.

“Detective Nawa. Yes. Yes,” Heavy sigh, “Ok. Thanks for letting us know. Really? OK. Well, we’re headed that way now.”

Nawa looked perplexed, “He didn’t make it. But it wasn’t the head injury. The doctor thought we’d want to discuss the toxicology report. Apparently our ranger had an entire apothecary in his system, but none of the drugs they found were his prescribed antipsychotics. They also found some suspicious injuries. His words.”

“Suspicious injuries? Alright then, let’s grab a coffee on the way. It’s gonna be a long one.”

He gazed back down at the picture of Kaktis, “What the hell happened out there, Sergeant?”