Going Bovine

Page 23

The tree’s still burning, blooming with fire leaves. As I watch, bits of fire leap free and then, man, I must be higher than ever or my brain got banged up, because what I’m seeing now cannot be happening. Those leaves of fire grow and change, like something’s inside waiting to be born. The one closest to me evolves as quickly as one of those time-lapse photography experiments in science: the small, hunched-over form unfolds, spreads out, takes on mass, intention. It stands, stretches taller and taller, maybe seven or eight feet high. A huge, burning man with eyes black as the hole opening above us. Oh God, there’s three, four, now five of them; they burn so brightly, flames licking off their bodies like blue-orange sweat. They sweep their arms out this way and that, and where they pass, the land curls up in blackness. This makes them laugh, which is a horrible sound—like the screams of people burning to death.
One of the fire giants notices me. Our eyes lock. My blood pumps a new rhythm—runrunrunrunrun. It’s like the fire giant can sense it. Screeching, he points a fiery arm in my direction, and the heat blows me back. Holy shit. Head ringing, face sunburn-warm, I scramble for my bike and try to pedal like I’m not hurt and f**ked up. The bike wobbles, then straightens. The smell of smoke is strong in my nostrils. Behind me, I can hear that horrible screaming.
Just make it to the turnoff. That’s all. Just. Don’t. Stop.
Somebody’s standing in the road.
I hit the brakes, nearly skidding out again. It’s dark, and hard to see, but somebody’s definitely there. And he’s big.
“Hello!” The panic in my voice freaks me out. “Call the fire department!”
The guy doesn’t move.
“Hello? Can you help me?”
A sonic boom of thunder drowns me out. Lightning crackles around us, and I get a glimpse: Big dude. Black armor glistening like oil. Spiked helmet, steel visor. Sword. The light bounces off the sword in arcs that hurt my eyes. Sword. He’s got a f**king sword! Darkness falls again, and after the intense lightning, the night seems thicker than before. I can’t see, can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but breathe quick as a fish washed up on the beach, hoping to catch a wave back to safety. Lightning shreds the dark for another two seconds.
He’s gone. The road ahead’s clear.
Rain crashes down hard and fast; it spurs me into action. With my heart going punk in my chest, I tear up the road, putting as much distance as I can between me and whatever that scary weirdness was back there. Only when I’m safely around the turnoff do I look back: In the downpour, the burning fields are smoking down to charred ruins. The fire gods and the big dude are gone. And up in the sky, there’s nothing to see but clouds and rain.
The empty oblong bubble with its question-mark icon stares back at me, white and unknowing. “Trust me,” I want to tell it. “I don’t even know how to start this search.” Humungous, futuristic knight dudes standing in the middle of the road? Menacing, seven-foot-tall fire giants? Black holes over suburbia?
Maybe it was a tornado or some optical illusion or that pot was laced with some Grade-A Hydroponic Strange. Under the glare of the computer screen, I type in “bad pot experiences.” What comes up is page after page of people who’ve passed out at parties and had Asswipe written on their foreheads in permanent marker, kids who ended up getting busted by the ’rents and grounded for life. Nothing about what I’ve seen. I hit Refresh, and suddenly, a new link pops up: www.followthefeather.com. And there’s a picture of one of those weird feathers like I found in my room.
My mouth is so dry it’s like my saliva’s been burgled. Finally, I tap the bar, and the screen goes dark for a second. An image of the It’s a Small World ride comes up. The song bleeds from my speakers. A line of script floats to the middle of my screen and settles into focus: Follow the feather. Beside it is a little feather icon. I click on it, and a video clip plays.
A guy in a lab coat sits at a desk cram-packed with stuff—papers; a strange light-up toy that looks like it’s part seashell, part pinwheel, with little tubes all over it; a framed photo of a smiling lady with light hair and freckles; an old-fashioned radio. I recognize the song playing—something by the Copenhagen Interpretation. A shelf behind the guy’s head hosts an impressive snow globe collection. He leans in to adjust something on the camera, his face going blurry. Then he’s back and smiling, hands clasped.
“Hello,” he says. He has a nice voice. Soothing. It’s hard to say how old he is, older than my dad, though. He’s Asian, with long, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy black eyebrows framing eyes that seem both exhausted and surprised, like one of those people who’s seen just about everything and still can’t believe it.