Jonas and the Werefish

Probably a thousand poets have said poetry about how good times end or where dreams come to die or even maybe when the shit hits the fan you want to be behind the blades and not in front of them... or whatever... but Jonas didn’t care about any of that... When he came to the railroad crossing at the edge of Fickle Creek he could not drive over it and get into the town in order to thusly then seek out the mannequin factory because a locomotive had derailed and totally and completely blocked the crossing irretrievably. And there was no other route that he could find on his map to get him to the mannequin factory so he could rescue Iris Vandertrout.

There had been a collision, which most reasonably occurred because the engineer died at the wheel and could not brake the train to prevent the impact that twisted the caboose off the track before it stopped about 100 feet further along with what appeared to be a school bus gnarled up in its cowcatcher.

It was weird: Jonas standing there looking upon the wreckage, remembered all of the train derailments and chemical spills across the country before the advent of the Visitors from extraterrestrial space. Was there a connection? Were all the derailments and chemical spills part of the plan to wipe out humankind? He remembered that many people articulated a profound belief that their own government manufactured the tragedies that poisoned the drinking water, sabotaged the quality of the air, and decimated the health of its citizenry: and many blamed it on the Russians. But he had no time to stop and solve the mysteries of the universe and the ills of humankind. The swelling in his leg from the rattlesnake bite had become worse again and feverish. He was confident the Alien Visitors were following him, that they were camouflaging their flying saucers with clouds and even the sky itself. And to make things worse, the deep bluish pork pie hat, dark welder goggle-wearing, non-gender terrorists in long oilskin dusters like the old cowboys in the movies appeared suddenly on the scene and proceeded to unload crates of canned goods from one of the box cars that lay on its side.

“Hey! Hey!” he yelled at them. The purple pork pie hat-wearing, non-gender terrorist-looking individuals took off running sort of blunderous- but amazingly fast. Jonas marveled that even though they were relatively small critters and looked clownish that they must’ve been incredibly strong because it only required a couple of them to haul an entire crate, which he figured was filled with food.

It was not incumbent upon Jonas to chase down the kooky-looking creatures but; to find Iris Vandertrout, leave town as quickly as possible, and return to the auto-wrecking yard he called home: or maybe get some rest first before returning to the security of his compound. His mind was a mess: while he considered rolling the tow truck down to the boxcars that had spilled out crates of food or electronic or medical supplies onto the ground beside the tracks, he knew his energy was fading fast. He was hungry, tired, and afraid that the poison in his leg was affecting his judgment and that he was no longer tenacious enough for an extended marathon. He’d begun to feel so physically weak and mentally ineffective that he wasn’t confident he was hearty enough to complete the mission and rescue the only woman he knew to be left living on planet earth.

He had no alternative but to find a way across the tracks. And as much as he didn’t like the idea of driving the tow truck alongside the rails to the crash site and going around the wreckage and then circling back to the road into Fickle Creek, it was likely the best plan. There was a wide enough path of gravel and earth subgrade that the tow truck could easily handle the short drive to the spot where the caboose and school bus had dragged each other to a screeching halt. He didn’t want to see the bodies of dead school kids. Even though there were typically no dead bodies in any of the wrecks he’d seen in his travels since the world ended, he had witnessed the corpse of the trucker in the eighteen-wheeler before he arrived in town, so it was possible, if not likely, that he would discover corpses. And that was another reason he didn’t want to drive around the point of impact.

Unfortunately, he would witness the bodies of school kids killed in the accident. The bus had rolled onto its top. And many of the glass windows had shattered out, and many of the kids, teenagers it would appear by gazing upon their mummies, were still strapped into their seats and hanging upside down. Many of the corpse’s arms had extended straight down in such an odd way that it made Jonas think that had they been right side up, they would appear to be cheering at a sports event or participating in a group wave.

“Why are the Visitors, now leaving dead bodies for me to see,” he thought, “especially the corpses of teenage kids? They are fucking with my head,” he thought, “messing with my mind.”

And at that exact moment, the red lights on the railroad crossing sign lit up and the bell to announce the approach of a train began to ding and the orange and white striped bars that lower to block the tracks attempted to fall into position but were unable to because of the damage that had been caused to the by the crash. And a voice came suddenly out of the speaker of the CB radio.

“Hello... Hello... are you there?” came the voice of Iris Vandertrout. “It’s me, Iris! Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Jonas said quickly snatching up the handheld microphone. “I can hear you.”

“Oh my God,” Iris said. “They’ve done something to me!”

“What?” Jonas said. “What have they done to you?”

“It’s horrible,” she said, “too horrible! Why would they do something like this?!”

“Listen,” Jonas said. “You said you had a cellphone still, Give me the number and I can call you and then track you.”

“Track me?” she said.

“I’m here,” he said, “in Fickle Creek.”

“Fickle Creek?” she said. “I don’t know where you’re talking about?”

“It’s where the Aliens are holding you captive,” he said. “I’ve figured it out but I don’t know where the mannequin factory is and if you give me your cellphone number I can track your cellphone.”

“No,” she said, half sobbing, half screaming. “I don’t want you to see me like this. No!”

And with that, the radio transmission dropped.

It was not a loss of electricity in Fickle Creek like it had been before. The red railroad crossing warning lights continued to flash and the nub of one of the bars that lowered and rose across the tracks appeared to be trying to raise or lower itself again. And Jonas could see other lights ahead on the street ahead that seemed to lead into the heart of Fickle Creek.

Iris Vandertrout had chosen to end the conversation.“What did they do to her?” he asked himself aloud. Mister Pig grunted as if the question had been directed at him.

“What could be so terrible that she would choose to live here in solitude and likely die?” Jonas said. “Unless they are feeding her and keeping her alive maybe to... experiment on her... which it sounds like they already have.”

Mister Pig grunted again in agreement.

Jonas felt his energy suddenly return, the hero in him revitalize. And even though he didn’t know exactly where he was going, he was going to save the day. Somehow, he was going to figure it all out and save the day.

The CB radio crackled and sparked to life again.

“They’ve been feeding me minnows I think,” she said.

“Minnows?” Jonas repeated.

“Like you use for bait when you go fishing,” she said. “I used to go fishing with my father and brother. I think the mannequin factory is near a bait shop. Because they’ve been feeding me fresh minnows and...” her voice trailed off, “...worms.”

“Worms?” Jonas said.

“Yeah,” she said, “like you use for bait when you go fishing.”