the tree and the dust chapter 9

http://blownbrown.blogspot.com/2010/03/dead-have-faces-automobiles.html

new van related post over at blownbrown




Chapter 9

The Ecoraseur anti-evolution ship, sat in a puddle of it’s own filth ~an atmosphere of ruined ships, worlds, satellites, men, bodies, globules of water, blood, piss, whole swirling menagerie of things once broken, set enflame, ripped across the sky, like a black shit, a blunt two edged knife, battle scarred, bent, ruptured, mangled and falling apart, flat black against the night, all nights, with twin lightning bolt insignias, flashing in neon crack, wings, engine, pods antennae, huge trailing globes, like chains, sparkling in starlight, thundering motor roar, sub arc, doppled explosions of atmospheric tears
Within, this great deathly destroyer, slightly wavering, at the very rubicon of demise, three men like things stand in perfect yellow spot light, one tapping a foot, one crossing and uncrossing thick uniformed arms, the third, rubbing it’s face,
Ghouls, in tattered uniform, flesh like swamp primed meat, grey, sagging, checks pulling on brown clotted eyelids, hang open, pink with wet yellowed eye, stretched red weep
Helmets propped on shoulders, gutted, punctured, stained,
Around these three men like things, the deck, fizzled, popped and creaked, lights flickered on and off
We really must find something to destroy
The foot taper whispers and the other two turn their heads,
Yes, in agreement, they’d been sweeping this system for years of weeks, had killed millions of baby plankton but nothing more, nothing with any weight to it, nothing important had died at their ships command and they grew bored
I’m bored the face rubbing man, whines, lets go, lets go, we gotta roll out roll out.

While behind them seated on the black pitted decking a small clan of hominids huddled, and spoke a language three million years old which sounded like wind brushed off the back of starlings, like pebbles being slowly tumbled down creek beds, like swaying grasses against august’s combustible clouds~
"We should bury this dead crew~" the female hominid whispers, hands dancing towards her hair combed straight back and slick with color~
"Our ship is too slow to follow the Other~"
'This ship will infect us~ look at these humans, dead things on legs, their eyes blinded~ this ship, a museum of shit ~ I agree we should leave these creatures, but, only after~"

"We’ll follow you, from our homeships, we will join your hunt~" standing, the small clan speaks, stares at the backs of three greasy, crawly, scabbed out heads and necks wrinkled space suits, primitive, painted a faded green patina of arcane design and age. Who jump startled~
The display screens beyond, flickering, image racked, pop, and sizzle, blips and alerts,
The three men like things, decomposing, turn quickly then, like starving ballerina,
Your leaving, already, we could find you something to wear, we might have some more space suits, we’ll dig around, wait, have dinner with us~
The three men like things all let their eyes fall down in awe at the group of naked warriors, men and women, in paint and oils, hair perfectly combed back, muscles bulged over wide shoulders, brown skinned, thick boned, well hung, nipples like knives~ a beautiful people, calm, empty handed,
You came naked, and weaponless
Let us give you clothes and weapons~ you can stay in our gardens~
"We are born this way, we die this way, weapons are for the weak, a weapon will not save you~
Our ship wait’s the children must be feed~"
You will follow us then, yes, yes, we gotta go can you keep up, you have to tell us~ we don’t want to loose you~ you smell delicious
"We shall follow, this hunt is very important to us~" this collective is serious and the pack of hominids turns and flash, a few steps taken, a sidestep, a twist and they disappear
How do they do that ? One man says
How did they get on our ship ? Another ponders, running hands along control knobs
What people are they ? Are they us ?
While the great black splash carbon painted ship buckles beneath their feet and they stand on deck consulting with computation device, studying screen, grown dim, cobwebbed, watching feed of live action, empty halls, chambers, passage
I think they are still on board

But outside the greasy slick hull, the clan, crawls under Green leaf clam shell hatch, lays down and grabs a thick stalk like handle, nine hominids, on a bumpy stick, like a broom freshly carved and sewn, sweeps out and away, swirling, erratic, unseen, a blip than winks and is gone~

We’ll search the ship from beginning to end~ Try to find theirs, where could it float ?
We’ll use the Machine, if we have to~
Yeahs, we shall, the one who rubs the face says and thinks of the smells still wafting along the stagnant air like stratus, layers of life itself
The one who rubs his face, raises his head and turns, tries to smile, and uses a hand to push the flesh, the others at controls, brittle plastics, aged crumbled, drool, and look at vid and pix of haunted hallways, empty rooms, still pads and hangers, a ship full of ghosts, quietly looking for life
and now, invaded by animals~ who smell like flowers and creek beds, honey dew and blood~

yes, one has stayed behind~ the once man thinks turning to viewers plump with palimpsest smeared stars