Shane Jones - Crystal Eaters

“She’s red because she’s losing her final crystal,” says Remy.

One of the men turns and looks at her. “What?”

“She’s a red giant.”

“What she’s trying to say,” says Dad, “is that she needs an injection, or whatever, to increase her count.”

“Okay,” says the other man, looking so totally lost that he smiles. “Wait, what?”

The stretcher arrives. They place Mom on it and enter the hospital. Dad stays outside because he can’t stop looking at what’s happening back in the intersection, the fountain growing taller, getting louder, more people screaming. He’s completely distracted by something he’s never seen before, that no one has seen before, all that dirt blowing into the air with this thing, this yellow insect, coming up and out of it.

“Wha,” says Dad. “HOLY.”

There’s another eruption and triangular shapes of street bloom outward from inside the fountain of dirt and the yellow insect rises. It makes a high-pitched whining sound as it struggles to pull itself from the hole. Those on the ground crawl on their stomachs toward building entranceways where people scream to hurry, their heads filled with sci-fi endings. The wind shatters a bank’s ATM window. A man crouches, holds his head, looks for his ATM card with the password LIZ&MONTY. The sun bends pavement. Laughing teens run in place, the wind holding them in place as they sink into the road. The yellow insect drags itself from the hole and becomes a machine with clumps of dirt spilling around it.

“How is that,” says Dad.

Two black crystals fall off the back as the yellow machine rights itself with two final flops. The engine buckles with the changing of gears, the whine relaxes to a growl, and a part, looks like a rusty pipe, falls under a tire as the machine moves forward.

Z. is hunched over the wheel, covered in gunk, dirt still raining down all around him. A few rocks clang off the metal roof. He screams for everyone to get out of his way and swats the air wildly in front of him. The tires leave two trails of dirt clumps shaped like hexagons in the street as he drives, trying to remember where the prison is. Dad steps back, turns, and runs into the hospital.

Inside, orderlies and patients and doctors and janitors pressed to the walls allow a clear path for Dad to follow. Ahead of him is Remy. The walls are an endless smear of green. Dad has the weird expression of a man terrified but smiling, catching up to her and the wildly swerving stretcher disappearing around corners, then reappearing again and scaring old men glued to the walls, clutching their metal poles on wheels. He runs and feels himself come alive.

Doors fly open and inside are doctors with rubber-gloved hands. They turn their heads, their bodies not reacting. Free-standing fans blow hot air.

Then they take Mom in a sudden group effort. A hand grabs Remy’s wrist and she slaps it away, runs to the table where they lay Mom, but Remy is pulled back again, this time by hands all over her body.

“Easy,” says Dad.

The doctors in green move in smaller and faster packs around the room. They not only unwrap the blanket, but also put Remy on a table, who fights them off with flailing fists and feet — the feet what they are trying to inspect.

“Hey,” says Dad. “Be careful with her. Don’t touch her if she doesn’t want you to.”

Mom on the table is all bone. Her mouth is open under the white lights, her body motionless with electrical cords being attached to her red skin. There’s so many white sheets. There’s so many gray cords and clear bags with clear liquid hanging from metal rods like the old men in the hall had.

The doctors in green speak a different language.

A red light beeps in drip-like rhythm.

A black machine hooked up to Mom warms up with glowing green numbers — 76, 55, 40, 32, 80, 100, 74, 38.

Dad asks if those are what her count will be.

The doctors in green ignore him and inspect Remy’s bloodied feet with tweezers. Again Dad speaks up, doesn’t shut down, tells them to stop hurting her. Remy attacks them. She’s so strong . Remy goes limp and slides off the table and runs to the door leaving behind bloody footprints.

“Give her one hundred,” says Dad. “Please give her one hundred.”

Driving in a straight line at a steady rate of speed, oblivious to his surroundings, machine maxed out and containing black crystals, Z. leaves the intersection of screaming people, burning buildings, blowing garbage, and heads to the prison. He finds the path the Brothers previously walked and the prison comes into focus through the swirling dirt in the final sky.

The guards see him coming from the prison windows. They’ve waited for this. They run down and open the gate. Little Karl drops his book.

He stops the machine and the guards circle around and begin inspecting the crystals. The only shine to Z. is a few clean teeth in his smiling head. One guard takes a razor, peels a layer of crystal off, and places it on his tongue. He smiles, says it’s the right stuff, and Z. says as long as it’s the right stuff he’ll take them home.

Jug knocks on a crystal to hear if it’s hollow, fake. He says this must be what remains and the ground trembles. He pats the largest piece and gives Z. a thumbs up.

The Brothers exit the prison shielding their eyes. Some limp and many have bruises ringing their necks. They straighten their curved backs and stand upright in the sunlight and then they do something Z. has never experienced before: applaud. The guards, his Brothers, and the village inmates walking from the prison all clap, whistle, and shout, and Z. bows and puts a hand in the air like Okay, thank you, thank you very much, you don’t have to do this you can stop now , but he’s so overwhelmed with emotion, he’s been through so much, that his eyes fill with tears as he listens to the applause. He lets it wash over him. He notices how young the guards are. There’s admiration in their eyes, and they keep shouting his name, and one guy makes an odd hooting noise while jumping and pumping a fist, and some guards slap Z.’s back and two guards, one for each leg, try to lift him up but they’re too weak. Jug says he will be remembered forever now and the applause grows louder, seems to shake the ground. Jug will get his applause later. Z. takes another bow and smiles, this time blushing, not crying, this time thinking I did it, yes . He tries to guess the ages of the youngest guards.

Tall, scrawny, blond ponytail with top shaved head, Pants McDonovan exits the prison last. He claps and squints in the sun he hasn’t felt in years. He licks his lips and tastes dirt and to him it tastes good, real. His skin looks dented. Black pools under both eyes, no sleep. When he sees a piece of black crystal he thinks about chomping down on a big edge right there but his lungs burn as they adjust to the air and he stands with both hands on his chest.

The guards carry the crystals inside. They walk hunched over in wide stances slobbering and pushing their crotches against it. There’s enough for a lifetime and it’s what they’ll do, forever. They’ll add inmates to keep the game going. Jug thinks about the party they will throw for him with no limits on coffee or donuts.

“Saw your Dad,” says Z. “I was driving so fast and there was so much dirt and I’m so tired, but I think it was him walking into the hospital. We did it.”

“How is everything not on fire,” says Pants. “Are you sure?”

“He was standing outside the hospital next to a woman in a wheelchair.”

“My head hurts.”

“We’re going to be remembered.”

“But I don’t feel alive.”

“I never thought in a million years the black crystal existed. You should feel more than alive.”