Free Dislocated by Max Andrew Dubinsky Page B

myself for fear of losing consciousness. I rip the jacket from my head because I can’t help but vomit—right onto the jeans bunched around the ankles where I’m sure the keys are hidden. I slip, falling to my knees, flies crawling in my ears and through my hair. I can feel them burrowing beneath my skin, already laying eggs. I push myself from the floor, stumble back. I run from the restroom for the second time today, relieving myself of the chips and soda I only recently consumed.
    I wipe the bile from my lips. 
    I stand when I’m good and ready. The smell from the facilities is everywhere.  I return to the Honda, pop the trunk. I strip naked, leaving my clothes on the ground, changing into fresh jeans, a clean t-shirt. I grab a thick, black jacket better fit for bitter winter days because I can’t stop shaking. I tell myself it’s because of the smell. Because I just threw up. Because I seem to be the only living, breathing human being left on the planet.
    I don’t tell myself I’ve finally caught whatever killed everyone else.
    That maybe I’m not immune after all.
    I close the trunk. If I ever want to get out of here, I have to get those keys.
    I pace around for a few more minutes. And in this useless task I notice the tires on the truck: they’re flat. 
    All four of them.
    I try to remember if they were flat when I broke in, but I cannot recall. I’m positive they weren’t. You would notice a thing like that, wouldn’t you?
    I look around, spinning in circles, that sickening feeling of being watched crawling through my bones again.
    Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightening tears through the clouds, ripping open the seams, spilling their insides upon the earth.
     
    I stand near the payphone stationed next to the vending machine and men’s room for shelter against the rain, but I’m still getting wet. I can’t stop shaking even though it’s still seventy degrees.
    I think of Valerie.
    I think of Leslie.
    Ma.
    Dad.
    My brother, Russell, in New York.
    I think about dialing random numbers on the payphone until I get someone. Then I’m thinking I should have brought along some quarters.
    I pick the phone up and slam it against the receiver over and over until I’m certain I’ve broken it.
    I contemplate death, and life, and family, and I contemplate that I might be the only person left contemplating anything at all.
    I close my eyes, begging for sleep. And for the first time since Valerie left, it’s coming easy. With my back against the wall, I slide to the cold concrete, lowering my head, my hands in my pockets and my chin against my chest to help control the shakes. The collar of my jacket popped to help keep out the rain.
    And I sleep.
     
    The pay phone rings.
     
    Seven rings before I’m on my feet.
    “Hello?”
    My voice is exasperated, defeated, yet so full of hope.
    Nothing.
    No one. Not even a breath.
    “Hello? Hello? Hello?”
    My heart sinks. My stomach sinks lower.
    I’m dreaming.
    Certainly I am dreaming.
    I go to place the phone back on the receiver when I hear: “Is this William Alan Scott?”
    It’s hard to hear over the weather. This could be the rain talking for all I know.
    “William Alan Scott,” the voice says again. “Is this with whom we are speaking?”
    I say yes because I don’t know what else to say at all.
    “William Alan Scott, son of Judith and Roger Scott of 758 Jaguar Drive?”
    Yes!
    “William Alan Scott, graduate of Kent State University with a Bachelor’s of Science in business and computer programming? Winner of the Annual Brighton Falls Science Fair four consecutive years?  The William Alan Scott accused and arrested but never convicted of computer crimes against the N.S.A.?”
    Yes! Yes! And no fucking comment.
    I pinch myself until I draw blood.
    I want answers. “Now who are you? Where are you? Everyone here is dead! Everyone I love is gone! What is happening, what is happening, what is happening?”
    There’s a muffled sound, like someone is