Sedona AZ (April 1, 2015) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal, and reproduced exactly as it was written, by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhōg’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 16 –

It was sometime around two in the morning when I returned to Russ’s place.

Opening the door, Russ took one look at me and asked, “That bad…?”

“Well, ya know,” I replied as Russ turned and walked into his kitchen. Following, I closed the door behind me. Russ set two shot glasses on the table with a whack, then went to a living room bookshelf and grabbed a bottle of Mezcal stashed behind some hardbacks.

“I see how you are, mate,” I said with sarcasm, “so what authors did you have hiding your booze?”

Holding up the square bottle of golden numbness, he answered, “This, my friend, was directly behind Alan Watts, David Hawkins and Earnest Holmes,” and pulled the cork with its oh so familiar hint of a pop.

“Well, I can sure use a few ounces of that philosophy. It’s been a rough few days.”

Russ poured the Mezcal. “I know it has mate, I know it has.”

“Sometimes I never stop to think about it, I just keep plowing through,” then accepted his proffered shot.

“That’s what we do, mate, that’s what we do…” Russ held up his shot glass and toasted, “To all things bad…Mezcal!”

“To all things good as well!” I rejoined.

We threw back the liquid that promised to erase our pain, if only for a little while.

As the alcohol began to unearth time capsules of memory, I examined the contents. “Remember old Danny from the SAS? This reminds me of the last drink I had with him. We had just spent four days holed up in Baghdad waiting to light that target.”

“To Dead Eye Danny!” Russ exclaimed, pouring us another drink.

We lifted our glasses, “Danny Shelton!”

“Cheers!” I added and threw back the shot.

Russ tapped his empty shot glass against his forehead, “Righto! He had that kid with Aspergers…effing genius that fellow.”

After a brief recall attempt, I answered, “Yea…Billy…Billy Shelton, the kid who could hack any computer!”

“Remember when he’d hack into MI5?”

We laughed together.

“Which time?” I asked, reaching for the Mezcal. “And every time he’d make that huge pop up banner saying Billy Shelton is the best!”

“Man, did they get pissed at Danny,” Russ chuckled, thinking back on his own memories.

“God rest his soul,” I said as our laughter faded away.

Russ poured another round and, before downing the shot, added quietly, “Yes. God rest his soul.” Lost in our pasts, we just sat there for a while, neither saying anything while sipping our drinks.

Breaking the silence, Russ looked at me and asked, “What’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Thinking for a moment, I replied, “Hell. I don’t know Russ. Why?”

“Remember that time we were sent to the Ukraine for training?”

“Yea, that was when you found out your dame back home was effing around on you.”

“Yep, that was the time.” Russ nodded.

“She did you a favor.”

“After I found out I decided to hike out in the country a bit, blow off some steam…” Russ slowly spun his shot glass on the table. “I was way the eff out in the middle of nowhere, deep in the forest, when I came across something that I cannot possibly describe in enough detail to convey what I saw.” He looked up at me, his drink now forgotten. I nodded back and quietly refilled our glasses.

“I was deep in the woods, alone with my thoughts when I noticed a tattered overcoat within the underbrush. I went to explore and discovered what was left of a body wearing a surplus WWII German Army greatcoat and trousers, the bones were scattered about and weathered with time. Staring at the scene in front of me, the feeling of silence was a fist in my throat. Looking up, a raven flew between the forests branches that were reaching out to each other…” He tilted his head back and poured the Mezcal down his gullet. “The trees were reaching out to each other,” he repeated. “Turning back to the remains I spotted another piece of clothing roughly fifteen yards away, walking over to it…it was the same vintage and also German Army issue. It too contained another set of remains…that was when I noticed yet another set of remains, and then another and another. I was surrounded by a bloody sea of dead bodies all wearing WWII uniforms. I’d stumbled across a forgotten battlefield…” Russ grabbed the bottle, poured another shot and threw it back, “I never spoke a word of it to anyone…” his voice faded off.

Breaking the silence I asked, “Bloody Hell. Do you think they’re still out there?”

“I suppose. I doubt anyone’s been back there.” Russ poured another round.

I changed the subject. “You know what you said earlier, that bit about our life being a twenty four hour clock?”

“Yea, what of it?”

“It got me thinking. A few weeks ago I was at the YMCA, pumping iron, having a great effing workout, keeping to myself and jamming to tunes on the iPhone. Finishing with an hour left before they closed, I grab a basketball and go to the gym to shoot some hoop. As soon as I entered the court, I saw an elderly Asian man landing shots left, right, and center. He’s roughly 5’6”, gray thinned hair, and a face that’s seen a lot of life. The old timer spots me right off and flags me to share his hoop, gesturing his right hand in a “come this way” motion. His wife is on the bench alongside the court, smiling as she watches her husband. We take turns shooting, we each have our own ball. I’m not dialed in and make miss, after miss, after miss…”

“I’m not surprised, mate!” Russ interrupted with a grin.

I ignored him and continued, “…while this old fellow is ‘nothing but net’ from half court. He stops for a minute, sweat running down his face, and looks up at me with grey eyebrows framing eyes rich in patina. ‘Me, seventy six’ he says with a smile, finger pointing at his chest. I’m cracking up with respect for this guy and told him how I was thirty eight, half his age and he was kicking my butt. He just nods, still smiling from ear to ear. I introduced myself and when we shake, he replies that his name is Bill. Over the next thirty minutes, Bill makes incredible shots while I’m landing one for every five of his. It’s so bad that when I do make a shot his wife stands up and cheers for me, giving me a thumbs up that she shakes high in the air! I’m having a blast getting the shit beat out of me at the hoop by Bill. We’re all laughing, me cringing sometimes as I miss stupid easy shots, but it’s really a fun time. Bill’s wife is beaming, just radiating the love she has for her husband who is making short order of someone half his age. You know she’s thinking, “My man is good!” and is going to tell all her friends about Bill’s performance on the court. I want to be like Bill when I’m seventy six, all spry like that with my beautiful wife Reegan cheering me on.”

I turned to Russ.

“It’ll happen, mate!” he slurred, adding again, “It’ll happen, mate.”

Tossing back the last of the Mezcal and holding the empty shot glass to examine it, I murmured, “Let’s hope so.”

My phone woke me the next morning. It was Russ.

“Hello, mate.”

“’Ello sleeping beauty,” he replied.

“Where are you?”

“I wanted to lose the phone rather than keep it another night in the RF blocking pouch.”

“Lose it?”

“Since we know they’re using it to track you, I stashed it in the clubhouse of our favorite biker gang,” Russ chuckled.

“What? You’re gonna piss off the wrong fellows. I know most of those guys.”

“No worries, mate. I clued them in, told them it was a favor you needed and the twenty large I grabbed from your sea bag seemed to seal the deal.”

“Sea bag…right.” The prior night’s events were coming into focus.

“Whoever comes knocking won’t be knocking anymore,” he said.

“Way to go, mate. I need to recon the Gear Jammer. Tristan’s gonna be there tonight…have you heard of the place?”

“Hell yea, it’s a greasy spoon in Coquitlam. If you can wait a couple hours, I’ll go with you.”

“I can’t wait, my friend, there’s too much to do. Can you keep the sea bag for me?”

“Of course.”

“Grab what’s owed and grab some for Greg…better double that as an advance,” I sighed. “I’ll be needing some more help on this one.”

“Will do.”

After a hot shower at Russ’s place, noting he had the best water pressure to soothe a hangover, I was soon dressed and out the door. Stopping at the Lonsdale Quay for breakfast before catching the sea bus, I rode transit into Coquitlam. Forty minutes later I was surveying the Gear Jammer site. Then, eff if I know what happened, someone turned my lights out.

I heard the unmistakable purr of an air-cooled Volkswagen engine and incorporated it into my dream. The noise was beautiful. It sounded like a harp, those valves singing a sweet chorus as they clamored away. And then I came to…on a cold hard cement floor.

With a throbbing skull, I gingerly raised my head, opened my eyes and tried to piece things together as the VW could be heard hauling off in the distance.

“FUCK!” I cursed out loud. Gently laying my pounding head back on the floor, I stared up at the ceiling. It was cement, painted white and peeling in large flakes, like the skin on the back of a Montreal tourist returning from a week in Cuba. “How did I get here?” I asked it, raising hands to face, needing the throbbing to stop.

Wondering what day it was now, I tried recalling the day at the Gear Jammer. Closing my eyes, I felt the coolness of the floor flow into my ear and, before going back to sleep, told the hovering cement, “Fuck you! My head hurts.”

I awoke sometime later, this scenario was a bad dream. Sitting up on the cold hard floor, I began to assess the situation and examine my new accommodations in greater detail. The cell was constructed out of cinder block and covered with a thick layer of whitewash. The walls held a shiny glaze of a film from floor level up to about five feet high. Trying not to think about what had made the glaze, I realized it had accumulated over decades of tenants. It smelled of a faintly sweet odor like old piss, although it wasn’t a heavy overtaking smell, but you certainly knew it was there and that, true enough, it was old piss.

Standing, I made my way to the lone bunk bed which had a frame built from steel, also painted white. Each bunk frame cradled four wood slats which supported the mattresses, old mattresses with thin dark stripes running lengthwise and now stained yellow. I assumed the stripes used to be blue and shuttered to question the source of the stains. A tattered grey cotton blanket was neatly folded at the foot of each bunk.

The far wall revealed a barren stainless steel toilet and a sink, perched beneath a small barred window which faced an alley running behind the compound. There was no seat on the toilet, nor were there any provisions for one. You simply sat on the brim when it was time to do your business, helped by the half roll of toilet paper atop the edge of the sink.

I stood at the bunk in dismay for several minutes, scrutinizing the characteristics of the cell, making a mental map of everything, placement and dimensions. It had to be second nature, clearly etched into my psyche.

Suddenly, I caught the scent of clean, fresh air. Turning towards the waft, I discovered it was creeping in from the small window, a reminder that all was not lost. The window was roughly eight feet off of the floor, so I climbed up onto the sink to peer out and breathe in the fresh air. The view from the small opening revealed typical dirt and filth of a small town alley bathed in the pure light from a midday sun.

Opposite my window lay the shell of an old Chevy truck that had been burned out and marked with graffiti. The vehicle was stripped of absolutely everything; fenders, truck-bed, all the glass, the doors, the interior, it was all gone and tall grass had risen through its floorboards.

My gaze was distracted by a human voice outside the door, but away, as if down a corridor. I was in a jail or prison. I turned my ear to hear the muted ramblings of another man talking to himself, from what must be the other end of a cell block. He was speaking in Russian and varying his volume, speed and tempo, in random patterns, undoubtedly the whole lot was gibberish no matter what language it was in.

Returning to the bunk, I sat on its bottom edge going over every detail of the cell and filing it away once more. After what seemed like several hours, I became antsy and climbed the sink to peer out the window again. My heart felt for the old truck, all used up and forgotten, and it crossed my mind that it might be just how I would end up.

Staring through the small opening, thoughts of the truck were pushed aside by thoughts of Reegan and her deep green eyes, eyes that I get lost in when we lie together facing one another. I thought about Shugo and his shit grin which he dishes out in second helpings. I thought about my life and all its close calls. I thought of Russ and his philosophy, of Greg and his always well articulated moves regarding everything he did. Climbing down, I returned to the bunk.

The door opened. This was my chance to make a play. The hulk obstructing my only exit stood well over six feet. I was gonna kill him. Then the sound of compressed air being released. A dart had been launched. A red plumed dart. It was stuck in my right pectoral. Any chance to escape vanished as my body dropped to the mattress.

I woke up in a brightly lit room seated on a wooden chair, my hands shackled and resting on a square oak table in front of me. A voice spoke slowly, a German accent overpowering his English like too much salt in the soup, sounding to me in the fog like “Dis is vut yew hav to look forverd too…” The voice seemed to be attached to a man wearing a white lab coat and thick black framed glasses. He motioned, and a nurse entered the room carrying a flat black plastic case roughly the size of a big pencil box.

The bird was stunning, tall with shoulder length blond hair. Our eyes locked for a millisecond like the brief flash of a mirror in the desert, but it was all the time needed to see the despair within her heart. Stopping beside me, I watched her remove the top of the container and tuck it beneath the bottom to nest together. The box held a single syringe, with a short needle. The fluid inside the syringe had the opacity of diluted milk.

“Don’t move!” he ordered, raising his eyes to the guard who had traded his dart gun for a Kalashnikov, its barrel now to my head.

“Do it!” the German belted to the nurse and adding for me, “Yew vill tell us evree thing!” I felt the prick of the needle and the sting of its venom surging into my bloodstream. Then it was done. I looked at the nurse again, she appeared different, empty and hollow. I passed out.

“Vaek up! Vaek up!” a voice screamed as a bucket of water was tossed over me. I opened my eyes to see a fuzzy figure barking at me. Squinting to focus, my eyes peered right at the German doctor, but my mind was drifting. This was going to be difficult. I questioned my own thoughts.

“If you’re going through Hell, keep going…” I said abruptly.

“Vut did you say?”

“I didn’t. Sir Winston Churchill said it. I believe he kicked your ass in World War II. Fuck I’m stoned, but I can take these two,” I said aloud. “Will you survive?”I asked and answered, “Yes, I will.” My eyes closed to the blur of the man in front of me.

“Tell us where you put the bio weapon?” the Russian screamed. He was the man holding the AK-47.

“VER IS DA VEAPON! VE VANT DA VEAPON!” I screamed back imitating the German’s thick accent. Behind closed eyes, I continued to somersault into the warm pleasure of the unknown, drugs percolating throughout my body.

Facing straight ahead, eyes still closed, I continued talking, “The desert is brown. Not a deep dark brown but a faded and aged brown, if aged is even proper for me to say? Each step in the desert strikes away thousands of tiny islands from a universe of islands and your step violates them all…well not all of them!…”

“RHŌG!” the AK-47 Russian screamed.

My head was slammed to the table. With a huge flash of white, it bounced once. The moment propagated, my eyes rolled up and I was unconscious.

Waking up, my face rested on a sheet of paper as my eyes started to focus on the profile of an orange shape, it was a disposable ball paint pen. A voice yelled “RHŌG!” and a man whistled and snapped to get my attention. My eyes opened to see three fuzzy figures, blurs of green and black, faces and uniforms. One of the distorted shapes nodded and then left. Another yanked my head back.

“Look at me!” the Russian screamed, clenching a thick slab of rubber that trembled in his fist. The hit came out of nowhere and knocked my head sideways, though I felt little pain as the drugs numbed everything. My heavily ladened eyelids were firm like steel shutters, sliding down.

“Have it urr vay!” the German doctor said.

My eyes focused on him. Beginning to regain composure, I replied, “I know nutting Colonel Clink!” My head listed, then flipped up as I compensated, throwing it to the opposite side. I was groggy, my face hurt. Just then I felt another needle sink into my arm.

“Dat’s frum da vial yew ver carrying,” the German announced.

“You are now infected with Ebola! Tell us where you hid the rest of the vials and we’ll give the antidote,” the Russian added.

I let my mind run. I still wasn’t in full control. My voice said, “I saw men wearing tall thin purple hats, their faces were dark blue, like hues of light in deep water, deep water scares me a bit..” then, looking at the two men I paused before continuing, “…their eyes were piercing as they stared at me, but the tall hats were gone. And then I saw a dog standing at attention…although he was actually sitting right next to them. I think he had a little helmet on as well, looked like he winked at me. It was quite odd…”

“He’s tew gone!” The German in the white lab coat exclaimed.

I opened my eyes and began to sing, “He’s too gone… he’s too gone… he’s too gone…baby he’s toooooooo gone…..” imitating the American singer Carole King. “I’m gonna say it again…!”

“How kon vee werk vith dis?” the doctor turned and spoke to the Russian behind him.

“He’s too gone… he’s too gone… he’s too gone…baby, he’s toooooooo gone…..!”

“See vut I mean?” the doctor said with disgust.

“We can work with this! SHULTZ VAIR ARE YEW?” I screamed as loud as I could. Impaired by drugs, somehow my brain was beginning to function, like grabbing hold of the line to a boat that had drifted too far away.

“We can work with this…” I thought while slumping over with eyes closed. I pretended to be dreaming. I thought of rushing them now, but no I would wait. I was still too dopey and the longer the wait, the more I came down from the drugs. My slumped head bobbed, chin pressed to chest. I could feel the sharp tips of my whiskers prickly on my neck.

“I’m going to kill you!” I thought waiting for my mind to thaw.

“What did you say?” the Russian stopped what he was doing and walked toward me, wiping his hands with a white towel.

“Fuck! Did I say that out loud?” I questioned in my head.

“Fuck! Did I just say that out loud also?” I panicked.

I could see the doctor staring at me in disbelief, slowly following the Russian towards me.

“What did you say?” The Russian repeated his question still wiping his hands with the towel. I exhaled slowly, swiveled my head up, and opening my eyes calmly said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Faster than I remember moving, I clutched the orange ballpoint pen from the table with my shackled hands. Seizing the pen, I stood and drove it forward. I could feel it sliding out the bottom of my clenched fist as it entered the Russian’s left eye socket.

Glaring at him, he quivered for a moment as if frozen in time, falling backwards like a timbered fir tree. I stared into his eyes and observed his descent into hell. Watching him slip back, the pen left his eye socket. A white and red marbled jelly mass oozed from the cratered shell. I instantly stepped above the falling man to find the doctor not screaming, just gaping at me with a ghastly look on his face, hands in a half clenched position. I pounced on him and drove the pen into his eye socket, though this time I withdrew it and drove it right back in.

“IT VEELS TINGLY!” I screamed as he clinched his arms and fell backward, in much the same fashion as the Russian a few seconds prior. I quickly pounced back on the Russian and snapped his neck to the extreme left, to be sure he was dead. Grabbing his Kalashnikov, I looked up to see if anyone was watching, but we were alone.

The next concern was freeing my hands, and then to exit as quickly as possible. Frisking the Russian for keys to the cuffs, I heard a noise and then felt the impact behind my head…

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com. Some SedonaEye.com scenes have been edited due to content, however, be advised that some language may be considered offensive or inappropriate. Look for the unedited Cambire, The Story, available at booksellers and retailers in the spring of 2015 to be published as Change of Allegiance.