Soul Man

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The welcoming glow beckoned at the tunnel’s far end. It radiated peace, tranquility, love, along with warmth and light.

What do I do now? We’re not given instructions…

Yes, I joked. Humor had always been my favored coping strategy. My apparent death had not changed that.

I hesitated.

I can’t go. I must take care of my kids…

The light called. I took a step forward. Then another. My pace was very deliberate.

How am I walking? This has to be my imagination.

I was in no hurry to recognize the reality of what seemed so absurd. Yet I continued onward. The beacon became so brilliant, I paused and closed my eyes for a moment. Dizziness instantly overcame me. Then once again, complete darkness.

My eyes opened. A deep fog replaced the bright, singular light. Gradually, the mist cleared and resolved into a scene.

In front of me was the BMW. Only the color was off. A reddish-brown streak flowed down the door. On the ground next to it, bleeding profusely, was me—or rather my body. Beside it, a growing pool of red on black mixed with pure white of the falling snow. But the snow wasn’t white, but greenish-gray.

How am I seeing my body?

The scene was cloudy. I tried to blink to clear my vision, but my eyes failed to respond. I tried to rub my eyes, but my hands refused to move.

No! This can’t be happening!

As the shock faded slightly, I tried regaining rational thought.

Strange. I see my body over there. This must be an out-of-body experience like those I have heard so much about occurring in near-death situations. I never fully believed it until now.

Except I still sense my body. Only, I can’t move. I am standing, yet I’m lying there, bleeding.

The scope of my vision gradually expanded and I became aware of more than my bleeding body. A left arm and hand stretched out in front of me on its own. I felt it move. The hand wore a glove, its fabric providing warmth.

It's fingers, my fingers, wrapped around the handle of a gun.

Not my glove. Not my hand. Not my gun.

Yet, I feel them, not just see them. What the hell? My mind is playing tricks on me.

Another hand came into view. This time the right. I not only saw, I felt the hand move. Together, the hands quickly removed the silencer, which went into the pants I now wore. The right hand put the gun back in the shoulder holster under the coat pressing on my shoulders.

I felt my head bend as I, we, looked down at the pavement, searching and soon finding three shell casings. The hands scooped them up and stuffed them in the jacket pocket.

What the hell is happening to me?

We began moving, running. I had no control over our actions.

Our feet rapidly beat on the street, but they didn’t generate noise, making brief footprints before vanishing. The snow had not yet started accumulating on the pavement.

Why am I looking at footprints?

My senses worked—the movement of my legs, the slapping sounds of the shoes against the slush, my heart pounding against my chest, whipping wet snow that crashed into my face.

Are they my legs? My heart? My face? They feel like they are mine, but I cannot move them.

I/we crossed the street and headed toward an alley.

Stop! Who are you? Why did you kill me? What did I do to you? Were you sent here to put me out of my misery? Or create a new hell for me?

I shouted, but no one heard. No sound escaped my lips.

Upon reaching the alley, we stopped. Our hand reached up and removed sunglasses I had not realized I wore, and the world obediently brightened, colors corrected.

What dark dream is this? What cruel trick is my mind playing? Have I not suffered enough?

I struggled to maintain my sanity.

Could this be a hallucination caused by my brain running out of oxygen?

I was only an observer as my body removed the backpack that I had not noticed weighing down my shoulder. I say "my," but the body wasn't mine. It was my murderer's.

That bastard! How? Why? Who? God, why are you doing this?

How am I seeing through his eyes? Feeling through his skin? Hearing through his ears?

The body seemed tangible. It felt like it was mine, only it did not respond to me. I was a mere passenger, an interloper, along for the ride. Or, more to the point, a prisoner.

Where’s the ambulance? Is someone going to help me?

Am I dead? I asked again to no one.

Everything appeared real. Too real. Every detail experienced as though my own, only without any ability to manipulate my body or my environment. The plots of dozens of movies and books flashed through my mind.

Am I a ghost? If so, who is being haunted? My murderer or me?

Am I waiting to be released to the afterlife—whatever that is? How do I go? Do I want to go? Isn't an angel or dead relative supposed to appear before me? Did I take a wrong turn in the tunnel? Where the hell is St. Peter and those infernal gates?

The thought tickled me.

The surreal scene continued to unfold.

This can’t be real. How do I get out of this body? I’m trapped. Help. Please, God.

I don’t remember ever praying before. I did then—to no avail.

He/we stopped in the shadows of the alley. He/we pulled out a red sweatshirt, headphones, and another empty backpack from the backpack. The new one was blue while the old red—both were cheap, the same size, with only one large pocket. He took off his light sweatpants, revealing a dark blue pair underneath, the chilly air flowing through the fabric. Next, he took off the gloves, exposing a wedding ring on his deadly left hand. The gloves and sweatpants were stuffed in the backpack, followed by the cap from our head and a black wig.

Next, he took off his coat, seemingly taking no notice of the cold air enwrapping our body. But I sure felt it. Somehow, he crammed the jacket into the backpack. Next, he peeled a fake beard from our face and placed it in, along with the sunglasses. Finally, he took the old backpack and rolled it up tightly before stuffing it in as well.

Every movement precise, rehearsed, quick. Occasional glances around to determine if anyone were there to see him—us.

My fear mixed with fascination as I observed the scene unfolding. In the back of my mind, something else bothered me as I watched, but I dismissed it given the absurdity of the entire situation.

He/we removed the silencer from the pants pocket and likewise put in the backpack. He/we put on the red sweatshirt over the other and the holster, with the gun still in it, and placed the headphones over our ears. Squeezing the backpack tightly, he zipped it up and strapped it to his back. This time, over both shoulders.

We moved toward the opposite end of the alley whence we came, assuming a leisurely pace. The entire episode took less than a minute.

I was confused. Frightened. Angry. Fascinated.

How do I still have emotions? Came the thought from the back of my disembodied mind.

Darkness and cold enveloped us. The air was heavy with snow that had begun to accumulate on the grass but not yet the pavement.

We hugged the shadows for several buildings, then casually moved to the sidewalk. After a few more buildings, we crossed the deserted street and started to jog. He never glanced around to see if anyone followed. The pace was methodical—he was in no rush.

What the hell is happening? Am I dreaming?

No, this seems too real.

Who the hell are you, and why did you kill me?

No answer came.

If this is a dream, it certainly is incredibly realistic. I feel the pounding from the pavement beneath our feet as we jog from the location of my execution and the gentle but wet, brisk breeze on our face. I smell the pungent exhaust of the city bus passing by and hear its loud diesel engine against the background of urban noises. No, the details are too vibrant to be a dream.

Somehow, someway, I am imprisoned inside someone else's body. The body of the person who just murdered me—or at least killed what had been me, the corporal me.

What am I now?

The thoughts came rapid-fire to my brainless mind.

I still think like always. ‘I think, therefore I am.’ I exist. My memories seem intact. Everything that defined “me” as “me” is here—except for my body.

How? Am I a ghost? If so, why am I haunting my killer? Why can't I move on to…wherever you go?

My thoughts alternated between desperation, frustration, anger, pleas, and curiosity.

God, what have you done?

I'm trapped in a killer’s body and I can't escape, can't move, can't communicate.

This isn’t fair. He should be the one in prison, yet I'm the one who’s lost my freedom.

I tried screaming, but nothing came out. I attempted to move my fingers but could not.

While I had the use of “my” senses, they were oddly different. My vision was sharper, colors more intense. The perspective slightly altered as my killer was a few inches taller. My hearing had also improved. Then I realized, I could hear again from my right ear, where I had been deaf since a childhood accident. Everything about my body was altered; I was stronger, more agile, more flexible, more alert. I felt renewed. No sign of the aches in my back and knees. Instead, I became dimly aware of new sore spots concentrated around my chest.

However, having no control over my new vessel more than offset any joy from being in a rejuvenated body.

How long will I be here? Why am I here?

As my emotions began to subside, I began processing my experiences, forcing myself to be rational.

If I am somehow in my killer's brain, can I hear his thoughts? Or communicate with him some way?

I tried quieting my thoughts, sorting through them to determine if any did not belong. Nothing. Only the physical things happening with our shared body entered my awareness.

Who are you?

I need to call you, the owner of my body, something. Okay. From now on, you’re “Host” as you’re Hosting what remains of me.

Host did not respond.

Host jogged casually down the city street, listening to classic rock, apparently unaffected by having just committed cold-blooded murder. In the distance, a siren. Then another. His face remained focused forward, never looking back to see if anyone followed.

No sign of guilt of having taken another man's life. No concern about being captured. Confident in his precautions. Who is this person who stole my life?

We turned the corner and made our way to the trail running alongside Brush Creek. He picked up the pace. The body did not protest…something mine would have done vehemently. We ran about a half a mile before departing the path and approaching an older model red Ford F150 pickup, snow decorating its hood, cab, and bed. Even in the dark, its poor condition was apparent. A sizable dent decorated the driver's door. The rear bumper was missing and there were scratches galore. From its appearance, the truck had to be at least ten years old. As we drew closer, I saw enough of the license to know it was not from Kansas or Missouri.

Opening the door, Host casually tossed the backpack on the passenger seat. After a couple of attempts, the pickup started, and we pulled out and smoothly made our way along Ward Parkway as though nothing had happened.