Ferryman

     The plane was far less crowed than O'Hare airport, or at least the first class cabin was. Peppered here and there throughout the soft leather seats were pompous businessmen. They radiated wealth, but never sharing a cent of it. They dressed themselves in the most expensive suits that money could buy. 

    There are two kinds of businessmen out there. Ones that show off, and ones that show off a little less. Unfortunately, I was there, in that airtight tin can, surrounded by some of Chicago's richest gits.

    But we were not alone in there. I could see, well, almost see, the other passenger; our mystery guest. Always in the corner of my eye, my eye! No one else could see him, from what I could tell. They did not move out of his way when he went through a crowd, vendors completely ignored him (of which I envy him to no end). I wasn't even sure that he existed at all until a few weeks ago. I had always thought that he, or she (I never got a good look) was simply a random person walking down the street, disappearing into the crowd when I turned to look. I thought that he, or she, was simply many people, and they all dressed similarly, and out of coincidence happened to be in WalMart when I was. 

    It was only a few weeks ago when I realized differently. I saw him in my own house. This time, I knew that he was not some random doppleganger. At first, the idea that my wife was cheating on me with this person flashed through my mind. I had the sudden urge to take a knife to her throat. The thought passed quickly, leaving me feeling terrible for not giving my beautiful wife as much trust as she had earned over our fifteen years together. I was still curious of the stranger's name, or even just his reason for being always nearby. 

    Presently, one of the flight attendants began going through the safety instructions in case of crash, decompression, or emergency landing in the middle of the ocean. I couldn't help but smile as I imagined the dangerous oceans between Chicago and Las Vegas in which we would require an emergency raft. We were instructed in the art of seat belt buckling, air mask usage, and we were enlightened as to the locations of the emergency exits above the wings. After what seemed like an hour, but turned out to be only half that, the plane began to move ever so slowly. Ten minutes later, we were in the air, on our way to Cheyenne for our first stop, then on to Las Vegas, the City That Never Sleeps.

*****

    We touched down at Cheyenne Regional at 3:30 p.m. One of the flight attendants told us that it was okay for us to unbuckle, talk on cell phones, and use laptops. We were also allowed to head out into the guest area of the airport for drinks, snacks, or to use the restroom. I realized as soon as she mentioned it that I needed to go quite urgently. We were not allowed to use the on-board restrooms when the plane was on the ground, so I stood up and worked my way down the aisle. Once I was on the breezeway, signs that pointed to the bathrooms, cafe, and various fast-food establishments came into view. I turned left as the breezeway became a large visitors' hall. The bathroom was at the end of a short, conspicuously clean passageway. I paused for a moment, confused by the fact that there was no women's restroom, though the only signs for a restroom pointed down that hall. My contemplations lasted only a moment, however. Just long enough to remember why I was there. I pushed through the thick door to the men's room. I approached the line of white urinals to do, as the Bible says, "What must be done."  There was one other man already there when I arrived, and  he left quickly without washing his hands, flushing the toilet, or zipping his fly. 

    When I was just about done, I heard the door open and close behind me. After about five seconds, but I didn't hear anyone walking, flushing, or running one of the sinks. I turned around to see if anyone had come in at all. There was no one. 

    Then I saw him. It was him, I was sure of it. Once again, as always, when I turned my head, just a little, to get a good look, he was gone. I don't scare easily, but I was slightly perturbed by this. I finished quickly and washed my hands. I cast one last glance at the restroom. No one. I looked under the stalls. No one. Convinced that I was seeing things, I dried my hands and headed for the door. When I was just about to leave, I noticed that the handle on the door was glowing, as if red hot. I held my hand near the metal, not touching it, however, but felt no heat from it. I grabbed the handle, expecting to be burned, but it was cool to the touch. With a shrug, I opened the door. 

    Fire. All I could see was fire. I couldn't even see the hallway from which I had come. The flames belched forth smoke and unbearable heat. I was both blasted back by the heat, and sucked in as the blaze consumed the bathroom's oxygen. After slamming the door, I ran to the other side of the  restrooms. Thinking quickly, I removed my jacked and soaked it in water from one of the sinks. I squeezed this water out over my head, drenching myself, and repeated this process until I was soaked to the bone. 

    I crouched in the corner of the bathroom, trying to think of something. Thick, black smoke poured our from beneath the door, and I waited for the time when the one barrier would burst into flames. Then I saw him again. He was there, coming at me slowly from the corner of my eye. I began to turn my head, just in time to see a nightstick come slamming into the side of my head, then everything went black.

    I awoke after what could have been either seconds or hours. I was lying on the floor of the bathroom. It was only after a minute or two that any of my senses returned, an I realized that I was completely dry. I tried to bring my head up to look around, but was dealt another blow from the man's nightstick. After this I managed to move my head bit by bit to see what he was going.  I had not seen his face yet, though he wore a long, brown overcoat and black shoes. He walked into one of the stalls, and returned with a gasoline can. The more I tried to focus on his face, the more, I could not. It was always changing. Sometimes, he would take the appearance of a friend or acquaintance of mine. Mostly his horridly vivid features would seem foreign to me. Every time it changed, his face would flicker to a blank slate, then back to another form. 

    I did not have long to ponder my assailant's curious face for long, however, for he approached me once again. He uncapped the gas-can, then set to work covering my prostrate body with the volatile liquid. I wondered for a moment why he would do this. Then I remembered the fire outside. It only then occurred to me that I was not doing a single thing to stop or even slow my horrible death. 

    The man was possessed of an unnatural strength that should not have been expected from one of his build. Nonetheless, I did make an honest attempt to resist, I did. I am not sure whether he was too strong or I was simply too weak, but he overpowered me with ease. As he dragged my pathetic, gasoline-soaked form nearer to the door, my worst fears were realized. He was really going to do it. He was going to burn me alive. I kicked, wriggled, punched, and screamed for help. I knew what was coming, but I also knew that one could steer his fate as he steer a train. That is to say, not at all. As this new realization came upon me, my struggling slowed, and I tried to study more fully my assailant. He had an unearthly power about him, as though he had sprung from the mind of a science fiction writer.

    The door came ever closer, and I once again resumed my struggle against fate. If this was indeed my ferryman to the underworld, I knew that fighting back was hopeless, but I tried anyway. Once we reached the door, the man threw me down, and pulled the door open. The fire burned more dangerously and menacingly than before, or maybe I simply thought that because I was about to be thrown into it. He grabbed me by the collar as I attempted to crawl away, and hauled me up to face him. I suddenly felt my face begin to contort. It was not painful, not overly unpleasant, but disturbing. His face began also to change, ever so slowly. I watched in horror as his blank, fleshy mass transformed into a new face.

    My face.

    I had no eyes, but somehow I could see; no, not see, feel, everything that followed. He wrenched me up, then, with a slight shove, sent my frail body into the flames. I was falling for an eternity. There was no hall, only a never-ending pit of fire. I watched in horrid fascination as my face, on his body, resumed its cycle of change.