The roar of an unholy engine in my ears is pure imagination; Devon, willowy psychic, swears she'll know when God is due to arrive in this part of autopia and I believe her because last night, as our other comrades slept, she took me to a upside-down mail van and infected me with one of her knowing visions.
The van had a stomped-on look. Most of the windshield had been gobbled up by time. What remained resembled a spider's web, hard and dusty. "Lose yourself in the cracks," Devon said, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me headlong into a dream. We landed in a world that was still autopia, still dead cars and trucks mashed together in an unbroken mass as far as the eye could see. Not where we started, though, not the camp. The ground tilted beneath our feet. Farmer folk lived in the vehicles carpeting this upward place, raising herbs in small pots filled with dirt gathered up where autopia had rusted through and you could reach down and touch the ancient earth. Not many people on the slopes, about one hundred, no strangers, everyone thoroughly familiar with everyone else. Half the people were related to the other half. Inbreeding, as I recall, posed a problem.
"What are we waiting for?" I asked and Devon looked up and said, "That." God's flying convertible descended from clouds the color of fingernail grit. I had to shield my eyes. The convertible sported one truly righteous paint job, coppery gold and brighter than the corona of the sun. Check out the immaculate wire wheels and chrome doodads, oh yeah. You didn't see too many cherry jewels like that in autopia where most everything had fallen apart ages ago.
Rumbling by, the convertible banked and made a second approach. I spied a dayglo bumper sticker, Kneel B4 Me.
Mounted to the hood, a siren wailed. Farmers scattered like frightened birds.
Low, swooping pass over autopia. God's convertible rattled the aluminum landscape and burst prehistoric tires. Acid-laden smoke billowed from its exhaust. God laughed as farmers melted like fog in sunlight, begging uselessly for their lives. The Big Guy's hair, oily worms. His rubber skin. Eyes a couple of black holes. Kooky and gut-wrenchingly scary at the same time, props from a child's nightmare.
"Yo ho ho," He spake, wormy hair writhing wickedly.
We broke free of the dream, and Devon said, "He'll be here soon, Lorn. That mountain wasn't so far away."
Not if you have a flying car, I thought.
Now I watch as she drifts into another vision and wonder what pictures are playing on the inside of the psychic's eyelids, today, this moment. She asked if I wanted to take another prescient ride. More then enough, that one experience, I told her.
Flickering eyeballs. I figure this to be one corker of a vision.
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