Wylhil 2.2: Wylhil, The Movie

Wylhil, The Movie

I was going to go out, but as usual had trouble finding clean clothes. I kept changing; Mas had already left, but he invited us saying: “Hot girls down the way”.
Eventually I got frustrated and decided to stay home with my sister and her friends and watch a movie.

I was introduced to this story, in a dream, by my ex-girlfriend’s mother. She referred to the ‘movie’ as good, but brutally violent, taking care to warn me of the brutally violent aspect a couple of times.

The protagonist is in a high speed chase. Her car, a futuristic General Lee, flies through a massive expanse of junkyard. In fact the entire ground is made of junk – scrap metal , garbage, rubble. Holocaust? Landfill? Both?

She jumps her car over a pile into a hole in the junk, into a hollowed out area underlying the rubble that could have been an old tanker truck or freight carrier. Hoping there was enough distance between her and her pursuers, she leaps out of the car and starts shimmying up the side of the tangled metal slope to peer over the edge. There is nothing, silence, the clicking of the car engine releasing heat. She is wearing a slightly worn stylish futuristic yellow jumpsuit as if for a motorcycle or race car driver. Her hand is instantly severed at the mid forearm cleanly yet violently by a laser blast.

The sun beats down on metal carcasses polished by a thousand years of wind and rain. The earth is made of garbage, pummeled flat and made molten by heat and pressure then cooled into a solid mosaic like igneous rock. If I look down the sun reflects blinding sheathes off the metal and my goggles dim automatically to black, so I keep my eyes towards the sky.

Wylhil. I’ve got to get to you. My love, my angel. They are rapists, murderers, destroyers with no remorse. I have to get to you before they do.
My feet crunch over iron thin and fragile as dried seaweed. Steel girders twisted like driftwood,
She calls out to me in the psychic stillness.
“My Arm. I’ve lost my arm.”
I answer back across the distance without speaking
“I am coming my love.”
They are dividing the world into pieces. Looking for her. Raining hellfire from the sky in scalpel swathes to cut the earth and divide it and look inside. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other. I pray. To the angry God, the old God, I pray for hosts of angels to protect her. I pray for the Lord to set vengeance on these greedy bastards. Protect your seed Lord. Look at what they have done to your children.
I go under through a crevice that used to be the sliding metal door of an ancient meat locker centuries old. From here there is another hole leading down where torso thick beams of wood long since dissolved into dust have left fossilized pockets like a hollow spinal column deep into the rubble. I squeeze past dried blood crusted on the walls of this pencil tunnel, her blood, and burrow down after her scratching my face and hands on frayed cable like petrified tree roots. My shoulder lamps scratch and flicker out, no more juice, but I don’t need them, I am squeezing my way back into the womb of this metal earth, headfirst, down, down, towards you. Into a pocket deep under the surface and she is there, curled like a grub, clutching her arm. Fresh blood smell chokes my nostrils.
I feel for her in the pitch dark and find her and hold her in my arms.
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a day. I’m bleeding to death.”
“They’re looking for you. They are going to tear the desert apart piece by piece.”
“Let them. They will never take us.”
She holds me close and we communicate again without words.
Are we the last? She asks.
I can’t bear to tell her.

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