The Horrible Fate of Old Gerald

The Horrible Fate of Old Gerald








The old man Gerald carries on down the endless cave passage as he has done for as long as he can remember. He sees with his amber torch light that the walls glisten with moisture and glow with a crimson tinge as though it is not a cave system that he navigates but a giant, dying artery. He ignores this thought, this macabre image, and carries on. The sweat gathers on his back from the heat of the tunnel, and his eyes water from the strange smell of filth that infiltrates his insides and battles with him for control of his stomach.

Every footstep draws him closer to his family, to the ones he loves, of this he is sure. It is the only thing keeping him going, powering his long-weakened legs, riddled with age and lethargy. Another step, and another, each one taking him close to his wife Margaret, to his son John and his wife Deborah and the two kids Stephen and Ian. Margaret will have his dinner on the table, of this he is also sure. Never once in their forty years of marriage had she let him down - aside from the time when she had had a stroke, but that had been well within the boundaries of reason. Gerald wonders what is waiting for him on that plate, steaming with flavour and emitting a scent that can only be described in a pretentious verse; Ode la Steak Pie. He can smell it now, it reeks of goodness and luxury and even royalty he thinks. His step quickens, despite his bad leg and his tiredness.

His bad leg, damn it to hell. For forty years it had been bugging him, interfering with every physical activity he had ever wanted to be a part of since he had landed on that damn beach. If he could only get a hold of that Kraut that got that shot off at him and got him sent home with nothing but a bit of metal stuck to a purple ribbon. But now, screw the leg, screw the pain and his limitations, screw all that crap. Some Jerry and the round he sent from his weapon isn’t going to keep Gerald from that steak pie.

Wait. Or is it? Gerald’s stride falters and the adrenaline dries up as the scent of his wife’s cooking disappears and is replaced once again by the foul odour that plagues the cave. He tilts his head, holds it high and thinks of that steak pie again and how good it looks. He imagines how its pastry will crumble just the right amount but not too much, of how the gravy will be thick and full of flavour and steaming with taste, and of how the meat itself will pleasure his nerves as it does its rounds in his mouth as he chews with gusto before heading down to his stomach to be really appreciated.

But it is all in vain. The scent of Margaret’s home cooking is gone for good, replaced by the musty smell of unhealthiness, of wrongness and weirdness and of black. It seeps into his nostrils and disturbs his fantasies and his delusions and kills them, turning them to dust. Anxiety replaces the confidence, but it is still enough to keep the old man moving. His eyes water as he strides on, determined, but falling apart.

How did he get here? Where is he? How on Earth did a sixty-four year old man end up in this endless tunnel in the middle of nowhere out of earshot of anyone or even anything with curiosity? He had been shouting for hours, for days maybe, or at least that’s how it felt. How was he to know how long he had been down here? Damn his Alzheimer’s! He ignores his watch, the one Margaret had given him for his sixtieth birthday, for it is useless for telling the time when he can’t remember even when he had entered this cave system. He could have been down here for a week for all he knew, his supplies expended long ago.

Why had he done it? Why had he gone and done something so stupid? Usually he was so careful when it came to getting lost, him being more than aware of his condition. With no short-term memory to guide him by, Gerald decides that he will just have to carry on until he reaches the end of the tunnel. Either that or until he dehydrates or starves to death. He walks on grimly.

The walls seem to be getting moister and more crimson as though they are being vitalised with every step Gerald takes. Perhaps he is being led to water, a stream maybe, that would be great; his mouth has long since dried up and it feels as though he will need a crowbar to pry his tongue from the roof of it. He gazes at the walls as he walks on, suddenly taken from his mind as he realises they seem to be pulsating slightly as though alive. He stops and gazes at the wall to his left, mesmerized. With a trembling hand, he touches the surface, expecting it to give way the way skin would do. It does not. Instead its surface is rocky, boring and mundane. Just a wall. Gerald’s stomach rumbles. He carries on. He needs food. The pain from his insides is becoming a nuisance, interfering with his stride, with his confidence and his vitality. Must carry on, he mutters to himself. Must carry on…

Sapped of his courage and determination, Gerald’s head sags before him and bobs weakly with every step, each limp becoming more apparent as time goes on. Damn that Kraut, he whispers. Margaret. I’m coming. I’m coming to show that steak pie who’s boss. I’m coming to see you, to see John and Deborah and the kids and…

Gerald freezes and stays like that for some time and just stares in front of him at the monstrous fact that lies right in front of him and slaps him in the face and makes him feel as though he has just been hit by a car. Shaking, his hand goes to his head and he wipes a layer of sweat from his brow. Pointless sweat. Sweat that leaks from his body for no reason. A waste of water.

Before him is a wall, a cave wall that marks the end of the trail, that spits in his face and cackles and tells him to head back. Not that he has any choice; it’s the only way to go now. He grunts in pain and frustration and turns from the horrific thing and heads back the way he came. How long have I been walking? he wonders. How long have I been walking towards this dead end? Hours? Days? Have I slept at one point? Eaten? Drank? Damn my mind; damn my memory.

At least now he knows which way to go. This thought lifts a little of the dread from his mind. At least he knows that he is heading the right way now. And maybe there’s someone heading towards him, he thinks. To come rescue him because he has gone missing. He bets they are hot on his trail because he’s nothing but a slow old man. Boy, has he never been more thankful for being a slow old man. Unless… he thinks, his positive thoughts thrown from him. Unless this is a great labyrinth. Unless there are hundreds or thousands of passages and tunnels and left turns and right turns and drops and slopes and steps and whatever else. God, he hopes not. Oh, Jesus, how did he end up in this situation? He prays that there is a man and a ticket booth at the end of this passageway ready to ask him if he enjoyed his tour of the caves. He prays with all his might.

Oh, Margaret! Here I come! I can smell that steak pie again, can smell it and see it and see you in all your beauty and feel your arms around me as we embrace and kiss like we used to do all those years ago. I can see my son. I can see his wife too, and their two kids. My legacy, our legacy. The family name, passed down. And it couldn’t have been passed down to more beautiful children. I couldn’t be happier.

No, wait - I could. I could be out of this cave, warm and cosy and watching those little skids running around and playing in the garden and falling over themselves in the mud and laughing and crying and moaning and shouting. I could be watching television beside the woman I married because I had never been so sure about anything in the world that she was perfect for me.

The walls are getting wetter now, Gerald notes. And a little more red. Maybe that means that there is water up ahead too, because boy, is he thirsty. I could drink a whole well’s worth, he thinks. I could eat a horse too. He walks on, his energy replenished a little by the excitement in him, by the determination. I can smell that steak pie! he exclaims to himself, clapping his hands. And boy, does it smell good! Mind you, he had never smelled or eaten anything that came from that oven of his wife’s that wasn’t any less that heavenly. A real genius in the kitchen.

The rank smell returns, hitting Gerald in the face like a bucket of ice-cold water. It douses his dreams, his escapisms, drowning them beyond resurrection. The smell, so dark, so evil, like death itself. God, he would do anything to get rid of that smell. Tell me home is just around this corner, he says aloud. Please, God.

He rounds the bend but there is nothing. Only more tunnel and more glistening walls and more darkness for as long as he can see. His shoulders drop and all hope is drained from him yet again. He glares at the walls, at the way they glisten as though full of moisture and hydrated unlike himself. Suddenly, he has an idea. He approaches one of the walls and runs a dry hand across its surface in an attempt to collect some of the moisture to lick from his arthritis withered fingers - but it is no use. The layer of moisture is too thin and the walls are too rugged, he cannot pick any of it up. Not enough to make a difference anyway.

Why are the walls so moist anyway? he thinks. I bet it is from my own sweat. I bet this cave is draining me, devouring me and robbing me of my water and salts like some sort of giant worm. Is that what happened? Was I devoured by a giant rock worm thing? Is the great mystery of where I am and how I got here finally solved? Gerald sighs. If only. If only it were that easy to come to an explanation. As horrific and horrible as it would be, at least it is an explanation.

His head sags again like a useless and dead limb, hanging as though waiting to rot and drop off. He dares not look up, just stares at his feet as they mash through the ground. How long have I been walking? Hours? Days? And how long since I’ve eaten or drank? My mouth is so dry, like in the morning after a hot night. Oh, God, I miss you, Margaret. I wish I knew why I’d come here, and maybe even where the hell I am. Hell, I wish I never had come here in the first place. Damn my Alzheimer’s. I want my soft bed. I want to collapse in it and lie there for weeks.

Gerald looks up because something tells him to look up, something mocking and dark and not right and evil. He freezes, staring ahead of him at the monstrosity that stands before him, at the thing that has sapped everything positive from his body and mind and left him an empty shell of hopelessness.

A wall. Another one. So commandeering and oppressive and in-his-face. Inescapable. Gerald wipes a hand across his brow and clears it of moisture and can’t help but think that it is a waste of water. You have got to be kidding me, he thinks. His heart has sped up again, at the claustrophobia that is swallowing him up as he looks onwards in disbelief at the thing that has suddenly cut off all hope of escape.

Suddenly, a thought. A good one: at least he now knows which direction to go in to get out. He turns from the wall and begins to head back along the tunnel with a little of his sapped vitality restored. He is now confident that it wont be long until he is sitting down before that steak pie, feeling the heat from it and testing its strong scent, teasing himself before tucking in and tearing it apart like a hyena.

Unless, he thinks. Unless this is a great labyrinth. Unless there are hundreds or thousands of passages and tunnels and left turns and right turns and drops and slopes and steps and whatever else.

God, he hopes not.