Curly's hand, he put his own arm slowly into the darkness, afraid that he would be grasped and hauled through.
But he felt nothing. That was the only way he could describe it later. Nothing. Neither air nor water nor heat nor cold. It was as though his hand and arm had ceased to exist. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but although his mind gave the order, he could not feel his nerves and muscles respond. He stepped back then, and his arm and hand reappeared.
Keith laughed. Dale, smiling, shook his head. “You're still alive?" he said.
Woody ignored them. "Hold on," he told Curly, and walked slowly through the door into the soul of night.
His skin and eyes and ears ceased to function as organs of sense. Only his brain retained a spark of consciousness, just enough to realize that this must be death, only the brain still functioning, knowing that the body was dying around it, the heart that supplies it with blood now cold and still, the muscles that did its bidding moving no more. And soon the brain itself would flicker, its electric messages end, and it too would be part of the everlasting darkness, of the black, of death . . .
Sensation screamed through him as his body churned into life in an instant. Unable to cope with the sensory overload, he collapsed into Curly's arms, his legs rubbery, his mind spinning.
"Woody," he heard Curly say, and realized that he had been pulled back by a lifeline of flesh and bone, and knew that if he had gone into that darkness without holding his friend's hand, he would have been either dead or something worse, beyond death.
"Woody? Are you okay?"
"You two are a trip," Keith said. "It's a hall, man. You're acting like it's the gate to hell. Well, if it is, we just got some pizzas there."
"Hold the anchovies and the brimstone," said Tracy, and laughed at her own joke when no one else did.
"We can't go through there," Woody said when he had his voice back. "I felt as if . . . as if I was dying. Or dead."
"What do we do?" Alan asked. "Are we trapped here? I mean, we're obviously not getting out that door, and no time is passing. I'm only a lapsed Catholic, but I remember Limbo well enough. This could be it."
"Hey," said Tracy, "I'm sorry you're all having such a miserable time. But don't you think maybe hell is more like it? I mean maybe your gate there is the way in . You've read No Exit ?"
"Tracy—"
"Don't Tracy me, Woody! I don't know what you guys have been smoking, but it's made you all mean and paranoid and really freaky . If you don't like it here, go back to the future or wherever the hell you came from." She stood up and walked into the inner hallway, tears filling her eyes.
Woody stood for a moment looking after her, torn between his desire for the past and his unexpected terror of it. Then he felt Curly's hand on his shoulder, turned, and looked into his friend's pale face.
"Go see your girl," Curly said softly. "Then we'll figure a way out of this."
Tracy was in the bedroom, sitting on the bed next to the window, looking out at the night. She was not crying, but Woody could see that her eyes were moist with denied tears. "Tracy," he said as he stepped into the room.
She gave him a look both accusing and pleading. "What's wrong with you? Why are you acting like this, Woody?"
He sat next to her, not touching her. "I know. It sounds crazy, absolutely insane. But crazy or not, it's the truth." He took her hand, and felt the tears pool in his own eyes. "I love you, Tracy. I've loved you for over twenty years—"
"Stop it," she said, turning away from him, her voice cracking in fright.
"No, listen, please. I want you to know that—that I love you. I think that's what brought me back here, loving you so much, and maybe I dragged everybody else along with me, or maybe it was a communal thing, I don't know. But we can't stay here, because we don't belong. It isn't our time."
"What do you mean ? Look at yourself—you're Woody, you're twenty-one years old, you're not some
But he felt nothing. That was the only way he could describe it later. Nothing. Neither air nor water nor heat nor cold. It was as though his hand and arm had ceased to exist. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but although his mind gave the order, he could not feel his nerves and muscles respond. He stepped back then, and his arm and hand reappeared.
Keith laughed. Dale, smiling, shook his head. “You're still alive?" he said.
Woody ignored them. "Hold on," he told Curly, and walked slowly through the door into the soul of night.
His skin and eyes and ears ceased to function as organs of sense. Only his brain retained a spark of consciousness, just enough to realize that this must be death, only the brain still functioning, knowing that the body was dying around it, the heart that supplies it with blood now cold and still, the muscles that did its bidding moving no more. And soon the brain itself would flicker, its electric messages end, and it too would be part of the everlasting darkness, of the black, of death . . .
Sensation screamed through him as his body churned into life in an instant. Unable to cope with the sensory overload, he collapsed into Curly's arms, his legs rubbery, his mind spinning.
"Woody," he heard Curly say, and realized that he had been pulled back by a lifeline of flesh and bone, and knew that if he had gone into that darkness without holding his friend's hand, he would have been either dead or something worse, beyond death.
"Woody? Are you okay?"
"You two are a trip," Keith said. "It's a hall, man. You're acting like it's the gate to hell. Well, if it is, we just got some pizzas there."
"Hold the anchovies and the brimstone," said Tracy, and laughed at her own joke when no one else did.
"We can't go through there," Woody said when he had his voice back. "I felt as if . . . as if I was dying. Or dead."
"What do we do?" Alan asked. "Are we trapped here? I mean, we're obviously not getting out that door, and no time is passing. I'm only a lapsed Catholic, but I remember Limbo well enough. This could be it."
"Hey," said Tracy, "I'm sorry you're all having such a miserable time. But don't you think maybe hell is more like it? I mean maybe your gate there is the way in . You've read No Exit ?"
"Tracy—"
"Don't Tracy me, Woody! I don't know what you guys have been smoking, but it's made you all mean and paranoid and really freaky . If you don't like it here, go back to the future or wherever the hell you came from." She stood up and walked into the inner hallway, tears filling her eyes.
Woody stood for a moment looking after her, torn between his desire for the past and his unexpected terror of it. Then he felt Curly's hand on his shoulder, turned, and looked into his friend's pale face.
"Go see your girl," Curly said softly. "Then we'll figure a way out of this."
Tracy was in the bedroom, sitting on the bed next to the window, looking out at the night. She was not crying, but Woody could see that her eyes were moist with denied tears. "Tracy," he said as he stepped into the room.
She gave him a look both accusing and pleading. "What's wrong with you? Why are you acting like this, Woody?"
He sat next to her, not touching her. "I know. It sounds crazy, absolutely insane. But crazy or not, it's the truth." He took her hand, and felt the tears pool in his own eyes. "I love you, Tracy. I've loved you for over twenty years—"
"Stop it," she said, turning away from him, her voice cracking in fright.
"No, listen, please. I want you to know that—that I love you. I think that's what brought me back here, loving you so much, and maybe I dragged everybody else along with me, or maybe it was a communal thing, I don't know. But we can't stay here, because we don't belong. It isn't our time."
"What do you mean ? Look at yourself—you're Woody, you're twenty-one years old, you're not some
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