The Dark Universe beginnnings...
It was a hundred and five degrees and air conditioner had gone dead in his car as Norm Macera drove across the blazing desert on that fateful day. He had thought to bring a canteen of water to help him make it through what should have been only a couple hours drive across the treacherous terrain. Suddenly the water hose broke on the engine and Macera brought the car to a speedy halt.
He rose from the sauna like vehicle to the even more blistering heat of the desert sun. Looking around at the endless road, he decided to wait for a short spell just to see if anybody would happen by his way. His body was now drenched with perspiration and the water in the canteen had reached a near end, and still there was no sign of life on what seemed to be a deserted highway. Looking around he could see just mountains of sand and an occasional cactus plant to add a splash of color to the lifeless landscape that surrounded him.
Fearing that it might in fact be days before another car happened his way Macera began to walk along the sweltering tar road in hopes of finding some remnant of civilization along the way, his feet sinking into the melting tar along the way. The punishment seemed to be personal as the sun beat down on him. He had taken his shirt and used it to protect his head, but still it felt like he had been tossed into an oven and was being baked alive. With the water supply near exhausted Macera took his final swig along with the remains of his last drop of hope.
Still this man would not be stopped, he knew that persistence was the only key to any success, and if he wished to survive than he would have to keep moving, but just for a minute and only a minute he would stop to rest his weary feet. He dropped to the ground like a lifeless corpse, with the intention of only taking a moment away from his quest of finding help.
From the ground of the uncaring desert Macera could feel the heat biting into his flesh, burning and setting his skin on fire. Around him the sky seemed to swirl, and he knew that if he stayed there for one second longer, he would die there. With all the force that he could muster, Macera pushed against the ground with the palm of his hand and began to rise. Suddenly a shot of incredible pain charged through his body, he looked down quickly to see that a single drop of blood had formed on his palm, and scurrying away into the safety of the swirling sand was a small scorpion.
He looked down in horror as he tried to suck the blood out of the open wound. As he spit out the crimson mess into the sand, Macera began to feel his legs weaken. Now he knew that the only hope was to keep moving on, for only death was behind him.
Gathering all the strength that he could Macera walked about forty minutes more before strange sensations began to overtake his already weakened body and he could fight the pain no longer. Lifelessly he fell to the sizzling road; his body seemed to fry like an omelet as he tried desperately to roll away from the pain only to find more torture with every twist and turn.
The relentless attack by the sun had turned this devil�s playground into a deadly inferno, and as he accepted the ceaseless suffering, which was the desert�s offering, he closed his eyes and prayed for death to be more kind. The cessation of the senses was the first sigh to him that it was almost over� To Macera it seemed a fate that he would gladly receive, except for the constant pounding in his ears, the throbbing in his head. And there were words, yes he remembered the words� �Death is not hiding it�s face to day,� he heard the strange voice say, �it is better that we keep away from him, behind the cactus.�
Macera struggled to open his eyes when he saw standing over him and old Indian. The shade of that old man�s body was the only thing protecting him and giving him comfort. He tried to speak to the old Indian, but the dryness in his throat was making speech not only difficult, but impossible.
The crusty old hands seemed to easily lift him up and carry him across the sand to the nearby cactus, which was now provided a hint of refreshing coolness from the enemy, the sun.
�The scorpion,� said the old man, �he dose not care that you are a guest in our desert, he is a terrible host.� As he spoke he cut at the cactus and seemed to draw the moisture right from it. With a wet bandanna he applied that wetness to Macera�s lips. At first there was a burning sensation as it made contact with the dried, parched skin.
�Thank you,� Macera tried to say only to be cut off by the old Indian�s haste.
�There is no time for that, the scorpion hates to wait for his dinner, and so his venom works fast.�
Then the old man began to sprinkle powder from a vessel that was tied to the beaded belt around his waste and onto the bandanna. The powder mixed with the moisture and he pressed it once more to Macera�s lips.
�It taste bitter, but it will drive away the bad medicine that is in you.�
That was what Macera remembered, a taste of bitterness, and then blackness, only blackness. He seemed to be swimming through it for the longest time. Along the way there were flashes of light, and images that as soon as he tried to grasp hold of they would disappear like teasing ghost in a haunted mansion. But always in the background he could hear the voice of the old Indian chanting, and somehow that seemed to be reassuring. And then suddenly he opened his eyes and seemed to have arrived at an oasis. It appeared to be the middle of the night, and the cool air was refreshing as it blew across the sky.
For the first time that day Macera felt comforted. And in that oasis the old Indian came to him again, he sat beside him. To Macera it felt like a dream, but one that he did not wish to escape from.
�This isn�t real,� Macera said to the old Indian.
�It is as real as you want it to be,� came the reply.
�I would like it to last forever,� said Macera.
