The Dead Scout's Handbook of Afterlife Survival

Chapter Two: Cab Hallucinations

Cayden Caldwell served the Scouts with purpose, his spine aligning like the flagpole itself during the Pledge of Allegiance. He led his fellow Scouts through swamps, thickets, and streams, always lighting the fire on their camping trips. Eventually, his vest weighed as heavy figuratively as it was becoming literally, when badge after badge accumulated with exception of one. Whenever anxiety slithered around his heart, he would clutch the Badge of Communication in his pocket; his pulse would steady and he felt that he could stand through a torrential storm, emerging without so much as a damp pair of socks. By eleven and a half, Cayden had more badges than he thought possible, and without fail, when it was time for a new one, his father would fly home and present it.

Cayden no longer suffered pangs of loneliness when his mother spent months holed away in her room. Bags pooled under her eyes and scabs marred her complexion while Cayden's self-sufficiency surpassed hers. Cayden could build a fire, Cayden could cook a meal, Cayden knew about electricity, forest conservation, and how to whittle an arrow. As far as he cared, his mother could cry him a river, and by God, Cayden would know how to kayak it. What Cayden didn't understand, was how his father would appear for each presentation with a nicer suit and a sharper set of cheekbones.

Cayden's father arrived for the Painting Merit Badge a year after Cayden's enrollment in the scouts. Bizarre events occurred on that impossible day, such that only the work of an overactive imagination could even recreate it. After therapy and the pressure cooker of an education preparing children for nothing further than the current reality, Cayden's memory blocked out most of that day.

However, he remembered his father: he wore the face of a man that could look upon the end of days without raising an eyebrow. After bestowing the badge with a trembling pale hand, his father told him something that Cayden thought he would always remember. But time plays funny tricks on memories.

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The skyscrapers shot by and the streets blurred into the morning fog. The sun peeked between concrete pillars, illuminating the glass walls with dull reds and yellows to bestow a warm and welcoming facade.

Within a nest of outerwear, Toby the penguin child rested in the middle. To the right, Sarah stared out the window, her arm stretching to scratch the back of Cayden's neck. Warmth and fine company always contented Cayden, even with the heavy metal song trying to claw itself out of from the taxi speakers.

A hula doll wobbed on the dashboard. Below, three United States flags flapped in the climate-controlled breeze, saluting the Budweiser logo slapped on the center console. The cab appeared dated, yet pristine, suggesting grand efforts of cleaning out a decade of late night nonsense. The Hawaiian doll swung her hips as they swerved into the left lane, cutting off a semi-rig. A horn blared as Sarah clutched the passenger headrest.

"I'm Tommy, by the way. What's yours names?"

The cabbie had been silent up until this point, and Cayden had rather enjoyed it.  But, Cayden had raised himself to talk, to embrace anxiety, to speak when spoken to.  So: "Cayden..." he offered with hesitation, having never been asked his name by a cab driver, and suddenly unsure whether this meant that this, or every other fare before was discourteous.

"Ah, I understand." The man flashed one thumb up in their direction and--to their horror-- offered the second thumb up as well. After gradually moseying into the other lane, the driver reclaimed the wheel. "You enjoy the action movies?"

"I like the quiet," Sarah said.

"Ah!" The driver cut the radio off. "So you enjoy the action movies?"