by Mark Tufo
“On–off switch?” I didn’t figure it would be that easy, but why not ask. This I said once we pulled up a short distance away.
“Other side,” he said sadly.
“That’s awesome! Let’s go!” He grabbed my shoulder to stop me.
“Someone has to stay behind to cut the feed.”
“And then jump through?” I asked in despair.
Jack by this time was sagging against me.
“He’s telling you that someone has to stay behind.” I could tell it took a great effort for him to say that.
“Trip, take him. I’ll stay.” I was trying to hand off the man who was having none of it.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it isn’t,” I said, more than a little mad.
“Jack, I’m sorry,” Trip said tenderly.
A thousand thoughts and memories were going through Jack’s head; I swear I could see them.
“Fuck it, we all stay then.” I was shuffling Jack over to the wall.
“We only have a few seconds. The whistlers will be rounding that corner any moment, so it’s either them or the time thread. I feel like my fate was sealed the moment I popped back into and then out of my world. Go home, Mike.”
Trip nodded in agreement.
“That makes no sense, man! One and done? What kind of shit is that?” I asked.
“That world is closed to him, Mike. If he were to go through, it would be a completely foreign place to him, one where he would have no purpose of being. He would forever be an outsider looking in.”
“I don’t think I could live through that, Mike. I can’t someday stumble upon Lynn and see that she’s married someone else, that she has other kids, that my kids don’t exist or are someone else’s. I won’t be a part of that.”
Maybe Jack was crying, I couldn’t tell because my own eyes were water-lined. Maybe that was why I missed the line of whistlers running toward us, staples blazing all around. Trip handed Jack something that looked suspiciously like a marble.
“Don’t lose that. When we’re through and the rift changes color, hold that up to the electricity,” Trip said, then leaned over and whispered something, the two of them having a quick conversation below the threshold of my hearing.
“He’ll fry.”
“Cold fusion,” Trip said, because, yeah, I knew that wouldn’t somehow be harmful—sarcasm.
I was just thinking how happy I was that the whistlers had taken their shooting classes from the Stormtrooper Shooting Instructional Center when I was punched in the gut by a round. I bent over like I needed to tie my shoes. Trip basically pushed me over and into the opening. I was pulled through like a pipe cleaner through a pipe. I didn’t know where we had traveled to, but it certainly wasn’t Kansas. The building, if that’s what you could call it, was dome-shaped and had multiple hexagonal panels, looked more like the inside of a giant honeybee hive.
“What the hell is this place?” My stomach, which had been clenching against the projectile, no longer hurt. The staple itself had not made the journey. I pulled my shirt up to see a rapidly diminishing wound.
“Way station.” Trip was fumbling through a handful of marbles. “Whew, I thought I might have used it as ammunition,” he said, holding up a ball that was mostly the same silver color, though it glowed dully.
“And if you had?”
“We’d be stuck.” He was grinning.
“You kept the device that could get us home in with the bag of marbles you were using for your slingshot?”
“Seemed the safest place.”
“I can see Jack! Let’s get him!”
But something wasn’t right. I peered harder: nothing was happening. I was looking at staples in midflight, an arc of cold fusion stuck in the air, Jack looking questioningly at the ball Trip had given him.
“We can’t. We are no longer in the time stream.”
“What? Do you just make this shit up as you go?”
“You could stare at Jack for all eternity from our perspective and nothing would ever change. For all intents and purposes, you are looking at a picture, though this one will never fade.”
“Who built this? Who did this?” I waved my hands around. “And don’t pull that alien technology wild card! Like ‘it has always been here, we don’t know who did it’!”
I was mad, but I sure wasn’t expecting his response.
“No, we know; well, at least, I do, though you will soon as well.”
“Trip?”
“It was my roommate at MIT, and Albert had a hand in it as well.”
“Albert as in Einstein?”
“Jack may have all the time in the world, but we do not. We must shut this end off so that he can close the other side.”
“So, it wasn’t we will go home or we will die, it was we will go home and we will die.” I reached out a hand to the rift to pay my respects to the man who was giving his life so we could go home. “You’re a good man, Jack Walker, may you find peace.”
Trip placed his marble in a small hole recessed in the wall, and the image before me began to dim, the colors on the other side fading. I watched Jack move.
“We’re linked now,” Trip answered before I could ask how that could be. Two more staples collided with Jack, one in his neck, the other in his side. It could have been many more if the whistlers had not been consumed by the time thread that had chased them down and swallowed them like a vengeful monster. Jack looked like he was struggling to raise his arm.
“What if he doesn’t make it, Trip?”
“That thread jumps the rift and we will wish that we had died.”
Jack was concentrating on his arm, attempting to will it to do what the poison was telling him he couldn’t. The thread was barreling down on his location, unaware of the drama unfolding right before it. He looked up in time to see the thread just as it touched the bottom of his foot and he thrust his hand up into the stream. Again I was expecting crazy displays of lightning and showers of sparks followed by sonic booms, exploding metal, glass, and any other material handy; what happened was none of those things. There was a brief pulse of light and then nothing. Atlantis, Indian Hill, the whistlers, the night runners, the zombies, and most importantly Jack, were all gone. I heard Trip slump down against the wall; his head was in his hands and he was sobbing.
“Where are they, Trip?”
He was shaking his head.
“What happens to Jack? To Fourth? His wife and kids?”
“Gone, man.” He choked out,
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Their time ends. That thread will begin to unravel, pulling everything and everyone apart.”
“You told Fourth he would make it! You gave Jack the marble, a device I suppose was for escape!”
“I left something, but I think it may have been too late. None of that happened the way it was supposed to.”
“Happened the way it was supposed to? What the fuck are you talking about? Get Jack back!”
“Follow me, there may still be a way, for Jack at least.” He got up. He said more, about how it was up to Jack now and that he was sorry, but that particular reality was already being stripped from my mind. A shimmering doorway opened up to our left; I stepped through and into the driver’s side of a vintage VW bus that was heading straight for a parked propane truck.
“Man, I am tripping balls!” I told him as I veered away from the large incendiary device, away from the legion of zombies bearing down on us, and far away from the memories of Jack Walker.
Chapter 4 - Jack Walker
The blazing flood of energy is nearly blinding as I lie underneath its stream. It seems like there should be a roar associated with the storm it’s unleashing into the portal, but it’s almost completely silent, just the flickering sound of static. Trip had said to wait until the color changed, but that had better happen pretty soon as I don’t have a lot of time left. That fucking anesthetic crap has nearly swamped my entire body. I’ve fought it as best I can
, but its nature is unrelenting and unstoppable.
Pings and trailing whines echo in the chamber as staples hit the concrete flooring and ricochet into the distance. It’s all I can do to turn my head to stare at the glowing portal, trying to see what lies on the other side, but I’m not able to penetrate the sheen that seems like a void of white and silver. I wonder what’s on the other side and hope that Mike made it back to his world.
My heart is in turmoil. On one hand, I’m glad that one of us made it out of this shit hole of a place. That gives me a little peace as I slowly sink into numbness. On the other hand, Lynn and the kids were supposed to be on the other side of the portal just scant feet away. I almost crawl through, almost not caring what may lie on the other side. But, if I don’t remain here, then no one makes it. Trip’s last words while pressing a marble into my hand find their way to the surface.
“The quarry, Jack,” he had said.
“What in the fuck do you mean by that?”
“It will help to reorient yourself,” Trip answered.
“Okay, that really doesn’t sound good at all.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. There’s still a chance, but there won’t be much time.”
If there is still a chance, then I’ll hold onto that. Although, I don’t see how that’s likely to happen with my current predicament. I won’t last long much longer. In a moment, I’ll succumb to this invasive poison and my body will be dragged behind a motorcycle by a gang of aliens through a world that is falling apart. That’s definitely not how I ever saw myself going. I figured at least a blaze of glory would be in the picture, but right now, all of my concentration is centered on waiting for this damn color to change so I can hopefully shove this marble into the stream. I don’t even have the strength to fire back at the whistlers anymore.
Staring at the marble in my hand, trying to ignore the advancing avalanche of aliens and their stupid-ass staples, I wait. I don’t know how many whistlers are remaining in front of the oncoming storm, but looking isn’t going to do me any good.
For fuck’s sake! What is taking them so long? Anytime now, gents.
The portal undulates and the silver-white sheen changes color. I feel a sledgehammer pound into my side and a baseball bat into my neck. The sheer fact that they’re still hitting me when I’m down pisses me the fuck off. I’d have done the same, but fuck all, this is me. Can’t they just give me a moment’s peace in my last few seconds? I raise a near unresponsive arm toward the stream of energy. It’s all I can do to even hold onto the marble, let alone lift it any higher. I can totally envision dropping it from numb fingers, hearing it bounce on the concrete floor and roll away. Game over, we lost.
That...Is…Not going to happen.
Drawing on every fiber left inside me, the only real feeling the burn from the staples in my ribs and neck, I put everything I have into my fingers and arm. It has become the center of my world…my entire existence. I’m not even sure why I’m doing it anymore, just know that I need to.
I feel something weird, something not quite right. The pinging of the staples has ceased, but that’s on the outermost circle of consciousness. I glance quickly down the tunnel, only there isn’t a tunnel anymore. There’s just a huge cloud with lightning flashing within it. And it’s on me. I feel the pressure of it as it touches the sole of my boot.
Now, dammit!
Putting even more into my arm, reaching down into the last vestige of my soul, I thrust the marble into the flowing stream of energy. There’s a blinding pulse of light, then nothing but darkness.
From a complete absence of any feeling, consciousness is slow in returning, with something sharp poking against my cheek. At first, I’m only aware that I’m lying down on my stomach and breathing in a few particles of dirt with each inhalation. I feel so tired and want nothing more than to fade back into the bliss of nothingness. Then, full consciousness hits like a strong storm surge, rolling over me as my memory returns. However, even knowing what occurred in the last instant of my life isn’t enough to make me rise. If anything, it deepens the desire to remain lying down. I probably would, if it weren’t for the damn thing sticking me in the cheek like an ice pick and the accumulating dirt in my mouth.
I open my eyes to see dried evergreen needles and something like a pine cone just inches away. Rolling my head a touch, I see tree trunks stretching skyward beyond my vision, sunlight sparkling through the overhead cover. The memory of being hit by multiple staples works its way to the forefront. Moving my toes, I feel them rub the inside of my boot.
Well, there’s that at least.
When I move my arm, it feels like I’m dragging it through a lake of molasses, but I manage to touch where I was hit in the neck and feel the metal of the large staple-like projectile imbedded in the muscle and tissue.
That probably means the ones in my side and leg are still there as well.
I pull on the metal, feeling the barbed ends grab hold and cut. I let go and, turning, push myself to a sitting position. Other than feeling weary, the poison of the projectiles seems to have worn off; at any rate, I can feel my extremities. With each inhalation, I feel a stabbing sensation from the staple imbedded in my side, and I can’t lay my leg flat for the same reason.
Looking at my surroundings, the carbine from the cache is on the ground nearby next to my pack. Gathering the two of them, I scoot along the forest floor to rest my back against the rough bark of a tree. I play the one-two-three game and yank the staples out from my neck, side, then the back of my leg, damn near passing out with each one. Blood flows and then slows to a trickle from the tearing wounds, the burning pain eventually subsiding as well.
Leaning against the tree, the images from the last moments in the chamber surface—Mike doubled over from a staple in the stomach and Trip pushing him through the portal. The cloud with the internal lightning at my feet, silent when it seemed like it should be roaring like a hurricane, and shoving the marble into the energy stream. My only hope is that they made it to their world; that at least a margin of good came out of this mess and it wasn’t all in vain.
I know I should be doing something, moving and analyzing wherever I’ve landed, but honestly I’m tired, and it’s peaceful under the trees, with sunlight sparkling as the overhead limbs sway in the breeze. Although the intense burning has dissipated from my wounds, they still ache like a mother. It’s obvious that I’m not going to get back, and Trip said this loop of time was going to spin off into nothingness, so I might as well spend my remaining moments in peace.
I pull my pack to me to have some food and make a picnic of it. As I reach inside, I gaze more at my surroundings. Beams of sunlight angle through the trees in places, insects conducting intricate dances within the rays. Further off, there are gleaming silver lines of light from what only can be railroad tracks. Those seem to have become a constant lately.
Grabbing one the FTE packets, I think we gave it one hell of a shot and I’m frankly surprised to have made it this far. Setting my carbine across my legs, I dive into my pack to retrieve more water and feel something sharp across my finger. While I don’t know what it is, it’s unmistakably the edge of a piece of paper. Paying more attention, I open the pack wider and pull out a folder that is wedged inside.
Setting my food packet down, I lay the folder across my legs. It’s an ordinary looking one with wording across the front, written with a thick sharpie.
“There’s still a chance, Jack. But, there isn’t much time. Replace this folder with the original, Room 137.”
The handwriting is atrocious and I can barely make out the exact wording, but I have a gut feeling this was somehow left by Trip. He had said that things weren’t supposed to go down the way they did, but somehow he knew that and put this folder in when I wasn’t looking. Or, he didn’t know, and left this in case. I swear the folder wasn’t there when I was rummaging through it before, so when did he leave it? Or, did a different time line kick in and bring this w
ith it?
Fuck! Too much thinking, Jack.
I open the jacket cover to see what the folder contains. There are loose leaves of paper with a sticky note on top of the first sheet.
“You don’t have enough time to read this. Time is unfolding and you need to move.”
Well, apparently this shit isn’t over yet, I think, shoving the folder back in the pack.
So, the question is, what do I do? I’m in the middle of the woods close to a train track, but this land seems filled with those. I don’t have a clue where I am, or really, where I need to go. I’m guessing I need to get into the facility to find whatever is in the specified room and replace the folder. Maybe that will change things, or perhaps not. It could just be an aside that Trip needs taken care of, and then I’ll just fade away with the rest of this world. But, it’s something to keep occupied with until the end comes, so I might as well get moving.
“The quarry, Jack,” Trip’s words ring in my head.
So, he knew, but didn’t know? Or he knew when it was coming apart and tried a Hail Mary?
Well, I’m going to have to go with that. I have maps in my pack, but there’s no way to validate my position among the trees with no clear visual of the surrounding terrain. Pushing up the rough bark, I shoulder the pack and gather my carbine. Sliding the bolt back shows the gleam of a chambered round. I check the rest of the mags, making sure the spares on my vest are full with the correct ammo.
I stand against the tree, clearing my mind and steeling myself for what’s to come. Each pulse of my heartbeat sends an ache into my neck, side, and leg, but I push that aside. I think it’s strange that the quarry has sat in my mind ever since I became aware of it. It’s kind of like it and I were destined. Perhaps in some odd fashion, my subconscious knew that it would be my eventual goal. The same way Mike was always headed straight for the collider…perhaps we could sense each of our fates.
