Winston Chase and the Alpha Machine

by Bodhi St John

  “Every time we turn around!” said Shade, keeping his voice down.

  “I know,” said Winston. “It’s like they’re out to get us.”

  Shade nudged Winston with his shoulder. “You’re being paranoid again. Next thing you know, you’ll be saying there are aliens involved.”

  “It’s just a hunch.”

  “Do you have a hunch on how to get us out of here?”

  Winston searched up and down Yamhill Street, taking in Tenth and Eleventh on either side of the block. The lunch-hour traffic ground along, making up in volume what it lacked in speed. At the thought, Winston realized he was hungry, and the scent of Thai food wafting from a green two-story across the street didn’t help. Neither of them had done more than snack throughout the morning. A Portland police car squawked its siren for an instant to go against the light on Tenth, then disappeared from view as it crossed the MAX tracks embedded within Yamhill’s pavement. The police pressure on them kept increasing, but seeing the second cruiser force its way through the intersection had given Winston an idea. He didn’t like it, but they were running out of time and options.

  “Get ready,” Winston said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Winston already knew that Shade wouldn’t approve. For all of his tackling and booby traps, Shade had a thing for following the rules and protecting innocent people. On his own, Winston probably wouldn’t have felt as bad about what he was about to do.

  He brought Little e up over the lip of the stairwell and focused on the unmarked police car. The rod tips started to waver, and Winston’s awareness narrowed almost to a spotlight on the vehicle.

  “Winston…what are you doing?”

  “Shhh.”

  “You can’t shoot him.”

  “I’m not. Quiet.”

  Without the benefit of a huge antenna like a book drop chute, reaching into the car’s electronics was like trying to grope through a vat of sludge for a penny. The blue outlines of the electronics were slow to materialize, and Winston felt Little e’s pressure in his head building into tangible pain. The ring of his tinnitus rose in his right ear, drowning out the sounds of traffic and pedestrian chatter, but he had to ignore it.

  Wires. Controllers. Accelerator. Injection system…

  Fortunately, the cruiser was a recent model with electronic fuel injection, and the driver still had his foot on the brake while he talked on his two-way radio. If he’d shifted the vehicle into Park, they would have been stuck.

  Winston found what he needed and squeezed. The injection system registered a value increase in gas pedal pressure and the car jerked forward.

  The officer’s hands flew up in shock and confusion, and he dropped the radio dangling from his uniform’s shoulder. He pumped the brakes twice, but each time he let up on the pressure, the car rocketed forward.

  “Winston?” Shade asked, now clearly worried.

  Winston couldn’t stop now. He nudged the cruiser farther and farther down Yamhill Street. He could feel the resistance increase as the officer stomped on his emergency brake, but the force of the accelerator was greater than the brakes could handle. Winston kept increasing the fuel injection incrementally. Several blocks away, a MAX train made its slow way up Yamhill.

  The light at the end of the block was green. If Winston could get the guy into the middle of the intersection while sideways traffic was stopped, the cop would be fine.

  He pushed and pushed, feeling the seconds tick by. Still green. The cop pounded on his steering wheel, becoming frantic.

  The car was nearly to the end of the block, and Winston gave the fuel injection one last shove. The vehicle’s brakes were giving off a bluish smoke that the boys could smell clearly down the street.

  With fifteen feet to go until the intersection, the light turned red.

  On a different day or a different time, perhaps things would have gone better. The lunch crowd was anxious to move, though, desperate to make their business meetings or beat the rush home after a half day at work. Whatever the reason, the driver of the gray Nissan Altima in the left lane on Tenth had all of his attention on the lights over the intersection and his ears covered with headphones. When the lights turned from red to green, he took off like a sprinter out of the blocks. Only then, out of the corner of his eye, did the man register the unmarked cruiser’s flashing reds and blues.

  The Altima jammed on its brakes, which probably saved the driver from getting T-boned in his door. Instead, the police car rammed into the Nissan’s front side panel above the wheel. A red pickup plowed into the Altima’s back fender. Half a dozen sets of tires screeched and suddenly fell eerily silent. Still two blocks away, the MAX train blared a short warning and slowed.

  “Winston!” Shade cried.

  “Come on,” Winston said. He slipped Little e off his hand and gripped it by one of its still-warm rods to appear less threatening. Then he stood and pulled Shade along behind him.

  The boys topped the landscaping’s retaining wall, swung around the outer fence’s thick gate post, and trotted up the sidewalk toward Eleventh Avenue.

  Shade pulled against Winston. “We need to see if anyone’s hurt!”

  “Yes!” Winston said, staring him straight in the eyes as they stood on the sidewalk. “Someone probably is hurt. But if we don’t get out of here right now, this whole deal is shot. Do you get that?”

  Shade swallowed, brows furrowed, but he finally nodded. “OK.”

  Winston let go of his sleeve. “Keep your head down and stay half a block behind me.”

  He forced himself not to look at the intersection where people were now climbing out of their cars and shouting. He heard one woman begin to wail.

  Winston crossed Yamhill at a quick walk and headed north up Eleventh Avenue, anxious to clear the path of any circling patrol cars. A block later, he turned right toward the river and continued to zigzag through the Pioneer District until finally reaching the park blocks, which were still mobbed with people on every bench reading, chatting, and nibbling at their lunches. Most were in shorts and skirts. Portlanders have an innate sense of when summer is about to give way to another eight months of rain, and they flock to the last waves of 80-degree air like little kids to a McDonald’s video game arcade.

  Today, that behavior played into the boys’ favor. They met on the far side of the park blocks under one of the many trees bathing the park in cool shadows, just on the far side of Shemanski Fountain. The dome-covered bronze sculpture of a woman carrying water sat surrounded by a brick-paved courtyard filled with scores of people deep into their food cart burritos and chow mein. By the time Shade caught up to him, Winston was already at work on his phone.

  “Winston, I’m not at all comfortable with this,” Shade said.

  Whenever Shade started sounding formal, that meant he was genuinely upset. Winston supposed he had a right to be, since he was now probably an accomplice to vehicular…whatever had just happened back there.

  “I know,” said Winston. “I’m sorry. You think I wanted to do that? Tell me something else we could have done.”

  Shade opened his mouth, thought through his retort a bit more, then ground his jaws shut.

  “I’m sorry,” Winston repeated. “I’ll say it however many times you want. Right now, though, we need to get into the Shanghai Tunnels before someone actually does grab us. Agreed?”

  They heard the wail of fire engines and ambulances begin and grow louder. With all of the tall buildings bouncing the sound about, there was no way to tell from which direction the sirens came.

  “Agreed,” Shade said through gritted teeth.

  Winston gave him a little grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Good. Now put your genius hat on and help figure out where we’re going, because I think we’re going to be a lot easier to find right now than that Alpha Machine piece.”

  ***

  Life took a decided swing for the better as soon as Shade returned to their park bench with four slices of pizza piled on p
aper plates in one hand and two cups of root beer in the other. Shade held the pizza under his own face like smelling salts for reviving the unconscious.

  “So much this,” he sighed.

  He set their lunch on the bench beside Winston, who remained hunched over his new phone as the sun beat down on the back of his neck. Without waiting for his friend, Shade all but unhinged his jaw and set to work.

  Winston had known there was only one sure way to snap Shade out of his deteriorating mood. While waiting for him, Winston had web browsed through more research on the Shanghai Tunnels,digging for any clues that might tie to alien artifacts, government projects, or metal donuts. He’d found plenty of interesting stories about Portland’s violent, frontier-era history, but nothing stood out as particularly useful.

  They quickly finished eating and knew it was time to move on. It didn’t take long to spot the right lunchtime worker: someone in his early twenties, cheap clothes, loosened tie, heading back to a beat-up, old-model car. Winston waved a twenty-dollar bill and mumbled some story about how they were late to meet friends down in Northwest. Five minutes later, they’d covered the eighteen blocks to Chinatown.

  Winston had the guy drop them in front of a stylish, dark-windowed place called Red Robe on the corner of Third and Davis. It was one of the few buildings in this district unlike its neighbors, which were piled high with floor after floor of ancient apartments bearing air conditioners crammed into their windows. The streets were clean and lined with trees. Purple and red hanging flower baskets dangled from street lamps. Two vagrants sat and leaned against a wall in the shade of their shopping cart, chatting quietly. Diagonally across the intersection, a marquee for a place called Darcelle XV advertised female impersonators, although why anyone would have a business devoted to that was beyond Winston. The air smelled of cooking oil and spices mixed with warm concrete, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke. The blend of old and new, classy and trashy, felt great to Winston. This was real Portland.

  Just to play it safe, Winston and Shade waved goodbye to their shabby chauffeur and walked toward the Red Robe’s entrance. As soon as the driver turned the corner, though, Winston led them across Third and into Old Town Pizza.

  The restaurant was lit only by small, street-facing windows and a scattering of old-fashioned lamps that seemed more effective at decoration than illumination. Brick walls framed a random assortment of antique-looking chairs, carved tables, and well-worn couches. Shade made a beeline for the ornately wood-paneled counter in front of the kitchen area at the back of the restaurant, over which were painted the words “ORDER PIZZA HERE.” Several steaming pizzas already filled slots in a column of trays built into the counter’s left face.

  Engulfed by the aroma of baking crusts, Shade was powerless not to order the last slab of pepperoni from the kitchen’s by-the-slice warmer. Winston grabbed one cheese for himself and put another $20 bill on the counter. While they didn’t need more pizza — Winston wanted to smack himself for even thinking such a thing — his practical mind wondered when their next full meal might come. Better safe than starving.

  Winston took in the place while they waited. Directly above them stretched the railing for an upper level balcony. A dark, wood-paneled bar ran along most of the wall to their right. The rough, old hardwood flooring appeared black in the dim lighting. Off to his left, Winston noticed a curious dark window in the floor, a thick plastic panel not more than two feet square. He walked over to it and peered down. Below the window, broken stone or concrete framed the hole, and beyond this yawned a ten-foot drop to a stone floor. Winston could see old beams and brickwork in what looked to be the glow of a single bulb somewhere.

  It had to be part of the Portland Shanghai Tunnels. They were close.

  The boys got their pizza slices and found a table with a view of the restaurant windows and entrance but not close enough to be visible from the street.

  When Shade finished his slice, he asked, “Now what?”

  Winston checked the time on his phone. 12:54.

  “Now we wait for the noon tour to finish.”

  Almost on cue, a line of ten or twelve people filed out of the back of the restaurant. Several had cameras in their hands. One still carried a flashlight with its cord wrapped around her wrist. At the back of this group, a short blonde woman in black tights and a denim jacket with a white name tag bearing the word MELANIE herded the group toward the front entrance. She couldn’t have been more than a pinch over five feet tall, with the big, energetic motions of someone in her early twenties. It wasn’t until Winston stood and moved to intercept her that he saw from the corners of her eyes and the backs of her hands that she was probably in her forties.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He reached toward her, making sure she caught sight of the wad of $20 bills in his hand. “Do you give private tunnel tours?”

  Melanie made eye contact with the two exposed faces of Andrew Jackson in Winston’s hand. Then she surveyed him with cautious attention, noting his age, height, and the white streaks in his hair. He realized too late that he’d left his cap back on the table.

  “Probably,” she said, then her expression brightened as she decided that he could be trusted. “I’m just finishing up with this group. Can I meet you in a couple minutes?”

  Winston pointed to where he and Shade were sitting. Melanie nodded enthusiastically, then caught up to her group by the restaurant door and led them outside.

  Shade went back for a third slice and another root beer while Winston pored over his phone’s browser and the two photos left by his father in the scrapbook. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something important, and not just the obvious fact that they had no idea where in the tunnels the next Alpha Machine piece might be. Hopefully, Melanie could set them on a path to figure that out.

  Winston struggled to concentrate against the sporadic distraction of new customers entering the restaurant. He figured it was only a matter of time until somebody spotted them and sent in the police — or worse. At midday, the clientele ranged from middle-aged businessmen to teens not much older than Winston and Shade. Obviously, they weren’t the only ones skipping school today. Winston wondered if truancy officers ever swept places like this for kids playing hooky. Pizza shops for class cutters would be like speed traps for drivers.

  Melanie pulled up a chair and sat down across from them. She smiled broadly, and Winston immediately found himself liking her.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, theatrically casting the back of one hand across her forehead. “You are here to experience real history, the stuff they never teach in schools. Am I right?”

  “You get that a lot?” asked Winston.

  “No.” She dropped her hands onto the table and gave a deep, slightly too loud laugh from deep in her belly. “Only once or twice a month. More when the weather warms up.” She laughed again.

  “How long have you been giving these tours?” Winston asked.

  “Thirteen years,” she said without missing a beat. “Year ‘round, rain or shine. Mostly rain.”

  Winston knew they needed to get moving, and there was no time to sit and get chummy.

  “We’re looking for something,” he said.

  “Lost your keys down a storm drain?” Melanie laughed again and reached forward, putting her hand on Winston’s forearm. “Really. I’ve had people ask for help with that.”

  “Maybe after I get my license,” said Winston.

  “And a car. Or even a bike,” added Shade.

  “It’s kind of like one of those urban treasure hunt things,” said Winston.

  Melanie searched their faces, still smiling but eyes reserved, and Winston caught a glimpse of a clever woman under the brash tour guide facade. “It’d be hard to hide something down there,” she said. “Not many people have access anymore.”

  Winston considered this, but it didn’t add up. “Why not? The tunnels run from the industrial district down deep into southwest, right?”

  “Sure, b
ut there are almost no access points left.”

  Melanie opened the black satchel in her lap and brought out a set of laminated 8”-x-10” photographs that were bound by a steel ring at one corner. She flipped through these, giving Winston brief glimpses of buildings, people, maps, and various views of what was probably the Willamette River. She stopped at one and set it on the table facing them. It was an old black-and-white photo taken from a vantage over the river facing the shore along the photo’s left. Dozens of tall pilings jutted in a long row from the water, behind which ran a continuous line of buildings. A tugboat sat moored next to one in the distance. Worn-away letters on the brickwork read “Shell Gasoline.” Other buildings were labeled “Keystone Press,” “Page & Son Fruits,” and “Farrell Just Grown Flour.” In the distance, near the right side of the photo, stood a bridge that Winston didn’t recognize. Lightning rods poked from the building rooftops.

  “Anybody know what this is?” Melanie asked, slipping back into her day job.

  Both boys were silent, letting the question hang unanswered.

  “Do you guys know Tom McCall Waterfront Park a few blocks from here?” Both nodded. “Well, a hundred years ago, this was it.”

  “What a dump,” Shade remarked. “Thank God for Tom McCall.”

  “Very true,” Melanie said. “Back when this photo was taken, Portland had some rough ideas for a plan called City Beautiful that was supposed to make the west bank all neat and pretty, but the local businesses were dead set against it. You can imagine why. It wasn’t until Governor McCall showed up in the late ‘60s and made cleaning up Portland a priority that anything happened. The park you see along the waterfront now didn’t open until 1978.”

  Winston pointed to the one person visible in the photo. He stood near the edge of the dock on the second level staring out across the water. “People would unload stuff here and move it through the tunnels?”

  “Sometimes,” said Melanie. “For sure, the tunnels were used for that, but in the nineteenth century, we didn’t have Bonneville Dam. The Willamette used to be a mess — rising, falling, churning everywhere. It would flood every few years. In 1948, an entire section of north Portland called Vanport was wiped out in a single day when the dikes failed during a flood, just like New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina.”