Slideways

by Jeffrey Grode

  Darkness filled the room, save for the weak light seeping through the dirty basement window opposite the stairs. As his eyes adjusted, he saw bare tables and empty shelves. Extension cords, unused surge protectors, and broken glass lay scattered on the floor. If Albert once had his own portal equipment here, it was gone.

  Ben wanted to help Albert, but if he reopened the portal what could he do? They had guns and he had a bowl of berries. Should he stay or run? On his right, a closed bulkhead door offered a quick escape outside, but would he be safe on Terra? Staring at where the portal had been, he moved outside the line of fire and nearer to the wooden stairs.

  Albert had used the portal watch and GranPat’s beacon to open the portal, but when he threw the device to Ben, the portal closed. Maybe they couldn’t reopen the portal from Earth without the portal watch. Had Albert chosen to save Ben and the watch at his own expense?

  Ben groaned. Albert Dugan had been captured, if not killed, on Earth by CSD agents from Terra. Agents who didn’t act like the benevolent, but tough, FBI agents in the movies. Weren’t security agents supposed to protect innocent people, not smash them over the head? Those fuckers shot at me.

  Ben sat on a wooden step, but jumped back up as if a hornet stung his leg. After setting the green bowl down, he reached into his left pants pocket and gingerly pulled out his phone. The glass screen, broken and bloody, wouldn’t activate. Unsure if his phone would even function on Terra, he slid it back into his right pants pocket glass side out. I should have taken Mom’s call this morning.

  His stomach growled. Ben picked up the plastic bowl and climbed upstairs through an undamaged door. The kitchen looked similar to GranPat’s, but not quite the same. Morning sunlight shone through open pink curtains framing the kitchen window. On the sill sat a menagerie of tiny ceramic turtles, glass snails, and crystalline blue jays. A stack of white dishes dried on a wooden rack between the sink and the refrigerator.

  Was someone else in the house? He listened, but heard only birds chirping outside. He set the plastic bowl on the counter and extracted the portal watch from the berries. Though the silver watch and wristband were splotched with blackberry juice, it appeared undamaged.

  Ben cleaned the watch with a dishrag and examined it closely. He found three digital display strips on the face of the watch. The top display read F14:57:03, the middle and bottom displays both read DL40.16-80.24T and CL40.16-80.24T. He shook his head. The numbers meant nothing to him.

  He turned it over. A large inset dial on the back resembled a tuner from his clock radio. On the outer rim of the watch were three buttons color coded silver, blue, and red. The buttons were inset, probably to prevent accidental contact like the reset button on his satellite TV box at home. On the other side of the rim were two on/off switches marked 1 and 2. Switch 1 appeared ‘on’ position, but switch 2 was ‘off’. Switch 1 probably allowed him to read the displays. He turned the first switch off and the displays grew dark. After switching it back on, the display returned. He nodded.

  Switch 2 may trigger the portal. Albert must have switched it off just before he tossed the watch through the shrinking portal. Ben felt uncomfortably warm. He didn’t want to open a new portal and let the agents capture him too. They’d already hurt Albert. Ben ground his teeth. But he saved me.

  He moved switch 2 to the ‘on’ position and the air shimmered four feet away. A window the size of a baseball opened. He peeked through, but didn’t see Albert. In fact he thought he was looking at Albert’s empty basement. Walking back downstairs, he found a small portal to the kitchen upstairs. He turned the portal switch off and shook his head. If only Albert had shown him how to use the watch properly. He slipped the metallic watchband onto his wrist and climbed back upstairs to the kitchen.

  His stomach growled again and his eyes found the green bowl. He stuffed a handful of berries into his mouth. They were sweet and juicy. If his mother caught him eating while standing, she’d scold him, “Stop eating like a Viking!” Translation: Get a plate and sit your arse down at the table.

  Ben migrated slowly onto a kitchen chair and worried about her. What would happen if his parents couldn’t find him? He didn’t want to think about that. He finished the berries, washed the bowl, and set it in the drying rack.

  The house resembled GranPat’s. Mostly. He decided to explore and determine if he was the only one home. The living room had a bigger window and contained an old piano—the same style piano his father had lugged home to Carlston after Grandma Betty passed.

  Albert’s bright red sofa sat along the same wall where GranPat’s old green leather couch had rested like a dormant alligator. Ben crept upstairs and found the bathroom adorned with pink tiles instead of blue. The medicine cabinet had a larger mirror.

  The bedrooms looked the same except for the flowery drapes and bedspreads. He glanced out the back window and was surprised to see a wooden gazebo. The rest of the yard looked the same, save for the medium sized garden with neat rows of onions, tomatoes, and pepper plants. The sky was still blue and trees were green. What made Terra different from Earth? Was his doppelganger out there somewhere? Was he normal? Hah. I’ve gotta meet him.

  Ben turned and caught his reflection in the mirror. His hair stuck up again like crooked bayonets and his shirt felt sticky. He didn’t like missing a morning shower. Mom always let him know if he forget to wash or use his deodorant. She would walk up to him, wrinkle her nose, and whisper, “You offend.”

  Ben walked back to the upstairs bathroom, locked the door, peeled off his clothes, and took a hot shower. He washed the jagged scratches on his leg with soap and hot water, but thankfully no stitches were needed. The warm water not only washed the sweat from his body, but helped him relax. Mostly.

  After seeing Albert captured, it was unlikely Albert could return on his own. If Terran CSD agents could access Earth, then they must have a way to travel back and forth. Could they come after him too? CSD knew where he’d gone. Once he finished his shower, he needed to find help, but from whom?

  A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

  Ben jumped and blinked the water out of his eyes. Oh, shit. He turned off the shower and listened. Nothing. He climbed out of the tub, and grabbed a white towel, and dried himself. Had Albert made it back or had the CSD found him? Would they shoot through the door? He pictured himself lying dead on the pink tiles, lifeless eyes staring at the large medicine cabinet.

  “Albert, is that you?” a woman said from the other side of the door.

  Ben exhaled sharply. Did Albert have a maid? His hands shook as he wrapped the towel around his waist.

  “Who’s in there?” she said.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll be out in a few minutes,” he said, “I’m getting dressed.” Ben hoped she wouldn’t freak out or call the police.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.” She sounded calm, but she might be armed. Back home you could shoot an intruder inside your house, but was it legal on Terra? He didn’t think a woman would shoot him right away, at least not without scolding him first.

  Inside Albert’s bathroom, he found adhesive cloth bandages in the medicine cabinet, and applied them to his leg and hands. He borrowed a comb and deodorant stick from the drawer under the sink, and hoped she wouldn’t mind. Best not to offend her.

  But who was she? If he told her the truth, would she think he was crazy? She might find it easier to believe he was homeless, hungry, and broke into the house to find something to eat, but he didn’t want to lie. What if he snuck out of the house and escaped? She wouldn’t be able to describe him to the police. But where would he go? He swallowed his fear and remembered what GranPat had said. Just do your best, and keep breathin’.

  Ben walked quietly down the stairs. He thought it best not to scare the lady, especially if she was holding a hair trigger shotgun. “I’m coming down,” he announced.

  Ben felt his heart beating inside his chest as he walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. She wasn’t there. The green plast
ic bowl lay on the counter with a note inside. Please meet me out back.

  Ben stepped outside onto the wooden deck and saw a woman sitting in the gazebo. He stopped. His chest tightened as he tried to draw a breath. The woman’s pale face, though veiled by the screen mesh around the gazebo, looked familiar. Shadow and light crisscrossed her face, as the living ghost of Grandma Betty locked eyes with his.

  She tilted her head and squinted. “Oh, my Lord. Ben?” She stood and covered her cheeks with her palms. “I never thought I’d see you again!” She beckoned him inside the ethereal gazebo. “Or that green plastic bowl. I’d thrown it away years ago during the Plastic Purge.”

  Ben recognized her voice and moved his feet forward. The gazebo door creaked as he stepped inside and across the red paving stones. “Grandma Betty?” She stood near a round wicker table, and looked healthy and happy, so different from the pallid stretched skin he remembered at her viewing. He shivered.

  “Hello, Ben. I’m not—” Tears slid down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed his ribs, and gently kissed his forehead. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  His grandma’s hugs had always made him feel safe. He stretched his arms around her slowly and squeezed.

  After a moment, she released him and stepped back. “I am very happy to meet you.”

  A smile stretched across his face as he smelled her lilac perfume. The same scent she’d worn when she drove him to church, the movies, and the Carmichael Zoo. She’d always treated him with kindness. “Me too.”

  GranPat had wanted to find Grandma Betty, even if it meant speaking to the dead. And here she stood. Alive. His smile faded, and he took a half step back.

  Her cheeks slackened. “I think you know I’m not really your grandmother.”

  Ben blinked rapidly. “Grandma Betty died in the winter when I was nine.” The snowflakes had made a soft blanket on her coffin. “My feet were freezing.” He looked up and saw her frown. “She was a very nice lady, and I miss her.”

  “My name is Betsy. Please have a seat.” She motioned to the chair beside her and they both sat.

  “Are you her twin, her doppelganger, on Terra?” Ben asked. “Like Albert and my GranPat.”

  “Yes, I think so. I’m a little confused by the whole concept. I know I’ve just met you today, but my heart tells me you’re my grandson.” She shook her head. “How do you feel?”

  “Truthfully? Mixed. I want to believe this is real, and my grandfather is a scientific genius, and he found my grandma. But, what if somebody slipped acid into my drink?” Ben shifted in his seat. “Did I travel through a portal because of Albert, or am I tripping somewhere in a hospital bed? Either way, I’d like to know the truth.”

  “I understand how you feel. I don’t know the whole truth, but I know Albert. He’s a brilliant scientist and worked with your grandfather, Patrick, on a portal project. I’m real. This world is real, but different from yours.” She straightened in her chair and smiled. “Welcome to Terra.” She laid her hand on his. “Okay if I adopt you as my grandson?”

  His eyes flared, but it felt okay. “Sure.”

  She smiled and placed her hand atop Ben’s. “Done.”

  He placed his other hand on top of hers. “Done and done. Should I call you ‘Grandma Betsy’?”

  “Yes, please. Aren’t you a sweetheart?”

  They both let go and sat back in their chairs.

  Her forehead furrowed. “Ben, how did you get here?”

  He told her about the portal watch and what happened to Albert.

  Betsy shook her head. “Oh, Albert, what have you gotten yourself into now?” She looked away and tapped the top of the patio table three times. “The CSD can be very dangerous. We have a beautiful planet, but the UAC has too much power and not enough accountability. People who have crossed the CSD sometimes ‘disappear.’”

  Ben felt a twinge in his gut. “I can’t stay here in Terra. I have to go back to Earth to find my grandfather. He’s been missing since Saturday night. After I find him, I’m sure he’ll help us rescue Albert.”

  Grandma Betsy grinned. “Patrick? I’m sure he will. He’s a good man.”

  Ben blinked. “You know him?”

  “I just met him yesterday. He had an awful time getting here.”

  Chapter 10

  Patrick blinked his eyes open to the harsh overhead lights. His head pounded. He couldn't open his mouth, but he could breathe through his nose. It’s . . . Saturday. I was on the train, and . . . the conductor jabbed me with a needle.

  As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was no longer on the train, but alone in an office with bare walls and no windows. A small metal table and three empty chairs blocked his way to an open door and a dark corridor beyond.

  Patrick tried to move, but found his arms and legs had been bound to a metal chair with duct tape. Straining against his binds had little effect, and when he tried to stand he found the chair had been anchored to the floor. Where am I?

  He took a calming breath and listened, hoping street noise might provide some clue to his whereabouts, but heard none. The silence stretched until muffled voices . . . argued somewhere deeper in the building, then stopped. Finally, footsteps echoed in the corridor sounding louder with each step.

  Patrick strained against his bonds once more. Why am I here?

  A large man with curly red hair and a blue mole on his cheek walked into the room wearing a lab coat. He stared at Patrick with the disdain of a groom who had found a cockroach on his wedding cake. “He’s awake,” the curly man called back down the corridor.

  Two more men entered the room dressed in lab coats. The first, a tall bald man with a wispy white mustache, appeared to be the alpha. The second, the false conductor, wore a sneer under his bulbous nose.

  “Dr. Dugan,” the bald man enunciated with authority. “We will make this quick. You have something we want. Cooperate, and I will let you go. If you don’t, then your time on this world may be very short. Understand?”

  Patrick blinked twice. “MmmHmmm.”

  Baldy gestured to Curly, who ripped the duct tape off Patrick’s mouth along with part of his mustache.

  “Owwww. Chrissakes! What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Patrick said. Why would they kidnap him? Were they spies?

  “Where’s the watch?” Baldy snapped.

  Patrick looked at his right wrist. His Timex was missing. “You tell me. I wore me watch every day for thirty years.” He cleared his throat and swallowed. “Was gift from me wife.” His heart beat faster than he wanted. Remembering his Marine Corps capture and evasion training, he tried to calm himself. Breathe. Slow in, hold, slow out.

  Baldy reached into his pocket and pulled out the Timex. “We found this on your wrist, but we want the portal watch. Where is it?”

  “Never heard of a portal watch.”

  Baldy backhanded Patrick across the face knocking his glasses askew. His cheek and tongue throbbed with pain.

  “Don’t play stupid, Dugan. We know you designed the watch.”

  Patrick spit out a dollop of pink saliva that tasted like sour metal. These may be Albert’s minders. What did he call them? CSD. “If you think I’m a watch designer, you have the wrong man.” He stared at Baldy. “Hit me one more time and I’m goin’ straight to the FBI. Got that, arsehole?” He needed to get his hand on a weapon, but couldn’t move.

  Baldy looked at the Conductor. “Hoss. You sure we have the right man?”

  Patrick blinked. The conductor’s name was Hoss. Who were the others?

  Hoss pulled a picture from his pocket and showed his boss. Baldy scrunched up his face. “Does our man wear glasses?”

  “No,” Curly said. “Maybe his ocular implant failed.”

  Baldy studied the picture, “This shows a tiny vertical scar above his upper lip. See.”

  Hoss looked at Curly. “Hold his head still.”

  Curly complied and Hoss ran his sausage-like fingers through Patrick’s mustache. “No scar.”
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br />   “You wingnuts have the wrong man,” Patrick said shaking his head.

  “Maybe so.” Baldy glanced at Curly. “Tape his mouth shut and show me his right arm.”

  Curly wound a wide strip of gray duct tape around Patrick’s mouth.

  Patrick squinted against the light and tried to pull away, but Curly’s grip held him tight. His heart raced once more.

  Curly seized a box cutter and sliced the duct tape from Patrick’s right arm.

  Patrick tried to grab the box cutter with his free hand, but Hoss smacked him hard across the face. Patrick felt dizzy from the pain.

  Baldy rotated Patrick’s arm. “No watch and no ink. Damn it all!” The bald man kicked a wastebasket across the room. “Secure him.”

  The three kidnappers shuffled back down the hallway. Patrick heard a hushed conversation, but he couldn’t decipher the words. He knew they had at least three options: keep him prisoner here, but holding the wrong man would do them no good; let him go, but he’d seen their faces and might go to the authorities; or kill him. Shit.

  Hoss returned with a hypodermic needle. Curly followed.

  Patrick struggled against his restraints with his eyes focused on the needle. He bucked in his chair, but Curly held his shoulders down. God help me.

  Hoss brought the needle to Patrick’s neck. “Back to sleep old man. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Patrick woke. Morning light filtered down through a dense canopy of green leaves overhead. His brain throbbed. If he could take his head off like a hat, he would. His dry mouth felt fuzzy and his throat burned. Both his back and neck felt sore. A large brown dog wandered up to him, licked his face, snorted, and then trotted off. Good Lord.

  Patrick rolled on his side, spit, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He lay on a brown wooden bench in a public square. Boutique shops lined the outer perimeter of the park. The square and the buildings reminded him of Carmichael, but the shops were different. He wondered if this town had been designed by the same city planner. There was little foot traffic, except near the large stone church at the far corner of the park. Must be Sunday morning.