The Time Tribulations

by Travis Borne

  Jerry was not only able to pummel Carne, then stop Baldarn, and Warticon, as well the three others from forcing Carmen into an arduous redo, but he took out six others before they finally subdued him.

  So, he had taught Carmen during the course of their following week off, to find the strength within herself as he had once learned decades ago, and now remembered. And she was able to get up, now. She’d fallen again, right before the 590. Carmen sent Jerry diamond eyes and a nod of unbreakable determination.

  The beasts had taken everything from the humans: pride, dignity, they’d been forced to endure deranged contests and unimaginable torture, but there was one thing the beasts could never take—the love Jerry and Carmen secretly shared. He wanted her to make it and she wanted him. And mentally they inched on, and so did Pat, Andy, Roger, and Luke, and rows of others down the line. Today, more were succeeding than any week previously.

  And Madron pressed hard, giving them his all near the end, so much so he could hardly raise the whip upon nearing the finish line. They’d been beaten unrecognizable. But against the odds they crossed over—the first group of six to complete the race from their line of sixty! Madron’s huge nostrils flared, his anger exploded—he, had failed, lost the full bucket of points and the crowd booed, and now he would be getting his own punishment later. But, before leaving to join the beasts he sent Jerry a single nod. And Jerry, destroyed physically, mutilated, stood tall and firm. His muscles popped and he stood as if his leg was somehow still there. He did not return the nod, just a stone-cold stare worth several hundred years of animosity—and hope, still quite alive and quite well. After passing through the regenerators at the end of the field they headed up to the surface. TGIF, and a week off plus two extra days!

  50. A New Vow

  Friday evening. It was a time of happiness, yet sorrow, mental anguish and relief, but most of all, recovery. Winning the two extra days was quite an accomplishment, but the feat had taken its toll.

  “How about it, Carmen?” Jerry asked. He joined her on the bed wearing only a towel. “Pat invited us. He said Kate will be there, and she always cheers you up. Andy and Luke are going too.”

  “I don’t know, Jerry,” Carmen said. “Look at my hands. I—I can’t stop shaking.”

  Jerry took her hands in his; they’d taken a hot shower together but she was still cold and cramping up. He straightened her fingers and put them to his face, then Carmen pulled her hand away and fell onto him. She trembled like a cat in the cold rain, chills echoing throughout her bones.

  “It’s getting worse,” Jerry said. He used two fingers to nudge her chin upward and mated his eyes with hers; tears made hers glass and her left eye dropped the flood. They exchanged a few seconds in mourning, staring into each other’s souls, then Carmen squeezed her eyes tight and pushed herself back into him. “Something has to change, and soon, or this will be the end of us.”

  “I only wish that were true,” she said, pressing herself between his hairy chest muscles, “that it—that it really could just end.”

  He enwrapped her like a giant to a doll. Her skin was clammy and her shivering traveled into him as if she was purring. Tears rolled from his chest to his abs and into his towel as if she was raining; Jerry’s heartache swelled and he became heated.

  He thought again about Wednesday, the memories he’d received with a rare burst of clarity. He felt love, and pain, and remembered the good and bad times they’d shared together, Valerie and he. And, standing in the lake fishing with three-year-old Amy; he remembered when she looked up at him smiling as bright as the yellow afternoon sun. He thought of his vow to protect her, at all costs, and recalled his death too. He had vowed to himself with emotions that’d turned him into steel, that day—and he knew he’d ultimately failed; he could only hope that Jon and Amy had been able to make it; he hoped they’d been rescued.

  And he made a new vow, just then, while hugging the woman he loved. The memories ignited an old rage, one that had been dormant like a hibernating bear. The fossilized power crumbled around an ember long since extinguished and a slight gust of air reignited his core as if a flint had been delivered by someone who’d walked a million miles through snow with bare feet. An ignition, an activation, and it made him hot—and he gave Carmen every bit of warmth he could generate.

  Although something had empowered him he knew not what, and wished he could have done more while Carmen was getting raped, and all of the other days she’d taken whatever the beasts could dish out. The innumerable torture sessions no longer persisted for what seemed an eternity—they had accepted that it was their eternity, immutably with every flavor of pain imaginable. Within his mind he signed the vow he’d just forged—and it grew like a new universe exploding from a singularity. He would become the protector he should have been to Amy, and this time he would not fail.

  “I love you, Carmen,” Jerry said.

  With sprinkles of energy and fluttering trembles, she re-squeezed his chiseled frame. After she became warm the shaking lessened and Jerry held her by her shoulders. He gazed into her deep brown eyes again, and she into his; the moment transferred something new after all this time. Powerful emotions blossomed like wilting flowers being galvanized by electric soil, and a new hope was born; a warm ray of light brought slivers of happiness and the blossoming explosion of a field’s worth of flowers went from gray to bright, with prismatic colors. Two minds shared the same surge. A dose of healing reverberated between them like the ghost of a long-forgotten friend. Carmen dropped her towel and Jerry his, and they hugged each other as if the world just vanished and only they remained, illuminating a once cold, dark void. They didn’t move for twenty-five minutes, then made love for thirty-five, and all traces of cold and shivering vanished from their quaint top-floor apartment.

  51. Marti's Place

  “Good to be Alive.” It was the slogan at Marti’s and an azure-blue neon sign floating atop the mirror behind an array of bottles said just that. Patrick mounted a stool at the bar next to his woman, Kate, and beside him sat Luke and Andy.

  There were many others, but double-day winners usually gravitated to the friendly joint after a difficult week. Their recently endured horrors nearly negated the benefit of winning the extra day or two but Marti’s had a fix. The joint was smack dab in the center of the lively downtown strip and had three stories of open atmosphere. Several balconies and the rooftop overlooked museums, fun houses and rides, theaters, as well as the endless cascade of interesting shops and restaurants grazing the lush mountainside. Passersby, lovers holding hands, workers, red-suits, and every citizen mottled the city. Nightly and as always, parties began. Up until the wee hours of the morning some of the best times could be had at Marti’s—and it was almost enough to make people forget.

  “Let’s have it, Bart,” Patrick said after Bart finished pouring a whiskey for an off-duty worker. “A round of the usual, please.”

  Bart nodded. Interpreting Pat’s benumbed gaze, he said, “Bad this time, Pat?” Pat just shook his head slowly; his bloodshot eyes spoke pain, loads.

  “The worst.”

  “Well, you're here on a Friday eve, I’m glad you won it. And guess what, I have a new batch for you—something I think you’ll really appreciate.” Bart pulled on the golden tap and filled four mugs with a glittering green ale. The brews were renowned to be the best within the quaint city—a seemingly magical potion which could etch a smile on even the most depressed, and its effects would last for days. Bart was only a worker, never went down himself, but was well informed by means of horror-spewing tales and all-out releases regularly occurring within the establishment; like an exorcism, humans had to vent, and many straight out lost it.

  Nobody aged or became unhealthy. Money grew on trees and pleasure abound, and the thousands of workers were friendly and helpful. Spending was rampant, myriad tastes and pleasures to enjoy, hiking in the green mountains just beyond town, fishing in the streams, or just getting drunk or high until it was time to work aga
in.

  Midtown. The upper world. It was as good as the underworld was bad and through the grapevine all had insight—about why. The officers conversed throughout the years and humans overheard, and although it did little to help or change things, humans amassed much general knowledge: the system, or whatever it was, needed time to absorb the bulge, a massive build up of something called The Special. One had described it while drunk: a heart-sloshing magical juice through the bowels of assimilation. Another had said pain caused a sort of evocation, needed to oppress the underworld. No pain, no gain—a cliche that set ears on fire as the officers used it like a broken record while humans boarded the elevator platform every Monday morning. Largely, and because of interminable life, the citizens had come to accept their purpose; their flip-flopping existence trudged on and on for hundreds of years.

  Some speculated the work operations somehow protected the city in which they found themselves. But none knew for sure and guessing went round. And the officers mocked frequently. Humans, they said deridingly, were damaged and long-term memories could no longer be retained, none could become lucid enough to understand the true purpose. Therefore, it had become widely accepted that if the beasts did not get their way below, they’d come to the surface and the good half of life would be annihilated, leaving only the downside.

  Really, it was no different from their previous lives on Earth, which had become a vague memory. Good days primed them for the bad. Existence in Midtown had only the difference of a more volatile ratio of good to bad. While half of the 6,000-plus souls were burning below, the other half enjoyed themselves above. No good without bad—as the officers so frequently bantered.

  But all dreaded the bad part, below, basking in red hot darkness. Above, light was a bandage for mental wounds. The sun. A small but intense, healing bulb of a star went round without deviation, marking 24-hour days split in half with precision: 12 of hours of light, and 12 of night. And there was one moon; its lavender glow seemed to possess the power of healing, too. Like Uranus but mauve, the planet-sized satellite marked the 7-day week. It halved itself on the easternmost mountains then swung into the sky making an oblong circle, once again to halve itself on the mountains in the west. Either nadir signified a Monday, meaning, head below…and hell began for half of the humans. Seven days ablaze, seven enjoying the light. Monday through Sunday with nerves on fire, unless Saturday—and by far more difficult to attain, Sunday—could be won.

  Time = gold.

  People lived only for more time above, although there wasn’t a choice otherwise, and time could be won in a few ways: first and most common was completing the week below without dying twice in a day, using the regenerator only once per 24-hour period—dying twice per was highly frowned upon and always deducted a maximum of one day, Saturday, as well the chances of winning any more for the week; second, winning Friday’s race. Beasts bet on teams and the event was grandstanded to mammoth proportions. Chimeras, demons, centaurs, and myriad other creatures dominated the world below—and had their own reasons for winning. There were other races too; new ideas were continually being implemented. If an event was overused humans became numb to the experience—usually after having done it countless times—and the method was retired. Newer tribulations were by far more productive; the name of the game was pain, both mental and physical.

  Alternatively, credits could be won in Midtown. These could not be saved for later use or compounded with the lower credits for more days—the following Saturday or Sunday only. These were used primarily by those who had trouble below yet still needed an ample reset. Humans could perform services, i.e. work for the officers. Mortal like a man in appearance and manner, 300 male officers resided in Midtown, roughly one for every 20 humans. They worked for the system itself and doled credits to worthy humans.

  Officers could care less about time—for they never had to go down. However, like any other, desires were lures and appetites were stuffed wallets burning asses. Typically, sadistic in manner, were their chores, but there wasn’t much some humans would neglect for a chance at getting an exemption credit. Many times, the officers were more perverted than the beasts below, and usually had their way with many of the weaker citizens.

  The officers managed Midtown, mitigated rowdiness, and enforced the law, and, just like humans and workers, were paid with more cash than could be spent, as long as the work got completed. But officers also earned these special exception credits, one per week, from the system itself. They wore immaculate tomato-red suits and possessed incredible strength; even Jerry, who was the largest, strongest human in the town, could not compete with the lean brutes. They were lightning fast, but also possessed a sixth sense and could easily locate any human. Once, many had tried to flee, escape into the unknown outer limits, but quickly learned just how futile the effort was, and also, that it was not worth the punishment.

  52. The Stroll

  Almost there. They walked slowly, holding hands. The lady who took pies to the face blurted a loud, “Jerry, Carmen!” as they passed. Fat Molly, a hilarious worker indeed, and she waved while sitting on her perch, awaiting another pie from Nora and her worker friend.

  Home. Just something about being here again. Carmen looked up to Jerry and a sliver of a smile worked its way onto her luscious lips. He returned one through his neatly trimmed beard. They both felt better: good people, friends, and, because something new had happened earlier.

  Jerry’s was curly and brown and hers was blond with dark roots and only the slightest wave; his was light tan, borderline white, which could turn red from hot sauce or rage, and her skin was glowing, bronze. Carmen was from Guadalajara, Mexico, and Tennessee-born Jerry’s presentation mismatched hers in just about every way.

  She’d been his woman for hundreds of years, his first and only since he’d lost Valerie after the birth of their stillborn daughter, in the cave shortly after the terrible experience with Lee and his two goons. Carmen was 5 foot 4; he was 6 foot 9. She was in her early thirties and possessed glowing skin with an aura of youthfulness, and she was a magnet, to whom Jerry’s eyes were highly magnetized steel; he looked down at her again as they neared Marti’s. He could feel the change, something, like the early days when they recovered faster and had more alacrity for life in Midtown.

  Strolling down the sidewalk and sloping street, arms around each other, many more shouted a hello as they passed by nonchalantly. Carmen managed some smiles and Jerry nodded his courteous, country-boy nod. It was great to see some of the friends he rarely had the chance to spend time with—all knew they’d won; just being there on a Friday evening… And all knew what both he and Carmen had to endure to make it possible, so largely left them to themselves for the first day off.

  They passed Sid’s Spook House, which smelled as if his fog generator had received an upgrade, then Laquanda’s Earthquake Simulator and the lift rides, then Billy & Bonnie’s Foot Longs, which had mustard and pickles circulating throughout the air as if the tear gas in a tear-gas bomb had been replaced with their concoctions and detonated. Next, Ron’s House of Mirrors, Candi’s mustard-gas-dissipating Candy Store—then Jerry and Carmen arrived at Marti’s. He held one of the double doors open for her and they headed to the bar. Patrick and Kate sat at their usual spot. Andy and Luke were there too, although their women were still burning below.

  And whoosh. Immediately the gemütlichkeit unsharpened nerves. The walls were plastered with hides from animals Jerry and others had hunted in the forest; there were stuffed familiar ones and curiosities, even fish, and dart boards and jukeboxes, myriad games, poker tables, and pool tables in the back, encircling the immense spiral staircase. Workers were arriving in droves and took up positions at various sections of the grand, lower bar area, which stretched a good seventy feet deep into the impressive establishment. Many humans were arriving too, for the relaxed atmosphere, friendly service and friends, and especially the drink Jerry had a hand in contriving. All looked forward to feeling better after guzzling the number one,
drink of all drinks: Alligator Ale.

  53. A Night Out

  “Hey, guys,” Jerry said, then, “Bart!” Bart acknowledged and headed over. Jerry helped Carmen to a seat at the bar; his country-style fix back at their apartment had helped but her shakes were returning, and her eyes wandered as if she was unable to focus.

  “Thank you,” Carmen said.

  “Good you came, bro,” Pat, said. “Hi, Carmen.” Likewise, Andy and Luke said their hellos.

  “Jerry,” Bart replied, heading over. “Good to see you again, and early, that’s fantastic. The usual, my good friend?”

  “Bart, my man, I think we’re gonna need something with a little more kick. Those bastards singled her out again—on Wednesday. Did you get my new batch cleaned?”

  Bart looked at Carmen, flattening his smile. He saw her eyes shivering; he knew humans had varied reactions to the underworld. “One day, Jerry, one day…” Bart shook his head. “…but yes, the batch has been cleaned, mashed, and processed. Marti wanted to get it done before he headed down on Monday. And, I think you’re in for a surprise.” He put a large mug under the golden tap.

  “It’s good shit, Jerry,” Andy said. To Bart, “You guys killed it, best yet. We’re feeling better already.”

  “Good deal, we really need it. Keeps gettin’ worse down there.” He turned to Carmen. “And one day is right, one day, Bart. Sooner than later.” Carmen put her hand on his arm. Jerry turned again to face Bart, looking him straight in the eye. “You know I used to think we really were stuck here forever—” Carmen smiled, acknowledging the moment they’d shared, the surge of hope. Bart sent forward the first full mug of ale and opened a friendly ear as always. Jerry continued, “It’s been a long time since there’s been a revolt, seems everyone’s just accepted this mess. This fucking planet, wherever we are—it’s hell, Bart, pure hell. And the motherfucking officers—” Bart stopped filling Carmen’s glass and hunched. He extended a finger; a group of officers had entered.