by Gary Ballard
“We don’t have time for this,” the dragon said peevishly.
“Unless you’re going to offer to carry my ass, you’re going to have to give me a minute to catch my breath.”
“Shouldn’t have been talking so much,” Carl said, but settled down in the road to allow Bridge a breather. When Bridge felt a little steadier, he started in motion again. They walked on in silence until the dome appeared out of the darkness. Bridge had gotten glimpses of it now and then, but its proximity was such now that it dominated the view, a shiny black omnipresent deity peering down oppressively on the ants walking below. This close, the dark material seemed to glow faintly, grasping every iota of the moonlight and in reflecting it, amplifying the light. Bridge became aware of a buzzing hum of energy that made the hair on his arms stand up. He felt that charged expectant potential in the air like the seconds before lightning strikes. Anxiety and anticipation grew in the pit of his stomach as he approached the mysterious construct. Finally, the dome swallowed the road, the houses, and the sky, everything in front of Bridge. There was no more city, just the dome.
With distracted disinterest, Carl said, “We’re here. Go on in.”
Bridge looked at the dome’s surface, then back to Carl with skeptical irritation. “Wait a minute, you want me to touch that thing? Just walk into it?”
“Just walk into it.”
“Hold everything. I’ve seen the video on the Net. That thing fried the last jackass who touched it. What are you trying to do, electrocute me?”
“That idiot wasn’t allowed in. You are. If I had wanted to kill you, I’d have done it back there when you made fun of my name. Now go on in, the force field is calibrated to allow you and only you through.” Carl shouted back over Bridge’s shoulder at the bodyguards. “That means your bodyguards should not expect to be let in. Do not touch this thing or you’ll get fried. Do you understand?”
“Si,” Stonewall answered. Bridge picked out their location as the Mexican stood up from behind a building. “You ok, Bridge?”
“I’m pretty far from ok, brother,” Bridge replied. “But I got this. Marcus, if your grandmother’s in there, I’ll find her.” Again, Bridge refused to promise. Aristotle just nodded sadly. “If you can, let Bud know what’s going on. I’ll see what I can do about his people while I’m at it.”
Bridge stared at the dome, then back up at Carl, trying to read the creature’s emotions. There was nothing in the flames that would give Bridge comfort either way, no sense of sympathetic feelings that would bolster Bridge’s shaky confidence. The dragon motioned a talon towards the dome again, shooing Bridge forward impatiently. “Well, fuck it,” Bridge said finally. “I didn’t come all this way to pussy out now.”
He stepped into the dome with thet jachis teeth clenched and eyes closed, expecting to be thrown backwards by electric shock any minute.
*****
Chapter 13
November 7, 2028
1:04 a.m.
His first sensation was that of warm water on his fingers, palms and wrists. Every nerve in the affected area tingled like the static discharge of freshly dried laundry in winter. He slowly opened one eye then the other. His hands had sunk into the dome’s surface, which rippled like a moonlit pool around his outstretched limbs. His interface jack was on fire, the hairs on his neck surrounding the plug standing straight up. Stealing one more glance back at Carl, he saw that the dragon looked down on him with bored impatience. Bridge took the final step and plunged into the darkened surface.
Though he was on his feet the entire time, his senses screamed that he was falling through empty air. He took tiny tentative steps. His vision was blotted out yet his remaining senses seemed to expand as if he’d just jacked into the GlobalNet. But instead of that familiar blinding white rush of speed, there was wave after wave of black motion, as if the world moved around him, past him, through him. Time seemed to bend and though he knew it to be only seconds, the passage through felt like hours and days compressed into a singularity of perception. Before he knew it, he had made it through, back into reality and blinded by the sunlight.
Sunlight. That was the first thought he could grasp. The sun was too bright. He did not expect the sunlight. There should not be sunlight. There couldn’t be sunlight. But as he looked around him, he confirmed that the sun was indeed shining, though the quality of light was muted. Shielding his eyes, he peered upwards and discovered that the dome’s interior surrounded his vision, encompassing the entirety of the sky. The inside was translucent, dulling the light like a massive pair of sunglasses.
The dome had caused quite a lot of damage. On either side of the four-lane highway sat rows and rows of suburban-style houses. Many were cleanly bisected by the dome’s perimeter and those that were not crushed had been devastated by shockwaves. Windows were blasted out, roofs had lost shingles, and those in immediate proximity to the smashed houses leaned precipitously as if an explosive wave had knocked them off their center. The snow that had been on the ground outside was long since melted in the sun, and not even a hint of powder remained. The air was warm and stuffy, not quite at greenhouse levels of humidity but close. Bridge’s heavy coat suddenly felt very hot, so he took it off, draping it over his shoulder casually. The silence that was so prominent outside was gone, replaced by the normal hum of electriciNew Ry felt verty.
The interior of the dome had electricity. As he walked further up the road away from the immediate blast area, he marveled at the houses which had porch lights burning. He could hear the low-level hum of heating units running. The only thing missing was the people. Scattered cars littered the highway, likely the remnants of the sparse night owls that would have been out at the time of the incident. But each car he approached was empty. Most were still in gear, as if their occupants had suddenly abandoned the vehicle while traveling down the highway without bothering to stop. Many had drifted into the median or the shoulder, some with catastrophic consequences.
One car that had stopped in a turn lane was undamaged, so he hopped in to the driver’s seat. If the lights were on under the dome, perhaps the cars would work too. Nothing remained of the passengers except a large cup filled with molding soda in one of the front seat cup holders. A purse lay mutely in the passenger’s side floorboard. Putting the car into park, he attempted to start it, but the engine refused. A look at the dashboard console showed why. The car had no fuel. Perhaps when its occupant disappeared, it had continued running until the gas tank was exhausted. Bridge wondered how long that would have taken. Curious now, he reached over and examined the purse’s contents. The wallet contained a few Legios’ dollars and a credit ID card with the name Lucinda Barnes. He pocketed the card and the dollars. Selling a credit ID for someone who obviously wasn’t there to object would perhaps make up for some of the money he’d lost on this trip. A quick examination of the car yielded nothing else of value, so he left it in park and continued walking. He tried a few other cars, but all had empty gas tanks.
He eyed the neighborhoods on each side of the highway. A number of cars were parked on the streets and in carports, so he took a detour in the hope that at least one would have fuel. There would likely be vehicles that hadn’t been running when everyone disappeared, and who knew what else he could scavenge. He might even be able to score a midnight snack, as he’d not eaten for hours and his belly rumbled. His first stop was at an older house on Ash Avenue, and he struck pay dirt.
After shattering a window, he waited nervously outside for any response from the residents, but the tinkle of glass was answered only by silence. The house still buzzed with active electricity, the refrigerator still hummed its cooling song, so he made himself a quick turkey sandwich. Stalking through the house carefully as he munched on the snack, he searched each room for evidence of life. Beds were obviously slept in but the sleepers were nowhere to be found. He found a couple more credit ID’s and a 9mm pistol with two extra clips. Normally, the last thing he’d carry is a gun, preferring to rely on Arist
otle’s bulk to discourage violence on his person. These circumstances were hardly normal and without his friend’s muscle to back him up, he preferred being armed. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it. His gun skills were such that he was more likely to do something as stupid as shoot himself in the dick than take down a would-be attacker.
The house search also yielded a set of car keys for the late teens model pickup truck parked on the street. He jumped in and crossed his fingers as he tried the key. The engine roared to life and he let go an exhausted cheer. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about,” he yelled. Realizing he was talking to himself, Bridge shook hisidgven be ab head, and aimed the truck back towards the highway, making his way carefully through the minefield of stalled cars.
*****
Despite his impatience for answers, Bridge took to the road at a sluggish pace to avoid the few cars left stranded. The longer he stayed under the dome, the more he felt that tingling nervousness like walking in a graveyard at dusk. Bridge’s comfort zone was the breakneck pace and claustrophobic press of Los Angeles’ 24-hour lifestyle. The overcrowded atmosphere of Denver had a different vibe but it was one Bridge could grasp. Suburbs made Bridge nervous at the best of times, probably residual resentments from his pampered teen years. But this emptiness, this isolated silent wasteland without the slightest human presence gave Bridge the willies on a level he’d never felt before.
The six-lane highway he drove on was in need of repair, the truck bouncing over numerous potholes. Lines of patched-over cracks ran up and down the street like varicose veins. Houses and office buildings stood mute watch over the road from either side of the highway. Two slow blocks later, with Bridge taking careful inventory of the scenery, he began to feel something just on the edge of perception, a slow tingling, the itching sensation in his jack sending tiny ripples of feeling up and down his spine. Incoherent but insistent at first, the feeling grew and grew, traveling through his body like the circulation of blood. All the hairs on his arm stood at attention. He could feel the anticipation in his genitals, his fingers, and his eyeballs pulsed with the sensation. His tongue tasted like he’d licked a battery. He heard/felt a rattling, murmuring drone just at the edge of consciousness.
“What are you doing in my truck?” The scream startled Bridge. He threw himself to the side of the truck’s cab, pressing up against the door as if trying to escape the moving vehicle. Sitting in the passenger’s seat was a stranger staring angrily at Bridge. The muted sunlight poured through the stranger’s colorless body. Bridge could see through the passenger. This ghost wore rumpled pajamas, his curly hair tousled as if from bed head. He appeared to be in his early ‘50’s and worst of all, he was visibly pissed. His stubby finger pointed accusingly at Bridge. “You fucking thief, you stole my truck! Pull this thing over right now!” Underneath the anger, the man’s voice held an unreal quality, a droning artificial timbre that sounded digitally altered, as if he spoke through a voice box.
“Nobody was around,” Bridge stammered, trying to keep his voice steady despite being freaked out. “The whole goddamn town is abandoned and I needed a ride.”
“What, your mama told you taking people’s stuff was ok long as they ain’t around? It’s still my truck! Pull over, I’m gonna whip your monkey ass right here! I’ll have you arrested.”
“By who? Have you seen the cops anywhere? Have you seen anybody? se/p> The place is a ghost town! Look at yourself! You’re a ghost!”
“What you talkin’ about, boy? I’m as real as she is!” The ghost pointed at something out the windshield. Bridge had been paying too little attention to the road, having grown accustomed to the idea of an empty city. He turned quickly to see what the ghost pointed at, but was unprepared for what he saw.
Directly in the truck’s path was a woman, wandering aimlessly across the highway. In that split second before reaction, Bridge’s senses expanded to encapsulate every detail of the scene no matter how trivial. The woman was young, perhaps a student, dressed to the nines in a short skirt, fuck me stiletto heels and a strapless top. Her body was on the chunky side of decent, but her face was plainly unattractive. Her eyes vacant, her gait a shuffling stumble, Bridge would put good money that she was well past drunk. She turned her head as the vehicle bore down on her, a scream building in her throat as she realized the danger too late. And then the truck passed through her transparent body. Bridge had swung the wheel too late to avoid contact.
The brakes screamed in protest, tires spitting smoke and cacophonous anger at the impossible intentions of their driver. The truck shuddered towards the shoulder and past it, spewing gravel in its wake as it tore into the grass on the side of the road. Bridge felt the truck slam into the guard rail, his body thrown forward into the inadequate cushion of the expanding air bag as metal screeched against metal and glass shattered into tinkling bells.
Bridge maintained consciousness, but everything hurt and his pulse thundered in his ears. He counted himself lucky to have been so cautious, as he couldn’t have been driving more than 35 miles an hour when he hit. Nevertheless, he heard the hissing of a punctured radiator and saw rivulets of steam escaping from underneath the hood. “Now look what you done, you motherfucker!” the ghost howled. “Do you know how much that’s gonna cost to fix?” He cursed Bridge, but Artemis just ignored it, opening the door slowly and stepping out. Bridge checked himself from head to foot. Nothing was broken, and other than a stiff neck and a motherfucker of a headache, he was unharmed.
He spit a little blood from a split lip and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Fuck it, I’ll just walk,” he said sardonically. “You hear me, you old cocksucker? You can have your goddamn truck back.” He looked back into the cab at the swearing ghost. His eyes widened.
There were ghosts everywhere, walking around in a daze. Some were dressed in their night attire, like the driver of the stolen truck, while others seemed to be going to work or shopping as if it was any other routine day. He stood on a hill overlooking a shopping center with a grocery, drug store, hardware chain and a few other sundry shops. There were people everywhere of all ages, all oblivious to each other and to their own immateriality. Though his head hurt and he ached from head to toe, his entire body vibrated with energy as if he stood underneath a gigantic electrical transformer. His jack was on fire. The scene was exactly like his first bout of hallucinations in the Tanz, only on an incomprehensibly grander scale.
The buzzing vibrations grew stronger. He could almost hear it now, a ringing in his ears that reverberatedt rt you through every cell, every square inch of him. The light grew stronger, stronger, unbearably brighter and piercing. The ghosts reacted as well, fear growing in their ethereal expressions. They shielded their faces from the light and screamed, and Bridge screamed with them.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the light show was over. Bridge stood on the hill over the shopping center holding his ears against a pain that no longer troubled him. He opened his eyes slowly, expecting a ghost to pop out of the nearby bushes. He swore. “This is too fucking weird for me,” he complained, and started walking towards the university again. The thought of taking another vehicle occurred to him, but he decided he did not want another visitation from a pissed off ghost owner.
*****
Chapter 14
November 7, 2028
2:07 a.m.
Bridge stalked past the shopping center in a daze, stewing in mystified confusion and bone-wearying fatigue tinged with impotent anger. He wasn’t even sure who or what the anger was directed towards, just that it simmered in every cell, every pore of his being. He was angry at the dome and everything in it for the goddamned invasion of weirdness it had injected into his life. He was angry at Aristotle for giving him the sob story that had landed him here in the first place. He was angry at Carl the Dragon for being a mysterious dick. But mostly, he was angry at himself for being a soppy bitch and letting all of them push him along to this upside down bizarro world where he felt sure he was going to die. Based
on how strange his time in Boulder had been so far, he half-expected that inevitable death to come from a 16-ton weight being dropped on his head from a very great height.
Just north of the shopping center was the intersection of Baseline Road and 93, a crisscross of perpendicular six-lane highways. His route should have followed the highway northwest, but something told him to veer directly north through a large compound of sandstone brick buildings with Italian-styled red tile roofs. The itching pointed towards the compound and beyond, so he left the road for the verdant shade of the trees in front of the compound. A small sign in the meadow informed him that he had finally reached the University, or at least the part of the school known as Kittredge Complex. Though Bridge felt a load-lifting relief at reaching his destination that was as palpable as the bone-deep fatigue that dragged him into a panting stoop, the lack of any visible sort of resolution made that success all too anticlimactic.
“Well, I’m fucking here, you bastards!” he screamed at the barren campus. “I’m finally here. Now what?” The abandoned buildings stared on in mute indifference.
Bridge continued on to the nearest building, which was named the “Wolf School of Law” by signs at either end. The main door was locked. Rather than try to break in, he moved on. “Last thing I need is a building for future lawyers,” he muttered to himself. Talking to himself had become way too routine. Crossing the street presented two more buildings. The one on the left appeared to be another academic building. He ignored it and approached the building on the right, which was set back from the road in a shaded grove. A quick survey of the ground floor windows revealed a series of dorm rooms, all as empty as the house he’d raided earlier. Beds were slept in but uninhabited. Spotting a mini-fridge in one of the rooms, he realized how thirsty he had become. His body was not used to this much walking.
