Force

by A.R. Rivera

  World Eight

  VOMIT TRICKLES DOWN MY neck.

  I couldn’t get the hood off in time. Chunks have pooled in the tiny holes of my mask and knowing it’s there makes me want to puke all over again.

  I have to focus on something else and so force myself to look past the remnants of my lunch to examine the odd grass. It’s putrescent, yes, but tremendously vivid. Almost... like its glowing green.

  But my eyes don’t ache.

  What does that mean?

  I was tightly sealed inside the radiation suit this time. Maybe it’s more than just radiation that makes me sick. I hunch, examining the constitution of the glade I’m in, wondering. If each dimension is like Eli says—a closed loop running on its’ own clock—maybe the nausea comes from me.

  Like some people get carsick on road trips, maybe I’m time sick.

  The stench is too much. I have to get out of this rubber puke bag.

  As I stand to take in a fresh, deep breath, the view knocks the wind from me. No more gray concrete like the last place, no empty ice desert. It’s not a simple country landscape like the world I’m from, either.

  This plane isn’t showing off the usual spring. I mean, it looks like spring time, but so much more than that. I’m looking a living breathing season whose colors make my jaw fall off the hinges.

  I’ve never been the outdoorsy nature-loving type, but can appreciate the occasional sunset. This place... any description on its quality would be inadequate. No superlatives will do it justice.

  I’ve stepped into a work of art. It’s all picturesque grassy field sprinkled with gigantic trees. The view is breathtaking. As if I have, somehow, stepped inside the living work of a master painter; the Sistine Chapel’s got nothing on this.

  The glade where I stand is the stuff of sonnets. The colors are... poetry. If it were possible to take every shade of green and compare them by degrees of their own purity, the grass would be the warmest emerald ever perceived. If there were a word that meant truest green that would be the name of the multidimensional spectrum of hues that runs through a single blade of grass, forming the most absolute color that ever existed.

  Until I mark the next one.

  The loitering trees ahead and behind me are flourishing, beauteous works of genius. Their colors are magnificent, vibrant, absolute impressions of individual shades, melded to sparkle as one. The cloudy skies overhead sing and breathe beauty. Every leaf is greenest green, each branch and bit of bark is made of the purest, richest browns. Every blade of grass, speck of dirt, the sweet-smelling rainbow blossoms, all are beyond compare.

  Even to use the word paradisiacal, which seems appropriate in reference to places like Hawaii, is insufficient.

  There are no suitable descriptions because nothing that I know of can compare. I’m awestruck, weak in my knees, wowed into a stupor at the glory of mother-nature in her unspoiled wonder.

  “Wow.” The most understated expression of a lifetime. I wish I had a camera because I’ll never be able to explain this. How can anyone understand the things they cannot perceive? Without a picture, I have no ability to educate them.

  Trying to focus—staring and walking—there isn’t another soul in sight, save the infrequent passing of a bird or two. No car or house, no ramshackle laboratory, no concrete surrounded by massive snow banks, no orchard or road. Not even animals. The land looks untouched by modern man.

  While I’m covered in reeking vomit.

  The repercussions of landing in an uncivilized world are hard to ignore. Right now, though, it can’t detract from the radiant view as I search for signs of water to wash myself. By my reckoning, the suns position places the time around noon. The sunny weather and immense greenery give indication that the season is a glorious spring. The approximate year is indeterminable as there are no technological or electrical devices in sight and no people to help mark the century. If Eli’s variant time loop theory holds true, I could be anywhere—a futuristic forest reserve among the earth’s last bit of vegetation or about to cross paths with Cro-Magnon man.

  The nearest spots of white are small blossoms in the grass. The vast mountains, once lost to me in Ice World, are once more lining the distant horizon, the peaks wear with white toupees.

  Pleasant weather and extensive vegetation argue against the after-effects of global warming. The gargantuan flora makes me wonder if there’s a possibility of stumbling upon a dinosaur. As much as I enjoyed the Jurassic movies, I have to hope not.

  Enormous, awe-inspiring Oaks, Redwoods, and Sequoia branches hang far above my reach, bringing to mind how when I was a kid, my dad would take me camping in the forest reserves of Kings Canyon. The woods were filled with giant trees, still not as large as these. These trees are huge and look hundreds of years old. The trunks of these trees are too impossibly wide to fathom a climb, even after I’ve slipped into my hiking boots.

  I’m heading towards the eastern hills, keeping my eyes peeled along the way. Insect wings click from the grass, wind rustles through the high trees like music. The air is so warm.

  When I reach the high point on the nearest hillock, I take my time searching the stunning vista for answers but am distracted by the sprawling scenery. In every direction, in the awe-inspiring high and lowlands, there’s no sign of civilization. No electrical towers or phone lines jutting above the tree line. No roadways, paved or otherwise; it’s all grass and trees, hill and stream—none bearing the structured line of farms. Scanning the lowlands, I spot the trace of a creek bed twisting through the crease of a low hillside and make that my destination.

  No sign of any form of transportation.

  Great. Daemon’s on the other side of the country with an unknown amount of time ahead of me. How will I find him now? I assumed wherever the gateway led would be somewhat modernized.

  By the time I reach the stream the drying vomit is re-hydrating with sweat. I take off everything and lie down in the cool water that’s so blue, the color holds to shallow puddle in the palms of my hands.

  Too bad Eli didn’t pack me shampoo. I’ll have to enter the next world smelling like a bulimic’s restroom.

  I also have to walk back to the same spot to keep from poking unnecessary holes in the inter-dimensional walls, according to Eli. I might be in the right dimension, but I’m on the wrong end of the country. I’ve got to travel to another dimension, preferably near my own timeline, and then get back across the country and then come back to this place—if it’s the place that Daemon jumped to. Go back and over to move forward.

  After clearing out the visible puke particles from the radiation suit and mask, I shake off the excess water and make my way back to the place where the gateway opened. It still stinks so I rub loose pine needles inside the hood before getting back inside, prepping for the next jump.

  Stowing my things inside my pack, I come across a straggling box labeled Samples and get excited. I thought I’d dumped them all by his lab in that ramshackle laboratory. Eli is going to flip when he sees the colors in... World Six.

  There are four small vials inside the box. I crack open the first one and scoop up a bit of topsoil, then dig deeper—with my hands because I don’t know what happened to my shovel—for darker dirt. Turning the vial upside down, I press it into the soil, hoping for a sterile sample, then seal the tubes and label both accordingly. Next, I get some of the emerald grass and rich tree bark, trying to follow Eli’s remembered instructions to the letter.

  I bet he could learn a lot about this place if he had a water sample.

  Walking in this place is refreshing and getting a last peek at that crystal blue water is strong motivation. The weather is so pleasant, I don’t think twice over trudging back to the stream. I make sure to go up higher than where I was before to get the best possible sample. After, I take another long drink and a leak before heading back to my original position.

  After everything is neatly packed up inside my bag and I’m firmly sealed inside m
y smelly protective gear, I mark my position from the side and front, lining up my arrival point by the dried vomit on the grass. Once I achieve the exact position, I hold the pouch with the stones in one hand and a Boom Pack in the other, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  The delicate glass breaks.

  Pale liquids begin mixing.

  I toss the Boom Pack and wait for my ride home.