by Melko, Paul
“What is this?”
“Newspapers.”
“The Toledo Dispatch? The Toledo Telegram? The Toledo Scabard? That’s all bullshit.”
“Not in another universe.”
“And Irv Trilpio is dead! Do you hear me? Irv is dead.” Cursky ripped open one of the newspapers to the opinion page. A picture of an older reporter stared at him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cursky,” John said. “He’s not dead in every universe.”
Cursky looked shaken. “He shot himself. After the Palmer Helmon trial, when that bastard went free. Said he was soul weary, tired of life.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
Joe looked at the editorial, began reading. “Jesus. This is him. This is exactly what he’d write. How’d you do it, kid? How’d you make this? What’s your goddamn angle?”
“I stopped in some neighboring universes, Mr. Cursky, on the way here.”
“Bullshit! He’s dead! I … I spoke at his funeral!”
“Not in every universe,” John said. “Listen, I’m sorry I brought it up. I’m sorry I disturbed you. Just forget it. I didn’t know he was dead here and that he was your friend.”
“No,” Cursky said. “Show me.”
* * *
John waited outside the small bungalow while Cursky went inside. He didn’t want to see the emotions that played through Cursky’s body when he saw his old friend. He shouldn’t have brought Cursky to 7574. He shouldn’t have opened so much emotion.
In 7574, Cursky existed and Irv Trilpio was still alive. Maybe no Palmer Helmon lived here, and so there was no way that Trilpio could lose faith and end his own life. Maybe … It could have been any combination of events that saved Irving Trilpio’s life here.
The door opened and Cursky walked out. His face was puffy from where he’d been crying. Trilpio appeared at the door.
“You sure you’re all right, Joe?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure, Irv. Just a little emotional right now.”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Do me a favor and don’t mention this to … me, anyone tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Cursky glared at John as he approached, as if it was his fault Trilpio had died in his own universe.
“Get in the car,” Cursky said. They got into the car they’d rented in 7574 for a huge sum so there’d be no need for a credit-card hold. “Drive.”
John headed the car back toward the car lot.
“Tell me again from start to finish.”
* * *
John stood outside the diner in Sebewa, Michigan, peering into the window, wondering if it was her. Then he saw Kylie, two years older, sitting at the counter and drawing, while her mother worked. It was Melissa Saraft; he’d found her. He watched as she sat another milk in front of her daughter and then took the order of a customer.
John entered the diner and helped himself to a counter seat.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” she said, handing him a menu and hurrying off.
Cursky had known right away. “She went up to Michigan, said she was from some little town near Lansing. I have it in my notes. Said she was from there,” he said.
“She was all right?”
“No! She was screwed in the head!” Cursky said. “She had been institutionalized because of you. She thought she was from another universe, so she got put in the mental ward. Don’t think you aren’t liable for that crap sack of luck.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
A crowd of breakfast customers came in, greeting Melissa as they sat, and John found he couldn’t say what he had been planning to say, so he ordered instead, a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and corned beef hash.
He ate it slowly, watching Kylie doodle at the end of the counter. After three cups of coffee, the crowd left, off to work, and it was just John in the diner. Melissa didn’t dawdle over him even then, keeping his coffee filled, but not engaging in any conversation.
Finally, he raised his hand for the check, and when she came over, he said, “I know you.”
Her smile was guarded. “Yeah? How’s that? You’re not local.”
“From Toledo,” John said.
Now her expression turned darker.
“You with the newspaper? Huh?”
“No, I brought you to Toledo,” John said.
She responded faster than he expected.
“Get the hell out! Maurice! We got an asshole out front!”
She grabbed Kylie, who looked at him with big doe eyes.
Maurice, the cook, came out carrying a butcher’s knife.
“Him?” he cried.
“Stop!” John cried. “Let me explain, Melissa!”
Maurice started coming toward him.
“I remember him,” Kylie said.
“What?”
Maurice seemed hell-bent on hacking John to pieces and would have too if the counter wasn’t between them. Maurice made for the opening, and John skirted the other way.
“Mommy, I remember him. He helped us.”
“Wait. What did you say, Kylie?”
“When you were hurt and my leg was broken,” she explained, “he helped us.”
Melissa looked at John hard.
“Stop, Maurice,” she said. Maurice didn’t look like he wanted to, but he lowered the butcher’s knife.
“You sure?”
“No, but maybe Kylie remembers,” she said. “I need ten minutes, okay?”
“Sure, sure, Melissa. Whatever you want.” Maurice stared at John for a long moment, and then said, “Be careful.”
CHAPTER 24
John Prime built his second secret gate in a weekend. He’d expected a visit from the police, from the fire department, someone. But apparently demolition of tree stumps was a common enough occurrence that none of his neighbors—kilometers away to be sure—cared. After a couple days, he’d hired a crew to rebuild the destroyed Quonset.
Prime crossed 1214 off his list of universes to explore.
For whatever reason, it was patrolled and defended by robots.
Robots!
Perhaps he’d have to stay away from every universe listed in Corrundrum’s notebook. Luckily, the notebook had been in the front seat of his car when the lab blew.
“9000,” he said. “I’m going to Universe 9000.” Pinball Wizards hadn’t gone far from the 7000s. Why not try to go somewhere distant? Someplace really upstream?
He’d asked for one more camera, unwilling to ask for four more for fear of arousing suspicion. But instead of the four-direction mount, he built a small motorized lazy Susan that rotated the camera 360 degrees in just sixty seconds. This provided a full view of the surroundings.
Prime sent his single camera through to Universe 9000, counted sixty on his stopwatch, and brought the camera back, ready to run if there was an explosive charge attached to it.
The camera reappeared, still turning at one rpm. There was no surprise explosive with it.
He rewound the tape and played it.
A dilapidated farmhouse stood in the distance, and slowly panned away. A rolling hill, a fence and then a gate twenty meters away, the gate askew, a field of late fall grass, unmowed, the hills to the north, and then the farmhouse again. Then—flash—the image of him grabbing the camera.
Prime played the video again, searching the sky for aircraft, searching the frames for nearby human presence. Nothing.
He tried another video survey, this one five minutes long. Still no sign of anything human or robotic. Ten minutes. Twenty.
Satisfied that no robotic guardian awaited him in 9000, John Prime powered down the transfer gate and drove to the electronics store to figure out how to build a timer device.
* * *
It was far easier than he expected. A simple electronic timer did the trick, but as he talked with the salesman, he convinced himself he needed a backup in case of power failure. Though if the power failed, the transfer gate wouldn’t power up anyway. But a mechanical fa
il-safe would work if the electronics reset for some reason. The salesman managed to configure an effective solution.
Prime spent a week testing it, letting it run on an hourly cycle, making sure the site in the remote location was secure. In all that time, he found no sign of humans on the remote site. No airplanes in the sky, not even a jet contrail. If it wasn’t for the dilapidated farmhouse, he would have guessed it was a Pleistocene world, with no humans at all.
He planned his first excursion for the next day, a one-hour survey of the nearby locale, then back to Universe Prime, no worries, no fuss. His supplies included two watches—so he knew exactly when one hour was up—a handgun, a compass, a flashlight, a kilogram of gold in small ingots, and the video camera. In case things went badly, he had left a message on his desk at home for Casey to find.
Come find me in Universe 9000 near the new lab building on Glidden Road if you don’t hear from me in 24 hours.
She was his final fail-safe.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t want to explain. Hated the idea of explaining to anyone.
He set the timer for sixty seconds and took his place atop a platform in the transfer zone. His watch clicked down to zero seconds. The walls of the laboratory disappeared.
Prime stepped down from the platform, dragging it out of the zone.
He paused, waiting. Nothing. It was as desolate as he had seen on the video camera. No sound but the breeze in the branchless trees. The wind was chill against his skin. He rolled up the collar of his jacket.
Nothing here.
Prime glanced at the abandoned farmhouse. No need to explore that. He decided to walk the driveway to the main road and hitchhike into town, the same thing he’d done dozens of times before when he’d found a new universe. He just had to be careful that he didn’t end up doing something stupid and miss the pickup time. He didn’t have the device. He couldn’t leave instantly. He had to go back to the transfer zone. Before he forgot, he marked the transfer zone—a scooped-out chunk of a sphere—with spray paint.
He found Glidden Road where he expected it. The farmhouse may have been a difference between universes, but the roads appeared laid out the same. Glidden Road was barren, but that was to be expected. The only things this way in the county were farms, spaced kilometers apart. He started hiking.
By the time he reached the first intersection, a kilometer down the road, he had yet to see or hear a car. Glidden crossed Van Wert Road. A farmhouse stood on the northeast corner. It too seemed abandoned. Screens hung from windows. The door stood open.
He turned northeast on Van Wert Road, taking up a jog. He hadn’t meant to expend so much energy, but he had a sudden sinking feeling and he wanted to know what had happened here.
He stopped suddenly and searched the sky. No contrails. On any given day there should be at least three jet contrails in the sky over any place in North America. Nothing.
He spotted another farmhouse in the distance. He ran now. As he neared it, he saw that it was slanted off its foundation, tilted due to old age and lack of maintenance.
A recession of some sort perhaps had driven these people from their homes? A war?
There was a car in the driveway of the farmhouse. He tried the door and found it unlocked. The key was in the ignition. The car smelled of mold, and the windshield was caked in dirt and leaves. This car had been here at least a season.
He tried to start it. It cranked but refused to start up.
Prime didn’t want to enter the house, worried that it would collapse. He continued instead toward Findlay.
He reached the outskirts, a subdivision to his left. He marveled to see the houses empty, quiet. No one was living here. No one at all.
Cutting across a fallow field, he reached the subdivision. Cars sat in driveways. Bikes lay in overgrown front lawns. Doors and windows were broken or ajar. People had left their houses at least a year or more before, left them vacant with all their possessions strewn about and gone.
Why?
He decided to enter one of these homes. They seemed less likely to collapse on him than the farmhouses he’d seen.
He picked one, tried the door, and found it unlocked.
“Hello?” he called.
This house had no open windows, no open doors. It smelled of dust. Clearly it was unoccupied. He called again.
“Anyone home?”
The first level was empty. He left the basement for last and climbed the stairs. Dust was caked on the banister. Something fetid reached his nose. He paused at the first door, pushed it open. Beyond was a child’s bedroom, a girl’s based on the pink, but it was empty. The next door was a sewing room. The last door was to the master bedroom. Something lay on the bed within.
“Hello?”
He squinted in the weak light.
Stepping closer, he saw a corpse on the bed. Long dead and nearly mummified.
Left dead or left for dead? he wondered.
He paused. Death? Everything left as it was. No humans.
Plague?
His stomach flipped, and he backed away.
At the door he turned and ran. Prime flung the front door open in front of him, and he was outside in the cool fall air.
Disease!
What had he done? Stumbled on some plague world?
And was he now infected?
What had he done?
* * *
He headed into town. As he walked, he paid attention to his heart rate, his temperature, his state of mind. Had he infected himself? Had he killed himself? Should he run as fast as he could to the gate and get his doctor to administer penicillin, streptomycin, and erythromycin, and any other antibiotic he could think of? Or would that risk Universe Prime by unleashing a plague there?
Stay or go? Carrier or not?
In the end he decided to wait and see if he developed any symptoms and, if he did, he’d deal with it then. Until then, he’d look around and stay in the open.
He passed the Burger Chef, its plate-glass windows shattered. He passed St. Paul’s, and realized its roof was burnt through. The grocery store had been looted. He came across no more corpses.
He stopped before the News Shop, a tobacco and magazine store he had frequented as a teenager for its comic books. Prime entered, propping the door open to allow light in. Magazines lined one long wall, and he remembered how as a child he’d thought there couldn’t have been one more magazine title in the world. At the start of the shelf, there were the racks of newspapers. He grabbed The New York Times.
MARTIAL LAW IN EFFECT! he read.
Martial Law is in effect across the entire United States. No travel except by military order is permitted. President Palin signed an executive order passing control of the nation into the hands of the local military leaders. Without a clear command and control structure in place, any top-down leadership is impossible.…
The story was dated two years prior. Two years. He skimmed headlines. ONE BILLION DEAD IN CHINA! VACCINE TRIALS IN BRITAIN FAIL! PLAGUE HITS NEW ZEALAND.
It had been worldwide, and here was the effect two years later. Utter destruction of the human population.
He left the store, leaving the door propped ajar. Across the street was the Ben Franklin. He found a tiny transistor radio and placed a nine-volt in its battery slot. The dial was stiff to his touch as he rotated it. There was nothing but static up and down the spectrum. He tried FM, and then AM. Nothing.
Prime stumbled out of the general store. There could still be pockets of humanity on this planet. In the large cities. Couldn’t there be?
He spotted the Dynaco store a block down and ran there. The door was locked, the sign saying the store was closed until further notice. Prime looked around and found a brick near the road. He threw it with all his might, shattering the glass of the front pane. There in the display case was what he wanted, a shortwave radio. He grabbed it.
He plugged the radio into a wall outlet right there in the display case, but there was no telltale fli
cker of lights. The outlet was dead.
He walked back to the News Shop. The lights would not turn on. No power.
Prime scanned the downtown area. There was the police station, the library, the clothing store. He turned back to the police station. Maybe they had a portable generator.
He ran across the street. The front door of the police station swung open. He tried the power outlet right there in the lobby. Nothing.
The front desk wasn’t walled off; he could walk right through a waist-high swinging door, and did so. A board hung on the wall with a list of patrol cars and their keys hanging from it. He looked back out the door and saw that car K-12 was in the lot. He grabbed the keys.
The car started, to his surprise, but maybe police cars were made to last years. He bent down and looked under the dash. There was a cigarette lighter adapter, and next to it a normal plug. He plugged in the shortwave radio.
The radio warbled and squeaked. He waited a moment. Nothing. There was a button that said SEEK. He pressed and the digital dial spun through the frequencies. And kept spinning. Nothing.
Prime’s heart fell. If there was anyone, anywhere within a thousand kilometers, they would be broadcasting on shortwave. Something. The military would. Perhaps they were just taking a break from broadcasting.
He let the radio continue to seek and put the prowler into gear.
Driving slowly up Tippecanoe Street, he looked left and right at the desolate town. Not my town, he said to himself. Some other town entirely.
All these dead people, and possibly him too. Possibly him too. What had he done? Exploring worlds and not thinking it through? It was damned fool luck Pinball Wizards hadn’t dragged a plague already between universes.
Prime saw the Bank of Findlay on his left. He stopped. The doors were open and off their hinges.
He climbed the steps and entered. The vault gaped open. He peered inside. Stacks of bills stood against the walls. He ignored them. Beyond the first vault door were the safe-deposit boxes. Several boxes had been pried loose from their slots. He played the flashlight around the vault. A drill and a crowbar lay on the central table. Someone had spent some time here looting. But to what point. The futility of it all must have become apparent as the plague ravaged the body of the thief.
