Stranger Tides

by Jack Castle

  The raggedy man nodded profusely. “It’s true, I can. I can. Just get me to a monitor and I’ll show you. But, we have to hurry.”

  “Why?” Maddie asked, suspicion still intertwined in her voice.

  “Because when I saw him last, your father,” again with the twitching fingers over his head, “he was entering the gauntlet, and the gauntlet is the one place from which no one has ever returned.”

  Little Alice fell

  D

  O

  W

  N

  The hole, bumped her head and bruised her soul.

  -Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

  Chapter 26

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  Flailing his legs and arms, George screamed the entire way down.

  After dropping for so long through the impenetrable darkness, it was almost a welcome relief when he finally hit water, even if it did feel like getting hit by a Mack truck.

  After the impact, his body sank like a stone and carried him deep.

  Instinctively, he clawed and kicked for the surface, popped out and gasped for air. Treading water, he coughed and spit in an attempt to clear his lungs of water.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he found he had surfaced in a massive cavern. Behind him, a roaring twenty-foot waterfall cascaded down from a hole in the ceiling overhead and dumped into the pool George now occupied.

  In a lot of ways, the subterranean grotto was quite beautiful. Gentle rays of sunlight sprinkled in from above and lit up the glowing, aquamarine pool like a distant lighthouse, gently illuminating a foggy mist. Opposite the raging waterfall laid a sandy beach cut out of a rocky outcropping. He swam for it. Once he got there, he crawled upon the shore.

  Turning over onto his back, his clothes wet and heavy, he studied the ceiling over the grotto’s pool once more. He tried to find the hole he dropped out of, but if it was there, he couldn’t see it now. Like most entrances in Stranger World, it was cleverly concealed.

  As usual, there was only one option to try. This time his only choice was to go deeper into the cave down a tubular tunnel nearby. Staring at its mouth and darkened interior, Jimmy Stewart’s voice warned ominously, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Georgie-porgie.’

  “Shut up, Jimmy,” he grumped, and left the sandy beach behind.

  As he entered the narrow tunnel, crudely-made wooden torches mounted on the walls flickered to life upon approach. George tried removing one of the torches, but they were bolted into the rock and stuck fast.

  The tunnel narrowed down to a point. Staring at it, George recalled this was what most folks in the military and law enforcement liked to call a bottleneck or a chokepoint, the perfect place for an ambush. George felt wary just looking at it, let alone walking through it.

  The moment he did, he was assaulted by thunderous and violent winds. He automatically covered his head and face with his hands as the torrents of air emanating from narrow crevices battered him mercilessly. Eventually, he realized the forced air wasn’t hurting him, so, he lowered his arms.

  He stepped forward a few feet and the winds died down, his hair and clothes were completely dry. He thought he even detected a slight fragrance that reminded him of a fresh meadow.

  Wow, talk about full service, he mused, humor always was his coping mechanism.

  Exploring along the rocky tube-tunnel, he could see light up ahead and slowed his approach. Hugging his back to the wall, he slid along it until he could peer into the next chamber. It looked massive.

  It was a subterranean tropical paradise with a primitive stone path weaving its way through beautifully colored trees. He gazed up at the ceiling. It had to be seventy feet high. At least it appears that way, George mused. For all I know, it’s just another hologram, and the ceiling is actually only about twelve feet high. He resisted the urge to pick a rock up and hurl it skywards. For the time being, it didn’t really matter.

  Staring at the pathway of stones through the jungle, and remembering past encounters, he hopped from one stone to another to avoid potential booby-traps. This didn’t last long however, for he missed one and overstepped another. Before long, he decided the pathway wasn’t booby-trapped; for all he knew, the stones themselves were the actual trigger.

  Much of the trail was overgrown and the thick underbrush to either side often brushed his shoulders. He soon came upon an opening on his left. It held a modest clearing surrounded by the same thick underbrush with a sheer rock face at its back.

  Staring at the rock face at the back, he thought, I wonder if I’m at the edge of the dome.

  Moving into the clearing, he spotted words, sloppily written on the back wall. The letters were in black paint over a circular hole that was about twice the width of a man’s head. The words read:

  Go No Further, Have No Fear, If you Must, Look in Here.

  At the base of the wall, underneath the circular hole, was a crude, makeshift step stool. The idea was to step onto the stool and peer inside. George was about to do just that when he spotted something else in the clearing.

  Off to one side was a man lying on the ground. He was wearing lightweight chainmail armor, leather gauntlets, and a thick garment with a hood (which would have been perfectly at home in the Fantasy Realm with the river running through it).

  The man was also missing his head.

  It had been taken clean off.

  Studying the body, George could see the man was approximately six feet tall (assuming he had a normal-sized head, because thus far, one had not presented itself), and guessed him to be about 180 pounds. He knew this, because that was almost his height and weight exactly. Judging by the gruesome remains, this was obviously a real person and not some construct created here in Stranger World.

  After checking for tripwires, he carefully moved over to the headless corpse and began searching him for weapons. Immediately apparent was the crossbow strapped to the dead man’s back. George thought about going through the trouble of recovering it, but didn’t see any bolts for the bow, so he opted to leave it behind. Most likely, the poor guy had lost his crossbow bolts back in the grotto when he fell in the pool. No other weapons were forthcoming.

  You’d think he’d at least have a sword or something; maybe a dagger.

  As he stood up, George had the most peculiar feeling that he was not the first person to stumble upon the clearing and search the knight for weapons. The more he scanned his surroundings, the more he got the sense that others had come before him. Taking in the clearing as a whole, George deduced the headless knight must have walked up to the rock face, followed the instructions written on the wall and peered inside. Once inside, something removed his head, some sort of guillotine device perhaps? The headless corpse then stumbled backwards to where he now lay.

  George pitied the man and was reminded of his first day in Stranger World. He and Maddie had stumbled upon a sign, much like this one, in Lady Wellington’s Fairy maze. They’d followed the sign’s instructions only to find another, much deeper in the maze that read: Ha! Fooled you!

  That about summed up what must have happened here, only this ‘fooled you,’ had cost this poor hapless knight his head. But it still doesn’t quite add up. If it had been a guillotine device in the hole, his body would have simply dropped right to the ground. George studied the jungle floor more carefully. It was mostly grass, but he didn’t see any drag marks. It’s almost as though something had tossed him here, something really-really strong.

  Keeping his distance, he slowly approached the circular hole and peered inside. A few feet within, glowing silvery eyes, imbedded in a slime-green colored snout, stared back at him. George’s first thought was a giant snake, but as the creature slowly slithered a few inches out of its hole into the light, he’d say an eel was a more accurate description. The wall-eel slowly opened its mouth to display its multi-toothed jaws and then hissed at him.

  “Time to go,” George muttered to himself. He immediately backed up out of the clearing, never taking his e
yes off the wall-eel already slithering back into the depths of its den.

  With his only other option being to backtrack to the grotto, he decided to press on down the stony path. As he did so, there was something about the headless body that still bothered him; -something about the man’s hands.

  Before he could figure it out, he heard the sound of a babbling brook emanating up ahead. This was a welcome change because the saltwater back in the grotto, compounded by the oversized blow dryer, had really dried him out. He was becoming increasingly thirsty.

  George came upon another break in the jungle, only this time it was to the right of the pathway. The creepy wall-eel still at the forefront of his mind, he approached cautiously. At first glance, this second clearing seemed harmless enough; in its center was simply a cone shaped rock with cool water bubbling out of it. The water was so fresh, he swore he could smell the crispness. He took a step toward it and froze.

  Near the base of the fountain, lying face down, was a man dressed in a drab green army coat. The jacket reminded him of the one he and Maddie had discovered in the massive hanger.

  I wonder if we shopped at the same place?

  How the man had died didn’t take nearly as much guesswork to figure out. Given his close proximity to the water fountain, and his hands clenched around his throat, the man had obviously been poisoned by the bubbling fountain.

  Like the headless-knight, the man was pretty close to his height and weight. After double-checking for traps, George decided to search the dead body for weapons. He grabbed the corpse by the shoulder and began to flip him over. Even before turning him completely over, George knew, for the back of the man’s head was so familiar.

  It was him.

  George threw his wrist up to his mouth and swallowed the bile gathering there. Even with the obvious states of decay, George could see the man once looked just like him.

  Well, sort of.

  That version of himself had more gray in his hair and wore a full beard that was almost stark white. George also noted the dead man had several scars that he himself didn’t possess. So maybe it wasn’t him.

  A clone, maybe?

  Whoever he was, he was wearing the same army coat, canteen, belt and holster he and Maddie had found on their first day. Had this man come the same way we had? And why does he seem so much older than me? George guessed the dead man to be at least ten years older. On a whim, he checked the corpse for dog tags and was surprised when he found them. They were labeled correctly but they were of the W.W. II variety and not like his modern pair.

  Getting back to the task at hand, he shook the heebie-jeebies off and began searching W.W. II-George (as he had come to think of him) for weapons. The leather holster was empty and the canteen was too much of a risk. The only thing he found that was worth anything was three, half-spent magazines, which when combined, made two full ones. He decided to take them in the off chance he came across the missing pistol later.

  He was about to leave, but before doing so, he took the time to lay the W.W. II version of himself out on his back with his hands across his chest.

  George patted the dead man on the chest. “Sorry about this, buddy.” It was a terrible way to die.

  As he got up, George recalled the man in the medieval garments who was also the exact same height and weight as himself. He particularly remembered the man’s hands.

  I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

  The Gauntlet

  George’s sanity slipped a little more with each dead version of himself he had found along the way. The last one had been a scuba diver dressed in modern dive gear, which had been a lot nicer gear than he had now. “Scuba-George” had obviously been mauled by some vicious animal that thus far, remained unseen.

  Each George thereafter had been killed in some clever booby-trap with each body left behind in various states of decay, some possibly as much as decades. He found Cowboy-George, Space Smuggler-George, and Pirate-George among others. Regardless of which version, it didn’t make any difference, they were all dead-Georges now.

  He was hardly comforted by the fact that if these other Georges hadn’t tripped the booby-traps before his arrival, he more than likely would have.

  Hopefully, the builders of this place ran out of traps before they ran out of Georges. Otherwise, he would most likely fall victim to the next trap. Does that mean one day another version of me will come along and find my body? He recalled the words of Mrs. Belle, or was it young Henry? Something about how he was the last.

  As much as he had wanted to bypass each clearing he came across, he took the time to deduce how each version of George had died. He did this to possibly learn something that might keep him from sharing the same fate and to search for any much needed weapons. He also made a rule for himself before entering each clearing; if he didn’t immediately spot a dead-George in residence, he would not go into that clearing for fear of triggering another trap.

  As he pressed on to the next clearing, George found himself wondering why no one had thought to simply walk straight down the path and avoid the clearings altogether. Then again, perhaps a version of him had tried that and failed, because otherwise, why would he be here now.

  Sadly, with each additional clearing, he found nothing useful and learned nothing more than that he was most likely going to die in some tragic way.

  How long have I been at this? At some point I’m going to have to eat and drink something. He had to push aside this new feeling of dread as another clearing came into view.

  Like those before, it was smallish and was surrounded by dense, impenetrable foliage. (He had tried to penetrate it but found it impossible to get through.) The only difference was this clearing included a fancy banquet table, like the kind a king would feast upon. The table was surrounded by high-backed chairs and encircled by a multitude of sparkling treasure chests spilling with gold doubloons and precious gems. As George came closer, he could see even the plates and dinnerware were made of solid gold.

  George was suddenly assaulted by savory smells of baked turkey with all the fixings, and fresh baked breads. But when he scanned the table for their sources, he found the food had all spoiled and rotted away years ago, leaving black dust behind.

  Was this some kind of aroma special effect?

  All of these observations took place in a matter of seconds, and it didn’t take long to find the next dead-George. This time, he was sitting at the head of the table, in a chair higher than the rest, like a throne. For some reason, this dead-George bothered him the most. He wasn’t really sure why.

  This George version was dressed like a jungle explorer, with khaki shorts, laced-up boots and an Australian bush hat folded up on one side. The way Jungle-George was sitting on his throne, it looked like he had too much to drink and simply dropped down into his chair, smiled, and died. Jungle-George had both elbows resting on the armrests of his throne. His left hand was holding a gem-encrusted goblet, while his right hand pointed to something across the clearing.

  George turned toward the direction Jungle-George was pointing and noticed an out of place object. It was a full-length mirror standing upright all by itself. It was positioned near a rock wall and merely reflected the banquet table and jungle surrounding it.

  In the end, George realized there was no point in sticking around here any longer. The cause of death for Jungle-George was also quickly apparent: two arrows sticking out of his chest, or are they crossbow bolts? Regardless, whatever trap had been here, it had already been tripped, so he decided to press on.

  Then he spied the gun.

  It was lying on the table within easy reach of Jungle-George.

  His old pal Jimmy Stewart decided to weigh in. ‘What if that gun is the trap, Georgie-Porgie? Hmmmm? What if the moment you reach for that gun, ole Jungle-George leaps up outta his throne, picks up that pistol and shoots you with it?’

  Jimmy may have a point.

  Still, if the gun was actually loaded, it might come in handy later on
.

  Images of Scuba-George shredded to pieces by some wild animal instantly came to mind. Without stepping any closer, George studied dead Jungle-George and weighed his options. As he studied the corpse, he realized exactly why he hated this version of himself so much. It was the fact that Jungle-George was smiling, even in death. Clearly, this man had an easy-going nature, loved to laugh and lived every day as though it were his last. You could see all of that right there on his face. This was a guy everybody liked, who seemed to cruise effortless through life and everybody wanted as a friend. It was the carefree version of himself he had always coveted, and often tried to be, but eventually that version of him had to be cast aside for family, duty and country.

  George weighed the risk of grabbing the pistol some more. Was it even worth it? The pistol was a revolver, most likely a .38. The .45 caliber rounds in his pocket wouldn’t even fit in the cylinder. George spied several more loads scattered on the table.

  Pistol and ammo, were all within easy reach.

  Okay, here it goes.

  After a tense few moments, he lunged forward and snatched the pistol. As soon as he did, he flipped it expertly around in his hand and aimed it at the dead explorer.

  Jungle-George merely continued to smile that big dopey grin of his. George cracked open the cylinder and found all but one cartridge spent. Using the plunger, he dumped all the ammo out into the palm of his hand and reloaded the one good cartridge into the pistol, so it was next in line to fire. Keeping the .38 trained on Jungle-George with one hand, he scooped the loose rounds up into his left hand. His eyes flicked over the table to see if he had missed any, but he had not. Stepping back, he quickly loaded the full rounds into the cylinder. He now had a total of five good bullets.

  At least that’s something.

  Snapping the cylinder closed with a flick of his wrist, he found himself wondering what happened here. All he knew for certain was Jungle-George had fired five times, and at some point, had frantically dropped fresh ammo on the table. Before he could reload, he was shot in the chest by two crossbow bolts.