by Tufo, Mark
“Go!” I yell.
BT pushes off from the doorway and runs toward the rear of the store, bullets chasing him all of the way. Trip is leaning against the wall under the windowsill, muttering something that I can’t hear over the gunshots. I just hope he’s ready to go, as we’ll most likely only get one chance.
“I found this,” BT calls a few minutes later.
Turning from where I’m delivering fire at anyone I’m able to see, the big man is hauling a wooden box out by its rope handles. ‘Dynamite’ is written along the sides in worn red lettering. That makes it pretty obvious as to its contents. BT pries the top open with a flourish, revealing that the crate is full.
“I figured these would also come in handy,” he says, brandishing a couple boxes of wooden matches.
“Good deal. Now, cut open half of those sticks and empty the contents into a bag. We’ll need small bags later on. Save the fuses as well,” I say, turning back to deliver fire out of the store.
“Cut them open? Is that even safe?” BT asks, backing away from the crate.
“As long as you don’t light it, you should be fine,” I answer without turning around. “And hurry. We don’t have much time.”
I wonder just how many times I’m going to have to say this before it truly sinks in.
“I suppose it’ll be quicker than being erased or shot,” he mutters, setting about the task of removing the gunpowder from the sticks of dynamite.
Several minutes later, BT informs me that he’s cut about half the crate.
“Okay. Now find some sugar and mix it in. You need about a three to one mix of gunpowder to sugar. Then put a small amount of the mix into smaller bags that we can toss outside. It won’t be perfect without actually blending the two together with heat, but it should create a bit of smoke when lit. And find a way to secure the fuses inside,” I tell him.
The white has encroached even further into town. The front of the store is nothing but splinters with more bullets smacking into the building and shelving. BT finally hauls several small bags with fuses extending from within. I glance over to Trip to get him ready to dash across the street and notice that he has snuck over to the crate and is now back under the window attempting to light a stick of dynamite he is holding in his teeth.
“Trip, you idiot! That’s not a joint!” I yell, scrambling past the shot-up doorway.
He pulls the stick out from his mouth and stares at it. Some recognition enters his eyes and he lights the fuse. Orange and yellow sparks drop to the floor as the fuse starts burning.
“Pretty,” Trip says, holding the dynamite up so I can see it.
“Goddammit, man! Throw that away,” I yell.
Trip stands, bullets zipping all around. He hauls his arms back and is about to toss the live stick further into the store.
“No! Out of the window! Throw it out of the window!”
Trip turns around and underhands the hissing dynamite out of the window. The stick travels a grand total of three feet, landing on the boardwalk just outside of the store. I have no idea what pills he took, but they obviously don’t increase intelligence or common sense. He stands in the window with rounds peppering everything around him and stares in fascination at the dynamite just feet away and seconds away from exploding.
Several gunshots crack from nearby. Having witnessed Trip’s exploits, BT has drawn his other revolver and is shooting at the dynamite. Rounds smack into the wooden slats next to the stick. I start adding my shots and the dynamite shreds under our combined fire, resulting in a flare of smoke and fire rather than an explosion. Turning, I find Trip back at the crate, reaching in to extract another stick.
“Get him away from that before he kills us,” I tell BT.
With Trip near us but constantly trying to get back to the opened crate, BT and I ready ourselves for our plan. We’ll light the fuses and toss the bags off to the sides, hopefully without being shot in the process. Our goal is to create a smoke screen the width of the avenue, through which we’ll haul ass to the telegraph office. I attempt to tell Trip what we’re about to do, but his pupils are so dilated that there’s no color and any information given travels into a void with no retention.
“Sounds good. I’ll just go get my things,” he responds, heading back toward the dynamite crate.
“Nope, we’re going this way,” I say, grabbing his arm and turning back toward the front of the store.
“But we’ll need to blow the safe if we’re going to get the cash,” Trip states, trying to pull away.
I send BT back to grab a few sticks just in case we do need them. Trip may be out of it, but I’ve also learned to listen to his cryptic statements.
“Okay, we’re going to toss the bags and wait for the smoke to start covering the area. Then we’ll break cover and make for the telegraph office. Once we start across, stop for nothing.”
“Will there be a laser light show? All of the good Westerns had great ones,” Trip says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“Oh boy, this is going to be fun,” I mumble, trying to think of a single Western with any lasers at all.
BT and I light the first fuses, tossing the bags out into the street. My sleeve tugs as bullets come close and the zips powering past my head tell of other near misses. The first bags hit the street near the front of the store and the mixture catches. Smoke starts billowing in great clouds. Hastily, we light and toss more, the gunfire dissipating as the townspeople try to figure out what’s going on.
More smoke pours from the bags with loud hisses, and the street is slowly being covered in white. The oncoming void is lost from sight, which I suppose is for the best. We create an alleyway between smoke walls.
“We’ll still be seen by those on the boardwalk and rooftops straight ahead, so concentrate fire there,” I tell BT. “Enough to keep their heads down.”
“What happens when we reach the telegraph office?” BT inquires.
“I have no idea. Hopefully we’ll find a portal out of here, but nothing here has been that easy,” I answer.
“So, we’ll see what we’ll see. Or, get erased by whatever that is coming our way.”
“Pretty much. Trip, we’re going to head out the door and run across the street. You stay by my side.”
Without a word, Trip darts out the door and starts running. BT and I follow, our weapons out and ready for a running gunfight, just like the final scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. BT has a revolver in each hand and is firing at targets both on the boardwalk and on the roof. I have my rifle, adding my rounds to keep our assailants’ heads down.
Midway across the street, Trip stops. I catch up to him and try to propel him forward.
“Do you hear that?” he whispers, his eyes wide.
There’s a scritching sound like mice running across rice paper.
“That’s the sound of reality being erased,” he adds.
“That’s precisely why we don’t want to be standing here,” I reply, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward.
BT runs out of ammo and tosses his weapons to the ground in an attempt to run faster. The smoke screen hides everything to the sides, and my imagination pictures the void just on the other side of the dense smoke and closing in. That spurs me to move a bit quicker while still trying to keep the heads of the townspeople down. Trip seems to be moving more or less in the right direction. I let him go in order to keep some semblance of control over this headlong flight.
The street certainly didn’t seem so wide when running for the store, but now it feels like it’s a mile across. Hopping across rutted tracks from wagons and the like, I near the boardwalk. Glancing back, I notice Trip wandering into the smoke screen. Of course he couldn’t just keep going. Turning back, I again grab him by the arm and jerk him toward the telegraph office.
“Isn’t beautiful?” Trip says in a dream-like voice.
Afraid to ask, I do anyway. “Isn’t what beautiful?”
“That sound.”
I notice that the scratching noise has vanished and there’s only the continued sound of sporadic gunfire.
“I don’t hear a thing,” I respond, still moving toward the far side with Trip in tow.
“Precisely. It’s the sound of nothing,” Trip replies.
Now, I’ve heard and seen a lot of things, but I can’t think of one more frightening than that statement at a time like this. My overactive imagination is sent into hyperdrive, which sends corresponding signals to my legs. Trip nearly stumbles off his feet as I find another gear forward. The return gunfire has dropped off significantly, and I’m quite sure that’s because those firing don’t exist anymore.
We slam through the front door of the Transmission Guild nearly together, staggering into the interior. A quick look around doesn’t show a magic portal sparking or sending lightning bolts from its surface. There’s no hiss of static nor arrow pointing to our timely escape. Instead, there’s only what one might expect: a counter with a telegraph machine situated behind. Against the back wall is a safe where I would presume they store confidential documents.
The safe isn’t large, and my first thought is that there has to be another one. I remember Trip’s words of having to blow a safe, but even if we managed to get the door off, there’s no way we’d fit through the opening. Outside, the smoke screen is beginning to break apart, revealing that the ever-encroaching void of white is near and drawing closer. Most of the town is gone and more is being erased as I watch. This is a hungry monster that doesn’t stop.
I have BT place the sticks of dynamite he brought with him under the safe, although “throw” is a better word than “place.” I know most of the blast will be propelled down through the floor, but hopefully the door will still be forced open. The side walls begin disappearing as the void thing closes in. Our time is up. Either this works or it doesn’t. As I’m tying the ends of fuses together, I wonder if I’ll feel any pain when my arms just ceases to exist. The white pushes inside the building. To call it a color or object isn’t right. I can’t even really call it white. There’s just nothing beyond where reality ends.
The entire walls on both sides are gone as I light the wad of fuses. They jump to life with a series of sparks, hisses, and thin lines of smoke that drift upward. The flames move far too slowly up toward the jumble of dynamite sticks. I’m not entirely sure that the void won’t beat the lit fuses to the sticks. Staring at the slow-moving sparks left me in a moment where I forgot my surroundings. I’m standing within feet of where a bundle of dynamite sticks are about to go off. This is probably not an ideal position to be in.
BT is also staring at the safe with the lit fuses. Trip is focused on the vanishing building, if focus is even a word that can really apply to the man. I grab them and shove them back toward the door. I’m not sure how many townspeople still remain, but only those on the boardwalk will present any kind of threat. Of course, they’ll have to be standing right outside the door, because other than a narrow strip of the dirt avenue and the store across the street, there isn’t any other part of town that remains.
Without seeing anyone, we crowd outside the door and pile up against the wall. It isn’t long before a tremendous blast shakes the building, followed by the leading edge of the explosion. Glass blows outward from the windows, sending shards spinning into the street where they glint under the sun directly overhead. Wooden splinters spray across the walkway and street. With a look at what remains of the office from the void erasing everything material, BT races inside and I follow pulling a dazed hippie.
Inside, BT comes up short. Debris from the explosion is strewn across what remains of the floor. The smoke from the blast is clearing and reveals that the front door of the safe is hanging askew. Inside is a swirling mass that looks like a whirlpool of quicksilver. The problem is that the opening is far too small to squeeze into.
“We’ll never fit into that,” BT shouts.
Although the big man has lost weight, he hasn’t lost enough to be considered anything other than large. However, it really doesn’t matter, as no one, other than a small child, would fit. The counter and telegraph machine vanish in silence.
“I don’t really see that we have much of a choice,” I return, edging closer to the tiny portal.
At best, we have four to five feet of reality to stand on. There’s just a narrow strip of flooring leading to the safe. It’s kind of like walking on one of those wooden bridges spanning a great chasm. I draw closer, wondering if I should be running toward it. Speed may help shove me a little further inside. But I’d need a rocket car to build up enough momentum to actually be rammed inside.
Nearer to the portal, I start feeling stretched, like I’m being pulled into taffy. My arm elongates with my hands disappearing into the tiny maelstrom. I anticipated the portal feeling cold at first touch. But I feel nothing other than a lurch and dizziness at my proportions being altered. It’s nauseating and seems to last an eternity. However, my body is altering to fit into the portal dimensions. All thought of the encroaching void vanishes as I’m pulled through a keyhole and into the portal.
I’m not sure what I expected to be on the other side. I thought maybe I’d enter the hovercraft again or be transported to the world where I saw Mike. I think I can safely say that one of the last things I expected to see was a sword swinging toward my face.
13
Jack Walker — Chapter Seven
The sun glints off the gleaming metal blade as it arcs downward. I can almost see the grain of the hard steel from being folded numerous times for strength and the ability to hold an edge. Although the sight of the incoming blade has my immediate and direct attention, my other senses register the scent of cherry blossoms floating in the light breeze. Tiny pink blossoms float through the air behind. I’m not sure why I even notice them at a time like this, but I do, nonetheless.
I dodge to the side and bring my arms up in defense, suddenly realizing that I’m holding on to the handle of my own sword. The two meet in a sharp ringing contact of steel on steel. I’m at a bit of a disadvantage due to the surprise of finding myself in the middle of a sword fight, but at least that swing isn’t going to separate my head from my shoulders.
The sword is pulled away only to come back in from a different angle. I turn my sword to meet the oncoming blade, followed by the resounding peel of steel meeting steel. I’ve only seen a blur of white from my opponent, my attention focused on keeping the steel edge from piercing my skin. He or she is bloody fast with that thing and I doubt I’d be able to block them if I didn’t have the muscle enhancements. I’m still on the defensive, but I’m also still alive.
The sound of other swords ringing clue me in that I’m not only in a one-on-one fight, but that there are others fighting around me. For a brief second, I wonder how in the hell BT and Trip are faring, but that thought vanishes quickly as I have to parry yet another attack.
I jump back, hoping to give myself a little breathing room. My opponent is having none of it as he immediately closes in. I, at least, am able to see who I’m fighting, and it doesn’t look good. The man opposite is definitely oriental and in traditional samurai gear, his topknot pulled tight and showing strands of gray. The fluid motions the man exhibits show his level of training. By comparison, I’m merely chopping wood, barely able to meet his attacks.
I’ve trained with swords a bit in Japan, but I haven’t lived it, like it appears the man in front of me has. It’s all I can do to backpedal and get my sword up in time to meet the blur of his blade. His expression betrays nothing but business as he continues to drive me backward.
There’s a thud and his eyes suddenly roll back in his head. Soundlessly, he drops straight to the ground, his sword falling from fingers. I quickly look around and see others fighting, also dressed in samurai-style clothing. However, I can’t locate BT or Trip even though I suspect the hippie and his slingshot are responsible for my reprieve.
The blade slicing through the air is more felt than heard. It’s as if
I can actually feel the parting of the air. I drop straight down while turning, my own sword following my motions. I catch a glimpse of shiny metal passing over me, the blade kissing the top of my head. My sword cleaves into the side of the sword-wielder, blood instantly saturating the white cloth and running down. Not stopping, I dart forward along the side of the man, my katana ripping free. Behind the opponent, I ram my sword into his back. His body stiffens from the pain before he slumps to the ground as I withdraw my blade. Whisking the blood from the blade, I quickly look for any other attackers.
The clang of blade meeting blade has vanished along with the combatants, which once stood toe-to-toe beneath the cherry blossoms. The unmoving bodies, too, are gone, leaving behind only the drifting of the pink and white flowers. There isn’t a trace of blood on the katana in my hand. One might think that the fight was only in my imagination.
The cherry blossoms give way to open fields. A lone snow-capped mountain rises in the distance, dominating the landscape. I’ve seen Mount Fuji close up, but not with forested sides. The version I saw still had snow on it, but the sides are completely bare and surrounded by open, smoking sulfur pits. It was definitely not the picturesque scene presented now.
I stare down at the black outfit I’m wearing, complete with gold Japanese lettering near the end of the obi. Making sure I’m not about to be attacked, I sheath the sword. However, that is short-lived as there comes a scraping from one of the trees. Whirling with my blade clearing the sheath, I see a figure climbing down. It doesn’t take but a couple of seconds to realize that it’s Trip.
Hopping to the ground, he looks quite at home in the traditional samurai outfit. His conical straw hat falls off to reveal a large topknot. The only aspect that looks out of place is his bushy beard. Other than that, he looks quite in his element.
