Over the Rainbow

by Brian Rowe

  The soldiers hoisted me toward a two-story cabin with fire, not smoke, roaring out the chimney. When I reached the front steps, a tall, pale figure emerged. He wore a large brown sweater and tan cargo pants. His head was bald, his neck was bruised with a dark orange color, and his eyes were bright red. He opened his mouth to reveal a slithering snake tongue.

  “Welcome to Moral Inventories,” the thing said, reaching all six of his arms toward me. “Come inside. We’ll make you right at home!”

  “No! No, please!”

  He chuckled and pulled me away from the soldiers, with all but one of his hands, up the steps toward the cabin, as lightning struck the ground behind me and large pellets of rain landed on top of my head. He used the last of his six hands to cover my face.

  “We’re gonna take good care of you,” he said.

  “Please, no!” I shouted as he pushed me into the darkness. “I don’t want to go in there! Please! Noooooooo—”

  #

  Sunday, June 13, 1999

  I woke up with slime on my face. I blinked my eyes a couple times, then turned my head so I wouldn’t be blinded by the harsh sunlight. I crossed my arms and sat up.

  I sighed, happily. I was back to reality. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” Even this reality was better than being sent to Moral Inventories.

  The air was cold and eerie. An icy frost had descended over the ground beneath us. I touched my face, and panicked again. The slime ran all the way to my neck. It was drool, thick and gross. First I thought it was my own; then I assumed it to be Judy’s. But when I saw the dog running through the grass across the lake, I realized the goo covering my tired face was too warm and fresh. I turned to my right. Cuddled up next to me, Frankie was no longer snoring. A waterfall of drool rushed down his tongue.

  “Ewww! Gross!” I shouted.

  I punched him in the arm, crawled to the lake, and dunked my head into the water. When I returned to the morning light, I was fully awake—and in crippling pain.

  “Oww… my head…”

  “Did you just hit me?” Frankie asked, rubbing his eyes.

  I massaged the back of my neck, then took off Frankie's XXL shirt and tossed it to the ground. “No.”

  “Someone hit me. It hurt!”

  “Judy did it,” I said, pointing across the lake.

  Frankie tried to stand up but he came tumbling back down. He slammed his back against a rock and flipped over onto his chest.

  “Ouch,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  Frankie pushed himself toward me, his arms doing all the work. He dunked his head into the lake like me, but then, unlike me, started slurping it up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “That's not sanitary!”

  “I don’t care. My head feels like a freaking bowling ball.”

  “Ugh,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Mine feels like a bowling stadium.”

  He finished sucking up the water like a dehydrated elephant and stood up on his feet. He swayed back and forth for a few seconds, looking ready to take a bad tumble again, until he found his balance.

  “Okay,” he said. He looked around the area, tried his best to appear sober. “Let’s get moving. We have to find help. I don’t know if we can survive another day on our own.”

  “I agree,” I said, and Frankie pulled me up.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I… I think so.”

  We continued on the trail but I had to keep stopping to let Frankie catch up to me; I was able to keep an honorable pace, while Frankie walked like a one-legged zombie. Judy followed right behind us, then sped up past me. She was in a chipper mood, as always.

  “Do you think we’ll find others?” Frankie asked, when he finally maintained a steady pace with me. “You know, people who are alive?”

  “I know we will.”

  “But what if we don’t?”

  “We will, Frankie. There has to be someone.” I clapped my hands together, tried to stay upbeat. I looked back at the dog. She was wrestling with an over-sized twig. “Come on, Judy! Let’s go, girl!”

  We kept walking. I darted my eyes everywhere looking for the strange webbed creature, but I didn’t see it.

  There were no dodo birds around here.

  It had all been a drunken dream.

  #

  When the trail came to a dead end, we spent the morning walking around the nearest mountain, not up it. We stopped only once, when we thought we heard a plane overhead (it turned out to be a flock of birds), and by noon, we reached a flatter body of land that required no hiking skills. When we found another trail, one lined with sunflowers, we both let out thankful sighs, and continued on our way.

  “So why were you going to Seattle, Frankie?” I asked, when he caught back up to me after taking another tumble.

  He tried to brush the dirt off his pants but didn’t do a good job of it. “To spend the summer with my dad.”

  “Oh, are your parents divorced?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. How's your dad with the whole gay thing?”

  He scratched the area around his nose ring, then set his hands back to his sides. “He's all right. We talk about it a lot, he's trying to understand it. He doesn't allow me to bring guys over, which sucks, but, still, it could be worse.”

  “A lot worse,” I blurted out. “Could you imagine if your dad tried to send you to anti-gay camp?”

  Frankie shook his head in disgust. “I still can’t believe that. That’s so wrong on so many levels.”

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s shameful. I hope I never have to meet your father. I would beat that man, so help me God.”

  I lightly chuckled. “Yeah, good luck with that. Even though you’re a foot taller than him, he’ll still scare the shit out of you, trust me.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Satan. Don’t let me get in the same room with him.” Frankie kicked a rock out in front of him a good thirty yards. Sweat dripped down his cheeks; a small pool of it formed on his upper lip. “How come it’s almost the new millennium and people still think the way your dad thinks? I mean, the time of acceptance isn’t ten years from now, or twenty years from now, it’s today.”

  “I agree. Where do you live the rest of the year? Kansas City?”

  “No, that was just for my connecting flight. I live in Orlando.”

  “Oh cool! Are they more accepting there?”

  “I'd imagine it's better than Kansas,” Frankie said. “But there’s still a lot of haters out there. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to rid the world of them, but we can hope, can’t we?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “I haven't been impressed much with the guys in Florida. My last boyfriend dumped me over the telephone. The telephone, Zippy! Can you believe that? Couldn't even tell me to my face.”

  “Really? That doesn’t shock me at all. It’s 1999. It’s all about breaking up over AOL.” I paused, and said, “Wait, so you’ve had a boyfriend before?”

  “Two. And one FWB.”

  “FWB?”

  “Friend with benefits,” he said. I gave him a blank stare. He snickered. “You are new to this, aren’t you?”

  I sighed. “You could say that. I’ve never even kissed a girl.”

  “Really?” He made a pouty fish face. “Well, you’re still young. Don’t be like me and rush into something you’re not ready for.”

  We walked for another hour. I kept glancing in every direction, but there was still no sign of life anywhere. I considered screaming for help, but decided to wait until I saw someone, or something, moving about.

  “How long are you going to stay?” I asked Frankie. The silences between us were awkward, to say the least, and I liked to keep the conversation going. I was interested in his story, and liked talking about him more than me. “In Seattle, I mean. The summer, you said?”

  “Yeah, until Labor Day. That's when my senior year of high school starts.”

  “You’re still in high
school?” My jaw dropped a little. “Like me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry.”

  He shot me an awkward glance. “Why?”

  “I just feel things will get better after high school, for both of us. Don't you agree?”

  “Of course,” he said. “One more year.”

  My heart fluttered. I needed to find a computer with an Internet connection and talk to Mira. I was angry at myself for not searching for a computer back at that house, but I didn’t know that a day later I would still be in the middle of nowhere, with less and less hope of a human sighting.

  “Whoa,” Frankie said, out of the blue.

  “What?”

  He hurried past me. “Is that what I think it is?”

  I looked at a forest up ahead, half-expecting that he’d caught sight of that six-armed creature from my nightmare, or worse—my dad in a dress.

  “Zippy, follow me!” Frankie started running, but I stayed put. We’d been walking for five straight hours.

  “Do I have to?” I asked.

  “Yes! Hurry up!” He was at least half a football field’s length away.

  “All right, fine.”

  My stomach growled as I started to run. I had to move twice as fast, because Frankie’s legs were twice as long.

  “Come on, Judy!” I shouted to the dog. “Come on girl!” The terrier rushed toward me, even less enthused to be running than I was.

  I moved fast for another minute, surprised my legs hadn’t collapsed underneath me, before I came to an abrupt stop beside Frankie.

  I finally saw what he saw. “Holy crap!”

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s…” My jaw dropped. “Oh my God, it's—”

  “A neighborhood!” Frankie shouted.

  I saw sidewalks, paved streets, rows and rows of two-story homes. I saw bikes and fences and basketball hoops and swimming pools. I even saw a lemonade stand.

  “I don’t believe it!” I shouted. “We’re saved!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Saturday, June 12, 1999

  Raymond Green stood only five-foot-nine and weighed a mere 165 pounds, but he tried to appear imposing by standing on his tippy toes and tapping his perfectly trimmed fingernails against the counter. The big-haired ticket agent yapped away on the telephone, not even looking at him as he tried to catch her attention.

  He still didn’t know where his daughter was.

  “Excuse me,” he said as soon as she put the phone down. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Please step back, sir,” the woman said in a stern voice. Raymond didn’t like to be told what to do, so he only took a half-step back. “I don’t know what to tell you. The plane has been in the air for over an hour. The computer shows your daughter did not board the flight, and that she didn’t swap her ticket for any other flight, either. I’m happy to refund the money if—”

  Raymond slammed his fist against the counter. “Don’t you understand? I don’t care about a refund. I want to know where my daughter is!”

  “Sir, calm down.”

  “This is insane. She was right here! She was in that bathroom!” Raymond pointed at the ladies' restroom, located near baggage check.

  The ticket agent looked behind him, like she hoped another customer would appear and give her a reason to shoo him away.

  “Sir, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “Security investigated the bathroom, and we’ve advised two patrolmen to keep an eye out for your daughter. Are you sure she didn’t get a ride home with someone? Her mother, perhaps? A friend?”

  Raymond bit down hard on his tongue. He shook his head, and lowered his voice. “I talked to her when she was in there. She never came out.”

  “Sir, that’s impossible. There’s only one way in and out of that bathroom.” An elderly couple approached the counter, and the ticket agent waved Raymond away. “I’m sorry, sir. Please step aside.”

  Raymond continued tapping his fingers, this time on his chest. His pager vibrated, for the hundredth time, but he didn’t bother to check it.

  “Are you positive there aren’t any air vents in the restroom?” he asked. “You know, that she could hide in?”

  The ticket agent ignored him, and started assisting the other passengers.

  He planted his hands against his softening hips and turned around to eye the bathroom again. He had waited outside as a security officer spent more than five minutes combing for his daughter, but the short fellow only reported a missing faucet.

  “This is ridiculous,” Raymond said. He marched past the other ticket stations and baggage check, toward the bathroom.

  He stopped and rested his hand on the door. His stomach turned over. He knew going in was wrong, but he also knew he didn't have a choice. He stepped inside the off-limits sanctuary. He hoped the Lord would forgive his trespass.

  He knocked on the pink-tiled wall, his face turned away from the door. “Is anyone in here?”

  No response.

  “Zipporah?”

  Nothing.

  He stood still, straining to hear the slightest rustle inside a stall or a giggle from an overhead air vent. But all he heard was a gust of wind striking the tiny bathroom window.

  Raymond looked out the window, examined its dimensions; his daughter was small but not that small. He surveyed the four sinks under the long mirror; unless Zipporah had shrunk to the size of a peanut, no way out there. He searched through the trashcan; it was big enough to fit his daughter, but inside was, oddly, a pile of clothes.

  He breathed in, scared to continue, but he tiptoed to the back of the room anyway, toward the stalls. He knocked on and opened each one. The first two were empty and clean. The third had an empty toilet roll on the ground.

  Before he opened the final stall, he looked up, and sighed. No air vents, no hidden windows, no secret sliding doors that took passengers out of the airport.

  He almost gave up. But then he leaned against the final stall door. He heard breathing.

  “Zipporah? Is that you?”

  He pulled on the stall door. Locked.

  “Are you hurt? Zipporah, open up!”

  Raymond kicked the door open. An old woman sat on the toilet, asleep, her faded underwear wrapped around her legs.

  The woman opened her eyes.

  And screamed.

  A security guard tossed Raymond out of the bathroom a mere ten seconds later. He tried not to lose his cool; Raymond knew if he kicked the man in the balls he could get arrested, or worse, removed from office. He had too much on the line to get into any trouble.

  He sat down on the nearest bench and rubbed his hands against his sweaty cheeks. He tried to piece together the events of the day. The last thing his daughter said was that she was having female issues.

  “And then that woman came out,” Raymond said.

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture the lady. She had been hefty and plain, with a silver hat and a massive suitcase that looked big enough to fit a person.

  “And then that woman with the ventilator went in a few minutes later and I asked her to—”

  Raymond stopped talking. He backtracked. He stood up from the bench and almost tripped over a little girl who was trying to zip herself into her mother’s giant suitcase.

  “Mommy,” she said, “when does our plane leave?”

  “An hour, sweetheart. Come on, stop playing around.”

  The girl rolled off the top of the suitcase, away from Raymond.

  “Big enough to fit a person…” he whispered. He watched in stunned silence as the mother and daughter sauntered over to one of the ticket agents. “No. No, she couldn’t have.”

  He marched over to baggage check. “Pardon me,” he said, to a pretty young lady taking all the bags.

  “Yes?” she said. She wore a cheap orange vest. “Did you have one piece of luggage, or two—”

  “No. Actually, I had a question about a bag that went through here earlier.”

&nb
sp; She stepped toward Raymond and crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, sir, but a lot of bags come through here—”

  “I’m aware of that. But would you happen to remember a suitcase that was dropped off about an hour ago? It was silver, wide, heavy.”

  Raymond expected nothing but a furrowed brow, but the lady, to his amazement, nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes, one does stick out in my mind. Usually when we get a bag heavier than seventy pounds, it’s in a giant box or a golf bag. But this one was just a normal suitcase. The woman said she had a bunch of hardback books in it.”

  He moved closer to her, pushed his legs up against the side of the conveyor belt. “Do you remember how much it weighed?”

  “Not exactly. Eighty pounds, I think? Maybe a little more?”

  He let out a sharp breath. “You wouldn’t happen to know where it was headed, would you?”

  She shook her head. “As I said, a lot of bags come through here, sir.”

  “Yes, I understand.” He brought his hands back to his pockets, and glanced at the departures board. “I just have one more question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have any flights that go to Seattle?”

  “Of course. I believe we have three a day. Why?”

  Raymond’s heart dropped. “Thanks for your help,” he said, and walked out of the terminal, into the harsh afternoon sunlight.

  “Zipporah,” Raymond whispered, when he reached the pavement. He looked up at an airplane surging toward the sky. “What have you done?”

  He looked down at his pager. He had fifty messages. He had dozens of people he needed to contact, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to find his daughter.

  Raymond crossed the busy drop-off station and walked toward his Lexus in the parking lot. He dug his keys out of his pocket, dangled them from his fingers.

  Then he dropped them on the hot blacktop when a quiet rumble commenced beneath his feet.

  “What the...”

  Little pellets of rocks bounced up and bit his cheeks when he bent for the keys. Dogs barked, and car alarms ignited, and people starting screaming, all at once, creating a cacophony of angry chaos.