Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  I’m not an expert on the legal system of my new planet, but I’m fairly certain I’ve committed my first felony.

  I choose a dark brown, unsealed road, not knowing where it leads. There’s two suns in the sky and the exposure of broad daylight keeps me off the road’s edge, sticking close to the trees. There are walls of pines on either side of me, which occasionally recede behind wide paddocks that stretch into the distance. Far away I can see what appear to be herds of animals, possibly cattle. They’re the size of livestock, but just grey lumps in the distance. Every so often a bird flaps across the tops of the trees. A coloured dot with wings.

  I cross a long bridge, walking on the outside pedestrian lane. The river beneath flows quickly, wide and blue-grey. I keep my eyes down, focusing on the cold concrete in front of me, as two cars pass. They casually roll by, heading in the same direction as me. Two simple, plain-looking four door vehicles. Identical to what you’d see patrolling the suburbs of my hometown. Affordable family cars. Not new, but miraculous and mind-blowing in their breathtaking mediocrity. They even have license plates. I’m gripped by a sense of wonder, as if I’ve laid eyes on a motor vehicle for the very first time. It’s as if I’m an import from a bygone era seeing the science fictional innovations of the future.

  The trees on either side of the road continue, but they thin out completely. Paddocks appear and then make way for occasional businesses. One small, wooden building sits in a gravel parking lot and looks like a fuel station. It has bowsers. I walk up to one and pull the nozzle from its holster. When I put it to my nose there’s no mistaking the abrupt fumes of petrol. When I look over at the weathered building, which is draped in faded advertising, an old man stares at me suspiciously through a window, behind his counter. I smile, meekly, and replace the nozzle.

  My stomach becomes restless, groaning in my abdomen. This was inevitable. I’m already out of rations. The suns are sliding toward the horizon and I’ve reached the outskirts of a city. There’s a haze ahead of me, but with every step it peels back to reveal the skyline of a metropolis. A crooked set of teeth rising on an unseen jaw. I’m on a footpath now, passing small shopfronts. Awnings, tattered and decaying, form a canopy above me. The road has two lanes and is sealed with what looks like bitumen. Cars roll past at a higher frequency.

  A lot of the businesses have “closed” signs hanging behind their glass. Their names are mostly familiar. Hairdressers. Bakeries. Newsagents. Second hand electrical. A fruit merchant. Any business names I don’t immediately recognise can be deduced from their various logos and signage. One store has a picture of a spider-shaped creature with a large red cross through it. Perhaps some kind of exterminator.

  More vehicles cruise past me and every so often I see another person, who strolls on their way. Dressed conventionally. Eerily normal. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Human beings, just like me. They don’t give me a second’s notice.

  The city grows larger around me. The distant wall of skyscrapers approaches and the shopfronts become multi-storey office blocks and factories. The latter are broad and impressive, often surrounded by high razor wire trimmed fencing and large, deserted carparks. Their turrets don’t emit anything. They just point upward, mammoth in height but seemingly useless. No plumes or billows. An industrial area that seems largely abandoned. The suns have set further, colliding with that jagged skyline.

  I pass what looks like a take away shop on a busy corner. There’s bright red, Perspex signage across its front, giving it that polished, chain-store sheen. The name of the business is Casa Bistecca, which flows in white, neon cursive.

  Lots of cars pass through the intersection outside Casa Bistecca, and when I stop at the entrance and glance in most of the booths and tables are full of people pushing food into their mouths. None of them acknowledge me. I’m not unusual to them. I’m human like they are. Many of them use their hands to devour what appear to be burgers. Others saw with knives at slabs of meat, then stab a piece with a fork and angle it into their mouths.

  I turn right at the intersection and walk up the footpath, heading towards the rear of the food outlet. I find a small carpark behind it with four dingy looking vehicles. One is tiny and red and has the Casa Bistecca logo on its sides.

  There’s a rear, fly screen door on the building and I can see into the kitchen. Young-looking people in uniforms move around broad hot plates, flipping meat. On the far side of the carpark is a large skip.

  I watch silently for a few minutes. A young employee with pale white skin, shaggy red hair, a crimson shirt with a logo on the breast, black pants and a black cap, shoulders open the door. He holds a grayish green garbage bag with both hands. Rather than throw it in the skip, he just drops it against it. He brushes his hands together and steps briskly back inside the rear of the restaurant, never looking at me. It’s as if I’m transparent.

  Once he’s gone I head for the skip. I walk with purpose, never looking up at the restaurant’s rear door. I grasp the garbage bag, return across the carpark and head up the footpath. I keep walking until a few blocks pass beneath my feet. Between two dirty, tall brick buildings I find a lane and follow it, waiting till I get a reasonable distance from the road before stopping to inspect my find.

  I kneel down and tear the bag open and the warm smell of fresh food scraps blooms upward. These are leftovers fresh from the tables, barely discarded for long enough to go cold. I shift through the garbage with two hands, finding a few half eaten burgers still folded in their wrappers. I lift one out and inspect it. There’s circular bite marks. I lift off the top of the bun and see red sauce, something dark that appears to be a meat patty and a creamy coloured, cheese-like square, which is melted. I lean back and sit against the wall of the laneway. After a few sniffs of the scrap in my hand and some encouraging murmurs from my aching stomach, I bite into the half-eaten burger. I should be shocked when it tastes as I expect. I should reel from the numbing horror of a cheeseburger existing on two separate planets, but all I do is savour the sensation of sustenance descending my esophagus. I dip into the bag and pick out a few soggy yellow sticks that taste like potato fries. I’m exhausted and sweating from a day of walking, but I don’t let fatigue upset me. Nor do I judge myself for eating from the garbage. Mentally, I’m in survival mode. I’m in the wild, boldly going further than any other Earthling. I’ll observe the culture before I dissolve into it completely.

  After picking through the unwanted morsels of the clientele at Casa Bistecca, I leave the bag and return to the footpath and follow the road I took from the intersection. The city and its skyscrapers create a backdrop to my left.

  This factory area isn’t as well kept as the previous one. On the corner of a block I find a building that is locked up and seems empty. It’s not in as dismal condition as some of the surrounding structures. Everything in this district has been left to ruin. But this building looks like it may have been loved a little longer than these patchwork factories around me, which almost wobble in the wind like a morning’s drunkard. This building, with its aqua paint job, garnered someone’s respect for longer than the surrounding blocks of industrial detritus.

  The awning of this building looks ragged, but the exterior paintwork isn’t too bad. None of the windows are smashed either. There’s a square sign jutting out from the third storey, but the lettering has been scraped off.

  I round the side of the building and head up another lane, looking for a rear entrance. The windows on this side are high up, tiny and have steel security bars on them. I step around garbage bags, bins, a few old broken desktop computers, pieces of cardboard and wooden pallets. Parts of the concrete are slippery and seem coated in a thin layer of moss.

  I find a door. There’s two small concrete steps at its base and to the right of the frame, around chest height, is a small black box. It has a groove through it that looks designed for a swipe card. Which I don’t have. Just below the small black box is a grey box with a keypad on it. Zero through to nine, with a hash button as an e
xtra option. It looks designed for a key code or pin number. Which I don’t have.

  I look up at all the windows above me. Most have bars and they’re all too high up. I suppose there’s not much point having windows on this side of the building when your only view is the dank brick wall opposite.

  I take a step back, feeling quite defeated. I’m disappointed, because I carefully selected this residence. It seemed appropriate to squat in. Four walls and a roof. Shelter from an alien planet. I inspect my surroundings. Maybe I’m aiming too high by picking such a plush hideaway. I should find some cardboard and just sleep in the alleyway. Many Earthlings do it.

  I look around for cardboard and notice a box lying on its side about two metres further into the alley. On closer inspection, it’s a box of papers. The lid has fallen off and folders have spilt onto the alley floor. I kneel down and take a handful, flipping through the pieces of paper that have been aging and abandoned. The words are in English. There are a lot of sheets that have the term “booking form” at the top. They’re photocopied and various areas of the page are filled out with scribbled handwriting. Some have been stamped “Approved”. Further forms have “Invoice” written at the top or “Remittance”. In between these booking forms are photocopies of what look like print adverts. They’re plugging various businesses. There’s a lot that seem to be promoting “holiday activities”, “cheap deals on cars” and “pest experts”.

  Amongst these fairly innocuous documents I find a small envelope and someone has written “Open” in blue pen and neat handwriting. I flip it over, following this direct instruction. Inside are a plastic card and a small, scribbled note. It says, “To whoever finds this, please enter The Easton Inquiry offices and enjoy yourself. Do as you see fit. If this includes burning its forsaken walls to the ground, then I encourage you to do so unhindered and uninhibited.” There’s no name. I hold up the plastic card. There’s what looks like a black magnetic strip. Beneath are the word “Security” and a six-digit number.

  On the top step, I swipe the card through the black box. I hear a beeping sound, then the lock on the door clicks. When I push against it, it swings open.

  Once inside, my nostrils fill with the faint smell of cleaning agents and a musty, damp carpet odour. There’s no light on this side of the building, so I step through the darkness, allowing my eyes to adjust. The ground beneath me feels carpeted and every so often my feet crunch something that’s probably paper. My eyes become familiar with the low light and I can see the shapes of office desks and chairs. Most are empty and have had their drawers cleaned out. Others still have a computer monitor on top or an occasional keyboard and mouse. I run my hand along the top of one of the monitors, feeling dust gather on my fingers. I’m amazed by the technology.

  The lifeless, scratchy fronds of a withered indoor plant brush against the back of my hand and I tense up. Moving slowly, keeping my eyes and ears alert, I arrive at a door and glance out into the corridor. It’s long. Light creeps from open doorways, breaking the shadows. Both directions in the corridor seem equally ominous. All I can hear are car engines from the road outside. I detect something that sounds like a siren, but it’s not nearby.

  I remain still, unsure which way to go. Then I hear something. It’s a sound so insignificant that it might not have happened at all. I hold my breath, waiting to see if it repeats itself. Silence. But then I hear it again. A drip. I move up the corridor to my right. I pass the doorways of two rooms that face each other. Looking in both, I can see that they’re just more offices. Then another drip. I continue up the hallway, treading softly through the shadows.

  At the end of the corridor is a door and a word is printed on its wooden surface. “Amenities”. I push it open and step inside. My movement triggers a motion sensor and the roof’s long fluorescent lights flicker into existence. I’m in a bathroom. There’s a row of basins with soap dispensers drilled next to each. Off-white tiles cover the floor and travel up the wall to meet with the tops of mirrors. There are two long rows of toilet cubicles. I walk past them, inspecting each, pushing open the light brown doors. I find that the two on the far end of each row are not housing a toilet, but are showers. I step into one and angle the showerhead at the wall. I turn on the taps. Water jets and as it washes over my left hand I feel it become hot.

  I strip down and stand under the water, savouring its sensation over my body. This is the first proper shower I’ve had since entering the escape pod. I had antiseptic wipes that I used to keep clean, but they don’t really compare to hot, running water. I can feel the grime and sweat loosen its grip on my skin.

  I sit on the floor of the shower for what feels like an hour. Eventually, and with some reluctance, I turn off the water. Sitting on a small bench just inside the door of the shower recess, I take slow breaths, feeling utterly rejuvenated.

  Without a towel, I can only wipe excess droplets from my skin with my hands. Though not completely dry, I get dressed. I then step across the tiles to one of the basins and drink water until I’m bloated and satisfied. The plumbing behind the wall groans loudly then subsides when I turn off the taps.

  In one of the smaller rooms off the corridor, I lock the door behind me and curl underneath one of the two desks. The weight of exhaustion drags me very quickly into a deep sleep.

  I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but when I venture to a window that faces the street, the suns outside are low, rising with the morning. The interior of the building is more illuminated than it was on dusk. Exploring the downstairs level I find what appears to be a main foyer and push through swinging glass doors to a front administration room of some kind. There is a long L-shaped counter. There are desks behind it where receptionists may have worked. Most are stripped bare. Others still have in and out trays with a few papers left in them. Next to the doors are a series of freestanding metal racks that hold piles of newspapers. The masthead says The Easton Inquiry. I lift a copy from the top and skim through the cover story. It’s about an economic crisis due to the closure of various polluting industries.

  The décor of this building’s interior seems old. It feels like a public high school. Fading carpet, kitchenettes with linoleum and wooden paneling on some of the walls. It doesn’t seem modern, but I don’t really know what modern looks like here.

  I find a flight of stairs and ascend to the second storey. At the top of the stairs is a sign. It has the words “Advertising and Production” next to an arrow pointing right. Beneath that it says “Library and Human Resources”, with a left arrow. I stare at the word “Human”.

  Following the corridor to the left, I arrive at a double door. Inside is a long room, divided down the centre. There are many computers on the right, each sitting at small booths. The left side of the room is made up of rows of shelves. They’re about eight feet tall and full of books. I walk among them, reading the spines. Most are in English.

  I spend the day pouring over books, sitting on the ground in the aisles. I spend a particularly long time reading medical texts, examining diagrams of human biology. As far as I can tell, it’s identical to my own. The different systems are all there, from the respiratory to the circulatory, digestive, endocannabinoid, endocrine, immune, integumentary, lymphatic, musculoskeletal and the nervous system. I read a chapter on the ins and outs of the reproductive system, my heart aflutter at the sight of ovaries, testes, the uterus, the prostate and the almighty urethra. I laugh to myself when I read a Layman’s explanation of the vestibular system and how it gives humans a sense of “spatial orientation”. I hope mine is running smoothly.

  My autodidactic afternoon is spent flipping through books on history. I read about a few great wars. Nations I've never heard of bickering about places and cities I've never heard of. There’s one war that seems to have ended all conflict. A battle so terrible that this planet collectively refused to ever engage in that level of violence against each other again. A global peace treaty. One vision for a better future. Even weapons manufacturers closed
down. Remarkable. So unlike my concept of humanity. It seems that governments still need to be overthrown and there are examples of coups and rebel militia ruling towns and cities, but they’re few and always dealt with diplomatically or in as non-violent a means as possible.

  I look for books on industry, particularly those that harvest and imbibe natural resources. I find a section that provides for this particular subject and read through books on iron ore, water desalination and something called “cray”, which from what I can gather is a substance like coal. There is also a book about the history of “fuel” drilling, which seems to be their term for petroleum. One book confirms the planet’s reliance on solar energy, which makes sense given their two suns. They also use wind turbines. No sign of nuclear power. Very interesting indeed.

  I’m hungry again but I try to ignore it. I check the index of every book and find nothing that relates to Earth or anything that suggests that they know of my planet.

  Despite the peaceful modern era that this world finds itself in, the similarities to Earth are eerie. I ponder the idea that this is in fact Earth and it’s been stumbled across through an anomaly in spacetime. It’s not my area of expertise, but the evidence is compelling. I’m sure every chaos theorist on my home planet would probably explode if they knew I’d landed somewhere that is inhabited by humans who speak English and have seemingly evolved in some kind of parallel to Earthlings. They would drool at the prospect of analysing the dynamical systems that have made this world a reality.

  There are things in space that we haven’t discovered yet, of that I am certain, so I need to keep an open mind if I am to understand where I am. Only a fool would suggest that Earthlings are experts on the universe. I recall reading a book while at NASA on the science of black holes. A deformation in spacetime. Nothing escapes a black hole. It absorbs light and doesn’t reflect it. It just hangs there, a mass with an undetectable surface that, once crossed, cannot be returned from. It’s a one-way ride. The point of no return is called an event horizon. Around the black hole it is non-spherical and a person who crosses the event horizon does not know it has happened. They would never know that precise moment when it was too late to turn back.