Whirlwind

by David Klass

The Yellow Submarine is not alive. It has no ability to feel joy or sadness, no soul. I can’t tease it the way I tease Gisco and expect it to crack jokes back at me.

  At the same time, it’s also not just a machine. It has a narrow but definite sense of self-awareness that seems close to human consciousness. It doesn’t fear death as a great unknown, but if the water pressure crushed it, it understands that it would not be able to function or serve anymore. It knows it would become a useless piece of river-bottom debris. That prospect disturbs it in a way that feels oddly similar to my own greatest fears.

  No, it desperately wants to function and to serve. So it allows me to merge with it. Welcomes me.

  I complained that the people who built it didn’t include an operating manual, but now I see that’s not true. This dinghy is its own operating manual. It has a comprehensive knowledge of its own abilities, which it’s eager to share with me, now that we’re pals.

  Jack Danielson cannot see in darkness, so lights blink on, not because I flipped a switch but because the craft understood that there was a need for more illumination. We understood that need together. Just as we need to get moving, and so the sub rocks once or twice and then we power forward, out of the muck, and begin a journey northward.

  Now we’re moving in the right direction. Sharing a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Solving problems together. Sub and boy. Boy in sub. Boy running sub. Sub showing boy what to do each step of the way.

  Want to go faster? Shall we turn? Need it to be a bit warmer inside? No problemo. Done.

  Who’s in charge? Who’s more dependent? Who’s smarter? Where does the power lie in this complex mingling of mind and machine? I can’t say.

  But I do know the answers are not simple. Things have changed a lot from the day a caveman picked up a piece of flint and chipped it to make a tool. Now the tool invites the man inside for a shared experience in problem solving.

  We’re fifty feet beneath the surface of the Hudson. Moving northward at ten knots. Lights kept low to avoid surface detection.

  I slowly disengage. Not painful, but it makes me lonely for a second. Like stepping away from a part of myself. But I’m no longer needed. We made our decisions together, and now the sub will carry them out.

  I pull off the blue police shirt that I took from the Hadley station. Drape it over Gisco like a blanket.

  It’s all that I can do for him now. The blood has dried on his fur. I stroke his ears and he stirs faintly.

  Heal, hound, I encourage him telepathically. A big old war dog like you has made it through many battles. Come through one more. And because Gisco is out of it and can’t hear me, I add in a soft, pleading whisper, “I need you, old friend. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  The dinghy must sense my deep concern for him. A faint reddish glow envelops Gisco from snout to paws. Perhaps the boat has the power to keep him alive, or even to somehow heal him.

  It certainly couldn’t do any harm.

  I sit with my back against the wall. Listen to Gisco’s labored breaths. Feel scared for him. But also curious.

  Why did Gisco come back to Hadley for me? How did he know I’d be in the police station?

  Is this his submarine, or did someone leave it in the river for him? If it’s his, why didn’t he know how to work it better? If someone left it for him, who are they and where did they go?

  Haven’t had this feeling of complete mental meltdown for a while. Drowning in a sea of my own fears and ignorance. I know nothing about myself. Don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do. Can’t figure out who’s after me and those I love. Chief Parker’s grim descriptions come back to me, conjuring up awful images.

  The woman who raised me, and who I still think of as my mom, sliced in half and left to die in a burning house.

  My “dad” torched inside his car and pushed off a hundred-foot cliff into this very river.

  Now the Dark Army is chasing me again. Why? What do they want from me? Only Gisco can answer these questions.

  If he dies I’ll have no one.

  Except P.J. But maybe not even her.

  My love. My touchstone. The reason I came back to Hadley. Now she’s gone. Vanished. No, not vanished. Vanished would be better. P.J. was targeted.

  For no reason I can think of. She wasn’t part of this. Just a sweet American girl who fell for the wrong guy. She was taken because of me. It’s my fault.

  At least I settled the question of whether I can ever go home again. Hadley is gone for me. The people I grew up with, my childhood friends, my parents. All out of bounds forever more.

  Strange to give up on the concept of home.

  I shut my eyes and try not to feel so awfully lonely.

  But sleep will not come for someone as miserable as I am. I could sit here and count Dark Army ghouls jumping over fences from now to doomsday, and I wouldn’t sleep.

  Then I feel the cloud. Soft as a child’s security blanket. It settles around me. Not a fluffy white cloud. It’s reddish and flame-like. The dinghy.

  It’s trying to heal Gisco, and it’s also taking care of me. It senses that I need to sleep. It’s looking out for me. Worrying about me. So it reaches out gently. Invites me back, to merge with it again. Not because it needs me to help steer or to solve a navigational problem.

  It just wants to alleviate my loneliness and misery.

  I accept the offer. Sink into the flame till I’m no longer a boy sitting with my back against the wall of a boat, but rather I’m the boat moving through a dark river.

  I feel the cold density of the water as we nose our way through the depths. The hostile embrace of the pressure from tons of water above us. Like tentacles wrapped around us. A constant octopus squeeze. But we’ll be all right. We were built to withstand far worse than this.

  Nice to be a machine without worry.

  Circuits humming. Power supply low but everything still functioning perfectly.

  I sink into the strangest sleep of my life.

  11

  This can’t be a dream. Dreams come to you in your safe, warm bed, woven from the delicate gauze of sleep.

  This is vivid, visceral, brutal.

  I feel myself being ripped out of my own body. Borne aloft at furious speed. What part of me is being taken? My mind? My spirit? I can’t resist. Pulled as if captive on a magic leash. Spun as if caught up by a whirlwind.

  And then plunked down suddenly, in a strange new place, like Dorothy crash-landing in Oz.

  My God, I’ve been transported. Moving down a river in twilight. No, not the Hudson. This makes the Hudson seem like a pathetic, trickling stream.

  The size of this river! The thrumming aliveness of it! Green all around me. A greener green than exists in New York State. This is the emerald of children’s fairy tales, of the giant leaves that shade Jack’s beanstalk.

  I drift off into that magical green canopy. A giant snake slithers through the water. Its spade-shaped head trowels the surface. Its body unspools and recoils.

  An endless variety of birdcalls trill from high above. Chirruping solos and warbled duets. Soaring avian arias and pessimistic passerine blues ballads.

  Something with me, above me, around me, keeping tabs on me as I move through the green jungle. A keenly intelligent gaze. Human eyes! Spooky. Ghoul-like. Egyptian mummy eyes, encased in a sand-dry face.

  The face is ancient, but the eyes are alive. Childlike. Mischievous. The wisdom in that face! The humanity! It’s the face of someone who exists outside of time and place. An Einstein. A Gandhi. Then I hear something, above the chittering of the birds and the chattering of the monkeys …

  Music! Flutes and drums. Rattles and tambourines.

  Human voices. Chanting in a language I have never heard. A lullaby? No, more threatening. A war ballad?

  That wise old face now closer. He’s right next to me, traveling down the same river. We’re in some sort of canoe. “Who are you?” I ask. “What are we doing here?”

  The old lips open. One wo
rd. “Destiny.”

  “Destiny what?” I press. “Whose? Yours? Mine?”

  But he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking out at the river and the trees.

  Banks on both sides, pressing in on us. Trees linking branches to form a green canopy overhead. We’re not on the amazingly wide river anymore.

  We’ve turned off, lost our way. We’re on a fast-moving stream, being squeezed tightly between cliff walls.

  There’s a ferocious roaring up ahead. Lion? Jaguar?

  No, it’s a river growl—the throaty roar of a watery torrent smashing down a steep, rock-ribbed mountainside.

  “Destiny,” I hear whispered one last time.

  We hang on the lip of the abyss, and I glimpse what lies before us, if we should make it through the rapids.

  A wondrous diamond-shaped valley is surrounded by cliff walls. Four rivers spill into that sheltered valley in a succession of cataracts, hissing down into the same boiling cauldron.

  A lush island floats serenely in the center of this wild whirlpool, a jungle Eden. I glimpse towering trees and pink flowers as big as umbrellas. Giant men are on the island, too—I see their shadowy faces. Frowning. Primordial. “Don’t come here!” they warn. “Stay away!”

  We plunge over the lip of the abyss. Our canoe can’t take this battering. We spin and smash and frothing water blinds me, and I scream as we lose all control. I hold on desperately as we whirl down into certain death.

  I’m in transit again, not my body but my essence—my mind, my consciousness, my spirit.

  An endless dark passage. Someone is with me. That old mummy. His arms are upraised. He’s reaching out to me. Pleading for help. Summoning me to fight with him.

  Yes, it’s a call to arms. A summons to duty from a great distance.

  Fly to me, he’s saying without words. Come quickly, Jack. Time is running out.

  Where? I ask. Who are you, old man? How do you know my name? Who is time running out for? I need a little bit to work with on my end. Who’s chasing me? Is P.J. there?

  No answer. But something has drastically changed. I’m not in a canoe anymore. No longer in a steaming jungle. It’s cool now.

  Cold, even. Dreams shouldn’t feel chilly.

  Music gone. Birdcalls muted.

  Silence.

  Also, I’m not moving upriver anymore. Or downriver.

  Cold. Quiet. Stuck fast.

  Dream over. I open my eyes. The dinghy has surfaced and its bubble ceiling has retracted. I’m now in a shabby yellow boat, scraping against a dark and pebbly bank, near some power lines.

  What are we doing here, where the Dark Army may spot us at any moment? Why did the dinghy steer us to this Hudson River beach?

  It’s a smart machine—smarter than I am in many ways. There must be a logical reason.

  I glance up at the power cables. They’re bowing slightly toward the boat, as if being pulled by an invisible force. The reddish button on the dinghy’s control panel is pulsing wildly, and it occurs to me that the boat may be renewing its power supply after the previous night’s adventures.

  I realize to my horror that the dinghy is now completely silent.

  I don’t hear Gisco’s labored breathing. Did my furry friend pass away during the night? I wheel around and spot the big dog lying silent and still.

  12

  For a long moment I fear the worst. Then I see Gisco’s massive chest heave in and out, and he gives a little snore. I realize the big dog is sleeping normally.

  I reach over and gently shake him. Gisco, can you hear me? Are you still in pain? Can you open your eyes?

  Gisco yawns and his eyes pop open. Boy, do I feel a hundred times better. Must be the spring air. The only thing I need to complete my recovery is a hearty country breakfast. Eggs. Scrambled, I think. A slab of honey ham. And perhaps some hot biscuits slathered with gravy. He sits up and looks around. Where are we, by the way?

  Somewhere upstate. The dinghy pulled over while I was sleeping. I think it may have run out of power, and it’s recharging from those cables. Maybe you should worry less about breakfast options, and more about the Dark Army finding us. They could be closing in while you fantasize about ham and eggs.

  Try not to worry so much. It’s bad for the digestion. The Dark Army will never figure out my brilliant ploy of heading upriver. So let’s go find the local doughnut shop and see if they make a honey-glazed—

  Gisco never gets to finish the thought because at that moment there’s a distant thud followed a few seconds later by an earth-shattering BOOM.

  Something strikes the ground near us, with enough impact to knock me off my feet. “What was that?” I ask, getting to my knees.

  Gisco peers around, suddenly very worried. The Dark Army.

  I thought we outfoxed them by heading upriver.

  I may have been overly optimistic.

  Meaning what?

  I believe we’ve sailed right into an ambush.

  I look around. The morning mist is burning off the hills that slope to the riverbank.

  There! On a hill a mile away, I spot the glint of dawn light on laser guns and black motorcycles. As I watch, the bikes roar into motion and speed toward us.

  And there—on a road, much closer! What looks like a combination of a sports car and a tank. It’s built for speed, but it has a long gun on a roof turret that is pointing in our direction! The muzzle is smoking—it must have fired whatever missile just missed us.

  And there! Far out in the river! An armada of speedboats, sailing right at our yellow dinghy!

  The dinghy also seems to sense the ambush. The power lines swing back to normal, as if released from an invisible grip. We pull away from the bank.

  Jack, get down! Incoming fire!

  I turn my head just as the mini-tank belches out a red-tipped missile that streaks toward us.

  Gisco and I dive face-first to the bottom of the boat at the same second.

  The missile flies right over where we were just standing. Its speed makes the air hum.

  As soon as it passes us it begins to slow, as if realizing that it missed, and veers into an acute turn.

  This is clearly a beacon-of-hope-seeking missile—it comes whistling back at us to take another shot.

  Something warm on my wrist. I glance down—the wristwatch that my father gave me is turning bright blue. A sapphire beam streaks out of it and touches the nose of the missile. It turns the projectile very slightly toward a massive oak tree that stands on the shore.

  Huge explosion. Oak tree incinerated. Mud and grass and pieces of wood rain down.

  I wait for the monsoon of wood, sod, and shrapnel to subside. Look up. A pillar of white smoke rises into the air where the tree stood. Brush fires lick all around.

  I glance back up the hillside. The Dark Army killers slalom through the forest on their sleek motorcycles. They fire laser blasts that ignite the trees between us and make the rocks glow like hot coals.

  The turret of the mini-tank swivels as it corrects its aim—the next missile will surely finish us.

  Our dinghy is moving into deeper water, picking up speed. But we’ll never get away in time.

  A beam of light snakes into the water near our bow, and steam shoots skyward with a deafening HISS.

  The motorcycle riders have dismounted and now crouch on the shore, firing lasers at us!

  Dense black smoke billows out from the dinghy’s motor and enfolds us in an inky cloud that screens us till we’re safely out of laser range.

  But there’s nowhere to go on a river, and no place to hide.

  The mini-tank rumbles to the bank and quickly converts to a combination gunship and amphibious transport vehicle. A few Dark Army motorcycles roll onto it, and then it sails out into the river after us at a surprisingly fast clip. Its big gun swivels in our direction.

  Meanwhile, the speedboats close in for the kill.

  13

  As the speedboats get close, they let loose a colorful futuristic fusillade.
Blue plasma nets, red paralysis darts, and white-hot laser beams streak across the water toward us.

  The dinghy tries its one trick. The transparent bubble rises, and we start to submerge.

  This worked before and I have high hopes that it will work again. But as we sink, the mini-tank belches something toward us that is not a torpedo. It’s a nasty ball of black energy that reforms and reshapes as it crawls toward us like a giant spider.

  Water covers the top of our bubble. We’re down, but we’re not safe yet. Because the pulsing energy blob has reached us! It hovers, inches above the surface.

  And then it dives down after us! I press the blinking red button on the controls. Jam my palm against it. Need to warn the boat that the monster is still chasing us.

  Now that I know how to merge with the dinghy, I can do it much faster. It’s aware of our pursuer. We’re aware. Working together. We take evasive action as the jellyfish of energy points tentacles at us that break off and zap down like dark thunderbolts.

  I’m Jack Danielson standing in the dinghy. But I’m also the dinghy, darting back and forth.

  Unfortunately, dodging isn’t enough. One of the energy blasts strikes us a glancing blow. We need to fight back or we’ll be shredded. Can we? Do we have any firepower?

  Oh yes we do! I can feel the coldness of the river on the hull. I tingle at the energy blasts all around us. And I sense a small shutter opening in our hull. Fire in our belly. I help direct it, spew it out.

  The jellyfish of dark energy dives right into our weapon’s path. It flails its tentacles, turns from black to glowing red to radiant orange, and disintegrates.

  For a moment I share a powerful feeling with the dinghy. Joy? Can a machine feel joy? Achievement? Victory? Definitely a kind of comradeship.

  Then I feel the wound. The blast that hit us punctured our bubble. Water is pouring in. Too big a hole to fix. We have to go back up.

  When we surface I see that our brief underwater duel has carried us beyond the ring of speedboats that encircled us. They spot us, turn quickly, and take up the pursuit.

  Down! Gisco orders. The dinghy swerves as a nasty bit of artillery whistles past our bow.