This Deep Panic

by Lisa Stowe

  This

  Deep

  Panic

  By

  Lisa Stowe

  Copyright © July 2019

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole, or in part, in any format.

  Cover design by Monika Younger

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Sam P. Grafton

  Our river spirit, gone too soon

  ~Prologue~

  The Hole in the Wall wasn’t really a hole but a dead-end shaft with a steel door that could be barricaded from within and locked from without. And the Wall wasn’t really a wall, but a granite mountain deeply fissured and hung with a dark and shadowed forest curtain. One that went straight up, creating a sense of severe vertigo overwhelming anyone leaning back, and back, and back, to see the top. Here and there, stunted fir and cedar and hemlock twisted and bent waiting to fall.

  Occasionally the Wall would free boulders to plummet down and leave deep impact craters in the forest floor.

  Few rock climbers, hanging with harnesses and bandaged knuckles, knew the door was there, far below them where the forest washed up at the base of the Wall.

  Curtis Jonason locked himself in the Hole five days a week. Some days he imagined himself a climber suspended in the heights, able to see for miles, see the rushing white water of the Skykomish River, speckled with daredevil kayakers. Or to gaze down on the tiny, tiny town of Index, Washington nestled in the Cascade Mountains. But he wasn’t an adventurer. And he had long ago come to terms with the reality that his adventures were found only in imagination and books.

  Instead, each day, in cold weather gear, he unlocked the Hole with his smooth scientist’s hands, slipped into the dark, and bolted the door behind him. There, he would spend fourteen hours alone burrowed into the granite, a small stream rushing under his workstation, a flashlight his only illumination.

  Alone with his machines.

  ~Day 1~

  1

  It was technically spring but the slanting rain and gusty wind from high snowfields felt like winter. The river ran fast and gray-green with snowmelt. Curtis sat in his aging Volkswagen Bug waiting for the general store to open, his wool coat buttoned to the chin. He was still in full winter mode, with cold weather gear in a pack beside him. The small stream that ran through the center of his workspace would be rushing with spring runoff and the Hole would be chilly and damp. Which was why he waited for the store to open. When it did, he would fill two thermoses, one with fresh hot coffee and the other with Betty’s turkey tortellini soup.

  With the town so small, Curtis had come to know, at least by sight, most of the people who lived there. Like Rob, one of local river rats, who tapped the hood of Curtis’s car with a fist and then waved as he walked by, a red kayak slung over a shoulder.

  But one local in particular made a point of giving Curtis advice. Frequently. He saw Henry now, crossing 5th Street with his signature hurried walk, on his tiptoes and leaning forward as if racing with his own body. Or like a human quail. Curtis enjoyed debates with him over religion and other myths, over history and its lessons, over whatever scientific tome each happened to be reading. But occasionally Henry didn’t stop at intellectual debate. Sometimes, the old man veered off into unscientific rants and conspiracy theories.

  Henry was veering off right now, headed for the general store. Curtis pulled on his stocking cap to cover his short blond hair and brown eyes, and sank in the driver’s seat. Maybe he’d look like he was sleeping. He liked Henry, but he also had to get back to work. And he definitely did not want to get trapped into one of Henry’s monologues.

  There was a sharp tap on the window, then a longer series of knocks. Unable to ignore the sound, Curtis sighed heavily and straightened, pulling off the cap. He rolled the squeaky window down.

  “Oh, did I wake you?” Henry asked. His long, fuzzy gray hair was like a cloud around his head with rain dripping through.

  “That’s okay.” Curtis managed a smile. Really, what else could he say? His mother had, unfortunately, raised him to be polite. He opened the door and got out with his thermoses.

  “I have been studying the types of gravity experiments you are doing in the Hole,” Henry said.

  Of course he has, Curtis thought, sighing heavily again. Henry had degrees in geology and physics, and even though the last time he’d seen the inside of a classroom had been in the dark ages before computers, the man was still brilliant. It was just that he talked so much. It was great when Curtis had time. And not so great when he had places to be.

  “I have proof here that you are going about it all wrong.” Henry held up a well-thumbed textbook so old its binding flapped. With dirt-grimed fingers, he fanned through the book, oblivious to the rain splattering the paper.

  Curtis caught a quick glimpse of stained pages heavily annotated with cramped blue ink. He also caught a quick whiff of Henry’s unwashed body. He sneezed and moved toward the store hoping Betty would unlock it and save him.

  “For one thing, that boring equipment is drilling too deep into the mountain.”

  Curtis pressed his lips tight. There was no drilling equipment. He’d told Henry that several times. Three years previously a company had tested a boring drill for deep underground drilling. It was long gone, off to drill some tunnel under Tacoma or Seattle or Japan. Curtis didn’t care.

  “The tremors we have experienced the last two and a half weeks are a direct result of your work. I have complained to the University of Washington.”

  Curtis kept walking, his face pulling into a tight grimace with the effort to stay silent. He would not get sucked into another argument with Henry.

  Betty flipped the neon ‘open’ sign and unlocked the front door. As Curtis walked inside and handed over his thermoses, the older lady in her long wool dress gave him a sympathetic smile. As always, her dyed black hair was in perfect waves and her tarnished gold crucifix hung in its place of honor against her throat.

  “And if the drilling is not bad enough, this research you are doing on the Fifth Force is just making things worse.” Henry gripped his book to his chest. “I have also refreshed my memory on the search for your parallel universes. Do you realize the damage you will cause?”

  Curtis clenched his teeth as he took one thermos, now full of hot coffee, from Betty.

  “I do not think anyone has given thought to the serious consequences of messing with parallel universes. We must understand the ramifications, especially around all your drilling-”

  “There is no drilling equipment!” Curtis grabbed his second thermos and headed out the door, trying not to run. “There are no studies on parallel universes! We’re furthering our understanding of Newtonian physics!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Henry, trotting behind Curtis. “The known forces of the universe. Gravity, electromagnetism, and the two nuclear forces. You seem to think you are going to find the weaker force on the molecular level. Anti-gravity. Parallel universes.”

  Curtis jerked open his car door then turned, gripping his thermoses. “No, no, and no! We are not looking for parallel universes! It’s a study on gravity at the molecular level, possibly anti-gravity; you have that right. And that’s all you have right!”

  Guilt immediately swamped Curtis. He flashed on his mother, teaching him to be respectful to his elders. He knew what her face would look like if she’d just heard him shouting at one of those elders. The disappointment would make all her soft wrinkles sag and her eyes go watery with unshed tears. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Henry caught his arm.

  “I understand the need for secrecy. It is not like you can let just anyone in on what is really happening. Which is all the more reason why you should allow me to advise you. Have you not noticed the tremors growing
more frequent? Have you not read the newspapers? Even reporters, dim as they are, have noticed the increase.”

  Curtis pulled his arm free and tossed the thermoses on the passenger seat. “For god’s sake, Henry, of course there are tremors. This is the Pacific Northwest. That doesn’t mean they have anything to do with my experiments.”

  Henry shook his head emphatically. “You’re wrong. And you’re making them worse. I am hiking to the top of the Wall today. I am going to follow my fault line and take readings. It might take me a few hours. When I have gathered data I will then join you at the Hole and we will compare results.”

  “Fine,” Curtis said, getting in the car and starting it. “How many hours?”

  “Approximately three.”

  Curtis backed up slowly but Henry paced beside the car, holding the edge of the open window frame.

  “I will need to show you how to calibrate your equipment to handle my findings.”

  In three hours Curtis would make sure he was in the Hole with the heavy door shut and locked. No way was he letting Henry inside. For one thing it would screw up his research. For another he might just lose his mind.

  “Let go of the car Henry. I’m leaving.” He heard the curtness in his voice and flashed on his mother again.

  “Track the tremors and record hourly notes on your impressions.”

  “Yes, yes. Bye now.” Curtis forced a rictus of a smile and pressed down on the gas pedal a little firmer.

  A horn honked, and Curtis whipped around to look over his shoulder. He’d almost backed into a school bus coming down the street. He waved apologetically. Then saw Henry opening his mouth again. Gripping the steering wheel, he backed quickly into the street and drove around the bus as it pulled over for group of high school students with backpacks. He couldn’t resist a quick look in the rearview mirror.

  Henry was still talking.

  2

  Henry McCaffrey was still in shape, even at seventy-two, and he moved quickly along the trail. His odd quail-like gait lent itself well to steep hills. He tugged up the collar of his old jacket but the rain still trickled down his neck and soaked into the back of his once-white tee shirt. He was used to the weather, but the tickling annoyed him.

  There had been a minor tremor earlier but he felt confident Curtis would do as told and record the information. The young man was doing an acceptable job with his research into anti-gravity but Henry was disappointed Curtis would not trust him with the parallel universe work.

  When he reached the tree line at the top of the Wall, Henry paused, as always, to enjoy the sweeping views. Oceans of fir, hemlock, and cedar washed up the sides of the mountains that today, unfortunately, hid their crowns in low-sagging clouds. The town of Index was nothing more than a tiny clear spot alongside the rushing Skykomish River, a small silver ribbon far below.

  Henry loved the trees and knew their scientific names, their habitats, and where the old growth stands still hid. It was one of his self-appointed jobs to guard them from human interference. He was a well known, and he was sure, feared, presence at city council meetings and logging protests.

  Today, his job was to look at the fault line that created a small crack running from the river basin to the top of the Wall. He fully expected to find that the fault had changed since his last visit. That would prove the tremors were having more impact than the scientists who ignored him believed.

  He followed the ridgeline for a couple hundred feet and then dropped back down into the tree line where there was no path. Drizzle collected on fir needles and plopped on his head as he ducked under branches. He searched through wet fern and bracken looking for the crack in the earth that an uneducated person would never recognize as anything significant. But he had been here before and was definitely educated.

  Henry stumbled as the ground suddenly crumbled away under his boots. Startled, he caught at a tree branch for balance and then stepped back to more solid earth. Where a small crack used to be, a larger, two-foot wide trench gaped. As he stood at the edge, flabbergasted, dirt and small rocks tumbled into the slit. The soil was still dry where the rain had yet to touch it. Henry smiled in vindication.

  The trench was clearly new, as proven by the dry soil. And new enough to be the result of the earlier tremor. The fault line had shifted, just like he expected. Curtis would now be forced to admit that his experiments impacted the Wall. As always, Henry was right.

  The underbrush rustled but he barely glanced in that direction. He was used to interacting with wild animals. Even bears didn’t bother him. It was one reason he refused to bathe. His natural scent allowed animals to detect his presence, and removing the element of surprise from encounters with them drastically improved outcomes. Once animals detected him, they typically left.

  Henry inched closer to the edge of the fissure and squatted, trying to see how deep it was.

  The rustle, however, grew louder. Moved closer.

  Henry glanced to the side. A dog also stood at the edge of the fissure. A huge dog. Possibly an Irish Wolfhound. Henry had never seen a wolfhound but had once researched breeds for a genome project, and knew they were taller than Great Danes. And this dog was definitely taller, with scruffy black fur littered with fir needles and dirt. Obviously dumped by someone.

  He waved a hand in the air, dismissing the animal. “Go on, get out of here. Go fend for yourself.” He didn’t like dogs. They didn’t have the intelligence of cats.

  The huge dog turned its head and looked at him.

  Its eyes were filled with blood. Horrified, Henry stumbled back and lost his balance, coming down hard on his butt. Pain shot up his tailbone but he was barely aware of it.

  The dog stared at him through what had to be sightless eyes and growled, deep and low. Henry pushed upward, trying to stand on legs shaking so badly he only made it to one knee. The dog lowered its head and moved forward, teeth bared. Henry scrabbled in the dirt and came up with a chunk of granite.

  He threw it hard. Saw it hit the side of the dog. Heard the hollow-sounding thump as the rock connected. Saw the dog flinch.

  “I said get out of here.” His voice trembled.

  The dog didn’t listen.

  3

  Ethan Reynolds sat behind Val, the middle-aged driver, ignoring the chatter of his high school students on the bus and watching the colors of the forest slide past outside the window. All the shades of green filled his soul like a deep drink of cool water. He flashed back on searing winds, colors of ochre and burnt orange, flaming sunsets, desert heat. Compared to his past this place was lush, exploding with life, a temperate rain forest slashed with granite. Something inside him that had been boxed away opened to these woods as if they were a sanctuary.

  He’d felt like that since he’d been lucky enough to stumble into the job of teaching environmental science at the alternative high school. He was twenty-six, and eighteen of those years had been spent being dragged through third-world countries as his parents strove to save humanity. He’d felt like luggage.

  He’d learned survival early and the lessons never left him, shadowing his dark eyes. On bad days his too-long black hair hung to mask those shadows. His father had been shot to death in front of him when their car hit a roadblock in Iraq. Ethan, shot three times, had been left for dead.

  He limped out of the hospital and out of the country. He pushed himself through months of physical therapy, his eyes almost black with pain. He’d started university classes as he healed, and eventually found the teaching job. Found the Pacific Northwest. Found rain to soak into your soul and fill your heart. A place of deep loamy soil where equally deep roots could be put down.

  “Mr. Reynolds? I don’t have cell service.”

  Ethan twisted in his seat to look back at Payton Lang, one of his students. She stared fixedly at a smart phone in her hand and then brushed long brown hair out of her eyes in a practiced and provocative gesture.

  “Why would you think there’s cell service in the middle of a national forest?�
� he asked, honestly curious.

  “I have a top-of-the-line plan. I’m supposed to have coverage anywhere.”

  John Delaney, in the seat behind Payton, leaned forward. “Want me to try?”

  “Would you?” Payton asked, brushing her hair back again. “I’m so hopeless with technology.”

  Ethan turned away, hiding his exasperation. Payton, in her tight, low cut tee shirt was presenting John with a view he’d probably dream about for years. Ethan had seen Payton operating that phone with an expert’s touch. Hopeless, my ass.

  Payton was the student guaranteed to not be prepared on these field trips, to wear makeup as they worked to restore wetlands, to squeal when she walked through a spider web. But she’d been the first one on the bus this morning. Maybe, he thought, she was finally starting to enjoy the field trips.

  The bus bounced over one more pothole on the rutted forest service road and juddered to a stop in the wide spot that signaled the trailhead. Val turned off the engine and opened the accordion door.

  “Everyone out.” She picked up a coat in an ugly shade of pumpkin orange and stumped down the few steps.

  Ethan stood and moved into the aisle, zipping up his North Face jacket and shrugging on his backpack. “Get your gear.”

  He ducked his head to keep from hitting the doorframe as he followed the driver out of the bus. Val stood, arms folded, by the front tire. He knew from experience that she was a grumpy old bat who got grumpier if you talked to her. Instead he walked to the trailhead signboard, boots squelching in mud. The soft drizzle settled over his hair like fine cobwebs and he pulled his hood up.

  Rowan O’Reilly was the first one out behind him. She was tall, with long auburn hair in a functional braid and hazel eyes that never seemed to see those around her. She moved through the world awkwardly, as if she hadn’t grown into her height, hadn’t learned to be comfortable in her body yet. A quiet young woman, she spent most of her time deep in notebooks, sketching the world around her and rarely interacting with others.