by Mark Tufo
“Can’t get there from here,” Trip says, the room again reeking of pot.
“Why not?” Mike asks.
“Wait,” Trip says, holding up a hand as he holds in a toke. Smoke roils out of his mouth and he begins violently coughing.
“When the hell did you light that again?” Mike asks, looking perplexed.
“There’s a jingle that goes with it. I’m trying to rememb…oh yeah. You can go from world to world with a waypoint but you need a control point to go between iterations.”
“That’s a jingle?” Mike states.
“What’s a jingle, Ponch?”
“What you just said. You said it’s a jingle and it’s nowhere close to being one.”
Trip puts a hand next to his mouth and leans forward, over-exaggerating a whisper. “Yack, I think this place is making Mike crazy. He thinks his phone is ringing. I think it’s best we amuse him.”
Turning back to Mike, Trip says, “Um, I heard it too.”
He then turns to me and winks really big in front of Mike.
“Uuugh,” Mike says, rolling his eyes.
“Look, I’m just going to throw this out there because it needs saying. If we can identify our worlds, then I suggest we make that our goal. I know they’re numbered, and yeah, there’s a million of them, but surely we can narrow down that search. We might be able to filter all worlds over advancement level 8 and see what that brings up. We might be able to find our own worlds that way. Then if we can figure out how to enable the portals, we go from there,” I say.
“I wonder what percentage of decay our worlds are in?” Mike ponders.
That kind of brings me up short. Are our worlds decaying? I haven’t seen any sign of whistlers in mine, but I haven’t traveled everywhere. Maybe it’s not completely them that trigger the problems, or perhaps our worlds aren’t decaying. Sure, lifeforms are vanishing, chiefly our own, but is that a sign of a decaying world? I didn’t notice any anomalies happening, well, other than being able to meld with the night runners’ thoughts.
“I’m not sure they are, Mike. In our respective worlds, I don’t think humans are on the top of the food chain any longer, that’s all,” I respond. “Did you see any whistlers on yours?”
“Well, no, but I did see a lot of other shit all coming about at once. And the first world we were in went through some sort of apocalypse. I bet that was about the same time the whistlers appeared,” Mike comments.
“So, you’re saying that the whistlers bring about an extermination of the planet’s species—if they’re advanced enough to challenge them—and then they move in?”
“Yeah, pretty much. It makes sense. Introduce something that eliminates the dominant lifeforms and get rid of anything that can challenge their occupation.”
“Damn. What about this place? Other than a few abandoned cars here and there, I haven’t seen an apocalypse here. At least not like it was in Atlantis. Or our own worlds for that matter.”
“Things are resetting, people vanishing and appearing like a hologram repeating itself. Maybe some kind of machinery or the Overseers are doing that. I don’t think the people we’ve met here are the original ones. I think those people are long gone,” Mike comments.
“You may be right. That means our own worlds are decaying, and it’s only a matter of time before the whistlers make their appearance.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well shit. That means we have to keep going at this until we can somehow vanquish the whistlers, or close their portals to other worlds. All the while, dodging demons and Overseers. You realize that makes Trip kind of a high-profile player, if we’re to do that and get back. As far as I can see, he’s the only one among us who can open these waystations, and possibly operate them.”
“I know,” Mike says, dejectedly.
And there it is. I won’t be going home until we can somehow overcome a vast alien population, or halt their ability to move between worlds. One step forward, one back. Maybe the Overseers are trying to set things right, but I’m not a big fan of their practice of manipulating lifeforms for their own entertainment. If they are allowed that, then we could just vanish on some whim of theirs. Or, we could be rebooted. That would mean no kids, no Lynn, no loved ones. No; that doesn’t sit right at all.
“So, where do we go from here?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“I’ve been listening to all you two have said. Do you think the Overseers would help, seeing they’re kind of wanting the same outcome?” BT questions.
“Although I’ve had similar thoughts, I’m now not sure that’s a good idea. They’re after Trip, who is the only one on our side that can access these structures. If they take him, then we’re pretty screwed. They’ll do what they want and won’t waste a second thought about us. We’ll essentially be adrift on some collapsing world, seeing those are the ones we seem to get put on,” I answer.
“So, we need to figure out how to oust the whistlers while tripping up any Overseer plans and keep Trip from the grips of both parties,” Mike says. “Sorry about the pun.”
“Sounds like a picnic,” I comment. “I think our immediate goal is to get out of here.”
A loud thrumming starts up, the lights pulsing bright then back to their original luminosity. Mike’s eyes and mine meet.
“Overseers?” he asks.
“I can’t think of anything else it could be,” I answer.
“Eureka!” Trip shouts.
We turn in the direction of the shout. He’s busily pushing and pulling on items at a control panel we didn’t previously see. Maybe it slid out from the wall. Parts of the panel are glowing blue with other flashing lights. The pulsing and deep thrumming sound intensifies, like a runner’s heartbeat as they race around the track.
All of a sudden, sound and light pulses stop, and everything returns to how it was before.
“It’s open,” Trip says, clapping his hands and dancing.
“What’s open, Trip?” Mike asks, leery of what he might have just done.
“The portal, Ponch…to mission control.”
Mike and I look around, but the room seems the same as it was.
“Exactly where is this magic portal?” Mike inquires.
Trip points up toward the ceiling. “Up there.”
“So, where do you think the stairs are in this thing?” Mike questions.
“I have no id—”
“No, not in here. Out there…on top,” Trip interrupts.
“You mean like where we were on the mesa?” Mike says.
“Even higher,” Trip says, taking out several Slender Joes from inside his jacket and proceeding to cram a few in his mouth, chewing noisily with small chunks flying out from his smacking lips.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! Does that mean we now have to use the chopper?”
Trip nods, giving an exasperated look like a parent whose children have finally grasped an idea after a lengthy discussion.
“I hope there’s another way out,” Mike comments, giving voice to the big problem now facing us.
“It’s for sure we aren’t going back out the way we came in,” I state.
Going outside means having to face the Overseers, who are more than likely not overly thrilled with us. And then race a couple of miles to the helicopter, get it started up, and somehow avoid whatever the Overseers throw at us. And racing isn’t really a thing with BT in tow. Then there’s the issue of cramming four people into an already cramped cockpit built for two. That’s not to mention what might lie on the other side of the portal, if we should make it that far. Somehow, it seems like I’m being pulled further down a drain, regardless of how hard I swim.
We head out one of the side doors. Another long hallway similar to the one we entered extends across from the circular corridor surrounding the central control room. We start down it. With the ceiling about twelve feet tall and about the same width, I can’t imagine the size of the creature that had the highest handprint at the ou
ter door. I hope to hell we don’t run into it; we have enough problems to deal with. Maybe it was a demon, and that’s definitely something to avoid. A loud screeching comes from the direction of the entry hallway.
We start running down the corridor, racing past door panels that line the passageway, ones similar to the control room. The exception being that these don’t open when we draw near. Instead, there are handprint indentions positioned near each one. It would be nice to be able to explore this place, perhaps finding out more information about the situation we’re dealing with, or perhaps finding a way to deal with the Overseers. But, from the sound of the screeching metal from where we entered, now isn’t the time.
“So, if there is a door at the end of this, won’t it just open to a wall of dirt,” Mike says between breaths.
“I have an idea about that,” I reply.
“Does it involve conjuring up construction equipment?”
“Something along those lines…kind of…but not really.”
“Okay then. I can’t wait to see this.”
Our footfalls should be reverberating along the cavernous hallway, but we’re running in silence. BT is doing all that he can, but still lagging behind. I’m sure the fear he felt from the Overseers at the door is providing a little motivation. We reach the end of the corridor, where there’s another embedded silver plate with the familiar pattern of handprints.
“Okay, Trip, you’re up to bat,” I say.
“I, uh, don’t know about his,” Trip says, shying away from the panel.
“Nope, we’re not playing this game.”
Grabbing Trip’s arm, I jam his hand into the print, waiting for his yelp or wince of pain. Mike and BT stand back in the hall in case we’re met with a cascade of dirt pouring into the corridor. Trip yelps as he’s stuck with whatever needle protrudes, and with him in my arms, I dive backward. The door slides down with barely a whisper, revealing a solid wall of dirt and stone.
“Okay,” Mike says, staring at the barrier, “what now?”
“Now, we dig. We need a small hole, just barely large enough to crawl through and rounded for structural support. The top layer was only ten feet, so we may only have double that to get through. Maybe not even that far considering how the wall was sheer,” I respond. “I’ll need your bayonet.”
“So, just pile the dirt we remove inside?”
“We may not need to worry about that,” I say, taking his blade.
I jab the dirt and pry off a chunk. It falls to the interior floor and vanishes like it was absorbed.
“That’s handy,” BT says. “I wonder where it goes.”
“Who knows? Perhaps it’s transported back outside and that’s how the plateau was built around it,” I reply.
“Or the place could use it for some kind self-repair mechanism,” Mike adds.
“It’s possible, I suppose.”
We start digging. The sandy soil is packed like sandstone and chunks of it fall to the floor only to disappear. That ease, however, is worrisome; the tunnel we’re attempting to form could collapse more easily. As the tunnel deepens, I squirm inside and shovel dirt to the rear for the others to scrape into the hallway. As we go deeper in, we’ll form a chain.
It’s laborious, but the going is not as slow as I’d first thought it would be. At one point, I come to a large stone and have to carve my way around it. I’m about two lengths of my body inside when my arms and shoulders scream “Enough!” Mike and I change places, and he begins digging. Other than the entire thing coming down on us, my other worry is that we might misjudge and dig downward, thereby never coming out to the light of the day. But, if we don’t see the plain open up within a certain number of feet, we’ll start digging more steeply upward.
It’s dark further inside the tunnel, but my enhanced vision enables me to see. The cramped quarters are oppressive, and I carry the continual fear that the tunnel will collapse and bury us under tons of dirt, especially when we near the outer layers soaked by the torrential downpours. Cold, sandy soil creeps into my ears, nose, mouth, and underneath my clothing layers, every movement becoming more abrasive than the last. But eventually, finally, Mike punches through to the outside, a dim shaft of light peering through the exit he creates.
We emerge onto the plain in the shadow of the tall cliff, the storm system having moved on. Water drips from overhangs and the sun’s rays strike the plains. Wafts of steam rise from the sodden ground, creating a low ground fog. In the distance, lightning highlights immense cloud pillars, the rumble of thunder reverberating across the desert landscape.
I’m able to see where the wall sheered off, but the front remains hidden by the enormous mesa. There’s a strange sound coming from atop the mesa, like a very high-pitched keening that’s barely within the range of hearing. Moving away from the wall and looking up, I see there’s a giant hole in the sky. The outer rim of the portal is shimmering silver, flashing with brighter lights like a sparkler. The interior is a deep black with bands of silver flowing in an arc across the surface to almost meet in the middle. Near the center, the bands disappear into a void. It’s difficult to tell from the angle I’m looking from, but the entire thing seems to be hovering about a hundred feet from the top of the high plateau.
“It couldn’t be at ground level?” Mike asks, also staring upward.
“I had to put it there, Ponch,” Trip says as if he was instructing a child. “Otherwise the bad guys could get to it.”
“How are we going to get through that?” BT asks.
“I suppose we’ll be needing that chopper,” Mike answers. “Jack, are you sure there’s enough fuel, and can it haul all of us up there?”
I’m wondering what the Overseers are doing. Are they still trying to get inside, or are they now climbing to the top with the appearance of the portal? And if they’re able to get in the structure, will they be able to shut it down? If they’re on top and we fly overhead, will they be able to bring us down as we try to enter the gateway?
“Jack?” Mike again says to get my attention.
“Yeah,” I reply, coming out of my thoughts.
“Is there enough fuel and are you sure the chopper will be able to carry all of us?”
“Both will be iffy, but there should be enough fuel. As far as carrying everyone, you and Trip can sit in the back. It’ll be cramped, but you should fit. Just make sure to stay out of the way of the controls,” I respond.
“And me?” BT inquires, his tone certain that I’d leave him.
“How are you at holding onto a strut for ten minutes in a hundred mile an hour wind?” I reply.
“How well do you think?”
“Well, hopefully, very well, because I don’t see how else we’re going to do it. I could keep it slower, but we’re going to have to race the last distance if we’re to have any hope of getting past the Overseers.”
“What about BT in the back and Trip and I holding onto the struts?” Mike questions.
I shrug. “I suppose that’ll work as well. Keep in mind that we can’t lose Trip. As much as I hate to say it, he’s more important than any of us.”
“Never mind, I’ll do the hanging on,” BT says.
“Okay, but if we’re going to do this, we need to get moving. Who knows what the Overseers are doing, and every second we take here is another minute they have to shut down the portal. At the moment, we have the advantage because they probably think we’re still inside. They’re either waiting for us to exit, still trying to gain entry, climbing up to the top, or any combination of those,” I say.
“Let’s get to it, then,” Mike states.
We start across the plain, parallel to the front in order to get some distance before cutting back toward where the helicopter is parked. We use the bluff to our advantage to keep out of sight and walk quickly, rather than running, in order to conserve energy. I’d like to move faster, but that really isn’t much of an option with BT. If we’re discovered, we’ll need every bit of energy to flee. Once we get close
r, we can pick up the pace.
Using a circular route, we arrive at the chopper without any kind of intervention. I suspect the Overseers’ attention is diverted with the creation of the portal. Mike crawls in the back cockpit with Trip on his lap. I spend some time with BT, attempting to find the best way he can hang onto the strut. He ends up just wrapping his arms and legs around it and I caution him to try and remain upright. After dropping the spent weapon pods on the pylons, I start through the checklist.
The engines whine and burst to life as fuel and spark are added. Overhead, the rotors begin rotating slowly and then pick up speed. BT is standing next to the cockpit, his clothes ruffling in the downdraft. With the rotors up to speed, I give him a nod and he clambers onto the strut. It’s a brave man that will do that willingly.
The big man jostles in his position as we lift off, but rights himself almost immediately. The needle on the fuel gauge is bouncing close to zero pounds remaining. We have a few minutes of flight time at best. Keeping low to the ground and moving slowly, I make a wide circle back to the tall mesa standing in the middle of the plain. Even from a distance, the portal can be seen hovering over the top, the swirling black surrounded by flashing silver.
On the back side of the mesa I gain a little altitude, keeping the crest above us. We’ve been creeping along so that I don’t lose BT, but now we have to move quickly. We briefed my plan prior to departure, indicating that a time would come for him to hold on as tightly as he would the last turkey leg at a Thanksgiving feast. He didn’t really appreciate that analogy.
I signal that the time has come to hang on for dear life, like he hasn’t been already. The nose drops as I pick up speed, racing across the plain and coming at the bluff from the back. Its sheer, hundred-foot walls on this side loom large. I climb as we near the cliffs, roaring upward. There are Overseers on top, six of them, staring at the portal. Their heads turn when I come into view, zooming up and over the ledge. I guess the sound of our approach was hidden by the keening of the portal.