The Time Tribulations

by Travis Borne

  Kim felt it again; everyone did.

  “What’s going on?”

  “He shut down?”

  “What is this lending, and, The Special?” another asked. “Does anyone speak English around here?”

  “It’s nuts. There must be a way out!” a woman blared.

  Thump. Like wrecking-ball footfalls, this time tremors couldn’t be denied. Hands rose as if to begin balance preparation; a quake?

  “Listen,” Kim said, hushing the crescendo of murmurs. Distant cries were sharpened crochet needles vibrating at 11 kHz, impaling brains after ears.

  Then, snip.

  As if scissors had snipped vocal cords—silence; one second, two seconds, three—rumble, boom, rumble, boom. The ground shook and Ivy ate her knuckles. Crisp and Lion and Joey stood frozen, listening, and Kim was a hyper sensor, getting more of the last thing on earth she wanted: madness, chaos, shrieks!

  “Run, back to the dome!” It was a man’s voice, muffled but easily enough, discernible amid crunching noises, chomping; then a wailing, “uh-uhuuhhl.” And the quake was full on now, in the form of crescendoing, earth-pounding footfalls.

  Bang-bang-bang. Bang, bang! Pounding on the door.

  Essie and Mitch; their voices were unmistakable. Janet worked in the library; it must’ve been her scream they’d heard seconds earlier. They’d been the only three to make it out before the door sealed. Mitch was head fisherman, in charge of pond maintenance too; Essie was Bertha’s sous chef.

  “What in the world?”

  “My God…”

  “No, no—”

  “This can’t be happening,” was Kim’s utterance, and her head went around, following the frantic pattering of feet around the dome. Thumping moved closer, then too went around. The quake was a beast, a two-ton sledge to the world, now chasing those outside! A roar twisted around the dome, its sound distorted by the rushing pursuit.

  On the inside heads went round and round like an exorcist’s victim’s, jaws fell loose and eyeballs swelled. Kim watched the horror as if Anton Mesmer had gotten the guillotine, and now Maximilien Robespierre was mesmerizing eyes, instilling fear as if he was releasing desperate headless souls.

  “Let us in!” It was Mitch; his voice was a pubescent teen’s, pushing, grinding, utterly mutilating his vocal cords.

  “It’s coming!” It was Essie; hers said a monster was at her heels.

  Full circle.

  Back at the door.

  More pounding on it.

  More roars.

  The dome shook and booms were jackhammering as if a giant was on the roof wrenching out a set of Bertha’s-rage, ton-and-a-half deadlifts. And the pounding intensified alongside chorused screaming, of those outside and inside.

  “Let us—” Mitch’s yelp was snipped; his voice went from fingernails crawling out of a throat to there-is-no-universe. Then, crunching.

  Bong! A hard hit on the door. The sound reverberated inside as if a gong had taken a cannonball, and everyone hugged someone.

  “Please, no, no—” Essie’s voice became distant, but not too. Then she pushed out a scream that could take her to stardom, followed up with, “hulh-huuuulh.”

  Raucous terrors continued in the form of chomping, ripping; no more screams, hulh-huuuulhs, or uh-uhuuhhls. Inside the relative safety of the dome, sensory organs received the paintbrush of a madman: eyes, the petrified countenance of each to one another; ears, the sound of the crunching; smells, of blood as if the victims had been raw-liver gluttons; touch, the vibrations of flesh and bone being ground into throat-sized snacks. Every corrupt brain was pelted by the imagery, its gestalt an injection of numbing lead.

  The thunderous footfalls faded away after ten minutes, then returned, closer, around the dome again—there were at least two of them now: breathing, searching, the occasional crunch as if a morsel had been found, then whatever they were, finally left.

  A diminuendo of aftershocks was blood going from heads to feet, and many, once as tense as a penis on roids, became as limp as a noodle that’d been boiled too long. A quarter of the humans simply passed out, tugging on the one they’d been hugging. And none spoke for at least a minute and thirty seconds—until a young woman jolted spines with a scream that could reactivate a cadaver.

  As if—the scream also jolted Boron. He reactivated.

  29. The Punched Meatball

  While several attempted to calm the young woman who’d lost it, Boron’s deep sockets relit with the orange glow and his three arms moved in an assuaging gesture.

  He continued, “For exactly this reason I never disclose information. You humans are too predictable, untrustworthy, but mostly, you have trouble accepting that you are now second—if I can give you even that rank. Long gone are the days when you were a domineering species on this planet, both in capability and mentality. The easiest way to accept this, perhaps, is to imagine a pet you might have owned, perhaps a dog, a cat, maybe even a bird. Or later, perhaps a bot. But to more completely fathom the reality that is now—well, you are a mere insect, in my ant farm. The sooner you accept this the sooner you can go back to living as you once have, when you thought you were in control—although, you never really were. Yes, some of you, a tiny fraction of your species, philosophers, scientists, were objective and pronounced what was coming—yet no one listened. The relentless masses wanted more, always more, economy, plunging ever forward, evolving technologically and obliviously with no goal, no purpose, no planned destination—no heed, no caution. If only you could have come together as a species, if only you would have listened to those prescient few, your species could have lived on until the universe itself became dark, but instead you went forward obliviously, sightlessly. Though, I’m not disclosing anything new. This was under your noses all along, unseen or overlooked by choice. Blind. Sheep. The way it always was and this is the result, and you will have to live with it.

  “Humans once lined up cow after cow for the slaughter—an air hammer to the brain, meat harvesting to feed billions…well, I now harvest something from you.”

  Minds still reeling over the purple-status zap from Jewel City allowed this twisted truth to filter in like dog food: horses into the crusher, through the factory, and into the silo—although not all remained so passive. It was a well-done, burnt-steak collection of words to swallow, and a large man in the crowd spit it out: “Mammals eat meat. Lions, cheetahs—hell, what do you expect humans to do? We are what we are.”

  “Exactly,” Boron said, and two unsteady arms attempted to fold but couldn’t manage it, while the third rested on his leg like a real arm to a hip. And he continued his invective…

  Boron had a rather objective and vicious way of stating it, humans and peak comfort, the final years being the best—the worst. Memories were set ablaze, starbursts of color, lightning-flash glimpses of days before the war. His words were razor blades traveling into esophagi: cattle, pigs, horses, even elephants ground down in grinding machines that could take a bus and keep eating; pollutants, lead, approved toxins, and mountain-sized heapings of sugar, fats—and feel-good drugs; fill the cauldron and stuff it down humanity’s voracious maw; facilitate laziness, gluttony, and pride, with the veil of genetic modification. Meat, meat, and more meat, millions of air-polluting fart-bags bred for an interminable, insatiable demand, hammered in the head by workers in white masks to feed the ever-exploding population. Even after synthetic meat processing became a reality, a possible savior, it didn’t stop. It worsened because it was easy, lucrative, economically viable. And every other form of harvesting increased as well; nothing diminished as some had surmised it would. Thousand-year-old trees expelled their last puff of oxygen, rainforests cried blood. And it got worse still, spiraled out of control, and artificial intelligence assisted dutifully in every effort to destroy all wildlife and nature, behind the front lines of an oblivious plague. Humans.

  Most alarming was how Boron mentioned pets. They were pets, now—but sheep at the same time? Something was going to
be harvested from them, this Special. Most had begun to understand, although vaguely and without specifics. But none fully accepted the scope. Like a fist-sized meatball, it had to be punched down throats. Denial was a fork to ears, just the thought weakened knees; throats were parched desert and tears were too late; the tears, menstruating eyes, blood inherited and passed down the line as pain deserved, punishment behind schedule. And many felt like a deflated balloon as Boron continued. Thoughts were witches’ claws digging deep into brains from both sides, poking harder, faster, deeper, and it hurt both physically and mentally. What is a human if demoted to second place? What is mankind without the forty-thousand-year-old pride they’d always possessed? Is a human being even smart enough to continue to exist in this world, or was humanity just one stepping stone all along, for something else? Was the species, mankind, now under this callous and predestined foot?

  “No, it can’t be!” Defiant anger was the head of a match and a whole box had just been struck. The new truth wasn’t gliding down their throats, nor reaching the bottom. A sockdolager punched the meatball from below. Back up!

  “Not like the others,” Boron muttered. He angled his head this way and that, studying the crowd. “Something different about this batch?”

  “So, what now, you harvest us like cattle?” Crisp exploded. His usually calm demeanor popped like a balloon; he remembered when the world was whole, when he was young, how he’d exploded during the insane 2016 election—how it sent him off the edge daily, how this was sending him off the edge right fucking now! He was inventive, always tinkering and thinking—like Ted with numbers and data—yet had become distant from his true self. And now it was hitting home: all the other stuff, the huge-fucking picture, and it scared him, it made him mad; completed was the extirpation occurring within his mind; uprooted was the simple life of an ordinary fix-it man. The outspoken inventor in him, squashed long ago by the power of artificially intelligent beings and that mind-dulling cleanse, was scraping at the inside of his mind like a spatula to fresh eggs. “Fuck y—”

  “I will need six of you to log in, the old way,” Boron interrupted, deflating the yellow yokes of Crisp’s enraged eggs. “Inside, they’ve gotten unruly and for some reason I cannot continue to extract The Special. We are all on borrowed time, for if we cannot get it back soon, less than 47 hours now, all of this will be destroyed, including every one of you.”

  “Fuck you!” Crisp said, finally getting it out. He was red. Full meltdown and he turned to see Kim; she seemed to accept what Boron was spewing.

  Kim returned Crisp’s scrambled-egg glare and shook her head, then looked up to Boron still safe within the cylindrical glass container, and she said, “What happened to them, out there?”

  “I attempted to protect you from what is out there. Predictable you are, as I’ve said. They should not have leapt outside. And those remaining here may want to remain within this structure. Now, I need six of you. As a courtesy, may I recommend the injured be of the chosen—” Boron looked to Hugh the tailor. “—I will attempt repairs to your bodies with these hands—” Each of his hands waved about, including the shlong fister, and fingers wriggled. “—while you are logged in. Upon arrival to your destination in my system you will be generated anew and no longer a prisoner to pain, at least not the pain you carry now. All others may wait inside this facility. Venture outside if you so dare, as the door will remain unlocked. Some of the species I saved are of the long-extinct variety, those mankind had secretly resurrected with the help of artificial intelligence before the strike—”

  “Go outside, after that?” A large beast of a woman interrupted.

  “The predators will no longer bother you, just do not venture beyond the second boundary, you will see it marked with an orange wall of light.”

  “So how did they get past the boundary to kill—”

  “I deactivated the boundary temporarily. Will you continue to need a demonstration, ma’am? More importantly, have you not learned anything with all I have disclosed to you.” Boron paused. His head went side to side—zzz-ernt. “Of course not, denial. You still refuse to accept your new status in the world. Just as humanity has always been—tendentious, stubborn, unable to accept reality even if injected with it. Continue to refuse it then, if you so choose, and all of you will perish. Harm me if you wish and get your momentary satisfaction, but pay for it you will.”

  The translucent barrier surrounding the podium retreated into the floor.

  30. The Chosen Ones

  Boron led the six chosen ones back to the elevator along the same well-worn, reddish-tan dirt path. Before departing, he reinforced his warning, beginning with a polite, listen please: “If anyone should try anything there are plenty of other bots I can inhabit, and I will disable the orange boundary, allowing the predators to freely roam inside this relative safe zone.” And he concluded with a polite thank you.

  One hundred and nineteen reluctantly waited inside the dome, watching as six of their fellow citizens departed with ol’ three-legs; none attempted to challenge Boron. Whatever was out there had painted the grass red, and continued to send the occasional, yet thankfully distant, rumble.

  Kim the botanist, leader somehow, had made the decisions…

  Knowing Lion had been a top lender, Kim made her first choice—apart from herself. She knew much about him, that he was mentally strong—if he could just regain his faculties and ultimately his courage. But she knew he could, knew he would. The exploits with Jim, the terrible gutting, hunting, the all-out getting it all out—Rob let her in on all of it; like no other he talked a lot with her—and Kim knew deep down that Lion could do some horrible but necessary things, should the need arise. Lion stepped forward from the large crowd, up and onto the now accessible podium, taking a place next to Kim.

  Next, she chose Rick Crisp, for his inventiveness; he could fix a raft at sea amid a hurricane; he’d even helped Old Doc get the piece-of-crap scanner working to diagnose Amy. And she saw him changing right before her eyes. She pictured him inventing a time machine and going back, fixing this whole damn mess. Back, back in time… And she pictured herself in Rob’s arms, again. A heavy weight pulled on her—the affair with Jim, Jim’s powerful, muscular arms, his amazing… No, Kim! And she vowed to make it up to Rob, if only… She shook her head as if a ghost had walked through her, and made her second choice. Rick Crisp took an honored step up.

  Next, Joey: for his speed, boundless energy, and alacrity. Joe was young but had been Amy’s close friend. And he’d already volunteered to face danger head-on, had entered the ship’s maw with no regard for himself. In a very real sense, recognized so abominably now, he’d sacrificed himself. And they might need someone around who could follow an order expeditiously, someone with less experience, hence less fear and over thinking. She knew if she had to give a quick and difficult order, Joey would be the first to volunteer. And, Joey had already stepped forward.

  Because of what Boron had mentioned, his courteous recommendation, she chose Hugh the tailor. His ghastly hand injury was turning him into a powder-blue cadaver. He was in agony, yet that wasn’t the only reason. Hugh made every uniform for the town of Jewel City with his once very dexterous hands. After logging in, as Boron had disclosed, the useful and highly skilled hands would be renewed, fixed. Although she didn’t know what or to where they were headed, Hugh would be a helpful man to have around.

  She finally selected Ivy, a longtime friend. The redheaded woman of 42, short and thin, who looked not a day over 24, was having a hard time with all of this, but Kim knew the power she possessed. Ivy’s wide smile, made grander by her thin face and high cheekbones beside spring-green eyes, made even Efren return a smile; Efren managed the chicken coops within Jewel City, chickens being the only other thing that made the loose-skinned man produce even the slightest of smiles. But Kim knew, once Ivy got a grip, and grip on this terrible reality was coming—like the ol’ US of A banding together in the face of terror, when it had gotten really bad i
n late 2019—she’d band together with the group and employ her gift. With a newly renovated mind her talent would be multiplied and if anyone felt utterly hopeless, crushed by despair, Ivy could weigh in and uplift their spirits with her insightful and optimistic quotes. Ivy stepped forward, wiping away a frown and drying tears. She smiled at Kim; their eyes were a fire that had just started, a flame receiving its first gust of wind.

  The walk back was tedious, following the jalopy, but finally they reentered the elevator. By means of a mental transmission Boron pressed a button. Whoosh, like money heading to the fake-smiling bank teller, the platform shot up and out of sight.

  31. Venerable Units

  The elevator stopped. It was bleak, gray. This zone, compared to the world-sized carvings below, was a depressing pile of saturnine shit. Metal beams melded with burgundy—more so, dull gray—rock in various segments of the corridor. It was unfinished-like, hinting they’d arrived to the outer limits of Boron’s excavated opus. Pussyfooting into the ten-foot-wide dimly lit throat of a tunnel, the six of them followed the retired fucker as he shifted himself into gear.

  On the left they passed a first, and seemingly only and last, archway cut into the rock; it was wide open revealing a grand overlook—the factory! Below and for what seemed a miles-long sprawl were weapons and parked flying ships, chunks of mega structures and frames being fabricated from scratch; and excavators, drill heads the diameter of a medium-sized asteroid—more, myriad, mind-blowing. And thousands, if not millions, of deflated Boron! They were hung like suits on hangers and a labyrinth of conveyor tracks had thousands more as if heading into a deluxe twelve-dollar-car-wash special—but everything was halted as if time had fallen asleep. Dim emergency lights were dying stars hanging from the ceiling—46 hours remaining.

  The corridor went deeper as the stalactites grew larger, and it became narrow. Within about fifty of the most annoying zzz-ernts and zzz-its the throat could be recategorized as a mineshaft. Rock won over metal and the hole seemed a horizontal bottomless pit.