The Time Tribulations

by Travis Borne

  The well exuded howling screams of agony, haunting moans, and as if a banshee was gauze being pulled apart, an occasional shrilling stab that made spines lightning rods. The sounds nearly put Sid’s Spook House out of business, as well Laquanda’s Earthquake Simulator; the ground trembled near the well and beyond as if Midtown had become a spiderweb of fault lines.

  It was bad, but most stayed away from it and anything that served as a reminder. Coffee shops, firewood sales, and of course ale, were the prevalent penchants now; conversing, be it indoors with a beverage or outside around a campfire, were newfangled time thieves. And after weeks of Utopian pleasure and sharing knowledge of the outside world—pre-war adventures, tales of Herald and his team, Andy’s city-sized underground bunker and Morton’s transformation, and Jake and company and their account of being kidnapped—a decision was reached. All evidence highlighted the winner. It sounded as though Jewel City was the last civilized gob of earth remaining. So, they needed to get there: from the frigid depths of the ocean, then somehow travel to who knows where, wherever this jewel of the desert could be—intimidating, daunting, clueless. But after what they’d endured, after centuries of torture, and after the relatively recent victory—hope was not stifled, it continued to blossom and minds were thinking up solutions like pre-2020 humans—before artificial intelligence thought for them. All freely shared their talents and collaborated on many ideas, but the pooling eventually lost its effectiveness; they were getting nowhere. The rumble emanating from below made it hard to sleep and eventually, difficult to concentrate on anything. The vibrations became constant and moans tortured ears. Something needed to be done, and soon; the time for action had come.

  They put together a group of 77 of the largest, strongest, smartest men and women, and they would be heading down—to the underworld. The plan was to battle the beasts, if democracy couldn’t prevail. First, a show of power, a fight one on one purposed as a demonstration of the humans’ newfound strengths and capabilities. Then, attempt to come to an agreement, but mostly: learn what the beasts needed, why they were there in the first place, and ultimately try to discover any knowledge that would help them escape this damn dream world altogether.

  The day had arrived. It’d been nearly three months since they’d tossed the officers into the well and the town was poised, lining the streets as if a parade was set to roll past.

  Jerry and Carmen finished making love. He got up and went to the bathroom. Carmen stayed on the bed, satisfied yet teary-eyed. He’d pulled a special on her, country style, one he’d used on Valerie when she so often became dispirited. How that seemed like another lifetime; Jerry couldn’t help but think of her, just then, and although he had released Valerie, a part of her would always remain within his heart. And he thought too of Alice—a slew of memories flooding back. He remembered how young he was, listening to her when she convinced him to move to LA with that massive chunk of an inheritance she’d received—and, how he’d never have met Herald, had he not been so foolish; had Alice not been a nymphomaniac with dreams of opening a porn store.

  But he did feel good, strong, youthful, now. He was performing as if he was in his twenties again and they’d both erupted like two volcanoes that had been dormant for centuries. Their love for each other was stronger than ever.

  Carmen was different than any woman he’d been with. Contrastingly—although Valerie had seemed to have gotten better under pressure, in the cave, when things got tough—Carmen was never a head-case. And never so reckless and insane like the nymphomaniac he’d been married to, briefly. Carmen was strong, the strongest women he had ever known. They’d been through unimaginable horrors together, and had become inseparable, now more than ever, and all of just this, was making things difficult…

  “Things are great, why not—”

  “Don’t, Carmen. We all hear it, now we feel it too. It must be done.”

  “But what if, you don’t come back?” She lowered her head.

  He put the cup down in front of the mirror. Naked, he returned to the bed. He put two fingers under her chin and slowly raised her thin, beautiful face until their eyes met. He said, “I will be back, I promise. I made a vow and I intend to keep it.” He kissed her and she leaned in close and pushed her lips tight against his, not moving and with every muscle tight. She pushed harder, and so did he, and he bear-hugged her, slowly with his massive arms. They ended up like the wooden carving in Marti’s: she fell down and into him, squeezing herself against his hairy chest.

  “I love you, Jerry. And I know you will be back.” She peeled herself away and again looked into his green eyes while caressing his chiseled jawline. “But that’s not what I meant. I’ve seen you lately, your power…”

  “What is it, Carmen?”

  “Jerr…” She called him by the name she stutters when they make love. “Don’t lose yourself. Like you said in your story the other night, how you’d become activated. When you battled that drone in the cave, when you kicked Baldarn’s ass that Wednesday, and with Rex. Jerry, don’t lose—” She brought her hand down slowly and placed it over his heart. “—yourself.”

  “I—”

  She cut him off with a finger to his lips. “I’m not afraid of you not coming back, for I know you will. Jerry, I saw you, I saw your eyes, your skin, and I know, and I believe. You will do whatever it takes. I am afraid, Jerry—that you will lose yourself to the rage.”

  He couldn’t respond. She was right and he knew it.

  He hadn’t bothered to brush his teeth or shower—he wanted her scent. Yes, she was right, and her scent would be his reminder, if need be, because he was set on activating; he’d perfected it, the enraging, and just a look at those fucking monsters down there, well that would be more than necessary to send him off the edge.

  He brought no weapons besides his fists. Patrick accompanied him and they walked in the center of the street, down Main and toward town. The entire city was outside, humans and workers alike, thousands lining the sidewalks. Others arrived and strode alongside Jerry. Andy arrived to his side. And although Andy wasn’t near as large as many of the others, he was Jerry’s companion. They were just a couple of rednecks from Tennessee—so what; both Jerry and Andy knew nothing would keep them down. And Jerry knew Andy better than most; Andy could take a baseball bat to the back of the head ten times and keep getting up. He had more heart than most, and a truckload of common sense.

  They marched past the nodding and saluting crowd. None spoke but emotions were felt. As Jerry passed by, in the company of his comrades, right arms rose up, forward making a fist. Like the wave at a baseball game, the fists symbolized respect, appreciation, and goodwill toward every man and woman heading to the well. Jerry looked to the side, earnestly nodding at a few of his friends who were real, true family, to the town full of people he loved and admired, then faced forward with stern resolve. Again, he thought of Carmen, and he could smell her on him like a double dose of perfume. He replayed the goodbye with his newly reinvigorated power of visualization: he left while she stood in the apartment, naked and as beautiful as always, and as he reached the door she yelled, “Wait!” Like a sprawled skydiver she landed onto him, enwrapping her arms and legs tight, smashing her tear-glazed cheeks into his now flannel-clad chest. One final squeeze. As if she’d meshed to become a part of him, every moment of every second they had shared, every minute of every hour, throughout the centuries, together, the feeling burned them both with a passion that could bring a god holding bucket-load of universes, to his knees. But it was what she said that made him feel fifty feet tall, and he smiled a warm, yellow, earth-sunrise smile of a smile. Like an angel and a feather, Carmen delivered five words into his soul: “Jerry, I want a baby.”

  They passed Marti’s and veered left, through the town’s main intersection and toward the lot that contained the well. The world was lush, fertile, and green, except around that well. Nothing grew near it, nothing. Like an abandoned lot owned by a poltergeist, it was desert dry, nothing
but unfertile dust; the well was as unwelcome to life as death was to an infant taking the first breath.

  Fists still raising as they passed, eyes infusing goodwill, humans and workers alike sent blasts of hope and faith. The feelings could be felt as if the air was thick warm gelatin. The citizens of Midtown, each and every, knew exactly what Jerry, Jake, Andy, and 74 others were up against. It was a world where anything goes. And as much as everyone knew it wasn’t possible, they believed—the team would beat the odds. How could 77 humans take on thousands of beasts, most twice the size of even the largest human? Words, even lawyer’s-words, could not explain it. But everyone understood the power of faith. That’s how. In this place, a world of dreams, nightmare above, utter living hell below, belief itself held a very special influence over the construct.

  “Well,” Jerry said, “ready to see what you’re made of? These aren’t your typical adversaries.”

  Jake peered through the grated metal floor, into the well. He could see nothing but pitch darkness surrounded by a throat of brown rock, and howling, torturous screams moved the air, sending his ear hammers into overload. Ghastly, sinuating streams of pain freed a figurative box full of spiders at the base of his spine. Eight legs times a few dozen, and they crawled up his back. He didn’t respond to Jerry for at least ten seconds, while the ground shook, and twisted and warped. Distorted cries echoed out like a heavy-metal record being played in reverse. And Jerry put a hand on his shoulder.

  Jake finally looked up to the big man and replied, “With all you’ve told me, our training over the past weeks… Jerry, yeah, I think I am ready, brother. We’re ready, all of us—as much any human can be.” Others looked to Jake with saluting smiles. They’d been there, died there, lost it all there, and Jake hadn’t, but they were glad to have him at their sides. He’d earned their respect by killing the son-of-a-bitch officers. Like a gun that’d been fired to start a race, Jake was the smoking barrel.

  The 44 men and 33 women boarded the rusty-brown platform; there’d be no dumping today—it was going to be a long ride. Jerry nodded to the operator; Stan sat where usually sat an officer. And Stan returned a solemn nod then activated the lift-station motors. The humming sounds muffled the cries billowing through the grate like haunts. Then old Stan pushed forward on the clutch, engaging it, activating the overhead pulleys. The gears let out a wrenching, drawn-out grind and the platform began its descent into the putrid, seemingly alive steam. The noisome odor was an unearthed mass grave, a spewing, world-sized pressure cooker full of heads, and burnt tires and garbage, all exuding through the grate’s two-inch grid squares; it could harass even a mannequin’s nostrils. But even Jake displayed courageous immunity in the face of a stench that was all too familiar to the Midtown locals.

  “Men, women, today we take back what they have stolen from us!” Jerry’s voice was stentorian and the shaft was his megaphone. His words blared throughout Midtown. Even Carmen, alone in their the apartment, steadfast, dried tears pulling her smooth cheeks tight, heard Jerry. She sat upright on the corner of the bed, still nude, while the words her man spoke came through loud and clear. “Neither beasts, nor any force shall ever stand above us as a domineering and controlling force. We will no longer bow, nor submit to any evil. We will no longer be slaves and we will not live our lives in fear, be it up here, down there, or on the outside after we shatter these bonds that contain us. We have all been through more than is expected of any life, a lifetime’s worth of lives. We’ve been tortured, humiliated, raped, and killed. But they cannot take from us our dignity, our honor, our humanity. Today, humans stand together as one, united and civilized down to the very last man and woman. We respect each other as individuals and no human being shall be left behind, and henceforth we will work together with one another for the greater good. Never again shall one, or all, be taken advantage of for today we unleash our true might. Our words will come out with power, our resolve will flood the underworld with light, and victory will buy our freedom!”

  62. Descent to Hell

  The descent toward work set nerves ablaze—but not today. Instead of the usual free fall, they rode the 125-foot-diameter platform until the well above was a pinprick of light, then it disappeared as if plugged by the pin. The pleasant mountain cool dissipated during the voyage through what appeared to be a throat of brown, to gray, to charcoal and then bleeding rock. Ten minutes being swallowed by it, then another ten of pitch darkness.

  The temperature rose steadily and the platform exited what had seemed to evolve into bowels. Then the air became superheated. Miles to go and the platform was now descending fast enough to grant borderline weightlessness. Below, the molten glow could be seen as snaking rivers. The warped cast-net of wrinkles divided hundreds of plateaus and steaming volcanoes, fading into the silhouettes of distant mountains. And the roof encapsulating the cavernous inner-dome, which they’d just passed, had to be at least the circumference of Mars! Dark stalactites the size of hundred-story buildings rained truck-sized gobs of brownish-red oil. Like meteors, the falling goo made innumerable spectacles, illuminating the world with a red glow as the syrupy sludge burned up in the oven-like atmosphere on the way down.

  Getting lower, faster, and the hot air hitting his cheeks was more unwelcome than scorching pavement to hemorrhoids. Jake looked up, panting. The raining gobs were so plentiful the coalescence of millions made for a red, radiating sky that felt like the broiler of an oven.

  “Halfway there,” Jerry said. “Hey, you all right, man?”

  Gasping, unevenly breathing, Jake finally replied, “Yeah…man. It’s…hot—burns to breathe.”

  “Just take it in slow and easy, Jake. It takes a while to get used to this air, first hours are the worst.”

  Like Spartans all held still, silent, stiff. Some had weapons: crossbows, clubs, even halberds, a myriad of interesting tools; each carried something, except for Jerry and Jake. Andy had a baseball bat.

  Andy stood beside Jerry, Jerry next to Jake. Jerry’s face had turned to reddened stone and he allowed himself to become consumed with subjectivity and payback rage. Wednesday he’d gotten a small taste, more so that Friday, punishing Rex, and Jerry knew now it was only a fraction of his potential. He stood gazing at the faraway dot he knew was Undertown. And recalling the torture in ways he couldn’t previously, he was ready to unleash it, activate like no other time. At the corner of his eye, he again noticed Jake, then returned his glare to the town.

  Jake peered over the edge—the only one to do so. Others noticed him too, watching his aghast expression blossom like a zombie standing behind a punched out M1 Abrams. Jake’s eyes were as wide as the baking air would allow, taking in the grand spectacle of fire, fury, and piles, entire hills, mountains, smoldering with black, seemingly alive smoke. He uttered, “Literally, Hell.” Many humble nods agreed with him.

  From volcanoes, streams overflowed becoming spiderwebs of crawling lava. As the elevator descended deeper Jake made out the distant city. Its location had already ensnared the gaze of Jerry and others, and sprawled out before it was the field. They’d told him about it. Glimmering specks of white, and plenty of red and gray mottled what resembled farmland that'd been tilled by monster trucks gone haywire. Arriving closer, the platform slowing down, Jake realized the specks were skulls, bones, entire clusters intertwined like buoys. Blood glazed the topsoil like veins, and innards were churned throughout.

  “The regenerator,” Jerry said. He pointed to the left end of the field. It was a substantial unit with a gray stone archway entrance and exit. There was a belt conveyor system passing through it and wide paths with funneling rails such as rusty cattle guards. Several curtains of variously colored light became activated, as well as the belt drive, as the platform neared bottom.

  Jake thought, medieval carwash, then a hot gust smacked his face like laser breath. He squinted and exploded simultaneously, saying, “Damn, burns my eyes!” He caught himself and grabbed the guard rail. “Ah! It’s hot.” Instinctually he re
leased it just as fast, falling back.

  “Give it a few, you’ll get used to it,” someone said. “Soon you’ll be able to sear your hands on molten steam irons while chewing gum.” The barbaric-looking woman who said it didn’t even flinch, although it had struck him like a joke.

  “Chewing gum, what in the—”

  Jerry said, “They give us—well we have to win it, actually—painkillers. Always in the form of the nastiest chewing gum you can imagine.”

  “Yeah,” some guy behind Jake said, “imagine chewing on compressed shit that had been soaked in—”

  “Enough,” Jerry erupted. Imaginations were enriched with a new, and now sickening power of description. Jake’s countenance was a face that had been chopped off and was sliding toward the ground. Clank! Clang! Several docking clamps resounded, then the cables, which for the entire time had been low-pitched guitar strings resonating like a warped record, went BONG! After the sound warbled up the cables and away into the sky the platform finalized its interface with the dock. Locks around its circumference snapped like firecrackers. Phish-snap, phish-snap, phish-snap!

  The platform was surrounded by stomped-smooth black basalt and scattered, burnt-brown stalagmites as tall as trees. At ground level the winds were more constant, with a flavor of burning meat and tires, possibly something sweet too; Jake thought of a million cockroaches being ground down; he thought of vineyard grape smashers getting a workout, cockroach Hell—white stuff gushing out. And he tried to shake it off.

  The smoke was noxious, though, almost bad enough to steal some pain from the heat. Black and sinuous, seemingly alive swirls meandered by and around, twisting like poltergeists, bringing new and different and constantly worsening smells.