Emit

by Jack Beal

  Outside, we collapse to the ground, heaving for air. The sound of feet slapping across the pavement grabs Debbie’s attention. “Hey, look at that!”

  I glance up in time to see a boy of about six sprinting down the road away from the orphanage. In his hand is an old, metal shovel.

  It isn’t possible. Still, I have to be sure.

  “Where are you going?” Debbie calls out. But I can’t stop to answer.

  The boy is already far ahead of me. Sprinting as fast as I can, I chase him down the driveway. “Hey! Wait!” But he’s too fast. Before I’m even halfway, he passes below the orphanage’s dangling sign and disappears around the corner. Just before I reach the brick wall, a blinding explosion lights up the property. I duck and cover, tucking myself into a ball and covering my neck with my hands.

  I’m shaking so badly, it’s hard to tell if the commotion has died down. Finally, I muster up the courage to untuck myself and look around.

  Only I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I’m squatting at the start of a sand-covered trail with palm trees lining both sides. The air is so salty it burns my chapped lips. I watch the way the leaves throw their shadows on the walls. It makes me think of the lost scripts of ancient times.

  Without a noise, I get up and march to the sapphire-domed building. Step by step, I climb the rocky staircase before disappearing under the high, arched gate.

  I wander along the labyrinth of hallways easily, as if I know it by heart. I hardly need the sliver of light to paint me a path to the final doorway.

  Perched on my tippy toes, I peer in through the window. A circle of shadowy men is surrounding the table where my dad is lying. I’ve got to save him! But I can’t.

  The long men turn to me all at once. Their faces are covered with masks, but their eyes…Their eyes are like those empty holes staring out at me from the catacomb walls. I turn and run. Pushing myself faster than I’ve ever gone on my own two feet, I don’t stop until I’ve made it to the front doorway.

  At the other end of the hall, the long men look like shadows on the walls. Suddenly, they grow larger. Or rather closer until they’re right before me.

  The tallest of them lifts his fist in front of my face. He’s so close I can smell the rubbery odor of his blue skin. As his fist opens, a long, silver chain falls out. Hanging at the end of it is a pocket watch. The time reads two to twelve.

  I gasp as the hands begin turning backward. First slowly, then quicker and quicker until the pocket watch spins dizzily. It isn’t long before I’m spinning, too.

  “The road up and the road down is one and the same.”

  ~Heraclitus

  EIGHTEEN

  BACK TO THE BEGINNING

  1947, 6 YEARS (AND 1 DAY) OLD

  There’s that pointy smell like someone’s cut the grass. It’s so strong the inside of my nose feels all scratchy. My neck hurts real bad, too. Yanking my head out from where it’s tucked under my crossed arms, I swallow hard. Duck and cover. The explosion. Rubbing the crust from my eyes, I look around.

  But I’m not crouched in the high grass near the orphanage. I’m sitting at a wooden table in an all-white kitchen with no icebox. The window is tilted open, but it’s still hot as heck in here. It’s so hot the wax on the floorboards is giving off a strong palmy scent. I shudder, waiting for those tall blue men to appear. But they don’t.

  Could it have all been a dream?

  My legs are as stiff as boards, but I scurry across the room, willy-nilly. I have to know. The window is higher than I recall. Swinging open the cabinet’s double doors, I step onto the rail and scramble onto the sink. Stradling the faucet, I push away the ruffled curtains and press my nose to the glass. It’s not there.

  No tall line of smoke is lifting into the sky. The only thing cutting into the big blue is a thick, branchy tree sitting near the middle of the yard. Around it, a dozen or so miniature American flags poke out from the soil. Instead of a loud shrieking sound, patriotic music jingles in the distance.

  Hopping down from the sink, my feet hit the wood with a loud clunk. I run my fingertips across the countertop before stopping at the oven. Yuck! On top of the stove, last night’s tinned beef is floating in a pot of greasy water.

  Gagging, I leave the kitchen. In the sitting room, everything is just as it should be, right down to my saddle shoes tucked neatly by the door. Even my toy soldiers are how I left them: lined in pairs across the banister. For target practice, I frown at the dirty shovel leaning against the wall.

  Then I pick it up. I’m not sure what exactly I’m waiting for—some kind of magical sign or crackling voice to come pouring from it—but nothing happens. The shovel hangs there, dumbly. It was all a dream. Probably the result of a bad batch of canned meat, if you ask me. That explains everything.

  Letting out a long breath, I peep out from behind the door pane. Dad should be getting home any minute. When he does, we’ll go to the Fourth of July Fair. I’ll eat so much pie I won’t have to touch another can of beef for a week!

  I sure hope they’re not out of blueberry by the time I get there. Apple and raspberry aren’t bad either. My stomach growls noisily. I’m even hungrier than I thought.

  Except, it’s not my stomach. The grumbling is coming from outside. And it’s getting louder.

  I plunge my fingers into my ears, but it doesn’t help. The noise only gets worse. No. This isn’t happening.

  Except it is. I suddenly feel sick. If this part is real, the rest of it is, too. But how? Or, better yet why? Why go through all of that to end up back here?

  Unless this is the moment that counts. Unless I have to do something right here, right now.

  When the ear-shattering noise fades and a long line of smoke rises into the sky, I want to run and hide. But I know I can’t. This is where it all began. This is where it has to end.

  After sliding my saddle shoes on, I tie the laces into sloppy knots and open the front door. But as I step onto the doorstep, something stops me dead in my tracks. I stand here, motionless, like Dad the first time I set eyes on him.

  What if this has nothing to do with me? What if this is about him?

  The hairs on my arms stand up straight. The more I think about it, the more I can tell I’m right. I need to stop Dad from leaving with Monty Bristol. If I can do that, I’ll save him. And that will change everything. I’ll never go out to find that stupid flying saucer. I’ll never meet that little girl and she’ll never give me the tablet. I’ll stop the cycle, and everything will go back to normal.

  But how can I convince my dad? If I tell him not to go, he’ll get that stern look in his eye and say, “You know, son, it’s not you who makes the rules around here.” Then he’ll go on and on with all of that kids-do-the-listening, adults-do-the-deciding blah blah blah. I mean, I guess I could argue back, saying I’ve been much older than he is, but I doubt that’ll turn out too well. At best, he’ll think I fell on my head.

  Stepping off the threshold, I let out a long sigh. I can’t even tell him the truth. As soon as I mention the words ‘flying saucer,’ he’ll write my whole story off as codswallop.

  I guess I’m going to have to be more inventive.

  Dragging the shovel across the front porch, I take a seat on the stoop. The street is empty. Not a car in a driveway or light in a window. Corona looks like a ghost town. Of course. Everybody’s at the fair shoving their face with pie.

  Suddenly, the thought of eating makes me want to gag. Wait. That’s it! What if I tell Dad I’m not feeling well enough to go the fair? If we stay in, Dad will never see the hotrod racing down the street! I’ll break the cycle!

  Except, I can’t be sure my plan will work. After all, ours wi
ll be the only house with a car parked in the driveway. What if Mr. Bristol decides to stop and knock? The answer isn’t rocket science: Dad’ll leave. No. I can’t take that risk. I need another plan.

  Gazing down at the shovel lying across my knees, I feel like crying. I hate it! I hate everything! Especially this stupid shovel! It skips down the steps with a series of clunks before I realize I’m the one that threw it.

  I’m not about to pick it back up. Until I hear the sound of a car rounding the corner, that is. Dad!

  As fast as I can, I dash down the stairs and over to the shovel. I’m bending down to grab it when the sound of gravel crunching under tires grows closer. I stop short. The car creeping down the driveway isn’t Dad’s Ford Deluxe. It’s one of those brand-new Buicks.

  I watch, paralyzed, as it shifts into park. When the car door whooshes open, a man steps out. He’s the same from my memories, zoot suit and all. As the door slams, I start.

  “Hi, Robbie. You remember me, don’t you?”

  I do. He’s Monty Bristol, the man who stole my daddy from me and never brought him back. But how does he know my name? My mind races, but I just stand here, tongue-tied.

  “My name is Mr. Bristol. I’m your father’s boss up at the US Engineer Force.”

  Seeing he’s waiting for an answer, I nod. I’m not sure why I do. Everyone knows my dad works down at the Red Cloud Mine. Mr. Dig, Dig, Dig. I spy the shovel by my feet furiously.

  “I’m here looking for your daddy. Have you seen him?”

  I rack my brain, spiraling through the decades. “Not since he went to work this morning.”

  Taking in a deep breath, the man hikes up his stout, little pants and sits down on the top step. When he pats the ground beside him, I take a seat.

  Tugging on the silver chain dangling from his pocket, he pulls out a timeworn watch and snaps it open with a loud click. My eyes bulge from their sockets. It’s the same old pocket watch Hazel gave me! The same one I gave back to her years earlier. But how?

  Mr. Bristol has never stopped talking. “…wanted to assure he was okay, because he never showed up…and with the accident…”

  Tick, tick, tick, my head pounds along with the pocket watch. Your dad is gone, a voice from my past resurfaces. The watch ticks quicker. Oh no! Don’t tell me it’s too late!

  “An accident,” my voice wobbles, “at the mine?”

  “What mine?”

  “The mine Dad works at. The Red Cloud.”

  “I think you’re confused, son,” he glances nervously at the pocket watch before placing it beside me on the stoop. “Look, as soon as you see your daddy, tell him to give me a call.” Turning his back, he saunters over to the shiny new Buick, and opens the door. Without so much as a goodbye, he gets in and drives away.

  My mind is all fouled up. This isn’t what I remember happening at all! Last time, Dad was home before Mr. Bristol came riding up like a blue streak. Now everything’s twisted. But which version is real? The more I mull over it, the more confusing it becomes. I try to think about it, but my memories change just as soon as I remember them. Shaping and shifting like those hieroglyphics on the silver tablet. And it’s all since Monty Bristol showed up.

  I swallow hard. What if Mr. Bristol never shot down the alien ship? What if he came down on it? My mind runs wild. In the today of seventy-two years ago, he came and stole my dad away. But this time, maybe I got too close to stopping him. That would explain why he had to change things from last time: to make sure my dad still goes to the UFO.

  “Horsefeathers!”

  If the order of events has been changed, then Dad might already be there. If I want to save him, I’ve got to hurry.

  Racing across the lawn, I jump the fence and land in the Sawyer’s back yard. Rushing to the shed, I jiggle the handle. It’s locked. I’m not sure if my memory is right, but it’s worth a shot. I tug at the shed’s bottom board, but it doesn’t budge. I try the one next to it, and the one next to that until I’ve circled around the entire building. Still no luck. But I’m not giving up that easily. If I remember Willy pulling out the board from the bottom… Lifting my shovel as high as I can, I manage to slide it under the uppermost board. When I tug, the board gives, allowing a small brass key to fall into my hand.

  A minute later, I’m eye to eye with Willy’s brand-new cherry-red Schwinn. I remove the elastic band pinning it to the wall and use it to strap my shovel to my back. And I’m off.

  After bumping across the lawn, I slide out onto the asphalt. The bike is a rocket. Before long, I’m soaring down the 247.

  The July sun is blistering, as I follow the line of white smoke rising in the distance. I’m sweaty and tired, but I don’t slow down. Every time my legs scream for me to stop, I scream for them to shut up. Dad might already be at the UFO. Who knows what that little-green-man-in-disguise is doing to him! Or, worse yet, my mind wanders to the pocket watch, what if he’s already been taken to that table at the end of the maze of hallways?

  My fear gives me wings. When I get to the Alder Ranch, I leave Willy’s bike at the road’s edge and dash into the haze.

  Like the first time, I fall to my knees when the smoke gets too thick for me to breathe. When I spy the two cars parked a little way off to my right, I choke back my disappointment. Then I’m right. Crawling onward, I spy the metallic disc sitting topsy-turvy up against the big, mossy hillock.

  Arms flapping, I forge a passage through the smoke. Approaching the vessel, a thick burning smell gets caught in the back of my throat. It tastes like gunpowder.

  I hold my breath. Reaching out, I touch the strange metal. Like last time, an indescribable flash of light brightens the sky. Tearing the shovel from my back, I prop myself up and fumble for the door materializing before my eyes. A moment later, I’m inside.

  “Dad?” I call out, as the passageways slides and slips out from under me. Silence.

  I search the control room, snaking around its button-lined walls and peering below its tall black chairs. But he’s not there. He’s not in the kitchen either. Or the dining room with its beds hung up in the walls.

  Making my way back toward the front, I stop at the icebox. Shoving my hand into the narrow opening beside the box, the space grows until I’m able to squeeze inside.

  On the other side is a room the size of a closet. If I spread my arms as far as I can, I can touch the opposite walls. With a loud whoosh, the wall unfolds and a staircase spills out.

  The lower I climb, the higher I rise. Until, all at once, it ends.

  A shining golden doorway skids away to reveal a room I’ve seen once before. I can tell from the crates upon crates of boxes.

  “Dad?”

  A low rustling is coming from one of the shelves. Tiptoeing toward it, I pull down the first crate, set it on the floor and peer behind it. But Dad’s not there. Just another crate.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. Turning to the stack on the floor beside me, I pick a box at random. Prying off the lid, I look inside. But that makes no sense.

  I wrench open a second box. Then a third.

  “Eck-hem.” A pale little girl eyes me suspiciously from behind a pair of big, black sunglasses.

  “Siri!”

  “Robbie? What are you doing here?”

  “I…I was looking for my dad. Have you seen him?”

  Siri eyes the stack of boxes curiously. “You didn’t think your father would be in one of those, did you?”

  I look down at my saddle shoes, embarrassed. “No.”

  “Then what were you looking for in there?”

  My throat feels like I’ve tried swallowing a fist. “I don’t know.”
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br />   “Yes, you do. You wanted to see what was inside of all of these cartons. What did you find?”

  “Tablets,” my voice wobbles through all the knuckles clogging my throat. “Hundreds and hundreds of tablets.”

  “Actually, there are billions of them.”

  “What do you mean, billions?” I’m outraged. “I thought mine was the only one!”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you said I was chosen amongst the others!”

  “And you were.”

  “But then why are there so many tablets?”

  “Because your mission isn’t the only one.”

  “What?” I don’t know if I’m more shocked or hurt. “What are these other missions?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” I hiss.

  “Because they’re not yours to know yet.”

  “If you won’t tell me, I’ll figure it out, on my own.” Stomping to another shelf, I unload the boxes onto the floor. If she thinks she can send me on this nightmare of a mission without owing me an explanation, she’s wrong. Stripping the first lid off, I remove one of the tablets and examine it carefully. Then another. And another. But every time I set my eyes on one, the shapes marked across it disappear. Every tablet I touch shapes and shifts until it bears the same hieroglyphics as the tablet Siri gave me so many years ago.

  Crouched in the center of the countless brilliant slates, I spin around, sliding my fingers across them. All at once, they all show the image of a little boy with a shovel.

  “They’re not yours.” As a wave of warmth surges through the room, I turn around. I watch Siri pull down the same carton she did the first time I met her. Rifling around, she draws out a slate matching those encircling me.

  The lights in the room flicker and dim. “This one is.” Her voice is different. It’s deeper and somehow familiar.