Jump Starting the Universe Book Bundle

by John David Buchanan

  Someday in our future a catastrophic event may occur; a horrific day may come. The question is always - is this the day, or the year? Is this the time when the World Eaters don’t come, and all matter races together in a colossal implosion? It would be the end of all physical life in every dimension. They are all tied together and interdependent. If one goes, they all go! Those few who understand, ask themselves; is this the year? Will all universes implode? Will every civilization be brought low and utterly destroyed?

  Between every adjacent universe in space, between every fold and bend, there is dense space, and there, the World Eaters wait. Their scientists are keenly aware of our space because the existence of their own worlds depends on it. When matter in their dimensions has been depleted and the balance between space and dense space is on the verge of causing a cataclysmic destruction on both sides of the gateways, our existence, and theirs, will hang by a thread, and they will come.

  Like locusts, they will come pouring out of a blackened lightning bolt hanging in the sky to ravage everything in their path. The World Eaters will come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HERE IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING

  Blackie sat in Wayne’s 1957 Nomad station wagon thinking about his brother Mark. After their raid on a Zin Charr warehouse they had become separated. Blackie, Wayne, Amelia and Joules had climbed in the Nomad and jumped off a stealth fighter to prevent its destruction (and theirs), and now he wondered if it had been a wise decision.

  And he also wondered if he would ever see Mark again. Some of their shenanigans growing up flooded into his memory, but he couldn’t remember where their preposterous notions came from, or who should bear the brunt of responsibility for such absurd ideas.

  Although Blackie confessed inwardly to be the most likely candidate, he still hasn’t given up hope someone other than himself, such as his older brother Mark, would step forward and share the blame. There is nothing like sharing culpability when it seems to be so firmly affixed to only one person, and that one person is yourself.

  So far, the hope of a co-conspirator’s confession has been fruitless. The fact is, the idea was probably his and his alone, and he should own up to it. But since he wasn’t alone in perpetrating the mischief, Blackie saw no reason to bear the complete burden. Having thought that, he decided to let the other person involved off-the-hook, so to speak, and not rat him out; people might think him to be crazy! For the record, he is sure they were Mark’s ideas.

  Behind Blackie and Mark’s parents’ house at 1206 West Villaret were hundreds of acres of undeveloped land. Someone had tried to develop them long before they moved in, but the development got only as far as bulldozing mesquite trees and dirt into giant mounds before they abandoned their efforts.

  It had been years since the land was cleared, evidenced by fairly tall trees growing on top of the piles of dirt and debris. In a moment of uncommon juvenile clarity, it seemed to Blackie (and probably Mark) all those mounds were a terrible waste of resources and they must have been yearning to be used for some good purpose. What better purpose could there be than to use them to build a cave?

  Blackie spent considerable time mulling over the chain of events. While he can’t place the entire blame on his dad for what happened, he will say many of their family’s Sunday evenings were spent watching television with his dad – usually cowboy shows like Gun Smoke. Blackie had no doubt the seeds of calamity were sprouted while watching one of those westerns his dad loved.

  He wouldn’t hesitate to mention when his dad bought their house, they could only see the flat top roof because the weeds were so tall. When his dad sickled them down to a height that allowed them to mow the 1.5-acre lot he killed 72 snakes. Yes, 72 snakes. Personally, Blackie was a 'let the none pit viper go' kind of guy. But his Dad, and particularly his Mom, held to the belief all snakes should be dead snakes, and the faster they were dead the quicker the world would be a better place.

  One day when brilliant ideas were floating in the air like kites on an English holiday, Mark and Blackie decided they would burrow into the side of one of those mounds and build a cave. They knew exactly what we were doing from watching miners in their dad’s cowboy movies on television. How hard could it be? Dig a hole and nail some lumber around the sides and across the top. It seemed fairly straightforward.

  And, because they weren’t looking for gold or silver, they didn’t have the usual cowboy-movie problems like claim jumpers. Either they conveniently forgot about the episodes where cave-ins occurred, or they chalked them up to the miners getting drunk; either way the outcome was the same – Mark and Blackie were building a cave.

  It seemed to them cave building was a morning activity so that’s what they did and when they did it. They selected a mound, one with a side tall enough to burrow into and yet not too close to their yard, so our mother wouldn’t realize what was going on. They considered her a claim jumper of sorts, and they wanted to circumvent problems that may have presented. How do you tell your mom you’re building a cave without jeopardizing, THE CAVE?

  Blackie remembered their method was fairly simple. Using an army shovel borrowed from their dad’s tool shed they dug into the side of the hill. When they got deep enough to crawl in they would fill a quart-sized coffee can with dirt and hand it outside where the non-digger would pour it on the ground. Shoring, if you dared to call it that, was probably more for decoration than safety.

  But, since they weren’t getting drunk, they were sure there would be no cave-ins. The cave was coming along nicely until Mark decided he would go to West Texas for a summer vacation at Uncle Emerick’s ranch; cave digging came to an abrupt halt for three weeks.

  After Mark returned from his trip, he and Blackie went out to work on the cave. It was already noon, three hours past when they would normally have quit digging, but they were both excited to be working on it again. After giving Mark a supreme thrashing at rock-paper-scissors to decide who got to dig first, Blackie climbed into the shallow cave.

  In retrospect, he wasn’t sure if the time of day made any difference, but after throwing out the can of dirt and leaning against the cool soil on the back wall he realized he wasn’t alone. Blackie had never been so still or so scared. It was hot, and he was perspiring heavily and now his heart was beating like it wanted out of his chest right then and there.

  All the kids in Blackie’s neighborhood were familiar with rattlesnakes. They occasionally crawled into yards looking for food, and when they did their heads were summarily chopped heads off with a garden hoe. Blackie’s mom once used a hammer to kill a coral snake crawling across the floor about four feet from where his sister was sleeping on a blanket. His dad wasn’t happy about the three tiles his mom broke when she went 'Lizzy Borden' on the poor animal.

  Anyway, Blackie sat in the cave, perfectly still and quiet. The rattlesnake climbed over his leg then over his right arm as Mark dumped the dirt and rolled the coffee can back inside. When Blackie saw the rattlers clear his bare arm, he bolted out of the cave, ran about fifty yards and climbed into their treehouse where he shook uncontrollably for at least ten minutes.

  Fortunately, Mark chased him all the way to the backyard of their house. Blackie remembered it was the first and last time he outran him. When he calmed down he told Mark what had happened. The next day, early in the morning, they tied ropes to the shoring poles and pulled them down. The cave-in sent dust spewing into the air for twenty feet. As they picked up the salvaged shoring boards they heard the unmistakable noise of an agitated rattlesnake. It was coiled under a bush fifteen feet away, and ready to strike.

  They had no idea if it was the same snake, but it paid the ultimate penalty for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Blackie thought that incident would have made they shy away from wandering around in the brush behind their house, but he was wrong.

  One thing leads to another and the cave building fiasco was no exception. When Blackie and Mark weren’t pilfering wood from their dad’s stash to shore up the cave, they
would walk to the construction landfill to look for wood there. After destroying the cave, and returning the wood to their dad’s pile, the landfill became their usual morning destination.

  On its own, the landfill only marginally increased the odds of them receiving a life-threatening injury. But they quickly figured out a way to stop that 'only marginally' nonsense.

  After the cave incident, virtually every morning for the remainder of the summer they would walk through the brush about fifteen minutes to see what had been dumped at the landfill the previous day. One morning they couldn’t believe their eyes. Several huge cardboard boxes, the kind refrigerators were shipped in, had been dumped by some apparent lunatic.

  This was a major find, and they pulled the boxes to one side of the landfill’s shallow end while insulting the intelligence of anyone who would dispose of such treasure. Neither Blackie or Mark admit to remembering how they determined cliff diving would be a good idea (much like pleading the 5th), but before long they had hauled two of the refrigerator boxes around the rim of the landfill to the steepest side.

  Once there, they rolled the top edge of each box inward so they could slip the palms of their hands under the roll and grab it. At that point, the rest of the cliff diving process was fairly easy. They inched their way up to the edge of the cliff and leaned forward until they fell. Brilliant.

  Neither Mark or Blackie were brain damaged at any time before (or after) the cliff diving idea so they’re not sure how to explain why they decided this was a splendid thing to do. But since Blackie wasn’t killed as he slid down the cliff on the maiden voyage, Mark felt assured it was safe. By the time Blackie had walked back to the jumping point carrying his box, Mark stood on the edge of the cliff, plucked up enough courage to take the plunge, and fell over the edge.

  From his new vantage point as a spectator instead of participant, Blackie couldn’t help but think it looked insane. But as luck would have it, Mark wasn’t killed, didn’t break any bones, and was mostly unscathed, with the exception of a few nasty abrasions resulting from being thrown off his cardboard when he crashed at the bottom of the slope. So, no autopsy, and no reason to stop.

  Boys learn at an early age how to determine if they’ve sustained a mortal wound and are on the verge of dying – it’s all about flow, as in how fast blood is spewing from their wound. And although Mark’s abrasions stung like crazy, there was minimal blood loss. It was shy of a reportable quantity, which they defined as a volume so big they felt obligated to warn their Mom. Since Mark hadn’t bled out, they decided it was safe enough to continue.

  Cardboard box cliff diving continued until the boxes were shredded beyond reasonable use, and they moved on to other potential 'life insurance payment' activities. Blackie remembered one in particular several years later when Mark had a job and a bass boat; a scenario that had danger stamped on it in capital letters.

  In spite of the many ways a bass boat could facilitate a mortal wound, Mark lived to be an avid fisherman and an excellent water skier. On one occasion when Mark had entered a bass fishing tournament and he couldn’t find anyone who knew what they were doing to accompany him, he asked Blackie if he would like to go fishing. Blackie accepted without giving the matter thorough consideration, and Mark told him to meet him at 4 am the following morning.

  Already it was clear to Blackie he had made a serious mistake, but he didn’t have any excuse to cop out. Grudgingly he agreed. They arrived at the lake in a heavy mist that greeted them by turning to light rain. Mark was sure the fish weren’t aware it was bad weather and tried to convince Blackie the rain would 'stir up' the fish.

  It’s not like he had any choice in the matter, Blackie’s car was back at Mark’s house and there wasn’t any place to get out of the weather. So, if he was going to be wet anyway, he might as well be fishing. They transferred tackle boxes and rods to the boat, and Mark had it in the water before Blackie could change my mind.

  Off they went across the lake. As they passed long stretches of shoreline, and cove after cove, Blackie began to wonder why they were boating half way across the county. Surely there were some fish on this end of the planet. Don’t misunderstand, Blackie liked a boat ride as much as anyone else. But a light rain while standing on the shoreline, became sandpaper at 50 miles per hour, and his enthusiasm for a body scrub was never high to begin with. Soon, they slowed down then stopped, and Mark deployed the trolling motor.

  “I know this end of the lake,” said Mark.

  “It looks a lot like the other end of the lake.”

  Mark grabbed a rod with a bait casting reel, “Yeah, but I’ve fished here before.”

  Blackie thought to ask Mark later why all the boat ramps had been built on the opposite end of the lake from where they were fishing.

  Mark handed Blackie a fishing rod, opened a tackle box and suggested a few lures. Within seconds Mark grabbed his own rod and reel and was casting like a professional; laying his lure within inches of a stump or just off the bank, or near a stand of reeds. Blackie’s rod was much less accurate than Mark’s and the lure he was using appeared to be specifically designed to travel close to, and snag, underwater limbs.

  In fact, every lure he tried was designed the exact same way. Blackie was spending considerably more of his time (and a significant amount of Mark’s) de-snagging lures than fishing. Mark suggested Blackie’s method might work better if he cast toward the open water. To his complete surprise, he tried that approach and Mark was right – no snagged limbs. Also, no fish; not a bite, not a strike, not a nibble, nothing.

  While he fished, Mark was using the trolling motor to guide the boat along the shoreline of inlets and small islands. As they went, he mentioned how quiet the motor was, and how it didn’t scare the fish. Before Blackie dropped his rod on the boat floor, he may have mentioned it again. After Blackie dropped the tackle box, knocked the ice chest over while getting a soft drink, and generally made a cacophony that belonged at a professional sporting event, not a bass fishing tournament, there was no more mention of the word quiet.

  The coup d'état was slipping on the wet floor of the boat and falling onto a long passenger seat in the bow. Mark kept casting. He may have thought the fish would perceive all the racket was thunder, or maybe he thought he might foul hook a bass running from all the commotion, which by that time had a much higher statistical probability than catching one the normal way.

  It was at that point several things occurred within what seemed to Blackie like fractions of a second. He managed to snag a limb while casting into thirty feet of open water, the lid of the ice chest blew off into the lake, clanging against the side of the boat as it went, and Mark casually asked Blackie if he knew how to ski. Blackie said no, and Mark threw him in the lake and threw two water skis in after him.

  He gave Blackie a few simple instructions as the rain stopped and the sun came out. Blackie got up on his first try, and they spent the rest of the day water skiing and having a great time. No bass or other fish were harmed during the entirety of the day.

  Blackie often wondered if Mark had considered asking him if he could swim before throwing him in the lake. After thoroughly considering the matter he decided it was a moot point - Mark had thrown him a life vest after tossing in the skis so drowning him probably wasn’t his objective.

  So, although he was fairly confident Mark hadn’t intended to drown him, sometimes Blackie couldn’t help but remember the rattlesnake-in-the-cave incident and wonder if Mark had lost that game of rock-paper-scissors on purpose. Maybe he would ask him someday. Then again, maybe not. It might be better to not know.

  Now, here he was sitting in the Nomad, who-knows-where, and wondering if his brother and Nita, and the rest of the crew on Arton’s stealth fighter had survived the Zin Charr’s attack. Becoming restless, he got out of the car to sit on a bench nearby. A slight breeze made the air feel cool, and the bright sunshine warmed his face and hands. Joules walked over and sat next to him.

  She didn’t say anything;
she just sat there. Joules knew Blackie was struggling with Mark’s decision to stay on the fighter with Nita, and his own decision to leave in the Nomad. They sat in silence, each of them happy to be sitting next to each other, but both of them lost in their own thoughts.

  Wayne and Amelia joined them at the bench. “When Anonoi is ready we need to move on,” suggested Wayne.

  “Sure, the sooner the better,” replied Blackie. His matter-of-fact tone indicated his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “We picked up some supplies in case our next destination is as barren as the last one,” offered Amelia.

  “Anonoi is back,” said Joules, who nodded at the wispy vapor hovering over the Nomad.

  After a brief conversation, they got in the car. Anonoi positioned himself in front of the Nomad and the area immediately around them began to oscillate slightly. The air, ground and pavement pitched like they were mounted on a skid moving back and forth, while the adjacent area remained motionless. It was always a little unsettling to Amelia and she closed their eyes.

  “Anonoi always looks like he’s thickening,” commented Joules, “like the wispy parts are condensing.”

  The oscillating area around them suddenly twitched. Amelia had her head down and her hands over her face. The time and space shifting always made her woozy and she didn’t utter a word. The area around them twitched and without hesitating Joules closed her eyes.

  “Here we go,” said Wayne.

  “Here we go,” replied Mark.

  A shift in time and space is hard to describe. They moved, but like all their previous shifts it wasn’t flowing movement, it was jerky, like moving instantaneously from one point to another without seeing all the scenery in-between. Amelia dared not open her eyes; the thought of it made her groan miserably. Joules kept her eyes shut too. Hearing Amelia’s groans were an antidote to any temptation to see what was happening.