Stuck on Earth

by David Klass

  But they don’t start draining the second row or the third. Instead one of the men says, “That’s plenty for the truck. Has Al seen the old man?”

  “Yeah, he went up to the office to get his cut. He’ll play with the numbers for us, no problem.”

  “Fine. Then let’s flush the rest.”

  They have a second hose ready. It’s bright red and doesn’t come from the truck, but rather is attached to a web of piping that runs across the ceiling. They use this red hose to drain container after container. I close my eyes and can almost feel the chemical waste being sucked out of the containers, into the piping of the factory, and then discharged beneath the surface of the Hoosaguchee.

  “You ever swim in this river?” the tall man asks.

  “You kidding?” his friend replies. “Might as well swim in a toilet.”

  “I meant when you were a kid.”

  “Yeah, sure. But that was twenty years ago. Now I got a pool.”

  “You’ve got a pool? You son of a bitch. When are you going to invite me over?”

  “That would be never.”

  I record everything they say and do. They work methodically, and they’ve soon drained the second row of containers and have started on the third. Michelle and I try to keep still and silent, but we’re kneeling in a very narrow hiding place and my arms and legs start to cramp. I stretch out a little and lean back against the side of a wooden crate. It buckles with a cracking sound.

  “What was that?” the tall man asks.

  “Didn’t hear nothing,” his friend replies.

  I do my best to brace the cracked wooden crate, but it cracks again and a large shard breaks off and crashes to the floor.

  “Mice?” the squat man asks.

  “More likely we’ve got a rat,” the tall man surmises, and I hear a nasty hardness in his voice.

  I peer out through the crack and see that he’s pulled out a club and is heading our way.

  I kneel next to Michelle and whisper, “This time we can’t hide. They’ll find us for sure. We’ve got to run for it.”

  “Where?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Deeper into the factory, till we can find an exit.”

  She looks scared, but I can’t blame her. My own knees are knocking together. “Okay,” she whispers. “Say when.”

  I count, “One, two, three,” and then we’re off, sprinting through the back of the storage chamber into a dark hallway.

  I hear the tall man cry out, “THERE THEY GO. CALL SECURITY!”

  35

  We race through the darkness. Footsteps ring out behind us and men call to each other. I haven’t been this scared since my spaceship was caught in a meteor shower on the way to Omicron XII.

  Michelle trips and almost falls. “I can’t see anything,” she says. “Where’s the flashlight?”

  “If I turn it on, they’ll spot us right away,” I tell her. “Take my hand.”

  She fumbles in the darkness, and then I feel her warm palm in my own.

  I blink my eyes five times in rapid succession and convert Tom Filber’s ocular processes to a Penteluvian Vision Stream. The Penteluvians live their entire lives in extremely low light and have developed a method of sight-sensing their way through almost pitch darkness.

  Of course, it’s also possible that I’m really Tom Filber, and I’m so scared I’m blundering through the gloom on adrenaline and dumb luck.

  A new and terrifying sound reaches us. At first it’s faint and I think it’s the night wind whooshing through an open window. But it comes again, louder and closer and repeating itself in bloodcurdling variations.

  It sounds like a platoon of ghosts calling out to us. There’s a hunger in the sound, a message of sharp danger. Whoever is bellowing into the night is following us, tracking us. And then the sound echoes more clearly, and I recognize it and feel a sharp stab of terror.

  It’s the baying of dogs. The factory does have them after all, and they’re being used to hunt us!

  “Tom!”

  “I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

  “No, I wanted to come. But I’m really scared.”

  “Me, too,” I admit. “But if we don’t panic, maybe we can find a way out. Once we get over the fence, the dogs can’t chase us. Let’s try this way.”

  We push through a doorway marked with warning signs and I shut the heavy door and lock it behind us. That should slow the pursuit for a while.

  We must have entered the wing of the factory where chemical processes take place. I see the shadowy outlines of chemical drums. The stench is acrid. It burns my nose and scalds my throat. “I can’t breathe,” Michelle gasps.

  “Pull your shirt over your mouth,” I tell her, and lead her on quickly.

  “I feel light-headed,” she whispers. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “We’re almost out,” I encourage her. But I am also feeling dizzy. If we don’t get out in a few seconds, these fumes will knock us both unconscious. My legs are unsteady, and I’m already half supporting Michelle.

  “Tom, I’m not going to make it.”

  I look around desperately and spot a red emergency exit light. “There’s a door,” I tell her.

  Her legs give out, and I catch her and carry her to the emergency exit. I kick the door open. An alarm shrills. But the good news is that we’re back outside. I gulp in cold breaths of fresh night air.

  The bad news is that we’ve emerged at the bottom of a steep flight of stone steps. I’m still groggy from the fumes, and I don’t know if I could stagger up those stairs on my own. Michelle is semiconscious. There’s no way she’ll be able to climb them.

  On the other hand, we don’t have a choice. The dogs are racing through the factory at high speed, and they’ve clearly picked up our scent. Their baying gets closer and closer.

  “We’ve got to climb these steps,” I tell Michelle. “Breathe in fresh air. I can’t do this without your help.”

  She makes a sound in her throat. Her arm hangs limp.

  I drape her over my shoulder and bend low to center her weight. Then I lift and stagger up the first step. Somehow I make it up the second one.

  My strength gives out, I totter for a second, and then I collapse and fall. Michelle lands heavily on top of me.

  The dogs sound excited. Maybe they can sense that we’re trapped. They’ll burst through the emergency door in seconds, their sharp teeth flashing in the moonlight.

  I have run out of options. What a sad way for a highly trained GC evaluator to meet his end. I think of my poor father, lost in the ooze of Sandoval. Anything seems preferable to being torn apart by dogs.

  I fish around in the darkness in my pocket. Find the tinfoil with the stale sugar doughnut. Whisper into my wibbler, “Come in, please. This is Ketchvar. I’m in terrible danger. I NEED HELP RIGHT NOW!”

  There is no response. I draw back my arm in fury. I am ready to fling the useless sugar doughnut into the darkness when I suddenly hear the crackle of interstellar space static. A second later the Preceptor’s distinctive voice asks faintly, “Ketchvar?”

  “Yes, Preceptor! I can barely hear you.”

  The Preceptor’s words are mostly lost in the vastness of space. I only catch bits and pieces. “Emergency rescue mission . . . Bubos VII . . . microtic plague . . . Still in transit . . .”

  “I NEED HELP RIGHT NOW,” I shout into the wibbler. “I’m about to be torn apart by dogs!” Michelle groans softly, as if to remind me of her presence. “I’m with a human female. The two of us require immediate assistance. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Try our best . . .” the voice promises. “. . . Limit to what we can do from here.”

  36

  I feel a tingling sensation. It’s a reverse gravity beam reaching out to us from hundreds of light-years in space. It can’t lift us up the steps from such a distance, but it’s making Michelle feel a bit lighter.

  I get to my knees and then to my feet. Drape her over my shoulder aga
in. And I start climbing.

  The night sky is visible high above us and I stagger toward it, moving very slowly, step by step, from an abyss of darkness and fear toward the familiar safety of the glittering stars.

  Now you know for certain who you are! I encourage myself. Your GC colleagues are coming back to rescue you and take you home. They’re all in the ship, gathered on the main deck, watching you on their deep space screen. The Preceptor Supervisor is no doubt pacing from one of his five legs to the other in that nervous way of his. His scaly orange-yellow face is tight with worry as he tries to make sure they’re doing everything they can to help you! Don’t let them down! Do it for Sandoval!

  I’ve carried Michelle more than halfway up the steps, but I’m running out of steam. So I shift gears and motivation.

  You’re a young man for the time being—you’ve assumed the body of an Earthling, I remind myself. If you don’t make it up these steps, no one will ever know about the chemical waste being pumped into the river. So act like a man! Mr. Stringfellow was right. You have no right to stand on the sidelines. You may be a Sandovinian, but this is your most noble human moment! Go for it!

  So I go for it. I’m three-quarters of the way up now. I can see the top step. Even with the reverse gravity beam helping, my arms are aching and my legs feel like strands of limp spaghetti. Tom Filber’s panicked voice seeps out from the Ragwellian Bubble. You’ll never make it. You idiot snail creature. You’ve taken over my body only to lead us both to ruin. We’ll be ripped apart by the dogs . . .

  I reseal the bubble and put all thoughts of pain and failure out of my mind. I can do this. I must find a way! I keep climbing. And as I stagger up the final few steps, I have an insight that this is exactly what it means to be human. To blunder along, bravely putting one foot in front of the other. The whole species is climbing step by step out of darkness, bearing a heavy weight. They are aware of their predicament. They have no idea what is waiting for them at the top of the stairs. But they are fighting their way up toward the stars as best they can.

  I near the top step. Michelle gasps, “Tom?”

  “Breathe the night air,” I encourage her.

  Two more steps to go. One more. I reach the top and feel triumphant for one long second. Then I see the barrier in front of me.

  It’s some sort of concrete retaining wall that circles this part of the factory. It looks about six feet high. And there’s no way around it.

  The dogs have stopped baying and started growling. I can hear their paws scrabbling at the closed emergency door. The guards will come and open it for them, and they’ll bound up the steep steps and attack us!

  No, I won’t let it end this way. It occurs to me that this wall, which now seems an insurmountable obstacle, will guarantee our safety from the dogs if I can get us over it.

  “I’ve hit a wall, literally,” I shout into the wibbler. “Give the beam the full juice. Redirect the Furnasian Thrusters. I need all the help you can give me!”

  “Tom, who are you talking to?” Michelle whispers. She’s still groggy, but she sounds a bit stronger.

  The beam intensifies. The tingling sensation is more pronounced. I step to the wall. There are no handholds or footholds. “Hold me tight,” I tell Michelle. “Don’t let me go.”

  “I’ll never let you go,” she promises. I feel her arms gripping me a little more tightly. I step onto a rock and reach up.

  Voices ring out from inside the factory. Men call to each other: “They must have gone through that door! Good, then they’re trapped! Let the dogs at them.”

  I stretch and my fingers find the top of the wall. I get the best grip I can, kick upward, and pull with all my strength. A surge of adrenaline helps. And of course the reverse gravity beam is making us both much lighter. But even so, I’m not going to make it. Who am I kidding? There’s no way I can carry the two of us over this wall. My arms aren’t strong enough. My fingers are slipping.

  I hear a thud from down below. The emergency door is kicked open. Paws bound up stone steps. I can hear the dogs jockeying for position, straining to be first to get at us. The furious growls promise us pain.

  I search deep inside myself and find the strength for one last effort. This has very little to do with the reverse gravity beam. This is pure Ketchvar, and maybe a little of Tom Filber tossed in. The first dog leaps and his teeth graze the bottom of my foot, but I pull with everything I have and lift us to the top of the wall.

  I glance back down for one second. Five dogs snarl and leap furiously. I see three guards climbing the steep stone steps. One of them raises a flashlight and shines it at us. “There!” he calls. “How could they possibly climb that?”

  I don’t stick around to answer his question. I transfer my weight, hang down the other side of the wall, and drop to the ground. “Michelle, we’re safe now, but we have to hurry to the fence,” I tell her. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so,” she says, and takes a few tentative steps.

  37

  We hurry to the fence. I could wibble the spaceship and ask for the reverse gravity beam again, but there’s no need. Michelle seems to be recovering quickly.

  She steps onto the split tree trunk, grasps the fence, and starts pulling herself up. I climb right next to her, encouraging her. We reach the top and swing our legs over the bent spikes at nearly the same moment.

  We pause there for a moment, as a familiar but still-frightening canine howl pierces the cold night air. The guards must have taken the dogs back through the factory and let them out a different exit. It sounds like they picked up our scent outside the concrete wall and are now racing toward us at full speed.

  Michelle shivers when she hears the dogs, but she also looks proud. “We finished the job,” she whispers.

  “We’ve got the goods,” I agree. “Now let’s get out of here.” We climb down and leap to the ground.

  Michelle can now manage a jerky half run—she’ll soon be one hundred percent recovered. We pick our way as fast as we can along the muddy bank toward the spot where we hid our bikes.

  I throw a glance at the dark band of river. Even in its polluted condition, it’s home to a variety of wildlife. The animals and fish should have an easier, cleaner time of it in the months ahead.

  Just as we reach our bikes, I hear angry growling in the distance and a furious metallic rattle. The dogs must have made it to the wire fence and are leaping against it, furious that we’ve gotten away again. Seconds later the guards’ frustrated voices ring out. One of them shouts, “Somebody get a car. They can’t be far.”

  We push off on our bikes and race up River Road, two dark shadows speeding along with only the whirring of our pedals and the spinning of our wheels against the pavement to break the silence. I glance over at Michelle, bent low over her handlebars, and it occurs to me that I’ve had more excitement and taken more risks in this one night on Earth than in the last thousand years as a GC evaluator.

  We turn onto the first side street and then veer down a narrow lane. The lots are small here, and the houses are dark and silent. We stop and watch through the narrow gap between two houses as a jeep races up River Road from the direction of the factory. Its high beams are on, and it must be going one hundred miles per hour as it roars past us and speeds away into the night.

  Michelle looks back at me and raises her right hand. I believe she is signaling that she wants to indulge in a common human celebratory gesture known as a “high five.” I slap her palm with my own, and suddenly I am flooded with a feeling of shared triumph and exultation, and we both smile.

  We hurry home, stow the bikes in our garages, and meet by her swing. “That was a pretty awesome adventure,” she says, looking excited and victorious.

  “Swing?” I suggest. “To celebrate that we made it back in one piece.”

  She checks her watch. “Only for a minute. It’s pretty late.”

  I climb on the swing first and she slides over next to me.

  “Are you sure you�
�re okay?” I ask. “You were pretty woozy back there.”

  “I’m fine now,” she assures me. “I just needed some fresh air. Those chemicals reeked.”

  “Same ones they’re dumping into the river,” I point out. “Or were dumping. Because I think we can put a stop to it now.” I hold up the camera.

  “What are you going to do with the pictures?” she asks.

  “We should probably turn them over to the Barrisford Gazette. Or to a local TV station.”

  Michelle thinks that over and looks just a little worried. “You do it, Tom. The trip was your idea.”

  “You shared the risks. You should share the credit.”

  “We did a good thing tonight,” she says with pride. “But we were trespassing. My father wouldn’t be happy about that. I think I’d better keep my name out of it.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “I guess the important thing is that we both know we did it together. You’re not sorry you came along?”

  “Do you even have to ask that?” She gives my arm a squeeze. “It was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Really?” She flashes me a grin. “I thought you crossed space at the speed of light and visited strange worlds.”

  “True,” I tell her, “but I’ve never hidden under a car or been attacked by dogs before.” She’s still grinning, and I smile back. “You don’t believe a word I say, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe about you,” Michelle admits. “You’re full of surprises. I keep thinking of you climbing that fence with the pliers in your teeth. You looked like a pirate.”

  “I was scared.”

  “You didn’t show it.” She checks her watch. “It’s late. I should go.” But she doesn’t make a move to leave.

  Go for it, Tom Filber encourages from the Ragwellian Bubble. Can’t you see the way she’s looking at you? Tell her that her eyes are sparkling.

  Shut up, I order him. This is your very last warning.