by William Bebb
A squirrel watched from a branch in a nearby tree as the early morning sun warmed him.
Panting heavily, the woman veered off the path and headed for a water fountain by a line of shrubs that separated the park from the road. Vehicles could be heard driving beyond the hedge as she reached the fountain and started to drink.
“I told you, no rest until we go at least two miles. And remember this was your idea anyway. You said you wanted to get in shape before we go to your parents place for Thanksgiving,” the man said sternly, but smiled as he jogged over and watched her slurping the water.
Looking up, still bent over the stone water fountain, she gasped, “I said we should run a few laps, Mike, not start some kind of a marathon.”
“Alright, you can rest up but I'm going to do another lap. When I get back around here you better be ready to move that fat ass of yours or someone might just spank it,” he said before sprinting back to the path as she grunted and drank some more.
The water made her stomach clench and she bent over trying not to hate her husband for being such a jerk. The sirens wailing in the distance made her again wish she'd brought her MP3 player and headphones. She looked at the plume of smoke drifting up across the sky from somewhere to the north and wondered what was burning. Her feet ached almost as much as her head did and silently she swore not to drink wine the night before going jogging ever again. She slipped off a shoe and let a few small pebbles fall out while turning it upside down and shaking it.
A whisper of a voice coming from behind startled her and she lifted her shoe ready to clobber whoever it was. Bums sometimes slept in the park and most were harmless, but she was wary nonetheless while spinning around. Her eyes widened as she saw a man dressed in some kind of military uniform, crawling across the dewy grass toward the water fountain. His face and hands were ashy white and his eyes looked impossibly blood shot.
“Oh my God. Were you mugged?” She asked, moving quickly to his side and helping him to a park bench.
“Water. Please,” he managed to say with difficulty through his parched lips.
She reached into a waste can and picked out a plastic cup from a fast food restaurant and ran back to the fountain. Rinsing it out as well as possible, she filled it half full and brought it to him.
He sipped from it and swayed unsteadily on the bench.
As he took another drink, she held his shoulder to keep him from falling off the bench.
“You need an ambulance. They'll be here in just a couple of minutes,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.
“No, please don't call them. Please,” he begged, looking up at her with eyes that appeared impossibly sunken in addition to horribly bloodshot.
“You need help. My husband's a cop. He'll be running by in just a couple of minutes,” she said looking hopefully toward the jogging path.
“Call my daughter, Sarah,” he said, before reciting the phone number.
“What?” A sleepy voice came through the phone.
“Your father gave me this number. He's hurt. I found him a few minutes ago in the Benjamin Franklin Park in Georgetown.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Cheryl, but that's not important. He won't let me call an ambulance and he's really hurt.”
“Let me talk to him.”
Cheryl handed him the phone and stepped back.
“Sweetie bear, I need you,” Rockford whispered in a raspy voice.
“Daddy? Hang on, I know where the park is. I'll be there in five minutes,” she said, before hanging up.
Handing her back the phone, Rockford smiled weakly. “Thanks, she's coming. You can go on now. Everything will be okay.”
“Can you tell me what happened and who you are, at least?”
“I think you'd be better off not knowing the answer to either of those questions,” he answered, before finishing off the last of the water. “Could you get me some more, please?”
*****
It was dark in the surveillance room, except for the light coming from the long line of small monitors that lined the wall. On them, live feeds were still being received on all of them except for two. The two screens were labeled Research Lab.
After entering his authorization code, Colonel Abrahms switched those feeds to the big screen monitor hanging on the wall.
“Hang on, I gotta back the recordings up. Do you have any ideas what happened over there?”
“You'd laugh,” Everson said, staring at the screen as Abrahms tapped on the keyboard.
“I don't think so.”
“From what I saw, it looks like that damn cube imploded like a miniature black hole,” Everson said, shaking his head.
“See, I'm not laughing. What's the likelihood of radiation?” Abrahms asked, reaching for the phone and dialing military police headquarters.
“Very likely; damn fucking likely, as a matter of fact.”
Holding up a hand to signal quiet, Abrahms spoke quickly into the phone ordering a nuclear investigation team to the site and that no one be allowed within half a mile until they have findings on the danger from radiation. After hanging up, he looked at Everson and raised an eye brow.
“Yeah I know, if there's radiation we're probably already screwed. Doesn't matter anyway, I was only about fifty feet from the trailer when it happened. Just play the video.”
Onscreen, the lab technician was rolling some equipment over to the table and looking at his watch.
“I was getting us breakfast or I'd have been in there too.”
Abrahms nodded as the video continued.
The first sign of trouble was when the cube changed from its regular milky coloration to a slowly flashing purple and then red. A few seconds later, a rapid beeping sound caught the technician's attention and he ran back to the scale built into the examination table. He looked down at the digital readout and the overhead camera showed the scales blue numbers rapidly increasing.
At half a ton, he pulled a Geiger counter off the counter nearby and waved it around the cube. The video didn't show the readings, but the technician looked relieved as he left it turned on and set it down near the cube.
“No radiation?” Abrahms asked.
“Or not enough to worry about. He should have left, though. What the Hell is he doing, taking pics?” Everson asked, as they watched the technician pull his cell phone out and point it at the cube.
“Look at the scale, why did it stop?” Abrahms asked.
“It's more than it can measure. Oh God, leave! Run, you idiot!” Everson screamed as the cube was now less than half its original size.
Over the speakers they heard the trailer walls creaking and windows imploding followed by gusts of wind while the man quickly shoved the phone in his shirt pocket.
The lights seemed dimmer except for the quickly pulsing red cube. A loud rapid clicking sound started mixing with the winds being sucked into the room and the technician looked at the Geiger counter again. He yelled, “Fuck!” and turned to run.
The cube was getting harder to see. It was almost black except for the faster flashes of red.
“Why's it look like that? What's with the lights?”
“The cube's collapsing in on itself. I think it's too late for him to leave even if he wanted. As for the darkness, even light photons are being pulled in,” Everson theorized while wanting to look away but unable as the video continued.
The darkness was expanding from the center of the table as the wall mounted camera showed the technician moving slower. From the above mounted camera he was moving closer to regular speed, but the video signal was becoming steadily more static filled.
“Why the discrepancy? The time code should have these cameras synced up,” Abrahms asked, as the wide shot started to take on a jerky almost strobe light look.
“The closer one is probably on the edge of the cube's event horizon or at least much closer, therefore the video looks like more normal speed but note the interference. If light can't escape fro
m it neither can the video signal, at least not for much longer. As for the wide angle video from the wall, time and things still visible inside the area appear to move slower,” Everson explained, shaking his head knowing that if the technician was inside the cube's event horizon he was dead already.
There was a loud cracking sound coupled with an increasing roar of wind as the ceiling began to collapse. Audio from the closer feed sounded like it was recorded at double or maybe triple speed before the screen flared and went dark.
The technician was trying to grab onto a counter. His face was one of unimaginable agony as Everson thought he was probably feeling something akin to a gravitational wood chipper shredding his body's nerves.
The remaining camera took on a growing fish eyed warping effect and the man's scream sounded slower and were almost lost in the sound of rushing wind After he managed to wrap his fingers around the edge of the counter, there was a red flash in the darkness and the view of the lab warped even more.
The darkness engulfed his body except for his torso, head, and outstretched arms.
The darkness quickly grew until only the man's fingers were visible.
It was hard to see, with the increasing video interference, but the fingers seemed to stretch out impossibly long back into the blackness.
When Abrahms had been a child his parents once bought him a Stretch Armstrong action figure. He'd loved pulling his rubbery arms and legs but right then all he could think was, Don't throw up.
The remaining video went bright white and then became only static.
Both men sat quietly for several seconds before Everson cleared his throat and looked at Abrahms. “I worked with that man for almost four hours and never even thought to ask what his name was. Do you know it or if he had any family?”
The colonel shook his head as he tapped on the keyboard to make a copy of the video feeds they'd just seen. “Never met him.” He paused and then continued, “I've seen a lot of movies where people who were pulled into a black hole are transported to alternate universes or something like that. Do you think it's possible that could have happened to him?”
Everson sighed heavily and stood up while shaking his head. “If you asked me that yesterday, or if a small glass cube could act like a black hole, I'd have thought you were a gibbering moron. This morning however, I just don't know what to think. I'd like to hope he just died.”
Abrahms stood and looked at him, “Why do you say that?”
“An alternate universe or dimension is a possibility but a horrible one. What if it was solely inhabited by ravenous insects, demons, monstrosities, or perhaps he came out in deep space itself and had the unpleasant sensation of feeling his body turning into a frozen block of ice.
The possibilities are as endless as they are nightmarish,” Everson said, stepping into the hallway. “Could I please go home now, colonel? I'd very much like to get mindlessly drunk as soon as possible and try to forget the last several hours.”
“Get checked out for radiation exposure first. If you're clean, take a few minutes and write up a report on your experiences here and any theories you may have on the cube. Then turn it in back here at the command post.
After that, you're free to go. But I may have to contact you, so try not to get too drunk.” Abrahms said, walking him through the previously deserted warren of workstations. While not yet fully staffed, the reassuring sight of several personnel busily working made him feel slightly better.
At the outer door Abrahms said, “I'm kind of surprised by one thing, doctor.”
Stepping outside, the tired looking man in his pajamas and robe looked back questioningly.
“Why didn't you ask for a copy of the videos? I couldn't have given you one, of course, but I fully expected you to at least ask for one.”
Everson looked across the parking lot to where the research lab once was. The view was blocked by several emergency vehicles and for that he was somewhat grateful. “Colonel, I could have very easily been in that trailer when everything went to shit. My life was spared by my stomach grumbling for breakfast.
Right now, however, I doubt I'll be able to eat anything for quite a while. Tomorrow I may eat, but no matter how long I live I promise you I will never want to see that video again.”
“I understand,” Abrahms said, patting the man on the shoulder before returning to his office.
*****
The black limo sped through the early morning traffic, weaving gracefully past those drivers who seemed confused by the road signs showing the minimum speed limit was forty miles per hour.
The driver had a theory that Washington DC was home to a considerable population of foreigners that apparently confused the word minimum with maximum. Passing a new Mercedes driven by a man wearing what looked like a purple turban, the limo driver was going one mile an hour under the speed limit and obeying all laws regarding the operation of a motor vehicle, but still felt nervous. It wasn't cops he worried about. It was the odd trio of men in the back.
If the money wasn't so good, he'd quit in a heartbeat. After only a few weeks of being hired as a driver he had a growing feeling something was wrong with his employer and his associates. He'd driven for odd and secretive clients before but none more so than his current one.
Being a limo driver was easy work, really. People would get in, tell him an address and then roll up the black leather partition that was supposed to be soundproof but wasn't.
At first he'd thought being able to listen in was sort of funny. When he drove for a young girl who dressed like a slut and sang horribly at sold out concerts that particular limo had the same faulty soundproofing. In that case, he learned a lot about which stars were gay when she talked to people on the phone and more than a few times heard rhythmic thumping sounds accompanied by moans and groans of sex.
That had been a good gig. If the girl hadn't died from overdosing on drugs he'd still be happily driving her wherever her slutty little heart desired.
But she was dead and now he was driving for some very disturbing people. Usually they spoke a language that he'd never heard before and that never really bothered him.
It was the few snippets of conversation in English, usually spoken over the phone that made his skin crawl. That, and the way some of the men laughed. They squealed like pigs and the sound, on more than one occasion, made it very hard to keep from screaming.
Pulling off the interstate, he drove toward the small private airfield his employers sometimes used. He tried not to listen to them talking by rerunning movies and television shows in his mind. Usually it worked, but this morning they were talking and shouting much more than usual.
“You're both going down there, right now. Your counterparts are already trying to track down Professor Anniston. Heller's out of the way but that's not enough. I want confirmation it's gone as well. Also, find and make Colonel Wilcox disappear but first squeeze him for information until he squeals,” an angry excited voice drifted through the partition.
A series of grunts in the weird foreign language followed along with laughter and more of the unnerving pig like noises.
As more talking went on, the driver began replaying an old episode of M*A*S*H in his head. It was one of the earlier shows, before it got boring and all preachy toward the end of the series. By the time he reached the automated gate leading into the airfield, he'd managed to relax slightly. But the names Wilcox and Anniston remained floating in the back of his mind as he unrolled the driver side window and inserted his magnetic card key.
A few minutes later the three men got out of the back and walked quickly to a small jet which was in front of a hangar.
The driver was feeling relieved as he watched the two short men in dark gray coats and hats climb aboard the jet. A flash of light from inside the hangar blinded him momentarily. Glancing inside he saw five more jets identical to the one outside, but in the farthest corner he saw a man carrying something that looked like an enormous coffin with portholes or what looked like them
along the side. The man carrying it looked toward the open hangar doors and upon seeing the limo turned quickly away and moved into the shadows.
The distance from the limo to where the man stood inside the hangar was maybe fifty yards. It was too great a distance to be sure of what he saw, but the driver quickly looked down as what appeared to be a large half man half pig disappeared from view.
He nearly screamed when the man wearing the white robe knocked on the window. Instead, he unrolled it and asked, “Yes sir?”
“I've had a long unpleasant evening. So, just take me home.”
“Yes sir,” he said, and waited until the man got in the back, put the limo in drive and pulled away not daring to glimpse inside the hangar again.
*****
Walking slowly down the sidewalk, the old woman smiled up at the early morning sun as it peeked around the edge of a tall building a few blocks away. It's good to be alive and that's a fact, she thought, before stopping to paw through a big green trashcan.
There were several paper bags from fast food places and even more plastic bottles but no aluminum cans inside.
She sighed in disappointment and put the trash back in the can. A police car cruised slowly by and she waved at the officer behind the wheel. But he was staring halfway down the block at a big RV that was taking up several parking spaces.
She walked along, happy he hadn't stopped to give her grief for dumpster diving. Some cops are jerks that way, she knew.
Looking up at the decorations all over the RV, she wondered what kind of nut would drive such a gaudy looking thing. It was covered in an odd collection of sports decals of all varieties. Footballs, baseballs, bats, and basketballs were placed with little sense of design along the sides. She liked the big dragon rearing up on its hind legs at the rear, but overall the rest of it looked like someone who had too much money and not enough sense owned it. Leaning back and giving it one last look, she thought about how she'd rather be dirt poor than have money to waste on such an ugly thing.
She laughed as she realized she was in fact dirt poor and that it takes all kinds of people to make this goofy old world keep on spinning, even her. “To each his own,” she muttered, turning back toward the sunrise.