When the sun disappeared behind the upmost peak of the Oquirrh Range, and cast an ominous shadow on Tom’s back, he finally turned from the outstretched vista and walked a submissive, beaten pace, northwest. But unlike his last retreat—running fast and furious, filled with energy and bent on beating the system—this trek would be a slow and painful shuffle; one he would be lucky to finish at all.
--
Hours passed, and Tom found himself stumbling along in a disoriented trundle. He was no longer coherent, and had no idea where he was. By sheer luck, he toppled upon a dirt road in the black of night. In his weakened confused state, his instincts should have driven him down the path, the easiest trod. But instead, he had turned and shuffled uphill against the rising incline, each step seeming more weighted and biting than the last.
Tom didn’t care so much anymore, about living . . . about dying . . . about anything, really. It was increasingly more difficult to negotiate his reasoning process, his intent. What had he decided to do? Was he looking for someone? Where was he headed? He was near collapse, and having found no water, the boy’s dehydrated body was losing the battle that raged inside him. Yet, some unseen force pushed one foot in front of the other, as though he were a robot tied to a wire. Suddenly, the toe of Tom’s shoe kicked the edge of a rise in the ground. He stumbled forward, and nearly went down, but caught himself just in time. The mental intervention of recovering from the fall caused a surge of adrenaline, and for a moment, Tom’s cognizant reasoning returned. It was then that he noticed his footing. He was no longer standing on dirt. The ground was hard, yet smooth. It was asphalt! Overgrown with wisps of vegetation, yes, but asphalt all the same. He raised his head to look around. The canyon had opened up into a small basin. It was quite dark, but not so black as to vale the towering cliffs on both sides of him. And then all at once, Tom saw something that stirred a familiar purpose, a reason for his long recursive meander, and the reality of his resolve swept back into him like a fresh breath of air.
The first-quarter moon was now directly overhead, and cast its pale glow downward upon the looming cliff wall rising in front of him like a great black tidal wave. At its base was the shadowy outline of a gaping opening, framed under a huge concrete archway—he had found the old Falling Rock Mine!
Tom was too incoherent to feel any real emotion, and much too weak to confront the blockade which now seemed to mock his triumph, this last obstacle of his journey. He cared only of getting to water. Yet, subconsciously, the fortuitous arrival had kicked up his spirits and increased his heart rate. He felt a spark of desperately needed energy, and smidge of renewed determination. He had to get past that concrete blockade.
Tom dropped hard on one knee then on the other, and when he did, he prayed for help, and for another chance at life. He knew he was very ill, possibly near death, but if he managed to find water somewhere in the Falling Rock’s roots, he could hydrate his blood, and give his body the best chance at surviving the poisonous assault.
Perhaps his prayers were heard, or maybe providence had decided to deal him back in the game, but whatever the reason, when Tom stood, his gaze fell upon what appeared to be a tear in the edging of the barrier. The fractured concrete, with its facet of jagged edges, reflected more moonlight than the smooth surface surrounding it, and it caught Tom’s attention like a beacon. He could clearly see it, there, on the far left, at the edge where the wire fencing began above its concrete base. Tom shambled to the spot.
The first steel pole—thicker and larger than those preceding it—rose against the crumbling face. The mortar had once been used to fill the vertical slit between the barrier and the gap it left when pushed against the mine entrance. Not even a small animal could have fit through it. But now, age, and the shifting ground, had caused a break in the seal. It would be tight, but the fissure might just accommodate his lean body, if he worked it right. It took all the remaining energy Tom had to navigate through the disintegrating rip, but somehow, he did. And when his form finally flopped onto the other side, collapsing onto itself like a great large fish against the ground, he didn’t have the strength to get back on his feet, and for nearly an hour, the boy laid unconscious.
When Tom opened his eyes again, he felt cool air moving across his face, and with it, the subtle sensation of moisture.
The last thing Tom remembered, he was fumbling for his flashlight, then silence.
--
Tom awoke, or at least felt that he had. Merely opening his eyes did nothing to reassure him of this. It had been just as dark in his insentient world of slumber as it was now in the lightless cavern. Yet, he knew he was roused. His other senses wielded hints of reality—the sound of water droplets falling from somewhere above into a still pool just off to the right of where he sat. Yes! He remembered now. He had found water, and poured himself into it.
As he stirred and tried to move, Tom realized that he was sitting, his back pushed up against the rough wall of the shaft—his back felt like it had been rubbed raw by course sandpaper. Then there was the smell of moist dirt, mineral and something else . . . just detected. It took time for Tom to recall his situation, and then, like flipping a switch, everything coalesced into a single, stabilizing fact: he had made it inside the Falling Rock mine, and he was still alive!
Tom remembered using the flashlight—the one he lifted from Loran’s truck—but now as he felt for it, fingering along the cold dirt floor, he couldn’t find it. What had happened to it? Finding water had done as he had hoped: it had temporarily brought him back from the edge of comatose, and maybe even death. But right now, the darkness seemed to smother him, and he thought he heard something. Where was that stupid light! Then Tom thought he saw an fleeting splash of illumination. It breathed and was gone so quickly. There’s the flashlight, he supposed. He had dropped it back a ways down the shaft. Tom let the wall help him stand, slowly. He fought back the urge to fold again, and finally won out—he was standing on both feet. He felt dizzy, nauseous and his wounds throbbed, but he had to get back his flashlight, it was the only way he could see to maneuver. Tom edged himself on shaky legs along the damp wall, treating it not only as a guide but as his stabilizer. He had only taken a few blind steps when another burst of light suddenly spit out of the blackness. Tom froze. This time the illumination was more intense, and like a bolt of lightning, it leaped and sprang onto surfaces all around him before dying off. This was no flashlight! Tom tried to slow his breathing and listen. Was he still dreaming? No. The entire cavern had temporarily revealed itself, and now Tom realized with absolute dread, that something else was in the shaft with him, and coming closer! He felt the blood drain from his already queasy stomach, and he eased himself down in sitting position once more. As he did, he felt the pressure of an object in his back pocket. He knew instantly what it was—his flashlight!
An awful realization began to break over him. It was the mounted patrol! They had found him. It was probably the same team that had tracked him just before he reached the foothills. Somehow they had spotted him dangling from the outcropping. How else would they have spotted him? They would never have expected him to backtrack and head up hill into the treachery of Oquirrh peaks, away from the interstate, his only means of escape. The barren Oquirrh range offered no shelter, food or water. Tom had counted on this peculiar strategy, and now it had failed. He let his head fall submissively between his knees. Maybe it was a good thing after all. He was so weak . . . so tired. Perhaps it was time to surrender.
By now, the mineshaft had taken on a very different ambient. The thick darkness which had been so obscuring had vanished, replaced instead by shards of light dancing in all directions. The strange illuminations grew infinitely more bright, even abnormally bright, thought Tom, especially for handheld flashlights. There must be dozens of them, he figured, as his beaten gaze remained aimlessly down, between frayed pant legs and to shredded tennis shoes. The ground between his shoes—now animated with shards of light that swelled and ebbed—was covered in smal
l, broken rocks. Tom closed his eyes. He neither cared, nor had the energy to lift his head.
Minutes passed, and Tom fought to keep his mind from fading into unconsciousness. Finally, he heard something very strange and unexpected. It was not the arresting shouts or vivid command by men on the hunt. Neither was it the scraping echo of rocks under the approaching boots. In fact, it was nothing of the sounds which Tom had anticipated, his ears primed for the posse of officers to seize upon him at any moment. Instead, he heard a series of high pitched whines and clicking noises, like the mechanized motion of gears.
Even though Tom’s head pounded and his neck burned with the swollen pain from the bite, he forced his chin from his knees, and turned his blurred vision down the cavern toward the strange anomalous noise. With the strobe-like illumination seemingly everywhere, the tunnel’s structural details could now be identified. Tom made out the course rock sides, and the heavy timbered ceiling above him. Then, as his eyes squinted to shield out the blinding explosions of light, he saw something terrifying in the strobe of shadows. There in the distant shaft, were two large figures! They looked almost human, yet somehow different—perhaps men dressed in some kind of thick, protective gear which both exaggerated and distorted their normal silhouettes. Tom was so weak, he could hardly keep his head steady, and he questioned his own eyes. Who are they, and why are they spraying fire from their arms? What? What was he saying, thinking? He wasn’t making any sense, even to himself. No. They must be welding . . . welding something. That must be it, he perceived. And then, as he gulped in another wheezing breath, he turned his head . . . and there were eyes coming at him! Horrifying, yellow eyes! Large and full of fire . . . and growing ever nearer! Tom tried to move, tried to scream out but his body betrayed him. “No!” he gurgled. “You are not real!” But the monstrous things were real, so real that he could smell their acrid scent—a burnt caustic odor as if hell itself had opened its doors and allowed them passage.
The ground rumbled, gears meshed as the metal creatures continued in their strange assault, blasting white shards of blinding light at the cavern walls.
And then suddenly, they were right on top of him!
Tom’s head fell back; his body went limp, and he returned to the world of oblivion.
Chapter 15:
Tom drifted from blackness into a realm of absolute tranquility. He was only now becoming aware. His body felt as if it were wrapped in the warmth of an unseen, yet radiant source. I’ve died, were his first cognizant thoughts. Then he began to feel his limbs, hear sounds around him, and sense a light beyond his closed eyelids. He slowly forced a tiny opening. It took time for the blurred shapes to focus, but when they did, he found himself in a very strange room. It was unusually bright, yet not uncomfortably so. It was a brilliant light, nothing of the usual tubular, incandescent sort, with its sputtering, dingy glow. He blinked wide, then squinted in an acclimating reflex. What was this place?
Tom found himself on his back, lying supine. From this position, the only thing to focus on was the ceiling above. Yet as the boy scanned the entirety of the smooth surface, he noted with some surprise, that there were no light fixtures—no source of the calming illumination. He managed to angle his head enough to see more objects around him, and thought he spotted a wisp of movement. But his head was resting in a great thick cushion, which—regardless of how he turned it—blocked all but a very narrow angle of sight. Even so, Tom understood right away that the feel of the room, or more specifically, the way things appeared in this room, were strangely different. Then it hit him: there were no shadows? The area was ablaze with radiance, yet not a single shadow cast its dark form on any surface. It was as if the walls, ceiling and floor were emitting the same incredible brightness, and at equal intensity.
It took some work, but Tom managed to lift his hand, the one which had been severely lacerated. To his astonishment, the gashes on his fingers were gone, and his skin felt soft, smooth and was surprisingly clean . . . at least for him. How long had he been unconscious? He made a hasty attempt at lifting his head but quickly fell back again. He was more weak than he realized. When the room stopped spinning, Tom let his body relax again, breathing deep and long. His normal rational was slowly returning, and he was able to think much clearer now. It was time to assess his situation, physically and perceptually. One thing was for certain, someone had found him and saved his life; and at that point in time he was fairly certain it was not the company of officers who had been pursuing him.
As the boy mentally engaged each limb—wiggled toes, expanded fingers, bent knees, lifted arms—he discovered that his right arm, the one that had been poisoned by the rattlesnake bite, would not respond to his mental commands. A sickening heat suddenly grew in the pit of his stomach. They hadn’t been able to save his arm! It was the only explanation. Yet, to see is to believe, and he had to know for certain. Tom forced his torso into a subtle twist, then a roll. Finally, he had tilted his body enough to change the angle of his line of sight. Now, as he craned his head, lifting it above the plain of cushion and covers, he saw with great relief, not only his arm, but far more than he planned on.
Tom’s injured limb rested in a type of synthetic sling. The odd support emitted a steady pool of light which extended outward, engulfing the damaged area of his skin in a great iridescent sphere. Like his hand, the injury had nearly healed. The support protruded from a larger device situated next to his bed. Several translucent cables ran from this device to an ancillary panel suspended above him. Beaded energy flowed through the connections, rolling and spinning back and forth from machine in a dazzling prismatic display. What kind of hospital was this?
“Do not be afraid, Tom Toone.” The gentle voice came, as if on cue to his mental query, and sounded like an angel.
Tom instantly lurched toward it, and when he did, he felt the sting in his neck, reminding him that there had been a second snakebite.
A young woman suddenly appeared in his view. She approached his side. She reached and gently eased his head back down, adjusting his headrest so that he could get a better view of his surroundings.
“Careful. You are not quite recovered.” She touched him smoothly. “What an ordeal you must have had. Those were very nasty snakebites. From the analysis, it appears to have been of the genera Crotalusa. The name is derived from the Greek word krotalon, which means rattle or castanet. It is a class of venomous pit viper endemic to the Western States and commonly referred to as rattlesnake.” Then she suddenly stopped talking, and giggled pleasantly. “I am so sorry. Please forgive me for rattling on myself.” And lifting a hand to her chin, she tittered charmingly at herself once more. Her voice was strangely soothing, and carried a peaceful, almost cathartic warmth to it. In her hand, she held a strange, metallic pad which responded both audibly and visually to her frequent touch.
She was attractive in an intriguing sense. Dressed in a casual white jacket, buttoned, with contrasting dark slacks, she epitomized a charismatic, sophisticated female presence. She had thick black hair—the blackest Tom had ever seen—pulled back and banded with a simple headdress. Her skin was nearly as white as the walls of the room, and seemed to radiate its own lustrous glow. Her lips were thick and red; her teeth, which he could see very clearly under her large smile, were perfect and white. But her eyes, although Tom assumed to be as lovely as the rest of her features, were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses which rested comfortably under lush, defining eyebrows.
“How do you know my name?” Tom finally managed, his voice sounding even unfamiliar to himself.
She smiled again and rested her hand on his arm. “All of your questions will be answered,” she replied, patting him consolingly. “But right now, you need to rest. You are safe, and well attended.” She turned to leave, then paused, “my name is Ruthanne,” she added, almost as an afterthought. Then she headed toward an arched doorway. It was an unusual exit for a building—no handles, knobs . . . more like an elevator than a door. And when the thing swishe
d opened, Tom knew he was not in the city hospital.
“It’s about time. Oh! He’s awake. Why didn’t you tell me?” Jacob stood just outside the door looking very excited.
Tom blinked at the boy standing in the entrance. He did not look any older than twelve . . . maybe thirteen at the most. His hair was tousled, his jeans, T-shirt and shoes were visibly worn, and he gave the appearance of having just come in from a game of ball at the local park.
Ruthanne clicked her tongue, irritably, and raised her hands in an effort to stifle him, but the kid kept gawking anxiously around her. “Let me come in, Ruthanne. Move aside, I want to see how he’s doing.”
“No Jacob! He needs to rest. Now move back into the corridor.”
“Why?”
“Because I said!”
Tom attempted to sit up again. And even with the incessant pounding in his head, managed it. “Where am I?” he cried out. “Who are you people? Am I in some kind of prison care center?”
“Now look what you have done!” snapped Ruthanne.
“Me!” cried Jacob, defensively.
Zen, Ellen and Eli suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Okay,” spoke Zen, calmly. “Let’s all move back into the recovery room,” he ushered. “It appears that our guest is coherent enough to ask valid questions. And I believe he deserves valid answers.”
Tom swallowed hard. Now there were three of them in the room. No . . . four, five—soon, five individuals stood around him. And none of them looked like hospital workers . . . people . . . attendees! He should have been terrified, but he wasn’t? Instead, he found himself strangely calm, and almost amused at their interactions—they were like quarreling siblings.
When the strange group had finally settled down and each had leveled absorbing faces at him, Tom knew why he was not afraid. Their expressions emulated genuine concern and kindness. He had learned long ago how to differentiate between the sincere and the facade. The boy had lived his entire life among the forced and artificial. So who were these people, and where on earth was he? As he pondered upon the myriad of questions pouring through his head, one terrifying vision suddenly slammed back from recent memory, vivid and clear: his last conscious moments in the Falling Rock mine. “Wait! I,”—he suddenly stammered out. “What were those things I saw! Those devils that were in the mine!”
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