Agent Allen kneeled next to him and carefully placed two fingers on his neck. Everyone else gathered around, worried and pained expressions painted across their faces.
“Is he . . . is he?” Martha asked, unable to finish the question.
Agent Allen sighed with relief and looked up at the four young people. “He is still alive.”
Mr. C opened his eyes, slowly turned his head so he was looking up and calmly, albeit with difficulty, commented, “You don’t say.”
* * *
Agent Kline scratched his bald head and carefully considered the mammoth grandfather clock. He liked the grandfather clock, although he didn’t completely understand it. The intricate internal workings of the clock were elegant in design and fascinating to study. The craftsmanship was exquisite, though the finished product was creepy.
Perhaps the thing he liked most was its daunting size. His entire life Agent Kline had felt out of place because of his large size. He dwarfed everything around him. Here stood something that was not only bigger than he was, but actually made him feel small. Yes, Agent Kline liked the grandfather clock. He had filled a notebook full of pictures, descriptions and specifications of the clock’s inner workings. Given the chance, he would build one like it for himself.
Mr. S had been reviewing handwritten entries in his own notebook and now broke Agent Kline’s train of thought. “What we want to know is, can you get this clock to work?”
Agent Kline raised an eyebrow at Mr. S. “What about the other clock? You will not get a transition unless both clocks can sync up and work together.”
“I know. We know that.” Mr. S answered impatiently, waving a hand. “Eventually we will need you to transition back to Trona by going through that cave Ms. Smith and her young friend came through. Hopefully, it’s not too tight for you. Then, if you can fix the clock on the other side, we can begin to transition through the two mansions again.”
“What about Mr. C?” Agent Kline nodded his head toward the upstairs room where Mr. C lay in a large feather bed. Though still alive, Mr. C had broken both legs in his fall and fractured several ribs. He was also bruised and swollen and probably had internal injuries as well. Only basic first aid materials had been brought by the crossover team. While everyone tried to make him as comfortable as possible, it was evident Mr. C was in excruciating pain.
Mr. S stroked his chin and sighed. To say he looked concerned was an understatement.
“There is no way Mr. C can make it back through the cave. He will need to stay here until you’ve gone back and fixed the other clock.”
“What if I can’t fix the other clock?” Agent Kline hated to ask the question, but felt he had no choice. In his experience, it was best to ask the hard questions first.
“If you cannot fix the other clock, then Mr. C will die here.” Mr. S’s expression went flat. “He will die in this world, and we will bury him here.”
Agent Kline hesitated, and then opened his mouth as if to say something. Mr. S held up his hand, stopping any expressions of sympathy.
“First things first! Before we send you through the cave to fix the clock in our world, we have unfinished business in this world. Our priority right now is to find the Mojave Green and kill it. Tracking it down is too difficult and time consuming. We must lure the snake into a trap and that means getting the clock in this mansion fixed ASAP! Mr. C’s condition requires us to act expeditiously.”
Agent Kline wasn’t sure he understood what Mr. S was proposing. “What does the clock in this world have to do with this trap?”
“When it wants to feed, the snake is drawn to places where it can transition into other worlds. The bewildering effect of an anomaly on the snake’s prey greatly increases the snake’s chances of success, as evidenced by the snake’s extreme size.”
Agent Kline nodded, following the logic so far. He pointed toward the immense timepiece. “And, when this clocks starts working again, even though it can’t sync with the clock on the other side, you think that will be enough to entice the snake to come to this mansion?”
“Yes. We believe this mansion is one place the snake uses to transition. Although a brute creature, the snake senses a coming transition with enough forewarning to get here in time to crossover. Right before an anomaly, we feel an extreme drop in temperature. The snake appears to feel other indicators of a pending transition and seeks out the anomaly in time to transition. In theory, when the snake senses this clock is working, it will be drawn to it.”
“So,” Agent Kline summed up, “you want to use the clock on this side as bait to lure the snake to the mansion, so we can kill it here, before it can transition over to our world.”
“Correct.”
“And, you think the snake senses when this clock is working even when it is not in the immediate area. How close to the mansion does the snake need to be to feel the clock working?”
“I have no idea, but its arrival at a pending anomaly is too regular to be random.”
Agent Kline carefully considered what he had been told. He knew the answer to the next question, but had to ask it anyway. “How will you kill the snake should it show up as planned?”
“Oh,” Mr. S raised an eyebrow. “We want you to kill it, using that hip cannon.” Mr. S pointed to the Smith and Wesson 500 Agent Kline always carried with him.
“I see.” The two men stared at each other for a moment, neither blinking.
At last, Agent Kline blinked. “Okay then, I better make sure this clock is working.”
“Exactly.” The old scientist turned and walked away, leaving the big man to his work.
* * *
The room smelled strange to Camm. I wonder if this is how death smells.
Mr. C’s eyes fluttered open. His watery gaze focused on Camm. She sat stiffly in a high-back, wooden chair next to his bed, watching him with concern.
He gave her what might have been a smile. “Young lady, you don’t have to sit here,” he said with apparent effort. “I am sure there is something else you should be doing.”
Mr. S had asked that someone be stationed by Mr. C’s bed at all times. Everyone took turns. Before Camm could answer, Mr. S came in and stepped over to the side of the bed. Taking Mr. C’s liver spotted hand in his, he patted it gently.
“How are you doing?”
Mr. C’s expression was peaceful and calm. “I’m dying.”
In contrast, Mr. S’s expression became pained. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. We have a plan. We will get you back to our world for medical care.”
Mr. C took a deep, painful breath. “Not in time, not for me. It’s okay.” He closed his eyes.
“I told you not to come,” Mr. S whispered.
Mr. C didn’t answer.
Mr. S closed his eyes. Camm wondered if he was saying a prayer.
Carefully replacing Mr. C’s hand, Mr. S turned to leave, but first looked at Camm. “Thank you for sitting here with him.”
Camm tried to give an encouraging smile. “No problem.”
Mr. S left the room.
Camm felt guilty for thinking it, but she really hoped Mr. C didn’t die while she was sitting with him. As if he had heard her thoughts, Mr. C turned to Camm and said, “Don’t worry about it.”
Camm didn’t know how to respond, but even if she did, before she could, he continued, “You don’t have to stay.” And, as he drifted off, “You may leave now.”
His breathing was very shallow. Sometimes, it was hard to tell if he breathed at all.
Ignoring his instructions, Camm stayed by his bed until someone took her place. And, in spite of her guilt, she was relieved he had not died while she was with him.
XXII
The house looked like other Trona houses, but it had a basement, that was the difference. Basements were rare in Trona, though the desert had no water table to speak of
. But this house had a basement. He should have considered the possibility long before now and been looking for it. An interior room, in a basement, was the perfect place for the rat to hide during daylight hours.
Granny shook his head. This rat is no dummy.
He turned to nod at Boeno and Framtum, signaling he understood this was the place where the rat was hiding. With that, the two little, nearly-naked, dark men ran off in the opposite direction. They had hesitantly agreed to help Granny find the rat, but made it clear there was no way they were hanging around to fight it. If Granny wanted to confront the rat, he was on his own.
Cautiously, Granny approached the house, noting immediately that the front door was wide open, so much easier for the rat to come and go. Upon entering the house, two things were apparent.
First, the house stunk like rotten eggs, taken to the nth degree. The stink was painful.
Second, an uneasy sensation of being stalked penetrated Granny to the core as he entered. Granny had hunted and taken down large game and dangerous animals on every continent in the world. He did not spook easily. In fact, he usually did not spook at all.
But this was different. This was not just fear associated with facing a dangerous animal. A palpable sensation of foreboding enveloped him upon entering the house, something patently tangible, something completely separate from himself. He had never encountered anything like it before in the physical world, not in his own world anyway. It was like entering a fog bank of fear, which permeated his entire being, saturating him with horror.
Granny was in control of his emotions and could effectively deal with fear, and with the stink. He did not doubt the rat’s fog of fear served two purposes. One was to scare off potential threats, like his two new friends, who were now running the other way. The second was to warn the rat that a potential threat had arrived. Granny reasoned that by stepping into the rat’s emotional fog, he had set off an alarm, alerting the rat he was here. Any chance of surprising the rat had vanished.
It was nearly twilight. Granny had spent the day feeding Boeno and Framtum, telling them why he hunted the rat, and convincing them to help. He knew his best odds were to attack the rat at midday. But he finally knew where the rat was, and he knew the rat knew he knew. It would be gone if he came back tomorrow. No, he had to face the rat now, sun or no sun.
Inside the house, the basement door by the kitchen gaped open. His shoulder arms were cocked, ready to fire, but he first had to confront the rat with his flashlight and flares. Straining to hear the slightest sound, he warily descended the stairs.
* * *
It was Agent Allen’s turn to sit with Mr. C. He lay quietly in bed, propped up with pillows. His eyes were shut. His breath was quick and shallow. Clearly, even the simple act of breathing was painful. Since his eyes were closed, she could not tell if he was awake or asleep.
Agent Allen wished she had brought a book or a deck of cards with her in the transition. The battery in her iPod was very low, and she was preserving what life was left. She had nothing to do while she sat there. She scanned the room for something she could use to entertain herself, but saw nothing. When she turned back to Mr. C, his eyes were open. Pain etched deep lines across his face.
She wasn’t sure what to say. “I wish we had thought to bring stronger pain medication.”
He attempted a feeble smile. “Pain has become a familiar companion. I don’t welcome it, but I no longer dread it either.”
Agent Allen glanced around the room again, an awkward silence hanging in the air. She didn’t know what more to say. What does one say to a dying man?
“Linda.” It was the first time he had used her first name. “Tell me what the plan is.”
“The plan?” She had been focused on his impending death, and in that context, the question confused her. Was he asking about a plan to save himself?
“The plan to kill the snake.”
“Oh, right.” She felt sheepish and coughed to hide her embarrassment. “We will activate the grandfather clock. Mr. S thinks the snake will sense the clock running and come to the mansion.”
“Are you waiting for midnight?”
“Mr. S sees no reason to delay.” Agent Allen leaned forward, excited to explain. “Agent Kline has rebuilt the clock on this side, using the new parts he brought with him. The clock in this world is now better than new. Once we start it, it will reach across dimensional boundaries into our world, trying to link up with the other clock.
“Of course, it takes two clocks to actually create and control a transition, but Mr. S figures if the clock on this side is trying to initiate a transition that should be enough to make the snake think that an anomaly is pending and thus lure it to the mansion.
“We are waiting only for the sun to set, because that’s when snakes are more likely to move about. It’s still warm, but not so hot as to cook them alive in the heat of the day.”
“That’s good.” Mr. C relaxed into his pillows, still breathing carefully so as not to exasperate the pain in his fractured ribs.
Agent Allen could see it was difficult for Mr. C to talk, and she did not want to cause him more pain, but there was one thing she needed to know. “I thought we weren’t supposed to kill the snake. Or, the rat either. I thought they were supposed to be kept alive for study purposes, or in the case of the rat, to be used as the transition guardian.”
Mr. C grinned wickedly. “That’s correct. The NSA is interested in studying the snake and the rat. Even someone high level at NASA has expressed interest in having one or both of these alien creatures for yet undisclosed scientific purposes. All wish to use them for their own purposes, but none will bother to take the time to understand the risks. Having taken time to understand the risks, I think, as does Mr. S, the better course is to kill them both.”
“You didn’t use to think that way.”
“That’s true. We thought we could control the forces of this alternate world and use the predators to our benefit. Obviously, we were not the first to have this opinion. Dr. Alberto Samuel, Sr. thought he could use the rat, but it destroyed him. At last, it has become clear to me and my brother that young Miss Smith and Mr. Jones were correct in their original thinking. Keeping these creatures around only causes a mounting loss of human life. It is time we extinguished the danger.”
Agent Allen nodded. In her mind, they had come to the correct conclusion. “Won’t the NSA people be angry if we succeed in killing these creatures?”
Mr. C smiled. It was a genuine smile. He clasped his hands together as he considered his response. “It’s true there will be some higher-ups who will be unhappy. But, you know what? I am dying. I probably will not make it back to our world alive, if I make it back at all. My brother disagrees, but in truth, I wouldn’t mind being buried in this world.
“When you are dying, you get a different perspective on life. I think we should do what we think is best, what we know is right. I will soon be accountable to a higher authority, so frankly, I don’t give a damn what anyone at the NSA or NASA has to say about it.”
Agent Allen would have never thought it possible, but she genuinely liked this old man. Here was someone she would gladly take orders from. Too bad he was going to die.
XXIII
The strange one, who had caused it great pain and suffering, who had saved the hated one, was trespassing now in its stronghold. But, it was ready for him. It had the advantage this time.
This one, who thought he was smart, was as foolish as the others. It would eat this one slowly, relishing his pain. It would make sure his suffering was no less than had been its own.
And then, when this one was gone, it would go after the hated one.
* * *
Upon entering the basement, Granny noted the room’s two windows had been covered in a way that severely limited the daylight. The rat had placed sticks, rudely woven with sagebrush, over the windows to
block out the sun. A few, filtered rays of twilight found their way into the basement, but it was much darker than it would have been otherwise. Granny wondered how the rat managed such an impressive feat without hands. There was no doubt this was an extraordinary creature, more intelligent than any other species that Granny had hunted.
Positioning himself with his back to the wall, he quickly surveyed the entire basement while still in semi-darkness. Determining there was no immediate danger, he switched on a powerful flashlight and painted the room with it. On the far side was a closed door that could open into an interior room without windows. Logically, Granny’s mind told him that was where the rat will be.
He approached the door with the flashlight in one hand and a flare, ready to ignite, in the other. Slung over his back were a 30.06 semi-automatic rifle and a custom-made sawed-off eight-gauge shotgun. He could access and fire either gun in less than a second.
He paused in front of the closed door, trying to determine how best to confront the beast. He wanted to keep a light in one hand and a weapon in the other. He could blow the door open with the shotgun and use the flare to light his way.
In the process of that thought, the flashlight went dark. It was now useless. The rat had asserted itself and reached out to snuff his light.
The basement was shrouded in deep shadows. Only an excruciatingly little light from the quickly setting sun fought its way into the basement through the obscured windows. Time to ignite the flare. Before he could act, Granny heard a noise, not from the room he was preparing to assault, but a noise from the foot of the stairs behind him—a light scratching sound, like claws on cement.
Granny whirled around. In the almost non-existent light, he made out the giant form of the green rat, crouching at the bottom of the stairs. Granny should have known better. He should have cleared all the rooms in the house above. There had to be a room up there without windows, a closet or bathroom, where the rat could hide from the sunlight. The rat had been upstairs the whole time, waiting for Granny to go down to the basement, which had only one way in and out.
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