by Travis Borne
“Glad that one’s powered,” Rico said, finally catching his breath.
Jim felt bad for getting angry and ranting. And this meant he could no longer doubt Felix. The implications of this, he thought. It dizzied him to think: the depth of it all, the ramifications; but he didn’t have time to take it there right now, probably not enough time in a whole lifespan to go that deep.
“I’m glad to say I was wrong and this proves it. Your father is alive. Sorry for—”
“Jim, you don’t need to apologize,” Rico replied. And they both turned to appreciate the opening of the door. As it slid aside, relatively fresh, although sweet and greasy plus bat shit, air vented the cube they waited in. More than welcome, though, and it cleared out the rest of the rotten-food stench, which, they realized was actually still there, just now finally departing; it had benumbed their sense of smell. The motor finally stopped. “Well, let’s go.” They stepped though the passage. Its marrow was compressed junk metal. The impenetrable-looking edges were six-inch-thick solid-steel linings.
A slight gust of cool ventilation was a friendly ghost and Rico’s hair rustled lightly. The room had a dim light in each corner and a grated vent on the ceiling. Before them, the shaft. In each direction, it was about three feet wider than the suspended six-by-six-foot steel-framed elevator and lined with a bottomless-pit’s rope of lights. They were dim, unlike those of the inner wall above, and disappeared into blackness after about fifty feet. Wordless, they looked at each other—but thoughts were there: blackhole, bowels, abyss—unfriendly ghosts! From the hole, loads of multicolored power cables scaled the shaft on the far side, just beyond arm’s reach. The multiple bounds slithered up and into the great wall like well-fed magical beanstalks growing from the void below.
And they stepped aboard. Jim first. He took hold of cool, twisted steel probably stolen from a graveyard’s wrought-iron gate, and the carriage rocked slightly. Rico boarded. Their footsteps clinked on the elevator floor as if they had on tap-dancing shoes. Every clang and clatter echoed throughout the cavity; sonorous vibrations disturbed the cave-like chamber, and perhaps unfriendly, awakening ghosts. And Jim looked down. Rico too. Spooky was the word bouncing between them like a grandfather-clock’s bong. Deep. Into such darkness. Black, blacker than darkness. They couldn’t help but look at each other every few seconds. Then to the buttons. There were three: up, stop, down.
Jim nodded. “Do it.” And Rico pushed down.
The greasy gears and cables above them was something awakened all right: a steel monster. The cage broke loose from its perch and the monster dispensed cable. They descended. It wasn’t long until the glow above, and the feeling yellow light had the power to grant, disappeared, dissolved by the darkness.
74. Flyin' Fran
Anything using power that wasn’t absolutely necessary was powered down. Even most of the emergency lights were shut off. Only the necessary screens rounding the BROCC and the HAT, illuminated the surrounding area. Devon handled his station and Ron’s. The twins were put in charge of finding ways to further conserve power throughout the facility, even the most minuscule amounts. And Ted stood at the HAT. He waved three fingers before the hologram and swiped left. Slices of the active maps rotated clockwise and he moved the slider to maximum for each—more urgency, more intense red. Just as Jim had suspected, he was on top of things. It wasn’t long until the entire table, all slices, emanated with the red glow. It reflected eerily throughout the broadcast room, adding to the already ominous tension of their situation.
They finally got the damn thing inflated. Fran operated the burner and up they went. Several other balloons were already sky high, many more than the last time they’d used this map—thanks to time spent with Amy, of course. Of the many other flying maps (from which she was banned because of too many unexpected logouts in the past—crashin’ and burnin’) and contrary to her past service as an ace fighter pilot, Fran nevertheless enjoyed the serene flights to be had in the hot-air-balloon map: one they still allowed her. She loved flying, the higher the better, and did appreciate the refreshing relaxation. And for any flight, fast or slow, she always donned her tight leather aviator hat and goggles. Out from around its edges, flowing to her shoulders, her intense ginger hair flared.
Breathtaking, was the view from above and below. A color explosion. The festival was in full swing and a carrot-nosed snowman took to the sky. As well myriad others, including the famous Macaroo Mouse with its black droopy ears and blue-jean overalls, a loony-eyed lavender elephant (each eye bouncing a different way, animating it wackily), patterns, rainbows, zigzags, and of course Nanny’s and Fran’s, a banana-yellow, red-tongued smiley face. But, it was always a different bunch here. And now, with the upgrade, there were even a few experimenting amateurs. A man in a customized beach chair complete with beer keg under hundreds of orange and purple helium balloons. He was having trouble lifting off, but Nanny and Fran soared briskly upward.
Fran’s smile was Christmas morning, Nanny’s was the day after. Flying tickled Nanny’s fancy the wrong way, and made her nervous. Nevertheless, they took turns: State Fair, usually, then something in the clouds. And now, it was time to get to work. But no farting today. Nanny had tried squeezing them out before yet it never worked because of the breeze. So, the norm, and after a good deal of altitude they heaved together with all they had. Out went the heavy black bag. It crashed into the woods below, but not before Fran had pulled out a crossbow. Nanny had in hand the flaming arrows and a lighter. This wasn’t their first hot-air-balloon ride, by far. Less weight, more speed and control—if they could manage any. But even though it was a dream world the map had randomness just like its real-life counterpart. Sometimes speed meant turtle, sometimes hang on for life and control was bowels after ghost-pepper chili.
“Let’s do this,” Fran yelled against the breeze with her twangy southern accent. She pulled her goggles down and began deciding on a target. “You light ’em I flight ’em. And don’t set us on fire again, you old bag!”
“You and flying all the time,” Nanny said under her breath, yet loud enough. Her accent was as northern-yankee as Fran’s was southern-doodle. And as usual Nanny felt a little sick, always did during takeoff. “Did you get the—” Her yellow and green crocheted hat caught a whirling gust and meandered high into the cloudless blue sky. “Oh, darn!”
“Ha! Told ya. Always wear one of these,” Fran said. “Here, now light the damn thing.” She’d finished cocking it with her feet and brought the arrow end in toward Nanny.
“Don’t point it at me!”
“I’m not, just light it!” Nanny flicked the lighter, but nothing. The breeze was stronger than usual. Fran lowered the tip into the basket.
“Now you're pointing it at my feet!”
“No, I am not! Now, for the love of God, light the goshdarn thing!” Fran’s wry face was a stick of dynamite that might be a dud. But after moving it another six inches away from Nanny’s toes, Nanny retried. One flick, two—and the arrow came to life. The interior of their basket received a red-orange glow and Fran quickly spun the awkward weapon up and around.
The wind was gusting. She waited for a calm-down as the fire went crazy. After the gust fell away Fran focused her aim, right onto the patched posterior of the lavender elephant. It was the farthest balloon still within reach of a crossbow’s arrow. She almost pulled the trigger but a small bump of turbulence lowered her attention. The basket contained several kids. She knew it wasn’t real but couldn’t help it, and abruptly switched to the adjacent and more near snowman balloon; it carried two old farts, faces entombed in hair. The unkempt beards (one short, one long, both grey-white) branded them scruffy mountaineers. Besides their noses, binoculars covered the rest of their faces. They were looking Fran’s way and did notice the fumbling old ladies—and the weapon. Pointed right at them! Longbeard started yelping on a handheld radio.
With a sliver of pink tongue protruding her thin, red-hair-bespeckled lips Fran focused and took ai
m. Then, she noticed the red glow. “You damn bitch, ya lit us on fire again!” she exploded. “Darn it! Well, I’m gonna get at least one before we go down.” And she fired the arrow. The flaming snowball pegged the snowman right in the peeper. “Bullseye!” Its face contorted and the flames quickly melted its eye, then the entire thing folded in on itself as though it had taken a cannonball.
Just by chance the men had been looking their way. Knowing only made it worse. Now, the flannel-clad geezers uselessly hollered as their basket plummeted—dragging a raging inferno! Mountain men with beards flying like flags, upward and into their faces while they hunched down. Longbeard uselessly continued radioing for help while Shortbeard reached for the extinguisher. White chunks of foam took to the sky as if a bubble bath had swallowed a M-80. The gobs spewed uselessly. A waste of sudsy ooze disappeared into the fire. The makeshift fireman tossed the red tank, communicated like a madman with his partner, and then the both of them began tossing all extra weight: their cooler, a baggie of gear, even their binoculars and cameras, then their boots.
Futile.
And they braced for impact—almost there, ground approaching! Their faces froze. Their beards were gross streamers. Then, Longbeard started a hollerin’. Another idea! He straddled the side of the basket and Shortbeard took the other. And they jumped.
But their leaps were miscalculated and clumsy. Shortbeard flared his arms, trying to tilt backward, yet landed face first. Snap! His neck. He was dead. Lying on the ground with broken ankles, Longbeard just gaped, daze-like. He made it. But, the fireball grew ever larger in the reflection of his waking, reanimating eyes. Pain from his broken bones empowered him with a final shot of adrenaline. He managed to stand up regardless of the fact his feet went sideways and with every muscle tensed he stiff-leggedly zombied himself away. Until the blanket of fire covered him.
Seconds later he rose again!
With another burst of pain-powered stoutheartedness he slogged, continuing his journey. Fully ablaze, dragging ninety-degree feet, he successfully managed to escape the master blaze and started rolling in the grass to put himself out.
“He might actually make it,” Fran said smugly. Then the balloon’s propane tanks exploded. The fireball consumed everything, including the last living mountain man. A mini nova. So hot Nanny and Fran winced as the blast’s rising heat grazed their faces. Success. Then they looked up.
“Fran, look!” Nanny exclaimed. “The sky.”
“Shit, sorry I yelled at you, Nanny. Looks like we got ourselves an emergency.”
“We better set her down,” Nanny said.
“On the contrary, ol’ gal, let’s go up. I find it more relaxing up here, don’t you?”
Nanny made a crooked grin, rolled her eyes and sighed; she was tired of fighting. Besides, Old Red had a point, it was tranquil straddling the stratosphere. “Sure, Fran, up we go then.” Nanny reached down and opened the cooler. They’d picked up a few beers at the festival before liftoff. Fran sat her skinny ass in the basket and took a gulp that nearly emptied the can. Nanny sat next to her and lit a menthol. Best friends. Together they sailed into the red sky and relaxed. Sixteen minutes later they were logged out.
75. The Reef
A coin toss had decided: parachuting or the Australian ocean escapade. Tails won, Trixie was glad.
Alex liked to pretend he was a secret agent, or any character suggesting a hint of peril and adventure. He was the best dresser on the team, even wearing his suit on the lending bed. His longtime partner, Trixie, the nature-lover, usually went along with whatever he had in mind as long as she got a chance to enjoy the peaceful outdoors. And she usually let him pick the map because he always made sure she got hers. Trixie had rusty-blond shoulder-length hair, teal eyes, and freckles that covered her entire light-skinned body like priceless impressionistic art.
After dropping anchor they stripped. It was a scorching summer day at sea and the large boat floated in clear water above the coral reef. Trixie wore a tie-dyed one-piece suit with large circular cut-outs exposing the sides of her waist. Alex let his hairy chest get some sun after shedding his tux, and wore only some tight black diving shorts and his usual neck-strapped bow tie. His chestnut-brown hair was heavily greased back but had dried leaving a sensational wave. And he began to address the class sitting around the inner perimeter of the boat. They had quite a large one today and were more than ready to get in the water again for another cool down.
“…and each of us has fifty minutes of air. Going down and returning will take twenty so you each have thirty minutes of fun time to explore. There’s a backup canister with an extra eight minutes in case anyone runs into trouble. And remember, safety first—always. That should cover everything. Any questions?” A few shrugged but no one spoke up. He had been quite thorough, already covering much earlier in the day. Snaps clicked as the group fastened their tanks and straps.
They had instructed the intermediate class earlier: it involved a basic warm-up dive to make sure the group passed basic qualifications, and, that they would be skilled enough to enter—the cave. “Okay sir, we’ll start with you this time,” Alex continued at the stern, “jump straight out and head down to the reef. Next in line follow after a ten count. We’ll meet up directly below the boat then line up and head into the cave.” The first man hopped in. Ten seconds later his wife followed, then everyone else until the entire class of thirty-two were in the water, heading down. Alex and Trixie remained.
“Okay, let’s do this, Trixie. We’ll do some exploring after.” He opened the bait-well lid, reached into the black bag resting inside and pulled out a grey block of plastic explosive and a waterproof detonator, then put it in his belt pack.
“Sounds awesome, Alex. I so look forward to swimming with the dolphins again, if we get the chance. Really, never know what we’ll see down there!” Alex winked at her and jumped in. To his right, Trixie splashed in a few seconds later.
The water shimmered like a blanket of electricity on the moderately still waters above. Spotty clouds and the boat shadowed the colorful reef and surrounding tan sand at the ocean bottom fifty-feet below. Several manta rays glided by, diffusing the line of descending divers. Trixie pointed excitedly.
They hovered, ten feet from the surface. Alex motioned for her to go first. She led and they both swam down, scuba gear clinging to their mostly naked bodies. Trixie’s high-on-the-hips suit complimented her almost bony-thin hourglass frame. Its spiraling colors flaunted her free-spirited and fun personality. And the water magnified her curves, seemingly adding weight to her bones. Alex always liked it when she went first; really, she loved him, and knew why. The clear water felt pins-and-needles refreshing, and cooled more as they wriggled deeper.
Just as instructed. They could clearly see the class assembling on the ocean floor by the cave entrance. A circle was established. Shuffling feet rustled the sandy bottom.
Halfway down.
In the distance Trixie spotted some dolphins playing and pointed, her face glowing with elation. A sea turtle pushed a school of zebra-striped fish. Taking in the abundance of color was as powerful as an acid trip, and Alex smiled, also glad for tails on that penny: absolutely stunning, marvelously captivating!
As they arrived to the sea floor Alex instructed the anxious divers using hand signals. They broke the circle to form a line. He pointed to a large woman, a know-it-all during the earlier swim, then pointed to the cave entrance. He gave her the okay and pointed at her again, poking his finger at the water. Excited that she was chosen to lead, she swam into the cave, eagerly followed by the others. The entrance wasn’t much wider than she was.
They slipped in one by one. Alex stood at one side of the opening and Trixie the other. She tossed him a flirtatious wink and turned her head in the direction of the dolphins. Air bubbles rose from her mask, and his, and now from inside the dark cave. After the last fledgling fluttered in Alex squished the explosive onto one of the entrance rocks. Trixie had already started swimming away,
toward the dolphins—ready for her rocket ride. She loved hanging on to their fins and blasting through the sea. Alex once again followed as she blissfully weaved her way like a graceful mermaid, dispersing a school of bright yellow and orange fish. She had a huge smile on her face, and Alex an accomplished grin.
Halfway to where they'd seen the dolphins playing, Alex turned to swim backward next to Trixie. His flippers continued thrusting and he spotted the married couple, two perplexed heads poking out in search of their missing instructors. It’s time. Alex signaled a fist, then a thumbs down; Trixie made an okay circle. A nearby depression was sufficient and they dove behind some large rocks. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the detonator—CLICK. He couldn’t see it get ’em, but sure felt it, near instantaneously.
The explosion mushroomed above the cave, billowing toward the surface as the blue water choked it like angry hands to clay on a nitrous-powered pottery wheel. Barge-loads of sand and streaks of red lined the stem of the mushroom feeding the massive upsurge. Blood and mud evanesced upon entering the growing, and growing, amplifying ball of white. And the competition was fierce; small bubbles expanded and raced, eventually popping the skin of the sea like battle-victorious zits losing the war to pliers. The ocean floor was left mad in a cloud of dust and fish darted in all directions. An octopus fired his black rocket-fuel. He became a torpedo without a target—anywhere but here!
The shockwave blew above them like a brown freight train, making their faces flutter. The surge was a vacuum sucking their hair straight back. And the temperature lost its cool freshness like a table losing its cloth, and Alex and Trixie, a pair of unbreakable glasses in a hurricane, cleaved to the rock. What a rush!
He’d played with explosives (among other deadly things) many times, and knew exactly what to expect, luckily (but he didn’t believe in luck) never blowing himself or Trixie to smithereens in the process—causing the highly frowned upon unexpected logout. For Alex every workday was an adventure, a unique experience; with thoughtful planning every meticulously crafted strategy almost always worked. He perfected his plans with passion and his record held countless highly productive victories; only one tiny loss (a story in itself). And he always made sure Trixie experienced a stimulating adventure.