Kilroy was Here

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Kilroy was Here Page 10

by Jeff South


  “Jesus, what is this? A press conference?” He taps the screen on the dash, causing a few beeps that mean nothing to me, but must mean something to him.

  “So, you got my note?” Jeff says to me.

  “Yes. Why have me go through all of that? Why not tell me you’re here?”

  “I thought it was a fun thing to do. Thought you’d like it. You always liked clues and mysteries and scavenger hunts. We were always solving mysteries and whatnot.”

  “No, we weren’t,” I tell him. “We didn’t solve mysteries. And I hate scavenger hunts.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I avoid them like the plague.”

  “Did I know this about you?”

  “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “My god. Settle down, Anderson Cooper.” He reaches into the console next to the gear shift and retrieves another cigarette. “Where do I begin? When I got sucked through that portal, I ended up in the Zenron sector of the far middle quadrant of the galaxy.” He takes another drag. “I don’t know how. That’s where I dropped.” He flips another switch and looks intently at some readings on the dashboard. I’ve never seen him with this kind of purpose. He seems to know exactly what he is touching and why he is touching it, a far cry from the kid who used to forget where the headlights were on this same Vega. “I was cold and hungry. Some alien people took me in. Fed me soup. I think it was soup. I called it soup because that made it easier to swallow.”

  “I don’t believe this,” I say, fully aware that eloquence is failing me. “What’s a Zenron sector?”

  “A spot on the star map. Right by the No Trade Zone. The alien family took me to a guy who said he wanted to help me. He fixed up Miss America. Changed the oil, overhauled the transmission, and installed something called a quintonium accelerator and asked me to deliver a package. He put me to work.” He inhales another satisfying drag. “I guess you could say I’m a courier. I deliver goods to those who can’t get their hands on the stuff they really want.”

  “What’s a No Trade Zone? What’s a quan..quanti…?”

  “Quintonium accelerator. I don’t know the particulars. It’s the thing that makes the car go into space and shit like that. Very powerful.” He reaches behind him, produces a thermos, and drinks from it. His expression is one of a wino who took his first sip of hooch in over a month.

  “Wait. Quintonium accelerator?” I remember my meeting with Randi and Max at Corporate. “You mean the quintionium drive?”

  “What?” Jeff looks at me like I’m speaking some ancient dead language. “There’s no such thing. I have an accelerator. That’s all. The drive doesn’t exist.”

  I throw my hands up. “Are you crazy? Look. You’re back. You can come home. Stay home. We can quit this ridiculous life and go to college. Be normal.”

  “Normal? When have I ever wanted to be normal? Besides, I hate living in Poplar Bluff. The only person who gives a damn about me is my mom. Well, and you. So, two people.” He looks out the windshield and up to the stars. “But, out here it’s different. If I hadn’t gotten sucked through the portal, I’d still be a screw up. People laughing at me. And I know they laughed. Even you sometimes. I’m different now. I found out I could be anything I wanted. No one knows me. I can literally be a different person at each place I go. Once, I accidentally landed on the wrong part of a planet. All of these primitive types came out and fell down in awe. I became their god.” He slaps himself in the forehead. “Shit! That reminds me.”

  “What?”

  “Remind me later to record a message to my prophet on Bi Xiu Prime.”

  My friend glances at a fuel gage on the display and frowns.

  “Damn,” he says. “The quintonium accelerator is running low. Good thing this is our exit.”

  “Exit?” I look around and see nothing.

  He engages the orange contraption, taps a few buttons, and presses in the cigarette lighter again. The orange beam from Miss America’s grill extends out into the darkness and fans out in a circle. The orangeness dissipates into a swirling vortex of clouds, lightning, and dark reds, greens, and blues. This maw in the midst of space very much resembles the portal we guard in Poplar Bluff only much larger, much more ominous.

  “I wanna go home,” I mumble. “Turn around and take me home.”

  “Easy, buddy.” Jeff enters what appears to be a set of coordinates into his touchscreen keyboard. The autopilot disengages and our front cannon thing shoots its beam toward the opening once more. Miss America jerks and Jeff squeezes the steering wheel. He moves the gearshift into neutral and we’re soon in the clutches of what is clearly the tunnel to the ninth level of hell. I don’t belong here. I don’t even like roller coasters all that much.

  “I don’t wanna do this,” I announce to whoever in the expanse of the universe will listen.

  “Hold on!”

  The portal swallows us and soon we’re surrounded by yet another psychedelic car wash. “Come Sail Away” blasts. Jeff fires up a Mongalisonian cigarette and bangs his head to the music.

  “Freakin’ awesome, man! Isn’t this freakin’ awesome?”

  “IwannagohomeIwannagohomeIwannagohomeIwannagohomeIwannagohome!”

  “We own the night!”

  One more violent jerk rocks Miss America, like someone on the other end of this god-awful portal is trying to land a giant marlin. We hurdle toward a blinding light which surely means we’re dying and crossing over. A loud sound like a whale’s mating call mixed with the horn of a tractor trailer rig blares for a few seconds and then all is quiet.

  We float.

  PART TWO:

  ROAD TRIP TO PLANET LLOYD

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Space travel is not at all what I expected. The psychedelic car wash tunnel belches us into the vast expanse of space and we drift gently over the surface of a planet or moon. I used to dream of what space would be like. Now, I yearn for solid earth. The celestial body below us will do fine.

  “Good times, eh?” Jeff yells over the Styx song which blasts over the car stereo. After another drag, he bellows out the chorus of “Come Sail Away” as it fades to signal its end.

  “Hey, what do you know?” I point out my window at the surface of the celestial body we are orbiting.

  “What?”

  “That is Nitz.” My brain snaps with recognition and I feel my consciousness floating away from me toward a star map only I can see. I’ve never seen it before, but I know it as easily as I know my parents are named Chris and Suzanne or that I hate the smell of cooked cabbage because it reminds me of dirty feet. A surge of information I didn’t know existed in my memory spills out of my mouth.

  “Nitz is the only moon orbiting the planet Dangabah. Its topography is mostly desert, though a few patches of water can be found scattered along its surface. We’re deep into the Gamma District of the Northwestern Quadrant of the Jaqarillion Galaxy. Long, long way from home.” I still don’t know why I know these things.

  “Imagine Arizona,” Jeff says. “Or, like, middle-of-nowhere New Mexico. Only it’s a moon. That’s Nitz.”

  “It doesn’t faze you that I blurted out an analysis of a celestial body I’ve never heard of? That doesn’t register with you?”

  “Should it?”

  I can’t respond at first. My efforts to comprehend what is happening are futile. I’m traveling through space with my best friend. It’s the ultimate road trip. I remember looking at collections of star maps in Corporate training and reading names like Gamma District and Jaqarillion Galaxy and Bi Xiu Prime. Despite my love of astronomy, it all seemed so abstract. Now, I look out and behold how damn big the universe is.

  My friend lights up another Mongalisonian cigarette and taps on the small screen where a radio or CD player might rest in a lesser vehicle. The opening notes of “A.D. 1928” from Paradise Theater fill Miss America. Jeff closes his eyes and listens to the Styx album about the opening and closing of a theater in Chicago. He enjoys his cigarette,
savoring a slow drag and deeply inhaling the smoke.

  “You should go easy on those,” I tell him. “You just got them.”

  “I’ll get some more. I’ll save some for you, too.”

  “Why do you need them?” I am starting to feel comfortable and a rush of inquisitive energy overtakes me. I reel off a string of questions that must be answered now. “How are you able to work the portal? What is the portal anyway? How are you suddenly able to do all the judo moves and act like some action hero?”

  “Easy, easy,” he says. “All in due time. The day is coming when all shall know.”

  “Seriously. What is going on? Where is Leigh Ann? How are we getting back? Why is there a planet named Lloyd? What is quintonium? Why am I remembering useless shit that I never knew before? Can I get cell reception out here? Am I able to text my folks? They’re gonna kill me.”

  “My god,” he mutters. “It’s like you’re a fanboy at Comic Con.”

  “What is the deal with Marlene? Does she work for Corporate? Do you know? Is Clint a Herpezoid or something?”

  “Whoa. What are you talking about?” He turns down the music and puts out the cigarette. “Look. I’ve got one of those nano things in me. Corporate put it in me back before prom night.”

  “They put a nanobot in you? How? Did you know?”

  “I volunteered for a secret program that Research and Development was researching and developing. It was supposed to make me into some kind of super-agent or some shit. I was in training.”

  “Why would you do that? Why would you let them experiment on you?”

  He turns away a bit and looks out the window. It’s the first time since his return from The Prom Night of Which We Shall Not Speak he doesn’t have his swagger.

  “Seemed like the thing to do,” he says. “But, then I found out that Corporate stole the whole thing from Grandor. He made me an offer to get it back in exchange for Leigh Ann, so I’m using my powers for good.”

  “So, you stole those nanotech plans from Corporate in exchange for Leigh Ann.”

  “Yep. And you’re gonna help me with the delivery. Kilroy and Mr. Roboto together again.”

  “Please don’t.”

  An alarm on the dashboard display dings and an orange glowing indicator flashes. Jeff extinguishes his cigarette and taps the indicator.

  “What’s that?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

  “Relax,” he says. “We’re just low on quintonium.”

  I roll my eyes and huff. I don’t want to be here. I’m angry with my friend for not telling me he was alive. I’m angry with Marlene for keeping a big secret from me. I’m angry with myself for keeping a big secret from her. My secret broke us up, which makes mine worse somehow. Her secret saved my life.

  “You need to take me home,” I say. “And you need to broaden your musical horizons. There’s more to life than Styx.”

  Jeff gasps and holds his mouth open at the horror of my statement. I knew it would offend him. That was the point. Between space travel and life circumstances, I have a funky case of jet lag.

  “That is blasphemy,” he whispers. “But I’ll let it slide. I know you’re just being surly.”

  “What? Surly?”

  “You, sir, are surly!”

  *

  We successfully enter the moon’s atmosphere and fly above the surface for several minutes before landing and transitioning into a standard car rumbling along a road of gravel and sand. Jeff fiddles with displays on the dashboard for oxygen levels and cabin pressure.

  “What did you mean earlier?” he asks me. “About Marlene working for Corporate and Herpezoids and shit? What was that all about?”

  “I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

  “I got sucked into a space portal and now I fly around the galaxy in a pimped Vega. Try me.”

  “Marlene is not who I thought she was.” I turn and face him. “She single-handedly took down this little old lady who was trying to kill me.”

  “A little old lady tried to kill you?”

  “And Life Coach Gilbert.”

  “Who the hell is Life Coach Gilbert?”

  I turn back away from him and look out my window toward the horizon. The barren landscape stretches into eternity. I’m small.

  “My therapist. I had to go to therapy after you and Leigh Ann got sucked through the portal. I don’t like talking about it because I don’t want people judging me.”

  “People are always judging,” he says flatly. “Especially people who don’t have their own shit together.”

  Miss America slows to a stop at the base of a solitary butte that stands in the middle of the desert. A few stray shrubs sit scattered along the ground. Jeff taps a device resembling a garage door opener and an intercom box rises out of the ground. Jeff presses a button on it and a voice blares a riddle from it.

  “It is greater than God and more evil than the devil. The poor have it, the rich need it and if you eat it, you’ll die. What is it?”

  “I freaking hate riddles,” Jeff calls out in reply.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  “What? That’s the password.”

  “There is no need for belligerence,” whines the voice inside the intercom. “You think it’s easy coming up with new riddles all the time?”

  “I suppose not,” Jeff says with sincere contrition.

  “I’d much rather be singing or something. Opera has always appealed to me and I think I have the voice for it.”

  “I have no doubt,” Jeff assures. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m very sorry. Please forgive me.”

  After five seconds, the intercom voice replies, “apology accepted.” The rock wall ahead slowly rises and soft light spills out.

  “That sounded like a Rube Goldberg Protocol,” I say.

  “Yep.” Jeff eases Miss America through the opening and stops a few feet inside the entrance and the door slides closed behind us.

  “Just in town for supplies, partner,” Jeff says.

  We exit Miss America and I look around at the massive garage we’ve entered. The ceiling is close to 50 feet overhead. The walls to each side are lined with tools and parts, some I recognize for cars, others I don’t recognize at all. Half a dozen old cars and vans sit on lifts above the floor. Their engines have been gutted. A large tarp is draped over something. Sitting next to it is a 1969 Volkwagen Bus. The back far wall is a giant computer console and monitor. On the monitor is a star map and I can barely make out that a red circle is flashing around a spot marked with the words “planet Lloyd.”

  “Where are we now?” I’m getting tired of asking that question, however pertinent it may be.

  “Remember the guy who took me in and gave me a job after I came through the portal? That guy. You’ll love him. He’s like a crazy uncle-slash-eccentric-scientist-slash-spiritual-guru.”

  We hear a war cry from the rafters overhead.

  “Bastards!” the voice roars.

  “Shit,” Jeff says. “Take cover.”

  A figure descends from the rafters as if hanging on a wire firing a laser pistol in each hand. I dive behind a rolling mechanics tool cart, narrowly escaping a shot from this mysterious assailant.

  “Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!” The figure’s voice is male and sounds crazed. It’s as if we’ve trespassed on the private property of some deeps woods hermit. The man sprints around the garage firing his weapons. He interrupts his maniacal running only to execute random forward tumbles. Jeff stands calm, hands raised and motionless.

  “Simon Tybalt!” he calls out. “It’s me!”

  “Are you a bastard?” the man yells back.

  “No. It’s me. Jeff.”

  The man Jeff calls Simon Tybalt sprints up to him and holds a laser pistol to each of Jeff’s temples. His draws his face up to Jeff’s and sneers.

  “If you are who you say are, then tell me how entropy is measured in statistical mechanics.”

  Jeff rolls his eyes as he answers. “I don’t know, man. W
ith a ruler?” The one called Tybalt circles Jeff, guns poised for action.

  “What type of curvature does a symmetrical Lorentzian manifold have?”

  “Seriously?” Jeff says, blowing out a sigh. “I’m gonna say twelve. Now put those guns down because we both know they’re shooting blanks.”

  Simon Tybalt now stands face-to-face with Jeff. I see now he wears a tattered t-shirt with the Corporate logo on it and a pair of jeans. An old fishing hat rests atop his head. He raises his weapons up, drops them, and embraces Jeff as if greeting a returning prodigal.

  “I thought you were a bastard,” Simon Tybalt says. “But only you would be unable to answer those questions.” He pulls away and walks to the mechanics cart I’m hiding behind. He produces a hand rolled cigarette from one of the drawers and lights up. It’s like one of the cigarettes Jeff smokes.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I call out.

  “Who said that?” Simon Tybalt picks one of weapons from the floor and aims it my direction. “Bastard?”

  “It’s cool,” Jeff calls. “He’s with me. Come out, Tony.”

  I step from behind the cart, hands raised. Simon Tybalt looks at me, cigarette dangling, and looks back at Jeff, who nods. A scruffy peppery gray beard covers his aged face and he wears a sad smile I recognize from his giant portrait hanging in Corporate Headquarters. His eyes glow with a hint of madness I didn’t notice in the picture. I remember the portrait not only was captioned with “the day is coming when we all shall know,” but also showed the dates 1967-2010. Corporate thinks he’s dead.

  “You said Jeff was the only one who couldn’t answer those questions.” My hands are still raised because the wild look in his eyes won’t subside. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Rube Goldberg Protocols,” Simon Tybalt tells me.

  “Now it makes sense.”

  “Tony.” He hugs me tight and I worry his cigarette is going to burn my cheek. “So good to meet you, chum.”

 

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