Atmosphere

by Michael Laimo

  He only made it a step. The train doors flew open and from within a group of men—ordinary looking men, not bald, not teen-aged, wearing jeans and sweatshirts—jumped down and abruptly grabbed hold of Frank and Hector.

  They pointed guns at them.

  "Come with us."

  Frank and Hector were quickly led into the train. Once inside they saw that the train car was not really part of a train, it held none of the ordinary decor a usual train would house, seats, overhead storage racks, a bathroom. Instead, this lone car acted as a cover to something else, something top secret perhaps.

  At least fifteen men were busy at work, seemingly keeping tabs on the going-ons around the train yard. A dozen or so computers sat atop as many desks, each one displaying information to a single occupant. Television monitors had been set up displaying what appeared to be a pinpointed area of the train yard. At the moment the monitors visible to Frank showed nothing but quiet, darkened landscapes, except one which followed three young males pacing zombie-like toward the loading dock.

  A man dressed in jeans and polo shirt confronted them.

  Frank leaned over to Hector. "FBI," he whispered, eyes glued to the agent.

  "Exactly," the man said, his voice deep and gravely. "And you—police. So what do you gentlemen know about this nightclub?"

  Hector was about to speak when Frank grabbed his arm, silencing him. "We were invited."

  The FBI agent grinned. "I don't think they'd need you for anything."

  Frank fought back the jab, biting his grin. He was severely angered at this obvious cover-up, but made an effort to keep his emotions at bay.

  "Let's keep this simple, gentlemen. Your path ends here."

  Frank felt a chill run down his spine, as if someone had loaded a weapon and aimed it at him. Given the circumstances, he didn't doubt the possibility of imminent elimination. "We were invited," he repeated, keeping his inflection as colorless as possible. He moved very slowly and deliberately to his pocket as to not allude that he might be reaching for a weapon, and pulled out the object, displaying it proudly yet cautiously to the FBI agents.

  They all cowered at the sight of it, their faces turning a pale shade of gray. The agent at the forefront stepped back, but only an inch, a thick vein in his forehead popping out. "Where did you get that?"

  Frank placed it back into his pocket. "The bald man gave it to me." He prayed this made sense to the agents, whom Frank suddenly realized actually possessed knowledge of the entire mystery he and Hector had been attempting to unearth for the past two days.

  The agent remained silent, and was about to speak when a slight stir broke out at one of the surveillance monitors. "Mullin—come look at this."

  The agent questioning Frank turned around and paced briskly over to the monitor.

  "There's hundreds of them."

  "Who the hell are they?" Mullin asked, the vein in his forehead growing bigger.

  "No clue. They've got torches. They're coming this way."

  Mullin raced to the rear of the train car and grabbed an assault rifle from behind a curtain draped across a storage area. "Get everybody together!" he yelled, storming about like a madman. Suddenly the place came alive, and Frank and Hector stood in the midst of it, confused, feeling as if they had suddenly become invisible.

  Amidst the fray of emergency preparation someone yelled, "What about the two cops?"

  Mullin glanced carelessly towards them, clearly more occupied with the sudden emergence. "They have a unit. Let them go."

  Magic words. The door from where they entered flew open and Frank and Hector were bluntly pushed out. They fell down four feet to the rainy-wet ground, hands breaking their fall.

  "God damn son-of-a-bitch!" Hector lay on his stomach, head raised slightly. His cheeks had wet dirt on them.

  "You all right?" Unhurt, Frank got to his knees and checked on Hector. His ex-captain was mumbling a storm of swear words.

  "I hate the FBI. God-damned sons-of-bitches think they own the world."

  "Keep your voice down. C'mon."

  They stood and instinctively jogged from the trailer towards the loading dock, away from the brewing trouble.

  "What did they see? He said hundreds of them." Hector was wiping his bruised palms on his trench coat.

  Frank looked around but did not see anything. He thought he heard a thunderous roar in the distance, and half expected to see a flash of lightning in the rainy sky, but nothing fell into his sights. "You hear that?"

  Hector nodded, warily. "Sounds like a crowd."

  "Let's not waste any more time."

  They walked to the loading dock. To the entrance of Atmosphere.

  They had assembled in great numbers. Lester gazed at the hundreds of homeless people standing around him in virtual prayer before the great leader of the troops, Jyro.

  "We go in tonight!" Jyro screamed from his makeshift platform constructed of milk crates and hemp. The troops returned the plea with a maniacal, chorused wail.

  "We fight until death!"

  "Yah!" The roar deafened Lester.

  "We march, and will not return until victory is ours!" He pointed behind towards the train yard.

  "Yah!"

  Lester waited for the cue and then Jyro, in all his massive black glory, raised his arms up in the air and screamed, "The rebellion has begun!"

  The troops marched forward, following their leader.

  Frank and Hector climbed the four rusty grated steps to the platform of the loading dock. Frank's weak, passionless personality wanted so dearly to break out from the bonds holding it back, but his detective third and irrational third had joined forces, assuming control of his very being, creating a new, stronger will within him, a will that desired nothing more than to seek out the answers to this elusive mystery that had left him nearly lifeless, that wanted to destroy anything in his path until he unearthed the very answers he sought.

  From here they could hear a remote booming emanating from within the walls of the warehouse: a series of sounds too syncopated to be thunder, too synthetic to be anything created by nature. It was music, the droning beat of hard techno beats and ambient rhythms, spilling out from within the walls of Atmosphere.

  Just as the two nondescript figures had done, Frank walked up to the landing bay door with the word Atmosphere messily spray-painted upon it, raised a fist and knocked.

  The door immediately slid skyward on its tracks and a man appeared.

  Bald, dark sunglasses. But an unfamiliar man, this one possessing a tapestry of tattoos on his arms and a variety of face piercings. "You have an invite?" he asked in a monotone, almost mechanical tone of voice. The lenses of his dark sunglasses seemed to penetrate Frank, all the way to the bone, the look seemingly saying, what are you doing here, old man?

  Frank pawed the object from his pocket.

  The bouncer stayed silent. Frank's heart pounded in syncopation with the muddied music. Then, stepping aside, he said, "Follow the arrows."

  Frank slipped the object back into his pocket and entered, Hector glued to his back.

  They entered an empty dark room, the reek of mold immediately assaulting them. A series of small iridescent green arrows ran across the cement floor and they slowly followed them, one careful step at a time, their faint illumination the only source of light. Frank's timid personality squeezed through a bit, contriving terrifying horrors lurking the dark's bounds: the ghosts of the dead, the suicidal Latino boy, Patrick Racine and the other boy in the alley, their mouths gaping, black blood oozing from the torn holes in their naked bodies, each one crawling from the darkness with mangled arms and twisted legs...

  They spotted a door in front of them, a glowing green arrow on it pointing the way. Frank looked at Hector, wanting to say We don't have to do this, we can turn back now, get the hell out of here and let those FBI boys handle it all. Hector pushed pass him and groped for the handle.

  The door pulled open.

  And the building was there.

&n
bsp; Surrounded by a link fence, the dome shaped structure sat like a giant insect, six great spines on its back reaching to the night sky, its bulk the size of a small stadium. "Jesus..." was all Frank could manage. Never in his life had he known this structure to be here. When was it constructed? Who built it?

  Music seeped from its black shell, pulsing, throbbing, mesmerizing; the ground beneath their feet vibrated, a booming bass. They paced forward across a dissemination of dirt and crumbled cement, through an opening in the link fence towards what appeared to be a door. Frank and Hector both reached their hands out at the same time and touched it, its vibrating surface as smooth and as black as the surface of the object in Frank's pocket. This time Frank grasped the handle on the door.

  They entered Atmosphere.

  Three more bald men stood in a small foyer, clad in leather and wearing sunglasses. Frank quickly displayed the object. The one in front nodded and stepped aside, permitting them access.

  They followed the music down a short hall and through a curtain into a room of great proportion. They stood there rooted, astounded at the amazing sight encompassing them, a great interior whose domed roof ran maybe a hundred feet high, like that of a planetarium, hundreds of lights, a multitude of colors, flashing from the ceiling in a brilliant stroboscopic storm, exploding intermittently amidst one another—all seemingly dominated by the music. Six huge columnar supports stood interspersed throughout the room, towering up to the ceiling like monolithic stalactites in some deep dark cave. Frank imagined them continuing on through the roof and into the air, hence the six towering stacks outside. At the ceiling, a single cobalt ring of neon encircled the top of the columns like halos, a shower of fog raining down the sides in dreamlike cascades. Hundreds of young adults—young men—gyrated about the columns on the dance floor, their bodies thrashing in seizure-like motions, in time to the pounding drums and synthesized raptures.

  All of them: young men, pretzeled together in an orgy of dance.

  Slowly and quietly, Frank and Hector paced around the perimeter of the dancers, eyes peering and necks craning, trying but mostly unsuccessful in avoiding the wildly swinging arms and legs escaping the spasmodic horde.

  "What do you make of this?" Hector finally yelled through the raging din.

  Frank shrugged his shoulders, quite unsure himself.

  So what do you make of this Frank?

  For the first time since he and Hector joined forces nearly thirty-six hours ago, Frank saw himself as the leader, the one in control. He was now guiding Hector, not the other way around. There would be no more discussions, no more persuading. He wouldn't have to convince his ex-captain of their next move, to try and sway his elementary thoughts. This was it, and he would be in charge.

  Throughout the unfolding of the investigation, Frank had clearly held the stronger insight, had had some crazy yet conceivable ideas. Yet, with great frustration, he had allowed himself to be guided by Hector's train of reasoning, his by-the-book police logic. But now things would be different. It was he—or better yet, a new Frank who was half true detective and half compulsive-irrational—who held the upper hand, here in this assumed domain of the...of the what? Aliens? Cult?

  Whomever, whatever they were, only a continued probe would reveal for certain, and this probe would be Frank's.

  Taking advantage of an opening in the chaos, he slipped through the crowd, guiding Hector towards the bar. They squeezed into a spot next to a young man with a trail of metal loops running along the entire edge of his ear.

  Following the instinctual calling of his detective personality, Frank peered around at the variety of men here, their bodies acting ahead of their minds. He reminded himself of what Sam Richards had said about Harold Gross acting solely under a severe hypnotic daze. Were all the men here captured by this extreme outside force?

  He stepped from the bar and walked along the edge of the crowd, further into the heart of the club. He found a set of steel stairs leading up and followed them, Hector in tow, passing two young men whose arms and tongues were tangled together in an unknottable embrace.

  He reached top but another bald sunglassed bouncer blocked the way. The bouncer raised his hand up, palm facing Frank. "You have a pass?" His voice was deep and phlegmy, monotone.

  Frank once again fished the object from his pocket.

  The bouncer immediately stepped aside and let Frank pass. No questions asked. But he did not allow Hector to pass, stepping between them. "You have a pass?" His statement sounded identical to the first, so much that it could have been a recording.

  Frank peered back at his ex-captain, not wanting to speak out in fear of alerting their non-hypnotic states to the bald men. Hector tossed a slight nod at Frank, then turned and headed back down the stairs. Mentally, Frank heard Hector say, "Go ahead Smoky, I'll be all right. You go and find out what the hell is going on here."

  Now, also for the first time since the investigation began, Frank Ballaro was alone.

  He turned a corner to the right and found himself gazing down a long doorless hallway, cobalt wisps of illumination floating within like specters, seeming to emanate from no true source. The walls were glossy and black, like the exterior of the building. Like the the object in his pocket.

  He followed the hall for perhaps twenty-five feet, all the way to an impasse. He stopped then twisted his neck and peered back. The bald bouncer stood there, sunglassed sights staring at him. At once Frank felt extremely uncomfortable, as if he were being set up, that perhaps a gang of thugs were planning to leap out at him at any second to make him 'disappear'. He took a deep breath, trying hard to keep his newfound combo-personality from bowing down to duress.

  When he faced forward again, the impasse had disappeared, giving way to an entrance.

  Frank widened his eyes, making efforts to adjust his gaze as the darkness ahead loomed. He stepped forward and a great round room sucked him in, large but still smaller than that of the main dance floor he left behind. The walls and floor were sleek and black like everything else, devoid of anything noticeable except for a series of gray screens encircling the perimeter.

  "Sit..." The electronic voice startled Frank, its monotone frighteningly similar to that of the bouncers.

  "What's this about? Who are you?" Frank yelled, his voice echoing in the chamber.

  "Sit." Frank took a step forward. The screens lit up, a dull fractal swirl of blue and silver hues moving with lava-like slowness upon them.

  "Sit." The lights brightened as the words reverberated. Frank, seeking only the truth, finally complied and gently squatted on the floor. He slid his hand inside his jacket and sought the comfort of his gun, just in case. Discomfort and fear ran in line with curiosity here in this surrealistic world.

  "Place the object on the floor in front of you," the voice demanded.

  With his free hand Frank fished it out. As uncommonly gratifying as it felt to have had it, he was equally eager to be rid of it now. He placed it on the floor and again asked, "Who are you?"

  A small slot formed beneath the screen directly in front of him and a black snake-like tube slithered out, wet and glistening, yet strangely crustaceous, twisting like an eel as it approached.

  Frank tightened his grip on the gun. Bile climbed to the back of his throat. His finger sweated upon the trigger.

  The appendage stopped at the object. Its puckered tip kissed the air and Frank watched as it weaved in and about the six spines on the top of the object before attaching itself to one of them. Suddenly the screens changed color, from red to blue to purple, and then a brilliant spectrum of colors spiraled about. He watched with fascination, his breath lost in a confusion of feelings and fear.

  The colors quickly faded to gray. The tube detached itself and shot back into the wall like a recoiling tape measure. "The unit has been evacuated. Harbinger, take the unit, seek out new suppliers."

  Harbinger? Frank clamped his hand over his mouth in thought. Speak no evil. "What are you?" It was barely a whisper.<
br />
  Another slot in the wall opened, this time above the screen. A dissemination of blue laser light burst out and washed over Frank's body from head to toe, then blinked out. It was as if he had been scanned...

  "Subject lacks necessary chemical agent. Unsuitable for harvesting."

  Frank stood. "Chemical agent? What in God's name is..."

  A face appeared on the screen. Well not as much a face as it was a blur. But the eyes were there, large, black, prominent, orblike, taking up almost half of the oval outline of the head. It flickered slightly as it spoke, and Frank could see a small blur of a mouth open as it spoke.

  "How did you find us?"

  "I'm a detective. I find things. What is going on here? Who are you?" Frank took a step forward, gazing up at the face on the screen, his feelings of fear indifferent to that of his curiosity. His wary third, hiding in the shadows, showed its face a bit, wondering if this whole scenario might all be some great lunatic show, if the mysterious object before him had been some sort of backstage pass, granting him access behind the scenes. But his stronger detective personality thought differently, knew in fact that this whole spectacle was some huge excursion into a previously unexplored world, a bizarre new macrocosm in which he had become an unwitting participant in its resolve.

  "Subject does not carry the necessary chemical agent."

  "Chemical? What chemical?"

  "Chemical agent is genetically preponderant in young aggressive males."

  "What chemical agent?" Frank's heart slammed against his chest.

  Silence.

  Then: "The naturally occurring element testosterone is not unlike our fuel."

  Frank at once felt all three personalities turmoiled under a similar stress: that of uncertain fear. All along he pondered the alien theory, that somehow the possibility of visitors from another place might exist as a reality. Now, as the proof of his alarming speculation came to light, the reason for their extreme measures also spilled out. That they—whomever they were—were trapped here against their wishes, and that their only means of escape would be to refuel. According to the now feasible essays by Sanskrit, their initial efforts had been to modify the earth's atmosphere in effort to create an environment suitable for their very own existence. Their efforts had failed (thank God), their secondary methodology indicating some degree of success.