Velocity

by B. V. Larson

  The one knife-wielding bastard was so far the only one brave enough to come up to the screen, but he was jabbering over his shoulder to his more cautious companions. His speech reminded me of the ringing and clacking of castanet’s. I realized that if the ones with the bows got their peckers up, we would be peppered with their arrows. I had to fight not to panic. I needed a weapon.

  “Jason!” I yelled. He was sagging on the bed, he was losing it, maybe due to shock, maybe fear. “JASON!”

  He didn’t answer, he just bled on the sheets. The goblins were getting increasingly brave. I could see a few moving up cautiously through the fronds. There was no more time. I had to act and I couldn’t get to the console without getting cut. I ran for the stairs and ran up them, three at a time, something I am quite good at and practice whenever I get a chance. At the bottom I turned at break-neck speed, grabbing the doorjamb to swing myself around the corner. I guided my wild progress by slamming hands against the walls of the hallway. I hung a left at the bathroom, bounded across my brother’s snarled bed in one step and thrust a desperate hand into his closet.

  My fingers wrapped around a slim cold metal tube. A rifle barrel. I yanked out my brother’s .22 caliber semi-automatic Ruger, my heart thrilling to the feel of it. I put my hand on the wood-grain stock and instantly I felt some of my usual self-confidence flow back into my limbs. We had always had guns around the house and I have done quite a bit of hunting on our ranch. I’m a good shot, and having a gun in my hands always gave me a boost of courage. I dug ammo out of the dresser. In the top drawer I managed to find a box of .22 caliber hollow-points, just what I needed.

  I trotted back down the hall and up the stairs, madly cramming bullets into the clip. I snapped the bolt as I came to the top of the stairs and had the gun to my shoulder as I entered the workshop. The goblins had not been idle during my brief absence. Three of them were now completely in the room. The ballsy one that had cut Jason was standing on my chair, watching for my return. Another was at his side, with his bow drawn.

  Fortunately, the bowman faced toward the console. The third was actually standing on the console, his feet carefully planted so as to avoid touching the control knobs. As I entered, he was in the act of handing something through. Of Jason there was no sign, other than the bloodstains on the sheets and the carpet. The goblin with the bow turned my way and I put the rifle’s bead on his breastbone. That was when I realized what the goblin standing on the console was handing through to the other side. It had been Jason’s legs. Even now his Reebok sneakers were disappearing into the screen. His left one was untied, and the laces trailed lightly across the console.

  The goblin with the bow swung to shoot me, but I beat him and put two slugs into his chest. His arrow went wild and thudded into the plaster a yard to my left. He fell back, knocked on his can, squealing and grabbing at the wound.

  This appeared to enrage the green knife-wielding guy on my chair. He gave a ragged shout that shot spittle from his yellow teeth and threw himself at me. He charged in low (naturally) and I wasn’t able to bring him into my sights at such close range. So I hit him with the butt of the rifle and threw him back. His head opened across his bald scalp. Red blood welled up, contrasting sharply with his bell pepper-green skin.

  “If you little suckers killed Jason, I’ll gut-shoot your whole tribe!” I shouted. A momentary look of fear passed over the goblin’s features as the volume and power of a human’s voice assaulted his ears. Then he slashed at me once and took a bullet in the teeth. He fell back and rolled in gargling convulsions. The third in the raiding party had disappeared back into his fern-tree. I moved to the console and looked through, breathing hard and feeling elated. My hands and stomach shivered a bit with the adrenalin of the moment. Pinpricks of salty sweat popped out on my forehead.

  The fern-tree was empty of goblins. Jason wasn’t in sight either, but I was sure that they couldn’t have carried him off too far. Then I heard his yelling. A sickening feeling swept through my gut. My mind numbed as a dozen horrible tortures came to mind at the knobby green hands of these aliens. I knew that I had to go through and find him, but my mind balked. It is not every day that you take your first step into an entirely unknown and decidedly hostile world. Especially when such a step went through a touchy device that your psycho uncle had invented.

  I stalled by reloading the rifle, even though its magazine held fifteen rounds. I fumbled with the box and dropped a few rounds onto the console. They clattered and rolled around between the knobs.

  I looked at those knobs. I looked at them hard. All I had to do was reach out and twist one, any of them, and Jason and the goblins would be history. I would be safe. My eyes focused on a seed pod nestled up against a waving frond. A second later my vision shifted back to the tuning knobs.

  Then Jason screamed again, that cracking, high-pitched womanish scream like before. “Steve! Steve! Oh shit, STEVE!” he cried.

  My eyes rested on the blood drops that Jason had lost from his forearm when the goblins had first attacked. It was still wet. It was too much. I climbed onto my folding chair and placed my foot on the top of the console. The dark metal barrel of my brother’s .22 Ruger preceded me into the new world.

  3.

  Stepping through the portal felt like walking into a huge soap bubble. It was as if a membrane of some kind between the worlds stretched and spread, adhering slightly to my body, before it opened and allowed me to pass.

  I found myself crouching in the fern-tree, and was suddenly struck by all the sounds and smells of a rain forest. I found the bole of the tree to be reasonably sturdy footing. The going was made difficult only by the innumerable giant fronds that brushed against my face and arms. I made my way to the nearest edge and spread the fronds to allow a view of the ground, some twenty feet below.

  It was open earth and looked wet and damp. A few vines crawled their way over the forest floor, entwining themselves with the rope-like roots of the fern-trees. A black trail of ants, or some similar insect, was scaling the tree nearest to me.

  Then I looked over my shoulder and got my first look at the window I had just come through. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a shimmering image of the workshop, the way it would look through a heat-wave on hot asphalt. Maybe a glowing golden border around it that pulsed ominously like a Star-Trek prop. Instead I saw my uncle’s workshop, in perfect clarity, sort of super-imposed on the air. It was a two-dimensional rip in space. There wasn’t anything special about the borders either. It was almost weirder that way. No glowy blue edge. Just a perfect line, where one world ended and another began.

  Enough tourism. I had a rescue mission to perform. There were no goblins in sight, but I could hear their snarls and chattering nearby. They had moved farther back from the beach, deeper into the fern-tree forest. I slung the rifle over my back and quickly found a route downward. The tree’s trunk was similar to a large squat palm. It’s scale-like surface afforded many handholds.

  Once I had descended to the forest floor I unslung the rifle and looked back at the tree above me. I noted the heart-shaped twist of a root at the bottom of the tree and how far back it was from the beach. I also mentally marked a rock on the shoreline as a reference point. I had no desire to lose my way back to the one way I had to return home. After memorizing the spot, I turned and trotted deeper into the forest.

  I didn’t have far to go. Jason had stopped yelling, but the noises made by the goblins left me plenty to home in on. As I approached the source of the sounds, I considered simply charging in and shooting everything in sight, Clint Eastwood style. But this seemed overly risky, as I had no real idea as to their numbers or how many bowmen might be stationed as sentries. With all the stealth I could manage, I found a thicket of brush near my goal and threaded my way into it. Within a few minutes I found a vantage point where I could spy on them without being seen. At least, that was my hope.

  What I saw startled me. I expected to find Jason strapped securely to a stake with high pil
es of kindling at his feet, or perhaps a boiling cauldron nearby. Instead, he was strapped firmly into a harness that was suspended above a spear planted in the forest floor. The goblins were going to great effort to impale him. They were having considerable difficulty, however, as Jason was far too big and heavy for the harness, which was obviously fashioned for a goblin-sized victim. The trees overhead were thronged with goblins of all sizes and ages. Many of the goblins in the fern-trees were hauling on four leather straps and trying to maneuver Jason over the spear point. Jason was doing his best to foil their efforts by twisting and lurching. He was gagged, and all that came through the wad of moss and leaves in his mouth were snorts and choking sounds. His face shown with the sweat of his efforts. Drops of perspiration dribbled from the tip of his nose and from his brow. His eyes were wide pale orbs that carefully tracked the glinting metal tip of the spear point.

  On the ground were only two warriors with bows and knives and one older-looking figure, even more bent and malformed than usual. This one appeared to be an elder and a leader of some sort, and gestured and chattered at those working with the harness with obvious impatience. I raised my rifle and put the bead just below the right ear of the old guy. I didn’t see any other options but to start firing before they managed to get Jason under control and put the broad stabbing point through his belly. My immediate plan was to drop the leader to cause some confusion.

  But then, unexpectedly, the elderly goblin stepped forward and spoke to Jason in garbled English. “Human, you die now,” he croaked. “You boy-wizard and your evil will die with you.” With these words, he gestured to the goblins handling the straps to lower Jason onto the impaling spear. It seemed that the old guy had met my Uncle or some other human before. Someone who had not made a favorable impression.

  I squeezed, putting one, two, and then three ounces of pressure on the trigger. But I realized all they had to do was drop Jason and it would all be over. “Chief!” I roared, deepening my voice for effect. “If you kill the boy-wizard I will kill you!”

  The old goblin, startled, turned to face the thicket I was hiding in. The rest of the tribe followed suit. His old eyes wrinkled further as he squinted, trying to see the source of the voice. One of the warriors next to him pulled and released an arrow in my general direction. The arrow sailed into the brush twenty feet to my left, cutting through twigs and leaves. In immediate response I leveled my rifle and fired. A bullet punched through his cheek-bone and pierced his brain. He went down as if clubbed and lay shuddering on the forest floor.

  The effect was similar to that of a leopard trotting out into the middle of a baboon troop. The goblins screamed and shook the fronds of their fern-trees anxiously. The females herded their young away from the scene, up into trees deeper in the forest. Several warriors dropped to the ground and took cover behind tree trunks and brush. Jason swayed precariously over the spear point in the commotion, but the chief signaled those holding him aloft to wait. The chief gazed down at the body of the fallen warrior and then raised his eyes back to the thicket.

  “Human,” he said, “Show yourself.”

  “Release him or die. And don’t move for cover or give the order to attack me, or I’ll start killing.”

  As soon as I had finished this message, I began worming my way further back into the thicket and off to one side. I took up a new vantage point in a kneeling position. I didn’t want them to pin-point my location.

  “If you kill me, you will be killed by my people. None of them can speak the language of humans,” the chief informed me.

  I had to chew over that one. The old guy had some brains, I figured. If he was telling the truth and I killed him, then it would just be a blood-bath and Jason would be dead meat. I might become hamburger myself, in fact. I didn’t like the idea.

  The chief, getting over his initial surprise, started talking again. I got the immediate impression that he liked the sound of his own voice. “Humans,” here he spat yellowish phlegm dramatically, “Bad for us. Always bad. They steal, they kill, they stink. They are cowards. You want boy-wizard, then come and talk with us.”

  Craftily, the chief peered at the thicket, doubtless hoping that I would trot forward into easy bowshot. One bony hand rubbed the wrinkled green skin of his face. I noticed that while he talked to me, several of the warriors had faded from view and were doubtless moving through the forest to encircle me. I decided it was time for another demonstration. If I was going to keep control of the situation, I was going to have to keep them cowed.

  I spotted a warrior on his belly, about forty yards off to my right moving between two fern-tree trunks. Not an easy shot. My first round splashed dirt in front of his nose. The rifle lurched in my hands and the spring-loaded clip neatly pushed another bullet up into the firing chamber. Fortunately, the first shot so surprised the goblin that he jumped up into a crouched position and started back for the cover of the tree he had just left, like a runner that has strayed too far from his base. I caught him between the shoulder-blades with two more quick shots. He was knocked ass-over-teakettle right into the base of the fern-tree he had been dashing for. He squealed for a while before he died, making me feel a little ill.

  The others started pulling back after that. The chief didn’t look too happy. He shouted a few impatient orders and waved his hands. I guess that he had gotten the message, because the guys in the trees began to haul up on the straps suspending Jason. They moved him up and away from the spear point and then lowered him to the ground.

  He came down sort of headfirst. I thought to myself that I’d never seen anyone so happy to have his face pushed into dirt. They cut him out of his harness with those long thin blades of theirs. Then he was up and running for the thicket, ripping and spitting moss out of his mouth. I started moving back, watching the goblins rather than Jason. But they didn’t seem to be interested in attacking us. They were pulling further back, fading into the forest.

  Jason was limping a bit, as if one of his legs had gone to sleep, which seemed likely. As he reached the edge of the thicket and plunged into the sheltering greenery like a burning man diving into a cool lake, the panic started to leave his face.

  “Steve!” he hissed, picking his way into the brush. “Steve, where are you, man? You’ve got a kiss coming!”

  4.

  When he got to me, his sweaty face, caked with dirt, was split in a toothy grin. I noted that the chief had ducked out of sight, and out of range, when Jason had entered the thicket. I pushed off Jason’s panting, sweaty hug of greeting.

  “We aren’t out of the woods yet, Tonto.”

  “Right,” he agreed immediately. His face shifted to a look of absolute seriousness. I felt that he had changed in some way, probably permanently. “Which way back? You didn’t get lost, did you?”

  As he spoke he hunkered down beside me and looked back at the impaling spear. He stared at it fixedly for a moment, still slightly mesmerized by it. The goblins were nearly out of sight now.

  “Let’s go,” I said. There was no argument. We moved quickly out of the thicket in the direction that I had come. By the time we reached the edge, we were crashing through the brush at run. Bleeding from the face and hands where branches of thorns had caught at us, we charged thorough the forest in full stride. Our breath came in hoarse pants. Large sweat stains turned cold and clung to the skin under our arms. Panic was overtaking us. We were running for our lives.

  Unerringly, I led the way to the beach. We came out a little off from where we had started. For a minute or two I was lost. Jason knew it. He didn’t say anything, but his face was white with fear. We moved back into the forest for cover and made our way in the direction that I hoped the window was.

  Laughing with relief, I found the right fern-tree and tackled the trunk, climbing like a chimp at dinner-time. Jason was right behind me all the way. We pushed our way up through the fronds and climbed onto the top of the tree.

  And there we found the chief goblin. He was in the act of climbing in
to the window, into our world. He was alone and he was scared. He must have been the only one with enough balls after all the killing to come after us. We charged through the waving fronds after him. Fortunately, he was old, scared and slow.

  I watched him get to his feet on the other side and to my horror I saw him reach for the tuning knobs. He was smiling at me in a nasty sort of way. The way an older brother would when he locks you out of the house and your folks are on vacation. Almost without thought, I snapped the rifle to my shoulder and began firing. The first shot went wild, I saw the plaster in the back wall of the workshop sprout an answering puff of dust back at me. I fired as fast as I could squeeze the trigger.

  Before he could reach the knob, his smile fading, my second and third and fourth shots hit him. He jerked back flailing, and collapsed in a heap on Jason’s folding chair, which was still lying in its folded position on the floor.

  We clambered toward the window quickly, but we weren’t quite fast enough. The chief goblin was a tough old guy, I have to admit that. He reached up and twisted one of the knobs. I’m not even sure which one.

  The window vanished and left us behind in the alien jungle.

  We both stood there, panting and dripping a mixture of blood, sweat and dirt onto the bole of the fern-tree. For once, Jason didn’t call me a moron.

  5.

  I envisioned it all. I hadn’t gotten A’s in history for nothing.

  They might just kill us out of hand when we ran out of bullets. Or maybe we would get hungry and weak and fall asleep one night. An arrow out of the night might do the trick, or maybe even something more mundane and natural, like the purplish infection that had puffed up Jason’s slashed arm.

  But whatever it was, we were going to die here. Unless Mom and Dad found the workshop and the dead goblins. Maybe they could get my crazy Uncle out of the nuthouse long enough to help. Maybe he would twiddle the dials for them, returning the window to this precise spot.