Dead Time

by D. L. Orton

  Just as I suspected, the two turrets on the east side of the wall seem to be broken or out of ammo. I consider crawling up from the west side, but I have no way of knowing if or when those guns might start firing. So, using the parachute again, I work my way closer on hands and knees, marking a safe zone with the pencil as I go. After an hour of tossing, crawling, and scribbling, I press my gloved hands against the fortress wall and stand up.

  A stone’s throw to my right, there’s a U-shaped tunnel cutting back into the mountain, and according to my scouting yesterday, ten or twelve meters inside that opening there’s a huge blast door. As far as I can determine, there’s no other entrance on this side of the mountain.

  What are you going to do if the blast door is sealed shut and there’s no way to open it?

  “Try something else,” I say aloud, unnerved by the silence.

  I drink from my canteen and take out my binoculars, getting a better look at the angle of the machine gun turrets. It looks as though I should be safe if I stay up against the wall. If I’m wrong, I won’t get a second chance.

  What are you going to do if there are machine guns inside the tunnel?

  “Worry about the things you can control, and let the rest go.”

  I continue tossing the parachute ahead of me and sliding my body along the wall toward the mouth of the tunnel. When I get there, I roll up the parachute and stick the end out into the tunnel opening, trying to keep my hands behind the wall.

  Nothing happens.

  I take a small mirror out of the first aid kit in my pack and hold it out in front of me, moving it sideways until I can see into the tunnel. I scan the ceiling and walls, checking for holes or vents or anywhere bullets could shoot out. There isn’t anything except smooth concrete all the way back to five or six piles of threadbare fabric.

  I take a closer look and let out a yelp. The entrance to the mountain fortress is littered with decomposed bodies, bones sticking out from the disintegrating clothing.

  I lean back against the wall and wait for my heart to stop pounding.

  They died twenty years ago, Lani. They aren’t going to hurt you now.

  I wait for my pulse to settle and then stick the mirror back out. The blast door is definitely shut tight. I stick the mirror in my pocket and unwrap the parachute. Then I take a deep breath and toss the fabric into the center of the tunnel. There’s a faint buzzing sound, but nothing else. I use the mirror to take a look.

  Recessed lights in the ceiling have come on, and a panel next to the blast door flashes red.

  I let out a whoop. “There’s power!”

  I drag the parachute canopy back and toss it one more time, letting it catch the air and drift slowly down to the ground.

  No gunfire.

  I consider going back to my camp and letting the Bub know what I’ve discovered, but curiosity gets the best of me. I slink into the tunnel, keeping my back against the wall, and edge my way up to the blast door, trying not to look at the desiccated bodies.

  Once I get up to the flashing panel, I take a virus test strip out of the vial in my bag and break the sealed plastic wrapper. The pale yellow paper turns bright red almost immediately.

  “Contaminated.”

  I take a deep breath and stick the trash back in my pocket, wondering for the hundredth time why Doomsday doesn’t kill me.

  “Bad luck,” I say aloud.

  The blast door is five meters high and about the same in width. I run my fingers along the side edge, checking if I can feel any air leaking in or out.

  I can’t. It looks to be sealed up tight.

  The painted metal door is cold to the touch, and by the amount of detritus wedged up against the bottom, hasn’t been opened in a long time. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.

  “Probably bad.”

  I walk over to the other side of the door and look at the red control panel. The writing above the display panel reads, “Place palm of hand on reader and wait for instructions.” I tap the display.

  “Welcome to the Warm Springs Complex,” says a disembodied female voice.

  I pull my hand away and step back.

  “Place your hand on the biometric panel,” says the computer, “and state your full name.”

  “Uh…” I rest my palm on the panel. “Ka’iulani Kalakaua Kai,” I say, not having spoken my full name in decades.

  “Working…”

  I look more carefully at the access panel. There’s a camera lens above the screen and a tiny circle of holes in the metal panel for a speaker or microphone.

  “Biometrics not recognized,” says the computer. “Please stand by. Security has been alerted.”

  I drop my hand to my side and stare at the flashing panel. “How long is that going to take?”

  “Please stand by. Security has been alerted,” the computer repeats.

  “Great,” I say, wondering how long it’s been since security was last alerted. “Is there anyone inside the mountain?”

  “Please stand by. Security has been alerted,” the computer says for the third time.

  “I got that part,” I say. “Can you open the blast door?”

  “Authorization is required to enter. Please authorize.”

  I try twice more to no avail.

  Now what?

  I sit down on the floor of the tunnel, away from the erstwhile mosh pit, and nibble on a handful of dried fruit.

  “Who’s there?”

  The voice is deep and fearful, and it takes me a minute to realize where it’s coming from.

  The access panel.

  “I am!” I shout and scramble to my feet. I step in front of the camera lens. “My name is Dr. Lani Kai, and I’m from the Kirkland Biodome.” The panel continues flashing red. “I’m looking for an underground city, a government installation sealed off from the Doomsday virus.”

  I wait a few seconds, but there’s no reply.

  “Hello?” I say. “Are you there?”

  “Give me a second to put something on,” the male voice says. “Christ, I wasn’t expecting visitors.” There’s some noise in the background. “You got any cuttlefish bones?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

  “Fish bones?” I say, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. “Um, no. But I do have some dried apples with me. Will that do?”

  “How come you don’t have a suit on?” he says, sounding worried.

  “I’m immune,” I say. “I found out a few days ago.”

  “Oh. What happened to your face?”

  The guy is not a master of subtlety.

  I run my fingertips across one of the disfiguring scars on my cheek, scars that cover nearly a quarter of my body. “I was burned in an accident,” I say. “It happened a long time ago, when I was seventeen. The day they sealed the biodome.”

  The display goes dark and then a man’s face appears in black and white. He looks to be in his sixties, with a scruffy beard—and hair that would put Einstein to shame.

  “Benny likes apples,” he says and then runs his hands through the mop of hair on his head. “Sorry, I must look like some crazy dude. Guess I haven’t cut my hair or shaved in, well… decades. Ran out of razors early on, and it didn’t seem worth the effort to keep it trimmed. Been stuck inside this godforsaken mountain for twenty-eight years, seven months, and” —he glances down— “thirteen days. And you’re the first visitor I’ve had.”

  I smile, my heart still pounding in my throat. “I don’t blame you one bit.”

  He narrows one eye. “How come you’re immune?”

  “Dumb luck,” I say. “How come you’re not dead?”

  He laughs. “Well it ain’t for lack of trying.” He moves closer to the camera. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Lani. I’m a medical doctor.”

  “What are you doing outside my mountain?”

  “I need help,” I say. “Can you please let me in?”

  “Nope. If I open the door, all the good air’ll get out, a
nd Benny’ll die.”

  “Benny?”

  “Yeah.” He glances off screen. “The indicator says the exterior air is still bad. I can’t open the door.”

  “Are you Benny?” I ask.

  “Of course not. You think I’m crazy or something?”

  I shake my head, but I’m not so sure.

  “Benny’s my chinchilla. We’ve been together for going on twenty years. He’s all I have left.”

  This guy has been locked up inside the mountain—all by himself—for two decades?

  The man moves out of the image and comes back with a small furry creature on his shoulder. “Benny, this is Lani. She’s a doctor. That means she gives people shots and takes out their tonsils and stuff.”

  “Nice to meet you, Benny,” I say, unsure how I feel about his description of me.

  “He’s pleased to meet you too, doc.” He scratches the rabbit-sized creature between the ears. “He’s named after Ben Gunn. You know, ‘Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!’” He laughs. “He likes cheese.”

  The guy’s nutty as a fruitcake.

  “Ah… hi, Benny,” I say. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  The man’s eyes get big. “You sound a little cuckoo, doc. Everyone knows chinchilla’s can’t talk.”

  I laugh. “So what is your name?”

  “Oh, I’m…” He thinks for a moment. “Jimbo. Haven’t said that word in ages.”

  “Don’t you have an airlock inside the blast door, Jimbo? A sealed room that protects you from the Outside air?”

  “Sure we do, but the thing’s busted. Won’t work without the main power, and that’s been off longer than I can remember.”

  “Surely it can be operated by hand in an emergency?”

  “Don’t call me Shirley,” he says and then grins. “That was a little movie joke.”

  I force a smile. “What about the airlock, Jimbo? If you let me in, you can have my dried apples or anything else you want.”

  “To be honest,” he says, “I don’t know how to operate it. Never had the need, you see. Sorry about that.”

  “Is there anyone else in there—besides you and Benny?”

  He shakes his head. “My son died a few years ago…” He wipes his eyes on his bathrobe sleeve. “Could have used a doctor back then—but it’s no use now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “It must have been hard on you.”

  “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, doc. I hope you find that underground city, seein’ as the one in here is ruined.”

  “Wait!” I say. “Don’t go!”

  He laughs. “Couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to.”

  “Do you think you could figure out how to operate the emergency airlock? I mean if it was really important?”

  “Probably, but it would take me a while. I’d have to look through all these manuals.” He lifts up a stack of what looks like old phone books. It’s over a foot high. “See what I’m talking about?”

  “Yes, that does look challenging. But, this is important, Jimbo. Lots of my friends are stuck inside a biodome that’s failing, and they need a new place to live. Do you think you could help me find a safe place for them?”

  “There’s not enough room in here,” he says, looking alarmed. “And I told you, the Magic Kingdom is contaminated. I haven’t been down there in years.”

  Oh my God, this is it!

  “So,” I say, forcing my brain to slow down, “the Doomsday virus is inside the Magic Kingdom?”

  “No, of course not—if it was, I’d be dead. The cave is full of CO2. Has been since the main power went off. Without the air exchangers, the place is a death trap.”

  “Okay,” I say, hope flooding into me. “What if we figured out a way to turn the power back on? Would there be room for my friends inside the Magic Kingdom?”

  He raises one eyebrow, and something about the gesture seems familiar.

  “Depends,” he says. “How many friends do you have?”

  “Around fifty.”

  He’s quiet for a minute, rubbing his hand across his bearded face. “I didn’t think there were that many people left in the whole wide world,” he finally says. “There’s space for five hundred people down there—and food and medicine for them too.”

  I can barely contain my excitement. “Oh that’s wonderful news!”

  “But you’d have to find a way to turn the main power back on—and then wait for the air to clear.”

  “I think we can do that, Jimbo. Mr. Kirk can figure out a way to turn the power back on, and we’ll get the carbon dioxide cleared out. Do you know where the generator is located?”

  “Mr. Kirk?” He leans right up to the camera, his eyes narrowed. “You mean, Dave Kirk?”

  “Yes! Do you know him? He’s the man who invented the biodomes.”

  “Yeah. I know him. He’s the one who fucking locked me up in here. Friend of yours, huh?” He moves off camera. “I have to go now. Benny needs his lunch and his exercise, and then he takes a nap.”

  “Wait!” I slap my hand against the control pad. “Don’t leave me out here! I need your help. Please.”

  His face reappears, and then he glances at his wrist—which has nothing on it. “Come back at two. I’ll take a look at the manuals. We can chat while Benny’s napping—but we’ll have to keep our voices down so we don’t wake him.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And if you have any cuttlefish bones, you could bring those. I let him chew on plastic, but it’s bad for his health—all that BPA, you know.”

  “Yes it is. I’ll see what I can do. Anything else you need, Jimbo?”

  “Some real coffee would be great. I haven’t had a cup in ages. Tres Ríos is my favorite, but I don’t imagine there’s any of it left now.” He raises one hand. “Bye.”

  The display goes blank.

  “Wait!” I jab at the access panel. “Jimbo?”

  The display starts flashing red again.

  I press my palm against it. “Come on, come on. Answer.”

  “Welcome to the Warm Springs Complex,” the computer says. “Place your hand on the biometric panel and state your full name.”

  19

  Time Bomb

  Diego

  By sundown on the ninth day, we’ve finished repairing all but two of the seams Outside. As the last crew heads inside, I tell the foreman I’m going to stay out and see if I can finish the work. The night is mild, and there’s a quarter moon. Between that and a flashlight, I manage to complete all the repairs.

  “Woo-hoo,” I say after I tighten the last bolt.

  I climb down, put the tools on the trailer—balancing the ladder on top—and head back toward the airlock.

  The night is still and dark, and the biodome is glowing. It’s a beautiful sight, but it makes me sad. And lonely. And miserable.

  Just as I start refilling the scooter’s gas tank, the sky lights up behind me, and an instant later, there’s a supersonic boom loud enough to shake the biodome walls.

  “Holy shit, what was that?”

  I turn in time to see something bright streak across the sky. It screams through the treetops and crashes into the swamp on the other side of the airport, setting a good portion of the woods on fire.

  A meteor?

  Smoke rises along the line of burning trees, marking the passage of the projectile.

  A meteor that sets everything in its path on fire?

  Something about that is familiar. Really familiar.

  The Einstein Sphere!

  I feel my socks getting wet and realize the scooter’s tank is overflowing onto my shoes.

  “Mierda.”

  I put down the gas can, screw the lid on the tank, and use the intercom to let Ted know about the fireball.

  Custer comes on as I’m starting up the scooter. “Do not approach the bogey, Mr. Crusoe. I’m sending out armed men to investigate. Over.”

  The scooter coughs and sputters to life.

  “Do you r
ead me, Crusoe. I said stay where you are. Do not approach the meteor. That’s an order.”

  I laugh and open the throttle, heading toward the burning trees. “What are you going to do, put me in jail?”

  Luckily, the sphere landed inside the double security fence surrounding C-Bay, or I wouldn’t be able to get to it without opening the gates.

  It occurs to me that the Einstein Sphere destroyed half of downtown Denver, and if this one had come down a few hundred meters to the west, it would have drilled a hole right through the biodome.

  And killed everyone inside.

  “Shit, that was close. Whoever is sending these things is a complete nutter.”

  I head down the runway at a blistering twenty miles per hour, the trailer bumping and banging along behind me. Once I get into the swampy area, I throttle back.

  You don’t want to hit any alligators, and you definitely don’t want to drive into a sinkhole.

  Turns out, the “meteor” is easy to find.

  Just follow the yellow blazed road.

  When I get to the end of the burning trees, I park the scooter with the lights trained in the direction the projectile was heading and get off to take a closer look.

  About thirty meters farther on, I spy a ghostly apparition. I push the scooter closer and realize it’s vapor rising from the ground. The steam is coming from a hole in the swampy earth that’s barely wider than my hand and oozing boiling, muddy water like some mud pot in Yellowstone.

  “That’s one hot potato.”

  I take a shovel off the trailer and stick the handle into the newly created geyser. The hole goes down at a sharp angle, but the shovel isn’t long enough to touch the bottom.

  “Damn.”

  I pull down a sapling that’s three or four meters tall and shove the trunk down into the muck, jabbing it around until I hit something solid.

  Something hard and smooth.

  Something about the size of un balón de fútbol.

  I grin. “You’ve got mail.”

  Come on, McFly. Tell me how to get back to Isabel.