Date: 2020-10-27 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Aliens; Post Apocalyptic
Description: A Jack Walker and Michael Talbot Adventure In the final chapter of the A Shrouded World saga, Jack, Trip, and Mike have brought the fight to the Whistlers’ terrifying homeworld. With the help of some unexpected allies, the crew must finally find a way to stop the enemy before they can tear through the planes of existence and destroy all life. What they don’t know, what they can’t know, is that there is so much more to the enemy than they previously thought, and defeating them may be an impossible task. Will our heroes be able to stop the enormous war machine and return home, or will they peris
Rights: Copyright 2020 Mark Tufo. All rights reserved.

A Shrouded World 8

Asgard

Mark Tufo

John O’Brien

Copyright © 2020 by Mark Tufo/ John O’Brien

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

To all our brothers and sisters that are active duty or who have ever served we want to thank each of you for your service and give special thanks to the families back home that support them.

Other Books By Mark Tufo

Zombie Fallout Series

Zombie Fallout 1

Zombie Fallout 2: A Plague Upon Your Family

Zombie Fallout 3: The End...

Zombie Fallout 3.5: Dr. Hugh Mann

Zombie Fallout 4: The End Has Come and Gone

Zombie Fallout 5: Alive in a Dead World

Zombie Fallout 6: ‘Til Death Do Us Part

Zombie Fallout 7: For the Fallen

Zombie Fallout 8: An Old Beginning

Zombie Fallout 9: Tattered Remnants

Zombie Fallout 10: Those Left Behind

Zombie Fallout 11: Etna Station

Zombie Fallout 12: Dog Days

Zombie Fallout 13: A Perfect Betrayal

Indian Hill

Indian Hill 1: Encounters

Indian Hill 2: Reckoning

Indian Hill 3: Conquest

Indian Hill 4: From The Ashes

Indian Hill 5: Into The Fire

Indian Hill 6: Victory’s Defeat

Indian Hill 7: Defeat’s Victory

Lycan Fallout

Lycan Fallout 1: Rise Of The Werewolf

Lycan Fallout 2: Fall Of Man

Lycan Fallout 3: End Of An Age

Lycan Fallout 4: Immoralty’s Touchstone

Demon Fallout: The Return

Lycan Fallout 5: Demon Wars

Dystance

Dystance 1: Winters Rising

Dystance 2: Cedar’s Conflict

Dystance 3: The Edge Of Decit

The Book Of Riley A Zombie Tale Books 1-5

Timothy Series

Timothy

Tim 2

Tim 3: Sliced Diced and Cubed

The Spirit Clearing

Callis Rose

Other Books By John O’Brien

Other books by John O’Brien

A New World Series

A New World: Chaos

A New World: Return

A New World: Sanctuary

A New World: Taken

A New World: Awakening

A New World: Dissension

A New World: Takedown

A New World: Conspiracy

A New World: Reckoning

A New World: Storm

Companion Books

A New World: Untold Stories

A New World: Untold Stories II

ARES VIRUS

Ares Virus: Arctic Storm

Ares Virus: White Horse

Ares Virus: Phoenix Rising

THE THIRD WAVE: EIDOLON

LIFTING THE VEIL

Lifting the Veil: Fallen

Lifting the Veil: Winter

Lifting the Veil: Emergence

Lifting the Veil: Risen

RED TEAM

Red Team: Strigoi

Red Team: Lycan

Contents

1. Mike Journal Entry 1

2. Mike Journal Entry 2

3. Mike Journal Entry 3

4. Jack Walker — Chapter One

5. Jack Walker — Chapter Two

6. Jack Walker — Chapter Three

7. Jack Walker — Chapter Four

8. Mike Journal Entry 4

9. Mike Journal Entry 5

10. Mike Journal Entry 6

11. Jack Walker — Chapter Five

12. Jack Walker — Chapter Six

13. Jack Walker — Chapter Seven

14. Jack Walker – Chapter Eight

15. Aftermath – Mike Journal Entry 7

About Mark Tufo

About John O’Brien

A Shrouded World The Series

1

Mike Journal Entry 1

Where does one even begin to explain what is going on when one has started playing a part in someone else’s story smack dab in the middle of the mayhem? Trip, the resident time-traveling perpetually stoned genius dragged and dropped me into an alternate world that was in the midst of a cataclysmic war, one that dwarfed the battle I had been going through with the zombies. My guide, knew, on some level, what was going on, but the fractures within his mind prevented him from clearly explaining what was happening, what the hell I was doing here, or what needed to be done. The only decent thing that had come from this detour was Jack. Sure, he was former Air Force, but looking past that, he was a fierce fighter and a loyal companion. He, too, had been ripped from his home world, which was suffering a fate similar to mine, and that only made the situation stranger.

We stumbled through that alternate reality much like a crawling baby does when it first pulls itself up on the edge of a table and tries to walk. We were doing all we could just to survive to make it through to the next day, when we might possibly awaken from our nightmare. We continually witnessed things that shouldn’t be happening, people and materials embedded into rock and walls. Sonic waves that could displace time both forward and backward, carbon copies of people we knew (or that Jack knew—I was happy to be spared that small slice of hell). I really thought zombies were the worst thing that could happen—until I came across night runners. Then, just as we figured them out, we discovered there was an entirely new monster created by an enemy we did not yet know: whistlers, a parasite bent on our destruction. That was their sole purpose in life, if you could call them alive. They had no other desire. We could not create a truce with an enemy that wanted nothing more than to destroy us utterly.

Along our journey, we befriended a demon and made a mortal enemy of angels, though the latter was nothing like the cloud floating harp wielders I’d been brought up to believe in. Whatever was happening, whichever higher entities were monitoring this slog fest, they did not want me and Jack together. No matter how hard we tried to team up, fates continually pulled us apart. Instinctively, we both knew that this was somehow the key: that the two of us together, for a yet undetermined reason, were the flies in the ointment to ending this. It had become so much larger than just us trying to survive, I was afraid; I genuinely suspected we were fighting for all life. The whistlers were jumping from world to world, in and out of time and dimensions. As near as we could tell, there was no safe haven to hold out from this onslaught, no place to hide. Trip, in his infinite wisdom, sharper than a Magic 8-Ball and about as reliable as a Ouija Board, sent me help in the form of BT. But not the BT version from my world, my truest friend and ally, whom I would trust with my life. No, the one I got was an overweight asshole that absolutely despised me in every imaginable way. I couldn’t blame him. The Mike he knew was a dick, fed up with everything and everyone. The help Trip had sent was a whiney burden I could ill-afford to look out for. Nobody wanted him, but leaving him to the wayside was something I could not do. The man I knew and loved was in there somewhere, under all those nachos.

Since we’d been here, we’d done nothing but run or react to what was thrown our way; we were being distracted from what needed to be done. When Jack found the relic, I knew we’d been given something of great importance. Unwisely, I’d decided on my own what our next move should be, and we were tossed onto the inhospitable whistler home world, where, within a matter of minutes, Jack and myself found ourselves captured. Trip and BT winked out, leaving us high and dry. The entire planet appeared to be one giant slave encampment. I was befriended by a giant blob, a being aptly named Bob, and through a trial by fire, another, rather fearsome creature became a friend of mine. He looked something like a standing, horned Komodo dragon, so I named him Churchill. Long story. You can read all about it in a previous journal.

Turns out, Bob was the wildcard in this deck. He removed my controlling cap and ultimately Churchill’s, and we escaped our mining duties. I had a feeling this wasn’t news to Bob, but this was when I found out that whistlers were created in a factory, meaning there was something else entirely, something bigger than we’d thought, at the controls driving this rollercoaster. The whistlers were nothing more than a bio-engineered plague—it was their masters that needed to be stopped. Naively, I’d thought we’d accomplished that when we took down the inverted pyramid, only to discover that we’d not done much more than dump a pebble from our boot, in a quarry full of pebbles.

Bob, Churchill and myself, still flush with the idea we’d crippled the whistlers’ war machine, could only look on with dismay at the dozens of towers we could see in the distance.

And so the story continues…

“Small steps, Talbot. Can’t eat an elephant in one sitting.” I didn’t like the analogy; I’d never eat an elephant, and I bet they’d taste bad anyway. This was still a morale boost; we had struck a blow in the heart of the enemy’s territory. Even one who was so dominating the field of battle had to pause at the brazenness of the attack and the success of it. You can expand your ruinous empire as far as you like, but if you become vulnerable at home, it will all collapse on itself. The whistlers might not care about the ramifications of that destruction, and maybe their overlords didn’t either, but I doubted that was the case. Those who believe they’re untouchable are highly offended at a poke in the eye. I had to believe it affected them in some manner. The question now was, how were they going to respond. Did they redouble their forward efforts or pull inwards to assess the new threat?

I had no idea what we were going to do; there weren’t even odds we could do again what we had done to one pyramid, and the field before us seemed endless. Bob had inside knowledge of that pyramid; it was doubtful they were all the same and could be exploited in the same way. It was possible, but either way, I wasn’t starting that process again. Control cap screwed to my head, sludge tube down my throat, slave labor and all that…then what would happen if Bob and I couldn’t find each other? The idea that I’d be able to navigate through the right gates again was absurd; if not for Jack’s directions I would have been blown off the platform and made into food paste. So many things had gone right for us and still it had almost failed. When your number comes up on the roulette wheel and you win big, the best course of action is to walk away.

Bob, Church and I were on a small plateau some five miles away from the destroyed pyramid. It was a crazy hive of activity out there. Hovercraft were either shooting down or helping to round up thousands of their escaping captives. This I watched by staring right through Bob’s head and eyes; it was like looking through red-tinted binoculars. I was fearful that at any moment some giant construction crane was going to come into the picture and right the downed structure and they’d be up and running in the next twenty-four hours. The whistlers were wholesale slaughtering creatures, and it tore me up watching, especially since I was at least partially responsible. If I thought I could have done even the slightest thing to help, I would have. The area was crawling with whistlers, easily the largest assemblage of them thus far. They must have sent reinforcement from all the nearby towers.

“What now, Bob?” I asked, finally getting sick of watching the creatures become bullet catchers.

Church’s belly rumbled so loudly I looked up to the sky expecting a hovercraft closing quickly on our location. He rubbed his stomach in a very human gesture, and I could empathize—or sympathize—because I was hungry as well. No chance of getting gruel stuffed down our throats now, and I was pretty sure there were no food trucks in the general vicinity. As for the planet yielding any prizes, I didn’t have much hope. It was sea of grass as far as the eye could see. Bob started moving away, I followed Church, next in line. We got under an outcropping of rock and slept. Wasn’t going to do much to slake my thirst, but my body was grateful nonetheless. Bob woke me up a few hours later; one of the suns was down, and the other was barely above the horizon. Had a feeling that, because of this planet’s rotation, it never truly set, but at least it was darker.

Bob nodded to Church. I shook him awake and we started walking again. Bob had a destination in mind; I could only hope we reached it soon and that it was well stocked. I didn’t like that none of us were saying anything, it made me uneasy. Never thought I’d miss getting those one-word responses. The sort-of-night was much cooler; considering the planet had two suns, it wasn’t quite as oppressive as one would think. Must have been a lot farther out on that ring of life, you know, the planetary orbit in regards to its sun or suns. Scientists say there's a sweet spot that makes it possible to harbor life, otherwise it was too cold or too hot. If there was only one sun, my guess was this would be a frozen wasteland. Snow meant water though, and that train of though circled me back around to wanting and needing the liquid.

Church and I followed Bob without question; personally, I didn’t have anything else to do. We were fugitives, there was no sanctuary on the entire planet and, as of yet, my white knight (in the form of either Trip or Jack) had not shown. I had a rifle and two powerful allies, but, against an entire world bent on our demise, we were insignificant. Correction—not quite insignificant, after all we had caused a major amount of chaos but how much it would mean in the bigger picture was still in question. Japan had thought it dealt a crippling blow at Pearl Harbor and, for a while it had seemed to work, but what it resulted in was a whole lot of hurt. History showed who that victory went to.

We traveled the entire night before stopping once again. This time we had no outcrop to get out from under the sun as we watched the second one rise. I wasn’t quite in dire straits, but that path was illuminated before me, and it wouldn’t be long before dehydration’s tendrils dug in deep and, like a dandelion, would be tough to uproot.

Bob formed into something like a table with six legs and then urged me and Church to get underneath. He’d made a haven for us to have a little shade and get some rest. I was concerned for his well-being, but he told me he was fine in his normal “Bob” answer. I somehow got some shut eye with that red ceiling no more than a few inches from my face. Church snored like he had two deviated septums. The fact I was able to get any rest was more a testament to exhaustion than comfort. With the suns going down, Bob roused us and we reluctantly continued on. I was getting the feeling maybe he was just marching us along until we couldn’t go on any farther, better to be doing something than waiting for the end to come to us kind of thing.

We’d been moving for a couple of hours when Bob stopped. I was looking for the sun, mistakenly believing (and hoping) it was once again time to sleep. I was doing the math in my head; I knew I was coming up on three days without water. I was going to be at my limit soon, no telling when Church or Bob would start to feel the effects.

“Milk.”

I came around the side of him and was about to ask what he wanted when I was looking at a pool of water, or liquid anyway. It was a green, fusty thing, no bigger than a small, backyard above-ground pool. It was impossible to tell the depth, as I couldn’t see past the thick sludge resting on top. Occasionally a bubble would pop on the surface. It looked like it was simmering, or, more likely, dribbling marsh gas was rising to the surface, or who knows? Maybe it was some hippopotamus type of creature submerged underneath releasing its own methane. It was noxious enough to be the latter.

“I’m not drinking that,” I told him.

Bob moved closer to the boggy area. He then spiraled out a small part of him, a tendril, I guess. I was worried that it would burn him as he stuck his extension into the liquid. It closed around the makeshift limb like mud would. Then, I watched, incredulously, as sludge rose up and into that hose. He was drinking it.

“That can’t be good for you!” If Bob went down with some alien E. coli we were all screwed. I wish I could stop this narrative right here and tell you we stumbled across a stalled truck full of bottled water, and I even thought of writing that in this journal just to keep from repeating what I actually saw, but that wasn’t quite how it worked out. Another hose appeared behind him, this more of the outlet variety. If I thought what was entering was on the revolting and loathsome side, what he was expelling was beyond description. Why I feel the need to elaborate, who knows. A few years back I was visiting my brother; he was having a deck built off his back door. I love—loved, my brother; he was a good person, but saving a nickel was of utmost importance to him. He never seemed to get the lesson of “you get what you pay for” or “save a dime spend a dollar.”

He’d hired this kid, early twenties, I guess, to do the deck because he’d come in much lower than the nearest quote. And, true, it was a deck, not an entire building, so one would think anyone with a working knowledge of construction would be fine. Yeah, you’d think that. The kid showed up on time that first day; that, in and of itself, was a good sign, considering contractors’ penchants for doing things on their own timeline. He’d even rented an auger to dig out the holes for the footing, a smart move, considering shoveling ground in Maine was a rocky adventure. He dug four or five of them then said he was going to lunch.

I didn’t hire him, but I thought it strange that his lunchtime started at ten, and why the hell was he packing up the auger? He still had another five or six holes to go, but, again, not my rodeo. Maybe it wasn’t working correctly and he wanted to get another. Seriously didn’t give it another thought as I drank a beer. (I was on vacation; you get a free pass to drink before lunch.) I’d gone into the house to grab another and was back outside with my hand on the cap, about to twist it off, when I caught a whiff of something…unpleasant. I looked around for Ron’s dog; he was nowhere in sight, and I hadn’t let anything slip through. I was hoping it wasn’t a bad case of b.o. and gave my pits the cursory sniff. I was good to go. I chalked it up to some errant odor. I had the bottle to my lips when I again caught a whiff of something seriously off-putting. I looked at the beer like maybe it had skunked.

“What the hell?” I got up to track the origin and found myself rounding the house to get to the back, and there it was. Five auger holes and one was a muddy, bubbling, stinking brew, hastily filled back in. “Uh oh.” I went back into the house. “Um, Ron, I think you have a problem.”

“Yeah, my brother has come to visit.” He thought he was being funny, I knew I was about to one up him.

“Might want to head out back.”

“Little busy, here. Some of us are still working, not all of us can drink right now. Jesus, Mike, what time is it? It’s not even eleven.”

“Time is a manmade construct.”

“That’s when I know you’re bullshitting—when you start diving into your rudimentary philosophical understandings.”

“You can give me all the shit you want about day drinking, but it’ll still be less shit than what’s happening outside.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dave fucked something up.”

“He just started, he’s only digging holes.” Ron went past me. “How much could he mess up?”

“Oh, you’d be amazed,” I said as I took another swig. I followed him out, partly for the spectacle that was about to erupt; maybe a little bit of gloat. It wasn’t that I was unsympathetic to his plight, but he’d asked me who I thought he should go with for the job, and I’d told him the company that is bonded and licensed, not the kid that was working out of his friend’s borrowed minivan.

He was standing by the smelly bubbling hole, his phone to his ear. He left a message for Dave, who had decided not to answer that call. Or the next dozen, for that matter. Each one filled with more expletives and threats of legal action. Ron’s wife, Nancy, had the smarts to contact the septic company, who had sent out a representative in under an hour. Which, considering this was Maine, might have been a new record.

“Ah yup, looks like he put a hole through your outlet pipe.” The worker, Barry, I think his name was, had on overalls and wader boots that came up well past his knees. If I had his job, I would have walked around in an entire rubber suit and diver’s helmet, but that was me. In one hand he was carrying a tuna fish sandwich which he would occasionally take bites from. I guess maybe you get used to the smell, but to eat around it? The beer in my belly was not settling as well as it should have been.

“How long will it take to fix?” Ron asked, a very reasonable question. Barry looked at him like he’d asked how much to kill his wife.

“Fix? Naw, I don’t fix. I just pump ‘em out.”

“You’re a septic company—it says so right there on your truck!” Ron was losing his cool and quick; that happens when your pristine back yard is quickly becoming a sewer.

“Read the slogan.” Barry pointed to the large red letters on the side of the bilge truck.

“You dump, we pump,” Ron said aloud.

“Ah yup, nowhere does it say repairs.”

“You have got to be shitting me!” Ron yelled.

I laughed at the irony of the words. Barry shrugged and got back into his truck but not before shoveling half of the sandwich in. I could not help thinking just how gross all of this was. Tuna was spewing out of Barry’s mouth as he turned. “Gonna have to call up a plumber.”

He did that; must have called over fifty. Either they were too far away to come or were booked out for the next three weeks. My brother was losing his mind; in fairness, it might have been the smell burning away his cortex.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself!” He slammed the phone down.

“Fuck me,” I mumbled knowing where this was going. I grabbed a couple of beers and was heading out for an extended hike.

“Mike!” he bellowed from the other side of the house. Suffice it to say I got roped into helping. Didn’t have an operating tractor at the time. He’d saved big money by buying an old, broken down piece of shit that needed more time, parts, and expertise than most master mechanics had access to. Thing was basically a metal tree, but he loved to talk about how he’d saved thousands over a new one. I never understood the mentality. He hadn’t saved anything. He’d spent money on a rust maker and now we were manually digging a hole made of sewage. The point of this fascinating anecdote is: what Bob was filtering out was worse than what I’d shoveled that day and I’d gagged a hundred times as we’d worked.

The stuff coming out the other side of Bob was so thick it was impossible to call it a liquid. Had the consistency of semi-hardened cement, except the color, and that absolutely disgusting odor was way off. Bob did this for a good long while, had to have been a couple of minutes. I got queasy just watching, but I couldn’t turn away. It was obvious he was filtering the water, but who knew how good of a system it was. Seemingly better than Detroit’s had been, but was it as good as a Brita? And were they even the best at what they did? Who knew what kind of killing virus could escape the process? I wanted a drink of water in the worst way, but first, I didn’t have a built-in way to clean the water, and second, I didn’t want to die lying on the ground curled up in a ball, holding my stomach as it cramped and dissolved due to the poison ingested.

Bob had seemingly got his fill, good for him, and, as of yet, had not succumbed to anything. But just when you think the world is as off-kilter as it can be, an earthquake strikes, this one in the form of Bob creating another valve. He had an intake in the cesspool, another sluicing off sludge, and still another that was attempting to mimic that of a garden hose, clear liquid dribbled out at first and then there was a steady stream.

“No.” Said the word a half dozen, possibly a dozen times. Church had no such compunction. He got onto his back and let what I’m hoping and praying was straight water flow into his mouth. He was grunting in contentment.

“Milk,” Bob urged.

“I know what it is, Bob. This whole thing is, umm, this is just a little too graphic for me. The…connotations.” This was my hang up. Bob, as far as I knew, wasn’t any particular gender, could have been both or all or something entirely different. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—sexual about the act but, I mean, there it was. I could see some graphic artist somewhere creating this entire scenario and there would be some person somewhere getting their rocks off to this strange form of alien love making.

“Ah!” Church stood up and rubbed his belly.

“I absolutely cannot believe I’m doing this. Going to end up on Access Hollywood or some shit. Right now there’s an asshole paparazzi with some mega telephoto lens zooming in. How am I going to explain this to my wife? It was a one-time thing, honey, honest. It meant nothing.” As fucking thirsty as I was, I couldn’t grab Bob’s hose and get my fill. I cupped my hands underneath to gather as much as I could. There was a fair amount of loss in the transfer but it was the way I was able to deal with my Freudian biases. I didn’t think I was being homophobic; I have never cared what anyone did in the privacy of their bedroom. Two consenting adults of any orientation that had found love were free to express it in any manner they chose. For me, personally, there was nothing about my own gender that elicited a sexual response. Men were generally all hard angles, and, although Bob was more or less one big womanly curve, it wasn’t in the right places. Then there was the obvious turn off of the giant proboscis.

All of that hung up crap in my head swirled around even as I took my third and fourth handful of the life-giving water. In the end, I’d known all along I would succumb. Bob had allowed us to continue our mission in multiple ways I’d rejected at first, and not once had he left money on top of the dresser before leaving.

“You’ve got problems, Talbot,” I said as I stood, “but being thirsty isn’t one of them. Thank you.”

Bob seemed pretty happy with himself, though he didn’t move. The drinking hose retreated, yet Bob still kept pumping the sludge in and the waste product out; took me a few moments to realize what he was doing. He was becoming a giant canteen. I could see an expanding bubble of clear water forming a skirmish-ending water balloon down close to the ground. We were going to be fine for a while, at least in terms of water. Now that one base need had been satisfied, my body went on to the next. I could use a cheeseburger like no one’s business. The thing about this world was, I had yet to see any wildlife of any kind, not footprints, not droppings, not a far-off sighting of an animal scurrying away or even a call from the skies. The only thing living here seemed to be the whistlers and whatever they brought in.

Was it possible they’d found a barren planet and set it up to be their evil lair? I mean, what would the moon look like if they’d somehow added an atmosphere? It would still be a lifeless rock. In between the grumblings of my stomach I could hear the water sloshing around. After the infusion of the H20, I’d been feeling more myself, and for a time I scanned the horizon looking for anything to break the monotony or eat. When neither of those things showed themselves, I let my head drop to the plodding. Watching where each foot was going to fall. It was Church that stopped first. He gently reached over to grab the material on my back. I pulled up short and looked at him.

I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. Then there was a slight glint up in the sky. It was far off, enough that without the reflection of the sun, it would not even have appeared as a period at the end of a sentence in a book held across a room. Another glint; it was low on the horizon but moving quickly. It was a ship. I didn’t think it was a hovercraft as those tended to stay lower to the ground, but really, I had no idea. I figured we’d finally been found; it had to only be a matter of time. Another glint; it was moving parallel to us. It was not approaching, and, in all likelihood, had not seen us. Bob had started moving again.

“We’re going to where that ship is, aren’t we?” I already knew the answer before I asked the question.

“Milk.”

“The capital? This place has one of those? Then what, Bob?”

“Kill,” Church answered ever so eloquently.

2

Mike Journal Entry 2

We’d been walking for two revolutions of the second sun, no idea how that equated to an earth day, but suffice it to say it was a long time. We rested mostly during the day-day and walked in the mostly dusk-day; there always seemed to be sunlight. Thank god at least I wasn’t going to suffer any Vitamin D deficiency. It was early “evening” of the third night when I spotted the far-off sight. It was impossible from this distance to say exactly what I was looking at, but there was what looked like a gleaming sea. I salivated at the thought that it could be fresh water, and I might be able to quench that need in a more conventional manner. And if it was water, didn’t it stand to reason there would be some manner of aquatic beast I could eat? I had gone far past the marker of hunger. My brain knew I wasn’t starving quite yet, but my stomach was already making its burial arrangements. It wasn’t like I had great stores of fat to leech off, and the lack of food was beginning to make me lethargic. Wasn’t it bad enough we were trying to stop intergalactic monsters? Why the hell did I have to be so fucking hungry too?

As daylight came my body was looking forward to the rest, but my mind said we should keep going, like if we just went a little farther we could stop at an In and Out and grab a burger. The glimmers I’d seen were beginning to take definition, and I could safely say at this point it was not an ocean or even a great lake. They were structures, made by creatures, not nature, I think. Bob made it a point to have us stop and rest. We were moving considerably slower now; it was likely he was tired as well, but he was also clearly being cautious. If this was the capital, that meant beings, and beings meant danger, simple as that. Saw more of the flying ships, most still far off in the distance. Even those that were relatively close were moving too fast and were too high up to notice an odd trio walking along.

I had desert camouflage on, and Church was brown-greenish with the same color clothing. It would take a fair amount of scrutiny to notice us. Bob, of course, was a friggen beacon, fire engine red; he might as well have had a neon sign saying “HERE I AM” over his head. Now, I’m mostly sure Bob couldn’t read my thoughts, but I’d no sooner said that and his color began to fade, much like it had when we were both starving, though this was more controlled and not just his body letting him know just how perilous his situation was. Red became pink, pink became a light brown which quickly became a sandy yellow color that closely resembled the ground we were traversing. Bob was apparently part chameleon.

“If you could give me a sheet listing all of your super-powers that would be great.”

“Bob.” The word carried some levity.

Whatever the whistlers had done to his home world, they had righteously screwed up. If one Bob could do this much damage and was this powerful, what could a bobbing of Bobs do? I was making up words; if you can have a murder of crows, or a congress of Ravens, a gaggle of geese, why not a bobbing of Bobs? Then I got to thinking. Bob had evolved all of these functions over thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of years, and this would be in direct response to external threats on his world. What kind of hell planet did he live on where survival necessitated all the things he could do? I decided right then that, when this was all over and we had won, if Bob invited me to his home for dinner, I was going to graciously decline. His dog equivalent was likely to rip my arm off playing fetch.

We again stopped for the day. My nap dreams consisted entirely of food, but it was always food running away from me. You’ve not lived until you’ve seen giant French fries sprout legs and haul ass or bacon snakes slithering away just out of reach. Even the mounds of peanut butter that called gently to me would sink back into the ground as I approached. I was sad for every morsel of food I had ever not finished or left to go bad in the fridge. I mean, just pounds of wasted produce, some I wouldn’t eat due to a bruise, some I just plain didn’t like. At this point, I’d eat moldy broccoli with no Velveeta.

That night-ish I could finally see what we were headed towards: giant floating spheres that were made from something reflective; metal, glass, mirror, that I could not tell, but the giant balls hanging in space would have been tough to miss. It was like a massive baby was playing with soap bubbles and had created a field of them that now hung suspended. I had no illusions they would easily pop. There were so many of them, some as large as skyscrapers, others more like mansions. Most were circular, some were oblong. Ships were entering what I now knew was the city from every conceivable angle. It made sense that there would be something to eat there, but man, I dreaded the place. Wherever we were and whatever inhabited this place had been responsible for the majority of the misery the cosmos was experiencing. Suddenly, a plate of everything mashed potatoes didn’t sound so good—not with the company I was sure to be keeping. And most likely their mashed potatoes would be ground up banana worms or something equally as repulsive.

And still we walked. I didn’t know if Bob had a plan or if we were just going to stand under an orb and yell until someone came and picked us up. Seemed to be the way of things. And just when you figure you’ve got the dance moves down, the playlist gets shuffled. The sun that never seemed to set had dipped below the horizon; the darkness that followed was welcome. It was like a trigger to my body, which suddenly decided it wanted to sleep. Bob had other designs. Now that we were this close, we pressed on. I wasn’t in that much of a rush, especially when we started seeing entities walking around in the distance. This because there was lighting—like stadium lighting, but like everything else on this friggen planet, they were floating high up in the sky.

“Is that vegetation?” It looked like beings were hovering around in waist high bushes, could not tell the color from this distance, could’ve been green could’ve been purple. Could have been a rock wall.

“Bob.”

“It’s a farm? Seriously?” I wanted a cheese stuffed-crust pizza, but even boiled asparagus had an appeal at the moment. We picked up speed the closer we got, possibly the lure of being this close to food made us all subconsciously in a rush to get there. But the pace was driven by Bob, and I had the feeling he wanted to be under the lights before the sun came up. That to be outside that perimeter was dangerous. I was thinking exactly the opposite.

“You sure about this?” I asked just as we about to step into the light. Bob didn’t hesitate. Bob’s transformation to his original color, or the one I figured was his original color, began the moment we were bathed in the harsh lighting. What I thought were two-foot-high bushes were nearly seven feet, laced with thorns and leaves that glistened with an oily substance. I got the feeling that poison ivy would consider this stuff their god. Aliens, again, of all shapes and sizes, were working around the plants. It looked like an urban garden; you know, except for the unearthly plants and the myriad life forms that appeared to be ripped from the pages of Cosmos Weekly, the alien literary version, not the Fashionista earth-based one. Bob dipped down, and, with a newly formed arm, pawed at the ground. Church and I did the same, mimicking what those around us were doing. If any of them noticed us, they said not a word. But who knows? A snitch may have already been on the run to inform its captors of our arrival.

“Bob, what the hell is this place?” I was barely pushing dirt around as I scoped the place out. I couldn’t see more than a couple dozen lifeforms here, and not a whistler in sight. Those around us said nothing, and hardly ever looked up from whatever task they were performing.

“Milk,” Bob shushed me, but not without a little explanation. He advised that Church and I bury our weapons. Aghast is a word that comes to mind; one doesn’t often stick a perfectly good weapon in the dirt, especially during a war.

The caps that the things here were wearing had been dialed up. For the miners, the caps had been a means of punishment, discipline. Here, it was less forgiving. These beings had tasks, chores, and if they did not do them with complete compliance, the cap would simply force their brains to send signals to their organs to shut down, beginning with the pumping of the heart, if they had one. If not, then to some other mighty vital area. I had so many questions, like, how did the cap know whether they were doing what they were supposed to? But Bob was adamant that I shut the hell up. That was clear enough. We didn’t move much that entire strange night. No weird bleating sound or siren gave an indication for change, but as one the workers stood and began to walk away, we quickly followed.

They stopped in an area that looked much like the rest of the place. Bob shouldered past a few so that we were closer to the center of the workers than on the outer ring. My entirely too empty stomach fluttered as we found ourselves rising into the air. To everyone around us, this must have been old hat because they didn’t so much as shuffle their feet. I understood the necessity to blend in for the time being, but Church hadn’t got the memo. He was not a fan of sky rising; I mean, neither was I. We weren’t standing on a platform I could distinguish. Church was looking around wildly; he had a death grip on my shoulders. What the hell he thought I was going to be able to do if we started falling, I had no idea. Bob, as inconspicuously as possible, reached up and gently tugged Church’s arms down to his sides.

We just kept going up. I’d been all right with it at first, but we were over a hundred feet in the air now and still going. With my feet not touching anything of substance, panic was beginning to well. What if whatever this was malfunctioned? Or now that the workers’ jobs were done they were no longer needed, and this was the easiest means to dispose of them? Seriously, none of us could survive this fall, except maybe Bob. Maybe not. I had no way to truly know because how does one gauge something like this, but to say we were five hundred feet high was not a gross exaggeration. That did it. I grabbed ahold of Bob; I wanted to crawl inside his protective gel.

“Milk,” he said above a whisper. He must have known how close I was to losing it. He was telling me to be calm. I wanted to tell him that was easy for him to say; he could turn into a super ball before impact and bounce away to freedom. I glanced up; it wasn’t much longer before we got to where we were going. It was one of those floating orbs, much smaller than any of the others I could see, and also much lower. I was fine with that. We stopped at a platform that led in; workers began to step onto the ramp and file in. Bob purposefully bumped into me as I was craning my head around to look. We were in that city of spheres I’d seen from the distance, but if height and size were any indicator, we were paupers living in squalor, maybe a testament to the rank of the labor force we’d joined.

I avoided looking at any of the aliens for too long; I didn’t want to go down another path like I had with Church. What I did notice was that the throat and mouth pieces we’d brought with us were different. Whereas ours were black and covered much of our faces, the ones worn by those around us were small and gray. It was a distinction that seemed to me was going to be difficult to hide. When I pointed this out to Bob he grunted an acknowledgement. I didn’t get the feeling he’d taken this into account; not sure if this would come back on us, just worth noting.

There was a large table on the far side of the room. Piled high upon it were glistening golden fruits, looked a lot like the flesh of a pineapple. My stomach yearned for the sustenance. Bob held me back. Next to it was an enormous bowl with what I figured was a ladle sticking out. I was thirsty enough that even a communal ladle shared by fuck knows what kind of creatures carrying who knew what types of diseases was about fine with me. Sure, there was a nagging voice in the back that had reservations about it, but I was going to hold that bastard under the water as I drank. Hopefully it was water; I had a flashback to the stagnant pool. Again Bob stopped me. How he knew I was a heartbeat from making a sprint I don’t know.

I needed to take my cues from the regulars. If they weren’t eating, then I shouldn’t be either. But how do you tell a virgin in a whorehouse to keep his dick in his pants? I mean, really? Felt like a fitting analogy, though the thought didn’t make me less hungry. I steadied myself, took my time to look around our humble abode, anything to keep my wandering eyes from constantly traveling back to the feast laid out before us. There were mats of some woven material in rows on the ground, had to be the beds. I was wondering what kind of musical chairs we were going to have to play when it was time to call it a night. Didn’t have to worry about that, but I didn’t know it at the time. Finally, a buffet line began to form; there was no dinner bell rung, so it must have been another something clocked into their caps.

Nobody looked overly thrilled with the fare being presented. Once upon a time, dockworkers in the 1920s complained about continually being served what they called “sea bugs.” I’d be fine if what I was looking at tasted anything even remotely similar to lobster. Wouldn’t even mind if there was no butter. The workers grabbed portions that were about the size of a standard apple. That wasn’t going to cut it. My hands were trembling as we slowly moved forward; it was taking everything I had not to shove things out of my way and start pile driving food into my pie hole. The ladle liquid was the reason the line was moving interminably. I know I said I was going to be all right with this communal meal, but the more strange orifices that touched that metallic spoon or dipped some sort of protuberance into it the less I wanted it. For all the excitement those who’d been served were displaying for the meal, they could have been blowing their noses or watching golf.

There were no flying drones to couple with that fucking throat tube, so that was a plus. Bob tapped Church, and before he could say anything, Bob reached a tendril into his mouth and yanked that thing free. Church’s reaction was much like you’d think it would be. That he didn’t punch Bob was a minor miracle. We moved toward the fare being offered.

Church was ahead of me. His giant hand grabbed a watermelon-sized piece of whatever it was. What had looked like pineapple from across the room now resembled something more like a yellowish fatty substance. Can’t remember exactly what show I’d been flipping past, but for some fucking reason they’d decided to show what butt fat looked after it was sucked out during liposuction, and now I was staring at it up close and personal.

“Oh no,” I groaned. I tentatively reached a hand out, not wanting to touch the large globules that were streaked with veins of red, what, I imagined, was blood taken out with the extraction process. Church was doing what I said I was going to do and eating with wild abandon. Having gone through what was in his left hand, he grabbed another hefty chunk with his right.

“Milk.”

“I can’t, Bob. That crap we were forced to eat in the mines was bad enough, this is somehow worse.” He pushed me closer to the table I was stepping back from. “Bob knows best.” I gritted my teeth and pinched the smallest amount I could between my thumb and forefinger; I had what amounted to a baby aspirin of the stuff. I tilted my head back and tossed it in like a baby bird will, taking in its parents regurgitated insect larvae. That mind visual did little to help with the whole process. What I got was an explosion of flavor that cascaded across my tongue. My entire palette lit up with an unfamiliar spicy sweetness. My taste buds were in overdrive and drool flowed form the corners of my mouth. I grabbed a piece about the size of a marble; I was still under the impression my body was trying to trick me. I popped the morsel in with the same result. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it was a gift from the gods. I double fisted before Bob pushed me along with his ample belly.

I forewent the ladle as I watched Church engulf the whole thing in his mouth like he was getting his temperature taken with it. I was hoping I would get all the moisture I needed from the mystery food, if not, there was still Bob’s bladder to empty. Once everyone got their meal, they headed toward a mat on the floor; I tried to judge whether they were heading for their own territory, but couldn’t see any rhyme or reason unless it was just to hit the closest one available. The last thing I wanted to do was sit on Bubba the Hun’s mat and cause an incident. Bob led us to a trio of mats off in the corner, well, as much of a corner as one can have in a circular room.

Bob shook his head after I ate one hand’s worth of food and was going for the other. Church took my slowness to mean I wasn’t going to eat it. He grunted and thrust his chin out to my fist. Bob told him not to either; didn’t stop him as I not so willingly handed over my seconds. Got the reason for Bob’s warning about fifteen minutes later. Bulldogs have this innate ability to light up a party with their flatulence; it can clear a room in minutes. We, unfortunately, didn’t have anywhere to go. My colon was playing a symphony, and in this regard, I was not alone. This food came with a price. Virulent gas is one thing, deadly noxious emissions another. And for the trifecta, if too much was eaten, extreme abdominal pain accompanied the stench. Church was rolled in on himself like a threatened armadillo. Rocking back and forth with his stomach clenched between his hands.

I had a basic understanding that, for humans, gas was at least partially methane. I had no idea what, pun intended, explosive discharge was coming from the others. What had me concerned was we were in a contained bio-sphere. One single lit match would send us into the stratosphere. More likely, we would simply run out of breathable air. It was that bad. The mask helped somewhat, but it was like holding a paper towel over your nose while you picked up your dog’s diarrhea caused by the consumption of dumpster cuisine. It was horrid. No wonder the beings here only ate the bare minimum to stay alive. How could something that tasted so good do this much damage? I had to move away from Church, as he sounded like a Gatling gun with an unlimited supply of ammunition. I had to figure it was only a matter of time before what came out was of the more solid variety. An hour or so later, Church began to slowly unfurl; an hour after that he was exhausted and sleeping but seemingly better, with a valuable lesson learned.

For six days we did the same routine: we took the mysterious elevator down, played in the dirt all day, ate our rations of stomach bombs and slept. There was none of the animosity and pent up hostility like there had been in the mines. The caps made sure of that, and my trio did their utmost to blend in, even Church, whom I knew could hold a grudge like my in-laws. Sure, they had reason, but ten years later? Seriously? On the seventh day, if I was hoping for a day of rest, drinking some beer and watching football, I was sorely disappointed. We’d just eaten our meal, which I now considered a mild form of poison. What had once tasted like food fit for the gods made me wince every time I gazed upon the table. I was settling down, staying as close to the ground as possible as the odor rose. Bob nudged me up; I turned my head to see that all of the others were hurriedly getting into sitting positions.

“What fresh hell is this?” I mumbled. It was then I spotted the whistler among the throng. The first I’d seen since we’d destroyed the pyramid. I knew he was looking for us, that soon he would pull out a wanted poster with our three mugshots on it. He would hold that sheet up to each of our faces, call in reinforcements and we’d be tossed off the side of this building. I was thinking of my rifle, some five hundred feet below. If I survived the fall I was going to dig it back up and shoot the bastard that had sent me into a freefall. The whistler did not produce a sheet, just started randomly touching others on their heads. They would stand immediately and head for the door. He’d done so to four before moving closer to us. I didn’t like this; it was like when I was in high school, sitting in class stoned out of my gourd, and the teacher was randomly picking students to explain their interpretation of the lesson they were supposed to have read the previous night. But I’d been too busy partying my ass off to even remember there had been an assignment, much less do it.

And at no time had the Whistler picked more than one from a cluster. I hadn’t noticed any sort of bonds among the aliens around me, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist, and maybe the whistler knew that and was making sure he didn’t grab anyone that knew each other. He was looking right at me as he approached. I was doing my best to mask the fear and hatred I had for him, desperately trying to decide whether, when he picked me, would I go willingly to whatever happened, or take him out. Bob more sighed than spoke; he was telling me to remain calm. Even the thought of having the whistler touch me I found revolting and was completely unsure of what I was going to do when it happened. So when he tapped Church, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was flooded with relief. Yeah, that was immediately replaced with concern, but for the briefest of moments, I was thankful it wasn’t me. I was going to beat myself up repeatedly for that for the next few days.

I met Church’s quick gaze before he stood and followed the others. A total of seven were sent, or taken upward. When the whistler was done, he stepped onto the platform with the others and they went even higher. I stood by the wall and watched until they were hardly a blip, It seemed that it had stopped at one of the larger spheres, but without a telescope it was difficult to tell whether it had indeed stopped or had just gone so high as to pass out of my range of vision.

“Bob, what happened? What are we going to do? We need to do something!” I was nearly in a panic. Whatever had just happened couldn’t be good. The others around us remained their impassive selves and for that, I wanted to beat some sense into them. That they weren’t actively freaking out was pissing me off. It was more of an anger transference, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. I was angry that I’d done nothing to stop the whistler. Once I began to calm down I realized the futility of that regret. Sure, I might have been able to get the drop on him, kill him even. Then what? We couldn’t go anywhere. It would have been the equivalent of killing a prison guard; they’d send more guards in, and that’d be the end of it. Any cries of Attica! would fall on deaf ears, as none of the miserable lot here would riot.

“Milk.”

“Part of the plan? What plan, Bob? How can you be so calm?” I was still at the edge of the room watching, hoping that maybe the seven had been part of some clean-up crew and would be back once the job was complete. But I knew there was just as much chance that they were even now being ground up into sausage for the drone feeders, or, hell, being made into the fart lard. And not for nothing, but Church looked like he’d taste worse than cherry glazed liver, if such an atrocity ever existed. “Is part of the plan watching our friend get killed?” I thought it telling that Bob said nothing more as he headed back to our floor mats. He never answered that question nor told me anything about our grand designs of taking this place down. The next day was much like the ones before it. We traveled down, played in the dirt and came back up to our Offal awful fruit. I couldn’t even smile at my pun.

Bob had kept his fat ass parked atop my rifle and Church’s stapler the entire day, how he’d known I was going to unearth it and use it on the next unfriendly was most likely written all over my face. I waited the whole day for him to move to another spot; it never happened, and when it was time to leave, he made sure I stayed in front of him. Seven more fun-filled days had passed, Church had not returned. The sting, instead of lessening, was becoming more intense. It didn’t help that every time I ate, my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a bad attitude and my sphincter felt like it was passing spikes, that should be a colorful enough explanation. Most days if I did eat it wasn’t much more than a golfball-sized nugget, and that was only to stave off starvation. Bob seemed to be doing fine, but every minute that ticked by, I was getting weaker. I’d finally overcome my fears of extraterrestrial germs and would drink the water, which was surprisingly good and had no discernible side-effects.

On the eighth day Satan created the whistler. Little bit of poetic license there, as, before we were to start our day, another whistler came down (or maybe the same one, I don’t know they all look the same and, yeah, I had a severe case of whistlerism and I didn’t feel one iota guilty for it). He was doing the touch thing, and the zombified workers stood and again headed for the door. I let out a breath of relief when he tapped the seventh one, figuring this was the magical number needed for whatever they had planned. Then he tapped another and was making his way over toward us. My heart was beating triple time. I was on the fence with whether I would fight or go to the ramp if he touched me. I wanted to know what had become of Church, but if it was chum for the masses, it wouldn’t help either one of us for me to end up in an industrial blender. It was possible that those taken had been marched off the ramp and right into a food processor.

Bob subtly slid in front of me; the whistler tapped him on the side, Bob punched out with a little arm directly into my mid-section, knocking the wind and the fight right out of me. The whistler moved past and grabbed another five as Bob shuffled to the door. By the time they were venturing up into the sky, I was about able to catch a full inhalation, just in time for the panic to set in. As a military person who had seen their fair share of action, one of my biggest fears had been fighting alone. That my entire squad and I would be ambushed, and all of them would perish except for myself. You fought for those men and women around you, and with that impetus gone, dismay, dread, rampant fear begins to frenzy within your brain. You have no backup, no support, no fucking reason to keep going and only the fear left that you’ll die alone. It’s a terrifying feeling. For those not in the military, there’s another way to describe the feeling. It’s called the “victim defense” or something close to that. Let’s say you and your partner are out on a stroll and some douche-nozzle with a knife threatens the love of your life or your best friend. Your very first instinct is to attack, to neutralize that threat by any and all means possible. Now for the next scenario, you are alone and the same nozzle of doucheyness attacks you. Most will capitulate immediately, surrendering all of their valuables without so much as a mouse squeak. Some might not even fight for their lives until it is much too late. It’s a form of altruism hard-wired into us. I was leaning against the window, staring hard, fogging up the glass as I was breathing heavily. None of those with me cared in the least as they began to file out to head down to their day jobs.

“You pieces of shit! Why aren’t you doing anything?” I was yelling and pushing all manner of creature, none raised an arm, tentacle, claw, stinger—I couldn’t even get eye contact from them. It was infuriating. In the end, I joined them on the ramp. What else could I do? Plus, it gave me access to the rifle. I’d never been around quite so many living things yet been so utterly alone. Their sheer indifference I found staggering. I dug up the rifle but did not pull it from the hole; what, conceivably, could I do with it? I could not hide it—it was much too big. The stapler, while not nearly as effective, had to be my weapon by default. This was like tossing an M16 to make room for a Derringer. Who does that? Three days I didn’t sleep, fearful of what had happened to all of my friends and fearful of what was going to happen to me. Not only was this like being stuck in a padded cell to begin with, but now I’d been fitted into a straightjacket. To be so entirely fucking impotent was driving me crazy. I did manage to give myself a grim snicker on my unintended entendre.

The fourth day there was an influx of fresh meat, or new aliens, however you want to look at it. They were all just like Randle Patrick McMurphy after receiving his brain frying in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A little drool from the sides of their orifices and we could have had a lookalike contest. The ranks had gone from patchy to overcrowded, just like that. There wasn’t enough food or mats, and not one hostile word was said, and not one punch thrown. It was like living with mannequins in Stepford. I asserted my authority because I could, hoping that someone or thing would being-up and confront me; anything was better than this all-encompassing complacency. I yelled, pushed, generally acted like a spoiled six-year old. It wasn’t my finest hour, and by hour, I mean two days. Nothing. Not even a sidelong glance. When confronted, even trapped rabbits will turn and fight, and they don’t have much in the way of effective tools for self-defense.

When the choosing whistler came back, another five days removed from my extended hissy fit, I did everything short of raising my hand and yelling “Pick me! Pick me!” like that brown nosed little know-it-all turd in the seventh grade used to. Don Pickens was his name. I made sure he was always my first target in dodgeball. Come on, tell me you didn’t have a primary target. He was always the one that asked on Friday if we had assignments over the weekend or would parrot whatever the teacher had just said to make it sound like he knew shit. Sometimes he would ask longwinded questions after the bell rang so that we could not head to our next class, which, for me, was lunch, so as far as I was concerned, that was a double dick thing to do.

I stood tall and proud, daring him to pick me, my hand hovering toward the back of my pants and the stapler tucked there. I was careful not to shoot one into my ass. The whistler made a straight line toward me; I don’t know if it some mind control I didn’t know I had or because I wasn’t displaying the look of the downtrodden. When he touched my shoulder there was a moment of what the hell have I done mixed with a sense of relief. It was either all over and/or I was about to find out what happened to my traveling companions. It could be I’d just hastened my demise. I had it fairly easy here, I could have made a life. Sure, it was boring as fuck, but I was alive. The whistler had moved on, picking others to join me on my vision quest. He turned back when he noticed I hadn’t moved. This was it. Either I shot him and attempted a jail break or went to the platform; there was no time for inaction now. Another half second of decision…I took my hand off the stapler and walked to the ramp.

This time, fifteen of us found our way onto the platform to heaven, or hell, as the case may be. Shit. Their pyramids were upside down, made sense that so would be their ethereal worlds. I stayed in the middle of the pack, doing my utmost to not see just how far up we were going; it didn’t seem that we would ever stop. The whistler guard was as close to uncaring as the group I’d been with. Maybe he was angry that all of his friends were getting battle medals for all the worlds they’d hosed over, and he was stuck delivering vegetables to his overlords. I was mentally counting off seconds, a way to keep my mind off the ascension, that was until I started to think on just how fast the platform could rise and how many minutes we’d been on it. I decided to quit thinking altogether and keep my hand on my stapler; it was the only thing that offered a semblance of comfort, it was a little like my teddy bear during a particularly loud thunderstorm.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I stepped off the platform, but it was most definitely not what I saw. The dome we were in was vast, the walls and ceiling shimmered in a swirling array of colors; attempting to stare at it caused a dizzy sensation that made my knees weak. I noticed that none of those with me even so much as glanced around—I decided it was best to follow suit. There were the fifteen of us, not more than three or four whistlers, and some sort of creatures that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. They floated a foot above the floor, and I now knew the source of the shimmering on the walls. If the creatures had ever been corporeal, they were now very far along in their transcendental journey toward pure energy.

With a sidelong glance I could about see a faint humanoid outline, or it could be my mind was trying to make sense of it, adding in what it felt needed to be there. The entirety of them was surrounded by a rippling, glimmering outline, like a swimming manta ray. Their eyes shone, but not like the demons we had encountered; those were somehow more human than these. I didn’t think of these as glowing orbs, but rather pinpricks of light. I’d yet to let go of my stapler, but first, I was rather mesmerized, and secondly, I was becoming more and more convinced as I looked upon what I considered the creators of this non-Utopia, that it would be about as effective as a snowball against a Yeti. The whistler was pushing the aliens in my group toward the creatures. It was almost a gentle gesture. Once the particular captive alien was with its creator, the pair would leave. By the time the whistler gave me a guiding push there were only three of us left and I’d had no warning for what was about to happen to me. I took tentative steps toward the being whom I was being assigned to. I did my best to not stare like a deer in the headlights or a mouse at an eagle bearing down on him.

When I got close, I thought the being would turn and begin to walk, much like the others had. I was not expecting the tentacle that unfurled from its back, cuffed me on the side of the head, and sent me sprawling. My head rang from the concussion-inducing strike. My eyeballs felt as if they were rolling around within the soup my brain had become. It must have been muscle memory that kept my hand on the stapler because I couldn’t even begin to think clearly. Can’t imagine the scene that would have unfolded if the weapon had skittered along the floor. As it was, I figured I’d finally been found out and was now about to receive my punishment. The creator would beat me mercilessly in front of the others as a lesson I would forget the moment I died. My guess was they wouldn’t care.

I pushed up with one hand, shook my head, trying to clear away cobwebs that had taken root and were still spreading. I had barely managed a sitting position when the creator moved closer, if he went for round two there was a very good chance I’d be knocked unconscious. The stapler got stuck on my web belt, and I didn’t have enough brain power to try a different angle so I just kept subtly yanking at it to no effect. Instead of being sent into Wimpy’s Tuesday where I was assured I’d receive a hamburger, the same tentacle that rattled my cage gripped my shoulder tightly and pulled me to my feet, then toward its body. I felt a ripple of current as it pulled me tight to its chest; this was a display of some kind—something to let me know just how much in power it was. It finally pulled me away from its embrace to leave me swaying on my feet, but its tentacle did not let go until I was steady enough under my own power. I was more confused about that gesture than the first; if it knew what I’d been a part of, then in its eyes, I warranted the beating, but this tender bipolar moment, I could not grasp.

Instead of apologizing or berating me, it began to walk away. Not knowing what else to do, I followed. I kept my hand on the stapler to the point there was a good chance the creator thought this was how I was built. My mind was clearing, but this relative stability was being filled with pain. Where the creator had made contact burned, which, considering my initial thoughts about what it was, made perfect sense. We had been traveling for what felt like a mile. By this point, we were nearly alone; there wasn’t anything within a dozen yards of us. I was plotting a modicum of revenge by firing off a few staples and seeing if I could make us even. I had to go with the long game; it made no sense to do anything small and then be on the run with no chance of success. I was scrambling to make sense of what was happening here. That the thing hadn’t killed me outright meant something. Didn’t it?

Also, keeping its back to me as we traveled, and that it wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about retribution meant something. The handing off of creatures to these glowing beings meant something too. Were we pets, servants, slaves or a mixture of the three? From what I’d seen, my creator appeared to be on the dickish side; he’d wanted to show exactly who was in charge in no uncertain terms, which, again, made zero sense because he had to know about the cap and how all of the subjects were completely knuckled under. Hitting a defenseless person just because you could and knowing that there would be no form of retribution was like an abusive parent striking their child. Of all the ones I had to get, my creator, if it had a wardrobe, would have consisted of white wife beater t-shirts and stained jeans. I’m sorry I beat you, you just made me so mad. I promise I won’t do it again. At least until the next time I do it.

I was lost in my thoughts to the point I’d not noticed my guide had stopped walking, I’d gone two steps past him before realizing my mistake. The word fuck blazed in my head. A tentacle whipped up and onto the top of the cap. It immediately retracted when I heard a high-pitched sound, like a dog whistle blown just at the edge of human hearing. It was another creator, a friend, an acquaintance. My creator turned to pitch whistle talk to the other one; I think they were discussing dip recipes or getting together for cards next Thursday. My skull cap was completely forgotten about as they wrapped up whatever they’d been communicating about some ten minutes later. We walked a little further until we came up on a field of bubbles; they reminded me of Australian surf toys, you know, floating, people-sized hamster wheels. If these were the creatures’ version of a single dwelling home, things were going to get up close and personal.

The bubble we walked toward went from a pearlescent opaque to a vibrating blue; the creator walked straight through and in. I looked around and did the same. I was hoping that I wasn’t the family dog that was supposed to stay outside the house, and now that I’d inadvertently followed my master inside I was going to get a savage beating for my transgression. The creator was standing in front of a panel. It was instrumentation—that was clear enough, but there were no traditional controls, no knobs, dials, buttons—or steering wheel, as this turned out to be a craft. The thing looked back to me and pointed to the floor. Before I could even sit completely down the machine took off straight up, I fell to the side, cracking the same spot he’d hit previously. He turned again to see. Didn’t smile; there was no laugh that I could tell, even the look of the eyes did not betray what he was thinking, but the feeling I got was one of perverse satisfaction. Yeah, this one was a real piece of work. He very much enjoyed his power over us lesser creatures.

How does something evolve so far along and not lose some of the baser traits? Did that mean humans were doomed as a species to never outgrow their prejudices and impulse to hurt others? Not sure why I was so concerned about something I was unlikely to ever see come to pass. After the initial takeoff, the ride smoothed out and I was able to sit up. I could shoot him now and take what had to be his rusty old Ford Truck and bubble off into the sunset. If the thing had even a hint of a steering wheel, I would have felt compelled to do so. I looked around as much as I could without attracting my benefactor’s attention. I’d already made him suspicious once; if I did so again there was no telling how it would turn out. I had a feeling the being’s power was immense, or at least the energy he radiated was, and he could probably use it as a weapon, if desired.

We traveled an hour, or somewhere in the neighborhood of that. There were no further incidents during the flight, and not a bunch to see other than the sky. We were leaving the city, or their version of it. Great. My dickwad had to live in the suburbs—probably so no one else would know what he was up to. Harder to get away with that shit in the city. When the vehicle stopped and he stepped out, I followed. We were again inside a sphere; this one was large, but not mega stadium sized. The color within was gray toned, there were objects on what had to be considered walls, whether it was art or something with a function, I couldn’t tell. So, not much different from my understanding of art back on earth.

Unlike everything I’d encountered thus far, this place was different, all new to me. The colors, the possible objet d’art, and there were partitions. My creator did not seem to be a fan of the open concept floor plan. As it walked, so did I. Passed by three larger rooms with a variety of sculptures, or furniture, or torture devices. We came to what I figured was the center of the home; five shining orbs, each no larger than a softball, were suspended on the far side of the room. The creator walked toward them; I followed. The strike was immediate and so surprising I’d not had time to blink. I was tossed to the side, colliding heavily with something that looked a lot like an enormous cockroach leg pulled straight off a hot grill. I was in so much shock and pain I couldn’t even muster anger. My neck, where it had struck, was still sizzling like bacon in a skillet, and, no, the smell of fried meat was not welcome. My spine felt as if it were out of alignment as I struggled to get up.

The creator had completely forgotten about me as it observed the orbs, fawned over, maybe. My brain may have still been scrambling about inside the shaker of my head, but that he cared for those things was without doubt. Were they a prized possession…or potentially offspring? I was still reeling when the beast turned and came toward me quickly, I was angry but I flinched as it pointed. I turned to see what it was pointing at. It was another room, though that was a misnomer given the size—it was smaller than a standard closet. I didn’t know what was expected of me. I could only think that maybe there was a mop or something I needed to clean up with in there. I entered and immediately regretted my decision when I became trapped inside. It wasn’t so much that a door closed, but, rather, a wall formed.

I wanted to pound on the door, but was pretty sure that would not be looked upon kindly. The thing would open the wall up and beat me silly before or after ripping my cap off. This was worse than being stuck in the cave tunnel—at least there I had been able to lie down. With my back pressed against the wall, my legs were barely bent before my knees pressed against the front. It was a coffin stood on end, and the moment that thought occurred, the panic of being buried alive reared its vicious head. My heart labored until I had nothing more to give; I was certain, for two hideous minutes that I couldn’t breathe. I’m not sure how, but calm came over me; maybe it was like what they say happens when your lungs fill with water and you just give up and sink. My body demanded rest, though it was impossible to get into anything that resembled a comfortable position. An airplane seat in ultra-economy class would have felt like the Taj Mahal. I wouldn’t have even minded that the person in front of me had reclined their seat even further reducing my space.

As I struggled to find any position I could sustain, overwhelming hysteria returned. My breathing came in ragged hitches mixed with choking sobs. I must have worn myself completely out, as I managed to catch snippets of sleep. When I startled awake for the third or fourth time, I found a way to better secure the stapler which continually jabbed at my back. It took the better part of an hour to find a way to remove my pants and boxers, and create a sling of sorts that I tied to my waist; I didn’t find any additional comfort, but it was a way to counteract the claustrophobia. Something to keep my mind diverted. When I was done, I could only revisit the misery I was in; my knees ached from the pressure on the wall, my legs throbbed from the unnatural position, and my back begged to be released, but that had nothing on the pain in my singed, cricked neck. Parts of me hurt that I’d never felt before. If this was a form of torture to make me confess for all crimes committed and would ever commit in the future, I was willing to spill everything.

I think I was in a fugue state, or possibly delirium, when the wall dissipated and I fell to the floor in a puddle. On some level I was aware of just how much pain I was enduring as my body did its best to realign, but higher cognitive function had yet to catch up. An electric storm in the form of a tentacle across my side sent me scurrying backward and into my chamber of torture.

The creator hovered in front of me, watching, the lit coals of his eyes never wavering. We’d yet to have exchanged any words, so when his strange pitched sound was translated into “Unsoiled,” my head jerked up. “Forward,” it commanded.

My side was ablaze from the hit. I could feel my ribcage shifting back into its proper position as I attempted to do what Homo Erectus had solved some hundred thousand years previously and stand on two feet. I was hunched over and shuffling like a monkey with osteoporosis. Wasn’t entirely sure how it could pick and choose what I could understand, but I would imagine it was easy enough from its perspective. It walked into a room I hadn’t seen on my short tour the previous day—the way I felt it could have been a week ago.

“Unsoiled, then consume,” it said, moving away from the entrance to the room, which looked like the collection area for where all the worst things that went down a sewer ended up.

“Clean?” I choked out.

“Yes, unsoiled, thing. Then consume.”

I think it meant I clean up this shit hole and then I get to eat. The thought crossed my mind that I was expected to eat the mess in front of me, but I gagged so hard I had to dismiss it pronto. Then an almost worse scenario appeared: what if he meant to consume me when I was done unsoiling his excrement closet? We needed to hash that out right now. I wasn’t going to be the moron that dug their own grave for the mob hit. You want to bury me, you do the heavy lifting.

“Clean then eat?”

“Stupid.” It was tough to tell if it was asking if I was stupid or was flat out letting me know what it thought of me. It raised a tentacle above its head in a threatening manner. I stepped backward and into the room that needed unsoiling. A toddler with an unlimited supply of shitty diapers and access to a wood chipper could not have replicated what was happening here. Strings of brown goo hung from the ceiling, occasionally plopping down and adding its detritus to the pile. My right foot was swamped in a pile of what appeared to be Jello and blood. This looked to be the scene of a savage murder. Possibly the creator had a rival and had lured him here to finish him off after stuffing him with lasagne and then dosing him with ex-lax. The parts I saw did not appear to belong to any of the other aliens I had seen, so it was unlikely this was the being I was the replacement for. The smell, while not pleasant by any means, could have been much worse, given the visuals presented. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to accomplish the cleaning. I had zero in the way of supplies and nowhere to dispose of the materials, either.

I was still standing there when the wall out dematerialized. I turned just in time to have a small type of handheld squeegee hit me in the chest. It had been thrown with enough force that I had been sent backward and fell into the goo. The creator watched as I fished the cleaning tool out before standing. Then he again left me to my own devices. I wanted to shove the handle into his eye sideways while I ripped his throat out. From the corner of the room came a wet suction sound like a half-submerged pool pump. The walls and floor were easy enough to clean; the surfaces were slicker than a non-stick pan. It was the ceiling and parts of the walls that were out of reach. What I cleaned was something you could eat off of. Not that I ever would, but someone with less discerning tastes could, provided they hadn’t seen it before I squeegeed.

It felt like hours later when the creator showed again, his little ignited eyes went right to the areas I could not access. A tentacle whipped out so fast I didn’t have time to react. It wrapped around my midsection and lifted me into the air; where it made contact I could feel the heat radiating off of it. It pulled me in close so that we were staring what I assumed was face-to-face. The pain was becoming unbearable; the strength of that tentacle was immense. I could feel my ribs compressing as it squeezed. With my arms pinned to my side I couldn’t so much as give it the finger as I died by constriction. Possibly my face had turned too red as blood was forced in and kept there, or my eyes were bulging to the point the thing was afraid they would shoot out like paintballs, but it eased its grip and put me back on the ground.

I hunched over, fighting to get air. The burning from the touch, instead of abating, was getting worse, like a sunburn will during that first night. Sort of like a cooked roast will as you let it rest on the counter. I could feel my rib bones sliding back into place and it was as uncomfortable as it sounds. I was still sucking in air when that tentacle again wrapped around my midsection though this time my arms weren’t stuck down to my sides. It lifted me into the air like a child will its favorite doll or, in this case, like a little brother will his sister’s favorite doll, so, with intent of malice. I kept rising up fast, it bounced my head off of the ceiling, hard enough that black spots formed in my field of vision. My teeth rattled and the skull cap vibrated.

“Unsoil!” it yelled.

My neck, which had already been in pain, screamed in protest at this new abuse. The creator pressed me further into the ceiling and began to move me back and forth in a scrubbing motion. Maybe thinking I was entirely too stupid to understand what he meant, or more than likely getting his alien rocks off on the abuse of power. I finally raised the squeegee up in the hopes that he would stop using the side of my face like a sponge. It worked to a degree. He kept me up close the entire time, making it extremely difficult to do the job efficiently. Again, that might have been so he could keep his tentacle wrapped around me. He’d dialed down the heat intensity, but as one who has had a few sunburns knows, even a tissue dragged across the burnt area can feel like heavy grit sandpaper. I was nearing completion and was attempting to readjust my grip, which was slipping due to the slop, when I lost control of the handle, I missed my swipe with my freewheeling left hand and succeeded in sending it straight into the side of the creator.

From its reaction you would have thought I’d shot it or pulled a healthy tooth with a pair of rusty pliers. I was immediately flung away, colliding with the wall, hard enough that my lungs expelled everything within them like reverse air bags. The creator screamed loud enough that blood ran down the side of my face. It had either ruptured my ear drum or created an embolism—one or the other. The pulsing color where the handle struck was a throbbing deep purple with black lines that radiated away from the strike point. I could only hope whatever I’d done was enough to kill it.

“Space!” it yelled once it seemed to gain some measure of composure, but, yeah, it was definitely in pain. So we had that in common. I hadn’t a friggen clue what space it was talking about until it pointed toward the iron maiden I’d been kept in. I could barely move, much less comply. It didn’t hesitate. It moved swiftly toward me and wrapped a tentacle around my leg and dragged me toward it. I noticed it made sure to keep as much distance between the two of us as it possibly could.

“Please,” I begged, and I meant it. I was angry that I begged and angrier still that it did not care. “Please! Not in there.” My hands were up as it flung me like an old dish towel. I crashed again up against the wall. My body, like a tattered old book cover, easily folded in on itself. The wall did its reappearing thing. I panicked when I tried to move and I was stuck in a seated position with my head bent down at an unnatural angle. I struggled like a drowning person will, without thought. I felt like I was wedging myself in even further; I knew I needed to relax and think out each movement, to move slowly and deliberately. One of those things abundantly easier to think about than do.

“Not drowning…can still breath.” I was hoping the sound of my voice would soothe my frayed nerves. I was the human version of an accordion, an ill-folded tent stuffed into a too small tent bag. If I was like this for another twenty hours, like the first time, I was convinced the damage would be irreversible. I could feel the ligature in my neck and spinal column stretching beyond its capacity. My legs quivered with fear and exertion as I tried to stand. I was dragging the back of my head against the wall. I managed a squatting position when I’d somehow cemented myself into place even more. Couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit. The muscles in my thighs were so taut I figured it only a matter of minutes before they pulled themselves free from their moorings.

“Help me,” I said weakly, not that I expected the creator to ride in on a white horse and do any bit of saving. This was to a God that had appeared to have lost track of me somewhere in the celestial tapestry. Either I’d discovered a new level of limberness, or I had finally become stretched far enough to disconnect whatever keeps your bones from flopping around, or I had created enough sweat to be well lubricated, but I felt that I could move. I pushed again with my thighs. The movement was measured in hundredths of an inch, but any small change beat how I’d been. My legs were wobbling so badly the collisions of my knees was causing yet another unique pain—something I was getting all too familiar with. I couldn’t even begin to calculate how long it had taken until my head popped free from its prison. There was very little on my body that was not in pain. I needed food and water, something for my body to use to begin the repair process. This was one of the rarest of times where I was actually thankful for the taint my blood contained. It wasn’t so much gratitude that I was still alive because of it, but I was glad to be alive so that I could make the creator pay.

The position I found myself in now, standing with no way to get comfortable, was leagues better than I had been, and I was relieved for that, but relief is an elusive feeling when faced by one win versus so many losses. I was slipping in and out of consciousness, from the exertion, the trauma, the lack of basic necessities, the stress, I suppose I could go on, but the point was made. It was one of the last times that I jerked awake when I had a thread of a revelation. A possible means to an escape. When I’d met the creator, it had roughly pulled me in close and squeezed like an overzealous toddler might its favorite stuffed animal, and it had not shown the slightest modicum of discomfort. Yet today, or what felt like a week ago, the mere brushing of the squeegee handle had caused what seemed a massive amount of pain. Could that somehow be tied to the mess in that room? This was that lightbulb moment; when a thought so clear and bright bloomed in my mind, burning through the fog like a lighthouse. The mess; it was a molting of sorts. A shedding of old skin for new. Something in the process made the new skin highly susceptible to pain and damage.

I smiled, though, if anyone had chanced upon me to see it, they would not have recognized it for the emotion it was meant to convey. “Gotcha, bastard.” I fell asleep. I didn’t awake this time until my face bounced off the floor.

“Consume,” the creator said flatly. I looked up weakly to see that the dark bruising on its side had all but vanished. It moved to a step, revealing a small hovering tray upon which was a handful of the golden fruit I’d come to detest and a container of water that wasn’t much bigger than a shot glass. Right now it looked like a gift from the heavens. I moved slowly, keeping an eye on my host. I wanted, needed, and craved what was on that tray, but I was unsure if I could take another unprovoked attack. I felt like a seven-year-old with an abusive father, wondering if he’d come home from work drunk and mean. Anything from an errant look to a slouching of shoulders enough to send him off into a tirade of inflicted pain for its own sake.

The creator said nothing nor did anything as I quickly grabbed the meal. I wanted to take my time, to savor it, to enjoy my moment of monitored freedom. What my mind and body wanted were on far ends of the spectrum as I shoved the entire fruity morsel into my mouth and before I could finish chewing I washed it down with the mouthful of water. The moment was bittersweet. Done too quickly, and not nearly enough to sate the thirst or hunger.

“Ambulate,” it said. My mind was not functioning anywhere near its capacity, and I’d never been one to overly pay attention in school. I heard the word and could only get an image of a wailing vehicle rushing to the aid of someone in an accident.

“Ambulate!” This time said with more force. If I didn’t do something soon it was a guarantee I was going to pay dearly for my lack of understanding. I took a small step, fearful of doing something wrong and worrying my legs would not support my weight. The small step seemed to appease the beast and then a meaning occurred. Ambulate meant to move along; it wanted me to move. It knew that I needed to do this for health, which meant it absolutely knew that what it was doing was a form of maltreatment. It could almost be forgiven, if it had been ignorant to the needs of its slave. That perhaps this was how it rested and figured that all other beings did the same, that was not the case, and honestly, I’d never suspected that might be the case. This creature wanted me alive, to satisfy its dark desires and to clean up its molting. Now I had to hope that the molting schedule was something that happened with some regularity and not just an annual event.

There was no way I’d make it for that long, no matter my ability to heal. The mental break would be too much, and there was also a high probability that he would beat me to death, possibly on purpose, but more likely the psychosis within him would not allow him to stop once he got past a certain point. For some, the more pain inflicted and the greater the suffering of the victim, the more driven the sadist’s need to pile it on. There would always be those who would thrive on it. I ambulated…or just plain walked for ten minutes, and even that short stint had me exhausted.

“Space.” It pointed. I knew where it was pointing, and I’d ambulate for another ten hours straight across a minefield as opposed to heading in there. Again I hesitated, my right hand slowly drifting down to where the stapler was. The creator’s ember bright eyes were watching me. I either moved to take him out, or moved back to the cell. The indecision was going to get me good and dead, but as I stood once again in my upright coffin, I knew that, really, any of those choices was going to get me killed. It was just a matter of the timeframe. I don’t know how many times this cycle played out. The wall would dissipate, I would fall into a puddle of myself, I’d eat and drink far too little, I’d exercise for too short a time, and I’d spend the vast quantity of my life losing myself in my fracturing mind. No light, no noise, no way to rest. I consider myself to be a strong man, but I was losing fast.

I’d seriously lost count of how long I’d been in the closet, when the wall once again faded away. I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t be just like all the times before, not that I even cared. I knew the routine. I’d slowly pull myself up toward the tray that I think he was making farther and farther away each time. Another way he got his sick jollies—watching me undergo the painful journey. I was finally on my feet, had got most of the swaying under control; I was looking toward the tray that wasn’t there. Still started walking for it.

“Unsoil.” My steps were haltingly moving forward. I was running on so low of a threshold it took five more feet before I could process what it had said. I’d like to say my heart quickened and I readied myself for action. What really happened was I had to exert myself to turn in the direction I needed to go. The room was destroyed, somehow even worse than the last time; pretty sure it knew I was on my last legs and wanted to make sure I went out on a low note. I slogged in, barely able to pull my legs through the sludge. I could see the clear handle of the squeegee leaning against the far wall, which I’m sure was placed there on purpose. As if the squeegee itself were the switch, the suction hole in the corner came on. The day was a hazy blur of continually pushing the bloody gelatin toward the drain. On the walls, I hadn’t made it up much past the top of my head in height; I was having a difficult time raising and keeping my arms up.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was going to kill me today when he realized I could no longer do the one job I was here for. He may have just come in or could have been there for the last hour; I really didn’t know. A tentacle whipped out. Maybe it slipped on some of the slime coating my head, or who knows; the divine intervention I had been hoping for had finally homed in on my emergency beacon, but instead of striking my head and breaking my neck, it slipped up and adhered like super glue to the top of my skull cap. It was trying to pick me up in this method. There was ripping on my hair; my neck was stretching as it took the weight, but more importantly, I could feel the skull cap being pulled loose. Double sided tape could only be expected to hold up for so long. I was so tired I couldn’t even be bothered to grab on and pretend. I was on my tiptoes as the creator kept pulling up; I could feel and hear my hair being ripped from scalp. The creator must have been able to see the burgeoning gap, and it reeled me in like a landed fish so it could get a closer look. Another tentacle came up and began to probe the gap, and I felt something; not the burn of its radiant energy, but more of an electrical discharge, like it was dragging a balloon across my head while I scuffed my feet donning heavy wool socks against the carpet on a crisp fall day. Then the realization struck home: it was repairing the cap. So far this day, or the last few days, really, I hadn’t given squat about anything, but this ignited something within me. If and when I died, it was going to be while I was myself, not some frontal lobe lobotomized zombie! I could not allow myself to fall completely under the power of this molting, bullying brute. Creator my ass. The closet, the beatings, the lack of food and water—all horrible in their own right. But my thoughts, my actions, those I still had sway over, and I would not relinquish them. Not now, not ever.

I used every bit of strength I had to swing my squeegee clad hand. I caught him flush in the side of the head with the tool. His reaction was immediate. I felt a large jolt of energy blast into my skull just before I was launched upward. My head struck the ceiling hard enough I was dazed and had an abundance of incoherent inference. The electrical storm happening in my skull was enough that I didn’t even register my subsequent collision with the floor. We were both on the canvas, like two punch drunk boxers that had given it everything we could and had nothing left to give. Tough to say it was like the second Rocky movie, because at least Balboa had previously dealt a fair amount of damage before the double knock down. I laid there, looking up, doing my best to remember what was going on. It was the flopping fish next to me that pulled me out of my stupor, slowly, almost grudgingly.

Unlike a fight that has a referee and a corner from which to throw in the towel, in this one, whoever got up first lived—the other, not so much. I tried to roll over and get up, but the screaming from the creator had this time ruptured both my eardrums and my equilibrium was shot. I was pondering just laying there passively until it was all over, when I felt the tug of my improvised leg satchel. I berated myself for taking so long to think upon it. The creator was wriggling, trying to get his tentacles under him to get back up. I was ripping at my boxers which, all of a sudden, felt like they were made from indestructible heavy burlap. Undoing the knot was out of the question as I didn’t have the dexterity.

“Come on!” I was panicking. Now that I’d found a way out, I was going to be too damned slow in employing it. I was tugging, but my hands felt like they were wearing those accursed boxing gloves and kept slipping off. It was like trying to open a jar of pickles with a broken hand. The creator’s screams had died down, either that or the blood in my ears prevented the sound from getting through. I was tugging wildly, sometimes at my leg, other times at the bag. The creator was halfway up and I’d yet to make even the slightest bit of progress. I was losing, plain and simple. It was going to be close, so I did the only thing I could: I flexed my left hand and swung out. The hit wasn’t much more than the light whack to the back of your kid’s head as they do something uncalled for in public, more of an attention grabber and a way to let them know you’ve seen it, rather than anything to cause them any discomfort beyond embarrassment. By the creator’s reaction you would have thought I’d used a sledgehammer on its genitalia. Now that was a thought I could get behind. If I could get out of this predicament, and, assuming it had the aforementioned gear, my next move was to find the biggest fucking hammer I could. The screams, which had been tapering off, renewed with a vigor; I was glad you could only rip eardrums so far.

It made sure to roll away, but even the contact with the floor was causing it a great deal of pain, and I took no small measure of satisfaction in that fact. My heart labored, using energy I was ill-prepared to replace. I had bought myself some time, but it wasn’t unlimited, and if the blackness encroaching on the peripheral of my vision was any indication, my internal clock was ticking even louder than his. I was working feverishly at the stapler satchel and was finally able to curl my fingers enough to grab it properly. I pulled up and toward my head; all I seemed to be succeeding at was giving myself a world-class wedgie.

“You have got to be kidding,” I managed to say. I kept pulling. The discomfort increased, but I was rewarded with the sound of a tear. It wasn’t more than a stitch or two, but it was progress all the same. I didn’t even bother trying to locate the creator; I couldn’t get to him in this state, and if he got up first I’m sure he’d let me know about it. I pulled up again. This time, in addition to seeing if I could receive a cloth enema, I also smashed my nuts. All of that still paled to everything else wrong with me, and I got the much-wanted rip I was looking for. The stapler fell out by my side. I was reaching down for it when I felt the first brush tip of a tentacle. He was up, and revenge was going to be the first dish served.

The creator’s appendage wrapped around my arm; a searing heat began to melt and char the flesh. If my free hand hadn’t already been on the stapler, I would have completely forgotten about it. Instinctively, I pulled my hand free from my pants; my intention had been to pry the branding iron off of me. What I ended up doing was putting a trio of staples into the offending tentacle instead. If it cried out, the sound was drowned out by my own screams and the sizzling of my skin. That was it. I was spent. I lay there for seconds that stretched to long minutes before I stirred. The process was excruciatingly slow, and the whole while I figured at any moment to be interrupted by the rupturing of my spleen, or something equally horrific, as the creator tore into me. I turned over and pushed up. Now I was on my hands and knees, my head hanging low. My burnt arm hurt so bad, putting any pressure on it was excruciating. Eventually, I swiveled my head enough to see the crumpled-up form of the creator on the far side of the room, huddled up against the wall. He looked somewhat like a threatened octopus does when they retreat into a crevasse, making himself as small as possible by pulling every bit of his body in tight.

If the light he produced was any indication, he was still very much alive. Where I had struck his head was that brilliant purple color, and the stapled tentacle matched perfectly, like he was accessorizing. I stood, fought through the vertigo, and lurched forward, the stapler extended out in front of me. His bowed head picked up, and those pin pricks of light stabbed me with their sight. Weakly, it put up its uninjured tentacle to ward me off. I pulled the trigger until my finger could no longer make the motion. His exposed side looked like it was wearing a shirt of chain mail cobbled together by someone with very limited skills. I’d even missed with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of staples; that I’d not caught a ricochet or several was a mystery I’d leave to philosophers of another age.

The light had ceased shining from the creator long before I’d called it quits. I stumbled from the room still out of it; I even thought about heading back to my room as if this were just a normal day in the routine I’d been forced into. It was that hovering tray with its meager supplies that pulled me away. I went and ate and drank quickly, the small amount enough to take the tiniest edge off my pain and discomfort. What I needed now was an abundance of rest. I got down onto the floor and did just that.

3

Mike Journal Entry 3

“What the absolute fuck!” I was still on the floor looking straight up. My eyes were open; I even waved my hands in front of my face to be sure. I was seeing images, hundreds, thousands, streaming past, information in terabytes flowed along this river of knowledge. Many years ago I had taken enough LSD that when I tried to lie down later that night, I had waking dreams, like a movie was playing out, in front of only my eyes. It was not something I’d enjoyed back then, and I was having the same negative response now. I stopped thinking about what was happening, and the material pushed to the side; now it was like I was driving down a roadway and there were unending rows of bushes lining the highway.

I sat up, wondering if the electrical shock from the creator had done some irreversible damage. I panicked, wondering if I had merely wounded him and even now he was getting ready to snap my bones and burn them like kindling. I raced to the area that was the creator’s version of a bathroom. His body was still huddled in the corner. It seemed much smaller now that power no longer pulsed through him.

“Now what?” I asked. I didn’t know if it was married and I should be expecting his blushing bride home soon, or it was Thursday, and his poker playing buddies would be over expecting beer. I had to get rid of the body, but then what? An untended alien and a missing creator—that was a situation that was not going to end well for me. I settled on cutting it up into pieces and shoving it down the drain; sounded like a very satisfactory solution to me.

“But first, I’m starving. Where does this thing keep its fridge?” And again, the stream of consciousness network flooded my senses. I saw images of what, I guess, was food, recipes for the food, nutritional information…I mean, if I’d wanted to, I could have drilled down to the molecular structure. It was dawning on me what was happening. This was the creator’s version of the internet. I was immersed within it.

“Holy shit,” I said, knowing that now all of their knowledge was mine. Something had happened to the cap, to me, when my creator had zapped me into a new zip code. I could tell without even doing a search that the vastness of this realm was beyond anything I’d ever encountered. I had more information at the tips of my neurons than, arguably, any human in history, and the first thing I did was look for creator porn. Oh, and they had it and yeah, I really wished I hadn’t done that. There were some things one can do with a tentacle that’s better left to the imagination.

“Hunger…back to the hunger thing!” I quickly shut down the porn avenue of data; the food was almost worse. They showed a wide variety of the aliens I had previously been marching with and working alongside prepared in a variety of ways. Wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the information anyway. Not like I could answer the door when the Grub Hub driver showed up. The pimply-faced creator driver would wonder where my master was. Then I hit paydirt. The creators didn’t have food delivery in the normal sense—it was like the Jetsons Foodarackacycle; when they wanted something they just asked. This was slightly more complicated in that I had to find the individual ingredients I wanted, and, as near as I could tell, they didn’t have cheeseburgers, and if they did, there was no telling what the meat was.

I searched through an index of thousands of food sources, finally found something that looked a bit like a cow mixed with a porcupine. It had four legs, so that was a plus. The spiky spines across the length of its back made me wonder if it was in some way poisonous to my species. I could get more of that fucking fruit, but I already knew my body did not like that. This was like picking random words out of a foreign language book and hoping that the person you were talking to wasn’t deeply insulted. I ordered the food and the largest container of water I could find. Now I had to find where this modern miracle was stationed. There was a slight whirring sound, off in another room, followed by a short, three note ringtone. Not unlike some of the earlier cell phones, or a microwave.

I went to the next room, and there, hovering on a tray, was a steaming pile of something. My eyes said “shit,” my nose said “ambrosia.” As I got closer I could see the texture of the product. My mouth watered, even if it did look like something a pig with gastrointestinal distress had left behind in a rush to get to a private part of the pen to relieve the rest of himself. Even had some golden nuggets of what looked like corn embedded in it.

“Fuck!” I yelled. My stomach twisted as it received the olfactory sensations. I grabbed the pitcher of water, drinking it so fast that a fair portion sloshed over my mouth, chin, and shirt. I was hoping that I had taken the worst of the hunger bite out; I was sadly mistaken. My stomach was in full-on meat mode, and when I tried to trick it with water it got angry, angry enough that it propelled most of what I’d taken in back out.

“Fine! Have it your way, you asshole,” I told my protesting organ. “When you start rupturing due to whatever this is, it’ll all be on you.” It actually wasn’t terrible. Looked like shit, tasted like celery, which, mostly doesn’t have flavor except for a hint of dirt. Celery is on my “do not eat” list, even slathered in peanut butter it still tastes like the ground it was pulled from, like, no matter how much you wash it, you’re just consuming wet dirt, so, mud. But, okay, it could have been worse. I finished the pile and sat patiently, waiting for the cramps and vomiting that would lead me to believe I had poisoned myself. After ten minutes, I only got some gurgling from my stomach saying it could use some more dirt. I ordered up another pile and watched as the tray began to form the food, like a high-speed, three-dimensional food printer. It was weird.

Oh how I wished I could dial up Chipotle, or Red Robin, Texas Roadhouse…a couple dozen other places. I ordered the same thing because, as of yet, I had not suffered any ill effects like violent anal leakage, which can be highly embarrassing. I was somewhat full, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in quite some time. I wanted to lie down, to let my body do what it does best. I walked around the entirety of the apartment: no couch, no bed, not even a chair. It was looking like beings that floated didn’t have much need for something to take the weight off their aching joints.

“The floor it is.” There was a level of concern about being discovered, but normal rest was the driving factor right now. The floor was uncomfortable, as floors tend to be, especially without a pillow or blanket. Still slept like a baby. I went and checked on the creator; he was still dead, so that was good. There was a clear liquid trailing away from him and toward the drain. He was decomposing; I wasn’t sure if I should speed the process along or let it be. Then I remembered that I had all the information I needed at my disposal. Again, it was an avenue I wished I hadn’t plundered. Before I narrowed it down to the specifics I needed, I must have seen hundreds of various creatures in varying states of decay. It was as unpleasant as it sounds.

If left alone, I learned that it would be roughly two weeks until it wasn’t much more than a stain on the floor. Time was a difficult concept for me to grasp—their version of it, I mean. The errant bolt of juice from the creator had done something; the fact that I could see and understand their vast knowledge base was incredible, but the manmade construct of time I was used to was much different from the creator’s construct. And as of yet I hadn’t discovered the Rosetta stone to unlock the translation. I went back into the bathroom area, wishing I had some sort of hazmat suit or even just a pair of latex gloves.

“Fantastic,” I said as I grabbed the side of it. I ripped a piece off roughly the size of a pillow. It was spongy, like a rubber-cardboard hybrid. It wasn’t as easy as tearing up a sheet of paper. but it was easier than I’d been expecting. In life, the creator had appeared translucent, more a figure of energy and light than a flesh and blood creature; it turned out he was a fair portion of both. Maybe in a few more millennia they would have achieved the transcendence they were headed toward, but right now, it was damn disgusting as innards fell free as I tore through its core. They were a surprisingly fragile creature, dainty even, for something that was actively destroying the known universe. If not for that energy field, I was under the impression a snowball could take them down. I was half up to my shins in debris, coated in a pinkish goo by the time I’d torn it into enough pieces that all the king’s men wouldn’t be able to put Humpty back together again. The only part of it I couldn’t touch were those tentacles, The memories of the pain they inflicted were part of it, but somehow they were slimier to the touch than the rest of this whole distasteful affair, and anyway, I figured they would be small enough to fit down the drain.

When it was over, I ordered up a few pitchers of water, stripped down, and washed as much of the gunk off as I could. Would have killed another creator for a bar of soap. I did a quick search, but if they had anything like our cleaning bricks, it was something more for degreasing electrical parts. I didn’t think that would do any wonders for my skin pH. I was fairly clean, though my clothes were absolutely disgusting. Got a few more pitchers and dunked them in and swirled around. I laid them out on the floor, again, there wasn’t anything to drape them over. I was naked but far from afraid. Anxious, perhaps, to a degree. With hunger beginning to poke its head around again, but not outright starvation, I took my time, really trying to understand the food offered.

Every ingredient I looked at I wondered at the toxicity to myself. I’d once spent a fair amount of time looking at foods that were innocuous to people but that were harmful to dogs. How could I even possibly begin to know if what I was ordering off of this alien menu was like a dog getting a heaping bowl of grape sherbet? I was cautious and tried to stay close to what I’d already gotten, but since I wasn’t starving, the steaming pile didn’t sound quite as appetizing now. Roughly an hour later I had something that looked sorta kind of like mac and cheese, if you tilted your head and squinted your eyes and made sure there was some water trapped between your eyelashes. Full on, it looked more like the very orange brain of a small monkey. If it had been brain colored, I would have scrapped the pile and started over.

“A spoon would be nice,” I said as I dunked my fingers into it. It didn’t make that squishy noise one associates with cheesy goodness, but, in this case, I was thankful. The taste wasn’t what I would call exquisite, but it was higher up the chain than the other. I ate a small amount, waiting for any repercussions. When none materialized, a half hour later I ordered another, but only because the first one had gotten cold and had congealed, and not in a good way, if there is such a thing. Couldn’t find a microwave to save my life, though those three lit up jars I’d been beaten over looked like they could cook something. After I ate I decided to do some searching for whatever those were. Wanted to make sure they weren’t leaking lethal doses of radiation, or maybe they were tasty. Either way it gave me something to do on this lazy Sunday afternoon as I lounged around naked.

I had to dive deep into the internet, to the point I felt as if I’d digitized myself and become part of the virtual world. It wasn’t quite like I had an avatar copy of myself running past store fronts looking for knowledge, but it was close. It was like my mind had grown tendrils and was melding with the material, an enlightenment, almost. At one point, I began to get worried and started to withdraw. Ever have sleep paralysis? You feel that you’re awake, but you can’t move a muscle? It is not a comfortable sensation as you silently scream at your partner, mere inches away, to help you, to please, oh God, just help! It was like that. There was a resistance to my backing away, like I’d dunked my head into a particularly nasty hole filled with quicksand and the more I struggled, the harder it became to move. Finally there was a snap in my mind like I pulled my brain too far, and it reeled back in, but I was out, at least, and sitting, dazed, on the floor.

Don’t know how long I’d been in that disoriented state, but my clothes had dried on top and were in need of being turned over. They were still pretty gross, and I did not relish the thought of donning them again. I pushed the neural net away, as I was exhausted and afraid if I dove in again I would drown. I walked around the place again, completely unsure as to what I was looking for. Anything, really. Not sure why, but with each circuit done I was sure I was going to come across something I’d missed. It was so fucking alien to be this unadorned; Tibetan monks who had got rid of all their earthly possessions would have thought this place stark. Each time I passed my closet, an involuntary shiver would race up my spine, that freaky door locking me in. Before I could ever really form a thought about it, I was reading instructions on how to operate them. Turns out it’s done with the mind, but only a creator’s mind; they use the power that flows through them.

Oh, trust me, I tried. I was pushing like I was convinced I was strong in the ways of the Force, and, with enough effort, I could make it happen. Humans did possess small electrical fields, but not enough to do any bidding here. I put my clothes on now that they were sufficiently dry and stiff; took some walking around with a grimace plastered on my face before I could begin to forget about what they had caked on them. There was comfort in being clothed. At some point, something had to come looking for him didn’t it? A delivery person looking for a signature? Another creator lobbying for votes? Jehovah's Witnesses?

At some point in my life, I’d determined that counting one Mississippi up to twenty-five Mississippi was close to a minute. My guess was this started when I was stoned and was waiting for my microwave burrito to finish. You know lava, on the sides, teeth shattering ice in the middle. Quite the opposite of the Hot Pocket, that could be relatively cool to the touch but instantly melt anything it came into contact with upon opening. This usually involved your lips, tongue, roof of your mouth, esophagus and the top half of your stomach. I’d kill four creators for a Hot Pocket. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the counting. They didn’t have time like we did, not really. I guess they were above it. I couldn’t even imagine my younger life without the need for that constant…no more buzzing alarms at the crack of dawn.

“Focus!” I had to yell. When presented with limited stimuli, I drift, sometimes I get pretty far from shore. So, okay, they didn’t tick time off like we did, but they acknowledged the passing of it. Strange distinction, but with some serious math and concentration, remembering back to our trek across the plains, I figured a rotation of their world was, surprisingly, similar to ours. I had it pegged at twenty-one hours per rotation around their suns, which was something, no matter how hard I tried, I could not grasp. My mind was still rattled, but I think it had something to do with the dual effect. They would pull and push against each other and this planet, which seemed, at some times, to slow it along its journey and at others speed it up. But that, too, varied; it was like the pi equation, there was no repetition. In the end, it wasn’t a big deal, just an exercise to keep me from doing stupid shit.

Using their rotation of the planet, which I’d come to realize was also influenced by the two suns, so some days could be twenty-one hours, others possibly twenty-eight and everything in between, I calculated I’d been in this place for nearly two weeks. I didn’t consider it home, but I ate decently, and I was soaking up every bit of their knowledge that I could. If information was power, I was a fucking nuclear reactor. I always made sure to keep one part of my mind firmly rooted in the present so as to not go through the previous, unpleasant disassociation again. The problem now was: what could I do with it? I knew some soft spots, where I could hit that would cause damage. But how could I get back down there and not look conspicuous? Wasn’t like I could don a creator costume and try and blend in.

There was the hover bubble, or thrallax, (their word, not mine). It was powered the same way as the door, so energy from their bodies. I’d already proved I couldn’t do much in that matter. My car ride would be incredibly fast, just one way, and that would be down. I was a prisoner in this sky sanctuary. Sure, I was unmonitored and, more importantly, not beaten, but I couldn’t go anywhere; I couldn’t do anything. There were things I could do on the brain byway, potential key spots I could shut down or disrupt, but there were inherent dangers. My actions could be tracked. As of yet, I didn’t notice anything watching my visits, but that would change if I started poking my fingers around inside their infrastructure. And I wasn’t a hacker; I didn’t know what it would take to do irreparable damage to anything, and this net did not contain that type of information. It would appear the creators lived a mostly harmonious existence. I guess that can be accomplished when you are entirely too busy shitting on the rest of the cosmos.

I was going absolutely stir crazy. I now had a working idea of what Rapunzel went through locked up in her tower, such as she was. I ate passable food, and I shoved knowledge into my brain to the point I figured my head must be swelling, not that I had a mirror to check. The loneliness was beginning to take its toll. Humans, as anti-social as we can be, are essentially pack animals, and, that I couldn’t even see myself was beginning to play mind games to the point that occasionally I would hallucinate. I’d see the flitting shadow of someone or something turning into another room. Stopped counting the number of times I chased a ghost and was not rewarded for my effort.

Society on this planet didn’t have the semblance of structure like on earth; there weren’t jobs, per se. Like, my former owner wasn’t missing shifts at a fast food joint. They all worked toward a common goal, moving from position to position, wherever they were needed, or sometimes wherever they wanted to go. He would eventually be missed, I figured. The when of it was key. Also, they didn’t have familial units, not like the ones I knew. So his mother wasn’t going to contact the constable to do a wellness check when her boy didn’t make his obligatory weekly call.

I was living like an escaped con, always turning and looking over my shoulder; I mean, figuratively. It would have seemed strange to do that in an empty apartment. When I rested, that was when the paranoia set in the deepest. I didn’t know if any room was safer than the next, Try as I might, I could not find a door to the outside. So I didn’t know whether I was on the complete opposite side of an entryway or sleeping on the doormat. That was not a way I’d want to be awakened, startled from sleep by a deadly creature stumbling over my head. See, this is where you have to be careful what you wish for, to choose your words wisely when making deals with a genie, the devil, or sometimes even your wife, but, of course, the first two more so. Generally, your spouse has your best interests in mind, even if it entails you spending your entire free weekends renovating a room.

I’d drummed up a few pitchers of warm water, figured it was time for a thorough scrubbing. Still, without soap or washcloth it was like trying to comb your hair with your fingers; it really wasn’t good enough. Still, it was something to do other than the endless data surfing and exploratory eating. A few days ago I’d strayed from my normal ingredients and spent about ten hours huddled near the hole in the bathroom floor, sweating and moaning. I would have welcomed a creator death at that point—anything to put me out of that severe case of food-poisoning misery. If not for my uniqueness, I was convinced I would have succumbed. I just wanted to eat something for enjoyment, not just for sustenance. The suckiest part about it was that the food that damn near did me in was fucking delicious. Isn’t that the way of it? I hoped that at the other end of that mystery hole was a creator manning the controls and that it was subject to what I kept sending down there in beefy rivulets. Although, more likely it was just another poor sap like me scraping it up.

It was another ten hours after getting to leave that most glorious of locations that I could hold down water and stand fully upright. Afterward, I had tended to even blander food, if that was possible. I didn’t want to revisit that previous state. I was contemplating looking for some spices, salt or pepper, to make my meals more palatable; I was a glutton for punishment and had short term memory issues—this was what I was thinking on as I cleaned myself off. I was naked as I came out of the bathroom; I’d been spending less and less time in clothes. First off, because they were gross, and secondly, what was the point of putting them on? But especially since I’d just bathed, or had a reasonable facsimile of bathing. I was trailing wet footprints out of the bathroom when I stopped short. A creator was standing some twenty feet away, its back to me.

For a week or so I had carried the stapler with me everywhere I went, but as time passed and nothing untoward happened, I’d been leaving it behind. I still slept with it, but other than that no, the stapler was on the far side of the room, to the intruder’s right. If the creator had seen it, he’d not reacted. Wasn’t like it was hidden under a couch cushion; it was the only thing in the entire place. My heart rate accelerated to threat levels. Maybe it heard something or maybe it was simply looking around, but it began to turn, thankfully, in the opposite direction that I needed to go. My wet feet did me no favors as they slapped, yeah, wetly, but more importantly, noisily, against the floor. I was halfway to my desired destination when I felt the whip-like lash of a tentacle burn across my back. I yelled out, my nostrils assailed by the stink of my own burning flesh. It was great that they were all “inflict pain first, ask questions later” type beings.

I slid like I was diving for home plate in a hotly contested ninth inning; I could only hope the water would add enough slickness so that I didn’t stick like I’d hit a dry spot on my Slip ’n Slide. Ended up somewhere between third and home. I had that initial pain one encounters when their privates make an unannounced collision; this would be followed shortly by a more stricken affliction of ache. I’d curl up and cover up after this was dealt with, hopefully. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I’d started my slide much sooner than I should have. Continuing the baseball analogy, I would have come up embarrassingly short from my target as the catcher walked over and tagged me out. Hometown fans would groan in agony and away fans would laugh in ridicule of my gaff. Here I was, rewarded with a gashing strike upon my lower leg. I moved quickly before it could wrap up and drag me back, the benefit of building up some strength resting and eating the past few weeks.

There was a crackle of energy as the electrified tentacle came into contact with the pools of water I was leaving behind. I was crawling and diving; it was as awkward as it sounds. I pushed up to get my legs underneath me and hopefully produce more speed. I hazarded a brief glance behind me; sometimes you want to know how close the monster chasing you is, other times you don’t. On hindsight, this was of the latter variety. A pulsing orange glow illuminated the outer fringes of its body. If put to the task of saying what that was all about, I’d go out on a limb and say it was expressing rage. Why, though, was the question; as of yet, I’d done nothing to it to warrant that reaction besides run for my life. Besides the angry aura, there were also the tentacles flapping about like Medusa’s snake-hair in full on stone mode. I was terrified as I made the final lunge for the stapler.

My fingers closed upon the weapon just as a tentacle wrapped around my ankle. The pain shot upward; had I been a moment sooner clamping my jaws shut in agony I would have shorn my tongue off. It was twisting me around, another tentacle trying to get my weapon wielding hand as I desperately struggled to break free from its grasp. This one was stronger than my creator had been; it felt like I’d been shackled to a pillar. I twisted around just in time for wafting smoke from my cooking ankle to assail my nostrils. I fired the stapler repeatedly. Where they struck, the orange glow dulled, sort of what it might look like if you dropped some water on a bit of lava or forge heated steel. After the initial strike, the area quickly returned to its previous fiery condition. I didn’t know if it was repelling, absorbing, or disintegrating the staples, but whichever of those three or an unknown fourth response didn’t matter, as it was having little-to-no effect.

The creator pulled me back like a pitcher might a baseball before torqueing his arm forward. I think the initial plan had been to thrash me against the ground until I was broken up, somewhat like what a party goer does with a bag of store-bought ice before dumping it into a cooler. I had been kicking with my free leg, desperately doing what I could to make it let go. It would have been much better if he’d not built up all the velocity when I finally accomplished what I’d set out to do. I made it almost back to the bathroom in the air, pretty impressive hang time…it was the landing that could have used a bit more work. I came down at a crazy angle only able to use my left arm to break the fall and, by break, I meant my wrist, which had made a resounding snapping sound and was bent at an angle that nature had never intended. It was coming back to finish what it had started. I was firing staples as fast as I could pull the trigger, was doing as much damage as I had the first time.

A tentacle lashed out; I did the math. It was going to strike me dead center in the chest, and I couldn’t scurry back fast enough to avoid it. Then it was miraculously wrenched backward, the tentacle smacked harmlessly to the ground but stupid close to my nethers. I had a whole bunch of what the fucks lined up, until I caught a glimpse of red.

“Bob?”

4

Jack Walker — Chapter One

“Kalandar, you old fuck. I was wondering where you ran off to.”

The red demon, lying prone on his back and apparently resting, opens one eye.

“I was wondering when you’d finally get here,” the beast says. “I could hear you scrambling about like a three-legged goat scaling a ledge with its hooves tied together.”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” I reply. “If I’d wanted to, I could have drawn a mustache on you and you’d have been none the wiser.”

“I smelled you, then,” Kalandar says, absent-mindedly scratching his nether region.

“Now, that I’d believe,” I respond. “And do you have to be doing that? I mean, have some decorum.”

The demon looks down and then lifts the hand that was doing the deed and sniffs at it.

“Aw, come on, man,” I say, turning around. “That’s just fucking disgusting.”

The demon’s junk is, well, proportional to his size. Which means it’s like watching a giant red boa flopping around, nesting with a couple of wrinkled hedgehogs.

“You do it,” Kalandar says, sitting up.

“I most certainly do not. At least not to that extent and certainly not in plain view. And I definitely don’t go around sniffing my hand afterward.”

“Where are the others that were with you?”

“Now, that is a long story. Which, I might add, started with you running off into the distance. What happened to you?”

Kalandar hangs his head, looking at the ground between his knees. “That is a great shame that I’ll bear until the day I head off into the void. I should have stayed and fought until I succumbed, making of it a battle that would be sung through the ages. But that wasn’t to be. Instead, I ran like a virgin clavestor. I ran into a storm of white and found myself locked in time. That is, until now.”

I have no idea what in the fuck a clavestor is, but I’m guessing they aren’t particularly known for their bravery. I sit in the building heat and tell the beast what happened to us: the control point, encountering the overseers, the return trip and subsequent adventure on the whistler home world.

I leave out the part about finding and bonding with the relic. Given that the demon is really an enforcer and how they might be out for it themselves, I figure he doesn’t need that information. The fewer entities who know, the better. Besides, I have no idea where Trip and BT went off to. As important as I feel Trip is, I’d hate for him to be on the other end of a demon manhunt. If for no other reason than he has the relic and is probably Mike’s and my best way back to our families.

“You killed an overseer?” the demon asks when I finish telling the story.

“Three of them,” I answer.

“I bet you just knocked them out.”

“Nope. I hate to disappoint you there.”

“How…how did you manage that?”

“Ancient Chinese secret.”

I’m not sure about telling the demon how to kill an overseer. Even though Kalandar has mostly shown himself to be on our side, there have been enough other times that I don’t completely trust him. But, unlike the relic, I guess this is information I can share without it coming back on me.

Kalandar lowers himself, glowering at me.

“Fine! I shot them in the mouth,” I state.

The demon continues staring at me as if pondering whether to add salt or pepper before he devours me.

“I’m serious,” I declare.

“Hmmm…that shouldn’t have worked. Something that simple would have been known for eons,” Kalandar finally says.

“Well, it did.”

There’s silence as the gears inside the demon’s head turn. Either that or he’s contemplating the best toppings to have on his next order of pizza.

“So, Mike is still on that planet?” Kalandar inquires.

“As far as I know,” I answer.

“And you are trying to get back to it?”

“Pretty much.”

“You must have a plan,” the demon states.

“Well, before everything was reset, I was going to circumvent a base that was sitting in the desert not long ago and make my way to a portal the whistlers are using to gain access to this world. I suppose that’s still the goal,” I respond.

The demon casts his gaze out over the barren land as if searching for a hint of either the base or the portal, his brows scrunching together in concentration.

“Do you know where the whistler base is?” he finally asks.

“Now, therein lies the problem. I haven’t the foggiest notion,” I answer.

“So your grand plan is to just pick a direction and head that way?”

“It’s a little more scientific than that. I was going to read tea leaves first.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kalandar says.

“I suppose you have a better idea.”

“Who said I’m going? I may have much better things to do than tag along on a wild goose chase.”

“There will be big battles fought, adventures fraught with danger. But if you don’t want to be a part of them, I suppose you can just read about them in the paper,” I state.

“Ha! My fighting prowess will be sung from the tallest mountains, mortal. My name will strike fear into all who hear it. Don’t want to be a part of it…Ha! It’s what I live for.”

“Um, okay. It just sounded like you had better things to do.”

“Nothing is better than battling against impossible odds and emerging victorious. Lead on, mortal.”

“Yeah, and all that. But first, I need to get some rest,” I say.

“Rest at the end. I’ll carry you,” Kalandar states.

“Yeah, um, no thanks. I know where at least one of those hands has been. I’m good.”

The demon reaches out toward me, his hand open and ready to clench me in his rather large grasp. I backpedal out of reach, saying, “Nope, nope, nope.”

“Oh very well. Here we will rest a while, but not for long.”

I find a semi-comfortable spot that’s shaded and hidden from the desert below.

“If you touch me while I’m sleeping, we’re going to have words,” I tell Kalandar as I lay my head down.

“If I wanted to touch you, mortal, there would be nothing you could do about it,” Kalandar responds, chuckling.

While that is entirely true, I don’t reply. Instead, I lie in the shadows of a ravine and ponder my next move. I’ll need to locate the whistler portal, as Trip said back on the whistler planet, but that could lie in any direction. The odds of me randomly choosing correctly are minuscule. With that cheerful thought, I close my eyes.

As the sun wends its way toward the late afternoon, Kalandar and I set out down the mountain. The direction chosen was done by the scientific method of tossing a stick in the air and heading out whichever way it pointed. At least it’s a direction, and if we’re wrong, we’ll just choose another. Although I will admit, I’m rather tired of all this walking. It seems that’s been the usual method of transport Mike and I have used to cross the surface of the planets we’ve visited. Next time, I’d like the option of calling a taxi or some kind of shuttle service.

As we stroll out onto the desert floor, heading toward the line of hills to our front, I want to ask the demon about his involvement as an enforcer. However, I’m hesitant, as I don’t know how he’ll react. He might just pound my head into the sand rather than talk about it. The archives at the control point mentioned guilt as a factor for the enforcers walking away. Normally, I’d just blurt out whatever was on my mind; the consequences confirm that I need a better filter between my brain and mouth. However, this is one of the rare instances where I actually listen to the little man inside my head.

“So, what would you like to talk about to make this hike a little more interesting?” I ask.

“Is there a reason for us to talk at all?”

“Usually, no. I’d be more than happy with the silence. Hell, I’d even encourage it. But you know, if you need to get anything off your chest, now’s the time.”

Kalandar looks down, prodding at his muscular chest. “Why would I need to get something off that isn’t there?”

“No, ya big oaf. That’s just a saying. It means that if you want to unburden yourself of some type of psychological baggage you’ve been carrying around, the best way to do that is to talk about it.”

“You mortals are a strange lot,” Kalandar responds. “If something was a burden, I’d merely smash it until it wasn’t.”

I sigh and shake my head. Not surprisingly, being subtle doesn’t appear to be a demon’s strong suit.

“Let’s take a different tack. Have you always been a demon?”

Kalandar pauses for a brief moment, looking down sharply at me. “Of course I have. Why would you say such a thing?”

“So, you weren’t like, well, you know, an enforcer?” I inquire.

The demon’s gaze grows more concentrated and fiercer. I may have overstepped my bounds and was about to meet the consequences. At least it’ll be quick.

“Where did you hear that? Someone has been telling stories,” Kalandar finally replies.

“No one was telling tales, per se. I read the archives.”

“I see.”

I don’t know from the flat tone of his reply whether he’s contemplating getting rid of witnesses to what happened, or he’s merely absorbed in other thoughts.

“What do you know of the story?” he finally asks.

“Whatever I could piece together from the small amount of data we were able to access. Basically, the overseers and travelers developed opposing philosophies on how the lifeforms were to be treated and allowed to develop. The whistlers emerged, and the enforcers were sent to quell the incursions. But they lost so many in the battles, they aligned their beliefs more with the overseers, joining their cause of a controlled development for all life in order to prevent such loss of life in the future.

“Together, the two groups rebelled against the travelers, either destroying them or locking them away like the whistlers did. Then, the enforcers realized they had made a mistake as the overseers took complete control and started resetting timelines, fabricating narrow parameters that every lifeform must follow or be destroyed. So, the enforcers dispersed and fled throughout the universes, treating them like playgrounds and forgetting what their original mission was, forgoing any involvement. How am I doing so far?”

“You only have bits and pieces, but from a broad perspective, that’s the gist,” Kalandar answers.

“So, fill me in on what parts I’m missing,” I say.

“Those days weren’t easy. Many of us didn’t come home from the whistler wars and we’d grown discouraged. Some talked of the overseer philosophy, knowing if we were to survive, then we couldn’t get immersed in a war like that again. If lifeforms were controlled, then we could prevent war. So, we did align with them. But, we didn’t know what they had in mind for the travelers. Had we known what the overseers planned for them, not many of us would have helped with their rebellion. And that’s the true reason for our departure. There are many who have forgotten what they once were, jumping from one world to another in order to fulfill their own desires,” Kalandar states.

“But, isn’t that what you’re doing? Jumping around and seeking battle for your own glory lust?”

“What can we do? The overseers have grown too powerful. But, before you get all judgmental, there are still a few pieces you’re missing,” Kalandar says, the sun sinking lower to the horizon.

“As I said, fill me in.”

“An important part for us were the creators. The travelers attached lifeforms to the flow of light and the overseers administrated on a day-to-day basis. We made sure the policies were enforced. However, there were times when all three groups required assistance and the creators would step in to give a guiding hand and keep the peace. And I mean keep the peace in a different way than what the enforcers did. The creators ensured that the three governing groups all had the same end goal. That was the protection of lifeforms when they emerged, attaching them to the flow, and then letting them develop. Keep in mind that this was long ago when we all still had the same forms.

“Now there were times when we had to intervene, but that was rare, and all lifeforms were left to their own, for the most part. Then, the creators vanished. Poof. They were just gone. We searched throughout the worlds for any sign of them, but were unable to find the smallest hint. We continued doing what we were made to do. The travelers attached worlds to the stream, the overseers provided their logistical support, and the enforcers took care of any anomalies that surfaced.

“All the while, we continued our search. After an eon, some of our philosophies began to diverge. Those differences were magnified as time went on. The travelers and overseers began to see things much differently. And then the whistlers broke free of their prison and the rest you know. In the deep dark shadows of the universes, whispers surface that the creators are merely asleep and that their waking will bring the three groups back together.”

“And I suppose those whispers don’t mention the location?” I inquire.

“We have searched high and low without finding the barest hint of their existence.”

“So all we have to do is find them, somehow bring them out of their nap, and all will be right,” I say.

“That’s a mighty fine theory you have there.”

“Yeah, it’s never as easy as it should be.”

Kalandar chuckles. “No, you only have to ask your other friend about that.”

“Which other friend? Do you mean Trip?”

“I believe that’s the one. The one who looks like he’s been stretched a bit thin.”

“Yep, that’s Trip.”

“You know he was a traveler,” Kalandar states.

“Was? What do you mean was?”

“You’ve seen his mind. He’s not entirely all there.”

“That’s kind of an understatement,” I reply.

“You know, the travelers have the power to connect and sever life with their thoughts. Or at least they used to. That’s something the overseers can never hope to accomplish. As I said, we made a mistake in supporting them, but they’ve grown too powerful. The only reason you haven’t tasted the full measure of their power is because they think you and your friends are too far beneath them. They don’t want to waste the energy.”

“So, were there any theories back in the day as to why the creators went to sleep?”

“It’s not certain they went to sleep,” Kalandar responds. “The only thing we knew for sure is that they were no longer with us.”

“Okay, fair enough. Were there any theories about why, and I guess, how, they vanished?”

“There were plenty, but none that made any sense. They were the most powerful beings in all of creation, so I don’t see any other beings who could have done it,” Kalandar answers.

“You’re implying they did it to themselves.”

“It’s the only logical reasoning we could come up with. But we became stuck on the why.”

“Did someone piss them off?”

“Not that we are aware of. It was a harmonious time,” Kalandar replies.

“Could it have been a rift among the creators? After all, the travelers, overseers, and enforcers all had theirs.”

“We saw nothing like that.”

“Hmmm…well, we should probably table this conversation for a later time. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s about to get dark. That means we’ll more than likely have visitors,” I say.

“Ah, wonderful! I haven’t had a good fight in a long while.”

Purples and reds and oranges flare across the edge of the world, a few high thin clouds catching fire as the last of the sun’s rays stream above the horizon. The light fades quickly from the desert floor with only the tips of the mountains ahead, behind, and those very far in the distance to the right still holding a smattering of light. The air holds barely a whisper of wind as it cools with the sun’s departure, bringing a slight chill where there had only been heat.

Kalandar and I take positions near enough to each other to give support but far enough away that I’m not clobbered by his long-reaching arms. I suppose if I had been thinking, we would’ve held to the hills for the night as those are more easily defended locations. Of course, that would’ve meant crossing during the day and the heat, but as I watch darkness close upon the land, I’m wondering if that wouldn’t have been the lesser of two evils.

The lightshow on the horizon fades, becoming just a thin strip of yellow pushing back against the enclosing night. I have a ready supply of ammo, but that never seems to last very long. If the night runners show, I know I’ll be relying more on Kalandar to dispose of them. I’m not sure if he’ll do his ground-pound hulk smash, but I’ll have to watch out for that. I also remember that he has some sort of ring of fire thing he can enact.

The night finally comes, plunging the land into darkness. Overhead, stars glitter like tiny diamonds, the night so clear and crisp you can almost reach out and touch them. However, the serenity of the open desert at night is shattered by the formation of thin, vertical silver lines. Standing over six feet tall, the lines start to rotate horizontally, creating a portal of white through which the night runners emerge. Shrieks fill the night air, echoing across an empty desert, as the hunters discover our scent.

As each night runner is deposited, the portals snap closed. The pale forms of these deadly creatures shimmer faintly under the starlight. No matter how many times I’ve heard it, the sound of a night runner on the hunt sends a shiver up my body. Adrenaline courses through me as I bring my M–4 up to my shoulder. Quickly glancing around, I ensure that the creatures are materializing from only one direction.

Kalandar lets out a roar that drowns out the screams of the night runners, beating his fists against his chest like some primal creature. The sound of footfalls thrumming across the desert floor pound like a drum ritual. The desert in front is swarming with pale figures sprinting toward us. With another roar, Kalandar takes off to meet their charge.

I take the nearest in my sights, placing my reticule center mass and thanking anyone who might listen that I don’t have to make head shots. It’s difficult enough keeping in line with the bouncing bodies; hitting something running, consistently, in the head is next to impossible. With my thumb, I ensure I’m on semi-auto and pull the trigger. Kicking against my shoulder, the suppressed shot is lost in the din of roars and shrieks.

The round smacks into the night runner just to the side of the sternum, exiting out of the lower back in a spray of blood. The creature stumbles forward, its feet trying to keep pace with a body that stopped fully functioning. With blood starting to flow from its mouth and nostrils, the night runner pitches forward, sliding across the desert floor like a runner trying to make it home. I don’t know if I killed it, but it’s no longer tearing after us. Right now the goal is just to slow down their onslaught.

Kalandar meets the rushing line head-on. With a backhanded sweep of his arm, two night runners are hurled away, their ghostly forms disappearing into the night. With his other arm, the demon snags yet a third night runner. Kalandar lifts his victim over his head and slams the squirming creature into the ground, silencing its screams. A ring of dust flies out from the body’s impact.

Two night runners stumble over the body but quickly regain their balance. Kalandar, unmindful of lanes of fire, has chosen to stand right in the middle of mine. Taking aim off to the side, wary of hitting the big red demon, I quickly locate another target. The night runners seem to have focused their attention on the demon creating havoc in their midst.

Speeding across the short intervening distance, my second round takes a night runner in the neck. The meaty smack of a bullet finding flesh is more sensed than heard. Dark liquid sprays into the night, the night runner’s life force quickly exiting its body. The creature falls to its knees and then plants face first into the ground, the sand silently absorbing the blood which continues to gush from the wound.

Kalandar has grabbed a night runner in each of his hands, holding them by the legs. He flails one after the other into those storming around him. The crunch of bone on bone is almost sickening, blood spraying in all directions. Time and time again he beats at the creatures with their own kind, until he’s left holding nothing but bloodied lumps of flesh. Tossing the two corpses aside, he picks up two more from the crowd.

The demon stands tall as a pillar of red amid a sea of pale white. He continues flailing with the bodies, as night runners are tossed in a circle of destruction. Although I’m shooting in the general direction of Kalandar, with him being surrounded, I at least have safer targets to choose from. In such a killing frenzy, who knows how he’d react to being shot? I certainly wouldn’t want him to turn on me and be hit by one of those broken night runners flopping in his grasp.

I was standing a ways back from the central fight, very much aware that I’m still in the open. However, the night runners seem very keyed on Kalandar. I don’t imagine that’ll last much longer once they find a new target, one much easier to take down. At that point, at least for me, it will be a fighting retreat. I can only hope that the demon substantially thins their numbers.

I keep firing into night runners prowling the fringes of the main battle, all shrieking and pushing forward in an attempt to get at Kalandar, as if the battle will be over if only they are the ones to reach him. But I also know night runners are intelligent; they won’t keep up the losing fight for very long. Although I can’t imagine what other strategy they might go to out here in the open.

Night runner after night runner falls to my rounds and Kalandar’s ministrations. Pressed in on all sides, he discards his latest pair of body hammers and raises his giant fist. I have an idea what’s coming but I don’t know if it’s going to be launched in a specific direction or at the inner ring around him. The ring makes the most sense. I start backpedaling away, still firing into the masses of night runners surrounding the demon.

He slams his fist into the ground with tremendous force. Dust and chunks of earth fly up from the impact along with several night runners. Holding his fist to the ground, I can see the strain on the demon’s face. The forceful blast expands outward, the ground rolling like a slow wave. Large chunks of earth are thrust up by the miniature earthquake, sending scores of night runners stumbling to their knees while others are flung from the perimeter.

Raising his fist again, he again plunges it down. This time the eruption is magnified. Night runners and clods of earth explode up and outward. Even though I had backed away, it apparently wasn’t far enough, as night runners and dirt begin to fall around me like rain. Staggering and trying to avoid falling bodies, I take notice of the equally stumbling night runners attempting to gain their feet. And just like that, I’m now inside the perimeter I was hoping to keep clear of.

I fire into the closest night runners, who are regaining their feet. They stumble even more as rounds strike their bodies, collapsing back to the ground. But there are far too many in my near proximity for me to take them all down. I’m not really sure Kalandar thought his action all the way through.

I’m turning quickly, looking for new targets, when I hear a steady pounding coming up behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a night runner in full sprint just feet away. Its mouth is pulled back in a snarl, the silver of his eyes eerily glowing as it bores its rage-filled gaze into me. Outstretched arms reach for me, seeking to rend flesh from bone.

Dropping my carbine to hang by its lanyard, I duck low while rotating toward the charging night runner. My hand closes around the haft of my knife, secured at my ankle. Rising quickly under the night runner’s outstretched arms, I grab hold of its chest with my free hand and drive my blade underneath the sternum. I immediately feel warm liquid splash over my gloved hand. Using the creature’s momentum, I launch him up and over me, twisting my knife buried inside its body. As the creature is propelled away, I let my blade slide from its flesh. Trailing droplets of blood, it slams into the ground at the feet of one of its comrades.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot another pale flash of movement. Turning towards the rapidly closing night runner, I sweep my free arm to move its reaching hands while stepping to the side. I then bring my knife up and over, plunging it into the side of the creature’s neck. Warm blood gushes from the wound to stream down the night runner’s back. Sawing my blade, I cut forward, slicing through muscle, tendon, and gristle. With blood now pumping from its wound, the creature’s knees give way and it slumps to the ground.

The night, which had been filled with shrieks and roars, is now filled with the sounds of night runners scrambling to their feet. Their screams start rising into the cool air once again. This time, however, their attention is refocused on me. With a little breathing space, I jam my knife back into its sheath and pull out my sidearm.

The night runners are all around me and recovering quickly. Pairs of silver orbs glow in the darkness, snarls mixing with renewed shrieks. With an abruptness that is startling, the nighttime hunters charge my position. I hold steady, picking out the nearest one. My 40 cal round slams into its torso, the chest caving in and the beast’s arms and shoulders seeming to fold around the impact. The night runner’s forward momentum is halted as if it decided to just give up in midstride. Hitting first on its knees, the creature then faceplants into the desert sand, a cloud of dust pushing forward.

Before the first one hits, I have my sights aimed at another. This one also is sent tumbling across the desert, coming to rest only a few feet away. Quickly moving from target to target, I fire one round after another in rapid succession, each time downing a night runner. But they’re too many and they’re too close.

Something slams into me from behind. Thinking I’m being tackled by a night runner, I first focus on keeping the grip on my handgun. I’m about to fire over my shoulder into the weight I feel pressing against me and shoving me forward when I noticed big red fingers circle around me. I’m then lifted into the air to the sound of a hearty laugh that borders on a roar.

“This…Is…Great!” Kalandar roars as he moves me to his shoulder.

I now have a bird’s eye view of the battle, but on a very unsteady platform. Up here, I won’t be able to add much to the fight, as I’ll be busy enough trying to keep my own balance. If the demon had hair, I’d have something to hang onto. But as it stands, pun only partially intended, it appears I’m about to ride my first rodeo bull without the courtesy of being tied on or even allowed to sit.

I shuffle closer to his neck and take what hold I can on his ear while holstering my side arm. Using his other arm, Kalandar swats away a group of three night runners who had been closing in on my position, sending them bouncing and rolling across the desert floor. He then picks up two more in his giant mitts and tosses them like an outfielder throwing to catch a runner at home plate. They go sailing into the night, their pale bodies dwindling, their screams fading. I can’t help but grin inside because watching people getting launched is one of those things you can’t help but laugh at, like seeing folks trying to negotiate icy inclines.

The desert air suddenly quiets, broken only by a few snarls. The night runners back away from the towering demon, the silver glow of their eyes wary. It appears they know they’ve met their match, and with the easy prey now out of reach, they’re contemplating their survival. Whether that means a change in tactics or not remains to be seen.

Their ferocity is unparalleled, often keeping them in the fight for too long. But, it’s also what sees them through many times. I’ve come to hate when they change it up, for it’s often unnoticed until it’s too late. I’ve only seen them turn tail a few times, so the idea of them giving up is foreign. However, they are, one and all, backing up. As for Kalandar himself, he’s stopped his roaring and, from what I can tell on my precarious perch, staring at the creatures arrayed before him. I wonder if it’s a prelude to him just hitting palm down and smacking them into the earth.

As one, the night runners turn and race away into the darkness, the sound of their pounding feet fading. Kalandar starts laughing, his deep bellows chasing the fleeing creatures.

“Seeing an enemy flee in terror is sometimes better than crushing them between your fingers.”

“Yeah, um, sure,” I reply.

“What, you do not like a good fight?” Kalandar asks, incredulous.

“I’m not against one; that doesn’t mean I go looking for them,” I answer.

“Mortals surely are strange. I watched for a moment while you fought them. You fight well for your size.”

“So, wait—you stood there and watched?” I inquire.

“Surely. What greater honor than to have a witness to your feats.”

“I think I would have appreciated it more if you had just stepped in. That was getting a little sporty,” I say.

“Why would I do that? That’s when it gets fun.”

“Next time, feel free to share in the fun earlier…like, much earlier.”

“As I said, you mortals are a strange lot,” Kalandar says, shaking his head. “We will journey a little more and find a place to rest.”

5

Jack Walker — Chapter Two

We stroll through the night for another couple of hours. Well, actually, Kalandar is doing the walking while I ride on his shoulder. It’s much easier to stay on it in this manner rather than when he’s flailing around in the middle of a fight. It’s not much different than matching the easy gait of a horse. Of the night runners, I haven’t seen any sign or heard their shrieks. I don’t know if they’re still out there prowling the desert or have vanished back through their portals.

For that matter, I wonder who creates those for them. Surely it can’t be the night runners themselves. I suppose it could be a function of what brought us through in the first place. After all, I was transported here without any involvement whatsoever. And by here, I mean into this entire mess.

Reaching a place not unlike any other, we stop to rest. Taking turns, we maintain a guard, although I’m not sure Kalandar really needs one. The only thing he’s ever seemed anxious about are the overseers, and I doubt there are any of those about. I’m sure I’d sense a trace of that fear even from a distance. However, interacting with the relic did seem to change the level of fear I feel. I’m also not overly sure of his dedication to guard duty, as his snoring at his post has woken me on more than one occasion. I would have stayed up all night, but exhaustion claimed me.

Near morning, with the false dawn sending its faint blue glow across the horizon, I wake to the smell of smoke. It isn’t wood smoke or someone burning fields. This is heavy, oily smoke, carrying the odor of burned brakes and machinery. I haven’t been in a lot of armored battles, but I’ve come across fresh battlefields where they’ve occurred, and this smells very similar.

I look to Kalandar, who is sitting nearby in the darkness.

“I smell it, too. There was a white wave that came through a while ago and the odor appeared just after that,” he says.

Well, that’s great. Yet another thing to deal with. Those resets seem to be coming more frequently, bringing changes along with them.

“This place is about to tear itself apart,” I comment.

“As they all do with time,” the demon responds.

My fatigues are stiff from dried blood. Several pieces of flesh are glued to the front where Kalandar grabbed me, his fingers caked with the remains of his flesh bats. I’d spare some of my water to clean up, but who knows how long it’ll have to last. We’re trekking toward the mountains, if those are, in fact, still there. It’s difficult to determine the landscape in the pre-dawn darkness.

Slowly, the sky lightens as the sun moves closer to the horizon. The land around begins to take form. It doesn’t look like much has changed. There are the dark silhouettes of the ridge lines we were heading for with the same behind. Off to one side, the line of mountains that were there seem closer. Again, it’s difficult to tell in the current lighting. The smell of oily smoke is still strong.

Sunlight flares across the desert. Across the flat plain, pillars of dark smoke rise into the morning air, each column more than likely marking the destruction of an armored vehicle. After I check over my gear, Kalandar lifts me to his shoulder and we start the trek across the sand as the heat begins to climb. In favor of easier travel, I’ve managed to ignore the fact that the demon freely scratches and fondles his nether regions.

As we approach, I have Kalandar slow down until I can have a chance to glass over the area. Who knows if there are operable fighting vehicles that are still being manned within the battlefield? I sure would hate to be on the receiving end of incoming artillery or anti-armor rounds. I’m not sure how Kalandar would hold up to a depleted uranium rod slamming into his torso. He, of course, scoffs at the notion of being careful, but does as I ask anyway.

From the thickness and size of the smoke plumes, the battle that played out here took place hours ago. Some of the smoke columns drift lazily upward while others are forced by the heat of still-burning fires. I wonder what is it about this world; it seems as if this place has been nothing but battlefields and armies since leaving Valhalla. Are the overseers studying the art of war? Or was that just how this planet was before the arrival of the whistlers?

The battlefield stretches for miles, the wreckage of equipment marking a trail of the fight’s progress. The sand is disturbed from tracks and wheels racing this way and that, each unit seeking to gain advantages or to fall back. Craters mark where shells hit, sending sand and clumps of earth outward and turning the sand black in places. Amid the tangle of wrecked vehicles, bodies lie in various postures; some lie draped over the rims of tanks, others lie singly on the sand or clumped around cratered holes.

Taking my time, I don’t see any sign of living souls. Considering the bodies, I wonder whether this might have been an armored column attacked from the air. However, the differing camo schemes and markings on the vehicles tells of a meeting engagement between two opposing forces. Normally, a victor would at least gather their own dead. But here, there are bodies from both sides. So, is this a battle from long ago that materialized with the passing of the last wave?

I direct Kalandar forward. I’d circumvent this place, but I want to find a replacement weapon for Mike. More ammo for myself wouldn’t be a bad idea, as I spent a few mags fighting the night runners. We tour the battlefield with me being lowered several times to check out the viability of weapons I find. Most are smashed beyond use, but I manage to find an operable carbine and some ammo for when we meet up again. I also find a working sniper with a few mags. I take that along as well, as you never know when one might come in handy. It’s a good thing I have a big red pack animal to help carry the gear.

Walking through the wreckage, well, being carried through, we come upon a vehicle that doesn’t have a mark on it. There’s no shell hole through the armor, no hint of smoke rising, no panels or hatches blown. It looks like it was just driven here and parked, the occupants dismounting to go shopping.

“Hold up here,” I tell Kalandar.

After again glassing the area, I’m lowered to the ground. There’s a chance that there is a crew hanging around, and they’re salvaging anything they can find. The sight of the demon may have driven them into cover. I know it would me. Or they’re inside, waiting for me to open a hatch. I mutter as much and Kalandar reaches over to tilt the armored vehicle on its side, letting it slam back to the ground.

“No one inside,” he declares.

“If so, they’re done for now.”

It appears as if the vehicle is abandoned. Maybe the crew saw their unit being destroyed and decided there were better places to be. The acrid smell of smoke drifts across the battlefield, hiding most of the stench coming from the dead bodies. Clambering atop the vehicle, the metal warm under the rising sun, I watch for any hatch movement. The tank-like vehicle is comprised of a chassis riding on six large rubber tires with a turret on top, the sides and rear steeply angled. Four barrels protrude from in front, arranged in a square pattern. Although the caliber is larger, the layout looks a lot like the four-barreled anti-air weapons found on World War II ships. I think those were 20mm; these look more like they might be 40mm.

Climbing to the top hatch, I flip it open and jump back. The cover comes down with a clang, the only sound other than the crackle of flames from a nearby burning vehicle. Nothing flies out of the opening, nor is there any hint of someone moving inside. Leaning my carbine, I peek over the edge with my handgun ready.

The interior is dimly lit and empty. There are two stations inside, one to the left and right of the gun apparatus. It looks like a driver and gunner’s station with raised commander’s position in back. The main weapon looks to have an automated reloading system, rails carrying rounds leading to breaches. I track the delivery system back to a large ammo compartment. Searching further, there is another compartment which houses additional ammo.

There are two machine guns, one fired from the gunner’s station and another from the commander’s position. Studying the consoles, I figure out where the battery master is and click it over, hoping to hell that isn’t off for a reason. The whine of hydraulics accompanies gauges that spring to life. The fuel gauge shows about three-quarters full, so this battle must have started right after a refueling. Everything appears to be in normal ranges.

I study the panel. It’s not difficult to figure out, but Kalandar knocking against the metal sides is annoying as hell. It’s just like back at the helicopter when I was trying to learn about the systems. I swear he does shit like this to deliberately annoy me. I scramble back to the top hatch and poke my head out.

“Knock that the fuck off,” I yell to the demon sitting beside the armored vehicle. “If you’re bored, go find a bug to squash or something.”

Kalandar merely stares at me and smacks the side with his finger, the metallic sounds echoing deep inside the compartment.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say, sliding back inside.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out the three stations. Luckily it isn’t very computerized, straight forward for the most part. With the periodic rings reverberating from a bored demon, I hit the starter switch. Instead of cranking up like a normal engine, it starts spooling up like a jet engine, eventually reaching a point where it idles with a whine.

“Okay, that’s interesting,” I mutter.

Hopefully the fuel isn’t as volatile as the jet fuel I’m used to. If so, then this thing will become a blazing inferno with one hit. I’m sure there’s some retardant or foam in the tank. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I engage the gears and the armored vehicle lurches forward. I practice maneuvering the behemoth for a few minutes before shutting it back down.

I found some lethal transportation that will carry me for a ways. I’m not sure how far that might be, but it’s something. The plan is to drive from the driver’s seat and switch to the commander’s seat, should I encounter something hostile. I’ll be a sitting target, but down here I can either move or shoot, not both, like I’ll be able to up there.

Amid the smoldering pillars, I let Kalandar know that I’ll be driving from here on out. Maneuvering through the battlefield wreckage, the two of us strike out for our original destination — the nearer mountains across the vast plain. I’m not sure what I hope to find there, but it’s a direction. The two of us look something like a kid aimlessly strolling with a mechanical pet tagging along beside.

We barely clear the wreckage and Kalandar spots a line of dust heading across the desert. If whatever is causing it continues on their current path, they’ll pass close to us from our left to right. It looks like their destination is the distant mountains off to the side. Stopping, I stand in the commander’s cupola, raising my binoculars to get a closer look. The dust clouds have to be caused by a large force, and I wonder if I’m not witnessing some follow-on force heading towards the battlefield we just vacated. If that’s so, we need to hightail it outta here pronto.

As I continued to stare at the ever-growing line of dust, bright flashes begin appearing along the leading edge. My first instinct is to dive into the tank and close the hatch. However, the nearby ground doesn’t erupt in explosions of earth and shrapnel. If they’re firing, it isn’t in my direction. Looking closer, I discover that it’s just glints of metal reflecting in the sunlight.

If it were just me, I could sit here on the edge of the battlefield and they’d more than likely pass by, thinking that I was just another casualty. But, if they’re a group coming to recover equipment, then I’d be found. Whether that’s a good thing or not could end up being a coin toss. However, that’s a moot point as there’s no hiding a big dopey red demon. And with him around, there’s no chance at a parley as he’ll likely roar before they get much closer and go charging into their midst.

The cloud grows larger, the glints brighter and more frequent. What I can finally see motoring under the dust storm isn’t a convoy of military vehicles, but a line of motorcycles. That many together can only mean one thing…whistlers. And a shit ton of them. And, with that many traveling in one group, I can only assume they’re heading either toward or away from something very important. But, that’s something for future consideration. I have to first make it through what’s coming. At nearly the same time as I sight the bikes, they must have spotted Kalandar as they alter their course to head directly toward us.

Sliding below, I crank up the engine and clamber back to the commander’s seat to turn on the console monitors there. A middle screen comes alive, a magnified view of the desert appearing. Enhancing the magnification verifies that the incoming force are most definitely whistlers. Backing off the magnification, I bring the weapon systems online. I should have practiced a little with this thing to determine range, drop, and all of the other factors that go into making a shot connect. I don’t even know how fast the quad-barrels fire, but I’m about to find out.

The whistlers close in, the wings on both sides splitting off in flanking maneuvers. Focused as I am, and with the whine of the turbine running, I only faintly hear Kalandar roar. Poking my head above the cupola, I see him tearing off toward one of the flanking wings. Hopefully that will keep them occupied and he doesn’t go down from hundreds of staples. I’m not too concerned about being hit in my little compartment. I am worried about the numbers and being overwhelmed. If they get too close, then they can clamber on board and shoot a mass of staples into me. I’ll have to keep an eye on the flankers that are making a wide circle.

The range on the screen reduces. Having never done this before, I’m not sure what range I should actually be looking for. I know the ones in the military back home were effective out to long distances, but I noted the vehicles were quite close in the battle we just passed, so I’m not sure what to make of that.

The bikes and their riders are clearly defined in the magnified view. I figure that’s close enough. With the joystick, I move the center reticle to the ground in the midst of the bikes and press the trigger. The tank shakes as the barrels begin spitting out rounds. I say spitting because that’s what it sounds like. I can’t describe it any other way.

Toh, Toh, Toh, Toh.

The shots are neither fast nor slow, but fire in a steady stream. On the screen, small fireballs race outward one after the other, seeming to slow down as they get further away. Then, they start landing in the midst of the oncoming whistlers. Explosion after explosion rocks the desert floor, lifting dirt and smoke into the air. Bikes tumble to the ground, adding to the sudden eruption of dust.

I move the joystick, sending rounds along a line. The leading bikes of the center group vanish under a barrage of smoke and dust. I know a volume of shrapnel is hidden within the erupting clouds, tearing into whistler flesh. If they have the capability to scream, the air must be filled with their cries. As it stands from my vantage point, I’m just playing a video game.

I stop firing, rotating the turret toward the flanking group opposite to where Kalandar set off. Bringing them under fire, bikes go spinning into the air. Others spill over at high speed, tumbling madly across the desert floor. This group also vanishes under a cloud of smoke and fire.

The interior, once smelling of grease, hot wires, and ground-in body odor, now carries the aroma of gunpowder. The spent shells are ejected thought ports on the side, coming to rest on the ground or rolling across the chassis. I bring the turret back around to the original group, hoping that Kalandar is keeping the others busy and at a distance.

Bikes are rolling through the dissipating cloud of smoke, still intent on reaching us. I’m not sure why retrieving beings and sending them to the planet would create this kind of dedication. They’re being slaughtered, yet on they come. They’re persistent; I’ll give them that. I start firing again, sending round after round into their midst. Again, they vanish behind a wall of smoke.

I flip on FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) and the scene clarifies. Objects lie haphazardly all over the ground, bikes and bodies intermixed. Yet more are motoring through, maneuvering around the wrecks. The odd aspect is that the whistlers don’t have a thermal signature, but rather a lack of one. They’re just a darker shape amid the heat of the day. I wonder now if they aren’t some sort of undead creature. That makes sense with the pale flesh about their heads and the lack of heat from their body fluids. Storing that knowledge in the back of my mind, I send another volley into those still coming, hoping to slow them enough to get to the other groups.

Back at the flanking group, I send round after round into their midst. Explosions tumble rider and bike, some cartwheeling through the air. The devastation is immense, ragged holes appearing in their once neat line of attacking bikes. Thermal imaging shows small fires around some of the downed Harleys, their fuel burning. Other small lumps are bodies, either lying still or slow-crawling across the ground. Yet still, those behind push forward.

The two groups, although thinned quite a bit, are slowly closing the distance as I have to keep shifting between the two. In the back of my mind is the third group, and it won’t be long until I have to check on the situation there. I just can’t spare the time right now.

Back to the center group, I send a number of whistlers to the desert floor. They’re more scattered now, so I have to send bursts of fire toward the flankers. That takes time, but I have it in mind to finish off this group first in order that I can focus on the two remaining ones. I look back on the encounters I’ve had on this whole time-journeying thing, and what I wouldn’t have done to have this little toy on hand. It would have made things so much easier.

Suddenly, those remaining in the center group veer off and start riding away, heading back along their previous route. I watch for a second or two more to make sure they’re actually leaving. They grow smaller as they head around behind one of the flanking groups. I guess they’ve finally had enough as they don’t join the flankers. Turning back to the second group, I start laying devastating fire into their midst. I can’t have many more rounds, and I can’t figure out where the count would be displayed, but I can’t afford to let up now.

After a bit, this second group also turns to ride away. Perhaps seeing their comrades take off put the idea in their minds that it’s okay to retreat. In all honesty, I’ve never really seen whistler give up once they join battle, and it usually goes down to the last one. At least, I don’t remember them fleeing. But my memory isn’t what it used to be, especially in this place. Or, Atlantis either, for that matter. Dimension traveling can do that to a person, I guess.

Tracking around to the third group, I see the big demon standing encircled by the entire flanking party. They’re riding a circle around him like he’s a covered wagon. If it weren’t for the thermal imaging, all I’d see would be a cloud of dust. Kalandar looks like he’s having trouble seeing as well, reaching out blindly to smash his fist into the ground. He’s not wholly ineffective as he sends several whistlers tumbling with each blow. However, I can imagine the whistlers sending hundreds, if not thousands, of staples into the demon. If the toxin affects him, I don’t see this ending well.

Taking aim, I start planting shells into their midst. Explosions send bikes and whistlers spinning, disrupting their pretty circle. I continue walking shells back and forth, wreaking devastation. With the whistlers riding the way they are, they basically cycle right into the path of the exploding shells. Massed like they are, it doesn’t take long until their numbers are drastically reduced. It’s not long until they also turn tail and make haste.

I cease fire, watching as the three, diminished groups rejoin in the distance and resume their journey. I don’t know if they’ll be back, perhaps bringing reinforcements with which to resume their attack. I doubt I’ve seen the last of these whistlers. I turn my attention to Kalandar, who is stumbling back in my direction. I raise up in the cupola as he returns.

“Thank you, but I had them right where I wanted them,” he says.

He then promptly falls to the ground with a horrific thump.

6

Jack Walker — Chapter Three

Leaving the tank running, I hop down. Kalandar is covered head to toe in staples. Well, I supposed covered is a bit of a misnomer, but it does look like he’s wearing a weird kind of chainmail. Finding a pair of pliers on board, I set to work removing the staples from the demon. I’m only able to work on half his body as he fell face first. Those in front he’ll have to get himself—if he lives.

Slow, deep breaths push a cloud of dust along with each exhalation, so I know that he’s breathing. Climbing onto the demon’s back, it’s difficult to maintain balance at times due to the heavy rise and fall of this chest. I’m thankful that he fell face first, as that means I won’t have to pry any staples from his, well, you know. Looking down the length of his body, I sigh. The butt area will be bad enough. Maybe I’ll just do his back and legs.

I spend most of the day removing staples, keeping an eye out for returning whistlers. The day is quiet, filled only with my exertions and Kalandar’s deep breathing. As the sun heads into late afternoon, having removed as many as I can, I set out on a search for another tank, the same type as I have. I’d like to replenish ammo and fuel if I can.

I prowl the length and breadth of the battlefield, running across a few. Some are completely destroyed and are of no use. But, from a couple, I’m able to salvage some ammo and fuel, enough that I’m able to fill both the tanks and ammo compartment. Hopefully I won’t need the amount of ammo I expended during the day, but with dusk approaching, there are night runners to think about. And with Kalandar off in dreamland, I’ll need to be close to fend them off. If he weren’t here, I’d just button up and let them do whatever. But, admittedly, the demon has helped me on numerous occasions, even if the betrayal—which wasn’t a betrayal—still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. With that in mind, I drive back to where he’s sleeping it off and settle in.

No sooner does the last vestige of daylight vanish than the glowing silver portals start winking into existence, depositing night runners onto the desert plain. Standing outside the top hatch, I see the flashes coming from all around. Deep snores rise from the dark shape several yards away.

I’m not sure what real danger Kalandar is in. I can’t see the night runners penetrating his thick hide, even with the numerous staple wounds. But wouldn’t that be a thing; him turning into a night runner. I’m pretty sure that would just end the universe. Or universes, as it were. All matter would just suck into him like a super massive black hole, everything ending with a mighty plop. It started with a big bang and ended with a single demon plop. Given what I’ve witnessed, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Slipping back inside the tank, I close the hatch with a clang, blocking out the shrieks that have just started filling the nighttime air. Everything inside is bathed in a green glow from the control panel, the main screen showing thermal images running my way. Centering the reticle into the midst of the encroaching night runners, I press the trigger and start slowly rotating the turret.

Explosions erupt, the flash of the bursts strobing in the night. On screen, bodies are picked up and thrown, severed limbs twisting and flipping through the air. Other figures are unceremoniously cut down, falling over from amputated legs. It’s a slaughter that I’m thankfully not witnessing directly. Having this layer between me and the destruction helps keep my dinner where it belongs.

Making a complete circle, careful to avoid the sleeping giant, I search for more targets. I only spot a few more distant thermal shapes, as the remaining night runners apparently don’t want any more of the carnage. It was a quick engagement. It would be a different story in an urban environment, but here in the open and with the firepower I have, they didn’t stand a chance. I think I’ll just always carry one these around with me.

I keep watch for a couple more hours to ensure the hunters don’t return. In the morning, I’ll head in the direction that the whistlers took, toward the distant mountains. I figure they were coming or going and I have a fifty percent chance of choosing correctly. That may seem like even odds, but it’s not really. Whenever I have two choices, it seems I inevitably select the wrong one.

With nothing moving, I turn in for the night. Hopefully tomorrow will see me closer to the end of this whole endeavor. As I try to find some comfort, I wonder how Mike is getting along.

Sunlight flares across the desert floor, bringing heat and light. Outside, night runner bodies are blackening from the ultraviolet rays. Bodies and limbs lie in a jumble, spilled blood stains the sand a darker color. I flip open the hatch, a witty joke about oversleeping on my lips. I look to where Kalandar was only to discover that he’s not there.

Thinking I became turned around somehow, I quickly scan the area to confirm that I’m alone with the dead night runners. I manage to find the depression where the big demon fell, but he’s just gone. Taking out my binoculars, I search the vast plain without finding any sign of him. Hopping out of the vehicle, I look for tracks leading away, but am unable to locate any. It’s like he just vanished into thin air, which isn’t terribly surprising, considering this place.

It looks like I’ll be moving ahead on my own. That’s not anything new, and it may be advantageous. After all, it’s difficult to hide a towering red giant. Of course, it’s also not easy to hide an armored vehicle. At least I won’t be spotted from miles and miles away. Heading back into the battlefield, I replenish what I can of the ammo, fuel, and other supplies.

Heading out, it isn’t long until I pick up the tracks of the fleeing whistlers. They’re easy to follow, as they head off in a straight line. I wonder how the whistlers keep their bikes refueled. I’ve yet to see one abandoned, either from lack of fuel or maintenance. It must be from the same magic that allows them to find thousands of the machines on any planet they visit. I don’t remember seeing them on their planet, so maybe it’s a function of transiting a portal. It would be nice to have an eternally running vehicle that never broke.

I have the extra carbine and sniper rifle I found on the battlefield secured. It would be a shame to have to abandon this vehicle and be left again without something to hand Mike when we meet up again. I just need to find a portal and hope that I mutter the right spells to get back to him. He wasn’t in the greatest shape when I last saw him, and I still feel guilty about having to leave him. But I also know that he has extricated himself from more than one dire situation.

I keep my speed down so I don’t advertise my position. Anyone in the hills with any decent set of binoculars will be able to see me, though. I just don’t want to blunder into a trap, although, motorcycles and staple guns will have a difficult time taking down an armored vehicle. I can only hope that they left the railgun and hover cars back at home.

The terrain slowly begins to change, the sand becoming more rocky soil. The ridge lines to my left and right remain the same, but the mountain chain ahead grows larger as I approach it. I don’t see where the different chains come together, but there’s definitely a valley being formed in the middle of the steep slopes. And yet, the whistler tracks continue straight ahead.

Messing with the systems, I manage to find out how to transfer driver control to the commander’s station. This vehicle isn’t meant to be soloed, but it can be done. It’ll be difficult maneuvering the tank while also fighting—working the turret and guns. Keeping everything aligned ought to be fun. I practice with it, and it isn’t difficult maintaining a course while just driving, but it gets interesting when I throw in moving the turret while also turning the vehicle. It’s like watching a drunk test with someone who is clearly suffering from alcohol poisoning.

However, it gets better as I practice. There are times when I have to straighten everything out and start again, but I slowly get the hang of it. The day makes its way toward evening without sighting any whistlers. The mountains ahead are definitely larger, and I should reach them within a couple of hours at the slow speed I’m traveling. I don’t want to run into a welcoming committee just yet. With night coming on, I turn off the path and set out for the ridges to my left. I’ll find somewhere to hole up there, keeping the tank and myself out of sight.

An hour later, I back into a small canyon and park. From this position, I’ll be able to keep an eye on the rocky plain while staying hidden. The brown of the sandstone blends well with the camo pattern of the tank. Shadows from the tall canyon walls cover the vehicle. The atmosphere outside turns an orangish-brown as the sun nears the horizon.

I’m not overly worried about night runners, as I can just seal myself inside. The only problem that could arise is if someone noticed the flurry of pale bodies heading toward me or heard their incessant shrieking and investigates. But then, they’d find themselves battling the creatures of the night, so, I could have, in essence, my own security force protecting me. With that thought in mind, I shut down and grab a bite to eat. In the confines of the tank, I’m reminded that I could really use a shower. I rinse daily, but that only goes so far.

As night falls, the night runners do indeed return, clambering all over the tank and searching for a way in. Their shrieks are constant and irritating to say the least, but the security of being in the armored vehicle reminds me of the nights the kids and I spent in the 130. I’m truly ready for a vacation from these constant attacks. Eventually, toward dawn, the attacks break off and the night runners return to wherever they go. I’m not sure if they return to my world or find places to hole up here. I haven’t witnessed any of the portals when night is ending, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other means of transporting them out.

After washing up and taking care of morning business, I drive out of the canyon and back to following the trail. An hour later, I start picking up flashes of light. Something is glimmering in the sun. This isn’t the on/off glint of the bikes, but more of a rolling shimmer. The sun’s rays are reflecting off something large. Again, I turn off the trail to find a place in the nearby hills to hide and check out what’s ahead.

Securing a location, I exit the tank and clamber higher up the slopes. Other than the glimmer, I haven’t observed anything else. But, that’s likely to change once I get higher. I just hope that I’m not spotted in the meantime. To minimize that from happening, I keep to the ravines, which makes the going more difficult.

I eventually reach a plateau about three-quarters of the way up the ridge. Exhausted and thirsty, I climb out and settle next to a large boulder. The heat radiates through my vest; sand trickles inside my shirt and irritates my skin. I ignore all that as I bring my binoculars to bear on the mountain chain at the end of the plain.

Focusing, it’s easy to see what was causing the shimmering. Near the base of the mountains lies a large field of solar panels. Off to the side of that is a series of dark buildings, all single level and spaced evenly apart from each other. Against a cliffside, a large tunnel opens up, leading deeper into the mountain. Surrounding the entire complex is a black wall that appears to be about twenty feet tall. It’s nothing overly grand, but the smooth sides look like they’d be hard to scale.

Only one sizable gate leads into the interior, and there are large, mounted weapons positioned on towers to either side. They look very similar to the railguns that were mounted on the vehicles we ran into on the whistler’s home world. If so, that doesn’t bode well for me. Those will be a priority if I decide to attack with the tank.

And that’s not all. Outside the gate are numerous whistlers milling in the midst of hundreds, if not thousands, of motorcycles. More ominous, parked near the gate are four hovercraft. Two are of the smaller variety that captured us, and the other two are like those that carried railguns. So, that’s four of those deadly weapons that I’ll have to deal with.

I glass the slopes leading down to the compound. They built their fortifications well. No matter how hard I try to find a way in through the back door, I don’t see a way to do it. And that’s frustrating, to say the least, because that’s the environment that I’m better suited for.

There’s no doubt in my mind that this facility houses the very thing I’m looking for. Although not the same, it’s not much different from the complex Mike and I found on Atlantis. Deep within will be a portal, powered by the immense solar field. I’ll have to make sure that doesn’t get damaged in the coming fray.

I remain in my position for several hours, getting a feel for the routine of the base. There can’t be any doubt that the whistlers that escaped reported the fight, but they don’t seem overly alert. Well, other that placing vehicles with railguns near the front gate. I’ll watch them for tonight and much of the next day before making plans to get inside. Hopefully something in their patterns will reveal an easier way in.

I spend the next two days monitoring the enclave. Some whistlers come and go, but there’s little change from my initial observations. There aren’t even changes of the guard with those stationed outside, and few enter or leave the tunnel. I wonder how many others I might have to deal with inside the complex. If I opt for the straight-in approach, it’ll be difficult enough without whistlers pouring out like ants from an anthill.

During the night, I went down to the tank and crept along the base of the ridge line I’m on. When the night runners appeared, they crawled all over the vehicle for the better part of an hour before taking off in the direction of the whistler camp. I can only assume they attacked the whistlers there as I heard the faint rumble of motorcycles and the railguns firing. I timed them as best as I could with the distance, estimating that each gun could fire two rounds quickly before having to take about thirty seconds to recharge. That’ll be helpful knowledge when engaging them. It’s important to take those beasts out in the first go.

I contemplate letting the night runners whittle them down for several nights, but with that comes the worry that the whistlers will eventually investigate the source of those attacks which will lead them to my location. I don’t want to be discovered until I’m ready. I pore over how I could distract the whistlers away from base so I can attack the diminished numbers, but I can’t think of a single way to do that. Anything along those lines will have to draw them a considerable distance and I just don’t have the capability to do that with what I have. Perhaps if they were on foot…but those bikes of theirs can cover a lot of distance.

I’ll spend the night nearer the camp in the tank, letting the night runners whittle them down a little more. Once dawn comes, I’ll come at them out of the sun. That should give me an advantage from those railguns, both mounted and mobile. Once those are out of the way, I’ll deal with the remaining whistlers. I should have enough ammo for that, as long as I can get them to group up. And that’s if more don’t come pouring out. If that happens, I’ll have to retreat and figure out something else.

Maybe I’ll have to drive back to the battlefield to see if I can scrounge up more ammo. The scant supplies I found was far and few between, so I may not be able to get a full load. That’s if it’s even still there. This world is changing so much, I can’t rely on what was. I’m just as likely to wander into a battle in progress.

Dawn spills over the horizon, coating the land in light. I had driven off at the false morning, making sure I was over the horizon from the facility and out of sight. With the sun behind me, I start forward, slow at first so I don’t draw attention to myself by creating a trail of dust. As I come within sight of the walls, I pick up speed, seeking to quickly close the distance.

The whine of the turbine engine picks up as I accelerate, the armored vehicle bouncing slightly over the uneven terrain. The large tires absorb much of the jostling and the weapon stabilization system allows me to keep the reticle centered on one of the railgun towers beside the gate. My plan is for a quick hit and run, hopefully disabling both towers before coming around for the mobile platforms.

I’m in range before the whistlers can fully deploy, but I do see them scurrying toward their bikes. When I was fighting before, I didn’t specify any targets and just free-shot. I now select the rightmost tower and see the screen indicate a lock. Or at least that’s what I hope it means. I shoot, sending balls of fire out across the intervening distance.

They track straight, seeming to slow down as they converge on the tower and mounted weapon. A bright bluish-silver flash emanates from the tower before my shells hit. I turn quickly to the side while ceasing fire. The vehicle responds well. It’s not like driving a Maserati, but it’s not like steering the Titanic either.

A monstrous thud intrudes through the thick walls and over the sound of the tank. The vehicle rocks violently on its wheels, to the point that I’m not sure any on the left side are touching the ground anymore. With a crash, the tank settles back to the ground and resumes speed. That railgun hit too close. If one were to hit dead on, it’d decimate the vehicle…or at least the part it slams into.

Focusing back on the screen, I see multiple flashes coming from the tower. My shells are arriving to slam into the structure, hopefully damaging the weapon enough that it can’t be used. Switching off the FLIR, the picture resolves to a series of flashes and balls of smoke coming from the multiple explosions. Unless that thing is well-armored, I don’t see how it can survive the beating it’s taking.

Switching back to thermals, there’s a distinct glow coming from the tower. But another flash indicates that the other tower is firing. I turn abruptly, the tank swerving on the rock and sand. The vehicle is again lifted as a high-speed projectile slams into the ground nearby. Once it settles again, I turn. The turret has fired again. This time the round hits on the other side after sailing over the back end.

Four hovercraft lift off, two smaller ones and two of the larger craft with the mounted railguns. I center the reticle on the left tower. Provided the right tower is truly out of operation, I have thirty seconds before the left tower fires again, but that doesn’t allow for the hovercraft. Once they get aloft, they’ll have four quick shots. I don’t have a choice, though. I’m only able to target one thing at a time, so I’ll have to avoid the upcoming shots as best I can.

I center the reticle and lock it on the left tower while swerving randomly. While the view changes from the turns, the auto-targeting system keeps the crosshair centered. I start firing; orange blobs head toward their intended target. To the side, multiple dust plumes start rising as the whistlers gain their bikes and start off in my direction. I’m not really sure what they think they can do, but they’re not my great concern at the moment.

Flashes come from the two hovercraft ahead. I turn, the tank again rocking up on one side. The hiss of sand and patter of rocks sounds against the side and top. Two more flashes appear. Letting off the trigger, I again yank the vehicle over, the six wheels sliding over the scree of the ground.

A wall of sand erupts in front the tank, and I can see nothing but brown on the screen. The vehicle plunges down like I drove off a cliff, jarring when it slams into the bottom of the newly dug crater. The nose lifts violently as it races up the other side, becoming light as it feels like it goes airborne. The armored vehicle then slams back to the ground and the screen clears as I drive through the rock and sand.

“I definitely can’t let one of those hit,” I mutter. My insides feel like jelly.

Looking on screen, the second tower is glowing, much like the first one. They both look out of commission. Now I have thirty seconds, hopefully, in which to maneuver and catch those other two. The wall has grown much larger with my having raced directly toward the encampment from the beginning. The two small hovercraft have drifted off the to the sides, but the two I’m more concerned with are hovering where they lifted off.

Driving straight toward them, I again center the reticle. Firing, I watch as blast after blast hits the craft. It looks a little off, as I notice the shells are hitting away from the ship, like they’re encountering some kind of barrier.

“Well, shit…that’s not good,” I mumble, releasing the trigger.

Hundreds of bikes start arriving and driving circles around my vehicle. I’m not sure if they’re trying to blind me by stirring up dust or drive me in a certain direction, thinking I won’t hit them or something. If that’s their belief, they’ll soon come to think differently.

One of the small craft swiftly darts to the side, crossing in front. I take a snapshot at the fast-moving ship, but many of my shells pass behind it. I increase the lead, several rounds finally find their target, and impact along the side. Pieces start flying off and a trail of smoke appears. The ship wobbles and flips over as it heads to the ground, impacting with a crunch. Pieces fly off in all directions as the craft cartwheels and comes to rest, a thick ball of black smoke rising.

The wall is looming large on my screen and I only have a few seconds before the railguns are ready to fire again. I fire a short burst at both hovercraft, hoping the flashes will blind them or at least throw off their aim. Once they start hitting, I turn sharply to parallel the wall. I see the two craft fire. The shots leave a blurry trail, almost as if they’re warping time and space. The two trails pass behind and out of sight, the tank still rocking from the not-so-near misses.

I again turn sharply; the vehicle leans over like a sailboat catching the wind. Something impacts close by and the air seems to compress. The jarring ring feels like my insides are slammed, my teeth clattering together. The tank is lifted into the air and then bangs back down, threatening to break my back. I have to do something about those two, somehow, or this fight is over.

As I turn back around toward the base, the two hovercraft fly off in different directions. My guess is that they’re going to maneuver so that when my attention is on one of them, the other can fire from a flanking position. I can’t afford to have them both firing at me. The only hope that I can see right now is to get close to one of them so they can’t fire. I’m betting, with their size, that they can’t maneuver well. Also, being closer, I can hopefully have better luck penetrating those damn shields.

The engine whines louder as I accelerate, turning toward one of the hovercraft in the hopes of intercepting it. Again, I’m still not sure of the intent of the whistlers on their motorcycles. I can’t see how they can hope to be effective. They divide and attempt to maneuver out of the way as I turn. A few aren’t able to, either hemmed in by their comrades or just unable to get clear. The tank bucks as the wheels roll over bikes and whistlers alike, the motorcycles giving off a squeal of tortured metal and the bodies mushing into ground.

Angling on an intercept course, I hook in behind the craft. I can tell that the dust stirred up by the bikers is affecting the targeting ability of the hovercraft as turns left and right, possibly searching for my whereabouts. Switching to the machine gun, I move the crosshair up. I have to back off a little. In my current position, I’m not able to raise the weapon high enough to fire at the ship overhead.

The intense rocking of the vehicle slows as I set a more straight-line course, allowing the whistlers to more easily get out of the way. Below the hovercraft are two blurred lines glowing blue. I’m not sure if the blurring is due to exhaust, heat, or just the nature of whatever powers the machine. Whatever it is, I believe I’ve found the propulsion system. Or if not that, then at least the exhaust. Now all that remains to be seen is whether that force field covers the bottom of the craft and whether it’s able to stop a more kinetically-fired shot.

Pressing the trigger, the tank vibrates as large caliber rounds streak upward, purple tracers marking the route. They slam into the underside of the whistler craft in a series of sparks. The heavy shells are either piercing the barrier, or it doesn’t exist underneath. However, it doesn’t appear that the rounds are doing much good other than to put on a light show.

Suddenly, the tank jars and the entire vehicle is significantly pushed to one side. I hadn’t paid enough attention to the other ship. Releasing the trigger, I turn sharply as the vehicle again rocks violently from another near miss. I’m then right back at the other craft, which is now dodging left and right. Because of its size, it can’t maneuver on a dime, so I’m able to maintain my position fairly well. I have thirty seconds before the other ship can fire—time that can disappear in a flash. I start lighting up the bottom of the first ship, sparks flying.

The hovercraft turns left and right in an attempt to get out of the line of fire and, I suppose, to try and bring me under its own guns. The ship stops abruptly, attempting to make me overshoot. I jam on the brakes, the front digging down. The ship overhead lurches forward and heads off to the right. I turn to follow, peppering the bottom once again.

Through the sparks, I see several small pieces fly off the craft, disappearing aft. More soon follow, and the hovercraft suddenly lurches and is engulfed in dark black smoke. It then starts a slow, spiraling descent to the left, and the speed of the fall increases. I imagine I can hear the twisting metal and increased whine as it falls. It hits the earth nose down and skids along the sand, pushing up more dust and scattering bikers. With its momentum slowed, the nose of the craft digs down and the entire vessel rises upward, ending with a slow-moving somersault. It then crashes onto its top, dark smoke rising in a tall pillar.

One down and one to—

I’m thrown forward as the tank noses sharply downward, my forehead slamming into the console. A severe clang rings through my head like I was stuck inside a church bell. An acrid smell fills the interior as I rock backward, knowing immediately that one of those railgun shots found its mark.

With my head still rattled, I’m relieved to see that the tank is still moving forward, although not nearly as smoothly as it was. I press the accelerator and the vehicle lurches ahead, slowly gaining speed. It’s not as responsive as it was; the frontend wobbling left and right as I move forward.

Shaking my head to clear it, I see daylight streaming in from holes to the left and right. Sparks are shooting from severed wires and light gray smoke drifts in the shafts of light. I turn sharply and accelerate as the tank rocks again from a near miss. Reaching up, I open the top hatch in order to let the smoke dissipate. I can’t afford to breathe in the poisonous air and become mentally compromised.

Cooler air sweeps the smoke upward and out of the hatch. The screen is still working, so I’m able to keep some situational awareness. However, from the sounds coming from the tank, it won’t be viable for much longer. I still have one large and one small hovercraft to deal with, not to mention the mass of whistlers still riding their bikes. That’s something I still don’t get, but I’ll have to watch them clambering on board with the top hatch open.

Locating the remaining large hovercraft, I turn directly toward it and press the accelerator. With a lurching motion, the tank comes around until the ship and I are facing each other. The other vessel is coming at me just as I’m speeding toward the first one. If I can get underneath this one like the other, I’ll have a chance. But I have to get there first, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to do that in under thirty seconds. That means it’ll have a chance to fire at least once.

Centering the reticle as best I can, I start hammering large caliber rounds at it. Purple tracers streak across the distance between us, slamming into the ship’s barrier in a series of sparks. They don’t penetrate the shield, but, if I can throw their aim off by showering them with sparks, that’s what I’m going to do. That’s really my only defense at this point. I just need to get underneath.

The ship grows larger in my field of view. I can feel each second vanish like some apocalyptic countdown. I’m not going to make it. I ready the tank for a quick turn, but with the way it’s responding, there will be nothing quick about it. I see a blue glow starting where the railgun is mounted, growing in intensity. If the ship fires and hits, the tank will be torn to shreds and, along with it, any hope I have of reaching Mike…or the longer dream of seeing my family again.

Purple tracers make a near solid stream as the two vessels race toward each other. The blue glow of the shot intensifies. I should break off, but this whole thing is about timing. I keep pouring rounds into the machine, hoping that I’ll know when to dodge in time. The glow is almost white, and it suddenly dawns on me why I can see that at all. I’m looking straight down the barrel of the railgun.

The weapon is about ready to fire, yet I continue straight on. I know that if I wait until my brain records the shot, it’ll be too late. I grit my teeth and continue on, feeling like I should be screaming madly. The whistler vessel suddenly lurches, much like the other one. It fires at the same time; the shot goes wide and wipes out a large group of bikers that were riding alongside.

The hovercraft is tilting and slowly turning above me, the rotating craft casting a momentary shadow. Slowing the damaged tank, I turn in order to bring the whistler craft into view. It’s still spinning a slow circle, almost like a ship that has a damaged rudder.

Thinking the barrier gone due to my rounds finally penetrating, I switch to the quad cannon and start delivering fire into the wounded craft. Pieces immediately start falling off the stricken vessel and smoke drifts aft. I continue as the hovercraft starts a steep descent, plowing into the ground in a screech of twisting and tortured metal.

All of the railgun turrets are down. That leaves the mass of the bikers and the one remaining hovercraft. So far, I haven’t seen a swarm of them coming out from the base, but my attention has also been focused elsewhere. There’s no telling how much longer the tank will be operational, but I’ll take as many out as I can. I guess if it gets worse, I can limp away to the mountains and try to make a go of it there. Although I don’t really see how I’ll be able to escape from the hundreds. It’s not like I’ll have a huge lead on them with which to escape. But if that happens, that means I’ll have to give up on getting into the complex, at least with this current attempt.

So, I have a decision to make. I can use what’s left of the tank to cut and run, using the cannon and the ammo remaining for the machine gun to keep the whistlers at bay. Or, I can chance it will function long enough to take out the remaining bikers and be able to get into the complex. Currently, I have the momentum and advantage. I’ll lose that if I leave now.

Going all in, I make the decision to stay. I’ll just have to keep moving so they can’t board. With their big guns down, who knows what the riders will do. I start firing into the largest group, the eruptions from the cannon rounds sending bikes caroming. Shrapnel tears into bodies, separating limbs and sending whistlers tumbling across the plain.

Turning in a large circle, I seek grouping after grouping, tearing large holes in their midst. The armored vehicle, the frontend wavering left and right, rolls up and over downed bikes. I can hear metallic pings and am a little amazed that the alien creatures are actually attempting to take down the tank with staples. Maybe they’re hoping that one or two might ricochet inside. Who knows?

Burst after burst explodes on the desert floor. Bodies and bikes lie everywhere, so thick that it’s impossible not to run over them, like, they’re now part of the ground. I catch sight of the remaining hovercraft over by the gate. Were I the whistlers, I would set the thing on the ground, as it’s nearly as useless as the bikes. It could be that they’re giving positional updates, but for what? The slaughter seems senseless, and if it weren’t for the treatment Mike and I had at their hands, I might even feel bad about it.

I lock onto the hovercraft and fire, watching the explosive rounds tear into it. With a larger explosion, the craft drops straight to the ground, slamming into it and sending a wave of dust outward.

The whistler numbers rapidly decline. Motorcycles lay amid a turmoil of dirt, plumes of smoke rising from several. Eventually, there’s nothing but the dead and dying. The noise of the battle falls, the only sound the tortured whine of the engine and clanking of the tank. The controls have grown progressively worse, and the acrid smoke begins filling the cabin. Before the vehicle fails completely, I send volley after volley into the gate, watching as one side twists and creates a gap. Then, with an outpouring of dense, acrid smoke, the tank finally dies.

I grab my gear, including the extra carbine and sniper rifle, and toss them overboard. Scrambling out of the hatch, I land on the desert floor behind the tank, making sure to keep it between me and the walls.

Seeing the battlefield in its entirety is a far different view from the small sections I could see through the screen. The soil is churned up, looking like a newly furrowed field, except a plowed field has order, whereas this has none. There’s a haze of dust in the air, lowering the visibility to the point that the sun is just an orangish-brown orb floating in the sky. Wrecked motorcycles are everywhere, either tangled together or laying separately. Most are covered with a layer of dust. Whistler bodies, much like the bikes, lie in clumps, making the terrain look like a series of hillocks—almost like it’s infested with huge moles. I assume the smaller hills are pieces of whistler bodies.

The quiet is almost complete, adding to the surreal nature. The silence right after a battle has always been strange. The noise and confusion of a firefight is incredible, and then comes that moment when the bullets stop flying—people hunkered down, searching for targets. That moment before the comms come alive with questions and commands. That may not be the case in larger unit engagements, but it’s been my experience with small team operations.

There’s the cooling of metal from nearby motorcycles and the odd noise from the tank as it goes through its death cycle. Brown smoke is rising through the open top hatch, adding to the overall poor visibility of the battlefield. Elsewhere, smaller plumes drift lazily upward, along with four dark, black smoke columns from the crashed hovercraft. Toward the leaning gate, two other pillars rise from the smashed railguns atop the towers.

Taking out my binoculars, I scan the area, searching for any whistlers still roaming around or only partially injured. The last thing I need now is to be winged by a stapler. Well, I suppose the very last thing would be for my nemesis demon to materialize. I shut that thought down quickly in case just thinking of him brings him into existence. Of course, immediately occurring is the weird desire to call out his name three times. What is wrong with the human mind that it functions in this manner? Or, I guess that could just be me. I suppose it’s a good thing that I can’t remember it, if I ever knew it.

There isn’t any movement nearby, nor is there any sign of live whistlers between me and the gate. Once I finish with the surveillance, making my way to the gate will be my next move. However, I’ll be visible to anyone atop the wall and vulnerable. For that reason, I carefully glass the towers, finding several whistlers standing on top. There are a couple more just outside of the canted door of the gate. I figured there had to be survivors, but I thought there would be more…a lot more. Normal odds would dictate it. Perhaps these alien creatures are more fragile that I thought.

The sniper barrel has a self-contained suppressor at the end with a removable shroud to replace the interior wadding. It shoots a similar round to a .300, but I’m not sure of what grain. The markings on the shells mean nothing to me. One of the things I didn’t like about it when I test-fired it shortly after locating it is the reticle. It’s a dot instead of a crosshair, which throws me off a little. And there are vertical and horizontal dots for bullet drop. I prefer my old mil-dot scheme, but beggars can’t be choosers. I wouldn’t know what the bullet drop is for the rounds anyway. I could have spent more time firing to figure that out, but I focused mostly on finding out at what range the thing was centered on.

The scope has a built-in rangefinder, but it’s not in yards or meters. Four hundred is where it’s centered, but that’s definitely not in yards. The shots are centered closer to three hundred yards, but that was only by a visual guesstimate. At any rate, I have some idea of the rifle’s capability, but not enough for extremely long-range shots.

Propping the rifle against the tank, I range the tower—624-whatever-distance-measurements. So, that would be a little over 450 yards. Gathering what knowledge I have of .300 caliber rounds and assuming earth-like conditions here, if I’m centered in at 300 yards and shooting out to 450 yards, that equates to around twenty-inch bullet drop. The wind is calm and the day has started heating up, which will keep bullets aloft longer. I’m going to give it a guess of eighteen inches. That’ll either work or it won’t. Luckily, the rifle is a semi-auto, so if I miss, I’ll just give it another wild-ass guess. I’m assuming if I don’t see the bullet hit the wall, then I overshot and will aim lower.

The mental gymnastics leaves me wearied. I sight in on one of the whistlers atop the wall and raise the reticle a foot and a half over the top of its head. That’s the only part showing, so it’s not that I have much of a choice between head and body shot. Seeing I’m going from ground level and shooting up approximately twenty-five feet, I add a couple of inches.

The whistler’s head looms large in my field of view, the scope having a pretty decent magnification. I have no idea of gender, so I’m just going to call this one Charlie. Charlie is gazing out over the battlefield, I’m sure looking for me. I’m using the tank as cover, aiming just to the side of the turret to keep me from becoming silhouetted.

Inhaling deeply, I start letting the breath out as I slowly squeeze down on the trigger. The reticle holds steady and the rifle abruptly kicks back against my shoulder. As I quickly recenter the scope, Charlie is looking up in the air, his head turning left and right. The shot itself could barely be heard past a couple of yards, so he must have heard the bullet whiz overhead. I’m assuming I shot too high, given that I didn’t see anything strike the wall. The round must be loaded hotter than I anticipated, or some other weird part of this world is affecting it, like the gravity is 99.99999999% that of my world.

I lower the reticle and fire again, this time watching Charlie’s head quiver as the round penetrates. I can almost see his beady little eyes cross and roll backward in his head before it slides below the level of the wall. Now having a good aimpoint, I slide over to the second one visible on that tower. Ralph is looking over at his friend, wondering why he decided to take a nap. I don’t have any time until Ralph figures things out and is gone from view. With another deep breath, I go through the routine and another bullet is soon speeding across the plain. The round slams into the side of Ralph’s head and he, too, drops out of sight.

Switching to the other tower, the whistler there is oblivious to what just occurred on the other side of the gate. This one is watching the field as well, its gaze focused in my direction. Maybe they didn’t see me emerge from the tank and are waiting, the ones at the bottom of the gate ready to come get me the moment I come out. They may have their bikes hidden inside. I’m hoping there isn’t a gaggle of them poised to appear. The picture in my mind is of a hundred whistlers, all sitting on their Harleys, just waiting for the signal.

I send the third one down and survey the complete top of the wall, searching for any additional watchers. Scanning all of the tall black wall that I’m able to see, I can’t find any sign that there are others. I focus back to the gate to find that the whistlers that were there are no longer in view. They might have heard the bodies falling twenty-five feet over their heads and ducked back inside. That means I’ll have them to take care of once I reach the interior.

Breaking down the spare carbine, I stash it in my pack. It isn’t really a good fit, but it’s the best I can do. I only have a few more meals and a little water remaining, so I’ll have to start thinking about that before heading back. There’s also the helmet and mask I brought back from the whistler planet. I’ll have to modify the mask prior to heading back in order to breathe, especially if I have to exert myself.

With another quick scan, I move away from the tank. The front of the vehicle is in shambles. The railgun’s kinetic shot rammed through the front tire and through the chassis. I’m glad I wasn’t sitting at the gunner or driver seat or I’d be a grease spot somewhere out there in the desert.

Exchanging my carbine for the sniper, I dash away from the smoldering wreck, maneuvering through wrecked bikes, bodies, and parts of bodies. Keeping one eye on the wall and the other out for injured whistlers, I make straight for the wall. I want to minimize my exposure in the open. Considering that a great number of their kind were obliterated in a battle that had to be heard for miles around, I’m surprised there aren’t reinforcements coming out of the gate. Maybe they had their entire force out, but I have a difficult time thinking there aren’t any in the tunnel. Perhaps I’ll round the corner at the gate and run into a massed army.

Breathing rapidly from my run to the wall, I arrive within its shadow. Not literally, as the sun is still rising on my side of it. The dust is slowly settling even more, the visibility improving and the sun shining with greater intensity. The orangish hue that was prevalent is now turning more yellowish. I start along the base of the wall, keeping watch on the gate for the reemergence of the whistlers. None of them show themselves by the time I reach within a few feet of the entrance.

One of the large gates is canted from where I rained shells into it, creating gaps. Crouching at the corner, I look around it with a signal mirror. I can’t see much of the interior due to the thickness of the walls. However, instead of multitudes of waiting whistlers, what I can see of the interior courtyard is empty. That means either the whistlers are off to the side, they climbed up to where their other comrades fell, or they fled deeper inside the complex. My biggest concern is that they’re waiting in an ambush, knowing that my goal is to enter the facility. And the only way to do that is to come through the gate.

My line of sight widens as I creep forward, although it’s only to one side, as I’m hugging the wall. I post up at the next corner. Having a pretty good view of the far side, I don’t see any of the creatures waiting to attack. Holding my mirror to search further, it’s nearly knocked out of my hand by a barrage of staples that smack into the dense, black stone. They ping with tiny sparks and ricochet across the gate. I’ve found my missing whistlers.

Crouched, I contemplate my situation. It’s pretty obvious that they’re locked onto the opening, and if I venture anywhere around the corner, I can expect to be peppered with staples before I’m able to get off a shot. Shucking off my pack, I figure I have two choices. I can wear it backwards and let it absorb staples heading toward my torso which would leave my legs and head open. It will also make moving and shooting a bit awkward. My second option is to toss it inside. The whistlers may fire at any movement and then pause for a second as they try to figure out what is transpiring. I can use that moment of confusion to get in, locate my targets, and take them down.

The second plan sounds a lot better than entering a firefight waddling around like a sumo wrestler. Given my situation, I can’t afford to be hit by even one staple. Sleeping it off around here seems like a pretty sure-fire way to end up a captive again. That’s a huge no thanks. I’ve checked off that box and have zero desire to experience it again. So, I’m going to have to Matrix my way through this upcoming fight.

I toss the backpack past the gate and hear several thumps as staples tear into the fabric. Others whiz past. I wait for a count of two, allowing for the whistlers to ponder what is happening and become confused. I round the corner, my barrel seeking its first target.

Three whistlers are lined up against the inner wall, their weapons only now tracking back from the thrown pack. With my carbine on full auto, I open up on the creatures. Bullets punch holes through the black leather jackets, powering through and into their bodies. The only indication that my rounds found flesh are the two whistlers in front slumping to the ground.

I feel a grazing blow along the right side of my head and hear the zip of a near miss. The third whistler positioned behind the other two sends another shot at the same time as I fire at him. There’s a tug on my sleeve from his staple, thankfully missing. He collapses, bouncing off the wall like a Weeble. Unlike the toy, this one does fall down. I send quick bursts into each of them, making sure they won’t get off a parting shot.

Reloading while on the move, I’m searching the rest of the area for any sign of others. Scanning the buildings and tops of the inner wall, I don’t see any. I’m still amazed that others haven’t shown up, but I’ll take the boon I’m being given, as those seem very far and few between.

I return to my pack and begin plucking out the oversized staples. There’s a trickle of blood sliding down the side of my face and I’m hoping none of the toxin entered my bloodstream. For that reason, I let it bleed freely and will maybe wrap it later when I get a chance. Right now, I want to move quickly in order to get inside the tunnel before someone figures out that the residents are no longer among the living. If whistlers are even that to begin with. I’m beginning to have my doubts.

I move among the scattered structures within the vast courtyard. They look an awful lot like the waypoint cube, black and angular with silver tubes running throughout. I wonder if the buildings might house the mechanisms to create portals. Maybe each structure makes one to a different world. Try as I might, I can’t find an entrance to any of the buildings. There aren’t the handprint key locks or any door that I can determine.

Working my way toward the tunnel entrance, I round one corner of a building and freeze. Ahead, parked in the middle of nowhere, really, is one of those sedans driven by the overseers. The narrow, tinted windows look ominous, as do the vehicle lines that just don’t seem to match the way they should. The backend is open, as if the angels exited and left the doors open. I’m not sure what this means. Are the overseers in collusion with the whistlers? Is this an offshoot group working behind the backs of the others? All that I know is that if there are overseers here, my goal of getting to a portal just became immensely more difficult.

It’s then that I notice long, thin shapes on the ground near the back of the vehicle. They appear to be overseers, and dead ones at that. Cautiously, I move closer and am able to get a better view. The corpses are emaciated and look like they’re been lying there for a long while. Additionally, each one has several embedded staples. Honestly, that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense. They surely can’t have been put down by such a basic weapon. Even my bullets can’t penetrate the skin of the angels. How can the staples?

But the proof is lying just a few yards away. Unless the overseers died by some other means that I can’t determine, it certainly appears that the whistler staple guns are effective against the angels. Come to think of it, they were able to take down Kalandar…twice. So maybe those staples and toxin are viable against the higher orders of beings. I guess that’s what makes the whistlers dangerous, at least to the overseers and demons. I was wondering just how the demons were hit so hard when they were enforcers, and now I guess I know. The whistlers are numerous with weapons that can eventually take down even the strongest of creatures.

With that in mind, I race back to the three dead whistlers, removing their weapons and placing them in my pack. If I can’t hit them in the mouth with my carbine, then I guess I can nail them with the staplers. Of course, who knows how fast the toxin takes to be effective with the overseers…I know it took a shit ton of them and a lot of time for Kalandar to go down, but he eventually did.

As I move past the odd vehicle and overseer corpses, I wonder how many whistlers were lost during the fight. With the dead bodies near the vehicle, it doesn’t appear that the fight lasted that long. Maybe the overseers were overconfident and charged into the midst of the encampment, only to find they weren’t invincible. I have to admit that seeing them taken down in that manner gives me some relief. Not much, but a little.

At the side of the large tunnel, I peer inside. Looking from the light into the darker interior, it’s difficult to see very far. But I don’t hear anything, only the continued quiet that is pervading the courtyard. Other than hug the wall, there’s really not much I can do to minimize myself at this point. I step inside, half wondering how the whistlers keep this place from resetting when the rest of the planet is swept by those walls of white. Maybe that’s what the outer buildings are used for. They have to be doing something because I can’t imagine being continually reset is very conducive to keeping a portal open.

I venture further into the tunnel, leaving the radiant light of the day behind. The temperature cools, but not enough that it provides very much relief. Two strings of lights running along the sides provide a dim illumination. Tire tracks, both narrow and wide, mar the sandy floor of the tunnel. During the time watching the complex, I never saw any indication that materials were being transported either in or out. I had thought the whistlers were taking over the planets in order to mine them for resources. Maybe they don’t appear to do that on the surface, but instead dig down and take it out through underground portals. I certainly haven’t seen any of the creatures drive anything other than their hovercraft and motorcycles. If they were taking apart a world, I think there would be long lines of trucks and trains leading to a portal. The hows and whys aren’t overly important right now, but might become so if we want to start pushing them back to their home worlds.

The tunnel proceeds straight for a couple hundred yards before making a gentle turn. I creep along the inner wall, searching every inch of the passageway as it’s revealed. So far, there hasn’t been a whisper of anyone moving along its length. That doesn’t last long, though, as there’s a faint whine that comes from ahead, growing louder.

There isn’t much cover, and by not much, I mean none. I crouch low, my M-4 aimed ahead. The whine quickly escalates until a golf cart comes into view. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that certainly isn’t it. Riding in the front seat are two whistlers, which makes this shit even more weird. Their gangly limbs crammed into a golf cart makes it look like two spiders awkwardly stuffed into a matchbox.

I see the moment the two of them notice me crouched in the dim lighting. Their beady eyes go wider, if that were even possible. Without hesitation, I open fire on the driver. The plexiglass shatters as rounds smash through, dark liquid splashing on the windshield. The cart, moving slowly, veers off to the side. I shift my aim and take the second one under fire, and more of the plastic splinters. Dark liquid coats the remaining plastic, streaming down to drip over the holes and gather on the floor. The cart bumps into the outer wall, the electric motor still running but under obvious strain.

Making sure the two are dead, I dash over to turn off the cart. I don’t want it to make any further noise and draw someone’s attention. The interior is a mess, blood coating everything and the whistlers sprawled like a bundle of kindling. The stench of their blood is horrendous and I’m hesitant to stick my hand into their goo. Instead, I go to the back and find the battery cables, pulling them free. The cart dies, just as its occupants did.

I quickly move back to the wall and continue. I now have proof that the place hasn’t been abandoned. I can only hope that there aren’t too many. I’ve been away from the whistler world for some time now and have no idea how Mike is faring. I know he can take care of himself, but I feel bad for leaving him. I’m close to rectifying that and eager to get on with it. I don’t know what we’ll do when we meet again, but we’ll figure something out.

More noise from ahead—this time clicks and clacks. I’m not sure if it’s a language being spoken, but I suppose it could be. There’s kind of a thrumming mixed in with it that I can’t place. It’s almost a grinding, like a millstone turning wheat into flour. Slowly moving forward, I come across two more whistlers, each one rolling a barrel. Two rapid bursts and they’re lying beside their burdens, dark liquid running into the low spots.

I don’t run into anyone else as I move deeper into the tunnel. I must have moved a mile under the mountains when I start picking up a hissing and crackling; sounds like static or a downed electrical line arcing back and forth. I would say the portal I’ve been searching for lies just up ahead.

Approximately two hundred yards away, the passage bends. The walls are bathed in a flickering bluish light. I slow even more, wondering just how well-guarded a portal like this will be. The entrance to the complex had hundreds of whistlers with four railguns at their disposal. I can’t imagine what might be guarding the actual portal. Maybe war rabbits? Auto-turret guns mounted to cover every angle? I should have searched the bodies for some kind of device denoting a friendly so I don’t get targeted on sight.

Reaching a point where I can see around the corner, sure enough, there’s a portal that occupies the center of the tunnel. There’s a ramp leading up to it with machinery positioned everywhere. Thick cables lead from the equipment to a metal frame surrounding a silvery portal that looks like the static screen of a channel that’s off the air. Small arcs of electricity dance away from the frame, a constant stream of lightning that surrounds the entire apparatus.

Whistlers galore mill about the floor, both in front of the portal and along the sides. They’re mostly focused on various pieces of equipment. I definitely don’t want to start a firefight in this chamber. The chance of hitting something vital seems too great. One miss and ricochet and all of this, the journey back here to find a home portal, would be moot.

I eyeball the chamber, planning a route through the maze of machinery. I’m thinking I might be able to just run past and enter. If I’m fast enough, I should be able to get through before the creatures can draw their weapons. I’ll at least have surprise on my side. I just might be able to jump through before they even know I’m in their midst. I hope there isn’t some sort of acclimation process or special suit I need to wear in order to make it through the portal alive. So far, I haven’t encountered any where that has been necessary, including the whistler portal on Atlantis.

“Okay, you can do this,” I mutter, staring into the chamber.

The run itself is only about seventy-five yards. That doesn’t seem so far—and wouldn’t be—if I were a world class sprinter. But, I’m a middle-aged man who has no business being on a race track. The advancements from the night runner blood made me a bit faster, but that’s akin to jumping from a Ford Pinto into a Toyota Corolla, neither of which is a Ferrari.

Cutting a couple pieces of cloth from my shirt, I stick them in my ears. I remember the high-pitched whistling of the creatures, loud enough to be near debilitating. Tightening my pack, I take a deep breath, readying myself for the madness about to commence. I rise and I start sprinting, my footfalls thudding in the wide tunnel. I keep my eyes on the portal, willing myself faster.

In my periphery, I see whistler heads turn. As they pass from sight, I note them going for their weapons. Passing by machinery and leaping over thick cables running the length and width of the floor, I race for all I’m worth. The ramp is just ahead when I hear the few zips of staples passing very close. All I have to do is make it several more steps.

I stumble as a keening penetrates into my head, piercing like an ice pick. I clasp my head with my free hand, feeling like I need it there so my skull doesn’t explode. I squint my eyes, forcing them to stay open wide enough to see the portal. My vision is white both inside and out, the pain in my head nearly forcing everything else away. Not that there’s much in there in the first place. I focus on one thing—moving toward the portal.

I keep my legs pumping. I know I’m not sprinting anymore, but as long as I’m moving, I have a chance. Something heavy slams into my back, pushing me forward. I also feel tugs at my clothing, but with the intense blinding agony going on in my brain, the reason for it is not really registering.

I hear a sizzling and wonder who is frying bacon. I’m confused as to why I can’t smell it. Through my partially open eyes, there’s nothing but white. I know I’m climbing a hill. At least it feels like I am. Is the tunnel now ascending? I don’t remember it being anything other than flat.

The crackling and hissing are increasing. With the intensity of the light in front of my face, I should be feeling the heat of it. But there’s nothing like that. Instead, I feel the light itself. I’m not sure if I can describe what that feels like, but it’s like I can sense the photons as they hit my body. The screeching in my head feels like it’s going to tear me apart, the vibration in my skull threatens to turn it into shards.

Several things crash hard into me, most of them hitting my back. One hits the back of my leg, the sharp pain intruding momentarily through that in my head. I go to my knees and fall forward.

The high-pitched whistling in my head vanishes in an instant, leaving an afterglow of the pain. I gasp several times as relief comes flooding in and I almost pass out. However, the reality of all that I was doing comes back in a single moment. Turning back around, I see the shimmering white of a portal with my legs only partially through. I try to push up to my feet, but the pain in the back of my leg returns in a rush and I collapse.

Using my arms, I pull myself along an invisible floor. There are whistlers on the other side of the portal and I don’t want them grabbing my legs and pulling me clear. As it is, I half expect them to come surging through the shimmering essence. My feet clear the portal and I lie prone, breathing hard. The run and pain have left me exhausted. Looking at my leg, I see a staple embedded in the back of my thigh. I’ll take it out…once I catch my breath.

All around is a soundless white expanse. I’m not sure if I can only see a few feet or an infinite distance. With the all-white, it seems like it could be both. I feel like I’m rapidly moving, although I can’t sense the movement itself. There’s no breeze against my body, no feeling of inertia. It’s dizzying without the other sensations that should go along with the speed I sense.

An image suddenly starts flashing in my vision. It’s an image of a man spread eagle within a silver metallic ring. His arms are spread straight out and legs angled, the tips of the fingers and heels touching the inner part of the ring. A pulsing light circles the ring.

That image is suddenly replaced by the image of an ankh, much like the relic we found. The images start cycling between the two, the time between them growing shorter until they’re just flashing between each one. Suddenly, just as the strobing between them nearly becomes overwhelming, the image changes and I’m staring at the back of Trip’s head. Slowly, he turns to look over his shoulder, his expression confused. It then changes to startlement as his eyes meet mine. And then that image, too, is gone.

The sensation of speed grows greater. I’m surrounded by complete whiteness again. There’s nothing to gauge movement. It’s like I’m on a luge in the middle of a whiteout blizzard, without the cold and wind.

With an abruptness that’s dizzying, I’m suddenly standing on solid ground. Stretching away in all directions is an endless plain of reddish-brown dirt. The sky is a much deeper blue than on my world. A distant sun shines down on my shoulders, providing a measure of warmth. It’s nice to have normal sensations again, but my mind is still reeling from the sudden changes. This is like no other planet I’ve visited, and I wonder where in the hell I’ve been deposited.

I look down; Trip is kneeling on the dirt, his head turned over his shoulder and looking right at me as if he was expecting me. It looks an awful lot like the image of him I had inside the portal.

“Yack, you’re here,” Trip says.

“Never has there been spoken a more obvious truth,” I respond.

“Jack?” a deep baritone voice states.

I look over to see BT standing nearby. I nod and then am abruptly reminded that I have a staple in my calf as pain races up my leg. At the same time, the toxin hits and my mind reels dizzily. I sway, unable to remain on my feet.

“I think I’ll just lay down now,” I say, and the world goes blank midway through my fall.

7

Jack Walker — Chapter Four

Coming to, my mind is wrapped in a fog. The first thing I see is the side of Trip’s face. A warm glow bathes his face, and it looks like he’s staring off into a sunset. There’s an intensity of expression, as if he’s close to solving the conundrum of dark matter. However, hidden deep within is a profound sadness. Now, it could be a trick of the lighting, but I’ve never really observed Trip exhibit such deep emotions. He’s always just been high, oblivious, or passed out.

“Where in the hell am I?” I ask, feeling my stomach lurch as I sit up.

“They’ve destroyed it all, Yack,” Trip replies forlornly.

As I stabilize my reeling head in a sitting position, it doesn’t look like Trip has moved a muscle since I passed out. Reaching around behind my leg, the staple has been removed and the wound bandaged to a certain extent.

“Your doing?” I ask, turning to BT and pointing at the wound.

BT nods.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Ever since we arrived here,” BT answers.

“How long ago was that?”

BT shrugs. “Time works differently here, so it’s hard to tell. Three days? Four?”

“I have food and water in my pack if you’re hungry. Don’t you go and eat it all.”

The big man opens my pack and takes out one of the meals.

“Trip, who destroyed what?”

“This,” he answers with a wave of his hand to encompass the land. “It’s all gone.”

By his choking reply, I get the impression that we might be on his home world. I want to offer condolences, but what do you say to something like that? He’s just sitting staring at the relic he’s holding in his hands. The memory of the images flickering while I was in the portal surfaces. I can’t take my eyes off the ankh as it’s a picture-perfect representation of the one I saw in my mind. I then see the man positioned in the ring and how closely the two are shaped, the figure and the relic. The flickering images superimpose on one another and it dawns on me what I was seeing.

“Hey, Trip. What was your dealer’s name?” I inquire.

It takes a moment for the hippie to respond. He shakes his head and turns toward me. “What?”

“What was your dealer’s name?” I again ask.

“The man who sold me my Harley?”

“Huh…no, not that dealer. The one who sells you all your drugs,” I say.

“Oh, Frank,” Trip answers.

“And you said you guys traveled quite a bit together, right?”

At the mention of traveling, Trip’s eyes narrow. He nods.

“So, I think you’re holding him,” I state.

He drops the relic into the sandy soil and starts searching his pockets like he has to pay for dinner and forgot his wallet. I reach over and pluck the ankh.

“No, this,” I say, holding up the relic. “I think Frank was turned into this.”

Trip looks at me dubiously.

“Seriously,” I say, explaining what I saw during my transition here. “I think the overseers made him into this relic so they could attack and remove worlds from the path of light. Think about it. That’s something the travelers could do, and a power the overseers would need to rule over the universes.”

With a speed I’ve not seen before in the old man, he snags the relic from my hand and stares at it, his expression intense.

“So, with that, it seems it would make it easier to reattach the traveler world and maybe even locate where the creators went. If they are locked away, then you, with that relic, could open their prisons,” I say.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Mike?” Trip asks, waving the relic in my direction.

The red world with its distant sun vanishes.

I pop into existence. That’s about the best way to describe it. There was no portal transference or any sensation other than I was standing in one place one moment and in another the next. I’m getting rather tired of these abrupt transitions.

Hauling my carbine to my shoulder, I quickly check out my surroundings. I’m on a grass prairie with two suns shining down from a bleached-out sky. This looks very much like the whistler world I left, which is where I was trying to get to anyway. In the very far distance, I see several of those inverted pyramids. They seem tiny, so they’re miles and miles away, considering the true nature of their size.

I only remember seeing the one, so I wonder which one Mike is in. I’m not all that eager to venture back in there, but we need to start taking the whistlers down a notch somehow. Plus, the number one goal here is to help Mike escape.

As I’m staring across the distance, I suddenly feel the lack of oxygen. Sitting down, I cut away the long tubes of the mask and place it on my face. The fans turn, compressing the air and allowing me to breathe more easily. I test the mask to make sure I can take it off and replace it readily. With that, I set off across the prairie, watching the surrounding area for any sign of whistler patrols.

After walking a while, I’m about to crest a rise when I hear a faint whine. Going to ground, I crawl through the grass until I’m able to see what’s causing the noise. In the far distance, one of the large hovercraft is accompanied by a smaller version. Glassing them, I watch as they settle to the ground. Two whistlers emerge from each one to stand in a circle next to one of the craft. It looks like a road crew gathering at lunch.

Removing the sniper from my shoulder, I look through the scope and determine that the range is nearly that of the towers. The whistlers landed on another hill, nearly level with the one I’m lying on. So, the bullet drop should be an inch or two less than back at the portal complex. Taking aim at the one nearest with its back to me, I fire.

The bullet streaks over the valley to crash into the back of the whistler’s head. The creature drops straight down as if all of its knees suddenly didn’t exist. Quickly switching to the one now visible and facing me, I set my aimpoint and pull the trigger. The second whistler staggers backward, hitting the smaller hovercraft and slumping to the ground. The third and fourth alien look around, searching for their assailant as their hands raise their stapler weapons.

I fire. The third launches to the side as if attached to a bungie rope, slamming into one of the craft and dropping out of sight. The fourth starts running, staggering in mid-stride as my round hits it in the shoulder. I fire again. The whistler falls forward, tumbling through the grass before coming to rest. With four down, I keep my scope focused on the landing sight, waiting for any others to emerge or for a sign of movement from the ones I downed.

After twenty minutes of not seeing anything, I cautiously start for the craft, thinking of taking one or the other. Looking up, I notice several lights transitioning overhead, all heading to or from a central area that lies in the opposite direction from the pyramids. I wonder if they’re some kind of ship, satellite, or maybe even drones. I stop, looking toward the distant pyramids and back to the opposite point. I feel a pull toward where the lights are originating, but the last I saw of Mike, he was at one of the pyramids. I sure wish Trip had been a little more clear. I’ll contemplate the direction to take as I head toward the hovercraft. Hopefully, the right answer will leap out at me by the time I make it there.

8

Mike Journal Entry 4

If I thought the whistlers could live up to their namesake, they were nothing in comparison to the operatic aria this creator was singing. If it hadn’t been across the room, my eardrums would have surely burst from the assault. I did what I could, which wasn’t more than stand and cover up my broken wrist. So, basically, nothing. I was watching Bob and the creator go at it; I was much like the Japanese farmer trying to stay out of the way as Godzilla and Mothra duked it out. Bob had the element of surprise, as he was the first to strike, but right now, he was getting as good as he was giving. He had absorbed a small section of the creator and was holding on like a novice horse rider might on the saddle of a runaway. I didn’t know what Jell-O would smell like with a blow torch applied to it, until now. I didn’t like it.

The creator was continually whipping out with its tentacles, and where they struck, Bob’s flesh sizzled. I needed to help but was entirely unsure as to what to do. Getting myself killed didn’t seem like a well thought out plan. It might have been something Bob was doing, or possibly the fight they were in the midst of, but the creator’s charged glow seemed to be losing some of its luster. It made sense; I mean, if it was energy and he was expending energy in megawatts to fight for his life, it would fade until he replenished his fuel. The way Bob and the creator were whirling around the room, it looked more like a choreographed Russian dance than a death struggle. I knew what I had to do, I just had to get closer. It would do no good to inadvertently shoot Bob.

As far as the creator was concerned, I no longer existed, and I was fine with that. Letting my wrist go from its makeshift sling took a serious gut check; luckily, adrenaline was keeping the worst of the pain at bay. I was within striking distance of a tentacle if it looked my way. With teeth gritted, I raised my arm and fired and kept firing, moving deftly, as did the tangled duo. The first few dozen shots were harmlessly deflected, but the longer they fought, the more the glow lost its sheen and angry, red, purple welts begin to form where my staples landed. It was screaming, some of it rage, but most of it pain, and I seriously wanted some of what it was feeling to be fear. I hoped that it was absolutely fucking terrified it was about to die. I can’t say that was something I’d ever consciously wanted for an enemy of mine, but this one? Oh yeah. After all the destruction they were wreaking across the cosmos, he deserved to be afraid. The fear would be a minuscule fraction of what he’d been responsible for.

I kept shooting until the creator looked part metallic, like a cyborg in development; it wasn’t until long afterwards that it stopped moving and I took a look at Bob. Bob’s color had faded from a brilliant red to soft pink pastel. He looked like shit, as he finally let the creator’s side go. He didn’t collapse to the ground, that’s not how he’s built. He more puddled.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I repeated over and over. Even if I’d studied the fine arts of medicine, I wouldn’t know what to do for Bob. I did the only thing I could do and ordered up a smorgasbord. Wasn’t quite a platter of chalupas, burritos and cheeseburgers, but it would have to do. I kept bringing piles over to him, he didn’t even look, his eyes pulled way back into the goo of him.

“Bob, man, don’t do this. I brought food…ish and water.” I could not get him to react in any way. I did the only thing I could think to do and pretend the food was a solution of medicine and my hand and arm were a syringe. “Please don’t melt my flesh,” I mumbled as I began to push it through the more fibrous outer layer and into the squishy innards. Even through it all, I hoped I wasn’t giving my friend some sort of weird colon cleanse. I must have pushed fifteen pounds of stuff into him. So far, nothing, it sat there, fully preserved like a Jim joke on Dwight from The Office.

“Bob, if you can hear me, you have to try and eat something. I know you’re hurt, but this will help. An eye may have rolled a bit to gander at me, but just as likely the mechanism that controlled it had eased up and it had moved on its own. I absently ate, knowing my body needed a little help itself. Besides the broken wrist, I was a battered person—purple welts forming on a fair portion of my body.

“This is gonna suck.” I stood, and, with a feather touch, grabbed the fingertips on my left hand. Due to what I was, my wrist, if given proper time and fuel to accomplish the task would heal pretty quickly. If I helped it along, it would do so faster.

“I would become a driving instructor in China for a couple of oxys,” I said as I wrenched my wrist into a more natural position. My scream didn’t quite rival the creator’s, but it was a worthy stand-in. Sweat instantly broke out across my entire body. It was then I remembered I was nude, but as of yet, modesty hadn’t caught up, difficult to give a shit what others may think when you’re doing your best not to pass out. I was suffering through the worst of it, when I berated myself for not doing this in a safer manner, like in a laying-down position. Could have done more damage if I’d fallen.

With my wounded wing tucked tightly to my stomach, I ate and then I ate some more, until the pain moved to a burning sensation, then on to intense itching. Somewhere in that process, I’d passed out from exhaustion, kept dreaming about sticking my arm in a fire ant hill. Made sense on a bunch of different levels. I awoke what had to be hours later. My wrist was much better; I wouldn’t so much as shake the hand of a limper, but the bones were knitting together nicely.

A limper? Well, I’m sure we’ve all encountered that person. I’m not sure in what strange locale they grew up, but upon greeting, the person will present to you their dipped down fingers, and when you go to shake, they do not clasp your hand but rather let you do all the work and pump their arm like a jump rope. Now, this is me, call me Chauvinistic if you want, but it’s sort of okay when women do this, but when some burly-ass dude, limply offers you his fingers to shake, it’s just fucking strange and a little disgusting.

I checked on Bob; the mound of food I’d pushed into him looked smaller. It was slow, like the melting of an ice cube on a thirty-three-degree day, slow. If his hue had changed, it was imperceptible to my color sight palette. The one eye I had thought had moved previously was now fixed on me and followed me around the room like a strange Halloween picture decoration might. After I donned my clothes, I sat and talked to Bob for what seemed like hours; could have been days. I told him in detail everything I’d been doing since I got there. The torture, the beatings, the killing of my master and how I was now subsequently plugged into the creators’ mainframe. I answered for him when it seemed necessary that he should talk.

Fell asleep again at some point. When I awoke, I tentatively flexed my left hand; this was met with a modicum of pain, but on an even better note, all of the food I’d given Bob was gone, and his color had moved along to a muted brown-red, burnt sienna, if you will. My favorite color crayon growing up—and just because I was a Marine, didn’t mean I wanted to eat it. In any case, only the purple ones were decent with some Tabasco. I ordered up another plate. Bob, thankfully, grabbed my hand before I could plunge the food into him. I wouldn’t miss that sensation anytime soon. His movements were slow and tentative but he grabbed most of what I offered and ate. Not with enthusiasm, but he was doing all right. I hopped onto the information super-highway; they didn’t have a police blotter or anything along those lines, but I was looking for anything that might show two creators going missing. As of yet, nothing…that or I was looking in the wrong places.

It was two days and twenty pounds of food later that Bob began to take on his traditional Hershey’s Kiss shape, minus the curlycue on top. Of a quick note, it’s worth mentioning that the company faced a severe backlash when they attempted to downsize their product by ridding the customary coiffure. Funny the things people get hung up over. Right now, I would have punched an ugly baby for a bag of them. No, I’m not serious, might have to think about it for a second before discounting the notion entirely, though. The same people that were angry about the topless chocolates probably would be mad at my less than politically correct joke. Bob still looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fight with Iron Mike Tyson but he was recovering, and for that, I was thankful.

“Milk.” It was unbelievable to hear a friendly word directed my way.

“You’re thanking me? Holy shit, Bob; it’s the other way around, man.”

“Bob.”

“You’re sorry it took so long? You’re here now; that’s all that matters. A few dozen years of therapy and a pound or two of weed and I might be able to put this all behind me. But none of it is your fault.” But in a sense, it kind of was. Bob did lead us here. Even though I knew we had to be here, that the only way to stop this was from the inside. Still, I could have gone without the abuse. I wanted to physically smack myself; I shook the thoughts from my head. I needed to just be in the moment, to know that I now had a powerful ally in the fight, and that hopefully I would not be stuck forever in this skyrise apartment.

“Milk.”

“What do you mean, do I know how to fly the transports? I mean, I know how they work, but they require power, a power that the creators supply.”

“Bob.”

“I don’t think digestive juices qualify as electrical power,” I told him. He let out a squelching sound that I attributed to a sigh. We had a lengthy discussion punctuated by a plethora of Bobs and Milks. What we’d finally decided was that there was a more than better chance that we could use a power source from within this space to accomplish what we needed to do. The unfortunate part of the equation was that it was going to be the food-producing machine, as it contained the most power. It wasn’t traditionally wired to the house like an appliance, so that worked in our favor, but it would require a vast amount of rework; the power was now going to be used to make the craft function and not produce food. It wasn’t that the food was anything special, but to take it away…it was the only thing I found some level of comfort and control in. I was not taking it well.

The circuitry, if that’s what it could be called, was far advanced from what we had on earth. The entire brains of the outfit were on a speck smaller than a grain of sand. It was not something I could even begin to manipulate, if I even had the knowledge to do so. There were specs about the chip Bob was holding, online, plus the craft’s, and I had to continually feed Bob answers as to what offshoot supplied what power voltage to where and what resistors or transistors tied into it. It was exhausting work keeping track of the thousands of etched pathways on the board. I’d always had trouble concentrating for more than a few minutes at a time; had I been younger, I’m acutely aware of the diagnosis I would have received, along with a number of drool-enforcing drugs.

There were perhaps thousands of leads, and we had to go through each one. We weren’t halfway through when I realized I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I debated asking Bob if he could restore the chip to its factory settings so I could get a bite. Decided against it when his eyes rolled around in the soup of his head and fixed on my grumbling stomach, it seemed to me he was angry with the distraction my hunger was causing. Wasn’t like I could tell it to stop; stomachs are much like two-year-olds, they don’t listen to your demands—they want what they want and they want it now. Couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how long we’d been working on the thing. My vision crossed multiple times. When Bob was done working on it, he held it above his head, reminiscent of the Circle of Life scene from Lion King. Now came the hard part, according to Bob.

“The hard part? Are you kidding me? I figured you were done. Isn’t it just plug and play?”

Bob wasn’t familiar with the terminology and let me know in an extended raspberry what he thought about it.

“I need to rest, Bob. I can’t see straight.”

“Milk.”

“What do you mean the thing will degrade if it’s not hooked up? Oh, for the love of…fine, let’s get started.”

There’s a thing on Earth called redneck engineering; it’s when you take ordinary things and repurpose them. For instance, a broken or missing shower head can be replaced with a beer can by punching holes in the bottom and duct-taping it to the outlet pipe. Or maybe if the front wheel of your bike is gone, you weld it to a shopping cart, it’s not pretty, most likely not safe, but it does function. To call what Bob was doing redneck engineering was an insult to rednecks everywhere. Instead of duct tape, the everyman’s fix all, Bob was actually and disgustingly using pieces of himself as adhesive.

“Are you even conductive?” I asked, just as fascinated as disturbed by what he was doing.

Bob ignored me, as he was tying everything together or off, as the case may be. My mind could not even conceive of how something so tiny contained a power cell. But then, I was thinking on the pyramid. The entire operation had been run by that electrical ball, although it was being powered by slaves, so that was a poor example. It was all beyond my scope, and, in the end, what did it matter, as long as we could fly. I wanted it to be away, but that was unlikely, and a waste of an opportunity to do some damage. Plus, Church was still out there. Bob hadn’t given me an update; he would have, had he known anything. And honestly, since he’d been here, he’d either been recovering or working, and I couldn’t necessarily ask while he was doing that.

Every once in a while, Bob had to push me awake. Eventually, we got through it; it had been a day, most likely two, as my thirst could attest to the time taken. It was going to do no good if we flew around only to crash from lack of water.

“Bob!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

I wanted to be excited, but I also wanted to sleep, eat, and drink, and it was anybody’s guess in what order I wanted to do all that.

“Milk.”

“Go? Go where? What do you mean we only have an hour of flight time? Please tell me that is some sort of translation issue. That you meant to tell me one earth year.” Made complete sense; we were asking something that maybe used as much wattage as a toaster to run a Tesla, and even then, the creators were a walking, talking recharge station. Without one of them, once the cell was drained, we became a coconut-laden swallow, and from all I’d gleaned, they didn’t fly so well.

Bob shook his head; what he’d told me was a fact.

“Do you know where Church is?” He didn’t answer. “Bob, simple question.”

“Milk.” Hard to gauge Bob’s mood, but I would go with exasperated. I suspected he knew exactly where our horned friend was.

“We going to get him?” Still no answer. “Bob,” I prodded.

“Bob,” he replied.

“What do you mean it isn’t on the way? We don’t have the time? We have to get him, to save him. Yeah, I know we most likely won’t make it out alive from what we’re doing, but doesn’t Church deserve to be there with us? For the finale?”

Bob then threw me for a loop—as if everything wasn’t already tossed on its side and heading for the garbage disposal.

“Milk, we now have fifty-eight minutes of power remaining. Where we need to go will use up fifty-five of that. Our friend, whom you have named Church, is eighteen of your minutes out of the path we need to travel.”

Flabbergasted might be the correct verb, hearing Bob’s use of so many different words strung together, correctly, pushed me back and made my jaw drop. “Could you have talked like this the entire time?” Our form of communication had worked, but not having to piece together everything from tone and a slight sense of telepathy was much more efficient.

“Fifty-seven.” He stretched out an arm and twisted it in the very human way that a person looking at their watch may do. How he could have even known about that mannerism was beyond me.

“I’m a Marine, Bob. We don’t leave one of ours behind. And who knows, maybe on your planet you’re a variation of that because you came and got me, something I’m sure you didn’t have to do. Can’t imagine you and your boss were just cruising around and happened upon my humble abode.”

“There is much truth in your words. I am part of a combat unit that was sent to infiltrate and destroy. As far as I know, I am the only one who has gone this far. We do not have time to debate, Milk.”

I found it funny that he was speaking in damn near high English but still could not, or chose not, to get my name right.

“Millions, perhaps billions of life forms succumb to what you call the ‘creators’ on a daily basis. They must be stopped. It has to be stopped. You are still not moving with haste.”

“On the ride to get Church, you’re going to fill me in on my role in all of this.”

“I will venture forth without you.”

“You are an incredible ally, Bob, and I value all of our time together. You have saved my life half a dozen times, anyway. You could absolutely go on without me, probably do pretty well for yourself, too, but you seem to be forgetting who’s plugged in and who isn’t.” I was pointing to my head.

“I ate you once; perhaps it was a mistake to reintegrate you.”

I gulped down hard at that, though I did seem to have made my point.

“We will go and get him.”

“High five?”

Bob left me hanging; had a pretty good idea he knew what I was doing and deliberately shunned the gesture.

“So that’s where the door is. Weird.” I was passing through the opening. “Might as well start talking,” I said to Bob once we were underway.

“What do you want to know?”

Well, if ever a loaded question was asked. I mean, knowing myself enough, a better question would have been, what don’t I want to know. How deep could I go with this? The meaning of life? The infinity of space? Or how about the Holy Grail of unanswered questions: what the word “peachy” means when your wife tells you that is how she’s feeling. I decided to stay more localized with my questions, what made sense to know now.

“How do you know so much about this place?”

“Thousands of my kind have died for every small bit of information we could pull from this accursed planet. Figuring out just how to transfer this intelligence has cost the lives of more than fifty alone.”

I was positive that small sliver of the pie was worthy of an eight-hour documentary to highlight their heroic actions, but in the grand scheme of the here and now, I moved on.

“Is your entire race as badass as you?”

“Badass?”

“Slang, sorry. Can everyone do what you can? The dissolving, the carrying of heavy loads, absorbing staples…all of that.”

“My kind have varying abilities, none to the degree my unit has been enhanced with. Many have died trying to become who I am now, not able to survive the rigorous changes.”

“How long have you been fighting the whistlers? The creators?”

“Since before your kind were bipedal. Those that you call the ‘creators’ are more custodians to their masters. The true creators started this entire destruction. Debates have been waged on my homeworld about why they are no longer visible; perhaps they have grown ancient and died, but I tend to believe that they have grown bored with the path they walked and have left it to others to finish. This angers me more than if they had died and let their successors continue. How can one be so apathetic when they are quite literally causing the destruction of time, space, and all the inhabitants therein? What went wrong in their genetic programming to allow such a thing?”

Could think of a half dozen instances on Earth alone. What would have happened if Stalin could have expanded his empire to encompass the entire world? He was okay with killing millions of his own people—couldn’t imagine he would have given two shits about the inhabitants of other countries.

“From what I’ve seen, that tends to be the default…destruction, I mean,” I told him without giving specifics.

“That is something we have talked about as well; not what you have said specifically, but rather, that the true creators are dying and do not desire to leave anything behind, that perhaps they began all life, and so with their passing, wish to end it.”

“Wow, talk about the grown-up version of ‘I’m taking my ball and going home.’”

“None of the reasons why matter, though. What they have started, we must end. Whether they were responsible for giving us our lives does not give them the right to then take them away as they choose. That would be far from benevolent, godlike behavior.”

“You believe in gods?”

“We are among their direct creations; do you not?” he asked.

“Fair enough. We’re already fighting angels, might as well toss gods in. Not going to lie, though, neither of them is how we were taught about them on Earth.”

“I can see it on your face. You are asking why you were chosen. You may ask.”

“I feel like you already opened the door, Bob.”

He didn’t say anything.

“So, we’re going to go through the motions then? Why me, Bob?”

“Your friend, the one you call Trip, he was the one who helped us establish a means to pass along everything our operatives learned here. To make sure that each death was not in vain, that we could continue to expand our knowledge to adapt to the conditions our enemies were setting forward.”

“It seems to always circle back around to him.” I wanted to ask if all of this was his fault, but unless he’d learned how to time travel as a cave dweller, it was likely events were in motion long before he began to meddle. He’d merely inadvertently opened up more doors for the creators. Although, that was a whole other can of worms; how were there places they didn’t know about? Had the earth been like a set of keys that had fallen between the couch cushions and could not be located?

9

Mike Journal Entry 5

What was left of the ride to get Church had my thoughts swirling. Not least of my concerns was how Bob knew where to go. “Bob, you never answered me…how did you know where I was, and where Church is?”

“A few years back, we received schematics of the helmet. When I removed yours and Churchill’s, I made sure they were linked.”

“So, it’s like a homing beacon?”

I think he had to ponder the words, make sure what I said fit his explanation. “Essentially.”

I had no idea what kind of hell Bob may have gone through during his time here, but I was a bit pissed it had taken him so long to get to me. How much of my torture could have been avoided? I didn’t see any sense in questioning him on that. “So, what happens next?”

“What happens from here is unforged territory. None before me have survived their encounters with the custodians.”

“Uncharted waters? Let’s hope this isn’t a flat-earth scenario, and we sail off the edge of the world.”

“There is no such thing as a flat planet.”

“See, that’s what I said, but people will believe what they want to. Shit, I’m convinced Bigfoot is real, so I don’t have any room to talk. How do we do this? If we roll up on this place unannounced, are we going to get shot at? I don’t think I can go through another battle.”

“I have had many distasteful things done to me through the course of my lifetime, none quite as bad as what I just went through to get to where we are now. I am in agreement with you. As for entry, as this transport arrives, the entrance will automatically open.”

“Damn, that’s having some trust in your neighbors. Aren’t the custodians worried they might get interrupted during some alone time? You know, they pop in a DVD of electric eels and bow chicka wow wow.”

“I do not know, and please stop moving like that, it appears as if your hips are having a seizure.”

“Sorry, just nervous, doing my best to dispel the unease.”

“Is it working? Because it isn’t working for me.”

“It might have, had you played along.”

“We are here. Prepare yourself.”

I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to prepare myself except avoid tentacles. Bob had no sooner pulled in when we both spotted a custodian standing across the space looking at us. I went rigid with fear in expectation of a fight. We exited the vehicle, expecting to go immediately into battle mode. When it didn’t move, I looked over to Bob. Again, I couldn’t exactly tell what he was thinking, but consternation mixed in with confusion seems right. I went right to what-the-fuck mode when I saw the green of a large horn protrude over the back of the frozen custodian.

“Church?” I stood up and out of my tactical position.

“Kill!” he shouted excitedly, coming out from behind the monster. Funny how my mind had been changed about who the beast was once I got to know him, despite his rough vocabulary. Never can judge a book by its cover. Some of the world’s worst had been dressed in rather extravagant skin.

“Umm, Church, good to see you, but aren’t you forgetting something?” I was pointing to the custodian who had still not done anything.

“Kill,’ he said proudly before thumping his chest.

Church’s use of that word seemed a wee bit liberal in this sense, as the custodian was very much alive, according to its glow, anyway. Church was careful as he moved back behind the creator and positioned him, much like a shop employee will turn a mannequin for display purposes. Not sure what the hell had happened here, but the food machine was embedded into the back of the custodian. Tough to tell if the things had a spine, but something was severed, making any movement impossible for it.

“Kill.” He tapped his chest again, then touched something on the microwave-sized machine. I about fell over when I saw water.

I went over and smacked Bob in the chest, causing a massive ripple of material. “I told you we should come here!” I moved to cup my hands under the water and get a drink. I would have just placed my head under the outlet, but that was entirely too close to the custodian, and I wasn’t about to self-electrify—I’d done enough of that during home improvement projects when I was too lazy to shut off a breaker. Yeah, like I’m the only one. I got my fill and then some as what I drank splashed inside my stomach like an internal water park.

“Perhaps it is good to see Church, but we do now not even have the food machine to reprogram. If we were to remove it, the custodian would likely repair the damage done to itself, unless we were to kill it first. In either case, we lose precious time.”

“Oh, buddy, for one of the first times ever, I can say that someone else is missing the bigger picture. We have our battery right here.” I stopped my hand just before I smacked the custodian and drew back into a pointer-finger gesture. Bob did the weirdest thing I’d seen that day, and, remember, I was next to an immobile custodian with a kitchen appliance sticking out of its back. The top part of Bob’s head turned a glowing red like a fancy lightbulb was lit inside or behind. We spent a good hour ordering up food and water; I’d hate to say it was a last meal, but it very well could have been. Even so, spirits were pretty high, although I think that had more to do with our impromptu reunion rather than what lay ahead.

Church was steering the custodian like a parent would a baby stroller. We got Stiffie into the transport. Wait, let me rethink that, sounds like we got an excited frat boy in there with us. The Stiff-ster? Still a no. Stuckie…? that’ll work. We got Stuckie into the car. It was almost like Weekend at Bernie’s but we had to be more careful about how we manipulated his body.

Church had an expression on his face like a dog that knew it was going to the park. I’d love to say that I was that enthusiastic; I wasn’t. Had a rough idea of what we needed to do, and none of it involved an exit strategy. Unless, of course, we could find more processors to shove into our enemies. Seemed like an unwieldy weapon requiring a certain amount of cooperation from one’s opponent.

Like any technologically advanced society, they were weakest at the infrastructure points. If we could knock out their grid, comms, and their internet, they would be ripe for the picking, and therein lay our problem. Who was going to do the picking? We weren’t spies sent in on a clandestine mission before the shock and awe of ground troops and air support swooped in; we were, unfortunately, the whole enchilada, and we might as well have been the vegan choice. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just not as toothy, perhaps. I told Bob what I thought would be the most vulnerable spots that would do the most damage. He thought upon them. The problem was, anything we did would only be a temporary pain to them. We could slow the machine, possibly even get it to halt for a while, but once we were taken care of, and by taken care of, I mean dead, they could do repairs and be up to their usual asshole selves pretty quickly. Bob was vetoing every suggestion I had, like my wife usually did with every harebrained thing I’d come up with over the years. I generally listened; most likely saved my life a few times over.

“Milk.”

“Seriously? We’re going back to this mode of communication? Okay, I get more can be delivered with less chance of a translation loss, but you do realize that anything I don’t understand from you, I fill in the blanks, right? And, oh man, Bob, you do not want to stumble across any of my Mad Libs books from when I was a kid.”

He had no idea what I was talking about. How could he know about the books that had sentences with blanks that you had to fill in with random nouns, verbs and the like? My finished product generally trailed toward the juvenile humor, I know, it’s a shocker, but there’s the truth.

“Milk.”

“Sorry, Bob, fairly stressed out, here. If you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”

“It is the true creators we must destroy. Is that clear enough?”

“Bob, until you told me about them, I didn’t even know they existed; I figured this food dispenser here was a creator. There is absolutely nothing about them in the databases I’m able to rummage through.”

“Information is power, Milk. The creators are not online because anything can be broken into; you are proof of that. Anything discovered about them could ultimately be used against them.”

“Valid reasoning to a degree,” I said the words but didn’t understand it at all. When one has a vast library, makes no sense not to use it. Bob must have picked up on my questions.

“Creators are vastly different from mortal beings, such as us.”

“Wait, they’re not mortal?”

“Not in the sense you understand.”

“Can they be killed?”

“…In a manner.”

“I love when we get crystal clear. You know, otherwise, this is like looking through a puddle of mud with a dirty straw.”

“As you have already realized, creators are more along the lines of what your species call ‘gods.’”

“What does your species call them?”

“Advanced beings. The information you can gather through your unusual means is all for the sake of the custodians and, to a much lesser extent, the whistlers.”

“So, killing custodians and ripping through their technology is useless?”

“No, it is still very much necessary. It is, however, only a means to an end.”

Church clapped his hands together loudly. “Kill,” he about sang out.

The custodian with us was turning an angry shade of red; could have been from pain, or he could have been following our conversation. I’d imagine if someone came to my world saying they were going to kill my gods, I’d be upset. Although, if they started with Poena, I wouldn’t be too upset.

“You know what, man?” I told our reddening passenger, “If you weren’t so intent on destroying the rest of us, we wouldn’t be here trying to figure out how to stop you.”

“You will fail.” It was a high-pitched whine, like something a boiling over teapot might make. Even in as much pain as it was in, I still did not, at all, like the confidence with which it delivered those words. Yeah, I knew how bad our chances were; didn’t want to or need to be reminded about it.

“You know where to go?” I asked Bob. We, as of yet, had not left our captive’s abode.

“Milk.”

My mood, which had already been on the shelf for too long, was rapidly heading to souring. He knew roughly the area. Made sense; how much information could he have on them? My guess, any humans that had climbed Mount Olympus to view the gods had not lived long enough to talk about it. Similar situation here.

“You…” I think our custodian was going to repeat his favorite phrase. Church twisted the box around to get him to shut up.

“There is a city of sorts. They will most likely be there.”

“Bob? Most likely? And will there also be a bunch of custodians there, most likely?” He didn’t answer. “What about whistlers? Will they most likely be there?” I don’t know why I was getting so riled up. I usually bring everyone with me into uncharted territory, thanks to my less-than-well thought out plans. Maybe I was angry it wasn’t me doing the planning, or lack thereof.

“We kill,” Church said tenderly, placing a massive clawed paw upon my shoulder in what was surprisingly a very comforting gesture.

It was impossible to guess the function of the custodians that, at least, Church and I had been given to; they were in outlying areas; they were either this world’s version of wealthy exiles, outcast with servants, or those firmly entrenched in the middle-class, as they had found their way to the suburbs. We flew for a good long while, to the point I almost asked Bob if we were there yet. I figured I’d shut up about it because we weren’t heading to the beach and a day of fun in the suns. Not sure why I’d be in a rush to face the mortality facing me.

“Whoa,” was all I could manage as I saw the twinkling of far off dwellings and buildings; they looked like diamonds in the sky. Maybe the Beatles had it right; now I just needed to find Lucy. My apprehension rose as we flew closer and began to see the hundreds, if not thousands, of crafts much like our own, going about whatever business it was that custodians went about. As a rumored-to-eat-crayons member of the armed forces, I didn’t need much of a brain to figure out where we were going. Smack dab in the middle of this bustling community was a red crystal jewel. My guess was that it had been stained that color with the blood of this world’s enemies. Lord knew they’d made enough of those.

Something was banging a small pot in the back of my mind, attempting to gain my attention. It was having a hard time getting past my images of bikini-wearing women holding out cheeseburgers while they sang the Star-Spangled Banner. ‘Murica. Anything to avoid the dismalness of the day we were about to make for ourselves. The small pot turned into a tambourine, the clacking of the small cymbals threatening to give me a headache. I ratcheted up my distraction; the scantily clad women were now offering apple pies and M-16s, while the Blue Angels flew overhead. “I can do this all day,” I told my psyche. And apparently, it could, too, because the cymbals became a large bass drum. My eyes felt like they bulged out with every heavy beat, and my internal drummer seemed to like Death Metal, meaning, he was playing as fast as his appendages would allow.

“What!” I yelled out.

Bob and Church were looking at me, because, yeah, I was crazy, and that’s what normal people do—they stare at crazy people. It was sort of like what the rest of the United States did to Florida. I cleared away the distractions, my thoughts leading me down the tunnel to the custodian. I knew something about it, something I’d seen in the streaming information system they used. I dove back into the net, desperately looking for what hidden little nugget my mind had deemed vital enough to store away. If it was so fucking important, why was it harboring the secret? I thought I was going to pop a blood vessel in my eye when I came across what I was looking for.

“Stop the car,” I told Bob, pushing away the fog of being immersed in a sea of information.

He did as I asked. His eyes swiveled to look at me.

“We have a problem,” I told him before I’d even wholly grasped at why I thought that.

“Milk?”

“Yeah, even bigger than somehow sneaking into that fortress past an army of whistlers and killing gods.”

“Kill,” Church sighed. He seemed to be thinking on that particular notion as I had been the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition women handing me food.

“They can talk to each other,” I blurted out. I didn’t need him to even say anything to realize how ridiculous that sounded. “No…I mean, yeah, I know they can talk amongst themselves, but it doesn’t need to be verbal. In fact, they prefer it not to be. Lord knows I found their voice grating, I would imagine they do as well.”

“Milk.”

“I’m trying to.” Clarify it, I meant. “It’s sort of like telepathy but not; shit. It’s confusing, but it’s like each of them is a telephone tower and they can microwave a beam to the custodian or custodians they wish to speak with. The range isn’t far, takes a lot of energy to beam it out—I can’t get an exact distance, twenty feet? Fifty feet, if they push out the wattage, like a yell. They generally speak, leaning into each other so as not to exert themselves.” They were still staring at me; I needed to sum up. “We can’t bring him in there. He’ll give us away without us even knowing about it.”

The custodian with us had yellow bolts of light randomly firing across his body. I’d like to think he was glowering at the fact that I’d taken an avenue of escape and revenge away from him, but more likely it was the machine in his back. Tough to tell.

“We cannot enter the city without him,” Bob said.

“Kill?” Church asked. This ended up being a literal translation.

“We cannot. Without his power supply, we will crash, and the three of us attempting to walk into the city would be killed immediately.” Bob’s eyes pulled in deep as he thought about the problem. We were hovering on the periphery of the city, still far enough away that it was likely no one was noticing. Like, maybe we were being safe drivers and had pulled over to talk on our cell phones. We sat in silence for long minutes; I was looking around for a patrol car, something oft practiced in my early years. Sometimes, I felt like the cops had a tracking device on me with the sheer number of times they showed up. It was later in life that I realized that maybe if I hadn’t been doing so much stupid shit, they wouldn’t have had cause to be there in the first place.

“Got a problem.” I was pointing off to the left; another transport was fast approaching on our left-hand side. It didn’t look like it was coming for us, but anything flying too close could be a problem. The custodian shifted in his seat, either to look at what I was, or to get ready to blast out an SOS signal. I wanted to slap my hand over its mouth like I might my sister when we were younger and she was about to rat me out for something. This time would be just as effective as it had been back then, meaning not at all. My sister had been older and thus bigger, and the one time I tried it, she bit my palm. She did get smacked for that when my mother saw the imprint she’d left behind. Then, to make matters worse, my sister had made me pay for a week for that punishment she’d received. Her minute or two of pain had been nearly a week of mildly administered torture to me. A twisted nipple here, a wedgie there, and woe to me if I so much as thought of tattling to my mother. Ah, good times, good times. I ended up getting so much dirt on her as she hit her teenage years, she usually bribed me with candy to keep my mouth shut. Never got another purple nurple.

The transport was going to be close, by air standards anyway, a hundred feet. With the speed it was traveling and the limits I was confident the custodians had in regards to speech, we should be fine. No one likes the word should, when it comes to safety. This rope should hold, the brakes should work, help should be on the way, or my personal favorite from when I was sixteen and at my girlfriend’s house: “My dad should be at work all day.” Dad, in this case, was a biker. What the hell did he even do for work? Fuck “should.” That word has gotten me into so much trouble. Again I was failing to realize it was mostly my fault, but shit, I was sixteen. I don’t even think the male mind is capable of reasonable thought much before twenty-two; even then it’s touch and go.

Bob, Church, and I were very still, and stared straight ahead, like three stoned kids trying to act as normal as possible as a cruiser passed by. If the two custodians in the transport had even taken a moment to look our way, they would have realized something wasn’t quite right. Instead, they zipped on by. The yellow bolts had increased as the others closed the distance. Our custodian had been trying to scream for help; its cries had gone unheeded. I could only hope it had even the faintest idea of what the rest of the cosmos was going through because of their grand designs, whatever they may be. While the cops weren’t rolling up on us, our problem was still not solved. We could not enter the city like this. It was Church that came up with the idea, and it became my job to figure out how to do it and ultimately Bob to do it.

“Kill signal.” Church was leaning over the seat, looking at Stuckie and the lightning bolts, which were now beginning to fade away.

“Milk?” Bob was asking me if that was possible, if there was some way to disrupt his speech center, to put him on Airplane mode. I had no clue if custodians were manufactured much like whistlers or if they reproduced; either way, there could be communication problems, whether manufacturing defects that resulted in issues or hereditary issues. I searched for the custodians' version of WebMD. It did talk about complications with communication and potential corrections, but this wasn’t a surgeons’ manual, and even if it was, it wasn’t going to tell me how to destroy the function. The best I could really do was get a rough location of where the organ that sent out the signal was located, and this was an approximation, at best. I told Bob in detail all that I’d gleaned, which was something like a five-year-old telling his teacher what the Constitution was about.

Bob produced an appendage that, had it been silver in color, would have looked a lot like the T-1000 Terminator in the series of movies of the same name. It was basically a rapier with a super fine point. Bob was planning on driving that into the custodian and severing the connection. The point wasn’t more than an inch away from entering Stuckie.

“Umm, do you think it would be better if we did this on the ground?” I was thinking that if this went sideways and Stuckie died, we would find ourselves plummeting toward the ground in an aircraft that did not look at all capable of gliding very well.

Bob, who appeared confident in nearly everything we did, agreed maybe it was for the best if we landed, and that scared me. Without the custodian, we were on foot, and I think this close to the city, three aliens hiking around, whether heading toward or away, were going to be in some serious trouble. Plus, how long would it take them to backtrack to the disabled vehicle and the dead custodian? Death would be preferable to what they could do to us if we were caught.

So, we set down. I got out of the transport, just to feel ground under my feet again; it had been a long time. After a few laps around, I leaned in to watch Bob at work. If I thought Stuckie looked like he had a stick jammed up his ass previously, now it was along the lines of a tree trunk. He appeared to be frozen in place, whether from Bob’s ministrations, pain, or fear that if he did move in the slightest, Bob would cut something more vital. Could have been all of that. Stuckie was in pain; purples and reds rippled all along the edges of his being, the only part that dared to move. I’m not much into the needless suffering of others, but fuck if he and his kind didn’t have it coming.

The colors became even more vibrant and bright as Bob looked to cut the lines of the transmission link. I turned away; this was a necessary evil, but I’d seen enough field surgery; watching someone getting mutilated without anesthesia was not something I needed to add to my already corrupted memory banks. A couple of transports were high up in the sky and passing by but nothing close. Still didn’t like sitting here like this. All I had was my stapler; what I wouldn’t do for one of those souped-up whistler rifles or even my more familiar M-16.

“Milk!” Bob shouted. I ran back to the transport, expecting to watch as the custodian died along with any chance of fulfilling our mission. Instead, it was so we could get back in the air and on with it. Not going to lie, I had mixed emotions. Getting killed by heading into the city seemed worse than dying by heading away.

“That worked?” I asked once I was in.

A protrusion came out on each side of Bob’s head. It took me a second to realize this was his version of a shrug.

“Fucking kidding me, right?”

He made the gesture again.

“You suck.”

“Ah, kill,” Church sighed as he sat back in his seat. We were once again underway.

The custodian looked like shit, or more like a flashlight bulb on its last legs, flickering bright, then dimming as if the filament was loose and burning out. We should have got the LED model.

We were going slower now, maybe there was a speed limit in the city and we didn’t want to get pulled over, or more likely Bob was as unsure of his handiwork as I was. Or, as the custodian began to die, we were losing power. Good chance he’d check out right in front of the Shimmering City county jail. We were heading straight for the red building, which, as we got closer, began to take on definition. In keeping with the theme of the planet, it was an inverted pyramid, but much more slender than the whistler creation buildings, and the edges were much smoother; it looked more like an ice cream cone. As of yet, we’d still not received any undue attention, but the transports around us were beginning to thicken.

“We should have maybe waited until rush hour was over.” I was doing my best not to look around like I was a guilty party, something that was exceedingly difficult to do. The staying still part, I mean, because I’d been guilty of a great many transgressions. I kept waiting for us to head down to street level, which, in this case, made no sense because they didn’t have any floor entrance levels. We stayed the course, even went up some.

“Bob?”

Never quite seen the jelly man tense, but he was beginning to look like Jell-O that had been placed in the freezer.

“Entrance is on top.” His response was clipped. If he had teeth, they’d have been clenched, hell, mine were. We were a couple of miles out from our goal. We’d been level with the roof, but were now climbing. It wasn’t much of a climb at first, but soon, it was nearly vertical. My entire weight was pressed into the seat as we picked up speed and altitude. I had all sorts of questions, each of which I was way too scared to hear the answers to. We were still climbing, and somehow still picking up speed. I felt like my eyeballs were being pulled into my skull. I spared the briefest of glances at Stuckie. I don’t know what Bob was doing to goose more power out of the custodian, but he was paying for it. The color along his ridges was vibrating in a wild display of pyrotechnics, while the core of him began to blotch with dull browns and grays. No doubt about it; he was dying.

Our strange maneuver had attracted attention; this I noted when I looked out the viewing port to my left. At least a half dozen of the transports had stopped and were watching, none, as of yet, had decided to join us on our star-gazing trip. My hands had a death grip on whatever they could grasp. It’s funny when you’re going through something, and you think it’s the worst possible thing that can happen, then suddenly it gets worse. This was like that. Like a plane that had stalled on an aerial acrobatic trick, our nose dipped down just as the blotches on Stuckie spread out, the browns turning to black. Our power cell was dead, and I had a feeling Triple-A wasn’t going to get here in time for a jump.

My stomach lurched as we went from crazy climb to free fall. The half dozen transports were now closer to a dozen, and a few of them were coming up to greet us. I had my arms locked and my hands against the dashboard, my legs holding the bulk of me into the seat as I pressed against the floorboard.

“What the fuck, Bob!” We were on an express route down, picking up speed at a physics-defying pace. I saw small glints rocketing up toward us. Had no idea what it was until one of the projectiles ripped a groove down the entire length of our ride. We were being shot at.

“Just fucking great.” I was convinced that Bob’s plan revolved around us becoming Kamikazes; we were going to take out the creators by dying, or more likely, die trying. I went for some praying; got as far as the shadow of death part before I started telling my wife and kids how much I loved them and was going to miss them. As a mortal, you sometimes imagine the ways you might check out; I could safely say this one wouldn’t crack the top ten of previously thought of ways. Everything was simultaneously moving faster and slower. My mind was somehow able to pick up the duality of events playing out. The red roof was approaching at a speed I could barely comprehend, the bullets being shot from the mounted guns were slowed to the point I could pick them out individually as they streaked toward us, more times than not sparks flying as they struck.

Our transport was continually being rocked as we were hit. Bob was doing his best to adjust the course of our barreling beast. Might as well have been a brick dropped off a cliff. The wind began to buffet our ride to the point I was hardly able to keep focused on our impending demise. I was, not surprisingly, all right with this new development. Much better not to see the thing that signals your doom as you are smashed into microscopic droplets and scattered across an alien terrain. I wondered if we might burn up upon reentry.

Church was yelling; I didn’t know if it was his war cry or one for his momma. He was planning on meeting his maker with as grim a face as possible. His lips pulled back and his impressive array of teeth were on display. I, on the other hand, had the feeling I looked like a seven-year-old that had been caught shoplifting. A couple of the transports trying to stop our descent had rocketed past. Though I couldn’t see it, my guess was they were going to get into position behind us to start firing. I didn’t like their odds to be able to do it in time before we made our corporate building merger. I was sort of wrong; as bullets whizzed past us I could only hope that they’d hit the shooters below.

“Ah!” I gritted my teeth as we dove our final few thousand feet. Instinct dictated I cross my arms over my head in a crash scenario, but if I moved them, I would have smacked off the windshield, seriously—not that it would matter in the least, either way. Nothing was going to save me, even industrial-strength airbags, if these things did happen to be equipped with them. Then, because why not, vehicles below us began to move in around the building, creating a roadblock of sorts. This was instant suicide on their parts, as this wasn’t some Dukes of Hazzard chase scene; we couldn’t take a strangely placed ramp and jump over them. As it was, I didn’t even know if Bob was controlling the transport or only pretending to.

I couldn’t truly gauge distance, and if we had an altimeter, it had died with Stuckie. All I could use was the building roof as a reference. What had once looked like a heated red needle, ready to pry a splinter free, now looked like a giant redwood we were going to impale ourselves upon. Vlad the Impaler would have been so proud. The area below us was carpeted in transports; I didn’t think what would be left of us from the collision would do much, if anything, as we rained down upon the building like metal and flesh precipitation.

Might have been on my four-hundred-and-eighty-second time of saying “fuck” when Bob clipped the corner of a whistler-packed vehicle. This sent us into a sideways spin that, unfortunately, launched Church’s lunch into the air. What was worse was he was using a free hand to scoop the bigger chunks and shove them back into his mouth. I was angry that this was going to be my dying sight. The only decent thing about the sideways spin was that there was a fifty-percent chance I would not see when we hit. In this instance, I felt it would be better to be blindly obliterated. To each their own, right? As lack of lady luck would have it, I was staring straight at the roof as my side made contact. I thought this might be for the best, as my head was pressed against the glass, it was unlikely I would feel much of anything as my skull was blown out. And then nothing. Not the deafening crunch of material, no rupture of my head sending my eyeballs hurtling into the atmosphere. No spine shattering, teeth chattering, blood spattering, anti-mattering. It might not make complete sense but sounds good.

I can’t really describe the events; we were slowing, but there was no apparent reason as to why, no net, sponges, ball pit, nothing. The walls of red we were passing now as we decelerated were pulsing, much like the worlds Jack and I had been on as they were going through a change. Sometimes we went back to better days, but more often than not, to worsening conditions. Could this blistering thorn be the origin point for all of that?

When my thought process finally caught up to the fact that either we weren’t dead or we were and I’d missed the cross over point, I looked at Bob.

“Um.”

The points on his shoulders started forming.

“Don’t even! Are we dead?”

“Kill,” Church said around a mouthful of regurgitated food. He smacked his hands wetly together.

“Did you know this was going to happen?” I asked, trying to figure out what was going on.

“You may not like the answer, Milk.”

“My heart feels like it was directly injected with coke. I think I can take it.”

“How could I know?”

I was stunned into momentary silence. His plan all along had been to make us a giant rocket. Punching him felt like about the most normal thing I could do at that point.

“Do you think maybe you could have told us you were going to use our ballast to blast a hole in the evil lair? You know, maybe we could have disembarked and watched from a safe distance, that kind of thing.”

“Kill, stay,” Church said. That basically secured my answer. Bob was on a mission; Church would have stayed with him, and out of some crazed notion of loyalty, I would have as well, even as we headed into the jaws of oblivion. But just the option, that was all I was asking for.

From the craziness of the last few minutes to whatever was happening now, we were slowly spinning, suspended in a gravitational field of sorts. Couldn’t be entirely sure, but by looking up, it seemed that we were midway in the structure, caught in an invisible spider web. Near as I could tell, we hadn’t succeeded in much of anything. Unless we were like a piece of sand inside a pearl-making oyster, at least in a little while, we’d come out all shiny and pretty before being mounted on a necklace. No alarms were blaring, no armed guards were racing to our position, no harried receptionist telling us we couldn’t be there, nothing.

“Don’t mean to be a downer, Bob, but do you have any other suggestions? Preferably ones that don’t end in us being obliterated?”

He opened the door to look down. “Something is not right,” he said before pulling the top part of him back in.

You think? was at the tip of my tongue; I was proud of myself when I kept it there.

“They should be here…” He was thinking.

“No thing, kill?”

“Yeah, Church, nothing to kill,” I offered in solace.

He looked sad.

“But, hey, we’re still alive,” I told him. Didn’t cheer him up nearly as much as you would have thought it should.

“We are not here.” Bob dropped what I figured was a philosophical nugget.

My head still hadn’t come back from the near-extinction event, and when my entire system is working in overdrive under stressful loads, I shoot straight for sarcasm, but I again somehow refrained from saying anything caustic. Maybe it was the exhaustion creeping in. When you pump that much adrenaline through your system, you’re definitely going to crash. No wonder the Nazis were pumping their troops with meth—the closest thing to a super soldier at the time. Almost surprising we didn’t end up with some sort of zombie invasion back then. When in doubt, shut your mouth. BT would be thrilled if that became my new mantra, because that would mean I was quickly heading down the path to mutism.

Then as my head started to let go of the fact that we’d nearly died, I began to mull over Bob’s words. “Where are we then?”

His eyes swiveled upwards so they were staring straight out of the top of his head. He moved the cap down like a flopped over hoodie so his vision wasn’t obstructed. I followed suit.

“Oh, no,” I said as I saw the ripple that started at the top and was quickly approaching our location. Except for the brilliant purple-blue arcing of a Tesla coil, it looked very similar. Could see the air vibrating and shimmering; I was wondering what this shock wave was going to do to us. Got the answer soon enough, and as one would expect, it sucked the ass of a diarrhea-laden donkey subsisting entirely on a diet of Boston Baked Beans.

The initial wash of the wave crashed over the roof of our transport and pushed it violently to the wall, where the rear end scraped loudly as we were forced down like an extra-large turd in an oversized toilet by a competent plunger operator. Like I said, stressful situations send me back to my baseline. We were picking up speed. We dipped down so that the entire bottom of the transport was scraping against the wall. I lifted my feet. By the looks of the shower of sparks trailing us, it wasn’t going to be long until the entire bottom was sanded away. I refused to be planed to death.

There must have been an irregularity in the wall; we were jostled so hard my entire body hurt, felt like every joint in me was popped. There was a moment where we were heading to the ground, roof first, until the flip was completed, and now the top of the transport was receiving an extreme buffing. Hearing anything beyond the screaming in my mind was impossible, as was being able to see anything due to the sparks flying all around us. Then, you know, because why not, the dashboard erupted in flame, and this wasn’t some cigarette lighter gone bad flame—this was the entire wiring harness had gone up at the same time, type of fire. It was blowing out of there like some heat setting from Hell. Sure, my wife would have liked it, I wasn’t a fan. Of all the shit going on, the one thing I noticed was, it didn’t matter where you were, burning plastic all smells the same.

Ever been to an amusement park and you ride this terrifying roller coaster and then it comes to a stop and you’re like, thank god, I lived! And then the unthinkable happens? It begins to go in reverse, and now you realize you’re going to have to do the entire circuit backward and blind to any dangers lurking. This was like that. As the transport rotated, we were plummeting to the ground ass first. I suppose it’s better not to see it. I was tensed up so tightly I felt that if a ball-peen hammer struck me in the correct spot, I would shatter like an absolute zero frozen banana. As we neared the bottom, the ring wave followed the contour of the building and began to push in on the transport. We were forced away from the wall, which seemed like a good thing at the time, until the transport began to compress under the pressures being exerted. The grinding noise was quickly filled in by the pops and creaks of the metals being wrinkled, the dash fire had spread to the floorboards.

“Out!” Bob bellowed.

I wasn’t sure why he was in such a rush to leave the burning beer can that was slowly being crushed. He waited to leave until Church and myself had dragged ourselves out. The three of us were being battered by the wind as we surfed down on our ever-shrinking platform. Whatever was smashing the car was, as of yet, not exerting pressure on us. I would like to say it was because the transport was inorganic and we were organic, but I wasn’t under that impression, not at all. Once the pressure wave was forced smaller, we would be like the last remnants of toothpaste squeezed through the narrow opening. We kept shifting our feet and bodies the further down we traveled. We’d gone from acquaintances to near intimate partners in the span of a hundred vertical feet.

“ON!” Bob bellowed, hoisting Church up before the horned creature could even react. Church grabbed me as he was on the way. He tossed me atop his shoulders like a professional cheerleader. I was thinking this was going to make one of the oddest totem poles, as we stood like that. The transport had been crushed down to something the size of a large boulder. Bob was elongating himself, pushing Church and myself higher up. He could do that all day, but soon he would be covered in our blood as we were juiced for all we were worth. Bob was roughly half his diameter, and Church began to grunt as his massive chest was starting to have a force exerted against it.

I felt bad for him and was terrified of going out this way. That scene in Star Wars where Luke and company are nearly crushed by the trash compactor had left me mildly scarred; I knew dying that way would be beyond painful, I just didn’t think it was all that likely to happen. I didn’t know too many places that had a walk-in compactor. And yet, here it was, happening. I heard what sounded like a shotgun blast; the way Church sagged, I had to wonder if it was his ribs cracking. The boulder was now not much bigger than a standard military footlocker. I could feel a slight pressure squeezing in on my shoulders, I pulled them forward in an effort to elude death’s iron tight grasp.

Church was yelling, as was I. Death seems more dramatic if accompanied by the screams of the damned. There was an intense whoosh of air being moved past us, then nothing. Absolute silence, I thought perhaps my eardrums had been ruptured again and destroyed for good. Bob began to widen out and slowly let us down like a released hydraulic jack. When we were close to the floor, I jumped so Church didn’t need to make any unnecessary movements. As one that had suffered through a few cracked ribs in my time, I knew just breathing was a painful thing; lifting something heavy off your head was an impossibility, I mean, unless you had the correct cocktail of narcotics.

We were now all down on the narrow floor of the building, and, by narrow I mean comparatively narrow; it was twenty feet across. Church raised his hands over his head, yelled something unintelligible while twisting his body from side to side. The cracking of his rib had nothing on the sound it made as he slid it back into place. Dry teeth being dragged across a chalkboard would have been more welcome, or maybe the eardrum rupturing. He did seem much better after the self-alignment. Who knew you could perform chiropractic services on yourself?

Desperately wanted to ask Bob: What now? But by the way he was looking about, we were all equally stupefied.

Church groaned as he pointed to the far wall, the entire perimeter actually. The coloring seemed off, opaquer than the deep red of the rest. The rippling edges reminded me of the now marble-sized custodian inside the transport. It was a doorway of sorts. It looked much like what the relic had produced, the colors the only thing different, that, and we couldn’t see through it, so, almost like the other one. Plus, it was horizontal as opposed to vertical, which made it more like a hole than a doorway.

“It’s a door, kind of,” I said flatly, figured I had a right not to be too enthusiastic about what I was seeing, considering the last time I’d walked through one. “I think I know what’s going on, which, considering the source, is about as unbelievable as what I think is happening here.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off the shimmering edge.

“Milk?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.” I gave him a quick rundown of the relic we’d found and what I’d done with it. He seemed pretty excited about the gateway opening tool, but that cooled quickly when there was no chance I had it hidden anywhere, even my prison purse. But this wasn’t quite that; this was the world-altering reset button. If I had to take a guess, this was the point of origin for them. Our ship, in a twist of fate, had corked up the spewing volcano and had forced the lava, so to speak, back into the mantle. We’d somehow not only stopped a transforming event, but we’d shoved it back down from whence it came. I didn’t, I couldn’t, know what that meant or what the result would be. I knew if a bullet got blocked in the barrel of a rifle, bad things happened; I suspected this was much like the same thing, in principle. We were going to find out soon enough, as the glimmering began to expand from the ring around the perimeter toward the middle, like a bathtub being drained, it was pulling in from all sides. The floor was becoming more opaque as it did so, like maybe the burst was corrosive and eating through everything it touched. It had that effect on the worlds it touched, so there was a logic to that notion. I was relating all of this to Bob as quickly as I could in the hopes that maybe he could think of something to do, because there was no other avenue of escape that I could see from the encroaching danger. The totem pole trick wasn’t going to work; it would just mean I was third through the hole, and none of us were in too great of a rush to see what the outside world had to offer. And if the dynamics of the building held up, the new doorway was some hundred feet in the air.

I, for one, did not want to pull any sort of cartoon stunt by hanging in the air for a few moments before holding up a “Bye” sign then plummeting. Anything that Bob was thinking was immediately halted when the ground near him had a hole blown through it. I looked up to see five armed transports barreling straight down toward us. The ground so far, luckily, was the only thing getting bombarded, creating fist-sized pockmarks, the edges curling up as if they had taken a mini meteorite strike. Looked like it was the door to the unknown or an evaporated head. Door number one it was, as we all came to the hastily made decision.

Church, despite his size and injury, was the quickest to the ring and, subsequently, first through. Knowing the brute as I did, it wasn’t to be the first to escape the battle we were in. but rather the first to enter into the unknown. He was a brave idiot, and I was happy to be fighting alongside my own kind, no matter the species. As he stepped into the hole, it looked much like a low budget television show’s enactment of a portal. One moment he was right there in front of us, the next, the camera stopped rolling, he left the scene, then the camera started up again, all with that slight hiccup you used to see in Bewitched whenever any one of Samantha’s relatives came to visit. Now that I’m thinking about it, the “trick” was most likely pulled off in the editing room and not on the set. Not that it made a difference right then, or ever.

I was debating the merits of falling ten stories or being shot; what kind of pros and cons list do you make for that when they both end in death? And that’s if it even was a doorway, who knew for sure? I moved to follow Church; a hole ripped into the ground I’d just vacated. As soon as I was in, I realized this wasn’t like the relic gateway. There was no feeling of elongating throughout infinity, and it wasn’t like the changing wave that washed over everyone and everything, erasing time, memories, people and monsters alike. But it had similarities in both. The difference, though, was how jarring it had been on my senses. The brightness was blinding, the rushing in my ears enough to drown out all other sounds. I was simultaneously hot and shivering from cold, perhaps every single part of this was a fever dream. That would be a great notion, but I doubt my subconscious could possibly come up with everything that’s been happening.

I saw Church in the distance, but the perspective was off; parts of him looked more prominent than they should, like I was zooming in on half and out on the other. Sometimes his head swelled then shrank, or it was a leg or arm, sometimes both. The light was still bright enough that it white-washed everything around him, much like when an older video camera was initially turned on. I could tell there was more beyond the light, but could make none of it out. Church did not appear to be moving…let me rephrase that: he had a slight spin as if he were in zero gravity, but besides his entire body moving, he was not. Could have been a statue tossed into orbit, and still that crazy in and out effect continued. My brain felt as if it were blistering as I kept…what was I doing? Drifting? I wasn’t walking, thankfully, not falling. Time was a fluid entity here. There were times Church was lazily turning, other times he was spinning like a top, it was maddening as I tried to get my bearings. I tried to see if Bob was following, but I felt like I was trying to see the dark side of the moon from earth; there was no possible way to do this. I tried to yell out, hoping Church might hear and respond; I felt my vocal cords move, yet no sound emerged. I knew I wasn’t in a vacuum without air to vibrate sound waves, because I was breathing fine. I had no logical explanation, though I’m pretty sure there was nothing logical about this.

Then it was over like I’d awakened from a vivid dream, and the after-effects lingered. I felt as though I was lying down, but I felt no pressure points on my back to indicate that. Ever so agonizingly slow, the world, or this place, anyway, began to fade in. I could not tell if I had a corporeal self; I could not feel anything. For all I knew, I could have been upside down. I held my hands up just to make sure they were still there— even touched my face to realize there was, indeed, sensation.

“What is this place?” The sound of my voice was the only noise. There were shapes, but they would not become vivid no matter how long I stared. It was much like the background in an old photo; everything was blurred with soft edges. The only thing that had sharp lines was me, or what I could see of myself. I was suddenly worried that my face might appear the same way as everything else, maybe a Serrat, with washed-out, semi-solid features, like I’d taken an acid bath. Not that it was going to matter much; as far as I could tell, I was alone. Had I again become separated from my traveling companions? Had Church been forced down a different route? He could, quite literally, be anywhere or any time.

I couldn’t get the feeling out of my head that I was in the in-between, a place before a place, if that makes any sense. It was and is a difficult concept to attempt to explain. I didn’t feel as if I were moving…wasn’t even sure if I could. Yet I felt movement, waves of change washing over me. Sometimes the world I was in became clearer, sometimes more distorted; sometimes I could make out great shapes in the background, and just as soon as I began to focus they would disappear, like being at the optometrist when they stick your head up against the lens machine.

“This one clear?” and before you can answer, they switch to the next one that makes it feel like you’re looking through the bottom of a coke bottle. An old one, with the quarter-inch-thick glass. It’s difficult to gauge the length of nothingness. What do you measure it against? A minute could have been a year, ten. Each wave that crashed over me could have been an epoch. My world born, a bright magma erupting hot spot, then a cold, lonely stone floating through the cosmos, and everything in between. Everything I’d known and loved no longer even dust. Or it could have been the length of an extended allergy drug commercial; seriously, though, those can seem much like forever. No matter how long it had been, there was only so much I could take of this sort of environment, only as long as anyone could take this sort of environment. Trip might flourish, but the rest of us would be letting go of our marbles by the fistful. And those of us with barely more than a handful to begin with could be in some serious trouble.

“Milk!”

I either turned, lazily spun, or created a mirage. Off in the distance I could see the vague outline of Bob, sometimes as clear as if it were a bright summer morning, others through that optometrist’s torture device, only after they’d put that dye in your eyes and blew the air in so you couldn’t see anything. At least there, you get to rock those plastic sunglasses. Bob was sometimes a quarter of a mile away, and at other times, I could feel him touch me. My mind felt fractured, and that was when I began to understand what was happening—not that it helped, but it was a step in a direction—didn’t say the right direction because I didn’t know. There were so many variations of landscape and perspective and I was living through them all, perhaps simultaneously, and I don’t even need to find a limb to go out on here, but this is not something the human mind is capable of dealing with. Like trying to put a ten thousand-piece puzzle together from ten thousand different puzzles, the template to cut them may have been the same throughout, but each had a different image. It was going to take a lot of patience and perseverance to complete.

“Close your eyes.” The first two words so close a lover could have whispered them; the last drifted from an unknowable distance. I did as he said, doing my best to calm my laboring heart and a panic that was smacking the ass of the runaway horses in preparation for a stampede.

“Do not drift.” This, in and out like a fast-moving car on a small looped track. How does one do something they have no clue how not to do? Seems easy enough, right? You’d think that. I kept my eyes shut, forced shut, to the point it was uncomfortable, like I was five and I was convinced there was a monster clown in my closet, and as long as I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t hurt me, just like that. I told myself it worked then; why not now? Still hate clowns, but it as of yet hadn’t gutted me with its razor-sharp teeth—stupid clowns.

“Follow my voice,” Bob told me. I don’t know where he was, but he must have seen my eyelids fluttering. “With your mind!” he yelled. It was like he was throwing my brain a life-synapse, as weird as that sounds. I latched onto that thing with a ratcheting grappling hook and those don’t even exist. He kept talking, each word reeling me in closer until, finally, he was able to sink a hook into me. Then it was as if I’d gone from traveling the speed of light to standing still. My body jerked violently as I felt ground under my feet. Bob kept me from pitching my face into it.

“Whoa, thanks!” I shouted, not yet realizing the rushing noise had stopped. “Can I open my eyes?”

“Perhaps not yet.”

Didn’t like the sound of that one bit. What was out there that would necessitate me keeping them shut? Another sound picked up; it was like listening to a train with rusty axles crushing the heads of squealing bunnies. I placed a hand over my eyes in the unlikely event I decided I might need to see what was causing it. It was getting louder, to the point my fillings began to vibrate. I could only hope we weren’t standing on the tracks. I didn’t feel a breeze as it passed, but the sound started to trail off. I realized that whatever it had been, had thankfully kept on going. I peeled my hand back and opened my eyes. Far off in the distance was something monstrously huge, massive tentacles were whipping in the air, legs as large as water tower supports held up a body to match. It was highly likely this had been Orson Welles’ inspiration. Something better seen in a fever dream rather than real life. Though, there were decent odds that none of this was real.

I turned my attention elsewhere when it finally passed from view. I noticed that the ground we were on was a flat surface of bluish glass. It was remarkable in that it was unremarkable. It was flat as far as I could see, not so much as a pimple or a divot on the terrain. I guess that wasn’t the appropriate word because “terrain” means to have features. Might as well have been standing on a windshield.

“Kill?”

I’d not known everyone’s favorite wart beast was here. And I don’t think I’d ever heard him hesitate in his one-word answer; he was looking off in the distance to where I had been.

“Church!” I was happy to see him, even went so far as thinking about hugging him. “He all right?” I asked Bob when Church did not respond to me.

“The journey is difficult,” Bob said with hesitation. “His mind will right itself.”

That last part was not said with much conviction.

“Screw it.” I hugged the beast. He tensed up to the point I thought he might push me away, followed by a hearty punch to the head. Then he looked down, his eyes were clouded over as he worked through the fog in his brain. The sides of his green scaly lips pulled back; I noticed Bob at the ready, to act before Church bit a chunk out of my head. Neither of us figured the display we were seeing to be Church’s version of a smile.

“Kill!” he yelled exuberantly before giving me a solid clap on the back that dislodged my trachea.

10

Mike Journal Entry 6

After we said our hellos and the initial joy wore off, I began to assess our situation. We were virtually nowhere and had virtually nothing: no water no food, and I had a weapon better suited for an office. Just once I’d like to be dropped off at a fully stocked Cabela’s. With all the world-hopping I’d been doing lately, odds were decent that had to happen at some point, right?

“Bob, what do we do now?” I asked the question knowing that what we had just gone through was a first for us all; how could he know?

“It will be up to others now.”

That made as much sense as putting raisins in stuffing and yes, that happened once. Want to talk about a pissed off Thanksgiving dinner. I mean, I was pissed off; the host eventually got mad when I dumped my plate into the trash. Seriously, what did she expect? She made a ham, a green bean casserole, and the only thing I thought could save the day was the stuffing, and it had raisins in it. Who does that? The kicker? Cherry fucking pie. It was like she adamantly disliked me and wanted to make the meal as uncomfortable and as inedible as possible. Tried to kill my holiday hunger with the cheese and cracker plate, but the crackers were off-brand low-fat wheat thins, I think the box said “Thin Squares of Wheat,” and the cheese was American slices, their edges hard and curled like it had already been out for a different occasion and then the leftovers repurposed. This is what happens when I go to Tracy’s relatives.

“I don’t understand. What others? We’re here now.”

“Where exactly are we, Milk?” It was the first time I’d ever heard Bob sound frustrated, at least, at me.

“Umm, we’re here.” Couldn’t have had a lamer answer if I’d spent the time to think of one.

“We have punched a hole through reality. An opening, so that others may follow and finish what we have started. To make the creators pay for their many transgressions.”

I was still lost; we were here now. Why wouldn’t we finish what we’d started? And I asked him just that.

“There is one more hurdle we are not prepared for.”

I knew what he meant, the behemoth. “That giant thing?”

“It is called a trundle. It is a guardian to the gods.”

“That sounds formidable, but when has that stopped us? We’ve taken on whistlers, blown up a factory, killed custodians, and ripped a hole in time; we seriously going to pull up and stop short now? If we sit here and do nothing, aren’t we relegating ourselves to the same fate? Dead, I mean, if that wasn’t clear.”

“There are better ways to die than others.”

“Dehydration is a pretty shitty way to go.”

“It is preferred to having your nerve endings pulled free from your body and laid bare to be manipulated. The pain is beyond the ability of a mind to comprehend.”

I wanted to ask him if he even had nerve endings because to look at him, you couldn’t see anything besides the material he was made of, and then it dawned on me that he was worried about Church and myself, as we were built differently.

“How much do you know about that thing?”

“Some, though more legend is known than fact.”

“Tell me exactly what you know.”

“We are at the doorstep to the creators. What lies between them and us is the monster that guards the gates.”

“So, this shitty world’s version of Saint Peter is a water tower mixed with a Cthulhu, a Welles and Lovecraft lovechild, perfect. And even if we somehow got by the gatekeeper, I’ve got to imagine salvation isn’t at the end of the journey, but rather the creators themselves. But…that has me thinking. If they had to create something so daunting to keep out trespassers, it makes sense that they’d be easy pickings once you get past. You don’t have a rabid guard dog unless you’re worried about getting hurt.”

“You are supplying your own answers to matters you have no idea about. Have you perhaps thought that the guardian is here not because the creators can’t fight but rather, they do not wish to? These are the same beings responsible for the downfall of all life; do not underestimate them.”

“And you’re giving up feet from the end zone. We either get into the history books as footnotes or legends.” It was a bravado I wasn’t feeling, and I was using the words as much for myself as my traveling companions.

“It saw us, Milk.”

“What?”

“The guardian saw us; that is how little it thinks of us. We weren’t even worth its time to destroy.”

I don’t know why I was indignant at the thought that a monster didn’t want to kill me. It seems like I should have been doing a celebratory dance at that fact. Instead, I was pissed. The jarhead in me ran deep. “Maybe we should give it something to think about.”

“Kill.” Church seemed down with that idea.

I started walking to where the creature had gone, and Church fell in step quickly. It was Bob that took a minute. I can’t blame him; it’s not usual for the gazelle to track the lion. We’d been traveling across the same strange, featureless ground for maybe an hour. The heat of my decision had been cooling the entire time, like a boiling pot of water removed from the flame. Then it about turned to ice when I could begin to see the outline of the thing far ahead. Easy enough to muster courage with no adversary. How you hold on to the elusive substance when confronted is the question I had no answer for.

Church whistled, or made an approximation of a whistle. I wondered if it meant the same thing to him, like a “whoo…what have I gotten into?” type of whistle.

“I do not know this to be true or not,” Bob said as he sidled up to me. We’d all stopped to look upon the creature; it wasn’t doing anything. Like, maybe it was resting before its next patrol or body flaying or shuffling for a rousing game of Uno, who knows.

“But it is told that the larger tentacles are lined with poisonous barbs. One strike is enough to kill any living thing.”

“And the smaller?” I gulped.

“Razor-sharp suckers. But this is all hearsay, as it is likely anything that had any true knowledge perished long ago at the feet of the beast.”

“You’re supposed to be the fun one of the group,” I told him. “Come on, might as well get this over with.” I did not like it at all, that I was having to drag Bob along into this. That the strongest of us three by a mile and a half wanted nothing to do with this spoke Encyclopedia Britannica-length volumes. As we got closer, I was walking slower. I’d initially been out in front, driving the pace; now I found myself at the rear, slogging along with Bob. Church hadn’t noticed because he’d yet to take his eyes from the trundle. We were still over half a mile away, and the thing dominated the skyline; even the mind tricks I tried to play with myself weren’t working. Especially the one where I blamed its immensity on the fact that there was nothing else around to compare it to. About as useless as saying one fire wasn’t as hot as the other; they would both still burn.

I spent some time looking from my stapler to the trundle, back and forth until I couldn’t figure out why I was doing it. The thing still hadn’t moved, the longer of the tentacles were lying on the ground; it looked to be resting. Seriously, it had to be bored as fuck. How many visitors actually stopped by? This residence was the old, dilapidated, supposedly haunted house in the neighborhood. Bad analogy because there were always stupid teenagers daring each other to go in.

“There’s no way around that thing?” I asked.

Bob said nothing. His head, or the top part of him, sagged, his eyes looking down, for the most part. We were no more than a quarter-mile away when the top portion of the trundle swiveled in our direction like a drum sitting upon ball bearings. I didn’t think what I was looking at was a machine, but that was a very machine-like movement. Not that it mattered much either way. We froze like an advanced game of Red Light, Green Light. Though this game master never turned back around so we could approach. When it did nothing, not even slam its tentacles down like an ape may its arms in an intimidation display, I started walking toward it again. I took note of the arsenal I could see. It had four enormous legs, the foot of each bigger than an elephant.

There were the two, supposedly spike-riddled, more massive tentacles, which I’d yet to confirm or disprove, and then two much smaller limbs that looked like they must be used to shovel food into the coal-black mouth. If what was in that maw could be considered teeth, they were the same color as the ground we walked on, or, I guess it was possible that was what it ate to sustain itself. There was nothing on its broad, leathery-looking face that would imply it had eyes, but obviously it was “looking” at us, I could feel its gaze, like maybe it was directing heat towards us and picking up the resultant signature. It was blind in only my definition of that word; there was zero doubt it saw us in its own way. We got into a line of three opposing it, which should have been somewhat scary or at least mildly intimidating in a posturing type of way for most adversaries. I got the feeling instead that the trundle was already growing bored with us and may have again begun its nap time.

I took another step. Before I could put my leading foot down, a noise boomed forth from it. A blacksmith dropping an anvil from atop the Empire State building onto a hundred sheets of glass a close approximation to the slicing sound that threatened to rip my damaged eardrums. Then my whistler-issued gear spoke what I’d heard into an equally loud translation.

“What are you?”

A curious monster…I think it just wanted to catalog our species before killing us. Something to tally. I mean, when you’re guarding something so utterly desolate, what’s the rush?

“Weary travelers,” I told it, that was true.

“This is not a road traveled very often, wanderer.”

I’m going to forgo explaining that each time it spoke, there was the air-splitting noise and that it took long seconds after before I could even think on a reply. If this thing ended up being long-winded, my sliced-up brains would begin to sluice from my torn eardrums.

“K….” I quickly spun on Church before he could finish his word. I didn’t think there was going to be any reasoning with the trundle, but that didn’t mean I wanted to move immediately to the bonus rounds where the rubber really met the road.

“We’re lost; it is imperative that we meet with the Creators.”

“Are you gods?”

I’d seen Ghostbusters, I knew the answer to this. I turned to look at my companions to make sure neither of them decided to speak the Ray Stantz truth and tell Gozer we weren’t.

“Of course.”

“Lost gods?”

“Happens more than you’d think,” I told it.

“Milk.”

“Yes, Bob, I realize this is a dangerous game. What would you have me do?” I said softly.

“The key to entering resides within me. If you are indeed gods, I will present no problem for your access.”

Pretty safe to say it wasn’t buying my gambit, otherwise it wouldn’t have been so cavalier with its life. Or maybe it would; maybe it was just plain sick of this strange place. Either way, I didn’t think it was just going to lay down and die for us, as nice a gesture as that would have been.

Maybe it was time for a differing tactic. Appeal to its altruism, if it had any. “Your masters are destroying everything.”

It did not respond; no way to tell if that was good or bad.

“Soon, there will be nothing left.”

“That is preferable. Once there is nothing left to guard against, my job here will be complete. I will have served my purpose, and the ascension I was promised will be fulfilled.”

“Kill?” Church asked.

“It’s pointing in that direction,” I told Church.

“As gods, I will offer you one chance to prove yourselves. If you are worthy, you will gain access to what you seek. If not, I will do what I have been tasked to do.”

Of course, I hoped its task was hosting a Super Bowl party with all the food and beer that went along with it, no matter how unlikely. I put up one finger to let the trundle know to wait while I conferred with my comrades. I turned to them to get into a classic huddle. Church was still looking at the beast; I had to tap his side.

“We’ve got one chance with this. Anyone have any thoughts on what we can do?”

“Milk.”

“Oh, don’t you retreat back to the one-word shit now Bob, leaves way too much room for my spin on things.”

“Kill.”

“Well, obviously, Church. Just need to know how.”

I took a gander over to the beast, who hadn’t moved. Where does one attack something that is fifty feet tall? Where could it possibly be vulnerable? Perhaps something else distracted it, or it was getting disinterested with the proceedings, but the barrel body swiveled away. If it genuinely thought there was any possibility we were gods, would it have turned its proverbial back on us?

I took a chance and fired the stapler. Wasn’t like it made much sound, and as of yet, we hadn’t come up with anything, like, nothing, not even anything far-fetched. If a list was kept of all the stupid shit I’d done in my life, I didn’t peg this one as much more than a midway entry. Maybe that was only due to the sheer number of entries, because here I was firing a staple gun at a monster that protected gods. That still nagged at me a bit: why did gods need protecting? What exactly were they worried about? Or were they raised to that station in their minds only? That made more sense, and there was precedent for it on my world. But who knows? Supposedly our God had Archangels to protect Him. That was a road of doubts I wasn’t going down at the moment.

The fired staple traveled on nearly a straight line, striking the behemoth on the top of its foot. It reacted like a person does when a ravenous horsefly rips through the layers of your skin and takes a thirst-quenching drink of blood. Like, it hurt a bit more than it should and was more noticeable and bothersome than a mosquito bite would be. Its body moved fluidly back around, the tentacle nearest smacked its foot hard.

“Did that just happen?” I asked.

Nobody really knew what I was asking.

“Can an animal poison itself? Let’s assume what you said is true about poisonous spikes on its tentacles. Is an animal immune to its own toxins, or can it poison itself?” I had no idea, Animal Planet never really covered the topic, or if they had, I was zoning out on some particularly good weed. For some reason, I knew that the acids in my stomach, if let loose, would destroy my innards. If a rattler was injected with its venom, would it succumb? Nothing is that easy, right? This would be like the bank doors being unlocked at night, the vault wide open, and an idling van waiting nearby to be loaded with the take. Oh yeah, might as well throw a cop strike on top of it, if we’re going with entirely fantastical.

The trundle took two quick steps at us; we scattered like pigeons in the road will when a car is coming. A tentacle swept toward me but was feet short; seemed like a safe distance, but when you’re talking about something as thick as a suspension bridge cable and deadly poisonous, is there ever really enough clearance? After the two steps and the half-hearted attempt to cut me in half, it did nothing. Well, not quite nothing, its body would swivel around a bit to take the three of us in; we had gone in three different directions. But it wasn’t pursuing, which was good because, for every step it took, I’d have to take twenty or thirty to stay away. It would be a very short chase scene.

It looked drugged, like a tranquilized tiger, still wary, claws still more than capable of taking an arm off, but rapidly heading to dozy and not giving a fuck. I was still very much doubting this was unfolding the way it seemed to be. They say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but what if it’s smiling at you? There was a wobbling of its legs, and given that, I did not need to be a rocket scientist to figure out all on my own what was going to happen next. I started hauling ass away as it began to sway in a non-existent breeze. When it finally did collide with the ground, the glass beneath it shattered like ice and sent cracks as wide as ten feet across blazing out from the initial point of contact. When the reverberations had died down and the surface stopped splitting, I walked up to one of the newly formed fissures and looked down; I came away happy in the fact that I was looking at more of the substance and not some ever-expanding crevasse. I was concerned that maybe this had only been a single layer holding us up from the nothingness below, like a pane of glass suspended high in the air.

“Trick?” I asked as we converged.

“Why bother?” Bob asked.

“What the hell happened?”

“It is very likely it had sent toxins into its spikes in preparation to do battle with us.”

That made sense. On any typical day, it would have merely rubbed at the discomfort. This time it was loaded for bear and had royally screwed itself, and I was okay with that.

“Think it’s dead?” The trundle took that exact moment to let me know what it thought of the question. One of the small tentacles was flopping about wildly like an air man advertisement in front of a car dealership. “We need to kill it.” I said the words, but couldn’t think of a way to do it; this was like trying to take down a city bus with a toy hammer a kid gets in a plastic tool pack. We were close now; if it were playing possum, we wouldn’t be able to get far enough away in time. It was Church that decided to Jump the Shark, not sure if that’s an apt analogy, though I’m given to understand that’s when something completely random and out of the ordinary takes place, so it has some application here. He ran at the beast’s side and was digging his impressively sharp claws there. Had a cheese grater effect going, as mini pieces of the trundle were being shaved to the ground. Had to have been eight inches in, and so far, it was still the leathery skin material, not a sign of anything that resembled blood. I was beginning to wonder if it was made entirely out of the stuff, like a golem is made from clay.

I moved closer to see if there was anything I could do to help. Church was in halfway up his arm; he was tiring, but he was still working like he was the world’s largest food processor. Both of the smaller two tentacles were now moving, the flopping around was getting less erratic, and there were signs of movement in the much larger ones. I was of the hope that this was part of its death throes, but the damage Church had done so far didn’t amount to much more than ripping a hangnail off.

“Church, I think it’s waking up.” I wanted to tap his shoulder but I didn’t want to get anywhere near the whirling dervish. Didn’t need to. A moment later he had broken through the two-foot thick outer layer, and a torrent of yellowish blood blew him back, a fire hydrant opened all the way could not have had as much pressure and volume. I was thankful that Church shielded me from the majority of the flow; still didn’t mean I was free and clear. It smelled like ripe fungus and looked like pus—I couldn’t move away fast enough, and we had to keep moving, as a lake was beginning to form.

I was transfixed by the sheer volume, and Church was admiring his handiwork. It was Bob that suffered for it. We were too busy looking at the tree to see the forest was moving. Bob had plowed into us, shoving the both of us away. I was heading to the ground, confused, until I heard Bob shriek. A tentacle had lashed out and ripped through the side of him; I saw large globules of my friend blown into the air. The hit was a somewhat lucky one, or unlucky, depending, as the trundle didn’t know exactly where we were, just doing its best to clear the area. The giant tentacle began to slam the ground, looking for anything to flatten. I raced up to grab Bob and pull him away. I had the slickness of the ground to thank for its lack of resistance so I was able to move him because Bob was way heavier than he looked.

That fucking tentacle was beating the ground into submission, each strike closer than the last, as it worked a methodical grid, knowing that eventually, it would destroy its attackers. I pulled for all I was worth, not wanting to know what a fly felt when the swatter finally found its mark. I was three thumps away from having to cut and run if I wanted any chance of living. Bob was in too much pain to do much more than his version of a pant, which sounded a lot like a rapidly filling and deflating whoopie cushion; given a different set of circumstances…well, I’m sure you know what my reaction would have been. Right then I didn’t even register it. I had my head thrown back, my teeth gritted and every muscle in my arms, legs and back were working on pulling Bob clear from danger.

If not for Church coming in and carrying the both of us away, the splattering would have been in full effect. The beast’s legs began to twitch as it rolled and used its tentacles for leverage to push up. It was going to stand, and once that happened, that was it. I got as close as I dared and began to unload staples into the massive wound. I was completely unsure if any of them were actually getting inside or were being blown away by the blood flood. The trundle was shaking, maybe from pain, rage, or maybe working through its self-poisoning, perhaps all of the above. The front two legs were bent behind it as the rear legs pushed up, much like a camel. If I thought the leak was draining beforehand, it had nothing on what happened as it tried to stand, and all the weight of the thing pushed the fluid out. A bursting dam would have had a difficult time keeping up the pace. I kept shooting, not knowing what else to do. I spared a brief glimpse at Church; he was doing his utmost to create as much space as possible between the behemoth and Bob, who was most definitely out of round two, should we live to see one.

The trundle finally pushed up and was standing, albeit with a visible tremor, like it was doing its best to answer the bell, but had yet to figure out what the strange ringing sound was. It took a step in the wrong direction, meaning it was coming straight for me. The tentacle whipped past. The blown air from the near miss was enough to send me sprawling. I was sliding through the viscera like I was sliding into the world’s grossest second base, like maybe the Yankees and Red Sox had an on-field brawl and the grounds crew hadn’t cleaned up the bloody mess yet. It was absolutely as disgusting as it sounded, but was entirely the only reason I survived, as I sailed quickly out of its strike range. I was doing my best to keep my head up and turned to the side, but I was still getting splashed on the face, some making its way into my mouth. It was acrid and there was a burn wherever it touched. I didn’t think the blood was tainted with acid, maybe a form of capsicum; it burned somewhere between jalapeño and habanero. Not a great sensation, but if I could avoid getting it in my eyes, I’d still be able to function.

A tentacle came down; blood flew into the air in a way that would make Moses proud, that is, substantial tidal waves parted and raced away from it. A boogie board would have been great, riding up over the mess as opposed to being blown over a cresting wave like a bodysurfer. I had no choice but to take the ride to the end of the station, which ended up being a hundred feet. I’m fairly sure I looked like a chicken strip dredged in batter ready for the deep fryer. When I turned to look, matter was still pouring forth, the trundle had not moved, its limbs all hanging down by its sides.

“Fuck.” I managed to stand, pounds of goop rolled off and pooled on the ground by my feet. I pulled up my relatively clean undershirt and wiped my face as best I could. The burning sensation had intensified, and now it covered the entirety of me. If it got worse, peeling off my clothes was going to become a necessity. Somehow, I’d managed to hold on to the stapler—for all the good that was going to do. The guardian’s body swiveled slightly, it raised its right front leg, then just fell over like a tangled-up AT-AT walker. (Star Wars reference…the vehicle in question looks like a giant armored elephant drawn by Salvador Dali, and Land Speeders could take one down by wrapping a tow line around the legs to trip it up, kind of like roping a calf. Yeah, I don’t know why I went there either, just sort of what it looked like as it slow-plummeted to the ground.) The shockwave sent me nearly a foot into the air.

“Kill!” Church shouted off to my side. He had one arm in the air, with the other he was propping Bob up. My friend looked like crap, the palest I’d ever seen him; he barely had any hue to him whatsoever. I didn’t care about the downed monster, the only thing that mattered was Bob. This whole fiasco could go fuck itself if I lost Bob. Church must have noticed the look on my face as I came rushing over, or maybe Bob was really beginning to sag, but he turned his attention away from the trundle and to his charge. We both gently helped Bob down as he began to redistribute his weight to the ground.

“Church, see if you can rip some strips of meat off that thing!” It was all I could think to do. Bob seemed very efficient in turning food into energy; I could only hope he could do the same with healing. I wasn’t even sure if the trundle was edible but it was easy enough to see Bob was going to die if we sat around and did nothing except watch. Church was doing his best to get to the downed thing; it was not easy on what was, essentially, a lube-covered glass surface.

“Hold on, Bob. Do not die on me.” His eyes, which had been pulling back further into his body, maybe didn’t rise to look, but stopped their retreat. “We’re close to finishing this. You want to be there for the end, don’t you?”

He let out a raspberry sound. I got the distinct impression it was a Bob version of a swear. I was hoping it was more of the “fuck this,” than the “fuck off” variety of curses. Church came back with a piece of meat the buyer of a half cow would have been happy to receive, looked like the Flintstones rack of ribs that flips the car. The beef was the same unappealing color as the outer skin. The smell bordered on rank; even Bob seemed dubious about the meal laid by his body.

“If you don’t eat it, Bob, I’m going to shove it in you like I did before.” He slowly moved toward the food; apparently he’d thought that whole fiasco as distasteful as I had. He created a protuberance, looked like a straw from a juice box, injecting it straight into the pile. His body was slowly drawing inwards as he pulled in sustenance. The food was getting noticeably smaller, so I asked Church to get some more. He was on his way back when he pulled up short and was looking off to the side.

I looked to the pile of meat and noticed it was vibrating, as was Bob; then, come to think of it, so was I. During my time in the service I’d been around enough tanks to know that when they were close, they made the ground shake, a lot like what I was feeling now. I did a quick scan completely around myself, even going around the trundle to look at the sight lines it was blocking. Couldn’t even see a smudge on the horizon. It wasn’t celestial tanks, so that was a good thing. Perhaps it was an earthquake, but the rumbling had been going on for over a minute; I was not under the impression that tremors lasted that long. But this wasn’t Earth, so who knew the rules.

I looked for any developing cracks in the surface, making sure we wouldn’t be swallowed up in some new crevasse. By the time I got back around my perimeter walk, Bob was working on the second slab. He didn’t look much better for it. I got the feeling he was going through the motions for me, that there was a good chance he might be dying. I felt helpless as I watched. To not even be able to call for a medivac was giving me a crippling feeling; anxiety was welling up, and I could think of no way to alleviate it.

“KILL!” Church shouted to get my attention. I was happy for the distraction, for the second it took to see what he was pointing at, anyway. Church must have had telescopic vision because I could see nothing. He kept pointing, I kept looking; he was getting frustrated that I wasn’t reacting. Then I saw what looked like a mote in my eye, so far away, it could be considered a hallucination. Maybe I could have even continued to pull that lie off if not for the ground under my feet feeling like a bass drum, as it led an orc army into war. The first mote was joined by a second, third and possibly fourth, though that last one could be due to the vibrating of my eyeballs as my entire body shook. Where were the Steadicams when you needed them? Some higher functioning part of me knew exactly what I was looking at, but the majority of the lower base animal part of me refused to acknowledge it because to do so meant it knew how close death was, and, not many living things, if any, are willing to stare that straight in the face.

I turned back to Bob, wondering if it would be possible to pull him to safety somehow. He must have seen what we had, as he was pulling himself up off the ground. I understood the desire to die on your feet, to not have that last dignity taken from you. Or die on your base, as your physiology dictates. I looked to the trundle, wondering if hiding in the carcass would be an option; it had worked out for Luke Skywalker, not so much the Tauntaun, but these things can’t be helped. Sure, that had been for warmth on a frozen planet, and this was for refuge on a hostile one, but otherwise same thing in principle. The specks of dust had grown to the size of a pencil eraser held out at arm's length, not the square kind, but rather the ones you bite off the end of a pencil. They were hauling ass. I didn’t think we had much more than five minutes to do something besides roll over and show our bellies in an act of submission.

I smacked Church’s arm. “Come on. We have to dig a hole in the thing so we can all fit.”

If Church had eyebrows, they would have furrowed. He still came with me as we headed over. I hoped the ruse would work and that the trundles didn’t cremate their dead. As Church worked on a section, clearing out the detritus, I began to see a glow, like a flashlight held against the palm of a hand. I was worried that it might be some spark of life within the beast, and that even after all we’d done to it, it still wasn’t dead. Or maybe, since it was a creation of the creators, it had the ability to regenerate and was even now getting ready to smash us into oblivion. Church stopped to point out what I was already looking at.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t burn to the touch,” I told him as I foolishly decided to take another peek at the bundle of trundles trundling towards us. “Church, you’d better dig faster!” The hole was wide enough I could get next to him and help pull away the meat, yeah, I’m sure that wasn’t going to look too obvious to an observer, just random piles of meat, organs and intestines laying in steaming piles next to a hole in the body. The blood that surrounded us was now splashing upwards because of the movement of the ground. Part of me wondered if it would be easier to hide under what we’d pulled out, as opposed to crawling in. We had no idea what they did with the bodies of their fallen. We could end up in a hundred-foot deep grave. Church had carved out something the size of a walk-in closet; it would be tight, but I figured we could fit.

“Help me get Bob.”

The ground was bouncing now and us along with it. We could see at least six of the gigantic guardians racing to see what had happened to their fallen comrade, and my guess was to dole out some payback to the ones that had done it. This appeared to be an all hands on deck scenario; had to figure something like this may never have happened before, or if it had, it was a super rare event—something like me being right in an argument with the missus—on that scale of rarity. They were reacting to the threat level they had to feel present; if they’d known just how lucky we had been in the fight, they wouldn’t have bothered racing to the scene. This was more of an accidental overdose on our trundle’s part than a murder, as far as I was concerned.

Bob, instead of rebounding from eating, looked worse. His ordinarily smooth skin was now pockmarked, and none of his color had been restored. Church and I grabbed a side and were doing our best to pull or hoist him along.

“Milk,” he sighed.

“Fuck no, Bob. I’m not leaving you here while we hide! What the hell kind of friend is that?”

“Milk.”

“The best kind? What? What are you talking about?”

“Bob.”

“Oh, so you’re going to lay there in the hopes that they think you were solely responsible for the death of the thing? Well, that’s pretty fucking selfish, Bob. We all helped. Just like you to want to take all the credit. Sorry, buddy, you’re coming with us. No posthumous medals being passed out today.” I grunted as I tried to move him, he might as well have been rooted in place. I knew enough about Bob to know if he didn’t want to go somewhere, there was little anyone could do about it. Where Church and I were continually losing contact with the ground, Bob had become a giant suction cup. I looked over to the trundles; I had no idea how they processed vision, but I figured it wouldn’t be long before us tiny specks begin to fill it.

“Milk.”

I didn’t like it one bit that we were back to the one word, and I didn’t think he was doing it to mess with me but rather, he didn’t have the strength to speak in full sentences.

“Get the corpus? Bob, I’m a Marine. I don’t know what that is.” I could only hope he wasn’t losing his rationality as he approached his end. Because that’s what it was. I’d been on enough battlefields and seen enough of the specter’s handiwork to realize it was close, clicking off the seconds until it collected its due.

“Milk.”

“The light? You’re seeing the light? Please, Bob, stay away from it, stay with us!” I was crying, an emotion I thought that this planet might have burned out of me.

Church smacked my shoulder hard enough to spin me, I was looking directly at the carved-up trundle and the pulsating glow emanating from the giant wound. “Oh, that’s a corpus.” I understood now. Well, I realized what I needed to get; what I was supposed to do with it had yet to be determined. I hoped that whatever the corpus was, that it would magically make Bob better, but he was above that. He would not be thinking about himself, not with extreme danger bearing down on us as fast as trundles can run. Which is surprisingly pretty fast, and they didn’t look like they were going to get tired anytime soon. Unless the corpus was some sort of directed thermonuclear device, I had no idea how we were going to get out of this situation. I went back to work and dug in earnest, ripping chunks of unidentifiable substances out of my way. I was coated in all manner of organic goop. The smell was rancid, and I barely noticed it.

The corpus was dead center in the belly of the beast. I was halfway there; it was unlikely I’d make it in time. Digging in the trundle’s body was like trying to dig a tunnel in mud. No matter how much of the stuff I pulled away, the walls and ceiling kept collapsing in on me. I was more like a tick burrowing deep than a spelunker. I was as much in danger of suffocation as I was anything else. I’d not known just how much trouble I was in until I tried to look behind me. I was encased. I had an inkling of what Jonah had gone through, but even he had more room than I did. I had a moment of panic when I realized that I only had a small bubble of air around my head and that was rapidly beginning to stale. If I headed back out to make the hole wider, I’d never make it back in time, but if I kept going, it was likely I would suffocate. Life is usually about choosing between less than great options, but those typically involve visiting the in-laws or painting the house.

I plowed on. If I was going to die, it was going to be on my terms and not at the end of a tentacle or being scraped off a foot the size of a house. A blinding headache was forming at the base of my skull as my oxygen intake dropped off and was replaced by my lung’s byproducts. Where’s Groot when you need him? I got a Church, which was a pretty good stand-in. His meat cleaver hands came up behind me and swept to the side. I was greeted with sunlight and an oh-so-welcome, relatively cool breeze of fresh air. Could have walked back with my arms out and my fingertips trailing on the trundle walls, if I so desired, his path so wide. The corpus was near; I had to squint to keep from being blinded by its brightness. I was close and so were the trundles. The carcass I was immersed in was shaking wildly—like the worst carnival funhouse ever.

“Few more feet, Church!” I had to yell to be heard over the stampede. There was a loud trumpeting noise; Gabriel had come to tear down the walls or the trundles, to avenge the death of one of their own. Church and I were side by side, never stopping in our quest to get at the corpus. We hoped it would save us, but it could just as easily be our demise. I was now working with my eyes closed, the light far too intense to stare at. I could feel my corneas searing through my lids. Inches, inches away when the beast we were in was flung violently to the side. My body was pushed deep into the folds of flesh. Church flew into me, sending me even deeper. I was completely engulfed; I struggled to get air. A tentacle whipped through a massive portion of the trundle; it had given me the air I desired but also a view of the new monster. My entire field of vision was taken up by its immensity. I was like a cockroach when the homeowner turned on the kitchen lights. Not those crazy hissing Madagascar ones that hold their ground, but the more normal kind that seek darkness to get away from the gigantic creature of light.

I can’t say I redoubled my efforts, that would mean I’d been half-assing to begin with, but I was burrowing like a maddened botfly, with my teeth, my hands—anything to get me further into the relative hidden safety. Another tentacle whip—this time the trundle we were in was halved. The beast above…so immense I had to figure the one we killed was a juvenile, and a young one, by the size disparity. I was as exposed as one can be, like that bug, my back pressed up against the cupboard and staring down the muzzle of a loaded can of Raid. I could only watch as the tentacle swept down toward me. Church came out of seemingly nowhere to move in front of me; he took the brunt of the swipe. His body folded around the appendage before he was flung high up into the air and snatched by another tentacle. I couldn’t tell if he’d survived the first hit. If I lived for another minute or two, I would grieve. Right now, I went back in to get what all the fuss seemed to be about.

I scraped through the final layer, my fingertips barely touching the corpus. I felt a current blaze along the surface of my skin. If my hair hadn’t been so matted down by gore, it would have stood on end. I pushed further, wrapping my entire hand around it. It was like grabbing a nitrogen frozen piece of lava. I could feel the bones in my hand melting at the same time they were hardening. I had it, but it was all I could do to hold on to it. My teeth were gritted in pain as I waited for the thing to tell me what to do with it. The pain was so intense, I wasn’t even aware when a tentacle wrapped around my midsection; it was the rush of air as I was yanked high up that got my attention. The trundle pulled me in close to its face, maybe to watch me die as it tightened its grip. Air was forced from my lungs as first one rib, then another cracked. This was it; I would die with the unused key in my hand. I tried to scream out as a third rib burst—there was no air to make it happen. I threw my head back in time to see a gash of light form above me; I hoped that this was my ticket to the promised land, the chariot swinging low, come to take me away from this nightmare. It wasn’t.

“Jack?” I hissed, just like a snake, if they had the ability of speech. He outstretched his hand; I knew what to do. I was the sacrificial runner taking a hit as I lateraled the ball to the person who was going to take it to the end zone. And like the “Creation of Adam,” I reached out to hand it off, right before I…

11

Jack Walker — Chapter Five

Circling around toward the hovercraft, there isn’t any movement. The hope of coming to the right decision doesn’t materialize by the time I arrive. I had hoped for some bright revelation to magically appear, some mystical sign pointing me in the right direction. None of that happened.

I still feel the pull toward where the lights high overhead are arriving and departing from, but the pyramids are also calling. I can’t be sure that the structures in the distance are even the ones that Mike might be in. Perhaps I’ll just flip a coin once I take a look at these machines and determine if I’m able to fly them.

Clambering inside the larger of the two, the one with the attached railgun, a short hallway extends inside from the outer door and opens into a large chamber. Windows look out in three directions, the rear of the vessel a blindspot. An oddly shaped chair, tall and thin and formed to fit the strangely jointed whistler physique, sits in the middle of the room. On each arm is a partial orb, like some kind of large trackball mouse with buttons lining the front half. It’s not overly difficult to grasp how this ship operates, providing there’s a logic to what I’m observing.

The seat is more comfortable than what it initially looked, the covering adapting like it is some kind of memory foam. The armrests are a little tall, but I’m able to adjust them by pushing down. I kind of feel like I’m in charge of the Enterprise and the urge to say “Make it so” is strong. Maybe if there was anyone else with me, I might have done so.

Once seated, a panel in the floor by my feet opens up and two foot pedals rise from it. I wonder if this thing is driven like a car. Between the two pedals is a button, like an old-fashioned bright light adjustment in a vehicle. I press down on the button and a white crosshair is superimposed on one of the large panes in front. Pressing on one pedal moves the cursor up and down, while the other moves it side to side. I figure this must be the aiming system for the railgun. I press the button again and the crosshair vanishes. I hope that means the railgun is disarmed as well. I’d hate to inadvertently shoot a hole in the vessel as I start attempting to figure out the controls.

The trackball-like devices don’t actually roll, so I’m assuming you just move your hands over the surface—as if they’re crystal balls, and I’m trying to read the future. The buttons I’ll figure out, providing I don’t immediately end up a flaming wreck. One such button is set apart from the others, and I figure that’s a good one to start my experimentations with. Pressing it with a wince, the outer door snaps shut and a low-pitched whine starts. The entire hovercraft begins a low-grade vibration which can be felt mostly through my boots. Once the whine settles to a constant, the craft jostles as it rises a few feet off the ground.

With careful movements, I’m able to determine that the left orb raises and lowers the ship by moving my hand back and forward. There is a limit to how low I can descend, and I wonder if there’s also a limit on height. I may find out at a later point, but there’s no use in determining the limits now. Moving my hand left and right rotates the vessel left and right. The right orb increases and reduces speed and slips the craft left and right.

Moving away from the campsite and other hovercraft, I practice maneuvering. It takes some getting used to, but all in all, it’s not really that much different from flying a helicopter. I keep trying to use the pedals in conjunction with the orbs on the armrests. I become a little more accustomed to it, but I can see why the strange joints of the whistlers are an advantage.

The buttons are interesting. One locks the craft in a hover, but I’m still able to rotate it left and right. Another auto-lands the vessel. There’s an additional one that’s set off to the side like the starter button but doesn’t seem to do anything when pressed. That is, until I engage the weapon system, and then its purpose becomes readily apparent. The ship shudders and the ground in front of me erupts in a towering column of dirt and grasses as a projectile slams into the surface at a tremendously high rate of speed. The white cursor momentarily changes to red and back to white; I’m assuming meaning that the weapon is reloaded and ready to fire.

Experimenting with it, I’m able to fire two shots almost back to back, and then I have to wait about thirty seconds before I’m able to fire again. As far as I can tell, there’s no way to determine how many rounds I have remaining. Hopefully I won’t have to engage in any lengthy fight to where ammo will become a factor. If that happens, I’ve probably lost anyway, considering that I’m on a whistler home world. After a little longer spent getting used to the vessel, I land a short distance from the whistler camp to contemplate my next move.

Sitting in the hovercraft, I ponder the situation. Our little group is separated, some of us possibly universes away. Mike is god knows where. Trip is off on some barren world, grieving. At least I assume that’s what he is doing. Poor BT is just along for whatever ride the hippie is on. And here I am. I may have more information about what’s going on, but it feels like everything is unraveling. If not that, then certainly being stretched very thin.

That relic is important but is in the possession of a half-crazed, stoned hippie. I probably should have snagged the thing when I had half a chance. If Trip is going to remain on that other planet, moping, and we need that thing for whatever reason, then we’ll be even more screwed than we already are. I don’t know what I can do solo. I may be able to find Mike and even free him, but what then? We’re somehow supposed to shut down an entire civilization that encompasses worlds and then deal with beings that are nearly god-like. At least we figured out a way to kill them, but that method is iffy at best.

One thing at a time, Jack.

My priority should be to figure out where Mike is so we can rejoin forces. When we’ve managed to do that in the past, things have come together. Perhaps not in the way we planned, but they worked out. Figuring out where he is will be the tricky part. Without a frame of reference, I have no idea which pyramid he’s being kept in. So, I need to get back to the only reference point that I truly know, and that is the towering black mountain. If I can find that, then I should be able to backtrack and locate the pyramid where we were both captured.

Now, that is easier said than done. The flat grassy terrain is empty of any landmarks, and the massive tower could lie in any direction. At least I have transportation and won’t have to walk. Seeing there’s a pull from where the lights are heading, I choose to head off in that direction. If I don’t find anything within a day or so, I’ll set up a grid search pattern to see if I can locate the distinct landmark.

Zipping across the grassy plain reminds me of the Luke Skywalker scene of him zooming across Tatooine on his speeder. Of course, I’m not in a convertible, nor am I being chased by an empire. Well, not really, although it kind of feels like it. Under a bleached sky with its twin suns, I race above the tall motionless grass.

The hovercraft can move relatively quickly but isn’t a race car, by any means. Following the streaks of light moving overhead, which I’m pretty sure are aircraft or spaceships of some kind, I leave the sight of the pyramids behind. I can only hope that I’m taking the right direction and not moving farther away from Mike. After all, I have a weapon to deliver.

Soon, the flat terrain changes, becoming a series of rolling hills. I try to keep the hovercraft low in the valleys, maneuvering past the taller hills in order to keep a lower profile. If I see any other whistler craft, they may or may not think I’m just another one of them crossing the plain, but I don’t want to advertise my presence by silhouetting myself atop the hills.

The vehicle is actually rather nice to drive, and I wouldn’t mind taking this one home with me. I wonder where they manufacture these things or where they obtained the technology. Perhaps that’s part of what the massive pyramids are about; maybe the technology was obtained from one of the alien races they’re capturing. The whistlers I’ve run across don’t seem capable of designing, or really building, anything like this. They seem like true scavengers, using others’ inventions for their own purpose and discarding them when they break down.

I’m not overly interested in the inner workings of the whistlers. It’s just a way to spend the time as I search for the landmark. After another hour of maneuvering through the valleys, I catch sight of the top of the vast black tower of stone. I’m coming at it from the opposite direction than the last time, which means those upside-down pyramids must occupy a lot more of the planet’s surface than I realized. The whistlers must be more numerous than I’d imagined. There were thousands upon thousands of the aliens at just the one pyramid I was at. That means the number of aliens being brought in have to number in the millions. If there was a way to organize and arm them, we could probably take over the planet. However, the planning around that would be immense; the helmets, for starters, would have to be removed from each and every one of them, and that task alone is tiring to even ponder.

With the black mountain in sight, I at least have my bearings and should be able to make my way back to the pyramid where I last saw Mike, even though the tower is a prominent landmark and therefore something to be avoided. If I’m drawn to it, then it’s likely others are as well. However, it’s been a long day, to say the least, and I’ll park near it to get a little rest. I also need some time to work out a plan to enter the pyramid and begin my search for Talbot. With the size of the structure, that’s something that could actually take weeks.

Pressing the landing button, the hovercraft’s engines quiet to a more subdued whine and it settles down to the ground, jostling slightly as the bottom edges come into contact. The rear door opens with another press of the button, and warmer air floods into the cooler interior chamber. Grabbing my carbine, I head for the door. I plan to stroll around the massive black tower and attempt to work out some plan of action.

I don’t really remember much from my previous sojourn here. The hunger and thirst really took its toll. I do remember Trip telling me to find Mike to help him take out the whistlers. Or something like that. The memory is still kind of fuzzy. I may well have imagined Trip appearing and then fading back out. Hard as I try, I can’t bring the encounter into clear focus. Perhaps with all of the resets and changes, memories of events which have been negated or reversed fade—just like the event itself.

I do, however, remember meeting with Mike and relating the tunnel sequences. I hope he was lucid enough to remember it. I also clearly remember the interior of the pyramid up to the furthest point I reached. I figure at best I saw five percent of the massive structure and haven’t the slightest clue where they might hold their prisoners. It would have been nice had the whistler portal on Valhalla led directly to Mike. But no, it seems we have to go the long way around each and every time.

As I’m shifting through various scenarios to gain entry and perform the subsequent search, a crackling and sizzling noise interrupts my thoughts. It sounds like bacon being fried in a skillet that had a little water left in it. I drop and spin toward the sound, bringing the carbine to my shoulder. Against the dark stone of the tower, a bluish-white swirling orb forms. It’s about the size of an orange, but is growing larger by the second. It looks like a small portal, and I don’t know if I should remain or get the fuck out of Dodge. The portals I’ve run into in the past have been two-edged swords. Although they’ve led to places which have increased my knowledge, it wasn’t without its dangers.

I back away as the portal grows. It’s still just a bunch of wildly arcing energy without any defined passage like the others have shown. The crazy energy suddenly snaps to the sides, a passage showing between the arcing energy of the perimeter, the portal becoming clear. My heart clenches in fear and a feeling of hopelessness as I stare through the opening.

On the other side is Mike. He’s being held by some enormous tentacle and by the expression on his face, he’s being crushed. In one hand, holding it aloft, he’s got some amber orb. Dropping my weapon to dangle on its lanyard, I rush toward the opening and shove my arm through without regard to what might happen.

Mike is beyond reach, but I have to try something. I stretch for all I’m worth, but don’t come close to being able to grab his hand. I wonder where he is. The land doesn’t look like anything I saw within the pyramid. It looks like another world, the surface like bluish glass. Lying nearby is a smaller form of the monster than has Mike in its grasp with several others of the giant creatures approaching rapidly.

What in the hell did he get hmself into?

Our eyes meet. Pain is etched deeply. In that moment, I know that there’s nothing I’ll be able to do to help. I scramble to bring my carbine to bear, but Mike’s expression tells me not to worry about that. He brings his hand back and lobs the large amber orb in his hand toward me. I reach down and manage to snag it in mid-air. It’s a little disorienting, looking down through a portal that’s plastered on the side of a cliff. From my perspective, there are two downs. There’s the one where my feet are and the other is me looking down on Mike.

Expecting the orb to be heavy, I nearly drop it due to it being so light. The portal I have my arm through begins shrinking with a sharp crackling. Small bolts of electricity start arcing into the opening. I have no choice but to withdraw my arm, bringing the orb with it.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Mike, but I’m not sure he hears me through the closing of the portal and the obvious pain he’s in.

“Don’t let that portal close,” I hear a voice shout from behind.

Turning, I see Trip and BT. The crazed hippie is running toward me, holding the relic out. I dart to the side as a bolt of energy flows from the relic and slams into the side of the cliff. The portal that had formed winks out with a loud pop. The white beam from the relic also vanishes.

“Damn. I was too late,” Trip says, his head drooping as he lowers the relic.

12

Jack Walker — Chapter Six

“Open a portal back to that place,” I tell Trip after briskly striding over.

“I…I can’t open one there,” he replies, seeming more lucid than normal.

“You have to be able to do something. Mike needs our help…and now rather than later,” I tell Trip, leaning forward and jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Jack, if I could, I would. But one does not merely open a portal there.”

“Why not? What is that place?” I inquire, my heart sinking, knowing the predicament I saw Mike in.

“That’s the gate to Asgard…where the Creators live. I don’t know how Mike got there, but it’s not good that he’s there. Those creatures are the gate guardians,” Trip answers.

“Gate guardians? Maybe this will help,” I say, holding forth the amber orb Mike threw.

Trip just stares at the orb for a few moments and then shakes his head. “He had a key and yet was still attacked. That’s not good at all.”

“A key? Like, to the gate?”

Trip nods. “The fact that the guardians still attacked when he had one tells me that the rumors are true. The Creators are gone. They would never have allowed that to happen. The guardians would have stopped once he obtained the key, if the Creators were still around.”

“Will this help?” I ask again, this time more adamantly.

“Once we get there, yes, but not to open a way there,” Trips says.

“Well, how do we get there?”

“We have to find out how Ponch was able to get there.”

“I’m guessing there’s no need to head to the pyramids anymore.”

Trip shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. We have to head somewhere far worse.”

“And where’s that?”

“To where the custodians reside.”

“Okay, who the hell are the custodians? I don’t remember reading about them back at the waystation.”

“They were just rumors…whispers out of the shadows. They supposedly came into being when the Creators built the universes…the opposite species of what the Creators are…or were. That must be why the Creators are gone, and the custodians are running things from the background. There are some who say the Creators are seeking the downfall of all creation, but they’d never do that. It has to be the custodians’ doing,” Trip says.

His expression then turns sad. “They have to be the ones who destroyed Vanaheim.”

“Is that the barren world where I found you?”

The old hippie can only nod, tears running down his cheeks to bury themselves in his thick beard.

“I take it that was your world. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“I’ve tried to make things right, but it seems that events keep outpacing me. You and Mike were to get the key and open the gate. You two were supposed to stay together, but I just couldn’t make that happen,” Trip says.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, offering those words to the air.

This has to come close to the most information he has ever shared, and it’s rather nice to have a lucid Trip to answer questions. However, as the pain returns to his mien, the lucidity fades from his eyes. They dim into the ruddiness that I’m used to seeing with Trip, and along with it, his ability to be clearheaded.

I place my hand on his shoulder in sympathy. But, we don’t have time to sit in grief, as we need to get to Mike as soon as possible. I already have a feeling that I’m too late, considering the state he was in. Trip had said we need to head to where these custodians reside. Looking up, I see the streaks of light. Those ships have to be coming and going from somewhere large, so it might make sense that it would be a city of these other alien creatures…ones that Trip inferred took down the Creators. I’m not so sure I want to meet anyone or anything who might be capable of that.

With BT and Trip inside the hovercraft, I fire it up and we’re soon floating on cushions of air. Gazing up at the ships flying overhead once again, I set a course for wherever their destination might be.

As we follow the flight path of the objects overhead, I wonder if they were there when I last visited the towering mountain. I don’t remember seeing them, but then, I was also kind of out of it. I think I was mostly staring at the ground by the time I had arrived, ready to collapse.

The image of Mike keeps floating to the surface and I push the craft for everything it can give. It looks like it will take some time to get wherever we’re going, and Mike needs help now. Trip has sunk back into his druggie self and is dozing along one of the walls. Press as I might, he remained adamant that there was no way to create a portal between here and the supposed gate to Asgard. I can only hope that he finds a way free of his predicament, although the odds didn’t look good.

I feel like there’s something I should have done differently to help, but it happened so quickly. The amber orb is resting in my pack. Trip said it was some kind of gate key but then went on to mention that it didn’t appear as if it was working correctly. Or at least, that’s what I gleaned from his lucid moment. If that’s the case, how can I expect it to be any different, should we find a way into that realm? And if we do and it works, what in the hell am I supposed to do with it? Hopefully Trip will give his usual vague hint as to its use.

Except for an initial greeting, BT has been remarkably silent. I wonder what happened to him and Trip when they fled through the portal. With Trip snoring against one wall, I call BT over and ask him that very question. At first, he’s hesitant to say anything but then starts stringing words together, often looking back toward Trip.

“Honestly, there’s not much to tell. After leaving you guys, we went to one of those places in space. From there, we bounced back and forth between different worlds. I think he was looking for something in particular, but he never said what. He mumbled a lot. He did keep mentioning that we had to hurry because Ponch needed his help, but we just kept on going from place to place. We’d stay in one place for a while as he wandered about, but then he’d decide that what he was looking for wasn’t there and we’d go someplace else.”

“I wonder why he took you?”

“I more get the impression it was to keep me out of the way. You know…safe. I haven’t heard what you guys went through, but Trip would mutter something about you two from time to time, and it didn’t sound like fun carnival rides.”

“No, it wasn’t the best of times. Mike and I were split up right after you two departed, so I can’t speak for him. But you saw.”

BT hangs his head. “Yeah, I saw.”

“So what about that world where I found you? It didn’t look like he was searching for much of anything there.”

“I think that’s what he was looking for. Or, maybe the people who had once inhabited that world. That’s the impression I got. Once we got there, he said that it was all gone and collapsed to the ground. He stirred only to draw food and water from somewhere. Other than that, we sat for a long-ass time. You showed up, and I doubt he even knew you were there. And then all of a sudden, he jumped up and said something about Mike being in trouble. He seemed kind of panicked…and the next thing I knew, we were here.”

Trip leans back against the wall of the hovercraft and slides down to a seated position. He knows that he’s slid back into his fuddled state of mind. Sometimes he’s still able to think clearly, but isn’t able to convey those bits of knowledge nor share thoughts and feelings. There are the rare times when he comes out of his muddled state and can communicate well with the outside world, but those moments are rare, ever since the experiment.

With his eyes closed and knowing he’s unable to truly interact clearly with those around him, he ponders the current situation. He thought he had the entire thing well thought out and had planned for contingencies. After running so many simulations, he had pulled the two who had the best chance at success. If truth be known, he had ripped them from their existence, and felt bad about that deep down. But, the entire creation was at risk, and, therefore, those actions were justified.

Weren’t they?

All those plans, all of the pieces put into place, and here he was yet again failing. He had put safety measures in place in Atlantis, and in spite of all his careful planning, that world had been lost to the void. Mike and Jack had done their best, but the end was still the loss of a world…the loss of so many lives. The melanforms were truly a cancer that needed eradicating.

And the same thing is happening with Valhalla. The overseers are conducting experiments with the life forms, and now the planet is failing…as are many others throughout the universes. And the situation with Mike and Jack is taking a nasty downward course. They were both to locate and recover a gate key. Then they could enter Asgard to locate and free the Creators, who would then be able to take back control and right the wrongs. Now he wonders if the Creators can even be found. Trip doubts the custodians could dispose of the Creators entirely, but they seem to have placed them so securely locked away somewhere that they might as well be lost forever.

He left Mike and Jack in a hurry once their capture was inevitable. The relic couldn’t be risked. It couldn’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Besides, he had to search out his own kind—if there were any remaining. If he could free them, like he was able to do with his experimentation, then they might be a balancing force, like they had been.

Memories of the experiment surface. That had worked for the most part, and Trip had been able to free himself from the prison the overseers erected. But it had come at a cost, and that was his mind. He’d struggled against the tight bonds the overseers had placed on him and he was finally able to slip through. However, that cost him the ability to think clearly. At first, the lucid moments were frequent, but over time, those instances became more rare.

He searched and searched for any sign of his brothers and sisters, finally finding a path back to his home world. Finding the world barren like it had been was a blow he had trouble recovering from. Everything he had known, had grown up with, had been obliterated. He knew then that all was lost and fell into despair. He vaguely remembers Jack showing up and telling him that the relic was actually a form of his friend, and possibly the only other remaining Traveler. Angered at the interruption into his grief, he barely remembers casting Jack away.

And then came the revelation that Mike was in terrible danger. Trip had been wallowing for too long in despair, and events had started truly spiraling out of control. He came back to find Mike had already found a way to the lands before Asgard and was tossing the gate key to Jack. The portal had closed before he could do anything. Now, Mike is in terrible trouble even though Jack now has the key. But how to find a way to the gate in short order?

Trip feels deep down that Mike has done his part, and that retaining him in this current reality might do irreparable harm…as in Mike’s permanent death. In the greater scheme of things, one more death isn’t going to alter the balance, but after being ripped from his family, the man doesn’t deserve that end. If he’s to do anything, he has to do it now before it’s too late.

Trip focuses on the relic inside his jacket. He feels the rising heat starting to emanate from the artifact. With a flash of focused thought, Trip pours energy into the relic. The device responds with a flash of its own heat and then cools. Satisfied, Trip pulls two pills from one of his inner pockets and downs them, relaxing into a deep, drug-induced slumber. That’s really the only way to keep the pain of grief at bay.

The day passes, the land dimming as one of the suns vanishes below the horizon. Trip is still sleeping off his latest drug of choice, and BT is staring out of the window, watching the rolling landscape pass by. So far, the hovercraft appears to be powered on something other than fuel, as we haven’t faltered. Nor have I caught sight of other whistler vessels.

My gut is roiling with concern for Mike. At this stage, I don’t feel there’s any way we’re going to get there in time. He looked near the end as it was, using the last of his strength to throw the amber orb my way. Deep down, I know I’m thinking of him in terms of his great sacrifice rather than being alive and us meeting again. After all we’ve been through, that’s a tough one to think about. It’s the loss of a great warrior and friend. And, frankly, it pisses me off that we probably aren’t going to be able to finish this thing together.

A large part of me feels bad for his family and friends he left behind in his world. Tracy, whom he spoke of with a lot of love, and not a little fear, won’t ever know what happened to him. His kids, the same. They won’t know the sacrifice he’s made for the continuation of life. He wanted nothing more than to go back and see them again, regardless of his world’s circumstances. I glance at the sleeping form of Trip and feel irritation build that he pulled both of us away from our families to flitter about on this ridiculously doomed venture. I wonder if that’s to be my fate as well, lost in some world without anyone ever knowing what happened to me.

Most of the day, or it might be evening, is spent traversing the large plain. Once, I set down between two larger hills to get some rest and then we’re off again. The hours tick by without much change, until I notice the ships flitting past overhead taking different trajectories and growing larger as they descend. Other ships climb into the pale sky from somewhere ahead.

I slow the hovercraft. We’re approaching some convergence point, and we’re more than likely to run into more traffic. I can also imagine there to be some kind of checkpoint in order to enter. With the amount of incoming and outgoing airborne traffic, I wonder if we’re about to come upon the whistler version of an airport. Shit, I wonder if they’re selling tickets to my world.

It isn’t long before I’m able to pick out objects floating at various altitudes. They’re all different sizes, but they all look like silver oval spheres hovering in the air like some kind of weird Easter egg hunt. The vessels which arrive find a place among the others and park. I’m not sure if there’s a rhyme or reason to their locations, but it seems to be random. And once there, a few move around from place to place. It does seem as if the larger ones are stationed higher up, but that’s not always the case.

Although we’re still some distance away, I don’t see any form of entry to the facilities. The land surrounding the city, if that’s what it actually is, seems open. If there’s a checkpoint, I certainly don’t see one. It appears as if we’ll be able to just scoot in like we were driving into a normal city. Hopefully we won’t be noticed as a non-whistler crew or asked for some coded response.

Trip’s soft snores echo inside the ship as we draw closer to what I’m calling a city. There seems to be a lot of commotion toward the center of the metropolis. A large red structure rises from the ground. It looks warped, like it was a giant candle that melted. Coming from the base is a pulsing blue and red glow, the effect looking like a mass of police cars are at the scene of a catastrophe. Hell, from the looks of the damaged building, that may very well be the case.

The pulsing lights reflect off the bottoms of a number of various sized hovercraft which are positioned near the wreckage. Other egg-shaped vessels are intermixed among the floating craft. Smoke is rising from within a mass of rubble which lies around the base of the building, leading me to think that whatever happened was recent. From the amount of damage, I wonder if Mike wasn’t somehow responsible. This seems like something he’d do.

The thought of Mike sends a pang through my gut. My hope is that time moves differently where he’s at, and we aren’t in fact late to the party. I just hope he’s okay. I’m sure Trip knows, but he’s back to his usual fugue state, and any information he has is next to useless.

Coming to the city proper, there are buildings and thick foliage on the ground. Alien races of all types are wandering among the bushes without any accompanying whistler escorts that I can see. Perhaps they were called away to the emergency. But, the aliens are also unfettered and not fitted with the same helmets that were prevalent on those being herded into the pyramids.

So far, nothing has come in our direction to challenge us. Perhaps I’ll be able to mix in with the other vessels. But, I’ve yet to see our purpose for being here. Mike was able to gain entrance to the other world via a portal, and that may be what the pulsing light is. If so, we’ll mingle, pretending to be good little whistlers before diving down into it.

As I watch the other craft and floating eggs, four of the hovercraft suddenly dive straight down, powering for the red and blue lights. Trip comes awake with a snort. Wiping away the drool gathered at the corner of his mouth, he bolts for the rows of windows. There, he stands with clouds of smoke now drifting around his head.

“Uh, Yack? You should probably stop them from doing that,” Trip says without turning around.

“And how do you propose that? There must be twenty armed hovercraft out there. If we fire on them, we’ll be torn apart,” I reply.

“I’m not the miracle worker,” Trip retorts.

“And what makes you think I am? If I was, do you think I’d be here? I’d miracle work myself right back to my world.”

Trip shrugs. “I’m just saying. The more that enter the portal, the more you’ll have to deal with on the other side.”

“You keep using this ‘you’ thing. Why am I the only one who has to deal with them?”

Trip finally turns around and looks at me in confusion, as if he’s having to answer a five-year old’s question.

“Because you’re driving. Far be it for me to be a backseat driver. I tried that once and let me tell you, it gets interesting when you can’t reach the steering wheel. I’m not sure if the screams coming from the other cars were because they were having a good time or not. I do know that the shrieks coming from my passengers didn’t sound like they were on a carnival ride. Nope, I won’t be doing that again. Hurt my damn ears.”

It’s not too difficult picturing Trip climbing over the front seat while the vehicle is in motion, probably at highway speeds, just to see if he could indeed drive from the back seat. I chuckle inwardly at the sight. Hell, I would have paid money to see that. I mean, providing it didn’t end in a fiery cataclysmic wreck and we were all burned alive.

We’re slowly drawing closer to the grouping of vessels hovering over the pulsing portal. Only four larger hovercraft have plummeted through so far. The others appear to be looking on to see what happens. As we near the other vessels, I feel a bit exposed, as if the whistlers will be able to see through the walls of the ship, should they look in our direction. I feel like the movie Independence Day when they infiltrated the mother ship to upload the virus.

“Get away from the window,” I tell both BT and Trip.

BT starts and then ambles over beside me. Trip acts like a child who ignores the first call to come in, claiming they didn’t hear anything.

“Trip, dammit! All we need is for them to look at us and see some human stoner standing in the window. Do you want a whistler attack? Because that’s how you get one.”

Trip turns and looks toward me. “Sorry, Yack. I didn’t hear you the first time.”

“If you didn’t hear me, then how do you know that wasn’t the first time? Just…never mind. Move away from the window.”

Characters suddenly appear, hovering in mid-air off to the side. It looks like a disconnected series of chicken scratches or some ancient Sanskrit. Whatever it happens to be, the only thing I know is that I can’t read it. I suppose it’s some form of interrogative that I’m not going to be able to answer. Which means that our discovery, or at least a more detailed examination, is forthcoming.

Three of the hovering ships ahead turn in our direction as more characters scroll across some invisible screen. I center the white cross hair on one of the curious vessels and get ready for some evasive maneuvering, should they begin to take on more than an observatory stance. The letters forming become more insistent. That is to say that they begin scrolling at a faster rate. It’s really only a matter of time before we get a warning shot across our bow, unless they don’t do that sort of thing.

I wish I had more than these two roller-ball style controls. This would be a lot easier if I had real throttles and a stick. I angle the craft downward, the nose dropping toward the portal pulsing ominously below. More ships turn toward us. From the original three, a bluish-white light forms from the mounted railguns.

“Hang onto something,” I shout.

I haul the hovercraft up and start slipping quickly to the side. BT and Trip hadn’t found much of anything to hold on to and are sent tumbling head over heels across the floor. Three barely visible blurred lines streak just past the windows, all missing by mere feet. I reverse course, slipping to the opposite side while changing altitude. This sends both my passengers tumbling in a different direction. Three additional bolts streak past underneath the ship.

Five other ships have started moving, coming at us from in front. The other three have spent their loads for the next thirty seconds, which can both seem to pass in a heartbeat and take an eternity. I speed toward them, hoping the move will throw them off.

With the white light gathering in their weapons, I dart down, sending BT and Trip into the air. The craft isn’t nimble, but the move does bring about zero G inside the vessel. Luckily, the chair I’m in seems to grip onto me, providing its own kind of harness. More bolts blur past. However, the hovercraft jars violently as one of the kinetic shots finds its mark.

The craft tumbles from the hit, slewing off to the side, and I have to fight to gain control. A meter appears in one of the side windows, showing several dots which glow orange. I’m assuming that the gauge is showing how much of the shields remain. I remember the ones I fought on Valhalla being shielded, and it took a bit to bring those down. One shot from the railgun depleted them by half. My math skills tell me that one more shot and we’ll be done. If the ship doesn’t come apart when the shield depletes, then it won’t take much to bring us down. Their second series of shots comes frightening close.

The windows darken momentarily from the five ships that came at us as we pass underneath. They’re already separating and will most likely turn in behind us. But, I have thirty seconds before I really have to worry about them again. Unless they attempt to ram us, I guess. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye on them. Situational awareness is key in any fight.

I feel like I have a small window of time. The three who first fired are maneuvering off to the side while I’ve lost sight of the recent five, but believe I saw them pulling around to my six. Pointing the nose even more downward, I start a tight downward spiral. The other two occupants, attempting to recover from being thrown about the ship, are tossed against the front wall. They come to rest in a heap below the windows.

The craft isn’t like an agile fighter, responding instantly to every input. I’m sure I’m taking the vessel beyond what it was designed for, but I have to take advantage of every opportunity I get. There’s a slim chance that I can make the portal before the pursuing vessels can recharge.

The interior lights momentarily darken as a sharp clang rings throughout the ship. The craft shudders under the forceful impact. The gauge measuring the shields turns red and all of the bars vanish. The nose wants to drop and the entire vessels slews to the side, shudders rolling through in waves.

A quick glance through the windows shows that two other ships have joined the fray, coming at us at the same altitude and aiming to intersect our descending, spiraling route. Gaining control of the vessel, I pull up just as two blurry streaks pass in front. We have no shields, but at least they held up enough for us to survive a second hit. However, I feel like a glancing bird strike might send us plummeting for the wild vortex that is the portal. I’m not sure we’d survive that, as the portal is a wildly fluctuating storm that might tear our ship apart. If Mike went through, I have no idea how he would have survived. It’s no wonder the nearby craft hovered to observe what happened to those who did go through.

The two newcomers shoot past just below and in front. I bring the hovercraft down and pull in behind, centering the white crosshair on the ship to the right. The two begin a graceful turn; I’m sure to come back around behind us. They obviously don’t know that I’ve come in behind or they would maneuver a little more sharply. Now I’m surely approaching the time when the first three are able to fire again, and I should be continuing for the portal. It was just instinct that made me pull in behind my latest attackers.

I have no illusion that I can defeat ten vessels and know that I’ll be purely on the defensive if I continue to engage. But, I can’t become predictable and allow even a glancing blow to land. I don’t know if the shields recharge as well, but I want to give them time to do so if they’re going to.

Leading the righthand craft, I fire the railgun. The ship jolts and I watch a blurred streak reach out toward the target, merging with the slowly turning vessel. Silver light flashes from the craft from where the round strikes. Using the same lead, I fire again, the crosshair going from white, to orange, to red. A brighter flash of light blasts from the impact; I’m sure it’s a signal that they’ve lost their shields. If I could only post Trip outside with that slingshot of his, I’m sure we’d take care of one ship.

I feel that the original three are ready to fire and pull up, rolling the other direction and abandoning my chase of the two. BT and Trip tumble past like cartoon characters, heading toward the rear for an uncomfortable rendezvous with the back wall. I then reverse and point the nose toward the ground once again, seeing explosions erupt from misses impacting on the surface.

I’m constantly changing my vector so the pursuing whistlers can’t get a good shot, much to the consternation of BT and Trip. They long ago have stopped yelling, accepting their fate in silence, aside from a few grunts and moans. I can’t afford the time to allow the two to recover, but I wonder how the hell other whistlers who are inside other hovercraft manage to avoid being tossed around like a salad.

All the time, I’m trying to get closer to the churning maelstrom that is the portal. Roiling dark clouds race around the exterior like an accretion disc encircling a blackhole. Lightning arcs across the portal itself, which is still pulsing with blue and red light. If I had a choice, it certainly wouldn’t be to voluntarily enter the mess. Without a shield, I’m not sure our ship will hold together long enough to actually reach the portal anyway.

The fire from the ships chasing us is nearly constant now, the surface of the planet erupting with great clods of earth rocketing skyward. I catch brief glimpses of the other ships when I raise the nose skyward, only to lose them when I roll back toward the raging portal. The gauge measuring the shield strength shows one bar. So, this is like a video game where the shields and health restore themselves over time. I wish the recharge rate were a little more player friendly. But, I’ll take that over them never coming back.

Aside from the shuddering from the two hits, the hovercraft begins bucking and shaking from the turbulence surrounding the portal. Throughout the gyrations, we’re getting closer. The surface of the red and blue pulsing portal looks like some form of liquid silver, slick and shiny. The kinetic rods fired from the railguns of the pursuing ships slam into the surface and vanish, small ripples rolling out from the points of impact. Those waves disappear quickly as they’re absorbed. Lightning occasionally flashes across my view, the boiling clouds to the side are black with a sickly green cast.

The pulsing light penetrates and paints the interior walls of the craft in alternating reds and blues. It’s nearing the point where I’m blinded by the light and have to look anywhere but directly at the portal. That makes steering the bucking craft a bit tricky. The vessel starts shaking more violently, and I’m reminded why I hate flying through thunderstorms. It’s not the turbulence so much, but that shit isn’t in my control. The up and downdrafts where all you can do is do your best to keep the aircraft upright and airborne.

The interior flashes white as a bolt of lightning streaks in front of the windows. That’s followed by a hard jolt that I’m sure weakened the hull somewhere. I can’t tell if we’re still being fired on, but the ship hasn’t come apart, so that’s good news. I really can’t maneuver defensively like before, and am having a fun time just keeping the craft pointed in what I think is the right direction.

I haven’t seen BT and Trip in a while and hope I didn’t dump them out somewhere along the way. I can’t pull my focus from what I’m doing to check, as it’s all I can do to counteract the forces being applied to the ship. With a stick, I used to be able to sense what the aircraft was going to do seemingly a split second before and could apply inputs to counteract them beforehand. With this system, I’m not able to sense the craft at all and have to react once it is pushed or pulled in a certain direction. And all of that is while the thing seems to be coming apart at the seams.

A giant clang resounds within the craft, a blinding flash filling the windows and turning the inside a stark white. The ship bucks like a pissed off bull, and I’m sure our ride is about to lose every screw and weld holding it in place. When my vision clears, the gauge showing shield levels is gone. I’m pretty sure that was lightning and not another hit by the ships. If that were the case, it would probably just be me glued to my seat hurtling through this storm.

The turbulence ends abruptly, the interior still immersed in the alternating red and blue lights. While the end of the shaking might be a good thing, I’m not sure what to think about the front end of the ship beginning to elongate. It seems to stretch toward the portal like some ship in a science fiction movie about to enter warp speed. The dark color of the bow blends with the pulsing lights and appears to become all colors; the dark turns into a thousand-colored rainbow.

The phenomenon intensifies as we power further into the portal, the nose elongating even more. The windows stretch into eternity while the walls alongside me seem perfectly fine. I turn around and see the walls toward the rear of the ship also stretching impossibly distant. BT and Trip, both huddled against the back, seem thousands of miles away, yet are still clearly visible.

The stretching effect seems infinite, the nose impossibly far and the tail end seemingly still anchored back where it all started. This spaghettification doesn’t seem like it’ll end until the ship is just one long strand of metal and glass. I stare down at the controls and wonder ever so briefly what would happen if I fired the railgun. Would the projectile zip past because it’s faster, or would it never arrive overhead with the continued elongation? Or would it rip through and twist the time/space continuum, thus tearing the ship apart into a thousand long streams of matter? I pull my finger back from the firing button. I’m grateful that I’m not turning into pasta the same way the front and back of the ship are.

With a rush, the front of the ship races back toward me, the back catching up in a near instant. I expect to hear the ping of twisting metal and popping rivets, but there’s no sound at all. It’s like a stretch Armstrong has been pulled to its limit and released, returning to its prior condition in an instant.

The ship, while always remaining whole, comes back together in a flash of white light. I imagine it to be lightning hitting the ship on the other side of the portal and brace myself to resume fighting for control, but there’s no resounding clang or sharp jolt. Instead, when the light clears and I’m able to see again, the three of us are standing at the edge of a town.

And it isn’t just any town; it’s an Old West one, complete with boarded walkways in front of wooden buildings and a wide dirt avenue going through the middle. Horses are tied to posts along the main street with a couple of wagons parked along the side. People are moving in both the street and on the boardwalks, the style of dress all straight out of Bonanza.

Some of the women are obviously wearing petticoats and holding umbrellas, walking with men in string ties. Other men are dressed a little more ruggedly in jeans and button-down shirts, all hosting sidearms strapped to their hips with some carrying lever-action rifles. It is the definitive stereotypical Wild West town.

I look over at BT. The big man looks like some bandito with crossed bandoliers of ammo and sporting revolvers at his belt—one on the side and another strapped to the front. All he’s really lacking is a chewed cigar and sombrero. Trip, on the other hand, is wearing said sombrero and a poncho. He immediately reaches under his poncho and jams a rolled cigarette in his mouth, striking a match on the heel of his boot. Soon, exhaled clouds of pot drift among us.

I’m wearing a black duster and jeans complete with hat. I can feel a sidearm attached at the waist and am carrying a lever-action rifle. The whole thing is so cliché that I wonder if it wasn’t plucked from one of our heads. Looking behind, the dirt road we’re coming into town on fades into a dense white fog that reveals nothing beyond. Even though a hot sun is blasting down from a blue sky, the fog doesn’t dissipate, nor is it moving. There aren’t any swirling tendrils or any sense of movement whatsoever. It’s like that part of the scene hasn’t even been drawn or was erased. Turning to look at the far side of the town, it’s the same; the road vanishes into a curtain of white.

I wonder if we’re still on the ship, and this scene before us is in our mind. That would make sense, considering the movie set aspect of it. I still don’t know if our adventure to the platform in space was real or just a hologram of our own making. As far as that goes, this entire journey could be a figment of our imagination. The problem with being here in this Wild Western town, for real or not, is that we’re not in the same realm where I saw Mike, and the delay in getting there is frustrating.

“Well, there’s nothing to it but to see what this is all about,” I state, entering the town and starting down the main avenue.

I hear BT and Trip behind, a clink of spurs is an indication that they’re following. I shake my head, feeling like I should see Clint Eastwood come riding in any minute. If this was taken from anyone’s imagination, I hope to hell it isn’t mine. I hate to think that I picture it so unoriginally.

As we walk down the street, people crossing the avenue and walking on the boardwalk pause to look at the three of us. Their expressions aren’t merely curious as to what strangers are doing in their town, but appear openly hostile. It’s to the point that I check again to make sure the rifle I’m carrying is indeed loaded and ready. And it’s not just the men, but the women as well. Even the ladies standing on balconies above the bars and hotels aren’t interested in selling their wares to us.

In front of the Grand Hotel, a footman hoisting luggage from atop a parked stagecoach stops what he’s doing and glares at us as we pass. I swear he’s only a second away from drawing on us, but stays his hand.

“Anyone else get the feeling we’re not exactly welcome here?” BT asks.

“They certainly don’t seem to appreciate strangers strolling in unannounced,” I answer.

“That’s because we’re not part of the cast,” Trip comments.

“What?! Are you implying that we’re in the middle of a Western movie?” I inquire.

“Oooh, I like Westerns. Is Yul Brynner in this one?”

“What?! How would I know?”

“I hope he is. Maybe you’ll get in a gunfight with him. Although, he was a quick draw,” Trip says, eyeing me up and down and implying that I might be lacking in that ability.

“I’m not getting into a showdown in the middle of the street.”

“Mmmhmm...If he does challenge you, make sure you’re in a position so that you’re looking at the sun,” Trip responds, and then rubs his chin. “Wait...that might be the other way around.”

I ignore Trip and his mutterings to study the surroundings a little more closely. If I understand Trip’s implication, this is a scene that is played out over an eternity, kind of like Westworld. Seeing we’re not cast members, we’re taken as strangers, and thus suspect. The townspeople don’t know how to take us as an addition to the familiar script they’re used to playing out. We’re like a virus to their computer simulation.

If there’s a purpose for our being here, I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be. Are we meant to go into a certain building? Meet someone? Find the next portal? This place feels like some sort of interim stop and not our destination. It definitely isn’t the same place where I last saw Mike.

There’s a general background of noise that’s prevalent with any gathering of people. But everyone falls silent as we pass. The ring of our spurs and soft clop of our boots follows us as we progress through town. The hard silent stares speak volumes and carry a loud menace.

There’s an intersection ahead, another street heading off to the right. A saloon called The Dusty Cowboy sits at one corner with the opposite corner occupied by a sheriff’s office. Two armed men, their hats pulled low over their eyes, are sitting just outside of the sheriff’s, their chairs leaning back against the wall. One raises his hat as we draw closer and sits forward. With a motion, he swats the other with his hat and says something that I’m unable to hear. The other startles forward, nearly falling out of his seat. Upon seeing us, he scrambles to his feet and runs across to the saloon, disappearing beyond two swinging doors.

Moments later, the saloon doors again open and a man dressed in black exits. He’s followed by the man who ran in and then several others who crowd the boardwalk. Striding forward, the man in black steps into the street and folds back his duster to reveal a silver star.

“Now hang on there, pardner. I’m the sheriff here, and we don’t take kindly to strangers. You need to just turn around and head right back to where you came from,” the man says with a slight southern drawl.

I look around at the gathering crowd, all armed, several carrying rifles. Beyond the town, there is still the whiteness that doesn’t speak of any exit.

“We’d like to do just that, but as you can see, there’s nowhere for us to go beyond the town,” I reply.

“That ain’t my concern. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be gunned down in the street,” the man says, further pulling back his duster to reveal a silver-plated six shooter at his side.

He pulls the gun out and proceeds to do several tricks with it. His movements are fluid, quick, and sure. With a slap of leather, he deposits the gun back into his holster with practiced ease, ready to go for it.

“That’s who I was talking about, Yack. I bet he’s faster than you,” Trip says, covering his mouth like he’s telling a secret, yet his volume is damn near shouting so the entire town is able to hear.

I have no doubt that what Trip says is true. The man in the street before us is fast. Aside from the usual holster draws for fun, I’ve never really practiced quick draws. If I draw on the man, I’ll lose and we’ll be slaughtered. If not by him, then by the hostile townspeople. I try stalling in order to think. We’re trapped in this town with few good choices. We can’t just leave town. I don’t get a good feeling about just walking off into a land of white that looks like it was erased from existence, if it had one to begin with. Standing in the street like this, we don’t stand a chance of surviving more than a few seconds if lead starts flying.

“If you can outdraw me, you’ll have thirty seconds to get cover,” the man in black says.

“That doesn’t really give us much. We’ll still be gunned down,” I state.

The man shrugs. “That’s the best I can offer.”

“Let me have a go at it,” BT whispers.

I look at the big man. During our adventures, he has lost some of the weight. But he doesn’t portray the speed and agility necessary to beat the man standing in front of us.

“By all means, have the colored man draw against me. As a matter of fact, I insist on it now,” the sheriff says.

“Oh boy! This is going to be just like the gunfight at the Good Enough Corral,” Trip says, rubbing his hands together and edging away from BT.

It must be so scary inside the hippie’s head. Before I’m able to say another word, either in agreement or to protest, BT has cleared the leather of the holster to his front. I didn’t even see his hands move. The gunshots echo off the surrounding buildings and ring down the dusty boulevard. The man in black staggers backward as bullets slam into him, his black shirt puffing from each impact and becoming wet with blood. BT is fan-firing his revolver like some gunslinger. His final round punches into the man’s forehead.

The silver-plated revolver never cleared the sheriff’s holster. It drops back into place as the man in black falls backward, his arms flung wide to the side. Dust flies outward from his impact. With the reverberating shots fading, a stunned silence settles over the town.

I stare at BT, who is standing there with a wisp of smoke rising from his barrel. The bandito in the middle of the street is not the same person who was cowering in a fetal position when the whistlers and night runners were attacking. I’m sure the surprise on my face is the same expression that’s registering on his face. He fumbles as he puts the gun back into the holster, the exact opposite of the quick, smooth drawing gunslinger that stood there a moment earlier.

The townspeople recover quickly. Guns are drawn and rifles cocked.

“I don’t think we’re getting our thirty seconds!” I yell. “Into the store!”

The General Merchandise store is directly behind us on the opposite the crossing avenue. Even Trip hastens as we race across the main thoroughfare and plow through the front door. Bullets smack into the doorframe and the front window pane explodes in a shower of broken glass. The clerk behind the counter turns from the tinkling glass falling to the floor to glare at us, reaching below the counter.

I turn my rifle on him. “No, no, no. Just bring those hands out slowly. There are two ways this ends. One is you walking out unharmed. The other is not that. Your choice.”

The man slowly raises his arms back up and sidles out from behind the counter. He then runs over to the broken window, and braving the bullets, jumps through it and scampers off out of sight.

BT has his back to the wall near the front door. Trip is lying under the broken window, kicking shards of glass away as he tokes on a joint. Bullets continue to thud into the outer wall and into the various merchandise on the foremost shelves. I move into an aisle and peek over the shelves.

Outside, there are heads poking above and around various obstacles, all with barrels pointed in our direction. Puffs of smoke indicate their positions as they fire. More folks are moving into other positions with some gathering on the rooftops. It won’t be much longer before the lead filling the air becomes thicker.

I take aim and fire at ones I can see, watching with a degree of satisfaction as several pink mists form from their positions. It’s important that we return fire before we become completely pinned down. If that happens, we’re done for. BT is poking his gun around the corner and shooting without doing much aiming. At least he’s returning fire, which will help keep the people’s heads down.

Trip is doing pretty much the same thing. Without looking and while lying down on the floor, he’s poking his slingshot over the top of the sill and firing. He and his slingshot never cease to amaze me. A ringing rises above the sound of gunfire as the projectile hits a bell hanging on the boardwalk. The slug then ricochets and hits one of the men on the rooftop across the street in the forehead. The man falls forward, toppling over the edge to slam into the roof covering the boardwalk. He then rolls off and plops onto the avenue in a cloud of dust. Every sound of the rubber snapping as a pellet is launched seems to be followed by a scream.

We’re going to have to do something soon. BT and I can’t pull an endless supply of ammo out of our ass like Trip seems able to do. It won’t be long until we run dry and are left at the mercy of the townspeople. While firing, I scan the building on the opposite side of the street. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there has to be something we’re working toward. I mean, unless we were just dumped here without a way out. We’re not leaving outside of town, so that leaves someplace here that we’re supposed to get to.

There’s the saloon with the sheriff’s office across the side street. Next to the sheriff’s office is something called the Transmission Guild: Telegraph Services. Underneath it advertises “Your portal to the world beyond.” Now, if that doesn’t scream a way out, then I’m lost. The only problem is that it’s across a wide avenue with no cover and a hundred guns pointed along its length. I chose the wrong way to run when it became obvious that a fight was upon us. Of course, there’s no way to be sure that the telegraph office will provide a way out, but it’s at least something to try. It’s either that or wait here until we run out of ammo and accept our deaths.

“Uh, Jack, you might want to see this,” BT yells above the increasing volume of gunfire.

Oh great! What now?

Splinters are flying from where incoming rounds are slamming into the window edges and doorframe. Bullets hitting bags of flour to form small clouds of white, and other sundry items are being torn apart. The smell of gunpowder intermixes with the other odors inside the merchandise store. Through a cloud of flying debris, I run over and pile against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway from BT.

I quickly peek around the corner and back, playing what I saw in my mind once I’m again safely behind the wall. I don’t see much more than what I could from behind the shelf.

“Okay, what the fuck am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Look again, this time down the street,” BT yells, cringing as a volley of bullets race through the shredded door, some hitting the jamb.

Daring another look, I glance in the direction we came from, quickly pulling back into cover. Playing the video in my mind, my heart jumps as I realize what it was I saw. The white that surrounded the town has encroached. Part of the town that we passed upon entering is now just gone, like a giant eraser is slowly eradicating all of reality. Not only that, but it’s still moving. The last part of the video is that of a door to a barber shop and its adjacent striped pole vanishing.

That, then, puts us on the clock as well. Not only do we have to deal with a town full of pissed off armed townsfolk, but we have to do whatever we’re going to quickly. I’m assuming that once that vanishing point reaches us, we’ll be obliterated along with everything else. I see Trip quickly raise his head and look toward the oncoming nothingness. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out several pills, quickly swallowing them.

“I hope to hell that wasn’t something that’s going to make you pass out!” I shout.

“What better way to face the abyss,” he returns.

“You pass out and I leave you here,” I state. “I mean it, Trip. I’ll leave without you.”

“We’re all just about to leave…permanently.”

“Not if I can help it,” I say, pointing across to the telegraph office.

Pulling himself up, he peeks again over the lower edge of the splintered sill.

“Oooh,” he responds and proceeds to take out another slew of pills.

He pops those in his mouth. “Well, this should be interesting.”

“What does that mean? Will you be awake and able to move?”

“More or less,” he answers.

I don’t really know how to take that, but as long as he can get to the other side of the street under his own power, then I don’t care much. Well, there is the caveat that we’ll have to cross quickly.

“BT, there’s usually dynamite in these stores. Go see if you can find a box,” I yell.

“I’ll get it,” Trip says, jumping to his feet as bullets zip past.

“No!” I shout, much louder than necessary.

The thought of Trip with dynamite scares the shit out of me. And especially when he’s just downed some concoction about which he isn’t sure. He’s liable to send us into the afterlife faster than the incoming void. For a brief second, I ponder letting Trip launch a stick of dynamite from his slingshot and just seeing what will happen. But then sanity returns.

“BT, get going. We don’t have much time.”

The people outside seem clueless to the encroaching oblivion, as the gunfire hasn’t abated by any degree that I can fathom. I round the corner, hearing angry bees zip past my head. I fire at the dark silhouettes of figures I can see on the rooftops.

“Go!” I yell.

BT pushes off from the doorway and runs toward the rear of the store, bullets chasing him all of the way. Trip is leaning against the wall under the windowsill, muttering something that I can’t hear over the gunshots. I just hope he’s ready to go, as we’ll most likely only get one chance.

“I found this,” BT calls a few minutes later.

Turning from where I’m delivering fire at anyone I’m able to see, the big man is hauling a wooden box out by its rope handles. ‘Dynamite’ is written along the sides in worn red lettering. That makes it pretty obvious as to its contents. BT pries the top open with a flourish, revealing that the crate is full.

“I figured these would also come in handy,” he says, brandishing a couple boxes of wooden matches.

“Good deal. Now, cut open half of those sticks and empty the contents into a bag. We’ll need small bags later on. Save the fuses as well,” I say, turning back to deliver fire out of the store.

“Cut them open? Is that even safe?” BT asks, backing away from the crate.

“As long as you don’t light it, you should be fine,” I answer without turning around. “And hurry. We don’t have much time.”

I wonder just how many times I’m going to have to say this before it truly sinks in.

“I suppose it’ll be quicker than being erased or shot,” he mutters, setting about the task of removing the gunpowder from the sticks of dynamite.

Several minutes later, BT informs me that he’s cut about half the crate.

“Okay. Now find some sugar and mix it in. You need about a three to one mix of gunpowder to sugar. Then put a small amount of the mix into smaller bags that we can toss outside. It won’t be perfect without actually blending the two together with heat, but it should create a bit of smoke when lit. And find a way to secure the fuses inside,” I tell him.

The white has encroached even further into town. The front of the store is nothing but splinters with more bullets smacking into the building and shelving. BT finally hauls several small bags with fuses extending from within. I glance over to Trip to get him ready to dash across the street and notice that he has snuck over to the crate and is now back under the window attempting to light a stick of dynamite he is holding in his teeth.

“Trip, you idiot! That’s not a joint!” I yell, scrambling past the shot-up doorway.

He pulls the stick out from his mouth and stares at it. Some recognition enters his eyes and he lights the fuse. Orange and yellow sparks drop to the floor as the fuse starts burning.

“Pretty,” Trip says, holding the dynamite up so I can see it.

“Goddammit, man! Throw that away,” I yell.

Trip stands, bullets zipping all around. He hauls his arms back and is about to toss the live stick further into the store.

“No! Out of the window! Throw it out of the window!”

Trip turns around and underhands the hissing dynamite out of the window. The stick travels a grand total of three feet, landing on the boardwalk just outside of the store. I have no idea what pills he took, but they obviously don’t increase intelligence or common sense. He stands in the window with rounds peppering everything around him and stares in fascination at the dynamite just feet away and seconds away from exploding.

Several gunshots crack from nearby. Having witnessed Trip’s exploits, BT has drawn his other revolver and is shooting at the dynamite. Rounds smack into the wooden slats next to the stick. I start adding my shots and the dynamite shreds under our combined fire, resulting in a flare of smoke and fire rather than an explosion. Turning, I find Trip back at the crate, reaching in to extract another stick.

“Get him away from that before he kills us,” I tell BT.

With Trip near us but constantly trying to get back to the opened crate, BT and I ready ourselves for our plan. We’ll light the fuses and toss the bags off to the sides, hopefully without being shot in the process. Our goal is to create a smoke screen the width of the avenue, through which we’ll haul ass to the telegraph office. I attempt to tell Trip what we’re about to do, but his pupils are so dilated that there’s no color and any information given travels into a void with no retention.

“Sounds good. I’ll just go get my things,” he responds, heading back toward the dynamite crate.

“Nope, we’re going this way,” I say, grabbing his arm and turning back toward the front of the store.

“But we’ll need to blow the safe if we’re going to get the cash,” Trip states, trying to pull away.

I send BT back to grab a few sticks just in case we do need them. Trip may be out of it, but I’ve also learned to listen to his cryptic statements.

“Okay, we’re going to toss the bags and wait for the smoke to start covering the area. Then we’ll break cover and make for the telegraph office. Once we start across, stop for nothing.”

“Will there be a laser light show? All of the good Westerns had great ones,” Trip says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Oh boy, this is going to be fun,” I mumble, trying to think of a single Western with any lasers at all.

BT and I light the first fuses, tossing the bags out into the street. My sleeve tugs as bullets come close and the zips powering past my head tell of other near misses. The first bags hit the street near the front of the store and the mixture catches. Smoke starts billowing in great clouds. Hastily, we light and toss more, the gunfire dissipating as the townspeople try to figure out what’s going on.

More smoke pours from the bags with loud hisses, and the street is slowly being covered in white. The oncoming void is lost from sight, which I suppose is for the best. We create an alleyway between smoke walls.

“We’ll still be seen by those on the boardwalk and rooftops straight ahead, so concentrate fire there,” I tell BT. “Enough to keep their heads down.”

“What happens when we reach the telegraph office?” BT inquires.

“I have no idea. Hopefully we’ll find a portal out of here, but nothing here has been that easy,” I answer.

“So, we’ll see what we’ll see. Or, get erased by whatever that is coming our way.”

“Pretty much. Trip, we’re going to head out the door and run across the street. You stay by my side.”

Without a word, Trip darts out the door and starts running. BT and I follow, our weapons out and ready for a running gunfight, just like the final scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. BT has a revolver in each hand and is firing at targets both on the boardwalk and on the roof. I have my rifle, adding my rounds to keep our assailants’ heads down.

Midway across the street, Trip stops. I catch up to him and try to propel him forward.

“Do you hear that?” he whispers, his eyes wide.

There’s a scritching sound like mice running across rice paper.

“That’s the sound of reality being erased,” he adds.

“That’s precisely why we don’t want to be standing here,” I reply, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward.

BT runs out of ammo and tosses his weapons to the ground in an attempt to run faster. The smoke screen hides everything to the sides, and my imagination pictures the void just on the other side of the dense smoke and closing in. That spurs me to move a bit quicker while still trying to keep the heads of the townspeople down. Trip seems to be moving more or less in the right direction. I let him go in order to keep some semblance of control over this headlong flight.

The street certainly didn’t seem so wide when running for the store, but now it feels like it’s a mile across. Hopping across rutted tracks from wagons and the like, I near the boardwalk. Glancing back, I notice Trip wandering into the smoke screen. Of course he couldn’t just keep going. Turning back, I again grab him by the arm and jerk him toward the telegraph office.

“Isn’t beautiful?” Trip says in a dream-like voice.

Afraid to ask, I do anyway. “Isn’t what beautiful?”

“That sound.”

I notice that the scratching noise has vanished and there’s only the continued sound of sporadic gunfire.

“I don’t hear a thing,” I respond, still moving toward the far side with Trip in tow.

“Precisely. It’s the sound of nothing,” Trip replies.

Now, I’ve heard and seen a lot of things, but I can’t think of one more frightening than that statement at a time like this. My overactive imagination is sent into hyperdrive, which sends corresponding signals to my legs. Trip nearly stumbles off his feet as I find another gear forward. The return gunfire has dropped off significantly, and I’m quite sure that’s because those firing don’t exist anymore.

We slam through the front door of the Transmission Guild nearly together, staggering into the interior. A quick look around doesn’t show a magic portal sparking or sending lightning bolts from its surface. There’s no hiss of static nor arrow pointing to our timely escape. Instead, there’s only what one might expect: a counter with a telegraph machine situated behind. Against the back wall is a safe where I would presume they store confidential documents.

The safe isn’t large, and my first thought is that there has to be another one. I remember Trip’s words of having to blow a safe, but even if we managed to get the door off, there’s no way we’d fit through the opening. Outside, the smoke screen is beginning to break apart, revealing that the ever-encroaching void of white is near and drawing closer. Most of the town is gone and more is being erased as I watch. This is a hungry monster that doesn’t stop.

I have BT place the sticks of dynamite he brought with him under the safe, although “throw” is a better word than “place.” I know most of the blast will be propelled down through the floor, but hopefully the door will still be forced open. The side walls begin disappearing as the void thing closes in. Our time is up. Either this works or it doesn’t. As I’m tying the ends of fuses together, I wonder if I’ll feel any pain when my arms just ceases to exist. The white pushes inside the building. To call it a color or object isn’t right. I can’t even really call it white. There’s just nothing beyond where reality ends.

The entire walls on both sides are gone as I light the wad of fuses. They jump to life with a series of sparks, hisses, and thin lines of smoke that drift upward. The flames move far too slowly up toward the jumble of dynamite sticks. I’m not entirely sure that the void won’t beat the lit fuses to the sticks. Staring at the slow-moving sparks left me in a moment where I forgot my surroundings. I’m standing within feet of where a bundle of dynamite sticks are about to go off. This is probably not an ideal position to be in.

BT is also staring at the safe with the lit fuses. Trip is focused on the vanishing building, if focus is even a word that can really apply to the man. I grab them and shove them back toward the door. I’m not sure how many townspeople still remain, but only those on the boardwalk will present any kind of threat. Of course, they’ll have to be standing right outside the door, because other than a narrow strip of the dirt avenue and the store across the street, there isn’t any other part of town that remains.

Without seeing anyone, we crowd outside the door and pile up against the wall. It isn’t long before a tremendous blast shakes the building, followed by the leading edge of the explosion. Glass blows outward from the windows, sending shards spinning into the street where they glint under the sun directly overhead. Wooden splinters spray across the walkway and street. With a look at what remains of the office from the void erasing everything material, BT races inside and I follow pulling a dazed hippie.

Inside, BT comes up short. Debris from the explosion is strewn across what remains of the floor. The smoke from the blast is clearing and reveals that the front door of the safe is hanging askew. Inside is a swirling mass that looks like a whirlpool of quicksilver. The problem is that the opening is far too small to squeeze into.

“We’ll never fit into that,” BT shouts.

Although the big man has lost weight, he hasn’t lost enough to be considered anything other than large. However, it really doesn’t matter, as no one, other than a small child, would fit. The counter and telegraph machine vanish in silence.

“I don’t really see that we have much of a choice,” I return, edging closer to the tiny portal.

At best, we have four to five feet of reality to stand on. There’s just a narrow strip of flooring leading to the safe. It’s kind of like walking on one of those wooden bridges spanning a great chasm. I draw closer, wondering if I should be running toward it. Speed may help shove me a little further inside. But I’d need a rocket car to build up enough momentum to actually be rammed inside.

Nearer to the portal, I start feeling stretched, like I’m being pulled into taffy. My arm elongates with my hands disappearing into the tiny maelstrom. I anticipated the portal feeling cold at first touch. But I feel nothing other than a lurch and dizziness at my proportions being altered. It’s nauseating and seems to last an eternity. However, my body is altering to fit into the portal dimensions. All thought of the encroaching void vanishes as I’m pulled through a keyhole and into the portal.

I’m not sure what I expected to be on the other side. I thought maybe I’d enter the hovercraft again or be transported to the world where I saw Mike. I think I can safely say that one of the last things I expected to see was a sword swinging toward my face.

13

Jack Walker — Chapter Seven

The sun glints off the gleaming metal blade as it arcs downward. I can almost see the grain of the hard steel from being folded numerous times for strength and the ability to hold an edge. Although the sight of the incoming blade has my immediate and direct attention, my other senses register the scent of cherry blossoms floating in the light breeze. Tiny pink blossoms float through the air behind. I’m not sure why I even notice them at a time like this, but I do, nonetheless.

I dodge to the side and bring my arms up in defense, suddenly realizing that I’m holding on to the handle of my own sword. The two meet in a sharp ringing contact of steel on steel. I’m at a bit of a disadvantage due to the surprise of finding myself in the middle of a sword fight, but at least that swing isn’t going to separate my head from my shoulders.

The sword is pulled away only to come back in from a different angle. I turn my sword to meet the oncoming blade, followed by the resounding peel of steel meeting steel. I’ve only seen a blur of white from my opponent, my attention focused on keeping the steel edge from piercing my skin. He or she is bloody fast with that thing and I doubt I’d be able to block them if I didn’t have the muscle enhancements. I’m still on the defensive, but I’m also still alive.

The sound of other swords ringing clue me in that I’m not only in a one-on-one fight, but that there are others fighting around me. For a brief second, I wonder how in the hell BT and Trip are faring, but that thought vanishes quickly as I have to parry yet another attack.

I jump back, hoping to give myself a little breathing room. My opponent is having none of it as he immediately closes in. I, at least, am able to see who I’m fighting, and it doesn’t look good. The man opposite is definitely oriental and in traditional samurai gear, his topknot pulled tight and showing strands of gray. The fluid motions the man exhibits show his level of training. By comparison, I’m merely chopping wood, barely able to meet his attacks.

I’ve trained with swords a bit in Japan, but I haven’t lived it, like it appears the man in front of me has. It’s all I can do to backpedal and get my sword up in time to meet the blur of his blade. His expression betrays nothing but business as he continues to drive me backward.

There’s a thud and his eyes suddenly roll back in his head. Soundlessly, he drops straight to the ground, his sword falling from fingers. I quickly look around and see others fighting, also dressed in samurai-style clothing. However, I can’t locate BT or Trip even though I suspect the hippie and his slingshot are responsible for my reprieve.

The blade slicing through the air is more felt than heard. It’s as if I can actually feel the parting of the air. I drop straight down while turning, my own sword following my motions. I catch a glimpse of shiny metal passing over me, the blade kissing the top of my head. My sword cleaves into the side of the sword-wielder, blood instantly saturating the white cloth and running down. Not stopping, I dart forward along the side of the man, my katana ripping free. Behind the opponent, I ram my sword into his back. His body stiffens from the pain before he slumps to the ground as I withdraw my blade. Whisking the blood from the blade, I quickly look for any other attackers.

The clang of blade meeting blade has vanished along with the combatants, which once stood toe-to-toe beneath the cherry blossoms. The unmoving bodies, too, are gone, leaving behind only the drifting of the pink and white flowers. There isn’t a trace of blood on the katana in my hand. One might think that the fight was only in my imagination.

The cherry blossoms give way to open fields. A lone snow-capped mountain rises in the distance, dominating the landscape. I’ve seen Mount Fuji close up, but not with forested sides. The version I saw still had snow on it, but the sides are completely bare and surrounded by open, smoking sulfur pits. It was definitely not the picturesque scene presented now.

I stare down at the black outfit I’m wearing, complete with gold Japanese lettering near the end of the obi. Making sure I’m not about to be attacked, I sheath the sword. However, that is short-lived as there comes a scraping from one of the trees. Whirling with my blade clearing the sheath, I see a figure climbing down. It doesn’t take but a couple of seconds to realize that it’s Trip.

Hopping to the ground, he looks quite at home in the traditional samurai outfit. His conical straw hat falls off to reveal a large topknot. The only aspect that looks out of place is his bushy beard. Other than that, he looks quite in his element.

“Where’s BT?” I ask, again sheathing my sword as Trip picks up his hat.

“He, uh, left,” Trip answers, turning his head in order not to look in my eyes.

It’s pretty obvious he’s trying to avoid answering the question.

“Trip, where did BT go?”

“He went to see Mike,” Trip finally says.

“And why aren’t we there?”

“We should probably have taken a left at Albuquerque.”

Getting an answer out of the stoned hippie is next to impossible. Well, getting a straight answer, anyway. He gives answers aplenty, and it’s frustrating to say the least.

“So, how do we get out of here and to where Mike is?”

Trip gives me an incredulous look, like the answer should be obvious.

“Yack, you just have to click your heels.”

I’m standing on wooden platforms, so I’m not sure how exactly I’m going to click my heels. I’m sure that has to be a metaphor for something else, but I can’t think of what he might mean. All of a sudden, he starts dancing.

Now, when I say Trip starts dancing, there are a hundred humorous images that come to mind. He actually begins these very graceful dance moves which surprise me. I never thought he could move like this. It’s mesmerizing watching him move from one form to the next in a choreographed manner.

“You have to do it too, Yack,” Trip says amid his spins and twirls.

I chuckle. There’s no way I’m going to try and imitate that. But then again, maybe he’s being quite serious and we’ll be stuck here unless I do. I start out clumsily. Dancing has never been even remotely what I would consider a skillset. But, I try to follow along with his moves, spinning and moving my arms like a drunken ballerina.

This goes on for about ten minutes. I’m about to question Trip when he says, “Okay, now jump in the air and click your heels together.”

Well, I do just that, nearly eating some earth for my effort. Nothing happens. We aren’t magically transported to another world. No portal forms. We’re still under the trees with blossoms falling in our hair and on our shoulders.

“Well, what was supposed to happen?” I ask, panting from the exertion.

“Happen? Nothing was supposed to happen. I just wanted to see you do that,” Trip responds.

“You’re an asshole.”

“You need to lighten up. Want a toke?”

“No. I want to get out of here and see if we can still help Mike,” I reply. “Hopefully before we run into any more sword-wielding ninjas.”

“Ninjas rarely use swords.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Did you know that you can see space from the Great Wall?” Trip asks out of the blue.

“Wrong country,” I state, not bothering to tell him that he has that backwards.

“Are you sure?” Trip asks, pointing behind me.

I turn around and sure enough, there’s a giant wall stretching out of sight to the left and right. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there a moment ago.

“That’s not supposed to be there,” I say, wondering just how and why it popped into existence. It was probably just to prove me wrong.

There are a series of towers set along the immense wall. Most are only wider sections of the wall with a central structure allowing access to the walkway along the top. I’m not sure if this is a real portrayal of the actual Great Wall, but it’s as near as I can tell. Atop the nearest tower, a spiraling mass of black rises upward. Long streaks of red, green, and yellow whirl within the spinning maelstrom. I hope I’m not expected to step into that mass of death in order to get out of here.

The swirling vortex does seem like a signal, and seems to be the place we’re supposed to go. Although, the thing is rather menacing and proceeding in the opposite direction sounds like the best idea. Trip and I start across the blossom-strewn field toward the tower.

At the bottom, there’s a doorway leading in. Next to it is scrawled “Beware the Herpesians.” For some reason, I’m not even the tiniest bit surprised. I wonder if I’m actually going to see lizard people beyond the door. It’s tempting to push beyond just to see them.

Trip hasn’t said much and is just staring up at the streak-colored black vortex, but speaks up as I hesitate opening the door.

“The train is leaving soon.”

Now, I’m assuming he means our chance to go to whatever world is the next in line. That means hurrying. Drawing my sword, I push the door open and peer inside. Hurrying doesn’t mean leaping into the unknown without a care. The interior is dimly lit from narrow windows posted at intervals near the stairs leading upward. There are ledges encircling the tower where normal floors might be. Around each landing are arched doorways. I’m not sure where they could possibly lead, as they’re on the outside and the only place they could go is outside. However, each one is dark without a hint of daylight showing.

I kind of know how this scene goes. We start climbing the stairs and get to a certain level before the lizard people appear from each of the portals. Then we have to fight our way to the top. My only hope is that they’re just as slow as they’re depicted on TV. It’ll then become a slogfest of slowly working our way up through the crowd. With that in mind, but allowing for it to turn out completely differently, I step into the interior.

It’s several degrees cooler, and we start up the winding stairs. When things start to happen, I can only hope that Trip opts to use his slingshot rather than just pass out. Our steps reverberate against the stone block walls. It’s a little difficult trying to be quiet walking on wooden shoes. Nothing happens upon reaching the first level, but as expected, creatures begin showing at the doorways once we press further up the tower.

As advertised, the aliens move slowly to block our route. The ones below don’t try to engage but are there to make sure we’re pushed toward the greater number gathering on the stairs. Trip starts plinking a few higher up with that slingshot of his, not really aiming, just drawing back and releasing. He seems to have an unlimited supply of stones in that interior pocket.

I start cleaving the ones nearest, sending sprays of dark liquid to coat the walls and stairs. Lizard man after lizard man falls silently over the edge to hit the bottom with a thud. After a bit, even that heavy hit becomes subdued as they start landing atop each other. I find that I don’t even have to raise a sword, but just duck under their slow and awkward swings then push them over the edge. Make no mistake, if those long claws were to connect, I’d feel it. They’re capable of cutting deep enough to sever arteries.

Progress is slow as they keep crowding the steps. I have no idea how many there are but there isn’t an empty part of the stairs. The skin of the lizard people is a mottled green, dry and rough to the touch. They have huge black eyes without pupils that I can determine. If they blink, I haven’t seen them do it. It’s almost like there’s a dark lens covering their real eyes. They march endlessly down to their death without doing much more than swinging when they get within range. It’s the same with every one of them. Step, swing, duck, push, move upward.

With the idea that our time is limited, I push as hard as I can, sending numerous lizards down to the bottom of the tower. I’m not even sure if the fall is killing them. Those falling now have to be hitting with quite a cushion under them. I keep an eye on those still moving up with us from below. This is mindless slaughter and kind of sickening. If it weren’t for the need to get to the top and out of here, hopefully, I’d plead with them to just stop this insanity.

Near the top, there’s a narrow ledge leading away from the steps to a central platform. A beam of light shines down from above, coming through a hole seemingly positioned for the very purpose of highlighting a black box hovering at shoulder height. Before Trip can give me one of his cryptic statements, I assume we have to bring the box with us in order to activate the portal out of here. Perhaps it tames down the maelstrom above enough to jump into it without being torn apart.

The narrow pathway leading to the platform is barely wider than my wooden shoes. Glancing down, the bottom of the tower is just a gloomy abyss, too dark to see what should be a pile of reptilian bodies. The last thing I want to do is fall. I mean, aside from the sudden stop at the bottom, I don’t want to land in that mess.

Oddly, the lizard people all stop their movements as I carefully transit the ledge. I don’t know if they’re curious to see if I fall or this is something new, but it leaves me with an uneasy feeling. It’s like they’re expecting some grand scene to play out and don’t want to miss a moment of it. At the hovering black box, I circle it looking for any sign of a trap. I can’t figure out how it’s being held up, but in these worlds, that’s not surprising.

I wonder if I’m supposed to leave something in its place like Indiana Jones, that the beam of light being interrupted might trigger something harmful. My fear is that the platform may just disappear or fall apart should I just grab the box. But I don’t see an alternative. I don’t have anything near the size of the box, which is only about a foot wide by about six inches tall. I remove my tanto and place it in the beam of light to see if it will hover in the box’s place, but I have to catch it out of the air when it starts falling. Knowing I don’t have a lot of time, I start running and snag the box, hoping to be well down the narrow ledge when the platform starts failing.

Well, I don’t know why I thought perhaps nothing would happen. Perhaps it was hard wishful thinking. As one, the Herpesians open their mouths and fill the interior with a loud hissing roar. They reveal a set of teeth a shark would be proud of, built specifically for the rending and tearing of flesh and bone. Not only do they react like this, but go through some sort of transformation that brings them out of their lethargy. No longer are they slow-moving, predictable beings, but demonstrate an agility that makes them far more dangerous. The ones above and below start clambering the walls, the click of their claws echoing within.

The fight has now started in earnest. My katana is a blur of motion, cutting through one creature after another while holding on to the black box. The air is filled with the mist of their dark blood, the blade cutting easily through the thick lizard skin. Like before, many of the Herpesian fall to their death, most of them trailing streams of blood. But we can’t advance any farther due to the onslaught of lizard people. They come from the stairs, from the walls above, and from below. Trip has found some elf-like agility with his slingshot, the band snapping and being reloaded with blinding speed. I’m continually ducking to avoid outstretched claws and countering with swings of my own.

There’s an abrupt break of the endless supply of lizard people that had been in front, a clear path to the door leading outside. Below, more Herpesians are emerging from the numerous doorways like smoke. I grab Trip by his collar, and with him still firing at those coming up from behind, make a dash for the door. I long ago gave up the wooden shoes for fear of stumbling at the wrong time, but Trip is still wearing his. The clop of his footsteps is heard above the continual hissing of the creatures as we run for daylight. Bursting through the door, the sun’s rays are blinding after fighting in the gloom.

I don’t stop, running a little ways down the path. I notice that the dark maelstrom that was on top of this tower has now moved to the next one about a quarter of a mile away. Without slowing, I continue racing for the perceived portal out of here. I have no idea what the black box is for or how to activate it, but I hope that becomes apparent when we reach the vortex.

Herpesians pour out of the door behind, giving chase. They run along the wide pathway, on top of the crenellations, or along the outside of the wall itself. Amazingly, Trip is keeping up, even though he’s running on those platform shoes. He actually seems to be more agile on them than I’ve seen him before. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

The clack of the creatures’ talons on the stone is loud. I know if we slow for any reason, they’ll be on us within seconds. I don’t know if we have another gear, but I know I can keep this speed up for a quarter mile. After that, well, we’ll just have to see.

My breath is coming fast and hard as we near the next tower. As I’m about to set foot on the widened pathway that marks the tower, the vortex vanishes, reappearing on the next one over.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, starting off after it.

My speed isn’t nearly what it was for the quarter mile dash, but I hope it’s fast enough to stay in front of the pursuing Herpesians. A quick glance shows them halted where the last tower started, hissing and milling to try and find a way past what seems to be an invisible barrier. I slow up, pointing back as I try and catch my breath.

“They can’t go past the boundary of the adjacent tower,” Trip says, pulling out a bag of Phritos and stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth.

“Do you mean the Herpesians can’t get past any tower next to them?” I inquire.

“Any creature of a tower can’t go past the next tower. It’s the rule,” Trip says, spraying chips everywhere.

“Wait, each tower has its own creature?”

Trip nods, tipping the bag into his mouth.

Worried about what might come out of the tower we just passed, I keep an eye on the Herpesians as we proceed toward the vortex at a more relaxed trot. I’m worried that we’ll miss this one before it transitions to the next tower. I don’t want to march along the entire length of the Great Wall, attempting to catch up to the way out.

As we approach, the swirling vortex again vanishes only to reappear at the next tower.

“Fuck me,” I say, stopping.

“You do know there will be another train along shortly,” Trip mentions.

“Do you mean to say that we can just wait here for another one of those to show up?”

Trip nods.

“Why in the fuck didn’t you tell me in the first place?”

“You seemed so eager to catch this one,” Trip answers.

“I swear you’re going to get me killed one of these days,” I mutter.

Curious as to what alien creature might be associated with this tower, I ease the door open a touch and peek inside. A large tentacled monster is rising above a tempestuous ocean. Giant waves pound outward from the flailing creature as it smashes wooden ships from existence. Overhead, dark clouds roil with lightning striking the boiling waters.

“Okay, I’ll just leave that in there,” I mumble, easing the door back closed, not even questioning that it’s physically impossible to hold what I just saw inside the boundaries of the tower’s interior.

True to his word, the swirling vortices appear in the opposite direction, staying for a minute or so before moving on to the next. They draw closer and every question I have for Trip regarding what we’re supposed to do when it arrives is met with any and every kind of answer…except for something clear and specific. However, if we miss this one, another will appear. I figure I’ll eventually figure out what I’m supposed to do. As long as the creatures remain confined within their towers and boundaries, we have time. That is, with the exception that I have some anxiety with wanting to help Mike.

The vortex appears at our tower, spiraling into existence and roaring into the air. There’s no way I’m just going to jump into it, as I doubt I’ll make it through before being ripped apart. The colored streaks embedded within the dark mass seem kind of like a reverse rainbow. With an abruptness that startles me into taking a step back while brandishing my sword, a man jumps out of the seething inferno. He lands a short distance away, brushing imaginary dust from his patchwork clothing. His long, gray and black hair is tangled and wild, forming around his head like a bird’s nest. His bushy beard and drooping mustache are much the same. The eyes that eventually meet mine are anything but sane, but there’s an intensity and deepness to them that’s hard to turn away from.

“Oh, you there. Did you bring the box?” the man asks, holding a bony hand out.

I hand the box over and the man sets it on the ground.

“Be quiet, you worthless lizard,” he says, looking back over his should at the seething maelstrom.

Yeah, this dude has really lost it.

“And the scroll?” he inquires, facing us again.

For a moment, I’m worried that I missed picking up something on the way here and might have to retrace our steps in order to find it. Trip reaches into the depths of his voluminous sleeve and withdraws a rolled parchment.

“Very good…very good,” the crazed man says, snatching the scroll.

He unrolls it and starts perusing it, muttering, “Ah, yes” every few seconds.

“Perfect,” he announces upon finishing it.

He then flings it upward at the vortex. The scroll tumbles through the air, and as it nears the seething mass, it turns to ash with a quick flash of flame.

“My original Verizon contract. I now consider that null and void. Let them try and prove differently,” the man says with a huge grin.

What in the serious fuck?!

He bends down to retrieve the box. Flipping open a hidden lid, three black buttons and one white is revealed.

“Now to end my Comcast one,” he laughs, pressing down on the white button.

Everything narrows to a small point of light, like an old television being turned off. Then even that blinks out and it all goes dark.

14

Jack Walker – Chapter Eight

The darkness lasts only a second and I’m suddenly flying the hovercraft. The transition is disorienting to say the least, and it takes me a few moments to become oriented. Once I have the craft under control, I’m able to ascertain my surroundings.

The first thing I notice, and I don’t see how it could be any different, is a giant tentacle through the windshield. The thing is monstrously thick. Turning quickly, we shoot past, but I see others moving through the air all around. The surface of this new world is flat and featureless and looks to be made of light blue glass. I’m fairly certain this is the same place I last saw Mike.

Avoiding the long arms, I bring the ship around for a better look. The numerous tentacles are attached to creatures drawn straight out of some sci-fi channel. They are all tentacles attached to a head some ninety feet or more off the ground. It kind of looks like what the Space Needle might, should it become alive…and grow a shit ton more arms. Or legs…as the tentacles seem to function as both.

Zipping through the reaching arms of the beasts are two other hovercraft. They fire their cannons without any effect that I’m able to determine. In the distance are two rising spirals of dark smoke, the markers of the other two vessels that passed through the portal. I search among the numerous creatures for any sign of Mike. The last I saw, he was being held in a tentacle of one of those beasts.

“Trip, where’s Mike?” I ask, unable to find any sign of him being held here.

“He, uh, went home,” Trip replies.

My heart sinks. “What do you mean by ‘he went home’? Is that some sort of euphemism?”

“No, Yack. He went home.”

“Like, to his own world and is with his family kind of went home…or that he went home to meet his maker?”

“With his family,” Trip answers.

A variety of emotions course through me. One is that I’m glad he made it back to his world and family. He deserves that. Another is that I’m jealous that he gets to go and I’m still here. There’s relief that I haven’t arrived too late and found him dead. However, the most prevalent emotion is one of sadness. With Mike leaving this mess and back where he belongs, that means that I won’t see the man again. I found that he became much more than a companion through this whole ordeal, he was a close friend, and believe me, that’s not something I really allowed much in my life. He was a warrior and brother, and I’m let down that I didn’t get to say goodbye.

“You take care, bud,” I say to the air.

My moment to say a mental goodbye and register that he’s gone is cut short. The hovercraft is jarred and sent flying out of control. I stopped paying attention to the situation and allowed one of the tentacles to swat the ship. I attempt to bring the spinning craft under control, but the bluish glass surface comes up quickly. We hit hard and bounce, again coming down to skip along the surface. With each successive hit, I know that the vessel won’t ever again get airborne.

We skid, the sound of tortured metal screeching loudly. It seems to go on forever, but the vessel eventually comes to rest with a final rocking motion. Acrid smoke roils inside and begins to fill the cabin. Without going through a shutdown, I make sure the rear door is open and bound from my seat. Trip is already ahead of me, stumbling for the exit. I come after, taking in a deep gulp of fresh air once we’re clear.

“You need to work on your landings,” Trip says between coughs.

“You’re not kidding,” I reply.

A short distance away, one of the creatures is rolling our way. It’s probably the one who swatted us from the sky coming to finish the job.

“Well, where to?” I ask.

The flat terrain didn’t have any cover and there’s no way I’m fighting that monstrosity with my bare hands. I may have my carbine, but that’s a laughable weapon with what we’re facing. I feel Trip tugging on my shoulder. Turning, I see him pointing.

“We need to head there.”

What I thought to be a terrain that is flat and featureless was only so in three directions. Admittedly, I was a little busy transitioning to flying the craft and then trying to gain control after being swatted out of the air. The third direction features a chasm that runs out of sight in both directions, slicing into the glass-like surface like it was cut with a laser. Two giant pillars rise on this side with a large gate sitting closed between them.

I glance back; the monster that knocked us out of the air is still rolling toward us. How do I convey the method of locomotion with tentacles…. Walking? Slithering? I’m not sure, but it’s coming closer nonetheless. The gate is apparently our only exit, so I bolt for it, half pulling Trip along and sliding to a stop in front of it.

There aren’t any hinges or anything to indicate that’s what it is, but what else could it really be. I notice a slot in the middle. The slot is about as big as the amber orb Mike tossed. Dropping my pack, I pull the object from within. The tentacled beast is nearly upon us as I jam the orb into the slot.

With a loud clang, a thin line appears in the middle of the once seamless gate. Slowly, the gate parts, dropping the orb out of its slot. Keeping an eye on the encroaching monster, I retrieve the item and silently will the door to hurry along. However, with the loud gong-like sound, the other beasts have stopped what they were doing and are all headed our way.

Knowing that the creatures are moving deceptively fast, I scurry through the opening as soon as it’s wide enough. Trip follows. As soon as we’re past, the mysterious gong sounds again and the doors begin to close. This brings the rapidly approaching beasts to a halt. The gate and surrounding structure are taller than the creatures, but I doubt that’d slow them much, should they desire to clamber over. I’m hoping that the noise is a signal that they can halt their pursuit. Before the doors completely close, I note four plumes of dark smoke, each marking the demise of a whistler craft. Even if there are survivors, at least I won’t have to deal with the ships.

Beyond the gate is a short roadway leading to the edge of the massive chasm. Filaments of silver run through the blocks making the road. As the gate closes with yet another ringing gong, those filaments illuminate, the lights racing up the roadway. Once they hit the edge, a bridge begins to form. The constructing span is clear and seems to be made of crystal. It continues to build until it completely crosses the wide gorge that cuts like a line through the bluish glass surface of this world. Beyond, the road again picks up to meander through rolling terrain to a city built on a line of hills.

The city is dark and has a gloom set upon it, like a switch is waiting to be thrown on a miniature Christmas town. From this distance, it looks like most of the structures are built out of marble or some kind of similar stone. Stately buildings rise above the city streets, fronted by colonnaded porticos. On top of a central hill lies a large structure with a domed roof. Set around it are columns of crystal, much like what I saw on the platform in space. All in all, the place looks like an abandoned ancient Roman or Greek city.

Walking to the edge of the crystal bridge, I peer over the edge to stare down at an abyss. Roiling tendrils of fog block any view to the bottom, if there is one. I get the impression that if one were to fall in, it would be an eternity before any bottom was found. I gingerly test my weight on the span to find that it’s solid. I thought it would also be slick, that I’d go shooting across like an out-of-control ice skater, but I’m able to maintain a firm footing.

We start crossing over. I try to avoid looking down through the crystal to the boiling fog of the abyss below. The silver lines that ran through the stones of the roadway also run through the bridge, so I’m able to have some perspective of where the surface lies. I want to ask Trip what the city is all about, but the whole place seems to invite a quiet that I don’t want to break.

On the other side, we start meandering through hills of blue glass. Although nice to look at, my senses can’t quite come to terms with the fact that these aren’t filled with grasses, or shrubs, or trees. This is definitely an alien land.

My mind is focused on the city ahead and what I might find there. It looked abandoned, but that was from a distance. For some reason, I’m not overly worried about just tromping into the place. The orb Mike found somewhere that gained us entrance seems kind of like a hall pass and may tell the creatures of this world that we belong here. At least, that’s the feeling I get.

The city just starts. There’s not the usual sprawl of residences that get closer together the further you get in. There are blue hills and then there are structures built among them. The wide avenues are empty, the buildings give off the feeling that they want to display their brightness but they’re wrapped in a gloom that clings to the city. Columned buildings soar upward to great heights, windows looking out to the streets as if searching for those that once occupied them.

Abandoned cities are just eerie. The senses cry out for the associated noises, the sight of movement. As I walk the streets, I can almost feel the activity that must have gone on here in the past. The ghosts of those people swirl through the streets and peer out from darkened windows. I wonder what kind of beings lived here. I hesitate to say human but the doors are the right height and width, as are the windows where they’re to be found.

Trip marches ahead, our route always heading uphill. We move past building after building, circling around fountains set in cross-street courtyards. I think my senses would be appeased if we were to startle the occasional flock of doves, hear something rustle within the buildings, or scuttle around a corner. The silence is overwhelming. It’s not oppressive, but there is nonetheless a weight attached to it. There’s something else in the background, not quite seen or heard. A strength and beauty, a peace that drifts through like faint chords. That which could be, if given a chance.

I notice us heading ever toward the large domed structure at the top of the tallest hill. I don’t ask Trip, as this seems right. I know that I should be anxious and more wary considering the history of these strange worlds, but that feeling is swept away the moment I feel it coming on.

Approaching the top of the hill, I notice that the domed building is hollow. Crystal obelisks surround the structure, soaring into the air. An opening in the roof allows a larger crystal spire to tower through the middle of the building, becoming the highest point in all of the city and land.

Before the middle spire is a platform surrounded by steps. Channels cut into the marble of the floor lead away from this raised dais and reach out to each of the other crystals. Without a word, and still carrying the amber orb, I climb the steps, coming to a stop atop the platform. I do this because it seems like the right thing to do. I kind of feel like I’m on autopilot, not really thinking about my actions, but doing them because they’re what I should be doing.

Instead of offering the stone to the crystal pillar in front, I turn and see that Trip is standing at the bottom. In a raised hand, he’s holding the relic. Golden light forms in the circle of the ankh and a beam of light shoots out, connecting with the orb in my hands. I’m suddenly surrounded in a golden glow, barely able to see due to the brightness, even though it doesn’t hurt my eyes.

The glow expands, flowing down the steps. My soul is warmed beyond anything I’ve ever felt and my troubles forgotten. The golden light hits the channels and fills them, running toward the crystal spires. Even though it’s difficult to see, I sense, all of what is transpiring around me. It’s difficult to tell if that which fills the channels is pure gold or solid light, but where it flows, the darkness is lifted.

As the light reaches the crystals, it fills them with its golden hue. Intense golden light then streaks from the pointed tops, hitting the central pillar. Twenty-four beams, one from each spire, fill the towering one behind where I stand. With a whoosh like a hundred waves all crashing at once, a thick beam of gold sails upward out of sight.

The peace within is replaced by a feeling of sadness. I feel that I’ve reached the end of the road and wish Mike were here to share in it. Having endured the hardships as well, he deserves to witness and feel what I’m feeling. Besides, he’s my friend, and it would be nice to complete the journey together.

Below, a figure steps out from each of the twenty-four pillars, standing with arms raised. If it weren’t for their blazing blue eyes, I’d say they were human. Pure snowy hair and beards flow down white gowns. Still attuned to my senses, I feel another step out from the central spire. The sight of the man confirms this as he walks up to Trip.

“Thank you, Traveler. You have found and released us from our prison. The worlds can now again be set right.”

“I had help,” Trip replies, his intense eyes again holding the sanity that he seldom portrayed.

“Of that, we are aware. But they must not be allowed to retain the memories of their journeys.”

Turning toward me, the being with the blazing sky-blue eyes says, “I thank you, mortal. Your deeds and that of your companions shall not be forgotten.”

Other creatures sail out from the pillars of light, sweeping over the city. Wherever they fly, the gloom fades. The brilliance of the structures emerges from within shadow to beam in unseen sunlight.

The light imbues me again, washing away any sadness or depression.

I feel as if each of my molecules is leaving my body to join with the light streaming upward. It’s as if I’m one with the light, and the light is one with me. My body is spread over infinite reaches, yet still retains its shape. All around me is gold light, yet that light is also my body.

I know that I may never see my friend, may never see Trip, or any of the others who walked beside me for some of the paths I trod. They will be forever gone from my life, not residing even as a memory. Kalandar, my doppleganger, Otter, the Lynns of the various worlds, the kids who are not my kids. I will miss the talks Mike and I had during our moments when a brief peace settled over us. The laughs and dangers we shared. Those experiences will vanish into nothing, perhaps to be remembered by others.

“Take care, Mike. I wish nothing but the best for you, my fellow warrior and brother. May your journeys be filled with the warmth of the sun on your face and the wind at your back.”

I know that I’m leaving this place, departing the worlds where we were thrust. But, with the true Creators returned, it is a place of healing rather than destruction. I have no idea whether new Travelers will be created, but those worlds are not part of me anymore. The whistlers will be locked away, along with their masters. I can only hope that the overseers and enforcers can merge again with the new travelers to provide balance. I leave believing this to be true.

“Jack,” I hear a voice call, coming from all around and inside of me at the same time.

It’s the same voice that has whispered in my ear several times.

“I cannot take you back to the same time as when you left, and for that I am deeply and truly sorry. Time has moved on in that world. But, I am sending you home.”

Those words send a wave of joy and happiness through me that can’t be described. I’m going to see my family again.

“I leave you with this before you go. Take it when you get back to your world.”

I feel something pressed into my hand and then the golden light vanishes.

15

Aftermath – Mike Journal Entry 7

“Dyed!” Trip shouted.

I was groggy as fallen bricks were pulled off my body.

“Shit, LT, thought we lost you there for a minute. Don’t move…got a feeling you’ve got a couple of cracked ribs,” my sergeant and squad medic, Winters, said.

“Dyed eggs are way better than regular ones, don’t you agree?” Trip was next to me. He looked pleased as punch, eating a blue hard-boiled egg.

“Lieutenant, do not move. I’ve got some morphine in the Hummer, going to give you a shot before we head out. Understood?”

I didn’t even nod, just existing hurt.

“What happened, Trip?”

“You still remember? That’s strange.” He was looking quizzically at me. “That won’t last long.”

“Jack, BT, Bob, Church…what happened to them?”

“There will always be sacrifices in war, Ponch.”

My heart sank, some of the most valiant warriors I had ever fought with had fallen.

“Not in vain.” Trip must have been able to pick up on my grief. “We won; we stopped them.” He was thinking, “For now, for a long, long now.”

I didn’t know how you could have a long, long now, and I didn’t care. I was grasping at the memories of everything that I think happened, but it was getting difficult, slippery even, like an extremely vivid dream that you want to ruminate on, but with each thought upon it, you lose another piece. And then it all faded to nothing as Winters sank the hypodermic deep into my thigh.

“Got any more?” I heard Trip ask just as I went to chase the dragon.

About Mark Tufo

Mark Tufo was born in Boston Massachusetts. He attended UMASS Amherst where he obtained a BA and later joined the US Marine Corp. He was stationed in Parris Island SC, Twenty Nine Palms CA and Kaneohe Bay Hawaii. After his tour he went into the Human Resources field with a worldwide financial institution and has gone back to college at CTU to complete his masters.

He has written the Indian Hill trilogy with the first Indian Hill - Encounters being published for the Amazon Kindle in July 2009. He has since written the Zombie Fallout series and is working on a new zombie book.

He lives in Maine with his wife, three kids and two English bulldogs. Visit him at marktufo.com or http://zombiefallout.blogspot.com/ or http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mark-Tufo/133954330009843 for news on his next two installments of the Indian Hill trilogy and upcoming installments of the Zombie Fallout series.

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About John O’Brien

John O'Brien is a former Air Force fighter instructor pilot who transitioned to Special Operations for the latter part of his career gathering his campaign ribbon for Desert Storm. Immediately following his military service, John became a firefighter/EMT with a local department. Along with becoming a firefighter, he fell into the Information Technology industry in corporate management. Currently, John is writing full-time on the series, A New World.

As a former marathon runner, John lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest and can now be found kayaking out in the waters of Puget Sound, mountain biking in the Capital Forest, hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, or pedaling his road bike along the many scenic roads.

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A Shrouded World The Series

Whistlers Book 1

Atlantis Book 2

Convergence Book 3

Valhalla Book 4

Asabron Book 5

Bitfrost Book 6

Hvergelmir Book 7

Asgard Book 8