Not My First Trip
“Is this your first trip?” the cashier asked with a worn-out smile, as he handed Wesley his change and a ticket.
Wesley nodded energetically. His heavy black glasses slid down his nose. He set his briefcase on the concrete and pushed his glasses closer to his forehead. He took the ticket and change. “Yes, I simply can’t wait. I’ve driven across four states to get here today. One of my students told me about it, and I simply had to get here as soon as school ended. Have you--”
“I’m sure you are, sir. Enjoy your trip. Next!”
Wesley looked at the cashier for a second, and noticed a sign just behind him that read, “No Refunds!” Wesley smiled politely and tipped his hat to the man as he gathered up his briefcase and strode through a turnstile toward a massive plaster palace. Wesley couldn’t help but gape at the structure, simultaneously impressive and false, a kitschy, awkward hybrid of an ancient Far East castle and a Medieval European fortress. It was painted with piercingly bright yellows and greens in a color scheme that resembled nothing Wesley had ever seen.
Wesley looked down to see that he was walking on a thin, winding carpet laid over top of the asphalt. It was embroidered with text and icons representing pivotal moments in history. He passed over a small image that he wouldn’t have recognized but for the words beneath it, “Moveable type: Johannes Guttenberg. 1440.” Wesley noted that “movable” and “Gutenberg” were spelled incorrectly, and that the printing press image did not in any way resemble the drawings he had seen in the textbooks he used for lecturing in his eighth grade history classes.
An usher, dressed in a red vest and a bellman’s cap, greeted Wesley at the castle’s portcullis.
“Good day, sir, and welcome to the Gates of Eternity!” the usher said with a shallow grin.
The usher handed Wesley a small brochure, which was creased and bent as though it had been handled by previous visitors to the castle. Wesley handed the usher his ticket, and took the brochure. He examined it for a moment. The usher pointed toward the interior of the castle and nodded again.
“Kindly move along, sir. You don’t want to hold up the line.”
Wesley looked up from his brochure, and turned back toward the ticket booth. A father and son were the only other people in “line.” They were several yards away, stopping every few steps to examine each historical icon and quote. Wesley thought he heard the father say something about “Leonardo Da Vincky.”
“Say, uh, Roger,” Wesley said, as he squinted at the usher’s hand-written name tag, “I must have picked a good time to come down here. Not as busy as I thought it would be.”
Roger the usher was clearly straining to maintain his smile. “I wouldn’t know so much about that, mister. Now, if you’ll kindly head inside, we’ll get you started on your journey.”
Wesley looked a little puzzled.
“Do I leave my things with you?” Wesley asked as he tapped his briefcase.
“No, sir, there’s a storage area just inside.” the usher replied.
Wesley opened the brochure that the usher had given him and read aloud, “Unlimited Discovery Through the Sands of Time... Say, where, or how, do I put in my destination? Do I just tell someone, or will the crew interview us individually before we leave?”
Roger the usher chuckled. “All of your questions will be answered inside. And, remember to keep your helmet on at all times.”
Wesley felt a bit put off but tried not to show it. A bit of disappointment seeped into his words as he asked, “I suppose you’ll be needing this back after the journey is over?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a bin at the exit.” The usher coughed, and again gestured toward the passageway in front of Wesley.
Wesley tipped his hat to Roger and continued down the long corridor. He came to a set of large metal doors, painted with images of dragons, dinosaurs, cavemen, deep-sea divers, and space travelers. A glowing sign above the door said, “Please wait, time travel in progress.” A faint electric hum pulsed as the sign grew brighter, then faded as it dimmed.
Wesley continued reading his brochure as he waited. “Experience the Age of ice creatures, or discover the future of mankind... visit Europe during the Renaissance, or see ancient China at the height of its mysterious beauty.”
He looked up from his brochure at the sound of footsteps. The father and son were looking at the last carpet icon: “President John F. Kennedy Assassinated.” The father removed his hat and held it over his heart for a moment. They approached the double doors and stood just behind Wesley. The father placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and nodded to Wesley, who nodded back.
Wesley held up his lightly-crumpled brochure. “Sounds terrific, doesn’t it?” he said.
The boy nodded energetically. “Sure does! I can’t wait!”
All three of them were startled by a deafening shriek of metal creaking, wrenching, and scraping against metal. The building shook a little too much for Wesley’s liking, and he stepped back from the doors. A moment later, he heard the sounds of a hydraulic pump exhaling excess air. The doors slowly slid open, and a stout middle-aged man dressed in a yellow bio-hazard suit emerged.
“Hello and welcome,” the man said. He looked down at the little boy, then at his father. “I... uh... well, you understand, of course, sir, that there are certain risks associated with this sort of journey...?”
The father smiled. “We’ve signed all the paperwork, sir. Everything should be in order.”
“So long as you’re prepared to shield your child’s eyes, should we stumble into something... more troubling for younger travelers. I can’t predict what we’ll happen upon.”
“After all,” Wesley added awkwardly, “if this thing does what they say it does, I wouldn’t be surprised if we get caught in some hairy stuff. What if we head to Paris during the revolution? Or, if we visit Asia during the time of the Mongols? History can get rather ugly...”
The father smiled and nodded toward the door. “Certainly no more ugly than pointing nuclear missiles at each other... He’s a big boy. Aren’t you, son?”
The boy nodded sheepishly.
The father added, “And, as I say, everything is in order. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
The man in the bio-hazard suit nodded and waved them into a small lobby. “Just the three of you then? Well, that’ll do, I suppose, that’ll do. Do come in and put on a suit and a helmet. Set your things just over there if you please.” The man pointed to a wall of cubby holes as he walked toward a bank of machines and gadgets.
“My name is Franklin,” said the little boy to the man. “What’s your name?”
The man stopped and turned toward the boy. “Why, I’m Mr. Gates, young fellow.”
“Are you the time machine driver?” Franklin asked.
“I suppose I am. Now you go be a good boy and put on your suit so that we can get going. We don’t have all day, you know!” Mr. Gates walked to the control bank and looked over a piece of graph paper that was rolling out of a printing machine.
Franklin watched Mr. Gates as he looked over the graph paper, and walked toward his father, who was strapping on a strange-looking helmet with a large metal point on the very top of it, with a metal sphere on top of that.
Wesley set his briefcase into one of the cubby holes and opened it just enough to reach a hand inside. He grabbed an object inside the case and placed it into his pocket. The little boy noticed Wesley stuffing the thing in his pocket but couldn’t see what the thing was.
Wesley pulled a biohazard suit off of a clothes hanger, and noticed that it was drenched. “Say, uh, sir? Mr. Gates? These suits are soaked.”
Mr. Gates was standing in front of a machine that looked like something Wesley had seen on a television program about aliens and space travel. A green wave flashed across a small black television screen every few seconds and made a peculiar “woomp woomp” sound as it passed. Mr. Gates was twisting knobs on the machine, clockwise and then counter-clockwise, and as he did, the wave slowed and then sped up again.
Mr. Gates wouldn’t look away from the screen to reply to Wesley. He called over his shoulder, “Yes, we have to make sure that you travelers don’t bring anything back with you... invisible, microscopic organisms and what have you. The suits are cleaned several times between each trip, and being waterproof, they take the longest time to dry. I assure you they’re perfectly dry on the interior.”
Wesley touched the inside of his suit and found that it was indeed dry. He put it on and zipped it up to his neck. He struggled to get the helmet to sit just right on his head. The metal proboscis on the top of it made it somewhat top-heavy, and the sides of it pressed against his glasses which put pressure on his temples. He watched the father assisting his son with his helmet.
“Stop squirming, Frankie.”
Wesley approached the father and pulled gently on his arm while Frankie finished strapping his helmet to his head.
“Look,” Wesley whispered, “I’m not a father, so please forgive me if I’m being rude...”
The father clenched his teeth.
“Really, I wouldn’t want you to take offense, but are you sure about this? I mean, does your boy get nightmares or anything? ‘Cus if he does, any number of things we see could keep him up at night for years to come.”
The father struggled to maintain a polite tone. “My son’s got a good head on his shoulders. No need to worry about a thing. But, I appreciate your concern all the same.”
Mr. Gates suddenly looked up from his screen. “Very well, we have a window. Everyone into the chamber, please. And, make sure to keep your helmets on at all times. That’s absolutely critical.”
“The chamber?” the father asked.
Mr. Gates pulled a long metal lever on the wall opposite of the cubby holes. The wall looked to be made of some sort of metal grating. A long thin painting of a wave like Wesley had seen on Mr. Gates’ television screen was painted across the center of it. The sound of an electrical hum filled the room, and the wall split into two halves.
Inside was the chamber Mr. Gates was referring to, constructed entirely of metal. Wires hung loosely from the ceiling as though they’d been torn out, cut, and reconnected by someone in a rush. Five large objects hung from the ceiling: long, thick poles with metal spheres welded to their ends, just above Mr. Gates’ head. They looked like larger versions of the objects on top of the passengers’ helmets.
“It looks like how I imagined Dr. Frankenstein’s lab, sorta like in the book I read last Summer.” Franklin shrieked.
“It sure does,” said the father. “But I’m sure Mr. Gates is nothing like mean old Dr. Frankenstein.”
Mr. Gates smiled at Franklin and did a poor imitation of a German accent. “My munstah, he is alive!”
Franklin giggled. “He’s a funny man, isn’t he, Pop?” He looked up and stared at the large metal objects hanging from the ceiling. “Wow, look at those things... are they giant metal lollipops?” he asked. As he looked up, his helmet, which was top-heavy, and a little too large for his tiny head, slid back, and he struggled with it for a moment to get it to sit just right.
The father smiled at his son. Mr. Gates herded the three passengers into an area encircled by a wall that came up to Wesley’s waist. A low electric hum grew louder in the room, and got higher in pitch, almost a squeal, then sank back to the deep hum, and quieted down. That cycle of louder and softer, louder and softer kept repeating every few seconds. Gates walked to a console just outside of the little wall and flipped a red toggle switch. The metal lollipops lowered a few inches until they were just above Wesley’s head.
“Perhaps I can answer your questions when we return, my good man, but for now we have a very limited window of time, and we must be on our way.” Mr. Gates said, with a patient but firm tone. “Keep in mind, now, it’s possible that the signal won’t be quite as strong for the boy... due to his height... or more specifically, his distance from the actuators. Or, rather, the uh... lollipops. He’ll probably see things a little less clearly than the rest of us, but he ought to have just as much fun anyhow.”
Wesley started to feel a little skittish about this whole process. He watched the father hold his son in place by placing his hands on his shoulders. “Isn’t this exciting, Franklin?” the father asked.
“Definitely, Pop!”
Wesley noticed the actuators starting to vibrate and shudder. His stomach turned. He wiped some sweat from the back of his neck, underneath the collar of his suit. He couldn’t stop gaping at the father and son, and couldn’t understand why this whole situation wasn’t more unsettling to them. They seemed quietly giddy, as if they were in line at a ballpark, waiting to shake hands with DiMaggio. Wesley looked over at Gates, who was still tinkering with the controls.
“You know,” Wesley said, “seeing as we’ve never done this before, we could maybe do with a bit of an explanation before we get underway, don’t you think?”
Mr. Gates pulled some dust-masks and canvas gloves from a drawer in his console and brought them to the passengers. They each put them on. He tried to reassure them. “I’ll be able to talk to you all while you’re traveling, and I’ll just be right over here watching the readouts and keeping everything running smoothly. We’ve got to get going, so please bear with me.” Mr. Gates returned to his console and flicked a few switches and then rotated two knobs back and forth.
The actuators started to spin. The waist-high wall began to rotate around them. Suddenly, Wesley felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable. The spinning of the walls and the actuators, combined with the sound of the electric hum, reminded Wesley of the props on a B-24. The B-24 reminded him of the airstrip at Rackheath. Rackheath reminded him of 1944. The pressure of his helmet reminded him of the one he wore in the air corps. The tightness against his head... the headaches. He tried to think of other things.
“When do we tell you what time we wish to travel to, Mr. Gates?” Wesley shouted abruptly.
Mr. Gates’ thin voice squawked from a small loudspeaker in the center of the spinning actuator cluster. “There’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. I really must apologize... normally we have time for more of an orientation before we get underway, but as it is, the usual technician is home with the... measles, so I’m running this thing solo. Also, it does us no favors that the waves are a little more erratic today, and I have to get us going on the first one that came along, otherwise we might not get another chance.”
“Waves? What waves?” Wesley asked. His dust-mask was damp with spit and sweat. Damp like the O2 mask he wore during high-altitude flight. He wanted to tear it off.
Gates had to yell over the noise of the machinery. “I’ll tell you about all that in a moment, once the actuators fall into synchrony. Things will quiet down then. For now, just know that it’s all going to be a little disorienting... but you’ll be fine, I promise!”
Wesley noted, with some relief, that Franklin was shaking a little, but still trying to be brave. His father sensed that he was worried, and held his shoulders tighter. “I’m sure it’ll be okay, Frankie. Mr. Gates knows his trade like any good man. No worries, now.”
“It’ll be sort of like a dream, but more vivid.” Gates hollered. “You’ll see flashes of events. Visions. You won’t actually be there in one sense, sorta, but sorta you will. You’ll see people and animals and things of all kinds all around you. Just stand there and relax and take it all in. You can talk to me, I’ll be able to hear you, and it won’t affect anything outside of the wall. It’s sorta like a forcefield from a comic book, right Franklin? So, whatever you do, just stay put.”
The electric hum heightened again, but this time, it didn’t quiet down as it had before. The room shook terribly. Wesley worried that one of the machines or wires was going to tear loose from the ceiling and crash down on them.
Wesley watched the chamber walls slowly close, and thought he could see two men dressed in strange clothes trying to pry the door open with a crowbar. Wesley’s eyes shot toward Gates, who was still hunched over the controls, and clearly hadn’t noticed the men outside the chamber. He looked back to the doors, and now the men were gone. He rubbed his eyes, and looked again, and this time it appeared as though one of the ushers was trying to squeeze through the doors.
Wesley started to shout at Gates, but the chamber walls closed, and a bolt of lightning erupted from one of the actuators, grounding itself on the antenna on Franklin’s helmet. The boy flinched, and Wesley felt the worst sense of dread he could imagine. Again, he was about to shout to Gates, but another flash suddenly shot into the father’s helmet, and the dread deepened. “I’m going to di--”
Everything went strangely silent. Wesley’s stomach dropped as though he had looked down on a busy street from the roof of a skyscraper. It was an instantaneous, familiar, unpleasant feeling, that reminded him of flying in the worst way. Flying high above Germany. A popping in his ears sounded almost like the distant explosion of flak and AA guns.
Wesley looked around him but saw nothing. There was no color, no light. He sensed no smell or sound. He felt weightless, empty, almost as if he had been hungry, exhausted, and crying for hours... as if he had been catapulted high into the air, and somehow never returned to Earth. For a moment, he considered the possibility that some piece of machinery, maybe the lollipops, had shaken loose from the ceiling and landed squarely on his little pointy helmet, crushing his entire body in an instant.
“No,” he thought, “that wasn’t even necessary. Surely, Gates, in his hurry to get us ‘underway,’ had turned the power on this contraption too high, and had electrocuted us all to death.” It quickly became apparent to Wesley that visiting a run-down, understaffed, unpopulated amusement park that advertised the opportunity to travel through time might have been one of his less-refined ideas.
“Where am I?” Wesley asked into the nothing. The sound of his voice was thick in his head. It resonated in his chest and the bridge of his nose, but seemed to stay trapped inside his mouth. He didn’t hear his words so much as feel them. Then he heard the sound of a child, laughing and giggling in a distant place that he could not see. It made him smile.
A voice called out, but it surely, or at least hopefully, must not be the voice of God. It was raspy, gently abrasive. It was Southern... mildly familiar. It was Gates.
“That’s better now, isn’t it? Don’t be surprised if your voices sound a little funny to yourselves. I promise, everything’s fine, and you’re all okay. I can hear you perfectly.”
“Oh,” Wesley said.
Franklin laughed. “I sound like Daffy Duck, don’t I, Dad?”
“Now let me get you all up to speed with what’s happened, and where we’re headed.” Gates said, at a more measured pace than he had been using before they had “departed.”
“I’d say we’re about due,” Wesley said.
“My apologies for the hurry.” Gates replied. “Now, I’ll put this in terms as clear as I can think of, but you all stop me if I get into something that doesn’t make sense. Of course, being as we’re about to travel through time, pretty much anything I say won’t make any sense whatsoever to a completely rational human being.” Gates snickered.
“Now,” Gates continued, “the basic principle is that we’re in a paper glider, like one you’d buy from a five and dime, Franklin, and someone just tossed the glider into the wind. The wind, of course, being time. If the current is right, the glider will float somewhere other than where we left. However, if the glider gets thrown at the wrong time, well, the wind will bring us right back to the ground. So, it’s really of the utmost importance that we toss the glider precisely at the right moment. That’s why I had to rush. The wind looked like it was about to die down, so to speak.”
“But we did make it into the wind, didn’t we Mr. Gates? ‘Cus you know your trade so well?” Franklin asked.
“We sure did, good sir.” Gates replied.
“Is it normal that I don’t see anything?” Wesley asked.
“Absolutely. We want to give you time to adjust to the whole process, being, as I said, somewhat of a disorienting situation” Gates answered, “so, I sort of shut the windows on our ‘glider’ until we’re all ready to look outside.”
“So, where will the winds take us? Dinosaur times? The future?” Franklin asked.
“Let poor Mr. Gates speak,” the father chided. “Don’t ask too many questions and become a bother.”
“It’s a good question,” Wesley interjected.
“Oh, it’s alright, sir, I’m quite used to it. I have a couple of boys of my own, of course they’re all grown now, but in any case, it’s perfectly normal to be curious. And, besides, the gentleman is correct, it’s an excellent question, Franklin.”
“See, Pop?”
“Mind yourself, Franklin.” said the father.
Wesley could hear the sound of clicking in the void. He thought it must be Gates at the controls.
“Now, we never quite know exactly where the winds are headed.” Gates said. “That’s where our little analogy starts to come apart. We’ve tried predicting the patterns, currents, and destinations based on the trips we’ve had in the past, but for some reason, we can’t seem to get it right every time. The tiniest change could take us in a completely different direction. So, each trip is completely different.”
Wesley felt empty again. That was not at all what he wanted to hear. “I think your brochure is sorely in need of a few revisions, Mr. Gates.” Wesley snapped.
“Well, that may be, sir. Unfortunately, I don’t write the promotional materials. My job today is to keep the glider afloat, as it were.” Gates replied.
“Yes, I see,” Wesley muttered.
“Oh no, what have I done?”
“What now?!” Wesley snapped.
No one spoke for a long moment.
“I’m sorry, sir, but that wasn’t me.” Gates said.
“It wasn’t us” said the father.
“Well then, who was it, Gates?” Wesley asked.
“I’m... not sure.” Gates replied.
There and Back Again
Roger the Usher lifted himself clear off of the floor as he pulled down on the manual release lever with all of his might. He let go, and his feet fell back to the floor. He leaned against the wall outside of the time travel chamber for a moment, then tried to pull the lever again. He felt something pop in his back, and the lever finally gave way. The walls split apart about six inches, and he had to wedge his body in between the narrow gap and force the doors open with his back on one door and his foot on the other.
The electric hum of the machinery was cycling up and down as though the machine was warming up for another trip. Roger finally got the walls open enough that he could fit through. He looked inside the chamber and didn’t see anyone. One of the helmets had gotten tangled up in some of the low-hanging wires, and was gently swinging back and forth.
“Mr. Gates?” Roger said.
Roger cautiously walked around the half-wall in the middle of the room, and looked over the top of it. His eyes bulged, and his face went totally white. He shouted something profane and nonsensical, and flung himself backward into the chamber wall. He began to breathe as though he were running at full speed as he crouched down into a ball, frozen in the corner of the room.
“What in god’s holy name?” he muttered with a terrified wavering in his voice.
Roger forced himself to stand again, despite the terrible shaking in his knees. He slowly pushed himself away from the back wall, toward the half-wall. He peered over it again, and there saw the man who had entered the machine earlier, who had asked him too many questions, and had clearly misunderstood exactly what the machine was capable of. He was clenching the brochure in one hand, and a small pistol in the other. He was slumped against the half wall, his face buried in his chest, with blood leaking from his ears.
Roger turned toward his left to see another man... the father who had read every single icon and historical event on the red carpet to his son while they were walking into the machine. No one ever did that, Roger thought. Most people give up after the first few icons, either from boredom, or because they’re so eager to get to the machine itself. The father was lying on his side, his head resting on top of an outstretched arm, with the other arm draped over his chest. His helmet was still attached, but barely. A puddle of blood had gathered on the floor below his ear.
Roger had expected the boy to be near his father, but he did not see him. He walked around the half-wall, steadying himself by clutching the top of it and pulling himself along, hand over hand.
“Little boy?” he said, simultaneously hoping that he would and would not answer. He heard a quiet, eerie grumble coming from a few feet away. He continued to follow the wall and came upon the boy, in between the half-wall and the outside wall, sprawled on his back, his arms slowly flailing in the air as though he were trying to find the ground, but looking for it in the wrong place.
Roger had to force himself not to wretch when he saw the child’s head, which had swollen to an impossibly grotesque size. It was pulsating slightly, and with each expansion, the veins underneath his skin became darker, and more visible. The boy’s hair looked patchy, spread thin over the massive skull. The child’s eyes were protruding from his head, and looked like they might explode from the pressure at any moment.
Roger couldn’t bear to look at the thing the child had become. He turned away and held his hand between his face and the boy, just in case he were tempted to turn toward him again.
“Are you... okay, kid?” Roger asked with his face still turned away. It was a stupid question, and he knew it, but he guessed that the child wouldn’t, or... couldn’t mind.
“Huuurrrrnh.”
Since the boy was blocking Roger’s path, he climbed over the half-wall, and staggered across the chamber to the control center. Gates was there, lying on the floor in front of the controls, his eyes wide open, and his suit covered in blood.
“What the devil happened?” Roger said to himself.
An idea found its way into Roger’s mind, one he knew didn’t belong there, and were he in any other circumstance or a more conventional state of thinking, he wouldn’t have wasted any time indulging it. However, things being what they were, Roger engaged this thought, this plan, and prepared himself for action.
If he were to run and get help, an ambulance would be called, as well as the police, and after they questioned him for hours or even days, they would inevitably shut down the entire time machine operation forever. The community was already highly suspicious of the machine, and would likely seize any opportunity to be rid of it. Even without today’s tragedy, and the four casualties that occurred as a result, the company was losing money on a daily basis, and was headed for demise under its own steam.
Moreover, with three of the four passengers dead, and the fourth likely to remain a simpleton, no one would never know exactly what happened here. Roger and millions of others would spend the rest of their lives wondering what was said, why harm had come to the passengers, and why this nightmare had transpired.
Roger wasn’t a scientist, or even a particularly smart man. But, he knew that something powerful was housed in this plaster building. It could very well be the beginning of something greater, something that would change the course of the future.
If I do what I am about to do, Roger thought, the world will know exactly how this story developed, and there will be no mystery. We’ll know if the time machine should indeed be shut down, or if this was just a unique incident that could be overlooked. Time travel could be redeemed or condemned by his actions. He would be a hero to the company, and perhaps the world. The very future of time travel itself, of the world, rested in Roger’s hands. He had to act.
He grabbed Mr. Gates underneath the armpits and dragged his body away from the console. He went to the controls, and looked over the dials. It had been a few weeks since he’d seen the machine operated, but after a moment or two, he remembered the instructions Mr. Gates had given him. He reached out for the dials, but left his hand hanging over it.
The machine had been designed to be incredibly simple in operation, so that it would be difficult or impossible to make mistakes while traveling. Since no one could anticipate exactly what risks time travel entailed, for the passengers or for the world surrounding the thing, the machine’s inventors thought it best to “dummy proof” the system. All of the staff had been trained on how to operate it in the event of an emergency, and Roger had even been called on to take the controls a few times in the past when Mr. Gates was too sick to come to work.
In fact, Roger thought, Mr. Gates had been home sick with some regularity in recent weeks. The other operator before him, Thomson, before he was let go, had a similar situation. It now occurred to Roger that it was strange how similar their stories sounded.
First, Thomson, and then Gates after him, would stop taking lunch with the rest of the staff. Gates said he was just trying to keep his weight down as his blood pressure had elevated at his last doctor’s visit. Thomson was a quiet man, and gave no reason. After that, both Thomson and Gates had asked Roger to stand guard at the machine’s entrance while they took more frequent trips to the lavatory. Then, Thomson took more and more time away from work, and eventually Gates became the primary operator until Thomson was finally terminated.
Roger wondered if any of that had any bearing upon the tragedy today. But, now was not the time to wonder such things. There was a more present mystery at hand. Roger pulled his hand away from the controls. He remembered the yellow switch. Gates had told him that there was a “fail-safe” procedure in place for emergencies. It would lock in, within a certain margin, the last trajectory the machine had taken, and alert the operator when the wave could be ridden again. If fortune favored the operator, the machine could follow the wave back to a time before the emergency. However, as with any trip the machine took, one never knew exactly where it would lead.
Roger opened a small panel underneath the main control dials. He pushed some wires out of the way and felt around in the console for the switch. He had to stretch as far as he could to reach it, but the tip of his finger finally caught it, and he flicked at it with his hand several times before he felt it catch and engage.
An alarm sounded, and a lighted sign on the console flashed “fl-sf.” Roger looked around the room to see if he had forgotten to do anything. The walls were still open. He pulled the control lever and the doors slowly shut. All that was left to do was to catch the wave when the machine recognized it. Roger hovered over the dials and screen for over two minutes, waiting to see if the wave would come along. The alarm pulsed in his head, and he spent most of the two minutes wondering if he was crazy for trying to do what he was trying to do.
The screen, and the “fl-sf” light flickered. The wave had been recognized. All Roger had to do was adjust the dials to align the machine’s sensors to the wave. He spun the dials, and knew that overhead, on the roof above the chamber, radar dishes and a large antenna array were turning and adjusting their positions at his command. The wave locked in, and the actuators started to spin.
The chamber shuddered, and the creaking of metal rang in Roger’s ears. Roger let go of the dials, and kept his eyes on the little graph paper readout that was rolling out onto the floor beneath the controls. A red line that zigged and zagged up and down represented the machine’s trajectory, and if it started to deviate from the center of the paper, Roger knew he would have to make another adjustment to stay on the wave.
The electric hum reached its crescendo, and the chamber started to settle down. Roger watched the center of the room, below the actuators. As far as he knew, no one had ever used the machine to revisit an event that had taken place inside the machine itself, and it suddenly occurred to him that this might be a very bad idea. However, it was too late now. If he stopped the process, it might be just as dangerous as it would be to continue the journey.
Roger picked up the operator’s helmet, and cautiously placed it on his head. The light in the room pulsed and danced, and his insides started to turn. He wasn’t sure if that was a light bulb flickering, or if the visualizations had begun. He felt his stomach drop and an unpleasant fullness in his head. He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he reopened them, the chamber was white.
Roger looked down and saw the lower half of a body that was not his own. Arms manipulated the controls of the time machine, but he was not directing their movements. It was Gates. Roger realized that he was standing where Gates would have stood during the last trip. Roger moved his arms, and waved his hands in front of his face. He was whole, but it seemed to his eyes as though he and Gates were one; that he was one man with four arms and four legs.
As Gates manipulated the machine’s controls, Roger wondered whether the readouts would reflect the trip Gates had directed, or the trip Roger was experiencing now. It occurred to him that trying to determine what happened on the doomed journey might be more challenging than he had anticipated.
He looked down at the graph paper. It seemed blurry to him. He wiped his eyes, but it didn’t help. It felt as though he were trying to read it under water. It was completely indecipherable.
“Oh no, what have I done?” Roger said aloud.
A bitter voice filtered through the white void. “What now?!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that wasn’t me.” Gates’ voice replied. The words resonated in Roger’s head as though he had spoken them. He grabbed at his mouth like a schoolboy who had been caught saying a naughty word in church.
“Well then, who was it, Gates?”
Roger was tempted to answer, but he kept his hands locked over his mouth, afraid of what might happen if he were to speak again.
“I’m... not sure.” Gates replied.
Gates had told Roger in the past that the actions and words spoken in the chamber would not affect the past or the future, but Roger slowly realized that his journey must be a truly unique experience... He could take no more actions than absolutely necessary... he must simply observe, and hope that he could figure out a way back to his reality. He watched Gates’ hands return to the controls.
Gates called out to the passengers, “Okay, it looks as though we are ready to begin.”
“Finally,” said Wesley.
Gates continued, “Any moment now, you should begin to see images. They may seem strange at first. You may feel a sense of disorientation. It’s rather mild for some, and... less so for others. Don’t pay it any mind, it will pass. Lastly, I should remind you that what you say or do here in the chamber has no effect on the events that we’ll witness. We are invisible observers.”
“I take that as a comfort.” Father said with a chuckle. “Imagine if we were to interrupt ‘Honest Abe’ while delivering the Gettysburg Address, or some such thing?”
Franklin laughed. “Boy, wouldn’t that be a laugh!”
“You mean to tell me,” Wesley hissed through tightly clenched teeth, “that there is no way for us to change the past... no way for us to alter the events of history?”
“Certainly not!” Gates replied. “There are simply too many variables for us to even consider that kind of possibility. The smallest action could have catastrophic consequences for the country... or for the world, or the universe, for that matter. The designers of the machine were adamant from the genesis of the idea that it be a thoroughly passive experience.”
“I tell you, Mr. Gates, I could not be more dissatisfied with my ‘experience,’ as you call it. Of course, my experience thus far has been only to stare into a white oblivion. I can tell you that’s worth a little less than what I’ve paid for today.”
Gates simply couldn’t understand why this man was so agitated, and why he was trying to make such a fuss, especially so late in the day. He mashed the button labeled “passenger 3” with an angry fist. A shock of light spat from the actuator above Wesley’s head, and sent a shudder through his spine.
Wesley’s eyes lost focus. For several seconds, colored lights shot back and forth in front of him like electric insects. His eyesight gradually became clearer, and he found himself in the middle of what looked to be a family room.
“What in god’s name?” Wesley said.
He spun around, and saw a couch that seemed to be made of leather, a long, black, shiny table that stood no more than two feet off the floor, with some magazines stacked on it, and next to the table was what looked to be a movie screen. It was maybe five feet tall, and almost as wide, and on the floor in front of it was an array of lights, colored red, blue, and green, that shone upon the screen.
On the screen was an image of a man, dressed in a leather jacket and sunglasses, with one bright red eye shining through one of the lenses, carrying a large gun. He was shooting people, seemingly at random, and with every shot, his expression never changed.
“What is this?” Father exclaimed. “Franklin, don’t look.”
“But, Pop,” Franklin said, “I think it’s only a movie!”
“Now, you listen to me, Franklin! Look away.”
“Oh, alright.” Franklin whined.
Roger watched Franklin place his hands over his eyes and bury his face in his father’s stomach.
“As I tried to make clear,” Gates said in a humble tone, “we can never be certain just what we’ll witness on these journeys.”
“It’s amazing. What time is this, Gates? What year?” Wesley asked.
Gates coughed quietly. “We’re rarely totally certain of the year, unless of course we can see a magazine cover, or a calendar, or some such thing. But I can guess, based on the wavelength, that were some twenty odd years in the future. Possibly the 1980’s.”
“My God,” Wesley said with a reverent tone. “Can you imagine? If this is a trick, it’s a very, very good one.”
“If it is a trick, sir, it has me fooled as well.” Gates replied.
Father patted Franklin on the back. “I suppose you can look, Franklin. But, if you see something that might trouble you later, promise me that you’ll look away.”
“I promise!” Franklin shouted, as he spun around in circles, taking in the strange room. “Just think, Pop, in the 1980’s, I’d be almost thirty!”
“Where are we, exactly, Mr. Gates?” Father asked. “Is this here in town, or is it somewhere else?”
“Here again, we’re at the mercy of our circumstances, I’m afraid. If we see a street sign, or an address on an envelope, we might get a clue, but in any other case, we’re never quite sure. That’s partially due to where the waves lead us, but also, for all we know, streets or towns or buildings disappear or change within the time we travel. Elevations change drastically. Who knows if this building will still be here 10, 15, or 20 years from now. For all we know, five years before this time, this whole area could have been undeveloped fields, and five years after, it could end up buried beneath a mountain or an ocean.”
Wesley turned away from the movie screen and saw a man walking toward him. He was older, possibly in his sixties, wearing dungarees and a tee shirt. Wesley almost reached out his hand to introduce himself, but he remembered what Gates had said... the time travelers were not physically present, they were only observers.
“Well, not much to see on this go round, I don’t think. Maybe we should catch the next wave.” Gates said.
Wesley rubbed his chin and felt the stubble scratch against his thumb.
“It’s strange to me, how it’s different, but only just so.” Wesley said in an academic tone.
“You know, we hear remarks like that quite often,” Gates said. “Many people are surprised how little things seem to change. Even when things are different, say if we end up in Japan in the 12th century... the mundane nature of things tends to put people off. Maybe that’s why we haven’t had more passengers these last few months. I think folks would rather see a motion picture with cardboard walls and paper trees as long as there’s a sword fight in front of it. It’s difficult to compete with Hollywood.”
“I suppose watching a Japanese fellow eating rice in any time of history is still just watching a Japanese man eating rice.” Father said with a laugh.
“Can we go to the past, Mr. Gates?” Franklin asked. “I’d just love to be able to see the battle of the Alamo!”
“Why don’t we see where we end up?” Gates replied. “Here comes another wave. Let’s see what happens.”
Gates twisted the dials to line up with a new frequency. Wesley watched the colors of the living room wall start to run as though the sun had grown too hot, and was melting the entire house. The melting turned to spinning flashes of light, and the next thing he knew, Wesley was staring through darkness at what seemed to be grey stone.
“What is this place?” Franklin asked. He turned left and then right, trying to get bearings on their surroundings.
As Wesley’s eyes focused, he began to make out thin lines of dark mortar between the stones. He turned around and saw a small ray of light coming through the wall underneath a wooden door. He thought he could see a stack of firewood piled up next to the door, but it was too dark to be certain of it.
“I’m afraid this happens occasionally,” Gates said apologetically. “It appears we’re in some sort of shed or a small barn.”
“And for all we know,” Father said, “this could be next year, or 10,000 years in the past. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gates?”
“What a crock.” Wesley quipped.
“My best estimation would put us in the 7th or 8th century, A.D.” Gates said quietly. “But as I told you before, in circumstances like this, there’s no way to tell if I’m right. Here we go.”
Gates twisted the knobs again, and the shed turned into blurry darkness.
Father snickered. “Let’s hope the next time we don’t end up in a washroom or an outhouse.”
Wesley allowed a sniff of laughter as he shook his head in frustration. The blurry darkness turned to a deep red glow. A clear plastic object, somewhat resembling a very curvy chair sat in front of him. A bright white light flickered rapidly, but Wesley didn’t immediately see where the light was coming from. A strange chorus of groans and exhalations filled his ears. “What is that awful noise?” he asked.
Father coughed loudly as though he were about to say something, but the words got stuck before they left his throat. “I... uh... well I definitely didn’t...”
Wesley turned in the direction of Father’s voice. There, in a far corner of the sloped room, on a bright yellow, triangle-shaped piece of furniture, was what appeared to be two very obese, very hairy people engaged in what could loosely be defined as passionate coitus.
“Mr. Gates!” Father shouted.
“Yes, yes, I know! Only waiting for a wave,” Gates replied.
Franklin stood frozen in absolute shock, with his wide eyes locked on the heaving pile of romance. Father swatted his hands around, trying to cover Franklin’s eyes, but because he was in a visualization, he had only a general idea of where Franklin was standing.
“What is that?” Franklin cried, in a voice mixed with fascination and curiosity, but bordering on terror.
“It’s nothing!” Father snapped. “Now cover your eyes, dammit!”
“Well, if it’s nothing, then why do I have to--”
“Cover your damned eyes, Franklin!”
Franklin reluctantly, and slowly, lifted his hands to cover his eyes.
Wesley looked away from the writhing mass of flesh. He didn’t have much taste for voyeurism, but he couldn’t imagine anyone, even someone with outlandish or salacious interests, taking pleasure in this display.
The pacing of the yells, grunts, and groaning quickened.
Roger’s hands were glued to his mouth, and his face was turning purple. He was trying painfully hard to restrain himself from laughing.
“Found one!” Gates yelled over the moans. He spun the dials as quickly as he could, and the dark reds bled into saturated greens.
The sounds of romance faded away. Long, flowing, grassy hills came into Wesley’s focus, and he found himself standing on the top of a squat hill. Gray cotton ball clouds hung just overhead, and a large, scattered flock of sheep lazily grazed on a distant plateau.
“Boy, here we go again... another fascinating view of the future, or past... as if we had any way of knowing which.” Father said as he stretched his back. “Say, there friend, where would you suppose we’ve landed? 5,000 years before the dawn of man, or 10,000 years past his extinction?”
Wesley did not reply. His hands were shaking and sweaty. He felt sweat pouring from underneath his helmet.
“Are you alright, mister?” Franklin asked Wesley.
“It-tt-z Engwuuhm.” Wesley mumbled.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Father replied.
“Are you okay, sir?” Gates asked nervously.
Roger watched Wesley wipe his forehead with his sleeve. He had gotten over his laughing fit, and was suddenly very anxious that whatever trouble would transpire was about to start. The man called Wesley was pale and clearly agitated.
“It’s England.” Wesley said.
“Oh?” Father replied. “Well, your guess is as good as--”
“It’s ENGLAND, I tell you!” Wesley snapped. “I’ve spent a great deal of time there. I know. Believe me, I know.”
“I’ll take your word for it. No need to get upset.” Father said.
“Perhaps... it’s time to bring the glider home. What do you say to that?” Gates asked tentatively as he lifted his hands toward the controls. He had intended that sentence to come out as information, rather than a question, but his discomfort at Wesley’s sudden change in demeanor gave itself away.
“No.” Wesley said with determination. “We’re not leaving. Leave the controls as they are.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t believe I understand what you’re on about, but there’s clearly nothing of interest here.” Gates said as he pulled his hands away from the dials.
“Maybe not for you,” Wesley said, “or them” referring to Franklin and his father. “But, for me, this place is very important.”
Gates sensed a dark tone running through Wesley’s voice.
Gates spoke quietly and slowly, “Now, sir, there’s really no need to get stirred up about anything. After all, this is just an image of sorts. We can’t touch anything or feel anything. Whatever we’re seeing isn’t really there for us; it’s just like looking at a picture in a magazine.”
Wesley’s breathing was rapid and shallow. He unzipped his suit to try and cool down, but it didn’t help.
“I am not in the mood for a discussion, Mr. Gates. Keep your hands away from the machine, and you just leave us right where we are.”
“Pop, why’s he so upset?” Franklin asked.
Father pulled Franklin closer to himself.
“Be quiet, boy!” Wesley snapped.
Wesley started clawing at his helmet. It felt too heavy and tight to wear anymore.
Gates yelled out instinctively, “Do NOT remove your helmet, sir. I cannot guarantee your safety if you do.”
Wesley pulled at his suit. The zipper tore away from the fabric, and one of his fingers got caught in it, causing Wesley to yell out a series of foul words. He held his throbbing hand, and felt frustration and anger pulsing in the veins underneath his skin.
Gates thought that if he could activate the controls quickly enough, and get the passengers disconnected from the machine, perhaps this man would snap out of his emotional state, and this awkward situation would blow over with no major incident. As Gates reached for the dials, his hand hit one of the levers and made a small noise.
Wesley heard the noise, and could take no more agitation. He pulled a tiny revolver from his suit pocket, cocked it, and fired a bullet blindly into the time chamber. The bullet ricocheted off of several walls. Roger fell to his knees and covered his head.
“Good God!” Father yelled, as he pulled Franklin to the floor without thinking. Franklin’s helmet came loose, and he started to yell as though he had been mortally wounded.
“What’s the matter?” Father shouted over Franklin’s screams and the ringing in his ears. “Have you been hit?”
“You shut him up!” Wesley bellowed. “I won’t have you disrupting this sacred place! I won’t have it!”
Father pulled Franklin into his chest, trying to muffle the boy’s screams. His head felt swollen and sweaty. He could feel Franklin’s heart beating through his scalp.
“My God,” father whimpered. “What the devil is happening?”
Wesley held his revolver at shoulder height and waved it slowly back and forth across the time chamber.
“If you touch those controls, Mr. Gates” Wesley shouted above Franklin’s wails, “I will continue to fire. I may not be able to see you, but I’m sure I can do some damage before I run out of rounds. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” Gates said, as he raised his hands in the air and took a small step away from the console. “I’ll do as you say.”
Roger’s desire to know what had happened faded quickly. He began to wonder if he could somehow prevent the coming bloodbath, or at least avoid having to witness it. After all, it was clear that the passengers could hear him, but what if he were to take a further step, and try to interfere? What effect would that have on the events that had already transpired? His mind raced. He believed he had only one opportunity to act, and if he were to fail, or to misstep, what had been a disaster for three men and a boy could be a catastrophe for the city, or the world. His internal debate was interrupted by more shouting from the man with the gun.
“You keep that boy quiet, or I will quiet him for you!” Wesley shouted.
Father held Franklin tighter to his suit, and the cries died down a bit. Their pace slowed as well, and father could feel Franklin shaking terribly.
“None of you seem to realize the importance of this place,” Wesley said. “You don’t understand what happened, because you weren’t there.”
Gates spoke up, “Sir, believe me, I--”
Wesley fired another round from his pistol. The bullet ricocheted off of two walls and grazed Gates’ shin. He collapsed and swore loudly.
“I TOLD you to be quiet! I told you all! You are on hallowed ground! You will not desecrate it! Show some respect!”
Wesley pounded the butt of his pistol against his helmet, jarring his head. He whimpered for a few moments.
“I’m sure... it sounds crazy, but I knew we would come here,” Wesley said as he laughed. “I knew, somehow, that I would be brought back to this place. God brought me here. He pulled me to it. There’s a tether, do you know? One end is tied tight to my chest. The other leads to an anchor buried in the dirt of these hills, buried with the rusted metal, and the oil, and the shells, and the leather jackets, and the rivets... and the bodies of lost children. Every night, God tugs on the cord, and it yanks me from sleep and the chance of pleasant dreams, down into the valley, where those sheep you see feed on the bodies of the men I lived and died with, and... and loved.”
Roger carefully unwound himself from the crouching position he had fallen into, grasped the console, and pulled himself up. He was terrified that any sound or motion would set the gunman off. His hands shook, and he tried to focus on remembering to breathe.
Wesley lowered his arms and held his stomach. “It was so sudden. I felt the drop in my gut, and then I don’t have much of a memory after that, about the crash, I mean. I only remember coming around in the grass and mud below the hill. The airfield must still be right above us. Right over that hill.”
Wesley looked up the hill toward the gray sky.
“I wonder if anyone uses it anymore now that there’s no more oil refineries to drop bombs onto. No more working class Nazis to destroy. God has them all now. Why would anyone need to use an airstrip in the middle of the country after we were done with it? People talk about the gates of heaven... That’s what this place was, really. You flew into the air, and you never came back to Earth. You squint through a metal gunsight into the clouds, looking for Messerschmitts, and the next thing you see is the face of God. The 467th used this piece of ground for a purpose more noble than... well, as best as it could be used given the circumstances. And now it’s just a place for sheep to leave their droppings.”
Wesley looked at the grass beneath his feet. He couldn’t see his legs, or his feet, but he knew they were there. It was a strange feeling, and he didn’t care for it. His eyes bored into the grass and weeds. The wind swept across the field and stirred the grass away from him, and then let it come back to rest. He didn’t feel the wind, or hear it. He only saw it move the green blades below him.
“The medics said it was a miracle that I survived the wreck. The other boys weren’t so fortunate, they said. They’d gone on to eternity, but I was spared. So, I must be lucky...” Wesley’s whimper turned to sobs.
“But I died that day like all the rest of them. Like Addie, George, Bill, Holt... and more names that I’ve forgotten now. I just went somewhere else is all. My eternity is here, my torment is that I never left. I haunt this hill, this moor every day. I hover over it, just like this, without seeing my own body. The devil himself knows I see this place everywhere I go. I see their limbs hanging from clotheslines, their eyes staring up from underneath the sidewalks and streets, their hands pressed against the pavement, looking at me with fear and emptiness. I was lucky, they said.”
Franklin’s cries stopped altogether, but he continued to shake. Father cried silently. He couldn’t even watch his son die. He could only feel the life leaving his little body. He guessed that if he removed his own helmet, he would be as bad off as Franklin, but he thought it might be worse not to see him. He might never get the chance again. He could feel Franklin’s head swelling more every second. He pressed the boy’s head against his face, and held him tightly.
Roger delicately placed his hands on the controls, careful not to make the slightest noise. Even up close, the readouts were blurred. He had no idea why that might be. Again he wondered... was he seeing the readout from the trip Gates was piloting, or was it the trip he was controlling? Were the readouts for both trips the same? His second-hand knowledge of time travel and the machine’s controls suddenly felt very oppressive.
Perhaps it was better just to bring the contraption to a full stop? How would he do that? If Gates had ever given him instructions about that procedure, he didn’t remember what they were. He moved his hands along the console, underneath the controls, feeling for some other switch beside the fail-safe. He probed blindly underneath the wires and metal, but he didn’t feel anything of importance.
Wesley started to cry.
“I should have died here. I should have gone on to an eternity with the Lord. Instead, I’m forced to wander through this purgatory like some... Dickensian ghoul. What did I do to bring the Lord’s anger against me? I want to die here. Like them.”
Wesley squeezed the pistol tightly. He felt the warmth of the metal, the dampness of his hand.
“You know, I went there. Years ago. After the hostilities ended. After they’d cleaned up the mess. But it wasn’t the same. They’d sterilized it. Defiled it. They should have left it as it was. A monument to death. Somehow, even though this version of it feels false and pale, it’s still better than it was in what you all call reality. The time is important. Not the place. The place changes, but the time stays the same. Now that I’m back in the right time, where I should have died, it finally feels right.”
Roger felt another switch. It was behind the fail-safe. It must be important, but he had no clue what its function might be. He was faced with two alternatives... neither of them pleasant. He could sit by and watch this lunatic murder two men, or toggle a simple piece of metal and risk damaging time itself in an attempt to save them. Roger’s arm was fully outstretched so that he could reach the switch. His other hand, which was steadying him, slipped from the console, and he fell backward a little. He had to grab the console with both hands to stay upright. He cursed to himself silently. At least the crazy man hadn’t heard anything.
Wesley raised the gun and placed the barrel in front of his mouth.
A calm fell over Wesley. “I’m sorry. I tried to stop you and your boy from coming with me, friend, so I can take no responsibility for his injury. You wanted to come on this journey, and this is where it ends.”
Wesley spun toward the sound of father’s whimpering, and aimed the pistol as best as he could.
Roger had no more time to think. He reached for the switch again, and bumped the console in the process. Gates yelled out, “What in blazes?” Wesley snapped his body in the direction of the Gates’ voice. He fired twice. One bullet bounced off of the console, and the other hit Gates in the chest, knocking him against the back wall. Roger caught the switch with the tip of his finger, and the entire room shook violently. Bolts of electricity shot out of the actuators, and arced into the wall. A sound of metal scraping against metal filled the room.
Roger fell to the ground, clutching his helmet, his mouth stretched open in a silent scream. Wesley’s head felt as though it were about to explode. His hands clenched, causing his finger to squeeze the trigger of his pistol. Another round bounced around the room, and the sound hung in the air, somehow frozen. Wires fell from the ceiling. Wesley collapsed on the floor and on the way down his helmet came loose, caught in a gaggle of cables. His eyes widened, and his jaw fell open. Blood trickled out of his ears.
“It’s... It’s... It’s...” Wesley said, over and over.
Father shouted and clawed at the back of his head, which was expanding against the pressure of the helmet. He tore at the strap, but couldn’t unfasten it. Blood slowly leaked down his neck, and his feet twitched and kicked in the air at random. His movement slowed, and then stopped all at once.
Roger couldn’t control his movements. His arms and legs flailed every which way. He foamed at the mouth and rolled sideways then back again. His motion slowed as the father’s had, and his body came to rest.
The room stopped shaking. One last bolt from the actuators connected with the wall. Franklin’s head fell into his father’s lap. He squirmed and wriggled, but wasn’t able to get his arms or legs to move in a concerted pattern. A few minutes passed before he stopped moving.
EPILOGUE
The foreman spread the blueprints along the hood of his F-350 and placed his hardhat on one corner to keep the paper pinned down. He pointed to the opposite corner and shouted to the architect over the sound of cranes and bulldozers.
“Right about here. That’s where they found it,” the foreman said.
The architect’s eyebrows raised a full inch. “Impossible. We did the survey last year. There was nothing down there but solid rock.”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you a flashlight and some climbing rope, and you can see it for yer damn self.”
The architect leaned in closer to the blueprints. “I’ve got to get a better surveyor. Though, in his defense, nothing showed up in the county records either. Supposed to have been a used car lot in the late fifties. Owner defaulted in ‘62, and it’s been abandoned since.”
“Well. it’s buried awful good, don’t get me wrong, but there’s definitely something down there, and it ain’t tiny.”
“Shit. Better send somebody down there and get a handle on what we’re dealing with.”
The chamber doors split apart just enough for the man with a hardhat to wedge himself in between the doors and force them open with his leg and both arms. A narrow stream of daylight shone into the center of the room.
The man pulled a walkie talkie from the pocket of his dusty jeans. “Aldridge, this is Gomez.”
A voice crackled from the speaker of the walkie talkie. “Aldridge. What’s up?”
“I found a way in on the North side. Big ass metal doors with the creepy-looking animals and astronauts. Bring a light.”
“On my way.”
Gomez dropped an axe and crowbar against the chamber wall. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, then took off his work gloves, and placed them in his butt pocket. Aldridge came through the doors sideways.
“How bad is it?” Aldridge asked.
“Well, we’re sure as hell not going to get it all out of here by hand. We’ll need the damn earth mover to knock this whole thing over. It’s all metal.”
“You wouldn’t know it from the outside.” Aldridge said as he flipped on a long black flashlight and flicked it around the ceiling. “What the hell was this place?”
“Buried so deep in the ground, all the cabling and what not... must have been some sort of bomb shelter.”
“Why doesn’t it show up on the survey? Who would’ve overlooked something this big?”
“Screw me if I know. Look over there,” Gomez said, as he pointed toward the control console.
Aldridge pointed the light at the console, and then just to the side. “Jesus Christ! You see that?”
Gomez craned his neck to see around the console. “Holy shit, is that a skeleton?!”
The two men jogged around the half wall to the console. Gomez bent down and looked at the skeleton, which was slumped against the back wall. He grabbed the flashlight from Aldridge and shined it on Roger’s remains.
“What in the hell? What’s with the helmets?” Aldridge said.
Gomez stood up and aimed the light around the inside of the half wall. He saw Franklin, his father, and Wesley, all sprawled out on the floor.
“Dude, look at their skulls. Sick.”
Aldridge stepped over to Franklin’s skeleton.
“His head must be the twice the size of a normal guy.” Aldridge said.
Gomez slowly stepped into the daylight. “It looks like nobody’s been in here since the 50’s or something. Whatever happened must have been really goddamn bad to do that to their bodies.”
“Oh, hell. The helmets, all this metal, their heads... and we’re fifty feet underground. That can’t be good. What if there’s a radiation leak in here?” Aldridge said in a panicked voice.
Gomez stared at Aldridge. “I don’t want no damn cancer. Let’s let somebody else figure this out.”
