Silverwood Page 11

  Kate feels a strong impulse to wring the neck of this pest on a motorcycle. But before she can act on it, the figure turns abruptly and zooms away with a cloud of dust and a loud burst of engine noise. They all watch as the black shape shrinks to a buzzing speck heading back the way it came. The dust drifts upward like the trail of an airplane in the sky, becoming looser and fading as it goes—not unlike the aftermath of the trailer landing at the bottom of the canyon. There is something lonely and final about trailing dust in a wide landscape.

  When the air clears, the sun bounces off a shiny object lying on the hood of their car. Helen runs over and picks it up. It is a coin, with a hole in the middle. On one side is a spiral shape like the one she has drawn so many times, and on the other some characters that Helen doesn’t recognize. She turns it over a couple of times in her palm. This was a delivery? Was the motorcyclist bringing them one of these portal things? Could this be the only reason this person followed them all this way?

  Henry takes it from Helen and looks it over. “I wonder what information is on this one,” Henry says. “Maybe it’s another map like the one we found… ”

  Henry realizes that his mom is standing directly behind him.

  “Like we saw, that time.” He quickly hands it to her, heads over to the back door of the car and climbs in.

  Kate gives her son a typical parental look that tells him she knows he and his sister have been rummaging through her off-limits equipment. She is not surprised. Kate knows that if she were in their place she would have rifled through everything several times over by now.

  “It’s a portal,” Kate says to her daughter. “Probably time-stamped. Most likely it carries some information on it that we need. I wonder why that guy felt the need to chase us down to give it to us. Or, that projection of that guy, anyhow.”

  “Projection?” Helen hands the portal to her mom.

  “Yeah, when I got a look at him finally, I could see that he was a projection—not a real person. That’s why the all-black outfit, and the lack of a face. There’s probably nothing to see inside the gear. That display on the helmet? Vital signs from the actual person, somewhere else—so they can pull back if they need to. They do that when they need to send someone into a situation, but they’re not… handy right at that moment. Or if the job is really dangerous.”

  Was this job really dangerous? Helen ponders this idea. She wishes she could have gotten her hands on that helmet and taken it apart. Vital signs? Could you reverse the signal? Could you find out where the real person was using the projection? Helen’s mind spins with ideas.

  “Helen, we need to go now,” Kate says. The slamming of the driver’s door pulls Helen out of her thoughts, and she climbs in.

  “Youaresuchanidiot!!!” the voice yells. “What, you forGOT? You forgot to mute your projection? What is this, grade school?”

  “Sir, I had no idea. I was sure I was muted. Really. I was.”

  “Well, you weren’t. You… are a complete moron.”

  The motorcycle rider, or rather the projection of the motorcycle rider, heaves a sigh. It has stopped at the side of the road to check in. The vital signs indicator on the front of its helmet pulses up and down.

  “Look, I swear I was muted. I didn’t know until they freaked out and started yelling at me that they could see me. I don’t know what happened.”

  “It doesn’t matter what happened, now. Kate Silverwood knows she is being followed. Did you at least get the portal into her hands? Or did you mess that up, too?”

  “Yes, she has the portal.”

  Silence on the end of the line.

  “Fine. Turn your stupid self off.”

  “Yes, sir.” The rider turns off the device and raises its arm. It touches a control on its wrist and the projection, motorcycle and all, disappears.

  Two matching figures shuffle through the mountainous terrain: one with a ponytail, one with a mohawk. Gabriel and Christopher Silverwood are nearing the spot on the map where the portals, T-441, and The Book of the Future supposedly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Their boots snap small branches as the pick their way through the thick forest.

  When they reach the coordinates, there is nothing to look at. No sign of any activity at all. They stand, hands on hips, surveying the area. Gabriel takes another look at the map.

  “Hold on, there they are again. I think. No… Yes! There they are. See? They just popped up again.”

  “What?” Christopher says. “Where? Please tell me that they’re not a hundred miles from here now… ”

  “No, it looks like… ” Gabriel turns the display around a couple of times and looks at the ground, “If this is correct, everything we are looking for is under our feet. At least some of it is. Not all of the portals. But there are clearly portals right here somewhere. Maybe their signal was muted by the ground.”

  The two brothers look down at their feet, and then at each other.

  “Okay… ” Christopher says. “So that means…?”

  “There has to be a cave or something underneath us, a Tromindox hideout,” Gabriel says. He looks up and turns in circles several times, surveying the area. He climbs a few paces uphill, but finds nothing. Stops and strokes his chin. As Gabriel ponders, Christopher takes off downhill. Gabriel goes uphill, so Christopher goes downhill. Gabriel looks at the sky, Christopher looks at the ground. Simple. That’s how it works.

  They hear a rustling noise, not too far off. Then another one, closer.

  Christopher disappears behind a rocky outcropping from which sprouts an enormous and ancient-looking tree. “Here’s something,” he says.

  Gabriel clambers downhill to reach Christopher’s vantage point, boots skidding in the leaves. Together they lean forward to peer into a dark space beneath the tree’s giant, mossy roots. They look at each other again.

  Gabriel takes another look at the display. “They’re definitely under here someplace.” The portals show up clearer than ever on the map, slightly larger now.

  “Of course, this could just be a dumb old hole under a tree,” Christopher says. “I mean, doesn’t this seem kind of like a fairy tale or something? We’re going to feel like idiots if we end up stuffing our heads into some muddy roots.”

  Gabriel leans in toward the opening, and wrinkles his nose. “Blech,” he says. ”That,” he adds, straightening up, “is the unmistakable stench of Tromindox. No doubt.”

  “Thank you,” says a deep, gravelly voice behind them. The brothers leap up and spin around simultaneously to come face to face—or face to something—with a seven-foot-tall mass of tentacles and claws. “Thanks so much. Really,” it repeats.

  The Tromindox draws up in front of Gabriel, very close to his face. Christopher instinctively reaches for his neck and touches the vial of blood hanging there. Gabriel straightens and raises his chin but he still only reaches to the creature’s shoulder.

  “Well, if it isn’t Gabriel Silverwood,” the creature says. “Who got you out of prison?”

  “People got me out,” Gabriel says, glancing sideways at his brother. “Look, we’re on the lookout for a Tromindox bloke called T-441. Ring a bell?”

  Without much of a face, it’s hard to gauge any Tromindox response. But instead of answering, the creature melts to the ground, and in a tangle of claws and tentacles, it slithers underneath the tree. Just before it disappears into the darkness, it hisses, “Come ssssee for yourself.”

  “Why, I could be wrong, but I think we have just been invited in,” Christopher says.

  “That we have,” Gabriel replies.

  The two men crouch down and push aside masses of roots. “I wish I could do that,” Christopher says.

  “Do what?”

  “Smoosh around like that. Change shape like an octopus. That would be cool.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Gabriel says, in the tone an older brother uses to inform a younger brother that he does not know what he is talking about. Gabriel knows how much energy it takes for these creature
s to change their shape all the time.

  They shuffle along in a low crouch for about twenty-five yards, and then the cave opens up into space that, from the echoes, sounds like a huge cavern. The darkness is nowhere near as disorienting as the moans, squeaks and skittering sounds emanating from every direction. Gabriel and Christopher turn their lamps up to full power and brandish them out in front like weapons.

  Dark shapes appear from all sides. Instinctively, the two men shove their lamps forward, as if to ward them off. The shapes recede somewhat, so Gabriel and Christopher walk forward, still holding the lights in front of them. It’s working. Black things skitter up the walls to escape from the beams.

  One figure does not retreat but instead puts two long, bony hands up, skinny black fingers thrown into relief by the harsh lamplight.

  “Honestly, can you not do that? Get that lamp out of my face,” the Tromindox says. “What are you trying to do with those things?”

  “Sorry,” Christopher says, lowering his lamp. “We just thought… ”

  “You thought what? That you could fight us off with torches? Look, we’re down here in a cave. It’s dark. You can’t just blast us with a bright light. Okay? You’re giving us a headache.”

  “Okay, sorry, again,” Gabriel says. He’s not sure exactly where a Tromindox head begins and ends or how they would get an ache in it. He turns his light upward and looks around the immediate area, taking care not to hit any of the figures. “Nice place,” he says.

  “Yes, it serves its purpose. It’s invisible to the drones,” says the Tromindox. “You see, we heard that you were coming.”

  “How come everybody else seems to have more information than we do?” Christopher says, annoyed. “If people know where we are going and what we’re doing, what’s the point? Maybe you fellows would like to inform us as to why we’re here, also.”

  “Well, you are Silverwoods,” says a new, deeper voice from the darkness, “so it stands to reason that you have most likely come here in pursuit of a rather large collection of portals.”

  “Is that you, 441?” says Gabriel. He steps forward, and as he does several Tromindox shuffle away from him. Nobody in this cavern wants to accidentally come in contact with Silverwood blood.

  The Tromindox turn their attention to the other human with Gabriel. What’s that around his neck?

  T-441 glides forward out of the shadows. “Yes, it’s me,” he says. “We assumed that the Council would send some of you lot after us pretty quickly. You know, to do their dirty work for them.” 441’s digital face flips a few times like a television set with a poor signal. A few faces go by until he settles on a kindly older man with thin lips turned up slightly at the corners. The glow of the digital display throws a blue cast over the cavern like a TV set left on late at night.

  “The Council has nothing to do with this. I’m just doing my job so I can cash in on my side of the bargain, that’s all. It’s just business,” Gabriel says.

  “Right,” 441 says. “Well, I’m afraid we’re not simply going to hand anything over to you, if that’s what you had in mind.”

  “Actually, I only require one single portal with the right signature,” says Gabriel. “That’s all. You can do what you like with the rest of the batch.”

  “Good,” 441 says. “Because we are awfully busy. You see, this colony down here, they were all starving. Many still are. So we’re getting them fed, a few at a time. One group goes and comes back, then another group goes and comes back. See?”

  441 turns and gestures toward an open area deeper in the cave where a shaft of light slices down to the floor. A motley group of emaciated Tromindox stand hunched over in a circle, each holding a portal. And then, they all fade and disappear together.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” 441 says. “I saw a group travel like that once on this TV show. I think they called it a transporter. Anyway, they’ll be back soon, once they find prey. And then it will be time for the next group to go.”

  “Do they all come back like they are supposed to?” Christopher asks, running his hand along the wall of the cavern. Images fill his mind of terrified humans shot full of Tromindox venom.

  “Yes, so far,” 441 says. “Nobody’s gone off the grid, if that’s what you’re getting at.” The kindly digital face takes on a wry smile.

  “And how are you going about calibrating these portals to their destination?” asks Gabriel. He sees no instruments, no devices, nothing. Surely they are not simply playing the lottery and landing in any old time and place. That would be far too dangerous.

  “Oh, we’re old school,” 441 says. “We encode the portals using that handy Book of the Future. The pages of that book are much more reliable than any electronic means of time stamping. But of course, you know that already, don’t you, Gabriel.”

  “That’s enough!” comes a booming voice from behind 441. Another Tromindox steps into the shaft of light, its features thrown into sharp relief. Tall like the others, this one wears black robes and an assortment of bones, including some type of skull, maybe a deer, around its neck. The bones make a hollow rattling sound as it moves. “I have listened to enough of this garbage. What is wrong with you? These—humans—should not be here and we should not be talking to them.” It extends a stick-like, accusing finger toward Gabriel and Christopher.

  441’s digital face changes around again, as if searching for the right expression. It stops on a more stern face, a woman this time, and older woman resembling Margaret Thatcher.

  “Well, they are here,” 441 says, “so we are making the best of it. What do you suggest?”

  “What do I suggest?” deer skull says. “What is this, a meeting? Storytime by the campfire? These—humans—must leave this place, now.” More creatures gather behind deer skull as he speaks, many of them also wearing animal bones and skulls around their necks. More rattling sounds.

  Gabriel draws up to his full height, and steps forward until he is face to face-area with his friend with the skull.

  “Why don’t you make us,” Gabriel says, slowly.

  This confrontation presents Christopher, ignored by everyone, with an opportunity. He works his way over to a wall that projects a waist-high stone outcropping. There lies The Book of the Future. Silently, and without looking down, Christopher turns a page, and another, until he gets to a particular one that appears to have been ripped out and reattached. Next to the book lie several portals.

  At the center of the room, twelve Tromindox appear. They look much better than the group that just left; healthier, better-fed. A few of them stumble around as if still struggling with their prey. One of them has a digital face that switches from a blank oval, to a pattern, to the face of a human woman—its prey—screaming in terror but making no sound. Soon her identity will disappear, absorbed and converted to Tromindox energy.

  “Okay, show’s over,” deer skull says. “Time for you folks to clear out of here. Sorry we can’t help you with your portal; as you can see we’re very busy.”

  “Gabriel!” Christopher hisses. But his brother does not hear him.

  “Look I told you,” Gabriel says, “I don’t care about your little project here, all I need is one portal pointed in the right direction and we’ll get out of your way.”

  “Gabriel!”

  Gabriel turns around in time to see the portal flying at his head. He snatches it out of the air and leaps backward to avoid a swinging tentacle from his deer skull friend.

  “It’s here, the book!” Christopher shouts. “And the page is there!”

  Gabriel ducks and lunges toward The Book of the Future. He slaps the portal down on the open page and it hums to life. He must maintain contact. Where is Christopher? They must go together!

  “Chris, grab my hand!” Gabriel yells. But deer skull bears down on him and he must evade a mass of claws. He pulls the book to his chest, his hand sandwiched in the repaired page, and stumbles backward against the wall. “Chris?”

  Gabriel can feel himself fading away.
He screams for his brother, but no sound comes out. The figures around him distort, flashes of light obscure his vision.

  The last thing he sees is the vial containing his blood rolling across the floor, and his brother’s face contorting in pain, Tromindox venom shooting into his neck. Christopher drops to his knees and his eyes lock on Gabriel’s. And then, Gabriel is gone.

  Posey Van Buren takes up her position in the trees at the edge of the lake outside Brokeneck, seated primly on a rock. She looks down at the display on her tiny video camera. The battery icon says half-full; that should be enough power to make her recording.

  Wisps of mist sit atop the lake. Upside down trees reflect in the surface. A hawk cries. All in all, it’s a lovely morning to visit the lake.

  Posey shifts on her rock. It took her a while to bring her aging, frail body down here. These days she must take special care to avoid falling down. She notices that the rock she sits on is awfully hard. Perhaps next time she ought to bring along a cushion to sit on like the ones people use at sports arenas.

  She straightens and cranes her neck when a figure appears about fifty yards away. It’s a man, youngish, maybe in his thirties. Posey has not seen him before. He wears a plaid shirt and a calm expression. His hair and skin are light-colored.

  The man walks steadily forward out of the trees and toward the water. Posey hits record on her camera. Her subject pauses at the shore, and looks down at something in his hand. He steps farther forward, a few feet closer to the water, then a few more. He looks down again.

  Soon the man is in the water up to his knees, then his waist. His hands hang at his sides. His expression remains calm. A murder of crows bursts upward into the sky with a flapping of wings, but the man takes no notice. Still walking, he’s up to his neck. Posey keeps filming.

  When the top of the man’s blond head finally disappears beneath the surface of the lake, Posey turns off the camera. She pushes herself up from the rock with both hands and plots the smoothest course back through the forest.

  Ripples created by the man’s movements reach the shore nearest to Posey’s position. The mist is dissipating as the sun warms the air, the surface reflections become still as the ripples subside, taking with them any remaining signs of the man’s visit.