Authors: Thomas Davidson
Rayne stopped the car in a commercial district not far from MIT, surrounded by mostly dark office buildings. The high-tech employees were gone for the weekend. She got out of the car and opened the trunk. Digging beneath a spare tire, rags and a screwdriver, she found an L-shaped tire iron. Perfect. It saved her from making a trip to a store. The screwdriver would work, too, but the tire iron was better.
She got back behind the wheel and sat for a moment in the dark, smoking her second cigarette of the day. Right now, she imagined Tim sitting in the waiting area, wondering what was taking her so long. He had planned to sign in after she joined him, thinking they could be arrested or taken into custody simultaneously. Once the woman at the admissions desk saw his name and face, it would be the beginning of the end. If she didn’t recognize him, surely the next doctor or nurse would. Rayne had no intention of being arrested, at least not yet. And it was pointless to have Tim accompany her for this final task. His vision was too limited; his eye too vulnerable. He couldn’t be caught in the middle of a melee.
Earlier, after much thought while lying on the Crown Victoria’s front seat in a dark garage, she had seen only three possible outcomes to their horrendous plight. One: get arrested by the police, and possibly shot. Two: get killed by EyeSoar. Or, three: hit the movies because, after all, this was Friday night. And everyone loved to hit the movies on Friday night.
She hoped this was the right move. She also bet C.C. Seymour had never reported his car being boosted. She couldn’t imagine that orange-haired egotist admitting that a woman had given him a beatdown at a car wash before stealing his wheels. Most of all, she hoped that she and Tim could get a break. The two couldn’t continue on their downward slide.
Earlier, Tim had summed it up:
“All we’re doing is reacting. We need to be proactive.”
He was right. She had to return to where it began, and spark a wake-up call. No one would believe them unless she opened the floodgates.
I want my life back. I want to be left alone.
All day long that simple wish had echoed in her head. Well, this was no time for a pity party. She stubbed out her cigarette, put the car in gear and headed for Harvard Square. She cut through the neighborhood with the Portuguese and Brazilian storefronts and credit unions and banks, circled around the back end of Harvard University, shot over Mass Ave, and got into the vicinity of the Gateway.
9:29 p.m.
The reflection of a Crown Vic appeared in the plate glass window of a dark bookstore on the corner. The Crown Vic rolled to a stop. Bright headlights sparkled in the glass, illuminating a row of books on display facing the street:
The Count of Monte Cristo, Hamlet, Frankenstein, The Iliad, Carrie, The Princess Bride
. A sign on the window announced:
This week’s discount special: Revenge
Come in, get even!
The Crown Vic rumbled. The window also reflected exhaust from the tailpipe, which, as if by magic, issued over the book covers. The carbon smoke lent an interesting fog over Shakespeare, Shelley, King, Homer et al. The glass showed an image of a driver putting a cell phone to her ear. One long block away, a singular theater was featuring a singular movie.
#
Shay stood in the chilly air, wearing a headband and leather jacket, remembering Reggie while fighting back tears and playing a medley of Jimi Hendrix songs. She strummed her way through
All Along the Watchtower
when a ringtone erupted inside her guitar case. Her cell phone was surrounded by a handful of coins. The rest of her earnings were discreetly tucked away; too much visible money in the guitar case thwarted potential earnings.
Her current audience stood ten feet away, an elderly gentleman in a tattered gray overcoat. He was a music lover. Or his surgically reconstructed knee was flaring up and he made a pit stop. She assumed he wouldn’t mind her taking the call.
Shay thumbed a button and heard:
“Get set.”
Shay thumbed a different button and set the phone back into the case. She thought of her last song,
Watchtower
. She flashed on the lyrics about a wildcat off in the distance, a growling wildcat, and how two riders were approaching, and the sound of a howling wind.
Tonight, only one rider was approaching.
Shay turned to her right and looked down the street, only seeing pedestrians on the sidewalk.
One, two, three…
Two tiny headlights appeared. Two white suns cracked open the night. Sunrise on a dark horizon.
The headlights swelled in size.
Shay turned to her enamored fan and said, “Sir, I think you better move along.”
The headlights stopped advancing. A moment later, they blinked twice.
Shay leaned down and lifted her open guitar case. Hidden beneath it, a rectangular, red can lay on its side on the sidewalk. A yellow band circled the can like a ribbon, highlighting a single word in red letters:
gasoline
. Set next to the can was her souvenir from the night before, Rayne’s gas mask. The mask resembled a monster’s head staring up at her, a pissed off monster erupting through the sidewalk. Her hands trembled as she set the case down by her foot, and unstrapped her guitar and put it inside, praying no one would steal it.
Shay had one minute. Get in, get out.
#
The cashier was half asleep inside the ticket booth, bored, waiting for
Gone
to end, the crowd to exit, and the next showing to begin shortly thereafter, along with the coming attractions.
She faced the rectangular window. The booth’s window always reminded her of a stained glass window in a church. A theater was similar to a church. Here, the audience worshipped movies. The Gateway provided a unique vision of reality that extended beyond the screen, an alternative world. The alternative world could be viewed as an afterlife. Because after you arrived there, your life was over. If an afterlife meant heaven or hell, well, this was probably not paradise.
Tsk. Tough luck.
The cashier looked down at her counter. Next to her clasped hands was a small tablet with a keyboard. For her amusement, she had composed the opening page of an imaginary book. A drone bible.
The Book of Gateway
In the beginning…over here, Gateway said, “Let there be light.” And there was light on the silver screen. Then Gateway said, “Let there be an exit door.” And a red sign lit up in the theater. Then Gateway said, “Let there be volunteers.” And there were.
Gateway provided access to another city, another world. Over there, in the near future, darkness was upon the face of the other Cambridge. The dreary city was in decline and despair. The people were hopeless, the walking dead. Until the Spirits of EyeSoar and DR1, the Saviors, moved upon the face of the city. And showed them the jumpers, renewed the people’s spirits, and gave them a crusade.
Indeed, the booth’s window always reminded her of a church. The booth itself was the size of a confessional. Therefore, she was the high priestess. The ticket buyers were the sinners. They paid for their redemption. Oh did they pay. And pay. And pay. They went from this life, into the afterlife. At that point, they were
Gone.
The police were on the lookout for the two terrorists, the Watchdogs. What fun it had been to write the script for the video. Their accomplice, Alex Portland, had been pulled through the exit door and into a new world. Initially, he had resisted giving any information on the two escapees. So he had been taken to the Harvard Boathouse and shown the body of James Carney inside a drainpipe. Soon the information had flowed, like liquid through a pipe. Names, addresses, occupations, artistic pursuits, all of it. Tim Crowe, Rayne Moore—see you soon.
Carney’s body had been returned home and given a proper burial in a flaming car. Cremation inside a sedan.
Carney’s double had been located in the other Cambridge, and offered a well-paying theatrical opportunity, a cameo role involving a brisk walk down the street.
Portland had been escorted home via EyeSoar security, and then dispatched. Blunt force trauma to the head. Reminiscent of the character’s demise in Moore and Crowe’s darkly comic screenplay,
Up
. Life imitating art.
The look-alikes for Moore and Crowe had been quickly tracked down, thanks to the helpful public and the drones with facial recognition software. They also had been given a theatrical opportunity, including a session with a make-up artist. The two had relished making the video, an indie short film. Perfect fodder for
YouTube
fans. The frog, the only unhappy cast member, had been boiled to death in a pot—an amphibious tragedian who gained posthumous fame on social media. Great art carries a price.
Only Moore and Crowe remained, the only ones to ever escape. But the EyeSoar team had framed them within hours, and now their little run had to end. They needed to be erased in a creative fashion. And then…business as usual. The show must go on.
Because at this theater, you never go out…the way you come in.
The cashier knew that wasn’t entirely true. A thin smiled played across her lips. No, there was more than one theater, more than one portal to the other side. According to the latest report from the DR1 team, a second portal had been discovered. The old Capitol Theater in Boston, located off the Boston Commons. So, two portals so far. Translation: more jumpers running for their lives, more fodder for the corporate cannons. More diversion for the masses. The jumpers kept the masses from droning on about their wretched lives. The masses, seeing a fleeing jumper, would conclude:
“I feel better; at least I’m not him.”
Meanwhile, EyeSoar, DR1, and their corporate headhunter, Gateway (
”We find top talent using manipulation-based hiring…”)
made money. Business was good. The whole enterprise was strictly business. And what’s good for business is good for…both Cambridges. Market growth and parallel worlds were an intriguing combination. Cutting edge.
The cashier wondered if there were three or more portals; if there were portals in other cities. The potential for recruits was unlimited. And with that in mind, she touched the tablet’s screen, called up her Twitter account. Tweeted:
Tickets2Paradis
e
@Gateway
Tired of being a worker bee? A drone? Go to the movies. Movies can change your life…http://isOre.crp/dr1ZY
She sent the tweet. She stared at the screen, considered another message for the benighted masses. Her trance snapped upon hearing:
knock…knock…knock
.
Knuckles rapped the left side of the window, covered in a fingerless glove.
The knocking knuckles blossomed into an arm, a body—a bizarre creature edged into view. The cashier did a double take, and saw a stranger wearing a black, rubber gas mask. Inside the mask was a young black woman. A headband crushed her wild hair. This was the nightly guitarist across the street. The busker’s right hand appeared on the other side of the glass, rising, holding a throwaway cigarette lighter. She flicked the tiny metal wheel. A flame brightened a small spot by the window, flickering in the breeze.
The people on this side of Cambridge were peculiar.
The masked guitarist snapped off the flame, held the plastic lighter. Her left hand rose, holding a red can with a nozzle. One word:
Gasoline.
The masked lunatic then held the can with two hands, jerked it in the air: a light blue liquid splashed against glass, rained down on the rectangular window. She sang,
“Let me stand next to your fire.”
The cashier rocketed up from her stool. 3-2-1…blast off.
Gas Mask sang,
“Move over, Rover, let Shay take over.”
She inserted the tip of the nozzle into the aluminum money-tray at the bottom of the window, the small, half-circle opening, as if pumping gas at a gas station.
Metal clicked against metal, followed by a splashing sound.
Glug…glug…glug
.
The cashier was already rushing through the back door of the booth.
#
Shay wondered if the cashier recognized the Hendrix song,
Fire
.
She smiled darkly, heard an engine in the distance, and darted across the street to her guitar and case. She threw the empty gas can into the bushes in front of the corner church. A couple ounces of water remained in the can. After Rayne had called her, Shay had filled it with water from the church’s drinking fountain in the basement, along with her bottle of Blue Bull, a blue, energy drink. The goal was to scare the cashier out of the booth, not commit murder.
Shay thought:
mission accomplished
.
Rayne set the tire iron beside her on the front seat. She checked her seatbelt, raked her coat sleeve across her sweaty forehead. Her stomach was a knot, a clenched fist.
Breathe in, out
. She put the car in gear and pressed the gas pedal. She told herself, for the tenth or hundredth time, this last action would be quick. A lightning strike. Soon everything would be resolved, for better or for worse. She drove under the speed limit, twenty miles per hour, snaking up the street. She glanced through the passenger’s window, checking pedestrian traffic on that side. The Gateway was a block away, the right side. The sweat on her palms made the steering wheel slick.
Rayne squeezed the gas. The theater emerged into view. She veered to the side of the street, imagining herself a pilot landing a small plane on a tiny tarmac. She hit the horn, hit the brakes. An empty sidewalk bordered the entrance.
Here…goes.
The front right wheel banged against the curb with teeth-grinding force. Another wheel…
bang
. She angled the skidding Crown Vic up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, a ribbon of cement. Two headlights appeared on the plate glass window, shining on an empty stool within. Vehicular homicide would not be added to her list of woes. As if a steel shark, the car crashed, bit the booth. Glass shattered, raining down like hail onto the hood.
She needed to attract a crowd, needed the police to arrive and find a car linked to C.C. Seymour. The Gateway needed to be the center of attention. The public needed to see the
other side
, the Coming Attractions that were Coming Soon.
What’s behind the door? See for yourself.
Rayne unbuckled the seatbelt, grabbed the tire iron with her right hand and dragged it across the front seat. She popped the buckled door, hearing a metallic groan, and fled the damaged car. She lunged through the glass door facing the street and entered the empty lobby. Across the floor, the door to the viewing room was closed, but the loud soundtrack inside vibrated the lobby, sounding as intense as a live concert. When she turned, off-balance, her world upended. Her feet flipped out from under her as if on melting ice. From behind, someone dove, grabbed her waist, tackled her onto the faded red carpet.
Oomph.
Her open mouth inhaled dusty air, tasted dirt. The tire iron fell from her hand, bounced, and thudded on the floor.
Rayne’s head struck the musty fabric, jarring a light switch inside her skull.
Flick.
Her vision blacked out for a moment. The dull drumming sound of her pumping heart filled her ears.
Pump, pump…pump, pump
. With her wind sucked out, she gasped, felt dizzy. Her vision: a dust storm of swirling dots of colors.
The dots coalesced in front of Rayne, resolved into an eerily dressed apparition, a time-backward hallucination—the woman wore a black vest over a silver satin shirt, and a turquoise head scarf. A short distance behind the anachronism, the walls were decorated with cheerless posters of
Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, the Mummy, Alien, Alien 2.
The cashier reached down for the tire iron. Behind her blue-tinted glasses, fury filled her wide eyes. She stood over Rayne, feet spread. In one hand, she held the iron bar up in the air like a club, and said, “You bitch—
gasoline?”
The movie’s soundtrack pulsed behind the door.
Rayne struggled to rise and get her breath, her lungs screaming for air. She was unable to roll out of harm’s way.
“You
pathetic little bitch!”
The cashier kicked Rayne in the side of the head, her shoe skidding past Rayne’s ear, stopping at Rayne’s bony shoulder. “You think you can outsmart me?
You?”
Across the floor by the refreshment counter, Rayne spotted a poster of a condemned prisoner sitting in a cell with a priest. Suddenly every lobby poster siphoned her spirits. Behind her, a door clicked open. Cool air swept inside, making her scalp tingle.
The cashier’s eyes flicked to the side. Her shoulders hunched. A guitar whiplashed into view. The wood body sliced through the air with the fluid ease of a tennis racket and made contact with the cashier’s right ear. The tire iron fell from her grip. Her legs buckled as she dropped to the floor. A trickle of blood appeared at the edge of the paisley scarf.
A masked woman moved into Rayne’s field of vision, a chic combination of gas mask and purple headband.
“Jimi Hendrix is my idol,” Shay said, kneeling by Rayne. Her voice sounded muffled behind the protective filter. “I’ve always wanted to set my guitar on fire, or smash it into an amp. Just bust it. Tonight I got my chance.”
“Thank…” Rayne croaked, “you.”
“Hanging out with you, Rayne, is fun and freaky—and expensive. But hey, like they say, ‘If you want to play, you got to pay.’ Can I keep your mask?”
“Sure,” Rayne croaked. She reached for the cashier’s head, and snapped off the silk scarf, revealing an explosion of dark red hair cut in a pageboy, a maroon helmet covering skin as smooth and white as a porcelain toilet bowl. Rayne handed the scarf to Shay. Her voice sounded slightly better when she said, “Souvenir.”
“Thank you, I love souvies.” Shay tucked it into her jacket’s pocket, then put her arm across Rayne’s shoulders. “Can you get up?”
Rayne nodded. Her breath returned, as if she’d been swimming underwater. She rose and hugged Shay. “You’re a
life
saver.”
Shay held the broken guitar by the neck, the steel strings resembled a big bug’s antennae. “I think it’s out of tune.”
“I’ll buy you a new one. Promise.”
“Promise me you’ll get out of here. You’ve done enough ass-whipping for one day.”
“Soon. But you gotta go. You can’t get arrested for assault.”
“I’m in disguise. No witnesses. They’ll never catch me.”
“Go.”
“Rayne…”
“Go, go, go.” Rayne picked up the tire iron and headed toward the left door of the viewing room. “I’ll be back. Now get out, before a crowd shows up outside.”
The noise hit her when she opened the inner door, a jackhammer to the ears. The dark room was nearly full, the sound system cranked up. Pure thunder and lightning. When the door whispered shut, her world was reduced to flickering shadows and a rectangular screen. She stood at the edge of a dark room filled with strangers. Presumably from this world. Then again, who knew?
The atmosphere was tense, the air electric. She recalled one of her favorite all-time films, the 1931
Frankenstein
, starring Boris Karloff. She flashed on Castle Frankenstein, the monster on the elevated gurney, getting his
batteries jumped
during the electrical storm. That was the scene that came to mind. Here, now. People were on their feet, some stood on their seats, their eyes riveted to the screen—worshippers at a tent revival, entranced by the coming attractions. Minister Rayne Moore was ready to deliver the sermon from the Book of Drones.
Rayne joined the congregation. She tightened her grip on the cool metal of the tire iron and hustled down the aisle, left side of the theater, her feet steady on the rubber runner while moving through light and shadow. What she saw on the screen clenched her heart: a shot of a narrow alley at night. A man was racing through a walled corridor, advancing toward the audience, and appeared ready to jump through the screen, into the crowd. Not far behind him, a mob gave chase. Shouts and gunshots echoed in the alley, loud as thunder.
This was unexpected. Her plan was to jam open the exit door with the tire iron. With a car parked partly inside a ticket booth, and an unconscious woman on the lobby floor, the police would arrive soon. Rayne wanted to be chased, wanted the Cambridge police to run after her and right into the parallel world. They needed to see it firsthand. She needed witnesses. But now she scrapped her plans. Everything had accelerated. The jumper hunters were coming. Two worlds were about to collide. She and Tim would soon be exonerated.
Rayne stopped at the end of the aisle, glanced up at the EXIT sign, and hit the crash bar. She swung the door, and then jammed the tapered end of the tire iron above the door’s hinge, forcing it open. A mob was coming, a stampede of rage and anger. Their shouts grew louder, a riot of voices. In front of the pack, a lone man was sprinting her way. The prey. He’d either reach the door in another ten seconds or so, or reach the afterlife. Overhead, flying objects swooped down into the alley.
Inside the theater, the viewers were shouting at the screen. As if the movie wasn’t a movie. As if special effects had transcended to the next level.
The lone man on the screen shouted, “Cambridge Police! Leave that door open!” His eyes glistened with terror.
The mob was boiling over, filling the narrow corridor. A flash flood of angry people enlarged on the screen. Their faces took on definition.
Rayne recalled the famous warning:
You can’t shout ‘fire’ in a crowded theater
. Tonight, she was tempted to shout,
“Future.”
The future was coming. And the future was pissed.
It was time to get out before she got crushed. Rayne ducked back inside the theater, and felt something strike her between the shoulder blades. A moment later, small drones flew through the open door and entered the theater like a flock of birds.
The running man whipped through the door, yelling, “Police!”
The movie screen was filled with a mob. Screeching voices shook the sound system. Half the audience was already out of their seats, pouring into the aisles.
Rayne reached out and grabbed the policeman’s arm. “
Now
you see.”
He looked at her face, and his eyes brightened with a hint of recognition. “Who…
are they?”
Before she could answer, the hunters began streaming through the exit door and into the Gateway.
Chaos.
Rayne was knocked down, rose, and was knocked down again. The Cambridge cop grabbed her by the collar of her pea coat, pulled her up.
“C’mon,”
he said.
The two raced up the aisle, just ahead of the crowd. She saw tiny drones swooping through the dark theater, backlit by the movie screen. They charged into the lobby and rushed for the glass doors, throwing them open, and headed into the street. The chill air felt good against her skin, cooling the perspiration on her forehead. A crowd had already gathered outside, surrounding the crashed car.
“My boyfriend and I were set up,” she told the detective. “That’s not us on the video. Back in that world, there’s like….”
“Clones, duplicates, I know.” His face was pale, drawn, and his eyes seemed to be floating inside their sockets. “I saw…I think I saw…myself.”
She was about to tell him,
I want my life back
, when the doors flew open and people poured out from the lobby, filling the street. Small drones escaped outside and flew upward, fading into the night sky.
Rayne glanced at the stars and whispered, “What a freaking nightmare.”
She turned and saw the detective being swallowed by the expanding crowd. She wondered how many of these people were from the
other side
, stepping into this new yet familiar world, wondering where all the drones had gone. Would any of them see their own clone over here? The police would have to sort out the madness.
Good luck
. Immigration Services probably didn’t cover parallel worlds. She wondered if the real story would get out, or would authorities opt for a cover-up version to prevent widespread panic. Either way…
Not my problem.
She darted across the street to the front of the church, and was relieved that Shay and her broken guitar were gone. Three more words came to mind:
Go, go, go.
She had to return to the hospital. The entrance to the subway was nearby, across from the taxi stand. She hesitated on which to take when she spotted a familiar face across the street. Major DeZasta stood at the edge of the crowd, staring right at her. In the streetlight, his dark eyes glistened with defiance. Then he pushed his way through the crowd and into the theater.
Rayne thought of Tim, and then she thought:
Oh no you don’t.
She followed, heading toward the Gateway. The crowd kept expanding, pushing and shoving. She wedged through a mass of bodies, feeling like a fish swimming upstream, and finally squeezed through a glass door. People jammed the lobby, but no sign of Major DeZasta.
She knew where he was heading. She dodged between people and whipped open the left door to the viewing room, seeing a half empty room. The lights were still low, the screen lit.
“DeZasta!” she shouted from the top of the aisle. “Major DeZasta!”
She jostled her way down the left aisle as if she were on a crowded subway train at rush hour, shouldering people out of the way. Buried beneath the noise of voices and feet, a metallic thudding sound could be heard. A crash bar. Roughly halfway down the narrow aisle, below the EXIT sign, she saw the metal door open, then bang shut.