Footprints of Thunder (9 page)

They finally reached a chamber large enough to stand in. Shirley, who didn’t seem to be winded, put her finger to her lips and pointed up at the ceiling, where Kyle spotted a dark hole. When Kyle shone his helmet light toward it, Shirley slapped her hand over it and jerked him to one side.

“Careful, he might see it,” she whispered. “You’ll have to go first from here. We’ll follow you.”

“But I don’t know the way. Why don’t you lead?”

“You have to go first. You’ve got the gun. Once we’re in the chimney we can’t pass each other. If you get stuck, you’ll have to get yourself unstuck.”

Kyle thought about offering Shirley his pistol. He thought about it seriously.

“All right,” he said finally, “is it just straight up?”

“You need to shinny up the chimney about thirty feet. There you’ll find a horizontal tube to follow for another hundred feet. Be quiet, because you’ll be above the cave with the hostages. Don’t worry about falling through the opening. The light from the cave below should outline it.”

“When I drop into the cave which way is the cover?”

“Right is closer,” Shirley said. Then she looked him up and down. “But I think we’ve got too much man and too little rock. You’ll have to scrunch down pretty small. If you have time, go left instead. There’s some pretty good stalagmites to hide behind if you can make it.”

Shirley smiled at him again and then pointed up to the hole in the roof of the cave. It was smooth on the inside, and he had to stand on his tiptoes to feel a rock ledge. He was too stretched out to get any lift out of his legs, so he pulled himself up with his arms and then jammed his elbows over the ledge to hold himself. As he started kicking his legs, he realized he must look silly to Shirley. Then he felt hands on his rear shoving him up into the cave until he had his legs wedged into the opening. Then one of the hands came back and patted his bottom. He hoped the hand had been Shirley’s or Kimberly’s and not Jay’s.

He put his back against the wall and his knees against the edge and began to inch his way up, first pushing his back up and then his knees. The little light from the helmets of the rangers faded as each entered the chimney. It was perfectly dark, Kyle thought, if you can use the word
perfect
to describe a condition where your most valuable sense is useless. The chimney widened and Kyle had to use more leg strength. He wanted to slow his ascent, but every time he did he was bumped by the energetic climber below him.

He nearly fell out of the chimney when he reached the horizontal tube. He inched up with his legs, and when he brought his back up he flopped inside. Kyle managed to roll over and began inching his way along the tube. His eyes, perfectly dark adapted, could see light up ahead. As he approached the opening to the cave below he slowed his pace. He could feel the climber behind bumping into his feet, and he reached the opening with fifteen minutes to spare.

Someone tugged on his pant leg and then whispered into his shoes. It was Shirley.

“Aren’t you going to check the cave?”

Kyle waited long enough for Shirley to think he had not heard her, then he crawled forward and slowly bent into the opening. He lowered his head until his eyes cleared the edge. Everything was upside down. He jerked his head back up and mentally inverted the scene. All the people were where they were supposed to be.

With one minute to go he inched over the opening and. arched over the hole with his hands on one side and his legs on the other. All he had to do now was drop his legs into the cave, hang briefly by his hands, and then drop noiselessly into the cave.

The lights went out on schedule and Kyle dropped. As he swung down into the darkness the rock in his hands crumbled. His swinging legs continued upward as he fell, bringing his head and shoulders down. He hit the cave floor with a loud thump. Pieces of crumbled rocks avalanched down on him. A large chunk smacked him in the face, bloodying the bridge of his nose.

The hostages were screaming and crying and the gunman was yelling for everyone to “stay put” and “keep quiet.” Kyle rolled to his knees and started to get up and then he realized he’d lost all sense of direction. One way was the back of the cave wall. Two directions led to safety and one to the gunman. Each second he hesitated seemed like an eternity; the flashlights would be on soon. He flinched when a thump sounded next to him and a hand touched his side, moving up until it gripped his arm. He was pulled up and directed forward into the inky blackness.

Suddenly a light filled the room, and he felt himself being tripped and pushed to the ground. Someone landed on top of him. More tiny spotlights filled the cavern. The gunman yelled until quiet was restored, and as he was yelling Kyle lifted his head and looked carefully around. He was on his stomach behind the stalagmites. He twisted his head around and could barely make out Shirley’s face inches from his. In disbelief she shook her head and started dabbing off the blood from the bridge of his nose. Kyle felt like an idiot and began wishing he was back on a country road aiming his radar gun at girls on horses. Shirley finished with his nose and then kissed it. Kyle hoped it was too dark for Shirley to see his face turning red.

Time Quilt

9. Mariel Weatherby

One novel feature of spacetime predicted by Einstein’s equations is called a wormhole. These holes in spacetime connect one region of space with another distant region, and one time with another distant time. To travel through one would be to travel through time. One wonders in the vast universe, if there might be other spacetime phenomena that would permit such travel.

—
Robert Yee, The Einstein Revolution

Somewhere over the Atlantic the laws of time and space were suddenly rewritten, and the resulting effect began to spread east and west. Land suddenly appeared in the ocean—not dropped, but layed down gently on a watery foundation that could not support it, and soon, like ancient Atlantis, those lands were lost beneath the waves. In the skies flocks of seagulls in flight disappeared, as did the military and civilian aircraft in the affected regions. Tourist, pilot, exchange student, airman, and junketing congressman were all treated equally and ruthlessly. The air itself was instantly changed, the replacing air either noiselessly filling the void, or, if air pressure differences were too great, violently expanding. Titanic booms were as common as soft whooshing.

As the effect reached the East Coast it continued on land. Streets, cars, homes, office buildings
_t
and fast-food restaurants were replaced with forest, grassland, ice, lakes, and ocean. With the artifacts of mankind went the people who constructed and inhabited them. Men, women, children, rich and poor, teacher and student, Muslim, Christian, Jew, and atheist, all whisked away together.

The effect was systematic, but not thorough. As the effect washed across the planet’s surface, it rippled
_t
leaving some regions untouched. People, awakened by thunderous booms, looked to see neighborhoods sundered, their houses intact, the other side of the street impossibly changed. Inhabitants of other large regions slept through the night, untouched, unknowning, only to wake to confusion.

New York City

Time Quilt: Saturday, 8:35
P.M.
EST

M
ariel rocked by her open window, her hands crocheting while her mind listened to the sounds of the autumn evening. She didn’t get to hear the sounds very often anymore. Summer used to be the best time, but now everyone had air conditioners, and if Mariel opened her window she heard only the hum of electric motors. When she first came to live in her apartment all the neighbors would open their windows in the summer, and Mariel would sit and listen to families arguing, or the sound of radios or hi-fis. There were the sounds of people talking too, and sometimes Mariel could make out a sentence or two and follow the arguments. She never joined in, of course—that would be invading her neighbors’ privacy, but she couldn’t stop herself from forming opinions. Behind it all was the backdrop of the sounds of New York City, traffic, honking horns, and occasional police sirens.

Mariel could hear the Ibarras having an argument two floors above her. Some of the argument was in Spanish, so she couldn’t follow it well. But the rhythm was familiar to her, she had listened to so many arguments in her chair by the window. She didn’t have to understand the words to know the argument was about one of three things: money, family, or the kids. Those were the topics when she moved in back in 1955, and it had been those three topics ever since.

Mariel could also hear the sound of a stereo from the MacGregor’s apartment below her. From the sound of rap, she knew their son was playing it. It also meant his parents weren’t home yet, because they always made him wear earphones when he played rap. Mariel also knew he would be on the phone to his girlfriend at the same time. Sometimes he talked and laughed loud enough for Mariel to hear, and it would embarrass her. She was often embarrassed by the way boys talked to girls today. But still she always listened. It was better than the madeup stuff on the afternoon talk shows.

The air was cool, but Mariel didn’t want to close the window. So instead she went to the kitchen and put the teakettle on and then got a blanket for her lap. Mariel returned to her chair, picked up her crocheting, and listened to the argument again.

It was winding down now. The Ibarras never stayed mad at each other for long, not like the Venuccis, who used to live next to her. How many years ago? Twenty at least, she decided. Now, the Venuccis knew how to have a fight. They yelled.and screamed at each other, sometimes for hours. Sometimes Mrs. Venucci would throw things and Mariel could hear glass shattering or things banging. When they first moved in Mariel had feared they would hurt each other, but when she saw them in the hallway the next day they never had cuts or bruises. One day Mariel stopped Mrs. Venucci and told her she worried about her. Mrs. Venucci smiled and assured Mariel she was not in any danger. “Sure,” she had said, “we fight hard, but we make up harder.” Mariel knew that was true. The Venuccis raised seven children in that apartment. The Ibarras must be the same way, Mariel believed. They had five kids.

The teakettle called to her from the kitchen. Then with her cup and saucer she returned to the window. The Ibarras had moved on to making up, and there were no voices now. A few minutes later the rap music suddenly died, and Mariel listened to Cathy McGregor scolding her son and telling him to do his homework. Then Mariel was left alone with the sounds of the city.

She looked down into the courtyard below. It used to be filled with little garden plots, some with flowers, some with vegetables. It was mostly paved now, and ugly garbage Dumpsters sat here and there. The only garden left was Mariel’s. She only grew flowers now. She used to grow vegetables till people began stealing them. She wouldn’t have minded if they ate them, but most of them were smashed against walls or thrown through windows. Still, the flowers were pretty and a stark contrast to the ugliness of the asphalt and Dumpsters. Mariel loved the garden, but it was harder to grow things ever since the high rise went up across the courtyard. It was an office building, all glass and steel. Mariel hated its sealed glass windows.

Once long ago, Mariel had a friend who lived in the building that used to be where the office building now stood. Sometimes when the kids were at school, Marie! would meet Gertie for coffee and talk. In the summers their kids played in the courtyard together, and Mariel and Gertie would visit or garden. Gertie moved to Florida years ago and was long dead now, and the building she lived in was ten years gone.

Mariel’s life in the apartment had started out quietly, just her and Phillip. Then the children had come, filling their lives with activity and stress; stress she missed now. When the three children were growing up Mariel had lots of friends, most of them the parents of their children’s friends. Phillip’s work gave them friends too. There was business entertaining and dinner parties. If they weren’t guests, they were hosts. They were involved in their children’s schools too. School plays, music lessons, and a myriad of other activities kept them constantly on the go. Mariel had scarcely a minute to herself in those days and relished the few hours a week she could sit by the window and listen to the sounds. Then the children had grown. Now they all lived in other states and called infrequently. She had Phillip for a few years after the children were gone, and many friends still, mostly connected with Phillip’s work. Then Phillip died suddenly, and with him went the parties and many of her friends. Soon all Mariel had were acquaintances, no friends. Now she only went out three times a week, and then only to do shopping. She used to go to church on Sunday, but then the church had closed and moved to a new location in a better neighborhood. Now Mariel watched church on TV, but it was hard to make church friends through a TV. Her life was quiet now, like the end of the arguments she listened to over the years. Mariel longed for the activity again, for someone to argue with.