Authors: Thomas Davidson
Exit (9 page)
Captain BankAmerica.
Tim walked fast through a maze of dark streets, discreetly keeping the crowbar flat against his leg, and arrived near the Gateway Theater. He entered the alley on the end opposite the cemetery, and walked through the dark corridor toward the rear exit. Within fifty feet of the back door, he saw the Phantom of the Opera. The white mask suggested a pale moon floating above the alley.
The mask turned at the sound of his footsteps.
"Shiver me timbers, 'tis I," Tim said in a low voice, and raised his crowbar in the air. "Let's have at it."
The Phantom paused, adjusting his black cape.
Tim waited for a swashbuckling repartee, but none came. He filled in the silence. "Phantom, you okay?"
An unfamiliar voice replied, "Couldn't be better."
Tim stopped in his tracks, nearly lost balance, and froze. The door, the crowbar, the plan—everything just got shuffled.
"What is that, a crowbar?" The stranger fanned a gun in the air. "Oh, please. Drop it before I get excited and overreact."
The crowbar clanged when it hit the concrete.
"Your friend won't be joining us. Let's put it this way. His dream of an escape became a pipe dream."
Tim waited, said nothing.
"My name is C.C. Seymour, Minister of Security at EyeSoar Corporation. And you, you luckless wretch, are Jumper Number Six. If you prefer, I can call you Doc Six. Have you heard of the Mad Doctors Without Borders?"
"C.C. Seymour," Tim repeated.
Seymour spread his cape in the moonlight. In a monotone, he sang:
"As you can see, I'm CC
I can see thee.
(Boo! You start to pee!)
Don't try to flee me
Between you and me
You're under lock and key…"
With his free hand, he cocked his thumb at the exit door.
"Now say goodbye to the land of the free.
Welcome to the home of the drone
And the land of the UAV.
Over and out, I'm CC."
The masked Minister of Security stood still, waited a beat, then asked in a mocking tone, "Well, you like? When I sing—I soar. The EyeSoar Corporation is an organic fit with rap. Drones and rappers, we both strike a continuous low sound, a single note. We swoop down with our droning sound. We hit our targets—audience, market share, jumpers. What's the difference? As long as we dominate DR1."
Tim's neck was ready to snap, so his head could rotate. He may as well have been listening to a Martian. Perhaps he was. He needed to buy time, produce a plan out of thin air.
"DR1," Tim echoed. He steadied himself for the response. Pure reflex: his stomach muscles tightened, waiting for the punch.
"EyeSoar and DR1, we're competing for drone market dominance. Keeping score is simple. Catch a jumper, earn a point. You, you're Jumper Six."
"Six," Tim echoed. He tried to focus his thoughts, tried to be rational in an entirely irrational situation. Yesterday he was Tim Crowe—struggling screenwriter, sub teacher, Mass General patient, movie buff with a detached retina, pain-in-the-ass-all-week boyfriend. Today he'd been whittled down to
a rational jumper
. But not just any jumper, not a generic jumper—he was
sixth in line. Agent 006
. "Who set this up? I mean, who set
us
up—the jumpers?"
"Let's just say a third-party vendor is supplying the lab rats." Again C.C. Seymour cocked his thumb at the exit door. "I believe you met her. She's a unique fashionista."
Tim thought,
Third-party vendor?
The Minister of Security added, "She's quite the ticket."
Now Tim knew. The lab-rat vendor was the cashier, the silken-scarfed space-shot inside the box office.
"Her setup is quite ingenious," C.C. Seymour said. "You lab rats walk through the theater and out the back door."
Setup
. The very word ignited Tim's curiosity. Now that his life had exploded, he wouldn't mind knowing how and why. "Enlighten me. How does this…setup work?"
"It's simple, Jumper Six. Ever hear the expression, a 'rip in the space-time continuum?' Well, well. Wrap your little head around this. The Gateway has been here for nearly a century. What are movies? Dreams and fantasies. People sit in the dark and emotionally connect. All that psychic energy hits the screen with the force of a fire hose. Like flowing water that turns rocks into sand. After a century, the barrier between the two worlds eroded, a hole opened in the theater's corner. And now the exit is a portal to a parallel world." He smiled in the shadows and said, "Oh, the magic of movies!"
"The cashier?" Tim asked. "How did she…"
"A door opens from either side."
"And?"
"She used to manage
this
Gateway on
this
side. Then one day she noticed the recent versatility of the exit door. And saw a business opportunity. This prompted a theater takeover. Now she shows movies
and
provides drone targets. Don't you love it? She runs a
jumper travel agency
. How fucking funny is that?"
Travel agency?
Tim could feel his legs swaying. The crowbar lay too far from his feet. He'd never be able to hurl it at the Minister. He'd be shot before he even touched it. He just stood there in the dark, his bad eye squinting, his bad eye with the blue bubble trying to focus and make sense of a senseless situation. Retinal detachment? Tim almost laughed, in the darkest sort of way.
How about reality detachment? How about getting-a-fucking-break-detachment? Maybe C.C. Seymour could shoot me through my left eye, explode the gas bubble, and detach me from…
"Alas, it's time for Jumper Number Six to be deported."
"Good," Tim said, glancing at the door. He could feel the adrenaline dumping into his system, enough to fill a swimming pool. "I'll see you on the flip side. Come visit me." He stood too far from Seymour to charge him. He peeked in both directions. No sign of anyone in the empty alley. All he could do was bolt, run zigzag down the alley.
"Not quite what I had in mind. Here, I'll give you a hint as to what's in store for you." Seymour's eyes never left Jumper #6. He removed the mask and dropped it onto the pavement. It made a cracking sound when he stepped on it. He unclasped his cape and it fell to the pavement. He wore a black blazer, black shirt, and a red tie the color of blood. He put his hand to his shaved head and fluffed the strip of orange hair on top. His pale, rectangular face almost looked as white as the mask. "You like?"
"What?"
"My hair."
Tim squinted in the dark, staring at a lunatic. Five more minutes of this conversation and he'd be begging to be shot. "That a Mohawk?"
"No, no, no. I had it shaved and styled into a quadcopter."
"Your haircut…is a mini-drone?"
"Yes, dear boy, very good. Now, listen closely. Here's my advice for you and people of your world—
watch the sky, not the news
. Do you understand?"
"Very."
"Let me put it another way. This is the guiding principle at EyeSoar Corporation. 'People are sheep. Drones are the shepherd.'"
Tim said nothing. He felt a whirling sensation and wondered if the ground was moving beneath his feet.
"Now, speaking of the sky…"
Seymour put his free hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, handheld device, and appeared to be pushing buttons with his thumb.
Now what?
Tim thought.
Seymour said, "Oh look—company."
Tim wondered:
Who, where?
Seymour's body language gave nothing away, not even a head turn.
Tim was aware now of a low sound—thith-thith-thith—and pictured a distant bomber flying over a pre-dawn horizon in a World War II movie. He turned toward the escalating sound and saw a dark shadow in the sky by the cemetery. It turned mid-air into the alley and began moving directly over the narrow corridor, a high-tech vulture flying their way.
"She's beautiful, no?" Seymour kept his eyes on Crowe. "We call her EyeZabel. She's carrying state-of-the-art cargo. The next generation drone is inside EyeZabel. You must know the story of Peter Pan and Tinker Bell? Well, you'll appreciate this. The new drone is called Tink, because it's so tiny and cute and flies fancy-free. Just like pretty little Tinker Bell. And up there, many Tinks are aboard. You, Jumper Number Six, are about to make EyeSoar history, and become a media star. Footage of your capture will help EyeSoar win the market battle against DR1. You are a lucky lab rat. Wait till you—"
Tim's eyes flicked when he heard a metallic thud. Voices. The exit door opened behind C.C. Seymour, knocking him off balance. A zombie stepped through, his face and clothes spattered with theatrical blood. Right behind the young man, more zombies staggered through the door.
Tim thought he saw at least three leaving the theater. Maybe four. He was already sprinting toward the mouth of the alley, sprinting beneath the oncoming drone, EyeZabel, sprinting away from the commotion. He sprinted toward the cemetery and saw gravestones coming into view. He saw a dark silhouette appear on the cross street, pausing, turning for the alley.
What happened next seemed hallucinatory. Truly otherworldly. A huge piece of his former life was suddenly reattached with surgical precision.
Tim pounded the pavement and ran straight into Rayne.
Riiiiiing…riiiiiing. "Dr. Wu? Hello, Tim Crowe here, calling to let you know…my eye…I mean, I'm knocked out by the view. You are a medical magician."
He seized her warm hand, neither saying a word, and together they bolted out of the alley and past the cemetery. No need for explanation.
Run.
Tim and Rayne ran past the cemetery and stopped on the next corner when he tugged her arm.
"Which way?" she asked.
Tim glanced behind them, then up in the sky. "There's a drone back in the alley. It's gonna come into view any second now. We gotta get off the street—fast. I'll explain later."
Rayne pointed to a noisy bar across the street. "There?"
Tim looked at O'Henry's and flinched, then remembered he had on a costume this time. He wouldn't be so easily identified. "Okay. Oh, shit."
"What?"
"I need a mask. Something different." He pointed in the general direction of the alley. "Back there, they saw me."
"Well…"
"Screw it, there's no time. Let's go."
They hurried across the street and slipped through the front door. A Halloween crowd packed the bar.
Tim took her hand and they moved just inside the door, standing by the wall and facing each other. He didn't know where to start, what to say. He squeezed her hand, his eyes flicking around the barroom, then back to her.
"Have you had a chance to see the sights?" He kept his voice down. Someone bumped him from behind.
"Some."
He had to be careful with his language. At the other end of the bar, the TV glowed. He braced himself for a horrendous news update. In this world, the TV was a time bomb set to explode.
"A night out at the theater ain't what it used to be."
She nodded once. She squeezed his wrist, leaned toward his ear, and said in a flat tone, "Alex opens
the door
tonight. Eleven-thirty."
Tim heard her clearly, but needed a few seconds to digest the message. And not collapse. It was his turn to nod. Ideally, he wanted to kneel in front of the goddess, grab her ankles, and start screaming. He scanned the bar, saw a clock on the wall: 8:56 P.M.
Her eyes shifted slightly to the side. "Your eye?"
Tim shrugged.
"Drops?"
He tapped his jacket pocket. They had to get through the next two and a half hours and not get killed, and she's asking about his health.
Rayne, you're a piece of work.
The time bomb exploded on schedule. Tim looked over Rayne's shoulder at the TV and saw a familiar face, the newscaster with the chiseled hair, and the sign in the background.
Jumper Cable TV
"We have an update. It's been confirmed. Jumper Number Seven has been spotted. We're going live in Cambridge. Here's…"
Shouts across the barroom drowned out the audio. An image appeared. A blond with a high-voltage hair style, and make-up that may have been applied with a paint roller.
"According to an eyewitness, Jumper Number Seven…"
Tim felt that sick swirl in his gut again. He looked at the fugitive on TV, then his eyes drifted down to Rayne. She faced him, her back to the TV. She held his gaze, and blinked twice. Somehow, she had exited the theater in a disguise when her photo was taken. A stroke of luck.
The TV picture changed.
Tim saw an ambulance parked curbside, back doors open, red lights flashing. Inside, a man lay on a gurney. A few feet away, a news reporter stood on a city sidewalk in front of a bank, speaking to the camera.
"The vicious assault…"
she said, holding the microphone.
The barroom erupted again with shouts and cries for revenge.
Tim looked again at Rayne, speechless. He raised an eyebrow.
She responded with an almost imperceptible shrug.
The TV coverage switched back to the studio. The newscaster said,
"We've compiled pictures…"
Tim felt his stomach jump again. He pointed one finger at the floor, and drew an imaginary circle. Rayne watched his gesture, then turned around to face the TV. Both of their pictures were being broadcast.
"Jumpers six and seven…"
A man standing at the bar looked at Tim and Rayne on TV, and shouted, "Look, it's Jumpin' Jack and Jumpin' Jill!"
Someone in the crowd said, "You mean Jumpin' Jackoff and Humpin' Jill!"
Rayne kept her poker face. She mouthed the words, "Eleven-thirty."
Tim nodded.
A girl with a thick Boston accent, mixed with Budweiser, offered this nugget to the room: "Mad Doctahs Without Bawduhs? Yo, theh gonna need suh-jree. Cuz I'm gonna put a baseball bat up theh butt."
The girl's friend piped in: "I'm gonna put a hockey stick up theh. Go Bruins, yo! I'll put the Stanley Cup up theh."
Tim watched their pictures on TV with rising anxiety. O'Henry's was a caldron set to boil over. They had to leave the bar before someone ID'd them. He assumed the drone was somewhere nearby. He imagined the two of them sneaking back outside, and being lassoed with jumper cables from the EyeSoar mother ship—he and Rayne, reeled into the sky, wiggling like caught fish. He pictured his Luck Chart, a compilation of horrendous data from the last 24 hours, where the chart line starts at the Gateway exit, and then nosedives to the final circle of hell, plummeting past alleys, Phantoms, drones, and drunks in bars vowing to insert the National Hockey League's Stanley Cup up his…
"Tim," Rayne said, and arched a brow.
Her voice snapped him back. He saw the image change on the TV. A different reporter appeared. She stood in the foyer of an office building, beside a man in a pinstripe suit, and asked:
"I'm at EyeSoar headquarters, speaking with the President of EyeSoar, Major DeZasta. Now, Major, as you know, all of Cambridge and Boston, the whole metropolitan area, has been following this ongoing story. The jumpers, the illegals, the Mad Doctors—whatever you call them—have been invading our city and putting us at risk. These terrorists are somehow getting through."
"Yes,"
Major DeZasta said.
"Our security team determined early on that the jumpers are not from here. Quite literally. Our lab tests show that they are not exactly of this world. We can say with certainty they are from an unknown origin. Perhaps from another planet, another dimension. In the space-time continuum, they're somewhere off the grid. And I mean
way off
the grid."
"So,"
the reporter asked
, "what do they want?"
"What does it matter? An invasion of jumpers puts us all in peril. They're a virus infecting our world. A social outbreak creating mayhem and disease. They keep coming, and will multiply like a virus. Unless we at EyeSoar stop them."
"EyeSoar and DR1 have been going head to head—"
"Look at the capture count. EyeSoar clearly has the best technology and means to find and neutralize the jumpers."
The screen image switched to two rows of photos. The top row had three photos, numbered from left to right: #5, #6, #7. The bottom row had photos #1 through #4. The word
Jumpers
flashed at the bottom of the screen.
Tim studied the TV. James Carney was #4; Tim #6; Rayne #7. The others appeared to be in their twenties. Two white guys. A white woman. The youngest pictured was a black man with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Tim pictured him innocently stepping through the exit and into the alley for a smoke.
The reporter's voice broke in:
"So far, four have been captured."
"Five,"
Major DeZasta corrected.
"I just got word we got another one. Details soon."
The shot switched back to corporate headquarters.
"In that case,"
said the reporter,
"EyeSoar three, DR1 two."
Major DeZasta smiled.
"Uh huh. And we just got some intel that as many as four more jumpers have crossed the border."
"Four?"
The reporter's eyes widened. Her voice cracked when she said,
"That would bring the total up to eleven."
"Uh huh. EyeSoar is the last line of defense against the Huns, the Visigoths—the Mad Doctors Without Borders."
"You mean…"
"As your TV viewers surely must know—this is the War of the Worlds. But here's the good news. We're ready to pull the trigger on our next generation of drones. Stay tuned."
Tim leaned again by Rayne's ear, while keeping an eye on the crowd. "We need to go. The drone may be near. You leave first. You should be okay, they're looking for a blond. We’ll meet…" He paused, piecing together a plan, and a backup plan. "Meet me in Harvard Yard. John Harvard statue. If anything goes wrong, meet me outside your building. Your key…" he said and subtly shook his head, "won't work."
Rayne nodded.
"We still got two hours."
She nodded again, squeezed his hand, and left the bar without a word.
Tim stood by the wall and waited. He glanced at his watch and marked the time. A three-minute delay would give Rayne enough time to get up the street and away from him in case something happened. No need for both of them to get bagged. C.C. Seymour and the drone had to be in the area. When he left here, anything could be waiting for him outside.
Rayne's departure made him feel even more exposed. Leaning against the wall, alone, looking suspicious. He angled his wrist, checked his watch again. It was time to go. He turned toward the entrance, half expecting to hear someone shout a single, terrifying word: stop. But only a vast swirl of voices could be heard inside the room.
Number Six slipped quietly through the door. When he stepped outside into the cool air, he felt his muscles tense. He stopped for a moment, inventorying the area, listening for strange sounds. Halloween revelers were on both sides of the street, but he saw no sign of C.C. Seymour. Not yet.
Then he remembered his medicine. Way past schedule. He uncapped his vial of Vigamox, pulled up his eye patch, and shook it over his eye. Footsteps sounded behind him. He was partially blocking the entrance. Someone exited the bar and had to step around him.
"Coming through," a stranger said in a muffled voice.
Tim moved to one side, blinking. A chemical teardrop rolled down his face.
A man appeared beside him, wearing an army helmet and a gas mask. He paused, said nothing, staring at Tim sans eye patch.
The silence was deafening. Gas Mask surely had seen the newscast, and was now connecting it with the pirate on the street.
"Hey…" Gas Mask said.
In that second, Tim knew that he could be wrong, the guy could be asking for a cigarette. He had three options: fight, flight, or take a chance and wait. Tim chose option number one. The gas mask would get in the way of an uppercut. So Tim's right hand swung in a circular motion, hit the stranger's jaw with a hard swipe, snapping his head to the side. Lights out. Tim grabbed him as he buckled. The vial of Vigamox flew out of his hand and hit the street.
Somewhere inside his skull he heard:
Two critical medicines lost, one to go
.
Tim stood in view of the door and knew he had screwed up. He dropped the guy on the sidewalk, ripped off the gas mask—someone inside yelled
'Hey'
—and ran down the street in the opposite direction of Harvard Yard, Vigamox trailing down his cheek. He clutched the gas mask like a football, reached the next corner and turned, stopped inside the alcove of a shoe store. It took only seconds to tug on the mask over his scarf, while he listened for shouts. Then he bolted. He made a wide circle and headed over to Harvard. He passed through a brick arch and entered the dark Yard.
Soon he arrived at the statue in the quad. No sign of Rayne. She should have easily beaten him there. He could only make out moving shadows in his vicinity, and feared something had happened. He waited five minutes, and then started toward her address in this parallel world.
On the opposite end of the campus he passed through another archway, went by Memorial Church, and into a Cambridge neighborhood. Soon he heard footsteps behind him.
And then a voice. "Tim."
She hurried up to him and they hugged.
He removed his headgear and kissed her, feeling her warm breath on his cheek. "What happened? Where were you?"
"I saw a man in a gas mask approaching the statue. It’s dark. So I thought…"
"Got it. I had a little incident back at the bar. A misunderstanding. But this mask may come in handy."
"The statue, it's not John Harvard, it's Nathaniel. This place…"
"You noticed," Tim said. "Let's keep moving as we talk."
"I decided it was you in the mask by the way you walked. But I wanted to stay back and see if anyone followed you. I think we're okay."
He put his arm around her waist. "What a night. What a fucking 24 hours. Let me quickly tell you what happened to me last night, and everything since. Then you fill me in. I'm dying to know how you figured all this out. You are amazing."
"Keep your voice down."
"When I saw you tonight, I felt such a rush of relief. Then I thought: I hope I'm hallucinating, I hope that's not you, stuck here with me in this cosmic clusterfuck."