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Heartcutter
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| Journey, part 2: A house in Iowa | | | Author: | | | IP: | 12-233-1XXXX | | Date: | 04/28/02 09:04 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 8, Min: 8
Lifetime Rating for citizenKane: 8.2143 |  |
Welcome back.
Our journey continues. For the second time we depart from the imagination, with the imagination, and through the imagination. But this is not a second trip; it is rather a continuation of the first. If you have not yet embarked, you may do so here.
Relax in your chair, shut out all noise, and let the story commence.
The sea was wild. The night was black and the moon was out in full. The ocean was a churning froth of moonshine silver and navy blue. Flotsam and jetsam, remnants of a sinking ship, rode the rolling waves.
Banon, wet and cold, clung desperately to a wooden crate, the only thing keeping him afloat in this tempest. It had been several hours since the ship sunk, and he had been frozen numb for quite some time. His arms were weakening. His wooden crate, his only life preserver, was wet and slippery, its size making it hard to grasp. Though his hands were above water, they felt colder than the rest of him.
He floated there, wondering how long he could hold on, whether he would live or die.
He kicked his legs, trying to swim toward land. Land, glorious land, once visible in the distance. Closer now, much closer. The beach was within his sights.
Just a few more minutes, he thought silently, please...
and I can make it...
He prayed that his strength would hold, that he wouldn’t let go of the crate, that he’d be able to make it.
Hang in there...
a couple
more
minutes
...
A large wave washed over Banon, and he gave. His numb hands slipped from the slick crate, and he fell into the ocean. As he did, he cursed himself, cursed himself for trying to discover what should not be discovered, seeking to know what should not be known. And then the world faded to black.
No.
No
...
Thunder crashed and lightning flashed, and drops fell from the sky. It had begun to rain.
* * *
The next morning, in bright Iowa: A house.
Now there was something special about this house. It was special because Gerard was staring at it. Now Gerard was a special person— so special that anything he even stared at became just as special, because Gerard would never stare at anything unless it was very important.
And Gerard was staring at this house.
Gerard was white but everything he wore was black, including his sunglasses and his hair. Beside him was a car, an extremely small two-seater that looked like a minivan with the passenger cabin lopped off, with wheels half the size of normal wheels. It was almost as tall as it was long, which is to say, not very tall. Gerard leaned against it, staring and nodding at the house opposite him.
The house certainly did not look very special. In fact, it was positively normal.
On it, in cheap plastic letters colored gold, was: 357 ANZA WAY.
Gerard wondered briefly who Anza was, and why he deserved his own way, then he strode cross the street. Street was black, as most residential streets are, and the median strip was double and bright yellow. He walked toward the house, hands in his pants pockets. When he reached the sidewalk, he broke into a jog, then halfway along the walkway he slowed down.
He rang the doorbell, and it gave a muffled buzz. When the door did not immediately open, Gerard got impatient. But he remained easy going. He rocked back and forth for a while— he was one of those people that couldn’t stay still— and turned around, back to the door, whistling Beethoven’s 3rd (dee-dooh, dee-dooh, da-dee-dee-dee-dooh) and watching a flock of birds fly across the sky. He brushed off his black suit, which had no dirt on it.
The door opened, and Gerard peered over his shoulder.
“Hello?”
Standing in the doorway was a boy, scarcely more than fourteen. He was as white as an albino Norwegian, and his blank tee and his bleached-khaki shorts matched his skin color. The boy stared at him, and Gerard stared back over his shoulder. Gerard gave him one of the longest, most incredulous stares he’d ever given.
“Hey, you aren’t one of those CIA guys, are you?” the boy asked.
Gerard righted his body but never took his eyes of the boy. “You’re Greg?” he asked, nodding slightly.
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I step in?” Still nodding.
“Okay.” The boy named Greg stepped aside, and Gerard walked in.
He was in the middle of a large, well-lit family room. Directly ahead of him was a hall. To his left was a piano against the wall some ways away, and to his right, in the corner, was a large television set, with several sofas and recliners arranged around it in a circle. The TV was currently advertising “Salazar’s Dodge Dealership! Lowest Priced Dodges in the East Bay!”
“Hey man,” said Greg, “Want something to eat? Or to drink?”
“No thank you.”
“Sit down?”
“Yes, please.” Gerard chose a green recliner, in front of the TV. “Are your parents here?”
“Parents? No.”
The TV was now playing an ad for STAR WARS EPISODE TWO: ATTACK OF THE CLONES. Lasers and explosions illuminated the screen.
“Do you know when they will be back?”
“Not for a long time. Is this important?” Idiot, thought Greg to himself, of course it’s important. Black-suited men didn’t walk into your house for no reason. Or maybe they did.
Gerard was whistling the Star wars theme along with the television.
“How important is it?”
“Oh, it’s important,” Gerard said lazily.
STAR WARS EPISODE TWO! declared the TV.
“What is it?”
“You will find out—” he checked his watch— “in about 6 seconds.”
COMING MAY 17, declared the TV.
“3... 2.. 1..” Gerard counted softly.
The TV cut to a newscaster, a pretty brunette at a desk with the ABC logo in the background. Gerard looked up.
“This just in. An massive 10.1 earthquake [she put emphasis on the 10.1] hit just off the coast of Spain, around midnight Spanish time. The death toll is estimated to be in the thousands, and structural damage in the billions. Damage was not only caused by the quake, but also the resulting tsunamis. Now the Spanish are claiming that the quake was caused by a nuclear bomb.
“Witnesses reported seeing a brilliant red light seconds before the quake, making the ocean run red and lighting the sky like a sunset. I now bring you Mark Blake, our correspondent in Spain...”
Gerard looked upward at Greg, standing above him.
“But... what does this have to do with me?”
“That you’ll find out—” Gerard checked his watch “—in forty-two seconds.” The TV woman chattered on.
“Seriously,” interrupted Greg, “can you tell me now?”
“If I did,” commented Gerard, “you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Yes I would,” said Greg, a little offended.
“No, you wouldn’t,” responded Gerard, and he turned to the TV. A formal-looking Spanish man, peppered with camera flashbulbs from every angle and surrounded by microphones bearing the logos of various networks, spoke/
“No,” he said, in his thick accent, “no known bomb— er, known to us— matches the, ahm, description, er, eyewitnesses gave us— but it was a bomb, and only a nuclear one could cause, ah, such an explosion, or some other type of as yet unknown, ah...”
Gerard commented, “Oh, don’t worry. It definitely wasn’t a nuclear bomb. I’m surprised the Spanish made such a comment— they’re usually smarter than that.” Apparently, that was supposed to be reassuring. It wasn’t very reassuring, but Greg didn’t care either way.
“...set off at the bottom of the ocean, ah, probably, though we are open to any ideas, hrm, pertaining to how it got there...”
Eleven seconds, thought Gerard.
“...has no, er, official comment at this, uh, current time...”
Gerard counted almost-silently to himself. “4.. 3... 2... 1...”
Nothing happened, except that the man on TV continued talking: “...the Spanish, uh, government is currently investigating...”
“Hmm”, Gerard thought out loud, “must be off schedule.”
Suddenly, there was a rumbling, low and distant.
Then louder, like a car with bass cranked up.
“There it goes,” shouted Gerard. He got up quickly, grabbed Greg’s arm, and hurried out of the house. “With haste! We must get out in the open!”
The rumbling grew louder, until it seemed the ground was shaking. No, the ground was shaking, and it was shaking harder by the second. Gerard hurried out of the house, one hand holding Greg’s arm, the other holding his sunglasses in place.
“This earthquake has something to do with me?”
“No!” Gerard pointed. “That!”
“Where?” Gerard was pointing down the street, only there was nothing there.
“Wait for it!”
Boom. The ground shattered, ahead of them it blew skyward like a geyser, a fountain of dirt and asphalt, spewing torrents of mud and dust. Out of the endless geyser flowing skyward, a figure stepped out. A horrible thing, black as nothing and vaguely spikey. It extended an ugly hand.
Wow, Greg thought, I must be dreaming. It was a hunch.
“Come with me!” it said.
Gerard stepped forward, dusted off his coat (which was by now pretty dusty), adjusted his sunglasses, and leaned forward. The dark figure was in front of him, the geyser of dirt behind the dark figure. Gerard hesitated, then thrusts his fists forward.
The dark figure exploded into a thousand tiny black motes without Gerard having touched it. The fountain of dirt stopperd immediately, all the mud and dust in the air fell to the ground, and it was silent. Aside from the fact that Gerard, the street, and all the nearby cars and houses were caked in a thick layer of dust, and that there was a big hole in the middle of the road, everything was normal.
Greg coughed, blinked, and asked, “That was it?” Weirdest dream ever.
“No. An illusion. Get in the car.”
“Car? Where?”
“That really small one. Go!”
The tiny car was to their side. It had two little seats and a minuscule trunk, and even the seats were a little too small. Barely as long as a bicycle and shorter than a Volkswagen beetle. Gerard hurried over to the drivers side, Greg coming up behind.
“That’s a pretty small car,” commented Greg.
“Shrewd observation. Go!”
Gerard opened the door— apparently the car was unlocked— and planted himself quickly but gingerly in the driver’s seat. Soon after, Greg was next to him, his head only inches away from the celing. “Are we trying to get away?” he asked. “In this little thing?”
Gerard hit the accelerator— apparently he had left the car running— and the engine revved with roughly the power and torque of a drag racer engine. The seats shook.
“Seat belts fastened?” asked Gerard. There were five seat belts; two shoulder belts two lap belts, and one crotch belt. They all buckled just below the chest.
“Uh—” The seat belts hung limply at his shoulders and sides.
“Never mind them,” said Gerard, who had, somehow, already fastened his seat belts and secured them snugly. “Hold on tight!”
And Gerard floored it.
The tiny car screeched off, leaving a trail of burnt rubber behind it.
* * *
Millions of miles away, on the surface of Mars, a solitary ship, no more than twenty feet long, rested in the rust-red sediment. And waited.
Inside the ship, a Magician sat in his padded captain's chair. The magician sat there. And thought.
A technician sat in front of him, working silently at the controls, doing whatever it was that technicians did.
Quite a while later, the Magician stopped thinking and used some mental energy to speak.
“Something evil is afoot, on the third planet of this solar system. Why it has laid dormant for so many years, I do not know, but now it is awakened.”
The technician stopped working, and gave the Magician a fearful look.
The journey continues May 5, 2002.
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