© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Seventeen: Enter the Red Door
He
opened his eyes and stared. Funny, he didn’t recognize where he was. The
ceiling looked utterly alien. His head spun and he gulped down the biggest
lungful of air he could manage, and the air was sweet—oh yes, he recognized that air. There was no mistaking that
air, for it was real air, absolutely nothing like the air of his knock-off
world. He glanced about him. He seemed to be lying on his back, and there, yes,
there was the Red Door.
It came back to him, in a rushing whirlpool
of knowledge and terror and confusion. He remembered the strange woman
appearing here, right here, in this room, for there was the Red Door. Without
warning she had busted them, threatened them, and then wham, she was gone. He
had attempted to follow her in the wake of her departure. Used to so many different
varieties of video games, he was certain it was the right move, getting pulled
along wherever she went. Someone opens a portal, and you jump in. Usually, it
works. And he remembered the crash of walking straight into the heavy metal
door. So that had not worked, then, and what of his friends?
Where was everybody? Jethro Mouch and John
Galt had been here, and he remembered the influx of knowledge pouring into
their heads, the scenes, the images, as they connected together, like some kind
of circuit, and they had known things that they had no way of knowing. He
understood the nature of their spreadsheet world. And something about Joss Chen
that was monumental, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember whatever
that portentous knowledge actually was, nor how long he had been lying here on
the cold tiles of the floor. And there was something else, something...huge,
but right now, it was eluding him. But he knew it was something big, and it was
worrying at the edges of his mind, a rat terrier in his brain, ripping and
tearing.
Looking at the Red Door he observed that it was
closed, but not barred or locked from the inside.
They wouldn’t have gone without him. His
friends, they were his friends, and they wouldn’t just desert him here while he
lay unconscious on the floor, would they? Oh, perhaps Jethro might have, but
not John, surely. Yet, here he was, alone in the chamber of the Red Door. And
the door was unlocked—if they hadn’t gone, if they were still here, they would
have locked the Red Door.
He pushed himself up, and felt at his nose.
His whole face felt tender, but there didn’t seem to be any blood, wet or dry.
He must have struck the door with his forehead, and yes, he had quite the
headache.
Before making any decision, he needed an
aspirin, or several of the little white pills. And he should drink some coffee,
perhaps two or three cups. And, thinking of coffee, he rolled slowly onto his
hands and knees and climbed, to his feet, catching at the small table with the
various notebooks and standing flashlights, solar cells, and assorted gear that
a few of the guys must have stacked here, and then forgot to take with them—or
perhaps they had come back, from the other side, and slapped these items down
on the table top, all the while glancing at Ronald Rand, knocked out on the
floor.
He shook his head, feeling a little anger
rumble around in his head, fortifying the headache and making it much stronger.
Ah well, they were in the excitement of something new, because...because what?
Wait, he felt the thought approaching, a train pulling into the station with a
few last groaning chugs, and what, what was it? Wait, just wait for it, and?
The
gift!
Damn it all, how had he forgotten the gift! The weird woman had given them a
gift, he could actually feel it now buzzing incessantly in his left shoulder,
and he actually lifted his right hand to scratch at it, when he remembered the
other thing. Yes, the other thing. They could not access the gift on this side
of the Red Door—that’s where Jethro and John Galt had gone, across, to
experiment with their gifts! If they accessed it here, the strange woman—the
witch—she was going to brain them, but good.
How could that
have slipped his mind?
She had seemed fairly mischievous when she
had told them about the gift, but then she had glared at them with severity
when she warned them. Plus, now that he thought about it, and the memories
seemed to be blooming to life in his brain, she had complimented Jethro, of all
people, and John Galt, as well, but then again, that was no big surprise. But
she had not even mentioned him, there
was no good word or motivational pat on the back for Ronald Rand.
And she advised them to change their stupid
names. Well, he wouldn’t mind that. He should change his name to something
like...Howard Roark, yeah, that would
show them all!
Heck, forget the stupid aspirin, the coffee, this was the time—he had been waiting
for something like this all his life. He had never found his place in this
world. No job interested or excited him. Oh yes, he tinkered, he slapped things
together, why you just snapped a tool into Ron’s hand and he would build you
something—the something didn’t always make a lot of sense, or work, or look
like much, but it was something, and Ron loved to make somethings. But he had
never discovered his...niche.
He looked about the room and snatched up a
long duffle bag, and he began skirting about the room, plucking things from
shelves, snatching things up as if he were in a race. He pulled off his
sweatpants and slipped into a baggy pair of rough sportsman’s dungarees, ablaze
with pockets and pouches, and these containers he began to fill, with tools,
with weapons, with water bottles and first-aid kits. He strapped a huge Bowie
knife to his belt, pulled on a brand-new pair of shin-high hiking boots (three
hundred dollars a pair, he knew, since he had ordered this lot in all the sizes,
from men’s sizes six through thirteen, and women’s sizes five through eleven),
and he laced up these boots, tightly, and ensured that he took two pairs of
extra boot laces, slipping them into the pockets of heavy-duty fatigue jacket,
the kind with all the pockets.
He slipped a small pistol into his pocket, a
revolver, even though he knew these did not work that well through the Red
Door, but revolvers seemed to work much better than automatics, not that he
could figure why, and he grabbed handfuls of speedloaders packed with .357
caliber bullets.
Over his clothes he threw a big black duster,
all reinforced with extra straps and pouches on the inside, and loaded these pockets
with sunglasses and telescopes and brass knuckles. He must weigh three hundred
pounds. Ah well, good exercise, that, lugging around everything but the kitchen
sink—that made him pause and consider, but then he discarded the notion, for
what use could he find for a kitchen sink?
He got two water bottles and one clunky
canteen, and then, after only ten minutes of scrambling, he decided he was
ready. He had no plans to stay over there, but he was going to be experimenting
with this so-called gift that the strange woman had gifted them, and so he
wanted to be ready for anything.
As a last measure he collected one of the
wheelbarrows propped against the wall and burdened it with a pup tent and a big
ten-person tent designed to withstand the weather on Mount Everest, and buried
these under a shovel, pry bar, and baseball bat, and then at the last second
threw in a massive hammer and a box of nails.
Well, then, this would have to do him. It was
a lot of stuff, but it was a strange world on the other side of the Red Door.
He felt a moment of trepidation, but then the excitement washed over him. He
paused, staring at the Red Door.
Should he contact Connie? After all, he might
never see her again. But could he do it? Abandon this world in which he was
born, where everything he knew existed? He had two sisters and a brother, and
should he really just desert them for another place? Should he try to convince
them any of them to come with him?
That was just silly thinking, as they would
think him insane—in fact, all of them, they already considered him half-crazy.
Especially Connie, and his sisters, well, and his parents
He adjusted his eyeglasses. Shouldn’t he at
least go for another pair of eyeglasses? What if he broke these, in the other
world? He certainly didn’t relish the idea of going about in that place, Sky
Valley—no, wait, that wasn’t the name of the world, but only what his group had
taken to calling it. But they knew now that it was High Vale, that was the name of the world, and quite a bizarre name
for a world, indeed, but remarkably close to Sky Valley, so that must confirm
that it was an aptly named world. And when you thought about it, Earth was a bizarre name for a world,
Planet Earth, which, essentially, was a planet called Dirt.
No, there was nothing for him in this world. He would escape now from
this world, from this world of Ronald Rand, a place in which he had always been
a misfit, the odd one out, the tall, skinny, geeky guy. No, now High Vale was
his chance, at reality, no less.
Always the nerd, the embarrassed nerd in high
school, the confident and brilliant nerd in college, but ever the nerd. Yes,
ever the nerd. In truth, Connie was only with him because she was between real
relationships, and her eyes never stopped roaming for the next guy when they
were out together, that next, better guy, that was at least one step up from
Ron. It was easy enough to find a better-looking guy than old Ronald Rand. She
didn’t love him, and he had to admit it to himself, he didn’t love her. He had
been with Connie because she was bright and attractive, with a sunny smile, and
those gorgeous eyes, and girls like that didn’t generally look at Ronald Rand.
So she seemed the catch, the girl that would spend time with him.
She was five years older than him, and that
might be part of her acceptance of him, that he was young, unattached, and made
quite a lot of money, both at any job at which he freelanced, but mostly the
bulky proceeds from their adventuring into High Vale, through the Red Door, a
lot of which found its way to Connie..
Readying his gear, he looked about the room,
and at the last second before departing he hurried back to the weapons rack and
took up a solid and thick, wax bo staff, five feet in length, a stick almost
unbreakable. It was a good tool to take. He reconsidered, looking about, and
took up various spools of nylon twine, fishing line, and at the last second
snagged a leather pouch that contained several permanent glow sticks,
especially potent at retaining the light of the High Vale sun. These were
expensive, but these could provide a good light source for hours a night, and
would retain their potency for years.
“Good-bye, cruel world!” Ron called over his
shoulder, grinning, taking up the handles of his packed wheelbarrow. Then he
sighed, lowered the handles, and strode to the Red Door, unlocked it, and
opened it. Collected the handles into his hands again, and pushed the
wheelbarrow through the portal. He always closed his eyes right at this point,
because he did not like to watch the wheelbarrow vanish as it touched the place
where reality should stop it, and it would seemingly melt against the bricks.
He walked forward with confidence, and without pausing—
—and emerged instantly into the familiarly
warm glow of High Vale, and for a moment felt dizzy with the heady wash of
scents and the nearly overpowering atmosphere of this rich, rich land. The sky
was a vault of living blue, shimmering with colors he could never remember. It
almost hurt his head, how beautiful it all was. He wanted to lick the sky.
He sighed, stretched, and then plunked down
the wheelbarrow, parking the end against the waist-high pillar of boulders they
had set up several feet before the portal, to discourage any creature from
walking in a straight line through the opening to slam into their Red Door.
That was the only way to enter the portal—head on; you couldn’t come at it from
an angle if you wanted to enter.
He was rather warm in all his gear, but knew
it would grow chilly in the night. He stripped off the black duster and lay it
over the heap of the wheelbarrow, and cast off his heavy hat with built-in LED
headlamps, dropped his gloves on the pile, and opened the shirt buttons at the
top of his neck. He glanced back at the empty space three feet away where he
knew the invisible outlines of the portal to be. You could not leave this world
unless you stood right here, parallel with the rock wall, and walked directly
at the invisible door, from the stones of their built-up mound. He really
should not leave the Red Door open, because, at the moment, none of the Sky
Valley Group were even in that second-rate world.
His friends were all here, somewhere—would
they ever see each other again?
He didn’t like the idea of something from
this real world strolling into that low-resolution land of his birth. Though he
was deserting them, he still loved them, and desired to protect them from this
new reality. He inched forward, stuck out his arm, and watched with some
queasiness as his hand and arm vanished up to the elbow, and then he reached
forward and grasped the strap they had rigged so that no one ever had to walk
completely through the portal when closing the door from this side, which might
provide an incident for time distortion (at the beginning of their journeys,
one man would often head back to the other side to retrieve a tool, only to
have the whole party emerge behind him seconds later—only, the reality was that
they had passed an entire day in High Vale, waiting for his return, in that
short time span in their spreadsheet world while he searched), and Ronald Rand
closed the door and was satisfied of his duty as it slammed shut. It wasn’t
locked, but anything striding forward directly this way would slam against the
steel door and be rebounded, and would hopefully change the direction of their
course, thus avoiding further collision (that was their hope and intent in
building the short wall of boulders).
He was here, in this world.
They had labored here for months (never
actually spending the night here), at first looting the dead bodies of the
Vikings, and then stacking and burning said corpses. But none of them had ever
travelled much beyond a mile from this point of origin.
Ron now intended to set up a base camp, not
out here in the open, and not buried deep in the forest you could see a few
miles distant, which looked like a vast sea of forest. He supposed he might go
up higher into the mountain passes, or he could head down along the river and
follow that body of water out into the plains observable from up here.
Like any true hermit, he wanted to be up
above it all—higher into the mountains, then. He wanted some trees, however,
and he could see, perhaps a mile away, a lonely hill with a grove of trees that
was much higher up than his current position, but lowly in comparison to the
towering mountain ranges all about. From here, it seemed there must be at least
a hundred trees on that hill. It seemed a remote and likely place for his base
of operations. And the color of the trees seemed somewhat different. If he were
ever lost, he could cast about until he found those colors, which would from
hereon out be his own colors.
Ron glanced about, seeking for any sign of any
of his friends’ passage—John and Jethro, Frederic and Frances, Hank and Joss
Chen—but could pick out no footprints nor any other sign. They had likely been
here several days by the time he had come through, and could be miles from
here. Looking out, shading his eyes with his hand, he could see no sign of life
or civilization in any direction.
There were mounds not too far removed, of
what looked to be...shit, for lack of a better word. The piles, about two feet
in height and three feet around, were everywhere, all about this ridge, and had
never been here on any of his visits before. As to what kind of anus could have
produced such odd-looking mounds, Ron didn’t even want to guess, but he didn’t
want to be here if the creature decided to come back and shit out more, so he
hefted the handles of his wheelbarrow, and set out for that distant hill.
The air felt good, as did the sunshine. It
was always surprising when you came here, how you could feel everything. Now that he was moving away from the ridge, he
wasn’t smelling those nasty-looking, nasty-smelling mounds, which did indeed emit
the stench of offal, or dead things, or worse.
He worked up a good sweat within ten minutes
and paused to drink from his clunky canteen. As he quenched his thirst, he
glanced about, watching for danger, or any signs of his friends, or for any
indications of a water source. As he drank, he wondered at the flat taste of his
water. He had never consumed water from any source on this side (they had all
debated the wisdom of internalizing anything from here). In truth, he was too
frightened to eat anything or drink anything, but he must now broach that
self-impediment, and he must—well, live a
little, take some chances, explore this world, and heck, enjoy it. He didn’t
think he had ever given any thought to the mere...enjoying of life, in any world.
He unsnapped the retainer on his Bowie knife,
just in case, and maneuvered the big weapon so that it was accessible, jutting
from his hip. He was nervous, being here, alone, and sharp were the memories of
the violent men—the Vikings, that had fought here, months ago, when his party
had come through the portal. And even that superhero guy—the Pugilist, the
Vikings called him—there was certainly ample violence in this place.
Pushing the wheelbarrow along, following flat
expanses of land, he noticed the variety of the wildflowers, and wondered at
the size of some of the bees. These bees were like whales compared to the bees
in his world. He caught sight of a monster nearly half the size of his fist. But
the wildflowers gave out scents far stronger than roses, and the colors were
dazzling, deep mauves and fluorescent pinks, whites that were staggeringly
beautiful, and deep black flowers that shimmered and sizzled in the sunlight.
Tears flooded his eyes—it always happened like this, when he first came across.
He especially loved the black flowers, because he had never seen anything like
them before, and they would be some gorgeous Goth chick’s wail of delight, such
was the depth of the color.
He paused to drink water again and glanced
back from where he had come. He couldn’t even see the ridge on which the portal
existed, he had gone up and down so many small hills. He had skirted several
deep gorges, where any slip could send him tumbling down steep inclines and
down rocky cliff faces into depths unimagined. And he had struggled with the
wheelbarrow up some tricky passages, and now, every once in a while, he caught
glimpses of that copse of trees—the closer he drew, the more it appeared to be
some glade of a very different type of tree, not deciduous nor evergreen, and
now they appeared more blue than green. But it was easy to see he had misjudged
the distance, for he must have already traveled more than two miles.
After another ten minutes of sweating over
the wheelbarrow, he paused to take another break and guzzled water. He felt his
belly roil and realized he had forgotten to bring toilet paper, of all things.
He supposed this world would provide something along those lines, but vowed to
hold off the test for as long as possible. He drained the first water bottle
and released a long, satisfying belch. He still had not come across any water,
but knew that the river was back in the direction he had come, only a few miles
away. If worst came to worst, he would head back that way.
His left shoulder tingled, reminding him of
why he was here. No, he decided, I won’t play with whatever that “gift” is
until I’ve got my base camp established, hopefully with much closer access to
water. His gut growled again and he felt gas bubbling.
The thought crossed his mind that he could
always scuttle back to the portal and head through the Red Door, all to use the
restroom, but decided that was a preposterous thought, and eventually he was
going to need to drop his drawers and void his bowels. Of course, they had done
such things before, but then they always had toilet paper and ample water at
hand, with camp shovels, plus the very handy sanitary wipes, for that perfect
touch, not mention someone to watch your back (hopefully not too closely)
whenever nature called, or demanded.
He saw a slight game path heading along his
general route, and taking a deep breath, he lifted the wheelbarrow handles and
set off again, following this worn path. He’d hold out, clenching down on his
sphincter, until he found a spot on the path with a good deal of the thicker,
deeper green grasses, and he’d try that out as a good substitute for toilet
paper, and just hoped that it wasn’t some kind poison ivy or stinging nettle.
The game trail led him into a small copse of
trees, and he came across some nice grasses of varied types growing in clumps.
He parked the wheelbarrow against a little tree, yanked free his shovel, dug
himself a small hole near another little tree that he could employ as a small
bannister, and then he dropped his pants about his ankles and squatted down
over the hole in the ground. He wasn’t sure if he could even manage this, as
his bowels seemed to have locked up.
Then he felt a terrible burble, and a dark
wave of...horror, it just came
roaring out of him. He knew pain, both in his roiling gut, and especially in
his anus. He gritted his teeth and groaned as he felt an explosive wash of bloody
diarrhea vacate his body. He actually filled the hole, in a few seconds under
his endless stream, and he had dug out about a gallon’s worth of space. Oh, but
that was just about the most painful bowel movement of his life. He had no idea
what was wrong with him, but he wasn’t too troubled until he noticed something
splashing around in the contrived toilet behind him.
He started and jerked away, thankful that he
seemed to be empty at last. That movement and splash must have been his
imagination, for his little dugout of sewage was just that, his very foul and
nasty contribution to the High Vale cycle of life. He snagged up some grass,
which looked the softest of the various kinds. He experimented, cleaning
himself, and throwing his soiled handfuls of the grass into his sewage pit.
Something really did splash just then, and
pulled his soiled clump of grasses down. What in the world?
He wiped himself thoroughly, and as yet,
there didn’t seem to be anything wrong or dangerous with his experimental use
of the vegetation. The grasses worked just as well as toilet paper, thank
heaven. Then he snatched out some tufts of grass and rolled and ground it
between his palms, rubbing his fingers as if washing, and was surprised that
quite a bit of moisture released into his hands. He might even try chewing the
stuff (from a new, clean patch, of course) and see if there was anything
digestible in it.
As he was scooping up the loose dirt with the
shovel, he definitely saw something rise up out of his camp toilet. He
swallowed. It looked like an eel, about the size of his hand. That thing must
have been in the soil, because it surely hadn’t...come out of him? That wouldn’t
be possible, would it?
He edged around the pit, moving his shovel
slowly, and the thing peering up at him actually tracked his motion, following
his progress. The thing was watching him. It was like some parasite straight
out of Stephen King—meaning the stories of the master novelist, Ron corrected
himself, not the author himself!
He moved the soil toward the pit and the
thing actually began to rise out of the sewage, so Ron just dumped the dirt
upon it.
The tiny, slick creature writhed up out of
the mess like a fish out of water, and it seemed to be struggling toward him,
shaking off the dirt. He hardly thought about it, but brought the edge of the
shovel down and sliced the nasty parasite in half, pushing each edge of its
severed halves down into the soil. He then slammed it with the shovel, thrice,
and heard what sounded like the squeal of a tiny pig.
Mentally, he apologized, but the thing didn’t
seem to want to die, but writhed madly. He scraped its halves back into the hole,
and pushed in more dirt. Then, when he had the hole filled, he slammed the flat
of the shovel down upon the mound, compressing the little monster in its own
sludge-grimed grave. Come on, that hadn’t come out of him, had it? His bowels
yet stung from the acidic deluge, but it wasn’t possible that such a thing had
lived inside him, living off of him—such things couldn’t be real, could they?
But then again, he hardly knew what reality
was, it was as if all sense had deserted him.
When he had completed burying his little miscarriage
nightmare, he felt a lot better. To cap the whole nightmare off, he found a
boulder the size of a watermelon, and hardly able to lift it, he heaved and slammed
it down upon his little mound, and then stood upon the rock, and jumped up and
down several times. Good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought, and then,
whistling, he placed his shovel across the wheelbarrow, and set off again, with
the island of dark green-blue trees finally looking much closer.
He blinked his eyes and removed his glasses,
cleaned his lenses against his shirt. He looked around, marveling, astounded
that he could actually see, even without his thick prescription lenses. His
eyes felt wonderful, well lubricated, and he blinked rapidly. He tried on his
glasses again and judged that while he could still see a little better with
them on, his vision had definitely improved! Wonderful, it must be the world
itself. Possibly, the farther he moved away from the portal, the more separated
was he from his own world, and the more immersed he became in this new, and
more real world.
Half in a daze he glanced about at the
surrounding hills, relishing the hues of brown and green, the moss colors on
the rocks, the depth of the dark green vines and ivy, wildflowers spread out in
a carpet, many of the wildest blossoms as large as his spread hand. It was an
amazing world, no matter which direction he turned his gaze. The place was
breathtaking. Just standing here, puffing the sweet air, it was like falling
through a cloud into Wonderland.
Several times he had to lift the wheelbarrow
and lug it across wide cracks in the ground, ancient wrinkles snaking through
the hills and rocks like veins. After about an hour after he’d begun, he was
near the island of odd trees.
The land stood upon a bluff of rock, perhaps
fifty feet higher than the surrounding hills, with a neat track that must be
one hundred feet in breadth, and twenty feet deep, with one to two feet of
water in its base, forming a very shallow, very narrow moat about the stone
pedestal which was his target. Only a narrow spit of rocky steps, five feet
wide, ran along around the base of this stone pedestal, like a natural
stairway, that snaked around and ran up into the glade of blue-green trees.
These trees were more like giant bushes, thirty to fifty feet tall, fifty feet
wide like umbrellas, with thick, thick canopies above. But the branches seemed
to start up at about twelve or so feet, providing a natural ceiling of
vegetation above the surface of the pedestal.
Ron waded across the narrow moat, his boots
nearly pulling off his feet to the suction of the mud, and he passed a few
scary moments where he thought he must be in quicksand, until he finally popped
his boot free of the muck, and then lifted and popped free the other boot, and
made it to the rocky ledge that formed a causeway up to the pedestal. Finally,
he was able to push the wheelbarrow the normal, old-fashioned way, and he
huffed and puffed all the way into the pristine glade atop the pedestal.
He stood and stared, sweating, luxuriating in
the beauty of the place. It felt hushed, and silent, and the air felt cool and
moist beneath the canopy of the blue-green trees. He could see that in the very
center of the pedestal of stone, there was a bubbling fountain of waters—it
truly was all breathtaking, this place, this air, this water, all of it, it
seemed more a temple that had formed from nature, chiseled by winds and combed
by waters. He had found his sanctuary, perhaps three and a half miles away from
the portal, mostly hidden by the hunkering mountains surrounding the place. A
place offering safety from the wild—he might even form some kind of gate on the
stone causeway, to keep out predators—but here was bubbling-fresh waters, cool
and sweet (he hadn’t tasted them yet, but he could smell the freshness of the
water, even at seventy-five feet). The stone pedestal, rising up between the
hills and then the mountains, oh yes, this was his home, his base camp, his
headquarters. Sighing, he pushed the wheelbarrow closer to the fountain, and
then he collapsed, sitting near the freshwater pond at the base of the fountain.
“I am going to drink you, finally,” he
breathed, and kneeling, he bathed his hands, and washed his face, and then Ron
cupped his hands and lifted some water up, and he placed his lips into his
palms, and he drank, and the water was cool and sweet—it actually had a taste,
like juice or soda, but it just felt healthy, all of it, all of this, the
sunshine filtering through the canopy of lush foliage above, the sweet air,
these effervescent waters, oh yes, this was heaven, this was paradise. This
didn’t seem like water, or sunlight, but like nectar, both the sun and the
water, and they soothed him.
Ron drank the waters, sighing, and yawning.
He had several hours at least until sundown, and he could set up his tents
then, but right now, he just needed to nap. He scrubbed his hands in the pool
and cleaned out his eyes, and even dunked his head entirely under the water. He
poured out his water bottles and his canteen and filled them with the fresh
water from the fountains, and he drank his fill, emptying one of the water
bottles, twice, and then poured the third bottle over his head, down his back
and chest, and then he stretched out in the grasses, and with his bo staff
close at hand, his bowie knife across his crotch, he slept, snuggled up between
the rock fountain and the wheelbarrow.
He had some disturbing dreams, first of a
forest and a hungry giant that looked somewhat like Humpty Dumpty, and worse,
like Barney Taggart, and of a golden city with happy rich people. Mostly, it
was all blurs, as he skittered above it all, blown like a leaf, but it was
disturbing because both places seemed entirely real. He also dreamed of a piece
of weird-looking fruit hanging off a small tree, and a guy sleeping huddled up
around its slim trunk, and he wasn’t sure, but the guy looked like Rodney
Weinstein, or at least like a boyhood version of his friend.
Ron came awake with a start, feeling that
someone was standing over him. He sat bolt upright, fumbling at his Bowie
knife, but was intensely relieved to find himself utterly alone. He must have
only slept for an hour or two because the sun was yet high in the sky, but it
was his bladder that had insisted upon his wakefulness. He felt groggy, but
entirely refreshed. That had to be just about the best sleep he had ever
experienced, even that sleep after his first experience with sex, in college.
He had slept the sleep of the saved, at both times, but this time seemed even
deeper, despite the odd dreams.
He left all his stuff there by the fountain
and trotted back to the small, natural rampway that led up onto this stone
pedestal, and he urinated there, across the five feet of path, giving a clear
warning to any predators that this was his space, he was claiming it, and
tomorrow it would be his job to create a barrier out of branches that he could
form into a natural-looking gate, wrapped with living vines and other camouflage.
His urine burned and he clenched his eyes during the two minutes that he
relieved himself. His urine was pungent and heavy and smelled much worse than
if he had been living on asparagus for weeks and weeks, but he had to admit it,
it felt cleansing, this emptying of himself. And it went on, and on, and on,
and he sighed, but still he urinated.
When he finished, he shuddered, feeling
chilled, as if he might have a fever. He returned to his water bottles and consumed
each of them, as if he were thirsting to death, and then refilled bottles.
Well, he was part of this world now. He had internalized and processed High
Vale, with the filter of his body.
Now, he would set up his tents and establish
his base camp, and then, and only then, he’d experiment with his “gift.” But
first, before any of that, he needed to skirt about this entire pedestal, his
castle, and investigate the entire periphery, and that’s what he did,
strolling, with his knife and his pistol and his staff, he walked under the
trees. He inhaled as he walked about, coming as close to the edge of the stone
pedestal as possible. It seemed that at some distant time, there must have been
a great tower standing here, because in many places right at the very edge was
what seemed a stone wall, which was broken into pieces now, but now, after millennia,
the only thing remaining was this pedestal with its one entrance point,
overgrown with giant moss and ivy. Moss and ivy and algae. That’s what the
trees seemed like, now that he was up close and personal with their trunks and
foliage, like blue-green algae, with black and white trunks, thin like bamboo,
but snaky with sprawling branches and helter-skelter limbs, the lush canopies
magnificently huge, towering above him, the tallest seventy feet and more, and the
smallest, trees his own height, crowding at the edges of the pedestal. The
trees made a very nice screen so that he could not be seen from above, or from
a distance.
The trees emitted a scent like pine, or
ginger, very spicy and sharp, he thought he smelled cilantro, and oregano.
These were some spicy trees. The leaves hung limply, in the manner of weeping
willow foliage, except these were huge blue-green strands like cobwebs, but
flat and paper-thin like seaweed.
It took him about ten minutes to go fully
about the outer rim of the pedestal, looking out in every direction, observing
the animal life, and discerning nothing dangerous close at hand. The place was
deserted, and lush, rippling with fresh water. He couldn’t have found a better
place to establish his headquarters and base of operations. This would be his
HQ BOO.
There must be at least six inches of soil all
about the basin of the fountain, with several varieties of grasses and weeds
growing, with a few bright yellow flowers, like dandelions, only bigger than
Ron’s head.
He quietly circled the fountain, deep in
thought, and he planned out the location of his tents and where he would make
his firepit. He’d build the pit up tall, but sunken in the soil, so that his
fires would not be visible at night, setting up his camp on the other side of
the stone fountain, which was about ten feet in height and twenty feet broad.
Yes, when approaching the fountain from the entrance ramp, his camp would be
concealed on the other side.
Ron set to work, setting up the tents,
spreading out his sleeping bag and blankets, arranging his books so that he
would have easy access, fanning out his various weapons in the large tent. And
then he began lugging rocks, which he gained outside the periphery of the
pedestal, down in the shallow moat. He saw some disquieting ripples in the
moat, in areas that suggested some depth—it was evident that some form of life
was going on here, and he would have to be alert at all times.
He stacked up a fairly large pile of deadwood
and dried-out cones of some kind of husk reminiscent of pine cones but much
larger, lighter, with spindly tendrils like balsa wood. These seemed like they
would burn as tinder. He wasn’t sure how well the dead branches would burn, as
the only fires they’d lit here involved gasoline and charcoal, and lots of
rotting Viking bodies, but fire did seem to have extra volume here in High Vale,
it seemed more fierce, as the water seemed more wetly refreshing, and the air
more scintillating and vibrant.
He found himself a little sheltered spot
close enough to his camp, but far enough away, where he dug himself a small
latrine between three large boulders on which he could almost half-sit, with a
few handholds in the rock to aid him while he squatted. He made sure to leave
his dirt in a well-tended pile, ready to cover his mess when he made it, and
ensured the shovel remained close to the latrine, just in case anything nasty
showed up like the last time he relieved himself. His gut was already offering
up some tell-tale rumbles, and he wanted to deal with it and any kind of
critters before all the light was gone from the sky.
He made up several bundles of the various
grasses, and stacked these inside his tent, with a few bundles stacked near the
latrine. The grasses came up easily enough, and provided him with numerous
interesting-looking roots. He nibbled at one and thought it tasted kind of
nice, not like carrots, exactly, and not too much like mushrooms, but both of
those tastes were present, as well as a deeper, darker taste than cinnamon.
Yes, he thought the root tasted good. As he worked, he tried chewing on some of
the grasses, and one kind seemed somewhat sweet, while another was bitter, and
he chuckled, he might actually be able to make something like coffee with that
one, or at least a strong-enough tea.
By the time he had his fire lit, the sky was
growing dark, and the sunset colors were magnificent, pastels merging with
metallics, shimmering bright in vivid cyan and pink and orange, with wisps of
purple and darkening blue out on the horizon of the world. He broke open his
steel mess kit and filled a pot of water, which he nestled in close to the
flames on a small grill, and experimented with various grasses, tasting them
first, deciding whether to introduce each kind to his stew, either as a spice,
or as stock, and soon he had a bubbling concoction which actually smelled quite
nice.
He poured some of the broth into his steel
cup and tasted it. Hey, not too bad! It was much heavier a flavor than black
tea, but not quite as hearty or bitter as coffee, but it tasted enough like
both that he would find it enjoyable, and not too bad a substitute. He supposed
he could have brought a can of coffee with him, but hadn’t wanted to go to the
kitchen of Cross House, plus you never knew if Hank would stock something as
logical as coffee.
His gut threatened him again, and the sky was
now nearly at dusk, so he hurried over to his latrine and relieved himself, and
shone a light into his leavings, ensuring there was nothing nasty, or moving,
therein. The flashlights never produced the strength of light that they should,
and the batteries never lasted very long, but thankfully, he didn’t see
anything under his beam of light, and he covered his lesser leavings over with
dirt.
Okay, he felt he could retire now. He washed
his hands and face in the pool and went back to his fire and sampled some of “stew.”
Maybe not stew, but not really grass, he supposed he could call it “stass,” or “grew.”
Ah well, his humor was not fully engaged. The truth was that he was exhausted,
with all his muscles and bones aching. But the hot mash in his cooking pot
actually tasted pleasant—not delicious, mind you, but not...too bad. It kind of
tasted like sushi. It really did, it tasted kind of fishy, and even smelled
some like fish. The cooked roots were especially good, while the grass stems
were just a little too stringy—edible, but stringy, wedging in his teeth like
celery.
He spred out his two blankets and sleeping
bag. He opened the sleeping bag and spread it out like a mattress in the large
tent, and then covered himself with the heavier army blanket, and wadded up the
emergency blanket into a pillow. He quickly stripped, laying his clothing in
neat piles, and he lay down in his underwear and socks, and he listened. This
was his home, and he relaxed, and he listened.
He heard nightbirds calling out, trilling,
and slowly, from all around, he heard crickets begin to do their thing—it
sounded like crickets, at least at first, but then it sounded like various
melodies playing, odd music erupting from everywhere in the night, like many
miniature orchestras playing their hearts out, and the insect sounds and the
bird sounds began to merge into one, all-encompassing music, and it was sweet,
and Ron felt drowsy, lulled by the dissonant sounds, strange, and lovely.
He was almost asleep when it occurred to him,
he had not as yet explored his “gift.” He came awake, listening to the sounds,
and slowly, he reached his right hand toward his left shoulder. He felt the
insistent tingling there, a somewhat chilly spot right in the center of the
meatiest portion of his shoulder, and his right index finger finally reached,
and touched and Ron’s eyes bulged.
There before him, hanging there right in
front of his eyes, was what appeared to be a translucent tablet screen. He
gasped and lay very still, observing the phantom computer screen. He reached
out his finger and touched the edge of the screen, and it seemed he actually “felt”
something there, although it was a sensory illusion, but the screen resized as
he moved his finger, and he expanded the screen and then thought, yes, that’s
the right size. The screen snapped like elastic, hanging there before him.
How far
am I from the portal?
he thought, really just idly wondering.
Almost instantly, words appeared on the
screen, as if a brilliantly fast typist had entered the information in answer
to his query.
5.95457
kilometers.
“What’s that in miles?” Ron said out loud.
3.7
miles,
the answer instantly returned.
Ron almost screamed. How badass was that?
“What should I search for? Can I do a Google search?” Ron asked, grinning.
Immediately a menu appeared called High Vale Search. It actually looked
like a Google search screen, except
the lettering looked like glass. Ron shook his head, marveling that he could
actually see through the screen and perfectly see the ceiling of the tent. He
experimented, making the screen lighter and darker, adjusting the contrast. He
sat up, and the screen moved with him, staying at that perfect distance,
changing perspective as he moved about. He read the various options: Security, Status, Food, Water, Quests, and Notes. A
final option was More.
Experimentally, he poked Security.
What looked like a surveillance map, seen
from above, appeared in a separate screen that seemingly flew away from his
fingertip as he tapped. He could see about three red arrows moving toward a
picture of a tent with a man inside—it was all very slickly portrayed. He
instantly, intuitively recognized that icon in the middle was himself, and
discerned rapidly that three threats were moving in on him, and several red Xs
appeared much farther away from the three arrows.
Ron tapped on the arrows and what looked like
night-vision security footage filled another screen that popped out. With
hardly a thought, Ron rearranged the floating windows. The surveillance footage
showed what looked to be three people in cosplay heading up his rampway, and they
were just now reaching the point where he had urinated earlier. The three
people were slinking with animal grace—these were not people dressed in
costumes, but rather three humanoid shapes that suggested...panthers, or mountain lions, possibly
even tigers. In the black and white night-vision, they looked like black
panther people, naked, but furry. Creatures that were animals, and yet people,
a bizarre melding of the two.
He seized up his pistol and his Bowie knife,
but never took his eyes from the surveillance screen. They were sniffing at his
urine trail, and they were communicating with one another, shaking their heads,
and then they began to slink away, moving much quicker than people should be
able to do, especially in the darkness. They were much, much faster and more
graceful than people in the dark.
The three red arrows in the map window turned
into three red Xs, and then the further they moved away, the less threatening
they appeared, becoming one X, and then going yellow, and then vanishing—threat gone.
Ron sighed, relaxing. But he clicked on one
of the further-removed Xs from his location. A surveillance window popped up,
it was a bear, looking like a grizzly bear, bumbling through the night, its
nose low, sniffing, but it didn’t seem to be coming this way. Another X
revealed a party of strange looking men in rugged clothing—five miles away,
moving away from Ron’s position.
This was—awesome, Ron thought with glee. Oh,
he had so much to discover.
He began opening windows, searching menus,
calling up information, checking options, and then he found his—paperdoll. He called it up, and there,
right there before his face, was himself, looking like himself, showing him in
his boxer-brief underwear, socks, and t-shirt, exactly how he was dressed now.
He clicked on his face, and the paperdoll zoomed in close. It was like
looking in a mirror! Ron stuck out his tongue, and the doll did exactly the
same at exactly the same time. It was amazing, and awesome.
He started playing, changing his features,
and his hairstyle, all of which was accessible via these intuitive menus. He
gave himself a long, yellow goatee, and changed his own hair to gold, and made
it long, and braided down the back. He checked, and it was so, right now, on
his person, he was literally changing the way he looked, via these menus.
Clean-shaven moments before, with only the stubble of a day, he now had a puffy
moustache and goatee. His nose felt longer, like the paperdoll.
He made himself heavier, more muscular, and
changed his eye color to black, and gave himself very white teeth, removing all
the fillings. He garbed himself in leather clothing, very cool and not of his
own design, these were standard available options, and Ron loved everything,
and he saw there were options for altering and enhancing the menus—everything
could be configured to his liking, and he could mix and match and make up his
own stuff!
Wow, he chuckled, checking everything
quickly, and almost fainted, because there were weapon options, tool options,
pet options—and everything was open to him. He had administrative access to...everything.
Phoebe had granted him God Mode, and
everything was accessible, right here, right now, by merely touching his
shoulder. Oh, he would not be getting any sleep tonight. No way, because
tonight would all be about geeking out, and Ron was the quintessential nerd,
and it was wonderful, everything was wonderful.
© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Seventeen: Enter the Red Door
If you like Rood Der, try
Vestigial Surreality online free:
© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
Douglas Christian Larsen FREE Short Fiction
Read FREE Sample Chapters of the Douglas Christian Larsen Novel:
Read FREE Sample Chapters of the Rodolphus Novels:
DCLWolf Links:
related terms, ideas, works:
ancestor simulation, digital ark, salvation of humanity,
vestigial surreality, manda project, rocket to saturn,
the singularity, the butterfly effect, simulated reality, matrix,
virtual reality, otherland, the matrix, 1q84, haruki murakami,
hard-boiled wonderland and the end of the world, dreaming,
the dream place, waking from a dream, ready player one,
hologram, holodeck, saturn, saturnalia, cycles of time,
simulacron-3, daniel f. galouye, counterfeit world,
tad williams, science fantasy, science fiction,
Victor Frankenstein, Nikola Tesla, genius
do we live in a computer simulation?
mystery, thriller, horror, techno thriller,
signs and wonders, vestigial surreality,
william gibson, neal stephenson, serial,
cyberpunk, dystopian future, apocalypse,
scifi, mmorpg, online video game world,
end times, apocalypse, armageddon,
digital universe, hologram universe,
sunday sci-fi fantasy serial fiction,
virtual reality, augmented reality
the unknown writer blog
are we living in a simulation?
puppets, puppetry, punch & judy
elon musk, Tesla, VR, mmorpg
simulated world, data is data
simulation hypothesis
simulation argument
nick bostrom
No comments:
Post a Comment