It was late in the fall. The fireworks of color that were the autumnal forest had finished their show. The trees were now bare, and the air crisp. Snow hadn’t taken to the ground yet, but Martin would occasionally feel tiny swarms of cold crystals against his cheek. The shell of the machine was complete. When the winter did come, which it would, they’d be sheltered. It would be cold, but they could work.
It was warm on the evening Darla dropped them off at Impossible Island and set out on a mission to find blowtorches. When she left, she was her chatty self, and if asked, Martin wouldn’t have been able to recall what she had said. It was probably no different from any other evening.
The big project of the night involved attaching the interior door. There were two doors in the machine. There was the exterior one, which was constructed from sturdy sheets of steel sandwiched into multiple layers and bolted together to keep the weather out. There was also the interior one, which went next to the control panel and divided the machine into two chambers. In the original version of the machine, the interior door was only three feet high and a couple of feet wide, but it was an essential piece. Martin’s father had always said it opened the machine’s heart. For the supersized edition, they were going with a massive fifteen-foot-tall slab of glass that had served as the entrance to the park’s cafeteria.
“Not sure why you sent the fattest one,” Chet joked as he climbed onto the roof of the cafeteria and got down on his hands and knees so he could remove the last set of screws that held the hinges near the top of the door. Dangling a few feet above him was an oval gondola that was part of the Skyway, the park’s cable-supported transportation system. Twenty feet below him were Lane and Martin, holding the door steady.
“It’s almost out,” Chet announced, one hand on top of the door, the other manning a screwdriver. “Careful now.”
As the door came off the top hinge, Martin could feel its immense weight pressing against him. His shoulder began to ache, and he figured that Lane needed to get in a better position so she could bear more of the weight. “Don’t let it go yet,” he told Chet. “We’re not ready.”
Martin motioned with his head for Lane to move around to the other side. She nodded and let the door go.
The moment her fingers released the glass, it became apparent that Lane had been holding up more than her share. The door began to tip. Its bottom began to slide along the gravelly ground and emit the awful shriek that comes from scratching glass.
“Mutha!” Chet bellowed. He lost his grip. The door was sure to fall on Martin. Chet dove forward, snagging the corner just in time and leaving the front half of his body hanging precariously over the edge. He reached his free hand up and grabbed a rail that ran along the bottom of the gondola. The gondola tipped. Its door flew open. From inside, a nasty snarl escaped.
A raccoon jumped out from the gondola and down onto Chet’s back.
“Get it off me! Get it off me!” Chet screamed, letting go of the door and swatting at the raccoon. The raccoon hissed and swatted back. Its fangs were drawn and its head was cocked, ready to strike.
Martin couldn’t hold the entire weight of the door and jumped away. The glass struck the ground, let out a monumental boom, and shattered into hundreds of sharp little cubes.
The sound stole the raccoon’s attention for a moment. It was enough time for Chet to deliver the decisive blow, knocking the animal with his elbow down into the pile of glass. The momentum from the melee might have sent Chet down into the glass too, but his grip on the gondola was firm, even as the cable that held it dipped, then sprang back, causing the gondola to jump away from the roof.
The raccoon, its fur now decorated with bits of glass, locked eyes with Lane. She didn’t hesitate. Lane lunged at the creature—fingers poised, chest unleashing a primal scream. The raccoon did the smart thing. It scurried into the darkness.
Chet, on the other hand, remained where he was, hanging from the gondola, twenty feet off the ground. “Sonuva …,” he panted as he got both hands on the rail and rocked back and forth in the air.
“Holy cow, are you okay?” Lane asked.
“I … think … so,” Chet said between breaths. “Dirty rascal was going … was going for the throat.”
“He’s gone now,” Martin assured him.
The gondola was swinging like a pendulum, but its arc was gradually getting smaller. Chet looked down over his shoulder and saw the twinkling galaxy of glass that had once been the door.
“Sorry, pals,” he called down. “Didn’t mean to wreck it.”
“It’s okay,” Martin said. “There are plenty of other doors out there.”
“Gonna have to say, did not see that one coming,” Chet said, chuckling.
“You were lucky,” Lane replied. “I guess Henry isn’t so crazy, always out there on coon patrol.”
“Am I too high to jump down?” Chet asked.
“Probably,” Martin said. “Let me get the ladder. It’s over by the Gravitron.”
“No rush,” Chet joked. “Enjoying the view up here.”
Afterward, Martin would play the next moment over in his head countless times. It was a quick succession of events, but he was sure he could have done something differently.
It started when he turned. That was when he heard the creaking sound. He thought nothing of it. He took a few steps away. Next came the snap and the ghostly howl whipping through the air. That was when he turned back. That was when he looked up. The cable had broken.
Instead of trying to break Chet’s fall, Martin went straight for Lane, knocking her from the path of the falling gondola. As his shoulder drove into her, he felt a rush of air behind him. Then he was lying on top of her.
At the same moment, Chet landed on his back, right in the glass. There wasn’t time for him even to blink his eyes, let alone sit up or slide over. Because the gondola landed square on Chet. As it crushed his chest, it forced all the wind from his lungs. “Pffffaaaa …” was the only sound that came out of his mouth. Then there was silence.
“Chet. Chet. Chet,” Lane said softly, her mouth right next to Martin’s ear. It sounded less like she was calling for him than it did like she was trying to calm herself down. Her heart was pounding ferociously; Martin could feel it against his shoulder.
Martin rolled off her and onto his back. He sat bolt upright. Chet’s head was just inches from his feet. His face was turned toward Martin.
“Chet. Chet. Chet.”
Blood was leaking from Chet’s mouth onto the cubes of glass. His eyes were open, and they were blinking. He was still conscious, but he wasn’t saying anything.
As Martin reached forward to touch him, a glob of snowflakes, plump and wet, landed on his hand.