THROUGH THE SLIP

Chad A. Clark

 

 

I am lost.

Between the worlds.

Neither in the place from which I started or that where I thought I was going. All my stupid dreams and everything I hoped I would accomplish means nothing in the vast expanse of this darkness through which I float. I don't even know if it's my voice I'm hearing or if this is merely a few moments of hallucination before my matter is spread throughout the cosmos. All I know is I ended up in that place, in her place, by my own poor judgment, mistakes I can no longer correct.

But mistakes I can perhaps rectify.

If I can somehow find my way back, forge a path through to my original departure point, maybe this can all be prevented. She has begun her journey and her mind is set on our destruction. I'm the only one who knows what it is that’s about to happen, the only one who can warn them of what I have brought about. Nothing has ever been this vital, this essential. I have to get back and warn them and give them as much time as possible to prepare.

The child is coming.

 

"Please, Dr. Reynolds. It's been so long since I've heard from him. You're the only one who can help me at this point."

"I don't understand what you think I'm going to be able to do. He hasn't tried to contact me either."

"I just have the worst feeling that something happened... He's always been a recluse but with him losing his job on top of everything... there's no one looking out for him and you were always fair with him."

Reynolds winced as the thunder cracked again outside, lightning filling the room. For most of his life, a sob story from a pretty face was about all he ever needed to get himself into the worst situations. And despite his better judgment, he agreed to help. Still, it had clearly been a mistake to come here tonight. He could have just as easily held off until morning or even a few more days. It wasn't like the apartment was going anywhere.

Looking at the pathetic excuse for a home, it was hard to imagine this being the residence for a once renowned physicist. How could Bronson have gotten any kind of work done in here? Reynolds was used to the calming sterility of the lab, the reassurance he felt knowing that he was surrounded by the most current and capable technology. This dump was a nightmare. Something scurried behind one of the walls, so paper-thin that he could only hope that the sound was coming from the next apartment over and not from within the walls themselves.

Calling them apartments was pretty much a joke as well. Bronson's home consisted of one room with a small closet attached to it. There was no kitchen to speak of but Reynolds did spot an electric burner in the corner. Bronson at least had the sense to leave it unplugged but even from where he stood, Reynolds could see the physical damage to the cord, fraying in a way that almost dared you to plug it in. All around it were cans of generic brand ravioli and condensed soups. The metal lids were jagged around the edges and half ripped off of the can, as if Bronson had simply punctured the tops with a screwdriver and pulled them open.

The air smelled foul. There was a shared common bathroom at the end of the hall but it smelled like Bronson couldn't be bothered to go even that far. Either the work had become too important for him to walk away for three minutes or he had gotten so paranoid he thought people were waiting to kill him out there.

Reynolds was the only one from the original group who had remained in touch with Bronson after he had been kicked out of the University. Standing here in the filth of this apartment made him wish that he hadn't bothered. Still, Bronson's daughter made him promise to help and he kept his promises. He would keep on going until he found his former colleague in hiding somewhere, or discovered that he was cooling down on a slab in the local morgue.

The floor was littered with battered notebooks and from the few that had fallen open, he could see tiny, frantic scribbling. He would have guessed that Bronson had managed to record three to four times what most people would be able to fit into one notebook. Most of it had been scratched over, either because Bronson was trying to protect himself after the fact, or was just rejecting his own ideas in real time. It stood as a sad testament to an avenue of insane theories, most of which Reynolds wasn't even aware of.

Still, if there was any way to figure out where Bronson was, his "research" was the best and only place to work from.

Notebook after notebook yielded nothing, save for sporadic bursts of written stream of consciousness followed by pages and pages of cryptic mathematical formulas. Reynolds recognized none of it. He wanted to believe that this was some kind of higher order work, sign of Bronson's dormant genius but it looked like nothing he had ever seen before in any academic texts. It was almost like Bronson had been trying to express something with the numbers themselves, secreting a message to whoever happened to come across it.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of opening notebooks and tossing them aside, he found some text that he could understand. It was on the very last page and Reynolds took note of the fact that Bronson had, upon reaching the edge of the page, simply kept writing over onto the cardboard cover of the notebook. The words he had written were simply stated but also impossible to understand.

 

The child will be our end.

The child will be our end.

Someone must stop

 

Following this, the page was almost entirely blank, save for one last sentence scribbled on the bottom.

 

We must stop her.

 

Reynolds let the notebook drop to the floor and looked around the room. Other than empty bottles and crumpled up fast food wrappers there was little else to find in here but as he turned to leave, he caught a reflection off of something metallic by the window. Moving closer, he saw a key hanging on a thin nail, hugged up so close to the window frame that he hadn't noticed it at first. The key-fob had the logo for a storage company along with a unit number. Reynolds shoved it into his pocket and did another orbit of the room, looking for anything that he might have missed.

Moving towards the door, he kicked an empty box out of his way and noticed a single piece of paper inside. He bent down to pick it up and turned it over to reveal a hand-drawn picture. It was the kind of thing he would have expected to see in a grade school art room but there was a part of him that knew conclusively that Bronson had been the one to draw this. There was a crudely drawn line of skyscrapers, standing before a street filled with cars. The picture was covered with what he had initially seen as tiny red dots. Holding the paper up closer, he realized what was being depicted.

They were all tiny sets of eyes, glaring up at him from the picture.

 

"What is going on with you?"

Bronson turned back to face him, one foot already halfway out the door with the supplies tucked under his arm. He looked like he had no interest in staying around to talk but he paused long enough for Reynolds to catch up.

"You heard me, what is going on? I haven't seen you for over a week and out of the blue you show up to take some syringes and flash drives?"

It was only at that moment that Reynolds noticed the smell coming off of Bronson. He had always known the man to be obsessed in his work but he looked like he hadn't showered in weeks. He had shaved, but his skin was littered with spots of beard he had missed as well as dried snippets of toilet paper from all the places he had cut himself. There was an underlying funk to him, the smell from clothes that had gone too long without being cleaned and as he looked closer at the items which Bronson was now clutching to his chest, he realized that the man's hands were trembling.

"Christ, are you all right? Seriously, are you—“

"Look I didn't think any of this stuff mattered," Bronson snapped at him. "It isn't like I've got anything expensive here, the University practically gives this crap away."

"Bronson..." Reynolds paused, and for the briefest moment thought that his friend was about to hit him. "I don't care about any of that. Take whatever you want. This has always been your lab, regardless of what the big-wigs say. I just want to make sure you're okay. Your phone keeps going straight to voice-mail, I don't hear from you or see you. What's going on, what are you into?"

The blank stare from Bronson wavered, as if he was contemplating an answer but in the end he just shook his head. "I can't explain it right now. I'll get back to you when I can, that's all I can say."

"Bronson, wait!"

The door slamming shut behind him was the only response he was given as Bronson rushed out into the night, mixing in with the foot traffic as he hurried off towards whatever project he was immersed in but could not talk about. Thunder rumbled overhead and Reynolds frowned, thinking that the forecast had been for clear skies.

He never saw Bronson again after that night.

 

The rain was torrential as Reynolds stepped through the front door of Bronson's building and paused under the pathetically sized awning. He was tempted to stand around for a few minutes and wait out the worst of the rain but decided that it would be better to get wet than face what might be lurking around in one of the nearby alleys. The interior of Bronson's apartment wasn't just some kind of ironic call for a spartan lifestyle. This was actually one of the worst neighborhoods in the city and Reynolds just wanted to get out of there.

He had just gotten a taxi to come screeching to a halt when he caught glimpse of a person watching him from the other side of the street. He couldn't explain why he thought he was being watched but as soon as he locked eyes, the person spun around and took off down the alley. There was no way to make out anything other than the small, frail outline and a ragged, hooded sweatshirt.

From his right, he heard the impatient honk from the cabbie and he took a step towards the car. As he did so, his train of thought stuttered again and he looked down the alley. The horn bleated again and this time he caught the glare from the driver in the rear view mirror. Reynolds simply shook his head and waved the car off. As it peeled off in an irritated acceleration away from the curb, Reynolds checked traffic as he jogged across the street, moving down the alley in pursuit of the stranger. Some whispered regions of his subconscious told him that he needed to catch up with whoever this was.

All sense and reason told him that there was no way he would ever be able to catch up but as soon as he got to the other end of the alley, he spotted the red sweatshirt ducking down behind some newspaper machines. Reynolds flicked the collar of his jacket up over his neck as he made his way over, catching a snippet from a television in one of the bars he passed.

...atmospheric disturbances around the globe have been seen in a spike in violent thunderstorms, resulting in damages...

Reynolds reached the vending machines and put a hand out to steady himself as he rounded over to the other side. No one was there but he noticed the front door of the building before him closing shut, a dark silhouette making its way up the stairs inside.

"Hey!" Reynolds called out, not even sure if the person in there was the one he had been chasing. He pulled the door open and stepped up onto the stairs. His feet almost slipped out from underneath him from the water and oily grime on the floor and he grabbed the railing to stay upright. The wood groaned and cracked as it bore his weight but he managed to keep from falling as he began making his way up to the second floor. Stepping out into the hallway, he stopped short at the sight of the person, now standing at the other end and staring back at him. Lightning struck outside, immediately illuminating the hallway in bright contrasts around the solitary figure.

"Who are you?" Reynolds asked and it was only at that moment that he realized how absurd this whole endeavor had been. He had no idea who this kid was or if he had even been watching him. He was jumping at shadows, overreacting and now this awkwardness was the price he paid. Maybe if he was lucky, the kid's father would show up and beat the holy hell out of Reynolds for bothering his son.

No one appeared though and the kid remained standing there, not offering any statement or explanation.

"Hello? Were you watching me down there on the—"

"Why were you in his apartment?"

Reynolds started at the sound of the voice, clearly female.

"Who? Bronson? Do you know him?"

"Why were you in his apartment? Who are you?"

"I'm a friend, do you know where he is? Have you seen him?"

The girl finally stepped forward into the light and pulled the hood away from her face. She looked him up and down, as if trying to decide if he was trustworthy. Finally she turned towards one of the apartment doors.

"Come on," she said. "We need to get out of the hall."

"Who are you?" Reynolds asked as the door shut behind them. The apartment was bare, with hardly any sign that anyone lived here. "What is this place?" he asked as he looked around.

"Most the building is abandoned anymore," the girl answered as she stared up at him. "How did you—"

"Who are you?" Reynolds asked again. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to cut you off but I've met Bronson's daughter so who are you?"

The girl shrugged. "Friends call me Bug, I guess."

Reynolds shook his head, wondering how the evening managed to get a little more bizarre with each passing moment. "Okay. Bug? How do you know Bronson?"

The shrug again. "I'm from around the neighborhood. I'd get stuff for him when he needed it."

"Stuff?"

"Last few months. When he started staying up there in that gross apartment. Most of the time, he'd just pay me to bring him food or clothes but the last few times I saw him, things got kind of weird."

"Weird, how?"

"The place always smelled nasty. I don't know what he was trying to cook in there but something was wrong with him. I don't think he was sleeping and he was always acting crazy." She paused and went to the window, peering out at the street below as if afraid that someone was listening in or watching them. "All he would do is sit there on the floor and write in those notebooks. And I'm pretty sure he was sneaking away late at night to go somewhere."

Reynolds nodded, looking around the place as the thunder started to get louder. He was tempted to turn on the lights but Bug was clearly the paranoid type and he guessed they likely wouldn't work regardless. He didn't know what he was expecting to find, coming up here. Every step he took closer to understanding Bronson's life just sent him further down a spiraling descent into depression. It was painful to see someone he respected and cared for becoming this kind of a person, a slave to his obsessions.

"I'm sorry to take up your time," he said, turning towards the door. "I'm assuming you haven't seen him?"

"No. And he still owes me like a hundred bucks if you track him down."

There were no answers to be found here, in reality there were likely no answers anywhere. All he was doing was chasing down possibilities and half-truths. He reached for the door handle when he felt the slight bulge in his pocket, the key from the storage garage. Taking it out, he showed Bug the key-fob.

"Do you know this place?" He might as well see this through to the end. At least, if nothing else, he would be able to look Bronson's daughter in the eye and truthfully say that he tried.

She nodded.

"Can you take me there?"

Bug looked doubtful and shifted her gaze to the floor until Reynolds picked up on the suggestion. He took out his wallet and held up five twenty dollar bills. "You get it after you take me there."

The light seemed to return to her eyes as she nodded. "Okay. fine, let's go."

Back down on the street, the rain seemed to have gotten more intense as lightning forked above them, creating a sporadic jig-saw puzzle through the clouds. As he jogged to keep up with her, he cursed himself for leaving his umbrella behind at the lab. Someone lying down under one of the awnings they passed stuck a foot out, nearly tripping him in the process, but he managed to stay upright as he tried to keep up.

After ten minutes, they ducked down an alley and cut over several blocks. While making their way, he heard the sound of glass breaking and shouting from somewhere up above. Fluid streamed down behind, carrying with it the foul stench of rot that seemed to underlie everything in this part of the city. Reynolds slipped several times on the pavement that was coated with either food waste or something else he didn't want to identify.

Just as he was about to ask how much farther they had, Bug ducked around the corner and to the left. As he followed, she stopped short at the sight of a dozen large garage doors, sweeping away from them on the side of a giant metal warehouse.

He noticed her hand held out for the cash.

"How am I supposed to get in there?"

"That's not my problem and that isn't what we agreed to."

She did have a point. He produced the money and placed it in her hand. She turned to leave and then paused, turning back to speak again.

"I hope you find him. Towards the end, he got kind of scary, you know? Like he might do something to himself? Anyway, I just hope you can help him out."

"Thank you," Reynolds called out after her. The only acknowledgment he got was a head turned back in his direction and a slight nod.

The door to unit number four towered up over him as thunder crashed over it all. As the rain blew in, he again considered calling the whole thing off and getting a cab but he ignored it. He was here, there was no point in dragging this out. Maybe getting into the garage and out of the rain would motivate him into figuring this out.

The padlock on the door flashed at him in time with the lightning as he looked around for anything he could use to pry it open. Chances were slim that there would be anyone out here who would care enough to pay attention to what he was doing. This entire part of town was of the "see nothing" variety. Reynolds caught sight of something in the ground by the curb and ran over to find a long piece of rebar. He gripped it tightly as he made his way back to the door, slipping it through the opening in the padlock.

Bronson might have been paranoid and protective of his work but he clearly hadn't thought to spend much money on keeping it secure. The lock popped open after only a few pulls. It skittered across the ground as the two pieces flew off in different directions and Reynolds stepped inside.

It took less than a minute for him to regret his decision to come here at all.

The garage was large, about thirty feet square, and the scene before him came through in flashes with the lightning, like watching still images popping before him. The floor and walls were streaked with some kind of dark, tarry substance that, after a minute or two he realized was blood. Surgical equipment was scattered all over the floor and in the very center was a stark looking operating bed. The sheets looked like they had once been white but had long since given in to whatever bodily matter had stained it. Wind gusted in and caught the ends of frayed straps, blowing them back and forth under the bed. What the hell had Bronson been doing in here?

Reynolds spotted another notebook on a workbench along the far wall. The last thing he wanted to do was venture farther into the place but now he had to know what was going on. Picking it up and leafing through, he found much of what was back at Bronson's apartment. More scribbled words that he could barely make sense of. Then, near the last page, he finally found something he could read:

 

Got my first glimpse through to the far side. The blood was the key, what I needed to cross over. I can't say what I had to do to get it but coating myself was the missing component that let me get through the rip in one piece. I saw clearly and I saw through. Everyone told me I was crazy but there are armies over there, preparing to invade. If we don't find out a way to stop her, it will all be over for us. This is a species that does one thing, invades and destroys civilizations. I think they saw me before I could make the jump back but I don't think I left enough of a rift for them to follow. Still, it is more important than ever to be prepared.

The child is coming.

 

Lightning flashed, so brightly that Reynolds squeezed his eyes shut from the pain, his cry drowned out by the immediate crash of thunder that followed. The walls around him shook violently as he tried to re-orient himself. He had gone down to one knee without even realizing it. His hand was planted in the middle of a pool of some kind of dark fluid and he jerked it back, barely keeping from toppling over as he wiped his hand off on his pants. Lights flickered in the nearby buildings as if a power outage was imminent. Reynolds turned to pull the garage door shut, his grip slipping and coming loose as he cried out and fell backwards.

Bronson was standing in the middle of the garage.

But that wasn't quite right. It was more like he was suspended, held up off the floor by unseen bonds. Blood trickled down from one partially exposed eye and there was no sign of consciousness or life from him.

And he wasn't alone.

Other bodies hung suspended from the ceiling along with him, in various states of decay and abuse. They swayed against each other in the wind, mouths gaped open in one last, inaudible cry. Reynolds scrambled back away from the garage, squeezing his eyes shut from another crack of thunder and when he looked again, the garage was empty.

To hell with it. He wasn't even going to bother with closing the garage. It wasn't like there was anything in there worth stealing anyway. Reynolds clutched the notebook to his chest and began sprinting down the street. The rain streaked down his face but he no longer cared. Part of him wanted to wash off the essential offense of what he had just seen in that garage. Somehow those five minutes had managed to completely convey to him the extent to which Bronson had lost his once brilliant mind to the raging fires of madness.

Reynolds continued to run, ignoring the shouts he now heard from people he shoved past on the way back to the only bus shelter he had seen on his way in. After pissing off one cab driver already, he didn't want to take his chances with another. Taking a seat on the bench, he looked down at the notebook he had held on to for some reason, seeing that his hands were shaking. Closing his eyes, he let himself relax back and with a conscious effort, managed to slow his breathing. A woman wrapped up in a ragged trench coat was sitting on the ground under the shelter, next to a shopping cart where a small radio was playing a static-laced news alert.

"The national weather service has issued a record number of thunderstorm and tornado warnings across the greater United States this evening. Violent storms and straight-line winds have struck major metropolitan cities on the east coast and already, over thirty casualties nationwide have been reported. The weather service has denied claims that these storms are all part of a larger, unified cell. They state simply that increasingly severe events like this are to be expected now that the average mean—“

Reynolds shook his head, trying to block it out. The last thing he needed was the doom and gloom of apocalyptic weather reports. After several drawn out moments of focusing on his breathing, he realized that the sound from the radio had cut out. Either it had lost its signal or the batteries had died.

The air around him smelled like something was burning. Reynolds stood up and looked out through the tinted Plexiglas barrier of the bus stop. There was no sign of a fire that likely would have sent people scattering out into the streets. The nightlife moved around him as if nothing was out of order. Even the storm raging around them didn't seem to make anyone look up to take notice.

He had bent down to sit again when the sound of an explosion from the next street over made him stumble against the side of the shelter. Bracing himself, he looked up and saw that finally, the people around him seemed to be shaken out of their routines, staring slack jawed in the direction of the blast. Lightning forked down out of the sky in four distinct strikes, all down into the street where he had heard the explosion. No longer giving it rational thought, Reynolds began to run down the alley to see if there was anyone hurt who might need help.

As he passed, a heavy red metal door swung open and a small, dark figure stepped out, grabbing him by the arm.

"Hey!" he called out as he skidded to a stop. "What the hell are—"

"Shhh!" the voice hissed out at him as it hunched over, pulling him through the door and into the darkened hallway within. Reynolds resisted, sure that this was going to end with him dead inside this building but all his struggles ceased when he saw the face of the person who had grabbed him.

"Bronson?" he said, incredulously.

"Shhh!" Bronson hissed at him again. "Shut up, keep your voice down!"

"What the hell is going on? Where have you been?"

"Shut up, I don't know how long I have before I get pulled back over. You have to stop them before it's too late. The crossover is already happening. They're coming!"

"I don't understand what that means, what—"

"When I jumped back into our world, I left too much of a residual tear. I never should have gone over in the first place but it's too late. They're coming here and they're going to destroy everything!"

Reynolds took a step back and looked his friend up and down. "How far around the bend have you gone? Do you have any idea how insane you sound right now?"

"I don't care. You need to stop her. She is the key; you can't let her take full form in this world or everything will die. Do you understand me? Not just people. Everything."

"Bronson, I don't know what you think I could even—"

"She'll send her soldiers before her," Bronson said and against all reason, his entire body flickered. It was the best way Reynolds could think of to describe it. It was like looking at a digital image flashing on and off on a screen. "Don't let her—" he blinked out and in again, "You have to get the word out to the—" Before he could say anything else, he blinked out of existence, as if he had never been there in the first place. The sound of static filled his ears and through the sudden burst of sound, he could just make out Bronson's voice. ”...my fault! I'm sorry... my fault you have to fix..." That was all he heard before the static dissipated and he heard no more from his friend.

From the alley outside he heard what sounded like screams. And people running.

Reynolds ran to the door and stepped out into the alley. The night looked like it had switched to day, it was so bright. He heard explosive blasts as if the city itself was under attack. There was no way to see anything from the alley so Reynolds stepped up onto the fire escape stairway, running up the four flights until he was on the roof, looking out over the streets below.

Lightning forked down all around, lancing from the sky to the ground without end. Heat seared out at him through the air from the repeated blasts and he heard concrete and earth being turned up with each concussive impact. There was the sound of cars crashing into each other, accompanied by horns and people screaming. Reynolds leaned down on the concrete ledge, mouth hanging open at the scene before him and it was the span of that moment when he decided that maybe Bronson wasn't so crazy after all.

The roof of the building was now vibrating as a new sound began to mingle with that of the storm. It sounded like a wild animal, or animals, screeching a howl that ripped through the wind and made his skin stand up. Dark shapes moved through the streets now, sounds like metal scraping on metal and still the lightning continued to wage war on all of them. He heard something heavy and rhythmic, a sound he was only used to hearing in war documentaries.

It sounded like soldiers marching.

He needed to get away, needed to be somewhere else at that moment and a nearly submerged part of his mind cried out that it was already probably too late.

Thunder rolled overhead and he looked up to see the clouds flashing with different colors as the forks of lightning had taken on a bright red color. The bolts cut through the night as if rending holes in the fabric of existence itself. The sound was like cheap cloth being torn into thin strips. Reynolds shivered and pulled his useless coat tighter around himself, out of habit. He could see water starting to fountain up out of the sewers, now unable to keep up with the onslaught from the rain. Somehow Bronson had opened a door that should have stayed shut. His ideas weren't crazy, just his determination to pursue them. Now it looked as if they all would be the ones to pay.

His breath started to come in quick gasps as he felt a panic attack coming on. Black smoke crept out from underneath the cars on the street, blooming up into the air to take the world into its embrace. From below, he felt the earth shaking in time again with what sounded like footfalls of what he still couldn't help but visualize as a massive army, marching down on them. The lightning forked from the clouds above to the newly forming clouds below and the only conscious thought he could form was that he wanted it all to be over.

Then, his mind was filled with the sound of a voice, not his own. The voice spoke to him with a reasoning tone, as if trying to calm him for what was about to happen. He heard the voice in his head and with a start, realized that he was also hearing it coming from the speaker of the phone in his pocket. He heard it coming from the stereos in the cars below and part of him somehow knew that likely everywhere in the world at that moment, anything with the ability to broadcast sound was all speaking with one voice, saying the same thing.

The Child, she has risen.