Everwild (7 page)

Great tragedies have great consequences. They ripple through the fabric of this world and the next. When the loss is too great for either world to bear, Everlost absorbs the shock, like a cushion between the two.

On a sunny Tuesday—for it seems so many awful things happen on a Tuesday—six astronauts and one schoolteacher attempted to pierce the sky. Instead they touched the stars.

Ask anyone who was alive at the time, and they will still remember where they were the moment they heard that the shuttle
Challenger
blew up just seventy-three seconds after lifting off from Cape Canaveral. The shape of that terrible explosion became burned into human consciousness like the shape of the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima.

The world mourned the lives lost, as well as mourning the loss of an idea, for although space flight had always been, and would always be a dangerous endeavor, there was a certain unspoken faith that human ingenuity, and the grace of God, would keep our ascent to the heavens safe. But the universe is nothing if not balanced. For every
Apollo Thirteen
, there would be a
Challenger
. For every miracle, a tragedy.

But look away now from that fiery forked cloud in the sky, for history cannot be undone. Instead look to the Cape,
where you will see a spacecraft pointed eternally heavenward, preserved in Everlost, in that perfect moment of glorious anticipation. Its countdown is forever frozen at one second before liftoff, for that is the last moment a launch can be aborted. It is the moment that stands on the edge of hope and doom.

Seven valiant souls got where they were going that morning, and while eternity opened its gates to welcome them, Everlost opened its gates to welcome the majestic vessel that took them where all men have gone before.

“What is that, some kind of castle?” asked Johnnie-O, looking across the lagoon to the towering marvel.

Nick forgave him his ignorance. What would have been the point in trying to explain this earlier? It was best to let him see it for himself. “It's a spaceship.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot?”

Nick didn't push the issue; instead he led them both across the narrow causeway to the Cape—a much longer journey than it looked, and as the massive craft loomed before them, Johnnie-O could no longer deny the truth of what it was.

“So it
is
a spaceship!” And then he looked to Nick, both hopefully and doubtfully. “Can we make it go?”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Nick told him. “Anyway, that's not why we're here.” And before Johnnie-O could ask any more questions, Nick said, “What do you know about Zach the Ripper?”

Johnnie-O stopped walking and instantly began to sink, but he didn't seem to care. “You're crazy! You're crazier than Mary and the McGill put together!”

“You're probably right.”

“If Zach the Ripper is here, then this is the one place in Everlost I
don't
want to be!”

“So go back,” Nick told him simply, and kept moving forward. Johnnie-O pulled his feet out of the ground and followed, grumbling all the way.

Like any other Everlost legend, Nick knew there was no telling how much, if anything, about Zach the Ripper was true, but he knew that dealing with a ripper was dangerous business. Isaiah wasn't the first one to speak of Zach the Ripper's ability to inflict permanent damage on an Afterlight. If you were decapitated by Zach the Ripper, you stayed decapitated, and you'd be stuck having to carry your head around in a backpack, or under your arm, or dangling from the end of your hand by your hair. Whether or not you'd feel the pain of it was unknown—for although Afterlights weren't supposed to feel physical pain, all bets were off when it came to an ecto-ripper.

For this reason, Nick was terrified as he approached the great spacecraft, but he didn't show his fear to Johnnie-O. Johnnie-O was scared enough already. Somewhere in the distance, a stray dog in the living world began to bark, but they both ignored it.

“Look at that thing!” Johnnie-O said, staring at the massive craft. “It's just standing there in midair!”

The orbiter and its rocket assembly were indeed floating about a hundred and fifty feet in the air. Nick knew there had once been a launchpad beneath it, but the shuttle launchpad was on tractor treads, and had long since been rolled away.

“It's resting on the memory of a launchpad,” Nick told him.

“Wonder what Mary would have to say about that.”

Nick put on his best Mary voice. “
In all things postmortem, the stubbornness of memory outweighs the so-called laws of physics. Best to report any antigravitational sightings to an authority.”

Johnnie-O stared at him. “You're scary.”

A closer inspection of the suspended spacecraft revealed that there was a rickety scaffold right beside it, just a few feet wide, and randomly pieced together. It looked more like a vertical beaver dam, stretching up to the engines, and clinging to the craft itself, all the way up to the orbiter's hatch. There was also something else on the huge deadspot beneath the suspended craft. Something that shouldn't be there at all.

“That's … a dog… .” said Nick.

“Well, I can see that.”

But Johnnie-O didn't quite get it. The dog had been barking nonstop for the past few minutes. Nick was used to tuning out barking dogs, just like most other sounds of the living world. But this dog wasn't part of that world. It was here in Everlost. It was barking at
them
.

The dog was some kind of unholy mismatched genetic mutt. Something like Rottweiler, crossed with Pomeranian. It was both huge and annoying at the same time.

“Wait a second!” said Johnnie-O, one beat behind. “That dog's in Everlost!”

The Pomerrott mutt was chained to a spike in the middle of the deadspot. Which meant someone had to put it there. Johnnie-O still couldn't wrap his mind around it. “But … but,
there
are
no dogs here. You know what they say,
‘All dogs go to heaven,'
right? Right?”

“Not this one. Maybe dog heaven took one look at it and sent it back.”

Just then another sound cut between the Pomerrott's barks. It sounded like a loud snapping twig. Nick realized it was a gunshot the same instant the bullet caught him in the eye. It spun him around and knocked him to the ground. Chocolate splattered the underbrush and the Pomerrott barked like there was no tomorrow.

Johnnie-O screamed and ducked for cover. So much for him being a bodyguard. Not that Nick needed protection from bullets. He pushed himself up on all fours, blinked a few times, and the painless “wound” healed itself closed. In a few moments, his eye returned to normal. He had been caught off guard, that's all—in Everlost, a sniper is little more than a nuisance. Still there's nothing fun about being shot in the eye. He looked at the chocolate splattered around him, and wondered whether it had just splattered off of his face or come from inside when the bullet hit him? Were his insides turning to chocolate as well? He tried not to think about it, because thinking about it too much would make it so.

Johnnie-O, quickly remembering his own relative invulnerability, stood up and looked toward the spacecraft looming before them. “Whoever it is, he's going down!”

Nick stood up, hearing the crack of a second shot. This one caught him square in the chest, but since he was ready, he didn't let it throw him off balance. This time he could hear where the shot had come from. Up high. There was a rifle barrel poking out of the ship's hatch, taking aim for
a third shot. Nick waited until the fabric of his tie healed closed before he spoke.

“If you're going to shoot at me,” Nick shouted, “at least have the guts to come out where I can see you!”

No response but the barking of the dog. Nick strode forward with Johnnie-O right behind, clenching his fists, ready to pound their assailant into pork and beans. A third shot rang out, but missed both of them. Clearly the shooter was losing focus—maybe getting worried that they might reach the scaffold and climb up—which is exactly what Nick planned to do.

Finally a voice called down to them—the voice of a kid—their age, maybe younger.

“Get outta here! Go on! Nobody wants you here!”

“Nobody?” said Nick. “You mean you're not alone?”

“They's a whole buncha us up here. Yeah! A dozen at least. So go on, get lost a'fore we come down and make ya sorry y'got yerselfs kilt in the first place!”

“Prove it,” said Nick. “If it's more than just you, let's hear from one of the others.”

The kid was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don't gotta prove nuthin'! I gots the gun and you don't!”

He shot again, and the bullet caught Johnnie-O in the shoulder. Quickly, Johnnie-O reached in and pulled out the bullet before the wound zipped closed, then, holding the bullet between his fingers, yelled up at the unseen sniper. “When I get up there, I'm gonna make you eat this!”

“Yeah? Well I'm gonna make Kudzu eat
you
! Go on, Kudzu. Eat 'em up an' spit their chewed-up pieces down there where the sun don't shine 'cept on Sunday.”

The second they reached the deadspot beneath the hanging ship, however, the wild Pomerrott pooch whimpered and retreated as far as its chain would allow. So much for Kudzu. Nick grabbed the scaffold and shook it. It rattled like it might fall apart at any second. The thing was made mostly of chair legs, bicycle tires, and balcony railings— basically anything this kid could tie together with bits of string.

“We'll climb up the left side,” Nick said. “He won't be able to get a good angle on us that way. Climbing was rough at first, but they quickly got the hang of it. As they passed the orbiter's massive engines, the kid tried to shoot again, but his bullet ricocheted off a rusty bed frame in the scaffold's infrastructure. The bullet's shell casing dropped from above, bouncing off of Johnnie-O's head. “I've never seen bullets come through into Everlost,” Johnnie-O said. “At least not on their own. Do you suppose they were ripped?”

Nick decided to keep his opinion to himself—although he was pretty sure that they had found Zach the Ripper.

One more missed shot, and the ripper closed the hatch, shutting himself in. Nick and Johnnie-O continued to climb, trying not to look down.

“If we fall, we'll just land on the deadspot. We'll be okay,” said Nick.

“Yeah … unless we miss.”

“Maybe we can land on Kudzu,” suggested Nick, since the dog had begun barking again.

As they neared the top, the scaffold became thinner and harder to climb, until they finally reached the closed cockpit door. The Ripper showed no signs of coming out.

“We'll force our way in!” said Johnnie-O.

“No. It's an airtight hatch—there's no way to get in from the outside.”

“So what are we gonna do?” grunted Johnnie-O. “Just let him sit in there? He'll never come out.”

Nick looked up toward the orbiter's viewport, but it was out of view. There was no window on the shuttle that could give the Ripper a view of them.

“Ever watch a turtle that has pulled into its shell?” Nick asked Johnnie-O. “How do you get it to come out again?”

Johnnie-O considered it, and understood what Nick was suggesting. The question was how long could the two of them wait right outside that door? How long could they quietly cling to the scaffold?

While Afterlights tended to develop an unnatural patience for the passage of time, it usually accompanied some pleasurable activity. It could be something as simple as jumping rope, or as complex as a chess marathon; it all depended on the person. However, sitting in absolute silence on the top of a scrap-metal scaffold was enough to drive even the most patient Afterlight stir-crazy. Johnnie-O would occasionally open his mouth to ask a question, or just to complain, but Nick always shushed him before the words were spoken. Eventually Kudzu either forgot they were there, or had decided they were a part of the scaffold. Either way, he finally stopped barking.

The sun set. The sun rose. The sun slowly crossed the sky, and by noon the next day, the rifle-toting turtle had not come out of his shell. Nick lost none of his resolve, but Johnnie-O was beginning to suspect that the Ripper had
either found a coin and evaporated into the next world, or he had decided he was never coming out of his spaceship again.

Then, late in the afternoon, they heard the clunk of metal on metal, and the small, circular hatch began to open. It only opened an inch—just enough for the Ripper to peer out—but an inch was all they needed. Nick wedged his fingers in the opening.

“Grab it! Hurry!”

The Ripper tried to pull the door closed, but Nick's fingers blocked the way. Johnnie-O gripped the edge of the door and pulled with all his might. The hatch swung wide, and they both dove in, tackling the Ripper, who wouldn't stop cursing.

The shuttle's flight deck was cramped, and filled with hard metallic surfaces. It was all very disorienting in vertical liftoff position, with chairs bolted to the “wall” instead of the floor. Dim light spilled in from the darkly tinted viewport, directly overhead, like a skylight.

“Get out!” screamed the Ripper, “This here is my place! MINE!” He struggled with them, but when he saw the size of Johnnie-O's hands, his eyes went wide, and he scrambled away. In that cramped space, however, there wasn't far he could go.

“We're not going to hurt you!” Nick told him.

“Speak for yourself!” said Johnnie-O, trying to reach around a chair for the Ripper, who continued to shift out of reach.

While Johnnie-O and the Ripper played their little cat and mouse, Nick took a moment to gauge the situation. The
Ripper seemed about thirteen. He wore a gray Confederate Army uniform, complete with that odd little hat. There were weapons strewn around the flight deck that the Ripper kept reaching for, but Johnnie-O kept kicking them out of reach. None of those weapons were Civil War issue. There were very modern, very efficient automatic rifles, pistols, and even a submachine gun, along with countless bullets and loaded magazines. This kid may have died during the Civil War, but now he had an entire arsenal of modern military ordinance.