“Elle is it?”
“That’s what my name badge says.” I responded flatly to the man in the red bowler hat on the other side of my plexiglass ticket booth.
He’d been complaining about a cancellation for at least twenty minutes.
“Well Elle, I’d like to speak with your supervisor.”
Great. My favourite line. I prepared my scripted response.
“I’m the only staff member on duty at this time, if you have an issue you can log it with the phone number on the poster.”
I tapped the glass next to the poster detailing how to contact Connected Railways head office. It was one I’d had to demand after one too many incidents with disgruntled passengers angry at delays, cancellations and prices.
I didn’t control that shit, and I was sick of being abused for it.
Red bowler hat inhaled sharply for a prolonged period. His face turned so red it reminded me I had some strawberries in my fridge at home that needed using before they went bad.
As he took in more air, buttons on his shirt began to detach and ping in all different directions. I was suddenly more grateful than usual for the plexiglass as the little plastic pucks bounced off it. I sighed deeply and hit the red security button underneath my desk as I braced for myself for whatever onslaught was to come next.
Then he blew up.
Not blew up as in he ranted and screamed at me like a normal asshole customer in a service based industry. No. Red bowler hat man inhaled so much air he quite literally blew up, spattering blood across the floor of the station entrance, my ticket booth and any other passenger in a ten foot radius - Luckily there was only one, who hastily made their way to the platform.
I looked on in despair as his hat rocked a little upon impact with the floor.
I know I should sound more shocked, frightened even, when I talk about a man exploding before my very eyes. That would be a normal reaction; but incidents like that one were ten a penny at the station and had become more of an annoyance than a source of terror. In my line of work, a man exploding was relatively normal. Not terribly extraordinary, at least.
“What a mess. Is everyone ok?” Atlas arrived, befuddled as he looked at the pile of scattered organs on the floor.
Atlas was the night security guard, one of only two other members of staff in the entire station and my saviour, from both boredom and the unusual passengers. He had long, dark hair that he pulled into a messy bun on top of his head that always made his hat sit strangely.
“I think so. Just need to call Nicky and get things cleaned up. Sorry for summoning you, I thought it was going to be much worse that that, the guy looked angry.”
“Never a bother, Elle. You know that. Nicky’s going to love-“
Atlas was cut off by a loud and nauseating slurping noise as the organs and bits of person started to move together across the concrete floor as if they were suddenly magnetised.
The blood on my booth congealed into droplets that danced down the screen and towards the collecting mass. The explosion hadn’t been entirely out of the ordinary, but this was beginning to pique my interest.
“Good job you called.” Atlas continued, a curious expression on his face as the mass built to a height that towered above us both.
Screaming, naked and covered in a transparent goo, red bowler hat man was reborn and much bigger and angrier than he had been before. He bent over, picked up the bloodied hat and placed it on his head before approaching the booth.
I wasn’t sure on the purpose of the hat. After all, the rest of his clothes remained shredded on the floor. Regardless I found him quite intimidating and almost wavered through my next scripted response.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave Connected Railway’s property.”
Red bowler foamed at the mouth, revealing a set of yellowed teeth and continued squealing into the open air. I cringed a little and tried to look away, watching the unsuspecting, oblivious people in the street behind him and envying their ignorance.
They were only a few feet away and yet to them, the incident wasn’t happening at all. Oh how sweet it must have been to not see the booth, the blood or the naked man screaming in the night. That would’ve been a real treat.
The station I work at is only visible to those who are already aware of its existence, or it would’ve been quite the scene, even at 2am. That’s what I’ve deducted in my time here anyway. I’d walked this street a thousand times before my interview and never once seen a station entrance.
There was no other explanation. My employment, as a normal human that stumbled across the advert by pure dumb luck, was more unusual than anything I’d witnessed from red bowler hat man.
I stayed firm, maintaining eye contact as I watched Atlas creep up behind the creature and hold up a pistol. A security guard with a gun wasn’t a typical sight in England, even in the city, but then nothing about my workplace was typical.
He pulled the trigger releasing a sharp point and injecting a yellow liquid into the man’s neck. I watched as he dropped to the floor, shrinking into the disgruntled passenger he had been prior to the explosion, albeit stark naked.
“Where was he headed Elle?” Atlas asked, grabbing hold of the now comatose creature and struggling with the dead weight as he tossed him over his shoulder, careful to avoid certain regions.
“He was moaning about the cancellation on the village line. Cordyline Hill via Monsoon Valley. I tried explaining that there was one thirty minutes after but he didn’t let me...”
“I’ll take him down to the platform now and page the guys at Monsoon Valley. Village line comes in at 2.22 and reaches MV by 2.46. He should stay like this until then. He’s their problem now.”
“Finish.” I added just as he walked away.
I sighed. I was grateful for Atlas but he could be tone deaf at times and was blind to the irony of cutting me off just like Karen in the red bowler hat had. I leaned back in my chair, kept one eye on the large antique clock on the wall to the left and prepared for the rest of the night to go by uneventfully.
I know it seems strange, to be so positively apathetic. You have to understand how real desensitisation is, the more we consume the easier it gets and bowler hat wasn’t the first and definitely wouldn’t be the last monstrous transformation I’d see.
I can’t explain the things that go on at the station entirely. I have my theories, but I have no way of confirming or denying them.
The only hard facts I have are these; I have never heard of a single station we service, I’m absolutely certain that at least ninety percent of our passengers aren’t of the human variety, regardless of the risk I run of being eaten I’m still paid a pittance like every other booth worker in the country and on any given day I might have to drive home soaked in blood.
So why do I stay? I stay for passengers like the one that followed red bowler hat.
I’m not immune to curiosity. I recognise that I’m shafted by Connected Railway on a regular basis with only a poster and a charming but undeniably human security guard for protection. But that doesn’t change the fact that when you work with things that are out of this world every now and again you come across one that makes it somehow worth it.
The woman in the floor length tweed coat was not your run of the mill, angry, potentially explosive customer. She was much more.
She approached with a small dog in her arms, her coat sweeping across the hard ground where bits of organ had previously been strewn, walking with such dainty steps it was almost as if she were floating.
She wore a scarf that matched the coat and had a face with more wrinkles than necessary to tell a story. I would’ve put her in her nineties at best, although she was perfectly mobile.
“How can I help?” I asked, attempting to put on my best customer service face.
“A single to Meander Place please, no return.”
Meander place wasn’t a destination I was often asked for tickets to, it sat on the barely used Epstar line, which was mostly used by the more intimidating of passengers.
I’d never taken any of the trains myself, despite my curiosity, but I tried to take note of the people I saw and where they were going. There was no other viable way to pass the time.
“That’ll be £29.50 please”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that, I spent the last of my money in that delightful pub across the street, we’re going to have to come up with another method of payment.”
I held in a sigh. The station sat opposite an unusual, traditional looking old pub called the Pickled Gnome, which seemed to be a popular stop for my passengers before their journeys. I often questioned the type of patrons that it served, although I suppose I was in no real position to.
“I’m sorry, we don’t offer payment plans or alternative methods here.”
“You don’t understand, do you?”
The woman made eye contact with me and I felt my head freeze into position, staring back at her. Her eyes were an incredible marbled yellow with flecks of green. Her next words make my skin crawl.
“This is a transaction between you and I, not a faceless company you represent, Elfida.”
My blood ran cold. No one, not my employer nor even the few people I considered friends knew my full name. I managed to break my trance like fixation on the woman to check my badge and just as suspected, it said Elle.
“Who are you?”
“Interesting. You don’t want to know how I know your name, you want to know who I am. You have a habit of asking all the wrong questions don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hah! See, again. Another useless question. I suppose as I know your name it’s only fair you know mine.. Agnes Copper. Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re here?”
She placed the small, scruffy looking dog on the floor and extended a frail, skeletal hand out towards the booth. Hand shaking I pressed the security button hard, eliciting a wry smile from Agnes.
“That’s not going to work Elfida. I’m glad I have you attention though, if that weren’t the case you’d have noticed the clock you’ve been watching for the past few hours stop.”
She was right, the clock had stopped. And I hadn’t noticed. I gulped. I’d dealt with some incredibly unusual passengers, but none of them had ever rendered my security button useless. Or known my full name.
“What do you want?”
The dog barked, making me jump. Agnes shushed him before continuing.
“That’s a better question, dear! Although you already know the answer. I want a ticket to Meander Place, the question is... what do you want?”
I took a moment to try and comprehend her question at all. She spoke with a glee that made me deeply uncomfortable. In the short term, I wanted Agnes Copper gone and to forget about her yellow eyes.
I had a feeling that wasn’t what she was referring to, however.
“Come on Elfida, there must be something.”
“Please stop calling me that. My name is Elle.” I spoke with a quiet defiance. She smiled, enjoying my agitation.
“Oh. Am I getting somewhere? Now why would a pretty girl like you hate a pretty name like that so much?”
I felt a pang in my stomach. I hadn’t thought about my life with that name for a long time. Life before Irene disappeared.
“It’s personal.”
“I know dear. I think you’re aware I already know the answer.” Her eyes lit up and she licked her puckered, wrinkled lips as I shuddered at her words. “You’re wondering now if I know where she is aren’t you?”
I was. She was right. Who wouldn’t wonder? When my little sister went missing there wasn’t a trace of her left in my parents home... my old home. She was only eight years old and one morning she just wasn’t in the house, they never found a stitch of evidence. That was enough to drive my parents to alcoholism, abuse and eventually divorce.
I got it. They lost a kid but it sure did suck to be the sister left behind in the shit storm. Ten years old and I had to roll my mother over to stop her choking on her own vomit. I put up with eight years of that before I fled, came to university in the city, shortened my name and never went back home.
Of course I wondered where she was.
“Do you.. know where she is?”
Agnes laughed an evil cackle, sinister enough to make every bone in my body vibrate. I felt weak, like all the wind had been knocked straight out of me. I tried to control it, but tears fell against my will. I hadn’t thought about Irene in so long.
“Are you a gambler, Elfida?” Agnes asked, ignoring my question entirely.
“I’ve never considered myself to be a betting woman.” I answered, voice shaking audibly.
“Well I think it’s time you start. If you print me a single ticket to Meander Place I will give you a clue. What a wonderful thing? A little piece of hope. The clue could lead to that little girl you seek... or it might not. After years of no answers, isn’t it worth the risk? For the minimal cost of a £29.50 ticket.”
“If the clue is useless, what are the consequences?”
“A better question. Finally, you’ve got it! Shame we’re almost out of time, my train leaves in a few minutes and I’m not too quick on my feet. Make a decision Elfida, I think you know I’m getting on that train either way.”
I hated arrogant customers. I made a point of ensuring I did my job properly, no matter what crazy things were going down in the station, but Agnes made a compelling case. She may have looked old and frail but she froze the air in the space around her. I wasn’t confident I’d even get close to stopping her board that train.
How could I let the opportunity to find Irene slip away?
I printed the ticket. Of course I did. One way to Meander Place, the Epstar line. Agnes continued to frantically lick her lips as the machine made the printing noise. Her mouth moved like a snake, it terrified me.
As I handed it to her through the slot she reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny red box, only large enough for small pieces of jewellery, replacing the paper slip with it.
“Thank you Elfida. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” She winked a reptilian yellow eye and shuffled away from the booth towards the platform entrance.
I sat there for a few minutes. Staring at the box, then back at the clock that continued ticking the moment Agnes was out of sight. I searched for her on the platform security cam that faced me inside the booth but she’d vanished. No trace.
Just like Irene.
I stroked the box, unsure I even wanted to know what was inside, while simultaneously desperate to see the contents.
“Elle! Monsoon Valley just called, the guy had the same argument with them. Popped all over again, the guard there is having a total crisis. Thank fuck we’re rid of that shit, right?” Atlas interrupted my deep and brooding thought.
I shoved the box into my pocket as quickly as I could and looked up, blinking away any residual tears from my interaction with Agnes.
“Ha, sounds like a blast.” I joked, managing a chuckle from Atlas, “We’ll have to tell Nicky about it when she’s done with platform nine.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and check on her anyway, the Epstar line just blasted through there, never know what unsavoury characters might be about.”
Atlas spoke seriously but I struggled to take him so. He always seemed impervious to the strangeness that surrounded us and my recent meeting had cut through my apathetic disposition. I was relieved when he wandered off, giving me a chance to breathe.
After a few moments collecting myself I finally gathered the strength to reach into my pocket and open the red box. When I saw the contents I almost flung them and the box at the floor and ran.
Inside was a finger, a small severed finger. The nail was painted pink, splotches on the skin around it, like it had been painted by a child.
It had. I’d painted Irene’s nails that exact shade the night she went missing. But it didn’t make any sense, it had been years... and the finger was so fresh... even if she was alive, how could she still be so small?
Fighting the bile in my throat I noticed a pattern... words, intricately carved and so minuscule they were a struggle to read.
Find me in Thistle Park.
The boys on bikes

I studied the VHS tape. It was one of those pop-in shells, the ones that have an open slot in the center where you can throw in a camera cartridge and watch your home movies without having to process them at a film store. It was exactly what I was looking for.
“Any idea where this came from?” I asked.
“No,” The man replied, wiping away about a quarter of the sweat that had gathered in his beard. The rest of it kept dripping on the remainder of his strange wares. He watched me with utter disdain, but I gave it another shot-
“Really? Where did you find it? Like, c’mon, a little bit of a background would be nice.”
“It’s not a boutique buddy, you’re at a flea market. You either buy it or you can fuck off. Too hot to deal with this detective shit,” he said, but then, probably because I was the only customer at his stall, his tone softened. “Got it from a storage unit auction. That’s all I can tell ya. Don’t keep track of this shit, I just sell it.”
That’s all the information I needed. I paid the man and took my mysterious prize home.
Back in the early 2000s I consumed YouTube vlogs like they were fine caviar and I was a Russian oligarch. There was just something about being able to kick back and become an invisible observer in someone else’s existence that really got to me. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t some desperate basement dweller, I still had a functioning life of my own, but when evening came and all of my responsibilities were checked off, I’d jump behind my computer desk and take a break from reality.
I’d sit back and watch hours upon hours of other people’s lives. I watched a lonely man beat cancer, a promising student struggle with pills, a teen mother who cracked under the pressure of her new responsibilities. I watched people overcome and spiral and regress, I watched slices of raw humanity from all across the globe from the comfort of my own home. I got to get a taste of fates I never would have considered otherwise; a bunch of people speaking to inanimate objects reminded me that the world outside was vaster than I ever could conceive.
Then the Internet money rolled in and ruined it all. As soon as the people bearing their soul into the camera lens realized they could get paid all of the honesty seeped out of their videos. They built up the drama to get more views, they started hiring editors to make them look good, they started to advertise products that no one really needed. Whatever bond I felt to the lives that I have observed for so many years was broken. That rawness of human stories that I craved was gone.
But I still craved it.
That’s when I started going to flea markets and buying abandoned home movies.
What I found on those assorted VHS tapes and unlabeled DVDs was much better than anything I could hope for with YouTube. These people acted completely naturally, the awkward pauses, the obvious annoyances, the grumpy people who didn’t want to be on tape, it all made it so much easier to imagine that I was there. The fact that they didn’t know I was watching made all the difference.
Voyeurism. I know. That’s what my girlfriend called it. She’s my wife now, and she still calls it that, but what is marriage if not a descent into accepting your partner’s quirks? She treats the dog like she’s our daughter, and unless she starts breast-feeding you won’t hear me complain. My flea market bargain trips usually get an eye roll out of her, but there was never any yelling involved.
As I pulled up the driveway, however, Laura was waving her arms around, yelling.
“Three hours? Are you serious Ryan? Three hours out of the city for some stupid tapes?” Betty obediently stood by her, gazing up at her as if she was some Greek goddess. Her little sausage tail wagged a bit when she saw me walk up the porch but after a quick glance she shook her head and looked back up at my wife. I was just a background character in that dog’s life.
I could have told Laura that all the markets around the city limits were tapped out, that any unmarked tapes I could find around town usually ended up being recordings of movies from television with the advertisements still kept in. But I didn’t. This wasn’t about the tapes. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s something broken in Betty’s neck. I need to take her to the vet. I need to take her to the vet and my husband decides to drive out to some corn-field and look for porn,” Laura hissed. The dog shook her head again. And again.
“The tapes aren’t porn. They’re –“ Echoes of the therapist we stopped going to bounced around my skull. This was not the time nor place for that argument. “–Something else wrong?”
“I can’t find her passport. Every other bit of documentation I have, but I’ve looked all around the house and I can’t find her passport.” Laura’s anger gave way to fear. The dog shook its head again. “See? Look! There’s something wrong with her neck!”
I was going to ask her why the hell she thought she needed the dog’s passport for a vet check, but I didn’t. I just shrugged. “Haven’t seen it.”
“Well, I hope they take us without it,” she said, as if the chance for Betty’s neck getting checked out without travel documents was slim to none, “I’ll call you when I know what’s wrong. Can you do the laundry? Left the whites by the machine. Just need to put them in.”
Laura made her way to the car with the dog. Betty shook her head again. “God, I hope you’re okay,” Laura whispered to her pet. “I’ll need a glass of wine when we come back,” she said to me.
My wife and her dog drove off.
I was just about to close the washing machine when I noticed a pair of my red boxers peeking out from the pile of whites. When I took them out I noticed Laura’s blue university tee shirt. In my haste to get to my mysterious tape I didn’t check if the laundry was sorted. It wasn’t.
The sorting couldn’t have taken longer than two minutes, and for thirty seconds I tried, but my eyes quickly drifted to the television in the corner of the basement. The prospect of sorting through my dirty laundry instead of indulging in someone else’s seemed like torture. I’d turn on the tape. Just to get a glimpse of what I was getting into. Then I’d go and do that thing my wife told me to do.
Within seconds of turning on the VCR I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. The tape was exactly what I was craving.
The timestamp in the lower right corner read June 14th, 1994. We were inside of a fancy house, nice marble staircases and oil paintings of mildly inbred aristocrats filled the screen as the camera shook and bobbed around the wedding reception. Whoever was behind the lens had no idea what they were doing, the zoom and shake of the video made it barely watchable. It was perfect. I could imagine standing there, among the fancily dressed guests, watching someone swing around a hulking piece of Sony in utter confusion.
A group of children wearing miniature suits and dresses ran by the camera. The boys made faces and giggled. One girl in a yellow dress waved to the lens.
“Jesus Jessica, where were you? I’ve been looking for you!” a hushed female whisper cut through the hubbub of the reception. I jumped for my remote to turn up the volume.
“I’m just recordin’ stuff, Mary said she wanted a video of today,” Jessica replied as she zoomed in on a very old man staring out into the ether.
“Well there’s a problem.” The other voice hissed.
“What’s wrong?” The crowd walked around the old man like he didn’t exist. Jessica swung the camera at a particularly uninteresting part of the carpet.
“Mary’s ex is here, he’s freaking out at the gate demanding they let him in.”
“Is it Todd?” Jessica pronounced the word Todd with the same intonation one would pronounce terminal cancer.
“I think so.” The other voice whispered.
“Shi-“
For a split second I saw a pair of nervously clasped hands against a bright blue dress, but then the video cut out.
Complete darkness.
My phone dinged. “THEY TOOK US WITHOUT THE PASSPORT!!! THANK GOD!!!”
I ignored it and stared at the screen, hoping that another part of the story would flicker into existence. After a couple waves of static, it did.
A courtyard with a view of a stunning mountain range, in it, a bride and groom – The woman, a Venus of the 90s, the man, a chiseled jawline with too much gel in his hair, they were smiling at each other, but the camera was too far off to tell whether those smiles were genuine. In front of the possibly happy couple was an array of wooden chairs seating the guests of the wedding. Beneath their feet, a sea of sparkling calm gently swayed. A layer of crystal glass divided the family and friends from the pool below them.
A man next to the camera kept on coughing. Someone next to him whispered something, but that didn’t stop the coughs. The couple kept on looking at each other.
Then the video cut out.
The darkness of the screen dragged on, for a split second I even considered getting the laundry out of the way, but just as I was about to reach into the washing machine for Laura’s orange stocking another image crackled to life on the screen.
We were back in the courtyard but it was in a considerably worse state. Cigarette stubs peeked out of the once impressive stone floor, empty and sometimes broken bottles were all over the place and where there was once a sea of calm there was now the shell of a pool filled with broken furniture. Even smashed up with rough axe cuts the dressers and chairs still looked expensive. It was evening, August 19th 2002 and the groom from eight years ago was wearing a dirty pink bathrobe.
The man aged a couple of decades; his hair was gathered around his shoulders in thick greasy clumps, a patchy beard of graying hair now covered his chiseled jawline. “You really hurt me,” he said. A cigarette hissed in his mouth and a controlled madness burnt in his eyes.
“You changed me. I used to like people. I used to want to do some good in this world. I could have done some good in this world.” The man bent down and produced a bottle off the floor. “But you hurt me. You hurt me so bad I just want to see everything burn.”
The man continued ranting and raving, but as he walked away from the camera his words fell to a static filled whisper. I turned up the volume as loud as it would go but the only thing I could hear was the chirping of crickets intercut by a steady bassy tone. Out in the mountains beyond the courtyard there was a grouping of lit up tents. A man was going quietly insane in a fancy house as people across the valley indulged in cheery techno music.
I was watching someone go insane on a summer evening. The tape was better than anything I could have hoped for.
The man in the bathrobe took a pull from the bottle, recoiled and then smashed the thing against the mountain of furniture stacked in the pool. He screamed. I heard that part.
“You ever talk about fire with Todd? Ever talk about how much you wouldn’t want to burn alive?” The man was back in front of the camera now. He was swaying from side to side, clearly off balance from whatever was in that bottle. “Of course you don’t. All you two talk about is vapid bullshit; all you do is waste your stupid lives, stuck in meaningless gossip that doesn’t matter. But you know what? YOU KNOW WHAT?!”
The man paused. A gentle gust of wind blew his filthy bathrobe apart, revealing far too much of his malnourished body. For a second he tried to pull the flimsy bit of pink cloth back around his jagged ribcage but with a frustrated sigh he gave up on his drunken hands.
Memories of wasted nights in high school filled my head. I remember how the world spun, how impossibly bright and quick all the headlights were as I stumbled my way back home, how difficult it was to stand upright with my blood full of booze. Once the body is so far off in the deep end of the whiskey pool there’s only one way to momentarily regain balance.
The man on the television squished his face into an effort filled wink. For a blink I was standing there, in his ratty flip-flops, watching the triple vision of the world focus into a singular blurry image.
“I love you,” he mumbled to himself. He tore his eye away from the camera and stared down at his dying cigarette. “I love you…. I love – but I won’t love you for long! No! I won’t! Because I’ll be dead! And you’ll be dead! And he’ll be dead! The world will burn!”
The man reached behind the camera and produced another cigarette, but he didn’t light it. He studied the stick of tobacco for a bit and then put it behind his ear. “How much do you know about fire?” he asked, reaching down. “You don’t know shit about fire,” he hissed, as he reemerged off-screen with a jerry can.
“I’ve been reading my great uncle’s books. They say old Vernerzeig was mad, but could a madman build all of this? Could a madman create an empire out of nothing? Could a madman-“ he spilled a bit of the gasoline out of the can as he waved around his arms. This calmed him down somewhat. The madman’s voice dropped to a whisper, the music across the valley slowed down to a steady low heartbeat. “I’ve been reading Vernerzeig’s books, and I know more about fire than your feeble mind ever could,” he started.
The words that the man spoke came out in a controlled whisper, but the ideas that lingered in his monologue flickered with madness. Fire was not a tool that humanity discovered, it was a portal to another realm that our primitive ancestors had stumbled upon and were too simple to comprehend. He spoke of flames as if they were hands, as if the flashes of chemical energy that burst out of a bonfire were fingers from a different world that were desperately trying to claw themselves into our realm.
“My uncle warned of the power that exists in the fire. He spoke of Alexandria, of Peshtigo, of Bois Du Cazier, of fires that ravaged humanity, but he spoke of them as if they were mistakes. As if we were lucky that the flames were put out. He was wrong. The man was a genius, but in this one essential thing he faltered. Each time that the burning God emerged humanity was given a chance at becoming pure and they spit out the embers of freedom. Every time that the burning God’s arrival was postponed it was a tragedy. But even that tragedy can be brought to rest.”
He went over to the pool and started pouring gasoline on the broken down furniture. As he poured he spoke, but he was too far away from the camera’s microphone. The music across the valley started to grow in tempo. The man started to punctuate his inaudible rant with manic shouts. “I WILL SUMMON HIM!” he shouted. With the techno music playing in the background he sounded like a misguided DJ, trying to hype up a tired dive-bar. After the can ran dry he produced another one and resumed pouring and rambling. The man might have emptied out his pool and filled it with chopped up furniture, but he was far off in the deep end.
Less than half a year after I got out of university I also got out of my first real relationship – five years of raw connection in the trash and unemployment to boot. I was desperate for any form of affirmation in my life. I bought dozens of pick-up artist books that offered to teach me the secret to making women want to sleep with me. Watching that broken man pour gasoline all over the antique furniture a part of me felt his pain. It’s not that difficult to fall for a cult when your heart is broken.
My phone dinged, again. “THERE IS SOMETHING IN BETTY’S EAR. DOCTOR SAYS NOT SERIOUS. SHE’S SUCH A TROOPER. LAUNDRY DONE?”
I barely looked away from the television. The man in the bathrobe was done with the pouring. He was back in front of the camera now. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
He was thinking. Fear broke through the mania in his eyes. He turned around and looked at the festival across the valley. The sun had set by then but bright lights flashed across the darkening sky from the music-filled tents. The man let out a desperate groan. For a second it looked as if he would walk away from the fire-to-be, as if he would give up on whatever ritual he was trying to perform, but before he could give up his right hand flew through the air.
He slapped himself, dropping his cigarette. After he picked it up he slapped himself again. “I WILL SUMMON HIM!” he screamed at the camera as he lit up his smoke, “AND HE WILL BURN THE WORLD!”
He took one long puff of his cigarette and threw it into the pool.
For a moment he simply stood there, a man in a filthy bathrobe with dark mountains stretched out before him. He looked at peace.
Whooosh! BOOM!
He screamed. He screamed in a way that I didn’t think was possible for a grown man to scream. He screamed and ran through the courtyard, burning. He spun in place like a wounded animal, shedding his bathrobe, but as the flames behind him started to consume the furniture his body propelled him away from the inferno. Screeching and limping the man ran towards the camera.
He knocked it over in his escape, but it kept recording. The fire soon drowned his agonizing cries out. Only his burning bathrobe remained.
Out across the valley the tents lit up with another color; a flashing of blue and red. For a couple beats of the far off techno I could see the siren lights traveling down the mountain road, but the flames quickly cut off my line of sight.
My phone dinged, again. I didn’t look at it. I was so enthralled in the video that I had started chewing on my shirt collar. Haven’t done that since I was eight.
The flames reached out into the night sky like clawed fingers. They grasped at oxygen, growing, roaring, demanding more. The fire spread throughout the screen. I tilted my head sideways to see better. The inferno beckoned to me.
I was on my feet staring into the television. It was as if the fire was calling for me, pulling me in, demanding that I join it in that crackling universe of energy. In the cool air of my basement I felt warmth. I reached out for the television.
“You should have seen the size of the thing they pulled out of her ear! We need to be careful when we let her run in the – Ryan? Ryan what are you doing?” Laura stood on the stairs. Betty squeezed herself past and gave my calf a lick before jumping on the couch.
“I was uh-“ my eyes shifted towards the open washing machine. Her gaze followed mine.
“You didn’t do the laundry. Great. Absolutely great. Come on Ryan, we talked about this. I don’t ask for a lot I just want –“ it took me a second to realize she stopped talking. As she spoke my eyes drifted back towards the screen.
Out in that burning hellscape I could see something move. I could see a beak. Two orbs of blue flame stared back at me. I tore my attention away from the eldritch god and back towards my wife, “Sorry.”
“What are you watching?” She walked down the last couple of steps with a controlled anger that cracked as soon as she saw what was on the television, “Jesus Christ Ryan! What the hell are you watching?”
“It’s, uh – some guy was going through a bad divorce, I think, so he tried to set the world on fire. Burned himself in the process and now there’s –“
As hot as the inferno on the screen was, her icy stare cut through me. She inhaled sharply, turning her words into cold steel, “That shit belongs in an evidence locker. Not our house.” Laura stomped her way up the stairs, with Betty barely making it past the door before she slammed it.
I turned my attention back towards the screen. Whatever presence I saw hiding in that fire was gone now. The flames still tore through the sky with animalistic fervor but the beast’s eyes were gone. The fire roared on for a couple of minutes until it’s thunderous cry turned into a hiss.
A burst of water was softening the flames. Soon enough firefighters were talking about how they wished they could have stayed at the festival. As they sprayed water over the gasoline filled pool one of them proceeded to give a five-paragraph essay’s worth of description of a redhead bartender he once saw in the 90s.
I thought about rewinding the tape, about going back to that moment when I saw those burning balls of light hiding in a storm of bristling energy, but I decided against it. Upstairs I could hear a cork get angrily pulled out of a wine bottle. I sorted through the washing machine, turned it on and went to get a wine glass.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She was on the porch, puffing on a cigarette with one hand and scratching Betty behind the ear with the other. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. “You can’t keep on doing this Ryan. This isn’t about the laundry; this is about you not being reliable. You can’t just drop everything to indulge in your voyeurism.”
I tried to remember all three parts of the three-part apology thing that our therapist kept on rambling about back in the day. “I’m sorry for not being reliable and sometimes acting like a child, I’ll try to do better next time.” Her lack of yelling made me reconsider therapy for a split second. “So, Betty okay now?”
The dog wagged her tail at the mention of her name.
“Oh yeah, she was a real trooper. Held still for the doc, shook a bit, but didn’t move her head at all. Everyone in the lobby kept on saying how cute she is!”
Asking about Betty would always get Laura talking.
We finished off the bottle of wine, watched some shitty reality TV show, made love and now Laura is sleeping on my chest. Betty’s curled up by our feet and seems to be having a dream that involves a lot of biting and running. There’s a nice summer breeze outside.
I should be sleeping.
The thought of going back to the basement and rewinding the tape was there as soon as we finished the wine, but Laura wanted to watch some scripted reality TV show about hot people looking for love on a beach and I figured I’d be a good partner and indulge with her. The question of the sentient inferno disappeared during our own little fiery bout of passion, but now that we’re post-coital and cuddled up, I can’t let go of the memory of those hungry claws.
She’s a light sleeper, so if I move she’ll wake up and be disappointed. And I don’t want to disappoint her, she might have a weird relationship with the dog and a horrible taste in entertainment, but I’d probably be burning furniture without her. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the video does belong in some evidence locker instead of our basement.
All of this is bouncing around my head and I can’t get any sleep, so I figured I’d come to this little insomniac corner of the internet and vent for a bit. I’m torn between the mystery of what that desperate man brought into our world and being a decent husband.
My wife just mumbled something about how I should go to sleep.
I think the light from my phone is keeping her up.
I think I should just go to sleep.
​
(A shared smouldering universe)

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So I want to start learning how to back up my growing network, and although tapes are antiquated, I think they're still more than suitable for my needs - my data doesn't change all that often. My setup is:

• Debian-powered custom NAS running ZFS (~9TB usable space, ~5.8TB used so far, but not all of this needs backing up), 24/7
• Ubuntu-powered gaming laptop with all day-to-day data on it (~500GB of user data, another 1TB of Steam games), usage pattern is very random and often taken to visit family
• MacBook Pro (about 200GB of data), used occasionally
• Ubuntu-powered BYOD work laptop (a couple of GB, mostly config files and git repos), standard 9-5 use
• gaming desktop, dual-booting Win7 (~1TB of games) and Debian (mostly clean), random usage
  • this has a fibre-channel card installed
• fibre-channel 2Gb/s LTO-3 tape drive (IBM 3580 shucked from an auto-loader and placed in a Quantum caddy) bought very cheap
  • ~8TB worth of LTO-3 tapes (35 of them)
• LAN is all gigabit

So most of my storage is concentrated on the NAS. The vast majority is my media library (just over 3TB) which gets added to but rarely changed. Other things include MySQL databases, SVN repositories and Windows/Mac/Linux application installers.
At present, my laptops back up with Deja Dup and Time Machine to the NAS via AFP. Most important data is stored on the NAS protected by ZFS (i.e. most of my machines can be easily wiped and reinstalled from backups, although the main laptop would be time-consuming). I usually use NFS on machines that don't run GUIs and that's pretty fast (can usually saturate the gigabit connection).
The NAS doesn't have enough PCIe slots to connect the tape drive directly to it. I discovered that tar can run over SSH without even piping, so using a tape drive attached to another machine is fairly easy. However, because this setup was bought very cheaply, it's only LTO-3, so 400GB uncompressed per tape (and stuff like media and installers won't compress much further). So some method of spanning tapes and managing them is needed. I have a storage unit that I rent, so I assume I could do a large full backup to tape, store those offsite and then run incrementals as needed.
I've looked into Bacula, and it seems to be very, very powerful and flexible, but almost too flexible - I've gotten lost in the official documentation, trying to figure out what connects to what and which direction. No doubt it's very capable, especially as it's explicitly designed to allow the tape drive to be attached to a different machine to the 'server' (Director), but I haven't figured out how to make it do what I want yet; I haven't yet managed to make a test backup of the MySQL 'catalog' store. It also assumes everything is system-wide - even the GUI and tray monitor assume configuration files in /etc/bacula which makes it a little bit annoying to modify.
Does anyone know of a good tutorial for Bacula? Alternatively, if there's something that might be more suitable, I'll look into it. Open-source preferred.

Continuing
We had three groups of demo wire: mine adit, ANFO on the mine floor, and just because, some black powder placed into the old, but unused, drill holes in the mine face. The party room was going to be detonated remotely. We decided to blow the face first, then the ANFO, then the adit. After the applause died down, I’d trigger the party room. Then, the final drinking light for this mine site would be lit. Tomorrow, we pack up and travel south.
But first!
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to your first abandoned mine demolition. This hole in the ground has become a menace, alas, through no fault of its own. But steps must be taken to remove it as a threat to society; to protect society from itself. I’ll let you cogitate over the irony of that statement at your leisure. Please, folks. This once was the provider of many a family’s daily bread, butter, and beer. A moment of silence. A moment of reverence. A moment of reflection. This is the place where you cut your subsurface teeth, where you lost your mining virginity, and now…we’re really gonna pop yer cherry!”
They laughed! They actually laughed loud and long. I was amazed. This was just my B-list material.
Dr. D and I alternated countdowns, Lucas was manning the detonators. Everybody, even the cooks, dish machine operators, and custodians joined in on the Safety Protocol song.
First went the face/black powder. A loud, rolling BOOM followed by the mine blowing a huge white smoke ring skyward. Not bad for a first shot.
Then the ANFO. Lucas needed to use the recently acquired replacement for Ol’ Reliable, my personal plunger-actuated blasting machine, as we needed the voltage and amperage. The ANFO shook everyone in camp, even set those in suspended hammocks rocking.
“We’re over a half-mile from the mine and you can actually here see the effects of low-explosives.”, I said, regarding the swinging hammocks. “Did the Earth move for you, too?”
Even that got a laugh.
Next came the mine adit itself. The sharp cracks of the dynamite were so distinctly different than the rolling thrump of the ANFO. People were getting a good physical demonstration of the differences in different types of explosives.
Everyone was about to clap, hoot, or holler, and head for the bar or leave when I shouted them down.
“What are you doing? Where are you going? We’re not done here yet, folks. We have a little bonus. Relax, sit back, and enjoy the death of the cess-pit. The end of the fetid party room. The cessation of the sewer some people around here went to have fun. Want fun? What could possibly be more fun than over 100 pounds of Torpex, PETN, RDX, Dynamite and Kinestik binary high explosives…and a remote detonator?”
All eyes one me grew three sizes that day.
“And I’m prepared to offer the honor of pressing the big, shiny red button to…the highest bidder!”
Consternation and grumbling.
“Actually, I kid. Before this, I had given a slip of paper to Dr. D. On that paper is a number, between 1 and 100. Here are some official guessing paper and pencils. The paper was recently outsourced from the DOI, so no fair trying to use any other. Now, write your guess down, a single number, between 1 and 100, one guess per participant. The closest gets the remote detonator and the honor of destroying the den of filth. In the case of prizes, duplicate ties will be awarded. You have 2 minutes before my number will be revealed. GO!”
Five minutes later, Dr. D announces the winner. There were no duplicates and my number was 86. Dr. I from Berkeley was the winner. She was a petite little hydrogeologist with a mean streak a mile wide. She grinned like a maniac when I handed her the remote detonator. She wanted to go immediately, but I restrained her for a 5 count.
“5...4…3…2…1…HIT IT!”
Whoa. Even though the mine was strictly closed, when that Torpex torpedo went off, the whole state probably felt it. It was very much like an earthquake. A very noisy, even that far underground in a closed-off mine, shatteringly brilliant earthquake.
Dr. I was ecstatic. “I did that?”
“Yes, you did. You’ll be receiving the bill in the mail.” I joshed.
It didn’t matter. Nothing could dampen the mood at that point.
Before lighting the drinking lamp, I recited a bit of doggerel for the crowd to close and commemorate our first victorious mine closing.
 “The Earth shakes, the ground cracks,
 And out steps fmax.
 Pleased as punch, fresh as a daisy,
 He watches while the world goes crazy.
 Strata shakes, structures tumble,
 Seismographs jump, formations crumble.
 When he’s finished, spent with sin,
 He returns as fmin.”
(fmax refers to the high-frequency band-limitation of the radiated field of earthquakes.)
It’s a geology thing…
They seemed to appreciate the effort. They loved that immediately afterward I lit the evening drinking lamp.
Dr. D, Lucas, and my own self had our cigars, drink, and maps. We were looking for our next contestant. Given the reaction of the crowd, I figured they’d be ready for something a little more ‘aggressive’. We had 11 days left, so it couldn’t be too far afield, as I didn’t want to waste time in transit, but here in Nevada, that wasn’t going to present a problem.
Lucas pointed out the Gobbler’s Knob mining area. It was studded with mines marked with the red ‘X’ of the Bureau indicating these mines had been vetted for critter populations and were slated for demolition, and there was quite the assortment. Sure, it was a good three and a half hours distant as a direct shot, or a full day for this crowd. However, we could just camp there for the last part of the trip; it would make a fine base camp. There were more than enough mines, in close proximity, of all types.
So, it was decided and announced. We’d all rendezvous at the titular Gobbler’s Knob gold mine area. I’d scout the area with Lucas and Dr. D, who would follow in his field car. We’d find a place to set up base camp. Sure, it was a diversion from the planned itinerary of the project, but that was at my discretion anyways. Given the shakedown at the Sharp Curve mine, we figure the less over-the-road travel for this crowd, the better.
I chatted with the concessionaires and explained our new plans. They were relieved, as once settled, they wouldn’t have to tear down and set up again every few days. We would be relatively closer to some larger cities, so they could assure us to continue the high quality of food and drink.
So, we were set. Lucas asked to ride with me and since he didn’t mind my cigars, so long as I shared. So Dr. D, in his rental field vehicle, and Lucas and I in the Hummer, hit the trail first. We’d be there in three or so hours. Real geologists don’t get lost out in the field, they just become slightly temporarily dislocated.
Not to waste any time, I had Lucas get on the radio and relate our plans to the Bureau. After this, he called the Nevada State Troopers and let them know what we were up to as well; just in case, as insurance. He called the local police in the town of Goonhaven, NV to warn them that we were on the way. They were most appreciative. They liked geologists and miners. They even gave us the address and phone number of the town’s single liquor store.
We had a radiotelephone lash up through the Bureau HF radio, so I had Lucas call the Boozerama and advise them we’ll need a lot of clear ice for the catering guys. Plus they might just want to go ahead and lay in a double, ok, triple supply of beer as there’s a gaggle of thirsty pseudogeologists on the way that are going to hang around for a week or more.
I asked them if they had any Russian Imperial Export vodka. They said they had some, but a good variety and supply of other brands. I thanked them and warned them again, that the geologists were coming. I also requested that they source some Bitter Lemon and a few cases of assorted Nehi flavors. They said they would try.
Always nice to phone ahead and give ample warning. Elicits discounts.
Lucas was a natural as a navigator.
“OK, Rock. Stay on the goat path until you hit Big Barn rock. Take a left and head up to Copperhead Canyon. Once past the canyon, go right on past Nellie’s Nipple and follow the arroyo. Once you pass Sniggler’s Gulch, hang a right and another right and we’ll be on the road to Gobbler’s Knob.”
I lowered my polychromic safety squints in place and said: “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads”.
I dropped the Hummer into low, stomped the gas, and leaped out across the desert; the trailer with nearly a ton of high explosives bouncing jauntily behind us.
Lucas started to protest, thought better of it, got us both a cold drink out of the back seat, just sat, white-knuckled it as he watched the desert fly by.
We made great time as we averaged some 60 miles per hour over the flat, rocky desert.
Well, maybe not average, but we did hit 60 mph until Lucas got too alarmed and worried feverishly over the trailer full of boom that was fast on our tails.
We pulled into the ghost town of the main Gobbler’s Knob camp. It was a large, open area up in the mountains. We got out and began our photoreconnaissance.
There was a lot of antique mining equipment and paraphernalia up here. Looks like we were either too high up in the middle of nowhere or perhaps the locals didn’t care enough to brave the route up to the camp area. It was as close to pristine as one could get in the region. It really looked like with a little spit and polish, one could fire up the mines once again.
The Gobbler’s Knob mining district covers an area of approximately 30 square miles in the Grunion Range in Nevada. Gold was discovered in the Gobbler’s Knob district in 1905, although quartz veins in the vicinity of the ‘Knob’ had been worked as early as 1866. The district immediately became one of the bigger "boom camps" of Nevada. The greatest production was reached in 1931, and since that time mining has declined until it was abandoned in the early 1940s. Placer gold, post-1945, from the deep gravels of the adjacent gulches have added to the total output. Total gold revenues from the area topped $550 million dollars.
The geology is extremely complex. The southern part of the district is underlain by closely folded Paleozoic rocks. These formations have been divided into five units, to four of which local names have been given. The oldest of these units, probably of Cambrian age, consists dominantly of siliceous mica-schist but contains beds and lenses of quartzite and dark sandstone and five beds of crystalline limestone. The total thickness exposed is estimated to be about 5,000 feet. Above this, and provisionally assigned to the Ordovician, is about 800 feet of chloritic schist, altered by thermal metamorphism to a "knotted" schist. This unit, in turn, is followed by 800 feet of gray limestone, partly altered to black jasper, which near the top grades into black slates. The lowest fossiliferous stratum is a thin bed of black slate' containing graptolites, which is separated from the underlying limestone by a thin layer of quartzite. The graptolites are of No-Kill-I (Ordovician) age. Above the graptolite bed is limestone similar in character to that below, followed by a great thickness of chloritic schist, with here and there thin beds of cherty slate and crystalline limestone. The total thickness of this group of beds probably exceeds 4,000 feet in the area mapped.
The Gobbler’s Knob mining district has produced an additional $350 million worth of copper, lead, silver, and rare earth elements. Productive rocks include the Pogostik Group, Euyankinme Quartzite, and Awfully Good Formation of Ordovician age, Lonesome Goose Dolomite of Silurian age, the Nowheyinhell Formation and Devil’s Dingus Limestone of Devonian age, and unnamed clastic units of Mississippian age, notably Bob’s Lime, the Coonskin Quartzite, and the Frammish metaconglomerates.
These rocks were folded into an overturned anticline and then broken by high-angle normal and reverse faults. Paleozoic rocks were intruded by a granitic stock having a rhyolite porphyry core and by rhyolite porphyry dikes. Primary pyrite, chalcopyrite, galena, and sphalerite and tetrahedrite in host rocks of marble and diopside and garnet skarn have been altered by weathering to oxide, carbonate, sulfate and silicate minerals. Some mineralized rock contains remarkably high concentrations of rare earth elements and beryllium.
We had carte blanche out here. We were the only bipedal mammals, as far as we could see, for hundreds, if not thousands, of square miles. Lucas tried to raise any local folks on the HF, VHF, ULF, and CB radios. Nothing. We were isolated, but we had our traveling funnel-cake trailers bringing up the rear. It was as nice a field area as one could ask.
Lucas and I scouted the area looking for an area to erect Camp Central. I had almost decided in occupying one of the larger old miner’s shacks. That is until Lucas pointed out the local indigenous population of packrats, coyotes, possums, and probably fleas, ticks, mites, no-see-um’s, and snakes.
“Good idea, Lucas”, I replied after reflection, “Let’s find us a new spot to camp out.”
Dr. D can slaloming into the ‘Knob in a flurry of dust and flying alluvium.
“Sorry I’m late, Guys, “he apologized, “But I found an outcrop of jaspalite out in the desert. I just had to stop and take samples.”
He showed us the jaspalized lahar, or quartzified ancient volcanic mudflow, samples. They were a riot of colors. Blood red jasper, green jadeite, yellow topaz, bluish-quartz knots, and purplish purpurite, a purply-purple mineral species.
It was very purple.
Esme would have loved some samples to play with if all her lapidary equipment wasn’t already in storage.
Dr. D got out the Gobbler’s Knob topographic map and stood on the roof of his rental, another reason rental car companies hate geologists, peering through his binoculars.
Lucas and I were exploring around the old campsite when Dr. D called us over.
A short distance away, there was a prominent wavy outcrop of thickly bedded sandstone. It has some nice re-entrants, like little rocky bays in an ancient geological harbor. This was fairly close to the flat highlands of the main camp but would be a prime dwelling for trailers, with some degree of privacy and the off-site storage of nearly a ton of high explosives.
In front of the outcrop, was a flat, wind-swept sandy blowout area that would be prime for the catering trailers.
If we parked the Porta Johns behind the outcrop, they’d still be close enough to be of facility. But they’d be distant enough that we wouldn’t be gassed in our sleep if the winds shifted during the night.
Plenty of parking off-site a piece once the trailers were set. The general area showed no signs of being anything of a hydrological nature, so it didn’t act as a wadi boundary, nor were we camping in a dry wash. We should be protected from the worst of the winds and rain if the inevitable summer high-desert thunderstorm rolled through.
“Boom!”, I said, “Gentlemen, we have a camp! First come, first served. Let’s go claim our spots.”
We all smiled, piled into our respective vehicles and drove the 350 meters or so over a small rise to our new home for the next week plus.
I found a very secure dead-end slot-canyon for the trailer. I backed it in, disconnected it from the Hummer, and secured it to some rock bolts Lucas and I pounded into the very living rock walls of the canyon.
Lucas and I chose the next re-entrant to the left. It was one of the larger ones, plenty of space to park the Hummer and for Lucas and my tents. Dr. D selected the one immediately to the right of Trailer Canyon. His rental fit in parallel to the rock face, and he pitched his tent between the rock wall and his vehicle. He had a flat area to pitch his tent, drag out his work table, and sling his hammock between the car and the outcrop. He’d be protected from the wind and rain, and any onslaught other than directly vertical.
Clever dude.
He even erected a sun-shade he devised from a thick sheet of tarpaulin and some support pipes he scrounged from the surrounding area. We helped him fabricate this bit of brilliance with guy lines attached to rock bolts we pounded into the outcrop and extra tent pegs anchored deep into the desert floor.
Very clever. He was secure as houses now.
We were set and ready to go. All we needed now was the rest of the retinue to arrive.
Lucas went walkabout once we had dragged out my worktable and one of the coolers I carried. I was working away on my field notebooks when Lucas ran up with a 2x2 foot square sheet of what appeared to be weathered white Masonite.
“What you got there, Luc?”, Dr. D asked.
“There’s tons of this shit lying around”, Lucas explained, “All the same size and thickness. I figure we’re going to be here a while, so we gather some posts, and we have a supply of ready-made signs for the crowd when they arrive.”
So, Lucas, Dr. D and I spend the next couple of hours devising road signs for the new arrivals.
“Slot 1 =>. Slot 2 =>.” And so one for the basic trailer parking/tenting slots.
“Food =>”, which needed to wait until the caterers' arrival.
“Shitters =>”, again, had to wait until the Porta-San farm arrived.
And so on and so forth.
All in bright day-glow orange.
Lucas and I did a rattlesnake sweep through the entire camp area and found not even a shed skin. We did find a slot canyon cut clear through the outcrop that would provide great access to the Porta Johns behind the outcrop. It was like this place was designed for us.
The food trailers and Porta Sans arrived at virtually the same time. We directed each to the area we thought would be best for each. The Porta San driver agreed this was a good place for the loos, especially since they’d be out of the elements and still close enough to be a convenience.
The caterers hemmed and hawed a while, but over a cold beer or two, decided the areas we already designated would prove to be acceptable, with a few minor alterations. A little C-4 remade those minor alterations and relocated some errant boulders. Before you knew it, we were back in business.
We figured the day would be a wash as it would take these hydroheads most of the day to find their shoes, much less a distant campsite. So, Lucas and Dr. D went out in his vehicle and posted sings to help direct these hopeless folks to the campsite.
I stayed back at camp and pored over the maps, literature, and write-ups regarding the area and the mines it contained.
There were literally hundreds of mines out there. Some no more than small prospect drifts that chased a vein of precious metals until it petered out in a few hundred yards. Others were full-fledged scary-ass deep, hard rock mines with vertical transit shafts whose depths were measured in thousands of feet.
I discounted those the Bureau hadn’t vetted as to animal worthiness and those that were deemed animal sanctuaries. A quick count left me with 104 mines to choose from. Some I could close “Old School” with a bundle of dynamite and a quick tug on a set-pull-forget and toss fuse.
Others were so extensive, it would take me and a trained crew at least a week to explore, devise, set, prime, and charge the thing.
OK, I selected 10 easy mines for quick annihilation and set those aside as Class-1, the easiest bundle-of-boom, for later. Sort of a bonus as the project drew to a close.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to go all 1880s and pop the fuse on a bundle of stick dynamite then chuck them down a deep hole?
I know I would.
Then I chose five or six what I considered medium-class, or Class-2, mines. Multi-level, dry, no real obvious nasties like rotten cribbing, loose broke down piles of rock, talc…gad, talc… or noxious gasses. These went into pile number two.
Then I chose two that I considered Class-3 mines. Real bastards. Multi-level, flooded, raises, winzes, stopes, shifts, staves, shafts, tunnels, all sorts of fun shit. I decided that Dr. D, Lucas and I would discuss which of these we’d close. It was a point of vanity, I guess. I needed to nuke just one of these tricky fuckers to show the Bureau what they were going to be missing once I left. As well as prove what I can accomplish out in the field, even saddled with a passel of greenhorns.
With my field notebooks up to date, all my demolition paperwork in order, and piles of mine candidates to choose from, I declared the day a wash and lit the drinking light.
Dr. D looked at our supplies and declared it inadequate. Besides, we didn’t have any Bass Ale, his favorite tipple. He decides that he and Lucas would run into town, only about 75 miles distant, pick up the necessary supplies, and bet me a sawbuck he’d return before the first camper made camp-fall.
“You’re on!”, I said as I handed Lucas the cash for the wager. I also slipped him a few extra bucks if he found any good looking cigars, vodka, bourbon or beer we just couldn’t live without.
The concessions folks got wind of our plans and asked if one of their tribe could accompany Dr. D and Lucas to town with a couple of coolers for ice. They could make ice on-site, but it’d be hours before they had any in abundance. Dr. D had no problem with that as they could bungee the coolers down to the roof rack of the rental.
I asked Dr. D if this extra time to get ice would invalidate our wager.
In a flurry of dust and cigar smoke, he yelled out the window as he, Lucas and the food court guy hauled ass town ward: “No way! I’ll still beat them all back!”
I was essentially alone out in the wilds of Nevada’s high desert. Nothing much to do, I loafed around, wandered over to the boomtown remains and had a look round, and generally just mooched about waiting.
Back at Rock Central, as Dr. D had christened our campsite; as he had created, posted, and signed the signs to prove it, I was called over to one of the cook trailers. They had questions for me.
They wanted to know what the gunfire was all about the other day. They’d heard rumors of everything from armed insurgency to just some late-night target practice.
I regaled them of the story of the ‘Motorcycle Gang That Couldn’t Think Straight’ and they laughed and laughed. They were pleased to know they were well protected out here in the boonies.
After that, with nothing much else to do, I offered them all a beer or whatever else they could find in my depleted larders. They gratefully accepted and we sat around, just shootin’ the shit for a while.
Two or three beers in, one of the head chefs excused himself and returned a bit later with an unlabeled bottle of suspicious-looking clearish fluid.
“We keep some on hand for emergencies”, he told me, “But since they were working for the Bureau and had to conform to their rules, we were asked to run a dry camp.”
“Well,” I said, “As long as it’s kept under control, and as I’m the sole Bureau representative here; I don’t run a dry camp, so if it’s kept low-key, I don’t see a damned thing.”
After the whoops and hollers died down, I was presented an iced glass of very suspicious-looking homemade high-octane hooch. The head chef, who assured me he has CIA credentials, i.e., Culinary Institute of America, and knew how to run a still, promised me I’d find his latest creation most enjoyable. Or unusual, I forget which.
“Slurp!”
Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ on A Soda Cracker! That stuff was smooth.
No, not smooth. What’s the opposite of smooth? Sandpapery? Abrasive? Crenulate? Squamulose? Rock ripping?
He smiled broadly as I choked down that slug. I gasped for breath. My eyes glazed over. My ears were on fire. My teeth vibrated. My nose ran off. My tongue was contemplating filing for divorce.
It was pure loathsomeness. It was fucking horrendous. I hated the fucking stuff.
“Care for another?” he asked.
“Oh yes, please,” I replied.
A while later I heard a car approaching. Given the speed at which it was traveling, I knew without looking who it was.
Yep, five minutes later Dr. D roared into camp, sliding backward to a stop only feet from the lead chow trailer in a cloud of Cretaceous floodplain dust.
“Did I win?” he asked, as he looked the camp over. Lucas and the cook assistant fumbled out of the car as best their rubbery legs would allow.
“Sure as hell.” I replied, “Lucas, please pay the man.”
We helped remove the coolers of the roof of Dr. D’s car. Each was filled with a single crystal-clear block of water ice. Seems this old town still had an ice house and it was simple as squash to take dimensions of the cooler, and chip a chunk of the correct size off the glacier they had in the storerooms. The cook crew were ecstatic.
Dr. D found his Bass Ale and bought the town dry. Lucas had purchased a supply of classic field camp beers: Lucky Lager, Henry Weinhard's, Hamms, Blatz, Falstaff, Walter’s Bock, Grain Belt, and Buckhorn. It was frosty, ice-cold nostalgia.
Plus, Lucas found a bottle of George Dickel, Rebel Yell, and Hoggs Bourbon for me. As well as liters of Monopolowa, Popov, Bowmans’s, Royal Gate, and Ruskaya Vodka. He also admitted to a bottle of Yukon Jack and Captain Morgan for himself since everyone else was getting what they wanted. Plus three cases of really weird flavored Nehi soda. No Bitter Lemon though…he was disconsolate. But still smiling like a loon.
Dr. D had also stopped and filled his trunk with firewood purchased from a farmer on the outskirts of town. We stacked that centrally next to where we’d construct the communal fire pit.
The high desert. Out in the middle of absolute nowhere. Camping. Few creature comforts. A serious geology job laid out in front of us, a couple already behind us. Campfires. Good friends. Good food. Good cigars. Cheap booze.
It really was like coming home again.
Finally, some hours later, just as the sun was getting ready to bounce off the western edge of the desert, the trailers and campers began to arrive. They all caravanned, en masse so they wouldn’t get lost. Their tarmacked travels took them through many tank towns, so they stopped along the way for beer, booze, and other things to make the camp run that much more smoothly.
One after another, the tenters and campers pulled in. Dr. D, Lucas and I decided we had done enough for one day, so we sat at Lucas’ and my campsite, stoked a smallish campfire and decided to sample the wares of Dr. D’s sojourn to the big city.
The trailers all parked, first come, first served. No arguments, no bitching, no sweat. The tenters consolidated the northern end of the camp area, the trailers, the south.
The chow triangle was rung and it was dinner time, all right on schedule.
Deep-fried cod and chips, mushy peas, Toad in the Hole, Yorkshire Pudding, and roast joints of beef rounded out the British-themed meal. There was Spotted Dick, Banoffee pie, and Syllabub for pudding.
You had to eat your meat or you couldn’t have any pudding.
Maybe the chef really was CIA.
After tea, and before the drinking light was lit, I called everyone for a quick meeting to explain what I had intended for the next 10 days. I explained how Class -1, -2, and -3 mines were defined. I noted that we would, at minimum, close at least one of each type in our time remaining. Everyone would be in on Class 1 & 2 mines, but I’d only ask for volunteers for the single Class-3 mine, due to its inherent complexity and danger.
I also noted that since this would be home for the next near score of days, that I have access to VHF, HF, UHF, ELF, SW, and CB radios, with a lash up for telecommunications with the Bureau HF radio, if there was an emergency. I also have a satellite phone if there were any particularly spectacular emergencies. It was available, but not for idle chit chat. Perhaps, later in the week, I noted, I could allow a 10-minute call home for everyone if there was nothing untoward that happened in the interim.
There were general shouts of approval on all points. I asked for questions, and there were none. Either I was that good at covering all the bases of these guys were really thirsty.
“Folks”, I said, “The drinking light is lit. Remember, we muster front and center tomorrow 0630. Please bear that in mind. Naz dirovya!”
After a catered breakfast of breakfast pizza, breakfast burritos, and breakfast Egg WacMuffins, I had the whole crowd assembled, most all sipping coffee and a few lamenting some real humdinger headaches.
“OK, gang”, I began, “Class-2 mines today. Class-1 mines are super easy, barely an inconvenience. I’m retaining them as door prizes for the best mine demolishers nearer the end of the week. I won’t say much about these exit prizes, but suffice to say, think 1880s, and bundled sticks of dynamite.”
That got the crowd’s interest.
As usual, I broke the crowd up into groups. Dr. D, being near as up as me on mine construction and dangers, so kindly offered to take one group in the morning so I could handle the second group in the afternoon, or vice versa, just for flavor. After that, we’d compare notes, ask for volunteers, go back in and charge the mines. Then, we’d retire to a safe distance and blow the living shit out of them.
We’d alternate, and when I wasn’t in the mine, he’d radio back what he thought would be appropriate to nuke these mines out of existence. I’d begin work on building the demolition charges. After which, I’d store them, then I’d take a group on a walkthrough. We’d all get together, have a powwow, get people’s impressions and concerns of the mine and formulate a demolition procedure.
That way, in six days we blasted out of existence six Class-2 mines. We were humming along like a well-oiled machine. No bitching, no kvetching, just lots and lots of questions, good food, cheap booze, and cheaper beer with mines closing left and right.
Things were actually humming right along. Until the afternoon of day 8.
Clouds rolled in, covering the skies with their frothy white, billowy cloudiness.
I was looking up to the unfolding aerial montage when Lucas and Dr. D wandered over.
“You saw it as well.”, Dr. D noted., “Best get the word out, it’s going to be a real toad-floater.” He and Lucas were old-time field hands out in the desert. They knew what was coming.
I agreed, this had all the earmarks of a major-league desert thunderstorm. Heavy rain, wicked winds, thundering thunder, dismal darkness, all split by jagged lightning.
I called for an immediate camp meeting.
“Folks,” I said loudly, so the cook crew could hear as well, “Look due up. We’re in for a real humdinger of a summer thunderstorm. As soon as we’re finished here, get back to your camp. Secure everything not nailed down. Check guy ropes and make sure they’re doubled-down. If it’s loose, pack it, or nail it down tight. I don’t know how many of you have experienced Mother Nature at her nastiest out in the field, but make no mistake, she’s got stuff that makes my best explosives look like Tinker Toys. Get sorted and hunker down. There will be wind. There will be rain. There will be wind. They may be hail, so tenters, you might want to call in some favors with the folks who have trailers. Questions?”
There were none, but Dr. D added, “Rock ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie here, gang. It’s got all the earmarks of being a nasty bugger. Prepare to take cover and hunker down solid.”
They saw that when the two most senior field trippers said that this was to be a real event, it’s best to listen and ask questions later.
The camp scattered. Lucas and I flattened our tents, no need getting them ripped to shreds.
I made certain the explosives trailer was nailed down, locked, and well-grounded. What are the odds of a lightning strike? Don’t care. I made double-damn uber-certain.
Dr. D flattened his camp and said he’d ride it out in his rental. I offered him a spot in the Hummer, as it was big enough for us to sack out if the storm lingered.
He declined. He said he’d be fine in his rental.
The cook trailers were stowed and secured, and if the Port-a-San farm took a hit, there wasn’t much now we could do but hope otherwise.
Lucas, Dr. D and I sat out in out camp chairs, with fresh cigars and beers, savoring the ridiculously salubrious pre-storm ozonic fresh air, awaiting the inevitable atmospheric show. The clouds above roiled, rolled, and built to astonishing heights. They grew as dark and foreboding as a volcanic ashfall. Over more beer and cigars, and maybe a tot of bourbon, we watched and waited.
And waited.
“Was this going to be a false alarm?” I wondered.
KA-HOLY SHIT-BOOM! The thunder roared.
Nope. Not this time.
We all sat outside admiring the coming show. It was going to be fun, lots of lightning and peals of thunder. Torrential rains, for certain, with that exciting hint of hail that might come for a visit.
Over beers, we sat, watched, and pointed out some of the amazing structures in a building series of cranky cumulonimbus clouds.
“PLOP!” the first drops of rain appeared. The camp chairs went into the back of the Hummer. Dr. D departed to his sanctuary and Lucas and I sat in the truck, fiddling with the radios to see if we could get any info on the storm.
KRRAACK! Lightning buzzed with a vengeance.
We’re in the high desert out here. Some 9,000’ plus above sea level. Puts us that much closer to the storm.
KABOOM! Thunder rumbled.
“Odd”, I thought, “Not much rain or wind…”
The Hummer rocked like it took a hit from an RPG. The rain and wind I wondered about had arrived.
If you had anything not locked down outside, it was well on its way to California by now.
Rain pummeled. Winds howled. Lightning cracked. Thunder rumbled.
And it got very, very dark.
Dr. D did a great job of picking out our camp location. The rain puddled, ponded, then ran off to the west. The winds, for at least a small part, were funneled around the campsite rather than lay waste to it.
But that’s where all the good things ended.
The hail began. Pea-sized first. Then marble-sized. Then organic, free-range, farm-fresh, egg-sized. Finally, high-velocity ice golf balls. It made a hell of a racket on the reinforced roof of the Hummer. I didn’t even want to think what it was doing to thin-sheet aluminum topped trailers.
It grew in intensity. Winds whipped even stronger. Hail bounced merrily of the outcrops, cook trailer’s roofs and the very ground. In short order, it looked as if it had snowed. The entire campsite’s grounds were covered with whole inches of accumulation of hailstones.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was over. The sun cautiously peeked through the waning clouds and lit the devastated tableaux for all to see.
Lucas, Dr. D and I got out of our vehicles to survey the circumstances. We brushed the icy accumulations off our tents and raised them so they’d begin drying. There would have been nothing left if we hadn’t collapsed them first.
Slowly, the rest of the campers showed up. They milled around the snow-like accumulation and just goggled. Many had never seen, much less experienced, such climatic fury firsthand.
Of course, everyone had to pick up and examine the hailstones. Then it happened, one northern wag decided that since it looked like snow, it must act like snow. One West Coaster was the first casualty. He took a hailstone snowball to the back.
That’s all it took, a snowball fight broke out. It was hilarious, even though I was less than amused when I played innocent bystander and took a snowball hit directly to the cocktail in my hand, spilling my drink.
“Of course you realize.”, I mused, “This means war.”
Many campers learned that day, through hard experience, you never start a snowball fight with Baja Canada and Real Canada residents. The carnage was spectacular.
It was a late night before anyone hit the sack. They were having too much fun.
I finally picked the last mine of the tour, the Gobbler’s Knob #33 shaft.
I gave it several days because it was a motherfucker.
Fully 7 levels deep. A central shaft that was 33’ across the diagonal, hence the mine’s name.
The deepest record we had for the mine was the last work face in level 7 was at 2,729 feet below surface level, more than a half a mile in depth.
The last reports were that level 7 might have flooded. Looks like I’m going to need some severely hardy folks to accompany me on this initial trek.
After dinner that night, I called a camp meeting. I explained the need for the initial reconnaissance of this mine, and I was looking for volunteers. This was an entirely optional mine, although I’d like input at the nightly meetings. You don’t have to go, but it’d probably look real good on those final reports I have to write up for everyone.
Yeah, no pressure. No pressure at all.
Of course, Dr. D and Lucas volunteered immediately. Truth be told, if that’s all that wanted to go, it would have been fine with me.
However, Dr. I, the Ms. maniac torpedo detonator from earlier, Dr. F, and Dr. H and his associate made the move forward.
“OK,” I declared, “That’s seven. Just in case, do any of you have technical rope-climbing skills? That might come in handy on this recon trip.”
Dr. H decided that it might be a bit too strenuous for him, but asked if his associate, Gary the Grad Student could accompany us. This guy was supposedly half-gibbon, he was that good of a technical climber. I almost told him to get bent as I didn’t need anyone showing me up.
Of course, I relented. I noted that we’d all meet here, tomorrow, fully kitted out with all our gear, at 0600 for the initial assault. We’d take the Hummer as it had plenty of room. The mine adit itself was less than a mile distant, but we’d get so knackered walking that distance even in the early morning desert heat, that I insisted we drive, even if it took a couple of trips.
There was a pretty good Happy Hour that night, but not for six of the more intrepid adventurers. We held off until after our explorations were complete.
I had copies of the latest mine schematics and handed one out to everyone.
“Carry this with you and mark it as you go”, I said, “Find something not on the map, like an ore chute, drift, stope, raise, or winze, make a note. Also, keep tabs on where you are at all times.”
All agreed as this was serious nut cuttin’ time. This mine could be a real killer. I doubt it’s going to cut any of us any slack.
After checking and re-checking our gear, at the mine adit, we synchronized our watches and rechecked our coordinates. Our ELF radios would work underground as would the mine GPS we had along.
To be continued.

Thomas should have been sleeping, but he was too nervous to get any rest. In fact, it was almost time for him to get up anyway. He lay awake in his trailer, waiting for hours until his alarm clock started beeping at him. Tom slumped out of his bed and got his lucky glass of milk. A knock on the door made him jump.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Get in here.” The trailer door opened to show Grakadil, a large bipedal canid, who sort of looked like an 8 foot tall Great Pyrenees dog from Terra. Grakadil had found Thomas in an orphanage a decade before, and almost immediately fell in love with the small, fur-less, scale-less, feather-less young child. Since then, Grakadil had raised Thomas to what seemed like his species’ adulthood.
“So? How are you feeling about today?”
“Well, I haven’t thrown up yet, so that’s an improvement.”
“You should probably check out what I got for you today. I think we’ve got this one.”
Thomas followed Grakadil out of the trailer. “You got a different one? What about the Cagran?”
“I got this from your species’ homeworld! It’ll really blow them away!”
“What? You got it from ? What year?”
“Oh, they called it a 1969. So, it seems like its 180 cycles old at this point.”
They arrived at the garage, and Grakadil’s tail started swaying from side to side. “Ooh, must be a good one if it’s got your tail moving. But weren’t vehicles from that time not electric or fusion powered?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Powered by explosions, this is. Uses ancient fossilized plant matter, and then it’s refined and used as fuel.”
“Is that safe?”
“No. It’s extremely dangerous if you’re stupid. But I know that you’re not stupid. Now, are you ready to see your ride for today?”
Thomas sighed. Grakadil had, in fact, led him wrong before. Two cycles ago, he had found a Dagwon with a faulty rad shield, and then had to go to a medical clinic to heal his radiation sickness. Even Thomas’ first Cagran, a 20 cycle old electric model, was missing the voltage reducer for the interior buttons and had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. “Alright, Grak. What have you got?”
Grakadil opened the garage door to show the car, a 1969 model the color of the sky, with a large pointed front end, and a very tall elevated airfoil on the rear. Thomas walked around the rear of the car, and he saw that the airfoil was painted like a cloud, with the color continuing down the rear of the car. In the stripe was the Terran word . On the back, between the rear lights said . “Cost me all the winnings from our last four, I hope it’s worth it.”
“What? The last FOUR?!”
“Yep. Left us enough to live, but shipping an antique from Terran space is expensive these days.”
“Give me a reason to not take out your legs with this. Right. Now.”
“How about it’s been transformed to its old race specs, with about 1200 , which is about 500 standard power units.]”
“Really? Twice as much as the Cagran? It must weigh as much as a boat, though.”
“Actually, it’s about a 1500 standard weight units.”
“This… might work out really well.”
“Might as well get your practice in for today. You’ve got a race in a decirev.”
After practice in the simulator, it was time to start the race. Grakadil had convinced Tom to help push the out onto the track. “Lets leave the noise as a surprise for the other racers! The surprise will get them off their game.” Of course, Grak was right. When it came to how people thought, he was always right.
“Alright Thomas, this will be loud. It will hurt. You figured out the clutch easily enough, so just don’t over-rev the engine. Keep it below the <80> mark on the left, and the right will stop at the <150>, but keep going. You’ll be going fast. Keep your head cool.” Grak gave Thomas a small metal stick. “Take this, and put it in the slot on the right side of the wheel. When the race is about to start turn it all the way to the right to turn on the engine. Keep your ears closed. Keep it off the wall. Two laps and the race is over.”
“Wow, a lot different than the Cagran. I almost liked the push button start.”
The cars around the the were the normal fare for this planet, 20 cycle old Dagwon Radcrops and Cagran Esvardas. They were easily modifiable and easy to get for cheap, so they were common. The Esvardas sat quietly as their power cells were connected to the motors, and the Radcrops turbines were starting to whirr up to speed. The crowd was already cheering for their favorite racers, but some were confused at the ancient Terran model sitting at the back of the pack.
The flagger got into the tower, holding up the cloud-colored flag saying there was a centirev left to the start of the race. Thomas slid the metal stick into the slot, and turned it all the way to the right. The sound of turning gears was heard for a moment, then the roared to live, scaring everyone in the area. Thomas smiled a bit, as he pressed on the pedal furthest to the right. The engine almost screamed at the competitors, and some of the prey species of the crowd nearly bolted out of the stands. Thomas, feeling the vibration and noise in his chest, watched as the plant-colored flag dropped to start the race. The Esvardas bolted off quietly, the Radcrops whirred forward at a quick pace, and the at the back started turning the tires past their gripping point, creating a cloud of white smoke. The moved past the line painted on the ground, and left behind more smoke and two thick, black lines on the track.
The car finally caught grip as the rest of the pack reached the first corner. All of them turned in practiced, neat lines, trying their hardest to find the best way through. Thomas, at the back, reached the first corner a few car-lengths behind the others. With a jab of the brakes, the started sliding into the turn. More white smoke, and Thomas cleared the first corner with a flair no one else on the track could match.
Halfway to the second turn, the pack started to split up. Already, Thomas was catching up to the rear. The few in the rear turned to look at Thomas as he passed. At the second turn, he needed to be careful in the group of slower cars. He turned in between two Radcrops, almost touching both as he tried to pass through the gap.
On the long, sweeping curve, he passed the two Radcrops easily and the needle on the right hit <150> and stopped. The intense acceleration continued, and Tom passed another 12 cars. He was halfway through the pack when the third turn came, and it was the tightest one on the track. Thomas went toward the outside, and jabbed the brakes again. He slid the car around the outside of the turn to pass another two cars, and now there were only six left.
Around the next turn, and the next, Thomas was behind the leaders. There was one straight until the next lap, and then the race would be over. The turned onto the straight, and Thomas floored it. The 6th position fell behind him. The fifth fell. The fourth fell. Half the straight was left, and Thomas was only behind two more cars.
Around the first turn again, and the was right behind the car in second. He passed on the straight, and was behind the lead. The lead kept Thomas behind him for every turn, with no opportunities to pass. Only on the final straight did Thomas get a chance. He floored it again, and passed to become the lead. A millirev after Thomas passed, they reached the finish line.
Grakadil sprinted toward the and pulled Thomas out and into a hug. “Haha! You did it! I knew it would work!”
Muffled, Thomas yelled “Hey! I can’t breathe, you’re too fluffy!”
“Ah! Sorry, I get excited.”
Thomas reached in and turned off the car. He got out again, and a microphone was in his face. “Congratulations! What were you thinking out there today?”
“Well, I was mostly impressed with the car today. But when that wasn’t happening, I was focused on getting this beast through the traffic.”
“You did very well at that. What can you tell me about that beast, then?”
“You’ll have to ask my mechanic, manager, and pops for that. Grak, what do you know about this thing? History wise, that is.”
“Oh, sure. It was made in the Terran year 1969, and for reference their first true car was made in their 1895. It was made in the Terran country America by their third best manufacturer, . It was a modified version of their , which wasn’t pointy and didn’t have an airfoil on the back. It was their fastest car on an oval track for a long, long time. This used to be a street car, which I lightened and made stiffer, then I changed out engine components for much more sturdy parts, and now it gets about 900 power units. I also changed the transmission gears, which let the car reach the Terran speed of <300 miles per hour>.”
“Wow, where did you find this one?”
“I bought it from a barn on Terra. It had been sitting there for about 50 cycles.”
“Thomas, how do you feel about such an old machine, that had been neglected for so long?”
“Oh, he didn’t tell me why it was cheap enough to buy. him. I’ve got to get him back for something, soon. “
“Why do you think he chose this car, and not another more modern model that you’re used to?”
“I would guess that it’s the noise. He likes intimidation, no matter how unassuming that guy looks. The fluff is a great cover.”
“Well, thank you for your time, and I’ll be waiting to see you race this again!”
“No problem at all. Now, I’ve got some tires to shred!”
​
​
Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it. This is a one shot, but I might find something else for the characters to do in the future. I wrote this as practice for another one of my projects, so please leave criticism as you see fit.

"Are we there yet???" wailed Gerald at the backseat of the van.
"Not for another two hours, son," came his dad's reply from the passenger seat.
"But I'm hungry now!"
"We'll get dinner when we get there, okay?"
Gerald sulked and plugged his earbuds back in to resume playing Subway Surfers. He quickly grew bored and roughly poked his seatmate. "This is boring, I want to play the Switch."
"Not now, bro, I'm almost done with this boss fight!" Wayne sipped on a soda from a cupholder between them as he fended off his brother's hands.
"MOM, WAYNE WON'T SHARE THE SWITCH"
"Just wait a little bit, Ger! Sheesh, whoa! That was close!"
On the screen, Link was running through knee-deep water as he fought a two-armed demon with a glowing blue spear, as Gerald craned his neck over to see. "Waterblight Ganon?"
"Yeah, now lemme concentrate."
Waterblight Ganon raised his free hand and hung from midair as the arena filled up with water, four blocks now jutting out from the surface. Link blasted away at the beast as Wayne's fingers flew over the joycons, landing hit after hit on the creature. Suddenly, it began glowing and writhing in midair before some dark ichor bled out of it before it exploded in a blast of purple light. Wayne waited until the victory cutscene finished before seizing a gold-and-red jeweled heart and quicksaving his slot on Breath of the Wild. He handed the Switch to his brother, snarling "don't mess up my saves."
Wayne Briggs wasn't exactly who you would call a "gamer," but who could say no to a preloaded Nintendo Switch on his 14th birthday? His brother, who was half his age and attended third grade school, was more into Pokemon, as evidenced by his many save files on Sun & Moon. They spent most of their time outside of school being little brats to their hard-working American parents, who weren't exactly rich, but secure and comfortable enough. Still, there was only so much to do in Midwest suburbia before everything wasn't much fun anymore. So, in their infinite wisdom and common sense, their parents decided that the boys needed a change of scenery the moment school was out for summer.
The original plan was to take a road trip to Kings Island, where the kids could drain their allowance on cheap carnival toys, get some great pictures off the replica Eiffel Tower, and eat to their heart's content before throwing it all up after one too many rides on the Banshee and the Firehawk, only to gorge themselves all over again. Unfortunately, Dad's accounting firm wasn't doing too well this year and, while Dad was lucky enough to avoid the cutting block, the purse strings were obviously tighter and it showed. The kids had to settle with a road trip twice as long down to small-town America, where blue lakes, thriving forests, and their favorite parts of the trip: a plate of Grandma's freshly-baked cookies washed down with a bottle of the finest sarsaparilla of Knox, Indiana.
Wayne felt a small thump by his feet, looked over, and bent down to grab the plastic ball containing Cosmo, their pet hamster, who skittered around his own vehicle soundlessly. "Relax, Cos, it's only going to be a few days, alright?" The hamster offered nothing in response save for sniffing the air around it. Wayne uncrossed his legs and placed the ball in his lap, hands and arms securing it in place as he stared out the window, gazing across the Indianapolis skyline as the sun beamed down upon the interstate.
"Well bless your pretty hearts, you sure are early! Dinner should be done real soon!"
"Grandma Ruth!!!" Gerald ran to hug his grandmother, wrapping his arms around her "KISS THE CHEF" apron. Wayne hefted some of the bags over the threshold as he took off his shoes and trudged upstairs while Ruth Kelsey hugged and kissed both parents. Even at her advanced age, she was still strong and spry like an old jackrabbit, and though she missed her husband dearly, she found support and solace in her friends. Everyone knew everyone in her neighborhood, the picture of the good ol' days.
Gerald rushed over to the kitchen, pausing to take in the sweet smells of freshly-cooked turkey and pie, while their favorite chocolate chip cookies continued to bake in the oven. Sure, their mom was no slouch herself when it came to preparing dinner, but Grandma's home-cooked meals were legendary throughout her community, and she'd taught her daughter well. The little brother opened up the fridge, searching for those extra-chilly glass bottles of the local sarsaparilla you couldn't get anywhere else.
"Oh," Grandma mumbled apologetically. "I only got the Dollar General sodas, I had to use the good stuff last bingo night."
Gerald pouted and took out two chilled cans of A&W before closing the fridge and going upstairs to break the news to Wayne and get him his consolation prize. He sighed, took the sodas, then got himself and Gerald ready for dinner.
After saying grace, the Briggs and Grandma Ruth dug into their mini-Thanksgiving meal of honey-glazed ham, smoked bacon, apple pie, and of course roast turkey. The smell of chocolate chip cookies wafted from the oven, playing with the kids' noses and leaving their mouths watering despite their already-delicious meal. As the adults went on with their idle chit-chat, catching up on life in Knox, how things were going on at Dad's work, and how Mom mustn't be feeding her kids well enough by Ruth's standards, Gerald flashed a smile and waved his phone at Wayne, who was preoccupied with his own Internet searching, checking the hours for the local tourist traps: Starke County Museum, Melody Drive-in Theater, Coney's Antiques, and so forth. He glanced at his brother's high score on Subway Surfers, shot a quick smile and a thumbs-up before gesturing at his screen and holding up his finger in a "wait" gesture. Gerald strolled over to crane his neck at the screen, only to be met with a list of hours.
"I wanna watch Captain Underpants!!!"
"Yeah I know, I know, I'm just trying to find a good time for Mom to take us."
The plan was to spend five nights max at Grandmas, visiting what was there to see, enjoy, and dine at. Things like this needed planning.
"Aw shoot," Wayne frowned. "4:30's all sold out, would you be game for 7?"
"Phones on the table," admonished Mom, holding her hand out. "Mom, is it ok if we hit Melody's at 7 instead of 4:30? Tickets for Captain Underpants were all sold out." He handed the phone over to Mom who glanced at the times, and nodded her head before motioning for Gerald's. He grimaced, but obliged, and just in time too.
"Who wants cookies?"
Wayne and Gerald gave off choruses of "ME ME ME" as Grandma doled out fresh cookies after switching out the dirty plates. They quickly forgot about everything else and ate up their cookies greedily, savoring the hot chocolate chips embedded within the chewy dough. Their minds drifted away to how much fun they'd be having this summer trip.
Knox's finest local drinks could wait for another day.
Mr. and Mrs. Briggs typically enjoyed Bingo Sunday just as much as Grandma Ruth, because it gave them a chance to catch up with local news and old friends. The kids, clearly, did not share this opinion. Back in the day, their dad would drop off Mom and Grandma at the Community Center then go take the kids somewhere fun, but this time, Wayne would be taking Gerald around the town by themselves, as long as they stuck together and didn't wander too far. "They're big kids, and it's past time Wayne learned real responsibility," Grandma insisted, handing each of them $20 in cash and a gift card to the nearby PizzaPlex. "And tell Roger I said howdy!" Grandma called out to them, winking then blowing a kiss in their direction, causing Gerald to grimace in exaggerated disgust.
Of course, kids being kids, they maxed out the gift card pretty quickly at the PizzaPlex arcades and feasted on some semi-decent pepperoni pizza and Coke. Once they got bored with the garish restaurant, they still had an hour left to go before having to head back to the community center to take Grandma home.
"I know where to go, Wayne! Let's hit up Coney's!!!"
Coney's was one of the last strongholds of mom-and-pop business, becoming a popular tourist attraction of Knox in and of itself. Rumor had it you could find just about anything you needed there, and even if you didn't, anyone who visited could agree that it was well worth the trip. In other words, it was the perfect way to kill that last hour of fun time. Before they knew it, they were at that vintage red door under the threshold leading to a world of fun.
"Couldn't agree more. Shall we?"
...
As Wayne and Gerald entered the shoppe, the tinkling cowbell and the musty odors of decades' worth of dust layering glass cases, old wooden chairs, and various machine parts combined with old-style sweets and classic beverages hit their noses and sent their minds sprawling back in time to those carefree days of childhood, making Wayne feel like an 8-year old again. It felt like it was just yesterday when he first stepped into Coney's antique trading post and general store, back when iPads were still a novelty and when summers were mostly spent playing baseball at the local park and chasing Gerald around whenever he got too excited.
"Hello boys!"
They turned around and an old man dressed down with a candy-cane striped shirt, a straw boater hat, and a neat purple bowtie smiled through his snowy mustache. A bamboo shepherd's cane rested on his white-gloved hands. It was almost as if he'd just appeared behind his desk like magic, while in reality he probably came from just behind the curtain leading to his office before they came in. Mr. Roger Coney was a close friend of Grandma Ruth, and would always supply the treats for bingo nights, all on the house.
"Where's your dad?"
"Oh, he's at bingo with Grandma."
"Really now? Gee whiz, look at you lil' cowboys, all grown up!" Roger let out a small chuckle and twinkled his mustache.
His quaint carnival barker charm allowed his shoppe to thrive even in the face of modern competition, offering an eclectic blend not found anywhere else in Knox. Plastic 20-oz soda and water bottles were stacked in a large vintage Coca-Cola machine, alternating with locally-brewed teas and soft drinks. Cheap convenience store necessities sat overlooking collector-quality knick-knacks and bottle caps, and in a far corner, Stacy Coney scrolled through Snapchat and Instagram while resting her feet on a neon bubbler jukebox playing Michael Jackson's greatest hits. Little alcoves of antique goods he'd get from here or there took up the main area, watched over by a sitting Plushtrap Chaser. Coming here was always a memorable and unique experience.
"Heh, Rusty hates that little thing," Mr. Coney chuckled, pointing at the greenish-yellow dwarf rabbit. "We keep him up there so he doesn't become that mutt's newest chew toy." As if on cue, with a loud BOOF, a shaggy Golden Retriever jumped out from a nearby corner and loped over to Wayne, panting and wagging his tail. "Heyy!!!" Wayne smooshed and petted Rusty as he reared up on his hind legs to lick at any bare skin he could find. "Easy boy! Easy! Wow, he's grown quite a bit!"
"Sure has, just like you! How've you been?"
Wayne continued making small talk while Rusty ambled over to his bed when Gerald tugged on his shirt. "I have to pee!" Wayne rolled his eyes while Mr. Coney pointed towards a vintage restroom sign hanging from the ceiling.
"So… what brings you here to ol' Roger Coney's, Duke?"
Wayne chuckled. His parents grew up with a love for the works of Marion M. Morrison and named their firstborn son after John Wayne, the Rooster of True Grit. He had to admit the Duke's confidence had rubbed off a bit on him, and it showed.
"Nothin' much, just hopin' we've learned something from yesterday."
"Tomorrow is the most important thing in life, especially for a buckaroo like yourself!" Mr. Coney then leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "Spendin' gramma's bingo winnings today, aren't we?"
"$20 each!" Wayne smiled. His eyes scanned the vintage toys and dolls behind Mr. Coney, pausing a little at a smallish box inside a glass jar.
"Well pardner, how 'bout today I'll give you my"—Mr. Coney winked with a giggle—"special discount. Just in time too, I just got a big haul of vintage Fazbear merch I'm sure you'd like!"
…
Wayne passed by shelves of old toys, figurines, decorative vases, and vintage jewelry in various conditions ranging from mint to barely sellable. A still-sealed "Fiztime Popventures" comic stood next to a jar of random junk that was being sold as-is. A wall display of skeleton keys hung in front of a shelf of paperweights and music boxes, with the sign "HANDLE WITH CAUTION" standing guard over the area. Corona typewriters next to Victrola record players were proudly displayed in cases amidst shelves of books and old vinyl discs. Wayne even saw a shabby taxidermy jackalope, its fur having dried off in various patches, as well as a faded poster of Babe Ruth. An untrained eye might easily confuse expensive trash for ridiculously cheap treasure, of which, Wayne was certain, this store had plenty in both categories. He was sure that Mr. Coney knew exactly what he was selling and how to provide a fair price, but people didn't come here just to buy or sell vintage goods, they came here for the experience.
Wayne turned a corner and came face to face with a grinning bear face, which led him to double back in surprise to see the shell of an old Freddy Fazbear's head, which would probably have once concealed hidden animatronic mechanisms that made it come to life and entertain families. He entered a small alcove where various Fazbear Entertainment memorabilia were on display: plushies, prizes, posters, masks… there was even an old worn skee-ball game with a SOLD tag on it for the buyer to pick up later. Wayne took one look at the masks, and a devilish idea came to mind…
Gerald adjusted his shorts as he wandered the maze of toys and stuff that he neither recognized, nor cared about. He nearly ran right into Stacy, who had been making duck faces while holding her phone out in front of her to take selfies. "Front of the store's to your right, boy," she pointed, not even looking at Gerald.
"Um, I wasn't—"
"Yeah?" the teenager snipped. "They always get lost in this dump. If I have to deal with one more Karen bitch complaining to me for not babysitting the 'little angel'"—she drew the syllables out in the most viciously sarcastic tone she could muster—"I might as well just walk right out of this fucking place."
Gerald blinked incredulously, not even caring that he heard her swear in front of a child. He didn't remember Stacy always being this nasty… then again, there was a lot he didn't remember from that age.
He shrugged, and came to a small alcove full of merchandise from some old kid's place called Fazbear Pizza. His eyes wandered around and landed on a laundry basket full of stuffed animals. A gigantic Ziploc bag with an assortment of small matching plushies was marked with a $4 tag, and Gerald opened it up to look closely at the toys within. Two bears, one yellow with black eyes and one brown with blue eyes, mingled with a yellow bird with a bib reading "LET'S EAT!!!", a purple rabbit with a red bowtie, and a red toothy fox with a pirate's eyepatch. Gerald scooped the toys up in his arms and turned to leave—

"YARRRRRRRGH!!!!"

Gerald gave a loud squeal and fell upon his rear as the plushies scattered all over the floor. Someone with a fox mask like the ones hanging on the racks behind him was wheezing with laughter, grasping a nearby wall in an attempt to keep himself standing. His other hand gripped a cellphone, red light still flashing, unable to keep it steady as it fell to his side. Once he had recovered, the figure turned off his phone and pointed at Gerald.
"Oh my God, the look on your face!!!!"
Gerald looked peeved and grimaced. "WAYNE! It's not FUNNY!!!"
"Hahaha, it is funny, oh wow you can't buy that kind of entertainment."
"You made me drop my plushies! That better not show up on Youtube, big bro!"
"Well you weren't supposed to take them out of the bag to begin with," Wayne chided, pointing at the discarded Ziploc.
"You'll pay for this!" Gerald noticed the remaining masks and grabbed one that looked like a brown bear.
"No, you'll pay for those," Wayne pointed at the plushies still on the floor, "as well as the Freddy mask, if you still want them. I'm paying for this," Wayne pointed at his own mask, now dangling off his hand.
"Whatever," Gerald rolled his eyes. "I want candy."
They brought the masks and plush toys, as well as other odds and ends of interest, to the front counter where Mr. Coney handled the register. Wayne pointed at various candies and drinks to purchase, and then pointed at the box in the display jar. "S'cuse me, but what's that?"
Mr. Coney looked a bit confused at where Wayne was pointing this time, but then noticed the box and gave a quick start. "Oh, this?" He carefully placed the jar on the counter and removed the glass, before turning the box in his gloved hands. It was a 4-inch cube made of a purplish wood they'd never seen before, inlaid with intricate golden designs on all six faces. "Purpleheart, quite rare indeed! Funny story, this just appeared on my doorstep one day without a note. I've tried finding out who sent it, and I've tried to track down its provenance. I still don't quite know where it came from, or who made it. Quite an oddity."
"What does it do?" inquired Wayne.
"Well…" Mr. Coney ran his fingers over one of the faces in a circular motion. The box made a series of clicking noises and was gently placed back upon the platform, upon which it slowly rotated, letting out a whimsical melody that sounded familiar, but at the same time altogether original and unrecognizable to any of them. Wayne felt chills run down his spine as the tune continued, soaking into his very nerves, and he began feeling light-headed as if he could weightlessly float off the ground any moment. The box stopped moving with a final click, the silence gently setting him down to earth once more. He turned to Gerald, who was blinking rapidly like he'd just woken up from a refreshing nap; he looked around, confused.
"Grandma would love this," Wayne mused.
Mr. Coney laughed and shook his head. "I thought so too, but when she heard that you two were coming, she said 'let the kids have their fun' and backed off. I insisted, but…" he leaned in and whispered, "she thought it'd suit you better. 'I'm too old for these; besides, it'd be theirs anyway once I bite it, so why wait?'"
"Okay," thought Wayne out loud. "How much?"
"$20. $15 if you say 'please'."
"NO. That's gotta be worth WAY more than just 20 bucks!"
"Bahhh," Mr. Coney waved them off. "Consider it my treat."
Wayne thought for a moment, then nodded. "Deal; may we get this box? Please?"
"Sure thing, Duke! Sure thing! It's yours! Always was!"
Wayne pressed the crosswalk button with a BEEP as he and his brother waited for the light to turn red and the little walk sign to flash. All in all, this had been a pretty good trip down to Coney's. One hand with a fresh cool bottle of that special sweet elixir, the other holding a Coney's reusable tote full of two masks, five plush toys, three six-packs of sarsaparilla bottles, a whole bunch of candies and some vintage Fazbear posters thrown in; the $40 Grandma Ruth gifted them for today's excursion barely covered the costs, Wayne leaving the shop with three quarters, two cents, and a dime in change from his original 20. He almost felt as if he'd ripped the poor old man off big time, but, well…
"She's a bitch," Gerald quietly complained.
Wayne spat sarsaparilla into the bottle and coughed profusely before whipping his head around in shock, hissing, "WHO TOLD YOU THAT WORD?? DID HARVEY CALL YOU THAT???"
"Stacy, from the shop," Gerald explained nonchalantly. "She's a bitch."
Wayne nearly dropped his bags all over the pavement as the crosswalk signal turned on, forcing them to cross the street in silence. When they were safe on the sidewalk on the other side, Wayne turned on his heels to scold his brother, face as red as the Foxy mask atop the tote.
"You're not supposed to call people that!"
"But she iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!!"
"I know that! What did she say to you??"
"She said she'd leave her"—Gerald silently mouthed the word "fucking"—"job next time she saw a Karen"—he mouthed "bitch."
Wayne considered this, then shrugged and nodded. He had seen firsthand how rude and toxic retail customers could be. Stacy had a point, but still, she didn't really win any points in the "kid-friendly" department in his eyes.
"Let's-let's just head back to Grandma's 'k? This stuff's pretty heavy, and they're probably expecting us. C'mon!"
Going back home to the suburbs of Louisville was ALWAYS the boring part, thought Wayne. Over the droning of the tires on asphalt and the sounds of SSBU on the Switch his brother was currently preoccupied with, Wayne stared off into the wind farm at the distance, watching the turbines lazily spinning in the steady breeze. Quickly getting bored with this, he turned his attention to their haul from their trip to grandma's. He reached into his bag and pulled out the music box from Coney's. He realized he hadn't had the chance to take a closer look before, having forgotten all about it in the hustle and bustle of packing up for the trip home.
He was surprised at how heavy the box was, almost as if he was holding onto a concrete brick the size of a large orange or a small grapefruit. He remembered it feeling much lighter when they bought it, unless that was just his imagination. Cautiously, he began turning the cube around in his hands, inspecting every side. Each of the 6 sides was dominated by a central golden ring set on a hard wood with a rich purple hue that gave off a weird fragrance he couldn't place. Quarter-slices of smaller circles supported the larger rings from each of the 24 corners, each containing odd glyphs made of lines and dots in no recognizable arrangement. Outside these, the wood was flecked with bits of gold that almost reminded Wayne of party confetti.
He closely examined the top side, the one the shop owner had turned to make the box play its tune. A central disc of heavily tarnished brass lay embedded in a reddish-brown background, ringed by a braided border atop which various rabbits leapt, one after the other in a cycle. Wayne was about to make a mental note to probably have it cleaned up when he spotted something familiar. He paused and took a closer look at the cube, glancing it over and trying to figure out what he had seen. Then he found the pattern. A set of seven marks just off-center, an irregular trapezoidal shape cut in half by a line of three dots.
Orion the Hunter.
When he scanned over the remaining discolorations and pits, he realized that he was looking at a very deliberate design of the night sky, except inverted. He saw that the discolored arc crossing the dial and grazing the center was the Milky Way, and turned around the box to inspect the bottom. It was basically the same, except now the rabbits were facing the opposite direction, and the dots were arranged differently. Wayne recognized the Big Dipper, and traced its rightmost stars to find the North Star, only… that star was not at all centered on the map. He vaguely remembered reading about how the Earth's axis would shift positions over the millenia and that Polaris wasn't always the North Star. He would have to show this to his science teacher and ask what he thought.
Wayne examined the side faces, and was met with three rabbits running in a knotwork circle, its strands now inscribed with words in a language he did not recognize. These rabbits were far more intricately crafted than the ones on the top face, and he was impressed at the level of accuracy and detail put into each of their realistic features. He could almost see the little golden legs galloping within the words. It was like watching Cosmo the hamster running in his wheel until he tired itself out and would be spun around before being ejected onto the bedding below.
The boy absentmindedly began counting various body parts: six forelegs, six hind legs, three tails, three eyes, three noses, three ears. Wait... three ears? Rabbits have two ears each, and there were three rabbits, so that meant six ears, right? Wayne looked at the design again and chuckled to himself; there were only three ears, arranged in a perfect triangle in the center and each was double-ended. Each rabbit took two ears each, and any two rabbits shared at least one identical ear. It was an impressive illusion; if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't give it a second glance.
The last two faces were the most interesting, both appearing to show a scene straight out of a nursery rhymes book. A golden horizon provided the backdrop of a joyful scene with silhouetted children frolicking with balloons and party hats while carnival rides ran in the distant background. The skies were peppered in cute elements such as teddy bears, candies, and balloons, watched over by a smiling sun on one side, and a sleeping crescent moon on the other. Dominating the scene was a figure who virtually split the tableau down in half. It looked like a cartoon rabbit doing a jig, a golden silhouette that grabbed the viewer's attention. The top of the torso seemed unusually notched and thinned out, but when Wayne examined the grain more carefully, he realized that this was supposed to signify a purple vest with golden stars worn by the rabbit man. An impressive usage of negative space to add mesmerizing levels of detail to such a scene.
Turning his attention back to the top of the cube, Wayne searched the star map for a button or notch he was supposed to place his finger on. Finding none, he placed his fingertip on the Milky Way and turned it with a buzzing series of clicks and not much resistance. The map slowly turned and that same unfamiliar tune began to play, inaudible to everyone but him. He found himself looking at the festive happy scenes on the sides as the tune began to morph into circus music. The sounds of games, rides, chimes, playing and laughing children filled his ears as he took in the kaleidoscope of colors and the smells of cotton candy, hot dogs, and pizza. And up ahead, the yellow bunny mascot was dancing in front of Wayne, to tremendous applause as he got shoved again and again by children wanting to get a closer look…
"WAYNE" smack "WAYNE" smack. Wayne jerked backward in his seat as if he'd caught himself from falling over as Gerald began hitting him with the joycon. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the strap from his brother's hand, annoyed.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT." Wayne barked out.
"The Switch is dead! Where's the charger?" Sure enough, Gerald was waving a now-blank screen petulantly to grab Wayne's attention.
"Oh! Uh..." he dug into the bag for the battery and cable before handing everything back to his brother. "Y'know you could have just said something, bro!"
"But I did!" whined Gerald as he connected the USB to the console.
"Well you didn't have to hit me! Careful with those joycons," admonished Wayne. Gerald spit a raspberry in response, and went back to booting up the Switch.
Wayne stared at the now-still cube in his lap, and three eyes stared back at him from the running hares. Had he fallen asleep? Was that a dream? Or a memory? He didn't feel sleepy, but that scene felt so real, as if he was actually there. Had the others seen it, felt it too? Dad was still driving, Mom was hooking up the cable to the car outlet with a tired "Gerald, don't hit your brother," and of course Gerald was trying once again to turn on his games. Slowly, Wayne placed the box back in his bag and zipped it shut, out of sight, before taking out his phone.
Perhaps some music would take his mind off things.

"Are we there yet???" wailed Gerald at the backseat of the van.
"Not for another two hours, son," came his dad's reply from the passenger seat.
"But I'm hungry now!"
"We'll get dinner when we get there, okay?"
Gerald sulked and plugged his earbuds back in to resume playing Subway Surfers. He quickly grew bored and roughly poked his seatmate. "This is boring, I want to play the Switch."
"Not now, bro, I'm almost done with this boss fight!" Wayne sipped on a soda from a cupholder between them as he fended off his brother's hands.
"MOM, WAYNE WON'T SHARE THE SWITCH"
"Just wait a little bit, Ger! Sheesh, whoa! That was close!"
On the screen, Link was running through knee-deep water as he fought a two-armed demon with a glowing blue spear, as Gerald craned his neck over to see. "Waterblight Ganon?"
"Yeah, now lemme concentrate."
Waterblight Ganon raised his free hand and hung from midair as the arena filled up with water, four blocks now jutting out from the surface. Link blasted away at the beast as Wayne's fingers flew over the joycons, landing hit after hit on the creature. Suddenly, it began glowing and writhing in midair before some dark ichor bled out of it before it exploded in a blast of purple light. Wayne waited until the victory cutscene finished before seizing a gold-and-red jeweled heart and quicksaving his slot on Breath of the Wild. He handed the Switch to his brother, snarling "don't mess up my saves."
Wayne Briggs wasn't exactly who you would call a "gamer," but who could say no to a preloaded Nintendo Switch on his 14th birthday? His brother, who was half his age and attended third grade school, was more into Pokemon, as evidenced by his many save files on Sun & Moon. They spent most of their time outside of school being little brats to their hard-working American parents, who weren't exactly rich, but secure and comfortable enough. Still, there was only so much to do in Midwest suburbia before everything wasn't much fun anymore. So, in their infinite wisdom and common sense, their parents decided that the boys needed a change of scenery the moment school was out for summer.
The original plan was to take a road trip to Kings Island, where the kids could drain their allowance on cheap carnival toys, get some great pictures off the replica Eiffel Tower, and eat to their heart's content before throwing it all up after one too many rides on the Banshee and the Firehawk, only to gorge themselves all over again. Unfortunately, Dad's accounting firm wasn't doing too well this year and, while Dad was lucky enough to avoid the cutting block, the purse strings were obviously tighter and it showed. The kids had to settle with a road trip twice as long down to small-town America, where blue lakes, thriving forests, and their favorite parts of the trip: a plate of Grandma's freshly-baked cookies washed down with a bottle of the finest sarsaparilla of Knox, Indiana.
Wayne felt a small thump by his feet, looked over, and bent down to grab the plastic ball containing Cosmo, their pet hamster, who skittered around his own vehicle soundlessly. "Relax, Cos, it's only going to be a few days, alright?" The hamster offered nothing in response save for sniffing the air around it. Wayne uncrossed his legs and placed the ball in his lap, hands and arms securing it in place as he stared out the window, gazing across the Indianapolis skyline as the sun beamed down upon the interstate.
"Well bless your pretty hearts, you sure are early! Dinner should be done real soon!"
"Grandma Ruth!!!" Gerald ran to hug his grandmother, wrapping his arms around her "KISS THE CHEF" apron. Wayne hefted some of the bags over the threshold as he took off his shoes and trudged upstairs while Ruth Kelsey hugged and kissed both parents. Even at her advanced age, she was still strong and spry like an old jackrabbit, and though she missed her husband dearly, she found support and solace in her friends. Everyone knew everyone in her neighborhood, the picture of the good ol' days.
Gerald rushed over to the kitchen, pausing to take in the sweet smells of freshly-cooked turkey and pie, while their favorite chocolate chip cookies continued to bake in the oven. Sure, their mom was no slouch herself when it came to preparing dinner, but Grandma's home-cooked meals were legendary throughout her community, and she'd taught her daughter well. The little brother opened up the fridge, searching for those extra-chilly glass bottles of the local sarsaparilla you couldn't get anywhere else.
"Oh," Grandma mumbled apologetically. "I only got the Dollar General sodas, I had to use the good stuff last bingo night."
Gerald pouted and took out two chilled cans of A&W before closing the fridge and going upstairs to break the news to Wayne and get him his consolation prize. He sighed, took the sodas, then got himself and Gerald ready for dinner.
After saying grace, the Briggs and Grandma Ruth dug into their mini-Thanksgiving meal of honey-glazed ham, smoked bacon, apple pie, and of course roast turkey. The smell of chocolate chip cookies wafted from the oven, playing with the kids' noses and leaving their mouths watering despite their already-delicious meal. As the adults went on with their idle chit-chat, catching up on life in Knox, how things were going on at Dad's work, and how Mom mustn't be feeding her kids well enough by Ruth's standards, Gerald flashed a smile and waved his phone at Wayne, who was preoccupied with his own Internet searching, checking the hours for the local tourist traps: Starke County Museum, Melody Drive-in Theater, Coney's Antiques, and so forth. He glanced at his brother's high score on Subway Surfers, shot a quick smile and a thumbs-up before gesturing at his screen and holding up his finger in a "wait" gesture. Gerald strolled over to crane his neck at the screen, only to be met with a list of hours.
"I wanna watch Captain Underpants!!!"
"Yeah I know, I know, I'm just trying to find a good time for Mom to take us."
The plan was to spend five nights max at Grandmas, visiting what was there to see, enjoy, and dine at. Things like this needed planning.
"Aw shoot," Wayne frowned. "4:30's all sold out, would you be game for 7?"
"Phones on the table," admonished Mom, holding her hand out. "Mom, is it ok if we hit Melody's at 7 instead of 4:30? Tickets for Captain Underpants were all sold out." He handed the phone over to Mom who glanced at the times, and nodded her head before motioning for Gerald's. He grimaced, but obliged, and just in time too.
"Who wants cookies?"
Wayne and Gerald gave off choruses of "ME ME ME" as Grandma doled out fresh cookies after switching out the dirty plates. They quickly forgot about everything else and ate up their cookies greedily, savoring the hot chocolate chips embedded within the chewy dough. Their minds drifted away to how much fun they'd be having this summer trip.
Knox's finest local drinks could wait for another day.
Mr. and Mrs. Briggs typically enjoyed Bingo Sunday just as much as Grandma Ruth, because it gave them a chance to catch up with local news and old friends. The kids, clearly, did not share this opinion. Back in the day, their dad would drop off Mom and Grandma at the Community Center then go take the kids somewhere fun, but this time, Wayne would be taking Gerald around the town by themselves, as long as they stuck together and didn't wander too far. "They're big kids, and it's past time Wayne learned real responsibility," Grandma insisted, handing each of them $20 in cash and a gift card to the nearby PizzaPlex. "And tell Roger I said howdy!" Grandma called out to them, winking then blowing a kiss in their direction, causing Gerald to grimace in exaggerated disgust.
Of course, kids being kids, they maxed out the gift card pretty quickly at the PizzaPlex arcades and feasted on some semi-decent pepperoni pizza and Coke. Once they got bored with the garish restaurant, they still had an hour left to go before having to head back to the community center to take Grandma home.
"I know where to go, Wayne! Let's hit up Coney's!!!"
Coney's was one of the last strongholds of mom-and-pop business, becoming a popular tourist attraction of Knox in and of itself. Rumor had it you could find just about anything you needed there, and even if you didn't, anyone who visited could agree that it was well worth the trip. In other words, it was the perfect way to kill that last hour of fun time. Before they knew it, they were at that vintage red door under the threshold leading to a world of fun.
"Couldn't agree more. Shall we?"
...
As Wayne and Gerald entered the shoppe, the tinkling cowbell and the musty odors of decades' worth of dust layering glass cases, old wooden chairs, and various machine parts combined with old-style sweets and classic beverages hit their noses and sent their minds sprawling back in time to those carefree days of childhood, making Wayne feel like an 8-year old again. It felt like it was just yesterday when he first stepped into Coney's antique trading post and general store, back when iPads were still a novelty and when summers were mostly spent playing baseball at the local park and chasing Gerald around whenever he got too excited.
"Hello boys!"
They turned around and an old man dressed down with a candy-cane striped shirt, a straw boater hat, and a neat purple bowtie smiled through his snowy mustache. A bamboo shepherd's cane rested on his white-gloved hands. It was almost as if he'd just appeared behind his desk like magic, while in reality he probably came from just behind the curtain leading to his office before they came in. Mr. Roger Coney was a close friend of Grandma Ruth, and would always supply the treats for bingo nights, all on the house.
"Where's your dad?"
"Oh, he's at bingo with Grandma."
"Really now? Gee whiz, look at you lil' cowboys, all grown up!" Roger let out a small chuckle and twinkled his mustache.
His quaint carnival barker charm allowed his shoppe to thrive even in the face of modern competition, offering an eclectic blend not found anywhere else in Knox. Plastic 20-oz soda and water bottles were stacked in a large vintage Coca-Cola machine, alternating with locally-brewed teas and soft drinks. Cheap convenience store necessities sat overlooking collector-quality knick-knacks and bottle caps, and in a far corner, Stacy Coney scrolled through Snapchat and Instagram while resting her feet on a neon bubbler jukebox playing Michael Jackson's greatest hits. Little alcoves of antique goods he'd get from here or there took up the main area, watched over by a sitting Plushtrap Chaser. Coming here was always a memorable and unique experience.
"Heh, Rusty hates that little thing," Mr. Coney chuckled, pointing at the greenish-yellow dwarf rabbit. "We keep him up there so he doesn't become that mutt's newest chew toy." As if on cue, with a loud BOOF, a shaggy Golden Retriever jumped out from a nearby corner and loped over to Wayne, panting and wagging his tail. "Heyy!!!" Wayne smooshed and petted Rusty as he reared up on his hind legs to lick at any bare skin he could find. "Easy boy! Easy! Wow, he's grown quite a bit!"
"Sure has, just like you! How've you been?"
Wayne continued making small talk while Rusty ambled over to his bed when Gerald tugged on his shirt. "I have to pee!" Wayne rolled his eyes while Mr. Coney pointed towards a vintage restroom sign hanging from the ceiling.
"So… what brings you here to ol' Roger Coney's, Duke?"
Wayne chuckled. His parents grew up with a love for the works of Marion M. Morrison and named their firstborn son after John Wayne, the Rooster of True Grit. He had to admit the Duke's confidence had rubbed off a bit on him, and it showed.
"Nothin' much, just hopin' we've learned something from yesterday."
"Tomorrow is the most important thing in life, especially for a buckaroo like yourself!" Mr. Coney then leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "Spendin' gramma's bingo winnings today, aren't we?"
"$20 each!" Wayne smiled. His eyes scanned the vintage toys and dolls behind Mr. Coney, pausing a little at a smallish box inside a glass jar.
"Well pardner, how 'bout today I'll give you my"—Mr. Coney winked with a giggle—"special discount. Just in time too, I just got a big haul of vintage Fazbear merch I'm sure you'd like!"
…
Wayne passed by shelves of old toys, figurines, decorative vases, and vintage jewelry in various conditions ranging from mint to barely sellable. A still-sealed "Fiztime Popventures" comic stood next to a jar of random junk that was being sold as-is. A wall display of skeleton keys hung in front of a shelf of paperweights and music boxes, with the sign "HANDLE WITH CAUTION" standing guard over the area. Corona typewriters next to Victrola record players were proudly displayed in cases amidst shelves of books and old vinyl discs. Wayne even saw a shabby taxidermy jackalope, its fur having dried off in various patches, as well as a faded poster of Babe Ruth. An untrained eye might easily confuse expensive trash for ridiculously cheap treasure, of which, Wayne was certain, this store had plenty in both categories. He was sure that Mr. Coney knew exactly what he was selling and how to provide a fair price, but people didn't come here just to buy or sell vintage goods, they came here for the experience.
Wayne turned a corner and came face to face with a grinning bear face, which led him to double back in surprise to see the shell of an old Freddy Fazbear's head, which would probably have once concealed hidden animatronic mechanisms that made it come to life and entertain families. He entered a small alcove where various Fazbear Entertainment memorabilia were on display: plushies, prizes, posters, masks… there was even an old worn skee-ball game with a SOLD tag on it for the buyer to pick up later. Wayne took one look at the masks, and a devilish idea came to mind…
Gerald adjusted his shorts as he wandered the maze of toys and stuff that he neither recognized, nor cared about. He nearly ran right into Stacy, who had been making duck faces while holding her phone out in front of her to take selfies. "Front of the store's to your right, boy," she pointed, not even looking at Gerald.
"Um, I wasn't—"
"Yeah?" the teenager snipped. "They always get lost in this dump. If I have to deal with one more Karen bitch complaining to me for not babysitting the 'little angel'"—she drew the syllables out in the most viciously sarcastic tone she could muster—"I might as well just walk right out of this fucking place."
Gerald blinked incredulously, not even caring that he heard her swear in front of a child. He didn't remember Stacy always being this nasty… then again, there was a lot he didn't remember from that age.
He shrugged, and came to a small alcove full of merchandise from some old kid's place called Fazbear Pizza. His eyes wandered around and landed on a laundry basket full of stuffed animals. A gigantic Ziploc bag with an assortment of small matching plushies was marked with a $4 tag, and Gerald opened it up to look closely at the toys within. Two bears, one yellow with black eyes and one brown with blue eyes, mingled with a yellow bird with a bib reading "LET'S EAT!!!", a purple rabbit with a red bowtie, and a red toothy fox with a pirate's eyepatch. Gerald scooped the toys up in his arms and turned to leave—

"YARRRRRRRGH!!!!"

Gerald gave a loud squeal and fell upon his rear as the plushies scattered all over the floor. Someone with a fox mask like the ones hanging on the racks behind him was wheezing with laughter, grasping a nearby wall in an attempt to keep himself standing. His other hand gripped a cellphone, red light still flashing, unable to keep it steady as it fell to his side. Once he had recovered, the figure turned off his phone and pointed at Gerald.
"Oh my God, the look on your face!!!!"
Gerald looked peeved and grimaced. "WAYNE! It's not FUNNY!!!"
"Hahaha, it is funny, oh wow you can't buy that kind of entertainment."
"You made me drop my plushies! That better not show up on Youtube, big bro!"
"Well you weren't supposed to take them out of the bag to begin with," Wayne chided, pointing at the discarded Ziploc.
"You'll pay for this!" Gerald noticed the remaining masks and grabbed one that looked like a brown bear.
"No, you'll pay for those," Wayne pointed at the plushies still on the floor, "as well as the Freddy mask, if you still want them. I'm paying for this," Wayne pointed at his own mask, now dangling off his hand.
"Whatever," Gerald rolled his eyes. "I want candy."
They brought the masks and plush toys, as well as other odds and ends of interest, to the front counter where Mr. Coney handled the register. Wayne pointed at various candies and drinks to purchase, and then pointed at the box in the display jar. "S'cuse me, but what's that?"
Mr. Coney looked a bit confused at where Wayne was pointing this time, but then noticed the box and gave a quick start. "Oh, this?" He carefully placed the jar on the counter and removed the glass, before turning the box in his gloved hands. It was a 4-inch cube made of a purplish wood they'd never seen before, inlaid with intricate golden designs on all six faces. "Purpleheart, quite rare indeed! Funny story, this just appeared on my doorstep one day without a note. I've tried finding out who sent it, and I've tried to track down its provenance. I still don't quite know where it came from, or who made it. Quite an oddity."
"What does it do?" inquired Wayne.
"Well…" Mr. Coney ran his fingers over one of the faces in a circular motion. The box made a series of clicking noises and was gently placed back upon the platform, upon which it slowly rotated, letting out a whimsical melody that sounded familiar, but at the same time altogether original and unrecognizable to any of them. Wayne felt chills run down his spine as the tune continued, soaking into his very nerves, and he began feeling light-headed as if he could weightlessly float off the ground any moment. The box stopped moving with a final click, the silence gently setting him down to earth once more. He turned to Gerald, who was blinking rapidly like he'd just woken up from a refreshing nap; he looked around, confused.
"Grandma would love this," Wayne mused.
Mr. Coney laughed and shook his head. "I thought so too, but when she heard that you two were coming, she said 'let the kids have their fun' and backed off. I insisted, but…" he leaned in and whispered, "she thought it'd suit you better. 'I'm too old for these; besides, it'd be theirs anyway once I bite it, so why wait?'"
"Okay," thought Wayne out loud. "How much?"
"$20. $15 if you say 'please'."
"NO. That's gotta be worth WAY more than just 20 bucks!"
"Bahhh," Mr. Coney waved them off. "Consider it my treat."
Wayne thought for a moment, then nodded. "Deal; may we get this box? Please?"
"Sure thing, Duke! Sure thing! It's yours! Always was!"
Wayne pressed the crosswalk button with a BEEP as he and his brother waited for the light to turn red and the little walk sign to flash. All in all, this had been a pretty good trip down to Coney's. One hand with a fresh cool bottle of that special sweet elixir, the other holding a Coney's reusable tote full of two masks, five plush toys, three six-packs of sarsaparilla bottles, a whole bunch of candies and some vintage Fazbear posters thrown in; the $40 Grandma Ruth gifted them for today's excursion barely covered the costs, Wayne leaving the shop with three quarters, two cents, and a dime in change from his original 20. He almost felt as if he'd ripped the poor old man off big time, but, well…
"She's a bitch," Gerald quietly complained.
Wayne spat sarsaparilla into the bottle and coughed profusely before whipping his head around in shock, hissing, "WHO TOLD YOU THAT WORD?? DID HARVEY CALL YOU THAT???"
"Stacy, from the shop," Gerald explained nonchalantly. "She's a bitch."
Wayne nearly dropped his bags all over the pavement as the crosswalk signal turned on, forcing them to cross the street in silence. When they were safe on the sidewalk on the other side, Wayne turned on his heels to scold his brother, face as red as the Foxy mask atop the tote.
"You're not supposed to call people that!"
"But she iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!!"
"I know that! What did she say to you??"
"She said she'd leave her"—Gerald silently mouthed the word "fucking"—"job next time she saw a Karen"—he mouthed "bitch."
Wayne considered this, then shrugged and nodded. He had seen firsthand how rude and toxic retail customers could be. Stacy had a point, but still, she didn't really win any points in the "kid-friendly" department in his eyes.
"Let's-let's just head back to Grandma's 'k? This stuff's pretty heavy, and they're probably expecting us. C'mon!"
Going back home to the suburbs of Louisville was ALWAYS the boring part, thought Wayne. Over the droning of the tires on asphalt and the sounds of SSBU on the Switch his brother was currently preoccupied with, Wayne stared off into the wind farm at the distance, watching the turbines lazily spinning in the steady breeze. Quickly getting bored with this, he turned his attention to their haul from their trip to grandma's. He reached into his bag and pulled out the music box from Coney's. He realized he hadn't had the chance to take a closer look before, having forgotten all about it in the hustle and bustle of packing up for the trip home.
He was surprised at how heavy the box was, almost as if he was holding onto a concrete brick the size of a large orange or a small grapefruit. He remembered it feeling much lighter when they bought it, unless that was just his imagination. Cautiously, he began turning the cube around in his hands, inspecting every side. Each of the 6 sides was dominated by a central golden ring set on a hard wood with a rich purple hue that gave off a weird fragrance he couldn't place. Quarter-slices of smaller circles supported the larger rings from each of the 24 corners, each containing odd glyphs made of lines and dots in no recognizable arrangement. Outside these, the wood was flecked with bits of gold that almost reminded Wayne of party confetti.
He closely examined the top side, the one the shop owner had turned to make the box play its tune. A central disc of heavily tarnished brass lay embedded in a reddish-brown background, ringed by a braided border atop which various rabbits leapt, one after the other in a cycle. Wayne was about to make a mental note to probably have it cleaned up when he spotted something familiar. He paused and took a closer look at the cube, glancing it over and trying to figure out what he had seen. Then he found the pattern. A set of seven marks just off-center, an irregular trapezoidal shape cut in half by a line of three dots.
Orion the Hunter.
When he scanned over the remaining discolorations and pits, he realized that he was looking at a very deliberate design of the night sky, except inverted. He saw that the discolored arc crossing the dial and grazing the center was the Milky Way, and turned around the box to inspect the bottom. It was basically the same, except now the rabbits were facing the opposite direction, and the dots were arranged differently. Wayne recognized the Big Dipper, and traced its rightmost stars to find the North Star, only… that star was not at all centered on the map. He vaguely remembered reading about how the Earth's axis would shift positions over the millenia and that Polaris wasn't always the North Star. He would have to show this to his science teacher and ask what he thought.
Wayne examined the side faces, and was met with three rabbits running in a knotwork circle, its strands now inscribed with words in a language he did not recognize. These rabbits were far more intricately crafted than the ones on the top face, and he was impressed at the level of accuracy and detail put into each of their realistic features. He could almost see the little golden legs galloping within the words. It was like watching Cosmo the hamster running in his wheel until he tired itself out and would be spun around before being ejected onto the bedding below.
The boy absentmindedly began counting various body parts: six forelegs, six hind legs, three tails, three eyes, three noses, three ears. Wait... three ears? Rabbits have two ears each, and there were three rabbits, so that meant six ears, right? Wayne looked at the design again and chuckled to himself; there were only three ears, arranged in a perfect triangle in the center and each was double-ended. Each rabbit took two ears each, and any two rabbits shared at least one identical ear. It was an impressive illusion; if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't give it a second glance.
The last two faces were the most interesting, both appearing to show a scene straight out of a nursery rhymes book. A golden horizon provided the backdrop of a joyful scene with silhouetted children frolicking with balloons and party hats while carnival rides ran in the distant background. The skies were peppered in cute elements such as teddy bears, candies, and balloons, watched over by a smiling sun on one side, and a sleeping crescent moon on the other. Dominating the scene was a figure who virtually split the tableau down in half. It looked like a cartoon rabbit doing a jig, a golden silhouette that grabbed the viewer's attention. The top of the torso seemed unusually notched and thinned out, but when Wayne examined the grain more carefully, he realized that this was supposed to signify a purple vest with golden stars worn by the rabbit man. An impressive usage of negative space to add mesmerizing levels of detail to such a scene.
Turning his attention back to the top of the cube, Wayne searched the star map for a button or notch he was supposed to place his finger on. Finding none, he placed his fingertip on the Milky Way and turned it with a buzzing series of clicks and not much resistance. The map slowly turned and that same unfamiliar tune began to play, inaudible to everyone but him. He found himself looking at the festive happy scenes on the sides as the tune began to morph into circus music. The sounds of games, rides, chimes, playing and laughing children filled his ears as he took in the kaleidoscope of colors and the smells of cotton candy, hot dogs, and pizza. And up ahead, the yellow bunny mascot was dancing in front of Wayne, to tremendous applause as he got shoved again and again by children wanting to get a closer look…
"WAYNE" smack "WAYNE" smack. Wayne jerked backward in his seat as if he'd caught himself from falling over as Gerald began hitting him with the joycon. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the strap from his brother's hand, annoyed.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT." Wayne barked out.
"The Switch is dead! Where's the charger?" Sure enough, Gerald was waving a now-blank screen petulantly to grab Wayne's attention.
"Oh! Uh..." he dug into the bag for the battery and cable before handing everything back to his brother. "Y'know you could have just said something, bro!"
"But I did!" whined Gerald as he connected the USB to the console.
"Well you didn't have to hit me! Careful with those joycons," admonished Wayne. Gerald spit a raspberry in response, and went back to booting up the Switch.
Wayne stared at the now-still cube in his lap, and three eyes stared back at him from the running hares. Had he fallen asleep? Was that a dream? Or a memory? He didn't feel sleepy, but that scene felt so real, as if he was actually there. Had the others seen it, felt it too? Dad was still driving, Mom was hooking up the cable to the car outlet with a tired "Gerald, don't hit your brother," and of course Gerald was trying once again to turn on his games. Slowly, Wayne placed the box back in his bag and zipped it shut, out of sight, before taking out his phone.
Perhaps some music would take his mind off things.