The Volunteer
by David Rogers
On Friday morning, Joe heard the music, an unearthly melody of flute
and what sounded like wind chimes, just before he saw the strange
woman. She stood beside the mail box, the big blue metal kind no one
used any more, on the street corner. She looked at him as if she were
about to speak.
The woman had long brown hair, pulled back in a pony tail, and wore a
colorful vest over a green tee-shirt. Her blue jeans and white athletic
shoes looked ordinary. Her eyes were different colors--the left an
emerald green, the right a bright sky blue. And the vest--that was
curious, too, Joe realized later. It was black with a pattern of red
and white spirals and triangles.
Captivated, Joe listened for what she might say, but his view was
blocked by a dog walker with an incongruous trio of mutts--standard
poodle, chihuahua, and golden retriever--on tangled leashes. By the
time the canine circus had passed, the woman was gone, a cloud of
exhaust from the passing bus where she had stood. It was as if she had
somehow boarded the bus, though it had not stopped. The music had faded
away as quickly as the smell of diesel smoke.
He thought about her the rest of the morning. Not until lunchtime did
he reflect how odd it was for strangers in the city to acknowledge each
other's existence as they had. He could still envision the freckles on
the nose of the woman in the vest, but he could not even remember for
certain what the dogwalker had looked like.
The afternoon at his desk at the bank dragged on. Email, accounts
balanced, trips to the break room for coffee, small talk with
coworkers. Home to his apartment where his cat greeted him with her
usual purrs of hungry enthusiasm. He fell asleep after supper, reading
an article in Scientific American while sitcoms droned quietly
on the television.
*****
He saw her again the following Tuesday. She sat beside a battered
shopping cart. She looked like a homeless person, so the common
reaction was to ignore her, to step around if necessary but otherwise
act as if she were invisible. But the eyes were the same, blue and
green, and the features, the triangular face, high cheekbones smudged
with dirt now, lips chapped from exposure to constant cold but still
the red of rubies, the hair tangled and dirty but still the rich
chestnut brown. She wore the vest, the same pattern of red and white
spirals and triangles, and again she caught his eye and held it with
her own mesmerizing gaze.
This time he approached her easily, passersby steering automatically
past them as he entered her zone of invisibility. He had no idea what
to say to her or why he was even drawn to her.
“I have your instructions,” she said, when he stood beside her. She
looked up, still sitting on the sidewalk. An incongruous scent of
cloves surrounded her. A fat black pigeon waddled up to her foot and
pecked it, strangely confident.
Captivated by the intense look in her eyes, he hadn't noticed the
police officer. “Move it along, lady,” she said. “No panhandling on
this street. Unless you want to go to jail. The shelters are all full.”
“She's not panhandling,” Joe said, turning to the cop.
“Whatever she'd doing, she can do it somewhere else,” the officer said,
turning to look at Joe closely. “What business you have with her,
anyhow?” she added.
“None,” Joe said. “Nothing at all.”
The woman had sprung to her feet with remarkable alacrity and was
already pushing her cart around the corner. The cop walked the other
direction. By the time Joe reached the corner, there was no sign of the
woman, but a hint of cloves lingered in the air.
He realized his hands were trembling in anticipation.
*****
He saw her next on Thursday. A sense of deja vu came over him. The
homeless person sat on the sidewalk, leaning against the battered
shopping cart parked by the wall of Joe's office building.
The sense of familiarity shattered as he approached her, looking warily
about this time for police officers. The cop who walked up had the blue
and green eyes, triangular face, ruby lips, chestnut hair coiled neatly
into a law-enforcement appropriate braid beneath her hat.
“Move along, sir,” she said. “No panhandling here.”
The old man sitting on the sidewalk rose awkwardly to his feet and
shambled off, one wheel of his cart skidding and squeaking.
The police officer turned to Joe. “I catch on, you see. The way to not
be harassed or even questioned by authorities is to assume the
appearance of authority yourself.” She reached into her shirt pocket as
she spoke, extracting a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. He noticed
the tiny, intricate pattern of red and white spirals and triangles
painted on her nails.
“Come with me,” she said.
He went.
The smell of cloves was very strong.
They walked across the street at the corner. The sign said Thirteenth
Avenue. He waited beside her until the light changed, glancing at her
and then away a couple of times before they walked. She seemed to stare
straight ahead, though the dark glasses made it hard to tell. She
crossed the street in long strides. He hurried to keep up.
“This way,” she said, turning down an alley beside the department store
halfway down the block. At the end of the alley was a gray metal door
that said Do Not Enter. Without hesitation, she opened the door and
went into the store.
She went to the escalator in the middle of the store and stepped aboard
the bottom and stood still as the ground floor fell away behind them.
Joe was right behind her.
At the top, they stepped off, and Joe experienced the minor, yet
bizarre, disorientation he always felt when he abruptly had to begin
using his legs after standing still on the moving steps. He glanced
around. They were in the lingerie department. Joe felt completely out
of place, and in her police officer's uniform, still wearing the dark
glasses, the woman seemed to belong little more than he. But she strode
confidently past the racks of garments, lacy and otherwise, past the
counter where a distracted salesperson tried to sort a basket of
tangled hangers, and into the fitting room along the back wall. She
pushed the door open and stepped in. Joe stopped just outside.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she said, holding the door. “Come on.”
Joe went.
The woman stepped into the mirror and disappeared.
Joe blinked, turned, saw only the door, the small bench, the bland
beige walls, and his own reflection in the mirror.
The woman's dark-sleeved arm reached through the mirror and pulled him
in. Joe found himself in a hallway, brick walls and a concrete floor.
Ten feet further on was another door with a sign that said Do Not
Enter, written on notebook paper and taped at eye-level.
The woman entered.
Joe still stood at the other end of the hallway, watching. He turned
and looked at the mirror they had just stepped through. It looked now
like the ordinary back of a mirror, not even the kind of glass that
reflects on one side and serves as a window from the other. He looked
ahead and saw the woman standing patiently, one hand on the knob of the
open door.
“You're like a vampire, aren't you?” she said.
“So what's the deal with the mirror? How can we just walk through it?”
he said.
“It's kind of like a black hole. Light and matter go in, but they don't
come out. At least, not the same way they went in. Like a black hole.
Except for the deadly radiation of exploding stars and mind-bending
gravity, of course.”
“If you say so. Now what's that about vampires?”
“You have to be invited in. You never come along without being told.”
“Right. Speaking of that, I don't really know why I'm following you in
the first place. Other than because you seemed . . . fascinating. So I
need some explanation before we go any further.”
“You're right. I'm fascinating. What more explanation could you ask
for?”
“Who are you? Where are you going? Why do you want me to come along?”
“Second question first. We're going through this door, into this room.
I'll tell you the rest in here. You're not afraid, are you?”
“No. Though perhaps I should be.” Joe followed her inside, and she shut
the door behind them. “What's your name?” he asked.
“I don't really have a name,” she said.
“Everyone has a name.”
She did not respond to this, so he said, “Well, what should I call you,
then?”
“You don't have to call me anything. But you can think of me as Nova,
if that makes it easier.”
He looked around. They were in a room dimly lit by a single overhead
bulb, walls about twelve feet by twelve, file cabinets along the left
wall, the other two walls covered with shelves. Those on the right were
filled with books, those on the side facing the door stacked high with
lenses, mirrors, prisms, and electronic devices Joe could not name. A
metal desk sat in the middle of the room.
The smell of cloves was stronger here, and an undercurrent of something
else. Not fear, exactly, but anticipation.
He looked behind him. On either side of the closed door were
mural-sized star charts. There were four maps, one for each cardinal
direction. He recognized the names of constellations and zig-zag lines
connecting the stars.
“Where are the other twelve maps?” he asked.
“What other twelve maps?” the woman said.
“Four for each season. Because the view changes as the Earth moves
around the Sun.”
“You just followed a strange woman who walked through a mirror. What
makes you think you are still on Earth?”
The woman took off her glasses, revealing the emerald and sky blue
eyes, colors strangely bright in the dim light.
“Well, what planet is this, then?”
She laughed. “Just kidding. This is Earth, all right. As for the other
seasons, you have to interpolate. Beside, those are mainly decoration.
We learn the constellations as part of the training.”
Joe waited for further explanation. The woman said nothing. Instead,
she flicked the mouse on the computer and stared at the screen when it
lit up.
Joe cleared his throat. “So, what's the deal? Why am I here? Why did
you ask me to follow you?”
She looked away from the screen, and blinked, as if she'd forgotten him.
“Yes, that.” She rolled her chair backward, turned and took something
from the shelf, and rolled forward again. Half-standing and leaning
over the desk, she handed Joe a bulky rectangular mechanism with a lens
at one end and a handle that protruded downward.
“You have to make a movie,” she said.
“What's this?” he said, looking at the small machine she'd just handed
him, her words not fully registering yet.
“It's a movie camera.” She went to the bottom shelf of books and
rummaged in a box that had been covered by heavy tomes. “I've got film
somewhere.” She pulled out two yellow and black boxes that said Kodak
Tri-X. “Here's a couple of boxes. Old, but they should be okay.”
*****
He turned the camera in his hands, feeling its weight and bulk. He
looked through what he assumed was a viewfinder lens. “A miracle of
1960s technology. Why are you giving it to me?”
“Not giving. Loaning.”
“Okay, but why?”
“I told you. You have to make a movie.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else. I'm no filmmaker. I
barely know how to use the camera on my phone.”
“Well, it's not a phone, is it? And you are exactly who you are
supposed to be, Joe Fields.”
“How do you know my name?”
“You told me.”
“Umm, no, I didn't.”
“Not yet. But you will.”
Unsure how to process her comments, he asked, “What kind of movie?”
“Some images of the graffiti in the old subway tunnels. Ones that are
no longer used. Or maybe they were never used for actual trains.”
“What for? Why would anybody want a movie of subway graffiti?”
“To save the world.”
“What, the whole thing? The entire planet?” He laughed.
She said nothing, only nodded solemnly.
“So what's the point? How will making a movie save anything?” Joe
asked, half expecting her to give a short answer and a profession of
ignorance when pressed for details.
Instead, she poured a glass of wine, lit a small cigar which she put in
an ashtray instead of smoking, and leaned back, arms crossed lightly
over her thighs.
“And why me? I'm nobody special,” Joe said.
“Only special people think that. Just read fantasy stories--you'll
see.”
“That's all it takes--thinking you're not special?”
“No, but it's one thing. It means you're an innocent.”
“You don't know me, or you wouldn't think--”
“That you're innocent? Innocence takes many forms. Or maybe you're
right,” she says, “you're not special. You're not even all that
innocent.”
“Then why--”
“Why did I choose you? Because you volunteered.”
“Er, no, I didn't volunteer for anything.”
“Did I hold a gun to your head? Make you come here?”
“No, but . . . “
“You noticed me. That was volunteering. That meant you were the one.”
“So what if I didn't notice you, or ran away? And why can't you make
the movie yourself?”
“It won't work if I do it. It has to be made by someone like you. The
volunteer. An innocent. A secondary meaning of innocence is
ignorance. The movie must be made by one who not only does not
know the true
purpose, but who knows that he does not know. But if not you, someone
else would have come along. Someone always does.”
“Well, I'm here, because you seemed interesting, but I haven't agreed
to go on any wild goose chases.”
“You want to know why you should make the movie. I'll answer that with
another question. Do you have anything better to do? You said you were
nobody special. Here's your chance to change that.”
“I do have something better to do. My job. I'm probably late back to
work now.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Time is different out there. But
work--is that all that gives your life meaning? Couldn't anyone do what
you do--open and close accounts, write reports, approve balance sheets,
process loan applications? What else matters to you?”
Joe opened and closed his mouth. The question how she knew so much
about him tickled the back of his mind. She googled me, that's all.
Anybody can find the basics on anybody now. He thought, too, about
the girlfriends that had come and gone, none of whom he missed very
much, Friday nights in bars, weekends when he tried to work on the
novel that was going nowhere.
“Actually, no. Not everybody can do my job. You have to have training.
I have a master's degree in finance, and a lot of experience. The
company trusts me. I've proven myself to be reliable and dependable.”
“Yes. Yes, you have. Good old reliable Joe. You can always count on him
to do the right thing.”
She saw the look on his face, and added, “I'm sorry. That sounded
sarcastic. Honesty and decency are not universal qualities, nor are
they to be scoffed at. In fact, it's one of the main reasons you were
chosen.”
“Chosen for what?”
“I told you. To make a movie.”
“Which brings us back to the question of why. Not just why me, but why
the movie needs to be made.”
“Your world is not real. Everything you see, hear, touch, taste,
smell--it's all an illusion. Or, more specifically, everything's an
illusion until it's perceived.”
“The world seems real enough to me. It all works just like reality.” He
rapped on the desk with his knuckles. “It looks real. Sounds real.
Feels real. A wise human once said, If it walks like a duck and quacks
like a duck, it's probably a duck.”
“Seeing and touching and so on are perceptions. They make things real.
And what do you know about reality? Just look at the philosophers and
physicists--the smartest people in the world, supposedly, and they
can't figure out what's really real. Plato though reality was an Idea.
Democritus thought reality was just a complex arrangement of atoms. And
as modern physics has figured out, reality may consist of many more
than the four dimensions you have access to in space-time, including
parallel or alternate universes.”
“Well, there are untested hypotheses, but no one’s proven alternate
universes actually exist.”
“Says the man who just walked through the mirror. But for most of human
history, all except the last couple of decades, over ninety percent of
the universe went unnoticed. The parts you just noticed are called dark
matter and dark energy, the names being little more than labels for
your ignorance.”
“My ignorance? I'm no physicist. I never claimed to know what dark
matter is.”
“Hence, your ignorance, which at least you reluctantly confess. So no
need to act so surprised when I say your world is an illusion. You've
no idea what's real, beyond your immediate experience. You're familiar
with the thought experiment known as Schrodinger's Cat?”
Joe nodded.
“Then there was the more obscure philosopher known as Bishop Berkeley,
who argued nothing is real except perceptions. Of course, being a
bishop as well as a philosopher, he had to spoil the argument by
nominating God as the Great Perceiver, who supposedly sustains reality
by keeping an eye on things when no one else can be bothered.”
“But I get hungry, and I eat,” Joe said. “The food makes me feel full.
I get thirsty, and the water quenches my thirst. If I step in front of
a bus or jump from the roof of a skyscraper, I'm confident I will die.
How can these things not be real? And the movie you want me to
make--what good is a movie of an illusion?”
“That may be the best question you've asked so far. Because your world
is in fact an elaborate movie set, nothing more. The food, the water,
the bus, the skyscraper--yes, of course, they are real in the way you
perceive them with your senses, but only in the way any movie prop is
solid, and reflects light, and seems to function as the real thing
would. Otherwise, skyscrapers and french fries would not be convincing
props, would they?”
“I guess not, but--”
“The actors,” she continued, “you, and ninety-nine percent of the rest
of the human race, have no idea that you are only actors in someone
else's story. The few who notice tend to be dismissed as lunatics, or
else they become physicists or philosophers or spiritual gurus or
writers of speculative fiction, so their rambling notions will be
mostly ignored, misunderstood, or taken as mere entertainment.”
“And what does this movie you want me to make online have to do with
everything being an illusion?”
“Don't you see? You’re not just an ordinary perceiver of reality.
You're the movie-maker, silly. Your movie--and your perceptions,
immortalized in film--will make it possible for everyone else to
perceive as well. You make the world real for others. What good is a
film set if no one shoots a movie on it?”
“Okay, I may not be a philosopher or a scientist, but I do know enough
to look for evidence to support the claims people make. And another
wise human once said, 'Extraordinary claims require extraordinary
evidence.' So what's your evidence that all this, what we call reality,
is just an illusion of sorts, a movie set? And who has been making the
movie up until now? I mean the rest of it? There's a whole universe--it
can't all be a set for the little bit of film I'm supposedly going to
shoot. Who's the director?”
She stared at him, and he wondered if he'd offended her. Then she
spoke, a little smile on her face.
“I can see why you were chosen. You do ask good questions. Maybe your
reality is not an illusion. It's not a movie set. It's all real. I just
made that up. You wanted an explanation, so I gave you one.”
“Then what, I ask again, is the point? And, maybe more importantly,
what's this all got to do with you, anymore than me?”
“I work for a Central American drug cartel. The images you will record
contain coded information about the drug trade, instructions for money
laundering, directions about supply lines, other things not even I know
about, that the bosses down south need to know about. They'll be
watching for the movie. They have the key to the code.”
“And you're making that up, too, aren't you?”
“Of course.” Her smile grew wider. “I told you, I just work here. I do
as I'm told. What makes you think I know what's going on anymore than
you?”
“Because you walked though the mirror. Because you act like you know
what I'm supposed to do.”
“Very well, then, the truth. I'm not human. I'm of extraterrestrial
origin , or more specifically, an explorer from another universe. A
more or less parallel universe where upright bipeds like me inhabit
that universe's version of the Earth. In my universe, I'm what you
would call an anthropologist. I study the folk art of primitive
cultures, which of course includes the graffiti of your world.”
“Well, okay then, if we're playing a game of three-choices, I'll go
with the drug cartel option. It's the least fantastic.”
“And that's why you choose it? How disappointing. Your life really must
be dull. Perhaps that's why you volunteered for this quest--you need
some excitement."
“You may be right.” Joe turned the boxes of film over and looked at the
label, the admonition to Load in total darkness. “So why do I
have to use actual film?”
“Because, otherwise, the movie won't work.”
“Won't work how?”
“It won't do its part in sustaining reality.”
“And why is that?”
“Or maybe my friends in Central America won't be able to read the code
if you don't use film. Take your pick. You think they tell me
everything? Or that you'd understand if I could explain?”
He looked again at the box of film. “You know I have no idea what to do with this, right?”
“That's why I'm here. I used to teach Intro to Film in my previous
life. I'll load the first roll for you, show you how to shoot. When
you're done, just leave the second reel of film in the camera and bring
it back to me.”
She took the camera and went behind the shelf on the right, through a
door, he hadn't noticed before. When she came out, she said, “Here's
how you use the camera. . . .”
A minute later, Joe said, “Okay, I get it. It's not rocket science.
But, supposing I decide to do this absurd thing you're asking, where do
I find this graffiti?”
“In the subway tunnels. The old ones, unused.”
“I hear there are a lot of those.”
“I'll give you a map.”
“There's are two other things you should know,” she said. “They will send the Minotaur to stop you.”
“Stop me how?”
“However it can.”
“But—the Minotaur? That's a myth.”
“Myths are among the most powerful forces in the world. Maybe the most
powerful, period. At least when it comes to human behavior. Call it the
Jabberwock, then, if you don't believe in the Minotaur. Or Cthulhu. An
evil clown. Whatever scares the pants off you.”
“Now you tell me. My imagination is starting to run wild. Seems like
information you might have started with: 'Hey, wanna risk your life on
a project you don't really understand, for no money?'”
“I tried that approach once. Reverse psychology. It was surprisingly unsuccessful. I find forward psychology works better.”
“Well, you're not making the whole thing more attractive right now.”
“If it helps, your motives matter. If you are primarily interested in
personal gain, the monster is more likely to catch you. If you are pure
of heart and mind, you will be safe.”
“'Pure of heart'--what does that even mean? I'm a banker, remember? We're all about personal gain.”
“But at what cost? Do you cheat for personal gain?”
“Never.”
“There's no money in this for you. But you can save the world, and satisfy your curiosity. Those are pure motives.”
“And how can I know for sure what my motives are? I'm no psychologist,
reverse or otherwise, but I do know the human heart has many mysteries,
often from itself.”
“There's one way to find out,” Nova said. “This quest is kind of like a
benign version of the witch trials. If someone survived the trial, she
was assumed to be a witch, because no one could survive without
supernatural assistance. The possibility that supernatural forces for
good assisted the survivor was not considered. But in this case, if you
survive, it means you are pure.” She looked at the camera, and then at
Joe, and smiled an enigmatic smile.
Later, he would recall that smile, and think, That's when I should have run, as fast as I could, without looking back.
Instead, he said, “You said there were two more things I should know. What’s the other?”
“Making the movie wrong will be worse than not doing it at all.”
“What do you mean, wrong? I told you, I’m no expert.”
“I mean you must film only the tunnels and graffiti. No footage of
girls in the park, or your nephew’s birthday party, or anything else.”
“What happens if I do it wrong, then?”
“Again, the movie won’t work. And there will be consequences for not taking the quest seriously.”
“Consequences. Well, that’s scary. If you know me so well, you should know I do not respond favorably to threats.”
“I’m not threatening. Just doing my job. Full disclosure. You can still walk away, you know.”
The camera and the unopened extra box of film sat on the desk. Joe
stared at them, then at the woman's strange eyes. “How do I know
something bad won't happen if I do as you ask? Besides, you know, being
chased by the Minotaur. Or ‘consequences’ for doing things wrong? Why
should I trust you? How do I know you weren't telling the truth about
the secret messages in code for the drug cartel?”
She leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “You want proof? Anything
I say, you can doubt. All I can give you is my promise that this movie
needs to be made. You need to put this video on the net. If you don't,
something terrible will happen. The end of the world, maybe.”
“Maybe? You don't sound too sure of yourself. And what does the end of the world look like, exactly?”
“I have no idea. I don't know the answer to either of your questions.
I've always gotten the job done, found the right person to do the job
and keep things running as they should. Never failed. So the end of the
world--maybe it's nothing. Darkness, the flapping of the end of the
film as the projector runs down, and then silence. Or like somebody
tuned off the TV. Static, and then a blank screen. Or maybe it's the
screaming abyss, monsters and mayhem and every nightmare you woke from
screaming and then mercifully forgot.
“I don't know, because I've always done my job. So the question you
have to ask yourself is just one. Do you believe me when I say you need
to shoot the film and upload the video, or don't you? If you think I'm
a lunatic, or worse, some kind of criminal or supernatural monster sent
to destroy your world, well, then, it’s simple. You should walk out of
here and never see me again. I'll know you weren't the one. I won't
follow you. I'll find someone else. You can go back to your desk at the
bank, forget we ever had this conversation. But if you believe me, we
save the world. You take the camera. You go make the movie. So what
does your gut tell you?”
“My gut tells me you're asking me which pill I want to take, the red
one or the blue one. Or which door to open, because one has the lady
behind it, the other a tiger. And I don't have any objective proof that
you are even accurately describing the choice to me.”
She stared, blue and green eyes unblinking,
He folded the map and put it in his pocket.
He took the camera.
“Here, you can carry it in this,” she said, handing him a brown leather bag with a long strap.
As she closed the door she said, “Don't waste the film. It's expensive.”
He thought he knew the way out, but when he came to what should have
been the back of the mirror, there was a metal door. He turned the
knob. It opened to the sidewalk. I thought we were on the second floor, he mused, and hung the strap of the camera bag over one shoulder.
*****
It's a train, in one of the other tunnels, Joe thought. Then, I'm way too far down for a train to be that loud.
There was no track in this tunnel, the rocky dirt floor littered by rat
skulls and old newspapers and wine and liquor bottles. A little voice
wondered what happened to the rest of the rats' skeletons, but he told
that voice to be quiet. He didn't want to know.
There was no graffiti here. There hadn't been any for half a mile or so, he guessed.
The noise grew louder, thundering like a freak summer storm. Wind
stirred. Soon it became a howling gale. Bottles and skulls rolled over
his feet, the clatter barely audible in the shriek of the wind. Joe
leaned into it, jut to keep from being blown over. Again came the smell
of cloves, this time turning quickly to something dark and fearful. A
graveyard smell.
The scent of cloves vanished. The smell turned to a stench, something
rotten and putrid. He heard insane laughter, and his fear turned to
terror. He spun wildly, flashing his light all around. The emptiness of
the tunnel, save the wind and trash and little skulls, was more
terrifying than anything else could have been.
Or so he thought. Just as he was about to turn and flee, the tunnel
turned black as midnight. His light went out. He screamed. Or later,
when he realized how hoarse he'd become, he thought he must have
screamed. At the moment, he heard nothing but howling wind and maniacal
laughter.
Surrounded by absolute darkness, he turned to sprint back the way he's
come, and ran at once into the crudely hewn stone. His heart thudded as
if it would explode.
A familiar voice sounded out of the midnight dark. Joe soon realized it
was his voice. He was repeating what Nova had told him. Another
realization came to him later, that he had not until that moment
thought of her by that name.
If you are pure of heart and mind, you will be safe. At first he did not know he spoke aloud. Pure of heart and mind. Safe.
“Pure of heart and mind. Safe.” He heard himself repeating. The screech
and stench retreated. His eyes burned. He saw his flashlight glowing
dimly under a pile of trash, and he realized that the dust and blown so
thickly, he had closed his eyes for protection. And in terror. “Like a
child pulling the covers over his head,” he said, still speaking aloud.
He picked up the newspaper that covered his flashlight. About to drop
the paper, he noticed the date. Fifty years in the future. He brushed
dirt from the paper, picked up his light and shook off the dust, and
looked more closely. No mistake about the date.
Well, it's not the strangest thing that's happened lately, he
thought, folding the newspaper and putting it in his pocket for later
examination. He checked the map Nova had given him and continued on
down the tunnel.
The rest was easy. He followed the map Nova had given him to find his
way through the branching tunnels--left, left, right, left, and found
the graffiti where X marked the spot. Just four marks on the rough
stone wall: A circle, about four feet wide, and inside it an infinity
symbol and a right triangle inside each loop of the symbol. He turned
on the camera, holding it on one hand, tracing the marks with his light
in the other hand.
He kept the camera running, also as she had asked him to do, on the way back out of the tunnels, until the film ran out.
*****
He found her in the room at the end of the hall behind the mirror in
the department store. She sat behind the desk, a book of sudoko puzzles
open in front of her.
He handed her the camera, one reel of film still inside, and the box with the the other reel sealed away from the light.
“What now?” he said.
“I process the film, transfer it to video, and give it to you in
digital format so you can put it on the web,” she said. She wrote the
name of a website on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
“Google it,” she said. “Follow the directions on the site. They're pretty simple. One, two, three, and you're done.”
“I never heard of this site,” he said.
“Few have. Almost no one ever looks at anything there.”
“How will it help if no one sees the video?”
“Did anyone see the Big Bang?” she asked.
“I thought you said things must be perceived to be real.”
“Maybe Bishop Berkeley was right, and God is watching. If there is a
God, and if he, she, or it hasn't found any other way in all of
eternity to entertain herself. Or himself, or itself. Welcome to the
truth of paradox. Why should the universe conform to our sense of logic?
“So all this effort was just to make a video hardly anyone will watch?”
She did not seem to hear the question. Or she took it as a statement, a
summary. “Once the movie is up,” she said, “You're done. Your job is
finished. You can forget about me.”
“But then what? What do you do?”
“I watch. I wait.” She stood. “I'll develop the film. Have a donut and
some coffee if you like,” she said, and went through the door in back.
He picked up a ragged copy of a Doctor Strange comic book and began to
read.
He looked up when she emerged some time later with the reels of
developed film. She laid them on the table, sat down across from him,
opened a drawer in the desk, and took out a bottle and glass. She
poured a half a glass of wine and sipped.
“I can't do anything with those,” he said.
“I know. Why do you think you were assigned to me? Just give me a
minute. Developing film is thirsty work.” She gulped the last of the
wine and nodded at the bottle and said, “Help yourself if you want a
drink.”
Picking up the reels of developed film, she moved to the corner, where
a tall, rectangular, bronze-colored box stood. The box had two arms on
the top, onto which she fitted the reels of film. A cable emerged from
the box, which led to another box, a smaller black rectangle, which was
attached to a bulky old-fashioned desktop computer. A blocky monitor,
as long and wide as it was tall, sat on top of the computer.
“I'm surprised you don't have an abacus here, too,” he said.
“It's in the closet. I use it only for the really hard problems.”
He didn't know if she was joking or not, so he asked, “What's all this
stuff called--the equipment between the film and the computer?”
“It's a projector attached to a mux.”
“Mux?”
“A multiplexer. Lets me convert the film images to digital format, so you'll be able to use it with your primitive equipment.”
“You're using actual film, but you think my equipment is primitive?”
“It’s a matter of perspective,” she said.
“Speaking of perspectives, I found a newspaper in the tunnel, and it
was dated years in the future. I took it with me, but when I got home,
it was blank. How do you explain that?”
“Oh, you probably just misread the date. It’s dark down there.”
“I might have been mistaken about the date, but the whole paper was
blank when I got home. Not when I was down in the tunnels, though.”
“Well, that is curious,” she said, and flicked the mouse on the computer. “I’m getting some images here. They look good.”
*****
Joe pressed enter and waited for the world to not end.
The next day, he looked for Thirteenth Avenue. But after Twelfth
Avenue, He came to Buffalo Boulevard. In the alley, the door that said Do Not Enter
was now the side entrance to a tiny takeout noodle shop, and it was
locked. The department store was still there, but the mirror was just a
mirror.
The world did not end.
But Joe listened. Some days, he caught a scent of cloves and thought
for a moment he heard for the sound of flute and wind chimes. But it
was probably just the radio in a passing car.
THE END
© 2017 David Rogers
Bio: David Rogers' poems, stories, and articles have appeared in
various print and electronic publications, including The Comstock
Review, Packingtown Review, Atlanta Review, Caveat Lector, Sky and
Telescope, and Astronomy magazine. He is the author of two novels,
D.B. Cooper is Dead: A Solomon Starr Adventure and Thor’s Hammer.
Website: David
Rogers
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