Ocean in the Sea Read online

  Lewis shook his head. Nazis? The hair went up on his neck. World War II was still being fought? No. That couldn’t be. The world would have been destroyed. Had the US been invaded by Germany? What about Russia and the cold war?

  Moving into a room full of bunks, his flashlight illuminated a poster on the wall over one of the beds. It showed an outline of the British Isles in red. Over the top, a huge mushroom cloud blossomed to form the face of a skull emblazoned with a swastika. At the bottom, a tattered British flag burned in flames. The caption read, “We Shall Never Forget. We Shall Never Forgive.”

  “Crap,” rasped Lewis. The Nazis never had atomic weapons. They were defeated before they could develop them. But this was not his world. This was a computer simulation. The Germans must have succeeded in their efforts to build the bomb. Then what? What did that mean for the United States? Apparently it was an armed camp. War extending into space. Bunkers in every backyard. Perhaps the government was permanently in a state of martial law. It was hard to think of all the ramifications. If this was 2025, the same year he’d left his world, and the war had started in… he couldn’t recall the date. Sometime in 1940. Could it have continued for eighty five years? No. There must be a truce, or a cease fire, resulting in a long simmering conflict. But it would have been a different cold war than the one on his world. Instead of being enemies, the Russians might be allies.

  What about Japan and China and Korea? He searched the walls for a map, and found one of North America. It was dated 1989. Mexico and Canada were US states. All the small countries of Central America were grouped together under a single banner as the state of Panama. Cuba was also a state, but listed as a hot zone with a radiation symbol stamped over the top.

  A loud metallic banging came from the front of the shelter. Lewis switched the flashlight off and closed his eyes in the bunk room, listening. Faint voices came to him. He felt his heart pounding.

  “Where’s the light switch?”

  “On the wall to the left. But the generator’s off. We keep the shelter stocked, but we don’t sleep in it. Not like the Yewdals and the Kendricks.” The voice sounded derisive. “It’s cold in there. No reason to go in unless the alarm sounds.”

  “Go start the generator,” said a commanding voice. “We have orders to search everywhere.”

  Police, or worse. Lewis’s fist tightened on the flashlight. They’d find him if he stayed put. He wanted to meet people and learn some answers, but friendly people – ordinary citizens. Police would arrest him, interrogate him, and they wouldn’t much like the answers he gave.

  He almost reached to the storage room when the lights came on. The sound of boots thumping against the bunker’s cement floor broke his nerve and he raced for the door. Closing it carefully behind him, he bit his lip at the sound of the clicking lock and put his ear to the metal.

  “I’ve got motion,” he heard a man shout. “There’s someone in here!”

  “Location!” barked a different voice.

  “It’s stopped. Right, ninety degrees, twenty feet forward.”

  “I’m on it. Bowers, cover me.”

  “I got you.”

  Lewis spun around and grabbed the ring of the hatch. Tugging it open, he dropped in and put his feet on the ladder. As he pulled it closed, he heard someone rattle the door to the storage room. Quickly, he descended the ladder, moving by touch through the pitch blackness until he reached the catwalk below. Dodging to the side, light erupted above him, pouring down the shaft.

  “He must be in the cisterns,” said a man. “We’ll need a tunnel rat to get him out of there.”

  “Wakowski,” shouted the commanding voice. “Drop a drone.”

  “Just a sec,” said a reluctant voice. “Lemme get it ready.”

  Lewis bit his lip and crouched, crawling slowly over the catwalk to the next ladder. The old metal creaked.

  “Yeah,” called a voice from above. “There’s definitely something down there.”

  Flicking his flashlight, Lewis found the “C” hatch and opened it. Climbing inside, he shut the hatch behind him as a buzzing sounded from above.

  They knew where he was. Their drone wouldn’t find anything, but they’d heard him. If they were moving down the street, they’d probably already searched Henry’s bunker. They wouldn’t search the same place twice. Returning to Henry’s bunker could be the smart move. He crawled swiftly, counting the cisterns. When he reached Henry’s, he climbed to the top, but the hatch was locked. Lewis remembered it was hidden under a tool chest. Henry must have rolled it back in place.

  Sliding down the ladder, he rubbed his sore knees and elbows, eyeing the hatches marked A, B, and D. With mounting anxiety, he tried to think clearly. A tunnel rat might be a person, or it could be a machine. Whatever it was, the soldiers had sent a drone instead. Maybe they didn’t have a tunnel rat, and it might take a while before they could get one. He could backtrack and try to sneak by, but if they were in the fourth cistern already, they’d catch him.

  Ignorance was a weapon, Valon had said. Well, right now he was pretty ignorant of which hatch might have water behind it. There could be anything behind these hatches. There was no point in not trying. Insurance, assurance, e-surance, whatever… He concentrated. What were the odds that this one – B hatch – was dry? What were the odds it led to a way out?

  Lewis pushed the odds and felt the flush of energy. Good enough. Spinning the handle, he jerked the hatch open. It was empty and dry. He could hear a dull thrumming in the darkness. It sounded like a pump.

  Slipping inside the pipe and sealing the hatch behind him, he shuffled over the hard curved metal. It turned several times, ending in a small concrete chamber filled with water. Shining the light in the pool, he couldn’t see the bottom. Water ran from a pipe sticking out of the wall, and a pump mounted on the ceiling hummed with the thrumming sound he’d heard before. Next to the pump, a ladder ran up into darkness. There was no hatch, just an opening.

  Leaping over to the ladder, Lewis climbed until he reached a long square tunnel of concrete. It ran in two directions. The ceiling was low, only about four feet high. He had to crouch, but it was better than crawling. The ground was littered with debris, mostly leaves, dirt, and bits of decaying plant matter. He guessed this was part of a runoff drainage system, probably from the street.

  His suspicions were correct. As he kept going forward, the tunnel tilted and wove to the left. Rectangular drain openings appeared along the ceiling. They let in enough light to see by. He turned off his flashlight and peered through one of the drains. Tires flash by over pavement. Sun reflected through morning haze steaming off the asphalt. Children in drab green school uniforms waited for a bus in front of a two story split level house across from him. Up and down the street, every house flew an American flag.

  Lewis sighed in relief. If Germans occupied the country, people sure as Hell wouldn’t be flying American flags. That gave him some hope, but he needed more information about the culture if he wanted to blend in. Where to get it?

  A public library. This was obviously a residential neighborhood. If he could get out of the drainage culvert and make his way into the city, he’d be able to mix with the crowd and find a bus. He opened his wallet and dug through it, using the light from outside. He had a five, two ones, and no change. A bus would require coins or a pass. He ruled out hitch-hiking. He’d be spotted.

  The situation sucked, and his knees were cramping. Why couldn’t he have appeared in the city instead of the suburbs? Duck-walking further down the tunnel, it dropped into a taller passage leading in a different direction. The water from the street had to go somewhere. Storm drains usually let out into a retention pond to prevent flooding. That would offer a way out.

  A sudden movement caught his eye, but it was just a rat in the shadows. He shined his light and shrugged. Following the next tunnel, he spotted a soup can in the muck. Looking at the familiar label he picked it up. The ingredients list was missing. Some things stayed the same, other
s changed. In place of the ingredients there was a ‘US Agriculture Dept.’ stamp of assurance, and a “Preservation Date,” stating that the contents were guaranteed fresh for seven years. The front proudly stated, “Radiation Sealed for Your Protection.”

  Ten minutes of walking through several turns and twists, he stopped and turned off his flashlight. The tunnel ended in a chain link fence covered with muck, dirt, refuse, cans, papers and all manner of garbage. Through the fence, a concrete lip dropped into a long narrow cement tank. Black brackish water reflected the cloudy sky above. The fence surrounded the top of the retention pond. Barbed wire ran across the upper part – rusted and nasty looking.

  Moving the light around, he spotted a heavy metal access door recessed in the wall. Rubbing a dirty plate above the door, he read. “4B9G32R15.” The handle refused to open it. As he paused to think, a very loud clank echoed from far down the tunnel, and his heart jumped into his throat. It was the sound of a manhole cover being removed.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself and clasped the door handle again. What were the odds that this rusty old lock was almost ready to break? What were the odds that one good tug would bust it open? Engaging the interface, he felt the rush sweep over him and jerked the door as hard as he could. Something next to the handle snapped. Tiny pieces of metal and several springs spun into the muck. Quickly, he stepped through, and outside. In front of him lay two sets of concrete stairs going up into the street. Unless he felt like taking a bath in the retention pond, there was nowhere else to go.

  Lewis curled his upper lip and climbed the steps slowly. When he reached the top, he peeked over the concrete.

  Orange cones blocked one lane of the street. A woman in a camouflage uniform and an orange jacket waved traffic around a green military truck parked next to the open manhole. Three men stood around the circular opening. A cable ran into the hole from a crane mounted on the top of the truck. As he watched, one of the men grabbed the cable and shimmied down. Lewis spotted the tip of a rifle muzzle jutting from over his shoulder. He was armed – they were all armed. He ducked back down before they noticed him.

  It was only a matter of time before they found him. They’d spread out and search. They must not have known about these stairs. Why? It didn’t matter. They were soldiers, after all. Soldiers were usually young and uneducated. That didn’t matter either. They knew how to fire weapons, and out of all the things that mattered, that one mattered the most.

  Lewis didn’t want to be shot. It was painful. At that moment that Lewis came to a sudden realization. He no longer wanted to die.

  Not now. Not anymore. Not with all of this in front of him. This world was… completely bizarre. Entirely unexpected. The thought of spending the years of his life without Brenda, slogging through days of analyzing other people’s work, other people’s discoveries, it had no appeal. It was weight, and he was a zombie carrying that weight. No more. This future promised something entirely different. This future had excitement to it. It was spicy. It had flavor. Brenda might be alive, and Scotty… What would he give for a chance to watch Scotty grow up? Anything. He had to live.

  But were these reactions normal for him? Other people would not have asked this question. Lewis did so because was trained to ask it. Years of therapy had taught him to make the determination. He didn’t know what normal was – what it meant. He could never be sure until he decided.

  A shout from the street drew his attention back to reality. Meta-analysis would have to wait. Peeking over the ledge, he saw only one soldier remained. Leaning over the hole, the soldier screamed down to one of his companions.

  “Tell him to drop a repeater.” The man tapped his helmet. “You can’t expect comms to work with all that concrete in the way. You’ll have to drop them as you go.”

  Radios, thought Lewis. They were having trouble with their radios. Good. Any trouble that slowed them down was a help, but he needed a distraction to get out of here. Messing with their radios wasn’t enough. He needed something to drive them away. Valon Kang’s dice and card training were examples, but this required creativity. Crouching in the dirt, he looked up in thought and stared at the sky. Clouds swept slowly above him. Big puffy white Seattle clouds heavily laden with rain from the Pacific Ocean, just waiting to dump.

  Lewis blinked. If he could bend the odds... What was more unpredictable than the weather?

  What were the odds of a freak wind storm hitting this area right now? What were the odds of it being strong enough to drive these people to shelter? Lewis felt the energy growing and let it build. “One.” He shivered as the rush of power flowed down his spine.

  A blast of wind ripped over him where he crouched. Looking up, he saw the clouds increase their speed as if suddenly pushed by invisible forces. Part of him was shocked. Part of him reveled in the power. The sky itself was his to command! But a cautionary voice warned against overconfidence. It had always been the bane of his existence. Caution wasn’t an option for Lewis, it was a necessity. Now, he’d thrown it to the wind, and the wind raged.

  Peering over the side, he watched orange cones clunking down the street. The soldier at the manhole shielded his face with his hands and stepped around the side of the truck, huddling out of the wind. The woman directing traffic fell down, blown over by a sustained gale. The wind carried her screams away as she tumbled and rolled. Several shingles ripped free from nearby roofs, spinning like thick black leaves.

  Turning down the street in the opposite direction, Lewis spied an unoccupied parked car. Perfect. What were the odds the vehicle would be unlocked, and the keys would be in the ignition? He triggered the interface and shivered.

  What were the odds the wind would blow in just a way as to avoid pushing against him? What were the odds he’d be untouched by the gale, unhindered by the debris? He pushed the energy and felt the wave roll over him. It was the touch of a billion dice. Each landed a one.

  Rising to his feet, Lewis sprinted toward the vehicle.

  Street signs shook. Houses creaked. A seagull whipped by, barely missing him. Shingles from denuded rooftops filled the sky like a swarm of huge black insects. A garbage can tumbled crashed down the street scattering debris with each impact. As it came toward Lewis, the wind caught it and lifted it over his head. A slew of cans, fruit rinds, coffee grounds, plastic containers, pill bottles, and other litter dropped out. Miraculously, it all blew around him.

  Reaching the car, he pulled open the driver’s door and got inside. The key was in the ignition but the dash was unexpected. There were controls on the yolk of the steering wheel, but no gauges, only a series of three television screens. Turning the key, he pressed the accelerator and the three old-style CRT screens flickered to life. “Welcome citizen,” a cheery female voice said through the speakers. “The Ford Patriot 5000 awaits your command.”

  Lewis raised his eyebrows. Voice recognition? Some kind of rudimentary A.I.? “Where is the nearest library?” he asked.

  No answer came from the dash. It must be a canned recording, like an advertisement built into the vehicle. At least the gears were plainly labeled. He tried to move them but the shifter seemed stuck. Looking at the floor, he caught his breath in a hiss. There were three pedals instead of two. “A clutch!? Your fricken kidding me.” Lewis had never driven a clutch before. On his world no one built cars with manual transmissions unless they were high performance sports cars. “Okay,” he sighed, squirming in the seat. “I’m in neutral.” To start the car, he had to hold the clutch down before turning the key. The engine turned, choked, and caught. It gave a throaty growl, barely audible over the rush of wind.

  “A clutch with the stick on the column,” he complained to himself. “Who in their right mind would build this? Who’d buy it?”

  “Meooooow?”

  He angled the rear view mirror into the back seat. A large tabby cat sat in the center of the vinyl bench staring at him. “A cat in a car with a clutch on the column.” He moved the mirror into place again. “Buc
kle up, kitty.”

  “Murooowww…”

  Lewis strapped in and carefully played with the controls. Rolling out into the street, he avoided another garbage can and drove to the end of the block. Sparks flew from a broken street light. A chunk of metal siding brushed against the car’s roof and bounced off. Some low aerodynamic-looking car zipped in front of him. Lewis spun the wheel right and followed, shifting to second gear.

  “The library,” he muttered. What were the odds that the idiot in front of him was headed to the nearest library? He made it a one and pushed, then accelerated, shifting to third gear. There was no fourth. The car hummed ahead, and the left screen’s lime-green speedometer climbed to 47 MPH. Side blasts from the wind rocked him as he took another turn, and with a hiss, the cat flew across the back seat, digging its claws into the door upholstery.

  “MrrOOOOwww!”

  A walker mech stood next to the entrance to a freeway. Several police cars with familiar black and white paint jobs were parked next to it, and a line of cars waited behind. Roadblocks. Who, exactly, was Michael K. Garibaldi that the milita and the cops wanted him so badly?

  “I’m a wanted man,” he told the cat. “But I don’t know what I’m wanted for.”

  As he drove by, he adjusted the mirror and caught a look at his face. Yes, he was Michael Garibaldi, there was no doubt of that. He was most certainly not Lewis Herman. So what had happened to his body? Was Michael Garibaldi in his body wandering the streets of the real Seattle, wondering what the Hell was going on?

  A one-way trip through the ring, Valon had said. The adventure of a lifetime. Power beyond the ken of mortal man.”

  The old bastard had been serious. “A one-way trip,” Lewis muttered. “One-way…” He wasn’t going back to his body. Maybe he couldn’t. His earth was gone, at least for him. This was a host body. A loaner.

  Before he could think on it further, the car in front of him stopped at a light. The wind was weakening, and the traffic lights didn’t rock and sway as much as the others had. He must be moving out of the storm. Or maybe the bending of probability was localized? He’d have to ask Valon in the next dream, except… he couldn’t. The dreams were only memories of things that had happened in the past. He couldn’t intrude on them like normal dreams. All he could do was hope Valon would provide more information.