From the Journal of Tristen Kevin McConnell

Body trembling, yearning palpable, I gingerly reach out my hand. Nerves jangling, I stretch forth fingers. Slowly, gently … fearfully … I touch the door. Cool. Metallic. A safety door. Sealing out horrors.

“Tristen?”

Hearing my grandfather’s voice, the worried tremor noticeable in his tone, I turn my head to look down the passage. “I’m here Grampa,” I respond. Seeing the worry lines etched like water-carved geological canyons upon his face I try to smile.

“All good Tristen?” He queries. My Grandfather’s eyes are on the door. As he approaches, reaching out an arthritic hand to grip my shoulder, he struggles for a moment to tear his gaze from the dull, dusty, metallic surface. “Not yet,” he says, wistfully. “Not yet.”

“Are you sure, Grampa? It’s been eight years…,”

“No!” he snaps. I could see his entire form stiffen. His bent spine straightened momentarily as he flinched back. Sighing, he made a visible effort to calm himself.

Placing a small hand on his chest, I felt his heart, that bastion of strength and sorrow - sorrow for an entire universe of hurt and loss - beating rapidly. Felt the inhalation of his breath as he strove to reach a state of equanimity. “Okay Grampa,” I say.

Grampa looked down at me. I saw the tears - unshed, building like a flood behind a dam, battering the bastions, seeking a fault the raging torrent could overwhelm - shimmering there. My grandfather took in a long, deep, calming breath. The ghosts of painful memory were exorcised. A love - love for me mingling with fear for me - shone there too. Specters exorcised, Grampa smiled wearily. Knees clicking in protest, he squatted. He’s tall, my grandfather. Easily 6’3” compared to my ten-year-old four foot nothing. He hugged me, long arms encircling me like the walls of a palisade. I hugged him back.

As we turned to head for the kitchen, I looked back at the door. Grampa tells me stories about what was once on the other side of the door. Or is that The DOOR? Whatever. I note the build up of dust coating the once shiny surface - motes of memory dancing a wild tango. One day I would open that door. See for myself.

“What do you want for lunch Scamp?” Grampa asks, turning his back to that portal to fantasy. Scamp is his nickname for me. I pretend I don’t like it, but he only chuckles. That’s okay. Scamp is the puppy from that old Disney movie, Lady and the Tramp. Grampa says I remind him of Scamp because I’m always gamboling about and getting into stuff.

“Can we have those little sausages in a can? And potato chips?”

“Vienna Sausages,” he chuckled, tousling my hair. My long, wavy, brown hair which cascaded past my shoulder line. Frowning - but in a friendly manner - Grampa fingered the thick locks. “Been a while since you had a haircut boy,” he said. “You look like a girl.”

I stuck my tongue out at him as I scampered past - yes, pun intended, *wink*. BTW, Any reader may want to be aware that, while I was ten on this day of which I am currently writing, I am now twenty. So, no, I don’t really write like a ten year old boy full of wonder and innocence. But, that’s for later.

Shaking his head, Grampa - by the way, his name is Francis, and, no, that’s not a girl’s name. Francis Kevin Willoughby. One time engineer. One time published author of engineering papers. My Grampa worked on rockets that actually went into space. Yes, outer space. As in off this world and into the vastness of the stars. Flying contrails of explosive flames, he once said. I loved to picture them. Rockets blasting off from the earth as astronauts grimly but calmly serttled back in their spacesuits, pushed down by the forces of what Grampa called ‘g’s’.

“Tristen. Grandpa!” Isolde’s voice echoed as she called for us. Isolde is the granddaughter of my grampa’s best friend from … before. Before The DOOR. She was eleven on the day in question. Nine months older than me and never let me forget it.

‘We’re here,” I called. “Grampa says we can have Vienna Sausages and potato chips for lunch.”

—————

“Tell us a story from before Grampa.” Isolde’s voice was lilting and high pitched.” Her long blonde hair stuck out in a frizzy mass of tangles. Blue eyes shone above a pert nose. Isolde bounced on the mattress with unconscious grace. No, Isolde isn’t really Francis’ granddaughter (thankfully), but he had told her years back to just call him Grampa. Made it simpler.

“What do you want to hear? Knights, dragons, romance and chivalry?”

At the same time that Isolde blurted out “Yes,” I said “No.”

“I want to hear about before The Door. I want to hear about Mom and Dad. I want to hear about… that world.” Grampa flinched when I said ‘Mom and Dad’. My mother was his only daughter and he missed her terribly. I’m certain that if we hadn’t been visiting Grampa when The Thing happened, Grampa would have either wasted away or maybe even killed himself. Isolde’s parents and mine had been on a day trip to town when IT happened. A trip they had never come back from. Of course we had been only two and three years old so…, Mom and Dad are just mythical figures. But not to Grampa. I loved to listen to Grampa tell stories about the world before The Door. I could listen for hours as he talked about green forests full of giant trees…, cities full of thousands of people. Movie theaters where the screens were as big a whole large room. Cars. Cats. Dogs. … Things I had only seen in picture books. At least so far as I could remember.

Grampa smiled, but sadly - his eyes far away and wistful. He patted the bed. “I could tell you about the original Tristen and Isolde.”

“Yuck. No. That’s a sissy story,” I said as Isolde clapped eager hands.

“It’s romantic,” she said, tossing her waves of freshly brushed hair. I remember a few strands brushing my face, making me jerk back. Hair in the face tickles. Isolde just grinned at me and stuck out her tongue.

“How about we watch Lady and the Tramp then?” Grampa said, grinning as he looked between the two of us. Looking back through the memories stored by my childish brain I now can see the wistfully hopeful yearning that was extant in that gaze as he looked at the two of us - boy and girl. I think he hoped … well, a lot of things he probably hoped and a lot of things feared … I think he prayed that our childhood friendship would one day blossom into more. At least that dream came to pass in the fullnesss of time. I pat my beautiful wife’s protruding belly, feeling a small kick.

Sorry, that is now and this is then so…

I could see that Grampa wasn’t in a mood to discuss the vanished world right then. Tamping down my disappointment I sat on the mattress next to Isolde to watch the Tramp slurp spaghetti with Lady. I didn’t understand the inherent romance of that scene then - not at ten years old. I do now. Isolde does too … Well, once again I digress {fore-dress? :—)} so, back to my tale.

It was a week later when I was once more standing by The Door tracing small, nimble fingers across the cool surface. Doodling in dust. As my tiny hand made a smiley face in the dust, Isolde smiled. Tentatively, she traced a heart around my smiley. I stuck my tongue out at her and blurred out the heart. She just laughed. The sound of Isolde’s laughter always made me smile. Even then. It still does. Despite everything, or maybe because of everything. Now, ten years later, it makes my blood race for reasons I better understand. Especially as we are now expecting a child of our own… I’m getting ahead of myself… I tend to ramble, but I hope you, dear reader, will forgive me.

“Happy birthday Tristen.”

I startled guiltily like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Maybe I had been. “Thank you Grampa.”

Placing a hand on my shoulder, Grampa looked at The Door. “You’re eleven now. What do you truly want for your birthday? I mean TRULY.” I could hear the capital letters.

Craning my neck, I looked up at him. Every fiber of my pint sized being yearned for just one thing. I yearned to open The DOOR. I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to play with a dog. I wanted to climb a tree. I wanted… a wider world.

Isolde was, for once, silent as she looked between Grampa and me. As I looked up at my grandfather, I felt her eyes on me. I could feel her own terror and longing as if it were my own. Isolde knew what I wanted. She always has.

As my gaze returned to The DOOR, Grampa sighed. Releasing a pent up breath he tousled my hair. “Eight years,” he said. “Well, you two can’t stay cooped up with my tired old butt forever.”

My heartbeat picked up as my blood flow took off like one of Grampa’s rockets. “Really?” I whispered.

“Yep. Really.”

Isolde’s lips were trembling when I looked at her in wonder. But, her blue eyes shone. In my mind’s eye now she looked like a tiny angel. Her hair a nimbus framing her face. A strand stuck to her lower lip and she sucked it in, chewing.

“Isolde?” Grampa said, the tone an obvious question.

“Yes,” she said. Just that…, “Yes.” It was enough. There was a world’s worth of fear, yearning, and hope encompassed in that one simple word.

“Okay then.” Grampa reached up and tapped on a spot near the ceiling. A panel slid open. One I hadn’t known existed. From it Grampa removed some stuff… short knives in sheaths which he passed to Isolde and I. He watched as we strapped the sheaths to our respective belts. Next he pulled out a pistol and holster for himself, strapping the holster belt on. He pushed a button on the gun and the magazine popped out. Calmly, despite shaking hands, Grampa loaded his pistol. Then he racked back a slide on top of the weapon to chamber a round before holstering it. “You two know how to be careful with knives, right?” He said sternly, looking at us.

“Yes sir,” we parroted simultaneously. I swallowed the lump in my throat. Was this the right call? I didn’t know…, but I had to find out.

Grampa punched the code into the little box next to The DOOR. He had told me on my tenth birthday where to find that code should anything ever happen to him. Actually, he told me and Isolde. Neither of us had ever opened the little box under his bed to find out what that code was. “One, Zero, Two, One” he said. “October 21st. That was your mother’s birthday Tristen.” I pretended I didn’t see the tears trickling silently down his cheeks.

As the door swung open on silent pneumatic tracks, Grampa gripped our shoulders. My heart pounded in my chest. Isolde stared, mesmerized. I started to scamper through but he pulled me back.

“Wait,” he admonished. I settled back onto my feet.

I could see… sunlight… through that opening. Actual sunlight. My very essence screamed for me to run through, but I reined it in. Isolde was shivering, her arms wrapped around her torso as she stared.

Gingerly, Grampa stepped through. My eyes tracked his every step. At that moment I had no clue what Isolde was doing, but I could feel her there next to me. Her little hand slid into mine. For the first time, I took it. Comforted. Knowing with an understanding beyond my eleven years, that whatever was out there, we would face it together. She and I and Grampa. My universal trio.

“Well, come on.”

At those words Isolde and I looked at each other. Her bottom lip was in a death grip from her teeth. I felt her pulse jump in her wrist where it brushed mine. We stepped through The DOOR together. Into a room we hadn’t been in since Grampa brought us inside eight years ago. We took our first tentative steps into the real world. The world outside of our little safe space. Pulling my clammy, damp hand from Isolde’s, I wiped it on my pants.

The room was about eight feet on a side. The walls were translucent. Light streamed through. Beyond the dusty translucent walls I could see … trees… green, brown … the world. “What is this room, Grampa?” Isolde queried, looking around anxiously.

“It’s an airlock I guess you’d call it,” Grampa replied. It’s to make sure no bad germs or radiation can get in.” Grampa was peering around, eyes searching for any obvious danger. Finally, apparently seeing none, he stepped up to a panel by the exit. “Five, Four, Two, Nine,” he said, as he punched in the code. “May Fourth, 2029.”

“That’s my birthday,” I said.

“Yep. Fingered I wouldn’t forget that.” He winked.

I laughed as he used the old joke of ‘fingered’ instead of ‘figured’. “And today is May 4th, 2040,” I said. Fresh air blew in. I could smell strange things on the breeeze. I guessed that was dirt, trees, grass, leaves… I took a lungful in and savored it for a second. Leaves crackled and crunched under our feet, sending up their own olfactory signals.

Grampa’s hand was on the butt of his pistol, ready to pull it if needed, as he took the first tentative steps outside the shelter. He held up a hand, silently admonishing us to be patient as he cocked his head left, then right, listening. All I could hear was some sort of chittering noise and a light almost musical sound. I found out later that the sound was a squirrel in the nearby oak tree, and a cardinal.

Hand in hand, as we have since remained, Isolde and I stepped out into the world. Nearby was a house, well, more of a cabin I suppose, which appeared quiet and empty. “Was that your house?” I whispered, eyes wide, nostrils distended. I was drinking in sights, smells, and sounds. Things I had never before seen, smelled, or heard. The sunlight was warm on my skin. Leaves trembled in the cool breeze, rustling on their branches. Flowers, lots of colors like a rainbow, festooned the clear areas. Their mysteriously beautiful petals sticking up from the long green grass. It was … wonderful.

“Yes,” Grampa replied in a hushed tone. “That’s where the three of us were when They came.”

I looked away from the cabin, eyes drawn upwards. Clouds…, real clouds…, white and fluffy, drifted in the light blue sky.

“It’s beautiful,” Isolde whispered.

“Yeah, it is,” Grampa replied.

Nowhere was there any sign of Them. The aliens that had arrived eight years ago. Those horrific creatures which had bombarded us from space before landing and attacking with weaponry that Grampa had said was much more advanced than our own. Creatures with six arms like tentacles, each with six finger-like digits. Four eyes on a bulbous head - two in front, two in the back…

I shook my ten…, no, eleven…, year old head to clear it. There was no sign of Them here. I made a silent vow that, should we ever find Them, I would have my revenge. Revenge for Mom and Dad. Revenge for all that Isolde and I had missed. Vengeance for the millions … if not billions by now… of dead people. But for that moment… the three of us just took in the feel of Free Air.

Isolde turned and drew a heart in the glass of the airlock. I drew a smiley face inside it. Grampa smiled and added “T &I 5/4/2040” under it. Then we headed to the house.