Secrets from the Under Realm

Bret shot awake in a fight-or-flight grasp that gave him nothing to attack and no direction on the cliffside shelf to run. He hit his head hard on the fender on his way to the feet and let out a groan that jolted Vince, but he remained motionless. The Suburban was upside down. This forced his eyes upward to the fog. Where could the peak they come from, he thought. If he gave it a thorough guess without the tools of his reasoning skills, the drop was four--five hundred feet before the fog started, practically cloud cover without an ounce of visible sky. That’s not possible, he thought. “Cynthia!” he yelled on his way back to the surprisingly structurally sound vehicle gently placed in the rugged, loose gravel, merely shattering the windows. Helping her up, seeing her scraped but barely bruised, they were left in a state of rising anxiety over the anomaly granted to them. Vince had been thrown to the edge of the shelf, overlooking what possible cause for smoke lay at the bottom of the valley. Still buried in consistent fog with familiar-ish shingles piercing the vail and a steeple in the distance further in the opposite direction, from his defeated position, he saw the zig then zag then zig again of a path down. They varied from San Fran. to salt flats. Artie climbed off the underside of the truck, camera in hand, and pointed it everywhere, assuming he was the first to film the underworld.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Did everyone make it? Where’s—”

“Maybe she never was,” Vince said to the tune of a limp arm dangling over the side while pressing his face in the dirt.

“We’re not lost. We can get out with what we—”

“That wasn’t her intention, don’t you think?” Vince said.

“We’ll take that trail toward the lights—”

“I’m against wasting time on futility, but hey, the Aqua Sulfur relic is probably down there; have at it,” Vince said.

“Vince, stop. Okay, we’ll start with the map—”

“That’s what I was forgetting. Please, check your back pockets—mine was left rear—find that ‘you are here’ mark and work your way down,” Vince said.

What Vince wanted to illustrate cynically was the entry map he woke up with, and the lunacy meant to illustrate some kind of terrain with the map key on the back. Artie quickly understood why Vince called it their only non-blessing. “Wait—what is this? This isn’t a map-- Where is—” Cynthia uttered.

“I can't explain it completely. I'm still unsure what's real. All I clue you to is--who's missing again?” Vince asked.

“Was she ever there?” The question was a dawning frustration as a twisted set of occurrences. The steep path drained them and their backpacks from the heights of Mt. Olympus, leading to the last look at the pale blue truck, where he thought of the five burning corpses in the crushed truck that would never be found or identifiable. They all gained a specific view from the crash that quailed their refusal to succumb to unorthodox thinking. Bret noticed the infinite ’89 Suburban mirror effect with more reflections of them all in the horrified clambering and screaming he felt he was underselling at the time. Cynthia noticed the physics that should’ve made them weightless while increasing in speed, which she tried to prevent as Vince still hadn't taken his foot off the gas; none of them had reached the weightlessness to leave the seats. The view of Artie’s camera jittered and jolted as he was his with visual whip lash of flying creatures, air balloons with propellors, culminating in the late day fast forwarding to the next morning. Isadora looked deep into Vince’s eyes to find the heart of a supernova. She had never seen or felt anything like it. It put the truth behind his arm across her chest at the tipping point, gripping the unclicked seatbelt that hadn’t been unlooped from herself. A protector in rage and protector in horror, poised to her whim with a devotion she did not request but found blissful. The integration of her heart with his damned her to believe his pain could be hers, and hers, his, and she wouldn’t notice at all. Although, Vince never saw the extent of the drop. He initially turned to her to say something but was caught off guard watching her skin return to its golden hue and her hair, once thinning, now filling her head with long, Flaxen locks.

Their trek and talking to the sounds at the bottom felt unruly in the face of the time zone flip that somehow gave them jet lag, but they could agree that they hoped the lights were leading them to a festive rest stop. Jingling bells and horse clops on cobblestone works moistened by vacating rain that forgot what part of Arizona they were in. Bret had been leading the charge on aggravating the citizens, or that’s the unpopular reception style he's accustomed to. Eye rolls and ‘it’s not my turn’ vibe written in murmurs, shrugging them off. Cynthia would rather admire the unique tapering of bell bottoms into bulbous shorts carrying tools in little pockets and hooks below their toolbox. Steam from every smoke stack and food vendor with Lo Mein next to jerk chicken, with something called vegan options. As this was a suburban forest, the cobble grew into rows of malformed structures down a lane, many of which looked like businesses with families living on the upper floors. Vince stayed in the courtyard with his head buried in his map.

He stood out in the dirt and excessively worn clothes. Vagrants spotted the new meat, as one said barely in his earshot, and caught his right uppercut when they tried to go for his backpack of half-heartedly gathered camping supplies. Regardless of his decision to pack light, he was well loaded down for plenty of untoward occasions; they liked to believe. Nothing subtle about finding the setting for Jack the Ripper at the bottom of a canyon, but the roaming gang of thieves found it appetizing. He used the hit to get some space. They cornered him against the far wall between the two pillars connected by a sign he hadn’t taken the time to remember. Big enough to be the bridge over a moat, but sheer black wood made of two or three layers of railroad ties stacked vertically. He had to let them get cocky and make them believe that the one-on-one approach would work in their favor. It became harder to manipulate in Vince’s favor after the throat chop rib shot dropped them to the fetal position. A sucker punch from another vagrant followed the slash across Vince’s chest and sent him back against the wall. Vagrants emerged from the woodworks of stairs descending deeper into the chasm lit by lanterns where a cave seemed to be carved out. Stopping the first one to charge in with a knee into the stomach left him open to the dagger of another to get shoved into his shoulder and pinned him against the wall. No one stopped stirring their pots, flipping their grilled fish. With his pocket knife in his cargo pants, he cut across his gut, spilling its contents onto their feet, turning them limp and shaking. The vagrant from the bench regained his standings and charged. Vince guessed the best hold for pulling a dagger straight out, shockingly, and threw it at the robber’s eyes, where they dropped to their knees to scream. His shove sent the choking man falling into the next fool, laughing at his attempt to cram what he could grab back in. "They always take it personally, eh." So when the last one saw Vince using the door to prop himself up, they had a vengeful stare breaking through Vince’s fluttering eyelids. They weren’t moving in for the hug, except…

“It’s him; it must be,” a whisper through the door uttered from a slot somewhere behind him.

“What?! Who’s that?”

“They won’t save ya, boy. Give yourself up to me. I’ll make it easy like Piccadilly whoring in the eighties,” the robber said in a way that kept the black gums bleeding into their teeth, sizzling in the open air.

“Who cares…he’s about to be. Do it!”

“Hey, you Sweeny Todds! I trapped him fair and square; you owe me favor, you bleeding sods. High praise in front of your highness, change from your cushions, you owe me, you owe the Scurge.”

The town opened up beyond the entrance lane, adding to the rustic esthetic. Awnings from RVs and re-purposed outhouse doors with moon carved near the time, all appearing in a technological confusion in overall clarity with motorized wheel barrels as they watched out for pickpocketing kids. Just enough creature comforts to downplay the continuously ignoring the juxtaposition of a working, flushing toilet inside a wooden outhouse shack between two houses, also serving as a communal chatting spot. That’s not to say the town square, past the slanted overhanging sign, wasn’t a multigenerational powder keg layer in tent fabrics scattered as walls, window sealer, and roof repairing tarps. Innovation in repurposing didn’t end with the floating lights powered by scented candles, attached in order to have mobile lanterns. You only need some fishing line to tie yourself to from the Misc. Inc., for all your handy needs. They were seen in windows of shops and houses alike, all colored based on whatever was available seemingly. A generator startled them to the well’s existence. V8 power rumbled the earth and deafened the hearing despite being a considerable ways from the town center. Amongst the thousands of questions he could generate, the first being, 'Huh,' he became stuck on, “Where are they getting the fuel?”

“You’re the ones, right? The new, ahh—hold on. My breath escapes from me.”

“Did you bring us here?” Cynthia asked in a huff that moved Bret out of the way.

“Oh, cameras don’t record anything here. Why, I can not tell you but no one has playback of this place. Trust me, we've tried. It’s probably been idle this whole time. I guess you’ve already tried phones or walkies—whatever seals the life in is nothing but interference. We have much to cover if you want work to go smoothly—Wait, I was told, four.”

“Five,” Artie chimed. Trying everything he knew about his Panasonic dream gift to keep it from being useless.

“Where’s Vince?” Bret asked. “He was behind us, right?”

“Great, I’ll have to repeat all this if he’s not here soon.” While the man looked at them, his under-the-breath comment remained mostly to himself. “Welcome—”

“I’m going nip that theme park nonsense in the bud right now. I don’t know anything more than we’ve been in a terrible accident; we’re missing two people, I think. After having been on the road for most of the day, can you just bear with us and cut the theatrics?” Bret asked.

“You—you’re right. Queen bless, you’re right. Most are normally too distracted to—warm tavern, start of the tour, really, let’s have a sit down where it’s less chaotic.”

Cynthia initiated a sidebar of whispers. The wrestling with interpretations of each of their view brought forth a caged trust that they reluctantly accepted. Bret pointed out the dead end in all directions besides the way they came, and Cynthia was put off by ‘jobs’ but had no guarantee, meaning they could camp here without further upsetting the status quo. In the unanimous three-party shrug, they followed Jerith, who thought it would be impolite to ask them to follow him anywhere without giving them his name, and led them to the Bloodied Nostrils Bar & Grill. (grill items are temporarily unavailable.) Outside, they prepared for the leaking ceilings and scantily dressed night workers bouncing on drunken laps of heavy smokers. Seeing the countertops, however, then the aisles of fishing equipment, hunting gear, and weapons section, they wondered how the hell they managed to get a Bass Pro Shop in a two-bedroom, no-bathroom-sized building. Jerith claimed the four or more corner booths with an order of bottled water on the docket. He took an extra effort to have something more potent on deck. They arrived while Artie attempted to get some ‘B-roll’ where the red record dot didn’t go away after a sudden static intervention.

“Technological advances created here are the only ones that prosper here. So, I don’t know, build a new one here in Ded Realm. This township is Gavelsmith.” The waters arrived. Only Artie and Jerith drink.

“Did we miss a turn on the map—”

“Of course not; you’re not on it anymore. Crossing the one-way threshold—well, falling into it, you’re here whether you meant to be or not. Your stuff, what you left in the car for sure, has been wildly exaggerated and spread amongst the three townships. All of it, like you, like your friend, have become a part of Ded Realm’s tale. Huh, I’ve never worded it like that,” Jerith said. “Yeah, this is way more grounding.”

“Then you know our next question,” Cynthia said with a scowl.

Jerith’s hand shot up. Even with his back to the bartender, he gave the thumbs-up thanks, which commenced the second round of drinks. A stout concoction that may be 151-proof whiskey or rum or gasoline as a bottom layer. The green layer halting all blending stopped them from bringing their nose even an inch closer, like the sip in itself is the roofie. Artie excluded calling himself diving into a Gonzo journalistic practice for the unfortunate novelization this has to be. Jerith struggled without the theatrics that granted him the tool of glossing over. “What year is it?”

“1996,” Bret said.

“That means I’ve been here around four hundred years as of five years ago. Back when my tribes were under attack by the white man—”

“What do you attribute to your radiant longevity?” Artie asked.

“Artie, shut up!” Cynthia started. “I don’t think you understand.”

“Didn’t you fall off a cliff that didn’t appear until after you crossed it in a fog with no earthly business being there, thick enough to squeeze? How high up were you, and yet you all walked here fine? And those missing friends—is one a little clearer in your memory, while the other seems to fade the harder you think about them? A long-time friend that now barely feels like an acquaintance, perhaps.”

“It’s a fully immersive introduction to the plains. I guess future decisions will be left to us, but the rules reign you in—” Artie began.

“What does this have to do with us finding a Motel 6 and a working phone to get the truck out of the ravine? Is that on the agenda? A park ranger.” Cynthia said, half ready to pick a direction and walk.

“Right, this is why the theatrics. Stand by, please.” Jerith left to walk past the bar to the weapons station with a firing range (currently closed) behind the dealer. They couldn’t hear what made Jerith point to their booth and then share a laugh, but it got him a pistol and a round toot-sweet. When he returned, he started with, “I’ve been told not to do this in the booth anymore, so—you don’t need to watch the event, but you have to observe the aftermath.” Without a slice of hesitation, he shot himself through the mouth and out the top of his skull with an explosive splattering that blanketed the ceiling. Artie was on the fast track to coming out of the journalistic focus when the gun dealer strolled over, picked up the weapon with a rag, and wiped it clean, never looking at the three stunned faces too stunned to take a full breath. When a brain chunk hit the floor, a starter pistol might as well have gone off in rapid fire; they were climbing over themselves despite it being unnecessary after they exited the booth. Two steps past the swinging door, Bret caught Jerith walking toward them with a pastry, wishing the artist painting great tidings on his way by. “No, please, don’t leave on my account.”

Artie ran back in to see the last of the smokey dust with turquoise glitter pass under a window pane; taking the stains with him, he returned outside and, “How—”

“Unless you know another place in 1996 where you can do that, name it. Otherwise, you need to know what part you’ll play.”

End of prologue part 2.