The Laboratory

STITCH

Inexhaustible scamps kick up black swells of charcoal dust. Squeals of laughter, although innocent, jar Hereon from the Stitch. Hereon sits hunched over a dusty desk, the clear veneer is peeling back in flakes bleached by time. The space is windswept - open to sun, sky and snake. Hereon admires the barefoot children chasing the vermin through the yucca and brittle bush. They pause the Stitch, dismount the headset and listen to the young ones play. The vivid dream like virtual reality of the Stitch is subtle yet distracting from physical world around , somewhat consuming. This world feels so solid, yet Hereon searches for clues of a small edge in the sky that they can harass and strip away. It’s the feeling of wanting to expose a secret you have no evidence for.

Colors in this world now feel limited, like all brilliance is within incubation: dullness on the brink of rebirth. Hereon logs off, tucks away the monitor and covers the screen with a checkered shawl. Many people couldn't even fathom the validity of spending time submitted to a world that doesn't feel tangible, one you cant break with a stone and burn with a flame. But Hereon felt inside the keyhole, saw something most people didn’t. They wanted to create the key. People recognized their unstoppable curiosity as hope.

Paper records had been admitted to vaults forty years prior, the current year being 2120. The decimation of forests came to an abrupt and essential halt in 2050 and with that the mass production of paper of all subscriptions. Data is now digitally scribed- although most civilians don't have access to this database. Historical records are kept unpublished, un-hackable, unknown. These new laws hampered more than just data. It keeps money out of many hands. There is a severing divide applied to the people who live “primitively” amongst the stone, with little resources and those who live in the cities- city life is distant folklore to those in the Valley. Hereon inherited a 2100 computer in which they play Stitch, 20 years old. Only four other people in Crescent Valley, with a population of 9,454, had technology of this caliber and is could easily be put to shame. Sham, the idiosyncratic village elder, Hereon’s mentor was one of the few. He had developed a topographical mapping system inspired by a previously public program “Google Earth”. Together they had scrolled across the maps searching for a perplexing place. The high security city that held munificent amounts of paper records- both of them wanted to get their eyes on the forbidden knowledge.

MESQUITE

All in question the Sun still set in Crescent Valley. As the coarse light of the day fades the bright surveillance satellites and objects in orbit begin to shimmer, refracting the amber burn of the sunset. The center star kneels nightly before a people that have survived a century in shambles awaiting an era unknown. When gloaming nears the folk emerge from their dwellings. They put down their grindstones, dress for the night and come trickling down the rock. They gather at the mouth of a meandering chasm drifting alongside horsetail bent by the wind which signals toward a natural amphitheater cradling an old Mesquite tree.

Beneath the tree they gather to sing. Bathing in the wicked shadow of her twisting branches the people welcome the 5th Moon of the Year. A Moon highly revered: the revealing of fortune. Harmony in the village is cultivated from the sound that echoes off the canyon walls. It cracks and sweeps away tufts of grief. It shouts and scowls, naming frustration without narration. It bellows holy notes of joy and vibrates delicate sounds of love. The lunar ritual is guided by Sham, a kin to the land, wealthy in experiences and vivid conceptions of the future- also quite the entertainer. At the end of the night when the moon was still high in the sky, he approaches Hereon. He hands Hereon the money. Twenty thousand dollars.

Sham’s son, Grey, is sick. As is half of the village. Crescent Valley is considered a land of exile- toxic to the human body. Local lore attributes the nuclear wreckage to Project Plowshare- a series of atomic bombs released beneath the surface of the earth between 1969 and 1973 in hopes to stimulate natural gas production. Which it did…in excess. The fractured earth now releases constant and sometimes flaring streams of Uranium. These gaping toxic holes are poisoning the people of the Valley. Sham trusts Hereon more than anyone. He knows an answer, if anywhere, will be amongst those records hidden at the Laboratory.

DEPARTURE

A piddle of blood marked another napkin as Grey wipes it across his lips. His lungs ache, a soreness deep within the chest that crawls through the body. Desert dust clouding the horizon like a foggy morning. He tucked the napkin quickly into his vest. He didn’t want to keep confronting the pain and urgency it brought Hereon to see him dying. Grey had insisted he join Hereon in the quest to save his life. Together they had a chance. Grey had once been beyond the valley walls - this would play in their favor- for Hereon knew nothing other than their own little life and the dreamy pixels of Stitch.

The charred red truck barreled across the upper plateaus of Black Owl Canyon. Too many years they'd spent hidden beneath the ridge lines trying to keep out of sight. Too many years they'd been tucked away watching kin fall back into dust.

Twenty grand in cash, marked with the number twenty and a strangers face. Hereon had never held so many paper bills before. They were tempted to pass one to Grey- to wipe his bloody mouth on. But alas, they would save him in another way. Much money to make the trek to Los Alamos National Laboratory, a previously top-secret government establishment, since abandoned. Presumably dangerous, located in a young Territory 19, previously the State of New Mexico. There they were to find a vault. What was inside they did not know. The rumors would've led anyone else astray: fusing extraterrestrial DNA, cloning, chemical warfare experiments, time travel hostages, age-regressions, teleportation, the whole lot. But they were looking for healing. Perhaps there would be answers as to why their people had been separated and disregarded as a part of society for the last 60 year, answers to their sickness and their pain.

Grey’s eyes, a tide pool of aquatic life consuming sunshine in the sand like the surface of a shallow shore, watch sweat bead off Hereon’s cheeks. The heat melts the dashboard through the windshield. All things are warped by the heat- even time. Hereon felt his glare and it broke their focus. Hereon’s eyes like thick oil spilling out into the world, a viscous liquid pouring across a desolate and parched land. The cassette rolled through the raspy speakers: Tchqikovosky’s Snow Maiden Op. 12. Suspenseful heirloom orchestrations, a prematurely triumphant cascade of strings. Plowing through the sand the wake creates a stillness that knew of a home greater than a place. Something caught the Suns reflection in the sky- they both looked up. Surveillance. Center star catching the silver wings of the Telescops. As they neared the Laboratory more and more of the soaring knives sliced through the sky, you could nearly see the strips of slate blue peeling away, exposing the unreachable walls that contained them here.

The van gurgled. It was safer to travel by starlight-better not to risk being seen for speed. The canyons ahead were the coverage they aimed for. Barrel cacti waved them by, bursting into full summer bloom, an ecstatic yellow painting the passing breeze. In the canyon they parked in the shadows, unearthed a large rock and nested down in the cool sand. Grey slashed a cactus, careful to avoid the needles writhing for a small sacrifice. They nursed the bitter water from its flesh, catching every dribble that tried to escape their lips. One more long night of travel under the half moon.

THE LABORATORY

35º52’54”N

106º17’54”W

They watched the sunrise on the ridge overlooking Los Alamos National Laboratory. In the distance the mountain range caught the morning beams. A brilliant red alpenglow pulsing through the sky, like thick veins smearing blood and light across the dark city quietly nestled in the sparse pine hills. Concrete cubic forms captured the moonlight on their eastern walls. In a way it resembled the vacant suburban neighborhoods they'd driven through before, built to contain hundreds of thousands of people, but earths abiding breath leeched through- roots and vines pierced the barriers into rubble. No lights come from the windows. The winds are harsh, relentless and spiked with sand that smooth the human edges back into soft rolling curves. It was empty and quiet. They had anticipated marching security officers or armed watch guard robotics on a continuous loop. Nothing but hawks in the sky and the whistle of the morning breeze. Grey dropped the truck into first gear and they edged down into the small city. As they neared the entrance he pointed out the gates: propped open. Felt like all one needed to protect precious information was a strong and murderous rumor.

The Laboratory was told to have been organized during World War II as a place to research, develop and experiment with nuclear weapons. A melting pot of “multidisciplinary research fields such as national security, space exploration, nuclear fusion, renewable energy, medicine, nanotechnology and supercomputing.” Having little restrictions it had gotten out of hand, but no one knew why, or in which way, for the experiments and outcomes were all held in mandatory confidentiality.

Hereon booted up the digital pocket file Sham had given them. Inside the application they scrolled around a cadastral plan- the placement of all the buildings and somewhat of a guide to building F11, the building that contained the vault. The truck putted around, strolling down the desolate trails. F STORAGE! Grey stopped the truck in the middle of the road and they jumped out. Hereon helped Grey drag his weakening body out of the heat. He burped a little more blood up and onto the concrete. On the face of the building was a large steel door. The entrance to the F Building. It was pried open and the locks nearly melted into oblivion. A knot twisted in their bellies, hoping that whoever had done this wasn't after the same information they were. Inside they stumbled through the dark halls, palms tracing the polished concrete walls. Grey found the switch on his torch and illuminated the corridor. The maze was chilling. Corners and hollows reverberated the clicking of their heels meeting the floor. Hereon followed the pocket files. They were a blinking green pixel in a labyrinth of white walls.

Up on the left, F11. Grey cast the light of his torch across the room. Hundreds of cubbies filled with paper! From floor to ceiling paper notebooks with uniform black covers filled every space. A grand hallway of material. What notebook did they need? Amongst the thousands Hereon pulled the first from the shelf.

Printed on the inner cover:

THIS NOTEBOOK IS USED BY: Victoria Lang

STARTING DATE: 11.1.2020

This notebook is property of the U.S. Government- if you terminate your employment at the Los Alamos National Laboratory you must turn this notebook over to you superior and repeat the contents of this notebook to no one.

Their eyes scanned the dedicated scripts. Grey caressed the smooth fiber of the paper, indented by the concentrated force of a pen. They knew they'd have to spend a lot of time within these walls, heads craned down, finding the answers to questions unspoken.

So begins, a journey within with pages.