Forty Leap (42 page)

Opening a door, I saw that the foot of the
staircase was littered with debris. It was a bit difficult to
negotiate my way through it, but I managed. By that time, I could
taste the free and open air. I wanted so badly to be out that I
would have clawed my way through a brick wall. Or at least, I would
have if I could. About halfway up the stairs, the whole thing was
blocked off. The debris down below was the result of someone else
trying to do just what I had envisioned. There were chunks taken
out of the obstruction. The work may have been very old but the
signs of it were still visible. I stood on that staircase, my light
aimed forward, just staring blankly for a time. There were nine
exits available yet someone had chosen to attempt to clear this
one. Did that mean that the other eight were blocked? I began to
experience a terrible sense of dread.

I almost panicked. It was all I could do not
to run straight to each of the other exits and see what I already
knew to be true. Of course this place remained undisturbed. Our
enemies had invaded with two intentions. Kill as many as possible
and get the rest to leap. Once the complex was empty of living
Forty Leapers, they had sealed every exit and wiped the place from
the history books. If I were able to leap right then and there I
wondered if it would do any good. How deeply had they buried
us?

Though I considered a plan for ferreting out
food stores and beginning an organized campaign to dig my way free
I knew rationally that it was no use. Obviously, someone had come
through before me and tried, unsuccessfully to get out. For me to
clear out half a staircase’s worth of rubble I would need tools and
help and expertise. More than likely I would just bury myself more
effectively in the process. Still, I would check the food stores
just because I would need to eat while I waited for a miracle.

The kitchens were empty. The taps did not
work. There was no food or water to be found. In fact, pinned to
one of the overturned tables was a note scrawled in a weak
hand.

No food. No water. No way out.

It may as well have read,
No hope
. I
went back to the Map Room and it was there that I discovered the
first body. Whoever he was, he was badly decomposed and smelling of
it. He had set up a cot in there and was laying upon it as if he
had died in his sleep. The Map itself had been laid back out on its
table again. It was covered in dust but I cleared it away and began
to look for changes.

The first familiar name I found was Joanne
Li’s. A leap had been added to her entry. The writing was not in
the careful hand of the people I had seen on my first day here, but
also not in the same hand as the note I had found. It looked like a
woman’s writing, because there is a difference, and I guessed that
Joanne herself had made the entry. It was a theory I couldn’t ever
prove, but that was hardly important. The last jump recorded was
from Thursday November 26
^th
, 2189. That had been the day
of the invasion. There was no return date because, of course, there
was no way to know the date from down here. There was, however, a
big red X after the entry.

Many of the entries were Xed off now. Some
had leaps from the day of the invasion. Others did not. Many
different handwritings were in evidence although some writing
styles were visible across multiple entries. I looked down at the
dead fellow on the cot. Which of these entries was his? Had he
marked off his own death? How many others like him were there?
Where were they? Quickly, in almost a panic, I scanned the Map for
Rupert. I found him, his last jump having landed him in 2178,
eleven years before the invasion. There was no red X. Rupert was
either alive or no one who had seen the Map had known his fate. My
instantaneous relief turned quickly to dismay. What was it worth,
anyhow? Should I wish that he had been killed in the invasion or
that he had survived to leap into this godforsaken crypt? Rogers,
too, was unmarked, as was Natalie. Picking up the pen, I motioned
to fill in the jump that I had witnessed, Rogers Clinton’s. Then I
thought better of it. Whatever notion had driven leapers to keep up
this document, it was misguided. Should it fall into the wrong
hands, it would undo all of the anonymous leaps that had been
made.

I put the pen down on the table.

I spent some more time with the Map, looking
for names that I recognized. Otis was dead. Gerry Bensing was dead.
Awen Mohammed was also dead. Samantha Radish, who had clung to Awen
in 2023, was lost in time. Her last leap predated the invasion.
There were some other names, people who had passed into and out of
my life in the week I’d spent here. Most were dead. The others were
unmarked. Only Myalee Sincere had a confirmed leap in 2189.

When I had grown bored of the Map, I left the
room and began to work my way back toward the barracks and my own
room. There were two bodies in the barracks. One looked very old
and one looked very new. At least from a distance. I did not
approach them for fear of contracting some aggressive illness. It
was one thing to die of hunger and thirst. It was quite another to
have to be violently ill while doing it. There was also a body in
my room so I checked Rogers’ room. Occupied. Rupert’s room was
empty, though, so I claimed it as my own.

It was all I could do not to run screaming
through the hallways, scrabbling at the blocked exits in the vain
hope that either I could find a weak point or someone would hear
me. After checking each of the other exits for a way out (because I
had to at least check), I returned tired to Rupert’s room. There
was no longer anything for me to do. As the hours passed, I grew
more and more restless. My mind worked on ways I might find some
hope of escape. But I am not an engineer and haven’t the ingenuity
to invent a means to an end. Surely there was somewhere that led
through to the surface because I could breathe. The air was foul
and smelled of rot, but I was not suffocating. But whatever shaft
brought that air to me, it must have been too small for even a
mouse. To ease my tension, I thought to spend time filling up my
journal with what I guessed would be my last thoughts. But even
those pages remained mostly empty. I couldn’t focus. Much of what I
wrote was incomprehensible babble.

So I slept again.

But I slept in fits. The passage of time was
murky. How long does it take for a man to die of hunger and thirst?
My throat became more and more dry. My belly constricted against
itself. I grew nauseous.

I awoke to the sound of moaning. Surely it
was an illusion. I had thoroughly searched the complex while
checking the exits and found no one. Yet I could distinctly hear
this faint sound floating across the stale air. Weak, struggling to
keep control of my very mind, I rolled out of my bed, the
flashlight in my hand, and staggered into the corridor.

The moaning was louder out there, but my
muddled senses couldn’t pinpoint the direction from which it came.
I went first one way and then back the other. Only when I detected
the faintest hint of words embedded in the sound was I able to
clearly choose a path.

…
help…

…
please…

Some poor soul was in trouble. Whoever it was
needed me. Or maybe I just needed whoever it was. I struggled my
way through the passages, looking for the source of this moaning.
Sometimes it grew in volume and sometimes it dropped away. Once or
twice it faded from my range of hearing altogether. I began to grow
frantic. Someone was here with me. Someone was in the complex with
me and that someone was in trouble, in pain. Frenzy turned to
frustration and I found myself throwing things, calling out.

“Where are you?!”

The way the sounds came, it was almost as if
they were floating through my own head just to torment me.

…
help…

…
please…

“Help,” I said. “Please.”

Was I the soul in trouble? Had I been chasing
the ghost of myself through the halls of my burial place. All
manner of urgency dropped from my senses. A diversion though the
chase had been, it had certainly not been a pleasant one. It
signaled an end to coherency. With my body deprived of moisture and
nourishment, my brain was starting to revolt. Perhaps it needed a
good leader, like Rogers Clinton.

Somehow, I was able to get my bearings and
begin the walk back to Rupert’s room. At that moment, I was
finished. Like the others I had seen, it was time for me to go to a
room, lay down in a bunk, and die. I was too weak and tired to be
frightened anymore. I was too weak and tired to be angry. This was
the cold end of a Forty Leaper.

And then I saw him. He was sitting, propped
up against the wall, his head down, his eyes closed. His left hand
was pressed over his belly and I could see the blood leaking from
in between his fingers. A couple of feet away, connected to him by
a trail of blood, rested his rifle.

“Help,” he muttered in a very small voice.
“Please.”

I rushed to his side and lifted his face to
mine. I didn’t recognize him but I knew what he was. Gently, I
moved his hand away from his wound and saw the nasty tearing of
flesh caused by the bullets of the twenty second century. His eyes
focused on mine and there was some recognition there.

“Mathew Cristian,” he muttered through a
flickering smile. “Then I’m saved.”

I began to cry.

With a surge of adrenaline, I found my
strength again. I lifted the man in my arms, supporting his back
and his legs. He was heavy but I was determined. His head lolled
back, him not having the energy to keep it up. Staggering, I walked
forward step by step. I didn’t think about my destination or how
far it was. It took a long while but I had plenty of time. When I
reached Rupert’s room, I lay the man on the bed and checked his
breathing. He was still alive, poor devil. There was nothing I
could do for him. He needed someone to clean and dress his wound.
He needed blood to replace all that he had lost. He needed
water.

I could offer none of these things. I was
inadequate to the task. Even if I could have set up a transfusion,
I had no way to tell whether or not my blood would help him or kill
him. Furthermore, carrying him to Rupert’s room had sapped the very
last of my energy. Without even a bed to lay on anymore, I sank to
the floor and leaned up against the wall much the same way as my
charge had been doing when I found him. I switched off the
light.

“Help,” I whispered into the darkness.
“Please.”

I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t
think I died at that point. All right, it’s clear enough that I
didn’t die at any point. But there was a sense of death in the way
I lost consciousness. I was close to death, as close as anyone can
come I suppose without actually crossing over. But I don’t think it
happened at that point. I have little snatches of memory that
indicated that I awoke, maybe even stood and moved around. Again,
there’s no way to tell how long I was down there. I think I checked
on the wounded man. I think we had a conversation. The trouble is
that there are no visuals to associate with the memories. It was so
utterly pitch black in the headquarters that I couldn’t have hoped
to see anything without the flashlight and I don’t think I turned
it on. Ultimately, though, the blackness was complete. I was dead,
or as close as you can come without actually crossing over.

The memories then became more clear. I began
to see things with my eyes. There were people hovering over me and
bright lights. When I finally came to, I knew I was in a hospital.
There was a bed beneath me and a softly painted room around me.
Next to the bed was a table that I could barely see from my
position. I didn’t feel as if I was restrained but I was too weak
and tired to move regardless. I could smell food, hospital food. In
front of me, mounted on a short boom, there was a television set. I
suddenly became excited. I thought for a moment that it had all
been a hallucination. Perhaps it really
was
just blackouts.
For just that moment, I wished for it to be so. Then I wished
against it. If it were all an illusion then Jennie had been an
illusion as well. Of all of the things that had happened to me
since I started leaping, good and bad, I wouldn’t give up even one
of them if I had to give up Jennie as well.

My throat hurt badly. As I flexed the muscles
in my face, I found that my lips hurt, too. I turned my head
briefly but that was too much for me. In the end, I just lay back
and waited, breathing in air that was recycled and cool.

After a time I fell asleep again. When I
awoke, I was not alone. Sitting in a chair underneath the
television was a man. He was busy doing something on what I guessed
was a handheld computer but he saw my open eyes when he looked up.
At first I think he was a bit shocked to see me. It was tough to
tell. He was very thin and pale with blonde, almost white, hair. He
was young, though. I would put him somewhere in his early twenties.
The expression on his face was difficult to read. It was as if
human reactions had changed over the decades. I would place his
expression somewhere between awe and delight. Without a word, he up
and left me.

I stared for a moment at the empty chair
feeling almost nothing. The physical sensation, or lack thereof, of
my body almost totally absorbed my thinking. I couldn’t get myself
to consider what I had just seen. Only a moment passed, however.
The man returned with two people in tow. The first, a man, wore
slacks and a shirt and a tie and a white coat. He was a doctor
clearly and he looked very much as if he’d come right out of 1975.
He had a thick mop of black hair that was done in a sweeping wave
across his head. He looked older, maybe close to forty, but like a
man trying to look younger. The man who came in behind him wore
scrubs. They differed somewhat from what I was used to seeing on TV
and in hospitals from my era. They seemed a bit more form fitting
and the color was indefinable. It was almost as if the material
defied color. This second man, I presumed, was a nurse.