Synopsis: Michael Mates is on a journey in a vast and unfamiliar realm.
The light from the lamp overhead began to fade. Beneath the floor, a low rumbling emanated, long and sonorous like an earthquake. Then in a remarkably swift motion, the entire room pitched to one side, cracking the cinderblock walls in various areas. Sections of the walls shifted precariously, threatening to jostle loose and topple over onto the floor. The paint became chipped and worn, as if it had seen long years of isolation. On top of all this, the room grew astoundingly cold - like a freezer. Then, as quickly as the invisible agitation had come, it immediately dissipated and everything stood still. Michael Mates let out a sigh of relief within his concrete cell.
Michael was sitting against the wall in silence, counting something with his fingers. He wore a gray and black wet suit with Velcro straps, and on his feet he wore large black boots which were fitted with crampons. His face was partially obscured by a pair of strange looking goggles. He looked ready to traverse everything arctic, aquatic, or otherwise.
A sudden twinge in Michael's head caused his whole body to spasm momentarily. The nanoreceiver inside his brain turned on.
"Mike, are you still with us?" A voice emerged from somewhere inside Michael's mind.
"Yeah," Michael said aloud to no body.
There was a pause and then the voice came again.
"I just picked up a lot of synaptic activity at your location. Do you think you'll be able to find an exit before-"
"-let's hope so," Michael said curtly. "This is the eleventh time I've visited this room. Can you give me a door?"
After a second, the voice said, "Where do you want it?"
Michael glanced around the room.
"Anywhere," he said despondently.
As if on command, a trap door appeared at the center of the room. Michael walked over to it and lifted the hatch. He gazed down into emptiness; the space beyond the trap door was impervious to light. Taking a deep breath, he slid through the opening into darkness.
Michael landed with a loud splash. Cold water swirled around him, engulfing his body and overwhelming his senses. He let himself sink a ways into the abyss, finding it difficult to move his extremities. Then, remembering that he was holding his breath, he swam in the direction he thought to be up.
When he reached the surface, Michael gasped for air. From what little he could make out through his goggles, he was suspended in an enormous vertical shaft. The light from the trap door shone as a speck above him. No sooner had he landed, the water began to circulate around the shaft, forming a whirlpool. Out of instinct, he swam to the edge of shaft. He tried to climb out of the water, but the walls were slippery and there was nothing to grab onto. Then, after a moment of confusion, he realized what was going on. He resigned his arms and legs and let his body drift towards the center of the whirlpool.
At the center of the vortex, the water was fast and violent. Within seconds, Michael was dragged under. Down and down he went, further into the watery gloom. He felt himself start to loose consciousness, red creeping into his peripheral vision. Then the red turned into black. But Michael knew all along that it was just a test.
When he woke up, he was in a desert. Mountains of sand occupied every direction, cascading down into gigantic valleys that shimmered in the blazing heat. Michael swore.
"Well, there's no way I'm going to find water out here," he exclaimed hopelessly.
The voice in his head was quiet for a minute and then said, "Look for an oasis."
Michael trudged up to the top of one of the sand dunes in order to obtain a better view of the landscape. Up here, the wind was fierce; it whipped over the crest, billowing sand every which way, carpeting Michael's hair and stinging his eyes. He squinted into the distance. For awhile, he could see nothing. He spent a couple hours marching across the burning sand in vain. Then finally, when he felt he was about to collapse from exhaustion, he spotted a spec of blue on the horizon which was partially obscured by ripples of heat radiating up from the sand. He thought despairingly for a moment that it might be a mirage, but it was not.
When he reached the oasis, Michael dropped to his knees, sank his face down, and drank his fill of the cool blue water. It was refreshing, invigorating even. Michael rejoiced aloud which alerted the voice in his head to his triumph.
"Ok, Mike, you won't believe this. You're right on top of it."
Mike spun around in amazement. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew it would be good. But then... nothing happened. All he saw was sand, miles and miles of sand.
"Are you sure?" He asked the voice, feeling his heart start to beat faster and faster. "All I see is desert."
"That's the thing Mike. You're not really in a desert-it's a shadow memory. You're actually in a basement, in Minneapolis, Minnesota."
And no sooner had the voice in his head spoken these words, the desert and all the millions of grains of sand shrank into oblivion. In its place, there appeared a cracked brick wall. Set next to the wall was an old washing machine and dryer. Michael spun around to take in the new scene. The place was dim, but he could make out a grimy brown couch across the way, whose cushions were torn, a rickety chair next to it, a bucket and mop in the corner, an ironing board, some tools, a desk, and a furnace. The entire place was shrouded in cobwebs. He could see now that the only light present was coming in through a small window near the ceiling. A cloud of dust particles danced in the air in front of the window.
"So, what exactly am I looking for?" Michael said to the darkness.
"Um," the voice in his head started, sounding somewhat hesitant as if it was considering something, "a girl."
"A girl?" Mike said surprised.
"Yeah, with red or brown hair..."
"Well, which is it?"
"Red, I think. But don't worry, she'll be hard to miss."
"And why is that?"
"You'll see."
Mike searched the basement, but found only assorted junk. He made a full circle around the room, stopping at the cracked brick he was facing when he first arrived. The wall was vacant, save for the old washing machine and dryer. He looked at it for a moment quizzically. His reflection shone back at him on the dark glass.
Then he said, "You've got to be kidding me." This time the voice in his head didn't respond.
Michael checked the back of the washing machine to see if it was still plugged in. It was. In fact, it actually started up when he pushed the ON button, emitting a deep moan as its metal innards came to life. Feeling very silly, Michael started to crawl into the washing machine. After his head and shoulders had been sufficiently showered with stale water, he realized to his amazement that he could keep going until his entire body was somehow crammed into the tiny machine. Then suddenly, the bottom of the washing machine gave way, and he found himself falling down a narrow chute.
When he arrived at the bottom of the chute, he found himself in an underground vault. In the middle of the room, illuminated by a single shaft of light, there was a massive grave. Michael was captivated by the sheer size of it. Then something caught his attention. Standing beside the grave was a little girl. She wore a white night gown, and had long red curls that ran down her back and enveloped her entire face. She stood perfectly still, seemingly unaware of Michael's presence. A wave of fear suddenly swept over Michael, and he had to resist the urge to turn and run.
"This is it," He said to himself.
The voice in his head said something but Michael wasn't listening. He kept his eyes fixed on the girl's face. He had to see her face. He took a step towards her, then another. Suddenly he was within arm's reach of her curly red hair. He cautiously extended his arm out, grasping a lock firmly in his fist. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it away.
"Michael you did it. Look!" A man was standing over him smiling. He tried to get up but his muscles were unwilling to do his bidding. "Wait a couple minutes," the man said encouragingly. "Your mind hasn't come out of it yet."
There was a dull pain in Michael's head that quickly grew into a throb. He looked around vacantly. He was lying on a metal table. There was an IV stuck in his arm and his hands and feet had been strapped to the table. He couldn't move his head. There was a clicking noise and the man who was smiling lifted a large instrument from somewhere above him. He suddenly felt able to move his head, though it hurt badly. The straps on his hands and feet were removed and he was helped up off the table.
"You do brilliant work, Dr. Mates," another man said from behind him. He closed in on Michael and shook his hand firmly. The man had dark wavy hair and bright eyes. "Look!"
Across the way, there was a large glass divide and beyond that there was another room. Inside the room there was a boy lying on a metal table. He had been strapped down just like Michael had been. The same spectacular instrument hung above his head. It looked like he had just woken up.
"My wife and I never thought Jacob would make it," the bright-eyed man continued, a mixture of joy and sadness in his voice. "Ever since his sister's suicide, his schizophrenia has kept him bed ridden. We tried all kinds of medication but nothing worked. He never said a word to either of us for all this time. It was like he was trapped inside his own world or something. And it's been six long years, Dr. Mates, and just now he woke up and called me 'Daddy' for the first time that I can remember. He actually called me 'Daddy'. Can you believe that?"
Michael Mates folded his arms in satisfaction. "Twenty-fourth century psychiatry can do wonders."
Linear Mode
