Blue Into The Rip

Two huge unmistakable eyes opened in the forest dimness. A sore head and aching muscles—as if he’d been dragged behind a car while unconscious. His long thin legs twisted underneath him; his face covered in dust and his blonde-brown afro full of leaves and dirt. Blue wondered if the same car had run him over a few times to make sure of the job.

He raised himself onto unsteady feet.

Ouch. A sizable and sore lump on the side of his head.

Jonesy lay on the ground. Thoughts stabbed at him: his young sister, lost on the forested hill of Dooleys Wood, the frantic search for her with his parents, Eddi and Newt, her voice calling to him.

Annie! Blue picked up the doll, clutching the toy to his chest. Eddi! Newt!

Perhaps they found Annie while I was unconscious and took her home. They wouldn’t leave me behind—would they? And who or what hit me on the head?

A loud crack somewhere behind him. Blue wheeled around—

A shadow melting into the dark?

Eddi? Still no answer. Newt? He reached into his jeans pocket for the Cat, his lethal slingshot.

Ack. I must have dropped it somewhere or someone stole it.

Blue jogged downhill, stumbling through dense thickets and overgrown bushes.

I’ll go back home. Eddi and Newt will be waiting for me with Annie. Sure.

A peculiar quiet surrounded him, only broken by the buzz and whine of insects and the far-off lapping of water. What’s happened to the noise of the town? Cars, buses and lorries? The shouts and shrieks of drunken nutters out on a typical Friday night? The trees of Dooleys Wood seemed different. Thicker. More leaves and stuff. The air hot and humid. Sticky.

The clogging vegetation ended, and he fell, slipping, into heavy mud and water.

What the—?

Wet and confused, Blue tried to fathom the inky blackness.

No lights anywhere. Zilch.

He grabbed a handful of sludge and threw it as far as he could. A deep plop.

A shoreline? That makes no sense. The nearest lake is miles away. And besides, I’m half-way up a hill.

Splash! Something heavy slithering into water. A half-submerged log floated towards him. He took a nervous step backwards and fell over, feet trapped by more mud. The watery log-thing reached the shore and, like a dim shadow taking terrifying form from the blackest dreams, raised itself on to stubby legs.

No log, but a bloody crocodile!

What is going on? he shouted as sudden crocodile facts popped into his mind.

Upper and lower jaw the same width. Teeth exposed in an interlocking pattern even when closed. Prefers brackish water. Long narrow jaws suitable for eating fish and mammals. More aggressive, bigger and faster than the alligator.

Blue shook his head to stop the never-ending stream of crocodile information—

Has salt secreting glands in its mouth.

—and wrenched a leg free, managing to crab-walk backwards. The glistening croc’ snapped efficient jaws at him.

Get lost!

A stink of foul rotting filled his nostrils.

Lays around eighty eggs in clutches buried in underground caverns.

Reptile teeth caught the fabric of his jeans, ripping them.

A lighter olive colour than its American cousin, the alligator.

Blue threw himself backwards, kicking the crocodile on the snout. In your scaly face! He found his feet and ran, thrashing at the tangled undergrowth. A gnarled tree blocked his way, its lowest limbs high above, a greasy trunk offering no obvious foot or handholds. Something lumbered with purpose behind him.

Can attack at lightning speed.

He flung himself outstretched to grab at the lowermost branches, swinging to perch below the wood’s canopy. Eyes darting, searching for his pursuer, Blue was surprised at how high he jumped. Of the many facts flooding his brain, one dominated all others—

Cannot climb trees.

—but he clambered on, climbing as far as the thinning branches would allow, shouting at the black impassive night.

None of this makes any sense. I’m still in Dooleys Wood, but it’s changed. The thick undergrowth, the maddening insects, the waters and their well-dangerous inhabitants.

He glanced at the stars, relieved to spot the same constellations. Orion the Hunter, Ursa Major, Taurus and the others.

There must be a rational reason for all this. A flood then, some disaster? Perhaps some zoo animals escaped? Implausible, but what other explanation was there? Blue’s thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.

The Pole Star.

What should’ve been a single point of light used for centuries by mariners and explorers to find north and passage home was now part of a cluster of multi-coloured stars moving in slow rhythm.

Where did they come from?

A wave of exhaustion washed over him, a deep body shudder rattling his teeth.

An age later, a mechanical whir broke the endless silence.

A helicopter?

Blue followed the sound and found a light growing in the distance. The helicopter came closer, illuminating Dooleys Wood. An island surrounded by water. Gone was the town and its suburbs.

They are somehow drowned, including, he guessed with a swallow, my own dumb-looking house.

Electricity pylons poked from the murky waters like the masts of sunken ships.

The helicopter flew closer, coming for him. The light meant one thing and one thing only.

Rescue.

He cast his mind back to this morning at the abandoned playground where this weird stuff started.

BLUE TOOK the Cat from his pocket and smiled. The smooth metal fitted his hand with the ease of regular use. The Catapult was a toy for kids in the 50s and Dennis the Menace, but nothing was old-fashioned about its effectiveness. The slingshot was deadly.

Apart from a cute black and white dog, the long-abandoned playground was empty. The summer sun, low in the azure vault of the sky, warmed even at this early hour.

Far better to be here than slumming at the Gruesome Institution.

School and Blue did not get on; he’d given up on the place about the same time the teachers gave up on him.

The playground, wildlife and weeds taking over from the rusted iron, was a haven from the horrors of education. All the dents and chipped concrete from hours of practice with the Cat made this place a home from home.

Smashing stuff up did that.

Other than the occasional car roaring along the A-Road on the far side of a towering weed-infested wall, the playground was tranquil.

Bunking off school meant a whole heap of trouble. So what? Here, everything makes sense. No nagging, paranoid parents, no exasperated teachers and, best of all, no kids glaring at the freak boy. Only Annie accepts me for who I am, but she’s two years old.

Blue was peeved at his sister’s arrival and how his parents doted on her whilst giving him the elbow. She turned into a shy, but adorable and loving child. The complete opposite of Blue. He had been a loud, confident, brash youngster convinced of his own importance due to his remarkable appearance.

My big blue eyes of da-da-doom.

His eyes had been the feature he was proudest of—crashingly blue and awesome, framed by his golden-brown skin and shaggy blonde afro. In the last few years, they had changed horribly. By age fifteen, the sapphire circle of his iris became gigantic. The one cool thing about him, his nickname, Blue, now haunted him like a sick joke.

Typical.

With his changing looks, his youthful confidence deserted him. School became a trial. He preferred zonking off to his inner-world rather than listening to boring lessons. Teachers hated him for his intelligence; they gave him detention, forced him to complete schoolwork he knew backwards and made snide comments about his eyes.

I’m a mega-brain and teachers: ‘etymologically-challenged amoebas. They’d have to look that one up, sure.

The ragged dog scratched itself and yawned, wagging a hopeful tail at him. Blue waved and the mongrel bounded over weeds, concrete and abandoned oil drums to arrive in a flustered over-excited ball of fur.

You feeling the lonesome, huh? You and me bo—

The screech of tyres, an almighty bang and a car exploded through the playground wall like a high-velocity bullet through a watermelon. Blue dived, masonry flying everywhere. The out-of-control hatchback flew past him to land on its roof in a smashed, smoking heap. A whoosh, and the vehicle caught fire. Unharmed, Blue crawled onto to shaky legs.

The dog was similarly lucky, running away with a yelp.

Blue hurried over to find an unconscious woman and a boy of Annie’s age trapped inside the car. Doors crushed, jammed into the bent chassis. Flames licked, growing in strength. A burning, terrifying, life-and-death spectacle playing out right in front of him.

I’ve gotta get them out.

He grabbed an old pole, using it as a lever. The rusted metal bent like a straw. He smashed it against the windows, but the toughened glass did not break. The fire found a pool of petrol and exploded, the heat pushing Blue back. Inside the overturned vehicle, the child screamed, a repeated shriek scything into his mind.

They're going to die, and I can't help them…

BLACKOUT.

…The sound of sobbing brought Blue back to his senses. He was holding the crying boy, tiny arms linked around his neck, legs locked on to his chest. The young woman lay on the ground, her eyes flickering as if in a daze. She was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Too young to be a mum. Too young to be driving that fast. Apart from a cut to her forehead, she appeared uninjured. The car was a ruin of smashed smoking metal. The chassis lay in two pieces, the doors missing.

Totally mashed.

An Australian accent with an air of incredulity, You okay, fella? A young man with long bleached hair and ‘Oh Crap!’ printed on his T-Shirt stood at Blue’s side. His eyes danced in shock. What a wreck. I thought you’d all kicked it for sure. Debris everywhere. Crikey!

You got… you got them out?

Me? No, I was passing in my truck and saw the smoke and the wall all massacred. Must have been one humdinger of an impact. There’s a door lying in the road about half a click away. God knows how it got there.

Then who rescued them? The doors were jammed, not ripped off. Blue put the boy down next to his mother. I’d better go,

I dunno about that, you could be hurt. I called the emergency services. They’ll be here any minute. He held up a mobile phone.

Blue stared at the destroyed car and pushed him aside. No way.

Dude, wait for the police.

I gotta get home.

The flying machine hovered over the island of Dooleys Wood, a single blade whining in the balmy air.

Various memorised schematics of helicopters popped into Blue’s mind (he remembered everything). The aircraft was like no other helicopter. A hybrid. Directional jet engines slung on either side of the fuselage. A traditional helicopter was heavy, noisy and mechanical, challenging gravity for a place in the sky. This machine had no such contest. A bronze-coloured, flitting hummingbird.

The crack of breaking branches and a substantial brass-like ladder crashed through the canopy.

Hey, Gote. A youthful voice over a tinny speaker. Get on board.

Blue stared open-mouthed.

Do you want rescuing or not?

Rescue.

The word jarred him into action and Blue grabbed hold of the ladder. The whine of the helicopter increased in volume. A few seconds later, Blue dangled hundreds of feet above an inland sea of never-ending water. A plain white logo of the Earth within a ring adorned the fuselage. The artist had done a sloppy job on the continents; the outlines were unrecognisable. Underneath, three words, OUR VERY EARTH. Undaunted by the height, Blue pulled himself into the golden-skinned craft.

The ladder retracted and the door slid shut with a hiss.

Ready for the ride of your life, Gote? came a boyish voice over the speaker. Time to light the fuse. Wahoo!

With a deafening roar of engines and prop, quick acceleration flung Blue against the back wall of the compartment.

A second voice, Way to go, Singh.

Blue found a seat by the window and tried to control his shaking.

Who are these guys? They are enjoying this too much. Don’t they realise I’m freaking out here? Something way-out has happened to Dooleys Wood, to perhaps the Earth. Either that or I’ve gone mental-lentil.

A short flight, maybe ten minutes.

We’re coming in to land, folks. Everyone brace.

The copter descended with frightening speed, the circled H of a helipad flew towards them.

We’re going to crash!

Powerful jets kicked in and the aircraft touched down with a gentle thud.

Another top-notch landing from Second-Lieutenant Singh.

"Not too bad for an old man."

You don’t forget Basic Training, that’s a fact.

I’d never pass on an opportunity to pilot one of these crates again.

Hey, if they need some top-notch trainers to teach those green-assed cadets how to fly, I think we should put in for it.

I’m cool with that, Buddy.

A draught of hot, salty, decaying seaweed and the door whirred open. A rough hand yanked Blue down to the landing pad. It belonged to a boy of seventeen or eighteen with bright youthful features, greenish-blue eyes and a reddened complexion. He was as tall as Blue and thickset, with a curly-blonde head too big even for his huge physique. A lopsided grin leered at him.

The flying machine sat in an enclosed, imposing courtyard. Impressive architecture on every side. The far buildings had partly collapsed, algae-covered masonry strewn haphazardly. Exposed rooms, stone stairwells and empty, foliage-filled openings lay naked to the elements. Harsh white lights dazzled from a jury-rigged wire. Massive insects crashed into the uncovered bulbs, eager to bash out their senseless lives. Other lamps blazed higgledy-piggledy from windows close to the helipad.

No funny business, otherwise you’ll have me to deal with, dig? said the boy.

There was a warm vibe about him, despite the harshness of his words. Blue did a double-take. He is the same height as me and I’m a stupid six-foot seven.

At his side stood a wiry youth. He was by no means short—six foot, possibly six foot two, but both Blue and the blonde boy towered over him. A curious mixture of Hispanic and Asian, he possessed a skinny intensity of jerky movements and odd twitches. He preened at a poor excuse for moustache—more fluff than anything else—and shook his head in disdain.

They spent all those years searching for these guys and this is what they end up with? he said shrugging. No wonder the future gave up on them.

Both boys were dressed in immaculate white uniforms—all-in-one romper suits made of a polyester-like material.

Is this a rescue? Blue asked.

Hey, we haven’t even introduced ourselves. The blonde boy let loose his grip and saluted. I’m Private Ammers.

The other youth, his thick black hair shining blue under the severe lights, pointed at a single bar on his collar. "See this? I’m Second-Lieutenant Singh."

Ammers winked at Blue. And don’t we know it.

Singh ignored him. This shows I’m an officer of Our Very Earth, known to us simple soldiers as Earth Corps, okay?

‘Our Very Earth.’ The same words written on the jet-helicopter thing.

Ammers grabbed him again. "Earth Corps is watching over you now. Listen up, Bucko. You’re what we call a Gote and even though that’s a whole box of rocks, you’ve lucked out big time. You get me?"

An officer? He’s no older than Ammers. Just a kid. What are you talking about? Where am I? Where are you taking me and what is a Gote?

Compassion crossed Ammer’s face. Don’t worry yourself, Son. This is B-Pal, the temporary HQ.

Singh patted Blue on the back. Congrats, Buddy, you’ve made the program. They smiled knowingly.

Are there any more survivors?

They glanced at each other and grimaced. Best save those kind of questions for the commander.

All this gung-ho militaristic macho crap was doing Blue’s head in. Their accents didn’t come from anywhere he recognized and their uniforms? So white as to be dazzling. Like they are a part of some ill-conceived and poorly acted advert for militaristic washing powder. Why wouldn’t they answer my question?

Singh urged him forward. C’mon, Buddy-boy.

I’m Blue.

Ammers chuckled. No need to get depressed.

They’re taking the piss out of me? What’s wrong with them?

Ammers pushed Blue through an unimportant looking entrance into a neglected and fusty smelling corridor and stopped at a plain door. The thickset blonde boy ushered him inside. In you go. S’okay. Take a gander.

Bare except for a table and two chairs. Cracked plaster hastily painted. Another doorway nailed shut with planks that had half-fallen off. A single brilliant bulb hung from a wire, bleaching the room into unforgiving alabaster. More stupid insects buzzed and hummed.

The sooner we can get you into some whites, the better. You sure are a mess, Buddy.

Whites. Military uniform worn for dress occasions.

Blue’s shredded jeans and trainers were caked in mud and Jonesy did nothing for his machismo.

They want to dress me up?

An older man arrived. Ammers and Singh jumped to attention. Commander Dauntless, sir!

Dauntless did not as much enter the room as take control of it. In his forties and well-muscled, this new visitor brought with him an air of controlled threat. Brown-skinned with a face that held a confusing mixture of racial traits, his shaved head shone in the harsh light of the cramped, neglected room. A deep burn cut across his nose, upon which sat tinted sunglasses. Who have we here?

His name is Blue, sir.

The commander nodded. Ammers and Singh saluted and left. The man closed the door, his scarred face pulling into a menacing smile.

Blue liked things a lot more with the door open.

Dauntless sat opposite Blue and raised an eyebrow in apparent amusement. You’re scared. Don’t be.

You gonna tell me where, what and how? Cos I’ve had enough of this. You get me?

"I get you, alright. I’m Commander Dauntless, the year is 2454 and if you want an easy life, you’ll learn to call me sir."

STILL WOOZY FROM his experience at the playground and wincing at the many sirens and rushing police cars, Blue made his way home. The image of the mashed car refused to go away. He’d read about blackouts, but nothing involving ripping vehicles apart.

Unless I’d had some ‘Incredible Hulk’ moment. What did that guy say? ‘A door flung half a mile away’? Did I do that?

Blackouts. A period of unconsciousness or memory loss. They can occur as a result of brain damage or disorders affecting brain function, such as epilepsy. Can be caused by a recent traumatic event.

Bloody hell!

He turned into his dead-end street and opened the gate to the tip his parents called home. Blue loved his isolated excuse for a house, the warped walls and the broken back of its lop-sided, thatched roof. Round portal-like windows stared from under the rotting eaves like the watchful stare of some mangy owl.

Annie burst through the front door, a whirling dervish of tiny arms and legs. All blonde curls and excited green eyes. Not as dark as him, her almost white skin contained a hint of amber. She piled into Blue. Boo-Boo home! Boo-Boo home! she shrieked in excitement. Jonesy missed you, Boo-Boo, she said, holding up her much-loved rag dolly.

I’ve missed Jonesy too—and my blonde annoyance. Blue carried the two-year-old into the house, kicking a loose potato lying on the floor and grimacing at the ever-present stench of vegetables in various states of decomposition. Annie chatted loudly in his ear.

Eddi, his father, poked his head into the gloomy hallway of paint-peeling walls and spidery shadows. Tall, but crooked from a life spent digging and lifting, with straggly brown hair tied into a ponytail, he held a cup of herbal tea that he jutted at Blue in accusation. What on earth are you doing home? he said in his relaxed deep tones. You should be at school. And you’re covered in muck and dust. Intense emerald eyes frowned from a wrinkled brown face that like Blue’s, held a mixture of racial traits.

Blue groaned inside, putting Annie down. The toddler hugged Blue’s leg. Dad has no idea about my life, of hating every nanosecond at school and being freak boy Number-One.

We allow you plenty of freedoms, but you can’t keep drawing attention to yourself. You’ll get a bad name.

‘Getting a bad name at school’ was a relentless theme of his father’s.

Eddi took another sip of his disgusting brew and wagged a mud-stained finger in Blue’s direction. We didn’t want to send you there, but home-tutoring involved all kinds of bureaucracy.

Don’t you get it? School is a daily hell. I don’t fit in there. No one likes me. Despite being a melting pot of races, white, African, Hispanic, European, Asian, Mediterranean, South American, Arabic—whatever—Blue, although brown-skinned like his father and foreign in origin, did not resemble any of them. My features are odd. Rounded and pointy in all the wrong places.

Eddi stroked his curly black goatee beard. Popularity is not everything, Blue. But you must keep a low profile, okay? Very soon, before you even realise, you’ll be sixteen, and you can come and work with us on the Allotment full-time. But for now, you’ve gotta buckle under.

Stuck at home, covered in mud with the Mental-Lentils in a house held-together by cobwebs, was the last place Blue wanted to be. Eddi and Newt shunned electricity, didn’t own a telephone, never answered the door and rarely went out. Neither of them worked a normal job. Instead, they spent all their time in The Allotment—what everyone else called a back garden. Here, they kept a few pigs, a hen run and a goat, growing vegetables most of the year round, the majority of which they stored in different places around their insect-infested homestead. Other than a sense of privacy and self-importance and a passion for science, the world outside their house held no interest.

Except…for the newspapers.

It’s not the future I want for myself. No way.

As to what else he might do, Blue had no idea.

Newt appeared at Eddi’s side, an eternal hippy in an over-sized pink woollen bonnet from which long hair spilled in a riot of grey and blonde, her pale white skin, sun-reddened and peeling. She was taller than her husband, and older. Her coat was a home-knitted green thing hanging as low as her down-turned wellies. She stood knock-kneed, with an expression pinched into a frown, wearing an ancient pair of once-yellow marigold gloves. "What are you doing here?" She fingered an ever-present purple-black crystal on a silver chain around her neck.

Eddi pointed his mug at Blue. Playing truant again.

Newt shook her head in disappointment. Now what have we told y—

Boo-Boo home! Boo-Boo home! shouted Annie, stomping her red boots on the crumbling floor.

Newt’s thin lips turned downwards. "Don’t call him that, Annie. We’ve discussed this before. His name in this house is John, okay?"

John Smiiiith!

Good girl.

For someone with such a hodgepodge of ethnic traits—even Blue couldn’t pinpoint his unusual blend of ancestry—Blue’s real name John Smith was as ding-a-ling out there as it was normal. Weren’t they hippies? They should’ve named me River or Storm or even—Blue.

The toddler grabbed at the Cat with sticky fingers. Annie take the caddapull, Boo-Boo? Put in the Cubby?

Blue pulled the catapult from her reach. No-one calls me John. Not even the teachers. I’m Blue to everybody. Can you guess why?

Your eyes are beautiful.

Don’t be daft. My googly eyes freak everyone out.

Newt pulled a practiced smile. Be proud of them.

You don’t think I’m some kind of mutant then?

His father appeared taken aback. A mutant? Of course not.

Newt’s smile disappeared. You’re like any other fifteen-year old, confused and worried about everything. Me and Eddi think you’re beautiful.

Blue gave Newt a withering look. Yeah, right.

Eddi took a sip of his smelly brew. We have more important matters at hand, as you know full well. You, young man, should be at school.

I’m not going back, no way. After bunking off, they’d only give me extra detention. I’ve free periods all day, so I might as well stay here, he lied.

Eddi glanced at Newt. Okay, just this once. But you have to promise me to attend every sesh?

They’re called lessons. Blue headed upstairs.

You’re not off the hook. Go get changed and come help on the Allotment.

The commander was one of the most immaculate people Blue had ever met. More than well dressed, his entire appearance radiated discipline, efficiency and a close-cropped intensity verging on style fanaticism. He wore the familiar all white uniform except for three gold bands and a star on each cuff. The same replicated in badges on his collar.

Dauntless lit a cigarette-sized cigar with a flip-topped golden lighter smelling of petrol and took a deep drag. He appeared in no hurry to talk,