The "Men" Down Under

“Well, I’ve never seen one like that before.”

“I reckon nobody has. I mean, look at the thing.”

“I do believe I have read about something like this. What was it called…?”

“I’m hungry. Can we eat?” The other three members of the small party turned and looked at him.

“Dadgummit, how can you think about yer belly when we got ourselves such a fine specimen for our viewing pleasure?”

“It’s easy. I’m hungry. Can we please just go eat something?”

“Absolutely not! I forbid it. This is too rare an occasion. You’ll have to sacrifice food for a short while. You are the only one among us who has to—“He winced as I shot him a sharp glare.

“Could you please just let us watch a bit longer? We’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I guess… How long do I hafta wait?”

“Only a few more minutes more. Thank you.” I flashed a smile at him, and then turned on my companion. “We decided that we weren’t going to tell him,” I whispered tersely. “What the bumf were you thinking?”

“The insufferable half-wit can’t—“I slapped him hard across the cheek, sending his glasses off his face and onto the dry, cracked ground. A look of shock was plastered on his face. “I apologize. I lost my head a bit. I will keep a closer watch on my temper and my tongue.”

“Thank you.” I bent down and picked up his glasses, dusted them off, and handed them to him. “You know why he’s here. It’s easier for us all if he doesn’t really know what we are.” He nodded.

“Would you two quit dinkin’ around and look at this thing?”

We walked over to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the gorge below. The beast was tantalizing. It had legs too long for its round body, and a neck to match it. Its wings looked rather uselessly small; there was no way they could support its weight. Its feathers were an ugly brown color. We had seen a few birds before, but this one was singularly peculiar. Back in those days, we always stopped to watch the birds. It seems a bit silly now but to us, then, it was a treat.

(You must understand that animals rarely wander down into the Underplaces. Terrestrial animals, the ones who walk on the ground, were more common. Especially the more stupid ones like the cows. We always had cows down there. You can smell it, if you ever have the misfortune of going there yourself.)

Anyways, we were all enthralled by this lanky, awkward bird when this was said: “I’m gonna ride it.” We looked at him with a mixture of ‘that’s a funny joke’ and ‘are you an idiot?’ (He got the latter of these looks far too often for it to be funny. It was more sad than funny.) “I don’t care what y’all think of it, I’m doin’ it!” And with that, he leapt off the precipice and landed lightly on the ground far below.

“This is surely going to spell trouble for us, isn’t it?” my scholarly companion asked.

“It always does with him…” I answered despairingly.

“Ooh, I wanna ride it too!” The child said.

“No!” We both shouted. “You’re uh… much too small to ride a big thing like that, little one. Perhaps one day when you’re older.”

“Yeah,” I offered, “Also… he’s an idiot. You don’t want to be an idiot. Trust me.”

“Aww… You guys never let me have any fun,” he pouted.

“Listen, how about after Uncle gives up trying to ride that bird-thing, we get you some food. Sound good?” He nodded, but kept his angry face on and his arms folded. I turned back to watch the unfolding spectacle.

He glided slowly over to the bird, not risking the sound of footfall. When he was about 20 feet away it twisted its neck and looked straight at my companion, who we called “Uncle” for the benefit of the child. Uncle stopped moving altogether, showing no signs of life. Its body twisted around to face forward. It looked at him stupidly for what seemed like a long while. Then it emitted a strange half-honk, half-shriek sound and flapped its stubby wings. It sounded like it was speaking the language of the Fifth Circle. Uncle stayed perfectly still. Soon, it got bored and the awful noise stopped. Uncle resumed his snail’s pace movement toward the bird. It only tilted its head to the other side. Uncle kept moving forward. Suddenly, the bird’s neck went stiff and it honk-shrieked once more, and then started off on a run away from Uncle.

“Blasted thing! I was this close!! I coulda—“And then we realized the bird wasn’t running from Uncle. The ground began shaking violently, and the temperature started spiking.

I quickly turned to the child, nodded at my companion, and said urgently to the child, “It’s time to leave.”

“Where are we going this time?” He whined.

I thought quickly and replied, “We promised you food, remember? Now, let’s get going.”

The child issued a scream of joy, to which my companion quipped, “’Now’ being the operative word.”

“What about Uncle?” I had almost forgotten completely.

I glanced down the ravine. Cracks were already starting to appear, the pressure under the surface growing. Uncle was racing down the ravine as he spotted us and shouted, “What in the Seventh Circle are you two thinking?! Get out of here!!”

“Uncle’s going to meet us there, okay? Come on, let’s hurry.”

“But I wanna go with Uncle!” He folded his arms in defiance. His attachment to Uncle had become a hindrance. A burst of steam released from the ground a ways off. They would soon be everywhere.

My companion and I moaned in frustration. “Uh… umm… Ah! It’s a race! We’re racing Uncle! Come on, we can’t let him win!” With that, the child gasped and started running off in the same direction Uncle did. We sighed out of relief briefly, and then took off after the child.

The steam geysers were getting more frequent. We had to get to Sanctuary quickly, or we’d be done for. I wasn’t sure the child would make it. The temperature was already hotter than a summer’s day at high noon. He was panting heavily and sweating profusely. We encouraged him to keep running. His stamina was quite impressive for that of a young human.

After the ground sloped downward, we were on the same elevation with Uncle, but he was still behind us a little ways. I looked back at him then told the child, “Uncle’s catching up to us! Run faster!”

“Clever, no?” My companion remarked to Uncle, not too far behind us now.

He laughed. “Yessir, that’s using your noodle.” I smiled to myself at the wittiness of my motivating deception. I turned back to offer a small thanks for the praise, and stopped.

Uncle was gone. A crack in the ground was coming toward us, and I spun and started running again. “Teacher,” I called quietly, as to keep the child out of earshot. “Teacher!” My academic companion turned his head. “Sohrenzael,” I mouthed. His brow furrowed in confusion; the language of demons wasn’t easy to lip read. “Uncle,” I mouthed exaggeratedly. Recognition spread across his features, which he quickly wiped off and replaced with determination. Facing forward, he picked up his pace. He passed the child, who responded by putting his head down and pushing his body to its limits to keep up with my only remaining companion.

We turned sharply down a narrow ravine in the dark blue wall of rock. As it widened, Sanctuary began to materialize in front of us. It was still a hazy shimmer; we were only passing through its outer barrier, but the temperature was dropping almost as quickly as it had risen. We were almost to safety. We were going to make it.

The child’s pace began to slow noticeably. “Don’t quit now, we’re almost there!” I shouted.

“I… I can’t… can’t go… any farther…” he panted. We were so close, within a hundred yards now.

“Come on!!” I yelled, anger filling my voice. If he were to die, it would spell disaster for Teacher and me. And here? So close to safety? The irony was too much for me to bear. Maybe we’d find Uncle again in our new Circle. Or maybe, he met a luckier Fate. “Don’t make Uncle’s death meaningless!”

Horror spread across the child’s face. “Uncle…” he breathed out. I started to swear, but was interrupted by a loud, sharp roar as part of the ravine wall was torn out and started to fall on us.

“Go, now!!” I yelled. The child scrambled up to his feet and began running awkwardly, regaining his balance as he moved. I moved quickly, but the rock moved quicker and fell almost directly on top of me.

I kept running, hoping the child didn’t witness that. We were close. Teacher had already made it inside Sanctuary, behind the inner barrier, hiding him from view. The child was close behind. I sighed in relief as a burst of heat seared across my back, slicing through my being, turning my sigh into a shriek.

The rockslide had created another crack, which had swallowed me in the most intense heat imaginable. But at least it was within the realm of imagination. It could’ve been worse. Much worse.

I now was being pulled into the Void between the Circles. I looked around and saw nothing. The heat dissipated as I left the Third Circle behind and entered the Void, but dread took its place. What new terrors and torments awaited me below were beyond anything I could possibly hope to imagine.

In Memoriam.

The following stories either begin or end with a bang. A sound that stopped the hearts of many. A sound of evil. A sound that can never be forgotten. The stories are partly fiction—some more than others—but they’re based in fact, and the memories of that day are all too real.

TRAGEDY.

I put down the receiver, stunned and speechless. I knew my heart had just been ripped out, but it had happened so suddenly that I hadn’t really felt it yet. I felt the dread slowly creep into me, into every corner of my being. It couldn’t be true. It felt like a nightmare. And the truth is, it was a nightmare… but I couldn’t wake up from this one. I still can’t.

The dread continued to swell until a small voice broke the silence. It said, “Who was that on the phone, mommy?” The dread stopped seeping in—and it started flooding in. My last thought before I was completely overwhelmed was this: “Oh no…. I have to tell them.” Then the grief overtook me.

I collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. I could not move. With my back to my daughters—twins at age five, the youngest at three—I slowly regained my composure. I felt that I had to be strong for them.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Girls—“ I started, my voice cracking hard. I drew in a deep breath. “Girls… I need to talk to you about something.” I stood and faced them. Looking into their expectant, innocent eyes I was almost lost to grief again. With all my effort, I swallowed hard, and was able to tell them, “Let’s go into your room. Sit on the bed, there.” We walked back into their rooms, and I helped sit them on the edge of the bed. We sat in silence for a moment.

“When will daddy be home?” I felt like vomiting. I choked back the tears and looked at my daughters, one by one.”

“Sweetie… Daddy’s not—“ My voice broke again. Another deep breath. “Daddy’s not coming home,” I finally said. I hated myself for telling them that their father had died. It was cruel. They were so young.

“Can I call him on his cell phone?” They didn’t understand.

“No…” I had to say it again. Torture. “They don’t have cell phones in heaven,” I tried, pleading that they could grasp what I meant. Tragic understanding spread across the twins’ faces. One of them, tears welling up, asked another question.

It was then that I heard the saddest thing ever spoken:

“Can the postman get a letter to him there?”

MIRACLES.

They were ushering people down the stairs, trying their best to evacuate everyone.

“Hey!” One of them shouted. The others turned. He directed their attention to a room of about fifty or so people, all sitting down. They ran to the room, but when they arrived, they noticed why they were sitting down: everyone in that room was in a wheelchair, or in a walker.

“This isn’t good…” one fireman breathed out. But they were determined to save as many people as possible. They called for those who could walk to come quickly. A few stood and ambled over, using whatever crutch they had. They told them to follow, leading the way down the stairs from the 27^th floor.

They moved slowly, with eight firemen leading, seven bringing up the rear. Every man in that crew fought back tears trying not to think of those they had to leave behind. They hurried on.

As they made it to the stairwell, the floor gave way, and most of the group fell with it.

“No!!” A couple of men shouted. They stared for only a moment as they stared after their comrades, brothers, and sisters. The stairwell had remained intact, but it wouldn’t hold for much longer. There remained only the eight firemen in the lead and one elderly woman. One of the men turned and asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Josephine,” I answered.

“Josephine,” he repeated. “We’re gonna get you out of here.” I nodded and we pressed onward and downward. The movement was slow, but we kept on. The farther we went, the harder it got. God blessed me with the strength to make it this most of the way down. I had already made my way down fifty floors on my own before the firemen showed up. We were on the sixth now. I couldn’t go on any longer. I had to stop.

The firemen were understanding, but I sensed their urgency. It was a miracle we had gotten this far. Maybe God’s miracles only go so far. But I had to remain strong. This tragedy was not the work of God.

At that very moment, a terrible noise erupted from every direction. The tower was collapsing. We were finished. It was the end. I felt terrible for slowing these noble men down, and being the cause of their death. They could have lived if it weren’t for me.

“I’m scared,” I said.

“We’re all a little scared,” one replied to me. He put his arm around me and I felt comforted.

Soon the noise stopped. We survived the crash, but we were trapped in the stairwell with no way out. The chief called on his radio for help. No answer came. He kept trying, sending out a distress call, repeating the word “mayday.” He tried in vain for what seemed like an hour. Then we heard the sound of hope:

“Go ahead with the mayday.”

“We’re in the north stairwell,” the chief said excitedly. “Ladder 6.”

“Copy, Ladder 6. How do we get there?” the radio answered.

“Enter the glass doors, turn down the first hallway on your left, and you’re here.”

“Negative, Ladder 6. We can’t find you.” The chief looked confused. He had given clear directions, but he only knew the way through a building that still stood. He continued trying to navigate our rescuers to our location. It took several hours until we saw a beam of light appear from beneath our feet. We all sighed in relief and hugged each other. They continued clearing away the rubble, but realized they couldn’t get me out safely downward. They would have to come in through the top.

A helicopter appeared above us, and another fireman came down and offered me his hand. “Come this way, doll. Give me your hand. There you go. We’ll get you out of here, doll.” The fireman who’d comforted me earlier grabbed him arm and looked him hard in the eyes.

“It’s not ‘doll.’ She has a name: Josephine.” The other fireman apologized.

“Josephine. Let’s get you home.” With that, I was pulled to safety.

I will always remember those men. They were my guardian angels, though they always call me theirs. I have remained close with my angels since then, and I always will. I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for them.

That day I learned that God’s miracles never go halfway. God sends his angels among us to work His miracles.

[Josephine Harris passed away in January of 2011.]

SACRIFICE.

I sat glued to my seat in terror. A group of men had taken over the plane, they had a bomb and knives. I didn’t know what to do. They had already stabbed the pilots and a flight attendant. Would I survive?

There was a man sitting in front of me, whispering with the other passengers. It seemed important. I leaned forward to hear. He noticed.

When he turned his head toward me, I sat back and tried to act innocent. I never was good at acting.

“You for it?” he asked.

“Umm…” I stammered.

“We’re voting on whether or not to rush the hijackers.” I was shocked. Here I was, passively allowing these men to lead us, most likely, to our deaths, and this man—normal by most standards—was organizing a rebellion.

“Are you in?” he asked again. I sobered myself and nodded.

“I’m in,” I said. We had to do something. The others cast their votes. It ended in favor of the rush. The man looked at us somberly.

“Call your families. Tell them you love them. It’s time to—“ he choked. “Time to say goodbye.” We took a moment to brace ourselves, then used what phones were working to call home. The man in front of me didn’t hang up. He couldn’t connect to his family, so he spoke with an operator. He looked at us. His eyes met mine.

“Are you guys ready?” I nodded. “Okay. Let’s roll.”

And with those words, we went into action, running for the cockpit. The man who had taken over the controls rolled the plane from side to side after hearing the commotion. We held onto seats and fell over each other. One of the attackers came toward us, brandishing his knife when the plane had stabilized. The people in front charged him and wrestled the knife away from him but not without injury; one passenger was wounded and another had been killed. A larger man stabbed the hijacker and we pressed on, stepping over the bodies of a friend and a foe. We could hear yelling from the cockpit as we came closer, and the plane pitched up and down violently. Those who could made their way to the cockpit and overtook the two standing guard.

The plane suddenly angled downward steeply as we broke into the cockpit, and I stumbled a bit. The man who was sitting in front of me ran to the nose of the plane, grabbed the piloting hijacker and threw him to the ground. He pulled up as hard as he could on the controls. But even with the attackers controlled, there was no way we could pull out of the dive. We weren’t able to save ourselves, but we had stopped the terrorists from accomplishing their plot.

We looked out the cockpit window, watching the ground rise up to meet us. We were all at peace when we died, I think.

NOT ONE FORGOTTEN.

I am a man on a plane. Terrorists have hijacked the plane. I know I will die soon.

I panic and worry and fret.

There is a dead someone in the aisle. I look away. I look out the window and see New York close below, flying by at an incredible speed.

I hear people crying around me, and I cry a little too.

I hear passengers calling their loved ones, saying how much they care about them. I have no loved ones to call.

I am a deafened man.

I am a burning man.

I am a dead man.

I am a name on a list on every news network in America, and some around the world. No one cries when they see me.

I am a name on a memorial. I watch people come and look at the other names around me and some weep. No one weeps for me, though. They read my name and then read the next one, and the next one, looking for one in particular, or maybe none in particular.

I am forgotten.

I am a man in the street. I am running late for my plane. I might make it if I hurry.

I am late because a hurried woman spilled her coffee on me.

I am late because every cab driver ignores me.

I am late because I slept through my alarm.

I am late because I got pulled over for speeding.

I am late because I fainted and fell down the stairs. Now I am in the hospital.

I am getting to the airport as fast as I can. I barely miss my flight.

I wait a long time for the next available flight. I watch the news on the airport television. I see a plane crash into a building. I see the flight number. I check my ticket.

It was the flight I missed.

I read the list of passengers’ names on the news. I cry.

I visit the memorial where my name should have been if that woman hadn’t spilled her coffee.

If I had gotten in that cab.

If I had woken up to my alarm.

If the cop didn’t pull me over.

If I wasn’t in the hospital.

I read the names on the wall. I shed a tear for every name that isn’t mine.

I stop at one name in particular. I sob openly. I collapse in tears.

We do not know him.

We will always remember him.