The Flashback Trilogy

Chapter 7

“1984,” said Red.

The radio squawked as she keyed in the numbers and a voice came through which was barely audible. “Red and Corbin both? What the hell happened out there?”

“Red’s fine.” She glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “As always.”

He stared back at her blankly.

“It’s Corbin, and ... a guest,” she said into the mic. “Just get your gear; we’ve got a broken leg and a raptor wound, upper shoulder.”

“A guest? What kind of—”

She turned off the radio as the service door beeped and began rattling upward, and they lurched forward into the caged freight elevator. “Red ...”

He was already out his door and pressing the switch.

A moment later they were descending, the mesh door rattling closed behind them, and the primitive girl grunted in alarm as Red climbed back in and darkness engulfed the cab. “Naaygi, Naaygi!” she exclaimed, wrestling with her seatbelt.

Charlotte keyed the radio back on. “And Doc, we’re going to need a sedative, a strong one.”

Metal creaked and groaned as they continued to lower until at last the light returned and the world exploded into view again—not the world of the sun and moon and clouds and a thousand prehistoric terrors, which they had abandoned, but an entirely manmade one full of dazzling light and color, too much light and color, for everything was turned on just as it had been when they’d first sought refuge there.

“What the hell is MacGyver doing?” said Red. “Jesus, doesn’t he understand that all those lights—”

He stopped talking as he noticed the primitive girl’s reaction to the spectacular light show, which was one of stunned silence and awe, even, it seemed to him, outright reverence. He tried to imagine it through her eyes, the vast atrium of artificial light with its carnival rides and fanciful structures, its concession stands and lamplit boardwalks, and its manmade river which wound through everything. For it was a place designed to make precisely such an impression. Less obvious, beyond all the glittering lights and flashing signboards, were the 15-foot tall security fences with their tangles of concertina wire and glowing electrification indicators, as well as the moats of muddy water which in time would become clogged with human waste—once the power and the plumbing failed. Once the Flashback had taken its full and inevitable toll. And beyond all those things, in the now semi darkened catacombs of what had formerly been the Havana Flats salt mine, stood a sole cavern raptor—blue-gray skin painted in horizontal shadows from the fence, sickle claws glinting by the light of the carnival rides, its round, white eyes blinking. And as Red squinted, it was joined by another. And another.

Indeed, it was precisely this contrast between what lay within and what lay without that had given rise to the place’s nickname: The Devil’s Shambhala.

Red got out again and rushed toward Corbin’s door even as the elevator touched down. To his surprise, only Doc Gardner was on hand to greet them. “Greetings and salutations to our intrepid away-team,” the doctor said with exaggerated grandiloquence, gesturing expansively as he approached, and added, “Bring me your tired, your poor, your former police officers mauled by raptors.”

“Where is everyone?” Red snapped. “And why in b****y hell are all the lights on?”

“There’s already velociraptors massing on the south perimeter,” said Charlotte. “I—I saw them from the lift.”

“Ah, well, yes. They’ve undoubtedly noticed our flashing ‘Free Buffet’ sign,” said Gardner. He chuckled wanly. “Better get used to it, I’m afraid. They’re stuck—the lights, that is—or something. There’s an emergency ad hoc committee meeting going on right now, at the mural. And I’d hurry up, Big Blue is presiding in your absence.” Red and Charlotte glanced at each other. “I’ll take care of—” He paused, staring at the primitive girl. “What in God’s name is this?”

“Victim of Red’s driving,” said Corbin, gripping his shoulder with a blood-soaked hand. “Do you mind?”

Gardner took his eyes off the girl long enough to give him a once over. “We need to stop that bleeding. Can you walk?”

The primitive girl beat her fists against the window suddenly and Gardner flinched. “Naaygi! Naaygi!”

Corbin nodded as Charlotte circled the truck. “All the commotion is exciting her,” she said, adding, “Do you have—” She glanced down at the syringe in Gardner’s hand, and nodded briskly. “We’ll hold her. Red!”

“Jesus H. Christ,” cursed Corbin.

Red gripped the door handle and paused, glancing at Charlotte. “Try to grab her fists,” he said. “While I pin her legs. You ready, Doc? Doc?”

Gardner just stared at the girl as if transfixed. He came out of it suddenly and nodded.

“Make it quick,” Red told him, and added, “She’s quite a handful.” He looked at Charlotte, who also nodded. “Okay, then,” he said, and exhaled. “On three. One ... two ... three!”

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It was obvious things had gotten out of hand the moment Red yanked open the door to the foyer. Big Blue had whipped the crowd into a veritable frenzy, or at least her most dedicated converts, and the women were shouting and shaking their fists, chanting, “This is what Patriarchy looks like! This is what Patriarchy looks like!”

Chairman Dean, meanwhile, stood helplessly upon Red’s painting scaffold—almost dead center with his likeness as depicted in the mural—and moved his outspread hands up and down, as though he were trying to say, amidst the cacophony, Down, down, please, your questions will be answered.