Further Adventures of The Borderland Biker – Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

Two seconds later and from what seemed like far underground I could hear Charon’s voice, “It’s not what I thought; I can’t get back out!”

 

“Empty all the water in your boots; don’t leave a drop,” shouted Hilts as he and Larry began pouring water from their own boots down the hole.

 

“Charon’s too?” I asked as I lifted one of them up to pour. “Won’t he need this water to get back to the Styx?”

 

The water from Hilts’ and Larry’s boots had slowed the closing of the portal. Charon’s voice sounded much closer. Behind us the town had suddenly changed into a cardboard cutout of a town. Every feature had been replicated in exact scale but in cardboard.

 

“Pour all the water down the hole or he won’t make it to the surface,” said Hilts as I emptied the water from Charon’s other boot into the opening in the ground. 

 

Steaming like something squeezed from the backend of a horse on a cold day, Charon shot out of the quickly closing hole; when he was still three feet in the air the hole slammed shut.

 

Whatever strength he’d used to make it to the surface was nearly gone. Charon staggered forward a few feet then stumbled; he was barely able to stand. Larry ran to his side to keep him from falling.

 

“Who’d you find down there?”

 

“Not an old man or woman, there was no dreamer…I’ll tell you later,” gasped Charon, now completely enveloped in a cloud of steam.

 

A hundred yards of street lined with cardboard buildings, moments before wooden buildings, lay ahead of us. Once we were past them we’d be able to see the river Styx; but Charon wouldn’t make it, he was already beginning to fade. Maybe if we could find a shortcut, a door a window, but all doors and windows were now simply drawings of doors and windows on cardboard. Speaking of shortcuts, maybe we could cut our way through, maybe if we tore open one of the…and then Larry and Hilts thought of doing the same thing at the same time.

 

“We’ll burn ourselves a door. We don’t have the time or tools to cut ourselves a doorway to the other side nor do we have the strength to tear one,” yelled Hilts at the same time he and Larry lit both sides of a doorway that had been drawn on the cardboard. 

 

But as if it had been soaked in gasoline the whole building, not just the doorway, burst into a wall of fire; we’d be cremated if we attempted to run through now.

 

Charon stumbled towards the fire which was spreading to other buildings, “Stay as close to me as possible.”

 

Instead of just surrounding everyone in a cloud of steam, Charon became a protective shower. Heat so intense I would’ve turned back had Hilts not grabbed my arm washed over us and then as quickly as it came it was gone; we’d passed through the flames.

 

Once on the other side, Charon, now practically transparent and as light as a feather, was lifted by Larry to his shoulders like you’d lift a small child so they could see a parade. 

 

“Look,” yelled Larry, holding Charon over his head, “you can see it; you can see the river Styx from here!”

 

“Can’t see,” Charon said, struggling to look where Larry was pointing, and then he saw the river and suddenly grew so heavy Larry had to set him down.

 

“We came close,” said Hilts, as he rubbed his blisters, “to becoming toast; let’s get back to the river. Charon can regain his strength, I could use its healing powers on my hands, and you,” looking at me, “can get your eyebrows back.”

 

As Achilles was held by his heel when his mother bathed him in the river Styx, Larry and I bathed in the river Styx tied to a rope held by Charon standing on the bank. We healed fast and yet it seemed to take forever for one of us to get up the nerve to ask Charon what had happened when he dove down the hole underneath the rollercoaster.

 

Larry became the brave one, “I’m just glad you made it out of the hole, but tell us what happened; it didn’t seem you were down there long enough to stop anyone from dreaming.”

 

“Time’s a relative thing. I’ll explain someday how I was there long enough to not only see what was creating those dreams but to find out where they were coming from. It’s, in fact, the city with the airfield where Hilts is working.”

 

“The same city,” interjected Larry, where Hilts is working on the F-105?”

 

“Yes. And I found,” continued Charon, “a computer, not a person; it was in some type of sleep mode. I awakened it, but must’ve shorted it out before its systems could power up. It’ll take time for it to reset and become active again but it’ll eventually reboot. Ideally someone should go back and reprogram it not to enter the dreams of other people. Realistically you should destroy it and if possible from here.

 

“The terminal’s just a small laptop on a table in an empty alcove but the processor in the next room is big enough to fill the floor of a building. It’s in the city you and Hilts described. The city’s tiered with elevated highways and in sight of the airfield. The mystery, and I’ve visited every Borderland, is that the Styx joins them all together; some with tributaries much smaller than the stream I rescued you from near the village of Tres Pinos. The mystery, if in fact it really is a Borderland, is the river Styx doesn’t flow into it.”

 

“If the river Styx cannot flow to a Borderland then it has either been abandoned or it’s not really a Borderland. In either case entries into it will be hard to find. Your futuristic city, until I literally dropped in on it from the hole at the carnival, is one I’ve never heard of. More importantly, now that I have awakened it you’ll find it prepared to defend itself if you return.”  

 

“How,” I asked, it’s just a computer?”

 

“It’ll most likely be back online by then and it’ll want to protect itself. My guess is it’ll treat you as if you’re a threat…which you are of course. Based upon the fact it was sending nightmares into Marnie’s Borderland we can assume the worst. It’s either malevolent or has been altered to do evil things. Whether by accident or design it’s dangerous.”

 

“Threat or not, I’ve no choice but to go back,” interjected Hilts. “The work on the F-105 is complete. I just need some extra time to assemble everything and I think I know of a way of getting that extra time. When Andy returns I’ll fly us to a small airport north of Gilroy; from there Andy can return home. As long as it’s nighttime Larry and I will be ok. After I’ve dropped all of you off I’ll fly back and finish my work.” 

 

“My way for getting us that extra time is for you and Larry,” continued Hilts pointing at me, “to enter the city through a motorcycle shop in Gilroy and stop the computer from sending nightmares. Like I said, I’ve no choice; the window period for helping Ma n’ Pa is closing.”

 

“Why not just fly all of us on to the city;” I asked, “wouldn’t it be easier if we stuck together? And how do we even know this Gilroy motorcycle shop has an entrance that’ll get us into the city?”

 

Flames from town, once towering as high as the rollercoaster, had burned the cardboard structures to the ground; the few embers that remained were already being blown away by the wind. Behind the town was the carnival, still there and ready to invite children of all ages to come and have fun. It wouldn’t be long before Marnie dreamed of it again and returned with her friends. It had to be made safe. 

 

When Hilts turned to answer the carnival’s neon lights reflected off his face, “I know it’s an entrance because a friend I trust used it to visit the city a number of times. His name’s Clark; he’s the head mechanic at Gilroy Motorcycle Center. He said you could ride there, but to accelerate and decelerate slowly; he said if you didn’t the Wheelers would stop you.” 

 

“Clark said it was by accident he discovered written instructions on how to get to the city and how to behave once you were there. The instructions had been left on some bikes that’d been brought in for service. Clark wanted to sell them to pay for the unpaid bill but the shop’s owner picked up the tab and locked them in a backroom. The owner took the key to the room but not before Clark had made a duplicate.” 

 

“It was when Clark was looking for the registrations that he found the instructions as well as directions on how to get to the city under each bike’s seat. When he showed them to Gilroy Motorcycle Center’s owner the owner just laughed, tore them up, and said to forget about it. Luckily Clark had, as with the key, made copies.”

 

Charon, now fully recovered, had finished coiling about a hundred feet of rope he’d pulled from the river Styx. He held the coil in one arm as effortlessly as if it had been loops of yarn, “I’ve got some loose ends,” laughed Charon, looking at the rope and at the same time transferring it to his shoulder, “no pun intended, I’ve got to tie up. For the computer to have dreams means Morpheus may have visited its programmer. If that’s true I’ve got to find Morpheus and learn how he got into the city. If I can I’ll retrace his route, find you, and help you in any way I can, but don’t count on it.” 

 

“I’m normally not in favor of violent solutions and will pursue peaceful alternatives; but if you didn’t have to go back in and fly the F-105 out of there to save Ma n’ Pa I’d say the three of you focus on destroying the computer to protect the dreams of children then get out,” continued Charon staring directly at Hilts. “I just wish there were a way to do it from here. That place gives me the creeps. And to make matters worse something else was awakened. I felt its presence after I shorted out the computer. Whatever it is, it sensed I was there and came close to finding me before I fled like Alice but back up the rabbit hole.” 

 

From far away the deep twin engine drone of an approaching B-25 interrupted our conversation. Growing louder, the big radials could be heard throttling back as Andy lined up for his landing. Gear down, he painted the plane’s wheels across the road leading from town then taxied to within fifty feet of the bridge. Almost stopped, Andy locked the port brake, cut the port engine and spun, as he’d once done outside Hollister with his Corsair, the B-25 around to where it was facing the direction it had come.

 

“The children are home and safe,” yelled Andy from the cockpit window over an idling starboard engine. 

 

Charon was already wading into the Styx. I would’ve sworn there was no sign his legs went below the surface; it was as if his body ended where the water began. 

 

“I need to find Morpheus,” Charon shouted back at Andy. “However, these brave lads will fly with you to an airport north of Gilroy. Hilts will fill you in on the details.”

 

Seconds later Charon submerged completely.

 

“It’s really not that complicated,” Hilts said, at the same time motioning for all of us to get aboard the plane. “I’ll fly to an airport outside Gilroy, drop you three off and then fly the plane on to where I’m working on the F-105.”

 

While Hilts was climbing into the cockpit and Larry and I were strapping ourselves into cargo chairs, Andy asked the obvious, “Why not the three of you just fly on to the city?”

 

Hilts had taken the pilot’s seat and was already restarting the port engine when he answered, “Two different entries will provide two distractions, each one for the other. I’ll be entering the city from the airfield; they’ll be entering from a motorcycle shop in Gilroy. A mechanic by the name of Clark told me of a way to enter the city from a backroom at the shop. He said there were instructions on how to do it left with some special bikes that’d been dropped off for service. Clark said that to pass through the portal you could only use these bikes.”

 

Jimmy Doolittle was the first man to fly a B-25 off an aircraft carrier, the U.S.S. Hornet. By locking his brakes and revving his engines to maximum power Hilts used the same technique to take off and had us airborne halfway to the carnival. Trimmed, with flaps and wheels retracted, Hilts circled the wooden rollercoaster by banking, standing the plane on one wing. By the time we’d straightened out and were heading for the huge cloud on the horizon that was really Ma n’ Pa we were at cruising speed. Never more than 500 feet above the ground we skimmed across the land. Cornfields interrupted with grassland made a checkerboard below. 

 

Maybe Borderlands were painted across some giant would’ve, should’ve and could’ve canvas with only the dreamers and the dreams they dream providing the contrasting colors and shades? Or maybe there was only one dreamer and we were all just facets, like in a hologram, of that dreamer acting as a supporting character for all the other supporting characters; and our role was to discover, hopefully not before the dream ended, there really were no other actors? 

 

Charon had said the Borderlands of children were made of innocent things and the fact that someone or something could force their way into a child’s dream underlined the vulnerability of children. 

 

Our mission into the city would be twofold. First, we’d be giving Hilts more time to complete the work on the F-105 he’d need to fly to the top of the huge thunderhead to reboot Ma n’ Pa. Secondly, we’d be making sure the computer couldn’t send anymore nightmares into the Borderlands of Marnie or any other dreaming children.

 

Speaking of Ma n’ Pa, rising ahead and blocking most everything in front of us was the thunderhead. Contrary to being afraid I felt safe flying underneath; it was as if we were being protected rather than menaced by its power. Bright bolts of lightning outlined its base just a thousand feet above us. I could feel Ma n’ Pa’s presence; they were, in fact, the cloud. How long they could remain in that shape, estranged from their true forms was anyone’s guess; I knew it couldn’t be forever.

 

“We’re lining up to land; we’ve maybe two hours to sunrise,” Hilts shouted, awakening me. “That’s enough time to drop you guys off and then fly back to the airfield near the city.”

 

[page break] 

 

 I’d fallen asleep; the last thing I remembered was looking up at the bottom of the cloud and wondering if Ma n’ Pa were aware of us? We were on our final approach to a private airport north of Gilroy. Hilts’ shout and the lowering of the landing gear had awakened me. I’d slept most of the flight.

 

“Buckle up, once out of this turn we’re touching down. I don’t want anyone’s head denting the roof of the plane.”

 

Powered by storage batteries connected to nearby solar panels, runway lights directed us to a perfect landing. With no tower or permanent staff, the airport allowed only clear night landings. The night was clear and Hilts was an expert pilot. Maybe ten restored WWII fighters and bombers lined the airstrip. Hilts taxied to within fifty feet of a familiar looking F4U Corsair, locked the port brake and spun the B-25 around pointing it back the way it had come.

 

“Go home;” Hilts said, turning to Andy, “we couldn’t have made it this far without you. I’ll contact you as soon as I can to let you know what’s happened.”

 

Andy, once upon a time Raggedy Man, said not to hesitate to call him if needed then unbuckled his seat belt and dropped through the plane’s bottom hatch onto the tarmac below. The last I saw of him he was running towards a collection of parked cars at the edge of the airstrip.

 

“How’s he getting home?” I asked. “Is someone there waiting for him?”

 

 “Nope, nothing that well planned, he’ll just hotwire a car and drive it to within a couple blocks of his house. If I know Andy,” laughed Larry, “he’ll obey the speed limit all the way and fill it with gas before he makes an anonymous call to the owner telling him where to find it.”

 

False dawn could be seen in the east; Hilts seemed anxious. He’d already explained how he and Larry could travel at night outside the Borderlands but had to return before sunrise. Larry said it was like being a cross between Dracula and Cinderella and that there was no grace period and that they’d have to be back in the Borderlands before first light. 

 

Hilts turned to me, “Be sure to wear your ear radio. When the signal’s strong you’re headed towards a Borderland portal; when it becomes weak face where it’s strongest and head in that direction. You’re heading for the Gilroy Motorcycle Center; it has an entrance into the futuristic city.”

 

“If the city’s a Borderland the signal should be strong; if not there may not even be a signal. And I know I’m stating the obvious, but be careful. This city is like none I’ve ever seen or heard of. Oh, and one last thing; Clark has two of the bikes ready for you.”

 

“Did he say,” Larry interrupted, “what kind of bikes, choppers, sportbikes, scooters?”

 

“No, just that you’ll recognize them because they’ll have neon green tennis balls tied with blue bungee cords to the back of their seats”. 

 

“He said he once attempted to enter the city without the tennis balls and couldn’t. When he put them back on the bikes the portal opened; Clark’s ridden both bikes into the city. He said he even tried putting the neon green tennis balls on other bikes but nothing happened. He figures the bikes and the tennis balls have some type of symbiotic relationship and need to be together. Clark will tell you everything; pay particular attention to what he says to do when you encounter, and it’s guaranteed you will, Wheelers.”

 

“Like in flying monkeys,” I asked, “like in OZ?” 

 

 “Speaking of flying, I’ve got to fly out of here if I’m going to finish my work on the F-105. As long as I stay at the airfield the city may not see me, or if it does, it doesn’t see me as a threat; it may even be the airfield and nearby hangers are in its blind spot. And no to the question, have I seen any Wheelers.”

 

“The City,” I added, “we might as well give it a proper name and call it the City as we’ve established it’s conscious of things. And when you say ‘encounter Wheelers’, are you talking about the same kind of Wheeler author Frank Baum described in his book RETURN TO OZ?”

 

Frank Baum in RETURN TO OZ, one of the many sequels to his first book WIZARD OF OZ, described a type of cyborg, a half man and half machine that had chased Dorothy through some ruined buildings. He called them Wheelers. And as frightening as they would’ve been to a young girl, they wouldn’t be much of a threat to us. 

 

They’d especially not be a threat if we were riding motorcycles. If Baum’s description of them as humans with wheels for hands and feet was accurate, we’d outrun them, if cornered, we’d run over them, a choice I hoped we’d never have to make. My goal was simply get into the City, stop its computer from sending nightmares then leave without any trouble. No hits, no runs, no errors; in other words no one gets hurt. Our goal was not to get even, but to stop its computer from interfering with children’s dreams and in doing so provide a distraction so Hilts could hopefully remain unnoticed and finish his work. 

 

“Did Clark,” I asked, “ever find out where these three bikes came from?”

 

“Clark,” answered Hilts, “was with a bit of detective work able to trace their serial numbers back to Grand Prix Motorcycles of Santa Clara. The original owner was a man named Tom; he’s the manager of Grand Prix. He is also the great grandson of Sarah Winchester the widow and heir to the Winchester rifle fortune and the designer and builder of, some say one of the most haunted houses in California, the Winchester Mystery House.”

 

“Clark also found out that before the Winchester Mystery House was built, Sarah Winchester lived in another house that was on the very land where Grand Prix Motorcycles now stands. Is there an entrance leading to the City under Grand Prix, and were the bikes Tom bought used to explore from there…your guess is as good as mine? What I do know is that Sarah Winchester was an acknowledged student, some even say master, of magic and the occult.”

 

“So what you’re saying is that there’s a possibility Grand Prix Motorcycles may also have an entrance leading to the City and that Tom may have ridden there before Clark?”

 

“I suspect he did,” answered Hilts. “Not only do I believe Tom’s been to the City but that he made the neon green tennis balls the integral latchkey in getting there. The tennis balls may even be required to return?”     

 

 

 Hilts stopped me before I could ask my next question by pointing at the coming dawn, “We’ve got to go if we’re to cross over before it gets light. You two need to get to Gilroy and I need to get off the ground.”

 

No sooner had Larry and I jumped to the runway than Hilts revved both engines to maximum power, released the brakes and headed back the way he had come. Airborne within a few seconds, he retracted the B-25’s wheels and climbed quickly into a beginning to pale night sky.

 

Running over to where the cars were parked brought no change in Larry. Whatever special magic nighttime darkness imparted to visitors from the Borderlands it was working for him. Hopefully we’d never find out what would happen if he stayed past sunrise.

 

Two cars were parked together, the closest, a customized ’40 Ford, would be the least challenging. I was already looking for something thin to slide into the window and jimmy the lock when Larry walked around from behind it holding the keys.

 

“The owner’s a surfer, check out the Freeline Design Surfboards of Santa Cruz decal and how the window in the rear is coated in wax and how it snaps out so a surfboard can slide in. Surfers have a habit of hiding their keys inside bumpers; our friend preferred the rear bumper.”

 

“I forgot,” I said, laughing at Larry, “Old School Chopper builders are really Old Soul surfers in disguise.” 

 

Opening the door and starting the engine, “You’d have figured out where the keys were;” said Larry as he rolled down the window, “and from the sound I’d say the owner swapped the original flathead V-8 for a small Corvette engine. Great motor, powerful, yet light enough to let the car’s chassis do what it was designed to do around corners. Hop in, copilot me out of here; it’s been awhile since I visited Gilroy.”

 

Hwy 101 was easy to find and within minutes we were on the freeway and heading south. Traffic was minimal and made up of long distance truckers mixed with some early morning commuters wanting to beat the rush. 

 

With the windows down warm air carried the smell of freshly cut garlic over us. Gilroy’s known as the garlic capital of the world and for about ten minutes we were treated to its sinus clearing aroma. A sign appeared telling us the Main Street turnoff was a mile ahead.

 

“Main Street,” I said, “will take us to the shop, but we’re early; let’s stop and get something at OD’s cafe.”

 

Gilroy Motorcycle Center would still be closed. Four blocks away was the popular OD’s Café; cars outside the cafe meant it was open. We pulled to the back of the parking lot then turned off the engine.

 

Larry had rolled up his window and was scooting down behind the wheel, his jacket pulled up over his head to make a pillow, when he said, “Coffee for me,” glancing up at a now lighter sky. “We’ve time.”

 

The garlic smells had disappeared. Replacing them was the small town stink of brick and blacktop mixed with the sharp odor of creosote from nearby railroad tracks. Walking across the parking lot erased all memory of garlic. Before I reached the café I’d forgotten what it smelled like.

 

Crowded with early risers, the café had one seat left at the end of the counter. Glancing back at the ’40 Ford at the same time I was handed a menu, I could see no sign of Larry.

 

“You’re new,” said a waitress who looked a lot like the actress that played Trinity in the movie MATRIX. 

 

“Two coffees, one of them to go, two egg burritos, one of them to go; I answered, “I’m in sort of a hurry.”

 

The waitress was looking past me like she had x-ray vision and could somehow see Larry through the Ford’s door panels, “How does your friend want his coffee?”

 

“Black,” said Larry from behind me as he opened the café’s door, “and make all orders to go, and has anyone ever told you that you look like the lady that played Trinity in the movie…?”

 

“And has anyone ever told you,” interrupted the waitress, “you look a lot like that guy from Brooklyn that built choppers for the Discovery Channel Biker Build-Off series?” 

 

Larry must’ve followed me to the café and from his look it wasn’t by choice. Flashlights were being played across the Ford by two policemen. Words ending loudly with…er and …ish were being repeated back to them from the speakers on their shoulder mikes.

 

“All ready,” said a familiar voice from behind us.

 

Our waitress looked different, like maybe waiting tables was her earthly job and that like Persephone she’d been allowed at certain times to walk among us and, and…

 

“I figured you two were in a hurry,” said Persephone and the smell of tropical suntan lotion flowed from her, and I’d fallen in love, “so I rushed your orders. I even added a thermos of coffee for the refills and put everything in this backpack.  You can wash up in the restroom in the back.”

 

“We’re good to go;” I replied, handing her two twenty dollar bills, “keep the change.”

 

Thirty feet away the two policemen were walking towards the café; both had their hands on their service pistols. 

 

The waitress grabbed my hand instead of the money making me turn around and eyes the same color of Ma’s stared into mine, “Wash your hands, I insist; you can never tell where you’ll pick up germs or worse a virus…NOW!”

 

Larry had already grabbed the backpack holding our breakfasts and the large thermos of coffee and was heading for the restroom door. With his other hand he grabbed my shoulder and dragged me off the counter stool, “Unless you want to eat jail food, I suggest we do what this nice lady says.” 

 

Had we been regular patrons of OD’s the restroom would’ve been a trap. Directly behind some boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling was a small window just large enough to crawl through; it was our escape route.

 

“Help me clear all these cartons and boxes away then give me a boost.”

 

As Larry and I cleared boxes I could hear Persephone, I mean our waitress, shouting, “Go ahead officers check the restroom, but watch out for the mess. 

 

“We had a big grease spill in there. It’s on the walls and floors; it’s everywhere and I haven’t had time to clean it up. Don’t get it on your clothes; that stuff’s impossible to get out.”

 

“I’m afraid we’ve still gotta check;” the male voice sounded uncertain, “we’ve got orders.”

 

The fact that police won’t hesitate to face danger but are reluctant to get their uniforms dirty bought us the time to climb out the restroom window. Once outside we circled around to the front of the café.

 

Larry handed me the backpack with our breakfast burritos and coffee then pointed us in the direction of the parking lot, “Don’t stop for nothing.”

 

‘Don’t stop for nothing’ meant running past the customized ’40 Ford we’d recently stolen, I mean borrowed from the airport’s parking lot and around a second police car that had just arrived. Shouts to halt made us run faster. Looking over my right shoulder I could see that while the police cars couldn’t follow us up the railroad embankment, the second car had two young rookies who looked like they’d majored in track. Our head start and the fact they’d slowed to radio where Larry and I were headed had given us about a seventy five yard lead; we’d be captured in less than a minute. Gilroy Motorcycle Center was four blocks away.

 

Larry, once over the embankment, ran across the first street and into a narrow alley. We’d be trapped if there wasn’t an opening to the other side; but there was an opening and we were soon through, across a second street and into another, thankfully, open ended alley. Looking back I almost ran into the dumpster Larry had pulled out to slow down the rapidly gaining track stars. It gave us another ten yards lead and the time to cross the third street and head down yet another narrow alley. Our destination was on the next and fourth street, but it might as well have been a million miles away; a rusty metal door set in an adobe wall blocked our way.

 

“It’s a dead end; what now?”

 

[page break] 

 

“It’s only a dead end if we can’t get,” said Larry, pointing at the bottom of the door, “this door open.”

 

Though partially open it was barred from inside. Formidably thick and reinforced with hand forged steel straps, it seemed an impassable barrier. The two rookie policemen who’d most certainly lettered in track were seconds away and having seen our only escape route was blocked with a metal door had slowed to a confident walk.

 

“Help me lift;” Larry shouted, thrusting his fingers under the door, “it’s our only chance. If it’s as old as I think it is these hinges will be open at the top.”

 

“Open hinges?”

 

“Rings set over rods bent at right angles, popular back in the 1800s when blacksmiths made doors like this.”

 

My fingers were down beside his before he’d finished speaking, prompting an order from the now not so confident track stars for us to stop what we were doing and put our hands in the air. I didn’t look to see if they’d drawn their guns. Our immediate response to their order was to yank upwards and make the iron hinges screech.

 

“What I meant to say,” Larry said looking at me apologetically, “was that most of these doors were made with open hinges.”

 

Suddenly and without warning the door swung open and Larry and I were being helped into the building. Seconds later the two pursuing officers slammed into its outside but not before it had been quickly shouldered shut, cross barred and locked with a huge paddlelock.

 

Who had come to our rescue?

 

“Clark?” said Larry, looking up from a sitting position.

 

Standing in front of us was a man of average height, built as solidly as a fireplug and with forearms that would’ve made Popeye proud. As our rescuer looked us over predawn light coming through an amber colored skylight couldn’t hide his smile or the fact that the name Clark was stenciled in bold capital letters above his coverall’s pocket. 

 

“I followed most of what was happening on the scanner,” said Clark at the same time pointing at an old scanner cannibalized together from a couple of even older scanners.

 

“When they blocked off the street in front of the shop I knew it was just a matter of time before they got the owner down here so they could search. I don’t think they’ll break in as I’m pretty sure they don’t know I’m here. Sunrise is about ten minutes away and the owner about a fifteen minute drive; that should give me time to update what Hilts may have told you. There are some things about the City you’ll need to know. I had to find out what they were the hard way and came very close to not being allowed to return. Rule number one is you can’t leave the tunnel from here before sunrise or enter from there after sunset; at night the tunnel shuts down.”

 

“Are there any other things? Hilts briefed us on a lot of what to expect, but he didn’t have time to explain everything.” Larry asked, shaking Clark’s hand and then walking over to look at two Yamaha Raiders with neon green tennis balls bungee corded to the backs of their seats.

 

“Luckily I was back here when I heard the police order you two to halt;” Clark answered, pointing at the metal door. “With the scanner reports telling me where you were headed it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know they’d trapped you in the alley. When I saw your fingers under the door trying to lift it off its hinges I knew I had seconds to get it open. Luck was with you again, I have my own key. The owner’s kept it locked; the fact is he keeps this room locked from the shop entrance too.”

 

“How’d you get in here if the shop entrance is locked?” I asked, asking the obvious question.

 

“I had a duplicate key made after he ordered these bikes stored in here; I was curious so I made a clay impression before returning it to him. I’ve been using this room to enter the City; I’ve been there four times so far.”

 

A dirty hundred watt bulb covered by a once green but now rusty cone shaped shade hung from the rafters illuminating the roughly forty square foot room. 

 

Behind the two bikes there was what at first glance appeared to be a roughly hewn wooden double door lying on the floor. On second glance it revealed itself to be a storm cellar door similar to the ones you’d find in the basement of an Oklahoma farmhouse leading down into a bunker for protection from tornados. 

 

Pointing at numerous sets of tire tracks leading from where the two bikes were parked to a small incline attached to the cellar door’s edge, Larry asked, “Are those your tire tracks from when you entered and exited the City?”

 

“You guessed it,” answered Clark. “I used one of the Raiders on the first three trips, the other one on my last visit. Originally there was a third bike, another Yamaha, a Road Warrior, not a Raider; it also had green tennis balls. The owner must’ve moved it as it was gone after just two days of storage. I once even tried putting the tennis balls on a Hayabusa and entering; I thought I could outrun the Wheelers.”

 

“What happened?” I asked. “And just who are the Wheelers; Hilts warned us about them?”

 

“I couldn’t get more than ten feet down the tunnel before I ran into a rock wall. Something, maybe some type of sensor, must know when the tennis balls are on the wrong bike and closes off the entrance into the City. In answer to your second question, the Wheelers are a type of cyborg, half man half machine; they patrol the outlying areas around the City. They’re dangerous only if you provoke them; I did and was escorted back to this entrance with the warning I’d be turned into a Wheeler if I was ever caught again.”

 

“Hilts,” I added, “said sudden changes in speed attract them and that any acceleration or deceleration should be gradual.”

 

“Hilts was right, and even if you could get a superbike like a Hayabusa into the City they’d eventually vector in ahead of you; there’re hundreds of them and they think collectively.”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Larry. 

 

“They act, rather move together as a unit, like a school of fish or flock of birds. You might outrun the ones nearest you but the ones ahead already know where you’re going and will vector in to block. Soon you’re surrounded. I know; I tried outrunning them on the very bike you’re sitting on.”

 

Larry was sitting on the Yamaha Raider nearest the cellar door. The Raider was, with the exception of the Road Warrior, one of the fastest air-cooled V-twins I’d ever ridden; it would, particularly in the mid-range, put a smile on your face.

 

“Hilts was right,” continued Clark, “in telling you to ride at a steady pace. High speeds won’t attract the Wheelers if you reach those speeds little by little. On my last visit I was able to get up to nearly eighty on the straight stretch leading into the City, but only after I’d taken my time getting up to that speed. The same thing applies when you slowdown; do it in small increments, small steps. Plan on taking the same time it took you to get up to speed to get back down.”

 

A rattling of the shop’s front door interrupted us and made Clark take a sneak peek outside the room.

 

“The police are getting impatient; they may not wait for the owner. You two need to get going, leastways before he gets here, and definitely,” Clark said, looking directly at Larry, “before sunrise. You’re good to go; the bikes have been ready since Hilts told me you guys were coming. He found a way to contact me. Don’t forget you can only leave the other end of the tunnel after sunrise and enter the other end before sunset.”

 

“When,” I asked, “should we expect the Wheelers?”

 

Clark had effortlessly lifted both halves of the storm cellar door, revealing a sidewalk width tunnel sloping downward. Different color Christmas tree bulbs strung from the top of the tunnel and in ten foot intervals lighted the passageway. Larry had chosen the Raider closest to the cellar door, started it, and then moved it to where his front tire was touching the lip of the cellar. That left me with the other Raider, which I started then pulled to where I was inches behind Larry’s rear tire.

 

“Don’t worry; the Wheelers will find you as soon as you are through this narrow tunnel and have ridden down an even narrower ramp to the top of the dome. 

 

“Once on the dome they’ll come up beside you and harass you wherever you go. They’ve been sent like Harpies to provoke you into panicking so stay cool and remember to keep a steady pace. I never rode beyond the elevated highway that leads from the dome to the City; I never took any of the side roads coming up from what I can best describe as a wasteland. The side roads come up and intersect the highway. Nor have I actually entered the City; so I’ve no idea how far the Wheelers will follow you.”

 

With a thumbs-up to Clark, Larry rode his bike up the small incline then down into the cellar; I followed remembering the floor of the tunnel was only sidewalk width.

 

Assorted Christmas tree bulbs strung from above gave only the feeblest glow and added little if nothing in the way increased visibility. Accept for their dull pinpoints, more reflection than shine, our headlights provided all of the light. Seamless, without bumps and with no room to turn around, the tunnel’s floor became a one-way slope downwards. We’d ridden only about two hundred yards when Larry signaled for us to stop. Clark had closed the cellar door behind us as soon as we’d entered the tunnel. Seconds after we turned off our engines the Christmas tree bulbs flickered then went out.

 

“Hey, we needed those…”

 

‘Listen,” interrupted Larry, “just listen.”

 

A hundred feet ahead a faint light radiated up from the tunnel’s floor. Wind sounds could be heard coming from it. My eyes now more accustomed to the darkness saw the tunnel’s floor was as perfectly smooth as the roads Larry and I had ridden on in other Borderlands.

 

Pointing at the light coming from the tunnel’s floor and the source of the wind sounds, Larry said, “Ride towards it; it’s got to be the entrance down to the dome Clark described. But don’t ride so close as to fall over the edge. Go slow until we can see where we’re going.”

 

For reasons I can’t explain I knew we weren’t under the city of Gilroy, not since entering the tunnel. 

 

Starting our bikes turned on our headlights showing the Christmas tree bulbs ended above our heads. With Larry in the lead we rode slowly on until finally stopping a few feet from a set of storm cellar doors the size and shape of the ones we’d just entered. These doors were open. 

 

Peeking over the edge we were able to see a ramp leading all the way down to the largest dome I’d ever seen. Our narrow tunnel floor had, like Clark said it would, changed into an even narrower three foot wide ramp that was swinging in the wind like a ribbon. It reminded me of a large version of a plastic Hot Wheels track I’d played with as a kid; the wind blowing through the hole in the floor was the source of the sound.

 

“I played a lot with Hot Wheels toys when I was a kid,” I laughed, “but I never thought I would be riding on one of its ramps. It must be three hundred feet from here down to the dome and it’s swaying side to side in ten foot sweeps.”

 

“There should be a period of calm,” said Larry, “after these morning winds die down, a window period of maybe fifteen minutes before they start up again; that’s enough time for us to ride down to the roof.” 

 

Clark was right, the ramp was narrow. Once we were down it and on the top of the dome and started riding towards the dome’s outside edge the slope would soon become so steep we’d pass a point of no return where if we tried to turn around we’d fall. We needed to find a way to get off the top. Clark said the best way was to follow the Wheelers.

 

 “Are you sure we’re to follow the Wheelers?”

 

“Our only choice,” answered Larry, “is to follow the Wheelers. When they come up onto the dome to meet us we’ll watch the route they take then retrace it.”

 

Larry’s acute vision made him the logical choice for being the lookout. Speaking of looking, I wondered what we looked like when seen from below. Seen from below did we appear as two heads staring down from a hole in the sky? Alteration of space and time were beyond my comprehension. Maybe someday someone would simplify the concept for me. 

 

In the meantime I was able to get my first real look at our bikes. Morning light radiating up from the hole allowed me to see them more clearly.

 

When you looked beyond the fact both Raiders were identical in color and that both had high exit 2 into 1 exhaust systems; each one appeared in excellent shape. With the exception of the 2 into 1 systems I hadn’t seen any evidence either had been altered from stock. Speaking of stock, Clark had been adamant about not trying to outrun the Wheelers saying that ‘stock’ rhymed with ‘reliability’ and that a cool head and a reliable bike would serve us better when traveling around the City.

 

Both Yoshimura and Vance & Hines exhausts are known for their deep, not obnoxious, sound and most importantly for allowing you to increase the back pressure by adding a baffle, thus getting the highest torque over the broadest rpm range. Our Raiders with their 2 into 1 exhaust had been set up using the baffle. Larry said he’d often recommend a 2 into 1 exhaust for his customers when customizing their metric cruisers, particularly for the ones that chose not to Harley-ize their bikes. He called them his ‘Go not Show’ customers and wished he had more of them. He also said he regularly advised Harley owners to use a lighter 2 into 1 high exit system, especially the ones that loved riding the backroads and needed the extra lean angle and power out of the turns.

 

Whoever designed the Raider must have had Yamaha’s Road Warrior chief engineer and designer Tatsuya Watanabe whispering in their ear. As a result the Raider also had an aluminum frame and a V-twin motor that was extremely powerful through the mid-range. Its Achilles Heel would be its extended rake and its six foot long wheelbase. The laws of geometry would demand that a longer wheelbase take a wider arc; a wider arc would be a liability through really tight corners, especially ones with a decreasing radius. Both bikes had two neon green tennis balls bungee corded to the straps that ran across their backseats. 

 

Looking at how a 40 degree rake and been engineered to be 33 degrees at the yoke only confirmed the fact that a lot of the creativity that went into the design of the Road Warrior had been woven into the Raider. My experience with the Road Warrior in Ma n’ Pa’s Borderlands had been good; I had no doubt my experience with the Raider would be too.

 

Larry would always see radical wire wheel choppers as works of art; he’d come to my rescue on one powered by a radial aircraft engine. But neither was Larry a fool and he often acknowledged the superiority of Japanese engineering by wanting to build a chopper around Suzuki’s light ninety degree liter V-twin and Yamaha’s big air cooled V-twin engine.

 

Choppers, he said, were works of art, and like all true artists he refused to be limited to one medium. To limit himself to using only Harley parts would be, no pun intended, painting himself into a corner with one color. Art, he said, demands growth and cannot be held hostage to the past. Art transcends mediums.

 

“Do you still have,” asked Larry, “our breakfast?”

 

“Hopefully,” I laughed, opening the backpack I had been carrying since Larry and I had left the restaurant, “it won’t be our last meal.”

 

Inside was a large thermos of OD’s specially blended coffee, two foam cups and two egg burritos wrapped in foil. At the bottom of the pack was a hearing aid size radio that looked exactly like mine. 

 

“Can you hear me?” whispered Larry after placing the tiny radio in his ear and turning away.

 

“Barely,” I replied.

 

“It might be,” said Larry, “because of where we’re at. I noticed the tunnel’s lights gave off no light in fact they seem to absorb light from our headlights. We won’t know for sure how well these things communicate until we’re out of the tunnel.”

 

“I’ve been looking at our bikes,” I said, putting my hand on my gas tank, “and I’m pretty sure they were designed, especially the engines and frames, by the same people that designed Yamaha’s Road Warrior.” 

 

“I can see where they could be the Warrior’s kissing cousin,” responded Larry. “Of more interest to me is the mystery behind the green tennis balls. Clark said they had to be on the back of each bike to go through this passage leading to the City.

 

“Speaking of each bike, I wonder what happened to the third bike; did someone ride it down here to explore then get lost or worse? And while we’re on the subject of bikes, what do you know about the Yamaha Raider? I’ve some experience with the Warrior but not the Raider.” 

 

“Try not to look at the Raider through chopper colored glasses,” I said. “Introduced in ’08 it, like the Warrior, was by design never really meant to be a Harley clone; and probably because it wasn’t a wannabe Harley, its sales began to drop.”  

 

“Why;” asked Larry, “you’d think there’d be a market for a bike that wasn’t a wannabe of another bike? More to the point, why do most metric cruisers, with the obvious exception of Yamaha’s Road Warrior and the not so obvious exception of Suzuki’s 1400 Intruder, feel they have to be a Harley? I tell people if they want a Harley buy a Harley. A bike designed to march to the beat of its own drummer sounds like the kind of bike we may need.”

 

Knowing Larry’s favorite bikes were ones he considered works of art as well as ones that could navigate the backroads, I answered, “You’d probably like the Raider except for…”

 

“Except for what…?”

 

“Except for the fact,” I continued, “that while in many ways it’s a lot like the Road Warrior; it was judged by more than a few magazine editors as unsightly. In fact, if you’re judging the Raider by reviews alone more than a few reviewers considered them unattractive. A couple of magazines even referred to them as out-and-out ugly.”

 

“Art is relative.”

 

“What do you mean,” I asked, “relative?”

 

“No frills, built to be ridden aggressively through corners,” answered Larry, “sounds like a work of art to me.

 

 

 “As powerful as a Road Warrior but an ugly duckling,” continued Larry, “it’s sounding more like the perfect bike for what we’ll need. Hey, the other reindeer snubbed Rudolph until they needed his red nose to guide their sleigh through a foggy night. Maybe the Raider just needs a foggy night for people to see that even though it’s not a beauty queen it has a good spirit.

 

Maybe getting us to a futuristic city, dealing with a rogue computer then getting us back safely will be the Raider’s foggy night? Speaking of needs, we need to leave now.”   

 

“I thought we had to wait for the winds to calm down?”

 

“They did decrease a bit,” Larry answered, “but they’re starting back up sooner than I thought; they’re beginning to get stronger. We need to leave for the dome right away.” 

Looking down through the hole gave a view of the dome’s roof. It was about three hundred feet below us, crowned with light from a rising sun and about three miles from the City. An elevated highway entered the dome about halfway down its side and ran straight to the City’s wall; on either side of the elevated highway intersecting roads rose up from the ground joining it like ribs to the spine of some giant skeleton. At ground level what appeared to be abandoned buildings spread outwards to the horizon. The ramp was swinging less than when I first saw it but the winds were increasing.

 

“If we’re going it’s got to be now; the winds have increased faster than I thought. Follow me; staying close together will keep our weight more centered and the ramp from not swinging as much.”

 

Larry had started his bike and was already heading down the ramp before he’d finished talking; I gave him about a ten foot lead then followed. As I descended below the hole a cold wind hit me from the side; at the same time morning sunlight painted the chrome on my Raider’s tank bright yellow. All the way down my mantra became stay close to Larry, stay in the center of the ramp and don’t look over its edge.