And Hast Thou Slain the Jabberwock

I had a ton of money from the settlement, and I was determined to succeed -- to honor their memory. So, by behaving somewhat normally, at least on the surface, I started up an engineering firm and worked sixteen-hour days to expand the business. Sleep is just a habit - and what else did I have?

Paradoxically the company grew to the point where we were soon doing multi-million-dollar construction projects. The IPO made me extremely wealthy. But I was still shattered. No amount of money could bring back my loved ones.

Time passed. I was the nominal head of the firm. It was my money and mostly my ideas. But I was way too personally fucked up to be trusted with any practical decision-making. Hence, I was given the title of "Founder and Consultant." It was a ruse for the shareholders to "get this fruitcake into the pasture and keep him out there!"

You are utterly OCD when your world is shattered. So, you become obsessed with orderliness... perhaps in response to the perceived chaos around you. Hence, I habitually dropped in on our projects to "ensure that things were done right." Nobody wanted me there. I was deemed a nuisance. But nobody could tell me to get lost since I owned the company.

Getting around to my various endeavors was easier if I had my own airplane. So, I took the lessons and got VFR, IFR, and CFI ratings with a Complex endorsement. Flying was another one of my weird obsessions, and I quickly became a master aviator.

Then, it was just my faithful Piper Cherokee and me. I'd chosen it because I liked the name of the company. It made me feel closer to my daughter. The Cherokee is a durable and tolerant machine. With its 180-hp Lycoming engine, fixed-pitch prop, and trim tabs, trained baboons can operate it. Hence, flights from our home office in Miami to our Bahamas construction sites were more like a commute.

Nonetheless, this day had been particularly strange. First, there was the odd weather, and now there was a nut in an antique warbird forcing me to land where I didn't want to. The guy in the Warhawk led me across the coastline and down to an actual dirt landing strip in what I presumed was Florida. It was located on the cape north of what I assumed was Port Canaveral.

I could see Quonset huts and a rudimentary tower, but I had no idea what the ATC frequency was, so I just circled downwind, turned into the approach leg, and landed.

If the Cherokee has any drawbacks, it's too buoyant. The ground effect on its Hershey bar wings makes it float forever. and it was a relatively short field. Of course, I never cared whether I lived or died, which lets you fly without concerning yourself with crashes. In fact, I would have probably killed myself already if it weren't for my fear of the unknown.

But still, karma has a way of fucking with me, and it seemed like I was facing another one of her curveballs. There were military vehicles scrambling out to meet me. I lowered the flaps, dropped the wheels, and eased back on the yoke and power. They chased me down the runway as the Cherokee reached gingerly for the ground.

I rolled to a stop hazardously close to the end of the strip, jumped out of the cabin door, and onto the right wing... righteously pissed off. I yelled, "What the fuck do you assholes think you're doing forcing down a private citizen in unrestricted airspace??!!"

All I could hear was the bolting of the M1s. I froze mid-tirade. A guy wearing a gold oak leaf on his collar sauntered over to where I was standing on the wing, looked me up and down, and said gruffly, "Steigen Sie aus dem Flugzeug!" That was German - I think.

I said irately, "I don't speak German. Tell me in English what the fuck is going on here?!!"

The guy gave me a probing stare and said. "Get off that aircraft, Fritz, or we'll shoot you off it!"

A half-hour later, I was sitting in a walled portion of a Quonset hut. My first thought was, "Where's the air conditioning?" It was beastly hot in there.

They'd bundled me into a staff car in between a couple of burly MPs and then driven me to what looked like a command headquarters. Not a word was said. The MPs then frog-marched me into the building and shoved me, not too gently, into the room.

There was a metal table with three chairs. I didn't think we were going to have tea. Finally, the door opened, and a couple of minions bustled in. The two gorillas followed. They took up positions by the door, arms crossed, looking like a couple of stone statues fronting a Pharo's tomb.

The suits pulled up the two chairs opposite me and gave me an appraising glance. The older one resembled a hamster but a somewhat kind and intelligent one. His companion was a different rodent entirely... a weasel. I said, trying to sound sensible, "Could one of you please explain what's going on? Why are you treating me like this? I haven't done anything wrong."

The weasel snorted and said, like he was asking a rhetorical question, "Flying in restricted airspace isn't wrong? Gee -- maybe we ought to change the regulations. And what's that thing you're flying anyhow, some kind of Messerschmitt?"

I laughed uproariously and said, "That's a Piper Cherokee, pal. I know the model is way out of date, but you should recognize the type. Now, what's the story on restricted? That looks like Port Canaveral over there," I added, getting angrier, "There's nothing military in that area except Cape Kennedy. How could a private aircraft flying offshore violate any of that?!!"

They both looked at each other like they were wondering what the fuck I was talking about. Then the hamster said, "Look, Fritz... You and I both know that our ICBM testing program runs out of the Cape. Were you scouting it? Can we expect a visit from your AR 234s?"

I stopped for a second and just stared at him. I was a bit of a military history buff, at least before Armageddon ended everything, and I knew that the AR 234 Blitz was the only operational jet bomber flown during World War Two. It was one of those Nazi wonder weapons that Hitler had counted on to turn the tide against the Allies?" I said warily, "Nazi bombers, you must think this is 1944."

The weasel snickered and said, "We wish. Maybe things would be different now."

Okay, so this was all a charade. These had to be World War Two reenactors, and I was getting very tired of their little game, so I said, pissed off, "When's now?!!"

The Hamster said, sounding like he didn't appreciate being messed with, "Come on, Fritz!! You know it's 1962!" A wave of angst hit me. Holy crap!! I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

At least I was smart enough NOT to blurt out that I was from sixty years in the future. But then again, maybe I wasn't. This was obviously a distinctly separate universe... one that was like mine but not exactly the same. Maybe the way they calculated the date was different.

I'm an engineer. I plan and act based on data. So far, the only information that I'd gotten was that the U.S. appeared to be at war with Germany. The why's and wherefores were still a mystery. But I was beginning to get a creepy foreboding as to how I might have gotten there.

When I ran into that weird fog, I was well within the boundaries of the legendary Bermuda Triangle. In fact, I was flying on nearly the same course heading as the five TBMs that disappeared there in 1945. So, maybe the Bermuda Triangle existed after all... as some random phenomenon that pops up to occasionally gobble ships and airplanes?

I was thinking about all that as the two bureaucrats kept pressuring me to admit I was a German spy. I needed more information. So, I said, trying to sound reasonable, "Why would you think I was spying for the Germans?" At least that would tell me what they were thinking.

They laughed and said, "The plane you were flying looks like a variant of a ME-108, and you were right over where our test missiles land. What were you doing there, Fritz... mapping it, so the Huns can recover our research?"

I said, starting to get irate, "Stop calling me Fritz. My name is Erik."

They both nodded wisely. The Hamster said, "Good German name."

I said, "It's German because I was born and raised in Beloit. A lot of Germans settled around there. I own a construction company in Miami, and I was flying from Nassau to Fort Lauderdale's executive airport before you clowns intercepted me."

The weasel said gleefully as if I'd finally made a fatal error, "Okay, wise guy, if you're the person you say you are, then give us your fingerprints, and we'll run them. And then - after we come up with nothing - you are going to tell us who you really are."

Oh shit!! the lack of documentation would prove I wasn't from around these parts.

I was stuck in that stifling hot room for all the time that it took to run my prints. Meanwhile, my two mute friends stood by the door, looking like they expected me to bolt off to a meeting of the Bund. I was a nervous wreck.

Think about it... How would you react if you were comfortably ensconced in one world, no matter how miserable it was? Then you find yourself mysteriously transported into a different one where you were about to be shot as a spy. The emotional whiplash was brutal.

Nevertheless, it was about to get even more puzzling. The bureaucrats were deeply apologetic when they returned. The Hamster said in a much friendlier tone, "We didn't know you were THAT guy." Then he added, "But it says here that you're dead."

What's this??!! How could I have a past in the world unless I'd existed here? Had a copy of me... a doppelganger perhaps -- been living my life in this world? And even worse, he was dead now!!" Oh, woe is me!! What was I going to do?!!

I was desperate to get away from these guys. Hence, my only option was to bluff... which is my instinct anyway. I chuckled and said, as if just between us boys, "In the immortal words of Mark Twain, the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." They all laughed, even the guards.

This was clearly my chance to get the hell out of Dodge. I said, "So I'm free to go, then?" and stood up. They were off balance now -- and I wanted to keep the momentum on my side. The two minions looked at each other, and the weasel said hesitantly, "I guess so. We've confirmed that you've always been a wealthy businessman, So you're clearly not a Nazi spy."

That sounded like an odd statement to the likes of me. The Nazis were long gone in my world, at least on the surface. I wondered if they had set up shop in some dank corner of American culture, just like they had in mine.

I said, as if I was deeply insulted, "I most certainly am not!!"

Then I added, in a voice that brooked no disagreement, "I'm leaving now... and you two are going to replace the fuel that I burned when you diverted me." I was getting into my role as an outraged citizen. And practically speaking... I really was going to need more gas to fly the 200 miles back to Fort Lauderdale."

I had a lot less company walking back out to the Piper. Basically, it was just me and my nav charts. I got in, put on the belts and headset, turned on the fuel pump, cracked the throttle and fired up the engine. I checked the psi on the gauges -- all good - and ran it up to 2,300 as I taxied out to the compacted dirt runway.

There was no ATC to clear me. But there was also no visible traffic in the area. So, I pushed the throttle to take-off RPMs and soared up and out over the Atlantic. I knew it would be a challenge coping with this brave new world... one where I'd existed but had never actually lived. Nevertheless, I actually felt a sense of exhilaration.

The loss of my old life should've ordinarily crushed me. That is, if I hadn't already lost everything. Strangely though, I felt as if I had been given a fresh start. This was a different page in the narrative. In fact, it was a whole new book.

I was totally removed from that place of sorrow and pain. I had nothing but fresh challenges in front of me and the sense of release gave me a feeling of hope. So, I was experiencing an odd sense of peace for the first time since that unspeakable mother-fucker in a tanker truck ended my happiness.

*****

The trip down the coast gave me time to consider. Back at the airbase, I had been bobbing and weaving, just trying to stay ahead of the situation. Now I was starting to think more long-term and strategically. I knew that I would need a place to stay and money to live on. So, getting those two basic essentials was my first order of business.

They'd told me I was rich. Perhaps, this dimension's version of me had led the exact same lifestyle as I had. I mean seriously... logically speaking, this was a parallel universe. So, all the fundamental aspects ought to be identical -- right?

I had no idea how, or even when, the me in this dimension had shuffled off this mortal coil. Hence, there was no preparing a story to explain my miraculous resurrection. Therefore, I would have to play every situation by ear. But fortunately, I WAS actually that guy... right down to my fundamental DNA.

Still, there was the problem of personal history. I didn't know any of the things I had done in this world. For instance, not recognizing your best friend might make people suspicious, even if you had the fingerprints to back it up. But that was really no problem for me, because I didn't have any friends -- at least since that sad day. So, maybe my past was a nothingburger.

I was still the person who I was, both physically and psychologically. Consequently, it would be logical to assume that I'd led the life that I'd lived no matter what dimension I was in. Which brought me to the one thought that I was trying to avoid - Cat.

What would I do if she was still alive!? And if so... then how could I find her? And what would happen after I did!? The dynamics of parallel universes require that all of the basic events of your life be similar. So, Cat no doubt existed here, perhaps along with Piper -- or maybe they were killed in this timeline too.

Not twice!! That was a thought that was too painful to consider.

The one thing I DID know was that I was dead in theirs, which was probably why I was able to cross dimensions. Since, the Theory of Relativity is pretty explicit about the same object not occupying the same space at the same time. The other thing I knew for sure was that my head would explode if I continued to think about this any longer.

It was dark when I got to the Fort Lauderdale Airport and the runway lights were turned off as I circled to land. That lack of visibility would be an issue for most pilots. But I knew the approach like it was my driveway. Even so, I immediately noticed a problem as I crossed the runway margin to lightly touch down. My Piper's landing lights lit up a different airport.

For one thing, it was clearly military. There was no commercial terminal and the actual operation amounted to two crossed runways and a control tower -- along with the ubiquitous Quonset huts. There were a few rudimentary hangers but no permanent buildings.

I taxied onto the grass where the terminal had been and shut down the engine. The abrupt quiet and the pitch darkness was unnerving. My only companions were ten million cicadas, a few billion mosquitos, and the soft Florida night. There was no other traffic in the vicinity.

Besides being dark as fuck, the smell of the mangrove swamps was something new. It was like I'd landed in the undeveloped Florida of the 1940s, not the modern mecca of hedonism that it had become. I already knew that I was in a different world. This new vista confirmed it.

Then, I saw a sedan making its way from the direction of the control tower. I hadn't had the ATC frequency. So, I had not requested a landing slot. The powers-that-be must have been curious as to why a strange plane had landed without permission.

The car looked like an old Ford. It even had blackout shades! It felt like I was in a World War Two movie set. All I needed was swirling fog. A scruffy guy got out and moseyed up to where I was post-flighting my bird. He looked like he might be a security guard, coming out to see what was up. He clearly wasn't military, like the place I'd just flown out of.

He said in a nasally southern accent, "This is a military airport y'all. You ain't supposed to land here." He was obviously a local roughneck, babysitting an empty airfield.

I had already gone through this farce once. So, I was ready for him. I laughed and said, like it was the most common thing in the world, "Sorry about that pal. But I was about to run out of fuel. I'll move it in the morning," and went back to my post-flight checklist.

He stood there unsure about what to do next. Then he shrugged and turned back to the car saying over his shoulder, "You make sure you do that -- heah!"

I said, just as casually, "Could you give me a lift into Lauderdale buddy. It looks like it's too late to call a cab." That was another bluff. I was going to have to walk the six miles to my place on New River if he wasn't willing to take me.

He laughed and said, "Sure, just buy me a beer when we get there."

I said, "You're on!" and I hopped into the passenger side. Obviously, this dimension's version of Broward County International was a hick place if the guy they'd hired to watch it could just bunk off for a drink.

I didn't have any spendable cash. So, even a beer would be a problem unless I pawned my Rolex. Then inspiration hit. I could get everything I needed at the HOUSE!! It made perfect sense. I kept plenty of cash in the safe there. And really!! Seriously!! I allegedly lived there.

The man was perhaps twenty, years my senior. He was so scruffy that it was hard to tell his exact age. He was clearly a local gladesman - talkative and friendly. They make their living out there in the Everglades doing god-knows-what with the local fauna -- mostly fishing and alligator hunting.

I said casually, "The airport has changed since I was last here." He had NOOOO idea.

He laughed and said, "They improved it. The gummiment is doing antisubmarine patrols outa here now. So, they paved the runways and even built a hanger for the PBYs." I took his word for it. It had been too dark to see anything. But this place was nothing like the modern one I'd flown out of just last week.

I directed him to my house. It was a ten-minute drive at that time of night. He was impressed. The place had set me back fifteen million dollars in my dimension. Even so, it wasn't nearly the biggest, or grandest in the area. There's big money in that neck of the woods and it had been for a couple of generations.

The house was dark as we motored up the circular drive. It looked like nobody lived there. I knew my present key wouldn't work -- or maybe it would. But I always kept a spare under the potted Monstera Deliciosa by the door. It would still be there If the me who lived in this world, was really me.

All I could hear was the chirping of the bugs as I carefully moved the pot and bingo... the key was there! That gave me plenty of newfound certainty. Because it confirmed that I'd once been part of this world. Now, I had an actual sense of presence to buttress me.

I opened the door and cautiously entered the place. This was the inflection point. Most of Florida was armed, at least in my time, and I would have some 'splainin to do if the owner wasn't me. But I'd been told he was dead and if that was the case, I was rounding third base and headed home.

The thing of it was... It's a lot easier to start over if you already have plenty of money and a well-established identity. So, if the version of me in this dimension wasn't around to say otherwise, I could assume all the trappings of my doppelganger's life.

The house was hot and musty, like any place would be if it had been shut up for a long time. The light switch was to the right of the door. I felt around for it in the darkness, and it was there. The overhead chandelier lit up a room of posh elegance. My new pal followed me into the room, looked around and gawped.