The Sentry

By Michael Teasdale

Frank lowered the binoculars as dusk began to settle, washing the desert skyline with its somber orange hue. In the valley below, the portal swirled; a bright cerulean whirlpool sparkling against the dying embers of daylight.

He rubbed his eyes as footsteps approached from the crest of the ridge.

“Woo boy! This climb never gets easier. What’d I miss? Let me guess, Elvis came back?”

Frank shot Jenkins a withering look as his partner held out a thermos.

“Coffee? I brought donuts, too.”

Frank reached out, accepting the flask.  “You’re early.” He sniffed, unscrewing the cap. “No Elvis, I’m afraid. No nothing. As usual.”

Jenkins stretched out on the flat rock. “How long we been doing this, Frank? You think anything’ll ever happen?”

Frank sipped the coffee.

“Heck, they should have set up remote monitoring years ago. I’ve a good mind to—”

“Don’t!” The words came out sharp, yanking the remainder of the sentence from Jenkins’ tongue. They drank the coffee in silence.

Frank knew what the other agents said about the portal. That it was a hoax, some kind of elaborate psychological experiment they put rookies through. He didn’t believe that. The portal had to have a purpose.

“I gotta go.” He grunted, scooping up the binoculars and pushing them at his partner’s chest. “Keep ’em peeled.”

It was dark now, and the stars dripped silver in the sky as, ahead of him, the portal swirled like sapphire flames in the darkness.

Frank figured Jenkins was probably already sleeping on the rocks above. He himself ought to be home already. Yet tonight, something pulled him closer to the strange blue enigma.

“What are you?” he rasped. “Why don’t you give me something to report?”

For a moment his words hung in the air. Then, as if in answer, the portal bellowed like the primal roar of a lion, and something rocketed from its epicenter, striking him square in the chest. Tumbling into the dust, Frank whipped out his flashlight and service pistol, fixing both on the object.

It was a small wooden crate.

He picked himself up just in time to see the portal shimmer again as something new spat out, hitting the dirt close enough for him to see what looked like an old car tire bounce past.

Before he could think, a refuse sack landed with a thump by the crate, splitting open and spilling its contents onto the rocky floor. Frank’s flashlight danced across the spoils; old engine parts, plastic bottles, and bits of rusted metal lay scattered about.

Now Frank heard voices, clear and distinct. He raised his gun and pointed it at the cobalt-blue glow where first one man, then another staggered out, carrying something huge and heavy between them. It took a second for Frank to realize that the object they held was a television set. Startled upon seeing Frank, the two men dropped the item and fled back through the portal.

“Stop!” Frank yelled, hurtling after them toward the gateway. Throwing logic and his own safety aside he breached all protocol and leaped through its maw in pursuit.

It was the valley, but it wasn’t the valley.

Frank gazed around in disbelief as the putrid stench of refuse hit his nostrils.

The two men stood, hands raised, just a few feet from him, and Frank realized he still brandished his gun.

“What… what is this?” he muttered.

The older of the two replied. “Look, mister, we don’t want no trouble. If yer with the government, yer gotta understand, we don’t know what that thing is. We didn’t build it or nothing. We just work here. The boss says to dump the stuff on the other side, and that’s all we do.”

Frank looked around. The valley was a sea of garbage. Scrap iron lay piled up everywhere, fires burned left and right, and old cars and refrigerators were stacked like mismatched towers across the horizon while refuse bags blew like dustbowls in the wind. So the portal was a gateway to an alternate universe? Some polluted, post-apocalyptic version of Earth? He heard the scatter of footsteps but didn’t look up to see the men fleeing. Instead, his eyes locked onto the yellowed newspaper that flapped at his feet. He bent down and scooped it up, eyes fixing on the date.

Not another world, he realized, another time.  He shook his head. And now they’ve found the perfect place to dispose of it.

Jenkins was snoring as Frank approached. Flies buzzed around the partially finished box of donuts that lay spoiling in the morning sun.

“Wake up, Agent,” he boomed.

Jenkins sat upright. “Ugh… Frank? Why are you… Your shift doesn’t start—”

“My shift starts now,” Frank snapped. “Yours, too, I’m afraid. We’re all on duty now. The whole planet. No more sleeping. We watch that portal like a hawk. If we don’t…”

“Did…  Did something come out?”

Frank nodded, feeling a knot grow in his stomach.

“I missed it! Oh geez, what was it? Did you call it in?”

Frank shook his head. “No. We need to stop what’s in there ourselves.”

“How?” Jennings looked perplexed.

Frank pointed to the box of donuts. “You can start by picking that up, Agent.”

He walked over to the outcrop and glanced down at the shimmering portal. It was a paradox, of course. If the junk was relocated from the future to the past it would create the same future those people were trying to escape from. The only way to prevent a closed loop was with a clean break in the present. He couldn’t trust the government, but nothing was getting through on his watch.

Behind him he heard Jenkins crumpling up the box and stuffing it into his duffel bag. Frank gazed down at the swirling cerulean blue that winked at him from the golden desert below.  Maybe it was a trick of the morning light, but from this angle the flames seemed to fade just a little.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Teasdale is an English author whose stories have appeared for a variety of publications including Novel Magazine, Wyldblood Magazine and Shoreline of Infinity. His work can also be found in the anthologies Trenchcoats, Towers and Trolls by World Weaver Press and The Astronaut Always Rings Twice by Tyche Books. He lives in Transylvania, Romania and can be followed on Twitter.

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