Extracted

ON THE day that Roger Miller was extracted from the universe he was standing in his pasture, near the pond, preparing to scatter the remains of his wife into the south-bound winds of the Shenandoah Valley. His hands were full, and he continuously shifted their contents to keep the picture viewable, the flask drinkable, the urn sealed safely under his armpit. On his belt, his holster held a pistol loaded with a single bullet, so as not to burden him further. 

 

He raised the flask and stared into the picture. “Here’s to you, fuzzy-lumps!” He dried his cheek on his sleeve. “It weren’t always good. But Lord knows, I’d trade the world for one more day with you.” And with that, Roger downed the remainder of his cheap whiskey and tossed the flask into the pond. Then he tried to twist the bronze lid of the urn without crumpling his one remaining photo of Verna, who was threshed a year prior to the day. The ash in the urn and the image in the photo were all of Verna that remained for Roger, and though he’d set out to let her go, he’d really only planned on releasing the ashes. So when the Shenandoah wind took the photo from his struggling hands, Roger let loose a devastated sob that sent a bubble of bile and whisky up his swollen throat in the form of a mournful, belched obscenity. Roger took off running after the picture. 

 

The wind took the photo up and up, over and over, across the pasture towards the pond. Roger had planted a swale of dogwoods on the bank behind the pond, for which he received a refund from the institution that—he’d be quick to mention—annually, illegally taxed his income. Despite how he felt about the institution, he liked the trees. He and Verna had often laid beneath their low branches and drank and chain smoked while they watched the hawks circle in the breeze and the sheep prune the clover by the pond. Everything seemed so still then. But now, the wind stirred the water in the pond, twisted around the dogwood’s low branches, pulled the photo over and over, up and up, away from Roger’s possession. His joints ached as he ran. His boots sucked the tacky, spring-thawed mud of the pasture. He was already out of breath. He ran without looking ahead, but instead looked up, to track the dancing photo’s trajectory. It was while he was looking up that he noticed a small black dot appear in the sky. Roger stopped running to watch the dot which grew and grew, larger and larger, until it had gotten so big that it surpassed the circumference of the sun, which was blotted out by a mass of ominous clouds that swelled at the edges of the dot—the object—whatever it was. Roger had never seen anything like it, and so it was the only thing that could have distracted him from recovering his picture, which had blown away in the commotion. 

 

The air grew hot; lightening cracked across the sky; huge columns of fire exploded from the clouds and scalded the earth; the dusty wind whipped what remained of Rogers wispy, white hair. Roger, struggling to view the object that had come so close, and was so big, fell backward into the mud. Roger laid on his back and tried to understand what was happening, what he was looking at. Lightening illuminated its smooth, gray exterior and showed that its center was empty. The object, as near as Roger could tell, was a hollow metal tube that spanned a distance of about one hundred feet and extended upward into space as far as he could see. 

 

The pressure of the atmosphere suddenly changed. Down from the center of the steel column came such a powerful rush of air that the pond became mist, the topsoil disintegrated, and the dogwoods were plucked and flicked away like seedlings. Roger, who lay on his back directly beneath the brunt of the pressure, was crushed down into the mud several feet deep. What caused the intense pressure was the arrival of some kind of smooth, orange gel that flowed out of the object’s opening. It did not drip down, but rather ballooned around the opening like a giant drop of water contained by surface tension until it had surpassed the length of the tube. When the massive orange bubble could remain attached no longer it broke free and fell down onto the pasture and onto Roger. The orange ooze slammed him deeper down into the earth. It was all he could see. It filled his gaping mouth, went down his throat, and shot into his gut. It squeezed into the nooks behind his eyes, the crannies in his ears. It filled his lungs and wrapped around him so he was totally surrounded. And then the pressure stopped, and Roger was weightless for a moment, suspended in the slime. Everything went quiet. Roger had barely enough time to form a thought before the pressure reversed and, in opposite effect to its arrival, the ooze now seemed to be sucked back up the tube and carried out into space. 

 

Roger hurtled upwards through the giant metal column (faster, by the way, than any other human had ever traveled—a fact he could hardly appreciate at the time) and, as he did, he fell into a state not unlike sleep in which fugue memories played shadow puppets under his eyelids and he began to dream. He dreamed of his life with Verna; of the day they met at the apple orchard where they’d taken summer jobs; of pulling her from the water after she’d flubbed a backflip off the dam where they got drunk and tan; of his first day at the New Holland where he learned to fix combine harvesters; of her sudden absence and subsequent return six months later, seven months pregnant; of their marriage, postponed by the rain and all the better for it; of their quiet ride home from the hospital with an empty car seat in the back; of birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, always coming and coming, faster and unstoppably faster until he retired from the shop and social security checks supplemented the welfare she’d stopped receiving, even though her back still kept her from work and had since she was young, since the dam. Bittersweet recollection filled Roger’s mind as he rocked like a very old baby in the strange orange ooze that carried him up and out of the universe. And, eventually, he became still. 

 

*           *           *

 

When Roger woke up, he was bigger. He opened his eyes, stretched his face and his hands; he blinked, thought, looked around, panicked. He was in a small room that looked like a laboratory but was filled machinery that didn’t look like anything he’d seen before. The orange ooze was still present; it seemed to exist in the place of air; it was like being underwater, though somehow, he could breathe normally. He pressed his hands against the front of what he soon realized was a long glass tube he was sealed in. He tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. He banged on the glass and screamed for help, and then the glass tube slid open. 

 

Roger stepped out of the tube and looked around. The room did seem like some kind of laboratory. There were beeping appliances on countertops that all over the room. Suddenly, Roger noticed a tall, thin human in the room—only, right away, Roger could tell it wasn’t a human. It had arms and a head in the usual places, but at its waist its body tapered into a thin point. It wiggled its lower half behind it as it swam through the ooze towards him. It was covered in cloudy gray scales that darkened to black as they traveled down its body. It had no eyes or mouth—nothing a human head had, but instead the globe upon the shoulders was ringed with concentric rings of light. It stood before Roger and the light in the rings pulsed upward and sent little bolts of lightning sparkling from the top of its head. Roger was terrified but cornered in the room; he was still woozy and stiff from the journey, but he made a knee-jerk reach for his holster which, he was relieved to find, still held his pistol. Before he could remove the gun, the floating creature reached out and placed a metal cap that looked like a colander on Roger’s head. 

 

The light that pulsed up and out of the creature’s head now struck a beam of lightening through the ooze and into Roger’s metal cap. The effect was that Roger heard it say, “Can you understand me now?” And Roger could understand it. He told it so, and a thin streak of light traveled out of his cap and connected with Irs’s head. “Irs,” as it explained, was his name.

 

“Ears?” Roger said. 

 

“That’s right. What’s yours?” 

“Brent Staunton.” Roger always gave a fake name to the government. “Look, if this is about my taxes—” 

 

“Oh no, nothing like that. You see, Mr. Staunton, I mean you no harm. In fact, you have no idea how happy your presence makes me. You’ve been brought here for a very special purpose. I’m sure you’re wondering where you are. Let me show you.” 

 

Irs moved to a piece of machinery in a corner of the room and began fiddling with the knobs. Soon, a large glass tank descended from the ceiling. It was roughly the size of the terrarium Roger bought for Verna when she ordered snakes online, before they learned it was a scam. This tank was mostly black but filled with the most dazzling array of sparkling lights. 

 

“This is your universe.” Irs gestured at a small glowing spot in the tank with one of his large gray hands and said, “And this, right here, is the galaxy that contains your planet, er—Erth?” 

 

“Uh…” 

 

“Uhth?” 

 

Roger, in an attempt to appear as though he understood what was happening, smiled, wagged his finger, and said, “Ah!” 

 

“Right, sorry: your planet, Ahth. You were here, on Ahth, when I extracted you using that microcosmic needle over there.” Irs pointed to a mechanical arm with a long silver needle at the end that became so fine that it disappeared from view. “You’re the first living thing we’ve ever extracted!” 

 

Then Irs explained to Roger how, since time immemorial, his race had enjoyed bountiful access to food and energy, but that recently a terrible blight had caused scarcities that pushed his people into a devastating war. Irs was tasked with creating the first Astrium Tank as a way to create new resources. In it, Irs added a smattering of various elements and told it to “Go!”—the resulting electric shock from the top of his head began a chain reaction which caused the elements inside to move and fuse; to grow into stars and planets; and to eventually spawn living creatures which performed their own sciences and made their own new elements and materials. Irs then extracted the new components and enlarged them in an Atomic Manipulator—at this, Irs pointed a spindly gray finger to the glass tube in which Roger had awoken. Irs used the new elements to create new Astrium Tanks, which created newer elements and eventually he was able to extract components necessary to create a new supply system for his people. Since then, Irs had created millions of Astriums which supply his people with all the food, fuel, and materials they need. The war ended and Irs was declared a hero. 

 

Then, Irs continued, he discovered something that he could only call a miracle. While extracting materials from a particular tank, Irs discovered a book that, he was shocked to realize, was written in his own language. He read it and found it to be the most divine collection of poetry he had ever read, filled with maxims and musings that were so profound that Irs was at once enlightened and relieved of all his worry and anger. He ran to his people, read the book to them, and they were so enraptured by the eloquence of the mystic verse that they stopped working and sat down to listen. The message distilled in the book proved to be so potent that it sustained tired and hungry people for long periods of time, and regular repetition of the verses ensured the members Irs’s community that they no longer needed to eat or drink; they felt as though their safety was assured. In fact, Irs believed that if the book were widely used, he could shut down the Astrium Tanks entirely because they would no longer need to extract any resources. The book was reproduced, distributed, and instantly became a household item; its words became the songs of the children and the study of the elders. 

 

One passage in particular was the subject of much contemplation. It was a simple enough phrase, but it contained a word which, due to an idiom associated with its homonym, could be read two ways. Both interpretations were meaningful but meant different things. Irs told Roger that it was vital to determine the true meaning of this passage since the book was so powerful. His people had grown tense over the discrepancy and would frequently break into heated arguments that reminded Irs of darker times. Irs decided that there was only one way to determine the truth, and that was to extract the Author of the Book, the divine Roger Miller himself. But Irs never extracted a living thing, and so he decided to test the process on Roger. Irs told Roger that the Author of the Book was his near-exact double from a different Astrium Tank, and that, by extracting Roger, Irs had proven it was possible to extract the Author himself who would reveal once and for all the meaning of the disputed passage and lead his people to salvation. 

 

It is important to point out here that Roger had stopped listening. 

 

He was more than a little lost when Irs had started talking, and his attempt to keep up had only slowed him down. In fact, he was so focused on appearing like he understood that he only heard about half of what Irs told him. The main point Roger had taken away was that somewhere there was an alternate world on which Verna, or a version of her, might still be alive, and Roger needed to get there. 

 

While Roger was thinking, Irs was finishing up. “So, now that I’ve determined that extracting living people is possible, you’ll be recycled into your universe and I’ll begin tracking down the Author. Then, if all goes as planned, I can dismantle the Astrium Tanks, which really are a lot of work.” 

 

Roger held up his hand. “Hold up. You say there’s another planet where I don’t fix combines, and my wife didn’t fall into one after drinking a milk crate of BuzzBallz?” 

 

“I think so, though I must admit, I’m not totally sure what a BuzzBall is.” 

 

Roger had calculated an intricate plan which he set into motion now: he pulled out his gun, pointed it at Irs, and said, “Well then take me there or I’ll kill you.” 

 

Irs was so intrigued by the gun that he made a move towards Roger to inspect it. Roger, knew that he only had one bullet, but he was nervous and so he flinched when Irs came towards him. He squeezed the trigger by accident. The bullet missed Irs, ricocheted off some beeping piece of machinery and bounced into the glass exterior of Roger’s universe, spilling space all over the floor. 

 

“Oh, my Roger! Look what you’ve done! Everyone you ever knew was in that tank!” 

 

“I don’t care about that. There’s nothing left for me in that world. I want to go to that other one, the one where Verna’s alive. Put me in there, or I’ll do to you what I just did to that tank.” 

 

Roger was bluffing but empty threats and deceiving the authorities were skills well within his wheelhouse. He stepped back into the long glass tube and kept the gun aimed at Irs. “Do it! Or I swear I’ll kill you.” It was clear to him that Irs was unfamiliar with the gun and nervous about its capabilities. “And that was the small shot too,” he added. “I can blow this whole place up if I want.” 

 

“Be reasonable, Mr. Staunton! I can’t tamper with the world that contains the Author of the Book!” 

 

“Well then maybe I’ll just destroy his tank, too—all the tanks!” 

 

“If you won’t listen to reason then have some damned sense! What’s to stop me from simply destroying you after I shrink you down?” 

 

Roger thought about this for a moment. He set his gun down on the counter nearby, still pointing at Irs, and said, “I’ll leave my gun right here, and if you don’t do like I tell you, I’ll shoot you after I’m gone.” 

 

“It can do that?” 

 

“Sure enough.” 

 

Irs banged his fist on the desk beside him. “It won’t work, Brent Staunton! You can’t hide from me in my own world! I’ll find you, and I will extract the Author!” 

 

“Listen up, Ears—if this fella’s anything like me, like you say, he’ll be madder than hell you took him away from his home. And if he’s so smart and powerful, you’ll wish you never even found that book, I’ll tell you that for free. Now get on with it before I level the place.” 

 

Irs was angry but scared, and so he did what he was told. He turned to the machine beside him and fiddled with the knobs. The glass tube sealed shut around Roger and soon he felt the effects of the Atomic Manipulator shrinking him down to human size. He watched Irs through the glass grow so large that he lost track of him, and then all he could see was the orange ooze. A few moments passed in which Roger tried to determine whether or not he was moving, and he wondered whether Irs had bought his bluff. Then, very suddenly, Roger felt the rush of pressure down the needle. He was pushed downward into the new universe at the same break-neck speed in which he was extracted. And, like the first time, he quickly lost consciousness. 

 

*           *           * 

 

When Roger Miller woke up he was laying by the pond beneath the low branches of the dogwood trees. He was relieved to find himself there since he’d just had the most terrible nightmare, the details of which were quickly fading from his memory. He stretched and looked around, checked his watch, and wondered where Verna was. “Probably back at the house,” he thought. Roger sat up and picked up his notebook. He reread what he’d written before he went to sleep, seemed satisfied, but nonetheless went to work scratching out certain words and rewriting lines with arrows spanning the page to indicate what went where. This was right before Roger Miller, a different Roger Miller, came charging over the hill and bashed his head in with a rock. He’d heard a scream and looked up just in time to see a man who looked exactly like himself, except that he was covered in orange slime, and he wore what looked like a colander on his head. And he thought to himself, “Oh my God, he looks exactly like me, except he’s covered in orange slime, and he’s got a colander on his head—what’s he doing with that rock?” But that was his last thing he thought before the Roger Miller who just been sent to his world beat him senseless and rolled him into the pond. Then, Roger himself waded in to wash off the slime and discard his metal hat. When he came out, he picked up the other Roger’s notebook and flipped through the pages. But Roger soon realized that it was covered with indecipherable gibberish, and so he tossed it into the pond with everything else. 

 

Roger made his was across the muddy pasture back to the house; ran as fast as arthritic knees would carry him, through the back door crying, “Verna! Verna, are you here! It’s me, Roger!” And then she appeared in the doorway, just as Roger remembered her: her dainty, hirsute ears, her squirrel-colored hair rolled in curlers, her powerful arms folded across the front of a Tweety-Bird muumuu. 

 

“What the hell do you want? ‘The Wheel’s’ on and Sajak just pulled the prize envelope.” 

 

“Oh my God, Verna, I can’t believe it’s really you! You don’t know how much I missed you, fuzzy-lumps!” Roger ran with open arms to the wife of the man he’d just killed, and she boxed his ear when he got close. 

 

“What the hell’s got into you? Jesus, you’re all wet! Did you get drunk and roll in the pond again?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I did. But don’t worry about that now. I just want you to know how much I love you and how much I’d miss you if you ever fell into a wheat thresher.” 

 

Verna blushed. “Well, aren’t you very romantic. I don’t know who rolled into that pond, but I sure like who came out!” Verna laughed, deep and phlegmy. “Now grab me a couple beers. It’s almost the commercial and if they show that foot bath ad I’ma get me the rest of that phone number!” 

 

And so, the two strangers drank, and laughed, and watched “The Wheel” (though Roger could make no sense of the new letters) until Verna passed out. That night, he sat out on his roof and studied the sky. He tried to tell if there was any difference between these stars and the ones he grew up with, but found he wasn’t familiar enough with the old ones to know it, even if there was. And he waited for the sky to crack open again, and for Irs’s long needle to come and suck him up. But it didn’t come that night. He didn’t care if it did. At least he’d gotten a little more time with Verna, whom he cherished more than anything in any world. Roger wondered if Irs had taken his gun and studied it. In fact, he thought, the gun might help keep the peace in his world and settle those religious arguments. Roger smiled at the thought that, between his old home and his new one, he’d contributed guns and religion to a struggling civilization. That put his mind at ease. And so, with the comfort of that thought in his mind, the hum of Verna’s CPAP machine in his ear, and twelve shots of whisky in his belly, Roger fell into a deep and blissful slumber on top of the roof.