The Crate

The Crate

The trees were filled with blackbirds. The had been discussing and cussing about whatever blackbirds care to discuss, but then grew very quiet. Suddenly, the flock exploded into the sky. Ivan, disturbed by the commotion as he sat on his front porch, looked up from his magazine. A huge black truck rounded the corner onto Emily Street, belching clouds of thick smoke and causing every dog to bark in protest. Ivan frowned at the annoying truck as it drove up the street. He noticed that an unsavory looking fellow who drove the truck was looking toward him, but the truck rumbled past his house.

Then it slowed down and stopped with brake lines hissing and gear box grinding and puffs of black smoke billowing into the otherwise lovely blue sky. The truck sat for a moment, and then shuddered to a slow reverse motion. Ivan just sat watching at first, but quickly arose from his patio chair as he realized the truck was backing up into his driveway.

The truck backed halfway up his driveway and hissed to a stop. Ivan put down his magazine and walked down the porch steps, scratching his head. He could not think of any reason the truck should be at his house. The hulk of a driver popped open the cab door and hopped out, carrying a clipboard. "You a Mr. Cromwell?" he asked.

"Ahem, uh, yes, that’s right… but I don’t remember ordering anything…", began Ivan.

"Ok. I’ll just drop off this thing, you just sign right across here," interrupted the driver, quite gruffly. He handed the clipboard to Ivan and walked to the back end of the trailer. Ivan glanced at the shipping papers and then back to the driver. He walked back, too.

Ivan, normally not given to taking crap from anyone, gathered all the composure he could muster and firmly stated, "Now, look here, Mr., I have no idea what this thing is and I am certainly not paying for anything I didn’t order. I demand you tell me what this is all about." Ivan was quite forceful in his delivery, however the truck driver just opened the back doors to the truck trailer and hopped up inside.

"Nuttin’ to pay for, Bub. It’s prepaid," replied the driver from inside the trailer. In a moment he wrestled an enormous crate to the back lift-gate and threw the lever.

The lift-gate whined as its hydraulics lowered the crate to the driveway. "You got any problems you call the shipper. I gotta drop this thing off here, and that’s all there is to it."

Ivan certainly didn’t want to engage the wrath of this Neanderthal looking person, and simply watched in silence while he wrestled the crate of the lift and onto his driveway. Soon the driver locked up the back of the trailer, brushed off his hands and lumbered over to Ivan, who was scratching his head looking at the huge crate. "OK. Now just sign here where it says ‘Received by’ and I’ll just get to gettin’.

Ivan looked at the papers. It said ‘prepaid’, so he reluctantly signed the papers and handed the clipboard back to the driver. The driver detached the yellow copy and gave it to Ivan. "Adios, Bub," said the driver as he hopped back into the cab. In a racket of grinding gears and hissing brake lines, the truck shuddered into motion and slowly rumbled onto the street.

Ivan was too confused to do anything but wave as the truck roared back down the street. Soon, all that was left of the truck was a cloud of black smoke and, of course, the crate in Ivan’s driveway. The neighborhood returned to its prior, peaceful status.

Ivan looked at the yellow receipt. There was no mention of the contents of the crate. Just ‘one crate --- 4250lbs. Prepaid’. The shipper was a "Deutch & Co." of Schyler, Nebraska. Cargo delivery was by a "Bogardus Trucking, Inc.". No phone numbers, addresses or other information was to be found. "Hmmm," mused Ivan. He would dial information.

An hour later, after trying the local directory services, the Better Business Bureau, the eleven other trucking companies in town, the Schyler, Nebraska directory services and Better Business Bureau (who was also the city Police, Mayor and County Business Registrar), Ivan sat at the kitchen table in frustration. As far as anyone knew, there was no Deutch and Co. nor Bogardus Trucking, Inc. He then went back out to the crate. He examined every millimeter of its surface. There was no writing of any kind. Just wood, steel bands and bolts. He pushed the crate. It didn’t budge a Planck’s length. He wondered how on Earth the truck driver could handle the thing. Even being a Neanderthal had its limits.

After a thorough going over the crate, he decided to go down to the Spoon and get a bite to eat. His car! He wouldn’t be able to get his car out of the garage. The damned crate was blocking it. He went up the porch steps, into the house, and soon the garage door opened. He rummaged around the garage a bit and came out with a box of tools and a crowbar. He was entirely annoyed now, and was quite determined to get the thing opened, or at least off his driveway.

First he tried to cut the steel bands. He used a tin snips but after squeezing as hard as he could it didn’t cut. It didn’t even scratch the band. Next he tried the side cutters. Even worse… they were for copper wire, and now they would be no good for even that. Crowbar. He tried to snap them by levering the crowbar under them, but they were too strong. He sat down against the crate for a few minutes, out of breath.

Hacksaw. The hacksaw was able to scratch the steel band, but it was quite an awkward position to saw in. Eventually, after sawing for almost an hour, the steel band sprang out and away from the crate. One more to go. This one was harder, the hacksaw blade was dulled from the first one, and he could find no replacement blades. But finally, when it was nearly dark, the second band sprang out with a boing sound, still pinned down by the dead weight of the crate.

Footsteps coming up the driveway. "Whatcha got there, Ivan?" It was his neighbor, Hank, standing next to the crate, keeping clear of the still vibrating steel bands.

"A crate," said Ivan sourly. "Your guess is as good as mine of what’s in it. It’s some kind of mistaken delivery or something. I called around and I can’t seem to get anyone to rectify the problem."

"Hmmm. Heavy dude," said Hank as he tried to wiggle it. He kicked the bottom of the crate. "Solid stuff, must weigh a ton."

"Two tons, actually," corrected Ivan.

Hank stood there a little while, but, noticing the annoyance on Ivan’s face, he edged on home. "Well, let me know how it turns out."

"Sure, Hank." Ivan wiped his brow as Hank walked off. What a putz, thought Ivan.

Ivan looked at the bolts. There were no nuts, just round top bolts. How in Hell was he supposed to get those out? He got the crowbar and tried jamming the sharper end between the wood planks. Those crating planks were fit so tight he couldn’t find a razor blade’s gap anywhere. He got out a screwdriver to use as a chisel and used a hammer to wedge the tip into the wood joint. He pounded and pounded but the wood was hard as rock. What the Hell kind of wood is this stuff, anyway? It was getting too dark to see, and he was tired and hungry, so he gathered up his tools and went back in the garage. The garage door closed.

* * *

The next morning, after scraping together a makeshift breakfast, Ivan returned to the crate. He noticed the concrete was cracking near the edge, and the crack emerged from under the corner of the crate. ‘Damn. The thing’s so heavy it’s ruining my driveway!’ thought Ivan. This time he decided to get some power tools.

The power drill was able to drill out enough of the plank gap to fit the crowbar into. But pushing and pulling and jamming with all of his might, he succeeded only in becoming exhausted. He sat down and leaned back on the crate and rested for a while. He saw Hank’s garage door open and Hank backing his car out. Hank noticed him sitting there and waved his fingers. Ivan just sat, breathing hard and trying to think of what he would do next. He watched Hanks car turn off Emily Street.

Upon regaining some strength, Ivan had an idea. He drilled out some more of the gap, enough to get the crowbar jammed into the crack until it was able to remain stuck. He dug out his car keys and went into the garage. He started up the Buick and backed it out on the driveway, slowly, until it was a only a few feet from the crate. He left the engine running to let it warm up, and returned to the garage, rummaging until he found an old dog chain.

He doubled up the dog chain for more strength, and hooked one end around the frame under the bumper and the other end to the crowbar. He slowly edged the Buick forward until the chain was tight, and then increased power. The motor roared as it strained the wheels, until Ivan could hear the squeal of the tires and smelled burning rubber. Suddenly the car lunged forward, and Ivan could only barely stop in time to prevent crashing into the far wall of the garage.

He turned off the car, and went back to the crate. The chain had snapped, and the crowbar was slightly bent. Otherwise nothing. The crack between the planks was hardly effected. Ivan scratched his head vigorously. Some hardwood. Almost as strong as steel. But the drill was able to drill it, with difficulty, but it did work. Ivan picked up the drill and continued drilling into the joint.

After what seemed like hours Ivan stopped drilling. The bit was getting dull and the going was getting tougher. He got a flashlight and looked into the drilled out area. There was a glint of metal. Damn. He replaced the bit with a bigger one and resumed. He pressed as hard as he could against the drive, determined to either cut through that metal or break the bit trying.

When he nearly gave up, because the bit began to smoke, he suddenly lunged forward. The bit had drilled through. He stopped the drill. Then he could hear a hissing sound, and he was nearly knocked over by the most putrid stench imaginable. Stale air, or some kind of gas, was escaping from the crate. He stood well back and held his nose. It was completely wretched, whatever the stuff was. It took a few minutes before the stuff had completely vented, but the odor hung around him like gaseous vomit for a long time.

Now what? Would he have to drill out every inch of the crate’s enclosure? It would take weeks at this rate. A single hole took hours. He picked up the crowbar and tried jamming it in the hole, to see if it might be weakened enough to make a difference.

To his surprise, the crowbar shredded the plank as he levered it. It tore apart like wet cardboard. He grabbed the edges of the plank by hand and pulled out big chunks of crunching wood. It was as if it was rotted, or like balsa wood. Even the bolts could be torn out easily. They were as pliable as plastic straws. In a frenzy of ripping and tearing and sloughing off big chunks of the now rotten wood of the crate, he now had a big pile of crate debris and the gleaming, faceted chunk of glass remaining on the driveway.

He didn’t like all the trash all over his front yard so he got his wheelbarrow and carted off the debris to the trash bins near the alley. There was too much for the bins, so he just bundled it and tied it with twine. But he was very tired and hungry now, so he took one more look at the big chunk of glass, scratching his head with a different kind of vigor, and went inside to scrape something together for lunch.

He made a sandwich from cheese and an English muffin and turned on the TV to watch the news. Strangely, the newscasters were talking very rapidly, and in silly voices like the Chipmunks. Was this a tape running too fast? He switched channels. The talk shows talked funny. The game shows talked funny. Even an old classic movie was running too fast. Maybe he was just too tired and he was too slow? He made some coffee. It seemed like on a minute or so when the coffee maker beeped its ready signal. Boy that was fast, thought Ivan.

Ivan went back outside and pondered what he would need to do now. He looked at the big piece of glass on his driveway. It was certainly an impressive sight. It looked very much like a gigantic diamond, nearly as tall as himself. Curious, he tapped the surface with an Allen wrench. It resounded with a high pitched noise that hurt his ears. He plugged his ears and waited for the sound to die away, but it took a very long time. He decided not to do that again.

Out of the corner of his eye Ivan noticed a car zoom through the neighborhood. It must have been going at least 70, he thought as he watched it turn the corner. Funny, it sure made the curve smoothly for so fast. He then noticed a small child riding a tricycle on the sidewalk a few houses down. Ivan began to suspect that something was very wrong when the child peddled at what seemed like 40 to 50 mph. Even the birds flew at unbelievable speeds. He sipped his coffee, and scratched his head, quite vigorously.

He turned suddenly and stared at the huge glass crystal on his driveway. It was doing something. It was effecting time somehow. But that’s impossible. You can’t effect time, not if his grasp of physics was adequate. It must be effecting him. It was effecting his mind! He backed away from the crystal and then ran back into the house. He looked at the clock. The second hand was spinning at least twice as fast as he remembered, maybe even more. He got more coffee and sat down to think. The TV was too ludicrous to watch at these speeds. He could barely understand what anyone said. He tried talking to himself, "One two three four…".

It sounded normal to him. But everything else was too fast.

For the rest of the day Ivan bumbled around the house. He considered trying to drive his car. Maybe he could turn it enough to go over the lawn to get around the thing. But no, it was hopelessly trapped. Even so, would he be safe driving in a world where even bicycles could go 100 mph? Would he even be able to talk to people, or manage from the parking lots to the stores? He wondered if the effects of the crystal attenuated with distance. He tried walking down the alley for a while, but no matter how far he was, it seemed like time was still just as bad. Cats seemed to be trotting when they must have been simply ambling along leisurely. Birds still flew like jets.

Why was he the only one effected. He did not walk twice as fast. He did not talk funny. What was happening to him. Who the Hell is Bogardus Trucking, Inc.?

Why does everything have a bluish tint? His house was a funny shade. Everything looked wrong. Everything sounded wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

As the sky grew dark he watched the moon rising over the roof tops. He could actually see it moving. Clouds flew over its face as if a hurricane wind were blowing, and the insects zinged by his face just as hurriedly. As the darkness grew he could see the stars twinkling to beat the band. He suddenly realized how tired he was as he sat on the patio chair. He went inside, sat for a few moments on the bed, and then lay back, instantly falling asleep.

* * *

When he awoke it was still dark. He looked at the clock… early in the morning. He got up and started to wash up. The water faucets were difficult to control. It seemed like as soon as he twisted the knob the wash basin filled to overflowing. He groggily remembered the time problem. It was still there, and worse. And when he did finally wash his hands and face they became dry very quickly.

Coffee was a similar problem, including the sudden sunrise that made things so bright so quickly that his eyes had difficulty adjusting. One nice thing about these time anomalies was that the coffee brewed instantly. The real problem was drinking it fast enough for it to still be hot. He wondered if food might spoil before he could eat it, and decided to eat potato chips and crackers.

He turned on the TV by habit, but quickly found that it was completely useless. The programs just blinked from commercial to news to commercial to news in quick succession. Nothing anyone said made any sense at all. And this blue cast to everything was really bothering him. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right, it was even getting difficult to walk and balance correctly.

He looked out the kitchen window at the crystal. He wondered what the neighbors must think. Do they notice the time problem? They didn’t seem to do anything differently, except for the enormous rapidity of their actions. Cars just backed out and zoomed off in the blink of an eye. If cars could really accelerate that much the occupants would be smashed to jelly. And that must explain why he feels so tired. Energy, air, food, and everything in his environment was part of some other dimension or time. He went out on the porch and stood, trying to think what he should do. This was really starting to worry him. How much longer could he live this way?

He was always thirsty. As soon as he drank water it seemed like he hadn’t had a sip, his mouth felt so dry. It must be evaporating faster than he was drinking. He decided to drink two glasses at once, even though it distended his stomach a bit too much. Better stay away from coffee, too dehydrating.

He looked at the crystal. He knew it was the cause of all this. That truck must have come from the Devil, or from some demonic scientist, whatever. The crystal was making him like this. Whoever sent him that thing wanted him to die, or get lost in some elsewhere world of the 6^th dimension. He had to do something.

He went into the garage, opened the door, and started the Buick. It made the weirdest noise, sounding more like an electric buzzer than a gasoline engine. He knew that it would be very difficult to pull off the stunt that he now planned, but he had little choice. He had to do something. Time was really slipping by.

He tested the car first by putting his foot on the brake and putting the shift lever on R. The car droned at a different frequency, but it stood still. Ever so gently he reduced the pressure of his foot on the brake pedal. Suddenly the car lunged backward. He was barely able to stop it, even at what must really be a crawl. But it was like a gentle float more than a jarring jolt, inertia didn’t build like he expected. He put the lever to D and, just for an instant, allowed the brake pressure to reduce. The car lunged forward, and barely stopped before reaching the wall of the garage.

Now for the real thing. He looked back at the crystal. He would need to be going a good deal faster than he felt comfortable with. But what the heck? Inertia wasn’t the problem his instincts felt it should be. He would increase the RPM a little this time and let her fly. He put the lever to R, pressed hard on the brake and gently increased the RPM. He waited a few of his own seconds, and taking a deep breath, let his foot off the brake.

Instantly the car crashed backwards into the crystal. He turned off the engine and got out. The crystal was cracked. Did it work? But just then he felt the most earsplitting pain and realized what he must have done. The crystal was making that resonance sound again-- at such a high frequency he couldn’t hear it. But he felt the pain like a nail sticking into his brain. He tried to make it to the house, but the pain didn’t reduce. He staggered up the steps to the porch with both hands pressed against his ears. He stumbled inside the house and to a closet in the bedroom, got in and closed the door. It just barely reduced the pain. It was unbearable, and he could stand it no more. The blackness in the closet spun around him until his very consciousness blacked out.

* * *

Ivan awoke in a white room. He looked around and saw the nurse. She noticed him stirring. "Well, well," she chimed, "Good morning, Capt. Cromwell." She walked over to his bed and adjusted his night stand. "The doctor will be coming to see you. I just signaled him that you came around. Here, drink some water, you need to keep hydrated. And watch out for these IV feeds, OK?"

"Uh, OK," Ivan muttered. "But, how did I get here. Where am I. Does time work right?"

"Time work right? I don’t know about that, but you’re here because… well, Capt. Cromwell, that’s a long story. The doctor is on his way. I think he will be glad to fill you in. Now, drink up. Watch it, there’s an IV needle in this wrist."

Captain. Soldiers. A dim memory of helicopters wafted through his thoughts. "Am I in the military?" Ivan took some sips of his water. He heard the door open, and he gasped. The crystal. The doctor’s head was the crystal.

"Hello, Capt. Cromwell," said the medical robot. "I’m Dr. Zyzyx, model 7DNS Neurosurgical Robot. Welcome back to the real world. The human doctors thought you may not come out of it. I was never so uncertain, of course." The medical robot looked at the instruments attached to Ivan. "Your vitals look good. You are conscious. And, best of all, you will receive the Medal of Honor."

"Medal of Honor?" asked Ivan with a completely confused look on his face. He thought for a while. It was so difficult to remember things.

Dr. Zyzyx continued, "You are Ivan S. Cromwell, Captain, US Army Special Forces. Northern Asia. Your mission was a complete success. If it wasn’t for those neurotoxin mines you would have made it out unscathed. All of your men did. But, first things first. Let’s get your health back. And, when you think you would like visitors, there’s a few relatives of yours who are extremely anxious to see you. Any time you feel like it. OK?"

"Relatives? Neurotoxins?" mumbled Ivan. He could only barely remember something about BioChemCom training. "Oh my God! I remember. I have a daughter…"

"That’s right, Capt. Cromwell," said Dr. Zyzyx, "and she is extremely anxious to see you, believe me."

Ivan struggled with his memory.. BioChemCom… his training… it was impossible to know reality from the effects of many classes of neurotoxins. Do we really have such advanced robots? What was that stuff dripping in the IV? Why were his feet strapped to the frame of his bed? He suddenly gasped in the terrifying realization that he was not in friendly place after all. He was a prisoner of war. "Uh, sure, Dr.Zyzyx," he finally responded as calmly as he could, "I’m very anxious to see her, too."