Michael Sullivan - Hollow World

The light caught Ellis by surprise. It shouldn’t have. He had never known a day that didn’t have a dawn, and yet it still startled him. He almost had it in his head that he was on another world, a distant one with different rules, and he’d simply forgotten about the sun. When at last it crested the horizon, he stood staring, grinning. The trees were strange, the mossy land alien, but the sun was an old friend, and she looked no different from the last time they had met.

Ellis had reached a broad clearing, a downward-sloping hill where the river met another tributary and widened. He was finally out of the pages of the Brothers Grimm and, with the first golden rays of dawn, into a Winnie-the-Pooh watercolor. The mist that had plagued him retreated to pockets and with the sun conveyed a serenity to the pastoral landscape. Dew glittered on green grass speckled by golden flowers, while overhead a blue sky emerged and through it darted flights of birds, who sang until they drowned out the crickets.

Finding a log, Ellis sat to watch the show and, realizing he was famished, tore open a bag of peanut M&M’S. The hard-coated candy had always been an indulgence for him—his one extravagance during the lean days at M.I.T. while putting himself through college and stretching every dollar.

Down the slope he spotted three deer emerging from the fog that followed the river’s course. Not much later he saw a red fox trotting, and something else he hadn’t caught a good enough look at, which scurried among the heather along the forest eaves. Despite the birds, deer, and bumblebees, Ellis was impressed with the stillness. Inside the security of his own home, even late at night, there were always noises: trucks, horns, sirens. The quietest he had ever experienced the outdoors was in that forest near Grayling, a haunting lack of sound in the gray-shadowed world that pines, with their carpet of brown needles, could create. Still, he had always known he was never too far from a road. Some two-lane blacktop would always be there, offering the promise of a car to come. Yet as Ellis ate his M&M’S, he looked out over the gradual slope and realized he could see for miles, perhaps tens of miles. In all that open expanse, he saw no evidence of mankind. He appeared to have the planet to himself.

In a moment of arrogance that took place between the time he filled his mouth with water from his canteen and the time he swallowed, he considered how he’d won by default, how the entirety of the world was his. What Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, and a slew of Caesars had spent lifetimes trying to accomplish was his just by showing up.

“I’m king of the world, Ma,” he said. No one heard. A hollow victory.

The moment passed with the realization that he was instead just one more organism in competition to survive. He wished he were younger, wished he wasn’t dying and alone. Ellis had never faced a challenge like this. Few had, he imagined. Still he thought he might enjoy it—some of it.

Winter would be horrific trapped inside whatever shelter he might manage to build, shivering and eating nuts and bark like they had in Roanoke. Ellis felt better about bringing his flannel and sweater. But people back then knew how to survive. He wondered if he could build a cabin by himself, then realized it would take forever to chop down even one of those monster trees using the tiny steel-headed hatchet he’d brought. And he had no idea what day of the year it was. Summer, certainly—he was convinced of that—but was it June, July, or August? How long did he have? Best to try and find some natural shelter, like a cave or he’d have to resort to making a lean-to from branches to help protect his tent. He might be able to do that much. Then he’d have to set his mind toward food.

Plenty of animals were around, and he might be able to shoot some, but he only had so many bullets, and he’d need a longer-term solution. With a spear, he might be able to stab some fish. A net would be better, but somehow he had forgotten that. Could he make one? Ellis felt like a domesticated dog turned loose in the wild.

He continued to stare at the valley. Everything was so pretty—just lovely the way the hills sloped down, the river being joined by another stream that widened again and—

Ellis squinted. Something lost in the fog was standing out. Being square, it didn’t fit. Nature so rarely made sharp, regular angles. Looking closer, he saw other similar shapes peeking out of the mist—buildings. He was seeing the roofs of houses!

He was looking down on a small village. His heart sprinted; maybe he wasn’t alone. One more swig of water and he pulled his pack back on. His muscles were stiff. He felt a little light-headed and once more cursed his age and illness. He stood and took bearings. All he needed to do was follow the river and it would take him right near the buildings. He’d know he was close when he reached the confluence.

With a new purpose and his friend the sun smiling, he walked on, scaring a pair of rabbits that darted across the field. He was making good time that morning and was well down the slope when he realized he knew where he might be. If he really hadn’t moved, if he had merely shifted time, then he must be following the upper branch of the Rouge River. He was traveling south, and it had already joined with another river, which would have been the Middle Rouge. So that would put him in Dearborn somewhere. He bent down and looked at the river as the sun played through the ripples. He could see the sand-and-pebble bottom just as if he were looking through glass, and there were fish, lots of good-sized largemouth bass and walleye snapping their way along.

The sun was rising toward midday by the time Ellis got his second glimpse of the buildings. He guessed he was only a mile away and could see a brick wall over which the roofs of several houses rose. He had expected futuristic plastics, steel, and glass creating fantastic geodesic dwellings, and once more he was disappointed. The buildings were old-fashioned two-story Colonial-styles. Not just old-fashioned, but genuinely old. They looked like the back lot of a period movie set in the nineteenth century. Climbing out of a gully, he spotted the clock tower rising above the trees that was a perfect replica of Philadelphia’s Independence Hall. Only Ellis wasn’t in Philadelphia, but he did know where he was—Dearborn, Michigan, and he was looking at the Henry Ford Museum.

He hadn’t been there since his sixth-grade class had visited on a field trip. They had toured the largest indoor-outdoor museum complex in the United States in a matter of hours. All he could remember was the Wright Brothers’ shop, a replica of Edison’s Menlo Park lab complex, and the fact that Anthony Dunlap had lost Ellis’s favorite Matchbox car and offered to replace it with one of the crappy new Hot Wheels. He also remembered a parking lot, and the roads to get there, none of which appeared to exist anymore. Ellis didn’t know the area well, but he was certain Michigan Avenue had come in there somewhere. A major six-lane divided freeway was gone without a scar, but the turn-of-the-nineteenth-century wooden buildings of Greenfield Village were still perfect. Something was out of whack, but Ellis was glad for it. If nothing else, he’d have a house to live his final days in.

The brick wall that circled the museum—that sealed off the attraction—was formidable, and Ellis walked around it, looking for a gate. He was hot but not sweating anymore. His feet were sore, his legs tired. His shoulders ached with the press of the pack, and he had a terrible headache. He wasn’t hungry, which surprised him. Most days he ate little, but most days he didn’t hike five miles. He also had a bad case of time-machine lag, and if no one was home, he hoped to find a nice house where he could put down his pack and perhaps take a nap. He was still circling the wall when, for the first time since he’d left Warren at the bar, he heard the sound of voices.