133

 

133. Bakersfield Babylon

 

30 miles into the hills from East Bakersfield, nestled just off the Blue Star Memorial Highway, is a small patch of green among the sprawling brown plains of Kern Country. Its elevation sits slightly lower than the highway itself, forcing any visitors to drop down out of the sun into the lines of trees that surround the small town known as Keene.

 

No doors open to welcome visitors into this small village of 300, nor does a single soul step out from the dilapidated white post office or general store, the only two non-residential buildings still in operation. Spread-out homes with peeling white paint and torn-off shingles line the road that leads deeper into the small forest. Winding and sharp, it does very little to coax travelers ahead.

 

As night falls, darkness swallows the town, with only dirty-yellow glows faintly escaping the heavy glass windows of each old house. Moonlight covers the barren hills that arch in the distance, but cannot pierce the fortified glades. As the jagged road continues through the cliffs and trees, a fork appears. Going right takes any precarious visitor out from Keene and back onto the highway, while going left takes them to an iron gate and small booth presumably guarding some kind of residence.

 

Once in a while, teenagers and young adults who catch wind of what lurks behind the gate venture deep into the outer lands of Bakersfield in the middle of the night, planning to sneak in and explore its black depths. It is here that they will encounter the night guard, an old man in his 60s named Harold. Even on holidays, he spends his nights manning the small office outside the gate, watching TV, reading books, and occasionally polishing the rifle that he equipped on the wall.

 

Over the past four years, Harold's seen many people come and expect to slip in straight through the front door. But he knows how to scare them off, with tales of intruders who ended up being incarcerated, or other stories about a hidden sniper who's been hired to shoot on sight and rabid dogs who roam the area. He scrunches up his wrinkled face and gives them eerie eyes, but not all visitors to Keene are content to leave with nothing but a few creepy stories.

 

By circumventing the entrance and searching for another route, some visitors find themselves journeying through age-old undergrowth, along an old railroad and over a barbed fence that finally leads to an open lot otherwise surrounded by high plateaus. The only ones who need to brave this dangerous trek are those who do not know the password.

 

"Babylon." Speaking these three syllables will cause Harold's countenance to change. Instead of scaring them off, Harold allows travelers to pass the gate through on foot, but he will give them neither welcoming nor cautionary words.

 

Immediately after entering, the dirt path branches off to the left towards the Cesar Chavez Memorial Center, which is shut down and locked at night.

 

"It is my deepest belief that only by giving our lives do we find life," reads the deceased civil rights leader's plaque alongside the road. Even those who are not visiting Keene for their first time still glance nervously at the etchings in stone, wondering just what its true meaning is.

 

Passing by the memorial center leads out of the woods and to a dead end at the foot of some hills. If one was daring enough to scale these steep cliffs, the glowing lights of the Zexaron building would be just barely visible along the western horizon.

 

The largest of these hills is Bear Mountain, and at its foot sits a wooden cross. 35 years after it was first built by a devout Christian, it now stands slightly tilted to the east. Twisted metal fragments and artifacts surround it, but the true point of interest to all who make it this far is the structure that sits in the center: Stony Brook Hospital, a tuberculosis sanitarium that was abruptly closed in the 1930s. 70 years later, the three-story building continues to stand tall for reasons unknown, draped in locks and chains.

 

The front gates to the ruins are bolted with iron bars and covered with heavy padlocks. Those who are clever enough to trek into the weeds behind the stone hospital may notice two wide metal doors that are curiously unlocked. They open to a dark passageway into the main office of the hospital, which is littered with trash, broken tiles and floorboards, as well as discarded files and records.

 

While the outside of the hospital has been attacked by nature, the inside has been ravaged by humans. In the 50s, it was a make-out and scare spot for juvenile delinquents, a pot haven for hippies in the 60s and 70s, and finally a place of Satanic sacrifice in the 80s. The back wall of the director's office now boasts a pentagram of dried blood, while other types of graffiti decorate the other chambers.

 

The stairs lead to old patient rooms, littered with personal items and sometimes diaries. Used syringes still sit on dusty trays, indicating that the facility was abandoned with great haste.

 

However, these ghostly floors are not where the true secret of the sanitarium lies. For that, one must venture down to the basement level, stepping across stained linoleum floors before reaching another gateway that was once shut off. Its chains have been ripped away, replaced by deep scratches and wounds on the metal that almost render the "NO ENTRY" sign illegible.

 

Those who make it this far may hear strange, almost rhythmic palpitations from below, as if the sounds from some otherworldly ritual are slipping through the cracks in this dimension. An electric breaker connected to a furnace and an air conditioning terminal are also present, proof of electricity running through the subterranean floor through outside means. Only after wading through this sea of equipment, some new and old, will intrepid explorers will reach their final checkpoint.

 

The door to the morgue is silver, completely unscathed save for the red letters painted on the top. Beyond it lie cramped stone stairs that lead even deeper into the crust of the planet. It is here where the vibrations grow louder, until they can be deciphered as the deep, pounding pass notes of electronic music.

 

At the foot of the stairs, the floor changes into sleek black

 

*************

 

tile was the first thing Vance saw as he stepped out from a purple rift into the morgue of Stony Brook Hospital. Despite the grim look of the new location, Vance felt fine. After all, he'd just eaten an entire an entire pepperoni pizza.

 

Winslow, Wendy, and Averyl filed out behind him. It had been very strange to experience his first trip to Bakersfield with those three, but their dinner at Rusty's Pizza Parlor had been pleasant. The food was comforting, and watching his homicidal uncle scarf down piece after piece of pepperoni pizza like a starving teenager had certainly been entertaining.

 

After paying for the pizza with a credit card Wendy procured from her stash, Vance had transported them closer to Bruce's aura – namely, this dank basement, in fron of a tiny red door adorned with the word "BABYLON" in bright gold letters.

 

"I guess this is as close as I could get." Vance dissipated his rift, allowing matter to flow back in from whatever mysterious source birthed it. "There are so many other auras beyond this point that it was too hard to pinpoint him."

 

"I guess," Winslow scoffed. "None of them feel very strong, though."

 

Vance gripped the platinum handle on the door. "This can't be the Zexaron HQ, right? Or wherever we think Grayson is?"

 

"If so..." Averyl smirked. "Then where are we?"

 

When Vance pushed open the door to Babylon, a cacophony of visual stimuli assaulted his eyes. Gyrating below blinking lights were a gaggle of haphazardly-dressed Earthlings, short skirts, zippers, and makeup flashing in the neon glow. Behind them sat morgue shelves that had been hollowed out and converted into storage spaces for speakers, TV screens, and small tables to put drinks and food on. In the far corner, autopsy tables had been repurposed into a long bar, right next to the cadaver refrigerators.

 

"Wow, cool," Wendy marveled. "Yeah, Vance, I don't think this is the Zexaron HQ."

 

The crowd passed their eyes over the four, sizing up every inch of them. The group was approached by partygoers of both sexes, who Averyl and Wendy happily conversed with while Vance and Winslow were left blinking in confusion. Then, a solitary being slowly sauntered out from the mess.

 

"Why, look what we have here!" A very skinny human dressed in fishnets and rags called out. "New specimens, I presume?"

 

The speaker had ice blue eyes, long eyelashes, and pointed cheekbones. Their platinum blond hair was pulled up into beehive hairdo, while brilliant silver sparkles covered their hairless skin.

 

"Is there a big guy named Bruce here?" Winslow asked suddenly.

"Bruce?" A drawn-on eyebrow leapt up. "Why don't you tell me what's so big about him? Might help to jog my memory."

 

"His ego, for starters," Vance said. "But you'd probably notice his muscles first."

 

"Hmmm." Pan took a step toward Vance and reached out toward his arm. "How much bigger than yours would you say they are, exactly?"

 

"Hands off," Wendy said, as she quickly slipped an arm around Vance. "Who are you, anyway?"

 

"I'm Pan Dora," the enigma said, "the Queen of Babylon, and the one in charge of this place."

 

"What is this place?" Vance asked.

 

"A palace of perversion." Pan raised a slender arm over to five bodies who were making out below an orange light. On the other side of the room, someone strapped another person up onto four hanging chains. "A kingdom of kink."

 

"Charming," Averyl said, stifling a chuckle.

 

"A zombified graveyard." Pan snapped over to the bartender, a girthy mass of flesh in a rubber bodysuit with thick sideburns and even thicker makeup. "A painstaking project of over five years, in which we converted a realm of death into a land of life." Pan waggled two fake eyebrows at Vance. "And of course, unlimited procreation."

 

"Welcome." The bartender slid out a bedpan that contained four bottles of beer. "Here's a complimentary round."

 

"There are only two things you need to do to become a citizen of Babylon." Pan took one of the bottles and handed it to Vance. "Would you be so kind as to explain it to them, Birdo?"

 

The bartender named Birdo's juicy red lips opened. "Respect the other citizens of Babylon, and promise to keep the location of Babylon a secret."

 

"Thanks Birdo, you're a doll." Pan said, keeping both eyes fixated on the new guests. "This rule has never been broken over the past five years, and since I didn't invite you myself, I'm very curious as to how you got in here."

 

"I tunneled a hole through space. I'm searching for someone," Vance said honestly. "He should be in here."

 

"Oh." Pan smiled, revealing two golden front teeth. "I get it."

 

With that, Pan spun around, weaved through the crowd and opened a door. The group followed warily, spotting small cubicles surrounded by shimmering curtains that lined the new hallway. Florescent lights allowed full view of the shimmering golden thong under Pan's meager clothing.

 

"These are the private rooms." She lightly brushed one curtain open, revealing a young girl who was busy sticking needles into the genitals of an older man. "What's that saying my mom always used to tell me? If you can dream it...?"

 

Vance froze in his tracks, gritting his teeth and glancing at his companions. Wendy and Averyl shrugged, seemingly unfazed, while Winslow slowly inched his way to the back of the group.

 

A final shutter revealed a large storeroom filled with a dozen people. In the center, a computer terminal was set up around two people with strange contraptions on their heads. On the other side, spectators were crowded around a large television screen propped up on a table.

 

"This is a secret hangout spot for the most skilled Greymatter users in Kern County," Pan explained. "A place for the finest drug in human history to exercise its full potential."

 

Greymatter? Vance suddenly recalled his father's TV interview. As he scanned the room, he noticed a bulking man who stood a bit taller than all the other spectators. He was bald, with ebony skin, and currently clad in nothing but leather bikini pants.

 

"Hey." Winslow nudged Vance. "Is that..."

 

Vance stepped into the room. "Bruce! What the hell?"

 

"Woah!" The Tiger spun around, nearly setting the other spectators on fire as a few flames leapt about his hands in shock. "Hey, what the – how did you get here?!"

 

"That's my line!" Wendy appeared from behind Vance. "You haven't finished your training yet, lunkhead!"

 

"I told you to stop calling me that, y–"

 

"Shut up!" A frizzy-haired woman in a pink polka-dot dress shouted. "Rheana's just about to win!"

Vance searched for the owner of the voice, but instead became captivated by the events on the screen. Unfolding on the television was an all-out psynergy battle between two people.

 

"Keith's only an E!" Someone spoke up. "Rheana's toast!"

 

"Strength isn't everything." Pan watched with excitement as one fighter coiled psynergy around her opponent's leg. "Remember, the body is only half of what it takes to make psynergy."

 

"Psynergy?" Vance echoed in disbelief.

 

Pan went on. "All the Greymatter's gauges measure are density. They have no way of telling how tactical someone is. The Greymatter is all about the power of imagination. If you can dream it, you can be it."

 

Soon, the battle ended, and the computer terminal flashed. The fighters removed their headsets with tired eyes and moved over to discuss their results.

 

Bruce moved over to Vance's group. "On my way to California, I had a few run-ins with those helmets. Nothing serious, until I met that, uh...person."

 

"That's Ms. Dora you're talking about." Birdo walked into the room cradling a bottle of wine. "Not only is she the only D-ranked Greymatter user on the network, but she's also the only one we know who's learned how to use psynergy without putting on the Greymatter."

 

Winslow tensed up and looked to Vance. "Are you hearing this?"

 

Vance kept a poker face. "That explains why the Earthling auras were fluctuating. I have no idea how or why, but it looks like Grayson's found a way to teach Earthlings how to use psynergy."

 

Pan Dora took the wine bottle from Birdo's hand. After concentrating for a moment, she stuck her nail into the cork and slowly pulled it out with the help of a little psynergy.

 

"I sensed your friend Bruce's psynergy the moment he arrived in Bakersfield. I can't believe he's already an A-class when this thing's only been on the market for a month!"

 

"I told you already," Bruce growled. "And I'm not gonna say it in! I'm from another dimension, and Earth is the only one where psynergy can't be used, because it's the center of the Space-Time Continuum, you idiots!"

 

"Your story is starting to make more sense now that your friends have arrived." Pan curled her long nails in anticipation. "If that tall, handsome young fellow there really can cut holes through space, then I can't wait to see what his ranking is."

 

"If I'm an A, then he's a C," Bruce said quickly. "Alright, maybe a B, if he's lucky."

 

"Bruce, we're going to find Grayson," Vance interjected. "Do you want to come with us or not?"

 

"Hell yeah, I'm coming," Bruce answered. "This Greymatter stuff just got me a little sidetracked, that's all."

 

"Then why are you dressed like that?"

 

"What do you care?!" Bruce glanced down at his half-naked body. "She promised me free beer, alright?!"

 

Vance looked back over to the machine. "Why are you people hiding here training like this, anyway? If the Greymatter is a product on the market, then you should be able to do this in public."

 

"You ever heard of anyone else being able to use psynergy without the Greymatter? Besides him," Pan scoffed. "This Greymatter issue has already sparked numerous flames among a variety of political and private interest parties. I'm not going to throw myself out to the dogs... yet."

 

"Besides," Birdo added, "we're a team training for the world's first Greymatter Tournament. That's something that should be done in the utmost secrecy."

 

"And what's more secret than a fetish club out in the middle of nowhere?" Pan smiled slyly. "Bruce is too big of a meanie to join our team, though. He only let us measure his aura, and wouldn't even connect to the network."

 

"Well, I don't blame him." Vance frowned. "Who knows what Grayson's got that thing connected to."

 

"Come on, Bruce, introduce us to your friends!" Pan shouted. "Let's strap 'em up."

 

"My name is Vance," the 18-year old said, purposefully leaving out his last name. "Let me try it on."

 

"Aggressive." Pan whistled. "I like that."

 

"Vance, are you sure?" Wendy looked nervously at the terminal. "Like you said, Grayson's in control of this entire network."

 

"I'm not afraid of Grayson," Vance said firmly. "Not anymore."

 

As Vance approached the leather chair, he saw a support rod extending from the top that latched into the back of the headset, which had wires snaking out to a large terminal. He raised his arms to pull down the device over his head.

 

Pan caressed the terminal. "These A/V servers aren't available for the public yet, but Birdo managed to jack one from the local Greymatter supplier. That's how we can all see what's going on."

 

The headset was built in a crescent shape, with a tail that ran over and down the back of the head and small nodes that attached to the neck. As Vance slid it on, two goggle-like curvatures blocked out his vision. Likewise, both his nose and mouth were covered in pointed sensors coupled with a simplistic oxygen system, while flattened cones muffled his ears. The inside of the helmet was flexible and soft, but he soon felt small pinpricks all over his cranium.

 

"What's going on?" Vance asked.

 

"The Greymatter sends electromagnetic waves into the brain and synchronizes them with your neurons," a faraway voice explained. "It opens up areas of the brain that we humans don't inherently know how to use."

 

"How do I turn it on?"

 

"Just open your eyes."

Next: The Final Generation