The Portal

© 2008 Scott Beem
All rights reserved.

1. Role Call

Let me tell you about the night Harko, Sam, Chuck, and I discovered the Portal hovering in my back room. We'd gathered at my place as usual, which is a newer model three-bedroom mobile home a few miles outside the small town of Ziggurat, Indiana. There were severe thunderstorm and tornado warnings in effect throughout the region. You usually get two or three every summer in our area—tree-cracking, trailer-hurling tempests in the truest sense of the word. Such storms we refer to as Thor-worthy.

I'd just revealed a sinister interdimensional plot, the culmination of months of meticulous planning, and Harko and Sam were bickering over whether to ally themselves with the Guildmaster's Confederation or the Grim Acolytes of Blacktongue Og. Chuck was sitting cross-legged beside the coffee-table with his nunchaku around his neck. He was either meditating or scheming—you can never quite be sure with him.

That's when the storm kicked it up a notch, knocking out the electricity.

"Great, just great," Harko said into the darkness. "Goddamned necromancers taking the moral high ground and the power goes out. I told you we should've assumed control of their guild."

"And we could've, too," Sam replied, "if you'd quit insisting on using the Fortress Redoubt as your stronghold. If you'd quit modeling your character on Snake Plissken."

"The hell are you talking about? I'm not—"

"It's so not-period, Harko, just like every other campaign you've ever..."

Harko and Sam continued to squabble, seemingly unaffected by the sudden loss of illumination. I stumbled through the kitchen to find a flashlight and some candles.

"Maybe we should pack up and head for my house," Chuck called out. "You know I don't like these kinds of storms, McKay."

"Come on, man," I said. "Universal Law clearly states that tornadoes shall only strike multiple trailers located in trailer parks. We're safe out here all alone. Besides, by the time we gather up all our stuff, drive in town through the rain...."

"It would probably be a safer option," Chuck muttered.

Harko snorted. "Don't tell me a little gully-washer has disturbed the Sensei's legendary calm."

"And besides," Sam added, "Your wife made it pretty clear the last time. No more late-night sessions allowed at your place."

"Very well," Chuck said quietly. "But at least get the radio turned on so we can check the official storm reports."

I grabbed some batteries and my alarm clock-radio and complied. With the front room was lit up like the vestibule of a strange backwoods chapel, it looked like we were prepared for some kind of half-assed séance, and soon we were gaming away by candlelight.

That's right: gaming. I don't mean poker or board games or even video games—I mean role playing games. I mean scarfing down pizza and junk food and cracking obscure jokes, all the while rolling oddly shaped dice and referring to well-worn maps and rulebooks. I mean assuming the personae of grim heroic characters who have grand adventures fraught with peril and intrigue in fabulous far-away settings.

Now please, it's important to note that this story isn't about gaming or gamers. Experience has taught me you're either down with the concept of gaming or you're not—there doesn't seem to be much middle ground. And all you really need to know about role playing games is Harko, Sam, Chuck, and myself were seriously down and had been since junior high. Friday night had been Gaming Night for over half our lifetimes. Not to paint us as slavering freaks or anything, but we were never going to destroy anyone's stereotypical image of Those Who Game.

First you have Harko, who is about what you'd expect from a guy whose original nickname, 'Harkonnen,' originated from both a youthful resemblance to the corpulent Baron in Dune and a penchant for petty evil. He's wooly and red-bearded, loud and sarcastic. He's always wearing camo pants and combat boots, the uniform of choice at his father's pawnshop. Harko is our resident expert on porn and homemade explosives and could've been a contender in the world of CGI programming—if he'd ever been inclined to leave Indiana.

Sam, on the other hand, has the Jack Skellington physique. He's a reporter for the Ziggurat Bugler, energetic to the point of absurdity, and one of the most genuinely friendly people you'll ever meet. Sam's been asking out and getting rejected by attractive women since he was fifteen, evincing a kind of hopeful exuberance the rest of us find equal parts uplifting and annoying. He also writes sci-fi stories on the side and has been published in several magazines few people have heard of.

Harko and Sam have been arguing since about fifth grade: Hulk or Superman, Spielberg or Jackson, boxers or briefs. You can pretty much pick any topic and throw it out there and the two of them will take opposite sides.

Chuck tends to come off as intense and laconic in a classic anti-hero kind of way. He is a longtime devotee of the teachings of Bruce Lee, the only one of us who ever played sports—as a fearsome linebacker back in high school—and still lifts weights and attends martial arts classes twice a week. Chuck prefers to wear a gi around the house and has never shown up to Gaming Night without his trusty nunchaku. Other than processed meats, his wife's ire, and tornadoes, nothing much seems to bother him.

As for me—I'm the member of our group people refer to as the really weird one. Since my girlfriend left me a few years back, it's fair to say I've become fairly reclusive. Other than Gaming Night and the occasional con, I don't get out to socialize much. I've been told I resemble a shorter, roly-polier Paul Reubens, and my collection of comic books and official movie replicas would impress even the most jaded of E-bay fiends.

So that comprises your basic roll—or role—call. Four friends settling in on a stormy night for some good honest gaming.

2. Jack Burton

The intensity of our gaming session that night was a match for the tumultuous weather outside. Sometimes, when we all zeroed in—without the segues into the plight of the comic book industry or heated diatribes against midi-chlorians and bad CGI, without the impromptu Python skit-reenactments or movie quoting contests—we could do Gary Gygax proud.

Harko and Sam reached a compromise and began scheming together. Chuck assumed the lead once the combat began, stalking back and forth twirling his chuks to get into character, his anxieties forgotten. Crouched behind my cardboard screens and reference charts, I pulled the strings and observed the convergence of various sub-plots and plans, reveling in my own role as gamemaster.

The hours flew by. We were so into it that the real world would need something dramatic and godlike to stop our flow—which is exactly what happened. Lightning struck right outside the trailer, making a ghostly blue noon of the night sky. The accompanying explosion of thunder rattled the windows and caused us all to jump and gasp as one.

Harko was the first to recover: "'You just remember what ol' Jack Burton does when the lightning crashes, the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake...'" He was quoting from Big Trouble in Little China, perhaps the most underrated film in the original John Carpenter/Kurt Russell trilogy, which made a certain amount of sense what with the Snake Plissken debate earlier on.

As usual, we all joined in and finished the line in unison. "'Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big old storm right in the eye and says, "Give me your best shot. I can take it!"'"

I stifled a laugh and pointed an accusing finger. "I think you just slaughtered about half of that line, Harko. I think Carpenter's rolling over in his grave right about now."

"When did he croak?" Sam said. "Why was I not informed?"

Harko tossed a Dorito at me. "McKay is full of crap. He's alive and well and working on Ghosts of Mars II as we speak, Lord help us all."

There followed an argument on the intricacies of John Carpenter's career path, which led to speculations on various sci-fi movies in the studio pipeline, which led to yet another argument on the legacy of Philip K. Dick. At that point gaming flow was officially lost and Sam announced he was heading to the bathroom.

When he returned to the front room he seemed unable to speak, this blanching I've-just-beheld-the-Eye-of-Sauron look plastered across his face.

"Cut it out, Sam," I said. "Sit down and let's get back to Fortress Redoubt. It's your turn."

Sam's only reply was to mutely shake his head and point back down the hallway. So Chuck and I got up to take a look.

Down that short hall past the bathroom are two spare bedrooms, the back one being a depository for my boxed-up comic books and old VHS movies. A bright glow was emanating from the back room's half-open door like a light had been left on within. Sam nodded and pointed; Chuck led the way, nudging open the door.

And there it was, hovering in the center of the room above my neatly stacked grid of acid-free comics' boxes: the Portal.

3. The Fortress Redoubt

You are familiar with the portal-concept—everyone is. It has become integral to the Fantastic Tradition, part of the mainstream collective mythos. The wormhole, the dimensional door, the rift, the warpgate, from H.G. Wells to Frank Herbert to Joss Whedon: portals as a source of mystery and intrigue, an overt call to adventure. More than just a timely means of conveyance, portals as gateways from the mundane world to the Other Realms.

Naturally the four of us were well steeped in this concept, but that didn't mean we were able to recognize what we were dealing with right away.

The Portal was about the size of a large dinner platter—a porthole emitting the daylight of some far-away outdoor scene. We crept closer to within arm's reach and saw an authentic castle parapet and adjoining tower, complete with cracked crenellations and dark grim murder-holes. Snow-capped purple-gray mountains loomed on the horizon. It all looked very familiar.

"Whoa, that looks like the Fortress Redoubt," Harko said, the last of us to enter. "Where's your laptop and projector system, McKay? Those visuals are pretty kick-ass—where'd you steal them?"

"I-I didn't," I stammered. "I mean, it's not..."

Before I could finish, a skeleton marched past our viewpoint. That's right, an honest-to-god Ray Harryhausen sword-wielding skeleton, complete with dull scraps of chainmail, dented pot-helm, and glowing orange eyes. Only it looked as realistic as something from ILM or the Weta Workshop.

Chuck, Sam, and I gaped and drew back, but Harko pushed past us, oblivious, his eyes searching the rest of the room.

"Come on," he said. "Tell me how you rigged this thing up? Where's your power source?"

And that was when my survival instincts took over.

I'm not ashamed to admit I was the first one to scramble and push my way back out of that room. It's just, the scene seemed so real, looking exactly like I'd always imagined the Fortress Redoubt—which was Harko's wizard-character's stronghold in our game-world—right down to the distant peaks and magical skeletal sentries. The others must have had similar reactions because they followed close on my heels.

But we weren't frightened enough to leave entirely, and in retrospect it's amazing how quickly our initial fear transformed to curiosity and speculation. I suppose when you picture the kind of people most capable of readily accepting such a phenomenon, guys like us might spring to mind. There was a long moment of staring at one another in various stock poses of disbelief, a nonverbal confirmation of what we'd just witnessed. There was no outright denial or questioning of sanity.

Conversation then exploded like the Death Star. We ran the gamut of possibilities quickly and loudly. Friendly extraterrestrials or maybe the conquering sort? Secret government drug tests, black-ops weapons projects? An ancient magical curse, vengeful ghosts, witches and warlocks, some kind of sinister interdimensional ad campaign?

"At least it didn't try to suck us in, guys," Sam offered. "At least there's no demonic hounds yelling, 'Zuul.'"

"But the marching skeletons," I said. "The Fortress Redoubt..."

Harko frowned. "We made up the Fortress Redoubt. There has to be some other explanation."

"How do you know?" asked Chuck, casually twirling his chuks. "Have you somehow become privy to the most basic laws of perception and reality? Do you truly imagine you can pierce even the most basic veils of—"

"Don't go all Morpheus on us," Harko grumbled. "This is no time for your bullshit-philosophizing."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "I'm merely pointing out that—"

"I hate to say it, but Harko's right," Sam said. "The most important question is, what do we do now?"

This elicited a round of thoughtful grunts and scratching of facial hair. I said something about a logical analytical approach, and we all looked at each other with the same basic thought: What would Spock do? So we mobilized. I got out my digital camcorder, and Chuck went out to his truck for his toolbox. Sam grabbed a notebook and his own camera, while Harko produced a taser from his backpack. And back we marched to objectively document and record and analyze.

We all stood there for a moment, just staring at the Portal, sort of reaffirming its presence. Chuck was the one who broke the reverie. Brandishing his tape measure, he moved forward to report that the Portal was fifteen and one-quarter inches in diameter, had no depth at all—"like a projection on an invisible screen", he said—and hovered exactly four feet above the floor.

We carefully removed the boxes from its immediate vicinity and continued our inspection. While the front continued to show what appeared to be the Fortress Redoubt, the rear was a dark charcoal color. We could detect no temperature changes around it; we could hear no sounds from within. Harko, having found one of those laser-pointer devices in his pack, aimed it at the Portal from various angles and a tiny red dot appeared upon the rock-hewn floor of the other side. The skeletal sentinels marched past intermittently, seemingly unaware of our presence.

Soon the video equipment was set up and all the initial data had been collected. We'd run out of things to do. Harko and Chuck were discussing what other types of measuring devices we might be able to get our hands on and theorizing on all things paranormal.

Sam, no doubt inspired, said, "'Jones, do you realize what the Ark is?'"

We all joined in, finishing the line without missing a beat: "'It's a transmitter, a radio for talking with God!'"

Thunder rolled in the distance as if in reply, and the Portal grew instantly, doubling in size. We did a collective gasp-and-gawk.

"Let's try another one," Harko said, voice tinged with excitement. "'What is best in life?'"

Again, in unison: "'To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you'..." and we finished Conan's immortal bit of cinematic wisdom. This time, however, the Portal showed no reaction.

We tried a few more movie lines but nothing happened. We recited the Prophecy of the One Ring, the Oath of the Green Lantern Corps, even the Pledge of Allegiance. But the Portal retained its dimensions.

"Maybe it has something to do with spontaneity," I offered.

"Or the thunder," Chuck said.

"No," Harko said. "It's been thundering like that for hours."

This sparked the start of another theoretical debate on cause and effect. But before we could become too involved, Sam, who had grown strangely silent, abruptly reared back and tossed a coffee mug straight at the Portal. It sailed through to the other side and shattered silently on the stone floor.

"Fascinating," he said, with a grin and a shrug. "Well, someone had to do it."

"Dammit, Sam! What the hell do you..." I trailed off as a pair of skeletons ran over to investigate the broken remnants of the mug. They were looking around but couldn't seem to see us.

Harko swore and fumbled with his taser.

Chuck grabbed his chuks from around his neck and spun them rapidly to the ready.

"Definitely an actual portal and not just some observational anomaly," he said evenly. "I wonder if it's invisible on the other side or if those skeletons just can't see like we do."

"Well, they don't seem to have any eyeballs," Sam offered.

We stared breathlessly, unsure how to proceed. After about thirty seconds the scene began to blur and darken as if a thick smoke or fog were settling in. A few seconds later and the front of the Portal was the same charcoal color as the back—the scene was gone.

"You broke it, Sam," Harko muttered. "Way to go, you jackass."

We watched for a while longer, but nothing happened. Chuck even poked at it with his chuks, but the handle simply passed through as if nothing were there, as if the dark circle were nothing more than a phantasm.

4. The Oath

We ended up standing the vigil in there for more than an hour. When the power finally came back on around two a.m., we adjourned back to the front room. I ran the feed from the video camera out to a spare monitor for surveillance. We tuned the TV to the news networks, perhaps expecting to find tightlipped reports of a strange portal-phenomenon sweeping across the country. Of course the news was the standard fare.

Then Chuck's wife called; suddenly the real world loomed up before us as fearsome and implacable as Godzilla himself. Chuck calmly accepted a squawking earful, told her something vitally important to Gaming Night had come up, and took another earful. He then told her to go back to bed and hung up. The rest of us exhaled in relief.

Chuck gazed grimly out the window. "Gentlemen, it just occurred to me with Linda on the phone—whatever that is in there, we can't tell anyone else about it."

"What?" I asked.

"Agreed," Harko said.

"We should swear an oath," Sam added.

"Are you guys serious?" I exclaimed. "I mean, really—it's not like we're all twelve and just got our first Playboy or something." The three of them just stared at me. "You'll want to swear on a Bible, I suppose."

"Naturally," Sam said. "But we'll need more than just a Bible. I think everyone needs to pick out an item or two of personal significance and place them on the coffee table. To sanctify the oath. It's how we'd do it if we were Templars. Or pirates."

"But we're not Templars or pirates," I complained, looking to the other two for support. They just shrugged. Once Sam gets energized, it's no use trying to go against him.

So Sam placed an old family photo and his original D&D dice set on the table. Chuck pulled out the battered copy of Tao of Jeet Kune Do he always carried around. Harko threw in his grandfather's WWII dog tags then searched through my DVDs before settling on The Twilight Zone Vol. 2, featuring Shatner at 20,000 feet. I carefully added my near-mint Watchmen #1 and an old King James Bible for good measure. And then we swore a simple blood-oath to refrain from speaking of or revealing the Portal to anyone.

It was decided someone should keep a constant watch on the back room. I volunteered for the first shift, and Sam, proclaiming there was no way he could go to sleep anyway, joined me. The storm finally passed as the sun was coming up, causing a brief bout of anxiety that the Portal might disappear. But it remained suspended there, dark and inert.

5. Quick Research Montage

At first it was like having our very own X-File, and needless to say we approached the task of research and documentation with the kind of zealous vigor you might expect. Sam and I began with Sumerian mythology. According to local legend, Ziggurat, IN, had been so named because it lay on the exact same parallel as the northern Sumerian ruin of Narakash—known, of course, for its impressive ziggurats. As kids, this bit of local lore made us hopeful of stumbling onto some paranormal fun, and we were always on the lookout for ghosts, sasquatches, and UFOs. Sam believed our geographical ties to Sumeria held the key.

The other two favored a more scientific approach. Harko left that afternoon to put in a half-day at the family pawnshop and returned with a vintage Geiger counter. Chuck took off to smooth things over with Linda then drove to Evansville and his own workplace so he could borrow their thermal imager. But neither the imager nor the Geiger counter even registered the Portal's presence.

"Magic," pronounced Sam sagely. "It doesn't have to follow the rules."

We set to poring over old textbooks and searching Internet archives. Every so often Chuck would tai'chi-step into the middle of the front room to move through one of his relaxation katas. More than once Harko marched outside and stared up at the sky, looking for those unmarked helicopters running in silent mode.

Eventually we found ourselves debating the functionality and roles of portals in the various fantastical and science fictional stories with which we were all so familiar. It was a given, we agreed, that such portals always appeared for a reason.

"All we have to do now," Sam said, "is figure out how to, you know, activate it."

"Are you sure that's what we want to do?" I replied, clearing my throat theatrically. "Universal Law clearly states that when a strange otherworldly portal appears there are two possible options: One, something or someone comes through from the other side, most likely to kill and conquer all of humanity, but occasionally to befriend and reward the discoverers. Or two, said discoverers pass through the portal themselves, finding a nether-realm of wonder and horror and strangeness, with denizens who are nonetheless fluent in English. Once acclimated, the hearty explorers may develop strange powers and abilities, and one of them turns out to be some sort of prophesized chosen one."

I exhaled. "So, which one of you has the sword-shaped birthmark on his butt?"

"I've got Stormbringer right here," Harko said, tapping one meaty shoulder. He'd had a fair likeness of Elric's dread blade tattooed there back at Gen-Con '96. "But I officially cast my vote for option one: either a gruesome Lovecraftian horde to eat the entire Midwest or sex-starved replicant babes to do my bidding."

Sam started to chime in with his vote, but Chuck interrupted, deadpan: "Gentlemen, right now Sam's the only one of us thin enough to fit through that thing."

There was a brief sober pause. Sam shook his head. "Forget that, man. No way. Not by myself."

6. PRPs

On Monday, Harko and Chuck went back to work, but Sam called in sick to the Bugler to help maintain a two-man watch. My own work situation provided me a bit more leeway. I used to work at the same engineering firm as Chuck, but after my granddad left me this twenty acres of pasture and timber outside of town, I decided to buy my mobile home, deposit it here, and shift my emphasis to independent programming and freelance work. Between that and the occasional E-bay auction, I don't need a real job.

Motion detectors had been installed in the back room to go along with the video feed so we didn't have to stay back there all the time. We screened some portal-centric shows as we continued our research: Time Bandits and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, reruns of Buffy, Farscape, and a few episodes of that old Dungeons & Dragons cartoon. Ostensibly it was to keep us in the right frame of mind.

That evening Chuck showed up with one of those expensive-looking remote-controlled All Terrain Vehicle-type toys, a couple of wireless mini-cameras, and some other electronics gear. He and Harko dubbed the toy 'Portal Probe-1' and set to work with their modifications and upgrades.

After a successful trial run through the yard, he came up to me wearing a rare grin. "Check it out, McKay. It's no Mars Rover, but it will get the job done."

"Just like Stargate," I muttered. "Life imitates art. Sort of."

The next night Chuck and Harko arrived with what they called 'Emergency Survival Kits.' Chuck's included his very finest katana-wakazashi set and a heavy backpack stuffed with canned food, antibiotics, first aid gear, basic chemistry and engineering books, and other survivalist sundries. Harko, having raided the pawnshop's select stash, was considerably better armed: he brought a brand new Mossberg 12-gauge combat shotgun, a matched set of Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistols, a couple of homemade Bouncing Betties, and his pride and joy—a vintage, fully automatic, fully illegal Kalashnikov assault rifle.

"Jesus H. Christ," I said. "No way, Harko! You're not stowing that arsenal in my house!"

"Point of fact, McKay, it's not a house, it's a damned trailer."

There followed an intense argument in which Harko made reference to various horror flicks and how he wasn't going to be one of those guys wishing he'd brought his guns along; I countered by pointing out that small arms were rarely effective in such situations anyway. Sam and Chuck chimed in with reminders that you can't be too careful, and somehow I ended up acquiescing. It was also agreed that Sam and I were to begin putting together our own emergency survival kits forthwith.

Then Chuck and Harko handed out manila folders containing 'Portal Response Procedures' or PRPs, which, as they explained, had been drafted for any number of diverse scenarios.

"This is serious," Harko said. "We've got to quit screwing around here and prepare ourselves."

"For any inevitability," Chuck added.

Sam nodded. "Makes sense to me."

What I saw on my friends' faces were these intense looks of determination, as if this was their very own fantastic tale and they were hell-bent on making the most of it. What I didn't see was much in the way of caution, concern, or fear. So even before we made it to the PRP-sections entitled 'Hostile Incursion,' 'Final Evacuation,' and 'Lone Survivor Responsibilities,' I'd begun to feel uneasy.

7. Standing the Watch

The days crept by. Much boring video footage from the back room was logged and transferred to DVD. The Portal remained murky and unchanging, a lifeless circular anomaly.

Chuck stayed over a couple of times after revealing Linda had left him to go stay at her sister's. All he would say was she'd accused him of an "adolescent binge-gaming regression" and told him not to call her until he'd reentered the grown-up world. He didn't seem too bothered by it. Sam figured that wherever the Portal led to, it might actually be open on the other side now. So he sat in the back room for long periods of time conducting impromptu English and history lessons. I half-expected Harko to go gonzo paranoid, but he evinced a kind of unflappable Jedi-like calm that was possibly even more frightening—he seemed absolutely sure the Portal was there for us and would reopen at any time, and by Crom he'd be ready when it did.

But our research was at a standstill. There was no Tobin's Spirit Guide to conveniently consult, no quasi-mystical online database with all the answers, and as it turns out, the vast record of paranormal research and literature is mostly useless. Theoretical physics provided several enigmatic possibilities, but not a one seemed applicable to portal-laden mobile homes in southwestern Indiana.

One of the other guys stayed with me to maintain the watch at all times—Chuck and Sam going through their sick and personal days at work, Harko closing the pawnshop early. We set up a generator to ensure power during the next round of thunderstorms, brought in other equipment, and drilled over our PRPs. We held mini-tournaments on the X-Box 360 and ate way too much junk food. I kept suggesting we might as well put our time together to good use and do some real gaming, but for some reason the guys declined each time. More than a week of hanging out together every single evening and not a single die-roll or imaginary heroic feat—it had to be some kind of record.

There were occasional arguments over the nature and origin of the Portal as each of us attempted to validate our own pet theories. Harko favored interstellar travel, while Sam liked an alternate ancient Sumeria scenario. Chuck's theories were more esoteric and tended to include the presence of a higher power or beings. No one was willing to claim that what we'd seen was actually the Fortress Redoubt from our gaming world—it just seemed so played out. This was instead explained as either a coincidence or an elaborate illusion created via psychic-imprint lifted from our collective consciousness at the time of the Portal's arrival.

One important tenet we did seem to agree upon: the Portal wasn't through with the four of us yet. Why else was it still hanging around in there?

I kept my own reservations about the Portal to myself. Fact is, I had begun to question whether I really did want it to open up again. I sometimes even found myself wishing it would just disappear for good. And though I tried to bury such mutinous thoughts and feelings deep, they eventually led me to plotting a separate agenda. I began running mental simulations of how the guys might respond to different impediments and obstacles—just like any good gamemaster would.

8. Boldly Going

Nine days after its initial arrival, the Portal opened once again. In my opinion it's impossible to understand the hows and whys of such a phenomenon without more hard data, but one thing's for certain—the storm had something to do with it. Was there a hidden flux capacitor somewhere in need of those 1.21 gigawatts of power, some ancient blustery god whose rending of the dimensional byways brought the thunder to us? Was the storm-effect causal or symptomatic? We just don't know and probably never will.

The general idea was to recreate the conditions of that first night as closely as possible, which meant another session of Gaming Night. As they readied their dice and character-sheets, the guys looked a little ragged, a little weary, but also confident and stone-dead determined like the Duke or Lee Marvin in some war-flick. Harko was decked out head-to-toe in oversized Soviet BDUs, Chuck wore his dark gray gi and what looked like a genuine utility belt, and Sam had his camera in hand and was all a-chatter, like a mindmeld of Jimmy Olsen and Hopper in Apocalypse Now.

I had enough gaming material to last all night, but the other three were too distracted by the possible results of the storm to really focus in, let alone get into character. After an hour or so the storm knocked out the electricity again. We continued to plug away by candlelight just as we had before, even though the generator had kicked on to provide power for the video equipment. Soon after that the lightning struck close—not right outside the trailer like the first night, but close enough to light things up and make your heart skip a beat. We crowded around the monitor and saw not only hints of movement from within the Portal, but that it had doubled in size as well.

And so, nodding solemnly to one another, we gathered our gear and proceeded to the back room.

This time the scene within was a dark and foggy nighttime tableau, and any details were difficult to discern. When Harko shone his high-powered flashlight inside, the mist reflected and obscured the beam. Some of the distant outlines looked like stunted, leafless trees swaying back and forth, while other shapes stood straight and unmoving like obelisks or perhaps large headstones. Whatever the locale, it didn't have the instant familiarity of the Fortress Redoubt.

"Diameter now at just under sixty-two inches," Chuck said, then placed his tape measure back within his utility belt. "Anybody recognize that place?"

Sam said, "It looks kind of like that graveyard, you know, where Ash goes to retrieve the Necronomicon and forgets the words and..."

"Worry about that crap later," Harko growled. "Remote video-feed is ready. Adjust the ramp and prepare to initiate Portal Probe-1."

They fell into PRP-routine with a brisk, almost regimental efficiency. Sam lowered our makeshift particleboard ramp a few notches to accommodate the Portal's new dimensions. Chuck picked up the modified remote controlled ATV, double-checked the fore and aft mini-cameras, and placed it on the base of the ramp. Then he took the controls from Harko, who had picked up his AK-47 and was signaling thumbs-up. Sam gripped his camera. I stepped back, holding my breath.

"Engage," Chuck said.

Portal Probe-1 zoomed up the ramp and through the Portal, landing silently on the other side. And came to an abrupt halt. The fog seemed to seep forth and coagulate around it as if attracted to its sudden presence.

"Controls not responding," Chuck said. "No response."

Harko looked up from the monitor. "Video-feed is down! Sonofabitch!"

"Okay, initiate Plan B-4! "Chuck ordered. "Hustle guys—if it's like the last time, we've got thirty seconds and counting before it closes."

Sam snapped-to and grabbed our air collection canister—coffee can size and shape, attached to a four-foot long pole that included a small combination thermometer-barometer. He shoved it into and withdrew it from the Portal, then puncturing the lid with a vacuum probe linked to a newly purchased portable gas monitor, began an analysis.

"Go, McKay, go! Get your dirt!" Chuck said.

My job was to collect a soil sample, but I'd frozen up, unable to move. For some reason it had just hit me that if the environment was favorable, PRPs now called for all of us to go through.

All I could manage was mute observation: Chuck shrugging on his cumbersome backpack and looking around for his katana; Harko, his backpack already donned, grasping his assault rifle and glancing at his watch; Sam crouching over the gas monitor and grinning eagerly.

"Twenty-five seconds," Harko called.

"Air!" Sam said. "78-percent nitrogen, 21-percent oxygen—it's breathable air! No toxins detected! Seventeen degrees Celsius, barometer reads 1020 millibars!"

The three of them shared an exuberant smile. Sam scrambled into his own backpack. Harko was messing with the four sets of SWAT-issue radio headsets he'd brought over. Chuck strode in front of the Portal, raising his chuks, and exhaled forcefully as if centering himself to break a two-by-four over his head.

"Recon-time," Harko said. "Let's move!"

I still can't explain why I was the one to react as I did. In all my thirty-two years I'd spent at least as much time as the others daydreaming, speculating, yearning for adventures in other worlds. Maybe it was my clear recollection of all those stories in which one of the bosom pals ends up dead and the survivors spend the rest of the time trying desperately to return home. Maybe it was the way I felt so ineffectual, so completely powerless—I was certain I'd be the group's weak point on the other side, the one whose death the others would end up having to avenge.

Suddenly I found I could move again. I noticed Harko's 12-gauge Mossberg leaning against the wall beside the door and went for it. What I did next seemed like the only reasonable course of action.

"Step away from the Portal, Chuck," I said in a clear steady voice. I held the shotgun to port arms and pumped a shell into the chamber emphatically—chu-chik!—just like the movies.

Three pairs of eyes bore into me. I heard Sam's nervous laugh. "Very friggin' funny, McKay."

"Get back, now!" I trained the barrel directly on Chuck. "You're not going through."

After a long second of ogling, Harko cursed and aimed his AK-47 at me and ordered me to throw down my weapon. Sam was yelling at Harko to put his gun away. Chuck just stared at me in disbelief. But he did step back from the Portal.

Chuck said, "I'm not afraid, McKay."

"You're not going through."

"What's wrong, bro?" Sam said.

"You're not going through."

Harko bellowed, "Fifteen seconds, goddammit!"

"Come on, man, think about it, how incredible this is," Sam said. "And it all has something to do with us. Us, McKay! Our very own magic wardrobe, our own There And Back Again! We've got to do this!"

Chuck broke in, "Don't you see? A portal opens up, you figure out how to explore the other side. You boldly go, McKay. You're the one always quoting Universal Law, you know this is how it's done."

I held the shotgun steady. "No."

Harko yelled, "Three...Two...One...."

The collective gaze instantly swung back to the Portal, which remained open and unchanged. The vague cryptic shapes, the swirling mist, Portal Probe-1 beckoning from less than a yard away like some kind of priceless remote controlled artifact on the other side.

"What if we can't make it back?" I said, desperately. "What if there really are monsters or demons or—"

Harko took a step toward me. "You're bluffing! He's bluffing, man! Look at him."

I continued, "What about the family business, Harko? What about Linda, Chuck? Come on, Sammie, think this through."

"Even if we do get trapped," Sam said. "At least we'd all be in it together."

"No way he takes the shot, man, no way!" Harko said to Chuck. "Let's just leave his ass here."

Chuck's eyes narrowed to a squint. He looked every bit the grim ninja as he gave me one last appraising stare. Then he nodded and turned away and squared his shoulders to the Portal, motioning for the other two to follow.

"You gotta come with us, McKay..." Sam pleaded.

I lowered the gun and stared at the floor. Harko was right, of course—I wasn't about to shoot one of them; I was just trying to buy some time, hoping the Portal would close off again as it had before. Sam was talking fast but I didn't really hear him. I could sense the movement of Chuck starting forward, Harko on his heels.

You've heard the quote about desperate times and drastic measures. I will tell you it's not far off, because in that instant an idea presented itself to me that would have been otherwise inconceivable. Even more surprising—at least to me—I was able to follow through.

"Wait!" I yelled out a final time through clenched teeth. Then I gripped that shotgun, took careful aim, and blew a sizable hole through my own left foot.

Now what can you say about something like that? The blast was very loud. My entire body instantly felt very numb. I dropped the gun and fell to the floor and then the guys were yelling and scrambling toward me. I struggled to keep my eyes trained on the Portal. Before long that charcoal-colored smoke began to swirl about, closing it off once more, this time for good.

The last things I remember until much later at the hospital: Sam's repeated warnings not to look at the wound, and a retching Shoggoth-like gurgle as Harko threw up on the floor.

9. Gaming Night Redux

The doctors told me I was lucky the shotgun had been loaded with a slug and not buckshot, or I might have lost my foot. I've had two reconstructive surgeries since then and am scheduled for at least one more. I currently hobble along using a wolf's-head cane modeled upon the one Chaney Jr. used in The Wolf Man, which I feel is much less obtrusive than the official replica Saruman wizard's staff the guys bought for me.

After admitting me to the hospital, the others returned to my place to find the Portal had indeed disappeared. Video showed it shrinking down and imploding into nothing soon after we'd left. It was quickly decided we should lock the video footage within one of Harko's vaults and honor our oath of secrecy—with the caveat that Chuck and Sam could make anonymous inquiries into similar phenomena among the scientific and media communities, respectively. To date they've turned up nothing worth noting

We haven't talked all that much about the Portal. Any discussions have been of a philosophical or theoretical nature, mostly in regards to what it all means to our place in the Universe, the presence of a True Other, etcetera. There have been no accusations or condemnations on their part, for which I am thankful. Yet I frequently find myself analyzing my actions on that fateful night just the same. Sometimes I'm certain I acted correctly and with everyone's best interests in mind; other times I despair it was pure selfishness and I've ruined the best and only chance any of us will ever have at true otherworldly adventure. I've found I can rationalize quite effectively either way.

You might have thought this would mean the end of Gaming Night, but that hasn't been the case. We suspended proceedings for about a month, ostensibly due to medical reasons. When we did reconvene the others tried to convince me to let someone else take over as gamemaster, but I wouldn't hear of it. And two new players have since joined the group: Jack, who is Chuck's youngest brother and a sophomore at Ziggurat High, and Lea, who works with Sam at the Bugler and whom he refers to as 'the Hot Intern' when she's out of earshot.

Chuck has since reconciled with his wife and remains stoic as ever, Sam is cheerfully head-over-heels for Lea the Hot Intern, and Harko's abrasive sense of humor has lost none of its edge. So things seem pretty much back to normal.

Still, every so often during Gaming Night, when the weather turns a bit blustery or rainy, Harko, Sam, and Chuck will nod at one another and share these brief looks of determination. They will then take turns heading to the toilet on the pretext of having a peek into that back room. Can't say as I blame them. I never know quite how I'll feel during those moments, but I always end up holding my breath.