Torment of Tantalus

by Bard Constantine

  “Nothing.” Nathan said.

  “What’s your purpose, Nathan? You’ve survived an experience I can’t even imagine. What is it that keeps you going?”

  “Whatever Blackwell is hiding.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Blackwell. He took this case from the Tantalus. Elena told me about it. Archives of Dr. Stein’s work. His findings. All the relevant information on the Aberration. He has samples, too. Samples of genetic experiments, advancements created from direct contact with the aberrant energy source code. It’s the future, you understand. He’s now in command of cutting edge technology, along with a better understanding of aberrant energy than anyone on the planet.”

  “Well, that has to be a good thing, right? After all, that data could have been lost in the blast.”

  Nathan paused, wondering if Crestor was really that stupid, or simply baiting him. “Blackwell left Elena and me to die because it served his personal interest. That’s the bottom line for him. That’s all that matters. If you think he’ll use that data for the benefit of humanity, you need your license revoked. He’s hiding something. I have to know what it is.”

  He glanced at the computer, where he had been working nearly nonstop. Networking, forming a coalition from the ground up. He wasn’t waiting until they got to the mainland. He had to be a step ahead of Blackwell. A step ahead of everyone.

  “You can go now, Dr. Crestor. We’re finished, and I have work to do.”

  ∞Φ∞

  “You don’t appear comfortable.” Dr. Crestor spoke quietly, peering over his thin-framed spectacles.

  Elena shrugged, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Everyone looks at me like a specimen now. I see it in their faces, the few that manage to actually meet my gaze. We’re like zoo exhibitions in here. They look at us like freaks.”

  Crestor nodded. “Fear is always the first reaction when faced by the unknown. We don’t know what the ultimate effects of this incident will be. The only thing we know so far is three people in close proximity have eyes that changed color. It will take some getting used to, but I’m sure people will accept the oddity. We’ve accepted far more drastic physical…alterations.”

  Elena nearly laughed at the purposeful hesitation in Crestor’s statement. Alterations. Her eyes were actually beautiful, purple irises glimmering like amethyst jewels. But they weren’t the color she was born with. Her dark brown eyes were gone, leaving a stranger gazing back at her from the mirror. Both Nathan and Blackwell experienced the same phenomenon. Neither wanted to talk much about it.

  “I don’t care about being accepted. I care about getting out of this cell.”

  “It’s a simple precaution, Elena. Tell me, what will you do first when you get back home?”

  “You mean if the doctors actually release me? See my dad, I guess.”

  “Your father. You’ve had…distance for a while now.”

  She hung her head, seeing her father’s face the last time she saw him. The pain when she told him she was joining the Army. The look of betrayal, as if by enlisting she betrayed her mother’s memory. He had just started studying conspiracy theories at that point, not yet fully dedicated to meeting with known terrorists. She wondered if he even knew where she was.

  “It’s been a while. I just want to see if we can reconnect.” She looked up, saw Crestor’s empathetic gaze. “I mean, everything has changed. This could be the countdown. We might not have much time left. It’s important to have someone you care about in your life, no matter what their imperfections are.”

  “Speaking of people you care about…you and Nathan seem to have drawn close.”

  She gave Crestor a suspicious glance. Nathan constantly warned of cameras in their chambers, recording their every move. It made it nearly impossible for him to relax, putting a strain on their time together. The decontamination chambers had adjoining doors allowing them to visit with one another, and she and Nathan had spent a lot of time together. She felt he wanted to tell her more, say the things that shimmered behind his eyes when he looked at her. But he always held back, whispering of prying eyes and listening ears.

  It was exasperating.

  “We’ve been through a lot. I guess it’s only natural that we spend time together.”

  “Do you see a future with him?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s just a question. You can either answer it or not. Nothing intrusive.”

  “Oh.” Picking at her nails, she considered. Was there a future for them? She knew he cared about her. Knew she cared about him. She had lain in his arms the previous night, her face against his chest, her arms draped across his shoulders. She had been lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling temporarily content for the first time in a great while. But the strange part was feeling him relax; his muscles ease as if he had never felt a gentle touch before. It was nearly heartbreaking.

  “We’ve talked. It’s hard to plan your life when everything is up in the air. I mean, who’s to say what’s going to happen? How do you plan around this?

  “You have doubts.”

  “Of course I do. Nathan’s not easy to deal with.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because…he’s afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything. His past, the Aberration, everything we went through.” She paused, not sure whether or not she had said too much. But talking about it felt good, getting it off of her chest.

  “But most of all, he’s afraid of himself. Of what’s inside of him.”

  “What is that? What’s inside of him, I mean?”

  “Rage.” She stared at the glassy surface separating Dr. Crestor from her chamber, focusing on her murky reflection. Purple eyes stared back at her. “Darkness.”

  Dr. Crestor’s gaze sharpened. “Are you talking about Nathan right now? Or yourself?”

  She dropped her gaze. “I don’t know.”

  ∞Φ∞

  “I don’t suppose this is what you’re used to.” Dr. Crestor spoke quietly, peering over his thin-framed spectacles.

  “I’ve had enough of sterile, white rooms, actually.” Blackwell understood the necessity of decontamination, however frustrating it was. He was locked in, nowhere to go when he woke up in a cold sweat, gasping from his latest nightmare. Sid Damon wrapping tentacles around his neck. Or Charlie Foxtrot talking to him with half her face missing, blood pouring from the gaping wound. Or a number of nameless monstrosities feeding on his flesh while he screamed and screamed.

  Dr. Crestor seemed to read his mind. “Nightmares still giving you problems?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “It’s okay to talk about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s under control.”

  “No problem. I’ve been told you’ve been watching the news nonstop.”

  “What else can I do? I need to be informed. They can’t find a way to shut off that beacon. Can you believe it? Incompetent, all of them. This decontamination process had better end quickly. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Work?”

  Blackwell stared at Crestor, wondering if the doctor was baiting him. Shrinks usually were. “Did you think I’d go hang my head somewhere? The entire world is in jeopardy right now. I’ll be where I belong—at the forefront of the battle.”

  “Battle?”

  Blackwell jabbed a finger at Crestor. “Don’t do that. Don’t repeat the last word of my sentences. That’s shrink methodology 101. You want to figure me out, ask a direct question.”

  “Very well, Alexander. What’s inside the case?”

  Blackwell’s eyes slid that direction despite himself. He kept the case with Dr. Stein’s archives and samples inside a refrigerated vault, even sleeping beside it in case someone tried opening it without permission. He knew his father wouldn’t hesitate to examine the contents for himself. And Nathan coveted it as well. He hadn’t directly asked about the case, but Blackwell caught his longin
g stares when he thought no one noticed. Blackwell planned to open it only in the security of his own personal laboratories, where his hand-chosen team of experts would begin deciphering its secrets.

  “Information, doctor. Information.”

  “About the phenomenon? What will you do with it?”

  “Figure things out. Push the envelope. Stop what’s happening.”

  “You sound as if you alone have to do this. Like you can’t allow anyone else to take charge of the situation.”

  “Where was everyone else when this Aberration was tearing up the Atlantic? Standing around with their heads in the sand. Someone has to take charge, Doctor.”

  “You were in charge of the Gorgon mission.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you were in charge of the Tantalus mission.”

  “Damn right I was.” Blackwell’s face heated as he caught the expression on Crestor’s face. “You think I screwed those missions up. That I’m responsible for everything going to hell.”

  “I’m not thinking anything, Alexander. But one might draw the correlation if so inclined, I suppose.”

  “So what are you saying—I’m a failure? I’m in over my head? I don’t know what I’m doing? Maybe I should turn things over to wiser minds, is that it? Like my father, maybe? How much is he paying you?”

  “Calm down, Alexander.”

  “How much?”

  Crestor steepled his fingers, gazing with unflappable calm. “You appear upset. Maybe we should take this up again when you’re calm.”

  “Yeah, maybe we should.” Blackwell’s teeth ground together. He couldn’t believe he let the doctor get to him so easily.

  “Very well.” Crestor stood up with a disarming smile. “No man is an island, Alexander.”

  “A common colloquialism. Why bring it up?”

  “You’ve been through hell. Through an experience that challenged your very sanity. Your eyes might not be the only thing affected by it all. You need people, is what I’m saying.”

  “I have people, doctor. I employ them by the thousands.”

  Crestor lifted an eyebrow. “Until next time, Alexander.”

  Blackwell’s jaw clenched. “Wait.”

  Crestor paused.

  “You think I’m irrational. Reckless. Impulsive. Maybe you’re right. But I’m not the one who’s ailing.”

  “I never said—”

  “My eyes might be purple, but I’m not afflicted by anything, doctor. Not infected with any alien diseases, or suffering from any type of mental degeneration. You’re the ones who are infected.”

  “Us?”

  “That’s right. You, my father, the rest of them. You’re infected by fear, panic of a catastrophe you can do nothing to stop.”

  “And you’re different?”

  “I’m different. But not because of the color of my eyes.” His gaze drifted to the vault. “Because I’m not afraid. I’m ahead of the curve. When the time comes, I’ll be ready.”

  “For what?”

  “For the Cataclysm.”

  ∞Φ∞

  Like the rest of the civilized world, Cynthia Graham spent her days and nights terrified. The event the media called the Desolation was still ongoing, with the violet stream of energy already tinting thirty-five percent of the sky a dark purplish color. Predictions indicated the entire world’s atmosphere was at risk.

  Outbreaks of bizarre weather had occurred in regions close to the site of the incident. In Puerto Rico a lightning storm had lasted for thirty-six hours. No rain, just unceasing lightning, claiming over five hundred lives. In the Bahamas, a massive storm unleashed a flood of frogs on the islands. Not a drop of water, but thousands of frogs pouring from the clouds.

  It was petrifying.

  Florida was predicted to be next. Those who could evacuate had fled, leaving the poor and stubborn behind to brace themselves for whatever bizarre phenomenon occurred. The mood around the country was one of fear and desperation. Houses of worship that once struggled to maintain attendants suddenly found themselves filled to near-bursting levels. Survivalists stocked up on non-perishable goods, weapons, ammo, and doomsday bunkers. Looters roamed the streets, breaking and entering with little resistance from law enforcement, who had orders to protect areas of affluence and capitol first. Residents were advised to stay indoors as much as possible, and curfews were enforced in most neighborhoods.

  No one knew what was coming.

  The uncertainty unsettled Cynthia more than anything else. Fear of the unknown. Fear for Michelle, a newborn infant who had no idea what was happening in the world outside of her window. She gurgled in her crib, tiny fingers stretched toward the rotating mobile hanging above her bed. Cynthia wished she could share her child’s contented obliviousness.

  Cynthia.

  She raised her head at the sound of her name. “Wayne?”

  But Wayne wasn’t there. He had been enlisted by the government to provide support for the survivors of the Tantalus mission, and claimed it wasn’t a request he could refuse. She wasn’t so sure. Michael had been on that mission. She wondered if Wayne wanted to meet Michael alone, talk to him before he came home. Some kind of preemptive action to avoid difficulties when Michael returned.

  If he returned. She hadn’t heard from Wayne since he left the mainland. The command center had claimed it impossible to make phone calls from off the coast, too much interference from the aberrant storm. She couldn’t help but feel the worst had happened. Michael perished out there in the unknown, lost to her before she could ever see his face again. Before ever seeing his daughter with his own eyes.

  Cynthia.

  The second time it was clearer, the voice ringing in her head. Fear reached out, stroked the back of her neck with clammy fingers. The way her name was spoken was so familiar, but impossible. Michael was either lost at sea or dead…

  Lightning flashed outside, followed by a clap of thunder that made the walls shudder. The windows glowed behind the shades, staring at her like lavender eyes.

  Cynthia.

  The voice was outside, a disembodied phantom that whispered her name. Cynthia took a look at Michelle. The baby had gone silent, her eyes wide, shimmering. A smile dimpled her cheeks as if she stared beyond, seeing something Cynthia could not.

  Heart pounding, Cynthia crept to the door. She took a deep breath, steeling herself before yanking it open.

  Violet light flooded inside. She stood in the glow, staring up into the evening sky where lightning glimmered behind the lumpy lobes of churning clouds. Any other time, the bizarre cloud formations alone would have been striking, but she stared at what was revealed in the pulse of sheet lightning.

  A man hovered in the sky.

  He hung limp as if asleep, a hundred yards above the street, slowly descending. She watched in dumbstruck awe when he lowered to the ground as though by some invisible cord, finally collapsing on the cold asphalt of the street.

  Rain fell as if awaiting that moment, an instant downpour that soaked Cynthia to the skin. Her feet moved of their own accord, ignoring the fear that paralyzed the rest of her. The liquescent roar of the deluge drowned out all other sounds as she drew closer, kneeling to touch the man with a trembling hand. He rolled over at her touch, looking up with irises that glowed like purple flames.

  She gasped, but not from the oddity of his eyes. She knew him, every contour of his face. A face nearly as familiar as her own. She gasped.

  “Michael?”

  A chorus of raucous caws exploded from the trees. Ravens flew from the branches, whirring around Cynthia and Michael in cyclonic formations, until there was nothing visible except obsidian eyes and ebony feathers.

  Cynthia clutched Michael to her, squeezing her eyes shut as though the action would will the unnatural birds away. The sound of throaty cries and beating wings was nearly deafening. Her hair flailed across her face from the wind they created. And in that moment, she knew. As surely as a vision of the future, she knew.

 
She knew that Michael would kill her.

  Enjoy Torment of Tantalus?

  Thanks for checking out this installment of the Aberration series. I’d love to keep writing these novels, but I need just a little help from you. Reviews help a great deal in spreading the word, which in turn helps sell more books. Which in turn allows me to keep writing. It doesn’t have to a long process: a simple 3-4 sentence review at the site of your purchase can work wonders. Thanks again for reading, hope you stick around for the next installment.

  All the best,

  ~BC

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  About the Author

  Bard Constantine lives in Birmingham, Al with his wife and his unrestrained imagination. When not handling ‘real world stuff’ he’s usually found in a dank basement pounding his keyboard under the watchful eye of a vindictive muse. Although his claims of sanity appear authentic, such statements are currently under meticulous investigation by the Department of Mental Health. Additional information can be retrieved at http://bardwritesbooks.com.