by Jeff Schanz
A novel by Jeff Schanz
Copyright 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche
“Mortality is one of the traits that makes us human. The ambition to solve mortality is another.”
- Pleonastus
CHAPTER 1
Grey. The dull, muted color was the only thing Brandt could see as his eyes slowly opened. No shapes or objects were distinguishable. Fog? An overcast sky? His body was as numb as his view, unable to determine if he was standing, sitting, or lying down. Brandt wondered if he was dreaming. It was like looking through eyeglasses that were the wrong prescription and smeared with water. He tried to blink away the haze, but the grey blurriness remained.
Guessing he may be lying on his back, he tried the normally mundane act of sitting up. That failed. Nothing moved. His body and brain seemed detached. Unable to see his legs, he hoped they were still there and tried to lift them. They didn't obey his request. What a weird-ass dream, he thought. He couldn't remember where he was, why he was there, and why he was lying on his back. Am I floating? He was rocking back and forth, up and down, right and left, like he was on ocean waves. If he was in the ocean, he couldn't remember why he would be there. The simple attempt to look around was met with excruciating pain and he managed to turn his head to the right with much more effort than should have been required. What the hell is wrong with me? At least he could finally see something besides vague, grey nothingness.
He saw that his hand was submerged in lapping water. Dark, foamy waves washed over it, his pale hand bobbing with them, fingers upturned to the sky. With difficulty, he managed to raise his arm above the oncoming wave, though he couldn’t feel his hand. At least his equally numb fingers wiggled on command. His hand flopped back down onto the makeshift raft he lay upon.
The material his raft was made of was something white, shiny, and buoyant enough to keep him above the water’s surface. The edges had shredded yellow fibers. At a glance, a very blurry glance, it looked like a torn piece of fiberglass from the hull of a boat.
A boat! His memories were as hazy as his eyesight, but that word sparked a sudden recognition. He had been on a boat. It had exploded. Why? The rest of the memory wouldn’t come. Tensing and straining to sit up, his torso still wouldn’t honor his brain’s command, and the stabbing agony in his ribs made the exertion unbearable any further. Then the buzz and tingle of impending unconsciousness started to course through him. No, wait. Not yet!
He stared again at what he assumed was the sky. It was still grey. Now something was coming down from it. A dark shape, like a person in silhouette, was descending toward him. Something long and wide extended from the person. They looked like wings. Large, dark wings that bloomed to catch the air and slow down the descent of the person – or creature. What the hell is coming at me! Brandt’s eyelids were squeezing shut despite his efforts to resist. The figure loomed above him, viewed through mere eye slits. It leaned its face closer to Brandt, its eyes glowing an intense yellow. It looked like an evil Batman.
I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming.
Brandt’s eyelids could not be coaxed back open. The tingling in his body was now an electric surge that smothered him like a blanket, suffocating and halting all movement and function. He saw and felt nothing more.
Brandt woke to the sensation of flying. He opened his eyes, blinked twice, and was finally able to focus somewhat clearly. The tingling in his body had become the stabbing of numerous needles like his ribs were splintered and were poking through his skin. Nauseous and shivering, at least he was no longer numb, though he still wasn't able to move any extremity. He was face down, seemingly high above the ground, watching waves, rocks, dirt, mountains, and grass speed past far below him. Whatever was carrying him was moving fast.
There was a steady lifting and dropping rhythm to his mysterious flight. His body was tightly constrained by something, and he was unable to turn his head more than a few degrees right or left. He could only see the ground below him rushing past. He couldn’t see what was holding him, he just seemed to be suspended in the air like he was a fish in an eagle's talons.
There was also an odd smell of burning flesh and hair. He hoped it wasn’t him.
Far below, the edges of rocky cliffs dropped into the sea, with no apparent beaches. Ocean waves pelted the rock-strewn base, unrelenting in their assault. Brandt was trying to guess how tall the cliffs were when he started losing consciousness again. Oh, come on!
His eyelids had an agenda of their own. Trying to hold them open was a losing battle. His eyes closed and his body melted into unconsciousness once more.
When Brandt woke again, he was no longer moving. There was a gentle breeze against his face, nothing like the wind that had whipped by when he was flying. He was lying on his back and looking at something white that writhed and twisted above him. The white thing was a curtain hanging from an open window. It was a mix of linen and embroidery, partially sheer and illuminated by mild morning light, dancing against the same breeze that brushed his face.
Brandt attempted to get into a sitting position. A searing pain shot through him the moment he tensed to try. He bit back a cry, took a breath, and retried the effort by easing himself up slowly. He got halfway up before his strength gave out, but he managed to tuck his elbows underneath him, which was enough to prop himself up to look around.
He was in a spartan room. The only light was from the open window above him. The walls were bare whitewash with widely spaced wooden spars. The ceiling above him was made of dark, aged wood. To his right was a plain, natural wood writing desk, with an unlit candle on it. Directly in front of him was a chest of drawers, also natural wood, with an old-fashioned ceramic washbasin on top of it, and a folded towel. To either side were two chairs. On the left was a rocking chair, wooden slotted and beautifully crafted, and on the right was a simple schoolhouse chair, also made of wood. No decorations hung on the walls. No light switches, or light fixtures, or air conditioning vents, or electrical outlets were visible anywhere. The whole room seemed like something a monk or nun would call home.
Brandt examined himself. He was still in his jeans, socks, and black t-shirt, but no sign of his sneakers. His t-shirt was torn in several places. Considering he didn't recall what had happened, or how he got here, he was glad to see he was in one piece. He was tucked inside a thick white comforter on a single bed with an old-fashioned iron rail at the foot. His body was shivering uncontrollably, his teeth clacking together despite his efforts to keep them quiet. A disconcerting hum buzzed in his head, reminiscent of his last fainting spell while he was flying. Taking a deep calming breath, he fought to stay awake. He moved his feet and found them to be adequately responsive, although heavy and cumbersome like they were both sprained and swollen. He wanted to get out of bed and head to the door, though every part of his body argued against trying it. Wherever he was, he was stuck there for a little while at least.
He wasn’t home, he wasn’t in anyone’s house that he knew, he wasn’t dreaming, and he wasn’t in jail. And if he was in heaven, heaven was boring. And if this was Hell, then it wasn’t so bad. With careful effort, he turned enough to see out of the window. Outside was the ocean with no landmarks visible, and a grey overcast sky and fog that hid the horizon. Where in the hell am I? And how did I get here? The qu
estion brought back the most recent memory.
Batman. Or some dark figure that had glowing eyes and big wings, and apparently can fly, had carried Brandt here. Or not. You were hallucinating, bud. He had been rescued by someone who just looked like… doesn’t matter.
Rescued from what? And from where? And to where? Come on, think.
His brain was not fully cooperating yet. Images and fragments slithered around in his skull that lit a few fires of recollection. He had been on a boat. The boat was traveling at top speed. There was somebody else in the boat with him. Who was driving? He didn’t remember. They were west of the California Channel Islands National Park, near open sea. Was someone chasing them? Were they chasing someone? The boat blew up. Brandt remembered jumping off the boat as it exploded. The force of either the water or the explosion hit him extremely hard and everything went black. Then he awoke lying on a piece of fiberglass wreckage, staring up at some Batman figure dropping down on him.
He sighed. He knew it couldn’t have been Batman, so what the heck was it? Someone must’ve saved him, picked him out of the water, and flew him to wherever this was. Was he back on the mainland? All the closest ports were several hours away from the distance he had traveled. Had he been unconscious that long? And if he was on the mainland, why would he be in this monastery-like place instead of a hospital?
He re-scanned the room and did some quick calculations. No electricity, no running water, sparse furnishings. Brandt knew that there were minimalist cabins used by park service personnel on one or two of the California Channel Islands, and maybe a lighthouse on one. They might have a portable generator, but certainly no electric lines or plumbing. And the few people that temporarily resided there would probably use their generators sparingly. For the most part, the islands were uninhabited, with park personnel being helicoptered in and out only when needed. So, was he in one of those island service cabins? It made as much sense as anything else. Certainly more than being rescued by Batman.
So, then what, or who, was it that you saw?
Brandt tried to clear his head.
Airplanes and helicopters fly. The Coast Guard has helicopters. A man lowered down on a winch might look like someone dark and mysterious if the light silhouetted him. The wings? If the Coast Guardsman had a long stretcher-type harness, and he held it sideways, it may resemble wings in Brandt's blurry vision. Once in the helicopter, if Brandt was suspended near the edge of the open door, he might be able to watch the ground below him. And then the Coast Guardsman would've taken him to the nearest shelter to warm him up and get him out of the elements. Makes perfect sense. Right? Ok, so what about the glowing eyes? Brandt shook his head, which reminded him that moving his neck still hurt. He had no explanation for the eyes, but he had also been floating in frigid water for who knows how long, so his brain was probably addled from shock, concussion, and cold. The eyes didn’t matter. The rest of the explanation made sense.
And it seemed the more rest he got, the more his body recovered, so perhaps it was best to stop stressing himself out trying to solve this entire mystery right now. He was safe and warm regardless of the bone-rattling chills in his joints. He had to be on one of the Channel Islands in a park service cabin. It was the only thing that made sense. He could work on remembering everything else later. More rest was needed.
He lay back down, relaxed, and eventually fell asleep.
By the time he awoke, the natural light coming from the window was dimmer and had an orange hue. It was still light enough to see easily, though the sun had most certainly retired to the opposite side of whatever structure he was in, and the light coming from the window was an ambient reflection rather than a direct beam. Brandt’s body was still weak and he was reluctant to bend or strain it getting out of bed, but he pushed himself slowly until he sat all the way up with his feet flat on the floor. He was determined to at least get to the door and have a look outside of his room. Maybe he could find out who else was here with him. Of course, he could just shout out, and if there was someone here, they might come into his room. He felt caution was prudent in an unknown situation, and if for some reason the people who brought him here were not as benevolent as he assumed, then maybe having a sneak peek would be a good idea. He doubted someone would go to the trouble of airlifting him here if they wished him harm, but his survivor’s brain was not hearing any other arguments at the moment. He carefully stood up straight next to his bed.
Rembrandt Dekker, Brandt to everyone except his mother, had recovered most of his wits from that last nap. He now remembered why he had been floating alone in the cold Pacific Ocean. Memories he had sought earlier to regain were now suddenly unwanted. The relief he had felt when he found himself alive, and in one piece, was replaced by a sober recollection of his failure. He shouldn’t be alive. He hadn’t wanted to be. Yet here he was. And the reason he had come way out here, the culmination of six months of obsession, was still unfulfilled. Once again, he was the reluctant sole survivor.
That recollection also meant that the wrong people may know he was still alive, and here. It was still uncertain where “here” was. His assumption was one of the islands. He took a slow step toward the window and leaned against the wall.
Outside was an endless stretch of dark blue water, rippling and tossing with a steady wind. In every visible direction, there were no landmarks and no indication that there was any civilization nearby. There were no sounds of cars, or people, or even airplanes. There was only the growl of the wind and the distant shrieks of seabirds. Brandt thought he might have heard the bark of a sea lion, as well. Brandt leaned his head out of the window and glanced downward. Damn, my neck is stiff. The pain was sharp, thankfully only lasting a moment before it was simply an ache. He saw that he was on the second floor of a large house. Are there houses this big on any of the islands? He didn’t think there should be, but he wasn’t an expert. The house rested on a flat section of rocky ground which ended abruptly in a steep rock-faced cliff. The cliff rose directly from the foamy surf, framed in jagged boulders. There was no hint of human accessibility anywhere within view. Anyone climbing that cliff better be sure they had a secure rope or they could fall and be turned into a gruesome abstract painting on those rocks below. It certainly looked like one of the California Channel Islands, though Brandt couldn’t figure why there was a mansion-sized house way out here. Nobody could possibly live on one of these islands.
A majority of the islands were more than fifty miles from civilization. There were very few beaches on any of them. They were formed from solid rock that had been thrust up from the sea when tectonic plates collided eons ago. Most of the islands didn’t have much foliage except for low rising grass, weeds, and some scrub trees. Birds, sea lions, and crabs were about the only things that would call the islands home. A couple of the islands had welcoming terrain that supported tourism like hiking or camping, and Catalina Island actually boasted permanent residents and hotels, though that was also much closer to the mainland. The other islands were inhospitable and offered no ingress without a lengthy manmade staircase or manufactured ramp of some sort. Before California became a desirable destination for Americans, the Chumash Indians dwelled on the islands. The harsh mountainous land was difficult to navigate or grow anything on, so the Chumash eventually migrated to the California mainland. With the Indian territorial claim, and the fact that the islands didn’t have an immediate use, it took a long time before the government officially annexed most of the islands, leaving only a few that remained privately owned for many years. Today, they were an attraction for tourists to mainly just look at, or to kayak near, and a hotspot for viewing marine fauna like whales, sea lions, and dolphins. The westernmost islands were less frequented by whale watching tours because of the tremendous amount of diesel needed to drive there and back, and seldom used as camping destinations since the time to and from civilization was far greater, and was more dangerous in case of emergency. And though the idea of an uninhabited California islan
d sounds great on a brochure for a getaway destination, the frigid Pacific Ocean, and an atmosphere more like Maine than the tropics, plus nearly unscalable cliff faces, make the westernmost islands less inviting in reality.
Brandt had realized he had been holding his breath against the pain and leaned back inside and braced himself on the wall. He took several even breaths and the pain subsided. The distance to the door seemed impossibly far, but Brandt was not about to waste the effort of standing up with the sole result being a glance out of the window. If he had to crawl all the way, he was going to have a look outside that door.
Brandt took a timid step, satisfied himself that his knee and ankle would hold, then took another step. The iron rail at the foot of the bed was a welcome object to rest his weight upon and he paused there for several seconds before starting the long journey between the bed and the door. Never before had ten feet seemed like a marathon to traverse. Well, maybe once before. The chills that had rattled him earlier in the bed were returning since he was no longer bundled in a thick comforter. The air probably wasn’t that cold, but the time he had spent floating in the frigid Pacific had embedded an iciness deep inside his body that would probably take days to fully overcome. He would risk the chilliness for now. The door beckoned.
It was a bland, white door with raised rectangles that constituted the design. It had a brass knob that was the old-fashioned oblong shape rather than the more modern round knob or bar lever. It even looked like it had a keyhole underneath the knob. Serious old school. On any other day, walking to that door would be taken for granted. Today, it was Everest.
Brandt filled his lungs, held it, and started forward.
The first step went fine. The next went all right. The third was a struggle. Brandt started to feel the unwelcome prickle of a fainting spell swarm through his muscles. He stumbled forward and slammed into the door. He waited for a few moments while his body relaxed and accepted that he was at rest, even if it was resting upright against a door. Before he grasped the knob, he listened through the door to see if he could hear anything outside. There was nothing. The ocean noises behind him were louder than anything he heard through the door. He gripped the doorknob and twisted.
