Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Posted next to Paul, silently drowning in guilt and shame, I ignored the scornful stares of women and brazen looks from men. The tension simmering just below the surface, the need to guard Leonglauix’s back, provided the perfect excuse for silence. Guards on duty don’t grovel or weep. They don’t fall into each other’s arms. They’re stoic and alert.

  Hunter waited until lunch was served to begin instigating trouble. I don’t know what he said to Doogan in his clan’s rhythmic, singsong language, but the talk in Green Turtle was pure trash. “Doogan has always said he was smarter and stronger then you, Leonglauix. Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  Petty shit. Jamming crawfish heads together shit.

  Until this point, Paul hadn’t said a word to Hunter. I guess he figured there would be plenty of time to express himself on the sail back to Italy. “Come on,” he said, grabbing a handful of spears.

  Drawing close to face Gray Beard, Paul interrupted in Green Turtle dialect. “Do not listen to his words for they are poison mushrooms. This smelly asshole is trying to trick you, to trick brothers into fighting.”

  Paul bowed his head toward Doogan to show respect, but the leader and his people misread his intentions. Registering raised voices and bared weapons, everyone was on their feet and coming our way in a flash, brandishing clubs, spears, bone knives and throwing stones.

  Shooting a gleeful look at me, Hunter tittered, “Now we’re getting somewhere. I do love a party.”

  Hunter’s stupid grin was not lost on his two sons. While he was mugging toward me, they were staring straight at him. Doogan wielded what looked to be a petrified antler coated with crystals while Gray Beard hefted a new, curved club made from polished ibex horn. Locking eyes, the two brothers drew back their weapons and brought them crashing down against their father’s force field.

  Doogan followed his failed slash with a straight thrust that managed to pierce the field several inches and nearly reach Hunter’s cheek before a static discharge shattered the sword at the point. The explosion sent crystals flying as far as 28 feet. Gray Beard clobbered the field with his club, testing different spots for vulnerability and getting the same dull “thunk” and ineffective, rubbery bounce back each time.

  Hunter just laughed. Turning my way, he spread his arms.

  “You see this, Duarte? How my sons treat me? They are every bit as awful as Salvatore. Ah patricide, it never grows old!”

  Reaching out quicker than a mongoose, he grabbed each son by a wrist and dragged them close. Although he spoke in English, I’m sure they understood the danger they were in.

  “You are very naughty boys,” he said, giving them a shake. “I ought to punish you. Punish you severely, but I won’t. If you want to kill each other, that’s your business. I should not have inserted myself into the experiment.”

  Letting them go, he turned to Paul and me.

  “Damn children. You can’t ever trust them! And I ought to know. You win, Duarte. I pledge on my name and my honor, from here on after, I will not share my genetics with another ungrateful bloody woman on this green Earth. I have sired my last brat! May they all rot in Hell!

  “Captain Kaikane, I imagine you have many questions for me. Why I took your woman away for so long. Perhaps you’re curious about what we did and saw during those months. Are you? Well, you can choke on your questions.

  “I’ll say this. For the most part, your wife was a complaining, whining pain in the bum. I don’t know how you put up with her conspiracies and penchant for assigning blame for every random act. I treated her to the experience of man’s first pyramid.”

  “Which is nothing more than a pile of rocks,” I chimed in. Where did that come from?

  “You see? All she does is complain. Let’s cut to the chase, surfer man. Is the Leilani seaworthy?”

  Paul nodded in the affirmative.

  “Seaworthy enough to reach North America?”

  “I reckon.”

  “You reckon? That’s rich. I leave it to you seadogs to sail her back to Italy. I need a long run, one without an anchor named Duarte tied around my leg. I’ll meet you in Rome. Last one there buys the first round of beer. So long, suckers.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “What happened to that man’s hand?”

  Kaikane: “Old man cut him.”

  Duarte: “Amputation is the proper course. There’s no hope of retracting and reattaching the tendons.”

  Kaikane: “I’m surprised you’re not over there helping, babe.”

  Duarte: “They’ve got it.”

  Kaikane: “I like your hair.”

  Duarte: “What?”

  Kaikane: “Your hair, it’s black as the day I met you.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  I don’t know what happened to Maria while she was gone, but we’ve been out of sync since she got back. This is our third night at sea and my wife still won’t come to my bunk. I had a way different picture of how our reunion would go. Hugs, kisses, a little nookie. OK, a lot of nookie. I’ve missed her so much!

  That first afternoon, I figured she was keeping it low key for all those horny warriors’ sakes. Gray Beard and Doogan may have buddied up after their crazy daddy split town, but tensions stayed on a low boil among the ranks. Maria had her visor flipped down and hair tucked up inside her helmet, but with her curves and ripped-up leathers there was no mistaking her as a woman. As much as I wanted to hold her and tell her how much I loved her, we just stood with our weapons at the ready, hoping the truce would hold.

  In twos and threes the rest of the clan filtered in until there were about 50 men, women and children building fires, setting up tents and making lunch. The Maria I used to know would have pushed her way right into the middle of things once the healing woman arrived. The guy Gray Beard cut had to have his hand taken off. It will be hard to forget his screams or the smell of his burning flesh as they used glowing flints to cauterize the bloody stump. The breeze swirled and brought the smoke our way. I couldn’t help but get a good sniff.

  Once that was over, we were invited to lunch. Skewered meat mostly, but also some starchy gourds cut lengthwise and blackened over the fire that tasted damn good after you peeled away the burned parts and got to the orange meat.

  I don’t know how long they expected us to stay. Days? Weeks? Until somebody decided they wanted to throw down with one or all of us? To me, every minute felt like we were pushing our luck. I could tell by the way Gray Beard was fidgeting he knew it too. As soon as it was socially cool to go, he talked our way out of there by declining every offer and insisting we had to meet other friends.

  The big problem was, we could not fucking paddle away without them seeing the kayaks. They kept following us. As much as it pained Maria, we finally just launched and made a quick paddle with the current over to the island. The whole way over, Doogan and his clan ran along the banks and shouted for us to come back.

  It wouldn’t be long before they made a raft and swam it out to the island. Crocodiles or no crocodiles, some punk was going to show up wanting the dog or our kayaks or more diamond-edged weapons. Or Maria. We had to get out of Dodge.

  Late afternoon turned out to be a pretty crappy time to launch. The tide was wrong and the Nile’s mouth has some really tricky sailing. We’d be going along fine and all of sudden run into a shallow zone loaded with sandbars and islands. I kept Maria and Gray Beard standing watch out on the canoe’s bows, calling out warnings, until we passed the tall island that I remembered from the way in. At least I hoped it was as I called in my crew and handed off the rudder to Gray Beard.

  Taking Maria by the hand, I started to lead her to my bunk where we could have some privacy.

  “You just want me to fuck,” she snapped, yanking her hand away. “You didn’t miss me!”

  “Maria, come on, you know that’s not true. I missed you so much I thought I’d die. If you’re not ready, we don’t need to rush anything. Come on, le
t’s just talk.”

  “Talk or interrogate?”

  “Maria?”

  “You know what, it’s been a long, awful trip. I just need to be by myself for a while.”

  Ignoring Bello, who’d been trying his best to make friends, she headed for the front of the boat to sit alone with her computer. I just keep telling myself, at least she’s safe.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Cold tonight.”

  Duarte: “Yes, it is.”

  Kaikane: “You coming to bed? Gray Beard’s got the watch. We could warm each other up.”

  Duarte: “I’ve been trying to find a file and I think I’m almost there.”

  Kaikane: “Maria . . .”

  Duarte: “Do not pressure me, Paul!”

  Kaikane: “I’m not pressuring you. I just want to hold you.”

  Duarte: “This is important to me.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  From the impenetrable fog of Egypt to wispy recollections of spying on a down-and-out clan of Denisovans in the hills of what may have been Afghanistan, most memories of my time with Hunter are obscured. Some of the reports I compiled during my abduction jog recollections. Most do not. Two long dissertations on the plant life of northeastern Africa seem almost randomly compiled. They’re my words, but off.

  Only two memories have emerged intact and they’re both doozies. Startling in clarity, shining brighter than beacons along the Trans-Atlantic Flyway, they torture my soul. I can slow them down or back them up at any point to dissect the loathsome events one frame at a time.

  Of course, I know this behavior is counterproductive. That doesn’t stop me from picking at the wounds day and night. Paul and Leonglauix think I’m suffering from shock. Naturally, they blame Hunter for my silences and refusal to be touched or to touch. Gray Beard asked me to trim his hair today and I refused.

  I just can’t shake the guilt. My latest attempt of exorcising the demons is to write a confession. In my past life, I was taught contrition was good for the soul. Former acolyte Salvatore would counter by noting how easily confessions end up being Exhibit A in your jury trial. If Paul wants to read this as I sleep or when I’m ashore some day, he knows my password. If Team officials call for my court-martial, so be it.

  The first flashback begins with me sprinting along the eastern banks of the Nile. The wide river, lazy and laden with silt, has dropped more than 40 feet since the spring floods, leaving wide expanses of dried cracked mud.

  It’s a sunny autumn day. Most animals have found shade and gone to ground. Apart from occasional calls of birds and monkeys, the trumpets of a herd of elephants wallowing and splashing a mile upstream, it is quiet in the still heat of the autumn afternoon. Though my final destination is unknown, I feel in the marrow of my bones how imperative it is to reach the other side of the river. An urgency courses through me, a sense that I’m about to miss a crucial deadline.

  Inside the suit, heat and humidity are non-factors. I’m cool and dry, my breathing and heart rates are normal. Traveling in full stealth mode, protected inside my armor, I’m safe. Rounding a bend and spotting a group of men doing something along the edge of the river, I pick up my pace to reach approximately 32 miles per hour to cover the 236 yards between us.

  My first contact is with a junior hunter. Maybe 15 or 16 years old, he is posted along the bank to warn if crocodiles or hippos approach as his comrades employ cordage made from braided reeds to tie a confusion of driftwood trunks together to make a raft.

  Bushy black hair, eyes reddened by smoke, a braided snakeskin necklace around his long, well-muscled neck, the boy watches my tracks close on him with confusion. A lack of competing sounds allows him to hear my invisible feet as they churn across the cracked gray surface.

  Knowing I risk injuring myself if I hit him while traveling so fast, I slide to a stop just as he is turning to alert his clan mates. My backhand chop to his trachea snaps the poor kid’s neck with the wet sound of celery breaking in half.

  Did I mean to kill, to nearly decapitate a boy who never did one bad thing to me? Did I execute a victim who was helpless and couldn’t fucking see me? You bet I did. The worst part? I enjoyed it.

  The charge is plain and simple. Murder.

  If not for Hunter, the blood of the entire group would be on my hands. I owe him for that. There is no doubt in my mind, I was going to kill them all. Do it as quickly and efficiently as possible and take their boat.

  It would be too easy to blame the entire episode on the jumpsuit. Rage and other behavioral problems induced by the suits are well documented. While the technology played a role in fueling my aggression, I was aware I didn’t have to kill. I’ve been practicing that chop in morning exercises for nearly 10 years. For the first time, I got to hit something besides thin air. It felt powerful to connect, to see all of my practice and hard work pay off. The feeling was akin to gaffing a giant halibut or felling a mighty sow elk with one throw of the spear. I felt power.

  Sick, right?

  Another problem with blaming everything on the suit is it had nothing to do with my next dreadful memory. I hadn’t worn the stupid contraption for at least a week when it happened.

  As previously stated, most of my time in Egypt is blank. I remember camping by myself for a day or two, stranded midway up the face of a sheer cliff. I have no recollection of how I came to be there, or how I got down. Hunter wasn’t there. At least, I don’t think he was. There is a vague memory of him being injured, or telling me a story about being injured.

  My attack on the boy came after this. I don’t remember launching or beaching the raft or much else that happened over the next eight days. Every once in a while, I’ll get a flash of memory, a whiff of something that I know is important. Just out of reach, these memories dart like fragments of dream conversations. I feel like I met someone fascinating, but can’t recall his or her name. Or what we talked about.

  The next thing I remember clearly is following in the wake of Hunter as he cleared the northbound trail of beasts and spider webs. He thought I was still out of it and was having a fun time ragging on me for being so slow. I listened to the bastard piss and moan without answering. My suit and helmet were off. The sun felt warm on my shoulders, the soil damp between my toes. Entering a valley dominated by old-growth trees, I noticed the tree canopy was home to large concentrations of vines and creepers.

  When I search for the report I’m almost absolutely certain I wrote on this unique mini ecosystem, I instead find a mishmash of fauna we cataloged in Madagascar and coastal Ireland. Why would Hunter overwrite my reports? What else did I log that has been changed? What’s that old saying? Just because I’m a conspiracy theorist doesn’t mean people aren’t out to get me. What is Hunter protecting?

  OK, now is the time to address the elephant in the room.

  We can’t blame this on the jumpsuit or the belt. Hunter and I had both been out of armor for a while, me a week and him a couple days. I don’t know what prompted me to do such a thing. Somewhere in the fog it seems like we made a bargain, but I have no recollection of what it was.

  Stockholm Syndrome? Paul, if you’re reading this and it helps, it is true, I had come to identify with my captor. Oh what the hell, we had sex. For a long time, all night, and I enjoyed it. It wasn’t rape, I came to him. I sucked him and fucked him, let him use me any way he wanted. Hunter’s been anxious to get in my pants for a long time and I let him.

  Betraying Paul fills me with more shame than I can bear. I work myself up to confessing the whole thing, laying it all on the table, but something holds me back.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Whatever it is, I don’t care.”

  Duarte: “Whatever what is?”

  Kaikane: “Whatever’s been bugging you. I’ve told you at least a hundred times, I’m ready to listen, to help.”

  Duarte: “Now, Paul–”

  Kaikane: “Wait, hear me out. Please. Last night on watch,
I was thinking of ways to help you talk through it. Then it came to me, maybe the shrinks and doctors are all full of it. All this stuff on the computer about PTSD was written by people who’ve never seen a mammoth, never traveled through time.”

  Duarte: “Well . . .”

  Kaikane: “All I know is, we don’t need to talk about anything you don’t want to babe.”

  Duarte: “No?”

  Kaikane: “No.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Maria may have turned a corner today. I hope so at least. It was midafternoon and I was nearing the end of a long tack toward the low hills of Africa when I spotted another one of those giant turtles. Without saying anything or calling for help, I secured the rudder and tiptoed forward to cut the sails.

  We coasted up alongside the house-sized turtle and were stopped for a few minutes before Maria thought to lift her nose out of her computer and see what was going on. Once she saw it, she didn’t say anything, just looked back to see if I was on it too. I gave her a wave and she turned back to study the turtle. It must have had a million fish swimming under and around its shell, everything from sharks and rays to swirling tornados of red snapper and rainbow wrasse.

  Facing headfirst into a current strong enough to make its neck vents wobble, the turtle drifted with us for a good 20 minutes before turning, giving his long front flippers a couple flaps and disappearing into the blue sea.