by David Meyer
I grabbed a piece of cloth and trudged toward the entranceway. A sturdy gust of dry wind ploughed into my face. It dried my sweaty forehead and stole the saliva right out of my mouth. Quickly, I wrapped the cloth around my face and ran outside.
A fierce air current struck a nearby shed. Dirt thudded against the dilapidated wood exterior and pinged off the old sloped roof. Glass windows cracked under the onslaught.
Storms and freak weather-related events, although annoying, didn’t usually bother me. It was part of the job. Over the last few years, I’d survived an underground flood in Manhattan, vicious snowstorms in Antarctica, and endless rain in Mexico. But the rising dust storm was different. It felt strange. Like something out of myth and long-forgotten legends.
I trudged around the tent, feeling drier by the second. My outfit—a navy blue ribbed skullcap, dark gray cargo pants, a navy blue vest jacket, a long-sleeve white shirt, and sturdy hiking boots—rippled in the wind. Sweat beaded up on my forearms only to be whisked away by the blowing air, taking with it valuable fluids and electrolytes.
The tent’s outer structure consisted of sturdy PVC piping, arranged in a dome-shape. The covering was suspended underneath the dome and attached to it with powerful fasteners. This kept the pipes from rubbing against the fabric.
Almost immediately, I saw a pipe shift in the dirt. Then it started to slide out of the soil.
I fought my way to it. Blocking the wind with my back, I drove the pipe deeper into the soil. Then I knelt down and pushed dirt around it, packing the soil as tightly as possible.
Glancing through the translucent covering, I saw the reliquary locked in the gantry crane’s loving embrace. It intrigued me. I knew nothing about it other than the fact that it looked old and was covered with images of death and destruction. I didn’t know who had buried it, how Lila had located it, or what she expected to find inside it. And quite honestly, I didn’t really care.
I just wanted to save it.
The scales of progress vs. preservation had been thrown out of whack and I was, for better or worse, the only one who could restore them. Maybe saving the reliquary wouldn’t fully balance the scales and erase the guilt that plagued my soul.
But it would help.
I packed more dirt against the pipe. But as soon as I lifted my hands, it started to vibrate all over again.
Gritting my teeth, I grasped the pipe. My muscles strained as I drove it even deeper into the soil.
The wind kicked up a notch. The nearby shed quaked violently. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.
I twisted my head. Metal crashed. Wood beams cracked.
And then the shed disintegrated.
Pieces of wood ripped free. They were joined by the roof, which tore off the structure in largely one piece. The walls blew outward. Rolled-up metal fencing, bundles of blankets, and small tools flew into the air, swept skyward by the swirling winds.
My jaw clenched. The dome tent was built to withstand heavy winds. But I knew it couldn’t last much longer. And once it fell, I’d be powerless to protect the reliquary from the elements.
The pipe continued to vibrate. Then it began to push upward, pulled by the fierce current.
“Tent’s patched.” Graham’s voice crackled in my ear. “How’s it going out here?”
“Help …” I struggled to hold the pipe in place. “Help me.”
Rushing forward, he grabbed the pipe with both hands. Slowly, we shoved it into the earth.
The wind increased in ferocity, rising to gale force levels. Dirt stuffed my nostrils, my ears.
Abruptly, the pipe kicked like a wild mule. Graham and I flew backward, landing hard on the dirt.
Slightly dazed, I lifted my head. The loose pipe sailed back and forth, a slave to the insane winds. Then the pipes on either side of it began to vibrate. Within seconds, they kicked out of the ground as well.
The wind ripped at the covering. Graham’s patch job quickly came apart. Other holes appeared. They widened as the tear-resistant fabric failed its ultimate test of strength.
I struggled to gain my footing, to race forward. But the wind pinned me down. Helplessly, I watched the dome structure break free from the ground. It sailed away, bouncing like a tumbleweed and taking the covering with it.
My jaw hardened as I stared at the exposed reliquary.
Faster. Got to go faster.
Chapter 3
Dirt struck my goggles as I climbed to my feet. Hunkering down, Graham and I made our way to the reliquary.
Light flashed. Spinning around, I saw a tiny speck of brightness. Quickly, the speck grew larger.
A medium-duty flatbed truck appeared. It halted about twenty feet from us. Beverly put it into reverse and twisted the wheel until the flatbed faced the reliquary.
As she climbed out of the cab, Graham returned to the crane’s control panel. The gantry sputtered. Curls of smoke rose upward and were quickly swept away with the wind.
Chains clanked as the gantry lifted the cradled reliquary a few feet higher. Manipulating the controls, Graham angled the chain hoist, directing it toward our truck. Then he flicked a switch, causing the giant stone box to halt above the flatbed.
“What’s the hold-up?” I asked.
“The cradle will fit,” he replied. “But we should lash it down before we start driving.”
I winced as dirt-choked wind slashed against the stone box. “There’s no time,” I said. “Lower it in.”
Graham returned to the controls. The cradled reliquary settled onto the waiting flatbed. The rear tires dug an inch or two into the dirt. Then they halted.
I exhaled softly. “Give me some slack on those chains.”
Graham punched a few buttons. The chains sagged.
With Beverly’s help, I disconnected the chain hoist from the gantry system. We placed the chains onto the flatbed, taking care not to scratch the stone box. Then we hustled to the cab.
Beverly climbed into the driver’s seat. I helped Graham through the passenger door and climbed in after him.
Beverly released the parking brake and put the vehicle into motion. Spinning the wheel, she directed us toward the barn. It was tall, rising at least thirty feet over our heads.
As we drew near, the barn doors cracked. Straining her muscles, Lila pushed them all the way open. I caught a glimpse of her expression as Beverly drove us into the yawning interior. She looked furious.
Beverly hit the brakes. Graham and I hopped outside. The wind assailed the barn doors as we helped Lila pull them shut. More gusts of wind struck the barn’s sides as well as its roof. But the old building stood firm.
Lifting my goggles, I turned toward the dimly lit interior. The structure was large and filled with discarded farming equipment. I saw a dust-covered tractor, various tools, and bales of hay. More recent additions included the soil from the pit as well as piles of packing materials.
My gaze flitted to the reliquary. Fortunately, it didn’t look damaged. As I studied it, questions popped into my brain. What was inside it? Why did Lila want it so badly?
And why didn’t she want anyone to know about it?
Chapter 4
“What the hell is going on?” President Walters barked as he glared at the pretty face seated at the opposite side of the Resolute Desk. With neatly styled silver hair and a grave countenance, Wade Walters was widely considered a throwback to presidents of earlier eras.
Chief of Staff Melody Pierce brushed a strand of long blonde hair away from her bubbly face. Dressed in one of her trademark form-fitting business suits, she projected her usual mix of flirtation and professionalism. “Please bear in mind my report is preliminary, Mr. President. My people are still gathering information.”
Leaning over, she extracted a thick folder from her soft leather briefcase. She opened it up and began to shuffle through the papers. “As you know, large parts of Africa—especially the Sudan and Sahel regions—are semiarid. They depend heavily on the West African monsoon for precipitation. Unfo
rtunately, the monsoon failed to show up this year, resulting in starvation, epidemics, and looting.”
Long ago, the president had hardened his heart toward ordinary people. It was a necessity of his position. People died everyday under tragic circumstances and it just wasn’t practical to grieve all of them. “Sounds like perfect circumstances for chaos.”
“Exactly. The Sudan region is on the brink. Warlords are rapidly consolidating power.” Pierce hesitated. “Many people agree with them that, well …”
President Walters resisted the temptation to raise his voice. Pierce was a good woman and a loyal ally. Before dipping her toe into politics, she’d managed to kick start three successful businesses in two separate industries. But at thirty-eight years old, she was still quite young and, more often than not, afraid to be the bearer of bad news. “Spit it out, Melody.”
“They blame us for the situation, sir. And they’re not the only ones. Unusual weather phenomena—freak storms, droughts, and deluges—are happening everywhere. No one has made a public statement to this effect, but people across the globe are whispering amongst themselves. And for the most part, they’re blaming us.”
Senior Advisor Alex Foster cleared his throat. “Us?”
President Walters tilted his fine leather chair backward as he waited for Pierce’s response. He’d known Foster for years, all the way back to their undergraduate days at Yale. Foster was smart and came from a family with much influence in South Carolina’s political scene. On top of that, he was a valuable asset. His calm, methodical approach to politics made for a good counterbalance to the president’s more freewheeling style.
“They believe America’s lust for energy has brought the global climate to a dangerous tipping point,” Pierce said. “They’re worried that if we don’t change our ways soon, the results could be catastrophic … and permanent.”
The president arched an eyebrow.
“At the very least, we’re looking at rising global unrest,” Pierce continued. “Take the Sudan for example. People from all over the region are leaving their homes to join warlords. It’s not that they necessarily like the warlords. But the drought has left them with little choice. Unless the weather reverts to a more natural state in the near future, increased instability and even civil war are distinct possibilities.”
“I see. Well, please keep me apprised of the situation.”
“We really need to devote time to this issue, Mr. President. It goes much further than the Sudan. It could have—”
“I agree. It does deserve time, but not right now. As you know, we have our own environmental crisis.” President Walters glanced at Foster. “Speaking of which, do you have an update on the drought?”
“Yes, sir.” Foster pulled a file out of his briefcase. “The National Weather Service continues to report a severe drought across large parts of the continental United States. On average, the entire southwest, from southern California straight through Texas, has experienced a ninety-five percent decline in precipitation, year over year.”
The president shook his head. “Incredible.”
“Freshwater lakes are drying up across the country and we’re seeing significant increases in forest fires, heat waves, and dust storms. All things considered, it’s the worst drought since the Dust Bowl. And unfortunately, there’s no end in sight.”
Pierce crossed her legs, revealing a glimpse of her silk-encased thighs. “It’s climate change, pure and simple.” Her voice grew bolder. “We all know it. The question is whether or not we’re ready to do something about it.”
President Walters forced himself to ignore the slight bouncing of her legs. Her flirtatious manner always caused his heart to speed up. He longed for companionship, especially since his wife barely spoke to him these days. His devotion to his job, coupled with a casual fling with a White House intern, had damaged their relationship beyond repair. “It’s not about reality,” he replied. “It’s about perception. And unfortunately, the polls are clear on this point. The American public has yet to accept the science of manmade climate change as gospel.”
“Polling data is immaterial. All that matters is what’s best for the country, for the world.”
The president realized he was staring at her shiny lips. Swiftly, he averted his eyes. “Why do you think I pushed Congress to authorize the Columbus Project?”
“The Columbus Project is good, but it’s not enough. We need something bigger, something transformative.”
“Wheeling back the damage of modern civilization is no easy task. It’ll require massive changes to every level of society. I’m not sure the American people are ready to accept that.”
Foster grunted as his pocket buzzed. Reaching inside, he extracted his phone. He pressed the screen a few times. Then he turned his body, angling away from the conversation.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way.” Pierce swept a hand through her hair. “But great presidents don’t lose sleep over public opinion. They seek the best for their constituents, regardless of the political cost.”
A headache sprouted in the president’s skull. Gently, he rubbed his temples.
Winning the presidency was supposed to be the highlight of his political career. But after three years in office, his term had become a nightmare. His popularity had soured. Scandals of all shapes and sizes plagued his administration. Worst of all, the inexplicable weather situation had caused irreversible damage to his support base. Practically the entire United States was a disaster zone and unfortunately, FEMA’s response had been laughable at best.
“I know your feelings on the matter,” the president replied. “And believe me, I’m sympathetic. But my political capital is near zero. And even if I managed to get Congress on my side—a tall order, mind you—I’m not convinced a complete reworking of American society is the best move.”
Pierce pursed her lips.
“Holy …” Slowly, Foster lowered his phone. His body twisted toward the president. “I need a word in private, sir.”
“That’s fine.” Pierce gathered her belongings and stood up. “I was just leaving.”
Foster waited for her to exit the room. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “A big one.”
The president’s headache turned splitting. Again, he rubbed his temples. But this time, it didn’t help. “What now?”
Chapter 5
My throat felt sore and scratchy as I strode across the barn. Opening the truck door, I helped myself to a bottle of water.
Throwing back my head, I tilted the precious liquid into my mouth. It was warm, but felt cool and refreshing on my dry, chapped lips. I drank greedily for a few seconds. But it didn’t alleviate my thirst. Giving up, I recapped the bottle and tossed it back into the truck.
Shifting my gaze, I saw Lila. Her eyes were fixed upon the reliquary. “How’d we do?” I asked.
“You were supposed to put it into my truck,” she replied icily.
“We were trying to beat the storm.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“It would’ve taken too long to transfer it from the cradle to your vehicle. So, we just put the whole thing onto our flatbed.”
“How long will it take you to move it to my truck?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
Her face turned a bright pink. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not necessary. Just tell us where you want it and we'll drive it there.”
She rubbed her temples. “That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“It just won’t.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of it.” Pulling off my goggles, I glanced at Graham. “By the way, these work great. How long will the batteries last?”
“Eight hours without a charge,” he replied.
“How’d you squeeze night vision technology into such a small package?”
He grinned. “Trade secret.”
Suppressing a smile, I turned toward the piles of packing material. I
n the process, I saw a metal case. It sat by itself, away from everything else. “What’s that?” I asked.
Lila hurried in front of me. “It’s mine.”
“What is it?”
“None of your business.”
I arched an eyebrow.
She narrowed her gaze.
The back of my neck tingled. Something about her behavior bothered me. Technically, it was her dig. But I felt a responsibility to the reliquary all the same. “Out of my way.”
She stood her ground for a moment. Then she reluctantly stepped to the side.
I walked to the case. Gently, I ran my fingers over its metallic surface. It felt cool to the touch.
Slowly, I unlatched it. It popped open and I took a good look at its contents. “What the hell are you doing with C-4?”
“None of your business.” She snapped the case shut. “If you want to get paid—”
“Forget the money.” I crossed my arms. “What’s going on here?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I’d already figured it out.
She’s going to blow it up.
It fit the facts. Lila had acted out of character by eschewing publicity. She’d cared more about getting the reliquary out of the ground than keeping it in perfect condition. And she’d refused to let us transport it for her.
But it didn’t make sense. Why had she hired us to dig it up in the first place? And why would she want to blow up an old artifact?
“What about your team?” I asked. “Your research?”
She sighed. “For this dig, there’s no team, no research.”
“You lied to us?” Beverly frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t have time to explain. And honestly, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the whole story. But I have to destroy the reliquary. I have to destroy what’s inside it.”
I wanted to dismiss her as delusional. But her tone didn’t waver. Her face didn’t flinch. Deep down, I sensed she was telling the truth, or at least a version of it. “What’s inside—?”
“Cy.” Graham’s voice stretched across the barn. “Get over here.”
“Can it wait?”
