by Tara Ellis
I have no idea how long I’m in this position, weeping quietly. When I finally open my eyes, I’m wrapped up in the same fluffy comforter Mom had given me at the meteor shower. This brings on a fresh course of emotions and I am about to close my eyes again when I notice a book that is practically under my face. Pushing up onto my elbows, I look at it.
Sure enough, it’s Dad’s book. I have no idea how it could have gotten here. Thinking back, I’m almost positive I put it back in its hiding place this morning and I don’t think my temper tantrum took me into the closet. Looking at it more closely, I see that it’s open to the page where my dad carefully drew out the vulture in pencil. The vulture.
Accepting the fact that this is the new normal, I sit cross-legged and try to figure out what it is Dad’s trying to tell me. I’m not alone. He’s with me, I know it with all my heart. Chris is there too, and willing to help. What is absolutely clear is that I’m not doing anyone any good lying here crying on my bedroom floor.
Wiping my face on the blanket, I push down all those raw emotions. I’m sixteen, practically an adult. My little brother is counting on me to take care of him and it seems that Dad had enough faith in me to trust me with whatever this is all about.
I reach out and pick up one of the pads of paper and pens that are now littering my bedroom floor. Across the top, I draw out some lines making three columns. At the top of each column, I write: Holocene meteor shower, weird stuff and vulture.
I start with the meteor shower. Under the heading, I start making notes: every five thousand years, Dad very interested, Dad knew something was going to happen afterwards, mentioned to Mom when dying, happened same night as flu starts, much more intense than scientists said it would be, was strongest in our region, meteors crashed near town.
Then under the weird stuff: Flu, Mom not acting like herself, more than being sick? Missy won’t talk to me, spreading like wildfire through country, highest contagion rate in history? Dad’s book, dream, whispers, Baxter acting strange, something is “off.”
Finally, I come to the vulture: the drawing in the book, in my dream, whispered to me, I have seen it somewhere else before. In this house?
I pause, pen poised over the paper. I have? Yes, I have. I know I have and not in a book, either, but on something. Something of Dad’s, something … I jump to my feet.
“Something I’ve touched!” I say out loud, running for my door, tripping over pillows as I go.
Going to Dad’s office, I can hear a loud video game being played in the family room. Content that Jacob is accounted for, I open the door and go inside, closing it behind me. Turning on the main light, I stand staring at the rifles on the wall in the same spot they were the other day.
Crossing the room quietly, I carefully lift the top one down. The one Dad taught me how to shoot with, the one with the elaborate carvings on the wooden stock. Pointing the muzzle down, I hold the stock up to the light to inspect the lines. Among other stick animals and patterns there is the hieroglyph of a vulture.
My heart beating faster, I tip the rifle upside down and look at the end of the butt. Yes, there is an endplate held in place by two tiny screws.
Going to the desk, I rummage through the drawers until I come up with a small Phillips screwdriver. Slowly, I unscrew them, making sure not to strip them. Once both are removed, I tug on the cap and it comes off easily in my hand.
Nicely folded and tucked away in the small hollowed- out stock, is an old piece of paper. Hardly believing my luck, I pull it out and immediately put it in my back pocket. My heart slamming to the point that I’m sure it’ll be heard in the next room, I replace the endplate as fast as I can. Not sure why I feel such an urgency to cover my tracks, I place the rifle back on the wall and turn out the light, leaving the office in a hurry.
Once in the hallway my heart rate begins to slow, and as I get control of my breathing, I realize I’m nearly hyperventilating. Sweaty and a little dizzy, I go to the kitchen for some water, noting that Mom’s bedroom door is still closed.
With glass in hand, I walk through to the family room to check on Jake. Acutely aware of the paper in my pocket, I still feel a need to make sure he’s okay.
I find him sprawled out on the couch, this time chasing mushrooms and jumping on stars, with Baxter snuggled up to his side. He raises his big brown doggie eyes as I walk up, and then whimpers at me. It’s an odd sound, a mixture of his begging for food and “I want outside” plea. It’s as if he isn’t sure how he should feel, either. Relating to his inner conflict, I lovingly rub his ears and tell him again that he’s a good dog. This settles him a bit and he lays his head back on Jacob’s legs.
“I’m hungry, Alex, when are you gonna make the pizza?”
Well his appetite is normal, so that’s a good thing. Looking at the clock, I’m surprised to see that it’s already close to five. “I’ll put it in now. We can eat in half an hour. Does that sound good to you?”
“Sure,” he answers, groaning when he apparently loses his last life. “How’s Mom?” Setting the controller aside, he seems troubled about asking the question. Like he already knows the answer, but doesn’t want to hear it.
“She’s getting over the flu, but I don’t know if she’s up to having dinner with us. I’ll ask her.” Smiling, I try to seem upbeat. I told him the truth … just not everything. He must be satisfied with the answer because he goes back to his game.
After pre-heating the oven, I place the pizza in to cook and find some frozen garlic bread to stick in with it. I definitely have to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I decide to try to talk with Mom again, see if she wants to eat with us.
I turn on the hall light as I go, pushing back against the darkness that is already starting to fill the house. At her bedroom door, I knock again before opening it.
The curtains are drawn to block the fading sunshine outside, and the TV is off. My shadow stretches across the floor, projected by the light behind me. I can barely make out her shape in the bed. “Mom?” I whisper, not wanting to wake her if she is really asleep.
Slowly, she turns towards me, and I gasp as her eyes meet mine. In the gloom, I could swear that they’re reflecting the light back at me! It’s almost as if they’re shining like the eyes of a cat. Taking an unsteady step backwards, I rub at my own eyes, convinced that I must be mistaken. Blinking sleepily at me, I’m held captive by her gaze until she lies back in the bed and her glowing eyes disappear.
TEN
Three hours later, I’m finally alone in my room. Jacob is tucked away in bed watching a movie with Baxter on duty as guard. I’m amazed that I made it through dinner and a couple of hours of mindless re-runs.
It seems that all the normal programming has been changed to last year’s episodes without explanation. The news hour was limited to what’s new in Hollywood as of last month, the weather, and very little new info on the flu. Only that it’s “wide-spread.” I noticed the newsman looked quite sick.
Finally unable to take it anymore, I had ushered Jacob to bed early and escaped. I kept touching my pocket to make sure the faint outline of paper was still there, like it would disappear.
Now that I have the privacy I need to examine the note, I’m a little scared. I have this feeling that I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and that once I take this next step, there’s no turning back.
I’ve almost convinced myself that what I saw earlier was my imagination. Almost. I’m sure there must be some logical explanation, like a play of light or something. My mind can’t grasp any other possibilities and recognizing that I’m at my limit, I decide to put off thinking about Mom until tomorrow, in the daylight.
I take my time in re-making the bed, arranging the pillows on it and folding the extra blankets. Turning my attention to the mess on the floor, I put everything back in its place on the desk. I need some order if I’m going to keep my sanity.
Making myself comfortable in the pile of pillows, my back against the wall,
I take a deep breath and take the paper out of my pocket. I start to unfold it but stop, unable to get over my unease about the unlocked door. I’m convinced it’s going to open at any moment. Jacob might have Baxter, but I’m all alone.
Making up my mind, I jump up and go to the desk. Grabbing the straight-backed wooden chair, I drag it across the floor. It’s an old one I found at a yard sale a few years ago. Mom thought it was horrendous, but I love the antique, heavy wooden frame. I added a nice big overstuffed seat cushion and it was perfect for my room. Now, as I wedge it under my doorknob, I’m extra thankful I had made the purchase.
Feeling better, I go back to the bed and settle in again. Pulling at the corners of the browning, thick paper, the first thing I see is what looks like an old wooden coin nestled in the middle. Picking it up, I hold it under the lamp on my nightstand so I can see it better. It is wooden, but definitely not a regular coin. It looks to be incredibly old. It’s almost a quarter inch thick, flat, smooth on one side, and expertly carved on the other. The carving is raised, like it could be used to make an imprint or something. I carefully study the picture and although old, it is still distinguishable. A pyramid is in the background, all three corners touching the edge and slightly raised. Inside the pyramid, looking out at me is an intricate skull, the eyes filled with radiating lines like sunshine. Numerous lines also go out from the pyramid in all directions seeming to represent light. There is a small hole in the top of the pyramid and I imagine it’s meant to be worn as a necklace. Perplexed, I set it gingerly aside, finish opening the paper, and set it in front of me, pressing out the creases. I recognize the handwriting immediately as my father’s and begin reading:
Alexis, I’m writing this for you in case something happens and I’m unable to carry this out myself. If you are, in fact, reading this then it means you were able to decipher my first message. I apologize for the secrecy but it is necessary. It also means that I am gone and for that I am so sorry, but know that I will never really leave you.
I’m afraid that I still can’t give you any real information. If I did and it was read by anyone other than you, the consequences could be catastrophic for the world.
Alexis, you must understand that you cannot trust anyone who is or has been sick. No one. The flu outbreak will be the result of a virus carried here by the Holocene meteor shower. It was carefully designed and its intent is evil.
Don’t give up Alex, I love you-
Dad
Yup. Down, down the rabbit hole I go. No stopping now. Closing my eyes against the rising panic, I will the room to stop spinning and take deep slow breaths. I picture the fishing hole, sunshine reflecting off the surface, birds chirping happily. Back to a time when things were right and I felt safe.
The imagery works and once I feel in control I open my eyes. The note and medallion are still there. It’s real. Reading it again, it’s less shocking and so I read it a third time, and then a fourth.
The implication of what it says weighs heavily on me. He knew he might die, which tells me that his death probably wasn’t random. He obviously felt that whatever it was he knew would have an effect on the whole world. Well, I put that thought aside to come back to. I don’t have any possibilities for what it means right now.
The one thing made clear is that the meteor shower and the flu are connected. This actually makes me grin as I think back to Saturday when Jacob, in his childish wisdom, had already figured it out. Maybe I was wrong to not involve him from the beginning.
My grin quickly fades as I consider his warning. So my instincts were right. This flu virus is doing more than making people sick; it’s changing them. Its intent is evil. How? What is it doing?
Running my fingers through my hair, I focus on the ceiling, searching for answers. He wouldn’t be leading me on this path except for one of two reasons: to protect me and help me get away from it, or he knows how to fight it.
His words indicate that other people were searching for the knowledge he had and were willing to kill for it. This tells me that it’s more important than protecting me. Catastrophic for the world. No, this isn’t just about me.
With a newfound resolve I look at the rest of the note, which consists of a string of hieroglyphics:
I’m at a loss. While one of the pictures looks like a man with a bow and another one a bird, I have no idea what the other pictures are or what any of them represent. Dad had explained to me what hieroglyphics were: the alphabet for Ancient Egyptians. It dates back to more than 5,000 years ago. There are ones used for straight translations, some that are phonic and others that are grouped together to mean different things. But I certainly don’t know how to read it.
Of course, Dad would have known that. I’m thinking he chose ones that will be easy to figure out. However, anyone with the right book or a computer could do the same thing, so I’m guessing that whatever it “says” is meant to mean something only to me.
Sighing, I become resolved to the fact that I am bound to be frustrated. But I get up anyways and go to the computer, not wanting to wait until tomorrow to look these up. I pull over a big beanbag from a corner to replace the chair.
First, I try to again to log on to my social account with the hope that I can contact Missy. The same message flashes up and I’m not surprised. I check my email and see that the inbox is empty. Curious, I hop back onto the conspiracy message board. Normally incredibly active, I’m alarmed to see that most of the threads are almost a day old and it’s been hours in between some of the responses. For some reason this change really hits home for me how widespread this is.
I don’t have the patience right now to read through any of it, but I take note that it might end up as a great resource for getting un-filtered information from other people around the world.
A quick search takes me to a site packed full of Egyptian hieroglyphics and their meanings. But what had seemed like an easy enough task is apparently much more involved than I thought. The vulture is the only common one. It’s the equivalent to the A in our alphabet and can also refer to “mother,” “queen,” or in ancient Sumerian times “father.” Hmmmm … I know which one I’m going with.
The other pictures are not so obvious. It takes me about two hours and several other websites, but I finally have what I think to be a pretty accurate translation scribbled out:
I spend another half an hour searching through various combinations of images that include pyramids and skulls. When I don’t come up with anything useful, I throw in the word wooden coin, then medallion and carving. While there are a whole lot of interesting things, there’s nothing even close to the medallion I’m holding. My eyes burning, I turn off the computer and get my pajamas on as the words tumble around in my head. Chosen, to go out; leave, mountains, forest, archer, duck in flight, burial.
I dig around in my jewelry box until I come up with an old necklace on a long chain. I remove the worthless pendant and string it through the medallion. I slip it over my head, and feeling the weight of it against my chest, somehow makes me feel closer to my dad.
I check in on Jake, who is asleep with the TV on. Turning it off, I make sure the small light in his closet is on and the door ajar. It isn’t technically a night light, but he gets panicked if he wakes up in the dark.
Baxter watches me as I move around the room and licks my hand when I pull the covers up around Jacob’s chest. I reach out to pet his head, but then decide I need a doggy hug instead. I spend a few minutes there cheek to cheek, silently soaking up his calming, unlimited love.
By the time I get back to my room and wedge the chair back under the handle, I am beyond tired. Falling into bed, I hug one of my pillows to me and press my face into it. A headache is threatening in my forehead and I know the stress is catching up with me.
Just as I had suspected, the message doesn’t mean anything to me … yet. I’m determined to figure it out and I know Dad chose those images for a reason.
I’m looking forward to seeing Chris in the morning and showi
ng him everything I discovered. I had thought about texting him but Dad’s warning has gotten me very paranoid. Better to be on the cautious side I think and not do or say anything over the phone or internet. This is best explained in person anyways.
The creaking of a door out in the hall reaches me and I sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake. Tiptoeing to the door, I press an ear against it. It would be very unusual for Jake to get up.
I hear soft footsteps on the carpeted floor heading towards the kitchen. There is the unmistakable sound of dishes and glassware banging around and then more footsteps coming back.
Silence. Bent over at the waist, my back screaming now in protest, I am frozen with my head up against the door. I have a vivid image of Mom standing out there, paused in the doorway to her own room. I know without a doubt that she is there, and that she is also aware of my presence.
After what seems like an eternity, the door creaks again and then closes. Muffled sounds of the television seep out into the night and I relax enough to go back to bed.
Grasping the same pillow as before, but very tightly, I pull a blanket up over my head like I used to as a little girl. Leaving an opening just large enough to let in fresh air, I lay in the darkness and wait for morning to come.
ELEVEN
Sometime during the night, I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know the much-awaited sunshine is bathing my pillow. The blanket is off my face, probably pulled down at some point when I was unable to breathe. The raw fear of the night before has faded, but it remains as a dull ache in the pit of my stomach.
Looking at the clock, I see that I even slept in, since I didn’t have to turn the alarm on the night before. It’s almost eight. Deciding I may as well get up, I put my sweats on and remove the chair from in front of the door.
