The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  "I need a shower and a shave," he said, as he ran his fingers through his hair.

  "That sounds like heaven," Alfred said, as he took a seat inside the shuttle.

  Claire selected the seat next to Alfred, while Nathan claimed the two in front of them, his leg draped across the other empty seat. Other passengers passed without seeming to notice and selected one of the many other seats available on the spacious shuttle bus.

  When all the passengers had boarded, the doors clamped shut and the vehicles departed, the train's pacing far less precise than the one that had brought them all to the airport so many countless miles ago. The shuttles traveled along a sharp network of sculpted roads that ultimately devolved into dirt paths which could barely be called roads at all. The passengers held tightly, as the vehicles plunged over large water-filled holes, driving up great curtains of brown sludge that spread high and outward before spattering apart against oddly-barked exotic trees.

  Soon, the wildwood closed in around them, blotting away the sky before finally swallowing it whole. The headlights on the vehicles came to life; while unfamiliar bestial noises popped and shrieked in the not-so far away distance. As they burrowed deeper into the forest's heart, branches lashed out at the vehicles, breaking off at the windshield and stealing away some of the body paint. The passengers flinched at the sound of each metallic bong, the vehicles skidding left to right against the muddy earth.

  "Where in the hell are we going?" Nathan whispered.

  "Into a tropical forest of some sort, it appears," said Alfred, his hands clutching the cushion of his chair.

  A crack of thunder shot across the unseen sky and rumbled into the distance. Droplets of rain followed almost immediately, slapping against huge leaves and pattering the roof overhead. Nathan showed gritting teeth as the vehicle jerked violently against a sudden void in the road. "Any idea where we are?"

  "Somewhere south of the equator," Claire said.

  "How do you know?" Nathan asked.

  "I noted the sun's position in the sky when we landed."

  Suddenly the vehicle before them stopped in the middle of the road, its taillights burning red through droplets of dark mud. Alfred looked out the window.

  "Something's going on."

  "What is it?" Claire asked, but no one answered. "What is it?" she whispered.

  "It's men," Alfred said. "Men with guns."

  Nathan put his head out the window and quickly jerked it back inside.

  "He's right. There are at least six on this side, all with machine guns."

  Outside, the men fanned out around the vehicles, some barking orders to others in an unfamiliar tongue.

  "What are they speaking?" Alfred asked.

  "Portuguese," said Claire.

  She passed a glance at one of the men through the window, his face heavily whiskered and bleeding sweat. Another man approached and stood next to him, each dressed in matching green fatigues, semi-automatic machine guns in their hands. The two exchanged words as they peered into the forest, their eyes wide and seemingly concerned.

  "What are they looking at?" Alfred asked, but no one knew, the other passengers trying to see the men without being noticed.

  The driver of the shuttle turned and stood.

  "Please, you must go now," he said in broken English.

  Everyone looked at each other but no one stood. The driver pulled the lever and the door swung open.

  "Please," he said. "Go now."

  No one moved despite his request, most every seatbelt still securely fastened, the driver looking at them all through uncertain eyes. Nathan stood and raised his finger.

  "Shut that door," he said.

  The driver looked at the door and then back to the American.

  "Shut it."

  The man shook his head and turned the lever, the door pressing shut, the other passengers closing their windows until the noise from outside reduced to a mutter.

  "What do we do?" Claire asked, but she already knew the answer.

  "I don't know that we have much choice but to sit still and hope our Mr. Romero can talk these people away," Alfred said.

  They all waited in silence, the beat of the rain steady, like countless fingertips softly drumming atop the roof. While they sat, their heated breath fogged the windows until the outside world disappeared, its affairs seemingly distant and unreal.

  Outside, the gunmen traded words, their conversations deliberate and slow. The passengers huddled silently, hearts throbbing violently within their chests. After a few moments, Nathan lifted from his seat.

  "What are you doing?" Another passenger asked, but Nathan didn't answer. Instead, he moved toward a window and used his finger to trace an eyelet in the condensation.

  "What do you see?" Alfred asked. Nathan held up a finger and pushed his eye to the window. Outside, the gunmen busily emptied the other shuttles and lined the passengers alongside their vehicles, the rain picking up, mud hungrily sucking the soles of their dress shoes.

  "They're taking the others from the shuttles, lining them up outside," he said.

  A woman gasped and the other passengers quickly subdued her. Almost immediately, there came a hard banging against the shuttle door.

  Without looking at the passengers, the driver turned the lever and the door swung open. The passengers stiffened as Romero stepped inside.

  "I'm sorry for the surprise, my friends, but you must all exit the vehicle and join your colleagues outside." He took a step down before turning back. "Come on, now. Everything is perfectly alright. You have no reason to fear."

  After hesitating for a moment longer, they detached their safety belts and shuffled toward the door. Outside, the rain drops seemed to fall in slow motion, before fracturing at last into countless water beads which melted against soil and clothing alike. Romero handed out green vinyl ponchos to each person as he or she exited the vehicle.

  "Please, join the others," he said, as they slipped the rain gear on and pulled the hoods over their heads. When they'd all fallen in together, Romero stood before them and cleared his throat.

  "Everyone, please, may I have your attention," he said. "I'm truly sorry for the inconvenience, but we must abandon these vehicles and travel afoot a short distance."

  He pointed toward the gunmen, who were busy peering into the woods, rifle barrels pointing through gaps between trees.

  "These men will be our protection as we make our journey," he said. "Without arising unnecessary fear, I can say they are an important defense against the potential dangers associated with the geography we currently occupy." He looked at their shoes. "I understand most of you are ill-equipped for this type of journey; however, we don't have the time to remedy this problem, so you will have to make do with what you have."

  He turned and motioned one of the gunmen over. They spoke for a moment and then the man began walking up the road.

  "Please follow me," Romero said. "You will all be well-served to trace the footsteps of the person before you. And please be kind enough to offer a helping hand to those who have difficulty staying up with the rest."

  With that, he turned to go, adjusting his stride so his feet placed neatly in the lead gunman's water-filled tracks. Without speaking, the others followed suit, the rain popping against their ponchos and making a racket in their ears.

  Overhead, the tall trees seemed to grow together to form a tunnel that choked out the light while disrupting the rainfall not at all. Beneath their waving branches, the men and women walked in a line with their heads down, eyes focused only on the path, minds calculating each and every step. As they plunged their feet into the existing steps, the foot holes grew deeper and deeper, until the mud tore the women's footwear from their feet, its suction greedily clutching the soles as they stopped to wrestle them free. Soon, most walked on bare feet, the road peppered with pricey pumps and loafers that jutted from the soppy ground like little hollow relics, as if the wearers had vanished without explanation, leaving only their shoes to declare
they'd existed at all.

  An elderly man buckled, his knees coming down hard against the ground. He struggled to his feet and moved on, only to go down again a few steps later. Nathan rushed forward and helped him to his feet.

  "I'm afraid I can't manage this," the old man said, his fear concealed behind a thick pair of fogged eyeglass lenses. Nathan looked back at Claire and Alfred.

  "Go ahead," he said. "I'll catch up."

  They approached, their faces painted with concern.

  "How can we help?" Alfred asked.

  Nathan reached into his coat and removed a small pocketknife.

  "Just keep up with the rest," he said. "I'll catch up." He looked at the old man. "Wait here a moment."

  He slogged through the mud and stumbled onto the thicket's grassy edge. Claire and Alfred gave the old man a nod before moving forward, all the others growing distant in the murky curtain of drizzle before them.

  They trod through the sucking muck, their figures swallowed up by the fog that lifted from the road. Through the rain, they heard nothing, not the birds, the strange noises from before, not the gunmen or even the sound of their own panting. The mud grew loose and deep, and they forced their quivering legs along, each one leaning against the other's body, pulling and pushing as necessary, not a sign of anyone before them, nor anyone behind.

  Finally, Alfred stopped.

  "I'm sorry, my dear; you will have to go on ahead."

  "I won't hear of it, Alfred. Now, let's go."

  He sat in the mud.

  "I can't. These old bones just won't let me."

  Claire sat on the ground beside him.

  "I'm not going to leave you."

  They waited.

  "Will they be coming back?" Alfred asked.

  She put her arm over his shoulder and they leaned in together.

  "Surely," she said.

  Claire looked through the rain at all the lavish growth flowing in the wind, the tremendous leaves innumerable, tiny rivers flowing brown in the alleys alongside the road. As the water puddled around them, thunder rolled overhead, as if God impatiently thrummed the heavens at wait for their next move.

  At last, they sat in the road, feet aching, skin made fragile by soggy shoes, peeling away in spots, stinging. Someone approached from behind and Claire turned to see the old man, his arm around Nathan's waist, a crude walking stick in the other.

  "No time for a break," Nathan said.

  Claire stood while Alfred regarded the old man's cane.

  "Cut me one of those, and I'll see what I can do," he said.

  An hour later, they crossed out of the fog to see Romero crouched over the ground, a small stick in his hand, linear patterns carved into the soil. To his right sat a pair of large armored military buses, their engines idling,

  "I'm relieved to see you," he said, unconvincingly. He nodded toward the woods, and a pair of gunmen exited the thicket. "These men have kept a watchful eye on you; however, they are only being paid to protect and not to aid. Forgive me for your plight, but as I told the other passengers, we are taking special measures to ensure that we do not fall victim to opportunistic parties."

  He walked over to one of the bus's giant tires and used the edge to cleave mud from his boot.

  "Please," he said. "Join your colleagues. You will find towels and water inside."

  As they entered the bus, each received a towel and a large bottle of water, which they nearly emptied on sight. As they moved through the aisle, they passed numerous weary faces, gaunt and timid and streaked with crusted mud that had given away its earthy tones and settled to an ashy gray. They found plenty of open seats near the middle of the bus and settled together, Claire and Alfred on one side of the aisle, Nathan and the old man the other. Nathan turned backward and addressed a pair of stupefied women.

  "What did we miss?"

  One of the women looked up and scratched a flake of mud from below her ear.

  "He didn't really say anything. Just told us to get on the bus, take a towel."

  Nathan nodded and turned around.

  "May I ask your name, good sir?

  The old man smiled.

  "My name is Arnold."

  He lifted his water and drank, his hand trembling. Nathan waited while the old man lowered the bottle and used his sleeve to dry his mouth.

  "Thank you so much for your kindness," Arnold said. "I was once a formidable athlete, I'm ashamed to say. But in life, you lose things."

  Alfred leaned over.

  "I can relate, my friend," he said. "I once ran track and field, but I can hardly imagine moving that quickly anymore."

  Arnold nodded. "Time has a quick hand, so it seems."

  The bus began moving, its giant tires churning the soil and spitting up mud.

  "I'm sorry. I haven't learned your names," Arnold said.

  They introduced themselves and traded handshakes.

  "Are you feeling alright," Claire asked. "Would you like some of my water?"

  Alfred smiled and held up his hand.

  "No, dear, thank you. I'll be fine. I just need to rest. Perhaps we can pick up our conversation when we arrive at wherever it is we are going."

  She nodded, and they left him to rest against the wall of the bus, his towel wadded into a makeshift pillow.

  Nathan leaned toward the aisle.

  "This whole thing is getting out of hand," he whispered.

  Alfred nodded.

  "Agreed. But I don't know what means we have to alter our course."

  Claire scratched the mud from her calves.

  "I agree with Alfred. It's only practical to wait and see what happens."

  Nathan lifted his head and rubbed the stubble beneath his chin.

  "I'll feel better when I can cut this down, have a shower."

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, the old man asleep, whistling through his nose. Alfred slept, as well; while Claire and Nathan watched the scenery blow past through pink, wired eyes that advertised concern.

  Two hours later, the buses breached the forest's perimeter and spilled out onto a long road that divided rambling fields of sugar cane. Almost immediately the rain ceased, the sun boring forth, as if to welcome them from their journey through a dark and ancient land. The light evoked a stirring amongst the passengers, who climbed to their feet and gazed out the windows. Outside, they saw rows of plants flowing under the sunlight, the leafy blades bright green and whipping all around in the wind.

  They continued through the fields, the ground turning hard and choppy, the chugging tires jolting the passengers for several miles. Finally, the buses climbed out of the fields and onto a stretch of flat, combed land. Soon, structures began to appear: silos, water towers and large storage buildings surrounded by tall electrified fences. Several miles later, they saw the coast appear in the distance, the water glinting brightly under the sun as it roiled against long away sands.

  An hour later, they reached their destination, the buses slowing and then stopping before a gate, which gave access through a chain-linked fence that spanned the outer edges of what appeared to be a massive concrete dome. Security personnel guarded the entry, automatic weapons firm in their hands. Romero exited his bus and gave one of the guards a glossy little card. The man looked it over, his face broad, square and expressionless. He raised his hand and swung it forward and the gates drew open so the buses could pass through.

  The dome sat at least 500 yards inside the gate, and as they approached, its mass seemed to both rise and expand, the passengers pressing their faces against their windows to get a better look at its size.

  "This just keeps getting stranger," Alfred said.

  "I agree," said Claire.

  As they approached the dome, more armed men appeared and the buses settled to a stop. Once again, Romero exited and showed his card, the guards nodding and then returning to their posts. Romero signaled the drivers, who opened the bus doors.

  "Please exit carefully," Romero shouted.

 
; The passengers flowed from the buses and gathered outside.

  "We'll now be entering the enclosure," Romero said. "Please form a line."

  One of the soldiers approached a keypad mounted on the side wall next to a metal door. He typed something and the door popped open to reveal a steel grid walkway that led inside through a narrow hall toward a large elevator door. One by one, everyone entered and walked toward the elevator, their shoes and bare feet slapping hollowly against the cold metal below.

  "Excuse me," Romero said, as he squeezed between them and approached another keypad positioned just to the right of the elevator. He typed something and the doors separated to reveal a large platform. "Please enter."

  When all had done so, Romero typed against yet another keypad and the doors closed. The elevator dropped rapidly and without sound, a tickling in their stomachs upon its descent. Seconds later, they came to a stop and the doors opened to reveal an elaborately decorated lobby stocked with plush-looking couches, which were buttressed by end tables supporting stacks of varying genres of magazines. Directly in front of them, about 80 feet away, a very tall, beautiful woman sat behind a large curved receptionist desk, her attention fixed downward, hand furiously writing.

  "Please exit," Romero said, and when they all had, the woman raised her head and smiled.

  "Welcome," she said, as she pushed a stack of documents aside and moved to join them.

  Romero held his hand out.

  "This is Gretchen, and she will attend to all your needs during your stay at the spa."

  The guests exchanged looks, as the lofty woman approached.

  "For the next two weeks, you will reside here at our spa," Romero said. "During this time, you will be allowed access to a variety of relaxation services and recreational activities. The purpose of this time is to acquaint you with your new responsibilities, while providing you the opportunity to acclimate to your new surroundings and familiarize with your co-workers."

  He turned to Gretchen and nodded.

  "I'm very pleased to have you all here," she said, eyes gleaming and impossibly blue. "Here at our spa, we provide the best of everything. Should you need anything of any sort, you are to visit me or one of our other recreational therapists, understood?"