Chess Players: Atlantis and the Mockingbird

by DeVaughn, A. P.

  Standing in front of a rust-stained metal door, the older man unlocks it. It creeks as he pulls it open, thick as a bank vault. He steps inside. Concrete stairs descend into darkness. He walks down the stairs and opens another door, sipping his coffee as he walks down the stairs of the bunker.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” the stout, dark-haired man says to the dozen or so men inside the dim and musky room. He walks to the far end of the bunker, passing through consoles, large machines, and communication equipment manned by young men. He stands beside a tall red-haired man wearing a black beret, a blond-haired man with a face of full, golden, low-cut whiskers wearing a silver revolver on his waist, and an elderly white-haired man in an overcoat and top hat. They face an armored window that looks out on a seaside pier that’s a few hundred yards out.

  The black-haired man approaches the white-haired one. “Lord Lucrea’us, I’ve just come from base and everything is in place.”

  “Wonderful job, Lord Lued,” says Lucrea’us.

  Each man peers through a pair of binoculars, observing a large frigate one mile offshore. The younger men move about the bunker, manning radio equipment and other machinery.

  “Sir, the vessel is in place. Waiting for command to proceed with Rainbow,” says a private standing in front of radar and other machines.

  “Proceed,” says Lued.

  “Proceed with Rainbow!” shouts the private into the radio.

  “Okay, gentlemen, let’s see how our hard work has paid off,” says Lucrea’us.

  The morning fog dissipates as the sun breaks through.

  In the distance the frigate sits, gently listing in the cool breeze. Three service boats circle the frigate.

  “Sequence one commencing,” says the private.

  A light hum carries throughout the bunker, rattling the dark-haired man’s mug, spilling some coffee. Unaffected by the hum, the men look on with their binoculars held tight to their eyes.

  “Sequence two commencing,” the private shouts.

  Dust and small rocks outside of the bunker begin to swirl and levitate, suspended a few feet in midair, then all the dirt clashes together, making small popping sounds.

  “Incredible,” says the blond-haired man.

  “Increasing power,” shouts the private over the loud humming.

  Building in intensity, the humming grows increasingly louder. The entire bunker begins to shake violently, making dust and mortar fall from the ceiling.

  The ocean around the frigate begins to churn as if boiling, whipping the seawater into a milky froth. A light mist begins to rise and surround the vessel.

  “Rainbow now at full power and at critical mass, sir!” shouts the private, fighting the deafening hum.

  The men begin to lose their balance inside of the bunker. The floor shakes, and a large crack shoots up the wall near the window. Grasping onto tables and each other, the men try not to fall over. The window shatters, spraying shards of glass and dirt. Yet they look on.

  The ship is totally encased in the ocean mist and begins to flicker a multitude of colors. Beams of sunlight coming from the clouds begin to fold and bend toward the ship. Suddenly from the base of the ship a green aura slowly envelops the entire frigate. The aura thrusts up from the ocean’s surface and then cascades back down and pulsates, like a heartbeat. Crackling booms of thunder reverberate from the ship, producing two-foot waves from the vessel that crash onto the pier and beach. The crackling booms are heard every few seconds and speed up in frequency and intensity. Then there is just one ear-shattering sound that ends in a blinding green flash that collapses on itself. Strong hurricane-like winds permeate from where the vessel once was, knocking everyone in the bunker off of their feet. Nothing but the rippling ocean is left where the vessel once was, along with a rainbow from the morning sun refracting off of the hundred-foot mist of water where the ship once was.

  “Astounding,” whispers Lucrea’us, regaining his equilibrium and dusting himself off.

  “Observation tower, status?” Lued speaks into the radio.

  “Sir, Rainbow is not appearing on radar. The observation boats say there is not a trace of Rainbow at all. It’s completely gone, sir. Over.”

  The men look at each other with excitement and disbelief.

  “Find it immediately!” Lued commands.

  Just then, a blinding light appears where the ship once was and the crackling booms return as the ocean swells and the hurricane winds rip through the bunker. The green aura blooms, and, with one large boom, the vessel reappears, bobbing up and down in the disturbed water as the mist comes down like rain drops.

  With wet faces and dusty clothes and hair, the men look toward the water with awe and amazement.

  “We need to find out what happened, Lord Lued,” says the red-haired man as he quickly gathers his composure.

  “Indeed, Lord Bui,” says Lued, “there are more details at the command center. Let us go, brothers and my lord.”

  The four men leave the bunker and board an open jeep that takes the men fifteen minutes up the coast to the command center that appears to be a dry dock where ships are built and repaired.

  “What happened out there?” asks Lued, storming through the facility.

  “I, I don’t know, sir. Status is still uncertain,” says a fearful private.

  “Sir!” another private shouts, “there was an unidentified ship located off of the coast of Georgia.”

  “Georgia? How can it travel over a thousand miles in less than twenty seconds?” asks Lued.

  “Sir, the readings are correct. It’s Rainbow. Seems that it was first spotted twelve seconds before the project began. I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Send a rescue party for the men on board and a team of scientists to record the data on the ship. I need exact details of what happened,” says Lued.

  “Everyone, you are all sworn to silence, and anyone who ranks less than lieutenant leave the room—now!” screams Lucrea’us. All of the younger men scramble out of the room quickly. “Gentlemen, this is unexpected, yet a blessing,” he says with a smile. “The forefathers of the Original Seven have shined their light upon us. This is truly a glorious day indeed.”

  “What do you mean?” Draak says, stroking his blond whiskers.

  Walking to a window that overlooks the water where the experiment took place, Lucrea’us stands peering out to the ocean. “We have witnessed the beginning,” he says, clasping his wrists behind his back. “The beginning of realizing our philosopher’s stone coming to fruition. The gift that we have been seeking since the dawn of time. The gift that the Original Seven and what we have been searching for since our first men rebelled against the old gods when they asked the question. It will take some time, but our efforts will not be irrelevant. The vision that has been passed down to me shall be realized within the next few decades, and we will have matured into our true nature, our true form—gods.”

  The other three men stare at each other in confusion. “My lord,” Bui says, “do you mean—”

  “Yes,” Lucrea’us interrupts, turning around with a grin on his face. “We have just discovered immortality. Now, I have foreseen this in my meditations, and now that they have come to pass, there are certain directives that must be carried out, no matter the costs. Red Horse, you shall be the one in charge of the entire scientific operation. Black Horse, you shall oversee logistics and acquire as many subsidiaries as possible in other parts of the world to conduct any operation needed for the experiments. You will also build a private army and use our friends of the Cabal to notify the world leaders that the time is now, for what we shall acquire must be protected at all times. Give Red Horse everything he needs. Pale Horse, my friend, I will need you here with me, for if the project isn’t finished before it’s too late, then I will need you to carry on the vision as my body weakens with age. I want you all to get down to the ship immediately to retrieve data from the experiment and get to work at once.”

  “Yes, my lord,” says Draak, �
��I am at your command. But, what about her, Lucrea’us, my lord?”

  “Ah, yes, her,” Lucrea’us says. “Human impulses have led her astray, but she is still one of us. No matter what she does, she is still mine, understood?”

  All of the men nod in agreement.

  Arriving at the naval base a few miles from the bunker, Black Horse sends two boats out to the frigate that supposedly disappeared.

  “Magnus,” says Lued to a young cadet, “send word immediately when the observation boats return.”

  “Yes, sir!” the gangly cadet replies with a salute and he rushes out of the room.

  “My friend.” Lued turns to Bui. “Let’s hope that this is what our lord wants. I don’t want to see him angry.”

  “Indeed,” Bui replies.

  Chapter 3: A Rose and its Thorns

  “Children, have a seat!”

  It’s Biel’s class.

  I walk in and she’s breathing flames from her mouth, yelling at kids about them not getting in their seats fast enough and other ridiculous banter.

  She’s a tall woman. About five ten, toned, and square shouldered. Her brownish red hair falls just below her jaw line with ugly bangs that dangle just above her black-framed glasses. She always wears skirts with heavy stockings and multi-colored blouses that are for women twice her age. I’m guessing she’s in her late twenties, which isn’t the norm compared to the other prune-faced dinosaurs who work here. Never wears makeup, and I haven’t seen her smile. She’d be attractive if it weren’t for her ugly attitude and unrelenting meanness. I guess every rose has its thorns.

  “Mr. Jones, turn around!” reprimands the dragon for me picking up my pencil, which I had dropped behind my desk. Then she tells me to go to the “naughty chair” that’s facing the wall near her desk. Maybe this is my chance to retrieve my notebook? Yet I’m closer to the shouting.

  Her constant screaming manifests itself into bricks that fly out of her mouth that punch me in the head and compound the pain on top of my already throbbing headache. It feels like my cranium is in a clamp that’s slowly tightening.

  I have been getting these cluster headaches out of nowhere ever since I was treated for my genetic disorder ten years ago. They sometimes overwhelm me with pain. My eyes water and my throat tightens. The pain gets unbearable to the point that I can barely see anything. A doctor comes to the Rose monthly to check on my condition and make sure I’m not going stir crazy, like the roommates that they used to throw into my room before Kim moved in with me.

  More bricks slap me in the head as the class continues. I think about everything else but her voice, yet her voice chases down my attention each time and stomps on it, showing me who’s boss.

  Here’s my chance. She’s busy at the back of the class verbally abusing a kid for sneezing in the middle of the lesson. I quickly reach over and slide the drawer open—dammit, not it. Drawer number two, and no notebook. I peak over and she’s wrapping up her rant and starts walking back toward me. The kid sneezes again and she turns back around. Drawer three, please be in here—bingo. I quickly stash my notebook under my shirt and stuff in my belt.

  With Biel’s class over and my mission accomplished, the rest of the day is a breeze since I already know what’s going to be taught in the following classes. Burning through high school in less than a few months has its irony, as I now have no new reading material.

  I pick up anything with words on it when I can. Old magazines, volumes of the encyclopedia, discarded newspapers, and anything else I can get my hands on.

  There’s a university somewhere on the outskirts of town that I read about a few days ago. It may as well be useless information because I won’t be able to go there since the Rose is like an impenetrable fortress, so for me to try and break out one day is dead. Long hallways have cameras mounted on every corner, surrounded by about a mile of dense oak forest, and sentinel guards patrol the Rose at night with eyes on every leaf and ears on every blade of grass.

  The end of the day at school always gives me a feeling of relief. The last bell signals a seventeen-hour break from the nuns, Mrs. Biel, and the other animals. Better yet, I get to enjoy the company of my friends, the bus ride, and scenery.

  Right next to where the bus picks us up is our meeting place with Ron. We usually just sit around and talk about the day and crack jokes on each other while we wait for the bus to arrive. Kim doesn’t joke around since from his cultural background he doesn’t understand sarcasm. He usually sits back and listens to us talk. He’s always been quiet, but he studies the conversation to find the perfect moment to curse.

  The bus pulls up and exhaust billows from the vertical pipe above the windshield like an angry dragon. The wheels whip up a cloud of dust on the unpaved road as the bus comes to a hissing stop. The folding door swings to one side. “All right, you rascals, load up. Back to your stables you go,” insults Snap Mouth. Even he knows we’re animals.

  We say good-bye to Ron and his crew and then board the bus while we watch Ron through the bus window take his crew and leave on a separate bus back to his neighborhood. The twenty or so minute ride is soothing and disconnects me from the reality that I live in. I forget about the bad food, the bricks, the shitty education, and the headaches.

  I get to view other people in their cars returning from work, picking up their kids, coming from the local grocer with a trunk full of fresh produce and meat, shopkeeps sweeping their storefronts, or the elderly walking with their dogs. I put myself in their shoes and imagine myself living out a normal day with my imagination trying to fill in the blanks, like the days before I got here in this pit. There were days when my dad and I used to cruise around the neighborhood, and he would show me around the city where we lived. He’d take me to the park while he sat in the shade, sparked a cigarette, and turned his bottle up.

  Then suddenly, my quixotic bubble is pierced by the devil’s pitchfork when the bus stops and I hear the rusty clank of that wrought iron gate open to what is my barbed bosom, this oxymoron of a place that is built in the name of God, but is godforsaken. Mice, roaches, and spiders are at biblical plague proportions. When it rains, you can hear the mice scrambling about in the walls, and the roaches politely move out of the way in the bathroom stall when you have to take a piss.

  The bus pulls through the opened hand of Lucifer and closes behind us as we enter the narrow road enveloped by oak trees. Even the oak forest is peaceful, especially in autumn when the leaves make a mosaic on the forest floor, making the cold soil blush with ambers and purples.

  The trees thin out and the forest soon opens up to the Rose. The bus pulls into the grove between the faculty building and the church to let us out. “All right, you rascals, adios,” says Snap Mouth in his slurred and drunken tongue.

  “I wonder what’s for dinner,” Kim says in his slow and selective voice.

  “I don’t,” says Steve. “I’d rather not think about that gruel. I sometimes close my eyes when I eat.”

  “Well, it’s the first Monday of the month,” I say. “So, I’m betting it’s meatloaf.”

  Meatloaf Mondays. It reminds me of the first day that I was brought to this place, five years ago. The first time I saw those wrought iron gates, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a squad car with my only suitcase propped between my legs. The officer, named O’Reilly, was speaking what I thought was a magical incantation into the intercom to open the gates. I remember him calling me deputy and letting me play with the lights and siren as he drove to serve a low-risk warrant with one of his rookie partners. He even showed me some weird thing that looked broken. He pulled it out of his pocket, and it glowed when I held it, surprising him and distracting me from the anxiety of being put into an orphanage. I had meatloaf and mashed potatoes that night. Tasted like moist cardboard, and the instant mashed potatoes were gritty like sand. They were only palatable with a scoop of butter. Hunger pains would have been a better option that night.

  When the room grew quiet and the lights went off w
as the first time the cold started to eat at me. That night I took out my father’s chess set and set the game up on my bed, just as it was the last game that he and I played. Then I talked to the air that night, make-believing that my dad was on the other side of that chess set, letting me win while teaching me the nuances of the game. Unbeknownst to me, that chessboard that brought back memories and started the pain that night was the same thing that would make the pain stop.

  The mischief of the kids bullying me is how I discovered the message. When I first got to the Rose, the other kids used to knock over my chess pieces while I played against myself, since I didn’t have anyone worthy enough to play with. So, instead of me getting into fistfights all of the time, I began to write down the layout of the game every three moves or so, preparing for an idiot to come by and scramble the pieces. One day, one of the kids flipped the entire table over down in the cafeteria where I had a game going on. The chess pieces went flying everywhere. The playing surface and box hit the floor so hard that it disconnected from the base when it landed. That’s when I saw the strange writings that had faded over the years on the backside of the playing surface. They were lightly scored into the wood with maybe a blade or something sharp. I took a piece of charcoal swiped from art class and burnished a sheet of paper over the writings, and the impressions showed more clearly. As for the game that I was playing, I left the kids in awe as I turned the board back over and placed all of the pieces back to where they were before he ruined my game. I had learned to memorize each move in my head.