Chess Players: Atlantis and the Mockingbird

by DeVaughn, A. P.

  “He wouldn’t like it too much if he knew that some of his inmates were running around outside of school grounds. That’s an offense punishable by jail with you guys’ reputation. You like breaking into old men’s houses, do you? Was it eighty bucks that you were trying to get?”

  “You,” I angrily say and then calm myself. “You wouldn’t dare tell him.”

  “I might. I might not. Depends on what you give me. I think for a small fee of fifty dollars I can forget about this entire thing. It never happened.”

  “You’ll burn for this,” I say, talking through my teeth with a snarl.

  “Not before you. I’d like that money by lunchtime at the end of the week. Nice doing business with you,” he says, walking off with a salute.

  I wanted to break that little weasel’s nose, but he’s protected. I had no idea the Dead End and Joppy were kin. Seems like my lies have finally caught up to me. Fantastic.

  The ride from school to the Rose left me with a void in my gut that couldn’t be filled with a book or a chess game. The entire reason to check out the house was to answer questions that I had in my head that failed to be answered. Then George immediately put me in a bind to try and come up with fifty bucks in three days.

  We arrive at the Rose and I see the Swelchz brothers outside of the front door of the dorm. They smile as we walk by. “How ya doin’, Kim?” the oldest brother says. Kim, Steve, and I just continue walking, no need for a confrontation today. For some reason, they hate Kim more than they hate me. I’m almost jealous in a weird way. Steve leaves us, says he has to go and handle something. Steve and his ambiguous ways scare me sometimes. I’ll have to find a way to keep tabs on him.

  The next day, I didn’t hear the music while getting off of the bus, just silence and the wind rustling through the bare tree branches and chatter from the students entering the dark. Makes me question myself; did I hear the music to begin with?

  I enter the school and my mind is absent from the classroom as the day passes. Just thinking about who in the hell was behind that newspaper builds my curiosity to a level of insanity.

  Lunchtime comes and I meet up with the guys in the cafeteria. We’re just talking about how the day is going for us, tests, homework, and girls. Seems like Ron has a crush on a girl in his English class, and, of course, Steve challenges his confidence to approach her before the day is over.

  “Hey guys, I’ll be back. I gotta piss,” I say, getting up hastily. “I’ll be right back.”

  My mind was too conflicted not to attempt to find out who that man was. I could just hear the music in the back of my mind, playing over and over as if I knew the words, but the words were distorted and the melody was unclear.

  The only way to appease this burning curiosity is to go it alone and meet the gun-toting mystery man. And as I walk out of the cafeteria and into the unknown once more, I can’t help but wonder, what is the cause for this urge to meet a stranger?

  Chapter 11: The Briggs Report, Part 2

  Day Two, post Rainbow experiment:

  Both of the survivors sit in separate quarantine rooms hooked up to life support systems as they lay in their beds, bound by their arms and ankles to the bed by leather straps.

  The wailing has stopped for the moment, and the scientists look on, jotting down notes, observing, testing the two survivors on reflexes, pupil dilation, and response, taking samples of bodily fluids, recording vital signs, and monitoring sleeping patterns.

  One of the men mumbles unintelligible words nonstop until he falls asleep, while the other man begins to show signs of a vegetative state, not eating or drinking on his own, needing to be forcibly fed and hydrated through feeding tubes.

  Day Three, post Rainbow experiment:

  Violent seizures afflict both subjects, so violent in fact that they break their restraints, and it has taken six men to hold one of the subjects down during one of the seizures. The seizures have frequented during the last twenty-four hours, and no form of sedative or medication has made the seizures subside.

  Day Six, post Rainbow experiment:

  The seizures have subsided in both subjects, and subject A is showing improved vital signs and is more responsive. In the past seventy-two hours, subject A has been having spontaneous psychotic episodes of hour-long screaming that digress into mumbles and then a deep sleep. Subject A no longer mumbles but is also not speaking, yet is answering with head nods and hand squeezing to auditory commands. He’s eating and drinking, urinating and defecating on his own and showing the normal reflex responses of a healthy male of his age and weight.

  Subject B, however, is completely unresponsive and has been for the previous seventy-two hours. No reflexes, very little brain activity, and a feeding and breathing tube are required to keep Subject B alive in his vegetative state. Vital organs are starting to fail. Death for this subject seems imminent.

  Day Fourteen, post Rainbow experiment:

  Subject B has not improved, as calculated, and has been taken off of life support.

  Subject A has shown miraculous improvement, sleeping and eating on a regular schedule, talking and responding in a normal fashion, watching television, requesting the newspaper, and asking about his family of a wife, mother, and two daughters. However, he has no memory from the past three weeks—the week that led up to Rainbow and the two weeks after when he was admitted into this quarantine facility. He says that he has horrible headaches that have been random. X-rays and tests show nothing abnormal, and they have not yet found the cause of these headaches. He’s been put on a low dosage of an alkaline-based pain killer, which has calmed the intensity of the headaches.

  Day Twenty-one, post Rainbow experiment:

  “What’s the status, doctor?” asks Lued, walking into the room.

  “It’s remarkable, actually, Lord Lued,” says Dr. Kal, fixing his glasses. “Private McClain’s body was declared dead a week ago, while Private Briggs is getting stronger by the day. However, that isn’t the remarkable part.”

  “Well, speak up,” Lued impatiently says.

  “Well, Private Briggs,” Dr. Kal pauses, “when he responds to conversation, everything he says is, well, from the records that I’ve studied about Briggs’s family, where he’s from, lifestyle, what he says does not corroborate with his files. Briggs does not have a wife, mother, and two daughters.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Bui.

  Rustling through piles of papers and pulling out a folder, Dr. Kal flips through some notes.

  “Well, Lord Bui, at first observation,” Dr. Kal explains, “we thought it was a form of dementia, or schizophrenia, caused by shock from the trauma sustained by the experiment, or some form of amnesia mimicry, caused by loss of memory, and the subject was imitating the last thing he remembered, which might have been interaction with someone who was close to him in the few moments before the experiment took place. But further observation proved different. Not only was it not mimicry, but we believe that it is McClain himself.”

  “I don’t understand,” says Bui, flipping a pen between his fingers and holding a clipboard in another hand.

  “Well,” Dr. Kal explains, “we believe that somehow, inside of the energy field that was transmitted during the experiment, the life force or soul from one body was somehow transmuted into the other. Personality, memory, mannerisms, character flaws, voice, fears, metabolism—everything was transferred! And as McClain’s energy inside of Briggs’s body grew stronger, McClain’s body grew weaker, yet it wiped away what was left of Briggs. Almost like a parasite that became the host. McClain’s body deteriorated and died, yet his energy or soul survived, while Briggs’s body survived but his energy was destroyed. Remarkable!”

  “Hmph, the old man was right after all.” Lued smiles. “I’ll need you to replicate these results,” he says.

  “Replicate?” Dr. Kal says, adjusting his glasses and his cigarette perched between his ring and middle fingers on his thumbless hand. “This was a complete byproduct of an experiment go
ne wrong. The calculations are almost impossible, and the outcomes would be random and unpredictable at best. I would need months of research just to begin to—”

  “You will have everything you’ll ever need, doctor,” Lued interrupts. “Facilities, subjects, materials, money, resources, equipment, manpower—anything you will ever need will be at your disposal. How does that sound, doctor?”

  “Well,” Dr. Kal says, rubbing the back of his neck, then adjusting his glasses and taking a long drag of his cigarette.

  “Good,” interrupts Lued. “Lord Bui will oversee the projects. Listen to his direction, as he is the head of research and development. You will start within the fortnight, and I will need results within six months. Understood?”

  “Yes, yes, sir,” Dr. Kal says.

  “Excellent,” Lued says, placing his hand on Dr. Kal’s shoulder. “Get a good night’s rest. You will be transported and begin picking out a team tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you soon.” He walks out of the room with Lord Bui in tow, leaving Dr. Kal to his thoughts.

  “So, what do you think?” Lued asks Bui, leaving the quarantine building and entering an open jeep.

  “Well, it seems that Lord Lucrea’us is as wise as expected,” answers Bui.

  “Yes, we must notify him immediately that his premonitions are true,” says Lued. “Are you ready to be a god, my friend?” smiles Lued.

  Chapter 12: Military Waltz, Part 2

  I head out of the cafeteria and sneak outside and take the same route we took the day before, through the playground fence and to the hedges, then across the street, jumping the wooden fence, through the fields and past the willows and finally to the man’s house.

  Wiping small beads of liquid nervousness that have soaked into my brow, I approach the porch door and knock.

  “Who is it?” says the grumpy voice from inside the house.

  “Um, it’s one of the kids from yesterday, sir,” I reply with my cracking teenage voice, burying my chin in my chest. “I’m sorry we broke your porch.”

  The door swings open and freezes me. Out comes an elderly, blondish haired man with a full beard and a face that isn’t pleased to see me and looks like it has seen its fair share of rough patches in life. He clasps a cane in his left hand as he labors to step out of the house and onto the porch, inching his way toward the screen door of the porch, cane first, left step, dragging the right leg, left step again, and then the cane again, like an unorthodox cane quartet.

  He opens the screen door and looks me up and down while I stand on the bottom step in front of him. He gives a half-cocked grin. “Hmph,” he grunts, looking down his nose at me. “So, you’re it, huh? What’s your name?” he impatiently asks in his raspy voice.

  Picking my chin up from my chest, I unthaw my mouth and clear my throat to muster up courage. “Dwight, sir.”

  “Dwight, huh?” he says, placing both hands on his cane and propping himself up. “Well, Dwight, you owe me a few feet of lumber, don’t you? Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. I don’t get too many visitors, come on in and keep me company for a spell. It’s cold out there. We can talk about how you can pay me back for my porch.” I nod yes and follow him inside.

  I enter the house and a sour smell punches me in the face. I see a bunch of well-aged knickknacks neatly stacked on shelves and chests with intricate carvings.

  As I could tell by the resident of the home, old seems to be the motif. A bunch of things that should be sold at antique auctions and pawn shops decorate the room, covered in cobwebs and dust. Things that look decades and maybe even over a century old deck the walls, shelves, and tables. There’s an old vinyl record player that perhaps played that imaginary song that I kept hearing, a living room with a tall pendulum clock and an outdated cloth furniture set, a freshly used silver and porcelain tea set, with light tarnish, bookshelves filled with dusty heirloom, leather-bound books—the good stuff.

  “What’s this thing here?” I say, as I point to the record-playing device.

  “That there, young man, is a phonograph,” he says. “It was given to me by a good friend of mine a very long time ago.”

  “And that song you played. What was that? It sounded familiar.”

  “Oh, that record is one of my favorites. I play it to get me going in the morning. That’s old Ella. The best jazz singer ever,” he says.

  “Yeah, Fitzgerald. My father used to speak of her. Hey, is that a chess set?” I ask as my eyes light up and I run over and wipe the dust away from it with my hands and open it.

  “Yes, yes. That old thing. I haven’t played in ages,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t be touching things that aren’t mine.”

  “No, no,” he says, laughing. “It’s fine.”

  “Would you like to play?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s been a while. I guess we can start up a game and see if I still got it. We can play and talk about our arrangements for your payments for my lumber. I’ll need some tea to jumpstart my brain. Would you like some, young man?” he asks.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine,” I kindly decline.

  He then turns and cane quartets his way into the kitchen. The faucet runs and the clanking of dishes and china come from the kitchen coupled with grunts and moans as the old man prepares his tea.

  He returns in a few minutes and asks me to set up the chess game over on the coffee table. He takes a seat in a reclining cloth chair and places his tea dish and cup with spoon and lemon besides the dusty chess set. As the steam from the tea lingers my way, I get a waft of what seems to be where that smell is coming from that punched me when I had first walked in the door. I hold back the tears forming in my eyes.

  I open up the wooden box and admire the beautiful craftsmanship of the wooden chess pieces and board. The board was made of mahogany and porcelain, with a thick coat of lacquer. The pieces are much heavier than my father’s set and look hand-carved from two different materials, one dark and the other light, maybe rosewood and ivory. I give the board a light dusting with a hard blow and buff with my sleeve and then place the pieces to start the game. He tells me how he used to be very good at playing and how a young person like me knowing the game is very rare.

  “So, young man, you’re about fifteen years old or so, why aren’t you in school?”

  “School is for the birds. They don’t teach you anything in there. Plus, it’s hard to be in there because of my appearance.”

  “Yes. I’ve noticed. But you are half black, are you not?”

  “Yeah. My father’s black, and my mother white. The kids don’t like me because of that. I thought you would think the same as they do.”

  “Well, I’ve just met you. I don’t know what you have or haven’t done in your life, so there’s no reason for me not to like you, except for what you did to my porch. Plus, it’s nice to have some company. No one comes to visit Old Bill anymore. I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve seen it all. I have had no need to hate someone I have never met. So how are your parents? They’ve raised a well-rounded boy.”

  “Well, my mother died when I was very young. I never really got a chance to know her.”

  “How unfortunate. And your father?”

  “He passed away about six years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Siblings?”

  “None. I’m the only one left in my family.”

  “It must be a lonely life for you, young man. So where do you stay? Is it with a friend of the family?”

  “No. After my father died, I was put into a Catholic orphanage. It’s about twenty minutes from here. It’s a real dump.”

  “That must be tough for you.”

  “So what’s your story, sir? How did you end up in the middle of nowhere?”

  He looks up at me after he moves another chess piece.

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to be rude,” I say, placing my next piece.

  “No need to apologize,” he says, carefully looking at the board. “This place is not t
hat exciting, but it’s where I need to be, so it’s home. My story is a long one.” He picks up the rook and places it back on the board. “Check, by the way. I was just like any other kid growing up, young and full of energy, without a care in the world. Not wanting to work in a diner or a scrap yard, so I lied about my age and joined the navy. I was shipped off to war not too long after they stamped my papers for passing the tests. Did a few years fighting Germans back in the forties. Was shipped to the Pacific and fought the Japanese when I reenlisted. Then I caught shrapnel in my hip from a grenade and spent three months in a bed off the coast of the Philippines before they shipped me back to the States. I then took up work with a special project in an East Coast shipyard on battleships as a welder. But this story will have to wait—checkmate.”

  “Wow.” My jaw drops and my eyebrows float into my hairline. “You beat me?” My chess-playing ego evaporated within a matter of two moves.

  “That I did,” he says, picking up his teacup with a smirk on his face. “I guess the old man still has it. You’re a fine player, yourself. But you have to work on adapting. You tend to rush into an all-out attack instead of using you pieces to feel out your opponent’s tendencies. Here’s the deal. You come every once in a while to play chess and keep me company and listen to my boring old stories, and I’ll forget about the lumber. Deal?” he says, smiling, leaning over and extending his hand.

  “Deal,” I reply, giving him a shake.

  “Good. Here, take this.” He leans over with a grunt and hands me what looks like an old book. “I think you will like it. It’s one of my favorites. Also, if you ever fall on hard times and need some uplifting, there’s a friend of mine who is sort of an expert in that department and could probably help, and he’s not too far from here. The address is written on the inside of the book. It’s his book. I borrowed it a while ago, so if you ever visit him, you can give it back to him for me.”