“Rob … the computers … damn it, damn him, and damn me for not knowing anything about them!” Hastings hammered the heel of his hand on the steering wheel.
“Chill your shit already. I use computers all the fucking time. I edited Fossil Lake on five different word processors. Anything that fag-boy Rob can do, I can do better.”
“Nicco –”
“And I told you, don’t call me Nicco!”
What choice did he have? What else was there? Maybe miracles did happen, and Niccolò could get the programs to work.
He soon found out that wasn’t the case.
What followed was an ordeal of anger, frustration and profanities. Niccolò ended up on the phone with the JPL technicians, screaming at them, calling them ‘curry-fucking imbeciles’ among other things, demanding they fix what he’d only made worse. Hastings had lost the last of his own temper in turn and told him to get the fuck out before he threw him out.
“Yeah, well, you know what?! Fuck you, Dad! Fuck you and your fucking university! You care more for your fucking dead people than you do for your own son anyway! You think you’re so fucking superior to me, don’t you?! We’re no different, you and me! You hate all these pathetic sacks of fuck as much as I do. You’re just too fucking chicken to say it. You hear that?! I’m the brave one! You’re the pussy!”
He stomped out, still ranting, and Hastings sank into a chair wondering how much it would take to bribe his way back into the goodwill of anybody at JPL. Not that it mattered, if he’d missed the satellite flyover window. He might never have another chance.
The door to the computer lab banged open and Rob rushed in, babbling frantic apologies. He looked terrible, clothes torn, face bloodied, an eye swollen nearly shut.
“My God, what happened?” Hastings asked.
As it turned out, Rob had not forgotten. Neither had he blown it off in favor of his hot date. He’d had every intention of being at the lab on time, until his hot date’s jealous ex showed up. Rob had defended the girl at the cost of getting the shit beat out of him.
“Would have called you but my phone got broken in the fight,” he said, “and I didn’t have your private number anywhere else.”
He had then discharged himself from the emergency room against medical advice to make it over here in hopes of still salvaging some of the project.
Miracles, it seemed, did happen after all.
Working together, Rob at the computer and Hastings on the phone, they were able to smooth things over with the technicians. Their optimal flyover window had passed by then, but by incredible good fortune they found another satellite that could get some images of their desired coordinates a day or so later.
It wasn’t ideal, but it was much better than nothing.
By Monday morning, Maximillian Hastings would either have his long-awaited discovery, or he’d know that his search had to continue.
* * *
The pavilion was enormous and grand, a palace, no mere tent. Inside, hanging white linen divided the immense space into smaller sections. The laughing of women filtered in from the back, the piercing, horse-like laugh of Galla Placidia rising above the others.
Bright Persian-style rugs covered the ground, overlapping and caked with dust, tracing a path to the room where Ataulphus held court. This large, airy space could not help but impress visitors with its splendor. Slaves, ironically wearing senatorial togas, waited on the many guests and on the king himself. He dwarfed all, seated as he was in his huge golden throne of Sassinid design. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but imposing, glittering with darts of light.
Gaius Maximius Herenus approached and dropped to one knee. It didn’t bother him that his master was not a citizen, not a Roman, not even a Greek or an Etruscan. He was an architect, after all. His goal was building, and for that he needed to follow the power and the money. Ataulphus being a German didn’t matter; what mattered was that the king had the resources to have a mausoleum constructed – an ambitious one at that! – and he had chosen Herenus to do it.
Well, chosen was perhaps the wrong word. The architect had been taken by the Goths during the sack of Rome, and, while he had since been able to earn himself a better position, he was still a slave.
“Tell me, builder, how progresses my sister’s husband’s tomb?” The king spoke terrible Latin.
“It will be completed tomorrow, as you have wished, Your Majesty. Downstream has already been prepared. Once the entombment is done, the earth may be filled back in around it. If the workers are as quick with their shovels in the burying as they were in the excavating, a day more should suffice for the dams to be torn down and the river let flow again around and over it.”
“If all is in readiness as you say, Priscus Attalus will lead the burial procession tomorrow at sunset, and you will be among the guests of honor.”
He bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You have done well, Herenus. Very well.”
* * *
Between disrupted sleep patterns and the excitement of the weekend, it wasn’t until he stepped into the lecture hall on Monday that Professor Hastings realized he’d entirely forgotten about the assigned quiz.
It hardly meant he would break character and let his students off the hook. No amount of tiredness or distraction could do that. He’d dragged himself away from the computer lab just as the images were beginning to come in, being able to only glance at the first few. If he had to suffer, why should they have it any easier?
He told them to get out sheets of paper as he made up questions from memory and wrote them on the board. Naturally, most of the laptop brigade didn’t even have paper, which resulted in an eternity of shuffling around as they borrowed from their lower-tech, but better-prepared classmates.
The fast-food egg sandwich he’d eaten for breakfast seemed to be doing loops in his stomach, spreading discomfort through his midsection. He wished he’d thought to grab some antacids from his desk drawer.
An irate call from Nicco – same shit, different day – hadn’t helped either. Nicco ranting and raving and blaming his father for him having to take the bus across town at four in the morning; as best as Hastings could decipher, a homeless person at the bus stop had either puked on Nicco, picked on Nicco, or tried to pick up on Nicco, or possibly some combination thereof.
Hastings, overwhelming tiredness finally making him snap, had told the obnoxious child to fuck off and get a life. Then he’d hung up, feeling a pang of guilt suffused by a much greater relief.
The matter of paper sorted out at last, the class went to work. He noticed Jasmine in her usual spot, brow furrowed and chewing her lip. So much for his efforts to help her find time in her plans for the reading. Good God, was even flipping through the Cliff’s Notes too much to ask?
After collecting the finished quizzes, he set them aside to grade later. Partly so the students could stew in suspense, and partly because those that failed would then figure they had no reason to stay for the rest of the class, when he wasn’t done with them yet.
He began lecturing on the barbarian sack of Rome and the resultant shock to the collective psyche of the entire Mediterranean world, then moved on to Augustine’s interpretation of those events. In the middle of that, the side door burst open.
Dread and fury swelled in Hastings. His breath went short and his chest tight, constriction seizing his ribs. It would be Nicco, he knew. Damnable Nicco, spewing a torrent of vile abuse, making a spectacle –
It was Rob, clutching his laptop computer. “Professor Hastings! You’ve got to see this!”
Had he been thinking no distraction could make him let his students off the hook? Screw that. He stopped mid-sentence, mouth dry, heart thrumming.
Rob rushed forward. He was grinning like a madman despite his bruises. Hastings peripherally noticed a curious buzz among the students – the first time the wretches had shown any interest all semester – but his eyes were only for the screen.
It showed a computer-enhanced, satellite
image of a river reduced by drought to a trickle. A slightly-curved line showed where an ancient dam must have been … a dam perhaps built to slow the water’s course and collect washed-away soil, countering erosion that might otherwise have exposed a large buried object.
And there, in the center of a wide spot, were the outlines of angles too straight and even to be anything made by nature. Suggestions of corners, a square sunk into the riverbed …
His legs went weak. He wore his own madman’s grin, filled with such joy and triumph he could barely think straight.
Then his knees buckled. He felt himself drop to the floor. Though he saw his students, their reaction now one of alarm, he heard only the rapid-fire tattoo of his pulse thundering in his head.
People crowded around him. Kneeled over him. There was a sensation of lift.
Something about a hospital? Nonsense; he was just giddy with the thrill of the moment! So giddy that a warbling siren-sound replaced the staccato filling his ears.
Something about tests? What tests? The quizzes? Forget the quizzes; right now he’d gladly give each of them an A for the entire course!
It occurred to him that he was moving. Flat on his back, but moving. With an effort of concentration, he focused and discerned that he was in an ambulance.
“Professor? Max? Max!”
Rob’s voice. Rob’s battered face, wrenched with worry. Rob talking to him, random words of reassurance.
But never mind that. Never mind any of that.
“Did … did we … did we really find it?” Hastings gasped.
Emotion flooded Rob’s eyes. He squeezed Hastings’ hand. “Yes. Yes, Professor. We did. You did. You found Alaric’s tomb.”
A tear ran down his cheek, the last sight Hastings saw before his own eyes drifted closed.
* * *
In the dry riverbed, the marble tomb sat sunken belowground, a narrow ramped causeway leading down to its entrance. The plain and unadorned stonework seemed stark and too modest for its purpose, though a vital detail had not been overlooked – Alaricus Rex Gothorum read the simple inscription above the door.
Priscus Attalus and Gaius Maximius Herenus led the procession. Behind them came slaves herding a team of goats that pulled a four-wheeled cart of masterful construction. Carvings and inlays covered its sides, and everyone who had seen it marvelled at the speed and beauty of its craftsmanship. Upon it, in golden mail, lay the body of Alaric, wrapped in Egyptian-made cloths to help preserve the flesh.
Others followed, Alaric’s personal slaves and those who had worked in the construction of the tomb. A wise man strode solemnly, bringing up the rear. He was said to be both a priest of Christ and blessed by the spirits of their ancestors.
Ataulphus and the rest of the Gothic people watched from what normally would have been the banks of the river, were it not held back by the cleverly-designed dams.
At the doorway, Priscus Attalus spoke a few words, both in Latin and in Gothic, as the goat-drawn cart was led in. Then he went to stand by Ataulphus’ side. He would not be joining them in this final honor to Alaric.
The priest, shepherding the slaves forward, passed around jugs of wine. They took them, and drank, and went into the darkness..
Lucius, the scribe, had visited Maximus the night before, offering to help him escape. The only ‘honor’ that Ataulphus meant to bestow, he explained, was that of being sacrificed to the pagan gods. The heavy stone door would be shut upon them, sealing them in the tomb with their lord and master.
But Maximus had calmed him, and told him that he had known what was to come. That death came to all and …
“After a man has come to know greatness and to be truly great, what has he yet to live for? To be forever a slave? A slave to an un-understanding lord? A slave to a greatness that shall never come again? No, my friend. I shall not be brought low by pandering apprentices or disloyal and spoiled children. I have made a great thing, a wonder that will perplex those for generations to come. That it is the tomb of a great and legendary man, only makes it the greater. I shall die great, and live forever.”
Then he went proudly into the tomb, his tomb, which he had created. He drank deeply of the poisoned wine and laid himself down, content to live forever in the dreams of man but never be found on Earth.
FINDING MISS FOSSIE
Melany Van Every
In the early morning light, the lake is quiet and smooth as glass, reflections of trees along the shoreline darkening the surface. Fog hugs the shore in spots, hiding the shallows and creating eerie silhouettes.
Fishermen will line the banks later in the day, while fossil hunters turn over rocks hoping to find more than just the outlines of tiny, ancient shellfish. As families crowd the sandy beach, arguing over the best spot to spend the day, singles and teens will vie to catch the best rays or the eyes of the opposite sex.
The only sign of life at this hour is a light from Jericho Jake's Bait Shop. Not even the old-timers remember why it’s still called that; nobody named Jake has owned it for at least fifty years. But it’s been around so long, a local fixture, that none of the successors could bear to change it.
The building itself hasn’t changed much either. The sign is neon now instead of painted plywood, and the cooler full of beer and sodas is brand new, but the tanks of minnows and the ancient refrigerator holding worms and leeches is the same. There’s a walk-up window counter for customers who don’t have to come in, and a screen door that bangs in its frame for the ones who do. Inside, a lone ceiling fan lazily circulates the fishy-smelling air.
The current owner, Tom Wilkinson, has run the place these past ten years. It isn’t one of those fancy box stores they keep talking about putting up, but it does the job. Fishermen can buy their bait and basics, such as bobbers, hooks, sinkers, and a small selection of lures. There are boats that can be rented by the hour or the day. Tourists who come in looking for sunscreen, bug spray and souvenirs tend to leave with their noses in the air.
Tom doesn’t mind. He welcomes everyone to his shop, locals and tourists alike. He knows that what really brings people in is the talk. Whether it’s bragging about the one that got away, or the latest crazy theories about Miss Fossie, Tom listens cheerfully. Sometimes he whistles as he fills minnow buckets or gasses up outboard motors. The tunes range from classical to contemporary, depending on his mood.
He’s thirty-five, but years spent outdoors and a habit of smoking like it’s going out of style make him appear older. His hair is dirty-blond and hangs to his collar. His eyes are pale green. He favors polo shirts and jean shorts; both of which tend to be covered in dirt and fish blood by the end of the day, but Tom doesn’t care. He loves his job, the shop, and the lake.
This quiet morning, as he’s out organizing the rack of life vests by the dockside, a commotion of splashing gets his attention. He glances up and down the shore, but the lingering fog obscures any disturbances in the shallows. Some large fish, he supposes, feeding on its smaller cousins or unlucky frogs. Sounded like a whopper, all right.
Then the first truck pulls into the parking lot, and Tom puts it out of his mind.
It’s a slow day. At mid-morning, thunderstorms roll in, driving all but the hardiest fisherman off the lake. Tom ends up spending most of his time in a wobbly chair, reading a battered paperback by some guy named Brian Keene. He’d found it languishing in the lost and found box under the counter. The story is a bit far fetched, with giant night crawlers and massive flooding, but it's much better than the piece of crap that lunatic from Illinois had shoved into his hands before scuttling out of the shop a few days ago.
His most important work, he’d claimed, then gone on to mutter something about it being the book the whores and gays didn’t want people to read.
Why whores or gays should give a damn about lake-monster sightings, Tom has no idea.
But then, some folks there was no reasoning with. When he wasn’t talking about his books, he was demanding Tom install a computer with free internet s
ervice so he could upload his latest batch of photos – blurry pics of logs and kids, mostly. That, or complaining Tom didn’t stock his favorite brand of cheap beer.
Just when he decides he might as well close up shop for the day, the door opens. It admits two dripping-wet deputies with grim looks on their faces. Town folks often jokingly call them the twins, though they aren't related. They just look very much alike, with broad shoulders, brown crew cuts, and the builds of slightly out of shape former football players.
Danny, on the right, speaks up first. “We hate to disturb you Tom, but there's been an accident on the lake, and –”
His partner Josh interrupts, almost jittering with eagerness. “Right now we're calling it a drowning, but –”
“– in reality it appears he was attacked by an animal,” Danny finishes, shooting Josh a scowl.
Tom raises his eyebrows. “An animal? Probably a momma black bear protecting her cub, then. It's the right time of year for it.”
There are no customers, but Danny still looks around the empty shop before pulling something out of his pocket. It’s a plastic bag, the zip-kind they use for evidence, and holds what appears to be a four-inch-long tooth.
Tom raises his eyebrows further as he wonders if the deputies decided to liven up their rainy-day boredom with a prank. Fossilized mosasaur teeth are rare, most of the finds around here being from much smaller creatures, but some still turn up every so often. They are, in fact, exactly what fuel the legends of Miss Fossie.
If they expect him to fall for it …
His thoughts get no further as he notices this particular tooth is no fossil. It’s as white and clean as if it had been ripped fresh from the creature’s mouth that very morning.
The deputies are not grinning. Tom realizes that what he mistook for eager jitters on Josh’s part are the after-effects of adrenaline.
“The guy's name was Albert Campbell,” Danny says. “Some kids found his body near the south shore.”
Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant Page 19
