Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  "Are you?" asked Grace.

  "No," said Mihos, closing his eyes with a loud sigh. "I just hate monkeys."

  "Why do you hate monkeys?" asked Emily.

  Mihos opened one eye. "You should see the one that feeds me," he said.

  6.13

  McAfee dumped a can of scavenged, long out-of-date chicken-and-rice Kitty Dinner on top of the dried out lumps of tuna-and-egg that clung like barnacles to the bottom of Nicky’s bowl. He tossed the container into the trash. Nicky sniffed at the brown, gelatinous hockey-puck-shaped mass, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  "Fine," said the Colonel. "Go hungry for all I care. That's all there is."

  Nicky collapsed into a heap on a warmest, sunniest part of the sunroom floor and closed his eyes.

  McAfee pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured some into a tumbler, then added a splosh of military-issue orange drink from the refrigerator. He stirred it with his finger, picked up the tumbler and the paperback novel sitting splayed on the counter, and followed the cat out into the sunroom. The sun was sharp on the bay today and the bounce of light filled the room with wavy brightness. The Colonel lowered his sunglasses, sat heavily in his lounge chair, placed his drink on the floor beside him, and opened the book, grateful for the fact that Stephen King was still churning them out, even if the books themselves were little better in quality than the dime novels of old.

  He lifted his glass and took a deep swallow of his drink, then placed the glass back on the floor and closed his eyes, reveling in the bit of sea breeze that wafted in now and again from the open window. The bright, sunny room had engulfed him in its sauna-like warmth and he saw no reason not to accede to its invitation. Why should he? He could always use a nap. And it wasn't like he was needed for anything. DuPont was all over the VLT's Summit participation. Osterman, the Colonel's aide, was overseeing the vaccination program, to be implemented as soon as possible now that the Quietus was on the move. The real Linda Travis needed no more attention than a turkey in a freezer. The ship did not require that the Captain stand always at the wheel.

  The Colonel picked at his shorts. The thought of the President lying so naked and open on her slab in the basement always got him a bit hard. It didn't matter that she was the President, or that she was married, or that she was probably going the way of the dodo more quickly than he'd anticipated. She was a babe, pure and simple. What he really wanted to do, if he was honest, was head to the basement, thaw the President, and screw her brains out. And wouldn't some time in her cold basement room be a relief from the day's heat! Like taking a dip in a nice, refreshing pool. The ol' girl was a PILF, for sure. McAfee smiled at the acronym. Yeah. That was it. Linda Travis: President I'd Like to-

  A small bird smashed into the window right in front of him, causing him to jerk and distracting him from his reverie. A cloud of tiny brown and white feathers drifted to the ground. Nicky glanced up at the hard thump on the glass, then lowered his head and closed his eyes. "There's some chow for ya, Nick," said McAfee. "If you're hankering for fresh meat."

  Lacking a flexible middle finger, the cat did not respond.

  McAfee lifted his glass and finished his drink, then laid back in his chair and closed his eyes again, the paperback now lying open on his stomach. There was something about the weight of a book on his belly that he found calming. Probably some leftover from his youth. The Colonel took a long, deep breath. That was not a territory he was willing to enter: his youth. With an effort of will, he set such thoughts aside and focused again on that vision of Linda Travis lying naked on her slab. With a soft, moaning exhale, Colonel McAfee followed his cat into sleep.

  6.14

  Ness sighed sadly. Keeley had been quarantined immediately and poor Mary had stationed herself as close to her sweetheart’s room as she could, not to be budged, and not to be persuaded to go home and get some rest. Ness was not surprised to learn that this alien flu thingy was spreading, or that it had reached right into the President's staff. There was no telling how this bug was spread, how long it took to appear as a disease, or at what point it became infectious. Augusta seemed to be one of a dozen or so places around the globe where Greensleeves was now appearing in ever increasing numbers, with the President as what they called "the index case." Ness didn't know what that meant, exactly. Maybe the aliens had infected Linda. Or maybe it was those hidden elites she'd heard stories about. Maybe it was a terrorist thing, like the poisoning of Sebago Lake. Ness did not know.

  What she did know was that she had no fear of contracting this flu herself, and no fear, now that she was on guard, that the children would either. In fact, it felt like, in some odd but real way, her primary job here was to make sure they were not infected, especially now that both their parents had gone missing. She had no idea how she might achieve that, of course. What she knew about diseases and epidemics you could fit in a shot glass, as... somebody from her past... she couldn't remember who... used to say. But even so, she had a clear sense that this task was on her.

  Not that that was the only reason she was here. Truth be told, she felt a bit silly insisting on acting as some sort of guardian, what with armed soldiers right outside the door twenty-four-seven. If there was some danger of terrorists breaking in and stealing them away, Ness couldn't believe she'd be anything but in the way. What, she'd stab them with her keys? She'd just be another target, most likely. Or they'd use her as a shield, like in the movies. But silly or not, Ness knew without a doubt that her job was to stay with these kids. The image that kept coming to her was of a bright purple ball of light surrounding all four of them. And she felt - and she could really feel it, a tingling of her scalp, as if her gray hairs were actually standing up, no matter how often she reached up to find that they were still neatly arranged - she felt like this bright ball of light actually came out of her head. Like a fountain, maybe. Or a balloon.

  She wished she could extend this ball of light to surround Keeley as well. But Ness sensed that it was too late for that. Mary had told her about Keeley's facial rash. The same rash now on President Linda's face. The same rash that appeared on the faces of those people now showing up sick or dead at hospitals all around the world, if the news was to be believed. Ness breathed a short prayer for her friends: for Keeley now struck with illness and Mary now struck with fear. She didn't know to whom she prayed. She simply knew that there was something, someone, somewhere, who was listening.

  A cloud passed overhead and the room dimmed a bit. Ness looked up at the children, now situated side by side on three gurneys, as close together as could be, with space only for a nurse to squeeze in between them when necessary. Their faces were so calm. So full of peace. So vulnerable. Mary said they were off traveling in the Astral plane. Ness believed it. She knew such a place was real, though she'd never been there herself. Ness said another prayer, for these three young souls on their adventure. Then she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The bright purple ball was right where she'd left it. Remembering how her Daddy - it must have been her Daddy - had always said that maintenance was love, Ness exhaled with focus and intention and added her energy to the ball.

  This was her work now. Now she was really cookin'.

  6.15

  Vice President Albert Singer hung up his phone and immediately began to dial another number. He leaned back into his ergonomically designed mesh chair and scratched his nose while the phone rang.

  "Yes?" came a voice on the other end.

  "You know who this is," said Singer. He was not asking a question.

  "Yes, sir," said the voice.

  "You've received the updated timetable?"

  "I have."

  "You're prepared at your end."

  "I am, sir," said the voice without hesitation.

  "You understand what that means."

  "I do," said the voice.

  "You can expect your orders very soon now," said Singer.

  "I will, sir," said the voice.

  Singe
r thumbed the off button and returned his phone gently to his desktop. He pictured the young man he'd just spoken to sitting at his desk. He could imagine the excitement now rushing through his veins. Singer smiled. Soon enough, they'd be popping corks of celebration.

  Just a few nasty details to take care of first.

  6.16

  Carl sat studying the board, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm. “I can’t figure out where these last six letters went,” he muttered.

  Ted, searching under the table on his hands and knees for any lost tiles, raised his head to respond, stopping himself with a jerk before he hit the table and sent the tiles flying once again. “What are the letters?” he asked.

  “M, D, O, R, N, and A,” said Carl.

  “Random,” said Ted. “You spelled ‘random.’ Your fifth turn. You got twenty points for it. Double letter on the R and a double word.”

  Carl studied the board and saw where the word had been placed. “How do you remember shit like that?” he asked.

  Ted scooted backwards out from under the table and lifted his head above the playing surface. “I keep most of my brain in another universe,” he said. Grabbing the table’s edge, he pulled himself to his feet and plopped into the chair opposite Carl. He watched as Carl put the last letters in place.

  “Is that all of ‘em?” asked Carl.

  “I didn’t see any more.” Ted surveyed the room with theatrical exaggeration. “Not many places to lose one in here,” he added.

  Carl sighed with relief. “Good. The board’s back the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “You always were a rule-bound, detail-obsessed pain in the ass,” said Ted.

  "Was I?" asked Carl, looking up.

  "Yes."

  “So we did know each other?” said Carl.

  Ted crossed his arms. “It would seem.”

  Carl returned to the board. It was his turn.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” said Ted.

  Carl lifted an eyebrow. “What’d I say?”

  “You said there must be another place from here. That this is not the whole of existence, here in this room. And that that meant we could get out of here. And you said that maybe there’s something we have to do to get out.”

  “Ah,” said Carl, nodding. “I remember.”

  Ted leaned forward and looked Carl in the eye. “So, I’ve been thinking, is all,” he said with a shrug.

  Carl returned his attention to his tiles.

  “Because I just felt a strong sense of irritation with you,” Ted went on. “And then I called you a pain in the ass.” Carl looked up again and Ted offered a slight, embarrassed smile. “And we had that fight and knocked over the board.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “So, yeah. We knew each other. And so maybe that’s why we’re here. Because we knew each other in that other place. And maybe we weren’t friends. And maybe there’s something we’re supposed to be doing here besides playing this stupid game of Scrabble. And maybe it has something to do with the feelings that keep coming up in me.”

  Carl grinned. “Those are the most words you’ve put together at one time since we got here,” he said.

  Ted looked down at his lap. “So...” he said at last, glancing up for a moment before returning his attention to his clasped hands, “what do you think of my ideas?”

  Carl cocked his head and thought for a moment. “I think you’re onto something,” he said.

  Ted smiled slightly.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re supposed to do with these feelings you keep having?” asked Carl.

  Ted’s eyes welled up with tears at Carl’s question and he wiped at them with the back of his hand. “I think I’m supposed to tell you about them,” he said with a wet, heavy voice.

  Chapter Seven

  7.1

  Gabrielle’s professor had begun his class with a reminder that there were still a few students who had not yet participated in Freemantle College's mandatory vaccination program, which had begun last week. Nobody questioned why it was that Freemantle students were receiving this vaccine, or how there was a vaccine at all for a disease that had only just appeared. Some people there knew exactly where the school’s wealth and resources came from. The rest at least understood that there were shadowy powers involved. And none of them were inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying went. Not when said horse’s saddlebags came stuffed with boxes of vaccine which would spare them from what appeared to be a fatal new pandemic. The word had come down, the program had been implemented, and most everyone there knew better than to think too deeply about something they clearly had no need to know. Especially now. The professor's warning was implicit. Montreal local news had just the night before reported the city's first fatal case of Greensleeves. It was time.

  They spent the rest of their two hours together watching the live coverage of the Earth Summit. Gabrielle was not sure exactly how that fit in with a torsion-physics lesson plan, but she wasn't going to complain. High-level mathematics made her head spin. She was glad for the break.

  Class over, she grabbed the iron railing and made her way down the steps. The handrail, baking in the noonday sun, was hot to the touch, but Gabrielle found that she wanted and needed both the stability and the slight discomfort the hot metal afforded her. Something about her encounter with her father had left her almost giddy with anxiety. Perhaps it was the notion that she had some work to do here on Earth. Perhaps it was the glimpse, real or imagined, of the tall man from her dreams. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that she'd told her father 'no.' Gabrielle could not be sure. What she could know was that her knees felt a bit weak and wobbly and her heart was still pounding. And her head felt fuzzy, as if her thoughts themselves, like the hot metal railing, were shimmering in the blasted heat.

  The Summit broadcast had been exasperating: old, rich, white men jockeying for power and position, with the occasional voice of sanity and reason thrown in just to highlight the nuttiness of it all. None of those participating knew what was really going on, it seemed, or understood who was actually in charge. The American President, Linda Travis, was certainly one of those voices of sanity, save for the fact that she thought that she still mattered. She was no "sleeper," as Gabrielle's father might call her, that was for sure. Yet she was getting sicker by the day. The video feed from her hospital room showed a raw-eyed, exhausted, and sad looking woman, the fact of which had forced the matter of this Greensleeves epidemic onto the Summit agenda. Gabrielle felt sorry for the President. Whatever the whole truth of this "alien flu," it seemed certain to Gabrielle that Linda Travis was losing her fight against it. One less voice of sanity, which was the last thing the world needed. The rest of them would just go on arguing about carbon taxes and high-tech alternative energies and how to jump-start the global economy until the whole planet went up in a flash.

  Maybe her father was right. Maybe Gabrielle should just get the hell out of here.

  But what, then, of her dear Arthur? Gabrielle kicked at a stone in the path as she made her way across the quad. She shook her head in anger. This was all just so unfair. The Families ruin the planet and then take off, leaving the rest of the world to suffer the consequences? Gabrielle laughed at her own indignation. Like there was anything new to that story. The scenario had been playing out for millennia. She was just one of the most recent victims.

  Gabrielle had decided to head over to Arthur's room when she was hit from behind and knocked to her knees. She gave a tiny yelp as a tall human body thumped to the ground beside her, its head smacking wetly on the paved walkway like a watermelon. Scrambling to her hands and knees, Gabrielle pulled away from the body and twisted around to land on her bottom. It was the man from her dreams: Zacharael. He appeared to be dead.

  Gabrielle scanned the quad. Two young men, soccer players on their way home from practice, it looked like, were running toward her. Gabrielle, suddenly terrified, pushed herself to her feet and started to run away, ignoring the cries of "h
ey!" and "wait up!" that followed her. She rounded the corner of the MedLab and headed down toward the creek, hoping to get lost in the maze of trails and trees that buffered this side of the campus. She imagined phone calls and police and paramedics and ambulance sirens behind her as she crossed the short footbridge over the shallow creek that separated the campus from the forested park beyond.

  The trees rose up to surround her, engulf her, protect her. Gabrielle slowed her pace. She had no idea what had just happened, but she couldn't get involved. That she knew. She didn't recognize the young men who'd been running to help, and so assumed that they couldn't identify her. With any luck, nobody that did know her had witnessed the event.

  The cooler air of the park felt good on Gabrielle's skin and she stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She looked back toward the campus. There was no one following her, and already there was the sound of a distant siren. That was good. Let those whose job it was deal with that mess.

  Gabrielle pulled off her backpack and let it hang in one hand while continuing to walk. On the far side of the park was a strip of shops, with a coffee shop she frequented when doing homework. That sounded good. A big glass of iced tea, and witnesses that would say she'd been there working on her tablet at the time of the incident.

  Wiping the sweat from her face, Gabrielle hefted the backpack over one shoulder and headed across the park. Her breathing was heavy with heat and hurry and adrenaline. What the hell had just happened? And what would come next? Up until a few moments ago, Zacharael had been little more than a strange dream. Now he was not only real... but dead? Gabrielle felt a pang of grief in her gut at the thought. Zacharael had been intimately entwined with her sense, her hope, her excitement, her notion that there was something she was supposed to do. Zacharael was the "supposed to." And now he was gone.