The Creation: Axis Mundi (The Creation Series Book 1)

by The Behrg

  The man looked at him curiously then twisted his neck to both sides letting loose a series of disturbing cracks. “Do I know you?”

  “You’re English?” Faye asked.

  “British, though I have dual citizenship, I assure you.” The man opened his mouth and picked between two teeth with a long fingernail. “Not Britain and England, mind you, but here, Venezuela. And, of course, back home.”

  The smell of alcohol hung from him like a cloud.

  “Now don’t tell me, it’ll come,” the man continued.

  Donavon smiled and the man’s eyes lit up.

  “You’re the, uh, oh don’t tell me, the … that’s it! You were the guard in Concentration, the one with the accent that was so bloody awful.”

  Donavon’s smile fell though he saw Faye chuckle. “That was one of my first roles ...”

  “Ze plane, Ze plane,” the man shouted, laughing.

  “That wasn’t my line.”

  “Yes, commander, I will go and kill that Jew. Right away, sir.”

  “Look, you’re obviously drunk and –”

  “We need a place to stay,” Faye said, cutting him off. “Just for the night.”

  “Well, my darling, you have stumbled onto the right man. Sir William Francis, the third, at your service.” He dipped an imaginary hat, almost falling over in the process. “Mi casa es su casa, though I hate to admit I wasn’t planning on guests.”

  “Just a roof over our heads would be amazing.”

  “Do we want to talk about this first?” Donavon said, Faye giving him one of her glares.

  “I, for one, thought we were doing exactly that.” Sir William chuckled, a light frothy sound.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” Faye asked, ignoring Donavon.

  “A pretty lady such as yourself? I’d have to be insane to mind that. And will the German be joining us, as well?” Sir William said with a terrible attempt at a German accent.

  “Come on, I wasn’t that bad.”

  “Hail Hitler!” Sir William shouted, saluting. This time he did lose his balance, falling back onto his rear.

  The old man beamed up at them with a childlike smile and Donavon found himself offering his hand to help the man back up.

  “The German would love to stay in your abode,” Donavon said, speaking in a much more authentic German accent.

  “My commode?”

  Donavon felt himself flush. “Abode! Your house. We’ll – yes, we’d love to stay with you.”

  Sir William clapped once. “Ha-ha, Spree will be so pleased!” He took Donavon’s hand and rose back to his feet. “Come, come, it’s not far and I have brandy.”

  Donavon fell in beside the old man, Faye mouthing the words “thank you” to him. Donavon nodded. Hell, it beat staying in a prison.

  Verse XV.

  Dugan walked the halls of the Facility, his home away from home for the past fourteen months. In truth he had no home to go back to, so what did that make this place?

  Una policia acostada, as the Venezuelans referred to them. A speed bump. Just one amongst many on life’s little journey.

  The Facility entailed three connected buildings, all but invisible by air through clever camouflage and cover of jungle growth. The amount of money put into these buildings was probably equivalent to Venezuela’s annual GDP.

  The first structure was a carport, an open walled steel structure hidden beneath a thick blanket of tree branches and leaves. The Humvees for his team were parked alongside a line of ATV’s and dirt bikes for those few civilian employees allowed to visit town. Their single helicopter stayed out in the open, covered with a heavy camouflaged tarp. Even by satellite it was impossible to notice.

  The second building was the barracks. The kitchen with their staff of chefs, laundry, and individual quarters serving an encampment of close to eighty. There was a grocery store the village of Santa Elena would have been jealous of, a movie theater, basketball court and gym, even an indoor pool. When you lived where you worked for months on end, having a bit of distraction was a necessity for most.

  The center building, connecting both barracks and carport, was for operations. Much like an iceberg, it was larger underground than above. It was through these halls he walked, the hour guaranteeing his thoughts would remain solitary.

  He flashed his badge at a security station and turned his face upward toward the camera in the corner. The heavy steel door before him buzzed. He opened it, stepping through into a room the size of a broom closet. A second vault-like door was directly in front of him.

  The door behind rattled closed, locking itself firmly in place. The room invoked a sense of claustrophobia on even the most anxiety-free men and women. Dugan stood up straighter, stretching his left arm down with his palm open, fingers spread. He had been told it was unnecessary but followed the practice every time he entered.

  A bright flash left him temporarily blinded. The multimodal biometric scanner simultaneously ran facial recognition, hand geometry, and palm vein authentication. If even one of the tests came up negative, the room would remain on lock-down, an oxygen concentrator in the ceiling whisking away the air, leaving only nitrogen and carbon dioxide behind.

  The death, Dugan was told, would be painless.

  He blinked through the white flashes as the door before him gave its pressurized release, allowing passage. He walked through, entering a second hall.

  The war hall. Because whether the world admitted it or not, there wasn’t a person out there who hadn’t engaged in some form of warfare with the only common enemy mankind shared.

  Mortality.

  Zephyr stood outside a doorway, one leg propped up against the wall. A thin wisp of smoke rose from a cigarette in his hand. He held it out to Dugan. “Compliments of the Bear.”

  “He’s not coming?”

  Zephyr shook his head.

  Strange; he rarely left Dugan’s side. Dugan grabbed the cigarette and walked into the room. Zephyr closed the door behind them.

  The Callis room always made for tight quarters. It was the only board room Dugan had seen without a single chair. A large circular table in the center was the only piece of furniture in the room. Nothing on the walls and, being underground, no windows.

  “I’ll make this quick.”

  Marcus Stanton stood opposite Dugan across the table, heavy bags under his eyes. He was tall, with grey peppered hair and a lean physique, wearing his typical white button-up shirt with blue jeans. Probably had his cowboy boots on as well. Besides Cy, he was the only one in the room who looked clean-shaven. If you didn’t count his assistant.

  Stanton was the official chief of operations for the project here in Venezuela, though everyone knew he was only the handset corporate used to reach those with the real power. Seeing as Dugan had no desire to dosey-doe with the executives, the arrangement served them all.

  Dugan nodded to Doctor Morley on Stanton’s left, the only other man in the room as dangerous as himself. The mad scientist tipped his mug toward Dugan before taking a sip. There was an unspoken agreement between the three of them enabling Stanton to keep some visage of control in settings where a group was involved.

  Stanton’s assistant, a blonde knock-out at least half his age, handed him a folder. It was common knowledge she assisted Stanton in matters both work-related and personal. If she was as efficient under the sheets as she was with managing the day-to-day operations, Stanton was a lucky man.

  “By the end of the month we’re going from off-books to on,” Stanton said without opening the folder. Though they all knew what that meant, he continued. It’s what men like Stanton did.

  “Our center will be open for inspection by the CDER and ITOB. We’re expecting an immediate EIR to prove compliance, which gives us an estimated two weeks before preliminary inspections. Shannon will see you each have a copy of the Regulatory Procedures Manual as well as the CPG, Compliance Policy Guides, for your designated office. Dugan, I’ll need your men to supervise any … flashing.” S
tanton glanced around at using the word, as if there were ears who might overhear. “No more deep-sea excursions. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re prepared for this. No one will even find what we’re really doing,” Morley said.

  “It’s not up to me,” Stanton said.

  “The hell does that mean?”

  “It means prepared or not, you’re being shut down,” Shannon said.

  “Son of a bitch!” Morley hurled his mug against the wall. It bounced off without shattering, black coffee slathering the wall and ground. Not quite the effect he had been looking for. “How long have you known?”

  Stanton swallowed hard, looking down at his folder now for the first time. Not for answers but an escape.

  “How long, you bastard?” Morley shouted.

  “Umm, it’s been –”

  “A few days is all,” Shannon replied, cutting her boss off.

  Morely was right to be upset. Stanton may not have held any real power, but the stockholders and investors pulling invisible strings? They could make them all dance if they wanted.

  Zephyr walked out, letting the door slam behind him. Cy rubbed at his bald head, the deep lines carved into his face multiplying.

  “Dugan! Aren’t you going to say something?” Morley asked.

  “What’s there to say?”

  “What’s there … What’s there to say?” Morley’s face had turned beet red. “They’re shutting us down! When we’re this friggin’ close!”

  Dugan blew out a stream of smoke then dropped his cigarette, grounding it into the smooth tiled floor. “Shouting at a tidal wave won’t keep you from drowning.”

  “Bullshit. This is bullshit. Bullshit!” Morley stormed from the room.

  Cy bent down to retrieve the fallen mug, holding it out for Shannon to take. “No matter where you run you’re a cog in someone’s wheel,” he said.

  Stanton shifted uncomfortably. “Dugan, I’m sorry. You know if I could do anything …”

  Dugan’s glare stopped him cold. “A few days?”

  “I …” Stanton tossed the folder onto the table, throwing his hands into the air. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs swimming in this! Do you have any idea what it’s going to require to pass code in this short of time?”

  “Yeah, a graveyard.”

  Shannon’s face went a shade whiter, her eyes darting to Stanton. Though they both knew what went on behind locked doors they preferred to feign ignorance. Who could blame them?

  “Find your own Flash team,” Dugan said. “My men are busy.”

  “What, chasing rabid dogs? Newsflash – that’s over!” Shannon said.

  “We’re in clean up mode.” Stanton’s voice was much calmer than his side kick’s.

  “You’re in cleanup mode,” Dugan said, pointing with his finger. He felt the anger racing through his veins, pulsing in his head. He needed to hit something. Destroy something. Instead he balled his hands into fists and brought them down to his side. “Give me a week.”

  “Dugan, I can’t …”

  “A week!”

  Shannon took a step back, holding one hand protectively against her chest.

  Stanton nodded. It wasn’t like Dugan had been asking. “Okay, but I’ve got to prep for this, beginning tomorrow,” he said. “I wait a week and we’ll all be strung up. You understand. Tell Morley I’m sorry. It’s … been a good run.”

  “You get in my way, and you won’t be here by the time the inspectors arrive. Understand?” Dugan said.

  This time Stanton’s nodding looked like a man begging for his life. “A week,” he said. “Then I expect your full support.”

  “A week and you’ll have it,” Dugan said. “Shannon.” He tilted his head as he ducked from the room, stepping over the ground up cigarette that she would no doubt be cleaning up.

  Somehow Oso had known. Dugan had no idea how, but it was the only explanation for why the man had opted not to come. Cy, Zephyr, and Oso made up his executive team – their opinions were ones he trusted and they were men he could not only rely on, but that would bring their own unique insight.

  A week.

  What the hell could he hope to accomplish in a week that he hadn’t been able to in the past year? Maybe throw a coup and supplant Stanton in more than just influence.

  Coups did seem to go over well in this country.

  Dugan felt his hand touching the notebook in his breast pocket. He had given up everything for this. What did it matter if others were asked to sacrifice the same?

  Or what did it matter if they were never asked.

  Verse XVI.

  “Welcome to my humble commode.”

  Sir William’s house, if it could be called a house, looked like a complex mathematician’s problem. Its base cylindrical with a dome atop, sporting odd sharp angles in some sort of polyhedral equation. Faye was pretty sure the sum of those parts did not add up.

  “Looks like a giant golf ball on a tee,” Donavon said.

  “Maybe a deformed golf ball,” Faye said.

  “Yes, yes it does.”

  “What’s it for?” Donavon asked.

  “The golf ball? Or the tee?” Sir William chuckled.

  A low block wall encircled the home with an awry gate that shrieked with their entrance. Off to the side of the yard was a garden with all manner of vegetables in neat planted lines – beans, pumpkins, tomatoes, and a few Faye didn’t recognize from their eager sprouts.

  Sir William led them to the front door below a stooped perch, unlocking it and gesturing them through.

  The moment Faye entered, she was attacked.

  Something grabbed her, snagging onto her hair and clawing at her back. She screamed – reaching out to the wall for balance as she batted at her head.

  “Get it off! Get it off!”

  Beside her Donavon laughed.

  The creature freed itself, landing on top of a wooden rocking chair. It leapt from bookshelf to picture frame then disappeared up a twisting iron-wrought staircase. A spider monkey, its fur golden brown with a black tail.

  The picture frame fell to the floor with a clatter. There was no glass in it; apparently this wasn’t the first time it had fallen.

  “You’ll have to excuse my flat-mate, I hadn’t the chance to inform him guests would be arriving.” Sir William closed the door behind him.

  “Where’s the camera crew when you need them?” Donavon said, still smiling.

  Faye shivered, the thought of that thing crawling all over her.

  “Spree?” Sir William made a sucking sound with his teeth. “Spree? Oh, now, you’ve scared him off!”

  He dropped his cane against a couch and moved toward the small kitchen in the back, walking with a slight limp. The room was crowded with furniture, old sitting chairs and sofas with tight end-tables between, piles of books stacked across most surfaces. A drooping counter separated the living room from the kitchen. Tiny cockroaches fled into cracks at the kitchen lights coming aglow. A large wrinkled map was draped over the far sofa, partially opened next to a topographical globe, one of the old-school ones, that spins within its casing.

  Sir William banged around in the kitchen, pots clanging together as he called out to make themselves at home. Donavon asked about a bathroom and went to the door just past the stairway.

  “Don’t flush the toilet paper,” Sir William shouted after him. “There’s a can by the sink! Pipes are sensitive that way.”

  Something on the arm of the couch caught Faye’s attention, a streaked stain that ended in a hardened clump, almost like a mold. She scratched at it with a fingernail, pieces breaking away like clay. She brought it to her face, instantly regretting it.

  Feces.

  Hopefully the monkeys.

  On the way to the house they had told Sir William their reason for being here. Surprisingly he had been almost as excited as Faye herself, telling them how he hated that infernal refinery, his term for the lumber mill. They discovered he had been living in the country for twelve years n
ow, was an astronomer, philosopher, widower, aspiring author, and highly functioning drunk.

  Those last two go hand in hand, he had said.

  The ‘Sir’ came from marrying well, though he hadn’t been inclined to expound other than to tell them when his wife passed he had felt the need to lift the chains of responsibility and flee to the remotest place he could find.

  He had been here ever since.

  When Faye had mentioned what had happened with their colleagues, Sir William casually stated he was friends with the governor of the state. He’d place a phone call in the morning that would see their friends released from prison. Faye hoped that wasn’t the booze talking.

  With Donavon out of earshot, she sat at the counter, their host preparing a drink in the kitchen. A concoction of fresh vegetables, juice and a lot of brandy.

  “Have you met any other Americans here in the past two years?” Faye asked, trying for casual conversation.

  “Some. Most tourists never get down quite this far South. Less lately, though who can blame them.”

  “What about someone who’s not a tourist? A scientist, named James Dugan. Have you heard of him?”

  “I make it my practice to know as few people as possible. Safer that way. You should try it.” He turned the blender on, its mechanical roar keeping the conversation from continuing.

  When Donavon returned he did so with a friend. The spider monkey sat atop his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his thick neck, its tail flicking across his back.

  “You name him Spree for the candy?” he asked.

  “Candy? No, for the trouble he’s caused me,” Sir William answered. “One continual destruction spree after another. Last month he sent my computer monitor down the stairs. Honestly I don’t know why I have anything nice.”

  As Donavon took a stool next to Faye, the monkey jumped onto the counter and scrambled across, jostling dishes, before climbing up their host. Once comfortable, it bared its teeth at Faye and hissed.

  “Now, now, manners.” Sir William filled four glasses with the green mulch-like liquid from the blender. He set one in front of each of them, leaving the fourth by the sink. Spree hopped down, overturning the glass and began to slurp it up with both paws.