by James Frey
They pass a few squat maples and round some overgrown bluffs that belonged to the ancient pre-Columbian city that once flourished on this Mississippian flood plain. Taken with Monks Mound, the 109 mounds of this city formed the heart of a thriving Mesoamerican metropolis that was as large and populous as any in the Americas, from the Bering Strait to Cape Horn. In fact, the city that grew around the mounds, with as many as 40,000 people at its height, was the largest city in North American history until Philadelphia surpassed it in the mid-1780s, long after any cultural trace of the Cahokian people had disappeared from the record books.
Long after their line’s secrets were moved and dispersed and hidden from the prying eyes of Europeans and other Native American clans.
Long after the Cahokians retreated in order to stay better prepared for Endgame.
“A little over half the mounds are in the state park,” Simon says, pulling to a stop in a patch of thigh-high switch grass. He turns in a semicircle and tucks his map into a breast pocket. His voice is muffled and hollowed out by his respirator. “The rest are scattered. The one we’re looking for is so eroded that you wouldn’t recognize it as anything significant.” He slides a metal bracelet down his arm, folding his hand through its circle and yanking it off. He swings it in an arc, like he’s using it to dowse for water.
A dirty drizzle falls, a chill wind blows from the north. Rain streaks their goggles and clothing. Sarah shivers as the wind touches an exposed section of her neck. Another lightning strike near Monks Mound. They swing around to look, but it’s lightning, nothing more. Simon resumes his search for the hidden mound. He walks slowly, heel to toe, measuring distance. The bracelet guides him.
Sarah and Jago inch along a few paces behind. Out of the blue, Jago says, “Obviously Sarah’s told me of this weapon, Señor Alopay. But I’m very curious.”
“Yes?” Simon says, concentrating on his search.
Shit, Sarah thinks. The tops of the trees on the other side of the tracks bend and sway in their direction. The drizzle turns to light rain. She unclips a ball cap from her belt and puts it on over her raven-dyed hair, pulling the brim tight to the goggles to keep them dry. Please don’t say it, she thinks.
“What does it do exactly?” Jago asks. “And why did your line hide it? Why not keep it and use it? That’s what the Olmec line would’ve done if we’d been given such a gift.”
Simon pauses. He tilts toward Jago. “Our people buried it because it’s powerful, Jago Tlaloc. The books say that it can light the heavens, and that it can kill Makers. Did my people ever try to do that? Not to my knowledge. To be honest, I don’t know if it’s real, or if it’ll work. It’s been buried for a long time. As to why we hid it, I assume it was because my ancestors were afraid of it. It is a weapon that belonged to Them. And the Makers were to be feared. Surely your people share this fear.”
Jago says, “Of course. But how did the Cahokians get it in the first place? Did they steal it?”
Sarah reaches up and flicks the back of Jago’s ear. He flinches and gives her a look that says, Okay, okay!
Simon stops again. “All I know is that it’s supposed to be buried . . . here!” Simon does a little prestidigitation with the metal ring, and right before their eyes it’s standing on its narrow edge in the palm of his hand, as if propped up by invisible forces.
He goes on one knee and works his fingers through the thick grass, parting it like hair. “Help me look,” Simon says. “The marker’s an oblong stone in the shape of an eye and about the size of a fist. This ring is a kind of key. It will open any important chamber in this ancient city. This one, and the one up there.” He tips his head toward Monks Mound to the north.
Sarah gets on the ground several feet away from Simon. Jago picks a spot and does the same. Sarah’s goggles are fogging, so she lifts them from her eyes and pulls them over the top of her hat. She works the fingers of her good hand through the grass and over the dirt.
They search for a couple minutes with no luck.
Jago straightens, scanning their surroundings. No sign of anyone. Just more dirty rain, probably acidic and toxic, and more cold air blowing in from the north. “You sure it’s here, señor?”
“I’m sure,” Simon says. “When I lapsed, my father brought me to this very spot and showed me the rock. He didn’t know much about the weapon either, except that it was buried and that it should only be unearthed in extreme circumstances.”
“You mean if Endgame actually began,” Sarah says.
“That was the gist of it, yeah. We saw the rock and went back to the park. Had a picnic by the train tracks. Counted empty coal cars as they lumbered by, headed back to West Virginia.”
Sarah crawls forward and is surprised when her left knee digs into something hard. She moves over and uses her hands and, yes. “Here!” she says.
A black and smooth stone—completely out of place in this non-volcanic part of the world—shaped like an Egyptian hieroglyphic eye.
“That’s it!” Simon exclaims. He puts the bracelet next to the stone and works his fingers around its edges and pries it free. The dirt underneath is wet and buggy, worms corkscrew and writhe as they dive into the safety of the earth. Simon ignores them and digs in, pushing the dirt away and severing some unlucky worms with his fingernails. After a minute another hunk of sleek black rock is revealed at the bottom of a 12-inch hole. The rain intensifies. The ash coating everything washes from the leaves and the grass and their clothing. The water also helps Simon clean off the rock, and now Sarah sees that in its surface is a rounded indentation about two inches deep.
An indentation that is a perfect match for the bracelet.
Simon fits the bracelet into the slot. It slides into place and he wraps his fingers around it and turns it 37 degrees. A click and a hiss. He lets go and pulls away.
But nothing happens.
A flicker in Sarah’s periphery and she hoists her rifle reflexively, aiming north toward the tracks and beyond at the rain-lashed trees.
“What is it?” Simon and Jago ask.
Sarah squints through the rain. “Thought I saw something but it’s . . . Eh, it’s only the wind in the trees.”
They return their attention to the vessel peeking from the ground. Jago says, “Why isn’t—” but is cut short by a rumble underfoot. All three dance defensively. Sarah and Jago think anxiously of Stonehenge, of how it morphed and grew around them after the disk activated the monument, of how Chiyoko was crushed by accident.
But this time nothing so dramatic happens. The rumbling lasts a few moments and instead of a glass-and-stone monstrosity rising from the ground it is nothing more than a simple black pillar, seven feet tall and three feet in diameter, the bracelet rooted to the top.
From where they stand the thing appears solid, with no recess or door that might hold this ancient weapon.
Simon walks around the pillar, letting his fingertips trail over its glassy surface. When he gets to the far side his eyes widen and he makes a sound that’s equal parts relief and wonder.
Sarah and Jago join him. The pillar has a recess covered by a clear glass panel. Simon touches this and it swings open, revealing a fist-sized metal object shaped like a lump of malformed clay. The only indication that it might have any purpose are three finger-sized holes running through one side and a cradle for a thumb on its top.
Simon takes it, carefully inserting his fingers through the holes. It fits in his hand perfectly.
“It looks like a paperweight, not a death ray,” Jago says.
Simon points the thing away from the Players and angles it toward the ground and taps his thumb into the cradle, expecting it to act as a switch or trigger. But nothing happens.
Jago shrugs and reaches on top of the pillar, popping out the bracelet. “We got it, whatever it is,” he says dismissively. “Now let’s look for Sun Key and get out of here. We need to check in with the others soon, Sarah.”
As he speaks the spindle of stone drops back underground.
>
Sarah is about to agree with Jago when the air gets very cold. An invisible presence brushes past her, and Simon twists violently and is thrown to the ground, the Maker “weapon” is knocked out of his grip and tumbles into the grass. Jago and Sarah lift their rifles but don’t know where—or what—to shoot. They twirl and search and Sarah calls out, “Dad!” and Simon moans and Jago shouts, “There!”
Sarah looks, not knowing what to expect, and Jago taps his trigger, firing three shots. The space between them ripples and then darkens and a thing like a net appears from nowhere and catches Jago’s bullets. It surges toward him and then sucks up his arms and his chest and his face. His skin turns blue and within a fraction of a second his entire body is wrapped in this gossamer shroud and he’s unconscious and teetering to the ground like a falling tree.
The Maker! Sarah thinks desperately.
Simon moans again, straining toward Sarah.
She dives sideways as another net-shroud hurtles overhead, missing her by inches. She skids over the dirt, her respirator catching the ground and twisting uncomfortably around to the side of her head and crunching her ear. She sees the clump of metal less than a foot away and scrambles toward it. She gets it, her fingers fit perfectly, her thumb grows almost unbearably hot as it settles into the imprint. Her arm locks at the elbow and her shoulder feels like it’s being used as a pincushion by a thousand needles. Her bad arm, tied to her stomach in a sling, aches. She rolls onto her back and points the weapon defensively, sighting along her arm. She blinks at the thing in her hand. It isn’t a little mound of metal anymore but an elongated spike extending from the pinkie side of her hand for about three feet. Despite its sudden length it’s featherlight. The air shimmers and another net-shroud opens from a small point above her and spreads into the air like an ink stain. She squeezes her entire hand around the weapon and keeps her eyes open and thinks of what she wants it to do—reveal the Maker and cut it down—and the spike glows yellow and gray and a thin disk of light appears from the tip. It flashes for a millisecond, a blade of light extending to the clouds and beyond. The net-shroud is shredded into a thousand pieces. It blows away on the wind. And behind that, about seven feet above the ground, a melon-sized object flips through the air and thumps onto the ground close to Sarah’s feet.
A form appears before her in streaks. Whatever it’s using for camouflage fritters and malfunctions. She sees a body, skinny and pale, headless and falling. When it hits the ground it’s completely visible, and she knows for certain that it’s dead.
“YEAH! Yeah! Fuck you!” she spits. “Fuuuuuuuuhuuuuuck yoooooouuu!”
She sits up hastily and yanks her bad hand from the sling and tears the respirator and goggles and cap from her head. She zips the weapon all around, getting to her knees, covering every angle while she looks for another target, but there isn’t one and the thing in her hands is already morphing back to its innocuous state.
She pants, her breath quickened by adrenaline and joy and disbelief but mostly joy.
I killed him.
I killed kepler 22b.
She lets out a laugh, full and hearty, and crawls to Jago. She tugs at the shroud, which is bitterly cold to the touch. It crinkles and cracks as she frees him from it, and as soon as he’s out his eyes flutter and he’s back with her.
She wraps her arms around him and kisses his face all over: his lips his scar the bridge of his nose his blinking eyes. They embrace awkwardly on the ground, the weapon that is very much a weapon there in her hand.
The rain falls ever harder. She doesn’t care.
“I killed him,” she whispers, her lips on the soft skin of his ear. “I killed him, Jago.”
He smiles, but his eyes dart to the side. “And your father?”
Sarah peers over Jago’s shoulder. Simon works his way onto his elbows as he gets his bearings. “He looks fine.”
Sarah kisses Jago one more time, a smile plastered to her face. She jumps up and bounds to Simon. He is fine. He laughs. They hug. They regroup over the next several minutes, drink water and check their guns. They are entranced by the alien body and its severed head. Sarah and Jago argue about whether it is actually kepler 22b—it doesn’t look exactly the same—but Simon giddily asks, “Does it really matter?”
No, it really doesn’t.
They have the weapon. And it works, and it can kill Makers.
They take the alien head, slipping it into a plastic bag and tucking this into Jago’s large pack. They firebomb the body with an incendiary grenade, making sure it burns, and as the fire rages at their backs they return north, a sense of victory in their throats. Within the hour they enter the Cahokian monument and find the central star chamber and search for Sun Key. It isn’t there. Simon is convinced. They will have to move on and search the next monument. They leave and go up, up, up, outside and to the vehicles. Sarah and her father get in the old Taurus, bloodstained and bullet-riddled. Jago gets on the Harley.
They go back to the plane. They will talk to the other Players. Get new orders. Maybe rendezvous with them somewhere else. Maybe head to La Venta, as planned.
Or I can go home and see Mom, Sarah thinks as they board the plane after refueling. And as it hurtles up the runway and bumps into the air, Jago at the controls, her head resting on her father’s shoulder in the main cabin, her good hand holding his hand, she says quietly, “Or I can go home . . .”
Within minutes she is asleep, the smell of Simon’s hair in her nose, dreaming of what could be.
AN LIU, NORI KO
Approaching 34.36226, 108.640262, Huzhucun, China
Nori Ko turns off an empty six-lane highway, bouncing the Defender onto a dirt service road. Both roads cut through flat farmland, the fields green with corn and soybeans and potatoes. To the east and south is the semi-industrial sprawl of Xi’an—water towers and a tangle of wires over electrical substations and soulless buildings and tall concrete chimneys spewing smoke and steam.
Countering these, and watching over the farmland like half-asleep dragons, are the pyramids. Unlike the hidden Great White Pyramid, these structures sit out in the open. There are dozens scattered around Xi’an, making this area a vast graveyard for China’s ancient emperors.
The tomb that An Liu and Nori Ko are headed to belongs to a Han emperor named Zhao, who only lived until the age of 20 and ruled for a mere 13 years between 87 and 74 BCE. At least this is the pyramid’s nominal purpose. Its other purpose, and one that is much more important than that of resting place for a forgotten child-king, concerns Endgame.
Nori Ko drives a few hundred meters north to the nearby pyramid, although it doesn’t look like much of one anymore. It’s more like a slump-backed hill, crisscrossed with worn footpaths through clumps of wild grass. The site is culturally significant, and technically protected by the Chinese government, but there is no welcome center, no ropes cordoning it off, no formal parking lot for visitors. Instead there’s a shabby patch of open dirt at the western base of the hill littered with plastic bottles and bags and food wrappers. A cornfield full of leafy stalks grows right next to the hill.
No other cars are here, and An is glad for it. He almost says as much to Chiyoko, who speaks often now, saying annoying things like Stay and Honor life and Let it be and then things that contradict these niceties like No quarter and Take the keys and Seek blood, love. Seek blood for me.
An SHIVERblink An SHIVERSHIVER An and Nori Ko exit the Defender. He bites his lower lip in order to keep quiet. He wants to talk to Chiyoko, but he knows that doing so would make Nori Ko ask questions.
He glimpses his reflection in a car window. His stubbly head, his tattooed tear, his deep-set and sleepless eyes, his thin purple lips.
We’re nearly there, Chiyoko, he thinks.
She doesn’t respond.
He checks his weapons and his supplies. He checks his string of homemade bombs. He slings Nobuyuki’s katana over his shoulder.
Nori Ko’s movements mirror his. She clicks metal on guns an
d sheathes blades and makes sure that clothing is not loose. Her face is hard and cold. He has grown used to her over the course of their drive from India, and while it hasn’t been more than a few days he’s already begun to take her for granted.
“I am glad Chiyoko sent you to me, Nori Ko,” An says.
Nori Ko pauses. This is the first time An has said something that sounds grateful, even kind. She smiles a little as she says, “I’m glad too.” She slaps a magazine into her rifle and snaps the charger. “Now let’s go get those keys.” She winks and spins away from the car and slams the door.
She leads, he follows. They pass a tidy shrine at the base of the pyramid, a small plaque inside naming Emperor Zhao and giving the years of his truncated reign. A bouquet of wilted flowers and the butt ends of a few sticks of burned incense are inside, no doubt left by some superstitious farmer who believes in the grace or ire of local spirits.
An and Nori Ko march up the dirt track. An notices for the first time that the northern face of the hill is covered in a stand of dark pagoda trees. A perfect place to hide an entrance to this forgotten relic from another age.
It’s a short climb—the hill is only 30 meters high—and Nori Ko reaches the summit first.
But when she does she freezes and drops to the ground, swinging her rifle in a 45-degree arc. An checks their flanks. A truck cruising north on the wide highway to the west, and another ancient pyramid rises over the farmland another mile past that.
He gets on his belly and military crawls behind Nori Ko. “What?” he whispers.
