Contents
- Title Page
- Sepulcher
Part One
Part Two
Title Page
PILOT MANIFEST, THE SOURCE OF ALL THINGS
Lucien Tekla
Copyright © 2017
All rights reserved.
Sepulcher
Derelict in the current
Expelled to the sea
Fallen upon the sunken ground
A wreckage clad in atrophy
She’s a sepulcher named Fair Spirit
Resting, enduring immortality
—our dead prophet
PART ONE
King of the Dead
Commander Elmhurst has been gone six or seven days now. After searching for him by the towers and the cove, I stopped at our wreck and discovered this pilot manifest. Empty—not a single entry. The first few pages were missing, I should note. Looking through unfilled pages, I measured the importance in documenting the history and ongoing situation of the mission and crew of the King Stallion F-496. It seemed that as a relic of the burning world, our fate would have some meaning. Yet, until this entry, the archive of our time has been limited to recorded radio communications and images taken with a malfunctioning camera, damaged in the crash.
Physically documenting our experience in a manifest such as this will likely prove to be a tedious task. Yet, due to our current circumstances, it’s the only practical way. So, in order to preserve our time here, I will accept the responsibility. My hope is that Elmhurst will assume this function upon his return. Until then, unless otherwise noted, all entries will not be the writings of the pilot. They will be from me: Thomas Copeland Miller, King of the Dead.
— 2
It is another morning. I set off on my regular rounds and have since wandered forests in contemplation. I drifted through the mist without thought of the path—subdued in spiraling reflection. Not until knocking the stock of my rifle against a rock did I stop and return to the moment and to this new documenting task.
My thoughts were overwhelmed by a profusion of traumatic occurrences that would be necessary for properly maintaining a detailed record such as this. Perhaps such gruesome accounts are the reason the manifest was empty. And it would seem to make sense that if the task had been started and then abandoned, that the first pages might have been torn out all together, as it appears they were.
I continued on. A bright column of light appeared in the airy sable canopy. It reached the forest floor and halted me on the path. Particles floated across the light. Rays within the column shifted as branches above would sway. I stepped into the light to stand with the drifting particles. Brightness was all around me. Light shined in thin air, as I stood there with the forest all around.
My muted steps pressed along the soft deer trail in the damp pacific woodlands. I followed the path with recurring thoughts. I considered how I was able to perceive light in a subdued forest. Then memory stirred of everything in the world that once existed and now was gone.
So, I opened a page of the dead—a relic salvaged from the fire—to accompany me as I struggled to identify meaning in what existed and was lost. Not the light that disappeared in forest—nature changes with time. Not the time of yesterday gone in morning—time transcends days. Rather, I struggled to identify meaning in the essence of a living thing or place that once existed and was destroyed. In this case, the fatal end was brought about by the weapons of man, of war. Now my blistering memory is all that remains of a muse forever banished to history. Yet, the essence profoundly still exists—elements fermenting in the ink.
— 3
Out of the forest, I reached an ocean view. It broadened beyond towering rock edges and beach far below. Commencing with my new responsibility, I thought how an eventual discovery of this manifest would indicate that something had changed: someone else would be here at that point in time.
We might have gone the way of memory by then—reduced to abstractions of insignificant history, lacking essence. Actually, becoming a memory is luck dependent on our quandary being discovered when it still existed, by someone capable of forming memory, that’s true.
Future is a mischievous wretch prancing around madness. If we are discovered, future will have been swept over infinite edges of unknown, over cliffs onto rocks into waves. All of this experience will be taken by the ocean and emulsified like salt, disintegrated and dispersed in vast waters of time—the way the present dissolves past and future—and memory for that matter. The past is absorbed in time and bomb-razed cities become ethereal qualities of mind.
I begged for reason—for connection—within this field of disarray. I imagined somehow hidden in the future was a remote potential that could require, or justify, this excessive task. Something could salvage the memory here contained, this occurring now. It could then become a new day.
As that potential came to mind, I was reminded of our every effort and to the commitment worthy of such efforts—the commitment to community, which is a faithful commitment to the future. And so I found meaning in all of it, in everything. Although, it was difficult to find meaning from war when anything living after it will exist only in spite of it.
— 4
The day has disappeared and I’m out by the fire drinking an American bourbon. I think it would be important, after my previous comments, to state that I’ve since rejected the notion that justification of all of this could somehow be instilled upon the arrival of some future potential. The aforementioned new day.
I found myself thinking—dreaming—of some great rescue and all that. Then I realized it didn’t matter. I didn’t care if anyone ever showed up on our beach with anything in mind other than pulling the trigger with me in their crosshairs.
I know there would be a fight, and I know why. Copeland and the skeleton sentries would stand with me to keep all those sons of bitches off our beach, and I’d kill every last one if I were able, in defense of this life, now.
It became vile to think that this experience was a drawn-out ritual sacrifice hoping for some great thing to end its suffering, to rescue it. I defied the thought. They’ll find us if they find us. We don’t need rescue.
Fire soaked the bottle bending in thick glass. I thought of the sorrow in living dependent on the unknown to bring meaning to existence.
I know some future accord could be found. That is irrelevant. Instead, dedicated work for a secure territory will continue to be adequate motivation in which to find meaning. Undertaking this rare responsibility of creating an important record will be performed with diligence, as every other task. The manifest will come to exist with the essence of honor here experienced and revealed in our everyday duties as we watch over our desolate world.
—Our world, let me tell you, this once strange place became familiar as I adapted to the beautiful and harsh extremes of environment. Here, you are required to attain a new sense of nature and develop a patient awareness, a stealth within the wilderness. You must undergo an uncanny evolution. Here, also, I have become familiar with the living horror and stress of waking in darkness grasping a trigger in defense of screaming ghosts—all those who were cast-down by merciless stars. Their cries against torture haunt their stigmatized remains—guts stretched over broken bones in murky pools of red and immolations that found me king of the dead.
— 5
I’ve made my way to a high vantage this morning. There was no sign of Elmhurst on the inland route way. Sitting on a small platform in the trees, everlasting frost formed on my sleeves. Cold settled upon my stillness the way it covers a quiet stream.
From my perch, I looked through dark goggles to an angled view above the ed
ge of the platform. My memories manifested as projections upon the landscape before me, as degrading holograms of war and faces of people I knew lost in ruins and smoke. Explosions and gunfire layered upon voices and fractures of memory. The projections became so opaque that the landscape vanished. I closed my eyes and all I saw were flashes of war.
I can see that last day in conversation with Kagan and the people standing on a sidewalk of broken shadows as we all said farewell. They wished me safe travels as I would be going to sea. They’re the ones who are gone.
I’m broken by the fate of everyone I’ve ever known. There’s a continuous reel of specters in the sky.
The affliction drives me to honor their loss and to avenge the suffering cast upon our country.
—I put away the empty flask. I’m unable to continue at the moment. I need to climb down and get to camp. One more check down the forested range and then I’ll search for Elmhurst on the long coastal way back. There is no deer or anything else. I’ll continue later regarding the background of our mission, the explosion and crash. That should be a good place to start.
— 6
I’ve added some cut pine to the little stove. Cold dawn brightens. I may have slept another day—there’s no way to tell. There is nothing but displaced time. Fortunately, the skeletons remain steadfast on guard so there’s time to let the water heat for coffee, even though concern pulls me to go searching for Elmhurst. His careless fate may have met him, I fear. Anyway, it’s early. I’ll stay inside and finally continue with this task.
Mission:
I’m taking the liberty of copying some information from my personal journal, since memory can’t serve quite so well in regard to some of the finer details. I’ll refer to it as much as possible. Of course, I’ll make changes as I go to update this current record with knowledge gained in hindsight.
—I got caught-up searching for the flight information, lost in the words and symbols filling the pages. I should clarify: the journal I’m referencing once belonged to my friend Kagan. It was his book and it has become a relic of the old world. He had used it for some time before giving it to me. Then I left. They were there when the city was bombed. I’m drawn in as if watching resurrections.
Kagan wanted me to take this journal on my deployment. I’d be able to read through it and comment on what he’d written, as if in a delayed conversation. I guess his idea was for me to have something personal, or familiar, out on the ship. He usually only wrote on the right-side pages so I’d have the facing page for ideas and comments. Although, I think some of those pages did already have something written there. So much of our writing has melded over time.
I retrace his thoughts continually. I’ll transfer them to this manifest as necessary to salvage a clear evolution of ideas. In this way, I’ll be able to gain a broader understanding of the world, and to envision its utopian potential.—
So, with his journal along, I was off to sea. Except my deployment didn’t last. For, as we sailed away, the beast was concealed in the offing haze. We were soon informed that it had made landfall with that series of attacks and fires that brought cities to unrest. We were called back when we received news of larger explosions prior to the communications flare. There were more fires and derailments from one city to the next. There was real fear. It was our first understanding that something sinister was underway. Yeah, all chaos in the beginning.
It took our carrier days to get us close enough. It felt like a year. We flew into the fight and everywhere found burnt and shattered battlefields, hemorrhaging to death. Massive weapons had been used by then. We were shocked that any of us could’ve had family there.
I was able to return with my squad to some places I knew best. Our homes were destroyed. The cafe, our place for breakfast or an afternoon game of chess, was a hollowed tomb—burnt and broken. The journal was the only thing to survive of my old friend or anyone else I knew from the city.
—I found a page with notes about our last mission—which took place after months of battle after our deployment was redirected. This recalls the night as a night in late summer, though it felt like late fall. We immediately began winter preparations due to our northern latitude. I’ll paraphrase some of the original entry:
We left our carrier with two 463s loaded with approximately 16,000 lb. of supplies, including arms, equipment, and fuel. We were en route to resupply the American patriots led by Lieutenant TN Leonard. They were fighting to take a stronghold and regain ground controlled by the terrorist known as the Bear. His forces had fortified their northernmost US position on the western seaboard. We were charted to continue north to a base in Seattle before returning to our carrier. It was an extended range mission with added fuel capacity.
Even though it’s slightly broader than the scope of this manifest, a note should be made to specify that those invasion forces that had converged and entrenched themselves within the northern population were believed to be the forward-most brigade of hostile forces that originated near the Mexican border in California and Arizona. Engagements with these fighters are too numerous to recall. It isn’t enough to say we were familiar with them—we were cursed to know them. They left endless destruction on their way north. Their scourge rivaled that of the infamous prisoner army.
Their multiple fronts tactic combined organized military intelligence, communications, and intensity of movement with guerrilla warfare. Each focused attack left anarchy in its wake. Each hour of chaos saw compounded delirium in a country ripe for revolt. It was an evolution of the blitzkrieg. And they didn’t care to hold much ground. Displacement within the communications blackout was the continuing strategy. Within days, US military, police, and militia were engaged in countless locations across the map. Casualties are unfathomable.
Also, I think it’s important to state that the disruption of our communications was prolific. Multiple electromagnetic weapons were utilized by the enemy which created confusion on the battlefield, and worse: isolation. Upon crossing unseen boundaries, our troops seemed to disappear. The mobility of the weapons liberated enemy movement within large regions.
I imagine Lieutenant Leonard and his platoon were targeted by a disruption attack on the day we were set to deliver reinforcements to their position. Their final communication before contact was severed confirmed that engagement with the opposition was imminent. The tactical deception left us flying toward a blacked-out unknown.
This information is part of a broken picture, but I’d be remiss not to mention it. This unknown weighs on me nearly as much as recalling the discovered fate suffered by people I once knew as I often become ensnared with an ailment of hope imagining a chance that any family, friends, or fellow soldiers were alive. Some would live, yes, that’s true. Some must live somewhere. And yes, Elmhurst is out there. I’ll be searching again soon.
Speaking of Elmhurst, before beginning today’s search, I would like to document the heroism of our missing pilot which will in turn add some valuable information about our flight after the communications failure. Within hours of takeoff, we witnessed a massive explosion close to our inland target destination—LZ. The flash was about 21 kilometers away and still blinded both of us temporarily. Our instruments were disabled by the EMP. Commander Elmhurst displayed incredible skill in keeping us out of the water. He flew without instrumentation for hours into the night and morning. He was a real seagull instinctually searching for shore, never knowing our true direction. Finally, constantly battling an ill-responsive aircraft in predawn fading darkness, Elmhurst successfully landed on the beach here—except that we crashed. Successful though, we survived the landing.
I’ve yet to determine our specific location, only that it’s an island off the northwestern coast in the Pacific Ocean, possibly off the coast of Washington or Canada. I know it is in the North because winter was cold with fleeting daylight and ice. Wildlife and types of trees also give it away. It could be called Eagle Island. Never have I seen so many eagles, or bears or deer, for that matter.
>
— 7
Most of my time since the partial entry transcription yesterday was spent patrolling our camp territory and lookout positions, and, of course, searching for Elmhurst. I imagined seeing him walk up with a deer saying he got caught up in a hunt, or something to that effect. Maybe he found some people and had spent a week communicating through an improvised sign language—maybe he found a place to enjoy English language practice sessions. I’m disappointed that he has yet to return. We have so much to do around here. It gets overwhelming.
At a rock monument overwatch perch I’m clothed in lichens, hidden in the landscape. The field of view covers all of our camp which is also concealed well. I’ve taken all precautions to insure minimal visual presence by utilizing available natural resources. This was done in order to maintain tactical control of the beach. I have also outfitted multiple overwatch locations with appropriate arms and communications for me and Commander Elmhurst and the skeleton sentries manning each post. At short notice, we can disperse and cover our defendable terrain which includes prime landing areas near camp and supply storage areas. The mini-camps are separated by 600m and overlook the beach. An inland overwatch stands 800m from our broken bird. Supplies have also been dispersed and stored in a few sheds that we had relocated from surrounding areas.
It’s time to make the rounds and check for signs of entry.
—All of our sites were free of disturbing evidence. There was nothing in the back-hills. Nothing of Elmhurst. There was nothing more than a mist escaping a cowering afternoon. I’ll stop at the lodge on the way back to listen for ghosts.
— 8
The lodge is our capitol building. Camp will be relocated here, eventually. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to maintain a secure crash site from this location.
This great chamber was created from a pure vision. Built into the cliff, the concave of the wall-of-stone is mirrored by the far wall of glass. Each clear panel is secured onto the heavy, yet aesthetically satisfying, steel framework. The wall of glass reveals a few isolated trees rooted in stone along the desolate shore of this northern ocean.
Pilot Manifest: The Source of all Things Page 1
