Pilot Manifest: The Source of all Things

by Tekla, Lucien

  I’ve added a few chairs at the banquet table along the back wall. The skeletons at these stations possess the capacity for objective and subjective theoretical discourse. In hindsight, their forlorn history has stimulated the lucid imagining of societal structures that could ensure a peaceful civilization that could warn future generations of the causes of conflicts that lead to widespread tragic demise, such as their own. These skeletons keep thoughts organized and maintain an unwavering consistency in conviction. Copeland has a permanent seat, of course. He typically resides at the main watchtower.

  When last I was here, I left a few logs burning to keep the place warm in case anyone arrived when I was gone. Stirred coals were still hot enough to consume kindling and firewood as I fed them. Smoke was drawn to the high chimney through a stout, metal hood suspended within the building’s steel framework twenty feet above the open floor pit. It rose with air escaping the flue without circulating in the room.

  The stone pit fireplace was built in the center of the floor of the great chamber, a work of artists, architect and builder. It’s an altar, a place to gaze into the soul contained in fiery animation.

  Glacial air was still beyond the glass when they appeared in the white mountains—a hunting party in wolf and bear furs. They leaned on their spears against the cold. Rifle barrels upon their shoulders were masts in a storm. One is carrying in his glove an amulet carved of red stag horn. He leads them as they search this northern blindness for the shelter of this great chamber. One day they will arrive. The fire will be burning.

  — 9

  Back at camp, I’ve located our old inventory and resources notes in my journal. I’ll copy this list, revise it later:

  Weapons: Rifles, LMGs, mounted 50s (repositioned to watchtowers), Suppressed (sniper) rifles [none chambered in .50 BMG], numerous hunting rifles, pistols,

  Ammunition: 60,000 x NATO 5.56; 1,000 x .50 BMG; 20,000 x [.308]; 10,000 x .45 ACP.

  Water: Fresh water storage containers filled. Numerous sources of fresh water on island.

  Food: MREs x 1600. Food storage found in town/ remote cabins, includes vitamins and other supplements. Wildlife.

  Communications: radios, main com system,

  Fuel: Four barrels of diesel total 220 gallons. Station pump destroyed. Firewood, trees. Solar packs.

  Vehicles: pickups, ATVs, snow machines. Small sea craft, none open sea worthy. Multiple small airplanes, all damaged.

  There’s an abundance of coffee and alcohol, thankfully.

  — 10

  Another cold morning, frost. Still no sign of Elmhurst, day 9 or so. Maybe he lucked out and got picked up hitchhiking a passing hot air balloon, or he hailed a ghost ship sailing off our coast. Maybe he was taken by a giant eagle to a kingdom in shifting clouds.

  I’ll look for him on the road above town today and around more secluded cabins. I haven’t gone through all vacancies yet.

  For the Record: The town was destroyed before we arrived, and almost everyone was already tortured and killed. The mass execution site was a gruesome discovery—over 60 killed. Every victim shared tragedy equally.

  Almost everyone, I said, because of the unfortunate confrontation that led to the death of the only known living inhabitants that we have seen. It’s unclear if they resided here prior to the conflict. They were militarily equipped, so it’s possible they were responsible for the murders we discovered in town.

  They raided our crash site the morning of the second day. They flanked where it seemed we would be, where we should’ve been if we were waiting around like victims. Where they attacked, we weren’t, of course. No, we were concealed as I now always must be. We saw them way off on their approach as they divided into two assault groups.

  One group coordinated with hand-signals as they descended into the tall grass and fog hanging over the field. I watched them through my riflescope. Their eyes were those of predators—small, gleaming, and fixed. They were a pack of coyotes stalking an injured lion or bear. They breathed in through their noses and out through their teeth as they advanced, sensing a kill.

  I also targeted the overwatch group where they were hidden on the ridge. Three went down the hill and had taken cover tucked into the trees. The barrels of their rifles were metal lines in the branches. One stayed higher on the mountain spine, prone in shadows—sighting our bird.

  Once our absence was determined, the second group was beckoned by the first. They took their time emerging from cover. They should have stayed in hiding forever—on some other island. The two groups met within sixty meters of my position. Elmhurst was in cover in a thicket above them on the hill—at the 50 cal we had positioned there the afternoon before, conveniently. I presented myself when they were unready.

  They stood motionless for an entire settling of fate. Their weapons began to turn in my direction—I could see the whites of eyes, as it is recited, as their heads turned and tilted.

  I unleashed death upon them. Elmhurst uncovered from his position on the hill and rained tracers into their defenseless flank.

  We killed all eight without knowing their true identities. Eight confirmed dead credit to Elmhurst and me. Their blood poured out like oil from thermometer holes in a thanksgiving ham. I don’t know why they attacked us except they probably had about ten reasons or more, I guess, or maybe just one: war.

  — 11

  It’s after midnight. I’m standing in placid darkness, out in the emptiness of desolation-wilderness, listening to something: a distant noise approaching from the black forest or sky. Silent stars are flickering bright, burning within heavenly darkness casting infinite echoes in the epoch of projection. The churning is far away that those lights cannot be heard. There’s something, nevertheless.

  It’s a distant sound closer than the imperceptible noise of burning stars. It’s a winged flickering becoming more noticeable. Closer, loud, surrounding, a distinct sound of metallic insect wings heard clearly isolated in a vast hum. So clear I can see in darkness metal insect wings, thin and transparent, catching and reflecting starlight. The noise is everywhere and louder still. In air, nothing to touch.

  For some time I’ve stood at the center of darkness and at the center of swarming metal insects with shimmering diaphanous wings. The coarse isolated gain of the wings is dissolving into a filtered, less identifiable decaying drone.

  A fading swarm of distant engine noise is returning, circling off the island. A skeleton wraith in a small sailed vessel glides on the water, crossing vaporous realms in great revolutions, searching, hunting the mist for quarry to send on to eternity.

  Morning light, eyes sting. Sound dissolved of the searching thing.

  — 12

  Waking again. Morning. A heavy ration of coffee is well deserved today. Fortunately, stocked food and other essentials discovered in the cabins will last us a long time. They canned a lot of fish, I can’t eat enough of it. Of course, fresh fish is preferred, but there’s no decency in letting all this fish, and the work done to can it, go to waste. Elmhurst is really the more dedicated and successful fisherman, I admit. I’ll finish this coffee and search for that wild turkey.

  —No sign of Elmhurst near the razed town of nevermore. I met with some people, my dead followers. Nobody had seen him. I brought back two more tattered skeleton recruits to help with ever increasing duties around camp. One of them will man the radio post now that Elmhurst is AWOL, of sorts. I thought that one’s name was Rexo. Then I realized that was a nickname and that his given name James was preferred. No, overwatch is a better fit for Rexo, I mean James. Well, the other one will be called Rexo then. One is Rexo one is James. Fine.

  At first I considered Copeland to cover on the radio. However, I decided to trust one of these new guys to take on that duty—this one who has claimed to be capable of maintaining our radio schedule. Yes, Rexo. He’ll work out fine, I think. Well, we’ll see. It’s better for Copeland to stay around our primary overwatch so we can continue to enjoy imaginative star gazing with fires and whi
sky.

  I warmed some leftover chili that was still in the pot. After lunch I’ll take James over to his new post.

  —I’m sitting with James at his new overwatch location. We were admiring the view. Very impressive. Very impressive view, James, this is a dignified commission for any soldier. Congratulations are in order, I told him. We have high hopes for his new career and responsibilities. He thinks that he will make a competent soldier and that I can rely on him. I told him you can’t simply think these things, James. You need to believe them because all of our lives depend on you. And we drank to that. James’s glass is always full. I’m hardly keeping pace with the young skeleton recruit, such a stout drinker.

  I must have dozed off looking out at a cold ocean, thinking about our tasks. Luckily James was on duty to cover as I slept. An eagle fell from the sky with a prey bird in its talons, and I was reminded of the mission that crashed on this island. I thought of our secure perimeter and of our radio transmissions that have been inconsistent ever since Elmhurst has been gone. James thought maybe I could bring in someone else, too, to help cover the ranges. I think he has a recommendation in mind. That is a very possible idea I told him, and keep an eye out for Elmhurst. Use the radio if you see anything. I’m going on another search.

  Having devoted skeletons around camp builds confidence. We may wait before adding any recruits, we’ll see. I’ll look in on a few prospects in the next day or two.

  — 13

  I’m standing in charred remains of the largest area of burnt forest on the island. It was when first standing among these splintered tree trunk silhouettes that I was captured by the absolute devastation of war. Here on this mountainside I found deer carcasses, antlers, and skulls picked clean by fire and birds. The ground is still black. Some new plants break through the crust here and there. A few bushes are growing near burnt rocks and critters hide inside.

  The aroma of charcoal is settled by rain. It seeps into my blood and nervous system and engulfs my lungs without the discomfort of ash and dust. It becomes breath. Dreams of explosions and fury of fire vanish in the gentle patter of raindrops.

  I collapsed when I first discovered the horrors and vicious atrocities of mass executions near town. I’ll admit to that. It turned my stomach. They were gunned down and worse, much worse, of course. When I saw them there on the ground, left to waste after suffering a savage end, it was proof of the most abhorrent criminal acts of murderous men. Arriving here though, standing on this charred mountainside with the deer carcasses and skulls is when I understood the absolute indiscriminate ruination of war as being the will of man.

  — 14

  Last night I found Commander Elmhurst. He’s lucky to be alive. He’s alive. No wonder I didn’t find him before. I noticed his crashed jeep down the canyon when I nearly went off the same turn on the road. I had a couple of search and rescue guys with me who I recruited in town on the way out. Now, they can help out with some other tasks including radio transmissions since the search is done and Elmhurst will need some time to recover.

  Commander Elmhurst rode in the bed of the pickup with the search and rescue skeletons because the nature of his injuries required him to be transferred lying down. The rescue fuss went off like we knew what we were doing. I drove extra slow in transport to keep him as comfortable as possible.

  Elmhurst is in very poor condition. He isn’t drinking enough water. I think he should be drinking more water since he had none when I found him. He must’ve been stuck over a week. It’s unclear. He won’t say. And he should be eating better now since vacuum-packed food is all he had left.

  I had to help get him changed out of his soiled clothes. His legs are broken. And there’s evidence of an infection. We set them as best we could without breaking them the way a doctor might do. It is difficult seeing Elmhurst like this. He won’t stop shaking. He won’t take over the pilot manifest yet. I’ll have to keep it with me for now. I know he needs antibiotics. Skeletons will stay outside watching over him so I can search the cellars for medication.

  — 15

  It’s been two days since the last entry. Still Miller here. Unfortunately, Elmhurst isn’t feeling well enough to make any documentation yet. It seems his condition isn’t improving. In fact, it is getting worse. Sweat still pours down his face even after two days on the medication that I found. Hopefully, it will soon begin to work and return him to good health.

  Elmhurst consumes large amounts of alcohol. He poured a bottle of vodka on himself—on his legs. It seems the alcohol is helping with the pain. Elmhurst, being the ranking officer, could have information that is unknown to me, and his perspective is very important in this undertaking. I will ask him for some thoughts and record them since he is so sick and unable to write on his own. Everything he says makes little sense. His contempt of the skeleton doctors seems to reveal a knowledge or fear of his own mortality. I’m forced to suspend my questioning. I will attend quietly.

  — 16

  I had to leave Elmhurst for a moment—his anger threatened to worsen the condition of his heart. Circulating infected blood is strenuous enough without the added stress of rage.

  I ended up at the abandoned harbor with the sunken fishing boats. The dock is unstable from fire damage. Better to stay off it. We have a couple small rafts and a canoe beached safe from the tides. It’s pointless, I think, to go out on the ocean though, with a river vessel.

  Gray water moved in little waves splashing against the top of the cabin of one of the sunken fishing boats and against the pier columns. The rhythm was lost by the height of the tide.

  There were whales again. I watched through my rifle optic as their exhaust spouts salted the water. I followed the crosshairs on the water until I found the shoreline. I hoped to find something that would chase Elmhurst’s screams from my mind. Nothing will, though.

  Elmhurst has been hostile. I’m concerned that his recovery is still progressing for the worse, which is, of course, no recovery, but rather, an imminent arrival to the final destination of a painful voyage. There’s nothing left to do for the train shrieking and braking into the station, except stop.

  No sighting offshore and the whales are gone. All quiet except for the endless bitter madness of a sick man who brands my ears and eyes with his curse.

  An ancient mist descends the trail as the rain bird sings before the storm.

  — 17

  Revelation seems to lurk in the depths of Elmhurst’s suffering. A realization of the presence of clear transcendence is inevitable. The human spirit under such tortured episodes becomes a mystical receiver. Time such as this is rare. When rare, inevitable. It’s hopeful to think that one could discover some invisible light in the final moments of experience, and find transcendence therein.

  At times, God is almost visible in his bleeding eyes, staring off into oblivion.

  It seems that perhaps his ravings and lashing out have revealed some demons. Perhaps they obscure the clarity needed for perception or awareness of the elusive and transient presence of nirvana. I understand his inimical behavior is attributed to the fever. I don’t take it personally.

  — 18

  Condition worsened further. Elmhurst was in a heavy sweat and color was lost in his face. He wanted vodka and medicine. He was cold. He was hot. He was cold again. It was difficult to talk to him as he shook with fever. He claimed to be willing to answer my questions but consistently lost track of what was being said. His answers became dreamlike and soon escalated to confusion, senseless confusion. He then lashed out threatening the skeleton doctors and me.

  Before that, I was fascinated by his story of ordinary life which we visited after exploring memories of the war. Elmhurst told of a time he drove a car and listened to the FM radio. The highway took him across a desert. He had the windows down that day the moon set twice upon a hill—his memory was vivid. I hoped it would help him discover the clarity he would need when suffering the anguish of fleeing—or facing—the reaper.

  Proficient
doctors helping with his fever were devil skeletons, in his words, in burnt clothes. Home is a place God shows him to torture him when he can’t escape these fucking sick skeletons. I tried to remind him of other things about the war and our crash. I reminded him that we ruled this island and defended it for peace. We protect mountain and beach in the name of our beloved country, I reminded the feverish one—we will survive this desolate circumstance.

  He will kill me, he said. Leave him the fuck alone. He yelled and screamed to the worst strain of his vocal cords as veins in his pale crimson face and neck filled with dark scolding fluid.

  — 19

  I’m outside the small hospital shed. I retreated. His agonizing calmed to an endless, repeated moan of a plea undeciphered by skeleton doctors. We’re doing our best to treat him. I was forced to give him his vodka before I left. Rather, I was allowed to leave once I gave him the bottle. He cried and begged for his vodka medicine alcohol like a child, then passed out.

  We’ve been discussing his situation. Although we care and are sympathetic of the pain he’s obviously feeling, it is also understood that these things shouldn’t keep an officer from answering a few elementary questions to put in this manifest. It’s a PILOT’S MANIFEST after all. That’s concerning. It could help if he would please eat something, we figure, ingest something other than vodka once in a while. He’ll rest for a few hours, then we’ll see if he’s ready for a productive, friendly conversation.

  — 20

  It seems that Elmhurst is content solely in speaking to God. He hears us. I know because of the profane lashing out at the sound of my voice. One of our mystical skeleton doctors suggested forcing him to look at us when we needed information from him. The skeleton thinks Elmhurst can focus for us—that his rebellion is malicious.

  Elmhurst is quiet—whimpering with high temperature, drenched in sweat. There’s no response in his bleeding eyes. Unfortunately, skeleton fingers are scratchy things against which to flail. His decision to fight against every effort to help him is perplexing. He’ll need to rest from all the psychotic thrashing.