Definitely Not Kansas (Nocturnia Book 1)

by Thomas Monteleone

  As he watched, a new image appeared behind the news commentator – a wide shot of what appeared to be several blocks of a coastal city and a large body of water beyond it. As the shot tightened to reveal details on a multi-laned boulevard, Ryan turned to the receptionist.

  “May I increase the volume, ma’am?”

  He’d realized that as a human in this world he had to be overly deferential – even with obvious functionaries like the scary woman seated across from him.

  The zombie glanced at him and gave a noncommittal grunt. Ryan decided to interpret that as Go ahead, what do I care?

  “Hey, what’s that say on yer shirt?”

  Ryan looked down at the inscription. What was so hard about i>u?

  “Nothing.”

  Reaching over to the old TV, he turned up the volume and listened.

  “From Derth, in New Necrotia Sur: last night… devastation and tragedy. In another sudden attack from the Silent Ones, the harbor business district of the bustling port was virtually wiped clean of every living creature. We take you now to our on-the-scene correspondent with the latest information…”

  Ryan watched as the camera shot narrowed to reveal empty vehicles in the street and sidewalks littered with piles of what at first looked bloody rags… until he realized they were empty shirts, pants, jackets, and skirts. It looked like something had instantly devoured everybody where they stood, leaving their clothes behind like discarded husks. He shuddered as he imagined what that must have been like, and wondered how many more horrific surprises Nocturnia held.

  Turning, he saw the ashen-faced receptionist behind the desk window equally captivated by the broadcast. She picked nervously at a large scabrous clot of tissue on her chin.

  “What’s that all about?” said Ryan. “Who’re the ‘silent ones’?”

  “Shut up,” said the zombie, gesturing toward the TV screen. “Those are my kind, my people.”

  Zombies? What was he talking about? Oh, wait – zombies were called necros here.

  Ryan looked back to see a reporter with a microphone in his hairy palm. The lycan wore a pea-jacket and a knit watch cap, as if mimicking the look of the seacoast location's locals; a banner at the bottom of the screen identified him as “Thurl Cossen, N3 correspondent.”

  “Thank you, Ambrose. Yes, the first attack was on Trollheim, leaving thousands missing and presumed dead. The second was on the NF, with thousands of undead devoured right out of their clothing. And now, the Necrotians are the latest falling victim to the wrath of the Silent Ones.

  “I’m standing at the intersection of one Derth’s busiest thoroughfares and you can see behind me the horrible aftermath of the attack. This third such incursion by the Silent Ones was, as before, followed up with the now familiar warning from one of their messengers…”

  “I don’t get it,” said Ryan. “Why–?”

  He heard the zombie’s guttural voice, full of menace. “Didn’t I tell you to shut it, human?”

  The image on the screen shifted to a figure standing by a jetty while an endless series of crashing waves in the background punctuated the scene. Ryan watched the camera zoom-focus on what appeared to be an old-fashioned diving suit, standing with its legs set apart, it arms hanging straight down, and an empty glass dome where the helmet should be – exactly like the suit Telly had wheeled into the adjoining cell.

  There's no one in it, he thought.

  A second later he learned he was almost right.

  As the shot tightened on the dome, a glowing, lime-green fog rose from within the suit to fill it. It swirled and eddied with a kind of syncopated agitation as if it were alive.

  A banner appeared at the bottom of the shot: Ethereal

  Man, could things get any weirder?

  Ryan leaned closer as a voice emanated from the suit. It sounded somehow fake, robotic, lacking emotion or intonation, with each word followed by a brief pause. Mom had a phone that sounded like this when it read out the caller ID. At home it sounded boring and annoying, but this was downright creepy.

  “The Silent Ones wish us to tell you they are not pleased. They continue to issue this warning: Return the ‘Key to the Temple’ at once. Failure to comply will result in deep and deeper incursions upon your lands. You have been warned. That is all.”

  “They got stones,” said the zombie. “They really got some stones…”

  “Who does?”

  “Them Silent Ones…”

  Ryan continued watching the screen as the “ethereal” turned to face the sea in an awkward pirouette that revealed the suit to be as flexible as medieval armor. Then, its back to the camera, it plodded forward with painful slowness until it finally disappeared beneath the curling surf.

  The grim features of Thurl Cossen, the lycan reporter, replaced the shot as he stared into the camera and intoned: “Leaders of every nation are alarmed and perplexed by the attacks and are making a concerted effort to find the mysterious “key to the temple”… but first they must discern exactly what it is. . . The Silent Ones strike at will with no warning, and in what appears to be a random pattern. Back to you, Ambrose…”

  The screen went blank with snow for a moment, then the studio commentator reappeared. A strange-looking guy now shared the desk with him. Ryan had thought the ethereal weird, but this guy… he wore black, horn-rimmed glasses and a short-sleeve shirt with half a dozen pens jammed into the breast pocket. But his head and visible portions of his arms were wrapped in gauzy white strips of cloth. He looked like a nerd mummy.

  “Good evening,” said Ambose. “We are fortunate to have in our studios tonight the esteemed archeologist from Anubistan, Doctor Kar al Fahrid. Good to meet you, Doctor.”

  Fahrid nodded gravely. “I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “As do I. Doctor, you are considered an expert on the mysterious race of beings known only as the Silent Ones. What can you tell us about this ‘key to the temple' we are hearing about?”

  Fahrid turned his gauze-wrapped palms upward. “Sadly, we know very little about the Silent Ones, and I can assure you I am no ‘expert.’ There are no 'experts' on the Silent Ones, except perhaps for the etherals. However, I have collected and studied what little data we have on them. To summarize: They occupy the bulk of the Afric continent, but have never been seen. Explorations into their territory have yielded no information because no expedition has ever returned. They communicate with the other nations of Nocturnia via the ethereals. Long ago we learned, through that equally obscure race, that the Silent Ones had declared the southern Frozen Wastes sacred. No one is allowed there.

  “Fifty years ago, the dwarf expedition led by Aagonsson, the only one that ever returned from the Frozen Wastes, recorded vast, cyclopean structures, half buried in the eternal snows there. We do not know if any one of those buildings may be the ‘temple’ mentioned in the warnings from the ethereals.”

  Ambrose steepled his hands in front of his lined face. “Am I safe, then, in assuming that you have no idea what temple is being referenced?”

  Fahrid nodded. “That is correct.”

  “Which precludes you from having any idea what the ‘key’ may be?”

  Fahrid nodded again as he turned to stare into the camera with studied dramatic effect. “Sadly, you are correct, sir. But someone out there knows. Someone has offended the Silent Ones. Someone has taken that ‘key.’ And the result has been the slaughter of thousands of innocents. Whoever you are, return this ‘key’ immediately to prevent further depredations. No one knows where the Silent Ones will strike next. Someone you care about might fall victim. So please, do what you know is right.”

  The next shot was a close-up of Ambrose with a disconnected smile on his face. “Thank you, Doctor. In a related story, we take you to Manhat, to the United Nocturnia headquarters where representatives of every nation on the planet struggle with this growing global threat.”

  The news on the TV had done something to Ryan he would have doubted possible –
it shocked him even more deeply about the utter strangeness of this world. That a species as scary and mysterious as the Silent Ones could even exist was unsettling enough, but the suggestion of another race that had to wear pressure suits was just over the top. And Ryan knew what the word “ethereal” meant – that those things didn’t really have bodies.

  Totally creepy.

  He needed answers, but had no idea how to get them. Maybe Telly would be able to explain when they escaped.

  The scene on the television now displayed a small amphitheater where the audience faced a semi-circular table full of diplomats from all the nations of Nocturnia. As the camera zoomed in to pan from one end to the other, Ryan studied the names and faces. He’d already been personally “acquainted” with some of them: Lycan, Necro, Nossie, Troll, Rakshasa, Sasquatch, and Pluriban; but here were others. He saw representatives from the Djinn Brotherhood, the Dwarf Collective, Yeti Commonwealth, Anubistan, the Faerie Fellowship, and Leviathana. He didn’t see any… body representing the Ethereals, and figured that made a certain kind of sense in this wacky world. He also noticed a contingent of varied creatures representing the Uberall Alliance, and that name carried some additional meaning for Ryan because he’d been enslaved by beings from that group – whoever they were and whatever they wanted…

  He watched the broadcast long enough to learn that all the member nations claimed innocence with regard to violating a Silent Ones’ temple. All claimed ignorance of any “key,” and all threatened each other for lying and causing the potential for increased mayhem. The only thing they agreed upon was catching the violator and punishing him with a lot more than a sternly-worded letter.

  Turning away from the screen, he regarded the zombie receptionist, who hadn’t exactly been a font of information.

  “So what do you think?” said Ryan.

  “Huh? About what?”

  “Haven’t you been watching?”

  “Sure, but I don’t know nothin’ about it. I was just watchin’ cuz, like I said – those was my people down there getting’ scarfed.”

  Ryan looked at her and shook head slowly. Another pea-brain… “Actually, that’s not right. If you do not know ‘nothing’… that presumes that you know something.”

  The necro paused to consider this, scratching her scalp and dislodging another small piece of herself. “Hey, what’re you… you trying to say I might be smarter than I says I am?”

  Ryan couldn’t suppress a grin. “Well, something like that. But, never mind. Just tell me – how long has this thing with the Silent Ones been going on?”

  “How come you wanna know?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Just curious, I guess. My sister says I ask a lot of questions.”

  The zombie rolled her yellowy eyes. “Keep doing that around here and it’ll get you killed.”

  The comment brought Ryan up short. He didn’t know if he should thank her or question her meaning. But before he could speak, he sensed someone behind him. He turned and saw Dr. Koertig standing inside the doorway, staring at him. He curled a finger at Ryan.

  “You. Come with me.”

  24

  Dr. Manfred T. Koertig admitted the boy to the rescue chamber.

  “Your name is Ryan, correct?”

  “Correct,” he said in a small voice.

  The boy looked scared. What did he think would happen? He’d observed him watching the television, absorbing the information like a sponge. He was bright, curious, and loquacious – a combination that could prove fatal around Falzon.

  “Do you recognize this place?”

  “It’s where you saved us from the tornado.”

  “You’re welcome,” Manfred said, allowing the sarcasm to drip.

  The boy looked up at him. “Saved to be a slave.”

  “But an alive slave.”

  “Long ago someone in our country said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’”

  “If I were you I wouldn’t hold out much hope for either. You have no value here free or dead.” He gestured toward the door where the alarm sensors were focused. “Walk over there.”

  The boy complied but the cardonite alarm did not sound. Manfred bunched his fists in frustration. What was he missing?

  “You tried this with my sister and me when we first arrived. I remember you were kinda freaked out about something – what was it?”

  “None of your concern, human.”

  “And I heard one of your guys – he said it meant ‘The end of the world as we know it.’ What did he–?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “No! I need to know! I need to make sense of all this!”

  An impertinent pup, but Manfred appreciated the sentiment. The need to know… to make sense of things… it infused his race, drove them to scientific heights. That need had aligned him with Falzon. True, the rakshasa was an emotionally unstable, power-hungry fascist with ambitions that knew no bounds. Totally dangerous. But he also had tons of money, a good deal of which he put at Manfred’s disposal for research. Not aimless research, but with a specific purpose, one that would advance his boss’s militarist agenda.

  Manfred couldn’t allow himself to be concerned with politics. Knowledge… understanding… Falzon’s funding was allowing Manfred to extend the reach of science. His discoveries might be put to questionable uses, but despots like Falzon were transient. Here today, gone tomorrow. Knowledge was forever.

  He had a feeling this young human knew more than he was telling. Or perhaps he knew more than he realized. If he could put him at ease, maybe it would slip out. He noticed the i>u on his T-shirt and had to smile.

  “I like that,” he said, pointing.

  “You get it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Finally! You’re the first one since I came here.”

  Good-good. A bit of an opening into his confidence. What else could he try? Offer him a cigarette? No, he’d already said he didn’t smoke. How about a hot drink? Trant had brewed a fresh thermos of hot tea. He poured himself a cup, then raised it toward the boy.

  “Tea?”

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but I would like a few answers.”

  “We share that need. But since you are the one wearing the slave bracelet, mine take precedence. Provide me with the ones I seek and perhaps I will reciprocate.”

  The boy looked like he was about to spit out an angry retort, but he swallowed it and nodded. “Deal.”

  “How did you come to be at that locus at that time?”

  “We were told my brother would be there. Near a crossroads.”

  “The brother you saw here?”

  He reddened. “Thought I saw. Just someone who looked like him.”

  “So you say now.”

  “So I always said.”

  “Regardless…you say you were told you would find your brother in that field. Who told you?”

  “We went over this that first day: Professor Polonius.”

  The name meant nothing.

  “And who is he?”

  “Some weird guy my brother was doing science stuff with. We found a paper with coordinates and the time. Professor Polonius loaned us a GPS and–”

  “A GPS?”

  “Yeah. It’s a thing that helps you find–”

  “Oh yes. I know what it does.”

  Manfred wished a GPS worked here, but it required a network of satellites, which Nocturnia did not have. Maybe Manfred was being overly suspicious, but he needed to explain why the previewer had shown an adult couple, but two children wound up there instead.

  He sipped his tea. “Curious, don’t you think?”

  “A GPS?”

  “No. This Professor Polonius. You told me he gave you a time and coordinates directly in the path of a tornado, and then provided you with the means to place you at the exact spot. Don’t you find that odd?”

  Manfred certainly did. In fact the more he thought about it, the less he liked it.

  “I was wondering the exact same thing,
” Ryan said. “Almost as if…”

  “As if what?”

  “As if he wanted us in Nocturnia.”

  The remark jarred Manfred. It did seem that way on the surface, but…

  The boy continued. “But he couldn’t have known about the tornado – it hadn’t formed yet. And even if he could have predicted it with that accuracy, no way he could have predicted you.”

  Manfred had to agree, but this scenario was becoming more unsettling by the second. It all seemed to circle back to this professor.

  “Tell me about this Polonius.”

  The boy shrugged. “Not much to tell. He was some sort of physicist or something in a university back East, then moved to our town. I hardly know him. We only met him for the first time that day you snatched us.”

  “What does he look like?

  “Skinny, old, glasses, lots of gray hair.”

  Manfred shook his head. “You’ve just described millions of humans. Nothing distinguishing?”

  The boy thought about this for a moment then: “Nah, not really… except maybe his stutter, but other than–”

  Manfred felt the tea cup slip from his fingers. It shattered on the floor, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to believe what he’d just heard. Seemingly of its own accord, his arm darted out and grabbed the boy’s wrist.

  “What? He stutters?”

  “Just a little bit. What’s wrong?”

  A stutter? A stutter? Heinrich had stuttered.

  Someone this boy and his sister don’t really know, someone with a stutter, directs them to the exact locus of a rescue, and when they’re pulled across, the cardonite alarm goes off.

  It had all the earmarks of one of Heinrich Bluthkalt’s insane schemes.

  But Heinrich Bluthkalt was dead. Manfred had watched Falzon crush the life out of him. His brain had been pulped under Falzon’s heel. No coming back from that, even for a pluriban.

  Then what was the explanation? Lots of people stuttered. No sense in making more out of this than it was. The stutter could be a coincidence – even though Manfred did not believe in coincidences.