Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  Cries of shock and surprise rose through the ranks of the guards left in Eden. The men and women turned to run away from the angel but found themselves swallowed by the heaving ground beneath them. The wicked souls scrambled for handholds and screamed for help, but no one came to their aid. One by one, each individual disappeared through the ever-widening chasms created by the Garden of Eden’s collapsing earth.

  The cracks in the ground widened and raced to the center of the remnant. They reached Uriel’s position and left him with nothing to stand on, but the angel simply beat his wings and lifted into the opaque sky.

  Peter saw the ground around the floating plateau crumble into the abyss. He clutched the ancient manuscript and attempted to stay upright, but the trembling earth knocked him down. The roots of the Two Trees splintered, throwing shards of wood in every direction. The wellspring ceased producing water, causing the river to dry. Finally, the last physical remains of the Garden of Eden relented, sending him and the Two Trees tumbling into the sky toward the Avernus Sea.

  Peter screamed in terror. A strong arm came from above and grasped him around the waist, halting his freefall. He glanced up to see the angel Uriel smiling down. “Thank you,” Peter said breathlessly.

  Uriel nodded in response.

  Peter looked down to the sea. “What about the others—can we save them?”

  Uriel shook his head.

  Tears welled in Peter’s eyes as he thought about his lost friends. They had fought selflessly in the defense of others, yet their souls would be damned to Hell for the rest of eternity. Peter glowered in disgust at the injustice and wiped his face dry with a free hand while holding on tightly to the Book of Souls with the other. Reluctantly, he turned his attention skyward and let Uriel carry him into the heavens above.

  Chapter 22

  A faint noise stirred Peter from his uneasy slumber. The nature of the sound was familiar to him, but its source was hard to identify. From the position, Peter surmised that he lay on his back. He tried to turn in the direction of the sound and was met by immense pain. Every limb, so recently at his beck and call, now rebelled in great agony.

  Peter concentrated on his breathing. It felt labored. He could feel the rush of air into and out of his lungs, but it was a strange sensation to process. In the Garden of Eden, Peter’s body went through the motions of respiration, but he was never quite sure if the air was real or imagined. Although the rest of his body throbbed, it was surprisingly easy for him to maintain a regular breathing pattern.

  The sound came back to Peter. He was certain someone was trying to speak to him. He tried to respond but found it impossible.

  Peter fought hard to open his eyes. Bright light flooded his vision, but it was a different variety than that of the angels or from the skies of Eden. He closed his eyelids as a temporary barrier to give him time to adjust.

  “Peter, Peter?” a woman’s voice said softly from nearby.

  Peter gurgled and retched trying to respond.

  “That’s okay,” the female voice responded. “It’ll be some time before you can talk again.”

  Peter’s mind cleared somewhat. Talk again?

  “The doctors said you are lucky to be alive.”

  Peter recognized his wife’s voice and tried to think back to his last moments. He remembered chasing the little boy through the woods and making several unsuccessful attempts to catch him. Peter recalled the jump into midair, which turned out to be a cliff hidden behind a steep bank. Then he remembered the broken tree stump at the bottom—a jagged and splintered mass of wood that faced his falling body at almost the perfect, upward angle. Peter shuddered as he briefly relived the moment when the coarse timber tore through his flesh.

  More sounds rose to the forefront of Peter’s hearing. He recognized several of them: a ventilator, the slow rhythmic hum of a blood transfusion machine, and the beeping of a vital signs monitor. He opened his eyes to see his wife, Renée, sitting by his bedside.

  “There you are,” Renée said, uncharacteristically smiling back at him. “I knew you’d get better.”

  Again, Peter tried to speak, but he realized he could not due a ventilator tube running down his throat.

  “Please, don’t,” Renée responded, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I just wanted to tell you how bad I feel for treating you the way I did. I know we’ve had a rough marriage—” She stopped. “It’s been tough for both of us, but I wanted you to know that I’ll be here for you from now on, okay?”

  If Peter could have vomited, he would have. He wondered if this was some kind of a trick. Perhaps, in some sick and twisted way, he was being rewarded for his final act in the Garden of Eden—he was being allowed to live again. If Peter could have screamed out in hysteria, he would have.

  A nurse entered the small Intensive Care Unit and forced herself between Renée and Peter. She stood with her back to the patient and said to his wife, “He needs his rest now. We’ll inform you of any change.”

  “Yes, of course,” Renée said, standing up to gather her things. “I’ll be back later, okay?”

  Peter did not acknowledge his wife and simply watched her leave the room.

  The nurse turned and sat down in the chair next to Peter’s bed. She pulled down her sterile mask to reveal her features.

  Peter gasped at the sight of Kea and fought against his restraints to rise.

  Kea put a calming hand on his chest and took a long look back at Renée. “That’s your wife, huh? I have half a mind to let you live.”

  Peter shook his head in disbelief. With the Garden of Eden destroyed, the link between Creation and Hell should have been severed. Unless Kea found a way to bridge the gulf between the realms, it was not possible for her to be in the room.

  “Surprised?”

  Peter nodded as best as he was able.

  “The trees diminish as I speak,” Kea said, “so I don’t have much time.”

  Peter tried to alert the hospital staff, but the respirator equipment muffled his cries for help.

  “No need to get excited; I’m here to congratulate you on a job well done.”

  Peter cocked his head.

  “You destroyed the Garden, delivered the Book of Souls, and cast us all down in one fell swoop,” Kea said with anger but also with an ironic amusement breaking through in her voice. “Bravo.”

  Peter could not tell if Kea was genuinely happy that she had been freed from her responsibilities in Eden, or if she was simply unable to do anything about her new predicament and resigned herself to the fate that awaited her.

  “Lucifer is a driven and resourceful individual,” Kea said. “In time, we will find a way out.” She removed a liquid-filled syringe from her smock pocket and held it for Peter to see. “Your gift.”

  Peter struggled against his restraints, but the straps held him firmly to the bed.

  Kea injected the liquid into the intravenous catheter attached to Peter’s arm. “Until we meet again?”

  Peter felt the substance course through his body. He was terrified at first, but then his fear turned into a calm joy as the light closed in around him and he died. Again.

  I hope you enjoyed Garden of Salt and Stone! I have attached a partial sampling of one of my other writings, and although it is of a different genre, I hope you will find it fascinating as well.

  Thank you – A. L. Burgess Jr.

  Prologue – Children of Na

  The creature worked the controls of the antigravity cart to propel itself more rapidly down the large, arching hallway. Dark grey in color and legless, it rested its bulbous torso on the flat surface of the floating machine. Long, skinny arms topped by thin fingered hands protruded from its rotund body. Lacking clothing to conceal its small frame, it had neither gender-based organs nor distinguishing appendages. The creature required neither sleep nor food as its genetically engineered skin allowed it to convert particle waves directly into consumable energy. The creature’s eyes, long and narrow to fit the shape of its
head, were staring intently at the cart’s instrumentation. The small slit of its mouth was closed tightly as it processed the multiple scenarios of its escape.

  The strange little being was not born into this universe, instead it was created. The creature was known as an i-Na, or in the common tongue: created for the Na. It was brought to life for the sole purpose of serving the Na. Never aging and known only by a number, the awkward-looking grey creature had worked hundreds of years for the same family that had commissioned it. This i-Na’s original purpose for the family, to aid in the genetic engineering of i-Na soldiers, was revoked when it was found to have incorrectly sequenced the standard genome. A replacement genetic engineer was created and the small grey creature was ordered destroyed. But a strange and quite uncommon event changed the creature’s fortunes; one of the transference maintenance i-Na perished in a freak accident. Although cost was not a factor to the wealthy family, time was. It took a vast amount of time to grow new i-Na with the cranial and lobe capacities required for the complex tasks. The transference of consciousness group was a high priority and not having a full complement of maintenance i-Na could jeopardize the family as a whole. And so it was that the small grey creature was granted a reprieve. The newly pardoned i-Na was moved to its new service position and there it stayed servicing the family interests.

  Now, as the entire Na culture was on the brink of collapse, the strange little being desperately sought refuge in the bowels of the family’s last remaining bastion. It had been mindful of this day for many years. The creature’s genetically created intellect foresaw problems with the Na culture long ago and, over the years, took measures to ensure its own survival. The bombardment now taking place on the family’s home world was proof that cataclysm was upon them and all would be lost.

  At the end of the hall, the grey creature maneuvered the antigravity cart into a small supply room just off of the main thoroughfare. The space was full of obsolete equipment and backup parts for newer models of transference generators. The i-Na piloted the cart to the back wall where it entered a cryptic set of instructions into a handheld device. The wall in front of the cart changed form and disappeared to reveal a small antechamber carved out of the rock. The creature moved the cart through the opening and re-engaged the camouflaged wall.

  The antechamber contained a single piece of equipment. It was tall and square in shape similar to a window frame. A large, luminescent base held the contraption to the ground. Faint lights flickered on and off registering the ambient power level of the available source wave particles.

  The creature took note of the readings; the transference generator was fully charged and ready to go. The small i-Na was scared. The machine had not undergone testing to see if it functioned properly. The creature scavenged the parts from obsolete equipment and constructed this one in secret. Originally designed to reject and destroy any molecular structure not of the true Na, the creature spent years reengineering the machine to accommodate the lowly i-Na DNA instead of the family’s genetic code. Tests had been unfeasible because as soon as an individual entered the machine’s event horizon they would be gone forever. If a compatible host were found, their consciousness would be transferred. In the meantime, the subject would be suspended amongst the fabric of space time while the machine processed the infinite number of combinations available. It would work, or kill the individual in the process. For the creature there was no going back and either way, it would end its current existence forever.

  The creature moved the cart closer and activated the portal. A smooth, flat surface shimmered to life over the frame of the square opening. The small i-Na placed the edge of the cart next to the portal and gauged the distance. It hopped until its body was resting at the edge of the cart. The creature looked around the interior space of the antechamber one final time and then, with great strength, hopped through the portal’s shimmering surface and disappeared.

  Chapter 1

  Zhitomir, Ukraine – January 1st, 1944

  Yakob Alexandrov’s breath froze in the cold chill of the morning air. With rifle in hand, he approached the ruin of a farmhouse on the outskirts of town. His youthful brown eyes were fixed on the blackened door of the dwelling. He paused short of the doorway and pulled the hood of his winter camouflage back revealing his closely cropped, jet-black hair. Yakob stood quietly in the snow and listened for signs of occupation. Satisfied that the house was empty, he forced the door open and made entry.

  Yakob scanned the interior of the bombed-out house. Blackened walls rose up to meet a battered ceiling open to the clear morning sky. Bullet casings were strewn around what remained of the furnishings of the old farmhouse and the familiar smell of burnt wood and decaying flesh filled the air. The dwelling had all the signs of a recently used firing position that was vacated quickly.

  Yakob was relieved to find that the Germans finally retreated, but he was equally concerned about the townspeople that once inhabited Zhitomir. He had half-expected to find survivors walking the streets. It was a common sight that accompanied liberation, but this one was different. There had been a few refugees early on, but as they progressed deeper into the city the number of lingering souls became fewer and fewer. Zhitomir, for all of its pre-war hustle and bustle, proved to be a ghost town. The cold efficiency of the Nazi occupation took a considerable toll here.

  Yakob continued deeper into the house. His height gave him problems as he maneuvered around the debris of the derelict building. He navigated past low-hanging beams and crumbling walls on his way toward the backmost part of the dwelling. Using his rifle as a battering ram, Yakob broke through to what remained of the kitchen door. The back wall was almost entirely gone and the kitchen was completely open to the elements. Being at the southern edge of the town, the house had once been graced with the idyllic vista of the farmland it stood next to. He took a moment to reflect on what a pleasant thing it must have been to sit at the kitchen table eating a warm meal while looking out over the vast plain. Whoever lived there before the war definitely led a charmed life.

  Yakob’s focus changed when the men that he commanded, now finished with their search of the surrounding houses, started picking through the open field beyond the farmhouse. The snow-camouflaged troops carefully walked through the cold remnants of the previous night’s engagement. Damaged equipment dotted the landscape that was once the grounds of the modest property. Dead bodies, both friend and foe, contorted in all manner of unnatural positions littered the frozen ground. The soldiers moved methodically through the field, turning each corpse over, checking for items of use, and then moving on to the next. It was a grim task, but one that had to be done.

  As Yakob expected, the house’s kitchen gave him a perfect vantage point from which to watch the front line. The German Army had retreated over the horizon, and that was good news, at least for now. He knew they could mount an offensive at any time and the task fell to him to strengthen this sector of the front line. His plan was to set up a command post in the old farmhouse and have his men occupy the adjacent buildings. The arrangement would give his men the best protection against a counter attack. Yakob’s troops were war-weary and needed a secure place that offered a respite from the toil they endured daily. If his luck held out, it would be several days until their new orders arrived and in the meantime, his soldiers would at least have a decent place to rest. Satisfied, he set his rifle on the kitchen table and righted a chair. He unslung his rucksack and took a seat.

  Yakob heard the sounds of falling debris and footsteps entering the building. He quickly grabbed his rifle and spun around to meet the intruder. The footsteps were irregular and made a distinct scuffling noise on the gritty floor. Yakob smiled and relaxed. He knew who the approaching individual was and lowered his weapon.

  A much older man than Yakob, perhaps in his early forties, shuffled into the kitchen. He wore the same winter camouflage as the rest of Yakob’s men and carried two steaming tins and a small piece of paper.

  Yakob’s mood gre
w darker in the presence of the note. He did his best to ignore it and calmly sat back in his chair to continue his vigilance over his troops in the field.

  “Colonel?” the older man asked sheepishly.

  “At ease, Yuri.” Yakob smirked at his friend’s unnecessary formality.

  Yuri softened his stance and handed Yakob one of the steaming tins.

  “Hot coffee?” Yakob quipped. “It must be bad news.”

  “It came by courier this morning,” Yuri replied, holding out the message.

  Yakob stared at the paper and frowned. “Read it.”

  “It’s rather, well—” Yuri stammered. “I don’t know what to say—”

  “Are they moving us?”

  “No,” Yuri responded solemnly.

  Yakob could never remember Yuri being downtrodden about the troops spending a few days cavorting in a sheltered location. Curious, he snatched the message from his second-in-command and read it aloud:

  To Colonel Yakob Alexandrov, Thirty-eighth Army, Second Battalion: Commanding Officer to stand down for transfer, next senior officer to take command, 1 January 1944.

  Transfer? That word sent Yakob down a path with an unknown destination. The Red Army only used that word in dire circumstances; none of which bore good tidings to the recipient. He was not prepared for this. Yakob could not catch his breath, feeling as if a thousand blows to the stomach had suddenly knocked the wind from his body. He tried to maintain his composure, but the force of the news was overwhelming. He motioned to an old chair lying on the floor. “Please, sit down.”

  Yuri righted the chair and took a seat.

  “I thought it might come to this,” Yakob muttered.

  “I’m sorry,” Yuri responded softly, “but perhaps it’s not what you think?”

  “No,” Yakob predicted, “they’ll use me as an example to the others.”

  “Why would they discipline the best field commander in the Red Army? It doesn’t make sense.”