Atlas: A Pylonic Dawn

by J. J. Malchus

  Foliage’s emerald verve flushes his thoughts. Breeze sweeps his sore neck. Air’s edges erode the taller he stands. Atlas breathes through a flinch and lifts his eyes to Pennsylvanian woods chirping birdsong until his grimace softens.

  He spots Gene across the path, behind the vehicle, sitting on a rock. Her face rests in her hands, elbows on her knees. He walks toward her.

  She looks up.

  “Gene,” Atlas crinkles his forehead and breathes out, “I can’t express to you—”

  “No,” she says.

  Atlas stops walking. “What?”

  “No. You’re not allowed.” Clenching her fists, Gene squeezes her eyes shut and rises to her feet. She shakes her head.

  “Gene, I ne—”

  “Don’t.”

  Atlas leans into her. “I’m sorr—”

  “Don’t.” Gene opens her eyes and looks down. “Don’t. You’re not—you’re not allowed.”

  “To?”

  She bends her knees, scoops up a handful of dirt, and straightens. Stands in silence.

  Atlas says, “What am I not allowed to—”

  She snaps up her head and thrusts the dirt at his chest. Gene glares into the dust cloud about his chin and raises her voice until birds burst from overhanging canopies.

  “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED. TO SPEAK.”

  He wipes a dirt clump from his lip.

  “You’re not. Not allowed because.” Gene twitches her molten steel eyes, though they hover below his. “You lost your talking privileges. You lost them and now THEY’RE GONE. YOU ARROGANT, RIDICULOUS, FREAKING FATHEADED PIG.”

  Atlas holds his breath.

  “You left me. You lied to me. You told Samuel the truth but you lied to me. You snuck away to hunt Eden to build your testosterone or something, got yourself beaten into a bloody pulp, and fell out of the sky a week later. Are you suicidal? Bored? Why would you do such a stupid thing?”

  Atlas clears his throat.

  “What?” Gene inhales. “What? You want to speak?”

  He nods.

  She pouts. “That’s too bad.”

  “Gene.” Atlas peeks up at her and cringes; but she only stares back with wide, unseeing eyes. He whispers, “Life will be stupid unless you do stupid things.”

  Gene freezes.

  A corner of his mouth lifts. “I apologize. I had to.”

  “You’re not allowed to—” Gene glimpses his eyes and winces. “You’re not—”

  Atlas steps toward her.

  “Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to,” her face contorts, “happen.”

  Burying her face in her hands, Gene jerks her shoulders up, down, and sobs. She trembles, shrinks, quakes through the spine, hair slipping around her knuckles. One salty rivulet escapes her hold as her wrist drips a tear.

  Atlas frowns. He steps the last, wraps his arms around her back, and wrinkles her shirt in his fingers’ compression. He presses his cheek to her hair. She cries harder. He rocks to her rocking and smooths the motion until it dances.

  Atlas says, “I won’t utter another word. But allow me this.”

  He kisses her temple through her hair. Her sobs ebb. She lowers her hands and he withdraws to arm’s length.

  “ ’Kay,” Gene whispers.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, you can’t talk. Never speak again.” Gene sniffs and leans around Atlas. “I’ll have to grab some pliers. Can’t speak if you don’t have a tongue.”

  He drops his arms. “That was extremely morbid.”

  “Why do you think I’m joking?” She groans. “Ugh. Samuel!”

  “Gene—”

  “Samuel,” Gene calls over Atlas’s shoulder, “do you have any pliers?”

  Samuel rolls down his window and yells, “I have a wrench, a couple calipers, forceps, and a set of grilling tongs.”

  “What about shears? Like poultry shears?”

  Samuel shuffles through the vehicle. Atlas rubs his hands into his pants; Gene looks past him; they stand in the dying breeze for several breaths.

  “Yes,” Samuel says.

  Atlas hugs his stomach. “I feel unwell.”

  Gene pats his shoulder and strolls toward the sedan. “No one’s taking any of your organs until after you explain the past week.”

  “Oh.” Atlas follows. His brow furrows and face whitens. “But not truly, correct?”

  She walks.

  “You can’t mean such literally?”

  XLIII

  Within Cyclone Eyewalls

  Gripping the two front seats, Atlas scoots forward and raises tone half an octave. “—and then they attributed it to ‘overcompensation for my unattractive qualities.’ ”

  “Wait, what about this Sovereign guy? The Cartographer? You’re telling your story backwards.”

  “Gene, are you ignoring me entirely? The citizens of Corvus expressed I had—”

  “Parasites.”

  “No, Samuel—”

  “A receding hairline.”

  “—that’s not at all—”

  “A passionate, all-consuming desire to—”

  “Did you finish reading The Presage?”

  “Gene! I was approaching that portion of the story.”

  “—have dinner with Nate Berkus.”

  “What happened with the guy in the dark room?”

  “Stop. For the love of Tarantino, please don’t tell us what happened with another man in a dark room.”

  Atlas flicks forward a finger and a gust tips Samuel’s soda out of its holder and onto his lap. Bubbling liquid races down Samuel’s jeans. Blurting a noise, Samuel straightens the cup in its holder and brushes the remaining soda off his pants. Then turns to Atlas. Samuel glares through him, clenching his fists white.

  “Come on.” Gene exhales. “Can we please get through his story without heads rolling?”

  Samuel whips to the passenger seat. “Denim Walker, he desecrated my favorite jeans. He’s lucky this is a rental.”

  “Atlas, say you’re sorry.”

  “Disfigured, Gene,” Atlas says. “Are you hardly listening to my explanation? The citizens described me as ‘disfigured.’ ”

  “Denim is testy, Denim.” Samuel stuffs a fistful of gauze between his thigh and the console. “You should know. You can’t waltz into some Urban Outfitters and grab the first pair you find.”

  Gene pinches her nose’s bridge, closes her eyes. She lowers her voice. “You shop at Urban Outfitters.”

  Her shoulders bob; teeth bared, she makes a noise into her arm.

  “No, Gene—” Atlas frowns at her and glances to Samuel. “I apologize wind haphazardly streamed through this vehicle, spilling your consumption liquid.” He leans toward Gene. “I’ll ensure Samuel no longer associates with urban fitters outside. Don’t weep.”

  Samuel chucks his drinking straw at Atlas. It hits his nose, falls, splatters sticky liquid down his tunic, and Atlas cringes.

  “Laughter, Attie,” Samuel says.

  Gene lifts her head and bursts another laugh. She points at Atlas. “Your—and you—” Her finger flits to Samuel. Eyes watering, she sucks quivering breath and grabs her stomach. “Huh?”

  She erupts in laughter that shakes her frame and steals her sound.

  Samuel glowers at Atlas. “You did this.”

  Wiping a tear, Gene slows her next inhale. “Can we just stay here forever?”

  “No,” Atlas says.

  Her smile dwindles; Samuel eyes the rearview mirror. “Finish your story,” Gene says.

  “I read The Presage.” Atlas’s eyebrows cinch. “Or experienced the sections most important, I believe. As I expressed, I learned of Sidera’s history. The Cartographer mapped me to escape Sidera, discover the prophesied walker, and then open Pylon for Sideran liberation. And perhaps more. I was meant to receive The Presage from the beginning. I knew he knew I would. On the plains, I believe—I think he saw me. The inexplicable—this force I’ve felt for so long—” He exhales, knuckling the tack on h
is nose.

  “However, as you know, Corvus—The Sovereign planned to use Pylon to begin war on Earth, his Accenda against his Siderans, and use desperation and fear to spread his empire. Pylon, the gateway for refuge as the gateway—”

  “For revolution,” Gene says.

  “His control would overtake all three dimensions, the target being humanity. Sidera on Earth.”

  Samuel angles toward the back. “Can we stop for a minute and talk about Eden?”

  “But Corvus can’t really do that, can he?” Gene asks.

  Atlas squints out the windshield. “I hardly know if Corvus still lives. Nonetheless, his tens of thousands currently await Pylon’s opening in the capital courtyard. They need only the Accenda’s signal before they charge.”

  Samuel waves his hands forward. “Eden. Let’s talk about her. Like how she used to be Imperium’s rank, nasty Sideran and lied about her whole existence to me.”

  “They wait for the Accenda to open Pylon,” Gene says.

  “Yes.”

  “Was she a brunette and everything?” Samuel strokes his chin. “Hmm.”

  “Corvus’s armies finally have opportunity,” Atlas says.

  “But war can’t start if no one has Pylon’s key, right?”

  Samuel’s eyes widen. He glints them and lurches 180 degrees toward Atlas. “What ‘opportunity’?”

  Atlas shrinks into his seat.

  “Attie, what did you give them?”

  He says to his knees, “Know that Eden and Corvus are very influential. I didn’t intend—if I hadn’t read The Presage, they wouldn’t have knowledge to open Pylon. But Eden now knows—”

  Atlas’s eyes dart between Samuel and Gene. He goes rigid, his tongue stuck, stomach sinking. He stares.

  Gene nods. “Knows what?”

  “Samuel, may I speak to Gene alone?”

  “Nope.” Samuel slaps his thighs. “There’s no way I hung around for the last hours, watching your cavity hurl grammar forums, to skip out on the ending.”

  Atlas meets his eyes. “Please.”

  “I’m a part of this now. You’re not getting rid of me.” Jaw locked, Samuel digs his fingers into the gauze peppering his lap and turns forward, glares forward. “I just found out that my twenty-seven years of deliberate arson, larceny, murder, and other fun plunged into the face of corporate institution have been applauded by—overseen by the worms I’d have liked to flush from birth,” he darkens eyes, deepens tone, “and you expect me to sit out the details? Real cute. I’m not letting Stalin chain our world to a black hole if it means I gotta torch every sheep and kick every slave-driving, double-crossing Sideran and Accend into red pâté for a brunch appetizer.”

  “I understood approximately fifteen percent of that.” Atlas frowns at Gene. “Translation?”

  “He’s an anarchist. Also, he loves you.”

  Samuel mutters a word that pales Gene’s face. He repeats it five times.

  “I know what you people are trying to do.” Samuel grabs the air before Gene’s nose and, tilting his head, crushes it in a fist. He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. “And I’m staying right here. Go ahead, Attie. Say what you need to.”

  Atlas picks at a charred spot on his pant leg and Gene rests a hand on her seat’s shoulder. She softens tone.

  “Atlas, it’s all right.”

  He lifts his eyes to Gene’s hand. “Know that I would never allow you to be harmed. Don’t be afraid.”

  She purses her lips. “I wasn’t afraid.”

  “You—” Atlas slides his palms down his legs. “You are the Walker that can open Pylon. Only your blood opens the war’s gateway.”

  Gene’s hand falls from her seat.

  “You are the human race’s representation, the price for freedom or subjugation upon your land.” His forehead crumples. “Walkers are not named for their walking. They’re named after you.”

  Gene blinks.

  “And because of me, Eden knows this. I apologize.”

  “Uh.”

  “Don’t be concerned.”

  “Um. No.” Gene turns, centimeter by centimeter, toward the windshield. “It’s too much.”

  “Of what?” Atlas says.

  “Too much. Too,” she closes her eyes, “much. Too much.”

  Gene pulls her door handle, hops out of the vehicle, and thuds the door shut. Samuel grabs his drinking straw off the floor. He again flicks it; it hits Atlas’s forehead this time.

  He cringes. “I occasum.”

  “Denim’s and your stupidity are leaking halfway to Morocco.” Samuel leans back and kicks his heels up on the dashboard. “I saw that coming a mile away.”

  Atlas wipes his face. “If we are to infer anything from her earlier display, it’s that retaining secrets is hardly encouraged. Her reactions are no fault of mine.”

  “Keep up. That’s not what I meant.” Samuel lifts his chin and watches Gene trip over her own ankle as she wanders from the sedan. “For weeks, it’s been obvious Denim’s the human that could open Pylon. Do you even watch TV? You know two people and one of them’s gotta be the schmuck that can open the death portal. Plot logic.”

  “Mmm.” Atlas twists around and squints through the rear windshield, at Gene sitting on her rock. “Speaking of, how did you locate me after I fell from Sidera? I never asked.”

  “Speaking of what? You totally tuned me out just now.” Samuel folds his arms. “We found you minutes after you dropped. You were hard to miss. A bitty, seconds-long tornado brewed in Pittsburgh—funny weather for Pittsburgh—and Denim and I drove up to find whatever it spat out.”

  “You were in Pittsburgh why?”

  He shrugs. “Went looking for you.”

  “Samuel, you promised to keep her safe and very far distant.” Atlas groans dragging a hand down his cheek. “By the Absolute, you’re not useful for anything.”

  “Hey, now. I’m pretty good at single-handedly taking down four of Eden’s and hijacking this bucket.” Samuel motions to the roof.

  “You did what?”

  “I did amazing. Four days after you went skipping away, Denim and I were in Montreal, eating strawberry Frosted Mini-Wheats—not my favorite but nice—because when we picked up the box, we were arguing in the cereal aisle about whole wheat vs gluten-free and some overbearing close-talker flailed his grill up into our business and, man, it’s Canada. Everyone speaks Canadian. Disgusting. He forced me to grab the first box—”

  “Samuel.”

  “Calm down. So we were eating cereal out of Styrofoam cups at the hotel and we didn’t have internet or cable to ignore each other. We sat on the floor and played Speed with Canadian leaf cards—holy hades, was Denim the most irritating person I’ve encountered. She cheated like twice. I guess it makes sense. She’s a woman, after al—”

  “Samuel.”

  “Attie.” Samuel juts out his jaw. “Now, I wouldn’t say that about Eden ’cause she’s more than woman and I’m no misogynist, unlike most. Anyway, we ate noon-fast—”

  “Sam—”

  “Don’t call me Sam. Then, yesterday, the fifth day you were gone, some Accenda showed up at our door. After I knocked two of them out and had the other two bleeding, Denim and I hopped in their ugly crate and ran—drove—we drove actually back over the US border. Denim almost scratched my eyes out begging me to drive back to Pittsburgh.”

  Atlas eyes a bruise on Samuel’s jaw. He touches one of his own through his sleeve. “Has it truly been five days?”

  “Six now.”

  “In Sidera, it felt like perhaps half a cycle.”

  “How long’s that?”

  “Maybe ten hours.”

  “Ten hours?” Samuel scoffs. “Your clock’s way off, Attie boy.”

  “I suppose.” Atlas draws his gaze over the side windows, their satin shadows. “Where are we now?”

  “About an hour and a half’s drive from Pittsburgh. Yes,” Samuel rolls his eyes, “I drove the speed limit. Didn’t want to get picked o
ut from the crowd.”

  “That’s wise. Corvus sent the Accenda after your vehicle. Where did you leave Eden 2.0?”

  Samuel closes his mouth. Sliding his feet off the dashboard, he buries his face in his hands and bends into himself.

  “Samuel, are you well?”

  He holds up his hand. Shakes his head.

  “I don’t—”

  Samuel curls his fingers into a fist, their veins bulging. His arm trembles.

  “Goodbye,” Atlas says.

  He slips out of the sedan, thuds its door, and inhales air crisper. Atlas looks up through the trees.

  Kilometers distant, the early evening chatter of walkers and whir of vehicles hum a bassy undertone to the warble of nearer birds, the claps of leaves. Life in every direction unrolls generously, nests and burrows and towns bustling with families that extend little outward interest. Noise jostles Atlas’s ears, blooming clouds load his shoulders, and branches surround, but all coarse atmosphere his lungs strain to filter brightens his eyes. Sky, its shades and cotton dress, dances over sphere free to touch. He raises his hand to half a dozen birds flapping into ascent. Air bristles his arm, strokes his knuckles. Coasting along white billows, the sun dips and sprays toward horizon lucid crystals as spurs in eye’s corner. Sol journeys; sky revolves; they twirl without constraint.

  He looks at Gene looking at him. A tightness returns to his chest. She frowns, scoots to one side of her rock, and pats the other side.

  Atlas glances behind a shoulder as he walks toward her. “Did something occur to Eden 2.0?”

  “Samuel left her in Canada,” Gene says. She again pats the rock.

  He studies it. “But the stone is only so large.”

  Gene narrows her eyes.

  Lifting his hands in defense, Atlas steps forward and sits on her rock, balances halfway off its edge. His knee touches Gene’s; he recoils and tracks the gap he leaves.

  “It can’t be me.” Gene twists her shoe into dirt and tips her head. “You know, ‘Walker’ is a super common last name. Are you sure you got the right person?”

  Atlas’s stomach contracts. “I’m positive.”

  —raises the blade to her waist—one swipe, one blink of a hiss of a steel leaf. A red slit from her core’s right to left trickles a sheet—