by Dennis Fueyo
Uruk struck the clutched, polished staff on the ground. “I am the carrier to the word of Apsu, young man. That is how I know. I have been given this burden, and I alone converse with the great spirit.”
“Alone, huh? Since speaking to Apsu is a burden, maybe I could talk to him as well?”
“Apsu is not man nor woman.”
“Oh, I see, speaking is ok but to hear Apsu is burdensome. He mumbles when he speaks, correct? Your ears must not work as well as they used to, Uruk. Tell you what, I will extricate you and talk to him myself. A group of Atlantians will take notes. That way the burden will ease.”
Uruk gestured as if scything a wheat field: “Mind your place! You are the Sam Mason, not Atlantian.”
“And you are not the only person with a guardian sentinel. I have one hanging around”—Sam fluttered his hand—“somewhere out there. So people tell me, anyway. It seems everyone who tells me this is an absolutist, so I still need a wee bit of convincing. Maybe if I saw a crèche of your interaction with Apsu, I would be more willing to accept your polite execution. Tell you what, you carry me in your arms like baby Jesus. Lay me down in front of Apsu and give praise. Then I can take over the conversation—”
“I will not continue to listen to you disrespect my people!”
“Disrespect? Look, archbishop, I will comply with the word of Apsu if your people believe the word is law, but just laws are not created through a one-man filter. If you wish to force compliance with the filtered, mumbled word of Apsu graciously leaked from your lips, I have the right to hear Apsu say it.”
Uruk tilted an apoplectic head and spoke with trembling lips, “Game over, boy.”
The words echoed amongst the vaulted walls. The old Atlantian then spoke under a vial whisper, as if the words burned between every tooth: “The Carver Warden.”
“Excuse me? Who is this Carver Warden?”
“You seek the Carver Warden.” Uruk took ancient steps off the pedestal and stood nose to beak-shaped nose with Sam. “The Clark Stone abandoned humanity, taking on the name Carver Warden. He hides behind an archaic menace of the old world. Rickettserax.”
Hushed murmurs repeated the sentinel’s name.
“Destroy Rickettserax, and the Carver Warden will diminish. Only”—Uruk turned a coy glance—“you cannot destroy Rickettserax unless you are an Atlantian. Human hands cannot destroy sentinels. The Sam Mason must join us to fulfill such a goal.”
Picking at the silver threaded inlay in his robe, Sam muttered, “You are right, Uruk, game over. Well done. Any other tidbits to share, so you can back the tire over my head? Is my mother Atlantian now? Maybe my dad also sired Carver with Eva Stone?”
Uruk produced a crooked grin and motioned to an Atlantian standing taller than the others positioned behind Sam. Enlil responded, lowering two hawk-like eyes.
Sam then produced a thin smile. It was subtle, enough to let Uruk know he was not finished. Uruk had played his hand and called. Sam had the Atlantian hanging on the edge of an emotional abyss, and rose his foot to squash those grey, crooked fingers and finish the game.
“Judging by your silence”—Sam glared—“you have shared everything?”
“That is the penultimate of the information you sought. Have I not given enough, you want more?” Uruk’s ears flattened.
“You know it’s not enough! How am I to destroy something, not knowing why only Atlantian hands are capable? You magnanimously proclaim to give me a two hundred carat diamond and hand me a giant lump of coal with no instruction manual on how to extract it. That sounds very suspicious, Uruk, like hiding something from your people here. Are you trying to protect this archaic menace?”
Whispers passed in the crowd, some Atlantians nodding their heads with contemptuous faces. Sam had won. Doubt sewn into the Atlantians weakened Uruk. He had a chance—one not there before—a chance to stop the transformation.
But Uruk ignored the crowd and the Sam’s question, saying in Lou’s direction, “You may watch a friend transition first if you wish.”
The veiled threat of harming Lou scrubbed away Sam’s civility. He tightened his muscles, slightly bent his knees, and said, “You and I are not done yet, big bird—that was my warm-up.”
Before Sam could lunge at the perfidious Atlantian, thick hands locked his arms together.
“Hold him tight, Enlil,” said Uruk waving the polished staff. “Bind his hands.”
Two smaller Atlantians cuffed Sam while Enlil squeezed his arms behind his back. Grey-skinned figures dressed in ochre stained leather armor moved to shackle each member of the group. Juan snapped a few Atlantian joints before a dogpile of eight robbed figures immobilized him. Emelia tucked under Lou’s shoulder and surrendered, ensuring Lou in his deteriorating health would be handled fairly.
All were bound, except one.
“Get the Tom Mason!” Uruk yelled.
Tom shimmied and sidestepped, shedding guardians off like a running back greased in oil. His movements blurred, visible only by tracing Atlantian bodies as they were either launched overhead or buckled under snapped joints. Several long strides sent him into the crowd. Many Atlantians grabbed each other in confusion, and none were fast enough to block every exit. He was gone.
“Find him,” Enlil commanded in a deep, guttural voice. “Find the human! Search every crevice of the cathedral.” Enlil returned and locked arms with Sam. “The cathedral extends for miles, and we know every inch of it. He will find no hiding place here, human.”
“I have granted the information you sought,” Uruk said to Sam and curled a smile. “We will prepare the transference linens for your evolution tomorrow at dawn.” A dark grey, twisted hand waved: “Remove them from my sight.”
As Enlil dragged Sam away, he cried out, “You’re better than this, Issakum. Do not let deceit blind you!”
∆ ∆ ∆
Clouds formed along with the ceiling of Sam’s prison cell. Discharges of phosphorous blue and green rippled in the cumulous masses, spreading like shaving cream to fill the space fifty feet above his head. Convex auroras crawled down forming STEVEs across a barred portal.
Sam stretched out on a stone bed splashing his hand in standing water on the floor, hypnotized by the ionic discharges overhead, and asked the emptiness of the room, “You know what that thing is called, waving down from the ceiling? I know. A STEVE, strong thermal emission velocity enhancement. Never saw one before, I suppose the ones seen up north are more spectacular. Where is my sentinel when I need it most?”
Attuned to crackling charges from the ceiling and smelling ionized air, he huffed, “Just as I figured. Nothing more than superstition.”
“You must believe,” a voice said beyond a rotted wooden door. It unlatched and Issakum entered. “You saw Rickettserax. You know the sentinels exist.”
Sam kinked his legs allowing Issakum to sit on the stone bed. “How many guards are there, waiting in the hallway?”
“At least ten guardians watch your door. Enlil searches for your father, the Tom Mason.”
“Why call him the Tom Mason? I noticed you put ‘the’ in front of every human name.”
“He is a creature of free will. Not a follower of Apsu.”
“How can your race be so ignorant, Issakum? Have you actually seen Apsu?”
“No, but I believe.”
“Uruk’s brinkmanship isolates your people from the world. Look, there is a tribe called the Britts up in Elizabethtown who worship Jesus Christ.”
“Founded by the Britt family, I know of them.”
“They think he is God, but they do listen to other ideas. They have not completely isolated themselves in some orated scripture.”
“The Christian faiths are not based on fact.”
“Sure they are. No one can argue Jesus was a man, son of God or not. Like you, I question whether there is a Christian God, but they do believe. Strongly. Hell, maybe an antediluvian sentinel protected Jesus. Maybe Jesus became one.”
“If he did,
the sentinel has long since parted Earth.”
“Maybe,” Sam said and stamped the wet ground creating playful splashes of water on Issakum’s robes. “Cannot know for sure if you take another person’s word on faith.”
Issakum’s smile returned. “Point taken, faithfully.”
“I like you, man. You listen, act more mellow and even-headed, not like that rat-fink scumbag you serve.”
“Your slang reveals your birthplace. South California?”
“Southern California, but correct. You?”
“South Carolina.”
“So tell me, what are transference linens?”
Issakum sighed. “They are strips of cloth soaked in the fungus. The cloth is wrapped around the skin to encourage colonel growth into the body. An excruciating three days later, the body either accepts or rejects the fungus. Rejection follows with cardiac arrest. Acceptance creates a new child of the Stone strain.”
“This is Apsu’s wish? I saw another sentinel act this way. A giant shark we call a biggen swallowed the entity whole. It turned the biggen’s blood into green goo, ruptured its intestines, and commanded it to eat us.”
“Rickettserax. You equate its actions with Apsu’s? Absurd!”
“You sound like Dad. Not absurd, it changed the biggen into something stronger. More aggressive and evil, but evolved, so it could murder us.”
Issakum gazed into a sloping STEVE as it swept along the stone prison wall. “You do not take the existence of your sentinel on faith?”
“Of course not.”
“Maybe, you are right—”
A melodious sound undulated through the cell. The song of a humpback whale.
“It can’t be…look there!” Issakum pointed to a protruding brick on the floor. Up onto its surface hopped a small, green tree frog.
The whale song dripped into Sam’s ears, causing his heart to flutter. “It’s so majestic,” he said, wiping his eyes, “so powerful!”
Another whale song harmonized with the first and a second frog leaped and perched. More little green frogs with wide, curious eyes crowded onto the weathered brick. The symphony transitioned from a dozen humpback ballads to a pulsating green tree frog choir. Chirps escalated in tempo.
Issakum took Sam’s hand and marveled, “It’s Apsu. Apsu has come, look!”
“The songs send something—coziness—into my heart.” Sam leaned forward and asked, “Are you Apsu, little frogs?”
Intelligent eyes focused on Sam. The frogs’ melody rose in pitch.
“Ask,” Issakum said, nudging his side.
Sam coughed and enunciated, “What fate do you command of those seeking the Atlantians?”
More green tree frogs emerged from the ponded water and stacked atop themselves.
“Reveal,” a familiar voice whispered from a shadowed corner opposite the stone bed, making both Issakum and Sam jump. Tom Mason knelt forward into the ceiling’s blue and green reflections twinkling off the wet floor.
“What the hell? Dad?” Sam scrambled and stood on the bed. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“Time for you to believe, Son.” Tom held out his forearms exposing his lateral lines, motioned, paused, and then repeated, “Reveal.”
Frogs began puffing into wisps of green smoke. Each wisp touched a STEVE descending from the ceiling and, upon connecting, sprayed bright turquoise plasma through the room and formed a small, charged blue cloud. The clouds coalesced and drifted back as a blue fog, settling above the old brick where frogs had stacked themselves moments ago. Yellow, purple, and white electricity discharged around its perimeter and centered, forming two brilliant eyes. Their intensity moved Issakum and Sam on one knee, bowing their heads.
“Son”—Tom genuflected—“this is Apsu.”
The blue, ion-charged cloud spoke in a bass-rich, melodious voice: “Time mends memories. Children lift minds. Hands build bridges. Love powers all.”
Guardians armed with staves glowing yellow suddenly broke through the door. Apsu glanced in their direction and formed a wall of water drawn from the floor. Exploding discharges of luminescent blue filled the water wall and threw them back out the door.
Apsu’s eyes then sent an electric charge into Sam’s. “Only a sentinel can kill a sentinel. Sam Mason, to kill a sentinel, you must die and be reborn.”
Sam covered his eyes and asked, “Reborn as an Atlantian? Uruk was right?”
“No. Leave Savannah, a human. Promise me you will return and help the Atlantians. Promise, and I will set you free.”
Sam peeked into Apsu’s cloud and the knowledge of a thousand seas surged into him. Alien looking animals fed on smaller ones, striated veins of strange compounds streaked glowing basalt columns, and sensations of temperature radiated in his eyes. He staggered backward and held out his palm: “I promise, Apsu.”
“Then, you are free.”
Walled water went inert and splashed on the floor. The cloud dissipated, residual sparks danced up the walls, and the energy-filled ceiling darkened.
Sam took hold of Issakum’s moist palm and said, “That…that was incredible. Dad, I cannot believe you are still with us!”
“Told you I was fast,” Tom said and winked. He crept to the doorway, avoiding the area where Apsu had emerged and peered through. “The guardians are unconscious. Now is our chance, Sammy.”
Sam asked Issakum, “You will stay here, right? Are we ok, you and I?”
Issakum pressed a forehead to Sam’s. “I will not forget the Sam Mason. You have a friend here. Seeing is believing. Go, I will help how I can.”
“Thank you.” Sam placed a firm hand on Issakum’s shoulder, followed by a gentle, wholesome smile.
“Son, we got to go—now.” Tom grabbed a handful of Sam’s robe and jerked him forward, and off they sprinted down the hall towards neighboring chambers seeking their friends.
Chapter 25
“Lou’s very sick,” Emelia Stone said cradling Lou Frasier on a stone bed.
The prison cell left little space for Juan Delgado to circle. Fingers clasped behind his back and, in deep thought, he paused to look up and watch billowing clouds roll along the ceiling.
They provided a spectacular display of ionic discharges and rolling thunderclaps. Turquoise, blue, and yellow plasma flares flashed purple hues on the wall in patterns like light filtering through a vast commercial fish tank. A long, reddish STEVE stretched downward and began rounding the cell.
Juan glanced at the barred window twenty feet off the ground, surveyed the ceiling, and returned to his struggle of raising a solution up towards the surface of his mind. “Dammit!”
“What’s wrong?” asked Emelia.
“I’m not like Sammy, Melrose. He always pulls solutions out of his ass in seconds. I don’t know how he does it.”
“We all have our strengths, Juan. He confided in me the safest place in the world during a firefight was to stand right behind you. As you admire his strategic thinking, he envies your prowess.”
“Yeah, well, my prowess is getting hungry.”
“Oh God,” Lou moaned holding his stomach.
“What’s up, Lou?” asked Juan. “Tell Melrose if you have to poop again.”
“I can’t do it anymore,” he bemoaned. “I’m so raw back there, I might pass out from the pain alone.” Lou buckled and gripped his stomach tight. “Ow, it hurts so much!”
Emelia asked, “Juan, what are we going to do? He won’t last much longer without help.”
“I don’t know.”
“Juan, he is dying.”
“I know! I just…don’t know. Dammit!” Juan turned and slammed a fist into the old, wooden door of their holding cell. “Hey! Grey guys, we need some medical help here, man! Our friend is dying!”
A voice on the other side responded, “The transformation is in five hours. It will either save the Lou Frasier, or it won’t matter.”
“Oh yeah? Come in here and say that to my face, motherfucker,” Juan yelled, leaped forward and
pounded on the heavy oak panels.
Silence responded.
Ignored and defeated, Juan said, “I’m sorry, Lou. Hijo le…I feel useless. So Mel, you can’t control their minds, right?”
Emelia’s sad eyes consumed him in desperation. “Correct, and Lou is too sick to enlist animals for helping us.”
“Can you reach Sammy? You know, mentally?”
She closed her eyes. Emelia’s brows furled and head tilted. Grinding her teeth, she sighed. “No, I can’t find him.”
“This is hell”—Juan tugged at his robe—“I pictured a thousand ways of dying in the network. Gator death-roll, sniper, shark’s test-bite. Not one scenario included my corpse in these ugly-ass clothes.”
Juan froze upon examining the robe’s filigree and wrinkled it in his palms. “Wait a second…”
“What?” Emelia, clearly detecting a change in his demeanor, straightened upward.
“What is that, lavender?”
“How do you mean?”
“Melrose, you searching my thoughts? I head Sammy mention he smelled lavender when you entered his mind.”
“I’m sorry, Juan. I’m curious about what you’re thinking.”
He held the silver-colored lined patterns towards her and ran two fingers down the inline hem. “You think this is made with cotton or something? Or are they woven with metal? You know, like actual silver or platinum.”
“Let me see.” Emelia drew in the folds of his robe and picked at the design with her thumb. “Look at that,” she marveled, “they’re silver threads. Juan, you’re a genius!”
“I’m a spotter, Melrose. They didn’t make me that for my good looks; our maxim is cheating death to save others.” He nimbly tugged the threads out and twisted the strands together creating a thin wire-like rope. “Look at that!”
She tore the base hem off her robe and tied it into a ball. Reaching out to him, Emelia said, “Hand me an end.” She knotted the string around the wadded cloth and passed it back to Juan. “Make it count, spotter.”
