“No. We have to warn Slade and turn tail.”
Jaxx’s eye brows rose. “Slade was on the call. He saw it.”
Shaughnessy’s shoulder’s drooped. He bit his bottom lip. “Holy shit. He saw it. No doubt in my mind.”
Jaxx grabbed Shaughnessy by the shoulders. “We have to warn them that the Secret Space Program is coming. You have to listen to me. People’s lives are at stake. An archaeological treasure is at stake. We have to—”
Anger overtook Jaxx and his emotions boiled, juicing through his veins. A guttural yell came from his belly. He lifted Shaughnessy off the ground and flung him toward a wall, slamming him against it. Shaughnessy’s head whipped back, his eyes closed as he slid down the wall and to the floor. His head slumped to one side.
“Oh my God.” Jaxx fell to his knees, out of breath. “How did I do that?” He reached for Shaughnessy but was too far away to touch him, to help him. His arms and legs trembled, out of strength, out of energy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
The door opened. Slade walked in then stopped mid-stride. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you two doing in my private quarters?” His slack face quickly hardened. He strode across the room and slammed his foot down on Shaughnessy’s neck. “Give me one good reason not to kill this good-for-nothing worm.”
Jaxx, on his hands and knees, and breathless, pushed out words with all he had. “We found something, Slade.” He dropped to the floor, his forehead against the cold tile.
“What the hell did you two find that required you to break into my room?”
“Listen, leave him alone.” Jaxx turned and rested on his back, his breath fast and shallow. “He’s the only one who knows the whole code.” Jaxx lied. “And we need him if I’m going to decode the rest of your stupid glyphs.”
Slade unholstered a sidearm. He drew it close to Shaughnessy’s head. “Not good enough, Jaxx.”
8
Charlotte, North Carolina ~ Earth
Drew took a drag, holding the ganja smoke in as long as he could. He’d only made it as far as the door before turning back and heading for his couch. No one in their right mind believed their dead mother when she told them they’re supposed to trek out into the High Sierras or wherever it was she said he was supposed to go in order to get a message from his Uncle Jaxx, so he could steer mankind to its next 'platform'.
Even his hallucinations had started using weird vocab. It was good fun, as long as he didn’t take it seriously. He exhaled and stared at the popcorn ceiling. He should write a book. People loved this kind of conspiracy stuff. He put his nice, plump doobie to his ever-ready lips and took a long, hard inward-facing breath.
A message popped on his laptop screen and Drew almost coughed out a lung. Starwanderer3—Michael Anderle, the ex-NASA weapons specialist—the converse-wearing geek and hacker friend from the darknet. The problem was, Anderle was supposed to be in prison.
The message was coded:
Mo...Cha...Tse...D-ha...D-ha...Tse...A-chin...A-kha...A-kha...Ah-tad...Tse. Next line. Ah-jad...A-kha...A-kha...Jad-ho-loni...A-kha...Shi-da...D-ah. Next line. 1...1...6. Space. Ne-as-jah. Space. Nas-pas. End dialogue. Do not reply.
Drew’s mouth dropped. His joint landed in his lap. He slowly picked it up and placed it on the coffee table without taking his eyes off the screen, reading the code Anderle had sent. It was a Navajo code, though changed in Hijax Hacker Format, HHF. Anything starting with an 'A' could have a completely different meaning or mean exactly what it purported to mean. It depended on the last letter in the message. The last word was 'reply', the last letter 'y', which meant 'A' was not changed. It read, “Chattanooga. Next line. Lookout. Next line. 116 Owl Way. End dialogue. Do not reply.”
“You mother trucker. You want me to go to where?” The problem with Hijax Hacker Format in Navajo code was that the numbers were always changing and if Drew was still up to date, the 116 actually meant 994, and the Owl meant Eagle. And Way stood for Street. He was to go to 994 Eagle Street, Chattanooga, Tennessee, Lookout.
He leaned against the couch’s armrest. “Was that Lookout Mountain?”
It had to be. Or was Anderle telling Drew to lookout for that area? Or to simply look out, someone is coming for you? Drew semi-knew Anderle and Anderle would send a more distressful code if he was in imminent danger.
“Do not reply” also meant urgent. That was hacker for, “Holy shit, get your ass here immediately. We have a bitch-storm on the way or in progress.”
In any case, Anderle needed him and needed him at that location now. But why?
“I said pack. Now.” His mom stood in front of Drew’s TV. “You wouldn’t listen to me. You’d best listen to him.”
Drew yelped and slapped his palm against his chest. “Dammit, you got to stop doing that, Mom.”
His mom faded away, but not before tutting and raising her eyebrows. She’d said more to him since she’d died than she had in the last fifteen years of her life. He eyed his empty luggage bag near his closet. It was never put away. His life as a World News Network reporter meant he was always on the road. The problem was that Drew hadn’t heard from WNN in a while and probably never would again, seeing how many companies were shutting their doors from the downturn in the economy. He didn’t know if Hobbs Howell, his boss, was out of a job either and if so, if Drew would be on the chopping block. Right now, it didn’t matter. Reporting was the last thing on his mind. Anderle, on the other hand, needed him. He had helped Drew leak the GSA story and now it was Drew’s turn to return the favor.
He stood and picked up a pile of laundry off the floor, not knowing really if it was clean or not, and shoved it in his luggage bag. Did it matter? It was a crisis. All he needed to do was get gone.
A car skidded to a halt and yells pierced the air—profanities. He froze. Worried that his mom would make a reappearance and kick his butt, he hurried around another pile of clothes, waving the smoke out of his way, and opened his curtains a slit.
Two men in hoodies stood in front of a car, each with a crowbar in hand. A thicker, smaller man was behind the vehicle, also in a hoodie. A woman in the car shook her head, screaming bloody murder. A small child sat in the back, no doubt scared shitless.
A thug reared back with his crowbar and slammed it against the car light, shattering the plastic casing, the bulb erupting, glass pieces falling to the asphalt. “We need your car, lady.”
Crap. Drew rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to, but he had to. He ran to his closet, rummaged for a wooden bat signed by pro baseball player, Mike Trout. A prized possession. Something that would be worth thousands some day—if the United States didn’t fall into oblivion. Yeah, scratch that. It was a piece of nicely-shaped wood now, nothing more.
Bat in hand, he opened his front door, hesitating for a half a step. It had been three days since he put his trash can out for the garbage service, but it sat on the sidewalk, pizza boxes poking out of the lid. His neighbors and their neighbors’ cans had been tipped over by the wind and pecked over by the crows. The entire street was strewn with banana peels, yogurt containers, dog food cans, and Playboy magazines.
Drew hadn’t paid attention as he’d been hunkered down, eating black cookies with white fillings, stoned beyond belief, not realizing changes were taking place in his neighborhood as well. What he observed on the news was just that: news. News happened 'everywhere else'. It didn’t happen in his back yard, on his street, while he chowed down and got high.
A woman’s scream shattered his dreamy survey and sucked him right back to his doorstep.
Shit.
They pulled the woman out of her car.
He didn’t want to deal with this. He was happy and content in his own smoke screen.
Why did she unlock the damn door?
“Hey,” said Drew. He tried for a mature, manly voice, although what emerged was distinctly pubescent and unconvincing.
The men turned, chests thrust outward, fingers gripping their crowbars, ready for someone to dar
e confront them.
“What the fuck you want?” said one of the men, eyes like a tiger about to catch its long-awaited meal.
Drew walked on his yard, catching his black Mazda Protege parked on his driveway out of the corner of his eye, and slowly put down his bat, his other hand up in surrender in a don’t-kill-me type of way. “Don’t hurt them. Let them out and take their car, but please don’t hurt them.”
The man at the rear of the car kicked the bumper. “What you gonna do? Huh?” He thrust his arm toward the woman. “We need her and her kids.”
“For what?” asked Drew, his hazy, weed-induced mind succumbing to curiosity, his heart trying to race, but his Maui Wowie intoxicated blood not allowing it.
The man shrugged, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “For whatever the fuck we want. That’s what.”
The woman kicked at one of her would-be abductors. “Leave my kids alone.”
She was Puerto Rican, or at least her accent made it seem so, along with her skin tone, black hair, and powerful attitude. She was short, but strong, her will even stronger.
The man tossed her against the car. He pinned her with his forearm, lifting the crowbar over his head. She pushed back, raising her arm, ready to catch the crowbar if it came down.
“Kick me again, lady…I dare you.”
Drew put his hand up and took a weary step forward. “Stop. Money. How much do you need? I have some.”
The man eased his weight off the woman and she fell to the street, then crawled to the car’s back door. She yanked the door open and pulled her kid out, clutching him to her chest. He whimpered and his eyes darted from his mom to the men. Her daughter slid out from behind her brother, not making a sound. She found her mother’s hand and clutched it tightly.
A thug pointed his crowbar at Drew. “And do what with it? Buy something?” He looked at the other thugs and laughed. “If you have food and supplies. You can have these idiots.” He shoved a thumb at the woman and her kids. “But you’re not getting her car.”
The woman, her infant son on her hip and her daughter firmly in hand, shuffled across the lawn and stood next to Drew. She eyed his bat.
Drew shook his head. If she went for the bat, then all hell would break loose.
She bent down to soothe her son. “It’s okay, honey. You’ll be fine. You’re safe. Mommy won’t let them hurt you.” She ran her fingers through his hair. She trembled and wiped his tears as she clenched her teeth. Drew could imagine the murderous thoughts she had.
“Well?” said one of the men. “Shall we come in?” This one was sophisticated, his demeanor was that of a professor.
Drew stepped to the side, motioning them to take whatever they wanted inside his home. But the weed, not the weed. He forgot about the weed.
He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing his mistake. He should have just gone in and got them some supplies and had it done with—maybe that would have worked.
He took a step closer to the woman. “Are you okay?”
“What am I going to do? How am I going to drive and get there? My husband said west. We gotta go west.” She frantically wiped her son’s hair, his face, whatever she could get her hands on.
“I can drive you. I’m leaving soon and going west as well.”
She paused, eyes welled. “Thank you. It’s far. It’s a safe place.”
A safe place already? What the hell happened while I was inside?
The men came out a moment later with a few bags of bread, some cookies, and a bowl full of fruit and vegetables. Drew had brought a bunch of food home from the funeral. He had no idea it’d be in hot demand. He’d let the world slip away and unravel a little. He needed to buck the fudge up. Mom was right. He needed to do something.
The Professor jangled a set of keys in his hand. “Thank you for your car.”
Drew stiffened, then walked toward the man, his heart skipping a beat. He needed the car, even more than his dank.
The man swung the crowbar at Drew. Drew back peddled. “All right, all right. Take one car. But leave us the other.”
The man grinned. “Hey, Sal. You think we should give them one of our prized possessions?”
A man, who must be Sal, sat in the woman’s car. “Nope. Not a chance.”
The two cars gunned down the street and out of their lives, leaving Drew and a mother and her two children, eating their dust.
9
J-Quadrant, Solar System ~ Callisto
This isn’t happening. I’m going to die.
XO Katherine Bogle had been ripped out of Star Warden by the vacuum of space, the mighty Star Carrier torn apart and buckled in on itself. She’d told Admiral Gentry Race not to do it, not to deploy the nuclear war-head at an unknown civilization on a Jupiter moon. On Callisto.
He did. And it backfired.
You killed your crew. You killed yourself. You killed me.
Three seconds into the void of space and Bogle hurtled toward the Callisto atmosphere. She closed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut. If she kept them open, her eyes and tongue would boil, like Arnold on Mars in 'Total Recall'. Or so she thought. Without a space suit, she’d feel the worst effects of space and she’d rather pass out before those effects took hold; her lymph, bladder, and blood would double in size, her lungs would rupture, and she’d freeze to death. Then there was the approaching Callisto atmosphere. Consciously burning up wasn’t something she wanted to experience, either, even if she had about twelve seconds of conscious life left. If that. If she wasn’t conscious when death grabbed hold, when it took her final heartbeat, the better.
Five seconds and the deep-freeze of the cosmos would engulf her, the oxygen inside her expanding, her body ballooning.
Gentry, the diabolical jerk, pulled the trigger and she paid the ultimate price for his sin. Nearly ten-thousand of Star Warden’s crew paid the ultimate price for his foolishness.
Eight seconds.
In eight more seconds, she’d pass out. At least, that’s what physics class had taught her. And in less than a minute, after she passed out, her trachea would collapse, she’d asphyxiate, and suffocate to death.
Just do it now. God, please take me. God, please. Don’t torture me.
Twelve seconds and a warm liquid surrounded her, as if she’d fallen into a pool. Instinctively, she opened her eyes. She was under water. It was thick and spongy, with a tinge of amber.
This isn’t water. What’s happening? Is this death?
She heard a splash that wasn’t her own. It was the type of splash you heard when you were in a pool and already underwater. Hands—white gloves, and white sleeves—reached for her.
An angel. An angel came for me. I’m going to heaven. Thank you, God. Thank you.
Her faith ran deep and wide. She’d always known God would not abandon her. She reached for the gloved hands as they reached for her. As their fingers met, the etheric Being’s face came into view.
No, that wasn’t a face.
She lurched back. A white helmet, black visor. That was no angel. Was this a demon, a taker of souls?
“No,” Bogle shouted, bubbles exiting her mouth, escaping to the surface. She flailed, kicking and scratching and snapping at the demon. The thick liquid slowed her attempts, like a boxer fighting in a ring of Jello.
The demon reached for her, grabbed her arms, its grip firm. It reversed course and swam in the direction from whence it came, pulling Bogle along with it through the molasses-thick liquid. Bogle swung her hips around and kicked, landing a solid foot against its stomach.
The demon didn’t waver, continuing to pull her in the direction he chose.
She pulled her arms toward herself, attempting to bring the Being closer. Maybe a knee to the groin, if it had a groin, would do the trick. She shoved her knee where it counted. A sharp pain shot up her leg as the demon brought his knee up and deflected her attempt. He dragged her onward.
Was he taking her to the devil? Why was she destined for hell? Why would God allow this to happen?
No. She was a good person. She tried to stop Gentry. She did good in the face of wrong. Maybe hell had been her destination all along? Even before the nuke, before Gentry destroyed his own ship, before she enlisted in the Secret Space Program.
She closed her eyes and prayed. She’d repent, throw herself on the will of God. That’s all she had left.
She exploded out of the liquid. She took a long gasp of air, coughing and spitting the viscous goo out of her mouth and nose. The Being threw her over its shoulder and carried her, her body jostling up and down as it walked.
“What’s…” she coughed. “Going…on?” Her eyes darted left and right, the goo interrupting her vision.
The Being bent down on one knee and gently rested Bogle on her back, then rolled her onto her side.
Bogle vomited, all the contents of good and evil leaving her, and memories surfaced—the times she’d gone to church and embraced her Lord and Savior; the time she spent all day preparing a Thanksgiving feast for a homeless shelter, the smiles she saw, the happiness for giving, for being in service to others, for giving hope to those who thought hope was all but gone. But was it enough? A few good deeds and wham! Bam! Thank you ma’am! Heaven?
Couldn’t be. She’d seen so much wickedness and done so little to stop it.
And, then the evil flashbacks, memories she stuffed down, wishing them away forever, the ones she’d almost forgotten. She vomited hard and deep, remembering the time she didn’t listen to her boyfriend, wouldn’t talk to him because she was “too busy” only to find him hanging from a rope a half hour later, pale as death.
The time she beat the ever-living shit out of her younger sister for being “in the way, all the time.”
She vomited again and again, images sliding in and out of her awareness like a PowerPoint presentation, leaving her with no energy. No emotion.
The Complete Atlantis Series, Books 1 - 5: Ascendant Saga Page 31