Atlantis Storm

by Steven Moore

  He swung his legs back onto the dock so he could get a closer look at what he’d seen. There was no doubt about it now; a body was floating in the water just a few inches below where he was sitting. And it looked very, very dead.

  R.B. knew the water here wasn’t deep, and he jumped down so he could pull the body to shore. But as he jumped down, the swell of the water turned the body face up. To his utter horror, he realized the body belonged to Barnaby Quinn.

  “Barnaby? What the hell?” He hauled old man Quinn’s body towards the slip ramp, but as he did so the body rolled over again, and that’s when he spotted the knife in Barnaby’s back. And then in one of the most shocking thing’s Ryan Bodean had ever experienced, he noticed the man was still breathing.

  R.B. hauled him part way up the slip ramp. It was still barely dawn, and there was no one else about the dock awake at that early hour. It would have taken R.B. twenty minutes to find a phone box—he’d left his cellphone at the apartment—and he didn’t believe Barnaby had long to live. So he shook him. He grabbed the old man’s shoulders and tried to shake him awake, and after just a few seconds Barnaby spluttered, vomiting out a putrid stream of salt water mixed with bile.

  In yet another surprise, the old man suddenly gripped R.B’s collar tight and pulled him closer, then started mumbling what to R.B. sounded like gibberish. Then he started to make out a few of the words; Atlantis; Treasure; Regret…

  Barnaby’s eyes fluttered and closed, and for a moment R.B. thought he was dead. But he checked his pulse and realized he was still alive, and shook him awake again. He didn’t believe there was any chance to get him to a hospital in time, and, desperate to hear what he had to say before it was too late, he shook him hard again, and it did the trick. This time Barnaby seemed more awake, and his eyes flew wide open. The man was clearly terrified.

  “Do not let them get to you ... " He choked a little, his eyes screwing shut in pain. After a harsh, labored breath, Barnaby fought hard to get out his next words. “They ... they’re after it too. They will kill you if they find out you have it.”

  “Have what?” asked R.B., his voice a mix of concern and confusion. “What do I have?”

  “The piece I ... I gave you. The map. If they learn you have it they will kill you.” The old man wheezed the words. They sounded as if they might just be his last.

  “Who, Barnaby? Who’re you talking about?”

  “ ... just sorry I didn’t get ... get to see it. Go now! They will kill you.” With that, Barnaby sputtered, blood trickling down his bearded chin. His eyes closed and he slumped back, his head slamming into the concrete dock.

  “No! Come on man, not now!” R.B. shouted, and shook Barnaby, desperate to keep him alive, though in his heart he knew it was futile. He pounded his fists hard on Barnaby’s considerable chest, trying to kickstart his heart. But it was no use. The man exhaled a long, slow breath, then fell still.

  Barnaby Quinn was dead.

  Part II

  Harbinger

  “In this world, everyone is a harbinger.

  People carry the prophecy of their future.”

  -Ralph Emerson

  18

  Intruders

  R.B. slumped to the ground next to Barnaby Quinn’s lifeless body, breathing hard from his own exertions. But at least he was breathing, something Barnaby Quinn would never do again. Who the hell would murder this harmless old man? he thought, then suddenly remembered what Barnaby had said; they will kill you too. He bolted upright and looked frantically around, fully expecting to be attacked any second. But in the pale lemon light of the morning he saw no one. It didn’t mean someone wasn’t on their way to kill him right that second, and he jumped to his feet. He hated to leave Barnaby there alone on the dock, but if the old man had been right, and not just babbling nonsense moments before he died, R.B. was in serious trouble.

  He saw no other option than to get the hell out of there, and quick. So he did. He jogged to the dock’s exit, sticking to the edge of the buildings to remain out of sight from any gun-toting villains. At the exit he paused, taking a moment to ensure the coast was clear. Then, with a sorrowful glance back in the direction of Barnaby Quinn, he ran as fast as his out-of-shape legs and lungs would allow him, all the way back to George Wyatt’s apartment.

  Before he knocked on the door he again glanced around to see if he’d been followed, and when he felt sure he hadn’t been, he pushed the buzzer to George’s penthouse apartment. No answer. He glanced at his watch. Seven twenty-five. Megan was probably still asleep.

  R.B. buzzed again, increasingly afraid now of being spotted. He stepped back and looked up at the window, and saw the curtain twitch. Come on Megan, open up. Finally, after what seemed an age, the apartment complex door clicked open, and R.B. stepped inside, just as an old lady was stepping out.

  “Oh, sorry Ma’am,” he said, not realizing that it was she who had buzzed open the door. He flew up the stairs, ignoring the open elevator, and when he reached the apartment door he found it already open.

  But not only open. Smashed off its hinges. R.B. immediately ducked back around the corner, certain someone other than Megan was inside. But who? He waited thirty seconds and heard nothing. He was certain he’d seen the curtain twitch, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe a breeze from the open door? Hmm ... He took a few silent steps towards the apartment, edging to the open door. Still hearing nothing, he peered around the jamb. There was no one in the open-plan lounge area, but it was totally destroyed. Sofas were overturned and sideboards had their drawers ripped open. Paintings hung crooked on the walls and paperwork was scattered across the entire room. “What the hell?” And then he froze. Megan!

  “Megan?” he called out, but no response. He still wasn’t sure he was alone in the apartment, but he had to look for Megan. He scampered around the apartment, looking behind chairs and sofas, and inside closets. He darted to the kitchen, and bizarrely found the refrigerator on its side. He tried the bedroom next and again saw no sign of Megan. Then he heard it; a soft, low moan coming from the bathroom. He raced along the short corridor and ripped open the bathroom door, unsure if he’d find Megan or an injured attacker. It was Megan.

  She was laid out in the bathtub, totally naked, with no water to cover her. She wore bluish, angry bruises on her arms and thighs, and one eye was swollen shut. “Motherfuckers!” R.B. shouted. “Shit, Megan, it’s me ... can you hear me?”

  Megan moaned again, and then, as if registering someone else was there for the first time, she instinctively pulled her legs up to her chest to defend herself.

  “Hey, darlin’. It’s me, Ryan. It’s alright, I’m here now.”

  Megan slowly opened her eyes. Well, the one that would open. She saw R.B., and burst into tears. R.B. knelt down beside the bathtub and edged Megan forward, putting his arms around her back and neck to support her. “Listen,” he whispered, “I’m not sure who did this, Meg, but we’ve gotta get out of here. Can you stand?”

  Megan nodded a little.

  “Okay. I’m going to ease you up, okay? Hold onto my arms and we’ll get you standing up.” Megan nodded again and slowly, carefully, R.B. pulled her to her feet. Keeping one hand on her wrist for support, he reached a robe hanging from the door and wrapped it around her now shivering body. Megan was tough, but whoever had done this had scared her near senseless. “Right, if you can just step out of the tub we can get you patched up, but then we’ve gotta get out of here, okay?”

  Megan nodded a third time, words still beyond her. She was battered and bruised, but it was mostly superficial damage and she’d suffered no serious injuries, at least not physical ones. Another thought crossed R.B’s mind. But how to ask Megan? He held Megan’s hands in his and faced her directly, looking into her eyes. “Did they ... Sorry. Are you ... " He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Megan, sensing what was on his mind, put him at ease.

  “No, they ... " She coughed a little, grimacing, as if nursing a sore rib. “They didn’t hurt me, R.B.
Not like that. I’m okay. Let’s ... let’s get out of here.”

  R.B. ushered Megan to the bedroom, and helped her into her clothes.

  R.B. was overcome with a wave of unabashed shame. Shame for leaving Megan alone in the apartment. Shame for not being there to protect her. Shame, because while he was out sponging free drinks and having fun, Megan was alone in the apartment getting beaten up by god knows who. He slumped down onto the bed, his head in his hands. After a long pause, he finally managed, “I am ... I’m so sorry, Megan. This is my fault. This should not have happened—”

  “No, R.B. It should not have happened. But it isn’t your fault, okay. We can discuss this later. For now, I’m fine, and we need to get the hell out of here. Understood?”

  R.B. looked up, and not for the first time these last few days, he had tears in his eyes. He didn’t deserve that kind of compassion from Megan, not after he’d left her alone like that. But that wasn’t all. Barnaby Quinn was dead, and he had left him there alone on the dock. He wasn’t sure how he could have stayed, not after what the old man had said. But still ... His head slumped towards his chest.

  “R.B.? We need to move.” Looking up again, Megan had finished getting dressed and was grabbing things and shoving them into her bag. “Now. Let’s go.”

  “To where, Megan? Where can we go? We don’t know who did this or who’s after us.”

  “Let’s just get down to the plane and get her into the air. We’ll figure out where on the way.” She grabbed his hand and led him out into the lounge. They didn’t wait to survey the damage, and would have to explain it to George Wyatt later. R.B. snagged his phone from the balcony where he’d left it last night, and a moment later they were gone.

  19

  Departure

  Once they were clear of the apartment, and confident they weren’t being watched or followed, R.B. made two phone calls, one to the police and one to George Wyatt. To call the police they paused at a payphone; the call had to be anonymous, so they couldn’t use their cellphones. R.B. dialed 911, affected a deeper tone to his voice, and said he needed to report a murder. Without waiting for the operator to ask who he was, he told her there was a body on the cruise ship dock, and hung up.

  They quickly put some distance between themselves and the payphone, then R.B. called George, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, R.B. How’s it going? Enjoy the—”

  “Sorry, George. Please listen. I can’t explain, but we need your help.”

  George immediately sensed by R.B’s tone that all was not well, and he fell silent.

  “Are you at the rig?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we fly out there and stay for a bit? We’re not safe here.”

  “Yeah, of course,” was all George said. “I’ll have a room prepared for you right away.”

  “Thanks George. We’re heading out in fifteen minutes. So see you in two hours?”

  “You got it, kid. And kid?”

  “Yeah, George?”

  “Be safe, okay.”

  R.B. ended the call, and he and Megan hustled the last few hundred yards to the dock where his seaplane Gidget was moored, and after begging a can of gas from his old friend Charlie and filling Gidget’s gas tank, five minutes later they were speeding toward take off velocity and into a now overcast, ominous sky that threatened from afar, while not far behind them a very real human threat was closing in.

  As R.B. flew them west to the oil rig, Megan managed to patch up her minor wounds with gear from R.B’s modest first aid kit. There wasn’t much she could do about her swollen eye, but she would survive.

  “Listen,” she said into the onboard comms system. “One of the guys who attacked me told me to warn you off Atlantis. He demanded I tell you to stay away. It was not an idle threat, R.B. But my question is, how do they know?”

  R.B. thought about that for a second, and then a sinking feeling almost overwhelmed him as the realization of who must have known hit him like a punch to the gut. The kid from the bar. He had said too much last night because he was drunk. So not only had he left Megan alone, but he was the exact reason she’d been attacked. He didn’t know what to say.

  “R.B.? What have you done?”

  “I ... well, I went to the bar last night. I couldn’t sleep. I had a few beers, and—”

  “What the hell have you done, R.B.?”

  “I think I said too much.” He explained his discussion with the young bartender at Tony’s—was his name Blake Russell?—and that he might have been a little loose-lipped with the information. “Shit, Megan, do you think it was them? But how did they know where to find you? And why didn’t they just threaten me? There was no reason to hurt you. I am so sorry, Meg? I don’t know what to s—”

  “You know what, Bodean, sometimes it’s better to say nothing. You don’t have any money. You go out drinking until all hours. You meet dodgy old men who tell you tales about treasure and maps and lost cities ... I mean, what are you, a damned kid?” Megan fell silent, and R.B. couldn’t answer. What the hell could he say? She was right. Megan was always right.

  They spent the rest of the flight in silence, each of them trying to work out what the hell was going on. But despite what Megan had said, and despite how awful R.B. felt right now, they each shared one thing; both now believed that the myth of Atlantis might not be a myth after all.

  An hour later, R.B. eased Gidget down onto the now choppy waters of The Gulf of Mexico, just as a burgeoning storm threatened to unleash a tremendous downpour upon them. R.B. threw the mooring line to a grizzled rigger awaiting them on the platform, and in tricky conditions, they climbed onto the lowest level of the rig, scaled a few slippery, precarious ladders, and five minutes later were greeted by George Wyatt in his office, the older man wearing a grave expression on his well-fed yet well-manicured face.

  “Can I get you two a drink? Looks like you need one.”

  “Yes,” replied Megan at the exact same moment R.B. replied “No.” They glanced at each other, and Megan had to fight the urge to grin. He wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. R.B. offered the hint of a smile, but Megan ignored it.

  “Well, Megan, I’ll join ya. Scotch?” She nodded. “Okay. Someone wanna tell me what this is all about?”

  For the next few minutes Ryan Bodean explained everything that had happened since they’d last seen George outside his apartment, and George listened on with a calm, almost disconcerting patience. It was as if he’d expected such a crazy and dramatic set of events, and it left both R.B. and Megan baffled.

  “Listen, the moment you mentioned Atlantis, I somehow knew things were going to get interesting. Now, you have to understand, I’m so glad you’re okay, Megan. Truly. Thing is, everyone in the world has heard of Atlantis, right? And a lot of them live around these parts. There are some real wealthy people out there who fancy themselves as explorers, and many of them believe that Atlantis exists. It stands to reason they want to locate the lost city first, right?”

  Megan and R.B. nodded. But where the hell was George going with this?

  “But that’s not all. There’s also a kind of cult based out of New York which claims to have some connections to Atlantis. No one really takes them seriously, but you know what those New Yorkers are like, right?”

  “What kind of cult?” asked Megan.

  “Something about the Light, and about them being descendants of Atlantis. Nonsense, obviously, but ... well, it all just means we better be damned careful. Listen, that organization apparently has limitless funds, and they sure as hell didn’t make all that money through an abundance of scruples, that’s the damn truth. Apparently their leader is as cold as they come.”

  George paused and appraised the two friends listening to him. What he was telling them was obviously of concern to them both. But at the same time he saw in them determination. He saw courage. And he sensed in them a hatred of bullies. So he pushed on.

  “So the question is, do you still want to get out to Sp
ain and investigate the map and the Christ statues?” He already thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from R.B. and Megan first hand.

  R.B. looked at Megan Simons. Her expression was unreadable. On the one hand it appeared she thought it was a little too shady, too risky, and probably dangerous. They’d had a couple of near misses a year earlier when some callous Cuban military types had almost killed them. And in the early hours of this morning she’d been attacked and beaten up. She was right to worry. But like George had said, R.B. was certain Megan was still determined to follow it through.

  For his part, the answer was simple. If Megan decided against going, then so would he. But if Megan was game, then he was all in.

  There was a long pause as each of them waited for the other to speak, but neither did. Neither wanted to be the one to give the wrong response. In the end George Wyatt came to their rescue.

  “I’ll assume neither of you can answer because you’re simply too excited about the prospect of being the guys to solve one of the world’s oldest mysteries? And that your non-answers actually mean yes?” He grinned.

  And so did Ryan Bodean. And so did Megan. And with that, it was agreed. They were going after Atlantis.

  “Then you leave in two days. You can stay here on the rig until departure. Just before the freighter sets sail, you’ll fly back to the port, load the seaplane aboard, and you’ll be off. Until then, it’s better, and safer, to stay here.”

  And for now, at least, they were safe aboard the ship.

  After leaving George and dumping their stuff in their rooms, they headed to the galley dining area for dinner.

  “Yes, sir, I see them. They’re definitely aboard.”