Atlantis Storm

by Steven Moore

  Except it wasn't.

  "We have your girlfriend."

  R.B.'s heart sank. He wasn't strong enough to fight the despair that engulfed him in that moment. His heart pounded inside his chest, as his arms fell limp at his side. Tears threatened to burst forth from his eyes, and they would have but for the fact they were so tightly screwed shut.

  "Bodean?" The man's voice was eerily calm. It was low and smooth, and he spoke as if he was in complete control of the situation, which indeed he was.

  R.B. couldn't breathe properly, his breaths coming more like snorts from his nose since his jaw was clenched shut.

  "Bodean, answer me. I know you're there."

  R.B.'s eyes flickered open, releasing the deluge of tears. He stared straight ahead, seeing nothing through the rain-splattered windshield.

  "Have it your way, Bodean. It matters little. But you should know, we have your girl here. She belongs to us now. She will become one of the family, a child of The Congregation For The Light. You must—"

  "No!" At last R.B. found his voice. "No. You will not—"

  "Listen to me now, Bodean, and listen hard. You must leave Spain today, and never return. If you do, well, I think you can guess what will happen. The Light will come after you. We will hunt you down across the entire planet if we have to, and we will kill anyone you have ever loved. Starting with this girl." There was a pause, and R.B. waited, not daring to upset the man on the line for fear of him hurting Megan.

  "We are good people, Bodean, and we're only doing what needs to be done." The man chuckled, and it was as sinister a sound as R.B. had ever heard. "Oh, I meant to ask ... how are Santi and the priest?"

  There was an audible click as the call was ended. R.B. snatched up the phone and screamed into it until his throat hurt. It was the wild, untamed scream of someone who had lost all control and who had never felt so helpless in their entire life.

  He breathed through gritted teeth, almost growled, and it was an animalistic sound that came deep from within his chest. His knuckles clenched the steering wheel so hard all blood drained from them, leaving them hard, white, and dangerous.

  After a couple of minutes staring into nothing, trying hard to regain his focus, R.B. glanced in the rearview mirror. Half a mile back along the road he saw the approaching blue-red glow of police cars, their sirens wailing. Instinctively he ducked into his seat. He cracked his window open enough to be able to see out clearly, and he waited. The cars seemed to take an age to pass him, but finally they did. He peered through the gap as the final car passed, and he saw Billy Edgar hunched in the back seat. He had evidently been arrested for murdering Priest Lucero Perez. So Billy would no longer be a problem. It still left the brother, who had presumably snatched Megan from outside Lucero's house.

  R.B. didn't know which way to turn. Where could he go? There was still at least one madman out to kill him. He couldn't go to Lucero's house. Santi was dead. He had no idea where Megan was being held. He felt lost. But then, for some unknown reason, he felt the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to return to Lucero's chapel by the coast. He wasn't sure why, but it quickly became a burning desire he could not ignore. He simply had to go there right now, and with no other option seeming favorable, he started the engine and headed west towards The Chapel of Carmen de Bajo de Guía.

  Not long later R.B. ducked out of the burgeoning storm into the unusual chapel. It was deserted, and inside he could at least take some time to regroup and formulate some kind of plan. Sitting on the floor behind the pulpit, out of sight if anyone came through the front doors, R.B. closed his eyes and tried to calm down. What the hell can I do? R.B. had a moment feeling sorry for himself. Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve people trying to kill me? "Why me, dammit?" he shouted. "What the hell did I do wrong?" But then he realized how selfish he was being, how self-centered he sounded, and it shamed him into silence.

  He realized that just sitting there, essentially hiding, wasn't going to help Megan. Nor would it bring back Santi, nor Lucero Perez. It was helping no one at all. Not even himself. He stood up then, determined to make a difference. But he couldn't do it alone. It was time to go to the police. He would tell them everything.

  So, an hour after entering Lucero's chapel, R.B. once more stepped out into the storm. The wind had intensified, and huge, slate-grey clouds scudded inland from out at sea, dumping gallons of rain to the earth in huge, wild swirls. R.B. didn't care. It was only water. There were many things more important now than his own comfort. Ryan Bodean wasn't a religious man. Never had been. But on a whim he turned to face the chapel, preparing to say a few words on behalf of its priest, the mysterious yet gentle Lucero Perez. And then he spotted it.

  He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before. Neither had Megan, and Lucero hadn't mentioned it at all. He'll never get a chance now, thought R.B., and shook his head in anguish. Above the chapel's tall front doors was a tiled image of a woman with a child. That wasn't unusual. But there was one oddity about it that nagged at R.B. The tile that contained the main part of the child's form was inexplicably set sideways. R.B. could think of no obvious reason why it was as it was, and it clearly couldn't have been a simple mistake. "What the hell?" he said into the rain. "Why on earth…?"

  Something told R.B. this was important. He had no idea why, but just as he'd felt a strange, almost supernatural urge to return to the chapel, now he felt a similar urge to take a closer look at the tile.

  It wouldn't be easy. It sat above the doorway of a well-known chapel, and it was the middle of the day. He couldn't just magic a ladder from out of thin air and scramble up the facade, not without being seen. But looking around, and realizing he was the only one crazy enough to be out in such wild, disgusting weather, he realized that was foolish. No one was going to see him.

  Scurrying back into the chapel he ran to the rear wall, where an innocuous door was set into the back-left corner of the building. R.B. hoped it was some kind of storeroom. He wasn't disappointed. Inside was a ladder, presumably used by the chapel attendants to touch up paint work or light the highest candles.

  Hauling the folding ladder over his shoulder, he made his way back out to the front, and leaned the now extended ladder against the wall. The wind sent powerful gusts his way, but he figured the ladder was strong enough and heavy enough, it would be a safe climb.

  Thirty seconds later, Ryan Bodean was staring straight at the oddly turned tile, no earthly idea why it was arranged that way. But he had seen The Da Vinci Code. This wasn't an accident. It was a clue, some kind of sign. And now he was certain. Something was hidden behind the tile.

  Racing back to the storeroom, where he'd seen a modest box of tools, R.B. grabbed a hammer and returned to the top of the ladder. He glanced up at the crucifix ten feet above his head, a dazzling white beacon against the near-black skies. "I'm sorry, Lucero," he said, and after a final glance around, R.B. smashed through the tile.

  When he looked inside, his jaw dropped and his eyes flew wide.

  "O. M. G!" said Ryan 'R.B.' Bodean, and reached his hand inside.

  43

  Kool-Aid

  "When will you damned people ever learn, eh?" yelled Erik Wheaton, spittle flying from his lips as he ranted at the girl, his face almost purple with rage. "I mean, who the hell do you think you are?"

  Megan Simons couldn't really see the man shouting at her in the darkness, but his peculiarly high-pitched yelling sounded like a screeching, pissed off crow. She didn't know exactly where she was, though she sensed it was some kind of basement or warehouse. Back at Lucero's house she'd been blindsided by a cowardly sucker punch. She'd looked up from the ground where she'd fallen in the road and seen one of the brothers from the fish market standing over her, grinning.

  "Been wanting to do that since yesterday, bitch," he’d barked, sneering down at her. But before she could react he clouted her once more around the temple, and her world faded to black.

  But the voice she heard now wasn't his. Thi
s was definitely a different man. Whoever it was had tied her hands tightly behind her back, as well as looping them around some kind of counter leg. She was also gagged. Her head throbbed from the punches, and she felt nauseous, guessing she probably had a concussion.

  Megan had awoken a few minutes ago after a hefty, stinging slap to her cheek, and she'd immediately struggled against her restraints. But it was futile. She knew she wasn't going anywhere soon.

  "It's always about the money and fame, isn't it," her captor squawked on. "People these days are so morally bankrupt. Shallow and superficial. But we're not about that. The Congregation For The Light has always held the moral high ground. We are better than you. We always have been and we always will be. Nothing you can do will ever change that. It's not surprising, of course, considering who we're descended from."

  Megan hadn't been paying much attention until that moment, focusing on remaining calm and trying to clear her fuzzy head. But she paid attention now. Who we’re descended from? Is that what he said? Is he talking about ... about the Atlanteans? He couldn't be. Could he?

  Megan needed to know. She screamed into her gag, the muffled sounds snaring the man's attention.

  "Oh, you want to say something, huh?" He grinned, and it was the grin of a brainwashed maniac.

  Megan nodded Yes, immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea threatened to overcome her. She closed her eyes, the pain in her head blinding.

  "Was that a yes?" Erik was enjoying himself, though he generally didn't like being in the company of the ignorant know-not heathens. The Congregation For The Light considered all non-members as know-nots, quite simply because they allegedly didn’t know anything. It was a ridiculous nickname, and summed up the equally ridiculous cult.

  Megan nodded again, slowly this time. She opened her eyes, startled to see the man's face just inches from hers, a rancid stench emanating from his cruel mouth.

  "Okay then," he said. "Let's hear what you have to say, bitch." He moved to rip out her gag, then thought better of it. "Like I said, the people our family are descended from are far superior. We're a pure breed, untainted by a modern world we're forced to endure." A kind of rapture flashed across his face as he said the next word. "Atlanteans." He almost whispered it, as if to say it aloud tainted it somehow. "Atlanteans," he repeated, "the greatest race to have ever occupied this planet. Pure blooded, pale skinned ... an Aryan super-race unlike any before, and certainly unlike any since. I know you're envious of us, jealous of The Light. You all are. And because you can't have what we have, our purity, our morality, our freedom from all things corrupt, you attempt to make up for it in other weaker, superficial ways. You know, I actually pity you, pity the fact you can't experience what we have. In fact, I pity you so much I want to help you, help end the endless cycle of misery you clearly endure."

  That didn't sound good to Megan. Not good at all. End my suffering? He's going to kill me! She screamed into her gag again, desperate to stall him, unready and unwilling to die here in this stinking dark basement at the hands of this callous, maniacal cult member. It did the trick. He stepped forward as if to strike Megan, but instead he ripped out the gag.

  "Okay, you insignificant, pathetic little woman. Let's hear it. And make these words good. They're going to be the last you ever say."

  She had planned only to placate the madman, play the sycophant, appeal to his madness and offer herself to The Light in order to buy time before her escape. But the last few words he'd said had changed her mind. Pathetic little woman? Insignificant? He'd accused her, accused anyone not in The Light, of being morally corrupt, of only caring about fame and money. That simply wasn't true. It certainly wasn't true of Megan, nor was it even remotely true of R.B. She didn't know what had happened to him, whether he was hurt, or made captive ... or worse. And she was not going to let this man kill her without her seeing R.B. again. No way. She was planning to play his game. But not anymore. He had just abused the wrong person.

  "Listen to me, jerk,” she yelled. “You are not descended from Atlanteans. You know how I know this? It's because they never existed."

  Erik Wheaton looked on, an amused grin curling his taut lips. This was fun.

  "You're basically a child, a kid who's been told crazy fairytales all his life, and who is stupid enough to believe them. You called me pathetic. Funniest thing I've ever heard. And even if the Atlanteans did exist, which they didn't—Megan wasn't so sure about that anymore, but she was on a roll—don't you think they died out because God was punishing them for their fucked up beliefs? I mean, bigotry? Child slavery? Murder? And what about that dumb name? The Congregation For The Light? It's not even cool. If you're going to be in a ridiculous cult, at least join one with a decent name, like The Moonies." Megan actually laughed then, and watched as the ugly grin slipped from her captor's face. And now it was time to really piss him off. She stared at him, making sure she had his full attention. She did. "Hey, asshole ... don't drink the Kool-Aid."

  She'd pushed it too far. Erik Wheaton turned on the lights. He stepped in front of Megan and ripped off his shirt, beneath which were some of the hardest, most taut-looking muscles she'd ever seen. The man was covered in bizarre tattoos, too, their swirling black shapes alive under the harsh light from the bare bulbs above. There was an owl, apparently a symbol of The Light. But she noticed one prominent tattoo in particular. It was a series of concentric circles around one central, solid sphere. Emanating from the outermost circle were what appeared to be sun rays. She'd seen that icon before. It was the legend for Atlantis.

  Now Wheaton was grinning again. He had thought about keeping her alive, converting her to The Light. She was pretty, no doubt. He'd been considering keeping her for his wife. One of them, anyway. Or his slave. Senior members of The Light could never have enough slaves. But not this one. She would pay for her insolence with her miserable life.

  And then he beat Megan Simons around the head. Then he beat her around the head again. And he didn't stop until she was bloody, battered, and horribly bruised across her entire body. He backed up for a rest, admiring his handiwork.

  And in the moment right before Megan Simons blacked out, probably for the last time, she knew the truth. It was a simple truth, but one from which there would be no escape. She was never leaving this place again.

  She was about to die.

  44

  Gone Girls

  R.B. ducked inside the chapel, chilled from the driving rain but clutching the object he'd retrieved from behind the bizarrely situated tile as if it was the most important thing on earth. For all he knew, it was.

  He took off his drenched jacket and hung it over a chair to dry it out, then took a seat, gazing at the mysterious object in his hand. It was clearly ancient. The strange circular artifact was flat, and fitted in the palm of his hand like a cookie. It was weathered, and R.B. guessed it had once spent a long time underwater, perhaps hundreds, maybe even thousands of years, though it wasn't rusty, suggesting it was formed from some previously unknown metal. But what the hell was it? He had no idea, and his mind raced with the possibilities of what it was, why on earth it was hidden behind the tile above the door of the equally bizarre chapel, and what the hell it all meant.

  His mind drifted to Megan. R.B. was in general a pragmatic man, and believed that most things had a logical explanation. But he couldn't fathom why someone would want to kidnap Megan, and he feared the worst. Once more that rage he'd felt began rising toward the surface, threatening again to take control of his emotions. But it wouldn't help. He had to remain focused and calm. He had to think.

  Megan was kidnapped. Lucero was murdered. Santi, too. Now he'd found this mysterious artifact in a chapel that also contained the statue from which his carved digit apparently came from, and which actually pointed directly at where to find the artifact itself. It was all very Dan Brown, and R.B. was beginning to suspect it was all the work of some sinister cult. He had to get to the bottom of it all before it was too late. Before they hurt Meg
an. Before they ...

  R.B. would not allow himself to climb aboard that murderous train of thought.

  But he could not do this alone. He simply had to get the help of the local police. But it was doubtful this tiny seaside village had a police station, and if it did, it would be deserted on this quiet Sunday afternoon. R.B. would have to go back to downtown Cadiz, and for that, the quickest way was to fly there in Gidget. And so he raced for his seaplane.

  Grabbing his jacket and tucking the strange object he'd found deep into his inside pocket, he ran to the car, and kept his speed high until he reached as far as the car could take him. Then he ran, and he didn't stop running until he hit the beach upon which they'd parked Gidget. And for the second time that day, Ryan Bodean's heart sank.

  Gidget was gone.

  R.B. slowed his sprint to a jog, and then to a walk, as the true realization of Gidget being stolen hit home.

  Ryan Bodean wasn't the dramatic type. But this truly knocked the wind from his sails, and he sank to his knees on the soggy sand of the beach, unmoved as the rain pelted him like bullets and the wind swirled sand and foliage around him as if he was caught in the midst of a mini twister. He didn't care. It seemed as if the whole world was conspiring against him and Megan, and he seemed powerless to prevent these nefarious forces from beating them down until they quit.

  On his knees on that wild, deserted stretch of sandy river bank, his breaths deep and slow and deliberate, R.B. felt as low and downtrodden as he had ever known. And for a man who'd been through some pretty dark times in recent years, that was saying something.

  R.B. was a passive fighter. He was anti-violence as a rule, and preferred diplomacy over a physical battle any day of the week. If there was something he believed in enough, he would do whatever it took to achieve it. But whoever these malignant forces they were up against now, they had brought out the worst in him. He had attacked the man at the fish market. He had fought the brother at Lucero's house. And as he knelt there on that dismal, lonely beach, pummeled by the raging storm and unable to see any light at the end of the ever-darkening, ever-narrowing tunnel of despair, he truly felt in that moment that he was capable of murder.