Atlantis Storm

by Steven Moore

  Panicking, he dove under the water, holding his breath for as long as possible until he had to surface for air, certain he'd find himself staring down the barrel of an automatic rifle held by some trigger-happy maniac. But when he surfaced there was no one there, and he sucked hungrily of the damp air.

  R.B. ducked down, submerging himself up to his neck by laying almost horizontally in the rancid, stinking swamp water. And there he waited.

  But waiting for what, he could not know.

  48

  Goddess

  And yet after fifteen minutes of hiding in that rat-infested, putrid-smelling swamp, no one had come to kill Ryan Bodean. He lifted himself up from the disgusting water and turned his attention once more to the useless panel. Taking a few deep breaths, he eased it open just enough to scramble through, and just seconds later he was inside, pulling the panel closed behind him.

  He found himself in almost total darkness, pausing while his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. Combined with the faint light seeping in through the holes and the rusted sections of the walls, he could now see well enough to realize he was still standing knee-deep in swamp water.

  Waiting another minute for his eyes to adjust further, he headed inwards from the outer wall, and soon saw what appeared to be the block-like outlines of more buildings, most of them rising just a couple of feet above the surface. Roofs? He approached closer to the nearest one and realized it was constructed from stone, though its angular edges gave it a distinctively manmade appearance. Though somehow it remained organic looking, smooth, as if meant to blend into the earth, and R.B. realized it was most likely carved in situ from the natural bedrock.

  The further he trudged into the murky warehouse-type building, the more of the sunken structures he saw. There were literally dozens of them, maybe upwards of fifty, though it was impossible to make an accurate guess, what with the darkness, and the fact many of the structures were probably still hidden out of sight beneath the surface. And yet with each swampy step, one fact was becoming more and more difficult to ignore, though rationally he found it impossible to comprehend. R.B. simply could not deny what he was seeing; the remnants of a vast, waterlogged city. He was walking through the lost city of Atlantis.

  In what amounted to a mix of awe and a state of suspended disbelief, R.B. surged on and on, his tiring legs propelling him towards the center of the vast structure, when out of the gloom emerged a larger, taller building, much taller than the surrounding, half-sunken structures. He shook his head, barely able to believe his own eyes. And yet there it was, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. As if in a dream, he moved forward, almost without thinking, until he reached the foot of a stone-carved staircase that scaled the leading edge of what was clearly some kind of pyramid-type temple.

  A flickering orange light caught his eye, and he glanced upwards. It was the ambient glow of naked flame, one of a series of burning torches lighting the summit of the temple. What he saw next rooted him to the spot. There before him, illuminated by the burning flames, was an enigmatic statue of a female form, massively tall and stunningly beautiful. And yet it wasn't a woman, not in the traditional sense. Not in a purely human sense. It was ... What was she? R.B. didn't even want to admit to himself his first thought; that the mesmerizing female figure before him was ... an alien.

  Then he remembered where he was. Atlantis. She was an Atlantean woman. An Atlantean Goddess.

  He took a tentative step towards the mercurial statue, then paused, gently reaching out a—"

  "That's far enough, Bodean. One more step and the girl dies."

  49

  Disciple

  R.B. spun on his heels, snatching the gun from his waistband. At least he tried. It was gone, likely lost when he dove into the swamp. Son of a…

  Erik Wheaton stared at Ryan Bodean. His dark eyes, set deep into one of the palest faces R.B. had ever seen, bore into him, and despite the twenty-yards between them, and despite the gloom, R.B. knew he was a dangerous man. Very, very dangerous. In one hand was a large revolver. It was pointed at R.B.'s head. His other hand gripped the left shoulder of Megan Simons. Her eyes were closed, and even from his position R.B. saw her face was swollen and covered in angry bruises.

  "Bastard!" he growled. I'll fu—"

  "No, Bodean, you won't!" Wheaton cut in, then turned the gun, jamming it into Megan's temple, though she hardly flinched. She was clearly sedated from a heady cocktail of drugs.

  "So you've found our ancestral home. A small part of me wants to be impressed." He paused, allowing himself the subtlest of nods. "But only a small part of me. The rest wants to kill you. You see, our secrets must be kept. It's a pity you've found us. It's our—"

  "What secrets?" yelled R.B. "Who's secrets?"

  Wheaton snarled. He didn't like being yelled at by a stupid know-not like Bodean. But before he killed him—before he killed them both—he wanted Bodean to know who they were, to know what they were dying for.

  "We are The Congregation For The Light."

  With the mention of the name, a very definite chill ran up R.B.'s spine. It was the same name the Edgar brother had raved at him in their fight at Lucero's house, the man who'd killed the priest. Which meant the lunatic holding Megan was definitely a killer.

  "The problem is, Bodean, you and your people aren't worthy of discovering Atlantis. You're not pure. Not untainted by the modern world. You're all victims of a society that places material wealth before all else, which makes you weak. We are descended from the Atlanteans, the greatest race the planet has ever known, a pure Aryan master race who once ruled the Earth and soon ... very, very soon ... will rule the Earth again."

  Wheaton shoved Megan forward towards the step. She didn't register the push, and moved forwards only through inertia. R.B. took a step forward himself, desperate no further harm would come to Megan.

  "Stop!" demanded Wheaton, shoving the gun even harder into Megan's temple. This time she flinched. Her eyes flickered open, blinking rapidly, as if to clear her vision. And she spotted R.B., a tiny tingle of recognition, before her eyelids drooped shut once more. Wheaton shoved her forward hard, causing Megan to stumble to her knees.

  "Whoa, wait. There's no need for that," pleaded R.B., his seething anger battling his restraint not to fly down those stone-carved steps and attack the monster abusing Megan.

  "Oh, but there is," Wheaton said, grinning, his torch-lit face reminiscent of a gnarly albino gargoyle from a gothic church, his strangely high-pitched voice almost a cackle. "You and this know-not whore will never leave this place. Our place. The likes of you have never been worthy enough to know The Light, not even close. You will die here, sacrificed atop this altar, and buried in the place reserved for others who have come here and who have never, ever left. Were never allowed to leave. For thousands of years unworthy, impure people have sought our ancestral home, following the myths, desperate to know what we know, desperate to experience The Light."

  R.B. stared down at the man, and knew without doubt he’d been brainwashed to the point of madness. And it was that madness that might just keep them alive. R.B. thought he had lost his gun, but while the madman was ranting on below he had spotted it on the floor, glinting beneath the torchlight. He nudged it with his heel behind him, towards the Goddess statue. Within reach.

  "It is time, Bodean. I am coming to where you are. The whore, too. You will back away, and believe me when I tell you, one sudden movement, one hint of any funny business, I will put a bullet in the bitch's brain. Is that clear?"

  It was the clearest thing Ryan Bodean had ever heard. He nodded down at the lunatic. He would let him bring Megan to the temple's summit.

  And then he would end him.

  50

  Sacrifice

  With Megan unstable on her feet, it took almost a minute for Erik Wheaton to ascend the stone steps to the summit of the temple.

  R.B. had backed away towards the goddess statue, careful to nudge the gun back with him, making sure it was st
ill within reach. He stared at the deranged man holding Megan. How could someone becomes so brainwashed? he wondered. Then again, R.B. couldn’t deny that if this truly was Atlantis—and if it wasn’t, it was doing a pretty damn good job of pretending to be—then it was indeed an inspiring place. If this is where all the Atlantean myths had emanated from, and for all those hundreds, maybe thousands of years, then he wasn’t sure if he himself wouldn’t have fallen under its spell, or embraced the power of The Congregation For The Light.

  “Bodean? Are you with us?”

  Wheaton’s voice snapped R.B. from his mini daydream, and Wheaton grinned. “No point denying it, Bodean. There’s something magical about this place, isn’t there.” R.B. didn’t answer, but if he did he’d have answered Yes.

  Erik Wheaton’s strong arms forced Megan forward until she was just a few feet in front of the megalithic statue of the Atlantean Goddess. Then he pushed her down to her knees, an easy task in her drug-weakened state. He nodded, satisfied with her position. He glanced at R.B. “You too, Bodean. Kneel next to your whore-friend. Do it now,” he added, waving the gun in R.B’s direction.

  R.B. paused. He couldn’t risk anything yet, but if he knelt next to Megan now he’d have to leave the gun where it was. But he couldn’t collect it. Wheaton would surely see. Reluctantly, he edged the few steps to Megan’s side and knelt next to her. She didn’t register he was there at all.

  “Good,” said Wheaton. He stepped back a little, gazing up at his Goddess. “Mother. Mother, I have something for you,” he said in his odd, high-pitched voice. R.B. heard definite emotion there. “An offering. I have brought you two know-nots. Please accept my gift for your continued guidance. Let their sacrifice be a symbol of my complete and utter devotion to The Light and to our noble and worthy cause.” Then he jammed the gun hard against Megan’s forehead. But Megan was not as out of it as she’d let Wheaton believe, not any more.

  Suddenly, she jerked her head down and away from the gun, taking him by surprise and causing him to fire. But her agility meant the bullet flew wildly above her head, slamming into the Goddess statue just below its knee. Wheaton bellowed in rage, and for a moment his focus was on his Goddess, not on his offerings. R.B. immediately rolled to his right and snagged up his own gun. Then he turned and fired off three shots at Erik Wheaton. The first missed its mark. The second merely grazed Wheaton’s upper arm, the bullet slamming into the Goddess statue’s hand, shattering at least two of its digits. But the third thudded into Wheaton’s shoulder. He screamed in agony, tumbling over onto his left side while clutching his right shoulder, blood instantly trickling through his fingers.

  R.B. kept the gun trained on him, waiting. Wheaton stared back, his face contorted in pain and anger. “I cannot ... I will not be killed by a mortal know-not. I cannot … " His voice trailed off, his shoulder consumed by agony. He struggled to his feet and glared at R.B. Then he turned and scurried down the stone-carved steps of the central temple, and he disappeared into the gloom, all the while rambling incoherently about the unworthy and the impure.

  “You okay?” R.B. asked Megan, crouching by her side.

  Megan looked up at R.B., the relief in her eyes clear. But then her face darkened and her eyes narrowed. “I’m good. Go get him R.B. Go. Now!”

  And with that, Ryan Bodean gave chase after the madman, flying down the temple steps and surging into the darkness, following the cackled ravings of a lunatic.

  So loud were Wheaton’s bizarre rantings that following him into the darkness wasn’t difficult, and R.B. soon caught a glimpse of him angling to the right, the sloshing of the water making him extra easy to follow. He’d traveled perhaps one hundred yards in those few minutes, but finally Wheaton slowed, the blood loss weakening him with every step, until finally he stopped. He turned to face his pursuer.

  In the gloom R.B. couldn’t quite make out their surroundings, but they were still within the dark warehouse-type structure and surrounded by numerous raised stone buildings. Here there were more statues, though none as big as the statue atop the central temple.

  “So this is where it ends, eh?” Wheaton’s voice remained strong, but he was clearly in severe pain. “And I don’t mean me. It matters little whether your death is in view of the Goddess or not. She sees everything. She’ll see this.” Wheaton calmly turned and extracted a long, lethal-looking trident from the hand of the statue directly behind him, which R.B. hadn’t yet noticed.

  Does that mean he’s lost his gun? He must have, thought R.B. So he raised his own gun as the huge man slowly approached.

  One wading stride after another, Wheaton closed in on R.B.

  Ryan Bodean wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer, but he would do what he had to do. If it meant killing the monster who was about to kill him and Megan, he would do it. And with each step Wheaton took it was looking more and more likely. Wheaton paused, still four yards from R.B. He was grinning now, though it was twisted, probably from pain. Blood still spewed from his shoulder injury. But he was a big man, a tough man. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He roared, the sound echoing throughout the enclosed warehouse. And then he raised the trident above his head and lunged forward. In a flash R.B. raised his gun and fired. Then he fired again. Nothing. Oh shit. He was out of bullets.

  Wheaton hadn’t known that, and he ceased his attack. He actually laughed, the laugh of a man who’d passed fully into insanity.

  This is going to be fun, he thought, and took another step towards his target.

  51

  Atlantis Storm

  Oh shit! R.B. backed away from the encroaching menace of Erik Wheaton. Wheaton held the trident above his head, and R.B. had no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to thrust it deep into his chest. Backing up further still, he risked a look behind him and realized he was inadvertently edging himself into an inescapable corner. There was only one thing for it; he’d have to take the fight to the gigantic lunatic.

  So he charged. And he took the big man by surprise. He dove for his knees, tackling him, knowing that if he didn’t take him down his back would be exposed to the deadly trident. With all his might he slammed into Wheaton’s knees and, luckily, he was just strong enough to fell the giant. They splashed down into the murky swamp water and grappled, the trident spilling from Wheaton’s hands and disappearing beneath the sludge. Somehow R.B. emerged on top of the madman, and he crouched on his chest, temporarily pinning his adversary down. With his left hand R.B. clutched at his antagonist’s throat, forcing his head under the water. With his right hand, balled into a tight fist, he pummeled the gunshot wound on Wheaton’s shoulder with all his strength.

  Bubbles burst from his submerged mouth, and R.B. felt him weaken. But R.B. wasn’t in the best shape of his life, and his energy too was diminishing from the struggles. Wheaton managed to raise his head from the water, his bulging neck muscles too strong for R.B’s left hand. He gulped in the humid air, half breathing, half choking on the putrid water. But it was enough to restore his physical edge, and the man-mountain thrust upwards so hard that R.B. flipped in the air, landing heavily on his back in the knee-deep sludge, the wind literally forced from his lungs.

  Worse, his left arm was broken. He lay there for a few seconds, stunned, but his survival instincts kicked in. He was about to scramble to his feet, when the monster extracted the trident from the sludge, and forced its three deadly tips down against R.B’s chest, pinning his body beneath the murk.

  With his good arm R.B. reached up and grabbed the hefty, ancient-looking weapon, desperate to keep the points from piercing his skin. But Erik Wheaton was toying with him. The fight was over. He had regained complete control over the impure know-not, and was savoring the sacrifice to come and thoroughly enjoying the moment.

  He would kill Bodean in a few seconds, then he’d go back and finish the job, sacrificing the impure whore and mutilating her at the feet of his Goddess on the temple’s summit.

  R.B’s strength had almost completely drained away. He had nothing left to
give. He knew it was over. With the last of his energy he lifted his head, his eyes wild with anger and fear and desperation and disappointment.

  Wheaton raised the trident above his head once more, ready for the killing blow. Any second now…

  R.B. glowered at Wheaton, tears slipping from his eyes. He felt it all now. Disappointment that he wouldn’t live to tell the tale. Distraught that he couldn’t share the wonders of discovering Atlantis with Megan. Devastation that he couldn’t do anything to help save Megan from this delusional madman. Total and utter despair that ... that he never got to tell Megan that he lov—

  Erik Wheaton’s chest exploded in a flare of blood and gore. His face contorted in a mixture of shock and bewilderment as another barrage of bullets shattered both his forearms, one bullet even taking his left ear clean off. Ryan Bodean was in shock too, but not enough that he couldn’t scramble backwards on instinct alone, away from the monster, just as he floundered a little, then collapsed to his knees, his face an expression of first surprise, then agony, then resignation.

  “Sorry, not sorry, asshole,” said Megan Simons from behind R.B. “Time to die.”

  “N-No, Megan ... he’s n-not worth it.” R.B. was finding it hard to talk, the combined effects of physical and mental exhaustion taking their collective tolls. “P-Please, don’t do it ... you’ll regret it. We’re better than that. Better than them.”

  Megan stared at Wheaton for long moments. She wasn’t a killer. R.B. was right. But ... he was going to kill her. She suddenly charged through the water, her face a wild grimace R.B. didn’t recognize, and stopped only when the barrel of Wheaton’s own gun was pressed into his large forehead.