by David Salvi
“Why do you have that?”
“Have what?”
“The stunner.”
Before Jack could respond to Chris’s suspicion, reality set in.
A short distance away, boots grinded against the sloped rocky floor. Then a cough echoed around the mountainscape. Slyly approaching were two men from opposite angles, trying to flank the Canaanite criminal.
Officers, for sure, Chris figured. Instead of waiting to find out how close they were, he shot up the mountain, snatching his spear and knapsack.
Jack and two military officers made a dash for him. The officers communicated in their cryptic military vernacular. One darted off the other side of the mountain. Jack lagged behind, huffing and puffing on his way. He begged for them to wait, but he was easily ignored by the trained and conditioned brutes.
Up Chris went without glancing back. Seconds of panic turned into minutes. Still the officers followed their prey without stopping. Struggling up the mountain was still a wheezing Jack. Give him a hammer and nails, and he’ll hammer for days without an end. Ask him to use his feet, and he’s less threatening. Chris knew this and showed no concern for his friend, just the two bloodlust hunters.
The peak of the mountain was in sight, maybe only a few hundred yards away, but up a steep grade. He had never seen the other side, so he proceeded with caution.
The officers shouted for Chris to stop. Called him foul names and cursed the Motus Society. Scum, mainly. It always made its way into insults.
Chris heard the crunching get louder. The ground shook
Upon climbing to the summit, now within a few feet and reach of Chris’s hands, another view came to his eyes. The Ocean of Antiquity, a vast blue landscape of thundering clouds, white tip waves, and scattered islands appeared in the distance. He recoiled from the shock and came to a grinding halt. This was his first time ever seeing such a vastness other than the very sky he marveled at every night.
In the foreground was steep mountainside to the sea. Aggressive waves crashed through the surf into boulders below. He could see them all in view. Most of the vegetation stayed low to the ground, leaving bushy thickets and stringy plants emerging through to see Apollo.
Still the officers persisted their hunt, and Chris needed to act fast. He found a small, dry basin before the steep fall and backed against the nearest peaklet. There was one way in, the way he came, and one way out, down the side and into the Ocean of Antiquity. Chris placed his knapsack down and adjusted his stance with spear in hand.
He heard footsteps approach.
First the two brute officers entered, stunners in hand and charged. Electric crackles filled the air. Slowly behind them, and still not able to catch a breath, came Jack.
“You run well, traitor,” said one of the officers. Chris tried to distinguish between the two, but they had the same physique and thick beards of an identical auburn color with touches of gray.
“This guy…” Jack tried to eke it out, but raised his finger for a breath, nearly laughing at his poor condition. He caught a breath, “...would always beat me up the mountain. And look at that. A spear. This isn’t fishing, Chris. Put that down.”
“Is my mom alive?” Chris asked. He had to ask. He knew the answer, but the momentarily glimpse of hope sparked his interest again.
Jack laughed, and coughed, and laughed more. “No! I had to tell you something. But my ever-observant friend sniffed it out. Good for you!” He positioned himself between the two brutes and lectured Chris on loyalty to the Canaanite family.
Chris held his spear out, firm at throat level.
“What are you going to do? Join Motus? How could you possibly trust those traitors?” Jack asked rhetorically.
His mom had trusted them. For some reason. Chris was going to find out why, and he refused to betray her trust.
Chris lunged with his makeshift spear.
Jack dodged the blow. The spear was parried to the ground, and its sharp tip blunted by the force against the rock.
In an instant, Chris drew his gardener knife and sliced across thin air to push the officers back. But he lost his balance and his body swung around, open for the officers to attack.
The stunner’s electric current gave him a new sensation—one he never felt before.
His body went limp and fell to the floor of the basin. He felt the pain, alright, while aftershocks pulsated his extremities uncontrollably. Chris’s body was at the mercy of brutish officers and Jack.
He heard them bragging about upping the voltage on their stunners. What bastards, Chris thought. He’d say it, but his mouth was numb and salivating bubbly mucus.
For a moment, Jack looked sorrowful. His face turned to fright when Chris’s body thumped on the ground. He had never seen Chris hurt before, only yelled at for being a smart ass once in a while to his mom.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Jack said it in an authoritative tone and the officers bit their lips for the moment. He knelt beside his former friend and sighed.
“Time to go, Chris.”
The officers dug their knees into two different parts of Chris’s back and pulled their fugitive’s hands into a pair of black shackles, reminding Chris of the redhead’s arrest.
Again, the brutes shouted vulgarities at the stunned, beaten, and exhausted young man. They then picked him up to drag him back to Canaanite City.
After a few feet, they stopped and dropped Chris back to his knees, which made him holler in pain. But there was another holler that caught their attention. This one was more ominous. Started shrilly, but finished with a deep, bellowing roar.
“What was that?” Jack said.
The officers ignored the question and drew their stunners, while wildly looking around for the source of the roar. Then the ground vibrated. Each step of a lurking beast shook the ground.
Topping over the summit was a bonzo cat, the fiercest thing living on Canaan. As it snarled, the beast showcased its mouth for the fearful men. Large, white fangs dangled thick, yellowish-green saliva from their tips. Paws gripped the rocky ledge, digging its claws and crushing rock into gravel and pebbles like a primate and feline hybrid. Apollo’s yellow light glistened off of its leathery gray skin, which was hairless and appeared thickly armored. Black eyes surveyed the scene of prey like perusing a menu.
Jack figured the beast was three times the size of a man, and he gulped a knot the size of his fist down a constricted throat. Frozen in his spot, Jack bounced his eyes around for an exit. Just one, and it’ll bottleneck quickly as soon as the officers dash for an escape.
On the ground and regaining awareness, Chris rolled his body and locked eyes with the huge predator. He laid wide-eyed and full of dread. This was a different type of dread. An untamed monster with a hunger for prey that has invaded its territory. Not a heartless humanoid without a sense for consequence, but a vicious hunter with instincts to kill for survival.
“Go!” Jack screamed, and he sprinted toward the only way out. He eked through and hurried down the hill. Exhaustion be damned.
The bonzo hardly reacted, letting the scrawny one scurry away. His blood-thirsty eyes targeted trophy kills—two massive pieces of meat in the form of Canaanite officers. They looked delicious.
The officers paced back, stunners and hands still in ready position.
Chris pleaded with them quietly as to not draw attention.
A godly roar burst forth from the deep lungs of the beast, and the officers covered their ears. Chris had no choice but to endure the commotion. And that’s when the bonzo cat pounced forward.
The creature’s claws ripped through the officer’s uniforms with ease in one jump. Blood spewed out in a fury, and they jolted in pain. It bashed his paws down into the men in a pounding motion, while nipping at their faces with its deadly fangs. Quickly the men slowed their fight; blood created a pool within the basin. The creature turned to see Chris laying flat, lifeless.
Chris felt warm, moist breaths against his neck. The creature came nearer.
He slowed his own breathing to still his chest cavity. He shut his eyes and felt it lurking around him, smelling his feet, hands, hair, and neck. Heat radiated off the beast, and blood dripped from its jaw. The officers’ blood. Chris tried not to flinch.
In the distance, Jack fell and caused a cascade of rocks down the side of the mountain. The creature turned to investigate the noise in his territory, leaping around the peaklets with animalistic agility on its four legs.
When the bonzo cat was out of sight, Chris wiggled his way to the pool of blood surrounding the now-dead officers. The crimson, warm liquid soaked Chris’s shirt and shorts, staining everything on him. He winced as he navigated the area to find their utility belts, even dry-heaving at the sight. Their faces marred and mutilated beyond recognition. Their chest cavities were opened, showing things Chris never saw before except in pictures at the small Canaanite hospital when he had chickenpox as a child. The insides became the outsides.
Maneuvering his hands over one of the officer’s belts, Chris found the keys to the black cuffs. His hands pressed firmly against the black metal, and he was forced to stress his skin, muscles, and bone further than they wanted to. He shrieked out in pain right before turning the key and unshackling himself. He quickly removed the other and leaped to his feet, with blood dripping from his hands and cascading down his calves and soaking his socks.
The beast, however, came back. Growling more than before for disrupting his impending lunch.
“Shit.”
He darted to his knapsack and went the only way he could—downward toward the Ocean of Antiquity. His pet of a bonzo cat roared and swiped a paw at Chris, but missed.
Chris slid down with dust and gravel blasting out in his dry wake. The mountainside clawed him with snapped branches and jagged rocks, lacerating every inch of his body. His heavenly slide felt like an eternity as he lost track of how many feet he dropped. He weathered the series of bumps and rolls by curling his body to the ground, though the elements beat him up the best they could. When he tried to slide, the mountain wouldn’t let him, and when he wanted to roll, it sent him on a hard tumble instead of a controlled and paced roll down the side.
No mercy, mocked the summit.
After dipping below what would have been a tree line if there were trees, Chris managed to snag a few branches from bushes surviving on the rock face, again to the dismay of his hands, which were now red and burning. He ignored the pain for survival. Finally, the ground leveled to a manageable grade.
A brief thought entered his mind: it’s much easier to get down than to climb up. But fricking excruciating. Dammit.
He stopped and shot his head up to survey his spontaneous gravelly trail. Clouds of dust faded in the air but showed a distinct pathway up the mountain. The whistling of the wind continued inauspiciously at a high pitch. Chris felt alone and lost.
More to go, as he surveyed, and the treachery of the mountain failed to cease. The thickets of bushes partially obstructed the bottom, which showed boulders and crashing waves. High above, foreboding clouds to the west advanced quickly with streaks of rain connecting them to the Ocean of Antiquity.
As he had the moment, Chris analyzed his situation. His gardener knife—check—in its holster on his belt. Knapsack on his back—scuffed up and covered with dust and dirt. Spear, gone forever. Teeth, none missing. His health, yikes. But his attitude was sky high after staring at death and slapping it in the face—though it slapped his body back a bit.
He shuffled his feet carefully down the rest of the slope and managed to arrive at the boulders against the shores of the Ocean of Antiquity. Loud crashes of white-tipped waves rippled in a deep bellow. Chris had never heard such noise in his life as it shook underneath his feet.
The spray of the sea gently fell on his face as a much-needed salve. His tongue caught a taste. Salty. A refreshing feeling after the continuous fight for survival against both man and beast.
He reveled in the moment, which got caught up in thinking of his mother after Jack’s deceitful lure back to the city, a notion that angered him mightily. Shutting his eyes, Chris screamed into the abyss that was the sea, hoping it would answer back with her voice, if only faintly.
“Hey!” said a voice. It was a female’s voice.
Mom?! Chris thought. His eyes shot open wide in disbelief.
He heard it again and swiveled his head around. He couldn’t locate the source of the voice.
“Hey! Over here!” She stood a few dozen feet from Chris to his right, to the north. He was shocked to see anyone else there. He drew his knife and crouched in a defensive position.
“Are you Chris?”
Her face, initially obstructed by cloudy and misty conditions from the sea and oncoming storm, came into view. She looked familiar but wore a hood, so it was difficult to make out the entire composite of her features. He saw they were feminine, strong, and determined.
A gust of wind shot bullets of stinging water that temporarily blinded Chris. After shielding the menacing current, he turned to see her face only feet away, this time without the hood. He saw red hair swirling in the wind like bursting flames. As radiant as ever, like Apollo shining forth, her face and body awe-struck him as she advanced toward him.
“I’m Riley,” she said.
His mouth shut, eyes wide, heart aflutter.
“You’re Chris, right?” She wanted some sign of life. She leaned in with a curious face.
“Um…” he finally eked something out.
“Did you forget?” she said.
Immediately he replied, “Yes.”
She laughed. Her hands rested on her hips while a hooded cape covered most of her body. Glimpsing through the opening of the cape was the same attire she wore when Chris saw her in the Canaanite City streets. She was close enough that Chris could see scabs on her face.
“Yes, yes. I’m, uh, Chris.” Got that out of the way.
Riley giggled again and extended her hand to help him off the slick rock. He was heavier than she expected and the force of his body pulled their bodies close. They locked eyes, which made him smile and blush like a boy. Riley gave a playful shove to create distance between them, and turned around, gesturing for Chris to follow.
Along the rocky beach, they walked determinedly but carefully as conditions from the angry ocean roared against the shore. Chris marveled at the ocean’s power and caught himself staring at it, and then at Riley, and back to the ocean, then back to Riley. He didn’t watch his footing.
The scene went from blue to gray and dreary. Winds continuously howled and rain sprinted sideways like incoming enemy fire. When he eyed the mountain, Chris saw the summit darken as Apollo was eclipsed by the incoming clouds. Cracks of thunder quaked the ground from time to time.
One such quake made Chris stumble, pummeling his knee into the rock. His boot slipped just right. Riley retreated backwards to help her companion.
“You are something.” She winked at him.
“Sorry,” Chris said as he picked himself up with Riley’s help. As his legs extended, he suffered a throbbing and weak right knee, causing him to limp the rest of way. He followed the young woman aimlessly, then asked, “Where are we going?”
“To our boat. To Motus Island.” To the west was the island, hidden and protected by the stormy ocean, as described by conspiracy theorists in the pub and around Canaanite City.
The walk was another twenty minutes or so, and Riley stopped. But no boat. Chris then feared his guide was abandoned by her own party.
“Not much loyalty in the Motus circles,” Chris joked. He smiled and forced a giggle, hoping Riley would mirror the reaction. Instead she ignored him and knelt down to a break in the rocks. Around the same Canaanite circles, dispositions of mocking Motus activity were common. Chris was as immune as anyone.
Her hand dug into a water-dripped crevice as she squatted and yanked a large metal beam, which rose from a break in the rocks and out of the water. Droplets of water fell back home into the ocean as th
e beam erected skyward. Attached to the end of the beam was a chain, which had a grimy green algae dangling from it. She then maneuvered the beam, which had a crossbeam welded to it, into a man-made hole, locking it in place.
Still the winds and rain raged.
“Can I get a hand?” Riley shouted, not breaking her eyes from her work.
“What can I do? I have no idea what you’re doing” Chris sheepishly replied. They both had to shout because of the storm.
“Nevermind.” She waved him off, “I got it.”
Chris, ever the spectator with Riley, watched her find and hoist a stone the size of a fist to strike the metal beam.
Klang! Klang! Klang! Three times.
Links in the chain shook violently. A moment passed. Then another violent shake. Beads of water sprayed everywhere, some falling onto Chris the Spectator.
Klang! Klang! Two times.
The chain became taught and slightly pulled the beam toward the ocean. A grinding noise persisted for a few moments.
Chris’s eyes glanced out to the ocean, then back to Riley.
“Here she comes.” She pointed to the ocean.
Appearing from the mist and violence of the storm was a ship, one made primarily of wood, that careened to shore, thanks to the chain that cranked into the center of the vessel. This was no ordinary ship, as Chris observed, but a massive craft on the Ocean, double the size of a fishing boat on Lake Albertrum, fortified with metal plating, a high deck, and numerous platforms populated by men with no faces. They had weapons that resembled those the Canaanite officers employed—elongated firearms of some kind. No gray uniforms though.
Riley moved toward Chris and said to him, “The Santa Maria.”
“Wow.” He only had a word.
Riley waved directly at a man who appeared to be a rank higher than his peers, and taller. He was weathered and grizzly with a blonde mustache and overdue scruff. His uniform had an insignia across his chest unlike the others.
“What’s a ‘Santa?’” Chris asked while looking at the ground. He didn’t pay attention to the exchange.