Firestorm

by David Klass

  I haven’t saved anything. He sent me back so that I could live a lie my whole life, be chased and beaten, and die in this boat on this stinking, sweltering ocean. If he was so great, why didn’t he come back and save the world himself?

  His heart was weak. The journey through time is arduous.

  You made it. Eko did. The Gorm. All those fiends.

  The crossing got easier as the technology improved. But you and your guardians were the first ever to be sent back. It was prophesied that only you could change the world. The Dark Army was closing in on you. So your father saved you the only way he could. He knew others would come after you, to try to hunt you down and kill you. So he sent you back with two trusted guardians. Their mission was to hide you, to shield you, to conceal your presence for as long as they could. The only way to do that was to bring you up thinking that you were a normal kid, born of this world.

  As I lie on my floating deathbed, I think back to my birth cer-tificate, kept in a packet with the other Danielson family papers. High-quality fake, right down to the state of New York seal.

  Bogus baby pictures in the family album. Mom in a green hospital delivery room. Looking exhausted from labor, holding me in a blue blanket on her lap. Dad puffing on a cigar.

  All of it false, sham, artifice. Lying in a small boat, waiting for death, I see that they were creating an identity. Inventing a baby boy who was supposedly born into this world.

  And once that baby’s identity was hatched, the falsehood had to be shaped. It wasn’t just that my parents didn’t want me to stand out. Looking back at it from this final vantage point, I can see how my whole life was a calculated lie.

  The clothes Mom picked out for me were exactly what the other boys at school were wearing. The haircuts they gave me, the friends they encouraged me to make, the sports they directed me toward—all were dictated by a single strategy: the more I blended in, the less chance I would be discovered.

  None of it was really about me, or unique to me. It was all an elaborate masquerade.

  I will die out here in an hour or two, unmarked and unmourned. Worst of all, I never really lived.

  From start to finish, Jack Danielson, pea in the Hadley-by-Hudson pod, was a person who I’m not and never really was.

  Who am I really? Who would I have been friends with? What might I have accomplished? They never let me find out, because they had their own agenda. Now I’ll never know.

  My father sent me back a thousand years to live a lie, and now I’ll die a mystery to myself.

  I shut my eyes. Feel so weak.

  All a waste. I didn’t save that future world. Couldn’t do it. Didn’t save anyone. Dad. Mom. Eko. Now Gisco. And Jack. All as dead as the dust. And for no good reason.

  So what was I supposed to do? I ask Gisco. Even my thoughts are fainter. Telepathic whispers.

  He doesn’t quite get it the first time. What was that, old bean? Turn up the dial a little.

  My last request is the truth. What was all the fuss about, anyway? What is Firestorm?

  40

  Firestorm? Dog feebly repeats the word back to me with awe. Nobody knows exactly. That’s the great mystery you were supposed to clear up.

  Come on. My father sent me back a thousand years. He must have known something concrete.

  Firestorm is a weapon, a mysterious force. Everything about it is shrouded in legend, but a thousand years from now we documented that it really existed, and that it could have been used to halt the destruction of the earth.

  When did it first appear?

  Now. Right before the Turning Point. As if someone was offering us a way out. And then, just as mysteriously, it disappeared when the Turning Point was past. The People of Dann searched for it for centuries, but it was gone. And the chance it offered was gone, too.

  So I was sent back a thousand years to go on a quest for this legendary weapon that no one understands?

  Quest is a good word, the dog agrees. It’s not the first time in history, at key turning points, that mysterious forces appeared which people tried to find and use to change the world. When the Roman knights in Britain were trying to stave off the Dark Ages, the legend of King Arthur’s sword was born. And many of the Crusades were launched to find the Holy Grail. The difference is that you were sent back to find something whose existence has been scientifically documented. If you could find it and use it, all would be different.

  Eko told me that a thousand years from now we’re losing the battle.

  She was putting a positive spin on it. We’ve lost. You were our last hope. Our final shot. That’s why I came back. And Eko, too. The High Dog and the High Priestess of Dann. To try to assist you. The whole future depends on your success.

  Great. Thanks. Now I can die in peace.

  You’ll die, I’ll die, and the Dark Army will prevail.

  So where did Firestorm come from?

  No one knows. Some say it was created by a wizard, or dropped off by space travelers. Others say it was fashioned by the forces of technological destruction—smelted into being in a nuclear conflagration. Still others point to the fact that Firestorm has a mysterious connection to the seas. They maintain it was dredged up from the heart of the ocean.

  So fate may have led us to this boat? We may actually have come close to finding Firestorm?

  It’s possible, Gisco agrees. Or the whole thing may have been a miscalculation. Listen, I think I’m going to sleep. The kind of sleep I won’t wake up from, if you get my gist.

  I understand, old fellow. Me too. It’s over.

  Not quite. Once I’m gone, my corporeal remains will furnish you with a source of sustenance for a while longer.

  Meaning?

  It’s repugnant to speak of such things, but I’m referring to cannibalism, or rather, canineabalism.

  I appreciate the offer. It’s very generous. Don’t take this the wrong way, but no thanks.

  Why not? You don’t think I’d be palatable?

  Frankly, no. And there’s no mustard on this boat.

  The expiring hound is not deterred by my attempt at humor. He says, with pricked dignity, Survivors of shipwrecks have a long history of eating the remains of those less fortunate. It’s one of the lasting traditions of the seas.

  Count me out. I draw the line at canineabalism.

  You have a solemn responsibility to the future to cling to life as long as you can.

  No! The future deprived me of my past. Now I say screw it. Screw my father. Screw Eko. Screw all of you.

  I can’t argue with you. I’m too weak.

  Me too.

  Goodbye, old bean. Into the care of the Great Dog God I commend my soul.

  Farewell, jabber jaws. Au revoir, or perhaps adieu.

  What’s that?

  French. You said it to me in the Outer Banks. It means—

  No, that! Can’t you see it?

  My eyes are closed.

  Well, open them! There!

  I see it. A half mile away, a giant water bug crawling across the water. No, not a water bug, some kind of weird ship.

  Maybe there’s still hope. Wave to it. Shout at it.

  I drag myself up. Manage one feeble wave. Collapse back into boat. Sorry. Couldn’t do more. It’s passed us now. It’s sailing away.

  So close and yet so far. What’s that buzzing?

  I also hear it. And feel it.

  My arm. My wrist. Dad’s watch. Glowing. Tingling. Feels almost electric.

  A lightning bolt zigzags down out of the clear sky and strikes the water just behind our boat.

  Whatever you just did, old bean, it worked. They’ve seen us. They’re turning! You really are the beacon of hope!

  41

  Iron monster of a ship. Angular bow. What looks like a soccer goal near the front. Behind it, a white cottage rises two stories above the deck. Tall mast. Not built for holding a sail but for communication. It bristles with antennas. An enormous flat area in the rear. Soccer field?

  Crew gathe
red along rail, shouting down at us. Trying to figure out if we’re alive. Twenty men. Mixed heights, colors, races. White, black, Asian. Shorts. T-shirts and bare chests. Variety of hats.

  Two men standing apart. One tall, with eye patch. Nasty-looking. Modern-day pirate.

  Next to him, an older man. Better dressed. Stooped posture. Bald head that glitters in the sunlight.

  For a minute his inquisitive eyes meet mine. Somehow I know he’s the captain, and I can also guess what he’s thinking: Should I save them or not? Is it worth the trouble? What will I get out of it?

  I’m groggy. Can’t shout up to plead my case.

  Captain mutters something to First Mate Eye Patch, who nods and walks away.

  I’m losing it. Can barely keep my eyes open. Dimly aware that a dinghy is being lowered. Men paddling to us.

  Voices asking me questions. English. Spanish. Russian. I open my mouth. Too weak to answer back.

  Someone with an Irish accent says, “Forget about the dog. Just take the lad.”

  I crack my eyes open. Force my head up. Try to croak out a few words. Raspy whisper: “No. The dog, too.”

  One of them hears me. “Ronan, he’s trying to talk to you. He said something about the dog.”

  Broad-shouldered sailor looks down at me. Tall. Freckles. Friendly face. Shock of red hair. “Got a name, lad? Where are you from, then?”

  I look back up at him. “Please. The dog.”

  “No use. He’s dying.”

  I manage, “My friend.” Can’t say more.

  Muttered conversation. Hands grab me. Pass me over the side. To other hands in the dinghy.

  Then I’m hoisted up and up. Weak. Light-headed. The motion makes my world spin. I faint.

  Splash. I’m in the storm again. Down in a dark trough. A great, freezing wave washes over me.

  I gag and open my eyes.

  No storm. Not a wave. Just the world spinning and pinwheeling and blurry. I’m on my back on the vast, open rear deck of some sort of boat.

  My vision clears for a moment. Orange netting comes into sharp focus. Hung up to dry. Fish stench. This is some kind of deep-sea trawler.

  A fat man with tattoos on his arms has just thrown a pail of cold water on me. He grins as I choke and blink. Other men stand around smoking cigarettes and laughing.

  “That woke him up.”

  “The kid needed a bath.”

  “Hit him again, Jacques.”

  The fat man obliges, throwing another pail of icy water over me. Some of the water runs up my nose.

  I snort and retch it back out.

  Why are they treating me this way? They’re my rescuers. Can’t they see how weak and sick I am?

  I roll over and try to curl into fetal position. Go away. All of you. Leave me in my misery.

  A boot kicks me onto my back and pins me there. First Mate Eye Patch towers over me, surveying me like an unusually ugly specimen of fish his nets have dragged up.

  He kneels. “Who are you?” Accent I can’t place. German? French? Maybe Dutch. Voice used to issuing orders.

  I shake my head. Sorry. Conversation postponed.

  He reaches down and pries my right eye open. Sunlight spills in, but I can’t shut the lid. Helpless as a rag doll.

  Next he feels my carotid artery. “He’ll live,” he says without enthusiasm. “But he stinks. Clean him up.”

  “The dog smells even worse,” the fat man they call Jacques observes. “We should throw him back. Nothing smells worse than a dead dog.”

  So they rescued Gisco, too! I can’t even turn my head to look for my canine friend. Is he really dying?

  Another sailor says, “You’re not one to talk, Jacques. The way you smell, maybe we should throw you back.”

  Shouts of agreement. Rough laughter.

  Jacques’s pocked, unshaven face goes from pouting to pissed off in nothing flat. “That’s the thanks I get for all the wonderful meals I’ve cooked you?”

  Hoots of derisive laughter and insults from the crew:

  “What wonderful meals?”

  “He cooks worse than he smells.”

  “No, he smells worse than he cooks.”

  “One more word and I’ll poison all of you,” Jacques promises, his face growing red. “Don’t think I won’t. I’ve done it before.”

  “You nearly killed us with breakfast,” some wit calls out. “And you weren’t even trying.” More loud laughter.

  Jacques scowls and looks down at me. “Let’s clean you up. And then I’ll fix you some food.”

  42

  Rough hands carry me belowdecks, to a cool, dark place. A blanket is draped over me. “Go to sleep, lad,” Ronan’s voice advises. “You’ve had a close call.”

  I spiral down into a deep, inky pit.

  Dream of my father—my real father, who lives in the far future and looks like Merlin having a really bad hair day. I see him lying on a bed in a stone chamber, his face as pale as his white beard. Is this where he’s being held prisoner? There are no chains on his wrists or ankles.

  I’m seated in the room. He’s watching me.

  Eyes weary with suffering yet still vibrantly alive.

  His lips don’t move, but I hear two faint syllables, as if whispered across a thousand years. “Beware.”

  Even asleep, I know enough to ask, “Beware of what?”

  His voice is so faint I can’t hear his words clearly. It sounds like he gasps, “Cinema.” Could movies really be so dangerous? “Cameras,” he tries again. No, that’s closer, but he’s not warning me about photographs, either. He whispers a final time, “Chimeras. Beware of chimeras.”

  Then he shrinks into himself, and a ferocious monster blooms from his breastbone. It flies around the stone chamber and ends up hovering above me. I can smell its rancid breath, feel its sharp talons as they dig into my face.

  I wake up fighting back. A powerful thumb and index finger dig into my jaw, forcing my teeth apart.

  I open my eyes. It’s Jacques, the fat cook with the illustrated arms. I can see his tattoos more clearly now. Coiled sea monsters. He pours something down my throat.

  It scalds. My tongue on fire. Poison!

  I try to cough it back up. Claw at my throat.

  “That Canadian piss you drink woke him up,” Ronan’s voice says.

  “It’s good stuff,” Jacques answers.

  “For stripping paint off a wall,” Ronan suggests.

  “He likes it,” Jacques says. He holds up a green bottle with a family of elk on it. “Want another one?”

  Not poison. Cheap whiskey. I shake my head.

  Ronan steps into view. Twentyish. Looks genuinely concerned. “How are you? Can you talk?”

  I open my mouth experimentally. My voice comes out stronger than I expected. “Did you save the dog?”

  Ronan smiles. “He’s on board. Whether he’ll live or not I can’t say. You were both in bad shape. You’ve been out for nearly two days.”

  “Where am I?”

  “The fishing trawler Lizabetta. In the mid-Atlantic, heading for the Azores—”

  “Enough,” Jacques cuts him off sharply.

  “He’s one of us now,” Ronan points out.

  “That’s for the captain to decide,” Jacques replies, a warning in his voice. He looks back at me. “Captain wants to see you. I’ll find you some food.” He walks off.

  I sit up. I’m on a mattress on the floor of some kind of dingy sleeping quarters.

  Two dozen iron-frame bunk beds are arranged in rows. Each frame holds an upper and a lower sleeping berth, narrow as a coffin. The compartments have curtains for privacy.

  Most of the curtains are open, and I see photos of family members and sexy pinup girls from magazines.

  The reek of the place! A nauseating smell of body odor with a few other unpleasant odors mixed in. Unclean bedding. Dirty laundry. Stale food. Spilled alcohol.

  “Can you stand up?” Ronan asks. “I found some clothes for you.”

 
I struggle to my feet. Weak, but I can move around. “Why didn’t he want me to know where we are?” I ask Ronan as I struggle to pull on some shorts and a T-shirt.

  The Irishman shrugs. “He’s a fat fool. But don’t be too curious when you talk to the captain. Just ask him what you can do to pay him back for saving your life.”

  I ponder that advice as Jacques returns. “I made you some lunch. Eat fast. The captain doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  A wooden table is bolted to the floor in a small space between the beds. I sit on a worn bench. Gobble down the worst meal of my life, but it tastes wonderful.

  Dark mush. Somewhere between stew and porridge. Rice, potatoes, and a few chunks of greasy meat. Washed down by lukewarm water. A piece of stale bread.

  “He likes my cooking,” Jacques says with pride.

  “He was starving to death,” Ronan reminds him.

  “Then my food saved his life.”

  “He might’ve been better off dead.”

  “What does an Irishman know about good food?”

  “I know this ain’t it, ya Canadian slob.”

  “Keep talking. See what happens.”

  “Anytime you say, Fat Man. Goodbye, lad. Good luck.”

  A few minutes later Jacques leads me through the bowels of the ship to the officers’ quarters. We reach a small door. Jacques knocks softly.

  A voice from inside grunts a command to enter.

  Jacques looks at me. “Just don’t ask how he lost his arm,” he whispers. Then he opens the door and shoves me in.

  43

  Captain’s quarters are tiny. A bed, neatly made. One closet. A small wooden desk beneath a porthole.

  Seated at the desk is the bald man I glimpsed standing on the deck trying to decide if he should save my life. He’s looking at me now as if he’s not sure he did the right thing.

  Not a cruel face, but a tough one. Time-tested. Weathered. Ledger book open before him. A page filled with numbers. Without looking down, he inserts a mark and closes it.

  A decorative crest on the book’s leather cover. The letter “D” written with a florid swirl, like a coiled snake, but with ornamental wings. Sea monster?