by Steven Welch
She flopped down onto the leather couch and propped her feet up. Elise thought for a moment to take off her boots and then considered the funk that might leak out.
The shortwave radio sat on a table near the balcony.
The amber glow from the device caught her eye. There was a light sound of static.
“That’s weird,” she said.
Elise leapt from the couch and moved to the table. She lifted the radio and spoke.
“CQ, CQ, this is Elise. Do you copy?”
Static and nothing else.
“CQ, CQ, Zuzu, this is Elise. Do you copy? Is that you?”
She stared at the back-lit information panel. The frequency was right, just as she’d left it.
“That’s a shortwave, right? I’ve seen them before,” Taariq said. Elise jumped slightly. She hadn’t heard him approach and now he stood over her in the darkness. He put his hand on her shoulder.
Will he take a hint?
“Give me a second,” she said to him and then returned to the microphone. Taariq pulled his hand away and stepped back.
Good. He could take a hint.
The static filled the room with soft white noise.
“Sorry, I thought my friends were trying to reach me,” said Elise.
Then came a voice. It was not the voice that Elise was supposed to hear.
It was not Zuzu.
It was a male voice, and it said, “The only things that matter are those things that keep us alive. Anything else is just a whisper from the other side and needs to be ignored. There’s a truth that must be told, Elise, and I’m here to tell it.”
“Who is this?”
“How do you feel, Elise? Feeling good about yourself?”
“Who is this?”
“I feel right as rain, kid. Right as rain. Your friends died well if that gives you any comfort. I think some got away but it’s hard to tell. Not many of them left, I guess. Haven’t found the big woman yet, the leader, I guess. She would have been a nice notch in my belt. Lots of places to hide, lots of tunnels, but that’s Paris and you know that don’t you?”
Elise had stopped breathing and her skin felt cold.
“Who is this?”
“Crazy, right, the way the invaders at The Turn, how they flattened practically the entire Trocadero? Like they were tilling the land. The nautical museum is gone. I remembered what was underneath, though, don’t you worry. Found the headquarters. Remembered how to get in even though it’s been awhile. Now, we’re burning this place down, Elise. It’s like cauterizing a wound, kid. We’ll make it quick but you can be damned sure we’re going to be thorough. There’s a truth we’re spreading and Paris is getting a heavy dose, Elise. People are coming around to my way of thinking. They always come around to the truth. And after we’re done here we’ll keep moving, grooving, spinning, grinning, doing our thing, Elise. Our world will be safe and you can get onboard the truth train or, well, you might need to have words with the conductor.”
“Let me speak to my friends,” Elise said and her voice cracked. The blood in her temple was throbbing and it hurt but she didn’t blink.
“My name is Jack. I have a funny nickname but I think you’ve figured that out by now. I’ve heard a lot about you, Elise St. Jacques. You’ve done so much damage, you have no idea. You’re the butcher, Elise St. Jacques. Not me. We’re just here to set things right. I’m going to shut the door, kid. Horses are out of the barn, yes, but I’ll shut the door. And then I can get on with helping this world heal.”
“Let me speak to my friends.”
There was a rustle, a sound of commotion from the shortwave. Then there was a shout in French, a curse, then a scream that ended with the sound of a gunshot.
Elise felt sick.
“That was one of them, I guess. One of Les Scaphandriers, right? An Aquanaut? That’s the last one we could find and he put up a fight, I’ll give him that. All credit where it’s due.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Maybe so. Maybe you will. And maybe I’ll kill you. Because I know where you’re going. We’ll meet soon and then it will all be over one way or another.”
“Where?”
“Oh, please. You’ll figure it out. Suit up for your trip, Elise. I might even let you choose how your story ends. That’s something you can think about as you go on your way. How will you die? Burning and bleeding like your friends here in Paris, or with your head on a stake outside the palace walls so that everyone else in the world will know that there’s been a change. How’s it going to go down, Elise?”
A click and then there was just static. Elise stared into the amber light of the shortwave.
When Elise screamed, it was loud and harsh and the sound of agony. It was the sound of memories being torn.
Taariq felt all the blood drain from his face and he could barely breath. His hand drifted to the knife at his hip. This girl could kill him right now and she would do it too if she knew. He had no illusions about his ability to take her down at that moment. And there was that weird octopus thing. It had slithered back into the room straight down the wall and now it was watching him.
Did this change anything? Taariq’s mind was spinning. Everything? He still had a mission, right? I still need to know, Taariq thought, I need to follow her like I’ve been told. This changes nothing. Not yet.
The sounds were of things shattered, broken, as Elise St. Jacques lashed out at everything in the penthouse. She kicked, she struck, she was out of control and Taariq stepped away, stepped clear of her. She screamed and raged and then, after a time, she stood silently in the darkness and stared out at the sea.
“Go away.”
And he did.
When she heard the door shut behind him Elise went to the table near the balcony where the radio sat glowing in the night. There was a little piece of paper and on the paper were the coordinates she’d been given by Zuzu.
She touched a button on her wrist device and spoke and when she spoke her voice was thin and hollow.
“What is 30.0478 degrees North, 31.2336 degrees East?”
The voice of Jules Valiance spoke without hesitation.
“Cairo, Egypt. The Egyptian Museum. A place of infinite mystery and surprise.”
POLLINATION
Jack thought he saw a cat but the shadow of the thing was there and gone so quickly that he couldn’t be sure.
There were enough canned goods in the ruins of L’Académie to keep his men happy anyway so there was no need to hunt. The cat could live, he thought, then returned to reading the journal.
The journal was a black leather folder thick with white sheets. It was a record of a deep dive in the Marianas Trench, a voyage of discovery from many years before. Jack had found the journal on the old wooden stand next to the chair and he leafed through the pages, quickly and dismissively at first, then he began to read, to linger on the words.
Words are seductive and now Jack sat in a heavy leather recliner in the golden light of a scattering of candles. The fires that consumed much of L’Académie were out. The old sprinkler system had taken care of that. The air was still thick with the smell of smoke but there were many hidden vents in this vast underground facility and air moved freely from here and back into Paris above. Jack’s black duster was draped over a chair along with his hat so that now he was more comfortable in his old dark jeans and a soft flannel shirt. His white hair spilled down over his shoulders as he read, his eyes scanning the tale of science and adventure, alive with the light from the candles and from his own intense fascination with the words.
Books held great power.
A book could transport you to another time and place. Jack sighed, and it was the sound of the heavy metal door of a crematorium being opened. He blinked hard and then, if someone had been watching, they would have seen his face shimmer. It was as if a veil lifted for the briefest of moments to reveal his true face, a skinless thing of blackness and many eyes, all blinking, all blazing.
Seductiv
e.
Jack stood and held the book out over the open flame of the candle until the pages burned. He tossed the thing into the corner like a spider that might still have bite.
“Jack. What is this place?” It was Dominic.
Jack took a deep breath before he began and then his eyes closed as he spoke.
“Do you remember bees?”
“Excuse me?”
“Of course you do,” Jack continued, his voice low and strong, “how could you forget bees. Little things, gold and black, no bigger than the tip of your thumb. The world once swarmed with bees. They buzzed here and there, all over, from flower to flower and plant to plant and they did so much.”
Jack stopped, then he stood and faced Dominic. He smiled as he continued.
“Pollination, right? The bees would go out from their hive, sometimes for many miles, searching and exploring and both taking and leaving their mark. All of them connected to a purpose, to a like mind. Then the bees came back to their hive, their world, and their queen. The fruit of their explorations was honey and survival of their world. Their mark, the traces they left, brought more life to the things they touched, pollinated the plants, allowed the fruits and flowers to be born, to spread, to grow. Remarkable, really. No bigger than the tip of your thumb but so powerful. So influential.”
“Haven’t seen a bee in a long time, now that you mention it,” said Dominic.
“No. The Turn changed our world and the bees died along with so many other things. There might be a hive or two somewhere but I haven’t seen a bee in fifteen years and as you know my friend, I’ve done some traveling. So, not many fruits left. Not many flowers. Sad, really.”
Jack stopped and the silence of the place took hold. Dominic didn’t understand, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. When he was ready, Jack would continue.
A minute passed. Then another. And then, Jack said, “This is the headquarters of Les Scaphandriers, the Astonishing Aquanauts, the keepers of secrets and destroyers of worlds. They were bees in a way and this was their hive. They were scientists and explorers and fools and they traveled all around the world like bees but instead of bringing life they brought excitement and curiosity and wonder. That’s what ended everything, that’s what killed everything, that’s what brought about The Turn.”
“Wait, the people here, they caused The Turn?”
“Yes. Their religion of science and imagination, of creation, is the poison we must burn away. So it never happens again.”
“Only those things that keep us alive. Food, water, shelter. Only those things.”
“Yes. Everything else burns. These are the bastards that opened the doors to the things that killed everything and everyone we loved. So let’s get to burning, Dominic.”
And with that they continued the work of destroying everything in the vast old chamber, in the long and winding halls. There were books and objects of art. There were films and records and models and globes. There was a hundred lifetimes reflected in the collection of Les Scaphandriers and what didn’t burn was smashed and what couldn’t be smashed was overturned and defiled by the Dream Butcher and his men.
Gunfire shattered the great aquarium. Water roared through The Hall, a tidal wave that knocked men to their feet.
The beautiful fish were left to die, flopping on the floor in puddles of water or crushed under boot heels.
Nothing was left untouched.
Jack wandered the halls as his men worked. He wore his black duster once more, and he went through the chaos like a great black bird, smiling and laughing and encouraging. The red brick walls, old brick molded from the crimson clay of Roussillon, turned black with the soot of burning books. The air was a symphony of laughter and destruction. He walked down halls and into side chambers and nothing would survive his coming.
A child’s toy.
Jack saw it out of the corner of his eye, a tiny thing half buried in a pile of things soon to be put to the torch. He plucked it out of the debris.
An action figure. A muscular man in a bright blue dive suit with a copper helmet. An Astonishing Aquanaut.
Jack smiled, and it wasn’t without warmth.
His son would have enjoyed playing with this. This is the sort of thing that would have had marvelous adventures along the couch and behind the coffee table and would have found its way underfoot as Jack walked about the house. His son loved playing with action figures, creating stories, saving worlds and playing the hero.
Yes, but he can’t play with this toy because his hands were ripped from his body while I watched and there was nothing I could do to stop the thing from doing what it did.
How the hell is my son supposed to play without hands?
Anyway, he’s dead.
The smile was frozen on Jack’s face and it stayed there as he tossed the action figure back into the pile of debris.
Need to shut the doors, he thought, as the smile dropped and he moved on along the corridors and halls of the Paris headquarters of Les Scaphandriers.
A glint of shiny copper caught Jack’s attention. He moved quickly into the little side chamber that was no larger than a small office. The room was bare except for a brass wheel on the wall the size of a car tire. Jack glanced over his shoulder and saw that his men were nowhere near.
“A faster ship than this awaits in Paris,” said Jack softly.
His hands, scarred and powerful, grabbed the wheel and tried to turn.
Nothing.
He stopped and thought for a moment as if remembering.
Jack grunted, smiled again, placed the heel of his boot on top of one particular brick on the floor to his left. He felt the brick depress ever so slightly.
He gripped the brass wheel and exerted pressure. It slowly turned. There was the hiss of hydraulics and the entire wall opened.
Jack stepped into the darkness and closed the wall behind as he went.
Heroes find a way, he thought. And I’m going to find a way.
SPLATTER
The two young women, Elise and Sylvia, stood in the heat of Aqaba’s afternoon sun next to a stable made of metal sheets and concrete block. The air smelled of the sea and a horse.
“She’s mine?” asked Sylvia in French. Her English was good but her French was better and Sylvia knew Elise struggled with Arabic.
“You’re partners. You don’t own a horse,” said Elise.
Sylvia was quiet and her dark brown eyes were as wide as coins. She reached out with a trembling hand and stroked the soft amber hair along the side of Elise’s horse.
Elise’s face was pale and her eyes were red. She wore her vest and jeans with a dark blue shirt, her old cowboy hat, and the sniper rifle was strapped to her back. The 9mm sat in the holster low on her hip.
She knelt down to Sylvia and poked a finger into the young girl’s chest.
“You take good care of him. I’ve taught you how to do it, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Take him to eat the grass in the old park out by the road, make sure he gets exercise, and keep him clean. You do that and you’re taking care of your part of the deal.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m not a ma’am. I’m like, not much older than you are.”
“Yes, Elise.”
“Better. Now, do you have questions?”
“Millions.”
“Good,” said Elise. She hugged Sylvia hard, then stood and gently patted Splatter. The horse snorted.
“Before I go, here’s a question for you. How did we meet?”
“I tried to steal things out of your backpack while you were going to the bathroom down by the pool but that weird octopus thing grabbed me and held me until you were done.”
“And?”
“You said you would chop off my head and put it on a stake. Or, if I promised to stop stealing, you would teach me to ride Splatter.”
“Now, I’m leaving, but that doesn’t end the deal. No stealing, right?”
Sylvia held up her little finger.
; “Pinky swear.”
“Roger that. So, you know how to ride. Splatter likes you. I’ve taught you everything I know about horses and what Splatter likes and doesn’t like. You and Splatter are partners from here on out, okay?”
“Thanks, Elise,” Sylvia said, and her smile was so broad that Elise could have counted her teeth.
“No,” said Elise, “thank you for taking care of my friend.”
Elise left Sylvia with Splatter and walked back to her hotel.
The climb up to the top floor of the hotel was a work-out. In the stairwell’s darkness she cursed and started up with two steps at a time. Her legs were pistons, and she continued to curse as she ran. Her boots made hard clacking sounds on the concrete stairs. She could barely see in the dim light and the air was stale and thick with dust. Sweat flowed, and the salt blinded her but she knew the way so did not need to see, she just needed to keep her knees churning. She did not stop until she reached the top floor.
She hit the wall with the side of her fist. Then, legs shaking, she slammed the key into the keyhole and made her way into her apartment.
Taariq wasn’t there. She didn’t care. He didn’t matter anymore.
The room was bright and shed afternoon light on the painting of the sunflowers that graced the wall. The Octo-Thing was sprawled out over a chair. His eyes were wide and air moved quickly through the funnel at the base of his mantel. Elise removed the Van Gogh from the frame and rolled it tight. She did the same with the other paintings.
Elise packed her things. Last in the bag was the portable shortwave transceiver and antenna cable. When done, she sat down next to the Octo-Thing and lightly touched his mantle.
“Allons-y,” she said, “let’s go.”
THE TRUCK
It was a black truck with the word Dodge molded in metal and welded to the front of the massive hood.
The tires were fat and reinforced with several strips from other tires because rubber did not fare well in the desert or near the sea. There was rust, yes, but Ahmet the Engineer had welded sheets of metal here and there to reinforce the chassis and cover the holes. The glass was in good shape. The truck was wrapped with barbed wire and sharpened metal poles bristled out at angles along the frame. The cab could hold two or three people and the flatbed behind it was loaded with six barrels of the crude new fuel that Ahmet and a few others were able to create out of garbage, grease, moonshine, and the stale old gasoline of the time before The Turn. The mix was combustible and unpredictable.