The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  His wife glanced over his shoulder at Angela. “Then let someone help you.”

  ***

  Joe’s time lasted longer.

  Time enough to hold and kiss his wife and long enough to remember how it felt to hold his daughter in his arms. To feel the softness of her skin and remember the sweetness in her smell. To tell her how perfect she was. How being her daddy was the greatest thing he had ever done. Had ever felt. And how he thought of her, how he thought of them both, every single day.

  Just as she thought of her daddy.

  It also made their inevitable fading easier. Barely. But not before he kissed her a thousand times and memorized the feel of his lips on her tiny cheek. The way she giggled as she playfully pushed him away.

  And enough time for Joe to tell his wife just how much he loved her. How much he missed her. And how sorry he was for his mistakes. As was she.

  When all had finally faded, including the sky above back to its original pale azure blue, Joe Rickards finally turned around to see Angela waiting patiently and smiling.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  It took him several long seconds to answer. “I don’t know.”

  He turned back around to examine the area. The crystal tower was once again how they had found it. Translucent and quietly ensconced within its surrounding copper-colored rock walls.

  Wiping the last tears from his eyes, Joe stretched them open and grinned. “Well…Morton is not going to believe this.”

  86

  The climb out was shorter. Different. Every step feeling lighter. Or easier, passing through the tight squeeze and back up the long winding path as though the Earth’s gravity had somehow weakened.

  But it did not last.

  When they finally neared the small plateau, they could see more people waiting than when they’d left, and two of whom looked to be holding weapons. Someone was on the ground.

  As they drew closer, Angela’s eyes narrowed, just before realizing who it was lying in the dirt. “Oh my God!” she screamed and began running.

  When she and Joe reached them, she glared at Karl Ottman, who was patiently standing next to Fischer and Becker over the very still figure of Mike Morton.

  She dropped to her knees and rolled him onto his back, checking his breathing. Finding none, she quickly grabbed one of his hands, searching for a pulse.

  Tears returned to her eyes as she looked helplessly at Joe. “He’s not breathing!”

  Joe checked both wrists and, finding nothing, peered up at the elderly Urcaguary, who merely shook her head without a sound.

  “What did you do?!” Angela screamed. “You son of a bitch! You killed him!”

  “It may not surprise you,” Ottman said, looking down at her with no sign of remorse, “that your friend was uncooperative. And apparently not up to the climb.”

  Fischer then dropped something on the ground next to them with a tiny rattle: Morton’s bottle of nitroglycerin pills. “At least his heart wasn’t.”

  She jumped to her feet, only to be struck down by the butt of Becker’s rifle. In the same instant, Joe was on top of Fischer, seizing his gun and smashing an elbow into the German’s broad nose, sending him stumbling backward, blood streaming from each nostril yet still managing to retain his hold of his rifle. Becker delivered a blow to Rickards’ kidney, followed by another between his shoulder blades, causing him to slump to the ground.

  Joe groaned and rose back to his feet. He lowered his head and charged Becker, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s legs and driving him to the ground. Joe scrambled on top and punched his face repeatedly, stopping only when he felt the barrel of Fischer’s rifle press forcefully against the base of his skull.

  He turned to find the barrel move around and stop between his eyes.

  “Go ahead,” Rickards seethed. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Fischer sneered through blood-covered teeth and suddenly pointed the gun at Angela. “How about now?”

  “Would you like to continue struggling, Mr. Rickards?” asked Ottman. “Or are you coming to your senses?” When he didn’t respond, Ottman added, “Your friend is dead. A sad reality, but true. Shall we move on?”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Rickards seethed through gritted teeth.

  Ottman shrugged. “Perhaps. But not today. Today, you’re going to tell me what you saw.”

  Rickards did not answer, prompting the old man to turn to Angela. “How about you?”

  She didn’t respond, either.

  He looked at his man Fischer. “It looks like our friends are becoming noble on us. How heroic.” He reached down and abruptly grabbed Angela by her hair, pulling her to her feet. “Where is it?”

  “How about up your—”

  It was as far as she got before he forcefully slapped her and turned around to study the group of Quechua. “Maybe one of you speaks English? Oder Deutsch?”

  “They don’t,” said Rickards. “You killed the only man who could talk to them.”

  “Then I guess we’ll just have to take one of you. You did find it, didn’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

  “You don’t need us,” he replied.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means it’s not far,” he said, wiping blood from his lip. “Or hard. Just down the path. What you’re looking for.”

  Angela gave him an angry stare.

  Rickards shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, he’s going to find it anyway. This way no one else has to get hurt.”

  “How far?” demanded Ottman.

  “Couple hundred meters. Through there. Same way we came back.”

  “And what will we find?”

  Rickards exhaled and rolled himself painfully onto one side. “I couldn’t explain it to you if I tried.”

  Leaving Becker standing over them with a finger across his trigger, Ottman and Fischer started carefully down the path, taking just minutes to disappear from sight into the canyon. Ottman noted with interest the copper-colored walls growing darker the deeper they traveled, marveling not just at the surroundings but the realization that what he had so long sought under the sprawling canopy of the Amazon forest was instead nearly fifty miles from its border. Where he would never have thought to look.

  The two slowed when they spotted the narrow gap in the distance and then cautiously continued. Reaching it, Ottman briefly peered through the opening before motioning Fischer through first.

  Once past, Ottman followed and came to a halt when he saw Fischer’s short hair standing on end.

  “Was zum Tuefel?”

  Both continued forward until rounding an outcropping and spotting an open area on the far side with a strange column standing in the middle made up of a clear material.

  They approached, studying the strange object before hearing sounds reverberating from along the walls and growing louder by the second.

  The old man’s eyes traveled upward, where flashes of light appeared above them and slowly began circling one another.

  “Was…ist…das?”

  The sound became a deafening roar, followed by a brilliant flash of light. Leaving both men standing and peering around the walls in stunned silence.

  A bewildered Ottman raised his hand and studied it. Enthralled at the sight of swirling lights moving around and then through his tight thin skin.

  Next to him, Fischer examined his own hands before suddenly looking up.

  On the opposing side of the canyon walls a figure could be seen. Dressed in black clothing and moving toward them. A dark complexion, and even darker eyes, peering at them across the short expanse. Plodding. With a walk or gate that seemed slightly uneven.

  ***

  After more than an hour, Rickards finally leaned forward and stood up from the ground, leaving Angela seated next to Mike Morton’s still figure, his face hidden beneath a bright, colorful shirt borrowed from one of the Quechua.

  Rickards pee
red at Becker, who instinctively raised his rifle.

  “Getting a little curious?”

  The German didn’t respond. Instead, he watched Rickards turn around and face the canyon opening.

  “Didn’t take us that long.”

  “Shut up,” spat Becker.

  Rickards shrugged. “Just wondering what would happen if they needed help.”

  “They’re fine.”

  He nodded, then dubiously glanced down at Angela. “Sure are taking an awfully long time.”

  Rickards continued pacing, past Urcaguary, who was now quietly sitting along with the others, until he reached the edge of the small plateau and looked down the other side, back toward the village.

  “You should probably go check while you still have time.”

  Becker glared. “I said shut up.”

  “I heard you,” replied Rickards. “But I don’t think you’re hearing me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I said, ‘you should go check…before it’s too late.’” With that, Rickards motioned down the hill.

  A hint of nervousness crept over the German’s face and he squinted. Then he stood up and approached apprehensively with his rifle aimed, until he was close enough to follow Rickards’ gaze downhill.

  His eyes shot open when he spotted more Quechua down below, all surrounding the base of the hill. Not dozens, but hundreds. Several hundred, all peering uphill and waiting.

  Rickards turned to him. “You’re probably going to need that other rifle.”

  ***

  When Becker reached the outcropping through the canyon, the strange sounds had already reached him. He rounded the corner and spotted the open area with a large, strange object in the center.

  Just before it, two bodies lay on the ground.

  Becker ran, calling to them in German, sprinting forward with the rifle clutched tightly in both hands, only to find neither of the figures moving.

  At all.

  Neither Ottman nor Fischer. Instead, both lay face down with their arms at their sides.

  When Becker turned them over, wide, dead eyes stared back at him. Their haunting open mouths were lined with dirt.

  High above him, lights appeared in the air, leaving a stunned Becker wondering what the hell had happened. He was blissfully unaware, as both Ottman and Fischer had been, of just how colossal, how utterly unimaginable, the trove of gold and silver truly was that was hidden just a few hundred meters directly below their feet.

  EPILOGUE

  I

  The snow was falling again. Snowflakes outside the window tumbled almost in slow motion before settling softly upon the white ground, some falling only as far as the needle-shaped leaves from a nearby blue spruce.

  And the silence, similar to that inside the room where a single person sat unspeaking, her head resting against the padded high-backed chair, mournfully peering out at the sky and absently watching the snowflakes and their journeys to Earth.

  Barely in her seventies, the woman might be mistaken for being dead if not for the extraordinarily faint movement of her diaphragm beneath a thick sweater and concave posture.

  She was completely unaware of the large wooden door opening less than ten feet behind her, only moving when it was quickly closed with an audible click.

  The woman’s head barely turned, reflecting only mild curiosity as to which nurse it was.

  When no one appeared, the woman turned more, spotting someone behind her, standing quietly and erect. Unusual, and prompting her to come alive and twist around.

  When she saw who it was, her eyes froze, partly from shock and the rest from bitterness.

  “What…are you doing here?”

  The voice was low and masculine. “Happy holidays, Kathy.”

  “I told you not to come here,” she answered coldly. “You’re not welcome.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you here, in my room?”

  He lowered a large, square, flat box onto the bed and opened it, revealing a dark green Christmas wreath inside.

  “This is for you.”

  The woman stared at him angrily. “I don’t want it!”

  “I know.”

  “Get it out of here. And you with it!”

  There was a pause, and the person behind her disappeared from view, walking back to the door. But instead of opening it, she heard another, deeper, click.

  The door being bolted shut.

  The woman now whirled around to the other side. “What are you doing?! I said, get out!”

  Joe Rickards walked back and pulled a plastic chair toward him. He placed it in front of her and sat down. “I know you don’t want me here,” he said. “But I wanted to say hello. To make sure you’re okay.”

  “I do not need you checking up on me. I told you to never come back.”

  “Yes, you did,” he said, leaning forward. “But I’ve come to make you a deal.”

  “Get out of my room!”

  Rickards ignored her and shrugged. “The deal is that I will never come back. Ever. As long as you agree to do one thing.”

  There was no answer.

  “If you do one thing for me, you will never see my face again. For as long as you live. You have my word.”

  “I’m not going to do anything for you. I’ll tell them not to let you in.”

  “I’ll just keep coming back,” Rickards replied calmly. “I’m a federal agent. And half of the staff here are terrified of being harassed by anyone working for the government. I’ll keep coming back,” he said, “even if I have to climb through the window.”

  The old woman said nothing, glaring at him with seething green eyes.

  “If you know me at all, you know I am not joking.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What? What is it you want?!”

  “I want you to come somewhere with me.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s significant. But when we return, if you never want to see me again, you won’t. I promise.”

  She continued glaring at him, watching Rickards lean back in his chair.

  “That’s the deal,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll keep coming back. Every…day.”

  “You wouldn’t?!”

  “You know how stubborn I can be. You told your daughter many times.”

  “Don’t you ever mention my daughter!”

  “That’s the deal, Kathy,” he said again. “Come with me or see my face every day.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  After a long, glaring silence, she answered, “Fine. Where are we going?”

  Rickards nodded. “You’re going to need a passport.”

  II

  An exhausted Angela Reed fell into her chair and looked around her small apartment, feeling as though she’d been away for years. The normal comfort of her home somehow felt slightly amiss.

  She scanned the room. Her small kitchen, clean and neat, the living room with two small leather couches and TV, even the artful decorations and pictures upon the walls were all somehow different.

  Strange.

  Angela came back to the table, where she stared at her laptop for a long time before finally opening the lid and powering it on.

  So much had happened and the world appeared so surreal. Everyone in her family was entirely gone. Even Lillian Porter, who was still missing and who would probably never be found.

  It made Angela wonder if she was now seeing the world for what it was. What it had been all along.

  She worked to push that solemn thought from her mind by focusing on the computer in front of her, now displaying a login screen against her favorite majestic background image of the Rocky Mountains.

  She reached forward and typed in her password, then hit enter and waited as the system continued booting up. When finished, it automatically opened her email program and connected to her mail server.

  Angela watched in a daze as one by one, the screen was populated by a fu
ll page of new messages. She’d started to look away when something caught her eye and she turned back to stare at it. One of the messages had a sender’s address that looked different:

  mmorton@spacejunkies.org

  When her eyes finally parsed the characters, they widened with surprise and Angela shot forward, reading the address. Then again, and again. Making sure she hadn’t mistaken something.

  In a moment of apprehension, she reached forward and clicked the item to open the message, gasping when she saw it was indeed from Mike Morton.

  She looked at the date on the email and her mind churned as she tried to piece things back together, wondering when he could possibly have sent it.

  The night at his trailer. When she slept inside. Morton later told her he had looked her up online.

  But he’d never said he sent her something.

  Angela read the short note and looked at the attachment Morton had referenced--something he’d decided to send to her just in case.

  Yet it was not until she opened the attachment that she was truly stunned. Shocked, in fact, as she slowly read through it.

  Page by page.

  It took over thirty minutes. And when finished, she leaned back in her chair, utterly speechless.

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  I read once that it’s only in times of crisis that you find out what’s really important.

  I’ve been wanting to write this story for a long time. And am releasing it now in what seems to be a world of surrealism.

  Last year was a difficult one for me personally, and this year is proving to be a difficult one for all of us. And through both crises I’ve come to have my world redefined and refocused rather dramatically.

  I’ve always enjoyed answering emails and connecting with readers on different levels. And I have been particularly touched by many of those people reaching out to check in on me, and make sure I’m okay under these dark times.