Chess Players, Atlantis, and the Mockingbird
By
A.P. DeVaughn
Dedication
From the moment I wrote the first word, to the years in between, to when I typed the last word, this book has been a gift to my mother.
She raised her son to be intelligent, virtuous, and to be an example of principle and prestige, just as she showed me through her example in her life.
When I was very young, a collaboration of teachers thought that I was illiterate because of my disinterest in English studies. I felt anguish when I learned of this years later. It inspired me to prove not only that I was capable of reading at a high level, but also to give my mother something that would last forever.
She has motivated me through life in all of my ventures, from basketball, to violin, to college, and to the journey with this book, critiquing my writing and giving me tough love. She was the light that guided me through the foggy seas of uncertainty. She is one of the many reasons to thank God every day. May everyone who reads this book have someone in their life like my mother was to me.
To her, this is my gift.
Thank you, Billie Perry, aka Mom.
Acknowledgments
First I’d like to thank the readers of this book. Without your generosity and interest in my work, my passion would be unwarranted.
To my dear best friend, Matthew J. Walker, who was the first to preorder my book on GoFundMe and who chose me to be the best man at his wedding. He is an inspiration to me and has always supported me in whatever I’ve done. Bless him and the Walker family.
To Rebekah Shubin, who has been a mentor and a friend for many years, pushing me to be the best student I could be. I enjoy debating (arguing) with her on many topics of life.
To Dashawn Freeman and his mother, Dawn, and her family, who allowed me to live with them and let me sleep on their couch.
To Moe Austin, who has always been a good friend and supported me throughout the years in basketball and with this book.
To Gloria Elise, who always checked in on my progress with this book and who provided valuable advice.
To Jason Gilzene, for his wonderful vision in helping me design this book’s cover.
To P.J. Smith for the photography.
To my many friends who are too numerous to mention and to my family, who have supported me throughout the years, guiding me with advice and love and providing me with encouragement through rough times.
Shaun Perry, Curt and Ruth Harrison, Danielle Viglione, Rashaad Davis and the Davis family, Coach Knott(RIP), Coach Turner, the Bobak family, Ronald Perry(RIP), Sam Luong, Aaron Lawrence, and the Cooley Family
Preface
Before recorded time, a civilization called Atlantis flourished, its accomplishments rivaling those of today. Atlantians were prosperous and peaceful until their deceitful leaders started a civil war, tearing their world apart. A faction called the Chariot defeated their rivals, the Tempest, who were exiled. The Chariot remained in power for some time, until a massive storm destroyed Atlantis, sinking the prosperous civilization beneath the waves and leaving no trace of its existence. The survivors still held their grievances against one another, and the civil war continued for millennia, shifting power among the sides. The fighting continued until a ray of hope broke trough in the form of a child who would decide who would become the victor.
In a huge hall, large statues of horses and men deck the perimeter. Murals, banners, and scrolls of symbols, ancient texts, and cartouche line the walls of the brick structure.
A dozen people sit at a long table covered with a vivid tapestry depicting an ancient battle. Four middle-aged men sit on one side and six women on the other. Each person wears a robe and hat colored in bold crimson. At one end of the table sits an elderly man, his face wrinkled and bearded and his hair a golden blond, the color of ripened wheat. At the other end is a grossly old man. His breathing is labored, and his head droops. Tubes and cords trail from underneath his robe. His hair is white as cotton.
Broad-chested men in sunglasses and suits stand with their backs to the table, encircling the group of elders, two to each man and woman. Standing at attention are more suits, sprawled about the complex on sentry at doorways and stairs.
“Let the ceremony commence,” a stocky, black-haired man says.
“To our lord. He has put forth the path to rebuilding our kingdom. His teachings have passed down from our once mighty civilization through the years to this long-awaited moment. The bricks have been measured and cut. The mortar has been set with great care for our kingdom. The edifice has been erected among fertile fields that have been tilled with great care. We will reap the bountiful harvest of ripe fruit and grain. Now the final pieces are ready. We appreciate the diligent work of our forefathers over the millennia. It seems like the blink of an eye in this eternity. Long ago we were beneath them. We kneeled before them and begged for their forgiveness. We served their doctrine, sowed their seeds, and plowed their fields. But no more shall we be commanded by these gods who claim their dominion among mindless souls. Now we, the men of the Chariot, have surpassed the cursed flesh that He has imprisoned us in. No longer will we be slaves and servants for these self-proclaimed gods. We shall pierce the hearts of his children with our Trident and take what is ours. We shall have our freedom.”
Thunderous applause reverberates throughout the hall as the golden-haired man sits.
The grossly old man twitches and slowly raises his head until his eyes can be seen by all. The elders at the table fall to a dead silence.
The old man gathers his breath, and with a labored shout, says, “Long, live, Atlantis!”
The elders rejoice, and the old man is wheeled out of the room by one of the suits, accompanied by two more suits and the blond-haired man.
“My lord,” the blond-haired man says, “your vessel is ready and your new life will begin shortly. You, my lord, are the last piece of the Trident. With you, Atlantis will be completed, and we shall live in our kingdom as our ancients once did.”
“Yes,” the old man wheezes. “But, in my absence, it is you who must guide us as I take this journey. Protect the Mockingbird by any means necessary, even if you must sacrifice our own brethren. Do whatever must be done to protect our new land, our new kingdom.”
“Yes, my lord, I understand. You have taught me well, and you have built a great foundation for us. It shall be done.”
“Good,” says the old man. “As for the deserters, I shall handle them in due time. Once I transcend, in thirty-five years, we will be together again, old friend. No need for anyone else to act. The targets must not be alerted that we are coming for them, for I need them to lead me to the keys. What of our Spiders?”
“The Spiders have done very well in the field, securing what we need to proceed with our plan.”
“What of Magnus? Is he compliant?” says the old man.
“Yes, he is in-line, and everything is secure. The child will be more than suitable for you. Come now, my lord, your vessels await. It’s time for you to become a god.” The blond-haired man helps the elderly man into a vehicle and then leaves in a separate car.
The blond-haired man riding in his limousine receives a call.
“Yes? Good evening, our meeting has just ended. Yes, he is on his way. And what about your end of the bargain? Excellent, he should be pleased to hear that. Trident is well on the way to completion, and Cerberus will begin shortly. We haven’t found the location of the two defectors yet, but that situation will be handled, and they will not cause us further problems. Wonderful, the codes should be in our possession within the time we discussed. Well done. Yes, the e
lection should go as planned. Good-bye, Mr. Senator.”
Chapter 1: A Bird in the Hand
“No! No!” A terrified old man’s scream echoes in an abandoned warehouse after he was thrown to his back. Gesturing halt with a thumbless hand, he scoots across the floor with his other hand, clasping a broken amulet.
Rolling through dust and small piles of debris, he scrapes at the floor, leaving red streaks from his bloodied nails in the dusty wood. He scrambles hand over hand on his belly, dragging his feet behind him. He stumbles up two flights of stairs, dimly lit from the streetlight oozing through the broken staircase windows.
Stalking him is a mysterious hooded figure, walking with a slow and steady gait, hissing from beneath its black cowl. Wiping blood and sweat from his wrinkly forehead, the old man looks for an exit. Snarls and hisses get closer and closer behind him. The mysterious hooded figure shrieks, then dashes and leaps in front of the old man.
“He must not live,” the old man shouts, shaking his head from side to side. “I beg of you. It will be the end of us all!” he pleads as he grimaces and hugs the amulet to his chest, coughing and wheezing.
His desperate plea falls on unmerciful ears as the figure with its bare hands silences the old man with vicious blows to the head. He finishes the defenseless man off as an eerie crunching noise bounces through the abandoned building’s halls. The old man’s body lies limp, his eyes agape, staring into the darkness with his head detached from his body.
A light flashes behind the figure. “Hey you!” says a man from behind the light. The figure stops and turns around as the light hits its face. He sees a cop with his gun drawn shining a flashlight at him.
The cop gasps. “Don’t move,” the cop says, and his eyes become wide when he looks into the ominous glowing eyes of the hooded figure.
The figure reaches down and pries the broken amulet from the dead fingers of its headless victim.
“Ha . . . hands where I can see ‘em!” the shaky cop stutters.
A deafening screech comes from underneath the hood of the figure, startling the cop, who drops the flashlight. Scrambling to pick up the flashlight, the cop raises the light, only seeing the headless man where the figure once stood.
Hearing footsteps behind him, the cop shines the light just in time to see the figure dive through a window.
Falling down three stories, the figure lands on its feet with a thud, cracking the concrete beneath. It then tears off into the darkness of night away from the warehouse, with the cop shouting from the window, “Stop!” But the figure does not break stride. “I shouldn’t be doing this, not on my first day,” the cop says, looking three stories below at the fleeing man. “Okay,” he says after a deep breath. He takes a few steps back and makes the sign of the cross on his chest. “Three, two, one, ahhh!” he screams as he jumps from the window, crashing inside a garbage bin, knocking his wind out. “That was smart,” he says as he climbs from the bin.
Gasping heavily, the police officer shouts into his shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie. “Five zero four. In pursuit of a male suspect wearing a black hooded jacket and black pants, chasing on foot. Considered to be armed and extremely dangerous. Heading north on Briggmire, passing Jezebel. Requesting immediate backup!”
“Backup is on the way,” says the woman from dispatch, whose voice is muffled by the wind whipping past the walkie-talkie.
Barely keeping the fleeing murderer in his sight, the officer chases the figure around corners, through gutted buildings, over fences and vacant lots. “Now heading north on Castle, passing Fort!” he says, updating dispatch.
“We have two squad cars heading your way,” says dispatch. “Patching you in.”
“I just saw a murder!” he shouts in hysteria. “This is bad. I didn’t sign up for this. Get here fast,” the green officer says.
“This is Officer O’Reilly,” his walkie-talkie gurgles. “Officer Pane and I are en route, so hold tight. Don’t do anything stupid, rookie.”
“Copy!” the young officer replies.
“Man, this guy is fast,” the young officer says to himself as he rounds the corner to an alley between two buildings.
Squinting through the shards of air, he pauses and scans the alley as the wind picks up and begins to throw jabs at the greenhorn’s cheekbones. The miniature torrent whips up trash in the alley, making its way from one end to the other, pasting the trash against the tall fence at the end of the alley, whistling as it exits through the holes of the chain-link.
Gently placing one foot in front of the other, he searches around with his flashlight. He walks past dumpsters and piles of rubbish, casing them, pointing the flashlight and gun behind every obstacle and flinching at every piece of trash that flies past. Through the corner of his eye he sees a shadow in the distance. “Freeze!” the officer yells as he points his gun toward a dark corner. “I see you. Come out with your hands up!”
Crawling from the darkness, the figure runs toward the gate.
“Don’t move!” the officer yells while holding his shaking gun at the suspect.
The hooded figure stops and lets out a grunt like a stag in heat. Its hot breath collides with the cold air, and steam bellows from beneath its hood as it dashes toward the officer.
Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang! The shots ring out from the officer’s gun, hitting the figure center mass, stumbling its charge, yet he keeps running toward the officer.
“What the hell?” the officer says, puzzled that the shots did not take him down. Bang-Bang. Several more shots connect. Click goes the empty gun. The hooded man lets off an inhuman-like screech as he falls to the ground, sliding face-first onto the pavement, releasing a slow and steamy grunt.
“Dispatch! Shots fired! Suspect down, suspect down! Requesting paramedics! Where the hell is my backup?” says the frantic officer.
Approaching the bullet-riddled man, the officer reloads his gun. “No blood?” he says as he kneels and peels back the dead man’s hood and shines the flashlight on his face. “Jesus Christ!” The officer quickly backs away in fear as he sees the man’s disfigured mug. “What the . . . what’s wrong with his face?” he whispers to himself in disbelief, looking at the grotesque and scaly face of the man. The cop hears the squeal of car brakes and turns his head. “Hey! Over here!” he shouts at his colleagues as they run up to him while his gun stays aimed at the downed man.
“I’m Officer O’Reilly, and this is Officer Pane. What happened here?” O’Reilly calmly asks.
“I responded to a disturbance call,” blurts the greenhorn. “And after seeing what looked like a murder in progress, I went in pursuit of the suspect. I, I had to pump over a dozen shots into this guy to put him down when he attacked me! Just my first week on the job and this happens.” He puts his hand to his head, clenching his hair. “This guy must have been on PCP or something,” he says. “Here, look at his face.” He points to the dead man lying on the ground.
“Seems like you’re a good shot, rookie,” O’Reilly says, gesturing for Pane to examine the downed suspect. “He’s dead, all right.”
Pane kneels at the corpse and begins to pat it down around the torso. He pauses and looks at O’Reilly and gives a nod. Reaching into the jacket pocket of the suspect, he pulls out the broken amulet the figure took from the old man. He walks back and places the amulet in O’Reilly’s hand.
“We’ll take it from here, rookie,” O’Reilly says, stashing the amulet into his pocket.
“What? That’s it?” says the greenhorn. “I thought the officer involved in any crime has to stay on the scene. And what was that you pulled off of him, a weapon?”
A rumble emanates from where the suspect lays.
The officers look toward the ground. Steam comes from its hood, and then a hiss and then a grunt. Then suddenly, the downed man springs to his feet.
“What the . . . impossible,” the rookie officer says, pointing his gun at the not-so-dead suspect. “St . . . stay right there!”
The supposedly dead man le
ts out the unfamiliar shriek and runs toward the twelve-foot fence. He’s being fired upon by the green cop, but he leaps the fence with a single bound, landing on the other side without breaking stride. The man disappears into the night, bellowing shrieks that soon melt away.
“No way,” says the young officer in disbelief, slowly lowering his gun. “That’s not possible. He was dead. How can someone do that? Tell dispatch, the suspect is on the run again,” he says to his two colleagues.
O’Reilly and Pane calmly look at each other. “Holster that weapon, rookie, before you hurt someone,” O’Reilly says. The young officer applies the safety and holsters his weapon, snapping the leather strap over the handgrip.
“Good job, rookie. Not to worry, we’ll take care of this entire situation,” O’Reilly says with a reassuring smile. Then he pats the rookie on the shoulder, exposing a small tattoo of a butterfly trapped in a spiderweb on the underside of his wrist. He then gives Pane a nod and brings his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Dispatch, this is O’Reilly,” he calmly says. “We have an officer down. I repeat, we have an officer down. Please send paramedics to the corner of Harper and Lane.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” the young officer shouts in confusion. “I’m fine. I only have a few scratches. The murder suspect is getting awa—”
His sentence is interrupted as the alley lights up with a flash. Officer Pane is holding the smoking gun with a suppressor attached to it. The young officer holds his chest and falls to his knees. Looking down at his hands, his brand new blue uniform begins to darken as it starts to soak up his blood, decorating his polished shield a slimy red. He looks at his hands, and the blood on his palms and fingers begins to steam as it collides with the chilly air. He tries to bring words to his mouth to either plead for his life or ask why, but the light begins to seep from his eyes. He looks at his colleagues. Pain and shock hold his lips still.
Officer Pane approaches and points at the greenhorn’s head. Two more flashes illuminate the dark alley while O’Reilly watches with cold, unremitting eyes.
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