Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  “I told you I saw a ditch,” said Taylor, standing on the edge of the small gully.

  The narrow slit canyon was within earshot of the rest of the gang, yet no one had noticed it hidden away within the pleated sands. The trench had formed many years prior, when a heavy wash from a cloudburst had caused a flash flood. Undoubtedly, there had been a tiny tear in the sand’s fabric. Over time, and with the aid of perpetual flash floods, wind, and other weather-related phenomenon, the small tear had become an eight-foot deep slit-canyon, running long and distant toward the west horizon. The sandy trench was simply too tempting of a pathway for two boys to ignore; especially two boys looking for a place to conceal themselves for a while.

  They soon found a spot to edge down into the cavity.

  Once in the bottom—and completely hidden from view—they headed out, walking along the slender ravine for nearly thirty-minutes. They did things boys do: explored and absorbed . . . and lost track of the time. The two prodded and poked at any living creature brave enough to stick its head out of the cracks and crevices in the walls of the ravine. Finally, nature prodded Taylor once more. “Now turn around. Here’s a perfect spot.”

  “That’s gross!” exclaimed James. He made a disgusting face then turned his back to the awkward event. “Just hurry it up. They’re going to be wondering where we are.”

  “Okay, okay!”

  Taylor just got started when a sudden boom! shook the ground. The percussion knocked pebbles and sand down on Taylor’s back as he squatted. “Oh man!”

  “That one was louder than the last!” cried out James. “Are you sure that’s a jet?”

  “Yes,” relied Taylor zipping up his pants. “I told you. My dad said there’s a bombing run out here somewhere. The fighter jets from Hill Air Force Base use it for practice. That’s what we’ve been hearing.” He stepped up next to James. “I’m all done.”

  “Good. Now let’s get out of here. I don’t like those bombing runs. They sound too close!”

  “Don’t be a wimp. They’re miles from here.”

  “Just come on,” pressed James.

  For the first time, James pushed back against a cliff wall and craned his head upward. From the narrow opening above, he suddenly realized that the sky was very different overhead . . . far different from when they began their expedition. Something dark and gloomy was approaching from the south, and fast! “You’re full of crap, Taylor!” he exclaimed, his eyes still squinting overhead. “Those loud booms weren’t jets! It was thunder! Look up! We’re going to get soaked!”

  Taylor backed up next to James and peered out the small slit window. “Wow. No kidding?” he said. “I thought it didn’t rain in the desert?”

  James let out a growl. “Grrr! They’re going to be pissed at us! We’ve been gone almost a half hour! Just so you could poop!”

  “Shut up and give me a shove up. Then I’ll pull you out,” Taylor said, looking for a spot to dig in with his shoes. There was a deep impression on one side of the cliff’s face where debris had once detached and slid down. Now the small hill of rocks would serve as an excellent stepping-stool.

  “Stand right here and give me a lift out.”

  Taylor was heavier than James, and the thought of balancing the hunky kid didn’t make too much sense. But at this point, he didn’t care; he just wanted to get out of that trench! James bent reluctantly down, stretching far enough so that Taylor was able to step first onto his knee, then his shoulders.

  “Ouch! Hurry up!” James shouted, struggling under the weight of his stocky comrade. But there was no reply from Taylor. “Hurry!” repeated James again through clenched teeth and bulging eyes. He was beginning to teeter slightly . . . and his knees began to buckle!

  Taylor had indeed breached the top of the trench. His arms were well over the ledge and he could have easily pulled himself up and onto the fringe. But the boy was motionless, frozen like a statue. His eyes had swollen wide, and the reddish hue that normally filled his round face had given way to a pale, chalky paste. He didn’t even hear James hollering up to him. All he could do was gaze unbelieving at the massive black formation nearly upon them, and the spot where the activity had been populated with adults and scouts just a half-hour or so earlier. They had been left. And the realization of that fact hit the boy like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

  With a great groan, James suddenly toppled.

  Taylor came down hard like a sack of flour and landed on his butt. He rolled over onto his back then sat up, eyes fluttering.

  James followed suit—falling sideways first, then rolling up against the side of the trench with a thud. Sand poured down his neck and face. He spit grit and wiped his eyes. As soon as he could see clearly enough, he threw Taylor an angry glare. “Why didn’t you climb out!” he shouted. “I held you up there forever!”

  But Taylor didn’t reply. He just stared blankly. His eyes were empty, as if he was looking right through James . . . past him . . . beyond him, like he wasn’t even there. “Hey,” said James. “Are you okay?”

  Taylor blinked. His lower lip quivered and he could hardly speak. “They, they . . . they left us,” he forced in a soft voice, much too timid for the boy’s typical booming declarations. He swallowed and his eyes drew moisture. “And you’re right James. We’re going to get wet.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter 18:

  Zen awoke abruptly. He sat up and glanced at his watch. It was 2:30 A.M. He couldn’t help but wonder what had awakened him? Then he noticed the dance of shadows as they jittered on walls, ceilings and off surfaces all around him. A sudden rumble somewhere in the distance soon followed—a lightning storm was on the approach. It didn’t take long for him to realized that this was not a naturally occurring storm. The electrical energy was far too severe and much too precise. His corollary recognition of the familiar energy-patterns and the telltale signs which he knew so well, followed: this was a synthesized storm, generated from one of the HOPE substations. What on earth was happening? Could there really be another malfunction? But how?

  He threw back the covers and slid from his bed. As he did, he immediately noticed that Gracie was not sleeping at his side. She was gone? In fact, the bedding on her side was unruffled—neat and made. Had she come to bed at all? Of course she had . . . or, he struggled to recall. What was wrong with his memory? He quickly moved to a recessed section of wall. There, he touched a switch. Instantly, the specious segment of wall vanished. In its place Zen now observed a large grid of data, its surface alive with illuminated displays and readouts. Below the array of screens was a series of touch-activated panels. Zen quickly punched in a volley of commands, bringing a network of camera systems online, their images clear and sharp.

  He concentrated, intently, on one image after another. Each view displayed areas of the eight underground generating substations: Quadrants SW-Alpha1, SC-Alpha7, WC-Alpha4—and the rest. But as he stood uneasy, switching from one substation to another, a frightening image fluttered iridescently back at him from the remote observers: there were no security drones on patrol. Not one. The station areas, passageways, central hubs—they were empty, completely void of activity.

  “But this can’t be right,” Zen muttered. He quickly punched at other buttons, but the same scenario glared back at him through glass and illumination. It was true. All systems were off-line, even the high-level schematics were non-responsive.

  “Gracie!” Zen shouted, moving his hand to the general emergency broadcast switch. “Gracie!” He heard his voice echo back throughout dark, empty corridors, but there was no response. With growing anxiety, Zen switched to the underground communication system. “Ruthanne! he called into the receiver. “Jacob! . . Ellen! . . Eli!” He paused, and tried to calm his frantic breathing. “Will someone answer me!” But only the jeering echo of his words reverberated back through the surveillance system’s audio feed. Zen slammed a fist against the panel, then stepped back slowly. Stunned, he dropped into a chair. What was happenin
g? Where was everyone? He pondered for an anxious moment, then remembered the protocol: . . . when contact could not be established . . . He needed to act!

  He jumped again to the panel. He paused just an instant—it felt like an eternity—then reached and engaged the compound alarm system, a process he never dreamed he would have to do.

  All visual sensors suddenly morphed into flashing, emergency signals. Siren’s began their inhuman shriek in the background.

  Sandcastle was in lockdown.

  All interior and exterior exits sealed, both above and underground; bio and infrared tracking systems came online; automated commands were issued to all security systems—drones, droids, defense systems—everything, regardless of their status.

  The succession of all processes followed in seconds. But the self-annihilation protocol—the array of EMR systems located throughout the complex—failed to engage. These, the most vital of all their defensive technology, had been preprogrammed to turn upon their own with full ferocity. The effect would be instantaneous, and horrific: all non-organic matter within the Sandcastle boundaries would be restructured to the atomic level, then molecularly reorganized to a heterogeneous mixtures of air, sand, water, rocks—effectively erasing all traces of the estate, Avalon, and the underground complex. It was to be the ultimate failsafe . . . it was never to have to be used.

  Zen stood in horror, transfixed by the flashing message on the display: EMR FAILSAFE PROTOCOL MALFUNCTION! “This cannot be happening!” He heard himself cry out. There were simply too many protective features to be overridden: encryptions, ciphers, symbols and codes. Yes. HOPE was safe . . . wasn’t she? Protected beneath layers too deep to ever be penetrated? But as the data read down, line by line, page by page, the unthinkable came to him, searing into his soul as if his very blood had turned to molten lead. Zen felt the breath leave him, and he legs gave way. He fell weak to his knees. Now all that his mind could grasp were the odds; those unrelenting odds which now exploded in his head like a shotgun blast. The one-in-a-billion had happened! The failsafe systems had failed—Sandcastle was compromised! The HOPE technology was vulnerable!

  In a last desperate attempt, he shook himself and realized that there was one possible option left. He could override the automated systems and force a self-annihilation protocol himself. But to do so, he would have to get down to the control center . . . and he had to find Gracie! Only with their combined authorization codes—and the simultaneous entry of both of their keys, could the override be engaged.

  Zen felt the adrenalin flood through his veins. He jumped to his feet and flew out of the room. He ran down the hallway and descended the large granite staircase. He bolted through a heavy set of doors down more hallways and finally burst into the library. The wood-columns climbed high overhead, nearly touching the painted domed ceiling above. Thousands of varied spines lined themselves in perfect, contiguous rows—and for the first time, Zen felt them close in around him. He hurried to a nook off the main section. There, he stopped in front of finely carved panel, one which he knew so very well. He quickly touched a serious of books in a pre-calculated sequence. Suddenly, the façade of shelving drew aside. In its place was a large elevator transport, the secret entry to the underground complex. Zen reached to open the thick aperture, but before he could, the reinforced doors suddenly swished open. The action startled him, and he stumbled backwards in surprise. His eyes leveled upon the occupant. He glared in shock and his face grimaced. From within, a metal creature—monstrous and horrifying—exited the lift. The behemoth thing appeared to have once been one of their own drone patrol, but had somehow been enhanced . . . no, mutilated!

  Sandcastle’s guard drones, designed in the beginning by Jacob, had been intentionally modified to be as similar to the human form as possible. But this hideous bulk looked just the opposite, inhuman and terrible. It clanged out of the transport like a demon spawned from hell. Its massive arms were extended aggressively outward, and on the end of each were vise-like steel claws, not the soft synthetic tissue which had formed the hand on the original drone. But of all the distorted features, the most terrifying aspect of the mechanical monster was its single, large eye. The blood-red, luminous ball rolled in the center of an equally ugly head. It pivoted from side to side, and pitched unnaturally up and down. Then, in a terrible instant, it locked its stalk on Zen! The thing crouched into a sickening coil, snarling in an animalistic, deep-throated growl which caused Zen’s chest to pound, his senses to halt.

  “No!” he screamed instinctively, throwing up a protective arm. He turned his head away, waiting for the clutch that would tear his flesh to pieces. But then something strange happened. From behind the leashed monster, a man suddenly stepped out of the elevator and gave a halting command. The creature obeyed, instantly dropping from its awful stance to a steady, ticking statue.

  “Hello, pop,” said Jimmy in a sarcastic, disdainful tone. “Like my modifications?”

  “Zenny!” Ruthanne’s voice screeched out into her silent room. She flung herself upward, and out of the terrible dream. She sat up in her bed, heart pounding, and wet with perspiration. Her personal android, Seven-of-Ten, a sentinel system programmed to monitor and protect her, was standing at her side, still in observation mode.

  “Miss Ruthanne. Your bio-readout indicates an elevation in pulse rate and an acceleration in respiration. Both attributes are atypical of sleep. Are you well?” The electronic voice was soothing, yet void of human emotion.

  Ruthanne started to sob. “No! I am not well!” The awful nightmare had come to her at least a dozen times since Zen’s death nearly a year ago. And with each occurrence, seemed more unbearable than the previous. It was a dark and ugly dream, and carried a personal nature about it . . . always the same premise . . . the same characters: Zen, Jimmy, and a drone sentinel monster which had been horribly modified. But why? Why this tormenting dream, and why did it come to her as a thief in the night; unprovoked, unwanted and reasons unknown?

  Seven-of-Ten’s defense system instantly kicked into alert mode, as heightened sensors came on line.

  “It is alright, Seven-of-Ten. I just had a nightmare. You may stand down.”

  “May I assist you?” the sentry asked again.

  Ruthanne stood and reached for a towel to wipe her eyes. “I wish you could.” She patted Seven-of-Ten’s arm in a kindly fashion, which the machine’s programming would neither perceive nor understand, but which gave Ruthanne a sense of being less alone. And right now, she couldn’t have felt more alone. Oh how she missed her brother.

  Zen had aged more rapidly than his counterparts—their bodies having been injected with the same Nazi cocktail which had halted Jacob’s aging process those many years ago. And even though the rest of the Five—Ruthanne, Eli and Ellen—did age, it was at a decelerated rate. But Zen’s body was different, and had been vulnerable to all which came in the normal package of age progression. Because of this, his health had always been a concern to Gracie, and the others. Especially given the unnatural stresses that had been introduced into his neurological system by the Nazi doctors. But his death? It was nearly inconceivable that he could be gone. None of them could have foreseen this outcome.

  Ruthanne tried to forget that horrid day still so vivid, so callously fresh and detailed in her mind. Oh to wash it way from memory and time! But like the scar of a viscous slash, it would remain forever.

  They had found Zen unconscious in a secluded, undeveloped section of the underground complex. It had been very late, and unclear as to why he had gone to that particular area, remote as it was, and alone, with no transport or sentinel drone to accompany him—a cardinal rule of his own mandate, disregarded. Even a year later, it still made no sense.

  It was Jimmy who had found his father lying unconscious in the dark corridor. It had been near a remote power station, an area of the complex which had been temporarily shut down and deemed inactive because of malfunctions. Why Zen had been there in that late hour remained a mystery, still
.

  Jimmy had done everything he could to save his father, but it was too late. Even Ellen, with her medical brilliance, and equipment available to her far beyond the technology of the day, could not circumvent the inevitable. Zen had suffered a massive stroke, an apoplexy so severe that there was nothing that could be done, and he succumbed shortly thereafter. The terrible incident had rocked the very foundation of Sandcastle . . . and HOPE.

  The rest of the Five were stunned beyond comprehension, but none as profound as Gracie. For her, the shock of losing Zen had instant, and lasting effects, as now nearly a year later, she continued to be confined to a wheelchair, having lost the use of her legs.

  It took the healing balm of time, coupled with love and the coddling affection of Jimmy, and the others, for a galvanized, and recommitted Gracie to emerge from the abyss of despair. But somehow, against all odds, emerge she did, and with even more conviction to see her husband’s life long goal become a reality. Gracie’s return to life was nothing less than miraculous. She was more committed, more enthusiastic and even more dedicated to the completion of HOPE than anyone could have imagined. She emulated this strange new energy with an infectious vitality, helping the rest of the team to recover and recommit as she had.

  For a time, Jimmy was uncharacteristically kind, and did his best to fill the void left by the death of his father. He travelled less, and committed himself to spending more time at Sandcastle, eventually moving back to the estate with plans to oversee the final stages of HOPE. Strangely, Ruthanne’s dreams had only started when Jimmy moved back, and began to spend more and more time in the complex, and in Avalon. But why the same dream? Ruthanne puzzled to herself in silent anguish. And why the dark perception of Jimmy? It left her feeling sick.