Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D.

by Glenn Van Dyke

  He tottered, his legs shaking beyond his control. His left eye was swollen shut, the right filled with flowing blood. The top of his left ear hung limply, as did the left side of his lower lip dangle, ripped. Spitting out the blood in his mouth, he made a quick swipe with his arm to clear his vision. He grunted heavily as he lifted Ashlyn up. Throwing her arm around his neck, he held her fast, supporting her weight on his shoulder and hip.

  Ashlyn was little more than a blood covered rag doll. Of the dozens of wounds, the slash that ran from her left ear down her neck was the one that worried him most. The only possible explanation for why she was still alive was the Water of Life.

  Steven had been right; death was a blessing for the slaves, for the pain of his own flayed back, arms, and legs dredged up such wishful thoughts.

  Within his mind, he screamed at Ashlyn, pleading for her to answer him. In response, he heard only the brutality of stark silence.

  Heeding the prod of a guard’s rifle, Steven walked her down to join the waiting slave caravan. Though Ashlyn clearly wasn’t capable of supporting her own weight, he was grateful that she was able to shuffle her feet. It was almost as if she were mimicking his steps, his movements. It was something and seemed enough for the Grays to spare her life.

  To say that the pain was unbearable was an understatement, and yet it was renewed with each step. His blood loss was heavy and he felt faint. It was sheer stubbornness and the thought of future revenge that kept him from blacking out.

  Upon reaching the caravan, one of the guards cuffed them together.

  Brummon was partnered with the Neanderthal woman they had spotted earlier. It was only as Brummon’s eyes scrunched and his face turned away from nausea that Steven realized the source of his reaction.

  Following Brummon’s gaze, Steven saw that one of his testicles hung outside his scrotum. It had been ripped open by the barbs on the whip. Steven’s pain had been so intense that he hadn’t noticed. With barely a care, Steven pushed it back inside through the tear. It was all he could do.

  Brummon’s mouth dropped in shock as the cave-woman, cuffed beside him, reached out and flipped up his cock with a finger. When it fell, like it were a toy, she reached out to do it again, seemingly hoping that it might stay up this time. When he quickly covered himself, stopping her, she bared her blocky, yellowed teeth at him. Her look was one that could either be construed as mocking him for dismissing her or an overtly, flirtatious overture. Either choice had the same effect. He was suddenly very self-conscious.

  When the cave woman grabbed one of her hairy breasts, offering it to him, the focus of her intent became clear.

  The two men in front of Steven and Ashlyn never flinched, never moved. Like everyone in the caravan, their backs looked like a game of pickup sticks as layer after layer of scar tissue told of their long abuse. A rancid stench permeated the air as the odor of festering sores and open wounds filled his nostrils. If he’d had the strength, he would have vomited.

  “Ngir.” Walk, Steven’s mind subconsciously translated from Sumerian. It was accompanied by the hum of twirling whips as they again got the caravan moving.

  For the better part of the day, under the blistering heat of the dual suns, the caravan marched along, slowly following the twisting path of a dried riverbed.

  Steven’s inward calls to Ashlyn remained unanswered. She had retreated into a catatonic world of silence, a place without pain. Steven feared that she might never return. She simply walked, matching his footsteps.

  Finally, just minutes after sunset, they were brought to a halt at the base of a tall bluff. Steven watched as one of the guards hammered in the rod that would drive the Uttu away. Then, he pulled a bundle of three thin straws from a quiver on his back. He hammered them into the ground until out of each a spring of water sprouted.

  “Nan.” The call for the slaves to drink had been issued. The people rose timidly, all eager, but none wanting to be the first to drink. It was a weathered, middle-aged man who broke the stalemate. Apparently, as Steven came to learn, the first person always received a single lashing across the back before drinking. He also learned that the first person could drink ‘til he was done, whereas the timing for the others was up to the discretion of the supervising guard.

  Over the next hour while the slaves took their turns, Steven tried to rouse Ashlyn. As before, all his efforts went unanswered. Looking at her badly tattered body, he was fearful that she wouldn’t survive the night. Moreover, it was a certainty if she didn’t receive her ration of water.

  Kneeling to pick up her limp body, her head lifelessly flopped to the side. “You’ve got to live, Ash. You’ve got to, because I don’t want to live without you—even if I could.”

  Carrying her to the end of the line at the springs, Steven’s tears flowed. He could feel her life force ebbing away. He could feel his own strength waning in response.

  When her turn came, he lowered her feet to the ground, and supporting her weight, gently led her lips to the water. With its touch, she slowly roused. “Yes, that’s it, come on, Ash, drink!” Her mouth parted and she gulped without restraint. Before it had hardly begun, it seemed like her time was up, and as the guard’s arm rose in preparation to strike her with the whip, Steven quickly scooped her up and whisked her away. The Igigi guard, knowing that Steven had not yet taken his turn, removed the stakes, giving an indignant squealing laugh as he did so.

  It had not escaped Steven’s notice that the guards themselves didn’t seem to have a need for the water. They drank from a small gourd that hung from their belt, and it seemed to be their only source of sustenance. Even their energy seemed tireless as they prepared to stand guard throughout the night, apparently without sleep.

  Each time Steven closed his eyes, his mind relived the scene of Ashlyn being whipped and beaten. It would be a memory that would forever scar his soul. It would forever mark their physical perfection, but he also came to realize how frivolous and allusive the trap of beauty was. It was a crown that no one could hold for long as the ravages of time and age eventually took their toll.

  It was only now that he realized the full depth of his feelings for Ashlyn. Out of the puddle of his shallowness, he realized how deeply he would miss Ashlyn, the person, if she did not return. If all his hopes and dreams could be encapsulated into one small wish, it would be merely to have Ashlyn return to him, to see her speak again. As exhaustion took hold and he drifted off, his final wakeful thought was of how much he loved her.

  The guards awakened the slaves to the sound of a cracking whip. As Steven stood and stretched his legs, a hand softly touched his leg. Your wounds?

  Ash! You’re awake! said Steven back to her in the meld. He reached down, helping her to stand. They hugged. It was with a start that he realized that her wounds were gone. He so badly wanted to scream out with joy.

  Ash, god it’s nice to hear you talking again! I can’t believe all your wounds are gone!

  You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily! She grinned at him. Steven, you do realize you’re healed too?

  He was so happy to have Ashlyn back that it was only now that her words struck home. He looked down at himself, his first glance going to his testicles.

  Looking at Ashlyn, Steven thought, The Water of Life must regenerate the cells. That’s how it keeps us from growing old. He reached for his shoulder and found that even the scar from his youth was gone.

  I can understand the Gift healing us, but where did all the blood go? asked Ash. “We both look like we just took a shower!

  The blood was part of us, it must have been absorbed.

  Steven’s joy at seeing Ashlyn beautiful again also made him acknowledge his own shallowness. Can’t fight thousands of years of evolution.

  What? asked Ash.

  Outside joke, no pun intended, he thought to her with a broad grin.

  Brummon, paired to the Neanderthal woman, awoke when he overheard Steven’s gasp of surprise. He stared. His shock of seeing them heale
d stilled his voice.

  Though he had only received a few lashings, Brummon’s injuries were horrifying to look at. Covered in dried blood and filled with sand, they oozed puss and viscous fluid from between the broken and cracked scabs that formed.

  Steven sympathized with him.

  Again walking, they traveled for more than half a day before stopping at the edge of a deep gorge. The heat from the suns had been bearing down on them with unrelenting malice, driving Steven to desperation for a drink. Even with the Gift, his tongue swelled, his lips beginning to crack. It had been two days since he had a drink of water.

  Up ahead, a decaying bridge spanned an expansive canyon, six kilometers across. As the line slowly advanced over it, everyone had to step over and around gaping holes in the floor of the ancient structure, made more complex by the tethering chain. The bridge itself was made from porous, yellow, hexagonal blocks that looked remarkably similar to that of a bee’s honeycomb. The entire structure was simple in architecture, yet complicated in mechanical physics. It stood like a great monolithic monument, a tribute to the Anunnaki long ago.

  “Na zu uri,” a Gray said, as an unexpected lashing stroke from a whip broke across Steven’s neck and shoulder. The guard then poked him in the back with his gun, inspecting the area where he knew Steven had been whipped earlier.

  He’s noticed that your wounds are gone, said Ashlyn silently.

  They watched as he called to another Gray, and they began speaking in their native tongue. No translation was needed to understand what they were discussing.

  The two Grays approached. The one closest to Steven said, “Ngiz-al ni er-im.” He proceeded to lash him.

  This isn’t good, Steven, he knows you healed!

  I know! said Steven. He’s telling the other one to watch what happens. The pain of the whip’s razor barbs peeling his flesh was excruciating. Steven’s clenched teeth ached from fighting against the pain.

  At least he didn’t notice that you healed, Steven managed to think.

  That day, they trekked for long hours in the hot sun. As night approached, they were brought to a stop. As was typical, the slaves slowly took turns at the straws of water. Only a few minutes slipped away before the guards approached Steven, taking him and Ashlyn out of the line to inspect his wounds. “Bar igi,” said one of the guards, the tip of his rifle poking the almost healed area where Steven had been lashed earlier that morning. As the other guard nodded in acknowledgement, their eyes rose to stare at Steven.

  A moment later, they turned, moving away to discuss it. After only a few softly spoken words passed between them, the guards signaled for other Grays to join them. Together they returned, and to the prod of a rifle, Steven and Ashlyn were led out of the encampment.

  There was going to be an execution.

  ***

  Novacek’s perceptions sped, slowing the movement of everything around him. As his mind took in the visual of what was before him—his heart fought, not wanting to believe it was real. It was a beast of immense size, red in color, with seven heads and ten horns. Even as his own thoughts began to put the pieces together, a voice from the crew confirmed what his eyes told him.

  “It’s Satan!” Just the implication that it could be the creature from the book of Revelation was enough to inspire awe and fear.

  Two of its seven heads held members of the crew in its jaws, while the other five snapped, trying to catch the fleeing people. Its spiked tail swung rhythmically back and forth.

  The creature tore through the crew as if they were insignificant, their weapons doing no damage. Like the others, Novacek’s blaster pummeled him, with no effect.

  The beast tossed one of its victims into the air, catching him again by his arm, which tore away. The man, already dead, fell to the cavern floor.

  In the low light of the cavern, Novacek tried to make out the identity of another person who was screaming. The beast flipped him around, catching him around his chest. To the sound of breaking ribs, blood squirted from the man’s mouth as the creature bit down, his head going limp. As the beast chomped, hungrily swallowing, bits and pieces of his body fell to the ground like crumbs.

  Littered around the cavern lay several of the crew, all dead.

  Off to Novacek’s right, a Titan laser rifle opened up. The beast rose onto its hind legs and gave a loud, terrifying, shrill screech that resonated enough to loosen several small boulders from the cavern’s ceiling. The Titan rifle had the power to do what the blasters could not. The first blast from the laser severed one of the horns on top of its head. The next blast cut a long, clean line down the creature’s belly, spilling out unrecognizable organs and fluids.

  The beast roared, retreating against the wall and then in a heartbeat, transformed back into the man, Enlil, intact and without blemish. The Titan rifle continued its assault on him, but now in this form with seemingly little effect. Its mark left only a slightly darkened, singed area.

  At that exact moment, Enlil’s eyes met Novacek’s—and in that instant as they shared a single thought, Novacek realized his own vulnerability.

  Next to him sat Phillip, curled into a ball and hiding his head. Enlil calmly walked over, and as Novacek moved to shield him, Enlil batted him aside.

  Reaching out, Enlil picked Phillip up and slung him over his shoulder. Phillip thrashed in vain. A broad smile came to Enlil’s face as Phillip called out to Novacek for help.

  For the second time in Novacek’s life, he felt completely helpless.

  Though the words were not needed, he gave the command, “Cease-fire everyone. Cease fire! Enlil, let the boy go, take me instead. I promise you, there will be no tricks.” Novacek laid his weapon down and raised his hands to shoulder height. Enlil taunted, faking his contemplation of the offer, before his lips pursed into a wide-toothed grin of pure evil.

  “I suppose you are too innocent to know that the young ones taste best!” Without a care in the world, Enlil turned to exit—the crew that were in his way gazed at Novacek, silently asking what they should do.

  As Enlil turned to look at Novacek, he shifted Phillip into a position where he could snap his neck.

  “Let him go!” said Novacek to the crew. “Enlil, this isn’t over. Do not harm the boy. Remember, our ships are on their way here. You’ll need him to negotiate—or we’ll have no reason to spare your life.” It was all he could do, little as it was.

  The crew parted, letting Enlil walk out with Phillip.

  No one knew what to do. To aggressively pursue a near-invincible enemy wasn’t the wisest of decisions, and yet to do nothing left them feeling like cowards.

  “Martin, get me an update on what losses we’ve suffered, both the dead and injured!” ordered Novacek. “Banks, have the able-bodied members of the crew break open all the rafts and pack the gear into them. Prepare everyone to move out in fifteen minutes! It doesn’t matter how badly they are injured. They have to go—or they’ll die!”

  Novacek put his hand to his forehead, gingerly touching the bump that had risen where Enlil had swatted him. He had a least one broken rib. His back and shoulders were one giant contusion from his encounter with the cavern wall. With one leg injured, his other good leg felt as weak as a withered sapling.

  “What are we going to do about the admiral’s son?” Casey asked Novacek.

  “I have no idea. I’m open to suggestions.”

  Casey remained silent to his plea. “I guess I’ll go help Banks get the rafts ready.”

  Novacek turned to his team leaders. “Franklin, recall all the watches. We’re moving out—and get me a report on Phillip. Let me know if he is still alive.”

  “What was that thing, sir?” asked a voice in the crowd who had gathered around him.

  “It was the Wild Beast,” answered Cardin, who was standing nearby. “You know, from the Bible. Seven heads, ten horns. It’s the Devil that we’re fighting!”

  To those that stood nearby and overheard Cardin’s comment, Novacek countered, “I know the de
scription fits, but let’s refer to it as a dragon, understood? Whatever Enlil is, he is not the Devil. It is just a guise he uses to instill fear. The rifles were hurting him. That is why he left and that is why he took the boy. He showed us that he’s vulnerable.”

  “Sir? From the beginning you knew it was a trick, how?” asked Stratton.

  Novacek shook his head. “I was never sure. It was just a feeling. It wasn’t logical that they’d had a change of heart. Genocide of a species isn’t something to be taken so lightly that you can simply change your mind.”

  “When you put it that way…”

  “We all wanted to believe him, Stratt. We all wanted to believe,” Novacek said.

  “Where’s the commander?” shouted a runner as he entered the cavern from outside. Someone pointed him toward Novacek. “A ship picked Enlil and the admiral’s son up at the edge of the forest. It is hovering just out of range. We believe he must have given the order for them to prep to attack. They are spreading out, forming a thick line. There are thousands, sir. Thousands.”

  “Thanks.” For only the second time in his life, Novacek said a prayer to God, unsure if there was even a God to hear his words. There are no atheists in foxholes, he thought to himself.

  “Stratton, take charge of the crew. Take them down the river. If it isn’t in the rafts in ten minutes, leave it! Once you head out, take the river’s first fork to the right. It leads to safety. Don’t miss it!”

  “On the map, that route doesn’t go anywhere!”

  “Take my word for it. It’s the route to safety! I just don’t have the time to explain. You now have nine minutes, Stratt. Get out of here and don’t miss that fork!”

  “We’ll leave a raft for you,” said Stratt.

  Novacek shook his head. “Take them all. You’ll need every one of them. I’m staying. I’ll buy you the time you need to get away. Now get going.”