The Gordian Event: Book 1 (The Blue World Wars)

by Lee Deadkeys

  They all turned toward his approach, squeaked a few ratty curses and moved to meet him. He hadn’t expected this and stopped, unsure of how to proceed now that they challenged him.

  The rats stopped.

  Ox stood staring into their black, beady eyes, sure that no rabid animal acted this way. He stomped his foot and yelled, hoping to scatter them for now and deal with them later with traps or poison.

  Before he had time to ready himself, the big rat closest to him lunged. For such a small animal, it was surprising how far the thing could launch itself. Ox watched, stupefied and unprepared, as the little creature landed on the leg of his jeans and sunk its teeth into his flesh.

  Yelling, he kicked out with his leg, sending the rat flying into the others. Almost as one, they moved on him. Ox regained himself and began swinging the shovel into the midst of them. Tiny bodies flew in all directions.

  Even after the first few were crushed or cut open, the others still advanced, stumbling over the corpses of their brethren. Ox continued to swing the shovelhead into the group, eliminating three or four at a time. Some lay wounded and bleeding, still trying to drag their broken bodies toward him. These he crushed under his boot, trying to keep his stomach in check as the bones crunched and the bodies popped.

  As he neared the door, the remaining ones tried to dodge his swings and come at him from behind. Ox kicked out at them, stunning them and finishing them off with a quick stomp.

  Finally, as the last of them had been dispatched, he paused at the door of the shed to catch his breath and take stock of the carnage. The carport looked like a rodent killing-field. Bloody and broken little bodies lay everywhere. His pants had a few small holes in them and he could feel the places where he’d been bitten. He would have these looked at while at the hospital.

  He turned back to the shed, deciding to wait on cleaning up the mess until he could call animal control and have the rats tested for rabies. Placing a hand on the closed doors, he could feel a vibration, like some huge, silent machine running within. His mother’s words came back to him; they’re guarding something in the shed.

  “What the hell is in there?” He wondered aloud and thought of a Stephen King story he’d read once about a giant machine that killed people. He chuckled to himself, feeling foolish for his hesitation. “Only one way to find out,” he said with more confidence than he felt, and shoved open the doors.

  The doors swung open, grating against the concrete and setting his teeth on edge. Inside the shed was pitch black, blacker than he thought it should be. He waited for his eyes to adjust but after a moment he cursed and reached for the switch.

  The light switch was on the inside, left of the door. He hesitated, realizing he’d have to reach into the darkness to turn on the lights. His fingers touched the edge of the black. He sensed a thickness there, as if his fingers passed through a heavy vapor. Ox willed his hand in further, ignoring the slight tingle in his fingers. His groping hand found the light switch and he flicked it up.

  Three bulbs blasted to life. There was a moment of perfect illumination inside the shed, and then one by one the bulbs dimmed to a sickly yellow before winking out completely. Ox stood with his hand still on the switch, starring once again into utter blackness.

  His lungs began to burn and he realized he’d stopped breathing. He took a breath and backed away from the shed, head shaking, arm still extended in front. “It can’t be,” he muttered. “It just can’t be.”

  Turning on his heel, Ox bolted for his truck and his cell phone inside, while his mind continued its mantra; it can’t be… it just can’t. His boot came down on one of the dead rats, shooting his leg painfully behind him while his upper body pitched forward. Arms flailing wildly to stabilize himself, he managed to avoid landing face first on the concrete drive.

  Regaining his feet, Ox tested his leg. He’d pulled a muscle in his groin but it was nothing that wouldn’t walk out. This is how people die in the movies, he thought. Running around like a damned fool in traffic.

  Limping his way into the house, he mentally compiled a list of what to do first. After checking on his mother, fast asleep and none the wiser, he took up the phone and dialed Jess’s cell. The static on the line was terrible.

  When he heard her voice, he jammed the phone painfully against his ear before realizing it was her voicemail. “Jess, Jess, it’s Ox. I’m still at Mom’s and well… there is one of those box things in her shed. Jess, I, I think you should stay away from it. I think you should lock it in there and call someone, cops or someone. Call me as soon as you can.”

  He hung the phone up, looked around the kitchen and saw the dry-erase board hanging on the fridge. He quickly scrawled a note for his mother.

  Mom, went to hardware store for chain to lock up the shed. DON’T GO OUT THERE! Be back soon.

  Day 5, Morning

  Dick Cropp

  Dick’s U-Store-It

  Dick Cropp crammed another handful of potato chips into his already stuffed mouth. The Beverly Hillbillies were doing hillbilly things in Beverly, and Dick believed it was the only show worth watching anymore.

  Jethro had a shotgun in his hand, chasing away yet another of Ellie Mae’s suitors, when the news broke across the screen.

  Dick beat a greasy fist on the arm of the chair. “What the fuck is this shit?”

  A news chopper camera panned around an area of Downtown Phoenix. Six columns of what looked like black smoke trailed skyward from the ground. The picture flickered and then caught; the man’s voice garbled with static.

  The camera zoomed in as the reporter tried to yell through the noise of the chopper.

  “... don’t know… long we can repor… the FAA… grounding all air traff… dangers from….”

  The chopper camera closed in on one of the black columns just as the image flickered and went black.

  “Is that birds?” Delilah asked from the floor, between Dick’s knees.

  “Yeah, looked like pigeons. Fuck of a lot of pigeons.”

  Delilah nodded as she brushed potato chip crumbs from her hair. “That’s kind of weird.”

  “Uh, ya think?” Dick said, glaring at the back of her head.

  The camera flicked back to life, this time showing a close-up of the vehicle-clogged street. What was left of a white car sat in the middle of the road, a cube-shaped object replacing the entire front left side, as if it had chewed out and devoured the part of the vehicle that had dared to occupy its space.

  Delilah pointed at a spot where the driver of the car had been sitting and exclaimed, “Gross, look!”

  Dick looked and saw a dark stain heading away from the car to an area just off camera. The camera view panned to follow the grisly trail until it came upon a woman dragging herself from the vehicle, both legs severed at the thigh. A throng of people stood around their vehicles, some staring vacant-eyed at the box, some staring skyward at the massive blot of birds circling above.

  Dick sat stock-still, a handful of chips stalled near his open mouth. “No fucking way. That’s the same thing in the unit.”

  Just then, the screen popped and went black again. A reporter came on moments later, the live feed from the newsroom only slightly better than from the chopper. “It seems we’ve lost them but will keep our viewers posted with any breaking news….”

  The anchorwoman paused, looking to her left as someone handed her a piece of paper. “Okay, we have some numbers for those of you at home. The FBI and local police are asking our viewers for assistance by reporting any sighting of these cube-shaped objects. All agencies are urging citizens to avoid the objects if possible and call authorities immediately. The numbers are….”

  Dick jumped from the chair, grabbed a pen and paper from the desk and began scribbling. Snatching up the phone he dialed the first number on the list, busy. He tried every number on the list and finally slammed down the phone when the automated voice asked if he wanted it to keep trying the number for a fee.

  He stared at the phone for
a moment then snapped his fingers, picked up the receiver and dialed 911. Delilah watched as he held the phone away from his ear. “Fucking 911’s busy too.”

  Day 5,Morning

  Mason and Jess

  Indian School Road

  Jessica smiled as Mason lightly tapped the horn, politely urging the motorist in front of them to stop texting and use what was left of the green light. Self-consciously, she played out what her own reaction might be if she were driving. Hang up and drive, you dumbass, most likely yelling at the other driver while hanging out the side window, she thought.

  Mason glanced at her, catching the smile and returning it with his own.

  “What?” He asked.

  “Nothing. Just you. You’re a good man.” She hesitated and looked out her window. “You’re a good person in general. You don’t hate anyone… people don’t piss you off, like, ever.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I’ve hated a few people in my life, and some people royally piss me off. But you can’t call people on every stupid thing they do or you’ll just stay pissed all the time. My Grandma used to say, you should pick your battles, otherwise you’ll be waging war constantly and someone you love is apt to get hit with friendly-fire. Then she’d tell me that ‘friendly-fire, really isn’t.’”

  He chuckled, “I was about fourteen before I knew what that meant. Still working on the ones about ‘not seeing the forest for the trees’ and ‘wouldn’t notice it on a trotting horse.’”

  Jess continued to stare out the window, not wanting to look at him for fear that he would see that she was near tears.

  “Jess, you okay?”

  She nodded her head, the action causing a traitorous tear to slide down her cheek. Wiping it away, she hoped he would let it go and not press her further. Mason pulled the truck into a parking area in front of a check cashing place.

  “Jess, what is it? Was it something I said?” He asked.

  “No, it’s… it’s not you,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “What, then?” he asked, truly concerned now.

  She still wouldn’t look at him and he wondered if he should keep pushing it.

  Mason took her hand in his, “Jess, you have to tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  She nodded once, sighed and said, “Angel called while you were in the convenience store.”

  Mason closed his mouth, opened it, but still nothing came out.

  Jess startled him when she spoke again.

  “I had these two dogs once, brothers from the same litter. Just mutt dogs, ugly things but very loyal and protective. I was playing with them outside one day when a huge Pitbull came out of nowhere and attacked Flotsam. It caught me off guard; I just stood there for a moment as the Pit started shaking Flot like a rag.

  The yelping snapped me out of it. Jet jumped in and tried to defend Flot while I ran for a stick. I couldn’t find anything right away so I ran around the side of the house and found a ball-bat. When I got back to the fight, I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Jet’s front leg had been broken and dangled by a piece of flesh. The Pit had a hold of Flot and was tearing the fur off what was left of his face and neck.” Jess paused a moment, wiping another tear from her cheek.

  “I ran at the Pit and hit it in the head with the bat. It glanced up at me, bored now, and then trotted off. I wanted to run after it, beat it in the head till its brains ran out its ears. Flot whimpered and I just dropped down beside him. I couldn’t touch him, you know? There was no part of him that wasn’t torn and bleeding. Jet was limping in circles, howling and biting at himself.

  I must have started screaming because Dad came running over from the neighbors with a tire iron. He made me stay with the neighbor lady while he took Flot and Jet to the vet. He came back hours later, but only with Jet. They couldn’t save the leg but said he would be fine with three.”

  She sighed. “About a month later, Jet had physically recovered and didn’t seem to miss the leg at all. He wasn’t right though. He became aggressive over his food, other dogs, and even people. I couldn’t pet him anymore without him growling and backing away. He cried and yelped in his sleep. Then one night, I tried to get him up on my bed. I missed my dogs, I missed them sleeping on my legs and digging up my blankets, I missed feeling safe at night. Jet tried to get away and I grabbed him by his back leg, he turned around and bit me on the arm. Not just a little warning either, he drew blood. I jerked my arm back, shocked.”

  Jess bumped her first on her knee twice and swallowed hard. “He just looked at me then, like I should have known better, like I should have learned the same lesson he had; that sometimes there is only one thing holding it all together. That one good thing that keeps us decent and loyal, keeps us from tearing the world apart. And when that one good thing is gone, ripped from you brutally, then, damn the world and everything in it. I didn’t learn that lesson then because Flot was not my one good thing. I learned it when Jacob was taken from me… because he was mine.

  Dad took Jet away after he bit me. Maybe it was for the best, maybe it would have been better if they had gone together….”

  Mason waited for her to go on, to tell him the point of this story and what it had to do with Angel calling. She talked this way often, using parables or seemingly unrelated stories to make a point. He usually got it wrong, when he got it at all.

  He thought of himself as a straight shooter, a get-to-the-point kind of guy. It was less complicated that way, less confusing because people always knew where he was coming from and where he was headed. Frank was that way too, and it suddenly occurred to him that this was a lot of the trouble between father and daughter; they each spoke a very different language.

  Jess let out a long, tired sigh, “I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell my point is.” She looked at him now, her eyes puffy and red. She looked tired, sad and angry; it was an unsettling combination.

  “I resented Angel for leaving after Jacob’s funeral,” she began. “She was the closest thing to my brother that I had left. I thought we could get through this together. In a way, I hated her for being the last one to see Jacob. I believed, and still do, to a point, that if I had of been there instead of her, my brother would still be alive.” She shook her head.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she sensed that I resented her, maybe that’s why she left. I wanted to punish someone but I couldn’t find the guy responsible, couldn’t pay someone in prison to kill his ass.

  And then she left… and it was my fault, I made her feel guilty for surviving.”

  Jess put her head in her hands, a quiet sob escaping her. “You wouldn’t have done that, Mason. You’re a better person.”

  Mason pulled her to him, holding her tightly. She cried against his chest for a few moments before pulling away. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Now Angel is back in town and….”

  “What? She’s back in Arizona?” Mason asked.

  “Yeah, she is. She’s in the hospital. There was so much static on the line, I couldn’t make out much but I heard something about a miscarriage and Phoenix Baptist….”

  “She was pregnant?” Mason asked. “Oh my God, poor Angel! You didn’t know?”

  Jess shook her head sadly. “No. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through….”

  “We have to go see her,” Mason said.

  Jess nodded. “Definitely, but first we need to help Dad. For some reason, I really don’t want him alone in the unit with that, thing.”

  Day 5, Morning

  Sam Story

  Home

  Sam Story woke with a stiff neck and a mouth that felt as if he’d been grazing in a cotton field. The TV was still on; the picture quality was crap and the sound only slightly better. A rugged-looking older guy made suggestive glances at a beautiful young woman while talking to Sam about how his dick could be enlarged and more sensitive if he were man enough to accept a free trial of pills.

  Through the fuzzy reception, the older man looked dir
ectly at Sam and asked, “What are you waiting for?” Sam wiped the drool from his shoulder and chin and answered, “A beautiful woman who doesn’t care if my dick is on the fritz, asshole.”

  The small house smelled like cigarettes, feet and old pizza. Sam thought to write a note for the cleaning lady to air out the place. He reached for the doodle-cramped pad and pen lying on the table next to his chair and froze.

  “What the fu—” He grabbed up the pad, scrutinizing the new notation scribbled in a hand he didn’t recognize as his own. Winding in and around the phone numbers and small notes were the words, Phoenix Bapti—shhhh be quiet Sam, the Event has started.

  There, mingled amongst the words, were small caveman-like pictograms depicting a variety of strange and vaguely grotesque scenes. The word Event had been etched out in bold strokes, chaotically traced over again and again, superimposing it in a series of infinite regressions. Sam turned the pad over, the cardboard backing showed the bas-relief image through more than two hundred pages of paper.

  Sam dropped the pad back on the table. Echoes of his conversation with Chad accompanied violent snippets from his nightmare and he briefly wondered if it been part of the dream. Probably not, why doodle this strange message on the phone pad unless it had happened? “And why was I asleep in the chair?” he asked the room.

  Getting up from the chair, his ass all pins and needles, he walked to the kitchen, threw some coffee grounds in the basket, added water to the reservoir and hit the ON button.

  He picked up the phone on the kitchen bar and pressed 411. Nothing happened, no dial tone, nothing. He put the phone back on the cradle, remembering that he’d ripped the cord from the wall. He tried again after plugging the line back into the wall and holding it in place with a piece of tape.

  After the tenth static-laden ring, Sam hung up and tried 411 again, but again it just rang. As he listened, he turned his head enough to see the TV. The pulsing interruptions on the TV were perfectly in tune with the throbbing static on the line. Some kind of solar flare, he figured and hung up the phone.