The Flooding

by Sean Hancock

  “We should clear the rest of the house first,” he says while closing the trapdoor, plunging the basement into darkness.

  Please don’t lock it, I think, but of course they do, the metal bolt sliding into place. I get out from where I am and switch on the light.

  I pull out Bacchus’s iPhone. There are eleven missed calls from a person named “Jord.” The icon on the screen reads slide to call, so I do. After three rings, a man answers: “Where the hell are you? We’re at the house now.”

  It’s the same guy who just made the decision to clear the rest of the house before coming down here.

  I hang up and try to access the contacts page, but this time, it asks for a security code. Frustrated, I switch the thing off and shove it into a pocket.

  I think about my four thousand years of training, about what Ashkai would do if he were in my position. I try to imagine what his advice would be, even whispering to him, “I need you, master, tell me what to do,” but I get nothing in return.

  I look at the dead body.

  Something occurs to me. It’s an idea that quickly evolves into a plan. It’s far from perfect, but anything is better than just hiding and hoping for the best.

  Doing what I have to do isn’t easy and it takes effort, but by the time the trapdoor opens again, seconds after I unscrewed the light bulb, everything is in place.

  “Let’s take a look,” Jord says, and I stop breathing, keeping totally still.

  Following a short pause, the young one asks, “What’s that?”

  The three of them peer down from the safety of the kitchen. I’m guessing they have a flashlight. “You were just on it, back that way.”

  While they were upstairs sweeping the house, I rolled Bacchus’s corpse underneath the counter, concealing it behind Christmas decorations, luggage, and camping equipment. I am lying where he was, facedown, positioned so that his blood appears to be flowing from my body, obsidian blade tucked under the upper part of my chest.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Jord mutters, and the young one asks, “Is it her?”

  Jord says, “I don’t know.” Then he says, “Salazar, you come with me. Cato, stay here and keep watch. If anything happens, you know what to do; don’t hesitate. Do you understand? We can’t take any chances.”

  “You can count on me, sir.”

  The other two begin their descent, leaving Cato in the kitchen. That means if my plan works, which is unlikely, all he’ll have to do is lock me in and call for backup. Is that what the guy in charge meant by don’t hesitate?

  One problem at a time, I think. Jord says, “Where’s the light?”

  I consider launching an attack while they’re still finding their bearings, but I hesitate, and the moment passes.

  “I have it,” Salazar says, flicking the switch over and over. “It’s not working.”

  “That’s because there’s no bulb,” Jord says.

  “Explains the candles.”

  “What on earth happened here?” Jord says, obviously referring to me, the blood, and the general carnage of the room.

  The German, who is edging closer, says, “It’s got to be her, right?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Jord replies, “but just in case, put a bullet in her head.”

  “Why?” Salazar asks. “Nobody could survive losing that much blood.”

  Jord takes a step forward. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

  “Please sir,” Salazar says, his tone both professional and pleading. “I have it.”

  I don’t hesitate. I swing both legs up and around and to the left, sweeping Germany’s feet from under him as I grab the sacrificial blade and rotate onto my back. Salazar is falling toward me now, his body turned in the direction of the ceiling, his flashlight spinning in the air.

  When he slams into me, muscular and heavy, the knife, which I am holding in place above my chest, pierces his left shoulder blade, grinding through skin, bone, and heart.

  Jord, who also has a flashlight, is firing shots but has so far only managed to hit his partner. I tuck my head and bring my arms around. I grab Salazar’s right hand, the one that’s still holding the weapon he was about to kill me with. The German is more dead than alive, and it’s not difficult to take control. I press his index finger repeatedly. The bright flash of each bullet illuminates Jord’s bearded face, which is being transformed into a mess of blood and mangled flesh.

  Before the American has even hit the ground, I maneuver Salazar’s hand, now completely lifeless, so that the gun is aimed high over my left shoulder. I get a glimpse of Cato—baby face, ginger hair, silver necklace—and pop off two more rounds. Both miss, and he slams the trapdoor shut. I pull the trigger again and again, aiming for the lock, but the magazine is empty.

  I push Salazar to the side and stand. I pick up a flashlight. Jord is facedown on the floor, his weapon close by. I hope there are at least two bullets left: one to destroy that lock and the other to kill Cato. I’m reaching for Jord’s gun when the trapdoor, which is behind me, opens. I have to assume Cato is armed. Driven by adrenaline, I dive right in the direction of the counter along the far wall. As I hit the floor and turn, a handmade Molotov cocktail slams into the center of the room, the resulting explosion consuming Jord and Salazar and also the gun I was half a second from retrieving.

  Cato throws in another before locking the trapdoor. I manage to roll out of the way, and it smashes into the Christmas decorations, luggage, and camping equipment. A huge fireball engulfs the whole area, including the work surface above, but the flames are a secondary concern. If I inhale too much of that dark, acrid smoke, I’ll be dead in under a minute.

  The basement is now flooded with heat and light, and everything smells of burning flesh.

  I’m able to find a small, dirty towel in the far corner of the room, which I wrap around my nose and mouth. It will buy me some time but not much. I grab an empty linen basket and make a beeline for the sink. By the time I have filled it, both fires have increased significantly in size and power. I throw the water onto the one consuming the far wall, as it poses the biggest threat, but the water barely makes a dent.

  I open the washing machine; it’s empty. I move on to the dryer, which, to my relief, is filled with white cotton sheets and towels. I grab a handful and run them under the sink. By now the whole room is thick with poisonous fumes, and my eyes, which are stinging, are becoming useless.

  Armed with wet laundry, I hurry to the raging bonfire in the center of the room. Once there, I wrap two sheets and a towel around my right hand and arm and throw the rest onto the flames in the general area I last saw Jord’s gun. I reach into the blaze now, feeling around, but then have to pull out because of the unbearable heat and sickening fumes.

  I’ve started coughing and have thirty seconds or so before I pass out, which means if I don’t get my hands on that gun, it’s all over. I’m about to reach in again and suffer third-degree burns if that’s what it takes when . . .

  “Sam, are you in there? Sam!”

  Coughing and spluttering and on the verge of passing out, I turn and look up. Through the dark, scorching smoke I see what appears to be a sphere of soft yellow light. Realizing the trapdoor is open, I make a dash for the metal stairs and start climbing. But there’s a problem: my arms and legs have turned to jelly, and I’m losing clarity. When the inevitable happens, and I slip and fall, someone grabs me from above, yanking my beaten, bruised, and burned body into the kitchen.

  “Are you okay?” my savior repeats over and over as my cough mutates into a delirious laugh. The irony of my situation, at this moment at least, is the funniest thing in the world. Fire saved me from the Decimatio—saved me from the man who tried to remove my heart—only to try and kill me hours later.

  It’s so funny, it hurts.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Fresh from my long and soothing ice-cold shower, I walk into the bedroom wrapped in a towel and grab my bag.

  “Where you going?” Tammuz asks, sitt
ing on the edge of the bed.

  I gesture toward the bathroom. “To get changed.”

  “Do it here if you like. I’ll close my eyes.”

  Is he making a move?

  The timing isn’t great, but the same was true after I put a bullet in Sergei’s head. I remember how animalistic and aggressive I was, how I needed it to happen.

  I put my bag down and smile. “How do I know you won’t peek?”

  “Would it matter? I mean it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “Sure about that?” I say, letting the towel drop, my body a patchwork of cuts, bruises, and burns. None are particularly serious, and everything should heal okay with the correct care, but for now, I look like I’ve been put through a wood chipper.

  Tammuz stands and approaches, putting his hands on my naked shoulders. “We gotta get you to a hospital.”

  “I can’t afford it,” I say, reaching for the towel, covering myself.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no such thing as free healthcare here, and I don’t have insurance.”

  “I’ll put it on my credit card.”

  “Trust me; it’s not as bad as it looks. There’s a pharmacy on the corner; I’ll be able to get everything I need from there. Actually, do you mind going for me?”

  He steps back, eyes narrowing. “What, so you can vanish again? Until you tell me what the hell you’re involved in and why people are trying to murder you, I’m not leaving your side.”

  “Even if it gets you killed?”

  “Yes . . .” He hesitates. “Even if it gets me killed. That’s how much I need to know. That’s how much I care.”

  After pulling me out of the basement from hell just over an hour ago, Tammuz gave me water, washed my face, and wrapped me in the red throw that had previously been covering Kaya’s sofa. With emergency vehicles wailing in the distance and the smoke and fire worsening, Tammuz led me out via the back door, but I wouldn’t go anywhere until he agreed to take the ayahuasca vine with us.

  “Is that what all this is about?” he’d asked. “A stupid plant?”

  As soon as we got back to my hotel room, Tammuz fired more questions: “What happened back there? Who was that man and what did he want? Who are you really?”

  Instead of answering, I hit back with a few of my own. “Where did you come from? What happened to the ginger-haired guy who tried to kill me? How did you know I was in the basement?”

  As always, Tammuz broke first, explaining he was halfway to my hotel when he thought better of it and turned back, worrying I’d never show up. He was two hundred yards from Kaya’s house and had just heard what sounded like gunshots when a man with ginger hair came running out and sped off in a car. Tammuz got into the kitchen through the back door and knew instantly there was a fire coming from below. Because the room was filling with smoke, he missed the trapdoor to begin with. Then he took a step forward and heard a creak under his foot . . .

  After getting changed in the bathroom, I tell Tammuz I’m heading out to grab a bite and that he’s welcome to join.

  He starts freaking out, saying I owe him an explanation and that he wants it right now, adding, “And if you lie to me again, I’m done, for good this time. No more stopping you getting raped or pulling you out of fires. You’ll be on your own, no matter what stupid dreams I have.”

  “What dreams?” I ask, thinking that’s the second time he’s mentioned that today. “Has the woman with indigo eyes returned?”

  “No,” he says. “And anyway, I’m not answering any more of your questions until you answer some of mine.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Let me eat, and I’ll explain everything.”

  “The truth this time?”

  “Nothing but.”

  We find a cute little café and sit outside, facing each other. To my right and Tammuz’s left is an undulating skate park full of cool kids wearing baggy jeans, colorful T-shirts, and baseball caps. Beyond them is a row of palm trees lining a wide, spacious beach, which in turn gives way to the deep and glistening Pacific Ocean.

  Wafts of coffee and fried food are carried over the salty breeze. Our waitress pours water for us, and I order salmon and scrambled eggs. Tammuz opts for a cup of tea with yogurt and granola. Before our food arrives, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. As I’m walking through the restaurant back to our table, I get a line of sight on Tammuz as he puts something into his mouth, washing it down with water. It reminds me of the morning we met when I was in his bedroom, having just shaved my head. Tammuz was clearing a space on his messy, cluttered desk when he stumbled upon a container of pills. It was obvious from the way he behaved that he didn’t want me to see what they were. I consider asking him about it, but then I remember it’s none of my business.

  I sit, and our food quickly arrives. I’m ravenous and consume every last morsel in record time.

  Tammuz says, “I’ve kept my side of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”

  I look at his pretty features and messy black hair. There’s a tingle of happiness in my chest. “What do you want to know?”

  “The truth.”

  “About what specifically?”

  “Stop playing games.”

  “I’m not; I just don’t know where to start.”

  “The beginning is as good a place as any.”

  “That would be a VERY long story.”

  “I’m not here for a story. I want the truth.”

  “What if the truth is inconceivable and impossible to believe?”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Ideally, when this conversation is over, Tammuz, who I want more than anything to be safe, will get as far away from me as possible. For that to happen, he needs to think I’m lying, but I’m not sure I’ve got it in me, not after he flew halfway across the world to save my life. I realize something: I might be able to kill two birds with one stone by being totally and utterly honest. He’ll think I’m a crazy, pathological liar and run a mile, but at least I’ll have a clear conscience and know I did right by him. For once. It makes me sad to imagine him running, but that’s just selfish.

  I sit upright and rest my palms on the table. There is a scattering of people eating brunch and drinking healthy-looking smoothies, but I don’t care what they hear or think. I’m staring into my friend’s eyes, trying to connect with him on a deeper, more meaningful level.

  “My full name, my real name, is Samsara . . .”

  Tammuz’s face lights up. “That’s it,” he says, slamming his hand on the table. “That was what the lady with the eyes told me . . .”

  I interject. “So you have seen her again?”

  “No. I’m talking about the first time, the night before you tried to claw my eyes out. She called you Samsara. It’s been bugging the hell out of me.”

  “She cannot be trusted,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If she appears again, do not listen to what she says, and get away if you can.”

  “Are you suggesting she’s a real person?”

  “Her name is Meta. She is very dangerous.”

  “But it was just a dream,” he says with doubt in his tone, remembering how moved and shaken he was at the time. “You know the difference, right, between dreams and reality?”

  “The line is much more blurred than you imagine.”

  He sighs. “Sure it is.”

  “If she wasn’t real, how was she able to give you information about me, information that was correct?”

  He thinks for a moment. “You must have told me your full name, or I overheard you or something, maybe when you were sleeping . . .”

  “Anything is possible,” I say, remembering my goal is to tell the truth, not convince him of it.

  “What’s next, a story about how you were abducted by aliens? You promised the truth.”

  I say, “Just shut up and listen.” I pause. I’ve never said this to a Sleeper. Then I say, “The truth is, I’m four thousand years ol
d and counting.’”

  He rolls his eyes and goes to speak, but I beat him to it, saying that if he interrupts again, this conversation is over.

  “Fine,” he says. “If nothing else, it will be entertaining.”

  “You’re not even twenty,” I say, “and look at the baggage you carry around: the hate you have for your father, losing Dina, selling drugs, falling out with Viktor, going to prison . , , And that’s just what you’ve told me. Imagine four thousand years of that stuff. Imagine the number of enemies you’d have built up? Well, mine happen to be very dangerous and extremely resourceful.

  “In my previous life cycle, before I was reborn as Rosa, they found us. By us, I mean my master and me. I escaped, but he was captured. I am fighting for the liberation of his soul. That’s what all this is about.”

  Something, I’m not sure what, seems to have struck a chord with Tammuz, his expression much less derisory now. He says, “On the bus from Exeter, while you were still asleep, you called me master. Did you think I was him?”

  I nod. “I was confused and disoriented.”

  Tammuz lets that sink in and takes a deep breath before saying, “I’m going to suspend disbelief for a while and see where this goes. Who are they and why are they chasing you?”

  “Souls who remember past lives are known as Flooders. There are many of us, a worldwide community, in fact, with its own government and laws. Meta is essentially the prime minister or president of that government, and like all politicians, she is corrupt and motivated by her own vested interests.”

  “Which are?”

  “To stagnate human consciousness and stop people realizing their true potential.”

  “Why, what does she gain?”

  “Power. In a truly enlightened world, there would be no place for Meta and her followers because all knowledge would be shared and everybody would be equal.”

  “And that’s what you and your master want?”

  “It’s what we fight for.”

  “How?”

  “By initiating and enlightening as many souls as possible.”