The Flooding

by Sean Hancock

  “The how is immaterial,” he says. The man is afraid but not yet overwhelmed.

  Cato’s tattoo offers a strong indication he is less capable than me both physically and mentally, but that’s not to say he isn’t dangerous.

  “Who are you and why are you trying to kill me?”

  He smiles, but there is no joy in it. “It’s true, then.”

  “What is?”

  “That you don’t know what you are.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because an enemy who is ignorant is easier to defeat.”

  “Are you sure about that? Your friends are dead, and you are at my mercy.”

  “That’s because you have a powerful ally. He talks to you even now, doesn’t he?”

  Did he hear the voice? I wonder, at the same time saying, “Ashkai?”

  Cato spits on the ground. “He is nothing but a traitor and a liar.”

  I lean forward and press the tip of the blade against his throat. “Do you know where Ashkai is?”

  He shakes his head.

  I move the blade down a few inches. “One way or another, you’re going to tell me what you know.”

  “Do it,” the voice in my head demands. “Make him suffer.”

  “My brothers are waiting for me on the other side,” Cato says, straightening his back. “It would be an honor to be reborn alongside them.”

  If I hesitate or waver, even for a second, he’ll think I’m weak. That’s why I tell him to take his jacket off. When he does, I shove as much of it as I can into his mouth. While convincing myself this is nothing to do with the voice and everything to do with finding my master, I hammer the blade into Cato’s right thigh just above the knee, going all the way to the hilt, holding my free hand over his face to muffle the noise.

  “Kill him,” the voice says, and murderous intentions wash over me. I realize with disgust that I am enjoying this man’s suffering.

  When the worst of the screaming is over, I remove the jacket and say, “That’s as good as this is going to get unless you tell me where Ashkai is.”

  Eyes bulging, brow dripping with sweat, Cato says, “He’s here! He’s here!”

  I turn the knife. “Where?”

  He screams again. This time, there’s nothing to absorb the noise.

  “America.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “New York.”

  I try to get more details, twisting the blade again, but he swears that’s all he knows. My instinct is he’s lying. I decide to start with the fingers on his left hand, willing to do whatever it takes, when somebody tries, unsuccessfully, to open the door.

  “He ran,” Tammuz shouts, banging against it. “People are here; we have to go.”

  “Kill him,” the voice says, and I slap the side of my face three times.

  “It’s already too late,” Cato whispers, but his diction is unclear. One look at him, and it’s obvious why: the small green stone attached to his necklace has found its way into his mouth.

  “He’s inside you even now,” Cato adds before biting down on the cleverly disguised amulet, releasing the deadly poison inside.

  Within seconds, Cato’s body starts to shake violently, his mouth foaming, eyes bulging.

  Aware there is nothing I can do to save him, I gather his belongings and unlock the door. When I step out, there is a large group of startled and afraid people staring at me, some of them on the phone. They must have evacuated the studio on account of Cato’s screaming.

  I scan their faces, searching for Tammuz, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I get out from behind the white desk, break into a jog, and head for the stairs at the far end of the corridor. To get there, I have to pass the indoor garden. As I do, the sun’s rays refract through the skylight in such a way as to be miraculously concentrated on one plant in particular, making it shine, glow, and pulsate with life.

  Chacruna!

  I reach over and grab as many leaves as I can before exiting the building. I place them on the passenger seat of Cato’s Audi. I’m trying not to draw attention to myself as I edge out of the car park and merge with the steady flow of traffic. I listen for the sadistic, cruel voice, but all I can hear is the engine purring.

  And that’s just fine by me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  There’s a voice in my head again, but this time, it belongs to Cato.

  “You don’t know who you are.”

  What did he mean by that and all of the other strange, cryptic things he said? Telling me I had a powerful ally who “talks to you even now,” that it’s too late because “he’s already inside you.”

  Could Cato hear what I was hearing, or did he know something I’m not privy to? Or was he just a crazy, brainwashed, low-level agent caught in the intricate web of propaganda and lies spun by the black widow herself, Meta? To a certain extent, probably yes, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t truth in what he was saying, especially when I consider everything that has happened these past few days, much of it perplexing and unexplainable.

  Then there’s Tammuz. What was that “Jesus, not now” all about? Could it have been a response to the voice? And if so, was it the first time he’d heard it? Tammuz’s tone suggested a certain familiarity, as if he’d reached the end of his tether with someone he knew well.

  It’s possible that someone was me. Since entering his life, it’s been problem after disaster after nightmare. But I don’t believe that’s the case. His comment was targeted at somebody or something else. The question is, who or what?

  I’ve parked Cato’s Audi in an alleyway close to my hotel but am still in the driver’s seat with the engine running, air-conditioning on full blast. Part of my mind is racing, trying to work out what the hell is going on, while the other is being lulled and hypnotized by the sound generated by the air vents, imagining how cold it would need to get before the blood in my veins thickens and eventually freezes. Would that be enough to cool the dark, whispering flames that appeared in my hands during a recent dream? Remembering how one minute I was trying to put Tammuz’s heart back into his chest and the next . . . I was on the summit of the GE Building in New York, my master wanting to know where I got the fire from and saying it was a part of me now and that the only way to extinguish it was to “fill your heart with love.”

  But the entire mystery has a much earlier genesis. After all, there’s the imposter who has been invading my dreams, a male energy who masquerades as Ashkai, the same one who warned me when I was moments from being murdered. In fact, if it hadn’t been for his gift of heat and fire, I wouldn’t have awoken. My story would have ended.

  Was it the fire bullying me to hurt Cato? Was it the imposter? Are they one and the same?

  Then there’s the biggest question of all, one I have avoided through a process of denial and delusion. Why did Ashkai take such a keen interest in me in the first place, a lowly sex slave who was nothing more than a commodity to be used and abused by powerful and cruel men? Why pluck her from obscurity and embark on a rich and textured relationship spanning the ages? And why did he say, as we strolled though his royal gardens after my initial Awakening, that he hoped I was still happy about the decision in four thousand years?

  Well, that time is now, and unfortunately, happiness is not the emotion that best describes my state of being. Even so, I need to stay focused on the only thing that matters: finding my master. Ashkai has been keeping me in the dark about something important. That much has become obvious, but I have to believe he had my best interests at heart. The alternative, and also worst-case scenario, is that I have been used and manipulated for thousands of years, a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.

  Considering that possibility, however far-fetched, brings on feelings of sadness and vulnerability, which are better than the all-consuming bitterness and anger that follow as I punch the steering wheel over and over and scream at the top of my lungs.

  Soon
after come tears, along with the realization that I’m acting like a child.

  I sigh and start massaging my forehead but stop immediately because my fingers and palms feel like the surface of the sun. I hold my hands out to inspect them, but other than looking a bit red and blotchy, which is to be expected after repeatedly thumping the steering wheel, there’s nothing out of the ordinary, unless the flames are still there but unseen, flickering and hungering for the one thing that makes them stronger: negative, destructive emotions.

  I place my hands over the air vents to cool them, and I close my eyes, only opening them again after a sustained period of slow and mindful breathing.

  It has done the trick. I feel better. But what do I do now? Where do I go?

  Cato told me, albeit under extreme duress, that Ashkai was in New York. As somebody who worked for Rebus and ultimately Meta, Cato would have been aware of the events that unfolded on the roof of the GE Building back in 1998. Is that why the Big Apple popped into his head? Or was there some truth in what he was saying?

  In the absence of other leads, I make a decision to set off for New York as soon as possible. I just need to make a detour along the way. I’m thinking about that as I look at the bundle of chacruna leaves on the passenger seat. Instead of butterflies, it’s as if I have a swarm of bats trying to escape the confines of my stomach.

  I now have the tools needed to leave my body and cross over to the spirit realm. To find answers to my questions, I may need to venture deeper into that world than ever before.

  Am I ready? I think. Am I strong enough?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  I turn down the corridor toward my hotel room and see Tammuz slumped on the floor with his head in his hands. He hears me coming and gets up. The look on his face is an unnerving mix of emotions; fear, relief, and anger are the most prominent.

  I nod and open the door. As soon as it’s closed, he says, “I’ve got one question for you, then I’m out of here.”

  The air is sticky and warm, so I turn on the overhead fan. Then I throw Cato’s sports bag onto the bed. It was in the trunk of his car. After emptying his clothes out, I refilled the bag with my DMT-enriched leaves. After all, it would have raised eyebrows if I’d walked around with them on display. The last thing I want is for people to notice me. A loaded gun and a Samsung Galaxy are also in the bag. The latter, like the iPhone I have, has a security lock. Cato’s wallet, I discarded, but not before taking three things from it: $240 in cash, a New York State driver’s license, and a sleek black card with HOUSE OF PHOENIX spelled out in raised gold letters. Beneath that, but smaller and in lowercase, are the words “east village.” The image of a bird with wings of fire is on the reverse.

  It has the look and feel of a private members’ card for a club or association of some sort, one, it seems, that’s frequented by junior agents. I need to do some research online. Maybe Tammuz will let me use his phone? If not, I’ll jump on one of the hotel’s computers in the lobby.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and say, “I’m listening” as a refreshing breeze blows down from above.

  Tammuz takes a few steps and looks down at me from the center of the room. “Is he dead?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s no way you can say it was self-defense. If you killed him, it’s murder. Now is he dead or not?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “Then who did?” But before I can answer, he says, “I heard the screaming. Everyone did. What were you doing to him?”

  “Extracting information.”

  “You sound like a psycho.”

  The comment irritates me, though there’s shame in there, too, and I feel my whole body tighten. “Psychos lock people in basements and set them on fire.”

  “So it was revenge, is that it?”

  “I thought you just had one question?”

  “You haven’t answered it yet.”

  “He killed himself. Does that make you feel better?”

  “What? How?”

  “Remember that green stone on his necklace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turns out it was full of poison.”

  After giving me an incredulous look, as if he’s never met anybody more full of shit, he says, “You read that in a spy novel?”

  I get to my feet. “You know what? I’m sick of you interrogating me and judging me.”

  “Well, I’m sick of people dying.”

  I walk over to the door and open it. “This thing between us, whatever it is, is over. I don’t want your help, and I sure as hell don’t want you following me around like a lost puppy.”

  Tammuz rolls his eyes, but it’s obvious his pride has been hurt.

  “Haven’t you got the message yet?” I say, wanting to do more damage. “Just fuck off back to England and leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  “Get out.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I suggest you leave before I make you.”

  Tammuz stands. “You’re pathetic. You know that?”

  I get a rush of blood and start marching toward him. My plan is to shove him into the corridor, but then I see fear in his eyes, and it shames me.

  What’s happening? I feel as if I’m waking from a terrible nightmare. I’m turning into a monster.

  I come to a halt and drop my head. “I’m sorry. I would never hurt you.”

  The pressure in the room dissipates. Tammuz steps forward and puts his arms around me. The gesture of kindness strips away the last of my defenses, and I start to cry.

  Tammuz doesn’t say anything. He just holds me, and for a brief, blissful moment, it’s as if we are one.

  TWENTY-SIX

  After pouring a very large dose of the thick black liquid into a paper cup, I say, “If in exactly three hours I’m not back and you can’t wake me, what’s going to happen?”

  Tammuz glances at his bottle of water. “You get a cold shower and a slap on the face.”

  “Until then, what do you do?”

  “Keep an eye on your vital signs, watch Mars get pummeled, and stop us getting eaten by coyotes, the usual stuff.”

  “And what don’t you do?”

  “Drink any of that, although I still can’t see why not.” He’s pointing at the repurposed Coca-Cola bottle I’ve just poured from.

  “Do we have to go over this again?” I say, placing the bottle inside my backpack for safekeeping. “I need you clear-headed in case anything goes wrong. Also if . . .”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, even though he’s just telling me what I want to hear. That’s fine as long as he sticks to the plan.

  It’s 8:30 p.m. on Friday, October 11. We left my hotel three hours ago and took an Uber to Runyon Canyon’s northern entrance on Mulholland Drive, up in the Hollywood Hills. The huge, undulating park covers the eastern section of the Santa Monica mountains, and the panoramic views of Los Angeles are glimmering and spectacular, especially on a clear, balmy night like this.

  Yesterday, after the unfortunate incident with Cato and the argument that ensued, Tammuz and I lay on the bed for what I thought would be a short nap. Instead, we slept, dreamlessly in my case, for twelve hours. Rather than waking energized and refreshed, I felt weak, heavy, and incredibly guilty for wasting so much time.

  I spent the early morning focused on just two things: beating myself up and gathering the paraphernalia needed for brewing ayahuasca: a portable gas stove, a wooden mallet, a sharp knife, distilled water, and a large steel pot.

  I also turned on the cell phone taken from Bacchus, the man who tried to kill me in Kaya’s basement. Almost immediately, an icon appeared, indicating a voicemail had been left overnight. In order to access it, I needed the security code. I tried 1, 2, 3, 4, and other obvious combinations but didn’t have any luck. Cato’s Samsung ran out of juice while we were sleeping, a
nd when I sent Tammuz out to buy a charger, he came back with the wrong one. He was going to rectify his mistake, but I told him not to worry about it for now.

  Preparing the medicine, which involved cutting, pounding, and boiling the two Amazonian plants, took all day. The plan was to drink in my room with Tammuz holding the space, but it turns out that Fridays are pretty raucous at the Ocean Park Getaway. Most of the clientele are in their early twenties, so I guess it’s to be expected. I ran through various alternatives before settling on what felt like the best two: check into another hotel or find somewhere outside that was quiet and safe. Being immersed in nature helps set the right tone for spiritual journeys. All I needed was a suitable location.

  That’s when I remembered Runyon Canyon. Suzy Aarons, the person I was before Rosa, used to walk her Pomeranian up here regularly. A quick Internet search revealed the park was still open for public use and that it closed every day at sunset. We arrived a little before that and hid in the bushes until the dog walkers, runners, and wardens had cleared out. We had around two hundred acres to play with, so staying out of sight wasn’t too difficult.

  The moon and stars coupled with the twinkling lights of the city have enabled us to see pretty well. We had to use our headlamps when climbing to reach this secluded, high ridge, but other than that, they have remained switched off. I chose this spot within the canyon because of how hard it is to reach and because it affords 360-degree views, meaning nobody will be able to sneak up on us. To the west we can just about make out the lights of the Pacific coastline, south are the skyscrapers of downtown, north is a sheer drop into a valley, and east is Griffith Park with its famous observatory, which will be buzzing with activity this evening.

  That’s because just after midnight, around which time I should be returning to normal consciousness, twenty fragments of a disintegrated comet are going to collide—astronomers predict spectacularly—with Mars.

  I put the cup to my lips and pause, getting a whiff of that familiar stench of decaying earth, along with hints of ammonia and sick.