Bloodline (The Forgotten Origins Trilogy)

by Tara Ellis

  It only takes me ten minutes to drive out to the trail head. The small parking lot is empty so I pick a spot and get the other backpack I had put in the backseat last night. It’s got water, snacks and my good hiking shoes in it. Putting the shoes on, I sling the bag over my shoulder and set out at a brisk pace. It will take close to two hours to reach the blind so I’ll be getting back home barely an hour before Mom does. I have to make this fast.

  A mile up the main trail, over half way to the end of it I look up at the blazing sun and notice a column of dark grey smoke off to the left. That’s odd.

  While I catch my breath and take a drink of water, I wonder at what it could be. It’s too dark for wood smoke and there aren’t any houses out this way. As I watch, the column thickens and the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up. Shifting back and forth on my feet, I debate whether to wait here for Chris or take ten minutes to go investigate.

  We had agreed to meet at the end of this trail, and he was going to start out about ten minutes or so after me. We decided to leave our phones in our cars, just in case the GPS in them can be tracked. Not much of a signal out here anyway. Sighing, I step away from the path and head into the heavy woods.

  The only other thing out this way is the old City Dump. It hasn’t been in use for two years, ever since they built the nice new one on the other end of town. If I’m right, it should be right over the next little rise, a couple hundred yards away.

  In only a few minutes, I reach the top of a long slope, and spread out below me is a narrow, green valley. At the bottom, about a football field length away, are the remains of the dump. What should be an abandoned field surrounded by old barbed wire fencing, is instead full of activity.

  Instinct tells me to stay hidden and I listen to it without hesitation. Dropping down to my stomach, I hide behind some shrubs and peak out cautiously, squinting to make sense of the scene below me.

  In the middle is what looks to be a freshly dug pit, the bull dozer still idling alongside the far edge of it. The smoke I saw is rising from this hole and a gray haze has settled over the small valley.

  Several pick-up trucks and a couple of long white vans are scattered around the field. I recognize them as city vehicles and I wonder if maybe they started using this site again for whatever reason. A handful of people are milling about, and it looks like there’s a bunch of garbage or bags piled up in the hole.

  As I watch, two men walk up to the edge, carrying something between them. With some effort, they toss it into the pit and then walk back to one of the vans that sit idling with its back doors open.

  In a minute or two, they are back again, this time with a lighter load. My brain can’t quite wrap itself around the image, and I’m struggling to understand what I’m seeing. Then, as they swing their arms back, readying to toss it in, I recognize the tie dyed shirt that Heather had been wearing yesterday at school. I’d thought it was rather bold, because in the center of all the random color was a great big yellow smiley face and the words “because I can” written under it. That same smiley face now flashes at me at it flies through the air…as she flies through the air on her way to the bottom of the pit. Her long brown hair flows out as her body rolls a couple of times, coming to rest up against Tim in his distinctive, bright blue and white letterman jacket.

  Vomit rising in my throat, I scramble away from the edge, away from the horror going on down there. Slapping both my hands over my mouth, I’m desperate to muffle the scream that I know is about to escape. Looking around at this suddenly alien landscape, I try to figure out which way to go but in my panic I’ve become disoriented.

  Stumbling a couple of steps backwards down the slope, I happen to look to my left and catch a glimpse of Chris huddled behind some trees not more than a hundred feet away from me. He must have seen the smoke too and gone to investigate the same as me. His face is pale and he’s looking at me wild eyed, his finger raised to his mouth, the other hand gesturing urgently to me to get down.

  With a tunnel vision brought on by my terror, I focus on his hand and follow its command, dropping down on all fours. Once on the ground, I lose sight of him, and stare momentarily at the leaves under my hands, my heartbeat pounding in my head, filling my world.

  Then something in me snaps and I’m scrambling frantically on my hands and knees down the hill, whimpering as I go. Nearing where I left the trail, I slide sideways into a hollow and roll the rest of the way to the bottom. Curling into a ball at the base of a tree, I put my hands over my ears, trying to block out a wailing sound that surrounds me and won’t stop.

  I become aware of hands gripping my arms and fight to get away, kicking and screaming. “Alex!” Chris yells, and his voice breaks through my blind panic as he wrestles with me there in the pine needles and leaves. “Alex!” he yells again, his own emotions making his voice thick but still recognizable.

  I finally calm down enough to realize that the wailing is coming from me, and that I must stop. I have to stop. Reaching out frantically, I cling to Chris’s shirt and bury my face in his broad chest. His hands go to my back and he rocks me slowly, murmuring into my hair much the same way I did to Jacob that night we were told that Dad had died.

  Through the haze of fear I’m aware that we are in a dangerous situation and as much as I want to have a complete breakdown, I can’t. Not if I want to survive, not if I want my brother to survive. I will not let him end up in that pit!

  That thought brings me around and I pull away from Chris, gasping at the sharp contrast of emotions raging through me. Now I’m mad. So mad I could spit, or hit something or start yelling again. Instead, I sit on my knees and look intensely at his face. I imagine mine looks similar; much older than our sixteen and seventeen years…and determined.

  “They killed them Chris,” I whisper hoarsely, my hands balling into fists. “Heather, Tim, I think I saw your friend Kevin…down there. There has to be over two hundred bodies. Why? Why would they do that? Kids from school, people from town. Because they didn’t get sick, didn’t change into Shiners? I don’t understand.”

  “I know Alex. You’re right, it’s beyond understanding. They’re gone, we can’t help them now,” he says, gesturing back towards the dump. “But we might be able to help millions of others. If there’s a way to stop this before it spreads, we have to do everything possible.”

  “We have to stop them,” I say with desperation.

  “Then let’s go,” he says, pulling me to my feet.

  As we stumble back out onto the trail, I struggle to regain the strength in my legs, which are threatening to turn to jelly. Chris takes my hand in his and leads the way, holding on tight. As we push ahead, I look up again at the rising smoke…the ashes of our friends.

  EIGHTEEN

  We walk in stunned silence until we reach the end of the marked trail. My tears have dried but anger burns hot in my chest, pushing me on. When we’re done here, I plan on making an anonymous call to 911. I don’t care what the risks are, we have to try and let people know what’s happening. I move ahead past a ‘No Trespassing, Private Property’ sign, and briefly survey the overgrown game trails. “This way,” I say sharply, pointing to our left.

  As we trudge through the long grass growing stubbornly in the gaps between the evergreens, Chris moves up alongside me. “Alex, I’ve been thinking about the numbers involved in all of this.”

  I look sideways at him, not sure what he means. “What numbers?”

  “The earth’s population is roughly seven billion. If your friend on ATS was right and this virus targets our DNA based on purity, than we can assume the US is going to have one of the highest infection rates. It has one of the most diverse populations in the world and inner-racial births. So if we drop it down from 80% to 70% for world-wide infection, that gives us almost five billion initially infected. We’re basically ground zero though. It seems like it took about four days for it to spread to the East coast of the States and I would think the rest of the world is one to two weeks
behind them. That means we can assume the Shiner’s will be infecting those left and then killing anyone who’s immune everywhere else too…but we have a little time.”

  The full meaning of what he’s just said slowly seeps in and I stop. Chris takes a few steps before he realizes I’m no longer beside him. Looking back at me, he must see the knowledge of his statement in my eyes because he immediately looks regretful and doubles back.

  “No,” I say, putting out a hand to stop him, walking backwards into a tree. “No. You can’t be right. I’m not very good at math, but even I can figure out what half of two billion is.”

  Ignoring my pleas, he steps in front of me and takes me by the shoulders. “Maybe I am wrong Alex. There could be others out there that know more than we do and are trying to stop this right now too. We can’t count on that though…the bodies in that pit, as horrible as it is, are nothing compared to what could happen if this isn’t stopped.”

  Seeing the truth in his eyes, I close my own against it. Taking a deep breath, I draw strength again from the fire burning in me and for the first time in over a year, say a silent prayer; God, please…please, if you can hear me; give me the strength I need for this. I can’t do it by myself. Please help me.

  Feeling a sense of peace and resolve that defies explanation, I push away from the tree. “We need to keep moving then,” I say to Chris, confidently meeting his gaze. I see a mixture of grief, compassion and something I can’t quite define before he lets go of my arms and turns away.

  Looking up at the sun that’s now making its way to the horizon; he starts off at a brisk pace, almost jogging. I do my best to keep up. Within fifteen minutes, we emerge through some foliage and find ourselves on the edge of a large marshy area, full of cattails and frogs.

  “It’s not much farther,” I tell him, turning right and walking along with the shoreline on our left. There is no trail now, just the water to guide me. The familiar smell of moss and pond water surrounds us and I know we’re close.

  Hopefully nothing has happened to our secret hunting spot, and my pulse quickens at the thought. Any number of things might have destroyed it, from falling trees to rising waters or vandals. Just when I’ve convinced myself that all I’ll find is wreckage, I catch sight of a distinct structure. “There it is!” I shout, excited.

  Running the rest of the way, tripping over roots and scratched by vines, I finally reach the duck blind. Seeing it brings back a rush of emotions and tears start falling before I can stop them. Kneeling down in the dirt, I reach out and run my hand over the smooth boards that line the floor of the three-sided enclosure. Its partial roof barely qualifies as one, and is covered by a camouflage net that is tattered and faded, tendrils of fabric flapping in the slight breeze. The walls however are solid, its posts set deep into the soft ground.

  When we would come here to hunt, there was just enough room for all three of us to sit inside, and then Dad would pull the netting down to cover the open backside, sort of like a tent. There are three small window-like openings in the front, water-facing side. We would lean our rifles through them and wait for the ducks to come in. It was a good spot, and Dad had been very proud of it.

  Looking at it now, I begin to scrutinize it in a different way. I hadn’t given much thought as to where something might be hidden. I find myself anxious again at the realization that we might not find it. I look around at the lowering sun and start running my hands over the boards of the floor urgently.

  “The last hieroglyph was burial,” Chris says, kneeling down beside me. “Do you think it might be under the floor? Maybe we should start pulling up the boards.”

  I’m about to agree with him when I reach the far left corner and my fingers encounter something different in the wood. Leaning my face down closer, I squint to see in the murky light. “Do you have a flashlight?” I ask Chris, “I forgot to bring one.”

  Digging around in his backpack, he comes up with one and hands it to me. Shining it in the corner, my heart races again, but this time in excitement. Etched clearly, deeply into the floorboard is the picture of the vulture. I turn to look at Chris, and he already has a large screwdriver in his hand. I move aside and he quickly wedges it under the edge of the plank and pries it up. The wood protests only briefly and gives way with a loud pop. Chris crawls back and I shine the flashlight into the space that was under it.

  “There’s something there! Hurry Chris, pull off another plank.” I slide over again as he pulls off the next board, and then another one. Underneath is a large space nearly filled by a big burlap sack, over a foot in diameter.

  Reaching down, I try to lift it up and find that I can’t. It’s too heavy. I let Chris take a shot at it and with some effort, he works it out of the tight space and up onto the floor.

  Sitting there, we look at each other, the bag between us. So much depends on what’s inside. Now that the time is here I’m afraid of finding out that there’s nothing we can do about the infection. “Open it,” Chris says quietly; and I draw confidence from him.

  I untie the cord wrapped around the top of the sack. As the knot slips off, the cloth drops down, revealing something that looks like a metallic box, shrink wrapped inside a thick, black plastic. I was expecting something old or ancient looking, like everything else has been up until now, so I’m surprised by it. Reaching out, I unzip the plastic, breaking the seal. As the shrink-wrap expands, releasing its grip on the box, I look at the darkening woods behind us, paranoid that we aren’t alone. I quickly pull the plastic off, eager to get this done and get back home to Jacob.

  The large box is a foot tall and long, with no obvious way to open it. It looks like one of those fire safes and I know Dad keeps something similar in the back of the closet in his office. I’ve seen inside that one several times though, including before his funeral to retrieve his will. That one opens with a key…but I don’t see a key hole anywhere on this. Imbedded in the top is a three inch square black screen, with what looks like one small button. I push it, and a blue grid lights up across the screen. I look up at Chris, unsure of what to do next.

  He’s studying it, his face dark in the gathering shadows. “Put your thumb on it,” he says finally, looking up at me.

  The screen has gone dark, so I push the button again and this time when it lights up, I place my right thumb in the middle of the grid. At first, nothing happens, but then there is a slight mechanical, whirring sound and a click as the lock on the lid is released. “How…”

  “He was your dad,” Chris interrupts. “He could have gotten your print from any number of things.

  Not wanting to waste any time discussing it, I open the lid and look inside. There is a purple velvet sack, like what you expect to find precious jewels in, holding something large and round. Reaching in, I pick it up. It’s slightly smaller than a bowling ball, but just as heavy. Perplexed, I awkwardly remove the velvet as I hold it against my body and am so unprepared for what I see that I almost drop it.

  Staring up at me is a perfectly carved skull out of what appears to be crystal. I look at Chris, mouth open and to my amazement he starts to laugh. “Are you serious?” he says, reaching out for the carving. “A crystal skull? Just when you think it can’t get any weirder.”

  Handing it over to him, I watch as he holds it up, examining it. Having been a member to one of the biggest conspiracy theory websites, I am of course familiar with the legendary crystal skulls. Thirteen of them have been found in different parts of the world and some believe them to be anywhere from 5,000 to more than 30,000 years old. Others think they are a hoax; but the jury is still out.

  There is actually quite a following for some of the different theories, including the lost civilization of Atlantis, or that they stem from some super ancient society and are computers. I can’t believe that I am looking at what seems to either be one, or a great copy of one. The only difference that I can see is that on the forehead there is a carving of a pyramid, with rays coming out from it, very similar to the carving on the
medallion. I reach unconsciously for the weight at my neck, touching it through my shirt to assure me it’s still there.

  “You know about the whole crystal skull thing?” I ask Chris as he stands up, cradling the skull in his arm.

  “Sure I do. I’ve read a lot about it. There’s even some Native American Legends surrounding them.” He explains as he steps out of the blind and into the fading light of the day. Holding it out to get a better look at it, the sun hits it, and we both marvel at the display of prisms reflected through it. So it’s definitely quartz crystal.

  Going off instinct, I take the skull from Chris and with some effort, hold it so that the thin rays of sunlight hit the statue at the base of the skull. As it begins to glow, I see that the intricate surface carving is redirecting the light, bouncing it off the many angles until it comes out the front of the carved pyramid in a solid beam.

  Realizing my head is in the way of the beam, I move it to the side and then follow the light, almost dropping the crystal again. Chris gasps in surprise and moves in closer. Projected into the shadows of the trees, hovering in the air almost like a holograph, the prismatic light isn’t scattered, but cleverly constructed to form an elaborate design.

  “That’s a double helix,” he almost whispers, in awe. “A strand of DNA.”

  I knew it had looked familiar, but now that Chris states the obvious I’m overwhelmed by the implications. Unable to hold it up any longer, I lower the skull and watch as the blueprint for human design fades away. What right does that have to be doing inside an artifact that could possibly be thousands of years old? I look down at it, not sure if it’s good or bad. Since it was from my Father, I decide not to throw it like the bowling ball it reminds me of.