“Hmm, what?”
“It was so weird looking, it really surprised me. I walked in and there, on the faucet, was a praying mantis!”
“Whoa…” He attempted to look a little bit surprised.
“Yeah, it was all like this,” she put both hands close together in front of her, like a begging dog with its paws up, “and it was staring right at me.”
He furrowed his brows, “Weird. What did it look like?”
“It was pretty long…green and shiny. I grabbed a hand towel and tried to shoo it away.” Then, she laughed, “I was so freaked - I’m sure I looked real funny doing it. You should have seen me.”
He chuckled, “My kind of entertainment.” Then, he added, “I’ve seen the gray ones before. But the green ones are pretty rare around here.”
“Isaac heard me shriek, and he ran over. He saw me try to swat at it, and he was saying, ‘Don’t hurt it, Mommy! Don’t hurt it!’” She giggled again, “It was so funny. It took a long time, but we finally got it out the door, after chasing it all over the apartment.”
He pursed his lips and said, “Yeah, all those insect types spook me too. Can’t stand them.” Then, he grinned, “If one ever showed up at my place, I’d be so freaked that I’d try to smash ‘em with something…unfortunately, I’m not as forgiving as you are. No shooing, just smashing.’
“Oh, you’re so mean,” she protested. “Anyway, I haven’t seen it back. It’s probably bugging my neighbors.”
“Well if I see it over at my place, I’ve got you to blame.” He grinned again. “But just for yours and Isaac’s sakes, I’ll make nice with it. No blood will be shed.”
They laughed.
The song continued to play softly in his ear.
Paige leaned back once again, and he asked her a question to continue their conversation.
She answered, and then soon, their chat naturally flowed, transitioning from one subject to the next.
At a distance, Isaac’s laughter carried in the breeze. He was chasing bubbles once again, stretching his arms, jumping, and reaching.
At the kids’ baseball game close by, the teams were switching from dugout to outfield. A little boy and girl huddled together, at center field, oblivious to the game’s transition. They were staring at something that had landed on the outside of the boy’s oversized glove.
The mantis’ slender, green body was in a frozen pose, but its head turned from one side to the other, as if studying the amazement shown on the two little faces.
In the sky, the blue ribbon had barely moved from its earlier position. Lazily and gently, it waved over the people below.
* * * * * * *
A warm, gentle wind floated across the valley and rustled the leaves, of the rows upon rows, of grape vines that sprawled throughout a vineyard. The sky was clear blue for now, but the dark clouds that loomed over the west coast of France would soon arrive.
The goateed man had briefly turned to face the wind, to gaze upon the vast, flat land of his family’s vineyard, in Saint-Emilion, east of Bordeaux, France.
His long, dark hair was cropped short, and his goatee was trimmed close to his skin. He wore the khaki field uniform of an officer: the gold stripes on his shoulder revealed the rank of a Captain. A distinct medal was pinned above his right chest pocket, depicting a winged anchor, with two seahorses in front of it facing each other. The medal was awarded to only the few of the elite French Commandos of World War II.
In one hand was a thin, old, brown leather attache case. The surface of the case was worn and softening with age, and leather straps were tied around it, to keep it closed.
He turned around again and gazed into the light-brown eyes of his wife. The wind gently swayed her long, waving, brunette hair, and it softly brushed across the bottom hem of her beige dress. In her hand, she tightly held his green beret. A distance behind her was the family chateau, standing through many generations.
He reached out for her hand, pulled her close, and then gently kissed her.
Turning his gaze down, he looked at his son who was no more than five years old. Before he was to leave for the war, he wanted to tell his son something. He knelt down on one knee, in front of him. Slowly, he raised his hand on top of his son’s head and drew him closer. He kissed his forehead. Then, with both hands, he untied the leather straps of the attache case. Looking into the eyes of his son, he said in a soft voice, “Je dois te dire quelque chose.” I need to tell you something.
A soft breeze blew once again.
The scene slowly began to fade, and within a few seconds, all was completely black. Soon, light faded back in, to reveal new surroundings.
It was sometime within the present day.
From the sky above, he saw a view of the Montparnasse Train Station in Paris. People below were walking in and out of the station, others climbed into a red tour bus on Avenue du Maine, and even more people either walked or drove cars on their daily routine.
As though flying on the wings of a bird, his view panned a short distance to the northeast toward an apartment building. Then, flying through the walls of the building, he saw himself glide past apartment doors, and then stop in front of one in particular.
After several seconds, he saw rays of sunlight begin to stretch in and illuminate the white door in front of him. Just below eye-level was the number on the door: L1.
The small brass number hung onto the wooden door by a single nail, at the center of its top edge. Raising his hand, he nudged the bottom edge of the number with his forefinger. As it swung to and fro, he noticed the curved scratches that the metal had made over time, into the old white paint of the door.
His forefinger stopped it. Then, he slid the number upward. At its apex, he noticed a small hole in the door, where another nail would have been.
The number was actually hanging upside-down from its one nail. It was the number 17.
Softly, he chuckled and whispered, “Huh, that’s funny.”
His finger let the number go, and it spun back down on the door. He could hear the rhythmic scraping of the metal against the wood.
From the periphery of his vision, his view began to fade to black. The rays of sunlight against the door began to fade. Soon, only the light reflecting from the metal number remained, and then that too disappeared. Then, all was black.
After a long silence in darkness, he opened his eyes and realized he was leaning back on his couch. The noonday sun positioned itself above his apartment building. On the coffee table, beside him, was a yellow tennis ball.
He hadn’t been sleeping or napping. In fact the last thing he remembered was that he was tossing the tennis ball up to the ceiling, while trying to decide where to go for lunch. So, he knew he hadn’t been dreaming. Instead, it was a vision, and it came to him while awake.
Sitting up, he said, “Wow, that’s new.” Opening his eyes wide, he shook his head and followed with, “…and weird.”
After rubbing his eyes for a few seconds, with the palm of his hands, he slid his hands up and combed back his hair, with his fingers. Then, he leaned forward and grabbed the tennis ball and began tossing it, from one hand to the other.
He wasn’t sure what to think about the image of him in the French vineyard, and he had no memory of that before. How could I, he thought, I hadn’t been born yet.
Suddenly, he remembered what the hooded man said, in the Alleyway, just before disappearing, “You have no beginning.”
The tennis ball stopped in his hand.
“Think back. Think back,” he found himself whispering.
He searched his memory.
Going back, his mind rewound to where he sat on the grass in Kit Park, with Paige. Then, his memory moved further back to the explosions in Los Angeles, where he stopped the third small glowing sphere from reaching him. Further back, he went, to the woman falling from the D.C. hotel, then back to having dinner with Dancy, and then, finding the note on the bottle of wine, at his front door.
He jerked his
head up.
“That bottle of wine. I remember the name on the label: Saint-Emilion. Husky hooded guy has to know something about that place and its relation to me. That’s why he gave it to me.”
Hunching forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he asked, “So, what is it? What does he know?”
He began to think further back. He saved Allen before the car fell. He saw the mantis for the first time in the apartment, crushing it with a roll of paper towels. He, his wife, and son were in their car, driving along the mountainside; and he was reclined in the passenger’s seat talking to his son. It was seconds before the accident.
He leaned back on his couch, looked up at the ceiling, and stared up blankly for several seconds. As he slowly lowered his head back down, he said, “Why am I back here at this memory?”
It was his mind that was leading him there.
He whispered, “Well, what happened before this?”
There were many things, and he could readily recall them, but each time he tried to pursue those memories, his mind focused him back to this one: the ride in the mountains.
This event had completely changed his life.
He closed his eyes.
“Saint-Emilion…what about that? Focus on that. What about the Paris apartment, number seventeen? I’ve dreamt about that before.”
His heart began to quicken its pace.
Then, he remembered another dream. It was in a ballroom. His arm was extended; he had Hitler in his revolver’s sights. Behind him, the only door of the room unexpectedly opened.
He shook his head, frustrated. He thought, But that can’t be real. Just like that vineyard and that wife and that son…none of them are real. They’re just dreams.
His heart pounded.
Then, his mind directed him back to the memory of his family driving along the mountainside. While the afternoon sun projected shadows of the trees on the windshield, his son asked him a question, and he was answering, trying to explain, as simply as he could.
His heart pounded faster.
Suddenly, something unusual - something dark - reflected from the windshield. He jerked his body up.
“Stop!” he yelled.
The memory vanished.
His breathing was deep and rapid. Looking down at his chest, he saw his heart seemed to be pounding through his shirt, and his hands gripped the cushions of the couch. A long silence passed, until he finally loosened his body.
Breathing in deep, he regained his composure and leaned back on the couch. Seconds later, he stood up, walked his way to refrigerator, and grabbed a can of beer. He popped it open and took a long drink from it. As he stood in front of the kitchen counter, he cleared his mind.
Then, he heard a clear voice, saying, “Did you get my presents?”
It was the hooded man.
He answered, “I don’t really feel like talkin’ right now.”
“I’m sorry. But we do need to talk. They’re beautiful aren’t they?”
“What?”
“The three spheres. I made them with great care and precision. As tokens of friendship, or maybe, just of camaraderie.”
The hooded man paused, but the goateed man didn’t respond.
The hooded man continued, “Did I tell you to never let those three ever touch and play together? They’re just unpredictable. And especially, don’t let all three of them get under your skin at one time. I can’t exactly predict what it will feel like when it happens, but I cannot image that you would enjoy it.”
The goateed man lifted the beer can from the counter and drank again. After setting it down, he let out an intentionally loud and extended belch.
“Now that’s a talent,” the hooded man said sarcastically, “Did you get that new ability recently?”
He didn’t answer.
“Anyway, the time will come when those spheres will have their role in history. Until then, I trust you’ll keep them safe.” The hooded man paused, and then continued, “So, let’s go onto other business. You’ve done quite well so far. But it’s a shame you let so many perish…a shame. I hope you’ll be better prepared next time. Don’t believe that there’s no one to help you.”
He had to respond, “What?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that I can help you or that Sik can help you. But if I know you, then I know that you think you can fix everything on your own. You’re the martyr type. Even though these days you try to avoid them, you have an affinity for people in general - it’s your Achilles heel. You’re also quite rash, when the pressure is on. It leads to very bad, unintentional consequences.”
The hooded man’s voice was all too calm; it began to irritate him. Also, his assessment struck a raw nerve. It was too close to the truth, and it made him a bit angry. He thought about closing the conversation - terminating their connection. But he tried to remain calm nonetheless, saying, “Enough about me, get back to this other business.”
“Ah, so, back to business. Here’s my fifth note to you. Again, since you’ve done so well this time I’m letting you pick the next victim.”
“You’re crazy! There’s no way I’m gonna do that.”
“Oh, I know there’s not. But there are ways I can read you, in order to see who your choice is. And you could make the decision, even without knowing it.”
“If you…” He was about to threaten, but he stopped himself. Then, he said in a simple and calm voice, “Anything else?”
“Well, nothing really…but there is the little matter of…”
“Then, shut up!” he said with disdain. Abruptly, he terminated their connection.
Seconds later, he picked up the can and drank from it, emptying it. Setting it down, he stared at it.
With a hand leaning on the counter, he stood and took a deep breath. Suddenly, his left wrist began to ache, and it made him wince. Turning his wrist around, he looked at the symbol. Fine bright lights began to emanate from the circle of the double helix lines.
He remembered the severe pain he felt, from the previous time; so, he prepared himself for the worst, blurting, “Uh oh!” Taking quick breaths, he gripped his right hand over his left forearm. As he pushed his wrist away from his face, he peered at the symbol, with squinting eyes.
The lights became brighter and brighter, growing to the point where they filled the whole apartment.
Suddenly, a flash of fire burst from a single point inside the circle of the symbol, momentarily blinding him. He had to shut his eyes. As the flash dissipated, he squinted his eyes open. He saw a sharp beam of light, about the diameter of a thick needle, piercing through his wrist. It was visible through his flesh. In one direction, the beam extended up into the ceiling, and in the other direction, down into the floor.
He pushed his wrist further away. Even though the light was intense, the pain in his wrist did not escalate; it remained a dull ache.
Moments later, the lights from the symbol began to dim, and the glow receded from the walls of the apartment. Within a few more seconds, the lights waned and died.
Breathing a relieved sigh, he pulled his wrist to his face and examined the symbol.
God was starting to write the inner circle, within the existing double helix circle. A sharp black dot now appeared. While he looked at it, additional details began to manifest in front of his eyes. Edges formed around the dot, transforming the dot into a ball of fire. Then a tail started to extend from it that tapered, as it grew longer. The tail arched up then down, creating the first half of the inner circle. Then, the writing ended, and the second half would be written, when he was ready.
The black lines were sharp, distinct, and flawless.
In relief, he said, “Now that wasn’t so bad.”
Immediately after he said it, a shock wave struck his body. In one motion, it whipped his head and body back. He had to brace himself by securing his back against the kitchen counter and gripping his hands over its edge.
Images flashed within his mind, detailed images. Then, he heard clear sounds of loud
voices, lungs breathing deep and hard, and feet pounding and running over crisp dry dirt.
From within the vision, his view panned out. The sun was hot. He saw the trees and shrubs of the mountainside and, almost hidden among them, he saw the cave that he last visited, when he witnessed Malik Khel’s death.
Then, his view zoomed in. He focused on a panicked man running and stumbling down the slope of the mountain.
Omar Malshar Gul ran for his life to evade capture.
Chapter 14
TWELVE YEARS IN THE FUTURE
All these years have gone by, since the longhaired goateed man tried to save Paige from Sik, in the San Francisco hotel. On that day, long ago, his will was broken and the fight in his spirit was crushed. He lost Paige, lost Dancy, and lost his purpose. Apathy has replaced them all.
Since then, he remained disengaged from the world, not wanting to be part of the events of human beings, and not caring to know any details of their history, present, or future.
Now it is noon, and he sits at the bar of a pub, in downtown San Diego. As he remembers that day twelve years ago, he remembers his words of resignation, “Maybe…maybe I’m really not meant to be much of anything;” and with the words, “I’ve done enough damage. This is as far as I go,” he began his retreat and isolation from the world. After the wars and the wake of destruction and desolation across the globe, he stood away, while witnessing the creation of a police state, and as a truce was formed among the remaining feeble powers.
Now, while he sits silent and lifeless inside the pub, outside, some November clouds hug the coastline, and a dirty, gray, and dull-blue haze lies thick over the land. Two armed men in military uniforms stand guard, across the street from the pub. They are from the international military, named Global Peace or the GP. None of the GPs are from the former United States: all of them have been deployed from other countries. Their uniforms, showing the primary colors of the military, are black with a wide, scarlet armband, around the upper arm of each sleeve. Their helmets are also black with a narrow scarlet strip circling the center.
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 34