“Could you understand him?” Race asked. The excitement was apparent in his voice.
“I’m not sure. But it sounded like an Indio language. I think he said how are things with you and I am very hungry.”
“Doesn’t sound hostile to me. Dr. Jones, would you mind taking Andy to Red 6 to see the capsule?”
Sun gave Race a look, knowing she was being used, and why. But it didn’t bother her as much as she thought it should.
“I have some things to finish up in the records room, but I can free up some time.”
“Great,” Race said. He was one big smile, ready to shake hands with the world. “Now who wants a microwave chili dog?”
Sun turned to Andy, who was staring at her with a lopsided grin on his face. Part of her wanted to smile back, but she held that part in check.
“Need some help?” Andy asked. “In the records room?”
“You sure you want to help me again?”
Andy smiled. “After watching Bub eat, I think I could handle just about anything.”
“How about chili dogs?”
The pain showed in his face. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for chili dogs.”
“Then let’s go.”
As they left the Mess Hall, Sun noticed that Race winked at her. She restrained herself and didn’t wink back.
Andy surprised Sun by being helpful in Red 3. For the first twenty minutes he was chatty and full of questions, but once he settled in with the actual organizing he proved himself a hard worker. They toiled for over two hours in companionable silence, Andy once going for Diet Cokes, and Sun once leaving for the bathroom (and to touch up her make-up, even though she didn’t actually touch it up, just check it.)
While rifling through a large stack of invoices, Sun became absorbed in an inventory sheet listing some of the medical supplies and pharmaceuticals on site.
It staggered her. Samhain was better stocked than a hospital pharmacy. Why the staff here would need seven gallons of morphine, or ten thousand tablets of aspirin, was beyond her scope of understanding. Total cost to the taxpayer: seven million dollars in drugs that would never be used. Not for the first time since her arrival, Sun felt underpaid.
“Look at this,” Andy said. He handed her a piece of paper written in a language other than English.
“Spanish?” she asked.
“Italian. It’s from Pope Pius the tenth.”
Sun briefly returned to the long, boring mornings of her youth, trapped in Sunday school memorizing prayers.
“St. Pius,” she corrected. “He was canonized in 1954.”
“You’re Catholic?”
“I was.”
“When did you leave the church? Or is that too personal a question?”
“I don’t think I really left the church. More like the church left me.”
“How so?”
Sun hadn’t ever talked about this with anyone. No one had ever asked.
“Five years ago… it was a bad time for me. I had a lot of problems. I met a man, Steven, he was a psychiatrist. I didn’t meet him professionally—I met him in a bar, actually.”
Sun turned away from Andy and busied herself moving papers around on the desk.
“He was a very sensitive man. Compassionate. We fell in love, got married. We wanted to start a family. I’m sure you know where this is going; woman gets a new shot at happiness, drunk driver kills her husband, woman loses faith in God. Cliché. Soon after that I lost my veterinary clinic.”
Sun thought back to the creditors, one even calling her at Steven’s wake. Steven had been kept alive for almost six months. Six months of wretched, useless hoping. Six months, at a cost of three thousand dollars a day. Insurance didn’t even cover a third of the expense, and of course the asshole who ran head first into Steven was uninsured as well.
“So you blame God for taking him.”
“What? No. At first, sure. It made no sense. When Steven died, I lost everything. But then it did make sense. I didn’t blame God, because there was no God to blame. Shit just happens.”
Sun finished fussing with the papers and turned back to Andy with a question of her own.
“You said to the holies that you were an atheist. Why?”
“It’s kind of complicated. I never had any sort of organized religion in my life. God was something that other kids believed in.”
“So you never learned about religion?”
“I had a friend, in grade school, his parents tried to take me to church once. I loved it.”
“Why’d they only take you once?”
“Oh, I didn’t love the Mass. I loved the language. The priest spoke in Latin, asking a question, I think it was something like ‘Are you truly thankful?’ or something like that. Well, I thought he was asking us, so I answered.”
“In Latin.”
“Yeah. And it freaked him out. Everyone else too. So he asked me, in Latin, how I knew Latin. So I told him I knew about ten different languages. And he said that it’s a miracle, that God has blessed me with the gift of tongues. I told him, in English, God didn’t bless me, I studied my ass off!”
Sun laughed.
“Needless to say, the family never took me with them again. When I got into college, I read a lot of religious texts—for the language, not the content. But some of the content leaked through, obviously. And in every case, whether I was translating Hebrew, Latin, Greek, Arabic, Hindi, whatever, I found the same theme within the writing.”
“Which was?”
“Scared men, looking for answers. I think that as a species, being self-aware means we have questions. Some of those questions are: What created the universe, where do we go when we die, and why do bad things happen? These questions don’t have answers, but need to be answered. That’s why men, all men, every people and tribe from Cro-Magnon on up, had to create gods. To answer these questions.”
“So here we are, two atheists, trying to find the origin of a demon.”
Andy grinned. “Almost seems as if God put us here, to show us the truth, doesn’t it?”
Sun could tell Andy was joking, but she got a chill. That was what it seemed like. A second chance at faith.
“So what does St. Pius say in the letter?”
“That the Vatican was sending over a bishop, and if President Roosevelt was wise he would not let Bub’s existence be known because the panic could destroy the western world. And that he was praying for everyone involved.”
Andy took the paper back and ran his finger over the Vatican seal.
“Funny, yesterday I was wondering how I was going to pay my electric bill, and now here I am holding a letter that is probably worth more than I make in a year. Sotheby’s would kill for it.”
“Sotheby’s? You’re thinking historical worth. Try the media. You could make a fortune, up until you were executed for treason.”
Andy filed the paper away and Sun suggested they quit and go take a look at the capsule. She felt pretty good for someone who’d just recounted the biggest tragedy of her life. And for once, there was no guilt to accompany feeling good. Was there a statute of limitations on grieving?
Andy held the door for her and they took a short walk from Red 3 to Red 6. The room was small and brightly lit. It reminded Sun of an autopsy room. A small dehumidifier ran nonstop in the corner, humming quietly. In the center, sprawled out like a baby elephant corpse, was the capsule.
It was pale gray, so pale that it seemed to absorb the fluorescent light. Sun was again intrigued by the shape: it was a tube with rounded ends, almost like giant sausage, but the curves were perfect in their simplicity. It had been measured back in the ‘70s, and the scientist in charge found it was symmetrical to within ten thousandths of an inch.
“It looks like a sarcophagus,” Andy ran his hand over the carvings on top. “And it’s so smooth! How can it feel so silky when it has all of these glyphs engraved into it? You can barely feel them. What’s it made of?”
“A lot,” Sun laughed. “
Analysis came back with traces of everything: carbon, ferrite, silicon, lead, silver, iridium, petroleum, ivory…”
“Like elephant tusks?”
“Yeah. And here’s the kicker. It’s something like ten percent nylon.”
“Nylon.”
“Nylon was invented in 1939. So how did it get in something found in 1906, and buried for who knows how long before that?”
“Weird. So how does it open? I don’t see any seams.”
“Watch this.” Sun ran her hand along the side of the capsule facing them. She found a small notch the size of a pin head and pressed inward. The top came up on hinges, opening like the lid of a casket.
“Secret button. Found by accident around forty years ago, if you hear Race tell it. Before that they were using a crowbar to get it open. See the marks on the edge here?”
Andy didn’t look when she pointed out the pry marks. He was totally absorbed in studying the inside of the capsule.
“This is odd.” Andy said.
“No kidding.”
“No, I mean, see these markings? Demotic Egyptian hieroglyphs. They were using these in 3000 BC. But on the cover, those are Maya glyphs. Used until about 1500 AD. Four and a half thousand years difference.”
“So it’s old.”
“Not just that. How the hell did it cross the Atlantic and get from Egypt to Central America?”
“Maybe the Spanish brought it. Conquistadors.”
Andy nodded and ran his hands inside the capsule. “Different texture. Not smooth, but…”
“Soft,” Sun said. “I found some old pictures. Bub fit in here perfectly. I mean perfectly. Like it was made from a cast of his body. But it’s kind of spongy and springy. Like foam.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I have no idea. Not too much call for translating hieroglyphs in today’s market. Hasn’t anyone tried before?”
“Race said yes. The inside, not the outside. The work is buried in Red 3 somewhere.”
“Might be easier to start from scratch. I could translate the dead sea scrolls quicker than it would take to find anything in that mess.”
“What do you think Bub was speaking? Was that Maya?”
“Kind of. There are more than twenty different dialects that descended from the Maya language, I think Bub was speaking one of them. We’re allowed to have Internet access, right?”
“Sure. It’s monitored somehow, I’m guessing. For security. There are three computers you can use in the Octopus, the Cray in Red 14, and there’s a room in the Green Arm, Green 4, with a link if you want privacy.”
Andy stared at the capsule, apparently lost in thought.
“Hungry?” Sun asked.
“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, I am actually.”
“We all pretty much fend for ourselves around here, except when Race cooks up a batch of chili or stew. Want to grab an early dinner?”
Andy grinned. “Sure. But only if it’s not mutton.”
Sun led Andy to the Mess Hall and began to school him on the intricacies of microwave defrosting. From the massive walk-in freezer they selected some boneless chicken breast, cauliflower, pea pods, and green peppers. After thawing, Sun showed off her substantial wok skills.
Whenever Sun cooked, she thought of her mother, and how embarrassed of her she was while growing up. Her friends’ mothers baked cookies and went to the PTA and had college educations. Sun’s mom spoke heavily accented, grammatically incorrect English, and wove baskets. The childhood taunts and teases were unrelenting.
Sun now realized what a graceful, introspective woman her mother had been. Hopefully she’d find that same inner peace some day. But even if she never did, her mother had passed a trickle of her wisdom on to her daughter: Sun could wok like a fiend.
Dinner conversation with Andy was upbeat and impersonal. He knew an alarmingly large number of dumb blonde jokes, and rattled off two or three good ones that almost made Sun choke on her stir fry. Dessert was a large can of fruit cocktail, dumped rather inelegantly into a mixing bowl.
They shared the bowl.
“So, I take it you’ve decided to stay.”
“I don’t think I’ll be present at any more feedings, but yeah, I’m staying. I’m not captivated by Bub like some of the others are, but I can’t pass up the challenge he represents.”
Sun offered her hand. “Well then, welcome aboard, Andrew Dennison.”
“Glad to be here, Sunshine Jones.”
They shook, but Andy didn’t drop her hand. The moment stretched. Sun watched Andy’s pupils widen, wondered if hers were doing the same thing. They’d gone from zero to intimacy in less than five seconds.
Fast. Too fast.
Sun took her hand back.
“Andy…”
“Sorry…”
“It’s just that…”
“I know.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
“Are my ears red?” he asked.
They were the same shade as a fire hydrant.
“No. They’re fine.”
“I think I’m gonna call it a night. Low on sleep. Excuse me.”
He stood up and walked to the door. Halfway there he touched his ear and stopped.
“They are red, aren’t they?” he asked without turning around.
“You could stop traffic,” Sun said.
Andy left without another word. There was some fruit cocktail left, but Sun was no longer hungry. She dumped it down the disposal and went back to her room.
Alone.
Sun woke up at half past nine in the morning. She’d always been an early riser, a fact that she recently discovered was dependent on sunlight. With no morning sun to wake her up, she’d been sleeping later than normal. One more thing to dislike about being two hundred feet underground.
After her exercises and a quick shower, she stopped by the Mess Hall, half-hoping Andy was there. He wasn’t. She made herself a bowl of shredded wheat with vacuum-packed milk and frozen strawberries, but only picked at it.
Sun wasn’t exactly sure what she was feeling. Andy was attractive, and found her attractive, but this wasn’t exactly the time or place to start a relationship. She felt flattered, and annoyed, and disappointed all at once.
Romance sucked, she decided. It was much simpler being a hermit.
She forced herself to finish breakfast and then put in some hard work at Red 3 with more enthusiasm than the mundane task warranted. Her current fixation—organizing the thousands of photographs—so absorbed her attention that when she checked the clock it was already a quarter after twelve. Bub’s lunchtime.
Sun put some bounce in her step on the way to Orange 12, again hoping to bump into Andy. No such luck.
She was quick and thorough in selecting and examining the sheep, but it didn’t hold the charm of the previous time with the linguist.
“I’m acting like a school girl,” Sun chided herself. Why didn’t she just write him a love note and draw a heart on it and slip it in his locker?
Sun led the hooded animal down the Red Arm. Dr. Belgium, who practically lived in Red 14, wasn’t around. She approached the habitat quietly, the only sound being the whirring fans of the Cray computer and the tap-tap of the sheep’s footfalls on the tile floor.
Bub was squatting, his eyes closed and his arms on his haunches; a warped parody of the tai chi lotus. This was the position Bub slept in. She’d been recording his sleep patterns, and he took between ten and fifteen naps a day, never longer than twenty minutes each. All totaled, he slept about four hours daily. Far less than any animal she’d ever encountered.
Even squatting, Bub was taller than Sun. She watched his massive chest undulate in waves, his many lungs taking in air at slightly different rates. As usual, seeing Bub filled her with a mixture of awe and fear. Sun clearly recalled their first meeting. She’d walked up to the habitat, so cocksure, and when Bub came out from behind the trees her legs gave out on her and she squealed in fright, much to Race’s amusement.
The fact that Bub looked demonic was only part of the shock. What most impressed Sun was the creature’s size and obvious strength. It was like seeing a dinosaur up close. More than once Sun had wondered if that Plexiglas wall was truly strong enough to hold him.
Sun leaned closer to the partition, her forehead almost touching it.
“Sun is laaaaaate,” Bub said, his voice remarkably clear coming from a mouth packed with so many teeth.
The sheep screamed and bucked, and Sun was so startled she let go of the harness. The sheep ran off towards Dr. Belgium’s computers and barreled into a desk, upsetting papers and a coffee mug.
Sun took back control of her faculties and chased after the sheep, one arm locking around its large woolly neck and the other pulling tight on the harness. After a few seconds of struggling and talking, she managed to calm the sheep down enough to tether it to a door handle.
Bub watched the whole episode from his lotus position, his reptilian eyes keenly intelligent.
Sun chose her words carefully.
“I’m sorry. I was busy. Have you always known English?”
“Yooooou are Sun,” Bub said. “That is luuunch.” His voice was a throaty baritone, but soft and wet like a wheeze.
“Right. My name is Sun Jones.”
“Joooooones.”
“Yes.”
“Yessssss,” Bub hissed.
Sun approached the habitat slowly, unconsciously using the stalking approach that she’d used to get close to lions without spooking or threatening them.
Her mind whirred. Even with all the conversations she and her cohorts had had in front of Bub, could he have picked up enough information to understand English?
“Can you understand me, or just repeat what I say?”
His hand raised up and a long claw uncurled from his fist, pointing at her. “Suuuun Jooooones.” He turned the talon on himself. “Buuuuub.”
Sun pointed at the sheep.
“Luuuuunch,” Bub said.
She gestured over her shoulder, to the rear of the room.
“Compuuuuuuter,” Bub said. “Craaaaaay. Four teraaaaabytes.”
Sun blew out some air. Bub startled her by repeating the gesture.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 6