Stones: Hypothesis (Stones #2)

by Jacob Whaler

  Ryzaard walks off the carpet to the bluescreen on the wall. The bed under Little John’s upper body rises so that he is brought into a sitting position and can see the screen. The lights in the room dim.

  A blonde woman’s face appears on the glass surface. “Dr. Ryzaard,” she says. “Ready to proceed with the experiment.”

  “Good,” Ryzaard says. “By the way, Elsa, this is Little John. You have already heard much about him. He is going to be working with us from now on.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. John.”

  Little John’s eyes barely open. He stares straight ahead, face devoid of expression.

  “You’re going to feel it now,” Ryzaard says. “Just relax. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Ryzaard’s thumb brushes the surface of the green controller. The implant under Little John’s ear glows a deep emerald. Veins of light green swim through its translucent interior.

  “Get ready, Elsa.” Ryzaard sits in a chair near the hospital bed. The two Stones on his chest evolve from black to dark purple and through lighter shades until they are a luminescent violet. Relaxation flows through his body.

  On the bluescreen, Elsa glances up. “Nothing yet, Dr. Ryzaard.”

  “Be patient, Elsa. I am just getting started. It will take a few minutes. Little John and I are going to enter an alternate reality to complete the connection. You will know when we are ready.”

  With power surging through his body, Ryzaard relaxes more with each inhale and exhale. The Stones on his chest progress to a pinkish hue.

  In his mind’s eye, he floats in empty black space. A dual star system emerges in the darkness. He feels its gravitational pull. As he moves closer to it, the two stars, one for each of his Stones, fuse together into one. He opens his palms to it and feels warmth and energy flow into him. His size grows exponentially until he is large enough to reach out and take the star into the palm of his hand.

  “Little John,” Ryzaard says. “Close your eyes and look for me.”

  “Go to hell,” Little John says.

  “As you wish.” Ryzaard takes a deep inhale. “I’ll see you there in a few seconds.”

  Light surges through the jewel implant. Little John’s eyes flutter open and shut.

  Now fully pulled into the darkness of his mind, Ryzaard casts his gaze from side to side and up and down. “As you know, Little John, there are many realities, and the Stones provide a bridge to each one. You are now in one such alternate reality of my creation. It will appear to you as if you are floating in deep space, surrounded by darkness. I am there as well, searching for you.” A dot of light materializes in Ryzaard’s field of vision. “I see you. Now come to me.”

  The implant pulses with luminosity. Little John’s legs stiffen, and the soles of his feet slam against the end of the bed as if he’s trying to push away. The muscles in his chest tighten. His breathing grows labored. Sweat beads up on his forehead.

  As the light approaches Ryzaard, it resolves into a blurred image of Little John floating in the vacuum of space. He looks taller, thinner and older. Blue light envelops his body. His eyes are wide open, and his mouth gapes with an expression of horror.

  “Very good.” Ryzaard unleashes the monster inside him that has been restrained for so long. Reaching for Little John, Ryzaard grabs him by the shoulders, pulling him closer.

  His eyes are bottomless pools of terror.

  Ryzaard smiles. “Welcome to Hell.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Nothing but cold darkness around him.

  Little John tries to open his eyes to return to the round room and escape from the nightmare, but it’s impossible. His eyelids are like heavy weights that he cannot move. An enormous reptilian creature looms over him, its claws on his shoulders. He hears Ryzaard’s voice and sees the mouth moving, but it bears little resemblance to the man. More than a man, the creature is a mass of scales, bone, muscle and sinew. The face itself has no eyes, but its mouth is lined with rows of teeth.

  Like a great white shark.

  The monster moves closer. Little John tries to back away. But his legs are frozen. The mouth yawns open above him. He tries to raise his arms and beat back the creature, but his body is stiff, motionless, immovable. He is utterly helpless, unable to budge or speak, entirely at the mercy of Ryzaard.

  And there is no mercy.

  Let me die, he thinks.

  The voice of Ryzaard floats into his ears. “Do not resist. Open yourself to me. Make this easy. It doesn’t have to be hard.”

  Never. You are Abomination.

  “As you wish.”

  The mouth completely engulfs Little John’s face and head even as he tries in vain to push it away. Teeth bite down hard into the back of his shoulders and the front of his chest. He feels the cracking of bone. Jagged surges of pain flash down his spine. Inside the creature’s mouth, its breath reeks of death and decay.

  A voice plays in his ears again. “I am going to make contact now. Prepare yourself.”

  Out of the depths of the creature’s throat, an eyeless worm slithers close to Little John’s face. Long tendrils of flesh twist and float around the edges of its open mouth, like whiskers on a catfish.

  Please. Don’t.

  This time, there is no answer.

  Little John shuts his lips and bites down as hard as he can to keep the worm out.

  But it swims closer, and its outstretched tendrils play across his face, feeling and exploring his eyes and nose. Eventually they find his mouth. In a short amount of time, the slimy feelers work into the crack between his lips and pry them apart. He tries to press his jaw together to bar entry, but his muscles are dead and unresponsive. Against his will, his teeth break away, and the creature enters.

  “I’m through the first barrier. It won’t be long now,” Ryzaard says.

  With Little John’s head firmly in the vise grip of the massive jaws, the worm slides into his mouth, filling all the open space. He can feel it exploring the roof and sides, finding the opening at the back and sliding down his throat.

  As it moves, the worm’s shark-like outer skin tears at the tender flesh of Little John’s tongue and throat like sandpaper. After an eternity, the worm stops, its fat body still protruding out of Little John’s mouth. A burning sensation fills his belly and chest. It spreads to his spine. He tries to inhale but can no longer breathe. His fingers tingle, and a jolt of pain surges through his spinal cord, like a white hot wire passing through the core of his vertebrae from his lower back to the base of his skull. His arms and legs shoot out into a spread-eagle position.

  All movement stops, and the only sensation that remains is a scaly pressure in his mouth, resting on his tongue, and intense pain flowing through his backbone, constant and unrelenting.

  If only he could die or let go of his consciousness and pass out. But he is more lucid now than he ever remembers in his life. His belly wretches in vain. Nausea permeates his chest.

  Voices come out of the background.

  “Elsa, I have completed the linkage and feel the connection. Strong and clear. We are ready to proceed.”

  A woman’s voice answers. “Locking onto the third Stone. There it is. Got it. Engaging trading protocol.”

  An eternity of silence passes.

  “Dr. Ryzaard.” The woman’s voice is a mixture of euphoria and incredulity. “You won’t believe what’s happening.”

  “Tell me.”

  CHAPTER 44

  And a child shall lead them, Matt thinks.

  In the dim light, he follows the little girl named Yarah on the pathway between apartment buildings. They make a diagonal traverse, ascending up steep steps and moving horizontally on crumbling concrete walkways. The stench of sewage wafts up from a rivulet of dark water snaking under their feet. Wisps of steam hang in the air.

  A thin layer of green moss covers the walls like a shroud.

  Yarah opens her arms like an airplane and slides her fingers along the moist surface on either side as she pa
sses through a narrow passageway. Directly overhead, hazy light filters down from the sky.

  Judging from the shadows, it’s almost dark.

  Matt recalls an anthropology class where he studied the Brazilian flavela that rises on the steep side of a hill above the city of Rio de Janeiro. He never thought he would find himself deep inside it.

  A sleeping rat the size of a cat is startled awake and darts past Matt, brushing his ankle.

  Yarah jumps back. “Diabos,” she says.

  “Demons,” says the jax, still grasped in her small hand. She looks down at it and laughs again.

  Her laugh is contagious, and Matt finds himself joining her until the crisp sound of a switchblade pierces the darkness.

  Behind him, a man breathes hard. “Dá-me a menina.”

  The female jax translator follows. “Give me the girl.”

  Yarah stands, gripping Matt’s arm, looking past his waist, eyes wide, frozen in fear.

  The smell of cheap whiskey is overpowering.

  Matt slowly turns.

  A large man dressed in ragged clothes is two meters away, an eight-inch knife in his hand, its steel blade catching flecks of light in the darkness. The narrow neck of a bottle gleams in his other hand, an inch of liquid sloshing in its bottom. He brings the bottle to his lips and drains it without taking his eyes off Matt and Yarah. Then he turns and breaks it against the side of the nearest wall, still holding the neck with its jagged glass edges in his hand.

  The man takes a step closer. “Fazer quer morrer?”

  “Do you want to die?”

  Matt slowly pushes Yarah behind him.

  But it’s too late. The man rushes forward, blade poised at chest level.

  Matt’s mind instinctively goes to the Stone.

  Then the man stops, the knife only inches away, a frozen grin on his face.

  In like manner, the girl stands motionless behind Matt, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Matt fishes the Stone out of his pocket, its milky glow a sudden comfort. Pulling the blade from the man’s hand, Matt throws it into a cesspool behind him. He takes the broken bottle from the man’s other hand and flings it against the wall where it shatters and falls to the ground in pieces. After searching the man’s sewer-reeking clothes for any other weapons and finding none, Matt picks up Yarah in his arms, steps back five paces and puts her down, relaxing back into real time to see what the man does.

  Their attacker’s knifeless hand jabs forward into emptiness, and he stumbles and falls, hitting his head on the concrete. Staggering to his feet, he brings both hands close to his face and stares at empty palms. With trembling legs, he falls backward, picks himself up and runs off into the shadows.

  Matt’s eyes drop down to the girl. Through ragged bangs, she stares at the man disappearing in the darkness, his footsteps still audible but fading fast. As she leans against Matt, he can feel the fear coursing through her trembling body.

  Her eyes drift down to the Stone glowing warmly in Matt’s hand, and there is a look of recognition. Tiny fingers reach out to touch it, exploring its grooved surface from end to end. The jax, still in her tiny hand, comes up to her mouth. “Você és um Curado,” she says.

  “You are a Healer,” the jax repeats.

  Matt nods his head. “Sim.”

  Her large eyelids close. The trembling in her body stops, and doll-thin arms slip around Matt’s leg. She looks up. “Siga-me.”

  “Follow me.”

  A pale pink glow from the setting sun filters down through the rooftops. When Matt and the girl round a corner, steep steps lead upward. A tiny lamp at the top of the steps lights the way.

  The girl points at the light. “Lá,” she says.

  Ascending the steps slowly, almost reverently, she holds Matt’s hand and pulls him behind her. At the top of the steps, a rough wooden door hangs partially open, faint illumination coming from inside.

  When Matt hears voices on the other side of the door, he instinctively pulls back.

  “Isto é um bom espaço,” Yarah says.

  “This is a good place.”

  She pushes the door open and enters the room, pulling Matt behind her.

  Another small lamp on the ceiling provides light for the room. The floor is lined with sitting people. Matt’s counts nine. Two others lay sprawled on the floor. Each face looks up, tracing a triangle from the girl, up to Matt’s face, and down to the Stone in his hand, still glowing milky white.

  With her hands on her hips, Yarah stands between Matt and the others in the room. “Ele tem vindo,” she says.

  “He came,” says the jax in her hand.

  From out of the darkness, the voice of a young man speaks in unaccented English.

  “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Back inside the tent, Kent shuffles through the flap and slumps down into a chair. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Jake follows behind. Neither of them have slept the entire night.

  The last of the helicopters lifts off into the dawn sky.

  “They’re finally leaving,” Jake says. “No murders. No kidnapping. No explosives. They even left the camp in one piece. Just looking for information on a certain fugitive.” Jake drops into the other chair and lays his head back. “I do hope that boy of yours can take care of himself, with this many people looking for him.”

  Kent pushes back a wave of terror that threatens to flood his thoughts. “At least we know they haven’t found him yet. He’s used to hiding. He’s done it most his life.”

  Jake lifts his head. “How did the interrogation go? It all got over awfully quick.”

  “Incredible,” Kent says. “I don’t know how, but it worked. I inhaled the Truthtell, and then they asked me if I knew the kid in the picture.” He scratches the back of his head. “When I said no, it was the gospel truth in my mind. Even though it was my own son. You just saved my life.” He takes a long drink of amber liquid from a bottle. “That was the first time I’ve ever been hypnotized. How did you do it?”

  “I never did,” Jake says. “Remember how I told you that an angel, or whatever he was, came to me and gave me sight.”

  Kent takes another drink. “Yeah, I remember. You said you also got the gift to see into people’s minds. Kind of scary, if you ask me.”

  “It’s not like I can read minds. But I feel things. And that’s not all.”

  “What else?” Kent sets his beer down on a box and looks at Jake.

  “I can project thoughts or ideas into their minds.”

  “Mind control?”

  “No, hardly.” Jake laughs out loud. “Just suggestions. It helps if the subject is willing, like you were.”

  “So you didn’t even need that gold coin?”

  “It’s just a prop to help people relax and believe.”

  Kent looks at Jake from the corner of his eye. “Magic stones, angels, mind powers. This is getting freaky.”

  “Welcome to the world of the freedom camps.” Jake stands to his feet and stretches. “Time to go. We still need to make it to Vancouver so we can find your son. The transport is waiting.”

  They walk from the camp back to the road without a word to anyone and without breakfast.

  Back inside the cargo compartment of the truck, Jake sits down in a chair. “We got a long ride ahead of us. Plenty of time to talk and think.”

  Kent scans the room, searching for something to push back a fresh wave of fear rising up in his mind. His eyes fall on a black metal box on the floor neat Jake’s feet. “That’s the box Little John left behind, isn’t it? The one he wanted to you open in case anything happened to him.”

  “Yep. Another mystery.” Jake reaches down, opens the lid and lifts out the small stone monkey from inside. “What’s it supposed to mean?” He shakes his head. “Maybe the people in Vancouver will know.”

  “Mind if I have a look?” Kent says.

  “Go right ahead.” Jake drops the monkey in the box and hands
it over.

  Kent reaches in and picks up the statue. It’s carved out of black stone, perhaps obsidian. Turning it over in his hands, he takes off his glasses and scrutinizes its surface.

  “What do you think?” Jake says.

  “I hate to say it, but it just looks like a cheap souvenir. No identifying markings. It might help to know where it was made. Any idea?”

  “Nope,” Jake says. “Little John never said anything about it.” He leans his head back and focuses his aviators on the ceiling.

  “What’s this long hair in the bottom of the box?” Kent holds it up in front of him. “Looks sort of grayish. Must be garbage.” He walks over to the trash can.

  “No!” Jake says. “Don’t throw it away!”

  “You think it means something?”

  “If it was inside the box, it was intentional.” He scrunches up his nose as if smelling the air. “But why a hair?”

  Holding it up to his eye, Kent runs along the length of the hair. “I’m not an expert, but its thickness and texture tells me it’s probably not human. If we had the right equipment, we could tell for sure.” He turns to Jake. “You don’t happen to have a jax, do you?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “Little John left us two clues. The monkey statue and the hair. We need access to the Mesh to figure out what they mean, where they came from. Did you say this transport is heading due west across Colorado? Are we passing anywhere close to the Mosquito Range?”

  “Within a hundred miles,” Jake says. “That’s where you’re from, isn’t it? We should be there in a couple hours.”

  “Good.” Kent drops the hair back into the box. “I have an idea.”

  “Wait,” Jake says “You’re not actually considering going to your house, are you? We don’t have time for that.”

  “Little John left us two clues. The monkey statue and the hair.” Kent runs an index finger along the bottom of his chin. “We need to know where they came from. Then we’ll know where to go.”