by Lynn Sholes
“What?” Ben said. “Did you say something?”
“Twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-six.” The boy repeated a little louder.
“I don’t understand.” Ben leaned forward trying to hear. “What do you mean?”
“How long you were asleep,” the boy said. “Twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-six seconds.”
Ben shook his head. “And how do you know this? Do you have a stopwatch or something?”
“I just know.”
“You mean you counted every second I was asleep?” As he spoke, Ben looked around the room. The walls were painted gray and the floor was a dull, cream-colored linoleum. Each bed had a blanket and pillow. Plain and basic, like temporary sleeping quarters for a fire station or a military bunkhouse. He remembered seeing pictures in a magazine of the bunks for airmen who manned underground missile silos. Then he recalled the stark concrete building with the old radar dish on top. Was that where he was? But there were no ICBM silos in Northern Arkansas.
“I just know,” the boy said again.
Ben studied the boy. Could this be the same kid that he saw blindfolded and pulled from the van beside the meadow?
“That’s amazing,” Ben said, humoring the kid. “What’s the deal? What are you doing here?”
“Play games.” The boy scratched his ear but did not turn around.
“Games?” Ben tried to get up. “What kind of games?”
“Show them how to play games.”
“Who?” He stood on shaky legs holding his arms out to balance.
“They want me to show them how to play games.”
“Okay,” Ben mumbled to himself, “we’ve established that.” Feeling that he had regained some of his strength, he walked to the end of the bed where the boy lay. A door led from the room, and Ben tried the handle. Locked.
He stared down at the kid. He was probably eight or nine. Short blond hair, round face. “What’s your name?”
The boy rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. “Olsen.”
“Well, hello, Olsen.”
“No, Olsen is my last name.” He grinned. “I’m Devin Olsen.”
“Okay, Devin Olsen. Nice to meet you. My name is Ben.” He sat on the end of the bed opposite Devin. “Do you know where we are?”
Devin sat up. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “We are in Arkansas, the twenty-fifth state. It entered the Union on June fifteenth, eighteen thirty-six. The state motto is regnat populus, which is Latin and means ‘the people rule.’ The population is—”
“Hang on, hang on,” Ben said. “Where is this place?” He pointed to the floor. “This building.”
Devin shrugged, looked away and began rocking. Then he ended his silence. “Arkansas,” he said.
“You’re a pretty smart kid. How do you know we are in Arkansas?”
Devin stopped rocking, but still didn’t make eye contact. “The last stations on the radio were all Arkansas stations.”
“The radio stations you listened to in the white van with the guy with the red jacket?”
“Uh-huh.”
Clever kid, Ben thought.
The door opened.
“Mr. Jackson?”
Ben looked up to see a short, slim man standing in the doorway. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and was dressed in black track shoes, jeans, and a T-shirt that said, “Qubits or Cubits, they all add up.” He had a narrow face with a dark goatee, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his brown hair was cut short. He extended his hand as the door closed behind him.
“How’s the head?”
Ben stood, but didn’t shake the guy’s hand. Just before the door closed, he caught a quick glimpse of a large, low-lit room filled with racks of electronic gear—he heard the hum of computer cooling fans. “Who are you?”
“Call me Tor.” He motioned for Ben to sit back on the bed.
Remaining on his feet, Ben said, “What are you doing with this kid?” He pointed to Devin who was now sitting crossed-legged on his bed. The boy had shed the blanket, and Ben saw that he wore a yellow T-shirt and jeans. A Miami Dolphins jacket and a pair of sneakers rested on the floor beside the bed.
Tor smiled and said, “Devin is here to help us with some computer issues. Once he’s done, he’ll be going home.”
Ben turned to the boy. “Devin, where is your home?”
“Miami.” He stared up at the ceiling. “Incorporated on July twenty-eighth, eighteen ninety-six. Population at the time was four hundred and forty-four—”
“Thank you, Devin,” Tor said.
The boy gave Tor a stony glare and crossed his arms.
“What’s going on here?” Ben said. “Did you kidnap this kid?” If that were so, Ben figured he was caught in a huge bucket of shit.
“Mr. Jackson,” Tor said, holding up Ben’s driver’s license, “like Devin, you are now our guest here. If you behave yourself, you will eventually be allowed to go back to your cozy little mountain cabin and continue doing whatever it is you do there. For now, I suggest you make yourself at home. You and Devin will be well cared for as long as you do as you’re told.” He nodded toward the boy. “I would hate to have anything happen to him because you decided to become heroic and try something stupid like attempt to escape.”
Ben felt his pulse quicken. This asshole was telling him what to do. Giving him orders. In that instant, he realized that he must remain calm. As far at this prick was concerned, he was Ben Jackson, retired banker, who loved the solitude of the Ozark woods. Nothing more.
“Do you understand, Mr. Jackson?” Tor said.
Ben nodded and sat back down on the bed.
“Good decision.” Tor smiled. “Now it’s time to go and play our games, Devin.” He waited while Devin put on his shoes, rose, and walked to the door.
As Tor opened it, Ben said, “Where is this place?”
Tor glanced around the small dormitory as if it were a museum, its walls covered with great works of art. A slow, malevolent grin stole across his lips, sending a chill through Ben.
“This, Mr. Jackson, is Hades.”
silver tears
“This is so fucked,” said Scar, the teenage boy with the long, dyed black hair. The bottom of his dark trench coat snagged the grass as he walked in six-inch platform leather boots along the dirt road near the Potomac River. He carried a flashlight to light the way in the dark Maryland woods.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Crow, a bit taller than Scar, and dressed equally gothic in an all-black outfit of alchemy shirt, crossroads bandana, triple hex belt buckle, wool trench coat, and raised boots. His shaved head was hidden under his hood. The light of the lantern reflected off the silver studs and hoops of his facial piercings.
“How did you ever figure out where to find it?” Scar asked, looking over his shoulder at the moon burning orange through the trees.
“Legends, my man,” Crow said. “Urban-legends-dot-com.”
“Everyone says the stories are bullshit.”
“Well, we’re going to find out if the legend is crap or the fucking truth tonight,” Crow said. “You can only witness it on Halloween. Well, guess what, dickhead, it’s Halloween. And we’re gonna fucking find it tonight. Now shut the fuck up.”
“So who’s supposed to be buried there?” Scar asked.
“What part of shut-the-fuck-up don’t you understand?”
Scar stopped and turned around to face his friend. “Hey, fuck you, man. I’m out here in the cold when I could be back at the party screwing that blonde bitch from second period, who by the way said she’d suck my dick anytime I wanted. So fuck you.”
Crow looked at Scar and weakened slightly. “O-fucking-kay. You’re such a prick. First, you can bang her any time. Second, tonight is Halloween. The only night in three hundred and sixty-something days
a year that you can see it. So go fuck yourself. Either you want to go with me and find it or you don’t. Make up your fucking mind.”
Scar flashed the light in his friend’s face. “Asshole.”
They started walking again.
“You ever wonder if we’re playing with shit that we don’t need to be messing with?” Scar asked. “I mean with all the fucking spells and incantations and Satan shit?”
Crow yanked back his hood. “I fucking give up. What is it with you? All I want is some fucking quiet time so I can get into the mood of this whole fucking thing and you won’t shut the fuck up.”
“That’s it, asshole.” Scar turned and headed back along the dirt road. “You go find it by yourself.” He handed his flashlight to Crow. “Fuck you.”
Crow watched Scar until he was out of sight in the darkness. Fuck him! If he wants to miss out on the greatest event in his life, he can go fuck himself.
As the moon crested over the trees, Crow continued on, deep in thought as to what he would find hidden in the heart of the Maryland woods.
The wind ran through the forest, carrying with it the call of the great horned owl. Crow pulled the hood over his head, wanting to become part of the night and the wind. He envisioned himself a vapor, a specter, a spirit of the underworld. Quickly forgetting Scar, he slipped on through the shadows.
He had heard the legend many times—the story of the haunted fire ring, the one that could only be seen on Halloween. The story went that, in the early 1700s, a group of young village girls claimed to see and communicate with the devil. They were branded witches and burned alive in the town square. In a common unmarked grave deep within the Maryland woods, the village elders buried the children’s bodies—the location marked by a ring of rocks. But the legend tells that each Halloween the girls rise up and roam the woods, crying out in torment as they search for the devil among the thick forest. Those who claim to have witnessed the apparitions say the girls’ bodies are engulfed in flames.
Crow came upon a small stone marker in the weeds beside the dirt road. It was a mile marker placed there when the road was heavily traveled by the colonists hundreds of years ago. Standing beside the stone marker, he recalled the instructions from the website. Six hundred sixty-six paces due north of the marker lay the resting place of the Potomac Witches beneath the haunted fire ring.
He took in a deep breath and stepped forward, eager to become a master in the netherworld of the occult, Satan worship, and the black arts.
_____
Mace pulled his BMW into the grove of witch hazel and black walnut trees. Other cars were already there—he was the last to arrive. As he got out, he looked at the moon shadows on the ground—silver and shimmering. What a wonderful night. A perfect Halloween.
The air chilled him as he slipped into his ceremonial scarlet robe and moved down a sloping path along a hillside to the circle of rocks. He smelled smoke—pungent but sweet. It drifted through the forest like wispy tentacles beckoning him to the heart of its heat.
“Good evening, Pursan,” said a tall man in a flowing black robe standing beside the path. He bowed slightly.
“Urakabarameel,” Mace said. “We’ve missed you the last few gatherings.”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time in the Middle East. War is hell.”
Mace chuckled. “That it is.” He placed his hand on the other’s shoulder as they walked on down the hillside. “So all that’s your doing over on that side of the world?”
“I can’t take complete credit. Ezekeel and Dagon have had a hand in it as well.”
“Give them my regards,” Mace said as they approached the circle of fire—a ring of stones about thirty feet in diameter. In the center, a cone-shaped pile of logs blazed, sending sparks into the heavens. Surrounding the fire, a dozen children stood holding hands, their faces hidden by the hoods of their black robes. Circling behind the children, a group of robed adults formed an outer ring.
“A good gathering,” Urakabarameel said.
“Yes,” Mace said. “Our new Ruby Army grows so quickly.”
“How is your Hades Project coming along?” Urakabarameel asked.
“It’s a challenge.” Mace paused as one of the adults brought him a golden cup of wine and a jewel-encrusted dagger. “I’ll tell you more after the initiation.”
Urakabarameel nodded and took his place among the adults. Mace was handed a golden chalice of wine and a jewel-encrusted dagger before he stepped through a gap in the circle of children and said, “It is time.” He glanced around at everyone. “Let us begin by calling upon Samael, the Guardian of the Gate.”
In unison, the children intoned, “Samael.”
A rush of wind stirred through the surrounding forest causing the branches to bow beneath the star-filled sky.
“I call upon Azazel, the Guardian of the Flame,” Mace said, “the Spark in the Eye of the Great Darkness.”
Again, the small voices echoed, “Azazel.”
A tongue of flame swirled up and crackled as it fed on itself.
“I call upon the Light of the Air, the Son of the Dawn.”
“Son of the Dawn,” the children repeated.
The Old Man came to stand next to Mace, his face aglow in the heat of the flames. “The time grows close,” he said. “You are our newest warriors.” He spread his arms in a sweeping gesture as if gathering the children in an embrace. “The great Ruby Army will soon unite, and you will be our future vanguard. Stand proud in your purpose, for this world will belong to us. Soon we will take back from Him all that He stole from us. Now, come forward and dedicate your souls to me and the future of our new world.”
Mace sipped from the chalice before saying, “In the name of your mighty sword and the flowing lifeblood that gives you the power to conquer, enter into the minds, hearts, and souls of these young soldiers, and fill them with your terrible and crushing strength.”
Mace lifted his arms high as the children formed a single line. Each came and kissed the blade of the dagger, then took a sip from the chalice. Once done, they returned to their place in the fire circle and drew back their hoods.
“Oh, great Son of the Dawn, behold, the newest soldiers of your vanquishing army.”
The Old Man surveyed his youthful warriors. “So be it,” he said.
Each child turned to be congratulated by his or her father—a Fallen Angel.
The ceremony finished, Mace returned the dagger and cup to a nearby Fallen brother. As he did, he moved close to the Fallen’s face and whispered, “We have a visitor—a young man enchanted by the lure of legends and darkness.”
The Fallen brother said, “I am aware of him lurking in the distant shadows.”
Mace smiled. “See that he finds what he seeks.”
“Of course.”
Mace nodded a thank-you before turning to walk up the slope where he saw Urakabarameel waiting. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I intended to tell you more of the Hades Project.” Side by side, they strolled along as Mace talked. “What we’re going to do will amount to the biggest trick since the Son of the Dawn tempted Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. And, as they say, a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing. That’s the clincher to this whole idea. Men will make decisions according to what they think they see, what they believe is happening, based on their knowledge, when indeed there is nothing really there to see and nothing is really happening. Only an illusion that we create. And based upon those illusions, they will eventually turn against one another and commit the gravest of sins against God.”
“How do you mean?” Urakabarameel said.
“It is probably premature for me to go into such detail, but let me give you an example. Let’s say we alter GPS satellite diagnostic and control by displaying a problem or error. Upon seeing that, the human operator will make appropriate corrections. However, since the problem is contriv
ed, when the operator makes his corrections, his response will actually create a problem. In other words, we skew a few numbers, the operator compensates and skews all GPS coordinates.”
“Interesting.”
“It gets better.” Mace relished his position in the Fallen hierarchy and could not resist the opportunity to flaunt that he was one of the Son of the Dawn’s chosen insiders. He would not miss this opportunity. “Maybe I shouldn’t divulge so much,” he said, “but the grandeur of the plan is magnificent, and I must share with you. Let us say that the authorities receive word that a hundred inbound airliners have been hijacked and they rush to land all planes.”
Urakabarameel smiled. “Because the GPS coordinates are wrong, planes descend over the wrong areas.”
“Yes. Air traffic controllers panic and instruct pilots to take drastic measures to land, resulting in numerous crashes while other planes run out of fuel and fall from the skies.”
“That’s quite original, Pursan, but I assume there’s more to it than airplanes crashing?”
“Oh, yes. We will affect global systems such as banking, defense, communications, utilities, and finally the power grids in an equally chaotic manner. The end result will be a complete, worldwide shutdown of all resources. On the evening of the last day of Man, each individual will be at war with his neighbor. Many will take the lives of others before their own, and we will welcome their souls with open arms.”
“I like it already,” Urakabarameel said. “And you’ll be guiding everything from within?”
“I’ve already started.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Are you heading back to the desert?” Mace asked.
Urakabarameel nodded. “Dealing with terrorists is like communicating with mongrels, but I enjoy the challenge.”
As Mace arrived at his car, he waved to the departing Urakabarameel. Removing his robe, Mace glanced briefly toward the dark woods nearby, knowing the young visitor was still there. He smelled the boy’s fear.
Mace got behind the wheel and started the long drive out of the forest back to the Virginia suburbs. The Ruby initiation ceremonies always invigorated him, and he smiled with the excitement of knowing the Hades Project was about to become a reality.