Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  “Yeah—let’s go.”

  Peter followed the young man through darkened passageways. Thomas was surefooted and knew the tunnel system well. When the two came to a fork, Thomas did not hesitate to take the appropriate passage. Glowing children similar to the ones in the small room sparsely illuminated the narrow corridors at regular intervals. All the children were unique and their expressions were different as well. Some bore sadness or terror on their faces, while others appeared to be blissfully ignorant of the things transpiring around them. None of the children seemed to be aware of the two men running past.

  After several miles of keeping pace with Thomas, Peter stumbled to a halt. “I’m old, remember,” he said, gasping for breath and collapsing heavily onto a dislodged block of stone in the passage. “I’ve got to take a break.”

  Thomas slowed to a halt. “It’s been a while—I’m sorry.”

  The young man displayed none of the signs of the extraneous journey. He was not even breaking a sweat. On the other hand, Peter felt like he was going to pass out with his heart beating outside of his chest. “You’re not tired?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Things work differently here,” Thomas replied. “Don’t worry, it’ll happen to you.”

  Peter wanted to know more, but an all-consuming thirst parched his throat. “Is there anything to drink?”

  Thomas guffawed. “That’s what I mean.”

  Peter was bewildered at the young man’s rude behavior. There must be sources of water nearby. Even if he were in a comatose state, Peter’s brain would create the resources to fulfill the basic requirements of everyday living.

  Thomas licked his lips dryly. “Did you bring gum?”

  “Gum?”

  Thomas shook his head and gazed at the ground dejectedly. “I lost mine.”

  “What?” Peter asked, not sure if he had heard Thomas correctly. Gum was a triviality compared to the necessities of clean drinking water, and the young man was completely disregarding everything for his own whims. In a snarky tone, Peter asked, “Can’t you get more?”

  “Not likely,” Thomas replied, squatting next to Peter. “You only bring with you the things you can’t live without—like your glasses.”

  Peter took off his glasses and scrutinized them. He tried to understand what the young man was saying but could not.

  “Yeah,” Thomas said, “you don’t need them, just like I don’t need gum.”

  Peter put his glasses back on and felt his stomach growl. “I could use something to eat too.”

  “Double cheeseburgers,” Thomas said, ignoring Peter and speaking hollowly to the empty air of the passageway. “There was this place down the road called Franks—they had the best burgers. I can almost remember what they taste like.”

  “You don’t eat?”

  “Like your glasses—no reason. Don’t get me wrong, I want to eat—man, I miss it—I miss a lot of things.”

  Peter removed his spectacles once again to test Thomas’s supposition. His vision blurred as it always had.

  Thomas saw the concern on Peter’s face. “It takes a while. You’ll get over it.”

  Peter furrowed his brow and replaced his glasses. “But without food, how do you live?”

  “Live?” Thomas laughed out. “What do you mean live? We’re dead.”

  Peter involuntarily touched his face. He felt his skin and the day-old stubble on his cheeks. Everything was as it was supposed to be. His mind reeled. The evidence of his demise was all around him, but Peter could not—would not—let himself succumb to the idea that he was dead. It had to be a trick of his subconscious trying force him to let go of any semblance of the life he once possessed.

  “Sorry, I thought you knew.”

  Peter did not respond.

  “It was pretty obvious to me when it happened,” Thomas said. “Everyone experiences it differently. Some people can’t handle it.”

  Peter fought to suppress his emotions.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Thomas asked, attempting to guide the man to his own epiphany.

  “A tree stump.”

  Thomas giggled. “That’s a good one!”

  “No,” Peter replied. “I fell onto it. I was hurt pretty badly, but I was alive—I know I was.”

  “It seemed pretty real, huh?” Thomas asked. “I was in a car wreck racing this guy in a bent-eight deuce trying to impress this girl.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even know her name.”

  Thomas spoke from the heart with sincerity and Peter could not detect the slightest hint of deception or malice from the young man. Peter was afraid and withdrew to let his academic training take over. It would not behoove him to make guesses. He needed to use straightforward reasoning and logic. If he was dead and this world was real, the paradox of it all must answer his questions with answers that lead to concrete conclusions. Peter took a deep breath and thoughtfully asked, “If we’re dead, why are we able to function—move around and think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s this place.”

  Peter glanced up and down the tunnel, surveying the stone and architectural curve of its ceiling. Everything seemed real.

  “Your clothes,” Thomas said, gesturing to the same outfit Peter was wearing when he fell onto the tree stump. “Eating, drinking, breathing—they’re all leftovers from your real life.”

  “Leftovers?”

  “The stuff you can’t let go of—the things you clung to in life.”

  Peter followed Thomas’s rationale as best he could. He absorbed the information and looked for weaknesses in the logic that may point to the slightest flaw or oversight.

  “It’ll take a while, but you’ll forget soon enough,” Thomas said. “When I first got here, I thought I was in Hell.” He scoffed. “This place is much worse.”

  “Worse?”

  Thomas gestured to the block Peter sat on. “You could be one of them.”

  Peter studied the stone. He ran his hand across the roughly hewn surface. “Them?”

  “Sure,” Thomas replied, pulling the strap on Peter’s shoulder bag. “All this stuff, this entire city is made of the people who come here. Crazy, huh?”

  Peter took a moment to understand the implications of Thomas’s statement and then leapt to his feet. He tugged frantically at the shoulder bag in an effort to take it off, but he also realized he was wearing the cloak that had secreted him away. He whirled about, trying to remove both items at the same time.

  Thomas placed a calming hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It’s okay, there’s nothing you can do.”

  Peter took a series of deep breaths and sat back down on the stone block. He gestured to a nearby glowing child, resting in a fetal position against the wall. “And them?”

  “Ankle biters,” Thomas said. “They’re too young so they freeze up like that. I’ve tried to talk to them plenty of times—nothing.”

  “Back in the room, there were these things—stuff—moving by themselves?”

  “Animas. People like you and me, only insane, off their rockers—crazy. They have power—I’ve seen it. They can change into anything but can’t control it. They go back and forth, from one thing to something else.”

  Peter felt nauseous. The information contained things he had never heard of before and it was too precise to be a hallucination. He did not want it to be true, but it was becoming harder for him to cast this world aside. There was no denying it—he may be dead. Indeed, if that was his new reality, there would be no reason not to embrace it. His survival here depended on his ability to process information rationally. His surreal surroundings were disquieting, but Peter needed to stay focused. The individuals chasing him were after the book, but for what purpose he did not know. Slowly, Peter came to terms with his predicament.

  “We’ve got a ways to go,” Thomas said, gesturing down the corridor. “Can you make it?”

  “Yeah,” Peter replied, shaking his head remorsefully at the turn of events. “
Let’s keep moving.”

  ❖❖❖

  After several hours of trekking through the tunnels, Peter and Thomas arrived at the thick outer wall of the city. A long channel under the heavily burdened stone led to the world outside. A dim glow from the exterior breach penetrated the narrow passage. Thomas led the way, squeezing his small frame into the cramped space. Peter followed, wriggling past the uneven and jutting rocks.

  As the pair neared the far end of the fissure, the stone floor gave way to a dark, granular, earth-type substance. Peter stopped and scooped up a handful of the black soil. It was lighter than sand and made up of extremely irregular particles. He sniffed the sample. The soil was pungent and fetid. Peter knew what the unique odor was: ash that was foul smelling beyond any other he had encountered. He threw the handful down and wiped his hands clean on his trousers. Ahead, Thomas moved through the opening and out into the open air. Peter followed behind, advancing the remaining distance and exiting the passageway.

  What lay beyond the city was far more than anything Peter could have imagined. The ash was everywhere. A thick layer of pungent black earth covered the gently rolling hillside as far as he could see. In several places, the burned and skeletal remains of trees and plants stood defiant against whatever raging inferno had long ago destroyed them. There was no wind. The air was as stagnant and stale as that of a sealed tomb. The cloudless, twilight sky loomed above, casting a disquieting pallor over those unfortunate enough to dwell under its influence. The bleak landscape coupled with the ash’s foul odor woke Peter from his denial-based stupor and filled his senses with dread.

  Standing nearby was a group of seven individuals. They all wore a derivation of the cloak that was passed to Peter during his escape. With their hoods pulled back, he could see three of the individuals were women. They were of various ethnicities and the clothing beneath the loosely fitting cloaks pointed to differing time periods from ages past.

  The exterior wall defending the city was massive. Built of hewn stone, the wall stretched out of sight to both sides in a subtle but noticeable arc. If complete, the overall circumference of the barrier was incalculable. The height of the wall was nearly as staggering as its circumference. It was over fifty-feet tall and buttressed at regular intervals. Garish and monstrous gargoyles and effigies of twisted humans and demented forms adorned the wall around its perimeter. The defensive structure was impregnable and designed to invoke fear into anyone foolish enough to assail it. Above the fortification, a mass of buildings and tall towers rose into the twilight sky. Windows and colorful banners adorned some buildings, while others were plain and inconspicuous.

  From the assembled group, an imposing man emerged and made his way toward Peter and Thomas. The man was in his early sixties and carried himself confidently. He appeared to be of North African descent. He was taller than average and his muscular build displayed the characteristics of strength and stamina. The man had the same stature and bearing as the individual who forced Peter out of the square earlier in the day.

  The man wasted no time in asserting his authority over Thomas. “Where is Valentinius?”

  Thomas studied the group and glanced back to the escape passageway under the wall. “He’s not with you?”

  “We have no time for games, Thomas.”

  “Sorry, Hannibal,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “I never saw him again after we split up.”

  Hannibal pursed his lips and furrowed his brow at the response.

  “We didn’t wait. The guards came in right after I got there.”

  Two more cloaked individuals approached the group from a location much further along the wall. When they got within earshot, the taller of the two called out to Hannibal, “Valentinius fell.” The man pulled back his hood revealing his Chinese features. “He’s been taken.”

  Noticeably troubled by the news, Hannibal grew angry and cast a glance around the group as if searching for a scapegoat. “Guan, which demon?”

  “Asmodeus himself.”

  Hannibal’s rage bubbled to the surface. He pointed at Peter. “You,” he rasped. “What is your name?”

  “My—my name?” Peter stammered. “It’s Peter.”

  “Do you possess the book?”

  Peter rotated the shoulder bag into view and nodded, “I do.”

  Hannibal scoffed. “Do you know what it is for—can you read it?”

  Peter felt cold, as if his blood had suddenly drained from his body. He had no idea what the manuscript was for and he could not read the book as it was. Peter needed a primer—some sort of clue about its function or printed workings. Without the proper tools, the book’s knowledge would be lost forever. “No,” Peter answered meekly, “but I might be able to if I had more information.”

  Hannibal’s consternation was obvious and he scrutinized Peter and Thomas. “How is it that the world of men is now weaker than any old woman from my age? Are there no conflicts with which to cull and wean the timid and sick from their mother’s breasts?”

  A hearty laugh echoed from the parapets above the group. “Hannibal, my old friend, still inspiring your men, I see!”

  Hannibal turned to see a huge man standing on the wall. “We are not friends, Asmodeus.”

  Peter recognized the name from biblical accounts, but the human resembled nothing like a fallen angel. Asmodeus took the form of a mundane looking, albeit massive, man. He was as tall as the demon Peter witnessed upon entering the city and dwarfed all those around him. Asmodeus’s broad shoulders and proportional build made his presence seem more like an illusion in a fun house than a flesh and blood reality, but seeing him walk among the humans in his charge proved otherwise. The demon wore ancient leather armor similar to that of a Roman legionnaire. Even from ground level, Peter could see Asmodeus’s blood red eyes. They were unnerving and gave credence to Peter’s fear.

  “I am saddened by your change of heart,” Asmodeus said. “It was not so long ago that you were my most trusted lieutenant and favored of all the nephesh.”

  “Much has changed.”

  “Changed?” Asmodeus scoffed. “Nothing has changed, Hannibal Barca of Carthage. You stand as a murderous soul to thousands, or have you forgotten?”

  Hannibal lowered his head. “You know I cannot.”

  Asmodeus bowed, mocking the man below. “Your brutality is legendary still.”

  Hannibal cast a stern glance back to the demon. “We fought for our freedom—our right to exist. It was not mere folly.”

  “Do you believe your reasons give your acts clarity?” Asmodeus asked. “That your wisdom in the matters of men has any meaning here?”

  “What then would be the purpose of this place if not to test our fortitude, our true self and our soul?”

  “We own this realm!” Asmodeus spat. “You are nothing but a weak nephesh and a wicked one at that!”

  Hannibal chuckled. “You are as much a prisoner of this place as I, Asmodeus. You would be wise to remember that.”

  “Ah, yes,” Asmodeus agreed, “and that is precisely why I have sought you out—so that we may come to an agreement.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Asmodeus gestured to a small band of human guards standing in the shadows behind him. The motley crew of henchmen brought forward a cloaked captive and prodded him to stand on the edge of the wall. Asmodeus pulled the prisoner’s hood back, revealing a man of European descent.

  “Valentinius,” Hannibal muttered emptily.

  “An exchange. You give me that one there,” Asmodeus said, pointing to Peter standing near the base of the wall, “and I’ll return this nephesh to you.”

  Hannibal cast a dark gaze at Peter, but said nothing.

  Asmodeus sensed the conflict within his old friend. “Also, as a gesture of my benevolence, I’ll allow you and your band to roam free for as long as I control the city.”

  Peter listened intently to the exchange. These men had risked themselves to save him from an unknown fate, but the group of saviors had no ties to
Peter whatsoever. His wellbeing now rested on a decision made by someone he did not know for a comrade the group obviously knew well. Peter felt his chances of survival dwindling by the second. He scanned the horizon for an escape route and backed away from the group.

  The men and women of Hannibal’s team were listening to the conversation as well. They monitored Peter’s movement and when he made a change in stance, the assembled members drew their weapons.

  Disgusted with the group’s behavior, Thomas stepped between them. “This is what it has come to?” he asked them, looking to Hannibal to intervene. “We did all this for nothing?”

  Some in the company showed signs of being conflicted, but they held their ground and kept their attention focused on Peter.

  “You can’t let this happen,” Thomas pleaded with Hannibal.

  “Be quiet!” Hannibal ordered. He lowered his head in shame at the guilt he felt even for considering the demon’s offer. “We will not yield.”

  One by one, the individuals of the company nodded their approval and stowed their weapons.

  “You would free us?” Hannibal mockingly asked Asmodeus.

  “I give you my word.”

  “What of Lilith, your queen? Has she been supplanted?”

  Asmodeus cast a nervous glance behind him.

  “Truly, the book would be hers, not yours!”

  Asmodeus grew angry and morphed back into his demon form.

  Hannibal locked eyes with Valentinius standing on the edge of the wall. “I am truly sorry, my old friend.”

  Valentinius nodded and adjusted his posture to stand at military attention.

  Asmodeus touched Valentinius on the shoulder and released his demonic power. The prisoner shook and his features turned dark, almost black. His face contorted and changed until he was unrecognizable as a human being. The prisoner’s mass grew until he rivaled that of a hot-air balloon, silhouetted like a stain against the twilight sky. The sphere burst and dispersed into a swarm of bees.

  Asmodeus raved maniacally and swept his arms through the air, commanding the swirling cloud of stinging insects to attack Peter. The bees organized into a pointed formation and flew directly at the cowering human.