by Brock Law
on something, which compelled him to stop the conversation.
Jefferson began to read aloud from the paper, “Authorities are being aided by the city’s preservationists, including Professor Joseph Mith of the recently raided Penn Museum etcetera. William, is this your father?”
Jefferson passed him the print. Embedded within the article was a photo of his dad talking with police in the museum’s courtyard the day before. Will handed it back.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Will confirmed.
“Interesting,” Jefferson said with a dropping tone. “Is that not also him right over there?”
Will snapped around. Sure enough, his father was talking to a table of unknown people. An instant chill blocked out the summer heat. He flipped away to avoid discovery. The professor looked as if he had wrapped up his address and began to drift in the direction of his son and the founders.
“Will, inside now,” Franklin ordered.
Will glanced over his shoulder again. His dad was just about to face him. He leapt out of his seat and bolted through the glass doors behind Franklin. Once concealed in a vacated seating area in the lobby, he hid behind the nearest column and angled around. With one eye peering through the curtain, he listened through the cracked door.
His father strode towards the founders. Though he looked oblivious in his stress, the professor suddenly slowed as he approached the men. When he fully processed Adams’ face he stopped.
Professor Mith exclaimed, “Mr. McCullough?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, hello,” Adams greeted.
The professor announced, “We met years ago at a conference. I’m Professor Mith from Penn.”
Will’s dad held out his hand to Adams. The professor shook firmly with admiration, while Adams did so with a telling smile. From behind the curtain Will could see Jefferson and Franklin trying to hide similar grins.
“Is that right?” Adams feigned ignorance. “We were just reading about you, Professor. As a matter of fact, just the other day I was reviewing your essay on emergency artifact evacuation in areas of impending conflict. It was fascinating.”
“You read that? Wonderful, thank you,” Professor Mith beamed. “I’d say you should stop by the museum sometime, but as you saw it’s a little out of order at the moment. Actually, those are some of the Homeland Security heads over there having breakfast. We were just discussing the issue. It seems they’re setting up camp for a while at this hotel.”
Jefferson shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Indeed,” Adams pondered. “Any hopeful progress?”
“None, unfortunately,” Professor Mith sighed. “The whole thing just doesn’t make a lot of sense at the moment.”
“That’s a shame,” Adams replied. “Well, I will be in town for a couple days. If I can assist in any way, please don’t hesitate to call me at the hotel.”
Taken aback with gratitude, Professor Mith said, “Much appreciated, I certainly will.”
“Very nice to see you again Professor,” Adams closed.
“You as well, thank you,” Professor Mith saluted.
With an acknowledgment to all three the professor passed to the end of the veranda. He descended the steps to the sidewalk and departed. The founders chuckled lightly, which signaled Will to relax.
“All clear, William,” Jefferson called out.
Will emerged, as pale as the vampires.
“I think that concludes our meeting,” said Adams. “Will, you’d better head home.”
“Alright,” Will anguished, “I think that’s as much excitement as I can handle today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“We, gentlemen,” Adams closed, “should find more exclusive lodgings while we are still a step ahead.”
The Boisterous Sea Of Liberty Is Never Without A Wave
Will’s legs pushed forward without his control, dragging him along reluctantly. A murky corridor revealed itself to his frenzied awareness. He could feel his head trying to move in multiple directions at once. Pillars of light beamed down from the cracked ceiling, speckled with particles of dust and sand that meandered through the air. He traipsed down a spiraling well of roughly cut steps. They were rocky and treacherous, tamped with aged wear. He fastened his hands to the spiny walls for balance. They were cut from solid rock, unfinished and forlorn. Despite his usual sure-footedness, he felt unstable and fearful with each intrusive step. His body compelled him to move further down into the cavernous recess.
His eyes seemed to shut and open independently, showing him only snippets of this strange realm. In front of him was a desolate chamber. It was lit with iron torches, which burned ferociously, and blasted his face with heat. Leading out from where he stood was a foreign set of footsteps, stamped into the sandy floor of the cave. The imprints trekked determinately across the earthen cavity, straight through the center towards a deceptively distant end.
As he moved inelegantly through the heart of the stark hall, tattered woven baskets filled his periphery. On either side of him the disintegrating receptacles were stuffed with browned scrolls of parchment. At various lengths their jagged edges protruded from the baskets like unorganized literary pipe organs. Abandoned, overturned, ripped apart at the sides, and partially rummaged, the cache sprawled ahead, fastened to the cave’s infinite distance.
A glare from unknown origin broke the rocks apart. At first it peeped through then widened to completely transition Will from observable space. In a bright flash that beat from white to somehow whiter still, he then found himself looking at a desert sunset. A languid orange sphere was halved by the horizon, into which it mournfully sank. A familiar scene materialized ahead. Three tall crosses stood ominously at the peak of modest hill. A gathering of robed figures congregated around the mound. There was no sound from the crowd, just airy wisps from a dry breeze. One silhouette separated from the crowd and approached the center crucifix. The cautious shade reached out, holding its hand high to make contact with the structure. It extended something in its grasp, pressing it against a soft form which hung in contrast from the wood. The blackened figure then descended from the hilltop, exiting through the center of the crowd. As if by designed purpose it drifted towards the presence of Will, holding out the object in its hands. It was faceless and the item it held was obscured in formless shadow. Its feet planted on the ground, and its hands stretched as it presented itself.
For the first time, a voice from the desert whispered, seeming to come from all around, “Keep me with you, always.”
Will cupped his hands and reached out to receive. Just before they touched, a blaring army of trumpets cascaded from the skies and blanketed the scene with waves of deafening sound. Though less like trumpets and more like bellowing train whistles, the baseline vibrated across Will’s skin with constant monotonous pressure. Joined in unnerving minor keys, higher scaled horns added variations of rhythm. The middle line slid up and down between saddened trombone-like tones with the unsteady sputter of pneumatically controlled valves. The high end pulsed in sharp three note charges, capped by an embellished final squeal. The cacophony loudened and the heavenly racket intensified. It tightened around Will who felt his body contort from the weight of the sound. An explosion hit him and everything went black.
Will’s eyes snapped open to a darkened bedroom, and he subsequently forced air into his lungs. The startling influx shook his whole body up from the bed, as he struggled to manage his rapid breath. Beside him, the insufferable ring from his cell phone pierced into his awakening brain. He snatched it up, nearly flicking it across the room as his fingers lagged in coordination.
“Ben, what’s up?” Will said with exasperation.
“Will, thank God you’re ok,” Franklin exclaimed from the other end.
“What is it? I was asleep. What’s going on?” Will pushed with scornful sounding obliviousness.
“Get out of your house immediately,” Franklin pleaded. “Get dressed and meet me at Christ Church as fast as you can. Something terrible has happened.”
“Ben, whu…”
The line went dead. His muscles shivered from the abruptness of his somnolent disinterment. Will whinnied as he violently shook the sleep out of his head. Still semi-conscious, he sprang out of bed. Digging into the carpet, he rushed over to the dresser and scooped up a pair of jeans. Bracing himself against it, he paused a moment. His dreamy mind was finally clearing and sensibility returning to his bewildered face. He looked over at the clock and sneered. It was just after three in the morning. Will groaned angrily and continued to dress himself, though more sluggishly.
He cracked his bedroom door and peered out into an unlit hallway. No one else was visible, so he stalked out to the landing. Treading lightly on his toes, passing his parents’ and sisters’ rooms, he centered himself over short steps. Will gently applied his weight to the top stair, which creaked. He clammed up, annoyed, and continued to settle his body into the declining motion. The remaining stairs weren’t in any better shape, as he knew from a lifetime of use. Clasping the railing, he supported as much of his weight as he could above his feet and hurriedly skipped down to the first floor. Once reaching the downstairs hallway, he paused to listen.
Somewhere behind him, either upstairs or at the back of the house, he swore he heard a lock click. No organic movement accompanied the sound, which echoed through the silence of the home. Glued to the carpet at the bottom of the