This is the continued story of
Simon’s Journal.
I would highly recommend you read the first volume of this
story,
Simon’s Journal
Thirteen Days – The First Crusade
before you
begin this novel.
The following narrative is nearly a complete work of
fiction.
Any similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely
unintentional.
If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers
and exploring
their awakening sexuality is offensive or illegal in your
area, then might I suggest
that
you go read War and Peace or something equally stimulating.
Simon's
Journal
Volume
II
Thirteen Nights – After the Crusade
Written by
Danny
Author of Thirteen
Days
Part 5 –
Friday, March 12, 2004 – Who
Cares
Fumbling in the dark we managed to
find the lantern and get it working again. I was never so glad to see light as I
was at that moment.
I pulled the front of my shirt up and
whipped the sweat from my face and eyes; as I pulled it back own over my stomach
my eyes again landed on the enormous creature that lay in the sarcophagus before
us and a shiver trickled down my spine.
A second later there was another
rumble but this one did not come from deep within the tomb. It came from me
again. Uncle Max was shining the lantern on me and looking both frightened and
agree. I covered my stomach with my hands and made a
grimace.
The odder of sulfur grew so strong
that it overpowered the scents of cinnamon,
myrrh and spikenard
When Uncle Max moved the glow from the
lantern away from me it reflected against a picture on another wall and for only
a moment, I saw it clearly.
I saw the most magnificent painting of
a blue and gold dragon, the kind from children’s storybooks and Eastern
Legions.
“Here take this!” Uncle Max said
handing me a torch he had removed from a wall and lit using the lantern. “And
stay close!” he ordered but I did not obey. I had to get a closer look at that
dragon.
Several things puzzled me. The head of
the dragon appeared to be that of a hawk with a mane like a lion, and it
appeared to be wearing clothing. A blue robe or cloak that covered a great deal
of its body and most incredible of all, it appeared to have been painted in with
tears falling from it’s eyes.
I stepped closer and noticed that the
tears were actually blue sapphires that had been set into the wall and at closer
inspection the dragon was not a painting but a sort of statue that had been only
partially carved from the stone wall.
And at that moment I saw another
picture, one I had seen before. It was obviously done by the same hand that had
created the image on the side of the Cliffside graveyard as well as the portrait
back by the tomb entrance.
.
“Y-e-s...” I whispered to
myself.
Yes, of course I could recognize her
face; I had seen her before, back at the hotel and again at the
airport.
I glanced over to see Uncle Max moving
closer to the sound emanating from somewhere deeper. Assured that he had not
left me, I returned my attention to read the inscriptions cared below her
portrait.
“Yes,” I whispered in a sort of fear
gripping trance, “of course I can read the ancient language and yes,” I wiped a
large drop of sweat from the tip of my nose with the back of my hand, “I
recognize the face.” Besides seeing it painted on two other walls, I had also
seen it a top the body of the young girl back at the
hotel.
There was another groan from deep within the darkness but I barely registered it. I was now so focused on the wall and the inscriptions, which were terrifying. There were secrets there that men would give their lives to posses and probably have throughout history. There were secrets etched into the stone that man has not yet begun to imagine.
And as though someone had questioned me, I spoke aloud, “Because I’m the son of a great archeologist! I just know!” and as soon as I spoke the words I began to question myself, “Or do I?”
“Jason!” Uncle Max called my name three times before I finally heard him and snapped out of my trance.
I looked over my right shoulder to where he was shining his light on his own face so that I could see he had his finger over his lips.
I placed my free hand over my mouth and whispered, “Oh, yeah . . . Uh, right!” and took half a step away from the painting before stopping myself when once again my gaze fell on the young girls painted eyes.
I suppose we had forgotten about the thing in the sarcophagus and the lavish treasures that surrounded us in every direction and though I did not notice it at first, it had begun to grow darker around us. It was not because our lanterns were going out because they were not; they were still shining just as bright as ever. It seemed like this tomb or temple or whatever this place is or used to be, was devouring the light.
Despite the diminishing light, I read on and on. I stood before the painting of the young girl, long black hair, red lips that smiled at me and my heart stopped at the inscription under the portrait.
With lips trembling, knees knocking and my throat drier then the sands of the Sahara I read it over repeatedly . . .
B E N O T A F R A I D
J A S O N B R O W N I N G
It had been carved into the this wall of rock countless centuries before, however what I found so disturbing was my name was carved beneath it; wrote in my own native tongue no less.
It was clear that these words had not
been carved by the same artistic hand that had carved the rest of the writings;
I knew who had carved my name there.
“Be Not Afraid Jason Browning,” I
repeated aloud.
Despite the instructions... I was
afraid, very afraid; so much so that when I was finally able to rip my attention
from the wall to look to where Uncle Max was standing stone still almost
completely engulfed within an enormous shadow, I suddenly because aware of a
heaviness in the back of my pants. I took a single step and realized in that
instant that my fear was so great that I had soiled myself without even knowing
that I had done so.
As realization that I had just crapped,
my pants my fear morphed into humiliation and tears welled up in my eyes as I
watched Uncle Max with admiration. He always gave me the impression that he was
a very brave man and as the shadow seemed to swallow him, he did not scream or
cry out in the torrential darkness; somehow he managed to talk to me quietly,
calmly, “It will be alright Jason.”
Staring at the massive blackness before
us, I tried to answered back, “I hope so . . .” but the words were lost as I
felt my bladder release and a warmth consume the front of my
pants.
Without looking toward me he spoke
again, though this time barely loud enough for me to hear him, “Yeah, going to
be alright.” And I think he was saying it to reassure himself more then for my
benefit.
As if I had just blinked, suddenly there
was no light at all. I held my lantern in front of my face, so close I could
feel the warmth radiating from the flame and yet, not even a glimmer from the
flame could pierce this darkness.
“Where are you?” Uncle Max asked. He
words came as though he had just finished running a
marathon.
“Right here!” I answered, swallowed the
enormous lump that was sticking in my throat and then added, “Lantern’s not
working!”
“Well stand still!” He
ordered.
More then slightly confused by this
command I said, “I am standing still!”
Without delay and for the first time
allowing me to hear the fear he too was feeling, he said, “I-I thought I heard
you move?”
“No!” I said hardly loud enough for him
to hear me.
He huffed out a small laugh and asked,
“You afraid Jason?”
The odor from the mess I had unloaded
into my pants finally reached my nostrils and mixed with the aroma of cinnamon,
myrrh, spikenard and sulfur. My stomach churned and I waited for what seemed
like a full minute before answering with my own question, “Are
you?”
“Of the dark?” he laughed cynically,
“Not particularly!”
Moreover, by the sound of Uncle Max’s
voice and the way he seemed to be mocking the darkness with his laughter, I
believed him. Maybe if he had not spoke another word I might have been able to
regain some control over my emotions but he didn’t stop there, he continued,
“but I . . . the thing in the . . .” and any bravery, any strength I had left in
me was devoured just as the light had been moments before.
Abruptly his voice changed to anger,
“Where are you going?”
It was impossible for me to hide my fear
now, “Uncle Max, I have not moved!” I said with tears flowing down my face and
my heart was beating against the inside of my ribcage as though it were trying
to burst through.
Distress growing a fair amount in his
voice Uncle Max said, or maybe he was asking, “I-I thought I felt your hand on
my arm?”
“No!” I whispered as thought I thought
someone else might be listening in on our conversation.
“Well . . . uh, sit still. Don’t use up
the air.” He ordered, which I thought was a stupid thing to say given the size
of the tomb and the fact that there was a faint sulfur laced breeze coming from
directly in front of us.
I heard him taking several steps to the
right, “Huh? Well you sit still too then!” I said back.
Sounding perplexed and a bit affronted,
he shot back with a slightly higher tone of voice then normal, “What? I tell you
I didn’t move!”
We both listened for several seconds,
“Don’t move!” he said softly, “Just listen!”
Something was still moving and suddenly
the words etched on the cover stone came back to me, “Seven orbs
and seven nights." Seraph defends the entombment bleak. Contravene their seven
clasps and issue forth mankind’s end.”
“Couldn’t be!” I
grunted.
“Uncle Max I think I . . .” I never got
to finish.
There had been a funny sort of sound;
the only thing I can compare that sound to would be the way a bird sounds when
its head is twisted off. It was quickly followed by two hollow thumps, the first
was hard and loud, the second softer and then there was
nothing.
I stood frozen in place, “Uncle Max?” I
whispered through clinched teeth.
When he did not reply I raised my voice,
“Uncle Max?”
I waited and listened for any sound at
all. At first, there was only the sound of my own breathing and the thunderous
beating of my heart but then . . . I took a breath and held
it.
Placed my hands over my heart to try in
an effort to try to muffle it I listened . . . I could defiantly hear someone
moving, moving slowly, and moving quietly.
I let go my breath and took another in;
once again filling my nostrils with the stench of sulfur mixed with the mess in
my pants and I screamed, “UNCLE MAX!”
I had screamed so loud that my words
seemed to echo for an eternity.
“UNCLE MAX, ANSWER ME!” I screamed
again, “UNCLE MAX PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!”
I waited, allowing my words to die away
and when the last echo was heard, there was nothing but silence. The movement
had stopped. I think my heart stopped to, or at the very least I could not hear
it anymore and just as I thought maybe, just maybe my screams had scared away
whatever or whoever it was that had been moving, I heard another footstep; it
was close, very close.
I swallowed and whispered hopefully,
“Uncle Max?”
I felt a hand on my arm and I screamed
with terror. I am sure had I not already soiled and wet myself just minutes ago,
I would have surely done so right then.
The touch, the hand was not firm or
forceful but instead was a gentle, warm touch and though I could not see whom it
was somehow I no longer felt like I was in any danger. In fact, I suddenly felt
stupid for having been scared at all.
With just as much gentleness the owner
of the hang that held my arm began to lead me away from the spot I had stood
frozen to for the last few minutes.
We walked for fifty or sixty paces, I am
honestly not curtain but it was quite a distance. It was not until I bumped my
left shoulder against something solid but not as solid as stone, wood maybe,
that it occurred to me that the sounds of my shoes against the jewel-encrusted
floor had changed. They were muffled now, and I thought that maybe we were now
walking on dirt floor. I drug my feet against the ground and confirmed that we
were no longer inside the treasure rich tomb.
Despite a small, yet nagging feeling in
the pit of my stomach that something very bad was nearby, I allowed my escort to
lead me blindly on and through what my mind determined was a narrow door that I
somehow know could not be there.
A melodious voice breathed into my right
ear, “Be not afraid!” and I powerful sent of cinnamon, myrrh, spikenard seemed
to have an almost hypnotic effect on me. That feeling I’d had left me, replaced
with a renewed peace birthed by those three words; I followed obediently
on.
When I felt as though we had walked for
about ten minutes, I thought I could see the faintest glimmering of orange light
directly ahead of me. Suddenly the hand that had never let go its gentle grip,
release my arm and instead took my hand. I looked in the direction of my hand
and though I could not see it, I did see the faintest shimmer as something
extremely cold was placed in my hand.
The voice again breathed into my right
ear the words, “Be not afraid!” and once again, the words from the cover stone
filled every part of my brain, “Seven orbs
and seven nights. Seraph defends the entombment bleak. Contravene their seven
clasps and issue forth mankind’s end.”
Maybe it was curiosity, or perhaps some
sort of trance that made me continue on alone, moving steadily toward the light
that was no longer just orange but more like a tribal dance of reds and yellows.
For every step I took, it seemed that the light drew twice as
close.
My mind was racing; something about that
engraving on the cover stone was nagging at me as though something inside of me
was trying to tell me that I was missing something.
“Seven
orbs?” I repeated
aloud.
“Seven
moons?” I asked myself and as soon as I said it, I knew I was wrong, “Not seven
moons, seven months!”
Not taking
my eyes off the light, I continued thinking and walking
onward.
“And seven
nights?” I again
spoke aloud, “that must mean one week. Seven months and one week! Ok Jason, what
else?”
Even before
I said, “Seraph defends the entombment bleak.” I knew what had been back
in the tomb with me. Well not exactly what it was, “A Seraph is an angel, why
would an Angel kill Miss Lillian Hass . . .” The image of her body or what was
left of her body lying on the jeweled floor was enough to cause me to hesitate
in my thoughts, but only for a millisecond.
“But why
would an angel of Jehovah be guarding this tomb?” I asked
myself.
I had
already crossed nearly half the distance to the light and though the darkness
was still all around me I kept my eyes locked on the
light.
“Not why . .
. who?” I said and in a mental flash it was as though someone had begun playing
one of those moving picture shows except this one was of that first night, that
night Miss Lillian Hassely had walked into our apartment and set into motion a
change of events that would eventually lead to me shooting and killing my own
father.
“We
found it.” She said.
“You
found what?” my father asked.
Sounding
a bit maddened she repeated herself pausing between each word, “Julius – we –
found – IT!” with a robust prominence to the word,
‘IT’.
“What
are you saying?” my fathers voice was queer but sounded very urgent.
“You…
you’ve got to be joking with me!” Father sounded quite disturbed now.
“This
is no joke Julius,” Lillian reassured.
“Where?”
There was distress in my fathers voice now, “Dam-it woman! Where is
it?”
Lillian
answered in a prideful tone that sounded as if she were in ecstasy, “It is right
where you said it was all along, my old friend.”
“My
Jehovah!” father exclaimed nearly shouting, “I… I can’t believe
it!”
I shook my head trying to rid myself of the images of myself, hiding behind the door listening in on their conversation. It was odd and disturbing; I could see myself, as though I were looking at another boy. I was standing behind the door, arms raised to my chest, fists clenched tightly in excited bliss.
Yet had this
been the entire image it would not have been the least bit disturbing. I threw
caution to the wind and allowed the full image to form. As it came into full
clarity, the boy that was me, stood behind the door with the front of his pants
completely soaked. Urine spilled out of one pants leg, pored over his shoe and
was forming a sizeable puddle beneath him. After he noticed and looked
appropriately disgusted with himself, his attention quickly returned to the
conversation in the other room.
“Well
you can believe it!” Lillian persisted, “We’ve actually found your lost City!”
All
other emotions now fled from my fathers voice leaving only an almost childlike
giddiness, something I had never heard come out of him before, “And is it, I
mean is HE there?”
“That’s it!”
I said aloud, “That was an angel back there, Jehovah’s angel, assigned to guard
the tomb.
“Whom was
the angel supposed to be guarding?” I asked myself.
However, my
thoughts all flittered away like smoke from a fire - I had reached the origins of the light.
It was a cavern, the likes of which, I have never seen, read nor heard of in my
life. To say it was enormous would not be doing it
justice.
The ceiling of the cavern, if you could
call it a ceiling, seemed to be iridescent and the source of the lights that had
pulled me here.
“Pulled me here?” I thought to myself,
“Yes there was something pulling . . . no, there is something pulling
me!”
I continued into the cavern, never once
thinking to look back to maybe see who it was that had lead me though the
darkness and eventually to the light. Three steps forward and I found myself
standing at the top of a stone staircase that did not twist or turn but
descended down, farther then my eyes could see.
And something caught my eye; it was in
my hand. I raised it up to see a flaming object that defies description except
that it was emitting blue flames that wound around my hand and licked my
arm.
The flames were blue and were not
burning me, nonetheless I distinctly remember hearing the command from my brain
to my hand to drop the object. However, when I tried, the blue flames appeared
to become as ice, locking it within my grip. As soon as I surrendered to the
fact that I could not let it go, the ice once again became
flames.
While I stood examining the object,
trying to wrap my young mind around it, to understand it, I remembered to things
my mother had once read to me from a very old scroll. Later, after her death, I
came across them again, completely by accident when helping my father with his
research. They both come from the Holy Scriptures.
“I am he that liveth, and was dead;
and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of
death.”
“And I will give unto thee the keys
of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound
in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in
heaven.”
Unsure why these passages came back to
me now I couldn’t help but wonder if they had something to do with this blue
flaming object that I held in my right hand.
Lowering my flame-engulfed hand to my
side, I once again allowed my eyes to drift down the seemingly endless stairs.
The pull was unmistakable; with a single step down, I started my
decent.
In the middle of Lowell
reciting his final chapter and despite my efforts to the contrary I succumbed to
sleep but not deeply; it was as if my conscious and subconscious minds were
doing a sort of aggressively violent ballet. It was more then a little odd,
because I could both hear Lowell telling his story and it also seemed that I had
begun dreaming, but without images. I could hear a sort of confused muttered
tune that could just barely be called singing and at the same time, it sounded
like it might be in a different language though I thought I could make out a
word here and there.
Still trying to listen to
every word Lowell shared, I also tried to allow myself to lean in closer to the
tune within my dream. I’m not sure if I actually spoke the words aloud or just
thought them, but as far as my brain was concerned, it had registered the words,
“Lowell, can you hear that?”
However Lowell did not stop,
which could have meant he had not heard me or I had not actually spoken them
aloud.
I shook my head violently
from side-to-side in an effort to knock my unconscious mind off balance long
enough to allow my conscious mind to one again seize control. I could still hear
the butchered tune though it sounded distant and echoed.
Again I shook my head,
harder this time to be sure I wasn’t sleeping and called up earnestly,
“L-Lowell, shush, l-listen!” This time I was positive the words had made their
way out of my mouth.
Lowell fell quiet and I was
not sure if he had heard me and was actually listening or had paused only to
take a breath before continuing with his story.
“Sounds like someone’s
singing!” he said still using his normal voice, “And badly too!” he almost
sounded fearless for the moment.
We both were quiet as we
listened, “. . . an’ I wan’go t’bed. I ‘ad a li’l . . . I ‘ad a li’l . . . Uh,”
there was a peculiar sounding croak, followed by a wet sounding belch that might
have been someone puking. Seconds later the song was continued, “I ‘ad me more‘n
a li’l drin’ ‘bout a’our ‘go an’ . . .”
“Sounds like, whoever it is,
is getting closer!” Lowell whispered down to me.
As panic began to overtake
me at the thought of someone finding Lowell out of bed, I whispered up again
with all the urgency I could put into a whisper, “Q-Q-Quick,
Hide!”
There was a moments pause
where I thought maybe he had heeded my advise but then, “Now where am I supposed
to hide?” and the extremely derogatory sound of Lowell’s voice gave me the
impression that he was both scared and exasperated.
“ . . . ‘go ‘n it wen’ ‘ight
to ma ‘ead.”
The echo’s and the high
volume of whoever was singing made it impossible to identify who was coming
aside from the fact that it sounded low enough that it was probably a man, but
that did not much matter. There were only four men that I had seen since
arriving here at the Bancheli Orphanage for Boys, and none of them seemed the
type to look lightly on Lowell’s presence in this vile
place.
“Wheeeeeere e’er I may . . .
AAAHHH ‘ister ‘ary!” The ill tune was suddenly interrupted by an alarming
cry from the one singing.
For several panic filled
seconds I listened before I felt enough courage to ask, “L-Lowell? Y-you
st-still th-there?” and the words seemed to trickle out of my mouth like water
from a leaking faucet. A single second seemed to hang before me as if were a
shimmering veil, distorting and hiding what was beyond.
I felt several dropped of
water dance the top of my head that I dismissed from my thoughts as though
brushing a hair from my eyes; and finally it was only by his faint whimpers that
I guessed the answer to my question.
Though nearly frozen, and
unable to feel my legs, I managed to somehow raise myself up, but that was as
far as I could get. My legs just would not bend enough to allow me to climb the
ladder, not that I would have been able to do anything if I had been able to
clime to the top.
This time I could not
dismiss it as easily when three more drops hit the top of my head, harder this
time; and though it was probably my imagination, I thought I could hear the
micro-splashes as they crashed against my greasy, filthy and matted hair.
I managed to look up into
the void of darkness above me just in time to have another drop hit me directly
in the right eye. It stung; no that’s not right, it burned, like acid and hand I
not been so scared for Lowell I probably would have figured out sooner what it
was that was dripping on me now. As it was, it would be several hours from now
before I would finally work it out that the drops had come from Lowell’s overly
drenched cloth diaper.
As I rubbed at my eye with
the back of my grimy hand, a connection was finally made within my brain. At
that instant, I think my heart stopped beating when the thought, which started
as just a faint purple vapor, began to grow and take form. I give my eye one
last rub, blinked and finally figured out that the one who’d been singing was
none other then the giant trapped within the
body of a midget. And though the normal accent of Fyer the cook, whatever
origins it might have developed from, was so bad that hardly anyone could
understand him, it was obvious now that he more then a little
drunk.
“’od’am mang’d beas'!” came
Fyer’s echoed shouts, followed a low mean sound that seemed to never end and the
image of Fyer that had been foremost in my mind was suddenly replaced by a
brutal lion.
Several broken curse words
found their way to my ears followed by a crash that sounded like glass breaking
against something metallic. Before those echoes had subside, there was a brutal
thud so loud that I could feel its repercussions though the ladder that my hands
were nearly frozen to now.
Just as I started to think
that Fyer had gone, or maybe had passed out, the agonized and torturous groans
of someone in pain could be heard mixed with more broken cursing, only louder,
angrier and coming closer.
Fear filled my voice as I
strained to whisper, “L-Lowell?” before Fyer’s moans seemed to be coming from
right above me.
“’od ‘elp ut ‘n ‘it m’
‘od’am ‘an’s on’t!” Fyer mumbled angrily above.
There was a momentary pause
and then a sort of high pitched gurgling sound followed by a startled, “Oy!”
from Fyer and then nothing.
By ‘nothing’ I mean,
I could not hear Fyer so much as breathing, nor could I make out Lowell’s
whimpered cries of fright or any other signs of what was playing out above me.
It was as if someone had just sat on the TV remote and inadvertently paused the
movie of my life; or maybe some greater being was deriving some sort of sick and
twisted pleasure by toying with time so that they could watch me suffer for just
a bit longer.
I actually remember feeling
grateful when I heard, “Wot ‘ere ya?” Fyer asked; at least I think it was a
question. At any rate, by the sound of him, something up there had him rattled
but from my darkened vantage point all I could see was black on black with
varying shades of black.
Without warning, an
explosion of pain erupted within me, causing my legs to buckle and my knees hit
the cold hard floor with a bony crunch. It was as if my eyes had suddenly burst
into flaming balls of fire. Fyer had turned on the bulb that hung directly over
my pit. With both of my eyes still burning, I squinted and tried to peek through
my fingers.
Though it took several
seconds for my eyes to begin working again, eventually I could see that Lowell
was no longer lying over the grate. I could only hope he had found some place to
hide after all and I had to fight to keep the worst thoughts from forming in my
head.
Fyer asked his question
again, “Wot ‘ere ya?” and this time his voice cracked like a pubescent
choirboys.
Still trying to peek though
my fingers I first heard what sounded like two shoe dragging steps and then saw
from a cockroaches vantage point as Fyer moved so that he was now standing on
the grate directly over me. Regardless of being a midget, his ample girth
provided enough of an eclipse to allow my eyes to adjust from the total
blackness that now seemed to cower and hug the pipes on the far side of my human
filth pit.
Clueless as to what Fyer was
seeing or talking to, and concerned that at any second he would spot Lowell and
attack him, I opened my mouth to scream up at him and get his attention.
However, just as my lips parted there was another voice, a horse, dry, tired,
almost inhuman sounding man’s voice but it had not originated from above me; it
came from within the pit that I was imprisoned in.
“Seeing things again are you
Special Agent Fyer?” the voice had said.
Though my legs were so cold
I could not feel them, they still managed to respond to my brains commands and
spun me around so that my plastic encased back was now firmly against the
ladder.
With the light spilling down
past Fyer, I quickly scanned the chamber. I still could not see the far wall
where earlier I had found the leaking pipe and drank my fill of water. To my
left was the wall and ledge I had moved alone to get to the pipes and with a
snap of my neck I looked to the wall on my right. It appeared to be identical
except for the narrow ledge, however I did spot something. Nearly centered
between the ceiling and the surface of the stagnant, mostly liquid waste and
between the still darkened wall of pipes and myself was a rectangular grid like
pattern of holes in the wall. The holes did not appear to be much larger then a
finger and they were about an inch, or more, apart. I could only guess that it
was some kind of ventilation or maybe it was a runoff incase the pit were to be
flooded. I looked back to the left hand wall and though it was mostly lost in
the shadows where the light from above could not reach, I could just make out
the lower corner of the same rectangular shaped grid of
holes.
While trying to figure out
where the voice had come from, Fyer spoke again, “’om?”
“What did he say?” I said
only loud enough for me to hear myself.
As I took a breath after I
had whispered to myself, I instantly realized that I had forgot to keep
breathing through my nose for several fear filled breaths. Once again I was
reminded just how horrible my prison cell reeked. I gagged, choked and nearly
vomited.
“Oy! Shodup dun d’re!” Fyer
shouted; his fear shortly dismissed.
For added measure, he
stomped on the grate above me showering me with years of accumulated dried human
waste. I had not thought fast enough and as a result, I had sucked in a lung
full of the dust.
I coughed, gagged and could
feel an asthma attack coming on fast.
“You all right Simon?” the
eerie voice asked with just a taste of human emotion.
I was unable to answer, not
just because of the asthma attack that was nearly to full force but also because
the voice had known my name, my real name. My air passage had slammed shut after
my second gulp of the dust but I was still aware enough to recognize that the
voice had come from the left hand wall.
With a third gasp that
brought no air into my lungs; I crumpled to my hands and knees. Above me, Fyer
fumed, regurgitating drunken profanities as though he were spewing flaming bile
down upon me.
“Simon!” a high-pitched
voice screeched very much like an attacking eagle.
Doing my own impersonation
of a bird, I twisted my head on my shoulders as if I was an owl and suddenly
time began to move in slow jerky burst. I saw Fyer moving away as the small form
of Lowell took his place but he was only visible for a fraction of a second. I
must have somehow stopped time while he was in mid stride, leaping over the
grate apparently to attach Fyer because it seemed to last longer then a
fractured second. I saw Lowell hanging in midair, one leg out in front of him
the other trailing behind and between them hung a soaked cloth diaper with
droplets of gleaming gold flying away from it in every
direction.
Seconds before I blacked out
I heard a blood curdling scream that somehow I knew came from Fyer and was
accompanied by the piercing squalls of some kind of inhuman creature, mad for
flesh. The last I can vaguely recall was Fyer howling about daemons as he ran
screaming back down the corridor apparently pursued by the unholy beast and
Lowell too.
When I came too again, I
opened my eyes and was so relieved to find that the light had been left on when
Fyer had fled. I was laying on my back with my left arm trapped beneath me while
my left leg from my knee down was bobbing in the pool of human filth. It was in
that instant that everything came back like a torrent of memories. I was not
sure how long I had been out but the first thought I had was of Lowell. I opened
my mouth to call out to him but the pain in my chest and throat prevented me
from saying anything at all.
I took a breath and though
the stench was offensive beyond words, the fact that air did enter my lung,
albeit slow and painfully, I could breath. I took another breath and tried to
speak again but scarcely was able to eek out more then what a mouse with
laryngitis might.
After several minutes, I was
able to get myself to a sitting position with my plastic amour covered back once
again to the ladder. Desperate to find out of Lowell was still above me, I took
several breaths in through my nose and tried to speak again, “L-Lowell?” It came
out strangled and weak, but it was strong enough that had Lowell still been up
there he would have heard me even if he had been sleeping.
My mind quickly returned to
the mysterious and haunting voice, I had heard call my name just before I had
that mental power outage.
“H-Hello?” I asked as strong
and I could muster; there was no reply at all.
I tried several more times,
each time my voice got stronger and louder but after several attemps, I began to
wonder if I had dreamt the whole ordeal.
With no way to tell how long
I had been unconscious or sleeping, I did not know if I could expect someone to
come release me soon or if I would have anymore visitors.
I was sitting listening to
the sound of the water pipe on the far side of the pit dripping when I realized
I needed to pee. I don’t know why but it struck me as funny and I began to
giggle, which quickly turned into a painful, bought of laughter that inevitably
became a frenzy of coughing.
The last cough was the
hardest and most painful and it ushered forth the contents of my bladder with
the force of a water cannon. The stream shot out in a high ark that glistened in
the light from above me and dropped into the pond of chunky liquid green and
brown waste with a steady rhythm. I watched the stream beginning to loose its
altitude as the last my pee escaping from my body and I let rip a loud fart that
sounded like someone had fired off several ultra fast
gunshots.
Down in such a horridly
disgusting place you wouldn’t think that it possible to feel good about anything
but the feeling of my bladder emptying and adding my own fragrances to the
stench that hung in the air all around me, sure did feel
good.
I was basking in that
pleasant feeling when I felt something fall into my hair. I was reaching up to
brush whatever it was out and could hear the sound of a cat purring pleasantly
from above. I looked up and saw something laying on the grate eclipsing part of
the light from that one bulb.
Sure enough it was a cat,
and from the way the light seemed to cause the edges of its fur to glow, I could
see that it appeared as though it had not been properly cared for and probably,
like me, could use a bath.
The cat, sensing that I was
looking its way slowly, as if not trusting me, turned its face down toward me.
The light from the bulb above us both was reflecting off the surface of the
wastewater and was then captured within the glowing brown eyes of the
cat.
The two of us sat
motionless, staring almost disbelievingly at one another. The cat is not fat,
but she’s big and apparently fearless. I suspect that even a pit bull, gone bad
and in a murdering mood, would have turned, and gone in search of easier prey;
like maybe crocodiles
Though dirty and fur mangled
she appeared to be the color of an unripe pumpkin, with black markings. Judging
by the black-and-cream patterns on her face, you might think she was the
devilish familiar of that old rock group, Kiss and probably was just as old
too.
Perched on the grate above
me, gazing toward the passageway, she pretended for a full minute to be unaware
of my presence beneath her.
Being ignored was fine with
me because I had already remembered that I’d seen this very same cat not to long
ago on the street, attacking some bum or drunk. How she had ended up here and
why she had decided to camp out above me was more then I cared to think about
just then.
Finally turning her head,
she regarded me appraisingly, with contempt so thick that I expected to be her
dinner before too long. Then she shifted her attention once more to the
corridor.
The long empty chamber that
stretched between my cesspool and the stairs seemed to fascinate her and to put
her in a somber, contemplative mood. Perhaps she had used up eight of her lives
and felt a chill of mortality hanging in the putrefied air, or maybe it was just
the methane gas given off by the human waste, that was mellowing us both
out.
Within half a minute, she
had put me on edge again with her threatening, angry hiss. All cats have this
talent, of course, but this cat seems to rival both rattlesnakes and cobras for
the intensity and the menace of her hiss.
Something in the corridor
had so disturbed her that she rose to her feet on the grate and a small metal
medallion that hung around her neck clinked as it brushed the grate. Seeming to
double and triple in size, she arched her back, and bristled her
hackles.
Although clearly I was not
the cause of her agitation, I slid to the edge of my small precipice, poised to
slide around the small ledge to the back of my pit.
She hissed again, and then
clawed the metal grate. The skreeeeek of her nails on the metal made the
fluid quiver in the hollows of my veins.
Suddenly I wondered if Fyer
had returned, perhaps armed and prepared for a battle this
time.
When the cat raked the metal
again, I got to my feet. I eased toward the base of the ladder with caution, not
because I feared that a bullet might find the center of my forehead but because
I didn’t want the vexated cat to misunderstand my motives.
Frozen, somehow my legs
managed to raise my feet up the rungs and my arms managed to pull me up the
ladder until I was only inches away from the now growling
cat.
Due to extreme fatigue and
my poor vantage point I could only just make out the silhouette of a large
individual, obviously not Fyer, standing stone still and shining a light down on
the cat and I. The light was much brighter then the light given off by the
single bulb and I had to look away but strangely enough, I took comfort in
knowing that the beast still stood guard over me.
My first instinct was to
quickly move back down the ladder but instead I looked back up and the light
from this stranger glimmered off the silver medallion that hung from what at one
time must have been a fancy and expensive collar. I only had a moment to read
what was engraved into the metal; I saw just a single
word—Vera.
Next Installment:
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