The Descent

The Descent (An expert from Life Descending) By John Hennessy

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 John Hennessy All rights reserved Smashwords Edition Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Line editing: Sara Stamey Cover art by Brett Carlson eISBN-13: 978-1-4658-7876-2 Check out my author website: http://www.johnhennessy.net If you like The Descent, read the rest the story in my debut novel, The Cry of Havoc: Life Descending. Acclaim for Life Descending: it has been called “a masterpiece” by Readers Favorite, “hard to put down” by Allbooks Review Int., “endlessly imaginative” by Kirkus Reviews, and a fantastic story with an “intriguing premise” that would also make “an excellent video game” by TCM Reviews.

Table of Contents: Chapter 1: The Descent. Two Voices. A Witness To Death.

Chapter 2: The Waiting Room. An Unusual Assembly. A Hidden Aperture.

Chapter 3: My Annals: On The Promise of our Savior.

Chapter 4: The Vultures. The Smoke. Some Strange Company.

The Cry of Havoc: Life Descending About the Author

1 The Descent. Two Voices.

A Witness To Death.

Another step: Tom Navo’s right foot hung over the edge of the rooftop. He scanned the open square far below. Trees and cars blurred, the people walking by mere specks. The jacket of his beige three-piece suit flapped around as if he stood in a violent storm. Inch by slow inch, the wind shoved his loafers forward.

“What have I done, what have I done?” Tom murmured.

You have done well, a malevolent voice intruded into Tom’s thoughts.

“I’ve killed my boss,” Tom stuttered. “One hit, and I killed him.” Sweat stung his eyes, as he gasped, dizzy, and his head began to throb. Under the clear sky, light reflected off the circular mirror-top surface of the plaza below, blinding him; he closed his lids, completely disoriented. His right leg was shaking violently, his foot slipping, as his nerves edged from tremulous to convulsing.

You killed him with good reason. He fired you. He deserved it, the strange voice insisted.

Tom realized the voice was not his own, not his own thoughts. Alarmed, he yelled, “Where are you? How do you know this?”

Come to me … I need you … Jump now!

Tom swiveled his head around in panic, searching for the untraceable speaker.

The voice was right, though. It was time to end it. “Okay,” he replied.

The wind thrust, his nerves jolted, and without a pause for hesitation, he felt his foot fall forward, tilting off the raised lip. In an instant, he was flung into the warm air that pressed against him as he plummeted. He became horrifically aware of the doom below, and within moments, its appeal lost hold. Screaming, with the agility of a cat with no lives remaining, Tom frenetically turned his body in the air so that his arms and head faced the building. Arms outstretched, they hit the first balcony directly two floors down from where he fell. His right wrist made a sharp cracking noise, and another scream of anguish escaped.

Tom had missed seeing the balconies somehow when he had peeped over the side of the skyscraper. They did not exist on the bottom half of the building, and from the street below, they were tough to make out.

Why does he want you? What does he need you for? Don’t listen to the fool, a second voice interrupted Tom’s concentration. The new speaker whispered in a softer tone, kinder in its force. Focused on his pain, he paid no attention to the new speaker, yelling as he descended.

Grasping for the next railing, he gripped the solid bar with his left hand and squeezed as tightly as he could, straining his shoulder while he desperately tried not to let go. Tom recovered some of his breath, though in shock, still hanging from the ledge of the balcony. His strength began to waver. Feeling his fingers moisten in sweat, loosening his grip, he tried to grab the rail with his right hand, but immediately the pain shot from his wrist down to his shoulder. He let his arm fall back to his side at a comfortable angle.

His left arm and shoulder began to shake with the effort. Now it was time. Time to die. Tom examined his options in haste. He did not have the energy or brawn to lift

himself up with one arm, and more than likely, not even with two. He hung on to the bar, but he had nothing left worth holding on for, and his desire to live declined yet again.

Loosen your fingers and bring yourself to me! the first voice returned.

It was comforting at this point, even welcome. Tom wanted to die, wanted to let go.

“I can do it, I can let go,” Tom mumbled to himself reassuringly. Death, dying, he contemplated the words.

Don’t listen to the fool, you don’t know what his intentions are, the second voice argued.

This voice gave power to Tom’s muscles, he felt lifted and guided, and his body became lighter. But even with these words of power, his muscles were too exhausted. His grip held no longer. Once more, he plunged toward the concrete below. He closed his eyes. The conflicting voices swayed back and forth in his head, as he envisioned his splattered entrails over the unavoidable sidewalk below, his blood shining across the entrance of the building.

Another crunch as his body landed on a cushion that rested upon a flat tanning chair. Snapping, it collapsed the foot and a half to the floor. Tom had forgotten that every third floor had extended balconies, about three feet longer than the two above him now.

He had never been invited out onto one of the balconies and barely knew they existed.

Now his body stretched out on the pillowy cushion while he lay on his stomach, unmoving, as bruises bloomed all over his wrists and kneecaps.

Tom shifted his body slightly. His last howl echoed off the city buildings, down streets, through alleys. They were screams of a dead man, or at least an almost dead man.

He lay still for a long while, resting on the cushion. Eventually, he rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes to view the balcony railing.

“Well, at least I’m done falling.” He laughed, enduring the pain. He stared up at the sky, but with blurry and unfocused vision, so he shut his eyes again.

No, you must come to me, the first voice insisted.

Tom ignored the speaker as he tried to lift his arms toward his head; a pop came from his shoulders that made him writhe in agony, settling the damaged limbs back to the sides of his waist. The pain subsided after a minute or two, and he decided to test his legs instead, but also failed at this attempt, for they cracked and burned in the movement. He recuperated, lying on the cushion, then opened his eyes once more, and this time he could see a few passing fluffy clouds as they formed into different shapes.

Tom, you must come meet me, the first voice resounded in his head.

“Why? Why must I meet you? Where are you? Even better, who are you?” Tom asked. Questions upon questions piled in his mind.

I need your help … freedom can be ours, with each other’s help.

“I can’t help you, I can’t even help myself.”

Withdrawn again, the voice gave no reply.

Time crept slower than a slug sliding across a sidewalk, as Tom tried to breathe through the pain. He wished and yearned for the idleness of death and all its numbness.

Numbness refused to come.

The clouds disappeared. Assessing his left arm again, Tom squinted at his hated sumptuous watch, the faceplate broken, but he could still make out the different arrows and where they pointed. It had only been fifty minutes since he had entered through the

lobby doors. He calculated that the meeting with his boss had taken about five minutes, maybe less. He assumed that he had been lying there for a little while, but forty minutes was not nearly long enough, the trauma lengthened time to feel like decades had passed.

His body pulsed in torment while his mind pounded against his skull like a drum being smacked repeatedly by relentless hands.

How had he managed to survive the fall? The balconies were apparently part of a design aesthetic he would have called a flaw. Pulling his upper body off the cushion, bending from the waist, Tom managed to cling to the railing with his left hand, and brought himself upright on two unsteady legs, leaning against the enclosure. He spotted a metal deck chair and sat down, pain resurging.

Jump again, we must talk face to face, the first voice entered his thoughts, desperate and treacherous.

Panic struck Tom as he surveyed the balcony, hunting with his eyes for the concealed speaker. “I don’t want to meet you, I don’t want to meet anyone who encourages my demise,” he responded.

But we have to meet, Tom. “No.” We must, for both our sakes.

Don’t listen to the fool, the second speaker said. He is against you; I am with you.

“No one is with me, no one has ever been with me,” Tom spoke to the hidden voices.

Tom, you must jump, the first voice pressed.

“NO,” Tom screamed. “Go away. Go away!”

No response came.

Tom caught his breath. Suicide drifted out of his thoughts, replaced with the idea of escape. Resting his right hand on his leg, he buried his face in his left, wiped the tears away, and groaned. He pinched his nose between his thumb and index finger. More tears burst from his closed eyes and rolled down his face, eventually soaking the collar of his shirt and spots on his chest. “Oh thank God,” he whispered to himself, brushing his fingers through his hair until he reached the top of his neck. He let out a sigh, one that lasted a while, drew in a breath and let out another long sigh.

The entrance to the office was a sliding glass door that opened from the inside and glided from right to left. The door, made of sturdy thick glass, reflected its strength back at him.

He stood and leaned forward, touching the glass that blocked his passage into the building. The vertical blinds hung folded back, making the inside visible. Peeking through the glass, Tom realized that the rod, which normally blocked the door from sliding, was missing. He lifted the upright chair, letting the unfastened cushion fall to the concrete floor. Holding the metal chair with one semi-damaged hand, he threw it against the glass, but it only bounced off, breaking one of its legs.

“Damn cheap chairs,” Tom said in frustration. He laughed and sobbed simultaneously, wiping tears with his throbbing left arm. A stone glittered in the sunshine next to a pot full of daisies, and he blinked at the arranged pile of rocks of various sizes.

He bent over to grab one larger than two fists, fingering the jagged edges. A few hard hurls cracked the sturdy barrier. Putting a foot up to the crack line, he pressed against the glass and broke it, forming a small hole by the handle that left barely enough room to

reach into. He stretched his left arm through the serrated hole, flipped the lock switch, grabbed the handle, and slowly slid the door open.

Tom fled the balcony, bumping into a leather chair in the empty office. Pushing it aside, he swept through the door. The entire floor was a duplicate of his own level, which allowed him to break for the elevators, for he knew the route well. It was a barren landscape of cubicles, devoid of life, and since it was still early on a Saturday, he expected people to be scarce on all the floors. Even the hallway to the elevator matched identically, the same dullness plastered along the walls. When approaching the shaft, he extended his fingertips to hit the down arrow, fatigue settling in his mind.

Buzzing, the doors opened wide, and his thin, six-foot figure stepped into the vacant elevator. The doors shut. Tom lit up the big four on the key panel. Numbers counted down, 79, 78, 77, one after the other, with only the hum of the elevator sounding in the silence.

Tom’s eyes fixed on the metal mirror doors. He focused on his chalky face and started to appraise its qualities. A face still young in essence, but tired, with bags showing under his eyes, probably due from the lack of sleep and the aftereffects of the alcohol that crept through his veins.

But neither of those explained why his hair was turning pepper colored; Tom missed the jet-black it used to be. It was also thinning, with every day worse than the day before. He kept his hair cut short, never more than an inch on the top. He despised stubble: his neck and face were cleanly shaven, but he saw himself lucky, as his hair grew slower than a snail could inch its way across the world, so he did not have to shave every day. Wrinkles covered his brow and around his mouth where he smiled; he disliked the wrinkles and even thought about using cosmetic injections to slow the lines. Lately, he had started to age more rapidly; he hoped that no one would say anything, and so far, no one had.

Why was he aging so fast? Tom was only in his mid-thirties.

Droplets of sweat beaded into his ears, down to his collar. For the last four years, Tom had spent some time alone in the elevator, searching for a little red light, or anything else that might suggest that security watched over the multiple elevators. If they had security scanning the building with invisible cameras, they either did not know of the murder, or he was not yet suspected. In his mind, the former won as more logical.

The fourth floor greeted him kindly. Unlike on the other floors he visited, the walls were painted bright silver and popped with happiness, a break from the monotonous cement-gray color scheme. Tom stepped into the corridor and stopped, staring at a brilliant Hawaiian picture that hung centered in the hallway, placed in the exact location where he had suggested a painting should go years ago on his own floor. He had met icy rejection from his boss. The exit to the stairwell was a hard right, around the corner from the elevator shaft; and voices carried from down the hallway where the cubicles connected in a grand puzzle of hopelessness.

Tom did not dawdle.

Running down the stairs until he reached the first floor, he stopped briefly, scanning the entrance door to the lobby, and then the hallway to the emergency exit in the back. He briskly jogged on the concrete flooring, every step echoing noisily through the hall. Two cameras safeguarded the exit, one overhead from the door facing him, and the other watching the doors. He lifted his open palm to his face, blocking most of it from the

camera. Tilting his head up, he read the Emergency Exit Only sign that hung above the doors; next to the door handles, a mantled slot to slide an I.D. card waited for him.

With his injured arm, he carefully but quickly slid his Innovation Today I.D. card through the scanner; the red indicator light changed to green. Blurrily realizing that he had just revealed his identity, he lowered his arm and pressed one of the doors open. The alarm failed to sound, and for a second Tom’s mind wandered, switching to the image of Mr. Luther lying dead beside the overturned desk, papers scattered across the office.

The sunlight blinded him. Squinting into the alleyway, he spotted a blurry red cat running away. Tom followed the spec to the sidewalk, and from there, he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the brightness. The sun was too hot, and the light overwhelmed his senses. Nausea overtook him. His hands suddenly began to shake violently; he turned back into the alley, faced the wall, and bent over as his stomach churned. His stomach contracted, and a slight burning crawled up his throat, but nothing came out. In a painful burst, he retched up the contents of his stomach. The next few heaves were dry. He did not need a mirror to know that he looked like a mess, shirt stained, eyes swollen, bruises darkening.

Dazed, he walked down the sidewalk, aimlessly strolling for a few blocks until his stomach growled and rumbled, awakening all the rest of his dulled senses. He needed something cool for his burning throat.

“Ben-Barkley Market,” Tom whispered. He twisted his head to search for followers. A creepy feeling crawled up Tom’s spine; he sensed that someone had seen him leave the building. The man behind him, who wore a tan coat, chatted on a cell phone, walking in Tom’s direction. Following him.

Tom glanced at the street. A taxi would be faster, but he did not want to risk being on anyone else’s radar, and at least out in the semi-fresh air he could breathe better. He walked sluggishly for twenty-five minutes, dragging his feet down and up hills, glancing over his shoulder constantly. Periodically, he stopped to scan his surroundings. The man in the tan coat had disappeared. But he feared the man would leap out from the shadow of an alley and flash his undercover badge, or something more lethal.

Jump into the street, the first speaker said, returning from its long silence. Do not worry about pain; it won’t last.

Tom disregarded the words, staying close to the buildings. He became lost along the way to the market, the street signs utterly confusing him. He could not remember exactly the location of the store. He had only been there a few times before, and every time he had only managed to stumble across it by mistake. Now with the intention of finding the store, he could not stumble.

The sidewalk emptied into a three-lane roundabout, roads branching off into four distinct corners. A synagogue stood on the southeast. He shifted his eyes north to the large cathedral that rose high, reaching for the clouds. To the west of the cathedral, a mosque stood. Finally, his eyes rested upon the southwest corner, where an immense megachurch spread far back into its own corner.

The War Zone: the four corners where the four places of worship converged, each supporting its own suburb district, communities that thrived within their own borders while shunning their neighbors. At times, there would be a short armistice, until it failed due to a shooting, or something worse.

Yet, at this convergent point, engagement and interaction always occurred. The

road forced the interaction, the yielding and not yielding of motorized vehicles; it was a clash of foreseeable disaster.

An areligious man, Tom had never been a true practitioner of any faith, but if ever there was a time to repent, it was now. Blood stained his hands, and he needed them cleaned. A man’s death weighed on his conscience.

Don’t bother with frivolities, the first speaker said.

Tom listened to the voice this time and mused over the words. He had a vague idea, or impression about each religion, and none of them appealed to his reason. “You are right, whoever you are, I do not desire the path of expiation,” Tom said quietly to himself. “I must think of an escape.” He would not be cowed into atonement by the overwhelming insistence of guilt that prodded his thoughts. At last, the compulsion in the imagined speaker’s tone swayed him.

Tom observed the roundabout quietly. He studied the four great buildings, admiring most of the craftsmanship. The synagogue, an incredible building with two towers climbing into the sky from the sides of the entrance, shined with a Magen David between the triangular slopes of the roof: its six shielding points brightly sparkled across the roundabout.

Four skinny spiry minarets marked the edges of the mosque, and at the center, a great silver dome rose into the sky. A circle of windows marked the dome, and in the clear weather, it gleamed and scintillated silver flashes in all directions.

The truly magnificent beauty of the four corners that caught Tom’s eye did not glisten with the same radiance as the other two buildings, but drew him in another manner. He looked at the cathedral; it was the oldest of the three. The sunshine hit the stained glass windows of the huge building and the cross standing atop the roof, which lit the surrounding area in a multicolored display that snapped an unforgettable memoryshot in his mind.

The colossal megachurch overshadowed the rest in size, rising four stories, but its presence staled in comparison; it gave the impression of a modified hotel. Off-white ticky-tacky stucco covered the outside walls, and appeared to be so thin that a hand could punch through it. Three enormous crosses soared from the rooftop and another above the archway entrance. Half of the parking lot lay visible; it looked like it wrapped around the building for some distance. The scene was horrifically lifeless and stodgy next to the other three, and Tom turned away in revulsion. Instead, he faced the synagogue and watched people accumulate outside; he overheard the words “bar mitzvah” as people arrived with gifts and cards. The crowd outside of the synagogue started to flow into the building like a river being un-dammed.

By that time, Tom realized he had been standing in the same place, gawking at the crowd, so he walked to the edge of the roundabout, and was startled to see that in the center grew a flowering Pacific Madrone tree. Its scarlet bark was starting to shed, showing greenish stain. White blooms opened in the sunlight, and a boxy little treehouse with a window enclosed the center of the tree. Branches sprouted and jutted in every direction, some going in and out of the house, almost as if the tree and the house had grown together.

Tom noticed a slender wooden ladder climbing up to a square opening, but he could not get a clear enough view to see if anyone was inside. At the bottom of the ladder was a wooden sign with three carved lines:

We All Have A Limb To Lose.

Thus come and meditate on the truth.

Thus you will hear the truth.

Tom pondered what the sign meant about losing a limb; he glanced at his own right arm and smiled, glad not to have lost it. He had a compulsion to climb up the ladder.

Then all of a sudden a man appeared in the window facing him. Surprised, he walked back a few steps. He was not there before. Did he magically form from nowhere? He must have been sleeping.

The man turned to peer out the window and sighted Tom. He smiled politely, pressed his skinny palms together, and bowed until his body was just barely above the window. Tom had never seen such a pure obeisant gesture directed at him; it was as though the man thought of Tom as his king. Most people ignored him, or quickly shot him a smile in passing, making this scene highly unusual. People never shook his hand, let alone greet him with deference. Tom did not even know this man, and yet he acted kinder to him in five seconds than anybody at his office ever had in the last seven years.

It was clear the man had a deep respect for the people around him.

Respectfully, Tom gave an awkward attempt of a similar gesture and made a deep obeisance, but his knees buckled in fatigue, so he turned toward the megachurch. He had caught sight of a yard sale in the parking lot, and he hoped they had water, or at least a little girl with a lemonade stand. As he walked through the bushes that outlined the lot, his vision fixed on something familiar: the indelible tan coat.

“But how?” he rasped as he froze. The man rummaged through the clothes section as if buying them were his true intent.

Tom squatted behind the front of a car. He peered to the side and studied the man.

His movements were slow, shuffling pants across tables, or holding up t-shirts to the bottom of his neck as he laid them flat against his chest.

Tom’s stomach churned again. Hairs shifted, goose pimples formed on the back of his neck. He whipped around, flat against the front of the car. “He saw me,” he stuttered. Cleverly, he sidled along the cars, ducking until he came to the end of the parking lot. He ran through the bushes again, this time heading north toward the mosque.

A short line of cars drove on the road to his left, so he hurried up the crosswalk. He searched for the tan coat, but he could not sight it in the crowd.

A man standing on the minaret above Tom captured his attention. He eyed him with uncertainty, hoping the man would not somehow give away his location. His attention shifted back to the tan coat. “He didn’t see me leave, that’s for certain,” he whispered to himself. “One step ahead this time.” His throat blazed as if lava coated it all the way down to his stomach; it begged him for water to relieve the molten fury.

A bell rent the air.

Tom jerked to a halt. He scrambled to find the sound’s source, for it disturbed him as if it were the knell of his death. With a glance over his shoulder, he spotted the belfry protruding from the back of the cathedral, where the bell swung back and forth, singing its sad lament for Tom’s end. The song filled him with terror and unease. He picked up his pace to a slight jog to find the nearest market.

Tom found the closest store a few blocks up from the roundabout. He did not

know the area, and did not want to waste any more time looking for a familiar road. His need for liquid became absolute. He glimpsed at the sign above the entrance and could not read the foreign symbols, but various neon signs glowed in the windows.

A police cruiser drove past Tom much too slowly to be a coincidence. He whirled around and stepped inside the market.

The place was small and salubrious, unlike most minimarts, which in Tom’s experiences typically meant dirty and run-down. It had six rows of brimming shelves full of food, and a few tables and chairs in the back for coffee and eating. Walking past the register, he did not see a cashier, so he headed to the back to find a seat, grabbing a pink glass bottle and a package of donuts on his way. Twisting off the cap, he gulped down the juice; the soothing iciness attenuated the harsh burning in his throat, eventually washing away the fiery effect. Relieved, he opened the package of donuts, and shoved a few of the chocolate-covered circles into his mouth.

The cashier returned to the register. He looked healthy and clean, and although the turban atop his head was not a new sight, Tom was still surprised by its presence. His vision kept blurring, unfocused, and his lids weighed down on him, fighting off exhaustion.

Tom had a good view of the door, just in case he needed to dash out the back. He watched the entrance and the cashier, who did not pay him any mind, so he continued to eat and swig without rushing to the counter to hand over his money.

He examined his surroundings. Out of four aligned tables in the back, he had chosen the first one, for the view. A couple sat two tables down from him, whispering in a foreign language. They sipped on the same coffee as they passed the cup back and forth, and both wore cloth headpieces, the woman’s colorful and vibrant.

“What now … what do I do now?” Tom sighed, rubbing his neck with his left hand, resting his sore and broken right hand on the table. An image of his boss lying on the floor flashed into his head. The sound of sirens broke his concentration on the image.

They were hot on his trail, the man in the tan coat had called him in: he had been sighted.

He’s the least of your worries, the first voice stated harshly.

Startled, Tom jumped up off his chair. A police cruiser zipped by in a blurry light show, the siren trumpeted so loud it popped his eardrums. He sat down again, trembling.

Tom stared at his broken wrist. The pain had numbed some time ago, though he did not realize it when it happened. He had been more preoccupied with the man in the tan coat and the itchy burning in his throat. And the voices … the unexplainable voices.

He was chewing on the second to last donut when he sighted a blue-coated officer stepping into the market.

“Oh, shit,” Tom’s lips mimed. He glanced at the door leading to the back, but he could not move. His muscles grew taut, but his mind no longer sent orders to them. He sat inert. His head went berserk with thoughts, his heart pounded. Sweat dribbled down his forehead and cheeks, and he quickly patted it away with his shirtsleeve.

After buying a small coffee and the daily paper, the officer proceeded toward Tom, sitting down at the table closest to him. Tom looked more than suspicious—he shook from perturbed nerves while he sweated, practically a rain cloud of perspiration, and his dirty shirt made a lousy sponge. He desperately tried to calm himself by drinking the last half of the pink juice in one long chug. He patted his face again with his sleeve, but to no avail.

Tom watched the cop flip to the crossword puzzle and began to fill it in. He considered paying and leaving at that moment, but instead got up and snatched a fortyounce water bottle, then sat back down, twisting off the cap. He drained half the container instantly.

He sized the cop up, trying to make a quick assessment of his abilities. The man’s built shoulders stretched wide, as broad as a bull, unlike the cashier and himself. If it came to a fight, the cop would be the victor.

Tom’s legs were too drained to outrun the cop even if by chance they proved the faster. He shook and shook. “They caught me,” he whispered. “The man in the tan coat is probably waiting outside to see that the arrest goes smoothly. They are toying with me, trying to get me to confess to the murder without saying a word to me, without making any threatening motions. They’re leaving it all up to me. But I won’t talk. I won’t do it.

The back door….”

Tom slouched over the table, breathing steadily. He gathered his nerves, for he had to be cunning this time around, one step ahead. He again contemplated paying, and then briefly his mind changed to slyly sneaking out the back somehow, noiselessly, if only he had time to devise a proper plan.

Why pay for it when you can just take it, the shadowy first voice spoke in his mind again, trailing off in a faint whisper.

Don’t listen to the fool and his vileness, the second speaker intruded.

Tom did not want to listen to either one, for they equally alarmed and seduced.

“Where the hell are you people?” Tom paused. “What is happening?” he asked himself sotto voce.

Another man entered through the front door, and set a package of gum on the counter in front of the cashier. He wore torn and discolored clothing, like it had seen the wash too many times, and his brow looked dim and haggard.

The cashier smiled politely, scanning the package. “A dollar eight,” he said tiredly in English, resting his arms on the countertop. Waiting for the customer, he bent over to grab a paper bag under the counter.

The customer glanced at the door nervously: his facial expression changed. When the cashier brought his head up, a revolver was pointed between his eyes. Tom had never witnessed a robbery, but he had imagined that a cashier would be more afraid than this man; he locked his eyes with the robber and did not twitch a muscle.

“Give me, give me the money,” the robber stammered, then he paused. “Give me all the money in the register, and I won’t shoot you. Move for anything else, and I’ll put a bullet through your fucking head.” The robber’s words smoothed out the second time around, as he continuously shifted his eyes between the entrance and the clerk. The robber’s voice went low, and the cashier did not speak a word, so Tom recognized that the cop was unaware of the situation, still focused on his crossword puzzle.

Tom hazily saw the events unfold. It happened too fast. He had to process the situation in a few seconds, and already his body shook out of control, too nervous. Now all he could think to do was to get the cop’s attention. “Psst … officer,” he said in a faint, meek voice. He waited for a response. Nothing. He stared down the officer, who existed in his own world, hearing nothing of the outside disturbances. “Officer, the store is being robbed.” He pointed a finger in the direction of the counter. Nothing. No rescuing movement came from the officer, who now concentrated harder on the puzzle, frowning.

Losing time and unable to think of a better plan, Tom picked up his last donut and threw it at the blue shirt. “Hey, officer,” he whispered. “Gun.” Again, he pointed at the cashier and the gun next to the man’s head. He tried to be as sparing with his indications as possible, so that he would not draw the attention of the robber, but he threw the donut at the wrong cop, for the officer mistook Tom’s plea as an act of aggression.

Roiled, not only from being disturbed from his puzzle, but from the chocolate strip down his shirt, the cop looked up, more irascible than Tom ever imagined. He stood up. “What the hell are you doing?” the officer said, walking over to Tom. “Shh … the store is being robbed, look!” Tom whispered, his fingers still pointed toward the entrance and the theft scene.

“What are you talking about, do you want me to arrest you?” the officer threatened in annoyance, taking out a pair of handcuffs. The couple paid no attention, completely oblivious to the robbery and Tom’s new situation. Panicking again, he squirmed out of his chair while the much larger cop grabbed at him. The cop seized his right arm, forcefully trying to lock a cuff around his fractured wrist, as Tom tried to get away. He fidgeted and wiggled, and with one swift motion, he kicked the officer in his left shin, making him bend over in pain.

Slipping through the officer’s loosened grip, Tom made a dash for the door. The cashier had been shoveling money into the paper bag, but he noticed Tom barreling alongside the shelves, heading for the entrance. The robber saw the cashier shift his gaze to Tom, who sprinted for the blocked door. Following the cashier’s sight, the robber looked at Tom as well, giving the cashier enough time to duck under the counter.

The officer whipped around the corner, seeing the man with the gun for the first time. He drew his service pistol from the holster at his side with a flawless reaction time.

“Drop it,” the cop yelled. His voice boomed. The robber adjusted his aim to fire three shots at the cop, and one managed to hit him straight through his head, which splattered blood on the back wall. The officer managed to fire off a shot as well, but only after a bullet penetrated him, throwing off his balance and his aim, ejecting the bullet toward the shelves right behind where Tom ran.

Tom sprinted as quickly as he could for the door while the bullets whizzed past.

He made it close to the entrance when the first voice entered his mind: Come to me, it spoke. I will be waiting for you, Tom Navo.

Pay no attention to the fool, I will rescue you, the second voice said. Know your Savior. An image flashed following the words: it was a man sporting a triple tier crown, draped in a robe covered in jewels and gold. The man vanished, discombobulating Tom. The robber spun around and darted for the door, shoulder to shoulder with Tom, who saw that the width of the doorway did not span wide enough for the both of them to fit through, but he could not slow his pace in time. The cashier jumped up from behind the counter, holding a black, short-barreled shotgun. He fired at the escapees, hitting the robber in the lower legs, and spraying into Tom’s legs as well. The robber hit Tom with so much force that they tripped, and both of them flew through the doorway.

Their legs trailed blood as they cleared the narrow sidewalk, colliding into the front of a moving SUV. The driver immediately slammed on the brakes, carrying their bodies with the gas-guzzler. As the automobile stopped, they rolled off the hood and crashed onto the ground in front of the SUV’s enormous traction tires.

Enraged, the cashier ran out to the scene and fired two more cartridges at the front

of the SUV, splattering the already mangled bodies and flattening the vehicle’s tires.

Blood covered the white hood of the vehicle. The female driver screamed wildly. The couple from inside stood in the market’s entranceway, mouths gaping.

The cashier bent down to inspect the bodies: they were mashed and torn, bones sticking out of the skin at places, some of them visibly shattered. The cashier examined the body without the gun: Tom had a large crack running down his head that sunk in from the impact, resembling a deflated basketball. The other body, the robber who had pointed the gun at the clerk, was in slightly worse condition, where rounds of the shotgun pierced his body, creating large holes through much of his torso and legs.

The car’s windshield had shattered on the passenger’s side when the two bodies soared into it in the initial impact; the hood had a deep impression where the bodies rolled back down when the driver frantically braked and came to a halt.

Police arrived at the scene a short time after the incident, and news crews hurried to get an interview with the market clerk, the driver, and the couple who had been inside the market. The remains were eventually taken away later that afternoon. The next day, several newspaper articles pronounced the cashier a hero for trying to save an officer’s life, and bringing two criminals—a wanted prison escapee and a man who had hospitalized his boss—to what the newspapers called a fair end.

2 The Waiting Room. An Unusual Assembly. A Hidden Aperture.

“Number one hundred and fifty-four.” The words rang in Tom’s ears. He sat slouched on a white bench with his eyes closed. The voice reminded him of a child’s, soft and high, making him happy and achy at the same time. Soon though, the ache outweighed the joyous feeling, and left him only with a thumping in his head.

The overpowering white light made Tom fall on his side as he clutched his ribs, sliding his back against a wall. He blocked the illumination with a raised forearm; eventually, the intensity faded away, along with the ache, and he could open his eyes, but he decided to keep them shut. Instead, he touched his surroundings, gliding his fingers over the bench. Fear pulsed in his body, fear that the intense whiteness that had drowned out his vision would return, so he only used one hand to feel around, and shaded his face with his other.

Tom grazed the bench’s warmth and he tasted the heat as his lungs expanded, inhaling the hot air. The bench gave him an eerie feeling. It made the hair on his arms stand up and his skin prickle, as though in the presence of a winter’s chill. The familiar sensation connected to something he had already experienced, but the feeling eluded his memory until a cold, sharp pain violently arose in his side again. Subsiding momentarily, he remembered the sense: it was death creeping up to him through the bench, and it tried to communicate to him, but the words scared him, for they were filled with a recognizable horror.

“Welcome to The Waiting Room, please take a ticket number,” a girlish high voice said.

Tom lowered his hand and opened his eyes to gaze upon the fairest woman he had ever seen. Red hair flowed over her simple white gown, her milky white skin exposed only on her face and hands, and her eyes, which stared back at him, resembled the color of glorious pines. She held a machine that dispensed a piece of paper with the number 207 in vibrant blue ink.

Tom reached for the number and tore the paper from the device. He evaluated the number, but he came up empty upon its significance.

“Thank you, your waiting time is approximately thirteen hours and fifteen minutes,” the woman said, then she moved to another man who sat beside Tom. “Welcome to The Waiting Room, please take a ticket number.” The man ripped off the ticket just as Tom had done, staring at the number 208. “Thank you, your waiting time is approximately thirteen hours and thirty minutes.” Her speech soothed the man, steadying his quivering fingers.

She moved on to a woman next to him. “Waiting time for what? What are we waiting for?” Tom yelled at her while she made her way down the long corridor, and continued to hand out similar tickets to the one he held in his hand. He received no answer.

“It’s the time you have before you must decide what room you want to enter and what you want to choose to become once through,” the man with the number 208

explained. He wore a simple white gown identical to the woman’s.

Tom looked down at his own clothes. Somehow, he wore the same gown, though he was unable to remember how he had changed from his business suit into this bland attire. He surveyed the room, noticing that everyone was dressed in the same garments.

The narrow rectangular room had four blank walls that matched the whiteness of his clothing. Two benches followed the lengthy sides of the walls, and the hanging lights above were spaced out evenly across the entire room. The light at the end of the hall flickered, and appeared to be burning out. The disappearing light blanketed a small portion of the space in darkness, but only for a second, then returned to its normal shining.

The other side of the room ended with five white doors, which also lay evenly apart from one another like the radiant lamps. Above the doors hung five large screens that appeared to display destinations with departure and arrival times, similar to flight times at an airport. He failed to make out what exactly the screens displayed. Below them, a small crowd examined the boards for a second, then maybe briefly talked to someone nearby, but eventually they left the area and sat back down. When one person left, another one joined the gathering.

He looked away from the screens when he felt a poke at his shoulder. Tom ignored the annoyance at first, but the soft tap on his backside persisted, so he swiveled his head to his left to see the man who had spoken to him a few moments ago, now eager to continue the conversation. “Hi, my name is Ferrik, from Tinetia,” the man said amicably, and nodded in courtesy.

“Yeah … hi, I’m Tom. I’m from the Bay Area,” Tom replied, then stuck out his hand. The man gave him a funny look as he peered at Tom’s extended arm in confusion.

“Why are you holding out your hand in such a manner?” Ferrik asked with an expression of genuine curiosity.

“It’s called a handshake?” Tom said with an incredulous inflection, astounded to find someone who did not know of the simple greeting gesture. “It’s how we greet in the States, see, you put your hand in mine like this, and grip.” He gestured, giving a faint squeeze of his grasp. “I’ve never heard of Tinetia before, is that by Russia?”

“Russia, no, I know nothing of this Russia. Tinetia is on Tundran, the planet closest to the dimming star in the Maloce system. I have never heard of the States either, is that by Lo’Gand?” Ferrik asked, but did not wait for Tom to reply. “They say the people of Lo’Gand live under ground, but I have never been there before, and no one travels to such a desolate place.” Ferrik let his grip go from Tom’s hand.

Tom released his hold, still shocked to find someone who did not know the act of a handshake. He analyzed Ferrik closely. The man’s sickly thin and ghastly white face showed no signs of any facial hair growth. His shorter brown hair fell straight to his jaw, and Tom saw no trace of ears. The rest of his body matched his face very well, but with darker hands, almost tawny, and from what Tom could see, the only part of the man’s body that did not look wan. Tom had not said anything for several moments and realized they had been sitting in silence.

“I see.” Tom rubbed under his chin. “No, I’m not from—Lo’Gand, was it?” he asked. But he really did not care and continued, “I’m from Earth, and I don’t know what system it is in. I’m not an astronaut, if you know what I mean….” He laughed, waiting for a response. “No, I guess you don’t know what I mean.” He laughed again. He now

perceived the awkwardness of the situation. For him, Ferrik’s words meant nothing, and he could not tell whether or not the man joked about where he was from, but by the serious expression on his face, he guessed probably not. He looked about the room in uneasiness, settling his eyes on the doors again. “Ferrik, do you know where we are?” He grew anxious for an answer.

“We are in The Waiting Room, but no, I don’t really know where we are,” Ferrik responded while he fixed his gaze downward on his lap, where a book rested upon his knees.

“How long have you been in this room? Did you see me arrive?” Tom distanced himself slightly from the man, wary of his actions. “I don’t remember how I got here,” he added once he settled against the bench again.

“I’ve been here for about four hours, I should say, and no, you were already here when I arrived. You were sound asleep. I tried to wake you to ask some questions, but you didn’t stir, so I asked someone else,” Ferrik replied. He saw Tom’s uneasiness and asked, “Are you all right?”

Tom lifted his hands and rotated them. “I think I am … at least I feel fine,” he reported. But he detected that something was amiss, an abnormal sense bugged him, for his ability to move his wrist without pain signaled something wrong. He could not deduce where this feeling came from, or why it happened; yet, it attacked his mind nonetheless.

He examined his body attentively for a second as he poked and prodded his arms, ribs, and knees. With no pain anywhere, he concluded that everything worked just fine. The uncanny feeling lingered.

Tom eyed Ferrik suspiciously, then asked, “Ferrik, do you know what those doors are for?” He pointed at the doors past the crowd.

“The doors represent the different areas of countryside that you can choose to live in during the afterlife.” Ferrik pointed at the door closest to them. “That is the door I will be taking when my number is called. I feel drawn to it,” he said proudly.

“The afterlife?” Tom said with worry. “How do you know we are dead? I certainly don’t feel like I’m dead.” Fear swelled in him.

“Number one hundred and fifty-five,” a voice announced, the very same voice that had stirred Tom from his slumbering, pounding in his ear. Now, however, it did not strike his hearing so devastatingly.

“Yeah, me neither, but apparently it’s true,” Ferrik told him in a calm tone. His face remained straight and uninterested in the topic.

“Aren’t you a little shaken up that you might be dead?” Tom asked in a high, panicky whisper. His skin paled.

“No, I feel fine about it. I’m actually glad to be moving on to the next stage. I’ll be dining with my ancestors very soon.” Ferrik seemed unaffected by the news of his death. Tom scanned the area again; this time he inspected the faces in the room. No one bore a sad face; not a soul had a hint of sorrow or melancholy about him or her. Everyone carried the same somewhat cheery expression, uninterested in the room itself, or how they managed to awake in such a dreadful place.

Tom grew more scared by the second. “Ferrik, how do you know all this information?” he asked. He wondered how Ferrik had so many answers when the man received his ticket after he did.

“Oh, the book,” Ferrik said happily. He showed Tom the book he held. “It has

everything you need to know.”

“Where did you get that?” Tom inquired. After a second, he observed that everyone in the room held a similar book, and many sat slumped against the benches, reading them.

“It was in my hands when I arrived, though I am not sure how I got it. I have read quite a bit of it, and I assume all the answers are somewhere in here. You were asleep before I was here. Maybe that’s why you don’t have one, no one else is sleeping.” Ferrik grinned. “Here.” He proffered Tom the book. “If you want to read some of it.”

Tom became a little annoyed by the man repeating that he had been asleep when he arrived. He labeled the repetition unnecessary, and although irritated, he accepted the book. The large hardback spanned twice the size of his hands, and had a deep maroon cover with black writing. He read the cover: Choose the Winning Side: Book Five, Banis the Fourteenth. “What does that mean? Choose the winning side?” he asked.

“It might explain it in there, but I couldn’t tell you, to be honest,” Ferrik answered while Tom handed him back the book. Ferrik opened up the pages to where an attached felt ribbon kept his place, and continued to absorb the book’s knowledge.

As soon as Tom handed the book back, another book appeared in his hands, identical to the one he had just held. He read the cover quietly to himself: Choose the Winning Side: Book Three, Alexandroz. Thumbing through a few pages, he stopped when he found writing: I have saved you from the fool, Tom. He winced, his stomach began to revolt against him, and acid climbed up his throat. He dropped the book. He heaved, regurgitating onto the book, which then spilled onto the floor. He fell to his side, clutching his gut as he lay.

“Well, I don’t think you are supposed to do that.” Ferrik eyed Tom in disbelief.

“Are you all right?”

Tom wiped his mouth. “Yeah, I think so. Once I dropped the book I felt fine.” He slid off the bench, avoiding the mess. Curiously, his throat did not hurt. He turned his head back to view the vomit and the covered book, but when he did, he saw nothing; it was as though someone had already swept by and cleansed the area. The overwhelming stench of vomit had disappeared too.

“Hmm, that is strange, the book is supposed to be your guide through the door to the afterlife,” Ferrik said in amazement. “I just read that your mind predetermines what book you receive. You don’t get another one.”

Tom noticed that everyone around was staring at him; he did not know what to do, so he made his way over to the screens. The room fell uncomfortably silent, as the chatter that had been in the background before, no longer existed. He scanned the screens; the monitors were like those at an airport. They did not display flight times, but instead people’s names were posted, and next to them times of arrival, where they originated from, approximate wait times, along with another number at the end that he did not recognize.

Tom searched through the names until he finally came across his own. He still held the ticket stub that he had received from the woman, and when he looked at it, the number corresponded to the one on the screen. He was number 207, whatever that meant.

The number 208 followed Ferrik’s name, as well as Tinetia, the place of his origin. Under the arrival times, he saw that Ferrik came eight minutes later than him at 11:06.35, and his own arrival was 10:58.57. He glanced up at the times before his, 10:58.51 and

10:57.49. Both came from San Francisco.

Something about the times perplexed Tom, and an eerie feeling touched his skin again. He looked at the number 206 with the name Edgar next to it; then he followed the column with 205 and found the name Gregory. He still did not know what the numbers meant. He studied the boards again, this time only looking at the areas; he examined all five displays and saw that only ten possible origins existed. “Only one is real,” Tom whispered. “None of this makes any sense.” He reasoned out that someone was attempting to play a hoax on him, one not too humorous.

Other people assembled in front of the displays, soon the area overran with unfamiliar faces, and the crowd pushed Tom out of viewing range. He wanted to study the boards a little while longer, but the crowd prevented him from seeing anything up close, and he could not fight his way through them; they knitted together too tightly for that. He needed explanations. He guessed that Ferrik might have something more to tell him.

Tom whirled around, away from the assembly. People clumped together everywhere along the skinny room, the benches filled beyond their capacity while people sat shoulder to shoulder with their heads down, reading. The room grew claustrophobic.

He sensed the nausea coming on, as the whiteness of the room changed to blackness, and his vision blurred. He closed his eyes for a second, inhaled a slow breath, and exhaled slow and controlled.

“Number one hundred and fifty-six,” announced the high, childlike voice.

When Tom opened his eyes again, everything cleared and the sickness subsided.

He adjusted to the overpopulated enclosure. Noise in the room barely existed. He did not comprehend how the people could be so mute after learning that they might be dead. It appeared as though someone drugged them into docility. He identified that something was either awry, or that he simply did not fit in amongst these people.

He walked back to where Ferrik still sat and feverishly read from his book. Some people eyed Tom, but he did not pay attention to them. He stood in front of Ferrik for a few seconds, but the man made no effort to acknowledge his presence. “Ferrik, do you know what the numbers on the tickets mean?” he finally asked.

“I already told you what they mean. They are the numbers that tell you when it is time for you to cross into the afterlife,” Ferrik answered, keeping his head down and his eyes on the book.

“Yes, you did tell me that, but that’s not what I’m asking. You know I’m not asking what they are for, but what they mean, what does the number 207 represent; why do I have the number 207 in my hand?” Tom asked impatiently, raising his voice beyond the quiet whispers that occupied the room now. He grew tired of being surrounded by the white walls, the comfortable acceptance of possible death, and most of all, not knowing what was happening.

Ferrik avoided Tom’s eyes. “The number means that you were the two hundred and seventh person to die today,” Ferrik steadily replied.

His normal cowardice forgotten, Tom bent down on a knee, grabbed Ferrik’s face with both his hands, and made sure their eyes met up. “That’s not possible,” he said with incredulity. “Tens of thousands die every day. There is no way that I was the two hundred and seventh person to die by what looks like eleven in the morning. So tell me what is going on, why are we here?” Filled with ire, he forcefully held Ferrik’s head in place as

the smaller man squirmed to get loose.

Ferrik averted his eyes. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I do know that we are truly dead. We are here to choose where we want to bask in the presence of the Almighty.

It’s all here, Tom, you can read it for yourself,” Ferrik answered, and again he offered Tom the book.

Tom tightened his clutch. “We are not dead. I am not dead. This is not real,” he asserted while he squeezed a bit harder, then let go of Ferrik’s cheeks. Tom straightened up and disregarded the proffered book; Ferrik still did not make eye contact with him, and immediately continued his reading.

Noticing that almost everyone stared at him now, including the woman passing out the ticket stubs, Tom turned away from them and saw the door with a three hanging on it. His stomach churned. He grabbed his sides, turning away to face the people, who now looked in all directions but his.

Tom changed his view to a digital clock that hung above the five screens. The number 156 lit up the display. He regarded his ticket again, completely flummoxed. 207.

The room began to spin around him, so he shook his head to concentrate, and cleared his mind of death. He turned back to Ferrik. “Thank you for your help.” He commenced walking in the opposite direction of the doors.

As Tom made his way down the corridor room, he glanced at some of the faces.

Sadly, he did not recognize a single one. If this fit into the nightmare category, then it rivaled the worst of them. Randomness touched everything. That was until he came across a person whom he thought he knew; it was a stranger’s face, yet he had seen it before. Tom caught a glimpse at the stub he held. The number 206 was printed in the same vibrant blue as his ticket.

Tom recalled that the man came from San Francisco and that according to the display they died at almost the exact same time. He proceeded to walk on past the man.

Another man sat next to the guy with 206, soundlessly reading. Tom eyed his book and saw that the man used his ticket stub as a bookmarker, the number plainly visible: 205.

He did not feel right about the situation. Both of these men had died right before him in the Bay Area, yet somehow they sat far away from him, though Ferrik mentioned that it had been some time since his supposed arrival. Nothing made sense, nothing added up.

He could not be dead. Not now. Not ever. A vision of his corpse flashed into his mind, a grim scene to say the least. He imagined overdosing on sleeping pills, passing out on his couch in front of his giant television.

The flickering light at the end of the room stabilized as Tom reached it, but as soon as he stood under the light, it went out again. He passed the light, and immediately it fell from the ceiling, shattering on the ground inches away from him. The next light fell from the ceiling and broke in the same fashion. Standing in darkness, he could no longer see the people in the room. Another book materialized in his hands that matched the size of all the rest in the room, and although no light illuminated the area, he made out the writing on the cover.

He read the black ink: A Book of Truth: We Are Out of Time, Anakore’in. The book resembled a rich soil, dark brown, yet greens and blues mixed into it as well. Tom flung open the cover to find the beginning pages blank, having to search through the first half for text. At last, he came to a page that had something written on it: If you wish to contact Anakore’in, the Keeper of Neutrality, simply move three meters to the left. There

you will find a hatch under your feet. The truth is yours.

“Number one hundred and fifty-seven, you are next, please proceed to your given exit, thank you.” The high voice soothed as Tom listened to it; it even relaxed him, yet it also carried a commanding element, which made him feel compelled to comply with her directions. He could not see the person move, but out of the stillness of the rectangular room he heard a door open and shut, so someone must have gone through one of the doors at the opposite end of the long hall.

Tom had to think how far three meters translated into imperial measurement, and finally moved about ten feet to his left. He bent down to find a handle, and pulled on it, but the hatch did not move. Wondering why it would not open, he tried again with no luck. He mused on why he would receive a book telling him of the door if he could not open it. Confused, he sat down after trying a few more times, failing to budge the door even a little bit. Time must have gone quickly, for he heard the next number called, followed by the opening and closing of a door.

“I must have to wait for two hundred and seven to be called,” Tom said quietly to the empty part of the room. Deciding to wait it out, he flipped through the pages in darkness, finding no other text on any of the other sheets. He kept a foot placed on the door while he extended his body toward where the second light had fallen; he searched around with his hands, but found no traces of the broken glass. It had disappeared just like his vomit. He drew himself back to the hatch and waited atop the doorway.

Time went slowly until his number finally echoed through the room, and in the interim, Tom cogitated on his memories before he awoke in the disturbing room. He remembered speaking with a messenger before getting off work; he had an appointment to meet with his boss the next morning. He recalled going out for some beer at a pub, but after that everything became more than hazy, it was a headache. Finally he heard the voice.

“Number two hundred and seven, you are next, please proceed to your given exit, thank you.”

As soon as Tom heard his number, he stood up to try again, and this time the hatch opened, which revealed a small aperture where brown and green vines were attached to the sides of the hole, and they spiraled down into more darkness. He could only view a short distance in front of himself, but with nowhere else to go, he started to climb down the vines. The hatch shut when his body no longer blocked the passageway.

He gripped the tendrils for dear life, looking into a world of black.

Down and down into a black void. Finally, wearied from the descent and his clasp around the vines, Tom was no longer able to hold onto the thickness of nature’s rope. He drifted into sleep and plunged into the devouring darkness below. *** The white room from which Tom had exited returned to its normal state as the broken light fixtures repaired themselves, becoming whole again out of nothingness, and then reattached to the chains hung from the ceiling. The lights came back on, making the end of the room visible. No one noticed the change in the space. No one noticed that Tom had disappeared.

Soon, Ferrik rose to the announcement of his number and walked through the door labeled Five. Beyond the door was another room where Ferrik saw a chair with a screen attached to it. He sat down, following the guidance of his book, his beloved

manual. He picked from a series of pictures displayed in front of him on a monitor. The pictures presented possible forms available in the afterlife. With a final press on the screen, Ferrik’s body disappeared into a field of light that encompassed him entirely.

Then he vanished into nothingness.

3 My Annals: On The Promise of our Savior

History has been banned for centuries. Now writing falls only unto those of the cloth. Yet I, yes, I have been recording history since. But who am I, you ask? No—no man of the cloth. If you were to ask me for my real name, I would regretfully answer you falsely. It is not in my nature to conceal the truth by lying, but where has my name gone … it has been lost in time.

I was a slave once. Treated no better than a cow by my own kind, herded around like cattle, I was. Did they boast any more intellect than myself? No. Yet, I was a different species to them. Not human. Degenerate. Inhospitable to reason. Sadly, my intelligence did not get me very far, as I was unable to prevent myself from being captured, nor could I deny the torture that was wrought upon me during my enslavement.

I would tell you how it occurred, how I lost my identity, but I cannot recall it now. You might think that it is impossible to forget something like that. I do. But that does not change the result.

You still want a name? So do I…. I have no recollection of my original name given to me at my birth. It is gone like the clouds of yestercircuit, and only a new name can form in clouds of tomorrow. I want a new name. I want a name of a historian. I have given myself such, one that reveals my true character. My keen eyes watch all things that pass, like Ian Bertabili, the most legendary of all ancient Annals Keepers. My intent ears let nothing pass them by without proper care, as they are more powerful than Zolu Azikwe’s, Annals Keeper second only to Ian. In order to become the greatest historian, I have written on many events that I have seen, and though it is not permitted, I will continue to do so regardless. Others know some of the events that I am about to detail.

No text survives from someone who was alive during the age, but my mind prevails, and so, it comes to me.

I will tell you what I know. Let me begin with the name I bear now.

It is true—I have never been a brute by any measure, and in those circuits, the circuits when men were property to other men, it was no different. I was weak and insignificant, even when compared to the other slaves. So I became what I was. What I hated being most. Out of my frailness came the only name that I can remember ever having. I became known as Feeble….

I’ve remembered this name for all these long cycles. It was the Age of Purpose, now over four thousand cycles ago, and the world was somewhat at peace. Yet, I was chained, cruelly bound to labor. My name, you ask … where did it come from? Did I not just tell you? It was a reflection of the image everyone saw. A nickname at first. I was unable to do as many tasks as the other prisoners, carrying the heavy loads of boulders and stones. We were building a great citadel for our master, forced to wear shackles that bound us and bruised our ankles. Then an illness took me. My sunbathed skin turned to milk, and I spent endless circuits wishing I were dead. Rest did not exist for us. I knew death would come soon, because it had been sequences since the sickness had gotten a

foothold. I felt the edge of life. My fingers crept into the side of darkness to touch its palpability. It was then that my name was sealed, inscribed in the stone I could not lift.

You ask how have I lived over four thousand cycles? That is a question best answered at length in another entry. For now I am here to write the history of our Savior, Alexandroz, and his promise to us, his people.

The Age of Purpose was a time when slaves were creating monuments of their masters. These monuments were built to honor great men across the continent, the founders of an age after the death of technology. The builders of tomorrow, some called them. These men were said to be even greater than those in the Age of Restoration, over three hundred cycles ere my time, ere the Age of Purpose. Cities flourished during their reign in the Age of Purpose. Rising high above the ground, some even reached into the clouds again, as in the Celestial Era when technology users warmed the planet, and caused The Cataclysmic Flood….

So many events … my thoughts have become scattered … I have written on the other Ages elsewhere, and I will write more in due time … I must not let my mind stroll through the woods, as the saying goes.

I must return to the Age of Purpose. Most diseases were obliterated, completely cured by new herbal remedies, straying from the technological cures of the time ere The Cataclysmic Flood. But treatments were not administrated to slaves like me. And though it seemed like man was becoming invincible once more, without technology spreading its infestation upon the world, I was descending into the pit of the abyss…. Yes, the world was a pile of wealth again. Many men did not know what to do with their time or affluence, and so they began to wander aimlessly about the fields, the forests, the beaches, and the mountains. They were looking for something. Or maybe someone….

I must say that I feel the rest of my enslavement is not worth detailing, for it has no real relevance to this account of history, but my freedom, on the other hand, that is different. It has cause. It has purpose. I will share it because it is what I know best. This is the truth.

A scholar of my country uncovered a book, buried in an ancient tomb. He found the knowledge to free the people of my country, like me, the slaves. No one knew how, including myself, but then no one asked how, when he had the power to abolish slavery.

With this power, he became more than a man. He became our Savior. An idol for us all…. You know the other stories surrounding our Savior, his descent from Empyrenalis, so I have no need to detail that here.

What you may not know is the story behind the story. You want more? I have much to write, though such a limited supply to write on….

Continue I shall. With his gift to perform miracles, and lift the burdens from the broken back, as the saying goes, we, the slaves rallied behind him and his promise of freedom. Often I find myself thinking he was what the wandering men were searching so long for. In fact, I know he was, my conscience tells me so. Perhaps they wanted to stop him from gaining power like he did. Or maybe they wanted to turn him to their evil ways.

This is veiled to me.

When I first heard of the Slave’s Liberation Movement, and of this Savior of justice, Alexandroz, I, like the rest, did not believe in his power. However, incredulous as I was, it was not long ere the SLM reached my doorstep.

I was touching death at the time. It grasped my wrists and pulled on me for orbits,

until Alexandroz appeared from out of the realm of light. Death released me in his presence, and the clutches of the sickness left me without disability, as our Savior blessed me with a miracle. In return, he asked me for my support, which I reverently gave. It was not a duty I felt, but an honor and a privilege to assist him.

I met our Savior when I was bedfast. He approached the bed where I lay dying, and graciously he healed me with a touch of his hand. It was the beginning of the rebellion in our country, a war we won in a few short sequences. He had arrived at my town with an army of workers, who soon swept across the farmlands, and fought in the endless kilometers of fields, where government troops desperately tried to stop them.

Outside my very window, I stared and watched the battle being waged. I saw firsthand the strength that Alexandroz wielded. I watched him tear the armies asunder in less than an hour. No one could challenge him. He, who is the True Savior, is the Lord of wind and water, of rock and fire—the Lord and Master of life itself.

He made me part of his new cabinet. “You have a trusting face,” said our Savior.

“I need a trusting face.” I finally had purpose, with a position of significance, of true importance to my country. A slave no more. And ere the great armies of the state could strike the slaves down in our country, they suffered against our Savior’s hand. My people were all free.

When Alexandroz rebuilt our Nation after our independence, he knew other World Leaders would try to attain the secret to power like his, a secret that perhaps only I now know. He knew they would fall into corruption, into greed and hatred, and would handle such power in ignorance. He knew, our Savior, he knew they would not be able to control such power as he wielded, only using it in a dire time of peril. They would use it for terror and destruction. So Alexandroz hid the book away from his enemies, not wanting anyone to find it.

He was right about our enemies. But what he did not know was that I would be the traitor, the one to give the World Leaders what they so dearly wanted. During this era, my mind was weak and easily swayed. Many men approached me with offers … with promises. I succumbed. I searched and found where the book was concealed. Devoured by my own rapaciousness, I gave them what I managed to mark down ere Alexandroz discovered my treasonous transgression. Scraps, bits and pieces—that was all I gave them. But for my betrayal of our Savior, and of my Kingdom, I was forsaken and punished. Being our Savior, Alexandroz feared not what they would do to our Nation, for they could never learn what he knew. He feared for the annihilation of all the rest.

Once I handed the information to the World Leaders, the hammer fell, as the saying goes, and war was waged betwixt once peaceful countries. What I gave the World Leaders brought havoc upon countries that did not know about this power because I did not share it with them. Those who did not possess the knowledge fell prey to the fury and might of those who had persuaded me so easily.

Henceforth came the Age of Extermination. Forty-six nations broke out in world war on Gillia, our single remaining continent. Uncounted millions perished. Countries fell to other stronger countries that were then taken over by another, even more powerful country. Each seeking one thing in their pursuit of conquest, the book that Alexandroz had discovered in the tomb deep beneath the surface of the world. This book possessed an ancient elf language that held no barriers. It was universal. The language of World. All I know about it is that it has the ability to change the world when it is spoken properly.

I must say that as powerful as our Savior is, he is as kind and forgiving. He allowed me to prove my loyalty to the Throne once more, and he eventually blessed me with an everlasting life. Now, nothing but the blade of my Sovereign can strike me down.

As I said earlier, I will detail this in another entry. Sometimes, though, I think an unending life is a punishment for my treachery. I have watched countries burn to ashes. I have seen the rubble of city ruins. I have touched thousands of the dead bodies with my fingertips. I have heard the cries of havoc. I have witnessed the destruction firsthand.

Why did I tell you all this just now? I told you so that you may yet understand that when our Savior makes a promise, he keeps it. There are no alternatives. I told you so that you may yet see the danger ahead of us, as well as the light that our Savior brings to his people. In a world of death, truth and faith in our Savior will guide us. It is getting worse. That is why I write this entry, as the remaining countries to the South are becoming more savage, and soon there will be nothing left but a scarce memory and record. Our country will be all that stands. Plagues have swept through the Southern Nations. They have now begun to attack our borders. In preparation, the army awaits orders, heavily patrolling the fieldlands. Alexandroz says we must be free from our enemies. He has told me that the blame is not to be shouldered by me. He has told me it would have been like this nonetheless. I believe him with my whole heart.

I did not make them turn to the ugliness. I did not swing an axe to behead an ally.

I did not transform them into the vileness that is killer and conqueror.

Alexandroz has promised perpetual peace to those of us who devote ourselves to his cause. To cure the plaguing infestation from the world, and purge all who need cleansing. Those of us who do this shall finally be free from the sight of death and decay, and live forever in the Land of Rapture. We shall have eternal freedom in a world where man shall finally rise above killing his neighbor. We shall rid this world of an unnecessary evil that has plagued it for too many millennia.

My Sovereign, our Savior, tells us the end of the conflict, our struggle, is fast approaching. The legions to the South threaten us, but they shall soon see our wrath. For Hallowed is our Savior and true are the faithful. Vale.

7/3/2129: Armistice. My Annals: On The Promise of our Savior by Ian Azikwe

4 The Vultures. The Smoke.

Some Strange Company.

Tom lay face down in tall red grass. Overcome with exhaustion, he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, barely able to move. The grass grew too high for anything to be visible but the long blades. His body ached in soreness. He had no idea how he had gotten here. A few loud cries of an animal had woken him, but they passed shortly after he was roused from the darkness, and for the time he believed it safest to remain in the cover of the flourishing vegetation. He rolled over on to his back, which took great effort.

Vultures flew overhead, looking for scraps of carrion. Circling Tom, one of the vultures dove for his shoulders, thinking him easy prey. Four sharp talons landed next to his head, but he rolled twice to his side, away from the claws of the bird. His entire body ached from the effort, the sides of his stomach gnawed at him constantly, but most of the pain centered in his head, pulsing.

The enormous bird jumped into flight once more, circling just a bit above Tom’s head. When Tom finally stood up, the bird flew to a distance almost reachable with an extended arm and a powerful jump. Three vultures circled him, sweeping down every now and then, which tensed all his muscles. Their wingspans distanced over eight feet, and their bodies stood tall about four feet high, reaching just below Tom’s shoulders. The birds’ feathers glowed pure black except for a few small bands of red underneath the wings, and their flesh looked like molten fire; black covered the top of their faces and down their cheeks as though forming a helmet. He watched their soaring, ready to duck.

Tom scanned the area around him and spotted the rotting carcass of a nearby bison; red hair covered most of its body except where patches of brown splotched the animal. Flesh and bone showed in places around the creature’s gut, and its entrails were spilled on the ground untouched, as if someone had gutted the unfortunate animal then left it there to roast in the sun. The birds swooped down to the grass and landed next to the decomposing flesh.

He spotted a herd of red bison that grazed not too far away, with many similar carcasses scattered in bits and pieces across the plains. He nearly choked on the fetid scent of the bodies, but then he covered his nose, only breathing when necessary. He stood closer to the dead bison than the three giant birds, but slowly they inched their way toward him and the rotting odor. The nearest of the birds cocked its head in a funny manner, peering up at Tom, and they made eye contact. Tom gazed for a prolonged period of time at the feathery creature. The bird squinted at him, and then it ruffled its feathers as it attempted to intimidate him, which worked on Tom, as he took a quick step backward.

The bird blinked. Its eyes never left him. It opened its beak and a sound came out, but not one Tom had expected from the enormous bird. It squawked gratingly, yet within the high-pitched noise, something else hid that he could not discern. He furrowed his brow as he observed the creatures, not wanting to make any alarming movements, and

remained motionless.

“I’m sorry, kid, you must have misheard me. I asked if you were going to eat that?” the nearest bird spoke up, aligning its head upright. Its voice lowered since it first spoke, and became clearer too. The words shocked Tom’s ears, and he blinked in bewilderment, thinking that the incident only existed in his head.

“Terrible times, these are terrible times we’re living in. I think we have another lost kid,” the second bird said. “He doesn’t want it.” The three birds bent over the carrion and began to feast upon the decay. They tugged on the meat and other body parts of the animal, carefully dissecting the dead creature. Two more of the birds flew over and landed on the far side of the bison, away from Tom. They blinked at him for a second.

“What’s with this one?” one of them asked, as the other one immediately started to gobble down the smelly flesh.

“He’s lost. Might have been part of one of those small expeditions,” replied the first one, who now cocked his head at Tom once more, and blinked his eyes a few times.

“We aren’t sure what’s wrong with him, he could be mute. Terrible times, you know.”

Tom disliked dreams like this.

Suddenly he had the urge to speak. “I’m Tom,” he introduced himself, but only the first bird heard him, for the others busily yanked pieces of the animal’s hide away, exposing more of the foul smelling muscle.

“Ah, so you’re not a mute after all,” the first bird said, blinking rapidly. “Well, Tom, it is pleasant to meet you, my name is Gregon. That’s Larry, Kizo, Bell, and Noizen,” Gregon introduced the other birds in order from where they stood. They all dipped their necks slightly, half-bowing.

Not knowing what to say, Tom fell silent. He had never had such a real and vivid dream, especially one where animals had names and talked to him. He did not know how to respond, but he also did not want to be rude. “Hi,” he replied, and nodded to be polite.

Normally, his dreams involved quitting his job, or nightmares of his office, and they rarely included animals, but occasionally a rat or a dog appeared in them.

“What brings you to The Stained Lands of Hell?” Gregon asked, plucking a piece of meat from the carcass.

“Huh?” Tom uttered, but his indistinct speech sounded more like a groan. It might have been a groan, but thankfully, Gregon had a very aural keenness and perceived Tom’s confusion.

“You really are lost then, aren’t you?” Gregon said, after swallowing the chunk of meat. “You, my lost compadre, are on the edge of Salenk, near the border of Lyree Plyth, and close to The Bordergrounds.”

Tom met the bird’s eyes once more. Gregon must have seen that Tom wore the most flummoxed expression. So the bird went about his business, feasting on the carrion, and waited for the human to ask questions.

Tom had not a clue what the bird meant when he told him about his supposed location. Stained Lands of Hell—what could that mean? Maybe he dreamed about life after death; he did not believe in Hell, but somehow he had ended up within its borders.

The vultures voraciously attacked the remaining flesh of the dead bison, and they spoke no more to him, but he noticed that every once in a while Gregon stopped to peer up at him and waited for a second, as if he thought Tom would ask him something more.

With the human’s silence, the bird returned to the carcass, pulling on the stringy and

stretchy tissue.

Tom surveyed the land more closely and saw a trail of hoary smoke that billowed above a nearby woodland. He could see the tops of a massif that the forest covered up unto a point; the smoke remained visible as it flowed up the slopes of the mountains.

A dot soared in the skyline by the mountains, which appeared to be another vulture, but Tom could have been mistaken, since it seemed to be circling the area even though a surplus of carrion lay on the ground. To the north, he saw another chain of mountains that stretched far out of the range of his eyesight. Two suns hung in the sky, a smaller and dimmer Crimson one that traveled ahead of the second one into the west, over the tops of the massif. The second sun shined Golden, and illuminated much more than the Crimson.

The landscape that surrounded Tom reminded him of a sanguinary battleground in a Hollywood blockbuster, with blood soaking the fields; the deep scarlet grass slowly wilted in the sunlight. He watched the herd of bison while they roamed about the area; the large heavyset oxen ate at their leisure, careless about anything other than filling their bellies, and at times, observing their young that rested and grazed near them.

Tom decided he wanted to know more about his location, even if only a dream.

“So what exactly are The Stained Lands of Hell?” he asked the small flock of vultures.

“The land of the dead,” Gregon answered, choking down a scrap of bloody tissue.

“There have been thousands of battles fought on these lands, and eventually the blood permanently changed the color of the ground and the grass that grows on top of it. And now, terrible times are a coming again, war is approaching.”

“I see,” Tom said. He wanted to know why so many battles took place on the plain, but instead a more pressing question occurred to him. “How do you know war is coming?”

“We’ve got a sense about these things, when mass bloodshed is a coming. Call it a gift, I do,” Gregon replied.

Tom brushed aside the prediction and asked, “Do you know where I could find the closest accommodations?” He needed to escape the dreadful plains.

Gregon tilted his head and blinked. “Accommodations?” he said, perplexed. “If you mean a city, then the closest one would be Brilam, and it’s a long ways south of here.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Tom said, a little annoyed by the bird’s tone. Of course he meant a city, what else could he have meant? “Do you know how far away it is?” He hoped for a time less than an hour. The two suns beat down relentlessly on his sensitive skin.

“It’s at least a couple of sequences on foot, though I once tracked one of these bison down there for longer. But they are pretty slow walkers,” Larry responded, who had been quiet, but listening the entire time.

“Yeah, all they do is eat all circuit long, or mate,” Kizo added, who had also been silent.

Gregon nodded. “Yep, it will take you some time to get down there, and the suns are starting to get real fierce during the circuit, even for us while flying. Terrible times, I say.”

“A circuit? A sequence?” Tom asked “Where are you from, kid?” Gregon said. “A circuit: the thirty-seven hours it

takes the planet to complete its revolution. A sequence is made up of nine circuits. You know it’s terrible times when kids don’t even know about time. Next he’ll say he doesn’t know what an orbit or a cycle is.”

“Terrible times,” the others added, sounding off in a row.

Tom thought better of asking about the meaning of a cycle and an orbit, he just wanted out of the sweltering heat, a and good place to rest.

“You won’t find too much shade neither,” Bell apprised Tom of the lack of tree cover, with a strip of muscle hanging out of her mouth. She quickly swallowed it. “At least for the first couple of circuits, but once you get south of that forest there.” She pointed with her massive wing. “You’ll start to find more trees in the southern grasslands.”

Tom grew puzzled about their sudden interest in him, and why they talked about him not having shade when an extensive forest lay close by. “Can’t I just walk in the covering of the forest?” he asked.

“Oh troubled graces, no!” Gregon cried. “You cannot travel in The Untouched Lands. That forest has a curse that scribbles anything that tries to pass through its borders.”

“Scribble?” Tom inquired.

“Kill …” Larry responded calmly.

“Yep, it is protected somehow, but by who or what we do not know. What we do know is that we do not see anything go in without finding half of itself our next meal, and we don’t see anything venture out either,” Bell reported.

“It has been good for us, though,” Gregon added. “We watch it daily for someone silly or stupid enough to find itself falling over dead when they try to walk into its enticingly green landscape.”

“Trust us, kid, you don’t want to try it, unless you think you would make a mighty meal for one of us, but judging from your muscle tone, I should think not,” Kizo said.

Noizen had been noiseless throughout the whole discussion, a noticeably odd occurrence for a vulture when in a group, and they usually huddled together in groups, scavenging in collaboration. For the first time the bird took his attention away from the carrion and examined Tom. “Yeah, you’re right there, Kizo, he’s not much of a meal, is he?” Noizen said with a chuckle. The rest of the birds joined in on the laughter, but Tom scowled, not thrilled about being in a discussion of whether or not he made a worthwhile appeaser of hunger.

The herd started making long calls. Increasingly, other bison joined in, aware of something new in the fields. The majority of the herd began to move south. The nervousness of the red-haired bison made him uneasy as well, and looking around he spotted more bison approaching from the east at a swift pace.

Among the bison, something else caught Tom’s attention, where a few larger animals moved about the herd. The white creatures ran on four legs much the same as a cheetah and with apparently the same astonishing speed. Their curved, humped backs raised into the air, jumping onto the bison as they tackled one to the ground. The white reflected off the suns, making it unbearable to look at them for longer than a mere glimpse.

Thick scales covered the animals, like armor, impenetrable. Soon the herds mixed into a mass of chaos as the huge bison ran in all directions, with most of them traveling

away from where he stood. Several of the white creatures ran amok within the herd of bison, taking them down with ease, ripping at their stomachs with huge swipes of their claws, or once on their backs, positioning themselves under the bison’s well-covered throats and snapping into them to crush the animal’s windpipe.

Heart pounding, Tom feared one of the creatures would spot him. “Do you see those?” he asked the vultures. Gregon and Kizo swiveled their necks to search for what the human talked about. They focused their eyesight on the blinding beasts and saw them taking down bison after bison.

“So that’s what killed these red-haired critters,” Gregon said, interested in the beast. “We arrived here too late to catch a glimpse of the butchers.” Gregon’s eyes zoomed in on the white animals. “Dilapadae!” he shrieked deafeningly. “Kid, you best be off, these beasts are unforgiving, and uncontrollable.”

Tom watched the great animals claw and bite viciously as they scattered the herd, and singled out the slower and weaker bison. “There is no way I can outrun them, I have nowhere to go!” He started to panic. “Can you carry me?” he yelled at the vultures in the commotion of the bison wailing and stomping the ground like thunder.

“Our talons are too sharp to lift you without injury, and you are too heavy for us to carry you very far, at least not far enough away to escape them,” Gregon screeched. He cocked his head, then blinked once or twice before he took off into the air. The others followed suit, soaring higher and higher into the sky, but Gregon swooped back down in a circle around Tom. “Your best bet would be to run along with the bison southward.

Other than that, I don’t have any more suggestions. Terrible times are a coming. I’m sorry, kid. I truly am.” Gregon flew after the group of vultures who circled high above.

Searching the area, Tom saw a lone bison running toward him, with one of the savage predators scrambling after it. His body throbbed, moving at a slow pace, trembling in fear and exhaustion, but he pushed his muscles to their limit as he started to run southward. He realized he could not sprint fast enough to reach the herd, let alone run with them, so he adjusted his course west, toward the forest. He decided to take his chances dying in there rather than in the jaws of a beast. He rushed toward the woodland; the bison galloped not far behind him now, gaining distance faster than he had hoped the animal could move. He did not want the bison anywhere near him, for it would alert the predator to his own presence.

The eaves of the forest drew near. Green sprouted everywhere from north to south. It was a lush land that appeared to be untouched by animals and humans.

The bison caught up to Tom and ran next to him, their steps synchronized as the bison’s head slanted toward him. Unprepared, Tom heard a plea of “HELP ME!” from the animal. Stepping in front of him, the bison ran desperately ahead, leaving him in the direct sight of the blinding creature. Tom did not know if the words lived in his imagination, or if they were truly spoken aloud. He raced through the bloodstained grass, the thought slipping from his mind as adrenaline and fear overtook it.

The trees promised security, so close to Tom, almost within touching distance, but the beast was now a mere yard behind him. At the last minute before entering the forest, the bison turned south, picking up its speed. Tom ran so close behind the animal that the bison’s left hind leg hit him just below his knee in the shin, which tripped him forward.

Falling hard, he reached out his arms to brace the impact. Snarls and growls rang out over the plains behind him, the guttural sounds echoing across the sky, pounding his eardrums.

The white creature’s ululation cried out to its pack.

Tom rolled over as fast as he could. He spied that the beast ceased its advance at the edge of the woodland; it paced back and forth along the border, crying out every once in a while, but making no attempt to pass in. Soon three other white beasts arrived, carrying the flesh of recently caught prey. The four predators gathered around each other and howled their displeasure to the heavens. Something prevented their crossing into the forest to tear him to shreds, but for some reason, he had made it through safely.

His heart thudded as if trying to break through his chest.

The trees groaned from the ululations that flew with the wind, and in their displeasure, they shut out the noise, covering the edge of the land by sprouting new bushes and plants along the border. The small plants grew taller and wider in seconds, and after a few minutes, the beasts vanished, no longer visible to Tom. The thick wall of new brush also blocked out their dreadful screams.

“I made it,” Tom muttered. Slowly, his blood settled, though not completely calmed. He clambered to his feet, twisting toward the tangled woodland before him. The smoke trail that he had seen earlier clouded around him; he waved it away with his hands, and it subsided within a couple of feet in front of him. The smoke followed a path along the floor of the forest. “Looks like someone wants me here.”

He walked along the trail, and with every step, the smoke remained the same distance in front of him. He followed the smoke and the trail in hopes that they would lead him to food and water, and shelter. He had never been so sore, or so famished in a dream before, and Tom started to have his doubts about his initial conclusion.

He could still see some of the sky above the canopy of the forest, and he noticed that the large Golden Sun started to sink behind the mountains in front of him. The light quickly fell with it. The dense forest grew dimmer, and queer sounds followed, echoing in the darkness. Fear kept him awake and alert for hours following the path in the gloom, but abruptly his depleted body could stand no longer. He stopped for the night between three ancient, massive redwood trees beside the path. The smoke lingered along the trail, and waited there for him to take his next step.

Tom sat down, enervated and bewildered. His unanswered questions had worn him out. As the light disappeared entirely, he fell asleep undisturbed by the noisiness of the night. *** Tom awoke to a dim light. Groggy, his blood circulated as if drugged. His head buzzed, and he waited a few moments until it cleared. Using the nearest giant tree for support, he climbed to his feet and staggered, trying to balance himself. The other two trees that he had fallen asleep next to had vanished. He examined his surroundings closely, recalling what exactly he remembered before his weariness overtook him the previous night.

Nothing looked the same. The bushes and flowers that grew next to him had disappeared, and the density of the trees shaded much less. A few redwood trees, like the one he stood next to, grew here and there, and as he turned, he saw the slope of one of the mountains. On the previous day, the mountains had been a great distance to the west, and once he determined the impossibility that he had traveled such a length on his own, the realization struck him that something mystical must have happened during the night.

The land near the mountainside cooled the blood more, but Tom remained warm

and comfortable enough in his beige long-sleeved shirt and dark-brown pants, both of which were made from thick linen. The dirt footpath lay close by, so he made his way toward it, where he saw that the smoke lingered a short distance away. He took a step forward, and just as on the previous day, the smoke remained a steady few strides in front of him, unreachable.

Traveling along the path, Tom headed up the slanting surface of the mountain’s base while he followed the elusive smoke that continued to lead the way. Hours went by before he stopped to take his first rest, and conveniently, the trail had led him next to a small, clear stream, shadowed by three different berry bushes. The day had become exceedingly warm and bright, and when he turned back to the east, he saw that again two suns smiled at him from the sky. The larger Golden Sun crept over the horizon to cook the mountain.

Tom rested a few more times during the course of the day, staying near the creek all the while. Anxiety dwelled in his heart. He grew uneasy about how comfortable his journey had been since he entered the forest. The howls and other noises in the distance did nothing to calm his nerves. The blinding white creatures from the red plains never escaped his mind, and always he felt threatened that they tracked his trail. The day passed at a sluggish pace, as he watched the suns slowly shift above, until at last, they hid behind the mountain and another cold night swept in. *** For four days, Tom only saw trees burdened with snow, the smoke trail, and three squirrels that seemed to be keeping a peculiarly close eye on him. Every morning he woke up in a different location from where he had fallen asleep, yet always near a giant redwood, and a creek with something fresh to eat at hand. Although he wore the same delicate clothing, the snow never became too wet, and the wind never unbearably cold, for by some great grace he was kept warm, almost as though a blanket shrouded him day and night.

Hiding among the treetops, the squirrels kept a vigilant watch over Tom, who continued to be utterly baffled by the passing days. He never could guess where he would end up in the morning, but he maintained a constant pace while he chased after the smoke. Traces of acorn shells appeared on the ground often, reminding him that he did not travel alone in the woodland. The journey took him around the middle height of the mountainside, below the major snow line, where oaks dominated the land. Resting shortly from time to time, his tired legs struggled in exhaustion, and began to spontaneously cramp; with the pain, he slowed for more breaks on the slope.

The trail of smoke had led him into a desolate area, devoid of life other than the snow-drenched trees and the mischievous squirrels that followed him.

For a few hours in the morning on the fourth sunrise, Tom stumbled down the hillside in a fresh, knee-deep coat of white. The suns were high when finally he came to patches of bare grassy areas. Snow often fell on his shoulders from the branches of trees.

He observed the sky to see if the clouds would decide to pour on him again, but instead of flakes falling from above, he spotted a squirrel springing from branch to branch. With every jump and landing of the squirrel, the impact made the heavily packed snow drop to the ground below.

“What the—” Tom cried out, as more snow fell on his head. He wiped his face clean and squinted at the squirrel while the animal made its way down the hill. Watching

the rodent, he noticed in the distance that a chimney emitted smoke, covering parts of the sky in a blanket. The rising smoke dissipated, allowing him to see the trail ahead. He examined the sky again and watched a few clouds pass over him; he also made out a speck up near the clouds, which at first he believed it to be one of the vultures, though with a longer examination it shaped into a smaller bird.

The smoke no longer showed the way, but a clear path of dirt led down the hillside. Tom heard more jumping from above. Soon he saw another one of the squirrels darting by, sometimes gliding from tree to tree to soar over a gap. Predicting that the third squirrel must not be far behind, he peered around, searching for it until an acorn hit his forehead.

Above, the squirrel was taunting him to follow.

But Tom did not immediately pursue, for he noticed a group of white ibex down the hillside. The animals congregated in an open area of grass, and the largest one stayed centered within the group, raising its head every so often to ensure the safety of the herd.

The buck boasted horns as tall as its body, at about four feet, and thickly protruded out of its skull, then narrowed to a fine tip, curving backwards past its midsection. The herd stood on the qui vive, with the awareness of something Tom had not the perception to notice.

Then, all of a sudden, Tom caught a glimpse of the beginnings of a chase, as some other animal started a commotion to set the group off running down the slope. Snow flew into the air and clouded his view of the scene, yet he could spot figures running and shifting through the mist.

He observed that the bulk of the herd sprinted to the right while two stragglers, a mother and her offspring, veered off to the left, panicking in the tumult. As the snow dissipated and settled on to the ground once more, Tom watched a large cat seize the smaller ibex from behind, jumping onto its back and bringing it down. He guessed that the ibex must have been a kid since it bore short horns, and the speckled beard that hung scantly thin at its chin gave away its age.

At that moment, Tom wondered why he remembered that. The little fact must have been something he saw on TV once, and apparently, it stuck. A strange feeling climbed steadily up his back, and lingered around his neck for a few seconds in a chill.

He shuddered.

The cat lugged the ibex up the slope. Tom thought he had been furtive in choosing his position to view the scene, but when the felid approached him on the hillside, it released the goat and rested for a second, spotting him instantly. He made eye contact with the enormous cat: a magnificent light gray snow leopard with faint lime-green eyes.

An assortment of spots mottled the animal. The cat blinked, then with its powerful jaws, gripped its prey and began to yank it up the mountain once more.

The moment left Tom’s body aquiver with fear, for the carnivore stood so close, and could easily hunt him down if it desired. The cat had moved about the mountain noiselessly, its steps stealthily perfect. He feared its masterful nimbleness, for he guessed it could pounce on him in an instant and he would be dead before his muscles even twitched in terror. Now, his feet would not move, stuck in the snow, so gripped with horror that he did not even dare to blink.

The squirrel above dropped another acorn on Tom’s head; then it took off down the hillside after the others. Tom advanced down the trail, moving with caution, for other

hidden predators probably spied on him, and he did not want to be caught off guard twice in one day.

With each step Tom took, the snow melted away, showing more of the forest’s grassy floor. He had only made it thirty feet before his fear caught up with him again; he pictured the beasts from a few days ago that gutted animals just to gut them. In a panic, he took off sprinting down the mountain.

The trees thinned out around him until Tom came to a clearing where a log house stood in its center. Black smoke puffed out of the red brick chimney, but ceased as soon as he approached. The wood of the cottage—faded due to the many snowfalls and storms —moaned in the breeze. The abode, built in a square design with an A-frame roof, had a few windows. A pile of wood leaned against the cabin, stacked near the entrance, where he saw the three squirrels run through the slightly cracked doorway.

Tom attempted to open the door quietly, but the hinges creaked loudly. The door was heavy, dark oak about five inches thick. He walked over the threshold, caution in each step.

The only visible light inside the room came from a few candles. Once his eyes adjusted, he spied another source of light, a great dusky stone fireplace on the wall to his right; but it did not burn with an ordinary flame. Blue, green, and brown light attracted the eye toward the hearth. The colors reminded him of the forest clearing outside, with the trees and dirt overpowered by the dazzling blue sky. Nothing furnished the room besides a bare coffee table by the fireplace, built out of the same oak as the door.

“Hello?” Tom shouted nervously, afraid of what might live in such a dark place.

“In the back … come back here, through the corridor,” a voice replied. Though it had only been a few days, Tom had almost forgotten what it was like to speak with another person. “You shouldn’t be afraid, Tom. Come back here, it’s all right.”

Tom saw the hallway to the back of the cottage, but debated with himself, unsure whether or not to trust the voice. Finally, deciding that he had nowhere else to go, he made his way down the long hall. Shrouded in complete darkness, he could not see the walls, though he sensed them to be close, almost as if they stood within an inch of his shoulders, but when he reached out his hands, he touched nothing. The room at the end of the hall was like the first one, except with more furniture. A table with short legs stood in the center of the room, and four miniature wooden chairs circled it.

Tom eyed the room with suspicion, primed to run if threatened. He observed the chairs: in three of the four seats sat the squirrels that had followed him through the forest for the past few days. He shook his head in incredulity, for the sight of the squirrels resting in chairs utterly perplexed him. “You … you led me here … why?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the three.

“Because I asked them to, I told them to lead you here so that we could meet,” the same voice spoke in the dark. Tom shifted his eyes to the fourth chair, but was unable to see what sat in the shadows. “Welcome to my abode, I am Anakore’in.” A squirrel-sized figure came forth out of the darkness and into the dim lighting that the fire provided. A green, yellowish reptile resembling an iguana crouched in the chair that now skidded across the floor up to the table. Short soft spikes protruded from the back of the creature in a row from its neck to the end of its tail, and swayed side to side while he moved with the chair. Orange eyes peered back at Tom. Tom dropped his jaw in astonishment. “What are you?”

“I am a tuatara,” the reptile said, blinking wide-eyed at Tom. The orange orbs of the creature pierced Tom’s eyes, and he quivered from the gripping stare.

The three fluffy-tailed squirrels started to talk to one another at a whisper in a language that Tom did not know. The squirrels all differed in appearance: one sported a midnight black coat with long fuzzy ears, and peach outlining its eyes and paws. The second one displayed a chestnut brown coat with two white pinstripes outlined by two black pinstripes that ran the entire length of the rodent. The last squirrel glowed a deep crimson with white ears and white stripes in its bushy tail.

“Oh, don’t mind them … they won’t be a bother to you,” Anakore’in said, gazing at Tom with a smile, or at least something that resembled one. The creature’s lips did not part, but they widened oddly, and the corners turned up as if to smile.

Queasy, Tom exhaled a burp of gas that burned his throat. He turned away from the table and bent over to heave.

“What ails you, Tom?” Anakore’in questioned worriedly. “Did you eat some rotten berries in the forest? You can’t be eating wrinkly and squishy berries, you know.”

Tom turned to face the reptile. “No … it’s not something I ate … it’s … it’s,” he stammered. The room spun around in chaos, and started to go black, but he closed his eyes and shook his head in an attempt to regain his focus. “It’s just … how the hell are you able to talk to me? And how do you know my name?” He wiped his mouth.

“Ah, I see. What do you remember, before you arrived here?” Anakore’in responded.

“Not much … I remember the last four sunrises, watching two suns drift in the sky instead of one. I remember talking to vultures, and seeing the smoke and the squirrels, and following them here. I also remember falling asleep somewhere and waking up in a new spot every day.” Tom recalled all of this, dwelling on the fear that had consumed him the last few days. “I can remember who I am, and I can talk just fine, but I don’t know much else. Yet something I know to be true is that animals don’t speak.”

“Yes, well, I can explain that. Have a seat, we have much to discuss,” Anakore’in said, and his quasi-smile disappeared, replaced with a more serious expression.

Continue Reading in the full-length novel.

Life Descending has been called “a masterpiece” by Readers Favorite, “hard to put down” by Allbooks Review Int., “endlessly imaginative” by Kirkus Reviews, and a fantastic story with an “intriguing premise” that would also make “an excellent video game” by TCM Reviews.

About the Author John Hennessy became entranced by the world of fantasy at a young age, playing video games and reading books for many long nights/early mornings. He recently graduated from Western Washington University, and now lives in the green land of Bellingham, at work on the second book in The Cry of Havoc series. Visit his website at: http://www.johnhennessy.net.