Tag: Science Fiction

Short Story: Duel at High Noon

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Duel at High-Noon

Jack Warner and Rick Smith were out in the center’a town. When the big clock tower at its edge shifted from eleven and fifty-eight to eleven and fifty-nine, they did an about face to take their paces. Thirty paces it was, each one counted by the men and townsfolk that lingered on the edges’a the town’s center. It was one’a them old places’a wood and brick that people’d taken to calling the old West. Weren’t nothing any could do ’bout that– was the fault of them big-cities springin’ up ‘long the coast that seemed like they was the future, while Warner ‘n Smith were the past ‘stead’a the present.

Didn’t rightly seem to matter as they took their thirty paces through the little whirls’a dust that ran through town. As the last few paces came up, the crowd began a slow roar, like they was ragin’ to see who’d be the first to drop. Warner’s smug countenance might’a been permanent were it not for the oft-times drunken droop of his eyes. At that, ol’ Smitty had ‘im beat, no matter what outcome the future reckoned to bring.

At thirty paces they stopped, waited for the bell to toll noon on the clock tower. Three chimes, and one of ’em’d be dead. Neither man thought it’d be him. Even the townsfolk weren’t quite yet. All the same, their roar settled to whispers when the men’s spurs stopped their jangle. There was a collective breath, a look toward the big clock at the end’a town, and the light shake’a the men’s hands near their holstered six-guns.

Not Jack nor Rick could’a known what was ’bout to happen to ’em. Seein’ wasn’t their specialty, shootin’ was. Ol’ Smitty ‘n Warner’d been feudin’ long enough that this seemed the right, only way to determine whose honor was more solid. Both men said theirs. True as that may’ve been, ol’ Smitty was in debt a horse and a case’a whiskey to Warner, who’d seen fit to stuff Smitty’s own horse with gunpowder and light it off when he didn’t pay up. No one argued with either man’s right to the claim, lest they wanna’ end up at one end’a the duel or another.

The first toll of the bell came. The men’s hands were at their shooters. The second toll and the crowd had frozen, stiff and silent. By the third toll, both men drew. Somethin’ gave half a pause– the bell’d cut out too early, as though stopped mid-ring by strong pair’a hands. Like the true, ornerous cusses they were, they each dove for the ground, rolled off in separate directions with their six-shooters barkin’ their war-cries.

Ol’ Smitty made for a horse that had stood still to one side’a town. He dove behind it, half expectin’ a kick in the head as his shooter barked right over its hind-quarters. Instead it stayed still as dead man in the ground. Like him, Warner’d dove for a water trough, had to spring up to bark at Smitty over another horse’s saddle. Warner figured his second shot’d ricochet off the saddle when the horse bucked, too scared for its own good. But like Smitty’s, it stood still as a stiff.

Both men were up ‘n ready in turn, their six-guns barking through a silence that neither man’d notice had a hand smacked ’em in the head to listen. Smitty’s revolver went quite first. He was behind the corner of Doc Halverson’s apothecary with ample time to reload. Warner’d dove for the Saloon’s edge, laid there to peek ’round the corner and blast a shot ‘tween the horse’s hooves. Like Smith, his gun was outta’ lead.

The two men were hidden, the duel longer ‘n more spectacular than any they’d seen or been part of. But even so, the town was quiet. Smitty finished fillin’ his revolver, made like he was gonna’ take another shot at the Saloon’s edge. He was petrified to terror, confused by the sights and sounds– or lack thereof– that greeted ‘im.

The whole town was quiet, like not a man breathed there, never had. Even the little whirls of wind and dust in the middle’a town had gone still. That was when Smitty saw ’em; the townsfolk, just as they’d been when the second bell tolled. They were frozen, like some ancient creature’d turned ’em to stone, stole ’em from time. Smitty couldn’t keep it up. His heart was racin’ with terror, ‘n he doubted Warner knew what’d happened.

He pulled back behind the apothecary building, just in time to shout out at Warner before he’d finished reloading.

“’Ey Jack,” Smitty called through the silence. “Wh-hat say you to a parlay?”

Warner was up with his gun reloaded, his head hot, “You gone yella’ on me, Smit?”

He jumped from the corner ready to shoot, struck by the quiet stillness around him.

“I-I ain’t yella’ Jack, but look ’round ya,” Smitty called.

Warner eased up outta’ his braced stance, his spurs closer to one another, and cried out loud, “The Devil’s work! I tell ya it’s the Devil’s work!”

Smitty couldn’t hear ‘im, but he called out again, “I-I reckon… m-maybe we should call this one off, for the time bein’. What say you, Jack?”

Warner ambled forward like a lost, wounded coyote on its last legs. His shooter was limp at his side. He stumbled into a run that saw him skid to a halt in front’a the assembly outside the saloon.

“Able?” Warner said. He waved a hand in front of the barkeep’s face. He did the same to his favorite whore, then the den-lady, “Molly? Virginia!” He back-stepped in terror, “What’s happened? Is this some kind’a joke? It ain’t funny! Ya’ hear? It ain’t funny!” He shouted at Doc Halverson’s face so loud he might’a broke the old fella’s ears, “It ain’t funny no more!”

Smitty heard the cries, called to Warner, “’Ey Jack, I’m comin’ out. No funny stuff!”

Warner rushed up and down the shop-fronts, hollerin’ at the townsfolk. He gave ol’ Buck the Sheriff a heavy shove out front’a the jail. “It ain’t funny!”

Buck fell back like he was made’a stone, landed as he’d stood, just a little more horizontal than before. Warner stumbled back, horrified by the goin’s-on. He backed up so fast ‘n so far he toppled backward over the railing. His shooter flew through the air. It landed on the dusty ground same as him, though at the feet of Smitty whose revolver was still in hand. Warner rolled over, skittered back on his hands ‘n up against the outerside of the railing while Smitty scooped down to pick up Warner’s revolver, held both in his hands.

Warner made a face like Smitty was ’bout to pump him full’a holes. But instead, he stretched up, puffed out his chest and holstered his gun, “I reckon I ought’a be the bigger man here. Ain’t no honor in killin’ a cowerin’ man.”

Warner inched his way up to his feet, ready to run at the first signs’a deception. Smitty showed none. He even handed Warner back his gun on promise that he not use it. They parted ways when Smitty started down the town’s center, perplexed and confused like a blind man in the desert dyin’a dehydration. His fear’d left him with nothin’ more than a slight rumble in his guts. He was stopped across from the post office when Warner’d finally found his feet, got his wits about him.

He watched Smitty walk, heaved himself up the steps and into the saloon. It was empty from their noon-time duel, so he helped himself to a bottle’a rye from behind the bar. He sat in a stool there, his mind and body doin’ their best to fight shakes’a fear. It was a few minutes before the swingin’ doors clamored open. Warner’s revolver was out to meet Smitty’s as he stepped inside. It lowered for fear of bein’ the only man in town not afflicted by the sudden petrification.

Smitty lowered his gun too, made slow steps for the bar, came ’round behind it. He grabbed a bottle’a rye with one hand, pulled the cork out with his teeth, ‘n spit it sideways. He downed a large helping, slammed the bottle back down.

His revolver scraped his leather holster as he braced himself against the bar’s back-side with one hand, “Whatever’s gotten into ’em out there, it’s hit the whole town. We’re the only two that ain’t effected. Even the fella’s at the barbers, ‘n the ladies cowerin in their homes are all just the same. Children too.”

Warner drank his fill, more drunk by the minute to calm his nerves, “It ain’t right. I tell ya’ it ain’t right!”

Smitty ripped the bottle out of his hand, “It mightn’t be, but it is what it is, Warner. Now you keep your wits about you or I’m gonna’ settle you with the back’a my hand.”

“Ya’s always was a horse’s ass, Smit!” Warner cried, gripped by his fears. “How d’you think we’re gonna’ help all those people? ‘N if we don’t, are we goin’ to be alone forever?”

Smitty looked around the bar, “I reckon if there’s a solution, it’ll come to us, but it won’t find you well if yer’ in here soused to the gills and scared outta’ yer wits.”

Warner grit his teeth, ground ’em together like his temper was ’bout to explode, “Y’know you’re an angry ‘ol cuss Smit. I bet’cha it’s all yer fault. If you’d just paid me my dues, none’a this would’a happened.”

Smith took a swig from his bottle, slammed it down again, “Don’t be thick as a mule. You know ‘n I know there ain’t no way a debt like that could’a helped this even had it been repaid.”

Warner was up, his head hot, “I reckon it could’ve. Ya’ see, cause I’ve been havin’ me a thought.”

“Oh a thought is it?” Smit said as he drug himself ‘long the bar. He stepped up to a Warner with a stool ‘tween ’em and little else. Warner stiffened up at Smitty’s barrel that rose beneath his chin, “You say yer havin’ a thought. Well I reckon as we’re the only two ’round, you might tell me this thought ‘fore I have one myself.”

Warner’s eyes were convicted like a man in his last moments, sentenced to death for a crime he hadn’t committed, “I’m havin’ this thought, ‘n I reckon if yer smart ’nuff as a man ought to be, you’d agree with me.”

Smitty’s teeth grit, and his barrel stabbed the side’a Warner’s throat, “Oh yeah?”

“I reckon, if’n you look around at that scene out there, ‘n you pay partik-ler attention to the clock, you’ll see it’s stopped. If’n I’m not mistaken, it’s stopped right ’bout the time we were fixin’ to kill one ‘nother.” Smitty’s eyes left Warner’s, wandered a trail to the saloon doors. Warner made a slight tilt with his head, “G’wan, see fer yerself. I reckon I’ll be here, thinkin’ my thoughts.”

The barrel eased away from Warner’s throat. Smitty walked the same trail to the saloon’s doors his eyes had. He gave a glance back at Warner as he readied to step outside. Warner fell to his stool like a man who’d carried a trail-pack too long might. He drank from the bottle as Smitty slipped outside.

Smitty stepped back to the center’a town, looked up the long road’a store-fronts ‘n such, and raised his eyes to the bell-tower and clock at the back’a town. Like Warner’d said, the clock hadn’t budged an inch. More perplexing was the bell’s state; it hung in a half-swing, mid-chime, as if time itself had frozen it there at that moment when the two men were ’bout to make murderers of one of ’em.

Smitty returned to the saloon, made his way through to a stool beside Warner. His shooter was up in the air, ready to rain hell on the man that’d smited him. Instead, Smit’s thumb clicked the hammer up, ‘n his hand slipped it back into its holster as the rest of ‘im deposited into the seat.

“Jack, I reckon… I reckon maybe you’re right,” Smitty admitted with all the effort of a miner’s day’s work.

It gave Jack a chuckle. He slid the bottle’a rye down to Smit, “I reckon if you’re that big’a man, you deserve some’a this.”

Smit sucked down a good portion of the bottle, “Y’know Jack, I was thinkin… ’bout that time the Reds tried to snatch us off the trail. By my count, you saved my life that day, ‘n I owed you one.”

Jack gave a small nod; he recollected that well, “I reckon you’re right.”

Smit took another drink, “I might be inclined to forgive all this on’a count that, if’n maybe you apologized ’bout my horse you done ‘sploded last week.”

Jack’s head titled with another nod, “’N I might be inclined to ‘pologize for that, if’n you promised to repay me– for real this time, Smit.”

Smitty reached into his pocket, drew out a handful’a gold coins. He started to count ’em, then gave up, slapped the whole handful on the bar in front’a Jack, “I reckon that’s what I owe you, with a little interest to boot.”

“I sure appreciate it, Smit,” Jack said as he pocketed the gold, lifted the bottle of Rye from in front’a Smitty.

He took a long drink with his eyes closed, ‘n when he opened ’em again, he was nearly petrified like the townsfolk’d been. Their dull roar’d come back, and the bell’d tolled again as he found himself thirty paces from Smitty in the center’a town. The bell tolled a second time and he recollected his wits, felt the weight’a gold in his pocket, his debt repaid. The third toll saw him whip ’round to face Smitty, both men hesitant to draw their shooters.

That last ring’a the bell gave way into silence, ‘n it was the last time either of the men ever thought to draw from temper. The townsfolk cooed and cried about yella’bellies ‘n such, but Smitty ‘n Jack took fifteen paces each, met one another in the center of the duelin’ pitch. They didn’t need words to tell what they was both thinkin’, one just followed t’other into the saloon and sat down for a drink.

None’a the townsfolk knew quite what to make of it, and neither’a the men bothered to tell the tale, but the duel at high-noon that day was unlike any man’d seen before or since.

Krubera: Part 4

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

4.

The Island

Elliot awoke with a start in the middle of the night to an odd sound. Earlier, she had fallen into a light sleep, too anxious for the dive and possible discoveries ahead to fall any deeper. They’d erected their tents on the small island for the sole purposes of privacy, removed their air-tanks, and slept in their suits.

As her ears focused further, the odd sound sharpened; a flutter, much like that of a distressed bird, flopped about as if it were about to fall over dead. The sound startled her from sleep, sent her mind racing through possible human causes. The sound was too distinctive, clearly a non-human emanation. It reverberated off the cavernous walls around the small island, went silent, then began again every few seconds. She strained her ears to locate its source; it seemed to be coming from all around. She sneaked a crawl toward her tent’s flap, unzipped it with a careful, quiet motion, and peered out through the light from a pile of torches and glow wands int the center of their tents.

She had been the only one awakened by the phantom so far. Her eyes skirted in all directions from the front of the tent’s view, spied nothing. She crept out of the tent on her hands and knees, petrified still as a hand clasped over her mouth. Liana’s face emerged before she could scream. She shook her head once, motioned to the partial darkness of a high-corner across the caver. The light from the center of camp fragmented shadows of the tents across the walls and ceiling of the small chamber. Elliot’s heart raced, but her eyes darted along Liana’s forearm and finger to the corner they pointed at.

Her eyes strained against the darkness. She would have missed the source of the commotion had the bird that hung half-out its mouth not struggled to free itself once more. Even in the low light, Elliot could see blood drip from puncture wounds in its abdomen. It looked eerily like a crow, but with a distinct iridescence to its feathers that marked it as a subspecies Elliot couldn’t place. An unhinged, serpentine jaw took the place of the bird’s head, rows of sharp, carnivorous teeth, filed to points by evolutionary predation.

The bird fluttered again. It gave a vain buck in an attempt to remove itself from the head of its predator. The serpentine jaw locked down, severed its torso in half. The lower section fell free, splashed into the water beneath it. Elliot heard the sound of hollow bones crunching from the corner of the room. The serpentine head she saw, gave way to a thick, snake like body. Near its rear-end, two feet, like those of a bat, clung to a protruded section of the ceiling.

Without warning, it dropped from the ceiling, swooped down on scaled wings with the headless carcass in its maw. It shined with the neon-green of the glow-wands, a hint of wet silver beneath it. It circled the area once, its flight silent, swallowed the top-half of the bird. It shrieked with a terrible, high-frequency rasp that pierced the cavern with a shrill echo. Elliot hugged her ears as Liana winced beside her. The team stirred. Flaps flew open, Raymond called to Elliot as the creature dove into the water, disappeared.

She toward the pool with Liana, stared down at the water. It was thick; clouded with sediment from a fast departure. The bird’s blood streamed from its top-half that floated on the surface, separated to blend with the water and follow the current the creature had made.

Raymond appeared beside them, glow-wand in hand to survey the water, “What was that?”

Liana watched the sediment drift, “I don’t know, but I don’t like the feeling it gave me.”

***

“It’s obvious we’re dealing with some new species of marine creature,” Anthony said as he stared at the pile of lighted torches.

Chad paced back and forth behind him, nervous. Raymond was still examining the corner where the creature had been perched, his water-proof flashlight splayed across it. Liana and Elliot stood behind him to scour the beam’s expanse with their eyes. It landed on an edge of rock that jutted outward beyond the others in the wall. Deep imprints had been left by four, small, talon-like claws.

“Evolved with avian characteristics, I’d think,” Raymond said, looking over the marks.

Anthony continued, “It’s not that far of a stretch. I mean, the whole reason we suspected it was here was the new zoophyte species from the Black Sea. It was only a matter of time before we came in contact with something.”

He stood, stepped past Chad’s nervous route for his tent. He rifled through a plastic back inside, emerged a moment later with a field-notebook, and sat close to the torches to sketch an approximation of the creature Elliot had described.

He called her over, showed her the notebook, “Is this right?”

“Larger.”

“ A meter, head to feet?”

“One– one and a half, maybe. But it had a tail, blunt at the end.”

“Catch the light off the scales?” He asked.

“Briefly. Not serpentine. More… reptilian. And Plated.”

He thought for a moment, looked past her to Raymond’s light on the ceiling.“So it’s a lizard, with the head and body of a snake, scaled-wings, and likely webbed, clawed feet.”

“Webbed?” Elliot asked as she watched Chad pace back at forth.

He explained logically, “Nothing can move that fast in water without webbing. I think we can deduce its not poisonous either, or we’d have never heard the struggling– unless the bird’s somehow immune. But let’s think horses before zebras. Either way, It’s dangerous– it couldn’t kill us, but even alone it could do a lot of damage.”

Chad’s nerves made his tone crack, “I doubt that it’s alone all the time.”

“It won’t bother us,” Raymond assured him as he returned form the water’s edge. Liana remained their, half-focused on the conversation as she stood sentinel over the water. “It has predators– likely larger in size than us, at least matured.”

Chad said shook is head, “Great! Just magnificent! Fuck!”

“What’d you expect Chad,” Elliot asked. “A welcoming party? Maybe Big iguanas? A thirty foot herbivore? No, it isn’t that kind of world in there.”

Anthony grimaced, “Chad’s sorta’ got a point, we should’ve brought some protection.”

Lianan turned for the group, “You did. You brought me.”

Chad was caustic, “You honestly think you can protect all of us, unarmed?”

“Who said I was unarmed?” She countered,

Elliot was instantly furious, “What?” Liana’s face was blank, indifferent. Elliot scolded here, “We came here to look for this place, not destroy it. That thing’s evolved independent of us for millions of years, and your first instinct’s to kill it?”

“I fail to see your point,” Liana admitted. Elliot glared. Liana crossed her arms, stern but calm, “I was hired to keep the four of you alive. If an animal must to die to fulfill that duty, I don’t care how important it is. I’m sure you won’t either if the time comes.”

Elliot growled, threw her head back. Liana had a point. She fumed, “I’m less angry about that damn it! But it means you’ve been carrying extra weight this whole time.”

Liana was puzzled. Elliot’s response and rebound was hardly what she expected. She looked between the stunned faces, landed once more on Elliot’s. A question emerged on her face.

Elliot answered without provocation, “Our lines, our gear– everything is load-tested. Eighteen Kilos of gear a piece isn’t some arbitrary number. There are limits for a reason. These lines are tested to five body weights and eighteen extra Kilos a piece. That’s it.”

“How much extra gear do you have?” Anthony asked.

“A…about twenty.”

“Twenty extra Kilos?” Anthony replied, irate.

“How could you even carry that?” Raymond asked seriously.

Chad threw up his hands, returned to pacing, “We’re screwed.”

He repeated his words over and over, paced faster.

“Twenty kilos!” She with a fast step at Liana. “Twenty kilos over the mark, on old rope. We’ve been getting by on luck this whole time.”

Liana hung her head with a small shake, “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t!” Elliot spat. She turned back to her tent.

Anthony eased back toward his sketch-book, ate an energy bar as he stared at his drawing.

Raymond stepped beside Liana, hoping to ease her embarrassment, “I still don’t know how you managed to carry it so easily.”

Her upper-lip stiffened, “Training.”

She swiveled on-heel, returned to her tent. After a time, the group fell back into silent sleep, save Elliot who couldn’t sleep at all. Even so, no-one slept well; too nervous or agitated otherwise. Elliot laid awake for a few hours, before she gave up, left her tent. Another, quiet rustle– furtive and human– emitted from within Liana’s tent. The flap hung half-open, enough that Elliot could peer inside from a short distance away. Through the dim-light, she saw Liana arranging gear from her personal pack. The contents appeared to be an assortment of machinery parts, as well as a few small boxes, and a few lumps of white clay. She watched Liana assemble a few of the parts into a pistol, bent around to get a better look.

Her foot slid out from beneath her, and she fell face first into the flap with a swear. Liana had turned fast with the gun aimed out. She pointed it upward, away, then lowered it back to the floor of the tent.

Elliot’s cheeks and ears reddened, “Sorry.” She waited a moment before she eased to her feet through the now-unzipped flap.

Liana kept her attention affixed to the back, “As am I– I do not wish to be eaten.”

“No, I–” Elliot sighed, sat beside her. “I meant about earlier. I won’t lie, I was pissed. Still am a little, but I’m mostly worried for your safety.”

Liana exhaled a short burst of air from her nose, “Worried for me?”

Elliot replied earnestly, “Yes. I was afraid of who they would send. A lot can go wrong when you’re diving like this. We dig together a lot, it requires a lot of this type of climbing, so we’re ready if something goes wrong. They could have sent anyone. That person may not have been ready. But you were when Anthony slipped– and you did it carrying more than your weight.”

“It is what I was hired to do,” Liana said callously, as she pulled boxes from her pack.

“Maybe. But it seemed like an instinct to work as a team.”

“I’ve been extensively trained to do so,” she replied, her words mechanical.

Elliot shrugged, “I guess I’ll take that then. I just wanted to say, sorry I was an asshole.”

She left left Liana’s tent, returned to her own. There was an obvious guilt that swirled within her from the she’d snapped at Liana. She couldn’t allow her momentary anger to become a problem in the future. An apology was the only thing that might help avoid that. Whether or not Liana accepted it, at least she’d tried. In the wake of the creature’s discovery, she needed everyone at their best, ready to act whatever the situation or context. Not spiteful, resentful, or terrified.

So far, things weren’t going well.

Krubera: Part 3

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

3.

The Crow’s Cave

Elliot emerged from her pop-tent to greet the morning sun with a groggy apprehension. She adjusted her hair with the aid of a breeze that fluttered through area. The others still slept with sky’s massive star only just ready to breach the horizon. The previous day’s hike had been uneventful, tiring. They’d climbed over hills of dense conifers, trekked to high peaks, sprinted down them only to follow the Earth back up again. It was nearly nightfall when they entered the limestone valley.

They’d set-up camp outside of the Crow’s cave in time to cook dinner. But Elliot’s concern rose as time progress. The area was silent, desolate. Odd as it was, they had yet to see a single crow overhead– neither during the day, nor in the night. Common sense would have told her they no longer nested here, but she was certain they should have. For that matter, they should have feared being swarmed by them the closer the got to the cave. Instead Gagrinksy range was still, empty; as though its inhabitants had altogether abandoned it.

The furthest tent unzipped to tear Elliot from her thoughts. Liana emerged, Elliot surprised by her alertness in the early hour. She nodded to Elliot, moved to the embers that still glowed red-hot in the circle of tents, and tossed kindling atop them. In moments, the fire blazed forth as it had the night before as Liana cooked MRE-oatmeal in a hanging pot and trellis.

The others awoke one-by-one, levitated from their tents by the scent of food. The early sun rose around them, kissed dew away from the grasses and tents that had collected overnight. In time, they each took a place around the fire, disheveled, and slow to gain their bearings.

Elliot remarked on the absence of the cave’s avian namesake, directed it toward Liana, “I’ve noticed something. I haven’t seen or heard the crows.”

“I too, have noticed,” she said with a poorly masked suspicion. The others exchanged worried looks over tasteless gruel. Liana caught one, corrected herself, “It is strange, but perhaps they’ve migrated.”

“Not late enough in the season,” Raymond mused absently from a corner of his mouth.

“It is strange, no matter what,” Chad said with a minor agitation.

Elliot glanced around, “Even if they weren’t here, we should’ve seen them somewhere. There’s no way they’d have moved so far from the nesting grounds.”

Liana was quick to subdue her eerie fears, “Perhaps they’ve begun nesting in the mountain.”

The conversation ended here in silent contemplation, but Elliot felt a growing uneasiness at the birds’ absence. Everything about this had been problematic, but nothing near what they could encounter was they entered the cave. They’d been brow beaten, detained, searched, and stuck babysitting some pseudo-soldier consultant. None of that was nearly as bad as a mistake in the caves could be.

Though she suspected Liana was hiding something, she decided it would either work its way out of her, or remain hidden, irrelevant. She hoped for the latter, suspecting any other option meant it would affect their expedition. Even still, the absence of the Crows was disheartening, and Elliot was left unsatisfied with their speculations.

They prepared for the climbs and dives ahead, distributed and secured their equipment. Each person carried at most, eighteen kilograms– roughly forty pounds– as anymore risked their equilibrium or might over-stress their ropes. Though their supports would hold more than their weight, 2,000 meters from the surface and miles from a hospital, Elliot felt it was better to be safe than sorry. Moreover, they had only a few days before they were due to leave the country. With the fuss put up over their entrance, Elliot could only imagine the intrusions and interrogations once they’d over-stayed their welcome.

They traded their denim and plaid for full-body wet-suits, for inevitable sumps submerged below the water line. These passages would be otherwise impassable unless they each donned a breathing apparatus– a hefty portion of their weight-limits. There was little more than two hours of air in each of them; a supply required to last through the return trip. As such, each breath had to be deep, held as long as possible.

Liana understood Elliot’s instructions on the matters without further inquiry. Her immediate compliance somehow made Elliot both uneasy and relaxed at the same time. The expedition was already a mix of contrasted and conflicted emotions, and they’d yet to breach the cave.

They carried little else save small, personal hammocks, that would allow them to sleep from the walls of cave, and rations to last the length the trip. Elliot also wore a small device strapped to her wrist that communicated with SGSM as well as any scientific institution she could think to connect it to. Chad managed to stow a field medic’s first-aid kit in his pack, complete with sterilization liquids, field dressings, and surgical tools.

They consulted a series of scans and dye-tracings that formed a picture of the path to the cave-bottom. The first few hours would consist of a series of long, winding vadose shafts– areas where atmospheric pressure is that of ground level– that intertwined and threatened to throw mislead them from their intended route. Raymond assured them he was certain of their path, began the walk toward the mouth of the cave.

Indeed, he led them the whole first leg with barely a word. The group’s time was consumed by steep descents in claustrophobic crevices, confusing four way shafts that intersected one another as they crouch-walked the length of them, led forward by Raymond’s mental map.

The cave zigged with slopes, zagged with others, wound its way northwest, then down further still. It jutted at a right-angle, continued straight down with steep crevices that they were forced to hook into, inch down. More than once they expended the length of their ropes, forced to connect spares to follow the path further down. The deeper they went, the more Raymond was alight at the cave’s significance.

“In what we’ve passed since our start,” he said, unusually giddy. “Is the whole of human history, laid out in porous, porphyritic limestone.”

To his credit, the stone was an intriguing sight. The vertical walls seemed as though a child had mixed millions of pebbles and grains of sand with everyday cement, the shaped them like clay and pained them with a lime tint. Raymond always saw more than the others in them, as though he were the sculptor’s father that gazed lovingly over his child’s creation.

As they continued further down, the path became more treacherous. Fractures in the floor appeared in the straights, led down hundreds of feet or more to a claustrophobic ending, or otherwise disappeared altogether into the bowels of the Earth. In order to pass such obstacles, they secured themselves to the walls, shimmied over the missing bits of floor to the opposite sides of the chasms.

There were of course, those chasms just wide enough to be jumped over or stepped across. Even still, careful consideration was given to each of them. A single, false step might shift an already crumbling rock, cause the surface to give way. One crumbling edge did give way when Anthony tested its integrity. He fell, jolted the others forward by their ever-present tether. They managed to keep their footing as he slammed the side of newly opened chasm. He yelped, swore. The four worked to step backward together, pulled him to safety.

After it was over, he dusted himself off with a few, fresh and bloody cuts but none the worse for wear, “That was a close call.”

Elliot heart beat like made as she panted with waning adrenaline, “Too close, Tony.”

They traveled onward, crossed more chasms, pulled themselves up lips and plateau-like protrusions, inched down steep slopes until the path ahead became wider, clearer. The dive became a straight line with a few twists and turns, but ended level to the anticlinal formation that at the entrance.

Raymond stared up at stalactites as they stopped for water, “It’s an interesting thought. A few thousand feet above us the sun’s beating down on the ground. Yet nothing here’s ever touched sunlight. It’s a beautiful testament to the solidity of the rock which we on.”

Having long since switched to hanging lamps, flares, and strapped head-lights, the others found little beauty in the thought. They were merely party to its negative effects as they clambered and clanged over each new obstacle. They continued forward not long after Raymond’s musings. Then, after what seemed an eternity of doubt and vertigo, the first sump came into view. They’d reached the waterline, and pending their strength held-out, they would reach their destination by nightfall.

They broke for a quick lunch, traded their dry-gear for the wet, and prepped for the first in a series of sump dives. They secured guide-ropes to the dry land that they planned to affix one they made the other side, and strapped on their breathing apparatuses. They dove into the first sump, the way forward lit by water-proof HID flash-lights.

They managed the first sump without incident, emerged from a pool in front of a high pathway to climb it. The next passage sloped down, ended in a second large pool. They dove into it, search for a half-hour for its exit before they’d climbed onto a low passage. They had made excellent time, already achieved the lowest recorded depth in history. A second pool awaited them on the other side of the small island they found. They agreed to rest for the night. The next two days spent in a scientific exploration of the submerged, forward chasms. And, as Elliot hoped, in discovery of her lost world.

Short Story: The Islands

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Islands

In this world, an aristocracy reigns supreme. It controls everything; from food-production and distribution, to education and transportation. While the latter two may not seem as important, I assure you they are. For there is no-one educated upon the whole face of this planet, but me.

Earth as we once called it– was filled with land that stretched as far as the eye could see and beyond. Seven massive plots of it– continents– totaled more than one-hundred and forty-eight million square kilometers. Its amorphous beauty was rivaled only by the greatest oceans of the age, smaller then than they are now.

While this was long before my time, I was benefited at a young age with education. My family is comparatively new to the aristocracy, one of those few with unnatural luck to have escaped the destitution of invisible borders. Even so, the others like me do not know the things I know. They care little for history, science, or mathematics– or for that matter, anything beyond their mounds of cement and currency.

At the present, that once voluminous land is gone, replaced by the supremacy of oceans and a few, dense clusters of man-made rock. Though the oceans are much shallower now, their volume spread over thirty-percent more area, they remain a force of nature to be reckoned with. We’ve had to adapt to them, overcome them, and at times, contend with them as warriors of brute strength against their ironclad-will.

How did this happen, you may ask? It is much simpler explained than imagined or understood. In simplest terms, human history has created a penchant for development. It first began millennia ago when the shelter of caves and rock overhangs no longer sufficed our needs. We gathered grasses, felled lumber, began to build crude lean-tos, shacks, and huts. Our species, Man, transformed from free-range animal to primal carpenter in an amazingly short time. With our new-found journeymen skills, we created tools. Over even shorter spans of time, and thanks to enlarged brains and intellects, we grew into the master carpenter. In the scheme of the skies and stars, it was but the blink of an eye before we concocted grand designs, constructed expansive suburbs, streets, and structures of unimaginable prowess.

This is where our history truly begins to take shape. Humanity, as we knew it, suffered from the strain of those whom wished for have bigger homes, more expensive, taller work-buildings, and more money to make them. These “novuea riche” wanted a world with material things the size of their collective ego, did their damnedest to create it. In order for them to have it, these “families” of economic-thieves had to invest in the public sector– to create goods for the less wealthy. (Or as they called them, the poor.)

It worked. Masses of wealth accrued, were used to procure the bigger, better desires. What began in early, civilized human history, and was otherwise subtly hidden from the masses, finally showed its ugly face. Though there had always been a division of class, with the “haves” on one side and the “have-nots” on the other, the gap appeared visibly, insurmountable. It was seen in the cities, the suburbs, the streets, where gates or high, cement walls separated the Elite from the lower-beings. It was seen in education, with public and private schools where the former were gang-riddled, and the latter lavish, better-funded. It was even seen in the public transportation, where “classes” of seat were established for only those well-off enough to afford the newer, cleaner seats.

At some point in this loathsome history of segregation, a total of four main “families” had gained control of the majority of the wealth. The rest of the money had been spread between their closest business interests, kept from all other hands to be dealt under tables of seemly, unethical dealers. So often did it exchange hands within the small groups, that no one person was without part of its bills at a time.

Where this matters not to most, it matters most to me. This massive gap still exists between the rich and poor, and because of this aristocratic party, those on the gap’s far-side continue to suffer. They’ve no homes, jobs, or money to feed, clothe, or care for themselves properly. Many die each day without medical treatment, or even kindly consideration.

Where before this gap was merely visible, proverbial, now it is undeniable. Where the beautiful homes end now, there is no city to divide them from the poor, only the a high-wall, and water. It is pervasive everywhere, a new segregation where it is not a man or woman’s skin color that determines their worth, but rather, their pocket-book.

Again, how did it happen? It is a most curious thing to any whom may examine it. Sometime in the late twentieth century, a strange thing began to occur. The world as we knew began to change, shift. Most scientists agreed that climate change– the natural shift of the Earth’s weather from one extremity to the other– was the cause. It was understood to be a natural phase of the earth that either preceded or succeeded an ice age. The last one, ten-thousand years before, still emanated waves at us through time and weather. We had shifted to the hotter phase of the cyclical weather. There would be longer, hotter seasons, colder, harsher winters.

But it was in this precarious shift that humanity found it had made a terrible mistake. Or perhaps more accurately, the aristocracy had.

You see, the Earth’s land mass– all one-hundred and forty-odd million kilometers of it– was simply not formed to sustain the pressures of what had been placed upon it. At least, that is, not in the advent of terrible quakes and tremors from beneath its surface. These upheavals of the Earth had been ever-present, but increased by the pressures the climate shift had brought on. Coupled with the aristocracy’s bigger, better dreams on its surface, it had no choice but to succumb.

This fact became widely known by the late twenty-first century, and in the absence of foresight, a plan was devised by those ego-driven dreamers. At first, it was solely to their benefit, but they soon realized they would need their “peasants” for the phases of their scheme.

In itself, it was rather grandiose. It was based on an ideal scenario that there would be enough time between the first quakes, before enough earth fell away, to complete it. It consisted three phases; construction of cement islands, construction of dwellings upon those islands (for the aristocracy), and finally, the construction of barges of enormous sizes unmatched by any in history.

Through out the process, many questioned this final phase. Why barges, and to what end? The obvious explanation was transportation for the masses. What was not known, was that these barges were never meant to transport anything, merely contain.

A barge, for the unfamiliar, is a massive ship with a flat-bottom. Before our times, some of the largest spanned just shy of five-hundred meters. Ours can be miles long. These ships, since their creation in the ancient eons of far-gone lands, are used to transport people and cargo over-seas. In more modern recent times, they were used for mass shipments of long, rectangular containers that held everything from high-priced automobiles, to foods, to garbage that stank like hell. It is easy then, to make a connection between this history and the revelation of the last phase of this scheme.

Grand and conniving as it was, the scheme’s phases gradually shifted. The cement islands sprang up in fixed latitudes, their distant horizons soon covered by towers of stone and steel. New, hidden agendas of the aristocracy were then revealed. Upon “break-down” of one of these barges, it was learned that they were no longer meant for transportation. With massive numbers of the aforementioned containers aboard, and full parties of peasants packed upon it like sardines, bound for new dwellings upon an island, the anchors were laid by their automated systems.

The ships were meant to house the poor.

With this startling new revelation in hand, I set about a scheme of my own. It is no secret among the aristocracy (of which I have am a part) that I am something of a miser, an eccentric. In their own words, I have crusaded tirelessly for the poor. While it is true, it is wrong, preposterous even, that they should be buried beneath the aristocracy’s trash simply because they lack worthless paper, and imagined credit. It was my grandfather’s ambitious construction company that partook in a large percentage of the Islands’ creation. Our family was afforded a rather sizable wealth off these old-money men. When my grandfather died, and my father took over, they were so pleased with his manners and knowledge of his place in their world, that they took him under their wings. Fortunate as my family has been, we are below them, and they treat us as such. They let us have just enough of “their” money to makes Elite, but not enough to ever rival them.

But they are stupid, ignorant, uneducated.

It is my elite-status, that I loathe, that has afforded me the opportunity to plan schemes of my own. And it is my foresight, imbued in no small part from my education, that has allowed my father’s passing to grant me his company, supplemented my own, personal fortune to carry it out. While those old bastards could never comprehend its purpose, I’ve began to build my own island.

While they view me as an outcast, it is with respect to my ailing mother that I have yet to be exiled. Surely when she passes, I will be cast out. There is much deliberation over how though. As they wish to keep money from the hands of the poor, and I have vast sums. They seem themselves as the generals of a pseudo-chess battle against the unfortunate, the object of the game, as it has always been, is money and power. The more they have, the more secure they feel in the future of “their” kind. They long ago abandoned words like “humanity” and “brotherhood.” Now, they know only “us” and “them.”

I fear that some of this has rubbed off on me, as I have yet to refer to them by name. Though it means little, the four families are; the Smiths, Johnsons, Gregarins, and Chos. These words are like acrid bile on my tongue, and represent the descendants of once-prominent CEOs, Executives, even Politicians. You see, those of the “family” are not bound in blood, but rather in status, money. They are the products of the incestuous relations between the four, once-wealthiest groups on the planet. Since the great flood, they’ve lost reason to quarrel or quibble over blood-ties, finding solace only in their shared status. Their Islands of higher-caste are impassable to all but the other elite.

The chess-battle of which I spoke, comes more into focus when viewing the Islands themselves. Where some lands are totally impassable, the Chos seem to allow passage in and out at certain times. Perhaps they remember days when even they had nothing, find nostalgia in pitying those below their station. Even so, the rest of times, they cast out their fellow man over a matter of dollars.

Herein lies the ideology I can never understand. It is the reason I shall never truly be one of them. Though I understand the necessities of fortune, wealth, status, they’ve no merit when so many others suffer unduly. Perhaps this ignorance is what fuels my schemes. In either case, I have passed word through the barges; As many strong-backs as can be found, should be assembled by a date. Upon that date, a massive crane ship will be sent by my company to receive them. I have let fly rumors that the ship contains salvation. In many ways, it does. It is no lie. I will be there myself, to accompany them along the journey. And, when far from the range the Elite’s electronic ears, I will give my speech.

On that day, it reads thus; “As I look out among the faces today I must admit; never have I dreamed so many dreams at once. Never have I felt so many varied admirations, or fearful apprehensions, or seen so much light and hope together in once place. Never once could I imagine to look out upon all you, and loathe that which casts you out more fiercely than I have before. But I do. And I want you all to know, I feel for you. As I always have. I wish you only the best. While you are anxious, hungry, exhausted, or otherwise, have lost the zest and zeal for life, I must ask this of you; take my next words gravely serious, for it is not my future in your hands, it is yours… Humanity’s. Beginning after a mandated rest, in which we will sail further from reach of the Elite, we will begin construction of a new Island that will rival that of their combined realms, and it will be all yours.”

The apprehension that flickers over the crowd I expect. They have heard these promises before, been lulled with golden promises that were little more than lullabies to soothe them as a mother soothes a weeping babe. Even so, I continue without pause, without concern. “It is true. Though few of you would believe it over death. I ask only one thing in return for this; that you earn it. Each of you men, young men, women, young women, and children, holds connections to others whom stayed behind. Use that to influence them, to clean, maintain, and love what you are given by whomever may give it. I am fortunate enough to take on this monumental project, and I won’t waste it. I’d ask only the same from you.”

A joyous cheer erupts, and I sense that apprehension is gone.

“Excellent! Now eat, and sleep, and dream! Tomorrow marks the beginning in a long, and exhausting process that will re-shape all of our worlds. So I say, good luck to all of us!”

I leave the stage to applause, adjourn to my quarters.

At first they thought I’d lost my mind, that I was not right in the head and should be committed. They threatened to do just that, but my mother, to her dying breath, defended me, pled for lenience. With her untimely death, her reserve transferred to me. I held fast, ready to die with the truth on my lips. They were the ones not thinking right– they were not in their right minds.

And so, on the three hundredth day since construction had began, the builders poured the last ounce of cement, laid the last brick, and kicked up their feet on ledges that overlooked the mass exodus that began. Zion, the name we chose for posterity, the fabled land of unity, peace, freedom. It is a utopia, a contrast to the oppressive Babylon, a juxtaposition that most befitted the world we’d grown to inhabit. A dozen men and women met with me upon the crane-ship as it ferried materials and people to their new home. The most perspective, thoughtful, and foresighted of those “lower-beings” and I sat down, began to discuss matters of economics, politics, law and order. It was then that we put forth a question to the populous; could these twelve remain to govern, think deeply on those issues that effected us all?

Most agreed, but there was still apprehension. The twelve believed it would fade with time, each of them hand-picked from the twelve barges that had held the populous captive for generations. The people spoke then, and they do so now. I wished not to attend these meetings in the beginning, but they felt my consultation was warranted. For that matter they trusted my words, trusted me, not to lead them astray.

The four continue attempts to thwart our plans, but fortunately for us they do not command the respect of their “pawns” as I do. My people– our people, merely relay the attempts to me, go about their business as usual. It is all so simple the Elite’s ignorance amuses me. It is simply because I do not see my people as pieces in a battle, but rather as human beings in their own rights. It is this simple understanding of the words “Humanity,” and “Family” that I command their respect. I see them as brother and sister, child and grandchild, father and mother. With this, I have become the supreme winner of their pseudo-chess game. I took the place upon which only a wealthy man could have, sat across the board where they had played one side against the other unimpeded so long they’d missed their opponent as he slipped into the chair before them.

They’ve lost at their own game. It is ironic really, that they’ve brought about their own demise by forgetting the meaning of that which they designate themselves; Family. As I watch the final ships arrive, bringing future merchants, carpenters, scientists, teachers, I laugh– at the irony, and at the Elite. I laugh for all those once down-trodden, all those whom may now triumph in the face of “old money.” I laugh so hard my sides ache and a profound, incommunicable joy explodes within me, compels me to brighten the faces of every man, woman, child and grandchild, grandmother and grandfather that now have a home. And the island expands, I laugh with glee that the refugees have finally found their Zion; that wondrous, magical and mythical place, that they call home.