Game of Shadows, page 11
part #2 of Strange World Survivor Series
She snatched up her backpack and put on her mask. As if in slow motion, she saw the bow plow into a wall of white water. The impact threw her backward, and she tumbled in the air. The ship and everyone on it were underwater. She was back to the point where she entered the river, a sheer rock wall to their left.
It was then that they passed through a fork in the river. Water rushing down a steep slope and then split into two, the left river flowed toward the port, and the right to an unknown destination. Sam steered straight for this darksome river.
For a moment, everything was still, suspended in time and in water. Sam, Lyra, Socks, and the others held their breath. They plunged down a corkscrew river. Round and round they spun. The wind and current drove them ever faster. The cleats of the enemy ship ripped away from the deck, and it smashed into the sidewall, spun and broke in half on a pointed rock.
They clung to the ship for dear life. At the end of the corkscrew, they saw a waterfall, and when the plunged into it, blue water made time seem to stop. When time resumed, they exploded from the wave, and the force threw Alex back into the railing. Pinned against the railing, she saw the ship explode from the water and rocket into the air. The boarding planks snapped, and the cleats ripped away, carrying chunks of their ship with them. They hit the water and plowed into it, and blue waves crashed on the deck, washing away the dead.
Socks moved to her side and then shook, spraying her with water. “Too late,” she said, “I’m already soaked.” He shook again just to make sure the job was thorough.
They sailed around a curve, and brilliant light stung her eyes. Her hand as a visor, she tried to adjust to the daylight. When they passed through the mouth of the cave, she saw trees that climbed up a steep bank and rolling hills. When she turned, she saw a white capped mountain looming above them. Somehow, they made it to the Merchant River.
Sam steered right on the Home River and sailed across Picnic Lake. Alex sat on a soaking wet bench and removed her helmet. They sailed for Venture Harbor, and scores of people waved at them from the docks. The rest of the crew assembled, waving to spectators on the shore. They escaped. It all seemed so surreal, but the port city made it clear that they were free.
Alex was tired of adventure. All she wanted was to go home, sit on her sofa, eat a bag of potato chips, and watch television. Sam sat down beside her and took a leather pouch from his pocket. He drew a pipe from it and some tobacco. After lighting a wax protected match, he puffed away and stared into the distance in silence.
“How do you carry those matches with all the rhunite around? Don’t they just light in your pocket?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he chuckled. “I smell something and then see smoke coming from my pocket. It keeps life interesting.”
The conversation lapsed, and silence overtook them. After staring at the widening lake for a while, she said, “Could you please explain the vests to me, and how did they make fake people? It’s not possible.”
Hank trudged over to them, most of the grime washed off him. He rubbed his face and drew in a deep breath. “I owe you an apology. That vest locked me in a nightmare, and you were in it. Well … I was a complete jerk toward you.” His shoulders sagged, and his body seemed older than his years. He covered his face and mumbled, “How can I ever face this?”
“It’s okay,” Alex replied. “It was that other you … the fake Hank.”
“I suppose,” he mumbled. He leaned over the railing, the sparkling water before him. “I always imagined myself a hero, saving the day. I was just some wretch that needed saving. That thing killed my brother and used me to do it.”
Alex was about to speak when Sam put his hand on her arm. He shook his head from side to side. He held her hand and led her toward the main deck. “Leave him be,” Sam said. “He needs time to think.”
Sam retook the helm and sailed the ship across the lake. They joined the other survivors at the railing and waved to the cheering crowd on shore, which seemed to grow larger by the second. A pair of defense ships, lean and narrow, slicing through the water, drew alongside them.
As they sailed port, horns trumpeted; fire hoses jetted, and people cheered. Sam steered their ship into port and deckhands threw lines to those on the dock. After a slight lurch of the ship, they arrived at Venture Harbor. Sam put his arm around Alex’s shoulders and walked up the gangway with her. “I own a home here. You can stay with me. After we get cleaned up, we go to a swank restaurant. We can have some supper and gamble a little.”
“That sounds like fun.” Alex paused and turned back toward the ship. Curious spectators milled about the ghost ship, just arrived from its thousand-year journey. Then her gaze shifted up to the white-capped Clarion Mountains. There were so many adventures, so many dangers, and so many rewards. Someday she would return, but not this day. She turned and continued walking with Sam along the cobbled streets and wooden houses. She looked up at him and asked, “After we get some rest, what would you like to do next?” The End
Free Preview of Episode 3
President Jack Larson shouldered the world’s burdens, and it withered him. The self-confident man — the candidate with an infectious smile and fatherly wisdom — languished. After winning the presidency, he dulled his pain with a scotch and dreamed of yesterday when he held Gloria in his arms. Without her, he needed a crutch to endure the greedy bankers, the entitled rich, the indifferent senators, and the anguished poor.
Air Force One possessed every accommodation one might ask or desire, even heated toilet seats, a gift from the Japanese Ambassador. At his call, the staff fought for the privilege to serve him: what more could he ask? The one thing he desired most, dreamed of every night, and longed for every day was to hold Gloria. A terrorist attack in Mobley, Kansas, took her from him, so his arms would be forever empty.
He peered through the amber liquid in his glass and swirled the ice. It was 9 AM, and the staff noticed. He set down the drink and rubbed his face with both hands. When he and Gloria dreamed of this moment, they never scripted this. The press compared him to President Kennedy: young, handsome, and tragic.
Turbulence jarred the jet and tinkled the ice in the glass. It was the first on this flight, so he noticed. He rose up to his feet and stretched. His eyes fell upon a simple manila folder labeled “The Mobley Report,” stamped top secret, eyes only.
The worn, curled edges, and coffee ring stains testified to its use. He read it so many times that he memorized every line and the details of every photo, yet he continually returned to it. He picked the folder and flipped it open. The last photo of Gloria at a campaign rally lay on top. He touched the image and recalled the aroma of her perfume, the softness of her caress, and the brightness of her eyes.
The paper report may have been old fashioned, but it was the safest way to store top-secret information. He thumbed through the photos of the charred remains, taking note of each one. The incendiary used by the attackers failed to show up on any scientific tests. The Air Force report concluded that an unknown aircraft firebombed the town and left no survivors.
The door opened, and Israel Kahn, head of his Secret Service detail, stood in the doorway. “The captain says that we hit a patch of rough weather. You better buckle up, just to be safe.”
Jack closed the folder and placed it in his top desk drawer. “I think I’ll go up to the flight deck and see what this rough weather looks like.” The president took one last swig from his drink and straightened his clothes. “How do I look?”
“Like a man who has nothing to prove,” Israel said.
Jack smirked. When Rachael appeared behind Israel, he said to her, “I’m a politician. I’m only as good as my last photo op. Get Lou. I want some shots of Captain Douglas advising me. I want the storm through the cockpit window as a backdrop.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She flicked a red lock over her shoulder and sent a text to Lou, the White House photographer. “The president wants you to meet him in the cockpit.”
Jack put on his best smile and exited his private office. Air Force crewman snapped to attention and saluted as he passed. He returned a lazy salute and winked at Alicia, a female flight attendant. Her cheeks grew bright red, and she smoothed her skirt. With the vigor of a young man, he jogged up the spiral stairs and entered the cockpit.
A dazzling array of gauges, colored lights, and computer consoles surrounded him. The flight crew sat up straight and busied themselves. Another blast of turbulence shook the massive jet. He squatted down behind Captain Douglas and searched the skies. Rolling black clouds lined with brilliant silver light stretched across the sky. Flashes of lightning and rolling thunder surrounded the craft like a besieging army.
“You should be in your seat and strapped in,” the captain said.
“Even God couldn’t crash this jet,” Jack said and patted the captain on the shoulder. The declaration sounded profane and prophetic, and if he could have taken them back, he would have. As it was, his words lingered, words which historians would debate for centuries. He dismissed it as morose thinking, and smiled for the camera.
A flashlight illumined them when Lou took a photo. The president pointed at the clouds, and Lou took another picture. Jack said, “I’ve never seen clouds like those. It’s more like rolling darkness.”
Captain Douglas glanced at the copilot. “Yes, sir. We were just commenting on that. We’ve lost touch with … well … everyone. Everyone is offline. Even systems that should be failure proof are disconnected.” He glanced at Lou and then at the president. He whispered, “Jack, this is serious. I need you to get you strapped in. We’re in for a rough ride.”
“What’s that?” said the copilot. A moment later, an energized ball of pure white shot through the cockpit windshield and engulfed him. Frozen like a photograph, he remained hunched forward, straining against the harness, his mouth agape and eyes wide. The next moment, the copilot vanished, and the blast threw the president against the fuselage.
Israel leaped to the president’s side and helped him stand. “Get the doctor. Are you okay Mr. President?”
“Look,” Jack said and pointed at the windshield. Outside the aircraft, a ball of light exploded, and the copilot reappeared. He tumbled in a wild frenzy, white shirt and blue trousers contrasted the black sky, and he fell into the storm — screaming and thrashing. “That’s not possible.” Another blast threw the president against the fuselage.
“We need to get you to safety.” Israel grabbed the president’s right arm and dragged him from the cockpit. Agents surrounded the president as they ushered him down to the main deck. “Let’s get him to the capsule.”
The lights blinked and the power failed. Ball lightning shot through the fuselage and popped, temporarily blinding them. A terrified seagull emerged from the ball of plasma: squawked, flapped its wings, flying through the cabin, trying to escape. A beam shot through the craft and engulfed the flight attendant. Alicia arched her back, froze mid-scream, and then disappeared.
Captain Douglas fought to control the massive aircraft. The flight systems blinked, and the stick went dead. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Air Force One. We are losing power, and all of our instruments are dead.” The compass spun in a wild dance and then the screen shattered. A point of light appeared before them. It surged and grew into a massive ball of light, a large pearl in the sky, swirling with a rainbow of light. The captain fought to change course, but the stick failed to respond. He grimaced and shouted, “We’re flying into it!”
Scott Marcy, Game of Shadows
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It was then that they passed through a fork in the river. Water rushing down a steep slope and then split into two, the left river flowed toward the port, and the right to an unknown destination. Sam steered straight for this darksome river.
For a moment, everything was still, suspended in time and in water. Sam, Lyra, Socks, and the others held their breath. They plunged down a corkscrew river. Round and round they spun. The wind and current drove them ever faster. The cleats of the enemy ship ripped away from the deck, and it smashed into the sidewall, spun and broke in half on a pointed rock.
They clung to the ship for dear life. At the end of the corkscrew, they saw a waterfall, and when the plunged into it, blue water made time seem to stop. When time resumed, they exploded from the wave, and the force threw Alex back into the railing. Pinned against the railing, she saw the ship explode from the water and rocket into the air. The boarding planks snapped, and the cleats ripped away, carrying chunks of their ship with them. They hit the water and plowed into it, and blue waves crashed on the deck, washing away the dead.
Socks moved to her side and then shook, spraying her with water. “Too late,” she said, “I’m already soaked.” He shook again just to make sure the job was thorough.
They sailed around a curve, and brilliant light stung her eyes. Her hand as a visor, she tried to adjust to the daylight. When they passed through the mouth of the cave, she saw trees that climbed up a steep bank and rolling hills. When she turned, she saw a white capped mountain looming above them. Somehow, they made it to the Merchant River.
Sam steered right on the Home River and sailed across Picnic Lake. Alex sat on a soaking wet bench and removed her helmet. They sailed for Venture Harbor, and scores of people waved at them from the docks. The rest of the crew assembled, waving to spectators on the shore. They escaped. It all seemed so surreal, but the port city made it clear that they were free.
Alex was tired of adventure. All she wanted was to go home, sit on her sofa, eat a bag of potato chips, and watch television. Sam sat down beside her and took a leather pouch from his pocket. He drew a pipe from it and some tobacco. After lighting a wax protected match, he puffed away and stared into the distance in silence.
“How do you carry those matches with all the rhunite around? Don’t they just light in your pocket?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he chuckled. “I smell something and then see smoke coming from my pocket. It keeps life interesting.”
The conversation lapsed, and silence overtook them. After staring at the widening lake for a while, she said, “Could you please explain the vests to me, and how did they make fake people? It’s not possible.”
Hank trudged over to them, most of the grime washed off him. He rubbed his face and drew in a deep breath. “I owe you an apology. That vest locked me in a nightmare, and you were in it. Well … I was a complete jerk toward you.” His shoulders sagged, and his body seemed older than his years. He covered his face and mumbled, “How can I ever face this?”
“It’s okay,” Alex replied. “It was that other you … the fake Hank.”
“I suppose,” he mumbled. He leaned over the railing, the sparkling water before him. “I always imagined myself a hero, saving the day. I was just some wretch that needed saving. That thing killed my brother and used me to do it.”
Alex was about to speak when Sam put his hand on her arm. He shook his head from side to side. He held her hand and led her toward the main deck. “Leave him be,” Sam said. “He needs time to think.”
Sam retook the helm and sailed the ship across the lake. They joined the other survivors at the railing and waved to the cheering crowd on shore, which seemed to grow larger by the second. A pair of defense ships, lean and narrow, slicing through the water, drew alongside them.
As they sailed port, horns trumpeted; fire hoses jetted, and people cheered. Sam steered their ship into port and deckhands threw lines to those on the dock. After a slight lurch of the ship, they arrived at Venture Harbor. Sam put his arm around Alex’s shoulders and walked up the gangway with her. “I own a home here. You can stay with me. After we get cleaned up, we go to a swank restaurant. We can have some supper and gamble a little.”
“That sounds like fun.” Alex paused and turned back toward the ship. Curious spectators milled about the ghost ship, just arrived from its thousand-year journey. Then her gaze shifted up to the white-capped Clarion Mountains. There were so many adventures, so many dangers, and so many rewards. Someday she would return, but not this day. She turned and continued walking with Sam along the cobbled streets and wooden houses. She looked up at him and asked, “After we get some rest, what would you like to do next?” The End
Free Preview of Episode 3
President Jack Larson shouldered the world’s burdens, and it withered him. The self-confident man — the candidate with an infectious smile and fatherly wisdom — languished. After winning the presidency, he dulled his pain with a scotch and dreamed of yesterday when he held Gloria in his arms. Without her, he needed a crutch to endure the greedy bankers, the entitled rich, the indifferent senators, and the anguished poor.
Air Force One possessed every accommodation one might ask or desire, even heated toilet seats, a gift from the Japanese Ambassador. At his call, the staff fought for the privilege to serve him: what more could he ask? The one thing he desired most, dreamed of every night, and longed for every day was to hold Gloria. A terrorist attack in Mobley, Kansas, took her from him, so his arms would be forever empty.
He peered through the amber liquid in his glass and swirled the ice. It was 9 AM, and the staff noticed. He set down the drink and rubbed his face with both hands. When he and Gloria dreamed of this moment, they never scripted this. The press compared him to President Kennedy: young, handsome, and tragic.
Turbulence jarred the jet and tinkled the ice in the glass. It was the first on this flight, so he noticed. He rose up to his feet and stretched. His eyes fell upon a simple manila folder labeled “The Mobley Report,” stamped top secret, eyes only.
The worn, curled edges, and coffee ring stains testified to its use. He read it so many times that he memorized every line and the details of every photo, yet he continually returned to it. He picked the folder and flipped it open. The last photo of Gloria at a campaign rally lay on top. He touched the image and recalled the aroma of her perfume, the softness of her caress, and the brightness of her eyes.
The paper report may have been old fashioned, but it was the safest way to store top-secret information. He thumbed through the photos of the charred remains, taking note of each one. The incendiary used by the attackers failed to show up on any scientific tests. The Air Force report concluded that an unknown aircraft firebombed the town and left no survivors.
The door opened, and Israel Kahn, head of his Secret Service detail, stood in the doorway. “The captain says that we hit a patch of rough weather. You better buckle up, just to be safe.”
Jack closed the folder and placed it in his top desk drawer. “I think I’ll go up to the flight deck and see what this rough weather looks like.” The president took one last swig from his drink and straightened his clothes. “How do I look?”
“Like a man who has nothing to prove,” Israel said.
Jack smirked. When Rachael appeared behind Israel, he said to her, “I’m a politician. I’m only as good as my last photo op. Get Lou. I want some shots of Captain Douglas advising me. I want the storm through the cockpit window as a backdrop.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She flicked a red lock over her shoulder and sent a text to Lou, the White House photographer. “The president wants you to meet him in the cockpit.”
Jack put on his best smile and exited his private office. Air Force crewman snapped to attention and saluted as he passed. He returned a lazy salute and winked at Alicia, a female flight attendant. Her cheeks grew bright red, and she smoothed her skirt. With the vigor of a young man, he jogged up the spiral stairs and entered the cockpit.
A dazzling array of gauges, colored lights, and computer consoles surrounded him. The flight crew sat up straight and busied themselves. Another blast of turbulence shook the massive jet. He squatted down behind Captain Douglas and searched the skies. Rolling black clouds lined with brilliant silver light stretched across the sky. Flashes of lightning and rolling thunder surrounded the craft like a besieging army.
“You should be in your seat and strapped in,” the captain said.
“Even God couldn’t crash this jet,” Jack said and patted the captain on the shoulder. The declaration sounded profane and prophetic, and if he could have taken them back, he would have. As it was, his words lingered, words which historians would debate for centuries. He dismissed it as morose thinking, and smiled for the camera.
A flashlight illumined them when Lou took a photo. The president pointed at the clouds, and Lou took another picture. Jack said, “I’ve never seen clouds like those. It’s more like rolling darkness.”
Captain Douglas glanced at the copilot. “Yes, sir. We were just commenting on that. We’ve lost touch with … well … everyone. Everyone is offline. Even systems that should be failure proof are disconnected.” He glanced at Lou and then at the president. He whispered, “Jack, this is serious. I need you to get you strapped in. We’re in for a rough ride.”
“What’s that?” said the copilot. A moment later, an energized ball of pure white shot through the cockpit windshield and engulfed him. Frozen like a photograph, he remained hunched forward, straining against the harness, his mouth agape and eyes wide. The next moment, the copilot vanished, and the blast threw the president against the fuselage.
Israel leaped to the president’s side and helped him stand. “Get the doctor. Are you okay Mr. President?”
“Look,” Jack said and pointed at the windshield. Outside the aircraft, a ball of light exploded, and the copilot reappeared. He tumbled in a wild frenzy, white shirt and blue trousers contrasted the black sky, and he fell into the storm — screaming and thrashing. “That’s not possible.” Another blast threw the president against the fuselage.
“We need to get you to safety.” Israel grabbed the president’s right arm and dragged him from the cockpit. Agents surrounded the president as they ushered him down to the main deck. “Let’s get him to the capsule.”
The lights blinked and the power failed. Ball lightning shot through the fuselage and popped, temporarily blinding them. A terrified seagull emerged from the ball of plasma: squawked, flapped its wings, flying through the cabin, trying to escape. A beam shot through the craft and engulfed the flight attendant. Alicia arched her back, froze mid-scream, and then disappeared.
Captain Douglas fought to control the massive aircraft. The flight systems blinked, and the stick went dead. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Air Force One. We are losing power, and all of our instruments are dead.” The compass spun in a wild dance and then the screen shattered. A point of light appeared before them. It surged and grew into a massive ball of light, a large pearl in the sky, swirling with a rainbow of light. The captain fought to change course, but the stick failed to respond. He grimaced and shouted, “We’re flying into it!”
Scott Marcy, Game of Shadows
