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    A God in Ruins
    A God in Ruins
    A God in Ruins
    Ebook572 pages9 hours

    A God in Ruins

    By Barbara Bretana

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    The world in chaos, the Presidency no longer a democratic office, an engineered biological disaster has killed off one half of the world's population. Created by a doctor with delusions of Noble Prize, Dr. Cameron creates a genetically perfect, human baby boy. Raised in poverty on an Indian Reservation, he creates scientific marvels that are wanted by the government. As is he. The man who has chased him his entire life is now the President, with all the power of that office to track him down. He has suspended the Bill of Rights, and turned the United States on its head. it is up to Lakan, one lone GMO created human who has the unenviable task of setting things right. Or die trying.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarbara Bretana
    Release dateDec 16, 2017
    ISBN9781370187584
    A God in Ruins
    Author

    Barbara Bretana

    I've been writing and reading since the age of three. Anyone who knows me knows I'm nuts about horses, reading, dogs and painting. Went to school in Vermont, Castleton State and Pratt/Phoenix School of Design and found out college wasn't for me. Worked with Developmentally Disabled and loved it. Went back to school for my CNA license and decided to try writing for a career as I keep breaking things like my rotator cuff, discs and whatnot. Getting bucked off your horse, well, I don't bounce like I used to. I'm the one in the brown coat.

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      Book preview

      A God in Ruins - Barbara Bretana

      Book Two of: The God Slayers

      Copyright 2016 by Barbara Bretana

      License Notes:

      Man is a fallen god who remembers the heavens.

      -Alphonse de Lamartine, Méditations Poétiques (1820) Sermons 2-

      Dedication: Michael Christopher Bretana. (1954-2016) I miss you now and forever. I love you and you walk at my side, always in my dreams.

      A man is a God in ruins.

      -Emerson, Nature, Intro.-

      Chapter 1

      Often the test of courage is not to die but to live.

      -Vittorio Alfieri-

      Chase leaned on the desktop in a room that was one of the most famous and photographed spaces in the known world. He sat at a desk that had seen more history in a hundred years than nearly any other piece of furniture in the western hemisphere. A desk so famous that it held its own name, its name instantly recognizable and had even been featured in a conspiracy movie. The Resolute Desk. Sitting in the as equally famous Oval Office, Chase sat back in the plush and decidedly modern chair and thought back to the scheming, dirty deeds and illegal acts that had brought him to this place and time.

      The door opened and in walked the one person who did not kowtow to the new President of the United States nor seemed to curry favor of the men in power. Dr. James Emerson Cameron did not bother to knock nor did the Secret Service question or impede him in any way. If there was one person in the entire world that President Chase considered more than an acquaintance, it was Cameron. He was the conduit and gatekeeper to the miracle that had placed the ruthless Chase into his present powerful position.

      How is our golden goose, Doctor? Chase asked with a genial smile. He let his face lapse when he saw that Cameron did not return it. What is it?

      That’s just it, Chase, the geneticist shrugged. He’s still losing weight and his vitals are declining even though I’ve upped his caloric intake and have him on IV antibiotics. He’s receiving the best drugs, food and vitamins that any human can, but his organs and system are still slowly breaking down.

      Too many clients using his services?

      I have him scheduled way back to one every two weeks. Up until six months ago, he was healing every other day, Cameron said. There wasn’t even a waiting list for clients.

      What’s the problem? We know that he can’t die, the President shrugged and thought how crazy that statement would have been four years past. If he can keep me supplied with the vaccine, that’s all that matters. He’s made us enough money that we can buy anything in the world, including the world if I wanted it. It bought me the presidency.

      Allan, no human body can withstand the stresses that we are subjecting him to, not for a year and he’s been doing it for four long years. How long do you think I can keep him on ice? Without destroying what makes him unique?

      You can answer that better than I. Have you had any luck on a second embryo?

      I’ve successfully fertilized eggs using his sperm and implanted over sixty volunteers but not one has made it past six weeks. Something in the DNA triggers a reaction that kills the fetus. I’ve done gene research and can’t see anything wrong with any of the markers. His sperm is motile and extremely viable, the harvested eggs are fertile, top of the line. All my research indicates that each one of the in vitreo fetuses should be full term and perfect specimens. I’ve even gone back to the cold methods I used on his mother and the FAS fetuses. Same results. I’m puzzled.

      So?

      I want to bring him out of the coma. Bring him back up to Stage IV consciousness and let him eat, breathe and move on his own, Cameron said.

      And how will you keep him contained, Dr. Cameron? He’s escaped from three major holding facilities that were supposed to be escape-proof. If he escapes again, we’ll never find him. And have you forgotten that he’s threatened to kill himself if he has the chance?

      I believe he’s willing himself to die, Cameron said softly. In another two weeks, there won’t be enough of his kidneys left to function, his lungs are breaking down and his liver is becoming hepatic and nodular.

      Where do you plan on holding him?

      I thought the Arctic Ozone Research Station at the Polar Ice Cap. Even if he did manage to escape, there’s nowhere for him to run to. It’s stocked and provisioned for up to a year’s occupancy, has its own medical bay, dentist, and power station. Almost completely self-contained with a hydroponic garden, gymnasium, and heated pool. Sort of like an arctic spa. He’d have the run of the place, interact with the scientists. Some interests besides his…situation.

      Cameron, we’ve held the boy a prisoner in a coma for the last four years! You think he’s going to play nice? Dream on!

      "Maybe he can’t die, Allan, but he can lose whatever makes him unique. I bet if he loses interest, if he loses the ability to heal, he will die. Do you want to risk everything you’ve worked for these last four years?

      Besides, if I thought I can’t keep him under control, I can always bring him back into the stasis coma, Cameron argued.

      What do you want from me?

      Authorization to open up the facility. It’s been mothballed since 2013. I’d want a team of my scientists, the same ones that I’m working with now. Ten women under the age of 25 and no younger than 18. Doesn’t matter what their ethnicity is but I’ll test them for genetic defects and purity. As for the security in the place, no obvious warrior types but I want the scientists to double as guards if necessary.

      No. There has to be security on-site, that’s non-negotiable, especially with the proximity to Russia and China. You’ve seen what he’s capable of and I’ll not risk losing him on the Arctic Circle. Besides, our Russian and Chinese neighbors are still looking for him.

      Okay. I want the base open by next week. Cameron nodded and held up his hand before President Chase could argue. Time is critical, Alan. He is ill. Longer than a week, I’m not sure if he can hang on that long.

      Good thing I don’t have to petition Congress for permission. It’ll be done as soon as feasible. C-130s can bring most of the equipment out in a few days. Are the runways passable?

      Cameron snorted. Runways? The quartermaster told me that they scrape the ice and stick lights in the snow. He says he can have the place up and running by Friday and the personnel in by Sunday.

      See to it. Let me know if you need anything or have any problems. Will you wake him here or do it up there?

      There. He’s safer to transport in the stasis chamber.

      I’d like to see him before you leave.

      Very well, Mr. President, Cameron grinned and left the Oval Office.

      Chapter 2

      When we have lost everything, including hope, life becomes a disgrace and death a duty.

      -Voltaire-

      I dreamed. My entire life, my whole existence was a dream. I knew that I had had another life besides the one I was occupying but it no longer seemed as real as the one I was stuck inside.

      Mostly, it, my life, was internal. Memories of smells, tastes, and feelings. I remembered the feel of the sun on my skin and the heavy throat-burning taste of sulfur. I remembered the scratchy prick of pine needles on my bare feet and the soft velvety texture of a woman’s skin. The faint musk that sweat exuded from the back of a girl’s neck, the gut-dropping sensation of an elevator, the pinch of a needle in my elbow. Yet, they were all memories and not the actual experience in the here and now.

      I did not wake up. I did not eat or drink, I did not walk, use the restroom, or experience the rush of an orgasm. At first, I thought that this strange half-life was not life at all but death. Yet, I was aware of my heartbeat, the passing of air through my lungs and the exhalation as it left my body. I felt the urge to pee when my bladder was full and the relief when it voided.

      I was aware of being cleaned and movement not on my own. Sometimes, I was warm and sometimes cold. I could hear my words echo in my chest and heard my voiceless complaints in my mind, yet I was not aware of anyone responding to those protests.

      There were times when I was hungry when my jaws moved in remembrance of chewing a juicy hamburger and drool trickled down my throat. They were all just that, memories on a river passing through a cavern of dark and I was just a swimmer floating among them.

      At certain times, anxiety flooded my body making my heart race and that I could feel; a vibration in my chest that hurt. It scared me, but it never lasted long; it was followed by a small pain, a pinprick really and then, a rushing sensation that brought a coolness as my heart slowed to a gentle thumping under my ribs. Instead of the frantic fluttering of a rabbit running from a fox.

      I never had the sense of up or down, front, or back. I did not know whether I was lying prone, hanging from my ankles over a fire pit being readied for dinner by a host of cannibals. Or whether I was on my back in some fancy hospital, on my belly in a comfortable bed tucked into a down comforter. I felt as if I was floating in a vast pool of velvet liquid, in a darkness so absolute that not even the insides of my eyes produced a ghostly after-image of illumination. There was no sense of time, movement, or reality. I simply drifted in a void barely aware that I existed.

      I

      The warehouse was frantically busy with lift trucks scurrying back and forth to the huge cargo plane painted in camouflage and would stick out like a sore thumb when it reached its secret destination. The quartermaster sergeant was supervising the loading of tons of crates, medical supplies, and equipment, files, and machinery. In fact, he suspected that he was responsible for moving an entire secret lab for the NSA or some such but the one item that he was not involved with was the loading of gear was a strange metal chamber the size of a small RV. It had no windows, only a hatch cover such as those found on a nuclear submarine and it was treated with the same care and security as those super-secret boomers.

      A squad of armed soldiers escorted the metal chamber and a portable generator hooked to the rounded square into the cargo hull and placed it on the far end closest to the pilots. It rested behind a separate crate divider wall where several technicians made sure it was rewired and powered up. A well-dressed scientist type worked a LED screen on the one side near the wall and recorded the data into his tablet. When he seemed satisfied, the man found a seat and belted himself in as the chamber’s armed escort dropped their duffle bags and did the same.

      To the sergeant’s surprise, not one but three cargo planes were dispatched to the same destination, coordinates that he recognized as being deep in the Arctic, and almost to the Arctic Circle. The final landing site was classified but he knew the unloading site from the contents of the cargo and instructions on how to load them. Checking his invoices, he declared the cargo loaded and pronounced that the planes were ready for take-off.

      Watching from the warehouse, the sergeant saw and felt the huge C-130s thunder the air as they climbed, banked, and headed north carrying secret science lab, the personnel and security forces to a cold and faraway destination.

      II

      Dr. Cameron unbelted as soon as the big cargo plane reached cruising altitude, and he checked the re-configured hyperbaric chamber. The steel oblong cylinder was filled with a gel-like liquid that mimicked the fluid in the womb, and kept the body of the patient in a coma-like stasis. The fluid kept him weightless, yet provided enough pressure so that it maintained his muscle tone, although skilled physical therapists did ROM exercises on him 3x a day.

      He was ventilated and fed through both a nasal gastric tube and IV nutrition, receiving the same basic care as a regular coma patient. But, where a coma patient was just routinely maintained, this patient received top of the line everything to keep his body as healthy as medically and physically possible.

      The escorts displayed no curiosity over the chamber’s occupant, the scientist, or the flight itself. No one bothered to make conversation and no words were spoken until the scientist’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

      The dark-haired, blue-eyed man looked at his cell and spoke so that his voice barely registered over the drone of the engines.

      What does the data show, Ellis? he asked. I have vitals holding steady at 100/60, pulse is 56 and respirations 12. Same as when we left the lab.

      We have the same only his latest EKG shows signs of transient STS waves. We’re worried that his heart might spike. His calcium levels are decreasing, the tech on the other end reported. The change in barometric pressure of the airplane may be affecting him. The sooner you get where you’re going and unload him, the better.

      Start decreasing the Lithonate and Haldol. Let him come up a level, Cameron ordered. I can adjust it so that our arrival, and his awakening happen at the same time.

      Will do, the technician returned. He was one of the few people left behind that would be taking a civilian flight to an Alaskan airport. They would continue a later army flight to the Arctic Base.

      Call me with hourly updates, Cameron added. I want to double check the chamber’s data with the Center’s.

      Yes, Dr. Cameron. Safe flight. He waited for the doctor to disconnect first, Cameron turned his attention to the tablet’s screen, showing an image of the interior of the chamber and the young man floating inside it.

      He was tall, six feet but instead of weighing around 180 lbs, the body was thin, barely touching 150 and his bones stuck out in sharp relief. His hair looked black in the liquid, but it was a deep red of the color called oxblood, and if the man’s eyes had been open, the eyes would have shown a pure, translucent blue that was striking in their intensity. Occasionally, Cameron would study those eyes; just to remind himself of what the boy looked like. But, it had been years since the last time Lakan Strongbow had been conscious. Then, the boy had been beautiful, in the way that few teenage boys rarely achieved with spotty skin, awkward dangling arms and legs, and lack of self-confidence. Lakan had not gone through that phase, and four years later, he looked almost the same except that he had matured. He had reached the height of his father and great-grandfather of six feet. Had he been at his correct weight of 185-200 lbs, he would be the very impressive image of a Lakota Sioux warrior.

      Instead, he appeared almost ethereal, with a sylph-like glow as if his bones were illuminated from within. His lips, fingertips, nails, and eyelids had a pale bluish hue to them that Cameron’s IFR camera picked up as a lighter shade than his body.

      His phone chirped startling him twice. The first for its suddenness, the second because it had been less than ten minutes since he had called his tech back at the dismantled lab.

      What? How bad? he snapped.

      The tech reported that the subject’s heart rate had dropped to 48 beats per minute with significant changes in the wave pattern of the electrical components of his heart.

      Noted. I’m increasing his O2 and administering cardiazm, the doctor said, typing in the code on his tablet. Increasing the rate of his awakening, decreasing the electrical dampening process and the sedatives.

      Cameron watched the images on the screen as the twenty-year-old boy twitched, moved, and dreamed into the stages of REM sleep for the first time in 48 months. In 1463 days. He waited for the massive amounts of sedatives to release their holds on the Lakota boy, and let him wake up to a world vastly different than the one the boy had last remembered.

      Chapter 3

      Of one ill comes many.

      -Scottish proverb-

      The first inkling that Cameron had of trouble was when the LED screen on his chamber and cell phone went off at the same time. Red and yellow lights pulsed violently as a deep hum resonated along the length of the aircraft’s frame. The plane shook and groaned; even the stoic guards looked flustered as the C-130 dipped in a near rollover.

      Cameron fought his way over to the hyperbaric chamber and scanned the scrolling messages. Something had surged through the plane’s electrical system and was wreaking havoc on the delicate electronics of the life support system inside the chamber.

      Before he could attempt anything, the huge aircraft plunged into a dive, knocking Cameron into the hatch leading towards the pilots’ cabin.

      The generator pulled free, only momentarily halting its plunge as its leads held for mere seconds before snapping. 600 pounds of metal and gasoline smashed into the hatch cover, missing the doctor’s head by inches, but its combined weight forced the door open and destroyed the cockpit, killing the co-pilot and navigator in one blow. Fire erupted in the cockpit and smoke rapidly filled the area.

      The pilot struggled to bring the C-130 back under control, but so much damage had been caused by the generator smashing into the electronics that he was left virtually blind and powerless. Even his radio had been knocked out, his SOS going no further than the end of the tail.

      The other cargo planes were unaware of the distressed flight; themselves in the middle of a severe storm and thundershowers with hail and lightning, a category II storm.

      The plane flipped, sending the chamber sliding, the steel and nylon cargo straps snapping like so much spaghetti. It went through the cargo barrier, spewing an oily liquid through a broken hose connection and laying a super-slick trail behind it. Had Cameron been conscious, he would have recognized the oil as being the fluid contained inside the chamber and it was now leaking, endangering the life of the subject within. But Cameron was unconscious, and the soldiers did not realize the significance of the oil.

      Cameron was barely conscious, and the soldiers were unable to come to his aid as g-forces pressed them into their harnesses and the doctor slid after the chamber in a parody of a snail following its own trail.

      The noise of the massive weight smashing into the cargo doors did not make itself heard over the shrieks of metal, wind, and cracking of the plane. It was felt as the whole aircraft shuddered, the cargo doors blew open and air blasted through the open hold.

      Outside, swirling columns of gray clouds seethed, angry maws that would devour human flesh, debris sucked out into a maelstrom and the only reason that the doctor did not follow was because of the quick action of one of the security men. He grabbed Cameron’s belt and had a death grip on it even as the other soldiers dug for parachutes and gear. They did not wait for the pilot to declare the eject order, all of them were quite aware that the plane was going down.

      The sergeant took charge, his name was Jamison and it was stenciled on the front of his heavy-duty parka. He was nearly as dark as the skies roiling outside the windows and didn’t waste time trying to speak; he used universal sign to tell his men to exit with what gear they could carry. Jamison thumbed back the scientist’s eyelid and saw only the whites, but Cameron had a strong pulse throbbing in his neck. His other injuries appeared to be minor – a broken arm and shoulder from impacting the steel walls of the cockpit.

      In less than five minutes, all twenty-one men had jumped out of the doomed cargo plane and into the worsening storm. The winds picked up the men's bodies and carried them willy-nilly – no two landing within twenty miles of the others. Several never made it to the ground and of the 16 that did, four were severely injured and two dead. One from drowning and the other breaking his back as he was slammed into the side of a mountain.

      The plane crashed somewhere between Washington/Oregon and the Canadian border, in some of the most remote and rugged terrain known to the Forest Service. The chamber had plummeted to the ground like the meteor it resembled reaching terminal velocity in seconds. Without a parachute, there was nothing to impede or slow its descent and it hit with the force and detonation of a small bomb. Blowing a ten-foot-deep crater on the forest floor, shock waves registered on the magnitude of a 3.2 earthquake. The trees left standing from the initial encounter fell over when the aftershocks hit and buried the hole, hiding the remains of the crater and the chamber.

      Inside the hyperbaric chamber, the force of the landing had hit the gel-like liquid and absorbed nearly 80% of the concussion. Had the fluid inside been anything other than the gel, the human inside would have been crushed into a jelly-like paste. As it was, it was still severe enough to cause loss of consciousness, cracks to form in the shell, the sensors to go off-line and the fluid to drain in an ever-increasing flood until the subject was no longer floating, but resting solidly on steel ribs cushioned by nothing more than rivets.

      The chamber sparked and fizzled as the emergency protocol kicked in. Enough power remained to unhook the patient from the IVs, and breathing and feeding tubes. Even without the sedatives running through his bloodstream, the youth Strongbow did not wake.

      Jamison held onto Cameron all the way down to the ground after a harrowing three-hour ride up, through and down the thunderstorms as they rode the Jetstream of winds. By the time that they hit the ground, both were drenched, battered, and exhausted. Cameron was barely coherent, disorientated from head trauma, but he knew enough to ask about the status of the chamber. He paled even past white when the Sergeant informed him that it had preceded their descent and the crashed plane.

      Radio? Have you a radio? Cell phones? Anything we can contact General Giordano? Cameron was frantic.

      He tried to stand, but the mud slick terrain promptly put him on his ass. They were surrounded by huge fir trees on a steep slope and the only horizon either saw was a wall of gray rain and dark clouds. Visibility was by mere inches.

      Jamison knew that the first thing he needed to do was seek shelter and get the scientist under cover before the elements killed him. He removed his pack and found a rain poncho, laughing at the government’s usual fuck-up. They were sending the squad of Rangers to the bloody Arctic, but had issued rain ponchos. Luckily, the vinyl coats were useful as a makeshift tent. Twenty minutes later, he had Cameron tucked into a small dry pup tent with a campfire feeding heat and light inside both of their tents as he ranged the area under the pine trees.

      They had come down on a ridge, the leeward side from the storm, but he could see nothing except for trees and storm clouds. There was nothing he could do until the weather lifted. Hunkering down inside the makeshift tent, he let the heat from the flames dry his clothes and warm his skin. Cameron slept on in a vague delirium.

      Chapter 4

      What though the field be lost?

      Everything is not lost; th'unconquerable will,

      And study of revenge, immortal hate,

      And courage never to submit or yield.

      -John Milton-

      Pain invaded my existence. The pain was an old friend whose name I knew well. At one point, I thought that it was the reason for my existence, the sole meaning of my life and to be the bearer of the pain that made certain faceless entities happy. I vaguely remembered a room called ‘the screaming room’ and that I had been its greatest singer.

      But, this pain was different. It started deep in my belly and made me curl up in knots as I cramped. It ached deep in my joints and those places where my flesh and bones contacted the things I was lying on.

      I explored with fingers and toes; reaching the conclusion that whatever the hard and unyielding surface was, it was cold. And I was naked. I knew that was not normal – to be naked and the sight of my bony arms and stick-like fingers was abnormal as I dragged them in front of my face to stare at myself.

      Sitting up with painful. More cramps threatened to curl me into a ball and my bare butt bones became two protesting aches as I sat on the floor of this thing in which I was stuck inside.

      Sunlight penetrated the cracks in the smooth curved inner surface and water droplets misted through the broken metal sheets. I was suddenly thirsty and there was a pool of liquid near my feet. It had an oil sheen to it that I knew meant that it was not drinkable, so I stretched my cupped hand to one of the cracks and caught a handful. Cool, slightly bitter, it went down my throat with a convulsive swallow. My throat was sore, and the water hit my belly, coming back up so rapidly that it caught me by surprise. I vomited until I was so weak that I fell over and my next attempt at a sitting was a failure.

      Unfortunately, the longer I remained still, the colder and weaker I became. I thought about calling out for help, but between my dire state, the knowledge that no one was around, or they would have already found me, I had the feeling that attracting attention would not be safe. In fact, it would be deadly.

      Reaching around me, I found plastic lines – one held a needle and the other two were thicker tubes with ports on them, one of which still had something yellow inside and the other clear.

      I took a cautious taste of both. One was nothing more than salty sugar water and the other tasted like a vanilla shake. Drinking both lines clear, I sucked until all I pulled in was air and then waited to see if it would stay down. When it did, I managed to make it up onto my knees, and then to my feet where I promptly fell against the sides of the walls closest to the largest source of light. What I saw stunned me. I saw trees, tree trunks of red corrugated bark and pale-yellow flesh where something huge had skinned them, trunks as large around as a thick man’s waist. With branches folding into the earth’ s embrace and roots as large as my own trunk that curled in defiance of the rocks. An army of trees and no sky visible, only a drifting gray mist that had a hungry voice paired with it, murmuring its destructive chant to my soul.

      Had the hole been overhead, I would have died inside there and become no more than a bleached pile of bones on the curved floor which I realized were the sides of the chamber and not the floor. The ceiling was now the side nearest my hands. Because the hole was on the side as it had clearly rolled over, I could slither out using weak leg muscles and weaker arms that had not been used for some time from the lack of muscle tone and strength that my body reluctantly gave up.

      The pain in my stomach came back, only now, I had a name for it. Hunger. I was starving, my body crying out for food and water; the little I had put in making me aware of the need for more.

      I had gone only a few short feet when my body started trembling. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was cold, exhausted, scared or all three. I wanted to stop. Crawl into a ball and sleep. I knew that if I did that, I would die. My body could not survive in the cold, without food, water, and warmth. I had to find all three if I was to survive. My mind teased me with images of me around a campfire, eating food and drinking. Images of me starting a fire and securing food. If only I could move, I was sure I could find those necessities.

      I fell out of the tube, fell into the circle of red and gray which resolved to become the thickly carpeted floor of a forest. I fell onto pine needle covered rocks torn apart by huge fir tree trunks whose crowns of thick leaves towered a hundred feet over my head.

      I turned around and gaped. What I had been trapped inside had been a steel and copper cylinder now cracked and broken, sunken deep in a crater and covered by fallen branches and debris from shattered trees. If I had not just crawled out through its broken hatch, I would not have seen or recognized what it was I had been immured inside.

      There were no markings of any kind on the smooth rounded sides and if there had been any kind of controls, they had either been ripped off in the crash or buried underneath at the bottom of the crater. I neither knew or understood why I had been entombed within the strange metal chamber.

      Shivering, I dragged myself downhill. My feet barely held me and without the support of the trees, I would not have managed the ten feet I had. I was not sure if I could have gone much further, but one more step and my foot slid out from under me, turned on a slick rock and I tumbled, sliding downhill with a cry of helplessness. I did not stop until a log stopped me; smacked against my chest with an impact that knocked out what little air I had managed to gasp in.

      I rested at the bottom before I pushed off. Various portions of my anatomy protested. I was bruised, scraped, muddied and still cold yet even though I had hit the fallen tree, it had given to me as if it were rotten through. When I pushed against it to regain my footing, my hands rolled what was not rotten wood, but yielding flesh.

      I pushed over a man covered in a thick parka, khaki green pants and sturdy, well-shined boots that speed laced and zippered. I could not find a pulse and his skin was cold and gray. Frozen. His name was stenciled on the breast pocket of his parka in black letters and there was a ranking chevron on his sleeve. Corporal D. J. Decker. Army Rangers. It matched the dog tags I found inside his t-shirt. He was dead. The sight of him both alarmed and saddened me, his young face made me lay my hand on his chest and my fingers tingled and fizzled. I waited, expecting something more, but I didn’t know what it was for which we waited. I only knew that whatever it was, it was probably too late.

      It took me a long time to strip him and then when I saw his bare body laid out in the cold dark, I could not leave him like that where animals could tear at his flesh. Yet, I could not bring him back to the broken steel room and did not possess the tools or the strength to bury him. The best that I could do was to cover him with branches against the bole of a pine and hope that the cold and the scent of resin would mask him from predators. I took one of his dog tags and left the other with him in the hope that someone else would find him before I could return. It never occurred to me that I would not be able to find him again.

      Hours I spent in slogging my way down the ridges and valleys, the deer trails tired me out as I followed what seemed to be some sort of exit out of the wilderness. Never had I seen so wild a land, untamed by man and even untouched by greedy loggers for these massive red pine and spruce must have been first growth trees. Standing as wide as a dozen men, they nearly ranked in size as the giant Sequoias.

      I passed herds of coastal elk that did not bolt at the sight of me. No, they barely even lifted their heads with racks as perfect as a hunter’s dream and watched me struggle on with soft golden eyes.

      I passed among them like a shadow coming finally to a place where mankind had worn a passage through the pristine wilderness. At the end of that road made by four-wheel tracks carved into ruts and rocks, boulders and grassy verges rose a stark and ugly tower reached by an endless row of metal treads. It crouched there like an ungainly spider, a beast of steel beams and arsenic-laced wood capped by four glass faces that reflected the sun when it was shining and sucked in the darkness when it was not. I collapsed at the foot of the fire tower and prayed that the forest ranger was in residence.

      Chapter 5

      Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

      -Shakespeare-

      Voices singing softly intruded on my consciousness. One minute I was deep in a dream where I floated in the darkness of soothing warmth and the next, I was warm. Too warm where it brought an uncomfortable stickiness between my legs, under my armpits and tickled as it ran down my legs. It felt as if tiny creatures marched along my skin leaving behind a trail of wet tears that itched, cooled, and made me shiver.

      I kicked my feet and the heavy weight of covers fell off letting cooler air bathe my sweating body. The damp material clung to me and the voices changed pitch, slowing, and becoming quieter until they drizzled out and I heard a CD change over to the next disc. Then, that stopped, and silence filled the space around me.

      I opened my eyes. I had expected to wake inside the fire tower, but this pleasantly decorated bedroom was in a house. Circa 1990s with clean neutral walls, Thomas Kincaid prints, and thin slat blinds on the windows. The bed was a double with carved wooden pineapple post foot and head boards. At the foot of the bed were quilts, fleece blankets and flannel sheets that I had kicked off onto the floor. A floor carpeted with a throw rug over parquet squares. The room was masculine without being blatant and even a female would have been comfortable in it.

      A matching dresser, desk with computer and monitor, chair and mirror occupied the rest of the room. A door stained the color of the parquet either led to the rest of the house or was the closet. Two walls were covered with built-in bookshelves and the room had the two windows that split the wall in half.

      Atop the dresser, I saw a CD player still whirring through the stack of played discs. From the amount already run, the machine had been playing for hours. There was a LED readout on the side, but no one had bothered to program it; it was blinking 12:00.

      Hello? I called out and my voice was no more than the mew of a kitten. I tried again with the same results, so I sat up, tossing aside the last of the sheets over me.

      I was wearing a lady’s nightgown and it was drenched with sweat, stuck to my skin and the lumps of my bones made the sight even more absurd. Wherever I had been, whatever had been done to me, it was quite evident that food had not been readily available. Or purposely withheld. I was clearly malnourished, emaciated and weakened by it.

      At the side of the bed, I found a folded walker, meant for me, I supposed, and I made use of it. The support it provided helped me to steady myself and walk towards one of the doors.

      The first one I opened was a generous walk-in closet that could have doubled as a nursery. The only thing hanging in it were a couple of lady’s garment bags that held dresses and coats with the definite smell of moth balls.

      The other door opened to a hallway lined with indoor/outdoor carpeting in baby poop brown, two windows with yellow net curtains looking out on a hill covered with grass, apple trees, and wild roses. A staircase led down a narrow tread of steps to an equally narrow door and on the other side of the landing was another bedroom and a full bath with two doors leading to the back of the house. I turned on the water in the sink and drank from the plastic cup dispenser’s supply. The water had no taste, no sulfur, lime, or rust. No hard calcium, but pure, cold spring water. I washed my face and dried off those patches where I had been sweating, getting rid of the sour odor of sweat and sickness.

      I collapsed rather than sat on the toilet, resting my head on my hands stationed on the handles of the walker.

      My back and neck ached from the little excursion and because I was resting deeply without regard for my surroundings, I didn’t hear the door open or see the man standing there until he spoke.

      How are you feeling?

      I jumped and fell off the pot, but before I could hit the floor, he caught me, picked me up and sat me back on the stool as if I weighed no more than a roll of toilet paper.

      Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, he apologized. I tried to speak, and my voice was the roar of a mouse. I reckon you haven’t spoken in a long time, he said. Fact is; you haven’t done much of anything in a long time. Somebody kept you locked up and immobile.

      How do you know? I whispered, and he leaned in, so he could hear me.

      I’m the local funeral director and county coroner, son, he answered with a slight smile which made his face bright and cheerful rather than somber. Ranger Dragonovich found you up at Tower 27. He thought you were dead, so he carted you down the mountain to me and I thawed you out, managed to get a BP and a pulse. Scared the bejesus out of us. That was five days ago.

      Five days? Where am I?

      First question. Who are you, I want to know. His deep brown eyes in the tanned face were calm with a serenity that produced a feeling of reassurance for me until I searched my mind and could not find an answer.

      I don’t know, I returned in my nearly voiceless whisper. I don’t remember anything but…Chase. The name Chase.

      "The Ranger back-tracked your trail. He followed if from Fisher’s Gap, but lost it further up. How you found your way out in your condition is a miracle. He didn’t find any ID on you and neither did I. On the plus side, you were wearing army regulation clothing with a name and rank stenciled on it.

      However, I did find a microchip implanted in your right hip, but when I dug it out and examined it under a microscope and a scanner, it was fried. Sophisticated microchip, too.

      Where am I?

      Outside a small town called Sutton’s Mill, near the town of Lansing, Oregon. Right on the border between Oregon and Washington state, near the Canadian border of British Columbia. Drug smuggler’s corridor.

      I have nothing to do with drug smuggling, I said. I gestured to the gown that I was wearing. What’s up with this?

      He laughed. All I had unless you wanted a funeral suit. My usual clients don’t complain. Now that you’re awake, I can have your fingerprints sent in, see who you are, see if you’ve escaped from somewhere.

      Escaped?

      Somebody kept you locked up. I expect they’ll be looking for you, wanting you back, he said grimly.

      Why?

      Reckon we’ll find that out, too. You done with your business?

      At my nod, he picked me up and casually without effort, carried me back to the bedroom and deposited me under the covers. Sleep. You need it now that the fever’s broken. I’ll bring you some food when you wake up.

      I obeyed him, his orders a command that I could not ignore, nor did I want to disregard them.

      Chapter 6

      We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

      -Shakespeare-

      He came back with a tray of brown rice and crumbled hamburger. The smell made my mouth instantly awash in anticipation. I'm sure my face fell when I saw the minute amount on the plate, it couldn’t have been more than half a cup. On the tray, next to the plate was a bowl of soup, thin, chicken stock. And a glass of water colored with a lemon slice. Only a spoon and a napkin with a kidney bowl, no fork and certainly no sharp knife. The kidney bowl was for my vomit, it seemed he doubted my ability to keep anything down.

      I rolled the spit around in my mouth and when I was certain that I could speak and be understood, I attempted to ask the question that had been bugging me all day. Or at least, since I’d awakened.

      What is your name? I sounded like a Frenchman who’d swallowed an acidic toad, but clear enough that both he and I understood.

      I saw that he was tall, over six foot four, thin with a strong build and short curly gray hair and a deep outdoorsy tan that said he was an avid outdoorsman. His somber attitude was belied by his ready grin. He set the tray down on the dresser, reached into the back pocket of his brown duck jeans to pull out his wallet.

      Opening it, he held up his driver’s license and in that second, I knew all the stats on the laminated card. Craig Lynn Johnson, M.D. Coroner. 75 RFD 3 Lansing, Oregon. Height 6’4". Weight 205 lbs. DOB 06/12/1956. The State Seal of Oregon was embossed on the front and back and gave him the powers of the office of the Coroner, with the right to carry a concealed weapon.

      You don't look 65, I added.

      Your voice sounds better. Let’s not overwork them chewing muscles with jawing. Now, I reckon you ain’t going to listen to me warning you about eating too fast or too much, hence the upchuck bowl.

      He handed me the bowl of rice, ground beef, the spoon and laid the napkin on my chest. I took a small bite and chewed slowly, knowing that he was right, and I could so easily vomit all of it right back up.

      After the rice, I drank a spoonful of chicken soup, bland and tasteless followed by the lemon water. I nearly gagged. It was horrible, disgusting, flat and salty. I looked at him and raised my eyebrow.

      Electrolytes?

      Yup. Didn’t have any glucose on hand so I used my equine stuff. You got a hankering for whole oats?

      I laughed. No. Nor do I want to count with my feet. I promise not to snort. What kind of horse?

      You know horses?

      Yes. At least, I think I do. I rode both Walking horses and mustangs.

      This is Quarter Horse country. I have a blue roan gelding and a black and white spotted mare. Use them for hunting and ranching.

      Ranching? You raise cattle?

      Black Angus. A small herd of twenty. Most of my time is filled up with the parlor. Ain’t much Coroner work in Jasper County, praise God.

      I took another bite and chewed slowly. When that stayed down and in, I managed to eat about half of what he had brought me and found myself full and sleepy.

      Don’t lay down for at least an hour or it’ll come back up, he warned.

      I scooted up so that my back was against the headboard. What day is it?

      March 15th, 2020.

      2020. I gulped. I remember a day; the last day I do remember was in 2016. Who is President?

      "Man name of Allan Chase. He was the Director of the NSA. Some say he rules with an iron fist; I know hardly anyone opposes his decisions. Both the Congress and the Senate vote the way he says to vote. Terrible things tend to happen when someone disagrees with him. You any

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