The Stone Scry Read online

“Yes, sir.” She bounded off.

  Sam searched the crowded pathways for posturing guards. “Barry, you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Come on over here.” He led them across a busy pedestrian thoroughfare to a small, corner shack. The entourage filled several wooden picnic tables positioned in front of it.

  The air was thick with aromas of barbeque corn and roasted pork. Sparkling paper lamps demarcated a promenade running next to a small pond emanating earthy smells.

  Red-suited hosts brought over steaming bowls of rice peppered with garlic and ancho chilies and set them in front of the guests.

  “I knew it,” Shaquan said in giddy excitement, “you guys are growing rice in the pond, huh? What a sweet setup!”

  “We grow corn and rice. Hot peppers and garlic sprout in the Piedmont like weeds. Today one of our farmers slaughtered a couple pigs and sold their meat to a couple local specialty shops. That’s why folks are running around eating kabobs.”

  “Don’t you want one?”

  “Well, they are tasty. Basted in rosemary and vinegar, smoked all day until the meat drips onto yer plate. Too expensive for me, Shaquan. My dinner is a corncob and some cooked peppers.” He asked Abu, “Now you ain’t going to be offended if some folks here eat pork, right?”

  “Ah man”—Shaquan shook his head and pushed it into his hands—“things were going so well.”

  Sam leaned across and replied, “Hey, Barry. How do you think I feel right now?”

  “Well, you ain’t walking on sunshine, that’s for sure.”

  “How do you think I will feel if you antagonize my friends.”

  “Now, wait a second spitfire. I asked about pork because I didn’t want to offend yer Arab friend here, that’s all.”

  Abu raised his hand and said to Sam, “I apologize master hunter, but with respect, you do not speak for me.”

  Sam rolled his eyes to Shaquan and dropped back into his seat. Chin in palm, he watched Abu dig deep into Barry’s eyes using specialized soul-searching powers.

  The other Britts twisted hands over weapon handles on edge.

  After a few seconds, which felt a journey to Sam, Abu spoke, “Mr. Trenton, I am not offended by people eating pork. It is a personal decision. I find it humbling you know Islam, and I am delighted you are such a gracious host to ask.”

  “Well now,” Barry said, running a hand across his head, “thank you, sir! We praise the Lord Jesus Christ, but also pay respects to his father, if you follow me.”

  Sam elbowed Abu discretely, prompting a counter kick. “Dammit Abu, that hurt!”

  Barry lifted a cresting silvery brow and asked, “What’s that, spitfire?”

  “Abu seems to agree, sir.”

  “Ha!” Barry winked and bit into his corncob.

  Sam needed the distraction and guessed Abu in his deep well of wisdom knew this. Their play lightened his spirit and reprieved his mind.

  While nibbling on dinner, Sam absorbed the town center's ekistics. The poor wore stitched, handmade clothes dyed in intricate patterns fascinating the imagination. Wealthy citizens shared kabobs and carried screeds professing honor and respect. Shopkeepers smiled. Customers lingered. Extroverted men and women debated and shook hands. Introverted residents engaged in conversation. Ornate canonical masonry carved with patience framed doors and walkways. Chaotically shaped stones placed at focal points in whimsical designs enticed intellectual deliberations.

  But the little spitfire could not switch his brain off.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Barry, are you going to tell me what’s wrong with my dad?”

  “Well, I do apologize. Let me start off by saying your father is healthy, well cared for and in no harm whatsoever. He stumbled upon one of our stations in the north quadrant not looking good. Pretty beat up and malnourished. He was wearing stomper gear, so we arrested him.”

  Sam’s pupils dilated as Barry continued, “We figured to use him as leverage if the stompers came poking us. Dr. Mason slips into this loquacious story about a demon, a guardian spirit, and a quest to find his son. Shoot, I thought he was stone crazy, spitfire! We stepped up our efforts helping him recover, prayed to Jesus, and prescribed the best medications we have.” He cleared his throat and quoted, “And he lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said: ‘Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you shall be satisfied.’ Luke 6:20.”

  Abu held out his hand and offered a similar quote. “The believers, both men and women, are allies of one another. They enjoin good, forbid evil, establish Prayer, and obey Allah and His Messenger. Surely Allah will show mercy to them. Quran 9:71.”

  Barry slapped the table and said, “Amen, brother!”

  Shaquan muttered while picking at his food, “Gee, I forgot my bible—the Book of Bullshit, King Jackweed’s edition.” Juan stifled a guffaw, snorting and launching a grain of rice back in his bowl.

  Grinding his molars, Sam balked at the story. “Dad would never say such things. With respect, he is a naturalist. He does not believe in the supernatural.”

  “That was three days ago,” Barry said. “Your father’s doing better, but now he won’t crack a word. Just stares into an inglenook. He may have popped something.”

  “I want to speak to my dad, Barry.”

  “Can I suggest resting a bit? You know he’s safe—”

  Sam stood and shouted, “Take me to Dad, Mr. Trenton. Now!”

  Onlookers started forming crowds on the promenade, merging closer in a ripple of curiosity. The guards stepped inward prepared to strike.

  “No, no”—Barry waved off the guards—“no problem here. He has the right to be upset. Go on now! Ease up!”

  The guards stepped away, registering the command in tense but affirmative nods.

  “I would want my son to be this way, God rest his soul.”

  Sam shuttered. “Mr. Trenton…sorry for your loss, sir. Had I known…”

  “Don’t be sorry. The Wash takes indiscriminately. Speaking as a father longing for his dead son, to a son longing for his sick father, I think it’s fair to say I would want yer mind rested beforehand. You follow me, son?”

  “I do.” Sam sat and bit into a corncob. A thin layer of fat and dried ancho pepper flakes coated the juicy cob enticing the weariest traveler. Eyes welling up, he ducked his head.

  “You remember where you were, spitfire? When the Wash struck?”

  “Of course. The only people not remembering are dead.”

  Barry wiped residual butter away and scoffed, “We used to make jokes about it. Poo pooed it away as a government conspiracy. Be out hunting in that crisp, dewy Carolina morning air with fresh hangover rolling around our noggins. I tell you, when Hurricane Lorraine hit, we weren’t laughing anymore. I had to teach my boy how to hunt people, you know? Not animals, mind you, human beings. We fled south when the jackers sacked West Virginia. They raped and killed my wife, God rest her soul.”

  The table sunk into an eerie silence.

  “Used to love hunting,” Barry said and fingered the cob. “But after that…I won’t touch a gun unless my life, or a friend’s life, depends on it.”

  Sam watched a pepper flake drip between corn kernels and settle under the cob, like a bright brown gecko traversing a summer home ceiling. “We knew it was coming. Dad and Mom talked about it all the time. Back in Los Angeles, our neighbor’s reactions varied by as many opinions as people living in the city. I guess you could have jammed our scattered ideologies into four predominant categories: ignorance, fear, curiosity, and taciturn egotism. In the end, none of it mattered.”

  “No,” Barry said, leaning a cheek in hand, “that certainly is true.”

  “My story began in Cary. It is where the earliest memory I had occurred of the moment of realization—that moment—the Wash had come. The point someone realizes there is no turning back. Man, I have seen it in the eyes of dying jackers and their victims. Capable only to choose their terms
of acceptance, if they chose anything. The realization that things will never again be as they once were.

  “I was playing catch with Dad when that realization struck me. See, we moved to Cary because my father…Dad…landed a faculty position at North Carolina State University. Not only was it his dream job, but the position also granted an opportunity to haul me away at the delicate age of ten from where I was born. Good ole L-A. In hindsight, life had blessed him with a fantastic combination of Einsteinian brilliance and Danny Ocean luck. Had we stayed in California, I certainly would not be alive today.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Dad?”

  Tom Mason lifted his eyes to the doorway. The voice was familiar. A silhouette drifted over the threshold. He struggled to coherently respond, “What do you want? What more of me can you take away? You promised to look after Sammy, and you stand before me a shadow. Tormenting me.”

  “Dad, I am here now.”

  “Go away, Cuddles!” He shuttled to a corner. Next to him on the floor laid a thick, grease-stained mattress.

  “God, look at you. Is my dad wearing canvas pajamas? Turn on the light.”

  “Do not touch the light!” Tom started cackling, inched onto the mattress, and looked away. “They heal the sick, those Britts. Not like you, abomination! Aberrance flows through you. They are still human. They cannot see in the darkest nightmares.”

  The light flicked on and Tom covered his face, raising a fist. “No, get away! I must live!”

  “I am not some intangible object, Dad. I am your son. Sammy.”

  “No, stop! I must save my boy!”

  Sam rubbed the scruff of his chin and concentrated hard enough to manifest a loud ringing in his ears. “Most sunny days come during winter. Some years in Cary, I remember whole weeks of a dry, cloudless sky. Makes me happy in reflection, dry days and no mosquitoes. My dad, however, hates winter here. He grew up in Southern California. Everyone else here complains about the rain and relish fifty-degree sunshine, but my Dad, he skips through puddles and curses winter illusions of bright, cheery comfort. To him, rain is a novelty, and sunshine is supposed to bring warmth—winter or summer. I miss him terribly.”

  Sam lifted a palm and pleaded, “Dad, see me. Please.”

  Taking several deep breaths, Tom raised his head. In the flickering light stood his child.

  “Sammy! Samuel!” He rushed forward, slipping on the dank floor and falling into Sam’s arms.

  “Dad, I am here now.”

  “I am never leaving you again, Son. Never!” He cried profuse tears into Sam’s rugged overcoat.

  “We have to get you out of here.” Sam detected reeking smells of mint and lemongrass liquor remedies in Tom’s clothing. Scenarios Sam envisioned before this moment crumbled out of memory. He held his dad tight, feeling shivers tunnel through weakened limbs. Tom drifted in his arms; Sam so elated, his heels floated.

  Sam yelled over his shoulder, “Open up. We are ok.”

  Clacks and thumps bounced inward from a reinforced door. Father and son egressed into a large lobby packed with Britt guards; a tide of dyed red wool and hardened leather armor. Abu and Shaquan rushed through the crowd and helped carry Tom over to a nearby sofa.

  “This reminds me of our old sofa, Sammy,” Tom said, dreamlike. “So soft, I could sleep here a month.”

  “Whatever you need”—he rubbed his dad’s hand—“anything.”

  Barry Trenton emerged from the gathering crowd carting a pitcher. Sliced lemons bobbed in clear water around tinkling ice cubes as he brought it to rest. “For you, Dr. Mason. Please, now that Samuel is here, please rehydrate.”

  “Ok, Barry, thanks.” Tom spied three faces and asked, “Are you Sammy’s friends? The Divers?”

  Shaquan bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “You are Shaquan White, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” He responded, wearing an almost cartoonish grin.

  “I like your smile. Sometimes I smile the same way. You must be Abu Zaid.”

  Abu waved. “I am, hello, Dr. Mason.”

  “We worried you were in big trouble, sir,” Shaquan said and pocketed his hands. “Glad this worked out.”

  Tom asked, “And you are?”

  “Juan Delgado. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Delgado,” he said and looked to Sam. “All mine.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The night turned late by the time Sam calmed his dad’s nerves. Tom exhaled a long sigh and shut his eyes. Sam stayed with him and listened to the crowd’s mood revolve on topics from tense concern to networking festive.

  Most interactions circling the lounge consisted of insipid chatter. Weather, animals spotted, and routes traveled by the spotters. Some history of the Britt tribe, and reinforcement of good faith between the Britts and the Divers.

  “You want to get some sleep, Dad?”

  “Mission…” Tom was drifting into a dream.

  Sam remembered childhood stories of his dad’s favorite oeuvre. Imagining tales of science fiction and magic, blended into knightly concepts of valor and glory.

  But as Tom’s backdrop set transitioned, catlike yellow irises swirling in green appeared. Time to wake up, Tom Mason. Bare coastal trees in the east, bitter and violent winds in the middle, and dust-choking California breezes, I think that. Wake up, Tom Mason. Back to work.

  “Mission!” Tom sprung upright like the latch on a car door. “Crap!”

  “Mission, Dad?”

  “Sammy, I am here for a reason.” Tom examined Sam’s broad shoulders contraposed to his tired eyes. He could not wait until morning. Every second, chaos grew stronger in the Wash.

  “I was not going to ask questions until tomorrow, Dad. I guess technically it is tomorrow.”

  Tom gripped Sam’s jacket and huffed, “Hear what I have to say, Son.”

  Everyone leaned in to listen.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Lou Frasier and I were collecting samples north of Ammon. Ten days ago. We came upon something. A deprecatory being drifting, a lost soul. I do not know what it was. Jonathon Stone called it a demon, but it was not biblical. In fact, the label denigrated it.

  “It…killed people. Ripped them apart. I know this seems a fantastic fabrication, but I speak the truth. Nothing is more disgusting, or irreconcilable, than a lie. The abhorrent creature struck a bargain. Emelia Stone, Lou, and I were to travel to Wilmington. In return, the entity pledged to watch over you—guard your life. I agreed. Demon or not, I knew it could accomplish its threats.

  “Strangely, Jonathon asked me to Wilmington also. Something about a request coming down from Admiral Melbourne. He said the Canadian Mafia—specifically Luc LeBlanc, finances them. Sammy, the Admiral knows jackers are coming for you.

  “We headed south out of Fayetteville to Tar Heel. Was going to recruit their tribe and slush on to Wilmington. We traveled south and hit snipers, either yokels or jacker scouts. Everything changed when we arrived in Tar Heel. The Tar Heels, you know, they migrated here from the cities to be farmers. They believed they were children of God and tattooed their bodies face to toe. Kind of reminded me of our Chumash ancestry. They were…my God, I can still see the tattoos they stenciled over themselves. Used this vibrant Carolina-blue colored ink.

  “They were all dead; yellow and bloated with a green pox. Then, I do not know, a demon? Not like the other entity. It appeared in the yard. Must have been a demon. It started animating the corpses. Before my open lids, Sammy, the walking dead rose to murder us!

  “There was this little, cute black house cat. It purred, played with Lou. Did not even use claws. It spoke to us. It was the entity, morphed into a cat, waiting for us. It said time to get to work, and charged the other thing. The other thing was, if nothing else, pure refined evil. I sensed this extreme, potent hatred. It wanted to wilt flowers, boil lily pads, and starve animals. It desired the sun to collapse, and light blasted out of existence. The demon savored the destruction of happiness. I never
experienced such intense disdain for the world.

  “We ran south following the highway, but had to turn west—jackers sacked Dublin. They patrol the river out to Yorick. Found this the hard way. They swarmed on us like ants. I lost the others. Christ, I hope they are ok. Lou...I am so sorry! Emelia, James, please forgive me.

  “I dodged the jackers, moving southwest along the Badger Gang’s border. The Badger Gang consigned a slew of refugees in Lumberton into their ranks. The gang will not last long. If the jackers got the Tar Heel munitions, they would be emboldened. They will double aggressions on the network. Maybe even push back Jonathon Stone’s stomper units. No, they would not waste time on Fayetteville, or the Britts. Not if they gathered everything from Tar Heel. They want your water purifiers, Sammy. We, uh…we were to be your reinforcements. Matters not, I have my boy now. I have my boy.”

  Chapter 10

  Sam Mason and Tom Mason embraced, clinging to each other as if the world were rolling off the solar system’s edge.

  “Get some rest, Dad. We can talk in the morning.”

  “My friends may still be alive,” Tom said, pawing at Sam. “We need them.”

  “You last saw them in Yorick?”

  “Yes!” Tom, excited, turned to Barry Trenton and said, “We will need a guide, if possible.”

  Barry lowered his head and stroked his frizzy hair. “Well, Dr. Mason, that’s a steep request you got there. I’m not so sure.”

  “Please, I must find them. It will kill…my life, my boy’s life, depends on finding them.”

  Barry rested chin to fist. Raising one eyebrow, he spied Sheila Briggs, and she nodded.

  Tom pressed, “Mr. Trenton?”

  “Well, now I’m thinking.” He looked over to Sam, then to Abu Zaid. “Hmmm.”

  Abu clearly felt an uncomfortable stir in his chest, rubbing his midsection. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m thinking you should take Sheila, Abu.”

  Sheila faltered into a deep wooden dining chair. “Me?”

  “Yes, my dear. You know the eastern marshes to old White Lake, and have fists as deadly as yer aim with a rifle. Good chance to gain some wisdom.”