The Stone Scry Read online

  Shaquan pressed his forehead to Sam’s. “My brother from another mother, right?”

  “Yeah man,” he said and smiled, feeling his friend’s warm brow. Shaquan was alive. Nothing else mattered.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Sam peeled off his wet boots and threw them in his locker. The impact vibrated along a string of green metallic keyholes and spat freshwater back in his face. Rattling on for several seconds, the annoying sound raised his veins and sent tremors of anger down his fingertips. Days of food lost thanks to a greedy biggen.

  The event demonstrated in vivid detail what could happen when things went wrong. That haunting arm tangled in a spotter’s BC, like a delivery boy’s fingers carrying groceries, rankled him. Then, the locker’s dank interior swayed his thoughts. Dad would study it. He would learn social patterns, genetic markers, anatomical traits. He swung the door shut.

  Sam had worked all day in the surf cherry-picking ocean floor scraps absent a master hunter lost two days ago. Screw them, they are animals. I play according to their rules, and I respect their world. And still, every day it gets more dangerous. How much longer can I do this?

  He ran his fingers through his salt-matted hair, ignoring strands yanked from their follicles. How long can I hold out? Spent most of today collecting oysters and crabs. Eights competition for crustaceans is getting worse. Only two bags of ocean fare, barely enough to get the kitchens through week’s end.

  Things changed so fast in Wilmington, people aged ten years between breakfast and dinner. The uncertainty had Sam on edge wrapped in a coat of paranoia.

  The Wash began when he was a boy. Hurricane after hurricane belted coastal regions in the Southeast. Each one washed away a portion of hope, leaving various degrees of destruction and extensive flood contamination. Three years in, the United States government, tired and worn down, submitted to the will of nature. Relief efforts slowed to a trickle of vans and airdrops. People stopped trying to rebuild lost infrastructure and opted for migration to the Southwest or Mexico. Five years in, seaside acolytes deserted in a mass exodus exchanging beach homes for mountain cabins. Sam’s parents weathered out the hurricanes in Raleigh. The city had a working airport, infrastructure, and a steady flow of commerce pumped into Fort Dix.

  “Another bad hunt, Sammy?” Suzy Lancaster was the district rat catcher. She maintained plumbing and kept lights on. Mopping the locker room meant she mouthed off to Dealer Merle Dower.

  “Man, my bones are sore Suzy-Q. The dealer has you mopping the locker room again?”

  “Nope, I heard a bang and came to check on things. Most of the time it’s not the gangs or sharks that get you spotters, it’s slipping on wet floors or playing around exposed wires. Can’t count the times I found a Diver twisted up after falling off a roof, or crushed under the darn thing he was carrying.”

  She was kind of cute. Her blond hair a little matted and some crow’s feet under the eyes, but her personality carried her to the finish line of attractiveness. She looked five years older than him and acted five years younger. Still, when wisdom revealed itself, her real age of twenty-nine shined. Suzy lost her husband and son to the Wash during its early years and stayed in Wilmington anchored by their memories. A survivor, she kept going despite its will to extinguish her. Today was no exception. Dark blue and yellow bruise rings circled around her neck.

  Sam asked, “Those from the dealer?”

  She examined each locker door for functionality as she spoke. “Wouldn’t know what you’re referring to, darling. I’m here to check on things.”

  “Maybe I can talk to him. Elder Buttonwood relies too much on the dealer. Hell, Merle Dower makes Lester O’Connell look like Mother Teresa. We can afford imported goods without him strong-arming suppliers, and any idiot can track freshwater orders.”

  “Let Lester be dead, Sam.” She brushed a finger over his ear. “You’re too cute. Merle has been the dealer since Elder Buttonwood founded the Divers. His barter skills are unparalleled within the tribe.”

  “So is his sexual appetite.”

  She stopped, her skin flushing a deep shade of red.

  He continued, “If he rapes a tribal ant while they pick crops or clear debris, the elder looks off to the horizon and avoids conflict with him.” He raised his hand, pretending to create a brim and asked, “Where is the cargo ship of justice?”

  She slammed a loose door shut. “Merle didn’t rape me!”

  Sam softened his voice. “He tried. And he will try again.”

  “Sweetie, I ain’t here to opine about troublemakers.”

  “Could you talk to the eld—”

  “I ain’t complaining about anything, Sam.” She drew his eyes in holding him still. “If I were fixing to complain about something, it would be prying questions.”

  “Ok”—he raised his hands—“ok, Suzy. If I see any more bruises, you can bet your ass I am stepping in.”

  She narrowed their space. “Sammy, you’re a sweet kid. Stay out of this.”

  “They would be doing me a favor to shun me. No more having to put up with Elder Buttonwood’s crap leadership. I left Raleigh in search of opportunity, but the opportunities presenting themselves these days are ones Dad complained about back home.” He squeezed his hand and said, “Those Arnold Stone enjoyed.”

  Sam thought, The encroaching jackers and biggens. They are the tribe’s opportunities. Not mine.

  Snapping back, he asked, “Why are you here, Suzy?”

  “You’re different. You’re my friend, and you treat me like a lady, not a rat catcher. I need to be near someone who doesn’t relegate my companionship. I…I think I need some company tonight.”

  “Me too, Suzy-Q,” he replied, unwrapped from his scuba suit, and assisted her to disrobe.

  They were not seeking love. They sought to escape. Maybe if they sweated hard enough, pushed fast enough, and came strong enough, the opportunities would cower back into the swamp.

  Nothing shied away from these lands. Sam wanted out.

  Chapter 4

  Abu Zaid threw his stew on the chef’s counter and yelled, “What is this sick crap, chef?” Chef Frank Patterson stared back stone-faced. “Frank! What the hell are you feeding us?”

  The chef stood silent behind a messy counter. Chefs were lower on the totem pole than spotters and the lowest contractors in the chain of command. Abu often received his asperity and heard him complain once behind closed doors that he hated “all kinds of niggers: sand niggers, ghetto niggers, Mexican niggers.” Anything dark-skinned insulted the superior race. Frank was careful not to throw the first punch, his backup eaten by a biggen three days ago.

  Abu shot his eyes into Frank’s soul, searching for a button. He had a knack for digging deep past the iris into the pupil’s bottom to find hidden fears. “Are you going to answer me, or do I need to pull rank?”

  Sharron “Daisy” Chauncey stepped up to the counter, ignoring the chunks of mystery meat sliding down its side. “Abu, Frank, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry master builder,” Abu replied, “but this swamp shit still has pink in the cutlets. I’m sick of this racist crap! I can get more respect from gators out in the network.”

  “What’s the matter, spotter?” Frank taunted, “Is it not Halal?”

  “Fuck you, Patterson—”

  “Hold on there, Abu,” Daisy said, holding him back. “Go sit down, I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

  “Yes, master builder.” He returned to a small wooden table in the candlelit mess hall.

  Maybe Sam was beginning to rub off on him—he was getting sick of tribal life. He closed his eyes and breathed, mimicking the rhythm of lapping ocean waves audible from the old Bridge Marina Tender to overcome the panging heartbeat in his ear.

  Abu took up diving during his mother’s worst years to alleviate his own anguish. On a long charter to search for megalodon teeth, he found Sam Mason. Eighteen months before tonight, Abu allowed Sam and his friend, Shaquan White, to move into his parents’
home.

  His father, Mohammed Al Zaid, had worked in Research Triangle Park as a software engineer, and his mother, Amara, worked on complaining Mohammed worked too many hours. Then her complaints turned inward; her muscles ached in the morning, and her lungs “felt heavy” in the afternoon. One day she swooned and hit her head on the kitchen island. His father raced her to Duke Hospital faster than eights could morph their camouflage. The doctor diagnosed Amara with leukemia.

  Mohammed cashed his stocks and, helped by Amara’s Qatari parents, bought a home in Emerald Isle. He wanted her to have the freshest air and most peaceful sounds a home could offer. Anchored one hundred feet down and raised twenty feet above the ground, the house had outward swinging doors and steel plate shutters. It had a triangulated roof allowing two hundred miles per hour gusts to roll over without losing a shingle. Each hurricane menacing North Carolina tried buffeting the Zaid house into the sand. They yanked its legs and rammed the windows, but the house would not give an inch.

  Six years into the Wash, Amara gave in. Soon after, Mohammed left his life to find her.

  When America gave up all hope on rebuilding the Eastern Seaboard, Abu befriended a tall, blond man named Richard Buttonwood. A retired navy diver, Buttonwood began a non-profit called “Divers for Development.” Like the Zaid house, the organization refused to relinquish to the Wash while the world swept away. He taught Abu self-reliance: farming, hunting, and rebuilding. Soon, Abu found himself working full time for Buttonwood, tilling the land and rebuilding structures for the poor.

  Sam and Shaquan traveled over from Raleigh and joined Abu in daily activities as directed by Buttonwood. The group grew in complexity, leadership, and skillsets. When the Millers tribe invaded five months ago, they defended Wilmington in natural social rhythm losing only two souls. Already a tribe in spirit, they named themselves out of formality: The Divers.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Daisy lugged over a rickety wooden chair, sat next to Abu, and asked, “Why’d you start it?”

  “I didn’t start anything.”

  “Come on, you threw food in his face.”

  “On the counter, not in his face.”

  “Same thing, kid.” Sharron Chauncey owned a contracting business for over twenty years, before the East Coast migration. She knew how to handle perverted old men and youth full of piss and vinegar. Her employees coined the name “Daisy” because nothing, not rude clients nor lecherous staff, could remove her spirit. An easy decision, the elder appointed her master builder. The only tribal roles outranking master builder were dealer, elder, and God.

  “He’s feeding me shit because I’m an Arab.”

  “No, he’s feeding you shit because he’s a jackass. Rise above this, Abu.”

  He interlocked fingers in his lap and loomed downward on the table, following the lines between its planks and rings circling around its knots.

  “Abu, what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure I fit in here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She called it.

  Looking up into her bluish-green eyes, his walnut-colored eyes quaked. “I’m not sure I want to stay here,” he said.

  “Ok.” She paused.

  Abu knew Daisy’s stratagems, such as using silence to press elaboration. They always worked. “My father wanted us to have a comfortable life. For a while, we had it. I got a taste of it.” He squeezed his hands together. “The flavor was good, Daisy.”

  “Your father busted his Arab butt, bless his heart. He was a good man and a better husband. However,” said Daisy raising her index finger, “he was also a shit-box father.”

  His cheeks felt hot. He loved Daisy, even when she pushed emotional limits. Since she taught him her secrets to psychological warfare, he decided to grind the salt crystals heading for old wounds and calm down.

  “A messed-up thing he did, leaving you behind in this God-forsaken place alone. A man endures a lot in life, a woman more. He had a kid, Abu. A beautiful, brilliant little boy. I’ll tell you what”—she plucked a small sprig of lemon clover and chewed its juices out—“I think he raised you to be intelligent, but he weren’t done. When you became a Diver, I took over.” Resting her hand on the table, finger pointing at him, she added, “And I’m raising you to be smart. You get me, Son?”

  He remained quiet, grabbed his own lemon clover sprig, and chomped down. The tangy juice held a pleasant sweetness balancing the flavor. Daisy did not contrive her words; she had indeed become his surrogate mother. She always took his side and made sure he was safe.

  “You know how Mohammed bought your old house?”

  “My family helped—”

  “He earned it with working hands God gave him.”

  Daisy told him once that everyone worshiped God using different names; Jesus, Mohammed, and Yahweh were a few. She cared not who used which name if the owner of the mouth speaking it had a kind soul.

  She reached over and unlocked his fingers. “Time you earn your own house. Use those hands God gave you. You’re not alone. You got the whole damn tribe behind you. Even the shit-box chef. We support you, child.”

  Her eyes dug into his wells. “I support you.”

  “Build a house here in Wilmington?”

  “I’ll draw the plans myself. The realtor and the mechanic can pull some ants together, and we’ll all build you a home.”

  Abu drew his hands back. “Raleigh is still a functioning city, master builder. I could find work there.”

  Daisy sighed and stabbed her chin into her palm and waited for him to say more, not letting his eyes go.

  “You know I’m eternally grateful for all you have done, Daisy.”

  “I know you are, child,” she said, rubbing his cheek. “Alright sweetie, you want me to talk to anyone?”

  “No, please, let me simmer on this a while.”

  Master Builder Daisy Chauncey pulled his forehead inward to hers, puffing her red bangs out. She whispered, “It’s ok, sugar. Whatever you choose, I’m behind you. I know whichever way you go, it’s the right one.”

  He opened his eyes to meet her and took her hand. “Thank you.”

  “Now, I think there’s some unresolved business to take care of, right?”

  “What?”

  Daisy winked, stood up and walked back to the counter where Chef Frank wiped his hands in a filthy yellow wash towel. Pointing to the countertop, she commanded, “Eat it.”

  He dropped his rag in disgust. “What the hell?”

  “Eat it, you piece of white trash.”

  “I don’t…”

  “What! You don’t ‘what,’ chef? You better pull the right words from that tiny little head of yours. If you fixing to opine an excuse to me, that dog won’t hunt. Eat it.”

  “Daisy…”

  “You call me master builder, scumbag. Eat it!”

  “Please…”

  “I said, eat it!”

  “Yes, master builder.”

  He licked up every half-cooked morsel. The sight repulsed Abu.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  It was a rare, dry day in Wilmington. Shaquan White laid back on his towel next to the remains of Bridge Marina Tender with his girlfriend, Tawney Martin. Waves lapped up to his feet, warming his toes. Baby fish less than an inch long tickled them as they skirted back and forth in the surf. White, wispy clouds patched a blue sky and sunlight shined down, radiating his cheeks. A perfect day, he thought. They were so rare.

  “How you doing, baby?” asked the young, sandy-blond woman. She leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss.

  “Oh yeah,” he said and smiled under the weight of her lips and a full stomach.

  Shaquan and Tawney ate their fill of clams for breakfast. To treat themselves on this special day, he dipped into his stash of jerked octopus and invited Tawney for a picnic at Sunken Island. The food lasted five minutes.

  “I’m so lucky to have a boyfriend who’s both a spotter and a cook!”

  “What good is it to hunt something yo
u don’t know how to cook, right?”

  “Amen.” She wiggled in close to him, pressing her breasts against his arms. He noticed their tan line and a hint of glistening, milky-white skin hidden under her clothes.

  Tilting his head, he looked into her dark-green eyes and asked, “Are you sweet on me?”

  “Nothing could be finer than loving Carolina in the morning,” she said and squinted.

  There was one problem on this perfect Carolina day, joined by his perfect Carolina girl and still tasting the perfectly spiced meat on the roof of his mouth. He felt imprisoned.

  The son of an Illinois plant pathologist, his father planned Shaquan’s whole life upon exiting the mother’s womb. His parents, Anita and Jamal White, expected him to get a doctorate in plant pathology. He decided to hedge his career, implanting himself in the bowels of a leading phytoscience hub: North Carolina State University. His father foresaw Shaquan as a state or federal disease identifier, but he had an ulterior motive. Private industry spooned up NCSU graduates and stuffed money into Research Triangle Park.

  He left Chicago to get his Bachelor of Science in Biology. In the news, Raleigh looked impervious to the Wash. Only upon arriving did he discover how deplorable the Southeast Coast had become. Worse, his aging parents were alone in the Midwest as the Wash accelerated its oxidation of society. Scientists screamed at dysfunctional pundits, warning them about the annual northern migration of compounding rain and tornados, but like all the great minds were before them, they were an anathema to politicians lathered by dying industries. A political scene captured perfectly in the movie Jaws, the marine biologist versus the town mayor with a vandalized billboard of a shark fin looming in the background.

  Shaquan’s parents evacuated Chicago as the Great Lakes extended their territory. Each letter they sent came from a different state: Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri. Town after town replaced by lakes or swampland and higher grounds chipped skyward in divots by perpetual tornados. Before leaving Raleigh for Wilmington, he received their last post sent from Texas.