The Stone Scry Page 9

  Jonathon swept up his napkin, saying, “The time for political maneuvering has ended, Dr. Mason.”

  Having eaten cilantro and cashew encrusted carnitas, Jonathon wiped the fat from his lips, rested on his elbow and continued, “You will soon become one of us, so let me be frank. I don’t like the idea of dropping genetically altered mosquitos around our great country. I don’t like the idea of you and my father playing God.”

  “I am not sure what you mean by one of us, but I am surprised you would not support eradicating outbreaks to prevent hundreds of innocent people from getting sick.” Tom placed both elbows on the table, resting his chin.

  “Your short-sightedness staggers me, Dr. Mason,” Jonathon said, tapping his fork.

  Lou coughed and threw his napkin down. “Hey, man—”

  “No, Lou”—Tom waved his hand—“I want to hear this.” He pointed at Jonathon and said, “Please, by all means, do stretch my short-sighted vision of right and wrong. Perhaps it can be pulled to an elasticity matching your moral compass.”

  Arnold raised his hand. “Now, both of you calm down.”

  Tom rolled onward: “Just a little disagreement amongst friends, right? Arnold, you wanted us all to be great friends, remember what you said when we isolated the NGF inhibitor?”

  “Yes, Tom. I remember, and we are all friends.”

  “Right! So, enlighten me, Jonathon.”

  Jonathon asked as he wiped his hands on a thick stitched napkin, “What do you think will happen when you toss those mosquitos into a rapidly changing ecosystem?”

  “The same thing as when the U.S. dropped sterile fruit flies in the Texas desert, and sterile medflies in the California suburbs, and tiny wasps in Florida orange groves. We are going to reduce the occurrence of pathogens by eliminating their vectors. Which means saving lives. Which means for you, saving money. All that matters, right Jonathon?”

  Jonathon flexed his palms choking the napkin. “You little, arrogant ass. Don’t presume to know me. You think you can beat nature but you can’t. My father believes the same crap. Tell me, genius, did the wasps get rid of citrus greening?”

  A strong swell of lightheadedness washed Tom’s mind. He found difficulty forming a clear, bilious answer.

  Uh oh, Emelia projected.

  What?

  The green pill is kicking in.

  It was ibuprofen.

  No, it was a unique drug designed to change people.

  “I feel sick.” Tom bumbled across his plate, knocking food and flatware to the floor.

  “The pain you receive during the transition,” Jonathon said glowering, “is less than you deserve.”

  “Enough!” Arnold barked at his son, “Get out, you are excused!”

  As Jonathon lifted himself up, the table’s flickering candle caught his attention. For a few seconds, he watched it dance and scried, “The mosquito strain will to push evolution at great cost to humanity. I see the world burning in a lake of unnatural fire, and a cloud of darkness consuming you.” Turning to Tom, he continued, “When it does, I’ll be there backed by the strength of the U.S. Navy. You may save hundreds. When your experiment backfires threatening to annihilate thousands, I’ll be there to save us. From you.”

  Arnold rose in his seat. “Get out!”

  Lou caught Tom from falling nose-first into the heavy wooden table. “Doc, what’s going on?”

  “Everything is…spinning. It’s the pill,” Tom said, reaching out to grab air. “What does he mean…transition? Pain? Arnold, what’s going on?”

  Arnold jogged over to help. “Don’t worry, my boy. This is vital for everyone; it needs to happen.”

  Tom asked, “What needs to happen?”

  He gave you the Stone family gift. When you wake up, you’ll see things no one else can.

  “See things? Like what?”

  Lou asked, “Who are you talking to?” He heaved Tom’s limp body to a nearby stool.

  You’ll see in infrared and ultraviolet, read minds, and have extraordinary power. Each ancestry line carries one. My family can manipulate people. You’ll also see strange things.

  “I’ll see things?” Tom’s head sagged turning purple. “I’d see what types of things?”

  Ghosts and demons, interdimensional things. Things from other planets. They call themselves sentinels.

  “Sounds stupid…”

  Lou asked in a trembling voice, “Doc, who the hell are you talking to?”

  “Emelia. She’s sitting next to me.”

  “I’m sorry Tom,” Arnold said, “She’s up in her room. I fear you’re hallucinating.”

  Tom looked back to her and blew his lips, saying, “I’m hellusagenating.”

  No, you’re dreaming. I’m in your dream.

  “How? I took the pill, Mellie Mel.” His lips flopped off each other.

  We can’t read each other’s minds awake, but we can enter each other’s dreams.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Tom shot up drenched in a night sweat, heart beating faster than speed metal toms. In the cot next to him lay Emelia; her sweet, steel-blue emotional eyes fixated on him. The team had bunked down together at the Fayetteville depot, planning to strike out early in the morning on an HP109.

  Terrified, he yelled, “What the hell!”

  Lou stirred and rolled into moonlight illuminating the quarters. “What’s going on? Doc, you ok over there?”

  Tom repeated, “What the hell! Emelia!”

  “I didn’t give you the dream, Tom. I sensed you having it and wandered inside.”

  “Stay out of my goddamn head, Mel.”

  “I wasn’t there when you took the pill, ok? Don’t you think I would have stopped my grandfather had I known?”

  “Not helping me now, either.” He slapped the side of his head trying to find an erase button. Wet armpit stains hung down his bleached tee shirt.

  “What happened?” Lou brought out a flashlight precariously rolling in his palm. “Are you guys ok?”

  “Lou, she was in my head.”

  Lou flashed the light on her pink pajamas and asked, “Can we read each other’s minds?”

  “Ugh!” Emelia shielded her eyes. “We can’t, but we can visit through dreams.”

  “Dreams? Holy crap...”

  She roared, “Get that light off me!”

  Lou jerked the flashlight away as if his mother prepared to spank him.

  “Sometimes,” Emelia said, lifting her short hair over an ear, “we help someone if they’re having a nightmare. My father suffered from night terrors. I helped him sleep for years.”

  Tom threw his pillow at her full strength, knocking her across her face. “No wonder your father had night terrors, he is a psychotic jackass.”

  Emelia whirled the pillow back around towards his face. “I wanted to hear what my father said about your research. He never talked about it. Never!”

  She whipped out an SP5K semi-automatic pistol and aimed it between his eyes. “If I’m going to help you fight the enemy, I need to know what happened. I need to know what your power is.”

  “You want to know what my power is?” asked Tom straightening his back.

  “Ye—”

  Before the “s” on “yes” finished hissing out, Tom disarmed her.

  James awoke, fully dressed in stomper wears, and watched the melee while scratching his bemused head. “Dr. Mason, I’ve never seen you move so fast!”

  Emelia faced the barrel of her own 9 mm weapon held by Tom and asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “My power is heightened reflexes. Lou can communicate with animals. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Uh, Dr. Mason?” James pointed his pistol at the side of Tom’s head. “I can’t pull my gun away. This isn’t me…I can’t control my hands…”

  Emelia lowered her head, concentrating on a visibly baffled James. “I would like my weapon back, please,” she requested, holding out her hand to Tom.

  “Dominate other minds, huh?” Tom
slapped the pistol into her palm. “You started it.”

  The childish rebuke sent Lou bursting into laughter. Realizing how it sounded, Tom shook his head giggling, sending Emelia into uncontrollable chortling.

  James, not laughing, holstered his pistol and socked the bed. “Fucking hell, are you three out of your minds?”

  Tom caught himself for an answer, “Unfortunately James, we are. I am sorry, Emelia. You wanted to help. I understand your curiosity, and I reacted poorly. Look, we are all on edge. Tomorrow morning, we travel south through lands infested with things wanting to shoot us, eat us, and tear us apart. All of us need to be careful, ok? I apologize and understand.”

  “You can enter my dreams anytime.” Her demeanor returned from rancid vinegar to honey sweetness. “You’re my friend. I have nothing to hide.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “A perfect morning,” James remarked as thick tufts of fog ebbed along spikegrass covering the riverbank. “Rain won’t be coming until late afternoon. Nice blanket to cover us veering out.”

  “Oh yeah,” Tom agreed and inhaled the sweet morning air. He paused from checking switches and knobs on the Mud Hopper to wipe his forehead. “We need a break from the norm.”

  “What’s the norm’?” asked Emelia. She stopped slinging gear and dabbed her face with a ragged towel. “Honestly, I agree. I wouldn’t mind a little sunlight myself.”

  “Not the rain,” Tom said as he watched guards patrol the station walls.

  Lou trudged out of the barracks loaded down with oversized backpacks strapped to every inch of his shoulders: “It used to be! Working in our posh NC State lab. Now, it’s floating apparitions and mutated swamp-things.”

  “Jackers are thinking the same thing,” Tom said. He stood up and helped Lou unload backpacks in a disheveled pile. “In this fog, we will likely be ambushed.”

  James cocked his MP4 rifle, gave Tom a reassuring wink, and crossed to the edge of the pier careful not to disturb equipment as he stepped. Looking over the gate, he aimed and fired off several rounds.

  The entire depot flexed into a heightened state. Soldiers jogged over and took defensive positions behind large crates and drums dotting the berth. A gate guard opened double-swinging barbed wire doors leading out into the river. Two bodies with opened pates drifted inward along the dock. The guard gave a thumbs up.

  James stippled two more notches to his rifle. “No, we won’t be ambushed.” He tapped it and sauntered back to the Mud Hopper.

  “Repulsive,” Emelia said, squinting.

  “You still think they’re human?” James asked, using his sleeve to buff the stock.

  She replied, pallid, “Yes.”

  Tom looked back at the dials on the Mud Hopper’s dashboard, their hands resting atop zero. He envisioned them all dropping on engine kill like jackers charging into the Fayetteville fields blinded by leadership. Wiping the sweat from his stinging eyes, he polished the gauge faces. Unlike the others, a single gauge remained standing; the fuel gauge indicated a full tank of gas. “Come on,” he said, “we need to go before the fog burns off.”

  The four settled into the Mud Hopper and glided out the station. Tom and Emelia operated .50 caliber SAWs—Squad Automatic Weapons—mounted on each side of the craft and Lou maintained the blower. James steered past large jet fins protruding from the water.

  “Weird to think the swamp stomper depot was built on old Fayetteville Regional Airport,” James reminisced.

  “Imagine”—Tom’s mind drifted in contemplation—“all the puddle-jumpers decommissioned by Mother Nature.” He wondered if anyone tried escaping during the final snowstorm three years ago and pictured decomposing remains still strapped to their seats, watching him pass by.

  Chapter 7

  Eva Stone glided into Clark Stone’s manicured office. Its grey walls housed a simple arrangement of three desks, each designated a specific purpose. One contained a computer station, advanced and colorful. The desk he occupied held stationary and two cups full of pens and pencils. On the third, lit by an adjustable bronze reading light, a large figure of a man lay face down in a desk calendar. Once white with thirty boxes, it sponged a pool of red fluid rounding his bald head like an angel’s halo.

  “Hello, Clark.” Eva paused. “Clark,” she asked, “who is that?”

  He tilted forward doodling with a pencil, lifted his eyes and answered, “Luc LeBlanc.”

  “He was our figurehead! Are you crazy? How will you communicate to the four territories now? You run all our manufacturing facilities…our operations will be exposed!”

  Clark stood, tapping the pencil in his palm. His black blazer rested over matching black jeans and a black tee-shirt. A gold necklace hung low to his collarbone, resting a small ornate shield above his heart. A family coat-of-arms, not representing the Stone bloodline but another Eva could not recognize.

  “LeBlanc has gone to secure new opportunities in China,” he said with a taciturn expression. “It will take some time to establish connections, negotiate contracts, and solidify deals.” He circled the desk and continued, “Therefore, urgent issues need to be discussed through his beneficiary, Carver Warden.”

  “Carver Warden? Is he related to your father?”

  “Oh, very much so.”

  The Warden bloodline, maybe? She would have to look it up later. Rejecting the Stone family invited reprimand, yet her sweet Clark often rebelled against societal norms.

  “You bring me such joy, dear mother.”

  He reached out to her, and she embraced him.

  Her boy felt warm and soft. “My dear, as I used to tell Jonathon, children are never too old to cuddle.”

  Pulling back, he asked, “And would you still cuddle if I told you Tom Mason lived?”

  Eva jolted her foot and raise back one hand, ready to strike his face. “How dare you! Can you only murder fat, slow dotards like LeBlanc and your grandfather?”

  “No, mother. Those are only the two you know. I can murder anyone I wish.”

  Thumb on the pencil eraser, he jammed its graphite tip into her neck. Before she could react, he swept her foot and shoved her head to the floor. She tried to scream, gargling blood in her trachea.

  Pressing his foot on her chest, he smiled. “I am Carver Warden, and you are the sole keeper of this knowledge.”

  Eva Stone choked for air and started convulsing.

  He leaned over her displaying a face of admiration. As she looked at him through shallow eyes, he knelt and said, “What a pity.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Fog whisked across Emelia’s face as they made south along what used to be Interstate 87. The Mud Hopper parted tall reeds, slipped between draws and floated up small rises over embankments still holding pieces of asphalt left by the Wash. Fastened blower chassis flaps pointing inward let out a stream of air, maximizing thrust and minimizing sound.

  Emelia stepped forward, rocking with the craft’s sway, tracing her thoughts to James, and squatted next to him. “How you doing up here?”

  “Stay out of my head, woman.”

  “Yeah,” she said, lowering her eyes, “I’m sorry I made you aim your pistol at Tom. He and my family, we have a past.”

  His eyes remained fixed on the dreary water.

  “You’ve been through a lot.” She felt surging pain leak from his thoughts and wanted to draw his attention away from the crushing grip of reflection. “I might be able to help.”

  “When the thing murdered my unit, I made a promise to myself. Never forget how it looked.”

  “What, the…demon?”

  “No, how it looked when my team was drawn limb from torso. I couldn’t see the murderer.”

  “Why would you want to remember?” Through the years, Emelia traveled along the roads of many foreign, unspoken memoirs cataloged in vaulted minds of anyone physically nearby. Some were bright pastels with sweet smells and buttery warmth. Others burnt, jagged, and brittle carbon. Most were uninvited. She wished they would dissipate from her turgi
d memory.

  James looked into her eyes, triggering a flashback that played across her vision as if happening directly in front of where she sat—memories like hot tire-irons shoved into her brain. His sensations locked into her psyche: fear, anger, regret. Helplessness. She watched Chase, Chavez, Needleman, and Suki disintegrate into a bloody swamp.

  James spoke, snapping her back, “You get it now?”

  “I guess I do.”

  Her thoughtful response seemed to soften his hard brow.

  “I have seen them, you know,” she said, recovering from the vision. “Demons, ghosts, things invisible to normal people hiding in the closet. They never interacted with the world, observing from the shadows.” She squinted and tilted her head. “So, how many missions have you run together?”

  “Twenty-three,” he replied. “This is number twenty-four.”

  “Not since the beginning, then. I know Lou and Tom have run at least thirty.”

  “Before me, they were escorted by Lieutenant Graft. He logged eighteen with those two. Poor bastard.”

  “What happened to Graft?”

  A reply boomed behind her from Lou, making her jump: “He was eaten by a fanger.”

  Hand on her chest, she asked, “A fanger?”

  “A fanger!”

  James nodded and explained, “They’re the first mutation these guys discovered. Coyotes sprouting sabretooth fangs.”

  “Never heard of them,” she said, pulling strands of short hair over her ear.

  “Large as wolves and faster than horses. They ate most of the unit, including Graft. Dr. Mason and Dr. Frasier should be dead. I analyzed the mission report a hundred times trying to figure out how they survived. Now, it all makes sense. The report failed to include Dr. Frasier’s unique ability to control animals. He held them off long enough to reach the Mud Hopper.”

  “How?” she asked.

  Lou usurped the story, saying, “I made them think we ran in different directions. I would lead them off in one direction”—he zagged his hand—“they’d figure it out and return tear-assing after us. I’d lead them on another path, then back again.”

  Lou chuckled and added, “Took us an hour to get back to the craft. We must have looked like ants under a magnifying glass, scrambling around like our backs were on fire.”