Herculanium, p.28
Herculanium, page 28
“Just making an observation,” he said, almost apologetically. “But after all, you have to understand that this is my game. Naturally, I am going to be a little critical. There, you happy?”
“Beyond words.” She sat in her chair unblinking, with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Preston observed the game closely, making mental notes of every play and movement. He was able to monitor multiple actions at once, seeing the game both at its whole and its component parts. Despite the increased athleticism and roughhouse tactics, the game as he knew it still remained intact. He just couldn’t believe the leap and hang-time of these players.
Preston squinted his eyes. “The point-guard is mumbling. He’s talking to someone, correct?”
“Yes, that’s very astute of you,” said Jayna. “He’s receiving instructions by remote from the coaches on the bench. They’re in constant contact, deciding on plays and strategies. It’s an adaptation from your football era.”
But the more he watched, the more confusing it became.
“This may be a stupid question, but how are fouls called? These guys and gals are beating the shit out of each other, and I don’t hear any whistles.”
“Hence, the power of the refs. Actually, a ‘foul’ is anything excessive, which is quite arbitrary in this game.” She raised her hand and pointed to one side of the court. “Oh look, there’s one now!”
Two centers of each teams were engaged in a shoving match, leading one player to throw the other to the ground.
“That was a bloody wicked throw,” she said with glee. “He’s sure to receive a yellow card for that.”
“Yellow…card?” thought Preston, mouthing the two words quietly in disbelief.
“If he receives a red card next time, he’ll be thrown out of the game.” Jayna clapped her hands in excitement. “I doubt the games of your time were this exciting.”
“Yellow card.” He couldn’t stop mouthing the words repeatedly. He threw his hands up and blew off the call in disgust.
“What’s wrong, love?” asked Jayna. “You don’t like the game?”
“I don’t get it. I honestly don’t get it.”
“This is basketball, dear Watson. This is your sport realized to its highest potential. In fact, you helped usher in this type of game.”
He gave her a puzzled stare.
“Don’t act innocent with me, Preston. I dug up your archival footage. Some of your antics mirrored—no, exceeded—the worst behavior here. How you and your comrades of the past behaved on the court determined what was acceptable to the public. All the altercations and arguing with the officials; it was your bloodlust that created all this.”
“Don’t give me that,” he said in quick defense. “I may have lost my temper a few times, but that was because of my passion for winning the game. I didn’t do it because it was part of the rules, and I sure as hell didn’t do it for entertainment value. My emotions were real.”
“No more so than the emotions of those players on the court. You can either thank yourself for its success, or blame yourself for what it’s become.”
“We played the games honestly. If you want to blame anybody, blame the officials. We acted the way we did because they couldn’t make a correct call to save their lives.”
“It’s a shame you don’t play anymore. With your attitude, you would’ve fit right in this place.”
Preston caught himself in mid-thought, unsure of how to respond. Was that an insult or a compliment?
“How dare you,” he fumed. “How dare you compare me to these sub-human, steroid-swilling junkies, who can’t even win a game without relying on tricks and gadgets.”
Jayna quickly lunged forward and grabbed him by his collar and belt, using them as handles to lift him off his chair and drive him to the floor. She calmly pulled out her gun and raised it in a ready position.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” screamed Preston, almost helpless and pinned to the ground. Amidst screams and cheers, a crowd of fans suddenly ran past them and onto the court.
“Sorry, mate. That throwing foul we had just became a bench-clearing altercation. Some hooligans are on the floor celebrating with their fists. Just relax. Security has the fans under control, and the refs are taking care of the players.”
More gasps and screams came from the audience, prompting Preston to get up and view the commotion.
“Stay down, mate. There are too many people around us in a frenzy. I’ll let you know when it’s clear.” She continued to make eye-contact with other security personnel, gesturing with her eyes and lips.
“Will you get off me?” He tried in vain to disguise the frustration in his voice.
Preston gently pushed Jayna aside as he stood up, brushing off his arms and legs. Gun still drawn, she stood protectively beside him as if she was another limb.
While a group of hooligans was being contained and arrested on one side of the court, the players and the referees were entangled in a huddle all to their own. The surrounding crowd seemed to expand and contract, changing in size with each swing and groan. Preston took one step up and balanced himself on his chair. Short of rushing the floor himself, he was determined to see the action and all its mayhem.
Referees dove into the fray, tackling players and dragging them out of the undulating pile. It more resembled a post-fight boxing riot than a simple basketball skirmish. As if reacting in unison, the referees then drew their batons and placed them against pressure points and nerve clusters on the players’ bodies, shocking them into submission. Preston cringed in pain himself as he saw the athletes twitch uncontrollably before falling limp to the ground.
Jayna shot her fist in the air. “No mercy,” she said with delight. She cupped her hands around her mouth and began to whistle in approval.
Preston slowly stepped down from his chair, suddenly engulfed in vertigo. He could feel a numbing chill running through his extremities, a fluttering blackness that drained him of all his strength and balance. What had been a deafening arena just moments before was now a soundless movie playing in slow motion. Vibrant colors and edges were reduced to simple shades and forms, bleeding into one another like fresh watercolors tilted on its side. He was alone in the arena, a single conscience of reason staring at a pantomime play of sins and cleansing. As if set to a symphonic score, the characters rose and fell with surreal grace and timing, barely human beneath the garish lighting. He could feel the weight of a jury’s stare billowing around him, suffocating him from just beyond his peripheral vision. Whispers and screams accompanied his heartbeat like a multi-part harmony, echoing in a cathedral chorus of rage.
“Preston, are you alright?”
Jayna was a mannequin posed on a chair, lifeless save the sadistic grimace on her face.
“What are you seeing? Talk to me, damn you. You almost keeled over backwards.”
Preston briskly shook his head, blinking his eyes repeatedly to wake himself up. He found himself sprawled over his chair, with Jayna standing guard above him.
“Easy there, chum. Don’t get up too quickly. We’re fetching you some water. You’ll be fine.”
He wiped his hand over his face, trying his best to settle his senses. He slowly propped himself up on his chair and looked around.
“I’m sorry; I don’t know what happened.”
“You looked like you had just seen a ghost.” She handed him a cup of ice-water to sip.
He drank in large swallows before crumpling the cup and throwing it aside. “I guess I just started seeing things.”
“What things?”
“I thought I saw…monsters; demons, things I’ve never seen before.” He caught himself drifting with his descriptions. He wasn’t quite convinced that what he saw was real.
“But there are no monsters here, Preston, just friends. Friends and fans. We’re watching a basketball game. Do you know what city you’re in right now?” Jayna began to sound like a boxing referee observing if a fighter was fit to continue.
“Of course, I do. I think all this excitement just started to get to me. I just need a few minutes to calm down.”
“Are you well enough to travel? Perhaps we should go…” Her English accent recovered its lilt.
“I am fine, thank you. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s game.”
“Monsters, eh? Demons? Maybe after the game, we should make an appointment to see Dr. Bentley.”
A monstrous applause swept across the arena, raising the sound levels to near deafening again.
“I think we should watch the game. What do you think?”
Jayna smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, mate. I have to hand it to you; you’re a tough cookie.”
Preston stared at the basketball court. The players were warming up again, going through their warm-up routines in spectacular fashion. There were no demons, hooligans, mannequins or fights breaking out. The floor, along with its occupants, was just as pristine as when he had walked in earlier.
“God, it was a nightmare,” he said with reflection.
“Preston Jones, what did you really see? You can tell me, I’m your friend.” Jayna’s warmth was genuine and sincere.
“I saw players getting electrocuted. I saw this crowd—I saw you—cheering for the mayhem. There was so much hatred and abuse of power. I saw myself in everyone, both sides, subject and viewer at the same time.”
“A bit of a poet, are we? But when did you see the nightmares? Was it before or after the fight broke out?”
Preston felt a chill run up his spine and stand the hairs on the back of his neck.
“I guess it was…during?”
“Then you must’ve missed the end of the scuffle. It was quite wicked. Five players were zapped, and one referee was critically injured. If you look up the scoreboard, his memorial is already on display.”
Preston closed his eyes as tight as he could.
“I can’t wait to see what happens after Half-time,” continued Jayna. “Is there anything else I can get you? Do you want another cup of water?”
He shook his head and positioned his body so it faced away from her. She shrugged her shoulders and resumed watching the players.
Leaning on the armrest, Preston tucked his chin into his shoulder and covered his face with his palm. He wept uncontrollably, his sobs drowned out by the applause of the crowd.
Bodega Bay, California, 2032
Melinda Reed closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Clipping the phone between her head and shoulder, she braced herself by holding on to the chair and refrigerator door handle as hard as she could. The dishes and drinking cups began to rattle in place, vibrating nearly to the point of breaking against each other. The motion could be felt throughout the house, coursing in intervals through its walls, frame and foundation. If this continued, she feared the windows panes would eventually crack into jagged panels, and her curio decorations would slide off their shelves and crash to the floor.
“This has been happening all morning, Claire,” she told her neighbor over the phone. “The fog’s barely lifted, and these helicopters have been hovering over our area ever since.”
With the most current shock wave slowly subsiding, Melinda took one look out the window and then quickly ran outside to her front porch. A formation of black helicopters had just passed overhead and was slowly disappearing beyond the hills. She knew it was only a matter of time before this same group would either return to complete a full orbit, or be joined by others in their search.
“Do you see them, Claire?” she asked? “That sound they make is just horrible. They’re flying too low, I think. I thought they had regulations for stuff like that over coastal airspace. Are they over your house yet?”
Melinda adjusted her bathrobe and slowly walked back to her door, taking care to observe the other neighbors and spectators also milling about.
“I don’t know what they’re looking for,” she continued. “I already put the television on ‘mute.’ I got tired of listening to all the explanations. First it was a satellite, then they changed their minds and said it was a capsized ship. A lot of callers on the radio are claiming it’s either a downed UFO or a fishing boat/submarine collision.
“Whatever it is, it’s blocking traffic from Santa Rosa to Sebastopol to here. I don’t even think they’re letting reporters in.”
She inhaled slowly as she listened to her friend speak, trying to take in the fresh sea breeze that welcomed the locals every morning. The fog was slowly burning off, leaving a majestic cloud-streaked sky stretching from horizon to horizon. She loved this community for its small-town charm and detachment from big-city life and bustle. Standing outside her door, all she could see were military jeeps driving by, spewing exhaust while dismissing her world as peripheral street signs on the way to their mission.
“I gotta go, dear,” she said. “It’s getting a little too busy outside, if you know what I mean. Let me know if anything comes up. I’ll just be inside the house cleaning. Take care. See you.”
Melinda entered the house and immediately clicked off the television. She could almost picture that large battleship anchored offshore, the one the news said was assigned to assist in the recovery mission. She could see its menacing silhouette against their ocean background, directing traffic and operations by remote. She couldn’t help but feel intimidated by whatever else was hidden from their view, covert operations that no one was privy to. There was very little her community could do but wait for the military to finish its business and leave.
She carried a tray of ceramic drinking cups from the living room table and brought them to the sink, rinsing each one before neatly arranging them inside the dishwasher. She had already folded her makeshift igloo of fresh laundry into square piles of linen and blankets, all ready for the closet again.
Melinda drew her curtains closed with a single forceful swipe, instantly bathing the living room with lace-textured soft sunlight filtering in from outside. Despite the presence of the military, Bodega Bay life continued to move on. She returned to the table and resumed reading her unfinished chapter. Now that the helicopter convoy had completely passed overhead, it should be a while before she gets interrupted again.
With a gentle breeze billowing the curtains like a sail, Melinda lost herself again in another world.
Chapter Seven
Preston gently arched his neck, sculpting the soft pillow to its most comfortable shape. He took a deep breath and sighed, again willing himself to become one with his environment. There were no soldiers or bodyguards today, instructing him where to stand, nor autograph hounds trailing him for the merest gesture of instant memorabilia. He couldn’t smell the seat tapestry of a tour bus, nor feel the rumble inside the fuselage of an airplane. There also weren’t any vendors harassing him to buy food and trinkets that he didn’t really need.
He was alone in his own quiet room, sealed off from and oblivious to the world outside. Touring the past few months had taken more out of him than he realized, and any moment of isolated silence was a welcome luxury and therapy. Jayna had decided to give him a few days’ rest before concluding his tour, which was supposed to culminate at an awards show in which he was to be the guest of honor.
Since arriving from the airport to his room, he had slept for nearly a full day. The scent and texture of soft linen felt heavenly against his travel-worn body. When he wasn’t asleep, he sat awake in bed and just enjoyed the solitude, planning what to do next when his tour was over. He had meant to look up his wife and family, along with other friends and descendants who might take him in. “Home is where the heart is,” he was always told. As a time traveler, “home” meant distant relatives he hadn’t even met yet. Earlier in the tour, Jayna had promised to take him to a nearby Hall of Records to look for names and connections. With the tour quickly winding down, his new, more personal, mission could begin. He wanted to find his Dad’s grave, and start from there. Hopefully, Mom and Erica were next to him, too.
Preston heard a noise and immediately sat up, glaring across the room. He instinctively reached beside his bed for his favorite baseball bat, but that was in a different room in a different century.
The doorknob continued to twist and quiver, rattling in the darkness like an alarm clock.
Preston lifted his blanket and slowly edged himself off the bed, making his steps as light as possible. He crouched just beyond the arc of the door, intentionally keeping the lights off for an effective ambush.
“Who the hell locked this door?” said a muffled voice from the behind the wood. With a fervent jostling and a pronounced “click,” the door swung open. A column of light immediately striped the room from door to wall.
“That’s better,” said the intruder. “Come on in, everybody. Let me just get the…”
Preston leapt forward like a panther, grabbing the man by the waist and dragging him down to the floor in a wrenching takedown. He immediately mounted him, driving his knees deep into the prowler’s armpits before clawing his throat and cocking his own arm to punch downward.
“God, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!” screamed the man in a panic, flailing his arms to protect his face. “Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt me!”
“Who the hell are you? What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” Preston himself was in a panic, and couldn’t stop his eyes from tearing up.
“I swear, I didn’t know this exhibit was being used. No one from the office told me. This was supposed to be an open exhibit. We have tours scheduled all week.”
Preston could tell this poor soul was already expecting to die. “If you’re lying to me, man, I’m going to rip something that you’re going to miss.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” pleaded the crumpled form. “I have a family and a sick mother to take care of.”
Preston released his grip from the man’s throat and got up on one knee. He was about to help him up when the lights suddenly came on. They both winced from the glare.
