Shinar 54

By D. Corey Sanders

Just a few decades hence, a dangerous world polarizes into two competing factions. Some will flee to Shinar for safety. The apocalypse is coming, and everyone must choose to either stay in society and face its meltdown or go to Shinar, the Utopian city in the desert where everyone appears to have joined a radical cult.

The plot has two main threads. In one, Jona McCracken, a 21-year-old broken former soldier, is attracted to Shinar by the beautiful Lisa, his contact there. In the other thread, 18-year-old runaway Marco escapes the slums and heads to Shinar to protect his little sister, Keniesha. Shinar controls the world's wealth and bankrupts all other nations with its advanced technology.

Jona and Marco's paths interconnect, and soon it becomes clear that Shinar's purpose is to cleanse the earth of all impurities, including unbelievers. Each man faces his fate differently, and each must either overcome or succumb.

Shinar 54 is a story of conflict between good and evil, truth and lies, and the clash of opposing values. Ultimately, it is a tale of renewal, redemption, and reconciliation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Corey Sanders
• Release date: Jan 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465964328

D. Corey Sanders

D. Corey Sanders is a resident of Safford, Arizona. He is a pre-dawn fiction writer, a superior court judge by day, church leader by night, and a husband and father somewhere in between. He is an avid classical music and opera fan, amateur philosopher and frustrated stand-up comic.

Book preview

Chapter 1

From all outward appearances, the beautiful island was paradise on earth. The lagoon provided a safe harbor for the dugout canoes, and the surrounding coral reef teemed with all kinds of fish. An endless supply of fresh water gushed from mountain streams, which ran swiftly down the side of a sleeping volcano blanketed with the green velvet of lush ferns and tropical vegetation. Colorful hibiscus grew more plentifully than weeds, and juicy mangoes as large as footballs were free for the picking. To the happy tribe of natives who were fortunate enough to live here, the place they called home was the closest thing to heaven they could imagine.

That was the problem. That very fact was Ji’s biggest worry. None but he could imagine a place more wonderful than where they were now. When he spoke of a better place, his people stared at him with about as much cognition as a herd of sheep. Ji carried on about creating a new city so frequently that some of the older people began whispering their suspicions that he was mentally deranged.

Nevertheless, mad Ji was not. Quite the opposite, in fact, was true. Ji was simply thwarted, frustrated in his attempts to teach his people the truth. He felt stuck, stationary, and bogged down in his people’s apathy. They were fat, happy, and ignorant, and Ji felt powerless to change their thinking one iota.

Ji was the oldest living person on the island and served as the clan’s discontented patriarch and spiritual leader. His first title came solely because of his longevity; the second he had earned through his own personal experiences. Even so, Ji was a man out of place and time. He spoke an archaic language and wore old-fashioned clothes. He was the only shiro, or white-hair, living among his sun-bleached blonde and blue-eyed relatives. More than merely his hair, Ji was in all ways peculiar, an anachronism, different from the rest of his people. This was a source of great consternation to the old man, for they were all of the same blood—his own blood.

Ji spent too much of his time these days fretting. He worried that he had outlived his usefulness to his family. He obsessed about whether he had become burdensome to them and wondered if his fatherly guidance was now irrelevant and annoying. His immeasurably long life had become more misery than joy with each passing year. To add insult, his people had abandoned the old ways, the true ways, which he had endeavored so tirelessly to teach them. Try as Ji might to convince them of their errors, he had failed, utterly failed, except in Jena’s case, maybe. She held out a spark of hope in the otherwise dark night of the future. To the rest of them, Ji spoke little more than gibberish, seemingly in myths and fables. Ji knew he taught the truth, always the truth. Jena believed it. At least he hoped so.

Ji knew what he knew, and nothing could change it. He had seen heaven. He had tasted wonder. However, the island on which he found himself marooned, and his forlorn existence, was certainly not heaven to him. He was a prisoner in paradise. No earthly delight could compare in the slightest degree to the joys of his beloved Shinar, the lost Shinar. It was the better place to which he so hoped to lead his children, his unbelieving, undeserving children.

For now, all Ji could do was wait and try his best, a lone and lonely voice, a solitary prophet without honor on this small island, living among its small-minded people. Yet Ji refused to abandon hope altogether. Someday the mother stone would speak to him again. She was the repository that held Shinar’s history and that kept those memories alive. Someday the Power would return for him and take him to his real home, to his friends and to his wife long gone. Every prayer Ji prayed was that today would be his last, but he had repeated that same entreaty for many years, far too many for him to count.

This particular evening, a few boys were in one of the lagoons catching the night’s dinner. Their bronzed skin glistened in the pink light of the setting sun. Hey! No spears! Mino, the oldest of the three called out. Ji will have a fit. The other two boys tossed their fishing spears to the beach and grabbed their nets instead. In a short while, the boys were hauling in a variety of crabs, eels, and slippery, shiny fish. They quickly sorted their take in the nets, throwing back into the water anything that was too small or not tasty enough.

Did any of you beat this one? Mino called out. He hefted up a four-foot-long tuna that he had clubbed to death with a big stick. Somehow, it must have gotten lost in the inlet. The other two boys left their sorting and ran to Mino to get a closer look. Each looked wide-eyed at the dead fish. That’s going to make a fine meal tonight, Tavita said with more than a hint of envy in his voice.

You two can pay up when we get home, Mino boasted proudly. Don’t tell Ji, or I’ll use the stick on you next.

The boys loaded their catch into the largest net and lowered it into the water to rinse off any sand left over from the sorting. They threaded a long pole through it and carried their heavy catch into the village. Mino held his head high as the village women heaped praise on the boys’ fishing prowess. He gave Tavita and Makunu, his other fishing partners, a stern look, silently warning them not to take credit for the tuna. He knew who had won tonight’s wager. The boys unloaded the contents of the net onto a large bamboo table so the women and girls could prepare the fish.

Jena, go and get Ji so he can bless this fish, Liu, an older woman, said. He sulks the whole night if we forget to ask him. Jena ran in the direction of Ji’s hut at the far end of the village. In a few minutes, Jena returned with Ji to the cooking hut. She held her arm through the old man’s, steadying him as he walked on his arthritic legs.

Ji gave the pile of fish a frown. Some of them were still alive, flopping about, their gills working frantically for usable oxygen. He stared at the yellowfin, its head freshly bashed and bleeding. Mino looked at Ji expectantly, apparently hoping for an encouraging word for his good fortune. Instead, he saw Ji’s eyes well up and his forehead crease with anger.

How you people can be so brutal is beyond my comprehension—eating these beautiful, innocent creatures! Ji fumed mostly to himself, knowing that no one listening shared his contempt of killing for food.

Liu saw the look of disappointment on Mino’s face. Ji, please say your prayers so we can start cooking. The children are getting hungry.

Of course, dear, Ji said resignedly, not having enough energy to lecture his people one more time on the sanctity of animal life. He chanted some strange words over the fish and then reverently placed an old, wrinkled hand on the tuna’s head for a special apology. Ji took Jena’s arm and started back to his hut.

Will you join us for dinner tonight? Jena asked, as she always did.

No, thank you, child. I will take my usual meal at home. Will you be so kind as to bring it to me? I will leave the feasting to you young folks. Ji did not attempt to hide his disgust. Jena led Ji home, treading slowly along the worn paths of the village.

I will bring you your food in a few minutes, Ji, but I do hope you will join us for stories after dinner.

Yes, of course. How could I miss it? It is one of my few pleasures in life. Ji stooped down and sat on a stool outside his hut to wait for his food. In a few minutes, Jena returned with a large wooden bowl filled with dried coconut, freshly cut pineapple, and a fried banana.

After eating his simple food, Ji disappeared into the thick jungle that surrounded the village, unnoticed by anyone. He returned carrying an intricately embroidered cloth pouch. When everyone had assembled for stories, he shuffled to the center of the circle of huts and looked for his favorite place beside the fire pit. When the children saw him coming close, they shouted in delight.

Ji! Tell us about the Crystal City! They gathered under the stars once again, in the hope of hearing him share more of his amazing tales of Shinar. Ji smiled happily at his warm reception and sat on a tree stump near the smoldering circle of coals left over from the cooking fire. The blaze had long since died down. The tropical breeze was balmy, swishing the fronds of the palm trees above. The ocean waves splashed hypnotically on the nearby beach. It was a perfect night for storytelling. Ji paused and took a deep breath, relishing the undivided attention of the children.

The Crystal City, you say? What a wondrous place it was! At the mere mention of Shinar, Ji felt transported back in time, to eons ago it seemed. It was as real as I am sitting before you today, children. In fact, a city very similar to it sank into the earth on the big island to the east of us. Ji pointed a bony finger into the black night. But that was many years ago, too many years ago. Oh, how I long to see our city rise again! It will return. I am sure of it. And if it should be in my days, then would my joy be full. Ji touched his forefinger to his temple as if thinking to himself. He did that frequently in his stories.

Ji took a labored breath and gathered his thoughts. "The Crystal City was a marvelous place, yes, but the citizens—the Shinarians—they transformed it into a true paradise. What a glorious people we were! The apex of our race, I must say. The Greek gods would hide their faces in shame in the presence of the most common Shinarian. Have I told you that we never got sick in Shinar?"

The children sat motionless as they listened to Ji. A few were brave enough to nod. Even if they had heard his accounts before, they did not want to derail his train of thought. He was much more entertaining when given free rein.

"Yes, children. It is true. No one was ever sick there, not even a sniffle or a headache. We Shinarians were all muscular and mighty in those days. The women, too, were all perfectly strong and healthy every day of their lives. A more handsome people never lived. There was not a scar or blemish on any of us. Our youth never experienced so much as a pimple growing up. Our old ones never aged a day beyond the prime of their lives. A hundred-year-old man looked no older than twenty. Only his hair gave away his true age. All of us had hair, by the way, even the babies. Baldness was only for outsiders—gais, we called them—or the newly admitted citizens. Even their hair grew back, almost magically, after they immigrated to Shinar. At this comment, the eyes of every child looked at Ji’s remarkable mane of hair, a full head of it, in a stunning snowy white. Ji continued. There was not an age spot or a wrinkle to be found in the entire population of the republic no matter how old we were. Ji looked down at the backs of his own aged and gnarled hands, his knuckles bulging like bony knots. He frowned at them, shaking his head. Shinarians were not like we are today, children. We were the most astonishingly beautiful people on the face of the earth, if I must ever so humbly say so. The audience of children giggled a little at his not-so-humble comment. Ji smiled. There were millions of us back then, and each one was a wonder to behold, not fat and ugly like we are today. How we have fallen, children! We have fallen so far that only the Power can raise us up again."

Ji surveyed his young audience with his piercing blue eyes. "You are beautiful to me, every one of you. However, I must say that we are a sorry lot compared to the ancient ones. No Shinarian of the past, if he were alive today, would recognize us. He would think we are all gais." Ji’s eyes misted up at this oft-repeated realization. He was quiet for a moment. The children waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts once more.

Where shall I begin this evening? Ji put his finger to his temple. "Tonight, I must tell you more about Jona. I have spoken much of him in the past. Of all Shinarians, I knew him best. What I have not told you was what Jona was like before he became a Shinarian. Why they allowed him to immigrate, I shall never know. Jona went to Shinar a broken, damaged young man of twenty-one. Ji indulged himself in another moment of reflection and then continued. Jona’s journey to Shinar began with a war, a nightmare of a war, really. The war ravaged Jona’s mind. The memories of it nearly drove him over the brink of sanity, but Shinar saved him, miraculously, if you ask me. In truth, a certain Shinarian saved him. Her name was Lisa."

Ji looked at his attentive audience with a depth of feeling, a heartbreaking sadness they had never before seen. It was as if an awful reality had finally dawned on their ancient storyteller. Suddenly, he stood up. Ji’s voice was quiet and quivering with grief. You do not believe my stories are true, do you, children?

No one spoke. Actually, they all enjoyed his narratives as entertainment, but they were far too fantastic to be true. Everyone knew that.

If you believe that Shinar is real, raise your hand, Ji said. He looked at the children one by one. No one moved. Jena raised her hand, somewhat timidly, from the back row. She was the only one to do so. Some thought what they dared not say, that Ji’s mind had snapped, as many suspected it would someday. His face suddenly became intensely serious, almost fierce. He looked straight into the eyes of as many children as he could see and raised his voice louder and to a higher pitch. I am through telling stories! I am finished begging you to believe what I know to be true! Ji was on the verge of tears. Tonight, I have brought proof, the evidence I had hoped I would never need. I wanted you to believe me because you trusted me and because you knew I was not a liar. Now, you force me to show you something you have never seen before. You have not believed me. Why? You assumed I made all of Shinar up, a figment of an old man’s imagination. It is a fact! I swear by all that is true! Shinar is real.

Ji had really gotten the attention of his audience tonight. No one had ever heard him say such things or act this way before. The children poised themselves to run and hide if he got angry and lost control of his temper. A few of the adults overheard his loud talking and ran to join the group of children, mostly to keep them from being frightened by the old man’s outburst. There was little doubt about it now. Ji’s mind had finally cracked. The people watched him with more than a little apprehension. The older ones took a few steps closer to the old man, ready to restrain him if necessary. His stories were harmless. He had never displayed anger or a bad temper before.

Ji reached into the pouch dangling from his neck and removed a large, sparkling, clear crystal, finely cut and polished. It was oblong and flat and filled the palm of his hand. No one on the island had ever seen anything glitter so beautifully. Ji held it close to him, caressing it reverently. With a soft, embroidered cloth, he wiped the dust from its surface and held it to his bosom like a mother cradling a newborn baby. It is called a diamond, children. She is the mother stone. She will share her memories with us, some of them at least.

"There will be no more so-called tales of Shinar, tonight, Ji said, returning to his normal, kindly self. It is time you see things as they really are. Since my words alone are inadequate to convince you of the truth, you can now see the truth for yourselves, with your own eyes."

Ji tapped the diamond, and an eerie white light began to glow from it. His audience took in a collective breath of amazement. Ji took a handful of this strange light emitting from the stone and tossed it like silver glitter into the air. The tiny particles became a shimmering surface on which Ji could project the images coming from the stone.

"Tonight I will show you Jona, children. He will tell you his own story. Do not be frightened. These are merely pictures of real people and the stories of their lives. None of them can harm you. They have come alive again to tell you of the past, in their own words, as I have tried to do for so many years." Ji returned to his stump. He hoped he could endure the sights and sounds of the past. Some of the memories had stayed buried for so long, encased in the stone until being set free tonight. He tapped the diamond again, and its recorded history came to life, displayed on the suspended vertical plane of glitter, like returning apparitions for all to see and hear.

Chapter 2

All clear?

Yeah, Sarge! No bombs on this one! the team leader yelled back confidently to his squad leader who, in turn, shouted, All clear! Let’s get a move on! His men affectionately called him Sarge or Sergeant Mac, but to him, he was just Jona—Jona McCracken, United States Marines.

The dusty men snuffed out their cigarettes and got up from the shoulder of the dirt road leading to the makeshift bridge. Jona looked over his back at a straggler lagging behind in the middle of the road. Go! Go! We don’t got all day, jarhead! The new private snapped into a run, gripping his rifle in front of him. Usually, Jona would have been in the lead, but he waited this time at the rear to make sure everyone was at the bridge before moving on.

Let’s go! Get the lead out up there!

The other five members of the squad were already on the bridge. Jona was running behind the young private to get to the front. Before he could step onto the crossing, the bombs started going off, detonating in a series of thundering roars—one blast, then another and then another. The bridge crumbled under the Marines’ feet in front of Jona, sending up a cloud of dust so thick that he had to shield his eyes from it for several minutes. When it finally cleared, all that remained was a deathly silence, hanging like a sickly brown pall in the air. Even a groan or cry of agony from one of his men would have been a welcome sound.

Jona dropped to his stomach and crawled to the edge of where the bridge had stood only minutes before. A bloody helmet containing part of a scalp was the first thing he saw. By the name on the front, he knew that both belonged to Private Mosley. His body was gone. Rifles and parts of backpacks lay strewn among the casualties in the powdery dust. The stunned Jona slid down the side of the crater in the hopes of finding some signs of life. He saw a severed leg, a combat boot, and more helmets, but nothing else. In the carnage, what was left of his men lay still and lifeless, the dirt soaking up their blood like a dry sponge.

Then, incredibly, Jona saw an intact body lying face down. He stumbled over to it, recognizing from the back that it was Private Newton, the straggler. Jona turned the body over to see the face. It was gone. His face had been blown off; all that remained was charred muscle and protruding skull bones where skin had once been.

Private Newton’s gaping, lipless mouth opened and spoke to Jona in a low croak. We’re all alone down here, Sarge. Where’s a leader when you really need one? Newton’s lacerated hands clutched Jona’s throat in a death grip. He felt his eyes bulge out at the intense pressure of the blood behind them. He gasped for air in the stifling, desert heat. Jona tore Newton’s hands away and sprang up. Sweat dripped from his forehead and neck.

Jona partially came to consciousness, lying prone on the floor beside his bed, holding an imaginary rifle. He looked around in the night for his next attacker. Then his head cleared enough that he realized where he was—alone in his room. He was where he had been living for the last six months, a civilian in a dingy Fallbrook apartment, not far from Camp Pendleton.

Not again! Jona groaned in the darkness and punched the pillow lying on the floor. The flashbacks were coming every night now. There was no escape. Nothing seemed to help, not pills, counseling, psychotherapy. Nothing. His PTSD was so severe that he could no longer hold down a job. He was an empty shell, haunted day and night by his memories and his guilt for being alive.

Jona got up from the floor and walked into the small kitchen for a glass of water, intending to take some more sleeping pills. Why? he thought. These things are worthless! He threw the plastic prescription bottle back into the cabinet above the empty counter by the sink and opened the refrigerator at his left. It was empty except for three cans of beer. He grabbed one, opened it, and chugged it down in one long gulp. His head cleared within seconds and then began to buzz. Jona walked to his telephone on the small table in the corner by the couch. An annoying beeping reminded him to check for messages. There was only one, from his girlfriend, Candace. What now? He hadn’t heard from her in weeks. He played the voice mail.

Hey. I guess I should have done this in person, but I really don’t want to hurt you. I’m going to have to call it quits for now. I need some space, you know what I mean? When you came home, things were so different. You weren’t the same guy I knew before you left. You need some space, too, to work through your … problems. It’s not something I can do for you anymore. I need some time to sort out my feelings. Call me when you’re back to yourself again, okay? I love you.… I really do.

The already numb Jona felt nothing after listening to Candace’s tinny voice. He tapped Erase on the phone, wishing he could wipe out more than just this recording from his life. There was nothing left in him that could feel anything—no hate or bitterness or hurt, just a suffocating, dull sense of despair. He went back to the refrigerator and grabbed another can of his brewed best friend. After drinking it, he would have only one more. Maybe he could muster enough courage to get to the liquor store once it opened.

Jona stared at the picture of Candace on the end table. He picked it up and threw it like a hand grenade into the bedroom. It smashed into the wall, shattering the glass frame. He didn’t care. Thanks for your unwavering support, Candace; I’m calling it quits, too. Jona went to the dresser in his bedroom, oblivious to the fact that he was walking on broken glass with bare feet. He opened the top drawer and pushed aside some meticulously folded and organized socks, the last semblance of control in his tattered former Marine life. He dug through some underwear until he found his revolver. He picked it up and checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, knowing in advance that it was. It always was, just in case he needed it. Revolvers were perfect for times like this. Jona’s mind raced, screaming like a formula-one in high gear. His ears buzzed in a deafening pitch, as if they were home to a million mosquitoes. Jona breathed in short gasps. The walls were narrowing in on him. He grabbed his short, spiky hair and pulled out as much of it as he could. His lungs felt on the verge of collapse, as if he were swimming in deep water, way over his head, and he was about to go under for the last time. He drowned in his own stale breath. He cocked the pistol, put the barrel to his right temple, and closed his eyes. No, I’m not going to die like a coward, he thought. I’m going out with my eyes wide open. He looked at his haunted reflection staring back at him in the mirror above his dresser. Except for the haggard face and fatigue-induced bags under his eyes, he would have been strikingly handsome. The pills and alcohol had caused the skin around his mouth to sag. His body had aged far beyond his twenty-one years of life. Death would be a vacation from his sorry existence.

In the split second before Jona pulled the trigger, the cell phone rang. The From the Halls of Montezuma ringtone slashed into his head like a machete and diverted his attention. Jona swore in exasperation at the pesky interruption and then laughed hysterically. He put the gun on the dresser and walked to the living room to answer the stupid call. Wrong number. Man! I hate it when that happens! He yelled, mentally, at the white walls of his isolation. The living room was empty of most of the furniture, except for the clutter of man trash, as it had been for the three months since Candace had left him. Now she had finally dumped him and Jona didn’t care. He was alone like he had never been alone before, and he was feeling crowded even when alone in his own apartment, uncomfortable in his own skin. He hated himself for being alive, and he hated the idiot who called his phone and had stopped him, once again, from putting an end to it all. Only the voices in his head and the incessant ringing in his ears kept him company, bad company, at that.

His death thwarted and his head throbbing, Jona couldn’t sleep. He had nothing to do. Out of boredom, he sat down in front of the laptop in the living room, one of the few items Candace had been kind enough to leave behind. He surfed the web, researching the only topic that held his interest.

Painless suicide. He typed in the words not expecting much help. It was not the first time he had started such a search. He was sure he knew how it would end and it would not be painless.

I’m such a piece of work. I can’t even kill myself like a real man. Semper Fi, Jona fumed as he seethed in his self-loathing.

The first site to come up was a bit of a surprise. Be pain-free once and for all—the Shinar Way. Absolutely no charge or obligation. Questions answered live online 24 hours a day.

Hmm. What’s the catch? Maybe I can take some of that stuff before I shoot myself, Jona thought as he perused the site more closely. His eyesight was blurry from the beer and persistent lack of sleep. It doesn’t look too gimmicky, Jona spoke out loud. Living alone and being crazy, talking to himself and reading aloud came naturally. He wasn’t the only one talking to himself. People living in his head liked to talk all the time. Jona glanced at the clock—3:05 a.m. Twenty-four hours a day, you say? Let’s see about that.

He went to the Ask Me a Question text box and started typing.

Interested in your product. Can you tell me more about it?

A live-chat box with an answer came immediately back on the screen. Surprisingly, Jona’s head cleared enough to feel somewhat coherent. This was something new.

Shinar Rep: Sure can. What would you like to know?

Jona: I have constant migraines. Does your product work on them?

Shinar Rep: Yes, that’s an easy one. Your migraines will go away.

Jona: You seem pretty confident. How can you be so sure?

Shinar Rep: It works on everything.

Jona: Is it a pill, a shot, or what? I do shots all the time.

(Jona was trying to be funny. The sales representative ignored it.)

Shinar Rep: None of the above.

Jona: Okay. I give up.

Shinar Rep: Our product isn’t really a product. It is available only in Shinar. It’s not for sale.

Jona: I thought Shinar was the manufacturer.

Shinar Rep: It is.

Jona: I’m confused. I’m almost always confused these days. Why are you advertising something that isn’t for sale?

Shinar Rep: You have never heard of Shinar before?

Jona: Not really. Is it some wacko mystic religion, in India or somewhere?

Shinar Rep: No, not at all. We have cities in India, too, but we do not think of ourselves as an organized religion, per se. We’re definitely not wackos, whatever that means.

Jona: So tell me about your drug.

Shinar Rep: It’s not a drug. It’s kind of like a nutritional supplement. It’s hard to explain. It’s computerized.

Jona: A computerized nutritional supplement? Weird. Side effects? Like, can I get a virus from it?

(Another failed attempt at humor.)

Shinar Rep: No. It has no negative side effects, only positive ones.

Jona: No side-effects at all?

Shinar Rep: Right. It’s hard to explain. It’s called yashi.

Jona: Sounds strange, but I’ll buy some. Better yet, do you have free trial samples?

Shinar Rep: Sorry, only citizens of Shinar can use yashi.

Jona: If this thing is such a wonder cure, then why don’t you share it with the rest of us?

Shinar Rep: That’s what I’m trying to do now.

Jona: Can’t you send me some first so I can see if it works on me?

Shinar Rep: Sorry, not possible. It is not allowed by your government.

Jona: Why not? It’s illegal?

Shinar Rep: Not sure. I assume your drug companies are protecting their economic interests. The profits of your pharmaceutical manufacturers would plummet if yashi was available outside Shinar.

Jona: So what am I supposed to do?

Shinar Rep: Come to Shinar.

Jona: That is easier said than done.

Shinar Rep: Why do you say that?

Jona: I have a few other problems beside my migraines.

Shinar Rep: Who has only one problem?

Jona hesitated before he said anything further. What have I got to lose? I will never meet this Shinar rep in person, right?

Jona: I have PTSD. It’s a really bad case, according to my psychologist.

Shinar Rep: I don’t know what that is, PTSD.

Jona: Post-traumatic stress disorder. I got it from my tour of duty in Afghanistan, you know, the Second Hundred Years War. It’s not something I can talk about very easily.

Shinar Rep: War isn’t something I’m familiar with. We’ve never had one here. Are you saying your PTSD is mental and not physical?

Jona: Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I get flashbacks unexpectedly during the day, and I have recurring nightmares at night. I’m pretty much a basket case, if you want to know the truth.

Shinar Rep: I always want to know the truth, but I don’t think yashi cures basket issues. Do you have trouble weaving things?

Jona: I mean I have emotional problems.

Shinar Rep: Oh. Your application will probably be denied. Sorry. Shinar accepts only the most highly qualified applicants.

At this point, Jona heard a female voice come over the speakers on his computer. A woman was whispering something. This was strange since Jona had only been texting up until that point. Tell him you’ll look into it, the woman said. He’s supposed to immigrate. We need him here. The representative responded to the woman, sounding a little impatient. "Angela, please, I’m trying to work here."

Jona: Who was that?

Shinar Rep: Oh, sorry—just a friend. Don’t mind her. She interrupts me sometimes.

Jona: Okay, well, thanks for your time. I’ll stick to my current treatment program, I guess. It doesn’t sound like I can qualify for your yoshi, or whatever it is.

Jona heard the same woman’s voice, louder this time. Lisa, I mean it. Don’t let him get away.

Jona: Sorry?

Shinar Rep’s voice: Angela, hush!

Jona: I’d better go.

Shinar Rep: No, don’t. Wait, please. Do you mind if I find out what we have available to help you here and get back with you tomorrow? I cannot imagine Shinar not having experts available to assist you. I’ll send you a link to a questionnaire. We’ll need it to analyze your compatibility to yashi.

Jona: Sure. Why not? Where are you, by the way?

Shinar Rep: Shinar 54.

Jona: Where’s that?

Shinar Rep: North of your Las Vegas.

Jona: I’m in California.

Shinar Rep: My condolences. Fill out the survey and contact me tomorrow. I will have some more information for you. Ask for Lisa, okay?

Jona: You got it. Tomorrow. How will I know you’re available when I get back with you?

Lisa: Not to worry. I will be available.

Jona wrote LISA on a sticky note. He stuck it to the front of the laptop and went back to his bedroom. For the first time in a very long time, he sensed a glimmer of hope—a real dim glimmer, true, but why be picky? Jona’s depression suddenly came back with a vengeance. If this is all a scam, I’m going to kill myself, Jona said, and then he stopped abruptly. Stupid idiot. You were going to kill yourself anyway, so what does it matter? He ignored the voices yapping in his head like a pack of angry Chihuahuas and crawled into bed. The sheets were still clammy from his nightmare sweat, but he didn’t care. He sank into the mattress and slept his deepest sleep in months.

***

Ji tapped the stone, and the images of Jona stopped abruptly. Ji’s audience sat awestruck and mesmerized. Everyone in the village had joined the group now. The sights and sounds coming from the mother stone were more than any of them could fully comprehend.

Ji’s face took on a pained expression. Oh, that was such a long time ago, children. His voice trailed off, and he sat silently for a few moments. He closed his eyes; whether he was in thought or in slumber no one could tell for sure. It was getting late. Ji opened his eyes after a few moments. I do not have the strength to show you more tonight, he said. He looked exhausted.

Trying not to be too disruptive, Jena walked around the perimeter of the little group and then behind Ji. She leaned over and spoke loudly, directly in his ear. Ji, Jena said, nudging him gently. Get some sleep now. These images tire you too much. She gently took him by the arm and raised him from the stump.

I know it. I know it, my dear, but my people must know the truth. It is my duty.

Tomorrow. We will gather again tomorrow. Does that sound like a good thing, children?

Yes! Yes! They shouted excitedly. The adults joined in, too. They were as thrilled as the youngsters were.

Tomorrow night we shall meet again, and I will show you more, Ji said as he smiled a weary smile, even though his eyes sparkled with anticipation in the shadows of the night. He shuffled slowly toward his little hut, arm in arm with his trusted Jena. She guided him gently to his bed of woven mats. Ji looked about his small grass house as if for the first time. A look of sadness darkened the old man’s face. His hut was so obviously devoid of any trace of Shinarian splendor. Ji sat down on his bed slowly, careful of his aching joints. Then he lay himself down on his back and crossed his arms across his chest in a peaceful death pose, as was his nightly habit. Before Jena could remove the coarse sandals from his leathery, calloused feet, Ji was sound asleep and snoring, lost in his dreams with a smile of pure contentment on his face. His mind had already traveled back in time to a faraway place. He was in Shinar once again, at least for tonight.

Chapter 3

The next night, Ji returned to the fire pit to a standing-room-only audience.

Ji! The middle-aged Chono called out. Where did you get that stone?

You must continue to watch the pictures to find out. The stone will show you everything. It is all there.

How do you make the magic work? Palu, another man, called out.

I do not know how it works, to be completely truthful, but it responds only to me. Ji sensed that neither man would have any scruples about stealing the stone from him at the earliest opportunity.

Will you let me hold it? Chono asked.

Shut up! I want to see more, Liu called out. Quit bothering Ji. Let him talk.

Ji would have to watch the two men with a wary eye from now on. He threw the silver particles of light into the air as he had done the night before. Let us continue where we left off yesterday.

***

Jona woke up early, already excited. He looked at his watch and then at the clock on the nightstand, hoping it showed a later time. This was going to be the longest day of his life, waiting to hear if Lisa could get some help for him in Shinar. He did everything he could think of to get his mind off the snail-paced time. He went for a jog through the park, shopped for beer and frozen dinners, read the newspaper, and watched television. He then drove to the gym for a long workout, lifting weights and running on the treadmill. Still, every minute seemed like an hour. Last night’s optimistic glimmer had grown into a beacon of true hope in spite of his little setback with Candace. He was so full of anticipation about that yashi stuff that he could hardly stand it. When he looked in the mirror, for the first time in a long while, he liked who he saw reflected back at him. Jona was a boyishly good-looking, sandy-haired young man with a lot of life left in him. His mischievous smile flashed across his face like a sunburst. Light had returned to his eyes after a long deployment overseas.

Impulsively, the idea to call Jake, his old Marine buddy, popped into his head. Before Jona walked into his apartment from the gym, he had Jake on the phone.

Hey, Jake. What’s up?

Mac? Whoa! How long has it been, man? How are things?

Oh, ’bout the same. My body’s here, but the mind’s still over there. You know what I mean?

Yeah. I know. It still happens to me, too.

What happens?

You know, the replays, flashbacks, or whatever they call ’em. Sometimes, I think I’m going loony tunes. Last week, you should have been here. I heard machine gun fire during a movie. In a panic, I dropped to the floor of the theater and covered my head. I got all sticky from the Coke on the floor. Found a quarter, though. Amy thought I was going to flip out right there and start going off, Marine-style, at the audience. It was embarrassing. You would have laughed your head off. I got all these nasty looks. Several people walked out of the movie even after I pulled myself together.

Jona wasn’t laughing. So, you got it, too, huh?

Got what?

PTSD.

Yeah, I guess that’s what they call it. They give me pills, but all they do is make me feel like a walking zombie. I hate ’em.

I know the feeling well.

Jake?

Yeah?

You promise not to laugh?

You know me, Mac. I never make a promise I can’t keep, man.

I was on the Internet early this morning, and I found a website advertising pain relievers.

No way, man. Don’t get hooked on those things. They’ll kill you, especially if you mix ’em with booze.

No. No. This seems to be something different. The site was about … Shinar. You ever heard of it?

Just a little. You remember Corporal P., the guy with the Polish name about twenty letters long?

Sure. We were deployed together.

Yeah, him. Anyway, he got himself all excited about this Shinar thing and said he was going to go there. I guess he did ’cause for a while I kept getting these texts from him saying Shinar this and Shinar that, how it was the coolest place he had ever been and it was the best decision he ever made going there. Stuff like that. He started sounding like such a fanatic, I figured he had joined a cult or something. After a while, I quit texting him back. He started sounding way too weird, like he was trying to lure me there, too. You know what I mean?

Yeah, I think so. Jona felt his hopes crushed like a cockroach under a combat boot.

Why are you asking me about that place? You getting the high-pressure sales job, too?

No. Not at all. It’s just this person I was chatting with this morning, she seems so … normal. Not a nut job at all. She wants me to contact her again tomorrow. She says they may have the best help available for me there, some kind of wonder cure.

I would be kinda leery about it if I were you, Mac. I’ve heard of people going there, but I’ve never heard of anyone coming back. It’s like those Shineys are a cross between Stalin and Walt Disney or something. They’ve built the happiest gulag on earth. Jake laughed.

Well, you know what they say, if it’s too good to be true …

It probably is. Jake finished Jona’s sentence for him.

Jona was quiet as he felt the air slowly leaking from his happy balloon.

Anyway, Jona, it’s great hearing from you. I gotta go and pick up Amy from work. You still gonna text this Lisa chick tomorrow?

I’m not sure. It might be a trap. There are plenty of wolves out there preying on unsuspecting veterans.

Don’t do anything stupid, okay?

Hey, I’m a Marine. Stupid is what I get paid for. Good talking to you, Jake, Jona lied. His chest was hurting again, a lack of oxygen to his optimism cells. Thanks a million, Downer. Join the Downer Party—let Jake, your broken nutty buddy, eat your hopes alive and then spit them back in your ugly face. In less than two minutes, Jake had extinguished Jona’s beacon of hope as if it were a candle in the dark, pinched between his fingers. It was back to less than a tiny glowing ember. Luckily, Jona had purchased a fresh case of beer and had it chilled nicely in the refrigerator. He cracked open and then downed a cold one. He moped around in his apartment and made a token effort at straightening things up. It didn’t take him long to get bored, so he went out for a quick hamburger and fries. He detested eating at nicer restaurants alone. It was bad enough being around normal people even on his best days. It was even worse when the servers asked him if he wanted a drink while waiting for his nonexistent date to meet him. When he sat alone, it always looked like his girlfriend had stood him up. The gawking of the people as he ate by himself nursing a beer was excruciating. His counselor said he had social anxiety disorder. To Jona, it was simply her fancy psychobabble words for You are a broken, hopeless idiot.

Jona opted for the drive-through. He came home smelling like greasy French fries and vowing to jog an extra mile the next morning to burn off all the saturated fat. He grabbed a can of cold camaraderie and watched mindless television late into the night. Sometime after two in the morning, he fell asleep sprawled on the couch.

He awoke gasping for air and clawing at his throat, trying to loosen Private Newton’s grip around his neck. He was flat on his back on the floor in his living room. He looked up at the ceiling fan spinning and listened to its rhythmic squeaking. I’ll never get through this! he said. Jona tugged at his hair and then punched the cushion of the couch. As usual, he started for the kitchen to get his pills and beer. As he got up from the floor, he glanced at his laptop with the yellow post-it note stuck on the front. It pulled him toward it, like it was a powerful magnet and Jona was in a metal straitjacket. Well, let’s see if Lisa really is a crazy loon. Jona imagined her dressed in a drab communist military uniform wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Maybe she’s holding Corporal P. hostage at the top of the Matterhorn.

Jona logged onto the Shinar site again. There she was, Lisa, listed as one of the choices of contacts. He clicked on her name. The online chat box came up at once.

Lisa: Hi. You decided to come back. I’m glad.

Jona: Thanks. Not sleeping so well again.

Lisa: Me neither. I’m not much of a sleeper. Waste of time, if you ask me.

Jona: Did you find out anything?

Lisa: As a matter of fact, I did. Have you ever heard of Dr. Max Callison?

Jona: Nope.

Lisa: He’s a famous psychologist.

Jona: Never heard of him. He must not be that famous.

Lisa: I understand he was big out your way, too, had a talk show and everything.

Jona: Sorry. No clue.

Lisa: It seems our Dr. Callison is the foremost expert on your PTSD thing. He’s a Shinarian now, lives in 98. I spoke to him yesterday, and he said he could come to 54 for your treatment.

Jona: Does he take my VA benefits?

Lisa: What’s that?

Jona: My insurance program.

Lisa: We don’t have that kind of thing here.

Jona: So, how will I be able to pay for your illustrious Dr. Callison?

Lisa: It’s free. No need to worry about that.

Jona: No way. What’s the catch?

Lisa: No catch. It’s a pretty simple system, really. You come here to live, and Shinar takes care of everything else. We don’t use money.

Jona: You’ve gone to plastic, I take it.

Lisa: Plastic? No, we don’t need money in any form.

Jona: Don’t you guys know you can’t afford socialized health care? Free? What are you guys, a bunch of liberal democrats? We tried that once here when my dad was a kid and look where it got us—a bankrupt country without a political backbone.

Lisa: I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that everything always seems to work out perfectly here. That’s just how Shinar is.

Jona: That is really something, isn’t it? You know what they say about things being too good to be true, right?

Lisa: You sound a little skeptical. In Shinar we say, If something is true, it has to be good.

Jona: It’s hard for me not to be suspicious. I’m afraid to get my hopes up.

Lisa: I understand your doubts, but if you have no hope, what do you have?

Jona: Good point. Do you mind if I think this over some more?

Lisa: Of course not. Take as much time as you need, but can I give you a small bit of friendly advice?

Jona: Sure, as long as it’s free, go ahead.

Lisa: The sooner you decide to make the Shinar commitment, the sooner you will be well again.

Jona: How can you be so confident?

Lisa: I have never seen a failure here. If we were not able to help, you would not have made it this far in the process. It seems Shinar is willing to take a risk on you, for some reason I don’t understand.

Jona: What do you mean by that?

Lisa: I’ve never heard of someone with all your … issues being allowed to come here.

Jona: And what might those issues be?

Lisa: I reviewed your initial questionnaire. Migraines, PTSD. You told me about those. You didn’t mention your depression, suicidal ideation, alcoholism, relationship issues, narcissism, social anxiety disorder. Those came out in your answers. Do I need to keep going?

Jona: If I’m not good enough for you, don’t waste your precious Shiney time on me.

Lisa: I didn’t intend to offend you. You asked the question.

The woman’s voice from the day before started in on Lisa again. "Now you’ve upset him. Don’t run him off. I told you what has