From Here To Atlantis

By Charles Justus Garard

If a second journey were being made delving into the earth after an earthquake opened a passageway -- one that will take you to ancient ruins of a subterranean village that may have been originally part of Atlantis, would you go? And what if on a high ledge above that village you find a remnant of a time capsule from space that existed before the time of Atlantis, one that could take you back to that lost civilization, would you make the ultimate time journey?
Sloan Abbott, a bookish academic with the learned ability to successfully remote view, is added to the crew chosen to make the second journey inside a new fissure in the earth to locate a missing British explorer. He is chosen by Lesley Hayden, world-traveled archaeologist. Both are interested in the legend of the lost civilization of Atlantis, Sloan having seen it from the air in a remote viewing session. Lesley also believes that it actually existed. Ex-military leader of the expedition, Alan Rhinehart, clearly believes that Sloan's being a scholar does not qualify him for a possibly dangerous mission. Marvin Chou is the timid electronics expert who comes to believe that Sloan does not like Asians because of a bad experience with an Asian girl friend.
After their decent beneath the earth in a vehicle called the Mole-Car, they discover an abandoned ancient village enclosed in a pocket of barely breathable air and faintly glowing cavern walls. Gradually accumulated evidence leads them to believe that this is a remnant of the lost civilization, pushed inside the earth by an extraterrestrial projectile that struck and destroyed the civilization. At one point, Alan abandons the crew by stealing the Mole-Car but returns with a new crew whom he recruited for suspicious purposes. Sloan and Lesley climb inside the cavern walls and ascend to one of the high ledges which supports a temple. Marvin remains in the city and is joined by Alan's crew of freebooters.
Inside the temple, Sloan and Lesley discover a piece of the projectile that originally struck Atlantis, only to realize that it is machine sent through space to gather information along a timeline. Both of them have visions of Atlantis. Lesley disappears and Sloan is eventually swept up into a vortex -- a time tunnel which deposits him with a tribe of woman who are enemies of Atlantis. He gets involved in a battle and is taken prisoner, only to meet Sir Percy, the British explorer who had been party of the first party to explore inside the earth.
When he eventually ends up in the center of Atlantis, he meets Lesley in the guise of a beautiful lady of royalty -- her own distant ancestor. Sloan develops a relationship of sorts with the now-captive leader of the tribe of agricultural women, but she is threatened when she and the other women prisoners are put into an arena to die at the hands of Atlantean gladiators. Sloan, Percy, and Lesley must also decide which of them is to return to deal with Alan and the others back in the subterranean village in our own time. The other two want to remain in Atlantis and take their chances with the fleeing survivors. Some choice!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Justus Garard
• Release date: Apr 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990343530

Charles Justus Garard

I am a retired PhD in literature and writing who taught for sixteen years at a private college in Atlanta, at a university and community college back in my home state of Illinois, and for seven years in the People's Republic of China. Before finishing my degrees and becoming a professor, I worked in film advertising for two theatre companies in Illinois and sold advertising for a community newspaper in Missouri. Since returning to the USA in 2012, I have been devoting my time to writing. I do have one print book published as a scholarly evaluation of books made into films, focusing on British author John Fowles. My hope now is to continue my struggles to publish fiction novels that I have been working on for years. Two novels based on my teaching experiences in China are FORBIDDEN VOICES and FOREIGNERS AND EMPERORS, which are semi-fictional exposes.. The recently completed and available is the third novel in The Alex Barteau Asian Series titled SMS; THE SCAMMERS. This e-book novel deals with characters from the Philippines as well as from China. My science-fiction novels include a time-travel mystery called OF TIME AND THE DREAMER, a time-travel adventure titled FROM HERE TO ATLANTIS, and a work about an extraterrestrial occupation in a small town called CIRCLES AND REALM. First completed and available is a trilogy of paranormal (horror) novels called the DARK JOURNEYS TRILOGY, followed by a fourth novel in the DARK JOURNEYS series called DARK TWILIGHT. The fifth novel is tentatively titled CURSE OF THE LAMIAI. Featuring many of the same characters in OF TIME AND THE DREAMER is the follow-up time-travel novel titled ISLANDS IN TIME. Recently completed and posted is the semi-fictional experience based on characters from the Philippines titled SMS: THE SCAMMERS. I really appreciate the sweat and mental trials that authors must go through, and I hope to continue my support for my colleagues through group sites through Facebook. Thank you all for support by continuing to read literature -- in whatever format. Right now, the USA is in fifth place among the countries in the world with the most educated people. I hope we can change that by showing that we are not only good at playing computer games. Connect with Charles Justus Garard: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/charles.g.phd Twitter: https://twitter.com/chukk0913 Blog: http://www.virgostone.wordpress.com Smashwords Interview: https://www.smashwords.com/interview/chukkgarard Smashwords profile page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/chukkgarard Web site: https://www.the-alternate-world-of-cjg.com

Book preview

In the vast expanse of space, Sloan saw the gaseous, dust-filled nebulae glowing within the spiral and elliptical galaxies. He saw stars as super-giant organisms, macrocosmic amoebas heating up and exploding through the phases, becoming red giants.

Chunks of debris flew through space. One large meteoroid gathered debris and changed shape as it shot forward like a projectile. Traveling at the rate of several kilometers per second, it insinuated itself into the solar system where the planets orbiting around the central star had been given Roman names by the inhabitants of the third planet. Some residents of the third planet had named their star Sol, but most merely referred to it as the sun.

On a bright day before recorded history, Sloan saw the third planet’s clear blue ocean hundreds of centuries before it would be named the Atlantic.

Atlas, he thought. Atlan. Atlantis.

Caution: don’t name what you see. Don’t rely upon your brain to make sense of the impressions that came in. Just make cryptic notes. Record the vague images and then fill them in later.

From a position high in the air, he looked down on a massive metropolis floating on its own natural island in the midst of the great ocean. Concentric rings surrounded the city’s urban zone, and between each ring was a moat of water large enough to contain sea vessels.

After a long moment, Sloan focused on details in the streets and alleyways of the urban center. Bronze-skinned titans drove chariots along the wider thoroughfares or milled about in the stone-surfaced agora. Both men and women wore gowns of an elegant material draped over their right shoulders, garments that exposed the left breasts of the women. Some women wore conical hats while the men went bare-headed, but both sexes wore shells and teeth on strings around their necks.

He sketched an image of a light-haired woman who strolled along with a basket balanced on her head. He watched people enter and leave the huge buildings that faced the street: block-shaped buildings with stone pillars carved in the shape of bound saplings.

Without warning, the bright sky became brighter. Heads turned upward. People squinted. The blonde-haired woman looked up, and dropped her basket, and clutched her eyes in agony. Blinded, she tried to run but only collided with others who scattered in all directions.

Green at its center, surrounded by the red glow of hydrogen and towing a serpent’s tail behind it, the projectile glowed hotter and whiter as it streaked through the planet’s atmosphere. It plummeted toward the island.

Everything before Sloan’s eyes became white. Then white became black as billowing smoke choked the heavens. He heard the explosion that buffeted him in the dark . . . .

*

Blackest night lightened slowly into a pink-tinted dawn. Even at this hour, Sloan Abbott sweated profusely and swatted at insects.

Hate this rainforest, he thought.

He stood immobile on the platform at the edge of the crevice, but instead of looking down into it, he looked away, down into the heart of the early morning Yucatan darkness. Spread out below him was the vine-draped rainforest with its levees and bayous, a morass of churning movement, yielding only grudgingly to the groaning jeep that gradually penetrated it.

He lifted his head only long enough to look at the sky that gradually grew pale over the horizon, at the capsule-shaped object silhouetted at the end of the crane, and then looked down again. This area of the living rainforest was dotted with the bluish-white lights of the temporary buildings. The watch-lights of a security fence created silhouettes of huge drilling rigs as well as the dish receivers of the portable earth stations.

Sloan watched the yellow headlights of the jeep that probed its way toward the site. Flashlights blinked on and armed security guards who milled about at the perimeter approached the vehicle. They jabbed beams of light into the faces of the two passengers, and even from this distance, Sloan could recognize Alan Rhinehart and Marvin Chou.

Alan pulled himself out of the front seat to allow a security officer to examine him.

Marvin removed the jipi from his head to allow the guards to identify his Asian face and flopped it onto the seat. He lifted his knapsack out of the back seat and tossed it over his shoulder. Once identified, Marvin stepped past the electrically charged wires of the gate and shuffled toward the site. Slowly, he climbed up the incline that led to the gaping mouth of the crevice.

Alan remained behind long enough to mutter something into the ear of Arturo, the bulky, long-haired driver from Campeche. Arturo nodded back at him.

Arturo backed the jeep away from the perimeter fence and sped off into the dark.

Alan followed Marvin, his tightly laced boots thudding heavily on the ground as he ascended the incline. His strong hands gripped fallen limbs and roots as he ascended, and he moved swiftly like an upright gorilla familiar with the requirements of climbing terrain that others would find daunting.

Sloan envied him. His own hands clutched the platform chains until his fingers felt like stone. The chains glowed crimson from the nearby warning light. The light seemed to flood his right eye with a bloody wash.

Sloan, Marvin approached him, nodding. "Ni hao?"

How am I? Sloan shrugged. "Wo hen hao, xiexie."

Really? You don’t look very well.

I know. I’m lying. He set his back-pack down onto the platform and peered over the inner edge. Ahhh. Shit!

The seemingly bottomless chasm was illuminated for the first hundred meters by countless work lights that had been strung in rows. Heavy metal grids and catwalks had been secured to the inside wall but only near the top.

I am nervous -- how you say it -- as hell.

Hell may be where we’re going, Buddy. That or the pit of Tartarus.

Marvin let out a loud exhalation of air. "Dui bu qi." His half-whisper descended and then returned as an echo.

Don’t be sorry, said Sloan. We both agreed to it. Because he lowered his chin as he spoke, his echo added, It - it.

Marvin shrugged. Tartar . . . Okay. Whatever. He picked up the back-pack and slogged across the breakaway catapult to the vehicle held suspended above the chasm by the crane’s huge grapplers.

The masculine form that erupted out of the darkness metamorphosed into Alan. Silhouetted against the work lights, the top strands of his blond hair seemed to glow white. What‘re you doing out here? Where’s Lesley - ley - ley?

Inside the Mole-Car-ar- ar.

Alan stomped past him, slowing his pace only when he marched stiffly across the catwalk. He reached the circular hatch; he gripped the outer edges of the entryway; then he swung back and grinned. You change your mind about coming along, Doctor A? His eyes flicked back and forth from Sloan to the yawning chasm as his own echo resurfaced.

I’m coming, General -al - al.

Alan’s grin faded. With your right leg shaking - ing - ing?

Sloan looked down at his right foot. His heel was pumping madly, stirring his entire leg into motion. He stopped the movement but didn’t respond. He instead watched Alan melt into the interior of the capsule.

In this strange light, the Mole-Car capsule wasn’t a subterranean vehicle; it was a mobile execution chamber with tank treads. The indentations for the movable camera portals were barely visible in the outer skin, and the shield for the bubble-dome fit so tightly, so securely, that it was nearly invisible.

Rescue and exploration mission, Sloan had heard this trip labeled. Try to find some old Brit scholar who got lost inside of a crevice that had recently split open in the earth’s crust due to devastating earthquake. Record and photograph what he and others had found inside this newly exposed cavity – digital photos to be downloaded onto computers, digital and negative photos. Videotape and digital moving footage with the Go-Pro attached to his helmet -- that was Marvin Chou’s job.

But it was more than that; Sloan’s job was not only to see and record the present. He was making this journey to view this site as it had looked to him in the distant past.

When Sloan climbed into the nose cavity area of the Mole-Car, Lesley Hayden was already settled into her gyro-controlled seat. Her grey eyes regarded him curiously, and she smiled. You okay, this morning?

Relatively. You’re the third one to ask me.

Lesley nodded. With her index finger, she swept from her forehead strands of grey-white hair that had separated from her black hair. She wore her hair short in the back, where strands of grey hair tried to hide among the black hair, but had kept it thick and full on her crown. Then she produced a tentative grin for his benefit and checked her seat belt. The lycra-like material of her one-piece insulated suit was as unflattering as the one that he and the others wore.

Alan pulled himself up into the still-covered navigational bubble. You may have Dr. Reeves’ seat on this trip, Sloan, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re a mundane. You’re just a tourist.

Dr. Hamilton Reeves was the chief archaeologist and head of the site excavations. Only his recent stroke, according to Dr. Lesley Hayden -- his assistant, fellow archaeologist, mythologist, and mid-east ancient world scholar—kept him from making this particular journey, an act of fate that put Sloan in his seat instead. Sloan, however, was not a scientist, but, then again, neither was the retired Army officer Alan Rhinehart.

Sloan shifted his gaze from Alan back to Lesley. Only Lesley knows why I’m here. He seated himself next to Marvin in the vehicle’s cockpit and looked around as he breathed quickly through his nostrils and gritted teeth. He gripped the gyro-seat, felt the lycra-like material of his one-piece insulated suit, and clutched the safety belt.

What happens if it gets too hot down there -- inside or outside?

We have radar and sensors in the nosecone. Marvin nodded toward the front of the vehicle. As he did, his glasses dropped down on his nose. Also, we can determine the temperature gradient by inserting a probe into the earth and measuring it with the electronic thermister. You’ll see. When we get out, your helmet faceplate can open if the air’s oxygen content is sufficient. He pointed to the mini-oxygen tank strapped to Sloan’s seat. There’ll be more oxygen for your helmet when we get out. You’ll have that mini-tank strapped to your sleeve.

His right hand fell upon the oxygen mask. Okay, Sloan snorted. That part I know. I went through the training sessions too. I even learned how we shit in these suits if we need to. But they didn’t mention any portable air conditioning units.

We found we didn’t need them the first trip, said Lesley. We learned a lot during that trip. That’s why our suits and helmets were specifically modified. We have a tiny microphone inside each helmet if we need it. You can either speak through it to earphones in the other helmets or lift your faceplate.

And made in China, right?

Marvin stared at him, surprised. Yes. Made by Chinese workers who earn less than one thousand RMB a month – in plants run by foreigners who make huge profits because of Chinese slave labor.

Whoa. Sloan grimaced. And what percentage of the upper class in your country own a vast majority of the wealth. And how many of the poor still use mules in the streets?

Marvin shook his head.

Alan overheard this. You got something against the Chinese, Professor?

No, said Sloan. "I’m sorry. Dui bu qi, Marvin."

Not against all Chinese, said Lesley. Only those Chinese women who move out on him.

Okay. Sloan sank into his seat. Thanks for sharing that.

Lesley blushed and sat silently.

The acrid smell of café coffee returned to Sloan’s nostrils, and the sounds of the street orchestrated a cacophony in his memory. She was again the willow that she had been on the sidewalk café and, again, for only a second, he saw the short skirt she had been wearing.

When the heat left his cheeks and brow, Sloan narrowed his attention to the circular data blocks on the console in front of him, at the glowing green lines and figures that twisted and gyrated. On one screen was a green outline of the Mole-Car, poised like a green cartoon-spider at the center of her web.

Our computer will be in constant contact with the computer on the surface, Marvin continued. Efre′n de Landas monitors every move we make. Everything that goes on, he reports to Dr. Reeves.

Hold on, said Alan. He began to count.

Countdown not necessary, said Lesley.

The warning alarm sounded.

*

Chapter Two

The Gorge and the Chasm

Sloan felt a sudden lurch; then the vehicle began to drop. His stomach shifted as an invisible void seemed to open up beneath him. He gritted his teeth and let his breath whoosh out through his nostrils. In his mind, he saw the black jaws of the chasm open up to swallow them. Don’t think about it.

As they fell, he suddenly saw the inside of a dark closet. He saw this from the level of a small boy, and the woman closing the door on him was his mother.

He jumped. He studied his own hands: adult hands once again.

Whew. Where did that come from?

He looked at Lesley.

Lesley was gazing at the image of the Mole-Car on the monitor, watching it plummet past the work lights and catwalks and construction cables that snaked everywhere around the sheer walls.

It’s not real, Sloan told himself. It was only CGI effects in a movie sliding quickly upward.

Lesley suddenly turned, as if she had sensed his looking in her direction. She saw him looking at the screen image; when his gaze met hers, she smiled. Just pretend--

I know, he said. I’m trying to.

She nodded. Then she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

A loud beeping sound opened her eyes. She looked at Sloan, at Marvin.

Solid surface, Alan told them. Touch down. Grapplers disengaging.

She looked up at Alan. The seats rotated as the vehicle shifted into a horizontal position.

Through the forward view screen, they saw the powerful beams of the nose-mounted headlights as they sliced through the blackness in front of them.

A rasping sound filled the vehicle.

Sloan sucked in his breath.

The outside panels, he saw, slid away to uncover the side portals. The outer-shell lights flicked on, exposing a view of huge stone blocks closely fitted together to form walls.

Man-made, Sloan exhaled. That’s--

A chamber. Lesley spun in her chair to look through the portholes on her right.

On the main panel, over Marvin’s shoulder, Sloan saw the computer numerals glowing as the data logged in. Dimensions of this chamber: 107.59 by 110.95 meters.

Chamber? Sloan echoed. Built by whom?

By the Chinese, said Marvin, for 20,000 RMB.

Sloan glared at him. Okay, Marvin. I apologized.

Lesley merely pointed toward the viewfinder for the digital cameras that had been installed in the hull.

Sloan nodded. Right. Do my job. He pressed his face against the viewfinder.

Stones. Seemingly kilometer after kilometer of fitted stones, they were no longer special effects.

Ahead, said Alan. Over to the left - the black opening. Looks like a hole.

Through the viewer, Sloan finally picked up something that defied definition, a black hole that, because of the vibrations created by the turning of the wheels over the rough terrain, blurred out of focus. The lights don’t pick up much. It sharpened for a moment and then again blurred as the vehicle edged toward it. Sloan released the exposure trigger. I can’t take pictures of a hole, of blackness.

It’s a ventilation conduit, said Lesley. At least, that’s what we figured. A conduit or a tunnel.

To where?

You’ll see. Just hold on. We have a sharp incline here.

How sharp?

We’ll make it. We did before.

Sloan thumped his head back against the padded headrest. Great. He again tightened his grip on the chair and prayed that the seat belts would hold.

The tunnel amplified the Mole-Car’s loud humming echo as it crawled along the downward spiral like an insect through a drainpipe.

Sloan wiped his wet palms on the heavy material of his pants. The humming sound grated on his nerves. He thought of the dentist’s drill and how he hated the sound as much as the pain it caused. He always tried to delay it, and breathe a sigh of relief when it was through making inroads in his teeth. Again through the viewer: a vast terrain of shadowy, indeterminable boundaries. Holeeee shit!!

Lesley jerked her head toward him. What is it?

He