Madolix: Second Edition

By Justice Burnaugh

Allan Brandt and his mother, the owner of a local antique store, live a quiet, mundane life in the town of Westcliff, Colorado. Though, while life may seem ordinary on the surface, Allan cant help but feel that something is impending. Beginning with a pandemic of global blackouts, Allan struggles to make sense of his surroundings as reports of strange happenings close in around him. All the while, Allan loses sleep over an unsettling nightmare, one filled with corpses, decayed forests, and underground caverns filled with thousands of iron barred jail cells.

Little does he know, Allan is destined to embark on a quest that will stretch his endurance to the limit, as he struggles to recover his kin from a force so powerful, that it threatens to enslave the only world he knows. With his hope running dry, and his strength dwindling, Allan comes to a head with this elusive enemy, an enemy that has been watching over the planet of Earth for the past 3,000 years, a force that goes by the name, Madolix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490731476

Justice Burnaugh

Justice Burnaugh moved out to Colorado in 2007 from a small town in rural Illinois. Eager to pursue a career in journalism, Burnaugh was hired on as an intern for a local paper during his senior year of high school in 2012. Later, he enrolled at the University of Colorado at Boulder to pursue a major in news-editorial. Burnaugh’s other areas of interest include creative writing, specifically, Burnaugh enjoys incorporating elements of horror and science fiction into his novels and short stories. He enjoys hiking in his free time, and when he’s not hiking, he’s usually laboring over a keyboard, typing away at his next news article or short story.

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Copyright 2014 Justice Burnaugh.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-3146-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-3147-6 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Trafford rev. 03/31/2014

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CONTENTS

Portend

2:00 A.M.

Busy Isy

Skipping Stones

Loony Lloyd

Lights Out

Storytelling

A Regular Day

Harvest

Unfinished Business

Slim Chances

The Accused

Sweet Dreams

The Land Without Limits

Blind Man Walking

A Moment To Savor

The Lone Captain

What Next?

A Weakness Worth Cherishing

The Death Element

My Dream And Yours

Memento Of Home

New Light

Dispensable Cargo

The Gurlock

A Bitter Proposal

Make It Count

Chains And Banquets

Isn’t That Beautiful?

Follow The Lamb

Last Hope

Revelation

The Girl In The Flowered Dress

The Tranquils

The Choice Is Yours

Going Home

New Focus

I

dedicate this work of art to my mother,

the passion behind the words.

PORTEND

Something different, yet familiar could be felt. Leagues of foreboding, desolate scenery were waiting before me, aching to be traversed by the footsteps of hope and prophecy. A land defunct of cheer, chilled and made barren by the shallow breath of death. My feet ache from the long miles behind me now, the pulsing pain in my heels a testament to the many long days of searching. My clothing is tattered and smudged by the land, a land cursed from war and turmoil. I look about and see nothing but a suffocating vastness of darkness and space, with nowhere to go but forward. Hope has abandoned me; the need to go forward feels robotic with each mechanical step bringing me no closer to achieving my goal. Misery and desolation have consumed me, yet something lingers—a small, meager spark of perseverance and hope, left behind like the one ember of a smoldering fire, waiting to catch flame to but the smallest twig or leaf. Nothing is certain, yet nothing ever was. But here I stand at the edge of darkness, hoping for the warmth of a new dawn.

My right leg moves forward, then comes the left and then the right. Though what I move to is not known, so long as my legs are moving, an end of whatever kind is certain. My mind aches to reveal what it is I’m searching for; it’s hidden from me now like a mourning widow behind her veil. From beneath my feet, trees begin to rise—trees not of the greenness and life that we know, but trees of a decrepit nature. Their trunks continue to grow above me at impressive speeds, growing and moving as a violent tremor shakes the ground. I look about and find myself surrounded by a grotesque forest. The leaves are grayed and brittle to the touch; they rustle menacingly in the freezing breeze. Black sap flows from the trunks and creeps downward in runs of black ooze. Unfamiliar calls and screeches beckon to me from creatures hidden in the gray foliage. The echoes of the screeches resonate through the forest, melancholy and dismal. An eerie sound of dripping comes to me from the shadows. It drips to a constant rhythm, uninterrupted; its sound is mournful and desolate.

I continue to move forward, scanning the new scenery. My right leg moves forward, then my left, each step matches the pace of the dripping. I continue forward, my heels burning with exhaustion. The dripping matches the pace of the dying motor moving me forward.

At once I feel a grasp around my leg, a pale white hand tugging tightly about my ankle, refusing to be ignored. The hand protrudes from the ground; as to what the hand is attached to, I could only speculate. I struggle frantically, fighting without avail to free myself of the menace. The grasp grows stronger as all feeling and circulation in my foot has ceased against the tightness. The hand is laced by a web of deep and tender cracks like a patch of mud that is shrunk and crisp from the scorching sun. From within the cracks flow crimson streams of blood. The rivulets cascade down the elaborate network of cracks and scars until they collect at last into the master stream near the wrist. The skin about the wrist is mangled and worn, skinned down to muscle and veins and tissue. It’s as if the hand was bound by a barbed, scalding wire, which twisted the skin and tissue into a hellish design.

Creepy%20Tree.jpg

I begin to be pulled beneath the surface by the hidden antagonist as my ankle and calf are yanked beneath the dirt. My hand grabs a nearby root to escape the submersion, but it breaks effortlessly, as if the forest itself was conspiring against me. Another tug, more powerful than the last, brings me closer to peril now that my waist has vanished out of sight beneath the ground. I take a deep breath and give into the hand’s strength and allow my upper torso to be pulled below. Then darkness engulfs me, as my head vanishes beneath the forest floor.

My breath leaves me as I fall through open space. It’s as if the ground below me is a hollow void, no dirt or ground, only open space. I continue falling through darkness until I land hard upon a thick stone floor made smooth by a thin film of water that flows over its surface. The miniature stream is fed by trickles of water coming from the ceiling above. The cavern’s cathedral ceiling seems to be of an infinite height.

I get up and continue forward, first my right foot and then my left, and again comes the right. I feel my way through the dark as I lay my hands upon the stone wall for guidance. At last I spot light in the abysmal darkness; it comes from a small torch propped inside a metal holder upon the stone wall. I lift the torch from its metal holder and move forward. The light brings new scenery into view as rows and columns of iron barred jail cells reach up to the top of the mile-high ceiling. Each of the many thousands of jail cells is barred in such a way that there are no hinges or handles; the bars are permanently set in stone, never to be removed. I move closer to one of the jail cells, shaking in apprehension of what I might find behind the bars. I look into the jail cell. My eyes widen and breath is stolen as I spot the faces of decayed bodies, stacked upon one another like timber in the dying fire light.

The torch drops from my hand and is extinguished in the film of water at my feet. I am left alone in the dark, as the torch sizzles in the cascading water.

2:00 A.M.

My head jerked rapidly off the sweat-soaked pillow, eyes darting back and forth in anticipation of what would come next. My chest felt heavy as I clutched it; my shirt rose up and down from the pounding of my startled heart. Everything seemed foreign at first, as if the room itself was a dream. Soon, as my heart rate decreased and the trembling of my hand grasping my chest lessened, I began to ease back into my surroundings. My clock was what I noticed first as my hand bumped into it, sending it to fall off the ledge of my nightstand and onto the floor. Its bell rang deafeningly. The face of the clock was illuminated by a pale blue light that streaked across the floor; it was 2:00 a.m.

These nightmares were of the same startling consistency, each ending with the decaying dead faces in the jail cell and the sudden pitch darkness that came next. The sound of the hot torch sizzling in the dampness always lingered for a few minutes after waking. I always meant to tell my mother later on during the day, but hadn’t the heart to recall the nightmare; its content was better left unspoken. With each time the dream repeated itself, it became more distinct—the faces became more detailed and ghastly, the sound of the sizzling torch more haunting and memorable.

I had often intended to decipher the dream through research or somebody with the right expertise, but I feared the dream’s meaning; I feared what it might portend. I rose from my bed, holding my bedpost for support against the sleep. I began walking about the room, taking great pleasure in the familiarity of my surroundings. I walked past my window, watching through the partially open blinds as I slid my hand upon the windowsill, collecting a thin coat of dust. A light mist of rain blanketed the town and cooled the night air; my warm breath cast an irregular blotch of fog against the cold window. The vacant parking lots and store windows gave the town a serene, peaceful atmosphere. The crackling of gravel could be heard as a single car rolled past on Main Street. Its headlights cast a strong glare on the windows, and its lonely passage through the sleeping town went unnoticed as it disappeared into the night.

A breeze was beginning to pick up, which made the trees lean slightly. The wind hummed through the pine needles, as if it were playing the trees like harps. The wind’s melody always eased my worries, much like the reassurance a frightened child feels at night knowing his parents are just down the hall.

I turned from my window and roamed about my bedroom, still feeling the hovering gloom of the dream about me. Its wiry long fingers still seeped into my mind. I tried to replace the unease with a pleasant memory, some sort of comforting nostalgic moment. I opened the top drawer of my dresser, reaching into its dark chamber. I rummaged through countless scraps of paper and miscellaneous knickknacks until my hand came across the cool exterior of a brass container. I took it and sat back down at the edge of my bed. I placed it beside me on the soft comforter and flicked on the switch of my night lamp. The beam of light that poured from behind the shade brought both relief and unease. I feared what the light might reveal in the dark corners of my room. My eyes were forced to retreat behind the barrier of my hand, a blockade against the blinding bright light.

Once my eyes adjusted, I picked up the container and placed it on my lap. It was tarnished and worn; a large dent and many others made small dimples upon its aged surface. Its hinges were stiff from age and squealed as I opened it. Its top was marked by the insignia of two large mountains. The twin peaks were rough and snowcapped; small wistful clouds hovered just below their peaks. Inside was a collection of photos. They were neatly stacked but in no particular order. Each one encompassed a specific moment in time, preserving what my memory had long since distorted and fractured. Memories are such fragile things; preservation is key. These rectangular six-by-four-inch time capsules were the formaldehyde of my past, preserving my life like a taxonomist would his specimens.

As I began flipping through the pictures, the room was filled with a familiar snapping sound as the edges clicked past one another, each moving from the top to the bottom of the stack. Their edges had become worn, with the corners bent and creased. It would seem these time capsules were also suffering from the pestilence of time that brings old age and wear to all things. But for the moment, the container would be enough to defend them against the juggernaut of age.

The nightmare was beginning to dwindle, its essence losing its grip over my mind. Just as the stagnant and hushed river at last overcomes the thick, concrete tomb of a dam, my memories had been awoken from their slumber. The reminiscent tidal wave was washing over the nightmare, whose knees began to buckle and snap. Its horror was drowned out by the constant flipping of the pictures, until its ruins sank beyond all thought and memory, forgotten and defeated.

I came at last to the center of the stack, freshly awoken memories moving about my mind. It was a picture of my mother and me, our arms about each other’s shoulders as we stood in the living room of our new home in Westcliff, Colorado. A mountain of brown cardboard boxes stood towering around us. Our faces were tired from the move yet renewed by the prospect of something new and our smiles were wide and full of optimism. My hair was disheveled from falling asleep in the car; my T-shirt was wrinkled, and though I was fully awake, my eyes were still shrouded by a drowsy haze. My mother appeared much the same way, but sleep wasn’t a luxury she had enjoyed on the road; her eyes still drowsy. Her hair, wound in a braid that lay across her shoulder, was frizzy and messy from the long two-day trip from our home in Georgia.

The move west was our way of escaping the past. Shortly after my grandfather died, our home in Georgia was a constant reminder of our loss. He was involved in a fatal car accident on his way into town, freezing rain had blanketed the road beneath a glade of ice. We had no reason to remain in Georgia, there were no other family members in the state. The West offered a sense of opportunity, a chance for a fresh start. Mom had always wanted to live in the mountains, and so did my grandfather. Our venture west was her way of honoring his memory.

Colorado’s majesty and magnificence, which at first took my breath away, quickly became the norm of scenery. Yet its far sweeping valleys and boulder-riddled cliffs continue to awe me. The towering Rockies extend to the heavens as if it’s man’s stepping stool to God. I’m inspired by the elegant curve of the mountain peaks in the distance, their ridges catching the last of the sun’s light, as the orange and pink tinted horizon gives way to the pitch of night. The silver tint of the moon upon the green pine needles of an evergreen forest reveals a world seen only through the absence of sunlight.

As I continued flipping through the photos; the nightmare was completely forgotten. I came to the bottom of the stack. I focused and meditated on the contents of this one specific picture. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself traveling back through space and time to that moment. I rewound hours, minutes, and seconds as the pistons and gears of my mind worked tirelessly, returning me to that moment. From the behind my clamped eyelids, clouds began to emerge. Their white, shapeless forms stretched over a bright blue canvas. A breeze played the leaves of the aspen like chimes, its melody too pure to be mimicked by the hands of man. I was sitting up against the rough bark of a pine tree, the tree’s strong aroma a remedy for the troubled mind. As I sat on the ground at the tree’s base, I ran my hand through the cool grass, collecting twigs and dirt as I did.

I felt comfort at that moment. Soothing serenity surrounded me and left me renewed. The second hand’s incessant ticking awoke me from my trance. Fatigue returned to my body, yet my spirit was revitalized and fully aware. My bed lured me back to sleep as my head sank deeply back into the pillow and my body grew numb from exhaustion. Peaceful dreams enthralled me.

BUSY ISY

A July morning found its way into my domain as its elegant rays of light peeled back the night sky, arousing the melodies of birds and the bustle of daily life. Though a beautiful Colorado morning has and always will be therapeutic to any troubles that befall my mind, mornings were never my area of expertise. Contrary to morning’s comforting attributes, they always seemed a bit on the intrusive side. The morning light roused me from my bed and stung my eyes as if the sun was scorning me for my drowsiness.

My mind was still in a fog as I sat slumped on the edge of my bed. I ran my fingers through my wild, untamed hair and tried to clear my mind. I struggled to plan out the day’s agenda as I fought against the gnawing of sleep. The nightmare was still in the background of my mind, but its contents were hazy. I nuzzled my toes into the warm, cozy fibers of the rug at my bedside and closed my eyes. I arched my back and stretched forth my arms as if I were fitting myself into a new skin that would accompany me throughout the day.

I reached my hand into a bright stream of light. The individual hairs on my arm glinted as a tingling sensation of warmth grasped my arm. The sun continued to rise above the tree line as a powerful flood of light filled my room with its golden radiance rising to my ceiling. The coldness of the night fled from the east, abandoning its post.

The town returned to life as cars began to pull out of driveways and into parking lots; the neon lights in store windows read open. A magnificent sea of green pine needles stretched into the distance beyond the town and formed a colossal wave of green as it ascended Ute Peak. The mountain owes its name to the town’s founding Native American Ute fathers. Though only a few full-blooded Native Americans remained within city limits, their heritage was