Within the Labyrinth

By Brenden Hantges

Welcome to Zephyrus: the isolated town in the valley by the ocean. My name is Cid. Let me show you around. All the people here in this deranged fantasyland are unknowingly part of an elaborate game being played on them by the elites in the mega-metropolis, Tartarus, one hundred and eleven forbidden miles away. With one exception: one person who is completely off limits and uninhabitable: his name is Atticus, and he has just arrived.

It all begins the morning Lindsay finds him washed up on the beach, with broken pieces of raft adrift in the choppy ocean waters nearby. His sudden and mysterious arrival triggers a wild series of insanely psychotic events. Soon after finding Atticus, Lindsay experiences a glitch in her mind, when she hears a strange mans voice in her head. This frightening malfunction steers her down a long, disturbing path of pain and paranoia, as she curiously follows its eerie trail to the haunting truth within the labyrinth

Atticus awakes to find he has no memory of anything prior to his arrival in Zephyrus (other than the thing which followed him). The doctors diagnosis is amnesia, yet there seems to be more to the story than thatthey just dont know what yet. Crooked Council member and psychiatrist, Doctor Lyman, runs a battery of tests on him (while secretly implanting his microchip), before releasing him into the town. Reluctantly, Atticus is sent to live in a halfway house full of addicts and drunks, where he meets his best friend and his lover. But this living arrangement is only temporary. His curiosity and ambition will take him on a twisted journey of no returna kaleidoscopic odyssey with terribly grave consequences. He then sets his sights on finding a way out of the strictly confined town of Zephyrus, and to the neon, futuristic city of Tartarus. And also, to becoming the very first person to successfully surmount the insurmountable Mount Erebusthe schizophrenic, mythological mountain whose summit is perpetually shrouded with clouds. Problem is, wherever he goes, the monster goes too. It follows him around, like a black cloud, infecting everything...

Beneath it all, a war is waging: a cosmic showdown between the Dark and the Light: a fight for the throne which Satan currently occupies. A throne usurped from His creator, God, in the last great conflagration. But now the Devils long, treacherous reign is in jeopardy, as forces of the Light are rising up

Atticus and Lindsay soon find themselves at the center of it all, in the mind-bending eye of the storm. Both wish to get to the truth, but quickly realize it wont be easy. The terrifying conspiracy keeps getting bigger and bigger, as they fall, further and further down the rabbit hole, each on a dangerous collision course set to crash against the most powerful forces in the universe

Sooo, brace yourself, and be warned: you may experience some turbulence. This voyage is not for the faint of heart.

And just rememberits only a game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546247579

Book preview

© 2018 Brenden Hantges. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Brett Rosepiler - brettrosepiler@instagram

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/20/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4758-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4757-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018907203

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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.

King James Version (KJV)

Scriptures were taken from The King James Version of The Bible - Public Domain.

CONTENTS

I

Genesis

WTL

II

III

IV

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VII

VIII

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XXX

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Nadir

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XXX

III

Ne plus ultra

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X

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XXX

Where I end and you begin

For Andy

Hello…

You there?

            Okay…

                Hi… Here we go…

My name is Cid. They call me Cid.

I’m going to tell you a terrible and fascinating truth. But there’s only one way i think i can help you understand. You won’t believe me. No one will. But i have to try. So if you can hear my voice, i beg you, please listen…there isn’t much time.

They all think I’m CRAZY, but they’re wrong. They’re the crazy ones, not me! You discover something Earth-shattering and they lock you up for it, shut you away—so what do you think?! Was it a mistake to go after them? i don’t know. Probably. i don’t think i had a choice though. i was compelled, driven by forces too intelligent to comprehend. They lured me, reeled me out and cut the string. They wanted me to find them, just to see if i could, to see what might happen. But make no mistake, everything i found i found because they allowed me to—that’s the kind of GAME we’re in. It may not make sense at first, but if you listen close, i think you’ll understand…

                                                But

                                                    you

                                                        can

                                                            de

                                                                cide

                                                                    for

                                                                        yo

                                                                            ur

                                                                                self………

I

G e n e s i s

W HO IS HE?"

His name is Atticus. We found him washed up on the shore. Well, Lindsay found him, anyway.

How’d you get the name?

Really took to Lindsay I s’pose. She got it out of him before he went out.

Hm.

Yes.

Where do you suppose he came from?

Don’t know.

Hm. Think I do. I’ll have a word with him now.

Very good, sir.

Oh, and Patty, before you go, tell Lindsay I’d like to speak with her for a moment.

Very good, sir.

A minute later Lindsay appeared at the door of Doctor Lyman’s office.

Patty said you wanted to see me? Lindsay said, peering into the room.

Yes. Come in, dear, Lyman said, waving a hand. And shut the door, if you would.

She gently slid the sliding glass door closed. Once she entered, Doctor Lyman hit a switch on his desk that turned the transparent glass a milky opaque. This was a high-tech, suspended particle device feature built in all the executive offices within the tower.

Lindsay peripherally caught the sudden change in environment. She stood for a moment, observing the room. It was her first time in here. It was a large office—austere, she noticed, but elegant. The walls were an eggshell white. Behind Doctor Lyman’s desk was a large window overlooking the town of Zephyrus.

There was only one piece of décor within the office (other than the many plaques and framed certificates mounted). Hung in the center of the wall to her left was the famous oil painting of The Raft of the Medusa—a quality replica by the French artist Théodore Géricault. It portrayed a stark, dramatic scene of people crammed on a wooden raft, adrift on choppy ocean waters, floating from the aftermath of the wreck of the French naval frigate Méduse. The mood of the scene was poignant and gloomy. The people, equally so—for they appeared to be suffering, not unlike the people trapped in Dante’s Hell as depicted by the artist Gustave Dore in The Dore Illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy.

To Lindsay, the painting elicited a sense of foreboding that made her slightly uneasy, though she couldn’t quite place why. Something about that darkness resembled too closely what she had just come across that morning. The boy, Atticus, unconscious on the black sand beach just beyond their little town within the valley. Chunks of broken wood were strewn around him and adrift in the crashing ocean water nearby.

A broken raft.

Where had he come from? Lindsay had asked herself a thousand times now. She was vaguely aware of a strange anticipation now fermenting inside her. Some pivotal change had just crashed upon their secluded little land. Something radical—but she didn’t know what. Not yet. But she sensed, in time, she would. And she had no idea just how right she’d be…

Lovely, isn’t it? the doctor said, as he watched Lindsay studying the bleak piece of art, watching her with an expression of wry amusement. His voice startled her, tore her attention away from that dread of foreboding and that uncanny anticipation. She turned back to him.

Sorry, she said apologetically.

He smiled patiently.

It’s…I don’t know? Kinda dark.

"It is. But sometimes it’s in the dark where we find the greatest beauty. It’s called The Raft of the Medusa. Interesting story behind it, really. True story, at that. But why don’t you come sit down for a minute. I can tell you about that later." His arm gestured to the black leather chair before his lavish oak wood desk.

Okay, she said tentatively, and took a seat.

Tell me about what happened this morning.

Well, there’s not much to tell, really. I was just running—like I usually do in the morning—and I saw a figure lying on the beach—like half in the water, half on the shore. If he hadn’t been wearing a white shirt I probably wouldn’t have noticed him, the sand being so dark and all. I ran down to see what it was and saw that it was a boy.

Atticus.

Yes. What he said, anyway.

Do you have reason to doubt him?

No. I mean… No.

I see. Was he conscious when you found him?

Um, no actually. I had to shake him a little, then he woke up. Wasn’t sure he was alive at first. He looked ghostly pale and empty.

And what did he say once he saw you?

What Lindsay failed to mention was that before Atticus awoke, she had taken something from him. She saw a shiny item in the grip of his limp hand, something that sparkled in the reflection of the red morning sun—a sun poised perfectly between two heavy banks of dark clouds, low on the horizon across the raging ocean to the east. The green sea was particularly choppy that morning, as if another storm was approaching (for one had just ended—one that had lasted almost a week), and those ominous heaps of black clouds both thick and dark as night punctuated the stark scenery all around her. But mysteriously imprinted within those dark clouds on either side of the sun were strange designs—swirls of gray and blue and silver—creating a sort of enigmatic and ethereal effect, simultaneously both pleasing and disturbing to the eye—especially coupled with the red morning sun poised in such level position between them. The burning star looked like a massive eye glowering down at her, illuminating the treasure within this crashed stranger’s hand—directing her attention towards it…beckoning her. There was something omniscient in that fateful morning, she sensed. Something stirred from deep within her being—something archaic, inexplicable. She reached down to grab the glistening item from his hand and saw it was a golden ring with three letters engraved on it:

W T L

It was strung through a silver stainless steel chain necklace. She held the chain up as the ring dangled down before her bright green eyes, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

W T L, she pronounced to herself. I wonder what that means. The ring aroused in her a swelling curiosity, as if she had stumbled upon some sacred treasure whose meaning was shrouded in ancient mystery. Her stomach churned and a sudden thrilling anticipation seized her. Lindsay looked around, then surreptitiously pocketed the ring. She then tried to wake the strange boy again—a boy who had unexplainably appeared from the ocean, it would seem…

He said nothing, Lindsay replied to Doctor Lyman. He just stared up at me with this look of…I don’t know…bewilderment? He looked a little frightened and lost, I thought, like he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten here. He has these beautiful pale grey eyes. His stare was penetrating, like he recognized me or something. I was kinda thrown off, to be honest.

Why’s that? Lyman inquired, leaning forward, propping his bony elbows on his desk.

Because, his eyes were…I don’t know? How do I put it? There was something in them, something oddly familiar. I don’t know exactly. Probably just a feeling though, given the peculiar situation, you know?

Hm.

"Yeah… Then I told him my name. I told him where he was. I asked him if he could understand me—because he must be a foreigner, right? There aren’t any towns remotely near here other than Tartarus—and that’s over a hundred miles from the ocean, not even accessible. Not even close…

I didn’t know if he spoke our language or not. But he just kept looking at me with a certain knowing. It made me uncomfortable at first. Almost like he knew me. Like I said. Kinda like he was waking up from a dream or something. And it’s weird because a part of me felt like I recognized him, too. It’s all a little silly. I know how this must sound.

I assure you it’s not, dear, Lyman said reassuringly. His arrival is more significant than you might imagine. But how did that make you feel? A feeling such as you describe is pretty uncommon.

Doctor Lyman observed an inordinate excitement in Lindsay’s tone and body language as she recounted the event just prior to getting to the hospital tower. (The hospital tower, as Lyman referred to it as, was actually called Ares Tower, and served not only the town’s hospital functions, but also as the town’s central bank, the ruling Council’s Headquarters, and other administrative purposes. The tower was fifty stories high with a massive spire that reached an extra hundred feet above it.)

Lindsay’s demeanor rose and fell in a constant flux of varying emotions. This intrigued him, made him all the more curious about the boy—about finding out exactly where he’d come from and how he’d managed to arrive here on just a makeshift, wooden raft. It certainly wasn’t the usual method of delivery. It was impossible, Lyman thought. No, he corrected, just highly improbable. But undoubtedly there was an explanation. He, too, felt the connection between The Raft of the Medusa and Atticus’s sudden appearance.

If the boy truly was a foreigner, and had arrived by sea, then he had come from the other side. This notion created in him a sensation not unlike the one Lindsay was describing: not just in her words, but in the vibrational frequency she now emitted. Her energy radiated something powerful…something omniscient: the possible onset of a greater revelation. Indeed, something peculiar was happening, and he intended to find out what. Being an intellectual and a doctor licensed not only in medicine, but in psychiatry, he found he was berating himself for not knowing the answer already. This not-knowing nagged at him, creating a frustration that he found utterly unacceptable. As one of the few selected leaders of their small, isolated town, he would make sure that all available surveillance was up and running so he could closely monitor the boy henceforth, so he could understand all he needed to understand in order to assuage the thorn he now felt twisting in his side.

It was odd, Lindsay continued, as she grabbed her long brunette hair in both hands and tied it into a ponytail. (Doctor Lyman had to consciously control his facial features, so as not to betray his perverse attraction to the young girl sitting before him. She’s only eighteen, he reminded himself. And way out of your league, another taunting voice inside him added. Bullshit! he fired back, with an inner scowl.) "Like part of me was a little scared at first, but the other part very curious. There was something about him that made me feel light—weightless almost, like I was in a dream. As crazy as that sounds."

Doesn’t sound crazy at all, dear, he assured her again (and, Lindsay noted, with a tone of sincerity, which convinced her he wasn’t just saying that to pacify her account. She had always been under the impression that Doctor Lyman was an arrogant man, based on gossip from others in the town, but she now questioned that preconception, giving him the benefit of the doubt, in light of actually speaking with him for the first time and judging him for herself. People in this town always gossiping, she thought. One never knew if any of it was actually true or not, given that so many people here were so bored and had nothing better to do). This sort of thing doesn’t happen around here, as you well know, Lyman said. So please, go on. What happened next?

Okay, well… she began, her faced scrunched in apparent concentration, recalling the event. I asked him if he could tell me his name. I repeated mine a few times, then asked him what his was. He started to speak, but his voice caught, and was hardly above a croak at first. He tried again and said his name was Atticus. His voice sounded very scratchy, like he hadn’t spoken in a long time, or like he was speaking for the first time. (I get these crazy ideas in my head sometimes.) I told him it was nice to meet him, all the while our eyes still locked. She spoke somewhat dreamily, as her voice trailed off with the memory.

Lyman quietly observed the romantic longing he saw in her distant stare as she explained the encounter. This was odd, seeing as she had a longtime boyfriend.

Lindsay wasn’t in his office anymore—she was back at the beach all over again, beneath that misty morning sky, surrounded by those thick veined clouds and that glowering red sun. No, not romantic in the traditional sense, Lyman noted. Romantic in a kind of adventurous way (which explained the sensuality in her far-off gaze). Like something big was on the horizon and she was at the helm of it. She, after all, had been the discoverer, and this, he could see, excited her very much. Her position in such a precarious situation could prove dangerous, however. No, not dangerous—that’s not it. She could never pose any serious threat to him or the important office he held. Subversive. Yes. That was it. If she should realize her potential influence (which she surely had the power to), if she should find herself with too much control, and if she should discover in her a desire to exercise it, then the situation could unravel beyond reparation.

And she very well may realize this, he thought. The girl was a siren, after all, a rare beauty in a town of such stale monotony. And what do sirens do? They lead you to shipwreck. He knew he was going to have to keep close tabs on her as well from that point on, and tinker here and there if necessary—but girls were not to be tinkered with in Zephyrus unless it was absolutely necessary, Lyman well knew—so he had to tread carefully, while keeping her under his thumb.

Although Doctor Lyman recognized this dangling fear within himself (a fear he summarily dismissed, not condoning such weak-minded tendencies), he somehow knew that he would need her, that she could very well be the key to unlocking the mystery behind this sudden arrival. He didn’t know why he suspected this of her, but he trusted his instincts. But maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe there was a simple explanation for all this.

I’ll find out soon enough, he assured himself.

Felt like he was like in my mind, Lindsay was saying, gesticulating a little in her cute, animated way. Figuring out who I was by some form of telepathy or something. And I didn’t try to stop him. I let him look. Let him read what he could of me. A moment later, the light left his eyes and he went unconscious again. That’s it, really. After that I called my father and asked him to come down and help me get him to the hospital. My brother came, too.

Henry? Your older brother? Lyman inquired.

Yeah. Cass is too young—he’s only five. He stayed with mom.

And you live on the outskirts of Zephyrus, correct? he asked (although he already knew the answer). Playing ignorant, the doctor understood from experience, was an intelligent way to subtly manipulate others—to gain information by withholding information, to allow others to believe they were superior, smarter and more aware than oneself, in order to sniff out certain details of any given situation. The doctor prided himself in his manipulative faculties, in his ability to lie boldfaced by convincing others he lacked the competence to do so, pathetically attempting to, in various strategic situations over the years, in which case he’d purposefully be caught and called out and understood to be poor at the sport. These psychological skills he secretly possessed fed his supercilious, egoic nature, making him in fact a superb liar—for it was he who felt superior to everyone else, while leading everyone else to believe in his modest, humble façade and commonplace sense of intelligence.

Doctor Lyman was a man of the people, just like everyone else. For this he was regarded with deference and served as a trusted repository for the troubles of the townsfolk, lending him a vast wealth of insight into the hearts and minds of the people he helped govern without having to employ the advanced methods of surveillance readily available at his fingertips. He preferred the natural approach, ideally. But in certain cases, he had to rely on other means to acquire information. This situation now seemed like it might be one of those cases…but he didn’t want to commit to that belief just yet. There was still much to learn…

Yes, Lindsay said, answering his question. We’re the farthest home out. Right above the ocean.

I see, he remarked, in a tone that suggested he’d just learned this for the first time. Okay. I think I’ll go pay Atticus a visit. Thank you for speaking with me, Lindsay. You’ve been very helpful. He stood up from his chair and motioned for the door.

You’re welcome. If there’s anything else I can do just let me know, okay?

I will. Thank you, dear.

She got up and walked out of the office. Lyman stared perversely after her as she did…

Lindsay met her father and older brother Henry in the downstairs lobby of the Ares Tower. They drove back home in her father’s rusted grey pickup truck, through the valley of the labyrinthine town of Zephyrus, and through the narrow gorge that led towards the Oceanus ocean and their home, facing the sea atop the massive Black Cliffs of Solder.

Doctor Lyman phoned someone in Tartarus—the mega-metropolis one hundred eleven miles away. They explained the situation.

II

Amnesia.

You’re certain?

Quite.

Damnit! Lyman hissed, with blatant reproach.

He doesn’t seem to remember anything of value, Doctor Winters went on. Though he does seem to recall fragments of his journey here. Sounded like gibberish to me.

That so?

Nothing substantial. Bits and pieces. Yes.

They stood outside Atticus’s hospital room door.

I’ll talk to him myself, see if I can shed any light on it, Lyman said.

He’s been lightly sedated, Doctor Winters told him. This shouldn’t be a problem though. He’s lucid enough. He had a concussion from the wreck.

What kind of tests did you run to diagnose this? Not the concussion—the amnesia?

A series, actually. I performed a comprehensive evaluation as soon as he got here: physical, cognitive, imaging. I was quite thorough. I would have waited for you, but seeing as you were home I figured I’d take care of it before you came in, save you the trouble.

Yes, Lyman snorted.

Winters detected a sense of resentment in his biting tone and now thought it would have been wise to wait for the doctor to arrive instead of taking the initiative, as he had. In a case as unique as this, he now realized why this might upset the Council member and lead doctor of the town. Understanding the mistake he may have made, he proceeded with caution, careful not to overstep his bounds again. But from what I can tell, Doctor Lyman, these tests unequivocally rule out any other possible causes for his memory loss. But there’s always the possibility that he’s lying.

Yes of course, Lyman agreed, as he stared at Atticus through the circle glass window of the hospital room door. Doctor Lyman was agitated that Doctor Winters had run tests on him before he could arrive. He took note of this transgression, for future reference or retribution. But for now, he dismissed his anger, and instead, fixed his focus on the bigger situation. The stranger—the boy—was just lying there in his white hospital gown, staring up at the ceiling into nothing, looking dumbfounded and lost. And yet he seemed totally preoccupied, Lyman noticed. Lost in thought.

He’s eighteen years old, Winters explained. This surely rules out Alzheimer’s, or any other forms of dementia, easy. The MRI and CT scan showed nothing. No brain tumors, no clots. Nothing. It’s very possible the sea did this to him. It’s not unheard of. Maybe hit his head on a rock or something.

Or very convenient, Lyman replied in a suspicious tone, thinking the kid might be working an angle of some type, perhaps deliberately withholding information from them for potential leverage. Very good, you may go. I’ll speak with him now. Doctor Winters hesitated, wanting to apologize for his apparent misconduct (at least that’s how Doctor Lyman was making it feel), but decided against it and left without another word. Doctor Lyman entered the hospital room. Atticus?

Yes? he said, turning towards the tall, gangly man lumbering towards him.

I’m Doctor Lyman.

Hello, Doctor Lyman, Atticus replied perfunctorily.

Doctor Winters tells me you have amnesia. Do you agree with him?

Sure. I guess. He looked away from the funny-looking doctor and turned his attention out the large glass window to his left. The window faced west, toward the mountains at the far edge of the valley. This discourteous behavior annoyed the already-annoyed doctor, made him suspect that he, too, would soon make his shit list. Irritated, but resolved in maintaining his composure, the doctor pulled up a chair and sat next to the hospital bed, at eye level with Atticus (although he was still rudely facing the window). He observed Atticus absently playing with the space right above the center of his chest, his right hand twirling some phantom object, it seemed. Like something was missing and this playing was habit.

Have you lost something? Doctor Lyman inquired, shrewdly eyeing where Atticus’s hand played.

What do you mean?

Your fingers, they’re playing with something. Something missing, perhaps?

Oh, he said, finally turning back to the doctor. For a brief second, Atticus caught a glimpse of an extraordinarily large creature flying outside in the reflection of the thick glasses the doctor wore. He jerked his head back toward the window to see what it was but it had already passed. He thought it had looked like a giant dragon—but knew that was ridiculous. To the doctor, he finally replied: A ring. I always wore it around my neck. Seemed to have lost it.

Hm. Was this something of value to you?

Yes. I keep expecting it to be there. I don’t even realize I’m doing it. There was a trace of dismay in his sandlike, scratchy voice.

What kind of ring was it?

A golden ring—pure gold. Doesn’t matter. It’s gone.

Perhaps it’ll turn up, he offered hopefully, and thought of Lindsay. She’d made no mention of any ring, however, and he’d believed that she’d told him everything. She didn’t seem skilled in the art of deception—not like himself.

Yeah, maybe.

For now, moving on, Lyman asked: Do you know where you are, Atticus?

I’m in Zephyrus.

Yes. Do you know how you got here?

By sea.

Do you know where you came from?

I already went through all this with the other doctor, Atticus snapped.

This sudden outburst agitated Doctor Lyman (though he didn’t show it). He now felt even more bitter toward the weasley Doctor Winters. Something would have to be done about him and his meddling in affairs he had no business meddling in.

I know, the doctor replied evenly. I just need to ask for my own purposes. Please, humor me.

And what purposes might those be? Atticus said, with an air of suspicion.

Let’s just say professional curiosity.

Atticus said nothing. To him, Lyman looked obviously deceptive. His countenance and overall demeanor was benign enough, kind-looking, even (albeit somewhat ugly and awkward—and maybe it was his ugly and awkwardness that had borne such inward duplicity, as was often the case. The world had a funny way of turning good souls bad by torturing them through socially constructed ideas of beauty). But Atticus was looking through Doctor Lyman, skipping over the duplicitous effect of one’s appearance to the world. Yes, he could definitely sense something off in him, something quietly unsettling. This didn’t disturb Atticus, however, merely made him more alert.

Something wrong? Lyman asked, one bushy eyebrow furrowed. He noticed a changed expression on his new patient’s face. He was young, the doctor noted, but he had very distinct facial features that made him appear older than his age. Atticus had a handsome yet serious face—a face hardened by harsh experience. (Nonsense! He was only eighteen! Though he did seem somewhat older.) This seriousness, however, was what made his existence and arrival believable. His face was, how should I put it, Lyman thought…convincing. Though dangerous, he added. Yes, he definitely had the capacity for violence, for rebellion. And he could very well pose a significant threat to any established political order. And the town of Zephyrus was established. The town did have order—order which consisted of strictures that must be strictly adhered to. Just another point to remember for the days and weeks to come, Lyman thought. He is an alien in an alien place, and any corrupt tendencies this boy may harbor within must be found, pulled up by the roots and eradicated. No disorder, no discord, would come from this new development in the town’s makeup, despite what those rats in Tartarus had just told him…

No, nothing’s wrong, Atticus replied. Just a little lost is all. But look, I don’t remember anything. I mean, I remember being at sea, but nothing more than shrapnel.

Shrapnel, Lyman mused. Interesting word choice.

I guess. I hit my head on some coral or something, then everything went black. Next thing I know I’m on some black-sand beach with some pretty girl hovering over me.

Lindsay.

Yeah. Lindsay.

Describe to me the ‘shrapnel’, Lyman said. Whatever you can remember. Please.

Atticus’s face strained in concentration, one eyebrow cocked, trying to figure out how to put it.

It was dark out. Night. The sea was an almost neon green—like there was that glowing algae everywhere around me or something. The sky was filled with storm clouds and pouring rain. Waves were crashing over me, nearly tipping my raft. Then a big fork of lightning struck on the horizon and I could see land ahead. A moment later, a massive wave struck my raft and plunged me into the water. I tried to swim but the force was too strong. Then I felt my head hit something hard and I went out. Next thing I know I’m on shore.

That’s quite a vivid portrayal, given your diagnoses, Doctor Lyman remarked, with a note of skepticism.

It’s probably because that was just before. Plus, I can fill in the gaps, you know? Powers of deduction, that sort of thing.

Is he being sarcastic with me? Lyman wondered.

Is that all? What of the other pieces of…shrapnel?

Well, I remember leaving, getting on the raft. As he recalled the memory, his sight blurred as his eyes lost focus.

Go on.

"That’s it. Well… Uh… I also remember being out there for what felt like eternity. I thought maybe I was in Hell, that I’d died somewhere along the line and was trapped in this permanent state of uncertainty. No. Purgatory. That’s the word I meant. But that’s what it feels like when I see the image in my head, like I was stuck somewhere I couldn’t escape. And the sea was always raging. Such violent rage, in every instance. And there was the monster," he added, apocalyptically, his voice having dropped an octave lower to speak it.

The monster? Intrigued, Lyman straightened himself in his chair.

I don’t remember much—just that it was always there. Always with me, lurking, haunting, whispering into my ear.

What kind of monster?

One that assumed many forms. The kind that gets into your head and whispers the most terrible things.

Atticus shuddered involuntarily. He didn’t like thinking of these things.

Might you have imagined this, possibly?

What, like hallucinated it? He shook his head.

You did say you were out there for some time. Might your mind have been playing tricks on you?

I’ve considered that. But I don’t think so, Mister Lyman. No.

Doctor, he corrected.

Huh?

"Doctor Lyman."

Atticus scoffed indignantly. "Okay…Doctor Lyman."

He was pushing the doctor’s buttons, it seemed, but Lyman chose to overlook this petty petulance in order to continue his conversation.

Why not?

Why don’t I think I hallucinated it?

Yes. He gritted his teeth.

Because it was real—more real than anything I’ve ever known. And I can still feel its presence. The feeling is unshakable. Like I know what I saw, know how it made me feel, but I don’t think I can adequately explain it.

Try, if you would.

Maybe one day. Maybe my memory will return, and if it does, I’m sure I could paint a much clearer picture for you. But right now, all I have are these fleeting images, and the troubling feeling of that terrible beast. And like I said, it had many faces and forms, it wasn’t singular—it wasn’t just some sea creature stalking me. I remember sitting face to face with it at one point—though this was somewhere else entirely. I can’t explain it.

Face to face?

Yeah. Like time and space were all mashed up. Logic didn’t matter. It was like I was somewhere else, experiencing a past memory or something. ’Cause this was something totally different. Like I remember just a moment, this moment where I was face to face with a silhouette of this giant bull. Two long, sharp horns projected from its skull. Steam rose like white mist from its large, wet nostrils. It had this deep, pulmonary breathing about it, like some subterranean animal. There was this guttural sound it made. Very disturbing. But I don’t know? I couldn’t make out any distinct features. It was just a shadow, a black silhouette. A look of fear and uncertainty was evident on Atticus’s strained countenance.

What you’re describing sounds like a minotaur.

A what?

A minotaur—the mythological bull from the sea—a monster shaped half like a bull and half like a man. As the myth goes, this bull creature was confined in the labyrinth designed by Daedalus from Minos. Periodically, this bull was given maidens and youths as food. This was until he was slain by Theseus.

Hm. Yes. That sounds about right. Anyway… I was there, before it, but I was in some state of shock, from some trauma that had occurred, unable to process things very well while it was happening.

Even more intrigued now, Doctor Lyman continued pressing: What was it doing there? What did it want?

I don’t know. I can’t say just yet. I think it just wanted me to see it. Wanted me to know it was there, that it really existed and wasn’t just some mythological force in some story people tell. The grueling grunts of its breathing and that mist rising from its hot breath are still clear as day in my mind. And I don’t recall being afraid. I was shaken up, yeah, but not afraid. Its presence and all this was a result of something more that happened to me, I believe—exactly what though I can’t remember.

Hm.

I felt somewhat detached from my own body—like I was halfway in this world and halfway in another, being introduced to something sinister…something demonic—not of the physical verse we live in. Something deeper. His face was animated by the Gallic range of emotions being expressed, as if he were reliving it all over. "Frightening, really. I won’t lie. Though at the time I wasn’t scared. I was too entrenched to be scared in that moment—it was only after the experience, after it really sank in, that it frightened me. I was face to face with it. This alien force. It had me in its grasp, and all I could do was helplessly watch, paralyzed. But it didn’t do me any harm—not physically anyway. But now…now I feel the fear, now I feel what it’s done to me. I just don’t know what to make of it…or of anything for that matter."

And this…this encounter with the minotaur, this was at sea?

No, Atticus said dismissively. I mean, yes and no. I’m not totally sure. I can’t explain it.

I don’t understand?

I already told you, he said, with growing impatience. "I know how it sounds, but I don’t think so. It was somewhere else. Maybe a memory from before? Maybe the monster at sea was just a different manifestation of the one I was running from, the one I had seen before? The one that had traumatized me."

Running from? Lyman’s head tilted slightly in unfeigned curiosity. Running from what?

Atticus turned away from him and again stared out at the jagged grey and green mountains far off in the distance. He noticed, at the tip of the horizon, far as the eye could see, there was one section of the mountain he could not see the top of. The section was further back in the mountainous territory, not part of the formidable wall of rock that surrounded the valley of Zephyrus. The top of this mountain was obscured by a dense layer of clouds that seemed so thick that Zeus himself could not scatter them, were he to apply all the power at his behest.

What is that? Atticus said, transfixed on the mysterious mountain whose peak was obscured by clouds. He noticed that the clouds illuminated every few seconds, by what had to be lightning within them.

Doctor Lyman chuckled. That would be Mount Erebus. He observed the gleam of wonder now glowing in Atticus’s pale grey eyes.

Mount Erebus, Atticus echoed softly. How high is it?

To be honest, he said, spreading his hands, we don’t know. The top is perpetually shrouded with clouds and no one has ever successfully ascended it.

"What? he replied, aghast. Why not?"

It has a nickname around here, Lyman told him matter-of-factly, his voice seeming to have dropped an octave, his tone now ominous and conspiratorial, as if he were about to impart top secret information to Atticus. He leaned forward in his chair, closer to Atticus and whispered: "You will hear stories of it along your journey, I’m certain. They call it the Insurmountable Mountain. It is the fate of countless lives lost. Nobody who has attempted to climb it has succeeded, and many who have tried have perished in pursuit. Those who’ve survived, simply went mad."

Don’t you have helicopters or drones or airplanes or something here? Something that could go into the stratosphere and see?

I’m afraid not. Technology such as that is strictly controlled by Tartarus. Whether they’ve seen the top or not is uncertain. Lyman sounded somewhat resentful about this (for he believed they did indeed possess the means to see beyond what they here were incapable of).

Tartarus? What’s that?

Yes. Tartarus is the capitol of our land—the major metropolis one hundred and eleven miles from here. Vastly different from our small world here in Zephyrus. Although I wouldn’t give it much thought if I were you.

Why not?

Because it is forbidden to go there, he told him sternly. "Because you will never go there, Atticus."

Atticus thought about this and felt inside him a peculiar stirring—an exhilaration instilled from the mystery of the insurmountable mountain and the forbidden city of Tartarus. In his mind, he envisioned it to be like a city he knew (although couldn’t remember its name). He could vaguely remember fleeting images of it: tall buildings, motor vehicles everywhere, skyscrapers, lots of noise, lots of people—

It’s not as you may imagine, Lyman cut in, as if reading Atticus’s thoughts.

How do you mean?

I can see you’re trying to make an association. But it’s not as you may imagine.

How do you know?

"Because I know where you come from, Atticus. I know of the other side, and there…there is nothing like Tartarus, I can assure you."

Atticus had a subversive look in his eyes and felt intrigued.

Tartarus is the stuff of the future, Lyman went on, a bit dreamily. The stuff of imagination in your wildest films and novels where you come from.

You know where I come from? Atticus said, straightening himself on his bed. His eyes widened in anticipation, waiting for that gaping black void inside him to be filled.

Not precisely, but generally, yes.

Doctor Lyman had only just learned the details of this foreigner’s arrival, during his call to Tartarus just minutes before.

Those rats fill me in last minute, he thought indignantly, fuming within. And even then, they’d kept it extremely vague, only giving him the bare bones of the situation.

All that you need to know right now, his superior had informed him.

Clearly, he’d have to figure out some things himself—and he intended to, by using every resource at his disposal.

Tell me, Atticus said eagerly. Tell me where I came from.

Another day, perhaps. Lyman now enjoyed the position of being the one withholding information. I can see you’re quite worked up as it is. I don’t want to upset your recovery.

Please, Atticus plead, sounding almost desperate. The void inside him was driving him mad.

Another day, Lyman repeated stiffly. Not another word of it. Now, let’s regress a little. See if you can recall. Why did you leave your world, Atticus?

For the time being Atticus decided not to press the issue further. The doctor had aroused in him a burning curiosity, however, one whose flames would grow and grow with the passage of time. Atticus resolved to be the first to ascend Mount Erebus successfully, and to find his way to the forbidden city of Tartarus—permission granted or not. He had so many questions already, but knew that they’d be pointless to ask, knew the doctor would not be forthcoming with answers. Doctor Lyman was clearly a stubborn, defiant old mule, who liked to be in control. Atticus sensed an air of insecurity about him though, an underlying anger of resentment and envy.

This town had many secrets, Atticus was already beginning to suspect, and he wanted to unearth them. After dismissing the fiery tempest now brewing inside himself, he came back to the present and answered the doctor’s question: I don’t have any distinct memory of actually leaving, or that it was even my choice for that matter. But honestly, I don’t know why I left wherever it was I came from—whether by choice or otherwise. But I do know that I was cracking, that I had to escape. There’s just…pieces missing, things I can’t seem to reconcile.

The void. It was eating at him.

"I can still feel the heavy weight of oppression I carried with me, though I have no memories to confirm it, or why I felt that way at all…

Look, if I could tell you more I would, but I honestly don’t remember anything else about that. Just feelings. Believe me, I’m as eager for answers as you seem to be.

Doctor Lyman grunted, displeased. That’s fine. Maybe it’ll come back to you.

I’m not sure I want it to. And Lyman could hear a faint note of fear in his cracking, gravelly voice.

He turned away from the window and back towards the doctor and met his prying eyes. Atticus could tell he was trying to anatomize everything he was saying, to see if there was any truth to it or to see if he was just making all this up to avoid having to confront the present reality.

Two can play this game, Atticus thought.

So now what?

What do you mean? Lyman asked.

What happens to me here?

You become part of the community. We’ll sort out where it is you’ll best fit in and you will contribute like the rest of us. We’ll make sure you get well first, then you will be released. I’d like to run some more tests on you soon, if that’s okay. He made it sound like a request, although he clearly wasn’t seeking permission. Maybe some hypnotherapy, we’ll see. Could help with your memory loss.

For a long moment, they stared at each other intensely, four eyes whirling around the invisible psychic dimension of thought, gauging each other’s hidden capacity, reading each other’s minds.

The fact that Doctor Lyman felt even remotely threatened by this teenager’s presence angered him.

You will not bring entropy to our world you little shit, Lyman thought bitterly. I don’t care why you’re here or who you are. You will fall in line, and we will find out what it is you’re running from…

III

What’s he like?

Well I don’t know. I didn’t really talk with him or anything.

You know what I mean. What’d you pick up?

Uh. Well. He’s just…I don’t know, Lindsay said, somewhat exasperated.

This is exciting though, don’t you think? Felix was animated. Nothing exciting ever happens here.

Yeah I guess so. I’m just so tired of thinking about it. My parents already grilled me earlier and asked a thousand questions. But I really don’t know anything.

They were outside on the wooden balcony on the second story of Lindsay’s family’s house. She and Felix sat snuggled together on the rocking patio chair, hands linked, staring up at the myriad of stars in the night sky. Their fingers absently played with one another’s.

The house she and her family lived in faced the breathtaking view of the Oceanus—an ocean that was rarely calm, the waters always choppy. Their quaint, two-story house was perched firmly on a level pad of vegetated bedrock, which jutted out noticeably from the surrounding bluffs. On either side of the cliff-clung house, the bluffs spanned the length of the beach for miles in both directions. The tall, steep banks of cliff a stark, obsidian black—hence the name they so appropriately received: The Black Cliffs of Solder.

Their house was just beyond the narrow gorge that led from the town of Zephyrus to the ocean (the only gap between the large imposing cliffs for miles). Their home was securely located atop the vast wall of one cliff. The distance between their house and the edge of this cliff was fifty yards and contained their backyard, parts of the surrounding forest, and several mini-gardens Lindsay and her mother frequently tended to.

The night was cold and there was a light breeze in the air. Faint wisps of grey clouds passed by monotonously above; but beyond them, the sky was clear and the stars shone bright. Lindsay and Felix stared out into that dark and mysterious eternity. They had remained quiet for some time, until finally, Felix felt compelled to mention the sudden arrival of Atticus once more. He seemed to Lindsay almost obsessively infatuated with this, asking her the same questions over and over, only worded different.

What color is his hair? Felix said, too enthusiastically to take serious.

Oh my goodness. Felix, stop!

What?! I want to know!

Felix was a tall, strong boy, his body lean and evenly proportioned, with an athletic figure, finely-sculpted from regular exercise. He was the same age as Lindsay—eighteen—and had a pretty, almost feminine face. He looked like the popular type you’d find in high school, except he didn’t possess the jock-like arrogance. He was sweet and thoughtful, and this is what won Lindsay’s affection. People had been fighting over her since she was a little girl. Lindsay, while beautiful, always felt different than her peers—always thinking different, feeling different, seeing different. She realized early on that she found it increasingly difficult to relate to most people her age. She didn’t care for the arrogant or insensitive boys that were constantly clawing for her attention. She wanted someone she could share her mind with—a mind teeming with imagination and magical longings; dreams of the impossible; a mind that one day wanted to explore the world outside what she and everyone else in Zephyrus knew. This was impossible, however, and she knew this—although she did not accept it. She continued to dream.

To Lindsay, Felix was a compatible fit: he was easy to be around and he didn’t make her feel crazy for the way she perceived the world or for the things she openly dreamt. She enjoyed spending time with him, talking and sharing her hopes and desires. She also didn’t mind that he was very attractive—that was just a plus. Although on occasion it would strike her that he was unusually effeminate for such a strong, athletic boy. He claimed he was an empath, able to feel everything everyone he encountered felt. This made life hard sometimes, he’d tell her. He hated feeling everything so deeply, so vividly. This made sense, she supposed. There were definitely worse qualities in a person. She sensed he exaggerated certain things sometimes, but didn’t make too much of it.

The most important thing about him was that he treated her like a princess, that he was loyal, loving and respectful…

His hair’s a dirty blond, for the fifth time. Oh my god, Felix, he’s sooo sexy, I can’t even tell you, she teased. I didn’t think I’d be able to contain myself around him. Just wanted to maul him and—

Oh shut up! Felix exclaimed, pushing her off him.

"You asked!" She enjoyed toying with him sometimes. He was an easy target. So sensitive and touchy.

In a more serious tone Felix now asked: So he’s attractive though, you think?

I mean, I don’t know? He’s not hot like you, Felix. He’s just a…he’s just a foreigner, jeez, get off my back, wouldja?

Alright, alright. Fine. I just want to meet him that’s all.

I’m sure you will soon enough. Now come on, hold me. I’m cold.

Felix pulled her back into his arms and rubbed her back and arms to warm her.

In the distance, a falling star fell in a white blaze into the black ocean then disappeared.

You see that? Felix said.

Yeah. I love that. She smiled. Make a wish.

I wish for you, my love, he said, and leaned down to kiss her.

Awww, such a cheese ball…I mean teddy bear.

Shut. Up, he said, and pinched her.

Ow! You dick!

He laughed. You asked for it.

Don’t hurt me, she pouted.

Aw, I’m sorry, honey buns. I’ll kiss it better. He leaned down and kissed her arm where he’d pinched her, then moved up and kissed her forehead, then her ear, then down to her soft, full-lips where he stayed for a moment. She tenderly kissed back.

So what do you think happens next? Felix said, pulling away from her and looking back towards the glittering night sky.

What do you mean?

Well, with Atticus. His presence is going to change things.

How?

I don’t know. I just sense it. Don’t you?

A little, I guess. Yeah. But who knows… It is strange though.

Beyond strange. Where do you think he came from?

I don’t know… Lindsay reflected solemnly, with a slight hint of sadness in her voice. Her bright green eyes seemed to be searching the horizon for an answer, but none were forthcoming—they glazed with that typical passionate curiosity about them. And yet they looked so sad, so far away, Felix thought. Despite the oppressive feeling Lindsay resentfully carried with her, she remained hopeful of something greater on the horizon. Atticus seemed to represent that hope…she hoped. This was why she didn’t feel comfortable speaking about him to others (especially Felix). Something about him made her nervous (but in an electrifying, prescient kind of way). She felt galvanized inside, intoxicated…suddenly alive. This thought brought forth feelings of shame and remorse, of guilt and betrayal. For she could not speak of such things to Felix (or anyone for that matter). It wouldn’t be fair. She had already said too much to Doctor Lyman. Not so much in what she said as to how she had said it. She knew she had lost control of herself in his office, even if only slightly. She discerned that he could see that she was uplifted by this surprising discovery. She had to protect her feelings better from now on, she told herself.

Lindsay then spoke in a soft voice, full of enigmatic cadence: He came from somewhere out there though. Somewhere beyond here… It’s not a plague.

What isn’t?

Out there, like they tell us. Her head motioned toward the ocean. I don’t believe that. Do you?

Errr. Felix wasn’t sure.

We’re just…trapped here. I can’t stand it. I just want to know what’s out there. I want to know the truth.

Well maybe Atticus is the catalyst you’re hoping for, Felix said hopefully. "Maybe he’ll disprove the plague theory. Maybe he’s exactly what we’ve been waiting for. And maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll show the Council that they don’t know everything. Would love to see their faces when that happens. Stupid know-it-alls."

I hope so, Lindsay murmured, but without much conviction.

Well I can’t wait to meet him.

Lindsay, dinner time, her mom said, peeking through the sliding glass balcony door. Are you staying for dinner, Felix?

Uh, no ma’am. I should probably get going actually.

You sure? I made plenty.

Yes, thank you though. Another night.

Okay. Come on, Linz, she said, her hand gesturing towards the well-lit, comfortable home within.

Coming.

Felix kissed her one last time then sprung off the chair. He held his hand out for Lindsay to take and helped her up.

My love, he said, in his usual half-joking, sarcastic manner. I good you bid evening.

She giggled. You’re such a goof.

Me and you, we’re gonna get answers. They’ll treat him like an outcast, Felix said, cocking his head towards the town. We won’t though. We’ll befriend him. Right?

That look of innocent doubt and eagerness in his ocean-blue eyes made Lindsay think he was absolutely adorable. She frowned a little, for this suddenly made her feel terribly bad. It didn’t feel right keeping certain details from him about her experience with Atticus. Her hand absently moved to her jean pocket where she felt for the ring she still carried. The ring she had stolen from Atticus earlier that day.

Right, she agreed, forcing a smile. I gotta go. I love you, sweetie.

Love you too, babe. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

Kay.

He let go of her hand and walked to the edge of the balcony, where a spiral helix-style staircase descended to ground level. He made his way through the dark exterior along the side of the house and towards the front, where his motorcycle was parked. He started the engine and revved it a little, knowing Lindsay could hear it—a sort of second goodbye. He smiled in spite of himself and began trekking through the narrow, winding, tree-laden dirt road that led down towards the street which led back into Zephyrus.

IV

This is it. Just head inside and the night manager will get you situated.

Alright. Thanks, Atticus said, and got out of the van.

If you need anything don’t hesitate to call, man, Tank said. It’ll be a minute before you feel comfortable, I’m sure, but don’t trip. My numbers on the phone. Need anything just holler.

Thanks, Tank. He shook his hand and shut the passenger door behind him.

Tank was a big fellow with a bulky bald skull. He was head of security at Ares Tower—although he saw to other important matters within the town as well. Doctor Lyman had tasked him with delivering Atticus to his new home upon his release. They didn’t speak much on the ride, but Atticus thought he was a nice enough guy. Not someone you’d pick a fight with, that’s for sure—but he was friendly, and kind of funny. He had a jokester personality—not of the bully variety, more so in the lighthearted, banter-driven way. He liked him. It wouldn’t be unwise to have someone like Tank on his side, either—for he was now entering into unchartered territory, straight into the unknown abyss of a new life surrounded by strange faces in a strange land. Yes, it would be wise to make some friends, Atticus told himself. There was no telling what was about to unfold in this new wilderness he now found himself in.

Before releasing Atticus from the hospital tower, Doctor Lyman had issued him a mobile phone. Nothing fancy, just a flip-phone, old-fashioned looking, Atticus thought—but definitely more than he’d been expecting. The phone had all the numbers he would possibly need stored in it already, Lyman assured him. He thanked the doctor and accepted it graciously. A feeling of nostalgia irked at him, as if he could almost remember having a phone of his own before all of this. Of course he did, yet he had no recollection of it. Much to the chagrin of Doctor Winters and Doctor Lyman, he had not been lying about his memory loss. Atticus was indeed suffering from amnesia, and it was starting to eat at him, the great gaps in his memory feeling like a lost appendage. Everything was confusing…upside down. He would suddenly find himself feeling lost and alone. Loose strands of incoherent thoughts fired wildly around in his head, attempting to make some sort of association, some connection—yet finding none—each thought left to dwindle and wither away back into the nothingness from where they came. He felt as if in a dream. Fleeting images and feelings clawed up at him constantly from some subterranean part of his mind, deep from the depths of his rattled consciousness, trying to escape. Nothing made any sense and it was as if he was slowly tumbling down a rabbit hole.

Atticus’s mind had been almost completely erased, it seemed, and he didn’t know who he was anymore. The ghosted memories that pulled at him were nearly tangible, yet he could not reach them, even with the mightiest of efforts. An intuitive sense inside him whispered faintly that one day his memories would return, when they were meant to. He prayed that was true.

Patience. Patience, he told himself.

The van pulled away and Atticus stood dumbly in front of the large halfway house before him, looking around. He was in a residential neighborhood, he saw, and the halfway house looked no different from its neighbors. All the houses seemed homey and nice. This definitely wasn’t of the proletariat. The streets were lined with plush green trees whose long tangled branches reached across one side of the street to the other, and bright flowers of varying colors decorated the plush shrubbery filling the roads at ground level. He could see two families in the windows from houses nearby. He could see children: children laughing, playing, running around their cozy homes. Something about the sight of children made his insides churn, caused his bowels to stir, as if he were somewhere he didn’t belong…or somewhere he’d been before. Again that aching nostalgia returned, that feeling without a face or a name. He saw that none of the houses had shades covering their windows, and thought it odd. And there seemed to be a lot of windows. Maybe privacy wasn’t all that desired here in Zephyrus. But for now he could only speculate and wonder. He had so many questions he felt he would surely become a nuisance to others if he didn’t contain them. He decided he would pace himself and learn of the town and its ways piecemeal.

It was just after dusk and the sky was a beautiful tapestry of vibrant colors. The first stars were beginning to show. A crescent moon hung suspended in space, peering down on the world with its timeless wisdom. Atticus marveled at the beauty of it all and felt his spirits lift in divine inspiration. He felt suddenly alive. This quiet sense of elation seemed to tell him that something big was coming, and that he would have a crucial role to play in its realization. Atticus grinned in anticipation then picked up