Atlantis Quest

By Calvin Cahail

Jack Spencer, burdened with the grief of his father's death, struggles to find his place in the world. Finally, while standing in line at a coffee shop, fate finds that place for him. The air around him blurs, and without a sound, Jack disappears.
Join Jack as he travels through Space-Time to save the future of the western hemisphere from the Prophet, a mysterious figure hell-bent on inflicting wrath on the world that has rejected him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Calvin Cahail
• Release date: Nov 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005177294

Calvin Cahail

Author: The Logical Choice: Tote Board Handicapping Made Easy; Professional Handicapper; member of the Horseplayers Association of North America.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Starbucks, 2003

JACK'S FATHER DROVE THEM home from baseball practice. As Jack tapped his bat on the passenger side window to the beat of Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time playing on the radio, his father turned to discipline him.

Jack, please. Jack kept tapping. Jack! Knock it off...NOW!

Jack dropped his bat. His father lost control of the car. It skidded, the right front tire of their ten-year-old Pontiac digging into the road's soft apron, which caused the car to flip. The car, now upside down, rocked and slid on its roof until the car crushed itself around an ancient oak tree. Jack was thrown from the vehicle, but the car's steering wheel and the seat held his father hostage of the wreckage.

Jack ran to the driver's side of the car and tugged at his father's shirt sleeve through the broken side window. He sensed danger and knew he had to get his dad out of the vehicle. Gas fumes choked young Jack, and his arm bled from the glass shards lodged in the door frame that scraped his skin. A wobbly front wheel spun at Jack's left ear. The crisp night air filled with the choking fumes of gasoline. The world around Jack lit up in bright yellows, then blacks from ignited fuel. The expanding air threw Jack back into the brush. The young man watched helplessly as his father was engulfed in flames.

Jack woke from the nightmare that had haunted him for years. A profuse sweat dampened his t-shirt. He gasped for breath, his head buried deep within the folds of his drenched pillow. Jack's whiskey-soaked mind kept his half-open eyes from focusing correctly. Damn, I need a drink, Jack thought as he struggled to stand without encouraging the storm raging within the confines of his head. Jack eased the sheet back slowly, swung his long muscular legs to his right, and suspended them over the edge of the bed. The bright morning sun forced its way into the room, which did not help matters. Head in hands, Jack waited patiently for his mind to clear.

Sensing this might take a while, Jack finally stood on shaky, battle-weary legs. He looked back over his shoulder at his latest conquest. He had done well, it appeared; a soft-skinned leg lay barely covered by the lace-bordered top sheet. Jack glanced around. The tufted drapes and flowery bed cover were too much frill for the moment. Last night a little Dewar's and his companion's warm body undulating madly beneath him had made Jack feel better for the moment, but this morning nothing was different. The painful memories of his past still hounded him, keeping him at arm's length from a real, lasting relationship.

Jack pulled on his pants slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb the naked redhead who lies motionless between the sheets in front of him. What was her name? Hell, if he could remember. He wanted desperately to lift the top sheet, to refresh his memory of her, to send a titillating jolt to his now feeble brain. Still, he instinctively knew it was not a clever idea to awaken her from her slumber before he could leave.

As he grabbed yesterday's shirt from a nearby chair, Jack heard a murmur. Startled, he turned his gaze back to the bed, where he saw spittle oozing from her thinly gaping mouth. The pillow beneath her head was slightly damp and smeared with pink lipstick, but she stirred no more.

Moments later, Jack opened the door to her apartment and stumbled outside. Jack turned the ignition key to his Jeep CJ-5, and its V-8 engine roared into a throbbing bass rumble. He quickly drove off, not looking back to see if his one-night fling was standing at the window.

Sara Barnes morning typically found her seated at her desk at Logic Chip Industries fifteen minutes before her workday officially began. However, today was different. As she walked into the kitchen wearing a thin, well-worn t-shirt and pink satin panties, Sara noticed no coffee aroma permeated the room. She checked the coffee maker to see if she had forgotten to set it the night before. She had not. The coffee maker had brewed its last cup of brew.

Shit. Sara plopped down on a chair at the kitchen table, frustrated, in front of her unopened laptop. Her routine has gone awry, she felt lost, and she hated not being in control. Suddenly, Sara bolted from her chair. She needed her morning caffeine, and though her day had gotten off to a bad start, she knew how to put it back on track. Sara padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom, pulling her t-shirt up over her head just as Sara reached the door. She would shower and dress quickly, then stop at Starbucks on the way to work where she could read the news, check her e-mails, and by the time she pulled into her newly assigned parking spot at LCI, she thought everything would be back on track. Little did she know that she would not control her world today no matter how hard she tried.

Jack rubbed his dry, hung-over eyes as he drove. Thank God he didn't have to work at the fire station today. His mind drifted in and out of focus as he turned into the Starbucks parking lot. He began his turn into an unoccupied space but had to brake suddenly! Some bitch who thought she owned the road had cut him off.

Sara knew her BMW M3 was a high-performance machine. However, she was not impressed with its too-stiff suspension, nor that it could go from a standing start to sixty miles per hour in under five seconds. What mattered to her was the fact it begged attention, its purple pinstripes perfectly accenting its charcoal gray body.

Sara opened her car door and swung her left leg out, mindless of the slit in her skirt. As she did so, Jack, still pissed, still hungover, caught a glimpse of her long, tanned leg and a hint of her lavender panties. Sara noticed Jack staring and flashed him a smile, indifferent to the occurrence. She then marched into the coffee shop.

How come all the hot ones are such bitches, Jack mumbled.

Jack found another spot to park, then entered the coffee shop. His body, reacting to the rich aroma of the coffee, was beginning to respond to his movements as intended. He inched his way between tightly spaced tables and waited his turn in line behind the BMW bitch. The scent of Sara's perfume immediately overpowered Jack's senses, causing him to forgive her for the moment and refrain from telling her what he had previously been thinking.

The tailored suit Sara wore accentuated the curves of her trim body well. She either worked out or had a generous gene pool to draw from, Jack surmised. She stood tall, her well-cropped blond hair barely touching her shoulders. The generous slit in her skirt showed a hint of the sinuous leg muscles Jack had seen earlier. She may drive like a spoiled brat, but she obviously knows how to take care of herself. Doable, the womanizing Jack thought.

Everything seemed normal as Jack looked around the tables. Two women, their laptops open, were discussing business as an experienced young barista was clearing a San Jose Newspaper and a finished cup of coffee off an abandoned table. As his eyes returned to the line he was in, a rather plump middle-aged woman in front, attempting to pay for her coffee, was fumbling in her oversized purse for a penny.

You know, I hate change. It rattles, rattles, rattles in your purse, yet when I try to get rid of some of it, I can't seem to find any. My husband thinks I'm nuts but...

Some of us need to get to work, Sara interjected, leaning forward, trying to hurry things along. Her dubious attempt at intimidation was landing on deaf ears.

I know there's a penny in here somewhere. They don't count for much these days, but they'd send the cops after me if I didn't have one, wouldn't they?

Jack retrieved a penny from his pocket, then brushed lightly against the right shoulder of the blonde from the BMW as he reached forward and tapped the plump woman on her shoulder. As the woman turned around, Jack handed the penny to her.

Oh! Thank you so much. The woman turned and handed the barista the penny.

An indignant Sara had suddenly lost interest in the woman in front of her and turned to face Jack. Do you mind? Sara brushed imaginary dirt off her shoulder.

Sorry, Jack responded, instinctively trying to be socially correct, though, now, he could care less.

The simple act of a simple woman trying to find a penny had resulted in profound consequences for both Sara and Jack. The line to the barista had slowed. As Sara and Jack stood facing each other at that specific spot at that particular moment in time, their lives would change forever.

Without warning, the air blurred red around them and without a sound or a spark, with no one in the room looking up to notice, the folds of Space-Time rippled, and Jack and Sara disappeared.

CHAPTER 2

The Island, 2035

A BARE-THROATED TIGER HERON glided with elegance a meter above the storm-raged water off the coast of Belize, angling toward a nearby island. The setting sun casting a mixture of orange and red hues across the sky behind it. The island reflected at odd angles in the turbulent water that stretched westward to Belize. Waves crashed against the steep cliffs that lined the island's west edge with the sea. Only a tiny, coarse sand beach broke the cliff's dominion. Guarding the island further was an eight-foot-high stone and mortar wall erected by the island's inhabitants ten thousand years in the past as protection from the rising sea.

Suddenly, the heron darted right, startled, frightened by a low mechanical hum that grew ever louder as a metal flying orb, one meter in diameter, broke through a wave that had crashed into and over the cliff. The odd sphere sprayed water in all directions and dashed out to sea, followed closely by two identical spheres. The three man-made orbs sped onward toward Belize, one destined for Melvin's Bank, ignoring the heron.

High on a mountain in the center of the island stood a regal, lavender-hooded, robed figure silhouetted against the low-hanging clouds. The Prophet watched the orbs as they journeyed toward the mainland, overwhelmed with pride. All was going as planned.

Gabbi, running awkwardly on her two-year-old legs, greeted her papi, Manuel, as he opened the screen door to their home in Melvin's Bank just before dusk.

A, mi amor. ¿Qué tal? Manuel grabbed his daughter and swung her high above his head, never tiring of the joy she brought into his life. Isabella, his wife, greeted him next, and as they stood in the doorway, Manuel set Gabbi down and wrapped his wife tightly in his arms.

Te amo. He declared his love for her.

Mi corazon. She replied as they hugged.

Canela, a street dog Isabella had insisted they adopt two years ago, appeared at Manuel's feet, seeking his attention, but, as usual, Manuel ignored her. In his eyes, Canela was nothing more than an alarm system that warned them when strangers wandered around outside their house. Isabella and Gabbi, however, treated the dog as a member of the family. Canela soon gave up on Manuel and ran outside to play.

Gabbi watched as Canela, growling off and on, practiced her hunting skills, pouncing on a twig. The child glanced up at her parents, then back at Canela, and without approval, tottered outside to play 'twig' with her canine friend. Before long, Isabella's maternal instincts awakened. She glanced downward, sensing Gabbi was gone.

Gabbi, no! Isabella started to run outside to retrieve her daughter, but Manuel put his arm up to stop her.

I'll go, he insisted as he looked deep into her eyes.

Canela turned away from her make-believe enemy, her growl now steady as she focused on the intruder overhead. Gabbi, too, was mesmerized by what she saw in the sky. Manuel called to her as he neared, and Gabbi looked his way, then turned back around, pointing toward the object circling above them. Canela's growl intensified.

Manuel stepped in front of his daughter. Above them, fifteen feet in the air, floated a mechanical orb, a Hummer. The sun had set, its still-faint glow silhouetting the metal sphere. Manuel arched his back straight. Isabela started to run towards him but knew what was about to happen and, knowing there was no hope, dropped to her knees.

No! Isabella screamed as she broke into tears.

The movable belt-like apparatus wrapped around the center of the orb spun, an attached nozzle glowed red, and the Hummer repeatedly blasted its laser. Canela's barking stopped. Isabella wept alone.

CHAPTER 3

Melvin's Bank, 2035

AMANDA GLANCED UP at the clouds, a brilliant mixture of blues and grays surrounding the day's setting sun, casting their shadows on what remained of the town of Melvin's Bank. Sensing that nightfall and the imposed curfew were near, Amanda quickened her pace. Her dark shoulder-length hair glistened in the brilliant light of the pre-setting sun.

Nestled in the Maya Mountains in Belize, Melvin's Bank became a favorite tourist spot after Francis Ford Coppola built his third retreat on the nearby Monkey River. Others had moved to Melvin's Bank for the beauty and friendliness of the locals toward Americans. It did not hurt that the locals spoke English.

Amanda darted past the defunct post office on her way to Esteban's. It was her last stop before going home, but she had to hurry if she wanted to avoid the fury of the ever-dominant Hummers. She cut across the street, passing an abandoned building scarred by an earlier Hummer attack during the first days after the island had appeared off Belize's coastline. Much of Melvin's Bank carried such scars.

She passed under the half-torn awning marking Esteban's Market, a street-level establishment in the Roberto Garcia building. Built as a monument to himself, Garcia had hired the finest architect of Venezuela to design it. It was a tourist attraction in its glory, but now it was rundown, fraught with dust, missing tiles on its facade. People were making do, not maintaining monuments.

Amanda knew Esteban would be there to greet her as she entered through the creaky old door.

When are you going to get that door greased, Esteban? Está malo. She said every time she came to the store.

Never, mi amor! You have nada you complain about. It seemed like Esteban had been there forever, and his English had never improved. Yet, like most descendants of the Mayan tribe, he had not grayed. The deep cut lines in his forehead and his hunched back betrayed his age, though.

Amanda loved this store. It was a melding of Hispanic and Old America foods and, in that way, reflected the current culture in Melvin's Bank. After the World Oil Wars of 2015, the Americas had united in defense of their lands. The cultures of North and Central Americas had rapidly merged, forming the New Americas. Though many dialects still existed, Spanglish, as many called it, was the unofficial language of the land.

Amanda never tired of the fresh-baked bread available at Esteban's. Little commercialism existed since The Prophet's island appeared, so everything in the shop was hand-made, locally grown or raised on a nearby farm. Tonight, Amanda was making pañades, a traditional local dish of fried maize shells with fish and black beans. She gathered what she needed and headed for the counter.

Algo más, mi amor, Esteban questioned while flirting. Amanda was a beautiful woman with flawless skin, dark hair, and brown eyes deep with intrigue. Her geological work was physical and kept her body in shape and her skin a solid bronze.

Esteban wrote each item on pressure-sensitive paper and totaled it quickly. After tearing off Amanda's copy, she paid him twenty Ameros, not waiting for change. The Amero had become the currency of New America. The Belize dollar was no longer accepted, something Esteban found hard to get used to, often mentally converting his transactions to the old currency.

Esteban bagged Amanda's groceries and gave her a big smile.

That’s all, Esteban. Hasta mañana.

Adiós, mi amor. Rápido. Curfew is near.

Gracias, Amanda said as she exited the store.

Amanda glanced over her shoulder at the sky. There was little sunlight left, and she was glad it was only a short distance home. As Esteban locked his doors behind her, Amanda turned the corner onto the esplanade.

Soon Amanda passed an abandoned church, a leftover from older times. It was small in stature, a simple square earthen building with a typical thatched roof. Plain white columns held up its arched entry. On the grounds of the church stood a weathered cross nine feet tall. Local stones had been mortared together to form it; one arm was repaired after an errant Hummer blast cut it short. Like much of Latin America, Melvin's Bank was a staunchly Catholic town, and its people would not allow this church to go to ruin.

A dull hum in the distance grew louder with her every step up the winding, unpaved road. Humble homes set on plots cut into the dense brush lined both sides of the street. The coarse cut grass of their front yards encroached on the ruts in the road.

The Hummers were beginning their patrol. Amanda turned onto Vidalia, and as the street rose into the hillside, the area's decay depressed her as usual. In earlier times, this was the pristine neighborhood of the community, but foliage had overtaken many of the homes. Peeling stucco and sagging roofs were now the norms.

Her father, Professor William Moore, built their home into the hillside at the end of the road. Where once their driveway was a grand entrance to their estate, Hummers had disintegrated much of the surrounding brush so they could better detect movement. Still, a three-foot-high river-stone fence, primarily intact, lined the curved stone pathway to the hand-carved, solid, dark-grained front door, which stood in majestic contrast to the whitewashed blocks of the rest of the facade.

The entrance to the house was the only thing you could see from the street. It was well-kept but not pretentious. No sense in drawing attention to oneself, mainly when there was much to hide.

After entering the front door, Amanda descended a flight of stairs guided by a black, ornate wrought iron banister. She headed across an expansive main room toward the kitchen.

I was beginning to worry about you. The intercom voice from the lab downstairs was authoritative.

I'm all right, Dad.

Come to the lab. We have something to show you.

As soon as I put the groceries away.

CHAPTER 4

The Sock, 2035

AMANDA OPENED THE MASSIVE hand-carved wooden door to the lab, stopped on the landing, and gazed down upon a spacious yet cluttered room. Wires hung from ceiling hooks, connecting ancient computers, cell phones, and even an old Xbox. A command center consisted of a bank of monitors and toggle switches mounted on a board to the right. To the left was a wooden platform three feet high and eight feet across.

Amanda found her father and his assistant, Tim, in a celebratory mood.

Mandi, dear, come here. Look! The professor, excited, held up a single sock, dirty, full of lint.

What's the matter? Can't find a match? Amanda questioned with a smirk on her face.

The professor stood speechless for a second, then sighed deeply, ignoring his daughter's ever-present sarcasm.

We haven't run a tracer yet, the professor's assistant Tim said. So, we're not sure where we retrieved it from, but we think this sock predates the island showing up.

You mean you've actually done it? the amazed Amanda asked.

Yes. We found a way to control the seventh point, Tim said excitedly.

What if you've only proven where all those missing socks go on wash day? Amanda asked, her sarcasm evident once more.

Mandi!

You know I'm kidding, Dad. Amanda turned to Tim. Have you checked the molecular structure yet? Is it intact? Or is it like yesterday's dead goldfish?

No. It's perfect, Tim replied.

They all stared at the sock as if they were seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. It was hard to comprehend what they were looking at, the impact of it all, but soon they would find out. They had Jumped time.

***

Tim sat at his lab console. His gene pool was evident; from his dad came practicality and studied intelligence, and from his mother, her diminutive size and perseverance. Somewhere he added a love of gadgets and daring not found in the disciplined world of science. A weakling physically, his brain was genius level, and he was the mastermind of the lab that surrounded him.

Prof stood before a workbench behind Tim, his tall, graying temples giving his appearance distinction. With character lines suggesting he had spent much time outside, Prof looked out of place in a laboratory. He was reluctant to talk about his past, though, feeling little good would come from rehashing that part of his life. His current work in the lab would become the legacy of his later years.

I'm going to get dinner started, Amanda announced over the intercom. Dad, I think today's success deserves a bottle of Champagne. Would you get one?

Great idea! Tim, are you coming upstairs?

Call me when dinner's ready. I want to apply the tracers to the sock.

Prof left Tim alone in the expansive room, flanked by his cobbled-together equipment of surplus computer parts, anything and everything that still worked after the island's appearance. Outside the lab walls, most technologies had shut down shortly after the island appeared. People had panicked as their TVs, CD players, and cell phones stopped working, causing normal communication channels to halt. Rumors had soon spread that the government was unable to determine a reason. Chaos had been rampant.

Strange metal orbs appeared in the sky soon after, and their menacing actions and constant presence after sunset had driven people indoors. People began calling them Hummers immediately for the sound they made as they approached. The Hummers killed anyone who ventured out after dark. People fought back at first, but the Hummers were relentless. Several times villagers had gathered to organize resistance. Each time, the Hummers sensed their assemblage and obliterated them, once razing an entire building on them for effect. The carnage was swift and significant, and heartless.

The professor and Tim had no idea what the rest of the world was like. They were aware of exploratory parties that had gone out, yet none had returned. The two hoped their work would lead to a way for them to challenge what they did know existed: Hummers and a mysterious island off the nearby coast. If their career was successful, it gave them options for retaliation.

Unlike Tim, the professor liked to take things slowly, documenting his progress, verifying his every move, which