Guardians of Atlantis-Saviors of Miami

By Rene Fletcher

Miami is on the eve of destruction. Can ancient technology save Miami?

An earthquake exposes a fissure in the Devil's Triangle. A Bahamian Island priestess doesn't believe shango, the god of thunder created the earthquake. Two scientists from Miami, Dr. Eva O'Leary and Dr. G. Simon are sent to investigate the fissure and discover an ancient civilization. They discover that the government information is incorrect. Why?

The scientists use a two-man submersible to examine the ruins. Under the sea they discover a lost civilization that exists deep within the earth. There they meet the Guardians, Antlanteans and mythological antediluvian beings who keep an eye on the human's developments.

The Guardians monitor actions of an ancient invisible enemy that dwells within humanity. This enemy guides mankind to destruction. Is it Eva and Simon's destiny to stop this destruction? Do they have the power? Will occult lessons and initiations be enough? What weapons do the Guardians possess? You will be routing for the birds and dolphins and forces working with them.

Will Eva and Simon succeed? They are caught like insects in a web. Can they escape capture? The Guardians call for help through telepathy. Simon's escape will stun and surprise you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rene Fletcher
• Release date: May 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223054689

Book preview

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The Quake

Streaks of red splashed across the acid-green sky. A single eye watched, hidden within yellow clouds ballooning in the distance. Thunder exploded. Screeching flocks of birds darted across the horizon. Palm fronds frantically slapped the air. Sea life tumbled in the water, not knowing up from down. Every inch of land and water shook. The dock rocked. Swirls of ocean spun in opposite directions sucking everything into themselves like a giant drain. Eleuthera, an island in the Caribbean, became the vortex of enormous energy.

The house moaned. Its old wood creaked as if it had arthritis. Doors and shutters rattled as screws loosened, spinning out of their resting places. Hinges broke. Ceiling fans crashed to the floor. Picture frames shattered. The electrical power sparked at its source, extinguishing all lights. The people of the island screamed and prayed to Shango, the god of thunder. In less than five minutes, the mayhem ceased; blackness enveloped the island. Only whimpers and prayers hung in the dark air.

Lightford sprang from bed, cutting his foot on a shard of glass. Screams from downstairs forced him to forget his foot. Blood trailing, he ran, grabbing a flashlight. Burt bumped into Lightford in the hall. Sandra lay on the floor. An antique chifforobe had fallen, pinning her leg beneath it.

Hold still. It’ll just take a second to move this, said Lightford.

What has happened? said Sandra sobbing more from fear than pain.

The two men lifted the furniture, placed it gently on its wobbly legs. Burt held the chifforobe steady while Lightford examined Sandra’s leg. Nothing is broken. I think it is just a bad bruise. Ice it.

It feels like the Guatemalan earthquake I was in years ago, said Burt.

The room shook. Lightford lost his balance and tumbled to his left. He sat for a moment with his knees drawn to his chest and wrapped his hands around his knees. He put his head down. Silently he prayed, Adoniye, protect us. Save this island my forefathers gave me as my inheritance. Help me. He stood and took Sandra’s hands, helping her up. Your leg will be ok. Maybe Mable should take a look, said Lightford.

She stood up and hobbled to the kitchen.

Take it easy; don’t run any marathons, said Burt. He winked at Sandra, hoping to cheer her up.

Burt, could you get the generator running and bring me my computer and coffee, said Lightford. He was concerned about damage to his property. Even more important, how did the people in the village make out. We need to know what the hell happened.

Within a few minutes, Lightford had his coffee, electricity, and his computer. There was no air. Nothing stirred in the breezeless heat. The palm fronds lay down. The water barely lapped at the shore while the birds silently sat watching Lightford. The air hung like a wet blanket; the humidity was unbearable. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Sandra, bring me a wet, cold cloth. Did you get hold of Mable?

No, everything is down.

That generator is driving me crazy with its bangs and clangs. Is Johnny working on it?

Yes, he is doing his best, said Sandra. It’s difficult; he needs more light."

Then he needs to get the electricity up and running everywhere, not just the house.

Lightford’s hands shook, holding the laptop. The web is down. I can’t communicate with anyone to find out what is going on. Damn it.

Get Johnny to adjust the satellite dish. With the wind and shaking, it lost the signal, said Burt. I can use the radio in the plane to message the other pilots in the area; maybe they experienced the same thing.

A few minutes later, Burt returned and shook his head. From all reports, the storm was isolated to this area.

Something is wrong, said Lightford. Johnny, align that dish, now.

Lightford had to wait. He sipped coffee spiked with rum to soothe his nerves.

What do you think, Burt?

Sir, nothing makes sense. I can drive into town and check things out.

Good, take your phone; we might get the thing working. Be back by dawn. We are taking a tour to check out the whole island.

Jumping into the Jeep, Burt sped off into the blackness. The only light came from his headlights bouncing on the unpaved dirt road. In the distance, there was a lone lantern illuminating a house. A bonfire blazed in the town square. It was a gathering place for the people to share their fears and sorrows. Thankfully their screams, ceased. Some cried for their loved ones. The homes of the poor lay like a child’s game of pick-up sticks. A few people were trapped under roofs of corrugated steel. Their neighbors worked franticly to free them.

Use the wench on the Jeep, said Burt jumping from his seat and grasping the large hook on the rear of the vehicle. He worked with the people clearing the rubble till dawn.

Only whimpers and whispers of prayers to Shango floated in darkness by the fire. The islanders asked Shango, the mighty god of thunder, why he brought destruction to their island?

Johnny yelled, Try it! The web is up.

In a frenzy Lightford searched the internet. What was that storm? Is it recorded somewhere? First, he went to NOAA, the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration. The website showed nothing about the Caribbean. He then searched sites that recorded earthquakes.

There are no reports of seismic activity or a crazy storm.

There was no information, nothing, absolutely nothing on the internet, said Lightford. His face glowed red in pure frustration and sweat.

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With the dawn came the smell of death. Lightford sipped a glass of rum as he stood on his dock inspecting the damage. It wobbled. The light pole was sheared. It was too close to the water they had to cut the power. He watched as a dead stingray floated ashore among a group of dead fish. Gazing at the vastness of the Atlantic, he entertained the idea that the island existed in another dimension. Not a novel idea, he thought, smiling, he recalled, the TV show The Twilight Zone.

Johnny cut the power to the light on the dock, said Lightford.

Yes, sir. A limb from the gumbo limbo tree fell through the airplane hangar.

Did it damage the plane?

Not that I can tell.

Any other damage?

A banyan tree was uprooted past the footpath to the Coral House.

We can deal with that later. Get the boat ready. We’ll check the island out as soon as Burt returns.

Johnny had the Boston Whaler ready when Burt returned. As daylight approached with purple and orange streaks, Burt and Lightford jumped aboard. Wooden planks shifted under their weight.

The dock’s about to collapse, said Burt. I am amazed the storm pushed it off its pilings.

Burt cast off the lines as Johnny drove the white open fisherman skiff. Lightford stood at the helm. The sky was clear with a green cast. The water was choppy and cloudy with sand and mud as if stirred with a giant spoon. Seaweed and dead fish floated near the shore. Bits of wood, a foam cooler, a flip-flop, and a coconut paraded on the current. The dolphins were excited, screeching and jumping through the waves. In a nearby cove, the bow of a wooden fishing boat jutted above the water. It was tethered to a submerged dock piling. Circling the island, they inspected the shoreline for stranded survivors, erosion or other damage.

Nearing the town fishermen had set out in their small boats to catch what they could. They waved casually as if nothing had wreaked havoc the night before. The sun was too high for fishing, but the people needed to eat.

At the dock in George Town, the briny smell of fish and gasoline stench wafted over the pier as they moored the boat. Just beyond the pier was a small market. The strong odors and an army of flies would overwhelm the market except for a breeze that brought fresh air. Vendors sold fruit, vegetables, and fresh fish usually caught that morning. However, today there was no fish. A few fruit stalls had opened with meager selections.

Mr. Lightford, we’s scared. said a small girl who ran to him. Shango is angry. Did you feel him last night? What’s we going to do?

Someone grabbed his arm; he turned to find a young mother with a baby on her hip. Mr. Lightford there is no fish today. How will I feed my baby?

Don’t worry we’ll see you have food.

An older woman interrupted. Pay her no mind. The baby can eat bananas and eggs if need be. The girl is foolish. Come leave this man alone.

Lightford smiled, Well, if you need anything come see me. Scanning the crowd, he spotted Mable and called to her.

How are you? he said, putting on his polite gentleman’s mask, hiding his anxiety.

Hello Benjamin, what brings you to the market so early?

Just enjoying our island, Mable.

Mable’s golden skin glowed in the morning light. She had his mother’s eyes though they never discussed their family ties. It was one of many things left unsaid on the island.

Well then, come, let’s get some coffee and beignets, she said, patting the concrete tile table.

Benjamin swept an orange poinciana flower off the seat and sat down. He always felt comfortable around his island family. He could be himself. They enjoyed the sea breeze and chatted about the goings-on in George Town. Sipping the chicory coffee and nibbling on a beignet, he sighed. "Boy, did you feel that storm last night?

Mable smiled. Oh, you are finally getting around to the important question. Yea, it rock rattled and rolled for a bit. We all were scared, but with the morning, we forgot.

What did the people think? What did they say?

It was Shango. She rolled her eyes, then pulled a Cypraea shell necklace from under her blouse and kissed the medal of the virgin hanging from the rawhide. We’ll have a dance tonight to appease the gods.

You think it was him, the old African god?

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The Dance

The Jeep bounced on the sandy one-lane road lit only by the waning moon and starlight. Tall grasses boarded the road leaning like ghosts swayed in the salty night air.

I wonder why Mable chose to hold the secret dance tonight. The storm was just last night. It’s cloudy, and it’s a half moon. Driving without headlights makes it difficult to see, said Burt.

You know the rule no car lights. We don’t want to draw unwanted attention.

A broken palm frond hung limp and low, slapping the jeep’s windshield as it passed. New potholes and scattered branches made Lightford bounce like a jack in the box in his seat.

Sorry, mon, the road is messed up. I can’t see.

You’ve been driving this road all your life. I bet you could drive it blindfolded.

The smell of rotting guava drifted their way as they passed an abandoned grove.

Lightford laughed, Do you remember the time Mable caught you out here fooling around with her altars?

Yea, she made altars everywhere under trees and rocks, even at the docks. She caught me when I ate a sugar apple from one of her little altars to a nature spirit. I must have been ten. She told me the gods would make me blind for messing with her stuff, said Burt. Then someone put a blindfold on me. Guess I wandered around crying ‘till someone took the blindfold off. I’d forgotten all about that.

That’s Mable, my second cousin, a strong-willed, formidable lady. Some say she is like my great aunt Rose who fell in love with Henri Rolls, Mable’s great grandfather. I think that’s how it goes, said Lightford. My family was upset when Rose married into Mable’s family. He took a deep breath. The smells of the bush flooded his memories. On top of the sand and coral bedrock dark luminous earth built up over generations of decaying plants. A scent of frangipani lingered in the air. He pushed family memories aside. It’s ancient history.

You and Mable are buddies. Everyone sees how close you two are, said Burt.

What are you saying? Everyone? said Lightford. This is where you turn. He grabbed the steering wheel and swerved.

I was just saying maybe you two have a genetic connection.

Park the truck, Lightford said. He recalled his mother’s eyes. A sign of great beauty was the classical arch of her eyebrows. Her eyes were large and dark; sometimes, they appeared black in soft light. She outlined them in black to accentuate her exotic qualities. She was descended from Sephardic Jews.

Burt parked off the road. This is the spot we usually park. Pulling in, he bumped into a down tree trunk. Dang, no lights, guess the storm brought the tree down,

Lightford jumped out of the vehicle carrying an African drum, the djembe, over his shoulder. Running his hand over the dinged fender, he said, No big deal. It’s a minor dent. The people need this ceremony tonight because of the quake last night.

A rabbit scurried into the brush as they walked the path, striped by shadows of the swaying palm leaves. Burt was slapped in the face by a dewy palm frond watching the rabbit.

Smell the goat cooking, said Burt. I hope Mable brought her mango chutney.

I saw Sandra packing some to bring tonight.

Burt could feel his heartbeat change to match the sound of the drums he heard in the distance. The beat stirred memories in both men of other ceremonies that had been powerful.

Burt recalled, an exotic woman from New Orleans who spoke creole French which he had trouble understanding. She emitted a powerful force that took his breath away. When she chanted, the ground rose from its ties to the Earth. Then it vanished, and Burt was floating in a purple void.

Lightford often played the djembe in ceremonies led by Mable. One night, when the energy was high, he had a profound spiritual experience. The music came alive. It was seductive and sucked him into the rhythm. He became one with the djembe and its vibrations. Lightford heard the singing of trees, rocks, and the ocean. He felt glorious.

A clearing encircled by trees and bushes greeted them at the trail’s end. Tiki lights lined the perimeter. Smoke laced with citronella kept mosquitoes and no-see-ums at bay. Only the locals knew of this place deep in the bush.

A half dozen drummers called to Burt and Lightford as they entered.

Burt, where your drum at, mon? A tall sandy-haired, light-skinned drummer greeted them with a bamboula drum, made from an old rum barrel hanging from his neck by a beaded strap.

Gotta stay sharp tonight. Keeping my eyes open after last night. Besides, my niece is here tonight.

Boy, that was some-ting. Hey, mon thanks for your help with the Jeep last night in the storm.

Burt gave him a thumbs up and mused: I wish I had brought my