Sarcophagus (Parts 1-3)

- Dedicated to Bob Bloch


Most lives terminate in a tomb. Sekhmet’s began there.

“You are from the Census then? After all, that is why I let you in. You’ve driven out to see me in well over a foot of January snow. Odd. Very odd. You’re just one step ahead of the taxman this year, aren’t you? Still, it is a good way for a private citizen to make a few extra bucks. Although, even most common folks can afford white wall tires.”

The stranger whom he addressed was a clean shaven, short-haired, Anglo-Saxon attired in a tan trench coat, charcoal suit, white shirt, black tie and loafers. He carried a portmanteau.

“Your face is familiar. I do believe that I’ve seen you before. Was it in early August? You rang my front bell with one hand behind your back, then you hovered around my gangway for awhile and whispered something into your collar. I was approaching from a distance down the block. We exchanged banal pleasantries regarding the weather as you were heading back to your plain, white Chevrolet. I kept moving forward down the walk of course. I waited until you pulled away, then I circled back to my door.”

The treasury agent knew from his profile that Carson was a bit shell shocked, so he allowed him to calm himself down with his diatribe. Besides, he was there to gather information, and he couldn’t do that if he had to kill him.

“I am not a violent man by temperament, but I am a survivor. It’s a special skill in which I’ve been well trained at the expense of the American taxpayer but have seldom had the opportunity to execute. You may or may not have noticed the lumber propped in the corner behind the front door. That was reserved in case they sent along more than one of you. I also come equipped with an additional apparatus, but that is only for close range, and I do not intend to let you get any nearer than the extension of my arms. You see, I don’t need that standard issue revolver or those cuffs. I can dispatch you with my bare fists.”

The agent had been trained to react to certain phraseology, he leaned forward ever so slightly, preparing to spring.

“No, don’t get up. Listen awhile more. Stunned, at first, I thought that I was being rescued, so I allowed them to strip me of my sidearm and charred flight suit shortly after I had parachuted down into Baghdad. Know this. Sure as I’m sitting here today. They were just as eager and as soon surprised as you are going to be.”

Following the familiar scenario of his training, the agent smiled reassuringly. “You probably know as well as I that I could have subdued you during any part of your presentation. In all truth, Mr. Carson, all that we want is the artifact.”

He laughed. “Which one? Saddam’s palaces were rife with ancient Babylonian treasures. Many of the more arcane ones were shipped to Denver, Colorado, I believe.”

The agent narrowed his brows in thought. “May I make a motion?”

“If it’s hostile, it might be your last one.”

The errand boy brought the case to his knees and unsnapped it. “Perhaps a photograph will refresh your memory?”

The glossy carried a government seal, various numerations and descriptive designations. The object of inquiry rested inside a shattered Coptic jar on the familiar terrain of the desert, partially obscured by sand and stones.

Carson was rather relieved when he learned of the reason for the agent’s visit. He had expected a line of inquiry regarding a certain matter of the war that was altogether . . . darker. The unintelligible scroll was merely something that he planed to share with Jennifer and use to supplement a portion of his own retirement one day, but he was tired of being shadowed. Despite his bravado, he knew there were much more unpleasant forms of interrogation. “I don’t have it right here, of course, but I can show you where it is located under the condition that only you and I retrieve it.”

“Mr. Carson, you had a distinguished military career and out of respect for your forthrightness on the matter, I will agree. Shall I drive?”

“We won’t be needing a car.”

The veteran threw on his faded flight jacket and lead the agent to the back porch and down the icy wooden stairs into the frigid backyard.

“I’m fortunate to have a prairie located right behind my home. I don’t know how far back it goes. There’s some railroad tracks that cut through it about a hundred yards away. Beyond that. I guess, it just keeps going.”

As usual in the case of an Alberta Clipper, the shimmering vortex would continue to swirl for several days. Powered by the relentless wind, the snow stung their cheeks and hands. The two men trudged through banks up to their knees.

“Careful, there’s a few bumps and dips in the trail. We used to ride our bicycles out here when I was a kid. It was a good place to bury imaginary treasure. If you grew up in the Midwest, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about: lava stones, trading cards, secret messages and stuff. What we’re heading for is that stray Oak tree. Somehow, one of them always beats the odds of exposure to the elements and matures out here; naturally, it acquires the status of a kind of marker.”

“For buried treasure, Mr. Carson?” the agent inquired brightly. Most of the people he dealt with were rogues. He was really beginning to take a shine to this veteran of the Air Force.

Carson dug around the roots with the side of his boot. “It’s down there.”

Resting his forearm against the trunk, the agent shook his head doubtfully. “I’m afraid the ground’s too frozen to dig.”

“Won’t have to.” Carson removed a spade from the hollow of the tree and shoveled away the snow, then dropping down to one knee, he wiped away the stones, revealing the rusty rivets of a metal door. “How long have you been in the service of spooks? I myself come from a long line of military men. I remember my grandfather telling me how he had to pay a dime for a seat in church the night before crossing the Atlantic. Being enlisted men, they slept toe to toe in bunks six high and had to bathe in salt while the sailors had fresh water. When they were unleashed into the vastness of Anzio beach, it seemed like a kind of benevolent reciprocity. During the Korean conflict, my father told me tales of driving into east Germany every night and back west again in reverse gear. The next morning the Russian patrols were vexed by mile after mile of American tank tracks apparently having invaded their side of the border.”

The January snow continued to swirl madly across the open prairie. This was hardly the ideal place or manner in which to stash such a priceless artifact. While Carson reminisced and fiddled with the latches of the hideaway, the agent grew suddenly skeptical of the situation. Sensing a snare, he pushed away from the tree, and took a few steps backward, inching his hand closer to his weapon.

The airman sensed his uneasiness. “Don’t worry. You’ll see.” He raised the lid of the trapdoor and removed a section of tubing from the shallow hole. “The scroll is sealed inside, three deep. Each end of the tube is screwed together tightly and sealed with epoxy making it virtually waterproof. The depth of the excavation and the umbrage of this tree has kept it at an archive temperature all the year round. It is impervious to time and as crisp as the day it was crafted.”

The agent nodded his head in affirmation. “You’re doing the right thing.” He opened the portmanteau.

Carson placed it inside.

All at once, a high-pitched sound filled the air.

Both men were knocked to the ground as if struck simultaneously by lightning.

The agent fell face first into the snow, so his sight was smothered.

Carson’s head rested to one side on the root of the tree. Though his vision was slightly blurred by the blood from a head wound, he could see a figure approaching over the desolate prairie in strange, mechanical, measured steps. It was dressed in a long coat and top hat of black. Wiry, gray tresses cascaded wildly over its shoulders. Its face was pale and somber at first, but then it changed. It wasn’t a mere variance of expression but a kind of shield or screen on which an infinite multitude of images were projected. Held aloft in its red talons, a slim, silver instrument reverberated with waves of sound that pulsed in perceivable rings through the air like heat waves rising from an August pavement.

The agent, meanwhile, had managed to struggle to his knees and was centering his aim.

In the space of a mere breath, the shadow of a shadow stood directly in front of him and kicked the firearm from his hands with its sharp, black boot, however, much to its surprise, a bullet from behind tore through its right shoulder, leaving yellow sparks and blue arcs of electricity in its wake.

Before Carson could ready his derringer for a second shot, the scroll collector twisted the opening of its weapon wider.

The sonic tide was overwhelming. The men sank numbly to the ground and their consciousness dimmed.

Janus gracefully snatched up the portmanteau. Looking back one last time with one of its revolving faces, it unraveled its sinewy wings and carried itself on running steps up into the air where, absent of gravity, two electrical charges interlocked in a vacuum at the center of Zero Time.

* * *

Nothing then was here now.


Alone but for memory ghosts wavering in dark rooms agape along the hall, raindrops in gutters and a woodwork full of eyes, a curious physiognomy paced back and forth behind distorted glass, implying intelligence by design.

* * *

While ploughs of history labored through metallic clays of upturned earth, Sekhmet built a world of liberty from dust and moonlight.

Balance up on the branches, drops of respite rain, undisturbed by consequence, sorrow, death or pain. It has not rained for hours, except beneath these trees, and it is growing darker now . . . darkness . . . in degrees.

The horizon of the evening sky was filled with winter lightning and muffled bursts of distant machine guns. Carson found himself resting upright against the trunk of the eldritch Oak.

A small, white hand steadied him at his shoulder.

“Who?” It was the inquiry of an owl.

“You may call me Veronica,” the woman replied vaguely, for she was busy scanning the expanding perimeter of agents.

“Good to know at least one of you has a name. Where? How is?”

“Bailey’s going to be fine.” She raised him to his feet.

“I can’t. Still too woozy.”

“Give me your hand.”

Carson laughed. “You’re not going to drag me are you?”

“Hand, please.” She gently pinched his middle knuckle three times and tapped the remainders once each in succession. “You will remain with me. Let’s walk.”

A full January moon peeked from between the clouds. They headed away from the house, deeper into the prairie.

Throughout his career, Carson had known at lot of military types. Veronica was different from the rest, a uniquely confident and intelligent woman. “Hold on. This isn’t the way back?”

“It’s too late now, Mr. Carson. Contact has been established. A surprising announcement will be made shortly regarding the future of the Constellation Space Program. It will be disinformation. Having confided this to you, we are now connected.”

“I’m not sure that I understand?”

“Do you remember that time last September when you were stranded in Milwaukee?”

“Somehow I missed my . . . connection. I had to sleep upright on a chair at the station all night. The entire place was empty except for . . .”

“. . . the restaurant owner and I?”

“Exactly. He was an interesting gentleman. We conversed into the small hours about a variety of people and politics.”

“Indeed. If you will recall, he wore an aviator’s watch like yourself. Let me refresh your memory. 'Regulations require me to throw away so much useful food. Instead of the dumpster, I invite them inside every Friday evening after we close. I wished to retire, so I bought a piece of farm land in Indiana. The neighboring cattle rancher made me install a fence. I was planning on raising chickens, and I received a loan, but the code required the installation of a sewage system. This was too expensive to be practical. Now I own some land in Indiana. A friend and I are remodeling my home for my wife. She does not cook and spends most of the day shopping for furniture. While she is away, the hostess from my restaurant comes over and brings me some lunch. There is nothing more to it than that. My daughter is studying advertising. She is developing good ideas and enjoying a ground swell of success. My son is highly energetic. He is studying business. The current economic crisis has offered him a world of opportunities.' Do you remember any of this?”

“Verbatim. But how? What does it mean?”

“It was nothing other than rote written in our identity laboratory, leaving you with the impression that you are now feeling, for we have always been with you.”

“I was never alone?”

“Not for a moment.”

“But what about Jennifer?”

“There is no Jennifer. I am Veronica.”

Their journey brought them just in sight of a group of people who were climbing in and out of the trench along the railroad tracks.

Veronica placed a finger beneath her lips. “We’ve already begun the process of back engineering.”

Carson looked down into the ditch. The attention of the gathering centered on Janus. Already stripped of its black coat and top hat, beams of flashlights bounced all over its smooth, silver, metal skin. Its red talons were dug into the frozen stones. Its long, gray wig was strewn nearby on the ground. Defrocked of its mystique, the top of its head had popped open, spilling a glistening net of neurons into the greedy hands of the scientists.

One of the agents approached them and safely placed the portmanteau into Veronica’s hands. “The scroll is a lexicon, Mr. Carson. It is a key to liberty, for in order to understand the present we must regard the future as a remembrance of the past.”


To be continued . . .





Written now and published here first.