CONTENTS

- Archivist's Note

- Introduction

- Time Vault

- The Depths of Civilisation #1

- The Acts of Taxiarch Nergal

- The Hatch

- Colony

- About the Authors

Archivist's Note

Apologies for the hasty arrangement of these papers, but it has become clear to those of us left in what could loosely be described as 'historical research' have neither the time nor inclination to provide indulgent material to individuals seeking anecdotes from our past. We get many requests, as you might imagine and since those in senior command believe there is merit in responding to such inquiries, I have prepared a further selection of briefing materials for your use.

As with the previous collection, I have endeavoured to curate a selection of useful information and, as before, you should ensure these documents are not distributed beyond the proper authorisation level. We have no wish to affect morale, given that matters are at such a delecate stage.

And in answer to the query you will undoutably have, yes, the 'Randolph' mentioned in these journals is a relative of mine, my great grandfather in fact. Some of the works included in this collection (Time Vault & The Depths of Civilisation #1) are amongst the first of his collated papers and do not paint him in the most favourable light.

My great grandfather wrote extensively about matters pertaining to the Phoenix Project during the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. Many of his essays remain classified. If they are of interest, I will try to get more of them distributed to those with clearance.

I think it is only fitting that I let him introduce the writing that you are to read.

– Randolph Symes III, Phoenix Project.

Introduction

We are not the first species to walk this earth.

The archaeological record shows us Darwin’s road. The emergence of bipedal humanity came about late in the Earth’s history. What came before us are things that we cannot know for certain.

The clues that remain for us are old and difficult to find. Often, our own sense of superiority gets in the way.

I believe evidence of previous intelligence exists. My studies suggest that deep within the geology of our planet, there lies significant information in relation to a previous civilisation that existed on the pre-ice age continents, a civilisation whose remnants lived in the earliest times of human history. The people who walked the lands at this time are distant relatives to us. Archaeologists classifies them as Hominins - a related genus to our own Homo sapien, but from the evidence we have acquired they would appear to be very different.

Since finding my calling to hunt down these clues, I have journeyed across the world in search of knowledge that describes Eden, Babel, Atlantis, Gilgamesh, Arthur and many other legends of ancient times that speak to us from civilisations that we no longer remember. I undertake this task with humility, accepting that my efforts will never recapture their world that was, but in the eternal hope that we might glimpse something of their lore and learn some new truth that aids us in our future.

The lesson of history is always to forewarn future generations of the perils that they might face. It is in this spirit that I commend these writings to you.

– Randolph Symes.

Time Vault

By Allen Stroud

I am sat on a polished bench, waiting in a polished hallway, staring at my polished shoes.

Around me, the noise of academia is a comfort. I can hear the strident tones of a professor in theatre through the wall and snatches of discussion from students as they pass by.

Once, what seems like a lifetime ago, this could have been my life, but I made a different choice. Instead, I am taken back to my days as a young man, learning alongside others as keen as I was to unlock the mysteries of the universe, guided by someone who once shared our fiery passion, but now warmed the embers of their curiosity observing our exploration of the world.

Universities are where great thinkers go when they are, at last, incapable of great thoughts or deeds.

Today, I must change that inevitability and encourage a man to do something that will be remembered for centuries. I must ask him to look past the detritus of his life and see the future desolation of others that only he might prevent.

And I must make him think the entire enterprise is his idea.

Two weeks ago, the group met. Eleven of us, connected by an exchange of letters, phone calls and radio messages over the last eight years. Before that night on April 14th, I had never met any of the people who sat around the table in the basement of an old townhouse in Connecticut.

Some, like me, were recruited by exploiting our curiosity. I knew to be there, because I’d translated a radio message – a series of numbers, broadcast at the top end that a wireless receiver wouldn’t reach, without modification. I’ve always considered myself a futurist and been interested in technology. I had been tinkering with the Sparton Model 505 on my mantelpiece in Fairfax, California, after giving up on making my own television. I heard the numbers, wrote them down and translated the message. That gave me an address and a time. I booked a few days off work and made the drive.

I was a perfect recruit for these people.

That night no names were exchanged. I learned answers to questions I’d never even thought of asking and after a glass or three of whisky, agreed to swear some oaths and the like. I learned about a secret, sinister history, which I wanted and still want to believe. I was given a briefcase, some cash and a set of instructions. Completion of my task would help the world in its defence against dark forces and I would be rewarded with more ancient knowledge than I could possibly imagine.

Yeah… it sounds pretty hokey when I read all that back, but these people were either deadly serious or the greatest hucksters on Earth. They made my little schemes look amateur. Either way, I figured I needed to join up and learn the truth.

So that’s why I’m here, doing the job they gave me.

Oglethorpe University has a history extending back a hundred years. In this fledging country, such a legacy is ancient. However, Oglethorpe is not an institution of permanence. The facility has been moved, opened and closed for a variety of reasons over the last century. This current incarnation of a campus has existed for two decades on Peachtree Road in Brookhaven. There is a sense of frustrated prestige that permeates the imported pictures on these walls. Each of the faces of long dead faculty members staring down at me seems concerned over how long they will remain in situ.

It is this subconscious aspiration, to establish a legacy, that I must exploit.

It’s noon. A bell rings, signalling the lunch break. Young students spill into the corridors from their classrooms, clutching books and papers, chatting about whatever they’ve learned or are looking forward to next. In this moment, the empty university corridor comes to life. These people are the future of us all, their minds keen and in the process of being sharpened through their expensive educations. They are oblivious to the frowning paintings around them. This space is one they have grown accustomed to, and consider their territory.  There is nothing the oil portraits can do about it.

The door beside the bench opens. An immaculately presented woman steps out and favours me with the smallest of smiles. There’s a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. I don’t acknowledge it and she sobers up quickly. “Mister Symes?” she says loudly, as if to an audience. “Doctor Jacobs is ready for you now.”

“Thank you,” I reply, also in a loud voice and then stand up, gathering up my briefcase, umbrella and bowler hat in one fluid motion before walking through the open doorway.

The outer office of Doctor Thornwell Jacobs, president of Oglethorpe University is shared by two female administrators. The older lady at the second desk doesn’t look up as I enter. She has a stack of papers on her desk and is absorbed in writing notes. I pay her no more attention and focus instead upon the next door I must pass through.

The woman who spoke to me knocks on the door four times in a jaunty rhythm.

“Come!” Jacobs barks from inside.

I enter his room. He is sat behind a mahogany desk, leaning back in his chair, regarding me. He is an older man, in his late fifties, who takes care of his appearance. A pair of glasses lie discarded on the table, alongside a fat metallic box that crouches on the corner. Two red lights on the front are like eyes, glaring at me. Jacobs reaches forward and flips a switch on the gremlin, causing one of the eyes to turn green. “Missus Anderson? About time you took your lunch I think and tell Miss Jance to hold my calls.” He turns the machine off again and looks at me. “You would be Mister Symes then?”

“I am indeed, Mister Randolph Symes, Doctor Jacobs.” I extend my hand. Jacobs hesitates for a second, then grasps it to complete the ancient ritual. “I am here to suggest an opportunity for you and your university.”

“We get very few salesmen here, Mister Symes,” Jacobs says. A faint line on his forehead betrays irritation, but he gestures for me to take a seat and I do so. “I fear you will find me a poor choice for your wares.”

“What I offer is not what you think, Doctor,” I reply. The briefcase is still in my hand. I lift it carefully onto the desk and turn it towards him. “Open the catches and I will explain.”

Jacobs hesitates. He gazes at me, as if he might measure my worth. I know a great deal about him. A strict Presbyterian, he has no time for merchant’s in Christ’s temple, but I have given him little cause to be suspicious. Slowly, he reaches out and flicks both of the clasps, then lifts the lid of the briefcase and stares down at its contents.

“What is this?”

“Something precious,” I explain. “Please, take it out.”

Jacobs removes the object – a flat, stainless steel container, designed and manufactured to my own specification with no flaw to its polished surface. The object is light and has no discernible hinge or life. I smile involuntarily at his surprised expression.

“What purpose does this serve?”

“It is a document holder, Doctor Jacobs. It is designed to preserve the manufactured paper inside. While sealed, the environment remains perfectly sterile, extending the life of the contents indefinitely. I have six of these units that I wish to give to the university.”

“To what end?”

“I want you to lock them away in your vault.”

I’m watching Jacobs closely. The frown line appears again, and he has the decency to look surprised. “I don’t know what you mean, Mister Symes.”

“You do, Doctor Jacobs.” I lean back in the chair, an old wooden hardback, just the kind of thing a stern church devout man might favour. “I am aware of the draft article you are writing for Scientific America. You are building a chamber in the university, which you intend to lock, to be re-opened more than six thousand years from now. Your work is based on some careful research you have collected that relate to a mentioned date in the Egyptian calendar. According to your work, there is a significance to a specific moment in the next few months. I wish to support and take advantage of your efforts.”

“By storing these documents in this… vault, you believe I have?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

Jacobs chews his lip and stares at the steel document holder. He holds it up and the metal flashes as it catches the afternoon sunlight. The other five are in the case.  “What secrets do you have in here?” he asks.

“I can’t tell you that, Doctor,” I reply. “All I can tell you is that this is information that needs to be preserved.”

“And it will not affect anything else in the chamber?”

“You have my word it will not.”

Jacobs places the holder back on the table. “You give me little cause to trust you, beyond your demeanour, sir,” he says coldly. “For what reason would the university be interested in keeping your documents?”

“For the very good reason of publicity.” I point at the picture on the wall behind Doctor Jacobs’ head. “That’s James Edward Oglethorpe, isn’t it? The university’s founder?”

“It is.”

“You rescued his dream and rebuilt the institution your grandfather Ferdinand, worked at,” I say. “I wonder what they would think of your efforts?”

“I would surmise he would approve of the continuation of his legacy,” Jacobs says.

“Including your acceptance of non-Presbyterian students?”

“The world has changed. Sometimes, we must accept that.” Jacobs leans forward. “I fail to see how any of this, answers my question.”

I smile. “You want to raise the profile of this institution. It deserves recognition for its legacy, despite the years in which remained closed. The vault is part of your plan, to create something that will be a gift to future generations and help this place be remembered. What is contained in these wallets will help cement your ideas and, the organisation I work for will ensure your venture will gain the newspaper coverage it deserves.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the objective of you hiding your information?”

“We will also provide adequate security measures and we would seek to keep our organisation’s name out of the matter.”

Doctor Jacobs smiles. “An organisation I don’t even know the name of.”

“Exactly.”

He picks up the document holder again, turning it over in his hands. “A gift for future generations that I, the curator, know nothing about. There is a moral question to answer. How can I permit such a cuckoo in the nest? Such actions shape the future. What assurances do you give me that your secrets are for the betterment of humanity?”

I sigh. “Doctor Jacobs, we can manage this matter on our own. We do not have to involve you and Oglethorpe.”

“Which makes me inquire as to why you are doing so?”

“Because we believe in your project, because—”

“Please, let’s not go over all that butter again, Mister Symes. What benefit is there to your organisation in working with us, rather than doing all of this on your own?”

I take a deep breath. “Doctor Jacobs, I want to help you. The information I provide for your vault is important to humanity’s future. If it is not stored here, it might be lost. I give you my assurance, the knowledge is beneficial to mankind. I am prepared to compensate you handsomely for the effort, to a point that will essentially pay for your enterprise. Do you really need to ask any more questions over the matter?”

“So, I must trust you?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“The devil might offer such a bargain for my mark in blood on his scroll.” Doctor Jacobs stands up. “Despite given ample opportunity, Mister Symes, you do not convince me of your candour. This meeting is over.”

I stare at him. He is waiting for me to get up and leave his office. His expression has become disapproving and closed. Further attempts at reasonable persuasion will fall on deaf ears.

This is unfortunate. I’ll have to resort to plan B.

I reach into my jacket and take out the revolver, placing it on the table between us. Jacobs sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. “Sit down please, Doctor,” I say.

Slowly, he does as he is bidden. “Do you think threatening me will change my mind, Mister Symes?” he asks quietly, his face rapidly turning pale.

“I am aware it will not,” I reply.

“Then why bring out the… gun?”

“It is important we both understand the seriousness of this matter, Doctor.” I note his hand at his throat, fingering the Saint Christopher’s pendant that he wears. “I am not a man accustomed to violence, but it is a factor in this moment.”

“I fail to understand what you—”

I touch a finger to my lips, urging his silence. Then, quietly, I take up the revolver and extricate myself from my chair, moving towards the office door. There is noise from the other side – the faint sound of movement, confirming my suspicions.

Quickly, I grab the handle and open the door. The person I heard, yelps in surprise as she tumbles into the room in an untidy heap.

“Miss Jance! What an earth were you doing?”

“Listening to our conversation,” I say, aiming the gun at the woman who I had first met in the hall. “How long has this lady worked for you, Doctor Jacobs?”

“Seven weeks. I interviewed her myself. I fail to see—”

“And has she given you any cause for complaint?”

“Not until this very moment.”

I kneel down beside the woman, pressing the barrel of the revolver to the side of her head. My hand is shaking, but I know what needs to be done. “Who sent you?” I demand. “Who knew I would be here? Was it Ogilvy? Prezent? Goebbels? Or someone else?”

Jance grimaces, but doesn’t try to get up. “If you shoot me, the entire university will be alerted, and the police will be called. You and your documents will disappear into a hole, never to see the light of day again.” There’s an affected trace of an accent in her speech, one that I know all too well.

“Prezent sent you, all the way from Moscow,” I announce, sticking to the script. “I might have known the book burners would be trying to get their claws into the United States education system!”

“You are a perpetrator of the grand delusion! You have—”

“Save it. No-one here wants to listen to you!” I grasp the gun barrel in my hand and bring the handle down hard against the bone just behind her ear. Pistol whipping a woman brings me no pleasure, quite the opposite, but this young lady’s poison is not something I’m supposed to tolerate. At the last moment I shift my grip as planned, to spare her the full force of the blow. Jance grunts theatrically in pain and her eyes roll back in her head.

I look up at the startled Thornwell Jacobs. “Doctor, I think you’ve been harbouring a Bolshevik,” I explain. “A particularly nasty one at that.”

“You must be mistaken, Miss Jance—”

“Was seeking to ruin your entire operation. These Lysenkoists are an anti-science cult. I hadn’t realised they had penetrated the scholarly institutions of this country. We are very fortunate to have caught her.”

“Right… well I don’t know…”

I reach up and grab his arm. “Doctor Jacobs, I’ll handle it, don’t worry. I’m sure Oglethorpe University could do without this matter becoming public. Our organisation has close ties with Mister Hoover and the Bureau. I’ll ensure the matter is dealt with discreetly.”

“I… uh… thank you.”

“These people are out to ruin your work, Doctor. They want to ruin all of our work and take us back to the stone age.” I reach into my pocket and produce a set of handcuffs, snapping them onto her wrists. “Is there a backdoor out of here I can use to ensure we aren’t seen?”

“There’s a caretaker’s entrance just down the corridor.”

“That should suffice.” I gather Miss Vance into my arms, lifting her carefully. “If you could lead the way Doctor. You may want to be quick about it. You wouldn’t want your senior assistant to come back and find all this kerfuffle, would you?”

“You mean Missus Anderson? Oh no, of course not!”

Doctor Jacobs moves through the door, his demeanour agitated and nervous, the opposite of before. I follow, carrying Miss Vance and intentionally leaving behind the briefcase. There’s a backdoor to the outer office that leads around the office, through the gardens and back to the parking lot, where I left my Worsley Hornet. The buildings are between us and the students out on break, so we aren’t observed.

Nervously, Jacobs helps me lay Miss Vance out in the back seat and hovers behind me as I settle her in, removing her shoes so they don’t scuff the seats. “What will you do with her?” he asks.

“Drive down to see my old pal, Agent Parkinson in Jacksonville and drop her off with him,” I reply. “I’ll mention how you cooperated with apprehending her and how you’ll want the university kept out of it. He’ll be fine with that. I expect he’ll call in a couple of days just to check up.”

“Okay, that sounds fine.”

I smile, then frown and make a show of having forgotten something. “Apologies Doctor Jacobs, I’ve left my briefcase in your office. I you could be so kind as to—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “We’ll store it as you asked. I couldn’t possibly turn down your request after all this.”

“Really?” I do my best to look surprised and delighted. “Well, that’ll make my life a lot easier, thank you Doctor.”

“No trouble, the least I could do, given the circumstances.” He looks down awkwardly, and then thrusts out his hand. “Goodbye Mister Symes. I assume we’ll never meet again?”

I shake his hand firmly. “No, you’re right, we probably won’t. My friends will begin moving to support your article and you should expect some deliveries, marked for your attention. Small items to assist with the security of your vault.”

“Actually, I call it a crypt.”

“Oh, okay. Crypt then.”

“Thank you.”

I walk around to the driver’s side and get into the car. Jacobs stands awkwardly where I left him, unsure of what to do with himself, probably not quite believing what’s happened, I guess.

“Goodbye, Doctor.” I say.

“Goodbye Mister Symes.”

I turn the ignition in the ignition and drive out of the lot. I can see him in the rear-view mirror staring after me.

“Keep your head down until we reach the freeway,” I say to my passenger.

“Sure,” Miss Vance replies.

---

“So, the old coot fell for the plan?”

“Looks like it.”

“Great. That means I get paid, right?”

“You definitely do, sweetheart, you definitely do.”

Julia Tanner is a great actress. The kind you find around Hollywood waiting tables or working any temp job they can find while they wait for their big break. For a thousand bucks, she agreed to ride with me right across America, pretend to be ‘Miss Vance’ and take a job working for Jacobs until I arrived to unmask her as a ‘Russian spy’. Now, she’s sat in the passenger seat, checking the red marks on her wrists where the handcuffs were.

“Really, I couldn’t have managed this without you,” I tell her. “Jacobs wasn’t buying my sales technique. If you hadn’t been ready on the other side of the door, we’d have failed. Just for that, I’ll put a little bonus in your purse.”

“I thought we were screwed when you put the gun on the table,” Julia says. “He might still wonder about that, when he has time to think about it. I mean, it was a little weird, showing the piece before you caught me at the door.”

“I needed to raise the stakes,” I reply. “Our good doctor became a lot more compliant once he was nervous and off his game.”

“But he won’t know that.”

“No, you’re right.” I turn right at the intersection and clatter through the gears. We’re out on the open road now, making for the motel where I’ve been staying the last few days. Julia’s stuff is there too. Once we arrive, we’ll load up the car and head back to tinsel town. “My friends will have to make a couple of phonecalls, just to follow up and make sure Jacobs is playing ball,” I say. “Should be too much trouble.”

Julia touches my hand on the wheel. “Mister Symes, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, anything you like.”

“What was in those metal cases?”

I turn to look at her. “Miss Tanner, you’ve done a fine job working on this project. My friends will be making recommendations to all the best people in the movie industry. Within a year, I expect to see your name up in lights. This’ll be the start of your career.”

“I hope so,” Julia says. “But you didn’t answer my question."

“No, you’re right I did not.”

“But you said—”

“I said you could ask me anything, Miss Tanner. That didn’t mean I was going to give you an answer.”

The Depths of Civilisation #1

Randolph Symes' Essays in the Origin of Man

By Allen Stroud

[ Editor’s note:   My great grandfather’s investigation into ancient Sumerian mythology was somewhat sporadic. However, it is interesting to note that these papers, written as they were in 1940, predate the rise of the Anu cult by nearly a hundred years. I wonder what stimulated his interest? Whatever it was remains lost to us.

I am aware there is a mixture of terminology at use here, from the Akkadian, Sumerian and Babylonian. If GG were considering a publication of these notes, no doubt he would have defined and attributed each of these cultures. As it is, I believe he was trying to simplify the context in his own mind. ]

We are not the first species to walk this earth.

Evidence of previous intelligence exists. Deep within the geology of our planet, there lies significant information in relation to a previous civilisation that existed on the pre-ice age continents. The people who walked the lands at this time are distant relatives to us. Archaeologists classifies them as Hominins - a related genus to our own homo sapien, but from the evidence we have acquired they would appear to be very different.

Essay 1: Historical Literature – An Analysis of Gilgamesh

The Epic of Gilgamesh  has been asserted by scholars to be the oldest surviving text that exists. Whilst there is some truth to this statement, it is not a wholly accurate assessment. The earliest fragments date from around 2000 BC. Other records do exist from the same period. The gradual recovery and translation of Gilgamesh story fragments has provided a key to learn the secrets of other artefacts.

The current version of the Epic that I have focused my study on is one that was rediscovered by Hormuzd Rassam in the library of Ashurbanipal in Nineveh in 1853.

My reading and research into the Epic has been to determine links between its story, the existence of the pandoravirus and prior sentient civilisations of Earth.

The Epic is divided into seven main parts and a short prologue. It is believed that they are narrating legend based on historical fact – the reign of Gilgamesh of Uruk in 2700 BC. Each section of the story provides insight into what might have existed at this time and before it.

1.       Prologue: King Gilgamesh in Uruk

The story of Gilgamesh’s reign over Uruk sets the scene for the rest of the epic. When we first meet him, he is a physical specimen without peer, dominating the people of his kingdom.  The text we have describes his attributes as gifts from the gods. Given what we know about ancient civilisations from other contexts, this could be reference to previous incarnations of humanity, or another intelligence that walked this Earth, thousands of years before us.

If we accept this premise, there are several matters of interest that arise from the writing. It might be that the gods and goddesses mentioned and worshipped by the author are remnants of a society that existed centuries before, or, that Gilgamesh himself is such a remnant, being of such physical perfection, a powerful exile of the previous Hominin peoples.

Gilgamesh’s people come to hate his dominion over them. The chief reason for this is his debauchery. The King instigates a rule where he is permitted to sleep with any woman who is to marry before she might feel the touch of her husband.

Were we to read this as evidence of the last remnants of a previous civilisation, then Gilgamesh’s desire to procreate with humans might be a sign of his desperation to preserve his legacy and biological superiority in some form.

2.       The Coming of Enkidu

In the story, the character, Enkidu, was created by the gods as an adversary for Gilgamesh in response to his abuse of the people of Uruk. The writing describes them both as equals, physically, suggesting that this new character might have been another survivor from a previous civilisation.

The difference with Enkidu is that, at first, he was left to live amongst animals and only came to the city after long years in the wilderness and being seduced by Shamhat, a courtesan of the city. This sexual union between them is important, as it leaves open the possibility of other Enkidu-like half-humans living in the wilderness.

Enkidu decides to journey to the city when he hears of Gilgamesh’s subversion of sacred marriage rites. As Gilgamesh attempts to enter yet another bridal chamber, Enkidu arrives to block his path and the two come to blows. Gilgamesh eventually prevails and the two resolve their differences. Despite some misgivings, Enkidu is persuaded by Gilgamesh to join him on a quest to slay the monstrous Humbaba, a demi-god who lives in the Cedar Forest.

The battle between Gilgamesh and Enkidu and its aftermath reveals a tangled web of creation. The two creatures visit Ninsun, a goddess described in the text as Gilgamesh’s mother. Ninsun’s decision to ‘adopt’ Enkidu as her son strengthens the relationship between the two.

In Sumerian theology, Ninsun is depicted as the daughter of Anu and Uraš, the eldest gods of the pantheon. If this is the case, then this suggests Gilgamesh himself might be a part-human descendant of Anu, although his father Lugalbanda, who also ruled the city of Uruk was said to have lived for twelve hundred years. This might parallel the later explanations of Hesiod and Homer of the Olympus gods and their interactions with humanity, giving rise to demi-gods and demi-goddesses through interbreeding between immortals and mortals. It also parallels the Nephilim and Rephaim as described in early Jewish mythology with all creation leading back to a singular, wilful source.

However, the Sumerian texts can be read differently. If we are to consider the gods as creatures apart from Lugalbanda, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, they we have a triumvirate of species or races. Similarly, the creation myth of the Sumerians describes an unconscious birthing of the first gods whose bodies are the fundamental material of existence (Sky, Earth, Wind, etc). We are given indication that the gods can create progeny with mortals like Lugalbanda, but we are not given to know the method of procreation – a factor which is also further mythologised in later classical periods. Additionally, we are told that creatures like Gilgamesh can mate with humans. Later, we learn that Gilgamesh had a son, Ur-Nungal, who succeeded him to the throne of Uruk. This tells us that the physiology of the Gilgamesh-like Hominin is compatible with humanity. Almost as if it were a go between.

Also, the action of adoption is significant. Without specific understanding of the physiology of the gods, we do not know what such a ritual might entail. Blood rites and other bindings between individuals have been common throughout history. Who knows what process may have been undertaken to make Enkidu, Gilgamesh and Ninsun kin?

3.       The Forest Journey and the Battle with Humbaba

Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s trek to the Cedar Forest is not without incident. The two decide to invoke a dream ritual, and Gilgamesh is beset by five terrifying portents. However, Enkidu interprets these as positive omens and they continue to the forest.

The battle with Humbaba is similarly epic and crowd pleasing as the fight between Enkidu and Gilgamesh. This time, with the aid of the wind god, Shamash, whose favour they had earned before, Humbaba is bound and surrenders, begging for his life, but Enkidu knows he will betray them and persuades Gilgamesh to kill him. Afterwards, the two set about cutting down the forest and building a temple to Enlil, King of the Gods and son of Anu.

This part of the story can be read as an allegory of the progress of civilisation over nature. In such a reading, the two heroes would be the representatives of humanity, triumphing over the wilderness, but given the intentional separation mentioned in the previous tablets – describing both Enkidu and Gilgamesh as greater than human – this reading is too convenient.

However, if we consider the forest to be the source of Humbaba’s power and in fact part of the slain demi-god, the story’s aftermath becomes a very different action of cleansing and sacrifice. Whilst we have some scientific research pertaining to the makeup of flora during different historical epochs, we do not have specific knowledge of this speculated time period or the region. We are told only, through the tablet text that the wood is ‘cedar’.

If we read the nature of the forest as being part of Humbaba, then the decision to build a temple to Enlil out of its remains becomes a more powerful ritual act.

4.       Ishtar and Gilgamesh and the Death of Enkidu

The capricious and conflictive nature of Sumerian gods is epitomised by Ishtar during her encounter with Gilgamesh. When Gilgamesh rejects her advances, she petitions Anu to intervene and when he refuses, threatens to raise the dead who will “outnumber the living” and “devour them”. Foreseeing ruin if he does not act, Anu releases Gugalanna, the ‘Bull of Heaven’ to destroy Gilgamesh. The creature lays waste to the city of Uruk, before Enkidu and Gilgamesh arrive to confront it. Once again, we are treated to an epic battle, in which our heroes defeat the bull and save the city.

Again, there is much that can be read into the story. Gugalanna is the Sumerian word for Taurus, the astrological constellation.  If we read this story as a creature from the stars descending, at the behest of the gods to destroy the city of Uruk and slay Gilgamesh, there are many historical correlations one might draw.  An invasion from space need not occur in the same way our movie theatres currently suggest. Bacteria or other life, that survives entry into our atmosphere might be a parallel, albeit not nearly so dramatic or suitable for an epic story as this one. Nevertheless, if such an incident is combined with our reading of Humbaba, we begin to construct an image of an alien, godlike presence that comes from the stars and is capable of subverting nature.

After the battle, this infectious quality can also be read into the description of the last days of Enkidu. According to the tablet texts, the gods have decided one of the two heroes must die owing to their murdering of Humbaba and Gugalanna. It is upon Enkidu that this curse falls, and for twelve days his condition worsens until eventually, he dies.

If we were to read the assault of Gugalanna as the attack of a xeno-species, then the concept of infection or a curse inflicted upon Enkidu is certainly possible. Basic studies of the H1N1 1918 flu pandemic reveal the initial effect to have been most serious amongst those people with immune systems that had not previously been exposed to this strain of the virus, or amongst people who already had compromised immune systems. Those who had been previously exposed to the 1889-1890 Russian flu were statistically less likely to contract the new H1N1 virus.

This correlation could also be drawn to the devastation of Uruk. What if Gugalanna also infected the populace, causing a pandemic amongst the people of the city? If this were the case, any number of revisions could be made to the tablet text to replace the epic battle with some other effort to combat a virus.

5.       The Search for Everlasting Life

Gilgamesh is beset by grief for his lost friend and here the Sumerian text is at its most poetic, accounting for the burial of Enkidu and the mourning of those who outlived him. Gilgamesh orders Enkidu to be laid to rest in a riverbed and there is some discussion of a river being redirected to accommodate this. A statue is also built in Enkidu’s honour.

However, the key theme that seems to come from this death is Gilgamesh’s comprehension of his own mortality. Whilst he has always been portrayed as a superior being, there has never been a suggestion that Gilgamesh will live forever.   Indeed, the death of his father Lugalbanda, after twelve hundred years ruling the city of Uruk confirms that Gilgamesh will eventually die of old age.

Parallels to many other mythologies can be drawn here. In the old testament, Noah was said to live nine hundred and fifty years. Abraham and his sons were said to have lifespans that stretched to nearly two centuries. The age of Heracles, the son of Zeus on his death is not recorded for us, but his poisoning and madness in later life both highlight his mortality, despite the great and heroic feats he accomplished.

Fearful of his own death, Gilgamesh decides to seek out a man known as Utnapishtim and learn the secret of eternal life. A survivor of the Great Flood, Utnapishtim and his wife are the only humans to have been granted immortality by the gods.

After a long and perilous journey, Gilgamesh arrives at the twin peaks of Mount Mashu at the end of the earth. He finds a mysterious tunnel, guarded by two scorpion-men. The guards challenge Gilgamesh, but after some conversation and an acceptance of his lineage, they allow him to enter, and he passes underneath the two mountains along the Road of the Sun.

The presence of fantastical beings and monsters in any epic tale have their place as adversaries to the hero. By describing such creatures, a storyteller is able to impress an audience with the hero’s accomplishment. The adversaries are, in part, beyond our comprehension, and so the task is beyond our ability. This reinforces the supernatural quality of the hero.

However, here in Gilgamesh, the ‘scorpion-men’ whilst monstrous and terrifying, are not defeated in the conventional way that would impress upon a reader the potency and strength of Gilgamesh himself. Instead, they are passed by the strength of his answers to their questions.

Because the monstrous guards are not depicted as adversaries in the conventional sense, it is possible there is something truthful about their appearance. Such creatures could not exist in isolation, nor could they be immortal, for that would undermine the fabric of Gilgamesh’s quest. There are other possibilities. One is that they have been placed at this threshold by someone else who has been this way before. If so, could they have been constructed for such a purpose? Artificial life, manufactured through some unknowable form of science-magic might seem preposterous to us, but if civilisations existed before humanity, we cannot know what technological achievements they might have made.

Alternatively, life shaped for purpose is an old science. The domestication of dogs and cats required significant work over many generations, but the process can be seen when both animals are compared with their wild counterparts. Who knows what a civilisation before ours might have been capable of doing?

The tablet text also indicates that this tunnel and passageway has never been seen by mortal men. Again, such detail projects mystery into the story. How might this be known? Only if it were stated by those who were present during the encounter. Similarly, it implies that there are other constructed ways and means about this world that humanity has yet to discover.

In complete darkness, Gilgamesh follows the road, managing to complete the trip before the Sun catches up with him and he finds himself in the Garden of the gods, a paradise full of jewel-laden trees.

This paradise can be found in a variety of other early mythologies and is used for different purposes. There are a variety of different heavens that are described in this way, but these usually require mortals to have ended their lives and passed through some form of judgement. The idea of humanity living in harmony and ease within a bountiful natural environment is the persona of the Eden myth, and from there is an implication that we have fallen from such grace. In Genesis, we learn how Adam and Eve were cast out how a cherubim guardian was set at the threshold of Eden to prevent their return. A comparison could be drawn to the scorpion-men, but Gilgamesh is allowed to pass by demonstrating his inhuman quality and thereby suggesting he is not imperfect in the same way as Adam might be. However, he is clearly demonstrated as an imperfect being in his previous adventures. It is implied that the scorpion-men would not have let a human pass, so the quality exhibited to allow passage to paradise cannot be one as easily defined as we may have first thought.

There is also a parallel to be drawn in humanity’s drive towards a perfect homeostasis, whether through political systems or technological advancement. In a sense, we are continually trying to re-capture Eden (Paradise) or remake it for ourselves.

The first person that Gilgamesh meets here is Siduri, an ‘alewife’ – brewer of wines and beers. It is not entirely clear in the translations what Siduri is, but we know she cannot be a human living in this place. Gilgamesh tells her of his quest and she tries to dissuade him. When he will not be dissuaded, she directs him to Urshanabi, the ferryman of the Hubur, who will help him cross the sea to find Utnapishtim.

Many mythologies have a ferryman. Urshanabi is one of the first to be handed down to us. These supernatural individuals permit a cross between the realm of the living and the dead. The Hubur is translated as being the River of the Dead in Sumerian. However, Urshanabi is not explicitly taking Gilgamesh to the lands of the dead. The word ‘Kur’ – used to mean ‘underworld’ – has multiple meanings in Sumerian and if Utnapishtim were to dwell in the lands of the dead, that would suggest he was no longer alive. Instead, Utnapishtim is supposed to live in Dihnun, the land where the sun rises.

This contradiction is important. It might be a simple error between the two (or more) sources, that were written up by the scholar, Sin-liqe-unninni around 1000 BC, or it might be a misperception of the original account. Wherever Utnapishtim lives, it is a place removed from the world and it stands to reason that such a removal may be connected with his ability to remain immortal. This is a theme much exploited in later literature, where those with power are rendered powerless, and only those who have something to risk can affect change.

In a fit of unexplained rage, Gilgamesh destroys the stone giants that live with Urshanabi. It is possible that the text fragment which explains this act is lost to us. Afterwards, the ferryman tells him these creatures were what powered his boat. To replace them, Gilgamesh is sent to collect five hundred stakes or chop down one hundred and twenty trees. These are refashioned into poles that can be used to propel the boat.

Once this is done, Urshanabi agrees to take Gilgamesh to Dihnun, which he does. The journey is more difficult and dangerous, but they complete it.

6.       The Story of the Flood

Gilgamesh meets the flood survivor, Utnapishtim and explains to him his quest for eternal life and his fear of death that stems from the passing of his friend Enkidu. Utnapishtim explains that it is not the fate of humans to live forever. Gilgamesh points out that Utnapishtim is immortal and asks how this came about. Utnapishtim agrees to tell him.

The story of the flood is believed to come from the later scribes of the epic. It describes the final days of the city of Shurrupak and speaks of the gods in a more familiar way, as if they walked amongst the people. Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh that ‘the world teemed with people’ and that he was warned by the god Ea that a reckoning was coming. He said, ‘tear down your house and build a boat’ and this is exactly what Utnapishtim did.

The description of the flood by Utnapishtim is very important. I have quoted my translation below.

With the first light of dawn a black cloud came from the horizon; it thundered within where Adad, lord of the storm was riding. In front over hill and plain Shullat and Hanish, heralds of the storm, led on. Then the gods of the abyss rose up; Nergal pulled out the dams of the nether waters, Ninurta the war-lord threw down the dykes, and the seven judges of hell, the Annunaki, raised their torches, lighting the land with their livid flame. A stupor of despair went up to heaven when the god of the storm turned daylight to darkness, when he smashed the land like a cup. One whole day the tempest raged, gathering fury as .it went, it poured over the people like the tides of battle; a imam could not see his brother nor the people be seen from heaven. Even the gods were terrified at the flood, they fled to the highest heaven, the firmament of Ann; they crouched against the walls, cowering like curs. Then Ishtar the sweet-voiced Queen of Heaven cried out like a woman in travail: "Alas the days -of old are turned to dust because I commanded evil; why did I command thus evil in the council of all the gods? I commanded wars to destroy the people, but are they not my people, for I brought them forth? Now like the spawn of fish they float in the ocean." The great gods of heaven and of hell wept, they covered their mouths.

This passage describes the gods acting in concert against the civilisation they elected to destroy. We see a parallel in the flood myth of Noah and in other religions. There are, in fact, more than one hundred flood myths across the world, all describing an ancient event, when civilisation fell after an action of divine retribution, manifesting as nature.

The collective action of divinity can be compared to the singular divinity of the Christian and Jewish mythologies working to destroy a mortal civilisation. There are many similar structures in each story, indicating one possible source. If taken with the previous inferences of Sumerian gods coming from the stars, then it suggests the visitation could be from beyond this world.

The prompt for this destruction is, as Utnapishtim describes, the protests of the Earth and the great noise caused by the vast numbers of people. If this were the real reason, we might expect a similar destruction to have happened to our civilisation already, as humanity now dominates this planet’s surface.

Another reason we can ascribe to this destruction, if it occurred, which the consensus of mythologies implies that it might, is some form of hegemonic restoration. Perhaps the people, as described, escaped the control or shackles of their gods? The conclusion of the story sees Enlil at odds with his fellow deities over the saving of Utnapishtim and his boat, but it is Enlil who grants him immortality and bids him live “at the mouth of rivers”.

There are some additional matters that arise from this part of the tablet text. Firstly, when Gilgamesh meets Utnapishtim, he says. “I look at you now, Utnapishtim, and your appearance is no different from mine.” We have already been told of Gilgamesh’s supernatural qualities, this suggests Utnapishtim is of the same stock and further implies both are descendants of the previous civilisation. The tablet writers are at great pains to state that Utnapishtim is one of the flood survivors and that he was granted clemency for his work, ostensibly in saving animals and the like on his boat, which is mentioned, but not in the same detail as Noah.

A second matter lies in the gift given to Utnapishtim. I have already mentioned the curse of this gift, that he remains separated and apart from humanity. This is confirmed in the way the gift is given. In a sense, Enlil is cursing the man instead as he sees he cannot kill him without falling into opposition with his brethren. So, by making him immortal and unable to be a part of the world, he is rendering a singular punishment that satisfies the others.

The third matter is the change to Utnapishtim when compared to the death of Enkidu. If we are to consider Enkidu’s curse some kind of virus, then it would follow that Utnapishtim has been rendered immune from any similar infection. The fact that the source of immunity and virus is the same place (the gods), is also of considerable interest.

7.       The Return

After instructing Urshanabi the ferryman to wash Gilgamesh, and clothe him in royal robes, Utnapishtim bids him return to Uruk.

As they are leaving, Utnapishtim’s wife prevails upon her husband to help him a little. Utnapishtim agrees and tells Gilgamesh that at the bottom of the sea there lives a boxthorn-like plant that will grant him renewed youth, at least for a time. Eager to secure anything that might help his plight, Gilgamesh binds stones to his feet so he can walk on the bottom, and manages to obtain the plant.

Unfortunately, when Gilgamesh stops to bathe, the plant stolen by a serpent, who sheds its skin as it departs. Gilgamesh weeps at the futility of his efforts, because he has now lost all chance of immortality and renewal. He returns to Uruk empty handed.

It is interesting here to note the source of renewal as described by Utnapishtim comes from the deepest part of the sea. Life on Earth is said to have begun in the oceans and in a way, the immortal is pointing us back to our beginning. Perhaps, a further transformation is required for Gilgamesh to return to youth? We will never know, as the serpent stole the plant that he found.

The sense of fear Gilgamesh expresses over his own mortality is difficult to accommodate when considered as part of his overall character. However, if this fear were part of a more immediate malady, this becomes easier to accept. Might he be afflicted in the same way his friend Enkidu was afflicted? Ravaged by a disease, or virus that his body cannot overcome?

8.       The Death of Gilgamesh

The final tablet text is a eulogy to Gilgamesh written after his death. This praises an entire pantheon of gods, describing their purpose and function and giving us a sense of their place in the mythology.

Final Conclusions

This is a story that describes many transformative processes, both mystical and revelatory in terms of experience. Modern literature has picked up this theme, and most of the stories we read are shaped by change and alteration.

However, In the Epic of Gilgamesh, there is also a continual sense of exile and renewal, of forgotten things being sought after and brought back. This sense of renewal, resistance and opposition to that which would destroy civilisation is directly relevant in the work we find ourselves engaged with.

The correlation of themes and ideas across a vast selection of seemingly unconnected nations through their differing mythologies does point to a global society existing before this one. If we believe this, then the important question that comes to mind is where do we find it?

Modern scientific methods are making the world smaller every day. Despite the predations of authoritarian rule, which would seek to blind us in ignorance, we learn more about our Earth in each moment that we live. The Epic of Gilgamesh and other ancient mythologies urge us onwards in our quest, seeking things in the extreme places – deep underground, in the coldest north and south, or at the bottom of oceans. Who knows what truths we may find?

Whatever we learn, such information must be recorded and preserved in case of further disasters.

The Acts of Taxiarch Nergal

By Jonas Kyratzes

Transcript of a pamphlet found in a Disciples of Anu haven.

1. There was in the days before the Flood a certain man whose name has now been effaced from the pages of history; and this man was a loyal soldier of a great empire of that time. In his loyalty he was as pure as men of that corrupted age could be, but the powers and principalities to which he had sworn allegiance were riddled with sin, as is written in the Book of Follies, and thus all the acts he committed in their name became acts of sin.

2. Now it came to pass that this man was sent unto a foreign land at the head of an army, to persecute its people for the profit of his empire. Great was his knowledge of the ways of war, and his army made havoc of that land, burning the houses with fire cast down from the heavens and scattering its people across the Earth. Even when the people surrendered, he rained fire upon them, knowing that many would fight his masters upon another day. For this he was praised by all the lords of the empire, and his glory was great. Yet the war continued for many years, for the land was harsh and its people would not bow down.

3. Then it became necessary for the man to travel across the breadth of the land, to seek out the rulers of the people, so they might ensure the submission of their subjects; and on this journey, his vehicle was ripped from the sky by a storm. Now the man was forced to travel the land by foot, until his soldiers could come to his aid.

4. On this journey he was confronted with his sins: for now he saw the burned homes, and the bodies of the slain, and the marks of shame on the bodies of the living. And a great horror overcame his soul, for now he knew that in seeking to do good he had done nothing but evil, and from his crimes other evils would spring; for how could the people of this land not hate him and his soldiers? He felt the sickness of hatred within himself, and within all those around him, and he wept.

5. So the man began to seek salvation; but in those days, the hope of the world had not revealed itself, and few had dreamed of Anu. Yet there were many false prophets, and to these the man fell victim. For years he surrendered his mind to sorcerers and charlatans promising salvation of the soul.

6. But it was not his soul that needed saving; for had he not committed all his sins in the service of goodness and loyalty? The false prophets dared not speak the truth: that the true corruption was not within the soul, which is perfect and eternal, but within the flesh, which is convulsed by desires until it withers and dies. So all the deceivers and hypocrites the man sought out could not help him, for they could not understand where the healing of the world must begin.

7. Now the star Wormwood fell from the sky, as is written in the Book of Tribulations, and the time of the Flood and the Mist began. The kings and princes of the Earth were gripped with madness, and the nations went to war.

8. The man, being loyal, did not abandon the position he had accepted within the empire; but as the years passed, his crimes became too many for his soul to bear, and he despaired. Finally, unable to commit another sin, he climbed upon a high building in a flooded city and cast himself into the sea.

9. Then he would have perished, but he was found by the Exalted; for the Dead God had sent her a sign in her dreams, that this man was chosen to lead her soldiers in the battles to come. And she led him to the Waters of Life, and there he was purified, and born anew. And the name he was given in his second birth was Nergal, and he was raised to the rank of Taxiarch.

10. For seven days, he was blind, and it is said that he had the likeness of the fish of the sea, breathing only water; but upon the seventh day, the scales fell from his eyes, and he joined the other disciples in the secret place the Exalted had set aside for them.

11. The Church was then young, and weak; it was by the acts of its first children that it would live or die. Nergal's faith burned bright, for he had seen the face of the Exalted and been filled with its beauty; and through her he had perceived the greatness of Anu, the Dead God, the Lord of the Constellations and the Planets, and he rejoiced at the promise of Resurrection. And now all his knowledge, which had before been corrupted, could be put to its proper use, for as is written in the Book of Hope, all that is done in the name of the Dead God is protected from corruption.

12. Forthwith, where there had been chaos, Taxiarch Nergal brought order. He divided the faithful by their skills, and trained those he selected in the ways of the soldier. He sought out forts and safe havens, and taught the faithful to defend them against men and locusts alike. He rained fire down upon the enemies of Anu, but now his heart was glad; for he knew his cause was just, and the salvation of the world at hand.

13. He did not need blind faith, for he knew the purity of his own body, purged of sin by the miracle of Communion; and he beheld the power of the Vessels, and the Divine Apparatus, and the Hallowed Machines; and so he persecuted all false prophets with great vigour, for harshness in the pursuit of truth is no sin. He would allow no others to be deceived as he had once been; for only the Waters of Life promised a true change in the substance of Man, that both mind and eye could perceive.

14. As the years passed, others were raised above Taxiarch Nergal; there came to be the Shadowed Hierarch, and the Blind Legate; and many other taxiarchs, and exarchs, and other leaders besides. To this he never objected; and some say he asked of the Exalted only one thing, namely that he not be raised above his position. For Taxiarch Nergal knows neither greed nor ambition; he knows only the beauty of the Sacred Mysteries, and the hope that is embodied by the Exalted. It is through her, and through the blessing of Anu, that he has become that which he has always wished to be, free from corruption and sin: a soldier. May it be likewise with you.

The Hatch

By Jonas Kyratzes

Transcript of a closed session of the Committee on Governmental Efficiency in Supplementary Projects (April 14th, 1986).

Members of the Committee are C1-C3. The interviewee is IN. The astronauts are A1-A3.

Transcript begins.

C1: Can you introduce yourself?

IN: My name is [REDACTED]. I was born in 1932 in Boulder, Colorado. I have a double degree in physics and chemistry and I'm also a certified pilot. I've worked for Columbia University, JPL,-

C1: JPL?

IN: That's short for Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It's a part of NASA-

C1: OK. What was your job in 1973?

IN: I was Director of Operations for the Phoenix Project.

C2: Explain to us, in your own words, the nature and purpose of the Phoenix Project.

IN: It's... well, it's a lot of things.

C2: Give us the basics.

IN: Let me think for a moment. [pause] The Phoenix Project is a UN-funded program to research and prepare for the possibility of catastrophic contact with a hostile alien ecology. It was founded in 1945, although a similar function had previously been served by other entities, including the Phoenix Working Group in-

C3: So you're alien fighters?

IN: We're scientists. There are military aspects to the work the Phoenix Project does, and the project's Administrator at the time was General Sumrall, but the point was to take a serious, scientific approach to a potential threat to the human species. That included everything from archaeological investigations to large-scale planning of-

C3: But it's about aliens.

IN: Yes. But "aliens" in the sense of extraterrestrial organisms, not... you know, not like the new James Cameron movie. They could be microbes.

C2: Microbes?

IN: Yes.

C2: How can microbes be a threat to the human species?

IN: Have you heard of the Black Death?

C2: Fair enough. So that's what you do? Look for alien microbes?

IN: It's a lot more complicated than that. The Phoenix Project analyzes historical sources, searches for physical evidence, performs tests, and designs and implements plans to safeguard human cultural continuity in case of disaster. It's a transnational effort to-

C1: I think that's enough about that. Please explain the mission you were involved with in 1973.

IN: The Phoenix-2 mission?

C1: That's the one.

IN: Alright. Phoenix-2 was our second mission to the Moon.

C3: The Moon?

IN: Correct.

C3: That's a lot more expensive than flying a few scientists to [REDACTED] or something.

IN: It is, but we judged it was necessary.

C1: Then perhaps we should back up a little. Tell us about the first mission. Phoenix-1.

IN: Phoenix-1 was sent to Mare Imbrium, the Sea of Showers. That's the very large dark spot on the Moon which you can see with the naked eye. It was formed when a large object collided with the Moon during the phase that's called the Late Heavy Bombardment, so it was deemed an excellent place to search for evidence of-

C1: Hadn't there already been a mission to that place?

IN: Two, in fact. The Soviet mission Luna 17 and the United States mission Apollo 15.

C1: So why send another?

IN: Because it's vast. We could send up another twenty missions and not see all of it. The Moon may be smaller than the Earth, but it's still incredibly big compared to a handful of humans. You may be underestimating-

C2: We're well aware of the size of the Moon, thank you. What did the mission uncover?

IN: A great deal of anomalous data, which-

C3: Did you find any aliens?

IN: Please, if you'll let me explain-

C3: It's a simple enough question. If the Phoenix Project is about fighting aliens, did you find any aliens?

IN: No.

C2: So, having failed to find proof on your first mission, why did the Phoenix Project administration see fit to waste taxpayer money on yet another mission?

IN: Based on several reports from the Luna program, we concluded there was an anomalous area in-

C3: Hold on, the Luna program? Are you saying you were using information from the Soviets?

IN: The Phoenix Project is a UN project and its purpose is to protect all of humanity. It was never intended to take sides in international conflicts, and science isn't the national property of-

C3: Are you serious? You're sharing information with the enemy and you think that the American taxpayer should fund that?

IN: I-

C1: Let's get on with it. Tell us about Phoenix-2. Where did this mission go?

IN: The Tsiolkovskiy crater.

C2: Where's that?

IN: On the far side of the moon. It was a highly challenging mission, requiring the use of a relay system so we could stay in contact with the astronauts. There were three of them; [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] landed in the Lunar Module, while [REDACTED] remained on the Command Module.

C1: Describe the mission progression, please.

IN: In the beginning, everything went fine. The launch took place on [REDACTED] 1973, using the NASA facilities at [REDACTED]. The relay system, designed by [REDACTED], functioned exactly as intended. The landing also probably one of the finest ever executed. This was... this was the heyday of human spaceflight.Everyone was at the top of their game. It was beautiful.

C1: Stay on topic, please.

IN: The crew then initiated the first EVA, unloading the LRV-

C2: LRV?

IN: Lunar Roving Vehicle. They also deployed a variety of measuring instruments, took samples, and so on. This was the first time human beings had stood on the far side of the Moon, and even beyond the needs of the Phoenix Project, it was an invaluable opportunity.

C1: Then what happened?

IN: The astronauts rested, while the Command Module continued to gather data. Then...

C1: Yes?

IN: Then they initiated EVA-2.

C1: The goal of which was what?

IN: To investigate one of the previously reported anomalies, the crater designated [REDACTED]. This required approximately an hour's worth of travel on the LRV.

C1: What happened when they arrived?

IN: They reported that the area around the crater had an unusual color, which they struggled to describe. They approached carefully, until they reached the rim of the crater. In the interior they-

C2: Actually, we have the recording. Mary, can you play it, please? Thank you.

A1: Approaching the crater. Looks... wow, looks really weird. The object that impacted here must have been made of a very unusual material.

A2: What's that color? It's...

A1: Glistening?

A2: Looks like oil or something.

A1: I'm going to get a bit closer.

A3: Careful.

A1: Yup. OK, let's see. This looks like... honestly, it looks a bit like latite, or some kind of volcanic rock of that kind, but... moist?

A2: Might just be reflective.

A1: I'll bag a sample.

A2: Do you think we can walk on this?

A1: Seems pretty solid. Not reacting to touch as far as I can tell.

A2: Let's head for the rim, then.

[pause]

A1: OK, we've arrived at the rim, and - whoa.

A2: What the [REDACTED].

A3: What are you seeing, guys?

A1: Uhh, I wish I knew.

A2: Looks like a... a huge black... rock? Hill? Totally out of place. There's... stuff. [REDACTED], can you see this from up there?

A3: Not well, it's in the shadow of the rim.

A1: We need to get closer. This is crazy.

A2: Let's drive around it first.

A3: How big is it?

A2: Hold on, we're getting in the LRV.

[pause]

A1: Uh, it's huge. It's so black, it's hard for the eye to properly, uh, tell the size. Jiminy Cricket!

A2: [REDACTED].

A1: You can say that again.

A3: Guys?

A1: We're driving around it. It's... it's like a chunk of completely different landscape, just sitting there. Cracked and broken, but...

A3: You think it's part of the object that impacted here?

A2: Maybe.

A3: Is that even possible? Shouldn't it be atomized?

A1: We really need to get closer. Get on it.

A2: Yeah. OK. Let's do that.

[pause]

A1: Alright, getting closer to the object in the crater. The sand looks wet, although we can't see any liquid.

A2: There seem to be pieces of... something. Other than rock. Almost like... uh, I'm not sure.

A1: OK, here we are. Let's... wait, are you seeing that?

A2: Yeah. The material definitely contains pieces of something complex, other than rock. I'll see if I can dig a little... no, it's pretty hard, actually, but... hold on, a piece came off. That looks... like a... fossil? Can you have a look at this, [REDACTED]?

A1: Definitely looks like a fossil.

A2: Could this be a piece of Earth? Ejected by an impact?

A1: I don't know. Maybe. Or...

A2: Look at that thing! It looks like... like a cocoon?

A1: Definitely contains something.

A3: Can you bag it?

A1: Nah, way too big. I'll try to - hold on...

A2: Careful, careful.

A1: It's soft. Like some kind of jelly. Weird. And... wait. [REDACTED]. It's... no, that...

A2: What's happening?

[both astronauts scream]

A3: What's going on? What's going on? Answer please!

A1: It... blew. It erupted. Like a puffball. We're covered in something.

A2: What the [REDACTED]! What the [REDACTED]!

A3: Guys, back away, check your suits.

A1: On it, on it.

A2: Checking...

A1: My suit seems intact.

A2: Same.

A3: Get back to the LM right now. Full decontamination procedures. You can come back tomorrow, but right now let's make sure you're OK.

A2: I'm in command of this mission, [REDACTED]. But you're right.

C2: Mary, can you put on the next recording, please?

IN: I don't need to hear this, it's-

C1: This investigation needs to be thorough. Please press play.

A2: [REDACTED], can you hear us?

A3: Loud and clear.

A2: We're not feeling too well.

A3: In what way? Do you have enough oxygen?

A2: Oxygen's fine. It's, uh...

A1: We're mutating.

A3: Excuse me, what?

A1: Mutating. Changing. You know what I mean. Exactly like the [REDACTED] hypothesis.

A2: My skin's changing. And I feel... aggressive. Like my conscious mind is... receding.

A1: My skull is changing shape.

A3: What? This is - we need to talk to HQ about this. There has to be something we can do. We need to get you back, get you to a doctor. Uh, hold on-

A2: No.

A3: What do you mean, no?

A2: We've discussed this. The... the spores, bacteria, whatever they are, they must be incredibly resistant. Our decontamination procedures did nothing. We can't risk going back. It's too dangerous.

A3: No, no, no. [REDACTED], talk some sense into him. I don't care that he's in charge of this mission. Nobody gets left behind. No way.

A1: I'm sorry, [REDACTED], he's right. We're already... we're already losing ourselves. If we go back... we'll cause what the Phoenix Project was supposed to prevent.

A3: Don't talk to me about your [REDACTED] ideals right now, man! Seriously! You need to get back up here. We'll talk to HQ, find a solution.

A2: It's... not...

A1: Something's growing out of my hands. I...

A2: We need to... open the hatch...

A1: Yes.

A3: No! Stop!

A1: Can you... can you tell my wife... I wanted to... I don't... I don't remember her name... why can't I remember...

[sound of the hatch opening, followed by silence]

A3: No! No!

IN: Did you have to make me listen to that?

C1: What would you say we just listened to?

IN: People much better than any of you giving their lives for this planet.

C1: The personal insults are unnecessary. So, in your judgement, the astronauts are not hallucinating?

IN: Of course they're not [REDACTED] hallucinating!

C1: That view is controversial at best. Several experts have suggested compelling explanations that do not require such a... leap of faith. I'm sure you are aware of Occam's razor? The simplest explanation is most likely to be true.

IN: As if you cared about the truth.

C3: We do care about the truth, sir! We care that vast amounts of money have been wasted on these outlandish claims when our nation faces real enemies on this planet! We care that lives have been lost on a foolish, unnecessary mission! What did you say to these families of these men, whose lives were thrown away for nothing? What did you say to the family of [REDACTED], when he took his own life only three months after this mission?

IN: I...

C1: The findings of this committee establish beyond doubt that the Phoenix Project is the result of decades of careless spending, based on either delusion or downright fraud, and potentially harmful to our national security. If the UN wants to keep funding such a program, it may do so, but under no circumstances should such a circus be allowed to continue with direct funding from the United States or our allies.

IN: So this whole hearing is just a kangaroo court? A sham? You've already decided to cut our funding, and you dragged me here to, what, humiliate me? Remind me of the people we lost trying to protect-

C3: You did no-

IN: Oh no, now you're going to listen to me for a change, you [REDACTED]. The Phoenix Project is bigger than this. It's older than the United States or the Soviet Union. It's human perseverance. It's human bravery. Concepts a [REDACTED] like yourself might not be able to understand. But those men up there, they understood. They opened that hatch because they understood that they were part of something greater, and sometimes sacrifices have to be made to preserve what we love. They were human beings, real human beings. I don't know what the [REDACTED] you are, but they were so much better than that. And there's lots more like them, brilliant people, smart people, willing to fight. Cut our funding, you [REDACTED]. Cut it all. We'll figure out a way to go on. We'll find supporters. And when the real war starts, the one against the enemies you can't even imagine, when borders and nations and all of that doesn't matter anymore, then we'll be there. And that's why we'll [REDACTED] win, you [REDACTED] of [REDACTED]. [REDACTED] my [REDACTED]. And you can tell the President to [REDACTED] my [REDACTED] too.

C1: You're out of line!

IN: Your [REDACTED] is out of line.

Transcript ends.

Fragments of Knowing

By Allen Stroud

We turn our thoughts and prayers all to those affected by recent tragedy. At times like this, we feel alone and question our faith. If our God is a loving and caring God, why are we suffering like this? Why are people losing their lives, their loved ones and their homes? When hardships come, things we cannot control, we lash out, we question the existence of a creator and we question whether we have a purpose in some grand fate and destiny.

Some ask me for answers, but there is no truth or revelation that I can offer to heal the mind, soul and body of its own wounds, without all three wanting to be healed.

We seek to know the intentions of our creator, but we must ask ourselves, is it our place to know such things? A glimpse of God is not what we were made for. That we are born, live and die are accepted events. What more we become part of might be our reason for being. Any small thing may be connected to an unfathomable plan of entities we must not presume to comprehend...

---

The first thing I remember is opening my eyes and being here.

I look around. I'm in a toilet cubicle. I recognise the wooden stall walls, the commode that I'm sat on and the cistern behind me. There's a tissue dispenser on the wall - all familiar things.

I can hear people outside and see feet moving the other side of the door. Thankfully, the latch is drawn across. I must have done that when I came in.

I don't remember my own name, why I'm here or even, where here is.

I pull a tissue from the holder and dab at my face. A mixture of sweat and blood comes back. A nosebleed it seems. No idea if this is anything to do with my loss of memory. I tilt my head back and try to stem the bleeding. With no mirror, I can't be sure how successful I am, but the fabric is quickly soaked. I replace it with another and another. Maybe this is why I came in here?

Someone knocks on the door. “Hey buddy, you gonna be long?” growls a male voice.

“Out in a sec!” I blurt in reply, more instinct than anything, although I sense I don't need to use the toilet.

I stand up, take a deep breath, flush away the bloodstained wipes, unlatch the door and walk out, to find there is no-one in the restroom. I've been sat in the third cubicle along, the two other cubicles are empty.

Weird.

In front of me are three sinks a wall mirror and a hand dryer, one of those rolling towels that encourages users to wipe their filth on the filth of others. I make use of everything, examining, and cleaning my face and hands. The dryer coughs a little as I yank it around and there's a stale odour to the air after it's done.

I don't recognise the person in the mirror. The face has that ageless mid-thirties quality to it, weathered with recent lines, thinning brown hair and grey-blue eyes with crow's feet at the corners.

But it isn't mine.

I’m wearing a torn shirt and jeans, both are oversized. Either I’ve lost a lot of weight, or they don’t belong to me.

This face doesn’t belong to me either.

I recoil from the mirror, my hands clutching and feeling my cheeks, chin, nose and ears. The bruised skin, the flesh, bone, organs, all wrong. What did I expect to see and touch? I don't know, but it wasn't this.

Who was I? Who am I now?

My heart is thumping, my breath comes in great gasps. I lean against the wooden stalls, trying to calm down. I’m staring at the chipped edge of the sink.

Strange feet refuse to obey me at first, but I force them forward, stumble to the door and out into the darkened corridor beyond. Wooden walls and floorboards, yellowed peeling paint that was once white and new. At the end is a rectangular arch that might once have contained another door, but it is wholly absent now.

A large lobby greets me, a bar of some kind, long since closed and again, empty of people. I blink several times as my eyes struggle to adjust to the muted daylight from the bay windows. There is a sickly sweet smell to everything, as if the sun is disturbing something.

“Mister Jansen?”

On hearing the rasping voice and I turn. A man crouches behind the wide wooden counter, leaning upon it, drawing strength from the rough wood. Why didn't I notice him before? He looks at me, his bloodshot stare is an accusation. “Your room's ready. You need a hand with your things?”

“No I...” I glance around, panicked but grateful for the new information. I have a name, it'll do for now. My gaze rests upon a suitcase and a rucksack near the staircase to my left. “I'll manage.”

“Good,” the man says. He throws something at me, which I catch. A rusted key. “Room 428,” he announces, his lips quirking into a sinister smile. “Right at the top.”

I sense something unsavoury about the man. I am the subject of a joke that hasn't been shared. “Thank you,” I say. “I'll make myself at home.”

The ascent is difficult. The rucksack proves no issue, but the wheeled suitcase is not designed for these old winding stairs. What makes it easy to transport on the road is no help to me here and I’m quickly out of breath again. I’m out of condition, sick with something perhaps? Everything aches and I’m bruised all over. There are marks on my wrists and ankles as if I’ve been bound or chained.

Do these bags contain the answers I crave? It is hard to struggle on when such discoveries are so near at hand. Although, I do consider my circumstance of ignorance. Am I not in a paradise right now? unburdened of the cares of life that a return of my memories will bring? are Mrs Jansen and some Jansen children waiting for me? Will I find them at the top?

Each floor has a small landing, providing me with a brief respite from manhandling the case. Instead, it trundles across to the next set of stairs, near a window that overlooks the bleak street below. I take a moment to peer out, hoping that I will recognise something, but I don't.

By the third landing, I’m dripping with sweat. I spot a figure on opposite side of the road, only its movements, betraying it as being anything but a pile of clothes. A long grey fisherman's coat and thick hood, both covered with other layers hide any feature I might recognise. The hood turns in my direction and a shiver runs through me as our eyes meet. I break away and hurry on.

I find no-one else upon the stairs.

Room 428 is near the end of the hall. I take out the key, which has a tag with the word ‘Gilman’ printed on it in a curious font and ‘428’ scrawled over this in thick black ink. The door opens easily, but I am disappointed to find no-one waiting for me inside. There are two windows, an adjoining bathroom and minimal furnishings. It’s been divided from a larger space, the partition wall at the far end is a little whiter than the rest.

I go to the window. The view below is of a bleak courtyard and drab roofs, stretching out into a fog-drenched countryside that reveals no more to me of my past.

I sit down on the bed and turn to my baggage. The rucksack comes first. The zip has tags on it to make it easier to use. I open the main compartment and tip the contents onto the bed.

Wallet, mobile phone, a set of keys, a pen and some receipts. A bag with a bottle of shampoo and several pill containers. Anti-allergy tablets, vitamins, an electric toothbrush, toothpaste, a small towel. More remnants of a life I don’t recognise.

I open the wallet. Mr. Paul Hatchall, is says on the credit card tucked in the front slip. Is that me? I thought my name was Jansen.

Like everything else, the name Hatchall means nothing to me.

I get up and run the faucet in the sink, filling a clouded glass. The pipes whine a little and the tap spits, but I step back and manage to avoid soaking my trousers. I take one of the anti-allergies and a vitamin pill, washing them down. There’s a salty taste to the water and it lingers after I’m done. Something to tell the management?

The receipts are for petrol and some books. The petrol’s from a station outside Rowley, the books from ‘The Book Castle’ on the high street there. There are three volumes, a total price of $18.45.

I turn to the mobile phone and power it up. There’s a full battery, but no charger in the bag. The screen flashes and I access the contact list. Names scroll past, Matthew, James, Casey, Jason, Hannah, Emma, on and on, but no surnames that would give me a clue as to who they are . Nothing triggers a memory. I select Hannah and press the call button. I get a weird whining sound, like an old analogue radio trying to tune in and then the attempt to connect fails. There’s no signal it seems, despite the five bars and ‘4G’ symbol listed on the top row.

The web browser is the same – no access.

I turn to the suitcase and unzip it. Inside I find clothes for at least a week’s trip. No tags or labels. Three pairs of underwear have been worn. Everything’s the same size as the t-shirt and jeans, too big for me. There’s deodorant and all the other things you expect to have packed, only I don’t remember packing them or owning them.

I don’t remember anything before being in the toilet.

I put the suitcase down and lay back on the bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Who am I? Am I ‘Paul Hatchall’, or ‘Mister Jansen’. Are they both the same person, both me? Or am I someone else?

I close my eyes, trying to remember something from before. Perhaps being relaxed will help, perhaps then I’ll...

---

A dark tunnel, the stink, palpable. I’m running fast and blind through filthy water, breathing hard and feeling that burning sensation in my chest. Ahead, there is a light. I must reach it.

There’s something in my hand, my fingers clenched into a first around it. A scrap of paper. It burns my palm, but I cannot let it go.

“Come on, faster! I warned you!”

A woman’s voice in front of me, I’m not alone.

They’re behind us, running as fast as we are, if not faster. We have a lead on them, I don’t know why, nor why they are chasing us.

I glance back and see nothing, but I know they are there, ambling after us on all fours as fast as they can. Their eyes are better suited to darkness, to them, the gloom is perfect daylight and these passageways, familiar territory.

“Hurry!”

I can see her now, fast moving shadow illuminated by faint light from above. She stops and climbs up the wall, reaches above her head with both hands. The scraping and grinding sound of metal being moved echoes in the cramped space.

I catch up to her and stop. “Can I help?”

“No!” she shouts through clenched teeth. The metal screams and then gives way.

Light illuminates us both and I see her face.

---

It’s dark when I wake up. I’m lying on a bed, the room shadowy and quiet. The woman’s face remains in my mind.

How did I get here? I don’t recall—

There’s a knocking and I’m sat bolt upright, my hands shaking. “Who is it?”

There’s no answer. I go to the door and find it locked with the key on the floor. I listen and hear voices – sort of watery, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. “What do you want?” I ask.

The voices go quiet.

I pick up the key and open the door. I look out into the hallway, left then right. There’s no-one—

“Mister Jansen?”

To my left a twisted looking man walking towards me down the corridor. How did I miss seeing him? “That’s me, yes,” I reply.

The man grins. “Horace Gilman, Mister Jansen. There’s been some trouble with your bill. If you could pop back downstairs to reception, we’ll get it all straightened out.”

“Of course, I…” I glance back into the room. “I won’t be a moment.” I walk back inside and shut the door.

Someone warned me this would happen. I remember, but I don’t know who. They won’t let me out of the town with anything that might arouse suspicion. Gilman’s request is a pretext to separate me from my luggage, so they can search through my things and make sure I haven’t kept anything, any evidence of what I’ve seen.

What have I seen?

I’m leaning on the wall, my head pounding. It’s hard to remember. Something in me doesn’t want to, but fragments come back. Night time. The smell of salt in the air, the high tide and the chanting. The words slip from my mind, as I hear them again. A collection of sounds and syllables that should mean something but I can’t…

“Mister Jansen?”

“On my way!”

I’m staring at the suitcase. There’s something in it, something I need to make sure they don’t find. What was it? Where was it? I need to make sure I escape with the evidence, but my mind crawls away from the memory of what that might be.

The books, I need to look in the books!

I’m emptying the suitcase. The three books are at the bottom. The thick hardback is a list of births and deaths from 1841-1851, including the plague of 1846, the two paperbacks are local history guides, that detail events and legends from settlements all along the Manurey river. I’m drawn to the hardback, there’s something tucked into the pages, I have to…

My fingers stop before I touch the paper and take it out. I recall something about it. Something dangerous.

Where can I hide the book?

I stumble into the bathroom and tuck the book behind the pipes at the back of the toilet. There’s something there already but I haven’t time to find out what it is.

“Mister Jansen?”

“Coming!”

---

I was talking to Hannah when I made the decision to go to Lyme.

The sun glittered over the hills, bathing her veranda in beautiful orange. We were sat in deckchairs sharing a bottle of red wine and gazing out over the garden.

“You know it could be dangerous, right?” she said softly.

I laughed. “Locals out to murder me you mean?”

She leaned forward and I realised she was actually worried. “It’s a close knit community who hardly feature on survey maps. There’s no news articles about them, next to no local transport services and a whole lot of rumours. Paul, you need to take this seriously.”

I sipped my wine. “There’s a lot of places around the country with patchy records. These people aren’t forgotten about because they want it that way, they’re forgotten about because of cutbacks. Plants close down, workers get laid off. The state and federal government ignores them in their hour of need so they turn inwards, clench themselves together, hard against the world that they think doesn’t care.”

“And you’re going to change any of that?”

“I’m not naïve, Han. What I do is a drop in the ocean, but at least they’ll see a friendly face trying to help and do a job. It’s a short land survey to update what we have. Two days and I’m done.”

“What if you get told you’re trespassing?”

“I won’t, I’m careful. I talk to people first, get them onside and make it clear it’s just a job. I hardly ever have to show a badge or get out the permits. No-one’s bothered.”

“But what if these people are? They aren’t going to call the cops on you. You’ll be at least an hour away from any help.”

“I’ll be fine. I have to do my job. That’s what pays the bills.”

She scowled at me and stared silently for quite a while. “All right,” she said eventually. “But you take your phone and you call me if anything gets strange.”

I smiled at her and drained my glass. “I’m sure it’ll all be strange, but I’ll call if there’s any trouble.”

---

I don’t recall arriving in the Gilman House Hotel. I recall getting off the Brayton-Almsport bus and wanting to find this place, but…

There’s a clammy hand on my shoulder. Horace Gilman shepherds me down the stairs. They’re a wide and impressive switchback, with landings after six or eight steps between each floor and large dirty windows. The carpet’s worn and fraying but looks like it must have been expensive when it was new.

“Glad you decided to pay cash, Mister Jansen. We always have trouble with the credit card machine,” Gilman says. I turn towards him. He’s crabbing down the steps awkwardly as if the effort’s not one he usually makes. He’s a strange looking fella with wide oval eyes and thin straggling hair stretched over a bald scalp into a ponytail. “Your name, that Swedish?”

“Danish.”

“You from Denmark then?”

“No, Wisconsin.”

“Oh.”

It takes a while to get to reception. The room with my stuff is on the fourth floor, right in the top corner. While we’re making the descent, I check my pockets. My wallet’s there, a stack of bills in the sleeve which’ll cover two nights. I just wish I could remember how I got here from the—

“You married, Mister Jansen?”

“No, I travel a lot, doesn’t leave room for a family.”

Gilman frowns. “Want to be careful. Nothing’s more important than family.”

We reach reception. My host shuffles around the desk and pulls out a pen and a ledger, licking his thin fingers and turning the pages. “The problem is, Mister Jansen, for the last two days, we’ve had a guest named Paul Hatchall staying in Room 428.” He flicked the book shut, leans forward and gazes at me. “And that guest looked just like you.”

I stare at him, but I can’t match those strange . “I–I don’t know what you mean.”

Gilman smiles knowingly. “Perhaps I was wrong,” he says, but his smirk tells me he plainly doesn’t mean it. “Two more nights will be one hundred and twenty dollars.” He holds out a hand.

I open my wallet and pay him.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Jansen,” he says.

I turn away and head back up the stairs.

---

The bus ride wasn’t pleasant. Few people bothered traveling to Lyme, they said, so an old sixties Hillman was left to service all the stops. The driver hunched over his wheel and ignored me as I got on, brandishing my ticket.

I took a seat. A dark haired woman sat across from me caught my eye. She leaned over, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Lyme,” I replied.

She stared at me, biting her bottom lip and with a pinching of her forehead. “Why?” she said.

“Because I…” Those eyes made me hesitate, but I swallowed and pressed on. “I’m here doing government census research.”

She nodded. “That sounds… intrusive.”

I tried to smile, but succeed only in twisting my lips. “Not really. I just ask people a few questions, fill in some gaps in the records.” I sat back in the chair. “What about you?”

“I’m not going to Lyme,” the woman said, “and if you know what’s best, you won’t be either.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“No, that’s right. You didn’t.” With that, she turned away.

The rest of the trip passed slowly. I remember taking out my phone and doing the usual scan of social media and messages, but as we got further away from Brayton, the signal became weaker and weaker.

I can’t read on a bus, so without my phone, I took to looking out of the window. It was then I noticed just how slowly we were travelling and the poor condition of the road. The juddering wasn’t only because of the Hilman’s ancient suspension. Potholes outnumbered flat sections of tarmac and the verges were completely overgrown. In places, I could see grooved tracks and tyre marks where other vehicles had got stuck. I remember wondering if we would suffer the same fate and be forced to get out and push.

I saw a house in the distance, its once white walls invaded by vines and weeds. The roof torn apart during the siege. The whole place seemed surrounded by growth. Who could have lived there? Clinging on whilst mother nature reclaimed what had been taken from her.

The bus stopped, pitching me forward in my seat. Two people shuffled off to stand in the dirt as we pulled away.

Surely they couldn’t be—

“Your stop’s next,” the woman said to me. “That is, if you haven’t changed your mind?”

I turned to her again and forced a smile. “I haven’t.”

The engine growled as it pushed up hill. Over the top and for the first time, I saw Lyme, the coast and the shadow of the reef out in the distance. The road wound down towards them all and we bumped our way along, the driver hunched over his steering wheel. The bus gathering speed and momentum, hurtling towards the buildings ahead. I took a deep breath and closed  my eyes.

And that is all I remember.

---

I’m cold, naked and in pain.

My arms ache at the wrist and the shoulder. My legs at the ankle and hip. My whole body hangs from them, face down. I’m naked and I can feel a fiery ring of rope around each limb, abrading my flesh.

I open my eyes. Darkness writhes beneath me. Gradually, my sight adjusts. There are people down there in the black. Hundreds of them, moving, crawling over one another, their mouths gaping open, as they writhe and twist.

“We know what you stole.”

A voice echoes off stone walls. I glance around, but cannot place the speaker. “I don’t know what you mean!” I shout out. “Please, just let me go.”

“There is nowhere to go. All paths lead to this place.”

There is something amidst the people. A large creature, aware of me, aware of them. Its feelers wrapped amongst struggling bodies, drawing from them as they yearn towards its embrace. Grey mouths and teeth clasp and clutch at flesh, biting, consuming. The people and their symbiotic matriarch, consume each other slowly, in a languid and visceral dance.

“You will join us,” the voice says. “In many ways, you already have. In time, you will beg to join the others beneath you in full knowledge of the fate that awaits you. Consummation of your flesh, your experiences and memories will sustain those who seek to return. Those who deserve to rule over humanity and save it from its own ignorance.”

There’s a rustling noise and a slight breeze. I shiver instinctively and know the speaker has left. There  will be no respite from this torture. No end until I agree to the oblivion that awaits me below.

I close my eyes and scream.

---

“Shit! Be quiet!”

Hands on my shoulders, shaking me. The dark haired woman from the tunnels and the bus. She’s crouched over me as I lie down, her face twisted into a scowl. “You need to shut up and lie still,” she hisses. “If you don’t we’re both dead.”

“How did I—”

“End up here? By being very very stupid and very very lucky.”

I prop myself up on my elbows. I’m lying on a concrete floor in pre-dawn light. My movements echo in this room, it must be a big space. I’m wet, cold and in pain. There’s a sense of soreness in my limbs, as if I’ve not used them. I’ve been wrapped in a blanket. “Where are we?”

“In the old fish market,” the woman says. “No-one comes here anymore.”

“I need clothes.”

“We’ll find you some.”

“You never told me your name.”

She looks at me and smiles. “If I had, you probably wouldn’t know, would you?” the smile fades and she stares out into the dark. “But they would know. They would have taken it from you.”

“The only memories I have of you is running through tunnels and when we talked on the bus.”

“That was where we were earlier, after I got you out and before we stopped here.”

I remember being suspended over the pit and shudder. “You cut me down?”

“I dragged you out, you’d been lying in that filth for days. I don’t know why you’re still alive.”

Her answer terrifies me. There’s another hole in my mind, a gap where the memories should be. I can’t recall anything between the moment hanging above that writhing pit and running through the tunnels. Only this conversation suggests the order of things, that my escape followed my imprisonment. All the rest  are disjointed, pinpricks of light in a fog that will not let go.

The woman grabs me by the shoulder, forcing me onto my knees. The concrete is harsh and unforgiving, cutting through my bruised and battered skin. “Why do you think you can’t remember things? Why is everything so broken up in your mind, like shards and dreams? That’s what they’re all like. Dying by inches in there. Everyone coming here with some strange notion and getting sucked into the darkness. All for something nameless that doesn’t even know they exist.”

I take a deep breath and stare at the concrete floor. “My name is Paul Hatchall, I’m thirty-three and I work for the Land Surveyor’s Office in the Bureau of Land Management. I came to Lyme to fill in some gaps in the land designate records, not to get kidnapped!”

Hands release me and I almost fall, but I catch myself and stay there, in the penitent’s position. “All over the world, people go out hunting for things, seeking knowledge, wealth, fame and whatever else,” the woman says. “They never realise ‘til it’s too late, where the real gold lies.” She taps the side of her head and in the half-light I see an angry red scar trailing out of her hair down around her right ear. “Knowing who you are, what you are, that’s precious. People around here can take that away. You can’t let them.” She glances down, drawing something from a holster a her hip. A gun, an old six shooter by the look of it. “Well, this time, the beast will have to stay hungry. We’re getting out of Lyme for and we ain’t gonna be stopped!”

“I need clothes,” I say again, “and food. Perhaps then I can—”

She rounds on me. “We need to be on the edge of town by sun up, otherwise we’ll never make it. Now’s the time to tell me what you did with it.”

“Did with what?”

“The paper fragment you stole. Where did you hide it?”

“I…” My hand is burning. I open it. There’s nothing there. I distinctly remember a piece of parchment, torn from a book, running with it, escaping, but these flashes in my mind don’t fit together. They aren’t a sequence. There’s gaps all over the place.

I focus on the woman and stare into her eyes. The memory is there, nearby, I can almost taste it. There! Yes, there it is! “In the hotel, Room 428, behind the toilet.”

The woman sighs and her shoulders slump. “We’ll have to go back,” she says.

---

I open the door to Room 428, close it behind me and sit down.

Horace Gilman knows who I am.

I know who I am.

I know why I am here.

I have to get out.

I look around. My rucksack isn’t where I remember leaving it and the suitcase has been opened. The clothes have been pulled out and strewn all over the bed and the floor.

I walk to the bathroom and reach behind the toilet. The book is there and behind it, a fragment of paper, old, layered and thick, the kind you don’t get made in a modern factory. It’s been torn out of a book.

I tore it out of a book.

There’s writing on the parchment. Writing over writing over writing, some in between the layers. Words jumbled and patterned in different directions. I can make out some letters, but nothing coherent. Some of it isn’t English, isn’t any language I recognise. The ink is thick and florid, red and black stains on ancient beige. Just looking at the marks, makes me dizzy and sick. The act of violation, stealing this from where it belongs, in bound pages, is something I did. Something that prompted retaliation.

Why? Why would I do such a thing?

I sit down on the bed. My memories don’t join together neatly. I need to get out of here, but I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do, once I leave the hotel with the parchment. I remember the figure I saw on the street. Was that… Yes, it was! She’s waiting for me, waiting to escape with—

There’s a knock at the door.

“Mister Jansen?” – it’s Horace Gilman again.

“Yes?”

“Best I come in Mister Jansen, then we can talk.”

I stare at the door. Its old and won’t keep out a determined intruder. Besides, he’ll already have a key. There’s painted over holes where a bolt might have been, long ago.

I glance around the room. There’s no other way out.

“All right then,” I say and tuck the parchment into my pocket.

The door opens and he skitters inside, leaving it ajar. I see movement over his shoulder, more people. Guests? Or…

“This isn’t where you need to be, Mister Jansen,” Horace says, standing over me.

“I know that,” I reply. “I need to leave.”

“Yes you do,” Horace says. “But you can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re part of our community now, wedded to the town, like all the rest of us. You’ve become part of the flock and I’m here as your shepherd to guide you back to where you belong.”

He’s standing in front of me, his protruding gut level with my face. I can see faded stains on his white shirt and there’s a stale smell about him I hadn’t caught before. He’s got his hands behind his back. Might be he’s concealing something?

“What happens if I don’t want to stay in Lyme?”

“Everyone wants to stay, Mister Jansen. Some people just don’t know it yet.”

I don’t reply to that, letting the silence extend for a while. I’ve missed my chance to get away. Horace wouldn’t have knocked before everything was in place. There’ll be people on all the exits and in the street waiting for me if I make a move to resist. “Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask. “You know it’s not my name.”

Horace smiles, a crooked gesture that lifts the right side of his face. “Who’s to say that? For all I know, you’re Mister Jansen pretending to be Mister Hatchall, or Mister Hatchall pretending to be Mister Jansen? Or perhaps you’ve lived before an’ an old life is coming back to you, hidden beneath it all.”

“You don’t care about me,” I say. “You want the page from the book I stole.”

Horace sighs. “Bad business that. Got people angry about it all over the town. Some’d like to skin you for what you done. To them, it’s like you stole a part of their lives.”

“Just like you’ve done to me.”

“In what way?”

I tap the side my head. “By stealing parts of my mind.”

Horace leans back. “What if I told you you’re not alone? That everyone volunteers a little bit of themselves to those who are more than us, more advanced and more deserving.”

“I’d say you were mad.”

“But you can’t disprove it. You spend nearly half your life asleep, like most people. In that time, you dream all sorts of strange things. You only have your recollections and the recollections of others as evidence of what you’ve really done. Those memories fade. Why not give them away to someone who can use them far better than you?”

I frown at him. “Someone, or something?” I ask.

Horace rolls his eyes. “Many people dream when they come here. There’s something about this place that helps them see the world differently. Who’s to know what you actually saw or experienced?”

“I know what’s real.”

“Do you?”

I can hear raised voices in the hall. A woman is shouting, she sounds familiar. I start to stand up, but Horace drags me back and pushes me down. I struggle, but I’m too weak to resist him and he pins me to the bed.

“Where is it?” he rasps. “Give it up now, or I promise it’ll end badly for you!”

There’s a loud bang and more shouting. Horace’s hands are tearing at my loose fitting clothes, trying to find the page. I’m fighting him, but it’s no use. He flips me over and rips the parchment out of the back pocket of my jeans.

There’s another loud bang and a splash of something against the back of my neck. Horace coughs and then he’s on top of me. I thrash, but he’s a dead weight and slides to the floor. I struggle to my feet and stumble past him to the door, running for the stairs, not daring to look back.

“This way!”

The woman from before is standing there, a smoking revolver in her hands. There’s another slumped figure further on, a man whimpering and clutching at his guts while blood pools around him on the threadbare carpet. I don’t see much of his face, but there’s a similarity to Horace, I guess the two of them are related.

“Move!”

I’m pushed down the stairs, I slip forwards, my numb fingers grab for the bannister, but my feet slide out from under me and I’m falling towards the bay window. My hands fly up in front of my face, my elbows bounce off the wooden frame and I collapse into a heap on the floor.

Footsteps thunder towards me, hands grab my arms, lifting me up. “Come on!” the woman breathes in my face. I struggle to help, to move and get to my feet, but everything’s too much. I fall again.

“I can’t do this,” I say. My hand goes to the back pocket of my jeans. I pull out the torn page. “Here, this is what you wanted.”

She hesitates, but then, takes the parchment from me. “I’ll get this out,” she says. “People will be warned. What you’ve done, it’ll make a difference.” She hands me the revolver. “There’s two rounds left. I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what she means. I’m too tired to care. My hand closes around the smooth wooden handle of the gun and I shut my eyes.

Her footsteps fade away.

---

At dawn, we reached the hotel. Our journey from the abandoned market had been tortuous, my companion determined to avoid any chance we might be spotted.

She told me her name, or at least, a name I could call her. I can’t remember it. I guess they took that away.

“Wait here. I’ll open the door, then you go inside, make your way up to your room and get the parchment.”

She left me crouched at the corner and went to the door. A sunlight flashed on the blade of a knife that she thrust into the gap around the frame. It took her a long time, but eventually, the old lock gave way and she beckoned me over.

“Hurry! Get what you need and meet me back here.”

I went inside and walked towards the stairs, but then I heard someone coming down, carrying something. I ran back into the lobby and then down a passageway, into the toilets. I went straight to the middle cubicle, sat down and locked the door.

---

It’s dark when I come to.

I’m still lying on the stairs. I still can’t remember all the details of my life. I know they’ve taken things from me, robbed me and violated me in a way that I cannot accept. My mind has been invaded, scoured and sifted through without my permission or acceptance.

Or at least, without any memory of either.

Flashes come to me from before. Walking around Lyme taking photographs, people watching me, being asked questions, people watching me. Asking questions and getting strange answers.

People watching me.

Chanting coming from a church as I listen by the window, opening the door and finding it dark and empty, going inside, to the lectern, finding the book, ripping away pages –  two pages.

Being awakened in the dead of night, a hand over my mouth, being dragged out to a chanting mob,

My hands tremble, I can’t make them stop. I’m cold, but that’s not the reason for the shivering. My body aches, yearning for something. My throat is dry and parched. My stomach throbs. Is this how addicts feel when their supply is cut off? There's a pain behind all the other hurts, it's constant scream tells me something is missing. I'm incomplete without it, but I don't know what it is.

Someone is here. I can feel it, even though I can’t see anyone. I hear voices below, in the lobby. They’ll make their way upstairs and find me. Then the pain will end.

“You’re feelin’ withdrawal aren’t you, Mister Jansen?”

The voice is little more than a whisper, but I recognise it. Horace Gilman has hauled himself to the staircase. He coughs, a wet, throaty and painful noise. His eyes glitter in the dim light, staring at me.

“You’re missin’ bein’ where you belong.  We all do when our turn comes. You don’t belong here anymore. You belong with them in the depths, as part of the one you were given to. You can’t live without it now, you’ll die just by being here, being apart.”

I shake my head. “You’ve lost. The parchment’s gone. You’ll never find it.”

Horace laughs painfully. “Doesn’t matter. Your friend’ll take it to people. Eventually, one of ours will find her and bring it back. You can’t escape, the believers are everywhere.”

“If that’s true, you wouldn’t have come after me.”

“Like I said before, I’m a shepherd, here to guide you back to where you belong.”

The voices from below grow louder. The people are much closer. They will discover me soon. I shift my weight against the wall beneath the window, resting my back against it. “If what you did to me is so wonderful, why aren’t you down there instead of running this rotting hotel?”

“Some of us have work to do before we’re granted the privilege.” I see Horace shuffling down the stairs towards me. Each step brings forth a wheezing, painful breath. “Shot me in the guts,” he says. “Probably means I’ll be joining you in paradise, if they’ll take me.”

“Paradise?”

“What else would you call it? All your cares taken away as you accept your rightful place. I mean, are we really so special? Look around your world, we fucked it up, but we can’t see it. They understand better, they always have.”

He’s almost at my side now and I can see flashlights below us. People are coming up the stairs. I lift the gun, aim it at Horace, he grunts, but doesn’t stop moving. He’s sitting down next to me, leaving dark stains on the chipped paint of the wall.

“In Anu’s kingdom, the worry and the pain all disappears. Just shut your eyes, close your ears and open your mouth. Suck on the teat as they take away your life and make it into something useful, greater, eternal.”

I point the gun at the darkness down the stairs. They’ll be coming soon. There’s two rounds left, she said.  My arm is shaking. I’ve never…

Horace’s hand closes over mine, turning the revolver back towards us, towards me. “Why fight it, little lamb?” he says. “Just let go. Make your end. Rejoin the flock or accept the cull.”

I can feel his breath on my neck. His fingers on the gun steady mine. The barrel is pointed at me. I turn my wrist, then slide my fingers out, so my thumb rests on the trigger.

I open my mouth.

Colony

By Allen Stroud

I’m jostled awake and my eyes open to shadowy darkness.

It’s after midnight. I can’t tell where we are, but the camper van must have bounced over a bump in the road to rouse me.

From my seat in the middle of the vehicle, I can’t see much. Our driver is hunched over the steering wheel. Headlights shine into thick cloying fog. Shapes pass us on either side. I don’t recognise anything.

It stinks in here – an odour of cold sweat and fear. I look around. There’s more people packed into the seats than when I fell asleep. We must have stopped a few times and picked them up. There are men, women and children. The van is full – more than full, with some forced to sit in the aisle. Every face flinches away from my gaze. No-one wants to talk. We’ve all got baggage, everyone has, after all that’s happened.

I can hear sobbing and soothing words coming from the back. Maybe things will be better this time?

Somehow, I doubt it.

What makes people abandon their lives? No-one chooses to run away from everything they’ve known, leaving behind all their worldly goods for a seat on a broken bus heading into darkness, unless their other options are worse.

Stay and die. Run away and live.

I can see the driver in the mirror. He’s an ugly, sweaty man who’s past his best years. Thin streaks of hair straggle across his balding head and there’s open sores in his scalp. His bulbous eyes catch mine occasionally as he looks up. He’s humming something under his breath. I don’t recognise the tune, but then I’m no music expert. When I got on, he smiled, showed me his broken teeth and asked me to call him Joel.

I nodded, but didn’t reply.

A damp thigh is pressed against mine. A man in the window seat, leaning away from me, his face against the steam covered glass, looking out into the dark. He’s snoring gently, breathing onto the wet pane. His shirt collar is turned up, but I can see sores along the side of his neck.

We all have the mark. We’ve all survived.

That’s why they want us.

“We need to stop, please.”

I glance in the direction of the voice. It’s the woman who’d been comforting the child at the back. She’s stood up, shuffling forwards, picking her way over sleeping bodies, trying to get the driver’s attention.

“He’s sick, we need to stop and get some air, just for a minute…” one or two voices murmur their agreement.

“No stopping!” Joel, the driver, yells back over his shoulder. “We can’t stop at night, it isn’t safe!”

“He needs the toilet!”

“Hold it, or don’t hold it. If we stop, we die!”

The boy starts wailing, making the situation worse. I know what people are thinking. I’m thinking it too. Just a short stop for some air. What can it hurt? The danger doesn’t seem real, this fetid prison, does.

A man in the seat across stands up. His face is scarred and twisted. “Joel, listen. Maybe we don’t need to stop, eh? You slow down and we’ll bring the boy to the side door. We hold him out there while he does his business. When he’s done, we shut up shop again, sound fair?”

Joel ignores him, but then the camper starts to slow down. The man takes that as agreement and gestures to the woman to pass her child to him. The sobbing kid is handed over people and I shuffle away to let him past, jostling my sleeping neighbour by the window. He grunts and wakes up.

“I'm so sorry, I—”

“No, it’s okay, don't worry.” The man winces as he stretches his neck. Then he rubs his face with his hand. “I'll sleep when I'm dead,” he says and smiles, gazing at me. “How long was I out?”

“A couple of hours, I guess. I fell asleep too.”

“Well, it passes the time.” He wipes the window and stares out. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere south of Warren, I think.”

“It got crowded.”

“Yeah.”

A chilly breeze steals into the van as the side door is rolled back. The fresh air is lovely. I find myself smiling and the man beside me is smiling too.

“I’m Daniel,” he says.

“Jess.” I hold out a hand, he takes it, squeezing it briefly. “You got on outside Pine Bluff. What was it like?”

I shrug. “Same as everywhere else I guess. Panic on the TV, followed by panic in the streets, then sickness, quarantine and gradual collapse. Creatures came out of the water, the army attacked them, but ran out of ammunition and retreated. Once they were gone, the last survivors started getting out. I was walking when Joel picked me up.”

Daniel nods. “Pretty rough, eh?”

“Rough on everyone.”

Three of the passengers hold the boy out over the road. He’s crying, but starts to do his business. I can see scars on his legs, evidence of his infection and recovery. It's rare to see kids survive the pandoravirus. The new smell makes my stomach turn. I clench my teeth to hold down what’s left of my breakfast. When the child’s done, they pass him back in and down the line to his mother. The man who spoke up, grabs the door, hauling it shut and the van starts to pick up speed.

“How long until we get somewhere?” Daniel shouts.

“A night and a day,” Joel grunts over his shoulder. “Maybe more if you need more stops!”

---

When I wake up again, the dawn light is streaming onto my face through the van windows. Daniel’s head is resting on my shoulder. I decide not to move for a bit, letting him sleep.

From this position, I can get a good look at him. He’s in his thirties, a few years older than me. He’s wearing a jacket and shirt, the collar unbuttoned, as if he was wearing a tie before. I can see under the shirt, and the line of puckered scars down his chest. They look the same as the ones on my arms and the ones I saw on the boy. Those wounds never heal properly, they never disappear, as if we need a reminder of what happened to each of us.

A business man, sleeping on a teenage girl wearing a hoodie and ripped jeans. At any other time, it wouldn’t happen. The apocalypse makes for strange bedfellows.

I look around the van. It’s quiet. I can’t see anyone else awake. The driver has stayed up all night. I can just see him, still hunched over the wheel, like before, focused on his mission to deliver us to a promised Eden, amidst the ruin of the world.

Daniel stirs and shifts away from me. He blinks and smiles at me. “Good morning,” he says.

“Same to you,” I reply.

The van shudders and jerks to a stop. “We’ll stop here for an hour,” Joel announces. “Everyone out!”

There’s groans from all around me as people struggle to wake up and stumble towards the doors. The side rolls back and I’m drawn outside with the rest. The morning air is fresh and clean. I can’t believe how many people were packed into the van. There must be thirty or more. I’m—

“You okay?”

Daniel’s looking at me. I realise I’m staring and I’m in the way. I step away from the door and glance around. We’re at the side of the highway. There’s burned out cars and rubbish all over the place. The tarmac is breaking up as nature runs rampant underneath. Something changed when the virus came, stirring the subjugated greenery to war against us as well.  I can’t believe Joel managed to drive through all this muck at night.

Fog clings to the barren land either side of the road, the same dark fog we’ve all become used to, after it came out of the ocean and fouled the sea breeze. The sun’ll burn it away later, but for now, it’s an unpleasant reminder of the dangers lurking all around us out here.

“What do you know about Joel?” Daniel asks.

“Not much. He barely spoke to me when I got on,” I reply.

“He’s with the monks,” Daniel explains. “That’s where he’s taking us. Some place called Anannage, where they’re based. You’ve got the mark, that’s why he let you join us.”

“I guessed as much.”

“We’re all the same. People who got infected and survived.”

“looks like Joel got the worst of it, I’d say.”

“Maybe.” Daniel sits down on the roadside crash barrier. Beyond him, our fellow passengers are wandering around in the mud. “Anannage is a gated community – a whole town, walled off from the world. Before the government fell apart, the Disciples of Anu bought it and set up shop. They’re stocked to last for years, if you fancy prison for the rest of your life.”

“How do you know?”

“They tried to take me before, one of them told me all about it. I didn’t want to go then. Now, I’ve no other option.”

Someone’s watching us. I turn around and see Joel leaning against the side of the van. He looks exhausted, barely on his feet. His hands are fumbling with an old metal lighter and a rolled-up cigarette. “Monks ain’t all that bad,” he grunts. “A long life in this world is a rare thing. Prayers at dawn and sunset every day i’nt much of a sacrifice for three good meals and a warm bed.”

“You believe in their god, Anu?” I ask.

Joel shrugs. “I say the words and kneel when I’m told. I do the jobs I’m given, like rounding up all of you. T’i’nt so bad.”

“And you’re happy with that?”

“Like I said, I say the words. I’m no Disciple.”

Daniel laughs, but there’s no humour in the sound. “Sounds idyllic. Give up your freedom, accept our chains, stop caring and we’ll take all your troubles away.”

Joel grunts. He lifts a cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers and after a try or two, manages to light it. “This world ain’t for saving if you ask me. All we got left is to find a good place to live out our days.”

“There were churches, mosques and synagogues all over the world, with people worshipping in them,” Daniel says. “Did any of their prayers stop the virus? Or kill the crab men that came out of the sea?”

“The Disciples are different,” Joel replies.

“How?”

“That’s not for me to tell.”

I frown. “You’re taking us to them. What should we expect?”

Joel puffs on his cigarette and seems to relax. “Mostly what I said. Three good meals, a bed, morning and evening service, study time. You’ll be working as well, like we all do, when we’re not getting treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“Yeah, treatment. You were picked because you survived. They need to figure out how.”

“Surely, we were chosen by Anu, or whatever?” Daniel suggests.

Joel laughs this time. He drops the remains of the cigarette and grinds it under his heel. As he does, I notice a bulge on his belt. He’s carrying a pistol. Looks like an old drum revolver, like my dad used to keep in his display cabinet at home. “If there’s one thing you should learn from the Disciples, it’s that religion doesn’t have to make you blind or ignorant. They might wear masks and talk like they belong in a book, but they’re not fools. Anu’s the oldest god in the world. I did some readin’ before the web went down an’ you’ll get a chance to do the same. There’s a terminal archive in the compound you can access to learn all about the ‘Sky-Father’. The High Shepherd wants folk to ask ‘im questions too.

“A religion, that thinks?” I say. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” Joel says. “Might be it’ll save the world.”

---

An hour later and we’re back in our seats and back on the road.

I went to Sunday school for a while, when I was really young. Back then, we used to live just outside Baltimore, before the sea claimed it. My parents took me to a Baptist Church, sat me on a wooden chair and fucked off for most of the day. A grey-haired woman in a weird dress would get us to colour in pictures and repeat some phrases she read out from a big book.

I don’t recall any of the words, but those pictures stayed with me. There were lots of Romans and Jesus carrying his cross. I used to dig out the lumi markers from the pen box and really go to town. The people weren’t like me, so they needed bright yellow and green faces. No-one seemed to mind.

There was one day when a kid coloured Jesus in brown. He got called out and told off. I don’t remember why.

Later, I realised my parents didn’t believe in any god. Sending me to the Baptists had been a clear case of ‘do as I say, don’t do as I do.’ Sure, they started praying when they got sick, like most people did. That kind of lodged promise religion people discover when they start thinking about oblivion. Can’t hurt when there’s no other choice, right?

My stomach rumbles. There isn’t much to eat. Some of the others found a truck carrying canned peaches and passed a few around. It’s not enough, but it reminds me how long it’s been since I ate a proper meal.

Daniel touches my shoulder and leans in close. “You hear what he said about ‘treatment’?” he whispers.

I nod.

“That make you nervous?”

I turn towards him. “A bit,” I admit.

“You remember all the stuff on the news before it went dark? About CDC experiments and government authorised surgeries on people?” Daniel looks really worried now. I can see he’s weighing up his options. “You think that’s what they want to do with us?”

I stare at him. “You must have known some of this before you got on.”

“I thought I was going to a commune. Not some science experiment.”

“They picked us because we’ve been infected and survived.”

“I thought that was a religious thing, deliverance from the apocalypse, chosen of the new world and all that. Not some sort of lab rat research.”

“Maybe it’s both.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“What other options have we got?”

Daniel turns away, to look out of the window. “There’s lines that I’m not prepared to cross,” he says. “Sure, we’ve got to give up some of what we had, the world can’t go back to the way it was, but I can’t…” he swallows. “I won’t let them cut me open like something out of the dark ages.”

“Perhaps it won’t come to that?”

He glares at me. “You willing to take that chance?”

I frown and think about it, looking down at my feet while he waits for an answer. I get what he means. The shoes I’m wearing are damp and full of holes. I remember when I got them. Eighty dollars for a pair of sneakers, back when eighty dollars meant something. I could have grabbed something better off a body on the street or raided a store, but I didn’t. I need these shoes to remind me of what we’re trying to get back to.

They’re a crutch. Is that the problem?

“The world’s changed,” I say at last. “The cities, nations, all of it is gone. We’ll never be who we were, what we were. We can’t know what the new rules are – what’s required of us just to live.”

“We’re better than this,” Daniel says. “We’re individuals, not sacks of meat.”

I raise my head again, meeting his gaze. “What did you used to do for work?” I ask.

“What’s that got to do with—”

“Indulge me.”

Daniel sighs. “I was a stock trader. Some people have issues with that.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I was a bike messenger. Point is, you’re out of date – we both are. We have to find out what makes us useful in this new world, not try to reclaim a past that’ll never come back.”

“You mean, by selling bits of ourselves?”

“We always sold bits of ourselves. These are just different bits.”

Daniel shakes his head. “Thanks, but you’re not convincing me. Next time we stop, I’m getting off.”

“You’ll be in the middle of nowhere with no food and water. How long do you think you’ll last?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

---

After that, we sit in silence. I fall asleep for a while, dreaming of coloured pens and children singing songs. When I wake up, Daniel is staring out of the window at the road and the world passing by. He’s counting the moments until we stop again. He’s going to disappear, leave the rest of us to our dark salvation. “If Joel notices you’re gone, he’ll be pissed,” I say.

“I have to get out of here,” Daniel says.

Someone touches my shoulder. I turn and see the boy from the previous night standing next to me. He touches a finger to his lips and points back down the aisle to the back doors of the van. I can see the scarred man who helped him sat there on the floor with the boy’s mother asleep on his shoulder.

The man beckons to me. There’s something about him. A strange certainty in the way he carries himself. He’s confident and projects reassurance. I glance at Daniel. He’s paying me no attention. I get up and pick my way over people to the back of the van.

“Hello Jess,” the man says. “My name is Peter.”

“Hello, Peter,” I say. “What do you want?”

Peter nods, gesturing past me. “Your friend, Daniel, I’m worried about him.”

“How do you know our names?” I ask.

“Joel told me who you are,” Peter explains. “We spoke about you both at the last stop.”

I nod. “Okay. But, if you’ve got a problem with Daniel, you should be talking to him, not me.”

Peter carefully extricates himself from the sleeping woman and stands up. “That was my plan,” he says. “But I wanted to switch seats with you.”

I let him past and squat down in the aisle with the sleeping woman and her boy. Peter moves up to my empty place. He sits down, but makes no move to pull Daniel into a conversation.

After a moment or two, the van begins to slow. We bump across the uneven verge and stop. “Breaktime!” Joel yells.

Daniel stands up and yanks open the door. Peter moves outside. I lose sight of them both as people shuffle forwards, eager for another moment in the air. I struggle to my feet and join the back of the group.

I’m outside standing there alone as everyone else scatters into the grassland. I can’t see Daniel or Peter. It’s late afternoon. The unnatural fog hugs the treeline in the distance. As the sun sets, it’ll reclaim these fields and the road. The sun’s on its way down. We’re cutting it pretty tight. After this, Joel will be planning to drive on overnight.

If Daniel’s going to escape, he’ll have to go now and he’ll have to find shelter before it gets dark.

Maybe he’s already gone?

Someone screams and I look around. I can’t see who it is. Something’s happened on the far side of the van, out across the road. I hurry around the driver’s side. People are running back towards me, Joel holding his revolver, pointing it at something further away. He fires at shadowy hulking shapes in the darkness. “Get back inside!” he screams. “Hurry!”

A huge spider-like leg appears out of the gloom, followed by another and another. There’s more shouts and more gunfire; an automatic rifle of some kind, pattering into the seething fog. In response, the spider legs retreat. There’s inhuman cries, creatures I’ve heard before when the army at Pine Bluff tried to fight whatever came out of the water.

I’m not going back to all that!

I turn around immediately and throw myself into the driver’s seat. It’s been years since I’ve done this, but Joel’s left the keys in the ignition. I stamp on the accelerator and turn the key. The engine roars to life as people jam themselves into the seats behind me. “Move!” somebody shouts.

“I don’t know where we’re going!” I yell back.

“I do!” Suddenly, Peter is next to me. He’s covered in blood. “Drive!” he orders.

I don’t need telling again. I hammer the gearstick into place and the van leaps forward, bouncing over the rough ground and back on the road.

“Head straight on,” Peter says. “I’ll tell you when to make a turn.” He’s holding an assault rifle. He winds down the passenger window, leans out and fires. The noise this close is deafening. More cries echo out from behind us.

There’s a loud bang and the scraping sound of metal. We’re slowing, the van lurches to the left. It's being dragged back by something… something massive!

I glance at the wing mirror on the passenger side. A dark shape blocks any view of the road behind us. A clawed hand reaches out and window glass shatters as it grabs the door frame. A man behind me screams.

Peter leaps forward, a long knife in his hand. He seizes the unnatural arm, stabbing at it with the knife. There’s a guttural cry from outside and a fresh stink as dark red blood sprays across the windscreen. Peter twists the limb, somehow, breaking its grip. The van lurches again and suddenly, we’re free.

“Faster!” Peter urges.

“How did you—”

“Save your questions for later! Get us clear!”

I drive as fast as I can, weaving around wrecked cars and potholes. The fear keeps me sharp and focused. I guess this is how Joel managed for so long. “What happened to the others?” I ask.

“If they’re not in here, they’re dead,” Peter replies. “We’ll be dead too, if you don’t get us out!”

---

How long do I drive like that? My foot jammed on the floor, eyes peering into the fading light. How long does it last? Could have been minutes or hours, I don’t know, I can’t tell. All I can see are shapes and shadows to swerve and avoid.

At some point, I turn on the headlights. Are we being pursued? I don’t know. But we have to assume they’re right behind us, waiting for a moment of weakness. Until I’m told otherwise, I have to push on as fast as I can, risking everything with each swerve of the wheel, fighting to keep us alive, fighting to—

“Okay, ease off now, I think we’re clear.”

It’s a man’s voice, a familiar voice. It takes a moment for me to remember who. His name is Peter. He’s sat next to me. I lean back, relax my foot. The van slows, but we keep on going.

“Make a right turn at the crossroads, then take the next left. The road’ll wind up hill for about half a mile before we reach the fence.”

“Fence?”

“Yeah, it’s the outside of the compound – where we’re going.”

It comes back to me. Me, Peter, the passengers, we’re all survivors, fleeing the remains of our life to start something different. “The Disciples of Anu,” I remember aloud.

“Yes, that’s who we are,” Peter says. “When we get through the fence, you’ll be with us, under our protection.”

I look at him. Peter’s leaning back in his seat, breathing hard. There’s claw marks across his scarred neck. His face is slick with sweat. “You’re a Disciple,” I realise. “You’ve been with us the whole time.”

“This is our way,” Peter says. “Without me, you’d be dead.”

“You don’t wear the mask and the cloak.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be able to do my job.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and take a deep breath. “What happened to Joel and Daniel? Did they make it?”

“I don’t think so,” Peter replies.

“Did the giant spider get them?”

“I didn’t see a giant spider.”

The road ahead is clear. I risk a look over my shoulder. The survivors are huddled together in silence. There are less than before and it’s worse, a lot worse. They’re all too terrified to cry. Instead, they exist; measuring one breath after another. They’ve shut down to endure the present. We’re all clinging on to one last feeble hope.

“What will you do with us?” I ask Peter.

“What we would have done with you before; brought you in, given you food and shelter. We are shepherds and you are here to join our flock.”

“Will you experiment on us?”

“Yes. We experiment on everyone, including ourselves.”

“Why?”

“Because humanity has to survive. There is no other way.”

We drive on in silence and come to the fence. Peter tells me to stop and gets out. I can see lights and figures the other side of the wire mesh. Peter is talking to them. They shake hands and he returns to the van, climbing back into his seat.

“Welcome to your new life, people,” he announces to our passengers. “Congratulations, you made it.”

Silence greets him in reply.

I sigh, gun the engine and drive through the gate.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Jonas Kyratzes is a writer and game designer, best known for his work on The Sea Will Claim Everything and The Talos Principle. In addition to co-writing Phoenix Point, he is also working on Serious Sam 4 and a number of unannounced projects. His work can be found at jonas-kyratzes.net and landsofdream.net.

Allen Stroud (Ph. D) is a Senior Lecturer at Coventry University and Chair of Fantasycon 2018. He is a Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror writer, best known for his work on the computer game Elite Dangerous and its official fiction.

Allen is editor of the British Fantasy Society Journal and Revolutionaries; the roleplaying game set in the War of Independence. He also reviews books for the BFS, SFBook and Concatenation.

His website is: http://www.allenstroud.com

You can find more of the Phoenix Point stories here – https://phoenixpoint.info/archives/

Table of Contents

Briefing #2

CONTENTS

Archivist's Note

Introduction

Time Vault

The Depths of Civilisation #1

Randolph Symes' Essays in the Origin of Man

The Acts of Taxiarch Nergal

The Hatch

Fragments of Knowing

Colony

ABOUT THE AUTHORS