Kindle Notes & Highlights
“When beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.” —Herman Melville, ‘Moby Dick’.
“Yet on through moors and tree-clad mountainsides, over crags and cliffs and trackless wastes I ran. The sun was at our backs: I saw in front—or it was fear that saw—a giant shadow. For sure I heard his frightful footfalls, fled his panting breath upon my braided hair.” —Ovid, ‘Metamorphoses’. On the Nymph Arethusa.
No matter how she tried to save him, she knew it was too late. She felt tremors in his body. Blood dripped as tears from his eyes and in those eyes she saw chaos. He tried to reach towards her, though not in reflex nor in desiring help, but in a blind struggle to retain his hold on life.
She ran. Through the hallways, through the doors, she ran until one finally opened to the outside. However, neither grass nor concrete met her bare feet. Forests and cities did not come to view. Only steel under her stance. Only the ocean came to her sight. Snow fell in the night sky. Water rose in waves, crashing against the hull of the ship. The wind tore against her skin as if to stop her, but still she ran. She spared one more glance behind her. Everything was shades of grey in the nightscape, but she saw the outlines of her captors. Their shadows were visible through the snowfall.
deep inside she knew the ship trapped her and deemed any escape pointless before she even had the chance. All her life she wanted to get away. All her life she desired to escape, to fight, and then to live. And now she was faced with that life-long wish. She could jump and find freedom. The problem was that she would die as well, the cold sea swallowing her whole. One wish came true: her escape. Perhaps if she tried for another. To wish upon a star.
She had not met flesh when she had struck him in the head, but instead a mask and respirator. She grasped to stay conscious. Darkness descended upon her vision and soon she could not tell the dark of night from the dark of her subconscious. One thing remained. The star she had wished upon, the light fading in and out amidst the overcast winter skies. She had to focus on it, to ward off unconsciousness, if she wanted to end this nightmare.
Something encircled her leg. She pulled, imagining instead she had found forest and the roots of the trees had come to life, granting her a repose as they pulled her beneath the dirt. But she knew this was not true. The grip tightened and another hold came upon her upper thigh. It was Triton. His hands grasped her. He pulled her away. He pulled her back to hell.
The wanderer walked, without a past, without knowledge of the future, toward a destination yet seen or known. What was ahead mattered little as she walked along the coasts, spiraling beside the sea. And what lay behind her was forgotten.
Steps, once unbound, faltered as a figure came to her sight. A man, but was he real or imagined? Her hair, caught in the wind’s dance, lashed against her back as if urging her forward. She succumbed and walked closer. The form became clear. He was dressed in a faded shirt and cargo pants rolled up to his thighs. He held a makeshift spear in one hand, composed of a knife tied to a stick. A net was in his other. Still a figment, she wondered, or did clarity come hand in hand with reality.
“Is fishing a challenge, when you have a clear advantage over the fish?”
Without warning, the Fisherman stopped his hunt and turned to her. He spoke, his words as gutting as she imagined the knife would be. “In the bogs of Maine, surrounding these island shores and outward, life is driven by death and madness. Despite these horrors, there stands one thing. A trace of hope withstands the environment that destroys all else. The orchid Arethusa grows in the devastation and even flourishes in these impenetrable swamps. It is a piece of lasting dignity where no other can be found.”
The Fisherman sunk his blade into a fish. Red replaced the translucent blue. Was this the poet of only moments ago, she asked herself. Figurative speeches about orchids now replaced by the unembellished hunt.
“The fish view you as a presence outside their own world,” he said, tearing the small fish off of the knife and throwing it into the water. She almost reached in to grab it, wondering for what reason the Fisherman would waste a prospective meal. But watching the body, watching its death soak within the waters, she understood as other, larger fish began to swarm near. He then handed her his spear. “In order to kill them, you must first make them accept your presence. To view you not as an intruder, but as something that was always there to begin with.”
In order to learn one forgoes their instincts and listens to the wiser, at least at first. That was the foundation of civilization after all, to learn and build on the knowledge of others. Then you can deviate. Then you can create the new.
“It is not enough to be accepted. For one moment out of the ordinary will send them scattering back to the depths, allowing their instincts to overrule,” the Fisherman said. “Instead watch them. Predict their movements. Though it seems erratic, even in chaos lies an underlying order. You will find reason within the rhyme.”
The Reaper’s hand brought quiet to the night-lands. In its clutch life was gone: the fish had died and the Fisherman had walked away. Disappearance and death were synonymous to the beholder.
She breathed in, taking joy of her labor in making the fire before her. Perhaps the knowledge of creating fire was innate, and perhaps, she mused, the Greek Titan Prometheus had not only given fire to humans, but had wired it within their biology so even when memories were forgotten, fire never would be.
She held the fish at the end of the stick, cooking it as sparks danced from below. She watched the incandescence of flames pirouetting, watching as they grew and danced in the breeze. The fire seemed alive. Life must exist in the fire, for nothing else could animate it with such wonder.
As she walked further from the coast, she saw a town. Would she find the civilization she had forgotten, she wondered. But she was hesitant to find companionship and answers for she felt like an outsider, and almost stepped away from society’s door. This was not society though. A closer scrutiny proved that to be true as she walked closer. A broken sign marked the entrance; the town’s name was worn on it—not by age but by misuse. She could not make it out, but if the Fisherman was correct, she was on a coastal island in Maine. However, the settlement did not paint a picturesque northeastern
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A human figure walked before her. He, or rather it, was not the same as the Fisherman, nor as a human should be. A festering emptiness in its eyes echoed what should be found in a corpse. But it was not dead, nor ever had been. It lived. It moved with the desire to quench its thirsts rather than to lie down and accept the end—of the world, of humankind, of civilization, of itself. It had red hair. It was taller than she. Soiled, tattered clothes hung from it. Sores spotted its flesh: gashes never bandaged, wounds filled with puss, boils. Injuries along its skin, which could have been healed
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It was human before her, but there was no wisdom behind its stare. No logic or sagacity for what she saw was solely primitive impulse. She stood in awe, unable to register whether it was reality or an illusion.
As she turned the corner of the main street, her run from the creature faltered. The smell from earlier should have prepared her for the sight of corpses littering the street. She paused for seconds and then realized she would be dead herself if she hesitated anymore at this sight. It would be through the dead, for her now, where salvation existed. Nyx ran between the corpses in hopes to escape. What had befallen the lifeless was not something to fear, but it was difficult not to as she saw their lifeless gazes upon her. She ran; the smell of rot danced in the air, filling her nostrils. One
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The gun bearer was a man. Not like the dead scattered in this town, nor the thing that had chased her, but a rational living human. Older than herself, his face depicted a depth carved by the sights of war. He was dressed in a thick grey material that covered most of his body, supplemented by gloves and boots. The clothes held a strange balance between a soldier’s field clothing and that of a hazmat suit. A fabric covered his mouth but his eyes were lucid above it as he stared at her.
When she had first come upon the soldiers, she assumed the worst; it was why she had run. And her instinct served her right, for here she sat, contained with rope. Outwardly, they were unlike the creature she had come up against, for these humans did not look monstrous. But inwardly, she believed them to be the same.
“How did you survive?” The final question left Leander’s lips almost as if he expected no answer. Her presence mystified him, as if she were a mermaid washed up upon the shores. And the last word that resounded confirmed this, holding such fairy-tale stipulation ... survived. Survived what, she thought, but did not ask.
“Chaot?” she questioned. Even with her amnesia, she knew the meaning of the sky, the birds, humans, cars. But not Chaot. “Yes, like that thing in the street you came across,” Leander explained, his surprise clear as to why she would not know of them. “You do not know of the term ... or of them?”
know to be wary of the Chaots. A bite, saliva shared, even a substantial scratch from one of those things would make you susceptible to the disease they carry. Any direct form of bodily fluid contact. Once infected you will suffer the same fate of the Chaots.”
“Come with us. After our operations, we will go back to our base, the Thalassic. You should be safe there.” At the corner of her vision, she could not help but see Hector’s gaze. He looked at Leander with what she believed to be objection but he remained silent, too restrained by duty to misstep authority. It was evident, she believed, that Hector did not wish to compromise the safety of their homestead, the Thalassic, nor did he desire having the extra weight of her hindering their operation. Not only could she be a liability in such a hostile environment but also an anchor to their
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“I leave it in your hands, Nyx,” Leander said. Her head arched in wonder, hearing her name on another’s lips for the first time. It was bittersweet. An attraction, a craving, a curiosity filled her interest towards Leander. With his offer the captain may have insinuated that it was her choice, but she wondered if it truly was. She believed he instead led her to believe the choice was hers in order to make her into a willing captive. She would not be incarcerated by such delusion. And even though the soldiers seemed trustworthy, it was not enough for intuition told her that in their company
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Hector, took aim by instinct at the fleeing survivor, but Leander placed his hand up. The weapon lowered at the unspoken order to stand down. Though she did not see it, a silent understanding passed between them. Nyx was the only thread offering clues to this disease, whether being able to lead them to other potential groups or somehow even being the cure they sought, being a survivor when there should be none. They would not allow her to escape; they would follow to see where she would lead them.
as he looked toward Dio uncertainty rose if his partner would prevail. He could leave Dio and complete his training, graduating with high honors. Or carry the weight for two, and not meet the deadline. However, it was not even a choice to Leander. They were comrades and he would not abandon him.
Was it even the survival and war skills that the training taught, or rather was it the bond created between the soldiers? The training stripped the men of all that they were, and it left them with only each other.
A look at the picture opened a piece of Dio that Leander had never seen before. The cheerful bloke sat with his wife flanked to his side. And squished in-between was a young girl. Missing one tooth in the smile, curly hair that seemed to bounce even in the still photograph. “Wish I had something like this,” he said as Dio placed the photo back inside his pocket.
Leander looked out, seeing only overcast marshes in their path. That ... and a lone orchid, a fusion of pink and purple fighting against the gloom. A smile caught his lips as his sight settled on the willful flower, growing despite the odds. It gave him peace. He did not search for such a sight, yet he found it. As with love; you do not search for it. It blooms when it is ready to, as the orchid does.
“I will not allow them to board. Have them go back surface side, and I will ignore the fact that you abused the use of the submersible for your own means, Diomedes.” “I cannot. They will not last,” Dio said. He looked from Telphousian to the screen displaying his family. Behind his wife and daughter was his mother. Placed in a container, tubes shoved in her nose, she laid tranquilized. “My wife said she could not leave her; she had hoped the Thalassic could place her in hibernation until a cure is found,” Dio continued. “The tranquilizer they gave her will not last to make the trek back to
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The submersible came into view. It drifted, meandering in the tug and pull of the underwater current. It was off course, far from the east point of the Thalassic. Leander spent ten minutes longer than he had expected, not giving up on them in hopes of finding the sub. Finally the sub’s headlights had come into sight, a beacon in the dark abyss. But now that he looked at the metal shell, he knew that he was too late. His heart sank, though he still pushed ahead through the sea. He had to continue for Dio. He could not give up for him. He steadied himself, swimming along the enclosure, and
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“Don’t worry, Cassie. Your father sent me. He is waiting for you ... you will be away from here soon. You are safe now, with me.” He took a step. She did not move. She hunched over herself, hunched over an object, but Leander could not make it out. It seemed she trembled in terror, understandably. But something was out of place—not right—though Leander chose to ignore it and focus on his rescue. The light flickered above. On and off, the light switched. The power of the sub had been depleted. The light went blank. Nothing. Blackness. Darkness. The sea for the first time felt cold to
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Leander opened the medic supplies, grabbing the tranquilizer shot. He needed to administer it on Cassie, get the breathing mask on her and get her back to Thalassic. His mind could not focus on the facts: she was a Chaot, she was already lost to them. There would be no antidote. No cure. But all he could focus on was getting her back to her father. He staggered toward her, trying to steady himself as the water came in.
Leander left without Cassie. He swam from the sub, hope sinking as the submersible plunged to the far depths behind him. He would tell Dio he could not find the submersible. That way his comrade, his friend, could imagine his family had time to go back to the surface. He could imagine his family still lived. Leander would carry the weight of what truly happened himself. The image of the girl, teeth sunk into her mother’s hand, ever-present.
The town’s organization hallmarked the usual northeast waterfront communities. Downtown, interspersed with residential areas, hugged the sloping hillsides. This tradition of living within walking distance to the downtown shops allowed city centers to once thrive. Quaint stores did not become replaced by strip malls, as walking rather than driving would still be the main transportation. The ocean appeared just over the tree tops; the constant breeze that once cooled the townsfolk found no rest even upon the eve of humanity’s end. The charm of an old town, not eternal, but evanescent.
This time, not one Chaot blocked her course, but many. She now faced the fire that sprung from the dragon’s mouth, for hell stood in front of her. Twelve Chaots convened together on the street. Tranquility did not exist in the small gathering, for even amongst each other they sought war and feast. Several of them bent over a meal like hyenas. The meal, another Chaot, was still alive under the scavenging. Moans and shrieks mounted from its lips as the prey tried to escape the frenzy. A larger, more muscular one was trying to tear the weaker’s leg off—a monstrous portrayal of survival of the
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One Chaot stood to the side. It busied itself in scratching and nibbling its left arm; its gaze stared off into nothingness. It must have been abrading its flesh for a long time, for the Chaot’s fingernails were worn down from the mindless act. On the ring finger the nail hung loose, connected only by a cord of flesh that kept it from falling completely off. The skin where it scratched was ragged and raw. Blood dried in the crevices, gangrenous spores dotted the dermis. In some areas the bone was visible due to the obsessive-compulsive chafing.
The gowned Chaot was fixated on a more lecherous pleasure than the others. It masturbated in the street’s corner with a neurosis matched only by the obsessive skin scratcher. The diseased organ was limp in its hands, desensitized by the chronic act.
The number twelve symbolizes the ideal paragon. Twelve in their idyllic world of debauchery. Add one more to numerological perfection and it can only become marred in corruption and rebellion. Nyx was the thirteenth, coming before the group of twelve Chaots. Even the ones with rotted eyes, perhaps from smell or some undeciphered sense, looked toward her. Hunger swelled in them from her presence—not in the malnourished sense, but in all the ravenousness denotations of the word. And that surge led them to her, leaving prior acts forgotten in order to satisfy this new indulgence.
they began to take chase, mouths salivating as hunting yelps echoed through the air. They ran like a pack of hyenas towards her—scattered and in it for their own satisfaction. Even the one who was the meal attempted to stand in its slaughtered ruin to go after her.
Long ago the room was a child’s space. A crib sat to one side, the wood had pale yellow paint reminiscent of a blooming daffodil. It had begun to chip, yet she could almost imagine the stifled cries that had come from behind its bars. On the floorboards, a petite slipper rested, shimmering in bronze. So tiny were the feet of the creature that once lived here; miniatures of a human in body, but in mind they seemed to amplify the emotions as if giants. The love babies had, the passions of joy, anger and sorrow. Unconfined, restricted only by their infantile inabilities. The tiny boots
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She opened the book as if unlocking a treasure containing untold secrets—as if it was about to erupt with demons as a volcano spews lava when the cover folds over. Each picture she looked over with unabated curiosity, amazed by the tale the child’s book wove. One by one she turned the pages, hungry for knowledge. She read of a young boy’s punishment. His journey over the sea. Meeting the wild things. They had wanted to tear into him, but instead they found him to be the most wild thing of all, and dubbed him the king of the wild things. Tame them. Look into their wild eyes, without blinking
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Grasping the low-lying branches and using them as leverage, she climbed up and away from the ground, praying the Chaots could not climb. From the elevated position, she looked along the forest’s floor to catch view of two Chaots walking, animated in their deadly stroll. They were the same ones from town, having followed her with unrivaled determination. Veins throbbing in the chase, bursting in a paradise lost, these destroyed shells of humanity searched.
She looked up, not wanting to witness the terrors below. However, it was not the skies that graced her sight; it was a dead human in the branches above. It was not alone. Feasting upon the carcass was a Chaot, a different one than before. The soulless being once upon a time had called himself the civilized. Now he was savage, resembling a jaguar hiding its prey from scavengers. The Chaot moved with an animalistic grace in the tree. He could have trained in jujitsu in another life; nimble movements from branch to branch gave him an elegance, a gentle grace, that enchanted her. For the first
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His eyes lacked the spark of social intelligence, yet they whispered knowledge of a secret known by the Chaots alone. To be truly free.
