Authors: Bradford Bates
Outside of my small circle of normalcy was a larger ring. In the fifteen-foot ring around me, the earth was devoid of all life. It had been charred and burned until nothing was left. When I say nothing, I mean it: absolutely nothing. Not even ashes from the plants that would have been burned by whatever happened. The black circle was so complete, its surface was smooth and shiny. There was no way to get back to my car without walking across the black void I had somehow created. With no other options, I took my first tentative step out onto the black surface.
My breath caught in my lungs as my foot came down on the black sheet of sand for the first time. The surface cracked under the weight of my foot almost as if I had stepped out on a thin layer of ice. People think of Tucson as only a place that is always really hot. That isn’t always the case. It snowed once when I was a kid. Craziest thing I have ever seen, snow in the desert. But we had a lot of mornings in the winter where the temp dipped just enough to form little ice sheets over the puddles made from the sprinklers. It felt like that when I stepped on the crack, just a film of ice covering the water from the sprinklers, except in this case, it happened to be normal sand that found its way out through the spider-webbing cracks made from my steps.
As I continued to walk across the circle, each of my steps cracked the black surface just enough to show the untouched sand beneath it. When I finally reached the end of the circle and was standing firmly on the normal desert ground, I turned back to take a second look at what I had just walked on. Kneeling down to examine the edge of the circle and the realization of what had happened hit me like a truck. It wasn’t some kind of toxic spill, or even something that could still hurt me. The energy that I had released from inside of me had superheated the sand. The flames had burned so hot and so fast that the sand had turned to glass. I broke off a small piece to show my parents and started the long jog back to my car.
During my jog, I started to wonder, what if this had happened while I was at home? I could have killed someone. Then it dawned on me, this had already happened at home. I needed to get back home fast. My parents needed to understand that it wasn’t safe to be around me. What if this happened again when I was sleeping, or if I got mad when I died playing a video game? What if I could never control it? There was no way I could put my family in that kind of constant danger.
It took me four times as long to reach my car as it did to get out to where I had slept. The shuffling, cramping jog got the job done, but I was sure it didn’t look very pretty. Hey, as long as I made it back to my car, it really didn’t matter. The fatigue from yesterday’s wild run was taking its toll on me. It kind of felt good to be tired. This was the first time in months I had not been full of energy since the moment I woke up. Whatever that blast was, it had done what I needed it to do. I finally felt normal again.
When I reached my car, I opened the door and sat down. It felt good to sit down. Really, really good. Every muscle in my body was sore. Now that I was sitting, my stomach started to growl. It dawned on me that I hadn’t had anything to eat in almost a day. That was something that almost never happened. I loved to eat. I was the kind of guy who liked a big breakfast, followed by an even bigger dinner. I dug into the pocket of my CamelBak and found a PowerBar. I wolfed it down in three bites, and with the help of some water, I started to feel a little bit better. The food helped to settle some of my nerves, and the water helped ease some of my muscle tension.
I put my keys into the ignition, ready to go home. The conversation that waited for me when I walked in the door wasn’t going to be fun, but it would be interesting. I hadn’t stayed out all night without calling my parents ever. I started to play out different scenarios in my mind about how that conversation would go. “Where were you last night!” “Oh, just burning a fifteen-foot ring of sand to glass, you know, the usual.” I laughed out loud, and some of the stress rolled off my shoulders. That was when I noticed the note placed under one of my windshield wipers.
I looked around; the parking lot was still deserted. Apparently almost ninety-degree mornings with high humidity also kept the hikers away. That also meant whoever left the note was long gone. I finally found enough courage to stand up and get the note. Something inside of me begged me not to get up, to just start my car and go home. Something else inside of me wondered who would have put a note on my car way out here; I had to know what it said. Hopefully curiosity wouldn’t kill the cat. I plucked the note from under the wiper and sighed with relief as I slumped back into my seat. The front of the note said, “Jackson, I love you, Dad.”
I wondered when this note was written. It didn’t look like my dad’s normal handwriting. Could your writing change that much in the course of a few years? Calling his handwriting
messy
would be an insult to messy people everywhere. This handwriting was pristine, almost as if it had been written by someone from a different era. There was nothing to do now but open it and find out what it said.
I exhaled and slid my thumb through the top of the letter and opened it. There was a moment when I pulled out the folded letter that I thought about stuffing it back into the envelope and heading home. I had to read the first few lines more than once for the meaning to settle in. So it did turn out that even when waking up in the desert with no recollection of what happened, your day could still get worse.
“Jackson, my son, if you are reading this, then the worst has happened and I am no longer around to tell you this myself. You were born with a gift. Being one of the Gifted is a great responsibility. Our family has worked with the Ascendancy to ensure humanity’s safety for hundreds of years. This responsibility now passes on to you. Pete and his wife, Nina, were entrusted to take care of you if anything ever happened to us. I hope that you have grown up well and they have been kind. I know this is probably too much to take in now, but I have left some of our belongings with Pete that may help to explain a little more of what has happened. Your life is about to change, son. As one of the Gifted, you may not lead a normal life, but you will lead an exceptional one.”
I almost couldn’t believe what I was reading. If my parents hadn’t told me just enough before I left, I would have thought I was trapped in an elaborate hoax.
The letter continued.
“Because of your mother’s nature, it was not a sure thing that you would be blessed with the gift. We asked Pete to wait until you showed the signs before speaking with you about it. Please do not look unkindly on him for following our instructions. You may be asked to do things that you do not understand; please listen to what Pete tells you. There is a plan in place to keep you safe and keep you away from our enemies. Once you have awakened, the Council will be coming for you. Our only hope is that Pete will be able to get you to the Ascendancy before the Council finds you. I wish I could tell you more, but time is now your enemy.”
It was signed, “We will always love you.” I felt a hitch in my chest and I stopped breathing.
My son
, what in the heck did that mean? I was sure my Dad did not write this letter. So who was the man who raised me? Who was the man who wrote this letter? I had to get home and talk with my parents and figure this whole thing out. Could the letter be more cryptic? You have a new dad but he is dead, your life will change, it is your duty to protect humanity, and oh yeah, you’re Gifted. What in the hell did that even mean?
I hoped when I got home I would finally start to get some real answers and not any more of the
we need to leave right now
crap. It was time to have a serious talk about what had happened, and what was going to happen. I would not be taking no for answer. It was time to go all in, to jump down the rabbit hole. It was time to find out why the insane was possible, and why it happened to me.
In other words, I’d just swallowed the red pill. I hoped to wake up in a better place than Keanu did.
W
hen I pulled
up to the house, there was a burst of activity. My mom and dad came rushing from the front of the house, and as I jumped out of the car, I was wrapped up in a huge double hug. I felt a rough kiss on the top of my head. A smile broke out on my face. I couldn’t help it. If anything, I had expected to be yelled at. Instead, they just welcomed me home.
My dad then pushed me back, holding me at shoulder length. “Did you get the letter?”
I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded my head. His eyes were red and swollen. He must have been crying for a while before I got here. Mom didn’t look much better. Both of them looked nervous and ready to run. They must have still been on edge about what I told Alby. Maybe now I would finally find out why. I didn’t ask him how he knew where my car was or why he left the letter. It didn’t matter. Right now I was just happy to be home. My parents must have been feeling the same way. It was a lot for all of us to process.
My dad rubbed his eyes and smiled. “It’s good to have you back, son.” The word son hung in the air between us. He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Go inside, get cleaned up, and when you’re ready, come downstairs. I think a big breakfast and a talk is in order. I’ve left a few of your father’s things in your room.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I pulled both my parents into another hug and held them for a while. My mom kissed the top of my head just like my dad had done and whispered for me to go inside. Walking slowly away, I tried to wrap my head around what I had just found out. Maybe there would be more answers waiting for me in my room.
I made it to my bedroom before I felt the first tears of the day streaming down my face. Running to the bathroom, I turned on the shower to muffle the sounds of my sobs. I couldn’t quite grip what was going on. They obviously loved me, but they weren’t my parents. Why couldn’t I remember anyone else having been in my life? Whatever happened to my birthparents must have happened when I was very young. Who was this man claiming to be my dad? What right did he have to try and insert himself into my life? I knew who my father was; he was downstairs, making breakfast.
My dad taught me how to ride my first bike; he was the one who laughed when I crashed that bike into a tree. He was the one who got me right back onto the seat for another ride, this time telling me where the brakes were. That was my dad, not some man from a letter that I had never met. Feeling a little bit better, like I finally had some control over what was happening, I got out of the shower and put on some fresh clothes.
That’s when I noticed the chest on my bed. It was an old wooden chest; it looked a bit like an army ammunitions box. It was about four feet long, a foot high, and a foot wide. It had old iron hinges, and the main latch had a keyhole in the center. The key was resting on top of the box covered in dust, like it hadn’t seen the light of day in twenty years. I could have sworn the box wasn’t on my bed when I came upstairs, but I couldn’t be sure. Obviously it had been placed here for me to open it.
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the key. When I picked the key up, I felt a slight tingle in my fingers. It spread up my arm, and then the sensation went away. I put the key into the lock and turned it. I wasn’t sure what I expected to happen, but the key turned in the lock effortlessly. I removed the key and opened the lid to the box.
The top of the box was lined with pictures of a man and a woman I had never seen before. There was also a necklace hanging from a bent nail in the lid. It immediately caught my eye because of the gentle sway of movement created by opening the box. I slid it off the nail to examine the necklace closer. It was a simple leather cord with what looked to have a silver mounting holding a triangle-shaped piece of bone. The bone could be seen from all four sides, and it was a perfect triangle. Each side of the triangle was carved with a single etching of an open eye. Under the eye on the flat bottom, it said, “Novus Ordo Seclorum.” I couldn’t help but feel that my father had left this for me to wear. I slid the necklace over my head and tucked it inside my shirt. The necklace rested against the uncovered skin of my chest, and I could feel a small amount of heat coming from it.
I looked back at the pictures lining the top of the chest. They had to be pictures of my parents. The young couple looked happy and in love. In one of the pictures, they were both wearing what looked like loose-fitting fighting tunics. Each tunic had some kind of crest on it. I wasn’t sure what the crests meant. I had never seen anything like them before.
The left half of the chest looked like it had a package wrapped in leather or some kind of waterproofed cloth. I pulled it out and opened it up. Inside was a tunic and pants. It looked exactly like the ones my parents were wearing in the pictures. The only thing missing was the crest on the tunic; the one I had pulled from the box was blank. The material was like nothing I had felt before, lightweight and soft but strong and thick. It was an interesting texture, and I just couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was made of. It was slightly coarse like denim but also soft and flexible like cotton.
Underneath the tunic was a second smaller bundle. This package included gloves and socks of the same material. The gloves were slightly different than a normal pair. When I slid the gloves on, I noticed they extended further up my wrist, about three inches longer than a normal pair. The gloves were also unique in the fact they had been cut so your fingers were exposed.
Further inside the box was a pair of boots. The boots were made of light, flexible leather and looked well broken in. The smaller compartment on the right contained a couple of books and a mixture of odds and ends that must have been important to the owner. One of the books was tied together with a small leather strap. It reminded me of a journal I used to write in. I left the gloves and the necklace on and headed downstairs. The thought of food motivated me to leave the room, as much as I wanted to sit on my bed and read that journal until I finished it. I was looking forward to getting some answers.
Walking down the stairs, I paused for a second. Something was off. It tickled at the edge of my senses, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I felt a surge of adrenaline, and my hands grew sweaty. The reaction was so out of place that I stopped and started to take stock of my surroundings. I didn’t hear the noises you would normally hear while someone was making breakfast. In our house, there would be some kind of morning chatter or the TV would be on. I’m sure they had plenty to talk about, so I found it odd that there was no conversation coming from the kitchen. I couldn’t hear the slightest movement coming from the kitchen. No plates shuffling, no crackle of bacon from the pan, not a single thing. It wasn’t normal for the kitchen to be so silent. I loved that we had loud breakfasts; it was part of what made it more than a place where we lived. It made our house a home.
The sound of food cooking and my parents getting ready for work always filled me with a sense of belonging. Now the pure absence of any sound was what was really disturbing me. It was like being trapped in a bubble. I could hear my breathing and my heart beating, but nothing else. I decided it was because I was so nervous. My parents or the people I thought were my parents must be feeling the same way. That had to be why the TV was off and they weren’t talking. They had probably had time to talk last night while I was out and were just waiting for me to come into the kitchen. I could feel my heartbeat speed up and my face growing warm. Swallowing my fear, I headed into the kitchen.
As I crossed the door to the kitchen, the bubble of silence lifted and I could easily hear again. I couldn’t believe what was happening. How could I have not heard what was going on in here? My father was sitting in a chair, his face was bloody and starting to swell. My mother was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. I couldn’t tell if she was still alive, but she wasn’t moving. My first instinct was to run in and check if she was ok. I caught my father’s eye, and he shook his head. I could tell that he wanted me to make a run for it. It didn’t matter what he wanted, I had to get them out of here.
I rushed into the room, hoping to tackle the man holding the gun. I was grabbed from behind by two sets of hands on my shoulders and forced down onto my knees. My father looked up at me again, and when our eyes met, he mouthed the words, “I love you.” Then I watched as the man standing in front of him pulled the trigger and ended his life. This time the sound of the gunshot was deafening. My ears rang, and the sound of the shot echoed through my head. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe. I struggled to get off my knees and lunge at his killer. I was held mercilessly in place by the iron grips on my shoulders.
I felt something slam into the back of my head, and before I passed out, all I focused on was the face of the man who killed my family. I would never forget that face for as long as I lived. He was thin, almost to the point of starvation. His chin stuck out at just the right angle to make him look proud and arrogant. What stood out the most to me were his eyes, his black, soulless eyes. They actually seemed to sparkle with a hint of amusement at what he had done. As if he had just watched something funny happen or that he enjoyed what he had done. He turned his head, and I noticed a small scar on his right cheek. I knew that if I somehow managed to live through this, I would see this man pay for what he had done. I would hunt him down and make sure he suffered the same way my family had. The rage was building inside of me, waiting for the opportunity to be released. It started to bubble over as I was hit on the back of the head again. His face burned into my memory, and I slipped into oblivion.