Blood and Sand (6 page)

12

I awake with a groan and open my eyes to see bright lights.
Am I dead? Is this the entrance to heaven?
I’m expecting to hear Led Zeppelin start playing soon. Then I feel the pain. Nope, definitely NOT heaven.

I cough and flinch when I feel my obviously bruised ribs expand and contract. I’ve never been in this much pain before—minus the wall-hug while playing ball, of course. I can barely breathe without feeling a sharp twinge in my midsection.

“Calm down,” says a voice. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”

“Fine my ass,” I croak and grit my teeth.

I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, doing my best to slow it down. As I do, the stranglehold on my chest and ribs loosens. Finally, I’m breathing better now, but the ache is still there. As long as I keep my breaths short and shallow I should be okay.

I try to sit up, but I don’t get very far.

“Dammit!” I shout and wince, giving up and falling back onto the bed.

“Here, let me help you,” says the voice again, which I now recognize as my father’s.

He leans over and grabs me under my right shoulder and slowly helps me sit up. An all new pain flares up in my back as the pressure moves from one part my body to another. I grunt in disapproval, but grit my teeth. At last, I’m sitting up—in a hospital bed I realize—feeling about twelve percent better, and that’s being generous. It’s probably closer to five.

I take in my surroundings and notice a stranger sitting in the corner. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and he’s dressed in a basic, everyday looking black suit. His “uniform” screams government agent.

“FBI?” I ask in a low, raspy voice.

He shakes his head slightly.

“CIA?”

This gets no reaction out of him, which means I’m right.

What the hell is a CIA spook doing here?
I think. I look back over at our new friend, “What’s your name?”

“You can call me…Kane,” he says obviously lying to me.

“Kane? Really? That’s it?” I ask a little annoyed.

“Yep,” he says not missing a beat. “Just, Kane”

“Fine, Agent Kane, what does the Central Intelligence Agency want with us? Also, who wants me dead and him captured?” I say pointing at Dad.

Kane coolly and calmly readjusts his jacket and clears his throat.

“First off, it’s just Kane—none of that agent shit. Okay?” He collects himself, “They call themselves, Zero, or the Beginning of All Things, and they need Dr. Boyd alive because of something they need him to find at your dig site.”

He sees my raised eyebrows.

“Yes, Mr. Boyd, we know everything—except what Zero wants to obtain.”

Now it’s my dad’s turn.

“Why did he call Hank, the
chosen
?”

He is referencing the man who blew himself up in the Algiers Airport sorting room. At the time I thought nothing of it since I was trying not to die.

Kane stands and goes to the window. He peeks out of the closed curtains and is apparently satisfied that we are alone. He then casually strolls over to the door to my room and shuts it, not before checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping outside. He starts talking as he lets go of the door knob.

“Let me start with Zero, Mr. Boyd,” he says.

“Hank,” I say.

“Very well, Hank. Let me start with Zero. They are a rather radical organization. They aren’t really a terrorist cell, but they aren’t a cult either. We actually know very little about them or how long they have been in operation.”

“Wait a sec-”

Kane puts his hand up to stop me, “That doesn’t mean we know nothing about them.” He then lowers his hand and waits for me to continue.

“Go on,” I say.

“We know two things,” he ticks them off on his fingers. “First, Zero is obsessed with what seems to be very random, but very rare artifacts. Some are extremely valuable and others are worth zilch. So we don’t think it’s a money thing. Second, they will do absolutely anything to get them—including bombing an airport and trying to kill you,” he says motioning to me.   

“About that?” I ask. “What the hell do they want with us?”

Dad chimes in, “
Even the chosen must meet their end sooner or later.
”

Both Kane and I look up at him with blank stares.

“It’s what the bomber said before he blew himself up. I have no idea what he meant. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure it out, but I haven’t come up with anything yet.”

The room falls silent as all three of us are lost in thought. I slide to edge of the bed and try to stand.

“Give me a hand will you, Kane? I gotta’ pee.”

Kane steps over and I take his wrist. I’m surprised with how sturdy and strong the arm is as I lean into him.

Kane’s a strong dude,
I think.

I stand and realize I have to look
up
at the CIA agent.

Geez,
I think.
This guy has got to be another four inches taller than me…making him what, six-six?

“Good god man, you from Wisconsin?” I ask with a smirk.

“Montana actually. Why?”

I shrug, “No reason. So, what’s your story anyway?”

“I was blowing shit up for Uncle Sam for the last 12 years anyway I could do it. He wasn’t picky with my ways, just get the job done, that’s all that mattered. Got blown up and broke my back, after getting shot. Almost died…twice. It was a rough day. Nerve damage was bad enough that they said I was relieved of duty. Assholes. But, as you can see my talents were needed elsewhere.”

I thank the giant from Montana and turn, entering the room’s sparsely decorated bathroom. Toilet, sink and shower and nothing else. It’s ultra-basic, but it’s clean and it’s private. I look at myself in the mirror and wince again—not in pain—but in shock. I didn’t think I looked
this
bad.

The huge knot on my forehead is bad enough, so is the slight black eye I suffered. I also have a busted lip and there are cuts on my chin and neck to boot. I wiggle my nose and notice it isn’t broken.

“Well, that’s a miracle,” I whisper to myself. Between my face and the way my body is aching, I’m surprised I can even move.

I see something in the reflection of the mirror. There is a pile of clothes folded neatly on the tank of the toilet. I turn, picking up the clean clothes, looking them over and realize that they are all clothes I brought along. I’m about to call out into the room, but figure Kane had our bags brought to the hospital once we were identified. It really doesn’t matter how the luggage got here either way.

I slip out of my super stylish hospital gown—you know the one that has your butt cheeks permanently hanging out the back. I grab my red Coca-Cola shirt, but instead glance over at the shower and moan with ecstasy. This body could use a soak.

30 minutes later and feeling a little bit better I exit the bathroom. I’m now wearing a pair of Tony Hawk hybrid shorts. They are your basic shorts except made for heat. Its more-or-less the same material as a bathing suit, but still technically shorts. I also have on a worn, but very loved red Coca-Cola shirt. Not sure why I like it so much. It’s just really comfortable, I guess. And of course, my even-more-destroyed Tigers cap happily sits on my head.

“Took you long enough,” says a voice. “Thought you may have drowned in the can.”

I look over to see my dad and a smirking Kane going through his papers. Kane is sitting in the same chair, but has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He has two massive handguns holstered under each armpit and what looks like a brace on each wrist/forearm.

“What the hell are those?” I say pointing to the hand cannons.

“What, these?” He draws one of the behemoths, flips it around and hands it to me.

“Mark XIX .50 A.E. Desert Eagle,” he says. “Each magazine holds seven rounds of fifty caliber ammo.”

I just stare back at him blankly. He sees that I have no idea what he is talking about. “I’m a former baseball player turned lazy grave digger, and him…” I point to Dad. “He’s a book worm with two left feet.”

“Right…” He says, laughing. “Basically it’s one of the largest hand guns in the world and can take down a bear with one shot.” He smiles and winks.

“A bear?” I ask a little awestruck.

“A really big bear,” he says proudly.

“And those,” asks Dad. He points to the wrist and forearm combination he has on.

“Precautionary, just in case I ever have to fire both simultaneously.”

“Precaution for what,” I ask.

“So I don’t break my arms,” Kane says as a matter of fact.

“What?” Dad asks a little taken back.

“You can’t fire a Mark XIX with one hand. They kick so hard that you’ll snap your wrists. The various armed forces have developed these braces to absorb the torque and keep your arms in one piece.”

“Have you ever
had
to fire both at once?” I can’t help but ask.

“Once or twice,” he smiles with pride. “Thankfully, I’m ambidextrous and have good aim with both hands. 20/20 vision doesn’t hurt either.”

“Now you’re just bragging,” I give him a sly but impressed look and hand him back his miniature weapon of mass destruction.

“Yes sir, Chip and Dale have gotten me out of a few scrapes over the years.”             

I’m about to ask him why his guns are named after cartoon chipmunks, when he says something that gets both mine and Dad’s attention.

“What do you know about, the Three?”

13

The next morning we catch a quick connecting flight from Algiers to Djanet on what I assume to be a CIA funded private jet. It’s only 8:30AM local time and the temperature is already approaching a balmy 90 degrees. In the hour-and-a-half we have to kill while in the air, Kane fills us in with what Uncle Sam knows about the three ancient elders.

Kane pours us each a drink and sits across from my father and me, facing the two us. He sips his beverage and breathes a relaxed breath, the alcohol calming his tired nerves if only a little.

Neither of us slept well last night. We even stayed at a really cushy hotel that Kane had set up, but the events of the past day had everyone wired and now we’re paying for it. 

“First off,” the big guy says leaning back. “Everything I know is knowledge obtained through decades of research by some people who shall remain nameless. Some you know, others you don’t want to know and even others…well let’s just say you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Like who?” Dad asks.

I roll my eyes, “Dad, he just said—“

“Hitler,” Kane interrupts.             

“Wait…what?” I stammer. “I thought you said you couldn’t—”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you any others, but now you know what kind of people have been looking for information on the Three and the seriousness of this.”

Dad and I nod in agreement.

“Okay, let me start by saying that all of this is about power.”

“Power?” Dad asks.

“Yes, power. Power over the very elements of the Earth itself. There is supposedly knowledge or possibly a weapon of some kind that was left here by an ancient civilization. That populace, as I’m sure you have figured out, is supposedly Atlantis or at least another civilization that is responsible for the Atlantean myth.”

“You don’t believe its Atlantis?” Dad asks.

“I believe the facts or what I can see with my own eyes,” Kane answers. “But that doesn’t mean my mind can’t be changed.”

“What about the Three?” I ask.

“Right,” Kane says getting back on track. “The Three is the name given to the last three elders of this ancient—but obviously very advanced culture. They were said to be invincible, never aging or dying…ever. They are also supposed to be the great architects of the ancient city eventually known as Atlantis or Attala.”

“Attala?” Dad asks.

“Attala is what some of the local North African tribes call it,” he replies. 

“There was a
fourth
elder too, but he had a falling out—if you will—with his brothers. He didn’t want to use their special
talents
for constructive purposes.”

“What did he want?” I ask.

“We think he wanted unlimited power and dominion over every living thing on Earth, but we aren’t exactly sure.”

“Yikes,” I say.

“Yep, bad dude.”

“You said they were brothers, all four of them?” Dad asks.

“Yes, but we aren’t sure if they were actually lineal brothers or blood-brothers, like in a secret sect kind of way.”

“Wait a sec, back up Kane. How do you even know that there is anything there to begin with?” I ask. I understand the severity of the situation and that there are others looking for it besides us. The one thing I’m not quite sure of is…

“Have there been other expeditions to Algeria in the past,” I continue. “Maybe covert ones that only a select few know about?”

Kane straightens a little. That’s all I need to know. Yes there has.

“What happened on those other expeditions?” I ask.

“Expedition.”

“What?” I ask not understanding.

“Expedition. As in only
one
other mission was conducted in the area.”

“Why only one?” Dad asks.

“Because, the eight men who went in never came back, they literally just disappeared off the radar, like the sand just swallowed them up. They each had a GPS unit on them and they all failed. The brass back home just chalked up the loss to a huge sand storm that blew through the area around the time they arrived on location.”

“Just like the one that uncovered our dig,” Dad says staring blankly out the window of the plane.

“That’s what some of the egg-heads back home think too. They think your little site is the same entrance our team tried and failed to find. The difference between now and eight years ago is that we have better tech and better personnel involved.”

“How are we better equipped than special forces soldiers that died out here?” I ask.

“Those men were just that, soldiers. They weren’t versed in the science or history that is involved here. They see a target and engage. You guys are the most learned men alive in this field right now. Uncle Sam, along with some other very influential people, want you to succeed. They do not want Zero to acquire whatever waits for us beneath the sands of the Sahara.”

“Like our own potential deaths?” I ask.             

“If it comes to it, yes,” counters Kane.

“We aren’t soldiers!” I boom. I’m not angry at Kane, just the deadly situation we’ve been thrown into. We have no proper training, nor the want to put ourselves in the line of fire.

“All we are going to find out there in the burning desert is,” I point out my window, “sand…blood and sand.”