The Omega Project (20 page)

Before the next surge could reach me I started off, limping across a barren white plain littered with decaying fish and empty crustacean shells.

*   *   *

Hours passed, the pounding ocean fading to a distant thunder. The fear of the advancing tide was replaced by annoying swarms of flies and a growing fishy stench.

About the time the midday sun began its westerly descent, I came upon the first burrow, the hole’s opening as wide as a manhole cover. I peered over the edge to gauge its depths, but the shaft angled away after the first forty feet. Deciding I wanted nothing to do with yet another imaginary creature, I continued on.

The flies became swirling black clouds. Removing the vinyl hood, I fashioned eyeholes and covered my face with the mask. I swatted insects from my wrapped wounds and wiped at the sweat that was dripping into my eyes.

Bleached bones littered the plain. The burrows increased in number, their occupants remaining out of sight.

My mind wandered.

Suppose the impossible. Assume for a moment I’m not frozen. What kind of cataclysm could have melted the Antarctic ice sheet? Climate change? Polar shift?

Wait, what if that asteroid struck the South Pole? That might explain the lack of ice, but what about these creatures? For species like this to evolve … we’re talking tens of thousands, maybe millions of years. There’s no way I could I have remained frozen that long … is there?

What about Andria? The others? What happened to them? Could they still be frozen?

What could have caused GOLEM to fail? Could a celestial impact have shut down the computer? Could it have been sabotaged?

Walking with my head down, I didn’t see the creature until I was nearly upon it.

Partially buried in the sand, I had mistaken it from afar as a dune. Now, as I circled the monstrosity, inspecting the beached animal’s lifeless tentacles, I estimated the squid’s carcass to be in excess of one hundred and fifty feet, its weight topping sixty tons when wet.

The giant cephalopod had not been wet for some time, its rotting remains shriveling flat in the hot sun. The stench was overpowering, attracting swarms of flies that kept me from examining the animal more closely, but from what I could see, there were neither wounds nor indicators of disease. Either the mammoth sea creature had been caught in a wave and was beached, or it had died at sea and was left onshore with the last high tide.

Could the tide wash up this far inland?
The thought gave me pause. Using the binoculars, I turned my attention back to the ocean.

“Aw, hell.”

Despite having trekked a good five miles over the last few hours, I remained only a few hundred yards from the relentless tide’s waterline, which was flooding the burrows, inviting the inhabitants to venture forth. As the sea again receded, powder-blue crabs emerged from their holes, each crustacean as large as a Honda Civic.

Securing the binoculars inside a zippered pocket, I set off on a jog.

It took several minutes to distance myself from the clouds of flies swarming around the deceased colossus. Once clear, I set a steady pace. Looming ahead was a horizon of basalt rock—a near vertical cliff face towering two thousand feet—almost twice the height of the mountain Andria and I had climbed back in Virginia. My throat was parched and my feet sore, but I ignored the pain and continued on, concerned about the lateness of the day. The cliffs reinforced my fear that the tidal surge would soon span the entire beach, and I refused to stop until I had reached the first boulder that marked the rise.

Thirty minutes later, I collapsed at the foot of the cliffs, the base of which was piled with boulders, each roundish hunk of rock ten to twenty feet in circumference, angled along the lower third of the rise like a natural barrier. There were clumps of seaweed and dead fish strewn between the rocks—evidence that the ocean would indeed reach this far inland at high tide.

The next question—how high would the tide rise?

I gazed up at the rock face. The thought of the climb was unnerving.
If I fell and died in this dream, would I emerge in another?

The sun at my back broke gold beneath the horizon’s ceiling of clouds, its descent over the ocean offering me its western bearing and a basic time frame before I’d lose the light. A noticeable chill accompanied the late afternoon.

Cold, thirsty, hungry, exhausted, and still very much in pain, I hoisted myself atop one of the smaller boulders to begin the climb, fearing the tidal surge more than a potential fall.

At first the going was easy as I was able to move steadily from one rock to the next, the cold touch of stone soothing my battered feet. But the angle of ascent grew steeper, and before long I had gone as far as I could, reaching the uppermost layer of rocks at what I estimated was a good four hundred feet above sea level—a height that surpassed the highest wave I had seen.

Trembling from exhaustion and the cold, I settled myself on a flat portion of basalt, then aimed the binoculars at the spectacular golden sunset.

As I watched, the orange-red ball of fire disappeared behind a dark wall of water that easily towered five hundred feet. The monster crashed silently as it exploded into white water, its thunderous
clap
reaching me seconds before the earth trembled beneath the rocks. Racing inland like a seventy-foot tsunami, the tidal surge quickly devoured miles of beach, scattering winged creatures until it sizzled over the cliff’s first line of boulders before it died out.

There was no choice. Trapped, I would have to reach the summit.

A cold wind whipped at my bandages as I studied the remaining twelve to fifteen hundred feet of vertical gray slab. I was attempting to map out a route that would funnel me along a series of deep crevasses—all leading to whatever awaited me at the top. Selecting my first rest stop—a slanted lip of slate twenty stories straight up—my heart started racing as I mentally committed to the climb.

Exhaling slowly, I began—but the first two steps sent me in full retreat back to the boulder, the pain of my sore bare feet pressing against the stone too much to overcome. Peeling the blood-soaked rags from my shoulders, I wrapped my toes and instep with the cloth, hoping the padding would provide at least a minimum of protection.

Once more I reached for a crack in the slab, pulling myself off the boulder onto a ledge so narrow I could barely wedge the blade of my right foot upon it. Determining the pain to be tolerable, I reached higher, my right hand groping for a surface I could grip.

Forty feet up and my muscles were already trembling. I panted for breath, each inhalation feeling colder than the last in the dying light. The horizon at my back bled red, yet I dared not take my eyes off the rock crystals glittering inches from my face. Moving from one handhold to the next, I felt constantly off balance, a violent sneeze or an itch away from losing my grip on the wall.

It was nearly dusk by the time I reached that first rest spot, a slight overhang that afforded me a three-inch-wide ledge and a gap between slabs to jam my right arm into. Momentarily secure, I turned to steal a glimpse at the horizon.

The sky was tinged crimson violet. The beach was gone, submerged between an onslaught of sea, powered by fifty-story waves now breaking less than a mile away.

“Vanilla … ah, fuck it.” Whether I was asleep or not, it no longer mattered. To my brain, my nerve centers, and muscles—everything in this bizarre world, including the pain, was real.

If I fell, it was going to hurt.

The night announced its presence with a muscle-stiffening chill. With my reserves all but gone, I seriously contemplated remaining on the ledge until dawn. Violating my former fiancée’s cardinal rule, I looked down and saw the tidal surge already breaching the upper layer of boulders.

Stay here, and you’ll be underwater within the hour.

Shaking from the cold, I recalled the sight of Dharma lying outstretched on the ice. If a small Chinese-Indian woman could handle the Antarctic cold, I could certainly handle this.

Refocusing on my breathing, I imagined each inhalation fueling an internal furnace.

Reaching up, I located an unseen ledge and continued my assault on the summit, still some eight hundred feet above my head.

“Beautiful night,” I grunted aloud, attempting to distract any thoughts of falling. “Balmy ocean breeze. Surf … thundering gently … in the distance. Beats the piss out of Antarctica.
Uhh
 … Of course … technically … this is Antarctic …
ugh, aw, shit.
Gonna need … a manicure. Moonlight would … be nice. Wish … I had … some tunes. Rolling Stones.
Easy. Breathe slow
. I can’t get no satisfaction … but I tried—”

Three-quarters of the way up the cliff face, two hundred feet above the crashing waves, I stretched blindly overhead with my left hand—and lost my balance!

Tumbling sideways, I frantically slapped my palms across the rock face, miraculously catching the sharp rounded surface of a tree root with my right hand. Gripping the dried-out offshoot, I dangled briefly by one arm until my feet relocated their perch.

Easy. You’re okay, you’re okay … just breathe … nice and slow. Tree roots mean I’m getting close. Just need a short rest.

Regripping the root with my left hand, I gently opened and closed the fingers of my sore right hand, the joints curled, the digits painful and stiff. After a minute I switched hands, then, using the root, pulled myself higher, my eyes catching a tapestry of stars overhead.

Maybe a hundred yards. Might as well be a hundred light-years.

Eyes tearing, I set off again, grunting lyrics to one of my favorite oldies. “Sun … turnin’ ’round … with … graceful … motion . Bound for … a star … fiery oceans. It’s so …
ugh,
very lonely … you’re a hundred … light-years from home …

“Ow!”

Climbing in near-pitch darkness, the top of my head smashed painfully into a ceiling of rock. Dizzy, I looked up, my nerve daunted as my dirt-crusted eyes inspected the overhang—a five-foot curl of rock blocking my ascension.

Frustrated and full of anger, I yelled into the night, “Is this really necessary, God?”

The overhang was similar to what Andie and I had faced back in Virginia. To climb over it, I had to dangle by a handhold, blindly working my feet and legs up and over the edge.

“Embrace the fear, Ike. Use it to focus your strength.”

A blast of cold wind forced me into action. Leaning out from my perch as far as I dared, I felt along the underside of the overhang with my left hand for something I could grip.

Nothing but smooth rock. Wait …
My fingertips probed a two-inch-deep crevice.

It would be a ballbuster—worse than Virginia. Once I committed to the move, there was no turning back. I would be dangling by my fingertips while my free hand searched blindly for a second handhold.

At best, I figured I had twenty seconds.

Trembling more from fear than physical exhaustion, too tired to care anymore if I lived or died, I reached out once more from my perch and jammed the fingers of my left hand as far as I could into the groove above my head, my palm facing me—then I stepped away from the cliff face with my left foot, then my right.

The pain was excruciating. Dangling by my fingers, my body shook as a searing white-hot spasm burnt through my left arm and wounded shoulder even as my right hand blindly probed the curl of rock above my head—finding only a smooth, unblemished surface!

I panicked. My fingers began to slip. Unable to locate a second handhold, I had no other choice but to let go, plunge into the surf, and try again—assuming I could survive the fall and find a perch on the cliff face before the ocean dragged me back into its vortex.

I could not see the wave, but I could feel its approach—a deep rumble reverberating from the base of the mountain into my bones.

The thought of being engulfed by the monstrous swell reengaged my adrenal glands. Gripping my left wrist with my right hand, I executed a one-armed pull-up, then flipped upside-down so that my feet were walking on the ceiling of slate. As the stone sliced deep into my fingers, I maneuvered my right leg above the overhang, my bloodied toes inching their way higher along the smooth surface until my heel scraped against a root!

Pressing hard against the root with my right leg, using it as a fulcrum, I snaked my right hand down my left arm and across my groin to my right leg, shifting my weight as I followed my quad muscles up to my knee, calf, my ankle … and finally the root.

Gripping the precious limb, I pulled my gnarled, swollen fingers free of the crevice, grabbed the root with my left hand, and swung my left leg up and over the rounded edge of the overhang, pushing, squirming, fighting to inch my quivering body onto the summit.

And then I was over—just in time to feel the incoming wave barrel into the cliff a hundred feet below, exploding upward in a geyser of foam.

I didn’t care. Stretched out on my back, I stared at a velvet-black tapestry of starlit sky. My fingers and toes were raw and swollen, and every inch of my body hurt, but I was here—wherever here was—and with the sense of satisfaction that I had transcended all physical hardship. Unable to move, I celebrated my victory over the day with an exhausted grin … just as I had with Andie years ago as together we watched the sunrise atop the summit of Buzzard’s Rock.

And suddenly, incredibly the sun
was
rising—its golden-yellow face peeking over the violent western horizon. Only it was not the sun, it was the moon and it was enormous.

I sat up, mesmerized by the luminous orange sphere. For a brief moment it disappeared behind a cresting swell, its lunar light casting the dark wall of water turquoise before it reappeared above the crashing wave.

Rising higher, the moon shed its orange tint, its reflection paling over the servant ocean, which rose to Himalayan heights to greet it.

And now a shadow appeared on the lunar surface—the Earth’s shadow—the brief eclipse exposing the pattern of the moon’s altered orbit as elliptical—a radical change that must have resulted in its unfathomable proximity—perhaps a third of its former distance.