Arkadium Rising Read online

  ARKADIUM RISING

  Brother’s Keeper Book 1

  By

  Glen Krisch

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright © 2014 by Glen Krisch

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-940161-89-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-940161-90-7 (ebook)

  JournalStone rev. date: December 5, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art & Design: Cyrusfiction Productions

  Edited by: Aaron J. French

  For Benji

  "And the Lord God said: "Behold, that man is become as one of us, to know good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the Tree of Life, and eat, and live forever."

  —Genesis 3:22

  "I think that it would be good if a conscious effort was being made to get as many people as possible introduced to the wilderness."

  —Ted Kaczynski

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  1.

  Marcus Grant stood on the swollen banks of the Black Hawk River, watching the white chop churned by three weeks of spring rains disintegrate upon reaching the concrete and steel abomination that spanned its width a hundred yards downriver. He eased onto his haunches and flicked his fingers over the water's surface.

  It's a good day for the world to end.

  He had been tasked by the Arkadium with learning the history of this water, to know its every depth, twist and turn. The river originated from a natural spring hundreds of miles to the east at the border of Michigan and Indiana. For over a century, man had tamed and contorted its flow with unnatural levees and a series of three constricting dams. The river coursed through Indiana, crossed over into Illinois near Kankakee before bisecting the entire state. By the time its flow reached the Mississippi, it teemed with the effluence of several million industrialized people.

  "In the end, there is a beginning," he whispered, his fingers casting rippled waves from shore. Through his studies he learned to not only understand the water's pain, but to identify with it as well. The tiny waves broadened, becoming more linear as they gave their energy to the slurry barreling toward the turbines of the Black Hawk Dam. He imagined the waves not diminishing, but instead gaining momentum, picking up speed by the second until they crashed into the dam's machinations, crushing them under its mighty roar. The devastation from his imagined wave was similar to what would soon be unleashed by the Arkadium.

  The Arkadium's time had finally arrived. Waking from a long gestational slumber, rising from the silence that had kept them hidden in plain sight for millennia, ascending to their rightful place in the world. His contribution to the Arkadium's awakening would take place here, in sleepy Concord, Illinois. One small impact rippling outward, one small impact birthing larger and larger calamity until the sun rose and fell upon the damage meted out by his people.

  And then the world would begin again.

  Craig Miller called out from behind him. "Marcus?"

  He'd been drifting, dreaming of tomorrow. In the distance, he heard riotous birdsong, the clack of hammers repairing roofs damaged by the toll of a long winter, the perpetual buzz of lawnmowers, truck engines, and the cement factory a quarter mile upriver. What would endure? he wondered. What new sounds would fill the auditory void?

  "Hmm...?" he grunted, still transfixed by the water.

  "It's time. We're ready."

  Marcus stood, knees popping. His black buzz cut was in the process of growing out and had an awkward, haphazard look. His arms, once covered in tattoos spewing all manner of hatred, were now blacked out to the wrist. Clean of H since finding the Arkadium two years ago, his frame had regained the power of his youth: 6'4" without shoes, with a well-muscled wingspan longer than his height. Instead of being a gifted athlete growing up, he'd chosen a different path, one that included a progressively vicious and immoral trajectory, one that led to multiple arrests before he could legally vote.

  But that version of Marcus no longer existed. He now walked a different path. The only path. This new Marcus was respected, obeyed, and if need be, feared. He'd experienced similar regard in his former life, but those reactions had been built upon a foundation of violence. It was different now. His brain and leadership dictated how people reacted to him, not his muscle or short temper.

  He sighed, wondering what this shoreline would look like this time tomorrow. He turned away from the Black Hawk, the ripples cast by his fingers long since diminished but still spreading in ever more microscopic waves, still impacting everything they touched.

  "Let's get on with this," he said, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

  His most trusted followers, all upstanding members of the tiny hamlet of Concord, accompanied him on this symbolic trip to the river. They fanned out before him, wearing the clothes they always had on any other Tuesday morning. Suits and ties for the office, fresh-pressed blouses and khaki skirts for the classroom, workout gear for the gym.

  "Are you ready?" Craig Miller asked with a knowing smile. Craig and his wife, Mandy, were the first people he met when Adam had assigned him to the region. They'd helped him find housing and provided meals and friendly conversation during his first days here six months ago.

  "I've been ready my whole life," Marcus replied.

  The Millers had made Concord their home just after their honeymoon in 1975. Mandy was a retired school teacher, Craig, an architect for a prestigious firm in St. Louis. They moved here knowing this moment would be in their future. For their entire lives they had studied and waited in silence, knowing that at some point they would be standing among others of their kind along this bucolic stretch of shoreline, and that their actions would help bring about the end of industrial civilization.

  Craig Miller handed Marcus an object wrapped in oiled cloth.

  "Let this all end," Marcus said, and accepted the bundle.

  "And in the end, there is a beginning," Craig said in response before returning to his wife's side.

  Marcus unwrapped a crude, but effective, knife. Craig Miller had honed it himself, chipping the flint with a bulky hammerstone. The weapon's weight felt both good and reassuring in Marcus's hand. Miller was a faceless cubicle monkey in the old world, but after the Election, he would prove to be an invaluable asset. Besides being the best flintknapper for a thousand miles, he was also an expert in firecraft and the identification of native flora. Marcus looked upon his people, all with their own secret avocations and skills, and knew without question he had finally found his destiny.

  Austin Collins and Hector Sanchez, two men in their late twenties, stood near the three symbolic leaders of Concord: Mayor Bill Stauffer, Sheriff Howard Hubichek, and city planner, Margo Lipton. The three kneeled ten feet from the water's edge, their mouths gagged, their hands bound behind them. Marcus supposed their names were unimportant, but he liked learning the details of
things. Details had meaning, power.

  Marcus stepped into the river, the cold spring water creeping up his jeans.

  "Bring me Stauffer."

  Collins and Sanchez grabbed the mayor by the shoulders and forced him to the water's edge. The six-term leader of Concord was an old man, but it took all of the younger men's strength to get him into the water. Once the trio was knee-deep in the river, Collins kicked the mayor's legs out from under him. With his arms bound behind him, it became much easier.

  "Get the other two ready," Marcus said. "I want this to go quickly."

  Marcus gave Craig Miller a brief glance, then the spindly architect clamored into the water and took hold of Mayor Stauffer's shoulders. Panic filled Stauffer's pleading eyes. Though the gag muffled his cries, it also drowned out all of the surrounding din but for the morning birdsong. Marcus thought it was a good tradeoff, all things considered.

  Marcus didn't pray over Stauffer, or even speak to him. The mayor was a mere object, a figurehead of a former time. This wasn't about him, only what came after him.

  Marcus took the flint blade and raked it deep across Stauffer's exposed throat. Blood spurted into the air before Miller eased the dying man into the water. A crimson cloud trailed away from the writhing, sinking body.

  "Bring me Lipton," he said to Collins and Sanchez.

  The process repeated until the three leaders of Concord spilled their lifeblood to the wounded waters of the Black Hawk.

  "By this time tomorrow, this water will have no name, will no longer be bound to its current masters. Soon, it will flow freely, and in so doing, it will return to health. In its health we will find our own salvation."

  Marcus made his way for the river's steep bank. Collins and Sanchez stood waiting, their hands extended. They reached down and helped him out, his jeans dripping blood-tainted water.

  A few of his followers tossed white flower petals into the river. The flakes of pure white bobbed along the surface, pulled along by the blood-stained current, disappearing in the distance, eventually swallowed by the gaping maws at the peak of the dam.

  "Time to get started, folks. Our life's work is about to begin," Marcus said, his excitement for once reflected in his voice.

  The longtime residents of Concord disbursed at his word, following tasks that would soon set them all free of modern civilization. Car doors slammed, engines turned over, and the group filed away in tight formation.

  Marcus watched the river long after his followers set about their duties. Brief glints of white-painted facades lurked in the wooded hills surrounding the river: rich people's homes untouched by the rank water below and separated from the working class toiling at their feet. The woods grew to the shoreline. And below the dam, a scrub flatland extended to the hills; this tranquil valley acted as both the millennial floodplain bent to the will of man, as well as the location for Concord's suburban stock homes and local business district.

  Marcus walked slowly toward the dam and looked over the edge to the valley below. The weakened river flowed behind blocks of still sleepy homes housing the working class, their small dreams and unquenched souls. This land would soon return to its historic construct, to be reinvented at nature's whim.

  He had been searching his entire life for a deeper meaning than the promise of his ordinary upbringing. He'd followed many paths, most of which led to destruction and self-ruin. But now, as a member of the Arkadium, he had discovered a desire bordering on lust that filled an emptiness that nothing else in his experiences had ever come close to filling.

  Marcus rewrapped the flintknapped knife in the oiled cloth. He retraced his steps to his Chevy pickup and stowed the knife in the glove compartment. After starting the truck, he punched the accelerator, the Chevy's oversized tires following the river road down an S-curve that quickly brought him level with the floodplain. The homes of Concord spread out before him. The world was about to end. And begin again.

  2.

  Jason sat shirtless and sweating in his parents' concrete driveway, motor grease worked under his fingernails, the knees of his pants covered in grass stains. He hadn't gotten more than two passes across the front yard before the lawnmower bit into a tree root, bending the blade almost ninety degrees from true. Now, with the mower overturned, the bent blade pointed at him like an accusing finger. Fuck you, too, he thought.

  The bolt holding down the lawnmower blade wouldn't turn even after soaking it with an entire can of Rust-EEZ. Jason had been dickering around with it for over an hour. Leave it to his dad to think it was okay to store the mower outside all winter to make room for the tandem bike he'd bought the previous fall.

  His parents played the opposite roles of typical couples, especially couples who were newly married in 1972. His dad had always been the one driven by emotion, and he spent a good amount of his energy seeking out activities to pull the family closer together. Camping, antique collecting, book clubs—one activity led to the next in an endless stream. His mother, on the other hand, was cold, distant, enervating. On weeknights, she was a four-beer drunk after coming home from her job as an office manager. Even with a good buzz going, her mood remained in the narrow spectrum between heartless and indifferent. The tandem bike was just one more attempt by his father to bring the two of them closer. Jason couldn't think of a more literal example.

  After watching the to and fro of his parents' relationship over the years, Jason would put good money on the bike never leaving the garage. June Grant on a tandem bike? When hell freezes over.

  He made up his mind. One more go at it, then he was throwing in the towel. His dad would just have to take the thing in for service or buy a new one. And as long as he had his dad's attention, he would resign his post as his parents' errand boy. He didn't mind returning home every once in a while to help around the house, but a local teen could keep up the yard just as well and enjoy making a few bucks in the process. Besides, Jason was busy at the St. Louis Times. His Wednesday deadline loomed and he had no real inspiration for this week's column.

  "Okay, mower, it's you or me." Jason snatched the wrench from where he'd chucked it and attacked the bolt. "Come... on... you... piece of..." He grunted, putting his weight into it, his feet propped against the mower's housing, his back arching, his shoulders straining. "Shit!"

  He felt the bolt move, or maybe even strip. At this point he didn't care, just so long as something fucking moved.

  "Need a hand?" a woman's voice called out.

  Jason looked toward the street, still fighting the bolt, and saw a petite girl leaning against the gnarled maple near the curb.

  "Thanks, but I think I finally got it—"

  He lost his grip on the wrench and his right hand slammed against the offending blade. Pain laced across the meat of his palm and he fell back, clutching it to himself.

  "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that!"

  Blood pooled in his palm and trickled down his wrist, but he couldn't take his eyes off the girl as she hurried toward him. Not before he figured out how he knew her.

  She wore a light-weight gray hoodie over a black tank top, black leggings and toeless flats. Her toes were painted bright red. As were her lips. Those full lips.

  Of course, he realized, still caught off balance. "Delaney?"

  "Wow, look at you." She stood five feet away with her hands on her hips and gave him a once over. "I think I might've chosen the wrong brother."

  He looked down at himself. Smudged with oil and dripping sweat. He couldn't help smiling.

  Always beautiful, Delaney Innsberg no longer seemed to be trying to hide the fact. She no longer dressed like a goth chick. No longer sickly pale, her skin glowed with a spring break tan. Her dark hair billowed around her shoulders in a gust of humid wind. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and looked at him expectantly. Jason's heart beat a little quicker.

  "I dirty up pretty good, huh?" He laughed, grabbed his shirt, and draped it over his shoulder. He would've pulled it on, but he didn't
want to get blood on it.

  "Jason Grant, you didn't recognize me, did you?"

  "It's your hair. It's no longer purple. Or pink. Or spiked, or shaved."

  "And you're bleeding." She kneeled next to him and took hold of his hand, inspecting the wound. She smelled like spring rain and vanilla.

  "I guess I am." The bleeding had slowed. The gash opened a little as she inspected it, but he didn't think he needed stitches.

  "All because of me." Even feeling guilty, she had a sensuality about her. It was her mouth. The tilt of her head.

  "Don't worry. Me, working with tools? It was bound to happen. There was going to be blood, it was just a matter of when."

  "Let's get you cleaned up." Delaney stood and grabbed him by the arm to help him to his feet. Her hand lingered on his bicep a second longer than needed.

  As they stood in his parents' driveway, an awkward silence grew between them. He realized why he hadn't recognized her at first. It wasn't just her hair color, her tan, or the conservative style of dress. Her eyes were alive. She didn't look sickly. Delaney was clean.

  "Shall we?" He motioned toward the house.

  She followed him through the open garage and into the bathroom next to the kitchen. Jason held his hand under the cold tap while Delaney checked the medicine cabinet for first aid supplies.

  "Here we go." Delaney found some gauze, alcohol wipes and medical tape. "Let's see the damage."

  He turned off the tap and shook the water from his hand.

  Delaney brought his hand close to her face so that she reminded him of a fortuneteller.

  "So what does my future hold?"

  "You'll live a long life if you make the right decisions." She opened the package of gauze and set it aside.