Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy (33 page)

“Bye, my Baby-face,” I managed to say, although I doubt it had been aloud.

Her fingers trailed away as she whispered a departing, “I love you, Daddy.”

Then they were gone.

But something else entered the room in their stead, looming over me as I gazed up at it in a silent horror.

It was Gabriel, his pale features hanging over me like a nightmarish moon; I lay helpless beneath the immense craters that were the black voids of his eyes.

“And this, I’m afraid, is where it ends,” he said to me.

Then, quite suddenly, all became calm and still. The darkness around me grew darker as my thoughts settled there, coming to rest on Alice and our baby, wondering if they would be okay without me. Then even that thought was gone, swept away by the thickening fog that filled my lungs and parted my final fear.

My chest felt heavy.

Yet there was no panic.

There was actually peace.

At last, I had found peace.

A
woken abruptly, I found myself underwater, which triggered an instinctive panic. I tried to claw my way up to the surface. But as my hands met a hard cover, I discovered I was at the center of a small containment, with no gap for air below its flat surface. The water filled the space entirely. It wasn’t until I discovered a thick tube dangling from my mouth, leading upward, that I realized I was already breathing. The blueish liquid around me began to drain away a moment later, and the capsule’s wall opened wide.

Beyond the opening, I discovered myself on that alien craft once again, inside another one of the surgery rooms. I peeled the breathing apparatus off my face and found my skin to be lined with a gelatinous substance. I scraped the gel away, pulling it free in thick and slimy globs which dropped to the floor by my feet. They made a sickening pile, like a mound of dead jellyfish.

With the last of that substance discarded, I straightened my back. I felt strong, stronger than I’d felt when I’d awoken there before. My muscles felt tight across my body as I became instantly aware of every taut strand of sinew. I stretched briefly, discovering the normal pains I’d acquired throughout my life had vanished.

I felt brand new.

“How do you feel?” I heard a voice say.

I turned to find Mohammad there, leaning up against the capsule from which I’d just emerged.

“Good,” I said, standing tall and clenching my fists.

Mohammad smiled softly, then began to laugh.

I laughed with him.

“He cured me,” I said. “All that talk about rules and code, and he cured me.”

Mohammad continued to smile. “I’m sorry you had to wake up in the tank.” He shoved a thumb toward the containment. “I know it can be a little disorienting.” He threw a towel at me and pointed to an assortment of clothes folded at the foot of the center operating chair. They were made from more of that beige, alien material. “You should get dressed,” he said. “I’m sure Alice would like to see you.”

I dried off and pulled on the light garments. “Was this some kind of test?” I asked.

“No test,” Mohammad shook his head. “Gabriel has always been impressed with you.”

A door slid open and I discovered I was in the exact room in which I’d awoken previously. I followed Mohammad into the same hallway, but found no Alice waiting there for me.

“Where’s Alice?” I asked.

“At the cavern,” Mohammad pointed down through the window, “taking care of Hope.” We entered that large, circular room and came up to the wall-sized molecular-door. “Let’s get you home then,” Mohammad smiled.

We stepped through and I found myself beneath the crimson of a collapsing sun, standing in the middle of the junkyard. I shielded my eyes from the evening’s light as I squinted at Mohammad.

“Why are we here?”

Mohammad said nothing, simply extended his hand, motioning for me to continue. It was then that I heard the squeelings of an infant as the sounds of Hope rang off the various metal skeletons about the place. I turned in the direction of her cry, hearing Alice’s quiet request for her to be silent, and found her kneeling, facing away from me, as she bounced our baby in her arms.

“Shhhh,” she tried to sooth the infant. “It’s okay.”

I was eager to see her, eager to take Hope into my arms again, and show Alice that her guardian had returned, better than ever. But beyond my excitement, beyond the urge to hold them both, something struck me as odd. I’d never seen Alice looking the way that she did. Something was off.

I turned to look at Mohammad, but discovered the Fijian had already gone. I turned back to Alice and took a step closer.

“I told you I don’t need your help,” she said without looking back. “Just leave us alone, Mohammad.”

“Alice?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

She spun at the sound of my voice, nearly falling over at the sight of me. I could see then that she had been crying, her face still moist and puffy below the redness of her eyes.

“No,” she said, holding out her hand. “Stay away!” She began to sob. “You stay away!”

“Alice, what’s the matter?” I approached her. “It’s me.”

“No!” She held Hope close to her chest, taking a step backward.

I could see then what she had been kneeling over. It was a slightly risen mound of freshly-stirred soil, a mound located directly beside the graves of my wife and daughter, its own metallic tombstone protruding up from its earthly edge; on it had been carved a name.

It’s now that I’m reminded of a sermon I’d once heard while I was still a young man. The reverend spent the allotted hour speaking of Lazarus, the story of a man who’d been raised from the dead; but it was something that the reverend shared with us that had struck me as extremely profound. In one of the many literary extensions of the Bible, Lazarus is asked what he’d found on the other side of death, to which Lazarus answers, “There is only life.”

Miles Stone

Beloved father

Beloved friend

“You’re dead, Miles,” Alice said slowly, her words thick and viscous as they manifested themselves into a lucid reality. She pointed toward the tussled earth. “I buried you.”

I looked down at my own tombstone, placed beside the wooden crosses belonging to my wife and daughter, trying to come to terms with the fact that I, like Mohammad, was now dead; that the body I’d always known was beneath the ground; that my soul had parted.

So what am I now?

A curious sensation it is, surreal in fact, to find yourself beginning to mourn your own demise; yet, it was a feeling that was short-lived, replaced by a stubborn sort of turmoil.

I’m not dead. ... I’m here. ... I’m breathing.

A butterfly does not mourn the passing of its former caterpillar, nor a snake the shedding of its former skin.

“I’m here, Alice,” I told her, extending my open arms.

She hesitated for just a moment, then rushed to me, burying her face deep within my chest, where she allowed me to hold both her and our baby tight.

“Your heart,” she started to speak through streaming tears. “Your heart ... sounds different.”

And so it did.

The world was different.

My senses were heightened with this sudden knowledge, molding my surroundings into something more accessible. I’d become distinctly aware of certain details that had once eluded me, venturing head-first into aspects of which my former mind had not been capable. I’d been plunged into the vivid world that only Alice had previously known. It was then that I received my first taste of the Eden she’d spoken so passionately of, the one that had remained concealed from my distant, human eyes.

And there, holding Hope and Alice beneath the colorful swelling of that setting sun, is where my story finally begins.

O
ne of the many pleasures of writing this story was adding all the little “Easter eggs” for people to find. Of course, I’ve referred to Lewis Carroll’s
Alice in Wonderland,
the magical story from which Alice (both literally and figuratively) earns her name. Dynah was the name of Alice’s cat in that story as well.

Miles recollects lines from the children’s storybook,
The Gruffalo,
a fantastic tale from Julia Donaldson; and a scene from the beloved classic,
Where the Wild Things
Are, brought to life through the mind and hands of Maurice Sendak. There are also multiple nods to George Lucas’
Star Wars
universe: for instance, a Hans Solo in carbonite T-shirt; and a quote from the great Alec Guinness. There is also a brief mention of Gene Roddenberry’s
Star Trek.

There are plenty of not-so-obvious religious references as well: Gabriel (the angel that informed Mary she’d be giving birth to the Son of God), Mohammad (after the Muslim prophet Muhammad), Timothy (after the young traveling companion of Paul), Saint John (after John the Apostle), Zeke (short for Ezekiel, who envisioned a valley of old, dry bones come back to life).

The rules behind Isaac Asimov’s
I, Robot
(my father was a huge fan) and Mary Shelly’s
Frankenstein
, the book Zeke read countless times (the Monster symbol placed on its chest was geared not toward its affinity for the energy drink, but rather that stitched, bolted, sad, and fictitious creature). The famous fifteenth century artist, inventor, and creator of the
Codex Atlanticus
is Leonardo da Vinci, and the popular social networking site (through which spun the ghost of Miles’ daughter) is meant to represent Facebook.

Alice’s Hellburner is named after the fireships used during the siege of Antwerp in 1584.

The Wraith is taken from the Scottish word for ghost or spirit.

COEXIST bumper stickers—we’ve all seen them.

Scrapman was taken from Bob Kane’s Batman, my favorite childhood superhero.

These pages are also riddled with Greek mythology. I find the stories fascinating, laced with timeless messages, and have enjoyed twining a few into the plot.

And finally, those three (very real) gorgeous statues found outside Milpitas City Hall in California—my thanks to the talented woman who created them, Carla Moss. May they forever represent the child that dwells in each of us.