Bloodline (The Forgotten Origins Trilogy) (6 page)

I slide into my first period English seat just as the final bell rings.  At the head of the class our Principle, Mr. Sailor, isn’t looking good at all.  He’s written on the board that our regular teacher is out sick.

“Okay everyone, quiet down!” Glaring sternly at those of us in class, he coughs into the crook of his arm.  “I’ll be teaching class today.  I know things are a bit…chaotic, but let’s try and stick with the schedule as best we can.  There are several substitutes here so I expect you to be on your best…” coughing again, this time more violently, he halfway stumbles over to the desk in the corner and sits down.

A chiming over the PA system signals the morning announcements.  We sit through the regular chatter, say the pledge of allegiance and then fill Mr. Sailor in on where we left off Friday.

While reading the next chapter in the currently assigned, typical classic novel, I take the opportunity to look around the room.  Close to half of the normally full seats are empty, and of the kids that are here, it looks like a lot of them are in various stages of this flu.  I wish once more that I had a mask.

The rest of my morning classes are much the same.  Two out of the four teachers are gone, and one of the remaining ones is obviously sick.  There are lots of questions as to why we’re even bothering with school,
but no one has the answers. 

At lunch time, I get my food and then try to sneak out to the courtyard and as far away from everyone else as possible.  Nearly to my goal, I spot Chris walking up quickly to me.

“Alex!” he calls out, even though we’ve already made eye contact.  “Why don’t you come sit with me?”  Unsure for a moment, I decide there’s really no point to evasion anymore.  I am surrounded by this virus, probably literally covered in it.  If I’m going to get it, there isn’t anything I can do about it now.   I follow him back to a nearby table and take a seat.

There are only two other kids eating with us, neither of them friends of mine.  Chris tells me their names, but I quickly forget them.  I just want to talk with him about my Dads book, having come to the conclusion that he may be the only person here I can
confide in.

Eating slowly, I try to pay attention to the small talk around the table,  smiling and nodding at what I think may be the right times.  I don’t really hear any of if though.
The constant noise that’s always in this room fills my head, and the smell I have come to lovingly think of as the ‘cafeteria funk’ assaults me.  I can’t take it anymore.  I have to get outside.

Chris has stopped talking and is staring at me.  I must not look well, because he seems concerned.  Dropping what remains of my sandwich, I stand up and nearly fall backwards over the seat.  “I have to get outside,” I tell him, walking blindly towards where I think the exit is.

I’m aware of his hand on my elbow, and I’m grateful for his help in finding the door.  I haven’t had an attack of claustrophobia in years, but I suffered through it long enough to recognize the symptoms.

Trying to slow down my breathing, I sit on the bench outside in the sunshine that Chris leads me to.  Once out in the open, I immediately begin to feel better and embarrassment takes it place.  “I’m sorry,” I say to him sheepishly.  “I haven’t had that happen in a long time.”

“Sorry for what?”  Looking at him, it’s clear that he’s serious.    When I don’t answer, he moves his hand from my elbow to my shoulder.  “Are you okay now?  Your color is much better.”

“I’m fine. I just needed to get out of there.”  I
look at the trees, the sidewalk and the other kids…anything but him.

“Alex,” he insists, not giving up.

Finally, I meet his gaze and then find that I can’t look away.  I’m surprised by what I see there.  “I used to get claustrophobic,” I explain.  “But I thought I was over it.  Really, I’m okay now.  Thank you.”

Satisfied, he leans back, crossing his arms.  “How is your mom today?  Any better?”

Forcing myself to look away, I star down at my hands in my lap.  “I…guess she’s doing better.”

“You guess?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain.  Her flu symptoms are starting to go away, but…she doesn’t seem like herself.  I…”

“What?”  He seems genuinely concerned, so I tell him what’s on my mind.

“After Dad died, she suffered from depression for awhile and had to take some medicine for it.  She’s been off that for over a year.  The way she was back then…sorta like not caring about anything?  That’s how she seems now, but not exactly.”  Frustrated at my lack of ability to explain my feelings, I jump right into what I really want to discuss; “What do you think about dreams?”

Blinking at me, trying to keep up with my train of thought, he raises his eyebrows questioningly.  “Dreams?  What about them?”

“Do you think that, I mean… that it’s possible to get a
message
in your dream?”  I’m not sure if he understands me, because he sits there staring at me for what seems like forever.

“There are many, many Native American stories and beliefs that surround dreams.  You’ve seen dream catchers?”  I nod in response.  “That’s one example.  But it is part of our culture to interpret and listen to what our dreams tell us.  As a Christian, I believe that God may use our dreams as one way to speak to us.”

This surprises me.  That wasn’t what I expected to hear.  “Really?”

“Oh yeah, it’s very scriptural.  I did some research on that due to my cultural background and found that among several other ways God may choose, dreams are a very common one.  I think its Job 33….um, maybe verse 13 or 14 that says: ‘For God does speak – now one way or another – though no one perceives it.  In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on people as they slumber in their beds.’  I’ve always liked that verse.”

“Wow.  That’s pretty cool,” I admit.  “I never knew that kind of stuff was in the Bible.”

Laughing, he smiles broadly.  “Oh there are all kinds of stuff like that.  You just have to read it.  I’ve done a lot of that lately, in preparation for my mission trip I’m going on after graduation.  What I’ve read amazes me.  It all makes so much sense.  But why the dream questions?”

Kicking at a piece of dirt that has suddenly become very interesting, I struggle with how to explain it.  “What about someone other than God?  Like, maybe an angel or a person that died?” 

“God uses Angels in all sorts of ways, giving messages is one of them.  As to an actual person that’s died
, I don’t know.  I think there has always been debate about that among Christians.  I certainly believe it’s possible though.  Who’s better to serve as your guardian angel than a loved one?  Like your dad.”

I look at him, grinning at my own transparency.  Okay, I need to just jump into this.  I look at the clock on the outside wall; only fifteen minutes until class.  I’ll have to hurry.

“I need to tell you a little about my dad first, if any of this has a chance of making sense.”  He nods at me patiently. “Okay, so he was the first in his family to
not
be raised in Egypt.  He comes from a very long bloodline of respectable Egyptians.  I think it traces back to some king, actually, thousands of years ago. They visited there a lot when Dad was younger so he saw and learned about Egypt; but he never lived there.  He majored in History and was a professor for awhile, and he was always studying ancient Egypt.”  Looking sideways at Chris, I see I have his full attention and I’m encouraged to continue.

“Mom and Dad went to Egypt two summers ago for their Anniversary.  It was a surprise trip that Dad planned out of the blue.  You already know he was killed there.  Well, I found this old book Saturday left out in his office and Mom told me yesterday that as he was dying, he told her to give it to me
after
the meteor shower.”

“Well that’s really weird,” Chris says, looking at me very curiously now.

“I know.  He had talked a lot about the Holocene shower before, because astronomy was another thing he loved.  But I have no idea why it would be so important.  Mom said the book was in his bag during the trip, which means he had it there with them in Egypt.  It doesn’t make any sense.  I can’t wrap my brain around it.”

“What was in the book?”

Looking away from him, I find the dirt clod again.  “I wasn’t sure at first.  It’s in Latin.  Last night I did some searching on-line and figured out it was titled ‘Ancient Egypt History’ which didn’t surprise me.  There were some hieroglyphics in the text and stuff.  Other than that, there were just a bunch of notes my dad wrote all over it, but nothing that means anything to me.  Then, last night I had a dream.”

Brave
ly, I meet his eyes now, hoping that he won’t think I’m crazy.  I tell him about it; all of it.  Even the whispers in the woods I heard on Saturday, because for some reason I think it’s all related.  I finish by explaining how I found the penciled words in the book and what it spelled out.  Taking the folded sheet of paper from my pocket, I hand it to him and then sit back to wait for a response.

Chris stares intently at the piece of paper in his hand, brows furrowed.  He even turns it over to make sure there isn’t anything on the other side.  Finally, after what seems like forever, he raises his eyes and meets my own.  “I guess we need to figure out where this vulture wants you to go.”

A flood of relief washes over me and without thinking, reach out and hug him.  Not one of those nice little A-frame hugs either, but a full out bear hug that almost knocks him off the bench.

Laughing, he steadies himself and I qu
ickly pull away.  “I’m sorry!” I gasp, embarrassed.  “I’ve felt so alone these past couple of days and I haven’t known what to do.  Thank you for helping me.”

“That’s what friends do, Alex.  I think we need to stick together right now.  I’ve been feeling that there is something more going on than appears.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there.  That you’re dad seemed to
know
something unusual would happen after the meteor shower and is apparently now trying to communicate with you about it…well, we need to learn what it is.”

Warmed by his offer of friendship and encouraged to have someone to talk to, I feel much better. Looking quickly at the clock, I see that there’s only a couple of more minutes left of lunch.  The cafeteria is emptying out as kids march past us on their way to fifth period.  “What now?”

“Tonight, you need to rack your brain and try to figure out what he means by that vulture.  It seems like the word
hollow
is an important clue.  Make out a list of possibilities…anything at all.”

“Do you t
hink they’ll call off school?” I ask, disappointed to have to wait until tomorrow.

“Definitely.
I work in the office second period and they were printing out the letters then.  I can’t believe they even had us here today.  School will be out the rest of the week.  I would come over tonight, but I have to go to the church. I’ve been hearing that several people have died and we have a lot of older members we need to go check on.”

Feeling guilty for being selfish, I sit up a little straighter, making up my mind to take control.  “Alright then.  I’ll work on that tonight, maybe go through some things in his office and also do some more searching on the internet.  Want to meet at my house at about nine tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good.”  As he stands to go, the bell rings and the rest of the kids still in the courtyard quickly scurry out, leaving us alone.  I tear off the bottom half of the paper with my notes on it and write out my address.  Chris takes it, and as we turn to leave in opposite directions, he stops me with a hand on my arm.  “Alex,” he says.

The tone in his voice makes my heart flutter and I look at him questioningly. “Yes?”

“Be careful…” of what, he doesn’t say.  Although neither of us can put into words what it is we’re fearful of, we both know it’s there.

It turns out Chris was right about the letter.  They handed them out the last ten minutes of the day.  School is in fact cancelled for the rest of the week. 

When I picked Jacob up in the exact spot I promised I’d be, he had a similar note in his hand
.  He was very excited about it and all the way home I heard about how several of his friends either weren’t there, or were getting sick.  There were still a few unaffected like he was, but it sounded very similar to what was going on at the high school.

Driving past Brent’s house, Jacob explains that his younger brother was
healthy and at school.  He said that Brent was sick but getting better, as well as their dad. 

As we pull up to our house, Baxter is at the fence that encloses the backyard, barking happ
ily at us.  I go to let him out and pull out my cell phone.  I’ve already checked it several times today, but there’s still no answer from Missy.  I’ve only sent her one more message because I figure that if she’s able to, she’ll get back to me.  I’m getting really worried though and decide that if she hasn’t texted by six, then I’ll call her. Sighing, I put it back in my pocket and get busy loving on Baxter.

My face covered in dog drool, I follow Jacob into the kitchen.  He’s at the fridge and getting a snack before I even set my stuff down.  Taking the last banana off the counter, I
sit down at the table, exhausted.  Looking at it, I notice it’s a lot browner than its cousin that I ate this morning.  Shrugging, I go ahead and peel it.  Nothing wrong with a little bruising.

“Ewww..that’s gross!
” Jacob informs me.  He’s working on consuming a cold hot dog and I bite my tongue about all the unspeakable ingredients
he’s
eating. 

“I guess we need to go to the store soon.”  Tossing the banana skin in the garbage, I eat the last bite and go to the freezer.  “One more pizza in here.  We can have that tonight and I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

Jake is more than happy with the evenings menu and he and Baxter disappear out the back door.  I watch them leave and smile at his ability to adapt.  Then I realize that Jacob didn’t even ask about Mom, or go check on her.  Is that part of the coping mechanism?  He’s normally what you would call a Momma’s boy.  I find myself frowning again.

Taking my own cue, I head down the hallway.  Why am I so apprehensive?  Am I afraid that she’s going to be worse?  No, I admit.  I’m fearful that she’ll be the
same.
 

I find her door closed, and so knock lightly before openi
ng it.  She’s propped up in bed with the television on.  One of the many crossword puzzle books is in her lap and she’s tapping a pen on her forehead, deep in thought.  Maybe that was why she didn’t call out a greeting when she heard us come inside?

Standing in the open doorway, I wait for her to acknowledge me.  There are
dirty dishes on the nightstand and empty bottles of water on the floor, so she obviously felt well enough to get up and find food.  That’s good, right?

“Mom?”
I say, when the silence draws out until it’s awkward.

“Hmmmmm?”  Still absorbed in the puzzle, she doesn’t even look at me.

“We’re home from school. Lots of people are sick though so they cancelled it for the rest of the week.”  When she doesn’t answer, I try again.  “You look like you’re feeling better.  Can I get you anything?”

Finally, Mom lowers the pen and faces me.  Her eyes look sunken, the skin around her nose raw.  Her
expression is so neutral that I can’t tell how she feels.  “I’m getting better.  I just ate so no, I don’t need anything.  Call your Grandma Fisher back though.  I didn’t feel like talking to her.”

I
see now that one of the home phones is on the bed next to her.  Didn’t feel like talking to her?  Slowly, I walk forward and pick it up.  I also grab the dirty dishes and empty water bottles.  I try and catch her eye again, to look for any sign of normalcy, but her nose is turned back to the puzzle.

I make my way from the room and towards the kitchen, my arms full.  “Alex, close the door.”  I stop mid-stride at her voice.  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and then go to the sink and dump everything in it. 

Going back to her room, I quickly close the door before I have to look at her again, shutting it a bit more loudly than I meant to.  When she doesn’t comment on the slamming, I run to the end of the hall and into my own bedroom.  As an afterthought, I slam
my
door too; against this stupid flu, against Moms weird behavior and the note in my pocket that both excites and scares me at the same time.

Throwing myself on the bed, trying to deal with my upwelling emotions, I realize that I still have the home phone in my right hand.  I stare it for several minutes and finally push the buttons to call my Grandma. 
I’m not sure what I’ll say to her, but maybe they can come out and stay with us for a little while if I explain what’s going on. 

When Grandma answe
rs the phone on the fourth ring; my heart drops.  Her voice is barely recognizable and I know without a doubt that she is sick.  Really sick.  “Grandma!” I practically yell, tears springing to my eyes.

“Oh Alex honey, how are you?  Are you and Jacob still okay?”  The effort to talk makes her cough and I wipe at the tears that have spilled over onto my cheeks.

“We’re fine Grandma, really.  You sound sick though.”

“Yes, both Grandpa and I have been hit pretty hard.  We got the antiviral meds today though.  I went in to the doctors this morning and he got us started at the first sign of this flu.  Dr. Carl is good at that kind of stuff, you know.  But your Aunt Tammy is very stubborn.  She insists that staying at home and washing her hands is going to keep her healthy.”

I talk with her for awhile, until she is coughing so much that she has to go.  I don’t even mention Mom’s odd behavior or needing her to come out.  There’s no doubt that it’s not possible now.  Telling her I love both her and Grandpa, we say goodbye. 

After hanging up I decide that my idea to wait until six to text Missy is stupid.  I pull out my cell phone and call, praying that she’ll answer.  It goes to voicemail before the first ring is finished, indicating that her phone is off.  Frustrated, I go to my desk and dig out my small address/phone book.  Looking up her home phone, I dial that one and close my eyes.

I open them in surprise when it’s answered by her dad.  Relief flooding me, I ask to please speak with Missy.  There is an odd, muffled sound and I assume he is covering the mouthpiece.  I can hear muted, indistinct conversation and then my relief turns to dread as he tells me that Missy doesn’t want to talk right now.

“Doesn’t want to talk?”
I repeat back to him, confused.  “Is she that sick?”

“No.  She’s getting better.  We’ll all be okay now.”

When he doesn’t offer any further explanation, I’m at a loss as to what to say.  “Well, can you please tell her I’d like to talk with her as soon as…she wants to?”

“She knows.  Goodbye.”  The line goes dead and I’m left staring at my cell phone
like it’s a snake about to bite me.  I throw it away from me, trying to distance myself from this new, twisted reality.

Tears blurring my visio
n, I stumble off the bed and to the computer.  Not knowing what else to do, I log on to my social account to see if there is any sort of talk from others about people acting weird.  I can message Missy too in case it’s her dad and not her saying that.  Waiting for the site to come up, I impatiently tap on my desk.  When a message pops on the screen stating that the page is temporarily unavailable, my sadness turns to anger.

In one sweeping gesture, I knock all the papers, notebooks and pens off the surface of the desk and onto the floor.  Not satisfied, I grab at pillows and blankets and throw them across the room.  Turning in a circle, I look for something else to destroy and catch my image in the mirror over the dresser.

My thick black hair is in disarray, my face streaked with tears.  What stops me though is the cold, hard panic in my eyes.  They’re black with fear and unrecognizable to me.  “
Alexandria, the vulture…”

Staggering backwards, I spin around, looking for the source of the whispered words.  Clasping both hands over my ears, I fall to my knees on the pile of pillows.
  “What do you want me to do?” I cry out, my voice a hoarse imitation of itself.

I have no idea how long I’m in this position, weeping quietly.  When I finally open my eyes,
I’m wrapped up in the same fluffy comforter Mom had given me at the meteor shower.  This brings on a fresh course of emotions and I am about to close my eyes again when I notice a book that is practically under my face.  Pushing up onto my elbows, I look at it.

Sure enough, it’s Dads book.  I have no idea how it could have gotten here.  Thinking back, I’m almost positive I put it back in its hiding place this morning and I don’t think my temper tantrum took me into the closet.  Looking at it more closely, I see that it’s open to the page where my dad carefully drew out the vulture in pencil.  The vulture. 

Accepting the fact that this is the new normal, I sit cross legged and try to figure out what it is Dads trying to tell me.  I’m not alone.  He’s with me; I know it with all my heart.  Chris is there too…and willing to help.  What is absolutely clear is that I’m not doing anyone any good lying here crying on my bedroom floor.

Wiping my face on the blanket, I push down all those raw emotions.  I’m sixteen, practically an adult.  My little brother is counting on me to take care of him and it seems that Dad had enough faith in me to trust me with whatever this is all about. 

I reach out and pick up one of the pads of paper and pens that are now littering my bedroom floor.  Across the top I draw out some lines making three columns.   At the top of each column I write:
Holocene meteor shower, weird stuff
and
vulture.

I start with the meteor shower.  Under the heading I start making notes:  every five thousand years, Dad very interested, Dad knew something was going to happen afterwards, mentioned to Mom when dying, happened same night as flu starts, much more intense than scientists said it would be, was strongest in our region, meteors crashed near town.

Then under the weird stuff: Flu, Mom not acting like herself…more than being sick? Missy won’t talk to me, spreading like wildfire through Country, highest contagion rate in history? Dad’s book, dream, whispers, Baxter acting strange, something is ‘off’              .

Finally, I come to the vulture: drawing in book, in my dream, whispered to me, I have seen it somewhere else before…in this house?

I pause, pen poised over the paper.  I have?  Yes…I have.  I
know
I have and not in a book either, but
on
something.  Something of Dads, something…I jump to my feet.

“Something I’ve touched!”
I say out loud, running for my door, tripping over pillows as I go.

Going to Dads office, I can hear a loud video game being played in the family room.  Content that Jacob is accounted for; I open the door and go inside, closing it behind me.  Turning on the main light, I stand st
aring at the rifles on the wall in the same spot they were the other day.

Crossing the room quietly, I carefully lift the top one down…the one Dad
taught me how to shoot with; the one with the elaborate carvings on the wooden stock.  Pointing the muzzle down, I hold the stock up to the light to inspect the lines.  Among other stick animals and patterns there is the hieroglyph of a vulture. 

My heart beating faster, I tip the rifle upside down and look at the end of the butt.  Yes…there is an endplate held in place by two tiny screws.

Going to the desk, I rummage through the drawers until I come up with a small Phillips screw driver.  Slowly, I unscrew them, making sure not to strip them.  Once both are removed I tug on the cap and it comes off easily in my hand. 

Nicely folded and tucked away in the small hollowed out stock, is an old piece of paper.  Hardly believing my luck, I pull it out and immediately put it in my back pocket.  My heart slamming to the point that I’m sure it’ll be heard in the next room, I replace the endplate as fast as I can.  Not sure why I feel such an urgency to cover my tracks, I place the rifle back on the wall and turn out the light, leaving the office in a hurry.

Once in the hallway my heart rate begins to slow and as I get control of my breathing I realize I’m nearly hyperventilating.  Sweaty and a little dizzy, I go to the kitchen for some water, noting that Moms bedroom door is still closed.

With glass in hand, I walk through to the family room to check on Jake.  Acutely aware of the paper in my pocket, I still feel a need to make sure he’s okay.

I find him sprawled out on the couch, this time chasing mushrooms and jumping on stars; Baxter snuggled up to his side.  He raises his big brown doggie eyes as I walk up and whimpers at me.  It’s an odd sound, a mixture of his begging for food and ‘I want outside’ plea.  It’s like
he
isn’t sure how he should feel either.  Relating to his inner conflict, I lovingly rub his ears and tell him again that he’s a good dog.  This settles him a bit and he lays his head back on Jacob’s legs.