Keystones: Altered Destinies
Copyright © 2013 Alexander McKinney
All rights reserved.
He gazed out the window at the spinning world below, imagining the teeming throngs on Earth.
He knew the consequences of inaction—devastation.
He knew the hardships on the horizon—mayhem and destruction.
He knew that The Sweep would come.
He knew that everything would change.
Day 1
Deklan
Deklan Tobin gasped and sat up in shock as air rushed into his lungs. His head slammed into a hard, metal surface cushioned only by a scratchy cloth. When he reached for his head, his elbows hit cold walls. A burst of adrenaline surged through his system accompanied by a kick of terror. He didn’t know where he was. The last thing he could remember was the crash. Now he was in a cramped, cold, and dark place with some kind of fabric on top of him. Was this a coffin? His heart raced at the thought, and blood roared in his ears. Had he been buried?
Details rushed suddenly back with stop-motion, crystal-like clarity. The steering wheel had crushed into his chest before his car went over the railing and dropped upside down onto the highway below.
He yelled and banged his fists on either side of the confinement. When his kicking feet connected with metal, one end of the unlit space opened. He found purchase with his hands and pushed. The entire surface on which he was lying slid out.
Looking around him, Deklan realized that he’d been in a drawer, one of many that lined the walls in rows. He was in a morgue. The strong smell of antiseptic left a bad taste in his mouth. When he slid off his slab and onto the floor, he noticed an odd sensation. There was a tag on his toe with his name on it and a note:
This was the easy part. It will get harder. Try to do the right thing. Good luck.
Deklan read the note in bafflement. His mind kept revolving around the question of who had left it. Was it meant for him? His confusion was interrupted by the mortician who, upon walking through the door, only now drew attention to herself as she fainted and crumpled to the floor.
Deklan ran over to her and ran his hands over her head. They came back dry and clean; there was no blood or injury. Next he checked her neck. She was fine, her pulse steady, in fact much slower than his. Not sure of what else to do, he arranged her in a more comfortable position.
He’d been in a morgue drawer! What was he supposed to do now? He didn’t even have clothes.
Deklan grabbed the sheet that had been draped over him. Having even this small covering of his nakedness made it easier to think. His personal effects had to be nearby, didn’t they? He scanned the room closely, looking for anywhere that his possessions might have been stored. Nothing. There were tables for autopsies and basins for scrubbing and screens on the far wall, but nowhere any sign of his clothes. He couldn’t leave the morgue wearing only a sheet. Someone would be sure to stop him, and then what would he say?
Deklan surveyed the room again and was drawn back to the drawer from which he’d managed to escape. There! Underneath it. He’d missed the storage bin the first time.
Opening the receptacle, Deklan found three numbered white bags. He looked at his drawer, number twenty-one, and grabbed the bag that matched. It held his Uplink, jeans, boots, blood-stained shirt, and jacket.
Deklan dressed faster than he ever had before, though his fingers fumbled with his belt buckle on the first try. His heart slowed as he pulled on his jacket. For just a second he felt safer.
He stuffed the incriminating shirt under his jacket. He knew that there must be traces of his visit everywhere, but it wouldn’t do to leave behind something so big. Then it struck him that he couldn’t just stroll out of a morgue. There had to be a record; there was always a paper trail. Questions would follow. He had to break into the place’s computer and delete any files associated with his visit.
His boots thudded against the floor as he ran to one of the screens, where he searched for files related to cadaver drawer twenty-one. He found the images. It wasn’t hard because the system was designed for ease of use. He was unmistakable in the pictures: square-jawed and muscular with close-cropped hair, a unique assortment of scars, and stitches decorating his chest in the shape of a Y. They’d cut him open.
His legs buckled. Only his grip on the counter kept him upright. Bile rose in his throat. They’d cut him open.
His fingers automatically traced the portions of his chest that should have borne the stitches that he saw. There was nothing. No thread, no wound, no trace.
He stared at the pictures and enlarged one to full-screen display. He couldn’t deny it; he couldn’t explain it; he couldn’t comprehend it. He’d been dead. He’d been autopsied. Nothing about this made sense. His fingers trembled as he searched for all files captioned with his name plus a date and deleted each one. Then he checked again. He had to be sure unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life being poked and prodded under a microscope.
They were gone. He knew that files could always be resurrected, but this was the best that he could do. With the tools at hand, his next ploy had to be misdirection. He hoped that whoever was in drawer twenty-four wouldn’t begrudge him the assistance.
He returned to the morgue’s drawers and opened number twenty-four. There was another sheet-covered cadaver. Deklan swallowed, summoned his strength, physical and mental, and moved the body over to the drawer he’d woken in.
Sebastian
Sebastian was not by nature an unhappy man, but nothing had gone right in his life. His job as an efficiency expert was soul-crushing. Day in and day out he advised companies on whom they should fire.
Spreadsheets dictated the lives he had a hand in destroying. His parents disapproved of his vocation, calling him a modern-day hatchet man, and he didn’t like his siblings. The feeling was mutual.
An awkward man, he’d never had a knack for making friends, having always been the guy that people avoided at cocktail parties. The idea to end his own life had come to him years earlier and called to him like a siren.
The idea was powerful—always pulling, always tempting, always gaining ground. No single incident pushed him over the edge, just years of feeling as though he were an instrument of other people’s despair.
He stood on the roof of a skyscraper, his feet on the ledge and his courage failing him. He teetered when a calm British voice startled him from behind: “It’ll work better if you actually jump, you know.”
Now someone was mocking his suicide attempt. He hadn’t been allowed any dignity in life, he thought, so why should his death be any different? “What?” he asked without turning, caught between outrage and resignation.
The voice came again, uncaring and uninterested, as though they might have been discussing the weather. “What you’re doing, it’ll go better once you jump.”
Sebastian refused to look at the man. “Aren’t you supposed to try and talk me out of this?” he queried.
The man chuckled. “No, I try to help people. This looks like the best option for you.”
Sebastian mustered his courage to utter, “You’re an asshole.” He choked on the words. Even now, preparing to die, it was hard for him to be confrontational.
The man replied in his same unruffled tone, “I think you should try to help people too, Michael. Isn’t that what you want?”
Michael?
The man didn’t even have his name right! Sebastian began to protest when two hands shoved against his back. Air rushed past him, roaring in his ears and tearing his voice away. Oh relief, such sweet relief, just a few more seconds! A momentary flicker of purple was followed by total darkness.
A warm sensation rippled across Sebastian’s back. His shirt grew tight, pulling against his chest, before he tore it off. The roaring intensified but changed direction. The street came ever closer, but what had been a headlong plummet was now a controlled glide that arced upward.
Sebastian looked over his right shoulder, struggling to understand this turn of events. He was shocked by what he saw: a wing had sprouted from his shoulder, a beautifully white and feathered wing. Over his left shoulder the same sight greeted him. His wings extended more than twice as long as his body on either side.
Sebastian flapped them and rose higher. His suicide attempt now forgotten, he soared over a dark city illuminated only by the lights from office windows. He then circled back to the skyscraper roof from which he had fallen, but it was empty. One door led to the roof, but he had locked it before he jumped. There was no way someone could have joined him up there.
Who had been on the roof with him? Why had he been pushed? How had he survived? Sebastian looked up. Why was it dark? What had happened? Why did he have wings?
A gust of breeze flared his new plumes wide. All of these questions were pressing, but he decided to ignore them. He flapped his wings and took pleasure in the eddies of air that swirled around him. Everything else could wait. He needed to learn how to fly.
Jonny
Jonny was in trouble. Given that hyenas were attracted to easy prey, he should not have fallen asleep in his chair outside his jeep. He’d done so during the heat of the afternoon while on a solo safari. It had always been nice to awake in the evening’s cool savannah air. Tonight, however, was different. He was awakened by the sound of slavering, hungry creatures ripping into his food. He’d packed enough for a week, none of it cheap, but the hyenas must have sniffed out his cache. He wasn’t sure how many there were, but he counted at least ten. He knew that he needed to move before they detected him.
No sooner had he that thought than four beasts broke off from the main pack and crept toward him. The hyenas approached slowly, searching out the direction of his scent. Could they smell fear?
Careful not to run, Jonny backed toward the safety of his jeep. Just as his fingers made contact with warm metal, a surge of purple nearly blinded him. His vision came back but was filled with spots. He could see the marauding hyenas, now no longer slow or hesitant. They raced directly toward their intended victim.
Reverting back to basic instincts, Jonny lifted his hands to shield himself from the impact and was astonished when an icy-cold black liquid sprayed from his palms over the attacking animals. The whining pack, much to his astonishment, beat a hasty retreat.
Safely ensconced in the vehicle, Jonny hyperventilated and stared at his hands. They were calloused and dirty, without a drop of liquid on them. He needed to find a doctor. No, not a doctor but a psychiatrist. What had happened? He looked at his hands again. Nothing there explained what he had just done.
The smart thing to do, he thought, would be to spend the night in his jeep, but Jonny didn’t want to remain for another second out there. He needed to be doing something, but he couldn’t ignore what had just happened. If he tried to sleep in the jeep, he would replay that scenario over and over again in his mind, and all of his money that he’d saved for this trip would be wasted. He then heard a deep growl from a nearby bush.
