Читать книгу The Atlantropa Articles - Cody Franklin - Страница 12

The Howling Dark

The dam scales across the desert like a towering cliff. Its sheer size makes it appear more like a natural formation than a manmade construction, as if the Reich had nothing to do with this dam and Earth had formed this cliffside herself. The journey down to the desert below is a long one, even in an elevator. I feel cramped inside this small metal box hugging the face of the dam on a slow descent into the Kiln.

Such a long journey leads my mind to wander. I imagine the sea that is behind me, all of the water held back only by a thick barrier of centuries-old concrete. If this dam weren’t here, I’d be surrounded by whales and fish. Ships would be sailing above my head instead of below my feet. It’s a strange concept to ponder.

Sunlight peeks in through a thin row of windows along the cabin’s ceiling. In a slow meticulous fashion, rays of light from the setting sun crawl down the walls. White specks of sand glisten as they meet.

The sand that has collected on the cabin floor is tossed up with a jolt from the steel box. Millions of particles drift about the room like a swarm of tiny flies. Sand dyes the air a hue of lightish orange. It’s as thick as liquid. If I weren’t wearing a mask, I doubt I could even breathe.

As is policy, Ulric and I are wearing the appropriate breathing apparatus and are dressed in uniforms of metal and bright, red-and-gold cloth garments. We resemble knights prepared for battle more than men awaiting to sail.

Special fluid fills each and every garment we wear. It is all for cooling purposes. When the sea dried up, it left behind a basin. A basin of salt and sand that soaks in every bit of sunlight poured into it. Even in the safest conditions, the temperatures can be so high you’d die in a matter of hours, if not minutes.

The rumor always was the Sun could become so intense in this basin that the heat could melt even glass. From that generations-old belief, this place received its name: “The Kiln.” The Kiln is the basin that the Mediterranean left behind. It’s a bowl of salt, sand, and death.

We descend farther. With each moment we come closer to being level with the evening sun.

“How did you first feel when coming into the Kiln?” my brother asks in a stuttering voice, breaking a moment of relative silence.

I ponder for a second.

“In the military? No nerves. Just rushed right in,” I state in a boastful tone. “First day as a Captain? Fuck, now that was nerve-racking. Thought I’d crash the ship on the first departure. Talk about daunting.”

“Feels like I got a whirlpool in my stomach.”

“Look, it gets easier after a while. The sand will become your old friend, and after being out there it won’t seem so daunting anymore. I will admit, though, having a big enough gun helps.”

“Just not too big.” Ulric raises a finger.

“You’re still on about the Aegir Drop?” I groan, turning to my brother, taking in his entire display of silver armor. His helmet is a jagged and sharp thing encompassing his usually gaunt face. Wrapped around his body is a series of light-brown scarves. Draped over his shoulder is a dark violet cape.

“Why do you not want me to do it?” he insists in a whine, looking back at me with two orange visors shining bright in this dusty dark box.

“I already told you.” I abruptly spit, turning away from him, focusing my attention on the dust particles floating about.

“It’s a tool at our disposal…that’s all I’m saying.” Ulric insists in a calmer voice, a bid to level for me to change my mind. Yet I know I will not change my mind.

“Not all tools need to be used,” I say, raising my arms up. I begin pacing around what little space I can in here. “You get in a fight with an unarmed man, and you got a knife, sure you can use it, doesn’t mean you aren’t any less of a pussy.”

“They are Scavengers, why do you care how you kill them. Think they’ll judge you?” Ulric reasons, and to that I burst out in laughter.

“No,” I say through chuckles, “I just don’t want to judge myself. This is the Kiln, our domain. I shouldn’t have to rely on anyone else, but me.” I thump my rusted metal arm against my metallic armor. It gives off a satisfying clank with each beat.

Ulric turns away defeated, and we both face the empty wall. The sunlight continues its migration across the elevator as we go farther down the dam.

“Did Father ever have a chance to tell you the story about his time in the Italen Sands?” Ulric asks, breaking the slight lull in the conversation, “…when he was stationed there?”

I turn my head to face him. His identification number and name pop up on my display. A helmet in the Kiln is important for the days when the sun reflects off of the white salt, or when the desert kicks up a storm to ruin an afternoon.

“He’s told me, bits and pieces but no specifics,” I ponder, thinking back to the conversations I had with that stern man in my childhood. “Why? Did he tell you?”

“He told me before I went off to college.” Ulric contemplates, preparing to dive deep into a story. “He talked about how his division was sent in to clear out squatters that occupied that abandoned city, Rome. Nobody knew why they chose to stay there…nothing but desert, you know. Sand dunes covered everywhere except this temple.”

The elevator, after a few minutes of creeping, has finally leveled with the tops of the ships. I can make out the golden flag of the Reich flowing high atop one vessel.

“The squatters were starving in that temple. Dad said they didn’t look like us. They had dark hair. Foreign features. They weren’t dark like the Raiders, but not fair-skinned like Aryans. He figured they were the last remnants of the Romans.”

The engines from the ships permeate the elevator cabin, throwing more sand into the air as the deep bassoon of a tremor ripples out. Ulric seems to be lost in thought.

“They were too stubborn to leave when their homeland dried up but had managed to keep fish alive, in these pools of water,” he continues, his voice trailing.

The bustling docks come into full view as the elevator slows to a crawl.

“At least the fish had once been alive. See, they had so many people, they needed a lot of fish to feed everyone. It was the last water reserve they had, so space was limited. Well, it was too limited. Most of the fish had drowned.”

“What?” I chuckle. “How does a fish drown in water?”

“Well, they need oxygen and there is only so much oxygen in water. If there are too many fish breathing that oxygen, then they can’t breathe and suffocate,” Ulric answers. “These Romans had too many people, not enough space, and couldn’t keep the fish alive. So they starved.”

“They don’t seem like they were the smartest people,” I scoff. “They should have left,” I continue, wagging a finger.

“Yes they should have. But they were stubborn,” Ulric concludes in that matter-of-fact, scholarly voice.

An armored Ulric, donned in a violet cloth, turns himself toward me as the elevator doors open, releasing a taste of the scalding heat, much like an oven. Even through my protective layer, the heat is still a presence.

“No matter how natural it is for a fish to be in water, there is always the possibility that it can drown,” my brother concludes to me, his voice calm and full of purpose.

“That’s a good story,” I say to him, feeling the rippling heat of the Kiln scraping against my metal, “but this desert is big enough for all of us to breathe.”

The cracked stone surface of the Docks is so thick with sand that each step we take leaves imprints from our metal boots. Everything down here—the elevator, the docks, and the ships—all appear to be dyed with the same orange powder. Sand is just something non-negotiable down here. Winds carries the stuff every day, and it makes cleaning anything a pretty pointless endeavor.

As we make our way down an orchestra of machinery, men, and cargo, I explain the sights to a bewildered Ulric. The dam, commonly just called the Marian Dam, towers over the entire display. Trains and carts speed across platforms constructed on its solid concrete face, stretching so long that it curves into the horizon.

For as impressive as the Marian Dam is, it is nothing compared to the biggest: the dam that keeps the entire Atlantic Ocean at bay. The pair of us stroll across the dock, leaping out of the way as cranes lift rusting containers and swing them far above like an acrobat.

Yet these cranes were tiny when compared to the hulking mechanical beasts to our left. Officially these machines with bows, sterns, and everything in between are simply called “ships.” They are shaped like ships and they sail the desert like a ship would sail the sea.

In practice, these machines were much more like a tank. A tank that could successfully navigate across the ever-shifting waves of the Kiln. Every ship in the Kiln at one point was an actual watercraft, or that is how the rumor is told. The Kiln is a beacon which attracts such rumors.

Even if it were true, I doubt the ships in front of us look like they did before the sea dried up. To survive down here, all have been heavily modified with an assortment of metal plates and makeshift towers. Guns were removed and replaced with the modern weaponry of today. The treads. Oh my, the treads. To the side of each ship were added gargantuan treads that allowed the machines to grip into the sandy ground and propel themselves forward.

Eventually I see her. The tall, jagged towers of cobbled-together steel peeking just above her neighbors. The Howling Dark. It’s a shame we can’t stay here during leave. Ever since I was assigned to this ship a decade ago, I have put my blood and sweat into making it the fiercest ship among the carriers. Looking at her is how I imagine a proud man feels after making a home for his family. I have no delusions of such a thing, so this…is my home.

The ship’s wide stern is facing the docks. Behind it is a large steel crane, meticulously lifting a series of gigantic steel boxes right into the center of the vessel.

The Howling Dark casts a wide presence. For just one moment, I want to take in this full view of her majesty—one I rarely get out in the desert. Her elaborate stern reaches high into the desert air. Banners of red, gold, and silver drape over the side, each woven in with a swastika of the Reich.

Engraved into the metal work is the depiction of an eagle, its wings outstretched as it clutches onto a large broadsword. Wrapped around the sword is a long winding piece of parchment bearing the words: For without the sacrifices of those before, I could not stand before you.

Pieces of the engravement are missing, however, covered up in a patchwork of various metals that speckle her rusting shell. A testament of the numerous battles she has persevered. Even with the patchy metalwork, the intricate sculpting of Aryan heroes and legends on the back still filled me with a sense of awe. It’s one of the few things that can do that to me anymore.

I lead Ulric to a makeshift contraption hanging at the back of the vessel. We clamber inside, and with a press of a button we are lifted up across the side of the boat. Noise from its bustling machinery begins to fade away as we are taken further and further up the ship’s hull. The wind reveals itself as my helmet protects me from a blast of hot sand.

The lift ends its journey with a loud clang and we stop, having reached the deck. I’m met with the sight of a busy crew, fifty or so men, all dressed in armor like Ulric and I. Their capes are flowing in the desert wind; some have them tied around their waist so they aren’t a nuisance. Each body goes about their small duty to make sure we are prepared to sail. Guns must be properly loaded. Flags must be unfurled. Engines must start.

As I slowly clamber off the lift the crew pauses their activities and turns their attention to me. My metal boots meet the steel of the ship in a loud clang. Every eye on the deck is on me as I straighten myself out and raise my voice.

“Hello, men.” I boom. “This…is my brother, S.S. Knight Ulric Manafort. He is new to the Kiln, and will accompany us on our journey. It is his job to protect us on our journey, if need be, and for that you are to treat him with the utmost respect.”

I turn to my brother, clasp my feet together, puff out my chest and salute him with one arm raised high.

“Sieg Heil,” I bellow, followed by fifty other voices yelling in unison: “Sieg Heil!”

“Carry on,” I order, waving them off to their own work, and the dock complies.

“Protection, huh?” Ulric comments in a curious voice lined with hopeful optimism.

“I’m required to say that,” I mutter in a deadpan manner.

If the two large towers sprouting from the deck were trees, then their leaves would be the numerous banners that were strung atop them. Wire and cable dangling between the two appeared like vines in a jungle. Between the two trees was a series of arches, each pointed at the top. They just recently closed to encompass the steel boxes housed in the center of the ship.

“The closest tower to the bow houses the main bridge, while the second near the rear houses the defenses. Of course, most of the ship is covered in some form of weaponry for protection, but that tower is just, extra defenses,” I explain to Ulric.

We navigate to the center of the ship, where the crates are being loaded in. As the crew hurries past us, my attention narrows in on one man with a small metal frame donned in a cloth of dark yellow. He is hunched over, analyzing a slab of metal in his hand. I don’t think he has spotted us through the crowd. I wait and wait. Eventually, I clear my throat and he turns around, startled, apparently not noticing my presence.

“By the fucking Führer, don’t scare me like that!” he exclaims. “When did you get here? Sneaking up behind me.”

“This is the sixth time I’ve been able to do that, Volker,” I say through spats of laughter, “You need to have more spatial awareness. I was yelling to the rest of the crew.”

“Well, somebody has to account for all the crates. Guns, food, water, can’t forget anything. Not to mention resources for ourselves,” Volker defends himself in a high-pitched, grating voice. “Who is that?” he asks me, devoid of breath, pointing a gloved finger toward a puzzled Ulric.

“Volker, this is Ulric, my brother. He’ll be the Knight on our trip,” I explain in a light-hearted demeanor, still chuckling from the image of Volker’s jumping body. “Ulric, this is First Officer Wilhelm Volker.”

“Ah. The brother,” Volker remarks in a reminiscent tone, extending his pointing hand toward Ulrich and offering him an open handshake. “He’s told me a lot about you.”

“Really?” Ulric says, shaking Volker’s hand.

“Probably, I don’t know, the words jumble together over time,” Volker jokes. “But it’s nice to meet you. Hopefully you’re not too much like your brother.” He nudges me a few times with his elbow, and I laugh in return.

“So what is the status on departure?” I ask him. Volker hands me the metal slab and I analyze through its data.

“It seems we have accounted for all of the shipments,” Volker replies in a more logistical tone. “Most of these supplies are weapons, a few boxes are for food. We’ll be ready for departure in a few hours.”

“That works,” I reply, looking down at the slab. “I’ll just go around the ship and inspect everything, make sure it’s all in working order.”

“Sounds good,” Volker replies, taking the slab back from me.

“What should I do?” Ulric asks in an uncertain voice.

“Come with me,” I say. “If you’re going to spend some time on this ship, you might as well get acquainted.”

For the next few hours, Ulric and I wander around, inspecting every operation to make sure everything is in working order. The flags have been set. The weapons have been loaded. The treads have been cleaned. The crates have been secured. Even the engine room is now running, after I checked to see whether Keller finished drinking. By all accords, we are ready to set sail.

I stand on the tower closest to the bow, on a balcony right outside the main bridge. I can see everything, but for now I face the boundless sea before me. In the distance I spot an orange cloud floating over the horizon, stirred up by another ship. Out there, that will only be an ominous sign. The high winds shaping the grand dunes out there brush against my armor. I cling onto metal bars that have been stripped bare by the years of abuse from these conditions.

Looking down, I see a crowd awaiting my signal. I give a stiff-armed salute, and they respond in kind before rushing to their stations. With a slow walk, I wrap around the balcony to face the port and, with it, the mountain that is the dam.

I’m on the other side of the tower, and I see that the dock in our area has cleared out its people and machines in anticipation of our departure. I shouldn’t keep them waiting. At the main deck in the center of the ship stands the last group of deckhands. They too look up at me, and I thrust out my arm rigid and true once again—in unison, they salute as well.

“Are we ready to depart, sir?” Volker cuts in.

“Yes, we are, all hands to stations,” I reply.

“All hands to stations,” Volker radios to the crew. Sirens blare, and the Dock beneath us begins to clear out. I can hear the yelling down below, as all brace for the ship to awaken.

“Start the engines,” I say to Volker, and he repeats the command into his radio.

The Bridge rumbles like a volcano beneath our feet. Lights flicker and walls quake as black smoke funnels up the pipes and explodes upward in a triumphant roar. The Howling Dark has come alive.

“Take her away,” I command, and it is done. A soft growl permeates the cabin. The treads awaken in a slow churn, grinding up the desert beneath. In response, an orange cloud rises from below as the ship creaks away from the concrete. I walk out of the bridge to view the cloud dissipate.

The ship hurls sand onto the concrete like a wave crashing against a stormy beach. Metal bars rattle as the ship picks up speed. Treads rotate like heavy steel clocks swirling about to bring us forward. She’s a lumbering beast, and with another thunderous horn she signals that she is leaving port. I stroll back onto the Bridge and check the conditions. Everything is in working order. I stand there and watch as the ship leisurely cascades over its first sand dune of the journey. The banners tied to the front of the ship’s bow catch a gust of wind. I take in how graciously they fly in the breeze—those red-and-gold flags, each emblazoned with a white swastika at the center, fluttering against a world of apricot sand.