The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

  *****

  McBridle used the travel time to explain Carravecky’s intricate security system to Tom.

  “The technology cost millions,” she said. “It was co-developed with the aid of a team of computer geeks from a European conglomerate. Complicated and simple, every employee has an activation-positioning data signature with a specifically programmed authorization security level. The code key can either be their hand or eye print; and higher the clearance, the more access, and more technology is involved.”

  “Sounds simple, I’m assuming it’s all standard implemented technology.”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing standard about this system.”

  “The person presses his hand to a data optimizing device, and opens a door, so what.”

  “That’s easier said than done; there’re also a few invisible layers of technology--some security features I don’t even know about. Anyway, what little I do understand--a monitoring system tracks their movement using some developed method at all times and keeps track of all its employees. Just how that’s accomplished, well, that’s Carravecky’s secret technology and he’s not about to divulge that information to anybody, including me.”

  “So the system is complex. And what about this monitoring station? It must be set up somewhere within Carravecky’s industrial empire.”

  “Yeah, I suspect it is; and from what I understand, some of these complex operations are automatically processed from sub-floor four.”

  “What’s that area you mentioned?”

  “It’s the most secretive place in this complex sector.”

  “So can we get access?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a mountain of paperwork and a slew of security checks. By the time we gain permission, we’d be 10 years older.”

  “Carravecky can’t get us in?”

  “It’s not up to him.”

  “So, who’s it up to?”

  “I don’t know, but we can find out. The problem is with us snooping around this will only create suspicion and make our job even harder.”

  “Then, you suspect it’s an inside job?” Tom asked.

  “I suspect, but I’m not fully certain; and don’t want to speculate at this present time.”

  “We’ll start with those who have access to this computer area.”

  McBridle glanced at him. “That’s like the bat biting off the giant’s head then asking him for directions,” she said convincingly.

  The sun was high; the ride was smooth. Tom powered the window down a crack. The autumn air invigorated his senses. He breathed peacefully, but his haunting concern was staying awake. The mind-crash was near (he felt it), but he couldn’t control where it would take him. The comfort of the leather seat and the warmth of the day amplified his desire to rest. He closed his eyes and dropped into a sleep episode.

  Dimensional time expansion wasn’t constant between this beyond world and earth as Tom fell through a rift that transported him to a lifeless desert environment. The sweltering sun burned down on him, but he was invulnerable to its deadly heat. He was garbed like the powerful Nukyi, suited up in jet-black body gear and knee-high boots that protected him from the unpleasant elements.

  His hand mapped the contour of his hard torso and soon discovered the gun holster was void of the special duel-barrel, heat-firing equalizer. Maybe, Exsorbo didn’t think he was confident enough to handle the blast weapon. He was probably correct with that assumption.

  Tom walked the dunes until he came upon tracks in the sand. An assortment of footsteps confirmed that there was an abundance of life just ahead beyond a crest. High winds blew the granular grit into his exposed face, and heat waves distorted his vision; but he could determine the presence of a stone structure. It was that of an ancient fortress. He stormed the fort. The reinforced wooden gate was dislocated from its setting and propped open with huge timbers; it possessed no entry sentries.

  The battered walls corralled a herd of weakened people who were clothed in rags and appeared beaten and tattered by repeated torture. They stood as if waiting for additional punishment. He circled around, curiously scanning for a logical explanation to this sick dementia; but there were only cries of misery.

  A frail old man with a bent cane came before the Nukyi. He didn’t say anything, just motioned with his disfigured, crippled-up finger for the special visitor to follow him to a pathway that led to a set of straight stairs that slopped down an arched tunnel to a cryptic chamber. An oil-fired lamp burned at the bottom step. The air was still and thick. It was an unwell place few sober men would dare venture.

  At the bottom of the steps, the man angled his knobby hand toward a grouping of tumbled stones, which formed a gaping cavity in the block wall where the stench of fresh death and decay emanated.

  Tom’s mouth dried up as if he had swallowed a bag of cement mix, and the taste of rotten air was making him stomachically weak. “Tell me what’s in there?”

  “He is in there waiting to come out,” the man replied frightfully.

  “Who is he?” Tom demanded, but the guide shuttered with fear and scurried up the dusty stairs. “If this is just a dream, there’s nothing to fear; but if it’s real, then I got a real problem. What the hell! You only live once,” Tom expelled in nervous babble.

  An inhuman growl ripped through the darkness, an unearthly figure stepped from beyond the hole, just as a flicker of light captured its immense shadow. The foul-smelling beast was robed in a long, black, hooded cape; the lack of direct light threw a floating shadow into the heavy air as it approached the Nukyi.

  Tom watched the creature thump across a path of flattened animal bones.

  “I am Ferronkus, Lord of Figure - Master of the Evils.” The arrogant servant of evil fanned his monstrous hand; his long, hard claws, sharp enough to sever his prey with one swipe, sliced through the morbid air. “Weak mortal, you shall fall to my demand,” he bellowed. His mouth opened, his teeth looked like rusty railroad spikes that had been hammered once too many times. “There is no escaping my bite.” He removed his hood and uncovered a menacing-looking ivory cranium appendage.

  “That’s quite a can opener,” he said bravely.

  “Silence, doomed spaceman,” Ferronkus ordered, as he leaped forward. His body converted into flaming energy that passed through the Nukyi’s body like a blast of nuclear heat.

  Tom knew there was no escaping this hell master’s reach; so if battle were required, then he’d flex his muscles and fight.

  Ferronkus reconfigured to his naturally ugly, beastly form, a mischievous smirk crossed his wicked lips as he smashed his fist into his mammoth-sized hand and summoned a clap of thunder that sounded like the roar of a thousand wounded lions. “Nukyi, this could be yours if you will join my unwholesome cause.” He held the power in his palm. There was total silence except for the ominous oscillation of the orb.

  “I don’t want your deadly disease,” Tom resisted.

  “It is good. It will make you strong.”

  “I am strong. I don’t want what you’re offering so give it to someone else who doesn’t give a damn about the living.”

  “It is only a matter of time before you concede and see my truth,” and absorbed the energy orb.

  “There’s no truth, only your deception.”

  “You are strong minded, stronger than all the others combined; but you cannot resist my delusional will.” Ferronkus handled the two-handed sword sheathed from his waist belt; the razor edges shone in the light. “If you do not comply, you are doomed beyond my dimensional terror. And only my offering will spare you,” he exhausted a fearless breath, “your continued existence.” Then the hell-protector bellowed with a horrifying roar and crash of millennium forged steel. “It is simple, join me and prevail.”

  “Screw you and your worthless fight... stink-breath.”

  Ferronkus seemed amused, “Decide or fall and feel the pain of death,” then he dematerialized into the darkness, and disap
peared.

  “I’ve decided; the answer is no; never will I side with you,” Tom shouted into the hell-doer’s dark blood nest.

  Then, suddenly, with the explosive force of a cannon Tom was launched through an odyssey of space and time and back to mother earth.

  McBridle turned off the industrial highway and headed toward Carravecky’s; the change of direction snapped Tom’s mind from its mental dormancy. He awoke in a panic and bashed his hands into the dash, his fists made two ugly impressions that were permanently detailed on the glove box.

  She was startled by his troubled behaviour; overly concerned, she pulled onto the shoulder.

  Tom was breathing hard; a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him with her hand on his side, “or should I take you to the hospital for medical attention?”

  He seemed confused, “No, no, I’m fine,” and held his forehead, “I must have eaten some bad gruel and freaked out. Sorry I frightened you,” he apologized, and glanced at his watch. He was only gone about 10 or 15 seconds, at the most.

  When she was convinced that he was healthy and recovered, she continued the drive and kept a watchful eye on him.

  They soon reached Carravecky and Sons’ complex and halted at the main gate. Security seemed even tighter than yesterday. A broad-shouldered guard requested their identification while looking into the vehicle like he was searching for weapons or contraband; a compact shoulder-mounted camera with voice communications allowed him to transmit and receive instructions from the main guard post.

  They accessed the main gate and drove past Carravecky’s massive manufacturing sector toward a secure research compound called Sector 2, which was isolated from the rest of Carravecky’s production holdings. Once they arrived at the checkpoint, the duty officers verified the visitors’ security clearance, and allowed them access.

  McBridle drove a short distance. She pulled into a lot and parked adjacent to an elongated concrete structure that sat low to the ground. It was extremely plain looking by commercial architectural design standards yet specifically constructed to house special projects still in their early stages of development.

  The front-desk guard recognized McBridle, but still he asked for her authorization documents. When post security was satisfied, an officer escorted them down a sterile-looking corridor to a holding area.

  The stainless-steel containment doors opened and McBridle and Tom entered. Doctor Milnip, who was chief development officer for experimental projects, greeted them.

  “It’s always a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Celia,” Milnip said, while holding her hand and kissing it like a sex maniac. “You remember my trusted and brainy assistant, Zeppic?”

  She smiled at him, like a professional bitch, “Careful with those slippery fingers, wonder-boy if you want to keep them attached to the rest of your body.”

  He tensed up. “I’m sorry; I see your eyes and get all crazy, deep down inside.”

  “Give me a break with that soapy-mouth trash, verbal crap. I know you’re not looking at my eyes,” and presented her beautiful figure, hands off. McBridle turned on a dime. “Milnip, this is my friend and associate, Tom Bronze,” she said sincerely.

  Milnip shook hands with Tom. “That’s a really strong grip you got there young lad.”

  “Tom’s one of our firm’s most-brilliant forensic auditors, and a rising star within the company,” she said with praise.

  Tom looked uncomfortably surprised.

  “New blood always rejuvenates old blood,” Milnip said jokingly.

  “Then, Milnip, you’re looking good, and fit as a two-dollar bottle of wine,” she returned the compliment.

  He looked at Tom. “It’s the eyes that keep the mind strong and the pants that keep the body healthy, if ya get my drift,” he said with a wink.

  Tom was about to lob a friendly comment when McBridle interrupted, “There was an interesting article in the America Prototype Journal last month. Did you happen to read it?”

  “No,” Milnip said, “fill me in on the way to my office,” and took her arm.

  McBridle turned toward Tom, “We’ll be a few minutes; wait for me here and don’t think yourself to death.”

  Tom obeyed her command, “Yeah, sure, I’ll wait; whatever you want.”

  She continued with Milnip. “This fascinating article concerns the fabrication of...” her voice faded as they disappeared inside Milnip’s cubed office.

  Zeppic concluded his do-nothing type of work and watched Tom, who just stared straight ahead, studying a hefty-looking white tarp that was sprawled out over a diamond-shaped body, which stood about twenty feet and extended back at least a hundred feet and sixty-five feet at its widest points. Although, cloaked, the object still looked unusual.

  Tom zeroed in for a sneak peek beneath the spacious shroud.

  “That’s far enough my new-fangled friend,” Zeppic warned.

  Tom’s feet froze--his forward curiosity stalled.

  “If you really want to see what’s under that tarp, (he was holding a chrome wrench in one hand and an oily cloth in the other) then you’ll probably never live to see tomorrow,” he admitted.

  “What do you mean by that?” Tom demanded an explanation.

  “What you know around here, can choke a horse.”

  “Are you saying you know something? Or are you saying you want to tell me something? If so, spit it out and don’t waste my time with your employment complaints.”

  “People who get too close usually disappear,” Zeppic wiped his hands with the cloth, “and I’m not going to be one of them.”

  “Am I to guess what that means, or should I just look beneath the cover, now?”

  “I wouldn’t advise that because there’s a lot of hidden technology watching us,” his eyes roamed the air. He eyed Tom with an immense curiosity. “My practise is simple--stay clean, watch your back, and trust no one.” He placed the shiny wrench in his toolbox, sat at his workstation, and began fiddling with a broken computer touch-pad, as if trying to ignore the work at hand.

  After an absence of about 10 minutes or so, McBridle returned. She completed her discussion with Doctor Milnip, who was concerned about breaking a project deadline scheduled for this coming Friday. “I saw you and Zeppic talking; were you guys having fun, or was he boring you into a coma?” she asked.

  “No, he’s a delight, a bundle of paranoid laughs,” Tom admitted.

  “Why? Was he talking mumbo-jumbo nonsense again?”

  “Maybe he just needs to get out more often and talk with regular folks, like the kind you’d meet at a nuthouse,” Tom said casually.

  “Zeppic doesn’t like anybody. That’s why he’s stuck here,” and headed for the exit.

  Tom straightened up his tie. “What’s going on now?”

  “A quick meeting with the old man; then we’re on our way home,” she admitted.

  “That’s fine with me. Let’s get out of here and get on with our job,” he replied, hot on her heels.