CARTER [P2C1] – Hellstone Lake
The Chronicles of Samuel Carter – Part II: Chapter One
This is Part Two of the Chronicles of Samuel Carter. If you haven’t read Part One, yet, please find the link below.
And now for the continuation…
Part II – Chapter One: Hellstone Lake
Beaumont. People hear the name and think of the devil. Fear the name, they say. Fear it. And when you hear it: Run. Run as fast as you can. Don’t look back and run, run until your feet carry you no further. Beaumont. Think of the devil running for his life when he hears the name. Beaumont. Fear the name, they say, and they are right, for things far worse than death follow in its wake.
—Dr. Samuel C. Carter
It was snowing the most gigantic snowflakes Samuel had ever seen. After circling for what seemed forever in a holding pattern over Munich, they were the last ones to land. Everything and everyone was grounded, covered in a thick white blanket. Proper winter weather that was. The plane came to a halt, and the usual ritual began.
The me-firsts would get up the second the aircraft stopped, grabbing their belongings in a frenzy from the overhead compartments, standing there like a potpourri of lost and founds no one wanted, blowing raspberries and generally looking annoyed, blocking everyone else. And then there were the me-lasts, sitting there revelling in their disdain, and in some cases, scanning for troublemakers, for me-firsts out for blood, comms ready for that chance to go viral.
Samuel couldn’t get up even if he wanted to, perched in his window seat, watching the snowflakes dance in the wind. A piece of luggage dropped, someone yelped, cursing, hobbling on one foot, bumping into another me-first, somewhere a baby started to wail. Samuel shook his head, looking at his wristwatch. His bladder wanted him off the plane. The person was unhurt, and everyone was staring at the front again, lemmings ready to jump. He switched on his comm. Ding. A message from his contact. Ding–Ding–Ding. Network spam messages. He was more than two hours late. Ding.
Meet at Heidi’s Brezn Stube. Follow signs to exit. Can’t miss it. PTT.
He suddenly felt hungry. PTT stood for Professor Thomas von Traunstein. He had made the mistake of assuming his contact was Bavarian. A faux pas, as he had learned the man was from Traunkirchen in Austria, which had earned him a lengthy lecture on the differences between Austrian and Bavarian accents and language. At a different time, Samuel would have found it fascinating, but in his current predicament, he felt little desire for a lecture in linguistics. Jackie was gone, and as the security guard had told it, Samuel had gone off the rocker, hammering against the sealed door of the underground chamber at the Beaumont manor, crazed eyes, talking gibberish, and passing out into the arms of a perplexed Higgins.
Jackie’s father, George Beaumont, a tower of a man, ordered Samuel quarantined and put under observation. Not once did he mention the disappearance of his daughter. He did ask about what had happened in the chamber.
Tell me again. AGAIN.
It always ended with Samuel touching the staff and nothing after that. The Staff of Ra. He had found it, and then Beaumont had taken it. He had taken everything.
Days turned into weeks of tests and scans and needles with medication he knew not what for. He was helpless, a rat in a lab.
Your dissociative state, Dr. Carter, is most troublesome. Each time it manifests, you become more violent, less Carter. I’m afraid we can only delay the inevitable.
George Beaumont’s words hung over him.
Go to Hellstone Lake. Find the X-Point. Our contact will meet you in Munich. You have ten days. This is your last chance. Take one each day. Ten days.
He winced, his hand reached for his breast pocket, feeling for the small, round box, his parting gift from Beaumont, ten pills, ten days, ten days to reverse his condition, to rid himself of this passenger, this intruder.
The me-firsts started moving, shuffling towards the exit, their faces distant, comms buzzing, devices beeping with affirmations and confirmations until the final Wiedersehen from the crew.
Brezn was all he could think about as he went through the automated passport control, hurried past the baggage claim, and headed straight for the exit, holding his messenger bag close. That fluffy knot of pastry, baked golden brown, garnished with crunchy kernels of salt, served with butter and a ridiculously tall glass of wheat beer. His mouth watered, although he preferred tea. But his contact was adamant. You must try, Doctor Carter.
The whole terminal was in utter chaos. A snowstorm madness. Stranded passengers without flights everywhere, people waiting in throngs, sipping coffee, listening to weather forecasts, sitting on the ground, sleeping on jackets with luggage as pillows. Yet, there was order in that chaos, an undeniable rhythm that carried him past a family playing a card game together, past a woman in high heels and designer dress, barking into her comm, voicing her displeasure at being stuck in a place like this, clearly not her scene, bumping into a kid playing airplane, not heeding anyone, when Samuel caught the sudden scent of freshly baked pretzels. He turned and stared into the face of his contact.
“Doctor Carter! Willkommen in München,” Thomas beamed, squinting at him from behind buffalo horn glasses, holding out a hand. Samuel shook it, surprised by the man’s iron grip.
“Hello, you must be Professor von Traunstein?”
The man in the chequered autumn-coloured tweed jacket sporting elbow patches, grey cord trousers, and dark brown Oxford shoes, nodded.
“What gave it away?” He grinned. “Had a long flight, ja?”
“Too long. I’m ready for those pretzels you mentioned.”
“Ah, Heidi’s Brezn. I’m afraid we are very late. Did you not get my message?”
“Meet at that place, yes.” He pointed in the general direction where the scent came from.
“No, ze other one after that. No matter. This way, please. Quickly.” Thomas guided him through the labyrinth of people, past crowded shops and delis that smelled too good to pass by. All the while, the professor looked over his shoulder, steel blue eyes darting about behind his round spectacles, fixing a wisp of grey hair dangling off the side of his receding crown, his new leather soles squeaking, betraying its wearer at every step.
“What’s the matter, Professor?”
“Nichts, nichts. Schnell jetzt. We need to get out, or we’ll be snowed in for ze night.”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“Keine Zeit. Can it not wait?”
“I will be quick.”
Before the professor could protest, Samuel took a left and followed the signs to the cleanest airport toilet, so bright, so shiny, so spacious, and so empty he was expecting Händel’s Hallelujah blasting from the speakers at any moment as he was relieving himself into the pristine porcelain from the painful pressure with a deep sigh.
Humming the chorus, bobbing his head, he washed his hands as he heard the door open.
“Almost done, Professor.”
A thud. And the world went dark.
Intro
For the intro, I used a MIDI file we recorded with our band One Cross Each back in 1990. The song is called “On the Run” (4:34). Unfortunately it is missing some tracks, including the vocals (me). I may tweak it in future issues.
Hellstone Lake Map
TFTD Community
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That dangling wisp of grey hair! Such great description.
Also, this dialogue is awesome. Love the way you weave in the German accent here. Is it particularly local at all? It's fun that you are writing between cultures in this way and writing the 'foreigner' as people where you're from originally. I've got to listen to the recording later to hear how you do this as well. Great stuff.
VERY good.