Aberrant Weather

That was fucking bizarre. I considered calling Aiden back, but the situation seemed above a Lieutenant. Besides, what would he do that my friends couldn't?

As I walked back into the house and towards the kitchen, I saw Piotr and Duhn opening up the pop-up tents. I wondered how differently thing might have gone down if the two of them were with me when I spoke to the black-clad men.

Anticipating a worsening of the rain, Birgette and I moved furniture against the walls so the children would have a place to play inside if need be. About to tell Duhn about a smaller tent he could use to cover the grill, I again heard knocking on the door. I paused, thinking about calling to Duhn or Piotr, or even Birgette, our gun toting linguist.

Eventually, I realized it was likely the patrolmen I had requested and not a return from Mr. and Mr. Creepy. Walking forward and opening the door, I stood there, staring as my heart raced. He was so young and so handsome!

"Ma'am, my name is George Espinoza. I'm a special attaché to the Israeli government. Here's my ID." He handed me his wallet that had a driver's license, as well as ID from the Israel embassy. "May I have a moment of your time?"

I still stared.

"Ma'am?"

He was four decades younger than the last time I had seen him. Being an unwilling and unwitting passenger in the machinery of time travel kept throwing me curve balls. Standing in front of me was a man who had loved another version of me and died trying to save us all while I was in 2018.

He had been my doppelgänger's closest friend and I could only hope that he would be mine as well.

I was determined not to cry as I stepped back and to the side with a trembling smile, allowing him to enter. His return smile melted my heart. It turned his stoic and almost grim face friendly and widened his grey eyes. I had to keep reminding myself that at this time, he was married to Elise and had two boys. His daughter wouldn't be born for another year.

George was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt. He made the pressed clothes look almost like a uniform. Stepping inside, he looked about, his keen eye seemingly taking in every detail, and kept his back to the wall.

"Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I won't be taking up too much of your time."

He chose a chair that was once more against the wall and also gave him a view of the door he just entered from and the hallway leading towards the rear of the house.

"Are you Ms. Kallas?" Even his voice was young.

"I am, but please call me Cynthia."

As we spoke, the occasional light patter of rain grew steady.

"I, uh... Ms. Kallas, I'm afraid that I'm at a loss for how to present this in a way that sounds, I don't know, friendly. There is a man who works... well, I guess it's past tense now, he worked for the Israeli government. He used us to gain information on the suspected current locations of war criminals in hiding, avoided our detection and disappeared."

He looked around the room again and seemed to focus on the sparse decorations Birgette had managed to put up. "Are you expecting children?"

"Yes, a birthday party for a friend's son."

"This is not good." He seemed to be talking to himself more than to me. "He was seen in Brazil, Argentina, and now here, in Montauk."

"What does that have to do with me, George?"

"I've done some quick checking. You have a well-known, how shall I put this, operator? Mercenary? Eliminator of problems? Staying with you, as well as a respected Soviet intellectual. You were recently visited by men from a shadowy pseudo-governmental organization. We are aware of your reputation for having politicians at your beck and call and now there seems to be more than one type of storm brewing with a dangerous madman who used to work for us on the loose in this small town. This is all very odd and too much to chalk up to coincidence. Ms. Kallas, what's going on?"

Under normal circumstances I would be concerned that I was being set up. I'd be guarded, careful and volunteer nothing. But it was George, and I was able to throw all of that out the window. "I honestly have no idea. All I know is that I've seen 16 skinheads in town, heard that there are a bunch more and that they are being led by some Nazis. And, I guess, that there are some weirdos with a penchant for wearing black who like to make oblique threats."

"And your guests?"

"Friends. We're close to the anniversary of the death of another friend of ours and we're sharing memories."

"Oh. Well, my condolences on your loss. Ms. Kallas, please be careful, okay? Especially if children are going to be here. He's crazy, but... I don't know, just keep an eye out. Maybe cancel what you have planned and get out of town."

"What are you talking about, George? Who's crazy?"

Sighing, he leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. Staring at the floor, he still seemed alert and I got the feeling he knew where everything in the room was at all times.

"I have the strongest feeling that I can trust you, and I don't know why. I need to start off by saying that I believe he's insane. I definitely don't believe that what he wants to do is possible. That's immaterial, because he believes it's possible. Are you familiar with Jack Parsons? Founder of Jet Propulsion Laboratories? He's a genius. Certified, once a generation genius. And nuttier than a fruitcake. And yes, I realize I'm using the present tense for someone who supposedly died in the 50's."

George stood, walked to a window, watched the darkening clouds and continued.

"He's a mystic. A devotee of Aleister Crowley. He used to perform rituals with L. Ron Hubbard until that crackpot stole both Parsons' wife and money. They were trying to bring an occult goddess named Babalon to Earth." He turned towards me and held up his hands. "Look, I know. Crazy. But again, brilliant. Anyway, they obviously didn't succeed, 'cause magic isn't real.

"When the word got out about his odd obsessions, he lost any sway he had with the public, government and his own company. Things got bad and my government helped him fake his death and brought him to Israel. He was vital in developing much of our long-range defense systems. We treated him like a king, and he repaid our loyalty by stealing our research on hidden German criminals, leaving Israel and finding supporters among surviving Nazi cultists.

"He never gave up on his original goal; he just decided he needed a greater power source. Parsons wants to create a disaster that will result in a tremendous amount of death, utilize the energy released by that death to fuel his ritual and bring this goddess here. Again, yeah, crazy. He plans on creating this death on a massive scale by controlling the weather, like some bad Bond villain. He's going to create hurricanes up and down the eastern seaboard, starting here, on the tip of Long Island. He had to leave Israel sooner than he had planned, and we found some of his writings. Other pieces of his plans we picked up here and there."

We were both quiet while I digested this.

"That's... I don't have the words. It's totally crazy. Nothing about it makes sense. How is he going to control the weather?"

"Well, obviously he can't control the weather, but he's convinced that there's some top-secret military base nearby that is experimenting with weird cutting-edge science. He's mentally ill."

Remaining silent, I thought of Camp Hero, the military base less than three miles away, and their machinations that had propelled me into the future and pulled me back again.

I had first-hand knowledge of their science and what I later found out they termed The Montauk Experiment. Maybe Parsons wasn't as crazy as George thought.

The triple honk alerted us to the arrival of the bus filled with children. Birgette and I walked out to the ramshackle vehicle to greet them while Alistair stayed dry by waiting on the porch. Father Montgomery had a large umbrella that he used to escort the children two and three at a time to the house. A perfect little host, Alistair belied his age by greeting and welcoming everyone.

Both the wind and rain increased as we ate the burgers and dogs that Duhn grilled under a tent. Almost perfectly timed, I was helping him bring in the last of the trays to be washed when the wind lifted the canopy up and slammed it down. We hurried everything inside and the scene was repeated, this time destroying the tent. Piotr and Duhn rushed out to get the material off the still hot grill, and we chalked the tent up as a loss.

Father Montgomery was walking around in his socks while his shoes dried, and a number of the children cast glances out the window and into the burgeoning storm. They could hear the wind begin to howl and the occasional window rattle slightly.

The skies had darkened, and it looked to be hours later than it actually was. Alistair had tried to get me to buy 21 birdcages, as he wanted to give each child a sparrow, of all things. Once he found out that the children were orphans, he felt enormous compassion. I had no idea where he would get the birds, but I assured him that I would get gifts for everyone to open.

He had his cake, every child opened their presents and they had a grand time playing games. I enjoyed watching Alistair interacting with the other kids. He was kind, sharing and considerate, which were excellent signs considering the peculiarities of his heritage.

There was a persistent loud knocking on the door at 3:04 PM. It was George and he eschewed pleasantries.

"How many children are here?"

"There's 22, why?"

He looked over his shoulder and out the window where the rain was coming down in sheets. "Do you have a storm cellar?"

"We have a finished basement that's accessible from the backyard. What's going on?"

"Two hurricanes. One headed this way, the other hitting Nassau County, so you can't head west."

And east a few miles meant the ocean. Wonderful.

I thought for a few minutes before speaking. "How much time do we have?"

"Not long. Here, maybe three or four hours before we're in the thick of it. Nassau County, less."

"Okay. Give me a minute." I called out. "Father! Birgette!" I started emptying the bottles of soda into the sink until they showed up.

Father Montgomery arrived first. He appeared out of breath and must have been playing some game with the kids.

"Yes?"

"Father, I need you to empty every bottle you can find and fill them with water. Have Birgette grab any bucket she can get her hands on and get them downstairs along with some food, blankets pillows and sheets. Oh, and battery-operated radios. A hurricane is headed our way and we're going to have a basement filled with scared kids who are going to have to drink, pee and rest. And board games! Grab anything you can that would entertain the kids."

After introducing George to Duhn and Piotr, I left them to grab anything useful I could find. Band-Aids, flashlights, can openers, five bottles of liquor and more, all went into the basement.

I heard Duhn calling for me in his odd, formal style. "Cynthia, my friend, we need to discuss things with you."

Walking into the den with a bundle of blankets, I looked at the three men.

George spoke. "Ms. Kallas, there's a war being waged in Montauk. The Nazi's and skinheads and the odd men dressed in black are killing each other wholesale. You need to keep these children safe from both the weather and these maniacs. I would stay and help, but I need to find Parsons. Somehow, he's at the center of all of this and I have no idea where he is."

Turning, I placed the blankets on the couch. Looking back at George, I sighed and responded. "I do. I know exactly where he is. I'll bring you to him."

Piotr spoke up. "No, Cynthia, this is not reasonable. From what this man says, it is a battlefield out there. You must stay here and help protect the children."

"I don't need to do any such thing, but I appreciate your concern. When I say exactly, I meant exactly. You'll need me. Father Montgomery and Birgette will stay with the children. Alistair can't afford to lose his only parent, and we can't involve the Father in this."

All three of them tried to convince me to stay behind. They failed. Birgette and the priest tried to turn the circumstances into a game for the children and they made little tents and forts with sheets and blankets.

Right before we left, Alistair pulled my head down to his little lips and whispered in my ear. "I'll pray for you, Aunt Cynthia." I kissed his adorable head and walked with my friends out into the storm.

We took my Mercedes, with George driving to my navigation. The wind pushed against the car as we drove and garbage cans, sticks and other debris blew into our path. We had to double back numerous times to find ways around fallen trees and utility poles. I counted the bodies as we drove. Eventually, we made it to the gates of Camp Hero, got out and headed towards the cement platform where I was caught in their experiments, years earlier.

The wind was pushing at us, forcing us to hunker down and move slowly. Bodies were strewn everywhere as we grew closer to our destination. Corpses of the odd men dressed in black were littered amongst skinheads. More of the want-to-be Nazis must have been coming all the time, as I'd counted 76 of them either dying or dead.

George, Piotr and Duhn all stared in amazement at the cement block and the electric blue current that I knew I would have to cross.

A voice thick with an odd accent called out loudly over the howling winds. He wore a long leather coat, a military uniform of some sort and glasses. "You are too late, Rav seren Espinoza. He has entered Geist Gottes, and will emerge a god. There is no more Jack Parsons, just the entity to be, the New Man, and all injustices shall be corrected."

Duhn immediately stepped forward but stopped when he saw a large tall bald, mustachioed man in an olive-green uniform and cap step from the trees a few yards from the first man. Pulling off his shirt, and tossing the cap on the ground, the large man raised his hands towards his chest and curled his fingers towards himself a few times in the traditional "come at me" signal for wanting a fight that probably predates spoken language.

Smiling, Duhn appeared happy to oblige.

Fighting the noise of the storm, George called back to the first man. "Ernst Toht, I presume. And what injustices will be corrected? Are you finally eradicating the Jews? Setting up a Fourth Reich?"

"All of the old goals will be realized and things we couldn't have dreamt of then will now come to be!"

The large, shirtless man called out. "Nächster!"

There was a slash along his chest and blood seeped down his torso. Duhn lay on the ground near his feet, knife in one hand, struggling to stand while clutching his ribs with the other.

I was shocked and everything took on a more menacing mien. Duhnagaham was death personified. He swept through enemies like a hot knife through butter. How could he be laying on the ground? I doubted myself, constantly, but I never doubted my friends.

Duhn was the killer, Birgette was the genius and Piotr was my mountain. I could fail, but never them.

Still staring at Duhn, I caught a glimpse of movement and looked up to see George airborne, leg extended as his foot crashed into the head of the large German.

Turning towards the cement platform, I started to move in its direction.

Once again, Ernst called out over the wind. "No, Ms. Kallas. I think not."

Raising his arm, I saw the pistol in his hand. Almost simultaneous to the barking discharge from the gun, I felt myself grabbed in a bear hug, and swung around. Piotr put himself between me and the danger. Through his deep chest, I felt the shudder and impact as the bullets struck him, one after the other.

He shoved me towards the line of trees as he fell to the ground and I felt the tears slipping down my face. This was all wrong, so wrong. He was forever, he was my mountain. Piotr couldn't die.

I didn't head towards the trees as he wished. I fell to my knees and cradled his head. Looking up at me with a grimace, he growled, "Run, lyubovnik."

"No," Ernst called. "Don't run. Today it all ends." He lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. I couldn't hear the click, but I saw recognition in his face as he realized he was out of bullets.

Tossing the gun to the side, he pulled a long, wavy knife from a sheath at his waist and strode towards me, his voice growing stronger the closer he grew.

"We shall end this in a more intimate fashion then, yes?" There was insanity in his too wet eyes and grotesque trembling lips.

When Ernst was within five feet of me, Piotr grunted, growled and pushed himself from the ground. Swaying a bit, he found purchase for his legs and lurched forward. The shocked Nazi stopped, then lunged forward, stabbing. His blade seemed to strike something under Piotr's shirt and slip to the side.

Grabbing Ernst's wrist, Piotr yanked him close and squeezed. I heard bones snap. My protector's other hand found its way around the Nazi's neck.

Turning purple, Ernst flailed at Piotr's clutching hand.

"Tre...Treasure..."

The choked word forced its way past the Nazi's throat. Piotr must have loosened his grip.

His voice was raspy. "Treasures. I know where they all are. I can make you powerful, Russian. In Jerusalem, a former stable, the Templars treasures, we can excavate. The Spear of Destiny. It can be yours. Let me live."

Piotr scowled and almost flinched back. He looked enraged and his huge shoulders rolled forward. "You offer me this thing? The spear that pierced My Lord? This... this atrocity? You... Merzost!"

Ernst's face went from red to purple as Piotr began squeezing again. Adding his other hand to the effort, the Nazi was lifted from the ground and I heard a sickening series of snaps and cracking. Face growing mottled, Ernst lightly smacked at Piotr's hands, slowed, and finally stopped.

Piotr held him aloft for a minute longer and then tossed him aside. He lifted his shirt over his head, and I saw the armor he was wearing. Stepping into his embrace, I looked passed him and saw George and Duhn standing over the large German.

They had done their job, all three of my friends. I said a quick silent prayer for Birgette and Father Montgomery and set my mind to my task.

Pushing back the hood of the rainslicker I was wearing, I stood staring at the block of cement where I first got caught in the insanity that has been my life. Trees in the periphery swayed and the rain pelted me as I remained in place.

They had somehow stabilized the circular electric-blue current that had transported me to and from 2018. It didn't open any wider and didn't close, it just hung in place, shimmering. I didn't want to return to the in-between that existed between the Now and Then. A waystation between realities, I left both damaged and enhanced the two times I had been there.

I could present a front to the world and pretend that I was fine and one of them, a normal person, but a part of me always whispered that I was a hairs-breath from madness and it was that place that made me this way. But what could I do? Parsons was going to destroy countless lives and bring a creature to Earth that didn't belong in our reality.

Stepping forward, my legs shook. Forward again, I began to cry and after another step, I vomited. Leaning forward, hands on my knees, I stared at the ground. What about Aiden Corrigan and his family? If this was allowed to happen, Finn's grandparents and parents would be killed long before he was conceived.

The man I was dedicating my life to would never be born.