The Flooding Read online

  We break into a jog, passing a large, muddy pond. As we’re leaving the park on the corner of Fifty-Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, Ashkai says, “Ten o’clock,” and my eyes go there, finding a man and woman on foot, weaving through traffic toward us. Somewhere on their bodies will be a tattoo of either a phoenix, a fish, or a lotus flower. Phoenixes represent the lowest order of agents—rookies, so to speak—who do not pose a huge threat unless their numbers are overwhelming. Fish are more experienced and formidable, but again, one on one, I would always bet on myself. Lotus flowers are a different challenge altogether. They have achieved enlightenment and, as such, are not bound by the laws of nature, something that makes them extremely dangerous.

  While thought-speak is a skill I’m getting better at, I can only exchange with those I have a connection with. Tuning into a conversation between strangers in the middle of a huge, bustling city while running for my life is well beyond what I’m capable of. The same doesn’t apply to Ashkai, which is not surprising when considering his soul has been in existence since long ago and that he once spent fifty-two consecutive cycles in deep, isolated meditation. In fact, my master is so old that he has reincarnated on every one of the seven inhabitable planets. So far, Earth has been my only home.

  “I can’t hear them,” Ashkai says. “I can feel their energy, but I can’t break through.”

  We’re jogging still, heading south on Fifth Avenue past the Grand Plaza, avoiding the flow of Saturday morning pedestrians (how little they know!) by hugging the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road, sun beating down on our backs, needing to get in among the taller buildings ahead, where it will be easier to vanish.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know,” he replies. “But it’s as if something is keeping me out.”

  After a few blocks, Meta on my mind, we see four Flooders waiting to intercept us. To avoid them, we break down Fifty-Sixth Street, heading west, shaded by the looming architecture of the city, a selection of national flags fluttering in the breeze above our heads. The hot smells of rotting food and exhaust fumes agitate our lungs. Thirty seconds on, we see more agents, so we head down a narrow, garbage-infested alley, only to be cut off at the other end as well, forcing us to stop in our tracks.

  There are so many, I think. Too many to fight, but before my doubts have time to become fears, I hear Ashkai’s thought-voice reminding me that every problem has a solution and that to find it, we must stay calm, present, and connected.

  More than anything, he continues, we must embrace what’s happening as if we chose it ourselves.

  A tall, wiry, Middle-Eastern–looking man wearing a badly stained apron appears from a door to our left. He’s standing next to a row of large trash bins and is about to light a cigarette when he notices what’s going on, first looking left at the Flooders approaching from the west, then at those coming from the east, and finally at the two of us.

  “Step aside,” I say. “Now.” He does, just in time, allowing us to sprint through the door into a busy, hot, working kitchen that smells of spices and burned onions, with pop music blaring out of a radio. A large woman holding a knife shouts obscenities as we crash into her restaurant and race past the diners. I catch a glimpse of my lean, honed body in the mirrored wall, the outer shell of twenty-one-year-old Suzi Aarons from Los Angeles, the rich Jewish girl who vanished into thin air three years ago. She was overweight and shy back then, but a lot has changed.

  Out on the street, we come face-to-face with two more agents. They try their best to stop us, but their best isn’t good enough, and we leave them nursing broken limbs as we race on, taking detours when we have to—my god, they’re everywhere—but mainly heading south. Then, after what must be ten minutes of hard running, Ashkai guides me into the sea of people, offices, and shops that make up Rockefeller Center.

  “This way,” he says, the two of us slowing to a brisk walk, trying to blend in, our breathing almost back to normal as we approach the GE Building, the art deco skyscraper that wouldn’t look out of place in a Batman movie.

  We enter the air-conditioned lobby, which is grand and spacious with marble floors, thick pillars, and a high, painted ceiling complemented by ornate, richly colored walls. I presume we’re going to exit on the other side, maybe slip into another building, when Ashkai approaches a security guard and whispers in his ear. At first, the man flinches, but then he visibly relaxes, smiles even, and that’s when I know my master is more concerned for our safety than he is letting on.

  As the guard opens one of the mechanical gates, giving us access to the elevators, I ask Ashkai, in an urgent whisper, why he used his powers to manipulate and control a Sleeper (our term for souls who do not remember past lives), especially as it’s something he routinely forbids.

  Does he really think they’re going to catch us?

  Before he can answer, I hear my name whispered, the voice quiet and otherworldly, hitting me from all directions. Instinct forces me to stop and turn, and before I know it, I’m looking at the only person in the world I truly hate: Meta. I know for certain it’s her, even though this is our first and only encounter. My sworn enemy, who in this life can’t be more than eleven years old, stares into me, her eyes ablaze with an indigo fire. I’m mesmerized by her energy and power, and find myself edging nearer, as if the floor beneath is carrying me forward.

  She says, “Hello, Samsara,” and I feel deeply loved and safe. Part of me knows this is a trap, but I’m unable to resist.

  “Hello,” I reply, gliding, floating, and that’s when Ashkai appears and shoves me into an elevator, bringing me back to the here and now. I watch him press the button for the fiftieth floor and then feel his hand reach for mine, the two of us crammed in the corner now, his grip warm and gentle. He looks into my eyes, projecting love, compassion, and strength.

  I’m about to tell him what happened, how she so easily had me in her grasp, when he says, “Not everything is as it seems.”

  When we eventually get off the elevator, we find ourselves in NBC’s offices, which are busy despite it being the weekend. Instead of turning right with everyone else, Ashkai hangs left, and as I’m trying to keep pace, a walled fire alarm shatters, seemingly unaided. A loud, persistent noise kicks in, accompanied by an automated female voice saying, “Fire. Please leave the building immediately,” over and over. I can’t help but smile at my master’s ingenuity. After all, there must be thousands of Sleepers in this skyscraper, all of whom are about to accompany us outside.

  But will that be enough to hide us from her?

  We’re among the first to enter what looks like a seldom-used stairwell, but we are only two flights down when we spot three Flooders coming the other way, tranquilizer guns at the ready. The agent in front has a lotus flower tattoo on his neck. We turn back, but it’s slowgoing, as civilians are gushing in, some of them pointing out how we’re heading in the wrong direction and we should forget our personal belongings, better safe than sorry. Ignoring them, we reenter the fiftieth floor, only to be met by more Flooders spilling out of the elevator.

  “With me,” Ashkai says, and moments later, we’re back in the crowded stairwell, going up again. After two flights, Ashkai starts shouting that a bomb is about to explode. The resulting panic further inconveniences our pursuers as we duck into a service corridor that takes us through to an adjoining section of the building. The next door we encounter requires a swift, hard kick from Ashkai. A few seconds later, we find ourselves outside, on a section of roof about the size of three basketball courts, most of the space occupied by satellite dishes and air-conditioning units. It quickly becomes clear there’s nowhere to go, just more skyscrapers to the north and west—we’re on a section that juts out slightly—and only the distant streets via the south and east.

  I turn to my master, only to be confronted by his back, my stomach sinking as the penny drops. “You intend for us to jump, don’t you?”

  Instead of answering, Ashkai raises his palms, using them
to help channel his will, which, at this moment, is to rip up satellite dishes, air-conditioning units, and anything else available, creating a makeshift barricade in front of the door, an obstacle that will buy us a few minutes at most.

  With metal tearing from concrete, Ashkai glances over his shoulder and says, “First we must prepare for death.”

  “Prepare for suicide, you mean.”

  “Suicide is letting them take us alive.” Goddamn it. I like this life. I like being an adult. I like knowing who I am.

  “We can fight.”

  “Their numbers are too many, and they are armed.”

  “What happened to there always being a solution to every problem?”

  “Sometimes the solution is also the last resort.”

  “I refuse to believe that.”

  Ashkai turns his gaze to the door again, palms aloft, remaining silent and focused until the job is done. Then he walks over to me.

  “Samsara, the only thing that matters is how you choose to die. Everything else is a distraction. You must not cross over feeling angry or afraid. Feel your breath, clear your mind, repeat the mantras, and know we will be together again soon . . .”

  He’s interrupted by the sound of our enemies attempting to force the door open. Almost immediately, they give up, but soon afterward, sections of the makeshift barricade begin floating away. Ashkai reaches behind with his right hand, palm facing the door now, sending counter energy to hold everything in place.

  “We don’t have much time. Travel bravely and with an open heart and know that I will see you very soon.”

  He kisses me gently, then looks into my eyes and uses thought-speak to say, Be thankful, journey well, and blessed be your next life.

  I nod, giving in to the inevitable, and watch as my master turns to focus his full attention on keeping the door closed, all so I can prepare and make ready. As soon as I jump, Ashkai will follow, the duration of the fall providing all the time he needs to find peace.

  I reflect on the fact that neither of us is carrying our cyanide pill. We have them for emergencies such as this but have gotten out of the habit over the years. It’s been a long time since we’ve had to use them.

  I walk away and lift myself onto the lip of the building, staring east across the New York skyline, Roosevelt Island in the distance, then glance below at the distant streets busy with yellow cabs and people. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, summoning the death mantra, repeating the ancient words over and over.

  Soon, I hear Ashkai’s voice in my head. “You are ready.”

  I respond with, “As it ends, so it begins,” a traditional farewell among my people, a phrase that embodies the cyclical, balanced nature of all things, a solemn promise to see that soul again.

  Bending my knees, about to leap, I’m hit by a strong gust of wind. Then comes the sound of propellers and I’m overcome by dread. I open my eyes and turn just as a helicopter appears on my left; it had been previously shielded by the southern face of the skyscraper. There’s a single sniper leaning through its open door. He’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and has a strangely pale complexion. My master has currently got his back to me. His side is facing them. I open my mouth to scream a warning, but it’s too late . . .

  Even though he has drug-filled darts sticking out of his left side and two in his jugular, Ashkai is still able to push the helicopter away with a thrust of his hand. The pilot struggles to regain control as my master spins to face me. After a beat, he falls to his knees. The barricade dismantles in an instant, allowing Flooders to pour through the door like a swarm of ants. I’m about to run to Ashkai’s side and fight with everything I have when he looks up and raises a palm in my direction.

  “Don’t do it,” I shout as a pulse of energy hits the center of my chest like a huge, powerful wave, sending me flying off the building’s edge.

  My arms start flailing, hands grabbing thin air, as fear, anger, and bitterness engulf me. I use my mind to project it all at Ashkai, wanting him to know how scared and alone I feel. I’m terrified of how badly I’m going to die and that I’ll be lost in the spirit realm for eons. What he did was wrong.

  We are a team; we should have been side by side. What sort of ending is this?

  I hear his thought-voice, still calm, still peaceful, saying, Samsara, as it ends, so it begins. By freeing you, I have planted the seed for my own liberation. You will die. You will be reborn. And when you have your Flooding, I have no doubt you will find me.

  And just like that, the dark, angry fog dissipates, and I become instantly aware—such clarity!—of how selfish I am being. After all, Ashkai is the one who has been captured, the one facing the unspeakable terror of the Long Sleep. For the first time in our history, he’s relying on me, he’s scared, he’s exposed, and all I have been thinking about is myself.

  My heart fills with love and compassion, determination and hope. For the second time today, I use telepathy to apologize to my master, adding, I will find you.

  I don’t expect a reply, but I get one—briefly—as Ashkai tries to tell me something about the spirit realm, how I must go there after my Flooding. But I’m forced to tune him out; death is demanding my full attention. I twist my body so that I’m facing the streets of New York. In doing so, I spot something utterly bewildering. There’s a bed on the sidewalk directly below me, and there’s a girl asleep on it.

  Thinking how familiar she looks, I shout, “Wake up! Get out the way!” Before I’ve even finished the sentence, it dawns on me what’s happening . . . that I’m Rosa Clark now, I’m asleep on Eyeliner’s bed, and I’ve been reliving the final moments of my last passing. I’m trying to remember if I died well, and if not, how long I was trapped in the world between worlds and how many days, months, or years elapsed before I found a new body, the same one I’m about to smash into. But more important than that, I want to know if I have made any progress tracking Ashkai down.

  And if not, what the hell am I doing sleeping?

  FOUR

  I’m already upright in Eyeliner’s bed when my eyes snap open, T-shirt soaked through with sweat, my breathing heavy and labored, mind swirling and confused. Still seeing Ashkai on his knees, I leap to my feet and hurry to the desk tucked between the bay windows. I fire up the iMac. Diffused sunlight seeps through the cheap, white blinds, giving the room a hazy, golden hue.

  I clench my jaw with frustration as the computer takes an age to boot, remembering Meta’s eyes, her awesome, terrifying power. The screen becomes a black Harley Davidson straddled by a blonde wearing red heels and a white bikini. The big smile on her face provides a stark contrast to how I’m feeling. I go online and search for suzi aarons new york suicide, press enter, and then check my watch: 10:42 a.m., which means I had just over three hours sleep.

  I click the top link. It takes me to a Huffington Post article from 2012, the journalist exploring why, in the United States, more men than women choose to end their lives jumping off skyscrapers, particularly in the Big Apple. The lady speculates about the data and then points out there are exceptions, like twenty-one-year-old Suzi Aarons from Los Angeles, who’d been missing for three years before she leaped to her death from the GE Building. The date was September 3, 1998.

  I lean back and start doing calculations, beginning with Rosa Clark’s birth: September 25, 1999. My consciousness would have entered her fetus forty-nine days after conception, which is when the brain’s pineal gland forms, the portal through which spirits are able to access the physical plane. No doubt I beat out countless other souls vying for the unborn avatar. It may seem like there are plenty of babies born on Earth, but there are even more souls awaiting birth.

  I only lost four and a half months; I did pretty well, considering. A person’s state of consciousness at the moment of death, positive or negative, is amplified a thousandfold by the spirit realm, so to arrive there carrying anger, fear, and bitterness (as so many do) is to sentence him- or herself to an ordeal of indescribable horror, one that ca
n take many Earth years to conquer and overcome.

  The Chamber of Infinites has been hunting Ashkai for thousands of years because he refuses to adhere to their stupid, archaic, stifling laws. They are so out of touch that they won’t do anything without consulting their oracles: seven individuals who, it is claimed, can predict the future. But they are often wrong, and the reason is simple: nothing is fixed or certain, especially fate.

  Ashkai believes the world is ready for the truth, needs it, and that individual souls have the right to make their own choices and be given the opportunity to develop, learn, and grow.

  What’s so wrong with that?

  Plenty, according to the Chamber of Infinites. They claim it’s dangerous and counter to the laws of the universe to accelerate the evolution of souls. How can that be when the vast majority of our initiates have benefited immeasurably, thanking us for opening their eyes, and going on to contribute positively and lovingly to the human experience?

  The truth is this: the Chamber of Infinites—made up of forty-nine elders and chaired by Meta, their de facto leader—is just another bureaucracy invested in the status quo, concerned solely with its own survival. They are the guardians of all the power and knowledge amassed by Flooders over the ages, and they don’t want to give any of it up. They’re content to leave the less fortunate in a state of ignorance, suffering, and spiritual inertia, arguing that’s just the way it is.

  While working myself up, a truly horrifying reality begins to take shape: What if it’s already too late?

  What if instead of sentencing Ashkai to the Long Sleep (from which he can be awakened), Meta condemned him to the Decimatio? I quickly remind myself that the Chamber of Infinites—unlike The Shadow—is an official organization bound by ancient laws and customs. The Decimatio is black magic and only employed by those who serve “The Demiurge,” my people’s term for the heavy accumulation of negative energy built up over hundreds of thousands of years, energy that has become conscious, energy that seeks to corrupt, destroy, and terrorize. The Chamber are misguided and deluded, but they aren’t that bad; at least I hope they’re not.