David Meyer
Vapor
To H.J.J.
Thanks for the inspiration and wonderful memories.
But we’re still coming for you …
Chapter 1
The world was damaged, far beyond repair. Nothing could help it, no one could save it. Earth had been pushed over the proverbial cliff, so to speak. Hence, there was no reason for me or anyone else to worry about the future. Past generations had already decided it for us. But the past itself?
Well, that was still up for grabs.
A light wind kicked up outside the protective confines of our large dome tent. Thousands of dirt particles thudded against the tear-proof multilaminate covering. The tent, sixteen feet tall with a thirty-one foot diameter, had been specially constructed to withstand powerful tempests. But the storms plaguing the region, a small slice of land not far from Jerusalem, were no ordinary storms.
They were dust storms.
“What’s taking so long?” The feminine voice sounded huffy, out of breath. “You said you’d be done by now.”
Twisting around, I saw Lila Grinberg. She wasn’t skinny, but not fat either. The lack of a visible bone structure gave her an almost cartoonish look. Her resting face, a slight frown and vacant eyes, made her appear vaguely stupid.
But looks could be deceiving.
I arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t an exact science, you know.”
Her lip curled in annoyance.
“Hey Lila.” Dutch Graham’s gravelly voice rang out, breaking the silence. “There’s a shower in that farmhouse, right?”
She stared at him, confused.
Graham sauntered forward, a crooked grin upon his face. Scuff marks covered his dark brown boots. His gray pants were wrinkled and soiled. The pits of his blue and white striped rugby shirt were stained with sweat. “I’ve got to look my best for the reporters.”
“There won’t be any reporters,” she replied.
“But you’re Lila Grinberg.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. Lila had transcended the field of archaeology. And she hadn’t done it by sitting in dusty libraries and churning out articles for obscure journals. Instead, she’d sensationalized her work. She wasn’t the first archaeologist to do so. But she was, these days, the most successful at it.
Four years ago, she’d called a press conference from a dig site in northern France. Surrounded by reporters, she revealed her latest target, the remains of a mythical dragon that had supposedly terrorized the area during the sixth century. She remarked that dinosaur bones, dug up by ancient fossil hunters, might have inspired dragon myths. An excitable reporter asked whether she thought the dragon could’ve been an actual dinosaur that had somehow outlived its brethren. Her answer?
Yes.
That one simple word had turned a small media event into a full-blown frenzy. Reporters dubbed her the Dragon Hunter and began journaling her every move. Television personalities begged her to appear on their shows. Production companies bid for access to her dig.
Eventually, she’d dug up some old bones, enshrined in a tomb. Testing showed the bones traced back to the Jurassic era. But since dating wasn’t a precise science, many media outlets reported the possibility the bones could be much younger. Further tests were promised.
The saga, of course, had never ended. Like most of Lila’s subsequent publicity stunts, it sort of trailed away into nothingness, making way for her next set of headlines.
It wasn’t entirely her fault. Research grants went to the bold, the famous. The ones who knew how to spin a tale for the media.
Lila glared at Graham. “Not everything I do is public, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“There isn’t a story here.”
“So, make one up.” He smirked. “That’s what you do, right?”
While they bickered, I twisted toward the dig site. A deep hole had been carved out of the ground. A stone reliquary, seven feet long by four feet wide, lay at the bottom of the hole. Strange relief carvings adorned its lid. They portrayed a terrible dragon, blazing fireballs, smoke-filled skies, and masses of dead people and animals.
“Hold that thought.” Perking his ears, Graham tilted his head skyward. “I think the wind’s picking up.”
Lowering a pair of lightweight metallic goggles to my eyes, I turned toward the translucent entranceway flap. A sturdy elastic strap kept the goggles in place. Their rubberized eyecups sealed to my face. But the goggles were more than just eye protection.
They were a miracle of modern technology.
Despite the rapidly diminishing sunlight, they allowed me a small glimpse, etched in greenish hues, of the surrounding terrain. Once-vibrant farmland had been transformed into a lifeless desert. I saw dead and decayed plants, barely holding on to the arid soil. Rusty hand tools lay half-buried in the dirt. Shriveled animal carcasses and bleached bones were strewn inside former livestock pens. Abandoned buildings — a barn, a two-story farmhouse, and several dilapidated sheds — were less than a hundred yards away.
“He’s right.” I glanced at Lila. “The storm’s getting worse.”
She shrugged. “So what?”
“So, we should wait for it to pass.”
Her jaw clenched tight. “No.”
“But—”
“I said, no.”
I stared at her, unsure of what to think. Despite being a publicity-hound, Lila had a solid reputation among her peers. So, why was she choosing a speedy salvage job over safety of the artifact?
I glanced at Graham. “You heard her.”
“She’s an idiot,” he replied.
Lila’s jaw dropped. “You know I can hear you, right?”
I groaned inwardly. I’d circled the world and I had yet to meet Dutch Graham’s match in terms of charm and charisma. But those gifts came at a steep price, namely a severe case of obliviousness. I couldn’t even begin to count the number of times he’d embarrassed me in front of others. Still, I let it slide for the most part. He was, after all, the closest thing I had to a father or even a family member.
Graham was the last of an earlier generation of explorers. For him, science had always played second fiddle to adventure. He had a knack for getting into and out of dangerous situations and had the scars to prove it. His battle wounds included a mechanical left leg as well as a patch over his right eye.
Although his best days were behind him, he still maintained the edge of youth. His demonic thirst for wine, women, and poker had led many of his colleagues, past and present, to call him El Diablo behind his back. While they meant it as an insult, Graham wore the nickname like a badge of honor.
Over the years, he’d become somewhat of a futurist, devoting much of his free time to CryoCare, a fledgling business in the small but growing field of cryonics. But he still accompanied me on the occasional salvage job. It was a good thing too. In addition to his growing expertise with computers, he was a master tinkerer with an uncanny knack for fixing and repurposing broken-down machines. Even better, he’d begun to develop his own technology. My high-tech goggles were his latest invention.
“He didn’t mean that,” I said.
“Actually, I did mean it.” Graham crossed his arms. “This is dumb, Lila. And you know it.”
“It’s the best of two bad options,” she replied. “You know as well as I do that God’s Judges roam these parts.”
All Israeli citizens were required to join the Israel Defense Forces. Most of them were in the reserves. When the drought started, looting and riots had become a problem. The Israeli government had called up the reservists. Battles raged for months. As supplies ran short, many reservists decided things were better on the other side. They deserted their posts and formed local militias. A particularly violent one known as God’s Judges now occupied the area in which we stood.