The Apocalypse Contract

CHAPTER 12 - ROGER

Roger leaned over his desk and peered at his papers, at the rows of symbols, hoping meaning might appear if he just stared long enough. As always, it did not.

"Any progress, old bean?" Reginald's question jolted Roger. He had not heard him or Lillian enter the tent, but there they were.

"Good heavens, Reginald, you could stop a man's heart sneaking up on him like that."

"Hardly sneaking, old chap. You seemed lost in thought when we entered. I'm not faulting you. It's important work. Keep it up I say."

"It may be important, but it's bloody frustrating. You keep bringing me pictures from what you say are other dig sites, but it's all still mostly a jumble. I'm making progress, but it's painfully slow. If I could see these other sites in person, talk to this fellow that did the preliminary work, I think we could make some real progress.

"Easier said than done, I'm afraid," Lillian replied. "Those digs are dastardly hard to get to. Some are in a war zone now."

Roger leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "What about the chap who wrote all these notes? Are you sure I've never met this fellow? It all seems so familiar, like I've read something from him before. He's certainly familiar with my work. Look, this section here, he's using my method of symbol groupings."

Reginald looked at Lillian briefly before answering. "Perhaps you should feel flattered."

Roger looked back at his papers as Reginald spoke. It bothered him for some reason, seeing his friends speak. He found himself constantly looking away, sometimes closing his eyes and just listening instead. "Perhaps I'm developing a mental disorder," he mused aloud.

"What do you mean?" Lillian asked. "Are you not feeling well?"

"No, not entirely. Since the cave-in, I really haven't felt like myself. Or more precisely... everything else feels wrong. Does that make any sense?"

"I wouldn't worry overly much," Lillian reassured him, "you suffered a very traumatic experience. Some lingering disorientation is probably normal."

"I suppose you're right, but I do fear that I'm becoming a bit obsessive. I've thrown myself into my work to the point I never leave this tent. The only joy I seem to find anymore comes from conquering another of these symbols. It can't be healthy."

Reginald clasped a hand on Roger's shoulder. "I wouldn't call a strong work ethic an unhealthy thing. You just keep leaning into it, and I'm sure it will all work itself out."

Roger resisted the urge to shove Reginald's hand away. "You're probably right. It's not like I wasn't known for losing myself in my work before this. Still, perhaps I should stretch my legs for a bit, clear the cobwebs from the old think-box."

"Oh I wouldn't bother," Lillian advised, "it's dreadful weather out there."

"Really? As quiet as it is, I wouldn't have thought that." Before they could react, Roger was up and halfway to the tent flap. He cast it aside, and a wave of fog spilled into the tent. "Fog? In the bleeding desert?"

"The desert is capable of a wider range of weather conditions than most people realize," Reginald explained from behind him.

Roger ignored him and walked deeper into the mist.

Lillian called after him, "I say, do you think that's wise? You might trip and harm yourself."

Roger stumbled onward. Another tent emerged from the fog. He reached to open the flap, then felt Reginald's hand on his shoulder. "I say, old chap, you're rather working yourself into a lather. Let's get in from this dastardly weather and have a good sit down."

Roger shrugged the hand off, flung open the tent flap, and barged in.

He found himself back in his own tent. "It can't be," he sputtered, "I couldn't have circled back." He ran back outside. Both Reginald and Lillian stood waiting, a look of concern on their faces. The fog began to move as the wind began to pick up.

"Feels like a sandstorm in the making," commented Lillian, "it's probably best we all get back inside.

As the fog cleared slightly, Roger took a good look at both of them. He forced himself to stare at them. "You are not my friends," he said to them, "you are not Lillian, and you are not Reginald."

Not-Lillian shook her head. "Now now, old chap, that's a terribly hurtful thing to say."

Roger ignored her and began running away into the fog. The wind continued to rise, bringing with it dust and sand. He tripped, getting a mouth full of sand as he sprawled.

He got to his feet and found himself at the entrance of a tent. "What is this place?" he shouted to the wind. He turned to find Lillian and Reginald behind him. Collapsing to his knees, he implored them, "Is this my punishment?" They spared a glance at each other but did not answer. "Am I damned for failing them?" They remained silent. "I did my duty. I fought and bled like the rest of them. I did my duty. It wasn't my fault they died."

He curled up on the ground, hiding his face from the wind and sand. "It wasn't my fault I survived."