Weapon Makers

                                              Weapon Makers 

 

  The intermittent whirring of tires crossing the metal grating of the drawbridge outside of Craig Snyder’s apartment was irritating him.  

  The bridge connected Atlantic Highlands, NJ, to Sandy Hook National Park. Craig’s small apartment complex was next to the bridge on the Atlantic Ocean side of the Navesink River. His apartment was on the third floor, very close to the bridge. 

  He lay there awake in the dark with the bedroom window open. He had gotten used to the whirring, and the more rhythmic distant waves crashing on the beach, but something had awakened him and now they were just annoying. 

  He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, thinking that he should get up and get a drink of water.   After he stood up, he slowly realized that the sparse furniture and his bed didn’t look like his things and in a moment, he was completely awake. 

  Then he panicked when he realized that the drawbridge was replaced in 2011 when he was eleven years old! 

  Someone called his name out loud, and he woke up in his bed in 2026. He jumped onto the floor. He was sweating and his heart was pounding. 

  He held his breath for ten seconds and his heart calmed a little. He did that several more times and sat down on the bed. This was the second time in a week that he’d had those insanely realistic dreams. It was wearing him out. 

  In the last dream, two days before, he was riding his scooter along the multipurpose path in Sandy Hook Park, and the kite surfers were there on the bay side.  He went across the road for a closer look. 

  He left his scooter on the side of the road and walked down a narrow path of sand in the low sea grass.  He walked close to the edge of the water, sunlight glistening brightly off the endless ripples.  

  About six or seven wet suit clad men, with obvious above average upper body strength, had their feet in the surfboard's foot straps and their hands gripping the kite’s control bar. The kites were soaring as high as one hundred feet in the air. The surfers would catch a gust of wind and were hoisted an additional fifty feet up. 

  Craig inadvertently caught one of the surfers’ attention. For some reason, the surfer tacked in a wide loop and caught a gust of wind back toward the shore. 

  Although he was not traveling sixty miles an hour, as some kite surfers have been clocked at, he was probably going forty, and he was headed directly for Craig.  

 As the surfer got closer, Craig realized that he was not wanted there. Surfers were known to be weird about bad luck, or people who may bring it, so he started to walk backwards onto the dry sand.  

  Then, much to his horror, the surfer became airborne and was heading directly at him.  

  Craig turned and ran up the beach to the path. He could hear the sail flapping in the wind and the surfer growling. The growl turned into a war whoop at a feverish pitch at only feet behind him. He dove to the sand, and he awoke in his bed and abruptly jumped out.  

  Craig reached for the small bottle of sleeping tablets. He chewed one and drank some water. 

  He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. He was alone and scared. He had never been so scared in his life.  He didn’t know what was wrong with him. 

  He’d been seeing a psychiatrist and had discussed his entire life, all twenty -six years, from start to finish at least five times.  

  He thought his depression was caused by a breakup with his girlfriend from college. He didn’t realize how much he loved her until she went to the west coast for a job interview and didn’t come back. They spoke a few times on the phone about it, and she just said she was sorry and wanted a change. 

  His girlfriend, Taylor, really ditched him when he started getting severely depressed. He was disappointed with her, but he was a mess, and he understood.  

  His parents had moved to the Carolinas, as did his older brother and his wife, two years before. They wanted him to move there, and he was thinking about it, but he would need a transfer within his company to an office in that area or a new job. He was an anxious, depressed mess. 

  Eventually his eyes grew heavy, and he fell into a dead sleep. 

  The next day he showered and quaffed his dark brown hair. He put on a white buttoned-down shirt with a black tie, black khaki pants, and black Rockport walking shoes. Still groggy from the sleeping tablets, he downed an extra strong cup of coffee, grabbed his dark blue blazer and headed out to catch the ferry to lower Manhattan. 

  His job was as a Trade Assistant at a firm on the New York Stock Exchange. He had started as a runner two years before and he was climbing the ladder. Next step was Junior Trader.  

   He was still working at the Trading Booth, and the pace was killing him. But he wondered if he could just power through the next two years... 

  He received a text late in the afternoon from one of his old friends saying that all the guys were meeting at Mullen’s Pub on the beach at Sea Bright, where he grew up, at 8 p.m. He said he’d he there. 

  Later in the evening, Craig unplugged his scooter, crossed the road to the multipurpose path along the Sea Bright sea wall, and headed south. 

  As he approached the entrance to Mullen’s, he stopped.  On the ferry trip back after work he had been thinking about the last time he had hung out with the boys. He was on medication, and he wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol so as the night wore on, he was sober and the odd man out.   

  He wasn’t much fun anymore and they treated him differently. The medications had made him boring. 

  He turned the scooter around. 

  He decided to go to Atlantic Highlands, to a noisy beer joint he and the crew would go to from time to time during the summers years before. The owner played dance tunes from the 60’s and the girls loved to jump around on the dance floor, guys too. Wild times. 

  When he got there, the crowd was younger, and they were playing a dance club mix. 

He left. 

  He went back to his apartment and Craig picked up the novel he had been reading, then awhile later watched part of a film. 

  It was getting late, and he was about to climb in bed, but that dreadful feeling crept all over him. Those nightmares. He’d already taken sleeping meds and was getting drowsy, but they didn’t keep him asleep. 

  He had an appointment the next day with a spiritual healer in Shark River. Taylor had told him about the healer before she left, nine months before, and the last time they spoke on the phone she asked him to call the woman. Not that she was coming back, but she still cared about him. He finally made an appointment. 

  The healer informed him on the phone that she would be administering chakra balancing. He had no idea what that was, so he looked it up on the internet and the AI said; 

‘Chakra balancing is a holistic practice aimed at harmonizing the body's energy centers—called chakras—to promote physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being.  The concept comes from ancient Indian traditions, especially yoga and Ayurveda, and has become popular in many wellness circles today.’ 

  He had read that people had success in alleviating depression and anxiety. He regretted not calling the healer while Taylor was still with him. 

  He needed to sleep through the night, and a recurring thought kept pestering him to break the rules and drink alcohol. 

  Someone had left a bottle at a party he and Taylor gave a couple of years back when they first moved in. The bottle of Duggan’s Dew was at the back of one of the kitchen cabinet shelves. Craig retrieved it and a rock glass with ice. 

  He sat back down on the sofa and poured half of a glass.  

  He hated whiskey, but he gulped it down quickly. He poured himself another and drank that more quickly. He decided one more would be enough and gulped it down. 

  Then it hit him. He started swaying and couldn’t keep his eyes open. He laid back on the sofa and rested his head on one of the pillows. He passed out. 

  Two days later, a lady who lived with her husband in an apartment down the hall from Graig noticed a pungent odor when she walked past his door. She called the woman on the first floor who acted as the building superintendent, and she just called the police. 

  After the autopsy the coroner’s office submitted the report that Craig had died from an overdose of sleep meds and alcohol, which when combined cause the heart to beat more slowly and can stop beating after loss of consciousness. They also mentioned that he had a very large blood clot near his heart’s aortic valve that was more than likely slowing blood flow. They checked the states' immunization data base and found that Graig had taken two covid shots and two booster shots. 

  The coroner was calling Craig’s death a probable accidental overdose.   

  The detective said that bottles of anti-depressant and the sleeping meds had plenty of pills in them, there was no drug paraphernalia anywhere in the apartment, and all Craig’s friends said that they never saw him take anything stronger than alcohol. Maybe a little marijuana years ago. 

  It would be four weeks before the toxicology report would be finished to get a definitive answer. 

    The wake was held a few days later after Graig’s parents had made arrangements with the Sea Bright Funeral Home. 

  The wake was for one day and all of the friends and family were there, except Taylor. She flew in from Eugene on the red eye and just made it to the end of the funeral service. After the heart wrenching burial, at the luncheon at Mullen’s Pub, Graig’s mother wouldn’t talk to Taylor; she only looked daggers at her. Her old friends were cold to her, too, and she overheard Craig's mother saying, tearfully, ‘this gathering should have been for a wedding.’ 

  Taylor left early. 

   She left at 2 p.m. with small overnight bag she had been toting. By the time she arrived at Newark Airport it was almost 4 p.m. Her plane wouldn’t depart until 8 p.m. 

  She bought a novel off a revolving rack at the convenience kiosk and went to look for a quiet area to sit and read.  

  She tried to focus but couldn’t; the words blurred on the page. 

  What could she say? What could she have said to his mother? 

  She and Craig were a good match and looked good together.  She was a pretty brunette with a fine figure. Craig was a little taller, and handsome with dark brown hair. 

  They leased an apartment together after college, and the first couple of years they got along well together. But Craig’s personality started to change. He became reticent, and non-communicative. She could see there was going to be a problem. 

  They discussed moving to the west coast together. Craig agreed. She went for an interview, landed a job but told him, in a video call, that she wanted to take a break. 

  She didn't tell him that she didn’t get the job in accounting at the main office of a large convenience store franchisor.  

  She did land a smaller position in accounting at a convenience store/gas station chain that she didn’t like, but she didn’t want to go back home. 

  The real issue was that if he was going to get sick, would it be a couple of years, or would he be one of those people who stay sick for the rest of their lives?  

  When she was young one of her friend's fathers had a psychotic break and was in and out of hospitals for more than a decade.  Her friend and siblings were all young. She didn’t want to live through that. She wanted children and a healthy husband. 

  She had wept at the funeral but had steeled herself to not get too emotional. But then it hit her. Their friend Phyllis had snuck up on her in Mullens’ and stuck her phone right in front of Taylor's face to make sure she saw the picture of Craig in the casket. Everyone knew she didn’t go to the wake because she did not want to see him as a corpse. 

   A torrent of memories began to flow.  

  When they were at school, they were carefree and completely in love.  They were together all the time. Their friends used to say that they were so happy that they looked goofy.  

They used to lie in bed together for hours, wrapped up arm in arm. 

  Something caught her attention, and she looked up from the book for a moment.  She had sat in a row of seats that faced a window wall.  

  A jumbo jet had just left Its jet bridge and was slowly passing by, getting ready to take off. 

 She collapsed into convulsive sobs of grief. She still loved him- and left him alone. 

  Craig awoke to the sound of tires on the metal grating of the drawbridge outside his window. He was on his feet instantly, but strangely enough he wasn’t panicking. He calmly thought that he’d wake up at any moment.   

  He looked around. There was a night light on in a wall outlet that barely illuminated the room. He didn’t have one in his real bedroom. The sleeping meds bottle was open and there was a handful of pills strewn on top of the night table. He always kept them in the drawer. 

  There was a muffled knocking noise that startled him. He opened the bedroom door and the knocking was louder.  He didn’t want to, but something compelled him to the apartment entrance door. 

  When he was standing by the door, a voice said, “Graig Snyder. It’s the Seabright Police. Please open the door. We need to speak to you. It’s urgent, but you’re not in trouble.” 

  “Am I dreaming?” Craig asked meekly. 

  “No. No, you’re not dreaming,” the voice replied. 

  Craig unlocked the door and opened it. A man with a shiny bald head was looking at him sternly. He was wearing an Olive Drab combat uniform. 

  Before Craig could slam the door, the man swung a three-foot baton from behind his back and lightly touched one of Craig’s shoulders. It made an electric shock sound and Craig crumpled to the floor. 

  A man and a woman dressed in black appeared behind the bald man. They walked into the apartment and helped Craig stand up. He wasn’t unconscious, just dazed. They hustled him to the living room couch and propped him up in a corner. He had a terrifying look in his eyes, and his mouth was hanging open. 

  “Alright,” the bald man began, ‘That’s as rough as it gets, as long as you cooperate. They call me Seargeant Slaughter. This man,” he said pointing, “is Duke Nukem and that lovely lady is Hell’s Belle. We're here to train you for clandestine operations.” 

  Craig, still thinking that he was dreaming, thought he would play along so they would leave. He said, “How did you pick me?” 

  Without saying a word, the Seargeant retrieved his phone from one of the cargo pockets on his tactical pants. He tapped and scrolled, then tapped again. He spun it around so Craig could see the screen. 

  Craig saw himself standing with a well-dressed man in a suit with short, dark hair combed and gelled meticulously. They were in a dark alcove setting. The man was talking. He held up a clipboard and a pen. The Seargeant turned up the volume.  

  ‘Just sign at the bottom and we’ll have an ironclad contract for fifty years. A good amount of your debt will be paid and then you can move on.,’ the man said. The Seargeant paused the video and put the phone away. 

  “I signed a fifty-year contract?”, Craig asked, and for the first time in months he laughed. The Seargeant and the others grinned mischievously. 

  “Get some rest,” the Seargeant said, “We start in a few hours.” Then the three of them got up and left. 

  Craig still thought he was dreaming, so he didn’t pay much attention to what had just happened. He got up from the couch and went back into the bedroom but before he climbed back into bed, he looked out of one of the windows. 

  A car was passing over the old drawbridge; its headlights oddly dim and hardly shining any light. He looked down into the parking lot and there were fewer cars than normal. Off in the distance the city lights glowed above Brooklyn and Manhattan. Everything looked mostly the same, he thought. 

  He got back in bed and noticed that his alarm clock showed that it was 3:33 a.m. He dropped his head on the pillow and passed out. 

  Bang, bang, bang!  

  Craig jumped out of bed, swinging his arms as if to protect himself. The Seargeant was standing by the open bedroom door holding a metal garbage can lid in one hand a small hammer in the other. 

  “This ain’t summer camp, sweetheart. You’re in the Army now! It’s 0630. I let you sleep in.” the Seargeant yelled. 

  “What the hell is going on?” was the only thing Craig could think of to say.  

  “You saw that you signed a contract. Time for training,” The Seargeant replied. 

  Duke Nukem appeared at the bedroom door. He was wearing a baggy pair of Zubaz warm up pants in zebra stripes, Nike Air Force 1s high top sneakers, and a t-shirt with all the members of Bon Jovi on it. 

  Craig stared at him for a moment and then started shaking with fear. Before the fear turned into terror, the Seargeant quickly strode over to Craig and lightly touched him on one of his shoulders. Craig was compelled to calm himself. 

  “Listen,” the Seargeant said in a conversational tone, “let's go to the kitchen. Duke made some coffee.” Craig suddenly noticed the aroma wafting into the bedroom. 

  Craig was confused and tired. He still thought he was dreaming. He stood in the kitchen with the Seargeant and Duke sipping bland coffee. He reached for the sugar bowl, but it was empty. 

  “We need to tell you something that’s very important,” the Seargeant began, “But before we do, we'd like you to meet somebody” He looked at his watch than said, “He should be here just- about- now.” 

  Paul Ricci opened the apartment door and strode in wearing comfortable, casual clothes. Without a word he fist bumped the Sarge and then Duke. 

  “So, you’re Craig Snyder. You don’t look so good,” Paul said as they shook hands. Craig didn’t look good at all. His demeanor was sullen, and he had dark circles around his eyes. “I’m here to help you transition, Craig,” Paul said. “What do you mean?’ Craig asked. 

  Paul looked at the Sarge, and the Sarge nodded. “You died, Craig. You’re not dreaming,” Paul said, matter-of-factly. “You drank too much whiskey after you took your meds. That third rock glass did you in.” 

  As the realization struck him, Craig’s eyes bugged wide and he started shaking with panic. The Sarge reached over and put his hand on his shoulder. After a few moments Craig relaxed. 

  “Why don’t we all go sit in the living room,” the Sarge offered.   

  Craig sat on one end of the couch. Paul sat on the other side, and the Sarge sat on the edge of a chair closest to Craig.  

 “I really didn’t drink that much, but I did take one extra sleep med,” Craig said, still incredulous that he had died. 

  “Yeah, apparently, it was just enough to stop your heart, "Paul said.  

  “We didn’t expect you for another five years. You were scheduled to die in a car crash. But now that you're here we can add extra training. Turn you into a real soldier!” the Sarge said. 

  Paul then explained what they were all training for, without revealing too much about the upcoming epic battle on Mars. 

  Duke, who hadn’t said a word yet, said, “I’m in charge of your physical training, Craig, and firearms training. You could use an easy jog along the sea wall, that would get the adrenaline flowing. Make you feel better.” 

  “I don’t think so. I’m not feeling well,” Craig said, but something was compelling him to stand up, and he did. 

  “There’s warmups, sneakers, and t shirts in the closet,” Duke said. Craig was compelled to walk to the bedroom. 

  When Craig was out of earshot the Sarge said to Paul, “We might be deployed sooner than expected.” The Sarge hadn’t spoken to Paul since Craig died, three days before.  

  “I was thinking that” Paul said, “Next time I speak to Flavian I’ll ask him.” 

  “Hope so, I been gettin’ battle fever of late. I wanna hunt me some Critters,” Duke said jocularly. Paul and the Sarge grinned. 

  Craig emerged from the bedroom clad in Zubas black and vibrant red zebra stripes, ‘80’s style Adidas running shoes, and a Smitherines t-shirt. He was seven more sullen. 

  “Okay!” Duke exclaimed while clapping his hands, “Let’s go.” And Craig reluctantly followed him out the door. 

  “He’s holding up alright. I thought he’d break again,” the Sarge said.  

  “He may be tougher than we think,” Paul replied. 

  Mostly everything outside looked the same to Craig, except the sun hadn’t come up. It was still twilight. 

  “Where’s the sun,” Craig said.  

  “Overcast most days around here,” Duke replied. 

  They crossed Ocean Avenue. Duke put one of his feet up on a large rock in the sea wall and stretched one leg, then the other. Craig mimicked him. After upper body stretching, they set out on a slow jog.  

  The sea wall was about eight feet high and fifty feet wide. It was constructed of Armour stone with concrete aggregate poured into the cracks.  

  “Down to the end and back. Only a few miles,” Duke said. Craig grimaced. 

  After about a mile Hell’s Belle came bounding down the giant stones of the sea wall and landed in front of Craig, startling him. The shock rattled him, and then he became dizzy. 

  “She did that to me once, too,” Duke said, “Take a couple deep breaths.” 

  Hell’s Belle started moon walking backwards while manipulating her hands and directing them toward Craig. He felt strange pressure on parts of the front of his body. She then walked right through the Armour stones, startling Craig even more. He started to get shaky and panicky. 

  ‘Breathe again. Hold it together,” Duke said, “Let’s keep running. Shake it off.” 

   After the first five miles Craig blurted, “She really disappeared through those stones.” 

  “You’ll get used to it,” Duke said.  

  “Why don’t you disappear into the sidewalk?” Craig asked 

  “I could, but I don’t want to right now,” Duke said. 

  Craig thought that he was going to panic again, but he breathed deeply and calmed himself. 

  By the time they got back to Craig’s apartment Craig was exhausted. He just wanted to sleep. Duke and the Sarge didn’t argue. He went to his bedroom, fell into bed, and into a deep sleep. 

  What amounted to days later Craig woke up, still in the same pair of Zubaz and t-shirt. He suddenly noticed that depression wasn’t dragging him down, like most mornings. 

  He groggily walked into the kitchen. “Good morning!” Duke said, “How about eggs and bacon?” 

  When Craig looked at the sizzling breakfast, and the scent wafted into his nose, his stomach panged with hunger. 

  He was always a good eater, but even he couldn’t believe the amount of food that he tucked in. 

  Twelve scrambled eggs. An entire package of bacon, almost an entire loaf of bread toasted with butter, and more than half a pot of coffee. The food was bland, but filling. 

  He was feeling good and even smiling a little. 

  “That scare tactic Belle used on you worked, huh?” Duke said. 

  Craig didn’t want to admit he suffered from depression, but apparently everybody knew it. 

  “I guess so,” Craig replied. 

  A few moments later, Sarge and Belle walked into the apartment.  

  “Alright!” the Sarge exclaimed, “looks like you’re rested, tanned, and ready. Feeling good?” 

  “Yeah, I am. Thank you, Belle,” Craig said. She smiled. 

  “Okay,’ the Sarge began. Your official training begins today.” 

  “For what?” Craig asked. 

“You’ll see,” the Sarge said, “Let’s all go into the living room.” 

  Craig sat in the same spot on the couch as before, and the others closed in chairs and sat around him.  

  “Okay,” the Sarge began, “Craig, you saw that you signed a contract with Flavian to begin this training. Now I’m going to tell you why. The information I was given about you, when you were in heaven in between lives, is that you were given permission to teleport to different galaxies for various reasons. You also have experience in clandestine activities from past lifetimes.” 

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Craig said.  

  “Of course you don’t, but in time you’ll start to remember things. And I’ll help you,” Belle said, in a sensual tone. Craig’s demeanor softened. Duke and the Sarge tried not to grin. 

  “Belle is going to teach you how to use your body as an energetic weapon. Duke is going to train you to use weapons, and I’m going to train you in martial arts. Let’s begin by a brisk jog along the sea wall,” the Sarge said. 

  “You might want to change your clothes. You were sleeping in them for five days,” Duke said. Belle agreed by wrinkling her nose.  

  Craig showered and donned another pair of Zubaz and a t-shirt with The Huey Lewis and the News on it with a picture of the band, like the other t-shirts. 

  All four left the apartment and stepped out into the Twilight. It was neither hot nor cold, as usual.  They crossed Ocean Avenue and began a slow jog down the sea wall path. At about halfway, Belle disappeared without a word into the sea wall again.  

  They went to the end of the wall and climbed over the rocks to the beach, even though there was a set of stairs nearby. Duke didn’t go with them. He said he had something to do. 

  “Okay. This is your first lesson in the Krav Maga style of self-defense,” the Sarge said. “Let me see your boxing stance.” 

  Craig, who only had a couple of fights when he was a kid, did his best to strike a boxer’s pose. 

  “Look down at your feet,” the Sarge said. Graig looked down and the Sarge grabbed his left hand and twisted it to the right. Graig went down on his knee with a grown. Then the Sarge man handled him into a head lock. “I’m going to teach you how to street fight, and when you can get out of my head locks, you’ll be done.” 

  The Sarge let Craig get to his feet. He continued the lesson by saying that the quickest way to end a threat was to poke the eyes, punch the throat, kick or kick the groin—places that can’t be toughened. But before they got to that part of the training, they would need to practice punches, then he punched Craig in the chest so hard his heart skipped a beat. 

  In a hoarse whisper Craig said, “Do you have to hit so hard?” 

  “Son,” the Sarge began, “I’m training you for mortal combat. You don’t remember being in life and death battles, but you will, and then you’ll thank me” 

  The Sarge continued with the training by continuing the warmup with push-ups, squats, and jumping jacks. He then showed Craig striking fundamentals and defensive techniques.  

  “That’s it for now. Duke’s going to start your firearms training tomorrow, “the Sarge said, and they climbed back over the sea wall and double timed it back to Craig’s apartment. 

  Duke was in the kitchen with a three-foot party sized submarine sandwich and a gallon of milk. Craig ate more than half of it and even he couldn’t believe it. The Sarge and Duke ate some of the sandwich, too. 

  “Where do you put it all?” Duke asked. “I don’t know,” Craig replied. He also drank half of the gallon of milk. 

  Duke had set up a folding table in the living room and laid out two handguns, a Glock 9mm and a HK MK23. There was also a standalone grenade launcher, and rocket launcher. 

  “Now let’s take a look at the guns,” Duke said. They went int the living room. The Sarge was sitting in the easy chair with a reading lamp on and his feet up on the hassock. He was reading ‘The Art of War’ by Sun Tzu. 

   Duke explained the Glock 19 first. It was easy to conceal and for general use. Next, the HK MK23. Duke explained that it was a .45 caliber and suppressor ready.  The Milkor MGL six shot grenade launcher was a rotary drum revolver, and Duke held it up demonstrating its relatively light weight. Lastly, Duke lifted the M72 LAW rocket launcher and rested it on his shoulder. 

  “Tomorrow we will begin target shooting, but tonight the Sarge and I are going to show you the basics of night recon. Out on the Hook. Sound good?” Duke said. Graig liked the idea. 

  “Craig,” the Sarge said.  

  “Yes, Sarge,” Craig replied.   

  “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”  

  “Okay, Sarge” Craig replied. He was going to say ‘then why are you training me for mortal combat?’ but held his tongue. 

  “We need to wait a couple of hours before heading out. The night people won’t be active until about eleven, and then we can spy on them. Let’s watch a movie. What do you say Craig?” Duke asked. 

  “Sure. What do you have?”. 

  “A Jerry Lewis film called ‘Cinderfella’, Duke said. 

  “Never heard of it.” 

  “I think you’ll like it.”  

  “I set this up earlier,” said Duke while showing Craig and the Sarge how he had managed to wire and old DVD player to a copy of Craig’s tv. Duke popped the DVD into the player. 

  “I’ll give you a brief synopsis of the film,” Duke said. Duke began reading from a piece of paper that he placed on top of the player earlier in the day; 

  “Fella is a kind-hearted, awkward young man living with his cruel stepmother and two spoiled stepbrothers in a lavish mansion. Treated like a servant, he dreams of a better life. When the royal family announces a grand ball to find a bride for the princess, Fella’s fairy godfather magically transforms him for one night—complete with tuxedo, car, and confidence. 

  "At the ball, Fella charms the princess, but must flee before midnight, leaving behind a single shoe. The princess searches for the mysterious man-but I won't spoil the ending for you.” The Sarge was grinning. 

   They all laughed quite a bit through the entire film. Graig hadn’t laughed much in the past  year, and it made him feel good. 

   After the film they prepared to go out on the practice recon mission. They donned black long sleeve turtleneck shirts, black jeans, black sneakers, and mariner’s caps. They each brought their phones to use as cameras. No need for high-speed cameras. They also had night vision goggles and binoculars. 

  Duke had previously charged the three scooters that were in the living room. The Sarge had an old government issued Army jeep, but it was noisy. The scooters were perfect for the situation. 

  They unfolded the scooters at the front door of the apartment building and crossed Ocean Avenue to the sea wall multiuse path, or sidewalk. They put their night vision goggles on. 

  The path went into the entrance of Sandy Hook National Park and ran north and south, parallel to the service road.  

  As they neared one of the old toll collector's booths, they slowed down and raised their goggles. The small streetlamp light above the toll booth was too bright for the goggles. There were only two, one person booths. One was empty and dark, and the guard in the other booth, who was supposed to check Park permit stickers for night fisherman, was fast asleep. They slowly and silently rode past and headed north. 

  The path was mostly smooth with no potholes. The temperature was moderate but overcast, with no stars or moon.  

  They rode for miles on the windy path and eventually got off and rode on one of the service roads that led to the crumbling concrete bunker named Battery Grainger. They stood outside of the unlocked security fence. 

  In a very low voice, the Sarge said that Battery Grainger had two M1896 coastal guns with disappearing carriages. They could shoot 10-inch armor piercing shells from a twenty-eight-foot barrel up to eight miles. 

  Trained artillerymen, often working in teams of 15–20 per gun on top, and under the battery, used charts, protractors, and slide rules to calculate firing solutions. Craig knew all this, but he didn’t say anything. 

  They stashed the scooters behind some bushes and walked past the no entry signs. 

  Once inside the Sarge said, again in a very low voice, “We want to show you something we think you'll find interesting. Old Ironsides’ Crypt.” And then he waved his arm in a silent ‘follow me’ gesture. 

  The ground floor of the battery consisted of a shell room, a powder magazine room, a hoist room, a plotting room, a ready room for gun crews, and a tool storage room. 

   Still wearing their goggles, they walked silently through the darkened, creepy, dilapidated rooms to the magazine room. 

  As they walked into the room, Craig was severely startled by a body lying on its back in the far corner. 

  “That’s Old Ironsides,” the Sarge said. 

  “Prepare to remove your goggles. I’ll turn on the pen light,” Duke said. 

  Duke turned the light on, and they approached the body. It was an elderly man with gray hair slicked back. His head was propped up on an old, crusted, coach corner pillow. His clothes were mostly ragged. His shoes had holes in them, and his big toes were sticking out of them. But worst of all, his eyes were glazed over and wide open. His face was just a contorted grimace, and his skin looked like marble with veins running here and there haphazardly.  

  The Sarge and Duke sat cross legged on the floor next to the body. 

  Craig wouldn’t admit it, but he was thoroughly creeped out. “What’s this guy doing here?” he said in a shaky whisper. He was still standing. 

  “A nun, at Our Lady of Perpetual Help across the bridge, was told by someone in Heaven,” Duke began, “that God had put Old Ironsides here as an additional punishment. You see, he’s living a constant nightmarish dream. A nightmare that loops repeatedly. Nonstop. The nun stops here almost daily to send him encouraging thoughts. She told me that there are spirit worlds where there are millions of these mummies, all lying side by side, all suffering the same fate. They did horrible things to other people and are now paying dearly. When the debt is paid, God will allow him to wake up and then he will run around in terror, still thinking he’s dreaming, until he starts asking for help.” 

  “That’s horrible,” Graig said.  

   “Have a seat,” the Sarge said. 

  Graig reluctantly sat down, but further away than the Sarge and Duke. 

  “What’s his real name?” Craig asked. 

  “We don’t know,” replied the Sarge. 

  “The nun, we know her from Our Lady of Patience, asked us to look in on him now and then. To offer encouragement,” Duke said. 

  “How do you do that?” Craig asked. 

   “I’ll show you,” then Sarge  shifted his body closer to the head. “The nun showed us that all you have to do is lightly tap his forehead and a screen appears.” 

  Sarge tapped lightly and a round object, about the size of a softball, appeared floating above his forehead. Duke turned off the light and Craig could see that the ball had a luminescence to it, but it was murky, like a swirling dark cloudy sky. 

  Then slowly a scene in black and white appeared, as if a silent movie was playing. The man they called Old Ironsides was arguing with a woman inside of a room with Victorian era decor. Suddenly, Ironsides grabbed the woman around the neck and started choking her. After a few moments she fell to the floor. 

  As Ironsides was standing over her, his hands shaking, she quickly got up from the floor and instantly morphed into a hideous, non-human creature with fangs and sharp nails. It immediately started slashing at Ironsides, who was screaming and trying to run away. He was cut to ribbons and was bleeding profusely. The scene faded to black, but only briefly. 

  There were two more scenes where he murdered two more women and was cut to ribbons again. Then the first scene started again. 

  “Somehow, he got away with killing all three of his wives. But he didn’t get away, did he? Why don’t you say some words of encouragement to him to help him get through his torment,” Sarge said to Craig. Craig shook his head. 

  Then the Sarge leaned in and said, “Hold on old man. Keep trying to tell God you’ll never do it again.” Sarge tapped him on the head again, and the ball evaporated. 

  “You’ll get through it, old timer,” Duke said. The Sarge and Duke both looked at Craig. 

   “Good luck, mister,” Craig said. 

  Duke switched off the pen light, and they put their goggles back on. They then crept out of Old Ironsides’ Crypt. 

  They retrieved their scooters and headed north a short distance to South Bragg Road and made a left turn onto the multiuse path again. After a quarter of a mile, they stashed the scooters behind the firehouse. There was a path of wood behind them, and the crickets and other insects were making a racket. 

  They took positions behind a dilapidated wooden whale boat that had been turned upside down. From there they could see the Mule Barn Tavern on the corner of South Bragg and Kearny Road. There was also a portable toilet on the corner just off the sidewalk. 

  “The night people will be up any minute. This is your first lesson in surveillance,” he said to Craig. 

  “What do you mean by ‘they’ll be up any minute?” Craig asked. 

  “You’ll see,” Duke replied. 

   Duke gave Craig a pair of night vision binoculars. “Keep your eyes on the porta-potty.” the Sarge said. 

  Craig put the binoculars up to his eyes and focused on the potty. Sarge was looking at his watch.  

  “It’s just about midnight,” the Sarge said, and as he did, people began walking out of the potty. One after another. Then Craig noticed movement to his right, shifted his view, and he saw people walking up a darkened ramp from where a section of the sidewalk should have been! 

  The Sarge tapped Craig on the shoulder. He showed Craig a military hand signal to cover and area. He put his hand above his head and then pointed toward the back of the tavern. Craig had no idea what the Sarge was trying to tell him, so he just followed him. 

  The three spies made a wide arc on an open field behind the firehouse then crossed South Bragg Street to a clump of trees and took up positions behind the tavern. Duke swapped the night vision binoculars with Craig for standard issue binoculars. Craig began surveilling again.  

  The night people were walking back and forth, speaking in lowered voices. The back of the tavern had tables and chairs with umbrellas, and some guys were opening a few of them. The double doors at the back of the tavern had been opened. 

  Then a few interior lights went on, but only just enough to see the night people walking around inside, too, or leaning on their elbows at the bar while one of the guys went behind it to tend to the drinks. Everyone looked like they were in their late teens or early twenties, and they were dressed like punk rockers from the 1970’s. 

  Someone put club music on the PA system, but not too loud, and all the women started dancing. Some of the men joined in. 

  Whispering, the Sarge said to Craig, “Look for a bald -headed guy with an anchor tattooed on the back of his head, and tell me what he’s doing.”  

  Craig slowly scanned the back of the Tavern. Through the large picture windows at the back, next to the open doors, he could see some men knocking back shots at the bar with beer chasers. 

  There was a group of men outside to the right of the doors, in the shadows.  One of them stepped away. He walked over to a young woman and they embraced, and then he held her at arms distance while obviously telling her a joke or anecdote. The overhead light was glistening from his bald head. She laughed and pulled away from him and started dancing again. 

  The man stepped toward the doors as if to walk in. Craig zoomed in and saw the anchor on the back of his head. 

  The man suddenly swung around and looked directly at Craig. He cupped his hands and said, “Is that you Sarge? Duke?” 

Everyone on the back patio heard the man and looked in the same direction. 

  “We’ve been made,” the Sarge said in a loud whisper.  

The three of them took off running, in the same wide arc, back to the firehouse. They grabbed their scooters and rode off in a hurry. 

  When they got back to Craig’s apartment, the Sarge and Duke explained that the guy Craig was spying on was from a rival gang from South Amboy. They said he was probably with a few of his crew. Duke heard through the grapevine that they were going to the Mule Barn Tavern that night. They said they’d explain more in the morning and that they should all get some rack time. 

  Craig was on his way to his bedroom (Duke and the Sarge slept on the coaches) when the Sarge said, “Take this Sun Tzu book. Put it under your pillow. You’re dead so you can memorize books in your sleep.” He handed the book to Craig. Craig took it and nodded his head. 

  After brushing his teeth, which he thought was funny because the bristles were worn out like the brush he used before he died, he climbed into bed with the Sun Tzu book. 

  He lay on his back while tucking the book a little to the side of the pillow, so his head wasn’t resting on it. He felt stupid, but after witnessing Old Ironsides horrible dilemma he thought that anything was possible in the crazy, dark world he found himself in. 

  Things had gone so fast and he really didn’t have much time to think. The other nights, when his head hit the pillow, he just passed out. 

  But now, looking up at the ceiling and listening to a few tires on the grating, he started thinking about Taylor. He missed her. He didn’t get to say goodbye to her or his parents and brother. And at the same time, he thought that maybe he was still dreaming. Confusion clouded his mind, and he felt that dreaded depression set in, then all at once his eyes started swimming. He could feel that something was drawing him to sleep. He passed out.   

  Later in the morning Craig awoke to the aroma of home fries in an oversized skillet loaded to the brim. There was another skillet with a dozen scrambled eggs, and fresh coffee was brewed. 

  He sat at the kitchen table. Duke, wearing a cook’s bib, served him like a waiter.  

  “Thanks, Duke. I could fill my plate,” Craig said.  “I don’t mind,” Duke replied, “but from now on your on KP clean-up duty.” 

  The Sarge walked into the kitchen. “Morning troop. Ready for another rigorous day of training?” the Sarge said to Craig. 

  “Morning Sarge. Sure,” Craig replied. 

  “Did you put the book under your pillow?” Sarge asked. 

  “Yeah,” Craig replied. 

  “Can you remember anything?” Sarge asked. 

  Craig took a minute to think, as he gobbled the eggs and home fries like he hadn’t eaten in days. 

  “The core Premise of the book is that war is a matter of life and death, survival or ruin. It must be studied with utmost seriousness.” 

  Craig then rattled off more information, surprising himself as well as the Sarge and Duke. 

   “Victory is not about brute force—it's about strategy, foresight, and moral alignment. 

 The Five Fundamental Factors that Sun Tzu identifies as essential to assess before engaging in warfare: 

1. The Way (Dao) – Unity between ruler and people; moral alignment and shared purpose. 

2. Heaven – Natural forces like weather, seasons, and cosmic balance (Yin and Yang). 

3. Earth – Terrain, distances, and strategic geography. 

4. Command – The general’s qualities: wisdom, sincerity, humanity, courage, and discipline. 

5. Discipline (Law) – Organization, hierarchy, logistics, and control mechanisms. 

 Strategic Evaluation 

Sun Tzu Also advocates for calculating the outcome of war in advance by comparing these five factors between opposing sides. 

  He emphasizes planning over impulse—better to avoid battle than to fight unwisely. 

 Moral and Tactical Insight 

  The most morally upright ruler will have Heaven’s favor. 

  The most capable general will lead to victory. 

  Preparation and clarity are more powerful than numbers or aggression. 

 Oppositional Forces 

Sun Tzu uses binary oppositions, like survival vs. extinction, Yin vs. Yang, to reflect the delicate balance of war. 

He warns against bloodlust or barbarity—war is a solemn duty, not a thrill.” 

  “Very impressive!” Sarge said. 

  “Wow,” Duke chimed in. 

  “Why do I need to know about the art of war?” Craig asked the Sarge and Duke. 

  “You're in the military, son. You need to wrap your head around that,” the Sarge said. 

  “We’re making you a soldier. A weapon to be used against evil aggression. Like me and the Sarge,” Duke said. 

  “And Belle,” the Sarge said. Duke agreed. 

  Craig didn’t say anything else. He still didn’t know why he signed a contract to die and become a soldier, but he wasn’t ready to start that conversation. 

  “Today we’re going back to the Hook, to a firing range. Sarge will meet us a little later at the beach. Let’s get ready to go. We only get five hours of twilight,” Duke said.  

  Duke and Craig rode their scooters toward the end of Park Street and at Atlantic Drive they turned right. They stashed the scooters in some bushes and walked about two hundred yards on a foot path to an area that was natural clearing, of a sort.  There was a makeshift table made of a plank and two by fours where the weapons would be placed before shooting. In front of them was the Firing Lane lined by the short trees that grow in sandy soil, and down range there were bullet ridden, old metal cans lying on the ground under makeshift target planks that were also held up by two by fours. 

  Duke showed Craig how to handle the weapons and to aim them, and then squeeze the triggers.  

  The shooting went on for some time and Craig was a lousy shot. He said it was because of the twilight, but even after Duke handed him a pair of the night vision goggles from his backpack, Craig could only hit a couple of the cans. 

  Duke said it was time to wrap it up, and there would be more days for gun training. They needed to hurry because the Sarge would be waiting at the beach. They hustled down the firing lane to a well-worn path behind the target cans. 

  As Duke and Craig emerged from the tree line and onto the beach, they saw the Sarge standing near the surf with an MTZ rocket launcher.   

  An old sunfish sailboat, with its sail down, was doubly anchored just beyond the breakers. It was lightly rolling up and down calmly on the waves. The dark night was about to douse the Twilight, and Craig could barely see. 

  “We need to hurry,” the Sarge said. He was soaking wet and shivering.  Duke tossed an army blanket to the Sarge from his backpack. He gave the rocket launcher to Craig. 

  Then Duke began instructing Craig on how to use the MTZ. After a few minutes Craig knelt on one knee. He then raised the site's attachment as Duke pointed a laser pen at the sunfish. He fired. 

  The missile missed, but not by much, and exploded after impacting the water. Craig was thrilled! 

  Duke showed him how to reload. The second shot missed also, but it was a little closer. 

  Craig reloaded the 3rd and last missile. He took more time to aim. He waited until the boat was rising on a wave and, following Duke’s laser pen, fired. It was a direct hit! The Sarge, Duke, and Craig let out whoops! They stood there laughing for a couple of minutes while watching the boat sink. 

  When they got back to Craig’s apartment, they ordered Chinese food that was delivered by a Chinese man on a bicycle that he had ridden across the bridge from Atlantic highlands. He was still huffing and puffing when the Sarge handed him a tip. 

  They sat around the kitchen table digging into the boxes and boxes of Chinese food. 

  “You have a date tonight,” the Sarge said to Craig. 

    Craig perked up and said, “What do you mean?” 

  “In about an hour and a half you need to meet Belle. She’s going to show you a technique for attacking,” the Sarge replied. Craig was going to inquire further but decided to wait. 

  Craig rummaged through his bedroom closet for more clothes. He didn’t want to wear the baggy Zubaz and t-shirts. Duke said there was a gray combat uniform and combat boots that might fit him, but he didn’t want to look like the Sarge.  

  Further back, he found a pair of US Navy bell bottoms and a US Air Force windbreaker. 

  He put the starched white dungarees on. They were tight but they buttoned at the waist. He still had to wear a t-shirt because there were no others. It had a picture of Bruce Springsteen and the E. Street Band on it with all the band members posing. The windbreaker fit well. 

  The Sarge had told Craig that Belle would be waiting for him across Ocean Avenue at 9 p.m. Neither the Sarge nor Duke said anything about his clothes as he went out the door, though they were grinning. 

  Craig could see Belle waiting for him by the light of a dull streetlamp along Ocean Ave. 

  “Tired of the Zubas?” Belle asked, with a half-smile. 

    “How do I get new clothes?” Craig asked. 

    “We’'ll see what we can do for you about that later. Tonight, I am going to instruct you on how to use a different kind of martial art. This way, please,” Belle said, and she began walking along the sea wall. 

  After about one hundred yards one of the giant stones disappeared and a faint light illuminated a set of stairs.  

  “How did that happen?” Craig said. 

  “It opens for me when I mentally call for it,” Belle replied. She stepped in. Craig hesitated. “Hurry before it closes.” Craig stepped in behind her. 

  They went down three sparsely lit flights of stairs and into what resembled an empty central court of a basement shopping mall. It too was dimly lit.  

  Instead of retail shops around the perimeter, the spaces had large windows with different types of physical activities going on in them.  

  Craig and Belle walked into an empty space that was used as a dance studio with mirrors lining the walls. The overhead lights were on but dimmed. 

  Craig got a look at his clothes in a full-length mirror and was slightly mortified. Belle noticed that and told him he looked fine. 

  “I’m going to show you how to use your mind and will power to direct energy and attack an enemy from a distance. Sound good?”  

  “I guess,” replied Craig, having no clue what she was talking about. 

  Belle then began striking poses and making moves with her body that you might see in an Asian martial arts film. Belle encouraged him to follow her lead. There were six specific moves. 

  After some time practicing those six, each a power projection stance, Belle noticed that they had an audience of all young women outside of the two large windows. They were looking at Craig and giggling. 

  Belle paused for a moment and closed the curtains on the windows and the glass entrance door. 

 “Let’s go over the six power stances again, then we’ll call it a night,’ Belle said. Craig agreed.  

  When they had finished, they left the room and walked toward the staircase.  There were a few of the younger women milling about at the bottom step.  

  They began asking who Craig was, and Belle introduced him to them. They all began to walk up the stairs, and the women assailed Craig with a thousand questions about this and that. They didn’t laugh at his clothes because they knew that after his training was finished and he was assigned a job, he would earn credits and buy new ones. 

  Once they were back onto the sidewalk, Belle said she would train with him a day or two and then she power walked away. 

  The younger women stayed with Craig, and they all walked together toward his apartment on the dimly lit sidewalk. 

  Once they saw where Craig lived, they said goodbye and they would see him again. 

  Craig was feeling good as he entered his apartment. Sarge and Duke were snoring in the living room. Craig decided to get some sleep, too. 

  He got in bed and put the Sun tzu book near his head. The Sarge said he was going to quiz him now and then. 

 As he lay down all he could think about was those pretty young women. They all said they wanted to go dancing with him.  

  The weeks went by, and Craig trained every day. Physically, he was back in shape, and his confidence had returned. He, the Sarge, and Duke had become a close-knit squad, and Belle too, though she was usually elsewhere.  

  The apartment had become a man cave. 

  He had become proficient at target practice, but Duke had decided that he would probably only be good enough for close quarters' gunfights, which are extremely deadly. 

  His Krav Maga training was going well, too. He even trained like a Navy Seal in surf conditioning, better known as surf torture, to test mental toughness, cold endurance, and team cohesion. While sparring, he finally got mad enough at the Sarge for continually placing him in a head lock and punched him in the stomach. Sarge said that that’s what he had been waiting for, but he wouldn’t recommend it at close quarters. He said to aim for the groin, but not his. 

  Belle had been training him in the art of psychic attacks. She instructed him to position his body in such a way that would garner unseen energies being emitted from the Well and mentally focus on a target. 

  His target was usually the living, up above in the world, and they were always bad people.   

  Belle would put a call in to The Monitor’s Desk, and a target was given to her.  Craig would be given a picture of the target and focus as he was instructed. The Monitor’s Desk would message Belle when one of their observers noticed that the intended target was running back and forth, as if trying to get away from something. 

  “It looks like we found your skillset”, Belle had told him, “But remember, you’re in The Service now and you can use psychic attacks on enemy combatants at your discretion, but if you start playing around with it the energy will boomerang back to you with a vengeance” 

  The Sarge was intrigued by reports Belle had given him regarding Craig’s newfound prowess as a psychic warrior.  He asked Belle to let Craig attack him from a distance; he wanted to see for himself.  

  On the day of the planned attack, the Sarge said to Craig, “Take this phone. I will text you when I want you to stop attacking me.” 

  Later that day, when it grew dark again, Craig and Belle power walked south on the seawall sidewalk- all the way to the Rumson Bridge and crossed over. 

  On the other side, they walked along Rumson Road and past a few old, dilapidated mansions. They went into the sprawling, weedy front yard of one of them. 

  The old house was empty and dark. There would be no one around to disturb them. Belle said to Craig, “Hand me your phone, please. I will text the Sarge and tell him to get ready.”  

  Craig then proceeded to do his warmup stretches and a few jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. 

  Belle had taught him a psychic attack position (must remain classified) where he manipulated his body into a power position. He then thought about the Sarge and imagined him in at a spa, in a steam room fully clothed in his combat uniform and a winter parka. 

   The Sarge had texted twice in the first thirty seconds. The Sarge texted ten more times before Belle told Craig to stop. 

  “You think it worked?” Craig asked.  “I think so,” Belle replied. 

  On their way back, Belle went to Craig’s apartment instead of going inside the sea wall. When they got there, Belle went in first.  

  The Sarges’ cheeks were ruddy and he was grimacing. Duke had a worried look and a half grin. 

  “Now we’re even,” Belle said to the Sarge while handing him his phone. In a realization the Sarge’s shoulders relaxed as did his demeanor. Duke looked at the Sarge quizzically.  

  The Sarge had gone over her head, recently, straight to The Monitor’s Desk about some of her training tactics and she had received an ear-full from both Flavian and Smythe. Craig was her first trainee that she had to let up on, concerning hazing. The last recruit quit and went to work with the South Amboy night people. 

  “Even Steven,” the Sarge replied. 

  After Belle left Craig asked what was wrong and the Sarge explained saying to be careful with his new skillset, along the same lines as what Belle had said. Craig apologized profusely. 

  The next day the Sarge and Duke prepared Craig for his first training operation, but he would be on his own. 

  They set out at 11p.m. in Sarge’s rust bucket army jeep. They crossed the  Highlands-Sea Bright Bridge, next to Craig’s apartment, and drove west on Route 36 to Route 35 north. They exited slowly and quietly into South Amboy. 

  They wound their way to Bordertown Road and made a right. As they were approaching South Broadway the Sarge found a dark patch of road between the sparse streetlamps. As planned, Craig jumped out and sprinted to near the nearest tree and hid in the shadow. 

  The Sarge and Duke made a left onto South Broadway. They were risking being seen by some of the night people. 

  The reason for taking the risk was a phenomenon that they had witnessed, about a year before, and they wanted to see it again. 

  There was a large Chinese restaurant on South Broadway, at the other end of town. They slowly approached it, and as before, a hatch door in the sidewalk was open and a young Chinese woman was walking up an unseen staircase. 

  She wore an old fashioned dress, a light overcoat, and colorful leg warmer stockings. She was talking to herself, and she turned around as if she had forgotten something, then walked back down the steps. 

  The thing that really kept their complete attention was that she was literally glowing! Her skin, it glowed from within, like a light bulb. 

  The Sarge and Duke slowly rode past staring in amazement, but she paid no attention to them. 

  Meanwhile, Craig was making his way from one dark side of a tree to another in front of the houses that stopped at the corner of South Broadway. Even though he was wearing the same black clothes and Mariner's hat as when they were on recon training missions, he could still be spotted. 

  Craig made a right and, as instructed,  headed toward a road that led to the towns’ recycling yard. 

 Duke had told him that the door to the office was more than likely open, but if it wasn’t there would be a be in a hide a key under a fake rock on the ground near the entrance door. He also said not to worry about the dog inside. His name was Attila and he was very old. 

  Craig hurried up the dirt road, checking his field watch twice as he went. It was 11:45 p.m. He had fifteen minutes before the night people started coming out of the ground. It was dark and he stumbled a few times in potholes, but not dark enough to wear the night goggles. 

  When he arrived at the recycling center, he hid behind piles of stacked up tires and checked to see if there was anyone in the yard. 

  Satisfied that he was alone, Craig walked over to the office door and tried the handle. It was open, and he opened it slowly. 

  Attila, who was sound asleep, woke up with a start and struggled to stand up. He looked at Craig. He didn't recognize him, and he barked twice, in a very low tone. He then sat down and started panting slightly with his tongue hanging out. His tail was wagging on the floor. 

  Craig thought about petting him, but he looked a little scruffy, so he went to look for the back office, as instructed. 

  Once inside the office, he retrieved a chair from the front of the desk.  Duke said to go to the corner of the room on the right and lift the ceiling tile there. Then get the pen light and look in the ceiling. Sure enough, there was an extra-large white canvas money bag on another ceiling tile. It had handles, and Craig pulled it towards him. It was full, but not that heavy otherwise it would have fallen through. 

  He got down from the chair and checked his watch- he had five minutes before the night people would be swarming the town. In his haste, he left the entrance door open as he walked out into the yard. He also forgot to put the ceiling tile and the chair back in their places. 

  Craig hustled down the dirt road and at the end turned right and over a set of train tracks. In another one hundred yards he entered Raritan Bay Waterfront Park. The park was all lit up by streetlamps along the multipurpose paths and he doubled timed it toward the bay. It was awkward for him to run because he had to carry the bag with both hands. 

  When he got to the bay, and to the four-foot-high chain linked fence that lined the sandspit of beach for the length of the park. He ran south looking for an opening in the fence that Duke said would be there. 

  As Craig was running, he happened to look to his right to a large gazebo on a hillock. A man was sitting in a park bench that was in the gazebo and facing toward the bay, obviously enjoying the dead quiet of the night. The man just looked at him. 

  Craig immediately threw the bag over the fence and then grabbed the top and hurled himself over. 

  He picked up the bag and began running on the strip of beach that lined Raritan Bay all the way to the highlands and Sandy Hook. It was a sixteen-mile run. 

  About five minutes later two teenagers in punk attire came hustling down along the fence, as if sensing Craig had run that way. 

  They both noticed the man in the gazebo. They looked at him and the man looked at the fence where Craig had jumped over. Both of the teenagers leaned on the fence and hurled themselves over.  

  About five miles down the beach from South Amboy, Craig had slowed to a lope. He thought about stopping for a minute to catch his breath but then he remembered what Duke had said. If the night people caught him, they would beat him up.  

  Something told him he was being followed, and luckily for him, physical recovery time is much faster when you’re dead, and he picked up the pace.  

  By the time Craig reached the Highlands, he was beyond exhaustion. He literally staggered over the bridge and into his apartment building. 

  Not a minute later, the two teens from the South Amboy gang showed up at the dimly lit entrance of Craigs apartment building, huffing and puffing. They tracked Craig using their sixth sense. 

  The Sarge and Duke stepped out of the shadows near the entrance door, their hands balled int fists 

  ”You boys know the rules. He made it back to his apartment,” the Sarge said. Then the Sarge relaxed and said to the two teens, “C’mon. I'll give you a lift back. Good job tracking Craig." 

  Duke walked into Craig’s apartment. Craig was sprawled on one of the living room chairs. “What’s in the sack?” Craig  said. 

  Duke picked up the sack from the floor, opened it, and poured the contents onto the floor.  

  There was over one million dollars in Monopoly money, a ragged edged Policeman’s Gazette magazine from the 1950’s with Rocky Marciano on the cover in a fighter’s stance sporting black eyes and a crooked bloody nose, an old magazine from the '50's with photos of women in bathing suits, and a Muscle and Fitness magazine from the 1970’s with a man flexing his giant muscles. 

  Craig looked at the booty, and he almost started crying. 

  “All those bills are yours!” Duke said. 

  “What am I going to do with Monopoly money?” Craig asked. 

  “It’s your first payday! You probably want to get some new clothes. There’s a shopping mall under the sea wall at the other end,” Duke said. 

   Craig stood up slowly. “Okay. Sounds good," Craig said and without another word he went off to his bed and fell asleep immediately. 

  The next day, after a big breakfast of pancakes, waffles, poached eggs, and bacon, the Sarge, Duke, and Craig set out for the shopping mall. 

   At the other end of the sea wall, Duke made a giant stone disappear, and the Sarge and Craig followed him inside and down another three flights of stairs. 

  It looked the same as the dance studios except that there were shops all around. There was only one men's shop. 

  The Sarge started recommending clothes to Graig, but Duke said not to listen to him.  

  Most of the clothes were thirty-year-old fashions, the things the Sarge liked, but some were punk. Craig purchased some of each to create his own statement. 

  He spent almost half the money, because the clothes were beyond expensive. Duke said not to worry, from that point forward he would be getting credits for his job in the clandestine service, and he would convert it to the Monopoly cash. 

  That night they all went to a club on Ocean Avenue in Seaside Heights. Belle said the girls from the dance studios wanted to dance with Craig. They were a little disappointed that Craig wasn’t wearing the white Navy dungarees. 

  Belle was dancing with a man she had been dating and the Sarge and Duke stood around drinking club sodas. 

  The club music was so loud that the building was shaking. 

  With his basic training now over, Craig began his Advanced Individual Training. He applied for monitoring the fourth dimension where people who had died came back to live almost exactly as they did in the world before they died, and because he watched monitors all day at the NY stock exchange, his application was accepted. 

  He would sit at a desk in front of a monitor screen and keyboard. He would be on call for anomalies, or glitches, that needed to be rectified. Such as, in one case he was shown, two women were walking on a multiuse path in a town park at night. As they neared a lit lamppost, a Little Brown Bat was stuck in a loop, swooping around and up and down the lamp. One of the women called The Monitor’s Desk hotline for citizens and informed the operator on duty.  

  That operator typed the name of the park, and the town, into a special program that was tied into the Spirit/AI and explained the problem.  In less than a minute, the bat flew off. 

  He was to begin his service at the end of the month. 

  Meanwhile, Paul Ricci called Sarge for a meeting. 

  A few days later, everyone gathered together at Craig’s apartment. Belle insisted beforehand that the apartment be cleaned thoroughly, aired out, and Febreze sprayed extensively. The meeting was an hour long, and Belle stood the entire time. 

  Paul began from the beginning of how the Mars colony was established in the 2050’s. 

  “In 2072 a group of scientists went to Mars and brought a sample of Neanderthal DNA. They were paid to experiment and make a low IQ race that would be used as slaves by certain Earth elites. 

   “They were caught and the samples seized but they were not destroyed. About ninety years later an AI at an abandoned laboratory on IO, broke through the Mars’ quantum Li-Fi 

 Network firewall and ran wild until it found two scientists that had their brains enhanced by software, and it possessed them.   

  “Those two scientists were working on illegally creating clones of Neanderthals at the time. The samples had been put into deep freeze by Mars’ early intelligence agency, and consequently prevented any more smuggling of that sort, but again, no one knew why they didn’t destroy the original samples. 

  “Apparently, the AI that had possessed the scientists was in a hurry to create the clones and pushed the scientists to find the correct DNA sequence to make the clones. The scientists were told by their benefactors to go slowly and stay under the radar. 

  “But they didn’t and they interviewed wonton women to host the clones.  

  “A total of thirty women were paid for the pregnancies' and another thirty were hired to be the surrogate mothers. 

  “But all hell broke loose after clones were born. All of Mars found out.  

  “Discussions at top levels of government decided that because the DNA of Mars’ population was already fragile, the children would be sequestered to a less populated section of the planet and neutered.  

  “It turned out that when the women were pregnant with the clones, they conjured bad spirits into the wombs from Mars’ interior astral realm. As they grew up, they tended to be outcasts even in the sparsely populated area. They all migrated to the Mars City metropolis and ended up construction or dock workers, etc., but banded together and formed a criminal syndicate.  

  “They recruited many non-Neanderthal Martians from the low end of society and operate criminal enterprises throughout Mars City and its suburbs. They have largely corrupted the local government. They actually have very high IQ's 

  “The Monitor’s Desk has is reporting more activity by the Critters, an arachnoid alien hybrid. Their real name is something like our Argyroneta Aquatica because they were bred from a water spider.” 

  Paul stopped talking. Everyone just looked at each other. 

  “Be prepared for afterhours visits from Goons,” Paul said with a grin, “They’ll make you time travelers in no time.” 

   Graig didn’t know what that meant, but he knew he wasn’t going to like it.