Note to readers: “2200 Blues” is a novel in progress, and each chapter is an early draft in its unfolding journey. Your thoughts and reactions are invaluable, guiding its evolution and refinement. 2200 Blues © 2024 by G.R. Nanda. All rights reserved.
The question mark on the screen kept flashing. Could he reply to that message? If he did, he risked alerting not only the intruder but also the person transmitting the message. If either one was dangerous, Nickel couldn’t afford to reveal his presence.
But how much longer did he want to stay with the Thraíha? Rishi had said the Thraíha held his disciple. What if the intruder was Venkaar, the disciple, and the transmitter of the message was Rishi?
Nickel’s hand hovered over the modem, feeling for the keypad.
He punched the letter “I.” Startled, he saw it appear on the screen beneath the question to Venkaar. He continued typing. This technology was the closest he had been to civilization in months.
I’m okay.
The “y” flashed on the screen, the last letter he typed. All he had to do now was hit the “return” key. He waited, breathless.
The “Y” kept blinking.
Suddenly, letters began flashing across the screen in rapid succession, one after another:
Go through exhaust chute stay away from reactor.
The “r” lingered for a moment.
Whoever was sending these messages knew about the temple’s past as a nuclear power plant. But they didn’t seem to know how the Thraíha referred to the rooms. Or, if they did, they weren’t using the same terminology.
Nickel’s fingers trembled as he punched the keys again, sending another message:
Ids this QRishi?
His hands shook violently. Taking a deep breath, he used the arrow key to correct the message:
Is this Rishi?
He hit “return,” but the question mark resumed flashing endlessly on the screen. Nickel squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. From somewhere below, the thudding noises returned, louder this time.
The screen went dark with a sharp fizz, followed by a faint spark from within the computer’s circuitry. Nickel staggered back, his heart hammering in his chest.
A guttural shout erupted from the room beneath him, reverberating outward like a strange, aggressive wail.
Nickel instinctively stepped to the side, adrenaline exploding through his veins. Jittery and unsteady, he clung to the wall for support.
“Who’s there?” roared a voice from below. “I heard you! I heard you turn them on!” Nickel tripped, landing hard beside the wall.
A rattling clatter of pulley chains echoed from far behind the shrine room. Scrambling on all fours, Nickel searched for the closet where the priests kept water jugs for the incense pots. He felt his way along the wall, his scattered footsteps betraying his panic.
Heavier footsteps clanked from outside, crossing the pulley platform and onto the ledge outside the shrine room. They were heavier than the Thraíha’s steps, accompanied by a strange rhythmic clinking Nickel had never heard before.
His hand found the knob of the closet door. Just as more clinking noises approached from outside, he yanked the door open and slid inside.
Before he could fully shut the door, the shrine room’s main door burst open with a resounding crack. Footsteps thudded and fabric rustled as Nickel pressed himself against the jugs and pots crammed into the closet. A large stone flask dug into the small of his back as he leaned awkwardly on his elbow, trying not to make a sound.
When the door crashed open, Nickel froze, every part of his body still except his hammering heart.
“Erru kuffu, hrra?” growled a gruff voice, echoing through the room. The heavy clinking of metal accompanied the footsteps.
“He’s not here,” replied another voice, cool and detached, with a lifeless, calculating tone. Nickel frowned.
“You didn’t look everywhere,” the gruff voice snapped. “The computer went out—he’s hiding somewhere!” Silverware and furniture crashed to the ground.
“Where is he?!” The footsteps grew louder, their impact harsher. The sound of china shattering filled the air, punctuated by the clattering and reverberation of colliding silver surfaces.
The closet door flew open, revealing a hairy mass of coarse fur and metallic appendages. Before Nickel could react, a massive hand grabbed his legs, dragging him out of the closet. He crashed against the jugs, his skin burning with the scrape.
As soon as he was pulled free, heavy arms pinned him down, pressing abrasive metal surfaces against his body. He screamed and flailed, but before he could land a hit, his limbs were seized by meaty hands. A black cloth was forced over his face, and rough ropes tightened around his arms and legs, binding him completely.
G.R. Nanda 