"Greed" - Third in the seven-part series "SIN' - Mixed media on plywood. My 141st painting.

 

"Pride" - Second in the seven-part series 'SIN' - Mixed media on plywood. My 140th painting.

 

"Envy" - First in the seven-part series 'SIN' - Mixed media on plywood. My 139th painting.

 

SIN

They slither in seductively and beckon to our lower nature. Seven whispers summon, seven virtues denied. Seeking for our weakest point - gripping tightly, holding on, pulling under. Only letting go when we do - then digging a little bit deeper. And after the torrid cruelty - late to learn, lost and hopeless, we realize - indulgence has its price.


Envy

Pride

Greed

Sloth

Gluttony

Lust

Wrath


The devil works in mysterious ways.



A new seven-part painting series. Coming soon.

"The Mesa" - Chapter Three

Ten and Two

Panhandle, Texas - May 10, 1980.

Cassius can see the rendezvous up ahead on the right - an old derelict stone building. He eases on the brake, turns into what is little more than a dirt field and pulls behind the ramshackle structure. 

There, he finds the man from the park who was playing with the German Shepherd - sitting in the navy blue, wood-paneled station wagon - sans dog.

He parks his truck in a way that conceals it from the road and climbs from the cab. The other man walks over and circles the pickup while waving a radio frequency scanner.

Without saying a word, the man completes his inspection - then looks to Cassius.

“Your turn.”

“I’ll save you the trouble.” he replies, holding both hands up, then slowly lifting his jacket open to reveal a .45 in his shoulder holster.

“Lift your arms, spread your feet.”

He’s clean. The man motions with his head towards the station wagon. They walk to the vehicle - Cassius spots an M-16 and .357 on the front passenger seat.

The man places the scanner onto the floorboard and picks up two cloth items. 

“Turn around.” he says, fitting Cassius with a blindfold.

“Is this really necessary?” 

He slides a black hood over his head and opens the back door.

“Lay down.” 

Cassius climbs into the back seat and gets flat. The man shuts the door, gets behind the wheel and starts the engine. 

While still nervous, he takes comfort in the fact that he wasn’t tied up or disarmed. This was still more than he had anticipated. 

The ride was bumpy but short - roughly thirty minutes. 

“You can get up.” 

Cassius raises himself to a sitting position. 

“How ‘bout all this?” he asks in reference to his headgear.

“Take it off.”

He removes the hood and blindfold. After blinking several times, he notices the surroundings are far different. They creep up a narrow dirt path - not unlike a long, winding driveway. 

There were trees all around, most of which were the smaller mesquite scrub. Then it came into view - an old country house. Half sun-baked adobe, half weathered cabin boards. It wasn’t what he expected but neither was anything else. This was all new and unfamiliar territory for him. 

The man parks the station wagon about fifty feet from the house, facing the exit. He and Cassius are met out front by the woman.

“Hello Mr. Wheeler. Welcome to the middle of nowhere!”

On his approach she extends her right hand and smiles warmly.

“Nice little hideaway.” he says, gripping her hand.

“Please, come inside. After you’ve eaten we can get down to business.” she says, gently slapping him on the back.

They enter the house, leaving the driver posted outside.

An hour later, after a hearty meal, Cassius sits at the large, rustic table finishing his beer - the woman sits across from him sipping coffee. 

She rises from the table and disappears down the hall, returning with a hefty stack of cream-colored folders. On top lays a small zippered satchel.

“My name is Catherine Elizabeth Thomas. I’ve been a research scientist in the field of genetics for twenty years. My ID and credentials are inside the bag.”

She drops the weight of information onto the table in front of him. 

“Have at it.”

Cassius unzips the bag first - removing a driver’s license, social security card and a Level 4 security clearance badge. There are other folded articles of paperwork that he leaves inside.

He’s already decided to award her his trust - she never struck him as the fraudulent type.  

“May I ask how you came to be in possession of all this?” he queries, returning her various forms of identification to the bag.

“Two former colleagues.” she answers.

“They have names?”

“They did, but they’re dead now.”

Cassius turns his eyes from her to the mound of folders before him.

“Good men that paid for this information with their lives.” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice.

He picks up the folder on top and begins the lengthy task of poring over its contents. Several moments pass.

“This is all pretty over my head. Half this shit, I don’t even know what the hell I’m reading.”

“I’m happy to answer any questions, explain or elaborate.” she offers.

Cassius goes back to perusing the material from one of the many folders for a solid fifteen minutes. Not one question or remark.

“…three other secret underground facilities - one containing the dreaded ‘God door’.” he finally reads aloud.

“It’s not currently operational but my guess is within three years it will be.” she says.

His eyes refer back to the page.

“What the hell are black angels?”

“Are you familiar with the CERN facility in Switzerland?” she asks. 

“No.”

“It’s a nuclear research complex, or so we’ve been told. The study of particle physics - atomic and subatomic levels. What they don’t tell us is what that work is really for.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“Opening portals.” she answers.

“You lost me.”

“Gateways. If wormholes provide transport to other places in our known time/space continuum, then portals are gateways to other dimensions.”

Cassius squints and stares.

“Dimensions unknown to us that may not operate within any understandable framework of time or space as we know it.”

“This sounds like a bad sci-fi movie.”

“They’re working on a very dangerous form of artificial intelligence, to pair with this new technology to open other-dimensional portals, in order to not only have ready-access to this ‘God door’ but to have the ability to keep it open indefinitely.”

“What does that mean?” he questions.

“That Earth will be an open gateway to the infinite unknown.”

He stands and paces.

“And these black angels?” he asks.

“Alien/AI hybrids to be the gatekeepers, two posted at every portal - but not to safeguard the entryway - their job will be to act as beacons.”

“Beacons?”

“Think lighthouse, but instead of guiding ships they will attract endless streams of unknown entities.”

“How many of these damn portals will there be?”

“Eventually? Thousands, worldwide. Which is why this cannot be allowed to happen.”

Cassius returns to his seat and continues reading. The deeper he got the more insidious it became. Fantastical accounts of a magnitude unimaginable - all accompanied by photographic evidence, partially redacted official government letterhead documents and a sick gnawing in the pit of his stomach that whispered its reluctant authenticity. 

Catherine watches on as the absolute horror of it all sinks in for him. His expression an amalgamation of anger, despair, rejection - all tied together with a rope of conquest. 

It was completely overwhelming - aliens, animal-human hybrids, ruthless experiments attempting to merge man with machine, the hundreds of thousands of missing persons each year - thought to be lost and gone forever - only to end up in cages within the dark halls of these underground facilities. Their fate - to be pin cushions for the savage violence being practiced under the diabolically false heading of medical science. Some to be the food for blasphemous creatures - eaten alive, as a delicacy. Hell was real.

“What kind of God?” Cassius expresses quietly.

“Maybe God isn’t the benevolent being we’ve been told He is.” Catherine opines.

“I always felt the Universe was hostile. There’s no longer any room for doubt.” he says. 

“Some truths weren’t meant for us.” she offers in consolation. 

Cassius goes out front for some air - the driver is dead on the ground - single gunshot to the head. 

He rushes inside where two men have Catherine pinned under the barrel of a machine gun - she’s gagged and restrained at wrist and ankle. A third man sits at the table with Cassius’ holster and weapon in front of him. 

They are mercenaries in all black, wearing balaclavas.

“Howdy Mr. Wheeler. How’s Texas treatin’ ya?” the seated man asks. 

He’s dumbstruck.

“That’s alright, you can just listen.” he says, then stands and slowly circles the table.

“Now I don’t know what this woman has told you, or shown you.” he begins, then violently pushes the folders and papers off the table, they scatter wildly on the floor.

“But she is a liar, a traitor and completely out of her fucking mind.” he continues, stopping in front of Catherine, hitting her with a vicious backhand. 

Cassius jolts forward with a single step. The leader spins around with a large handgun pointed.

One of the men flanking Catherine moves to Cassius and sits him in a chair, zip-tying his wrists. The lead man’s weapon still aimed.

“So you’ve got a choice to make. Right here right now.”

Cassius looks over at Catherine, her face stoically blank, tears trickling. 

The man sits on the table in front of Cassius, laying his gun down where the folders were stacked only moments before.

“Retirement with a pension, fishing trips, hell - sleeping late every damn day if you so choose - you want all that, don’t ya?” he asks. 

Cassius refuses to give him the satisfaction.

“Or you could end up like her.”

Still nothing.

“You really gonna give me the silent treatment?” the man goads.

Cassius stares him down, unblinking.

“Get the vans.” the man says to his subordinates.

The two men move quickly to and out the front door. 

Several minutes tick slowly by, the room is mute - then the sound of two vehicles reversing at the rear of the house.

“Either of you have any last words?” the man asks.

“Fuck you.” Cassius flings with venom.

The two men enter from the back door.

“She goes with you.” he says to the first man.

“He’ll come with us.” he informs the second.

The two flunkies grab Catherine by the arms and lead her out the back door.

“Let’s go.” the man orders Cassius.

He stands and moves to the exit, feeling the gun pressing into his back every step of the way.

They get outside just as Catherine is being loaded into the first van. Her second man and dog both lay dead near the back of the house. One man gets behind the wheel, the other walks over to Cassius and zip-ties his ankles. 

“What’s gonna happen to her?”

The subordinate opens the van’s back doors and pushes Cassius inside. He lands on his chest and face.

“That’s beyond your concern.” the lead man replies.

“Tell me!” he screams, rolling onto his side to face him.

“She’s going to spend the rest of her life in a cell - for defiling the honor, integrity and security of this great nation.”

“How’s that? I thought you said she was a liar - and crazy?”

“Don’t get lost in the fine print.” he says, then slams the van doors shut.

Cassius was sick. The grim reality setting in - the uphill struggle to process - the good guys were actually the bad guys. 

The rough, jostling ride ended after about thirty minutes. The van reverses into place and is put in park - motor running. 

The back doors swing open - it’s the lead man. He glares down at Cassius.

“None of this ever happened. We clear?”

Cassius gives him daggers, not a single word. 

The man pulls his gun and presses it against the side of his face.

“Say it!” the man seethes through gritted teeth. 

Cassius is breathing harder.

“Clear.”

He grabs Cassius by the right arm, lifts him up and throws him from the back of the van onto the ground. He shuts the doors then kneels beside him, cutting his restraints. 

“Go live your life, Mr. Wheeler.” he offers, then climbs back into the passenger side of the vehicle. The van speeds away, lifting a cloud of reddish-brown dust. Cassius gets to his feet, rubs his wrists and walks to his truck.

He sits behind the wheel for a few minutes. Finally, it all spills out, he bursts into tears. Punching the dash, stomping the floor. Overcome with things he’ll never be able to discuss with another living soul. 

And then there were his concerns for Catherine. 

The red and white Dodge pulls from behind the crumbled building, its tail-lights growing smaller down the long country road as the sky turns from dusk to dark.

Tucumcari, New Mexico - May 14, 1980.

Catherine’s Bronco was found on a side road just off of NM-104. She was dead in the driver’s seat. Her hands were duct taped to the steering wheel at the ten and two o’clock positions. She had been beaten to the point of disfigurement.

Her eyes were removed and hung from the rearview mirror. Acid burns covered seventy percent of her body - the majority of damage being on the face, arms and torso. Her feet were cut off at the ankle and sat upright on the back seat. The windshield was spider-webbed but intact. There were no personal effects or any forms of identification. The gas tank was three-quarters full. 

Her death was ruled as suicide.

"The Mesa" - Chapter Two

An Hour From the Truth

Santa Fe, New Mexico - May 8, 1980.

Cassius pulls into the parking area, finds a spot and kills the engine. His red and white Dodge pickup is one of only three vehicles in the lot. The others being a 1975 sand colored Ford Bronco and a navy blue mid-seventies model station wagon - with the obligatory wood-paneled sides. 

He can only see two other people in the whole park - one man in sweats at the far right end doing calisthenics. Another man at the opposite end playing fetch with a German Shepherd. Perhaps his contact hadn’t arrived yet - it was still early - 8:49am. He decides to get out and stretch his legs, walks over to the black iron bench and takes a seat out in the open. 

It’s a nice, brisk morning - temperature around 55’F. Cassius takes full measure of his surroundings, making sure to keep his head on a swivel. He checks his watch - 8:57am - still early, but already he’s feeling like a fool. He didn’t want a repeat of Tuesday. 

A runner appears on the paved walking trail about fifty yards away. They’re heading straight towards him. Getting closer, he can see it’s a woman - slim, attractive, late thirties. She slows to a walk, catching her breath and stops only a few feet away.

“Good morning!” she says smiling.

“Morning.” he replies.

“Do you mind?” she asks, then has a seat on the opposite end of the bench before he can answer.

“Go right ahead.” he says after she’s already seated.

“Nothing like a good early run. Sets your energy level for the day.” she informs while leaning forward rubbing her calves.

Cassius admires her legs through the skin-tight spandex. She turns to catch him staring and smiles. 

“I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. Wheeler.” 

A bit unexpected, as not much in this world shocks him anymore, but taken aback he was.

“Hmm, I wasn’t expecting - “

“A woman?” she interrupts.

“Yeah.” he admits.

“Disappointed?”

He looks her up and down with a quick scan.

“Nope.”

“Good, shall we?” she asks.

“Please.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of a little town called Dulce?” 

“I have.”

“How about Archuleta Mesa?”

“Vaguely.”

She moves a few inches closer.

“There’s a military installation there, an underground base, one mile below the surface. It’s a multi-level facility conducting secret operations and experiments. Everything off the books.” she says in lowered voice.

“OK.”

“There are things being done there that no living creature has any business being part of.”

Cassius looks out over the well-manicured greenery of the park.

“Two questions.” he says.

“Of course.”

“Why are you telling me this? And do you have any proof?”

“I’m telling you because you are on a very short list of people that I can trust. And I have enough proof to get us both killed, many times over.”

“Alright, where is it?” he asks.

“It’s at a secured location. Once you agree to the terms of our further involvement, it will all be handed over to you.”

An elderly man nears, walking with a cane and slight limp.

The woman jumps from her seat, turns her back to the walkway and begins doing leg stretches against the bench.

“Good morning.” the elderly man says, smiling widely.

“Good morning sir.” Cassius replies.

She continues with her activity until the man is out of ear-shot, then returns to her seat.

“If you agree to accept this information and publish every last detail, it will go a long way towards securing your place among the living. Not to mention, incredulity of the public - always an added bonus. Killing you would only lend to the legitimacy of the information. They won’t want to risk that.” she lays out calmly.

“I’m not even going to ask who they are.”

“Great because I don’t have time to explain. You know where Amarillo is?”

“In Texas, last I heard.”

“There’s a little town northeast of there called Panhandle. You’ll drive there, leave your vehicle and ride the rest of the way with one of my men.”

Cassius releases a long, deep sigh.

“That’s over four hours of highway.”

“Fill up the night before, stop only once to refill and use the restroom, on the Texas side of the border. Use only cash, no checks or cards. Nothing traceable.”

He snickers at the enormity of it all. 

“Look, you’re gonna have to do exactly as I say or things will end badly for all of us. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Wait until we have cleared the parking lot, count to one hundred. Beneath where you are sitting, just behind the front left leg, there’s a stone. Under that stone is an old, dirty folded piece of paper. It has your directions. Commit them to memory, then burn it.”

She stands and walks towards the parking lot.

“Okay then.” he says.

“Saturday.” she says without stopping or turning around. 

The two men from either end of the grounds meet her in the parking lot, board their vehicles and disappear. 

Cassius surrenders another sigh. 

“One, two, three, four…”

The Mesa - Chapter One

Testing the Waters

Albuquerque, New Mexico - May 6, 1980.

The door reads CASSIUS WHEELER | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.

Inside the neatly organized office is a large, disorganized desk. Sitting there among the piles of strewn papers and stacks of folders, the man himself. 

At forty-eight years of age, the barrel-chested veteran hasn’t changed much since his five-year stint in Vietnam. Shaved head, smartly dressed, eyes sharp and forward. He proved himself a valuable asset to his platoon in the US Army and now does the same at The Albuquerque Journal. 

His phone rings.

“Hello?”

There’s no one there, only a series of clicks and pauses. 

“Who the hell is this? Hey!”

The sounds continue.

He slams the phone down and returns his attention to a tall stack of papers - then stops. His eyes shift upward to a framed photo on the wall - an old black & white of him in uniform just after boot camp. Those sounds were familiar. Ones he hadn’t heard in years. The dits and dahs of another life.

The former communications officer scrambles to find a blank sheet of paper on the messy desktop, hastily grabbing one of several pens from the drawer. His eyes shoot to the clock - it’s been two minutes. 

Tension sets in across his brow, pulse racing, cues from days gone past. Ring dammit he thought. The anticipation was grueling. Seconds stretching out like miles of thick jungle. Ring you bastard! 

Then it did.                                                                                              

“I’m here, I’ve got pen and paper!” 

Three seconds of silence - then the clicks and pauses resume. Cassius quickly begins logging the incoming information. Ninety seconds later there’s nothing but dial tone. 

This wasn’t your everyday kind of phone call. And why the hell was it in Morse code? A few minutes to decipher and he’s looking down at a very concerning message:

LIFE OR DEATH GOVT INFO. MUST MEET TO TALK. TODAY 3PM GARCIAS IH25 S. COME ALONE. I AM SERIOUS. WILL BE ARMED. 

This was his Tuesday. 

Hours later, he sits in a booth at the greasy spoon diner, waiting for this mystery person. Fifteen minutes becomes thirty becomes an hour. His patience dissolves. A waitress approaches his table. 

“Excuse me sir, are you Mr. Cassius Wheeler?” 

“Yes ma’am.” he answers, surprized.

The woman reaches under her apron and produces a plain white envelope. 

“There was a gentleman here earlier, he left this for you. Said it was extremely important. Gave me a hundred dollar tip to make sure you got it.”

She lays the unmarked envelope on the table in front of him and smiles. He picks it up and is interrupted.

“Oh, he said for you not to open it here. He made that very clear. DO NOT open it here.”

He stops, holding the communique in his left hand.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, you have a wonderful day!”

The lady walks away from the booth leaving him to sit and wonder. He stares at the envelope then stands from the table and leaves the diner.

Back at the office, he sits - stewing at his desk, glaring down at the still unopened message. His door locked - blinds closed - mind on edge. Did he even want to know what the contents were? Then in a sudden burst he rips into it, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He reads it once. Then twice. And a third time.

SORRY FOR TODAY BUT TRUST HAD TO BE ESTABLISHED. NOW THAT I KNOW YOU ARE HONORABLE, WE CAN FACE-TO-FACE. BUT NOT HERE. YOU WILL HAVE TO MEET ME IN SANTA FE. THE ADDRESS IS LISTED BELOW. THURSDAY MORNING 9AM. YOU WILL BE GIVEN A THIRTY-MINUTE GRACE PERIOD TO ALLOW FOR TRAFFIC. AFTER THAT I WILL BE GONE. PLEASE BE ON TIME. THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU COULD EVER KNOW! 

SAME RULES APPLY. TELL NO ONE. COME ALONE. 

PINION BLUFFS PARK - 1013 BLACK ARROYO RD.

UPDATE on "The Mesa"

I've decided to just allow "The Mesa" to be a short story, at least for now. There may be paintings to go along with it at a future date.