The Atlantropa Articles Read online

  The ferry blows its horn to announce its arrival at the concrete shore and the crowd begins disembarking. A long, narrow bridge slowly moves toward solid ground, allowing the flood of people to spew forth from the vessel. Ulric and I navigate our way through a crowd of sailors, crewmen, and whores, all going to their own destination. As all depart and disappear into the sea of people, we both stop and stare at the sight in front of us.

  These buildings must have been thousands of years old and yet there was hardly a crack on them, only an orange hue which had caked itself onto the façades of these structures. They are all ornate. Carved with pictures of events from the past. Armored warriors defending against an unstoppable wave. A pact between two men holding up a single document.

  Above these structures loom great statues, which remain as pristine as the day they were first constructed. Images dedicated to Führers of the past, Reich heroes who fought in the Kiln, or even depictions of eagles. In every area of the Edge, red-and-gold flags wave about, gloriously.

  It truly is a magnificent sight; however, it isn’t the sight that I have come for.

  We stroll through the crowd. Sailors bumble past us on their way to their designated ships. Guards in their large metal suits lumber by with a metallic clank at every footstep. Smaller soldiers march about, waiting to be loaded onto a ship destined for some Eagle Nest out in the Kiln.

  As the minutes roll past, we move away from the pungent odor of the sea. The sound of the waves crashing against the Edge disappears in the noise of the human traffic. With every step, dust becomes more prevalent on the white, ancient floor. Wind begins to howl and cry as hot, dry air overtakes the smell of the sea.

  There is no horizon in front of me. Instead, the blue sky simply meets a small white barrier. It’s a wall that goes up to my waist. On this wall is a line of flagpoles, each flying the flag of the Eternal Reich, a swastika emblazoned on each and every one. This simple wall is the only thing preventing onlookers from tumbling down into the world below.

  After about ten minutes of navigation, we had made our way to the literal edge of this concrete place. As I looked down past the white barrier caked in sand, I could see the desert world that stretched endlessly onward. It was the edge of the great concrete dam that held in the entire sea which we had just traversed by ferry.

  I look down the curved face of a structure that has remained stable and intact since the days of the first Aryans. This dam is the arrival point for most people traveling into the vast desert beyond.

  Through the rippling desert air, I locate the vast array of ships lined in a row against the dam’s edge. Those were the true docks. Each ship packed with special cargo, preparing to sail forthright into the vast expanse of desert and salt.

  From the bottom docks onward, there was nothing more than endless rolling hills of orange desert. I take in the sight of ships curving over the dunes. Going off into the horizon. Long strings of dusty clouds trail behind them as their treads slowly carry them south into the basin beyond.

  “Welcome to the Kiln,” I mutter to my brother, reaching out a hand to the magnificent sight.

  “It sure is different than how I pictured it…” Ulric remarks, peering over with me, “It’s far more…arid.”

  “Well, it is a desert,” I laugh. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know what I expected…so which ship is yours?” Ulric asks, gesturing a hand toward the ships lined against the dam far below.

  I point to the largest of the hulking masses of steel. “There she is, there’s the Howling Dark.”

  “She’s quite a big one,” Ulric remarks.

  “Well there’s a reason we’ve never needed to call in the Drop,” I say.

  We stay there for a while, simply gazing out into the orange expanse of sea. After that, we turn around and head to the statue that has loomed over us since we first arrived at the Docks. Its façade has been worn down by centuries of dust and sand, but that didn’t stop it from being magnificent.

  I look up upon the calm statue that for centuries has looked off into that endless desert world. Sharp cheekbones define a strong, handsome face. It has wavy hair, similar to that of the ancient Greeks. Its tall body is draped in garments and chains, yet still remains composed. One hand points toward the sky, as another clasps onto the documents that created all the dams of Atlantropa.

  We were always taught that he was truly the perfect, ideal Aryan. The man who started our entire race. Standing here underneath this statue, I can’t help but feel a warmth inside my heart. It simply gave off the aura of a father, like he was looking down at his people who are prospering.

  “What do you think he would have thought of this?” Ulric asks me.

  I squint and wrinkle my brow to get a clearer view of the statue’s face. I take in the meticulous details of the robes. Every inch tells a story through a series of symbols and images about the people of Europe. It is story that culminates in the Reich and the rise of the Aryans. The people.

  “I don’t know how much he would think of large statues of himself,” I reply.

  “I mean, what do you think he would have thought about this desert…you think he would have still gone through with constructing the dams if he knew the sea would just become one large desert?”

  My eyebrows rise, and I look back down to Ulric, his face still turned upward.

  “I assume so,” I guess, not really knowing much of what he would have wanted. “Peace was assured, everyone came together. So it worked out,” I reply, gazing up once more.

  We then look to the stone engraving that stands at the base of the statue. It’s a mural of two men, the one in the statue and another man, the Architect, both grasping a stone tablet with one hand. Rays radiate from the stone as a group of men look on in the background. On the stone is a single phrase: “The Atlantropa Articles.”

  Underneath the depiction of the two men is a short poem, engraved onto the marble:

  I light my path with the flame of reason,

  I warm my heart with the pride of race,

  I love my Führer for all Eternal,

  For his life is what gave me grace.

  In Memoriam to the Eternal Führer Adolf Hitler (1889–1939)

  “He’d be proud that a kid is so ambitious about his message,” I say to Ulric, his eyes analyzing the poem before us.

  “You really think so?” Ulric asks with a smile.

  “Of course,” I reply, smiling back. “Sieg Heil.”

  “Sieg Heil.”

  The Howling Dark

  The dam scales across the desert like a towering cliff. Its sheer size makes it appear more like a natural formation than a manmade construction, as if the Reich had nothing to do with this dam and Earth had formed this cliffside herself. The journey down to the desert below is a long one, even in an elevator. I feel cramped inside this small metal box hugging the face of the dam on a slow descent into the Kiln.

  Such a long journey leads my mind to wander. I imagine the sea that is behind me, all of the water held back only by a thick barrier of centuries-old concrete. If this dam weren’t here, I’d be surrounded by whales and fish. Ships would be sailing above my head instead of below my feet. It’s a strange concept to ponder.

  Sunlight peeks in through a thin row of windows along the cabin’s ceiling. In a slow meticulous fashion, rays of light from the setting sun crawl down the walls. White specks of sand glisten as they meet.

  The sand that has collected on the cabin floor is tossed up with a jolt from the steel box. Millions of particles drift about the room like a swarm of tiny flies. Sand dyes the air a hue of lightish orange. It’s as thick as liquid. If I weren’t wearing a mask, I doubt I could even breathe.

  As was policy, Ulric and I are wearing the appropriate breathing apparatus and are dressed in uniforms of metal and bright, red-and-gold cloth garments. We resemble knights prepare
d for battle more than men awaiting to sail.

  Special fluid fills each and every garment we wear. It was all for cooling purposes. When the sea dried up, it left behind a basin. A basin of salt and sand that soaks in every bit of sunlight poured into it. Even in the safest conditions, the temperatures could be so high you’d die in a matter of hours, if not minutes.

  The rumor always was the Sun could become so intense in this basin that the heat could melt even glass. From that generations-old belief, this place received its name: “The Kiln.” The Kiln is the basin that the Mediterranean left behind. It’s a bowl of salt, sand, and death.

  We descend farther. With each moment we come closer to being level with the evening sun.

  “How did you first feel when coming into the Kiln?” my brother asks in a stuttering voice, breaking a moment of relative silence.

  I ponder for a second.

  “In the military? No nerves. Just rushed right in,” I state in a boastful tone. “First day as a Captain? Fuck, now that was nerve-racking. Thought I’d crash the ship on the first departure. Talk about daunting…”

  “Feels like I got a whirlpool in my stomach.”

  “Look, it gets easier after a while. The sand will become your old friend, and after being out there it won’t seem so daunting anymore. I will admit, though, having a big enough gun helps.”

  “Just not too big,” Ulric raises a finger.

  “You’re still on about the Aegir Drop?” I groan, turning to my brother, taking in his entire display of silver armor. His helmet is a jagged and sharp thing encompassing his usually gaunt face. Wrapped around his body is a series of light-brown scarves. Draped over his shoulder is a dark violet cape.

  “Why do you not want me to do it?” he insists in a whine, looking back at me with two orange visors shining bright in this dusty dark box.

  “I already told you.” I abruptly spit, turning away from him, focusing my attention on the dust particles floating about.

  “It’s a tool at our disposal…that’s all I’m saying.” Ulric insists in a calmer voice, a bid to level for me to change my mind. Yet I know I will not change my mind.

  “Not all tools need to be used,” I say, raising my arms up. I begin pacing around what little space I can in here. “You get in a fight with an unarmed man, and you got a knife, sure you can use it, doesn’t mean you aren’t any less of a pussy.”

  “They are Scavengers, why do you care how you kill them. Think they’ll judge you?” Ulric reasons, and to that I burst out in laughter.

  “No,” I say through chuckles, “I just don’t want to judge myself. This is the Kiln, our domain. I shouldn’t have to rely on anyone else, but me.” I thump my rusted metal arm against my metallic armor. It gives off a satisfying clank with each beat.

  Ulric turns away defeated, and we both face the empty wall. The sunlight continues its migration across the elevator as we go farther down the dam.

  “Did Father ever have a chance to tell you the story about his time in the Italian Sands?” Ulric asks, breaking the slight lull in the conversation, “…when he was stationed there?”

  I turn my head to face him. His identification number and name pop up on my display. A helmet in the Kiln is important for the days when the sun reflects off of the white salt, or when the desert kicks up a storm to ruin an afternoon.

  “He’s told me, bits and pieces but no specifics…” I ponder, thinking back to the conversations I had with that stern man in my childhood. “Why? Did he tell you?”

  “He told me before I went off to college.” Ulric contemplates, preparing to dive deep into a story. “He talked about how his division was sent in to clear out squatters that occupied that abandoned city, Rome. Nobody knew why they chose to stay there…nothing but desert, you know. Sand dunes covered everywhere except this temple.”

  The elevator, after a few minutes of creeping, has finally leveled with the tops of the ships. I can make out the golden flag of the Reich flowing high atop one vessel.

  “The squatters were starving in that temple. Dad said they didn’t look like us. They had dark hair. Foreign features. They weren’t dark like the Raiders, but not fair-skinned like Aryans. He figured they were the last remnants of the Romans.”

  The engines from the ships permeate the elevator cabin, throwing more sand into the air as the deep bassoon of a tremor ripples out. Ulric seems to be lost in thought.

  “They were too stubborn to leave when their homeland dried up but had managed to keep fish alive, in these pools of water,” he continues, his voice trailing.

  The bustling docks come into full view as the elevator slows to a crawl.

  “At least the fish had once been alive. See, they had so many people, they needed a lot of fish to feed everyone. It was the last water reserve they had, so space was limited. Well, it was too limited. Most of the fish had drowned.”

  “What?” I chuckle. “How does a fish drown in water?”

  “Well, they need oxygen and there is only so much oxygen in water. If there are too many fish breathing that oxygen, then they can’t breathe and suffocate,” Ulric answers. “These Romans had too many people, not enough space, and couldn’t keep the fish alive. So they starved.”

  “They don’t seem like they were the smartest people,” I scoff. “They should have left,” I continue, wagging a finger.

  “Yes they should have. But they were stubborn,” Ulric concludes in that matter-of-fact, scholarly voice.

  An armored Ulric, donned in a violet cloth, turns himself toward me as the elevator doors open, releasing a taste of the scalding heat, much like an oven. Even through my protective layer, the heat is still a presence.

  “No matter how natural it is for a fish to be in water, there is always the possibility that it can drown,” my brother concludes to me, his voice calm and full of purpose.

  “That’s a good story,” I say to him, feeling the rippling heat of the Kiln scraping against my metal, “but this desert is big enough for all of us to breathe.”

  The cracked stone surface of the Docks is so thick with sand that each step we take leaves imprints from our metal boots. Everything down here—the elevator, the docks, and the ships—all appear to be dyed with the same orange powder. Sand was just something non-negotiable down here. Winds carried the stuff every day, and it made cleaning anything a pretty pointless endeavor.

  As we make our way down an orchestra of machinery, men, and cargo, I explain the sights to a bewildered Ulric. The dam, commonly just called the Marian Dam, towers over the entire display. Trains and carts speed across platforms constructed on its solid concrete face, stretching so long that it curves into the horizon.

  For as impressive as the Marian Dam is, it is nothing compared to the biggest: the dam that keeps the entire Atlantic Ocean at bay. The pair of us stroll across the dock, leaping out of the way as cranes lift rusting containers and swing them far above like an acrobat.

  Yet these cranes were tiny when compared to the hulking mechanical beasts to our left. Officially these machines with bows, sterns, and everything in between are simply called “ships.” They are shaped like ships and they sail the desert like a ship would sail the sea.

  In practice, these machines were much more like a tank. A tank that could successfully navigate across the ever-shifting waves of the Kiln. Every ship in the Kiln at one point had been an actual watercraft, or that is how the rumor is told. The Kiln is a beacon which attracts such rumors.

  Even if it were true, I doubt the ships in front of us looked like they did before the sea dried up. To survive down here, all have been heavily modified with an assortment of metal plates and makeshift towers. Guns were removed and replaced with the modern weaponry of today. The treads. Oh my, the treads. To the side of each ship were added gargantuan treads that allowed the machines to grip into the sandy ground and propel themselves forward.
/>   Eventually I see her. The tall, jagged towers of cobbled-together steel peeking just above her neighbors. The Howling Dark. It’s a shame we can’t stay here during leave. Ever since I was assigned to this ship a decade ago, I have put my blood and sweat into making it the fiercest ship among the carriers. Looking at her is how I imagine a proud man feels after making a home for his family. I have no delusions of such a thing, so this…is my home.

  The ship’s wide stern is facing the docks. Behind it is a large steel crane, meticulously lifting a series of gigantic steel boxes right into the center of the vessel.

  The Howling Dark casts a wide presence. For just one moment, I want to take in this full view of her majesty—one I rarely get out in the desert. Her elaborate stern reaches high into the desert air. Banners of red, gold, and silver drape over the side, each woven in with a swastika of the Reich.

  Engraved into the metal work is the depiction of an eagle, its wings outstretched as it clutches onto a large broadsword. Wrapped around the sword is a long winding piece of parchment bearing the words: For without the sacrifices of those before, I could not stand before you.

  Pieces of the engravement were missing, however, covered up in a patchwork of various metals that speckled her rusting shell. A testament of the numerous battles she has persevered. Even with the patchy metalwork, the intricate sculpting of Aryan heroes and legends on the back still filled me with a sense of awe. It’s one of the few things that can do that to me anymore.

  I lead Ulric to a makeshift contraption hanging at the back of the vessel. We clamber inside, and with a press of a button we are lifted up across the side of the boat. Noise from its bustling machinery begins to fade away as we are taken further and further up the ship’s hull. The wind reveals itself as my helmet protects me from a blast of hot sand.