Free The Sea of Ash by Scott Thomas Page A

Earth. What was all this about
six oceans, he wondered? He was particularly distressed by the way Captain
Winters’ message had ended with "save Earth."
    "Save it from what ?"
The doctor asked no one.
      Pond knew intuitively that the message
referred to the planet, rather than earth, as in soil.
    At least there was one piece of
concise information sandwiched between the enigmatic bits... "The Garden
of Guns" was clearly a place name; he determined to seek it out.
    Meanwhile, the aching above
Albert's solar plexus accentuated his inability to asleep. It was even
beginning to distract him from his contemplation. At one point he went to a
mirror, unbuttoned his shirt and had a look. Imagine his surprise when he saw a
small fleshy protrusion crooking out from the center of his ribcage.
    "It made me think of a
plucked chicken wing," he wrote in his journal. And... "It twitched a
little when I examined it."
    The doctor had seen patients born
with anomalies -- too few or too many fingers and other minor abnormalities,
but he had never seen anything like this. Whatever it was, it did not appear to
be wired into his nervous system, for it registered no feeling that he was
aware of, even when he pinched it with his fingers.
    Pond was terribly disturbed by his
discovery, and more so over the next few days as the nubby thing continued to
grow and shape. "By the third evening it had reached a length of thirteen
inches, and the mass at the end bore five blunt knobs that caused me to think
of nipples."
    The new appendage was pale and
contained bones. It grew longer and more distinct -- all the while, a city of
damp coal smoke and horse-drawn carriages dominated Pond's dreams.
    The man got very little done that
week. He was exhausted and feverish, and not until the new arm had finished
forming did his vigor and sharp-mindedness return. The curious dreams, and the
pain, dissipated.
    There was no mistaking what the
thing was, for while it was thin and poorly colored, it was indeed a human arm
and hand. A right hand. Pond thought that it looked frail, malnourished,
stunted; either that or it was the limb of a child, for it reached only as far
down as his navel.
      "I have witnessed only a few
demonstrations of animation," Pond recorded in his journal. "Every so
often it shudders or twitches, and one chill evening I saw that the hairless
forearm exhibited gooseflesh."
    Pond tried poking the thing with a
pin to see what sort of reaction he might get. He himself felt nothing, but the
arm jerked appropriately and Pond spoke an apology aloud, though he felt rather
foolish afterward. When his initial terror receded, he found himself both
intrigued and befuddled. Had it been me, I'd have made a dash for the nearest
hospital. I wish I possessed half the courage that Albert Pond had.
    Obviously something had taken place back in Banchini's underground room, and the proof was that arm,
hanging there limply, a bloodless lamprey fastened to his chest.

 
     
     
    12. BULLETS AND BLOSSOMS
     
    The Garden of Guns was tucked at
the end of a winding dirt road on the tightrope between West Boylston and
Worcester, in Massachusetts. Bordering vegetation encroached upon the path to
the point where Pond eventually had to park his Nash and walk. The day was
clear and bright, and before long he found himself standing in a wild garden of
bees and blooms and misty summer heat.
    Pond's observations: "I could
not tell for certain if human hands had shaped the place, though it was
distinct from the surrounding wood, a maze of wild rose bushes and early
goldenrod, grape vines like winged nets cast over skeletons of birch."
    A mossy path wound through clumps
of shrubbery and patches of skulking thyme, browning spears of mullein and
barbed thistle. There were daisies and coneflowers and Queen Anne's Lace with
flowers like disks of foam.
    Pond walked slowly amongst the
scented brambles, his arms slack at his side, the third arm limp beneath his
shirt. He would later write