The Atlantropa Articles - Cody Franklin The Atlantropa Articles

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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 gives off the aura of a father, like he is 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 a 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 is 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 prepared for battle more than men awaiting to sail.

      Special fluid fills each and every garment we wear. It is 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 can 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

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