Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  “The Romans had strictly forbidden the study of Torah within Jerusalem. After skinning alive the great Kabbalist, Rabbi Akiva, alive, the Romans went after his remaining students. One man, Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, managed to escape to northern Israel with his son. The two holy men remained in Galilee, hidden in a mountain cave. They spent the next thirteen years decoding the ancient wisdom, which they eventually transcribed into the Zohar, the book of splendor.

  “It was about this time that Panim found his way to the Sea of Galilee and the city of Tiberius, where he learned Rabbi Shimon had just come down from the mountain. When he finally found the Rabbi, he offered the man a small fortune to share his acquired wisdom, but the teacher refused. Realizing he had insulted the holy man, Panim dismissed his entourage, donated his gold and camels to the poor, then denied himself food until the Kabbalist would reconsider. For the next eight days he followed the Rabbi around until he collapsed, close to death. Impressed by the Asian’s newfound sense of humility, the teacher brought Panim back to his home and fed him, instructing his new student to meet him in a cave on the next full moon, where he was teaching the ancient wisdom to Rabbi Akiva’s surviving sages.

  “Though the Zohar’s knowledge was intended for all of God’s children, mankind simply wasn’t ready to comprehend concepts involving the Big Bang or atoms, let alone the true purpose of man’s existence in the physical universe. And so the Zohar remained hidden until the 13th century.

  “Gelut Panim returned to Asia decades later, a changed man. Convening the Society of the Nine in Tibet, he divided the ancient wisdom into sacred texts, assigning a field of study to each member. The ninth text dealt with the mystical, its teachings defying the laws of physics, tapping into the higher realms to enable mind over matter. So powerful and dangerous was this last subject that Gelut Panim felt it best to safeguard this sacred book of wisdom himself.

  “And so the Nine ventured forth, spreading their teachings where they felt the knowledge might do the most good. Plato and Pythagoras called the ancient wisdom ‘Prisca Theologia.’ Aristotle, Galileo, and Copernicus all served time as members of the Nine, along with Alexandre Yersin, the eighteenth-century French-Swiss bacteriologist who received knowledge from the book of microbiology in order to develop a cure for the bubonic plague. Isaac Newton acquired his own personal copy of the Zohar, relying on it as a scientific reference. Albert Einstein used the ancient wisdom to advance his Theory of Relativity.

  “The Society of the Nine Unknown Men had hoped to use the ancient wisdom to maintain the balance between good — the Creator’s Light — and evil, which is the darkness brought on by man’s ego. According to the ancient wisdom, when the scales of humanity are finally swayed toward the Light, then fulfillment and immortality shall be had by all. But when negativity outweighs the positive forces, then the Angel of Death shall again walk freely upon the Earth at a time known as the End of Days. According to the Zohar, this epoch of human existence began in the Age of Aquarius on the twenty-third day of Elul, in the Hebrew year of 5760, ushered in by ‘a great tall city, its many towers collapsed by flames, the sound of which shall awaken the entire world.’ The Gregorian calendar date: September 11, 2001.”

  Patel felt his blood pressure rising. “September 11 was not a supernal event, it was a false-flag conspiracy, involving lunatics hell-bent on rewriting the map of the Middle East.”

  The Elder smiled with his eyes. “That you believe this does not make it so. As brilliant as you are, you remain stuck in the one percent of existence we call Malchut, the physical world of chaos and pain, war and pestilence, dying and fear. In your latest book, you blame September 11 on the psychopath, sweeping their enablers into a big tent labeled macrosocial evil.”

  “I am a psychologist. Understanding the root causes of evil is what psychology is all about.”

  “And yet nothing changes. Murder and genocide go on, despite the advent of drugs and overflowing prisons. Perhaps you are looking at the roots of the wrong tree?”

  Willing himself to remain calm, the professor took a deep breath, then exhaled, flashing a false smile. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “No, you are hearing with your ego. You have formulated a judgment without having heard one utterance. You remain deceived by your five senses, which, in turn, are being manipulated by the opponent… the Satan.” The Elder pronounced the word: Sa-tahn, emphasizing separation between the two syllables.

  Patel felt his patience waning. “With all due respect, I did not come here to be lectured by the Buddhist version of David Blaine. From what my teacher implied, your society could help root out corruption by identifying it to the masses—”

  “—while seeking justice?”

  “Two wars, a trillion dollars, a million innocent lives stolen. What’s wrong with a little justice?”

  “Justice will happen for each of us when we leave this realm. What you seek is driven by the ego… the self. You cannot experience justice and true happiness — the pursuit of justice will make you miserable.”

  This must be a test… he’s testing me.

  Life is a test, Professor Patel. Pain and suffering, chaos and evil all exist to test us.

  Patel ground his teeth. “I hate that you can hear my thoughts.”

  “That is your ego speaking. The answers you seek are out there, only they have been purposely hidden from us.”

  “Why? Why must all the answers be hidden?”

  “Because we asked the Creator to hide them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will in time. For now, there are more immediate concerns. As I mentioned, when a critical mass realizes that we are all brothers and sisters, then the world will be transformed, and we shall receive immortality. The pendulum, however, swings both ways. There are times when the negative consciousness of humanity becomes so widespread that darkness affects every element of the physical world. When the desire to hate outweighs love, and war trumps peace, the Creator affects a general cleansing. The last time this happened on a global scale was during the time of Noah. We believe another supernal event may be coming soon, perhaps on the winter solstice—”

  “—December 21, the day of the dead.” Pankaj Patel swallowed hard.

  “My wife, Manisha, she is a necromancer — one who communicates with anguished souls. Manisha has told me things, describing warnings from the spiritual world about the End of Days.”

  “But you refused to listen. You harbored doubts.”

  “Regrettably, I am a man of ego.”

  “It is never too late to change.”

  “I shall try to change. As for the Nine… replacing my teacher, I regret I am not yet worthy of this honor.”

  The Elder nods. “I remember the day I first met your mentor. It was in Communist China shortly after he was arrested and tortured by the dark forces he would spend a lifetime attempting to shed his light of knowledge upon. He was more than a brother to me, he was a trusted friend. And like the rest of us, he made mistakes.

  “There is a saying: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ Some interpret this as a blessing, others a curse. I prefer to see it as an opportunity for great change. Noah lived in interesting times — a time of great evil and selfishness where man’s darkest, most barbaric traits reigned supreme. The Creator made a covenant between Himself and this righteous man, only then did He wipe the wicked from the face of the Earth. Abraham, too, made his covenant, and Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed. The same with Moses. In each generation of evil, a righteous man has been selected and tested, each challenge intended to strengthen the chosen one’s sense of spirituality and certainty, each covenant made between man and the Creator leading to the destruction of evil. Thousands of years have passed, the cycle repeated many times, culminating in this, the End of Days. If there is to be salvation this time around, it can only be found within the Light. Fail, and darkness shall rule the earth, leading to global annihilation and the death of more than six billion people.”

&
nbsp; The seniormost member of the Nine stood, the professor following suit.

  “Pankaj Patel, do you swear upon your soul and all that is holy to safeguard the body of knowledge about to be entrusted in your care?”

  “Upon my soul, I swear it.”

  “Do you swear to uphold and honor the secrecy and sanctity of the Society of the Nine Unknown Men under penalty of torture and death?”

  “Upon my soul, I swear it.”

  “Do you swear to add to the body of knowledge for which you have been sworn to safeguard, and in due time recruit a qualified successor?”

  “Upon my soul, I swear it.”

  The Asian monk stepped forward and placed his keratin-flesh palms upon Pankaj Patel’s head. “I need to establish a connection with your biorhythm, linking your DNA with ours. In this way, you will know your brothers when your paths cross, and the dark forces can never penetrate our inner circle. You may feel a slight electrical discharge.”

  The professor jumped as a surge of energy raced down his spinal cord, then distally throughout his anatomy by way of his nerve endings.

  “Pankaj Patel, I welcome you into the Society of the Nine Unknown Men. From this day until your last, you shall be known among your brethren only as Number Seven. May the Creator sanctify your acceptance with His blessings and keep you and yours in the Light.”

  “Thank you, Elder, for this honor. What is my first assignment?”

  Gelut Panim, blood descendant of Emperor Asoka, student of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, turned to face the swiftly moving waters of the Hudson River. “I need you to be my eyes and ears in Manhattan. I need your wife to be our barometer in the supernal realm. There is a storm approaching, my friend. The Angel of Death has been summoned—

  — and for reasons that remain unknown, it has targeted your family.”

  October

  "Since I entered politics, I have chiefly had men's views confided to me privately. Some of the biggest men in the U.S., in the field of commerce and manufacturing, are afraid of somebody, are afraid of something. They know that there is a power somewhere so organized, so subtle, so watchful, so interlocked, so complete, and so pervasive that they had better not speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it."

  — President Woodrow Wilson

  "I never would have agreed to the formulation of the Central Intelligence Agency back in ’47 if I had known it would become the American Gestapo."

  — President Harry S. Truman

  VA Medical Center

  Manhattan, New York

  4:22 P.M.

  “Yes, he’s suffering from stress-related paranoia, but this is way beyond the usual post-traumatic disorder. The inner rage, the feelings of emptiness, most of all his unstable self-image… this is textbook borderline personality disorder.”

  Dr. Mindy Murphy closed Patrick Shepherd’s folder, handing it to Dr. Nelson. “Bottom line, Leigh, this one’s dangerous. Pass him on to Bellevue and let them deal with it.”

  “Pass him on? Mindy, this man sacrificed everything… his family, his career — now you want to lock him up in a padded cell?”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that. There are new approaches for BPD. Dialectical behavior therapy has shown real promise.”

  “Good! You can treat him right here.”

  “Leigh—”

  “Mindy, you’re the best psychologist in the system.”

  “I’m the only psychologist in the system. Two of my associates quit last spring, a third took early retirement. My workload went from seventy-five patients to three hundred. I’m no longer practicing psychology, Leigh, these monthly meetings are nothing more than triage. Face facts, the system’s underfunded and overwhelmed, and sometimes soldiers fall through the cracks. You can’t save everybody.”

  “This one needs to be saved.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he does.”

  Dr. Murphy sighed. “Okay. You want to play Florence Nightingale, go for it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Just tell me what to do.”

  “For starters, don’t try to change him right now. Accept him as he is but don’t coddle. If he tries to hurt himself again or contemplates suicide, let him know he’s inconveniencing you, even jeopardizing your career. Have you measured him for a prosthetic arm?”

  “Last week.”

  “Was he receptive?”

  “No, but I bribed him with a DVD copy of Bull Durham. I’m being told there’s a six-month backlog on prosthetics.”

  “It used to be worse. But getting him a new arm is potentially a good thing, it’ll give him something to focus his mind on. If nothing else, it could help alter his self-image. The biggest challenge you’re facing right now is finding a way to reignite his pilot light, to get him to desire something, to set a goal, to feel useful again. He’s in decent physical shape, why don’t you put him to work in the wards. Helping others is a great way to get someone to feel needed again.”

  “Good idea.” Leigh Nelson scribbled herself a note. “What about his family?”

  “What about yours? Shouldn’t you be home with the husband and kids?”

  “Mindy, his wife deserted him, and he has a daughter he hasn’t seen in eleven years. Should I facilitate a reunion or not?”

  “Go slow. There are a lot of anger issues there, feelings of abandonment. What makes you so sure you can even find them?”

  “The two of them grew up in Brooklyn, they were childhood sweethearts. She might still have relatives living over there.”

  Dr. Murphy shook her head. “You’re married with kids, you work sixty-hour weeks, but somehow you have time to search for one of your patient’s estranged wife’s family who may or may not live somewhere in Brooklyn. Leigh, what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to save a lost soul, Mindy. Isn’t that worth a little time out of my day? A little sacrifice?”

  “Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance: The five stages of grief.”

  “You think Shep’s experiencing them?”

  The former gymnast stood, tossing Patrick Shepherd’s file onto a stack of fifty. “No, Leigh, I was talking about you.”

  Frederick, Maryland

  4:59 P.M.

  Andrew Bradosky turned north on US 15, the four-cylinder car lacking the power of his new Mustang. He had debated all morning about whether to waste another fifty dollars on a rental car. In the end, caution had outweighed frugality. Besides, what was fifty dollars when a big payday was coming down the pike.

  Tonight’s meeting would be the third in the last five weeks with the black ops officer. Andrew suspected Ernest Lozano was either CIA or DIA, maybe even Homeland Security. In the end, it didn’t matter, as long as the deposits kept arriving every two weeks into his offshore account.

  The Hampton Inn was on the right. Andrew turned into the driveway and parked, then headed for the lobby, the Baltimore Orioles baseball cap tucked low over his eyes. He kept his head down as he moved past the registration desk and bar, then took the elevator up to the third floor.

  * * *

  Andrew Bradosky was thirty-six when he began working at Fort Detrick following a two-year stint at Battelle’s facility in Ohio. To his fellow employees he was a fun-loving guy, always good for a beer after work or the occasional male-bonding weekend in Vegas. His supervisors generally liked him, until time and activity revealed his work ethic to be less than stellar. To his closest friends, Andy remained the consummate bullshit artist, which was why they loved him. While he could charm the underpants off the hot chick with the frosty attitude, most of his peers agreed the terminal bachelor lacked the substance to progress from one-night stands to more meaningful relationships. In fact, Andrew preferred things that way. In small doses, women were sport; the trouble began when they started to nest, something that was clearly not in his best interest.

  What Andrew Bradosky was really interested in was a better-paying job. Perhaps that was the reason he had maneuvere
d himself into the life of Mary Klipot. Had he met her in a bar or at a social gathering, she would never have progressed beyond small talk, but at Fort Detrick, the microbiologist had an intellectual flare that made her pseudoattractive. Andrew dubbed this the “Tony Soprano effect.” In real life, a fat, balding middle-aged man like the HBO character could never get the kind of pussy he got on the show, but being a mob boss gave him a certain flare that attracted beautiful, albeit problematic women.

  Mary Klipot’s intellect and job title empowered her in the same manner. The fact that she was a loner working in-charge of a BSL-4 lab only made getting to know her that much more enticing.

  The first day he had introduced himself at lunch was beyond awkward.

  During the second lunch encounter, she had walked away.

  For the next two weeks, she had avoided him by eating lunch in her lab. Ever the opportunist, Andrew learned that Mary worked out in the campus gym every other morning. Playing it cool, he began showing up to pump iron, never acknowledging her presence until the third workout. A few hellos led to small talk, enough to set the introverted redhead at ease.

  His diligence paid off a month later when Mary selected him as a lab tech for Project Scythe.

  * * *

  Andrew stepped off the hotel elevator, following arrowed signs to room 310. He knocked twice, then once, then twice more.

  The door swung open, Ernest Lozano beckoning him in. He pointed to the bed, reserving the desk chair for himself. “So how are things at work?”

  “We’re progressing nicely.”

  “I didn’t summon you for a weather report. When will the agent be weaponized?”

  “You said spring. We’re on target. March or April, for sure.”

  Andrew never saw the stiletto until its point was inches away from his right eye. The lanky agent’s powerful upper body leaned over him, pushing him back on the mattress, his face so close, the lab technician could smell a whiff of Alfredo sauce mixed in with the Aqua Velva aftershave. “We’ve paid you fifty thousand. For fifty grand I want assurances, not best guesses.”