by Madyson Rush
“Hold on.”
She could hear the short digital beeps of his watch.
“Latitude is 57.573 and longitude -3.724,” he said. “We’re in an old abandoned church at the east end of town.”
She blinked away fatigue, trying to commit the numbers to memory. “We?” She almost missed it. He was with someone?
“I’ll explain when you get here.” He paused. “Brynne, you okay?”
Thatcher took in a deep breath. “I’ll be there soon.”
She limped back to the SUV.
The GPS powered up. She entered David’s coordinates.
After a minute, the computer provided directions.
DISTANCE: 87.6 miles
ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL: 1 hour and 49 minutes
That was if she drove the speed limit.
To hell with the speed limit.
Chapter 66
SUNDAY, 2:14 a.m.
Boghole Farm, Scotland
Thatcher’s high beams lit the chapel through the doorway.
David had left it open to hear her approach, but the sudden light still made his heart jump.
Asor was asleep. Out cold and oblivious.
Thatcher cut the engine as David stepped out of the building. She slid off the seat and stumbled into his arms.
“What happened?” He could see the gaping wound in her leg. He wasn’t sure how to comfort her. Her nearness was overwhelming.
“He killed Marek,” she managed between sobs. “Hummer killed Marek.”
Her body was shivering.
“Come inside, you’re freezing.” He kept one arm around her and led her into the church.
****
“Asor knows what’s happening?” Thatcher asked.
“He claims to.” David ripped off the bottom of her pant leg.
Sitting on a pew, half a dozen rows behind Asor, she munched on a granola bar and tried to ignore the pain. They had found bandages and antiseptic in a first aid kit inside the SUV.
David dabbed alcohol over her calf where the plastic was embedded.
She winced in pain.
“According to Asor,” he said, “the only way to stop the graves is to find the seal.”
“And put it in the lock,” she finished the thought out loud. “The eternal stone inside Maeshowe.”
“Exactly.” David studied her face. “Remember, though, I found this guy in a loony bin.”
“It’s your father’s theory,” she said. “The lock and key.”
Somewhere within the basecamp at Stenness was her backpack with Brenton’s paper. “Do you think Asor is telling the truth?”
“I think he thinks it’s the truth.” He held up some pliers. “You might want to bite down on something.”
She ate the last of the granola bar and squared her shoulders, embarrassed by her earlier tears. “I’ve got it.”
David took hold of the shrapnel, cringing as he watched her face. He pulled in the direction she had instructed. The opaque shrapnel slid out of her calf. This minor surgery was going better than she’d imagined, but she could tell it made him sick to his stomach. He held the shrapnel into the light so she could see it. The piece of elevator was larger than a table knife and thick with coagulated blood. The jagged dagger had almost passed completely through her leg.
He grabbed a square of gauze from the kit and pressed it against the wound.
“Let it bleed for a minute,” she said through gritted teeth.
No resistance during the removal meant bones were not involved—finally, a stroke of luck—but the bleeding had slowed to nothing more than a trickle. The puncture was deep, and deep meant infectious. Bleeding out the wound would help purge it of contaminants.
The blood crept down her leg and soaked into her shoes.
David set the bandage against her ankle instead. “Asor and Brenton found the first seal buried in Wadi Musa near Petra, Jordan.”
She nodded at the bandage box. “Alcohol, then antiseptic.”
He unscrewed the bottle and poured alcohol over her leg.
“Use the whole thing.” She bit down on her forearm. “God.”
Slowly, the sting subsided to a dull ache. She wiped sweat from her forehead and leaned back against the bench. The church was quiet. All she could hear was Asor’s strained breathing. The old man looked dead. He was curled in the fetal position and wrapped with a shabby rug.
“Asor said Brenton tried to retrieve the seal but it ‘went off.’” He put the last two words in finger quotes and then set the empty alcohol bottle on the floor.
“It ‘went off’?” She frowned.
“Like the graves.”
“With sound?” She remembered the acoustic damage to Brenton's body.
David shrugged. “I guess that’s what started the whole passage-graves-destroying-the-world thing.”
It all sounded ridiculous.
“This key—or this seal—it’s just waiting for us in Wadi Musa?” she asked.
“Sort of.” David cleared his throat.
“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
He opened the antiseptic cream. “Some firstborn son from a chosen lineage has to remove the seal from its grave, then anyone can have it and, you know, put it in the eternal stone.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
She scoffed. “Bloody hell, David.”
His brow furrowed. His eyes were tired but intent.
He smoothed the antiseptic over her calf. “Vanderkam said the same thing when I was with him. That someone from this chosen lineage has to remove the seal, but once the seal is out of its grave, anyone can possess it. That means anybody can place it in the eternal stone, anybody can become Horseman, and anybody can—”
“End the world,” she said. Blood rushed to the pit of her stomach. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It matched Brenton’s theory, but it was so far off the deep end—especially coming from David. “We should at least try to postpone the end… Save as many as we can.” She took in a deep breath. “David, what does it even mean to become horseman?”
He dried his hands on his pants and shrugged.
“How are we supposed to get the seal without someone from the Chosen lineage?” she asked. “And what does Asor want with you? Brenton wasn’t of the Chosen lineage.”
David tore the protective packaging off a roll of gauze. He wrapped the bandage around her leg. He hesitated and then pulled a letter from his pocket. He handed it to her. “I don’t know what it means,” he said.
Thatcher unfolded it. She ran a finger across the spiral-covered words.
COME THOU ART CHOSEN
He met her eyes.
“Asor sought me out. He wanted me to find him.”
She turned the letter around in her hands. There were thousands of tiny spirals. God, if this Apocalypse thing was true… Faith was harmless when it was merely supposition. She winced as he wrapped the bandage too tight.
“Airports are grounded,” he said. “There’s no way out of the country.”
“We have to try,” she insisted. “We need to find a private plane.”
“I have a friend in Clochtow.” David smirked. Leave it to him to have back road connections.
She lowered her voice and looked at Asor. “Can we trust him?”
David tied off her bandage. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
Chapter 67
SUNDAY, 8:04 a.m.
Boghole Farm, Scotland
A branch broke outside.
The tiny hairs along the back of David’s neck stood on end. Someone was outside. He shook Thatcher awake, and pressed a finger to her lips before she could speak.
Asor was awake and listening, too. He sat up. The irises of his eyes were glowing. “She led them here,” he hissed.
Thatcher looked at David apologetically.
There was only one entr
ance and exit—the front door. David’s eyes landed on the wood columns that extended from floor to ceiling. At least he could buy them some time. Niches within the columns were deep enough to climb. The pillars led to a network of ceiling beams concealed in shadow along the roof. He turned to Thatcher.
“Do you think you could make it up that?” He pointed at the pillar.
She nodded. Her leg had swollen to twice its size. The ceiling rafters towered more than thirty feet above. Even with healthy legs, it was a challenging climb. He helped her up. She gripped the column and quickly scaled up it, careful not to use her injured leg. She stopped underneath the crossbeam and caught her breath. Stretching toward the ‘Y’ joist, she leapt from the pillar, twisting in midair, and caught the edges of the joist. She pulled her good leg over the top of the beam and climbed on top of it. She looked down at David and Asor. “Are you coming?”
David smiled. Damn.
Asor’s gnarled fingers lodged into grooves. He climbed toward the ceiling and stopped beneath the joist. The gap between himself and the crossbeam was a good two feet in length. He seemed incapable of the acrobatics he had performed the day before. His hands trembled as he reached for the rafter.
Thatcher took his wrists. “I’ll hoist you up.”
Asor wobbled as he left the pillar.
Swinging him back and forth, Thatcher used the momentum to pull Asor up and over the crossbeam. She steadied him until he regained his balance.
David climbed up the column.
“Give him room.” Thatcher said, scooting along the post as David reached the top. “All the way to the corner.”
Asor followed her with a growl. They ducked into the shadows where the plank met the pitched ceiling. Thatcher backed into cobwebs. She looked down at David.
Her face went white.
Waving like a proud banner, her leg bandage had caught on a nail along the beam.
The church door burst open.
Scotland Special Forces stormed the building. Men protected by hard-plate tactical vests and full-face helmets, spread around the room, carrying heavy artillery. They were yelling, eradicating what little sanctity was left within the chapel.
David pulled his legs up into the shadows. It was too late. Pinned at the top of the column, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The mob quieted as they searched the last pews.
A man spoke into his radio. “It’s empty, sir.”
A voice relayed back. “They’re in there goddamn it!”
The chapel door flew open, slamming into the wall. Lang met the officials at the center of the room. Sweat beaded across David’s forehead. He met Thatcher’s eyes in a moment of shared recognition. What was Lang doing there?
“They must have abandoned their vehicles.” The guard removed his face shield.
“You’ve searched the pews?” Lang asked.
David’s legs were cramping. He set his forehead against the wood. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this.
Lang stepped into one of the pews. He stuck a finger into one of the votives. The waxy candle gave way, milky warm at its center. “Come on, David,” he said. “Where are you hiding?”
He took a flashlight from the guard and shined it along David’s column. Light crept around the wood, nearly meeting David’s fingertips. It moved up the pillar and quickly across the ceiling beam.
David held his breath. Here we go.
The corner was empty.
Side-stepping across the narrow plank that wrapped along the ceiling’s perimeter, Thatcher and Asor were hidden from the light. The flashlight stopped on Thatcher’s bandage. A gust from the doorway blew the gauze off the nail. The bandage landed at Lang’s feet.
“They’re in the rafters,” he said.
Laser scopes invaded the ceiling.
“I’m not here to hurt you, David,” Lang explained. “I just need your mother’s ring.”
David lifted his head off the pillar. He looked at the stone ring hanging on a chain around his neck. What was he talking about?
“Come on, David—” Lang stopped short.
A whisper echoed across the chapel.
Tucked in the ceiling corner, Asor chanted something incoherent. The old man lurched back, his eyes rolling into his head. He tipped forward off the precipice.
Thatcher grabbed his shirt, almost falling herself. Targeting lasers glowed on her chest.
Lang swatted down the gun nearest him.
The pews began to shake.
Thunder filled the chapel. The stone floor began to crack, splitting in every direction. The pews shook, breaking away from the floor. Free from the foundation, the pews slid across the room, slamming guards into the wall. The sound of crunching bone made David flinch. Another bench screamed across the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. Lang’s men were thrown into the pillars as the pews collided.
There was an eruption of gunfire. The few men that were alive fired at the pews in desperation, trying to shoot them to pieces. Pulverized wood exploded into the air. Splinters showered over the room like arrows. A bullet ricocheted into the ceiling, blowing apart the ledge near Thatcher’s feet. She tumbled off the platform, catching the edge with one hand.
Asor dropped to the floor, a lifeless ragdoll.
Thatcher dangled above the massacre.
David leapt onto the beam. He swung his body over the rafter as the benches snapped beneath him. All he could see was Thatcher.
He jumped diagonally onto the perimeter beam, catching her hand as she slipped.
Lang watched in horror as his men fell around him. The chapel was a choppy sea of bludgeoned men, bloody pews, and crushed body armor. Trails of human cruor were painted across the floor.
The morning sun burst over the horizon, igniting the stained-glass window in a fiery blaze. Blinded by the light, Lang stumbled backwards, dodging another pew as it expelled two men through the stained glass window. The glass shattered. Its shards clattered to the floor, emerald, ruby, and diamond glass, sparkling, blood-soaked gems. The room was unrecognizable.
The last pew broke free.
Lang spun around as its jagged corner punctured his side, pinning his body to the wall.
Chapter 68
SUNDAY, 8:56 a.m.
Boghole Farm, Scotland
Thatcher helped Asor down the steps of the church. There was so much about him that sickened her. She had found him crumpled on the floor and comatose. His leathery body reminded her of the corpses at Stenness. Just like David’s story of the asylum, he slowly came back to life. This time, however, his breathing was labored. It was painful to listen to his rattling lungs. Smothered in deflation and perforated with holes, his lungs sounded as though they would give out at any moment.
She helped him into the SUV. He lay stretched out along the back seat.
Ice filled her chest. She had witnessed so much, seen too much horror.
Of course this was the Apocalypse. How could she have doubted it?
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Marek with a bullet in his head.
Unexpected emotion flooded her chest, the heaviness of guilt.
Maybe she could blink his face into oblivion.
When she reopened her eyes, she saw that Asor was staring at her. She shivered, remembering when she had lifted the old man onto the ceiling beam. His skin was so cold it nearly froze her hands. Her fingers were still stinging. She looked down her hands. There was a line of pinhole-sized sores across her skin where she had grabbed his wrists.
Something prickly was wrapped around his body.
Whatever it was, it gave him power. He had moved the pews. He had murdered twenty-two men.
She stooped over one of the fallen agents who had been thrown through the stained glass window. His body was mutilated pin cushion of glass. He still clutched a handgun, his finger on the trigger. She took the weapon from his hand and tucked it under her belt. She was certain she would need it.
****
A smoky haze
settled over the chapel. The church was defiled mayhem. Everywhere there was shattered glass and splintered wood, cracked helmets and broken body armor, corpses on the floor. David searched through the rubble for Lang. He pulled a pew away from the wall and found him buried under debris.
Lang groaned.
David dropped beside him. “I’m getting you out of here, Bill.”
A hole the size of a baseball punctured Lang’s abdomen. David swallowed his nausea and turned to yell for help.
Lang grabbed David by the shirt.
“I need to get you to a hospital,” David said.
Lang grimaced. He let go of David’s shirt. A tear cleaned a path along his bloodied face.
David couldn’t swallow.
“I’m sorry.” Lang whispered. He lifted his gun to David’s forehead.
David was still. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He flinched as he felt the firing pin strike the primer of the cartridge.
The bullet didn’t release.
Lang tried again. The handgun clicked. He looked up past David. His eyes filled with terror.
Thatcher and Asor stood in the doorway.
The mouth of the gun twisted against David’s head.
Lang pulled the trigger again.
Click.
He pointed the gun at Asor. The slide pulled back, the hammer cocked and released, pushed forward by the recoil spring.
Nothing.
“You can’t kill me, Bill,” Asor said.
Lang pulled the trigger again and again, shaking in desperation.
Asor found the end of the twine wrapped around his wrist. His eyes fluttered back into his head. He pulled on the twine. His hand formed a fist. He squeezed his fingers together until the knuckles turned white.
Lang’s mouth fell open in a silent scream. Blood poured from his mouth down the sides of his chin. He reached for David, shaking his head, pleading. The gun toppled from his hand. Air emptied from his lungs as the organ deflated against his ribcage. The tissue was a pressed into a pancake flanking his heart, smothered by an invisible fist.
“Stop it!” David screamed at Asor.