Eden's Exodus (Plague Wars Series Book 3)

by David VanDyke

  Enrique slumped to the ground at the opening, either passed out or faking. With a grunt, Hulk threw the man over his shoulders. “Shit, he’s heavy,” he said, climbing through the wall.

  Reaper waited on the far side until the last of her team was through. “Hawkeye,” she radioed. “We’re out. Call for extraction. Hit anyone that comes after us.”

  “You got it,” he replied, and put a bullet into one of the braver thugs trying to climb through the breach behind them.

  Reaper could see the light of dawn breaking, so she put her night vision goggles away as her team hustled toward the extraction point. Footsteps became heavy and slow as the post-adrenaline sluggishness hit them. It was clear that some of the team had been wounded, and everyone desperately needed calories.

  Checking her GPS, she said, “We’re nearly to the extraction point. Keep pushing. We’ll treat and eat there.” She then radioed Hawkeye. “We’re about seven mikes out from the EP. Extract your team.”

  “Will do...on our way...soon,” came a pained voice.

  “You okay?”

  “Long story,” Hawkeye answered. “See you in ten.”

  At the extraction point, a large cargo helicopter waited, Flyboy at the controls and the rotors starting to spin up. Team members gave him shit as they climbed into the seats in back.

  “Hey, it wasn’t all easy with me either,” he responded with a grin. “I hit some real turbulence on the way in, and I had to spend the night on these uncomfortable seats, so don’t tell me how bad you pussies had it.”

  Crumpled MRE packages and other small projectiles made Flyboy duck, accompanied by catcalls.

  Minutes later, Reaper saw Hawkeye stumble out of the jungle with his team. He had a long bloody gash down the side his cheek. At the end of the line, one of their two females, Bunny, led a flex-cuffed Hound Dog.

  “Where’s Blade?” Reaper asked.

  “Dead,” answered Hawkeye, gesturing at his face. “Came at me after you made it through the wall. Lucky I turned to reload my rifle or his knife would have gone into my skull.”

  “You sure he’s dead?” asked Reaper.

  “We’re sure,” said Bunny, a sour look on her too-pretty face. “I put three into his head and then rolled him into an army ant mound. Nobody gets up from that, and his body’ll be eaten in a day.”

  “What’s up with him?” asked Reaper, pointing at Hound Dog.

  “Don’t know for sure, but they were butt-buddies,” said Hawkeye. “He tried to run and I wasn’t taking any chances. Figured we’ll straighten it all out in the rear.”

  “Speaking of which, maybe we should get out of here,” said Shortfuse, pointing at the loaded helicopter with the blades turning.

  Reaper nodded, and they raced to board the aircraft. She gave Flyboy the thumbs-up and he lifted.

  “All things considered,” said Reaper, sitting next to Hawkeye. “I think it went pretty well.”

  He chuckled and unknowingly echoed her words to Spooky. “Could have been worse. That’s one hell of a warm-up mission. Not sure I want to know what the main act will be.”

  Chapter 16

  I can’t believe I’m in the damn desert again, thought Skull. I nearly died the last time and the odds against me are probably worse now.

  “Did you say something?” Zinabu asked.

  Skull shook his head, but wasn’t sure; maybe he’d been thinking out loud. He checked the GPS again to make sure they were headed in the right direction. It would be easy to stray in this flat, arid landscape.

  “Good thing we have donkeys,” Zinabu said.

  “You already said that.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes,” Skull rasped. “Like five damn times. I’m fond of donkeys too, but evidently not as much as you.”

  “I don’t remember saying anything about them before. Are you sure?”

  Skull coughed. “Let’s take a break. I think the sun is getting to us.” They stopped and sat in the shade of the animals while taking sips of water from their canteens.

  It was good to get the donkeys from those tribesmen, thought Skull. Only cost us one of the Mossad pistols and a flashlight. They even threw in some jugs of water. A bargain. He checked the GPS again.

  Zinabu leaned toward him. “How much farther?”

  “Don’t even fucking start with me,” said Skull, pushing the man away.

  “You should not use vulgar language.”

  Skull merely grimaced. They sat in silence until the donkeys moved to investigate grazing, thereby taking away the shade…not that there was much, but evidently these two animals knew their environment and found a scrubby bush to sample.

  The two men climbed to their feet and began walking again, as they had the three previous days.

  “You sure don’t talk much,” said Zinabu.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular. It’s just that a good traveling companion can help carry a conversation. Makes the time go by.”

  “Traveling companions? We’re not on a college road trip,” said Skull. “And the time is going by quick enough. It’s the miles that ain’t.”

  Zinabu sighed wistfully. “I wish Kollia was here. He could really talk.”

  “Talk to the damn donkeys if you want. You’re sure as hell fond of them.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Zinabu, rubbing his donkey’s nose. “He’s just jealous that you’re prettier than he is.”

  Skull ground his teeth and kept walking as Zinabu laughed uproariously.

  It was nearly sunset when Skull stopped walking.

  Zinabu continued a few steps before he stopped too and look back at the other man. “What is it? Time to stop?”

  Skull pointed ahead. “Do you see that? Looks like something manmade.”

  “Don’t see anything but rock and sand,” said Zinabu. “Why don’t we go ahead and pitch camp.”

  “Just a little farther. I want to see what that is.”

  Zinabu mumbled something coarse, but followed.

  After a half hour, Skull could see what appeared to be a structure cut out of the bare rock. They approached a large open pit with stairs leading down. There were round holes at other places along the hillside.

  “It’s a monastery,” said Zinabu in wonder. “We heard about them in school, but I didn’t think I would see one. They are reportedly from the fifth century.”

  “Think there’s anyone in there?” asked Skull.

  “Oh, yes,” answered Zinabu. “Let’s tether the donkeys and go see.”

  They picked their way down the circular stairs cut into the stone. The path was worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and even the walls had been smoothed where fingers had trailed for balance. The temperature dropped considerably as they descended from the hot desert into the cool belowground.

  At the bottom they found a thick and ancient wooden door. There was no handle or knocker.

  “What now?” asked Skull.

  Zinabu shrugged.

  Skull pulled the knife out of his belt and used the butt of it to pound on the door.

  After a few seconds, a small wooden panel opened up and a set of eyes looked out at them. Then the panel closed and the door swung open. A small black man with skin like parchment stood in a black monk’s habit, wearing a crucifix.

  Zinabu spoke to the man in Woleta and the man replied. “He says we are welcome to stay. They will stable our donkeys for us.”

  “Do we need to worry about them going through our gear?” asked Skull.

  “They’re monks, for God’s sake,” said Zinabu walking inside. “You have serious trust issues, my friend.”

  “You’re not the first person to say that,” answered Skull as he walked inside. “But what I meant was, will they freak out that we have weapons?”

  “Not if you packed them well enough. Did you?”

  Skull only grunted.

  The monk closed the door behind them and slid a thick wooden beam in place.


  They were led inside and shown where they could wash up and rest, a communal bathroom with a large stone depression containing cool running water. It felt refreshing on Skull’s sunburned skin.

  Afterward, the monk then brought them into a small room lit by a lantern. A long wooden table with benches held bowls, spoons and cups. The man gestured and spoke to Zinabu.

  “He says we are welcome to eat,” Zinabu translated. “Although they know it is a simple fare.”

  “Tell him we are grateful and thank him,” Skull replied.

  “I already have. Let’s sit.”

  Both men ate while the monk stood and watched them impassively. The food proved to be a bland stew. Skull couldn’t identify what was in it, except that there was very little meat, and something starchy formed its base. The cups held water.

  “Do they do this for everyone? Take in people out of the desert and give them hospitality?”

  Zinabu spoke to the monk, who answered. “He says that it is their custom to receive visitors as they would receive brothers. He says that all they have comes from God, and who are they to refuse it to those God sends their way?”

  “To each his own,” said Skull. “Tell him we’re grateful.” He raised his voice to address the monk. “I’m afraid my friend here was starting to get sunstroke and babble.”

  “I was not,” said Zinabu.

  “Come on now, you were talking to the donkeys.”

  “Only because it was easier than talking to you.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Skull. “I’m not really one for conversation. I think now I’ve eaten, nothing sounds more divine in this godly place than a good night’s sleep. Please pass my regards to our laconic friend and ask him where I can rest.”

  Zinabu spoke to the monk, who led Skull to a small but clean cell, dimly lit by a tiny vertical tube that reached at least ten feet upward to the open air. When his head made contact with the rough wool of the pallet, he fell immediately asleep.

  * * *

  When he awoke in the near-dark, it took Skull a moment to remember where he was. Looking at his watch and the thin ray of light from the vent, he saw it was morning. Rising from the bunk, he stretched before making his way down the rock hallway to the common room with the tables and benches.

  As he did, he heard the sounds of male voices wafting through the corridors, chanting or praying. He found Zinabu sitting at the table with a different monk from the one who attended them the day before.

  “How did you sleep?” Zinabu asked.

  “Fine. Who is this?”

  “This is Father Timothy. He is the head of the order here. Fortunately for us, he has agreed to help us with our endeavor.”

  “What?” asked Skull sharply. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

  “Why not. He is a man of God. He can be trusted. Besides, he wants to help.”

  “Just because someone proclaims themselves a man of God doesn’t mean they can be trusted,” said Skull. “Trust comes from actions over time.”

  Timothy spoke up in English. “Very true. After all, does not our Lord say that a tree shall be judged by its fruit? But Zinabu is correct. I would like to help.”

  Skull looked back and forth at the two men before settling his gaze on Timothy. “Just why would you want to help us? The monk last night told us your policy was to receive visitors with hospitality, but I wouldn’t have called him enthusiastic about it. Why would you help us on our journey?”

  The man smiled and rubbed his rough hands softly over the wood of the table, back and forth. “Journey? Let’s call it what it is, shall we? Your friend has told me of your mission to help trapped Edens. Even out here in the desert we have heard of the blessing that is the Eden virus. There are many who would wish to destroy this gift, to pervert it and call those blessed by it ‘friends of Satan.’ But I know that is not true.”

  “Why is that?” asked Skull.

  “Because a tree is judged by its fruit, not its flowers. Edens are not perfect, but I have heard they try to do good things and help others. They try to live with each other the way God intended, even if they do not believe in God. Satan, who has wished evil for mankind from the beginning, could have no part in that.”

  “Okay,” said Skull. “I can buy that, but how can you help us?”

  “I can get you into Addis Ababa,” said Timothy. “There is much difficult terrain and danger between here and there. We can make the road easier for you, and once you reach the capital, a brother of my order may be able to help you further.”

  “Won’t we stand out a little?” Skull asked. “I mean, why would you be traveling with someone who looks like me?”

  Timothy indicated the robe he was wearing. “You will both wear the habits of monks. We take brothers from anywhere. No one will notice.”

  “Isn’t that against some sort of monastic code or something? You know, to deceive people?” asked Skull.

  Timothy leaned toward Skull. “Your friend has told me you are Catholic, though he has been reticent about your name.”

  “I am, more or less.”

  “You were confirmed?”

  “Sure. Long time ago.”

  “Nothing can pluck you from the hand of the Father once you are His, my nameless friend. Not even your own sins.”

  Skull smiled, warming to the debate. “What about the Unforgivable Sin?”

  “Do you intend to blaspheme the Holy Spirit?”

  “Not intentionally, no.”

  “Then I am not concerned. As Zinabu is a Jew, I am sure you both know the story of Rahab the prostitute of Jericho, who lied and hid the Hebrew spies? The Lord spared her and blessed her for this action, thus proving that not all deception is sin.”

  “And yet, Satan is the father of lies, right?”

  “A lie is a spiritual violence, only to be used in defense of good. A man such as you no doubt understands that two similar and deadly acts may have completely different contexts. Self-defense is not murder.”

  Skull cocked his head. “That’s a far more nuanced view than I’d expect from someone like you.”

  Timothy smiled. “I’m glad to have disappointed your preconceptions, then. Perhaps, one day, you will return to God and his path.”

  “Maybe when I die, if He’ll take me. Until then, I’m my own man.”

  The monk said nothing for a moment, only stared. Finally, he said, “I would recommend you both take vows of silence on the way, for your own protection. Speaking will give you away. Do either of you have any problems with that?”

  Skull turned to show Zinabu his teeth. “I don’t.”

  Zinabu groaned.

  Chapter 17

  Enrique Mendoles sat strapped down to a wooden chair. He tried his best to get comfortable, but the sharp stub of a nail near his crotch and the bloodstains on which he sat distracted him.

  Mendoles knew from experience that in his business, once captured, brutal torture and a slow death would follow. Body parts would be mailed to family members, presuming they were not also to be killed. Rumor was that these Edens were too soft for such measures, but he was smart enough to realize they could always hire non-Edens to do their dirty work.

  But I won’t go out like a coward, thought Enrique. I’ll keep my pride no matter what happens.

  Spooky walked in and sat across from the heavy man.

  “You have no idea what you have done,” said Enrique. “There is no place you or your family can hide that my people will not find you. Rest assured that no matter what happens to me, you will never have a fearless night again for the remainder of your short life.”

  Spooky dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. “Cease your useless threats. You have sent two assassins to kill Chairman Markis, correct? The other cartels who follow your lead have sent others.”

  Enrique didn’t answer, only spat on the floor.

  “I can only presume that you do this due to fear that Markis’ cooperation with the Colombian government will hur
t your business.”

  “It already has,” said Enrique, sneering at Spooky. “Go on and do to me whatever you’re going to do.”

  “All in due time. This is important, so let’s not rush things.”

  “Piss off, gringo,” said Enrique.

  Spooky’s face twisted in mock confusion. “I’m not sure it’s accurate to call a Vietnamese highlander a gringo, but I understand the misplaced sentiment.” His face hardened. “I want all attempts on Chairman Markis or anyone else associated with the Free Communities to stop.”

  Enrique began to laugh. “Now why would I do that?”

  “Two very important reasons,” said Spooky. “First of all, I can ensure the security and continued sale of your product. In fact, I can assure you that if you see reason you will be freed, and become even richer than you already are.”

  The tied up man stopped laughing immediately. “How?”

  “I have resources and influence. I can even help with distribution through North America.”

  “In exchange for a cut in the profits, I presume.”

  “Actually, no,” said Spooky. “You will guarantee no further attacks on Free Communities personnel. You will also sell none of your product inside Colombia, or any other nation that joins the Free Communities. In return, you will have my full assistance and support.”

  “Why?” asked Enrique, appearing to become genuinely curious.

  “Because that will allow me to get the Colombian government off your back. They will see this as a win, and all you have to do is keep your business your business.”

  “How can you promise these things? I don’t even know who you are.”

  “That’s the way I like it. But now that we’ve met…you may call me Mister Winter.” Spooky waved a hand and wiggled his fingers as if scattering something. “I want you to make it snow…but only where I choose.”

  “What else do you want?” asked Enrique.

  “I will direct you to send a certain percentage of your product to locations in the United States and avoid other areas there. Don’t worry, there will be no loss of profit to you.”