The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2

by Christopher Cartwright

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Elise allowed the silence to carry on for thirty seconds, before she put an end to it. She smiled kindly. If at that moment any of her audience had any doubt that she was a Goddess it was suddenly removed when her sunglasses fell and they saw her purple eyes.

  She said, “Who is in charge here?”

  No response.

  “Who speaks for your community?” she persisted.

  A man at the back of the crowd removed his veil. “I do.”

  Elise smiled, kindly. “What is your name?”

  “Nayram.” The short man returned her smile and bowed. “And you must be Elise. The savior.”

  “I’m Elise, but it’s the first time I’ve been called the savior.”

  “It might be the first time, but I promise you, it won’t be the last.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Because I grew up here. My father was born here, and so was his grandfather.” Nayram spoke as though everything he’d said justified it.

  Elise said, “Thank you, everyone, for your warm welcome, but now I must speak with Mr. Nayram privately.”

  Every person in the vicinity dissipated immediately. People returned to their daily tasks. Children played games at the edge of the town. Women picked dates from the trees which littered the oasis, and men set about cracking saline pots once more.

  Elise watched Nayram look at Genevieve and then back at her. His eyes darting between the two and a worried crest formed between his brows. “Do you want me to get rid of her?”

  “No. She can stay.”

  He seemed uncertain about her decision, but nodded anyway.

  “Thanks,” Genevieve said, in English.

  Elise asked, “Do you know why I came here today?”

  He smiled and spoke with a certainty she hadn’t seen in him before. “Why of course, you are here to repair the future.”

  Elise laughed. “Okay, now I know you have me confused with someone else. Do you know how I fix the future? It sounds unlikely. I didn’t even know it was broken.”

  “It’s broken. That’s for certain. Strange times have sent us down the wrong string.” He smiled cheerfully. “That is why you are here. To repair the event and keep the future where she belongs.”

  “Sure,” Elise nodded with uncertainty. “We’re looking for two friends of ours. A big tall guy and one around average height. Both built like Sherman Tanks. Americans. Treasure hunters. Look uncomfortable as all hell on a pair of camels. They went missing a couple days ago. I don’t suppose you know anything about them?”

  He shook his head. “I am afraid I know nothing about your friends. Where were they when you lost them?”

  “North of here. Two days ago they were filling up on water in the mini-oasis of Bilma. That must be about sixty miles north-east of here?”

  “Seventy.”

  “They were heading south, so we assumed they passed through Bilma. Any chance they would have skipped Bilma and headed on to Mao?”

  “No. Everyone stops here on their way through.” He shook his head. “But there was a raid on a dig a few hundred miles north of here.”

  She asked, “An archeological dig?”

  “Yes. A large archeological excavation site. There’s a camp to the northeast. They were looking for a sacred book. Many of our men went there for work. Three days ago it was attacked by a large group of warriors, carrying many weapons. AK-47s, big guns, an armored car. A lot of people died, you might want to look there. Your friends, if they were there, most likely were killed.”

  Elise nodded. “I understand.”

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” he asked.

  “We were told you could provide fuel for our helicopter?”

  “Yes, of course. Right away, we’ll send the truck out to refuel your helicopter. My friends will provide you with refreshments and water for your journey.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nayram guided the two of them through the ancient desert city. Stopping briefly while three women gave them a small bowl of dried fruits and a flask of water. Elise and Genevieve thanked the women and gladly accepted the food as they walked.

  Genevieve looked at her blankly, unable to follow the fast conversation in French. “What did you learn?”

  “Not much. Nothing good. A camp was attacked north-east of here. He thinks our friends might have been caught up in the gunfight.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “That sounds like something Sam and Tom might do, left alone without you or me to show them the error of their ways. What about you?”

  Elise asked, “What about me?”

  Genevieve smiled. “You’re not going to pretend we didn’t just witness these people turn you into their deity, are we?”

  “It has to do with my eyes. I have naturally purple eyes.”

  “Really? I always assumed those were contact lenses?”

  “No. Purple’s my real color. I wear contacts only when I want to fool people.”

  “Okay, so they don’t like purple?”

  “There’s an ancient Egyptian legend about a bright light shooting across the horizon. It was the hand of God. Every person the light came into contact with became permanently scarred with bright purple eyes. They became immortal and highly intelligent. There was a group of travelers who witnessed the event. They were called the Six Hundred. They traveled the lands, living free and powerful lives. But most of them eventually got bored. Gods don’t like to remain friends with mere mortals. So most left. But legend has it, a few still roam the desert. Those are the throwbacks. The ones heaven and hell weren’t willing to see. Those were the fiends to be frightened of. They were hunted to extinction by the living until only the purest remained.”

  “So what’s the truth?” Genevieve looked like she hadn’t bought a word that she’d said.

  Elise grinned and stared at her. “What’s written on your blade?”

  Genevieve paused and unsheathed her weapon. Despite its age, the blade shined like it had only been forged today. Her eyes stared at the blade and the word, but Elise could tell she wasn’t really looking at it. Instead, her mind was recalling something from a long time ago. From a world she’d fought hard to leave behind.

  Genevieve looked up. Her eyes meeting Elise’s firm gaze. “Solntsevo.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a place.”

  Elise asked, “In Russia?”

  Genevieve nodded. “In the district of Kursk Oblast.”

  Elise grinned in response, but remained silent. She’d been given a unique privilege in learning about Genevieve’s past. The crew of the Maria Helena had given up running a tipping bet on where she’d come from and what she used to do before joining. Instead, they simply accepted her as a wraith – a person with no past.

  “What’s so important about Solntsevo?”

  “It’s where my father was born. He was a prominent local businessman there. Very successful. Equally dangerous and mean when he had to be. In his business, that was always. We had a falling out, many years ago. I ran away and made sure he’d never find me again. My father wasn’t the sort of man you challenged and got to live. I leave the name here because I never want to forget where I came from – and what I have to lose.”

  Elise listened in silence. Acknowledging that Genevieve didn’t have to explain it all. They all had a past somewhere. Some not very pleasant or as honorable as their present.

  Genevieve looked at her and smiled. Acutely aware she didn’t have to go on, but at the same time wanting to. “It’s where I left a previous life behind in a place where no-one gets a second chance. Every time I kill with this blade, I want to remember the world I left behind, so that I make sure never to return, despite the urge.” Genevieve sheathed the blade and turned to face her. “So, what’s the story about your eyes?”

  “There’s nothing quite so secretive. Fact is, I have no idea. I’ve always had purple eyes. They call it Alexandria’s Genesis, but most do
ctors still debate if the condition is real or not. It’s not a rare form of albinism, as most people would have guessed. I don’t have any trouble seeing in the bright sunlight. I never got to meet my parents, so I don’t know where they came from.” She laughed. “And if I’m immortal, I have a long time to find out.”

  “Okay, then how did you know about the legend?”

  “There’s several different versions of them scattered throughout the internet. Mostly completely false, but several refer to the Six Hundred who were turned immortal in ancient Egypt. As we’ve all seen before, the most compelling legends have just the tiniest bit of truth to them.”

  “At least enough truth to scare the hell out of the natives here.”

  “We’re not afraid of you,” Nayram said, in perfect English. “We worship you for what you will one day do for our people.”

  “You called me the savior, but you don’t have a clue what I save your people from. What makes you so certain I’m the one you’re looking for? What makes all of your people so certain? I could have been anyone. I was wearing sunglasses until the very end. Already, the children had gathered.”

  “The children were testing you.”

  “How?”

  Nayram said, “We all knew you were one of them – the Six Hundred. But we couldn’t be sure whether you’d been refused by heaven or hell. The children’s shrieks would have forced an evil God to attack. But you stood there and graced them with your kind smile.”

  “But why me? What made me stand out, so that your entire town should take note?”

  “There’s a painting I’d like you to see. It’s on the way out. Come, I will show it to you. It’s been here a very long time. Everyone knows about the image.”

  “What’s the painting of?”

  “It depicts two women approaching from the air, upon a beast with wings that spun faster than the eyes could see. They came here, searching for something. We provide them with refreshments, and they leave us, so that one of the women may go on to become the savior. That woman had the purple eyes of the Six Hundred, so you see, you are her.”

  “I don’t see,” Elise said. “Your people must have surely seen helicopters before?”

  “Yes. But this painting was done in 1562 by an old man who had taken refuge from the worst sand storm in the history of Bilma. He said his name was Nostradamus, and that this woman here, would save the future from a catastrophic event.”

  Nayram stopped and they looked at the image painted on the stone wall. It depicted two women climbing out of a helicopter. One was barely visible beneath her indigo robes – she wore a darkened shadow over her robe, like a halo of evil, while the other one glowed like pure goodness. The good woman had her tesirnest tied in such a way that it exposed her face. It was beautiful. With obvious Eurasian ancestry, the face was a blend of cultures. Silky dark hair, high cheek bones, and exotic purple eyes that were rich in intelligence and kindness. The sort of facial features and artistic hyperbole, created by an ancient people to depict a fictional Goddess of unimaginable beauty.

  Genevieve was the first to gasp – because the woman in the painting was identical to Elise. Below the painting was a series of numbers carved into the stone. Chiseled out of the soft stone by hand nearly four hundred years ago, the numbers showed today’s date. “If you’re the savior with the white halo, what does that make me?”

  Elise studied the darkened haze that shadowed the image of Genevieve. It could have been anyone, but everything else about the painting suggested it was her and Genevieve arriving from the helicopter. It was hard not to be frightened of the image Nostradamus had painted of her friend.

  “The savior’s friend and one hell of a protector when one needs it and right now, I think the future needs all the help it can get.” Elise smiled. It was reassuring, without being patronizing. “All right, we’ve seen enough. If the future is so certain I need to save lives, I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t start with saving Sam and Tom.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Adebowale heard the roaring sound of water fighting its way through the tunnel toward him. Driven by millions upon millions of pounds of pressure from above, the torrent charged through the narrow passages and warrens with the energy of a tsunami. Compared to the approaching onslaught, Adebowale’s massive and athletic structure appeared weak and fragile. There was nowhere to run. Even though he was given a ten minute head start, the water would reach him well before he could ever escape. There was nothing for it, and yet he tried to run.

  He always did.

  Every time it was exactly the same. He felt the burning sensation in his legs and arms as the release of adrenaline stimulated his fight or flight response. He’d played college football in the US as a quarterback and despite his massive frame was capable of moving quickly when he wanted to. He felt as the tendons of his calves, designed for short bursts and sprints, propelled him like a racecar. It felt good. Like maybe this time he would make it.

  The pitch of the churning water increased and he imagined his death at any moment. Despite his speed, he felt he was running through mud. With each movement, his legs were being slowed as though an invisible coil was restraining them.

  Ahead, the passage split into two directions. Left and right. Adebowale chose left. Somehow it felt correct. The narrow tunnel had a distinct incline to it, which meant he was gaining elevation. He’d made the right choice! The only way to outrun the water, was to rise above it.

  The tunnel appeared dark ahead. The dim lights which lined the passageway looked like they’d suddenly been cut off. He continued running at full speed in a way that only an athlete could and then he stopped. Directly in front of him, a large cave-in had blocked his progression.

  He’d run out of places to escape! He turned and watched as the water raced towards him with lethal finality. In an instant, and like last time, Adebowale realized he’d been here before. And like every other time the water struck him with such force, he lost consciousness before his mind could even register the sensation of the cold water on his skin.

  He woke up, struggling to breathe. His chest pounding, and his lungs stung. Sweat dripped from his blood-drained skin. Adebowale looked up at the sun. The pain lasted longer than usual this time. He still was having difficulty breathing and his tongue felt dry and cracked. His right shoulder throbbed. Something’s not right. The water should have killed him. There was no reason for him to have pain in his left shoulder.

  Adebowale gasped.

  He’d had another dream. He consciously forced himself to take in a deep breath and open his eyes. Everything was still dark. It could have been night time, but he felt the heat burning at his skin. No. It wasn’t night time. His vision had become severely blurred.

  Something wanted to take him away from this world. He turned his palms outward in supplication. The death he feared for so many years he now longed to receive.

  He felt vibrations through the post he’d been tied to. Adebowale opened his eyes. The light was improving, but only just. The sun was opening again, as though it had been eclipsed by something. And that something was moving toward him.

  The vibrations turned into a sound he recognized. The blades of a large helicopter thumped overhead and the light returned, as the aircraft banked to its left.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Elise sat in the front passenger seat of the Sikorsky’s cockpit as Genevieve banked the helicopter for a better view of the ruined camp. It looked like more than a couple hundred laborers had been employed to work the excavation site. The tents, belongings and equipment were all burnt. Their embers had died days earlier.

  It wasn’t until their second pass that Elise noticed them.

  They had been dumped into a large opening in the sand, presumably where the main excavation site had been until recently. The entire ground below appeared to be moving. A sea of black ebbed backwards and then crept forward eerily as though driven by the monotony of the ocean’s tide. It took Elise a few seconds to re
alize what she was looking at. Her eyes and mind unable to accept the facts.

  The men had been dumped inside the main dig and burned, along with their simple possessions. Their bodies had been exposed to intense heat and molded to the sand to form a mangled composition of blackened glass and human remains. Above this, flies, driven by the horrific smell, had nested. From the cockpit of the Sikorsky, high above, it gave the appearance of a moving, living, blackened sea. The type that formed on a stormy night.

  Genevieve swung the helicopter around, intentionally, leaving the mass of death. They’d seen enough. There was nothing but nightmares to be gained by looking upon it any further. An atrocity had occurred here. But there was nothing they could do for them now.

  At the northern end of the camp three men had been bound to wooden posts. Their arms had been stretched outward as though they had been crucified in the extreme heat. Elise stared as they went past. It looked like they had been tortured before being executed by firing squad. Their faces were permanently fixed in a contorted vision of abject horror and unimaginable pain.

  One of the faces still looked like it was screaming in perpetual horror. The helicopter banked around the terrible vision and Elise was about to tell Genevieve to keep going to the waterhole – their problem wasn’t about a local tribal war. But then the face appeared to follow her, haunting her to find the truth about whatever great atrocity had occurred.

  Only it didn’t just appear to be moving. It had followed her. “Jesus Christ! That man’s alive.”

  “You sure?” Genevieve asked.

  “Certain,” Elise confirmed. “Take us around for another look to make sure we don’t have any other living company and then put us on the ground.”

  “You really want to get involved?” Genevieve said, ruthlessly pointing out their mission wasn’t for humanitarian needs.