“Abbadon is the key. By some accounts he is a seraphim,” Sadie said. “What could that mean?”
“You tell us,” Henry said. “You’re the walking desk reference. What else do you know about this particular angel? Are there any numbers associated with him? There are numbers on each of these wires. I suspect we are supposed to choose the wire that corresponds numerically with Abbadon.”
Sadie thought for a moment, scanning the banks of her photographic memory. “He’s mentioned in Revelation 9:11 and 20:1.”
Edward bent down and studied the wires and the numbers that had been written on them. “None of these are numbered 911 or 201,” he said. “What else you got?”
“Abbadon binds Satan for a thousand years.”
Edward studied the wires more intently. “None of them are marked 1000 either.”
“Maybe we should add the numbers,” Franklin theorized.
“There’s no 1911, 1201, or 2112,” Edward was quick to retort. “We’re missing something.”
“Anything else about Abbadon that might come in handy?” Henry asked.
“There are books other than the Bible where Abbadon is mentioned. Milton, in Paradise Regained, uses Abbadon as a synonym for the abyss itself. In that case Abbadon is a place, not an angel.”
“So how does that help us?” Franklin asked.
“Maybe Nero is referring to this little pit as our own personal Abbadon,” Edward suggested. “Remember the two chests marked Patmos and Croatoan. Those are places too. However, that doesn’t tell us which number to pick here.”
“Maybe this is the ‘Abbadon’ Nero is referring to,” Henry said, gesturing to the word that had been painted on the outside of the door. “Maybe this is his name for this little trap.”
“Are there any numbers visible?” Sadie asked.
Henry studied the painted word and sighed. “I don’t see any.”
Sadie stared off into the distance, immersed in her own train of thought. “In Greek, Abbadon is called Appolyon.”
“That doesn’t help,” Franklin said. “I think we’re looking at this all wrong.”
“What do you suggest?” Henry asked. “Does Abbadon play a part in The Slaves of Solomon’s beliefs?”
Franklin shook his head. “Not that I’m aware. Nero’s clue to us mentioned seraphim. Sadie, is there anything about seraphim in that noggin of yours?”
Sadie nodded. “Dionysius the Areopagite was a sixth-century theologian who developed a hierarchy of angels. Seraphim were the highest and most splendid of the nine orders. They are the closest in all of heaven to the throne of God. In the Book of Isaiah, seraphim are said to have six wings. There are lots of stories about seraphim with additional information but they come from books that aren’t canonical so I‘m not sure that knowledge applies.”
“Canonical?” Franklin asks.
“It means they aren’t from the accepted group of books forming the Bible,” Henry explained.
“OK,” Edward said. “We’ve got two additional numbers. Nine and six. Nine for the ranking of seraphim in Dionysius’ hierarchy. Six for the number of wings they have.”
“Maybe the highest are ranked first instead of ninth,” Henry suggested. “Maybe one’s the number we should be using instead.”
Edward opened the trap door again and examined the numbers on the strands of wire. “One isn’t a choice. Six and nine, however, are both choices.”
“Of course they are,” Franklin said, sweating. “Nero wouldn’t make this easy for us, now would he?”
“Nero said Abbadon was the key,” Sadie said. “I don’t think the number of wings would matter. I think rank would be more significant.”
“I agree,” Edward said. “My vote at this point is nine. Franklin?”
“We’re dealing with a madman. Logic may not apply. Nine sounds ok to me. The worst that could happen is aerosolized death. Henry?”
“We can second guess ourselves all day long and still not come up with a better guess. Let’s pick and pray we made the right decision. I guess I should be the one to pull the wire since the note was personalized to me. Besides, I‘m the oldest. If one of us should die first, it should be me. I‘ve had a good life.”
“Don’t talk like that, Henry,” Sadie said. “We may get lucky.”
“I’ve never been lucky,” Henry said with a sad smile. “Let’s see what happens, shall we?”
The old man didn’t waste any time, kneeling and pulling the wire marked with the number 9. Immediately, the other wires began to snap as some mechanism buried in the earth stretched them past their limits. No land mines exploded. A cloud of Morningstar wasn’t released into the air in a great, dramatic puff of white smoke. Instead, the lid to the chest on the left slowly opened and Henry breathed a sigh of relief. His smile faded as he realized what their “reward” was.
“Go back to the cave!” the note read. “Don‘t try escaping again! There are much worse torments than Morningstar! You will find out what they are if you try to deceive me.”
Realizing that there was no getting around Nero’s will, the group turned to head back to the cave and froze. Seneca was there, watching them through tear-stained eyes.
Chapter 23
It was like a showdown at high noon, only without guns. They watched Seneca, and he watched them. It was unclear what the man behind the mask was thinking, only that he seemed to be considering his options. Their initial introduction to Seneca in the house on Archibald Street made him seem cold-blooded and impassive about the taking of innocent human life. Their second encounter outside the circus tent made him seem almost benevolent. Now, as he watched them with cold, unfeeling eyes, it was unclear whether or not he meant them any harm. The fact that he hadn’t killed them yet, however, gave them hope.
“Help us,” Edward said, hoping to sway the harlequin’s mood. “Show us the way off this island.”
Seneca cocked his head as if considering the idea. There was a hint of a smile behind the mask.
“Please,” Sadie begged. “We’ll do whatever you want us to do. Just get us out of here.”
The harlequin shrugged his shoulders. He turned to look at Henry and Franklin, eager to hear what they had to say.
“We’re at your mercy,” Henry said. “You know that. We don’t stand a chance without your influence.”
Seneca nodded and turned to Franklin.
“I’m not begging,” Franklin said. “You can forget it.”
Seneca patted his foot and looked at an imaginary watch. He wasn’t going to budge until Franklin crumbled.
“We can wait this out all day,” Franklin said. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
Seneca nodded and crossed his arms, forcing the impasse.
“Come on, Franklin,” Henry said. “Ask for his help. Swallow your pride for once.”
“I steadfastly refuse.”
Edward turned to Seneca. “If we kick him out of our group, will you show the rest of us how to get off of the island?”
Seneca nodded vigorously.
“O.k.,” Edward said. “I think we know what we have to do.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Franklin hissed. “I’ll do it this once so everybody will shut up. Please help us. We need you. You’re our hero, our savior, etc, etc, etc…..Our lives are but putty in your capable hands. Now, can we please get on with this? I‘m so ready to get back home where people acknowledge my power and fear it.”
Seneca nodded and clapped his hands, excited that he had worn Franklin down so easily. Franklin wasn’t accustomed to asking anybody for anything. That was the point. Satisfied at last, the harlequin motioned for them to follow him and headed off into the jungle.
“Not again!” Franklin exclaimed. “I’m so tired of these wild goose chases…and running!” But they were at Seneca’s mercy and had to comply with his wishes. If they wanted any help from him, they had to follow.
This time Seneca didn’t stop to wait on them when they got tired. He ran with reckle
ss abandon through the undergrowth, paying no attention to the vines that snagged at his cloak or the branches that slapped at the exposed flesh of his arms. The group struggled to keep up with him but didn’t let fatigue halt their progress. If Seneca could get them off of the island, they were determined to keep up at all costs.
They were all gasping for breath and on the verge of collapse when Seneca stopped abruptly and held up his hand, motioning for them to halt behind a shadow-filled thicket. Franklin was about to ask a question when Seneca turned and clamped a hand over his mouth. The harlequin held a finger up to his lips in a quieting gesture. The reason why was obvious.
The statue of the seraphim was enormous and looked like it had been carved out of granite. The angel’s wings were spread, and in one hand it held a flaming sword. Although the idol was made of stone, its eyes had a sentience to them that made it seem as if the angel might step down from its pedestal at any moment and smite those who crossed its path. At the base of the statue was an inscription: “Alastor, The Executioner.”
In less than a minute, the Four Horsemen appeared on site, dressed in their colored lab coats. Death carried a cage with a monkey inside. The other three carried tablet computers. All of them wore surgical masks over their faces.
The horsemen seemed preoccupied with the statue…or more specifically, the statue’s eyes. Although no one had noticed it at first, the stone seraphim’s eyes wept obsidian tears. The tears were thick and viscous like hot tar, sliding down granite cheeks, leaving a dark smudge behind like grief in its most concentrated form.
Famine, ironically enough, was the one who placed the banana on top of the statue’s head. The monkey eyed the fruit from his cage and shook the bars of his prison, eager for a bite. Famine opened the monkey’s cage, and the creature scurried up the statue, its eyes fixed on the banana. It stopped once it reached the angel’s shoulder and noticed the dark tears streaming from both of the angel’s eyes. Curious, the monkey reached out and touched a tiny finger to the goo, thinking it might be something tasty. The monkey never made it to the fruit. With a trembling spasm, the monkey screamed and fell from the statue, dead before he hit the ground.
The horsemen looked at each other nervously and began typing results into their computers. Death, meanwhile, scooped the monkey’s carcass into a plastic bag. Once he finished gathering up the simian remains, he pulled a test tube from one pocket of his lab coat, put on a set of heavy work gloves, and collected a generous sampling of the black tar.
As he did so the shadows near the statue began to move and sway of their own accord, and without explanation, a heavy rain of dark feathers cascaded down around them. The horsemen chattered nervously amongst themselves and trembled at the sight of the shadows, which mocked each of them by assuming human form.
Unwilling to tarry, Death quickly finished his job and pocketed the vial. “Looks like we’ve got more than enough Morningstar to work with,” he told the other three as they disappeared back into the jungle. “This should keep Nero happy for a while. Let‘s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
The horsemen left as quickly as they had arrived, and soon there was nothing left except the monument to Alastor, the Executioner.
When the group looked to Seneca for answers, they realized he was gone too. Yet they didn’t need the harlequin’s presence anymore to confirm what they suspected. Nero was planning to commit homicide on a mass scale, and he was going to use the Morningstar virus to do so.
Chapter 24
Although none of them wanted to go there again, the cave was their only option at this point. That was where Nero wanted them to go. The only way they could potentially stop the release of the Morningstar virus was to find Nero. The only way to find Nero was to follow the madman‘s instructions and hope he showed his face long enough for a confrontation.
They trudged back to the cave, each of them replaying in their minds how quickly the monkey had died after touching its tiny finger to the Morningstar virus. Whatever that black viscous goo was it was extremely concentrated, extremely lethal. How were any of them supposed to stop Nero? Going to the cave again seemed like an exercise in futility, but it was the only plan any of them had…especially since Seneca hadn’t given them any real help so far.
When they got back to the cave, its black maw waited for them, eager to be fed. Four floodlights that hadn’t been there the first time around sat at the entrance to the cave, illuminating the cavern depths. The group had just taken their first steps into the cavern when they heard a rustling noise behind them. They whirled around to see who was there and gasped at the streak of tigers staring back at them. Like before, the tigers made no attempt to attack. They merely stood there at the mouth of the cave, blocking all possible modes of exit.
“Well, I guess there’s no turning back now,” Henry said. “Like it or not, we have to go through with this.”
The cave was as they had left it, full of ominous shadows and an empty cross that once held a crucified man…or a made-up version of one. They moved past the cross quickly, repulsed by the memories it generated.
Deep in the bowels of the rock, moisture dripped from the strange stone formations clinging to the ceiling of the cave. In all His wisdom, God had carved a natural pathway out of the limestone and hollowed out the earth on either side, creating a bridge that stretched across a pool of blackness. Edward pointed his light at the darkness, wanting to see what was below them in case someone should fall. His light found only more darkness.
“Everybody watch your step,” he said. “If you fall, you might not hit bottom for a while.”
The natural bridge was longer than what they first anticipated. The more they walked the more distance it seemed necessary to cover.
“This thing goes on for miles,” Franklin said.
“It feels that way because we’re so tense and having to walk so slowly,” Edward said. “It’s probably only a couple hundred yards at the most.”
“The prospect of falling isn’t what bothers me,” Henry said. “It’s the fact that we’re sitting ducks out here. If Nero has something nasty planned for us, there’s really nothing we can do. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.”
“OK, Edward, you’re demoted as the President of the Optimism Club,” Sadie said. “That position now goes to Henry.”
“Sorry,” Henry said.
Blind albino lizards deprived of sunlight scurried past them from time to time, walking the nooks and crannies of the natural bridge without giving thought to their own safety. This was their home, and they knew it well. Above them bats squeaked and chattered, swooping down in darkness to dine on mosquitoes, gnats, and other bugs. Although the group knew the bats were harmless, it was one more thing to consider as they navigated the narrow pathway.
Up ahead, they could see where the natural bridge ended. They walked a little faster, eager to put some distance between them and the abysmal darkness below. The temperature had dropped considerably since entering the cavern, and they all shivered as they stepped off of the bridge.
The cavern branched into two different tunnels, but it wasn’t difficult to discern which one to choose. Their friendly neighborhood cave painter had drawn the way, rendering his version of the apocalypse on the wall in reds, yellows, and sepia tones.
Edward held his floodlight up to the paintings and shuddered at the depiction of so much depravity. The cave art showed Christians being tortured, burned at the stake, beheaded, crucified both upright and upside down, fed to lions, drowned, impaled.
They were studying Nero’s fantasy done up in cave art when they heard a soft rustling sound and a few soft clicks. It was the sound of someone trying to move with stealth and displacing a few rocks along the way.
“Everybody be still,” Edward said. “We’re not alone.”
The moment the group stopped moving the sounds stopped. Edward held up his hand, signaling for everyone to hold their position. Something else was there in the cavern with them. They stood the
re like that for a couple of moments, quiet and still. Finally, Edward lowered his hand and motioned for the group to start walking again.
The clicks and scrapings began almost immediately.
“Who’s in here with us?” Edward asked.
Without warning, a wooden likeness of Reverend Lindell descended from above and floated there like a magician doing his daily levitation.
“Hello travelers,” something spoke from deep inside the dummy. “I see you’re playing along with me now. We‘re getting somewhere.”
The mannequin’s hands moved and gestured with each word, but the motions were jerky as if attached to a puppeteer’s strings.
“You’re getting closer,” the ominous voice said. “Not more than a few hundred yards ahead is your destination.”
“If we’re going to die anyway, why should we help you?” Edward asked.
“Because I have something you want, something you need.”
“And what would that be?”
“Answers,” the wooden dummy spoke. “You want to know why I’m doing all of this.”
“I don’t really care anymore,” Edward said. “I’m really starting to lose interest.”
Sadie elbowed Edward hard in the gut. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“You’re not that strong,” Edward said. “You never face us. You always have something to hide behind. You’re a coward. Like little Oz behind the big green curtain.”
“Tread lightly, boy,” Nero said in a booming voice that echoed off the cavern walls. “It’s not your time yet, but I will make an exception.”
“Why not come out and face me?” Edward suggested.
The preacher’s wooden mouth unhinged and a harsh, raspy laugh bubbled up from deep within his wooden insides. “You need proof of my power. The ancient Christians did too. Have it your way, little lamb. Henry, you stood by and watched my fate just as Kelly did. Now, I‘ll stand by and watch yours.”
Without warning, five tigers rushed into the cavern and headed straight for Henry. There was no deliberation on the animals’ part. They had been trained for this very moment, and they did their job with a ruthless efficiency. The old man screamed and cried out for help as the cats ripped him apart.
The Tears of Nero (The Halo Group Book 1) Page 14