by Jacob Hammes
Marcus could not believe it. He would be rushing for time after all.
John had what he could call a pleasant flight. Whatever was making him drowsy all the time had let up considerably on the plane and he was allowed to sleep again. The morning had finally arrived and through clear eyes he could see the sun rising in the east over a partly overcast sky. The cool air blowing from the overhead vent kept him from sweating between the window and a very large woman.
At one point, John had decided it was best to tell the stewardess that he was very sick. He had reached up to push the button and found that his hand would not comply. Whatever was inside of him forcing him along was monitoring John and it knew what he was doing.
John was pretty sure he was possessed. He had seen Linda Blair in The Exorcist more than once and the prospect of having an otherworldly being inside of him forcing him to do whatever it asked was more frightening than being shot in the face. Luckily, he still felt as if he could cure himself by getting home and resting for a few days. It felt like he had made the choice to go home and whatever was hitching a ride inside his soul was just going along for the ride.
At least John felt like he could control one thing, the destination of his own body.
The Atlanta airport was cold this time of year and its massively sprawling cityscape was busy as usual. The airport, situated in the southwest part of the city major, was a central hub for travelers from all over the world and many flights took off for overseas destinations without another stop in between. It meant so many people that John would be a needle in a silo full of hay.
He picked his bag up from the roundabout and headed out the first entrance he spotted toward the street. There were dozens of taxis and shuttles waiting in the middle lane designated for airport transportation. Some were yellow, some were green, but the newest taxis were black and had tinted windows. John did not really care which one he picked and neither did the thing that was guiding him, he just jumped in the first one available and gave the cabby an address.
“Take me to Decatur, please. The address is 2170 Willow Lane.”
The cool air and the refreshing sounds of his hometown did wonders for John’s mentality. He almost forgot about his strange passenger as he stared out through the windows at the towering buildings all around him. They lacked that terrible, gritty feeling that he had become accustomed to over the last few years in third world hellholes. It felt clean here, refreshing. Even though John knew it wasn’t, he thought of Atlanta as a safe place.
John was growing more and more anxious to see his parents by the moment. It had been four years since he had seen them last and he hardly knew what he was going to tell them. For all John knew, his family thought that he had died with the rest of his team. It would be hard to explain, especially to his father who loved him so much.
A flash of what had happened to them floated through his mind. A muzzle flashing before him, his friends falling before a barrage of gunfire. Good thing he had gotten away. John didn’t know who had killed them, but he remembered being on the right side of the gun somehow. Perhaps the guy who slaughtered them didn’t see him as he crept inside the cave.
John watched as the city closed in and then gave way to a less crowded feeling. His parents’ home was within walking distance of the larger busier parts of the city but tucked quietly away within a network of green parks and jogging trails. The residential parts of Decatur were nice, very attractive to a few retirees that wanted to stay close to home without the hustle and bustle of living in a downtown apartment.
The taxi pulled up in front of a two story, blue and white house after a half an hour of fighting through traffic. Colonial trim lined arched windows and woodwork artfully decorated the eaves beneath an old fashioned wood thatched roof. John was not sure what he felt at seeing the house again. He was relieved more than anything.
The thing inside seemed as if it were sleeping.
He paid the taxi driver and was left on the sidewalk in front of the house with nothing but a backpack and a duffle bag. The cool air felt good in his lungs, like they knew that he was home. He could hear everything in that cold morning air; the distant passing of cars, wind pushing itself through the sparse trees and whipping between the buildings. Birds were singing and somewhere off in the distance a cat was meowing. His own heart was the loudest. It beat wildly in his ears.
Why was he here, he wondered. Why had he felt such an urge to travel across the world to see his parents?
Suddenly he knew that something terrible was about to happen. Panic set in and his only chance to run had come and gone. He needed to go, he needed to run away but found it suddenly impossible. This was a trick and he had fallen for it. This was not his choice.
His vision, as hard as he fought it, started blurring. As if a tunnel were closing in around him, John fought hard to keep a handle on the distant point of light; he tried to hang on for dear life. His nails dug painfully into his palms and his teeth gritted hard enough to crack.
“Jesus Christ, why am I here!” he thought through the panic.
The darkness was creeping in still, fighting and winning though John was giving it his all. He could do nothing against it. He tried to grab his hair and tear it out but his fists would not come undone. When he tried to turn and run down the street, his feet would not move. The last thing he could see before the glassy darkness took over once again was a tree. It was so green and vibrant, beautiful against the city that threatened its existence.
Then he was gone. John was no more in control of himself than a man trying to control a runaway train. His beta waves had once again synched up with the Relics that he was carrying and his identity was gone.
The being that was once John, the being that was now keeping him hostage, bent down and unzipped the duffle bag. Within a few seconds his hand met what he was searching for—a golden dagger.
Mom and dad would not be so happy to see him after all.
“Mr. Lambert,” Gregory said. “This is Gregory Scott. I am the head of the Unusual Operations Division in Washington, D.C. You are aware of our situation?”
“Yes,” Lambert said over the speakerphone. The sound of his voice alone indicated that he was highly educated. The slightest hint of Oxford or Cambridge translated itself across the phone. “I’m so sorry that I have not been able to contact you earlier. We were off the boat and exploring the local town of Playa del Sol.”
“So much for the Caribbean,” Marcus said. Gregory answered with a stern glance.
“I’m afraid I have some very troubling news,” Mr. Lambert continued, changing the tone in the room. “The piece that was stolen from my shop in Xian was, as you postulated, the Piercing Eye of God. The Jewel of Babylon, which I am very enthusiastic to say has been found after many years, and the dagger were made as a pair.”
“We figured that was the case,” Gregory said, “though we don’t know the significance of the dagger.”
“At the end of Nebuchadnezzar’s reign,” Lambert went on “the king began dabbling with the unsavory arts of the occult. He thought that by creating a sort of gateway to the next world he would be able to ascertain knowledge of the likes the world has never seen. He was seeking to rule the world by making himself some sort of supernatural being. Obvious to us, this sort of thing is highly improbable. However, Nebuchadnezzar and his greed knew no bounds.
“I believe it was agent Brenda who questioned earlier whether the ancient king was dabbling with the art of alchemy. You were correct with your assumption, Brenda. The king sought to open a gateway to another world, the afterlife or the next dimension, whatever you fancy calling it. He thought that by doing so he could gain the knowledge of the God Element, the essence of all creation.
“Luckily for the king, his madness became more apparent at the end of his reign when he tried to kill his family with the dagger that he had created. He claimed that it was the last sacrifice that must be made in order to open the gateway to the next dimension. Good thing for the queen,
she had her own body guards looking after her.
“Whatever happened to Nebuchadnezzar, we cannot know. What we do know, however, is that the king went mad and ended up wandering through the forest. Seven years the king spent away from his people and there is not one concrete reason why. Scholars believe that the man was suffering from some disease or another. Many believe he had a severe case of syphilis.
“In any case, he returned a normal man and regained his rule until the fall of Babylon to the Persian Empire around 580 BC.”
“What about the dagger?” Brenda was becoming impatient.
“It is a ceremonial dagger,” the man continued. “It is the linchpin between what Nebuchadnezzar was trying to do and what would have happened if he were to succeed. You see, he needed to take his family’s life in order to finish the ritual and he needed to do so with that knife.”
Something clicked inside of Marcus. Like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place, Marcus felt both exhilaration at succeeding and anxiety at what was painted out before him. Fortunately, his crew was just as quick witted as he was.
“He’s going to kill his family,” he said aloud. “We need to find out where his family lives and get cars over there immediately. If he left before we did…”
“Chances are he’s already done,” Henry finished. “I’m on it.”
Henry started pulling files up furiously on his computer, trying to locate the family of John and figure out what the best course of action would be to keep them safe.
“That’s not all,” Lambert continued over the speakerphone. “As you are aware, this was a ritual dealing with some very dark arts.”
“We won’t let him get that far, Mr. Lambert,” Marcus said, pulling files up on his own computer.
“No, listen to me,” the man on the phone continued. “John cannot be allowed to complete this ritual. It has nothing to do with whether or not his family lives. Frankly, I could care less about them. If John is allowed to finish what he has started, there may be unforeseen consequences.”
“Such as?” Marcus asked.
“Well, I am not one for superstition but this ritual, if performed correctly, could act as a sort of super drug. I would imagine it would be something akin to PCP. His brain activity would be so jumbled up with the frequencies ripping through his gray matter that he may very well become superhuman. He will feel nothing but what his sickness wants him to feel. He could have a sort of mind over matter situation.
“I’ve seen it myself.
“There is also the possibility that the ritual may actually work.”
“You’re not telling me that you believe John could rip open a hole to another universe,” Marcus was starting to become more frustrated with Mr. Lambert.
“Who knows,” Mr. Lambert said. “The ancients believed in such power, why do we have any reason to doubt that it is possible?”
“Because in the last ten years I’ve seen nothing of the sort,” Gregory answered for the upset Marcus. “Trust me, Mr. Lambert, we have seen some things that are inexplicable but nothing that stands outside the bounds of modern science.”
“I have been collecting for sixty years, son.” Lambert seemed to be getting frustrated, too. His voice rose with tension at Gregory’s words.
“Look, Mr. Lambert. I appreciate that you have given us the information we needed about what John is after,” Gregory interjected. “We will be contacting you if we need any further assistance and also because we need to collaborate with you on all these pieces of art you have hidden around the world. For now, I have a family that I have to save and a madman to stop.”
Gregory hung up before the man on the other end could get another word in.
“We need to find the address of any living family members John might have,” he said immediately. “They should be readily available in his file.”
“It’s 2170 Willow Lane, Atlanta Georgia,” Marcus said. The rest of the room went silent for a moment.
“How did you find it so fast?” Brenda asked. “I’ve been looking ever since Lambert mentioned that John might be after his family.”
“We just got a new alert. The satellite just pinged in the United States. It is the same signature that has been assigned to John. It came from that address, 2170 Willow Lane, Atlanta Georgia.
“We’re too late.”
Chapter 25
Officer Daniel O’Brian had been at a Starbucks near the famous Brick Store Pub and the entrance to the underground rail system when he heard his radio squawk some disconcerting news. The call was for any available units to dispatch immediately to the Willow Lane area of Decatur in search of a possible break in-in progress. The chubby red-haired man knew the area well and had some very close friends on the street.
He threw his tall coffee in the trash on his way out the front doors and headed for the squad car. He was only a few blocks away and, seeing as how it was the middle of the work day, Daniel figured it would only take a few minutes to get there. He did not even bother turning the lights on. Better to make a quiet entrance onto the scene of a possible burglary.
As Daniel pulled out onto Church Street, a tree lined lane with no parking at all, his radio squawked again. This time it was a specific address. The woman on the other end of the radio relayed the message with the amount of distress someone might have watching a boring dance recital.
“All units please respond to a possible break in at 2170 Willow Lane in the Decatur area. All units please respond. Suspect is a white male of average height, between one hundred and eighty to two hundred pounds. Suspect has short hair, is armed and extremely dangerous. Do not engage individual without backup.”
2170 Willow Lane… That was the Flipske residence. Daniel knew them well. He had attended their son’s funeral about two weeks ago. Their son was a patriot that had died in combat. Anyone breaking into that house would be itching for an ass kicking. An ass kicking Daniel would administer himself.
Trees cast early morning shadows out into the street. Daniel paid no attention to them. He pulled up to the house and jumped from the car, his hand resting on the handgrip of his Service Edition Colt 1911. A few .45cal slugs would put anyone down if the situation got hairy.
He made his way up the brick paved entryway and up to the dark mahogany front door. It was open just a crack. Daniel could hear some music playing inside, something very old that he did not recognize. It sounded like music that might be playing in one of those old World War 2 films; a woman wailing something beautiful through a tinny sounding speaker set. Whatever it was, Dan found it somewhat reassuring. No one would be stupid enough to just waltz right into an occupied house in this area.
Daniel knocked on the door as loudly as possible before easing it open. He drew his pistol and kept it close to his chest as he took his first look around the doorway.
“Mr. and Mrs. Flipske?” Daniel tried as loud as he could. “It’s Daniel, Deputy Daniel O’Brian with the Atlanta Police Department. Is anyone home?”
He stepped inside, treading as lightly as possible on the tile floor.
“Is anyone home?” he yelled one more time. “I’m with Atlanta PD. If there is anyone in the house you had better identify yourself. A possible robbery was reported and I will shoot.”
No one answered but the woman on the radio. It was coming from the kitchen.
Daniel made his way into the well-lit kitchen. What he saw sent him reeling backwards in panic. There before him was Mr. and Mrs. Flipske both lying dead in pools of their own blood. Their throats had been slit. Mr. Flipske’s opened eyes stared lifelessly out of the pool of blood that covered his face. Daniel was no doctor but he guessed that this had happened only recently.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” a voice said behind Daniel. John was on him before he could even turn around. In one quick movement, John had torn the pistol from Daniel’s hand and thrown him over both of the dead bodies into a cabinet. The cabinet doors came apart in a shower of splinters and Daniel with all his conside
rable weight toppled heavily to the ground and into a warm sangria-colored puddle.
Horrified, Daniel tried desperately to get himself away from the blood and warm, soft bodies. He felt Mr. Flipske move beneath him and whether it was just his nerves or the man was still alive, Daniel could not tell. His hands and face were covered and the front of his blue uniform was stained. John, on the other hand, hadn’t spilled a single drop on himself.
“You have a choice now, Daniel.” How did this man know his name? He looked familiar but Daniel could not place the face. He could hardly stop himself from running, let alone trying to figure out where he knew the guy from.
“Are you listening?” The policeman was shaking. He reached for his backup pistol tucked away beneath his pant leg. John was faster, though. He shot forward and kicked the .380 revolver from his hand the moment Daniel had it out. It flew off uselessly across the kitchen.
“I asked you if you are listening to me, Daniel.”
“What do you want?” Daniel screamed, still trying desperately to get away from the pool of blood on the ground. His shoes slipped in it as he backpedaled on his hands and feet like a crab. The white walls and the granite countertops belied how horrifying the place was. He tried so hard to keep his eyes averted from the bodies of his acquaintances. Were they staring at him?
“I want to make this easier on you,” John said, calmingly.
“You just killed two good people, you goddamn monster.” The shaking in his voice was getting harder to control. The adrenaline made him feel like he should be crying his eyes out.
“What do you know? Does it matter if they are good or bad? They are dead now and whether or not they were evil is for God to decide. You, on the other hand, are still alive.”
“They were good people!”
“And you are also a good person, aren’t you? You fear God, that big happy man in the sky looking down on us all, pissing on us whenever he feels like it. You fear that man, don’t you? You fear me?”