by Alten-Steve
Seven Macaw emerges atop the summit platform, his voice booming across the city’s decimated remains: “I am great. My place is now higher than that of the human work, the human design. I am their sun and I am their light, and I am also their months. So be it: my light is great. I am the walkway and I am the foothold of the people … I am the vanquisher. Bring forth the soul mate of Chilam Balam.”
A woman, naked and painted blue, is led up the temple steps, her presence ushering the onlookers to silence. Four priests escort her to an idol where she is laid faceup over the convex stone, her arms and legs held in place, the men’s eyes wandering.
Seven Macaw stares lustfully at Blood Woman, then, with a bone-chilling screech, he plunges the ebony blade of the obsidian dagger just below the woman’s left breast. Quickly reaching inside the wound, the nacom priest withdraws the victim’s still-beating heart from her gushing chest cavity and passes it to one of the four clerics, who smears the blood onto the stone idol.
Returning to the butchered corpse, Seven Macaw kicks the remains of Blood Woman down the steep pyramid steps, the lifeless body cracking and twisting and contorting its way to the bottom where it is collected by lower-ranking priests. The barbarians quickly skin the remains, leaving the hands and feet attached to the human hide.
Seven Macaw’s son, Earthquake, is presented the flayed suit of flesh. Securing it to his own limbs, he dances among the solemn spectators, reanimating the dead woman.
“Search the mountains and coast. Bring me Hunaphu and Xbalanque. The sons of Chilam Balam shall honor my greatness with their blood before the next full moon.”
The mist returns, once more cloaking the valley.
Chilam Balam kneels, tears blurring his vision. “Am I dead?”
The pale warrior with the white hair and beard turns to face him. “Chilam Balam is dead, but the spirit that commands you shall be reborn. Are you ready to continue your journey?”
“And my soul mate?”
“She too shall be reborn.”
“Will our paths cross again?”
“If you are so deserving.”
“Then take me to her, but first, tell me your name.”
“My name is Jacob. I am your brother.”
Languishing in a feverish delirium, Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, a tube down his throat, incubating his chest. Through a slit of vision blurred with hot tears he sees a man resembling a youthful Mitchell Kurtz hovering over him, hurriedly connecting an intravenous bag to his veins.
Drips of soothing warm relief drift slowly into his bloodstream, thawing the ice, pushing his mind toward blessed unconsciousness.
34
God places the heaviest burden on those who can carry its weight.
—REGGIE WHITE,
NFL HALL OF FAME DEFENSIVE LINEMAN
AND ORDAINED MINISTER
“And so it is with a heavy heart but unwavering confidence that I relinquish the office of the presidency to Vice President Ennis William Chaney. May God bless our new president, his family, administration, and the people of the United States of America.”
The plastic case containing a Ted Williams autographed baseball smashes the fifty-two-inch HD television with such force it knocks the flat screen off its stand, sending it crashing onto the marble floor.
Pierre Borgia searches his desk top for something else to throw. He reaches for the near-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, drains the remains of the copper-colored whiskey, then heaves the object at a framed black and white Ansel Adams photograph of Yosemite National Park, denting the wall instead.
The cell phone rings again. Borgia glances at the number. Groans, then answers it. “What?”
“This changes nothing, son. Trust me.”
“Trust you, Uncle Joe? Marion Rallo’s been tapped for VP, Chaney’s already asked for my resignation. As for the war—expect him to announce the complete withdrawal of troops in January’s State of the Union speech.”
“It’ll be handled. The bigger problem is all the loose ends from your little bugaboo in Miami.”
“There are no loose ends. Whoever drove off with Agler probably dumped his corpse in the Everglades. As for the girl, there’s a massive manhunt going on across the state, though she’s most likely dead, too.”
“And the security guard?”
“The sheriff’s office is blaming Raymond’s death on Agler. I made a statement … what else do you want from me?”
“You still haven’t watched the tape, have you?”
“What tape?”
“Pierre, don’t you get my phone messages and e-mail? I sent you an excerpt pulled from the first-floor surveillance camera.”
“I saw the original footage, Uncle Joe. There was nothing to see.”
“There was a blur that appeared on tape a second after the elevator door opened. That blur, slowed down frame by frame, was Samuel Agler.”
Pierre sobers. “My guy swears he injected Agler with the cardiac inhibitor, there’s no way—”
“His eyes were Nordic blue; he was moving through a higher plane of existence when he struck that moron, Raymond. Your guard didn’t just die of internal bleeding, Pierre; his organs burst.”
“Assuming Agler’s still alive, he’ll try to find his wife and daughter.”
“Agreed. I want you back here at Groom Lake. There’s a private jet waiting for you at Dulles.”
“I can’t just up and leave. If something’s going to happen with Chaney, I need to be available.”
“Wrong, for two reasons. First, in your present state of mind I don’t want you anywhere near the television cameras. Two, Agler doesn’t know where his wife and kid are. That means he’ll be coming after you.”
Nazca, Peru
“Ahhhhhh!”
Immanuel Gabriel shoots up in bed to a roar in his ears and a stabbing pain coming from the left side of his chest cavity.
Mitchell Kurtz yanks the spent hypodermic needle from his heart. “Sorry, pal. My orders were to wake you. A shot of adrenalin seemed like the best option.”
Manny gasps air, the clamor in his ears reduced to an annoying siren. His extremities are tingling, his throat too parched to speak.
As if reading his mind, Kurtz places a bottle of water to his lips.
He drinks, chokes, and drinks some more—his eyes widening as a youthful Ryan Beck enters the room.
“Man, you ain’t gonna believe the shit that’s happening. He’s awake?”
“He’s still coming out of it. Where’s Dom and Mick?”
“On their way.”
“Get him on his feet. See if you can help him find his legs.” Kurtz turns to Manny. “Someone hired a trained assassin to kill you. He injected you with a very fast-acting agent designed to stop the heart. You’ve been in a coma for four weeks; by all logic, you should be dead. Somehow you were able to slow your heart down to the point that the poison stagnated in your femoral artery. Lucky for you, Mick called me, I’m familiar with the drug that was used and was able to advise the ER physician how to treat you. We got you out of Dodge two hours later. You’re in Nazca, Peru. This morning all hell started breaking loose, and we decided to take a chance and wake you.”
“What day … is it?”
“Friday.”
“He means the date,” says Beck, who is shouldering Manny, helping him to his feet. “Today’s December 21. By the way, I’m Beck; he’s Kurtz. We work for President Chaney.”
“I know who you are. I’ve known the two of you since the day I hope to be born.”
Kurtz makes the crazy sign to Beck behind Manny’s back.
“Salt and Pepper, that’s what my brother and I used to call you. Mitch, the last time I saw you, your hair was the color of salt and you were telling women you were a movie producer just to get laid. Pep here was a grandfather, still a big man at sixty-five.”
The two bodyguards look at one another, unsure.
The front door of the Gabriel home burst
s open; the entering Mick and Dominique find themselves confronted by the barrels of the two bodyguards’ assault weapons.
“Whoa, easy, fellas.”
Kurtz holsters his gun. “I gave you a knock, Mick. You either use it or get shot; it’s your choice.”
“He’s awake?” Dominique rushes over to Manny, looking into his eyes. “They’re black again. Last time I saw them they were Mayan blue. Sam, can you remember anything?”
“I’m not Sam. Sam was never my name, just an alias I used when I was a teen … when I refused to accept who I really am. My name is Immanuel Gabriel. You and Michael are my parents.”
Dominique stares at him, her lower lip quivering. “Mick told me, I didn’t want to believe it.”
Kurtz shakes his head. “I’m living in an episode of The Twilight Zone.”
“We don’t have time to rehash this,” Mick says. “Manny, today’s the last day of the fifth cycle. The Yellowstone caldera exploded an hour ago. Volcanoes are erupting everywhere.”
“The same thing happened in 2047. The strangelet’s making its final pass through the Earth’s core.”
“Please tell me you know how to stop this thing.”
“No, but I know who does.”
An ominous brown haze has spread quickly across the distant northern sky by the time the hot air balloon lands on the Nazca plateau. Beck and Kurtz secure the basket to the ground, Mick and Dominique escorting Immanuel to the center of the Nazca Spiral.
“Manny, you sure my father said only One Hunahpu can stop the strangelet?”
“They were Julius’s last words.”
“I don’t understand,” Dominique says. “Who is One Hunahpu?”
“It’s best I don’t say.”
Brown ash falls from the heavens like snow flurries as they reach the center of the Spiral.
Mick pulls his T-shirt over his mouth to speak, his eyes searching the darkening heavens. “You know, Manny, my whole life Julius was in my head, preparing me for this day. I have to confess, I didn’t fully believe it could happen until I saw the video records aboard your shuttle. Even then … But now that it’s here—this is seriously bad.”
“My brother, Jacob, was on me the same way. ‘Gotta train harder, Manny, the Underlords want us dead.’ He drove me crazy. Then the day arrived and the Balam appeared out of the heavens and suddenly it was time to go. And I refused. All I wanted was to play pro ball and live in a big mansion and be a star. Instead, I spent the next fourteen years in hiding.”
Dominique rubs his back. “Edie used to tell me, ‘God only gives us the burdens He knows we can handle.’”
“No offense to God, but I think our family’s had more than our share.” Manny’s eyes widen. “Dominique, are your foster parents still living in your high-rise?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“There’s a tsunami headed their way. A big one—higher than your building.”
“Oh my God.” She powers on her cell phone to text Edie, no longer worried about the FBI tracing her location.
Mick’s eyes catch movement overhead—a glimmer of metal descending from the volcanic ash clouds. “Dom, we need to go.”
“I’m not done texting—”
“Text back in the balloon, our friends have arrived.” He turns to Manny. “Julius was right, there are no coincidences. Whatever happens, I’m glad we had a chance to meet.”
Manny pinches away tears. “Me, too.”
Father and son embrace, then Michael Gabriel takes Dominique by her hand and the two of them make a hasty retreat back to the balloon—as a white light bathes Manny in its soothing brilliance, the twinkling aura of energy levitating him away from the Nazca pampa into the awaiting aperture of the bulbous-shaped extraterrestrial ship.
For a long moment the Fastwalker simply remains poised above the desert carving. Then it shoots into the heavens at the speed of light, joined in space by hundreds more, their designs representing dozens of different subspecies—all emerging from the far side of the moon to escort their long-lost prophet to the destiny that awaits.
35
It looks like the White House has chosen the nuclear option.
—FORMER NASA MANAGER,
COMMENTING ON AN OBAMA ADMINISTRATION
PLAN TO CANCEL PROJECT CONSTELLATION,
A 2005 ENDEAVOR TO RETURN
ASTRONAUTS TO THE MOON,
NEW YORK TIMES, JUNE 11, 2010
The white haze filters into a cool mist that dissipates across the garden’s azure lagoon.
Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes. He walks along the pink sand past the pristine waterfall to the mountain-size inverted tree, its upper three limbs beyond his scope of view, the cluster of six branches that follow spread out majestically overhead as far and wide as his consciousness can perceive. Ahead, the trunk melds into the naked man and woman standing back to back—hundred-foot giants fused at the vertebrae.
Manny approaches the illusion projected across the cosmos by the unified thoughts of his parents. “The last time I was here was because you willed it. This time the choice is mine. Tell me what I must do to save the Earth.”
His father’s voice speaks to him telepathically. You think yourself worthy of such a task?
Manny stands before the tree of life, his being trembling. “Am I worthy? I’ve suffered the loss of two soul mates. I’ve spent an eternity tortured by Seven Macaw. I haven’t seen my wife and daughter for eleven years. What more do you want?”
Transformation. You continue to see yourself as a victim of existence. Salvation requires a connection with the higher realms, a connection with the Creator’s light. Victims cannot access this energy, they remain consumed by the ego.
“I’m not here as a victim. Give me the opportunity and I’ll prove to you I’m worthy. Let me rid your garden of its serpent.”
What you fail to see, Immanuel, is that you are the serpent.
“What? How am I—”
The hero twins were conceived with a symbiotic relationship. Your brother, Jacob, cleaved to the tree of life that you see before you, which is why his soul remained pure. You were bound to the tree of knowledge, a dark side that cleaves to the human ego. Lacking restriction, you consumed the tree’s forbidden fruit until you became a slave to it. As Chilam Balam, your soul sought the dark gift to become a powerful sorcerer and seer, yet you never challenged the Maya to end its savage violence, fearful of angering the Council and losing your power. As Immanuel Gabriel, you refused to accompany Jacob to Xibalba, seeking only to live out your days for yourself alone.
“I was afraid. And yes, it’s true, I was selfish. I didn’t want to lose everything I had worked so hard for just to appease Jacob. It was his mission, not mine. He was more advanced than I, far stronger.”
And yet, as powerful as Jacob was, he could not succeed in the eleventh dimension of Hell without your ability to adapt to the dark side. You were the yin to his yang. Through cause and effect, you lost everything. Through cause and effect, it was you who brought the singularity to the winter solstice of 2012.
“I brought it? That’s insane! Jacob instructed me to return to this time.”
And because you lacked a connection with the light, your journey through the wormhole served as a conduit for the strangelet. Now it is too late. Earth, and humanity with it, shall perish.
“That’s it? I don’t believe you! Where is the Fastwalker taking me? To Xibalba?”
The white haze rises from the soil, concealing his parents and the tree of life. When the mist clears, Immanuel finds himself in the extraterrestrial craft, staring out a vast portal into deep space.
The ship is orbiting Mars, soaring just above another object in space—an immense eighteen-mile-long, twelve-mile-wide mouse-gray spherical object, its surface identified by an enormous crater.
Immanuel Gabriel’s pulse quickens as he stares at the moonlike mass racing along the starboard portal.
Phobos …
Situation Room, White House
The chamber has gone quiet, every man and woman focused on the nearest flat-screen television as the images from Camp Borneo display on-screen.
The dense clouds poised over the North Pole are engaged in a powerful clockwise dance, the swirling vortex drawing the toxic blanket of volcanic ash into space as if inhaled by a heavenly maelstrom.
“Sir, NASA is receiving images from the Hubble. They confirm the funnel cloud is jettisoning the atmospheric debris into space.”
“It’s a miracle,” an aide cries out, her outburst effecting an avalanche of applause.
“Quiet!” A harried President Chaney stares at the rushing gray-brown river of atmospheric debris, as baffled as the dozen scientists in the room. “You say it’s jettisoning the debris into space—where exactly is it going? Is it orbiting our planet?”
“No, sir. NASA says it’s streaming into space and dissipating, at least as far as they can tell. There’s a lot of atmospheric interference. Maybe it really is a miracle?”
Nods of agreement.
“Now listen up,” Chaney bellows. “I don’t want to hear about miracles or Second Comings or any such nonsense. I want answers, and I want them fast. Where the hell’s that damn megawave?”
“It just struck Jacksonville, now it’s bearing down on the coast of Miami.”
South Florida Evaluation and
Treatment center
Miami, Florida
Anthony Foletta continues moving down the empty seventh-floor corridor, hounded by his new head of security.
“Sir, the bus is loaded and waiting,” Paul Jones pleads. “All that’s left is the Level 7 patients—”
“—who will remain incarcerated, Mr. Jones. Why I allowed you to talk me into this course of action in the first place … I should have my head examined. No wave is going to reach this far inland, I don’t care how big it is.”
“Sir—”
“Get on the bus and leave. Now, Mr. Jones, before I change my mind and order all inmates returned to their cells.”