Lila had broken into a full sprint, descending the wide steps, racing across the saucepan-shaped depression at the base of the floor, and ascending the steps on the far side of the room. The lantern swayed as she ran, sending light and gray shadows dancing over the frescoes to create strobes of brilliant color. Curt raced after her, curious as to what had caught her attention.
He reached the other side of the room where Lila had stopped to meticulously eye a section of wall; her finger lightly glossing over a single word etched upon it. It was written in a language unfamiliar to Curt.
“It’s ancient Aramaic.” Lila turned toward Curt with an astonished gaze. “It’s…the signature of the artist...” She stopped, as if struggling to digest the ramifications. Then she swallowed hard and softly mouthed the single syllable, “Ham.”
Curt was not sure he heard her correctly. “ ‘ Ham’? Did you say ‘Ham’?” His own breathing became fast and erratic. The dust was strong in his nostrils, and he could taste the flavor of ancient stone with each inhale.
Lila nodded excitedly.
The quiet left him listening to the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Ham?” Curt still could not believe it.
“Yes,” she reiterated with a broadening smile of elation.
In the lantern’s glow, Curt looked up at the circular walls and at the vast ceiling above. From this side of the room, the pictures were clearer. He now saw each image, and its mirror image, was a unique animal.
Then it struck him. The paired pictures that filled the room were not mirror images after all. They were male and female animals of every kind.
“Do you realize what we’ve found?” Curt began. “Noah’s son, Ham, created this room as a visual manifest of the creatures that traveled aboard the Ark during the Great Flood!”
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, July 7, 2:06 p.m. – St. Augustine, Florida
Dr. Travis Peklis emerged through the sally port of the 300-year-old Castillo de San Marcos followed by an entourage of park rangers. It was a typical summer day in Florida: sweltering humidity and temperatures in the low nineties. Curt Lohan was already perspiring. The only respite was a firm wind blowing in from the bay, sweeping over the two-story gun deck and into the large, interior courtyard.
“Overkill,” Curt said to his friends Scott Marks and Professor Marvin Sellon standing beside him. They were waiting among a gathering of people at the far corner of the large courtyard for the director of the National Park Service to kick off the press conference.
“Peklis does love an audience,” Professor Sellon chuckled, running a hand through his gray hair. Nearby, a bustle of activity arose from the swarm of reporters clustered before the entryway to one of the stone fort’s storage rooms.
The Spanish fort-turned-National Monument had closed early to tourists in anticipation of this long-awaited event. It had been nearly ten weeks since an inspector from the NPS had detected the hollow enclosure inside the northeast bastion while checking for structural deterioration. Sonar equipment showed the Quonset-hut-shaped area to be behind a 44-inch coquina wall. Due to the procedural red tape, it had taken this long to get final approval to breach the area. Today, the public would finally get to witness a room that, in all likelihood, had been sealed shortly after the Castillo’s construction by the Spanish in 1695.
Dr. Peklis arrived at the northeast corner and cordially pushed through the assembled group of park rangers, media representatives, and city dignitaries. He was a short man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
“Good morning, Dr. Peklis,” Curt said with an affable smile. “This is a great event you’ve set up here.”
Dr. Peklis nodded politely as he passed; his expression placid.
While Curt was not fond of the pomp and circumstance being bestowed on this archaeological endeavor, he did hope to be one of the first of three city-employed archaeologists to examine the room in situ, and since the final decision rested with Dr. Peklis, a little politicking never hurt; at least not much, anyway.
Peklis exchanged greetings with the other archaeologists: Dr. James Millfoil and Dr. Bernice Fine, then he moved before the opening of the storage room where a podium had been set up. Park rangers took up positions on either side of him. The chatter from the audience slowly subsided.
For several seconds, Dr. Peklis looked silently at those in attendance, waiting to command their full attention and to allow the cameras to start rolling.
An intelligent man, Curt thought, but full of sappy showmanship.
“Good afternoon,” Dr. Peklis finally began. “On December 12th, a representative with the Florida National Park Service discovered evidence of an interior room located in the northeast corner of this fort, immediately behind me. All indications are the room was sealed quite some time ago. We will be the first humans to go inside the room since its closure, which quite possibly dates to the fort’s construction in the 1600s.”
“What was the room’s original purpose?” asked a female newspaper reporter wearing a Florida Daily badge. “Why was it sealed?”
“We’re not certain. Given its shape and obscure location, our best guess is it was built to house ammunition, but the moist nature of the coquina rendered it inoperable as such. Apparently, without another use, the fort’s inhabitants decided to wall it shut. For our purposes, we’re tentatively referring to it as the gunpowder magazine.”
A ponytailed male reporter stepped up on the iron octagonal lid of one of three wells in the courtyard for a better vantage point. “So you don’t know who sealed the room?” He was summarily escorted down from the well cap by one of the park rangers.
“Not at this time,” Dr. Peklis began. “It’s amazing when you consider that none of the occupants—neither the Spanish who built the Castillo in 1695, the British in the 1700s, nor the U.S. who purchased the Florida territory in 1821 and acquired the Castillo—have ever acknowledged existence of the room. Although, given the fort’s massively thick stone walls, maybe it shouldn’t come as such a surprise that a hidden room exists.
“With any luck, there’ll be some evidence, some clues, to shed light on when the room was closed. Based on the fort’s history of occupation, if we know when, we’ll know who.”
“Will we be able to get inside? Get pictures of the interior?” asked a tiny blonde television reporter. Her camera crew stood to her side filming.
“We need to keep the environment pristine until a thorough examination has been completed,” Dr. Peklis responded. “You can shoot footage from the outer alcove once we’ve had a chance to look it over, but don’t expect to get much. We’re reestablishing the original opening which extends from the ground upward 40 inches, and the wall we’re tunneling through to access the gunpowder magazine is over three-feet thick.”
“So you don’t think you’ll find anything inside?” the ponytailed male reporter pressed.
“While stone-penetrating radar did pick up some minor anomalies, the thickness of the walls makes the results less than definitive. We suspect the images represent structural irregularities,” Dr. Peklis paused briefly, sensing the collective disappointment. He quickly recovered. “That doesn’t mean we won’t find something—some artifacts. I’m cautiously optimistic. We’ll know shortly.”
Dr. Peklis pointed theatrically to the doorway opening behind him with one hand, while rubbing his closely groomed white beard with the other. He allowed several seconds of silence to pass.
The man is calling his home run. Curt looked down to roll his eyes and suppress a laugh.
“This is one of the Castillo’s many storage rooms. The gunpowder magazine will be accessed through an adjacent anteroom by breeching the wall. For those of you who’ve never been inside the anteroom, it’s a tiny space. Initially, members of the press will need to remain here in the courty
ard. It’s for your own safety, since we’ll be using a jackhammer to bore the opening.”
Ignoring the mumbles and groans, Dr. Peklis stepped away from the podium. He turned toward the storage room accompanied by two park rangers, a construction engineer carrying a small jackhammer, and the two archaeologists.
“Oops, that’s my cue,” Curt said, easing his way through the crowd to catch up.
“Good luck,” Scott said, offering his friend two thumbs up.
Inside the storage room, electrical cords neatly lined the wall. The interior was remarkably well lit. Curt followed as the group turned, moved underneath an archway, and proceeded into the anteroom.
Low on the back wall, a three-foot wide by three-and-a-half-foot tall black outline signified the target area. Having been briefed on their roles weeks ago, the seven donned earplugs and cloth breathing masks. McClain, the construction engineer, began work with the jackhammer on the coquina wall. The two park rangers manned the opening to the outer storage room to ensure no unauthorized personnel made their way inside. Even with the earplugs, the reverberating sound within the small alcove was deafening.
After 18 minutes, McClain shut off the jackhammer and turned. A cloud of debris slowly settled around him. He lifted his mask, flashing a satisfied grin in Dr. Peklis’ direction.
“We’re through.”
Dr. Peklis knelt beside McClain, peering into the small, dark opening. Curt looked on as Dr. Peklis got a whiff of the escaping air and visibly cringed.
“Aged air,” Peklis said, taking a plentiful breath. He smiled. “Harsh, yet invigorating.”
A claw device was brought out to retract more of the wall, pulling it toward them so that the coquina fell outward instead of inside the gunpowder magazine. Dr. Millfoil tinkered impatiently with a handheld video camera. Dr. Fine and Curt kept their video equipment at their sides. Like the others, Curt looked on, anxious to learn who would accompany Dr. Peklis into the room.
McClain and one of the park rangers widened the opening to the size of the marked outline, then stood and brushed the dust off. It took another ten minutes to clear the coquina rubble.
Dr. Peklis motioned for a flashlight from the ranger. “I’m going in. Dr. Lohan will accompany me. I want everything documented.” He turned to Curt. “You ready?”
Curt nodded, clutching his video camera and suppressing his elation. Obvious disappointment washed over the faces of Dr. Millfoil and Dr. Fine. They offered Curt the obligatory thumbs up and, even though he was ready to break out in a happy dance, he returned a humble nod.
Last week, he and Lila had made a startling, although as yet unconfirmed, discovery 4,000 miles to the east across the Atlantic Ocean on another continent. No event in the Old Testament had ever been conclusively proven. At a minimum, the visual manifest of the Ark’s passengers by Noah’s son, Ham, would set the archeological and religious world on fire. If the evidence could somehow be confirmed, it would be a huge first step in validating the flood story related in the Bible. Now, eight days later, he was once again on the verge of an archaeological first, this time in his own back yard: the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida. Known to be the oldest continuous European settlement in the U.S., the city dates back to 1565 when the Spanish first arrived, more than half a century before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. For a person in his field, it had already been an epic summer, equivalent to winning the lottery twice in consecutive draws.
“Let’s go,” Dr. Peklis said, aiming the light. He crabbed through the opening, and disappeared. Curt followed Peklis, stooping low.
Once inside, Curt rose and promptly smacked his head into the coquina ceiling. He rubbed the sore spot. There was a pungent aroma he could not identify.
“The ceiling’s arched,” Peklis said as he stooped. He moved to the center of the room where the ceiling was higher and he was able to stand upright.
Peklis shined his flashlight about. Curt saw that the grotto was small—the size of a living room—and was indeed shaped like a Quonset hut, with the center apex barely reaching six feet. They stood, taking in what Peklis’ flashlight revealed: the stone-tiled floor, the dingy gray walls.
It was an odd feeling to know they were the first two humans to step inside this room for hundreds of years. The last people in here were likely Spanish Conquistadors, men who left their country to establish a foothold in the New World. It brought with it a feeling of wonderment, of excitement; a feeling of living in the past. It was the very reason Curt had gotten into archaeology in the first place.
Dr. Peklis brought his light to the near wall and edged closer. He reached a hand out, running his fingers over the surface.
“What is it?” Curt asked.
“Striations. Look, there are unique patterns. These are obviously manmade,” he pointed to the sets of lines. They ran in parallel patterns of either five lines or four lines, and the four-line patterns were separated by a space between the second and third mark. Each set contrasted in length.
Dr. Peklis turned, guiding the light around the room at eye level. Looking carefully now, they could see the lines filled every wall, running in all directions. “Must be tool marks from when the room was built.”
“Perhaps,” Curt said, thinking it was inconsistent with the construction signatures in the Castillo’s numerous other rooms.
Dr. Peklis’ attention was still consumed by the unnatural wall designs when Curt lifted the video camera. He flicked on the light and began to film. The air remained thick and rancid.
Curt turned to scan the far wall. He involuntarily drew a sharp inhale at what he saw.
The video camera light shone brightly, revealing a heavily clothed, curled body in the corner. The skull was tucked downward out of sight. In fact, no part of the skeleton was visible, which made him ponder that it might be an optical illusion. More likely, a lump of material nestled in the corner and not a body at all.
Curt turned to Peklis, who also stared unblinking at the obscure form in the corner. In unspoken unity, Peklis and Curt stepped forward. Obviously, they were mutually confused about what they saw. The room had been sealed for centuries. If a person had been trapped in here, the skeleton would have disarticulated long ago and lost its form, and the clothing would have long ago disintegrated. As they drew closer, Curt could tell the material held a distinct figure. Curt kept it fixed in the light.
Peklis knelt down beside it. He slowly reached a hand out.
The moment Peklis touched the cloth, Curt saw the impossible. A full head of dark hair slowly turned upward revealing a ghastly, drawn face of a man with a triton-shaped design along his right cheekbone. White, unblinking pupils sunk within hollowed eye sockets and darted back and forth. The man’s expression contorted into a mad snarl.
Curt gasped.
The coiled figure lurched upward. Peklis lost his balance and fell. He frantically scrambled backward in a panic on the stone-tiled floor. Curt dodged to the side, but a fingernail gashed his face as the figure flashed by with outstretched hands. Both Peklis and Curt lost their grips on their respective lights, which clattered across the floor. Chilling grunts and groans filled the darkness.
Curt scurried backward until he found a wall to brace against. His heart was beating wildly. The video camera light was out. Peklis’s flashlight still worked, but it had rolled flush with the far wall where the beam painted a small circle of light.
“There’s someone in here!” Dr. Peklis yelled from the darkness.
Curt was breathing heavily. He remained motionless, hoping his eyes would adjust to the darkness. The enclosure was once again deathly still.
“Get in here with some light!” Peklis called again.
Curt glanced toward the dim glow coming from the low-cut opening. Legs suddenly appeared outlined in the light coming from outside the room, and then hands reached out and felt the top edge of the opening. In an inst
ant, a figure squatted and barreled through, escaping from the confines of the room.
Curt heard a frenzy of activity outside: people shouting, a woman screaming. Peklis and Curt moved to the opening and reached it at the same time. Peklis pushed his way past and pressed through, with Curt following on his heels. They reached the anteroom where two bloodied park rangers lay injured on the floor. Everyone else was gone. Peklis raced forward through the storage room and into the courtyard. Curt kept pace. There, they were met with a horrifying sight.
The raggedly clothed man was on the back of the St. Johns County sheriff’s deputy clawing wildly at the man’s face and uttering indistinguishable words. Dumbstruck people stood gaping. Some members of the press were actually filming the event instead of trying to help the deputy. Scott Marks rushed to the officer’s aid, but before he arrived, the officer drew his pistol. Through bloodied eyes, he fired upward. The deafening blast struck the crazed man in the jaw, and the bullet passed through his skull, sending fragments exploding upward. The ghastly matter rained down on the concrete walkway with a splat. Then the figure went limp, toppled off the deputy’s back, and fell with a sickening crunch to the pavement.
Dr. Peklis turned to Curt. “My God, what in the hell just happened?!”
Curt watched Scott take the officer aside and sit him against the far wall, freeing the pistol from his shaking hand. Blood was streaming down his face. “Someone call 911!” Scott shouted to the crowd. Professor Sellon bent next to Scott, pulled out a cell phone, and began dialing. Chatter rose in the courtyard as others quickly gathered around the officer.
Curt approached the lifeless form of the unknown assailant. His blood had already begun to spread on the walkway in a dark, viscous pool. A reporter quickly crowded in, taking pictures.
Standing over the body, Curt turned to look at Peklis, then back to Scott and Marvin, who were tending to the injured police officer. He watched as they wiped the blood from the deputy’s cheeks, revealing a series of claw marks. There were two distinctive patterns: five bloodied lines on one side and four on the other, slightly separated between the second and third marks.
Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1) Page 2