Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  “Sherri, let me see that picture again that Sydney gave you.”

  Sherri absently withdrew it from her back pocket and handed it to Curt.

  Curt studied the picture. “Damn,” he said looking up at her, “that silver object almost out of frame; it’s a fuel bucket. Of course! The guy I vaguely recognized at the Blue Council building…he’s the administrator for the St. Augustine Lighthouse. Tina and Sabine are at the St. Augustine Lighthouse. We’re on the wrong coast!”

  “I’ll get Scott,” Curt broke into a run and returned to his friend.

  “Scott, I am sorry about Marvin. I truly am. I feel his loss, too, but we’ve got to go. Tina’s not here. Sydney was wrong. Tina and Sabine are in the bottom of the St. Augustine Lighthouse, and the sedation has probably already worn off.” He swallowed hard. “We’re probably already too late, but I have to go with her, Scott.”

  Scott seemed to contemplate Curt’s words. Then he looked back down at the still body of his friend, Professor Marvin Sellon.

  “Scott, please…” Curt gently prodded. “I’m not going to drag you into a Category 5 hurricane, but even here, you’ve got to get away from the coast and to shelter.”

  Scott stood. “I’m going with you.” He reached down and grabbed the Fish. Curt saw fierce determination in his eyes. There was no time to try and dissuade him.

  The two men raced back to the plane. It was an awkward run for Curt carrying the shotgun and box of shells.

  “Help me turn it!” Sherri instructed.

  With both Scott and Curt pushing, they were able to turn the craft 180 degrees. The wind was so strong, they struggled to maintain their balance. The moment they climbed into the cockpit, Sherri fired up the engine.

  Curt settled in the seat beside her, strapping himself in. He positioned the shotgun against the side door. “Can you take off in this kind of wind?”

  “Don’t know. Never tried.” She focused intently on the beach before her.

  “As the saying goes, nothing ventured, nothing stained,” Curt added, nervously.

  The plane’s lights stretched out, proving even less of the beach remained than when they had landed. A crack of lightning streaked nearby. The thunder was so intense, it shook the cabin.

  Sherri revved the engine and released the brakes. She quickly brought the plane into a steady roll, fighting against the sideswiping wind which threatened to send the plane into the row of beachside homes. The wheels bounded across the sand, rolling across pockets of incoming surf.

  Curt had trouble imagining a more dangerous way to take off. He glanced at Sherri. Unlike when they had departed from St. Augustine, she looked stoic, confident.

  Secretly, Curt wondered if even the most experienced pilot could make this liftoff in the midst of an approaching hurricane.

  The plane lumbered ahead, slowly increasing velocity. The wings bucked violently, then returned to horizontal as she fought the cross wind. The craft strained to reach rotation speed.

  Curt saw beads of sweat sprout across Sherri’s cheek.

  Ahead, the beach ended in a cove. They were quickly running out of runway.

  Curt felt his chest tighten. They were going too fast to stop. “We going to make it?”

  Sherri stared ahead and gripped the yoke with tenacity.

  The plane reached the edge of the cove within seconds. Just as Curt braced for the crash, Sherri pulled back on the yoke. The plane was sluggish to respond, but then lifted off the ground. It dipped, the wheels skirting the waves in the cove.

  “Lift, dammit!” Sherri urged through gritted teeth. The wind again tilted the plane.

  Curt was sure they were going to crash.

  Just then the nose lifted, and the engine whined. To Curt’s relief, Sherri was able to right the plane within seconds, and they propelled upward.

  Then he saw it. At the far end of the cove stood a wall of trees. They were headed right for it.

  “C’mon!” Sherri barked, tugging the yoke.

  As if hearing her pleas, the plane arced upward, straining to fight the wind. The engine whirred unevenly. Higher and higher they climbed as they approached the treeline.

  They had run out of room. They weren’t going to make it.

  A burst of wind sent the plane listing hard to the right. Sherri used the opportunity to cut the craft in that direction moments before they slammed into the copse of trees. With the wind now at their tail, the plane pushed ahead. It climbed quickly and easily made altitude above the inland trees. For the first time, rain smeared across the cockpit windows. Sherri raised the landing gear and set the trim. The wind, which had nearly doomed them, had become a tailwind she was able to use to her advantage.

  Sherri ran a hand over her cheek to wipe the perspiration away. Curt reached over and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. She looked at him, trying unsuccessfully to mask her anguish. The overwhelming odds were Tina Falco was already dead, having perished at the hands of Sabine LeFlore while they were searching Harvey Shottier’s house on the opposite coast. Curt could think of no comforting words. Instead, he placed his hand in hers and held it.

  The weather remained dangerous, but Sherri was riding a wave of sheer determination to reach St. Augustine as quickly as possible. Within twenty minutes, they had outrun the strongest winds of Hurricane Elena.

  Curt knew it was only the beginning. Hurricane Fernando lagged behind Elena in making landfall on the eastern side of the state. It was not predicted to reach St. Augustine until daybreak. But the strength of the two storms could not be compared. Sustained winds of Fernando were more than twice as strong as Hurricane Elena. St. Augustine and most of the coastline of Northeast Florida would be swamped by the ocean surge. Buildings and structures would be annihilated for miles inland. He doubted the St. Augustine Lighthouse would be left standing when all was said and done.

  Curt looked at his watch. They had one advantage. They should reach St. Augustine with two and a half hours to spare before Fernando’s most powerful winds ripped the coastline. Unfortunately, the outer bands of winds had already reached shore. Taking off from Dekle Beach had been a cake walk compared to what they faced ahead.

  Curt glanced at Scott in the back seat. He had not said a word before, during, or after the nerve-wracking takeoff. Now, his face was buried in his hands.

  Curt looked out the window into the cloud-filled sky. Marvin Sellon’s fate had already been determined.

  Curt feared that, in some way, so had theirs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, August 18, 2:45 a.m. – Flying to St. Augustine, Florida

  The mood in the plane remained anxious. They had already encountered the first of Fernando’s outer bands of winds.

  During the flight, Scott told the others of Marvin’s affiliation with the Blue Council. He emphasized that the professor had had no allegiance to the splinter group led by Harvey Shottier, and, in fact, had tried to help Sydney in his attempt to break away from them once they learned Shottier’s plan to market the Fish.

  Curt was shocked by the news. Not only were they dealing with the death of their friend, but with his deception as well. While he had not had the long-term relationship with Marvin that Scott had, it was a hard pill for Curt to swallow.

  Scott leaned forward. He held up a zip-lock plastic bag containing the Fish. “I dumped the tools out of it. We need to keep this thing dry. With the outer bands of Fernando hitting St. Augustine, we’ll likely hit pockets of rain. Curt, Lila’s message about the cave drawings…she mentioned the waves were coming toward the right side of the land mass she thought might be Florida. A man dipped the Fish into the water and the waves went flat. Then the man and the Fish were gone.

  “Maybe the creature wasn’t supposed to alter Hurricane Elena. Maybe it was meant to stop Hurricane Fernando?”

  Curt looked back at his friend. “Well, this is a c
hange. You actually think the creature can perform a miracle. I, on the other hand, don’t believe anything can stop a Category 5 hurricane. I say we get in, get Tina, and get out. You saw what happened to Marvin. You attempt to put that thing in the water again, and you’ll be killed. I think the cave drawings Lila found are nothing more than coincidental with our situation.”

  “I have to believe Marvin’s death wasn’t in vain, Curt. I think we were supposed to learn something from it.”

  To Curt’s side, Sherri reached toward one of the monitors and pressed the touch screen. She released a long exhale.

  “What is it?” Curt asked.

  “Good news, bad news.” She pointed to the regional weather map on display. “Hurricane Elena made landfall at Dekle Beach and will continue in a northeasterly direction toward Georgia and the Carolinas. Because it’s over land, it should dissipate within 24 hours. The weather on the east coast is a different story. Hurricane Fernando has been officially labeled the strongest hurricane on record. St. Augustine is already experiencing 40-mile-per-hour winds.”

  “Ever notice how the bad news always outweighs the good news?”

  “Well, I’ve got more good news and bad news,” Sherri added as she eyed the avionics. “The good news is Hurricane Fernando is veering slightly north of St. Augustine. It will make landfall around Jacksonville Beach. Of course, because of its size and severity, the effects on St. Augustine will still be catastrophic, but it will delay the strongest winds hitting there. The brunt of the storm will arrive within 90 minutes. We’ll be there in about 20.”

  “See, I’d call that marginally good news.”

  “Yeah, the bad news is we’re running out of fuel. It’s going to be close. Storm winds are slowing us. We’ve used more fuel than I anticipated.”

  “Landing at the airport won’t do us any good. The police will have impounded my Mustang.”

  “I’m not landing at the airport.” She studied the display map. “The lighthouse is on Anastasia Island at the inlet between the island and Anastasia State Park. A1A runs practically right beside it. The town has been evacuated, so I should be able to land right on the highway. It’s a short distance to the lighthouse from there.”

  “Sherri,” Curt began. He wanted to prepare her, not give her false hope. The odds of them finding Tina Falco alive were low, but because there was no way to say it without further upsetting Sherri, and right now, it was in her hands to get them safely on the ground, he simply said, “Never mind.”

  The wind picked up, meeting the craft head on. It rocked the small plane, causing the air speed to fluctuate. They hit a pocket of air and dropped violently. Curt bit his tongue hard.

  It was a harbinger of things to come.

  Ten miles from the coast they crossed I-95. It was quiet. The last of the evacuations had occurred hours ago. Five miles west of St. Augustine, fighting against the stiff winds, Sherri confirmed her fear. “We’re almost out of fuel.”

  Curt gave her an alarming stare.

  “We’re going to have to glide in. Before you ask, no, I’ve never made a glide landing.”

  A gust of wind sent them listing hard left. Sherri had to work to regain a level horizon. “More foul weather. Like on the Gulf Coast.”

  Curt spoke, “This is like a ménage à trois.”

  “Don’t you mean déjà vu?” she asked.

  “Curt only knows two French phrases. He often confuses them,” Scott said.

  “For a man with a doctorate degree, you can be a goof,” Sherri said, focusing ahead.

  “Yeah, but you still like me.”

  “You do have a way of growing on people.”

  “Like mold,” Scott chimed in.

  The plane suddenly sputtered, and the prop went still. “Hang on,” Sherri said.

  Ahead, pockets of clouds glowed then fell dark, twinkling as if cannon fire was going off in random intervals within its belly.

  Sherri turned to Curt. “Without power there will be no opportunity to pull up and make a second pass if there’s a problem.”

  He nodded, swallowed hard, and looked to Scott in the back seat apprehensively.

  Ahead, they could see the lights of St. Augustine. She lowered the nose of the plane slightly and angled downward. As Sherri predicted, the engine sputtered and died. The prop came to a halt. It was disturbingly quiet without the engine noise and only the wind buffeting them.

  Lightning laced the clouds, flaring up in bursts, followed closely by booming thunder. The plane met a rush of wind and then unexpectedly fell as if gravity had reached up and yanked down on the fuselage. Curt felt his stomach lurch. The cabin rattled, and everyone gasped. The plane leveled momentarily before another staggering gust and another drop sent his stomach into a flip. Once again, they returned to a cushion of air, holding their breath collectively as the wings began to shudder. The plane pitched from one side to the other.

  Ahead, Curt could make out the Castillo de San Marcos alongside Matanzas Bay.

  Lower and lower they went. Sherri aligned with the Bridge of Lions, which connected A1A Highway from downtown to Anastasia Island. As expected, the roadways were clear. Curt saw no movement on the ground. The city was a virtual ghost town.

  Passing over the bridge, the surface of Matanzas Bay undulated in the dim light. Slashing waves smacked the bulkhead all along the west side. Sherri adjusted twenty degrees to the right to follow the path of the four-lane highway. She dropped the landing gear and flaps, and maneuvered the plane into a glide path. The outline of the dark lighthouse rose over the tree line in the distance like a lone sentinel guarding the coast.

  It was the first time Curt could ever recall seeing the lighthouse with the beacon turned off. He noticed that Sherri swallowed hard when she spotted it.

  Three-quarters of a mile over Anastasia Island, A1A banked hard to the right. She followed the contour of the roadway. As if the descent had not been dangerous enough, they were now gliding parallel to the coastline at the mercy of Hurricane Fernando’s furious outer winds coming off the ocean a half-mile away. The wind slammed into the side of the craft sending the plane nearly vertical. The unrelenting wind kept the plane on its side, as it descended. Curt involuntarily held his breath, praying Sherri could correct the plane’s deadly posture.

  The ground was approaching quickly. Lights from street side businesses cast a muted glow on the highway. The ferocious wind calmed momentarily, as if to take a breath. In that moment, Sherri righted the plane and pushed the yoke forward. They were within fifty feet of the highway when another burst of wind again tried to turn the plane on end.

  Curt knew it would mean a violent crash. He grabbed the shotgun to stabilize it.

  Sherri acted quickly, dropping the craft down hard on the pavement. The right wing touched first, the tip shearing off with an agonizing groan and an eruption of sparks. The wheels screeched and bounced. A jolt nearly yanked Curt from his seatbelt and into the windshield. The plane leveled, hopped back up into the air several dozen feet, and began to alter off course.

  “I can’t control it!” Sherri screamed.

  A burst of wind turned the craft farther right. It shook violently. Curt was vaguely aware they were approaching an edifice with an open vaulted archway. Before he knew it, they had sailed over the high perimeter fence and the structure. They quickly descended, wheels striking the top of a low building with horrific force. The plane bounded over a walkway and through a low barrier wall. One of the wheels shot by Curt’s window. The left wing caught on something in the dark complex and tore off. The fuselage groaned against the force and shook as if the entire cabin would snap apart. The craft tumbled into a recessed area and suddenly stopped with a shudder and a splash. The numerous impacts had thankfully slowed the aircraft, and, in turn, buffered the landing of what was left of the airplane. The engine remained lifeless. The winds outside howled.

&nb
sp; Curt looked around. The body of the plane had settled into a wide, manmade depression. It was pitch black around them.

  “Everyone okay?” Sherri asked, rubbing her forehead.

  “Yeah,” Curt responded. “Scott?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. The tracking meter hit the floor. It’s not working again.”

  “We don’t need it,” Curt responded.

  “Where are we?” Scott asked.

  “Something just moved. There!” Sherri said excitedly. She pointed down. “And over there on the ground!”

  Curt saw a murky figure amble low in the darkness. Sherri was right. Where the hell were they? He took stock of their surroundings. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the nose of the plane was slightly submerged in a pool of water. Nearby, a small footbridge spanned the depression. The ground to either side was full of lumpy shadows.

  Motion in the black water caught his eye. It brought a sickening feeling. Curt suddenly realized where they had landed. “We’re in a pit.”

  Sherri cocked her head. “You mean like a swamp?”

  “It’s worse than that,” Scott said.

  Curt knew his friend realized the glum reality also.

  A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the grounds. Countless red eyes appeared around them.

  Sherri screamed. Curt capped her mouth with his hand to silence her.

  The large creatures were everywhere—on the ground, in the water. Many were moving slowly toward the fuselage, lumbering on their squat, powerful legs.

  Curt sighed. “We’re in the pit inside the St. Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Thursday, August 18, 3:22 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  “Well, it has been a while since I’ve visited the Alligator Farm,” Scott said.