Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  “I’ve got to get to the lighthouse.” Sherri unstrapped her belt. She reached for the door latch.

  “What are you doing?” Curt said, gently placing a restraining hand on her.

  “I’ve got to get to her, Curt.”

  “Wait,” Curt looked around, up. Sherri did the same. The fuselage had come to rest mostly on land with only the tip of the nose touching the water. The walkway bridge stretched overhead to Curt’s side of the plane. The wrecked plane had landed parallel to the bridge. What remained of the right wing—a section roughly ten feet long—appeared to reach underneath the bridge. It ramped upward due to the fuselage coming to rest at a slight left tilt.

  “Scott, take this,” Curt said, handing his friend the shotgun and box of shells. “I’ll take the Fish.” Scott handed it to Curt, and he tucked the bagged Fish skeleton in his shirt. He opened the hatch door and stepped out onto the wing. Another dizzying flash of lightning revealed the horrid number of alligators that had come to investigate the intruders. Curt turned and assisted Sherri onto the wing. She nervously stood, praying not to slip. Scott followed carrying the weapon.

  The smell of dirt and stagnant water lifted into the air. In this recessed formation, they were somewhat shielded from the wind, which whistled overhead. Sherri watched the reptiles through the darkness; ominous shapes sliding forward, turning. She shivered at the sight.

  Curt inched his way out, ever watchful of the creatures lurking beneath the frail wing.

  Near the fuselage, one alligator turned on another and snapped viciously. Sherri yelped then capped her own mouth. Making noise could only worsen the situation.

  The air had turned remarkably cool. The smell in the pit remained raw, carnal. She watched as Curt edged his way out on the mangled section of wing. The ascent up the wing made the task that much more treacherous. One slip, and they would join the carnivorous reptiles.

  A burst of wind forced Curt to pause and squat to ensure his balance. When it passed, he rose and continued on slowly and precisely. Sherri was happy to see him reach the end and grasp the railing at the base of the footbridge. With great effort, he pulled himself up the side and climbed over onto the narrow concourse. To Sherri, he was a dark shadow set against an inky black sky.

  “Wait here a second,” Curt shouted.

  Sherri watched his dark form dash from the bridge, and he was lost from sight. He returned a few minutes later, pulling on something as he looked back up the footbridge. “I found a heavy duty water hose. You can use it to steady yourself.”

  Sherri watched as he took a moment to tug enough hose to coil a shot. By his actions, it was apparent the far end of the hose was still connected somewhere on land.

  “Scott, catch.”

  Curt lobbed the coiled hose, and Scott caught it. He placed the shotgun and box of shells on the wing. Then he tied the hose around Sherri’s waist. While it resembled a garden hose, it was stiffer and more secure than any garden hose Sherri had ever seen.

  “The wing is weak. Be careful,” Curt called.

  “You’re up,” Scott said. He assisted Sherri for the first few steps then backed up. Once he let go, she could feel her legs tighten in fear. Lightning again soaked the area, illuminating the horde of creatures trundling about below her. The sight sent chills down her spine. The rumbling thunder did nothing to calm her nerves as she inched forward on the wing. Curt slowly drew up the slack of the hose as she went.

  “Slowly, Sherri. You can do it,” Curt urged from the footbridge.

  Within a minute, Sherri reached the end. She was able to lift a hand up for Curt to grab onto. She used her other hand to clutch the bottom rail of the bridge. In unison, she pulled up as Curt lifted. For a moment, she felt her hand slide in Curt’s. The terror of falling into the pit of alligators brought tears to her eyes. “Please don’t let go, Curt,” she panted. He brought his other hand down and gained a firm grip. With a heave, he lifted far enough so that she could use her feet on the outside railing and gain purchase. Seconds later, she was relieved when she pulled herself over onto the bridge with Curt’s help. She sat on the cement walkway breathing heavily. Curt removed the hose from her waist. She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to hug Dr. Curt Lohan, and she did. He returned the embrace. It was brief but heartfelt.

  “Hey…um…I’d like to get out of here, too,” Scott called from the wing.

  Curt tossed the coiled hose over. Scott caught it and tied it around his chest. Scott looked so close, yet Sherri knew that, from his perspective, the distance to the bridge seemed miles away. He eased out onto the wing, staying in the center as Curt and Sherri had done. Activity in the water erupted as several alligators converged, writhing. Distracted, Scott momentarily turned to see.

  “Toss up the box of shells. Then the shotgun,” Curt said. He handed the hose for Sherri to hold.

  Scott lobbed the box. It was no more than half full, and Curt caught it easily even in the shadows. Scott inched out a bit further on the wing and threw the shotgun straight up alongside the bridge. Curt leaned over and deftly snagged it with two hands.

  At that moment, there was a strange creaking sound. At first Sherri thought it was the wind brushing over the concourse of the bridge. She looked to the side. It slowly grew louder. “What’s that noise?”

  “Scott, jump for the rail!” Curt shouted.

  The bizarre noise was coming from below. She turned to see Scott frantically scurry to the edge of the wing and leap, but as he planted to push off, there was a sharp crack. In a horrifying instant, the end of the wing snapped. Scott plummeted into the alligator infested pit where the tattered section of wing landed beside him.

  The hose yanked in Sherri’s hand, then went slack. It had come untied.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Thursday, August 18, 3:37 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  Scott was momentarily dazed as the impact with the hard ground knocked the breath from his chest. He struggled to stand, gasping for air. The footing was uneven, awkward. He looked down and was aghast to see that he had one foot on the hind leg of a large sprawling alligator. The behemoth turned its head and snapped its massive jaw. Scott lunged backward; the sharp teeth and powerful jaws barely missing his leg. In the process of retreating, his heels caught on something bulky. He lost his balance and fell on his backside. To his shock, he was still moving. He jumped up. The beast he had landed upon wheeled on him. He took several steps forward to evade the attack, only to freeze in his tracks. In his peripheral vision, other large forms were converging in the darkness. Directly ahead of him, a bull alligator lumbered aggressively toward him.

  He spun around to find he was surrounded. One of the massive creatures hissed. A second one joined in.

  He felt a lump in his throat. He was about to be eaten alive.

  He turned to face the bull alligator. It was closing in on him quickly now, scooting along the ground no more than a dozen feet away.

  There was nowhere to run.

  Suddenly, something hard rapped him in the face.

  “Grab it, Scott, and hold on tight!” Curt shouted down. “Sherri, now!”

  Scott grabbed the end of the hose with both hands.

  The large bull was nearly on him. It hissed once more, opening its mouth as it charged. Scott was suddenly jerked into the air. He shot upward and was raked over the top of the railing, spilling hard onto the cement concourse of the bridge. He continued to be dragged across the cement surface until he finally released the hose. It shot away, and he heard the sound of something tumble. He rolled over, his body aching. Through bleary eyes, he saw Curt and Sherri lifting themselves up in the darkness a few feet away.

  “Scott, are you okay?” Curt asked.

  “What just happened?” he asked, massaging his right collarbone. It hurt like hell.

  “The hose was retractable. It was connected to a winch device not far
from the bridge. Once I threw you the hose, Sherri turned on the power. Between it, and Sherri and I pulling, the torque was even better than we hoped.”

  “How’s your shoulder?” Sherri asked.

  “Most likely dislocated, but I’ll survive.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a final deep gasp of breath. “We’re running out of time. Let’s get to the lighthouse and figure out a way to get out of here.”

  Curt looked to Sherri. “Let’s go find your daughter.”

  Lightning lit the sky. Thunder crackled, lingering as a long rumble. The threesome made their way out of the St. Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park through a side gate they unlatched from the inside. A light rain fell as they reached A1A.

  With Scott’s injured shoulder, Curt offered to lug the shotgun and the Fish, still secured within his shirt. Sherri carried the box of shells. They ran down A1A a short distance before they reached Red Cox Road. The road made a cutback to the left, eventually paralleling the shoreline where it led to the St. Augustine Lighthouse.

  Each jogging step was a new level of pain for Scott. His shoulder felt like it was about to fall off.

  They made the switchback turn down Red Cox Road. Scott saw the lofty tower of the lighthouse rising in the misty darkness before them. The wind had intensified, slowing their progress. His attention was suddenly drawn to a sound coming from his left, back toward A1A. Indistinguishable at first, he soon recognized it as a helicopter. Intrigued, all three stopped to watch the craft come in and hover some distance away to the west. It valiantly fought against the wind. A spotlight darted downward, scanning in all directions. Then the helicopter lowered and they lost sight of it.

  “All planes have a homing beacon for rescue in the event of a crash. In this weather, I didn’t think anyone would be left to respond,” Sherri said. “Once we find Tina, they can get us out of here!”

  “I’ll go back and apprise them of our situation and make sure they wait,” Scott volunteered. “You two get to the lighthouse.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Thursday, August 18, 3:59 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  Scott trudged back to A1A holding his arm. Sure enough, the helicopter had landed on the highway in front of the St. Augustine Alligator Farm. Even with his shoulder aching, Scott felt revitalized. They would survive the night after all. The helicopter was their way out. He just prayed Curt and Sherri found Tina alive.

  The rotors of the helicopter whined. Several people, including the pilot, sat inside.

  The rescue team must have already made their way into the park, Scott surmised. The people in the helicopter were awaiting their return.

  Scott continued toward the craft, reaching the edge of the Alligator Farm parking lot. No one inside the helicopter had spotted him yet. There was no use trying to shout for attention over the loud whir of the rotors. They would see him momentarily. He was surprised the helicopter had no official marking, nothing to designate it as a rescue craft.

  He drew closer. There was no chance they would miss him now.

  A cluster of people emerged from a gash in the fence near the running helicopter. They were dressed casually; no official uniforms or safety vests.

  Something is not right.

  An interior light in the helicopter came on. The pilot, a hulking African American man, stepped from the plane. Scott stopped in his tracks. He recognized the large man as Sherri’s boss, whom she had tried to kick while he lay in a dormant state in the Blue Council building.

  “Oh shit,” Scott murmured to himself. The instant he turned to flee, a flash of lightning illuminated the landscape. He heard excited voices carry in the wind.

  The pack had spotted him.

  Scott ran in the direction of Red Cox Road. The light rain turned into a steady drizzle.

  Behind him, the whirring of the rotors grew louder. He turned to see the helicopter lift off, its spotlight lancing the darkness ahead. The wind gave it fits. It stabilized, turned toward him, and tilted forward.

  ****

  With the next burst of lightning, the St. Augustine Lighthouse jumped out of the darkness for Curt.

  The lighthouse, built in 1874, rose 165 feet high. It was coated in white and black swirls, reminiscent of an old time barbershop pole. The beacon was fire engine red, but on this night, it remained still and dark. In front of the lofty spire stood the two-story lighthouse keeper’s house-turned-museum.

  Curt led Sherri through the dirt parking lot and around the left side of the lighthouse keeper’s building. The wind moaned, blowing through the top of the trees and dislodging small branches and Spanish moss. Rain now fell in sheets. He was thankful Scott had bagged the creature.

  They cut through an open stone gate and sprinted to a door at the base of the lighthouse. As expected, the door was locked. Curt raised the shotgun, flipped off the safety and aimed. The blast rocked the darkness, and sparks flew, stinging Curt’s ears.

  At first he thought the buckshot had not done enough damage. He used the butt of the shotgun to strike the lock. The door jarred inward.

  Inside, it was pitch dark. Sherri began to push by Curt. He grabbed her, holding her back. “Sherri, please let me go first.”

  “No,” she said resolutely. She stepped into the blackness, and Curt followed, rainwater dripping off their clothes.

  “Tina!” Sherri shouted, stopping just inside the door. There was no response. “Where are they?”

  “This hallway leads to two rooms: one room to either side.” He pointed into the darkness ahead. “On the left is the fuel room in the photograph.”

  Sherri did not hesitate. With outstretched hands she ran along the left wall. Curt followed, shotgun lifted. The place smelled strongly of lacquer.

  Sherri reached the door and turned the handle before Curt had a chance to object. She swung the door open without regard for her own safety.

  “Sherri, no!” Curt shoved her out of the way and raised the shotgun to his waist in a firing stance.

  Light flowed from the room. The sight before him was completely unexpected and disturbing. A thick candle burned on the wooden desk. A five-gallon metal fuel bucket sat against one wall. In the right corner, a scraggy figure in ragged clothes sat barefoot with her back against the wall. With white eyes and dark, disheveled hair, the woman’s scowl was menacing. She bared her teeth like a caged animal and gave a guttural growl that made Curt’s skin crawl. Spittle slipped down her chin. In Sabine LeFlore’s lap was teary-eyed Tina Falco. Sabine had her arm around Tina’s chest, pinning the girl tightly against her with a four-fingered hand.

  Tina was breathing heavily, eyes wide and pleading. She slowly averted her eyes downward. Curt followed her unspoken message. Sabine’s other hand was pressed against the little girl’s stomach.

  The fabric of Tina’s dress partially shielded the knife in Sabine LeFlore’s hand.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Thursday, August 18, 4:12 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  The wind coming off the ocean a short distance away had grown fierce. Scott labored to run with his shoulder on fire. A streak of lightning shocked the sky, allowing him a split second to see the road ahead. He could hear the helicopter drawing closer.

  It suddenly occurred to him that by rushing to the lighthouse, he was leading the splintered group of Blue Council members right to Curt and Sherri. Scott turned off the wet road and into a parking lot. Ahead was a low building with a corrugated roof. Rain poured off the gutters. The sign read:

  Lew Meyers

  Quality Used Cars

  Even in the darkness, Scott could see the small back lot was empty. Cars for sale had been relocated in anticipation of the hurricane. He quickly ducked into the shadows next to the building, where he found shelter from the rain. The helicopter approached, its rotors slapping the air, fighting against the weather. A broad beam of light combed the landsca
pe in front of it. It moved over the road, and briefly targeted the parking lot. Then the helicopter peeled off and was gone. Scott breathed a small sigh of relief.

  The dealership building was larger than he would have expected. He edged around to the front. Several large glass windows had been boarded up. A small window to the side had been braced with masking tape in the form of an X. Scott peered through it. It was too dark to see inside, but the next flash of lightning offered a glimpse. There was a showroom inside with cars on display.

  ****

  Curt lowered the shotgun, fearful of hitting Tina.

  “Let her go!” Sherri screamed, pressing into Curt.

  Sabine was startled by the harsh sound. She sat up straight and secured her hold on Tina, then drew her face into a malicious scowl. The hand with the knife flinched.

  Curt lifted a hand to Sherri. “Wait, wait. Calm down,” he spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “Your daughter looks unharmed.” His words turned to a whisper. “If she wanted to hurt Tina, she would already have done so.”

  Sabine again growled like a feral animal; washed out eyes darted from side to side. The tension escalated.

  “Tina,” Curt began softly, “are you okay?”

  She nodded her terrified affirmation with a sniffle.

  Sabine tilted her head, listening with obvious mistrust. Curt knew from the lack of eye pigment that, like Pinot, the woman was blind. She was using her other senses to gauge the situation.

  “No more loud sounds, Sherri,” Curt said in a low voice.

  The 500-year-old French woman checked her grip on Tina yet again. Curt noticed her actions were curious; while she had a firm hold, she seemed to take care not to hurt Tina. The knife remained against her stomach, but the serrated blade was turned out, away from the little girl.

  “Sherri,” Curt whispered, “I don’t think she wants to harm Tina. In fact, I think she’s protecting her. Sabine may have been a mother once. Or maybe her motherly instincts kicked in when she awoke and found Tina distraught.” He knew Sherri was close to becoming unhinged, and he needed her to remain rational.