Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9)

by Vincent Zandri

  “But we can,” I say. “Problem is, we have to get back to the Old City in under ten minutes.”

  “So the cause is a lost one,” James says, pulling down on the brim of his hat.

  “We have a plane,” I say. Then, my eyes back on my employer, “Cross, you’re driving.”

  We don’t walk across the war-ravaged field. We sprint. Me, Cross, James, Moshe, and Itzy. I veer off to the left, find the Seventh Codice where Mahdi dropped it, and stuff it into my pocket.

  “Hope we can all fit in the plane,” Itzy says, Moshe’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, limping at a steady pace.

  “We’ll shove in the best we can,” I insist.

  I take the shotgun seat, while everyone else makes do with the limited space in back.

  “Fire her up, Cross,” I command. “Set a course for due south.”

  He fires up the duel props and, eyeing a long swatch of earth that hasn’t been opened up, he guns the motors. We take on speed and within seconds, we’re air born.

  What I witness from the air is remarkable. Legions of resurrected people emerging from their tombs and graves. There must be millions if not billions of them walking the earth waiting for their final judgment. Roman soldiers, Christian Crusaders, robed Israelites, Palestinians . . . an entire history of the Middle East and its wars and religious quests, woken from the dead.

  “How much time?” Cross says, as the landscape scoots by beneath us.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I say.

  “Gonna be impossible,” James says.

  “We’re gonna have to try anyway,” I say. “Remember, Revelations states about thirty minutes.”

  “So that can mean something like only twenty-five minutes to seal the book back up,” James insists.

  “But it can also mean, thirty-five or forty minutes,” I say. “Maybe Jesus will give us a break since we’re the good guys.”

  Two minutes later, we begin to make out the gray stone walls of the Old City.

  “Where we gonna land?” James asks.

  Cross speaks up, “I can put her down right on the road outside the wall. It’s covered with resurrected people walking in all directions, but unless they wanna die a second time they’re gonna have to get out of the way, yo.”

  He lowers the gear and takes the plane down at a steep angle.

  “Hang on, Moshe,” Itze says, “it’s gonna be a rough one.”

  We land on the Aqabat Al-Manzil Road, directly beside the tram tracks, the zombie-like resurrected people now scurrying away from the plane, as though fearing for their reborn lives. Cross pulls up directly to the Damascus Gate as if he planned it that way.

  “Church of the Holy Sepulcher,” I say. “We can make it in three minutes if we run.”

  We pile out and run like hell through the crowd and enter through the gate. We sprint to the Via Dolorosa and hook a right up the old stone stairs to the church, pushing our way through a crowd of zombie skeletal remains that obviously died of crucifixion and were buried on site. That is, judging by the metal spikes still embedded in their ankle and wrist bones.

  We hang a right as we enter through the main wood doors, and head to the place where Christians the world over believe Jesus was crucified. I pull the seventh codice from my pocket and, crawling onto the rock that supposedly supported Jesus’ cross, place it into the coffee-can-sized man-made hole that would have supported the vertical cross beam.

  We wait for something spectacular to happen — a brilliant flash of light, rolling thunder, heavenly angels joining in song, trumpets blaring.

  But nothing happens.

  “Holy Moses,” Moshe says. “This isn’t the site after all.”

  Itzy says, “Helena, Emperor Constantine’s own mother said this was the place where The Big J was crucified. I mean, if she says it’s the place, it must be the place, right?”

  James looks at his watch. “We’re down to seven minutes, Chase.”

  I pull the codice back out of the hole.

  “The site has got be around here somewhere. The Romans crucified people wherever there was a free piece of land.”

  James takes a step forward. “Remember John’s gospel. It speaks of a hill that bears the face of a skull, remember? Golgotha. Skull Place.”

  “John’s Gospel and John of Patmos’s Revelations,” I say to myself. “Both are full of sevens.”

  “Golgotha is just outside the Damascus Gate, Chase,” James says. “It’s the highest natural point in Jerusalem. A place where Pilot would have wanted Jesus to be crucified so that everyone who lived in the city could see Him and, therefore, heed the warning. If you recall, there’s something else that makes Skull Place special.”

  I look into his eyes.

  “It’s seven hundred seventy-seven meters above sea level.”

  CHAPTER 40

  We don’t need to speak.

  We sprint back through the open doors.

  “Don’t wait for us,” Moshe shouts. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  James, Cross, and I run as fast as our legs will take us back down the Via Dolorosa and bank a sharp left onto the road that leads back out to the gate.

  “How much time?” I shout.

  “Three and half minutes at most,” James answers.

  We plow our way through the sideways Z-shaped gate, pushing aside the walking dead, the wailing corpses, the living skeletons, the gray ghosts made from the ashes of the cremated. We then bound up the stone stairs to street level, pushing our way past the crowds of zombie-like walking dead. We dash across the road to the bus garage parking lot that’s pressed up against a limestone hill resembling a skull.

  A concrete retaining wall has been built against a portion of the hill. I jump up onto it, climb its ascending cap until it comes to an end where a tall, chain-link fence protects the hill crest now that it’s being used as a Muslim cemetery. I don’t hesitate for even second. I begin to climb the fence. So do the others.

  When I reach the top, I go to put my right leg over, but my jeans get caught in the sharp points created by the chain link.

  “How much time, James?”

  “Two minutes. Maybe less.”

  Reaching into my bush jacket pocket, I pull out the Swiss Army knife, open the blade with my teeth, cut my pant leg. I shove the knife back in my pocket, swing my now freed leg over the fence top, and drop down onto the other side. Jogging up to the top of Golgotha, I search for a place in the earth that could support three crosses. Three man-made holes gouged out of the limestone that would have supported not only the vertical beam to Jesus’ heavy cross, but also those of the two thieves who were crucified along with Him.

  The entire hill is covered in headstones and overgrown brush. A few trees and thick bushes have also sprouted up over the years inside the long forgotten cemetery. No choice but to go down on my hands and knees, search for the holes.

  “They’ve got to be here,” I say aloud.

  That’s when I hear Cross say, “Chase, behind you.”

  I turn, look up and see a ghost-like woman. The woman who has been following me all the way from Europe.

  Vanessa, the pale rider.

  CHAPTER 41

  “You have my book,” she snarls. “I want it back.”

  Her long black shawl is wrapped over her head and shoulders. Her dark eyes don’t stare me down so much as burn holes through my skin and flesh.

  James no longer has his semi-automatic at his disposal, but he reaches out to grab her. She takes hold of his forearm, twists it so hard and so forcefully, he flips over entirely. That’s when I bury my head and shoulders into her mid-section. But it’s like hitting a brick wall.

  She rears up with her knee, catches me in my already bruised ribs. I flip over onto my back just as she comes after me, both her hands held out before her like a pair of claws. But I raise my leg, stop her with my booted foot. She keeps coming anyway, her mouth opening and closing, exposing fang-like eye teeth, drool dripping from her lips, her eyes black and
possessed.

  “The codice, all the codices, belong to me, and to Satan!” she screams. “This is his time now!”

  “The hell it is!” Cross screams.

  He’s holding his smartphone directly in front of her face. She sees what’s displayed on the screen and screams even louder. That’s when James plants his fighting knife into her chest, the blade piercing her heart.

  Her screams stop. Her black eyes lose their luster and shine, and revert to their former dull blue. Her fangs disappear.

  “May God forgive me,” she whispers, as she collapses on the spot.

  “Time,” I say, pulling the seventh codice from my jacket pocket.

  “Thirty seconds,” James says. “Maybe less.”

  “Find the holes, Chase!” Cross yells, his voice having reached panic proportions.

  “I’m trying, I’m trying!” I’m back on all fours, running my hands through the brush when I feel something on the rocky limestone below.

  A hole.

  Like the one in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, it’s about the same diameter as a coffee can.

  “I’ve got one hole,” I say. “Definitely man-made. Search for the other two.”

  On my left-hand side, about fifteen feet away, James goes down onto his knees, his hands buried in the brush. Cross does the same only on my right side.

  “Got it,” James says,

  “I found it,” Cross says. “I found the final hole.”

  “Five seconds,” James says.

  Knowing that my hole occupies the center, where Jesus was said to have been crucified between two thieves, I drop the codice inside.

  For a few long beats, nothing happens and my heart sinks. But then, suddenly the dark sky above grows even darker, and a brilliant light shines down from it filling the hole. The three of us are knocked onto our backs by the force of the beam. But from there, we can make out the shape of a cross and the image of a man being crucified upon it.

  “For your sins, I died,” Jesus says, in a booming voice. “On the third day, I rose up, defeated death, and returned to my heavenly father. One day, I will return again. But not now.”

  Another beam of light flashes and, for a moment or two, I am blinded. A loud thunderclap follows and the whole of Jerusalem trembles. When I am able to regain my vision, I once more see the crucified Jesus at the moment the vision collapses and shrinks into itself before shooting back up into the heavens.

  The black clouds begin to separate, and the warm sun returns once more. Not only over Skull Place but over the entirety of Jerusalem. Over Israel. Over the entire world.

  We get back up on our feet, turn, and look out onto the Old City. The resurrected dead no longer wander the streets. Only the living are going about their day like nothing has happened at all.

  “We did it,” James mutters. “We stopped the end of the world from happening.”

  “Cross,” I say, “what did you show that evil woman that made her so afraid?”

  He pulls out his smartphone, holds it up to reveal a cross.

  “It’s my anti-Vampire app,” he says, smiling. “Works like a charm, yo.”

  “The codice,” I say, about-facing, returning to the hole in the limestone. Crouching at the knees, I reach down into the hole and pull out the seventh codice. The book has been resealed. Miraculously.

  Cross peers at the book.

  “You want me to carry it now?” he says.

  “Not on your life,” I say, pocketing the book. “And I don’t care if it costs me my payment.”

  His smile disappears. “Thought you’d say that, Chase man.”

  Once more, looking down at the street, I can see that a curious crowd is gathering around the plane.

  “Cross,” I say, “we’d better fly that thing out of here before the army, and the police, come to requisition it or, at the very least, hand you one hell of a parking ticket.”

  Together, we re-climb the fence, make our way back down the retaining wall, across the bus station parking lot and to a plane that’s illegally double-parked outside the Damascus Gate.

  CHAPTER 42

  A twin-engine Cessna taking off on a major city street causes one hell of a commotion and we nearly slam into a delivery truck that’s driving right for us. But we somehow manage to take flight just as the Israeli army arrives on the scene. I’m guessing our ability to take off so quickly, or not get shot down for that matter, has nothing to do with luck, but instead, having God on our side and the intact seventh codice in my pocket.

  At my insistence, we fly back in the direction of Megiddo, over the eastern edge of the West Bank and up into the fertile valley. Surveying the landscape, it’s not hard to see that the thousands, if not millions, of resurrected dead bodies no longer occupy the green countryside, walking aimlessly in their living dead state. Instead, they have returned to their earthly graves. Or perhaps they never left them in the first place. In other words, the sealing of the seventh codice might have very well erased the thirty-minute apocalypse that began in the Megiddo Valley and ended on the top of Golgotha.

  But how can that be, Chase?

  My only answer is the one we’ve all heard a thousand times before: God works in mysterious ways.

  Ten minutes into the flight we are circling the valley and descending.

  “There’s Magda,” James says, the optimism having returned to his voice. “She’s back, and she’s alive.”

  “And the girls,” Itzy says.

  Glancing into the back, I see that even Moshe is smiling, despite the pain that must be throbbing in his leg.

  Turning to Cross. “Can your plane handle three more people?”

  He nods. “We’ll find room for everyone,” he says. “Now, get set for landing.”

  “Trays up everyone,” I announce. “And please turn off all electrical devices. We wanna wish you a pleasant stay in Meggido and thank you for choosing to fly Armageddon Air.”

  He puts the plane down, and we exit the Cessna. I make my way immediately for Magda, and take her into my arms.

  “I thought I’d lost you for good,” I whisper into her ear.

  Her thick, dark hair smells of flowers, and a gentle breeze causes it to touch my face. I kiss her neck, then her soft cheek, and finally her tender lips.

  When we come up for air, I look into her eyes. She smiles gently.

  “What happened to me?” she asks. “I remember Mahdi taking hold of me, making me kneel down on the grass. Then, I remember that plane landing very close to me.” Raising her right hand, she snaps her fingers. “After that, nothing.”

  “Nothing,” I say like a question.

  “Well, not exactly nothing. For a little while, it was like I was living a dream. I remember dark clouds and lightning and explosions. I heard people screaming. Thousands of them. But then, darkness took over and the next thing I know, I’m waking up on my back, the two girls kneeling over me, rubbing my forehead and face with a wet kerchief.”

  The Orthodox girls . . . Funny how I don’t even know their names . . .

  “There’s somebody else who’s almost as glad to see you as I am,” I say, cocking my head in James’ direction.

  He pushes up the brim on his old hat and, like me before him, he takes her in his arms. He hugs her so tightly I can almost hear her joints cracking.

  “Magda,” he says, a tear rolling down his face. “My goddaughter. I would never have forgiven myself if I lost you for good.”

  Magda sheds a tear or two and damned if my eyes don’t fill up. I’ll say one thing for witnessing the end of the world, it kind of makes you appreciate every minute of every day. It also makes you appreciate the people who make life worth living.

  Shifting my focus, I see Cross consulting with his camera crew who, like Magda but unlike Mahdi and his Soldiers of the Expected One, have survived the ordeal unscathed. My employer is shaking his head as if not quite understanding or believing something that’s being said between them. Or perhaps there’s a disagreement goin
g on.

  But when he turns to approach me, I see that he’s carrying my black bag. The bag in which I stored the other six codices. He must have found it on the ground where Mahdi dropped it. When he’s within a few feet of me, Cross hands me the bag.

  “These are for you,” he says, his expression not without disappointment. “Deliver the books to the proper authorities. Have them examined and studied and do whatever you gotta do to make sure they never fall into the wrong hands again.”

  “Yo,” I say, strapping the bag around my shoulders.

  “Yo,” he says, holding out his fisted hand. “Give me the rock.”

  I do it.

  Magda places her hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ll make sure they are well taken care of, boss,” she says, “and that you get all the credit you deserve for making their retrieval possible.”

  Cross’ face actually turns red with embarrassment, as if he’s not used to such “awe shucks” moments.

  Now, turning to the Hasidic brothers, I find them chatting it up with the Orthodox girls. I have no idea what they’re saying to one another, but I can recognize young, like-minded, identical faith-based people hitting it off when I see it.

  Cross looks at his watch.

  “Listen up, people,” he says. “Let’s get back in the plane. You have a connection to make.” Turning to his men who are still fooling with their camera equipment. “I’ll be back after I drop these guys at the airport in Tel Aviv. Gonna take me a couple hours so keep working on the problem.”

  “What problem, Cross?”

  “All that footage they got of the Apocalypse,” he says. “None of it came out. It’s just blue screen. Not even the stills I snapped on my smartphone came out. It’s like the event never happened at all.”

  God works in mysterious ways . . .

  “Oh, it happened all right,” I say. “Just not yet.”

  He nods, smiles. Then, his brow furrowing, “What exactly did you just say, yo?”

  “Never mind,” I reply. Then, issuing everyone a dramatic John Wayne-windmill-arm-wave. “Let’s go people! Daylight’s wasting!”