Angels of Apocalypse, Part I: Alignment

by J. J. Harkin

  The lawyer Victoria had chosen surprised Den immediately. Rather than the conservative suburban closet he had expected, the offices of Edward, Taddingly, Wrigglezby, and Zoth turned out to be a luxurious downtown suite. As the group ventured into the expansive workspace, they were escorted to a row of chairs which surrounded a massive oak desk. Den’s Aunt Ruth and Uncle Barney were present, as well as David’s mother, and a couple other unrelated acquaintances of Victoria’s.

  “Good afternoon, all,” said the pinstriped suit sitting behind the desk, raising an eager eyebrow. “Are we ready?” No one said anything, so he rambled on expeditiously in legal-eze. “Blah, blah, blah, blah… ‘To Ruth I leave the record collection and whatever sheet music I may have left around. To Mrs. Falk I leave the final balance of my checking account, minimal as that may be.’ Ummm… ‘To Harriet I leave my label maker and all of my printed T-shirts.’ And then she goes on to explain that any remaining items are to be split between those of the rest of you whom are interested.” He paused to address the two youngest members of the group. “Denny. David. I’ll need to speak with you two privately before you go.”

  As the rest of the group said their goodbyes and shuffled out laboriously, the two friends had a chance to catch one another’s eye. What might this be about?

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been to a shorter reading of a will in all my life,” stated Den firmly, glancing across the desk expectantly.

  “Yes…” The lawyer had been waiting for the door to fall shut, and Harriet was no quicksilver. At the sound of the latch he began. “Your grandmother asked that I read this last part of the will to the two of you alone: ‘To my dearest Denny I leave the island and all of its contents, but to both he and David I leave the sum of five thousand dollars each, which I hope will cover their mutual travel expenses thereto.’” The attractive lawyer had finished, and sat expectantly awaiting their reaction.

  David was the first to ask. “The island?”

  “Yes. She said you might not know anything about it, but Victoria has left Den an island.”

  “In the ocean?” Den could not believe what he was hearing.

  “Very much in the ocean,” replied the man, now enjoying himself. He searched his desk, and pulled a large map from the bottom of a nearby stack. “Actually, it’s in the region we call Oceana. Here.” He planted his pen firmly at a point on the map which looked like nothing more than a vacant spot in the Pacific. “The isle is located directly south of Cook Island, a territory of New Zealand, or otherwise southeast of Samoa, but just north of the Tropic of Capricorn, placing it conveniently in international waters.”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Den in disbelief, squinting down at the map.

  “Oh, you won’t see the island on any map yet. It’s too new, and too small. Officially speaking, it was only an underwater mountain until Victoria had it built up into an island more than a decade ago. The locals are quite satisfied, actually; got tired of scraping the bottoms of their boats on the top of that old rock. Now at least they can better see where it is.”

  “Oh my God!” It was not very bright, but it was all Den could think to say.

  “How and why did Victoria do all this?” asked David.

  Unfortunately the lawyer could be of no further help. “The will doesn’t say. All it says is what I’ve told you. Other than that… Here are your respective checks.” He handed them each a slip of paper, but to Den gave a file folder as well. “Here are the coordinates, Denny, along with all the proper documents. You are now the legal guardian of a thirty-three acre island and everything on it. I suggest you find yourself a plane, or perhaps a boat.”

  Den and David never really remembered how they found their way out of the office; it was all a blur. They simply found themselves standing in befuddled silence on the sidewalk several stories below.

  “What the hell just happened?” wondered Den aloud.

  David only shook his head. This was uncharted territory for both of them. Apparently Victoria had been the conservator of a small fortune, and for quite some time. But how? And what was with all the secrecy?

  A Kidney for the Goddess

  A rain of digital rhythms beat pleasurably down upon him, as the young prince leered this way and that, searching for the perfect victim. Strobe lights lit his fertile masculinity from unpredictable angles – all perfect – as he waded through the crowd, so that no one in the room could help but stare. He adjusted a little knob at the top of what looked to be a pager, attached unobtrusively at his beltline. “Yes,” he thought, his eyes narrowing, “many of these women fit the body type I require. The Grand Dragon will be pleased.” Getting the most important bit of information out of any of them would take a further investment of time, so he sidled over to the nearest candidate the second she looked away.

  “Hello there!” he declared winningly, as the unsuspecting woman turned back toward him at last. She consequently jumped, feeling surprised to find he had invaded her personal space so instantaneously. “And what is your name?” finished the prince.

  “Oh!” cried the woman, a middle-aged nothing who nobody would miss. “Oh, but aren’t you handsome! I’m Geneva.”

  “I’ll bet you’re here for the convention, aren’t you?”

  “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  “Just a guess. Listen, I bet I can guess your blood type too.”

  “What? Is that like asking me my sign? Ooo, I love your signet ring! Is that an ‘E’ on it?”

  “Course it is. But tell me: You’re O-positive, aren’t you?”

  “Yes!” shrieked the foul woman, positively fawning all over the young man at this point. “Absolutely! How did you know?”

  “Come with me,” he demanded openly, as he flashed a glitzy smile. Without question she followed, and even giggled slightly as he ducked beneath a velvet rope ahead of her, leading the fleshy woman along by the hand. Quickly the young prince led her through the shadows, until they arrived in a private room, and a door was latched behind them. All of the lights were red in this room, and very dim.

  “What is this place?” asked the woman. “Is it some sort of VIP room?” Her disgustingly bushy eyebrows began to drift up her forehead. “And what’s the ice chest for? Are we having champagne?”

  “Mmmm… No.” He turned to face her, and she screamed, for in his hand he held a long, bitter knife. “The ice chest is for organ transport,” he explained. A broad smile crossed his face, and then he thrust the blade into her chest, to open the intestinal cavity, as he hissed: “I am on a servant’s errand, you see. We need a kidney for the Goddess!”

  Chapter IV

  SÉMEION AT THE CEMETERY

  Jerusalem. Center of the religious universe. Talman had never liked the place much, though it held memories aplenty for him. Neither did he hold much affection for the dark before dawn, yet there he was. The Jewish cemetery on the slopes of the Mount of Olives held at least 150 thousand known gravesites – a vast place to say the least. Har HaZeitim they called the mountain in Hebrew, and it had been a monument since antiquity. Unfortunately, most of the graves there had been thoroughly desecrated and trampled upon during the modern age, due to a combination of Palestinian hatred and Israeli neglect. Refuse, filth, and wandering animals infested much of the cemetery now – a disgrace.

  Talman stood amid the above-ground crypts, which had survived the atrocities of time a little better. They were constructed of sturdy stone, man-made in rectangular fashion, due to the absence of available cave space. Caves, after all, really were the most traditional spot for a Jewish burial, but this was the best which most families could afford. Though the man he awaited might have preferred having this meeting elsewhere, the shelter of the surrounding monuments under cover of darkness would have to do. They would need both privacy and space.

  Talman was the planet’s richest man, though few suspected as much, due to his clever allocation of assets to close business associates around the world. His eyes were bright blue, b
ut his sun-soaked skin would have shone nearly black had daylight been present to reveal it. Talman’s beard was a sensible, perfectly manicured protrusion from his chin, trimmed carefully in the manner of the Persian kings of old. He had broad, masculine features, and he was very tall, making his appearance an electrifying vision of power, though he was sure none could see him where he stood.

  Statuesque, he remained there for some time, leaning upon a tomb as he gazed toward the Temple Mount, waiting. There it was still, the small elevated plateau at the city’s heart where the second Hebrew Temple had once stood, now host to both al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock mosques. It had been nearly two thousand years since the destruction of Herod’s Temple, but still the Jews waited, wisely insisting that the Third Temple should only be built after the return of their long-awaited Messiah. Talman happened to know that every stone needed to build the Temple had already been laid aside in readiness. The various items of metal and wood to be placed therein were prepared as well. Already the Levites had been selected through an exhaustive process of genetic testing, and the vestments they would wear as priests sewn and adorned fittingly. All was ready, Talman knew, for the return of the Messiah they had so long awaited.

  The dry wind toyed among the folds of his robes, which matched his turban and eyes perfectly in their azure coolness. For nearly three long years every nation in the Middle East had been cursed by severe drought, and there was no end in sight. It was a tragedy, he knew, as many suffered from starvation in the lands all around him. Yet he snickered to himself, revering the wind’s dusty howl.

  “So it is begun…” A voice seemed to have spoken from behind him. Stricken, Talman turned around suddenly, glancing this way and that, but no one could be seen. He was alone. It was just the wind, or perhaps it had been his imagination. Yet still he had a strange feeling, as if, perhaps, he was being watched.

  A few more minutes passed, and the birds had just begun their inane morning chirping, when Talman finally spotted the man he had been expecting. He was much shorter than Talman, whom had therefore seen him first, as the sight lines of the other remained thoroughly submerged beneath the sea of boxlike stone graves. As day was breaking, Talman stepped from the shadows to greet his approaching visitor, doing his best to smile confidently in welcome.

  “Talman!” said the man excitedly, upon seeing him. The newcomer was dressed in a fine, perfectly fitted, dark tweed suit, rendering his appearance surprisingly regal, despite his small stature.

  “Nice duds,” returned Talman coolly, with all the charm of a street tuff. “I see you know your graveyards, Mr. Shosheqets.”

  “Oh, do call me Sémeion,” replied the man cordially. “But, yes, of course – I know this one anyway. My Bubbee’s buried just a couple rows over, actually. I visit her every time I’m so blessed as to be in the Holy Land.”

  “I hear you have been promoted…”

  “Ha!” laughed Sémeion. “Rather say demoted, Talman! Believe me, leaving the EU’s Council of Ministerial Advisors for this silly post was no picnic. I miss Poland already…”

  “But you’ve won the genetic contest, haven’t you? I hear you registered so much Levite blood you nearly qualified for the post of High Priest!”

  “This is true,” replied Sémeion, nodding, “though of course it’s no good being a priest without a temple, now is it? I just miss my home, that’s all.”

  “Yes, but now you’ll really be able to leave your… mark… upon the world, won’t you?” insisted Talman thoughtfully. “After all, leadership of the European Union never stays with any one man, even if that would be a better arrangement. They insist on rotating leadership, don’t they? But as their special envoy to the Middle East you’ll have direct influence over the future of Israel, and that is no small thing.”

  “It might be a grand thing if I had any hope my presence could bring any resolution to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. I know better than that, though.” Sémeion sighed as he said this. “But Talman, why in the name of Zion did we have to meet here? Wouldn’t a nice café have suited us better for such cordial conversations? What’s the need for seclusion?”

  “Right,” agreed Talman. “Sorry. Believe me, I do have my reasons. Come, let’s do sit down somewhere.” They examined their surroundings, and found a couple boulders nearby, which seemed would do well enough for seating without leaving them out in the open where they would be highly visible.

  “So what’s up?” asked Sémeion as they sat.

  Talman put on his most serious face as he began. “I… well…”

  “Talman,” replied the other, now more curious than ever, “what on Earth is wrong with you? Until now I wouldn’t have imagined anything anywhere had the power to make you feel bashful.”

  “It’s not that I’m bashful; I wouldn’t put it that way...” replied Talman slowly, doing his very best impression of awkward confusion.

  “What is it then?” It seemed certain some great secret was about to be revealed.

  “Sémeion,” continued Talman slowly, “have you ever had anything weird happen to you?”

  “Aside from this conversation, you mean?”

  “Yes. I mean anything weird… in the supernatural sense, I guess.” Talman allowed himself a coy glance in the other man’s direction before continuing. “I suppose I’m asking you if you believe in… or if you’ve ever seen… magic.”

  This had not been what Sémeion expected – not by a long shot. The only conversations he had ever had with Talman had been either economic or sociological in nature, making this a completely new territory for them. Yet the massive man before him now held his gaze with a childlike hopefulness unlike anything Sémeion had ever seen. “But this is Talman the Sheik,” he thought to himself, “monolithic mastermind of international renown!” Talman was said to be a pillar of the Arab world, having been an advocate of sanity, equity, and modernity during an era of trying adversity and poverty. Surely there must be something wrong. Talman could not be feeling himself.

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Sémeion, finally breaking his silence, while staring back determinedly. “Talman, are you okay? This seems a strange reason to summon me to a cemetery at this time of day.”

  “Do you… mind?” asked Talman, though he did not wait for an answer. Immediately the back of his hand was against Sémeion’s forehead, as if checking for a high temperature.

  “I’m fine,” insisted Sémeion with a perplexed frown, knowing that if anyone was behaving like a sick person it was Talman.

  “I know,” came the reply. “May I?” Again without asking, Talman took the other’s right hand, pulling it close to examine the palm.

  “Seriously, Talman, what’s this all about?” Sémeion was a tolerant man, but he was also very busy, if not quite as important as Talman within the world at large.

  Talman did not hurry to respond. He simply finished his examination and then let the hand fall, looking upward into Sémeion’s face with an odd expression, nodding resignedly. “No,” he said, as if to himself, “no, I’m sure I’ve got the right man. Indeed, you are the one…”

  “What?” asked Sémeion. A feral cat rustling through a nearby mound of refuse distracted them at that moment, but the two men turned back to one another quickly, evidencing their mutual engrossment with the conversation.

  “Hear me out,” replied Talman. “This won’t take long. Do you remember six years ago, when we first met at the Presidential Gala in Rome?”

  “Of course. You were there with your wife on that occasion. What was her name again?”

  “The point is that she met you,” returned Talman quickly. “Now, do you remember her mentioning that she was a psychic, or a spiritualist, or however she put it?”

  “Certainly. She gave all the ladies at the table their fortunes, and it all came true to the letter, from what I’ve heard. Why?”

  “You should know that you made a great impression on her,” explained Talman. “She spoke of you that night before we went
to bed.”

  “Did she? What did she say?”

  “She said you would rebuild the Temple, my friend,” explained Talman simply, pointing away toward the Temple Mount as he spoke. “She said the world has been waiting for you – that you have power. Power to lead Israel back to greatness.”

  “Me?” Sémeion was utterly stunned by the information. “Why would she say something like that? What else did she say?”

  “She told me to write down a date, and I did. On that date she said you would be ready to begin your work, and I have planned to meet you here ever since. That date was today’s.”

  “Really?” said Sémeion, a little shrilly now. Though this was all quite ridiculous, he could remember the psychic woman well, and knew how accurate all her other predictions had been.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, just so you know, I didn’t wake up this morning feeling any more powerful than I did yesterday.”

  Talman smiled. “Perhaps not. But do hear me out.” He glanced around in search of a creative demonstration. There, in the pile of rubbish, the cat still sat, now watching their conversation curiously. “You see that cat?” asked Talman. Sémeion nodded, and Talman continued, saying: “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “I want you to point at that cat.”

  “Point at it?”

  “Yes,” said Talman, nodding back. “I want you to point at it while telling it to die.”

  “What? Die?”

  “Certainly – but in Hebrew, mind you. Point, and then tell it to die.”