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SUMMATION
By
Daniel Syverson
© Copyright 2012
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Oscar
Chapter 2
In the beginning...
Chapter 3
mushrooms
Chapter 4
Beloit
Chapter 5
Frankie under the Vatican
Chapter 6
Minnesota
Chapter 7
Finished
Chapter 8
Frankie's Find
Chapter 9
Internet Search
Chapter 10
Frankie's Deal
Chapter 11
Coroner's Office
Chapter 12
Going Stateside
Chapter 13
Here to see my son
Chapter 14
Questions at the morgue
Chapter 15
The Promise
Chapter 16
Becoming King
Chapter 17
Explanations
Chapter 18
A Visitor
Chapter 19
Lineage
Chapter 20
Roscoe
Chapter 21
Not quite stalemate
Chapter 22
More Mushrooms
Chapter 23
Rise to Power
Chapter 24
The Search is Over
Chapter 25
Good Fortune
Chapter 26
Rum and Diet Pepsi
Chapter 27
Receiving the Message
Chapter 28
Frankie leaves his mark
Chapter 29
Depardieu
Chapter 30
The Secret is Out
Chapter 31
Joint Dreams
Chapter 32
A Leader Elevated
Chapter 33
Airborne on the AWACS
Chapter 34
Arriving in Tehran
Chapter 35
Realization of Power
Chapter 36
The world is watching
Chapter 37
Final Setup
Chapter 38
Introductions
Chapter 39
Event
Chapter 40
Aftermath
Chapter 41
Prophecy Fulfilled
Chapter 42
The Beginning
COVENANT of the ARK
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 1
Oscar
August 23rd, 4:15 p.m.
"I saw a sky just like this about, oh, thirty or so years ago. Just like this," mused Oscar. "I think it was in '75, no, no, must have been '76 because it was just after we'd moved from the farm, back up there in Edgerton." He pulled his ever present handkerchief from his back pocket, and wiped the sweat from his brow, folding it and tucking it back away before continuing. "It was summer, a hot one, just like this, and, I swear to God I'm not exaggerating, but it stormed and blew up something awful, and by God it snowed. Not just a little hail, but honest-to-God snow, and I don't mean a couple of flurries. I mean a foot of snow. Honest-to-God snow, a foot deep, almost two in the drifts!"
One of the grandkids sitting with them looked at Oscar in amazement, but the other men, familiar with Oscar's embellishments, just nodded. No one really believed there had been a foot of snow or any Honest-to-God two foot snowdrifts, but, on the other hand, some of the long term residents had talked about the strange day back some few dozen years ago when yes, there did seem to actually have been snow, and yes, in the middle of summer, but no, they hadn't actually been there.
"You old farts just nod your heads, go on, doesn't matter to me, I know what I know, and I know I'm gettin' home before the shit hits the fan. You kids pardon my French.
"Jim, you best get these grandkids of yours on home, too. You'll catch it if you keep 'em out in the rain." He pushed himself up using the armrests on the old wooden bench in front of the barber shop. One of the few barber shops left around - the rest having gone to unisex 'salons', or family 'stylists'. The traditional shop fit right into the old two story facade, which also housed the town vet and was directly across from the service station. No, not a gas station, but a service station - fix your flats, tune up the car - plain old actual service. Both were located at the main downtown intersection of the town - overseen by a hanging flashing stop sign. The only stoplight in town.
It was still like this in Roscoe, tucked away just off I-90. North of Rockford, and close enough to Chicago for all the advantages of the big city, but small enough and out of the way enough that it was ignored by everyone else. People got up early and drove into Chicago or Rockford, or the suburbs, to work at the normal hectic pace, but others, like Oscar, lived in what he called "Central Sleeping Time", or, in the summer, "Daylight Sleeping Time".
Looking both ways, he crossed at an angle towards the police station, and headed home.
It had come up quickly. The sky was still blue further north, towards the state line, but a tight little cluster of clouds had quickly arisen, seemingly out of nowhere. The others waved and watched him head down the street. Living nearby, they weren't too concerned. Just the same, glances kept going to the sky where clouds kept rolling in, building up, becoming darker, having a tug-of-war in the air, first billowing up, then dropping down, like kids playing under a blanket, or lovers in a sleeping bag.
No one was seriously worried about the weather, but, well, sometimes you do get some pretty good storms, and tornadoes hit the county several times every year, and well, I suppose maybe I should be getting home, the wife'll be looking for me. A few other excuses were mumbled as the others looked up again at the sky, at each other, and again at the sky.
They all stood up. Maybe he was right - probably best to go.
Oscar had already crossed the street, and was walking north along the front of the police station. Several squad cars, as well as the personal cars of some of the cops, were parked diagonally in the lot, facing the street.
The window of one of the squads rolled down as he approached.
"Hey Gramps, wanna ride?" The question came from a woman behind the steering wheel. The cap and sunglasses hid the top of her face, and the window was too high to see her name tag or badge. As if he needed to.
"Thanks, hon, but the walk'll do me good. Keeps me regular, if you know what I mean. Give me something to talk about with those guys tomorrow."
"Gramps! You're disgusting." She laughed, shaking her head. He'd never change.
She wouldn't want him to. "Are you sure? Getting kind of windy-A
"Naw, I'm fine. You go catch some bad guys. Say hi to your mama for me. I'll see you guys Sunday."
"Okay, if you're sure. Be careful," but he was already walking past, with that goofy limp. She rolled her window up. She had to call into the county dispatch, Control 4, to let them know she was coming on duty, or going 10-41 in cop speak, and keyed her mike.
"Control 4, six-baker-3, 10-41"
"Six-baker-3, go ahead for 10-41"
She saw her grandfather, just turning the corner ahead of her, then continued signing in over the radio. She'd check on him later. She again keyed her mike, giving Control 4 her going on duty information; her squad car number and odometer reading, her badge number, assignment, and so on.
He glanced back at her as he turned the corner. He could see her through the side window of the squad, talking on the radio. He'd never been wild about his granddaughter becoming a cop. Who'd have thought? But she did well at the academy, loved her job, and was
able to work right here at home in Roscoe. He'd never admit it, of course, but he was proud of her. His first grandkid. He always teased her about a woman's place, but she knew how proud of her he was. He couldn't hide that, try as he may. It was just his way. The two were actually quite close, as she'd grown up with him babysitting her many a night.
His daughter, way too young to have been having a baby in the first place, was working two and three jobs just to keep up. Pregnant at nineteen, then married and pregnant again a year later. Not that he hadn't warned her. No, he'd had plenty to say about him. And he'd been right! Pissed him off royally - he'd seen it coming since she started seeing that guy at school. Guy was just no good. You could tell.
At least he could.
Couldn't understand what anyone ever saw in him in the first place. Attraction to the 'bad boy'? Who knew. He'd tried to tell her, but the more he said, the tighter she clung to him.
Maybe some of it was his fault for pushing it so much.
Still, he'd been right. No question about that one. Two months after his second granddaughter was born, he was gone. Out the door. Left for work one morning, and never came back. Left a note in the mailbox for God's sake. It had been rough on her. But in the end, he had to admit she'd done pretty well. Kind of surprised him, actually. Took on all the responsibilities for those two girls. Did pretty damn good. Still was.
Proof was in the pudding, as he always said. Kind of a trite, worn out phrase, but he still liked using it. Fit good. No sense changing a perfectly good phrase that still worked, right?
And there she was, his granddaughter, sitting in a squad car, carrying a gun.
Widowed these past six, no, seven years now, not long after he'd retired, the roles had now shifted. Now it was her, his granddaughter, looking after him. Who'd have thought?
Oscar wasn't old - not by his count, anyway. He'd taken an early retirement, closing up shop after he turned 62, some ten years ago. Figured he would get a little less each month, but, what the heck, he didn't need that much anyway, and wasn't it worth a little less to be able to start fishin' on a regular basis? Besides, he was in pretty good shape, better than those other guys on the bench, at least, and there was no point in waiting until you were too old to enjoy being retired.
He turned east, walking along the edge of the asphalt road. There were no sidewalks here. Or almost anywhere else, here. After another block, he was aware that he was limping pretty badly. Not that this was anything new. And not just a normal limp. He had some goofy hitch that made him pop up just when he was putting his right foot down. Damn fool doctors couldn't quite explain it, and it had certainly been the root of many a joke among his friends, but it wasn't going away. Something to do with that damn surgery. He knew it, even if nobody else did.
Sometimes, it wasn't too bad. Or so he thought. Others might argue the point, but they all agreed that at other times it got worse. He was glad he had his cane. Hated having to rely on it, but damn, that hip just kept on getting worse. Walking too far triggered it. That, and the weather. That always triggered it. He could always tell. Better than any barometer. No doubt about that.
He was almost home, and the wind had really picked up, again, seemingly out of nowhere. The clouds, which had been billowing up, then opening to patches of blue, had slammed shut into an oily, black, boiling mass. The temperature dropped rapidly, suddenly. An arctic blast came through, not so much as a blast from the north, but more as a turbulent, enveloping wind, seeming to come from everywhere, but nowhere. (Later, Macktown Bank, on the corner just behind where they'd been sitting, reported a drop from seventy six degrees down to twenty seven on their automatic sign out front, a drop of forty nine degrees. The mortgage rates, also flashing on the same sign, didn't drop nearly as much.)
Unbelievably, it began to snow. At first, he thought it must be leaves, or petals from some flowers, but it became heavier. He stopped, holding out his hand. He caught some of the flakes, which melted immediately on contact. No doubt about it. And not just a few flurries. It was really coming down now, heavily, swirling in the haphazard patterns of the turbulent winds winding through and around the trees and homes.
Rather than being frightened or amazed at seeing the snow, Oscar became more and more angry as he struggled home. "Damn know-it-alls. Didn't believe me, did you, what'cha think now? What'cha think of this? Still think I was exaggerating?"
He had the one consolation in that tomorrow he would hold the longest, most obnoxious 'I told you so' session ever. They would get an earful. He couldn't wait.
He turned the last corner toward home. He was feeling the cold now. In fact, for jeans and a tee shirt, it was damn cold. He leaned a little harder on his cane as he limp-hitch, limp-hitch, limp-hitched his way down the sidewalk, now becoming dangerously slippery.
His limp was getting a lot worse. It was getting hard to see, with the snow now blowing like a regular, mid-winter blizzard. He wiped his face again, not bothering with the handkerchief.
The trees were having the worst time. Normally, in winter, all the leaves are gone, letting the wind through easily, letting the snow drop to the ground, except the small amounts dusting each branch like white chocolate on pretzels. Now, though, the leaves were attached, and strong; catching every gust, holding every snow flake. Several large branches were already down, and even large trees, like the great old oak trees that lined the old streets, were all writhing in the wind under the weight of a snow these leaves could never have imagined.
Now, almost home, he had to step over, no, climb over, a large branch from the oak tree in between his yard and Miller's. He stepped carefully - the branch was covered with snow, and the bark was slippery. The last thing he needed was a broken hip - his fishing would be shot for the rest of the year. At least, only a branch came down, and thank God it missed the fence and shrubs. An entire tree that size, with all the snow weight, in this wind - he didn't even want to think about what it could do to his house.
Then, so close to home - he was on his steps, almost to the protection of the home he had lived in for so many years, when a shot rang out.
Not a shot exactly, more of a sharp CRACK.
To its credit, the tree tried, it really did. It had maintained with all the dignity of over a hundred years of growth, weathering a thousand storms, shading the occupants of both houses, whether deserved or not. It had born the indignity of tree houses, and with pride held the swings of some two dozen children from nearly as many families. But now, this was too much, and with one final, shuddering groan, the tree went, and with it went the Miller's house, and the Miller's dog (damn dog barked too much anyway but it's too bad just the same). And with it went Oscar's fence, and the front of Oscar's house, and Oscar's porch.
* * *
And Oscar.
* * *
And the snow kept coming down. Kind of like in '76. End of July or early August, l think.
Chapter 2
In the beginning...
(Northwest of what is now Greece, 1202 A.D.)
The cold rock against her back was in sharp contrast to the hot flames surrounding her. The blood on her wrists and ankles had long since clotted, as exhaustion and pain had proven the struggle to release herself futile. She now lay quiet, waiting, strangely calm. No peasant; she would not be beaten; she would not cry out. She would die before begging or showing any outward signs of weakness, yet, there was no denying the fear.
Who would not be afraid? Her anger, her outrage - these were what kept the fear at bay, just below, just behind those fiery eyes, where the flames danced. Not just the reflected flames from without, but those of the aristocracy, the proud lineage, from within.
The twelve hooded specters encircling this altar stood motionless - silent partners to the dancing shadows each produced on the rock walls behind them. The hoods were deep, and absorbed the firelight, faces deeply hidden as if each robe were hollow; which in truth, may have been the irony. Hollow bodies, without souls, motionless. An evil so pervasive
the very light refused, it seemed, to illuminate. As if the shadows started even before the light reached them.
At the foot of the stone altar was a rough, black, porous stone. The Demon-Star. Word of this stone had reached even their king. Many believed this was the sign spoken of in the ancient writings. A great fire had filled the sky, and this stone had been cast down from above. Many had died in the village from the explosion of the impact, thus giving the stone its name. She had heard tales, and seen drawings, and now recognized it as it lay on the altar between her feet.
A low murmur escaped from one hood, though she could not hear it clearly, or identify which hood emitted the sound. A second, then another, and then all joined in not a murmur, but a low chant- slow, soft, insistent. With no motion, it was as if the sound were coming from some deep recess within the earth rather than this black gauntlet.
One figure, to her left, bent over, retrieving a large, heavy mallet. Unlike those she had seen the artisans use in the king's service, this was no ordinary stone bound by leather to a wooden handle. This mallet was larger, much larger. And fashioned entirely of stone. Not just the head, but the entire mallet. The mallet had been chiseled out of a single piece of stone, and even in the dancing light, she could see the symbols cut in relief into the handle and surrounding the head.
No ordinary mallet. Though raised in privilege, she knew this was not a mallet used to form the swords and spear tips used by the warriors, nor the type used to create works of art. She was intelligent enough to realize that a mallet made entirely of stone would not, could not, be used in the normal sense because it would be too brittle for the constant pounding the normal mallets had to endure. This was different. With the symbols chiseled into the massive tool, it was clearly ceremonial.
Fear, still barely in check, rose higher in her throat, threatening to escape with the sharp bile also rising within. She strained to raise her head further, so she could better see him as he walked around the fire to a small break in the flames she hadn't noticed towards her feet. Looking down between her breasts, she saw him standing there, motionless, the great stone mallet held in front of him at his waist, one hand near the base of the handle, the other near the head. Unable to see his face, she felt rather than saw his eyes staring, burning into her. Finally, he slowly brought his hands together, and began to raise the impossibly heavy mallet.
SUMMATION Page 1