The Nephilim Imperatives: Dark Sentences (The Second Coming Chronicles Book 2)

by Terry James

  Wednesday, 3:25 p.m. near Los Angeles

  Clark Lansing didn’t know where to go next with the story. He had reached the juncture where facts involved with the Bigfoot investigative reporting must merge with speculation about where it was all going. The dilemma confronting him was one that would separate the respected journalist from the purveyor of pulp, and even the money a story that would interest a massive body of readers might produce wouldn’t be worth alienating his brothers and sisters of the mainstream press. Writing from the wrong slant could mean being blackballed from all but the most fringe tabloids.

  He had gone over the personal encounters a hundred times in his mind. The thing he saw on the road that stormy night in Idaho had been real. The 20-plus inch, 3-inch deep footprint was real. Jabard Sowell, the rancher that showed the footprint to him, was not one to lie or perpetrate a hoax. The creature was real –or appeared to be real. Why did he always go back to the obviously imprinted thought, “appeared” to be real?

  The giant whatever it was, had just seemed to disappear. Did that mean he hadn’t really seen it? Or had he imagined the dark, man-like thing that might have been as tall as 9 feet?

  Then, there was the camping trip just weeks ago in Oregon. The three of them had seen it. His friends had described the same creature. A giant, more than 8 feet in height, weighing–who knew? Something like that would have to weigh four, five hundred pounds? Probably a lot more.

  The wrestler, Andre “the Giant,” he remembered from a story he once wrote on professional wrestling, had weighed more than 500 pounds at one point. Such a creature as they had seen was at least a foot taller than Andre, who had been 7 feet, 5 inches.

  There had been no footprints. They had searched. Why had the rancher discovered a footprint, and they had discovered none? Probably the difference in ground material. The camping area was thick with underlying vegetation, and the area had been without rain for some time.

  While he had investigated hundreds of reports of sightings and encounters with similar creatures, he could rely only upon his own senses as far as how to discern the genuine from the hoaxes.

  Knocking on the bedroom door facing disrupted his thoughts.

  “How’s it going, son?” Lori Lansing asked from the doorway.

  “Oh! Okay, Mom. Pretty good,” he said, putting out his hand to take his mother’s. She stood over him from the back of the chair and bent to hug him and kiss his cheek.

  “Sure is good to have you home,” she said, glancing at the computer screen. “How’s the story coming along?”

  “Kind of at an impasse, but things will work out,” Clark said, turning the chair, then standing to embrace his mother. “I’ll have it finished by deadline, one way or another.”

  “Daddy wants to tell you some things about what happened --about the things, about the dreams you’re having. There are some things you need to know.” His mother’s tone was troubled, and he turned from stacking some papers on the bed to give full attention to her words.

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “I’d rather he tell you, sweetheart. Can we talk this evening? Will you have time to take a break after dinner?”

  “Sure, we can talk then, if Dad wants.”

  His cell phone chimed, and he searched beneath the papers scattered on the bed to find it.

  “Hello?” He looked at his mother, who smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and left the bedroom.

  “Yes. I’m Clark Lansing. Who’s speaking, please?”

  “That’s not important, now,” the young female voice said. “What is important is that you please listen very carefully, Mr. Lansing.”

  “Okay. Yes. What is it?”

  “I’ve got some information about something that I believe will be of interest to you. About the things you are investigating--the things involving the creatures.”

  Clark said nothing, his thoughts moving swiftly in their search through the things he had researched over the past few months and years. “Yes?” was all he could manage in response.

  “I have access to certain clandestine information. I’m worried about the things I’m talking about. I need someone to share them with because, I’m afraid that I might be harmed, if, if I don’t--”

  She let the thought die.

  “Are you in government?” he asked, his mind continuing to race.

  “Yes.”

  “What branch, what department?”

  She said nothing.

  “Look. It’s okay. Just a reporter’s abrasive curiosity. You tell me when and if you want to, okay.” He hoped he could preempt her cutting the conversation short. He had heard in her voice the apprehension that might make her hang up. “You just tell me what you want me to know, at your own pace, okay?”

  “There are some, within the darkest reaches of ... certain government black operations …who are carrying out inhuman experiments. There is such an experiment scheduled this Friday. They are using prisoners from Guantanimo to...to carry out anti-terrorism experiments. They have already used…some kind of creatures in these experiments. But, now, they are going to use human beings.”

  “Experiments? Can you tell me more about these…experiments?”

  “No. I can’t stay on this phone any longer. I’ll call you tonight.”

  There was a click, and the line went dead.

  Wednesday, 7:22 p.m. – Andrews Air Force Base, outside Washington D.C.

  George Jenkins thumbed through a portfolio of papers, taking time occasionally to initial a page. He sat near the rearmost portion of the Gulfstream 5, the desk tray built into the back of the seat pulled down, so he could do the last-minute approvals.

  “Take-off time is 19:40, Mr. Director.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel stood in the aisle several rows forward toward the cockpit, talking to be heard above the whine of the auxiliary power and air-conditioning units attached to the jet.

  “Thanks, Tom,” Jenkins said, without looking up from his task of signing the appropriate pages.

  The pilot moved aside to allow the young woman to pass. She came to where Jenkins sat, turned toward the right, and began stuffing her small cloth bags in the overhead luggage bins.

  April Warmath sat in the seat directly across from the DOD assistant director and smoothed the skirt of her impeccably tailored business suit.

  “We take off at 7:40,” Jenkins said without looking at the girl. April said nothing but began fumbling through her black and tan leather purse until she found the object of her search.

  “I got these for you,” she said, handing a roll of antacids to Jenkins, who took them, tore open the package, and chewed two of the tablets.

  He glanced at her and started to speak. His words wouldn’t come. She watched his face take on the familiar pale, glazed-eyed look. She had seen it before: the countenance of a person who was hypnotized. She knew to do nothing but simply wait out the attack.

  Jenkins eyes went from blue-gray to black, the pupils expanding to full dilation.

  The DOD director’s lips moved, but she heard nothing. His fists clutched the papers, wrinkling them. She reached to gingerly remove them from his hands, looking nervously into the glistening eyes. She straightened the sheets and replaced them on the small desk-tray.

  “Make the call, Miss Warmath,” he said between clinched teeth, the words issued in a deep growl that frightened her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, moving back to the seat across from his.

  Jenkins’ eyes appeared to return to normal, but then rolled upward, until mostly the whites of the corneas were visible. His head fell backwards, then forward, before straightening. He seemed to be aware of his surroundings again, and he looked at the girl, who sat with an expression of amazement, staring at him.

  “Did I…did I say anything?” he asked, anxiety in his question.

  “Yes, sir. You said for me to make the call,” she replied, still startled from witnessing her boss’ “episode,” as he called them.

  “Then do it,” Je
nkins said gruffly.

  New York City Wednesday – 7:30 p.m.

  “You can see her, now,” the caregiver said, smiling at Morgan, who rose from the chair in the waiting lounge and followed the woman down the long hallway. Rooms on either side served as living quarters for people in various stages of physical and mental disability. Most in these rooms were hopeless, Morgan had been told. But, this was Cassie, and Morgan would never give up on her friend.

  She smiled brightly when she saw Cassie Lincoln’s face, although she wanted to cry. The young woman, only a couple of years older than herself, gave no facial indication that she knew her best friend had walked into the room.

  “Hi, Cassie!” Morgan bent to kiss Cassie’s cheek and hug her, feeling the frail frame of the young woman who had once been so athletic. “Have they had you busy today, sweetheart?”

  She took a chair directly in front of Cassie, sitting as far forward on the seat as she could. She leaned farther to take the unmoving girl’s hands in hers.

  The doctors said it was best to just talk to her as much as possible when visiting. Normal, conversational topics, in normal, conversational tones. Morgan could at least do that for her.

  She, for some reason, felt guilty that Cassie had fallen ill on her bedroom floor that night in 2001. The physician in charge of the case said it was an unavoidable cerebral accident. An aneurism had burst, and the girl, though unresponsive, and for all practical purposes vegetative, nonetheless still retained what they believed to be viable brain function.

  She wouldn’t respond to anything they did to try to stimulate her to self-motivated physical or cognitive activity.

  So, she would come to this little world of Casandra’s and tell her everything she knew, for as long as she could.

  Cassie stared straight ahead, her face expressionless. At least the caregivers had applied a bit of make-up to the thin face that was still beautiful. Morgan reached to touch the face and pat it gently with her fingertips.

  “Well, let me tell you about my life,” she began in a light tone that was more for her own spirits than for Cassie’s.

  “There was this guy, named Bob. He took me to dinner last night. 21 Club, no less! He’s about 50. Can you believe it? Fifty!”

  Morgan pulled a tissue from a box of tissues on a table near them and wiped away a bit of moisture that had formed on one corner of Cassie’s mouth.

  “You know what the guy wanted? Well, we can only guess. But, he the same as said he expected yours truly to spend the night in his hotel suite. Said he would have breakfast sent up by room service next morning.”

  She giggled, looking into Cassie’s unblinking eyes.

  “Well, Clark –you know, my brother—called me on my cell while this guy was hitting on me…”

  She reached again to dab at the moisture on the girl’s lips.

  “I mentioned to Clark the fact that the guy wanted to bed down his baby sister, and, well, needless to say, the date was over.” She again giggled and squeezed her friend’s hands.

  “Bob is--was--a client. Don’t know if he still is a client…”

  Morgan stopped what she thought to be just rattling on, considering that she was, in effect, talking to herself. Made no difference, she decided; the doctor had said talk to Cassie. So, she would talk.

  “But, that’s not the interesting meeting with a guy. This afternoon –while Peanut and I were running in the park—I met this guy.” Morgan became reflective, looking for the right words to express the meeting and the man.

  “His name is Blake Robbins, Cassie. And he was gorgeous!”

  Morgan sat more erect in the chair, squeezing her friend’s hands in a gentle way.

  “This guy was about six feet, three inches tall, or so. Dark, almost black, hair. Had the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, girl. Like looking into the ocean from 20,000 feet. And a body like a cross between a fashion model and a world-class swimmer.”

  Morgan reached to push behind her friend’s ear a strand of hair that had fallen across Cassie’s face.

  “Jeddy and I were plodding along, rounded a corner, and this guy--Blake--saw Peanut and jumped to one side. He tripped and hurt his ankle. Anyway, we talked, and I helped him back to his car, a limo! Can you believe it? With a chauffeur, and the whole thing!”

  She looked into Cassie’s unblinking eyes, thinking how her friend would have said, had she been able, “So, when are you going to get to the interesting parts?”

  “He offered Peanut and me a ride home…” Her words trailed off. She had regretted not taking him up on the offer ever since turning to walk away from him. The disheartening realization finally had taken root. She would never see Blake Robbins again.

  Near Los Angeles, Wednesday – 7 p.m.

  Mark Lansing grabbed Lori after she had placed a goblet of iced tea on the table next to the big leather recliner. Her squeal of surprise turned to laughter, and she put her arms around her husband’s neck while she sat in his lap. They kissed several times in a playful way, then in a lingering way reminiscent of younger days, Lori thought with inward delight.

  “You guys at it again?”

  Their son’s question was accompanied by a disbelieving chuckle.

  “Want me to come back, later?”

  “Just sit down over there and learn something or two, wise guy,” his father said, then kissed his wife again.

  Lori pushed away and straightened her clothing. Both husband and son grinned at her effort to regain decorum.

  “Mom’s still got it, huh?” Clark said, still poking at his mother.

  “Indeed!” Mark agreed.

  “And both of you are going to get it with a broom handle,” Lori said, laughing, leaving the big den to return to the kitchen.

  “So, Dad. What’s the mystery meeting about?” Mark asked, taking the glass of tea handed him by his mother when she returned a moment later.

  “These…things...you’ve been researching, Clark. What’s the latest on them? I mean, what’s the latest verdict? Do they exist, or not?”

  Clark shifted in his chair, his father’s question causing a degree of uneasiness.

  “Why, Dad? I didn’t know you knew… didn’t know you knew what I was researching.”

  “I didn’t know, not exactly. But, I had some idea. You’ve been fascinated with…” Mark let the verbalization of the thought die.

  “We have things to tell you, son,” Lori broke in, sitting in the twin leather recliner beside the one in which her husband sat.

  Mark and Lori glanced at each other, each wanting the other to begin. Mark did so.

  “Son, we’ve told you things about the times your mother and I had to deal with some…strange things. Governmental things. Military things, for me.”

  “Yes, I remember that you said you couldn’t talk much--”

  “Right,” Clark’s father interrupted. “We had no choice. If we had talked too freely, some in government wouldn’t view it too well. Your grandfathers could have suffered losing their pensions, and other things.”

  “But, there are things, Clark…” Clark saw the agony in his mother’s expression while she tried to find the words. “These dream things you’ve been telling us about. They…”

  “They are a lot like the kinds of dreams, or whatever, I had back in those days.”

  “Whatever? You said ‘dreams or whatever’…”

  His father sat forward in the big recliner, his elbows on his knees. His eyes searched the den’s wooden-tiled floor for the right words.

  “They weren’t dreams. They were…something other. They weren’t of this world,” Mark said, slowly raising his head to look directly into his son’s eyes.

  “Yet they have been here all along.”

  Chapter 4

  Thursday, 8:47 a.m. – downtown Manhattan

  The warm front forced the Canadian September weather to retreat, and New York City sweltered under heat reminiscent of mid-August. The walk from her 68th Street apartment building seemed longer tod
ay, but a sudden, cooling breeze refreshed Morgan, and her step quickened.

  Her office building loomed in the sunlight that filtered between the other skyscrapers. She had made up her mind, and as always, looked forward to starting her work day by meeting Kristi Flannigan at the corner of 72nd and Madison Avenue so they would walk the final blocks together.

  “Well, she returns!” her friend, a pretty, native New Yorker smiled, walking to meet her, then grabbed Morgan’s arm and gave her a quick hug.

  “Must be nice to take off in the middle of the week like that,” Kristi said above the busy city noises, stepping off the curb with her friend to cross with the “WALK” light.

  “It was nice. I could get used to that,” Morgan said while she hurried in quick strides beside Kristi.

  The expansive sidewalks, crowded with people of every description, never ceased to amaze her. The city teemed with pedestrian traffic this beautiful September morning, while they neared the building that housed Guroix, Tuppler, & Macy on its 47th floor.

  “How did the dinner date go?”

  The question took Morgan somewhat aback, and she couldn’t answer, causing Kristi to explain.

  “I heard Lucinda Watson telling somebody. He’s a bigshot at the dog food company, right?”

  Morgan would have been incensed, but for the fact Kristi was, next to Cassie Lincoln, her best friend in the city. “I would have told you, but it was after work, and you had already left. Alan said it was important that we be hospitable, and I was the one who knows about the dogs.”

  “Well?”

  “Well…the guy expected a little too much hospitality,” Morgan said. “So, I found my way back to the apartment by myself.”

  “I would kill Cranston.”

  “Yes, let’s do,” Morgan agreed, laughing at her friend’s well-known volatility.

  They rounded the corner in front of their building and saw several people going out of their way to avoid someone holding a large placard. Some looked irritated as they skirted the man dressed in a white robe from the neck down. Others smiled or laughed, shaking their heads while moving further along the sidewalk on their way to their jobs. Most paid no attention at all.