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

by Terry James

  He growled a deep, throaty growl, and whined his distress. The smell--he had inhaled the hateful scent before. It evoked primitive urges within the deepest reaches of his canine being. Did the odor mean the thing was there? Did the thing’s nearness mean, too, that his mistress needed him? Was she nearby, too?

  “Okay, okay, feller. Everything is okay. Let’s have a look at our visitor…”

  When Zeke opened the door, the wind invaded with blowing snow, which gathered on Jeddy’s thick, black fur. The dog peered into the whiteness that contrasted starkly against the heavy gray-black clouds. He bounded high through the snow, Zeke grinning, his eyes twinkling while he saw the canine’s tail-docked rump lifting and falling with each leap.

  “Good boy!” He shouted, urging the dog onward, while Jeddy neared the fallen man.

  Momentarily, Zeke stood behind the dog.

  “It’s okay, boy,” he said. “I’ll take it from here,” the old man added, patting the rottweiler. Jeddy looked up at Zeke, then back at the other man, who lay unconscious, face up in the blizzard winds that increased with each passing second.

  Chapter 13

  The new NORAD inner-mountain complex

  Takeoff had been delayed for eight hours because of snow over the Denver area. George Jenkins was in a seething rage by the time he walked into his office just over five hours after his government jet departed Andrews Air Force Base.

  “Where’s Kline?” His words were shouted at the squat, balding scientist who followed him into the office.

  “He’s preparing the subject for tomorrow morning’s experiment,” Clyde Bledsoe said. The PhD stood, fidgeting with a clipboard while his boss stood, rummaging through the middle drawer of the desk.

  “Where is the damned thing?”

  Jenkins moved his hand angrily through the long drawer, his face reddened with blood pressure-raised frustration.

  “Ah! Here it is.”

  He pulled from the drawer a slim remote device, pointed it toward the right of the desk, then pushed buttons that activated several monitors set within the wall.

  “Do you need me?” the scientist asked. “I need to help with the Project Scotty subject studies, if I’m not needed here.”

  “Yeah. Go to the rest of the pointy-headed…”

  Jenkins’ castigating words were cut short when he saw on the largest of the screens a close-up of the young female being led to the stainless-steel table. The woman assisting her, dressed in a white lab coat, steadied the girl while she moved up the two steps, then helped her lie down, face up, on the table.

  “That the Lansing girl?” Jenkins asked.

  “Yes. The brother--” the scientist looked at the clipboard “--Clark Lansing--is scheduled next.”

  “Why is she so calm? Surely she’s not volunteering for this.”

  “She’s had no sedation. I can’t account for her state. They did something. Whatever it was, she’s been cooperative.”

  He knew what they did. Had seen it before. They had done it to him many times. He knew they had done it to him, but he never remembered. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just ... nothing. Just a black-out of some duration. It had bothered him at first, but no longer did. The…things…would help him accomplish his goals. Would help his nation develop the RAPTURE through Project Scotty? Develop it to the point the armies could be produced that had no fear, that were dispensable, because they had no families, no loved ones, no consciences…

  The girl and her brother were the only two who had the precise genetic make-up to complete the work successfully, according to…them… Morgan and Clark Lansing’s grandfathers, then their parents. The genetic tampering, manipulating and rearrangements had been done long ago. He didn’t understand it all. Didn’t care to understand it all. So long as one George Jenkins came out on the top of the heap…

  The camera from above the table zoomed in to frame Morgan Lansing, now strapped to the table. Her eyes were closed beneath the surgical head covering, while people in operating room garb worked over her body.

  Jenkins watched with fascination while they prepared the girl. His thoughts ran in often-used neuron-to-neuron synapse routes throughout his brain. Routes that he had cerebrally retraced many times.

  The two imperatives. His imperative and…theirs. This was the beginning of those two, distinct, all-important purposes of the project coming together. He wished at this moment –seeing the scientists pull back the cover to expose the girl’s midsection-- that he knew exactly what the things’ imperative truly entailed…

  New York City

  Paul Guroix stood over the credenza back-bar looking out the window that gave him vista of the streets far below. The city moved with sidewalk pedestrian life, the many vehicles bumper-to-bumper, crawling between traffic lights along Madison Avenue.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed and he turned to pick it up after rolling the desk chair to one side. He sat down as he answered.

  “Yes?”

  The advertising executive listened to his secretary, then said, “Okay, I’ll be right out.”

  Randall and David Prouse stood when Guroix walked into the waiting area.

  “Dr. Prouse?” he thrust his hand in Randall’s direction, smiling, and glancing at the younger man.

  “Yes. And, my grandson, David Prouse,” Randy said, gesturing toward David, who took Guroix’s hand.

  They entered the executive’s office after amenities were finished.

  “You are worried about Miss Lansing, I’m told,” Guroix said in a questioning tone.

  “Yes. Her family hasn’t heard from her in days. And neither have her closest friends here in New York, Kristi Flannigan and Cassie Lincoln,” the archaeologist said, after being seated in the burgundy leather chair offered him in front of the executive’s desk.

  “Yes. Kristi and Cassie are both employees here, as you know,” Guroix said, seating himself behind the desk.

  “Morgan is one of our brightest. We placed her in a very important public relations position, with one of our top clients.”

  David looked at his father, indicating with his expression that he wanted to quiz Guroix.

  “We were hoping, Mr. Guroix, that you could give us details about Morgan’s interaction with the company to which you’ve assigned her,” David said.

  “I can tell you that she is in good, safe hands,” Guroix said in a business-like tone. “Transportec is a top 500 company, with billions in assets. The company has several contracts with the U.S. and other governments around the world. But, as far as specifics, I’m afraid I can’t go much further. They deal in some highly classified technological matters –particularly for the U.S. Department of Defense.”

  Guroix took a sip from a cup of coffee on the right side of the desk. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  Both declined.

  “These DOD projects, are they within the country?” David asked.

  “Oh, yes. I can tell you that they are being carried out mainly in Colorado, around some new NORAD installations. That’s all public information, of course. But, that’s as far as I can go. For one thing, I don’t know any more than that. I haven’t got the clearance to know much more than that. But, of course, I couldn’t say, if I did know.”

  “And Morgan--does she have the clearance?” Randy put in.

  “Yes. I’m sure she had to pass background checks. She must have at least a modicum of clearance to even enter those areas. Even though her area of work deals only with public relations, in a campaign they are developing for public consumption, she, like everybody involved, must have governmental clearances.”

  There was a pause while David framed the next question in his mind.

  “Have you heard from Morgan?”

  “No. But, that doesn’t concern me. I’ve assigned people to work with Transportec and other companies that do business with government agencies. Sometimes we don’t hear from them for weeks at a time. So, I’m not the least concerned. It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” the exe
cutive said, taking another sip of the coffee.

  “I hope you understand, Mr. Guroix, that it is highly unusual for Morgan to go more than a couple of days without calling her parents. They are extremely close. And, the girls --Kristi and Cassie—they tell me she would have contacted Kristi by now. Cassie, of course, was ill, so Morgan wouldn’t have thought to call her on her cell,” David said.

  Guroix let his eyes wander his office, obviously in thought about David Prouse’s words. He kneaded his chin and played with his silver-gray mustache with his right thumb and fingertips. “Only thing I can think, then, is that for some reason she is temporarily out of touch, because of the concentrated nature of her work. I’m sure they will let her make the calls to family, and so forth, when whatever she is working on lightens a bit.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, prompting Guroix to speak again.

  “Tell you what, I’ll see what I can do to get in touch with the Transportec people. See if we can find the reason for her not calling,” he said, reaching to the intercom and pushing a button.

  “Sherri, make a note for me to call John Harris at Transportec.”

  He looked back to David and Randall Prouse.

  “Give me a call later this afternoon, and I should have some answers. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is, Mr. Guroix. Could you give Miss Flannigan and Miss Lincoln some time off to help us a bit, if your findings when you call the company are…less than satisfactory?”

  David’s words caused the advertising executive to study the question for a moment. He again reached for the intercom.

  “Sherri, if Kristi Flannigan isn’t working on something too vital, authorize her a week’s leave, with pay.”

  Guroix looked at David, a tight smile on his lips. “Miss Lincoln is already on leave for a week or two, just to make sure she is fully recovered.”

  The thought struck both the elder and younger Prouse. It sounded like Guroix knew that his findings, upon talking with his contact at Transportec, would prove unsatisfactory.

  Phoenix, 1:22 a.m.

  Christopher had been nauseous since dinner at 6 the previous evening. The tuna casserole felt as if it had come up again, and now lodged at the top of his esophagus, the gastric acid burning bitterly at the base of his throat. He looked into the bathroom mirror, seeing the pallor on the 74-year-old face. He swallowed the watery white-powder mixture he had prepared, hoping it would do the trick. It would be the last time he would eat tuna casserole, he promised himself, sticking out his tongue to check its condition. He didn’t know why he always did that when feeling poorly. He guessed it was because that’s the first thing the doctor always wanted to look at, during his seemingly endless trips to his physician lately.

  It was no fun getting old. His Susie, he was thankful, while gargling mouthwash to rid his mouth of the foul taste of the medicine, was as beautiful, as young as those years ago, when they were dating. Well, maybe not quite as young in appearance, but every bit as beautiful.

  It was the prayer life, he decided in silence, pulling his lower eyelids down a bit to examine for the redness that seemed more pronounced than usual. Yes. It was his sweet Susie’s prayer life and dependence on the Lord that kept her young and vital–while he, himself, continued the downward spiral his failing flesh was taking him, toward antiquity…

  “Oh, Lord,” he began the prayer, without speaking it. “Please help me to pray as I should.”

  He thought then of something to add. “Please give us direction to know what these things are all about. How we can be of service. To know your holy will in these devilish matters…Please, dear God. In the name of your Son I pray…”

  He flipped the light switch off and began walking down the long, darkened hallway. Randy Prouse’s words replayed in his head while he entered the bedroom, sat on the bed, and swung his legs beneath the covers.

  “The guy at Morgan’s ad agency –Paul Guroix—said the people in Colorado couldn’t divulge her whereabouts. It didn’t seem to bother Guroix at all. Said it’s not unusual,” Randall had told him.

  Christopher shut his eyes, but they popped open. He couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation. His thoughts ran in quick bursts, while he stared at the ceiling.

  Randy had told him that Morgan’s friends said she would never go more than a day without talking to her mother—they were adamant about that fact. No way would Morgan not keep Lori abreast of what was going on in her life for more than 24 hours. Lori had told Christopher the same thing during their phone conversation last night before bed.

  Lori was insistent that she must find where her daughter –and her son, for that matter--were in Colorado. That the kids were there, without each other’s knowledge was just too coincidental. And, both Randy and Lori had driven home the facts: the things that happened those years ago with Lori and Mark. The things done to them in the underground labs at Taos. The visions, or dreams, or whatever they were that had haunted the whole family since that time. Things that now invaded their children’s lives.

  The Bigfoot creatures that dominated their son’s career pursuits. Clark’s seeing his sister and some male figure in the lab in a dream or vision…the vision Clark described not unlike the vision or dream Christopher, himself had seen in the desert. The vision of both of Lori’s and Mark’s children, strapped to gurneys, head to head in a laboratory setting. The dark creatures that inhabited the dream-visions…that Morgan repeatedly saw in her dreams…

  Randall Prouse’s encounter while flying from Phoenix to New York, like the things he, himself, saw in 1967 while flying home across the Atlantic. Strange, otherworldly things…

  Christopher shut his eyes and massaged them gently with his fingers. “Oh, dear Lord, give us direction…”

  Susie Banyon sat up partially to lean on one elbow toward her husband.

  “Chris?” she said just above a whisper. “Christopher?”

  There was no response. She turned back to find her own sleep again, after leaning further forward to kiss his cheek.

  Colorado, the next day

  The helicopter swept the mountain range in a slow, low orbit. The TV camera, held by the uniformed man in the right seat, trained on the many dark creases in the mountain side that might serve the interloper as hiding places.

  Satisfied that the intruder wasn’t in the crevasses, the pilot tilted the chopper in a sharp, banking sweep to the right, hurrying to cover yet another of the search-grid coordinates plotted the night before.

  George Jenkins looked through the camera’s perspective while the copter moved swiftly toward its next area of search. He watched, on the other screens on the wall across from his desk, different helicopter camera views of other areas being searched.

  The operative would be found. He had to be found, even if he had to call them in to do the finding…

  He held down a button on the strip of controls affixed to the top of his desk to his left.

  “Have you tried the Xavier Gorge area, closer in to the complex?” His question screeched into the headphones of the pilot of the lead copter.

  “No, sir. Haven’t tried that yet. Over.”

  “Get somebody over that sector. It has some areas where he could hide,” Jenkins commanded, ignoring protocol for back and forth with the pilots.

  “Roger, sir. Will do,” the pilot said, maintaining a professional flyer’s tone, then proceeded to order two choppers in the direction of the main complex of Defense Department facilities.

  Jenkins followed the flight of the birds on the screens monitoring the helicopters.

  Nigel Saxon, at the same moment, heard the thumping sounds. The choppers were very close, and he scanned the sky in the direction from which the noise came.

  Jeddy stood beside him, looking into the sky, trying to scent any odor that might tell his senses something about what was troubling the man.

  “They can’t miss the cabin,” he said, ducking back inside Zeke’s small dwelling.
The old man sat by the fireplace in the rocking chair, apparently oblivious to the choppers that now swept above the cabin.

  “I’m sorry, Zeke. Looks like they’ve found us. Don’t want you involved in this. I’ll break for it. Get them away from your place,” the Brit said, looking at Zeke, then going to the lone window to try to see the birds.

  “No, son. You stay here. No harm will come to me, to any of us,” the old man said, continuing to rock in the chair, while chuckling, and snapping his fingers at the dog.

  Nigel heard the thumping fade. He eased the door open, and again swept the sky through the binoculars for the helicopters.

  “They seemed not to have seen us,” Saxton said, with perplexity in his declaration.

  The old man was too busy laughing, while playfully wrestling with Jeddy, to pay attention to the Brit’s observation.

  They kept their date to meet at noon. Cassie wasn’t sure, but she thought she detected some interest he had for her. She had asked Kristi.

  “Are you kidding me? He couldn’t take his eyes off you,” her friend had said. “Why do you think he wants to see you again?” Kristi had laughed the question, amused at Cassie’s naiveté.

  Well, she thought, she wasn’t so confident, while she hurried toward the Empire State Building’s Fifth Avenue entrance.

  David Prouse remembered his grandfather’s words about the tragedy in the movie. What was it? “An Affair”? or something like that –where the stars were to meet at the Empire State Building, but the girl was crippled for life in an accident on the way to meet the guy. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her to meet him in the lobby of the Empire State Building! But, it was the logical place. It was near his office, and not too far from where she worked. But, she was not back to work yet, so the trip further downtown from her apartment building required a bit of effort.