End in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 3)

by Gary Williams

He saw nothing but flat terrain. Damn. He turned, ready to give Bar an exaggerated shrug with his hands.

  She was gone.

  He jerked his head up toward the surface then spun completely around searching in every direction. She had simply vanished. Curt was flabbergasted. He edged over to the last place he had seen her standing on the riverbed then stopped and looked around again.

  Suddenly, the mud beneath him gave way, and he felt a suction yank him downward. He landed so hard that the impact knocked his mask cockeyed on his face, impeding his vision and exposing his nose and mouth. Frantically, he tried to reapply it, but found a hand pulling his mask off. He realized he was no longer in water and could breathe. He was sitting on a flat surface.

  “Nice of you to join me,” Bar said.

  With the mask gone, Curt could see her standing before him. They were in some sort of small enclosure. There was ambient light, but he had no idea of its source. He was surprised to see a low ceiling of off-white colored sand above his head.

  “You slipped right through that,” Bar said pointing up. “Just like I did.”

  “What’s holding it in place? How come the river water isn’t pouring through?”

  “Hey, any place that might be a gateway to Hell is probably going to defy several of the laws of physics. Geez, when I woke up this morning, I never thought I’d be uttering those words.”

  In one corner, there was a four-foot-square opening in the floor. Like the small enclosure, it was bathed in light.

  “This must be the same place Nash found.”

  Curt stood but was forced to bend to avoid brushing the sand ceiling. He stepped to the square opening with Bar by his side. There were chipped slate steps leading downward. He removed his tank, fins, and gear, and Bar followed suit.

  Curt took a deep breath. “Chivalry aside, I’m going first.”

  Curt descended the stairs with Bar following behind. Since they were barefoot, they moved cautiously down the ragged surface. A dozen steps or so, and the enclosed staircase made a switchback turn. Another dozen steps, and another switchback.

  “Why do I feel like we’re descending into the bowels of Hell?” Bar said.

  “Because we most likely are.”

  They had traversed no less than six flights with as many switchbacks when Curt heard a noise. He stopped and stood perfectly still. Bar nearly ran into him.

  “What’s the matter?” Bar asked.

  “Shhh. Listen.”

  A sound grew from below; faint, yet unmistakable.

  Voices.

  “Someone else is down here,” Bar said.

  “Yeah, but are they human?”

  They continued to listen. The words were indistinguishable, as if many languages were blending. Howls of laughter became screams of anguish. Deep, guttural moans morphed into high-pitched cries.

  Curt’s skin crawled. He pushed on with trepidation, descending farther and farther. The scent of smoke began as a subtle waft but grew more prevalent as they descended. The battery of voices talking in tongues echoed up the enclosed stairwell.

  “My ‘creep’ factor is about at its threshold,” Bar said. “Now I wish I hadn’t left my weapon on the boat.”

  Curt felt for the one weapon they’d each brought: dive knives. His remained secure in its sheath on his belt.

  They finally reached the end of the steps after one final switchback and found themselves in a narrow hallway with gray slate walls. A short distance in, a cavernous, rectangular room with a tall ceiling opened before them. The walls were crimped, with layers of dark orange and black rock stacked one upon the other, and they seemed to move somehow.

  “Holy crap,” Bar said. “Why are the walls shaking?”

  “They’re not,” Curt responded. “The walls are burnt orange, but are covered with large black roaches.”

  “Perfect,” Bar said sarcastically.

  The chaotic voices had ceased, replaced by the rushing water of a wide stream that dominated the chamber and flowed from their left to right. The stream seemed to emerge from a wall on the far left. Curt followed the water with his eyes until it disappeared into the right wall of the massive cavern. Curt could smell sulfur. Again, the lighting was good with no apparent source. The air was hot, far warmer than it should be underground.

  The most amazing aspect of the room was not the rushing stream, but the manmade structure in the middle of the waterway. A glossy, black stone edifice, with one corner coming to a point and facing the onslaught of the stream, parted the water to either side of the channel like the bow of a battleship. Curt walked to his right along a ledge and gazed at the side of the structure where the point gently flared out for a dozen feet before ending at a back wall perpendicular to the stream. The far side was out of sight, but it appeared the structure was shaped like a triangle with walls about twice Curt’s height.

  Bar kept up with Curt and stood beside him staring at the unique structure. “Do you think that’s Cain’s tomb?”

  “I’m going to find out,” Curt said, scanning the flowing water. He still couldn’t tell how it originated at the wall on the left, nor exactly why it stopped at the wall on the far right. “Crap. Guess what we need?”

  “Flippers.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be back in a few.” He wasn’t looking forward to climbing the stairs.

  “Wait, new plan,” Bar said as she walked past Curt. “Let me go. I don’t think you’ve gotten much sleep the last few days. Besides, I’m in better shape.”

  “Oh, sure. Pull the age card on me.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it. I run three miles a day. What about you?”

  “I’ll wait here for you.”

  “Stay alert. Remember, we both heard something that sounded like voices.” Bar left through the smaller corridor. He listened as her footfalls faded away.

  Curt studied the situation. With the torrent of water, their best course of action was to move as far left as possible before entering the wide stream. They would then need to swim out twenty feet or so and allow the current to push them downstream to the point of the structure where hopefully they could grab onto it.

  “Great, then what?” Curt said aloud. “Suppose I’ll figure things out as we go,” he answered himself.

  “That’s your problem, Curt. You’ve never made a plan in advance. You fly by the seat of your pants,” a familiar male voice chuckled.

  Curt spun around so fast, he nearly toppled himself into the water. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He blinked, yet the man was still there, smiling, his glasses falling down on his nose.

  “Marvin? Is it really you?”

  “In the flesh.” Marvin gave him a sidelong smile. “Although I have no idea where we are.”

  “How…how is this possible?” Curt stammered, his mind swirling in confusion.

  Marvin rubbed his head. “You tell me. Last thing I remember was carrying that god-awful Fish into the ocean at Dekle Beach, standing against the onslaught of an arriving hurricane.” Marvin surveyed the enclosure. “Um, appears we’re no longer at Dekle Beach. Where are we?”

  Curt felt a flood of emotion. Without Marvin or Scott for the last day, he had pushed on, feeling the burden of the entire human race. Now, seeing Marvin, he realized how much he missed the elderly man and his companionship. He rushed forward and gave Marvin a hug. He truly was flesh and blood. Slowly, Marvin hugged him back, if only tentatively.

  “You left me there, didn’t you?” Marvin said. His words hardened.

  His tone took Curt aback. He pulled away. “Marvin, your body was mangled. You were…dead. The energy explosion from the Fish touching the saltwater killed you.”

  “Yeah, and you just left me there.”

  “We had to get back to St. Augustine, stop the Blue Council members, and save Tina. We had no time to retrieve your body.” Retrieve your body. The chilling words struck him like a semi-truck, and he involuntarily winced. “Marvin, you can’t be here. You’re dead.” At that instant, he recall
ed the horrid sight of Marvin’s tattered corpse.

  “Yeah, no goddamn thanks to you. You had to go and find that Fish. My demise is on your soul, Lohan.” Marvin cocked his head and there was a bizarre crack. “We’re friends. I’m willing to forgive. Just get me the hell out of here.”

  Just get me the hell out of here. Father N had warned them of souls trying to escape from here. Curt stepped back, a knot forming in his stomach. He eyed the figure of Marvin with heightened suspicion.

  “Surely you can lead me away from this place. Let’s get going. I’m starved.” Marvin smiled, this time revealing a set of teeth that were marred with dark pockmarks.

  They’ll have form and can harm you. His blood ran cold. “You’re not Marvin. Who are you?”

  Marvin wore a sad expression. “Curt, it’s me. Calm down. I can’t explain how I got here, but that’s no reason not to trust me.”

  Curt desperately wanted to believe this was Marvin; wanted to believe the man hadn’t died at Dekle Beach. Yet he knew the truth. This was not Marvin Sellon. Now, a new fear emerged as he wondered what this thing might do next. Curt warily played along. “Okay, Marvin. It’s just difficult to understand, but you’re obviously alive and well.”

  A dim smile emerged on Marvin’s face. “That’s more like it. By the way, where’s Scott?”

  “He’s gone,” Curt replied glumly. He studied Marvin’s reaction. Nothing. No emotion. Curt changed subjects. “Once we’ve had a chance to explore down here, we’ll get you to the surface and out of this place.”

  Neither spoke. Curt stared at Marvin.

  “What?” Marvin asked.

  “How come you haven’t asked who’s down here with me?”

  “Jesus Christ, Curt, what’s with the twenty questions? Obviously, you’re with that CIA girl, Tiffany Bar.”

  If there had been any doubt, it was gone. “You’ve never met Bar, Marvin. How do you know she is CIA?”

  Marvin’s expression blossomed from sincerity to confusion to anger. His face stiffened and the skin began to flake.

  Curt took a step back in horror. Before his eyes, the older man’s features began to change behind the falling fragments of skin. In a flash, he was a completely different person. Curt stared at Harvey Shottier, the St. Augustine City Commissioner who had led the Blue Council in an attempt to secure the Fish, killing many people while trying to achieve his twisted goal. Last time Curt had seen Shottier, he was being sucked into a vortex of seawater just off the coast of St. Augustine.

  “Got ’em,” a voice from behind startled Curt. He turned to see Bar carrying the two sets of flippers. Curt wheeled back around to face Shottier, but the man was gone. Curt turned back and stared at Bar.

  She stopped in her tracks. “What?”

  “Did you see him? Did you see where he went?”

  “Where…who went?” Bar’s eyes darted from side to side.

  Curt’s mind struggled for a rational explanation. He gave up. Father N had been right about this place. “Never mind. It was obviously an illusion.”

  Bar offered an uncomfortable smile. “I say we get over to that structure, do what we have to do, and get out of here. This place is giving us both the heebie jeebies.”

  “Agreed.” Curt sank to the floor, and Bar handed him his flippers.

  Curt led her to the point upstream to enter. They each slipped into the water, holding onto the edge. Curt was astounded by the strength of the moving water.

  “Push off and swim as hard as you can to the center of the stream. It should take us right to the point. Just don’t miss it.”

  “Stellar advice,” Bar remarked.

  “I’ll go first.” Curt coiled up to the wall and pushed away with all his might. Immediately he began to jet downstream. Curt swam as hard as he could toward the center of the stream. Something about the water felt foreign. He chanced a peek at the edifice. With every bit of energy he could muster, he kicked his flippers, inching himself out. He again sighted the structure and felt a lump grow in his throat.

  He was going to miss it.

  Curt paddled and kicked with fury. As the flow pushed him onward, he propelled himself forward little by little. He slowly closed on the stone structure. Curt extended his right arm and somehow managed to grab the point. As he held on, the current pushed his body flush with the flared wall. Curt gasped for air as he looked back to mark Bar’s position. She was nowhere near the center of the stream. Shorter in stature, she was struggling in the onslaught of water. Curt reached his left arm to the side.

  “Grab my arm!” he yelled above the roar of the rushing water.

  Just as Bar was flowing past, she reached out and grabbed Curt’s forearm. Her grip slipped. Her hand slid down to his wrist. Before Curt lost contact, he locked his hand with hers. The strain on his arm was excruciating. Bar waved in the current like a flag in a stiff breeze. The force of the water was too much. He felt her slip, and then she broke loose.

  Curt saw Bar gliding along the flared wall, her head dipping below the surface in the deluge of flowing water. Then she was gone. She never uttered a sound.

  “Bar!” Curt yelled, struggling to hold onto the point of the edifice while scanning the roiling surface of the water behind. His hand was slipping, and he was forced to grab onto the point with his other hand.

  His arms were burning. He was exhausted. Bar was gone.

  This was another terrible mistake. What the hell was I thinking?

  His strength was giving out. There was nothing left to do but let go and suffer death by drowning.

  He released one hand.

  He felt a series of jabs to his chest.

  There’s something in the water with me!

  He nearly lost his grip on the point while his other hand nervously brushed his chest, trying to drive away whatever was beneath the surface. He was mortified when something clutched his arm. In a panic, he released his hold, but whatever grabbed him held him in place, despite the onslaught of water. He reached to his arm and found a long stick-like object holding him captive. He fought to break free. As if from a great distance, he heard yelling. At first the words were muffled, and he was too preoccupied trying to get loose, but he realized the voice was feminine and was calling his name.

  “Curt, stop fighting! It’s me, Bar! Grab the underside of the wall and swim underneath!”

  Curt acted immediately. As his body flailed horizontally in the current, he reached underneath the waterline of the structure. No more than six inches below the surface, the wall stopped. He clutched the edge, submerged, pushed past the wall, and came up.

  He surfaced inside the enclosure. Bar was in the water beside him holding onto the ledge of a floor that was just above the water level. Unlike the clean black outer walls, the inner floor and walls were beige and riddled with spider webs.

  She released her grip on his arm and lifted herself to a sitting position onto the floor with her legs dangling in the water.

  Water dripped off his forehead as Curt hoisted himself up. He flopped down and lay on his back, breathing heavily. His muscles ached, and he was so far past exhaustion he felt numb. “I thought you were dead,” he finally managed to say.

  “So did I,” Bar said, brushing a wet strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “When I was pushed under the water, I slid beneath this side wall and saw the gap. I barely surfaced inside before I was pushed downstream.”

  Curt started to close his eyes but realized it was a bad idea. Only now could he see the three stark walls of the structure were without a roof. Whatever light permeated the large chamber also reached here. He rolled over and pushed himself up.

  The floor extended to the other two walls. They had entered the structure via a two-foot gap of open water that ran parallel to and stretched the entire length of the near wall.

  Bar was already up moving toward the back corner, slapping her flippers as she went.

  Curt spotted the object that had captured her attention. On a small platform which rose a few
inches above the floor sat a rectangular, granite box, six-and-a-half feet long and two-and-a-half feet wide. It was tucked into the corner at an angle, with each end touching one of the conjoined walls. Curt hurried to catch up with Bar, dripping water and nearly tripping on his flippers as he walked. Like the roofless structure they were in, the granite box had no lid. A chalky stench grew as he drew closer.

  He reached Bar, and they peered down into the box. Inside was a nearly complete, rotted skeleton. Small piles of dust, the result of the decaying matter, presented an outline of the human figure. An abrasive smell rose from the contents.

  “Wow,” Bar said, seemingly unaffected by the smell. “Are we really looking at the remains of Cain? If so, where’s the sacrificial dagger Father N said would be in his chest?”

  Curt, too, was awed by what he saw. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, realizing the reason he was here was not to marvel at the discovery but to find the dagger. He began to scrutinize each pile of dust. “There, to the side of his leg,” Curt pointed. He reached down to the knee area and gently brushed a long pile of dust with his fingers. He felt an object, not rough like bone, but refined and smooth. Curt carefully grabbed the object and raised it. The silt fell away like smoke, revealing a pristine hardwood stock and glistening metal blade of a dagger. Yet again, he couldn’t help but consider the implications of such a monumental archaeological discovery to history. This dagger had been responsible for the first human death at the hands of another, and subsequently, the death of Cain.

  “That wooden handle should have decomposed long ago. How is it still in one piece?” Bar asked.

  “I’ve learned to stop asking such questions.” Curt felt a sudden urge to leave. Maybe it was from seeing—or imagining—Professor Marvin Sellon and Harvey Shottier, or maybe it was the bizarre sensation he felt holding this dagger. Whatever fueled his desire to leave, he wanted out now.

  Human voices, uttering unintelligible words in a multitude of languages, came from outside the structure. They flowed through the air ethereally, seeming to originate from every direction. They began at water level outside the structure and rose into the air, surrounding the edifice. Curt didn’t want to wait around to find out what happened when the voices reached the top of the open structure.