by Sean Platt
Marina stood, walking past the man on her way to the door. She grabbed the knob and tried to turn it, but the door was locked.
“Open the damned door.”
“It’ll open it when you’re ready.”
“This is stupid! Let me out. People are counting on me. I can’t be locked away for three weeks.”
“Father Acevedo said you must be ready for what’s next. I am here to prepare you, same as I did for him.”
“Where are my vials?”
“Locked away safely, don’t worry.”
“I want them. Now. And I want to talk to Acevedo.”
“So, you are not ready to train?”
“No!”
“OK.” The old man turned and opened the door with no key.
How the hell did he open the door?
Is someone watching via secret cameras and they opened it from outside?
Marina chased him, not about to let some weirdo in robes keep her in a cell. She reached the doorway, and he spun to face her, deceptively fast. The old man raised his palm, landing it flat on her chest. It didn’t hurt, though the look in his eyes and the force with which he moved said that hurt wasn’t far from the table.
“Please, Ms. Harmon. Return to your room. Food will be sent shortly.”
“I want out,” she said, her eyes wetting with tears.
“Your life is in danger right now. You need to be trained in the way.”
“I—”
He pressed a pair of fingers to her lips.
She pulled away, not appreciating the old man’s touch. She stepped back, and he closed the door. From the other side, he said, “Be ready to train tomorrow.”
Marina reached for the doorknob. Locked.
“Damn it!” she yelled, pounding her fists on the door. “I want to talk to Acevedo!!”
No response.
Marina woke to the smell of food.
She sat up in bed, with no memory of drifting off. She looked on the floor beside the door and saw a bowl of what looked like chicken noodle soup with steam rising from the broth, a single piece of bread, and a glass of ice water, sweat beading the outside.
She jumped out of bed and tried the doorknob again. Still locked.
Stomach grumbling, Marina brought the tray of food to her bed, sat, and begrudgingly took a bite of the surprisingly fresh bread.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Hell, the lack of windows made it so Marina couldn’t even tell what time it was now.
“Could at least give me something to read!” she yelled, assuming someone was listening, if not watching.
No response.
The next time she woke, Marina found a book on the bed beside her.
The volume looked old: brown, leather-bound, and thin. The spine read: On Mindful Meditation by O.M.
Who the hell is O.M.?
She opened the book and began to thumb through the pages. The first few were oddly left blank. No title page or copyright. Nothing.
Marina kept flipping, and was surprised to find that the entire volume was blank.
“Is this some of joke?” she yelled, throwing the book hard at the door.
Marina growled as she dipped her bread into the soup then tore off a chunk with her teeth, glaring at the door.
No response.
Marina woke to another bell.
The old man was standing over her, again.
“Are you ready to train?”
“Fuck you.”
The man said nothing, turned, and headed toward the door.
“Wait!” she yelled.
Without waiting, he left her alone.
Marina screamed.
“You can’t just keep me here! I have a church! A board of directors to answer to! People relying on me for their living! You can’t just keep me here!”
No response.
Again Marina woke to the scent of soup.
She wasn’t sure how many days had passed her. So far, she’d been brought the same meal four times with no regard for time. Apparently, soup wasn’t just lunch or dinner, it was her only meal. Still, Marina was just hungry enough to look forward to the broth.
By her estimation, she was nearing the end of her second day being locked in the room. This must be dinner.
The book she’d thrown at the door the day before was back on the bed when she opened her eyes. The pages were still blank.
Marina figured that this was the sort of thing the cult did to new members. A way of slowly breaking her down until she was susceptible to whatever religion they planned to indoctrinate her into. The Church of Original Design had its own methods of doing the same, though not as extreme — until you reached the higher levels and went away to retreats.
They apparently don’t know who they’re messing with if they think they can convert me.
She finished her soup and continued to stare at the door, wondering when it might open.
Part of her wanted to attack the next person who stepped through the doorway. The old man was fast, but still old. She might be able to knock him down, at least long enough to run out into the hall. But what then?
Would she search the monastery’s every room until she found the vials? Even if she managed to find them, Marina doubted she’d do so easily or without interference. And even if she managed to get the vials and was able to leave without incident, she still had no idea how to handle the situation with Steven.
What could she do? Call the police and tell them that he was infected with some kind of alien? She couldn’t rely on her security, as he’d been the head. Marina had to assume that her entire team was compromised.
As much as she hated to admit it, Marina needed Acevedo. Her father had sent her to him for a reason, and she had to trust instincts that were proving far less insane than she once thought.
Marina finished her soup and stared at the empty book.
She woke to the bell and the old man standing over her.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Sixteen
Marina Harmon
Three weeks later
As Marina waited for Acevedo in a downstairs chamber, she couldn’t help but wonder how the hell she and the Father would get around. Did he have a car? Or did he surrender an old life at the monastery door? Marina felt naked and not just because she was wearing jeans and a shirt that weren’t hers. She’d never had a chance to grab her cell, purse, credit cards, or anything when Steven dragged her from bed and locked her in the estate’s subterranean crypt.
She’d gone from heading one of the nation’s most powerful religions — someone nested firmly in the top one-percent — to no one in hours.
She hated feeling so exposed, so at fate’s mercy.
Marina hardly recognized Acevedo when he met her in the chamber. He was wearing jeans, a black shirt, and a matching leather jacket. A gun’s butt peeked from beneath the black leather.
A monk, or Father, with a pistol?
He’d also cleaned the blood which dimmed his apparent insanity, even if his brown eyes were still very intense. He looked like a cop, or a soldier, on a mission.
“How did your training go?” he asked.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Well, I see that you’re here, so obviously you passed. But no, Ondo didn’t tell me how you did.”
Ondo? Until now, she’d not known his name. The old man had identified himself as Seven, then told her to refer to her as master, something which annoyed her at first, but she played along.
“Well,” she said, “I hated the master at first, and hated you and this whole damned whatever the hell you have going on here, too. But, in time, I came to appreciate the training. He taught me to keep my emotions in check, to not give into anger, and to learn patience. Well, to be more patient, anyway.”
“Good,” Acevedo said. “I couldn’t risk entering battle with a weak mind beside me.”
“Battle? What is it you’ve got planned?”<
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“First, we have to take care of Steven.”
“We are?”
“Yes ma’am. You ready?”
Marina stood, still clutching the vials to her chest, glad to have them back. Despite the clarity and calmness the master had given her, she couldn’t help the nerves that came with Steven’s name.
“What if he has others on his side? I don’t know who I can trust. He handpicked our most recent staff. Any, or all of them, could be compromised.”
“In more ways than you know. But we’ll handle it as it comes.” Acevedo led Marina from the chamber, outside into the day’s harsh light.
The monastery was fenced in, tucked behind a large garden which hid it from the street. Several monks in brown robes were tending to Camellias, ignoring her and Acevedo as they made their way to the garage.
“You have a car?” Marina forgot that she meant to ask him what ‘in more ways than you know’ meant.
“Yes ma’am,” he chuckled. “You know I’m not a monk, right?”
“I’m not sure what you are.”
“That’s OK, neither am I most days.” Acevedo seemed more at ease than when Marina had first met him. His eyes and movements were still business, but his smile had warmed along with his voice.
Perhaps he also spent some time being trained by the master?
They reached Acevedo’s car, a late '70s cherry red Mustang with dark tinted windows, which looked like it could still have a sticker on the windshield.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?” Acevedo asked.
“You were quiet and scared up there when I showed you the vials. Now you’re all ready for ‘battle.’ Why the change?”
At the passenger side door he met Marina’s eyes, his intensity fading.
“I’ve spent the past two years afraid this day would come. I thought it would happen on October 15, 2011. It didn’t, and I began to doubt myself and the prophecy I’d seen.”
Great, another person seeing prophecies.
Marina wondered if he was a disciple of her fathers, after all. Maybe the master had been as well?
“When you walked in the door, I was terrified that I wasn’t ready. But then I prayed and found the courage to do what must be done. And, of course, I spent some time with the master.”
Marina stared at Acevedo, trying to decide if she should ask the question tipping her tongue. She had nothing to lose — she was standing in borrowed clothes with a monk, not a monk, Father who had sewn his lips shut.
“Prayed to who?”
“Are you asking about my faith?” Acevedo asked, smiling. “Still Catholic, ma’am.”
“OK. For a moment I thought perhaps you were Church of Original Design.”
“Oh, God no. Your father and I were close, but we never agreed on theology.”
“Us either,” Marina admitted.
“After you.” Acevedo held her door.
They arrived at the compound to six news vans camped outside the gates.
“What the hell is going on?” Marina asked no one.
Acevedo pulled up to the gate where Clancy, one of the guards, stepped out of the entry shack to meet them.
Acevedo manually rolled down the window. Marina leaned forward so Clancy could see her.
“Ma’am?” he asked, surprised. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”
“Everyone? You mean Steven?”
Clancy stared at her, then licked his lips. “Oh God, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“It’s best you go in, Ms. Harmon. Mr. Walker is waiting inside.”
“Mr. Walker?” she asked, surprised. Walker had been her family’s lawyer for three decades.
“Yes, Ma’am, he’ll explain everything.”
Marina hated the sound of that.
Marina stepped into the downstairs media room where Walker was speaking to someone on his cell in terse, bitchy little sentences. She heard no words, only tone. Marina didn’t know who Walker was arguing with, or what he was fighting about, but she was sure he was winning.
He turned toward Marina as she stepped through the doorway. He said, “I’ll call you back” and a second later slipped the cell inside his pocket.
He quickly crossed the room, arms open wide. “Marina! Where the hell have you been? We thought you were dead.”
At six foot six, in his sixties, with a thick head of sandy-colored hair, Walker felt like a grandfather in many ways, a big bear of a grandfather.
He hugged Marina, neither asking about the strange man beside her, nor giving him more than a glance.
“It’s a long story,” she said. “I’ll fill you in, but what’s this I’m hearing about Steven?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Marina asked, breaking from the hug.
“Steven is dead.”
“What?” Marina felt punched in the gut.
“Yes, they found his body at the Camelot, along with the body of a writer, a former cop. A horrible tragedy.”
“Oh God.”
No wonder the news vans were outside. Steven was her head of security, not a face for the church, but he’d been seen enough in Marina’s presence, and had made a name for himself when he punched out a stalking paparazzo. His death was big news for those seeking to damage the church. All eyes would be on her response.
Walker finally looked Acevedo up and down, then turned back to Marina. “Where have you been for the past three weeks? The police, and the media, weren’t sure if you were a victim or a perpetrator who took off after killing Steven.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Marina said.
“Obviously, I’ve held them off. But if there’s something I need to know, Marina, now’s the time to tell me.”
It took Marina a moment to get what Walker was asking.
“Wait. You think I had something to do with this?”
Walker looked stunned. “No, Marina. I’m simply saying that as your lawyer, I need to know what’s happening so I can help you and we can get in front of this story before it snowballs.”
“I don’t know if you’d believe me, Mr. Walker.”
“Try me.”
“OK, but we’ll need to sit.”
Marina told Walker everything, including the bit about the vials, even though Acevedo flinched at their mention.
After the story, which he seemed to buy despite his questions, Walker pointed to the box beside Marina. “Is that them? These vials?”
“Yes,” she said.
“May I?” Walker held out his hand.
“No,” Acevedo said sharply, putting his hand on the box, but not picking it up.
“Excuse me.” For all of Walker’s kindness, he was a man who only heard yes.
“With all due respect, Mr. Walker, nobody but the pure of heart can touch these. Being a lawyer, I’m guessing that’s not you … no offense.”
Walker looked at Marina. “May I have a word? Alone?”
Acevedo said, “No, you may not.”
Marina turned to him, wanting to reprimand him for speaking for her, particularly to a family friend, but that crazy look was back in his eyes. Something told her to stand down, for now.
Acevedo said, “Here’s the part of the story Marina didn’t tell you, because she doesn’t yet know it.”
Walker folded his hands across his chest and leaned back in the chair opposite them. “Go on.”
“Steven wasn’t Steven. He was infected by The Darkness.”
“Yes, she told me that part. Whatever this Darkness is.”
“That’s just it, sir. You all don’t know what it is. Because it’s nothing you’ve ever seen. And it’s not just in Steven. The Darkness is an alien race stored in these vials, sent to Earth God knows how long ago. The vials themselves aren’t good or bad, Darkness or Light. They’re neutral, searching for purpose, seeking to live, whether that means creating new life or destroying what is here. Whether they choose life or death depends on the h
umans they first bond with. Most of us are impure, and have only the capacity to destroy. So the aliens are now this Darkness, infecting and infesting people with itself, replicating.”
“Replicating?” Walker repeated, as if only this most recent revelation were difficult to digest.
“They spread like a diseased parasite, going from host to host, gaining numbers and strength. That’s what’s happening out there right now. The Darkness is spreading, and we have to stop It, counter It.”
Walker’s eyebrows arched, as he turned to Marina, “Do you really believe this nonsense?”
Marina looked at Acevedo, trying to come up with one answer to satisfy two men.
“Yes, I believe that something is happening. I’m not sure if it is exactly as Father Acevedo says, I don’t know. But I saw this Darkness in Steven, felt It as he was trying to murder me. And I saw my father’s ghost. He spoke to me, Mr. Walker. He told me how to find my way out of the crypt after Steven locked me in there, and about the monastery. You know me — I’ve not exactly bought 100 percent into Father’s religion. I’m logical, but also not close-minded enough to ignore a very basic truism — the truth is usually what’s right in front of you. Unless you have some other explanation, I suggest we listen to Father Acevedo.”
Walker unfolded his arms and sighed. Marina wasn’t sure if he was starting to believe them. Or was he simply doing his job as her lawyer and absorbing what he needed to give himself, or at least his conscience: plausible deniability while helping to cover up her involvement in a murder?
“What do you need from me?” Walker asked.
Marina looked at Acevedo and requested their next steps.
“There are a total of four more vials unaccounted for. I have one. I also have names for the other keepers. This information is in a secure location. We must go there. We’ll need weapons in case we run into trouble, and enough supplies to live off the grid for a while. We’ll also need a place that nobody knows about to hunker down. This must be kept quiet. We can assume that people within your church have been compromised. Were I Steven, I would’ve infected as many top level people as I could. He would have been seeking the vials if he knew your father had some, or perhaps he wanted to use the church to expand the Darkness’s hold.”