2013: Beyond Armageddon (15 page)

They had always been close. Inseparable. His mother always said when one of them itched, the other one scratched. But Randy had always been the dominant one. Price had often wondered if things would have turned out differently if he’d been the older one. What a difference thirteen minutes made.

They’d spent hundreds of hours playing Tarot, and Ouija, and every other game that claimed a link to the other side, often while listening to Cream singing “Born Under A Bad Sign.”

Price gravitated toward the black granite monolith. No one else was around. Yesterday morning he’d stood here, trying to commune with unknown comrades he may have doomed that night in the jungle, hoping he could put it all behind him for good. Now, in the cosmic scheme of things that no amount of study could make Price understand, Randy Stokes, of all people, had ripped another gaping hole into his and Zeke’s lives. Then, as if paying him back for the betrayal at the recruiter’s office, he had lived just long enough to pull Price into the final moments of his life—a vortex of evil, from which Randy tried to pass his demonic torch on to him.

Price heard a noise and cocked his ears. The wind, scurrying and whispering through the trees. Dead leaves scraped and skittered across the sidewalk, sounding like the fingernails of a corpse scratching at the lid of its coffin.

Price shivered and stared at the Wall. He heard more whispering. This time it wasn’t the wind. It was inside his head. A familiar voice. The same voice he’d heard that night in the jungle.

Only you can finish what I have started…

Price backed away in horror, but the voice kept repeating the words, their volume increasing even as he got farther from the Wall. He looked around wildly, to see if somehow Randy was there, but saw not another living soul.

He continued to back away. The voice got louder.

You’re the other half of me. You must finish this.

Price clapped his hands over his ears and stumbled away from the Wall, disoriented in the heavy wintry gloom, wanting only to put distance between himself and the hulking black monolith.

His hands did nothing to keep out the sound. Now the whispering and gibbering seemed to come from the Wall itself. An ominous, sibilant babble, soft and indistinct at first, but steadily gaining strength, like the brushfire anger of a mob, until he could make out individual sounds. They were voices, coming from invisible mouths that swarmed around his head like angry bees, buzzing him, closing in, demanding answers to a thousand questions that eventually became one: “Why? Why, why, why, WHY?”

Inside his head the babble coalesced into a blinding epiphany:

These were the voices of the people he and Randy had killed.

He began to run. Randy’s voice rose above the din, commanding, following him, getting louder with every step.

You must finish this.

Finish this.

Finish this…

Back in his room at the Mayflower, Price sat on the king-sized bed considering how to tell Zeke that Randy Stokes had died. No matter how he worded it, that news would be the final grim twist in a relationship that must have been doomed from the start. Thinking of the pain that he and his best friend had caused Zeke, guilt started creeping into his thoughts. A fist of anger clenched inside him.
This is not my fault. None of this is my fault.

He snatched up the phone and punched in Zeke’s number.

“Zeke. It’s Michael Price. I’ve got some news.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s not good. The killer is dead. He died of a heart attack sometime after I interviewed him.”

There was a long, heavy silence. “That sounds sudden and convenient.”

“I’m no doctor,” Price said, “but I don’t think it was so sudden. The guy looked terrible, like he’d been leading a very unhealthy life.”

“Were you able to find out anything about him? Why he did it?”

Price looked around his luxury suite at the Mayflower. He’d spent the extra money to stay here, hoping it would be a soothing retreat from the awful assignment he’d agreed to. Instead it felt like a gilded cage from which the only way out was to lie. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Would he never be free?

“I have the recording of the interview. I wasn’t able to find out anything about his personal life. As far as why, he stuck to his story about Satan making him do it.”

He glanced at the battered copy of
The Satanic Bible
Randy had pressed upon him, the only possession left behind from a life dedicated to evil. Price wished he hadn’t taken it, hadn’t left the door open even this tiniest crack. Even though they hadn’t known each other for years, the psychic link between them was still too strong. He knew that now after hearing Randy’s voice at the Wall.

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes. At least that he believed it was Satan. Whether it actually was, is impossible to know.”

“So that’s the end of it.”

Far from it
, Price thought. He’d listened to his recording of the interview several times. According to Randy, Zeke was about to undertake some quest to find the Devil himself. After hearing voices—
again
—Price was more inclined than ever to think the unthinkable. That there was a Satan, and that he wanted Zeke dead. And that Randy would somehow be involved. If not directly, than indirectly. Through him, if he didn’t slam that door shut.

The next lie came easier.

“With the killer dead, yes. I’ll be catching the first flight tomorrow morning. I can send you a copy of the interview if you’d like. Or I can meet you somewhere and give it to you before I leave.”

“Not now. Not yet. Where do you live?”

“New York.”

“Not a good place to purify your soul. Maybe you should check into a monastery for a while.”

Price bit back a retort. Having to grovel was wearing a little thin. “I’ll think about it. Sorry I couldn’t do more, Zeke.”

“Hold onto the tape. I want to hear it, but not now. I’ve got your card. I’ll get in touch when I’m ready to deal with it.” A soul-weariness came into his voice. “I suppose I’m glad he’s dead. I wanted to see him executed, but the years he probably would have spent on death row might have been worse. It’s time to get on with our lives. I wish I could say something magnanimous, Price, but I can’t. To be perfectly honest, I hope I never see you again.”

If it can be helped, so do I. But, one way or another, whatever started between us years ago must be finished.
“I understand. You have my number if you ever need me for anything. Good luck on whatever you do.”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready for a copy of that interview.”

The phone went dead. Price just stared at it in his hand, trying to decide what to do, wavering between wanting to run from what felt like impending doom, or to succumb to a fate that seemed to have been decided in the womb. Or long before.

The psychologist in him saw meaning in the phone he held in his hand. The line had been disconnected, but the psychic connection to Zeke had not. He was startled by the pounding, insistent, beeping signal reminding him to hang up. It sounded like the excited metallic heartbeat of an alien creature, squirming into his brain.

Zeke hung up the wall phone in the kitchen and went to rejoin Leah on the couch. They had just been getting ready to watch
Meet John Doe
, the second nightly installment in what they were calling Frank Capra’s Celebration of Life/Hank Sloan Memorial Film Festival. A box of Raisinets were on the table at Leah’s end of the couch, a box of Sno-Caps at Zeke’s end. He sat down beside her.

“It’s over,” he said.

“What’s over?”

“That was Michael Price. The killer from the restaurant is dead. Apparently he had a heart attack sometime after Price interviewed him.”

Leah’s hand found his. After a long silence she said, “It’s probably for the best. I know we wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, but in the end that doesn’t really matter, does it? And, with the way the legal system works, for him to be sitting there for years…I think that would have been worse. Don’t you?”

“I guess. I can’t fully absorb it yet, but when I do it’ll probably be a relief.”

“When you said it’s over…you mean this part of it’s over. But the rest…”

“We’ll see. I keep wanting not to think about it, just lose ourselves in old movies, try to heal with the love of my life. But it seems like there’s more than one serpent in our Garden of Eden, and they keep slithering up next to us.”

Leah gently squeezed his hand. “We’ll get through this—together.” She pointed to the DVD player. “With the help of Frank Capra.”

“Thank God for Frank Capra. Let’s watch our movie.”

“I’ll fix the popcorn and be right back.”

A few minutes later they arranged themselves and the pillows into their favorite movie-watching positions, popcorn and candy within easy reach. Leah propped her head at the best angle, her feet on a pillow on Zeke’s lap. He pressed the “play” button on the remote, eager to lose himself in a world where good always triumphed over evil.

The Covenant

And the devil said unto him…

If thou therefore wilt worship me,

all shall be thine.

And Jesus answered and said unto him,

Get thee behind me, Satan.

Luke 4:6-8

Washington, D.C. 2 weeks later. October 26

Zeke lay in bed staring at the ceiling. In the soothing afterglow of the movie they’d watched, he and Leah had fallen asleep holding hands. Movies had become their nightly escape from the miasma of grief that hung in the air. Even so, they’d often had to pause at the sad parts to cry. Everything seemed to remind them of the loss of Zeke’s family.

They’d finished Frank Capra’s best-loved films last week and started a new film festival: the Festival of Hope. Tonight they’d watched Pollyanna. And cried.

Zeke had hoped he might finally be able to sleep through the night, but right on schedule the disturbing thoughts had crept into his dreams until they forced him awake. He glanced at the digital clock beside his bed. 1:57. He looked back toward the ceiling, taking inventory.

Three weeks since the murders. Physically Leah was fine, and they couldn’t mourn forever. Only time would lessen the pain. It would never go away, but they needed to get on with their lives.

Dad never let us mope.

He listened to Leah’s regular breathing, then quietly eased out of bed. Whatever had come into his life, he wasn’t going to just lie there letting it torment him in his sleep. It was time to start following up on his promise to Dr. Connolly. Losing himself in research would take his mind off things.

He slipped into his version of pajamas—long-sleeved T-shirt, flannel lounging pants, wool socks, slippers—and headed for his office. On the way he stopped in the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. While that brewed he got Dr. Connolly’s briefcase with his notes and translations from the office safe. It was time for a thorough reading to form his own conclusions. He brought a pitcher of coffee into the office, sat at his desk and began to read.

Above the translations Dr. Connolly had written an introductory note:

Using carbon dating on the parchment and terra cotta jars they came in, along with other existing contextual evidence on the period, I have dated the scrolls to sometime between 1900-2000 B.C., which is well within the time of Lot and Abraham. Therefore this would be the earliest writing yet discovered. The language is perfect Hebrew. Astonishing on the face of it, but not if we accept my interpretations. One scroll is written by Enoch. As a Jew chosen by God to be the inventor of writing, he would have created the perfect prototype. The other is written by Lot, nephew to Abraham—progenitor of the Hebrews. His non-scribal handwriting is understandably crude, but, guided by Enoch as Lot himself says, again the language is fluent Hebrew. Of course the notion strains credibility, but the totality of the evidence, as detailed in my notes, convinces me that the scrolls are genuine.

Although I have gone to great lengths to preserve the archaic style, in places I have taken liberties, using more recent terms and phraseology to make certain references easier to grasp by the modern reader. Footnotes may be consulted for the original usages. In no case has the writer’s meaning been compromised.

Zeke began to read the first of the two translations.

I am Lot, nephew to Abraham. God hath sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave. He hath rained his wrath down upon Sodom and Gomorrah for their grievous wickedness. All who lived there are returned to dust. The smoke from their ashes goes up as the smoke of a furnace. Only my family was spared, and the Lord sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave.

Archangel Michael stands guard against his old Archenemy, who must live somewhere beneath Sodom and Gomorrah, for when their destruction was complete, I watched that Wicked Priest crawl from the mouth of Sheol to gloat at his victory over God. From thence he and some of his evil host didst follow us, until Michael used his terrible sword to banish them to a nearby cave. They wait and watch, eyes burning like the coals of the smoldering fire below.

Metatron, scribe of God, prince of princes who in heaven sitteth nearest the throne of glory, and whose earthly name is Enoch, knower of the stars and time from the beginning to the end, inventor of writing, doth guide my hand. Through him the Lord hath chosen me to give this warning of the day of reckoning. On that final day his creation, Man, must choose good over evil, lest all the earth will suffer the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. So saith Enoch, so saith the Lord. And Enoch hath given me his little book of prophecy, to show the abyss that awaits if we choose the path of darkness. I will hide these warnings, lest the Archenemy overtake us. But if I should perish before I bring them to the world, whosoever may find them must sound the trumpet I did not sound, lest ye all perish.

Zeke leaned back in his chair to let Lot’s message sink in. It seemed beyond belief, almost too pat. Yet it had the ring of truth. Dr. Connolly had spent a lifetime studying it and was convinced it was authentic.