Authors: M. J. Rose
Thursday, May 1
st
—8:03 p.m.
D
avid watched as a brick fell out, a crack in the airshaft opened wider and a substantial splash of light spilled in. Flattening himself against the wall, protected by an outcropping of stone, he watched as another brick fell. And then another. As much as he’d prepared for this, he was still caught off guard. David had never believed in the inviolability of this crypt. But none of that mattered now. He still had time and surprise on his side, even if they did break through and find the chamber.
Trying not to breathe or make any noise, David carefully and slowly moved his explosives out of the path of light. Inch by inch, he pulled each component back into a darker corner of the crypt.
“Don’t move,” a man shouted. “I have a gun.”
David had timed his efforts to the perfect moment in the symphony but could he wait that long? Holding his breath, he listened to the Americans who’d broken through the brick cistern on the far side of his hiding place. Everything
would be decided in a matter of minutes…it all depended on his last decoy.
“I have a gun!” the American shouted again. “Don’t move.”
Releasing the remaining rat in the cage and cursing himself for not catching more of them, David watched the rodent scurry across the rutted dirt ground.
“Damn it, Tucker. It’s just more of those damn rats,” another voice shouted.
A beam of light caught the rodent as it darted to the west wall and slipped through a crack.
“I think we should head back up. This is a wild-goose chase,” the man said.
“Wild rat chase,” the other joked.
Laughter between the men echoed in the chamber but it seemed slightly farther away. Were they retreating? It sounded like they might be. David sat in the dark and listened intensely. He wasn’t sure how long it took for the men to leave because from his hiding place he couldn’t see anything and the music overwhelmed the now faint sounds the two men made. The question was should he wait for his marker in the fourth movement or do this now? Could he still afford to wait? What if Paxton’s men hadn’t given up? What if they were just lingering? To be this close to his goal and fail because he wanted an elegant ending—wanted to detonate the device precisely at the end of the concert… Did that make sense? No, there was no reason to hold off. He reached out for the wires.
Thursday, May 1
st
—8:04 p.m.
A
s soon as Meer arrived at the auditorium’s entrance the usher stepped in front of her, barring the way. Ignoring him, not caring that he was trying to stop her, not giving a damn about interrupting the concert, she reached for the door handle with authority. But of course he put his hand out, keeping the door closed and in a hushed but harsh tone informed her she couldn’t enter during a performance.
She knew that. It distracted musicians. Any movement once the concert was in progress could throw a performer off track. But that’s exactly what she wanted to do. Listening to the man responsible for her father’s death, Meer heard him blow the first note of the song that had been haunting her since she was a child. An ancient and strange sound filled the auditorium. The vibrations reverberated off the walls and ceiling, dazzling and absorbing. Otherworldly. Not music. Not noise. Not anything anyone had ever heard. And it was affecting her.
Dizzy, Meer put her hands up to her ears, trying but failing
to block the sound. Swaying, she fought to regain balance. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, its contents spilling out on the carpet. Bending over, she began retrieving the items and, courteous despite himself, the usher leaned over to help her. Which was just what she’d counted on.
Taking advantage of his kindness, Meer straightened up and quickly lunged for the door. She opened it, slipped inside and sprinted toward the stage.
Thursday, May 1
st
—8:07 p.m.
F
ew audience members guessed anything was occurring, but the orchestra knew something was awry. The conductor—baton in midair—was immobile. Never at a loss on a stage before, Twitchel simply stared at Sebastian while he debated what path to take, surprised to feel a wave of sadness overtake him.
The floor below Twitchel was dissolving. He wasn’t on solid ground at all anymore but was treading water. Icy, cold, black water under a black sky. No moon. No stars. Around him, pieces of his ship floated by: broken pieces, broken lives. Screams came from close and far away. As captain of the ship he was responsible for their crossing and now he’d be responsible for their deaths. The cries of the passengers slipped into a pattern; their terror was its own song, music he knew he would hear throughout eternity. The freezing water was turning warm; his limbs were too heavy. He wouldn’t mind drowning, he thought, as long as he didn’t have to hear the horrific symphony of screams anymore.
As Meer edged up to the stage her vision went in and out of focus and the dark auditorium phased into a night sky.
Margaux could smell her horse, the pine trees and the fresh scent of the rain. The wind was blowing so hard Beethoven’s borrowed hat had flown off and her hair whipped her face, stinging her skin. His coat, soaked through with cold rain, was heavy on her shoulders now. Just hours ago, the disguise had seemed like such a good idea.
Archer Wells was as wet as she was and was breathing heavily—at least she had the satisfaction of making him work to catch up with her.
“You’ll never use that,” he smirked, nodding toward the pistol in her hand. “You could betray me, yes, that much is clear. But kill me? I don’t think so.”
If Caspar were there he’d knock this man off his steed and beat him to the ground to protect her. How wonderful it would be to have her husband back and to have him take care of her again but that was a lost dream now. The night before, the Tsar had informed her that Caspar was, indeed, sadly, dead. The story that he was alive somewhere in the Himalayas had been a fabrication contrived by Archer Wells to induce her to steal the flute and the memory song and sell them to him. It had been an elaborate ruse, right from the beginning.
“There are spies everywhere, Archer,” Margaux said. “Remember? You told me that. Well, the Tsar has his spies too and he found out about your lies. You’re not going to get the flute, no matter what you threaten me with.”
The Tsar wouldn’t be getting the flute, either. Margaux wasn’t selling it to anyone anymore. She was determined
to deliver the gaming box—complete with its clues—to Antonie Brentano as Beethoven had asked.
Her husband had died finding this ancient talisman. Danger surrounded it as this night was proving. She wouldn’t allow it to bring anyone else to harm. That would not be Caspar’s legacy. So help her God.
With the flute up to his lips, Sebastian played the deceptively simple notes, and as the brittle and sublime sound pervaded the hall and saturated Meer’s mind, pandemonium broke out around her.
Screaming and crying, not understanding the terrible images, smells, sights and sounds overwhelming them, one person after another was affected. Meer tried to stay in the present but kept slipping back, back to the forest, sitting atop her horse, the rain beating down on her. Her hand no longer shook. She held the pistol steady, pointed it at Archer, and tensed her trigger finger.
Thursday, May 1
st
—8:12 p.m.
T
om Paxton stood in front of the monitors, not consciously paying attention to the music. He was about to ask Bill Vine about how the underground effort was going, when he suddenly felt as if the air was pressing down on him. A terrible pressure behind his eyes forced them closed. The images he was envisioning made no sense.
While his soldiers set fire to the village, William Moore entered the hut. Inhaling a stink that permeated the small room, a stink that was ripe with sweat and warm, fresh blood, he choked back bile. Two pairs of eyes were staring at him from under the table in the corner of the shack; a woman and a small boy who cowered and whimpered. A half-dozen apples knocked over in the melee were strewn at their feet, red like blood against the gray stones. The fire in the grate smoldered. The room would soon grow cold as the winter winds blew through the thin walls, but the woman and the boy wouldn’t care, they wouldn’t even
know; Moore wouldn’t be leaving them alive. The boy was too small to be of any use and the woman would only be trouble but first…he’d been fighting this war for King Henry IV for a long time and hadn’t had a woman in weeks.
Ripping off her pathetic shift, he was disappointed by the small, flat breasts and the pale nipples. He wanted handfuls of flesh and rosy red buds to squeeze, not this meager offering. Her fingernails raking his cheek were more surprising than painful. Not many women fought back, and he laughed.
The boy was crying loudly so Moore kicked him, sending him sprawling. Despite fear of reprisals, the woman shouted at him to stop, not to hurt her son. He slapped her hard across the face, leaving a red welt, which excited him. An instant later wet spittle landed on his chin. He would fuck her and strangle her at the same time just for that, and made a move to mount her when the acrid and harsh smoke from outside caused him to start coughing. Cursing, Moore ran out of the hut, abandoning the woman and the child, not looking back.
Outside, his soldiers were setting fire to more huts and laughing as men, women and children, chickens, dogs, horses and pigs ran from the flames. A crippled woman grabbed hold of Moore’s arm and screamed, “Save her, save her!” pointing to a young child crawling out of one of the huts as fiery beams came crashing down around her. The life of one child was of no importance to him. They had to take this town and move on to the next. Casualties were expected. He tried to deflect the woman but she wouldn’t give up. She clung to his leg, trying to force him to help. “Save her.”
William Moore laughed, kicked her off and moved on.
“Tom? Tom? Something’s happening!” Kerri shook Paxton. Trying to get him to focus on her. To answer her. But his eyes were fixed on some distant point. He clearly didn’t hear what she was saying or feel her fingers digging into his flesh.
Thursday, May 1
st
—8:13 p.m.
I
n the audience, Annabelle Strauss climbed wildly onto her seat and stood up. “Help me!” she shrieked as she waved her arms above her head. Beside her, the mayor attempted to calm her but she reacted as if he were a stranger instead of her husband.
Gerta Osborne, the elderly opera singer sitting on the other side of the aisle, stared up at the concert hall’s domed ceiling, pointing to something or someone only she could see and screaming that it was coming “too fast…too fast…too fast.”
Stan Miller stumbled through the row of other audience members, tripping on their legs as if he were blind. They cried out—fended him off—but couldn’t stop him; he was desperate to get away from whatever was chasing him, even if it was only in his imagination.
On the stage, the conductor rolled on the floor, reaching out into the air where there was nothing to hold on to.
The principal violinist used his instrument to swat at his
own arms, chest and face as if he were being eaten alive by a swarm of insects.
The female harpist, head in her hands, heaved with deep, wrenching sobs.
Erika Alderman was riveted to her seat, watching the audience members disassembling around her. She knew exactly what was happening. She was close enough to the stage to see her fellow Society member. Sebastian was playing the memory flute, and its tones were sending most of the audience into paroxysms of painful memories. She turned to tell Fremont, to share the amazing news that her hypothesis about binaural beats was being demonstrated all around them, but he wasn’t in his seat anymore. In the confusion, she hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten up. Where could he have gone? Had he been affected? She should go look for him but didn’t want to leave the performance and miss witnessing any of the living proof that was establishing her theory.
Another audience member observed the melee, also immune to the music. Malachai Samuels’ mind flooded with astonishment. Why did Sebastian have the flute? How had he learned the music? Had Meer figured it out? And more important, why was he doing this? Amazed by what was occurring, he studied people in the audience as they moved from the present to the past, unprepared for their journeys or their destinations. Finally, he stood. Whatever else happened, he had to be there when Sebastian finished his song, to get the flute.
As he worked his way to the front of the auditorium he saw Meer trying to do the same an aisle away. The two of them were the only ones not moving en masse toward the exit.
Meer didn’t even notice the people in her way; it was the onslaught of her own devastating memories that was
making it so hard for her to move faster. Trying desperately to hold on to the present, she felt the last vestiges of it dissolve around her, melting in the sounds Sebastian blew through the flute.
Margaux forbade her hand to shake as she kept the pistol pointed at Archer.
Unafraid of her, so sure that she wouldn’t have the nerve to use the gun, he ignored her and nudged his horse closer and closer until he was near enough to reach out for the straps holding the gaming box to her saddle.
“No!” she cried out, pulling on the reins and backing her horse away.
“You stupid fool. Don’t you understand what a mess you’ve made? A mess I have to clean up. I know the box has clues in it. Give it to me and I’ll still pay you what I promised. If you don’t, I won’t hesitate to use this.” He brandished his pistol. “How’s that for incentive?”
In the hall, Malachai felt panic escalating around him. Fear, hysteria and hallucinations immobilized everyone, making it impossible for them to perform simple equations. Stay? Go? Run? Where? Drop to the ground? Go forward? Even those, like him, who weren’t affected, weren’t sure what to do; the terror was too pervasive. As he kept moving steadily forward through the chaos, he saw the wild fear in people’s eyes and heard their unholy cries as the song played on. But absolutely nothing happened to him.
The surging crowd pulled Meer back to the present again. She was caught up in the maelstrom of people shoving each other as they tried to escape, not understand
ing what she understood: that as long as they could hear the music, the pain and the memories would continue to bombard them, that even out in the lobby the assault would persist. Each brittle high note after another propelled them all deeper and deeper into netherworlds where the light was hundreds or thousands of years old.