Authors: Shawn Hopkins
An arrow struck Benaiah in the back.
He grunted, turned to face three more men running to the ledge he had just jumped from. He stuck his foot under the blade of the dead soldier’s sword and kicked it up into his free hand. And then he threw it down at the lead attacker below. The sword flew end over end and buried itself into the man’s chest. Benaiah bent over and picked up his other sword just as one of the men below leaped from the ledge and grabbed the outcropping at his feet. A cross-swing from both swords in a scissor-like fashion, however, sent the man falling into the darkness below, screaming until striking a rock, his hands still at Benaiah’s feet.
The last of the three attackers turned and started running away from the ledge, but Benaiah leapt back down, landing with perfect footing, and quickly caught up to him, thrusting his sword through the man’s back. The soldier’s feet went out from under him, and he fell forward into an awkward pose between two intersecting protrusions below.
With blood dripping from his blade, Benaiah turned just as he heard someone leap down from a hidden position above. But the soldier’s landing had not been perfect, the moment of unbalance costing him both of his feet. The next speedy flash from Benaiah’s sword disconnected his enemy’s vocal chords from his mouth just before his ungodly scream could echo through the desert night.
Despite the cold air, sweat dripped from Benaiah’s face, and his heart heaved violently in his chest. Standing over the dismembered soldier, he was once more aware of the arrow sticking out of his back. It annoyed him, but he did his best to ignore it. Instead, he looked down to the camp below. His people were moving, preparing to travel onward to a new location. There would be no rest for them tonight.
He looked up and down the mountains, but everything was still and quiet. Had he gotten them all? Could there only have been six? Not likely.
He ran carefully through the rocky island, down its steep slope and into the sand where another mountain began stretching up out of the wilderness floor immediately in front of him. He was standing in the gap, a doorway leading out from the enclosed desert they had made their camp and into the open oceans of sand beyond. He stood motionless for a few seconds, watching his men in the distance. And then he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. The deep corridor that led to the vast deserts of Paran, formed by the two kissing mountains, was not empty…
The Amalekites.
Good
, Benaiah thought. These people had been a scourge in Israel’s side ever since the Exodus. Quickly recalling God’s words to Moses and Balaam — that He would “completely blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven
”
and that “they would perish forever” — Benaiah wondered if
he
would prove to be the instrument by which God fulfilled His word, finally finishing what King Saul had been commanded to do so long ago. That would be fine with him.
He raised both swords and, without another thought, charged through the gap and entered the corridor. He could hear the heathen army laughing at him, their amusement echoing off the rock walls around him. He didn’t even feel the first two arrows that struck him.
Three horsemen charged away from the army, hooves kicking up sand in their wake. The torches the army held bounced light off the rock passageway, the horses and the charging Israelite lost in a confused spectacle of moving shadows.
Benaiah moved to the right, the sword in his left hand slicing through the muscled neck of a horse, his right hand swinging around and striking across the back of the soldier. The horse and its rider splashed down into the sand.
The laughing stopped.
The two other horsemen had run past and were now turning about. They charged him again, but before they even got near enough to use their swords, they each had one of Benaiah’s through the heart. Three dead Amalekites, one dead horse. Only about a hundred left. He smiled as he retrieved his swords and watched the whole Amalekite army rush toward him.
He had survived these odds before.
When the army met him, the sound of clashing metal boomed out of the passageway and drifted up into the watchful skies above.
He fought bravely for the secret sitting in the camp behind him. He fought for his God and for the glory of Israel. But it would be almost another two hundred years, under the kingship of Hezekiah, before the Amalekites would finally disappear from history. And, ironically, it would be a prince from the tribe of Simeon, also named Benaiah, who would be the one to finally bring God’s promise to fruition.
But still, thousands of more years would come and go before his secret would be discovered. A secret that might just prove to be the key capable of unlocking the end — the end the future prophets would describe as a time of great travail...
As the Time of Jacob’s Trouble.
1
T
he Senator punched the roof of the car with a large hand while swearing under his breath. And then he swore again, louder. Sweat was forming on his brow and, in an attempt to ignore it, he turned his attention to his pockets, searching for a pack of cigarettes and lighter. He was angry. They got him. And this time they got him good. Those idiots were there again, despite the late hour and the scattered rain. Every weekend for the last month. It didn’t matter how many of them were arrested or beaten, even tortured, they just kept coming. But this time was different — the major media had caught it on tape.
He looked out the window, exhaling smoke into the dimly lit, brand new town car. He spread his legs, unbuttoning his expensive suit jacket and slouching heavily into the back seat. The confrontation had ended badly.
He hated them — the “people.” Hated that they were still able to agitate him. Hated that he couldn’t just squash them all under his heel and finally be done with them. At least not yet.
Soon,
he told himself, trying to relax. But it wasn’t working. He knew the media would spin it in his favor, but still… it was just more work. And the people he answered to didn’t like more work.
He lowered his hand to grip the edge of the seat beside him, the cigarette sticking up and sending smoke whisking throughout the yellowish lighting of the car’s interior. He began to panic. Should he worry? Arrogance chased the notion away. By his own esteem, he was much too important a figure to discard or demote. They needed him. And that made him valuable, untouchable. He convinced himself to rest easy, believing that a subtle rebuke might be a possibility, but certainly nothing more.
The most recent terrorist attack had the people practically begging for a police state to keep them safe, and the ensuing loss of their liberty just about took them out of the picture all together — which is why he was sure he had nothing to fear from this last encounter with them. The power of the former Republic was no longer a threat to men like him or to their secret agendas.
“Are you comfortable, sir?” the shadow from the driver’s seat asked.
The Senator blinked, tapped his cigarette with a free finger, and watched the ashes flutter to the carpeted floor at his feet. “Sure,” he grumbled.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes, sir.”
He stared out through the wet window, ignoring his own reflection, his mind dazed by the blurred city lights. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
The driver pulled over on East 157th Street, and a man with an umbrella was waiting at the curb. Opening the rear door, he ushered the Senator out, escorting him under the umbrella into the newly renovated Yankee Stadium. The game was just going into the 7th inning after two rain delays, but the Senator wasn’t there to be entertained.
They made their way through scores of local police and NAU soldiers before using an alternate entrance into the stadium.
Three police officers dressed in black uniforms scrutinized them as they approached, their trigger-fingers dancing on their weapons. The man with the umbrella flashed some kind of ID, and the cops let them enter without a word. Once inside and on their way to the owner’s box, a security guard ran up to the Senator, ranting rather excitedly about a smoke-free zone.
Stopping, the Senator turned, his overcoat swinging in pursuit. “Excuse me?” he growled.
“It’s an eco crime, sir. I’m going to have to ask that you get rid of it.”
He smiled a wicked smile and blew smoke into the young security guard’s face.
“I passed that law, son.” Then he flicked the butt off the guard’s chest, turned, and continued to the owner’s box.
The security guard reached for his taser gun, but the man with the umbrella stepped in front of him and waved a finger before he could get it out of its holster.
“Don’t even think about it, young man.” He folded the umbrella. “Or you’ll be working in a labor camp before the game is over.”
They left the young officer staring blankly at their backs as they walked away.
The man with the umbrella opened the door for the Senator, ushering him through. Once the Senator was in, the man followed, closing the door behind them and locking it.
“You look terrible.”
The voice came from behind the bar.
The Senator stepped forward, reaching into the chest pocket of his jacket, and extracted an envelope. “I have the information.”
A man emerged from behind the bar carrying a bottle and two glasses. “Seriously Bill, you look like hell,” he said.
“Rough night.”
The man was a good twenty years younger than the Senator, dressed in slacks and a cotton shirt underneath a sweater vest. “A drink then.” He filled both glasses, handing one to the Senator who drained the whole thing in one gulp. The man raised an eyebrow, turned, and walked to an oversized chair, sitting to the sound of the crowd cheering a Yankee homerun. “You hear that?” he asked, nodding toward the tinted glass that hid them from the 53,000 standing fans on the other side. “The sound of ignorance.” He took a sip and waved his hand at the air. “Bliss. They care more about the pennant than their country.” He laughed.
It was an old tale, and the Senator didn’t need a lesson in how the world really worked by someone younger than himself. Obviously the guy was a Bonesman, but so was he, as well as being a frequent guest to Bohemian Grove. The Senator stepped toward him and tossed the envelope into his lap. “The diagnostics from DC.”
The younger man sat up, immediately tearing it open. “Is it what we thought?”
“It’s all in there,” responded the Senator. “Can’t imagine why it’s so important.”
Pulling a coin-sized disc out of the envelope, the man smiled. “Have the loose ends been taken care of?” He placed the disc on the table next to him.
“As we speak.”
The man nodded. “We can’t be too careful these days… What’s the cover?”
“One of the scientists tried to steal it, to sell it on the black market. He murdered the others before being stopped by security.”
He nodded his approval. “Will you stay and watch the remainder of the game?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling the walls press in on him. “No. I have to get back. It’s been an awful day.” He made his way back to the door where the gentleman with the umbrella opened it for him.
“Senator,” the man called, standing.
He stopped and hesitated, looked back over his shoulder.
“Did you happen to come from the Pratt House?”
He answered methodically, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. “No. I came from your wife’s.”
The man chuckled. “Senator—” he tossed the bottle of scotch to him.
The Senator caught it, looked it over.
“Relax,” the man finished. “We’re untouchable. We’re dealing with people that believe kerosene can disintegrate 110 stories of steel and concrete in an hour.” Then he picked up the disc. “People that believe whatever we tell them to believe.” He walked back behind the bar. “That’s the beauty of this place. We can always count on half a million people coming to watch someone hit a ball with a piece of wood.”
The Senator forced a smile. To which the man raised his glass and turned away, walking through another door behind the bar. “See you later, Bill.”
The Senator walked out of the owner’s box, the umbrella man closing the door behind him.
“I’ll escort you back to your car, sir.”
****
In the owner’s box, the man who did not own the Yankees — but was very close to the one who did — turned the huge four dimensional Ultra Definition TV back on, its nanocrystals shining bright while the visible light technology stimulated his senses with high frequency blinking. He knew it was a Pepsi add, because he suddenly needed to have one, and he again reminded himself to get the feature removed. He hated
being
manipulated, especially by something he couldn’t see. That was
his
role, to manipulate. Putting the urge for an ice cold Pepsi out of his mind, he focused on the image that was projected. There he was… the Senator, coming from the Pratt House, ambushed by protestors.
They were all screaming, holding signs. As the Senator approached his car, one young man stepped out from the group, video camera in hand, and yelled, “America won’t give in to your agendas! We know what you’re doing, and we’re not going to let it happen!”
The Senator turned, glaring at the punk kid, and slapped the camera out of his hand. “There is no more America!” Then he seethed, “You’re treading on dangerous ground here. Someone could get hurt doing this.”
To which the kid responded, “Sir, was that a threat? Did you just threaten me, Senator?” It was at that instant that the Senator noticed a major news reporter standing nearby, face frozen in shock, his cameraman recording the whole event. The tape ended just as security guards and police began closing in on the crowd.
The news anchor began talking, the clip over and the picture now of the studio, but the man wasn’t really listening. Something about more laws needing to be passed against this kind of anti-government rhetoric. “Nazi propaganda” was what he was calling it.