Chapter 19
MONDAY 3:50 a.m.
St. John’s Cathedral
Bathwick, England
He had to make this right. There had to be a pathway forward that did not include Javan.
Closing his eyes, Ian waited for guidance
. In the fog of his eyelids, the captive remained coiled in the corner of the aphotic cell, staring at Ian, waiting, irrepressible. Ian grabbed his head and tried to force the vision from his mind. Maybe he could bury the image of his desiccated body, burning eyes, and dehydrated veins—entomb it somewhere beneath hundreds of unanswered prayers.
There was no sanctuary
for him, not even within the protective walls of St. John’s Cathedral. By meeting with Javan, he had turned his back on God. He had unwittingly invited a poltergeist inside his mind. The demon quickly rooted itself, sinking talons into unquenchable grief and spreading like wildfire over the parched grasses of his faith.
Come
.
“Not again,” Ian begged. He ground h
is palms against his ears until he felt the sting of the symbol in his hand. It was a futile attempt to block out a voice that originated inside. He sat up and tried the lamp. The power was still out. He lit the candle near his bedside.
The darkness receded to the corners of his room.
Grabbing his cane, he limped back and forth across the floor. The room was narrow, airless like the captive’s cell, just as suffocating. He could take no more. He burst out the door and descended the stairway, moving quickly down the steps and ignoring the pain in his joints. His robe flared as he hurried across the corridor into the library. It hurt to move so quickly, but his mind weighed heavier on his soul than his body.
He ran
the candle along the dusty shelves. Hundreds of 17th and 18th century texts were stacked floor to ceiling. Nearly two decades ago, when he had first come to study at St. John’s, he had stumbled upon writings of the occult. It was purely by accident. A priest would never search out apocryphal texts, and he never expected to find the arcane in a Catholic collection. The book was written in Hebrew. Brenton had taught him Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Coptic Egyptian, and even Mayan, but he knew little about the Hebrew writing system. The occult text would’ve been indecipherable, but someone had painstakingly translated the Hebrew into blocky, swirling Greek. Once Ian had discovered the Greek translation, his nights were spent pouring over the script, defacing the pages with his own penciled English translations.
Where was that book?
He climbed the sliding ladder attached to the shelves. Holding the candle with his left hand, he searched the highest shelf, hoping to recognize the book. He ran his forefinger along each leather spine, dipping momentarily into the gaps between books as he moved across the top shelf and then over the shelf below. Flickering candlelight cast diagonal shadows over the crevices separating each text. None of the fraying, boney book ridges looked familiar. He lowered to the third row, dragging his finger over each spine. He poked through a small hole, his finger lodging in between two larger texts. The cavity was too wide to keep the adjacent books from falling in upon each other, and yet the texts stood upright.
H
e forced his way into the nook and felt the top of a small leather text, a petite and stubby thing lost in shadow. He pulled it out. The book was half an inch thick, three inches by five inches in size. He blew dust off the cover, set his candle on the shelf ledge, and stared at the faded title. The Hebrew letters were stained with mold.
It
was vaguely familiar.
He opened to the title page
. The tiny Hebrew words were printed with gold foil. Their transliteration was in bold calligraphy underneath.
אֲבַדּוֹן הֹוָה
Keloohah’ee Sheh-ole’ Abaddon
There it was,
Abaddon
. Javan had said something about the captive ruling Abaddon.
At the
bottom of the page, in nearly vanished pencil, the Greek translation was followed by his own translation:
αντιχριστος καταστροφέας
anti-Christ’s ruin
Ian climbed down the ladder. He
grabbed the candle and limped up the staircase into his room. Excitement swelled over him as he shut the door. He set the candle on his bedside table and dropped onto his mattress. Dust lined the book cover and the top of every page. He flipped anxiously through the text. Most of his pencil scribbles were too faint to read, but the Greek translations were unblemished.
The pages
fell open near the center of the book, where a small slip of paper was tucked into the crease of the binding. It was a note from a fortune cookie.
Pe
ople who are late are often happier than those who have to wait for them.
Scribbled
across the back was an address: 9 Sheep Street, Northampton, Northamptonshire, NN1 2LU.
The address was unfamiliar.
Northampton was far away from Bathwick. He tucked the paper into the crease, and then noticed that directly below it on the page was the Hebrew symbol for Abaddon. His finger traced the Greek translation as he decoded the English equivalent.
Abaddon: ruin, perdition, destruction; the forefathers of Dark Priesthood, Protectors of…
He didn’t recognize the word but the Hebrew transliteration was pronounced
beb’ne hoshekh
.
What did it mean—fo
refathers of the Dark Priesthood?
Ian turned the page.
Abaddon guard the secrets of Apocalypse and protect the sacred seals until the Chosen One calls forth the end.
The Chosen One?
“Father Ian?” a voice sounded at his door.
The book
dropped from Ian’s hands. His heart leapt into his throat. He was certain Father Tracy could hear its panicked rhythm beyond the door. He cleared his throat, gaining control over his voice. “I’m sorry, Father. Did I wake you?”
Father Tracy’s voic
e wavered with age. “There was some noise. Are you alright?”
Ian
tucked the book under his pillow and blew out his candle. “That was me,” he explained. “I got up for a drink of water. Sorry for waking you.”
Father Tracy’s candlelight danced underneath the crack of the door.
“I’m fine. Settled now,” Ian insisted.
The older priest’s shadow
turned away from the door. His light faded, and the black of night took its place, creeping under the door, stirring inside Ian’s room, filling the corners and invading the bed.
Come…
The word thundered in Ian’s brain.
G
uilt congealed on his tongue. He felt for the book under his pillow and slid the text to the far corner of the bed. It was not too late. He could walk away from everything and cut ties with Javan, bury his father in silence and ignore the grief.
He shut his eyes and kne
lt beside the bed.
“
Holy Father, remove this evil from me.” He swallowed, trying to mean it, but anger was in him now and the two could not be separated. “I beg Thee…”
He waited.
A dark weight squeezed his mind. There must be some reply.
An hour passed
. Ian’s mind became foggy. He sank into the covers of his bed.
S
unrise capped his windowsill but didn’t penetrate the darkness of his mind.
Ice ran through
his veins.
And during all this, God was silent.
Chapter 20
MONDAY 5:55 a.m.
Denburn Court Apartments
Aberdeen, Scotland
“The police…
interviewed your neighbors…sifted through the mess…”
Chief Detective Inspector Lang’s voice drifted in and out
. David sat on what remained of his shredded couch. His eyes glossed over. Grampian Police swarmed his flat. They photographed non-existent evidence, fingerprinted a ghost, scribbled notes about some superhuman specter that disappeared from the 16th story balcony.
“It’s understandable, David,” Lang tried to explain
the situation away. “People imagine things when they’re over-exhausted. You’re certain you aren’t missing anything?”
In a moment
of weakness, David had called Lang. The man made the trek from England to Scotland. He was practically on the train before David could redact the invitation. After everything that had happened—the morning at Stenness and then this—he just needed to hear a familiar voice.
What a mistake.
He groaned. His eyes landed on the answering machine and its blinking red light. In the flurry of events, he’d completely forgotten about it. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stood and walked over to the kitchen counter while Lang was midsentence.
“David?” Lang followed behind. “Are you alright?”
David moved aside debris and pressed the play button.
“T
his is Elizabeth Mead from Cambridge University.” The woman didn’t hide her annoyance. “Our department has been trying to reach your father for quite some time now, and he hasn’t responded to any of our messages.”
“I should hope not,” Lang interjected, shaking his head.
“There’s been a fire,” she continued. “It was contained to Brenton’s office. It looks as if a few of his things survived. The problem is, we need the space cleaned out by Monday, as it is scheduled to be occupied by someone else.”
David grabbed his coat off the dining table, the only unharmed piece of furniture in his apartment.
“We can take care of that later, David,” Lang insisted, following him to the door. “You need rest.”
“What I
need
is to get out of here.”
Lang followed him
to the elevator. “We’re still investigating the break in. You need to be here for questioning.”
“You heard the message,” David snapped. “The blessed martyr needs his rubbish removed.”
The elevator doors opened. David stepped inside and pressed the parking garage button. The doors began to close.
Lang stuck his foot in the door
. “Let me handle Brenton’s office,” he offered, his thick gray eyebrows raised with concern. “Why don’t you stay with me? Susan’s room is empty. You and I can straighten this out and get you on your feet again.”
David scoff
ed. It was a stupid idea, especially after the way things had ended years ago. He held his tongue, his conscience getting the better of him. “Look, I appreciate the offer, don’t get me wrong…but if I don’t go and do something…anything,” he paused, too tired to formulate complete sentences. “I’ve got to keep moving. You can understand that, right?”
Lang hesitated
.
David forced a smile. “So unless you’re going to arrest me…”
“Just be careful.” Lang backed away from the door. His words sounded too fatherly.
The
awkwardness between them increased. David’s stomach twisted with resentment.
The doors closed, and t
he elevator made its slow descent to the parking garage.
David leaned agai
nst the corner. His chest felt heavy. Each inhalation burned. Maybe if he stopped inhaling…
Chapter 21
MONDAY 6:38 a.m.
Meath County, Ireland
P
erched on the hills overlooking the meandering River Boyne, the monstrous passage grave Newgrange stretched over one full acre of grassland. It was the largest ruin of its kind, a cairn of stones that had been reconstructed with chalky white quartz and studded with cobblestone. A large, oval kerbstone carved with curvilinear helixes of three interlocking spirals protected its arched entrance. The opening faced southeast, aligned with the rising sun. Nearby were two sister megaliths, the passage graves Knowth and Dowth.
Sunlight moved up
the kerbstone and penetrated the doorway. It stretched sixty feet down the narrow shaft and into the chamber.
Dust twisted off the floor.
Noise erupted from the ground.
A
terrible cacophony swelled into a subsonic crescendo. In a tidal wave of noise, the soundwave burst over the countryside, spilling into Brú na Bóinne valley, tumbling along the river, and then stopping a half mile short of the nearby village, Drogheda.
Chapter 22
SUNDAY 11:05 a.m.
Stenness, Orkney Island,
Scotland
Thatcher bent awkwardly over the carcass of a dead lamb and placed a tracking device into the ground beside it. Sound suits were far more restrictive than the plastic and rubber chemical and biological garb worn by the NCEC. She wished the whole body armor precaution was unnecessary, but until they knew what was releasing lethal noise, the suits and helmets were mandatory.
White wooly death covered the landscape of Stenness.
Someone had detonated a subsonic weapon in the valley. Their mission was to map the dead sheep by each square foot. Theoretically, the death toll would be greater at the epicenter of the discharge, and they’d be able to establish the location of ground zero.
“Marek
, can you hear me?” she spoke into her helmet microphone. All she heard in return was radio static. Sound suits were remarkably effective at blocking out noise. Nothing got in or out except by radio transmission, and even that was spotty.
“Yes, ma’am,” his voice came over the receiver.
She bent over another dead animal and placed a marker into the ground. “Give me an update.”
“671 and countin’,” he responded from basecamp.
Marek’s computer screen CGI map displayed hundreds of white dots. The map updated and expanded as more markers were placed in the ground, forming a wide and crudely oval dead zone. “The boys are moving towards you,” he said into his comlink. “Golke’s about 130 feet north.”
Thatcher looked up and waved at Golke. The Grecian waved back and then stabbed one of his markers into the body of a sheep.
She rolled her eyes. “Marek, please tell Golke the sensors are meant to be placed in the
ground
and not in the sheep?”
Everyone but Lee laughed over the radio.
“The sheep spread much further north than I expected,” Thatcher said, placing another flag into the earth.
“Stenness is definitely in the lower-quadrant of the acoustic wave path,” Marek agreed. “It makes me think whoever did this might not have been targeting the village.”
Thatcher stood up too quickly. Sparks burst along the periphery of her vision. A wave of nausea upturned her stomach. Frozen in grotesque positions, the sheep corpses had a way of asphyxiating the living that walked among them. She crouched over a lamb, waiting for the aura to disappear. The dizziness abated, and she examined the animal’s body more closely.
What would it feel like to die
from subsonic noise?
She couldn’t help but shiver.
That night in the tent with Marek, she had come so close.
Trails of d
ried blood ran from the animal’s nose and ears. She touched the wool with her gloves. The gloves were so thick she was unable to feel any texture as she moved along its torso. The abdomen was hard, though, and the eyes repulsive. Clouded and paranoid in expression, the animal’s corneas had ruptured internally with putrefaction. This was her playground, the chemistry of death.
Another set of eyes caught her attention,
peering just above the rotting sheep. They returned her stare with schizoid fear, and then blinked.
Startled, Thatcher fell
backwards.
Lee’s voice
resounded over the radio. “Bloody hell. Where’d they come from?”
She was staring at
a living, breathing sheep.
Lee approach
ed her, pointing beyond the animal in front of her to more sheep migrating into the valley.
“I couldn’t hear
it with this blasted helmet on,” she explained, embarrassed that Lee had seen her fall.
Donovon
joined them. “They’ve come to mourn their dead, the ugly buggers.”
Thatcher scanned the landscape.
As her team had reached the outskirts of the death zone, a new live herd was making its way into the fields northeast of Stenness. They were coming from every direction. It was surreal to watch them make their way through the dead.
She faced
the markers they had set into place. There was definitely a pattern. The fluffy corpses formed a massive oval of death. The circumference was made even more obvious by the living sheep now gathering around it.
“Will
you look at that?” she said, tracing the outline of the oval with her arms.
“They’re ba-ack!” Bailey called over the radio.
“Marek,” Thatcher said. “We’ve finished marking the perimeter.”
“Okay, give me a second.” Marek refreshed the computer image.
All of the white markers appeared on screen. “Damn, that’s 702 sheep later, we got ourselves a diameter that’s half a mile wide by two miles long—that’s weird,” he paused, rechecking the metric scale on his map. “
Exactly
a half mile wide and two miles long.”
“That means
it was a cannon and not a bomb,” Thatcher said. A bomb would have formed a near perfect circle, but a cannon’s noise would stretch and curve, basically forming the pattern they were seeing. The most intense soundwaves would have expanded directly out in front of the barrel and minor soundwaves would amplify behind the origin.
“
So, where is Stenness in relation?” she asked.
“It’s
1.54 miles from the northeast and 0.39 miles from the southwest end of the zone.”
Thatcher looked back at Stenness
. The village was at the edge of the destruction pattern, nowhere near the center.
“So,” she thought out loud. “
That makes the source…”
“
Holy shit!” Marek exclaimed.
Thatcher realized
the same thing.
T
he passage grave bulged out of the pastureland like a verdant wart between them and the village.
Marek’s answer came over the radio. “
The sound came from Maeshowe.”