Leviathan

by Nicholas Gagnier

  Leviathan

  The Book of Death: Volume I

  NICHOLAS GAGNIER

  Copyright © 2019 Nicholas Gagnier

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the

  case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1075018886

  http://www.nicholasgagnier.info

  For my friend Kindra

  Also by Nicholas Gagnier

  The Olivia & Hale Series

  Leonard the Liar

  Mercy Road

  Founding Fathers

  Dead’s Haven

  Olivia & Hale

  The Chronicles of Vee

  Embers of Aloessia

  Fury is not in me; Would that I were as the briers and thorns in flame, I would with one step burn it altogether.

  Isaiah 27:4

  Prologue

  In the beginning, there was nothing.

  Other, more bitter celestial beings might feed you a load of bullshit about God creating the Earth in seven days, or the merits of the Big Bang theory, the event which created our universe.

  In comparison to them, I only wish to tell you about mistakes, and how immortals are no less prone to them than your average human being. In lore, we are presented as gods, untouchable beings who dole out commands to humankind below, and then forget about our charges.

  Misinformation is the price of ignorance, and I would like to set the record straight, because all that has happened- the Breach, the plague and everything at Atlas thereafter- began with a mistake.

  There is no sense in telling you how I came to be Death. It is no longer a story worth telling. All that matters is the present, and the job bestowed on me. I was handed the power of space and time, and the charge of claiming souls ready to leave their organic vessels.

  Obviously, the inner workings of such a process are somewhat confidential; an agreement between myself, and the powers that be above. To a point, I performed my duties diligently, reshaping the debris of my realm after the events which led to my hiring.

  You would think Death is all powerful, but everybody has a boss, and mine are the kind nobody wants.

  Back to mistakes, because that is the reason I am forced to transcribe the events which occurred at Atlas. Because there can be no repentance without confession, my sins must be immortalized. Alongside whatever judgement I deserve, I am no more flawless than the woman who entrusted this job to me.

  On average, a person dies every 1.2 seconds. The immense amount of time-space travel required to zip from one end of the planet to another would not be achievable without certain powers in my arsenal. I can exist in multiple places, taking any form I wish. A series of portals between my realm, often referred to as the Shroud, and disparate locales do wonders for efficiency.

  I will admit, after the first decade as Death- travelling to every corner of the Earth on a dime, just to touch a poor soul who fell into a quarry, got blown up in a minefield or was dying of old age- I became desensitized to it. I grew accustomed to the idea of being alone forever, without a companion to make the nights less lonely, or moral whitewashing less inevitable. I accepted it, and thrived.

  But little by little, my mind wandered back to the past every so often. Given eternity to build and multiply like the explosion which created the universe, eventually something had to form of it.

  Eventually, the past began to haunt me. From the relative safety of certain devices in the Shroud, I began looking back into the past which led to this- becoming Death, the destroyer of worlds.

  That is where mistakes begin. Sitting on a red chair, outside a hospice room in a city you’ve never visited; on a continent you’ve never been brave enough to explore. Normally, the sight of a white man in a suit in Northeastern Beijing would probably turn heads.

  The indistinct chatter of nurses and doctors in a foreign language leaves you given up on any attempt to decipher the soundtrack, so there is no way to tell how they would react, weren’t I invisible to them.

  When the time was right, I would be able to converse with my charge, and we would fully understand each other. Like emptiness, death is universal, and both were in Lin Mao’s eyes that night, left ajar into nothing like doors.

  She was almost ready.

  As I waited for the daughter of a Chinese dignitary to die- brain cancer had come for her at a young age, but infection was simultaneously chipping away at her immune system- I made the first mistake of wondering.

  Wondering about what could have been, if I wasn’t Death, travelling the world on my private jet of portals and self-righteousness; thinking about how one minor detail in the precarious balance of my mortal life could have spared me this.

  The doctors yelled at each other as Lin flatlined, but I had long drowned out the sound at that point. Another day, another wailing heart monitor; another dead baby, one more gunshot victim.

  The work is never done.

  How I had the time to err so greatly will forever be a matter of debate, even to me. Because where I should have been attentive to Lin being washed out on the waves of dying perception, I was too busy thinking of these events which should have never mattered.

  With Lin taken care of, I returned to my realm, coveting seconds until I was made aware of another soul who needed me. The space where many of the Shroud’s most powerful devices were long stored before their destruction is barely more than an empty vessel now.

  At one point, there was a basin whose occupants would be reincarnated as newborns in the real world, only waking once they died as that identity.

  I only used it once, and would have no desire to attempt it again, did it still exist.

  Instead, I was forced to craft a new system from the wreckage of the eons-old infrastructure of the Timestream, where I became Death. I had to create something new, because the way things have always been simply no longer work.

  The Shroud’s new entryway, painstakingly constructed over three years, is much more methodical than the old way of dumping souls at random points throughout the realm’s version of New York City.

  When Lin arrived in the Arcway, I had already assumed my position. Like every other soul who enters into my world, she was spellbound by the overhead arrangement of darkness. The brown eyes were full of life, unlike in the hospice. Her hair, completely shaved or fallen out on her deathbed, was full restored in a healthy ponytail.

  After a moment to admire her regenerated form, Lin noticed me smiling at her, and moved her mouth. The words slipped out were in Mandarin, but reached my ears in English, and vice versa for her.

  “Welcome to the Arcway,” I told her, “My name is Tim.”

  My real name is no longer relevant, and matters to few. However, it is more assuring than telling them I am Death, the destroyer of worlds.

  Am I dead? Lin asked in her mother tongue.

  “Unfortunately, you succumbed to your illness, Lin. You have come to a place where you will await your salvation, or damnation, when the Atlas decides it.”

  What does that mean?

  Panic in her voice was like that of many others; my only purpose to assuage it.

  “In times past, the damnation part was scarier. I will not tell you what happened to the unfortunate ones back then. Now, it simply means you rem
ain here in the Shroud, free to build your own life.” I winced. “Makes ‘damnation’ thing sound a lot scarier than it is.”

  And salvation?

  My mouth returned to a slight smile.

  “Would mean you go to Atlas, where you live out your days in a city above the clouds. So really, it’s one shade of sky or another.”

  Lin relaxed at this explanation, as so many do. Some people will continue to fret over the fact they are dead, but most accept it; proving death is harder for those who are left behind.

  Will I see my family again?

  Of all inquiries in the Frequently Asked Questions document, this one is the hardest to explain.

  “As long as they live, Lin, no. But once they have left the living plane, they can join you, so long as the Atlas leaves you in the same place, which they usually try to do a better job of nowadays.”

  And there you have it. Unlike many tumultuous periods before it, dying had almost reached a point of fairness. An acceptable plateau, as to what follows the white light.

  It makes the overall mistake worse, I suppose. As Lin exited the Arcway, taking in the abandoned Manhattan vista for the first time, as I once did; my mind wandered to the past, and a mirror which would show it to me.

  Snapping my fingers, the dark backdrop faded to a different sort of scenery. I don’t look upon my replica of the destroyed Timestream site often. Why I sought to preserve it in the first place is simply a matter of impulse.

  To my right, the basin itself was looked over by a blazing swirl in the sky, masquerading as a sun. On the left, a giant forest- home to numerous animals and birds, led down to the sand strip.

  The mirror itself, found in my exploration of the Shroud and brought to the Arcway, was the seed of a mistake I would allow to bloom into the Shroud’s potential destruction.

  Had I known what I know now, the magic object would have remained at the Los Angeles ruin I found it in. I would have never become entranced by its dark powers, or used it to explore the possibilities of my past.

  This is the story of that mistake, and all the terrible things that came from it. The only thing I will say in my defense, and the defense of all those who aided me in trying to fix it, is that I fell in love, when I never thought it would be possible again.

  The path into darkness is lined with a thousand blinding lights.

  1995

  Chapter One

  The door to John Hazel’s office stares back at me. It is glass, rounded bar for a handle and no lock. Through a transparent plate of corresponding windows, sounds are muffled to the FBI Director, but one turn of his head, he can see most of the floor.

  Nose pointed down at the desk, ears perked for any louder sounds out of the ordinary; the pen furiously scribbles on paper in front of him. A blocky computer monitor impedes the small mountain of paperwork required of his position. The mouse sits on a nylon pad in front of him, rarely touched.

  I don’t blame him. Technology eludes me as well.

  The man himself is taller than I could ever hope to be. A rare occurrence, considering I tower over most men. The way Hazel hunches over, I can just imagine he wears leg braces beneath his slacks. A medical alert bracelet adorns his wrist, but I cannot make out its engraved warnings on its silver plate.

  I knock on the glass. Hazel’s head looks up at the barrier, seeing me- Ramona Knox, who has no business being an agent but became one anyway. The eyes meet mine, blue unlike his namesake; and I get a better look at the man who could make or break my shiny new career inside a second. As he waves me through the door, the goatee enshrouding his lips is weighed down by stress in every crevice of his jawline and forehead.

  John Hazel may be twice my age, but I can relate all too well.

  “Director Hazel?” I say, closing the thick glass door behind me. I approach his desk, hands clasped behind my back. The pantsuit around my own legs has no braces beneath the material, but surely, we must have something in common. “Ramona Knox, reporting.”

  “Agent,” he replies, gesturing to a chair on my side of a small desk dividing us. Apparently, promotions don’t mean much of an upgrade in digs. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Please, have a seat.”

  “I’d prefer to stand, sir. Thank you.”

  Hazel nods, neither dignifying or disparaging my choice. Dropping his pen on the desk, it rolls a few inches along the paper stack’s surface, rolling to a stop at the same time its bearer leans back in the chair, grunting.

  “I got a big problem, Knox. I have twelve open missing person cases in this city the municipal cops can’t do anything about. All children, linked to Jordan West.”

  “Sir?”

  Hazel chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to give you a pop quiz. You’ve only been here a month. I would not expect you to know all the ins and outs of this case, Agent.”

  He stands from his chair, each shift in his leg muscles and lower back popping in the corner of his mouth as he walks around the desk, leaning on its precipice with crossed arms.

  “You’re a recent addition to the Bureau. Top of your class at Quantico. Parents murdered when you were two years old. I read the reports. They found your mother and father’s body at the bottom of a quarry. That right?”

  I swallow pride, shake my head.

  “Actually, it was a gravel pit, sir. Common mistake.”

  Hazel frowns, but does not respond to the correction.

  “I’ve already lost two of my best agents to this individual, Knox. I have a city in panic over whether kids will come home after school. They disappear from parks, grocery stores, museums. All it takes is their parents’ heads turning, they’re gone. These people pop out of the ground like worms, steal our fucking sunlight, and tunnel back down below.”

  “How many kids have been lost, sir?”

  “Upwards of ten, and that’s just D.C. I got reports as far away as Los Angeles using the same modus operandi,” the Director replies, returning to his chair. The wood creaks as he lowers himself back into it. “All the children are between seven and twelve, taken and never seen again.”

  “If I can just ask, sir?”

  “Go on.”

  “Why me?”

  Hazel sighs.

  “I won’t lie, Agent. I’m already under a lot of pressure on this. I got media, parents, politicians, school boards and every other child welfare-related entity up my ass. And I’m a father too, so I can only imagine their loss.

  “Record says you’re never married. No kids or family to speak of. Raised by distant relatives. Overachiever. There are more commendations in your file than there is personal information, Ramona, so I really don’t know anything about you, understand?”

  Many words sit between my throat and air-conditioned silence. I resolve to let none of them manifest as sounds.

  Hazel takes answer in my unmoving lips, chuckling at the hardwood floor. The rest of the office is barren, save the bookshelf which bears his framed credentials and a family photo on his desk. I am still unsure what to display on mine, if the FBI thinks to give me any kind of personal space. There has been little mention of it yet.

  “I need a fresh set of eyes here, Agent. Your instructors at Quantico had nothing but the highest praise for your ability and intellect. Ian Armstrong, in particular.”

  The thought of my frazzled teacher at the FBI training facility brings the first hint of a smile to my resting expression since I walked in here.

  “Yes sir,” I nod, “Likewise, I have nothing but the utmost respect for that man.”

  “That is good, because it was Ian who convinced me to put you on this case.”

  “He did?” I ask.

  Hazel nods.

  “Ian and I have been friends for thirty years. This case has already shaken families across the country. I have sat with these people, tried to comfort them with promises we will bring their children home, or find the people responsible. You need to believe me when I tell you, Ramona; I am a desperate man.

  “So I cal
led him. Ian, who I’ve known since our days in the reserve. And I asked him, what should I do? And he said, Ramona fucking Knox. Bring her in.”

  Ian always did have a mouth on him.

  “So,” Hazel continues, “while I know I may reap holy Hell from above for placing a rookie- and a woman, at that- on this case, I’m going to go with my friend’s advice on this one. You go after Jordan West, and you bring his depraved ring of human traffickers down. Don’t make me have to explain another child’s loss, Agent Knox.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I cannot deal with any more grieving parents, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Director studies me. Ever expressionless, I try not to let my eyes blink more than normal, or the panic in my chest show.

  “You’ll be paired up with Stephen Hardwick. No doubt, another person I’ll have to justify your assignment to. He can be…difficult.”

  “Sir?”

  Hazel taps his fingers on the desk. “Hardwick is one of our most experienced agents. That said, this case has shaken him. Loss of his last two partners. There’s some personal messes in there, too. Man has seen too many funerals lately.”

  “So treat his suspicion with understanding. Got it.”

  “This is no time for sarcasm, Agent.”

  “I did not intend any, Director Hazel,” I reply, privately irked I cannot be taken without it. “Suffice to say, I have been underestimated all my life. I’m not about to let one cynical FBI agent start weighing me down.”

  Hazel squints at my audacity.

  I gloss over it.

  “Was there anything else sir, or should I find Agent Hardwick and get to work?”

  The squint lapses into a relieved smile.

  “That will be all, Knox. You might find Hardwick at his desk. Just a word of advice. Ease into it.”

  I nod, long brown locks bouncing on my shoulder. The haircut is new, and I knew I should have shortened the bangs.