The Mayan Apocalypse

by Mark Hitchcock

  “Amazing,” Quetzal said. “I’ve seen it many times, but it never ceases to fill me with awe. My people knew more than any civilization of their day. Do you know what their real legacy is, Morgan? They were predictors, prophets of the future. They didn’t have just a prophet or two as you find in the Bible. The entire race was committed to chronicling the past and predicting the future. This is proof of their skill, don’t you think?”

  “It is impressive.”

  “It’s more than impressive. Other ancient civilizations were fixated on the heavens, but the Mayans went beyond charting the heavens to know when to plant. They predicted future catastrophes.” He paused. “You do believe that, don’t you, Mr. Morgan?”

  Morgan didn’t answer at first. He kept his eyes fixed on the descending shadow.

  “I know you believe, Morgan. I can sense it. It’s one reason I brought you here. I want you to experience the glory of the past so you will have no doubts about the apocalypse of the future.”

  “I don’t need to be convinced. I may not agree with everything you believe, but I agree enough.”

  “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  Minutes passed quickly, and the body of Quetzalcoatl touched the stone snake head carved by people long gone but not forgotten.

  Did they know they were changing the future? Morgan convinced himself they did.

  DECEMBER 3, 2012

  Morgan sat in the last seat of the Bombardier Challenger corporate jet as it cruised at thirty-three thousand feet. Whenever he traveled on commercial airliners, he flew first class, which put him at the front of the aircraft. Even in his business jet, he preferred being directly over the wings—less bounce that way. However, this was not a commercial jet or his beloved Cessna Citation Sovereign. It was a jet owned by Quetzal and the Maya2012 organization. As well appointed as it was, he preferred his own aircraft and pilots.

  The cabin was a little over half full. In addition to himself, there were six other guests. Add Quetzal and Balfour to the count, and the number rose to nine in a cabin designed for fourteen. Each passenger had two things in common. First, every passenger was rich— personal wealth in the top fifty of the United States. Second, each believed the world was about to undergo a dramatic and probably cataclysmic change. They believed it enough to spend millions of their billions.

  Morgan knew there were others. Quetzal had been up-front about that, although he never divulged just how many people were taking out 2012 insurance policies. “We have followers the world over,” Quetzal had said. “Each brings something special to the table. We will seed the new world with the best and the brightest that humanity has to offer.”

  Being one of the best and brightest didn’t motivate Morgan. He was highly intelligent, but he held no illusions about being the sharpest crayon in the box. Although he studied the sciences, especially geology, he never thought of himself as a scientist. He was, at best, an engineer, and he took pride in that. Of course, his days of oil discovery were long past. The countless hours in the field, flying across the country and around the world, were over. Still, he considered them his best days. Now his greatest physical discomfort came from sitting behind a desk for too long.

  He gazed out the small rectangular window and saw nothing but blue water and bobbing ice floes. Winter in that part of the country comes much earlier than it does in Oklahoma.

  The trip began with Morgan’s flight to Atlanta, where he stayed in the five-star Albert Lloyd hotel near Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. That night, Quetzal treated his guests to a banquet served by the hotel’s top chef and staff. Nothing about the pending end of the world was discussed. Little more needed to be said. Once Morgan had signed on and sealed the deal with a ten-million-dollar “contribution,” he received weekly updates about events around the world. As the months passed, weekly updates became daily. All information was routed through secure servers that only the “future-nauts” had access too.

  Morgan hated the appellation. Someone had jokingly referred to the inner circle of supporters as “future-nauts,” and the term stuck.

  The next morning, he and the others boarded the Bombardier and took to the air. The aircraft was capable of flying over three thousand miles, especially with a passenger list just sixty percent full. Still, they made a stop in Vancouver to refuel and to clear customs. From there, they flew northwest over Canada and made one more stop in Anchorage, Alaska. They took time to dine and stretch their legs before starting the next leg of the journey. A little over three hours into the trip, the pilot’s voice poured from the intercom system. “Lady and gentlemen, I thought you might like to know that we’ve crossed over the International Date Line. It is now yesterday.”

  The comment sent titters through the cabin. Morgan found it amusing but not worth drawing his attention from the rolling, icedabbled ocean below.

  His mind ran to Lisa, as it often did. The last sixteen months had passed quickly, and their relationship had grown but had reached a stalemate. Like a fish kept in too small of an aquarium, it just refused to grow any larger.

  Heaviness pressed on his chest, which was something that was happening more and more often. He wasn’t looking for a new love, and he had made that clear to Lisa. She had made it clear that she could not love a man who rejected Christ. They settled on being friends.

  “The party is at the front of the plane.” The voice, nasal but confident, drew Morgan’s attention from the window. Charles Balfour slipped into the rear-facing seat opposite Morgan. “We have champagne, beer, wine, and an exceptionally good burgundy.”

  “No thanks.” Morgan hoped his smile came across as genuine. “I notice that you’re not drinking.”

  Balfour chuckled. “Very observant. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me. I have a sensitive stomach.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Balfour tipped his head to the right. “Really? I’m sorry. I forgot. You have a problem with—sorry, that’s a lousy way to begin a sentence.”

  Morgan wasn’t surprised that the thin man knew of his previous battles with booze. “That’s all right. I’m not ashamed of it. Truth is, I describe myself as a sober alcoholic, but I was probably just drowning my grief. Some people do that. I may not be a textbook drunk, but I got close enough to see it.”

  “Well, that’s one problem I’ll never have. The stuff makes me puke.”

  Balfour had always come across as a refined gentleman. Hearing him use the word puke made Morgan smile. Balfour raised the corners of his mouth too. “I did plenty of that, but it wasn’t until the morning after.”

  “As you can tell, Charles Atlas has nothing to fear from me. I’m a tad puny.”

  “Charles Atlas? That’s an old reference.”

  Balfour shrugged. “When I was a kid, I read his ads about body-building. Even sent away for his material. Didn’t work. My father used to say God gave me less body and more brain than He gave others.”

  “Your father was a religious man?”

  “Not at all. He was a medical doctor and believed only in what could be measured and tested. For him, God was just another word to sling around.” Balfour shifted his small frame in the leather seat. “What about you? You a spiritual man?”

  “No.”

  Balfour remained quiet. Morgan suspected he was waiting for a longer answer. Morgan didn’t feel obliged.

  “I can’t speak from firsthand experience, but losing loved ones can squash a man’s faith.”

  “To be honest, Mr. Balfour, I didn’t have much faith to begin with. Never saw much sense in it.”

  “We’ve known each other—albeit mostly over distance—for many months now. Isn’t it time you started calling me Charles?”

  “Sure. If you want.”

  “I insist. We are going to be partners in the New World, Andrew. We need to be comfortable with each other.”

  “It takes me a while to bond with others.”

  “Understandable. Understandable.” Balfour folded his hands on
his lap. The roar of the engines filled the silence between them.

  Morgan wondered what the man really wanted. At first, he thought Balfour was just being a good host. Now, he sensed there was motive behind the visit. Morgan decided to wait him out.

  Finally, Balfour leaned forward and spoke in low tones. “I’m wondering if you’ve chosen who you will be bringing with you. You know…when the time comes.”

  “No. I may not bring anyone.”

  “You’re entitled to do so. Your contribution level makes space available for almost anyone.”

  “Almost?”

  Again, Balfour leaned back. “By now, you should know that we are a…careful bunch.”

  “Paranoid comes to mind.”

  An ear-to-ear grin spread across Balfour’s face. “Yes, just like you, we’re paranoid. Considering what we’ve undertaken, paranoia is a requirement.”

  Morgan couldn’t argue the point. It was one of the things that attracted him to Quetzal and Balfour. If they hadn’t been overly cautious, he would have doubted their sincerity.

  Balfour drummed his fingers on the arm of the seat. “I would have thought you might want to bring Ms. Campbell with us, or perhaps Candy.”

  “How do you know about them?”

  “We never interfere in the private lives of our people, but we do need to be cautious.”

  “You’ve been spying on me?”

  “Of course. You’re not really surprised, are you?”

  Morgan’s jaw tensed and then relaxed. “No, not really.”

  “We have too much at stake here, Andrew. For example: Suppose you wanted to bring with you someone with a terminal disease or a mental illness. How would we care for them? We have made provisions for some medical care, but some things will be out of reach. So, yes, we monitor—without invading privacy, mind you—our participants.”

  “Candy and I have dated on and off, but that’s it.” Morgan hated to admit it, but loneliness drove him to see the woman again. In subsequent dates, she showed herself to be more intelligent than she let on.

  “Most men want a dumb woman, Andrew. I made a mistake thinking you were like others.”

  Once he noticed that she had put away the airhead persona, Morgan found Candy to be more likeable. Still, there was one problem: Even in Candy’s presence, his thoughts would run to Lisa. He hated that.

  Balfour continued. “Have you spoken to Ms. Campbell about joining you?”

  “She’s not interested.”

  “Not interested in survival?”

  Morgan rubbed his eyes. “She thinks it’s all nonsense.”

  “Ah, we know the type, don’t we?” Balfour bent forward, and Morgan wondered if the man was this antsy at home. “Well, you’re under no requirement to bring anyone. There are several who are coming alone—some even have families.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I’m not a counselor. Anyway, it’s all up to you. But time is running out.”

  Balfour stood. “I leave you to your thoughts. Perhaps you’ll feel like joining the festivities. It’s a great way to pass time. Did I mention there is shrimp?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Come and spend some time with your fellow ‘future-nauts.’

  ” Morgan fought off the urge to cringe.

  Lisa watched Garrett work his way through the bullpen and felt a fresh wave of guilt sweep over her. Over the months, she had watched him slowly heal. It took three months before he recovered from the broken bones in his legs and one arm. The recovery process had been made longer by the dozen surgeries and weeks of physical therapy. Plastic surgery reconstructed his fractured cheekbone and eye socket. More than once, he had confided to her that he feared looking like Quasimodo, with one eye situated inches lower than the other. Medical science had saved him that fate. He looked very much as he did that day she sprinted from the office to the airport, leaving him behind to ponder what to do with his new information.

  The swelling and casts were gone, but not the limp that required the use of a cane. Doctors assured him that he would not need the cane for much longer, but Lisa wasn’t so sure.

  Her guilt was misplaced. She knew that, but she had a hard time fighting it off. Morgan had told her several times that she felt guilty because Christians enjoyed the feeling. To feel lowly and useless made them feel spiritual. No matter how she argued against the claim, he stuck to his guns. It infuriated her, but she refused to give up.

  Garrett hobbled down the narrow aisle formed by the bullpen’s rows of desks. She watched him, turning her eyes away to disguise her gaze. Step, limp, lean on the cane—step, limp, lean on the cane. He held a file in his free hand. The clacking, clicking of computer keyboards filled the open space, something she seldom noticed. Today, it seemed unusually loud. Perhaps it was because business had been good over the past year, and the number of reporters had doubled.

  Garrett pushed into Lisa’s area and plopped down in the chair beside her desk. “Fine.”

  “What?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I didn’t ask how you were doing.” She pushed back from the desk.

  “You were going to. You always do. If I walk away for an hour, you ask how I’m doing when I return. You’re still fighting misplaced guilt.”

  “Now you’re a psychologist?”

  “Laugh if you want. It’s just another defense mechanism.”

  “Ooh. Another big college word.” Lisa softened the jab with a grin. “Fine, I’ll never ask again.”

  “Good.”

  “So how are you doing?”

  Garrett lowered his head and shook it like a father dealing with an uncooperative child. “I’m frustrated. Necco’s killer is still out there, and the police aren’t doing anything about it.”

  “I’m sure they’re doing their best.”

  “Ha. The whole thing is about to become a cold case file. Necco deserves better.” He paused. “So do I.”

  “You know I’m with you on that. That’s why we’re still poking around in things. Did the police talk to you today?”

  “For about five minutes. It doesn’t take long to say, ‘Nothing new, kid. We’ll let you know.’”

  Lisa nodded. The story had been the same for months. They had run down every lead they could, tracked the case as much as the police would allow, and had no better ideas.

  “So when do we let go?”

  “Never.” Garrett propped his cane against the deck. “We both know it has something to do with Quetzal and his crazies.”

  Lisa picked up a pencil and rolled it between her fingers. “We’ve been over this a hundred times since…”

  “My beating? Yes we have, and I’m sticking to my guns. I owe it to Necco, his girl, and his mom.”

  “Garrett, I don’t know what else to do. We don’t have the resources the police have.”

  “I may have something better.”

  “Is that a fact?” She set the pencil down. “What have you been up to?”

  “Now that I’m up, around, and in my right mind, I’ve decided to take things in my own hands.”

  “Who says you’re in your right mind?” Lisa lifted an eyebrow.

  “Funny. You know what I mean. Between the trauma, the pain meds, and everything else, I haven’t been myself.”

  “Are you telling me you’re starting to remember being beaten?”

  Garrett frowned. “No. Just bits and pieces, but nothing of use. The trauma, the coma, and the meds have pretty much obliterated that part of my brain. It’s a blessing, I suppose, but it’s also frustrating.” He set the file on Lisa’s desk and pushed it toward her.

  Lisa pulled it close and then opened it. Her eyes darted over the contents. Her stomach dropped like a free-falling elevator. “Garrett, there’s a good chance that this is what got you in trouble in the first place.”

  “I don’t care. I have to get busy. Too much time has passed. Before, there was very little I could do. Now I can at least do brain work.”
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  “I’m not sure I understand what I’m seeing.” The file contained only five pages, but most of it was gibberish.

  “I want it to look that way for a reason. To get this, I may have stretched a few laws.”

  Lisa looked up from the file. “Stretched or broken?”

  “I think I’m still in the neighborhood of misdemeanors.”

  “Just what am I looking at?”

  Garrett leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Before I tell you, I need to know you’re with me on this.”

  “Haven’t I proven that to you over this last year?”

  His expression softened. “You’ve been golden, but I need to know you’re going to stand by me.”

  “That depends. Are your actions going to hurt someone?”

  “If God is listening to my prayers.”

  “Garrett!”

  “I’m serious. I don’t mean physical harm. I want justice for Necco and me.”

  “I don’t want to break any laws.” Lisa felt as if the moral ground under her feet was shifting.

  “I’m not asking you to break any laws, but you will have to trust me.”

  “You know, they’ll take away your cane in prison.”

  “I’m not doing anything prison-worthy.”

  “Is that opinion from you or the police?”

  Garrett didn’t answer.

  At this latitude and at this time of year, darkness came early and stayed. The moon was in its last quarter, well on its way to being a dark new moon. It cast very little light through the clear, cold air.

  The Bombardier circled an airfield situated in a low-lying valley. Two snowcapped mountain ranges bracketed the field like bookends. Snow covered much of the terrain, reflecting the moon’s dim glow spaceward. As the jet descended, Morgan could see its beacons washing the ground below. Not long before, they had passed from the North Atlantic over the Kamchatka Peninsula. The pilot dutifully announced the names of the volcanoes below. Morgan forgot the names as soon as he heard them. After Mexico, he was just glad that Quetzal had been wise enough not to set up shop near several potentially active volcanoes. They were headed across the peninsula.