The Nephilim Protocol

by Stuart Killbourn

  The Nephilim Protocol

  Stuart Killbourn

  u235 books

  Copyright © Stuart Killbourn 2017

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Edition

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead or as yet unborn), or actual events (including future events) is purely coincidental.

  u235 books

  skillbourn@yahoo.co.uk

  About the Author

  Stuart Killbourn is a physicist having studied at the University of Glasgow, where he joined the research group building gravitational wave detectors – a search that ultimately proved successful in 2015 with convincing proof not only of their existence, but the existence of massive black holes and experimental confirmation of Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity. Having concluded his doctoral studies, he travelled extensively in post-communist Europe and around the world working mainly in the oil and gas industry. A year was devoted to teaching English in the small Chinese city of Guiyang with its population of four million – but including a mere handful of expatriates. He is a keen musician playing folk and gospel music on mandolin or guitar. Stuart is married to Izabella and together they have a son and daughter. His writing draws on his experience and intimate perception of humanity and of the cultures in which he has lived and worked. There is humour and ceaseless delving into the brutal passions that universally shape our human destiny.

  Acknowledgements

  I am greatly indebted for the encouragement and participation of those willing to listen to ideas and later read my manuscript before it attained its current finished state. These invaluable friends are, firstly, Ruth Weir and also Charles Demore and Sophie Beal.

  Creative advice for the cover design came from Paul Keys. They say not to judge a book by the cover, but we do! I trust you will be impressed by the story as much as by the artwork.

  Inspiration to take the final step and publish this novel came from two talented musicians I have had the pleasure of playing with this past year. They are: Oche Obande and Ann Abraham.

  This book could not have been written without the love and unfailing support of Izabella. I have written on trains, planes and in hotel rooms around the world – and occasionally at home. I am forever grateful for her belief in me to pursue this goal.

  Chapter 1

  National Secure Archive Facility

  The camera panned to the beach. A dark sky hung heavy over the heaving sea. Dry reeds thrashed in the saline wind. Julia watched the ebb and flow of time, each cycle of day and night progressed ever-changing and shaping then reshaping the contours of the sand dunes. The seasons advanced slowly. The light burned white at noon, smouldered red as the sun fell towards a flat horizon. The topside camera fascinated Julia. The rhythm of days unfolded yet in the Ark facility, hermetically sealed, the temperature remained seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. There was no winter. No spring. Never summer and fall never threatened. Three hundred and twenty feet of sediment and rock separated the Ark from the surface.

  Julia was twenty-eight, cool-headed, tall with red hair. She had never been topside. Few had. The topside camera showed the surface of the Earth. Julia breathed out and tried to imagine the wind on her face, her bare feet on the sand, her fingers brushing the tops of the long grass. And there he was. Her attention shifted from the undulation of the dunes to the water's edge. A figure was struggling to reach the shore, clinging desperately to flotsam. Julia stood up and pressed close to the monitor. Her breath held; her stomach knotted. The waves swamped and rolled. Was this real? Was there really someone there? It was impossible. No one lived topside. The figure staggered on the beach and fell. He was out-of-sight, hidden and obscured by the dunes and the reeds. Julia knew he needed help. The situation was absurd. The options spun in her head. What should she do? Who would she tell? A compulsion rose in her stomach that there was only one way forward. Her hands shook with fear. She was almost sure she was losing control of her mind.

  Everyone in the Ark had a quota of eight hours exposure topside. Every thirty years, the radiation levels would halve and the quota would be doubled. Most people kept their quota saying they were holding out for sixteen hours – then they would wait for thirty-two. No one said they were terrified of going topside but it was an alien place. Some went and returned. Often the old would retire topside. Too frail to be productive, perhaps sick. They might live a few weeks. No one really knew. Those who remained in the Ark simply stopped talking about those who left. The Ark was constructed as the repository of all human knowledge to be protected and stored for the future. It was also the repository of a select sample of humanity. Those who were exposed to the radiation for too long were no longer deemed suitable for storage. There would be mutations; genetic information would be corrupted.

  The camera was five miles from the Ark. It was used to survey the Ark's thermal exhaust from the reactor pile. It looked out over the ocean. Julia reckoned she could reach it and return with him – whoever he was. Whatever he was. In a blur of impulsive activity, she had donned a suit and mask and was walking to the airlock. She saw Sarah, a friend, one of the few people she trusted – perhaps the only one. Inwardly, she hoped for no awkward questions. Faint hope since going topside was rare.

  “You're not scheduled to go out,” said Sarah somewhat taken aback.

  “I'm going to pick flowers.” It was a half-hearted attempt at humour. It almost certainly sounded false. Julia could barely contain her shaking and she avoided eye contact.

  “Yeah, whatever. There aren't any – it's autumn. Julia, serial number F736, librarian?”

  “That's me.”

  “You've not been topside before. You have the full eight-hour quota. You need to wear the protective suit at all times,” Sarah paused. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.”

  “I'm fine. Really I am. I'm a big girl and I have decided to take my quota on the surface. I heard Tony talk about his visit last week and it just made me… Well, it just won't get out of my head so I thought I'd better just go and do it. When it's over I'll stop thinking about it.”

  Sarah hesitated. Julia saw inner turmoil rise fleetingly to her face.

  “I suppose.” Sarah's voice was weak and unconvinced. Nonetheless she pressed the airlock control and Julia stepped forward. “Julia. Please return. You know, go and see it but come back in. Don't get lost.”

  Julia swallowed. She nodded and after a pause she smiled at Sarah. “I won't get lost. Don't go off-shift. I want you to be the first to hear about it.”

  The airlock door eased between Julia and Sarah severing the exchange. This was it. What was she doing? She had seen a grainy figure on the camera monitor and barely believed now that it was real. She had not rewound the video to double check. She simply saw and reacted. Now that the surface was on the other side of a tightly sealed door and that door was about to open, she had many thoughts. Rewind. Double check. What if I have agoraphobia? Eight hour's quota. Maybe he's dead. How on Earth would she carry him five miles?

  The topside appeared, first as a slit down the right-hand side of the door then widening into an uninterrupted vista. Julia had never looked at anything more than thirty feet away in her life. Now she was faced with the open sky stretched over a wide grassy slope. Stunted, grotesque trees pierced upwards clawing into her peripheral vision. Watching the camera pictures had n
ot prepared her for the rush of senses that assaulted her. Julia struggled to focus. Radiation. Eight hours. I need to help him. I need to find him. She looked down at the map and back at the landscape. It did not make any sense. The two things did not match up. She lived in tunnels, corridors, passageways, chambers and vaults. She recognised doors, hatches and portals. The onslaught of grass, hills, plants, the brilliant blue sky with white blinding clouds disorientated her. She stepped forward unaware of doing so, veered right and stumbled to the ground yet still looking upwards. It was several minutes before she heard her inner voice insistent saying find him, go to him – he needs your help.

  Julia looked at the map. The image blurred and refocussed. Yes, there was the camera location. But in which direction? She was surrounded by sounds. Some were close by like the hiss of the airlock closing behind her; others were strange and distant. She had never heard faraway sounds that were muffled and twisted by the wind. Julia had never imagined what she would feel on the surface. Others had tried to describe it. They had struggled for words and no one conveyed anything like what she felt right now. Julia saw a path and a series of low concrete blocks. She had no idea how far away they were but she realised they were the access points and demarcated the underground pipeline all the way to the exhaust port. The camera was near that. She began to move.

  Slowly, the effort of walking helped to steady her nerves but inside the protective suit she was getting hot and gasped for breath. Who was she kidding? You won’t be able to help him. You’ll be lucky to find your way back alive. Somehow I have to. Perhaps I should turn back? No, forwards. She reached the first block. It was on the map, first of seven ending in the exhaust port. She stopped to catch her breath and survey where she was. She scanned backwards to locate the airlock. She would need to find her way back later. The sun was high and shadows were short and dark. The brightness made her eyes water and sting. She turned back and looked along the line access ports. She could make out two or three. The sun was behind her and she was heading west. No, the ocean was to the east – she must be walking east. The Ark was on the west coast of what was once called America. A half-remembered lesson from school floated through her mind. This meant something. Time? What time is it? The Ark existed in perpetual twilight; her watch was useless. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The sun was now behind her. Was this morning or afternoon? She tried to work it out, her head spun before she decided it was afternoon. Night would come, perhaps in a few hours. The sight of so many new things was disorientating but the thought of darkness was terrifying. Turn back now. Go back inside while you can find your way. You can't help him. You need never tell anyone. No one will know, no one will ask. She shook her head to clear these thoughts. Keep going.

  Julia was physically fit. The Ark had exercise rooms and Julia made good use of them but she was not used to walking on rough ground. She slipped and stumbled along her marked course. After strenuous effort she reached the sixth access port. She began to hear a rumble. She recognised the crash of waves on the shore. She had heard the sound on archive footage but now it was raw in her ears. The sound was deeper and stronger than she had ever imagined and it was only then that she began to sense the wild force of the ocean. Cutting through the roar of the waves she felt him reach out into her mind, calling her. What if he were dangerous? Not a man but a wild animal driven mad by exposure. A mutant? Perhaps he was different from the others in the Ark. If she were capable of honesty – even with herself – that was why she had come. He had to be different.

  On a small hill to the left of the last building Julia could see the tall white mast where the camera was mounted. She started to head straight for it. Here the ground was flat and dry. The reeds grew sparsely but they tugged at her feet as she walked. Facing into the wind, the suit mask pressed against her face. The wind whistled about her head with new sounds that she could not decode. Her shadow was in front of her and she was always advancing into it. Exhausted and emotionally drained she somehow scrambled to the top of the hill and held on to the camera mast. From this vantage point she caught her first sight of the ocean. It was vast. It rolled out to a very distant horizon that hurt her eyes to try to focus on. The beautifully flat line separating the sky from the sea captivated her. Clouds, streaked and dusted across the sky, were turning orange and pink. She felt so very small and alone – desperately far from any safe place she knew. Her gaze lowered from the horizon towards the shore, dropping down among the dunes to search for the man she had seen. She could not see him. Between her and the shore there was a crumpled black ribbon perhaps twenty or thirty feet wide. The reeds encroached on it and had broken through in places. A rusted, twisted metal husk straddled the embankment on the far side. Yes, the map showed an ancient road ran along the ocean shore. Julia pressed on.

  The car was decayed. The interior was charred and blackened. Julia reached out and touched it. This once belonged to someone. There had once been many of them or so she had read, thousands – even millions – made each year. Now here was one of them abandoned on a long stretch of road. Julia crossed over and slid down the far embankment. She was surrounded by dunes just tall enough to block her view. She tried to meander between the dunes but it was a maze and she was soon lost. She could hear the waves and she decided to climb to try to fix a course. The dunes had sheltered her from the wind but now she stood exposed and ravaged again. The unfamiliar smell of salt and sea both invigorated and disorientated. Her breath heaving loudly mixed with the wind and the waves filled her head and she felt dizzy. By chance her sight fixed on a brilliant white object two hundred feet in front of her that had rolled up on the shore. She had seen it before. The man had clung to this. He had to be close. This was it. Her heart pounding and her hands starting to shake again, Julia manoeuvred down the slope. She was near now.

  The white object was cylindrical and plastic. It was part-embedded in the sand. She had no recognition of what she saw. Perhaps it was from a boat but, though she had seen pictures, boats were utterly foreign. There was an orange rope tied to one end through a handle of some kind. The rope lay across the sand in a tumble of loops and bends, running over each other. Julia followed the rope with her eyes. Every twist and turn held her absolute focussed attention. She dared not look too quickly where it led. In that moment her life would change and commence a new course. The old values would soon be dust blowing in the wind. Perhaps there would be answers.

  A man. He lay on his back his head turned away. A dark man. Not a negro but swarthy. Yes, that was the word. He was a young man. Perhaps in his twenties. Late twenties. His skin showed that he had lived outside – at least it was not pallid like everyone in the Ark. His arms were splayed and twisted as if he been thrown down on the ground and remained there. Where had he come from? Julia looked over the ocean and saw nothing: no clues, just open water with white-capped waves crashing on the shore. She looked back at the man. He lay unmoving. She stood entranced. He was washed up on an inhospitable shore on a barely inhabitable land. Reason said that he was dead. Reason said he was not real – a mere figment. As Julia stared at him, her focus fixing and shifting from feature to limb and back she became convinced that he was breathing. His feet were bare. He was clothed in a sodden, torn shroud. He had a curious beard. Unkempt but trimmed. His hair also. With trepidation Julia crouched and placed her hand upon his cheek. She was shaking so much that she could not feel for a pulse. He was wearing a thick gold chain round his neck. Julia ran the chain through her fingers. His eyes flicked open. Julia gasped and time paused. How odd that he had brown eyes; she had never seen brown eyes before. His mouth moved but whatever words he spoke were inaudible. Julia felt her chest tighten and she struggled to breathe. He coughed then swallowed and at last she heard his voice.

  “Help me,” he said. His voice was hoarse, his accent unfamiliar but he had clearly spoken English. His hand twitched and moved toward Julia. “Help me, please.” His voice was stronger this time but immediately his eyes glazed and clos
ed. His arm lowered to the sand, limp.

  Julia looked around her. The sun was low in the sky. Time was short. She had spent five hours scrambling across the wasteland from the Ark. Now she had to get him back. She picked up his feet and tugged. She managed to drag him but it would never be fast enough. She was going to have to carry him. At least he was quite short. She dragged him partway up a dune then heaved on one arm while bending and catching his leg with the other. Damn, he was heavy. She was fighting to stay on her feet. Together they careered across the sand. Julia was dizzy with hunger. She had eaten nothing since she left the Ark. This was a well-thought out rescue mission for sure she cursed herself sarcastically. It was inevitable that she should fall. It was unlucky that, as she crumpled to the ground, her head struck a rock in the sand. She flipped on to her back. She stared straight up at the deepening blue heavens with burnished whips of cloud. It was truly beautiful. The ache in her head was sudden and grew to engulf her thoughts and the sky dimmed to grey then black. The blood dried quickly in the fierce wind and matted her hair. She was out cold.

  Chapter 2

  Cabo Delgado, Mozambique

  The sun rose quickly and began to blister the wide grassland. Escobar rolled over into the shade. Jose, Idi and Armando were too far gone to care. They welcomed the warmth of the sun on their bodies after the cold of night. They had all slept under the bright stars without looking with wonder at the celestial lights. Between the four of them, they had drunk the three bottles of very strong vodka found in the car taken at gunpoint from the white man. Idi said he was Russian but Armando said they came now from many countries. The car was abandoned, out of gas and Escobar had pissed proudly on the upholstery through the sun roof. If white man managed the walk back to Pemba – and it was a long way for sure – he would report them no doubt and the police would listen politely and inform him that Cabo Delgado was not a place for foreigners to go. Nothing would be done. Armando led his band erratically across the wide expanse of the hills and savannah with impunity and no regard for anyone; Escobar followed him and admired him.