A Premature Apocalypse

by Dan Sofer

  Talya hid behind Moshe’s leg. “Say hello to your great-grandfather, Talya.”

  This was too much to take in at once. “Please,” Moshe said, “join us.”

  His grandfather obliged, and they tumbled into the back of the SUV.

  “I’m proud of you, Moshe,” said his grandfather. “Very proud.”

  “It’s all thanks to you. Look.” Moshe removed the Rolex from his wrist and held it out for display. “This was your watch. My father drummed that lesson in deep. ‘A Karlin never quits.’”

  His grandfather seemed confused. “What is this ‘Karlin never quits’?”

  Had his memory faded, even in the afterlife? “Your saying. The family motto. This is the watch you handed down to your son, David Karlin—my father. The last thing you bought before you lost the business in the war. And the house.”

  His grandfather swatted the words away with his hand. “That trinket? I won that cheap imitation shooting tins at a town fair.”

  “But,” Moshe continued, “you refused to sell the watch. It was a reminder of the life you wanted to regain. ‘A Karlin never quits,’ you always said. That motto kept you going through your darkest hours.”

  Moshe Karlin Senior shook his head with irritation. “I didn’t lose the business—my nephew, your father’s cousin, took it over. Your father and his pipe dreams! He never had the head for business, always wanting to break out on his own, always arguing. He caused so much trouble that I disinherited him. The rest of the family wanted nothing to do with him either.”

  Moshe stared at the Rolex, the watch he’d redeemed for twenty thousand shekels. He turned to Galit, and she shrugged.

  “But it’s a good story,” his grandfather said, jovial again.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “A Karlin never quits. Ha! I like it. And it got you this far, didn’t it?”

  Moshe stared out the window as the world moved by. A better world. A world he had helped create. Did it matter that his father had been blessed with an active imagination? The lessons within his tales had stood the test of time.

  He strapped the Rolex back onto his wrist. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it did.”

  Chapter 100

  The attendant at the Academon Bookstore on the Mount Scopus campus of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem thought she had seen it all. Until, that is, the man with the broad gray beard and flat cap stepped up to the counter.

  A bit old to be a student, isn’t he? The man waited while she reviewed his list of supplies.

  And what a list that was! The textbooks included first-year tomes on a wide variety of subjects ranging from astrophysics and advanced mathematics to anatomy and computer theory to anthropology and sociology. He seemed to have copied the book list for the entire Faculty of Science.

  “Sir,” she said, “are you sure you need all these?”

  The man peered over at the list, then nodded.

  “What program are you registered for?”

  “I’m on the PhD track.”

  “For which field?”

  “All of them.”

  “All of them?”

  He nodded again, profusely, and flashed her the grin of a kid in a candy store with Mommy’s credit card.

  Whatever. It’s his money. She made a tour of the store, sliding hardbacks from the shelves and checking off items from the list. After ten minutes, four stacks of textbooks rose from the counter and reached her nose.

  She scanned each volume and rang up the total. Could he afford these on a pensioner’s budget?

  “How do you want to pay?”

  He handed her another piece of paper. The letter, signed by the president of the university, indicated that the bearer, Rabbi Moses Ben Maimon, had been awarded a full scholarship for his studies and that she should charge his expenses to the Dry Bones Society Scholarship Program.

  She checked the man’s identity card, then processed the payment.

  “Would you like these delivered?”

  “Yes, please.” He jotted down a Jerusalem address on a note, then selected three tomes with unabashed relish, looking at the crisp new books as though he intended to gobble them for lunch. He placed the books under his arm, thanked her, and turned to leave.

  “Sir,” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking. A single PhD takes eight years on average. How are you going to finish them all?”

  Maimonides smiled that boyish smile again, and he rubbed his shoulder as though massaging a vaccination wound. “I have a lot of free time, my daughter,” he said. “All the time in the world.”

  Turn the page for bonus chapters and a special offer.

  From the Author

  Hi there and thanks for reading.

  The adventures of the Dry Bones Society have concluded. I hope you grew as fond of Moshe, Rabbi Yosef, Eli and the rest of the gang as I did. After three novels and three years of writing, I'm sad to see them go. Then again, other adventures beckon. (More on those below.)

  I'd like to thank my dedicated "Beta Readers" for their excellent and insightful feedback on the early versions of the novels in the series. They are (in alphabetical order): Ben Draiman, Linda Zagon, Teresa Collins, and Yael Maizels.

  I also want to thank the members of my Launch Team for reading the advanced reviewer copies of the novels on time, as well as all those who have taken the time to leave reviews for the novels in the series. Your reviews make a big difference in helping readers discover my stories. (While we're on that topic, click here to leave a review for A Premature Apocalypse. ;)

  Where to from here?

  Some readers of my short story "Larry and Kate" asked me what happened to the lead characters next. I started wondering the same thing, so I'm expanding the story into a full-length novel. (The short story is available for purchase online, or you can pick up a complimentary copy when you join my mailing list.)

  Many other story ideas are clamoring to be heard, so stay tuned for more humor, mystery, and quirky adventure in unexpected places.

  Meanwhile, I've included bonus chapters from my award-winning debut novel, A Love and Beyond, at the end of this book, so just turn the page to continue reading. (For a full list of my novels, see my website, dansofer.com.)

  Thanks again for reading, and stay in touch!

  ~ Dan Sofer

  Turn the page for bonus chapters.

  Bonus Chapters

  Ready for your next Jerusalem adventure?

  Try A Love and Beyond, a quirky romantic thriller set in the singles' scene of modern-day Jerusalem. The book won a GOLD MEDAL at the American Book Fest 2016 Best Book Awards.

  About the Book:

  A MYSTERIOUS CRIME.

  A RUTHLESS SECRET SOCIETY.

  AND A DESPERATE BACHELOR...

  In Jerusalem, British bachelor Dave Schwarz wasn't looking for mystery and adventure. He just wanted to find a wife. But when he discovers the magical key to any girl's heart, his troubles only begin.

  He stumbles upon an ancient conspiracy from the time of King David and a treasure map encoded into the Dead Sea Scrolls. Both will change our understanding of the Bible – and complicate Dave’s love life – forever.

  Now dark powers are closing in. They will protect their secrets at all costs. With time running out, Dave must beat them to the prize. Everything hinges on a decision he must make. Will he risk everything or will he sacrifice his one true love?

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  “A fantastic read! A historic adventure reminiscent of the Da Vinci Code.”

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  Click here to get the book or turn the page to read the first chapter.

  A Love and Beyond, Chap
ter 1

  On Tuesday, Dave Schwarz hit thirty and his best friend narrowly escaped a violent death.

  The two events were probably unrelated, but both jolted Dave the way a sudden air pocket reminds nervous passengers that they’re soaring above the clouds in a pressurized metal tube.

  Realization number one: Welcome to the Middle East. Strangely, Dave never thought of his new home as the Middle East. Brutal attacks like the heavy blow to the back of the head that had nearly claimed his friend should not have surprised him.

  Realization number two: I’m thirty years old and still single. In short, my life is over.

  Dave shook the morbid thought from his head. This was no time for navel gazing. He perched on the edge of a bed in room 419C of the Shaare Zedek Medical Center. A plastic curtain divided the room into quarters and reeked of disinfectant and tragedy. Drops of indolent Jerusalem rain slid down the dark windowpane.

  Ben’s bulky form lay in the hospital bed, his eyes closed, a white bandage over his otherwise bald head, like an injured rugby fullback; the mind of an academic in the body of an East End bouncer.

  According to the ward nurse, the ICU doctors had transferred Ben early Wednesday morning. He was in no mortal danger, but had his mind survived the trauma?

  Dave cleared his throat. He whispered Ben’s name for the tenth time in two minutes. Behind the curtain, a ventilator wheezed. A telephone rang down the hall and the nurse with the squeaky shoe continued her rounds.

  Dave reached into the plastic bag from Steimatzky and placed a book on the nightstand. The Jewish War by Josephus. He had purchased the Penguin paperback at the hospital gift store on the ground floor. Ben’s existing copy, a hefty side-by-side English translation of the original Greek, was thick with dog ears and split at the seams.

  A bouquet of gerberas sat on the windowsill. Ben’s wife had sent the flowers but it wasn’t her flowing cursive that graced the message inside the card. The uneven block letters looked to Dave like a cryptic text copied by a blind scribe.

  Yvette had called Dave at work half an hour ago. Would he stop by, make sure Ben was in one piece?

  Dave plucked a yellow flower from the bouquet and dismembered it slowly.

  If Dave lay in hospital, who would send him flowers? If he died, what would his lonely life have achieved?

  “Looks bad. Doesn’t it?” said Ben, his eyes still shut.

  Dave almost swallowed his tongue. “No, not at all.” He tossed the naked flower stem into the waste bin to join its petals. “I was thinking about myself.”

  “Oh,” Ben said, as though that explained everything.

  How long had Ben been conscious?

  Dave searched the poky room for a cheerful thought.

  “No shortage of Jewish doctors here.” His laugh was lame even to his own ears.

  “Muhammad,” Ben said.

  The hairs on the back of Dave’s neck stiffened. He had heard anecdotes of near-death experiences but he had not expected the bright light at the end of the tunnel to be the founder of Islam.

  “What?”

  Ben worked his mouth, as if chewing gum. Dave scanned the headboard for an emergency button.

  “Doctor Muhammad. Nice guy.”

  Dave exhaled, his worldview intact.

  He scratched his head. Ben usually drove the conversation. A laconic Ben concerned Dave.

  “I met a girl,” Dave said in desperation and waited for the bomb to detonate. Ben devoured tidbits of Dave’s bachelor misadventures with the voracity typical of safely married men.

  The patient in the sick bed merely grunted.

  Had Ben recognized Dave at all?

  Dave bit his lip and drew his last card.

  “You made the Jerusalem Post,” he said.

  Ben opened his eyes. “What did they say?”

  Dave retrieved the folded printout from his shoulder bag.

  “‘Break-in at the City of David,’” Dave read aloud. “‘An apparent break-in at the City of David Institute Tuesday night caused minor structural damage. All artifacts are accounted for, according to Dr. Erez Lazarus, curator of the museum in East Jerusalem. An employee who was present at the time sustained mild injuries. The police have opened an investigation and at this point suspect local vandals.’”

  “Mild injuries,” Ben mumbled and shook his head.

  In a sequence of fluid movements, he sat up, propped his back against the wall with a pillow, and snatched the article from Dave’s hands.

  Not for the first time, Dave felt the sting of his so-called friend’s so-called sense of humor.

  “How long have you known I was here?”

  Ben didn’t look up from the article.

  “And what were you doing at work so late?”

  “Preparing an itinerary. Yvette’s away so I wasn’t rushing home. I heard a commotion outside and went to investigate. Next thing I know, I’m lying here with the mother of all hangovers. They didn’t even mention my name, the bastards. Erez probably saw to that.”

  Dave had met Erez, Ben’s boss, a number of times at the City of David Institute, or the COD, as Erez referred to the popular tourist attraction. Erez was not known for his tact.

  “You should carry a gun,” Dave said, feeling suddenly vengeful.

  “A gun?” Ben said, outraged. “I’m an archaeologist, Dave. Not a hit man.”

  Dave pictured Ben behind a heavy-duty revolver. The image made a certain amount of visual sense. His shaved head and beefy, don’t-mess-with-me build called to mind the thugs of a Guy Ritchie film, rather than the rabbi’s son enamored with academic nuance and scientific enquiry.

  “Indiana Jones had a gun.” A shameless smirk twisted Dave’s lips as he said it.

  “Indiana Jones.” Ben lowered the printout and rolled his eyes. “God, I’m tired of that name. ‘Found the Ark of the Covenant yet? Been to the Temple of Doom?’ For Heaven’s sake. Indiana Jones is a fictional character. Archaeology, on the other hand, is a very real, painstaking process of scientific research. Hypothesis. Excavation. Analysis. Well-founded conclusions. No stunt men. No special effects. We fight our battles in academic journals, not dark alleys… Ouch!”

  Ben’s hand shot to the back of his head and Dave felt a small stab of remorse. He also felt relief. This was the Ben he knew and… well, the Ben he knew.

  Not that Dave was a man of adventure either. He failed to comprehend why some people tied ropes to their legs and dove off bridges, or out of perfectly good airplanes. Dave was a confirmed serotonin junkie. Any day of the year, he chose a good book, a hot cupper, and air-conditioning over jeopardy to life and limb. But the opportunity to ruffle his friend’s feathers had been too good to pass up.

  “What ever happened to the Ark, anyway?”

  Ben raised a sarcastic eyebrow, then relented.

  “Not a trace in the archaeological record. The Talmud mentions two theories. Rabbi Eliezer said the Babylonians carried it off after they destroyed the first Temple in 586 BC. Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai claimed King Josiah hid the Ark in tunnels beneath the Temple Mount shortly before. In either event,” Ben added meaningfully, “there’s no mention of lost Egyptian cities or Nazi plots.”

  “Beneath the Temple Mount? Can’t you just dig there and find out?”

  “Not since Moshe Dayan gave the keys of the Temple Mount to the Waqf as a gesture of good will. Now they renovate with abandon and all we can do is sift national treasures, or fragments thereof, out of their rubble. But don’t get me started on that.”

  Dave didn’t. Instead, he asked, “When does Yvette get back from Madrid?”

  “Paris,” Ben said. “She’ll be back tonight.”

  Ben’s wife was, quite literally, a supermodel. She spent her days flitting between the catwalks of the world’s fashion centers.

  “Oh, good,” Dave replied, a study of casual innocence. “So you’ll both be home for Shabbat.”

  This was Ben’s cue to invite Dave over for a Sabbath meal. Of the many banes of bachel
orhood, the weekly scrabble for meal invitations pressed Dave the most. Few things were as miserable as a festive Shabbat dinner-for-one at home.

  Ben didn’t take the hint.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “The girl you met.”

  Dave was no longer desperate enough to bare his dating soul. “Just some girl I met on Shabbat after shul.”

  The synagogue buffet after Saturday morning prayers was the closest Dave would get to a singles bar. The slender waterfall blond had stood beside a foldout table of herring and Jerusalem kugel—pizza slices of caramelized pasta—on plastic plates. Her free-flowing hair meant she was unmarried. The ringless fingers ruled out an engagement. But was she available?

  Dave had meandered closer, a plastic shot glass of Black Label in hand. He intercepted snatches of her conversation with a girlfriend. American accent. West Coast.

  “And?” Ben said. “Tell me you made a move.”

  “Well…”

  He had drained his glass. He placed her in his sights. The world focused around him. The moment swelled with destiny. It was now or never.

  “Not as such,” Dave admitted. “She’s American, anyway. And probably too young.”

  Ben covered his face in his hands. “Dave, Dave, Dave.”

  “But I might know someone who knows her,” Dave continued.

  “Dave, oh, Dave.”

  “Stop it, Ben. I don’t want to be the scary older guy who can’t take a hint.”