THE DIDYMUS CONTINGENCY
Origins Edition
By Jeremy Robinson
Book I
Dear Reader,
My career as an author began in a very different way from most authors. I didn’t submit my books to agents or publishers; I self-published them under the umbrella of a small press I created, Breakneck Books. With each book release, I got feedback from readers, both good and bad, and used the critiques to improve my writing. So while most authors take their licks in private in the form of off-the-record advice from industry pros, I was flogged in the public square for all to see. My growth as an author has been a very public affair.
But it worked. Not only did my writing improve with each book, but so did my sales. And by the third book release, ANTARKTOS RISING, I had captured the attention of Scott Miller, my superb agent at Trident Media Group, and Peter Wolverton, editor supreme at Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press, who has signed me on for five novels—PULSE, INSTINCT, THRESHOLD, SECONDWORLD and ISLAND 731, the first three of which are now (4-27-2011) in print.
THE DIDYMUS CONTINGENCY was my first novel. I wrote it after several years of writing screenplays, which is evident in the very visual style of the writing. Though I have grown a lot as an author since completing this book in 2001, it continues to be the favorite of many readers and one of my bestselling books. The book was nearly made into a movie and received far more praise than I was expecting, including an endorsement from my favorite author.
After finishing THE DIDYMUS CONTINGENCY, I sent it to James Rollins, master of the action-adventure novel. Rollins ended up really enjoying the book and provided this blurb: “A unique and bold thriller. It is a fast-paced page-turner like no other. Not to be missed!" I asked his advice and he agreed with my fear that the book was too Christian for mainstream publishers and too mainstream for Christian publishers. He suggested self-publishing the book. I hadn’t considered that option before and followed Jim’s advice. I sold 6000 copies in a year at $18 a pop and laid the groundwork for Breakneck Books, my future novels and my current success.
Because the story portrays the events surrounding the life of Jesus—as detailed in the Bible—as being accurate, it gets a good number of angry reviews and perhaps turns people away from my 100% mainstream fiction, but I owe this story my career. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing…though this Origins Edition has been expanded, revised and, thankfully, re-edited.
I hope you enjoy this first chapter of the five books that comprise the origins of my career. Let the flogging continue!
-- Jeremy Robinson
To experience my growth as an author, check out the Origins books in chronological order:
• THE DIDYMUS CONTINGENCY
• RAISING THE PAST
• BENEATH
• ANTARKTOS RISING
• KRONOS
FICTION by JEREMY ROBINSON
(click to view on Amazon and buy)
The Last Hunter - Pursuit
The Last Hunter - Descent
Insomnia
Threshold
Instinct
Pulse
Kronos
Antarktos Rising
Beneath
Raising the Past
The Didymus Contingency
The Zombie's Way (humor under the pen name Ike Onsoomyu)
BONUS MATERIAL!
Don't miss the exclusive sample chapters of Robinson's ANTARKTOS RISING and THE LAST HUNTER – DESCENT (Book I of the Antarktos Saga) found at the end of this book.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Fate of Thomas
About the Author
Sample of THE LAST HUNTER
Sample of ANTARKTOS RISING
Help Spread the Word!
THE DIDYMUS CONTINGENCY
By Jeremy Robinson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination (excluding Biblical characters and stories) or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2005 - 2011 by Jeremy Robinson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Jeremy Robinson at [email protected]
Visit Jeremy Robinson on the World Wide Web at:
www.jeremyrobinsononline.com.
For Hilaree and Aquila,
my two favorite gals.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks are required for several people regarding this project, which was originally conceived of in 2000, when it was written as a screenplay.
For superb editing of this Origins Edition, I must thank Kane Gilmour, who has now improved the quality of many of my books, both new and old.
Original Acknowledgements:
Pastor Jon Karn, your wisdom and knowledge helped in the transformation of this story from screenplay to novel. You provided the resources and counsel I needed so desperately.
Stan (AOE) and Liz Tremblay, Jason and Katie Brodeur, Heather Fournier, Sarah Valeri and Kathy Crisp, your encouragement, prayers and friendship are always needed and welcome. I wouldn’t have come this far without you all.
I am extraordinarily thankful to authors James Rollins and Rick Hautala, who have provided enormous support and encouragement, supplying blurbs, contacts and advice that have proved to be vital, both in the publishing of this novel, and in the preparation of two not yet published novels.
I would also like to thank the entire Robinson family, Donna (Mom), Matthew, Sandi, Joshua and Ariana, as well as the rest of the Brodeur family, Cathie, Aaron and Stasia, and the Vincent families (who are too numerous to list) for their unceasing support, a credit which also goes to Tom Mungovan, co-author of The Screenplay Workbook and co-conspirator on a number of other projects.
Lastly, Hilaree, my wife and editor; you have sacrificed so much over the years so that I could write. I think I might cease to exist without you. I love you. Aquila, my daughter: you provide a fresh supply of joy on a daily basis. You are my inspiration.
—ARRANGEMENT—
—ONE—
B.C.
1985
2:35 P.M.
Zambia, Africa
Tom Greenbaum was captivated. Herds of blue wildebeest and zebra scattered in all directions as Mpundu, the dirty, mild tempered pilot of the small Cessna rental, took Tom down for a closer look at the flora and fauna of the Zambian plains. It would have been easy for most people to lose track of time, staring at the creatures, whose lives and deaths played out on the brown tinged grass below. But Tom wasn’t most people. As a quantum physicist with an IQ of 167, the calculations needed to time a quick jaunt over the African plains were as easy as clipping fingernails.
Tom had planned this distraction well. His international flight from
Israel to Zambia’s capitol, Lusaka, touched down at ten fifty three—ten minutes early. Megan expected his arrival at four o’clock and the flight to her mission took two hours. Tom scheduled his flight with Mpundu for twelve, giving himself an extra two hours time in the air. He was glad to be seeing his wife again, but experiencing this wild, untouched world from a bird’s eye view was too much to pass up. Besides, she would never know.
Hours flew past and they were soon cruising over a lush, green canopy of jungle trees, waterfalls and rivers. The peaceful surroundings and white hum of the Cessna’s engine propelled Tom to sleep, much to the relief of Mpundu, who had grown tired of Tom’s wonderment. Not until they were making their final approach did Mpundu break the silence.
“Mr. Greenbaum…Mr. Greenbaum, we’re almost there.”
Tom sat up and wiped the drool from his cheek. Embarrassed that he’d slept, he quickly ran a hand through his wavy black hair, making sure it was free of the bed-head that frequently plagued him.
“Mirror is there,” the pilot said, pointing to a mirror taped above the windshield. Smiling, he added, “But no one out here will care what you look like.”
Tom ignored the man as he looked at himself in the mirror. His brown eyes looked tired but he’d managed to shave, which helped highlight his strong, square jaw. Just the way she likes it, he thought. As he squinted against the lowering sun he asked, “What time is it?”
“Three forty-five. Tell me, why do you come to Zambia? You have seen the animals, but where you are going now has no animals.”
“Visiting my wife,” Tom explained, his voice softening with the thought of her face and smile. “She’s been here two weeks, but she’ll be staying another two after I leave.”
Mpundu’s face became visibly confused. “You say your wife? Here in Zambia for two weeks without her husband?”
Tom nodded. “It’s the longest we’ve been apart.”
“And you let her come here?”
“I would have stopped her if I could,” added Tom, “Trust me. Since she found religion, it’s been impossible for me to get through to her. I swear the whole lot of them has a death wish.”
Mpundu’s smile faded. “This is the worst place to come with a death wish.”
Tom’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Why’s that?”
“Because, Mr. Greenbaum, it usually comes true.”
Tom’s smile shrank away.
“We’re almost there,” Mpundu assured, “try not to worry.”
3:50 P.M.
Megan wasn’t the type of woman to run from a fight, but this was slaughter and she knew Tom was flying into a deathtrap. She had to warn him. Megan peeked around the corner of a grass-roofed hut, which served as the chapel. She knew the thatched wall of the hut was thick enough to hide her, but it would do little to slow a bullet. She saw her brave co-workers, lined up, arms behind their backs. The men holding them prisoner remained out of sight, but she could hear their voices: strange, demanding and broken.
“Spet on his face! You do id nah!” a man shouted.
She knew all of her new friends would never give in. She knew they would all die. Just like Charles. He had been the first to refuse; he’d been dead for ten minutes now.
Megan could see Jennifer’s legs shaking. It was her turn now. She was eighteen, an eager intern from small-town Kansas. She’d been on the job for two days, yet her convictions ran the deepest. She managed to say, “Forgive them, Lord,” before a bullet cut her down as well.
Jennifer’s body slumped to the dirt. Megan covered her mouth, terrified she would scream and alert the butchers to her presence. But she couldn’t let that happen. Not while Tom was coming. This wasn’t his fight. This wasn’t his place to die.
Eyes wet and unblinking, Megan turned and ducked into the woods as another gunshot echoed through the forest. Branches stretched out for her—scratching at her, clawing at her. They wanted to slow her down. They wanted to kill her too. But her legs were strong from years of running and the thickets that blocked her path exploded away from her, tearing open her flesh and exposing an open path. Megan turned right and ran, ignoring the streaks of blood slipping down her legs.
Movement in her periphery caught Megan’s attention as she rounded a tree. She slowed and focused her vision. Four men were beating a fifth…but she didn’t know him. She took in the assailants. They had rifles slung over their shoulders. Each man was dressed in half-military fatigues and half-tribal garb, the kind of people you’d expect to see in a National Geographic full-page spread. The angriest, most savage and most passionate man wore a New York Yankees baseball cap.
Megan wasn’t sure how long she had been staring at the sight, but it was long enough for her to be noticed.
“A woman escapes!” one of the men yelled, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Megan’s gaze was frozen on the man who lay on the ground, covered in blood and beaten to a pulp. He looked up into Megan’s eyes using only his right eye—the left was swollen shut. Oddly, she noticed his clothing. Blue, button down shirt. Polished shoes…polished shoes in the Zambian jungle? His un-swollen eye grew wide and he yelled desperately to her, “Megan! Run!”
As Megan’s eyes snapped away from the man, she saw that the four locals were almost upon her. She launched into the forest, praying her feet would carry her fast enough, praying for the poor man she left behind. How did he know her name? Was he a friend of Tom’s?
Boom! Birds launched into the air behind her. She knew the stranger was dead. It made her run even faster.
The path was thin and winding, but Megan had run it every morning for the past two weeks. She knew every depression, every curve, and every fallen tree. They would never catch her here. But the path would soon end and she would be running through an open field. She was fast, but she was no Superwoman. She couldn’t out-run a bullet.
Mud splashed across her legs, mixing with blood, as she hurdled over a moss-covered, rotten tree. She could see the sky through the branches in front of her. The clearing and Tom lay just ahead.
3:57 P.M.
The Cessna pulled up and over a line of tall trees, emerging over a clearing where a crude runway was chiseled into the earth.
Once the Cessna had come to a stop, Tom and Mpundu began unpacking the luggage and the supplies Megan had asked him to bring. Grunting with exertion, Tom heaved a wooden crate onto the ground. After straightening back up, he removed a bandana from his back pocket and dabbed away the stinging sweat that trickled into his eyes. Tom had expected help, workers from the mission, locals—whatever. At least Megan should have been there by now. It wasn’t like her to be late.
“Tom!” It was Megan’s voice, but from where?
Scanning the field of tall, suntanned grass, Tom found what he was looking for. His face lit up as he saw Megan running toward him. She was yelling, but Tom couldn’t make out the words. He started forward. As Megan grew nearer, it wasn’t her words Tom finally understood, but the tone of her voice. She was afraid.
Before Tom could launch toward Megan, Mpundu’s firm grasp on Tom’s shoulder held him in place. “Do not enter the grass, Mr. Greenbaum. There are predators.”
Tom looked back at Mpundu, whose eyes were locked on a flock of birds bursting from the jungle on the opposite side of the field.
“Lions?” Tom asked quickly.
“Worse.”
Pulling away from Mpundu, Tom plowed into the field, determined to reach his wife. “Megan! MEGAN!”
“Mr. Greenbaum! Come back! We must leave now!”
Tom ignored Mpundu’s call and continued forward. Mpundu ran back to the Cessna and started the engine.
Megan grew closer and her words became distinguishable, “Get away! Go back to the plane!”
Tom ran faster.
Boom! A gunshot pierced the air and Tom instinctively ducked down. His chest burned with each panicked breath. What should he do? Who fired the gun, and at whom? When he picked his head up again, Megan was gone.
Tom’s eyes grew wide. “Megan?”
Ignoring the danger, Tom ran forward. “Megan! Where are you? Megan!”
Fifty feet away, Megan stood up and looked at Tom. “Run!” she yelled as her feet carried her toward Tom.
Tom surged forward, shrinking the distance between them. As they grew closer, Tom could see Megan’s normally smooth face twisting with fear and pain. His eyes darted to her blood red shoulder. She’d been shot!
Boom! A second shot pierced the air as Tom and Megan came within ten feet of each other. Megan’s body arched back. Blood exploded from her chest, covering Tom’s body and face. Tom stopped in his tracks and the world around him moved in slow motion, as though the entire scene were happening under water. The thick ruddy liquid felt warm on his face. Roaring blood rushed through the veins in his head, making it hard to hear. Dizziness swept through Tom with each pounding heartbeat. He felt himself falling, but his feet were firmly rooted to the ground.
Megan stumbled forward, her eyes locked with Tom’s. He could see her: brimming with enthusiasm over a new job, snuggled up by the fireplace with a new book, glossy with sweat after a long run. And then she was gone. Her eyes hardened and her muscles fell limp. She fell forward and landed at Tom’s feet, flattening a section of grass with her body.
Tom looked down. His wife was dead.
Breath raspy and full of anguish, Tom fell to his knees and rolled his wife over as tears condensed on his lower eyelids. He pushed his hand against the flow of blood pumping from her body. It looked like a ruptured gallon of milk. “Megan? Megan, please…”
The Didymus Contingency Page 1
