The Solomon Key

by Shawn Hopkins

  “Clever boy,” Mayhew called out. “I know what you’re up to. Don’t think I didn’t see that night-vision hanging around your neck.”

  Crawling across the floor, Scott made his way along the wall and toward Mayhew’s last position. Once he was across from it, he stopped. Listened.

  The console next to him exploded, shooting a debris trail across the floor away from him. Mayhew was coming up behind him. He spun around and fired off a few shots just as Mayhew was peeking out from behind a row of desks. More multi-touch consoles shattered, and Mayhew ducked back out of sight, but not before Scott saw the M4 he’d surrendered in his hands.

  A burst from the M4 cut into the wall above him and shattered the closest desk, filling the air with loose papers gliding gently to the floor. Scott got to his feet, replaced the empty clip in the pistol, and fired in Mayhew’s direction, shell casings bouncing off the floor at his feet.

  Mayhew returned fire, the muzzle flashes from the M4 like a strobe light in the darkness. Scott dove back to the floor and waited for Mayhew to make the next move, but none came. Walking in a low crouch, he stepped into the aisle where their confrontation had begun, but there was no sign of him. Walking slowly down the aisle, the sound of sizzling and popping electronics accompanied by the glass crunching under his feet, Scott swept his aim from right to left.

  Nothing.

  But he felt something.

  He broke out in a full sprint just as Mayhew’s M4 erupted from somewhere, everything around him exploding. Diving onto his stomach, he slid across the floor. He reached out and grabbed a desk leg, swinging himself around behind it just as he heard the empty click of the M4 and its clatter to the floor. Scott hopped to his feet and emptied the rest of his clip in the direction he’d heard the gun drop. Ducking low while reloading, he ran across the aisle, back to the right side of the room, toward the wall. Swinging around the corner, he came upon the empty M4 lying in a puddle of empty shells.

  And then came the sound of a door banging shut ahead of him.

  The door swung on hinges, had a handle, and didn’t require a keycard. Quickly peeking around the corner, Scott saw no trace of Mayhew in the empty corridor. Stepping in, he followed it to another adjacent wing. That one was empty too, running off in two opposite directions. But the report of Mayhew’s Desert Eagle suddenly sounded from the left. Following the sound, Scott came to one of Malachi’s men lying face down on the floor, blood flowing from his body. Stepping over him, he continued on.

  There was a gradual incline to the corridor now, and drops of blood were dotting the floor, stretching all the way to the end of the passageway. The agent must’ve managed to get off a silenced round. That would hopefully slow Mayhew down. Coming to another door, he used the keycard, and as the door slid open and he spun through it, he saw Mayhew thirty yards ahead of him, limping and dragging his left leg. He was heading toward a huge white door that sat above a small set of metal stairs. It declared in big red letters, EXIT.

  Scott raised his pistol just as Mayhew turned and fired a silenced submachine gun. Diving to the floor once more, he squeezed off a few rounds of his own, and Mayhew fell with a moan, dropping the weapon.

  Scott stood, anger burning through his veins. “Well, Titus, looks like you won’t be seeing your New World Order after all.” His voice echoed through the corridor around them. He was taking his time reaching him, walking slowly. “But don’t worry, I’ll send you a postcard, let you know how it’s all playing out without you. Oh, except that I hear there’s only outer darkness where you’re going, and you probably won’t be able to read it.” He stood over him, shot him in the arm before he could raise the Eagle.

  Mayhew screamed and cursed at him. And then he smiled.

  “You think something’s funny?” asked Scott.

  Mayhew began nodding vigorously. “I do.” He laughed. “I do.”

  Scott kicked the Eagle aside, reaching down and grabbing Mayhew’s collar with one hand, pulling him up to his feet. Then he shoved him hard against the wall. “Do tell.”

  “Well,” he licked his lips, “remember how I sort of insinuated that your wife wasn’t here?”

  Scott’s heart paused.

  “Actually, she was here.”

  Scott moved his hand from Mayhew’s collar up to his throat and began to squeeze. “You’re a liar.”

  He shrugged, his voice barely able to escape his constricted larynx. “Sticks and stones…”

  “Where is she then?” His whole body was convulsing with rage, and he had to keep from crushing the Rosicrucian’s vertebrae.

  Mayhew raised up a finger, indicating that his throat needed to be loosened in order for him to answer the question. “Well,” he sighed, “once we’re done with the subjects, you know, people who reportedly died in the nuclear attack, we have to remove any trace of them.”

  Scott started shaking.

  “You didn’t see the incinerator, did you?”

  He didn’t know what happened next, only that Mayhew’s face was somehow reduced to bloody pulp, and that a severe stinging sensation had erupted in his right arm.

  Everything stopped, sound itself vanishing. He was slightly aware of someone to his right, but it took him a year to turn his head. There was an NAU soldier pointing a gun at him, but then he was suddenly on his back, blood spurting from his body. Another year passed, and he was looking back at Mayhew. But he wasn’t there. Just an empty wall.

  And then there was a faint sound and a huge impact against his back. He was falling forward, slowly, and the floor was rising up to meet his face. He tried to put his arms out, to brace himself, but he couldn’t move them. It seemed like he might lie down gently… but then his face hit the floor, and everything went black.

  When he opened his eyes a second later, he realized what had happened. He was beating Mayhew’s face in when the NAU soldier came around the corner and shot him in the arm, causing him to turn and fire back, letting go of Mayhew in the process. And then there was the pain in his back… he rolled onto his side and noticed Mayhew standing over him, the Desert Eagle back in his hand, its barrel smoking.

  “So how does it feel to know that your wife was incinerated?”

  Scott’s mind whirled through the chaos. Jennifer was dead. Nothing mattered anymore.

  “Looks like I’ll be the one sending you the postcard,” Mayhew spat.

  And Scott realized that something did matter. He had a phone call to make. Screaming in pain, he arched his back while placing his hand at the base of his spine, slipping the knife out of the sheath and into his hand.

  Mayhew crouched beside him, blood dripping off his chin and splashing on the floor. He raised the Eagle and struck it against Scott’s head.

  Seeing stars, Scott prayed for another blow before Mayhew shot him.

  And he got it. Looking for a release to his own rage, Mayhew seemed intent on bashing Scott’s head in before using his last bullet. Reaching out, Scott blocked the next blow with his arm and lashed out with the knife in his other hand. It flashed quickly under the lights lining the corridor’s ceiling before sinking into Mayhew’s flesh.

  Mayhew screamed and backed up, the knife retracting from his right bicep, the pistol falling from his grasp. Scott leaned forward and swiped the knife across the front of his shins.

  Mayhew fell over.

  Struggling back to his feet, Scott reached around his back and pulled out the shotgun still positioned there. It was disfigured and bent by the Eagle’s shot. He threw it to the floor.

  Mayhew was sitting on the ground, pushing himself backwards toward the exit. But without saying another word, Scott bent over, picked up the Desert Eagle, and fired its last round into Mayhew’s knee, shattering it like glass. Mayhew screamed at the top of his lungs, nearly passing out from the pain. And then Scott threw the empty gun at him, striking him in the face.

  Mayhew clutched his nose, rolling back and forth on his side, yelling in agony.

  “You know what I’m gonna
do for you?” Scott asked. “I’m gonna let you sit and think about your life, what it was worth. See if you can manage to find some peace in the end.” He flashed the knife around. “Doubt it though.”

  Mayhew tried to move but couldn’t. “Please…”

  Scott paused, fury shaking his hands. “Please? Please? Is that what my wife said before you stuck her in a microwave?” he screamed. Then he lunged down at him, the knife flashing back and forth, blood spraying all over the corridor. Mayhew was screaming, holding up his hands.

  Finally, Scott stood. He was shaking, his chest heaving, craze in his eyes. Somehow he’d managed to miss any major arteries in the flash of insanity. No amount of plastic surgery would ever fix Mayhew’s face, he would never walk on his own two legs again, and he might be a little slower in the head, but he would live. If he got to a doctor soon. But that wasn’t Scott’s problem. He bent over to open Mayhew’s jacket, intent on retracting the books, when he noticed something through Mayhew’s torn and bloody shirt. Tearing it apart, Scott saw the entirety of the tattoo he’d gotten a glimpse of at Isaiah’s. It wasn’t just a cross… but the Rosicrucian symbol complete with the double-headed phoenix encircled by the passage from Psalms. Scott stared at it for a second before grabbing the books. Three in all. Two of the priest’s and Isaiah’s composition book. He didn’t ask about the two he’d already read. “Thanks,” he mumbled. And he turned and headed for the exit, limping.

  Mayhew’s bloody lips opened. “See you in hell, Matthew.”

  “Probably.” He climbed the stairs, slid the access key in the appropriate spot, and watched as the darkness of night came to greet him.

  Lifting his head out of the pooling blood that was expanding beneath him, Mayhew yelled with all the hatred he could muster. “You’re wife died screaming like a little…” But he stopped when he heard the distinct sound of the metallic pin. Something clinking, bouncing down the corridor toward him. He craned his neck, trying to look up behind him, and was barely able to see the grenade roll to a stop just five feet away. It just sat there, staring at him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t reach it. He could only watch it and wait. Wait for the fires of hell to consume him for all eternity.

  Scott stumbled out of the hidden bunker and collapsed to the ground, barely taking note of the dead NAU soldiers sprawled out in the snow around him. Malachi’s men must have been there to mow them down as they scrambled to the surface.

  When the grenade exploded, the impact of the blast slammed against the closed door behind him. He pulled himself up to his knees and vomited what little he could. Then he continued to dry-heave, the knowledge of his wife’s fate overloading his emotional state and spilling into the physical.

  Finally, he rolled onto his back and stared up into the darkness, conscious of snowflakes melting on his face. He wasn’t able to move, his mind short-circuited.

  But a sudden sound of static erupted through the still air beside him. It crackled, and then a voice filled the night.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  Laying there, Scott found himself wondering about the transmission, where it came from, what it meant. It was illusive though, like a dream.

  “Fourteen minutes.”

  And he suddenly understood. Forcing himself to his feet, he put the night-vision goggles back on and found the radio one of the Mossad agents must’ve dropped. He began running, trying to find his bearings and figure out where he was in relation to the camp. Once he figured it out, he sprinted to the two story building that housed the prisoners.

  “Get up!” he yelled as he ran past the beds. “Come on, wake up!” He kept going down the room, urging the women to get up. “Get out of here!” But they just sat there, staring blankly into the darkness.

  “Come on! Get out of here!” Then he ran upstairs and tried waking the men, but they just gave him the same dumbfounded expression. “Get out of here!”

  “Who are you?” someone asked.

  “Just get out of here! Run! I’m rescuing you!”

  “Rescuing?” the voice came back. There was no comprehension in the voice.

  “Ten minutes.”

  Scott looked up and down the rows of beds, the room spinning around him. No one was moving, and he realized that they were probably sedated. He swore and made his way back downstairs.

  “Nine minutes.”

  There was no more time. He looked through the night-vision at all the innocent women, their confused faces. There was nothing he could do. “Get out of here!” he yelled. “Or I’ll shoot you!” He pulled the pistol out, removed the silencer, and shot a round into the ceiling. But the blast had the opposite effect he was hoping for. Instead of creating a panic that emptied the building, the prisoners only recoiled into the corners of their beds.

  “Please,” Scott begged, more tears filling his eyes. He couldn’t save them.

  “Six minutes.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled off quivering lips as he turned back into the snow.

  He passed through the hole in the fence and continued on toward the woods, completely unaware of his bleeding arm or his bruising back, his body as numb as his mind.

  The ground beneath his feet shook, the underground facility exploding and fracturing the earth above it. But he didn’t turn to see it.

  Walking unsteadily through the woods, back toward the commune, Scott pulled out the phone and found the number the NSA guy had programmed into it. After only one ring, a voice answered. To which he responded, “I have the ring. Now where do I meet you?”

  38

  It had been an agonizing journey through the coldest night of his life. He had no idea how many hours it had taken him, only that the sky wasn’t so dark now. Five miles of moving one foot in front of the other, but he could hardly remember a second of it, his mind light years away from northwest Pennsylvania. Instead, it had been occupied by an invisible court held in the metaphysical, God’s instruction to Israel through the prophet Isaiah — “Come, let us reason together” — the invitation that had summoned him. Only he found that God wasn’t there, that there was no reason at all, all his accusations against God fading into silent emptiness, forever unanswered. And Scott hated Him for it.

  By the time he stumbled out of the woods, his mental state was nearly fractured beyond repair, his body stiff and sore. The breeze was sweeping across the top layer of the clearing, swirling clouds of powdery snow into little tornados. He could barely see the commune. It was only a hundred yards away, set against the dawn, but exhaustion mocked his hope of ever reaching it.

  Before he knew it, he was staggering down the empty street. Everything was still, silent. He headed to the huge tent Malachi’s men had occupied the day before.

  As he approached it, he saw that lights were on, silhouettes walking back and forth, whispers drifting through the freezing air. He climbed the steps and stood there motionless, allowing his eyes to adjust. Some men were asleep on cots, others were having their injuries looked after. Malachi was sitting on a table with his back toward him. Scott ordered his legs to start moving again and they reluctantly obeyed, the ground rocking unevenly beneath them. As he reached out and grabbed Malachi’s right shoulder, Malachi turned his head. Scott had a clear shot at his face with his right fist, and Malachi went crashing to the floor. But Scott hadn’t had the presence of mind to consider the consequence of his actions until fireworks were already popping in his head, his right shoulder an erupting volcano spewing pain up and down his arm. His vision faded, and he fell forward onto the table, rolled off, and landed on the floor.

  When he finally opened his eyes, he found the sun hiding behind some dark clouds.

  “Are you awake?”

  He recognized Malachi’s voice and moved his eyes to find him. He was standing over him, the right side of his face black and blue.

  “You will be sore for a while, but you will be okay. You should take it easy until you regain your strength.”

  Scott rolled his eyes off Malachi and focus
ed again on the clouds moving through the gray sky. There was nothing to say.

  “I am sorry that I lied to you. We needed you with us.”

  Scott sat up, shocked at how sore his back was, like he’d been hit with a sledge hammer. He tested his arm and found that it worked okay. He saw that he was in a sleeping bag near the edge of the tent. “Why?”

  “Because we know what happened to Isaiah. And since you survived, we presumed they offered you a deal. When you mentioned your wife, I knew that was probably the leverage they were using. I needed to keep my eye on you.”

  Scott shook his head. “They know about this place. They know you’re here with the ring.” And then he whispered, “All these people will be dead before tomorrow morning.” And then his eyes turned to ice. “You killed all those people…”

  “Some might consider what happened to them an act of mercy. Besides, would you have the transhumanist agenda continue?”

  He was silent, and Malachi walked away.

  “Whatever they offered you, you’d be a fool to trust them. Even if you could get the ring away from us.”

  “I was a fool to trust you,” Scott shot back.

  “And yet, you’re still alive.”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot.” He got to his feet, rising shakily, and noticed that there was nothing beneath his jacket but gauze and tape, which explained why he was so cold. He pulled the jacket closed and flipped up the collar, beginning to walk unsteadily through the commune. He could smell breakfast being made, and once again, bacon brought the memory of Jennifer back to mind. A single tear squeezed its way out and down his cheek.

  “Hi.”

  The voice came from behind him, and he turned to see someone holding a plate of eggs.

  “Hungry?” Dan Ralston asked, holding out the food.

  He nodded, reaching for it. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “Here, come with me. You can sit.” Ralston started walking toward a table that was set up outside one of the smaller cabins.