The Tombs of Eden

by Rick Jones

  Butcher Boy kept his eyes on the imager screen. The corridor was clear but his senses remained heightened. Just because he couldn’t see anything didn’t mean that it wasn’t there. He had learned that in the Philippines when his military unit had taken on a guerilla faction with Muslim ties. The rebels used the jungle fauna as camouflage and hid in plain sight, remaining unseen until it was too late for some, the price of blindness the lives of two good men.

  Within thirty meters they had come upon a small opening to the right, a passageway.

  “Ms. Moore.” Butcher Boy waved the imager back in forth across the opening. Nothing—everything appeared clear. Alyssa moved to the fore of the line with lack of prudence, her lamp held out in front of her. “Careful,” cautioned Butcher Boy.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Nevertheless, Ms. Moore,” Hall interjected, “caution should be a practiced virtue.”

  The ramp way was set at a forty-five degree incline, leading into a chamber. Suddenly she could feel the insect-like skin crawl of excitement, the tickle along the edge of the scalp line. Casting vigilance to the wind, she pressed forward with her lamp throwing out a strong circle of light.

  “Ms. Moore!” Butcher Boy sounded genuinely concerned as he reached for her and missed. “We don’t know what’s in there!”

  “I do!”

  After taking the short passageway, she entered a circular chamber capped with a vaulted ceiling. Standing sentinel in the center with the hoof of its foreleg held aloft and its head held high in boldness, stood the life-sized monument of a bull cast in clouded crystal quartz.

  She moved closer with a hand held out to rest upon the corded flank of the beast, to touch its sculpted perfection. It stood upon a large plinth of black silica. The points of its horns held the sharpness of ice picks, its mouth was ajar, the image of bellowing domination. Its fore hoof was raised and seemed about to paw the earth, to strike it, to create a groove. It was the pose of unbridled strength and power.

  “Magnificent,” whispered Hall, entering. He was just as enthralled as Alyssa.

  “Let’s not lose our perspective,” said Aussie. “Remember—we’re not alone ‘ere.” Aussie and Butcher Boy quickly scouted the area, their weapons raised to eye level, their heads on a swivel, aiming, searching. And then: “Clear!” Aussie lowered his weapon, but kept his senses keen and alert.

  Hall took the time to run a hand over the crystal hide of the bull, could feel its perfection. His mind was working as to where upon the Seafarer he could display such a remarkable piece. “Amazing,” he whispered.

  Savage walked the periphery of the chamber looking for imminent danger rather than at the bull, the difference between a soldier and a scientist.

  In the room’s center, Carroll leaned his brother against the plinth, the man growing sicker and weaker, the toxin of the creature’s bite coursing through his system. “Butch!”

  Butcher Boy joined his side by getting on a bended knee and placing the back of his hand against Red’s forehead.

  “Not feeling too good, Cap,” Red whispered. “I’m on fire. I can tell.”

  “Yeah, you are,” he said, lowering his hand. And then over his shoulder: “Ms. Moore.”

  She saw the soldiers gathering around Red and took sudden note of the waxy glow of his face, and the deadly dark rings that surrounded his eyes. She took up position in front of him as Butcher Boy surrendered space to her. “We got antibiotics in our packs,” said Butcher Boy. But it was apparent to them that the situation was grave. The man’s life was bleeding out.

  Alyssa felt his temperature and measured the rate of his pulse, which beat at the pace of a drum roll. “This man needs to be in a hospital,” she told him. “He’s burning up.”

  “We know that,” said Butcher Boy. “But that’s obviously not an option at this point.”

  “Then what do you expect me to do?”

  “How long can antibiotics carry him through?”

  She reached over and peeled back the torn fabric of his shirt that was stuck to the wound, causing Red to whistle in pain through gritted teeth. The skin had greened and soured, the smell of the injury was in the beginning stage of decay. “I’m going to say this again. He needs to be in a hospital.”

  “And again, that’s not an option.”

  “The toxin is fast-acting,” she told him. “Antibiotics won’t even put a dent in this. If you don’t get this man help, then he will die.”

  Red squirmed in obvious pain. Looking for a quick solution to Red’s condition, Butcher Boy turned to Aussie and saw the blankness of his expression. Carroll held the same look. No one had an answer. He stood up and ran a hand over his military crop of hair. And then he rested that hand on Carroll’s forearm. It was an act of sorrow. “Give him the antibiotics anyway,” he said sadly. “It’s better than nothing.”

  Carroll closed his eyes, choking back his emotions. Butcher Boy stepped away, beckoning Alyssa to join him in counsel. “What?”

  “These—things,” he said. “How deadly are they? What are we up against?”

  “These types of lizards, like the Komodo dragon and the Gila monster, excrete bacterial saliva with its bite which enters the wound upon the moment of mauling. Now the bite of the Komodo has been known to kill small children but this creature is much larger. I can only assume, given the condition of your man there—”

  “His name is Red,” he cut in curtly.

  “Red, then . . . I can only assume, given the condition of Red, and after seeing the wound, that the toxin is extremely virulent and fast moving. Given the rapid pace of its spread, he’ll most likely be dead within the hour.”

  “He just got bit.”

  “Hey, you wanted my professional opinion, I gave it to you. But you’re more than welcome to seek a second opinion.” She waved her hand indicating the inhabitants within the room.

  He shook his head in revulsion. Not much to choose from, he realized. “So a single bite is fatal?”

  “Obviously.”

  He turned to Red. The man was fading quickly. It would be better to put him out of his misery, he considered, a quick shot to the head, quick and painless, but not in front of his brother.

  “We need to leave here,” Alyssa said. “The cost is already too high.”

  “No, Ms. Moore.” Obsidian Hall joined their little conversation. His hands were clasped behind the small of his back. “Professional soldiers do not run from adversity, which is why they were hired. Losing lives in the battlefield is a way of life. These people have been trained to live under such conditions. They bury their emotions and move on. Yes, Mr. Red’s situation is unfortunate. But it’s the nature of the game—something they have come to expect.”

  “We don’t stand a chance,” she said heatedly. “Can’t you see that?”

  “What I see, Ms. Moore, is a team of professionals learning from Mr. Red’s mishap. It won’t happen again. They’re seasoned and know what to expect.”

  She shook her head. “Why are you even here?” she asked. “Do I need to ask?”

  He smiled. “For this,” he said, opening his arms wide at the bull in invitation. “Treasures, ancient relics—it’s all here for the taking,” he said. He lowered his arms and pointed his finger at the floor, indicating the levels below. “And the best is yet to come.”

  She wanted to say ‘I won’t help you.’ But she looked over at Eser and Harika, two young people who didn’t deserve this. Two people who wanted to be a part of history, not buried by it. She walked away defeated.

  He smiled, licked the tip of his forefinger, and scored the air as if writing the number one against an imaginary tablet, chalking a win for him and a loss for her.

  Cha-ching!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They made camp for the evening inside the Chamber of the Bull. Hall slept within the shadow of the sculpture and Alyssa was forced to congregate with Savage, Eser and Harika. Aussie and Butcher Boy watched the entryway; lamps were everywhere, providin
g a false sense of security within the light.

  No one could sleep.

  With Eser and Harika holding each other tightly, Alyssa tried to strike up a conversation. But they didn’t understand English and her Turkish was minimal. Noah had been the bridge between them, interpreting and bringing them together. Tears began to cloud her vision. How she missed him.

  “Are you all right?” asked Savage.

  “What do you care? You want me dead, remember?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Yeah—whatever.”

  “Ms. Moore, I took the mission because I was a soldier acting without question. That’s the way I was trained.”

  “So that justifies what you were going to do?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But the truth is we need each other now.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Are you serious?”

  “Very.” And then: “What do you think they’re going to do to us after we serve their purposes? Have you thought about that?” She hadn’t. “They’re going to kill us,” he said bluntly.

  She looked at the soldiers, at Hall, and then to the young Turks who seemed to agree with his assessment. Although they couldn’t speak the language, they must have sensed the reality of the situation.

  “The moment they find out whatever it is this place holds, whatever it is the pontiff wants to keep pent up, we’re dead people.”

  Alyssa’s mind moved at a slow crawl, trying to absorb what the Turks sitting across her already knew, what Savage knew. Hall had been in charge from the very beginning, using Noah as the conduit by preying on his desperation for funding, and then waiting for the opportunity to avail itself. He was here for the relics, she knew that. She also knew that he was a man who placed more value on ancient artifacts than he did on human life.

  Savage was right. But did she dare make a union with the man who was sent to kill her? “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Do you have a choice?” In frustration, she rubbed her eyes. “Ms. Moore, my judgment has been clouded for many years since I left the SEALs. I know that. But I lost my way. Before I came here, I spoke to a man named Leviticus, a soldier. And he told me one thing. He said: Loyalty above all else, except honor.”

  She was held rapt. She could see the genuine conviction of truth within his eyes and hear it in the way he spoke. “Loyalty above all else,” he repeated once again, “except honor.” And then: “Do you know what that means?”

  She nodded. “To prove your devotion, but only if the principle of the action is not a corrupt one.”

  Savage nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “That’s exactly it.” He leaned his head against the wall, sighed, and went on. “Leviticus refused to assume the role which I now find myself with,” he said, “as your assassin. He refused, saying that you were an innocent. And sometimes those within power do not always see with clear vision, but with selfish eyes. Whatever the secret this place holds—whatever is inside this temple—has the pontiff terrified.” He faced her. His eyes sparkled. “I was wrong for trying to follow through with my mission without seeing that you, Noah, Eser and Harika, are good people who didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “And when were you planning to—” She flexed her fingers to emphasize quotation marks, “—follow through?”

  “When I first arrived,” he told her evenly. “When we were inside your tent.”

  “But Noah interrupted.”

  “Thank God.”

  She looked him in the eyes and saw true contrition. “Confession is good for the soul.”

  “For a long time I didn’t feel like I had one,” he said. “But now I realize that I do and I want to keep it.”

  “So what are we going to do? They have the weapons. And we can’t wade our way through those creatures without them.” He agreed. But he also believed that there was a solution to everything. “John?”

  “I’m thinking.” But as much as he thought, nothing came to him, which caused Alyssa to worry. And when he saw this, his heart became painfully weighted. “So help me,” he told her. “I will get you through this.”

  She just stared, not sure if she was more frightened of Hall and his team, or by aligning herself with the man who was sent to kill her. It was certainly an unlikely alliance born of necessity rather than mutual trust. “I want to trust you, John Savage. I want to believe in you.”

  He said nothing. He just turned away and stared at the domed ceiling, his mind working. There was a solution to everything, he thought. He just had to find it.

  #

  By the time Red died, his face looked like something right out of a horror film. His skin tone was chalk white and the circles around his eyes as black as the silica plinth he lay on. His wound was mottled with indescribable colors, the gnash marks oozing pus that smelled like rot. And his eyes had begun to film over with the milky sheen of death.

  Carroll sat Indian style before the plinth, looking on with numbed fascination at seeing his brother lying dead. Two lamps, one at his head, the other at his feet, were posted. “He died about six hours ago,” he said dryly. He knew someone was standing behind him, he just didn’t know who.

  Butcher Boy hunkered down beside him and laid a hand on his teammate’s shoulder. “Carroll, just so you know, Red was one of the best I ever worked with.”

  “Magnum,” he stated with indifference. “I keep telling you people that I want to be called Magnum. Not Carroll.”

  “Magnum it is, then.” He patted Carroll on the shoulder, stood, and walked away, feeling a sense of great loss.

  “Is he going to be fine?” Hall asked apathetically. “We need him to be right in the mind.”

  Not liking Hall’s tone, Butcher Boy grabbed him by the collar and yanked him close. He then spoke to Hall in a voice so low he was practically mouthing the words. “If you ever cry out like that again or so much as question the mettle of my team when one of my men lies dead after trying to do the job you hired him for—money or no money, Mr. Hall, I will kill you. Clear?”

  Hall looked genuinely frightened as Butcher Boy’s grip tightened, the expensive material of Hall’s shirt bleeding through the gaps of Butcher Boy’s fingers. “Did you not hear me?” he asked steadily. “When I say clear, then you say . . .”

  “Clear,” Hall mumbled. “Now release me . . . I won’t tell you again.”

  Butcher Boy let him go and gave him his best alpha-male stare. As Hall fell back, trying to brush the wrinkles free from his shirt, he matched Butcher Boy with a terrible impression of bravado before hastening off. The exchange, however, did not go unnoticed.

  “Looks like trouble in paradise,” said Savage. “Tensions are rising.”

  Alyssa didn’t reply. She was standing before the wall, examining the wedge-shaped cuneiform characters her father mentioned in his journal. Though the text was so ancient and alien to him, he had at least understood enough of the symbols to interpret that a Burial Chamber lay below, perhaps containing someone of royalty.

  “What?” he asked.

  She traced her fingers over the secret code. “This,” she said. “My father thought this to be pre-Sumerian writing, the oldest known text in the world.”

  Savage moved directly beside her but didn’t touch the wall. He was amazed how this woman continued to be so enthralled with her surroundings when she knew that her life was timing out.

  She looked on with wide-eyed wonder. “My father was right,” she said with awe. “I can see the similarities between this text to Sumerian and other related texts. It all originated from here—from this temple. This is truly the cradle of mankind.” She continued to trace her fingers over the ancient passages.

  Like the others in the chamber, Savage was getting edgy and didn’t care.

  “Ms. Moore!”

  Because she was entirely taken in by the wall, she didn’t turn to meet Obsidian’s call.

  “Ms. Moore!” This time he out called out so loudly that her attention was ripped away from the cuneif
orm text, their eyes meeting.

  “Ready up,” he told her. “We’re leaving in ten. I assume you know the way according to that wall you’re reading?”

  “It tells us the way to the center of this level—presumably to the way down.” And to the Burial Chamber below.

  “Very good.” He turned and walked toward his gear.

  She moved away from the wall and away from Savage, who was left standing alone.

  “Yo, Padre.” Aussie came from the shadows with his assault weapon straddled in front of him. “We need you to say a few words about Red before we leave.”

  “I told you, I’m not a priest.”

  “Maybe not. But you’re the closest thing to one. So let’s go.” He tilted his head at the direction of the body, which lie on the plinth beneath the lifted foreleg of the bull. His body was situated in a manner of gentle repose, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs together, with his face looking ceilingward towards the Heavenly gateway.

  Others gathered around with Eser, Harika and Alyssa standing back—not too close but not too far, either. Hall stood behind them, watching over their shoulders. To them this was not about Red at all, but a measure of respect for Death who surely seemed to follow in their wake.

  “Go ahead, Padre.”

  Savage didn’t know what to say. All he knew about the man was that he made a living as an assassin killing for blood money.

  “Let’s go, Padre.”

  He gave Aussie a hard stare. In return Aussie drummed his fingertips against his weapon, letting Savage know he had the power and wasn’t afraid to use it.

  “Bow your heads,” said Savage.

  They did. And for two minutes he ranted how good the man was, and why the good Lord should embrace him, love him, and spoke words that didn’t draw praise or criticism when he was finished.

  When everyone dispersed he turned to Alyssa. Her face was clear: Is there anything about you that’s real?

  When he raised his arms in a what-did-you-want-me-to-do manner, she turned to gear up.

  Savage lowered his arms in defeat and stared at the body of Red. Slowly, he reached up, removed the white band of his Roman collar, and placed it within the crux of Red’s fingers as if he was holding it. Hopefully this will serve as a price of admission, he thought. But I doubt it.