The Tombs of Eden

by Rick Jones

  The world lit up around them. And horrendous screams filled the air, noises neither men had heard before or cared to hear again. As Carroll wormed his way toward Savage, the former Navy SEAL reached out and carefully pulled him close. “I got you, man.”

  Just then Carroll coughed a splash of blood, not caring if he soiled Savage’s clothes. This isn’t good, Savage thought. The man was obviously broken inside. Carroll tried to sit up but couldn’t, so he rolled over, his face a mask of pain. Blood was spilling over at the corners of his mouth.

  “I know this is going to hurt,” he said, “but you need to sit up or you’ll choke on your own blood.”

  Carroll nodded. On the count of three, they managed to get him into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. What Carroll didn’t realize, however, was that Savage had deftly removed his combat knife from his sheath, and slipped it between his waistband and belt. Now he had two.

  “You’re going to be all right,” he told him. Carroll’s answer was to spit out a glob of blood on the floor between them, and then wipe a hand across his mouth. “No, man, I’m busted up inside.” He winced, feeling the acid burn of white-hot pain fill his gut.

  “How is he?” Butcher Boy looked winded, as was Aussie who stood behind him.

  Savage shook his head: Not too good.

  Carroll was perceptive, however. “I can do this,” he said, his words a mixture of pain and anger. “Just get me to my feet.”

  Savage aided him to a standing position with the help of Butcher Boy and Aussie. Still, it was a struggle. He stood there clenching his teeth, sweating as he forced the pain down, a forearm across his abdomen. “My weapon,” he said through gritting teeth. “Where’s my MP-7?”

  Aussie returned to the shadows with his weapon raised and his head on a swivel. He moved cautiously, grabbed Carroll’s weapon, and fell back with his weapon aimed at the inky shadows of the passageway.

  When Aussie handed Carroll his weapon, the wounded merc nearly dropped it. Aussie caught it , and then offered it to Carroll once again.

  Aussie and Butcher Boy shared a look of concern: He’s not going to make it.

  In another intuitive moment, Carroll cried, “I can do this!”

  “Sure you can, mate.” Aussie sounded genuinely despondent.

  “And I don’t need anyone’s help, either,” he said, looking at Savage.

  So Savage accepted the message, raised his hands in surrender, and backed away. “It’s your call, kid.”

  “I ain’t a kid!”

  Whatever.

  Savage looked at Alyssa who was cradling the two young Turks in her arms. Oddly, he had never heard the Turks speak but they communicated by the way they looked at him, their imploring eyes calling out to the priest who wasn’t a priest, a man of god who worshipped a god not their own, but a savior nonetheless. They could see it in his eyes.

  In his mind, Savage thought of one thing: I’m not a priest. But in their eyes it didn’t matter. They believed in him. Suddenly he was aware of the knife at the small of his back, and the knife at his ankle.

  Not now. Not yet. The time isn’t right. Harika smiled, and then she nodded. It was a light smile, a tic of an emotion, but Savage saw it clearly.

  Butcher Boy raised his hand and circled his finger. “Let’s move, people.” And then: “Ms. Moore, what direction?”

  She released the young Turks, who stayed close. “Not far,” she said. “Two, maybe three hundred meters behind the Crystal Wall.”

  “Then let’s haul ass, people. I want the Turks to take point.”

  “No way,” said Alyssa. “I’ll take point.”

  “I don’t think so,” he returned. “You’re too valuable an asset.”

  “And they’re not?”

  “Certain people are expendable,” he shot back. “They are. You’re not. They take point.” He raised the point of his weapon until it was leveled at Harika, and began tapping his finger against the trigger guard.

  Alyssa huffed in clear exasperation.

  “I’m glad that you see it my way. Turks to point. Aussie, I need you to bring up the rear, since those things are somehow behind us. I’ll stay close to the point guards.”

  “Got you, mate.”

  Butcher Boy walked past Hall, who appeared to be looking for instruction and looked confused when he didn’t get it, and made his way to Savage. “Talk to you for a moment.”

  They headed away from the team. When Butcher Boy felt they were out of earshot he spoke to Savage in hushed tones. “From one soldier to another,” he said. “Keep an eye on Carroll.” The way he spoke, it sounded more like a question than a demand.

  Savage considered this. “I won’t do it as a soldier,” he said. “But I’ll do it as a decent person.”

  Their gaze met for a moment longer. “I don’t care who you do it as,” he responded, “just as long as you do it.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He nodded in appreciation. “Thank you.” And then he walked off calling out directions, calling out orders, people responding in chop-chop fashion.

  Savage hung back and perused the chamber. Shadows pooled everywhere and he could not determine if they were moving or if it was just a play of his mind. Obviously he was hoping for the latter.

  “Savage!” It was Butcher Boy. “We’re waiting on you! Let’s move!”

  Savage waved his hand. Coming! With the Turks leading the way, they headed for the Master Chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Thank you.” Alyssa’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  Savage leaned into her. “For what?”

  “For helping me out back there when Hall was trying to act like a tough guy by slapping me down.”

  “Yeah, well, you got to learn not to piss people off,” he said with a gentle smile.

  “I can’t help myself with some people. And he falls under that category.”

  Suddenly their mood shifted into something between somber and depressing. Savage turned and noted her elegant profile and considered how beautiful she really was, at the way her finely chiseled features formed the lines along her exquisite face. “I heard what he said about your friend,” he stated with regret. “Montario, is it?” She nodded. “I’m so sorry, Alyssa.”

  Even though it was the first time he had called her by her first name, she didn’t respond as they maneuvered their way through dark warrens and passageways, side by side, his barometer holding steady.

  The Master Chamber was not too far from the Room of the Crystal Wall, or the Central Chamber, which marked the epicenter of the temple’s top tier.

  With Eser and Harika leading the way, holding their lamps forward and Butcher Boy holding the mouth of his weapon steady, they came upon a square room where the walls had been created by sheets of gemlike minerals—emerald green, ruby red, sapphire blue, the colors rich and bright.

  On the floor, as her father related in the pages of his journal, was the circle of rings. The center circle, roughly the dimensions of a manhole cover and made of crystal quartz as pure as spring water, was the symbol ¥, the cuneiform character for the number one.

  The outer ring that surrounded the center circle was fashioned of clouded quartz and bore the archaic figures ¥ - ¥, meaning 11, since they were separated by the dash. The next outer ring, the third ring, was made of clear quartz, the etched numbers ¥ - ¥¥ - ¥ - ¥, representing 1211. The fourth ring, bearing the etched numbers ¥ - ¥ - ¥ - ¥¥ - ¥¥ - ¥, meaning 111221, and so on, until the final ring held no numerals at all, but a blank spot for the correct set of numbers to be placed, the final piece.

  Alyssa walked around the circle, around the rings, the light of the quartz reflecting up into her face giving her somewhat of an ethereal glow. Obsidian Hall ran his hands along the smoothness of the gemlike walls, putting his faith in his team to protect him, taking for granted that he was safe and well within a comfort zone.

  Eser and Harika circled the rings with their lanterns held high. Butcher B
oy and Aussie scoped the area for threats, while Savage stayed close to Carroll, who was fighting a battle of survival from his knees and coughing up blood.

  “This is it,” Alyssa whispered in wide-eyed wonder. “The Riddle of the Rings.” She produced the pages regarding her father’s considerations of the missing numerals of the final ring. While tracing her finger across the numbers on the page, she sought for a pattern. “The first row: One,” she said softly and more to herself than anybody else. “The second row: One-One. Third row: Two-One. Fourth row: One-Two-One-One.” She couldn’t figure out a pattern. “Fifth row: One-One-One-Two-Two-One. Six row: Three-One-Two—”

  1

  11

  21

  1211

  111221

  312211

  13112221

  ?

  “Problem, Ms. Moore?” Hall broke her concentration. “It’s apparent to me that the last row needs the correct sequence of numbers from the twelve sets given on the final ring to fill in the appropriate combination.”

  Deep down she wanted to throttle him. “I know that,” she told him. “Finding the right sequence, however, is the riddle.”

  Hall placed his hands behind the small of his back and walked around the crystal rings. “I guess one set is as good as another, don’t you think?”

  “No, one set of numbers is not as good as another.” She studied the final ring. Etched into the crystal circle were twelve sets of numbers. One set, however, was the correct value that would open the way to the lower level.

  “I see math is not your strong suit,” said Hall, circling. She held her hand up to him so as not to interrupt her calculations. And then: “Mr. Aussie.”

  Aussie made his way beside Obsidian Hall, who was pointing at the numbers along the final ring. “Do you see those numbers along the last ring?” he asked.

  He did see twelve numerical sets: 1132122321, 1211312113, 1311211312, 1231221131, 1112113123, 1123312211, 1211322211, 1112311132, 1113213211, 1222133112, 1113321231, and 1123331121.

  “Yeah, mate.”

  “Choose one.”

  Alyssa looked up infuriated. “What are you doing?”

  “Choosing a sequence,” said Hall. “Apparently his guess is just as good as yours.”

  “There could be serious consequences should he choose the wrong set,” she said hotly.

  “Like what?” Hall raised his hands palms up and smiled with impish delight. “I suppose you’ll say something to the effect that the roof will tumble downward and kill us all.”

  She took a step an aggressive step toward Hall, prompting Savage to roll his eyes: Won’t that girl ever learn?

  “It’s a riddle,” she told him firmly. “The object is to solve the riddle in order to get to the next level. It wouldn’t be much of a puzzle if you could just insert any series of numbers, would it?”

  “Mr. Aussie,” he never took his eyes off Alyssa or allowed his smile to fade. “Please choose a set of your liking.” Aussie nodded his enthusiasm and circled the rings, deciding on which set to choose from.

  “You think that’s wise?” asked Butcher Boy. “I would think that Ms. Moore knows what she’s talking about.”

  “She does,” said Savage. “From what we’ve seen of this place, I think it prudent to show it respect. I think you should let Ms. Moore handle this.”

  “I will handle this, Mr. Savage.” Hall jabbed his chest with his thumb. “I!”

  “All I’m saying is—”

  “—That you need to be quiet, yes? Is that what you’re saying?” Savage bit down on his jaw fighting for calm. “I thought so.” Hall turned to Aussie, who was standing over a set of cuneiform numerals at the four o’clock mark of the ring. “Have you chosen, sir?”

  Aussie smile and nodded, giving a thumbs up. “These here numbers look pretty sweet,” he said, and then pointed at the set. It was the numerical lot of 1231221131.

  “Very good, Mr. Aussie, the privilege is yours. Please grab the crystal dowel next to the given numbers and move the wheel forward.”

  “Don’t do it,” said Alyssa imploringly. “If you don’t know what you’re doing, then that only gives you roughly an eight percent chance of getting it right. There is a pattern. If you just give me time—”

  “But that’s the point, Ms. Moore,” said Hall. “We have no time, especially with those things running loose all over the place.” Butcher Boy had to agree, so he turned his weapon at the way they just entered. “Go ahead, Mr. Aussie.”

  The Australian clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together with eagerness. He then got to his knees, reached for the crystal dowel assigned to the grouping of numbers, and pushed the ring in a clockwise direction. The ring began to rotate as he crawled along its outer edge, driving the ring to its alignment point. Once completed, he would then have to push the dowel downward in order to lock the final ring into place.

  By the time his choice of numerals reached the point, he turned to Hall and to Alyssa. His mind was no longer sure that this was the right maneuver.

  “Push in the dowel, Mr. Aussie, and lock it into place so that we can get going, please.”

  Aussie hesitated, looked down at the ring and at the dowel. With a shove he forced the pin downward. But it only went halfway down. “Looks like a wrong number, mate.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Alyssa, taking careful steps away from the rings as her head tilted ceilingward.

  “Uh-oh?” said Aussie, standing. “What do you mean by uh-oh?”

  The walls and floor of the temple began to vibrate, the shaking of a decent earthquake.

  “Nobody move!” she cried out. “Everybody, stay your ground!”

  The world sounded off in the cacophony of giant stones rubbing together, the noise of rocks grinding with deadly purpose. Alyssa knew that the temple was reshaping itself into odd shapes by weights and balances, somewhere walls and floors were dropping, silica slabs drifting, and all for a single reason.

  And then it stopped—the noise, the grinding, everything, the world shrouded in terrifying silence. And then: “Geez, Aussie, what number did you pick?” whispered Butcher Boy. Nobody answered, since they were holding their collective breath.

  After a few moments Savage finally took the initiative. “What just happened?” he asked quietly.

  “Weights and balances,” stated Alyssa.

  “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Hall.

  “It means that you’re as dumb as a bag of hammers,” she told him. “The wrong set of numerals, the wrong answer to the riddle, set off a chain reaction that galvanized balances and weights to restructure the temple in some way.”

  “Why?”

  “I think we’re about to find out,” she answered. “And not in a good way, either.”

  Nobody moved. In fact, the only things that moved were the eyes in their sockets.

  “How long do we have to stand here?” Hall asked, speaking softly as if he actually thought the roof might collapse.

  “Until I’m sure it’s absolutely safe,” she replied.

  “But nothing’s happening.”

  “Trust me, Hall. Something will happen . . . Thanks to you.”

  “I hate to admit it,” said Savage, “but he’s right. We can’t stand here forever.”

  Nevertheless, nobody moved, which was fine with Alyssa because it gave her time to study the numerals on the final ring. It was situations like this that her father and Noah proffered her with mental puzzles to reason out and solve.

  1

  11

  21

  1211

  111221

  312211

  13112221

  ?

  What . . . is . . . the answer?

  She looked for a pattern within the sequence of the given twelve sets of numbers.

  In the shadows, Carroll coughed up more blood and finally fell to his knees.

  “Whatever happened, happened,” said Aussie, rushing to aid his comrade. “Carroll, are ye all right,
mate?”

  Carroll rose to his feet, using the wall as a crutch. When he took a step forward something clicked beneath him, a gemlike tile dropped about an inch beneath his foot, which set off a whip trap.

  A crystal bar with black silica spikes shot out with a blur and impaled Carroll, his eyes and mouth forming a perfect O in surprise as the sharpened points entered and exited his body as if the density of his tissue was made up entirely of water.

  Aussie wisely stood his ground, looking at the floor beneath him. “Stand your ground!” he yelled, holding out a cautious hand to everyone. “The bloody floor’s alive!”

  Carroll’s arms were draped over the crystal beam, the points of the spikes from his backside dripped blood, forming a black mass on the floor. And then he reached out imploringly to Aussie, who wasn’t too far away, with a clawed hand and made a guttural noise that sounded like a wet rattle.

  Aussie slung his weapon behind him and took careful steps toward his friend. “Hang on, mate. I’m coming.”

  Step by step Aussie tested the floor in front of him. Nothing gave. The floor was solid, but his advancement was slow as Carroll’s life leeched away with every drop of blood leaving his body.

  Butcher Boy followed Aussie’s trail.

  When Aussie reached Carroll, their hands met and their fingers interlocked. “I gotcha, mate.”

  Carroll looked at him through dazed eyes. And then he coughed up a splash of blood, his lungs filling, then purging, the man drowning in his own fluids. He cried out as every nerve ending in his body fired up in a tabernacle of pain. In response he attempted to push free from the spikes, failed, his life ebbing.

  “It’s all right, Carroll,” Aussie said achingly. “It’s all right.”

  “My name’s Magnum,” he said. “I want to be called . . . Magnum.”

  Aussie nodded. “Magnum it is, mate . . . Magnum it is.”

  Carroll’s eyes were beginning to take on that detached look of seeing beyond the walls to a land nobody else could see. The man was fading fast. Aussie began to stroke Carroll’s shoulder the way an owner would pat his prized dog. “It’s all right, mate,” he told him, smiling gently. “Just give yourself over.”