Babylon Prophecy

by Sean Salazar

  Along the walls to the right and left were old-fashioned brass-faced boxes one would normally see in a post office or a bank vault. Large wooden posts stood between the brass boxes, connecting to even larger beams on the ceiling, giving the area the look of a mining tunnel. He could not tell exactly but more tunnels appeared up ahead. Al quietly took a few steps, shut off his light, and listened again.

  Breathing! He turned the light on, aimed it directly around the corner, and saw Berardi leaning against a post. He was holding his bloody shoulder and had a distressed look. Al didn’t see the papers he had grabbed before he dove under the trap door. “Now, where were we?” Al asked, as if he was just picking up where he left off.

  Berardi let out a dry cough, “Persistent little bastard, aren’t you?”

  “You betcha,” Al said. “Now start talking before I blow out your good shoulder.”

  Berardi remained silent, holding his shoulder as blood seeped around his fingers.

  Al reached over, grabbed him by the wounded shoulder and lifted him up. He shoved him into the center of the space, gripping tightly to exert as much pain as he could, and calmly asked, “Where is it?”

  Berardi’s knees buckled, wincing as Al’s fingers dug into his shoulder. He pointed to the third box in the fifth row directly in front of them. Al shoved him to it, aimed his light directly on it, and said, “Open it.”

  After a brief hesitation, Berardi inserted a key and opened the box. Al recognized the pages, pulled them out, and stuffed them into his pocket. Now he had to get out of there. Berardi was still conscious so now he could prove Vance wrong by returning a live prisoner—not to mention collecting his fifty bucks. Al dug his fingers deeper and said, “Now, start walking, and any sudden moves I...”

  “You shoot me again,” Berardi interrupted.

  “You catch on quick.”

  Berardi buckled again as Al increased his vise-like grip on his shoulder, turning him around and pushing him back into the tunnel. “You said that you planted the bomb in D.C.; would you mind elaborating?”

  Suddenly there was a rumble followed by a rush of heat, then a loud explosion.

  Chapter Nine

  Al opened his eyes, coughed, rolled over, and stood up. He grabbed his flashlight, which had landed a few feet away. The tunnel was filling up with smoke, and Berardi was gone. “Damn it, damn it,” Al yelled out.

  The place must have been pre-rigged to blow. He quickly looked around for Berardi, but he was gone. The smoke was making it difficult to breathe. He aimed his light around but decided that making his way out was his best option. Crouching low below the smoke, he returned to the tunnel and began running. Almost immediately, he ran into a block. The tunnel had caved in. The top right half was open but smoke was violently billowing through. The explosives must have also been pre-rigged to block the escape route, Al thought to himself. That could only mean that Berardi didn’t go back to the house.

  He turned around, returned to the space with the brass boxes, and found the tunnel he saw earlier. Al had to crawl to avoid the smoke and pulled his shirt over his mouth to breathe through. He came upon an area between two of the large wooden beams that extended into another tunnel. As far as he could determine, this was the only other way out. Berardi must have gone this way.

  Hugging the ground, he stretched out his arm, aiming the light straight ahead; it was apparently his only option. He put the light in his mouth and began making his way down the tunnel, one knee at a time. The smoke was so thick now he could no longer see. The tunnel opened into another space, but for some reason the level of smoke continued to increase, but where was it coming from? Nothing was burning in the tunnel but somehow the smoke was pouring in as if it was being sucked through. Al now gave up on the light and stuffed it in his pocket; breathing was his only concern now. He pulled his shirt over his mouth again and charged forward on his knees. He was now starting to cough and gag as deadly smoke began filling up his lungs. He dropped down on his belly, scraped forward, and collided with something solid. He reached out and felt it. It was a ladder. He used it to pull himself up.

  At this point, he could only feel the ladder but could tell it went straight up. The smoke was blowing past him so strongly that it could only mean one thing: an opening to the outside had to be near. He dropped back down flat on his belly, buried his head in his shirt and took one long and last deep breath, then stood up and began climbing into the smoke-filled chimney. Fortunately, he did not have to go far before he broke to the surface. He felt the edge and grass. He pulled himself up and out, trying to escape the smoke. He coughed and coughed as he took a deep breath of fresh air. Rolling over, he aimed his light back at the opening. Smoke was still forcefully billowing out like a volcano, rumbling as it did. What in the hell is causing that? he wondered. He noticed the surrounding trees were flickering with light. He stood up and, staggering farther away from the smoke, he now was able to see what happened.

  Berardi did not just blow up the tunnel; he blew the whole damn house. A raging fire was up ahead. He now realized that if he hadn’t chased Berardi under the desk and into the tunnel, he would have gone up in flames. He looked directly at the burning remains of the house, wondering if Agent Gomez and his men had succeeded in getting Alex Pike out.

  “Dear God, no,” he said, walking through the trees in the direction of the fire. He looked around for any signs of life. A wave of depression came over him. I not only lost Berardi, but I may have killed the entire team.

  Suddenly, Gomez’s voice rumbled from behind him.

  “Let me guess, he got away?”

  “Ah, shit,” Al murmured, turning around. Agent Gomez was walking in his direction with one of his men.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “There is a tunnel complex under this hill,” Al answered, then asked, “Alex?”

  “I guess the goddamned cat is out of the bag,” Gomez yelled. “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch we got out of there when we did.”

  Al felt a new wave of coughing about to overcome him as his lungs relaxed. He could tell by Agent Gomez’s attitude that he had managed to get Alex Pike out of the house before it blew. Gomez turned and barked orders in Spanish to his man who ran off. He then approached Al just as the coughing began and said, “They are going to secure the area. And yes, we got Alex Pike out before the house blew. We’re getting him out of the country as fast as possible.”

  Al knelt over and coughed hard several times. He felt his pocket and the papers were gone. What a screw up. “Thanks, man, I owe you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Athens, Georgia

  A little boy pointed and shouted, “Dad, look!”

  The boy’s father slowed his pace on the sidewalk, and turned to see what had his son so excited. Off in the distance in the center of the small road he saw horses. They were slowly trotting in a row of four and they were massive. The cars were stopping and every person nearby stopped what they were doing to observe. Some were taking pictures.

  Each horse was completely dressed in medieval garb, including shiny silver breast-, neck-, and head armor. Riding the horses were fully armored knights with white robes and what looked like a red cross in the center of their chest. The helmets from what he could see were the square, pointy type, and as they got closer, he noted two slits for the eyes. Each knight was sitting straight, facing forward.

  Odd, the father thought. In all the years living in this small college town, he had never seen such an unusual sight. “Now that is completely random,” the father said, turning in the other direction, expecting to see a parade preparing to begin. Nothing, and not just that, virtually every person who seemed to notice the giant armored horses appeared surprised.

  “Wow,” the little boy said, excitedly pulling on his dad’s hand. “Do you see...?”

  “Just a second,” the father said, cutting him off. He was trying to ascertain what was going on, which was most likely an extremely elaborate college prank. There was a group o
f trees on the far side of the road and four more armor-clad horses came out, lining up behind the first four horses. Every once in a while, the college students would pull off something unusual, but never like this. An officer stepped out of his police cruiser and spoke into his radio.

  “The officer’s actions indicate that there is no parade. So,” the father said, smiling, “this has to be a college prank.”

  “Cool,” the little boy answered, pulling at his arm.

  The father was just about to let go of his son’s hand so he could scamper off and get a better look at the rare sight. Only then did he notice something odd. As the horses got closer, he could not only hear the distinct clatter of multiple horseshoes on concrete, but he saw a very distinct shape of a black thin object on the right side of the knights’ hip. Weapons? Couldn’t be. He turned to see the police officer who was standing defiantly with his arms crossed as he was simply going to allow the alleged college prank to continue. He was even shaking his head with a slight grin. The father re-gripped his son’s hand, pulling him back. He had spent several years in the army, and he instinctively sensed something was not quite normal. His son was pulling at him in protest, but he was just going to wait a few seconds before letting him go.

  Then it happened. The eight horses picked up speed, galloping forward. They separated as they maneuvered around the stopped cars. Faster and faster, they trotted and the father decided that his son was staying with him, and pulled him closer. A slight sense of excitement filled him as the unexpected unfolded before them—almost a nice change of pace in this boring little town. However, the sight of weapons nagged at him. Why would they be armed, or were they? He couldn’t quite see for sure.

  As the horses came closer to where they were standing, it became apparent that these were not college students. They were big guys, and the closer they got he realized they were very big guys. The horses were clearly massive and muscled. The knights were at least nine or ten feet in the air and towered over everything they passed.

  “And that is definitely a gun,” the father muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the muzzle. It had to be a fake, but why? Knights did not use guns. Then the mounted knight on the left pulled out the gun, lifted and steadied it with the horse’s trot, aimed it at the officer, and shot him.

  “This can’t be happening,” the father said in disbelief. “This must be an act.” He watched the officer fall backwards on the hood of his car, holding his throat. “Nope, this is for real,” he said, yanking his son along and ducking behind a parked car. The horses now were running and jumping over cars. All eight knights had guns out in front of them. The father pulled his son into an alley as the eight horses, now in a full gallop, were heading towards the college. The area echoed with the clatter of hooves on concrete. He waited for a few seconds watching them run off, and then went to assist the fallen officer.

  Chapter Eleven

  University of Georgia

  Fifty-nine-year-old Professor Horace Golb punched the code into the electronic keypad opening the door to his laboratory. He was returning from a meeting of his financial backers where he had proudly announced that he had successfully unrolled an ancient scroll and was going to begin the process of translating it today. Their reaction to the good news was not what he expected.

  He walked in, secured the door closed, and placed his small bag on the old wooden counter in the center of the lab. He fumbled in his pocket, took out a ring of keys, and flipped through each of them until he found the one he was looking for. He inserted the extra-small key into the edge of the counter and carefully turned it. He was always careful and respectful of the old table and was especially careful not to break the old key. What a headache that would be, having to find a specialized locksmith that could fix this old relic.

  He slid open a thin, twenty-four-inch-long drawer that operated as a separate table once pulled out. He then reached underneath and turned two metal wing nuts on each side, locking it open. Inside the thin drawer was his new project—a freshly unfolded scroll several thousand years old. As it lay there now unrolled inside the wooden drawer, he measured it as an even twelve inches long by twelve inches wide. He named the scroll W3Q-15 for categorization. Although he had not tested it yet, he was certain that it was made of some type of metal alloy, which at this point, following his initial examination, he would most likely determine was definitely not copper. Whatever type of metal it was, it was extremely frail and he spent quite a bit of time and energy unfolding it.

  He paused what he was doing and thought about their reaction during his meeting. He had not even informed them of the strange metal, so when he made the announcement, he was puzzled by the lack of enthusiasm by his secret supporters. They just glanced at each other with straight, emotionless faces and simply gave him the ‘go-ahead’ to begin the translation process. Why did they react that way? Should they not be at least pleased on some level? It was they who donated the scroll to the university three weeks ago and gave him the arduous task of unrolling and deciphering it.

  As he had initially begun unrolling the scroll, he encountered an unknown type of writing which he promptly reported. Shortly afterward and after some arm-twisting, he convinced the mysterious group of backers to allow him and his new assistant to translate the new writing. It only made sense—not only for his research, but also because he was the university’s leading ancient language translator. Never mind the fact that he had never seen this particular writing before; he was still nonetheless the most qualified.

  Once they agreed, they provided him a few rough translations to help him get started. Since he had not seen the writing before, he inquired who had done the initial work and they promptly told him not to ask. It often nagged at him who these new people were and how they acquired the translations. Even stranger was why the history department personnel had not bothered to ask, which he guessed had to have been the result of a healthy financial contribution.

  Therefore, he secretly copied the translations, took a picture of the scroll before his last meeting, and hid them. Several times, he quietly brought up the possibility that this mysterious scroll could be one of the stolen Dead Sea Scrolls that ended up missing shortly after their discovery in Qumran in the mid-nineteen-forties. Because of his suspicions, he secretly added the Q for Qumran in the W3Q-15 designation. Fortunately, none of the university staff caught on to his little trick, and the writing was going to be categorized in the university archaic records by the end of the day.

  Dr. Golb sometimes regretted bringing up that missing scroll possibility, because he swore he had been followed ever since; or was he just being paranoid—which he was known to be from time to time. Oh well, he pushed the thought away, and continued with the task that he in fact was paid to do. He reached over and pulled over a tripod with a fixed camera attached. The camera was positioned down and he checked that it was properly aimed to record the entire scroll as he now attempted to decipher.

  He pulled up a stool and clicked the camera on. With the recording underway, Dr Golb leaned in and swung around an oversized, old-fashioned magnifying glass with a tarnished brass rim. He carefully moved it directly over the writing and refocused the light. Once he had his equipment lined up, he scooted back and pulled out his new list of translations. He looked back at the door to ensure that no one had snuck in and, seeing no one, placed the papers on the table.

  He moved the magnifying glass to the side as he examined each character for the first time. He immediately noticed that something was not quite right. He leaned back and repositioned the magnifying glass on the first character.

  Leaning forward once again, he looked at it one more time and said in a low voice, “What in the world is this?” He was not expecting what he saw. He looked closer at the first characters that appeared burned into the metal, as one would see with a modern laser printer. “Well, how about that,” he said out loud, completely surprised that he did not catch that before. He then slowly and methodically began examining each of
the characters in the first row. What was written on this scroll seemed to have been done by a completely different method, one totally unfamiliar to him. He was not only examining the new writing on scroll W3Q-15 but also an entirely undiscovered writing system. If not, he thought to himself, it is a forgery.

  Dr, Golb made another pass with the magnifying glass over the characters and again he concluded that this was definitely a new printing system. He found several of the individual characters were absolutely identical and quietly murmured, “This is odd,” as he looked through the glass. The only known writing method recognized from the alleged period that this scroll came from was done by individual scribes. Moreover, when scrolls were reproduced, they were simply rewritten by hand by another scribe.

  He guided the magnifying lens down a few rows of writing and then down a few more until he recognized something else. “That’s more like it,” he said, sounding relieved. He was now looking at Classical Hebrew. Therefore, the first half was gibberish and the second half of this scroll was Hebrew; and written by hand.

  The professor placed his notepad next to the drawer and began the process of translating the Hebrew first. As he worked his way through the first few rows, he again sensed something wrong. The first rows of Hebrew were more like he was reading a passage from George Lucas’ Star Wars. He rechecked it and began reading,

  “The dark side of the force and the forces of light disguised from the majority and the ensuing battle between them...”

  He made sure he was at least close on the translations and continued as fast as he could. He would look through the magnifying glass, then with his pencil write it down on his notepad. After several more minutes, his excitement was growing with each new translation. He had never encountered this type of tone before, especially in Hebrew. Suddenly, his cell phone rang with a text message. He ignored it until it rang again. He knew that it would continue ringing until he at least had checked it or turned it off. He put down his pencil, scooted back away from the table, and looked at his phone. There was just one word from a number he clearly recognized as one of his Masonic brothers: ‘RUN!’