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FREE: Chapters 27-29 from The God Key, Book I
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3 FREE Chapters, 20-22, of The God Key, Book I
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FREE: Chapter 19 from The God Key, Book I
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FREE: Chapter 18 from The God Key, Book I
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FREE: Chapter 17 from THE GOD KEY, BOOK I
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FREE Chapter 16 from The God Key, Book I
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Begin PART II Chapter 16 Hit this link: http://www.thegodkey.com/blog/2014/03/30/FREE-Chapter-16-from-The-God-Key-Book-I.aspx?alt_id=PF2T1-F1A33-7D5&ts=635318038185258037 |
PREVIEW OF BOOK II: TRIBULATIONS
Posted on March 9, 2014 at 1:22 PM |
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Here's the RAW, UNEDITED first draft copy of Chapter I from my new book, coming out in December. The GOD KEY, BOOK II: TRIBULATIONS PART ONE: THE SACRED SINKHOLE At Chichen Itza, so it's said, Lies a treasure well of old; Sagrado swallows still its dead, But never spits up its gold. - Yucatan proverb Prologue Saturday, 21 Sep., 2019 Cozumel, Mexico As the third bullet
whizzed passed his ear, Dave Connors's only thought was: God, get me outta
this . . . Thick, wet jungle
leaves slapped him in the face as he ran. Guns and hounds barked in the
darkness behind him. He couldn't see a thing ahead—then: Zzrip! Zrip! as
another pair of lead hornets zipped by his ear, spattering the fat, lush leaves
ahead. OK, gotcha—run
faster . . . He was sprinting
through a dense, tropical jungle somewhere in Mexico, late at night, chased by
a dozen Federales armed with rifles and dogs—very big dogs. And he had
no idea where he was going. Helluva honeymoon! raced through his mind before all racing ceased and he
came to a shuddering stop. Panic gripped him as he sensed, then saw, the gaping
crater before him, his arms pin-wheeling for balance. He was teetering over the
brink of a gigantic sinkhole, or cenote, in the jungle floor. But not just any
sinkhole, he remembered; it was the sinkhole, the sacred one. The Maya
Holy Well of Sacrifices, Cenote Sagrado. And an 89-foot drop
to the rocks below. *
* * But if he died here,
in this steaming Mexican jungle, no one would know what really happened; no one
would know the truth. He'd be just another dead gringo. A murderer, at that. He stepped back from
the mouth of the cenote and turned to face his pursuers, hands raised
overhead. At least in prison his story might get out. A fusillade of bullets
greeted him, spattering the leaves above him like hail. He ducked as low as he
could, and that was when he saw them: a rapid, bobbing motion, waist-high,
bounding toward him through the undergrowth—the dogs. No matter which way
he turned, he was dead. He’d never see his fiancée or Cyndi Malach or anyone
else ever again. He turned to face the cenote again, trying to remember
what the tour guide had said about its depth, water levels and . . . . . . and then a bullet clipped his
shoulder, scoring his skin and kicking in his reflexes: he sprang like a
scalded cat. And fell 89 feet
straight down. CHAPTER I Strangely enough, Dave and Leila’s honeymoon had begun in a
perfectly normal, mundane fashion with a sightseeing trip to Cozumel and the
Maya ruins at Chichen Itza (or “Chicken-Eatsya,” as Leila called it). Beautiful, she was. Leila, his fiancée. With her tawny,
always-tan skin, raven-black hair and flashing, green eyes, she could have been
a Maya princess. Why such a looker would be in love with him, Connors honestly
didn’t know. Probably his cologne. He’d met her a year earlier, at the newspaper where they
worked, the Richmond Times-Dispatch. She was the paper’s literary reviewer and
lifestyles editor; David was its resident science writer/freelance-knight
errant. Since his return from Israel, and the events of seven years
ago, he had become the unofficial staff writer of all things Weird and Wacky
(UFO sightings, ghosts, Near Death Experience, etc. and etc., ad infinitum).
But it was also where he’d met Leila last autumn, so . . . quidam boni,
quidam mali. By Christmas, they were an item. By Easter, they were deeply in love. Crazy, starry-eyed,
stupid in love. Still nominally a “freelance” journalist, David began
coming to work more frequently at the paper’s Richmond offices, where he could see Leila
every day—despite the 2-hour commute from Old Town. Eventually, this meant moving
to Richmond from his beloved Alexandria, which was a huge mistake: it allowed
Wiley Caruthers, the paper’s manic, bipolar Editor, to get at him whenever he
wanted. And assign him things . . . like stories. Weird and Wacky ones. Which was why he and
Leila were on their way to Sao Paulo, Brazil: to investigate the alleged alien
mutilation of—not cattle this time, but—a human being, supposedly, back
in 1988. Dave had already interviewed the surviving principals: the witnesses,
the cop who’d smuggled the crime scene photos out, and their contact person—Dr.
Alejandro Wasserzug of Sao Paulo, Brazil, a professor of Theoretical Physics
who also dabbled in paranormal fiction. He promised a more thorough interview,
but only if he could meet Connors in person. Altogether, a thorough job, Dave
thought. Not so Caruthers. He wanted his science writer on the scene
and digging for more. Which seemed crazy, as the case was over 25 years
old. Clearly, his editor was nuttier than a squirrel turd. But it would be a
free vacation, and Dr. Wasserzug had insisted on meeting him. Since Leila was
due some time off, it would be a free “pre-honeymoon/ vacation,” as Leila
termed it. Whatever one termed it, they were champing at the bit for it. For a girl of 29, this falling in
love business was as Nature had intended things. Hearts, flowers and whatnot.
For a man of 36, though, it seemed a tad juvenile. He’d only had two loves in
his life before, and they’d both died on him: his parents when he was 10, and
his dog, who his aunt had dispatched to the pound and the old green needle when
she took Dave in to live with her. He’d had many girlfriends in high school and after
(including the long and unrequited affair with the intangible Cyndi Malach),
but none like Leila. He’d fought his feelings at first, but . . . he couldn’t
help it. Something in the way she moves, as George Harrison said. And it
was so true of Leila; the way she moved was spellbinding. She had
him—hook, line, sinker, rod, reel and tackle box. They would be married in April. For now, a brief stopover at
Cozumel Island and a ferry boat trip to the Yucatan, before the journey to
deepest, darkest Brazil. The ferry took 45 minutes to cross the Caribbean,
followed by a 2 ½-hour drive to Chicken-Eatsya. Once there, they crawled all
over the 1,500-year-old ruins, went “ooh” and “ahh” in all the right places,
saw the sites, snapped the pics—in short, got paid for having fun. Yes,
sometimes Life-its-own-badass-self was good. Very good. The tour began at El Castillo,
or the Temple of Kukulkan, built in honor of the Maya feathered serpent god. Since
the temple was a step-pyramid, similar to those in Egypt, it afforded the
builders four separate staircases, each 79 feet tall. Down the entire length of
the northern balustrade, they’d carved Kukulkan’s likeness, creating a
zigzagged, serpent-headed monster. On the spring and autumn equinoxes, the sun
hit the long, jagged carving, casting shadows that seemed to ripple, as if the
serpent were wriggling down the staircase. It was an eerie effect for the
first three minutes, but by then Leila was bored. She promptly bailed from the
tour and went exploring on her own. Dave ran to keep up with her, snapping
photos on his cell phone all the while. He couldn't get mad at her; that was
just Leila. It was one of the many reasons he loved her. Leila Raintree was the daughter of
wealthy Mexican landowners on her father’s side and Virginia blue-bloods on her
mother’s, and she was most definitely not a follower. But while she
might be wild for the place, “Chicken-Eatsya” gave Dave the creeps. Something
about the long-dead Maya city, its carvings, tombs and pyramids, reminded him
of ancient sites in the Holy Land . . . of the Fallen Ones—the Nephilim—and
the nightmarish events of seven years ago. He couldn't wait to get out of
there. Leila obliged by shaking one
perfectly sculpted, blue-jeaned buttock at him, then sprinting into the jungle.
Once more, Dave gave chase. It was the thickest, wettest, steamiest piece of
overgrown real estate he’d ever tried to navigate. He sounded like a bull
elephant crashing through some small, native village. They finally stumbled into their
tour group, and found them paused at the end of a long path in the jungle,
behind El Castillo. The guide was regaling them with a Maya legend about
cave-dwelling creatures he called “The Others,” when Leila and Dave came
crashing into their midst, nearly killing them all. Because there, to Leila and Dave’s
horror, they saw the edge of a giant cenote, or sinkhole, in the jungle
floor. But this wasn’t just any sinkhole: this was the sinkhole, the
sacred one, Cenote Sagrado, where Maya priests once sacrificed young
men, women, children and captives to the rain god, Chaac. The plunge was one of
almost certain death: although there was a shallow pool of water at the bottom,
that was 27 meters below, and lined with sharp, jagged rocks only 25 feet
beneath the surface. On the rare occasions that someone survived the drop, they
were said to be rewarded with the gift of prophecy. The surrounding landscape was
pocked with such sinkholes, most of them only a meter or two in circumference,
the result of erosion from ancient, underground streams. Sagrado here
was the great-granddaddy of them all—a huge, circular crater 60 meters wide,
with sheer cliffs all around, all yawning to the death awaiting them 89 feet
below. The guide was furious—raging and
cursing in a wild, sputtering Spanglish. Not only was he enraged at the two for
nearly spilling them over the lip of the cenote, he was frothing at the
mouth over their unsanctioned picture-taking. He even wanted to
confiscate Dave's cell phone for having “unauthorized photographs”—at a tourist
site, yet. Which was imbecilic, and David told him so. When the guide
demanded the phone, Dave stood to his full height and suggested the guide try
to take it from him. That did it. The guide, a big,
stocky Mexican (who had an even bigger brother who worked at Cozumel
Palace), went eyeball-to-eyeball, mano-a-mano with Connors for half a
beat. But something in Dave's gaze made the tour guide blink: a furious sort of
focused intensity, not unlike a madman’s. But, then, Connors was a former SEAL—and
half Irish. Members of both groups often looked that way. And, as big and
tough as the guide might be, crazy trumped “tough” any day. Then “crazy” took a hike as an even greater terror
appeared: a furious Latina. “Estúpido, desgracia grasa!” Leila spat, in
rapid-fire Spanish. “Lo único quería era algunas fotos de su dios serpiente.
Tocar esta cámara, y la grapa en el recto. ¿Entender?” Which, loosely translated, meant: “You stupid, fat
disgrace! All I wanted was some photos of your snake-god. Touch this camera,
and I will staple it to your rectum. Understand?” The big, tough tour guide blinked but said nothing. To
David’s amazement, tears began welling in the man’s eyes, nearly spilling down
his cheek. He turned away and didn’t speak another word the whole way back to
Cozumel. Oh, yeah: Leila was a keeper. * *
* An hour later, the happy couple had returned to their hotel
for cocktails by the pool, along with what appeared to be the advance guard of
an American Cougar Convention. The pool was suddenly bubbling with toned,
tanned femmes fatale in their 30s, 40s—even a few in their 50s—still
lusty, languid and lewd (and more than slightly lubricated). They certainly looked ready for
the old “horizontal bop,” as Bobby Seger used to call it. Now, Leila was the
sexiest, most beautiful woman Dave had ever known, but a few of these women
were just ravishing, and remarkably well-preserved: leggy, trim, yet busty and
clearly on the prowl. Good thing he was wearing cargo shorts, the pockets
stuffed (as usual) with his wallet, keys, cell phone and various other items.
Otherwise, he would've betrayed an enormous reaction. Leila, noticing the attention her
fiancé was paying the Cougars, took him by the hand, poked fun at his
always-packed cargo shorts (also as usual), and led him upstairs to their
suite. Where they did a horizontal bop-bam-boom
all their own. * * * Later, as they basked in the
afterglow of cooling sweat and the setting sun, with a soft bossa nova wafting
up from the pool deck, Leila began stroking his face, from his strong, angular
jaw line, to his thick neck, then his even thicker traps and delts. She
grinned, shaking her head. “And you never lifted weights,
huh?” Dave arched an eyebrow. “A little in high school, for
football. But that was about it.” “But you look like a
weightlifter.” “God, not that,” he groaned.
“Weightlifters are huge, fat, lumpy creatures. Power-lifter, maybe, they’re not
so blubbery.” “So you did lift weights,”
she countered. “A little,” he admitted. “But I
grew mostly by accident.” “What, you drank radium or something? You’re the Hulk?” “Radium? Hadn’t thought of that.
Have to give it try someday.” “So? . . . How did you get like
this ‘by accident?’” “Through my own stupidity, or
naiveté, one. When I joined the Navy, some of the older swabs conned me into
lifting anchor chain for them. They said it was a one-man job, not four-man, as
I’d been led to believe. If I couldn’t lift it, I was a pussy. So . . . I did.” “You mean those ginormous,
iron chains? Like on World’s Strongest Steroid?” “The same. At first, of course, I
couldn’t budge the damn things an inch. But the older guys kept hectoring me,
so I kept trying every day—without success. I didn’t know it then, but they
were just shirking work and having a laugh at my expense, the bastards. After a
few months, though . . .” “Yeah?” Dave shrugged. “I began to move
them. Hoist them up and drag them. It became a weird kind of contest, whenever
the Ensign wasn’t around. The older guys would bet to see how big a chain I
could hoist. After a year of this, I learned that it was, indeed, a four-man
job, but I guess I liked the challenge or something. Helluva workout, anchor
chain.” “No duh. I’m pooped just
thinking about it. And thirsty.” “Want some champagne? We’ve got a
magnum in the fridge.” “No, no. No more booze, something
sweet,” she said. Then she threw him a line from one of their favorite bad
horror films: “Gimme some sugar, Baby.” “Already? We just—” “Hey, you’re the SEAL here,” she
said. “You should be up for anything. So . . . gimme some sugar,” she
repeated. “With your Boomstick.” “You are insatiable. OK, one SEAL
flipper comin’ up.” “First, would you go SEAL me
something to drink? And some fresh ice? Put those trapeze things to use. Then
the sugar. Baby.” “Trapezius,” Dave said, and
glanced at the ice bucket he’d filled that morning; it was a puddle. Even here,
in the swankiest resort in Cozumel, they couldn’t keep ice. Cozumel was a tropical island,
with all the hot, sticky, steamy luxuriance that implied. Despite the finest,
most up-to-date commercial refrigeration and air conditioning, even Cozumel
Palace couldn't keep ice handy for hours on end. He grinned and chuckled at her.
“Some hot date you are. I might have to lasso me a maid or something.” “You mean, someone.” “Literary snob.” “Cro-Magnon Man.” “Yuppie.” He pinched her on the
ass and got out of bed. “Oh, where’s your cell phone?” she
asked. “In my swim trunks.” “What was I thinking? Of course
it is. Along with all your other junk.” “Hey, you never know . . .” “Well, Sugar, when you get back,
let’s look at the photos you took.” “They’re probably all blurred,” he
admitted. “Then we might have to take some
more,” she replied, in a faux-Cockney accent. “You know . . . candid shots,
nudge-nudge?” “Wink-wink.” “A nod’s as good as a wink to a
blind bat in the dark.” “You’re wicked. Wicked!” “Enough. Go, Caveman. Get woman
fresh ice. Then photos, then—” “A bit of the old in-out, in-out,”
he said in a passable Alex DeLarge. He threw on his cargo trunks, the pockets
packed and bulging, stuffing the room key in with the rest of his stuff. After
some more ribbing about all the “junk” he carried around in his pockets—“On
swim trunks, yet!”— a slightly indignant David Connors turned to take his
leave. Leila could tell she’d stung him—a
little. She changed gears with: “Silly paleface. Don’t you know I love you?” He turned and saw her gazing up at
him from their honeymoon bed, where they’d just made love not five minutes ago,
and couldn’t help but smile. “I love you, too. Bloody savage.” “I’ll savage you,” she replied,
tossing a pillow at him. “Now take your junky trunks and go get me some ice.” Still smiling, and with a rush of
heat in his chest, Dave headed down the corridor to the vending, ice and call
girl stand. * * * At least, that was what it looked
like. Everywhere he turned, he saw yet
another gaggle of sun-bronzed, silicone-toned, jiggling hotties—young ones,
these, no cougars here—wearing the skimpiest of bikinis, or bending over (and
over) at the vending machines, or “accidentally” bumping into older,
sugar-daddy types. Even the maids looked like pin-up models. The hot, humid air
was fairly dripping with the scents of suntan lotion, coconut oil and sex. That was when he saw her. To his left, just two doors down
from the main corridor—the maid. Yet another stunner: tall, dark, curvy and
foreign. Her legs were lush, supple and oh so sexy in that tight black skirt
and heels (for cleaning rooms?) And no one else had those eyes; cat's
eyes; the eyes of Isis. It was Cyndi Malach. Had to be. But that was impossible. She'd
vanished on him in that cave beneath Golgotha seven years ago, and he hadn't seen
or heard from her since. Time had passed, he'd made a tidy sum from MSNBC for
his “Asteroid Strike” story, then he’d settled down to the job at the Times. And, yet, he'd never gotten over
her. Over time, he became lonely . . . then lonelier, then, frankly miserable.
And it wasn’t merely the horrors of what had happened in Israel with the
Fallen; it was the simple need for human companionship. That was when he'd met Leila. The
rest, as they say, was Fate. Karma. Kismet. Even (gawd help him) “Love,”
for only the third time in his life. And yet, he never could get Cyndi
Malach out of his mind. And, now, here she was. In
Cozumel. He'd caught her eye—too late to
look away—and she smiled back. And Dave saw in an instant he was
mistaken: this wasn’t Cyndi, after all; this was someone else. Someone almost
as exotic, beautiful, and curvy—very curvy. Muy caliente. The queue for the ice machine
moved up a notch, and he was now second in line. When he glanced at the maid
again, he was stunned to see her making a bee-line for him. Oh great . . . he
thought, here we go: Temptation #369. “Disculpe,
señor, ¿puedo hablar con usted?” she said, her voice like a coconut milk
and honey massage. “H-huh?” said David, always ready
with the clever riposte. “Oh, pardon me,” she revised, “umm
. . . may I speak with chew?” Her perfume was maddeningly sultry, sexy and
spicy. “Sh-sure.” Idiot! Tongue-tied
by a maid . . . “May we step over here?” She took
his elbow and indicated a quiet corner of the lobby, behind a potted palm. “What's it about?” “Un momento,” she said,
pulling his forearm against her side. “Please.” She led him out of line and over
to the corner. There, the potted palm tree (a real one, he noted)
partially shielded them from view. Great, he wondered. Now what? Lust in the lobby? A hallway
hummer? The maid, whose lush, sexy perfume
hugged his face like a lover’s embrace, glanced about the lobby, to make sure
they had privacy. Dave couldn’t help noticing her ripe cleavage, lean torso
tapering into a slender waist and those spectacular curves below—to say nothing
of her legs. In black stockings, yet! Gawd-hep-us . . . “I beg your pardon, señor,
but I have to tell chew somesing.” “Yes?” Here it comes; the pitch for money—sex!—right
here, in the lobby. What the hell sort of resort was this? “Please know, this is in . . . eh
. . . strict confidence, sí?” Aha! Here it is—the pitch: the wind-up, the stretch -- and throw! As hot as she was, Dave would not
fall for her charms; he was taken, and happily so. Maybe it would be best just
to cut her off now. “Look, it’s . . . a very kind offer,”
he tried. “And I appreciate your . . . uh . . . thoughtfulness, but I
just—” “¿Qué?”
She looked confused. “'Kay,” he returned, nailing the
thing shut. “Thank you, but no. 'Kay?” “¿Qué?!”
He nodded. “Yes, 'kay.” Then, more loudly, careful to mouth
the words, “OH-KAY. No harm, no foul.” “What the hell are chew talkin'
about?” Her sudden change startled him.
Was this the usual response of a spurned call-girl in Mexico? Even a high-class
hottie like this one? “Look, all I meant was,” he tried,
“I mean, what I'm trying to say is...” “Estupido Gringo.” “Now, hold on a minute, lady,
you've got no call to—” “Urrr! We have no time
for thees. Chust listen, HO-KAY?” She seemed to be mocking him now. She
looked more like Cyndi Malach than ever, when she was angry. All David could do
was blink at her. “Chew and your esposita are
in terrible danger, entiende?” “Danger?” he asked. “From what?” She looked him dead in the eye and
said: “Muerto, señor. Here. Now.” “Say what?” “Chew must leave—vamoose! Immediately. Both of chew.” “Wait a sec . . .” He tried to stay cool but the maid was freaking him out.
“You collar me here in the lobby to tell me that my wife and I are in danger of
death? That’s what muerto means, right?” “Ssssh, señor, please.” “It's a joke, right? Leila put you up to this?” It would be just like her,
he knew; always full of fun. One
last time, the maid glanced around to see if anyone was eavesdropping.
Suddenly, Dave saw a look of horror—not fear or concern, but real horror—come
into her eyes as a smaller man with dark features and slick, black hair
approached. “Very good, señor,” she said, brushing Dave's shoulder. “Chew look
fine now, sí? OK, chew have a good day.” “But–” But nothing—she was gone. Vamoosed. And
the dark man had arrived. * * * He was an odd, intense little fellow—but one Dave sensed he shouldn’t
underestimate. He had a certain gliding, predatory quality about his small,
lithe physique, like a panther. Possibly into martial arts? Dave
wondered. Or ballet? Who knew? To add to the mystery, Dave noted a brown, rectangular name tag on the
breast pocket of the man's jacket, which read, insanely, “Your Concierge
Sucks? CallUs!” On closer inspection, Dave saw it was actually “Your Concierge, Suka
Kollus.” Which was still kind of weird, if not actually insane. One thing was
certain: this guy was pissed. And not merely “pissed,” but furious. His dark
eyes flashed like sparks from an old Zippo lighter, his jaws clenched, and his
entire physiognamy tensed, as if ready to pounce. “Excuse me, señor,” he said, in a smooth, measured tone, “but I must
speak with you.” (Not another one. What was this, the male version?) “Yeah?” Dave replied, with caution. The man nodded in the direction of the vanished maid and said, “You must
pay no attention to her, señor. She is . . . confused.” “That makes two of us,” Dave said. “But there’s no problemo. She’s OK.” “No, señor, she is not. It is most unfortunate, but I fear we will
have to terminate her services today. It is not your fault.” “She didn’t do anything, just brushed some lint off my shoulder. See, I
came down to get some ice and—” “I
quite understand. Now, would you please accompany me and the porter back to
your room? There is an important matter I wish to discuss with you.” He nodded
now at the employee who loomed behind him. It had to be the tour guide’s
twin––but an even larger version. This one had a forehead like the
bumper on a '58 Buick, and teeth like rotting tombstones. The porter had already lost interest in the conversation, and was glancing
idly about, trying no doubt to see the recently departed maid. “What is it now?” Dave asked. “My credit card? Something wrong with the
room?” “Mmm . . . in a manner of speaking, yes. Certain items the previous
guests left in your room. Now, please, if you will just come with—oof! Careful,
you idiot!” he spat at the porter. The giant had been craning his neck
to see down the hallway and had leaned too far, bumping into Kollus’s back. The
diminuitive concierge shoved him so hard in return the man nearly fell ass
backwards. “Eh, where was I?” Kollus continued. “Oh, yes, Señor Connors, if you will just come
with us, perhaps we can find the missing items . . .” Dave glanced at the empty ice bucket in his hand. “I still haven't got my ice,” he said. "My girlf—I mean—my wife's going
to be pissed." “No, she will not, señor. The ice can wait. Now, please . . .” Suddenly, Dave got a decidedly creepy, snakey vibe from the man, as if his
dark, greasy little head had just oozed under his skin. “Suka Kollus” didn't
really look Mexican, or Hispanic, but more Mediterranean or Middle Eastern.
Whatever his nationality—and Dave honestly couldn't have cared less what
the guy was—he was pissing him off now. “I don't think so, Mr. . . . Kollus, is it?” “Sí.
It is very important, señor. Your wife is waiting. Please come with us.” “Not today, Mr. Kollus. I'm going to get my ice, though now I'll have to go
to the end of the line. And I'm keeping my wife even longer. So, if
you and your pet gorilla would please just . . . bugger off?” “Señor?” David put on a pleasant smile, leaned closer to him and said: “Leave me . .
. the fuck . . . alone.” He glanced up
at the porter, then back at the conceirge. “Now, por favor.” The little man said nothing more, merely vibrated with repressed rage. He
then turned and nodded for the porter to follow him. Which the giant did, but
only after leering at Dave for half a beat. “Pendejo,” Dave muttered. He wasn't sure what it
meant, but he’d overheard a waiter say it to a rich gringo earlier, and thought
it sounded insulting. He chuckled and tried to forget the strange encounters,
plural, but with little success. Once he'd refilled his bucket with ice, then copped a
fruit juice from the vending area, he turned and paced back up the hall, around
the corner and down another long, fragrant corridor to their suite. Maybe a third
round of jungle sex with Leila would cheer him up. He was, he reflected, an
incredibly lucky man. Leila was so beautiful, so sexy, yet so smart,
thoughtful, and fun he sometimes thought he was too lucky to have met
her, let alone be engaged to her. He often caught himself waiting for
the other existential shoe to drop, he was so happy. Surely, the cosmos
couldn’t allow that, would make some redress in the balance—and in the most
exquisitely cruel, vindictive way that only the cosmos could. But . . . no. Not
today, at least. Today was Jungle Love #3 Day, and it would be just what the
cosmos ordered. It was with that happy thought that he continued back to
the Love Nest. * * * So,
naturally, when he got back to their room with the long-awaited ice and fruit
drink, Leila wasn't there. Gone. Poof . . . Back
to the pool, no doubt. She'd probably grown tired of waiting for him and the ice
bucket and gone looking elsewhere. He felt the tiniest twinge of jealousy mixed
with concern: why would she leave without a room key? He had the only one. Also,
they were strangers here. Yes, it was an island resort, but it was still Mehico,
land of banditos, drug cartels, and outlaws of all sorts. True, Leila was an
intelligent, sophisticated woman, but still . . . the world was a weird and
wacky place—Mexico especially. Or so it seemed, after his encounters with the
maid and the concierge. “Leila?”
he called “I finally got the ice . . .” No
response. She must have gone to the pool, or perhaps the cantina. In a hurry,
too, from the look of the place: clothing, hotel brochures, newspapers, the TV
guide and other items were scattered everywhere. (This
isn’t like her, he thought. What was the big hurry? Maybe she's just
pissed and refusing to answer.) “Sugar,
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take so long. I got bushwacked by some maid, then a
concierge with a giant, drooling porter, and the ice machine was . . .” That
was when it hit him, full-force. In the nose. The
stench. That
horribly familiar, never-to-be-forgotten, rotten, reeking stink of blood,
feces, garbage and death. Coming
from the bedroom. Even
before he dropped the bucket and drink and raced to the rear of the suite, he
was already dreading what he knew he would find. But
find it, he did. # |
FREE - Chapter 15, THE GOD KEY, Book I
Posted on February 6, 2014 at 1:27 PM |
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Chapter 15, THE GOD KEY, Book I: Return of the Nephilim by John R. Fogarty Chapter 15 Dave
wouldn’t hear about the detective’s death until the following day, by which
time he would have other, more urgent concerns—namely, his head injury. The
full extent of the damage was only now beginning to reveal itself. It started with
a series of dreams—extremely vivid dreams—of the silhouette he’d seen outside
the museum. Now, here it was again: standing at the mouth of the recovery room
hallway, watching him. No features or details of any kind, only a nacreous, pearlescent
outline, like the absence
of matter; a blank; a hole. The same one he’d seen watching them
from Fayette Alley, just before the . . . . . . then it
was gone, as abruptly as it had appeared. That was when
the intern returned. The giant, who’d
been grinning at him from the hall earlier, was now leaning into the doorway of
the recovery room, and—this time—leering at him. Dave didn’t know
whether to leer back at him, say something, or prepare to defend himself—but
with a concussion? Against a Goliath? Not likely. He’d have to find a weapon of
some kind, try to disable or at least stun the guy before he— —crossed the
room in two long strides, wrapped his gigantic, six-fingered hands around
Dave’s throat and began throttling the life out of him, choking him to death
right there in the recovery room. As he squeezed, the giant bent down and
exhaled the most noxious, sickening breath Dave had ever smelled, right in his
face. “Goddammit,”
Dave gagged, but all that came out was a wet, glottal sound. Worse, he couldn’t budge the man’s hands. They were huge: the wrists were like
small tree trunks, while the hands themselves looked like Virginia hams—only
bigger. All the SEAL training in the world wouldn’t make a dent in this guy. Then, the
monster leaned even closer and spit something at him—into his face. His mouth, to
be exact. The creature spit something hard and metallic into his . . . ( . . . key?) . . . mouth, and
he knew without looking, the way one does in dreams, that it was an
old-fashioned skeleton key, with a skull at one end. Dave tried to spit the
thing back out but couldn’t. He was going to choke to death on a damned key. Panic shot into his chest just as the giant stopped throttling him,
smiled and . . . began vomiting on him. Only it wasn’t really
vomit.
It was a mouthful of . . . . . . photographs? Yes: 35mm color
photos. The missing
Roswell photographs. Dave watched in
numb disbelief as the long-lost photos poured from the giant’s mouth. His
revulsion peaked when the giant released him, picked up the soggy,
puke-spattered photos and began stuffing them back into his mouth. “My Glh . . . God . . .”
Dave choked. “God?” the giant
managed, still munching on the photos. He chewed the last of them up, swallowed
them down, and added, “Huh, God’s dead.” Dave was
incapable of a rational response. He lashed out with both fists, hammering at
the giant’s Adam’s apple, hoping to crush the larynx or break the hyoid bone,
but missing every time. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t connect. It
was like being in a bad dream. He needed a weapon, something to hit him with— The phone! Dave glanced at
the bedside table. Holding his breath, he rolled over on his side, reached for
the phone, and . . .
. . . woke up. And glanced
around the room. He wasn’t in the
E.R., or Recovery or anywhere near the hospital. He was at some strange house
way out in the sticks, and he remembered: Cyndi’s country home, which she
almost never used. And he was on the living room sofa . . . with Cyndi?! She lay curled
up nice and snug beside him, fast asleep. *** “Hey, Cyn, wake
up.” Dave shook her shoulder. “C’mon, Cyndi . . .” He tried to lean over and
shake her harder, but the dizziness whacked him again; he felt as if he were
swooning. And maybe he was: this woman still had that effect on him . . . she
was so beautiful, so perfect. And she was lying next to him. On her sofa. Just
the two of them . . . Maybe there was
a God after all. She awoke and
stretched languorously, luxuriously, like a cat. “C’mon, Cyn, get
up,” David urged. “It’s eight o’clock.” “Mmmh? Eight?” “Yeah, we gotta
roll or we’ll be late for work.” “Work?” Cyndi
finally came to and sat up beside him. “What time is it?” “Eight.” “In the
morning?” “I think so,”
Dave said, sounding unsure; all he could see was the wall clock. Cyndi leaned
over the edge of the couch and glanced out her living room window. The woods
and fields beyond lay blanketed in blackness. “It’s eight at
night, Nimrod,” she said, with a sigh. “Besides, you’re on leave.” “Vacation?” She turned her
face to him and instead of the wry grin or smile he was expecting, she gave him
only a blank stare. “Hardly that,”
she said, finally. “You must return to Israel as soon as possible.” He blinked. The
wheels within began turning—or tried to. “Did we . . . eh?” “Eh, no, we
didn’t. I merely kept an eye on you so you wouldn’t die. Once I saw you would
survive, I must have nodded off here.” “What about
Attila?” “We picked him
up from your apartment on the way home,” she answered. “Don’t you remember?” David shrugged
one shoulder. “I can’t remember anything.” “He’s sleeping right next to you, on the floor.” She pointed to a spot
next to the sofa. Dave glanced to his right and saw the raggedy old Siamese
curled up below him. Attila was lying as close to him as possible, without
actually being on him. “Little bugger,”
Dave said, surprised at the lump in his throat; probably indigestion. “Oh, I fear you
won’t be seeing Detective Lacy again.” “Huh?” “He was run over
in the hospital parking lot last night. Cut in half, they say.” “What?” “Hit-and-run,”
she said. “So? Are you?” “Am I what?” He
was conscious of a swimming sensation between his eyes. “Going back to
Israel?” Dave paused to
gather what was left of his mind. His brain simply did not want to function:
the wheels within felt gummed up, clogged. The pain medication, probably. “What does that
have to do with Detective Lacy?” he asked. “So you avoid
the same fate,” she replied. “That car is still out there.” “Uh . . . not
right away, no. I’ll worry about God Keys and Doomsdays later, OK? I’ve got an
appointment to keep on Wednesday. With your friend, Galileo.” “But you can’t
move,” she insisted. “Your head—” “—Is made of
stone. Or so my editor tells me. A few bumps here or there won’t matter. Here,
help me up.” “You can’t see
Dr. Galilei today.” He turned toward
her, swaying a bit and blinking, as if hungover. “That’s right,
it’s only Tuesday, isn’t it?” “It’s Wednesday,
all right. But you can’t drive anywhere. You’ve got to can—” “I’ve lost a
full day?
Without a single drink?”
He touched his forehead. “You’re staying
here, on the sofa.” “But Attila
needs his food,” he replied. “And I need my car and clothes and—” “Forget it,” she said. “They’re probably watching your apartment, the
observatory, all the places you usually go. Until we can get a fix on these
people, and what they want, you’re not leaving this house.” “Yeah, but—” “I’ll take care
of things, you stay put on that couch. I’ve got to get us some food, too.
There’s nothing here to eat. Oh, one more thing . . .” She rummaged in her
purse. “Yeah?” “Your doctor
found this on the floor of the Recovery Room, by your gurney. Is it yours?” she
asked, as she handed him the object. It was a
slightly damp, but thoroughly solid, skeleton key. With just a trace
of his saliva on it. “OK, look, I
don’t . . . think I’m feeling . . . all that well, just now. Maybe I should
just go back to my place, crash for a few hours and—” “Just lie still
and do as I say,” she said. And with that,
she took his head in both her hands, planted an incredibly juicy kiss on his
mouth and gave his skull a slight twist. And he was out.
Cold. She pocketed the
key and left. # End, Part One |
FREE - Chapters 12 - 14, The God Key, Book I
Posted on February 2, 2014 at 10:00 PM |
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