2012: Deadly Awakening
by Beryl Gorbman
Book cover design by Joshua Gatchke
ISBN 9780615337685
Copyright 2010 Beryl Gorbman
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for Dr. Jose Arguelles) or events is entirely coincidental. Author is sole owner of all photos and art work.
All rights reserved.
Beryl Gorbman
Other books by Beryl Gorbman
Acknowledgements
James Butler
Dr. Dan L. Brown
Lorna Gail Dallin
Lennie Martin
Joshua Gatcke
Sonia Kralova
Vanessa Hernandez
Richard Pauli
Alinde O’Malley
Don Batchelor
Jose Luis Contreras
Jane and John Grimsrud
Debrah Ullrich
Susan Stafford
William Morrow
Merida Writers Group
Louis Navaer
This murder mystery takes place in Chichen Itza and in Merida Yucatan in December 2012, when certain groups of spiritual questors interpret ancient Maya prophecy to mean that the world will end on December 21st, the winter solstice.
Some people seem to think they have to kill to keep the force of their beliefs strong.
Miriam Glass, a legal investigator from New York, joins up with the local police chief of Yucatan (on their third adventure together) to sort out who is killing whom and why.
Miriam is an outgoing woman in her 40s who looks at the world with a jaundiced eye. You will also meet Wing, the hunchback who leads a small spiritual band from the mid-west, Adam Lionheart, head of the biggest doomsday group, the Pyrolites of Fate, and Abyssinia Schlossman, queen messenger of the Children of Kukulcan.
Who is evil enough to eliminate questors who think differently? Who is smart (and sociopathic) enough to do it so efficiently and spectacularly?
Dedicated to Commander Patric L. Slack, Snohomish Regional Drug Task Force, WA
Non-Fiction Preface
Two and a half years before the date of this work of fiction, spiritual individuals, groups, and cults began arriving in Yucatan to prepare for December 21, 2012, the last day of the long-count Maya calendar.
Well-funded groups of people from Mexico, Europe and Asia are building settlements, mostly in the wilderness outside of tiny villages. To build these settlements, they employed local masons, ironworkers, and other laborers, some of whom joined the cults and others of whom developed a great deal anxiety from the doomsday predictions they are hearing. Government agencies are keeping a close eye on these groups.
One settlement, an hour or so from Chichen Itza, is so huge it eclipses the nearby village. Much of the installation is underground, to prepare for the apocalypse. The above ground buildings are said to be insulated with some kind of mysterious material that resists water and fire.
We will continue to update this preface on the electronic edition of this book.
Going on Vacation?
December, 2012
Although her third-floor condo on Riverside Drive was toasty warm, just looking at the tableau outdoors made Miriam Glass shiver. The Hudson River glittered with small chunks of ice riding the whitecaps. The wind from the river whistled through faults in Miriam’s stately old building perched at the western edge of 102nd street.
Miriam nestled into the deep cushions of her window seat with a second cup of French press coffee. She’d saved the New York Times Magazine section for last. Sunday was her day off as a legal investigator. When she wasn’t working, she thought obsessively about her cases, turning them over endlessly in her mind. She suspected that she did this to avoid thinking about her problems and the sudden, horrific death of her son, Jay ten years ago. Sometimes when she was alone, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t block the ugly images of the ambulances, the dozens of police officers, her husband Michael’s impotent anger. And the blood.
But now, she amused herself by watching the speeding cars hit the ice patch on the curve of the Drive below her window. Most of them skittered off to the side and spun out, but occasionally she was rewarded by a gentle crash into the curb. Miriam could see the surprised looks on the faces of the drivers as their vehicles took on lives of their own.
Miriam steered her mind into a daydream about tomorrow, when she would climb onto a big, silver airplane that would whisk her to Merida, Yucatan - the land of palm trees, sensuous air f the place, the grand avenues, lingering in outdoor cafes, and listening to gentle trova music in the park. She felt her shoulders relax and she breathed deeply. And now there was an added attraction she found irresistible. In just a few days, it would be December 21 2012.
Miriam’s friend Patty Parry, an American RN who lived in Merida most of the time, had called several months ago.
“Hey Miriam – what are you doing for Christmas?”
“Not sure yet. Why?”
“It’s getting pretty wild down here, with December 21st coming up on us. I think you’d really enjoy it. There are thousands of freaks in town, waiting to see if the world is going to end.”
“Tell me more,” said Miriam.
“Let’s see, a lot of them are staying at your favorite hotel, jamming it up something awful and in fact jamming up the whole downtown. We avoid going there as much as possible. I haven’t been to the market in weeks – I get in the car and go to the mall.”
“You? The mall? It must be really horrible downtown.”
“Hey!” said Patty. “The other day, Lorraine decided to go for a walk with her dog, and some of those weird tourists decided that her dog was communicating with them, and tried to take him. She had to scream for help. She says they’re all high on something. And Joanna saw a group of them in the old zoo, all naked, trying to climb into the animal pens. You’ve got to get your ass down here.”
“That does sound irresistible,” Miriam agreed.
As soon as she hung up, Miriam got right onto the internet, and entered “2012” in Google. My god, she thought, there are over five million references. Had her head been in the sand, or did New Yorkers simply not trouble themselves with irrelevant issues like the end of the world?
She spent several hours exploring the vast online universe and read sites belonging to survival groups, who wanted to sell equipment for bunkers when the earth is ravaged, to end-of-the-world prophets and seers selling books and CDs, to people with an academic bent sharing details of the Maya calendar, optimists seeing a better world, and all shades in between. Merida ought to be in quite a spin. She was definitely going. She’d called Patty back the next day to tell her she’d be on the United flight arriving at ten p.m. from Houston on December 19th.
Now that she was actually going, she worried about leaving her cases for a week. She was in the middle of interviewing witnesses. Her big client, a drug dealer named Norman Heathrow, had murdered the oldest son of a well-connected Italian family on Arthur Avenue, in the Bronx. Mario, the victim, had sold Norman two whole pounds of overly cut heroin the previous week and Norman was angry. They had argued, Mario had drawn a gun, so Norman drew his. Unfortunately for him, Mario’s gun had jammed so he became the victim. It could just as easily gone the other way. Miriam hated cases like this. Dumb murders, she called them.
The philosophy behind her job was that everyone deserves the best possible legal representation. Otherwise, there would be chaos. Miriam believed wholeheartedly in this, but sometimes it was hard to summon enthusiasm. Taking a week off would be a pleasure. She hoped Norman was still alive when she got back – Mario’s family had friends everywhere, even in the jail. Well, especially in the jail.
December 18th. Miriam was all packed and ready, and tomorrow, the temperature in Merida would be in the 80s, the sky would be sparkling blue, and the smell of flowers would be everywhere. She’d be catching up with old friends and checking out what was happening at the galleries and concert halls. And, she would indulge her favorite hobby – people watching, observing the crowds jamming the town to quest for something higher than themselves. Hey, she thought, maybe I’ll learn something.
She spent her evening boning up on 2012 theories on the web, reading the works of Daniel Pinchbeck, John Major Jenkins, and of course Jose Arguelles. These were key figures in the 2012 intrigue and they all had different theories.
One idea in particular caught Miriam’s fancy. According to a number of writers on the web, there was a planet called Nibiru, or Planet X, that was due to intersect paths with the earth on December 21 2012. Nibiru, according to some of them, was going to send spaceships to the earth to take anyone interested to their planet to live. Imagine! Setting up your life in an alien space, right alongside little green creatures. Or whatever. Would they have good coffee? She smiled for the first time in months.
Wacky Tourists
Merida Yucatan December 19 2012
Late afternoon
Yucatan State police Comandante Jose Luis Contreras Machado was considering calling in Federal troops. With Merida jammed to overflowing with strange tourists, people fighting over hotel rooms and restaurant tables, hundreds of criminal incidents and a general mood of near hysteria, things were getting out of hand. As much as Contreras hated to ask for help, his job was to keep the people of Yucatan safe and his people were exhausted, not to mention disgusted, with all the goings on.
He was off duty, or as off duty as he ever got, walking down Calle 59 in a white guayabera and pressed jeans, chewing the hell out of two squares of nicotine gum. He was determined this time.
As Contreras approached the main square, he heard music and loud voices, foreign voices, not the familiar comfortable sounds of Yucatecans enjoying a concert on a Saturday night. Arguments were breaking out in several places, threatening to turn into full-blown incidents.
He saw a man dressed in red and black punch an older gentleman. He took his radio phone out of his pocket and called it in. He stood around for a few minutes until he saw the first police cars. By this time, there were almost no local people left in the main square. The odd, intense visitors made them nervous, as they did him.
The reason for the massive influx was that the date December 21, 2012 was fast approaching. From all over the world, groups were coming to town on spiritual quests, each group defining their quests differently. They were sleeping everywhere. The hotels were full to overflowing, some squeezing up to six people in rooms meant for two. Acrimonious, strange people, who he didn’t understand. There were people sleeping in the parks, using the corners as bathrooms, and collapsed in doorways. A lot of them didn’t wash themselves or their clothing. They were disgusting.
He saw men and women walking down the street eating tuna fish from cans with plastic forks and others getting water from the taps outside the hotels and restaurants. Naturally, they all got sick, which added to the general uproar.
On the other end of the spectrum, there were wealthy tourists, also on spiritual searches, wearing bright, hopeful clothing, and occupying all the guest houses, B&Bs and comfortable downtown hotels. They, in contrast to the unwashed, were older and well groomed. In fact, their presence in town resembled a new age fashion show. At least they were polite and used bathrooms. In Contreras’ mind, the entire lot of them was nuts.
No matter what the travelers’ level of discomfort, no matter how hot it was, or what they had to do to have gotten here, they were all determined to be at the center of the land of the Yucatec Maya. The Maya who had devised the sophisticated calendrical system with over twenty different coinciding elements, the largest of which was the Long Count Calendar, which ran for five thousand years. The five-thousand-year period ended in a few days. It was called the Thirteenth Baktun.
Later this week, the world was supposed to enter a new age, the Age of Aquarius, which to Contreras had always been a harmless American song. From what he could pick up, these folks were talking about the sun aligning with the earth on this day, whatever that meant. Wasn’t the sun always aligned with the earth? Aren’t two objects in space always aligned, so to speak? And then there was something else about the Milky Way that he couldn’t quite remember. He supposed he should make it his business to find out what the hell they were so excited about.
It all seemed so incongruous set against Merida’s massive, colorful Christmas lights and decorations. The city fathers had valiantly erected the usual garlands, stars, mangers and Christmas trees which were now a crazy backdrop for the billowing white robes, the portentous signs and the crowds.
Millions of people all over the world felt that this date would mark a great transition of some kind – but these groups differed wildly about what that might be.
The most prevalent school of thought was that December 21 would mark the end of life as we know it. Or, we would all transcend into another consciousness, whatever that meant, a higher and more evolved form, more harmonious, more perfect. Whether our corporeal bodies would remain seemed insignificant to many of the seekers who were here in Merida. That way of thinking had the effect of making the crowds quite careless about consequences of their actions, since they felt they wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. This translated into a police problem. Contreras was beyond annoyed. He couldn’t stand these people. Would they really leave right after the 21st? What if they didn’t?
They openly trespassed, helped themselves to food in the stores, and urinated in the main square, making the grass unusable for all the children who usually gathered there with their families on Sundays. A lot of them carried huge boom boxes and played hard rock music or music that wasn’t really music, but shimmering walls of sound. The music was very loud and they often disagreed about whose sounds should prevail. Didn’t these people know about iPods?
As fighting among the tourists had spiked upward this week, Contreras had several detectives dress casually and mix with the crowds.
After many meetings with the police authorities – federal, state and city, and the mayor of Merida and governor of the State of Yucatan, they had decided to take a laissez-faire stance on the whole thing, and give up holding people to the letter of the law. They reasoned that the bizarre state of things would end on December 21st and all these odd folks would catch airplanes and busses or drive their cars – and get the hell out of here. And life would go on as before.
Contreras didn’t so much mind the gentle white-robed people who thought that nothing would happen on the fateful day. Or the wealthier, more mature crowd, who stayed in north end luxury hotels and didn’t mix with the rabble. But the loud violent ones, the people wearing red and black, thought December 21 was Armageddon. They didn’t care what happened in these last days.
Add to these people the Fundamentalist Christian speakers, barefoot and angry, on every corner warning of the Rapture and exhorting those who deserved and didn’t deserve to be taken to heaven by their god.
Today was December 19th and Contreras was looking forward to the arrival of his long-time American friend, Miriam Glass. She was flying in tonight from New York. Ever since the 1980s, Miriam had consulted on and off for his department and had been a great help on several cases involving foreigners in Yucatan.
Miriam’s friend Patty had given him her flight numbers when she called him yesterday, and he’d decided to surprise Miriam at the airport.
Contreras and Miriam had a long, complex history, which involved not only working together but also sharing private moments. He could talk to her about anything. Anything but his feelings for her. He didn’t really know what they were – they had modulated over the years. Both he and Miriam were divorced and hurt, and had watched each other go through a series of ill-fated romances. They had another huge but tragic commonality. Both of them had lost a child.
There had always been an undercurrent of something else going on between them, but neither of them wanted to chance ruining an enduring friendship. But they had come close.
He smiled as he thought about how great it would be to talk to her about the situation in town. Devilishly, he’d reserved her usual room for her at the Hotel Caribe, which for some reason, seemed to be the center of the action right now. The usually staid, quiet downtown hotel was one of those that were shoving crowds of people into the small rooms, filling the place to way beyond its legal capacity.
It was an unusually warm December, most of the air conditioners had been blown out, and tempers were strained. There were constant police calls to the Caribe, and last week two men had been stabbed there and had to be rushed to Star Medica for surgery.
Miriam will get a tremendous kick out of this, he thought. And probably, with her ability to get anything out of anyone, learn a lot of things we should know to get ready for The Big Day.
Contreras walked into Santa Ana Park. Every seat was taken, and people were milling around – flirting, arguing, expounding. A trio of traditional guitar players was singing romantic ballads in close harmonies. So far so good here, he thought.
On the opposite side of the park, there was a tall black woman dressed in long orange and pink robes. She wore a turban made of woven Oaxacan fabric and chains of beads hung around her neck. He guessed her to be in her mid-forties, far older than most of those in the park. Enormous filigreed gold earrings framed her gorgeous face and her general air was positive and engaging. She had gathered quite a crowd, and she was talking to them about peace and harmony in the coming era.
“There’s no reason we have to argue about this,” she said. “What’s going to happen will happen, no matter what you think or what I think. Why is it important to make everyone believe as you do? All of your beliefs are valid…”
Contreras nodded toward her and the people listening to her were smiling in agreement. She’s quite attractive, he thought. But probably taller than I am. Ever since his divorce seven years ago, Contreras did a lot of looking, but usually without much enthusiasm. However, he was entranced with this colorful, peaceful person, and drew closer to her gathering.
She had an audience of about a dozen people, a mixture of tourists and locals. There was an old woman, tall for a Maya, standing directly in front of the speaker, smiling. She was wearing an elegantly embroidered huipile, one of the nicest he’d seen. It was sparkling clean white, but some of the threads were beginning to unravel; it was probably as old as its wearer. Contreras wondered whether the woman could understand the English she was hearing.
“We are all here in this wonderful place,” the speaker continued. “We’re right in the center of the energy that has brought this day to our consciousness’. Each of us can experience this gift in our own way. Me personally, I feel optimistic. I think that despite our flaws, humanity will see that the earth is too small for us to be messing up the environment or shooting each other over differences of opinion.”
“Right on, sister,” said a fat blond man, his hair cut close to the scalp. Contreras saw a look of distaste flit across the speaker’s face, quickly replaced by a warm smile.
“Thank you, sir,” she said demurely. And addressing the crowd, “My name is Lulu Starr. I’m staying at the Caribe in room 51 on the top floor and you are invited to talk to me if you want to, as long as the talk is peaceful.”
Oh boy, Contreras chuckled to himself. He had put Miriam in the Caribe in room 52, right next door.
Contreras gave Lulu a little salute and she winked at him. He walked off smiling.
“I can feel the transformational energy here,” said a young woman dressed in white as she walked by Contreras with an earnest young man.
“I hope you and I can continue in some form after the transformation,” said the guy, fingering his new tie dyed t-shirt with “2012” emblazoned on the front.
“Think bigger, Mike,” the girl said. “This isn’t about us. We’re talking about the entire galaxy. We, you and I, are inconsequential.”
“Not to me,” he said sadly.
Honey, I’m Home
December 19 2012, ten p.m.
The airport was unusually crowded and there was no gate available for Miriam’s flight. When she finally walked down the metal stairs and onto the tarmac, it was dark. The stars sparkled, and a soft, humid breeze brought her the smells of flowers, frying food and engine exhaust.
“Good evening, senora,” said a soft male voice as she entered the terminal.
“Jose Luis! What are you doing here? How did you know I was coming?”
Commander Contreras reached for her carry-on and kissed her on both cheeks. What a great surprise! His two constant companions, sub-Commanders Ku and Castillo, shook her hand.
“I already have your suitcases in the car – come on,” Contreras said, bypassing Customs and Immigration with friendly waves.
Sub-Commander Ku drove the unmarked police car toward downtown Merida. As he made the right-hand turn off the airport road onto Calle 59, Miriam noticed how unusually busy things were for this time of night. As they got close to downtown, the traffic was barely moving. Ku stuck a blue and white flasher on the roof of the car, but it didn’t help.
“You didn’t put me in the Caribe, did you?” asked Miriam, as she looked out the window at the rowdy characters jamming the sidewalks.
“Sure did,” responded Contreras. “You’ll probably be the only room in the place occupied by just one person.”
“No way! I need my sleep.”
Contreras smiled. “Turn on the air conditioner.”
“I’m sorry sir,” said Ku as he pulled up next to Hidalgo Square. “I can’t get near the entrance.”
The square was mobbed. A band was playing and several hundred people, mostly under 30, were gyrating drunkenly to the Latin rhythms, an obscene contrast to the huge Virgin of Guadelupe figure, strung with lights across the center of the park
Contreras and Castillo took Miriam’s bags from the trunk and the three of them got out of the car and shoved their way to the hotel entrance. As they got closer, things became even worse. Packed like sardines. Squealing, smelly sardines.
A young woman pressed herself against Contreras, blocking his way. “Oh, please dance with me,” she beseeched. “Or you can come upstairs with me right now – I think there are only one or two other people in the room.”
He ignored her and suddenly felt a hand on his penis. The woman had a delighted smile on her face. “Gotcha!” she said. His jaw dropped in horrified surprise and Miriam was looking right at him.
Contreras’ face turned bright red and he pushed ahead, almost violently, extricating himself from the woman’s grasp.
Miriam howled with laughter until she felt a forceful hand on her butt, squeezing and exploring. The crowd was so thick it was impossible to tell who it was. She strained toward the safety of the hotel entrance, and the three of them finally opened the door to the lobby.
“Oh, my god,” said Miriam. “These people are out of their damned minds. And it’s just as crowded in here as it is outside.”
Sub-Commander Castillo, who was six feet tall and built like a truck, took the lead and shoved people out of the way so they could get to the desk. Carlos, the harassed clerk took one look at Miriam and the officers and handed Contreras a room key.
“It’s your room. You can register tomorrow,” he shouted at Miriam.
People were everywhere. They were sitting on the stairs, pouring in and out of all the rooms, settled on the corridor floors and openly smoking dope and snorting coke. Contreras kept walking, as Castillo gently kicked the men and women out of their way. Just saying Excuse Me didn’t work.
The Caribe was laid out colonial style, a huge square building with rooms around the edges and a courtyard in the middle. It had originally been a school and the classrooms were made over now into hotel rooms. Tonight, the usually pleasant open courtyard was thick with unruly people, the plants ruined. An elegant staircase that had seen better days wound gracefully from the lobby to the second floor and from the second to the third and highest floor. There was no elevator. Everywhere Miriam looked, there were people – mostly young, mostly longhaired, and mostly high as kites.
The second floor was a bit quieter, and by the time they got to the third floor, things were almost normal. And no one was in the pool, which was right outside her door. What a relief. The Caribe was the only hotel Miriam had ever stayed in that had a pool on the top floor, under the open sky.
There were four disreputable looking men seated on the lip of the pool, on the far side. She was glad Contreras was with her. Walking by them, she glanced at them closely and recognized an old friend.
“Hi William!” she called with real pleasure.
“Hey Miriam, what’s up?” said the huge bearded hippy, pulling himself to his size eighteen, none-too-steady feet. He towered over all three of them. His well-tanned face contrasted with the enormous jagged scar that ran from his forehead to his chin, amazingly missing his eyes. He was wearing battered jeans and nothing else and smelled of smoke, sweat, and cheap fried food. He and his three Maya companions were all beyond high, Miriam noticed. She was beginning to feel very out of step.
“Hey, have I ever properly introduced you to my friends from the State Police?” she asked, and made the intros. They all shook hands, glowering at each other.
“Hah!” she said to Contreras as they opened the door to her room. “Gotcha back for booking me here.”
“Who is he, anyway?”
“His name is William. No last name. He stays here when he’s in town and lives in a pueblo on the Caribbean coast. He speaks fluent Maya. He’s the one who saved my life a few years ago – remember when someone put coral snakes in my bed?”
Contreras gave William a little salute as he left the room a few minutes later.
After he left, Miriam double locked her door, took a thorough shower, and fell into bed exhausted, without calling Patty.
The Last Night of Rest
December 20 2012 1:30 a.m.
Contreras drove home ultra slowly, a pace he was comfortable with. No reason to speed. It only made the impact, should it happen, more severe, and what was the point in that? He drove to his little house on a side street of Colonia Itzimna and opened the gate with the remote control. The house was dark.
Not that he expected anyone to be there. He’d been alone there for many years now and he was used to it. His ex-wife Mercedes had moved to Mexico City where she worked as a real estate lawyer. He couldn’t say he didn’t miss her.
He opened the door, went in and dropped his keys in the basket on the table. There was his newspaper and a note from the housekeeper telling him his supper was in the refrigerator.
He went into his room and undressed, carefully folding and hanging up his clothing. He put the dirty clothes in a hamper and stepped into the bathroom, where he took a meticulous shower. As he showered, he hummed the tune, “Peregrina.” He loved that song.
He slipped into shorts, a Tishkokob Tigres t-shirt and a light robe, came out and turned on the TV. When he’d found a good movie, he got his supper out of the refrigerator and heated it up in the microwave.
Nothing in Contreras’ life was a surprise. He’d set it up so everything was predictable. It was the only way he could cope with the acute ups and downs he experienced at work every single day. Whether it was a violent crime or police politics, there were always anxiety-producing elements to his work, and this week had been much more intense than usual.
But he thrived on it. It had become his life.
In fact, after supper, he well might go back downtown. He’d put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and walk around, sensing the moods of the city, anticipating the feelings of the strange crowds of people.
He knew he was too solitary, but he was used to it. He liked it that way.
He had no hobbies, no passionate side interests; he never went to a concert or a play. His job as police chief absorbed his entire being and he willingly threw himself into it, giving over every bit of himself to that important role.
But this 2012 stuff was beginning to get to him. He knew the beliefs the spiritual tourists had were a lot of crap, but some of the ideas weighed on him. The Maya prophesies. Big deal. A bunch of Indians a long time ago, writing in an arcane language he could barely understand even when it was translated, had said that some cycle ended on December 21 2012. So what? The Maya said a lot of things. One thing they did not say, he knew, was that the world was going to end on December 21st.
He thought of his Maya grandmother, Isabel, who he had only met twice. She’d been from Tishkokob. He gently stroked the insignia on his Tigres shirt. She’d been a beautiful lady, as he remembered.
But his father hadn’t liked it when his mom took him out there – once to his grandfather’s funeral, once to someone’s wedding, and once to his grandmother’s funeral. Their lives were in Merida, his father had said, not in a dusty town with no plumbing. The elder Jose Contreras, a man who was seldom home, was a relative by marriage to one of Merida’s grand old families, the people who had come from Spain and built the haciendas where the Maya were their slaves.
Fortunately for everyone, Contreras’ mother had taken after the Castilian part of the family, so her Maya ancestry was never mentioned in polite company. There were rumors, of course.
Contreras’ mother and Contreras himself obeyed the head of the family, so contact with the Maya side was virtually cut off for both of them. But now, for the first time in many years, Contreras wondered about his mother’s extended family in Tishkokob. His cousins and great aunts. He didn’t even know who they were. Were they interested in the end of the Long Count Calendar, or did they think it was just another day?
Sometimes he had nightmares about serpents. He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember. His mother would say he was dreaming about his king, the serpent god Kukulcan, but he knew he was just dreaming of serpents, the ones he used to see in the garden, but bigger. They were always in a roiling mass, with their heads sticking out from the tangle at odd angles. Their great fangs gleamed at him; their tiny soulless eyes stared unblinking at his face and neck. They were always waiting.
In a speech he’d heard on a street corner today, a young man had said that the serpents were coming for them all. Did he have the same dreams as Contreras? Was it some kind of universal nightmare?
After work, sub-Commander Ku had invited him to his home. His wife had made cochinita, he said, and he’d like it if Contreras could join them and his oldest daughter, who still lived at home. But Contreras had found a gracious way out of it.
Tonight he had wanted to be alone. He would probably just watch mindless TV and conserve his energy for the days coming up. The hell with going back downtown. Enough is enough.
When the Maya talked about the feathered serpent, of course they meant it as a symbol – didn’t they? It had nothing to do with the snakes of his subconscious, the ones with the open mouths, the fangs, the audible human laughs. Even thinking of them made the hairs on his arms rise. Aha! Ten p.m. Time to watch his favorite program, Monk. Contreras liked everything in its place, and the silly detective on TV gave him a way to smile at himself, although he couldn’t quite appreciate why the program was such an enormous comedic success.
Straightening things out, both literally and figuratively was a calling. It was how he himself did his work. It was how he kept his house, drove a car, maintained his trim physique, and most of all, his sanity. How he controlled his world in a universe where things could get out of hand quickly if you weren’t careful. Monk had the right idea.
It had been wonderful to see Miriam. She never changed. She was much the same as he was, he thought. Self contained and alone, walking through life without depending on anyone.
What would life be like for the two of them together? Was his house big enough for both of them to maintain their separateness? If there were any woman he’d be able to get along with, it would be Miriam. She was so straightforward and so tuned in to him that they made a strong team. Strong in all ways, he was thinking.
Miriam looked wonderful. She never lost her slim, agile figure and he loved the way she dressed. She looked deliciously feminine but capable at the same time. She wasn’t the kind of woman anyone took for granted. Her formidable height, her confidence, and her assertive tone, were all fairly alien to him as a Mexican man.
Or were they? Hadn’t Mercedes been the same way? Was it possible he just refused to see her that way and that had been one of their problems? Why was it easier for him to see these as positive characteristics in a gringa rather than a Mexican woman? Ah, something else to think about.
With a sigh, he reached into a small humidor and pulled out a fine Cuban cigar. It was one of those kinds of nights.
He bit off the end and lit it with a flourish. There was no woman here to say how much it stunk or could he please take that thing outside. Was that good or bad? He didn’t know any more.
But he smoked his cigar, leaned back in his reclining leather chair, and watched TV until one a.m., when he walked upstairs to his bedroom, folded back the clean white sheets, and went to bed.
After a while, he began to toss and turn. Soon he was calling out, crying a little. The detached part of him could see all this and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
He woke up at three a.m. in a cold sweat. He sat straight up in the bed. He had heard animals howling. They must be dogs, he told himself. But the cries had been so strange, so sharp, nearly hysterical – terrified dogs. Were the animals sensing something? No, that was ridiculous. He mustn’t let his secret superstitious underbelly, his hidden Maya side, get the best of him.
He got up and made a cup of tea. Then he stared at his wedding picture, ca. 1970. He felt a tremendous emptiness that surprised him.
Making Friends
December 20 2012 early
The room phone buzzed loudly, shattering her sleep. Miriam looked at her watch. It was 7:30 in the morning. Patty, no doubt. She picked up the receiver.
“Starbucks at ten o’clock,” she said without a greeting. “The one next to Chapur.”
“Good choice,” replied Patty, and hung up.
Miriam walked out of her door at eight, unable to contain her curiosity about what was going on in the hotel. William and his friends were gone, but there was a woman swimming in the pool, a black woman. She was tall, wearing an orange bikini. Her skin was the color of milk chocolate. There was something familiar about her.
Miriam realized she had noticed her last night, wearing colorful robes, standing on the second floor landing talking to some other people. She’d especially noticed her because she saw Contreras’ eyes linger on her and they had exchanged greetings.
“Who was that?” she had asked.
“I don’t know her name,” answered Contreras, “but I guess she’s one of the spiritual tourists. Or a leader, I don’t know. She seems to mix with all of them. She was talking in front of a group of people in the park.”
Now that Miriam looked at the woman in her bikini, she noticed that her whole demeanor had changed. The beatific smile was gone, replaced by a hard concentration as she counted out her laps down the pool. Miriam waited a few minutes until she got out.
“Hi,” Miriam said. “I’m Miriam, room 51.”
“And I’m Lulu, room 52,” said the swimmer. “I saw you last night with that good looking man.”
“The good looking man is the Yucatan police commander – he’s an old friend,” said Miriam.
“The police commander?” Lulu looked at her sharply. “Like the chief?”
“Yes,” said Miriam. “He’s the chief of what they call the Judicial Police, the part of the State police system that investigates crimes. They’re all plain clothes.”
“Well, you make a lovely couple.”
“Oh, we’re not a couple. He’s available,” she said with a wink as she walked down the stairs. “See you later.”
Miriam was dying for a cup of coffee and went into the Caribe’s restaurant.
The waiters greeted her warmly and brought her the usual odious but familiar cup of Nescafe, traces of powder clinging to the edges of the murky liquid. She methodically poured in four packets of sugar. She’d forgotten how dreadful the coffee was here.
A young blond man, not much more than a boy, was the only other restaurant customer. He sat alone, looking in disgust at a plate of eggs fried with bacon bits. He was wearing immaculate white drawstring pants and a white t-shirt and a gigantic carved wooden cross around his skinny neck.
Miriam picked up her cup of acidic brew and walked over to him.
“May I join you?”
He looked up, puzzled. “Yes, I guess so. Oh – sorry, don’t mean to be rude. You startled me.”
“That’s okay,” Miriam said with a warm smile. “I won’t intrude if you want to be left alone.”
His face relaxed and he stood to pull out her chair.
“Please, sit. I’m David.”
After the usual foreign traveler chat (Where are you from? And where are you from? Have you been here long?), Miriam said, “I came down because I’m fascinated with the 2012 phenomenon. Is that something that interests you?”
An hour later, she was sorry she’d asked. If she didn’t turn the young man off, she’d be late for Patty.
According to David, there were a number of different groups of believers lodged in the Caribe and some of them hated each other. He explained that his group, for instance, the Children of Kukulcan, believed strongly that in the next few days, everyone would evolve to a higher state of consciousness and exist as a single, magnificent energy field, inviting energy from other places in the galaxy to join us here on earth. As he spoke, his face transformed into sheer joy and his eyes shone brightly in a way that Miriam had come to regard as indicative of madness.
The only problem was, David said, was that some of the other, more negative groups didn’t think harmoniously and felt that although we would see some manifestation of the magical calendrical date, it would be more astronomical than spiritual, and that the Milky Way would be pulled to either side, leaving a gaping hole in the center where some deity might appear. Or, on the other hand, it could become a giant black hole, sucking the earth and everything around it into an infinite vortex.
“By putting out this negative energy, and denying the transformation, they weaken our force. It’s important that we all think as one to make this happen. That’s what all the discussions are about, the ones you are hearing. We want them to embrace our way of thinking, for the good of the world.”
He was a really cute kid and she liked him. But past his words, he was sad. His beliefs weren’t bringing him peace.
“I love your ideas, and your hopes,” she said. “But don’t worry too much about what other people are saying. You have your own power to create whatever you want. You are young and smart and very cute. I think you’ll be around for a long time.”
“Thank you, Miriam,” the boy said. “I am happy you believe in my ideas.”
“I didn’t exactly say that,” Miriam said. “I said I think you are secure with your ideas. I don’t know what my philosophy is – I’m still searching.”
Just then a compact woman of about forty-five, dressed in white with a large cross AND a medallion, walked quickly over to their table.
“David, we’re going to need you to help with the project upstairs in about ten minutes, okay?”
“Sure,” he answered. “Antares, this is Miriam, and Miriam, this is my mentor, Antares. Miriam’s a new friend I just met this morning,” he explained to Antares.
“Glad to meet you Miriam,” the woman said curtly. Miriam didn’t think that Antares was glad to meet her at all. They shook hands stiffly.
“Listen, David, I really love talking to you, but you’re busy and I gotta go. Are you busy later? Maybe I could meet some of your other friends.” In truth, she had a bit of time, but she’d always had a low tolerance for the supernatural. And the presence of Antares, who was rooted to her spot standing over them, was making her uncomfortable.
“As a matter of fact, there’s a big rally in the main square tonight,” David said enthusiastically. “Jose Arguelles is going to be there! I worship him. The rally starts at around nine. I could meet you here in the hotel and we can go together. You’ll give me a couple of hours off, won’t you Antares?”
“Okay, I guess,” she said with a glare in Miriam’s direction.
“Okay if my friend Patty tags along?” asked Miriam.
“Sure, that would be great. I hope the two of you decide that our peaceful message is the best one for the world. We would love to have you join us.”
“Okay sweetie,” Miriam said. “See you here at nine.”
Before she left the hotel, Miriam dashed back up to her room and entered Jose Arguelles in Google. This was going to be big. The guy had all kinds of out-there theories and well worked out disciplines about calendars and time and intergalactic travel. She was getting excited.
Miriam took out her USA cell phone. Her friend Patrick Sheehan, the news editor at the New York Post, was on her speed dial. Although she loved her criminal investigation work, she’d always nursed a secret desire to write groundbreaking articles for a big newspaper.
“Hey Patrick, it’s Miriam Glass,” she said.
“What’s up, you long lean hunk of woman?” he asked. She could hear his grin over the phone.
“I’m down in Merida on vacation, and the place is in an uproar with all the 2012 stuff. Are you guys covering that at all?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said. “Sounds like a bunch of hippy shit. But I did read that that dude Jose Arguelles, the guy who wrote books about time and spirituality, is supposed to be there. He’s pretty hot.”
“Yeah, I’m going to his talk tonight. But the real story is that the place is like a freak show. There are all these different groups in weird outfits with funny jewelry and shit and they do not like each other one little bit.”
“Let me guess,” said Patrick. “You want to cover it for us.”
“Well, I do have my brand new, state-of-the-art Leica with me. And last year you let me write that review of that Afghani restaurant in Queens, so it’s not like I don’t have any track record.”
“Sure, Miriam, send me what you have. But if anything big happens, call me and I’ll send down reinforcements.”
“Why would you need to send reinforcements? I can write. I take great pictures. I’m right in the middle of things. I can handle it.”
“Miriam, my darling,” said Patrick a faint note of impatience creeping into his voice. “I have no problem with you covering the freak show. I know you’ll do great because you have good observational abilities and a great point of view, but all I’m saying is that if this becomes, say, network news for some reason, I want you to promise me you’ll call for backup.”
“I doubt it will escalate to that level, so okay, I promise. Right now there’s a lot of squabbling and street fights. You know young people with intense points of view versus other young people who have other intense points of view. Mostly, it’s the guys, and some of them are using, so it gets dramatic, the police break things up, that kind of thing.”
“As long as it stays on that level,” Patrick said. “I must say, I don’t envy you.”
“Hey – I love this stuff,” said Miriam.
“Better you than me,” Patrick said.
“See, that’s the difference between you and me. You’re a complete observer; you experience things from a physical distance, while I actually enjoy the mayhem, even though I’m not emotionally involved.”
Patrick said, “That’s what makes you a good writer. Have a great time and send me something tonight. Make sure you get some images of Arguelles. I assume they have the internet down there?”
“I hate to even dignify that with an answer,” Miriam said. “Yes, the internet is everywhere. Geez, where do you think I am? This is a sophisticated city with a million people! Don’t worry – I’ll file daily until this is over.”
Patrick said, “Okay, okay. Talk to you soon. And hey – Merry Christmas, just in case you live that long,” he chortled.
Humming to herself, Miriam walked up Calle 60, the main drag, looking for a cab. Along the way, she noticed that there were no more of the empty storefronts that used to characterize this stretch of downtown. Every available space had been turned into shops selling what could only be called 2012 paraphernalia. There were survivalist stores peddling materials for underground bunkers (a little late for that), serious knives and weapons, and t-shirts with dozens of catchy slogans like, Live Life As If It’s The End of the World, or Wanna Have Sex? No Long-Term Relationships.
The most poignant shirt said, Nothing Matters.
On a whim Miriam ran into a shop and picked out a sky blue v-necked t-shirt that said, Nibiru. The owner of the shop, a man from India, let her change in his bathroom. The shirt had a neckline that plunged almost to her diaphragm. And since her bust was unusually big, it was quite a sight. The store owner couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. He told her that a lot of people in town were trying to get there and thought that aliens might send a spaceship to get them in the next few days.
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting a ride,” he said.
Specific groups or gurus sponsored a lot of the stores. They offered books, CDs, and expensive medallions. One store even had silk hoods in black and white, in case the buyer didn’t want to actually see the end of the world. These were marked down from $500 pesos to mere $350 pesos.
Finally, she got to Santa Lucia Park and jumped into a cab to Starbucks to meet Patty. She was late, of course. Miriam ordered a full-fat Frappucino in the spirit of the end of the world, and Patty, ever practical, had her usual skinny latte.
It was good to see Patty. Her short blond hair had a hint of red this year, and she was wearing wonderful, loud patterned Capri pants and yellow sandals.
They caught up with each other about their lives in the States and talked about Patty’s recent nursing assignment in a psychiatric hospital in Tucson. Easy work, she said. Heavy drugs for all the patients and recreational facilities for the medical staff. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Miriam told Patty all about her adventures of the morning, and the characters she’d seen. Patty promised to meet her later at the hotel to go to the rally. Then they gossiped for an hour about all the expats and what they were doing, who had separated or divorced, who was having an affair with whom, and the growing number of folks who were calling themselves writers, therapists and artists.
“It’s a great place to reinvent yourself,” said Patty. “You can live well on social security and completely hide the fact that you sold shoes for a living for forty years.”
“How do the expats feel about this influx of, shall we say, unusual people?”
Patty said, “I doubt they notice it much, and if they do, they’re probably mildly annoyed. They don’t notice too much that goes on outside their little sphere.”
“But Patty,” Miriam said, “there are thousands of outsiders here, bizarre outsiders, and they’re all downtown.”
“Even though they live down here in Centro,” said Patty, “the gringos all do their shopping in the malls now. I don’t know anyone who uses the market anymore.”
“It’s their loss, but I suppose they have a better chance of avoiding ptomaine and salmonella that way.”
“I’m kind of ashamed to admit it,” said Patty, “but I do it too. I would rather smell antiseptic cleaning fluid than decaying fish and meat. And the supermarkets even have refrigeration!”
Public market
“Yeah, but the central market is, well, fascinating,” said Miriam. “In the supermarkets, there are no little bands marching around, and no one yelling at you to try their weird fruit.”
“And no Maya ladies sitting on the floor in their huipiles selling small bunches of cilantro for twenty cents,” Patty added.
After a long discussion about Patty’s new unrewarding relationship in California with a struggling singer half her age, and Miriam’s bleak social picture, they prepared to leave.
Patty had decided to move on in her life. “I met this guy last week,” she said. “He came into the ER with a bullet wound and we had to work on him for an hour. Afterwards, I went to see him in his hospital room and we got to talking. He’s not a drug dealer or anything, I don’t know what he does. But he’s such a hunk.” She smiled, her eyes far away.
“You better be careful, girl,” said Miriam. “I don’t think hospital trauma rooms are the best places to meet someone.”
“Maybe you’re a little too picky,” said Patty. “Can’t you just have fun?”
Martin’s Story
Martin Peterson was born and raised in the town of Proctor, Nebraska, deep in the bible belt of the bible-saturated Midwest. An overweight, unattractive middle child of a tenant farmer named Rufus Peterson and his wife Sally, Martin dropped out of school in the tenth grade when the content of his studies overwhelmed him.
He especially resented geometry. He hated the idea of measuring and defining all the mysterious shapes that floated through the world around him and he just flat-out didn’t understand what the teacher was talking about. In his schoolwork, it struck him that the teachers were trying to put into words things that only God should know. Martin felt in general that it was better to leave things to God.
He helped his father farm the hundred acres of soybeans for twelve years, at which point both of his parents died in an auto accident and he was left with his two sisters, who both immediately got married and moved away. He lost the harvest that year, and was unable to pay rental for the acreage. That was the end of raising soybeans. He put it all behind him and moved to Milwaukee.
Martin got a job cleaning offices at night. He figured this was a good arrangement as he had days to himself. It was hard to make friends, but his rented room was in a building next to a group home for people with problems and he could go there whenever he wanted company, or just to watch TV. The people who lived there were always glad to see him.
And twice a week, sometimes more, Martin did something he was so ashamed of. He gave money to a woman named Louisa who worked at a club nearby, to do dirty things to him. He knew it was wrong, he knew he was damned, and so he stopped going to church. He couldn’t resist her. If he didn’t go down the street and find her, she would knock on the door of his room and even though he resolved to stop doing it, he always let her in and always gave her fifty dollars fifteen minutes later when she left.
Martin grew fond of Louisa for providing him with this comfort, and hated her at the same time. They didn’t talk much, but he felt closer to her than he did to anyone. No one else had seen his naked body since he was fourteen when his sister Emily surprised him in the shower. He hadn’t been able to really look at her since then, nor she him.
When Martin was thirty-five, his supervisor on the custodial crew took an interest in him because both were from Nebraska, where the possibilities were endless. One night the supervisor invited him to go to a meeting with him.
Martin, who had never been invited anywhere, said yes, and by the end of the evening had become a follower of a man named Wing, whose new-age philosophies rang so strongly with him that he felt as if his heart had awakened for the first time. There were about sixty people in the group, all quiet and withdrawn like Martin.
Wing was a small man, about five feet two inches and even though he was only about forty, he was bent over and had a large bump on his back. He said that he had to bind his wings tightly around his body to avoid suspicion – this way people thought he was a harmless hunchback rather than a prophet, which was fine with him. He said people didn’t like to look at disabled people and no one paid attention to him in public. Martin admired Wing for his strength and his intelligence.
Martin had always believed strongly in the presence of evil in the world around him. He could see it everywhere, especially in himself. It made him feel better to learn that he wasn’t the only one who was defiling the earth. Almost everyone was. From Wing, he learned that they would all pay the price, and Martin thought this was only right.
Wing sadly advised his flock that God had had enough. God had set a date to punish humanity for their abuse of each other and the earth. Martin couldn’t wait.
Wing was widely read in all kinds of spiritual philosophies and explained to the Wings, as the group members were called, that the Hopi Indians of the United States and the Maya Indians of Mexico and Central America both had prophesized that the world was going to end on a specific date, December 21, 2012. It was a miracle, he said, that these diverse groups, thousands of years ago, had come to the same conclusion. Wing said they had done this with science. That even four thousand years ago, these Indian tribes had men who were astronomers and mathematicians capable of building marvelous structures, buildings that could not be replicated by today’s architects. He said that the Maya built huge pyramids, the bases of which covered over a mile square, and that each stone was perfect and meaningful. Wing said that since there were no boulders in their part of the world, they had to rely on help from afar, from deep space.