2012: The Fifth World
by
Edward G. Talbot
Book Description:
Sometimes, the end of the world needs a little help.
Simon Gray stopped fighting years ago when he left the Army, but the CIA has made him an offer he can't refuse: the opportunity to take down Guatemalan arms dealer Yum Cimil. Cimil considers himself Maya royalty, and is planning worldwide destruction to usher in the Maya Fifth World on December 21, 2012.
Simon knows all too well the damage Cimil is capable of. This time, it's stolen nukes and a presidential kidnapping. Decades earlier, it was more . . .personal. Now he'll get his chance for revenge, but stopping Cimil won't be enough. Homo sapiens isn't the only hominid with skin in this game, and Simon must prevent an attack that threatens the very existence of the human race.
Praise for 2012: The Fifth World:
"2012: The Fifth World is the kind of novel that demands it be read in one sitting. Mixing ancient civilizations with modern thrills and world changing events, this is a story that never slows and pulls no punches. Talbot is a rising star worth following."
–JEREMY ROBINSON, author of Instinct and Threshold
“2012: The Fifth World shows what happens when myth, faith, and science collide. The result is a gripping page-turner that doesn't let up until the very world is pushed to the brink of destruction.”
–MICHAEL WALLACE, top 20 Amazon bestselling author of The Righteous.
"Edward G. Talbot expertly blends ancient mystery with modern thriller. The end result is a book you won't be able to put down until you've turned the final page!"
–DAVID WOOD, author of Quest and Cibola
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2012: The Fifth World
Published by Edward G. Talbot at Smashwords
Edition: July 2011 Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Edward G. Talbot
Cover Copyright © 2011 by Jason Andrews
Discover other titles by Edward G. Talbot at www.edwardgtalbot.com
This book is a work of fiction. Although some public figures, places and incidents in the historical record are depicted, they are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors' imaginations. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission, except as allowed by the Fair Use doctrine under United States law. For more information, email inquiries to ed@edwardgtalbot.com.
Smashwords Edition License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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About the Authors / Other ebooks
Enjoy our thriller novel, New World Orders
Enjoy our thriller half novel, Alive From New York
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PROLOGUE
The Yucatan Peninsula
Mayan Long Count: 10.10.10.10.10, Tzolkin 1 Oc, Haab 13 Pax
(September, 1037 A.D.)
Balaam wasn’t expecting his world to fall apart that day. However, an apocalypse can put a dent in the best of plans.
As he passed under the sacred arch leading to the temple, the smell of carrion reached his nostrils. He wiped his face, as if to dispel the odor, and his hands came away covered with grime and sweat. His legs felt heavy moving up the weathered stone steps, and he knew it wasn't all due to fatigue from his twelve hour journey. The stench increased, his heart started beating faster, and he wondered if they were dead already. As he gazed into the central courtyard from the top step, he stopped wondering.
The bodies adorned the grassy space as if arranged with a purpose. Some were seated, some lay on their backs in a pose resembling sleep. But this was no siesta. Even from where he stood, he could tell they were dead. The signs of the great sickness were on them, the dried skin and shriveled flesh.
Balaam dropped to his knees, and his moan shattered the humid silence. The birds on the arch took to the sky. His head sank to the cold stone, arms outstretched in supplication. As an assistant to the priests, he had seen his share of sacrifice, and even offered his own blood as part of the ceremony. He’d never understood how jamming thorns in his flesh pleased the gods, but he wasn’t foolish enough to question it aloud. Questioners found themselves at the top of the pyramid with their hearts ripped out.
Even though he'd known the end could be coming, he couldn't accept that they were all gone. After a long minute, he dared to breathe again and rose to his feet. Balaam did not consider himself brave, but the news he carried was even more terrible than the carnage that lay before him. He had to see if anyone was left alive.
He examined the first body he came to, seated in a high-backed reed chair. He could barely recognize the man. The mysterious disease that had ravaged the land in recent years struck down mostly priests, hideously disfiguring its victims in the process. It took their hair first. Then it consumed them from within, the flesh just disappearing from their bodies over time. No one knew what caused it, but clearly the gods were angry.
Before he had left to consult the seers at the retreat near Tulum, the priests here had found an herb that appeared to alleviate the symptoms. By drinking the herb in a strong tea, they lived many moons longer. Obviously it had stopped working. Still struggling to control his grief and fear, Balaam muttered a single word. "Itzamna."
Only Itzamna, creator of all things, could be responsible. In an odd way, this gave him comfort, as if confirming the omnipresent role of the divine. Avoiding the lifeless bodies as much as possible, he crossed the courtyard, focusing on his feet as they compressed the wet ground. He passed under a rounded doorway into the darkness of the main temple.
As always, he felt in the blackness of the hallway something akin to the security of a swaddled baby. His hands moved to trail along the walls with familiarity born of countless repetition. Despite the familiar space, his mind struggled to explain what he had discovered in the courtyard. All at once he felt oppressed by the cave-like building; he began to run. He burst out of the hall to face the altar, no longer able to hold his tongue.
"In the name of Itzamna, is anyone alive? Chelte, are you here?"
He received no reply. Throwing his frail body to the ground, he knelt in front of the altar with a moan. It seemed only the pale light of the torches bore witness to his grief. For long minutes, all he heard were the ragged gasps of his own breathing.
"Balaam, is that you?" A weak and raspy voice pierced the stillness. Balaam raised his head and looked left, eyes wide with surprise. He could just make out a figure slumped against the wall, and he jumped to his feet. He found Chelte, the oldest of the priests, sitting in a pool of blood.
No one knew Chelte's age. He was the Ah Kin Mai, translated as the "Highest One of the Sun." The leading priest. None of the dozens who called the jungle retreat their home could remember a time when he wasn't ancient, wasn't the living heart of their small community. When he coughed now, a clear fluid dripped from the side of his mouth. His hands reached for Balaam's tunic. He pulled the younger man close, their faces inches apart.
"We are lost, my son. I know not what great displeasure we must have given, but it scarcely matters. I have seen the great Hurakan smite them all, wise men and fools alike. In truth, the wise men seem the greater fools."
The effort of speaking forced the older man's eyes to close. Balaam's heart filled with terror at the apparent loss of faith by this, the most devout of men. He had rarely heard Chelte mention Hurakan, the ancient God of Fire who caused the Great Flood that wiped out the second divine attempt to create humankind.
Balaam steeled himself against the fear and opened his mouth. He had to deliver his news.
"Chelte, you have been the water of life for all of us. I beg you, do not abandon mighty Itzamna in the moment when you need him most. I bring news, both terrifying and wonderful. I need your guidance."
For several seconds, he heard no reply. Had the old man died? The answer came as a gnarled fist wrapped around his upper arm. The voice was gentle now.
"Balaam, Balaam, you always were a good boy." The voice fell silent again.
Balaam said, "What happened to the others? And how did you escape?"
A harsh laugh reached his ears. "Escape? Is that what you call this?" Chelte gestured to his frail body, a shadow of his former self.
"The herb disappeared. The two harvesting spots were destroyed in mud-slides shortly after you left. And then, we started dying. Most went into the courtyard to die, to leave a warning to anyone who might come. I have been here, asking Itzamna for guidance. He does not answer.
"I am glad you returned. I know not what has happened to the priests in the other temples, but I fear that we may be the last."
Balaam's eyes filled with tears, and he nodded. "That is so. Only two priests were left at Tulum. I told them about the herb, but it was too late for them. Everywhere I went, the priests were already gone."
Chelte said, "You asked how I escaped. I need to tell you the secret of the priests. Something we are sworn to share with none outside ourselves. You see, we know why this has happened to us."
The old man shifted his body, and winced at the effort. "A long time ago, the Ancient Ones came. They were human and yet, not human. They brought tales of a great wave overtaking their home and forcing them out to sea. They came here, and soon they were worshiped almost as gods. It was as if they had the ability to see into our minds.
"For a long time, the Ancient Ones kept themselves separate. Generations were born and died. I don't know how it started, but at some point, they mixed their bloodlines with the priests. Eventually, being of mixed blood became a requirement for a priest, a secret requirement passed on but never written down.
"This was two centuries ago, and everything was fine until I was a young man. Then the first signs of the sickness arrived. For too long, we ignored what is obvious now, that almost all of the dead and dying were priests. The mixed blood killed us.
"The reason I am the last is yet another secret, one my mother told me before the illness took her. My father was not her iicham, he was one of the nobles in Sayil. She never told anyone else. My blood has less of the sickness in it. But sickness it has nonetheless."
Balaam stared at Chelte, trying to understand what he'd heard. "Who were these Ancient Ones?"
Chelte shook his head. "I don't know. I know only what my father told me and what his father told him. Perhaps the Ancient Ones came from the gods, but if they did then so did the sickness.
"There's one more thing you must do. You must get away from the cities. You know that the sickness exists there as well. In the cities, there are some of the mixed blood who did not become priests. Go back to the villages and keep away from anyone with the sickness. With the disappearance of the priests, the nobles will tear apart the cities. It is the way of nature and men. Retreat, and your distant children will inherit the Fifth World."
Balaam's voice became emotional. "The Fifth World! Yes, that is what I must tell you about."
Chelte coughed again. "My body is filled with pain. Give me your news quickly. I will be seeing Itzamna before I ever see the sun rise again."
Balaam began. "We were all wrong. Before they died, the priests near Tulum said the heavens have been tricking us. The fourth world will not disappear at the end of the Long Count. The stars are telling us that nothing is foretold such that the proper actions of men cannot change it. But we must change our ways."
The significance of this hit Balaam like a blow to the stomach. Of course, the sickness must be part of it! Before he could say anything, Chelte spoke with something resembling a low chuckle.
"Improper action. Mixed blood. Oh, we are lost." He coughed again, and the dripping fluid was tainted with blood. "Did the wise ones at Tulum have any idea what the proper action would be?"
Balaam nodded, and his breathing increased with the anticipation of the telling. Without warning, Chelte's head fell to the side. The momentum pulled his entire body onto the floor. Balaam leaned over and put his head on the old man's chest, his tears stinging his eyes. He heard no heartbeat.
He could no longer hold the pain and fatigue at bay, and his body sagged on top of Chelte. He might have stayed there for a long time, might even have been content to give up and die as the scavengers feasted outside. But he could not forget Chelte's command to return to the villages.
He lifted his head and stared at the shadows cast by the dim light of the torches. He rushed towards the hallway, banging his head on the cobbled stone wall. He could now see the outside light, but instead of calming him, it felt harsh and alien. He burst into the courtyard, his retinas burning from the shock. He knew he needed to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to take another step. He sagged to his knees. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he had one final thought. Illumination was far more terrifying than darkness ever had been.
* * * * *
December 12, 2012: Washington D.C.
"OK, Madame President, I have hidden nuclear devices in several U.S. cities. Now we're going to play a little guessing game. You pick a city. If it doesn't have a nuke, you lose a city that does. For each minute you delay, you lose a member of Congress."
President Susan Richards, the first woman to hold that most distinguished office, stared into the cold brown eyes of her captor. She responded with the combination of directness and humor that had helped propel her to a role as Speaker of the House and then the Presidency.
"Do I get to choose which member?"
The words were barely out of her mouth when the blow landed, blood rushing to her left cheek and ear. She shook her head in pain, but kept her expression neutral. "You’d do well to consider the ramifications of beating the leader of the free world."
At this, his brown eyes sparkled with amusement. His laugh was the low growl of a predator, throaty and sustained. "My dear lady. I have kidnapped you from the protection of the tightest security on the planet. As we speak, the legislative branch of the American government is watching, powerless to stop me. Can you possibly imagine that I'm concerned by a bruise or two on that lovely face? By the way, my compliments to your plastic surgeon."
The video images, which news organizations around the world had now picked up, switched to a room that most Americans would have recognized: senators and representatives in the House Chamber, awaiting the arrival of the President of the United States to address a joint session of Congress. This spectacle, however, was unlike any the building had seen in the two centuries since the British had abandoned their last attempt at wresting back control of the colonies.
The gathered notables had just witnessed a captured president slapped in the face. The huge monitors spread throughout the room were a recent addition, and despite some grumbling about tradition at the time of their installation, all the Members now focused on them. House Speaker Reynolds Winthrop IV banged the gavel as if it was an extension of his arm, but nothing could subdue the outrage and panic at seeing this attack on the very bedrock of the Republic.
The video switched back to the man standing next to the President. He grinned and faced the camera that had carried the improbable scene to the horrified legislators, long dark locks flowing behind him. "Ladies and Gentleman, please settle down."
The mayhem in the Capitol building continued unabated, his words having little effect. Panic and anger had taken center stage. Then the huge speakers under the screen registered the sound of a firing gun, and all eyes turned to it.
"I trust I have your attention." The man now held a gun pointed at the President's head. "As it happens, I'm using blanks. But rest assured, what I'm about to unleash on your nation will be real. For those of you who favor smaller government, you're in luck. Very soon, there will be one fewer federal employee. And please, no one try to leave the building. You don't want to miss what comes next."
"Just in case you think the Secret Service will save your president, consider this. I’ve had her in my custody for over an hour and this is the first you’ve heard of it. I do believe they focused too much on the ‘secret’ part of their name while scrambling to do damage control."
The screens flickered for a few seconds, and the room once again erupted with a cacophony of shouts. The senior senator from Florida stepped to one of the microphones, his voice shaking. "This is unacceptable! Are we going to just sit here and take this? Get the head of the Secret Service in the room and–"
His remaining words were drowned out as two Representatives followed his lead and moved to other microphones in the room.
"Who the hell is this guy?"
"Someone call the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and get our military options!"
More calls for action bounced off the domed ceiling, the empty demands of men and women far too accustomed to power, incapable of rational thought in the face of an actual threat. A few wiser souls held their tongues: those with military experience along with the few left wingers who practiced what they preached. The rest of the room descended into chaos.
Without warning, the screen showed another setting. A large suburban home, with numerous outside lights piercing the darkness. Most heads in the room turned to watch, voices falling silent. A few recognized the house, and someone groaned, "Oh, no!"
An explosion rocked the house. Flames shot out of the windows and doors. Within thirty seconds, orange tongues of flame engulfed the collapsing structure. In the House Chamber, no one spoke in more than a whisper, but word soon spread. One of their own was dead.
"Sorry about that brief loss of contact, just some technical difficulties on this end. I regret that I had to sacrifice the senior senator from Montana, but your fearless leader simply was unwilling to choose a city. Plus, I’ve seen better behavior from a class of five year-olds. It's a shame that Senator Rawlins couldn't be with you today, though I understand the prognosis for his tumor was excellent. All of you who were hoping the cancer wouldn't kill him got your wish. Please pay attention now, unless you want yet another reduction in the government payroll."
One reporter, Tom Wilson, opened his cell phone. Trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, he made a call to his editor.
"Bob, it’s me. Shut the hell up and listen. I don’t want to stay on the phone, but I assume you're watching this. Call the Secret Service and tell 'em you think the President is on an airplane somewhere. I gotta go."
He hung up and returned his gaze to the screen. The voice from the monitors carried the chill of Arctic winter.
"But enough distractions. Madame President, which city will it be?"
ONE
June 21, 2012: Basque Region, Spain
Gabriella Riccio wiped the dust and sweat off her forehead and onto her faded jeans. The lights in her makeshift laboratory were on the fritz, again, so she turned on a flashlight to combat the darkness. Then she picked up the manila envelope, hands trembling in anticipation as she opened it.
Outside the window, the dig site buzzed with activity. They'd discovered the remains of a human ancestor here, remains well over a million years old. With luck, the envelope in Riccio's hands would give them the identity of the ancestor.
The DNA lab at the university could have given her some clue over the phone. They could have emailed the findings instead of sending her a memory stick via snail mail. But they couldn't be bothered. If only they had known what they might be testing. The carbon-14 dating had confirmed an approximate age of 1.5 million years, but the DNA would give her the final clue as to which of the "homo" species the skeleton represented.
One and a half million years ago, the homo genus was almost exclusively represented by homo erectus. As large as modern humans, their brains weren't a lot bigger than their predecessor, homo habilis. However, the small change in brain size made a large difference. Homo erectus eventually left Africa, beginning the journey that led to modern humans populating the globe.
She glanced over at the box containing the skull, only a strip of white visible beneath its rim. Her team had unearthed the skull, pelvis, and much of the torso and neck, but most of it stayed packed in crates for protection. She allowed herself the indulgence of keeping the skull nearby, and she never tired of looking at it.
In the spirit of other ancient finds, such as the Lucy skeleton, they had dubbed her Bella. The cranium was large, as big as homo erectus. But the dimensions of pelvis and torso suggested a female under four foot six, more in line with homo habilis. Bella also had a hyoid bone, the adaptation that facilitates modern speech. No one had ever found a hyoid bone in a primate skeleton older than a million years.
A small part of her wanted to believe that she'd discovered a new species. The potential for this kind of discovery had inspired her to specialize in the archeology of early man, even though she knew the odds were long. The find suggested something new, but she hadn't allowed herself to hope too much. She prepared to load the DNA results onto her computer.
The use of DNA to help identify archaeological remains was relatively new. Few samples existed for comparison, so scientists did not yet have reliable baselines for the early hominids. Institutions generally shared their data, but interpreting results remained as much an art as a science.
Fortunately, Joe Balaga, a grad student in Riccio's program at Northern University, had in the past three months developed a computer program which showed tremendous promise in identifying distinct species. Humans share over 99% of their DNA with both homo erectus and homo habilis. In the 1990's, as DNA techniques progressed to the point where they could be used to evaluate these ancestors, most researchers studied a section of mitochondrial DNA called the D-Loop. The D-Loop is very susceptible to mutations, and thus more likely to show differences between similar but not identical species. Unlike the more complex nuclear DNA, mitochondrial DNA is easier and faster to work with.
One of the key limitations of most work with either type of DNA is that researchers all start with modern humans as a baseline and compare that to one or more other species. By looking at gene mutations shared between samples, they can determine whether the species was a human ancestor.
When comparing two ancient species against each other, rather than a human with one ancient species, the sample sizes are so small that definitive conclusions become difficult. For instance, we now know that Neanderthal man–the caveman of popular imagination–was not a human ancestor after all, but shared a common human ancestor. While this ancestor was likely homo erectus, the science cannot say for certain.
Balaga had begun to address this problem. He took every available scan of DNA from ancient samples and plugged them into a computer program. He also plugged in all known information relating to the standard carbon-14 dating of these samples, including some of the underlying calibration curves. Carbon dating involves measuring the amount of carbon-14 in organic materials, since it decays at a predictable rate. The less there is, the older the material. Part of accurately using this technique involves "calibrating" the results to account for the periods in time when the atmosphere contained greater or lesser amounts of carbon.
After gathering all this information, Balaga developed a program that used statistical analysis to figure out what variables contributed to the differences between five of the main human ancestors. He specifically left human DNA out of his model, wanting a different and better result than the other researchers using modern man as a starting point. He developed models that could identify a species with 95% confidence, using generally accepted statistical concepts. From what Riccio had seen, his models were accurate.
Not yet peer-reviewed, the program would not yield results that could garner general acceptance. But Riccio believed in its accuracy, and she now rushed to load the memory stick with the DNA scan. The process didn't take long, easily handled by a basic laptop. In about five minutes, the screen displayed a technical garble meaningless to anyone without knowledge of the system. Sometimes that was the price of doing something no one else could do–you had to learn a whole new way of communicating about it.
After less than a minute of looking at the results, she turned away from the screen and opened a worn green folder on her desk. She needed make sure she understood all this. Her heart beat faster, and she confirmed her initial interpretation. The sample in question was not homo erectus, which she'd already assumed from its small size.
This skeleton was closer to homo habilis. Some of the mutations previously seen in that species alone were present in Bella. However, the program also found some mutations not documented in any previous find. Not unusual, but the program concluded that this was not homo habilis. She had found a new species.
As the reality hit home, she jumped into the air and pumped her fist. On regaining the earth, she looked around with a sheepish grin, seeing no one to poke fun at her excitement. This was it, the kind of find that could make a career.
No one would accept it initially, but she relished the upcoming fight. So-called experts would pontificate that this simply represented individual variation. Balaga would also enjoy the challenge, as his model came under more scrutiny than silicone implants. It would hold up, she was sure of that. She'd already decided on the name for her book: Bella.
Her thoughts turned to the specifics of these bones. That brain was massive. And unlike Neanderthal, who had a huge brain but was selected for a physically demanding life as well, this specimen had developed the brain while remaining frail. Plus, she had almost forgotten that they could probably talk, or at least they had the physiological ability to do so. She wondered about that, but came up with no answer. What could possibly have happened to eliminate a species with those advantages?
* * * * *
FLASHBACK: 1.4 million years ago
The female always stayed hidden. Too many others had been killed straying into the open. Only about four feet tall, the females couldn't risk a confrontation, either with another primate species or with one of the several carnivores that roamed the area.
Fortunately, she and some of her sisters possessed other advantages. They could sense the presence and emotions of all other primates within a few hundred yards. With the large enemies so intent on capturing females, this proved a critical survival skill. Still, she stayed inside the labyrinth of caves most of the time.
The earth shook as she lay on a blanket of fur inside the cave. She closed her eyes and squeezed her arms across her ribs. Even though she knew that these tremors had come and gone for many moon cycles, she remained afraid. The loneliness didn't help, her mate often gone for days at a time. The company of the children and other females did not lessen her discomfort.
She knew that her group of primates was unique. They could figure things out that the big ones couldn't, but their physical safety was only assured by constant vigilance. Their insight could not provide them peace. As the night grew deeper, she worried more.
The roof of the cave rumbled again. Several generations had expanded an existing fissure in the stone into a multi-room dwelling with seven-foot ceilings, ventilation, and two exits. She'd been told that these rumblings didn't threaten the structure, but she didn't understand how anyone could be sure of that.
All at once, she sensed it. A group of males approached the cave entrance. She could feel the dark currents of their minds touching her like a flame. These were the large ones, not her mate and his returning brothers. With her own kind, she could read their feelings and thoughts, and know if they were happy or sad, lustful or angry. But with the others, she could only sense a heavy curtain of something she could only think of as a burning in the brain. She figured that this had to do with the fact that these creatures could not speak in anything beyond grunts and whistles.
The dwelling shook again, but this time not from a natural tremor. She sat up in fear, and saw the rock of the entrance crumbling. They were coming after her. Never before had they dared this, invading the home. She'd once asked her mate why this was so. He'd replied that the large ones knew they'd suffer terrible retribution if they breached the cave.
She leaped out of bed, moving to wake the rest of her clan one by one. As she made her way to the rearmost room, she heard a loud crash and the unmistakable grunts of the enemy.
Panic overrode her concern for the others, and she dove into a small nook at the back of the cave. She tucked her narrow shoulders into the space, wedged so tightly that she could hardly breathe. She closed her eyes, unable to do anything except make herself as small as possible.
Over the next hour, screams filled the air. Worse than the sound was her ability to sense the anguish of her sisters. Yet she could do nothing. Mere screams couldn't compare to the waves of emotional pain she felt from all directions. She expected at any moment to be ripped from her sanctuary, forced to submit, and taken away.
After an eternity, the noise disappeared. A minute later, so did the pain. It took a while before she fully grasped the reason. She slowly moved her head out of the crevice, fear still gripping her.
She saw no one.
The furs and rough clothing of her people lay strewn across the room, some smeared with blood. She exhaled in a gasp and stumbled through the rest of the dwelling, finding the same destruction everywhere.
She reached out with her mind and felt no presence. Never in her life had she been completely alone, so this proved almost worse than the violence of the previous hour. Why had this happened? Her species had no concept of the divine, but they did possess enough self-awareness to question the order of things.
She didn't have an answer. For the rest of the long night, she lay huddled against a wall. At some point, sleep came, but it was filled with dreams of violence and anguish. These images did not disappear with the morning light. Terrified, but left with no choice, she poked her head out of the rear entrance to the cave.
Some time later, she found herself lying in the dirt, a few feet from the rough stone opening in the rock. At first, she couldn't remember what had happened. She'd stepped out and seen–oh no, could it be? Sitting up now, she turned her head. The bodies of her mate and five others were stacked like felled trees next to the rear entrance. Instead of passing out again, she retched, soiling the furs wrapped around her thin body.
All dead. There truly was no one left. She dragged herself back inside and allowed a wail to escape her lips.
Almost without thinking, she went into the space reserved for their leader, a man who had seen nearly forty wet seasons. Now his corpse lay third from the top in the pile of flesh outside. She felt at once apprehensive and exhilarated as she reached for the tiny pieces of crystal. She had never before touched them, only watched as the leader handled them with reverence. They were special, although she didn't know why.
She knew that in their presence, her constant worry had always subsided. If she'd ever needed such an effect, she needed it now. Her fingers wrapped around the crystals and her mind slowed down. She breathed easier, and discovered a determination she would have thought impossible only seconds earlier. She would survive. She would find more of her kind and start again. Still kneeling, she clutched the crystals against her breast, closed her eyes, and smiled.
TWO
June 21, 2012: Washington D.C.
Dennis Braxton barely noticed the Secret Service agent checking his credentials at the main gate of the White House. His mind remained fixed on the report he needed to deliver. More specifically, he worried about the fact that he had identified a major threat to U.S. security yet possessed very little information about how to counter it. Although Director of the CIA, he didn't carry the weight of his predecessors before 9/11. The National Intelligence Czar, Nelson Blanfield, was the top dog now.
Everyone would expect him to have answers that he didn't have. Blanfield would shake his head and feign understanding, all the while slipping in subtle remarks designed to throw doubt on Braxton's competence. His glee would barely be disguised. Jan Powell, the National Security Advisor, wouldn't be much better, but at least she would get sidetracked on a predictable diatribe about the need for another preemptive war. Bill Keane at State was a good man, and he would be focused on solutions, not blame. The real wild card was the President herself. She might be understanding, or she might roast his balls over an open flame. Slowly. He shuddered and reminded himself to avoid such disturbing metaphors, even in his thoughts.
As the limousine moved up the driveway, Braxton turned to his companion, Jaime Cortez, an analyst in the Agency's Central American Bureau. The man had forgotten more about the family of Mayan languages than any other American knew. A small figure with dark skin, his weathered face never lost its humor. His eyes were black, yet somehow managed to impart humor rather than darkness. They conveyed the message that whatever you had to say could not possibly be as bad as you thought.
Cortez had been watching Braxton and spoke in a voice laden with sarcasm. "Nice of you to rejoin us, Dennis. Let me guess, you're dreading Blanfield, but you're even more worried about the Ice Queen tearing you a new one."
Braxton cringed, imagining Cortez using that term to the President's face. The vision ended with his own career trajectory resembling an incoming missile, with a conclusion nearly as spectacular. "Dear God, Jim, don't say that when we're inside the gates. And yeah, you're right. This meeting will not end well."
Cortez chuckled. "Relax, boss, just tell 'em the truth. The folks at the NSA and Defense couldn't have translated that intercept. My mother's family has lived in Guatemala for centuries, and not even they could understand that variation of Ch'olan."
Even today, there are more than twenty-five recognized Mayan languages. They all developed from an original language over four thousand years ago, which now has more branches than an evergreen. Cortez was one of few on the planet who could translate the Ch'olan language that thrived around 500 B.C.E.
Braxton shook his head. "The truth. If only it were that simple. Tell you what, stop tryin' to reassure me. It ain't workin'."
The northern Louisiana accent of his childhood crept into Braxton's voice more when he used slang or when he felt tense. He reached into his pocket, extracted a small pill bottle and dry-swallowed two white pills designed to protect his heart. The grin disappeared from Cortez' face.
"Okay, Dennis, seriously, just don't let 'em get to you. They'll all play their little games, and at the end of the day, you'll have told 'em something they didn't know. Something they couldn't have known without you. Or without me for that matter. Aside from that nut job Powell, they're not stupid. And no one's gonna wanna' take the lead on this, given how little we know. So it'll stay with us, which is how we want it."
Braxton nodded and took a deep breath, his expansive belly jiggling beneath his starched shirt as he exhaled. He patted Cortez' shoulder. "Thanks, Jim, I appreciate the support."
The car stopped, and the two men got out, shadowed by Secret Service agents clad in dark blue jackets. Braxton assumed that they must be hot as hell in the D.C. humidity, but their impassive faces showed no sign of it. After going through the metal detectors, they followed a White House aide whose sole purpose seemed to be leading guests to the appropriate room. They reached a small room not far from the oval office, and sat down to wait for the President.
They didn't wait long. Part of Braxton's anxiety was due to the fact that he had told the Chief of Staff the matter demanded immediate attention. As he walked into the most famous not-quite-circular room in the world, he reminded himself that this was not an exaggeration.
"So, gentlemen, what’s so urgent that you had to drag us out of bed?" President Richards left no doubt about her displeasure. She stood up, her five foot ten inches dominating the space.
Braxton cleared his throat. "Madam, we have a, um, nuclear issue."
Heads turned, and he sensed that he had their complete attention.
"Continue."
He nodded at Richards. "We intercepted a communication between Guatemala and the Republic of Georgia. On the Guatemalan side, it was someone in intelligence from the Ministry of the Interior, and in Georgia, it was a top army officer, General Surgulvilli, who was recently relieved of command for corruption."
"What kind of corruption?" This from Keane at State.
"Um, apparently, he was providing escorts for visiting dignitaries, and then videotaping the, uh, interactions and blackmailing them."
Jan Powell snorted. "Serves ‘em right. If they can’t keep it in their pants, they should expect to get screwed."
Richards said, "If we could stay focused, please. Dennis, the nuclear issue?"
"Yes, the very fact that any communication occurred between a domestic Guatemalan agency and a disgraced military leader from Georgia was worth further examination. They were talking about some sort of sale, from the General to Guatemala. It seemed neither government had sanctioned the arrangement.
"So we started looking at other intercepts from the Guatemalan source. One in particular proved intriguing, a phone call between the source and a man named Yum Cimil. Cimil is the sole owner of the largest corporation in Guatemala, an international contractor sort of like Halliburton. Cracking the encryption on the call was no problem, but they spoke in an obscure dialect of an ancient Mayan language, Ch'olan."
He paused and looked around the room. Five pairs of eyes focused solely on him. He gestured to Cortez. "The intercept ended up with our resident expert in Mayan languages, Jaime Cortez here. The translation was disturbing, to say the least. Apparently, Yum Cimil wants a nuclear weapon."
Blanfield spoke for the first time. "Yes, Yum Cimil, we’ve been keeping an eye on him for the past few years. He’s a bit of a nationalist, although we believe he sold arms to both sides during the civil war in the 1990’s. Mostly legit, and he doesn’t seem to have any designs outside of making money and keeping his countrymen well-armed."
His words sounded genuine enough, but at the same time, they almost dared Braxton to prove that Cimil was an actual threat. Braxton considered pointing out that nuclear weapons qualified as a bit more than "well-armed," but the President interrupted his thoughts, her eyes boring down on Blanfield.
"Well, Nelson, this is the first I’ve heard of Mr. Cimil. Have you managed to get anyone on the inside of his company?"
Blanfield looked uncomfortable. "Well, ah, we’ve got light surveillance. We did have one person who managed to get inside, but he–" He stopped, unsure of what to say next.
Braxton didn’t hesitate to finish the security czar’s thought. "He ran into some problems. Most of his body turned up a few blocks from our embassy in Guatemala City."
Richards’ eyebrows went up. "Most of his body?"
Braxton could have killed Cortez for choosing this moment to speak up. "Madame President, it appears that the operative didn’t have the heart to continue."
Richards looked confused, and Braxton knew that her confusion invariably foreshadowed anger. Blanfield beat him to an answer. "The body was returned with the heart removed."
Richards crossed her arms. "I see. But I still don't understand why we're having this emergency meeting. Surely there are many individuals around the world seeking WMD's. Do we have any more concrete information to suggest that he's closer to getting them or is more of a threat than anyone else?"
Braxton had feared this response. Cortez had convinced him, but only after multiple sessions spent going over the information. "I better let Mr. Cortez explain."
"The Fifth World." Cortez spoke quietly, but had everyone's attention.
"Excuse me?" Powell's voice was nasal and irritated.
"Yum Cimil fancies himself the descendant of Maya nobility. The Maya believe that we're in the Fourth World of human civilization and that it's about to end and give way to the Fifth World, the Age of Creativity. The transition involves some sort of catastrophic global event, like Noah's great flood. In the Fifth World, people will get back in touch with their spiritual selves and eventually fulfill humanity's ultimate destiny."
Blanfield said, "Come now, that sounds like a bunch of New Age mumbo-jumbo."
Cortez held out his hands, palms up, "Hey, I didn't say it's what I believe. But Maya aren't the only ones with similar views. A number of native American tribes have something similar in their religion. And even Christianity isn't far off, with judgment day and the end times."
Richards nodded. "Mr. Cortez is right. A lot of people believe in judgment day. But is he really the descendant of Maya nobles?"
"I don't know. But does it matter? What matters is that he believes he is. The intercept said something about using the weapons to usher in the Fifth World. He intends to cause as much destruction as possible, with no purpose other than the destruction. Now, I'm not privy to all the intelligence we have on the typical Arab terrorist, but I suspect most of them don't intend to blow everyone up."
The President hesitated. "Hmm. OK people, I wanna start hearing what we’re gonna do about this."
Braxton cleared his throat again. "Well, um, we know almost nothing about Cimil. But we do have one possible lead. Cimil attended Williams College in Massachusetts. While he was there, he befriended another student, a man named Simon Gray. Gray enlisted in the Army in 1990, and fought in Desert Storm."
Powell interrupted again. "That sounds promising. Anyone who volunteered for Iraq must have his priorities in order."
"Well, not exactly. He served for four years, but by the end he was disillusioned with the whole idea of us being in the Middle East. He left the service, and he’s been working as a general contractor ever since. He’s highly intelligent and very good at thinking outside the box, and we even approached him about joining the Agency a few years back. He rejected us in no uncertain terms.
"And there’s one more thing. As far as we can tell, he hasn’t spoken to Cimil in over twenty years. Given how close they were in college, we think maybe they had a falling out."
Richards’ voice rose. "I don’t care about petty shit that happened in college. I care about what we can do to address the threat now. Are you saying there’s no chance he can help us?"
No one spoke. You didn't pretend to have an answer in front of this president. If you didn't know, you kept silent and hoped for the best. Braxton didn’t think she expected a response.
"I don't want to be caught unprepared like this again." The President's voice remained shrill. "Talk to Mr. Gray. And find out everything–and I mean everything–you can about Mr. Yum Cimil."
* * * * *
As the last of them filed out of the oval office, Richards allowed herself to ponder the concept of the Fifth World. She'd heard the nonsense about the world ending on December 21, 2012 before, even remembered seeing at least one bad movie about it. Today was the first time she'd thought about the religious significance behind it, though. The Maya obviously believed that on that day, their God would make things right.
She believed differently. Few in the world knew about her association with the Reverend Joshua M. Goldsmith. Certainly not the media or anyone in her cabinet. One Congressman knew, but then he was heavily involved. Obviously the Secret Service had an idea, since the meetings had taken place at Camp David.
Goldsmith led the Church of the Final Question, an institution vaguely familiar to most Americans. The Church sought a low profile, but had garnered unwelcome headlines a few years earlier when half a dozen ex-members spilled all for the New York Times. Apparently three particular church leaders were treating the younger female members as their own private harem, claiming that such submission increased the chances of the young ladies surviving the imminent apocalypse. The FBI started an investigation, but then all three leaders died in a plane crash over the Sierra Nevada mountains somewhere north of Yosemite National Park. The media spotlight burned white hot for a few days, but the church closed ranks, and reporters failed to come up with more information. The disappearance of an attractive twenty-something American white woman in the Cayman Islands pushed the incidents out of the papers altogether. Only the conspiracy blogs reported it when the FBI announced the investigation closed six months later.
Richards had met Goldsmith after that, at a party fund-raiser in New York, while she was still Speaker of the House. In contrast to the public image of a rabid cult leader, the Reverend proved a humble and engaging guest at various gatherings. His invitations had more to do with deep pockets than anything else, but hosts could count on him not to rock the boat. Richards left the place with an offer from Goldsmith to attend a meeting. Despite reservations, she had gone, and she'd heard a sermon that caused her to reconsider her own beliefs. Goldsmith had given a convincing picture of a world poised on the edge of destruction.
After that, she attended more meetings with Goldsmith and a handful of the Church leaders. They discussed the imminent nature of God's punishment. While she served as Speaker of the House, her involvement remained a secret to her staff and fellow members of Congress. When tragedy catapulted her into the highest office in the land, she maintained an association with Goldsmith, but only managed sporadic get-togethers at Camp David. The risk was too great for more frequent contact.
She felt certain that sometime during her presidency, obvious signs of impending doom would finally cause Americans to rediscover their faith and prepare for judgment day. Jesus would be returning soon, and the country would feel the fires of Hell if they didn't return to God. She couldn't say this publicly of course, especially not as a Democrat. But she prayed daily for something, anything to make people realize it. Goldsmith counseled patience and humility, but Richards had nearly run out of both.
She sensed that the hand of God had revealed itself today in the form of the intelligence about Cimil. Maybe this was the sign she needed. Cimil didn't need to be right about the details in order to draw attention to the end times. Probably it would amount to nothing, but she'd keep a close watch on the Cimil investigation. America needed to wake up, and with some help from her, Cimil's plans just might do the trick.
THREE
June 23, 2012: Guatemala
Yum Cimil stood in the shadows of the stone pyramid. The setting sun burned in the western sky, its rays piercing the thick foliage to focus on a spot halfway up the structure. Topping out at only forty-four feet, it was far smaller than many of the classic Maya pyramids. It would, however, prove more than adequate for Cimil's purpose on this wet summer evening.
Cimil himself stood two inches under six feet, tall for his people. Dark curls reached his shoulder blades, mostly hidden by his headdress and mask. The elaborate headgear was nearly a yard high, fashioned from a jaguar skin. The blue-green feathers of the sacred quetzal bird covered the skin, giving the impression of a flock of birds moving with every shake of his head.
His arms and legs represented the only visible parts of his copper-colored skin, beads of sweat soaking his sinewy muscles. The rest of his body was adorned with a costume representing the Maya World Tree, covered with complex designs whose full meaning had disappeared over the centuries. To support the weight of the whole thing, especially the headdress, most rulers had traditionally placed boards through the back of the costume. Cimil prided himself on forgoing such indulgences, and had trained himself to bear the burden without additional assistance.
If shown a picture of his face, most Guatemalans would could have recognized Cimil, thinking him a member the government. Few knew his true business, which was fine with him. Yum Cimil possessed great riches, but he considered his true wealth to be the tradition which he continued tonight. As he thought about the future, his hands tingled with anticipation.
A hesitant voice carried through the shadows. "K'uk Ajaw, it is nearly time."
Cimil saw the diminutive figure of his friend approaching. The royal honorific, K'uk Ajaw, meaning "Quetzal Lord," created a certain amount of distance between the two, but to them it was all part the greatest culture in history.
"Thank you, Yajaw. My mind can wander on nights like this."
The smaller man nodded, and a small smile formed on his face. His parents had named him Juan rather than choosing a Mayan name, and Cimil's respectful use of the noble title, Yajaw, helped ease the shame he felt at their choice. He turned to leave.
"Wait." Despite not raising his voice, Cimil's words carried the unmistakable tone of command. He put his hands on Juan's shoulders.
"Tonight you receive a great honor. One that our people have traditionally bestowed on only the most worthy families. Let your heart be strong and let your will be like the trunk of the World Tree itself."
Juan bowed almost imperceptibly, face trembling with emotion. Then he disappeared under the stone arch of the doorway.
Cimil followed, but stopped under the arch. He saw the mass of people gathered in the courtyard below. His countrymen. No, more than that, his clansmen, who still believed in the ancient rituals and the ancient truths. They were here tonight for him, to celebrate the K'atun, the twenty year anniversary of his ascension to the throne.
The position was ceremonial. As the Lord of the Maya, Cimil ruled no territory and commanded no army or treasury, save for the personal fortune he'd amassed using entirely modern methods. A millennium ago, each city-state had a leader who sought to dominate as much of the surrounding land as possible. But in recent centuries, with their numbers reduced almost to extinction, the remnants of the once proud culture had unified in recognizing a single bloodline as their royalty. Upon the death of his father twenty years earlier, Cimil had become their leader.
He took one more step, and emerged from the arch to face the crowd. The sounds of two thousand voices resonated through the jungle, volume rising with his appearance. Nearly nine feet tall in the costume, and bathed in the eerie light of a dozen huge lanterns surrounding the altar, Cimil appeared from below to be the Sun God himself. And that, after all, was the point.
He raised his outstretched hands to shoulder height, and all human sound stopped. One minute they were clamoring for their leader, and the next, silence. He took two steps forward, shins now within centimeters of the low stone slab. Chacs, elderly priests there to appease the rain god, stood at each of the slab's four corners. To the side stood the Chilam, the shaman who would receive divine messages during the ceremony. On the slab lay a woman with dark hair and brown eyes, her wrists and ankles bound loosely with knotted vines.
Her expression showed only a drug-induced blankness. She wore no clothing, and her brown skin was covered with the traditional Maya Blue paint. Through the mask in his headdress, Cimil caught her eye for a fraction of a second. He was sure she had smiled. He turned to the man next to him.
"Let us begin."
The man nodded, reached towards the ground, and picked up the sacrificial ax. He was the Nacom, whose traditional role could trace its origin back over 1500 years. Cimil's vanity urged him to wield the ax himself in a show of royal power. But he would never have strayed from Maya custom on a matter as important as this.
Time seemed to stand still during these ceremonies. Maybe it took twenty minutes, he really didn't know for sure. Soon enough, the Chacs leaned over the edge of the slab and pushed down the woman's arms and legs. The vines kept her in place, but tradition dictated their actions.
The Nacom lifted the ax past his left hip and shoulder until it balanced somewhere above him. The ax featured a six inch blade of black onyx. Surrounded by intricate carvings, the blade had been sharpened until even a thin wisp of cloth would split when dropped on it. The lanterns, burning with real flames even in this age of electricity, reflected their light off its glassy surface. The silence in the courtyard below broke as gasps escaped from the more excitable of the assembled masses.
With blinding speed, the ax moved.
Cimil felt his pulse throbbing in his ear, the carotid rhythm threatening to drown out all senses. The noise from the crowd grew louder, but by the time they registered with Cimil, the ax had completed its assigned task. The blade sliced through the muscles, bones, and spinal column of the girl, separating her head from her body in one clean stroke. With barely a pause, Cimil picked up the head by the hair and raised it high. The roar from below shook the pyramid like a tectonic shift.
* * * * *
An hour later, Cimil sat on a stone bench in a dark room deep inside the pyramid. His costume lay disassembled on the floor, and he wore only white boxer shorts. Next to him on the bench sat his friend, whom he now addressed by name instead of the formal Yajaw.
"Juan, I know your heart is heavy. But it should also be joyous. I only hope someday I will have the same honor that you received tonight."
Juan's eyelids trembled with emotion, and the tears began. Cimil put an arm around his shoulders, and they shared a silent remembrance of the departed.
"Yum, it is a great honor, but still I am sad. How shall I bear it?"
"Juan, Juan, you are my oldest friend. I watched her grow into a wonderful young woman, and I too feel the pain. But the end is near, and this was the most important step yet. You will forever be remembered for sacrificing your daughter to usher in the Fifth World."
FOUR
June 23, 2012: Hadley, Massachusetts
Simon Gray's back muscles glistened in the mid-afternoon sun, and shook with each report of the nail gun. The head of a nail disappeared beneath the surface of the cedar shingle, and the piece came away in his hand. Turning, he yelled down from the scaffolding to two young men applying wood filler to the trim boards. Boys, really, not men, both sons of local farmers. They'd soon be entering their senior year at Hopkins Academy, the local high school. They did fine with close supervision, but Simon wouldn't even have put someone else's money on both of them matriculating.