SUMMATION (31 page)

           - - - snow.

           - - - and it snowed- - -

           "And I don't mean a couple of flurries. I
mean a foot of snow, two in the drifts."

          - - - and more. Much more.

* * *

           Between the blast, the returning cyclonic winds,
and the snow, the landscape had completely changed. The initial blast had left
a crater miles across. The returning winds had filled it with the desert sand.

           The city no longer existed.

           On the ground in Israel, people were climbing
out of shelters, looking up, covering their eyes from the bright sun. They
found their buildings above all intact. They were all still there.

           Israel was still there.

Another shelter opened, and more people climbed out.
Everyone was quiet as they contemplated what had just happened, how close they
had come to a different outcome. Looking up, they shielded their eyes looking
at the clear blue sky, much as everyone else was also doing, almost out of
reflex. Up above, the sun flashed off a metallic object flying far above them.

           The AWACS was still in the air, untouched. A
collective sigh of relief could be felt, if not heard, across the country.

           At first stunned by the flash, expecting to be
vaporized in the next instant, the crew slowly realized the missiles were gone.
In fact, there was nothing in the airspace of the entire region over the city
and surrounding area. Rather than cheers, tears began to flow with the
realization that they were all alive, and well. There were hugs and handshakes,
but very subdued. No high-fives or cheers; just a gratefulness for the
privilege of another day and the opportunity to again see and speak with the
ones they loved.

           Monitors went unwatched momentarily as those
sentinels of the sky pulled photos from wallets and off monitors, holding them
close. Poor Colonel Rothstein was besieged by not only hugs, handshakes, and
salutes, but by numerous requests for leave. Crew members wanted time with
family, which he understood, though with the volume, he would be limited in his
ability to grant.

 * * *

           There was no direct coverage of the actual final
event.  The cameras had lost their signal when Hans began his change - the
electromagnetic radiation was causing too much surging in the lines. Other than
the early changes seen by the world, nothing else was known.

           It was as if it had never happened. No one present
at the time still existed - no bodies, no documents, no photos. The center and
all those in attendance no longer existed. No buildings, no bodies, no bones. Nothing
present at the time existed.

           Most of what happened disappeared within the
event itself, leaving the entire event open to speculation and interpretation,
providing endless sources for discussions and arguments, political and
religious arguments.

           There were few firm answers, but opinions were
everywhere. Mankind would continue to have the opportunity to argue. One thing
was certain: the city was clearly gone, and all the names closely associated
and in attendance were likewise gone.

                                                                      *
* *

           Tim Biazzi and Officer Roberts had been watching
the event together until the signal was lost. She left him to the screen long
enough to fire up the grill so they could get something to eat. When she
returned, coverage had just started again on the aftermath. After the grill
warmed up, she put a pair of steaks on, and put some potatoes in the microwave.
She had just returned to watch the news again, when his cell phone rang. There was
a short conversation, and Tim looked like he'd been hit by a brick. He hung up,
sat down, and stared at the corner of the wall. She looked at him
questioningly.                  

           "This is incredible," he started. "Unbelievable.
It seems Father Sartini, my
boss
, my
boss
- was involved somehow
on this whole mess. He knew about it all along. That missing chest? The
star-stuff? He actually had it. He had it! It really existed. I don't know how
long, but he had it!

           "Your grandfather had it right all along. Not
sure how he, Father Sartini, got it. Don't know yet how, but that material,
still in the original chest, was sent with him to Tehran. Didn't even try to
hide it. Incredible.

           "Must have thought it didn't matter, if you
can believe that. The message he left was unbelievable. Left his collar on his
desk with a note - 'I serve a greater God than yours' or something like that. Quite
a thing to tell the Holy Father.

           "I don't know much else, but I've been
recalled. Seems they need a new Superintendent of Records. I've been given some
time off to take for vacation, a week or so, anyway, and then I report to the
Vatican."

           He shook his head, looking at the now silent phone.

           "It's almost too much to believe," he
added softly.

           "Almost?" she asked incredulously. "
Almost
too much to believe?"

           They stood silently together, looking at the
television screen, but really seeing nothing for several minutes.

           Finally, he looked back at her. "If you
ever make it over, I owe you so much. Please stop in - there's much to see, and
I would love to show you around. Really, I'd love to have you come over."

           She reached over and hugged him. "I have
some time of my own coming. Maybe this would be a good time to take it. Just
how long is a flight from here?"

           Far
across the plain, a young man looked out from the mountains.

           His
father would not be returning.

           He had
been warned that this might be the case. He felt the loss, but it was tempered
by the knowledge that the cataclysm that had occurred had been long foretold. It
had always been a possibility.  This had been the plan, literally written in
the stars, all along. One day, one of his family's line would be the last to
pass the message. His father turned out to be the one.

           He,
the son, was now free, no longer bound by the ancient writings that his father,
and fathers before him had been bound by. He was free to find his own way in
the world.

           It
would not be easy - everything was new to him. He had always thought that it
would be him, not is father, delivering the message. Yet, here he was, alone. He
had an uncle, his father's brother. He would go there, taking what very few
belongings he had, along with a small pouch with some gold coins saved and
collected, one at a time over many years. Coins saved by his father and
grandfather for this day. He hefted the bag in his hand. Not much. Maybe
twenty, twenty-five pounds worth. Coins of various denominations, but all gold,
from many years. He wondered what they would be worth, if it would be enough to
help him get started.

           He sat
on an outcropping of rock. The blast of winds had already passed, as did the
wave of searing heat. All was calm now. Dust was still settling, but there was
plenty still in the air, giving a deep red color to the setting sun, changing
it from the normal reds to a deep blood color.

           At
first, the waves of heat across the desert had created mirages as far as the
eye could see. He had wondered, is this the water in the prophecy? As he had
watched, he realized the reflections and mirages did indeed appear to be pools,
but with the colored sky, they became pools of blood. Could it be more
appropriate? Then, in a matter of moments, it had again changed.

           The
red began to fade as the sky filled with the clouds from the event. He had sat,
mesmerized, as he watched the clouds initiate the snow fall, turning the bloody
pools white. Again, could there have been a more appropriate sign?

           He had
listened to the events unfolding, as well as the immediate aftermath on a tiny
old-fashioned transistor radio, one his father had purchased many years before.
He had seen much of it first hand, and told of much more by his father, though
of course he wasn't present at the end.

           He
heard and saw that the city was destroyed, Israel was intact, and knew the U.S.
was still working with them, and in fact, was still flying the AWACS above them
even now.

           He reflected on the prophecy's fulfillment:

"The
star of five will rise above the one of six. The thousand points of the first
star will each become a star of its own, with untold power, and the brightness
of a thousand stars will rise from that land of conflict. As it settles, peace
will reign throughout, and the hot desert shall bring forth cool streams."

           Someday
he would explain it to his own son. He would tell him of the message his father
had given to Zarin, and his father before him.

           He
would tell him of the US AWACS, with its five pointed star flying above Israel's
Star of David.

           He
would tell him of the history of the first star, the shattered Demon Star, with
its thousands of sharp points and fragments, or at least as much as he knew of
it, and the power it contained, and how it led to the flash, as bright as a
thousand stars over this land which had seen so many thousands of years of
conflict.

           He
would tell him of the snow, melting, providing the cool, refreshing, cleansing
water throughout the area, even if only temporarily.

           And
finally, with the radical voices silenced, he would tell them of the peace, at
least for now, did indeed reign.

           The
dust from the explosion was dispersed and launched deep into space.

* * *

           Yet
slowly, inexorably, over the course of hundreds of years, gravity would once
again slowly begin to bring those fragments together.                                                       

* * *

           A new prophecy would emerge
.

The End

NOTE: SUMMATION is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to
actual persons, alive or dead, is strictly coincidental.

Look for another book released in 2015 by author Daniel
Syverson:

            She had never seen so much blood.

            A man and a woman were seated, facing each
other, some ten, maybe twelve, feet apart in the library of a once tastefully
decorated home. The wall behind her had blood sprayed in a fan starting near
the floor, perhaps four or five feet wide, three or four feet high.  A stream
of thick blood was still running down the wall from a spot some three or four
feet above the floor, puddling at the base of the wall.  Some of the blood had
dried where it ran down, dark and brown, but near the bottom, where it was
thicker, the blood was still moist, and a brighter red.

The small
river of blood had been launched when an artery had been hit, sending a crimson
burst upward and behind her. That puddle, long and narrow as it kept neatly on
the wooden floor, corralled by the edge of the expensive Persian carpet that
started about a foot from the wall, was joined tangentially by the much larger,
more symmetric puddle that centered under her chair.
Centered on her right
leg
, she corrected herself as she looked at it more critically.  The bullet
had entered the upper edge of her knee, shattering the knee in what had to be
the most painful possible target, before ripping its way through the upper
thigh, likely slicing the femoral artery, which explained both the explosion of
blood upward and the puddle below.
At least she couldn't have lasted long
she said to herself.
Probably passed out from the shock or pain, and was
dead in a matter of minutes at most.

            Detective Kate Ruger looked more closely
at the puddle toward the back of the chair, where several lumps, looking like
small, misshapen meatballs covered in reddish-brown sauce, caught her eye. "Oh,
dear God," she half whispered, stepping closer to the chair, taking care
to avoid the sodden carpet, now beginning to soak up the liquid life that had
flowed out of the poor woman less than an hour ago. She twisted her head to
look behind the chair where the woman's hands were tied without touching or
moving it, as all the crime scene photos had not yet been taken. "Jesus,"
she gasped, "they cut off two of her fingers before they shot her."

            Out of the corner of her eye she saw a
young uniformed cop duck out the front door. She heard the sound of retching
follow closely behind. She looked up at the photographer, another veteran of
many years and even more scenes. He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a
crooked smile. "He's young. They all go through it."

            "I know. I didn't say anything."
She looked back at the woman. "Besides, this really is a nasty one."

            The photographer nodded. "Never had
one quite like this."

            She pointed to the fingers. "Get
them?"

            "Already done. And shots of the hands
behind the chair."

            "That was fast. How'd you get here so
quick?"

            "Just chance. I was helping out on a
burglary scene in that office park up the street. Off of North 46th, by Arcadia
Crossings? Just finished up, and I heard the call go out, so I checked in, and
came over. Actually, I pulled in right behind the first responding unit. The
rest of the team and the van just got here, but I got a head start on the
photos."

            "See anything? Anyone running out?"

            "Naw. Whoever it was, was already
gone. Maybe they spotted the security company car. I don't know. But by the
time we got here, no car.  Just the security kid, parked a couple of houses
down."

            "Okay. Thanks. I'll get with you
later. It'll probably kind of late, I'm afraid."

            "No problem. Just the way it is."

            She turned her attention back to the room.
The copious blood, followed by the fingers, had initially drawn her attention,
and now she finally stepped back to look at the woman herself, look at the
bigger picture. She looked to be early sixties, seemed to be in reasonably good
shape. Hair was gray, but a well-kept, multi-toned gray, complete with
highlights. Probably spent as much maintaining the gray as if she had
maintained a darker color. Tasteful. Not hiding her age, but presenting it in
the best light. Not an athlete, but she seemed to take care of herself. 

            Above her chair was a photo of her and her
husband. A formal photo.
Anniversary?
Taken not too long ago. Though
probably not someone who was ever considered beautiful, she clearly was a very
pretty woman.

            But no more.

            Her face had been beaten, and had numerous
cuts and abrasions. Where her mouth hung open, she could see several teeth
badly chipped, lips torn, dried blood in a trail coming off her chin.
Probably
pistol whipped her first
, she thought. A small amount of bruising had
already begun
. The beating must have gone on for a while
. Whoever it was
had made her suffer. Long, slow, and painful. She shuddered.

            She turned her attention to the dead man,
probably her husband. They hadn't checked I.D.'s yet, but he was the guy in the
photo above the woman. Plus, the alarm company had called-said they spoke to
the husband. At least they thought it was the husband. Most likely was. Said he
sounded stressed, and when asked for the code word, he gave the wrong one. She
had spoken with the alarm company's dispatcher by phone while driving over. The
conversation played itself through in her mind for a moment as she turned
toward him.                                        

            "So what kind of alarm went off?"
she asked.

            "An automatic alarm on the wall safe.
It's silent, and goes off if it's opened and the alarm isn't turned off first."

            "Wouldn't someone see a red light or
some kind of warning that it's alarmed?"

            "Not on this one. The keypad is
across the room. I believe it's by the window, according to the plans, probably
behind some curtains. Pretty common. That way, if they're forced to open it, a
silent alarm goes off. Like this time."

            "So you called him?"

            "Yes ma'am. Procedure is to call and
ask if everything is okay. If it's a false alarm, and everything is okay, the
client will say something like, "Oh, sorry. Forgot to turn off the alarm.
Code word is 'chainsaw'."

            "Chainsaw?"

            "Well, it's whatever you want it to
be. Mr. McCulloch used the word 'chainsaw' as the safe word. When I called, it
rang for a while before he picked up, and then he just said everything was
okay. I asked if he was sure, and he said yeah, he was sure, but he sounded
kind of funny. I asked if there was anything else he wanted to pass on, since I
had him on the phone, such as needing any updates to his system. I was trying
to give him a chance to say something, or remember to give me the safe word,
but he didn't. Then he hung up. So I hung up and called our mobile patrol. They
were pretty close."

            "What's pretty close?"

            "Oh, probably five minutes away or
so. Maybe a little more. Just a second." There was a short pause, and he
came back on the line. "Well, pretty close. I called the patrol vehicle at
seven-twelve, and he reported arrival at seven-twenty three."

            "Eleven minutes."

            "Eleven minutes is pretty fast."

            "Not if you're bleeding out from a
gunshot, it isn't."

            "Well...." He paused, not
knowing what to say.

             She switched the phone to her other hand.
"And then, after the mobile unit arrived?"

            "Well, he's a new kid, pretty young.
By himself. He stopped just before the house and got out on foot. He was going
to walk up on the house, but stopped because he heard screaming coming from the
house."

            "Male or female?"

            "He didn't say. I think he's still
there with your guys now, last I heard. He hasn't checked back in yet. Anyway,
as soon as he heard that, he calls me back, and I call you guys. That's it. He
waited at his car until your guys got there."

            "What happened then?"

            "Don't know. He hung up when your
guys got there."

            "Did he see anybody leaving? Or a
car?"

            "No idea. Haven't talked with him
yet. He's with you guys, like I said."

            "How late you working there tonight?"

            "Long as you need, within reason. I
guess you're gonna want tapes and stuff?"

            "You know it. Sit tight, we'll call
you in a little while. Thanks."

            "Hey, anything to help. I'll be at
the same number."

            She'd pressed END, and two minutes later
had arrived.
There wasn't anything that security guard kid could have done
anyway,
she thought
. If he'd gotten brave and gone up to the door, he'd
probably be dead too. This guy wasn't fooling around.

            She was looking at the husband, and a
quick glance showed pretty much the same story. Face beaten to a pulp. Several
big gashes where he'd been hit, probably torn by the front sight on the pistol.
At least there was probably plenty of DNA on the weapon, if they found it. He'd
been tortured, but no quick kill in the leg, like his wife.
Ahh, our shooter
is a quick learner
, she thought. Didn't want him dying too quickly. Two
shots, one in each foot. Enough for excruciating pain, but not enough to kill
him. The face shot was undoubtedly what did it. Finished him off, after all
that torture.

           
Finished him off, because...
He
didn't want to be identified?

            She looked around the room. Trashed. Not
just stuff tipped over and messed up, but seriously tossed. Safe sitting open
just above one shelf of a built in bookcase. Empty. Every book tossed. Shelves
cleared. Drawers emptied. Pictures off walls.

            She took a quick look down the halls. A
large, spacious home, expensive, but not ostentatious, she thought. Nice place.
Or had been. Every room looked the same. Even the kitchen. Every drawer dumped
and pulled out. He, or she, or they - whoever - was looking for
something,
that was for sure.

           
Finished him off because..
.

            She came back into the den, again looking
at the man, playing the events in her own mind. He got in, tied them up. Both?
Gun on one, and the other came down? More likely there were two. Were they
searching, and surprised when the two arrived home? Or were they tied up first,
and after not getting the answers they wanted, proceeded to rip the place
apart.

           
Finished him off because he finally
gave them what they wanted, and they didn't need him anymore...

            Or because he
didn't
give it to
them?

            She thought about the open safe.

           
Why kill him if he opened the safe? 
Finished him off because they heard cops coming?

Still too
many things to sort out, too many questions. This wasn't a simple burglary gone
wrong. She needed to wait until the rest of the information came in.

            "Lieutenant?" She heard someone
calling her from out front. "Yeah?" she called back.

            "We've got the son. They're holding
him at the bottom of the driveway."

           
Ah, shit
. "Okay, keep him
there. I'll go down and talk to him. How is he?"

            "Don't know - they didn't say."

            She took off her gloves, picked up her
notebook, and went out to the front steps. She wanted to see what the guy
looked like before talking to him. It was no secret that family was always the
first suspect; a painful reality, but a crushing insult to those innocent
family members already suffering.

            He was wearing a polo shirt and jeans,
looked about thirty-ish, average build, perhaps six foot one, maybe two. He was
struggling to come up to the house, but not actually fighting. Seemed to have
the right balance between trying to get past the cops, but not violent. Too
passive, raised flags. Over reacting raised flags too. Not a definite marker to
be sure, but usually, you started to get a feeling, and sometimes, you could
just tell...

            As she headed down the driveway, she
noticed several security cameras. She called a uniform over, and pulling him
close, softly told him to tell Sgt. Mendez to check for any tapes from the
cameras. And any cameras from the neighbors, she added as an afterthought.

           
Closer
now, she looked at the son again. His expression seemed to bounce between
frustration, agony, and fear. He paced in place, circling, pleading with the
two cops to be allowed up to the house, wanting to force his way past the cops,
but restraining himself. He could be faking it, but not likely. Of course, they'd
have to check him out, but most likely, he was victim number three.  Just no
blood.