The Apocalypse Script (4 page)

His counselor had encouraged him
to find a new “mission,” and toward that end the former Marine had
decided to finally tap his sizable college fund to pursue degrees
in Near East Languages and Cuneiform studies. While his choice of
majors would have seemed peculiar to most, especially for a former
‘jarhead,’ it was a no-brainer to Ben. He had always been
interested in history, was familiar with the Middle East and
Southwest Asia, had an aptitude for languages, and had been trained
to break codes. What other field could make better use of his
interests, talents, and experience?

The former linguist immersed
himself in the study Assyriology, Hittitology, and Sumerology, but
fostered a special passion for undeciphered writing systems, such
as Proto-Elamite. He found that the decipherment of esoteric
writing systems of extinct languages was very much like breaking
military or diplomatic codes of living languages, something the
former cryptologic linguist found instinctively appealing. He was
the top student in every class he took.

Subsequent to obtaining his
doctorate, Ben had accepted a teaching position at a midwestern
university, but he soon tired of the rote lessons, the tedious
staff meetings and the vanities of his peers. He took a chance and
began to freelance, offering his epigraphy, language, and research
talents to whoever would pay for them. Fortunately, it did not take
him long to develop, through word of mouth and a few well-reviewed
publications, a dependable client base of museums, academic
institutions, governments, and wealthy artifacts
collectors.

The money had not been, until
today, anything to brag about, but that hadn’t really mattered. He
was motivated by the challenge of deciphering the undecipherable
and of being just one insight away from hearing the ancients speak
to him. Though it hadn’t happened yet and probably never would, he
secretly fostered the hope that someday one those ancients might
provide him some key insight; some mind-blowing tidbit of knowledge
that would shake the academic world to its core.

Ben smiled and shook his
head.
Ah, vanity.

He finished off his beer thinking
about his new client, Lilian Stratton, a woman who seemed to have
it all. She was not only rich but also extraordinarily good-looking
and musically gifted. A handsome man, Ben had no problem finding
companionship but he had yet to find an emotional match. He
wondered if what happened in Afghanistan had made such a match
impossible. He wondered, too, what type of men Lilian Stratton
dated. The type that owned jets, he decided, and played polo, and
went on weekend outings to Greek islands.

He found he was hungry. Scanning
his many bookshelves, he decided upon four reference books, which
he pulled and dumped into his leather satchel. Placing the Stratton
photographs on top, he swung the strap over one shoulder and moved
toward the door, pondering languages and cadaverous civilizations
and polo.

Ben turned on his radio and guided
his Audi onto the street.

As he approached a stoplight that
was turning red, the speakers blared: “Public health officials
today announced that an estimated fourteen thousand people have
died from Cage’s disease in the city of New York in just the past
week. This is a significant setback for Government officials who
have implemented a variety of measures to contain the virus, to
include health-screening checkpoints at the nation’s major
airports. The disease, which first appeared in Los Angeles just
five months ago, has so far claimed the lives of almost a quarter
of million people in the United States alone.

“
The situation is even worse in
parts of Europe, Russia, and Asia, where deaths are believed to be
in the tens of millions, though official numbers put the total much
lower. Cases have now also been reported in Australia and New
Zealand, once thought of as safe-havens from the pandemic. Experts
at the Center for Disease Control have so far been unsuccessful in
identifying the source of the pathosis, though at least one expert
suggest that the pathogen agent is a ‘rapid-acting prion
protein.’

“
Symptoms of Cage’s disease
include rapid-onset dementia, changes in personality, paranoia,
speech impairment, and loss of muscle control. Unofficial figures
show the mortality rate of Cage’s disease to be ninety-seven
percent. Death usually occurs within five weeks of the first
symptoms occurring.”

Turning right would take the
researcher to his favorite sports bar, but he wasn’t really in the
mood for chicken wings and a big screen. Could he actually watch
television knowing the Stratton photographs were in his satchel
begging for his attention?

“
Several cities and towns along
I-15 and I-40 in Utah and Arizona have gone so far as to erect
physical barriers at exit ramps in order prevent Interstate
travelers from entering their towns. Officials emphasize that such
acts are unnecessary, ineffective, and illegal. Nevertheless, U.S.
health officials recommend that Americans not travel unless it is
absolutely necessary to do so. Other precautions…”

No. He had made a commitment to
review the photographs that day and that was, in fact, all
he
wanted
to do.
The light changed to green and he drove forward only to be stopped
at another red light fifty yards further down the road.

“…
reports a failed U.S. drone
strike on a suspected Iranian missile launch site. Debris from the
drone, which the Iranians claim was shot down using sophisticated
anti-aircraft weaponry developed in coordination with-”

Ben punched the radio’s power
button. Why did he bother with the news anymore? It was bad
yesterday, worse today, and would be worse yet tomorrow. Cage’s
disease had made many people afraid to leave their homes,
especially since video of victims started appearing on the internet
four months ago, their lifeless eyes and spasmodic bodies putting
the diseased in a gruesome zombie-like state. To date, Denver had
been spared, but the researcher knew it was only a matter of time
before Cage’s arrived at the city’s outskirts.

The Iranians reportedly had
nuclear-tipped intermediate range missiles. The U.S. and China were
playing a game of brinkmanship in the Pacific. Russia had gobbled
up yet another of the former Soviet-bloc nations. The stock market
was gyrating wildly, up and down ten percent on a daily basis, with
three new mysterious “flash crashes” in the past month. Some kind
of blight had struck the wheat and corn fields everywhere on the
planet, sending the price of groceries sky high, at least if you
wanted anything made of or fed wheat or corn - which was just about
everything. Food riots had erupted in Africa, Asia, and South
America.

The world was going to hell, no doubt about it.

The light finally turned green. He
tapped the accelerator and turned left.

Ben had lunch and drove to a small
local library that was, thanks to the internet, almost always
deserted, thus offering its few guests large tables, spacious
seating, and plenty of quiet. There, Ben withdrew from his satchel
an aging, leather-bound book with several loose yellowing pages.
The faded gold title read:
Ancient
Alphabets and Hieroglyphic Characters Explained, by, in the Arabic
Language, Ahmad Bin Abubekr Bin Wahshih and, in the English
Language, Joseph Hammer, Secretary to the Imperial Legation at
Constantinople. London. 1806.

He flipped to a bookmarked page and read,

…
another old unknown alphabet (see
orig. p. 134). This the Curds falsely pretend to be the alphabet,
in which the Binushad and Massi Surali composed all their
scientific and mechanical works. We are ignorant to what alphabet
these letters belong, as we never could make out the language which
they express; but I saw at Bagdad, thirty-three inscriptions
writing in this alphabet…

Ben studied the characters but
only large quantities of imagination and alcohol would allow him to
see any similarities between them and what was shown in the
photographs. Finding the English translation lacking he switched to
the Arabic text, but while more correct, it did not change the fact
that the writing system in the photographs did not correspond to
that shown in the book.

Neither did he find satisfaction
in his comparison to the characters shown in
An Illustrated Account of the Inscriptions of the Near
East
, published in 1936, or
A Study of Crytolanguages
, published in 2004, or
The Library
of Lost Tongues
, published in
1924.

Ben remained in the library until
the sun was low in the sky and then drove to a nearby coffee shop.
Ordering a sandwich, water, and coffee, he moved to a corner booth
with a good view of the mountains. He had just pulled out the
photographs to renew his studies when he heard a young woman’s
voice.

“
Sir?”

He looked up. Next to him was a
girl with long hair dyed pink and blue and a ribbon pinned to one
side. She wore heavy makeup, to include purplish lipstick and
Cimmerian mascara around her unusual violet eyes. He assumed she
was wearing colored contact lenses.

“
Yes?” Ben replied, sliding the
photographs to one side. He noticed her eyeing them as he did
so.

She said, “My name is Fiela,”
pronouncing the word
Fee-yel-uh
, with an accent on the
middle syllable. “Lilian sent me.”

“
Oh,” he said, confused. How had
she known where to find him?

“
Can I sit down?”

“
Yes, sorry. Please.” He made a
gesture with his hand toward the opposite bench.

The stranger sat. “Thanks.”
Grinning, she said, “You’re surprised, huh?”

Ben nodded. The girl was dressed
in a style he thought of as ‘punk’ - a too-big leather jacket
adorned with metal studs draped over a carefully ripped white
tee-shirt with a lithograph of some rock band he’d never heard of.
There were garish rings on every finger.

He said, “How did you find me?”

“
I followed you from Lilian’s
place.”

He knit his brows.
“Why?”

“
I am her guardian.” The girl had
an accent - the same nearly imperceptible accent as
Lilian’s.

Ben chuckled. “Oh, really? Whom do
you guard her against?”

Shrugging, the girl said, “Whoever.”

This had to be a joke. “I’m sorry,
but you’re what, twenty years old?”

“
Twenty-two.”

“
You’re rather young for a
bodyguard.”

“
Not really,” she replied
indignantly, the grin vanishing. “I’ve been fighting for a long
time.”

Fighting?
“Are you armed?”

“
No.”

“
So you’ve
been
fighting
since you were in diapers and you don’t have a weapon, but
you protect Lilian from…whoever. I assume you’re following me to
make sure I’m not a threat.”

“
That’s right,”
she said agreeably, apparently blind to the sarcasm. She added, “I
think you’re okay, though. You’re
Ardoon.
”

“
Ardoon?” He thought about that.
“A slave?”

Her eyes went wide. Leaning
forward, she whispered,
“
Attis Nisirtu?
”

Gears turned rapidly in the
researcher’s brain.
Ardu
was an Akkadian word for slave and that Ardoon
might be the same word had been a lucky guess.
Attis
he didn’t know.
Ni-sir-too
, with an
accent on the second syllable…that was… what?
Hidden
something, right? His best
guess was that she had asked him, “Are you a hidden
one?”

“
No,” he improvised, “I’m a
researcher. You know a little Akkadian, apparently. Are you a
student?”

“
Oh,
Akkadian!
Right, my mistake,” she said, looking
disappointed and sitting back. She shook her head and said, “I’m
not a student.”

“
But you’re familiar with
Akkadian.”

“
Not really.”

Ben sighed in frustration and
strummed his fingers against the table. Frowning, he said, “Fiela,
I don’t think you’re being honest with me. If I were to call Lilian
and ask her whether you work for her, what would she
say?”

The girl was suddenly stricken. “Don’t do that!”

He pursed his lips and nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”

The girl named Fiela sighed and
wrung her hands together and for a few seconds said nothing. When
it was clear Ben wasn’t going to let her off the hook, she groaned
and said, “I
am
a
friend of Lilian, but you are right, she is not aware that I am
here. Don’t call her, please. It’s dangerous.”

“
Dangerous to whom?”

“
Me and maybe
her. You, too. There are people listening,
always.
”

“
Like who?”

Fiela’s vexation was apparent.
“Why must you ask so many questions?”