The Mayan Resurrection (29 page)

NOVEMBER 4, 2027: MABUS MANSION, MANALAPAN, FLORIDA

Pierre Borgia stares at his reflection in the bathroom smart glass. Prison life has trimmed forty pounds from his once stocky physique. His face is noticeably leaner, almost gaunt,
his head cleanly shaven to hide the gray. The bandage over his right eye socket is new, the result of a recent inmate attack during his last month in the federal penitentiary.

‘We should get that eye looked at,’ says Lucien Mabus, the teen entering from the bedroom. ‘Once the swelling’s down, we’ll fit you with one of those new prosthetics.’

‘Waste of time and money. My life’s over.’ Borgia turns on the faucet. Washes his face.

‘Don’t say that. My father always said the party needs you.’

‘Where the hell was the party when Chaney had me carted off like a goddam animal? That nigger’s got the UN marching to the beat of his goddam drum. He’s also the one who killed your father.’

The nineteen-year-old nods. ‘Yeah. What’re we gonna do about that?’

‘I have a few ideas. Get dressed, kid, I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Borgia reaches for a sensory toothbrush. Brushes his teeth. On cue, a medical chart appears on the smart-glass mirror directly in front of him.

‘Damn know-it-all computers.’ Borgia dries his face, then reexamines the eye patch in the bathroom mirror.

Jacob stares wide-eyed into the bathroom’s smart-glass mirror, his reflection dissipating as his mind hitches a ride aboard another person’s wavelength.

Gaunt face.

Shaved head.

Eye patch … covering a wound created twenty-six years ago by his own father.

It’s Borgia … I’m remote-viewing Pierre Borgia!

The session ends as abruptly as it had begun.

Jacob blinks hard at the reflection of his own tan face and snow-white hair.

You’re up to something, Borgia. I can taste your anger … the restlessness of your soul.

The Orion Suburban convertible rolls to a stop in front of Quenton’s home, its batteries nearly depleted. Lilith nods good-bye to her uncle, then heads for the front door.

The reverend is waiting for her inside. He is wearing a
bathrobe, boxer shorts, and black socks. ‘Why did you steal my car?’

‘A friend needed it. Besides, technically it’s my car now. Did you take care of everything at the bank?’

Quenton holds up the manila envelope. ‘Everything’s here, all signed and sealed, but you don’t get nuthin’, least not until I die.’

‘Give me the papers.’

‘No. The papers go back to my attorney’s office tomorrow morning. As long as you please me, the Last Will and Testament stays unchanged.’ Quenton’s eyes gleam. ‘I want it every night. From now on, you’re my private whore.’

A twinge of panic.
The Succubus is not a whore. The Succubus is powerful. The Succubus controls—

‘Take off your clothes, whore.’

Lilith looks up at Quenton, pulling him in with her smile. ‘Okay. You want a private whore, you got it. But first, let’s make sure you’re up to the task.’ She reaches into her pocket and removes the three pills. ‘Chew these up real good. These pills will help you last all night long.’

He does as told, chewing and swallowing the tablets. ‘Get undressed, ’ho. You owe me for the last seven years.’

Go on, Father, finish your story. Tell me what happened after your shuttles reached the domed city on the alien world.

A section of the dome receded, allowing us to enter, just as
it had for our drone scout. Once inside, an invisible force field, perhaps a tractor beam, steadied our three pitching vessels, guiding them to a landing pad located atop one of the twelve-thousand-foot-high dwellings.

We filed out of our vessels and breathed the alien air. We were so relieved to be saved that we literally stood upon the roof of that tower and cheered. We joined hands and thanked God in prayer. And then we realized we were stuck.

Stuck?

Twelve thousand feet above ground level. The only access point we could find to enter the interior of the dome-scraper was an octagonal door, which appeared to be composed of an incredibly thin yet impenetrable nanocarbon fiber. There was no handle or keypad, no clues for entry.

The sun set, and we were still marooned on the roof. Nightfall arrived, and for the first time, we gazed upon that alien sky, it was simply breathtaking to behold. The planet’s large moon shone bright yellow, the smaller potato-shaped satellite appearing as a fast-moving violet speck. In the distance was a nebula and a bright blue star.

We spent two long days atop that dwelling, waiting impatiently for our engineers to fashion devices to rappel us down the face of the tower. A harrowing descent, and we were finally on the ground.

Neanderthal man had arrived in New Manhattan.

The urban landscape integrated tropical foliage and artificial waterways into its design. The humidity was heavy at ground level, the air cool. Close by was a stream, and I
remember feeling pleased that our scientists were already busy testing its silvery-tinged waters.

To our dismay, the liquid contained microscopic traces of some exotic elements. Was the water toxic? We couldn’t be sure, but tests using our few surviving lab mice showed it as potable … at least in the short term.

Water is life. Our shuttles had two more months of food but only a few days’ supply of water. If this alien source was even semicompatible with our bodies, then what choice did we have but to drink it?

So now we had air and water, fertile soil to plant our crops, and a dome above our heads that shielded us from the deadly ultraviolet rays of the alien sun. But we still could not access any of the dwellings.

Wild rumors spread that an alien race was harbored inside, waiting to slaughter us as we slept. Others, like me, believed the city had been abandoned long ago and that we only lacked the necessary knowledge to access the habitat.

And so, at the foot of these mammoth, futuristic structures, we cut down trees and fashioned log cabins. Planted our crops and set up our science labs. Erected schools and hospitals, a courthouse and a house of worship. There was a peace and sense of well-being on our new home world that never existed on the old. We were one people—a tribe of survivors. There would be no haves and have-nots. Equality ruled the day.

At least, for the moment.

We voted, naming our growing community New Eden. In honor of our leader, Devlin Mabus, his mother was given the privilege of choosing a name for our planet. To our surprise,
she selected an old Mayan name, a name derived from the Creation Myth recorded in the
Popol Vuh.

Xibalba.

Then
Xibalba
is really a planet, not an Underworld? And how am I to get there? And this woman who named it, who was she? And why would she choose such an evil name for a planet?

She was a widow, her husband, billionaire Lucien Mabus, having died years earlier. She was in her early fifties but looked far younger, still a ravishing beauty. She wore bizarre violet contact lenses, had cocoa-skin and long, flowing ebony hair. Apparently, Lilith’s maternal ancestors hailed from Mesoamerica and—

Lilith! You say her name was Lilith?

Lilith Eve Mabus.

She’s the one—the one I’ve been communicating with all these years within the nexus.

You’re girlfriend’s Hunahpu?

Yes. Father? Father, are you still there?

Jacob, it is Lilith Mabus who will one day become the Abomination.

No … no, that’s impossible! Lilith can’t be the Abomination, she … she wasn’t born on the same day as us, she showed me her birth certificate! Dad, it’s not her!

‘It’s her, Jacob. She’s deceived you, and through you, she now knows about me. It’s been your communication with Lilith in your present that forewarned her. It’s the reason the Abomination and her demon seed were waiting for me when I finally arrived on
Xibalba
as Michael Gabriel.

… all my fault. I have to do something. I have to stop her now.

Jacob, wait! Stifling Lilith’s actions in your time could adversely affect man’s future. Remember, it’s the wormhole that gives us a chance to change things, to save humanity. It was Lucien Mabus who pioneered space tourism, providing the ships that made the journey to Mars possible. Destroy Lilith in your time period and there may not be a Mars option, which means the second holocaust will wipe out all of mankind. The time loop must be preserved, then broken at the correct interval, in my time, not in yours.

Then what am I supposed to do?

I don’t know, but you and your brother must stay away from Lilith at all costs.

Quenton Morehead lies naked in bed, watching the enchantress remove a bottle of aromatic oil from the pocket of her robe, along with several lengths of rope. His eyes widen as she slips out of her clothes, pouring the oil over her naked breasts.

‘Yes, whore, I like that.’

‘You’ll enjoy this even more.’ Using the lengths of rope, she secures his ankles and wrists to the oak bedposts. ‘Whores like a captive audience.’

She turns off the lights, then slowly snakes her way up the old man’s frame.

Quenton quivers with delight, moaning with pleasure as she slides her fingers down his distended belly to his groin. She licks his neck, teasing his knotty Adam’s apple with her
tongue as she grinds her moist pubic region into his pelvis. ‘You’re right, you know,’ she coos. ‘I really owe you so much. Now lie back and close your eyes.’

‘But I want to see you.’

‘It’s better in the dark. Remember back when I was a child and you’d come to me in the darkness. Now I’m coming to you. Close your eyes.’

The old man obeys, a serene smile on his face—

—as Lilith removes the razor blade from behind her ear, placing it between her teeth.

The teenager slides down his frail body, fondling his inner thigh, pinching, tickling him as she rubs her lips across his dark skin … gently slicing open his flesh.

Returning to his neck, she teases open his carotid artery, swirling the warm pulsating liquid down his hairy chest as her free hand strokes his erect organ.

Pleasure and pain. With every groan, more blood. With each squeeze, a new cut.

By the time her mouth works its way to his groin, the Reverend’s body has become a heaving patchwork of crimson.

Quenton climaxes, then drifts off to sleep, the drugs taking effect, the old man never realizing the hot beads of moisture drenching the bedsheets are his life.

The sand is cold, the driving wind coming off the Gulf penetrating Dominique’s sweater. She pulls her collar up over her
ears. ‘Enough games, Jacob. Yes or no, do you know who murdered your Aunt Evelyn?’

‘Her name is Lilith. We’ve been communicating since we were young children.’