The Paradise Prophecy (41 page)

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Authors: Robert Browne

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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Michael didn’t know if the friend herself was a drudge, but at this point it didn’t make much difference. Contact had been made and from the look on Jenna’s face as she stepped out of the diner’s front door, the ploy had worked. She was smiling as if she and Zack had known each other for decades.
Zack climbed out of the car then, throwing the rear door open as the girlfriend got in front and Zack gestured for Jenna to hop in back.
Michael knew he had to stop her.
Couldn’t let her get into that car.
And at this point, there was only one way to do it.
“Jenna!” he called, waving a hand, his voice nearly drowned out by the traffic streaking by.
She didn’t hear him.
“Jenna!” he called out again, and this time Zack looked up sharply, staring at him with quizzical eyes.
Michael needed to get over there. Now. But when he tried a jump, his body resisted. It wasn’t yet ready for lateral travel.
He’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.
Reaching under his jacket, he jerked his Glock free and headed across the street. Zack saw him coming and despite the change in appearance seemed to know exactly who he was.
Grabbing hold of Jenna’s hand, he hurried her into the car and climbed in after her, closing them inside.
“Jenna!” Michael shouted, as loud as he could.
And as she settled into her seat, she heard him and turned, looking out her window at him, her face churning up in confusion.
Who was this guy, and why had he just called her name?
Now Zack was pounding on the back of the driver’s seat, shouting for his buddy to “Go! Go!”—
—as Michael picked up speed and raised the Glock, ready to blow out one of the tires.
Then, without warning, a horn blasted, long and loud, off to his right. Michael jerked his head around just in time to see a city bus bearing down on him, the driver frantically flashing his headlights.
Michael dove to the blacktop and rolled as the bus came to a groaning halt, just inches from where he’d stood. Then tires screeched, horns honking wildly, as another car smashed into the back of the bus, several more piling up behind it.
As Michael pulled himself upright and got to his feet, he saw the Malibu roaring down the boulevard.
And there was Jenna, craning her neck, staring out the back window at him with wide, frightened eyes.
39
 
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
 
T
he first of the riots was in Sin City, of all places.
No one was quite sure how it started, but the Vegas Strip and the hotels downtown were unusually crowded, and that may have had something to do with it. People from all over the world had packed the casinos, hoping to win it big and cash in on the American dream—a dream that seemed even more remote than usual. So the anxiety level was high and tempers were frayed.
Rumor had it that it began with a simple altercation. Two tourists at odds over which slot machine belonged to whom—along with the three-million-dollar jackpot it was spewing. One of them claimed she’d been straddling two machines and had just turned away for a moment when the other came up and dropped the winning coins, thus robbing the straddler of the reward she surely had coming.
Their fight was brief, but vicious, ending with one woman dead, and the other practically foaming at the mouth, victim of a rage and frustration so virulent that it spread like a contaminant. And the next thing everyone knew, there were people fighting everywhere, taking it into the streets.
But, again, that was just a rumor. The truth is, anything could have set it off.
In an interview on the evening news, one man said it was all the fault of our Godless society. That it was the goddamn atheists and the homos and them terrorist camel jockeys who had brought this down upon us, with their craven depravity and their hatred for their fellow man. As far as he was concerned, every last one of them should be publicly executed, used as examples for the rest of the heathens. Get Jesus or get bent.
Later that day he was shot dead by his wife, who claimed he’d been abusing her for twenty-five years.
It took a few hours for the mayhem to spread to other cities, but spread it did. Political protests, impromptu strikes, small skirmishes that seemed to escalate for no reason other than that people were either scared or fed up. Tired of living in a world that provided them no hope.
Or just plain tired of living.
It was as if humankind had finally given in to its baser instincts and started listening to that little cartoon devil on its shoulder, damn the consequences.
And as things got worse, the faithful sent up their prayers, asking for protection and guidance.
Unfortunately, no one seemed to be listening.
 
 
T
he three dark angels watched it all from the boardroom of L4, which stood high above the Strip—one of the many branches they maintained around the world. The creation of a security company had been Moloch’s idea—
—L4 or Lucifer’s Four—
—which was about the extent of his creativity.
Moloch, the Lord of War—who was currently calling himself Vogler—stared at the street below, shaking his head in contempt. “Seed the crowd with few drudges and the lemmings follow. It’s amazing how predictable these creatures are.”
“Be thankful for that,” Mammon said. “As you well know, it hasn’t always been this easy.”
In this world, Mammon—the Lord of Greed—used his human name Radek.
They all preferred to use human names when dealing with humans.
All but Belial, that is.
They’d often told her that the goal was to blend in, which could hardly be accomplished with names so familiar to so many, thanks in large part to the poet, who had stolen their story. But Belial possessed an immeasurable amount of arrogance. Had chosen to inhabit this earth as a
woman
, of all things, so that told you all you needed to know about her.
Jonathan Beel, or Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, said, “Don’t start celebrating quite yet. The moon is two days away, and while your efforts have been admirable, they’re no guarantee of success.”
“Always the naysayer, eh, Beelzebub?”
“Need I remind you of our record of failures? No matter what we throw at these creatures, no matter how we might tempt them, they always manage to survive.”
“Not this time,” Mammon said. “Moloch and I have planted these seeds all over the globe. What we’re witnessing here is only the beginning.”
“We shall see.”
“The point—as I seem to have to keep reminding you—is that this world has never been so corrupt, never been so full of weak-willed mortals who blame one another for their failures. I can’t remember a time when I’ve seen so many so willing to exploit the pain of others or kill over petty differences, or claim to worship their so-called father as they wallow in their own hypocrisy. We’ve harnessed enough tainted souls to do exactly what we need to do.”
“Nice speech,” Beelzebub said. “But it doesn’t change anything. Without the power of the Telum, we could well fall short.”
Mammon laughed, his voice laced with derision. “A few moments ago you were braying about Belial’s claim she may have found the sacred traveler. What happened to all that confidence? “
“The Telum is only half the battle, and you know it.”
“You surprise me, Beelzebub. For someone who’s so anxious to see the Master released from his cage, you seem awfully dependent on this fairy tale. Here Moloch and I give you concrete results, and Belial is still wasting her time with Michael’s little fan club, looking for something that may not even exist.”
“She found the girl, didn’t she?”
“Her
brother
found the girl, and she’s childish enough to think that actually means something. But Michael’s irrelevancy on this planet has never been so clearly defined.”
“I happen to agree with her,” Beelzebub said.
Mammon shook his head in disgust. “Miraculous weapons, singing souls ... you two are as gullible as those fools who think the one we put on the cross was some kind of—”
“Enough,” Moloch said, moving toward them. “You two fight like schoolchildren. I thought we were past all of this nonsense.”
“I simply don’t like the idea of all of our hard work being discounted in favor of something that has yet to be proven,” Mammon said.
“No one is discounting anything,” Moloch told him. “But Beelzebub is right. Let’s not be so arrogant to believe that the game has already been won. Telum or no Telum, there’s still a lot of work to be done.”
“Hear, hear,” Beelzebub said.
“So why don’t we save the celebration for a night when we can all drink a toast with Lucifer?”
The other two nodded, then all three raised their hands.
“
A posse ad esse.
”
40
 
CHIANG MAI, THAILAND
 
S
even missing pages.
The key to the Telum. The sacred traveler.
In order to protect her, the guardians had to protect her secret—a secret that had been removed from the Codex Gigas centuries ago, only to fall into the hands of Galileo Galilei—if Brother Philip was to be believed.
The curse on those pages had driven Galileo blind. And Milton after him.
But if Milton had burned them for fear of what they might do, then how and why had they wound up in the manuscript for
Paradise Lost
?
And, for that matter, who or what exactly
was
the sacred traveler?
A wandering soul, Philip had said, but what was her purpose
?
It sounded as if Michael was the one in charge of finding her, but once he did, what did that mean?
Was she a weapon of some kind?
Two many questions, Batty thought. Too many unanswered fucking questions.
And with the fourth moon of the tetrad coming, what were the chances of answering those questions before it was too late? What were the chances of finding those pages—the key to whatever Michael was looking for—before the gates of hell sprang open and all of humanity was destroyed?
It wasn’t looking good.
 
 
I
t was looking even worse when they got back to the heart of Chiang Mai.
The streets were filled with angry protestors, police in riot gear trying to control the crowd with fire hoses and batons. But the police seemed overwhelmed, and it looked as if the crowd was winning.
“Jesus,” Callahan said. “It’s already started. Just like Philip warned us. It happened so fast.”
“He said it would.”
They found refuge in a bookstore, several blocks away from the action. The place was practically deserted, and the guy behind the register looked visibly nervous, as if he’d be all too happy to close up and get to the safety of his home.
The few customers who were in here didn’t seem to be all that interested in the books surrounding them. They huddled together on the sofa and chairs at the center of the room, fugitives from the chaos.
Batty and Callahan found a grouping of chairs in back and as they settled in, Callahan reached for her cell phone. “I need to call Section again. Get them to listen to me.”
“If they didn’t listen before, I doubt they’ll listen now. For whatever reason, they’re letting us handle this on our own. But where do we take it from here? We’re running out of guardians.”
“London,” Callahan said. “That’s all we’ve got left.”
“London was a pretty big place the last time I looked.”
“We start with Ozan’s e-mail. Go to the Internet café where it was downloaded, then work from there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Batty didn’t have much faith in locating whoever had received the e-mail, but they had to try. Still, he wondered if there was another way to ferret out the truth about all this. There had to be some way to...
Then it struck Batty.
The Vision. Maybe he could use The Vision.
One thing he’d learned over the years was that his vision worked best when there was a lingering darkness in the room. That it was strongest when he encountered death or pain or destruction of some kind. So it didn’t immediately occur to him to try to use it on something good.
Something
divine.
Reaching into the book bag, he took out the Milton manuscript. He’d already discovered on the plane that it truly
was
inspired by God, but he’d never thought to try to tap into its energy.
“What are you doing?” Callahan asked.

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