Domain (60 page)

“I don’t sleep with my hearing aid.”

Harvey slams on the brakes as they approach the four-way intersection leading to the causeway. The only bridge off Sanibel Island is bumper-to-bumper with traffic.

“Looks like word is out,” Harvey says, yelling above the din of blaring horns.

Edie checks her watch. “This is no good. We have to get out.”

“On foot?” Sue shakes her head. “Edie, the tollbooth’s more than a mile away. I’m wearing slippers—”

Edith opens the door, dragging her friend from the backseat. Harvey takes his aunt’s free hand and leads the two through the line of cars toward the other side of the bridge.

For the next several minutes, the trio rushes in and out of traffic, hurrying across the bridge to the distant tollbooth.

Edie looks up as several teenagers zoom by on motorized roller blades, shielding her eyes against the glare coming off the bay waters that loop around Sanibel Island to the Gulf of Mexico.

Maneuvering slowly down the coastline is a red-and-black oil tanker.

Beyond the tanker, three miles offshore, an unfathomable wall of water is rising straight out of the sea.

Sue Reuben turns, staring in disbelief at the wave. “Oh my God, is that thing real?”

Car horns blast, desperate passengers fleeing their vehicles as the monster wave crests into a 125-foot swell.

The tsunami sweeps up the oil tanker in its rising curl, then breaks atop the enormous steel vessel, pummeling it against the seafloor. The thunderous impact causes the bridge to reverberate as the killer wave crashes upon the Sanibel coastline, the roaring swell pounding everything into oblivion.

Edie drags her nephew and friend toward the deserted tollbooth. Harvey yanks open the door and pulls them inside as the tsunami flattens Sanibel and Captiva Island, its tremendous tidal surge blasting across the bay.

Harvey slides the door closed as Edie pulls Sue down onto the floor.

The tsunami races across the causeway, submerging the tollbooth.

The concrete-and-steel structure groans. Seawater pours in from all sides, filling the four-foot rectangle of Plexiglas. Edie, Harvey, and Sue stand in the torrent, enveloped in cold water and darkness as the water level continues rising, the tsunami’s roar like a freight train, its power shaking the tollbooth loose from its foundation.

The pocket of air fills. Edie squeezes her eyes shut, waiting to die. Her last thought is of Iz, wondering if she’ll see him.

Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears.

And then the roar passes, the sunlight returning.

Harvey kicks open the door.

The three survivors stumble out, gagging and coughing, holding each other against a knee-deep river of water, which continues rushing inland.

Edie grabs hold of Sue, supporting her against the torrent. “Everyone okay?”

Sue nods. “Should we go back?”

“No, tsunamis come in multiple sets. We need to run.”

Locking arms, they wade and stumble down the submerged highway as the tidal surge slows, then suddenly reverses directions, threatening to sweep them into the bay. Grabbing on to a traffic pole, they hold on and pray, fighting to stay alive against the churning river of debris.

Chichén Itza

Cradling the jade object in his hands, Mick stares at the image of the warrior as if looking in a mirror.

A breeze—then a fluttering sound—coming from within the iridium canister.

Mick reaches inside, surprised to find a piece of faded cardboard. His hand shakes as he reads the familiar handwriting.

Michael:

Should destiny take you this far, then right now, you are as stunned as your mother and I were when the object in your hand was first unearthed back in 1981. You were just an innocent child of three, and I, well, for a while I was actually foolish enough to believe the warrior’s image to be of me. Then your mother pointed out the darkness of the eyes, and we both instinctively knew that, somehow, the image was meant to be you.

Now you know the real reason why mother and I refused to give up our quest—the reason you were denied a normal childhood back in the States. A greater destiny awaits you, Michael, and we felt it our duty as your parents to prepare you as best we could.

After two decades of research, I still have no real understanding as to the function of this jade device. I suspect it may be a weapon of some sort, left to us by Kukulcan himself, though I can find no power source to speak of that might identify its purpose. I have surmised the obsidian blade lodged within its grasp to be an ancient ceremonial knife, more than a thousand years old, perhaps one that may have once been used to cut out the hearts of sacrificial victims.

I can only hope that you’ll figure the rest out by the time the winter solstice of 2012 arrives.

I pray God helps you on your quest, whatever it may be, and pray also that, one day, you will find it in your heart to forgive this wretched soul for all he has done.

Your loving father,
—J. G.

Mick stares at the letter, rereading it over and over, his mind fighting to grasp what he knows in his heart to be true.

It’s me. I’m the One
.

He stands, drops the letter and canister back in the hole, then, clutching the jade object, runs out of the deserted ball court to the western steps of the Kukulcan pyramid.

The sweat is pouring from him by the time he reaches the summit. Wiping the perspiration and remnants of dust from his brow, he staggers into the northern corridor to where the Guardian’s hydraulic trapdoor is concealed.

“Guardian, let me in! Guardian—”

He stamps on the stone floor, calling out again and again.

Nothing happens.

Sacred Cenote

At six feet, seven inches and three hundred pounds, Lt. Colonel Mike “Ming-Ding” Slayer is the tallest Green Beret ever to wear the commando uniform. The raspy-voiced, Chinese-Irish-American is a former professional football player and medical wonder, having had nearly every body part repaired, replaced, or recycled. Ming-Ding has a reputation for punching things with the intent to hurt when he cannot think of the word he wants to use, or when his shoulder or knee goes out.

Using his sleeve, the commando wipes the sweat from his upper lip before the mosquitoes can get to it.
Three fucking hours, picking our underwear from our asses in this godforsaken Mexican jungle
.

Ming-Ding Slayer is beyond ready to hit something.

The crackling of static in his left ear. The lieutenant colonel adjusts his communicator. “Go ahead, Colonel.”

“Satellite Ops have detected a magnetic flux approaching your position from the north. We believe the alien is traveling through the aquifers and may rise through the sinkhole.”

About fucking time
. “Copy that. We’re more than ready.”

Ming-Ding signals for his platoon to take up positions around the sinkhole. Each man carries an OICW (Objective Individual Combat Weapon), the most lethal machine gun in the world. The fourteen-pound device has two barrels, one to shoot 5.56 mm rounds of ammunition, the other for the 20 mm HE air-bursting rounds that can be set to explode on impact or after a short delay, in front of, behind, or above an enemy target.

Sgt. John “Dirty Red” McCormack joins the lieutenant colonel, the two men staring into the pond scum below. “So, where is this fucking alien?”

“Murphy’s law of combat number sixteen. If you’ve secured an objective, don’t forget to let the enemy know about it.”

The ground begins trembling, ripples spreading across the surface below.

“Guess I spoke too soon.” Ming-Ding signals to his men, then backs away from the edge as the tremors grow stronger.

Dirty Red stares down his laser sight.
Come on, motherfucker. Come and get it
.

The ground is jumping so much, the commandos can hardly aim.

The far wall of the cenote collapses. A blast of limestone-and-water rain explodes outward—The alien rises out of the cenote.

Ming-Ding’s muscles tighten in fear. “Son-uva-bitch—Fire! Fire!”

A carpet of lead roars from the commandos’ guns.

The bullets never reach the alien. A clear shield of energy, visible only through its distortion, envelops the serpent like a second skin. As the bullets enter the field, they appear to vaporize in midair.

“What in the fuck?” Ming-Ding stares in horror and confusion as his men continue firing.

Moving past the commandoes as if they weren’t there, the alien entity glides down the Mayan
sacbe
, its locomotive-size girth pushing through the jungle foliage toward the pyramid.

Ming-Ding activates the transmitter on his helmet. “Colonel, we made contact with the alien—or at least we tried to. Our bullets were useless, sir—they just sort of vanished into thin air.”

Mick can hear the echo of the approaching helicopter’s rotors beating the air as he stares at the Mayan Ball Court from atop the Kukulcan, watching as the naval airship lands on the lawn adjacent to the pyramid’s western stairwell.

His heart pounds as he sees Dominique exit behind the president and two US Army commandos.

Michael
…

Mick gasps, turning to the north. He can sense something approaching from the jungle.

Something immense!

The canopy of trees lining the
sacbe
are uprooted as the being approaches.

On the ground below, four M1-A2 Abrams tanks race down the dirt pathway in single formation, their laser range finders taking aim down the center of the ancient Mayan road.

Mick’s eyes widen, his heart fluttering.

Above the treetops, the alien’s cranium appears, its crimson eyes glittering like rubies in the afternoon sun.

Tezcatilpoca
…

The tanks open fire, four projectiles exploding as one out of the armored vehicle’s 120 mm smoothbore guns.

There is no contact, no explosion. Reaching the alien’s hide, the shells simply disappear into a dense cushion of air with quick, blinding flashes.

Continuing its approach, the serpent glides over the tanks. For a moment, the Abrams tanks vanish within the energy field, only to reappear seconds later, their titanium plates and gun turrets mangled beyond recognition.

Guardian’s words, ringing in his ears:
Tezcatilpoca harbors the porthole into the fourth-dimensional corridor
.

The porthole into the fourth-dimensional corridor … it’s Tezcatilpoca
!
Tezcatilpoca IS the porthole
!

The plumed serpent rises up the northern balustrade, the demonic eyes luminescent, radiating energy. Swimming within the bloodred corneas, the golden slits of the reptilian pupils widen, as if revealing flames from a hellish furnace.

Mick stares at the creature, his mind gripped in absolute fear.
He wants me to enter that
?

The serpent pauses at the summit. Ignoring Mick, it opens its mouth, exhaling a vaporous gust of emerald energy from between the retracted fangs.

With a great
whoosh
, the limestone temple ignites into unearthly vermilion flames, the alien fire melting the stone blocks within seconds.

Mick backs away from the intense heat, taking cover along the top three steps of the northern stairs.

The flames extinguish. From the conflagration, protruding like a flagpole from what little remains of the temple’s central wall—a fifteen-foot-high iridium antenna.

The array
!

You are Hunahpu. You have the ability to access the Nephilim array
.

The sudden instinct for survival releases a long-dormant thought process. Highly charged impulses course through the nerve endings in Mick’s fingers and into the jade object, causing it to radiate with an intense, almost blinding energy.

The alien stops dead in its tracks, its amber pupils disappearing within its crimson eye slits.

Mick’s heart is pounding like a jackhammer, his arm quivering from the power emanating though his body.

The blinded viper gazes at the stone as if in a trance.

Mick closes his eyes, fighting to maintain his sanity.
Okay, just stay calm. Lead it away from the array
.

Keeping his arm extended, he descends, one harrowing step at a time, down the western staircase.

As if being led on an invisible leash, the being follows him down.

Dominique races to him—then stops—her eyes widening in shock. “Oh, God. Oh my God—”

Chaney, General Fecondo, and two Army commandos remain motionless behind one of the short walls of the ball court, their minds unable to fathom what their eyes are seeing.

“Dominique!” With his free hand, Mick shakes her out of her stupor. “Dom, you can’t be here!”

“Oh, God—” She grabs his hand, dragging him back. “Come on—”

“No, wait—Dom, do you remember what I told you? Do you remember what symbolized the entrance to the Underworld in the
Popol Vuh
?”

She turns to face him, then looks up at the monstrous alien. “Oh, no. Oh, God, no—”

“Dom, the plumed serpent
is
the portal to the Black Road—”

“No—”

“And I think I’m One Hunahpu!”

Michael …

Mick’s flesh crawls.

She stares at him in absolute fear, the windblown tears streaking across her face. “What are you going to do? You’re not going to sacrifice yourself, are you?”

“Dom—”

“No!” She grabs his arm.

I’m coming, Michael. I can feel your fear …

“I won’t let you do it! Mick, please … I love you—”

Mick feels his will weakening. “Dom, I love you, and I’m really scared. But please, if you ever want to see me again, you have to go, please go, right now!” Mick turns to Chaney. “Get her away from here! Now!”

General Fecondo and the two commandos drag her, kicking and screaming, back to the chopper.