The Mayan Apocalypse (3 page)

Morgan tasted copper. He was biting the inside of his cheek.

A hand rested on his shoulder. “Has the NSTB and FAA come to any conclusions?” Tasker's words were solid and encased in kindness, the way one man comforts another.

Morgan shook his head. “Too early. They tell me it might take months before we know anything conclusive.” He paused and let his eyes scan the debris. “The pilot reported complete engine failure in his Mayday.”

“Complete? Both engines?”

“Yes.”

Tasker lowered his hand. “That's odd. Bird strike?”

Morgan shook his head. “They were flying at thirty thousand feet. Not many birds fly that high.”

Tasker started to speak and then stopped. Morgan knew the man was doing him a favor by not asking for full recounting of the events.

They stood in a silence broken only by the wind and the cry of an eagle circling overhead.

“I lost my wife a little over two years ago.”

Morgan looked at him. His brown eyes seemed to melt in their sockets. “You're not going to tell me that it will get easier, are you? I don't think I could stand to hear that again.”

“Easier? There's nothing easy about it. Time makes it manageable—most days.” He gazed into the distance, seeing only what he could see. Morgan could almost smell the sorrow on the man. “Every time I look at her side of the bed, someone stabs me in the gut.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.” Morgan wished he sounded more sincere.

“She lost control of her car on a snowy day. It rolled. They say she died quickly.” Tasker took in a noisy breath. “Sorry, I should be trying to encourage you, not drag you down. I just wanted you to know you're not alone. It won't change anything, and it won't make you feel any better.”

Morgan was surprised to feel a smile cross his face. It didn't rise from amusement, just the knowledge that the man standing next to him had endured the good intentions of others who offered a balm of kind words.

“I can walk away for a while. You know, answer nature's call if you want to…” He motioned to the crumpled hulk.

“No need. I've seen everything I need to.” Morgan walked back to the Jeep.

“I welcome each of you to our humble gathering.” Quetzal's voice filled the theater. Lisa thought the man could be an actor on a Broadway stage. He stood near the edge the platform and slowly paced like a man considering a leap into a bottomless abyss.

He held no notes but spoke like a man who was well prepared.

“I am the last descendant in a line of Mayan priests. Does that sound odd to you? Perhaps you assumed we Mayans dropped off the face of the earth centuries ago.” He paused, and nervous titters
rolled through the room. “Well, I have something to tell you:
Weee're baaaack
.”

By Lisa's estimation, it took a full second for the crowd to get the joke. She glanced at the man sitting next to her to see if he appreciated the humor. His face bore a grin. It took only a moment to see that, but she let her eyes linger and then snapped them away when he returned her gaze.

“The truth is, congregation, we never left.”

Interesting. He addressed us as “congregation.” He's working this priest thing.

“Let me be honest: We have been a small religious group, but it may surprise you to know that we have over fifty thousand adherents now. I know, I know, that's not much when you compare it to the many millions claimed by the Roman Catholic Church worldwide or even the millions of Baptists. But that doesn't matter. We are not for everyone. We are for those who appreciate the past and want to change the future.”

He paused. The audience applauded.

“We are here for people like you—people who know that everything will change on December 21, 2012. I am here to guide you.”

Quetzal continued with his opening remarks as Lisa jotted down notes in a small, spiral-bound notebook. She also held a digital recorder with one hand, hoping it was picking up the audio from the speakers.

As Quetzal spoke, Charles Balfour, the man's rail-thin assistant, received a note from a worker who stepped forward from backstage. He read it quickly and approached Quetzal, who paused mid- sentence. If the interruption irritated him, he didn't show it.

He read the note, exchanged glances with Balfour, and then turned back to the audience. “If you've followed my writing, read my book, listened to my interviews, or kept track of my e-newsletter, then you know that I have spoken of signs in the sky indicating the beginning of the end—the end only our followers will survive.”
He held up the piece of paper. “I've just been handed a note that informs me of a meteor which struck a small town in Arizona.”

Gasps and excited chatter swept through the theater. Quetzal held up his hands. “Quiet. Please, quiet, everyone. The damage is minimal and there has been no loss of life.” He straightened and stared at the crowd. “Yet.”

Lisa set her pad and recorder on her lap and retrieved her Black-Berry. In a moment she was online, searching the web. She found confirmation on a news site.

“It's true.” Lisa spoke to herself but the man next to her overheard.

“You had doubts?”

A
lbuquerque International Sunport Airport was crowded and noisy. Morgan had cleared security and was making his way through the mired mass of humanity clogging the walkways. He'd flown into this airport on several occasions to conduct business for his firm, but this was the first time he had found it so crowded.

The crowd didn't bother him. He would have preferred more elbow room, but at least he wasn't in a rush to catch a plane. He hadn't had to do that for years.

He moved slowly through the terminal, too slowly for those behind him who grumbled and elbowed their way past him. He didn't care. What other people thought of him had ceased to matter. Behind him he towed a small, rolling suitcase.

Unrecognizable music mixed with the sound of footsteps, crying children, and people on cell phones. Some of the faces looked familiar, fellow travelers to Roswell now returning home in droves.

One woman looked especially familiar. Same auburn hair, same height, same outfit from the night before when he sat next to her in a theater and listened to a man talk about the coming end of the world. He had hung on every word, and she had grumbled through the entire presentation.

Lisa Campbell. The name floated forward in his mind. She was studying the screen of her cell phone. He was still twenty feet away when he saw her lean her head back and stare at the ceiling. Whatever was on the screen had upset her.

“Bad news?” He stepped close. A large overnight bag rested near her feet. Next to it sat a computer bag.

“My plane—” She looked at him, wrinkled her brow, then offered a polite smile that he read as, “Oh, it's you.”

“What about your plane? Run out of pretzels?”

“That I could live with.” Lisa peered at the small screen of her BlackBerry. “My flight has been canceled. Mechanical trouble of some sort. I guess I'm going to have to spend the night in the terminal.”

“What about a hotel?”

“Everything around the airport is full.”

Morgan slipped his hands into his pockets. “Where are you headed?”

“San Antonio by way of Denver.”

“That's on my way. I can take you home if you want.”

She examined him as if trying to read his mind. It amused Morgan. “What makes you think your flight has an extra seat?” she said.

“I didn't say I could get you on a flight. I said I can take you to San Antonio.”

“Why should I get in a car with a total stranger?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Did I mention a car?” He pointed to a window at the end of the terminal. “Follow me.”

She hesitated.

“Got something else to do? Come on. I'm harmless.” Morgan took the extended handle of his case and pulled it behind him. A glance over his shoulder showed Lisa was also in tow, her bag hung over her shoulder. She followed in his wake as he pressed through the milling crowd like the bow of a ship through the ocean.

He edged close to the large window. Lisa moved to his side but kept an arm's distance between them.

“That's mine. The one with the blue stripe along the fuselage.” At one time, he would have said those words with pride and a smile. Seeing the Cessna Citation Sovereign resting in the business area of the tarmac reminded him of another jet—the one that preceded this one.

“That's yours?” Lisa eyes widened.

“Yes. Well, it belongs to my company; not to me personally. How about it? Can a guy offer you a lift?”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“How soon they forget.”

She shrugged. “I was preoccupied with my work.”

“Andrew Morgan from Oklahoma City.”

Lisa chewed her lip for a moment. “That name still rings a bell with me.”

“I probably owe you money. Come on—let me take you away from all this. You can keep me company. It's lonely being the only passenger.”

Lisa let out a melodic laugh. “That sounds like heaven to me.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“You know, San Antonio isn't on the way to Oklahoma City.”

“It is the way I travel.”

She straightened. “Wait, are you saying you're the pilot?”

“No. You wouldn't want that. The plane comes with a two-man crew. You'll have to fetch your own snacks.”

Lisa grinned. “I can do that. I've never been in a private jet before.”

“Well, let's fix that.” He took her computer bag. “We go through that door. We have a little time, but the pilot will need to file a new flight plan.”

An airport employee checked their identification and matched it against the manifest of private flights. He then escorted them through a security door and onto the tarmac. Minutes later, Morgan led Lisa into the luxurious interior of the finest business jet made.

It was just 10:00 a.m., and the heat was already oppressive. The sun, which still had two more hours before it would reach its zenith, shone like a huge gold coin in the deep blue sky. Bob Newton
stepped from the adobe-lined community building and onto the dusty street. Profirio Galicia followed him. Both men glanced around the impoverished community. A man rode a burro down the street; a teenage boy peddled his bicycle in the other direction. Newton sensed tenseness in the air.

“El Popo was upset last night,” Profirio said, nodding to the mountain just outside of town. “Soon villagers will be taking offerings again.”

“I'm afraid that won't do them much good, Profirio,” Newton said as he studied the 17,887-foot tall, snowcapped volcano. “Cooked chickens and fruit might make
me
feel better, but it won't do anything for El Popo.”

“It couldn't hurt,” Profirio countered.

“Couldn't it?” Newton turned his eyes from the volcano to his interpreter. “I don't think you want to be on the mountain if she goes. That would hurt.”

“You think her time is soon?”

“Popocatépetl has been acting up for years now and may continue to do so with very little danger, or it could go at any time.”

“You think she will erupt, don't you?”

Newton turned and faced the man. He was tall, thin, and quick with a smile. Although only thirty-eight, he looked much older. In addition to serving as interpreter to Dr. Newton, Profirio was also the town clerk. “I can't be sure, but the latest readings indicate that something is up. I think it may be time to call for an evacuation.”

Profirio shook his head. “We have had too many evacuations over the years. The people lose wages when they leave. It will be hard to get them to abandon their homes again.”

“They'll have to, Profirio. San Pedro is in the worst possible situation here.” Newton removed the New York Mets baseball cap he was wearing and wiped his bald head. Newton was forty-two years old and a senior project manager for the US Geological Survey in Menlo Park, California. He had spent the last three months in San Pedro monitoring Popocatépetl, the volcano that residents called El Popo. He returned his attention to the road that led from the town.

“You seem worried,
amigo
,” Profirio said. “Your friends will be back from the mountain soon.”

“I can't help but worry. In April of 1996, five hikers died up there. That's five too many deaths. My group should have been back by now.”

“Maybe it took longer to fix the radio monitor.”

“Perhaps, but that…”

They felt it before they heard it. A rumble—borne along by the hot wind of the day—echoed from the side of the mountain. A moment later the ground shook, vibrating everything within fifty miles. Fifteen seconds later, it was over.

“Another earthquake,
amigo
. A big one too.”

Newton ignored Profirio. His mind was on the mountain. “Where are they?” he asked aloud. “What could be keeping them?”

Once again the earth shook. Once again Newton's heart skipped a beat.

“Wow.”

Morgan smiled at Lisa's expression as they walked around inside the jet. “First time in one of these babies is always memorable.”

“I imagine it's old hat to you.”

“Not really. I still have to pinch myself.”

The passenger compartment sported leather seats that faced each other. On the right side was a table crafted from teakwood, situated between a pair of seats. A cobalt blue carpet covered the deck.

“The restroom is in the back. There's a tiny galley behind the front bulkhead. And opposite that, there's a business center with fax, notepads, pens, and that kind of stuff. We have a wet bar if you're interested.”

Lisa grimaced. “I don't drink, but thanks. Tried it once in college. That was enough for me.”

“I don't drink either.”

“Then why the wet bar?” Lisa took a seat at the fuselage-mounted table.

“I'm not the only one who uses the aircraft. It's not my jet. My company owns it, and some of our clients and vendors like a beverage now and then.”

“But not you. It was the taste that put me off.”

“I like the taste of booze. I like what it does to me more.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “What it does to you?”

“Numbs the mind. I got too close to it for a while. I'm a bit of a health fanatic these days. I'd rather work out than drink.”

Lisa sputtered.

“Too honest? Life has taught me to be honest with myself about myself.” He waited for a response that didn't come. “I need to talk to the pilots about our little detour. Can I bring you a soda or coffee?”

“I'm fine.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” Morgan exited the aircraft.

Lisa felt fortunate; she also felt uneasy. Here she sat in a custom leather airplane seat on a business jet simply because a good-looking CEO had offered her a lift. She felt like a hitchhiker. Of course, this kind of hitchhiking she could learn to love.

She took in her surroundings again, impressed by the kind of wealth necessary to create an interior like this. Outside, the sound of the jet aircraft leaving solid ground to take to the air filtered in through the open door.