The Mayan Apocalypse (5 page)

“What do you suggest?”

“I agree we should see what the PR people come up with, but I'm planning on referring to it as the ‘first strike.' ”

“First strike.” Balfour licked his lips as if tasting the idea. “First…strike. Hmm.” He leaned back. “So something like this? Media girl asks, ‘Mr. Quetzal, do you and your followers see significance in the meteor strike?' You look concerned, even worried—but not surprised. ‘Yes, my many researchers and I think it is a very significant event.' Media girl: ‘But it damaged only one building.' You: ‘Which is what we expect from a first strike.' You—”

“Me: ‘I can't say any more. I refuse to be responsible for a panic.' Then I shake my head sadly and refuse to answer any more questions.”

A grin spread across Balfour's narrow face that made Quetzal think of a smiling skeleton. “What do you know? You
are
brilliant.”

B
ob Newton watched as trucks and cars loaded with people slowly drove by. A large construction truck filled with people instead of building materials lumbered along the street, its tires spewing dust into the air. Some of San Pedro's inhabitants rode on motor scooters or bicycles, and some walked to waiting, aged buses.

Another tremor rolled through the ground. They were becoming more frequent and therefore more frightening. Newton was beginning to second-guess himself. Maybe he should have called for the evacuation sooner. Volcanoes were fairly predictable and normally gave sufficient time for evacuation. Ground tremors were one of the key indicators. What couldn't be predicted was the level of activity a volcano might take. Violent eruptions could happen quickly. It had with Mt. Pinatubo in the Philippines, but there had been enough time to evacuate the area as well as the local air force base. He was hoping for the same luxury.

Newton wished for two things now: more time, and the return of his team from the mountain. They were overdue. They had radioed a report earlier, but that was now two hours past. There had been no contact since, which was unusual. Something was wrong, and Newton didn't know what.

Perhaps he should go look for them. As he weighed the idea, another tremor shook the ground.
Too many tremors
, he thought. They were experienced field scientists, they knew how to take care of themselves, he reassured himself. But the reassurance rang hollow.
Mt. Pinatubo took the lives of two experienced scientists, as it had other scientists before them.

He saw it before he heard it. Facing the northwest side of the mountain, Newton raised his binoculars to his eyes and saw a cloud of dust, followed by sudden jet of ash and steam rocketing skyward. “It's beginning,” he said to himself. The face of the mountain collapsed on itself as the magma chamber below gave way. As a child, Newton imagined an eruption as fire and lava squirting out the peak of the volcano and running down its side. While such things did happen, many volcanoes erupted explosively through their weakened sides. The ash continued to rise like a mushroom cloud after a nuclear explosion. Then came the billows of pyroclastic flow. Heavy billows of black smoke, laced with rock and debris, began to cascade down the mountainside.

Newton felt his heart stop—the deadly cloud was heading straight for San Pedro. It was also traveling down the dirt road used by the scientific team, if they were still on the mountain.

Turning, he saw the citizens of San Pedro staring in disbelief at El Popo. “Run,” Newton screamed. “Run!”

There was pandemonium. People scattered in different directions. The few who had cars sped down the dirt road that ran through town, barely missing their pedestrian neighbors.

The deadly, toxic cloud approached.

Thud
.

Newton turned to see what had made the sound behind him. It was a rock, red with heat and the size of a grapefruit. The object didn't surprise him; he had been expecting such flying burning materials—known to volcanologists as
pyroclastic ejecta
. They were common in major eruptions. Another dropped, then another, burning missiles fired from deep within the mountain. Soon there would be mudflows like the one that killed 23,000 people in the Nevado del Ruiz eruption in 1985. One of the things that had captured Newton's scientific curiosity was the numerous ways in which a volcano could kill.

Directing his attention to the ash cloud above the mountain, Newton saw that it was
also
headed northwest. Ash would begin to fall from the mountain to well past Mexico City forty-five miles away.

Sadness filled him. He was sure his team was dead, and even if they had survived by some miracle, the town of San Pedro wouldn't. He had shouted a warning to the stunned inhabitants who had stood dumbstruck by the sight of the cataclysm they were witnessing, but he knew that many would still die. He felt responsible. If only the monitoring devices on El Popo hadn't failed, perhaps then they would have had more warning. Still, there had been enough indications, and he had hesitated. After all, El Popo was supposed to be relatively safe, some even defining its destructive capabilities as mild. They were wrong. He was wrong. And now many would die. Perhaps the other towns would fare better.

Another falling rock jarred him from his thoughts. The mountain was now surrounded by a massive ash cloud. Already lightning was beginning to flash from the cloud as it created its own thunderstorm. The rumbling of the mountain was set counterpoint to the newly added claps of thunder.

“Fire and water. How ironic.”

He turned to face the community building that had been serving as his field office. A woman, not much more than a girl, huddled in fear by the doorway. She was clutching an infant in her arms. Stepping to his Toyota Land Cruiser, he opened the passenger door and quickly motioned for her to come. She hesitated but then complied. Then he loaded the car with as many as would fit, jumped in the driver's seat, and started down the street.

The afternoon sky darkened as the ash cloud obliterated the sun. Gray ash began to fall. Soon the ground, the buildings, and the bodies of those who died would be covered in a gray funeral shroud that had been created in the depths of the earth.

“I haven't been a very good guest,” Lisa said. She had been watching Morgan out of the corner of her eye. For a while she assumed he was sleeping, but every once in a while, he would open his eyes and stare at the jet's ceiling. He hadn't spoken for the last hour, and every minute of that hour cut her soul like tiny knives of guilt. She had come on too strong. She was always doing that—pressing the subject of a story for a more quotable line, nagging her editor for better assignments, and even engaging in arguments with herself.

Why was she so polemical? What did she have to prove? She didn't know, but she felt she had to prove something. Maybe it was her upbringing. As a child, she had learned to hold her own at the supper table, which was more of a debate forum than a place to eat the evening meal. Her father taught philosophy at a Christian college, and her mother taught English literature. As a family, they never had much money, but they did abound in passion.

Her one brother was too smart for his own good. Smarter than the other kids in school, the best he could do was circle the outer orbit of social interaction. Until he got to college. Through college and med school, he had all the friends he could want, including pretty coeds. How he resisted their tempting smiles, sweet laughter, and youthful bodies was beyond her, but she knew he had. He married two years out of med school. Three years later, he took his wife to East Africa to work as a medical missionary.

It was the way of her family: Everything centered on Christ. What Lisa lacked—and she told herself this repeatedly—was restraint. Perhaps she was trying to live up to her brother's level of commitment. Perhaps she was just argumentative.

“I'm sorry,” Morgan said. “Did you say something?”

“I was apologizing for being rude.”

He sat up. “Rude? Did I miss something?”

“You've gone out of your way to help me, and I repay that kindness by offending you.”

“Really? Am I offended? I hadn't noticed.”

She smiled at him. “I think you're just being gentlemanly.”

“Ah. It's a fault among men of the South.”

Lisa chuckled. “I know lots of Southern men, and they know nothing of being gentlemen. I'm afraid that art died a long time ago.” She shifted in her seat so she could see him better. “Anyway, I tend to be a little—”

“Aggressive?”

“I was going to say
assertive
.”

He tipped his head to the side. “That's a much more positive term.
Assertive
. I like it.”

“I'm trying to apologize here. I can be a little pushy.”

Morgan grinned. “A pushy reporter. Who could imagine such a thing?”

Lisa began to speak, but Morgan cut her off with a raised finger. “You did your research. You know I've suffered the worst loss a man can experience, but that doesn't mean I'm fragile. I'm not. You don't need to apologize.”

“But you haven't said a word in over an hour.”

“So? I've been thinking. I do that a lot. Trust me, my board of directors puts me through more than you can ever dream up.”

She leaned back and wondered why his refusal to let her apologize bothered her so much. “Do you really believe all this Mayan calendar…”

“Mumbo jumbo? Nonsense? Garbage? Superstition? Which term do you prefer?” He leaned his head back against the seat rest. “Yes, I believe it.”

“But you seem…I mean…I'm doing it again.”

He didn't move. “Seem what? Intelligent? I am. I have an MS degree in geology from Reynolds University. Had my father not died, I might have pursued a PhD. As it was, I inherited a business. The boardroom is a very different place than a barren field.”

“You prefer the outdoors, don't you?”

“More of your research?”

“I saw the online photos of you in far-off places.” She reached for her phone. “Want to see?”

“No thanks. I was there.”

“So why believe this stuff about the Mayans and 2012?”

He waited a few moments before answering. “Because, Lisa, it's the only thing that makes sense.”

“Okay, I'm working hard to not cross the line again, Mr. Morgan—”

“Just Andrew is fine. I'm a casual man. Most people just call me Morgan.”

“Okay, Andrew, how is it that the Mayan prophecies make so much sense to you?”

He turned his head to face her. A smirk rose on his lips. “Call it faith.”

T
he pastor was a chunk of a man, pear-shaped, who waddled more than walked. Morgan didn't trust men who refused to take care of themselves. He spent a significant portion of his day working out and taking enough vitamins and health enhancements to constitute a small meal. Why every man didn't do the same puzzled Morgan. Although the reverend wore an expensive suit, Morgan could tell that there was more fat than muscle beneath the finely stitched black material.

Pastor Johansson sat in a red oak chair behind and to the side of the mortuary pulpit. Quincy Doolittle, the portly pastor who stood behind the lectern, was Berkley Street Baptist Church's minister in charge of pastoral care. It had been explained to Morgan that Berkley Street Baptist was a megachurch and therefore need many staff members. It wasn't news. The South was filled with such churches. He had assumed that the senior pastor would be the one doing the funeral and felt cheated because the duty had been passed off to another man.

As the CEO of a major corporation, Morgan knew the importance of delegation. Still, it didn't seem right. His wife and son deserved the best in life and even more in death.

In his heart, he knew it didn't matter. Dead was dead, and even if he buried his family in caskets of gold and hired the world's most famous preachers to conduct the service, he would still go home alone to an empty house.

Quincy Doolittle took care of the weddings, hospital visits, and funerals. Johansson was there for support. Johansson had been the first to visit Morgan after the crash. He deserved credit for that. After that one visit, Doolittle made all future contact. Why that bothered him, Morgan didn't know. Of course, everything bothered him. Stop lights were too long, birds sang off key, grass was too green, and sugar too sweet. It didn't matter what it was—it was wrong.

Morgan took a deep breath and noticed it came in a shuddering flow. He promised himself he would not cry. He had done little else since the cops showed up at his door with the small words that ground his world to dust.

A few moments ago, the room was filled with subdued action. Soft conversation bounced off the walls of the Benjamin Atwood Memorial Chapel in Oklahoma City's most prestigious mortuary and cemetery: Eternal Trails. Morgan had been here twice before: once to bury his mother; once to bury his father. Now…

He had no brothers or sisters, so an elderly uncle and even older aunt sat with him on the family pew. Marybeth had also been an only child. The pew seemed under-filled and for reasons he couldn't explain, it bothered him.

Behind him sat the twelve members of his board of directors. Each had shaken his hand as professional men do, said how sorry they were, and offered to help in any way they could. Morgan shook each hand and said thank you.

Young people—people Hunter's age—filled up half the seating on the right side of the large chapel. The girls wept; the boys tried not to. Behind them were teachers who had Hunter in their classes. Morgan had seen the principal of the private school enter. They exchanged nods—nothing more.

When Morgan arrived, soft music, mostly hymns Morgan remembered hearing as a child in church, wafted from concealed speakers overhead like mist before a rain. They were smooth, soft, gentle, and meant to comfort the grieving. They irritated Morgan. The moment Doolittle stepped behind the pulpit, the music ceased.
The operator failed to trail the music off; it sounded as if he just hit the off button. Jarring.

“Good afternoon.” Doolittle talked through his nose. “My name is Reverend Quincy Doolittle of Berkley Street Baptist Church, where I serve as minister of pastoral care. It is my honor to officiate at this difficult time. On behalf of Mr. Morgan and extended family, I thank you all for being here. As we begin, I would like to introduce Senior Pastor Bryan Johansson, who will lead us in prayer and offer our first Scripture reading.”

Johansson was unlike his fellow pastor: six-foot and stout. Morgan took him to be one of those guys who ran five miles a day—ten if he wanted to work up a sweat. He spoke with the kind of voice that made radio personalities envious. Although he needed no microphone, one had been provided, most likely for Pastor Wimpy.

“At times like these, there is no better place to turn for comfort and strength than to our Lord and Savior, Jesus, and to God's Word. Stand with me as I read the twenty-third Psalm.” The sound of two hundred people standing—most of whom Morgan couldn't name—echoed through the chapel.

“The L
ORD
is my shepherd…”

Morgan stopped listening. His ears no longer wished to function, and he was grateful. His eyes, however, were a different story: They drifted to the pair of shiny black coffins at the front of the chapel. Unlike the memorial services for his parents, these caskets were closed and locked. No amount of wax and makeup could make what remained of his wife and son presentable. What lay in those boxes were the charred remains of what had once been the heartbeat of his life.

He had not seen their bodies. The mortuary people had warned against it. “This is not what you want to remember.” He agreed. He didn't need to see their broken and burned bodies. He saw that every time he closed his eyes. Instead of open caskets, large photos in gold-painted frames stared back at him: Hunter in his school's basketball uniform; Marybeth in her Sunday best.

Movement around him brought Morgan back to the moment. Lost in his thoughts, he was the last to sit. Doolittle was up front again, his mouth moving but Morgan heard only snippets, none sharp enough to bore through his grief.

Johansson's reading of David's psalm swirled in his head.

“The L
ORD
is my shepherd.”
Not my shepherd. Apparently not my wife's or son's shepherd either.
“I shall not want.”
I will forever want.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.”
Or plunge my family to their deaths in a desolate desert after a thirty-thousand-foot fall.
“He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
He drowns me in sorrow.
“He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.”
He driveth my soul away.

It was at that moment that Morgan began his war with God.

Morgan's corporate jet set down at the San Antonio International Airport and taxied to an area reserved for private jets. The copilot exited the cockpit and opened the air-stairs, descended, and waited for Morgan and Lisa to exit. As she reached the last step, the young airman held out a hand, and she took it.

“It was a pleasure having you onboard, ma'am.”

She detected a New England accent. It sounded strange to her Southern ears. She smiled at the courtesy. “It was a greater pleasure being aboard.”

The steps bounced slightly, causing Lisa to turn. Morgan was descending; the pilot stood in the doorway. He caught her eye. “A gentleman always walks a lady to the door.”

“This is an airport, not my home.”

Morgan smiled. It seemed genuine. “You don't live at the airport?”

“Not anymore.”

“Touché. Hungry?”

“I've already put you out of your way.”

Morgan placed a hand on her elbow and directed her to a stairway that led to the terminal wing. “I'm hungry. The crew is hungry. Besides, security has to go over the plane again. Did you know that we can't carry golf clubs onboard?”

“Why is that?”

Morgan shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe terrorists like to play a few holes before destroying something. I'm sure security has their reasons.”

“Seems strange to me.”

He chuckled. “I didn't say they were good reasons. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

“No, I can spare some time for the guy who gave me a lift on his private jet.”

“In that case, let's chow down.”

The terminal looked similar to every terminal Lisa had been in. It sounded the same. Although not a world traveler, she had been in most major airports in the United States. Each one proved form followed function.

Finding a spot to sit proved more challenging than Lisa expected. Wading through the crowd reminded her of experiences as a child playing in the surf on family vacations to the Gulf Coast of Texas. The waves would rush her and then attempt to draw her deeper into the sea. Here, however, ocean waves had been replaced by swells of people, each lost in their own thoughts. Airports were great places to be ignored.

“How about here?” Morgan gestured to a sports bar. A crowd stood around the perimeter, but she could see two or three empty tables. “It's a bar.”

“I can see that.”

Morgan blinked a few times. “What I mean is—”

“You're wondering if I as a Christian can eat a sandwich in an airport sports bar.”

“I just don't want you writing an article about how I, a fallen man, tried to lead you to the road of destruction.”

Lisa couldn't tell if he was serious. “I don't think I'll melt. Let's go.”

Morgan led the way, politely elbowing his way to the entrance. Lisa followed in his wake. She noticed very few people bothered to look at them. Their eyes were glued to the flat-screen televisions mounted to the walls.

They sat at a sticky, round table barely big enough for two plates of food. Snatching up a menu, her eyes traced the soup and sandwich offerings.

A teenage-thin waiter dressed all in black approached and stood in silence by the table.

“Do you have a soup of the day?” Lisa barely glanced up from the menu. When he didn't respond, she raised her gaze and looked at his youthful face. His forehead looked like a freshly plowed field; his eyes were fixed on one of the televisions. She pursed her lips in frustration and turned to Morgan. He too was fixated on the screen. She started to make a snide remark about men and sports when she noticed everyone—men, women, and children—were hypnotized by the image on the screens. She turned. A moment later, she raised a hand to her mouth.

Images from what Lisa assumed was a helicopter filled the televisions. Dark, billowing smoke rose from a mountain. The gasses and ash were so thick they seemed more liquid than anything else. There was a caption at the bottom of the screen: V
OLCANO
E
RUPTS
N
EAR
M
EXICO
C
ITY
. One of the bartenders behind the bar picked up a remote and cranked the volume. A man with a two-hundred-dollar haircut was speaking.

“It's too early for definitive reports, but estimates of dead run in the thousands. Popocatépetl has been rumbling for years. Scientists had earlier dismissed the idea of such a violent explosion. Villages in the San Pedro Mountains are the most severely hit.”

“Oh my…” Lisa had joined the ranks of frozen viewers.

The news anchor continued: “A team of scientists from MIT had been studying the volcano for the last few months. Nothing
has been heard from them, and the worst is feared. Video from cell phones are being sent worldwide. We have one here.” He touched his ear and tilted his head. “I'm being told to warn you that this is rather graphic.”

The newsman disappeared, replaced by a grainy, bouncy image. At first, Lisa could only see a dirt path and the feet of frightened people. Suddenly, the individual with the camera fell. The lens of the device pointed up, revealing a funeral shroud of black smoke hovering overhead. A face appeared. Lisa assumed it was the phone's owner. Dirt covered his skin, streaked clean by flowing tears.

He picked up the phone and turned it back to the wrathful mountain, just in time to see a blazing red explosion. Moments later, fiery pieces of molten rock began falling like blazing basketballs.

The device recorded the screams of men, women, children, and even animals.

The image changed from a boiling mountain to fleeing villagers to the face of the man who the owned phone. He spoke. Lisa knew enough Spanish to translate the man's words: “I love you forever… forever…”