The Tears of Nero (The Halo Group Book 1) (4 page)

“I found a lighter,” Henry said.  “Maybe that will help.”

“Help with what?” Franklin asked.  “We need to get rid of these snakes not light cigarettes.  Unless there’s an aerosol can we can turn into a flame-thrower, I don’t see how that’s going to do any good.  Or am I missing the obvious?”

Nobody had any brilliant ideas about how to use the lighter for protection, and the snakes moved toward them, threading their way through jungle vegetation as if through a needle’s eye. 

“Are snakes scared of fire?” Kelly asked.

“Most animals are,” Henry reasoned.  “But it would be impossible to burn all of them with nothing more than this lighter.” 

“We need to create a big blaze,” Franklin whispered, his eyes firmly fixed on a fat, oily-looking serpent that was heading in his direction.  

“Maybe the lighter wasn’t the item Nero intended for us to use,” Sadie suggested.  “Maybe there’s something else we’ve overlooked.”

“Everybody check your pockets again,” Edward huffed, the words coming out in a forced rush of air that made a couple of the snakes stop and stare at him. 

The group went through every inch of their clothing, hoping they had missed something.  Ten feet separated them from the advancing legion of slithering death.     

“Look there,” Edward said as an emerald snake with yellow eyes raised its head and hissed at him.  “Look at those leaves.  They look wet.”

“They look wet.  So?  Maybe Henry couldn‘t keep his bladder under control.  It happens at that age,” Franklin said, trying hard to keep the tremble in his voice at bay.  “What’s your point?”

“I think those leaves are coated with some sort of chemical.”

“What makes you say that?” Henry asked.

Edward took a deep, forceful breath.  “Smell it?  There’s an odor in the air.”

“I smell it,” Franklin said. 

“So do I,” said Kelly.

“What do we have to lose besides our lives?” Sadie said.  “Do it.”

“Are we sure?” Henry asked.

“Of course not,” Edward said.  “But this is our only shot.  Henry, light those leaves.  Let’s see if I’m right.”

“And if you’re not?”

“Then we’ll learn why these snakes are called Two-Steps.”

Henry took a deep breath and flicked the lighter.  It took him a couple of tries before a flame appeared.  Carefully, he knelt and touched the flame to a wet leaf.  The result was like watching a Rube Goldberg contraption.  The flame spread quickly, moving in a premeditated pattern that burned some of the snakes, made some of them angry, and drove others to the opposite end of the jungle.

“It’s a burning ‘N’,” Henry said, realizing the pattern almost immediately.  “This guy has an ego the size of Cleveland.”

The chemical had been poured on the ground in such a way that Nero’s initial burned fiercely in the noonday sun.  It was clear from the intricacy of this whole charade that Nero’s game had been well thought out and that he was in control of the situation. 

“Let‘s go,” Franklin said, wasting no time.  “Those snakes won’t stay away forever.” 

For once, nobody argued with him.

They walked quickly and with purpose, keeping an eye on the jungle floor.  Vines crept across the ground, threatening to trip them up, and most of them stumbled at least once in their haste to add some distance between them and the serpents. 

Once they had gone half a mile, they all stopped to take a breath.  Edward wasted no time and asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. 

“Why were we invited to that dinner party in the first place?”

Chapter 5

Edward's question was valid.  They had no clue why any of them were involved.  The snakes weren’t an imminent threat now, and there was time to consider the night of the party.  That had been the beginning of everything.

The events of that evening weren't very clear, still shrouded in a pharmaceutical fog.  Whatever Nero had drugged them with was potent stuff, and their thoughts were a miasma of half-remembered images and words.  Although their adrenaline was pumping and their hearts were racing from all the recent stress, their minds struggled to put all of the pieces together. 

Franklin stamped his foot, agitated, clutching his head with both hands as if to shake the events of that night back into remembrance.  “I'm with Edward.  What happened at that party that brought us to this shiny little plot of happiness?  What does this guy want from us?  And why can't I remember any of it?”

“I’m still a little fuzzy,” Edward said.  “I feel hungover.  I don’t remember much at all.” 

“Me too,” Kelly added.   “Whatever Nero drugged us with was pretty strong.”

“My mind’s a total blank,” Franklin said. 

“I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot pole,” Sadie admitted, garnering a laugh from everyone.  “But that night’s pretty unclear to me too.”  

Henry found a fallen tree to sit on.  His face was strained and haggard.  “I remember more than I want to.  I wish I could forget.  I can't believe I'm the only one.”

“You remember what happened?” Edward asked. 

Henry nodded.  “I remember everything.  Don‘t any of you remember the blood?”

Everyone looked at each other nervously, and the mention of blood was enough to bring back wispy bits and pieces of recollection. 

“Refresh our memories,” Edward implored.  Henry nodded grimly and began to recount the evening's events. 

******

The house on Archibald Street was the kind of place that ate vagrants for lunch and coughed their bones out onto the unforgiving street.  With its sagging front porch, peeling paint, and collapsing roof, it appeared abandoned.  The candles burning in the broken windows suggested otherwise. 

Henry flattened the lapels of his coat and nervously approached the door, clutching the picture of his dead wife in his liver-spotted hand.  He had no idea what this dinner party was about or why he had been summoned here, but curiosity drove him onward. He rapped on the weather-worn door, searching for answers.

He was greeted by a figure dressed in a dark robe, wearing a theater mask adorned with a forlorn expression of sadness.  A tear had been painted beneath one cold blue eye.  The figure bowed low and gestured for him to come in.  Henry stood there for a moment, frightened and unsure if entering the house was a good idea. 

“It wasn’t fair that your wife was taken from you,” the figure said in a cold, lilting voice. 

“No, it wasn’t,” Henry agreed.  “But I don’t see how that’s any of your business.  Why am I here?”

“Don’t you want to know why bad things happen to good people?” the doorman asked.

“I do, but I’m not sure you are capable of that sort of knowledge.”

The figure nodded, conceding the point.  “I’m not, but that‘s why we‘re all here.  For answers.”  

“Who are you?”

“A servant,” the figure answered.  “Nothing more.  My master invited you.  He has great and wonderful things to show you, but he also needs help understanding.  That is the part you will play.”

“Why should I come in?” Henry asked.  “I don’t know you.  I don’t know him.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about learning the answer to the question?”

Henry paused and shifted uncertainly from foot to foot.  He
was
curious.  He wanted to know who these people were, why they were so interested in him, how they knew about Margaret’s death.  

“You’ll catch cold standing out there like that,” the figure said and motioned once again for Henry to come inside.  Henry made up his mind in that moment, needing to know.  He nodded, blew into his cupped hands, and stepped over the threshold. 

“This way, please,” the harlequin said, holding a lantern up to accentuate the sadness drawn on his mask.  Henry followed him, wishing he had brought a gun or a knife or something to defend himself with if the situation demanded it. 

The house, which had once been elegant and luxurious, was now a breeding ground for poverty.  To judge by the tidy little piles of cardboard and blankets scattered here and there, several homeless people had laid claim to their own private section of filth.  Each heap of tattered magazines and moldy burger wrappers represented a life.  The thought made Henry a little sadder than it probably should have.  It also frightened him.  Why was he here in this kind of place?  What was keeping him from turning around and running back toward the safety of his car?  The answer was clutched in his hand.  Surely, he didn’t expect to find any answers on why Margaret had been taken from him. 

But what if there were answers here and he missed the opportunity?

His guide led the way down a long, dusty hallway covered in cobwebs and grime.  Portraits hung on the filthy walls, their oily countenances watching him like something out of a haunted house movie.  Henry noted them but didn’t pay them much attention.  His senses were focused on the wild scent that lingered on the air.  He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but the smell was fresh, vibrant, musky-not damp and moldy like he expected. 

As if reading his mind, the masked figure stopped abruptly and turned to him.  “Be very quiet.  We’re nearing the dinner party.  Doesn‘t it smell wonderful?”

When the figure turned away, Henry noticed they were standing at a door.  The masked figure opened it quietly, taking great pains not to make any noise.  A rickety staircase plunged through the floor into some dark place that loomed before him like a ravenous mouth eager to swallow him whole. 

“Be careful,” the masked figure said.  “These steps are kind of steep.”

“I’m not sure I want to go down there,” Henry said. 

“All the answers are at the bottom.”

Henry considered the oddness of this entire situation and realized that he was about to make a mistake.  “I think I’d rather not.”

“But we're expecting you,” the harlequin reminded him.

“The memory of Margaret's death is very painful to me,” Henry explained, turning away from the staircase.  “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not rehash the past.  If you'll excuse me, I'll just head back the way I came.” 

“That’s not really an option at this point,” the harlequin said, pulling a knife from the folds of his robe.  “Go down the steps!”

“You really don't have to do that.”

“Now!”  

Henry eyed the blade and took a tentative step, walking ahead of the masked figure.  The harlequin slammed the door shut, pitching them into absolute darkness save for the meager light that came from his lantern.  Henry heard the rattling of a key being inserted into a lock and tumblers clicking into place.  He was trapped.  The harlequin stepped past Henry to lead the way.   

“Who are you?” Henry asked as they navigated the rickety stairs.  “What do you want with me?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” the masked figure said.  “For our purposes today, you may call me Seneca.  And don‘t worry, I really have no intention of using this knife.  I just have to make certain that you reach the dinner party at all costs.  The one I serve demands your attendance, and I’m not in a position to disappoint him.”

Seneca.  The name was familiar for some reason, but Henry couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.  “Why have a dinner party in a place like this?” Henry asked.  “Why not some place nice?”

“This house is exactly the kind of place for this kind of party.”

“I don’t understand,” Henry said, resting his hand on the damp wall for support and guidance.

“You will,” Seneca said, stopping at the bottom.  He fumbled in his robes for a moment until he found an envelope identical to the one that Henry had received bearing his invitation.  A scarlet “N” had been drawn on the front in fancy calligraphic font. 

“I was told to give this to you before the party begins.  Maybe it will explain some things.  Maybe not.”

Henry opened the letter with caution, hoping there wasn’t another picture of his dead wife inside.  There wasn’t.  Instead, there was a single sheet of neatly folded linen paper.  Henry read carefully as the hesitation in his gut began to transform into something nearer to full-blown terror.  

“God knows everything.  God knew what Adolf Hitler would eventually become and all the deaths he would cause.  Why allow him to grow up and become a monster?  Why not afflict him with polio or crib death?  God also knew what I would become.  Why did He let me live?”

Seneca peered at him through the mask’s eye slits, expecting the question that was poised on Henry’s lips.  Henry decided not to ask it.  He didn’t want to give Seneca the satisfaction.  At last, Seneca nodded and motioned toward a chair that was sitting all by itself in darkness.  “Please, have a seat.”

Henry did as he was instructed and watched as Seneca quietly made his way toward the staircase that led back to the upper floor.  Henry peered into the darkness, straining his eyes to see anything that might give him a clue about what was going on.  The wild smell was much stronger down here, and for some reason, he was reminded of the circus.  It was a stench of wet hay, offal, musk and raw meat.  It was the primal smell of a fresh carcass that made Henry imagine the buzzing of flies even though there weren’t any down here.

He clutched the picture of Margaret, the reason why he was here.  Thinking of her face again was enough to bring tears to his eyes.  Oh, how he had loved her!  He missed her so much, and there wasn’t a single day that he didn’t wish he could see her one last time.

What did any of this have to do with her?

The question went unanswered as the room was illuminated by an explosion of white light.  Henry squinted and shielded his eyes against the glare.  After he had a few seconds to adjust to the abrupt shift from darkness to light, he saw that he wasn’t alone.  Others were seated around the room.  The strained look of panic on each face suggested they were just as confused about all of this as he was.  Further inspection revealed they weren’t in a room at all, but in a hollowed out bowl of a place that functioned like a small earthen atrium.

In the center of the atrium were four others like Seneca, wearing similar masks drawn to reflect varying degrees of sadness.  Their robes, however, differed greatly from the one Seneca wore.  One wore crimson.  Another white.  One wore a sickly yellow garment.  The other black.

In the back of Henry’s mind there was some significance to the color scheme of the robes, but he couldn’t concentrate long enough to make the connection.  From some dark place came the strained sounds of a violin playing a mournful tune, and the masked figures took their cue, moving to the four corners of the room, effectively forming a square.

The violin abruptly stopped, and someone spoke to them from a dark balcony.  “Why do bad things happen to good people?  That is the question we’ve come here to answer.  You’ve all experienced tragedy.  You’ve all experienced loss.  The question is why?  You are all strangers to each other, but friends among the members of my group.  We are a brotherhood dedicated to uncovering truth.  We look in the dark places, beneath rocks, in the shadows, in the bleakest spaces of the soul.  We search for our answers in the places where no one else dares to look.”

“We know that bad things happen to good people because God allows it.  The Book of Job attests to this.  The question, once again, is why?  Surely God could stop all of the tragedy and heartache.  Of course we have to take this one step further.  There are good people who are faithful to God and believe in Him.  There are also good people who don’t believe.  We could rationalize that God might allow bad things to happen to those good, nonbelieving people simply because of their absence of faith.  But what about the faithful?  What about those like Job who have done nothing but what God asked of them?  This audience is comprised of both groups, and yet everyone in here has suffered equally.  Tonight we are going to experiment in hopes of understanding.  Tonight we are going to watch and see what God will do.”

“This experiment will determine the fate of millions.  The horsemen of Armageddon are waiting to be released, and the outcome of tonight’s demonstration will decide whether or not they are loosed to freely roam the earth, spreading destruction in their wake.  We will leave the decision in God‘s hands.  Life will mean life for everyone.  Death…well, I think that speaks for itself.”    

Something clicked in Henry’s head.  The horsemen.  That’s what the different colors were supposed to represent.  The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were most commonly known as War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death.  The red was obviously War.  Famine was yellow.  Pestilence, white.  Black, of course, was death. 

But what was all this about freeing The Four Horsemen?  Henry didn’t understand.  He was uncomfortable here and burdened down by a sense of unease unlike any he had ever felt before.  This was a bad place, and these were bad people.