Son of Sam (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 4)

  SON OF SAM

  A Last Scribe Novella

  R. Lee Walsh

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  LOS ANGELES

  2015

  Copyright © 2015 by R. Lee Walsh. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  Story Merchant Books

  400 S. Burnside Ave. #11B

  Los Angeles, CA 90036

  http://www.storymerchantbooks.com

  A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. .

  Revelation 12:1-4

  CONTENTS

  ~Chapter One~

  ~Chapter Two~

  ~Chapter Three~

  ~Chapter Four~

  ~Chapter Five~

  ~Chapter Six~

  ~Chapter Seven~ The Countdown Begins

  ~Chapter Eight~ 6:30 p.m.

  ~Chapter Nine~ 9:45 p.m.

  ~Chapter Ten~ 10:55 p.m

  ~Chapter Eleven~ 3:05 a.m

  ~Chapter Twelve~ 3:25 a.m

  About the Author

  THE LAST SCRIBE

  ~Chapter One~

  ~Chapter Two~ 4:00 p.m.

  ~Chapter Three~

  ~One~

  It galls me sometimes the way I've been vilified, but no one can maintain a war against friends. The moment you start to empathize or even worse--agree with your enemy, the motivation to defeat him ends.

  There are two sides to every conflict. I chose one and my brother chose the other. To this day, I've been cast as the monstrous villain while he's revered as the heroic conqueror.

  The sad part is, I still love my brother--even though he's never stopped trying to kill me. His continued good health is proof of my affection, but sooner or later our war must end and unfortunately, so must he.

  Called Scepter by our people, the Irin, he rules our immortal race with the only weapon that can kill our kind, his legendary Flaming Sword. What they all neglect to mention or have conveniently forgotten is that I once reigned over our people and governed this planet and he served under me.

  The Irin have always protected the earth, functioning as an unseen security force. Able to take on any appearance, protection and preservation has always been our purpose and because of our efforts this macrocosm has flourished. Whenever disease or the environment threatens the survival of a species, the Irin intervene. Hurricanes that suddenly die over the ocean to the discovery of new vaccines--undetected and unbeknown to humans, the Irin have prevented innumerable catastrophes.

  Yet mankind, as a species, has always been our greatest challenge. Intelligent, creative, but tragically fragile--if they're not destroying themselves or the environment, they're succumbing to some vile disease. The only reason they haven't wiped been wiped out altogether is a testament to Irin ingenuity.

  It was I who first made the suggestion. Where man was weak the Irin were invincible--so why not combine the two species? It seemed to me a logical solution and many Irin agreed. Humans would no longer be subject to the elements and the Irin could impart invaluable knowledge, strength and longevity. Unable to mate or bear children with our own kind, such an alliance could not only solve both our problems, but open up a world of new possibilities.

  The Irin High Council forbid it. Some went so far as to call it blasphemy. We do not interfere with the natural order, they ruled, and anyone found participating in such an act would be sent to Gehenna, or eternal fire, a fate worse than death to an Irin.

  Most accepted the Council's ruling, unwilling to risk such harsh punishment for disagreeing. However, a handful of visionaries, myself included, would not be dissuaded so easily.

  The first child born of an Irin father possessed extraordinary strength, intellect and height. In a few short years the population exploded and we were flooded with Irin volunteers. Half-breeds were produced at an astonishing rate, quickly outnumbering humans.

  While it's true some half-breeds were prone to startling violence, given time we'd have found a solution. However, before the situation could even be addressed, my brother and his legion of Irin mercenaries intervened.

  In a matter of hours every half-breed was slaughtered, the innocent along with the violent. Of the more than two hundred thousand Irin who had now participated in the experiment, those captured were either imprisoned in Gehenna or branded as traitors and conscripted as slaves to the Irin.

  Hunted like animals, I and a handful of those closest to me escaped, still in full possession of our powers. To ensure our survival we split into seven groups based on our dominant supernatural abilities.

  Dividing the earth into territories, each group was then given their own dominion. Where the Irin are bound by a strict moral code, whatever it takes has been our only rule. Over time we've amassed considerable power and influence, dominating through corruption and disorder. While not the glorious legacy we once envisioned, we're united in our committment to regain control of this planet and an undying hatred for the Irin.

  Some still refer to us as the Shachath, or destroyers, but we're more commonly known as Powers. Denounced as a heretics and hunted for eternity, tell me-–who are the real monsters? The ones who risked everything to offer man immortality or the ruthless assassins who murdered countless innocent children?

  In an effort to prevent future conflicts, the Irin High Council gave all remaining Irin a choice. Reaffirm allegiance or leave without recourse, forever stripped of all but immortality. Thereinafter called Sheva, they would be allowed to live on earth as humans with three unbreakable provisions: They must never fight or oppose an Irin and never reveal their origins. Above all, they are never ever to have children. The punishment for breaking any portion of the pact would be execution by the Scepter's sword. No excuses. No exceptions.

  A third of the Irin still chose to become Sheva.

  Those who remained loyal to the Irin still patrol the earth, ensuring Sheva compliance and protecting the natural order. They wage a constant battle against myself and the Powers, led by none other than my very own brother.

  The Ancients, revered Irin scholars entrusted with the documented history of all creation, foretold the birth of a human child gifted with extraordinary powers. The last descendant of the very first humans, the secret of creation is said to have been passed down through the blood to this unknown heir. The existence of this child would herald the end of the age and according to prophecy, the future of mankind and Irin alike will be determined by this ordinary human. All but forgotten for more than seven thousand years, when whispered rumors turned to vague reports of actual sightings, the Powers agreed it was time to find out for ourselves.

  After months of careful planning and several close calls with the Irin, on a rainy afternoon when she was barely more than an infant, it was I who personally looked into the eyes that would someday decide the future. What I saw not only convinced me the prophecy was accurate, but this fragile human they aptly called Hope was destined to bear me a son--a being more powerful than any other Irin and the ultimate ruler of mankind. The fact that no human and so few Irin even knew of the prophecy gave me years to prepare for my future wife.

  They say the end doesn't justify the means, but I
tend to disagree. If using certain people in her family cloaked my presence for the next seventeen years of her life, then so be it.

  “She's on her way,” her step-brother Simon says, calling from a cell phone I provided. For the last several months we've kept in contact this way to ensure no one else discovers our partnership.

  His father is John Matthews, America's most-loved televangelist and founder of the largest mega-church in the world. Hope's the only step-child among his four children and the obvious black sheep of the family. Outspoken, irreverent and always causing trouble, she's everything I knew she'd be.

  Simon's insecurity and the pressure of living in the shadow of his celebrity father has made him a most willing accomplice. For years he's been my eyes and ears inside the legendary Matthews household, allowing me to remain close to Hope but invisible. He's smart enough to know he'll never be asked to take over his father's empire so he's opted to pursue a career in mine. I recruited him myself, promising him a position of power in my organization in exchange for inside information about his family. As far as he knows I'm Sam Prentice, media mogul and founder of the New Generation, an up and coming grassroots organization that preaches government accountability and freedom from religious tyranny. Over the last ten years our membership has gone from a handful of followers to a growing concern with well over a million.

  Of course, once this is done, I'll have no more use for Simon and he’ll need to disappear.

  As of last month, my girl turned eighteen and the wait is finally over. Today's the day we begin our journey together, right after I liberate her from this pathetic excuse for a family.

  Parked in the mostly empty lot of the newly built mega-church monstrosity they call the Omega Alliance Coliseum, I watch the entrance as a security guard makes his rounds. Still some distance away, I prepare to exit the vehicle. “You sure she's alone?”

  “Yep. She's watching rehearsals, but I'll make sure she's downstairs in the next hour.”

  “And your parents?”

  “They're still being interviewed by that reporter.”

  “Get rid of the phone. I won't be calling you again.”

  “So this is it? You're sure?” he asks. His wheedling tone never ceases to annoy me.

  “Just do what we discussed. I'll contact you when the time comes.”

  “Any idea when that'll be?”

  “Man up, kid. This isn't twenty questions. I said I'd be in contact and I will.”

  “Sure, yeah, sorry. I'm just nervous.”

  “Then you're as pathetic as they say,” I reply, hanging up.

  Donning my sunglasses, I open the car door, once again surveying the parking lot. A news van is parked near the front doors and the security guard has disappeared around the back of the building.

  There are eight entrances to the main sanctuary and according to my calculations he should be checking the first set of doors in the back. Wearing an identical security uniform myself, I follow the guard.

  Rounding the corner, I see he’s stopped to have a smoke. Two other men, both wearing brown uniforms are leaning against the building near a row of concrete steps that lead to the loading dock. One leans over, offering a cigarette to someone sitting on the stairs. They all chuckle at something being said and I quickly shield myself behind a large stack of crates next to the building. I peer around the edge and see the group staring at something, or someone at the other end of the lot.

  “Friggin' reporters,” the security guard says. “They're supposed to be inside. I'll take care of it.” The other two men are suddenly on the defensive, motioning for whoever's on the stairs to go inside. That's when I hear her.

  “Did they get a picture?” Hope asks.

  “Don't know,” one of the men replies. “I didn't see a camera.”

  The reporter darts around the building with the security guard in hot pursuit.

  “I can't wait to get out of this town,” she says. “I swear it's like living in a zoo.”

  “Better get inside,” one of the men says sympathetically. “We'll cover for you if anyone asks.”

  I hear her footsteps on the stairs and the sound of a metal door opening and closing. The two men chat for another minute, then follow my girl into the building.

  Waiting until I'm sure they're all gone, I head straight for the now vacant stairs. Listening for movement, I ascend the steps, focused on the grey metal door. When I reach it, I pause to make sure no one's watching, then quietly slip into the Omega Alliance storage area.

  ~Two~

  The cavernous belly of the mega-arena is filled nearly to the ceiling with all manner of supplies and enormous pieces of theatric scenery. To my left is an office where I can hear the two men talking, so I quickly dart toward a towering sea of boxes in the main storage room. Stealing behind a large crate, I listen for any others in the vicinity.The televised service of the OA's Easter celebration is scheduled for six a.m. Simon told me the entire staff gets off early today, in exchange for coming in so early.

  Soon, the men exit the office, turning off the lights. Listening to their departing voices, when I'm sure they've truly left for the day, I relax somewhat and spend a quiet half hour wandering through the storage room. Just being in this building makes me nervous and I halfway expect to be hit by a bolt of lightning.

  If all goes according to plan, Simon should send my girl down here for a box of fliers in the next few minutes. All I need is a clear shot and enough time to carry her out of the building.

  Reminding myself to remain calm, I examine a large piece of scenery that looks eerily like a place I've been before.

  “Can I help you?”

  Startled, I turn to find a diminutive dark-haired woman in a candy apple red suit, standing only feet away, her eyes narrowed. I recognize her as Paula Temple, my girl's aunt and the Omega Alliance choir director. Wearing the security guard uniform gives me some credibility, so I school my expression to appear friendly.

  “Ma'am,” I say, adopting a southern drawl. “I was just admiring someone's handiwork. It sure looks like the real thing.”

  “You've been to Israel?” she asks, her tone bordering on hostile. She glances at the name tag pinned to my chest. “Bob, is it?”

  “Yes ma'am. I've never been to Israel but I guess it's just the way I'd imagined it.”

  “Why are you here?” she asks, her tone growing even sharper.

  “Just doing one last check to make sure everything's secure before I lock up for the day.”

  Pursing her lips, she takes a deep breath through her nose while clutching some kind of folder to her chest. Intrigued by her odd reaction I smile, but she seems to recoil even further. Where’s the charming woman I've heard so much about? The colorful mother goose of the Matthews family?

  “You're a liar,” she says finally. “I'll ask you again - why are you here?”

  “I'm sorry?” I say, frowning. “Ma’am, are you alright? Is there something I can help you with?”

  She narrows her eyes and I see power behind them--the kind that says she could be trouble. “You have no right to be in this building.”

  “Look lady, I'm just a security guard. Whatever I've done to--”

  “Cut the crap, Bob. I know exactly who you are.”

  Blinking, I shake my head. “Obviously, there's been some misunderstanding. I'm just here to--”

  “To what?” she hisses, cutting me off. “Did you really think you could just waltz in here and no one would recognize you? I could smell you from upstairs.”

  Smell me?

  She scowls, clenching her jaw. “You have exactly one minute to get out this building.”

  Well now. This is interesting.

  “Or what?” I say, dropping the act. I take a step toward her. Surprisingly, her dark eyes show no fear whatsoever and her stance remains confrontational, aggressive even.

  “Who let you in?” she demands, ignoring my question. “Was it Simon?”

  Curious that she immediately suspected Sim
on. To hear him tell it, no one would dream of pointing the finger at the eldest Matthews son.

  “If you must know, I simply walked through the door. Now it's your turn to answer a question,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets.

  She watches my hands, her nostrils flaring. “Which is?”

  “What do I smell like?”

  She grimaces, her eyes radiating loathing. “Corruption.”

  “Fascinating,” I murmur, mulling this over. As a blood relative of the last descendant, I suppose it's possible she has some fragment of Hope's supernatural abilities. “And is this a singular talent you have or do other members of your family have it as well?”

  She shakes her head without responding. Reaching into the pocket of her tailored red jacket, she pulls out a Blackberry cell phone. Before she can dial I smack the phone from her hand and hear the unmistakeable sound of delicate wrist bones shattering. She cries out, taking a faltering step back. Cradling her injured arm next to her chest, her dark eyes hold not fear exactly, but far more respect for who she's addressing.

  “I almost feel sorry, for you,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “It must be hard to keep fighting a war you've already lost.”

  So she really does know who I am. The question is how and from whom? Unfortunately, I don't have time to interrogate her further and sadly, for both of us, this little spitfire in a candy red suit will have to be eliminated. “Oh, I wouldn't worry about me, dear lady. I may have lost a few battles along the way but the real war is just beginning. And while all this has been enormously entertaining, I'm afraid I'm on a tight schedule. I would like to say, however, that I've enjoyed meeting you. I'm only sorry it has to end on such a sour note.”

  I see a brief flash of desperation that quickly turns to determination in her eyes.

  “You don't frighten me,” she mutters, taking a futile step back.