11:11

By Sebastian H. Alive

It’s a warning for what’s to come, nothing more and the only end is what has already been written. The circumstances for the ancient prophecy were already pre-ordained and determined at its birth, its destiny sealed and immutable. It will occur and you can’t stop it like you can't stop the rain from falling and the seasons from changing. Most people don’t spot the warning signs or choose instead to ignore them, treating it as a puzzling and sometimes humorous coincidence yet unaware of its true meaning. Some never give it much thought at all and just turn their back on it while others sense there’s something wrong almost like it’s on the threshold of their awareness but can’t quite identify what it is exactly and dismiss the feelings. But still it comes incessant and unceasing. It doesn't differentiate by creed or colour, gender or race and it doesn’t care for you age, social standing, wealth or life’s ambitions because it has a fulfilment to make and any choices you make will still lead you to the same end. You can’t beg to it or coerce it because it carries no emotions and you cannot fight or run away from it because it is everywhere and anywhere, an omnipresent presence that will not remain quiet. The signs have been there all along and the evidence is virtually everywhere if you know where to look and slowly but surely the veil is being lifted the nearer it comes.
.....And the time is now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastian H. Alive
• Release date: Oct 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301244317

Sebastian H. Alive

Sebastian H. Alive is a Purchasing Manager by day, controlling and manipulating the world’s economy while brainwashing the gullible masses. By evening he is father to two demonic minions that the devil is too embarrassed to be associated with and by night he writes stories.

Book preview

11:11

By Sebastian H. Alive

Published by Sebastian H. Alive

License Notes

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2015 Sebastian H. Alive

Prologue

pro·tec·tor also pro·tect·er

n.

1. One who protects; a guardian.

2. A device that protects; a guard.

3. Protector

It’s a warning for what’s to come, nothing more, and the only end is what has already been written. The circumstances for the ancient prophecy were already pre-ordained and determined at its birth, its destiny sealed and immutable.

It will occur and you can’t stop it like you can't stop the rain from falling and the seasons from changing. Most people don’t spot the warning signs or choose instead to ignore them, treating it as a puzzling and sometimes humorous coincidence, yet unaware of its true meaning. Some never give it much thought at all and just turn their back on it while others sense there’s something wrong, almost like it’s on the threshold of their awareness but can’t quite identify what it is exactly, and dismiss the feelings.

But still it comes incessant and unceasing. It doesn't differentiate by creed or color, gender or race and it doesn’t care for you age, social standing, wealth or life’s ambitions, because it has a fulfilment to make and any choices you make will still lead you to the same end.

You can’t beg to it or coerce it because it carries no emotions and you cannot fight or run away from it because it is everywhere and anywhere, an omnipresent presence that will not remain quiet. The signs have been there all along and the evidence is virtually everywhere if you know where to look and slowly but surely the veil is being lifted the nearer it comes.

.....And the time is now.

Chapter 1

"And he preformed great and miraculous signs, even causing fire to come down from heaven to earth in full view of men. Because of the signs he was given power to do on behalf of the first beast, he deceived the inhabitants of the earth." - Revelation 13:13-14

Church of St. Peter, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

The man named Raphael sank to his knees before the altar. He was suddenly overcome by weariness and sorrow as he gazed spellbound up at the crucifix staring down at him. His mouth wanted to speak but couldn't form the words that were tumbling around in his head and he felt his shame like a suffocating blanket around his shoulders.

Clasping his hands tightly in prayer he bowed his head with tears streaming from his eyes and the sound of his sobs echoed from the cold stone walls of the church. After a while the tears stopped, soaking into the red carpet beneath him and he wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand then looked back up at the crucifix with watery, bloodshot eyes.

Forgive me, Lord, he barely whispered. Forgive me for losing faith in you,

Raphael prayed again. Squeezing his eyes shut he interlocked his fingers so tightly that his knuckles turned white but he couldn’t find the strength or solace in his worship. After a while his shoulders slumped in resignation and he just knelt there with his arms hanging limply by his side and his face upturned to the figure of Jesus on the cross.

The bronze cast crucifix was a beautifully detailed centerpiece suspended from the wall of the chapel and he always marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into it. From the metal patibulum beam so intricately sculptured that you could almost see the grain of the wood to the heavy iron nails driven through the wrists. But for him the most memorable detail was in the face, and more specifically in the eyes. They were harrowing but at the same time they gazed down at him with love. For Raphael the representation was simply exemplary and was usually the most beautiful way to pray, but not today.

Have mercy upon me Lord for I am weak. Restore me to my vigilance in these dark times,

The crucifix remained silent as it always did and he sighed heavily, and then rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

I am not the leader I thought I was for one cannot be a leader if they themselves doubt their beliefs. They still follow me but it is to their death and I fear it is for nothing. I need your guidance Lord, show me the way to go I beg of you,

He ran a hand through his sweat soaked iron grey hair suddenly ill at ease and flicked a glance around the dark church, then ran his gaze down the centre aisle across the long lines of empty wooden pews.

Their evil is all around us, I can feel it even now leaching into my skin, he said in a hushed tone as he shivered involuntarily.

With trembling fingers he reached into his jacket pocket and reassuringly caressed the butt of the Walther P99 semi-automatic pistol. House of God or not he would open fire without a moment’s hesitation, but he just hoped his aim would be true.

Looking back up into the face of Jesus he swallowed hard and blinked rapidly.

Lord, I pray and I pray but there is no answer and it is not enough anymore. I am but your humble vassal exerting your work but the evil has become an epidemic and I am suffering while the enemies gather and my brethren die. We cannot fight against their dark powers so I ask you to strengthen me and help me recover. Give me faith in you again Lord,

But again there was no answer forthcoming and anger swept through him now he looked at the crucifix with blazing eyes.

Show me a sign! he cried. Just show me a sign,

*

East St. Louis, St. Clair County, Illinois

Jake Nederland woke to the shrill sound of his cell phone alarm piercing through the stillness of the bedroom, the sound loud and unnatural in the silence of the morning air.

The first thing he realized what that he ached all over from sleeping too heavily and too long in one position and he felt terrible, just terrible. It took him a minute to cut through the haze of sleep and gain consciousness enough to realize what was happening as he reached over to his cell which was vibrating in lazy circles on the bedside cabinet.

His fingertips brushed the discarded syringe aside and with a muttered curse he pressed the snooze button on the phone and rolled back onto his side, maneuvering back into the toasty warmth of his original body shape.  He could feel the heroin addiction within him, growing slowly, starting to wake and starting to manipulate him like a seed of incessant need.

Jake tried to sleep again but it wouldn’t come and he noticed he had begun to shake a little. At first it was very slight and barely a noticeable tremor, but he could feel it gradually increasing like it always did. It was just a precursor for what was to come, a small ripple on the calm surface of the sea before the agitation of the developing swell brought the coming storm. Soon he would feel the tightening of his muscles and the bone deep chills alternating with rapid sweating and varying between severity and frequency. It was only a matter of time before the need became too great and then his entire conscious thought would be about that one singular fix. It wouldn’t stop until he got it into his system and then, all of a sudden, the aches and pains would be gone and he’d feel normal again, healed almost.

Scratching himself repeatedly Jake turned over in the bed but still sleep wouldn’t come. Then the alarm of his cell phone sounded again and he muttered a strangled curse under his breath. Reaching blindly across his fingers searched for the cell and he dragged it before his weary eyes uncertain as to what was shaking more, his fingers or his phone. It was 06:15am.

Sighing he turned it off and pushed the phone away from reach into the shadows of the lamp hunched in the corner of the cabinet.  He inflated his lungs with a deep breath of air and stretched his limbs out in all directions for a couple of seconds.  Then with a groan Jake swung his legs from under the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing the palms hard against his tired gritty eyes.

His feet hit the floor sinking into the thick tattered blue carpet and he reached over the bedside cabinet, shutting the window and pressing firmly down on the latch whilst also casting a bleary eye down Collinsville Avenue at the main street. It looked grey, almost drearily so under a pregnant sky promising rain. It was devoid of life, framed only by the closed city shops, pawn shops, fast food restaurants, payday loan offices and check cashing outlets waiting to open for the day’s trade.

He needed cash and fast but he had nothing left to pawn. His watch had gone, as had his TV and his 9ct gold bracelet. Terence, the owner of the pawn shop was a nice guy, approachable with an infectious personality. He always had an easy smile for Jake, almost too nice to be a pawn broker and he valued things fairly, but Jake had pawned what little valuables he had left. The last piece worth anything had been his guitar, his pride and joy, a Gibson Les Paul Classic Manhattan Midnight. Terence had given him $800.00 dollars for that but Jake hadn’t complained even though he knew exactly what the guitar was worth. He had paid his rent arrears to balance him to the end of the month to save getting kicked onto the streets and had money left over to feed his habit for less than two weeks, but now he was broke again.

Seeing the Les Paul in the shop window had been heartbreaking. It reminded him of a time past when he had been happy and free of his addiction, of nights when he had sat with it on his knee plucking the strings, strumming melodic chords and stroking the tunes lost in his own thoughts.

Most days he walked by the pawn shop and never even looked in the window such was the emotion it stirred within him. The last time he gave it a fleeting glance it wasn’t there and it was the first time in twenty seven years that he had cried. He often thought that was maybe the turning point of his addition, the catalyst for his habituation to increasingly larger doses. It numbed his pain and gave him the high and release he craved. After that injection, after those first painstakingly long seconds until the hit came and he was free and alive, disconnected from his body and floating in a dream-like state in an ocean of beautiful twinkling stars.

It used to be just the 1 hit a day that got him by, and then it was 2 hits a day then 3, but even now that didn’t seem enough to function. These days it seemed that after he scored his thoughts turned to pretty much how and when he would score again. It was a vicious life cycle he was stuck in, of having to fix and re-fix his body of his dependency and without that euphoria and pleasure he was nothing, incomplete.

Flicking sleep from the corner of his eye he padded around the sides of the bed making the duvet and smoothing out any creases from the sheet.  Satisfied he ambled from the bedroom into the bathroom, pulling down on the light switch as he entered, squinting at the rawness of the light.

Red spots danced before his eyes briefly as he urinated while he considered possible ways to make some fast money to feed his habit. Irritated and with the stirrings of anxiety mounting he flushed the chain and began to brush his badly rotting teeth as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The reflection stared back quizzically with hollow, lifeless eyes, unfazed by the line of toothpaste forking down his stubbled chin.  He looked like a stereo-typical heroin addict and if a complete stranger met him on the streets he was sure that they’d guess he was an addict of some description. His face was pale and gaunt, almost ghostly and he had long greasy lank brown hair. If that wasn’t the giveaway he had needle tracks marks running down his arms and a couple of pretty tasty sores.

You look like shit, he said loudly to the mirror.

Like today and like yesterday and the day before that. The mirror confirmed just exactly how pathetic he looked.

He still felt so tired, so inexplicably tired, and had since the moment he woke up and so deathly cold from deep within it was as though his bones themselves ached, particularly in his back and legs. Splashing cold water onto his face he toweled off and moved into the kitchen. The cupboards were virtually empty as they were most of the time. The choice between dope and food was an easy one and dope won every time. Usually it wasn’t even a choice.

Boiling the kettle he opened the fridge, pulled out the milk, sniffed it then poured a generous amount into a cracked mug before adding a heaped teaspoon of coffee granules. Stirring in the hot water he took a sip of the drink and sighed deeply. Even the strong hit of caffeine wouldn’t take the edge away from the addiction gnawing away at his insides. It was a physical sensation – akin to hunger – and one he knew from past experience would only exasperate given time.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead and snake down his face, and then a ball of nausea began to build in his throat. Cursing he placed the steaming mug back onto the counter and bent double. His stomach hurt and he didn’t know whether he would shit or puke, or both. Rushing to the bathroom he gasped and yanked down his pants and groaned as his bowels spewed forth loose, watery shit.

Fuck, he moaned with a droplet of drool hanging from his bottom lip.

His last hit was 8 hours ago and if the dope didn’t hit his brain receptors soon things would start to get pretty rotten, pretty fast. Cleaning himself up he ambled back into the kitchen, polished off the coffee before going back to his bedroom and picking up his dirty crumpled clothes that were strewn on the floor beside the bed. Shrugging on his pale blue hoodie and jeans that demanded a belt he scooped up his cell phone and keys and left the apartment. When he got outside he cast a suspicious look to the heavens, his eyes roaming the swollen bellies of the rain clouds before pulling his hood up and thrusting his shaking hands into his pockets. There was a low rumble from above and he could almost smell electricity in the air as a few fat scattered droplets of rain began to fall pit-patting gently on the grey worn patio slabs adorning the squat ugly complex where he rented.

Terence, the owner of PawnQuick was the only person out on the street and was just opening the steel security shutters of his pawn shop with his broad back to Jake, oblivious to the hooded watcher. Rain had begun to fall with a bit more urgency now tapping a groove on the pavement as he walked over to meet him. He didn’t know why he was drawn to Terence, just that the man had been kind to Jake over the years and didn’t judge him, didn’t look upon him like a junkie with distrust in his eyes and didn’t see what Jake saw each and every day in the mirror. Terence was a big, burly man, almost bear-like and his face was crowned by a thick black beard with hints of grey on his chin. He had an honest, careworn face and always seemed to have a twinkle in his eyes, even on the most dour and depressing of days.

Morning Terry, said Jake sniffing and hunching his shoulders against the rain.

He jumped at the sound of his name and spun around with the speed of someone who belied their weight. For a split second his eyes were narrowed and his round face taut, body tense and alert, but when he saw Jake his features relaxed and his eyes returned to their usual, comforting and welcome self.

Fuck Jakey, y’all just about scared the shit outta me, he said in his southern Mississippi drawl.

Sorry boss, you just opening up?

Ayup,

Pretty miserable fucking weather, Terry,

Amen to that Jakey boy,

Terence paused and looked at him with concern, like a father would to a son and Jake stared back at him, silent, embarrassed and not knowing what to say.

Can I help you with something, Jakey?

Uhmmm….,

Terence flapped his huge arms and threw a weary look to the sky as rain coursed down his bearded face in rivulets.

Come, step inside the shop and let’s get outta’ the rain, he said with a boyish smile.

He pulled the door open to the shop, sounding the familiar bell and entered the store without seeing if Jake had followed. After a couple of seconds in the downpour staring at the Money to loan sign above the door he followed, stamping his feet on the welcome mat as he did so. He had been into the pawn shop many, many times before but never when it was completely empty of customers and he paused as he often did to look at the array of items available in the shop. Inside the fluorescent lights illuminated shelves upon shelves of second-hand electronics, cameras, DVD players, radios, TV’s and game stations. The more valuable items were locked away in glass cases and his eyes were drawn to the numerous gold bracelets, rings and charms that adorned the displays.

So Jakey, you lookin’ a little lost out there, you in trouble or something?

Jake gritted his teeth unable to respond, fighting against the urges.

Say, you okay, son? You on some shit?

I-I’m okay Terry, he stammered and sucked in a deep breath. So, how’s business doing?

Terence shrugged his massive shoulders and gave the contents of the shop a derisory glance and leant his arms down on the counter, crisscrossing his fingers and resting his round face.

Bad neighborhoods don’t have good stuff, he said shrugging. Business ain’t doin’ too good truth be told, but I’m alive and healthy so I can’t complain. How you doin’ anyway Jakey, you eating? You look terrible my boy,

I err…..have something for you if you could take a look at it, said Jake delving into his pocket and placing his cell phone gently on the counter.

Terence stared at the phone for a second then looked at something approximately 10 feet away.

See that over there in that display with the sign that says Like new, in original box?

Errrr…yeah, yeah,

Terence tapped the phone and raised his eyebrows.

Awwww….c’mon Terry, I need the cash desperately,

Sighing Terence picked up the cell and turned it over in his meaty hands while staring at it with an appraising eye.

It’s a real piece of shit Jakey,

It’s all that I have, said Jake shoving his hands deeper into his pockets to hide the trembling. I’m begging you,

Sniffing loudly Terence pursed his lips and placed it back on the counter and fixed Jake with a steady gaze.

That shit’ll kill you, you know that dontcha’ boy?

W-what?

You know what I’m talking about, he said nodding his head sagely. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll give you 20 bucks for it if you promise me that you’ll buy food with the money, but only if you promise,

20 bucks, it’s got to be worth double that? said Jake miserably.

Let me tell you a little secret Jakey, I don’t know nothing about pawn shops and I don’t really like doing it anyroad. I value low and sell high which is why I drive round in a ’73 Buick Electra that only starts when she feels indebted to me. 20 bucks is my most generous offer and lord knows my generosity is past spoiling,

I’ll take the 20, said Jake smiling weakly.

Grunting Terence opened the cash register and handed Jake a couple of bills.

Food, he said pointing a finger at him. Don’t pump that shit into your system,

Jake nodded and swiftly pocketed the cash, bade his farewells and left the shop. Outside the rain was still incessant and he stood there for a moment feeling the heroin cravings ravage his body painfully. His fingers caressed the bills in his pocket and he licked his lips slowly and blinked away some of the rain from his eyes. With 20 dollars he could get a bag. It would probably be so cut down that he could barely call it garbage let alone heroin but he didn’t care.

The only thing that mattered was scoring. And scoring quickly.

With a faint smile he stepped out into the street and set off in search of Old Mack, his street dealer. Despite the rain and the gloomy skies all of a sudden he began to feel a little better about the day.

*

It was his friend, the one person who would never let him down and never depart him or turn his back on him. It was his father, his mother, his best friend and his personal compatriot all rolled into one small bag the size of his pinky nail. His powdered friend looked up at him and said, ‘Come Jake, ingest me, inject me, smoke me, snort me or even shove me up your arsehole and I promise you I will show you nirvana.

Jake looked down at the light brown powder and then glanced over his shoulder, and then looked around his apartment before cursing loudly. He had no sterile injecting equipment and in his excitement he had completely forgot to stop off at the needle exchange centre in town. Rolling up his sleeves he stared at the ghastly scarring along his veins and collapsed blood vessels from repeated injections. It didn’t matter anyway; he didn’t think he could locate a major usable vein even if he tried.

It's the best I've gotten in a long, long time, Old Mack had said stroking his moustache that was a size too big for his face. It’s top notch and will blow you head clean off your shoulders,

He had snatched the 20 bucks from Jake’s hand quicker than a melting snowflake in the Sahara and passed him the small bag of dope. Usually the quality of the gear from Old Mack varied enormously. Sometime it was crappy, sometimes pretty decent, but rarely did he get the real good stuff. But you never challenged Old Mack’s reputation. Mack was a violent man, fiercely proud of his business and more so his repeat business, so any person that slandered his good name would likely find themselves at the bottom of Peabody Coal Dock with a new pair of cement gum boots. Plus making small talk with your dope dealer sucks at the best of times.

Plenty more where that came from Jake, Old Mack had said with a wink as he had left.

Jake looked with wide eyes at the light brown powder which more than likely was mixed with sugar or powdered milk and blinked a few times. He could remember a time when he wasn’t on heroin, a time when the substance wasn’t in control of his life. The memories were painful still, a little raw even after all this time and only with the rush of the dope would they be tempered and fade from his thoughts.

He had a nice life back then as a kid, he had loving supportive parents who always encouraged him, plenty of opportunities and future prospects and a large group of friends who smoked copious amounts of weed. They had a nice, little family home that wasn't too shabby in a neighborhood in Michigan. It was a place where kids could run around without fear of perverts, molesters or drug pushers and a time of great innocence. They were safe and protected and Jake was nothing more than a 13 year old boy, carefree and with a fragile mind and prone to being led astray. Then one dreadful day while Jake was at school his parents were held up at a signal stop by an armed person and gunned down in broad daylight before fleeing.

Till this day they had never caught the killer and in a population of 6,000 it made front page news at the time. Officials said they did