Sylvans (The Apocalypse Series, Book 3)

By Patrick Astre

Only one man knows the devastation about to rain down upon the human race. He's an ordinary man with addiction problems who--after a drunk-driving accident--is still struggling with his discovery of Sylvans.

Since the dawn of time, Sylvans lived peacefully among us until the NSA agent running the Brookhaven National Lab seizes the opportunity to exercise control over the ancient race.

Now, all hell is about to break loose.

THE APOCALYPSE SERIES, in order
The Boomer Protocols
Cold Fusion
Sylvans
The Devil's Caldera

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jan 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781614178279

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Prologue

Three hundred kilometers west of Jerusalem, 612AD.

The centurion stooped in the passageway descending to the bowels of the Earth. The flame of the torch held by the slave just before him reflected in the sweat bathing the corded muscles of his arms and the white scars crossing his face. As they descended, the centurion held the thick Object clenched between his left arm and ribcage. The knotted muscles of his biceps and forearms betrayed the strength of his grip.

As they moved downward, the surrounding blackness swallowed the light dancing from the slave's torch like demons lapping blood. The centurion's lips moved as he recited a single prayer, over and over, for he was of the new religion that was beginning to spread and take hold across the land. Beneath the armored breastplate, he felt the comforting weight of the cross.

Bloodlust danced before his eyes, filled with evil that fought to take control of his body and his soul. Oh he was no stranger to blood. He had led the phalanx that broke the back of the barbaric Germanic tribes on the northern borders of the Empire. He killed showing no quarter or pity, and when his men faltered he carried out the decimation, his sword running red with the blood of his own. But this, this impossible and evil lust that came to grip the heart of men and even women, to kill their very young, slaying their children and babies, was beyond anyone's experience.

He'd followed the rumors and the accounts of the hollow eyed and haunted faces of those who had succumbed to the unholy power. He traced the demonic evil to the newly arrived priest from the mountains east of Damascus. The torn rags of the wretched priest belied the power of his glittering eyes and the fanatic voice that rose in praise of the unspeakable Object.

The centurion had pulled his sword and with a savage cry beheaded the priest, releasing the Object, blood soaking it into the dirt of the street. It was barely the length of a man's arm and weighted no more than a few stones. He hacked at it with his sword but it was like striking the hardest granite imaginable and when he stopped, the thing bore not a mark of his fury.

He'd sought the council of the Sightless Sage who had also felt the evil loose upon the land, and had told the Roman how to defeat it. The centurion had followed the Sage's directions and found the cave funneling down into the earth to a narrow passageway. For ten days his legionnaires piled the vast mountain of rocks and when the preparations were completed, the centurion had said his prayers and entered the mouth of the cave. A lone slave preceded him as he gripped the evil Object and descended into the cave.

Orange licks of torchlight melted into dancing black shadows as they came to the end of the worn steps. The air smelled of ancient dust, and beneath his leather boots he thought he felt the crushed bones of the forgotten dead. The flames of the torch shook with the trembling of the slave's body and the centurion's eyes watered. His throat felt dry and his stomach knotted. He dropped to his knees, struggling to release the Object from his left arm that refused to obey.

In less than a breath, the slave whirled, swinging the torch, striking the centurion in the face. The pain and shock of the sudden blow broke the blood spell. With a savage cry, he released the Object, rose and drew his sword. The slave struck him again, blinding him. But the attacker was no match for the battle-tested reflexes of the Roman warrior. The sword whistled through the air disemboweling the slave.

The centurion knew what he had to do, had known since he'd found the cave. He took the small crucifix hanging from his neck and placed it in his mouth, continuously mumbling his prayer. In the satiny darkness of the cave, laced with the foul smell of the slave's entrails, he laid the hilt of the sword against the rock floor with the sharp blade pointing upward. He balanced himself against the sword, the tip of the blade just below his ribcage and fell with all his weight, transfixing himself on the blade.

As he swam away from the ocean of pain to the bright light of the shore, the centurion's last thought was that he had won after all.

The dying rays of the setting sun glinted off the top of the mountain when the centurion's aide gave the order that sent the huge pile of rocks hurtling down into the cave, sealing it. His commander had not reappeared and the Roman officer had been compelled by the iron discipline of the Legions to carry out their centurion's last order.

* * *

Brookhaven National Laboratory, Physics Building, Upton, Long Island, New York, September 2008

Doctor Pravin Prabinwah thought Duncan Wesley was like an overheated pressure cooker with undercurrents of violence leaking out the edges like wisps of steam. The doctor's colleague sat next to him with bulging eyes peering out under thick glasses like a frightened owl. Although the two scientists sitting across from Wesley represented the best minds in the world of physics, they seemed nothing more than timid mice before a lurking hungry tomcat.

Duncan Wesley rose from his seat. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward from the waist until his face was less than two feet from the scientists. They both craned their heads back as Wesley swung his gaze from one to the other.

I don't give a damn about your protocols and procedures or any other academic bullshit, Wesley said. You may be on the Government tit, but right now I control the flow of milk. In other words gentlemen your ass is mine. I want that test run in forty-eight hours. Do you understand that? Am I clear enough?

Dr. Prabinwah glanced at his colleague who blinked furiously as he licked his lips with little cat-like furtive movements of his tongue. Prabinwah realized he would have to be the one to make this volatile man understand, if that was at all possible.

Uh, Mr. Wesley, he said, these are not military exercises we can run on demand. Our protocols and procedures are not the problem. Even eliminating all safety concerns, we must still deal with laws of physics. Five days would be the absolute minimum.

Why?

Dr Prabinwah sighed. This was not the first time he had explained this. He felt as if he was being interrogated, as if the man was trying to trip him up somehow. He also knew he had no choice but to play along and comply. In the last two weeks the Physics Science Department had been hostage to Duncan Wesley and his National Security Agency mandate. Since the arrival of the Artifact from Israel, all operating time of the Ion Collider and the new Phased Pulse Array Nuclear Aligner were locked in by the Agency. All other projects had been placed on hold.

Well, uh, replied Prabinwah, without Dr Wu...

Both scientists jumped as Wesley slammed his hand on the table, the noise violent and alien against the muted whisperings of the computers lining the opposing wall of the room.

Screw Dr Wu. He's already facing Federal charges for his disappearing stunt. You can bet his ass is in a major sling when we catch him, and that won't be very long.

Yes, I understand, replied Prabinwah. But that leaves only Dr Hashimo and myself to interpret the data and set the Frequency Arrays. The Artifact's ionic pulses must be correctly interpreted and the alignment frequencies properly set before the Collider and the Phased Pulse Array Nuclear Aligner can be effective. Any error would not only negate the experiment but possibly ruin the Artifact for further tests.

How about I get you a couple dozen NSA computer geeks or a couple more physicists? Wesley asked.

Dr Prabinwah smiled for the first time as he replied.

"That would be like getting a clerk-typist to do a dissertation on surgery because she knows how to use a keyboard. Dr Hashimo, Dr Wu and myself, invented the theory and the machinery that is the Phased Pulse Array Nuclear Aligner. This is a brand new science, even to us. Bringing in outsiders would mean at least a year of training."

Wesley leaned back, his eyes never leaving the scientists. He sat for what seemed endless moments before he replied.

Five days, five fucking days maximum.

Dr Prabinwah nodded. The undercurrent of threats and possible violence, the intensity of the man, even the profanity had shaken the academic's gentle soul. He wanted out, away from this man.

After the two scientists left, Duncan Wesley raised his face toward the ceiling and rotated his head like someone trying to get rid of a crick in his neck. It always began this way, that unpleasant buzzing in his head like a bee loose in his cranium. The noise settled to a sort of background hum as he felt the presence of the Sylvan.

It was late evening when Duncan stepped outside the main Physics lab. He could recall how he got there, where his feet went for each step, the feel of the handrail as he descended the stairs. But he was not in control. He felt as if he was tied on the front seat of a car while someone else drove. They might take your directions, or they might not. He felt the force, the push and pull of the alien presence. He didn't sense any threats, but still wondered what would happen if he tried to push it out.

Five days from now it wouldn't matter, he thought as he took another step toward the dark patch of woods at the edge of the Lab.

Where the Sylvan waited.

Chapter 1

The Rocky Point Pine Barrens Preserve, Ridge Road, Rocky Point, Long Island, New York, September 2008

Even if Joe had not been drinking, he probably still would have hit the child. It was almost as if the kid fell out of the darkness above Joe's headlights directly onto the road. Before his alcohol-laden reflex could even begin to apply the brakes, the small body hit the hood of the Camry with a plunking sound. He bounced over the windshield with flailing arms, hit the roof with a dull thud and disappeared. Sick with horror Joe stood on the brake, stopping the car fifty feet away.

Because another DUI would land him in jail, he had deliberately chosen the long way home, thirteen miles of deserted road winding through the desolate Pine Barrens forest of eastern Long Island.

Joe wrenched open the glove box, half tearing off his fingernail, the pain drowned by the vast amount of adrenaline crowding out the alcohol in his blood. Flashlight, gotta have a flashlight, he thought. I own a hardware store godammit. He found a pencil light and pushed the switch. A feeble beam illuminated the open door of the car as he jumped out.

Oh please God, don't let this child be dead, please, please. He knew to the core of his being that he had to take care of this kid, no matter what the consequences, to somehow make this right. He ran toward the small huddled form dimly lit by the glow of his taillights. He stumbled and fell, his hands painfully scraped by the rough blacktopped road. The little flashlight rolled away. He rose with a curse, picked up the light and ran the last few feet to the child.

It happened so quickly that for a split-second, he almost believed it was a booze fantasy. This child suddenly stood, impossibly fast after suffering such a hit. It was no more than four feet tall with strangely elongated limbs. What was he wearing? Joe thought, some sort of black bathrobe? Its dark facial skin was riddled with folds and wrinkles, the eyes, yellow and luminescent. They were large eyes like those cartoon kids you see in toy stores, only not cute, not cute at all. With impossible speed, the child-creature darted from Joe's weak flashlight beam into the viscous blackness of the woods.

Once Joe had been sitting in a gin mill, minding his own business when a drunk sucker-punched him, knocking him off the stool. He had sat there, dazed and uncomprehending, blood from his nose gushing on his shirt and pants. He felt the same way now, only much worse. He had caused this, he was responsible, what could he tell the parents of this strange child creature?

He pointed the flashlight, barely illuminating a pitiful few square feet. He swung it back and forth. Nothing. He stood still and listened. There was no rustling, not even a breeze to stir a few leaves. The internal humming in his ear punctuated the silence, mocking him. He felt the grit of the road under his feet and the sweet pine scent of the forest sat like ashes in his nostrils. He wanted to vomit. The flashlight died out and he threw it to the ground with a curse.

He ran back to the car. A sob escaped from his throat as he jumped into the idling Camry. He slammed it in reverse and jammed on the accelerator, the car weaving, barely in control as he reached the approximate spot where he had been standing. He whipped the wheel sharply to the right and stopped the car sideways in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes, headlights pointing into the woods.

The underbrush was so thick the lights barely penetrated a few feet. He switched to high beams. The halogen headlamps lit the big oaks and pines rising above the low vegetation, washing out the colors rendering everything in black and white.

For a long time, Joe stared at the empty woods and thought about the child-creature? Grief and self-loathing rose in his throat like a noxious cloud. He pounded the dashboard, feeling the pain of each blow through his shoulder. He sat there until the lightest tinge of the eastern sky announced the coming dawn, before he finally drove away.

Chapter 2

It was daylight when Joe pulled into the garage of his empty house. He found the note from his wife telling him she would be gone a few days and ending with a terse We need to talk. He knew what the talk would be about. He vowed to turn things around when she came back, but first he had to settle last night's event somehow.

He spent the morning sitting with the remote, switching the TV to all the various news channels while listening to local radio stations at the same time. Nothing about any missing kids or hit and run. For hours he agonized over the next step until finally he picked up the phone.

His words stumbled as the desk sergeant answered.

Sixth Precinct, Middle Island, Sergeant Malone.

I was wondering, ah, would you have any, ah... reports of kids missing?

I have a whole wall of them. Are you making a report sir?

Uhm, I'm not sure, I ah... maybe. Were there any hit and run?

There was silence on the other end. Joe's hand started to shake and he felt himself sweating. Don't feel so guilty, he tried to reassure himself. You're only trying to do the right thing now.

Are you Mr. Joseph Gray? the officer suddenly asked, startling Joe.

He sat in stunned silence. Of course they would have caller ID.

Sir? said the voice on the other end.

Oh, uh, I'm sorry, yes, I'm Joe Gray.

Would you like to talk to a detective sir? Would you like to make a report?

Joe felt the drumming of his heart. Although he'd just showered, he thought he could smell his own acrid sweat. He had a sudden need to unload his burden. He desperately wanted help no matter the consequences.

Yes, please, I can be there in a few minutes.

Chapter 3

The Sixth Precinct is located a short drive from Joe's house so he got there pretty quickly. Even though the building is a fairly new concrete structure, the inside smelled of old wood, paper and ink. Police officers came and went as Joe sat waiting and twitching on the rough wooden bench.

After about ten minutes, a dark haired, pleasant looking middle-aged man wearing an ill-fitting sport jacket, introduced himself as Detective Figueroa. He led Joe into a windowless room containing a table and four chairs. The glare of the bright fluorescent lights hurt his eyes, adding to his discomfort.

I understand you have information regarding a missing child, Figueroa said.

Uhm, not exactly, I think, maybe, I might have hit someone.

Joe stopped and put his face in his hands, pressing his eyes as if that single action could just make the whole thing go away.

Figueroa looked at him, not unkindly.

Maybe you would like to have a lawyer present?

Joe placed his hands on the table, opened his eyes and shook his head no. Then he began to talk. He told this detective as much as he could remember, answered his frequent questions and only left out the amount he drank that night. When he finished, he looked at Figueroa expectantly. The detective's notes filled two pages.

Mr. Gray, you said you know exactly where this happened. Could you take me there now? Figueroa asked, putting down his pen.

The detective led him out of the precinct house toward his unmarked sedan.

How many cars do you have? he asked, like an afterthought.

Two, replied Joe. Well, more like one. The second one is my wife's. She's been gone a while.

Do you mind if I look at your car? Figueroa asked.

Joe led the detective to the Camry. Figueroa spent the next 15 minutes going over every inch of the vehicle. Apparently satisfied, he took Joe back to his sedan and followed his directions to the desolate spot on Ridge road.

Are you sure this is where it happened? Figueroa asked.

Very sure, said Joe, picking up a small steel tube in the weeds at the edge of the blacktop. Here's my flashlight.

Figueroa spent what seemed to Joe an interminable amount of time examining the road surface and surrounding shoulders. He asked about the spot where he thought the child had run into the woods. He looked into the weeds and scrub oak bushes until the daylight began to dim. Finally, they rode back to the precinct in silence.

Joe found himself back in the brightly lit room.

Let's summarize what we have, said the detective, There are no local missing persons at this time, kids or otherwise. You said you hit what appeared to be a child, or perhaps a strange little old man with glowing yellow eyes. Whoever or whatever it was, you claim it fell out of a tree and you hit it with your car. But there are no marks or dents on your car. All of this happened in the middle of the night on one of the most deserted roads in the area. You found the exact spot, found what you said was your flashlight, but there's no blood or any kind of evidence of any thing being hit anywhere on the road or the surrounding woods.

Joe's stomach ached as he realized how stupid the whole thing sounded. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth, making a sucking noise. Figueroa looked at him and continued:

Now let me give you my version Mr. Gray. Before you came here I looked at your record. You have two DUI's. Am I correct?

Joe nodded, feeling worse by the minute.

You said you own a hardware store. Hardware stores close early, usually between six to eight PM, nine the latest. You said you worked late on inventory, then had one beer and found yourself in this incident at about two in the morning, Figueroa emphasized the one beer as he continued.

"Here is what I believe happened, Mr. Gray. You were tired, feeling the effect of that one beer–or however many there were. You decided to take the long way home through the Pine Barrens, probably because of the scenic value, or maybe because we seldom patrol it. But it is heavily wooded and has a large deer population. The thing here is that deer don't run flat out, they hop. A small one hopped on the road in front of your car, you probably just brushed it, then you saw it run away."

That was no deer, Joe said, trying to speak with conviction and hearing his voice coming out in a muffled tone. God he was tired. Now he suddenly craved sleep, relief from this nightmare.

Late at night, tired, one beer, sometimes our eyes play tricks on us, said Figueroa. Here's what we're going to do, he continued, I'm going to write this up as a possible animal collision. I'll send a patrol down Ridge Road twice a day for the next couple of days. We'll keep our eyes open for missing persons. If nothing comes up in the next few days, we'll put the matter to rest.

Chapter 4

It was past nine PM when Joe got home. He had not slept in two days. His shoulder was sore and his finger throbbed where the nail had been torn off. He changed the bandage, and lay down on the couch.

It was still dark outside and the early October dawn was at least a half hour away when Joe opened his eyes. He saw that the entire east end wall facing the backyard and woods had vanished. He sat up, feeling his pulse racing as bile clawed at his throat. He rose from the couch. It seemed as if he was a stranger watching himself, detached yet not remote. He walked to the edge of the second floor on legs he couldn't feel as a part of his mind shrieked in alarm. Below he could see several furtive small hooded figures. One of them looked up with a flash of yellow eyes in a face filled with dark venom. He backed away from the edge as a sense of palpable menace enveloped him. He heard muted hissing and creaking noises outside as if the figures were climbing.

He backed away until his heels touched the opposing wall. His hands trembled as fear washed over him. He knew he should run and cry for help but his feet would not obey. He backed into the wall, feeling his body shaking, and his breath like ragged bellows in his chest. Two of the figures appeared at the edge of the floor, dark, barely visible against the night sky. A corner of Joe's mind noticed the symbol painted on his floor. A twelve-point Star of David with the inside missing.

More figures appeared and as they began to move forward, Joe knew he was in the greatest danger of his life.

He bolted upright with a stifled scream, almost falling off the couch. His heart raced and his hands shook from the nightmare. A vague sense of fear lingered. Daylight poured through the window and the digital readout on the microwave said 8 AM as he walked into the kitchen. He needed coffee more than any morning he could remember. As he opened the cabinet, he glanced at the window and froze.

Beneath the slightly opened window, resting on the counter just below, was an exquisite shape made from twigs lashed together. A twelve point Star of David with the inside missing. As Joe picked it up, he noticed the perfect craftsmanship. No more than a foot in diameter, each delicate twig tied with some kind of dried plant matter in perfect symmetry. Joe closed and latched the window and put down the object. He told himself that he must have seen it when he got home, that he must have missed the open window, that it was just one of the many curio things that Becky always bought, that last night's events had so unsettled him, it all came together in that horrendous nightmare.

But a tiny part of him whispered it wasn't so.

Chapter 5

Joe called the hardware store and told his manager that he wouldn't be in. The visit with the police had not resolved anything. Tortured by thoughts that he had injured or even killed someone, he knew he had to find the answer to this puzzle if his life was ever going to be right again. He felt a need to revisit the scene.

It was mid afternoon when he drove to Ridge Road and found the spot at the end of a sharp curve. He parked on the shoulder of the road and started walking the area and searching. He didn't quite know what he was looking for. Did he expect to find a child or some kind of midget huddling wounded in this primeval untouched section of the Pine Barrens?

He continued walking until he reached a narrow footpath and came almost nose-to-nose with a homeless man.

At least he seemed like a homeless man as they looked at each other in silence. The stranger was tall with a salt and pepper beard and long ragged overcoat. Joe spoke first.

What are you doing here?

I live here, the man said. I know what you're looking for and you won't find it here.

Whatever remained of Joe's confidence left him like smoke out an open window. He backed away, mumbling some unintelligible noise. He also felt like he was being watched. The feeling grew as he turned back to the road, walking quickly to his car.

Joe drove back home and spent the rest of the day and evening doing small household chores. All the radios and TV in the house were tuned to local news station but still no reports on any pedestrian accidents or missing people. No calls from the police either.

I know what you're looking for and you won't find it here.

The words of the homeless man kept coming back to him. At first he tried to dismiss the encounter. Joe volunteered monthly in the church soup kitchen and had firsthand experience with homeless people. He knew some of them were mentally ill and irrational. This was probably just the case with this man, but still, Joe thought, the words seemed to have meaning directed at him and the man had a certain presence.

That evening Joe decided on a course of action. He noticed with satisfaction that he had not had a single drink since that night and did not feel any desire for one now. The first order of business was to keep it that way. Tomorrow he would go to the store and arrange for his absence for a few days. He had to get away and clear his head. He would find Becky. She had to be with one of her two sisters, maybe Jeanne in Connecticut.

Tomorrow evening he would take the ferry from Port Jefferson and stay at a hotel in Bridgeport. Starting fresh the following morning he'd do whatever he had to do to get Becky back.

When he went to bed late that night, he fell asleep soon as his head hit the pillow.

He woke to a chilly breeze blowing through the house. The digital clock read four-thirty AM as he got out of bed to check the windows. The walls had vanished, and the house had turned into four corner pillars holding the two floors and a roof.

A sibilant hissing punctuated by scratching noises filled the air. As he moved closer to the edge of his second floor bedroom, Joe saw the surrounding homes had also vanished as if he'd been transported into some otherworldly realm. A gibbous moon shed a dim light on the scene below. Dozens of hooded figures surrounded the house and to Joe's horror, they climbed the pillars to his floor. As he backed away from the edge, his feet seemed to walk in molasses, each step painfully slow as the small figures reached his floor and circled around him. He felt the wild pounding of his heart as he saw they each carried a gleaming white thin bone sharpened to a wicked point. Yellow eyes glowed bright in the dark hoods and small fangs gleamed with drool in the moonlight as the circle closed in on Joe.

This time he screamed as he bolted upright in his bed. He felt the sweat bathing his shaking body, his hands shook and he smelled his own fear. He looked around wildly at the four walls of his bedroom, and the clock on the night table: five AM. He might as well get up. No way he was going back to sleep after this nightmare. Warm oily nausea rose in his throat as he got up and turned the light switch. His heart jumped at what he saw: The top drawer of his dresser leaned out, open, and this time he knew for sure he had closed it. The middle stack of underwear had been removed and neatly piled on the top of the dresser. In their place, standing in the drawer and leaning on the edge, rested a duplicate of the twig symbol he had found in the kitchen yesterday morning. This one was larger, about a foot and a half in diameter. Joe approached it cautiously, as if it might come to life and attack him. It had the same intricate workmanship and symmetry, but instead of twigs, this one was made out of the bleached small bones of animals. He closed the open bedroom window that he knew for sure had been shut when he fell asleep last night.

Chapter 6

Joe ran a shaking