The Apocalypse Script: The Nisirtu

By Samuel Fort

Ben Mitchell is having a very bad year. He has no clients, no money, no love life, and a lot of bills. Worse, the world is going to hell. Armies are on the move, the stock market is crashing, crops are failing, and a deadly pandemic, Cage's Disease, is sweeping the globe.

The researcher finally catches a break when a wealthy and beautiful client, Lillian Stratton, offers him a job deciphering several mysterious, ancient tablets. The assignment promises to bring him wealth and fame. Perhaps even romance.

There are a few conditions, however. To study the tablets, the researcher will have to travel to Steepleguard, a massive and nearly abandoned hotel hidden deep in the Rocky Mountains. He must also join the Delphic Order of the Nisirtu, a powerful and ruthless secret society with some very peculiar membership requirements. His sponsors? A delusional, self-proclaimed "princess," a killer wanted by the police, and an ancient man who speaks in riddles.

Ben soon finds himself a pawn in an international game with the highest possible stakes. Trapped by his supposedly benevolent hosts, he learns that everything he's been told is a lie and that the motives for bringing him to Steepleguard are far more sinister than he could have ever imagined.

Ben thought he had nothing to lose. He was wrong. He has everything to lose, including his life. To escape Steepleguard, the researcher must defeat the Nisirtu at their own game. But even as he plots his escape, he discovers that a far greater enemy lurks beyond the gates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Fort
• Release date: Aug 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781393940630

Book preview

Prologue

H e'll be here in an hour, Scriptus, said the woman, her phone to her ear. Is everything in place?

The voice that replied was ancient and raspy. Yes, Lilitu. You doubt me after all these years?

No. Of course not. I'm just nervous. This is the most difficult part of the script. I worry about the unexpected. Are you sure he won't refuse? What shall we do if-

He will not refuse. I've run the script out seven degrees and all parallel scripts by another four. He's in a channel without branches. He can only go where I've destined him to go.

The woman tugged at her lower lip. What of Fiela?

Her plane landed this morning. I imagine she's grumpy. She had to fly in the cargo bin.

Where is she, then?

Nearby, I’m sure. She'll eavesdrop on your conversation and then follow the Ardoon when he leaves. After that, her curiosity will compel her to approach him. My charts indicate that she will bond more tightly with the man if she meets him alone, as opposed to being introduced to him by you.

She isn't armed, I hope.

No. She's in stealth mode. No guns, no knives. There was a pause. Piano wire, perhaps…

Is she being pursued?

Yes. She was identified at the airport by a rebel informant. He'll follow her even as she follows your guest. But the Maqtu have no assassins in the area and will be compelled to use their slaves against her.

The woman smiled. Woe to the slaves.

"Woe to all slaves," countered the old man.

A price must be paid if the world is to be reborn.

It is an exceedingly high price.

The woman shrugged. Is it, though? Humanity is bankrupt. In order to start again, it must forfeit what it has. Out with the old, in with the new. It is a momentary sacrifice for a greater good.

Momentary?

You know what I mean.

As you say. I need to go, Lilitu. I’ve got calculations to do and you need to prepare for your guest.

Wish me luck?

"No, never luck. I wish you a successful script."

Even better, replied the woman, ending the call.

She tapped the phone lightly against her chest, thinking about the man who would soon appear at her door. He had no idea how much his world was about to change.

His world - and everyone else’s.

1

Ayoung man in a black silk suit with expensive hair opened the ornately carved double doors. May I help you? 

The man on the other side handed him a business card saying, My name is Ben Mitchell. Miss Stratton is expecting me. 

The servant carefully examined both the card and the man who proffered it. The visitor was unusually tall, about six and a half feet in height, and was dressed in black slacks, an inexpensive white shirt open at the collar, and an old wool blazer that strained to contain his broad shoulders. His hair was groomed to something approaching military standards and his brown eyes were alert.  

The servant nodded, recognizing the visitor as the man in the photograph his employer had shown him the day before. 

Yes, sir, said the servant, stepping aside. Miss Stratton is in the music room. Please follow me.

He led the newcomer down a long corridor adorned with ancient but carefully maintained Persian tapestries and stopped at the doorway of a spacious, round room. The room’s walls were Zebrawood, the floor checkered marble, and the ceiling a dome perforated by a skylight that admitted a copious amount of light. In the middle of the space was a grand piano, a harp, and a dazzlingly beautiful woman playing a violin, her eyes closed in concentration.

My name is Mr. Fetch, the servant whispered to the guest. Would you like something to drink? 

No, thank you, and please don’t disturb Miss Stratton. I’ll wait for her to finish.

As you wish, sir, replied the servant, promptly exiting the room. 

Mr. Fetch? Ben had almost laughed but caught himself when he saw that the servant hadn’t so much as cracked a smile. The guest wondered if there was a Mr. Driver, a Miss Gardner and a Mr. Weedwacker wandering the estate.

He turned his attention to the woman. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, taller than average, and perfectly proportioned. She wore a knee-length red silk dress and two strings of pearls. Her blond hair was elaborately coifed with a jade pin. 

The composition she was playing was complex, and she was wholly absorbed in the manipulation of the violin’s strings. At some points, she attacked the strings while at others she caressed them. While Ben was hardly an expert in the field, he thought Lilian Stratton might be what some called a virtuoso. 

When the last movement of the bow was complete, the room became eerily quiet, and the woman opened her eyes. They were a brilliant emerald green. 

Thank you for coming, Mr. Mitchell. I apologize for not meeting you at the door.

Not at all. What’s the name of that piece?

"Ernst’s Grand Caprice on Schubert’s Der Erlkönig."

Der Erlkönig. The Elf king?

She lowered the violin and smiled a million-dollar smile. That’s right. You speak German?

A little. He was trying to identify her accent, which was slight. It certainly wasn’t German.

It was inspired by one of Goethe’s poems, she said. She retrieved a violin case from a nearby chair and began fiddling with the clasps. In the poem, a man is riding through a gloomy forest cradling his young son in one arm. The child, who is facing the forest’s edge, sees the king of the elves and his underlings watching him from the shadows. The elves call out to the boy, promising him games, flowers, and music if only he will abandon his father and join them.

She gently placed the violin in its case. The son is terrified and warns his father that the elves are trying to take him, but the father sees nothing, of course. He tells his son the elves are mere wisps of fog, a figment of the boy’s imagination.

"These do not sound like Christmas elves."

No, far from it. These are evil creatures that crawl up from the cracks of the earth. When the boy refuses to join them, they get angry and grab him. He wails, telling his father the elves are hurting him. Disturbed by his son’s cries, the father spurs his horse to go faster, but to no avail. When he reaches his home, he discovers that his son has died in his arms.

I see. The hallucinations were brought on by a fever.

The woman closed the case and perched it on a table behind the piano. That’s one interpretation, she said circumspectly. Let’s go to the patio, shall we? It’s a dazzling morning, and we have important things to discuss.

The woman led him back into the corridor and ultimately through a set of French doors that opened onto a patio at the rear of the mansion that overlooked a garden. The patio, constructed of a pinkish terrazzo tile, was appropriately sized for the edifice adjacent to it. Around its oval perimeter were immaculately pruned plants of every kind in a blinding array of colors and shapes. 

In the middle were a wrought-iron table, painted white, and four matching chairs. A silver tea and coffee service had been positioned next to a vase of tulips. Mr. Fetch appeared and seated Lilian Stratton before gently placing Ben’s business card on the table next to her. The cool morning air was fragrant with the scent of gardenias, and invisible birds chirped in the distance.

Looking up, his hostess asked, Coffee or tea, Mr. Mitchell? 

Coffee, please. Black. And please, call me Ben. 

As she filled the porcelain cup, she said, Very well, Ben, and you may call me Lilian. Without raising her head, she said quietly, Mr. Fetch, you’ll please wait inside. I’ll ring if I need you.

The servant bowed slightly and retreated. The woman handed Ben his coffee and then poured herself a cup of tea. Taking a sip, she picked up the business card that Mr. Fetch had placed on the table and began reading it aloud.

Ben Mitchell, Ph.D., Epigraphist and Researcher, Ancient Languages and Writing Systems, Hittite, Sumerian, Akkadian, Cuneiform…well, the list goes on and on. I don’t know what most of this means. I’m surprised you could fit it all on a business card.  

He smiled. Anything is possible with the right font.

She flipped the card over. There’s a phone number on the back of this. Do you need it back?

Ben tried to mask his embarrassment. He had precisely one business card with him, which was the one he’d given his host. The number on the back belonged to a librarian whom Ben had no intention of calling but who had insisted he take her number. 

Ah, sorry. Um, no. You can keep it. Just…well, I’d suggest you not call that number. It’s not mine.

Duly noted, the woman said with the hint of a smile. She returned the card to the table.

Trying to recover from the humiliation, Ben said, What can I do for you, Lilian? 

Meeting his eyes again, the woman said, A close family friend by the name of Ridley, who has an estate in the mountains, has some stone tablets bearing inscriptions that he would like your assistance with. He says to tell you they are quite ancient and that this something of an emergency.

Ben swallowed his first sip of coffee before saying, The translation of ancient tablets is rarely an emergency.

And yet, the woman replied, Ridley assures me that is the case. He is, you see, very elderly and is cataloging his estate in preparation for the inevitable. He believes the tablets are valuable and wants to ensure they end up in the right hands.

They’ve never been examined before?

Not by an expert.

Interesting. What can you tell me about them?

In a banal tone, she replied, Ridley says they contain the oldest human writing system ever discovered.  

Ben coughed, cleared his throat. Excuse me. That is…well, a rather spectacular claim, Lilian.

Is it? she asked, as if it meant nothing to her. Seemingly out of nowhere, his hostess produced a large manila envelope sealed with red wax, which she extended to him. There were odd imprints in the wax. Cuneiform, the man thought immediately, but then saw he was wrong. The characters weren’t quite right. 

A few photographs, she explained.

Ben broke the seal with his fingers and peered into the envelope. There were about a dozen portrait-sized color photos inside. He withdrew one and placed it in his lap. It was of a black stone tablet, perhaps a foot square, inscribed with thousands of densely packed lines, swirls, and irregular shapes in a variety of colors. The individual inscriptions appeared only a millimeter or two in width. He couldn’t determine from the photographs what gave them their colors.

Where were the tablets found? he asked, placing a pair of spectacles on his nose before scanning the next image.

Lilian shrugged. You’d need to ask Ridley. 

Uh-huh, replied the researcher. After taking a few minutes to review the rest of the photos, he said, To be frank, Lilian, I have some concerns, foremost among them being the physical properties of the inscriptions. My impression is that they are too intricate to be ancient. Also, the engravings might be decorative or ceremonial glyphs. There are no distinguishable graphemes. I’m not sure why your friend Ridley believes the inscriptions constitute a writing system. I’ll need to study these photos and do some research before agreeing to take the job.

Lilian shook her head. You won’t find anything like them in your reference books, Ben.

He removed the spectacles and squinted. Why do you say that?

All tablets of this variety are in the possession of Ridley. There are no others, I can assure you, and only his closest friends know of their existence - at least, until now. Don’t you think a man in your field would have seen similar tablets already if they were in the public domain?

Not necessarily. I deal in languages and writing systems. It’s possible that there are artifacts with similar markings that I haven’t seen simply because the engravings were classified as decorative or ritualistic and have never been brought to the attention of someone in my field.

I see, the woman said, looking mildly disappointed.

Don’t get me wrong, he added, seeing a potential job slipping away. I am interested . He thought for a moment. Perhaps you’d let me keep these photos? I‘ve got some books I’d like to consult. It would only take a few hours. Once I’ve got a better feel for what we’re dealing with, I’ll call you.

When?

Tonight, if you like. Then, if you still want to hire me, we can discuss my fee.

The woman considered this and nodded. Very well. Ask Mr. Fetch for one of my cards. But I must have your decision tonight, Ben. Time is of the essence.

Tonight, then, he said, and rose.

2

When he returned to his tiny, cluttered office, Ben withdrew a beer from the mini-fridge and plopped down in front of his computer. He was in a state of shock. He might have a client. A rich, beautiful, and apparently somewhat desperate client.

Surely that was the best kind.

Ben looked over his computer at a photograph on the far wall. It was a torso shot of a much younger version of himself in a Marine dress blue jacket. He’d just graduated from the Defense Language Institute and had been given the MOS 2671, Cryptologic Linguist - Middle East, Pashtu. His younger self’s expression was stern and daring. It was the expression of a warrior ready for combat. Eager for it, even.

He got it, in Afghanistan, only a few months later, but his adventure hadn’t lasted long.

He still vividly remembered the junky white Toyota, riding low to the ground, zipping toward his convoy from a side street, just outside of Kandahar. He remembered barking a warning, too late. The bomb in the car detonated between the second and third vehicles, transforming them into modern art. 

Everything after that was a blur. Ben had a vague recollection of knifing through his seatbelt and kicking the door above him open, his ears ringing and blood dripping into his eyes from his forehead. Some angry villagers had appeared and started pulling him from the truck. He had yelled at them and lashed out with his knife, slicing two of his assailants. The mob dropped and started brutally kicking him. His rifle was still in the Suburban, and he didn’t carry a pistol. His only defense was his knife, which he began to swing and thrust angrily.

As the surviving security team members started firing warning shots at the mob, one of Ben’s attackers got behind him and slammed a piece of pipe into the base of his neck. The Marine blacked out. When he regained consciousness minutes later, he saw a severed hand, minus a pinky, lying a few inches from his face in a pool of oil. 

A mangy brown and black dog appeared from out of nowhere and scooped the remains up in his mouth. The dog glared at Ben menacingly, Eddie’s hand in its mouth, and the Marine had screamed, and continued screaming, in pain and grief, until a member of the security detail from the trailing vehicle appeared and shot the dog and then pummeled the animal’s corpse until it was a lump of meat.

That had made Ben laugh, and the problem was he hadn’t stopped laughing for a long time, or crying, and everyone agreed he was pretty messed up and should be given a one-way ticket back to the States. 

Four months later, the medical and psychological evaluations and the paperwork completed, Ben, honorably discharged, sat in a Denver motel watching a commercial about feminine hygiene products with a strawberry milkshake in one hand and a remote in the other. 

His VA counselor had encouraged him to find a new mission. Toward that end, the former Marine had decided to finally tap his college fund to pursue degrees in Near East Languages and Cuneiform studies. While his choice of majors would have seemed peculiar to most, especially for a former ‘jarhead,’ it was a no-brainer to Ben. He had always been interested in history, was familiar with the Middle East and Southwest Asia, had an aptitude for languages, and had been trained to break codes. What other fields could make better use of his interests, talents, and experience?

The former linguist immersed himself in the study Assyriology, Hittitology, and Sumerology, but fostered a special passion for undeciphered writing systems, such as Proto-Elamite. He found that the decipherment of esoteric writing systems of extinct languages was very much like breaking military or diplomatic codes of living languages, something the former cryptologic linguist found instinctively appealing. He was the top student in every class he took.

After getting his doctorate, Ben had accepted a teaching position at a midwestern university. It wasn’t long, though, before the walls there began to close in on him.  

He moved to Denver, set up a small downtown office and, at some cost, promoted his research talents to museums, antique collectors, and historians. But he soon learned the market for freelance ancient language experts was not exactly red hot. 

It was, in fact, almost non-existent. Freelance? What the hell had he been thinking?

Wealthy collectors paid well, but they were few and far between. Museums provided slightly steadier work, but they were hamstrung by budget cuts and declining attendance, which meant they paid little and their checks sometimes arrived months after the work was completed.  

Ben had made several inquiries with the Discovery, History, and Smithsonian channels, promoting his skills and offering his services as a commentator or researcher. The crickets that responded were deafening. He tried to set up a website and a YouTube channel but soon found that the feeble number of disinterested visitors or viewers didn’t merit the time needed to maintain either. He’d never shut them down, which meant they now stood as virtual memorials to yet another of his failed endeavors. They were as dormant as his laughably puny savings account.

The bills were piling up, and he needed money. Badly. Despite what he had told Lillian Stratton, there was no chance that he would refuse the assignment she had offered him. He was desperate.

He’d do whatever it took to keep the lights on for another month.

3

Ben scanned his many bookshelves, decided upon four reference books, and dumped them into his leather satchel. Placing the Stratton photographs in a side pocket, he swung the strap over one shoulder and went to his car. He turned on his radio and guided his ancient Audi onto the street. 

As he approached a stoplight that was turning red, the speakers blared: 

Public health officials today announced that an estimated fourteen thousand people have died from Cage’s disease in the city of New York in just the past week. This is a significant setback for Government officials who have implemented a variety of measures to contain the virus, to include health-screening checkpoints at the nation’s major airports. The disease, which first appeared in Los Angeles just five months ago, has so far claimed the lives of almost a quarter of million people in the United States alone.  

The situation is even worse in parts of Europe, Russia, and Asia, where deaths are believed to be in the tens of millions, though official numbers put the total much lower. Cases have now also been reported in Australia and New Zealand, once thought of as safe-havens from the pandemic. Experts at the Centers for Disease Control has been unsuccessful in identifying the source of the pathosis, though at least one expert suggests that the pathogen agent is a ‘rapid-acting prion protein.’  

Symptoms of Cage’s disease include rapid-onset dementia, changes in personality, paranoia, speech impairment, and loss of muscle control. Unofficial figures show the mortality rate of Cage’s disease to be ninety-seven percent. Death usually occurs within five weeks of the first symptoms occurring.

Turning right would take the researcher to his favorite sports bar, but he wasn’t really in the mood for chicken wings and a big screen. Could he watch television knowing the Stratton photographs were in his satchel begging for his attention?

Several cities and towns along I-15 and I-40 in Utah and Arizona have erected physical barriers at exit ramps to prevent Interstate travelers from entering their towns. Officials emphasize that such acts are unnecessary, ineffective, and illegal. U.S. health officials recommend that Americans not travel unless it is absolutely necessary to do so. Other precautions…

No. He didn’t have money for chicken wings, or beer, or even a tip. He had just been offered a job that would pay him money. Perhaps significant money. The light changed to green, and he drove forward only to be stopped at another red light fifty yards further down the road. 

…reports a failed U.S. drone strike on a suspected Iranian missile launch site. Debris from the drone, which the Iranians claim was shot down using sophisticated anti-aircraft weaponry developed in coordination with-

Ben punched the radio’s power button. Why did he bother with the news anymore? It was terrible yesterday, worse today, and would be worse yet tomorrow. Cage’s disease had made much of the world’s population afraid to leave their homes, especially since video of victims started appearing on the internet; videos of their lifeless eyes and spasmodic bodies and gruesome zombie-like appearances. To date, Denver had been spared, but the researcher knew it was only a matter of time before Cage’s arrived at the city’s outskirts.

The Iranians reportedly had nuclear-tipped intermediate-range missiles. The U.S. and China were playing a game of brinkmanship in the Pacific. Russia had gobbled up yet another of the former Soviet-bloc nations. The stock market was gyrating wildly, up and down ten percent daily, with three new mysterious flash crashes in the past month. Some kind of blight had struck the wheat and corn fields everywhere on the planet, sending the price of groceries sky high, at least if you wanted anything made of or fed wheat or corn - which was just about everything. Food riots had erupted in Africa, Asia, and South America.

The world was going to hell, no doubt about it.

The light finally turned green. Ben tapped the accelerator and turned left. To improve his mood, he thought about Lilian Stratton. She was wealthy, beautiful and musically gifted. A handsome man, Ben had no problem finding companionship, but he had yet to find an emotional match. He wondered if what had happened in Afghanistan had made such a match impossible. He wondered, too, what type of men Lilian Stratton dated. 

The type that owned jets, he decided, and played polo, and went on weekend outings to Greek islands. 

Ben drove to a small local library that was, thanks to the internet, almost always deserted, thus offering its few guests large tables, spacious seating, and plenty of quiet. There, Ben withdrew from his satchel an aging, leather-bound book with several loose yellowing pages. The faded gold title read: Ancient Alphabets and Hieroglyphic Characters Explained, by, in the Arabic Language, Ahmad Bin Abubekr Bin Wahshih and, in the English Language, Joseph Hammer, Secretary to the Imperial Legation at Constantinople. London. 1806.

He flipped to a bookmarked page and read,

…another old unknown alphabet (see orig. p. 134). This the Curds falsely pretend to be the alphabet, in which the Binushad and Massi Surali composed all their scientific and mechanical works. We are ignorant to what alphabet these letters belong, as we never could make out the language which they express; but I saw at Bagdad, thirty-three inscriptions writing in this alphabet…

Ben studied the characters, but only large quantities of imagination and alcohol would allow him to see any similarities between them and what was shown in the photographs. Finding the English translation lacking he switched to the Arabic text, but while more correct, it did not change the fact that the writing system in the photographs did not correspond to that shown in the book. 

Neither did he find satisfaction in his comparison to the characters shown in An Illustrated Account of the Inscriptions of the Near East, published in 1936, or A Study of Cryptolanguages, published in 2004, or The Library of Lost Tongues, published in 1924.

Ben scratched his chin.

This was getting interesting.

4

Ben remained in the library until the sun was low in the sky and then drove to a nearby coffee shop. Ordering a sandwich, water, and coffee, he moved to a corner booth with a good view of the mountains. He had just pulled out the photographs to renew his studies when he heard a young woman’s voice. 

Sir?

He looked up. Next to him was a girl with long red hair, a ribbon pinned to one side. She wore heavy makeup, to include purplish lipstick and Cimmerian mascara around her unusual violet eyes. He’d never seen eyes like them and assumed she was wearing colored contact lenses. 

Yes? Ben replied, sliding the photographs to one side. He noticed her eyeing them as he did so.

She said, My name is Fiela, pronouncing the word Fee-yel-uh, with an accent on the middle syllable. Lilian sent me. Can I sit down?

Please. He made a gesture with his hand toward the opposite bench.

The stranger sat. She was dressed in a style he thought of as ‘punk’ - a too-big leather jacket adorned with metal studs draped over a carefully ripped white tee-shirt with a lithograph of some rock band of which he’d never heard. There were garish rings on every finger. 

She said, Lilian told me to tell you she needs an answer sooner than she expected. She said you were going to call her about a job, but that things are moving fast. 

"What things?  Also, how did you know where to find me?"

The girl looked confused by the questions. Leaning forward, she whispered, "Attis Nisirtu?"

Ben wondered what language the girl was speaking. Gears turned rapidly in the researcher’s brain. The answer, when it came to him, was the last he’d expected:   Akkadian.  It was an ancient language - perhaps the most ancient. It hadn’t been spoken for several thousand years.

His brain didn’t wait for permission to proceed. It moved immediately to the word she’d pronounced as Ni-sir-too, with an accent on the second syllable.

That was…what? Hidden something, right? His best guess was that she had asked him, Are you a hidden one?  

But why would she ask him that? Why in the deadest of all the dead languages? Was she testing him, maybe?

He said, I’m a researcher. Are you a student? 

The girl looked even more confused. She studied him as if he were a newly discovered life form. She said, No. I was homeschooled.

In ancient languages?

What?

In the distance, a barista announced that a caffe’ latte was ready for pickup. 

Ben tried again. How did Lilian know where to find me?

I don’t know. I just got back from Europe an hour ago. She called me ten minutes after my plane touched down and gave me this address. We didn’t talk much.

Couldn’t she have texted or called me?

Fiela looked away and began picking at a hangnail. I guess. But she didn’t. She met his eyes for the briefest of seconds. She said she wanted me to meet you, in person. I don’t know why.

Where’s your luggage?

I travel light, the girl said, quickly eyeing Ben’s sandwich before pretending an interest in the cars lined up at the drive-thru. 

Seeing this, Ben said, I’m going to grab another bottle of water. Want one? Or something to eat, maybe?

Fiela drew an invisible figure on the table with a finger. I don’t have any money.

Welcome to my world, thought Ben. I’m buying. What would you like?

At last, the girl looked at him again. Truly?

Truly?

Sure. What do you want?

A water would be good. Maybe a sandwich? 

No problem, Ben said, wondering how much money was left in his wallet. It wasn’t much. Seven bucks, maybe. Was that enough? 

Ben fell in line in at the counter. After studying the illuminated menu and doing some basic math, he withdrew Lilian’s business card and dialed her number.

The woman answered after only one ring. Ben?

Yes. Hey-

Don’t say anything. I’ll be there in ten minutes.

What? You don’t even know-

Ben, please trust me. I’ll explain later.

Okay, listen- but she was gone. 

Ben stared at his phone. This was getting weird.  

He returned to the table with the spoils of his voyage. He gave the sandwich and water to the girl.

Thank you, Fiela said. She attacked the sandwich as if she hadn’t eaten all day. 

No problem.

Her mouth full, the girl said, Why did Lilian give you those photos? The ones you were looking at when I got here?

She has some questions about them.

What questions?

I don’t think I can discuss that with you, Fiela. Not until I can establish your relationship with Lilian. 

She took a gulp of water. We grew up together.  

Oh? Are you sisters?

In a way. That is what we call one another.

She seemed about to say something else when looked out the window adjacent to their booth and focused on a distant flickering of blue light. Looking at Ben, she said, Maybe we should go.

Why? What’s wrong?

Fiela returned her gaze to the flashing lights, which seemed to be coming toward them. Paranoia, wondered Ben, or fear? Maybe she’s on the run from the law?

Now, said the girl. "We need to go, now." 

5

With an abruptness that startled Ben, the girl jumped out of the booth and darted out the nearest exit and into the darkness. Against his better judgment, he followed, chasing her down an alley into the dimly lit parking lot of a motel behind the coffee shop. She sprinted toward a mop bucket that was positioned outside one of the rooms.  

What are you doing? Ben yelled, walking toward her.

Hide!