Gatekeepers of Eden

By Lanie Mores

WHEN WAR IS WAGED, THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE VICTOR

After tragedy strikes the United States Capitol, a new government seizes control backed by an elite army brutally enforcing its new set of laws. Terror rapidly spreads throughout the nation, and then globally, as people fight back to preserve what's most important to them . . . their freedom and their beliefs.

One puppet master holds the strings with two distinct objectives in mind: destroy the Christian population and obtain immortality for himself and his loyal followers.

To locate what he covets most, a motley cast of felons is hand-selected and sent to a remote island facility. Pooling their talents and resources, the group of ex-cons must find one of the most elusive, ancient wonders of the world. Or die trying.

But they are not alone on their quest. The map and the key to achieving immortality accompanies the group: teenager Dani Juris. She's the one person who can help the puppet master reach his prize or prevent him and his army from destroying the world. The power is in her hands. The only glitch is that she's already dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228860488

Book preview

Prologue

Vigilant, unyielding,

Four strong standing guard.

Blocking what I want, what I need.

With sparkling legs of burnished bronze,

Colossal compound figures.

Whole bodies full of eyes

That see in all directions.

Appearance like lightning shooting back and forth,

Travelling on wheels within wheels,

Performing their divine duty.

The living creatures.

There is one way past.

The missing child.

But fortuitous news has reached my ears.

She’s not beyond the chasm yet,

Or so my scouts have told me.

A boy who speaks with entities unseen,

One in particular, at least.

The heart binding them both,

Tethered to each other like one that leads the blind.

We are the blind, eyes blocked from what we seek.

It has been tenaciously hidden from our view.

Some things only the innocent can witness,

And gain access, to go beyond.

We require the girl

So that the girl will lead the boy,

And the boy will lead my army

All the way up to the gate.

And then inside.

An epic battle awaits

In which I plan to dominate.

My undefeatable army,

Comprised of the sons of my loins and those that came after,

Waiting in the wings…ready for what comes.

For past the gate

Is the most precious prize.

A reward for the loyalty of my army, my sons.

The true elixir of life,

Promising the gift of immortality.

Concurrently, they sweep through the world

With my false spirits, seducing,

Brandishing my most powerful weapon.

Division.

So that brother rises against brother,

Father destroys his child,

Children condemn their parents to death.

I enter through the media and destroy with the tongue,

And you shall do the rest.

Self-destructive beings as you are.

And I will sit back and relish the scene.

My handiwork in play.

We’ve reached the point,

My time to rise.

It starts with the girl and ends with the gate,

Past the whirling sword of flame.

–The Beast

PART I

Chapter 1

A quarter of a mile from the White House in Washington, D.C., Vice President Dean Ryzer waited in a discreet location—the overstocked storage room in the bar of his half-sister Lou Lou—for his handler to arrive. Nobody would know of this meeting, not even Lou Lou; he made sure of that. He killed her yesterday. A Closed for Renovations sign was hung on the entrance door that afforded them all the privacy they would need to complete the transaction.

Normally not a violent man, things had dramatically shifted in the last year. The VP lived with renewed purpose, and nothing would interfere with the task he was given. It was a revolution of sorts in which he played a vital role, although the credit would be doled on someone else. An unsuspecting pawn who would take the fall for Ryzer’s genius.

There were several missions concurrently planned, with all of them intricately balanced upon each other, like a complicated game of Jenga. But he felt his mission was the most important piece in the puzzle. Without this next strategic move, all the other plans would fail.

And they could not fail.

A light rapping at the back door made his heart skip a beat: three consecutive taps, a pause and then one last tap. The code they had agreed upon. Vice President Ryzer unlocked the deadbolt and ushered in a tall woman with a floral-patterned shawl draped like a cowl, meant to keep her face obscured. But once the door was closed and the lock reengaged, she unravelled the cloth, revealing a flawless, cream-coloured complexion, and blond hair scraped back into an austere bun taut enough to pull the wrinkles smooth around her stone-cold blue eyes.

Through plump lips coated in blood red lipstick, the woman greeted the VP and took a seat by a tower of liquor boxes. He stood awkwardly in front of her. Not only her beauty caused him to feel inferior, but her demeanour and level of power within the organization reminded him that he was less important than he had foolishly deigned to think, and if one tiny error occurred, he would be squashed beneath her Louboutins with zero remorse. Someone else would swiftly take his place.

Do you have the money? the VP asked. He remained standing in the vain attempt to puff up his stature, looking down his nose at her for a change, at least in a physical sense. The woman was cruel and bitter, even before they changed—a friend of her father’s, he had known her for years, witnessed many a tirade—yet it was impossible to deny his attraction for the blond, even though he feared her. Or perhaps that’s what added to his desire. He wanted her in the way that a man wants what he can’t have. His handsome, cleanshaven face, expensive black suit, and silk tie, thick, wavy black hair perfectly arranged, were all lost on the woman. She couldn’t be less interested in him. That snake would not be charmed.

She was there for one reason. Complete the mission.

The woman unzipped her leather satchel and withdrew one stack from the several stacks of American bills, pinching it between her perfectly manicured nails. It’s all here. Make sure you get enough C4 for all the targets.

Giving a brief nod, the VP grabbed the satchel and dropped it with a dull thud beside his feet. Excitement blossomed in his chest for what was shortly to come.

Just a reminder that my father is not one of the changed. He must be avoided when you purchase the explosives. You are to deal strictly with one of his employees, Randall Dempsey.

Yes, I will use the utmost discretion, the VP answered, punctuated by another nod.

Are all the operatives briefed for the first stage? the woman asked in a deep, steady tone.

Once upon a time, an operation like this would have required infiltrating the government, a tricky, delicate procedure where loyalty was always in question. To gather the number of internal operatives needed at this level would have been virtually impossible. However, in their present scenario, the people situated in the right positions had already been selected, and then infiltrated at a cerebral level, their minds taken over, their free will cast aside. It was easy enough to do for many people, but not all. Some who they attempted to infiltrate were able to resist. But the ones who did succumb ensured their full compliance. They would follow their orders without complaint or hesitancy. Even dying for the cause. And many would perish.

Yes, we are all set to do our parts. The plans, the instructions are clear and ready to be executed. Once the C4 is purchased, we will be prepared for whenever the press conference gets scheduled. With all the rumours circulating, it won’t be long.

Perfect. The woman stood, straightening her long, lean legs, visible below her red, knee length pencil skirt. One more thing. Make sure it is visible. That the maximum number of people will bear witness to the spectacle. It will incite the strongest, most immediate reaction that way.

Yes, of course, Eileen. You needn’t worry that anyone will miss what I am planning. I assure you of that.

Very well. We’ll meet again soon for the next phase.

The VP escorted the woman back to the door, checking the alleyway to ensure no one had followed her. Realizing the coast was clear, the woman, head wrapped tightly in her floral scarf once more, disappeared around the side of the brick building as if she were never there. Except for her wake of destruction.

Chapter 2

Dani?

For a moment, the familiar flickering of light beneath her daughter’s bedroom door spoke of life within, of hope. A sigh of relief, a knee-jerk reaction. As if all must be well in the world.

Angelika Juris paused in front of Dani’s door, load of laundry cocked high on her hip. She nudged the door open with her foot—almost, actually almost—expecting to see her teen daughter lounging on the bed, dressed in the usual zombie t-shirt and worn jeans, dark hair mussed, a humongous tome of some sort cracked open on her lap. She would probably grimace at the sight of Ang, even roll her eyes. Ang would’ve accepted that.

But as the door eased open, she saw the room was empty. The sun’s rays flickered through the window, dappled by a tree in the yard. A temporary deception. As Ang’s lungs constricted, the sigh folded in on itself like a caged origami bird, fluttering, panicked, frantic to escape.

Of course, Dani couldn’t be in there. Dani was dead.

Temporarily fighting the urge to enter her daughter’s room—to feel the ghost of her presence, smell her lingering scent—Ang moved along the corridor to the linen closet. Unloading the laundry basket, she arranged the towels in neat little piles by size and colour, the only order she could muster in her life right now. The daily roster of chores the only area of her life where she felt some control. Stuck on repeat. Day after day, after day.

After the laundry, Ang returned to Dani’s room, the urge fulfilled as she slipped inside, lay on the bed, gathered up the sheets, pulling them into her chest. Inhaling the soft, sweet scent of her daughter. Fearing the day that scent would fade and be lost to her forever.

It had been a little over one year since Dani had died in a tragic highway accident. An accident that reeked of something off, something sinister. A herd of animals chased onto the highway by an inferno that the authorities assumed was caused by stray lightning despite the fact there had been no storm. The skies had been clear that night.

Ang suspected there was more.

Tomas. It had to have been him…the mutant triplet with supernatural abilities, able to conjure and control a fire that came from within. A weapon Ang had personally seen him yield and had even unleashed upon her. Determined to destroy her. She had felt its searing heat centimetres from her face.

But if Tomas had caused the accident that stole Ang’s daughter, where was he? They hadn’t heard from him, seen him. Surely, he would gloat and brag about his kill. Come to bear witness to the devastation he brought down on their family. A family once comprised of three, now only two. Anthony, Ang’s husband, was equally distraught over their loss. Equally inconsolable.

They grieved separately, the loss so deep it fragmented their once flawless, resilient love. They should’ve been seeking solace in each other’s embrace, but instead they floated past each other on parallel paths. The grief left Ang drained, sapping all her strength, all her resolve, all her caring so that each day she delayed the conversation that needed to happen between the two of them, and instead merely flowed through the motions of existing. Something had to change, and soon, or their marriage would collapse. After all they had endured together—the kidnapping; Anthony escaping his evil father’s hold; her sister Ronnie’s suicide; Dani’s OCD diagnosis—in the end, losing Dani is what broke them. Was there any hope of reconciliation? Or was this the brutal end to their love story?

Initially planning on taking a few months off work from her psychotherapy practice, Ang remained on bereavement leave, which left her too much idle time. Her two main support systems weren’t readily available to effectively buffer Ang’s pain. Taryn—her bestie, her rock, the one person she could always turn to ever since they were kids—lived in Toronto and was too far away and busy with her own family. And Father Jacob Biden, the priest who recited Dani’s last rites the day she was unplugged from life support, becoming a close confidant to Ang in the aftermath, had been sent away to lead a missionary group in Malawi, Africa for several months. Which left Ang alone, basically floating around the house in a tear-filled daze, trying to distract herself with menial chores that left her hollow.

Lately, she had resorted to day drinking to numb the deep, constant ache. So, off to the kitchen she fled in search of a bottle of Merlot, her favourite dulling agent. After fishing the corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer, she withdrew the cork with a pop. She then topped a cauldron of a wine glass to avoid constantly returning to the kitchen for refills.

Catching her reflection in the kitchen cabinet, she gasped aloud, almost dropping her glass. The image, so much like her deceased sister, Ronnie after the drugs had taken over. The image taunted and jeered at her…she could almost hear her sister’s voice. See, you’re no better than me!

Ang’s outward appearance reflected her emotional state: blond hair, once shiny and full, hung limp and greasy from days left unwashed, the sparkle in her hazel eyes had faded, and dark circles hollowed them. Her normally thin frame was thinner, her appetite, nonexistent.

Shrugging at her image, Ang dragged her feet to the living room, ready to dull her senses further with her second favourite salvation—the television.

Anthony lay on the couch, cocooned in a red and black plaid blanket. Upon seeing his wife, he popped upright, crumpled the blanket into a ball beside him and stood. Avoiding eye contact, he smoothed out his pants and then escaped to their bedroom. He stretched the hollowness in Ang’s heart to twice the size as she heard the door click shut behind him.

Placing the wine glass on the end table, Ang flopped onto the couch, the cushions still warm from Anthony’s body, the only warmth she could steal from him. They lived as roommates now…such was their new norm.

Anthony blamed her for the accident.

He denied this, assured her that the circumstances were unavoidable, but he did blame her…she felt it in her bones. The way he avoided her day after day. Couldn’t…wouldn’t even look at her, as if she no longer deserved his attention, companionship, or love.

And he was right to feel this way, for Ang blamed herself just as much. It was one hundred percent her fault; she had instantly accepted responsibility. She was the one behind the wheel, the one who was driving on the night of the accident, stubbornly pressing through the darkness when they should’ve pulled into a motel for the night. If she had heeded her instincts, warning to pull over, Dani would be with them today.

So, could she blame Anthony for freezing her out? No, she could not. Instead, she accepted it as punishment for her foolish choices, and silently grieved the loss of their connection as much she did the loss of their daughter.

Ang gulped her wine as if she were guzzling water while stranded in the Sahara Desert. Wrapping the same blanket around her thin body that had cocooned Anthony moments before, she picked up the remote control and mindlessly clicked through the channels.

She settled on an American news station that had announced a press conference commencing shortly, ordered by President Richard Usher himself, the current president of the United States. Ang wasn’t the slightest bit interested in politics, especially not American politics, but within the past week the president had posted several controversial tweets that were anti-religious in nature that attacked Catholics and Christians with a spiteful fervour reminiscent of Hitler’s propaganda against the Jews. His behaviour was completely out of character. President Usher normally expressed his support for equal rights and free speech with a respectful, tolerant leadership style. He was beloved by most, with a presidency not unlike JFK’s. Which is what surprised Ang when she heard the public’s response was split, half in defence of the president, and half irately against.

The president immediately denied posting the vile comments, demanding that someone must have hacked his account and tweeted on his behalf, but his own press secretary assured that that was impossible. The statements must be from the president himself.

A ginger-haired reporter with thick eyeliner and coral lipstick filled the television screen, with her mike in hand, her face indicative of the serious nature of the conference. In a voice deep and sure, she reported:

Live coverage of the press conference by President Usher will begin in a few moments to defend allegations regarding several tweets he posted condemning Catholicism and Christianity in general. Damaging statements such as: ‘the Catholics are a cancer in our society, eating away at progress, and hindering the development of lifesaving science and technology,’ and ‘the Catholics would have us living as if we were in the dark ages, wasting our energy on a deity based on irrational and unfounded beliefs,’ and perhaps the most damaging, ‘The Catholic church believes it’s superior and we should abide by their laws, while they are pedophiles hiding behind the cloth to excuse their actions. It’s time for science to be accepted as this country’s new religion, so that we can surpass the growth of our enemy nations.’

The reporter paused for dramatic effect, tucking a swath of red hair behind her ear while letting the weight of the president’s alleged statements sink in. Then she continued, There have been a flood of enraged responses and death threats, especially by a thus far unnamed Christian group that has stated ‘these tweets shall not be tolerated, and penance is forthcoming.’ Security detail has been increased and, despite the danger, the president was adamant in coming forward in his defence. She quickly glanced behind her as movement on the front podium signalled the press conference was ready to begin. She concluded her piece and hastily took a seat with the other reporters from various news stations across the nation.

President Usher stood at the podium, the White House emblem behind him, a United States flag positioned to his right. He addressed the crowd with a sympathetic gaze. His silver hair was swept back with a light oil, and a grey suit and red tie gave him a sophisticated yet fatherly visage that coaxed Ang into feeling he must be innocent.

He cleared his throat, glanced down at his notes. I’d like to thank you all for coming here today to talk about the erroneous allegations regarding tweets that I supposedly made targeting certain religious groups. As you all know, I am a practicing Catholic…

The president’s speech was suddenly cut short as a Caucasian woman reporter popped up in the audience and screamed, YOU ARE AN EMBARASSMENT TO ALL CATHOLICS AND CHRISTIANS ACROSS THE GLOBE. YOU ARE AN EMBRASSMENT TO ALL THE AMERICANS IN THIS COUNTRY. DEATH TO THE PRESIDENT! She tore open her beige suit jacket to reveal a suicide bomb strapped around her chest. A white Ichthys, the sign of the fish, was painted on the top of the vest. A sharp gasp erupted from the crowd.

The terrorist turned toward the camera and spoke directly into the lens addressing the millions of people who were watching. She punched her fist into the air and claimed, "WE ARE THE ADELPHOS OF THE LAMB AND TAKE FULL RESPONSIBLITIY FOR THIS ACT OF RETRIBUTION."

Before anyone could react, the room exploded.

Chapter 3

Three days following the US president’s assassination, Nick Mondell walked out the front doors of Bedlam Island Prison, a free man after serving five years for a crime he didn’t commit. Released into the core of a shaken world full of uncertainty and unrest.

Dressed in the same clothes he had worn when arrested—a blue Armani suit, white dress shirt, checkered grey tie—Nick no longer felt like the successful, socially respected man he was, even though he once more looked the part. Now, he felt like a criminal, which is what his CV would forever state. So much for ever practicing law again.

Making his way to the line of pay phones outside the prison doors, Nick popped in the correct change and dialled a familiar number. Ringing continued until someone answered with a feminine hello.

I’m not sure why, but I deluded myself into thinking you’d be here to pick me up.

Nick, don’t do this.

So, you really are choosing the weasel over me. After all we’ve been through.

A pause and the woman answered, I’m not doing this right now. Gregory is not a weasel. He was here for me when I needed him. He’s a good man. Another pause. Then, Good luck, Nick. I’m glad you’re out, but we really are over. Take care. She hung up.

Slamming the phone back on the hook, Nick took a deep breath. Well, that was a stupid move. Now she knows I’m not over her. He surveyed the street ahead. The sun sliced through his retinas, causing him to blink several times until his eyes adjusted. Squinting into the distance, he searched for the nearest bus station that was supposed to be within walking distance. The guard who had ushered him out the door, one of the nicer ones of the few at BIP, pointed to the right, and Nick trudged off in the direction indicated. Slung over his shoulder was a canvas bag containing his meagre possessions: his state ID, a pair of cheap, drugstore reading glasses, fifty dollars, and a bus pass, the latter he fished out as he reached his destination. With perfect timing, a city bus pulled up beside Nick. He boarded and was lucky to claim a vacant seat at the back beside a teenager with pink hair and sound blocker headphones clamped over her ears. Her perfume smelled like cotton candy.

A few jolting lurches and the bus eased back onto the road on the way to delivering Nick to his new home. Not his real home, the three level mansion he owned in Belle Isle, Florida. That had been foreclosed after his arrest and sold for peanuts. His new home had been arranged by an ex-client who owed him a favour. The man owned several low-income apartments in Belle Glade, a city boasting the highest crime rate in Florida. From Belle Isle to Belle Glade, a steep fall. But Nick was left with no other options. All his so-called friends deserted him during his stint in the clink. Belle Glade seemed the perfect place for an ex-convict to transition back into the world.

And what a strange world it had become. Nick stared out the bus window at the people walking down the sidewalks, heads folded down, eyes locked on their cell phones, oblivious to the community around them. The city’s topography had also changed as new settlements had sprung up along the highway in places where there used be scrubby brush. Everything looked different, but the biggest change, the hardest adjustment for Nick, was more cognitive than physical…having to switch from a six-figure-a-year-income and driving his sleek, silver Bentley to riding the city bus and living in the slums with all the other common criminals. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Scratching the dark stubble on his chin, he thought about how he got here, the unfortunate turn of events. It all came down to his ex-fiancée. The one who should have picked him up in her white Mercedes-Benz today, on his release date. After all, he had taken the fall for her family’s company, blamed for rigging the books to avoid paying taxes for ten years. Over one million dollars in tax evasion. He never doctored the books but being the only lawyer who had access to all the accounts as the future son-in-law to the owners, he easily looked the guilty party, especially once they pointed in his direction. And he would have done anything for Marissa. Then.

Two years into his sentence, as the letters from Marissa grew fewer and farther between, he received a heartless Dear John letter that she had moved on. The wait was too hard on her, and she had found another. A scrawny, weaselly character, one of his former colleagues, recently promoted to Nick’s former position as assistant prosecutor at her father’s law firm. She assured him things were much better this way, since in the long run, even after he would be released, they could never be together. Her family would never accept her marrying a convict.

Of all the fucking nerve! He would never have gone to jail if they hadn’t framed him for their wrongdoing in the first place! Learning Marissa’s true character, he should have been glad to have her out of his life, but the memories burned in his heart. They were going to build a life together. They had placed a down payment on a three-story beach front home where they would live after they were married, then wait two years to have a family…two children. Their future had seemed set. Until it wasn’t.

The city bus rounded a bend in the road and slowed to a stop several metres away from Leedham Place, his new apartment complex. Nick skipped down the city bus stairs and back out into the sunshine, disbelieving that he was a free man.

It was only a short jaunt down the sidewalk to reach Leedham Place, but he enjoyed every step, inhaling the polluted city air deep into his lungs, savouring the sun’s warm rays draping over his skin. Almost a little giddy, like a kid allowed to walk home alone from school for the first time. But then a little kick in the ribs once he reached the building. A reminder that life would be an uphill battle from here on.

The orange brick building had dark piss stains on the corner and was spray painted with faded graffiti. Plastic bags and candy bar wrappers drifted along the pavement with each puff of wind. A few children gaped up at him with dirt smeared faces as they assessed the new tenant—all six foot four, two hundred and twenty muscular pounds of him. Nick hissed in jest at the gawking children, sending them scrambling to find their parents who were most likely passed out in bed from boozing. He would expect no less.

Entering the front door of the complex, he smelled urine and stale spaghetti. He stepped over an unconscious older male slumped in a pile of his own feces. Still alive, noted Nick, by the laboured rise and fall of his chest. For now, anyways. The spent needle lay in his lax hand.

Up two flights of stairs, and down the hall a quarter of the way, Nick unlocked a painted green door with the key his former client had provided and walked into his new, fully furnished home. Surveying the space, he noted dusty, used couches squished into the far corner, cheap dollar store paintings hanging on the wall. He picked up a porcelain elephant, one of the many gaudy knickknacks lined along the counters. In his old home, the décor consisted of expensive