Harbingers of the Apocalypse

By Jason Leary

What if ancient scrolls were discovered detailing the end of the world… What if they named the people, places, and dates that would figure into the end of all things… What if you were one of the people named in the text… The End is Here…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053761

Book preview

Part One

The Beginning of the End

One

The Giza Plateau—Present Day

Mustafa, known to his friends as Mushi, made his way along the Giza plateau, always careful as to where both he and his companion placed their feet. He knew one wrong step could cause him to fall into the dunes. His father had died long ago, and his mother had since entrusted him with the task of taking the family camel to the Giza Plateau each morning. There were always tourists at Giza, and where there were tourists there was a demand for camels. Sure, most would try to rent from one of the reputable dealers, but there were never enough to meet demand, and that’s where Mushi and his magnificent steed came in. He could never hope to get much more than a few American dollars for the beast, but with the economy being what it was, that wasn’t a bad day’s work for a boy of twelve. So Mushi tightened his grip on the animal’s reins, made a few clicking sounds with his tongue, and continued to pull the creature forward.

Mushi passed just yards away from the magnificence of the great pyramid towering to his left. The monolithic structure stood as a true testament to the resourcefulness and ambition of his ancestors, but as he walked by he didn’t even bother to look. He passed it every day, and the wide-eyed wonder with which most gazed upon the impressive monument had been lost on Mushi for quite some time.

The camel grunted and spat, demanding Mushi’s attention. He looked back up at the clear blue sky and felt the hot sun beat down on him as if it were a heavy, warm hand trying to force him beneath the seemingly endless sea of sand.

A searing wind kicked up, blowing hard against his face. It was the kind of hot, unforgiving wind known only to those who travel throughout the world’s deserts. He opened his eyes in time to see the brewing sandstorm heading his way. An extremely fast air stream kicked up the loose particles, forming a wall of sand that rushed towards him. Someone once told Mushi it was these storms that created the dunes over which he was now traveling, but that didn’t interest him. In fact, all he cared about was how hot and uncomfortable the wind felt as it hit him and how the small grains of sand cut like tiny shards of glass, scoring his face without mercy. With a frustrated sigh Mushi wrapped a long black cloth around himself, covering the lower half of his face and protecting it from the small, superheated flying particles. Mushi hated the sandstorms, and he couldn’t help but notice how odd it was that they seemed to be popping up more and more frequently. In fact, almost every day now.

Mushi brushed off this thought. He was sure it was nothing. His mother always accused him of having an overactive imagination. He used to have an amazing talent for telling stories and, for some reason, spotting a conspiracy almost anywhere. Even now he could see his mother in his mind’s eye waving her finger at him and saying, You will never get anywhere with that imagination, Mushi. He just shrugged in defeat. His mother was right, and he knew it, but he still couldn’t help it. It was too much fun, and he was still a boy after all.

Suddenly, far below the sound of the whistling, swirling wind Mushi heard something else. There was a kind of low humming, a reoccurring sound that resembled an engine. But that was impossible. This area had been declared off limits to motor vehicles long ago by the Egyptian government. Mushi decided it had to be his overactive imagination. At least that’s what he thought until he was almost run over by his so-called overactive imagination.

Three jeeps jumped the dunes not more than a few feet ahead of him. They traveled at what would’ve been dangerous speeds under the best of conditions, much less in the middle of a sandstorm where visibility was cut to nothing. Mushi raised his fist and was about to shout a few words his mother would admonish him for, if she had been present, until he noticed the color of the jeeps, a bland olive green. And the markings on the side, a white star with the letters USMC stenciled neatly just below it.

Mushi may not have been very worldly, but like any dreamer he had seen movies, and he knew in an instant that these were American military vehicles. Mushi’s eyes became impossibly wide as he looked on in disbelief, but he just had to wait a few seconds before the real spectacle passed overhead. A sleek American military helicopter, fully loaded with a variety of missiles, and colored the same green as the jeeps, added more sand to the chaos already swirling around his head.

The jeeps pulled to a stop, and the helicopter began to land right before the Great Pyramid, where Mushi could now see a massive archeological operation taking place at the monument’s immense base. Both the people and their transports were dwarfed by the amazing structure. Men, some dressed in military camouflage and others in dark suits, stepped away from their vehicles where they were met by at least thirty other men all dressed in the exact same fashion.

Except one, an Egyptian who wore khaki shorts, a white button-down shirt, and a Panama Jack hat tied loosely around his neck. As Mushi’s eyes strained even wider he again heard his mother’s voice in his head. You will never get anywhere with that imagination, Mushi.

SPECIAL AGENT JOHN Rappaport of the Central Intelligence Agency stepped out of the point jeep, pushed the sunglasses he wore on his aged face higher up on the bridge of his nose, and took in a hot, steaming breath of the air around him. He looked over at the Cobra attack helicopter as more of his team emptied out. Technically, John should have been in the chopper with his other men, but it was common knowledge around the Agency how much he despised flying. He had been in a tragic accident over thirty years ago while on his way to Vietnam, and even now it was never far from his thoughts.

It had been a stormy night when the C-130 troop transport he was on went down due to pilot error. The accident had scarred far more than just his leg, where he still carried a piece of shrapnel buried within his calf. He had been reluctant to fly ever since that night, and whenever possible he took ground transports.

It was difficult to tell by his sixty-four-year-old face, but at one time John had been among the top three snipers in the American military. He had joined the army right out of high school, and his instructors had been fast to pick up on his remarkable talent. He was commissioned almost instantly into the sniper program, where he quickly moved up through the ranks. He remained stateside, competing in various marksmanship competitions, and occasionally was called upon to do certain black-ops—most of which were still classified.

Then in sixty-eight John pulled a tour in Vietnam, but it wasn’t meant to be. It was while on his way to Southeast Asia that his plane went down. At first it was believed no one could have survived such a terrible crash, but miraculously, John and two other men had defied the odds.

He was laid up for over a year and a half while doctors worked to repair the muscles and tendons in his legs, and when they were done he had to learn to walk all over again. While in the hospital John was awarded the Purple Heart, but it was an honor that did little to relieve the sharp pain he constantly felt in his left leg.

However, John loved his country, so he pushed on. Once he was able to return to active duty, combat was no longer an option, so he was reassigned to reconnaissance in South Vietnam, where he spent most of his days staring at satellite photographs trying his best to locate the Vietcong. He was extremely good at his job, and the powers that be were watching—and taking notes. After completing his commitment John was discharged from the army, but before leaving the base he had arrived at when returning stateside, he had already been offered and accepted a job working for the CIA.

While he had never had any ambitions to work for the Central Intelligence Agency, John was intrigued by the idea and felt as if it were an offer he just could not refuse. Like with everything else in his life, he excelled within the structure of the agency. He advanced, and it wasn’t long before he was leading his own team of agents and put in charge of his own missions. Now with retirement looming just over the horizon, he looked back on his career and was proud of what he had achieved. He had been graced with a good career and a good life, and not once did he ever regret never having gotten married or having a family. It was not something that he ever felt was very important, but now, standing at the base of the Great Pyramid, he had a strong feeling of apprehension which made him begin to question some of the choices he had made.

John took a few steps towards the Egyptian man dressed in khaki who met him halfway. Agent Rappaport? John nodded as he fished his credentials out of his pockets and showed his identification to the man. It’s nice to meet you, the man continued, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his brow, then offering his hand to John. I’m Dr. Bakari Zewail.

Doctor. John spoke as his eyes passed over the gathered crowd. Interesting weather you have here.

Zewail smiled warmly as he spoke. Yes, it is. These sand storms have always been a trademark of these lands; however they have been coming around much more frequently of late. I suggest we move inside before it gets any worse.

John nodded in agreement as Zewail led his men to a makeshift stairwell that led down into a poorly constructed cave beneath the stone base of the Great Pyramid. The stairwell was lit by lanterns hanging from the side support beams every twenty feet, bathing everything in a dim glow that made it look as if it were some sort of unholy netherworld. A shiver shot its way down John’s spine as he took one final look at the surface world around him. There, for the first time, he saw a lone boy with a camel, standing on a dune. John and the boy held eye contact for a brief moment before he took a deep breath and proceeded down into the world below.

JOHN TOOK THE SHABBY steps with care as they creaked beneath his weight, threatening to give way with each step. He exhaled the breath he had been keeping captive within his lungs and replaced it with the hot, stale, air hanging within the cavern. As the oxygen filled his lungs he could taste the sand and dust in the back of his throat. He coughed.

Zewail enjoyed a hardy belly laugh at John’s expense. Be careful of the stale air down here, my friend. You won’t want to take too deep a breath. There have been many scientists who have perished from breathing the ancient air contained in newly opened tombs.

John couldn’t help but mumble to himself, Now, you tell me.

As they came to the landing of the stairwell, it took several moments for John’s eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. The long, winding passage was reinforced by some very shoddy-looking support beams, and he couldn’t help but be at least a little concerned for his safety. Zewail must have noticed the worried look on his face, because he was quick to put one of his massive arms around John’s shoulder.

There is no need to fear, my friend. Zewail spoke in a confident tone. This tunnel has been constructed by the most competent of builders. The best Egypt has to offer.

As if to illustrate his point Zewail patted one of the support beams. However, the sand and dirt that fell from the ceiling undermined whatever point he was trying to make.

John did his best to ignore his concerns, looked into the dark, trusting eyes of his companion, then pressed on. As they moved down the narrow corridor he heard the loud footsteps of both the scientists and his military officers following them. For a moment he wondered if the sound coming from their procession was enough to cause everything to collapse, but he forced those thoughts out of his mind as one would a bad dream.

They hadn’t gone more than fifty yards before John met with a sight that went a long way toward making him feel much more comfortable. He came face to face with one of the most sophisticated mobile labs he had ever seen. Extending from one side of the cavern wall all the way to the other was a massive glass barrier at least an inch thick. Built into the transparent partition was a top-of-the-line security door with a retinal scanner mounted just to the side.

Civilization at last, John thought.

On the other side of the wall various scientists, archeologists, and military personal all moved about the sterilized clean room as they carried on their designated assignments.

While it was not particularly showy, John could tell that the lab was extremely well stocked for a temporary setup. It was clear someone in the government thought this was a top priority. One piece of equipment in particular caught John’s eye. Near the back of the clean room, set up along the wall, was a bank of supercomputers. Supercomputers that John had seen just one other time in his career but still recognized instantly. They were MRZ Trans-1482s, loosely referred to within the agency as the translator. It was a computer powerful enough to translate texts at an astronomical rate, thanks to its advanced artificial intelligence. It was also said to be able to read and understand languages that only five or six people in the world could comprehend. However, it was also a computer that cost so much the agency owned just three. Yet here, in the back of the clean room, John saw five lined up neatly side by side with indecipherable images flashing on the monitors at a rate of five per second. He hadn’t been briefed on this mission, and he wondered why they would need a document translated so quickly that it would require five TransCons. This realization only severed to deepen his earlier sense of apprehension.

John, suddenly serious, looked down at Zewail as he leaned into the retina scanner, What in the hell did you find? John asked fighting the concern that laced his voice.

As Zewail stood, for the first time since they met, John noticed there was no smile on his face. What is this all about? he asked. John hadn’t been briefed before leaving his base in Nuremberg, Germany, he was told this was a classified mission and there wasn’t time before his flight. At the time he hadn’t thought much of it. He was often thrown into missions with little or no advance intelligence, only to be briefed upon arrival. But never before had he been thrown into a situation where it was obviously such a high priority. He wished he had asked more questions before leaving.

The men heard the door’s electronic locks disengage. What is this all about? John repeated, a vein throbbing in his sweat-drenched forehead.

You mean they didn’t tell you? Zewail asked. It was clear he had been caught off guard by the question.

John shook his head as Zewail opened the door. They felt a fast rush of cooled air as it escaped from the room to play with John’s salt and pepper hair. Zewail then leaned closer to John and whispered something in his ear that made his stomach drop. In an instant John wondered whether or not he’d be able to keep from throwing up.

Zewail entered the clean room, allowing the door to close behind him. As John leaned into the retina scanner, Zewail’s answer rang in his ears. It’s about the end of the world.

JOHN SAT AT A TABLE near the back of the clean room in stunned disbelief. His digesting food churned in his stomach.

The end of the world, John thought. It can’t be.

At first he was sure Zewail must have been exaggerating to emphasize the importance of this operation, but when he pressed him on it, Zewail verified that he was talking about the literal end of the world. Despite his best efforts, John’s mind just couldn’t accept it; the whole idea was preposterous.

It’s the thing of fairy tales, like something you’d see at the movies. It’s the kind of thing those cheap dime store horror novels make a killing off of. It’s not the kind of thing the government of the United States of America spends millions of dollars on trying to investigate and prevent. It’s just not.

Zewail saw the look of resignation in John’s eyes and sat next to him. As he spoke he used soft, even tones, trying to put the American as much at ease as was possible given the subject matter. I know it’s a shocking bit of information. I felt the same as you when I realized the truth. You now know something that just thirty or forty people in the world know, but I want you to understand. You were assigned here to try and stop the apocalypse. The United States still thinks there’s hope. Zewail took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee before continuing, As do I.

What happened? What did you find? Zewail heard the manufactured steadiness in John’s voice. He had a lot of respect for the man. He knew John had seen many things in his life. He had enjoyed a distinguished career, and now he was being entrusted with what was, without a doubt, the most important mission in the history of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Also it helped that so far he had taken the news much better than anyone had before.

Zewail chose his words with great care, trying not to add to the overwhelming burden already on John’s shoulders. A little over three months ago, we made a discovery within this very cave. It wasn’t much, just twenty or so Egyptian burial jars each filled with rolled up pieces of delicate parchment containing ancient writing. Each of the jars was decorated exquisitely. Each a beautiful piece in its own right, but that’s not what caught our attention. What caught our attention was the writing. It was a language that had died out long ago.

Ancient Egyptian, right? Hieroglyphics? John hazarded a guess.

Zewail shook his head slowly from side to side. No. Ancient Hebrew.

Hebrew? John asked. Zewail could tell he was very confused. I didn’t think the ancient Egyptians spoke Hebrew.

They didn’t, Zewail answered. The Jewish slaves did, but the Egyptians did not. But what concerned us most was when we did the carbon dating on the parchment we discovered it’s not even from the right time period. We’re not talking about Modern Hebrew here. We’re talking about the original form of the language that was derived from a Phoenician script, rather than the modern version, which evolved from writing known as Proto-Hebrew or Early Aramaic. It is a language that’s been effectively dead for more than five centuries, but according to our carbon dating, the parchment is just one hundred to a hundred and fifty years old. To have hundred-year-old parchment, containing writing of a language that hasn’t been used for more than five hundred years, and buried in a room that has been undisturbed for five thousand years, is not just surprising, it’s impossible.

Zewail paused a moment allowing this new information to sink in. Nobody speaks this language anymore. Our computer translators are even having problems with it. They’re averaging just three words a second—that’s about a quarter as fast as it should be going. This language is obsolete.

John was beginning to lose his patience with the man. I get the point. What was written on the scrolls?

At first it appeared to be nothing important, Zewail continued. Burial rites, ancient incantations, but those were just the first few pieces of parchment we translated. After that, as we got deeper into the documents, we made some chilling discoveries. Some of the parchments contained texts from literature. There was some Shakespeare, some Plato, Socrates, there was even some Mark Twain, but nothing could have compared to what we found next.

What? The hairs on John’s arms rose.

A book titled, roughly translated, ‘The End of All Things.’ At first we didn’t think much of it. We thought maybe it was just another obscure work that none of us had ever heard of, but as we translated further we discovered that this was something very different. It was just a smaller portion of another larger book.

What book? John asked, although he already knew the answer.

The Bible. Written in the same perfect Hebrew the original pages of the Old Testament were written in.

So, basically this is just another Book of Revelations.

No. Zewail was obviously frustrated that John wasn’t getting it. No, it’s not. Revelations is full of symbolism. It is a parable. Contrary to what many believe, it’s not meant to be taken literally. Everything in it is symbolic of something else. It is possibly the most cryptic work of literature ever created, but this new book isn’t like that. It’s very straightforward, and it’s very detailed. It names the people, places, and dates that will figure into the world’s destruction. No more symbolism. No more guessing as to what it means. Zewail paused, taking a moment to calm himself. As soon as we realized what it was, we asked the United States for help, and they sent you.

Who are the people named in the text? John asked.

Well, it speaks of many historical figures. Zewail spoke slowly, allowing John’s reeling mind an opportunity to catch up. The Pharaoh Ahmose I and Moses, Julius Caesar, Adolph Hitler, but then there are others... People who are living in this age and have no idea the part they will play in the destruction of the world.

Well, I can contact my people in Washington. If nothing else at least we can keep an eye the ones living in our time period, John reasoned.

Zewail nodded. He was amazed at how John seemed to take the information in stride and was already prepared to work.

I just don’t understand what it is you’re hoping I’ll be able to do, John stated, frustrated and disappointed by his own uncertainty.

Actually, we were hoping you could tell us. Zewail spoke cautiously. You see, you are one of the people named in the text.

Two

Hong Kong—Present Day

Long Fei Xiou pushed his new Mercedes through the busy streets of the small urban island of Hong Kong. Many people had feared that the handing off of the once-British province to communist China would mean an end to all the prosperity enjoyed by the Hong Kong people under British rule, but Dr. Long was not among those. He was a businessman, and he knew what the Chinese knew: that Hong Kong would be of much more use to them if they kept just their small, isolated island capitalistic. The province changed hands without any incident, and the fact of the matter was, Dr. Long’s life had changed very little. He was still an emergency room doctor for the largest hospital in the city, but he had long ago reached the point where working was no longer a necessity.

Five years ago he had invented a cardiovascular monitor that was now being used in one way or another in most hospitals around the world. He made hundreds of thousands of dollars off his invention, and with the help of the Hong Kong stock market he managed to turn that into millions. While it was true he no longer needed to work, retiring was the furthest thing from his mind. He loved being a doctor; it was what he had always wanted to be, and here he was, living his dream—and living it better than he ever could have hoped.

The Mercedes engine gave a satisfying purr as he slammed it smoothly into fourth gear and sped down the highway. Dr. Long never had to worry about the police. His car was known all over the island, and because of his success, the local law enforcement extended to him certain privileges. He took one of the largest hills in the city with confidence, the Mercedes not straining a bit against the steep incline of the pavement.

Dr. Long absolutely adored this car. It was the one toy that he bought with his newfound wealth that never disappointed him. The sleek lines, the powerful engine, the way the sun shone off the newly buffed, black frame. This was a car aficionado’s dream come true, and Long knew it. He took excellent care of the vehicle, made sure he changed the oil, got tune-ups, and even went as far as to make sure it was always clean and ready to shimmer in the daylight.

The ride into work was never quite long enough for Dr. Long. He’d only left his home twenty minutes ago as he pulled into his reserved space in the covered parking structure of Memorial Hospital. He got out of his car, lifted his bag onto his shoulder, locked the door, set the alarm, and walked into the busy lobby of the hospital’s emergency room.

As he entered, Dr. Long made his way past the patients in the waiting room and right up to the admittance desk where Lucy welcomed him with her sparkling smile. Good morning, Dr. Long. Lucy greeted him with the perky demeanor she was famous for within the walls of the hospital.

Good morning, Dr. Long answered her, returning the smile. He’d suspected that she harbored some sort of romantic interest in him, but even though she was nice to look at, her personality irritated him. There was only so much constant cheerfulness one could endure before contemplating taking one’s own life.

I’m glad you’re here, sir. She continued without missing a beat, Dr. Chan wanted to see you in his office.

Thank you, Lucy. Dr. Long spoke as he continued down the hallway. Do we have any coffee?

Yes, sir, Lucy answered, calling after him, there’s some in the lounge.

Dr. Long waved politely to her without looking back. Thank you.

But Dr. Chan wants to see you now! Lucy interrupted.

Coffee first, Dr. Long growled as he entered the lounge.

DR. CHAN HAD NEVER liked Dr. Long. He’d always been very jealous of Long’s success, and Long knew it. Besides, he didn’t like Chan very much either. It wouldn’t kill the man if he made him wait a little while. So after a tall cup of coffee Long took his time as he strolled to Chan’s office.

Once he arrived, Long saw the door was open and knocked carefully on the frame. He peeked his head into the room and saw Chan on the phone. He was an obviously unhealthy man, carrying twice the weight a man his height should. Long always thought it was in bad taste, particularly for a doctor. Chan looked up to see Long standing there and motioned for him to come in and have a seat. Long obliged as his eyes scanned the office.

He always felt Chan’s office was somewhat of a pigsty, and never was it more apparent than right now as he waited for him to get off the phone. The shelves were a mess, with medical books carelessly tossed into place. In the corner was the kind of cheap plastic skeleton one might find in a novelty shop. And while the somber figure might be a cheesy addition to an otherwise drab office Long couldn’t help but feel uneasy as he sat in the oversized visitor’s chair. The vacant eye sockets stared at him, mocking him, despite their empty voids.

Chan’s voice droned on over the phone as Long continued his examination of the room, studying every corner. He had always felt that Chan had poor taste in everything except staff, and judging from the man’s office, Long was right. Dust seemed to cover every inch of the room, and it tickled his nose. He couldn’t even imagine how anyone could work under these conditions. The desk was a disaster area, and he wondered how Chan was able to find anything he looked for. It was also obvious from the way he dressed that Chan was not earning as good a living as Long, a fact Long never failed to bring up at every available opportunity.

Yes, then just get back with me next week when we know. Chan began the social dance of ending the call. Okay, I’ll talk to you then... Okay... Bye. He put the phone down swiftly and didn’t allow the