The Son of Man book two...The Elders of Zion, Prologue

[sonofman]

Utah’s Rocky Mountains were uncharacteristically warm for early
January and it was obvious the photographer had overdressed. He’d
spent the morning meandering up a broad tree-lined path created by an
ancient glacier. Early on he had chosen to follow the high snow
covered rim of an ever crumbling crag, a remnant of a primeval
mountain range rising and falling from within a vast forest of spruce,
pinion, and towering lodgepole pine.
The photographer was glad to be there. He loved the mountains. He
loved the smell of pine, the noonday sky, the communion, the
stillness. He strolled over the crusty frosted soil, around patches of
wiry yellow grass pushing its way through a thick coat of aging snow.
He eventually passed into an inviting looking clearing, slowed to a
stop and began turning in a tight circle taking in the astounding
scenery. Spotting a fallen lodgepole wedged waist high within the arms
of a squat juniper tree, he wandered off towards it, pushed the crusty
snow off the log, and sat down.
British wildlife, his employer, had sent him to America… what was
left of it anyway. He had been sent to photograph the rickies.
Remnants of a vast American society who were unable to flee the
mainland or had simply been left behind.
The photographer sat on the log for a time listening to the birds
singing amidst the hush of a distant fast moving mountain stream. He
pulled his cap off, looked up into the blue sky and basked in the
frigid breeze gently blowing over his slightly sweating hair.
The rickies were not a particularly friendly lot. This land was now
officially under control of the European Union but the rickies hadn’t
signed on. In fact, the rickies had all but thumbed their noses at the
notion of European domination. This wouldn’t have been that much of a
bother for the European Union except that the rickies, particularly
those known as the Mums, had been able to requisition a staggering
amount of fire-power left behind, including an undisclosed number of
nukes. And, since an impressive contingency of military personnel had
been abandoned to the mainland, they had also retained the know-how
and equipment necessary to remain a legitimate threat, even to the
European Union.
The photographer opened his eyes and sat looking out into the east.
He had spotted it earlier, a promising break in the skyline…Possibly
even a small Ricky settlement. He had spent the last half hour
wondering if it had been worth the leisure climb but now he was sure
it was.
He pulled his parka off and tossed it over his shoulder, studied
the sky once more and spotted a newly formed wisp of cloud leisurely
floating away into the south. He reached, pulled his camera off his
chest and snapped a picture, then snapped another as the tiny cloud
disappeared behind a mountain peak. Finally, he returned his hat to
his head, reluctantly rose to his feet, and meandered on his way.
He had traveled no further than a quarter mile when he saw it, a
silent passing shadow flashing in and out of the thick flora ahead. He
pulled to a stop and backed up, fear welling in his chest. What the
hell was that? he said aloud. The sudden sound of his own voice
reminded him of how alone he was. As far as he knew, the Rickies
hadn’t taken to ambushing mountain travelers, but it had been a while
since he had been anywhere near real civilization. Anything could have
happened between now and then… after all, he was deep in Mums
territory.
“Hello!” He called out gingerly, “anyone there?” He listened for an
answer but none came. Probably a deer, he thought…, or a bear. He
reached into the pocket of his parka, now folded through his arm in
front of him, and felt for his 9mm glock buried in the pocket.
Satisfied it was still there, he reached, found a rock and tossed it
into the trees in front of him.
— Nothing.
Whatever it was, he told himself, is gone now. He had to smile. He
had never been afraid before. Probably just took him by surprise, he
thought.
Slowly, at first, he made his way forward. After a time his
confidence returned and he boldly moved through the brush until he was
stopped by a sudden drop into a chasm of tangled undergrowth partially
covering a thirty foot deep hollow. Beyond the hollow, he could see a
snow covered clearing in the center of a grove of quaking aspen. His
eyes were immediately drawn to a path of old footsteps appearing from
the aspen grove at the high-side of the meadow. Someone, obviously a
woman heavily dressed for winter, was moving across the well traveled
path a good three quarters of the way through the meadow. She was
pulling what looked like a child’s sled behind her, heading east
towards the valley below. The photographer instinctively pulled the
camera to his face. He quickly adjusted the telephoto lens, closing in
on the solitary figure below.
Suddenly, in the lens peripheral he saw them; two of them this
time, a pair of shadows flashing through the underbrush at the
clearing directly in the woman’s path. They were large, as big as
bears or wolves or…God knew what.
“Hey!” he yelled. His sudden intrusive voice echoed down the
canyon. Through the lens he saw her whirl in his direction. “Hey!” he
yelled again. “There is something in the aspen—!” The woman suddenly
turned away and began moving even faster across the meadow towards the
tree-line.
“Lady— hey lady!” he yelled again. He dropped his camera to his chest
and began waving his arms over his head. “Lady!” he yelled louder.
“Stay out of the trees!”
She ignored him, still moving away. He reached again and jerked the
camera to his face, focusing on her one more time. She turned in his
direction. Her face filled the telephoto viewfinder. She looked up at
him fear-full and intense. He stopped mid-step.
He was suddenly looking at the face of a goddess, perfect beyond
belief. Her long ebony hair tumbled out of the thick fur-lined hood
partially obscuring the right side of her face. Black eyebrows,
flawless and full, were pulled together in alarm. Her emerald green
eyes flashed at him. The photographer, hesitated, then snapped a
picture. To his horror the woman disappeared into the aspen.
Oh my God, he breathed. He whirled and began crashing through the
flora desperately trying to skirt the hollow and find a way to reach
her, or at least warn her. He bounded over a broken branch and pushed
his way forward running as fast as he could. Something snagged his
right foot and sent him tumbling down a shallow rock-filled gulch. He
rolled forward inadvertently tossing the parka ten feet away into the
foliage and ended up sprawled between a lodgepole stump and a squat
juniper tree.
Damn, he groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. He
looked in the direction of the meadow where the woman had disappeared
moments before. A twist of undergrowth was blocking his view.
Suddenly the smell of putrefying meat filled his nostrils. Whew, he
said aloud, something nearby is extremely dead. He looked around him
holding his nose, searching for a clear path. He still had to find a
way to warn the woman.
His eyes were reverted back to the dark underbrush. Something was
there. A cold shadow crossed over him from above. He whirled, looking
up into the bright noon-day sky but saw nothing overhead. A sound like
a buzzing insect pulled his eyes back to the gloomy underbrush.
Something was definitely there, he could feel it. He squinted trying
to focus, raising his hand over his eyes. There in the twisted
foliage, something— shaped like a face, but— strange. His breath
suddenly imploded in his lunges. He screamed and kicked out into the
rocky soil, scrambling backwards against the base of the juniper tree.
He sat staring wide eyed into what appeared to be the face of a
demented child but gray and shrunken like a mummified corpse. Its lips
were knotted in a cruel snarl. Its eyes, monstrous and black, glared
back at him beneath twisted brows. Its wild tar-black hair extended
from its ghastly head, blending… becoming one with the shadowy mottled
underbrush.
“Remove thy shoes Adam lest ye desecrate this holy ground!”
The photographer was aware the sound had come from the aberration
but the mummy face had remained still, morphing in and out of focus
like a submerged coin in a rippling stream. It sounded to the
photographer like the high pitched voice of a strangling dwarf.
The photographer tried to roll away and run but he seemed to be
held— tangled within the branches of the juniper tree.
“Remove thy shoes Adam for thou hast entered into the dwelling of
the most high.”
The photographer sat gasping, staring into the horror. “I— what
—,” he squeaked, his voice catching in his throat.
“Remove thy shoes Adam for thou hast entered into the dwelling of
the most high!”
The sound was much louder this time, lower in pitch and urgent.
The photographer scrambled to pull his arms away from the juniper tree
and was released. He struggled to untie his boot laces, then quickly
kicked them off and looked back up at the terrible face still
glowering at him from within the dim underbrush.
“I’m not— I’m not Adam… I’m—” The photographer was stammering now,
trying to breath.
“Thou art Adam-kind! Thou art seed! Be ye silent oh tiny
insignificant wisp of root!”
The photographer blinked and tried to speak but nothing happened.
“Thou, Adam, hast found what it is ye seeketh but thou shalt not
reveal it until the fullness of time!”
There was silence for a moment, then the voice returned, lower in
pitch, even more urgent.
“Now it is oh Adam— wisp of root— shalt thou leave this place forever
lest ye die!”
The aberration slowly faded away into the tangled underbrush along
with the echo of its voice leaving the photographer wide eyed and
gasping. The stench quickly dissipated, replaced by the fresh smell of
the mountain forest. After a time he pulled himself to his naked feet
and stood staring into the brush where the ghastly face had
disappeared.
What did I seek? he groaned. what did I find?
What the hell is happening here?