The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

The Atlas Mountains, Morocco.

“You have betrayed me,
and now you are lying to me!”

It was Najiallah Nasrallah who spoke, his voice was as greasy as his shoulder length hair, and his accent impossible to trace. He wore a shiny black suit under a blood spattered apron, his gaudy silk shirt the colour of dried mustard. A huge, muscle-bound man slumped before him under the trembling fluorescent light; naked and battered, and strapped to a barber’s chair. They were in the middle of a windowless chamber, deep in a Moorish dungeon.

“No, Master,” said the giant of a man, his deep voice broken but still dignified. “There was talk in the streets. An American was asking about the relic. His name is Gabriel Parker. There were many leaks after the robbery. The informer could have been anyone.”

“Do not lie to me!” snapped Nasrallah, venomously poking a cattle prod into the prisoner’s ribs.

A deep and resounding scream ensued, and much to Nasrallah’s annoyance, the tortured man slipped into unconsciousness. Nasrallah turned to face a middle-aged doctor who stood nearby. His lab coat was heavily bloodstained, his gaunt face pale and haggard.

“Why did the drugs not prevent this from happening?” hissed Nasrallah through grey and crooked teeth.

The doctor scrambled up to the victim to take his pulse.

“I gave him a massive dose, sir, but he is still only human. If you continue this he will die.”

With the prisoner’s tortured head now tilting to the side, it was easy to see the large scar that bisected his face. In charge of two hashish production operations in Tangiers, and a smuggling ring in Algeria, he was Nasrallah’s top Captain; the only one left alive who had been involved in the Cube’s robbery from the Museum of Antiquities. Nasrallah scowled with hatred.

You have betrayed me, Bahadur. You are a slithering worm.

Within hours of Gabriel’s escape, Nasrallah had ordered his helicopter to Morocco to collect the giant, and bring him back. His family had also been taken, and they were currently being held in another cell within earshot of his screams.

“Son of a whore,” said Nasrallah in disgust, stripping off his apron and turning to leave. “He had a hand in this. I am sure of it. I should have killed him with all the others.”

Nasrallah stopped at the door, his mobile phone ringing. He held it to his ear.

“Yes?” he said, his expression changing as he listened. “But Father Vanderwerken, how can this be? No sir, I do not doubt you. If you say it is, the Cube must be in Rome. Yes. Most certainly. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kindly relay all your data and I will send a team out immediately. Yes, sir. At your service.”

Pocketing his phone, Nasrallah turned to face the doctor, his mouth twisting with hatred.

“Clean him up and make him well enough to work! I’ve got plans for him yet.”

Rome, Italy.

Gabriel sat in a plush leather armchair,
scanning the guestroom he had just been escorted to. He was completely awake now, and he looked around with a refreshed alertness that was more in keeping with early morning than the time on his watch. His eyes fell on his leather duffel bag. He could see it resting on a rosewood table at the foot of his bed.

“Couldn’t hurt to have a look,” he muttered, rising from his seat. “Anything to take my mind off that girl.”

Even before Natasha had introduced herself, Gabriel had known in an instant that she was the woman mentioned in his father’s notes. According to the Professor, the Cube was as much hers as it was his. He rubbed the stubble on his face.

She said Marcus was like an uncle to her...

It made no sense. Surely somebody would have said something about her. The thing that bothered Gabriel the most was the way she had made him stop in his tracks.

“I don’t know who that girl is,” he grumbled, opening the duffel bag, “but she’s got high-maintenance written all over her face. Another prissy little Princess.”

Gabriel shook off his misgivings and produced the container that housed the mysterious Cube. As he had noted before, it was surprisingly heavy, having a density that reminded him of an uncooked roast. Stopping suddenly, Gabriel turned away from the artifact to face the window. A noise from outside had caught his attention. It had sounded like something had fallen with a crash. He remained motionless.

Most likely a tree bough downed by the storm.

In truth, the rain had yet to let up. Roman winters tended to be very rainy, but this season had been particularly cold and damp. Outside, the downpour pummeled the wooden shutters, and Gabriel was glad of the fire that burned low in the hearth. It was a foul night, and the room was really quite comfortable. He moved to the desk and placed the artifact down carefully.

It was such an odd thing, this Cube, quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. When closely scrutinized it was easy to see that the thing was not at all what it appeared to be on the surface. Its density was of course the first give away, but surpassing this was the lack of attention that had been given to the actual illuminations that adorned it. Compared to the detailed work that had gone into the carving of its external framework, the illustrations themselves seemed overly crude in contrast; each side containing the same image of a single apple with its peel removed and arranged in a coil around it.

Gabriel noticed something peculiar. Having studied similar quadriforms of the same epoch, he knew that their frameworks were always attached last, thus preventing any of the vellum from peeling off the artifact’s surface over time. In this case however, that precaution had not been observed. Gabriel could clearly see that the edges of the vellum were peeling up, even if ever so slightly.

“Wait a minute here,” he muttered, gently passing his finger over an upturned edge. “Is it possible that there could be something behind this illustration?”

Gabriel groaned as the full realization dawned on him. These were not merely illustrations of peeled apples; they were instructions. Producing his pocket knife, he tested a loose edge to find that the old vellum offered little resistance to being peeled back. He stopped himself.

What the hell am I doing? I’m about to mutilate a twelve-hundred year old artifact.

Even still, something drove Gabriel onward, and he was soon uncovering a golden sub-layer, one that was so well preserved that in his excitement he forgot to breathe. One side at a time, he carefully pulled away the outer layers, revealing a shining artifact beneath.

Adorned in intricately worked parchments of deep ruby reds and glowing emerald greens, it was a gold encrusted work of medieval art the likes of which he had never before seen. Reminiscent not only of the Islamic and Christian works found in the cathedral of St. Sophia Hagia, the piece also reflected an uncanny similarity to the mystical arts of India, as well as the sublime elegance of those masterful works originating from the Far East.

“This is unbelievable,” he whispered, turning it slowly under the light.

The truth of the matter was that he had quite simply never laid eyes on such a masterpiece. It was beyond a doubt, the finest example of medieval craftsmanship in existence, and there could be no doubt as to its authenticity. It was only upon arriving at this conclusion that Gabriel noticed something that dumbfounded him.

“Wait a minute,” he said aloud. “This can’t be right.”

Reaching for his pack, he retrieved an examination kit, producing a large magnifying glass. After a moment’s inspection, there could be no mistake. On each of the six sides were miniature texts belonging to six distinct world religions.

“Buddhism,” whispered Gabriel, turning the Cube under the magnifying glass, “Judaism, Islamism, Taoism,” his eyes were wide with amazement, “Hinduism, Christianity. This is impossible.”

The likelihood of there existing a ninth century artifact that housed texts belonging to the six major world religions was unheard of. In this artifact was evidence of a cultural contact that, according to the history books, would not occur for another four hundred years. Gabriel placed the Cube back on the desk and reclined in his chair, trying to digest what the existence of such a piece could signify. Who had made it? Why had they made it? Who in the ninth century would have had such detailed knowledge of the six major belief systems, not to mention knowledge of their languages? And what would have inspired them to want to unify them in such a manner? 

“This is certainly very unusual,” he muttered, taking his eyes from the Cube to look around the room. “What the hell is going on? Why is all this happening? Why did my father say that the Cube was my birthright? What the hell was that supposed to mean?”

All the while that Gabriel studied the Cube, and hours passed without him knowing, there resided in his heart a strange and disturbing familiarity for the object, one that he could not begin to explain. It was as though he had dreamed of the Cube, or seen it as a child. An elusive recollection of the artifact seemed to be hovering just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps he had simply slept too much. Sensing that he had had enough, Gabriel packed away the strange artifact and headed for the bathroom.

It’s almost two-thirty in the morning. I could use a shower and a shave.

Natasha jerked herself into
a seated position. A scuffling sound had just awoken her. It was coming from outside.

What is that? Is it the rain?

She left her bed silently, approaching a louvered set of doors that lead into the cloisters outside. Through the downpour she could see a wet dog sitting patiently in the shadows. Its fur was glimmering in the lamplight. He pawed at the door again and Natasha gasped in surprise, her intuition peaking.

“You again,” she said, biting her lip. “But how can it be?”

Natasha’s rational mind was sounding its objections. Florence was almost three hundred kilometers away from Rome. There was no possible way that the dog could have found her here. Even still, something in her was absolutely sure that the dog outside was the same one she had seen in her storeroom. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Gabriel!” came the distressed call.
“Get out of there and get dressed immediately. There is no time to waste!”

Gabriel shut off the water and poked his head out of the shower. Through the steam he could see Fra Bartolomeo standing at the door of the bathroom. In one hand he held a two-way radio, in the other, the battered old duffel bag that Gabriel had left lying on the bed.

“What’s going on?”

The old Brother held out a hand to silence him, bringing the radio to his mouth.

“It is true, your Excellency. There are men outside.”

“Are the telephones still down?” came the Bishop’s voice on the other end.

“Yes, and there is no mobile coverage either.”

“Collect Gabriel, Natasha, and Suora Angelica. Meet me in my quarters immediately. I want all of you prepared to move. Bring some warm clothes and any food supplies you can find. Make haste!”

“What’s going on, Fra?” asked Gabriel, donning a bathrobe.

“There is no time to explain,” said the old Brother, turning to leave. “I will wake Suora and get some supplies. Meet us at the Bishop’s study.”

The old Brother handed Gabriel his pack.

“E per tutti i santi
, Gabriel,” he said. “Do not take your eyes off this. It is the Cube they have come for!”

Gabriel stayed looking at the door after Fra had gone.

What the hell is going on?

It did not take him long to get dressed. Begrudgingly he packed away his razor, rubbing at the three day growth on his face.

“I’ll get that shave if it kills me.”

Making his way through the old, familiar corridors, Gabriel found it very difficult to believe that there was an enemy lurking outside. It was just the storm. It had to be. Even still, he was glad that Fra had left all the lights off. If there truly were men waiting for the right time to invade the monastery, it would be best to keep them thinking that everyone was asleep.

“They could never have got on to me so fast,” he muttered to himself. “It’s impossible.”

He made his way briskly toward the Bishop’s apartments, a thought occurring to him suddenly.

“Amir,” he gasped aloud, his brow furrowing.

Had they captured him? Was that how they were able to locate him here in Rome? Could they at this very moment be torturing his friend? Gabriel stopped abruptly despite his urgency, an anger alighting in him.

If they’ve got him...

He shook it off and started walking. He was just being paranoid. He had seen Amir installed in his Gibraltar flat not thirty-six hours before, safely out of Morocco and in one of the securest ports in the Mediterranean. He brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand and just then arrived at the Bishop’s quarters. He burst into the room, forgetting to knock.

Natasha was sitting on the corner of the Bishop’s desk, and Gabriel felt his heart skip a beat despite himself. She was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a cream-coloured cotton blouse, and a dark knit jacket that had an eclectic, military edge to it. Her boots were soft black leather; low healed and laced, and matched her little leather backpack perfectly. It sat next to her on the desk, a lit up iPad sitting on top of it. Oddly enough, there was a chocolate-brown hunting dog lying at Natasha’s feet. Behind the desk sat the Bishop, smiling happily, as though there were no danger at hand.

“Well, well,” said the Bishop. “It would appear that the long awaited reunion has at last come to pass. I would introduce you if I had not already been informed of your accidental meeting earlier this morning.”

The Bishop gave Gabriel a stern look.

“You could have read my note a little more carefully, my son.”

Gabriel nodded and shrugged. He looked over at Natasha but said nothing. The Bishop stood up and walked around the desk toward Gabriel.

“Do you have the Cube?” he asked in earnest, his untrimmed eyebrows gathering into a single, silvery mass.

Gabriel nodded.

“Would you like to see it?”

“No, no. Now is not the time, my son. I must pack a few things.”

With that the old Bishop turned, instantly shaking off his seriousness. His eyes were alight with an almost youthful glow. In all the excitement, his eighty-five years of life seemed to have dissolved away. Even the old man’s posture had changed, and as he walked across the room, his gait seemed like that of a man twenty years younger.

He arrived at an antique armoire and removed a small pack from one of its shelves, whistling quietly as he filled it with some things. Gabriel looked over at Natasha only to find that she was looking directly at him, her eyes suspicious. 

“I didn’t see him in your room,” he said, acting like he had not noticed her glaring eyes.

He nodded towards the dog.

“That is because he was not there when you came in,” said Natasha, sliding off the desk gracefully.

She knelt down next to the animal and began scratching its proud neck affectionately.

“It is a strange story,” she said to the dog. “We met in my workshop in Florence about two weeks ago, and I was sure he was going to attack me. Instead he ran away, and I thought I would never see him again. A few hours ago he came to my door. I still cannot believe it.”

Gabriel frowned and then moved around the desk to sit in the Bishop’s chair. His body still ached from his ordeal in the sewage tunnel.

Why does her accent have to be so damn sexy?

He closed his eyes, opening them a minute later to find that she had taken up her place on the Bishop’s desk again. Gabriel frowned. She was looking directly at him; scrutinizing him again. He tilted the chair onto its back legs and closed his eyes.

“Shackleton is the reason why we are all up in the middle of the night,” he heard her say.

Gabriel kept his eyes shut.

“Shackleton?”

“That is what I have named him,” said Natasha. “He is quite the traveller.”

“So it would seem.”

Natasha examined Gabriel from head to toe.

“He led me to a little window in the washroom.”

She nudged his balanced chair with her foot.

“I am sure you know the window I am talking about?”

Gabriel opened an eye and then closed it again. Natasha kept talking.

“Shackleton got up on his hind legs and looked through the panes,” she said, biting her lip as she remembered. “He was grumbling. When I went to see what he was looking at, I saw two dark figures squatting beside the fountain outside. Some of them were armed with rifles, so I woke up Fra. He says that they are surrounding the monastery.”

Gabriel opened his eyes and leaned forward.

“You’re being serious.”

Natasha nodded, and Gabriel could finally see the fear in her eyes. He rose to his feet, and just then Fra Bartolomeo entered the room. He was accompanied by a tiny old nun dressed in a pale blue skirt with a matching blouse and cardigan. She appeared to be laughing and crying simultaneously.

“Suora!” exclaimed Natasha, rushing to her and falling into her arms. “Do not be frightened. Bishop Marcus knows what to do.”

Gabriel nodded in agreement. It felt odd that Natasha should be so familiar with Suora, and he felt a kind of childish jealousy at seeing the two embrace.

“Ciao, Bellissima,”
he said, giving the little nun a hug. “Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Ah, my child,” she said quietly, her accent as thick as Fra’s. “I am an old woman awaiting death. What could I be frightened of? I am not crying for fear. I am crying because I am happier now than I have ever been. I never thought I would live to see the two of you united. It seemed to me it would never happen. Thanks be to our blessed Virgin Mary!”

Gabriel and Natasha looked at each other suspiciously. They stood on either side of the nun, each of them holding on to one of her hands. Suora Angelica had been like a mother to them both; the only mother they had ever known. Crying with delight, the old nun brought Gabriel and Natasha’s hands together, intertwining their fingers as she spoke.

“The love between you will see no bounds,” she said.

Natasha exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Gabriel before pulling her hand away. In the meantime, the Bishop had finished packing, and was in the process of throwing a dark cloak over his black vestments.

“The time has come, my dear family,” he said, slinging his pack over a boney shoulder. “We must flee this place immediately. Follow me!”