Chapter No. 46 Armageddon

Wind blown hair. Consoling hugs. Tear streaked faces. Grief laden eyes. Sobs filling the crisp morning air. Good day for a funeral.

Perhaps.

The minister seems too young, too inexperienced, and too brash. He's not even dressed in black like the undertaker. His suit is white and tailored to his thin frame. White is a symbol of celebration he tells people, but nobody's celebrating here. To make matters worse, his eyes are too bright to express grief at a graveside eulogy. Even his voice is too high pitched.

"He that believeth in me hath everlasting life."

No one is listening. A gleaming white coffin commands center stage for these mourners. Their thoughts are on a beautiful young woman struck down in her prime, her life snatched from her by mad men.

Margaret wipes a tear from her cheek.

Why did it happen? What kind of a God would allow this abomination?

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes: and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away."

Most of the mourners are young, but there are exceptions. The Hauptman's are among the oldest--Kathy's grandparents have that distinction. Many are Kathy's friends from Marineland. Only a few Institute people are represented: Dr. Anderson, Willis, and the Hauptmans.

Three young people, standing off to the side of the gravesite, provide a dirge of sorts. A tall lanky youth with long stringy blond hair bound up in a red bandana strums and picks on an old Gibson nicked and scratched from years of handling. His faded jeans, tie-dyed T-shirt, and sandals hint of a throwback to the sixties. Rings in his ears, eyebrows, lips, and nose hint of the nineties. Snake tattoos flow down his forearms, ending with their nasty heads, fangs bared, on the back of his hands.

Two gypsy-garbed women flank him, adding vocal support along with the jingling of tambourines. Their fresh flowered skirts and peasant blouses contrast with the young man's grungy look. One has long black hair braided into a ponytail that hangs over her left shoulder and reaches her waist. Her dark eyes are sunken above high cheekbones of velvety copper skin. Her waist is small enough for a man to fold his hands around and touch fingers. The other woman has a cherub face to match her heavy-set body. Her hair blazes with a crimson glow in the morning sun. Their garb seems more appropriate for a carnival midway.

Their song does not.

"Jesus, Jesus, let it be done to me."

Eric glanced at his wife's tear stained face and sighed. He feared that this would be the final straw, that she would lose heart. They had come too far for that to happen.

But what could he do?

He placed his arm around her waist and gave a slight tug. She settled into him, turned her moist face up to his and flashed a brief smile, just a reassurance that she was ok.

But, was she?

"Jesus, Jesus, be the warmth of my heart."

My heart is cold, cold, cold.

"For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

Dust? Hell, I feel like dirt. Everything has turned to shit. Can it get any worse than this?

Eric caught sight of them in the corner of his eye--three men standing by a tree. They looked out of place among the casually dressed young people and the more formally attired seniors. Their dark suits and subdued ties smelled of government agent. One of them, the youngest, was taking pictures with a long-focal-length-lensed camera.

What the hell are they doing here? Can't they at least leave us alone at a funeral?

"Jesus, Jesus, you are the way."

The Eulogy was short. Someone this young has not made much of a mark in this world. The finale had something about being ready to answer God's call.

The music echoed this message. Its soulful rendering only made Margaret cry the more.

"Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord. I have heard you calling in the night."

Hell, the only thing that calls me in the night is Mother Nature.

"I will go, Lord. If you help me, I will hold your people in my heart."

Right now, people make me sick.

Eric waited until the service ended and people were milling around in small groups before he walked over to Willis and his security men.

"Who are they?" He gestured to the suits by cocking his head.

"Government dicks, Hauptman. They say they're looking for members of the loony sect that murdered Kathy."

Eric looked around. "Shit. I hope none of them are here now."

"There's that group over there," Willis said, gesturing with a quick twist of his jaw at five young men standing by themselves.

They had hard-bitten looks--short hair, earrings, nose rings in some cases, thin hard faces--as if they belonged in a punk rock group. If the government agents looked out of place, these people appeared extreme in the other direction. They were dressed in faded and ripped Levis, flannel shirts, and Australian work boots.

Hardly proper attire for a funeral.

"I'm getting Margaret out of here," Eric said as he hurried away.

"No need to panic, Hauptman. We have everything under control."

"Yeah, right."

Eric was half way to Margaret before the young men began spreading out, moving into positions around the mourners who were standing in groups near the gravesite. He broke into a run. His terror stricken face alarmed his wife. Her eyes widened and she staggered back.

"Get down!" His warning was high-pitched, squeaky, definitely panicked.

He had good reason. The young men began shooting. People screamed. Many fell to the ground--some not voluntarily.

A bullet caught Eric in his left arm, splattering blood in a ragged star pattern over the sleeve of his jacket. It felt like a bee sting at first but the pain grew more intense and blood streamed down his arm, eventually dripping from his fingers to stain the grass red. A second bullet caught him in the side, spinning him around and staining his jacket in a large ragged circle. He dropped to his knees, swaying back and forth for a few seconds before feeling his head begin to swim. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his eyes rolled, and he fell back with lights out.

Margaret fell down as if she had been hit in the head. Her face froze in terror when she saw her husband fall. Gunfire, screams, and yelling confused her. She could only observe this madness, as if she were caught in a dream in which time crept, prolonging the agony.

And fear.

One of Willis' men took a bullet in the leg, splintering bone and flesh, causing him to fall over like a freshly cut tree. A FBI agent was hit in the stomach. Surprise, forged with pain, broke out on his face and he doubled over and screamed, desperately trying to stem his spurting life force. The noisy, bloody confrontation continued. As people ran or fell, they heard popping sounds echoing crazily around the cemetery.

Margaret wanted to crawl to her husband, to see if he was still alive, but her legs just wouldn't function. It made her sick to her stomach.

The gunfight was over almost as fast as it began. The attackers retreated leaving two fallen comrades. With his gun pointed to finish the job if necessary, Willis knelt down near one of the fallen attackers and felt his jugular. "He's dead," he announced.

"This one's still alive," one of his men said after a similar examination on the other.

Moans and cries replaced the din of gunfire. Soon the sounds of sirens broke the deathly silence of the unlikely battlefield.

The permanent residents did not complain.

Among the living, pain and shock elicited many complaints.

Margaret had little time for that. She quickly ran to her husband and cradled his head in her lap. His whole body felt limp and lifeless. She tensed and cried out in anguish, swaying and glaring up at the heavens as if she were admonishing God. Her tears streamed down and fell on her husband's face.

When her husband's tongue licked the tears, her eyes widened.

His eyes flickered open. "Your tears are as salty as the sea, Love."

She laughed and hugged him. He smiled, the emotional experience of awakening to his wife's smiling face counteracting the pain quite nicely.

###

Blazing sun. Gentle breeze. Calm sea. The song of finches announced a new day. Not the kind of day you would expect for a battle.

Two ships approach a lava-strewn island, silently slicing through the waves to take up flanking positions. Neither is a warship. The Sergeyev and the Breshnov are marine research vessels capable of transporting two hundred scientists, but scientists are in the minority. Nobody is here for science. The cruiser Zhukov and two destroyer escorts hold station twenty kilometers out, an ocean away from their homeport.

On the bridge of the Zhukov, a trim but aging captain in a white uniform with black and gold epaulets paces behind two junior officers. When Captain Mendolov sees one of his officers turn, his dark eyes narrow.

"The Breshnov reports that they are ready, Captain." The young man's face shows no emotion. His steely eyes peer like lasers.

Captain Mendolov turns to the radar station. "Are we clear?"

"No contacts, Sir," a young man yells, his yellow stained teeth advertising his servitude to nicotine.

The Captain is unsure of his next order. He is not used to battles in which he cannot see, or understand, his enemy. Besides, this is not supposed to be a battle. They're here to capture, not kill.

But why did they send so many to capture one?

"Tell them to begin," the Captain said, rubbing his strong chin.

His order is not sent by radio. A yeoman sends it out with signal flags. A yeoman on the Breshnev acknowledges the order.

It begins.

From large rocks near a small inlet, cat-like eyes focus on the intruders. A sharp whistle prompts juveniles and infants to slip from the rocks.

A male expresses his opinion. "These are not the ones. They are from a far place."

But a female issues the orders. "We are in danger. Alert the others."

The male's signal is sent as a sound, easily heard at great distance underwater.

The two vessels unload their deadly cargo. A hundred divers efficiently enter the waves and descend to prearranged depths at intervals of forty meters. They position at five-meter distances from one another in a semicircle arrangement while other divers attach steel nets over the entrances to underwater volcanic shafts. The divers activate their stun guns and wait, adjusting ballast to remain at the prearranged depths.

A dozen mermaids enter the trap. When they sense the divers they make for the shaft entrances.

Chirps and clicks.

Alarm.

The divers move in to spring the trap, their confidence buoyed by the apparent success of their plan.

Ah, but you're in our backyard.

From a shaft in the sea bottom a hundred meters behind the army of divers, a new army appears. Swiftly fanning out and taking up positions, this army delivers their first volley. Small stone projectiles find their marks, piercing flesh and bone. Soon, bloody trails drift away in every direction. The divers turn and return fire, but the mermaids are quick. Steel and stone projectiles knife through the chaotically churning water.

An orgy of death prevails.

Panic.

Several divers return to the surface, ignoring the spectra of pain from the bends. The remaining men move toward the attackers with knives drawn. The battle disintegrates into a back alley rumble.

The fight is one sided. Mermaids are adept at cutting and slashing, their powerful arms stronger and their swimming skill unparalleled. In the depths of the sea, no human is a match for these creatures.

Despite this, a few creatures are felled. Their comrades pull their bodies away to the safety of the shaft.

Nobody retrieves the wounded and dying divers, and to make matters worse, their bloody trails do not go unnoticed. At first, a few White-tipped reef sharks show up, circling around like vultures waiting for death to deliver a meal. Soon, hundreds join the party, Silver-tipped, Whale, Horn, and Black-tipped sharks. A large group of Hammerheads brings up the rear. Before long the sea runs red. The battle of Fernandina goes to the mermaids. Captain Mendolov orders a withdrawal, especially when radar shows contacts approaching from the north.

###

Margaret rolls out from under the covers, sits on the edge of the bed for a few moments, takes a long breath, places her feet into slippers, and then shuffles off.

Her husband doesn't say anything. He knows that she's upset and unable to fall asleep. A week had passed since the funeral and she has shown no signs of post-depression. On the other hand, she isn't her usual exuberant self. Oh, she has continued her studies of the larva, but she seems moody and unable to stay focused. And the most disturbing thing is that she's doing something that didn't make any sense: she's avoiding the mermaids.

He waited for a few minutes before rolling out of bed and putting on his robe and slippers. It wasn't easy. He had limited use of his arm. The bullet hadn't hit anything important, but the wound had damaged a good deal of muscle tissue. The wound in his side had cracked a rib, sparing him any serious injury but adding to his pain. After he placed his arm into a sling, he made his way to the patio.

He found her there sitting by the pond, her feet propped up on a stool, and her chin propped up on her hand. He smiled briefly when he recalled the time he got up at night and sat there near the pond, trying to reason his way though a work crisis. Their roles were reversed this time.

"Having trouble sleeping, Love?"

She looked up at him with an expressionless face but turned away, shaking her head. "This business has gotten out of control."

"I won't argue with that, Love. These creatures have brought out the worst in us humans."

"Yes. I'm beginning to think that we humans made a serious mistake in revealing them to the world. Mankind is just not ready for them."

Eric sat down. "We can't allow a few incidents to deter our work."

Margaret nearly exploded. "A few incidents! We've been through bloody hell because of these creatures. Has the world gone mad?" She stood up, stomped up to the edge of the pond, and began gesturing wildly. "No. The real question is: Are we mad? We're poking our arrogant scientific noses into places they don't belong. We had better back out before we get burned."

Eric lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked up at her with disturbed eyes. "Your buddies are asking me why you don't come to see them anymore."

She turned and glared at him. "I'm not sure of my own motives anymore. This species is not only intelligent it represents a deadly predator capable of killing any other species on this planet, including humans. I'm not sure they're just casing us."

That caused Eric's right eyebrow to rise. "I don't know about that. All I know is that they're asking for you. The least you could do is go talk to them."

She shook her head again. "I'm not sure that I could do that without saying something I would regret. Maybe it would be better if we allow them to go back where they came from. We have no business trying to exploit them."

"You're beginning to sound like George."

"Maybe he's right. Did you ever consider that?"

"I never thought I would hear you say that, Love."

She sat down on the edge of the pond and allowed her legs to penetrate the water. "You never listen to me. We're on a collision course, and if we don't get off of this train of madness, we'll be destroyed."

Eric sat down next to her, but he didn't touch her. "I don't know why you always say that I don't listen to you. I'm here listening to you now. If you want to get out of this project, I'll back you up. We can inform Alan tomorrow." He paused. "But, I think that we had better go to the creatures and tell them that they won't be seeing us anymore."

She stared at him for several seconds before she got up. "Ok. Let's do it now."

He stood up. "Ok."

###

The instant Margaret stepped up to the water of the main dolphin tank, she saw heads popping out of the water. High-pitched whistles greeted her.

Eric smiled at her. "They know a good looking babe when they see one."

She gave him a confused look.

Isaiah moved closer. "Hi Mar-ga-reet! We miss you. Why have you stayed away?"

"You have your trainers. Why do you miss me?"

"We love you."

"Why? Why do you love me?"

Isaiah tilted his head, pausing before he sang: "Be-cause you love us."

"What makes you think that I love you?"

"You have sac-ri-ficed yourself for us. You are our sav-ior."

Margaret glanced at her husband. He shrugged.

She turned back to Isaiah. "Why do you need saved?"

"Our numbers have de-clined. We are in danger of being no more. The Sea Wo-man must continue."

She stared at him for several minutes before she shook her head. "I don't know--"

"Please. Please help us, Mar-ga-reet."

A tear formed in Margaret's eye. Her husband noticed it and smiled inside.

His wife sunk to her knees and cried. Tears ran down her face in rivulets, dripping down and adding ineffectively to the water content of the tank. Eric thought about comforting her but he hesitated. He was not about to interfere with the process that was occurring here.