The Emissary by Patricia Cori – Free Chapter

Posted by – June 16, 2014
Categories: Literature & the Arts Metaphysics & Unexplained Phenomena

Chapter 1 – Earth Under Siege

Nathan Beals punched out from work at precisely 6:00 p.m., smack in the middle of Los Angeles rush hour. After the most ballistic holiday shopping mania he had ever seen in his twenty-odd years working security at the mall, he finally had an entire weekend off.

Exhausted, he dragged himself out to the employee parking lot, only to find that his faithful old Chevy sedan, “Miss Jezebel,” had been vandalized. The side mirror was smashed up against the window, and glass covered the asphalt—shattered reflections of what Nathan always referred to as “the broken society.” Examining the few remaining splinters wedged inside the frame, he could see it was no accident, and that someone had whacked the mirror deliberately—another anonymous punk with a baseball bat in his fists and a big, huge chip on his shoulder. He checked the passenger’s side and, sure enough, the attacker had also keyed three feet of the front fender and both doors: through the paint—right down to the steel.

“Aw-w-w man!” he shouted, though no one was there to hear. “Look at this, now!” Nathan ran his fingers over the unforgiving scar on Jezebel’s smooth, clean body, feeling the pain of it just as sharply as if it had been carved into his own flesh. “It never ends,” he said, shaking his head. “Good god almighty, it just never, ever ends.”

A senior guard for so many years at the mall, he thought he’d seen just about everything—shoplifters, gangbangers, lost kids, vandals, stalkers—but never had he experienced anything like what he’d lived through the last year. This was the year of years in bizarre world and he could feel the tension rising, as if the whole planet were in a giant pressure cooker that was just about to blow its lid off, along with the whole human race, right out of Earth’s orbit.

He clutched his phone from his shirt pocket and dialed the first three numbers of the local police station—he certainly knew everybody there—but then, he thought it over for a moment, and hung up. With everything that was going on out there, on the streets of Los Angeles, they weren’t about to investigate petty vandalism—not even as a favor to him. And of course he wasn’t insured for anything like this anyway—so, what was the point?

Nathan grabbed a plastic bag out of the trunk and carefully picked up the shards of glass, piece by piece, so that he could discard them somewhere safer, far away from the mall, before anyone else got the idea to do any more damage with them . . . and just maybe sparing someone a flat tire. Shaking his head in frustration, he wondered if this malicious little gift might be payback for having intervened in a brawl earlier that day, knowing it was unlikely and that it was probably just him being overly paranoid—but thinking it, just the same. Violence, these days, didn’t need a reason or a cause. As a security guard with authority, though, he was good enough “reason” for any number of vengeful punks and petty criminals that he had to deal with—every single day.

Nathan always started his mornings with coffee at his favorite café in the mall. But that day, he never even got to taste it. Just as the clerk was handing him his latte, he got called to the south end, where trouble was brewing at Electronics Warehouse. The store clerk who called it in reported that there were two men fighting—he thought they were gangbangers—so Nathan was warned to use extreme caution approaching. When he got there, they were one minute away from killing each other, over what each had claimed as his own territory—the one remaining “super sale” stereo in the store. One pulled a switchblade on the other, and he was about to use it, fired up and ready to kill.

Nathan managed to calm the kid and take the knife away, without him or anyone else getting hurt, preventing what very nearly could have resulted in another in a long list of urban L.A. killings. If security hadn’t gotten there in time—if he had stopped to stir a packet of sugar into his coffee—they would for sure have found the boy lying dead in a pool of his own blood . . . over a fifty-dollar discount on a damned car stereo that probably wasn’t even worth twenty bucks in the first place.

Because the situation involved a concealed weapon, Nathan was duty bound to call the incident in to the police immediately, which resulted in the knife-wielding youth being arrested on the spot and taken down to the station in handcuffs, while the other, not-so-innocent delinquent, just as responsible, was let go.

The thought of that kid pulling a knife on the other, for something as trivial as a stereo, was unconscionable to a simple, peace-loving man like Nathan, who grew up in a time when people still talked to each other . . . when there was still a dialogue going on. Sure, there had always been violence, he didn’t deny that, but it was the exception when he was growing up, compared to the new “normal” of today: this constant threat, all the time, everywhere . . . around every corner. The world was seething now, bubbling over in a cauldron of rage. From the looks of things that he saw come down on a daily basis, in that microcosmic corner of a crazy new world, the Mall, reason was all but gone. The human dialogue was over, and what had replaced it was irrational, unyielding disregard for everyone and everything. It had given way to the animal instinct: take what you want; kill or be killed.

That was how Nathan had come to perceive the world in which he was growing old . . . and he did not like what he saw. Was a human life really worth nothing more than fifty bucks to the youth of today? He knew that answer. Kids were killing each other out there for far less than that—even just for the fun of it. And where the hell were these kids’ parents, he wondered, dragging them, like a couple of snarling pack dogs, back to the security office, by the scruffs of their necks. Where, for the love of god, were the parents?

Meanwhile, while this drama was unfolding, at the north end, a frantic young mother came running out of Macy’s, screaming hysterically, moments after her little girl disappeared, in seconds, from her sight. The security team of more than one hundred guards—in uniform and plainclothed—executed emergency procedures throughout the mall, controlling all the exits, questioning anybody who looked suspicious and everybody with small children. They scrutinized every inch of the stores and the parking grounds via the network of surveillance equipment, but the girl was gone without a trace. Nothing showed up on the monitors; nobody had seen a child fitting her description; not a soul had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

It was as if she had simply evaporated into thin air.

Shoplifting throughout the mall’s seventy-eight stores was rampant—security arrested thirty-four people in one day alone, and more than two hundred in a week. Each time they had had to call in the police, and these people were booked, handcuffed, and taken away in squad cars. Why had this national pastime become so predominant in the youth culture of the day? Did they have any idea what it meant to spend even one night in a jail cell? Nathan just couldn’t get his mind around what people were thinking anymore; he was admittedly out of step with the times. He didn’t understand what motivated the youth, if anything even could, or where society was headed, and he just generally felt out of place and out of touch with the twenty-first century, altogether.

By the end of his shift, he couldn’t even feel his feet anymore. His back hurt, his head was throbbing, and it was just adrenaline, he knew, that kept him from collapsing. He wondered if he really could wait out another whole year, until the glory days of retirement—the minute he turned sixty-five. Then, at long last, between Social Security and his pension, he would finally be able to live out his old age with dignity: enjoying the grandkids; going fishing like he used to do; leaving the mall and the world at large to work themselves and all the drama out without him. He opened the door of his wounded Chevy, placing the bag of splintered glass carefully on the floor in the back, and fell into the driver’s seat, so worn out he could barely turn the key. “Take Daddy home, Jezebel,” he said out loud, caressing the steering wheel. “Poppa’s all out of gas.” Nathan sighed wearily at the thought that on top of his ten-hour workday, he still had to face two hours of stop-and-go traffic before he could finally kick off his shoes and dive onto the sofa, next to an ice-cold beer . . . with nothing he had to do, and nobody he had to think about for the next forty-eight hours. The only thing on his mind was “chilling out,” like the rest of America, with the NFL playoffs in his face, pizza in one hand, and beer in the other. After being trapped in Ventura Highway’s infernal freeway gridlock for more than two excruciating hours, he finally reached the exit that led to his neighborhood, where, but for kids playing loudly on the streets and a few barking dogs, life was relatively quiet . . . and still reasonably sane. He’d lived there twenty years. It was a small, tightly knit community, where everyone knew and watched out for each other, and where trouble rarely found its way in: as safe a hamlet as one could find in suburban L.A., where “normal folk” (as he referred to himself and his neighbors) still lived. He smacked his lips in anticipation of a frothy cold brew, knowing how close he was to being finally able to escape, away from people, into the sanctity of his own four walls.

Turning onto his street, he honked and waved at his neighbor, who was outside watering the lawn. “Yo, Willie boy!” he shouted, rolling down the window. “You have got to have the greenest lawn in the country, dude!”

“Mister Beals!” Will called back, approaching the sidewalk. “How about this heat—in January? Wild, huh?”

Nathan slowed the car to a complete stop in the middle of the street. “We just took down the tinsel at work and it’s ninety degrees out here. The world is some kind of upside down, man.”

“It is indeed! Are you finally off duty?”

“I am! Not a minute too soon, neither,” Nathan answered, wiping the sweat from his brow, with the crisply ironed handkerchief he carried in his shirt pocket.

Will took a long slurp from the water hose. “And you’re sure I can’t convince you to come over tomorrow? We’re throwing some mighty fine lookin’ sirloins on the grill!”

“Thanks. You know I’d love to join you guys, but I am too wiped out even for Will’s mean-ass barbeque.” He didn’t have the heart to tell his good friend that the only human activity he wanted to see for the next two days was a bunch of helmets running the ball down the field on his thirty-six-inch screen, and the pizza delivery guy from Guido’s knocking at the door.

“The Jets and the Patriots . . . gonna be one hell of a game!”

“I hear that,” said Nathan, tempted.

“Thelma and the girls—they’ll be going out to spend the day with her mother, so it’s just us dudes, plenty of brew . . . barbeque . . . and some kick-ass football, man.”

“I thank you, I do,” said Nathan, “but I have just got to lay low this weekend. And as tired as this ol’ body is right now? I am just as likely to sleep right through the whole thing anyway.”

“Hey, man, you know the invite’s always open, if you change your mind. After a good night’s sleep, I bet you’ll be knocking on my door!”

Just as Nathan waved goodbye, his foot about to step back on the gas, two small blackbirds dropped, simultaneously, out of the sky—right in the middle of the street, between the two men. Before either even had a chance to react, hell unleashed its fury. In one terrifying moment, hundreds of red-winged blackbirds plummeted to the ground, all at once, blanketing the pavement, as if something had zapped them right out of the sky. Not one of them moved. No flutter of wings. It appeared they had been hit by a force so fierce it had killed them instantaneously—in flight.

“Damn!” Will shouted, having been pummeled on the head and shoulders several times, as the tiny corpses hailed down from the sky and crashed down around him. He stared out at Nathan, dumbfounded. “What the hell?”

“You get yourself into the house and stay there, until we find out what just happened!”

Will dropped the hose and walked hurriedly back towards the porch, stepping over dead birds everywhere around him. He felt a strange, gripping fear—a sense of foreboding—rising in the back of his throat. As he turned off the faucet, he looked back over his shoulder at Nathan, mystified, before going inside, and then he slammed the door closed and locked it with the dead bolt. Both of them were incredulous, sensing that something sinister—something ominous and unprecedented—was literally coming down all around them.

As in a scene reminiscent of Hitchcock’s film The Birds, Nathan drove in a slow crawl to the driveway, trying to avoid the fragile little bodies, but there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of dead birds strewn in every direction. They lined the pavement for as far as he could see down the road ahead of him. Their bodies were smashed against the windshield and the hood of the car and, looking through the rearview mirror, he saw the same black blanket of death, covering the street behind him. He cringed as his wheels crunched over each little bump, praying that the little creatures had died instantly, knowing no pain.

As he guided the car slowly onto his driveway, he asked himself if Judgment Day had finally arrived, just like the Reverend had warned them—only days before, in congregation. When the automatic door of his garage opened, he pulled the car in, closed the door back down, and went straight inside, through the kitchen. Once in the house, he threw the dead bolt—knowing that whatever had killed those birds wasn’t going to be deterred by locks or closed doors if it wanted in, but somehow it felt like the right thing to do.

In a quiet little resort town in Maine that same day, Judy Levine prepared a nutritious picnic basket for her and the children, after home-teaching them all morning. Outdoors, the whipping wind snapped with the chilling sting of winter, but she had them bundled up in their down jackets and, besides, the rugged beach and the fresh air beckoned. It was a welcome break having lunch outside, at the water’s edge—no matter how challenging Maine’s winter weather proved to be. Judy always marveled at how invigorating it was to breathe in the crisp sea air and to listen to the roar of waves breaking, mighty and commanding, over the jutting cliffs nearby.

Situated directly in front of their beachfront property was a rocky cove, which served as a natural barrier to the winter winds that rolled over the coast. She and the children called it their “secret fort.” There, the kids would entertain themselves for hours, making sculptures in the moist sand, and Judy would kick back and relax, watching the blue water crabs climbing sideways, up and around in rocks of the tide pools: one of Mother Nature’s oddities that so enriched the palette of her artistic creation.

Spending time together out by the water was always a great way to break up the tedium of the day’s lessons, and it was a vital part of her work with the children, teaching them to honor and always celebrate the wonders of Earth’s own garden, while enjoying the magic of play. That day, however, when they stepped out through the backyard gate and approached the shore, she was horrified to discover a strange, silvery patina covering the sand that, on closer inspection, turned out to be an enormous mass of dead fish. Their suffocating bodies littered the entire beachfront, all the way down the coast. She stared in disbelief, gazing as far down the shore as she could, estimating that there were tens of thousands of them, heaped up over each other, their gills expanding and contracting, as they lay dying in the open air.

Whatever had caused this horrific catastrophe had to have struck so suddenly that it still had not been picked up by the local media. No mention was made of it on the morning news that she and her husband had watched at breakfast, only a few hours earlier. There was no stench of death, that putrid odor of rotting fish, in the wind. No, this was fresh—many of them were still alive, so it had to have only just happened. She was quite possibly the first person to discover the disaster: massive and instantaneous—and probably highly toxic.

Panicked, she dropped the basket and grabbed her children, almost dragging them back to the house. Pouting and carrying on, they wanted to stay outside, and they couldn’t understand why their mother had done an immediate turnaround. Trying not to frighten them, she rushed the children through the gate and back into the house, closing all the windows and doors, and locking them all inside—until she could find out what dangers lurked outdoors. Who knew what new environmental catastrophe had taken place out off the coast, enough to cause such a massive fish kill? With the way things were going in the world—the poisoning of the skies, the earth, and the sea—she knew anything was possible. She most certainly wasn’t going to let the children or herself get any more exposure to whatever had killed those fish than they had already. God only knew what toxin was being released into the air, or what chemical was laced within the ocean’s spray, seeping deep into the sand.

Just hours later, halfway around the globe, on the South Island of New Zealand, locals woke up to the horrifying news that fifty humpback whales and more than a hundred bottlenose dolphins had beached themselves during the night. According to the first morning news reports, it was a scene of “devastating proportions.” Almost all were dead when the first observers discovered their lifeless bodies, lined up along the beach, like ships thrown out of the sea, in a hurricane. A gruesome, heartbreaking scene, it made no sense at all. Why were such unfathomable numbers of whales and dolphins washing up along the beaches of the world in such catastrophic scenes as these? What was driving them from the deep waters to meet their death on Earth’s shores?

Hundreds of animal conservationists and volunteers poured onto the beach to help, but with low tide sucking the waves back out to sea, there was no way to save the immobilized prisoners from their fate. To the despair of those who worked tirelessly throughout the day, the few remaining mammals still alive were dying now, and it was clear that not even a shift in the tide could save them. It was too late. Captives of the scorching summer sands, they struggled to breathe their last breaths, their eyes fixed on the humans who were there for them, in their final hours.

Desperate people worked unrelentingly to free them, but it was all for naught. Slowly, torturously, the mighty whales and their cousins, the dolphin beings, succumbed, leaving an immense void in their passing.

All anyone could do was to try to comfort them.

To be utterly impotent before the mass death of such magnificent beings was to lose a piece of oneself forever. No one present that day would ever be free of that memory. The heartache would linger forever in the deep, deep waters of the subconscious, from where such sadness would ripple and wave, always asking, “What could have been done differently?” Who amongst them could not be struggling to accept the inevitability of such a cruel, tragic death? Such painful memories would never be erased from the hearts and souls of the people who had watched, helpless to alter the course of the events that day, and it was only right that they not be forgotten.

While the determined still scrambled to haul buckets of seawater from the receding tide, a few stopped dead in their tracks, looking up . . . becoming aware that they were now almost shrouded in an eerie, fog-like haze. It was oddly unnatural, as if low clouds had been scooped up in a gigantic atmospheric vacuum cleaner and then released, adhering to what appeared to be some sort of man-made, perfectly perpendicular matrix. There was a palpable electrical charge to the air so intense that many of the volunteers could feel their hair literally standing on end, and, after a short time, they began suffering from debilitating headaches, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Most of them were well aware that whatever was causing the acute physical symptoms and the stranding and deaths of the whales and dolphins was sourced in that strange electrical grid that hovered, low and menacing, overhead.

No one knew what in the world could be causing it, but they did know, without question, that something highly abnormal had most definitely taken place on that isolated beach off the Southern Coast.

While all three of these bizarre, seemingly unconnected events were unfolding, only a few hours apart at different locations across the planet, from the icy fields of a remote top-security military station in Alaska, a covert network of complex antennae, covering ten city blocks, emitted destructive, extremely low frequency (ELF) energy waves around the Earth, across the oceans, and out into the atmosphere. Free from any kind of scrutiny, the facility buzzed with the sizzling sounds of high-voltage bolts of electrical lightning that shot like crackling whips from tower to tower, surging with enough electrical energy to light up the entire West Coast of the North American continent.

What no one was ready to hear, much less talk about, was that these same ELF energy waves were also being beamed into the cloud layers, and then bounced back down at the secret government’s military targets of choice—all around the globe: anywhere and everywhere their evil little hearts desired. Anyone paying the least bit of attention would have recognized that these events—the blackbirds in Los Angeles, the fish carnage in Maine, and the whale and dolphin beaching in New Zealand—were indeed connected, and that the emergency on Planet Earth was about to explode in an all-out and, perhaps, irreversible global disaster.

Unbeknownst to most of its dormant and otherwise distracted inhabitants, one beautiful tiny blue sphere, spinning through the dark cloak of galactic space, was clearly under siege.

Excerpted from The Emissary by Patricia Cori (2014).

She’s been called a “real life Indiana Jones” by fans and readers around the world—an inspiring icon of truth and a living model of the adventurous spirit and seeker within us all. Internationally acclaimed author Patricia Cori is one of the most well-known and established authorities on the realms of the mystic—views of the world and multidimensional reality that challenge the status quo. With thirteen books, published in more than 20 foreign languages, she has been a key voice in the alternative media for decades, bringing paradigm-busting information to the public since 1996 and contributing a wealth of material to the new thought community.


Tags: Oceans & Oceanography Patricia Cori Science Fiction & Mystery

About the Author

Based in Berkeley, California, Talia is the Online Marketing Lead for North Atlantic Books. She works with a full roster of authors, promoting titles in alternative health, nutrition, spirituality, sustainability, literature, and pop culture. She manages and has a passion for social networking. In her free time, Talia enjoys visiting her local farmers' markets, cooking, doing yoga, hiking, and curling up with a good book.