Decker stood back from his screen – the Mammoth Caves event was not the first. Across the country, across the entire globe, there were more attacks, bigger attacks – and huge seizures of all populations.

General Henry Decker knew he was fighting on two battlefronts – one was the public’s right to know versus his obligation to keep them safe. His duty won out. National security protocols had now been brought to bear on all information traffic to shut down the collecting, reporting and dissemination of news associated with the sinkholes and mass disappearances. He had to believe he was doing good by blindfolding the masses. If not, the public would panic and then surge – but to where? The phenomena were occurring from coast to coast, and country to country. There was no safe haven any more, and he just couldn’t afford millions of people on the move.

He sat down heavily and tapped one hard fist on the desk. And then there was the second battlefront. The public didn’t know it yet, but they were at war…at war with ground troops the likes of which they had never seen. He sat back and closed his eyes, letting his mind work.

And these were just the forward troops – What comes next? he wondered dismally. He hoped Major Abrams was bringing him something they could use.

*

Matt felt he was in a dream – he saw the pair of hands working furiously, daubing the long lines of ink onto the pages and turning them into script of multiple ancient languages. The hands didn’t stop, or rest for even a few seconds, and the stack of pages began to rise. Blisters rubbed where he held the pen, but it didn’t matter – they weren’t his hands, and it was all a dream.

The story flowed smoothly, along with the poems of beauty and horror, and the insightful advice about beings long dead, or never dead at all. But the strange symbols were not there: the fast-moving hands were not managing to recreate every curve, cross and dot – the Celestial Speech of the angels or of Hell itself, or whatever it was, remained immune to his translation or memory.

He knew this Book, The Necronomicon, or Al Azif, or The Book of the Dead, was more than just a collection of thoughts from a Mad Arab. It was a book of war and warning about cruel elder beings, and spells and creatures that had once inhabited our world, and sought to do so again. The Book was both the poison and the cure. It was also a guide to Hell itself.

Matt dimly became aware of the shaking of his arm, firm, then firmer, and then the voice. He blinked and licked lips that were parchment dry. Adira sat next to him. Abrams and Hartogg in front and Andy Bennet behind.

“Huh?” He felt groggy.

“We land soon.” Adira leaned around in front of him, trying to look at his eyes. “You’ve been at this non-stop for twelve hours. How are you doing?” She handed him some water.