Flee The Darkness Read online

  FLEE THE

  DARKNESS

  FLEE THE

  DARKNESS

  Grant R. Jeffrey

  and Angela Hunt

  © 1998 by Grant R. Jeffrey

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  All Scripture quotations in this book are from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jeffrey, Grant R.

  Flee the darkness / Grant R. Jeffrey with Angela Elwell Hunt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8499-4063-X

  1. Hunt, Angela Elwell, 1957– . II. Title.

  PS3560.E436F58 1998

  813'.54—dc21 98-8834

  CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  8 9 0 1 2 3 4 BVG 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY- SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  Top corporate technology executives polled in February 1998

  by CIO magazine:

  Do you have confidence the Millennium Bug will be fixed by December 31, 1999?

  Yes 21%

  No 67%

  Not sure 12%

  Would you fly on a commercial airline on January 1, 2000?

  Yes 48%

  No 41%

  Not sure 11%

  Should Americans investigate their banks’ plan to ensure the safety of their personal assets?

  Yes 60%

  No 30%

  Not sure 10%

  If your company is unable to solve its specific year 2000 problem, will your job be in jeopardy?

  Yes 47%

  No 33%

  Not applicable 20%

  —Newsweek, March 23, 1998

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Daniel Prentice, President and Mrs. Stedman, Brad Hunter, Lauren Mitchell, and Kord Herrick have been created from imagination. Their function, however, is to represent people who will live through situations and circumstances very similar to those described in these pages.

  The Y2K Crisis, the first catastrophe in history that cannot be avoided or postponed, is very real, as is the technology we describe. The European Union exists. The character depicted within these pages as Adrian Romulus either does or will exist, and his advent upon the world stage is closer now than when we began writing.

  This book is not an attempt to portray how the future must occur, but how things may come to pass in the light of biblical prophecy. It is our prayer that you will take this story to heart and walk in purity as the day of Christ’s coming approaches.

  Maranatha! The Lord returns!

  Grant R. Jeffrey

  Angela Hunt

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors would like to thank

  Rick Blanchette for his excellent editing,

  Kaye Jeffrey and Adrienne Tigchelaar, editorial assistant,

  for their insightful reading through the rough draft,

  and Lee Gessner for his faith in this project.

  PROLOGUE

  AT PRECISELY 5:59 A.M., KORD HERRICK GLANCED UP AT THE PANEL OF surveillance monitors. Camera three displayed his employer’s long form lying as still as death in the mammoth four-poster bed, and through the gray-veiled morning shadows Kord could see the shimmer of black, fathomless eyes.

  Romulus was already awake. But still the routine must be observed.

  Kord waited silently until the digital clock marked the hour, then pressed the button that sent a soft chime ringing through his master’s bedroom. “Mr. Romulus—”Kord leaned toward the microphone—“it is 6:00 A.M.” As was his habit, he paused, then added, “I hope you slept well.”

  Adrian Romulus tossed off the coverlet and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. He turned to face the window, then sat motionless for a long moment, his face lowered and hidden from the camera.

  Kord’s gaze roved over the image, mentally approving his master’s appearance. At forty-nine, Adrian Romulus exuded a commanding air of self-confidence even in the privacy of his bedchamber. Fluid muscles rippled in his smooth back and shoulders, and even though the passing years had carried him well into middle age, his waistline remained trim, his posture straight and unbowed.

  Kord lifted his chin. They were much alike, he and his master. Though Kord was nearly thirty years older than his employer, either one of them could have passed for men ten years younger.

  “General Herrick.”

  Kord snapped to attention and returned his gaze to the monitor. Romulus had turned toward the camera; one hand pushed at a tendril of dark hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve just experienced the most remarkable insight. I’ve lived here for what—five years?—and yet I’ve just realized why I bought this place.” A smile crawled to his lips and curved itself like a snake. “Let’s see how well you understand me, General. Look at the view outside my window and tell me what you see.”

  Kord glanced up at monitor five. The camera mounted within the decorative finial atop a fence post moved in a careful arc, surveying the road and grassy pasture outside the estate. A skeletal tree stood black against the brightening sky; a small flock of sheep huddled beneath its empty branches. Kord could see nothing that he hadn’t seen on a hundred other autumn mornings.

  Sighing, he turned to the microphone. “I’m sorry, sir, but I see nothing unusual. To what did you owe this remarkable understanding?”

  One of Romulus’s dark brows arched. “The sheep, General. The little flock. They remind me of my birthplace.”

  “Sheep?” Kord frowned. “Mr. Romulus, must you speak in riddles at this early hour? Why would sheep remind you of Jerusalem?”

  “Forget what you read in my dossier.” A trace of laughter lined Romulus’s voice as he turned away from the camera and looked out the window again. “I was not born in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem, a sleepy little town known more for producing trinkets and souvenirs than businessmen.”

  Kord felt a wry smile twist the corner of his mouth. “I should think it is more known for the birth of a well-known Jew.”

  Romulus cut a look from the window back to the camera. “That was then,” he said simply, his black eyes jumping in their quick, electric way. “Things are about to change, General.
By the time man’s evolution is complete, that fanatical and divisive Jew will be a mere footnote in history.”

  “I’m certain you are correct, sir.” Kord paused as his employer’s gaze swung back to the window. “Are you ready for your coffee and morning news?”

  “Yes.” Romulus’s eyes did not move from the pastoral scene. “Send Charles to me at once.”

  Kord pressed the button that would summon the butler, then stepped out of the control room to personally fetch his master’s news reports from the wire services and Internet.

  ONE

  4:15 P.M., Thursday, November 5, 1998

  AS A CHILLY AUTUMN WIND BLEW ACROSS THE SILVER SURFACE OF TROUT LAKE, Daniel Prentice jerked on his fishing line and crouched lower inside his heavy jacket. He’d been sitting at the water’s edge for nearly an hour, his thoughts centered more on problems at the lab than on the lake, but at least his body was participating in this forced sabbatical.

  Rest and relaxation, the doctors called it. A change of pace. And though eight years ago he had resented having white-coated professionals tell him how to order his life, Daniel had to admit that his occasional retreats here at the end of the world brought clarity and freshness to his thinking. Obstacles that seemed insurmountable at the office looked smaller when viewed against the backdrop of the wide Canadian wilderness. In the silence of this lonely place he had found the insight to solve more than one perplexing puzzle.

  And, occasionally, he even caught a fish.

  Something—probably a frog—splashed into the water from the tall grass at Daniel’s right hand, and he shifted his attention to the epicenter of the rings spreading over the glassy surface of the water. That splash was the only sign of life he’d seen all day. His uncle had once told him about a huge northern pike that lived in this lake, longer than a man’s arm span and sneakier than a cat. “They call him the monster,” his uncle had explained, “and they say he killed the fellow who built the cabin up on the ridge. Seems that old Henry disappeared one day, and rumor has it that he managed to hook that pike, only to get pulled into the lake and drowned for his troubles. While lots of people have seen the monster, no one else has been able to hook him. They say he can’t be caught.”

  Daniel circled his finger, slowly winding the reel in a jerky motion that would set the bait to dancing in the clear water. He liked to imagine the huge fish lurking below, sneaking through shadows and the fading stalks of summer reeds. He wanted to believe that the monster waited for him, that the beast had been destined to snag itself on his hook, but the reel clicked in an easy, syncopated rhythm as the unclaimed bait floated through the water.

  Daniel hunched inside his coat, ignoring the cold numbness in his hands. Few sportsmen were foolish enough to enjoy sitting on a damp rock; this weather was more suited for hunting than fishing. But the stark, quiet, solitary lake suited Daniel’s mood.

  A faint wind breathed through the trees as he considered the problem that had sent him scrambling for the serenity of this place. His company, Prentice Technologies, had just been handed a multimillion-dollar challenge. Faced with the realization that their aging mainframe computers would not function properly in the year 2000, First Manhattan Bank of New York had hired Daniel’s company to check, adapt, and test over 400 million lines of binary computer code. Such a gargantuan task would ordinarily employ four hundred programmers for ten years and cost at least one dollar per line of code. Confident of his people, however, Daniel had signed a contract guaranteeing that his team of fifty code warriors would complete the job by December 31, 1999, a scant thirteen months away. If they succeeded, Prentice Technologies would earn a bonus of $400 million. If they failed, First Manhattan Bank would owe Prentice Technologies only $30 million, barely enough to cover his costs. Furthermore, Daniel would lose his reputation, and in the highly competitive technology business, reputation was everything.

  Daniel turned the handle on his fishing rod, absently counting each distinctive click of the ratchet. Last week’s Newsweek had splashed his face across its cover beneath the headline “Daniel Prentice—Fool or Phenomenon?”. The Newsweek coverage had made it clear that every computer expert in the world was betting against Daniel, laughing at him, or both. No one could believe that the board of directors at First Manhattan would trust their entire operation to an unorthodox team headed by a Johnny-come-lately sprung from the wilds of Canada instead of Silicon Valley.

  Last week, as the news leaked to the press, the executives at First Manhattan had come under fire from the bank’s stockholders. The resulting turmoil made the front pages of the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times. The furor grew so heated that the bank’s CEO, Ernest Schocken, left for a hastily-arranged European vacation not twenty-four hours after formally announcing that he’d placed the fate of his bank in Daniel’s hands. Schocken had flown to Paris; Daniel fled to the lake.

  A heavy splash ruffled the waters to the south. The monster? Daniel reeled in his line, then shifted his weight and expertly tossed the lure toward the widening circle. If the pike wasn’t lurking in the north sector, he’d fish in the south. A man found success in trying new things, seeking new approaches. Whatever worked.

  He knew the answer to First Manhattan’s problem would not be found in the painstakingly slow solution favored by every other computer company. People had been talking about the coming Year 2000 Crisis— Y2K, for those in the know—since 1990, though at first few people believed it could truly cripple companies and governments. But as experts considered the implications and likely repercussions, panic set in. Like mountaineers intent on conquering Everest step by upward step, programmers had tackled the challenge using the most elementary approach, attempting to unravel the long strings of computer code digit by digit. Daniel and his team didn’t have time for trudging uphill.

  There had to be another way—some means of flying to the summit.

  A sharp beep shattered the stillness, and Daniel frowned in annoyance as he shut off the alarm on his watch. Four-thirty. He had promised himself that he’d return to the Range Rover and check his e-mail before five in case something came up at the lab. He had hoped that he’d be able to send the kernel of an idea to his associates, some brilliant insight that would put Prentice Technologies well on its way to solving First Manhattan’s Y2K problems. Unfortunately, inspiration didn’t operate on a dependable schedule.

  “You got lucky today, Monster.” Daniel’s voice rang over the silent water and echoed among the barren maples as he reeled in his line. “Catch you next time.”

  He half-expected to hear an answering splash, but the lake remained smooth and glassy as he worked the slab of bait from his hook and tossed it into a bed of weeds. He wrapped the hook around the end of the pole, then picked up his tackle box and headed up the hill to the Range Rover. It sat beneath a tall pine tree, only a few feet from the ramshackle log cabin that had belonged to the unfortunate Henry.

  Daniel opened the car door, tossed his gear into the backseat, then leaned in and picked up his Nokia 9000 personal communicator. He flipped open the lid and punched the power on, then scrolled down the menu and selected the “received e-mail” function.

  He grinned as the list flashed across the screen. The first message was from his mother, who’d given herself the screen name Hipgrani despite the fact that Daniel had not yet found the time—or the woman—to provide her with a grandchild.

  Sinking back into the vehicle’s leather upholstery, Daniel highlighted his mother’s note, then pressed the enter key.

  Darling Son:

  All is sunny and delightful in St. Pete. I wish you were here. Mrs. Davis, from the townhouse next door, has invited her daughter for the week. She’s thirty-ish and very charming, from what I hear. Bright, too, and pretty—just your type. She’ll be here for a week, so if you can get away, I’d love to have you drop in. Just surprise me if you want to, and we’ll think of some good excuse to meet Mrs. Davis’s daughter.

  I know what you’re thinking,
and I can almost see you rolling your eyes at me. I know you don’t want me to worry about you, but that’s what mothers are for. I know you have a great company and a fancy car, but I want more for you, Daniel. Not more things—more love and life. And I know a wife and family would make you very, very happy.

  Trust me. Mothers always know best.

  Mom

  A quick flood of guilt washed over Daniel, and he made a mental note to set aside an hour for a nice long telephone chat with his mother. Her birthday was November 16—less than two weeks away. If the brain cells weren’t percolating and he hadn’t yet come up with an answer for his Y2K problems, he could even fly down to Florida, stay overnight in his mom’s condo, perhaps even meet the neighbors. Daniel was certain nothing would come of his meeting Mrs. Davis’s daughter, but at least he’d make his mother happy.

  Satisfied with that decision, he tapped the enter key and highlighted the next message.

  Daniel—

  Saw your grinning mug on the cover of Newsweek! If I had known that I was rescuing a future poster hunk when I pulled your bacon from the fire, I’d have left you in Baghdad. Even my own darling Christine was quite taken with your picture. She kept saying, “This gorgeous fellow is going to be your best man?”

  I’m warning you, Prentice. If Christine gets a good look at you and calls off the wedding, I’m coming after you with every weapon at my disposal—and maybe a few that aren’t.

  So get into a fight or stop showering, will you, so you’re nice and ugly when you come for the rehearsal. And make sure it’s on your calendar—December 22, 7:00 PM., Washington Cathedral.

  Be there . . . or be very afraid. I will come after you.

  Later,

  Brad

  Daniel rubbed his hand across his face and grinned. Brad Hunter had to be getting nervous as his wedding date approached. Like Daniel, he was thirty-eight, and, like Daniel, his career had always held precedence over any romantic relationship. Both men were well past the age when most women thought they should be faithfully and lawfully espoused, but they never would have met had one of them been married. The military didn’t send married men on missions like the one that had introduced Daniel to Brad Hunter.