End of Days (2 page)

“There must be a mistake! You … you’ve got the wrong person!” he stammered.

“I don’t think so, Professor Sheppard.”

The man’s look of panic grew.

“Don’t offer us any resistance. We have orders to bring you with us. We’ll only hurt you if you make it difficult. Do not make it difficult.”

The professor was hauled out of his bed by two of the men, gripping him under his arms. His captors were large and muscular and pulled him up as if he were a rag doll.

“Put it away,” the leader said, and the man at the door quickly holstered his gun.

Professor Sheppard was small and thin, his hair long and scattered wildly. He wore faded old pyjama pants, a ripped T-shirt, white socks, and for some unknown reason, a pair of tennis shoes. He was in his mid-forties and had the look of somebody who was neither fit nor active.

“Clothes, we need clothes. Grab some things from the closet. He already has shoes on,” the leader noted.

The man who had been at the door followed the orders while the other two kept their iron grip on the professor’s arms.

“He’ll change later. Let’s go,” the leader said. He started to walk toward the door and then stopped. “And, Professor, if you make any attempt to escape or make a scene as we leave the house, you will leave me with no alternative. Don’t make this difficult.”

Down the stairs they marched—one in front, the two men pinning the professor on both sides, and the fourth directly behind carrying his clothes.

“Please … please … my glasses, on the night table beside my bed. Without them I’m practically blind,” the professor pleaded.

They stopped. The leader nodded his head and the last man retreated to the bedroom. He returned with the glasses and was about to hand them to the professor.

“No, hang on to them for now. Let’s keep him blind for as long as possible,” the leader ordered.

Sheppard’s feet barely touched the ground as they walked him to the car. He was placed in the back seat with
a muscular guard on each side and his clothes on his lap. The engine started and the car slowly pulled away from the curb with its headlights off. The whole neighbourhood was still asleep, unaware of what had just happened or the reasons behind it.

Finally the vehicle came to a halt. Professor Sheppard looked at his wrist—where his watch should have been but wasn’t. He thought they had driven for about thirty minutes but realized that he couldn’t be sure of anything.

One of the back doors was opened from the outside and a wave of sound rushed inward. The man next to him exited, and Sheppard was pulled and pushed out of the vehicle. He looked wildly around, but in the darkness, without his glasses, he could see little. His attention was riveted by the roar of an engine. He quickly became aware that he was being walked toward a small executive jet that was revving for takeoff only a few metres away. The only visible light came from the dim glimmer of the thousands of stars that filled the night.

The grip on his arms remained tight as he was led to the waiting plane. He stumbled up the steps, and his head was pushed down to pass under the door frame.

“Take a seat, Professor, and enjoy the flight,” offered the man who had been leading.

“Where are you taking me?” he pleaded with quiet desperation.

“We’re taking you to your seat. Now sit down and be silent.”

He did as he was told, and moments later the plane was moving down the runway, picking up speed until it became airborne.

Looking to his left, he tried to peer out the window but a dark screen obscured his view. He contemplated pulling up the shade but thought better of it. He felt utterly confused, alone, and scared. Who were these people? What did they want with him? He was just a scientist in an obscure field who had devoted his life to research. He didn’t have much money, certainly had no enemies, and he’d never had so much as an overdue library book in his life. They knew his name, but perhaps it was another Professor Sheppard they were looking for—it had to be a mistake. Unanswered thoughts crowded his mind, and he closed his eyes to escape the nightmare. If only he could go to sleep he might be able to wake up in his room, in his bed, all of this just an illusion. With nowhere to turn, no escape, exhausted, he felt himself drifting off.

Sleep did not come easily, and it did not last. Over the next seven hours of the flight he was repeatedly shaken awake by his captors. Each time he managed to close his eyes, he was again roughly shoved and startled back to consciousness. The line between reality and fantasy became increasingly blurred.

Professor Sheppard was jolted awake by the jarring bounce of the wheels as the plane hit the runway. His eyes opened wide, and in a rush he remembered the unreality of his situation. One of his captors sat directly across the aisle, staring at him with a slight smile on his face.

“We’ve landed, Professor. Here are your glasses and clothes.”

Sheppard slipped on his spectacles. The world was no longer blurry, but nothing that was happening was even remotely clear. He struggled to his feet against the motion of the still-moving plane. He began to pull off his shirt but stopped short under the gaze of his captors. The thought of stripping in front of these four armed men was not appealing. Instead, he pulled his shirt on overtop of his pyjamas and buttoned it up all the way to the neck. Next he pulled his pants on, but they got stuck passing over his shoes. He
tugged harder and his right foot popped through. When he pushed through with his left foot, there was a ripping sound as the cuff tore. He tucked in his shirt and zipped up the fly. In the process, part of his shirt got jammed in the zipper, and now it stuck out through the opening in his pants. Finally he stood before his guards, wearing white tennis shoes, no socks, ripped pants, and a checkered shirt. While Sheppard would never have been mistaken for a fashion model, his present attire suggested a homeless person clothed by the Salvation Army.

The plane came to a stop and the door hatch popped open. Sheppard was quickly escorted off the craft and was immediately blinded by the brilliant light. Almost in unison, all four of his captors put on dark-tinted sunglasses, the type that made it impossible to see their eyes.

He looked around, cupping his hand above his eyes to partially block the glare of the sun, which was either rising or setting behind magnificent mountains. Were they the Rockies? No, somehow he didn’t think so. He struggled, his mind spinning, trying to at least determine what continent he was on. It was daylight, he decided—morning—but if they had flown east it could be morning in Europe. Were those the Alps?

Off to the side of the tarmac were two small jets that appeared to be identical to the one he had flown in on. He was being led now toward a small, nondescript building, with no windows and only one door. The door was guarded by two men dressed almost identically to his guards, including the sunglasses. Both men cradled machine guns in their
arms. As the professor and his captors approached, the men nodded a silent hello and one opened the door.

They proceeded inside. Sheppard was propelled down a long corridor. It seemed very dim compared to the bright sunlight, but none of his escorts took off their glasses. They came to an abrupt stop at a set of double metal doors.

“Last stop,” the leader announced.

“What … what does that mean?” the professor stammered. Was this the end for him?

“Last stop. Our orders are to deliver you to this point. You’re on your own from here” was the answer.

“But … but … what happens now … to me?” He was finding it hard to force words out of his throat.

“You are to go through these doors without us. We are not authorized to proceed further.”

“Not authorized … I don’t understand,” Sheppard said.

“Neither do we. But this is goodbye.” The leader extended his hand, and Sheppard, dumbfounded, reached out to shake it. He watched as they retreated down the hall, leaving him alone in front of the doors.

He stood there, motionless, trying to decide what to do next. He thought about turning around and going back, but he knew that would never be allowed. He contemplated just standing there, going nowhere, but for how long? And ultimately, what good would it do?

He pushed against the doors and they opened. Ahead was more corridor, ending at another set of double doors. He walked forward and then jumped as the first doors slammed behind him with a crashing thud.

“Don’t be such an idiot—it’s just a door,” he muttered to himself. But when he turned to look back, he noticed that his side of the door had no handles. No chance now of going back the way he had come. That was no longer an option.

He walked forward slowly, focusing on his breathing. He felt a little light-headed. The combination of limited sleep, no food, motion sickness, and anxiety bordering on a full-fledged panic attack left him feeling almost sick to his stomach. He stopped in front of the second set of doors. There was a small sign affixed to it, with gold lettering:

Not only was Professor Sheppard not “authorized personnel,” but he had never even heard of this institute. This was almost as troubling to him as his abduction. There was nothing about space agencies, or for that matter space, that was not known to Sheppard—after all, this was his area of expertise.

His curiosity was now even greater than his fatigue or fear. He pushed open the door boldly and found himself face to face with a very familiar presence.

“Oh, my God … but … you’re dead!” Sheppard gasped.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I have … I
am
seeing a ghost,” Sheppard stammered. “Andrew … I was at your
funeral.”
He was now standing in what looked like a boardroom, with a table and chairs, a whiteboard, even a small kitchen area.

“As you can see, the reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,” Dr. Markell said.

Andrew Markell and Daniel Sheppard had been colleagues, researchers, and friends. His “death” had been a tremendous blow to Sheppard personally, as well as a loss to the scientific community. Sheppard had few true peers, and Markell was one of them.

“But … but … I
saw
you … I saw you in the coffin,” Sheppard sputtered.

“The corpse was certainly supposed to look like me. Was it lifelike?” Dr. Markell asked.

“Yes … no … I don’t understand.”

“Well, as you can see, I
am
alive. I did
not
die in a traffic accident. Matter of fact, I wasn’t even in my car that day.”

“But … why … why … why were you killed? I mean, why did you pretend to be dead?”

“Like you, I was picked up in the night and brought here. It certainly wasn’t my idea. Any more than it was
your
idea to die.”

Sheppard gasped. Had they brought him here to kill him, or—?

“Not that you’ll really be any deader than me, but apparently you suffered an acute cardiopulmonary episode—a heart attack.”

The professor didn’t know what to say, what to think, how to feel. None of this made any sense.

“I’m guessing you have a history of heart disease in your family?” Markell said.

“My father died of a heart attack when he was forty-seven.”

“And you are now forty-five, if I am not mistaken.”

“I’ll be forty-six in March.”

“Obviously you should have taken better care of yourself. Daniel, how many times did I tell you to get more exercise and eat healthier?” Markell laughed. “Sorry if I find your death humorous. Once you’ve been dead for a while yourself you’ll see the comedy in the tragedy. My own death was dictated by my rather poor driving record.”

In spite of himself Sheppard smiled. He thought
back to comments made at Andrew’s funeral about his numerous accidents and near-misses, and how he’d made excuses himself so that he wouldn’t have to be in a car with Andrew at the wheel. This had, at times, presented a problem, since Sheppard himself had never learned to drive.

“You’d think that as a world-renowned space theorist, I’d have a better grasp of the time-space continuum between moving vehicles,” Markell joked. “I guess I’m better at understanding distances travelled at the speed of light than at fifty kilometres per hour.”

“Could you please help me understand? Why am I here? Why are
we
here?” Sheppard pleaded.

“I think you will quickly deduce the answer. Especially once you meet the others.”

“What others?” the professor asked.

“Dr. McMullin, Professor Harris, Dr. Sanjay, and Sir Edward Fuller.”

“They’re all
alive?”
Sheppard gasped.

“They certainly wouldn’t be here if they weren’t alive. Didn’t you start to think that it was a little strange when almost all of the world’s most renowned astrophysicists, astronomers, and theoretical mathematicians died within an eight-month period?”

“I thought it was unfortunate and unusual but within the very outer limits of probability, when the ages and physical condition of the people were factored into the equation.”

“Spoken like a true mathematician.”

“But why … why are we here?”

“Isn’t that obvious? Think about what all of us were working on, either independently or in unison.”

“I was doing background analysis of data from Sky Search, as were you,” Sheppard said.

“We’re here because of what Sky Search has discovered … what you have proposed in your latest thesis.”

“I’m here because of a
theory?”

“You’re here because that theory is more than just a theory—it is
fact.”

Those calculations, the numbers, all seemed so cold and clinical. It was nothing more than a theory proposed in his laboratory, not something that had application in the real world.

“But, Andrew, I still don’t understand how my calculations about a long-forgotten space vehicle reappearing in our solar system could cause
this
. For me to be kidnapped at gunpoint and flown halfway around the world … Where are we, by the way?”