

THUNDERTAKER

Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run Zac King series

Part 2

Published by FIRE & a PRAYER PRESS

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any process – electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the author.

The Adventures of Zac King

Written by Gary Koz Mraz

ISBN-13: 978-1490935089 Print Editions

ISBN-10: 1490935088 Kindle Editions

Editor: Jennifer BryantBarkley

Cover: Ramsey Lucas

Special thanks to Keith Ball for his inspiration and all the readers and riders who helped the Midnight Rider survive his Graveyard Run.

Shout out to Harley-Davidson, Quick Throttle Magazine, Bikernet.com and EagleRider.

Printed by KDP and distributed by Amazon.

© Copyright Gary Koz Mraz 2019

Part II - THUNDERTAKER

Chapter 11 - Voodoo Priestess

Chapter 12 - Truth be Told

Chapter 13 - Dead City

Chapter 14 - Road to Redemption

Chapter 15 - Revelations

Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run part 1

Kismet inextricably entwined Zac and Liz while both were on assignment. Journalist Zac King was researching the lonely life of graveyard shift workers for a magazine story called "Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run." Central Security Service agent Liz Duran was investigating the Corridor of Death murders linked to an international organ harvesting conspiracy. They met at a truck stop in Oklahoma and for two months collaborated on cracking the case. They are now romantically involved. This investigation has been officially closed and both Liz and Zac have been debriefed at CIA headquarters, now called the "George Bush Center for Intelligence." After a weeklong interrogation Liz and Zac have been officially released.

Chapter 11-Voodoo Priestess

Location: The Hilton Hotel near CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Liz enters the hotel room enraged.

"Zac, they've suspended my CSS status and put me on leave of absence!" Liz fumes to me.

"Leave of absence? For how long?" I reply quizzically.

"Indeterminate. Un-fucking-believable. The Agency says I need time to unwind," she snarls.

"Liz, let it go. You do need to get away. Just let it go."

"And just where the hell do I let it go to Zac?" she seethes.

"Kathmandu." I smile.

"I'm sorry. I thought you said Kathmandu."

"Yes, I have been planning a travel story to the Himalayas for years—a motorcycle ride from Katmandu to Lhasa. It's the perfect time of year, and you'll love the ride. What better than the Himalayas to cleanse your soul? We'll be riding Royal Enfield motorcycles; it will be awesome. We'll be traveling a thousand miles through the Himalayas with a small group of riders."

"Fine," Liz snaps.

"Imagine riding to the world's highest monastery at the base of Mt. Everest. It's the perfect way to experience this magical land. Liz, this is a ride of a lifetime... FINE? Do you know how long I've rehearsed a pitch to talk you into this?"

"I said fine, Zac. When do we leave?"

"We can leave immediately," I reply. "I signed my life away to those NSA thugs; a couple-dozen non-disclosure documents and they returned my identity, passport, driver's license, and birth certificate."

I'm a moto-journalist and live out of saddlebags. Liz has been on the move for the last two years, and neither of us has homes, kids, or even cats. The terrain is rugged and the weather unpredictable. We'll sleep at local Monasteries and be traveling through places frozen in time for thousands of years. It's an epic adventure: man, woman, machine, and the mountains. Both of us are in good health, and while most people have to take Diamox for high altitude sickness, Viagra has a similar effect of increasing blood flow at elevation.

The plane tickets are easy to get (check), passports (check), international driver's license (check), shots (I needed 6) and Viagra... check. I even quit smoking my Chinese Sunays.

In Kathmandu, we are met by the Himalayan Roadrunner staff and hustled through the bustling airport like refugees from another world. The first day got us acquainted with our Royal Enfield motorcycles. Used by the British in the 1950s, they remain the mainstay of Himalayan Roadrunners because of the availability of parts and ease of repair. For me, the right-side shift and clutch took take a little getting used to, but Liz takes to it immediately.

There are three kingdoms of Kathmandu valley: Kathmandu, the big city; Patan, home to the Newars; and Bhaktapur, a preserved medieval tourist destination. We spend our time in Patan, visiting temples and wandering Durbar Square. Patan is woven together with open one-way streets and filled with artisans and craftsmen—indeed a fascinating blend of history, art, religion, and foods. It's cleaner and more dialed-down than the chaos of Kathmandu, with few tourists.

Motorcycling through Nepal to Tibet is an exhilarating experience. Between road closures, herds of Yaks, landslides and aggressive truck drivers, each day provides a new set of challenges. We cross the Chinese border into Tibet and the group spends two days in Nyalam acclimating to the altitude. It is only 12,000 feet, but preparing yourself for impending higher elevations needs to be taken seriously. AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) varies from light-headedness to downright flu-like symptoms.

Small doses of Viagra daily are helping me immensely through each day's ride. And the evenings? Thank god we have private quarters— I've never seen Liz happier. It's high altitude sexual healing; her dark cloud has lifted. This trip was the perfect prescription.

Spectacular riding takes us up over Tong La Pass with commanding mountain views of the High Himalaya Range. It's here we get our first views of Mount Everest via the saddles of our Royal Enfields. Truly in the middle of nowhere, we pass villages that have never had electricity or running water.

The passing days challenge us with steep off-road inclines, loose gravel, stone and rough tracks. Finally the group arrives at the Rongbuk Monastery guest house at the base of Mt. Everest. It's the Highest Monastery in the World.

Liz and I acclimate well to the 18,000-foot altitude; others aren't so lucky. One female rider has to return to Kathmandu, and a male rider need repeated use of a HAPO (High Altitude Pulmonary Oedema) bag. It's an inflatable pressure bag large enough to accommodate a person, through which the environmental pressure can be increased and decreased by the equivalent of thousands of feet of elevation.

The weather granted us a truly spectacular view of the tallest mountain on earth. I was inspired to write a poem.

I say without hesitation

that motorcyclists love the mountain.

It is where we dance.

A graceful ballet of endless pirouettes

as the mountain leads first to the left,

then right, then to the left again.

We freely fall into gravity's demanding arms

then with a twist of the throttle are

thrust into the next delicious curve.

She lifts the spirit as we ascend,

as we transcend, riding high, above the

mundane until among the stars we fly.

And the mountain is where we fight.

Wrestling against hairpin turns, battling

hard against opposing forces, often for our life.

Because if the mountain wins...we die.

Mountain is where we face our fears,

test inner resolve, or chase foolish whims.

Be it the path of least resistance or

the hard-arduous climb,

It's here, from the top,

the breadth of our journey is revealed.

The passage past, we cannot change,

the present moment holds endless possibilities

to a future that we have the power to create.

The next day we visit the impressive gold-topped Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. The largest working monastery currently in Tibet, Tashi Lhunpo is most famous as the site of the enshrinement of the first Dalai Lama and is also the seat of the controversial Panchen Lama. It's here that Liz and I are separated from the group by two monks who escort us to a room with hundreds of smiling golden Buddha heads. Another monk donning a large red hat chants before a massive golden Buddha. We stand in silence for what seems an eternity. The monk at the altar suddenly turns and speaks.

"We are simple people and understand truth; we know you seek truth, but your perception is not a contribution to the truth. Never confuse your opinions with truth. Everything you know or believe is, in fact, false. When your world becomes numb, and all hope fades, you must return here, right here to us. Do not forget this. Your life and the life of your world depend on this thing. We are the Curators, Planners and Guardians of truth, and we will be here waiting."

He hands Liz prayer beads, then gives me a necklace with an extraordinarily detailed painted pendant of a provocative Tibetan female dancer, which I examine quizzically. Staring intensely into my eyes, the monk states, "Your Dakini." Without breaking a beat, I removed my Eye of Horus necklace and hand it to him. Pausing to study it, he suddenly flashes me a huge sardonic smile. I'd swear I'd seen that same monk smiling at the Shaffer hotel in New Mexico in the Graveyard Run story.

As we are escorted back to the group, Liz blurts, "What was that all about?"

"It's a long story." Shaking my head, I back-peddle.

"Do you know what a Dakini is?" she asks.

"I do." I quote Wikipedia, "Dakini, in Sanskrit means (sky dancer) is a Tantric priestess of ancient India who carried the souls of the dead to the sky. She's a Tibetan Buddhist goddess with a generally volatile temperament, who acts as a muse for spiritual practice." I still hadn't told Liz about my spirit guide who visits me in my dreams.

"Well, she had better watch her step," Liz smirks.

Our last day of the motorcycle journey is a spectacular ride past the amazing emerald Yamdruk Lake, followed by stunning up-close views of snow-covered Mt. Nojin Kangstan. Suddenly we drop down a steep ascent and then drift endlessly down into the Brahmaputra Valley where we connect to the main road and ride into Lhasa.

In Lhasa, we visit the Potala Palace, the thousand-room home of the now exiled 14th Dalai Lama. Just a museum now, it's filled with hundreds of exquisite Tibetan murals (Thangkas) and paintings. Liz has a field day and delights in pointing out the multitude of Dakinis in their various incarnations and sexual positions.

Back in Kathmandu, we book a week at the Summit Hotel. I'm anxious to start writing. I need to compile all my notes; I have thousands of photos and hours of recordings for a three-part travel narrative for a magazine. We bid adieu to our host and new friends and check in. After we drop our dusty, dirty gear, hot showers are first on the agenda. On the bed is a small, beautifully wrapped package with a card:

To Lizzy.

"Hey Liz, there's a package here for you. It says, 'To Lizzy.'"

Liz freezes, grabs the letter and sits on the bed.

"Shit! There's only one person who calls me Lizzy. It's my mother." She tears open the package, which holds a cell phone and a note from Voodoomama to call her.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Seven years ago, at my graduation from Dartmouth. She came out of the crowd, kissed me, said she was so proud of me, then disappeared out of my life. Until several weeks ago I thought she had been abducted, killed."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take a shower, get a vodka martini, and call her."

*

A short time later, Liz calls. "Hello Mama."

"Lizzy, I know this must be hard for you, but please hear me out."

"I'm listening, Mama."

"I need to see you, Lizzy. Now."

"I'm in Kathmandu," Liz replies dryly.

"I'm in New Delhi; I've been here for three years. Lizzy, I work in a world of secrets, and you're a CSS Agent. You of all people know what it means to be covert, even with the ones you love."

"But seven years, Mama? Seven years. I thought you were dead."

"Will you come tomorrow? I have flights booked from Katmandu. You can bring your friend if you wish." There is a long pause.

"Lizzy?"

"Yes Mama." Liz is silently crying. "I will come."

*

Kathmandu to New Delhi is only a 45-minute flight. Liz is quiet. She wants me to come for support but isn't talking.

"Not to pry, Liz," I venture, "but you've told me that Voodoomama traffics in human organs and makes potions and elixirs that simulate death and turn people into zombies. Should I be concerned?"

Staring out the airplane window, Liz states flatly, "She's a doctor and a biochemist."

We land, and her agent instincts kick in. Liz moves cat-like through the crowd to a dark corner and surveys the room. After a few minutes, she walks right up to a woman completely covered in a traditional East Indian dress.

"Hello Mama."

The woman hands Liz prayer beads, "Hi Lizzy. So good to see you. Follow me." We all headed out of the airport into a waiting limousine.

"You never quit, do you Mama?"

"No, I never quit." She drops her veil and flashes a radiant smile. If I weren't already in love with Liz, I'd fall hard for her mother.

"So this is Zac. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"As it is you, Miss Duran," I reply.

The capital of India, New Delhi is a city built upon cities. There are at least eight historical Delhis, each constructed on, or near, the ruins of its predecessor. The result is a modern-day citadel that's dotted with ancient monuments, many said to be haunted by djinns (spirits). Within, a population of almost 22 million people battle the hectic streets and alleys with carts and cycle-rickshaws, with cows and monkeys, with shoppers and with beggars, with street-food sellers and market traders. Honking cars, vans and scooters provide an endless orchestra of sonic chaos.

We drive out of the city madness to a large well-staffed estate in a gorgeous gated community reminiscent of Beverly Hills. Voodoomama removes her Indian garb to reveal a statuesque, shapely figure. The mansion is filled with antiquities.

Voodoomama turns to me. "Zac, do you mind? I want to spend a little time with Lizzy. Please feel free to enjoy the pool. Swim trunks and the fully staffed bar and kitchen are at your disposal. I even have a box of El Ray Del Mundos. Please, I want you both to relax and enjoy your time here." The women disappear.

She has my favorite cigar. Now let's see if the bartender can mix my favorite drink, a Vesper Martini. The bartender doesn't even wince at the word Vesper. I watch as he pours two parts Vodka, one Part Gin, and a dash of Lillet Vermouth, vigorously shaken, into a chilled martini glass with a whole sliced lemon. It's exquisite. We exchange grins as he sets the box of El Ray Del Mundos on the bar. He clips one, warms the tip with a lighter, and hands me the cigar as I puff it to life. This guy's good. I saunter over to enjoy the pool view, very James Bond, sans the bevy of scantily clad Bond girls.

*

Meanwhile, I later learn from Liz, the distance between Voodoomama and her disappears. There is an ineffable bond between mother and daughter that, even if broken, heals itself with love. They quickly catch up on the past.

"What happened in Oklahoma? Why did you get Zac involved when that wasn't the directive?" Voodoomama asks.

"Something was wrong," Liz replies. "I didn't know exactly what it was at the time, but Zac's appearance gave me the opportunity I was looking for. And I was right. I trusted my team explicitly, like family, and when we discovered Doc was a mole, that's when everything began to unravel."

"He's not part of our world Lizzy. There's too much you can't disclose."

"That's exactly why Zac and I connect so well. Secrecy and deceit are the currencies of my profession and yours. But Zac is honest. He couldn't deceive me if he tried, unlike everyone else in our world."

"What else did you learn?" Voodoomama questions.

"That General Madison is and has been manipulating the government programs he oversees for personal gain."

*

By the time Liz and Voodoomama reappear, I'm two Vespers and two ice-cold vodka tonics deep, floating on a raft. I hear their echo in the distance; they laugh like children.

"Hey Zac!" Liz brays. I give 'em thumbs up and the ladies twitter.

Whatever spell Voodoomama has put on Liz, I approve. "C' mon Zac, it's dinner time," Liz chimes.

Voodoomama has changed into a bikini and sheer wrap, revealing a stunning figure. Although she's 29 years older, she could easily pass as Liz's sister.

As we enter the dining room, Liz sees a sword in a glass case. "You still have the Saber of Fate," she says, smiling at Voodoomama.

"I keep it with me everywhere I live," her mother replies in a severe tone.

Liz opens the glass case which houses the sword and an ornate black box. She opens the box, taps its handle to something in the box, then pulls the saber out of its sheath.

"Be careful, Liz."

Liz explaines. "This is the only one ever made, and it's over 1500 years old. Made of mysterious alloys that make it lighter than aluminum yet stronger than titanium and the blade is sharper than a modern-day razor. Only its owner can use this sword; no other can remove it from its sheath. When presented to the Chinese warrior emperor who commissioned it, he beheaded the artisan with the sword so no other would be forged."

Liz walks over to a tall, thick candle in tall silver candelabra on the dining room table and takes a swing with the sword.

"Ha, you missed," I laugh.

Liz taps the candle with the tip of the sword and falls to the floor, cut so cleanly that the sword strike hadn't moved it. She puts away the sword and pulls out the black wooden box, opening it to reveal a petrified hand and an ornate silver ring with Lapis Lazuli stone.

"It's the emperor's hand with the Keystone ring," Liz states. "Only the wearer of the ring can remove the sword from its sheath; otherwise, it's locked. This sword has slain tens of thousands, toppled dynasties and commanded great wealth." Voodoomama chimes in, "Both the ring and sword are made from the same unknown alloy, and when they come in contact, there is a magnetic reaction. When in its sheath, there's a positive-negative magnetic force so strong the sword can't be removed. When touched by the ring, it reverses polarity and glides easily out. I've had the sword and ring examined by many scientists, but none can explain it."

We sit down at the dinner table. "Ok... So, Voodomama," I begin, "what is it exactly that you're doing out here in India?" The ladies look at each other and smile.

"Zac, my daughter likes you, and the last thing I want to do after all these years is to be dishonest or deceptive with you. I can't talk about it, ever. So let's talk about you. What's next for the international moto/photo-journalist?"

"Well, I need to focus on our Himalayan travel story. The guy who runs Himalayan Roadrunners met his wife on a trek to Mt. Everest 24 years ago. She was his Sherpa; they married, had a son and lived in both Kathmandu and Vermont. I'm writing an in-depth feature on being Tibetan and American, and the politics and conflicts of culture."

"Interesting," she replies. "I've read your 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycling China.' Well done. I liked your personality profiles and perspective on the current Chinese economic state. You look into the heart of the cultures you visit and that's commendable. You're both welcome to stay here as long as you wish, but if I may make a suggestion... The owner of this house has a beautiful home in Nice, France that's staffed year-round. He never goes there, and it's a shame. He has an extensive motorcycle collection, all maintained. It would seem to be the perfect place to settle in for several months, finish your Himalayan story and write a few more. Liz, you speak French of course, plus the south of France has far better weather and food than India." They laugh.

"Mama taught me how to ride at age 7."

"Lizzy was bored with bicycles. I got her a Honda 90, and she started winning motocross races at 10 until she eventually got kicked out."

"Yeah, I was running over all the boys, literally. Hit the sweet spot on the inside corner full throttle, the rear tire spins into the bike next to you, and they go down."

The girls howl in glee. I don't know what I've gotten myself into, but I like it. We spend the next several days relaxing and it's very healing for Liz, as if she and her mother were never apart. All of our belongings are sent from Kathmandu and we're booked for a flight to Nice, France.

"When will I see you again?" Liz anxiously asks.

"Soon. I will be in Nice next month."

They hold a long hug; I can tell Liz is hiding her tears. We board the plane to France and again, she is quiet. I guess I better get used to the silent treatment while airborne.

We land at the Nice International Airport (Aeroport de Nice Cote d'Azur) located 20 minutes west of the city center and settle into a quiet taxi ride.

I love motorcycling in the south of France. Nice, Cannes Monte Carlo all have stunning coastal roads that skirt the French Riviera. The rolling hills of the Provence and the twisting mountain roads of the Alps are all within a day's ride and is some of the most spectacular motorcycling in Europe. The Col de Turini in the French Alps is one of the most famous balcony roads—hair-raising lanes cut into the sides of sheer cliffs—in the country. The French Rivera reminds me of home, Malibu and the Pacific Coast Highway.

We pull into an estate that makes Voodoomama's mansion look like a guest house. "Holy shit, who are these people?" I exclaim.

Liz retorts, "We probably don't want to know." We settle into one of the spacious bedrooms, but I am dying to see this so-called motorcycle collection. One of the staff takes us along a path to a separate barn-sized building. There must be a hundred motorcycles here. I can hardly breathe; this moto-journalist has died and gone to 2-wheeled heaven.

"Most will run, with a little TLC," the caretaker of the collection says in an almost indecipherable French accent. As I walk down the line, I can name almost every bike and year. My god, it's a 1915 Cyclone. Only 300 Cyclones were built, and only eight originals are known to exist. The Cyclone has a massive 1000cc engine and is able to hit 125 mph.

"Look, Liz! Two black Ducatis, just like yours!"

She kneels to examine the serial numbers. "These are mine. When did they arrive here?" she asks the caretaker.

"Three weeks ago," he replies.

"So that means Mama had this all planned before we even went to the Himalayas. How could she have known? Damn her. Do you now understand whom you're dealing with, Zac? El Rey Del Mudos, my Ducati's... We are in the South of France for a reason. A far bigger picture is being painted, and we're merely brushes in the hands of a master artist."

*

Curiosity, the catalyst of great journalism, has me investigating every room in the mansion. Many are locked while curio cabinets filled with antiquities and other valuables are left open. The dining room drawers are filled with ornate silver cutlery. It is the library housing thousands of books, though, that intrigues me. Sitting at a massive oak desk, I find all the drawers locked. Then I spy something lying face down inside a bookshelf cubby, in perfect line of sight from the desk's plush high-backed chair yet hidden from view elsewhere in the room. It's a photograph of Dick Cheney, General Madison and the President in the oval office. I show Liz and ask, "Do you think this could be Cheney's home?"

"That makes perfect sense. He could easily afford to live this lavishly."

"Why do you think Voodoomama sent us here?" I wonder.

Liz shakes her head in distrust. "I do not doubt that we will find out soon enough."

Chapter 12 - Truth Be Told

This is a moto-journalist's dream—living in a palatial estate in Nice, France that houses an incredible motorcycle collection I can ride... I ride and gone to heaven. I have the time to write my Himalayan series and every week take another trip on a classic motorcycle to England, Germany, Italy or Switzerland. My publisher loves me. She thinks it all a fabrication, but there I am in the photos. My bank account has never been happier, and neither has Liz. She's a better rider than I am, and we know each other's riding rhythms. If Liz wants to ride aggressively, she goes and we catch up in the next village. If I want to hammer the throttle, I forget she's behind me. It's awesome. When not riding, we're at one of the super trendy night clubs in Nice. We're treated like royalty everywhere we go. Handsome European men are magnetized to Liz. She sashays about dispensing kisses and hugs (very French). Exposing my jealous American tendencies, Liz sets me straight.

"Zac, don't be intimidated by these men. Yes, they're incredibly wealthy, handsome and young. Yes, any one of them would take me home in a New York second. Yes, I could marry one and spend my time gallivanting the world on yachts, drinking champagne until I'm bored stiff, divorce one and marry another. That doesn't appeal to me in the least. It's not your bank account that attracts me, and don't get me wrong. You're handsome enough. But what appeals to me is your passion. In French, we call it 'Joie De Vivre,' or 'joy of living.' I love your adventurous creative spirit. You're an open book, Zac. You wear your heart on your sleeve, not like these other pathetic posers. I don't give a shit about these assholes, so don't you ever worry about us, unless you stop being the Zac I love."

From that moment on, I trust Liz explicitly. I write and ride while she relaxes on the French Rivera—though her iPhone photos still made me very jealous. For a month, we live frivolously like wealthy Bourgeoisie.

"We're invited to a dinner party tonight," Liz advises.

"Another party? You feel like going?"

"Oh, we're going," she replies. "Your tux and my evening gown were delivered with the invite and a limo will be here at six to pick us up."

I have never seen Liz more beautiful. Her gown looks as though it's tailor-made for her. She is a goddess. I also look relatively handsome in the Jean Yves tux. We enter a gated estate that reminds me of the Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California.

"There is more security and secret service here than a mid-east summit," Liz observes. We enter a dramatic foyer and funnel through full-body scanners unlike any I've ever seen. We filter into an elegant grand ballroom filled with classy clientele as a band plays cool jazz.

"Let's get a drink, but sip sparingly until we find out why we are here," Liz cautions. I order a vodka tonic and she orders champagne. She is in agent mode, on high alert, and disappears into the crowd. As I sip my drink, billionaire media mogul Richard Branson saunters up to the bar and orders a Glenmorangie Signet on the rocks. Richard freakin' Branson! He is my hero!

"Hi, Mr. Branson," I stammer. "I bought Tubular Bells before you licensed it to the film The Exorcist, and I still have that original Virgin record release."

"Actually, it wasn't released in the U.S. until after the movie. Nevertheless, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Music is still a passionate endeavor of mine." He is yanked away by a supermodel. I can't freakin' believe it—Richard Branson!

"Do you know whom I just spoke with?" I blubber.

"Richard Branson. Look to your left. You may recognize Oprah Winfrey? She is talking to Abu Dhabi's Sheikh Zayed Al Nahyan; he's worth 23 billion and next to him is the President of France."

"My god, what event is this?" As soon as I say this Voodoomama appears.

"Lizzy, Zac, it's so good to see you! Both of you look splendid! My French tailor couldn't have done a better fitting." Voodoomama kisses me on both cheeks and as she hugs Liz, whispers in her ear, "We need to talk, now." Liz excuses herself with that classic one finger gesture implying she'll be back in a moment.

"Lizzy, you need to know that Dick Cheney died today of heart failure. I am only telling you this because he was supposed to be here tonight with me. Any related conversations or speculation are to be ignored. This is still classified..."

"That's not possible," Liz interrupts. "He had a Goldlance heart transplant."

"I can't discuss this further. It's classified," Voodoomama replies.

"Are we staying at his house?"

"No, you are not."

This is like a David Lynch movie, and I don't know whether to laugh hysterically or sit in a corner with my tail between my legs. I guess it's time for a Vesper martini. Liz is not so cavalier. The laundry list of who's who keeps growing and she knows something is up. After a fabulous dinner, while cappuccino is served, a secret service agent approaches Liz and directs her to follow.

"I'm being summoned," Liz remarks. "The truth is about to be revealed. You enjoy yourself. I am sure there is a cigar bar, but don't have too many drinks." She kisses me and takes leave. I order another Vesper martini and hunt down Richard Branson.

Liz describes to me later how she is escorted to another wing of the estate. She passes through another full body scanner and is then asked to lay her hand on what seems to be a fingerprint scanner, but it pricks her finger for a blood sample. Liz is then led into a vast library. A small group of about thirty people mingles cordially. Voodoomama is talking with General James Madison.

"Lizzy, please sit with us," Voodoomama requests. "I believe you know General Madison." Liz nods in contempt and is seated. If there were list of global powerbrokers, this crowd would be it. Liz notices that some people are being escorted out of the library. General Madison leans over to Liz, saying, "By the way, Miss. Duran, you are reinstated as active duty CSS with Level III security clearances."

A middle-aged, balding man with thick glasses and clipboard takes the podium. "Please be seated and let's get to business. Thank you for being here. I believe you all know each other, although I must introduce Akira Mori from Japan and Liz Duran, the daughter of Voodoomama. Please stand up. Mr. Mori heads the Japanese Defense Intelligence Division, and Miss Duran is a top-level CSS agent. We are pleased to have you here. You all have high-level security clearances and the information here does not leave this room. This is Cosmic Top Secret. I repeat: code Cosmic Top Secret. I want to introduce Dr. Carl Zimmer for some preliminary background information on Operation Thundertaker."

Thick bushy white hair contrasts Dr. Zimmer's black and white tuxedo. "Thank you," he begins. "While working on a government project called Parasite Rex, I was investigating the remarkable ability parasites have to manipulate the behavior of their hosts. The Lancet Fluke (Dicrocoelium Dendriticum), for example, forces its ant host to clamp itself to the tip of grass blades, where a grazing mammal might eat it. It's in the fluke's interest to get eaten, because only by getting into the intestines of a sheep or some other grazer can it complete its life cycle. I began studying the virus Toxoplasmosis Gondii in the late 1990s."

Liz raises her hand. "Toxoplasmosis is a parasite found in cat feces. It's why pregnant women are told not to handle cat litter. It can affect their unborn fetuses."

"That is exactly the case," Zimmer responds. "This single-celled parasite lives in the intestines of cats, shedding eggs that can be picked up by rats and other animals, like cows. Toxoplasmosis forms cysts throughout its host's brain. Although a T-gondii ridden rat is perfectly healthy, scientists at Oxford discovered that the parasite changes the rats in one subtle but vital way. They no longer fear cats, so they become easy prey. The parasite makes its way to the rat's brain and alters its behavior. The normally-fearful rat becomes attracted to the smell of cats and cat urine. The rats run toward unsuspecting cats and are easily caught to complete the life cycle of the parasite.

"The Oxford scientists knew that humans are hosts to T-gondii also. People become infected by handling soil, kitty litter, and even eating beef. The parasite lives quietly in human brains and seems benign, but, as the young lady stated, pregnant women are advised to avoid contact. In a developing fetus, the T-gondii parasite can have grave consequences. It's estimated that about two thirds, I repeat, two-thirds of all humans on Earth are infected with T-gondii parasite.

"This research is well documented and was studied by the Chinese a decade before the Oxford studies. Finally, I will add that Asians— Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, and so on—seem to be genetically immune to T-gondii. The Chinese became aware of this virus in the 1980s and had been pouring funds into the study of the parasite."

He stands silently, scanning his audience as if waiting for applause.

"Thank you, Dr. Zimmer." Thick Glasses And Clipboard pops out of the background with sturdy looking security men who escort Zimmer out of the library. "Now to Operation Thundertaker," he continues. "The goal of the Chinese T-Gondii project was to create a trigger within a human's brain that replicated the same rat response; in other words, to control the infected subject. It looks as though they have succeeded. We have Intel that the Chinese military has created a genetically modified virus that activates the dormant T-Gondii parasite. Once activated, the parasite grows voraciously in the host's brain, putting its victims into a mild hypnotic state.

"The parasite attacks the frontal cortex of the brain, and the effects can range from light hypnosis to the higher brain functions being completely erased. The host can become a mindless zombie acting on commands.

"Unfortunately, we know little about this trigger virus, its potency, where it's manufactured or how it will be spread. That is the task of this group, to utilize your resources and influence to stop this subversion. Again, two-thirds of the earth's human population is currently infected with the T-gondii parasite. We believe this is a ploy to gain global economic control. The Chinese infrastructure is on a downward trajectory ultimately completely collapsing their infrastructure. The endgame is to control resources and global economics for the projected 10 billion population on earth by 2050."

He adjusts his glasses, takes a deep breath, and looks up from his clipboard. "Imagine that suddenly you do what you are told. From simple commands that influence purchase decisions, to instructions that your neighbors are the enemy and you must kill them. I'm talking about this occurring very quickly, within 48 hours. Suddenly fifty percent of the earth's population works compliantly for the Chinese government. It's world domination on a global scale, without a single nuclear bomb. In fact, there is no apparent invasion whatsoever. You do what you're told willingly. It seems from our Intel the plan is to deploy this virus globally within sixty days. I repeat, the information here does not leave this room. This is code black. We tested everyone for T-gondii as you entered, and unfortunately, for security reasons, those infected with the parasite cannot participate. Upon leaving, you will be given a secure cell phone. It will be your only source of communication regarding Operation Thundertaker."

A plan to uncover and eradicate the facilities and individuals involved in this insidious scenario are further discussed.

*

I've cornered Richard Branson and am plying him to fund a documentary travel expedition about the Silk Road. Richard is, of course, friends with Ewan McGregor and Charlie Bormann of "Long Way Round" fame and is reluctant to see the intrinsic value of such a short three-month ride retracing the famous Silk Road from Shanghai to Venice Italy on motorcycles. It's tough selling a man who owns a company that builds spaceships for tourism on such a trivial journey.

Liz cuts in. "Zac, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we will need to leave soon."

"Richard, this is my friend Liz Duran." I'm hoping her hypnotic allure will engage Richard in conversation.

"Delighted to meet you, Ms. Duran, So do you think there is a compelling story in riding motorcycles through rural China, following the Silk Road from Shanghai to Venice?" Richard smirks.

"I do, Mr. Branson, and in fact, I believe it may be among the most important undertakings of this decade. The significance of China over the next several years is tantamount to the discovery of atomic power. Unless a clear understanding of culture and intentions are cultivated, we, as a global community, are heading towards catastrophe. I know this to be true."

Richard is speechless because he can sense Liz is deadly serious. I, too, am dumbfounded.

"Ok, well, I would like to hear more about this project."

'May we meet with you to discuss it further?" Liz queries.

Of course, here's my card. Call my office; I am in France for the week."

Liz does not break face. She takes Branson's card, thanks him, takes my hand, and we head toward the exit.

"What the hell was that all about?" I exclaim. She stares me down coldly. Liz is strictly business. I know this Liz Duran all too well, and for now, the fun is over. What the hell just happened, I think to myself. Richard Branson, General Madison, the President of France? We get in the limo, and Liz puts her finger to her lips as we silently ride home. The moment we exit the limo she's guns-a-blazing.

"We are going to ride the Silk Road, and we leave in a week. I don't get you, Zac. Are you freakin' psychic? We meet investigating the Corridor of Death and start working together. You take me to Kathmandu, and my mother is an hour away, and now, my CSS agent status has been reactivated and put on another assignment: the damn Silk Road! But this isn't a pleasure trip, Zac. They want you to come because you give the operation a cover story. You're being played a patsy once again, only this time the agency is being upfront with you. And your friend Branson, he's another patsy I need to pull in for the agency. If you thought the Corridor of Death was dangerous, damn it Zac, this is way worse."

"You mean we are on another mission? Yeah Baby! I love it. C'mon ya gotta tell me more!"

"I can't tell you shit about it, ever, so don't ask again."

*

The next day we have an appointment with Richard Branson and are escorted into another palatial estate. Richard is sitting outside by the pool. "It's good to see you again Zac, Liz."

"Thank you for seeing us regarding the Silk Road Project, Mr. Branson. If I may get straight to business. The project is fully funded, but we want your endorsement; it helps enormously for press access. As you know, Zac is an international moto-journalist and he will be covering the day-to-day events. Your sponsorship and media support will allow us access that, quite honestly, we can't buy. I have all the travel documents, itinerary, and filming schedule for you and your attorneys to review. In consideration of your endorsement, all rights to the content will be granted to your media company."

"You are all business, Liz. I like that," Branson confided. "If my attorneys approve, I'm in. I do have one demand, though; I want to go with you."

"Mr. Branson, I understand that you are a global adventurer, but you also know the reality of travel conditions and..."

Richard interrupts, "Please call me Richard. I want to tag along for a few days, you know, the fun part of the journey. Believe me, I have no intention of rambling about the deserts of China for three months."

Liz flashes her disarming smile for the first time. "Ok, Mr. Branson—I mean Richard—I will see what I can do." As he offers us tea, Liz drops her hard shell, and the attractive, magnetic Liz Duran hypnotizes Richard. They're both exceedingly intelligent people and engage in heady conversation. Richard tells us that if we need anything whatsoever, he will assist and gives Liz his direct cell number. I don't know what's happened, but just yesterday I was struggling to convince him to fund my Silk Road project and now Liz has Richard eating out of her hand. This woman is wonderfully dangerous.

We fly into Shanghai and settle in at the Marriott International Hotel. Unless you've been here, it almost impossible to grasp the enormity of the world's largest city. With the world's busiest port, world's longest metro system and world's largest network of highways, this city of 26 million is exasperating.

My hotel room is more like a condominium, and the view is spectacular. I'd read about the "World's Highest Library" located on the 60th floor and need to see it.

It's much smaller than I anticipated, with mirrors on all four walls and very few books for a library. It does have a copy of Il Milione (The Million) more commonly called The Travels of Marco Polo. It's a 13th-century travelogue describing his travels through Asia, China, and Indonesia. Even in the 14th century it was a very popular book. One of the highlights of the room is a 'secret' passageway located behind a bookcase that leads to a viewing platform on the hotel's 60th-floor rooftop. It's a strange place, but the view of the Shanghai skyline is spectacular. I am compelled to visit the Library every night during my stay.

The next day we are shuttled back to the airport to a small airplane hangar. Inside, there are six Land Rovers, six Triumph Trophy motorcycles, a small gasoline tanker, and a large motorhome. The facility is buzzing with activity. "This expedition looks more like a military operation," I note to Liz.

We head over to the motorhome and enter. Inside are Sandman, Cleaning Lady, and Fifi, Liz's team from the Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run Corridor of Death operation.

"Oh my god, it's all the usual suspects," I gush. "It's so great to see you all. Liz conned you into another wild and woolly adventure?"

"Liz is our commanding officer. She says, and we do." Sandman grinned.

"Unfortunately, General Madison is our commanding officer on this mission," Cleaning Lady muttered.

We catch up and discuss this new venture, highway 312 and the Silk Road. Unbeknownst to me, it's called Operation Thundertaker to everyone else. Did I ever have cats? Freakin' cats ruled my life! My ex had 4 of the damn things, and they slept in our bed. I do have Toxoplasmosis but the powers that be have agreed to my presence as long as I'm kept completely in the dark. Over the next several days, the caravan of 26 people and 14 vehicles prepare for the three month, 4000-mile journey, Shanghai to Kirgizstan along the Silk Road. It is the adventure I've been planning for decades, on steroids.

It's our last night at the Marriot Shanghai. Voodoomama and I sip martinis 60 stories up as the harvest moon glows amber orange over the smog-laden metropolis. We've taken over the library's viewing platform; it's a dangerous place. A small, waist-high railing is the only barrier between us and certain death. She loves it here.

"This is very surreal, Voodoomama. I am conflicted. Liz can't talk about this and I sense I'm the only one here that doesn't know our real mission, how do I fit in?"

"She's a CSS Agent. Of course she can't tell you anything. And you're right about the mission's importance. Look, Zac, you're writing the story you've dreamed about. You can come and go as you please. You have complete support from the government and this convoy."

"But Cleaning Lady said General Madison is running this mission, so obviously this convoy is a military operation."

"What did you expect, Zac? Oh how the worm turns. Those who once tried to kill you are here now to protect you. Madison is directing the op from Langley. Of course it is military funded, and those men riding with us are Goldlance. You know more about Goldlance than most, including that the U.S. is selling Goldlance technology to the Chinese. What you don't know is why. We knew there were factions of the Chinese secret service that are developing a global domination strategy but what they don't know is we have a failsafe, much like the EMP disruptor you stumbled onto. We can neutralize the entire Chinese Goldlance operatives with a single command, but that's not what concerns us. Something far more duplicitous jeopardizes the world's safety, but trust me, you are completely safe. Lizzy and I will protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"That I cannot disclose, but we can talk any time. Just don't push Liz. She is bound by secrecy. You're a good man; I'm glad you're here." Suddenly I feel expendable. It's the ultimate loneliness.

Voodoomama pulls out a tiny book, The Teachings of Lao Tzu, and hands it to me. "I'm sure the library won't miss it. You can learn much from these ancient Chinese. 'The longest journey begins with a single step,'" she quotes. "'Wisdom says I am nothing... love says I am everything.'" It's uncanny how much Liz and her mother resemble each other.

*

Our first week's journey along highway 312 is pure pomp and circumstance. I'm concerned that Mr. Branson's public support has turned this into a traveling circus rather than a travelogue. Traditional Chinese welcoming ceremonies, departure ceremonies and elaborate dinners abound at every stop. It feels more like a parade/charade than any travel expedition.

The highlight so far is the city of Xian and the Terracotta Warriors. Emperor Qin had unified China in 221 B.C. and built the most powerful empire at that time. The Terracotta Army was built to protect and serve him in the afterlife. There are thought to be 8000 statues within the giant complex. Emperor Qin was superstitious, believed in immortality and searched for "elixir of life" during his reign.

To walk among these statues is absolutely awesome. It's as if one is walking through room full of mirrors; in every direction stands the likes of Emperor Qin himself. He has definitely found immortality. Two thousand years later his power and presence are truly palpable.

That evening my dreams unfold wildly.

A burning desert sun beats down hard. I am holding a large, leather bound book with the flower of life mandala ornately embossed into its thick brown hide. Blowing the sand off the weathered cover reveals the words "The Seer". Opening the book, the first page says "Written by..." There is no name and as I flip through the book, it's empty, with all the pages blank. Turning back to the beginning I see there is long thin delicately carved pencil tucked inside the front cover binding. It looks like a chopstick. I remove the pencil and write my own name. Written by Zachary King.

Replacing the pencil I turn the page and the book comes to life, to my life. I see colorful, wildly psychedelic images of the most influential moments of my past. Page by page my timeline is revealed. I turn to the present and see the image of me looking at this very book at a blank page. I freeze. I am looking at this very moment in time. Staring deeply into page I see an endless stream of this very moment, like two mirrors of me into infinity my every movement is mimicked. I know this is a dream. I'm a lucid dreamer but this room full of mirrors has my heart racing. Is it my responsibility to continue writing the story of my own future? Am I forever stuck in the eternal now?

In a complete panic I slam the book closed and standing before me is Astara, my Dakini. My spirit guide that has been visiting me in various forms since I was a child."What's happening?" I ask her.

"A seer can never see their own future," she replies.

"Then whose future can I see?"

"Whose do you want to see?" she hints.

I open the book, erase my name and write instead "Liz Duran."

The book comes to life; I see the river of her life flowing through its pages. I see the very moment that we came to this very desert spot and set up camp. Turning the page into her future, Liz is standing in the open desert in Yoga tree pose, arms held high. Slowly multiple hands and arms began to grow from her body until she looks exactly the Hindu goddess Kali. Moving like an underwater octopus, heads and bodies begin to grow out of Liz. Three on each side form then float weightless around her. They are all identical to Liz. Suddenly arms began to grow again from all the women and begin entwining into a complex mirrored matrix kaleidoscope of moving arms and hands. The book abruptly closes.

"The Seer is a gift," Astara advises. "Always know that The Seer is your gift."

Did the Terracotta Army provoke my dream about my book of mirrors, Kali and replicating Liz?

The next morning I tell Liz of my strange dream, about Astara and the book of the Seer.

After a long pause, in a serious tone "I would like to meet you Dakini." She mused.

Two weeks into our Silk Road travel, I've planned a motorcycle trek to an abandoned oasis in the Gobi desert that was a critical stop for Marco Polo in the 13th century. Me, Liz, Voodoomama and Cleaning lady separate from the convoy and plan to meet up again the next evening. Riding the Triumph Trophies, we travel 120 miles to the abandoned oasis and set up camp. Once there, I start metal-detecting, looking for coins or other objects.

Around three in the morning, two shadows steal into camp outfitted with night vision and modern stealth technology. As Cleaning Lady snores, an intruder enters his tent and puts a drop of liquid in his mouth. It's a powerful drug that will keep him unconscious. Slipping into my tent, they repeat the process. Entering Voodoomama's tent, they chloroform and secure her. Finally, in Liz's tent, one of the intruders holds Liz like a vice as the other tapes her mouth, hands, and feet. They pull off their masks, revealing they are identical twin sisters, and they look identical to Liz Duran. They pull the tape off her mouth.

"Who the hell are you? Why do you look like me, and where is my team?" Liz demands.

"Get the other woman," the intruder commands.

The other woman returns with Voodoomama and plops her down on the floor next to Liz. Smelling salts revive Voodoomama, and she sits up staring at the three identical women before her. An intruder rips the tape from her mouth.

"We saw you on the news. Who are we?" The intruder points to Liz.

"I... I have no clue. Mama?" Liz stares harshly at Voodoomama. "What's happening here?" she demands.

"I... I don't know... I don't know anything about them!"

"For Christ's sake, Mama, look at them! Stop your bullshit. Who the hell are these women?"

Voodoomama slumps down like a pile of old laundry. There is a painful pause. "They are your sisters, Liz. You are all clones. I had been working with the CIA/NSA for decades, part of a clandestine government project called Unity formed in 1984 and disavowed in 1992. I was the lead biochemist of sequential coding. It was five years of complete and utter failure until an unbelievably robust DNA sequence was cloned. The real objectives of Unity were to design super resilient human organs: human parts, hearts, lungs, and eyes. It literally mutated before our eye, implanted into a human zygote, and within 48 hours supercells began to grow. We, of course, assumed the fetus would die but were astounded at your resilience. At nine months old, the entire project was scrubbed. You were just babies. They washed Unity clean, completely sanitized it end to end, and the project never happened. I was put in custody of you, Liz."

"We're clones...we are clones of you, Mama."

Voodoomama stares aphasic at the three identical triplets. Her room full of mirrors stares silently back. A house has just fallen on their mother, and she's lost her ruby slippers.

"I took custody of you Liz but had no clue where the other baby clones went. The program was reactivated in 2001 with the events of 9/11 and became what's now Operation Goldlance."

The desert dunes whisper a silent breath.

"Now, you shall know who we are," the intruder demands. "We are assassins, trained since the age of seven and considered the deadliest in all of China. They named us Yin and Yang. Our current assignment is to dispatch your entire convoy," Yang states.

"We have no problem doing that," Yin adds, "but killing our mother and our sister, that we must deliberate."

Voodoomama tells the twins everything: Goldlance, Toxoplasmosis, Operation Thundertaker. It's as if she knows only the truth will save the team. The twins cut them loose and leave the tent. They chatter rapid-fire Mandarin and return.

"We knew some of this, but some we did not." Yin reveals. "We are leaving, so do as you wish. Abort your plans, tell the convoy of our mission, and tell your superiors everything we've told you. It matters not to us because the fate of the convoy is sealed; they are all doomed. What matters is if you continue to Xing Xing with the convoy, you too will all die. You must break away. Take these GPS coordinates and on the date and time written, go camp there for the night. The decision is completely yours. A wise person does not need advice... a fool won't take it." The twins disappear into the darkness.

The next day, the rest of the team awakes without any knowledge of previous evening events. Voodomama and Liz keep their silence.

Liz corners me just before we leave to catch up with the convoy.

The next two days of travel in the motorhome are filled with secrecy and hushed meetings from which I am excluded. We pull into Xing Xing and are slated for another two day stop in the middle of the Gobi desert. Liz pulls me aside. "Zac, we are taking the Triumphs on another expedition, just like the last one," she commands. "Don't ask me any questions and do exactly as I say, understand?" She's off.

Liz tracks down the convoy commander. "We are taking the motorcycles to another excavation site. Zac found some evidence at the last site that points here, and it's just 50 miles away," Liz explains.

"This is rather sudden. Why didn't you discuss this earlier? You know we are moving closer to the target."

"Let's keep up the charade, and it's just one night. I'll bring the entire team and keep them out of your way." Within an hour, we are packed and ready to ride. Voodomama leads the group, and three hours into the depths of the desert, we stop and set up camp.

We are in the middle of nowhere. The team is quiet and obviously on edge, and we're all settled for the night. At three in the morning, someone has started a campfire. Voodoomama, Liz, Cleaning Lady, Sandman, Fifi and I come out to investigate. We find Yang and Yin sitting cross-legged meditating by the campfire. I stare in astonishment as the firelight flickers an incandescing blush that illuminates the faces of two identical Liz Durans. Liz joins them in meditation. We are all speechless.

"You came, and we are glad," Yang states. "We have given this much thought. We gave our lives for our country, but now we want to find our own destiny. We will help you if you help us. Will you accept this?"

Voodoomama is in tears and goes to her new daughters. They hug reluctantly; these stone-cold killers are trained to be emotionless murderers.

Yin explains, "You must also understand that from now on, we can no longer exist. We must die as must you. You must also trust us completely, without judgment, without fear. This is a blood oath; we are of the same blood."

Yang pulls out a handheld device and they both nod. She taps it, and the horizon ignites bright white for a moment then goes dark. We all stand and look out at the glow of a developing mushroom cloud in the moonlight.

"We just detonated a two kiloton micro-nuclear bomb; it has vaporized the convoy and everything within a 300-yard radius. Your convoy is gone, and our mission is complete. It will seem as though we too died in the explosion. We are now on your mission."

"You must return to your tents immediately," Yang orders. They turn and run into the darkness.

We stand in complete astonishment. In the distance, we hear a tornado-like sound, then what looks like a hundred-foot sand cloud approaches. Realizing that the wind blast from the thermonuclear detonation is approaching, we dive into our tents. A thunderous wave of sand and wind hits before dying into complete silence. "Oh my god, what have we done?" Liz gasps.

The team hardly sleeps that night as we discuss possible scenarios and stand around like Night of the Living Dead zombies in the morning's rising sun.

Yang and Yin appear and tell us that the Operation Thundertaker Convoy was completely deceived about their target. The real objective is Dead City, as the Chinese call it. It is two hundred miles south in one of the world's largest deserts, the Takla Makan, which translates in Turkic to "you go in, and you don't come out." They will take us there; evidently, it is ground zero for the Chinese development, manufacture, and implementation of the T-gondii parasite attack.

The twins have a Land Rover, and they instruct Liz and Voodoomama to ride with them. We siphon the gas and bury their two motorcycles in the sand and follow the Rover for the next eight hours. We are completely alone. The entire Operation Thundertaker convoy of over twenty people is gone, incinerated in a single instant, and we now follow their killers to Dead City. Like rats to the Pied Piper, this can't come to a good end. A shadow of impending doom looms, but we're committed, and there's no place to hide. We ride into the Dragon's Den.

Chapter 13 - Dead City

Voodoomama, Liz, Yang and Yin ride together in the Land Rover towards Dead City. The twins reveal that they were adopted by a Chinese woman named Mai. Voodoomama recalls the Chinese woman. She was another scientist assigned to the Unity project, and they worked together. Mai married a wealthy Indonesian shipping magnate and they moved to Jakarta. The girls lived in a large estate and were home-schooled. Raised with maids, house staff, and security guards, they had minimal contact with the outside world. Mai spent much of her time in a laboratory inside the estate. The girls knew the entire periodic table of elements at age six. They spoke five languages and were studying university-level courses at the age of 16.

On May 15, 1998, a bizarre madness gripped Jakarta and more than 1,000 people were killed. Chinese Indonesians were targeted in this mass murder. The twin's home was invaded by locals gone mad, wielding machetes and axes. Their family was murdered. Both girls were dragged to Jalan Berilan River near their home to be drowned. When Yin was drowned, she went into a catatonic state. All of her organs ceased functioning. She was assumed dead but then revived. They tried to drown her time after time. When several men tried to drown Yang, her body surged with electro-chemicals altering her neurology and physiology. She was possessed by incredible strength and killed the men attempting to drown her.

"I broke their wrists, snapped their necks, and then came to my sister's rescue," Yang confides. "To this day, my bones are like steel, and my muscles have enormous strength. I can jump a fifteen-foot wall. I had no extraordinary physical prowess before that day. We hid, and when a Chinese army caravan came through we joined them."

Taken in by the Chinese government, the twins were put under intense study and became one of the most extensive human research programs of the Chinese Secret Service.

"We had nothing to live for," Yin adds. "We showed them our special talents. They were kind to us, studied us, trained us, and when we were twenty-one years old, they recruited us into Unit 834: the Chinese Secret Service elite. We became their deadliest assassins. I can completely shut my biology down. It's hibernation of a sort, but with no heart activity, no brainwaves nor infrared heat signature whatsoever, then revive instantly. I can go into stasis hidden within a target's home for a week, revive, and dispatch the entire household."

Voodoomama divulges everything she knows about Unity, explaining how the genetics mutated, and how suddenly the Unity project was abandoned. She was assigned as Liz's caretaker, teaching her self-reliance and intentionally not becoming a traditional mothering parent. She watched Liz develop, knowing Liz would be different but not how it would manifest. The Central Security Service also employed Liz, partially to keep their eyes on her. Although she's brilliant, Liz does not seem to possess the extraordinary attributes the twins have.

"Liz has a tracking device," Voodoomama continues. "It was implanted when she was six months old. It's behind the lobe of her left ear. It was deactivated after she became CSS for security reasons. You both also may be tracked."

"We have personal tracker implants, just between us," Yin reveals. "I always know where Yang is, and she does me." Liz is silent. This is the first she'd heard any of this.

We arrive at a bluff overlooking Dead City. Cradled at the base of a mountain range, the city looks like a lotus flower from a distance. We set up base camp inside a cave while Yang and Yin penetrate the city in a reconnaissance mission. Liz is cold and quiet. I want to know about the twins and what she's learned, but something has changed within Liz. She is darker. Her magnetic aura has dimmed. She holds my hand like a frightened child.

The twins return that evening with a plan to hide within Dead City and gather information. They bring what looks like shabby prison clothing, stating we will become invisible to the inhabitants and cameras if we wear them over our clothes. The next night we venture in, wearing night vision goggles and high-tech communications. We follow the twin killers into Dead City.

Dead City smells atrocious, like death. It's comprised of massive square concrete buildings the size of football stadiums with a singular central structure 10 stories tall. The primary structure is protected by a two-story circular wall with machinegun turrets. With no windows and few entrances, we enter one of the enormous concrete structures through a ventilation shaft and set up base in a machine room. Donning the drab clothing and hats, Yang and Yin direct us to follow them and mimic their every move. We are inside the belly of the beast, ground zero of this insidious Toxoplasmosis plot. Nothing implies that half a million humans work in this windowless building. No family pictures rest on desks; there are no desks or chairs, for that matter, just endless cold concrete hallways and rooms.

The humans here have all been toxified as test subjects and programmed as worker drones. Immense lines of these Toxo-zombies shuffle blindly by; completely oblivious to our presence. Fifty-thousand workers inhabit each of the massive structures. They work 12-hour shifts and for the remaining 12 hours, sleep. There is no interaction whatsoever in these modern-day concentration camps. The workers are like soulless robots performing their tasks. This city is research and development for T-Gondii zombie Toxo

-domination of planet earth.

As we move through the complex, we see dead bodies everywhere—lying on the floor, slumped in corners and in decaying piles ten feet high against walls. In the expansive open central section, thousands of people are seated on endless rows of what look like stationary bicycles, all methodically pedaling the same mechanical rhythm. A voice suddenly blares over a PA system echoing throughout the massive structure, then a loud buzzer sounds. The entire population stops, and with precise organization, tens of thousands file out as another group files in to take their place and pedal.

Every room we pass has the number 666 above the doorway. We follow the group into sleeping quarters where beds are stacked 10 high as far as we can see. They simply climb in, close their eyes, and silently shut down; not a word is spoken. We retrace our path back to our hideout.

"What's happening here? What are they doing?" Liz questions.

"They power this city," Yang replies. "All the electricity for lights, machines, labs, water pumps and drainage are all human powered. They are fuel for the fire."

"Who are these people?" Cleaning Lady asks. "I don't even see that many Chinese here."

"Over a million people go missing globally every year," responds Yang. "They needed test subjects. The Chinese and most Asians in general are not susceptible to the T-Gondii parasite. Unless directly injected with the virus, they are immune."

"What's up with the number 666 over all of the doorways?" Cleaning Lady queries.

"It's a lucky number in Chinese. It sounds like the phrase 'Things Going Smoothly' in Mandarin."

Yang tells us that any hope of finding real Intel here lies within the structure at the center of the city. It's the command center. Breaking into groups, Cleaning Lady, Fifi, and Yin and I remain back at the hideout. Sandman sets up outside as a lookout while Yang, Voodoomama, and Liz cautiously head into the central structure. We all have radio communications.

Avoiding cameras and passing through an unguarded entrance, the three women easily breach the central structure. The towers are unmanned. They see two Chinese guards playing mahjong in a hallway. Yang approaches, grabs one guard's head and snaps his neck, then grabs the other in a choke hold.

"How many are there and where are they?" Yang rattles in Mandarin. He tells her there are only 40 or so soldiers left here. The city was abandoned by the army a month ago. The remaining army personnel are on the first floor, while officers in command are based on the top level. He is easily convinced to show us where their weapons are, then Yang dispatches him.

Yang hands out machine guns, pistols and ammo. "This mission will not be in vain," she states. "If there is information here, I am going to get it. You both stay behind me."

Armed with machine guns and grenades, she kicks open a large door into what looks like a commissary. Dozens of stunned, unarmed Chinese army men stare in shock. Yang opens fire. Within 15 seconds, everyone is dead. Passing what looks like a communications station, she tosses in a grenade.

Yang directs us into the elevator and commands, "Take it to the top, and when the doors open fire into anything in front of you." With that, she disappears into the stairwell.

Voodomama's heart is racing. Liz, too, is in shock. This is happening too fast. They're highly trained agents, but not for this. They're not Navy Seals or Commandos. Ten floors to the top...9...8...7... 6... 5... Liz checks the machine gun. Holy shit, the safety was on. Click, safety off... 2... 1... 0. The doors open and they let loose with a fury of gunfire into an empty hallway. As they slowly inch out, covering each other's backs, they see Yang. She's sitting in a chair, cigarette in hand and machine gun aimed at three officers.

"Nice work, ladies." Yang smiles.

With a little coaxing, the officers confirm that the city was all but abandoned a month ago. They reveal that the lab adjacent the building still houses several scientists. Yang tells us to take the stairwell down; she'll meet us on the first floor. Halfway down, we hear machine gun fire and already know the outcome. Neither Voodoomama nor Liz has what it takes to be a ruthless, cold-blooded killer. Yang, their sister and daughter, is a methodical, heartless murderer, China's best assassin..

"For Christ's sake, Yang, I'm glad you're on our side!" Voodomama gasps.

"You should be, and there are two of me."

"How did you get to the top so fast?" Liz asks.

"I'll show you someday."

They surround the small building adjacent to the central command. The doors are wide open, and again "666" is emblazoned over the exterior doorway. As they slink slowly into the building, they are all suddenly darted. Small air gun darts hit them in the neck, legs, and body. They've been drugged. Voodoomama and Liz stagger over to a wall and then collapse. Yang, too, staggers and falls. Three men in lab coats creep out of the corners. They chatter in Mandarin and move in closer to the women. One is holding a handgun stating they are American Goldlance and must be killed immediately. As he approaches Yang, she rolls over and wastes him with machine gun fire, then jumps up and commands the others to drop.

"Get down, hands on your heads, now!" Yang demands. They drop. "What was that you shot us with?" she barks in Mandarin.

They plead that they were just trying to defend themselves and that they are not warriors. They tell her it's a powerful sedative with a large dose of T-Gondii that should have knocked her out cold. She, of course, is impervious to drugs.

Yang radios the team. "We have a problem. Liz and Voodoomama are down. They are unconscious and I have the two scientists who drugged them."

"You need to get to the hideout; we are sending Sandman to come to get you," Cleaning Lady replies.

"We are on our way, over" Yang confirms.

At that very moment, a voice blares over the loudspeakers that deadly enemies have breached the city and must be killed. Obviously, someone is still alive in the headquarters.

"We heard that. You better get back here fast," Cleaning Lady warns.

The two scientists carry Voodoomama and Liz as Yang leads them to the hideaway. The PA system endlessly blares the warning of intruders and describes us in detail.

As they creep through the corridors towards their hideout, the ToxoZombies turn and stare, stop their tasks and begin shuffling after them. Yang points her machine gun at the scientists. "You move, or you die. Get going!" She shoves her machine gun into his ribs. With ToxoZombies on their trail, they run through the corridors inside the complex and meet up with Sandman.

"It's clear ahead. Keep running and I'll cover you," Sandman insists.

The group heads down a long massive hallway then disappears. Sandman hears sounds from behind him. Toxos are heading his way. The doorway has a large, metal sliding door on casters; he slams it shut and locks the bolt. As he turns and runs to follow Yang, Sandman trips over a metal pipe sticking out of the wall and goes flying spread-eagle. He hits the concrete floor hard, and his machine gun slides thirty feet. He clambers up only to see ToxoZombies standing in front of his machine gun. They start pouring in through hallway doors. Sandman backs against the wall and scrambles over to the large metal door he just closed. With his ear to the cold metal, he listens, hoping the Toxos went another way. Flinging it open, he sees hundreds of Toxos standing silently, staring at him.

The room fills. Slowly, Toxos shuffle towards Sandman, staring emotionlessly. Six feet... Three feet... They press against him. The room is deadly silent. Sandman is shaking in terror with sweat pouring from his face.

He is just a driver, a courier. He has a family, including a 17-year-old daughter named Angel. He begins to cry. The Toxos now press in hard against him. A young girl close to him has the same hair color as his daughter. He looks into her eyes and whispers "Angel." She whispers back, "Angel," and reaches out to take his hand. Suddenly the Toxos around him hold each other's hands and whisper "Angel." They, too, are quietly crying. "I'm sorry," Sandman whispers. "I'm sorry" the Toxos whisper back. "Please let me go," he says louder, more forcefully. They again mimic him and an echo of "please let me go" ripples through the large hallway. Sandman starts inching his way through the horde, pleading loudly "please, please, please." The room fills with the echo of hundreds chanting "please, please, please" over and over.

Sandman gets ten feet into the mob, but now it's a human wall packed so tight he can't move another inch, and more Toxos keep cramming in. They stare aphasic, watching his every move. He pushes hard at a tall man blocking his path and the man pushes hard back. Sandman's terror turns to anger, and he begins yelling, "Let me go, let me go!" The room roars, mimicking his rage. Furiously, he tries elbowing and punching a path, but the Toxos start punching and kicking back. The harder and more desperately he fights, the more ferociously they fight back. Frantic, flailing arms and feet become a churning human meat grinder, exploding into a spasm of blood and body parts. The Toxos quiet down and become motionless. The shredded remains of Sandman's butchered body lay strewn about the bloody floor.

Yang and the scientist carrying Liz and Voodoomama reach the iron gates to their hideout. They freeze as the distant wailing subsides. Suddenly, ToxoZombies begin dropping from the pipes high above. As Yang lights up her machine gun, a door opens, and the corridor begins filling with grasping, shuffling zombies. They grab one of the captured scientists and he falls, dropping Voodoomama. By the time Yang picks up unconscious Voodoomama, the scientist has been dragged screaming into the seething ToxoZombie mob. Yang unloads her remaining ammo and tosses the machine gun. She and the remaining scientist carrying Liz race to the open gates and the team slams and locks the gate behind them.

"We have to get the hell out of here right now! What firepower do we have?" Yang asks Yin.

"Only a few handguns and small explosive charges."

Yang, Yin, Cleaning Lady, Fifi, the Chinese scientist, and I gather our wits. Carrying Liz and Voodoomama, we exit the compound. After crawling through the air ducts we pop out an exterior vent and tumble into the harsh mid-day sun. It's dead-quiet, with not a soul in sight. We take off running towards the hidden Range Rover about 1000 yards away from the compound. The Chinese scientist behind me starts yapping frantically. I turn around to see thousands of the ToxoZombies pouring out of the massive structure, all heading our way. We run faster. We make the vehicle and all start cramming in. Both Liz and Voodoomama are still unconscious.

"What about this guy?" Cleaning Lady asks while pointing to the scientist.

"He goes with us. He will be of use," Yang declares.

As we pull onto the road towards our cave hideaway, we can see thousands of humans pouring out of the massive structures, all moving in our direction. It looks like someone smoked a beehive.

"This isn't good," Yin cautions. "How far would you say the cave is?"

"Twenty-two miles exactly," Yang replies.

"Humans jog at about 5 miles per hour," Yin advises, "which means that we could have several hundred thousand zombies on us in four hours. You know just by their sheer numbers we'll be found."

As we crest the mountain to scavenge all the remaining resources, we overlook the entire valley. There is a two-lane road into the city, and it's obvious the whole population of Dead City, hundreds of thousands of ToxoZombies, are all heading our way.

We assess our options at the cave. Either we stick together or we break into groups on motorcycles and the Land Rover, then head into the mountains to hide. We opt to combine resources, pack critical supplies, and remain together.

Yang strategizes, "With all the remaining gas from the motorcycles and about five left in the gas tank, that's maybe 13 gallons total. Fully laden, the Land Rover gets 15 miles a gallon, which gives us a range of 160 miles. The closest fuel is over 300 miles away."

"I suggest we put a bike on Rover's carrier," Cleaning Lady reasons. "We need a plan B to get somebody out if all else fails."

"An extra 600 lbs. will hurt gas mileage, but I agree we need a plan B." They load a Triumph Trophy onto the motorcycle carrier mounted on the rear of the Rover and the team heads back to the road. Once on the highway, Yang straps on a seatbelt, opens her passenger door and hangs the captured scientist halfway out of the moving Land Rover.

"We don't need the extra baggage. You either tell us everything you know right now, or I toss you out for zombie food," she barks at the scientist.

He spills his guts. The Chinese government has genetically manufactured a trigger virus that activates the dormant Toxoplasma. It's estimated that two-thirds of the world's population is currently host to the T-Gondii parasite. He tells us that the trigger virus was transmitted by 300 Chinese travelers targeting 100 major airports worldwide. Three Chinese infectors arrived at each of the major international airports at different terminals, and as they exited the airport, they spread the virus with sprays, powders, and ointments all masked as cosmetics and personal hygiene products. They contaminated their path and stopped in every bathroom in their exit, spreading the trigger virus on every surface and effectively creating 100 contamination points worldwide, all on the same day.

A quarter million people pass through the Atlanta airport on one day alone. Calculations have determined that within three days, over a million people will have the virus. Within 10 days, a hundred million will have it, and within one month, a billion. The trigger virus is super virulent and immediately activates the T-Gondii parasite. Within hours, it alters the host's nervous system severely. He tells us that the contamination began two days ago.

The first symptom of activating the dormant Toxoplasma parasite in a host's brain is sleep. The infected host will sleep for 15 hours a day and feel drowsy while awake. A hypnotic state develops in which the host becomes increasingly susceptible to the power of suggestion. Within several weeks, the parasite will ultimately grow around the frontal cortex brain centers. Within a month, regular sleep cycles return, and infected hosts regain a normal sleep-cycle but are quickly put into a trance state.

"Did you develop an anti-virus or anti-toxin?" Yang queries.

He claims they did not find an anti-toxin, but the trigger virus seems to have no effect on hosts at higher elevations. Also, Asians are inherently immune to the Toxoplasmosis parasite. His team's objective was to determine why.

Liz had come out of her drugged state to overhear the conversation. She tells Yang to get her Black iPhone. It's a direct link to Operation Thundertaker. "Tell them to extract the team out of the Gobi Desert immediately," she mumbles. Yang makes the call. "This is Agent Liz Duran. We need immediate assistance."

"Thundertaker Command," a voice crack over the phone. "Voice print ID, please repeat the following." They give her a series of voice commands to authorize access. "Voice print authorized." (She is Liz's clone after all)

"We need emergency extraction immediately. We are in the Gobi Desert," Yang declares.

"Hold please... Yes, we have you triangulated. We must Code Red you. Please standby." After a moment another voice gets on the line.

"Agent Duran, this is Colonel Wallace. Do you know what is occurring in most major cities across the world right now?"

"No sir, but our intelligence reveals that an epidemic is imminent."

"Imminent is an understatement!" he responds. "We have an international state of emergency at airports, railways, highways... Almost all means of transportation have been completely shut down globally."

"Sir, we are the primary intelligence team for Operation Thundertaker. We have vital information and need to be extracted from our location within twelve hours, or we will all be killed."

Silence echoes at the other end.

"This is a secure line. Can you relay this intel to us now?" he asks coldly.

"We have captured a key scientist. You need him."

"Understood, but you are in the middle of China, and that complicates matters greatly. We are looking at a 48-hour window. We will push that, but you need to take evasive action for survival. If we can expedite extraction we will contact you. That is all, Agent Duran."

"Sir, we don't have 24 hours!" The Colonel hangs up and the line goes dead.

"Get my personal phone," Liz mumbles. "Call Richard Branson... and call him Richard. Tell him everything..." As Liz blacks out again, Yang does as she asked.

The phone is fingerprint locked but of course Yang can easily access her numbers and dials Branson. "Richard, its Liz Duran."

"Liz, it's so good to hear from you. Things have gotten a bit dicey since we last spoke."

"You can't imagine just how dicey," Yang replies. "I need your help, Richard! If we don't get out of the middle of the Gobi Desert in 12 hours, we will all certainly die. My government can't reach us in time and you are our only hope."

"You do know that within the last 48 hours the world has gone mad? With this so-called Airport Sleeper Sickness, virtually all transportation is shut down."

"That's exactly why I am here: to expose who is behind this epidemic. I have intel and a captured scientist who is mission critical. We need a way out."

His voice becomes somber. "Listen, Liz, I have a friend that operates out of Paro Airport in Bhutan. At 18,000 feet, it's considered one of the world's most challenging airports and only eight pilots in the world are certified to land there. He is one, and that's his base. He owes me a favor, but all I can do is ask. There are no guarantees."

"We are on a newly built highway, the perfect landing strip." She is pleading.

"I will contact you as soon as possible. It's a simple yes or no. All I can do is give it a go, Liz." Richard hangs up.

Five hours into our 10 hours of gasoline and we are sitting ducks in the middle of the open desert. We have nowhere to hide. Liz's phone rings. "We are a go," Branson proclaims. "We have you triangulated with your cell phone and if anything changes, you call to abort. It's a six-seat Piper Cherokee. He will be visual within five hours."

"There are eight of us," Yang replies.

"You know as well as I there are weight restrictions that can be exceeded. If you have no luggage, you may be able to push one more, but not over 150 lbs."

"Of course, you're right. Tell him to bring an extra 20 gallons of fuel; we will need it."

"Ok, Liz, good luck. You will hear from him soon. His name is Will Barclay. Don't get yourself killed."

"Thank you, Richard, thank you." They disconnect, and the group is silent.

"I know I have taken charge here," Yang states. "You can all weigh in, but this is how I see this going down. The scientist, Voodoomama, Liz, Zac, Yin, and Fifi take the plane out. Cleaning Lady and I refuel the Rover when the plane gets here, and we drive out. I'm Chinese and speak the language, and Cleaning Lady... Well, he's six foot six and 250 lbs. He takes the space of two people. It's as simple as that." Her logic is irrefutable.

We are one hour from pick up and the Range Rover begins heaving and sputters to a stop. Out of gas, we push the Rover to the side of the road and put up a makeshift tent to protect us from the harsh desert sun. It's quiet, dead quiet. Both Liz and Voodoomama have come around, but it's as if they are drunk. They are incoherent with small lapses of lucidity, then fall back to sleep. We are all packed and ready to go at a moment's notice, conserving energy and the last of our water.

Minutes tick by like Chinese water torture. Yin is standing atop the rover scanning the skylines.

"Yang, come here, look at this," Yin requests. Yang hops atop the Rover and grabs the binoculars. "My god, Yin, get me the M14 and scope." Yin assembles the rifle with a high-power scope and hands it to Yang. She peers through the scope "They are 10 miles away and moving fast."

"How is that possible?" Yin exclaims.

"I don't know, but we are in deep shit, people. Look out at the horizon."

The distant horizon looks as if a dust storm ten miles wide is approaching. It's the dust of several hundred thousand ToxoZombies heading our way.

"How could they have gotten this far this fast? There's no way!" Cleaning Lady blurts.

"If they ran at 10 miles an hour for ten hours, there is a way. These aren't normal humans," Yang explains. "They are freaking zombies with one mission: to kill us. And they are probably dying of exhaustion to do so. But they are here and will certainly overrun us within the hour."

"Where the hell is Barclay?" Fifi asks. "Call Branson and find out where the damn plane is." No sooner than this is said, the phone rings.

"This is Will Barclay. I have you triangulated and will be landing within the hour. Be ready to board upon landing."

"Please, get here as fast as possible! It's critical you push pick up," Yang demands.

"I am flying at low altitude to avoid radar, airspeed 240 knots. I will be coming through the valley within thirty minutes or so, and we should have visual then."

"Contact us the moment you enter the valley. Over."

"Roger that, over and out."

"This is not good; this is just not good," FiFi frets.

"Yin, we still have another micro nuke in the Land Rover. I have an idea," Yang states.

Yang plans to take the micro nuke out ten miles while Yin detonates it remotely. The blast should eliminate tens of thousands ToxoZombies and slow down the rest. Barclay's plane will still be in the canyons and unaffected by the 80-mph wind blast.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cleaning Lady protests. "First of all, you can't get it near them in time. Secondly, you'll be killed."

"Easy, Lady, easy," Yang smirks. "You have no clue who you are dealing with here. First, it's only a two-kiloton blast with a half-mile radius, and lucky for us, we have an eastward wind so the radiation fallout will move away from us."

Yang straps on a backpack with the micro nuke. Yin will detonate it when she sees Yang's flare gun go off.

"Yang, please, don't do this!" Cleaning Lady pleads bereftly.

"Just watch me!" She takes off running and disappears within seconds. Yin turns to Cleaning lady. "She's been clocked at 60 miles an hour."

Yang approaches the hordes and what she sees is shocking. Tens of thousands leap along with giant strides, bounding along like strange alien grasshoppers. Charging ahead with bloody foaming mouths, their dehydrated bodies are frail and sickly. Hundreds fall dead from exhaustion as others leap forward over the twisted, broken bodies. Yang surmises that they are workers that powered the city with 12 hours of daily pedaling. They've been using their leg muscles for god knows how long, and they now lurch forward like crazed spastic kangaroos. She sets the bomb so it will detonate within the front phalanx of the encroaching masses and races back towards the group. At three miles out, she hunkers in behind a sand hill and fires the flare gun.

Everyone back at the Rover has dug in. Yin commands. "Do not look at the flash and be prepared for extreme high wind turbulence in 5, 4, 3 2, 1." Ten miles away, a thermonuclear detonation completely devastates a tenth of the oncoming Toxos. The ensuing wind blast hits at 80 mph for several seconds and dies out.

Yang arrives back out of breath and weak. "I think that did the job."

The cell phone goes off. "This is Barclay! Come in, this is Barclay! What the fuck was that?!"

"We are fine." Yin explains. "Everyone is fine here. When will you have a visual?"

"I have visual now, and besides a fuckin mushroom cloud it looks like the entire Chinese army is heading directly at you!"

"Barclay, you're here, it's OK!" Yin vows. "Set it down, and we will all get out of here just fine." They watch as a Piper comes in for a perfect three-point landing, rolling within twenty feet of the Range Rover before the door pops open.

"Let's get moving people! We need to turn the plane around!" Barclay demands. Cleaning Lady, Yin and Yang swing the small plane around for takeoff. Barclay starts handing out five-gallon cans of petrol to Cleaning Lady; he proceeds to pour one into the Rover's gas tank. The cockpit is emptied, and we start loading in Liz, the scientist, and Fifi. We can see ToxoZombies approaching fast in the distance. The blast may have wiped out weak ones, but it seems that the stronger ones are now charging full tilt.

A drowsy Voodoomama rifles through the Land Rover and pulls out the Saber of Fate from her baggage. She is wearing the Keystone ring and touches the handle then hands the sword to Yang. "Just in case," she mumbles as Yin carries her to the waiting plane.

"Yang! Behind you!" Cleaning Lady yells. Yang spins around as hundreds of ToxoZombies bound over a sand dune toward them. Machine gun in hand, she starts mowing down the front lines until the gun empties. Pulling out the sword, she begins literally slicing through Toxos like paper, dozens with each stroke, cutting them down like a weed eater. She becomes a twirling dervish in a ballet of death. The Saber of Fate matched with Yang's power and speed decimate the horde.

Fifi slams the loaded Piper Cherokee's door and the plane begins to taxi down the roadway. Cleaning Lady and Yang jump into the Range Rover. It won't start; it was run bone-dry and is stalling.

ToxoZombies begin piling on top of the vehicle, scratching and grabbing, pulling off the wipers, digging at the window cracks as their burnt, bloody, irradiated faces foam at the mouth. They stare in demonically at the doomed inhabitants. The Rover sinks from the weight as the roof begins to dent and crumple inward.

Suddenly the Rover roars to life, and they floor it. Most of the ToxoZombies fly off. As they race towards the Piper Cherokee, they see that several Toxos have jumped onto the tail section of the taxiing plane. It can't lift off because of the added weight. The plane is barreling down the highway at 90 miles an hour. Yang opens the window with a 9mm handgun and picks off the remaining zombies clutching the Rover. They catch up to the plane as it's bouncing off the roadway unable to get airborne.

"I can't fire at the plane," Yang yells to Cleaning Lady. She grabs the cell phone and calls Barclay.

"Barclay, slow down and keep a steady speed. I will get them off your tail." She throws the phone to the floor and climbs out onto the Land Rover's hood.

Barkley yells back, "We have another problem! Do you read me? We have another problem!" But no one hears his warning.

The plane slows to 60mph and stabilizes on the roadway. As Yang secures herself onto the crash bars on the front grill, a bloody hand grabs her leg from below. A Toxo has been clinging to the bottom of the Rover. A swift kick to the head ends its life. She motions Cleaning Lady to inch closer until they are within reach of the airplane. Yang grabs the leg of a Toxo hugging the tail and yanks him off the plane. He slams into the Rover's windshield and bounces onto the roadway. As Yang inches toward the last zombie clutching the tail section, he leaps directly at her, grabbing her neck with his hands. Wrapping his legs around her body, he bounces with her off the Rover, and both hit the roadway at 60 miles an hour, tumbling into the distance.

Cleaning Lady watches them roll away in his rear-view mirror. As the plane slowly rises into the air, Cleaning Lady suddenly realizes there is a concrete barrier directly in front of him. The plane's wheels barely miss the barrier as Cleaning Lady slams on the brakes. He skids directly into the concrete wall at 50mph, totaling the Land Rover.

Inside the airborne Piper Cherokee, Yin watches the chaos unfold below: her sister tossed into the desert, the destroyed Rover, the imminent approach of the army of death. Silently, tears roll down Yin's cheeks; her twin has given her life to save the others. Yin too is dying inside as she stares blankly and transfixed into the endless horizon.

Soaring high above the Gobi Desert a silver sky shimmers against crystal clouds like an aurora borealis caressing the pulsing panorama of desert dunes. It's absolutely beautiful.

Chapter 14 – Road to Redemption

Steam and dust from the crushed radiator and exploded airbags fill the cabin of the smashed land rover. Cleaning Lady is dazed, but unhurt. He grabs the door handle but to his dismay is jammed shut. He lays down in the cabin and with both feet kicks out the driver's side window. Sliding out of the door, he surveys the damage. Yang is somewhere on the road, and he bolts after her. Passing the crumpled remains of the zombie that attacked her, he finds Yang in a heap by the side of the road.

"Yang?" He puts his hand on her shoulder. "Yang can you hear me?" She slowly unfolds, badly beaten up and bruised. "Don't move. You've probably broken a lot of bones."

"No, I don't break bones, but every other part of me hurts. Let's get the hell out of here."

He cradles her battered body, and as he bolts back to the destroyed Land Rover, they pass the sword Yang had tucked in her belt. "Get the saber," she barks and tucks it snugly back into her belt. "What happened to our truck?"

"Long story," he snaps. "But I have our B plan." Laying her down next to the Rover, he pulls the Triumph Trophy motorcycle from the back of the truck and leans it against the Rover.

"The bike looks fine. I'll gas it up. This is our way out, Yang." He pulls a 5-gallon gas can out of the hissing truck and pours it into the tank of the motorcycle.

"Lady, you better hurry. We got a hundred thousand angry zombies on our ass!" He shoves food, water and a sleeping bag into the panniers, turns the key in the ignition, and hits the starter. The bike grinds to a dead click. He hits the starter again, but there's nothing.

"Oh, this just keeps getting better, Lady."

"God damn it, Yang, I got to push start this thing." As he looks at the oncoming army, he pulls out his handgun and hands it to Yang. "It has six rounds. I will be right back."

"Yeah? If not, I'll save a round for me."

Looking severe, Cleaning Lady pushes the bike between the barriers. With a running start, he hops on the bike and pops the clutch. The Triumph sputters to a stop and he jumps off for another desperate try.

Yang watches as a human tsunami thunders towards her. She pulls herself up and props against the Rover. She tries pulling the saber out of its sheath, but it won't budge. After a few seconds of tugging, she lifts the handgun and stares into the oncoming tidal wave of death and begins to laugh loudly. The absurdity and hopelessness of the situation is preposterous. The thought of being ripped apart by a torrent of slashing hands and bloody teeth gnashing her flesh is unbearable. Yang lifts the gun to her head, slowly squeezing the trigger when the roar of the motorcycle breaks her trance. Cleaning Lady scoops her onto the bike with one arm and heads out into the open desert. Yang, securely planted in the back seat, realizes she's still pointing the gun at herself and stuffs it into her pants.

"Jesus, Lady, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."

"Don't call me, Lady. Please."

"Fine, Lady. What should I call you?"

"Jeff."

"Jeff. Ok, Jeffery."

"Just Jeff."

She hunkers down, hugging Jeff with both arms and clamping her thighs tightly to his. Yang knows she's safe...for the moment. Pushing her breasts hard into his body, she lays her head against his back and drifts off into much-needed slumber.

The melting desert sun burns into Jeff's eyes, and then, he struggles through a pitch-black moonless night. The temperatures drop, but Yang is still unconscious as he forges onward. This endless tunnel of darkness is totally consuming. There is no escape; he must keep moving forward... fast. The winds kick up, and ghostly shadows of desert sand dance across the tiny white strip of halogen headlight as unseen hands punch and pummel the speeding motorcycle.

*

Inside the Piper Cherokee, the low drone of the airplane growls likes a hundred monks. Yin sits silently then suddenly blurts, "Where are we going?"

"Back to the Paro airport in Bhutan," Barclay replies. "If you had to pick the only airport on planet earth we could get in and out of right now, the Paro would be it. There are only eight people in the world licensed to land there, and I am one. It's your lucky day, missy."

The Landing is rough, to say the least. A crosswind howls at the overweight plane. The group is shuttled to the Zhiwa Ling hotel where they settle in. The Thundertaker phone rings and Yin answers.

"This is Liz Duran," Yin states. After another voice print authorization, General Alexander gets on the line.

"Agent Duran, we will have an extraction team there within 12 hours. Is everyone safe?"

"Colonel," Yin responds. "Do you know where I am right now? Triangulate this phone."

She hears a flurry of orders in the background. "You are in Bhutan?"

"That's right, and four hours ago we would all be dead if not for a Good Samaritan. We are at the Paro Aeroport; there are six of us alive and safe here. We have the scientist."

"Alright, Mrs. Duran, I am told extraction ETA is now eight hours to the Paro Aeroport. We are glad you are safe."

Voodoomama and Liz walk into the room, completely awake and lucid.

"What the hell is going on? Where are we? Where is Yang and Cleaning Lady?" Both are briefed on the events of the last 24 hours and informed they have been infected with the Toxo Trigger virus, yet now seem fully coherent.

"Zac, where did we meet the Monks on our trip to Lhasa?" Liz asks.

"It was Gyantse, the Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. We were separated from the group and escorted to the room of a hundred smiling golden Buddhas. It's where the monk said to us, 'When the world becomes numb, and hope fades you must return here, and right here. Do not forget this; your life and the life of your world depends on it. This is the truth. We will be waiting.'"

"How far is that from us right now?" she asks Barclay.

Barclay laughs. "Four hours on a Royal Enfield. I collect them. Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?"

Liz and I smile at each other. "We need to go there, right now."

"I'm Ex-NSA, and the CIA will want to debrief me," Barkly informs them. "I can't go with you, but there's only one road. You can take two of my Enfields. I will keep the extraction team here until you return."

"Wait a minute, Liz! We're safe here," Voodoomama pleads. "The military is on its way, and you have the Toxoplasma parasite. There's just no way you should leave Liz."

"Sorry, Mama, but these monks have special knowledge. They knew what was going to happen long before the outbreak, and they knew that we would be back. We have no choice. Right, Zac? Are you in?" I nod in agreement. I want to motorcycle the Himalayas again.

*

Cleaning Lady forges desperately on in the Gobi Desert. Searing hot days turn to bone-chilling nights. Even with gloves and full leathers, it's wicked cold. Suddenly, Yang springs to life. She's frantically pounding his back and kicking the air wildly. They pull over, and Yang leaps off the motorcycle to yank off her shirt and pants as if her clothes are attacking zombies. She squats to take a prolonged leak. Jeff stares at her naked white body in the dark moonlight, thickly tattooed with wild tribal and Asian symbols and designs. Yang returns dazed, stripped, and shaking uncontrollably; she needs warmth. Jeff wraps her in a sleeping bag, sets up the tent and they crawl in. He takes off his blood-soaked clothes and crawls into the sleeping bag to share body heat with Yang. Shivering, she wraps herself around him like a grapevine hugging warm earth in a winter frost. He caresses her silken skin as she rocks against his muscular body absorbing needed heat. Soon, their sweat coalesces. Yang can snap a man's neck with a flick of her wrist but tempers her power with passion. Her entire body pulses in ecstatic rhythms, sliding slippery underneath his vigorous six and a half foot, 250 lb. build. They wrestle in rapture; his strong hands knead her supple breasts as his pelvic bone rubs against her engorged clitoris. Her nipples blush electric. Passionate kisses ignite erotic desires, and Jeff penetrates Yang. He surges with hard thrusts in slow rhythm as her moans of ecstasy deepen, and sweet pleasure becomes pangs of passion. It's impossible to tell their bodies apart. The skin separating them all but disappears. Yang has never felt such a divine aphrodisiac of sexual bliss. Her back arches and stiffens hard as her lustful cries become screams of pleasure and rolling waves of supreme orgasm devour her entire being.

As they lay in a pool of sweat, hearts pounding furiously, breathless and gasping for air, Yang hears a fervid cry in the distance.

"Shhhh. Quiet, what is that?" Yang puzzled.

Holding their breath, they listen. A distant pack of wolves mimics Yang's howls of ecstasy in the dark desert. They laugh ecstatically, falling into each other's bliss.

*

Liz and I head out to the Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. We mount two vintage Royal Enfields and head right back where all this started. Motorcycling the Himalayas—replete with magical, breathtaking vistas—is four hours of pure riding bliss. Upon arrival at the monastery, we are met by a group of Tibetan monks and escorted into the same room of 1000 golden Buddhas we visited only two weeks ago. The same three monks await us.

"We welcome your safe return."

"Can you tell us what's happening, and why we are here again?"

"When the world's become numb and hope fades, you must return here; right here. Do not forget this. Your life and the life of your world depend on it. This is the truth. We will be waiting.

"You know the cause of this sickness. You know the world has changed, but you do not know the solution. You were sick; now, you are healed. What has changed? Now you are high in the mountains. It is here where the sickness cannot live; this is where the sickness dies. We have known this and have eyes and ears throughout China. We know their plans to control and enslave. But even they do not know that this poison dies high in the mountains."

It's revealed that the trigger virus goes dormant at 6000-foot altitude and completely dies above 10,000 feet. A combination of pressure and lack of oxygen in the cerebral cortex kills not only the trigger virus but the Toxoplasma parasite as well. That's why it's impossible for anyone at such high altitudes to contract the T- Gondii parasite.

"Who are you monks really?" I ask. "U.S Secret service or British MI6? How can you know these things?"

Smiling, the monk focuses his gaze directly at Liz.

"We are the Curators, Planners and Guardians of our species. We are your great, great grandfathers and we care for you. You do not know your own destiny but we do. We monks transcend time, transect space, and know what this world will be a thousand years from now. Some call it astral projection; some, out of body experience. It's simply the quantum teleportation of atomic particles, completely demonstrable in your science labs today. We can be anywhere, anytime. In the grand scheme of a trillion-year-old universe full of billions of life forms, anything is possible."

"C'mon man," I reply. "With those abilities, you could alter the course of history."

"Problems cannot be solved by the same level of consciousness that created them. Your limited beliefs limit your possibilities, but that's unimportant. Your actions and your honesty have proven yourself commendably. You have followed, and will continue to follow, a path of truth. But remember, there is always more than one truth."

He turns to Liz. "And you, young lady, will learn to be still as the world turns around you. But for now, you both need to get to back immediately."

Liz's phone rings. It's Voodoomama. "Lizzy, the extraction helicopter team will be at the Paro Airport in three hours!"

As we mount our Royal Enfield's the monk again drapes prayer beads on us, adding, "My friends, read the writings of John the Apostle in the Bible."

"The Book of Revelation? Why?" Liz questions.

"As I said, there is always more than one truth," he replies with a sardonic smile.

*

At the crack of dawn, Jeff and Yang awake, their lives forever changed. They are now lovers and soul mates, and more importantly, guardians. They pack the bike and discuss a plan. Yang knows exactly where Yin is via her tracking device and knows a way to get to Kathmandu fast. The first major city they will hit is Lanzhou, with over three million people and a large military base. As they head towards the city, a squadron of low flying Chinese Chengdu J20 jets scream overhead, and within minutes the sky lights up as another nuclear wind hits them. The Jets have just completely wiped the ToxoZombie army and Dead City off the face of the earth.

They pull into the first hotel on the outskirts of Lanzhou. Yang makes a phone call and within the hour a Chinese military Sikorsky H-3 transport chopper lands outside the property.

"Many mistrust my Government and their actions," Yang explains. "But they, like me, are willing to risk their lives to stop this madness." They board the waiting chopper and are transported to Bhutan.

In Bhutan, the entire team—Voodoomama, Liz, Fifi, Yin and I—are at the Paro Airport preparing to board a British military transport helicopter to London.

"I don't believe it! Look!" I exclaim. The Chinese military chopper lands and out pops Yang and Cleaning Lady. Yin and Voodoomama run over, and all the women hug and gush. Yang hands the Saber of Fate to Voodoomama.

"I brought this back to you. It saved our lives."

"It always does," Voodoomama smiles. "I'm so glad you're here." She is in tears.

"How the hell did you get here so fast?" I ask Cleaning Lady.

"Yang is amazing. She knows very powerful people who will do anything for these women. These sisters are very different from us, and special in many ways."
Chapter 15 - Revelations

We are all transported by helicopter to a U.S army base in India, and board a military jet to London. It's here at Westminster Abbey, in the infamous War Room, we reveal our findings over the next several days. With the discovery that the Toxoplasmosis and trigger viruses die at high altitude, and that the host then becomes immune to any future contagion, plans are hatched to set up High Altitude Pressure stations globally to process critical military and political personal. The immediate manufacture and distribution of HAPO bags for tens of thousands of other essential civilian personnel begin.

Globally, the second stage of the Toxo virus attack has settled into a mild state. Most people are back to work, and things are on track and in order. Still, the majority of the world's population is contaminated with the active Toxoplasma parasites.

During the following months, high-level meetings are convened at the War Room, but only Voodoomama is invited to participate. The president of almost every country is in attendance, as is the Vatican hierarchy.

Thundertaker planners present a strategy to utilize the Chinese's own insidious tactics against them. Each country will begin a media campaign to buy local and NOT purchase Chinese-made products. The respective governments will promote messages to buy German, buy British, and buy American. As people begin demanding local products, the governments offer substantial incentives to manufacturers to bring manufacturing back home. On a global scale, the intent is to economically bankrupt China, putting them at the mercy of the rest of the world. Silently, subversively, within a year, China will be on their knees.

The plan succeeds in four months. China is desperate, and the world's manufacturing power has shifted. In their impressionable state, the global population has taken the message to heart. This completely revitalizes the global economy. The populous of every country now purchase goods made locally or regionally.

International corporations are threatened with extinction. Following a global trend, Walmart reinvents itself as "WalMarket." The enormous empty retail locations become open markets, housing vendors, local suppliers, and goods manufacturers. World peace has settled, and a socio-economic trade balance exists worldwide. The Vatican and the Catholic Church take credit for the order, reigniting a rebirth of religious faith.

Within the year, China becomes a democracy, and like Russia in the '90s, China struggles to rebalance. With the communist party dethroned and the military disbanded, the Chinese population becomes the largest consumer base on earth. The tides have turned, and they are now the consumers of goods manufactured from other economies worldwide.

In America, General James Madison has become the Director of the NSA, and is now one of the most powerful men in the world.

Liz's team had been ordered to remain at the mansion in Nice, France, assisting in various military assignments and tactical support missions. Calm has settled over the world, but Voodoomama knows that a new dark treachery is unfolding. The global powerbrokers of the planet—the High Cabal, Global Elite and the Catholic Church—through the religious suffusion of global media campaigns have driven Catholicism into the collective psyche of the western world, taking credit for the global rebalancing, and current peace and prosperity. The Vatican not only has taken control of the global economy, buts now begins to control the heart and minds of the hypnotized masses with religious fervor. Voodoomama is watchful, yet silent until the Last Prophet in the Blue Turban appears.

On the 11th of November, television news breaks a story of the arrival of the Last Prophet. Dressed in flowing white robes, his façade mirrors the western depiction of a bearded Jesus Christ. His commanding presence and compelling speeches captivate the world. This prophet calls for complete solidarity among Christians, Hindus and Muslims. They are all hypnotized by his religious rhetoric.

Voodoomama assembles the entire team that November night. Liz, Yin, Yang, Fifi, Cleaning Lady and I are all present.

"We are in more danger now than ever." Voodoomama proclaims. "The Catholic Church is intentionally manifesting a biblical apocalypse and is literally bringing the Book of Revelation to fruition."

"What the hell are you talking about, Mama?" Liz pipes. "We have local, sustainable economies, global peace, and more class equality than at any time in our history. The Muslims have always been at odds with Christian infidels. This is nothing new."

Voodoomam is stern and direct. "You don't see the lie. It has nothing to do with sustainable economies. Instead, it has everything to do with religious fanaticism, world domination, and exterminating those that threaten control. Perhaps you don't recall the crusade when 100,000 people were tortured and killed in the name of the church and god, or the witch hunts of the middle ages when 60,000 women were brutally murdered in the name of church and god. Hitler convinced a nation that 9 million Jews should be purged in the Final Solution. And perhaps you've forgotten Mao Tse Tung's Cultural Revolution? Mao ordered the murder of 30 million of his own people. All of their followers did precisely what they were told like hypnotized zombies."

She continues. "No, this is not a time of peace. This new Prophet is an instrument of death. This is the beginning of a religious war that will take a billion lives." She is obviously distraught and bordering an emotional breakdown.

"But why? Who wins? What's the point?" Cleaning Lady asks.

"The goal is always the same: control. They want to control wealth, power, and the hearts and minds of the masses. You have absolutely no clue who actually runs the world's economy or why. I will give you another history lesson. The Knights Templar set up the world's first central banking system, essentially holding traveler's money and returning it at the destination because thievery ran rampant. They became so powerful that on Friday the 13th of October, 1307, hundreds of the Knights Templar were arrested in France. That's why it's become a day of bad luck. Motivated financially and undertaken by the Catholic Church, King Philip IV falsely charged the Templar's with heresy and compromising the scruples of the Pope. They were all executed."

"Don't go all Da Vinci Code on us, Voodoomama! What's that got to do with what's happening right now?" I retort.

Voodoomama becomes more agitated. "After the destruction of the hierarchy of Knights Templar, the remaining fled to locations throughout Europe. Their shipping fleet and cache of gold were never seen again, until the creation of the Bank of England, the Swiss Banks, and then the German Banks of Mayer Amschel Rothschild. The Knights Templar set into motion what now are the most powerful financial institutions on Earth. Corrupt leaders around the world use Swiss banks to hide ill-gotten gains. These economic hit men make and break world leaders like puppets on a stage. This High Cabal is not elected, like presidents or prime ministers that come and go with popularity and term limits. These global elites are 13 families that manipulate the world's economy, run religious agendas, control high finance, and dominate mass media. They profit at the expense of the masses regardless of the social or environmental costs."

"They are called corporations," Liz blurts, "and that's what they do."

"You all listen to me very carefully. I know this to be true. All wars are banker's wars cloaked in religion, and this will the big one, the end times. The four horsemen of the apocalypse besiege, and the White Horseman has already assailed with pestilence and global epidemic disease, the T- Gondii parasite. He is the slayer of the beast in man, and that is precisely what has happened. The spirit and fire of humanity have been numbed. Toxoplasmosis has turned most of mankind into mindless sheep, literally following the war chants of the media and religious fervor its deadly end. The Antichrist is now upon us, and the other three horsemen loom. The Red Horse, the blood of impending war, is imminent. The Black Horse of Famine and the Pale Horse of Death, the death of a billion, will follow."

"For Christ's sake, Mama," Liz yells. "You sound like a god damned Baptist preacher! You are scaring me!"

"I have yet begun to reveal the horror you are all about to witness. I now know what the High Cabal has been planning for decades because I am a part of it. I know what the Vatican and governments are planning. This house we are in right now is owned by NSA Director James Madison, a direct descendant of the fourth American president. His is one of the 13 family bloodlines of the Illuminati that make up the Cabal."

Voodoomama pauses. She is in a trance, somehow possessed, staring blankly out the two-story glass window overlooking a breathtaking view of the French Rivera's Mediterranean coastline.

Her voice changes, becoming deeper and monotone. "Seven trumpets will be sounded by seven angels after the breaking of the seventh seal, the seal that secured the apocalyptic document. I tell you all right now that I broke that seal. That was The Unity Project, the government project where you were all cloned with my DNA. I was lead geneticist. Lizzy, Yin and Yang, it wasn't just called Unity. It was called Unity 7. There were seven babies, all clones just like you. There are seven sisters—seven avenging angels."

She turns to the group. "We all need to escape right now. We are under surveillance and will all be arrested very soon. We know far too much."

The setting sun glows electric over the azure Mediterranean Sea. Holding hands, the three sisters walk into the crisp amber air. Silence is a source of great strength. A hummingbird flitters in and hovers almost within reach. As they watch, the hummingbird's wings seem to slow in speed. Time dilates until they can actually count the beats of its wings. The surprising detail and radiant pearlescent color of the tiny bird's glistening feathers are astounding. The flapping sound of its wings thunder a slow rhythmic pulse as the smell of lavender hangs heavy in the evening air. In a sudden flurry, the hummingbird flashes off into the distance. Their lives are changing. They can now see, touch, and experience this world very differently. True wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. Lies become truth, angels become demons, and seven deadly sinners become sisterly saints.

To be continued: UNITY 7

About The Author

Kozmo "Koz" Mraz, an author and renowned moto-photo journalist, has published over 200 features for prominent travel and lifestyle magazines. Koz travels the world on two wheels. From China's Great Wall to the Himalayan mountains, Europe or the back roads of America, his travel adventures feature interesting people and unique destinations in entertaining prose.

A Wiccan Priestess, his mother published a magazine called "Occult Americana," while his father owned a nightclub called "The Zombie Club." Surrounded by beatniks and hippy chicks, Koz had an unusual childhood. Introduced to psychedelics at 13, and motorcycles and metaphysics at 14, travel and adventure became his mantra.

Koz currently has 3 non-fiction travel books, "Piers of the West Coast," "Motorcycle Mysteries" and "Motorcycling the Himalayas and other Sacred Places." His supernatural thriller fiction series includes the popular "Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run," "Thundertaker," "Unity 7," "Hoka Hey," "Neptune's Net" and "The Red Room." A College Professor and award-winning writer, Koz is a special-interest presenter for events. He is an energetic and interactive speaker who uses multimedia and humor when sharing his experiences and insights.

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© Copyright Gary Koz Mraz 2019

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