by BRYAN C. FISHER
The 57 year old man with thick, graying hair,
brandished the handgun as he was finishing his coffee.
"This little guy is my favorite. It's like a scalpel. The
Taurus PT22 is the modern Dillinger."
Eric was tough, a former marine who had spent the last 23 years
doing this job. He was almost blank as he was describing his current sidearm to
Ezra, his young charge. Of course, I took issue with the reference to John
Booth's choice of weapon.
"Eric, the Dillinger did nothing for Booth when he was up
against people who knew he was armed."
He just rolled his eyes as he looked down the barrel of the gun
towards the floor, before glancing up at me.
"Booth stepped out of the shadows and exposed himself. The
Dillinger was perfect for him until he let his theatrical side take over. He
got flashy... I don't get flashy."
I shook my head. He had a point. "But," I thought to
myself, "what if we were discovered? Would that little gun protect you,
then?" A whole lot of money and talent was devoted to finding the library
that we protected. We were the Spear.
For two millenia, our secret society, the Spear of Ptolemy has preserved one of the real wonders of the ancient world - the knowledge once
held in the halls of one of history's most prolific and well-known libraries:
The Library at Alexandria. While humanity has recovered some of the information
supposedly lost in the fires that demolished the building, so much of the
knowledge - world changing knowledge - remains to be re-discovered.
Over the centuries between 48 BCE, when much of the library's
collection was allegedly destroyed, and today, the Spear has carefully
preserved and cataloged the books and scrolls they protected, while keeping the
knowledge safely concealed until the civilized world was again united under a
common flag, as it had been in the days of the Roman Empire.
Throughout the generations, the Spear dwindled, from the 72
members who heroically and stealthily secreted away the 227,000 - well,
227,417, to be exact - most important scrolls and books that had been housed in
the great library, to just the two of us. It's been this way - librarian and
apprentice - since 1778, when most of the remnants left to fight for the
British against the colonists after the library had been relocated to the
Colonies, in Richmond, Virginia.
The 17 men who left to fight against the colonists believed that
the British would unite the civilized world. Indeed, they were on their way to
amassing an empire that would span the globe, and they had all the resources
they could possibly need to squash the colonist rebellion. What they lacked was
spirit, which is, of course, why they would go on to lose. None of the 17 ever
returned, or if they did, they never found the library. It was moved to
Charleston, South Carolina before the war ended.
By the late 1800s, it was settled here, at the Grant Opera
House, where it's been ever since. In all, 1,827 people in history knew, for
sure, that the most valuable contents of the library were saved (Well, now that
you know, it's 1,828).
Eric was still mumbling about his little .22, as I slipped my
Smith & Wesson .357 into a concealed holster at my hip. I kicked my feet up
on the table to enjoy my own coffee. Today was, like so many others in the 12 years
that I'd been learning from the old man, going to be filled with nothing
exciting - the life of a librarian and his student. I'd long since learned the
routines of the librarian, and the keys to maintaining a life of secrecy and
invisibility. I sipped my coffee and smiled as a sliver of sun peaked through
the small window near the ceiling onto my arm.
Suddenly, there was a soft whistle from the door. Someone had
breached the entrance. We both leapt into action, with Eric going for the
handle, pistol in hand. Just as he reached it, two bullets punched through the
door frame, right at the lock - I'll have to fix that - and the door flew open.
Eric caught it with his shoulder and shuddered backwards as a woman with
black-no, brown, very dark brown-hair and a black leather jacket raised a large
gun-I'm guessing a .45 magnum-towards him, shooting just as he fell to dodge
the bullets.
I had slipped around the corner out of her line of sight right
before the door opened, and I now slipped a little further into the shadows.
Eric quickly rolled behind the chair, and got off two shots,
hitting her in the leg. As she fell, he leapt up to finish her.
He pulled the trigger.
Click
She quickly recoiled, but he kicked her in the chest before she
could get another shot off. He was on top of her, trying to wrestle the gun
away from her for a minute before she managed to fire into his arm, knocking
him back. He glanced over towards me and closed his left fist over his chest -
It was time.
He ejected the bad round just before another shot, from her .45,
hit his leg.
"You won't get the librarian alive!" He yelled, before
firing three shots in my direction.
I stumbled out, grasping my shoulder as if I'd been hit.
"Help me, please!"
She looked at me with a baffled look, before she fired two more
rounds into Eric's chest, killing him. I rushed to her side as he slumped back.
She warily nodded towards my arm.
"I'm okay. He just grazed my arm, I think. But, your
leg."
She knelt to put pressure on the bullet hole in her leg.
"Is there anything I can do?"
She glanced up at me and my 5' 7" frame - much more slight
than Eric's imposing 6' 3" had been. I was nowhere near as threatening.
She shook her head, pulling a folded piece of paper out of her pocket with her
spare hand. I took a silent step behind her.
"Where's the librarian? I expected him to be older."
"He was."
She collapsed into a heap as the smoke wafted from the barrel of
my Smith & Wesson - which had just put a bullet into her head.
I picked up the paper. The name on it was Alexander Wyatt
Hamilton. The description was of a 72 year old man with a frail build, light
blue eyes, and a Star of Bethlehem tattoo on his shoulder blade. I shivered. It
was accurate. How, I don't know... I stepped back around the corner where I had
been hiding when she came in and pressed a button hidden behind a tapestry,
sealing off the basement of the opera house. I then turned to the corner.
"Well, Wyatt, I don't know how they did it, but they
figured out who you were, and at least she figured out where we are. I'm so
sorry that this is the protocol, but the Library - and the Spear - must live
on. Thank you for your life's dedication. I won't disappoint you."
The old man didn't move. His eyes blankly stared up towards the
ceiling. Two of Eric's bullets had struck his chest and the third landed in his
temple. I wiped a tear from my cheek as I knelt and closed his blue eyes.
Reaching up to the desk, I pulled the dusty black ledger from
the back corner and opened it up to the list of names on the 3rd page. I wrote
today's date to the right of Wyatt's name and underlined my own name beneath
his. I sighed as I closed the book, and wiped the dust from the cover, which
was emblazoned with tarnished gold leaf, LIBRARIAN'S LEDGER. It held the names
of all the librarians since the library was moved to the New World. We also
used it to keep a record of all the encounters between ourselves and the
outside. I'd have to enter today's encounter later. I stared at the book for
several minutes.
My name - Ezra Michael Booth - is up. I am now the librarian. I
need to find a new apprentice. And hire a new bodyguard.
I looked over at Eric's body.
Maybe I should hire two bodyguards this time.
"But first," I said aloud, as I stood and shook my
head, "I have to fix the fucking door."
