by Otto Schafer
“You realize how that sounds, right?” she asked, laughing openly now. “Traps?”
Her father frowned. “Logically, yes I realize how it sounds. But when you are in a chamber with a pissed-off giant statue seemingly motioning you to stop, a little precaution seems common sense, don’t you think?”
“Fair point. Sorry, Dad.”
They approached the shadow between the giant’s legs and could see it was actually a hole. In fact, it was a perfectly round hole, positioned dead center in a perfectly circular room, a perfectly circular room surrounded by spiraling stairs – this place was feeling less like a cave every minute. Breanne knew she had to see what was in that hole. Easing forward, she prepared to take another tentative step. Whether it was because of her father’s words or the statue’s demeanor she paused then, suddenly suspicious, a prickle wriggling up her spine like a nightcrawler trying to avoid the hook. Her hesitation left an opening for her father’s curiosity, though. Suddenly, his foot clapped down against the cold stone as he maneuvered between the giant’s straddled legs.
Instantly, they both realized his mistake as the stone sank beneath his foot before stopping with an audible click.
Her father’s eyes grew wide. “Shit,” he huffed. “Not good.”
Breanne gasped, her heart knotting up in her chest, unable to beat. She held her breath as the echo of the click reverberated off the chamber walls.
After a long moment… nothing happened.
“Jeee-suss!” her father exhaled.
Breanne nodded. Then, taking in a shaky breath, she slid in alongside of him and leaned over the opening in the floor. Shining her light down the shaft, she strained to see the bottom of the abyss but had no luck. Abandoning her attempt to pierce the depths, she turned her attention to the shaft walls. “Look at the walls, Dad. They are perfectly smooth.”
“Impossibly smooth.”
“What in the hell are we looking at?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe this is a cenote of some kind?”
“It would be weird, though, for the statue and skulls to be part of a cenote.”
Her father frowned. “It would, wouldn’t it?”
Suddenly they heard Paul’s voice echoing from the entrance of the cave. “Pops, Sis, where are you guys?”
“That’s it. Let’s get out of here,” her father said. “We are going to need to get the team in here and all the gear!”
“You two okay?” came the voice again.
“Yeah, we’re great, but stay out. We have a hell of a find here.”
“I’m coming down!” Paul shouted back.
“No! Don’t come down, we’re coming up.” He turned to Bre. “Jesus, your brother is like a bull in a china shop – better he stays up there.”
Paul responded, “Listen, you need to come out anyway. You have a call on the satellite phone, it’s Jerry. He says it’s important he speak to you right away.”
He frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Jerry. Is he okay?”
“Everything is fine, but Jerry said he has to speak to you now – something about changing history forever.”
With a long sigh, he called out, “On my way!” Turning back to Breanne, he said, “You first, baby girl. I’ll be right behind you.”
Breanne and her father quickly made their way back to the stairs.
“Dad, did you hear something?” Breanne asked, pausing abruptly.
Her father paused, turning an ear upward. “What kind of something am I listening for?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Me either. I… I guess I imagined it.” As much as she dreaded squeezing back through the tiny tunnel, she was ready to go. “Never mind.”
“There you two are.” Paul waved his flashlight in one hand and Breanne’s glow stick in the other as they appeared from around the bend. “Over here. I knew I was in the right spot when I found your little clue. Nice.” he said, dropping down to his knees, then disappearing headfirst into the crevasse.
“Okay, Bre, I’m right behind you,” her father said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You got this.”
Breanne drew in a deep breath and got down on her hands and knees. She pointed her light into the void, illuminating several feet of the tunnel as it sloped gently upward. Ahead she noticed ancient dust streaming from the ceiling like sand poring through an hourglass. Was it doing that before?
Drawing a long, slow breath, she exhaled, pressed her lips into a determined line, and began crawling. The loose earth felt cool between her fingers and against her knees, even through her cargo pants. She shivered as a chill passed through her, raising goosebumps on her ebony skin. The only comfort Breanne found in the tight crevasse was the musty fragrance of earth. That and the solace she took in knowing her father was right behind her.
As she approached the tightest spot of the crevasse, her anxiety rose. Just breathe, she thought, breathe and move. Stretching herself out onto her belly, she shuffled forward and began to pull herself through. She was acutely aware of her father’s presence by the sound of constant grunts, muffled cursing, and the occasional flashes of light coming from behind her. She couldn’t see her brother up ahead and figured he had already cleared the crevasse.
Suddenly, a soft grinding filled the silence of the cave. It was the sound she thought she had heard earlier, but there was no doubt now. Breanne paused and frowned. “What is that?” she managed.
Her father didn’t answer, and for an impossibly long second, no one breathed.
As the grinding hushed, a decisive click echoed from deep within the bowels of the chamber, and a single stone tile finished its slow rise back to its rightful position. The earth began to rumble, the ground started shaking, and all around the Moores, dirt and rock began to fall.
“Bre! Get out! Get out! Get out!” her father shouted frantically as he scrambled forward.
Breanne couldn’t move. Unconsciously, she clapped her hands over her ears. She heard the shouts of her father and the rumble of the angry mountain as it shook and fell all around them. But Breanne was no longer in the tunnel. She was in a place worse than death, hanging upside down, deep within a memory of terror, a seatbelt suspending her. The rumble she heard now was an engine, and the shouts were from a stranger. She forced open her eyes and looked down at the ceiling of the car. No! Please! Blood pooled below her. Not her blood. Dear God, it was not her blood!
Music played from the radio. “Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer…” Not that song! Not that song! Shattered glass covered the roof. Blood-red crystals of glass. The smell of iron filled her nostrils. God, please!
Something was shaking her, shaking her foot. Someone was shaking her foot!
“Bre! She isn’t responding, Pops!” her brother shouted frantically.
“Bre! Baby girl! Listen to me now. You are not in that car! You are not in that car! You are here! I am here, but you have to move! You have to move now!” Charles shouted with urgency. “We triggered a goddamned Indiana Jones fucking trap! We got to move! It’s coming down!”
Paul grabbed her by the wrists, yanking her hands off her ears, and began to pull her forward.
Breanne felt herself fall as someone pulled her out of the car. “This one is unconscious, but she has a pulse.”
“The driver is deceased.” The voice echoed in her mind. “The driver is deceased. The driver is deceased. The driver is deceased.”
All of the other reindeer…
“Bre! It isn’t your fault! Jesus Christ, Bre!” her father shouted. He tried to push her feet, but her legs buckled.
“It’s too tight! I can’t drag her! I have no goddamn room, Pops!” Paul shouted in panicked frustration as small pieces of rock and dust fell from the ceiling only inches overhead.
Breanne’s eyes shot open. I’m… I’m not in the car? I’m in the tunnel. Paul? Paul was facing her now. How did he do that? How did he turn around? Dirt and tiny rocks were spilling from the
ceiling, and she felt like she was going to fall off the ground… fall off the world! The tunnel became choked as the ground continued to quake. Breanne blinked tears away from her eyes as she finally began scrambling her way forward.
“That’s it, Bre! Crawl to me! Crawl to me!” her brother said, working his way backwards.
Seconds later she could see light through the dirt-laden air. As she was about to clear the opening, she heard the sound of a pained cry coming from behind her, and her heart leapt to her throat. As her hand broke the plane of the crevasse, Paul grabbed it and yanked, pulling so hard it felt like her arm would rip from its socket. Then he was gone, headfirst back into the hole.
Breanne lay on the ground gasping, choking, her mouth full of dirt. Even clear of the crevasse she could feel the rumbling coming from inside. What have I done! Tears streamed down her face, leaving wet, muddy trails. What have I done!
Breanne sobbed as she listened to her father and brother’s shouts.
“My ankle is pinned! I can’t move!”
“Can you yank it loose?” Paul shouted back.
“No! It’s no use! I… can’t even bend my leg in here! It’s too… damn… tight!”
“I’m coming, Pops!” he shouted, with a soldier’s no-man-left-behind determination.
“Go back, boy! You’re going to get yourself killed! Leave me and go!”
A massive gush of dirt-filled wind washed past them with a wumpf as the large upper chamber gushed shut in a complete collapse.
Breanne let out a terrified scream as the cloud of dust and debris belched forth from the mouth of the crevasse. It was as if a hand grenade had just gone off inside the hole. She thought for sure her father and brother were done for. Then she heard her brother’s voice, and a breath she had no idea she was holding escaped her.
“Not a chance I’m leaving you in here, Pops – now push!”
Breanne could see her brother’s feet now! Grunts and shouts continued to spew forth from the crevasse as they pushed and pulled together to escape the madness of the mountain.
Just as the two men launched themselves free from the mouth of the tunnel, the mountain let out one final dirt-choked groan, as the rest of the tunnel imploded in on itself, gasping shut with finality.
The Moores lay on the ground in the hot Mexican sun, gasping for air. No one spoke for a long moment.
“What the hell happened?” Paul asked.
“It was a trap. Whoever built this actually had it rigged with a trap!” Her father winced as he pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Are you okay? How bad is your ankle?”
“I don’t think it’s broke.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me? You took Bre in there, and you didn’t have any gear. No helmets. Nothing. What if that had happened before I got here? Jesus, what if I couldn’t have found you?” Paul said, sitting up. “It is my job to ensure safety, and I can’t do that it if you are going to go all cowboy.”
“We’re okay. We just wanted to check it out, and daylight was burning. Don’t overreact,” Charles said, turning to Breanne. “Bre? Baby girl, are you okay?”
“Overreact!” Paul said, surprised at his own violence.
“You… you almost died,” Bre said, barely above a whisper. “And it’s my fault… It’s my fault!”
“Hold on a second. This was not your fault, Bre,” her father said with concern.
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have let us go in. It is my fault.” A horrible thought filled her mind. One that left her sitting in that gorge, trying to figure out how to get help for her father and brother, who were trapped under a collapse. What if I had lost them? What if I had killed them? She couldn’t bear it… not again.
“This was not your fault,” Paul said, narrowing his eyes at his father, then looking back to his sister. “Not your fault.”
Silence once again overtook them. After they lay there for mere minutes, the all-consuming Mexican sun began to extract moisture from their skin, saturating their clothes and threatening to turn them into part of the surrounding scrubland.
As the two men stood, brushing themselves off, Breanne wiped her eyes on her dirt-covered sleeves and walked back towards the mouth of the crevasse. Thoughts and emotions spun asunder through her mind, bits and pieces, broken and panicked. She worried, did I scream out loud? What did I say? Best to push all of it away, she knew. Push it as far as possible.
She searched near the mouth of the now-collapsed opening, quickly locating the satellite phone. When she returned, she caught the tail end of the conversation.
“She should talk to someone, Pops. It might help,” Paul said.
“You think I don’t know that? But you know she wo—”
Paul suddenly noticed his sister holding the sat phone and cleared his throat.
“Found the phone,” Bre said. “What are you two talking about?”
“I was telling your brother what he did for us back there, I’m not going to forget that.”
Paul smiled easily. “You’re my family – getting you two out was never a choice.”
“Listen, I am an old man, and if something ever happened to either of you, well, I… I just don’t know. God, I just couldn’t…” He threw his arms around them, pulling them both close and hugging them for all he had.
“Alright, Pops!” Paul chuckled, patting his father’s back.
Breanne croaked, “You’re squishing me! Remember Jerry?”
Her father laughed and let go. “Oh, shit! We forgot about Jerry. I think I owe him a thank-you. If it hadn’t been for his insistence, we might all be buried under that mountain.”
3
The King’s Throne
Present day
Petersburg, Illinois
Garrett crossed the threshold from the front porch into the living room with all the vigor of a death row inmate stepping out of his cell to make the final walk to the electric chair. Pausing just inside the door, he kicked his shoes into the pile near the edge of the linoleum entryway. The smell of his mother’s cooking triggered an immediate response from his stomach in the form of a deep growl. He had not realized how hungry he was.
His older brother, James, sat on the floor with his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, his back leaning against the couch. He flipped the lid of the Zippo lighter open then shut, open then shut, over and over. Garrett never understood his obsession with the lighter, especially since he had caught himself on fire when he was three years old playing with a lighter. The event had nearly killed him, leaving him badly scarred.
“Where’s Mom and Dad?” Garrett asked, dripping with sweat as he rubbed at the cramp in the back of his leg.
Breaking his focus from the television, James grinned widely. “Well, that’s a stupid question. They’re where they always are.”
“C’mon, James, quit being a jerk. Have they said anything?” he asked, tossing his head towards the kitchen.
“You’re late, asshat. Not sure what you were thinking, but I’d say you’re screwed. Now shut up, I’m trying to catch the end of this before dinner.” James turned back to the television.
Nearing the kitchen doorway, he could hear his parents’ voices, but the sounds of dinner cooking, dishes clanging as his mother set the table, and the nightly news on the TV prevented him from hearing the conversation.
Garrett peeked around the doorframe into the kitchen. He didn’t see the razor strap, but he did see Phillip. The tall, stout man was there alright, with his midnight hair cut high and tight. His dark complexion and high cheekbones displayed his Native American Blackfoot heritage. He was sitting right where Garrett knew he would be sitting, in the chair they called the King’s Throne when Phillip was out of earshot. The throne was just a normal dining chair, nothing fancy, with the addition of a cheap seat cushion and a pleather supportive backrest to help Phillip sit comfortably with his bad hip. The kitchen was the hub of the house because Phillip spent the majority of his time on the throne.
&nb
sp; Garrett couldn’t see the table from this risky angle; he couldn’t see Phillip’s hands either. He could only imagine them clasped, his giant fingers interlaced, two slabs of steel covered in flesh intertwined, resting atop the table – no, not resting, covering something underneath. Hiding the razor strap under freakish mitten hands.
He wondered for half a beat, if Phillip pulled the strap, could he run? After all, Phillip also had an artificial hip, the result of years of hard labor. But according to legend, Phillip could move, and move fast. James said he’d put it to the test once but only once. If James was telling the truth about the strap, then why not about how fast Phillip could move? It didn’t matter – he knew no matter what happened he wouldn’t run.
Garrett shook himself and swallowed hard. Not wanting to appear any later than he already was, he stepped reluctantly into the kitchen.
The kitchen was not large, but it had enough room for a table with four chairs, five if they had company. Yellow, square-patterned linoleum covered the floor, nearly worn through, its thin factory gloss long gone, along with the luster of its original bright lemon-yellow color, faded now to the color of dull butter.
Once over the threshold, Garrett froze in place, transfixed by fear, completely incapable of taking in the wonderful aromas, the sound of sizzling meat, or the rattle of a boiling pot of potatoes, its steam permeating the air. The only smell his mind would register was the whiff of death.
The stove buzzed as Elaine, Garrett’s mom, dashed over and silenced the timer with one hand while snatching her oven mitt with the other. Effortlessly, she retrieved the large pan of baked bread and spun like a ballerina towards the table, having grabbed the pot of potatoes from atop the stove with her free hand. The smell of baked bread wafted past Garrett as his mom rushed to place the bread on the bread rack before finally spinning back in the opposite direction to the sink, where she flipped the pot of potatoes upside down into a strainer to drain. Then, as if speaking of top-secret Christmas present locations, both parents stopped their conversation mid-sentence, noticing Garrett had entered the room.
