A Taste of Blood and Roses

by David Niall Wilson

  “It doesn’t matter,” Roberts said. “We’ll check it out, but we came here to respond to a distress signal. Red says that’s up on the mountain, so that’s where we’ll concentrate our efforts.”

  “Sir?” Staley cut in.

  “Yes?” Roberts replied.

  “I’d kind of like a look at that airstrip, if you don’t mind. I can take a couple of men, and catch up pretty quick.”

  “Go ahead,” Roberts said.

  “Sir?” Rubenstein cut in. “I’d like to go along. I’m not sure what I can remember, but if I can remember more from that article, it might help. Something about that airstrip is bothering me.”

  “Fine,” Roberts said. “Caouette, you’re with me. I need you on point.”

  “Yes sir,” Caouette said. He turned and started up the trail without hesitation. The twilight was fading rapidly to a deeper darkness. With the mist and cloud cover, the moon wasn’t bright enough to cut through. When the sun dropped beyond the skyline, the only sources of light were the twin glows of the odd airfield, and whatever awaited them up the side of the mountain.

  With a deep sigh, Roberts turned and led the others after Caouette.

  “I wish you’d never picked up that signal, Red,” he said. “You know how I hate missing dinner.”

  ***

  Commander Staley, Rubenstein, and a kid named Cartwright crept down the fork toward the airstrip. There was no sound ahead, but the gathering darkness made the light that much brighter. When they reached the point from which Caouette had observed, they could see that the structure beside the twin lines of torches was a tower. It stood about two stories in height. It rested on log supports, and as they moved in closer, they saw it was accessed by a crude wooden ladder.

  The torches were spaced evenly, about five yards apart. They stretched off into the distance. The trees had been cleared about fifteen yards on either side of the outer edges of the parallel lines. It didn’t look like a forgotten bit of some dead author’s past.

  “What do we do?” Cartwright asked.

  “We have to get up into that tower,” Rubenstein said.

  “Hold on, Ruby,” Staley said. “Unless something has changed in the last few minutes, I’ll be making the decisions here. What do you think we’ll find up there?”

  “I have no idea, sir,” Rubenstein said, “but I thought that from there we’d have a better view of the rest of the area.”

  Staley considered this, and then nodded. He pulled the .45 caliber semi-automatic from its holster on his belt and chambered a round. “Ruby, you go up first. Cartwright and I will cover you. If we get no response, down here, we’ll follow.”

  Rubenstein eyed the handgun, as if it was the first time the actual danger of their situation had occurred to him. “Yes sir,” he said.

  A moment later, he was crouched at the base of the odd wooden ladder. When no one moved, and no immediate danger presented itself, he began to climb. Within seconds he’d disappeared.

  Staley waited only a couple of moments, then he waved Cartwright forward. The two of them crouched low and ran to the base of the ladder, then ascended quickly and clambered up through a square hole in the floor and onto a platform made of rough wooden planks.

  The tower overlooked the field below. The front of the top tier was a large, open window. There was a short table, or desk, facing the window. Behind it a rough-hewn chair held a dark, shadowed figure. Rubenstein stood to one side. He held something in his hand, leaning over closer for a better view.

  Commander Staley stepped up beside the chair. He glanced down, and then reeled back in disgust. Draped in a ratty, bug-eaten set of military fatigues, a skeleton glared out through the window.

  “Jesus,” he said. He brushed his hands over the front of his uniform, as if cleaning something away.

  Rubenstein stepped up in his place. He ignored the skeleton and reached to the table. When he turned, he held a very old, very dilapidated book.

  “What is it?” Staley asked.

  “Not sure, sir,” Rubenstein replied.

  He carried the book closer to where Staley and Cartwright were standing, pressed the wall and out of sight of the window. He held it open, as he’d found it, and Cartwright leaned in, playing the flashlight over the pages.

  They were covered with an uneven scrawl. Staley reached out and carefully turned the pages back. They were the same, though as they flipped toward the beginning, the writing was steadier and easier to decipher. He stopped on a page with a heading, and they began to read.

  “I can hear the drums. They pound through the Earth like the pulse of some giant, or the surf after a storm. There’s no more food, and I have nothing left to give them. The plane has been out of fuel for so long I’ve been using it as a store-room. There are no more supply drops, because the radio is down, and I have been forgotten. Somewhere out there, I know men and women read my words, and they shiver in their dark bedrooms and empty libraries, but they don’t remember my name. When I give them nightmares, they set the books aside and move on with their lives.

  “This is mine. I don’t believe they will kill me, but they are looking for something I can’t give. They want the flights to resume. They want food, and clothing. They want me to play music again, but the radio is nothing but a corroded husk of wire, caught in one storm too many and silent as a stone.

  “They believe I could change it all if I wanted, that I could call down the giant birds with bellies full of cargo to disperse, revive the radio and heal their wounds and sickness. I speak only enough of their language to sound as if I’m lying. I know only enough of their beliefs to fall short of understanding, and I know that – though at first they thought I was one of the gods, now they only think I’m an arrogant spirit who has angered them.”

  Staley turned to the last page.

  “They’ve left me here. Having trouble holding the pen – so tired, and hungry. The ink is almost dry, I have to go over and over the letters to make them dark enough to read. I taught them how to use the beacon. My only hope is that what I have claimed as magic and ritual will reach someone who can help before it’s too late. Every four hours, they crank the radio. It still lights up, and I believe it’s working, but I have no idea for how long.

  “I watch the runway, and the lights. I feel the pulsing drums, and if I close my eyes it is as though there are droning propellers in the air – throbbing engines bringing the goods that could buy back my life, and my soul…”

  There was more, but it was too light and too incoherent to make out. Staley closed the book. The three men didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, carefully, Rubenstein took the book and tucked it into his pack.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Staley growled. “We have to catch up to the skipper.”

  ***

  The trail up the mountain was as clear of debris as the one that led through the trees below. Roberts followed close behind Caouette. The others fanned out behind, covering both sides and the rear as carefully as possible. The road angled up steeply and might have been a little treacherous, except for the glow from above.

  They climbed steadily for about fifteen minutes. From the vantage point of the trail, they saw the eerie line of torches marking the odd runway. The object in the center of that runway was clearer from above. It was the hulking wreck of a twin engine plane. It was overgrown in vines, and it looked like those vines had been groomed and trimmed to fill in the corroded lines of the airship's hull. Though it was an inanimate thing, it looked like a rotting, forgotten corpse.

  They curled up around the mountain, and the lights grew brighter. As they rounded that final bend, they stopped. Roberts stared openly. Ahead, to the left of the trail, the cliff-face opened. A cavern gaped like the maw of a great beast, an effect accentuated by the huge and intricately carved stone face surrounding it and the squared, evenly placed teeth carved into the entrance. Light shone from that open mouth, and shot out through deep slits in the eyes. Vines dangled down and around the
face, giving the impression of hair. The effect was sudden and powerful.

  "For the love of Christ," Roberts said at last, "what is that?"

  No one bothered to answer. As if waking from a dream, Roberts, directed them all to the left of the path, and they continued very slowly, pressing to the stone wall of the cliff and avoiding the pool of light leaking from the cave.

  "Red," Roberts hissed.

  "Yes sir," Casper responded, moving up closer.

  "Get on that radio, and tell them I want the chopper in the air. I don't care about the mist. If they can get over the island, they'll be able to see that landing strip. We're going in this cave and find out who is running that radio, and then we are getting the hell out of here. Got it?"

  "Yes sir," Casper replied. He hurried back to the last turn in the trail and put in a call to the ship. Moments later he returned.

  "Commander DeMars is on it, sir," he said. "He said it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes."

  Roberts nodded. "Then let's get this circus over with, and get home."

  He motioned at Caouette, who nodded and inched forward until he reached the near side of the cavern's entrance. He carried his .45 loosely, barrel pointed down at an angle. He leaned forward and peered through the opening, into the lit interior. In that moment several things happened at once.

  Caouette drew back from the cave's entrance with a curse, bringing his gun tight in against his chest as ready to spin and fire.

  A heavy cargo net dropped from the cliff above, tangling Roberts and his men impossibly.

  Commander Staley, Rubenstein, and Cartwright hit the final turn in the trail just as the nets fell and watched in horror as their comrades thrashed and fought to free themselves, and their weapons. A thumping, pounding sound, accompanied by odd grunts rose.

  "Get back," Staley hissed.

  Short, heavy-set men dropped from the side of the cliff. They surrounded the cargo net, gripping the edges and tugging it down taut. Inside the net, Roberts organized resistance. His first burst of fire dropped two of the natives over the far side of the trail. They screamed as they toppled and fell, but two more took their place.

  Caouette plastered himself to the wall just outside the cavern door as three taller men stepped from within. They wore elaborate headdresses dangling feathers and bones, their faces were painted with something white that reflected what little light was available and lent them a skeletal, demonic aspect. [????] held long, thin bamboo tubes. When they appeared, the natives surrounding the cargo net backed off suddenly, and the three lifted their tubes. Within seconds they'd peppered the netting with long, wicked darts. As cries arose from the netting, and the struggles grew weaker, Caouette took the only option he had. He quickly ducked around the corner and into the cavern.

  On the trail, Staley and the others pulled back.

  "Sir?" Rubenstein whispered.

  "What?"

  "That cave sir. Remember earlier I said the house – the fence made of human bones – was from Kale's novel?"

  "This isn't the time to…"

  Rubenstein cut him off. "Sir, the cave – that stone face – it's all from the novel."

  "So what?" Cartwright cut in.

  "So…" Rubenstein replied, "the novel – it's about cannibals."

  They stared at him for a moment, and then turned quickly back to the tableau being enacted in front of the cavern. The natives – there were about two dozen, including the taller men with the blowguns – pulled the netting free of their captives, who lay in crumpled heaps on the ground.

  "What do we do," Cartwright asked. "We can't just let them be taken.

  "Not sure we have enough firepower to stop them," Staley replied. "We should try for the ship. I wish to fuck Chief Casper wasn't the only one with a radio."

  As if on cue, one of the natives, picking over Casper's inert form, stood and held the radio aloft. The light wasn't good enough to make out details, but something in the man's demeanor, and the way he carefully carried the radio around the others to the taller men was eerie. He moved as if he'd discovered the Holy Grail and was afraid he'd drop it.

  The middle of the three tall men handed his blowgun to the man next to him and took the offered radio. He turned and stepped to the edge of the trail, gazing down over the runway below. He held the radio up and studied it. He turned the knobs one after another. There was a click, and a hiss of static crackled through the speaker. He almost dropped the radio at the sound, and those around him drew back with a loud, almost comic collective gasp that reverberated from the cliff. He carefully worked the knobs, at one point cutting off the static with the squelch.

  The others gathered behind him, as if their captives were forgotten.

  "You think we can get them out of there?" Rubenstein asked.

  "Not if they don't wake up," Staley replied.

  "I saw Caouette go into that cave," Cartwright cut in. "He hasn't come back out yet, maybe if he hits them from the other side, we could panic them – drag the others inside and wait until they come to?"

  Staley started to shake his head and reply, but the roaring Thwup! Thwup! of a helo overhead cut him off.

  "They must have called the ship," Staley whispered.

  Those gathered behind the native with the radio gasped and cringed, dropping to the ground. Only the lone native stood, holding the radio aloft as if remote-controlling the incoming airship.

  The chopper hovered near the cliff, cockpit aimed at the eerie stone-faced cave, lit like a beacon on the side of the cliff, then spun out and away, dropping quickly toward the landing strip below.

  "We have to try and warn them," Cartwright hissed. He started to turn and head back down the trail, but Staley gripped his arm.

  "Wait."

  The tall native with the radio turned suddenly. He held the handset aloft and shook it triumphantly. The others cried out loudly, dropping to the ground. Then the leader turned again. He called out something in a loud, powerful voice, and the others rose. They stood, turned, and moved so swiftly that Staley, Rubenstein and Cartwright barely had time to duck in against the cliff.

  Within moments, only the three natives with the white painted faces and bright headdresses remained. They gathered at the side of the trail, gazing out over the airstrip below. The chopper was down, and the rotors spun more slowly.

  A sudden burst of gunfire erupted from the mouth of the cave. The native with the radio threw his arms up comically. The radio arched out over the cliff and tumbled away toward the ground, far below. The other two natives spun. They were quick, but not quick enough. Caouette stood in the entrance to the cavern and fired two more shots in rapid succession. In an odd tableau – like synchronized marionettes, the two spun inward, crashing into their shocked companion, and all three toppled off the edge of the cliff.

  Staley wasted no time.

  "Get over there and wake them up," he told Rubenstein. "See if you can get them under cover of the cave." He turned to Caouette, who ran to meet them.

  "What's in there?" he asked.

  "Some furniture, a bookshelf, a lamp – it's a little strange sir. Like a model, or something. It doesn't look like anyone lives there, but…"

  "What about the radio?"

  "It's on the table, sir. They must have been in there, cranking on it, when we approached."

  "You're with me," Staley said. "You and Cartrwright. We have to try and get down there and keep them from taking that chopper. If they break something we may never get off this island."

  The three turned and disappeared down the trail. Rubenstein hurried to Captain Roberts' side. He gripped the man by the shoulder and shook. At first, there was no response. He pulled out his canteen and dripped water on the Captain's face, and a moment later, Roberts' eyes flickered. He shook his head, disoriented and groggy.

  All around them, the others began to come to as well.

  "Easy sir," Rubenstein said. "I don't know what was in those darts, but you went out like a light."

 
; Roberts sat up slowly.

  "I feel like my arms are made of rubber," he said. "What happened?"

  Rubenstein gave him a quick rundown.

  "The chopper is down there?" Roberts asked.

  "Yes sir. Commander Staley took two men to try and keep them from taking control. Caouette took out their leaders, so I doubt they are going to be in a very forgiving mood if the Commander gets caught."

  "I knew this trip was a bad idea," Roberts said.

  He got to his feet with some help from Rubenstein, and together they got the rest of the men up and moving. Some were groggier than others. The darts were long, wicked things with tips fashioned from some sort of thorn.

  "I guess we should be happy we weren't out longer. They could have been poison," Roberts said.

  "I don't think that was likely, sir," Rubenstein said. He told the Captain what he'd told Commander Staley about the novel. "It's all coming back, sir, and none of it is good. It's like he – Kale – foresaw all of this."

  "He wrote about us?" Roberts said skeptically.

  "No sir, but he wrote about a Navy ship finding a strange island, about the cave – even the airstrip. He must have based it on what he saw around him, but…"

  "But at the time," Roberts filled in, "He just lived here."

  Rubenstein nodded. He pulled out the old journal and showed it to Roberts. "We read the end of this…they were keeping him prisoner, trying to use him as bait to lure a cargo ship in – or that's how it sounds. I think they left him to die up in that tower – probably took away the ladder. They've been using that beacon ever since."

  "Christ," Roberts said. "And we fell for it." He spun toward the cavern. "Get that beacon radio out of there," he said. "If there is anything else that might have belonged to this author, Kane, see if there's room to pack it out. We're going to get down to that airstrip and get on that helo."

  Rubenstein and several of the others entered the cave. Moments later they returned. One seaman had the bulky green case of the distress beacon transmitter slung over his shoulder by a strap.

  They started down the trail slowly, more cautious than before, scanning the cliffs above, as well as the trees to either side of them. There was no sign of more natives, but Roberts was taking no chances.