Indiana Jones and the Hollow Earth

by Max McCoy

  "Well, I—"

  "I hope you're not one of those treasure hunters we get through here every so often. The dummies. You know, Geronimo said that all the gold the Apaches ever had come from these here mountains—but I've never seen so much as a nugget of it."

  "Actually, I'm an archaeologist."

  "Good," she said. "I don't suffer fools lightly, and that's what those treasure hunters are." She added some milk and sugar and began to beat the eggs with a whisk.

  "You must be with that Danish spelunker woman who came through here a couple of days ago. What's her name? Funny sounding. Tornado or something like that."

  "I'm alone."

  Bertha poured the eggs into a waiting skillet. Water that had dripped from the rim of the bowl sputtered and popped in the hot grease.

  "She was cordial enough," Bertha said. "But cold, you know? Like a man. What do you think of her?"

  "I really can't say. Don't know her."

  "Well, who could know a cold fish like that?"

  The screen door squawled again. A deputy sheriff came in and sat on a stool two spaces down from Indy. The deputy took off his cowboy hat, smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand, and placed the hat on the stool between him and Indy.

  "Breakfast?" Bertha asked.

  "No," the deputy said, and rubbed his eyes. "Just coffee."

  "Buster, you look beat. They have you working all night again?"

  "Found another one last night," Buster said. "West, at the edge of the salt flats."

  "You're kidding," Bertha said.

  "I wish," Buster said.

  Bertha poured coffee, then placed her elbows on the counter and leaned close to the deputy.

  "Did they find the head?" she asked.

  "Nope."

  "Just like all the others," Bertha said reverently. She went to a blank space on the wall beneath the calendar, took the stub of a pencil from behind her ear, and added another slash and the date to the six already there.

  Indy scratched his jaw.

  "Look, I hope you don't mind me butting in," he said. "But exactly what was found last night?"

  "A corpse," the deputy said. "The seventh one in the five years that Bertha's been counting. We don't know who they are, and we haven't found any of their skulls."

  "But you know who's doing it," Bertha added.

  "We do not," the deputy added quickly.

  "Of course they do," Bertha told Indy. "They are just too stubborn to admit it because they can't deal with it."

  "Deal with what?" Indy asked.

  "The revenge of John Seven Oaks," Bertha said. "Or his ghost."

  "Hush up," the deputy said. "You're going to start a panic."

  "Buster, how many people live in Pine Springs?" she asked. "Thirty? That's not panic—that's anxiety."

  The deputy shook his head.

  Indy sipped his coffee.

  "Tell me about it," Indy said.

  "You betcha," Bertha said. "It all started when a baby was—"

  "Now, wait a minute." Buster held up his hand. "For a stranger, you seem awfully interested in all this gruesome stuff. Just who are you?"

  "My interest is academic," Indy said. "I teach at Princeton. My name is Jones."

  Buster reluctantly shook the hand that was offered.

  "Princeton, eh? You don't look much like a college professor. I had a brother who went to the state teachers' college up in Kansas for a couple of terms. He always wore this ratty-looking raccoon-skin coat."

  "It was the rage."

  "Seriously, Dr. Jones," the deputy said. "I hope you don't put too much store in what Bertha here has to say. She's the closest thing we have to a town gossip and mother confessor, all rolled into one."

  Bertha waved him off. She turned, stirred the eggs, and refilled Indy's cup.

  "John Seven Oaks was abandoned when he was a baby," she said. "He was found in the outhouse right behind this here cafe, nearly twenty years ago. Nobody knew where he came from, or what his real name was. Down near Juniper Springs there lived an old Apache couple, Juan and Maria Seven Oaks. They had tried for years to have a child, and finally they just got too old and gave up. They considered the finding of the child a miracle, and they agreed to take the baby in."

  "And they called him John," Indy said.

  "The Seven Oakses were kind of a mysterious couple," she said. "Very traditional Apache. They minded their own business and expected others to do likewise."

  "Sound like good neighbors," Indy remarked.

  "They must have been," she said. "Only, some people claimed the old man was brujo, a wizard or some kind of medicine man, and that he could turn himself into a snake."

  "Why am I not surprised?" Indy asked.

  "You betcha," Bertha said. "There's things we'll never know about these Apaches."

  "What about John?"

  "He was a wonderful child. He loved his foster parents and he was right at home in the mountains. He seemed to have a special understanding with animals. Isn't that right, Buster?"

  "It was before my time," Buster said. "But that's what they say."

  "Well, everything was just as happy as could be for the Seven Oaks family," Bertha said. "Until one day when John was nine years old. Two riders approached the homestead. They were cowboys from a nearby ranch, and they were drunk. They demanded whiskey, and when old Juan told them they had none, one of the cowboys shot him—just like that, without any more thought than you or I would kill a snake. When Maria came out and saw what they had done, they shot her, too. Then they burned the cabin to the ground."

  "Who were these cowboys?" Indy asked.

  "Their names were Jake and Jesse Cruz," the deputy said. "They were brothers."

  "What happened to John Seven Oaks?"

  "That's the spooky part," Bertha said. "Although everybody believed that he must have been murdered, too, and thrown into the fire, they never found his body."

  "Tell him about the bullet in the throat. And the cross."

  "That's right," she said. "One of the cowboys told a bunk partner about the killing, and he said the other fellow had shot little John in the throat after he attacked them after seeing what they did to his parents. He said they left John for dead."

  "And the cross?" Indy asked.

  "Months before this horrible thing happened, the father had whittled a little wooden cross out of cedar for his adopted son. John wore it everywhere, and was wearing it on the day his parents were killed."

  Indy nodded.

  "The sheriff investigated the killing of the Seven Oakses," the deputy said. "Although there was talk that the Cruz brothers were involved, there just wasn't enough evidence to prosecute. You can't go to trial on gossip, you know."

  "I have a feeling there is more to the story."

  "Right," Bertha said. "Three or four years after this happened, the bodies of the Cruz brothers were found in the desert. Their heads were missing."

  She turned, scooped up the eggs, and threw some toast and potatoes on the plate.

  "Their bodies were found impaled on some fence posts down by Juniper Springs, all shriveled and hideous looking," she said. She put the plate in front of Indy. "Want some ketchup with that?"

  "Pass," Indy said.

  "Every so often somebody comes in and says they've seen a naked wild man running up and down the mountains," Bertha said. "It has to be John Seven Oaks."

  "How can you be so sure?" Indy asked.

  "Because he's wearing a little wooden cross on his bare chest," she said. "And because he's got this horrible scar on his throat. He can't talk because of it."

  "And this latest body?" Indy asked. "If John Seven Oaks has already avenged the death of his parents, then why would he keep on killing?"

  The deputy shrugged.

  "We don't know that it's him," he said. "We haven't even identified the victim. All we know is that we have the fresh remains of an unidentified male, minus the head. For all we know, this poor guy could have died of natural cause
s out there and his head was carried off by animals."

  "Buster, you don't believe that," Bertha said.

  "It makes more sense than your story," the deputy snorted.

  "Not a chance."

  "Dr. Jones is right," he said. "Why would Seven Oaks keep killing people?"

  "Maybe he's out there taking care of folks and seeing that justice is done," Bertha said.

  "Bertha," the deputy said, "you listen to too much radio."

  "Jones, do me a favor," Bertha said. "While you're out there in the desert poking around for rocks or pot shards or whatever else it is that you came out here for, keep your eyes open for a wild naked man. If you spot him, ask him to stand still long enough for a picture. I'll put it right there on the wall next to my head count."

  "I'll be on the lookout," Indy said.

  "Don't get too worked up," Buster said. "It's just a story."

  Indy smiled.

  "I'll try not to lose my head over it," he said.

  Indy paused beneath a tall agave plant at the edge of a rocky arroyo so that his silhouette would be broken. He didn't think he was being followed, but for hours now he had hiked with the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching.

  He plucked a spine from the stalk of the agave and tested the tip with his finger. He winced. The Apaches used the point for sewing, and various other parts of the plant could be eaten raw or cooked, woven into mats, or fermented to produce tequila or even more potent liquors. Indy himself had relied on the agave on more than one occasion for makeshift repairs, and out of habit he stuck the spine in the brim of his hat.

  Indy sat on his heels.

  Below him was a spring that fed a small pond. Beyond the pond, above the rim of yet another ridge, was the shoulder of El Capitan, the peak whose craggy outlines stood like a Gibraltar over the desert. Beyond the peak a dark bank of storm clouds was gathered on the horizon.

  He unslung his pack, retrieved the map that Marcus Brody had given him before boarding the train at Princeton, and slid the fragile document from its thick envelope. Then he blinked, hard. Sweat had trickled into his right eye. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his leather jacket. Then he compared the terrain in front of him with the markings that had been made so long ago on the parchment.

  "There's the spring, and the peak," Indy said. "This has to be the place, although X doesn't exactly mark the spot."

  What did mark the spot on the map Indy did not like: it was a coiled serpent, which in southwestern folklore meant "dig here for treasure."

  The spot in real topography was a crevice at the side of the arroyo on the other side of the spring, a slit that looked barely big enough for a man to squeeze through. Indy rubbed his stubbled chin as he looked over the terrain one last time and compared it with the map.

  There was no mistaking it.

  Indy folded the map, replaced it in the envelope, and returned it to the pack. Then he untied a small shovel from the bottom of the pack and started down the arroyo.

  As he crossed near the spring, at the bottom of the little valley that was sheltered by small hills, he still had the feeling of being watched. But then, he always had that feeling when he was about to dig.

  The crevice was hidden in shadow. Rocks had fallen from the cliff above to fill the entrance in a classic rubble pile, one that looked as if it had not been disturbed for decades, if not more.

  Standing at the bottom of the cliff, Indy looked up and regarded the height from which the rocks fell. He removed his hat, placed a stick in the pile of rocks, and hung the fedora on the makeshift hatrack. Then he donned the hard hat that he had brought along, and slung a coil of rope over his shoulder.

  As Indy began to shovel away the loose rocks, he remembered what Bertha back at the cafe had said about the size of the local rattlesnakes. He hoped he wouldn't get a chance to confirm her observations.

  In the distance, a bolt of lightning flashed to the ground. The thunder came seven seconds later, reverberating from the rocky walls of the cliffs. The storm was moving in, and Indy knew it would soon begin to rain.

  He began to work faster.

  In a few minutes Indy had cleared the entrance, at least enough so that he could squeeze his shoulders inside while holding a carbide lamp in front of him. The crevice opened on a narrow passage that led far back into the limestone cliff.

  "Looks like Rattler City to me," Indy muttered.

  Despite his anxiety, he could not see—or more importantly, hear—a single snake. With a grunt and a groan he squeezed his torso through the opening, then slid awkwardly down the pile of rocks on the other side. He dusted himself off, then reached back and pulled his pack in after him.

  He held the carbide lamp aloft and inspected the walls of the passage. On the right-hand side was the carving of a turtle, its head pointing into the darkness.

  "Please," Indy said, "let this be an easy one."

  There was enough room to stand upright, but the passage quickly narrowed so that before Indy had gone the length of a city block, he was on his hands and knees, and then was crawling on his stomach. The floor was curiously ridged and bit into his flesh. The grooves were man-made, but for what purpose Indy couldn't guess. As he dragged himself along the floor the toes of his shoes drummed across the ridges with a thu-thu-thu-thump sound.

  Indy was pushing the carbide lamp ahead of him. There wasn't enough room to sling the pack, so he had looped it around one ankle and was dragging it behind him. Every twenty yards or so he found another turtle symbol, its head pointing deeper into the mountain.

  Just when he thought that the passage had gotten too narrow to continue, it began to widen. Soon he was able to rise to his hands and knees, then he was crouching, and finally he was standing. He heard falling water in the distance. With each breath Indy sampled the familiar, metallic taste of air that had long been in the earth.

  Indy slung the pack over his shoulder and clipped the lamp to his hard hat. The ground here was smooth. On the right-hand wall he saw another reassuring turtle symbol, but on the left he noticed something new: a stick figure walking back down the passage, toward the entrance. Only, the stick figure had snakes poking out of its eyes.

  "Terrific," Indy said.

  He proceeded with renewed caution.

  In a few more yards he came to a fork in the passage. On the left-hand wall was the turtle symbol, while the right-hand wall was blank. Following the sign, which had so far been reliable enough, he took the left fork. The passage rose up for a few yards and then ended in a smooth wall.

  Crumpled on the floor, next to the wall, was a pile of bones and rags and a grinning skull. Indy examined the gruesome jumble in the hissing light of the carbide lamp. The corpse was dressed in rotting Levi's and a checkered shirt, and around its waist was a gun belt, cracked and brittle with age. The holster was empty, and a .45 Colt six-gun lay rusting on the floor next to the spindly bones of the right hand. One of the skeleton's legs was broken, several of the ribs were cracked, and there was a neat, nearly half-inch hole in the side of the skull.

  Indy picked up the revolver. He tried opening the cylinder, but it was stuck. He tapped the gun against the rock wall. Scales of rust fell away and he managed to force the cylinder open. As he expected, the gun was fully loaded except for the chamber that had been beneath the hammer.

  "Used that bullet on yourself, didn't you?" Indy asked. "I can't say that I blame you, as busted up as you were. Brother, I wish you could tell me what happened to you."

  He returned the gun to the skeletal hand, then backed away carefully, not wanting to discover what deadfall or other trap had crushed the cowboy and left him for dead.

  Indy traced his way back down the passage to the fork and took the right-hand path, which led downward.

  The sound of falling water grew louder.

  The path ended on a ledge overlooking a huge cavern—at least Indy believed it to be huge, judging from the thundering echo of the waterfall. Although the beam of the carbide lamp c
ould penetrate only a few dozens yards into the darkness, he could see the reflected flicker of the light in the surface of a pool of water far below.

  Indy sighed.

  He unslung the rope, then took a rock hammer from the pack and drove a piton into the ledge. He threaded the end of the rope through the eye of the piton, made it fast, and threw the coil into the darkness.

  He wasn't surprised when he heard the splash.

  Indy slid down the rope to confirm what he already suspected: there was no solid ground in range of the lamplight. The end of the rope dangled in a subterranean lake, probably fed by the same spring that created the little pond in the valley; in fact, the underground lake and the pond were probably at the same elevation, but the lake was tucked inside a mountain.

  As Indy started back up he heard a growl and felt the rope twitch. Then there was another snarl and the rope not only twitched, it bounced.

  Indy looked up.

  Reflected in the flickering beam of the lamp were the luminous, tapered pupils of a mountain lion. The eyes belonged to the biggest cat he had ever seen.

  The mountain lion snarled again, reached a paw over the ledge, and batted the rope. Indy bounced satisfactorily. Amused, the big cat reached both paws over the side and slapped furiously at the rope—which, after a minute or so of this, began to fray.

  Indy unholstered the Webley.

  "Cougar," Indy muttered to himself. "That's not so bad. Just a great big cat, and I like cats. I just need to scare him away before he drops me into the lake."

  He pointed the gun toward the ceiling, then reconsidered. The bullet might ricochet around the cavern and come back to strike him. So he pointed the gun down, at a right angle to the water, instead. Then he closed his eyes—which seemed, somehow, to help brace him against the sound—and pulled the trigger. As loud as the gunshot was, it was nothing compared with the cacophony that followed.

  The mountain lion gave a horrific scream and took off down the passage toward the outside. At the same time the cavern was filled with the sound of bats. Thousands took flight in the darkness, squealing in alarm. Several flew blindly into Indy. The collision extinguished the flame of the carbide lamp, and Indy grabbed his helmet to keep it from falling. Hanging in the darkness, he could occasionally feel their leathery wings beating, against his face as they swarmed past.