The Himalayan Codex

by Bill Schutt

  Then, turning a corner, Captain Mung was gone.

  After that, Wang lost track of the hours. Emerging onto the stony shelf on which the helicopters stood waiting, he squinted against the sunrise.

  The wind was stronger here and it whipped between the two aircraft, scouring the ground and spinning up mini-tornados of snow. For a moment, Wang’s mind flashed back to the swirling clouds that had engulfed the men on the lower portion of the trail. These swirls, however, did not chase him down or drive him to madness. They simply pulled apart and disappeared.

  Where are the pilots? he thought.

  Wang almost called out, but something stopped him. Instead he trudged a path through fresh snow directly toward the nearer of the two Russian helicopters, noting with unease that one of the engine cowlings had been removed.

  Maybe the others are inside, he thought.

  As the scientist approached the cargo door, he was startled at the sound of a voice. Wang felt a sudden surge of relief that the voice belonged to a human. There was no relief, however, at the realization that the human was speaking English.

  “That’s far enough, buddy,” said the voice. But before Wang could respond, eight figures seemed to materialize before his eyes—some from behind the helicopters, others rising up from behind a low wall. All of them were wearing white camouflage uniforms and all of them were armed.

  Americans, Wang thought.

  One of the men approached, the revolver he carried pointing at Wang’s midsection. The scientist slowly raised both of his hands, then screwed on a smile. “Chicago Cubs!” he said. “I was student at Northwestern.”

  “Well, that’s your cross to bear,” the man replied, nasally. “I’m a Haa-vid man, myself. So what team would I be rooting for?”

  “Boston Red Sock!” Wang blurted out, breaking into a real smile.

  Now the thin man with the pistol began to smile, too. “Well, he’s okay,” he announced, looking quite satisfied with himself.

  The others moved in closer now, encircling Wang. He noticed that one of them was a woman, and gave them all a respectful nod. “Boston Red Sock,” he continued for his captors. “They trade Babe Ruth to Yankees!”

  There was a momentary pause and Wang watched with dismay as the first man’s smile vanished. His colleagues, though, appeared to think it was all quite funny.

  “That’s right, Chicago,” one of them said, patting Wang on the back. “You tell ’em.”

  Chapter 21

  Night Zero

  You can’t say civilization [does not] advance. In every war they kill you in a new way.

  —Will Rogers

  In the Valley of the Cerae

  August, a.d. 67

  When Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon, there was much about which he should have worried. He could easily have paralyzed himself with any one of those concerns, but he prevailed over them, as if they did not exist.

  That was more than a hundred and fifteen years earlier, and half a world away from the realm of the Cerae. At times such as this, Pliny reminded himself how easily the temptation to obsess on any single, deadly obstacle could prevent him from doing what was necessary to survive, and succeed. Caesar’s ability to cast his own psychological traps aside and to focus all of his genius on solving the challenges ahead, one by one, had always led him to the right decisions—until, that is, a particularly cold day in mid-March.

  Pliny and Proculus stared silently across the Ceran gardens. Tonight, darkness was no longer being pushed back by phosphorescence—by living lamps that the Cerae had somehow managed to control. All the bioluminescence of the gardens, the terraces, and the pillars had been steadily dimming. The city and the entire valley, it seemed, were going black.

  “They’re going to war,” Proculus said, looking out across the darkening terrain. “And we’re about to be caught in the middle of it.”

  Pliny did not wish to dwell on the thought, but he knew the man was right and that any escape now (even if it was successful) would likely mean running into an invading force traveling in the opposite direction. But there was a far greater picture to be painted here and it had little to do with their escape.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Pliny said at last.

  “Yes. But—”

  “Proculus, you must abandon any thoughts of escape. To even attempt it would be to neglect a far greater duty.”

  “I don’t understand,” the cavalryman said.

  “We must not leave Severus behind.”

  “And why is that, sir?”

  “The Cerae cannot be given a reason and a means, Proculus, for aiming that weapon against Roman blood. All other considerations are secondary. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” said Proculus quietly.

  Pliny could see that, like him, the man had no difficulty picturing the Cerae killing them both long before they could ever flee the valley.

  “They’ll use Severus or perhaps even our own bodies to train their living weapons,” Pliny said. “Then imagine this nightmare spreading along Roman roads, westward and into the heart of the empire.”

  The cavalryman gave a visible shudder, and after a pause, it was he who continued. “If you’re right, then there is one more consideration—far greater than the rest.”

  “Go on.”

  “Not even knowledge about that kind of power can escape this valley. I mean no impertinence, but do you understand me?”

  “I do,” Pliny replied. “Quite clearly.”

  The historian waited for a response but there was only silence. “I wonder,” he whispered against the night, “what this impossible valley will produce tomorrow.”

  The Scythian forces had spread across the mountains like a diffuse infection—their widely separated positions making a full assault by the Cerans impossible.

  At one encampment, workers were slicing and packaging meat from a bull elephant and two horses—victims of the thin, cold air. The most skilled of the butchers were carefully cutting the flesh of two Ceran scouts into long strips.

  Five riders soon departed on horseback to distribute the elephant and horsemeat to other encampments—but the flesh of the enemy was not part of the distribution. The power of Ceran muscle and marrow, having for generations been the substance of local mythology, was now, perhaps, proving to be more than mere myth. Whether the effects were real or imagined, the blood-bright meat of the creatures quickly restored strength and rendered the people of this individual brigade more resilient against heat-sapping winds and snow. Under such cover, the second enemy scout had crept in among them during the previous night’s march. Unseen until it struck, the intruder took five arrows before it fell, and the fresh supply of meat and pelts came at the cost of six men.

  Here, and at other outposts, the flesh of Ceran scouts was being secretly hoarded and consumed. Not only did it provide the Easterners with restored strength, it invigorated those who believed the stories told by elderly plains people—stories about a race of monsters whose flesh was not simply a curative but whose lair held the secrets of everlasting life.

  Captive monks had confessed the existence of a lost city in which towers built from “crystalline gold” blazed under the sun—a promise whose value had become secondary, the Scythian chieftains agreed, should the magical elixirs turn out to be real.

  The commander of this particular encampment could not sleep, noticing as well that the rest of the group also remained too energetic for their daytime rest period. She flexed her fingers, admiring the craftsmanship of her new gauntlet glove. Fashioned from a Ceran’s forearm and hand, the fingers were still slightly too tight but she knew the leather would soften and stretch before the upcoming fight. The commander acknowledged a pair of armorers, who were even now putting the finishing touches on her new battle gear. They were stretching a Ceran pelt over the frame of a shield she herself had fashioned from its owner’s rib cage.

  The handiwork of the Scythians was not yet completed.

  Chapter 22

/>   Breaking Away

  I have seen the science I worshiped and the aircraft I loved, destroying the civilization I expected them to serve.

  —Charles Lindbergh

  The end of civilization will be that it will eventually die of civilization.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  There is precious little in civilization to appeal to a Yeti.

  —Sir Edmund Hillary

  The Kremlin

  August 2, 1946

  History had taught Nikita Khrushchev that, from the time of the Mongol invasions through Napoleon and Hitler, Russia had earned its paranoia the hard way.

  To him, battles were not exciting victorious endeavors. He hated and feared war but knew that survival meant a constant state of heightened alertness.

  Even in the enclosure of the Kremlin (and especially here, this night), Khrushchev understood that paranoia was often the only choice. Be smart, but never show it, he decided. And maybe after Stalin, Beria, and their friends are finished killing one another—maybe, just maybe I’ll still be taking in air and in my right mind.

  Unlike his associates, the fifty-two-year-old Politburu member foresaw that Mao Zedong’s strategy and logistics must eventually emerge victorious in the current internal conflict with Chiang Kai-shek and the Nationalists. But Khrushchev, of course, kept this idea, like the rest of his thoughts, to himself.

  After a very long night of exquisitely manufactured vodka and even richer food, Stalin finally asked, “So, tell me, Beria. Is there any news out of Tibet?”

  “Hard to tell, Comrade,” the man replied. “Although thanks to a new gift from Comrade Theremin to the museum, information has begun to seep out again, from New York.”

  “And?”

  “And it seems that Anatoly did not overestimate the likelihood of some very dangerous biology.”

  “I see,” Stalin said, “And what has happened with our MacCready problem?”

  Beria allowed himself a small chuckle. “I doubt there is a MacCready problem anymore.”

  Stalin grunted approval, then accepted a slice of chocolate pecan pie from the ever-silent Khrushchev. He chewed reflectively and wondered aloud: “Now, what about the Chinese?”

  “They sent in three helicopter crews,” Beria said. “And are apparently set to send in more.”

  “Communists or Nationalists?” Stalin inquired, his mouth full.

  “Does it matter?” Beria responded, taking what would have been for any man other than the marshall of the Soviet Union a risk with his own life. Even so, the man was relieved when Stalin chuckled. “Whoever they are, they cannot know what we already know about this Pliny and his codex.”

  “Why not?” Khrushchev asked, timidly.

  “No theremin,” Beria snapped at him, and after a pause, wondered aloud, “So, what do the Chinese know that we don’t know?”

  Stalin cleared his throat. “More importantly, Beria: how soon can our own team be in there?”

  “Logistically, another three days.”

  Stalin shook his head. “Unacceptable,” he said, and threw a glass, causing Khruschev to dodge it in a comically exaggerated manner.

  Stalin and Beria exchanged snide looks before continuing to do what they would do until their dying days—they ignored the man.

  Beyond the Valley of the Morlocks

  August 2, 1946

  Under the cover of darkness, accompanied by Alpha and one of the miniature mammoths, Mac and Yanni were led away from their igloo prison and along a rocky trail they had never seen before. Once above the layer of mist and floating snow, they were grateful that their path was made visible (if only barely) by the faint glow of starlight.

  Despite the danger, Mac found himself fascinated by the furry elephant—which, as the journey progressed, had become more clearly illuminated by the rise of the crescent moon above the knife edge of a rock formation. This was his first opportunity to walk beside one of the creatures, and to view it up close for an extended period. Unlike the thick, pillar-shaped limbs of the two modern species, this one’s legs were significantly thinner—built for rapid, agile movement. Even more fantastical were the mammoth’s feet. Gone were the broadly flattened weight-bearing structures that characterized all proboscideans, past and present.

  And instead of a flat pad and some toenails, it’s got six stubby digits.

  Many hours beyond the valley—and beyond daybreak—Alpha had scouted out ahead, while Yanni knelt down to prepare another round of what Jerry once referred to as “drawing stick figures in the dirt.”

  “You know that pandas have an extra digit, right?” Mac whispered to his friend.

  Yanni shot him an incredulous look. “Ummm . . . that’s great, Mac. But what’s that got to do with the price of tea in Cuiabá?”

  “Helps ’em strip off bamboo leaves.”

  “Yeah, and?” she said, trying in vain to concentrate on her hieroglyphic figures.

  “Well, these mammoths have six toes as well.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “I’m betting the extras are modified ankle and wrist bones—tweaked to take on a new purpose.”

  “Like climbing around in the rocks and stuff?”

  “Right,” Mac said. “Evolution doesn’t invent. It tinkers with what’s there already.”

  “That’s great, Mac,” Yanni said, “and speaking of evolution, I’m going to go get Alpha back here.” She pointed to her handiwork. “I need to show him this.”

  Mac replied with a nod as she walked away. “Careful,” he called after her.

  Glancing down, Mac noted that her symbols had themselves evolved into something far more complex than the simple stick figures she and Alpha had begun with.

  Mac caught incongruous movement out of the corner of one eye. Reflexively, he dropped and rolled to his right. A loud metallic clank accompanied by a spray of sparks exploded so near to his face that the embers actually struck him. He sprang to his feet, instantaneously assessing the threat while already leaning into his next dodge.

  During an adrenalized flash of recognition, he saw everything he already suspected. It was the visage of the creature who had murdered Jerry—back to complete his trophy case.

  In only two seconds, Mac managed three perfectly executed avoidance maneuvers, changing direction each time and increasing the distance from his attacker—but to no advantage at all. The Morlock’s reflexes were quicker.

  Mac glimpsed the raised pike and barely had time enough to register what was about to happen. And yet, within that same small part of a second, and in a blur of motion that Mac could not quite track, the little mammoth was suddenly between them. With its right trunk, the elephant had whipped something around the back of the giant’s head, deftly caught it with its left trunk, and began to pull Scarface onto his tusks.

  Mac watched the Morlock’s expression change from one of snarling triumph to wide-eyed surprise as the mammoth’s tusks drove through his body wall and diaphragm, expertly targeting the heart and lungs.

  Scarface dropped, staring at nothing.

  The mammoth, looking rather calm, given the circumstances, ignored the body and began wiping its tusks clean in the snow.

  “Gotta tell ya, kid,” Mac said, “just when I thought I’d seen everything . . .”

  The mammoth shot him the briefest of glances before turning his attention uphill. Yanni was running down toward them, Alpha trailing behind.

  Having finished cleaning itself, the little mammoth, continuing its nonchalant routine, picked up the woven cord it had used to save Mac’s life. It’s the choke collar, Mac realized.

  He looked on with a combination of surprise and awe as the creature reaffixed the restraint around its own neck.

  “So that’s why you guys wear those things.”

  Although Mac had been involved in the killing of a Morlock, he was relieved when Yanni informed him that Alpha regarded it as nothing more than “pest control.” The short conference that followed ended with mutual nods and a b
out of hieroglyph-obliterating overkill by the lead Morlock.

  “Okay,” Yanni announced, “we’re headed back to the shelf and the Chinese helicopters. You think you can fly one of them?”

  “As long as it’s in one piece,” Mac replied. His mind flashed back to Li Ming’s colleague in the “Trophy Room.” It’s a bet those Chinese pilots won’t be flying us out of here, he thought, but left unsaid.

  The Navy lieutenant from Massachusetts was growing impatient with delays, brought about by the “sole survivor” from a Chinese expedition. He gestured toward the Asian zoologist. “And we’re supposed to believe everything this Red shovels our way?”

  In a remarkably calm voice, Wang had managed to inform the Devil’s Brigade–led team as thoroughly as he could how easy it was to make wrong turns, and about some of the unique dangers they were now facing.

  Of greater concern to Dr. Nora Nesbitt was the fact that, after an uneventful trek to the helicopter site, it was immediately apparent that the two Russian “bananas” would not be flying anywhere. Large sections of the engines had been forcibly torn out and were now missing.

  “Look, our mission is to get MacCready and his two friends out of here,” the lieutenant said. “As for the rest, I think this guy’s whole story reeks of misinformation.”

  The invertebrate zoologist had already determined that, hero or not, the Bostonian was as cocky as he was enamored with the sound of his own voice.

  While “Just Call Me Jack” shared his idea about a Chinese hoax conspiracy with Nesbitt, the rest of the team worked with Wang to plot a course that they hoped would lead them to MacCready.

  “So, Chicago,” said Captain Don Pederson, a thick-necked former lumberjack, “you’ve seen nine-foot-tall ape-men and killer snowflakes?”

  Wang nodded. “As I told you.”

  “And you’re not a fisherman now, are you?” the Devil’s Brigade leader asked, his men responding with an assortment of snickers and moans. The sole female member of the group looked on with a frown, while Wang looked confused.