CALLSIGN: KING
Book 2
UNDERWORLD
By Jeremy Robinson
and Sean Ellis
© 2011 Jeremy Robinson. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]
Visit Jeremy Robinson on the World Wide Web at:
www.jeremyrobinsononline.com
Visit Sean Ellis on the World Wide Web at:
seanellisthrillers.webs.com
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FICTION by JEREMY ROBINSON
(click to view on Amazon and buy)
The Antarktos Saga
The Last Hunter - Pursuit
The Last Hunter - Descent
The Jack Sigler Thrillers
Threshold
Instinct
Pulse
Callsign: King - Book 1
Callsign: Queen - Book 1
Callsign: Rook - Book 1
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld
Origins Editions (first five novels)
Kronos
Antarktos Rising
Beneath
Raising the Past
The Didymus Contingency
Short Stories
Insomnia
Humor
The Zombie's Way (Ike Onsoomyu)
The Ninja’s Path (Kutyuso Deep)
FICTION by SEAN ELLIS
Callsign: King - Book 1
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld
The Nick Kismet adventures
The Shroud of Heaven
Into the Black
The Devil You Know
The Adventures of Dodge Dalton
In the Shadow of Falcon’s Wings
At the Outpost of Fate
On the High Road to Oblivion (forthcoming)
Dark Trinity: Ascendant
Magic Mirror
Secret Agent X
The Sea Wraiths
Masterpiece of Vengeance
The Scar
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
About the Authors
Sample: THE LAST HUNTER by Jeremy Robinson
Sample: DODGE DALTON AT THE OUTPOST OF FATE by Sean Ellis
Sample: THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop
Help Spread the Word!
CALLSIGN: KING - UNDERWORLD
1049 UTC
Status report requested.
>>>It’s over. King is dead.
PROLOGUE
An unknown land — c. 400 BCE
The man paused at the mouth of cave and peered into its shadowy depths. A foul odor wafted up from hole in the world, riding on wisps of gray steam. He knew the common people living nearby believed the steam to be the mephitic vapors, rising from the decaying corpse of Typhoeus, the dragon slain by Zeus in his war with the Titans and buried in the heart of the Earth. They were the same vapors that supposedly gave the sibylline oracles the gift of prophecy. But he knew better. The gods, the stories surrounding them and the tales of his own heroic quests were primarily fictions created to misdirect the populace from the truth.
Granted, there were many strange things in the world, but with the proper amount of study, the secrets of nature could be revealed, and used to boost physical strength, extend life, heal the body and he believed, travel great distances in the blink of an eye. To the undisciplined mind, these secrets were magical. Godlike even. Which led to his current status as the bastard son of Zeus. The title afforded him access to every possible resource he needed, including a long voyage he took with the crew of the Argo around the world and back.
But the real benefit of his demigod status was that every strange encounter or event was quickly reported to him. Man’s fear of the unknown sent them racing to the man-god so that he might continue his “labors” and expunge the evil, which frequently turned out to be a harmless, previously unknown animal species or atmospheric event. But everywhere he went, people came to him with pleas for help. His height, muscular body and curly brown hair made him easily identifiable and would eventually become a problem. His need for secrecy meant he’d eventually have to disappear and let future generations believe him a myth, but for now he would use his position to find the answers he sought.
He rooted in his pack for a torch. The oil soaked brand took the spark from his flint, and he waved it over the mouth of the cave experimentally. Sometimes, vapors like these had a way of igniting so that the air itself burned; this time, it did not. Satisfied with the precaution, he began his descent into the pit.
This most recent “labor” had been brought to his attention just days ago. He’d nearly ignored the story, but curiosity got the better of him. His own imagination was the source for many of the current religious beliefs, spread dutifully by his band of followers who knew only half the truth. He’d conjured stories of the Underworld, driving a fear of the subterranean world into the hearts of men, because that’s where he conducted his work and hid his secrets. But if the story of missing children and cave dwelling creatures was to be believed, his fictions had stumbled upon a grain of truth.
He hefted his club onto one shoulder and patted the wineskin tied to his waist. The fluid it contained would give him the strength to overcome any obstacle he came across. Satisfied that he was prepared, he moved onward.
How far down he went into the eternal darkness, he could not say. To his tired feet, which rolled and slipped as his sandals trod the irregular surface, it felt as if he had walked perhaps three or four schoinos—a journey that might take an ordinary man a full day. But he had only burned through two of his torches, which meant that he had been in the cave perhaps only an hour or two. In that time, he saw no other living creatures, but he sensed their presence often, and he knew that they had seen him. Further on, he found their spoor—not only their excrement, but also castoff bits of wood and metal, even scraps of cloth, which had somehow found their way down from the surface. It was not long before he began to recognize the detrit
us for what it was: the trappings of a funeral. This was indeed, the land of the dead.
He soon came to an underground river. One of the three children who wandered into this cave had managed to escape. He told a story of a river and of horrible monsters that had taken his two sisters.
The child’s story proved accurate. One of the denizens of the Underworld, which did not flee at the first glimmer of torchlight, stood before him. The creature he now beheld looked like nothing like nothing he’d encountered before.
It might have once been human. The hairless body had the shape of a man—two arms, two legs, one head with the right number of eyes and other orifices, no tail—but that by itself meant little. If it—he—had been a man, perhaps driven into the heart of the Earth by madness, then somewhere along the way he had suffered grievous injury; the gaunt body was misshapen and twisted, as if every one of its extremities had been broken and then allowed to heal improperly.
The creature sat on its haunches, bent over and engaged in some task that completely held its attention. It raised its head, gazing at the strange shadows cast by the flickering flame of the warrior’s torch, but then immediately went back to what it was doing.
The man advanced, curious about the creature’s activity. He saw a foot, then its match…legs, small and pale…a supine child. One of the two missing girls. Was the creature feasting on the girl? While others would feel revolt and rage, the man felt only curiosity.
He stepped closer and drew back his club, in case the creature attacked, but the motion startled the creature. It scampered away, and before the man could catch it, the beast was hopping across the river. Its feet made hardly a splash, as if it was walking on the surface of the water, and a moment later, it stood on the far bank, hissing angrily at the trespasser.
The man inspected the child and saw right away that his assumption was incorrect. The child’s body hadn’t been gnawed on, but she had been killed and.... He stepped closer, looking at her head. The girl’s hair—all of it—was missing. She’d been scalped. But not recently. He could see by the condition of her body that she’d been dead for some time. The creature had not been eating her flesh, but rather had been tending to the remains. He saw now that the girl’s body rested on a bier of wood, as if in preparation for an offering…no, it was a raft.
Inspiration struck. I’ll call him the ferryman, and this will be the river, Styx—the path to Hades. He’d conjured tales of Hades long ago, basing the hellish place on stories from older religions. But details like this, based on fact, would help reinforce mankind’s fear of the Underworld.
The man relaxed, letting his club fall back against his shoulder. He moved away from the child and walked to the edge of the river. The creature hunched its shoulders angrily, glowering at him, but it left off its keening wail.
The river was deeper than he expected. He could see the water, a few cubits below, along the almost vertical stone bank, but the bed was hidden from his eyes. A few rocks protruded from the surface, some barely rising above the flow, others stabbing up as high as he was tall.
That was how the creature had crossed the river; stepping stones formed a path across, a secret way known only to the ferryman.
The man knelt at the edge and cautiously touched the surface of the water with a fingertip. He could feel the gentle tug of the current, but after a moment, something else. Burning. It was not heat, as from a fire, but the sting of a laundryman’s lye. He drew his finger back quickly, and saw the calloused skin already starting to peel away.
Not even he could swim across the Styx.
The man stood, contemplating the river and his destination, which lay on the other side, across the secret path known only to ferryman. He waved the torch over the water, studying the way the water rippled around the stones hidden just out of view. Perhaps through trial and error, he could find the correct path, but one slip…
No. There had to be another way.
He glanced down at the girl, so serene in death, eyes closed as if merely asleep, mouth open ever so slightly as if to draw a breath.
Then the man glimpsed the faint reflection of torchlight on something in the child’s mouth and he understood what he needed to do.
He took the leather kibisis from his belt and dug out two tarnished silver tetradrachm coins, which he held up for the creature to see. The thing bared its hideous teeth at him—the man realized it was a grin of satisfaction—and it nimbly forded the river once more.
He paid careful attention to where it stepped, memorizing the safe path—yes, he thought. I can do this. Then the thing was standing expectantly before him, hand outstretched.
The man dropped the two coins onto the creature’s open palm.
He heaved the club onto his shoulder once more, and followed the creature across the river, with only the soles of his sandals dipping into the alkaline water, as he leapt between the crossing stones.
As he set off along the far shore, resuming his exploration, he got a last glimpse of the creature hugging the offering of coins to its chest. The price for passage into the Underworld had been paid. Whether the man could find his way back out was none of the ferryman’s concern.
East of Phoenix, Arizona — Yesterday — 2053 UTC (1:53 pm Local)
The smartphone on the passenger seat of the Nissan Altima chirped and Leilani Rhodes glanced over to see who had sent the text message. “Becca. What now?”
She picked up the phone and held it against the steering wheel as she tapped the touchscreen to display the message. She glanced down quickly to read it, then made a little growling noise in the back of her throat. “Seriously?”
The screen read:
I think im going to cut my hair
Leilani turned her eyes back to the road ahead. It would have been easy enough to reply; the section of US Highway 60 through which she now drove was almost completely straight for at least another ten miles, and the only vehicle she could see was an eighteen-wheeler a good mile ahead of her—she’d probably catch up and pass him in the next few minutes. But the truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to reply to Becca’s inane message. Becca was a good friend, but oh so needy, and Leilani just didn’t want to deal with that right now.
Especially not right this instant, driving on the remote highway between her home in Globe and her job in Mesa. She hated the drive, hated living in Globe and hated the job, all of which meant she was in a foul mood to begin with, and not at all sympathetic to Becca’s grooming crisis.
The phone chirped again in her hand.
Shuoldi????
Leilani had lived her life—all 22 years of it—in the Arizona town some sixty miles from the edge of the Phoenix metro area. As a teenager, she had chafed at the limitations of the remote location; Phoenix, with its malls and marginally hipper scene, was just too far away. Getting her first car hadn’t helped much, because while the distance separating Globe from the city was relatively short, it required a sojourn through some of the most desolate terrain in the United States. Blisteringly hot asphalt, undulating mountains where lightning and even hail storms could descend at a moments notice, the possibility of overheating from using the air conditioner—and you couldn’t not use it—or a flat from one of the ubiquitous chunks of disintegrating truck tires scattered like land mines on the roadway, were just a few of the factors that gave the trip nightmare potential.
After finishing high school, she had enrolled at ASU, but living closer to the city, on campus, was about the only thing about college she had found appealing. So after just two semesters, she had dropped out and moved back home. The derailment of her plans for higher education had brought her face to face with the harsh realities of adult life; she had been unable to find work—at least the kind of work she was willing to do—in her hometown. After a few months, she had started looking in the city, even though it meant a daily commute through the wasteland. Her plan had been to get a job, and then with a few paychecks under her belt, find a place to live in Phoenix.
Now, she wasn’t just sick of living in Globe. She was sick of the desert altogether.
Chirp.
Well??????
Leilani glanced down at the touch screen keyboard on the phone just long enough to tap out:
>>>Driving!!!
When her eyes met the road again, it was like looking at the end of the world.
So many things were happening at once, her brain couldn’t process all the incoming visual stimuli.
Directly ahead of her, the eighteen-wheeler was sideways, its white trailer stretching across both lanes, and relative to Leilani in her Altima, it was coming up fast. All around the trailer there was black smoke and dust, and pieces of debris were flying through the air from beyond it. There were flashes to the north, a veritable strobe of lightning, stabbing down out of a clear sky. And all along the roadside, there was movement: dark shapes that looked almost like people, swarming down from the hills.
She stomped her foot on the brake pedal, but as adrenaline slammed through her body, leaving her extremities strangely numb, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to stop in time. The semi’s trailer slowly rolled over directly in front of her as the Altima’s anti-lock brakes peeled away the car’s momentum…seventy-five to fifty in the space of a heartbeat…the underside of the trailer looming ahead of her like a monolith…fifty to thirty…
Damn you, Becca. I’m going to die because you couldn’t make up your own mind about a haircut.
The Altima was still moving forward at about twenty miles per hour when its front end crunched into the obstacle. To Leilani, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, but her responses were entirely reflexive—disconnected from any conscious decisions. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel…felt the phone slip from her grasp as she did…and then she was thrown forward. The airbag exploded from the steering column, protecting her from impact even as it showered her in a fine spray of pyrotechnic residue. She rebounded from the safety cushion, and was surprised by the fact that, except for a throbbing pain across her collarbone, where her seatbelt had locked in place to restrain her during impact, she was unhurt.
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella) Page 1
