My attention is drawn down. The thick bone is still in my hand. I stand, holding it at the ready like Hercules’s club or Thor’s hammer. What I wouldn’t give for an ounce of their strength right now.
But strength is something I lack. I can already feel my limbs growing weak from fright. If this fight doesn’t end quickly I’ll probably lie down and accept death like a deer in the jaws of a mountain lion. It always amazes me how quickly prey animals accept their fate once caught. Will I be any different?
The answer surprises me.
A shift of shadow to my left catches my eye. But this time the fear is drowned out by a rage I have felt before, a rage that now has an outlet. I lunge for the shadow, bone-club raised. The thing flinches back, surprised by my attack. My first swing misses, nearly spinning me around. But I follow it up with a backhand swing worthy of John McEnroe. The impact hurts my arm, but it lets me know I’ve hurt the thing, too.
The thing stumbles back, letting out a high pitched whine as it strikes the wall. I struggle to see it, but it’s backlit by the wall. I can, however, see its silhouette more clearly now. Its body is egg-shaped and maybe four feet tall, with short, thick legs. Its arms are almost comical—short stubs sticking out to either side as useless as a T-Rex’s tiny appendages. I feel emboldened by the thing’s size and awkward build. But I’ve underestimated its will to live. This thing doesn’t want to die as much as I don’t.
It lets out a shrill scream and charges again. I start to duck, but this time it doesn’t leap. Instead, it lowers its top half—I can’t see where the head begins or ends or if it even has a head—and plows into me like a battering ram. It lifts me off the ground and carries me ten feet before slamming me into a stone wall. I hear a crack as my head strikes, but I don’t lose consciousness. There’s too much adrenaline in my system for that to happen.
But when I open my eyes and look at the thing, I wish I had fallen unconscious. Then I wouldn’t have seen it. I wouldn’t be awake when it devoured me. But I am awake, staring into a set of jaws that looks like it belongs to a great white shark—rows of serrated triangular teeth set into a jaw that protrudes from the mouth. The entire top half of the creature, just above its pitiful arms, has opened up to take me in. I have no doubt I’ll be severed in half. I’ll spend my last living moments bleeding out in this thing’s gullet.
I can’t die like this.
“Get off of me!” I scream. My voice distracts the creature. Its jaws close slightly, revealing a pair of perfectly black eyes, like two eight balls jammed into the top of a killer Humpty Dumpty. Tufts of thick brown hair cover its milky skin.
I’ve seen this before. The remains of these creatures litter the cave floor. These things aren’t killing people here, they’re being killed. It wasn’t put here to kill me, I was put here to kill it.
“Get off me, I said!” I shout, further confusing the beast. I dive to the side, but it clamps down on my shirt—a red, white and blue flannel that looks much more patriotic than any piece of clothing should. I spin around and lose my balance. The shirt rips as I fall away. My hands stretch out to brace my fall and I plunge into a litter of bones—the bones of this thing’s kin. But my right hand catches on something sharp. A hot burn strikes my palm, followed by a warm gush of liquid over my wrist.
I’m bleeding.
And the thing can smell it. I hear its quick breaths, sniffing as a dog does. Then I hear the smacking of lips and then it moves again, closing in on me.
Ignoring the pain in my hand, I dig into bones and find the sharp object. Playing my fingers over it gently, I feel a large triangular tooth. Then another. And another. In my mind’s eye I can see its shape: a broken jawbone from one of these creatures. I find an end that has no teeth and grip it.
I’m back on my feet for only a moment before the creature charges again. But I’m ready for it. Whatever this thing is, it’s deadly, but it’s not smart enough to realize I would anticipate the same attack.
I step to the side and swing down. I feel an impact, and then a tug on my weapon as the teeth catch flesh. A sound like tearing paper fills the air and makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t see it, but I know I have just sliced open the creature’s back.
It whimpers and stops.
I step closer.
It steps away.
Some instinct I never knew I had tells me I’ve inflicted a mortal wound. The thing is dying. I see its form again as it nears the far wall—egg shaped body, tiny arms, squat legs, large eyes. And I recognize it for what it is. Not the species, the age.
It’s a baby.
I’ve just killed a baby.
As it mewls against the wall, each call weaker then the last, the jaw-weapon falls from my hand.
“No,” I whisper, falling to my knees. What kind of a sick world have I been brought to?
I want my mother.
I scream for her. “Mom!” I scream again and again, my voice growing hoarse. My face is wet with tears and snot. My body is wracked by sobs between each shout for my mother. My thoughts turn to my father. How awful he must feel now that I’m gone, knowing I disappeared while angry with him. Not only had he lied to me for thirteen years, but he also believed I was capable of hurting Aimee. He didn’t trust me. Never had. But I trusted him now. Was this what he was protecting me from? This thought strikes me like a fist and I long for my father’s presence. He could protect me. I yell for him next.
But he doesn’t come. He can’t hear me. He’ll never hear me again. How could he?
My voice fades to a whisper. Pain stabs my head with every beat of my heart. The pinpricks of light surrounding me are now blurry halos. In the quiet, I can no longer hear the ragged breathing of the young creature. Certain it’s dead, I weep again, mourning not just the death of this deformed thing that tried to eat me, but the death of something much more precious to me: my soul. As my body gives way to exhaustion, I slide down onto the stone floor, surrounded by bones and wonder, maybe that’s the point.
###
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THE ADVENTURES OF DODGE DALTON AT THE OUTPOST OF FATE by Sean Ellis
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DESCRIPTION:
Dodge Dalton's discovery of an ancient outpost at the bottom of the world made him a hero, but now a new evil has arisen, intent on seizing the power of the outpost to literally unleash Hell.Guided by a deadly prophecy, a faceless villain will stop at nothing to transform the world into a place of skulls.It's a race to save the world from the terrible secret that lies hidden......at the Outpost of Fate!
EXCERPT:
Chapter 1—Any Port in a Storm
The story about the miraculous reappearance of the plane ran in the evening edition of the Clarion, but because the airline spokesperson had kept the more salacious facts of the case out of public circulation, the item was relegated to a few column inches, half way down page four. The article stated only that the plane, which initially had been feared lost in the storm, had arrived safely after a brief delay.
David Dalton—known to friends, co-workers and thousands of American readers of the syndicated weekly feature "The Adventures of Captain Falcon" as "Dodge"—had not yet read that item or any other headlines in the evening edition as he stepped from the Clarion Building and into the storm-swept streets, but he was certainly making good use of the tabloid; he held it open, over his head, to deflect some of the torrential rains that had already soaked through his shoes. He wasn't terribly worried about getting wet; the urge to shelter himself was mostly automatic. If he'd stopped to think about it, he would realized how foolish it looked and simply endured Mother Nature's assault, but his mind was a million miles—or more accurately, eight thousand miles—away.
The telegram was crumpled in his pocket, but its message had been burned into his memory: URGENT I SEE YOU...AMNH TONIGHT...CONCERNS OUTPOST...A. PENDLETON.
He knew Augustus Pendleton—Professor Augustus Pendleton—by reputati
on only, but that was enough to pique his interest. Pendleton, an expert on pre-Columbian archaeology, was one of a select group of scientists that had been made privy to the discoveries Dodge and his associates had made at the bottom of the world—a remote ice cavern in the permanent winter wilderness of Antarctica. They had taken to calling the place "the Outpost," but that name said little about its true function; in fact, the purpose intended for the cavern by its designers, like the identity of those architects, was one of the mysteries being pursued by Pendleton and other members of the U.S. government's brain trust. The actual location of the Outpost was known only to Dodge and three other souls, but they had provided the scientists with detailed descriptions of the cavern and some of its artifacts. Dodge could not imagine what news Pendleton might have that could be so urgent as to require a late audience at the Museum of Natural History, but he was eager to find out.
As he reached the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of a Checker Cab sidling along with its flag up. Dodge thrust out a hand to hail the taxi and hurriedly opened the door, but as he started to get in, someone called his name. He drew back and peered in every direction through the watery veil. There wasn't another living soul for blocks.
Shrugging, he got inside. Must be hearing things.
The rain was drumming a staccato pattern on the metal roof, making it difficult to hear his own voice, much less the sound of someone calling for him. "Museum of Natural History," he shouted over the back of the driver's seat. The fellow in the front of the cab nodded and pulled back into the deserted streets.
The headline on the sodden newspaper was still visible, HURRICANE BEARS DOWN ON CITY, but the interior of the cab was too dark to read the smaller print below. Dodge tossed the tabloid aside and gazed out the window, thinking more about Prof. Pendleton and the Outpost, than the imminent storm.
Dodge, along with Brian "Hurricane" Hurley, Father Nathan Hobbs and Miss Molly Rose Shannon, were together the de facto owners of the Outpost, though it was situated in a place where land deeds had little value. Those among the scientific and military communities respectively who knew of its existence had demanded that such a prize must be shared, but the four people who actually knew where it was had demurred. There were things in the Outpost that humans were not meant to see; technologies that might be used for evil purposes by nefarious men, or even by well-intentioned souls who could not see past their immediate concerns to the future peril that possession of such awesome power might awaken. Dodge, as spokesman for the group, had offered to share some of the knowledge with the scientists, in exchange for custodianship of the Outpost. The deal had received unexpected support from the highest authority in the land; the President had been the victim of a plot by the first discoverer of the Outpost, and had been rescued from certain death by Dodge’s last-second heroics. Not only did he owe Dodge and his companions an enormous debt, but he also knew firsthand how the ancient science locked away in the Outpost might be perverted.
The taxi stopped at a traffic signal and Dodge glanced up to see where they were. He noticed that the meter on driver’s side fender was silent. He leaned over the seat. "Hey pal. I don’t mind if the ride’s free tonight, but I’m only paying for what’s on the meter."
The driver grunted as he fumbled for the lever that would activate the device for tallying mileage. Something about the scene struck Dodge as odd, but his musings about the Outpost and Pendleton’s summons quickly drew him back.
A lot had happened in the weeks since they had rescued the President from the diabolical schemes of a madman who had, in discovering the secrets of the Outpost, believed himself a god. Dodge and Hurley, already public figures because of Dodge’s weekly feature—an adventure serial based loosely on the real exploits of Hurley’s Army unit—had received the lion’s share of the acclaim. Father Hobbs and his adopted daughter Molly had also been briefly thrust into the spotlight, until the fickle attention of newspaper readers was distracted by something newer and shinier. None of them missed being a celebrity one bit. Dodge and Hurley went back to work on the Falcon stories, newly inspired by recent events, while Father Hobbs contemplated his next move. Prior to the crisis, he had supervised a Congo River mission for the better part of a decade, but all that was gone now, destroyed by a fiendish river pirate. Now that his daughter had grown into a lovely young woman, the idea of returning to a life of austerity on the Dark Continent was not quite so appealing. For her sake alone, or so he claimed, he had elected to take a teaching position at the St. Joseph’s Seminary in Dunwoodie, exchanging the rough life of a missionary for the cerebral challenges of academia. Dodge however wondered if the man they called "the Padre" didn’t have a different motive.
Hobbs had also been one of Captain Falcon’s soldiers; a member of a special unit nicknamed ‘the Fighting Falcons’ whose mission had been to stem the rise of criminal empires in aftermath of the Great War. Hobbs had walked a fine line between soldier and priest during those years; though he had eschewed the use of weapons, his actions had nonetheless contributed to loss of life, both of the enemy and his own comrades. When the Great Depression ended the mission of the Fighting Falcons, Hobbs had immersed himself in helping the oppressed natives of the Congo Basin, a desperate attempt to atone for his perceived sins. But Dodge had shown him that there were other ways to find solace and better ways to make use of the superior intellectual gifts which God had granted him, for Nathan Hobbs knew more about ancient religions and the occult world than anyone. In the tapestry of myths and superstitions, Hobbs had glimpsed a more credible origin for the Outpost than anything proposed by the President’s brain trust; given the choice, Dodge would rather have the Padre at his side than any of those eggheads.
And then of course there was Molly.
Dodge glanced at the street again, but the signposts were obscured by the film of rain on the glass. He lowered his window, taking the full fury of the storm on his face as he stuck his head out and squinted at the street marker they had just passed. He didn’t recognize the name on the cross street, but before he could ask the driver about it, the headlights of the vehicle directly behind the taxi, abruptly receded as if the driver of that car had been spooked to find Dodge leaning out into the night.
He drew back inside, but continued to gaze through the small rear window at the trailing vehicle. There were hardly any cars on the streets tonight; sane people had returned to their homes hours before to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. While there was nothing inherently strange about two cars sharing the same destination, Dodge had an uneasy feeling about the car that had dropped back half a block.
"Hey," he said without turning. "Can you take the next right and circle the block?"
"Are you serious?" answered the driver.
"Do it," Dodge affirmed. "I just want to test a theory."
"It’s your money." The cabbie whipped the car around down a side street and accelerated toward the next intersection.
Dodge held his breath as the other car reached the corner behind them and then made the same turn. Once is coincidence, he thought, but what had been a nagging suspicion now reached the level of a claxon ringing in head. The taxi made another right hand turn and a few seconds later, the headlights were back.
"That car is following us," observed the driver, peering into his side mirror, and stating what Dodge now believed to be the absolute truth. The man’s comment was strange, almost emotionless, but Dodge’s attention was fixed on what he perceived to be the more immediate concern.
Okay, he’s following us. And I thought I heard someone call my name back at the Clarion Building. But why did he pull back when he saw me?
He thought about Pendleton’s telegram: "Urgent I see you." What if the urgency of the situation owed, not to some breakthrough discovery, but a threat to the Outpost’s security? Dodge contemplated trying to find a policeman, but quickly discarded that idea; they would have their hands full with the hurricane. The headlights continued to illuminate the taxi from behind.
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He leaned over the back of the driver's seat. "Just take me the museum. I'll handle it from there."
"I'll take care of him," the driver grunted, and punched the accelerator.
The sudden burst of speed threw Dodge back into his seat momentarily. "Hold your horses!" he shouted. "I don't need any heroics from you. Just take me to the museum..."
His voice trailed off as he realized the taxi was now moving south—downtown, away from their destination. Over the driver's shoulder he could see the speedometer needle quivering at fifty miles an hour. With virtually no traffic to evade, the taxi raced away like a meteor, into the unknown. A chill crept up Dodge's back that had nothing to do with the storm raging outside.
He didn't waste breath inquiring about the driver's intentions; it was clear enough that this was no ordinary taxi ride. That this abduction should occur on the heels of an urgent summons from Prof. Pendleton could not be a coincidence.
So what about the car following us? Friend or foe?
He considered trying to assault the driver or wrestle control of the car, but discarded both courses of action as too dangerous given their present speed. Nevertheless, he had to do something to take control of the situation and quickly; the taxi driver would certainly have confederates waiting at the end of the line. Dodge gripped the door handle waiting for circumstance to force the driver to reduce speed enough that a desperate leap from the moving vehicle might be survivable. A traffic signal loomed ahead, flashing a red stoplight, but the taxi did not slow. The Checker cab blew through the intersection heedless of cross traffic. The pursuing vehicle was matching their speed and likewise ignoring the signals.
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella) Page 15
