The Haunts of Cruelty

by R. G. Ryan

  We all stared at the phone silently.

  Carter broke the silence.

  “She must have stuck it in your pocket as you were leaving or something.”

  I said, “It’s what she would do, you know—be thinking of you rather than herself. She would have wanted you to have a way to call somebody once you got down here.” I paused and then continued, “I learned long ago that you should finish with the cards that are dealt to you. Don’t ask for a new hand. We’ve just learned that an option has been removed…fine. We move ahead with whatever is available.”

  Washington asked, “Just what exactly is available besides standing out in front there and calling her name?”

  “That is what has occupied my mind ever since you boys found me out there and to be honest with you, I haven’t come up with much until a few minutes ago. So before I get specific let me recap: Cassie is trying to find Paul Morgan, who at this time is more than likely operating under the control of a different, stronger and more violent personality. She’s sustained an injury of her own that may or may not include a broken foot and is using a trail that is treacherous at best. She is, by now, weak from stress, hunger, and is most likely suffering from dehydration.”

  “Don’t sugar-coat it now Jake, you just go ahead on and tell us what you really think,” Washington said sarcastically.

  “Sorry guys, but this is necessary.” An idea suddenly presented itself. “You know, Eddie, thinking that the trail could possibly lead to an abandoned silver mine is not all that far-fetched. Carter, can you dig that map out of my tactical bag?”

  “Sure thing, here you go,” Carter tossed the map case on the table.

  The map in question was from the Bureau of Land Management and I spread it out on the table as the others gathered around for a better view.

  “Here’s my idea. Call Redfern, or whoever, back at the command base and have him give you our position.”

  I looked up at Carter who was already dialing his SatPhone.

  “No problem! Hang on a sec.” He waited for the call to connect and then said, “Agent Redfern…Carter. No, no major progress, but do you have a fix on our position? Okay. Then can you spell out the exact coordinates?”

  Carter gave us a “thumbs up” sign as he waited for the information.

  “Okay, a little more slowly so I can write it down.”

  Pulling a pen from his pocket, he wrote down the coordinates on the corner of my map.

  “Right, got it.”

  I checked the coordinates Redfern had given him against the map and had our position at the cabin marked in less than two minutes.

  “Now…” I tapped a spot on the map. “According to the legend at the bottom, that symbol right there indicates a claim on a silver mine that was registered and active at one time.”

  My finger rested on a spot in close proximity to our position.

  “So, if an inch equals two miles…” Washington calculated out loud. “We’re less than a mile from where that old mine is supposed to be. Right?”

  I made eye contact with each of them before answering.

  “Don’t ask me how I know, but it’s where Cassie will be.”

  Carter said, “I’ll let the boss know you’re going in,” and dialed his phone. He stared at me as a frown creased his brow. “I’ve got no signal.”

  “On the SatPhone?”

  “Nothing on the SatPhone or the comm.”

  Washington added, “Neither do I.”

  I glanced down at my SatPhone—dead! As was my comm.

  “Well, fellas…I don’t understand what’s happening to our communication devices, but it looks like we’re on our own again.

  “Going old school,” Washington added. “Just have to use our senses and instincts.”

  Carter nodded, “I’m okay with that. We’ve got all the coordinates we need, and I’ll be here for backup and to keep an eye on this young lady.”

  We checked and re-checked our weapons, lights, and extra ammo while Carter examined my head wound.

  “All things considered, that’s looking remarkably well,” he said as he bound fresh gauze in place.

  “And my knee,” I paused to flex my leg a few times. “…is feeling almost normal. But, that’s impossible…right?”

  “I don’t know, Jake. Obviously it is, but I’m having a hard time accepting as fact that this is the same head wound I treated a little over an hour and a half ago. So…”

  Eddie stood and walked a few steps around the room.

  “This is crazy! My knee is a little stiff, but it sure doesn’t feel like a bullet creased it.”

  “Gettin’ kinda’ spooky in here,” Washington said, widening his eyes dramatically.

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But I know there are places on the earth where people are inexplicably cured of all sorts of maladies.”

  “For real?” Washington asked.

  Carter jumped in.

  “Oh yeah, I’ve read about Sedona, Arizona; Stonehenge; Lourdes, France.”

  “Machu Picchu!” Eddie blurted out. “Oops. Sorry.”

  I said, “No, you’re absolutely right. People claim to have been healed after visiting those places and many more like them. And there’s no explanation. All I know at present is that I can walk and my head hurts way less than it did. Of course, that could be due to the fact that I’ve been sucking on those damn fentanyl pops like candy.”

  We all shared a good laugh, and as Washington and I made final preparations to leave, Eddie walked slowly around the table and put her arms around me. It was such a simple, innocent and child-like gesture, I was momentarily caught off-guard.

  “Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just this place. Weird things keep happening that I don’t understand.”

  “While that may be true, it doesn’t change the fact that we have to find Cassie…with or without support from the command center.”

  “I know. But I still don’t like it. If you could have seen Morgan the way me and Cassie saw him…” She let her sentence trail off.

  “Listen,” I said. “I have no explanation for what happened to you. But, like I said, we still have to go get her. Now, agent Carter will stay here with you. You’ll be fine.”

  “But it’s you I’m worried about…not me.”

  There was something in the way she said it that triggered a memory of Morgan’s grinning face and my impression at the time that he knew something that I didn’t know.

  And it worried me.

  It worried me quite a lot, if you want to know the truth.

  “You ready?” Washington asked.

  With more conviction than I felt, I said, “Let’s do this.”

  And with that, we walked out and shut the door behind us closing off any further discussion.

  What I couldn’t close off was the image of Paul Morgan’s smirk. But what did it mean? I had a feeling that I would find out sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  In reality the fall had only been three or four feet, but it was into utter and absolute darkness thus lending an element of terror the likes of which she’d never known. The wooden cart into which she had landed in an ungainly heap had immediately taken off and was gradually picking up speed on its descent. With her ears filled with the clickity-clack of the metal against the rails, she resisted the urge to scream, but only barely.

  The blood in her mouth was from a lower lip that had been split badly in the fall; the pain in her chest, courtesy of a rib that had been either bruised or broken—all of which could be managed. But the pain in her head was a major concern. Feeling around the base of her skull as the cart continued on its way, she located a knot that felt as if it were the size of golf ball.

  “Got to stay awake,” she muttered as a wave of dizziness swept over her.

 
Even in her fear she could imagine the number of times one or more of the miners must have traversed this very track in the same cart which now propelled her to an unknown fate. The phrase “so dark you could cut it with a knife” seemed an apt description of her surroundings. The noise of the wheels seemed to reflect off of every hard surface as smells reached her nostrils that were neither pleasant nor identifiable. The dizziness, the darkness, the sounds that seemed to come from every direction simultaneously made her realize that she had never in her life experienced such total disorientation.

  It had been cold out in the canyon but as she plunged further and further into the earth she found, unexpectedly, that it was warming.

  A sickening thought worked its way into her consciousness: If a barricade existed at the end of the tracks, then at the speed she was traveling the cart would be torn completely apart by the impact. She figured it wouldn’t do a whole lot for her either. However, she began to notice that little by little the speed was decreasing until finally the cart coasted to a complete stop coming to rest with a slight bump against the very barricade she had feared.

  For the longest time she sat in total stillness, reaching out with her senses seeking any sensation that would give her a clue as to the nature of her surroundings. The stench that had been originally merely irritating was now terrible—pervasive, like rotten eggs only far worse.

  Suddenly, like a free-hand rock climber losing her grip, she found herself tumbling into the abyss of unconsciousness with no ability to resist.

  Cassie awakened slowly, not knowing how long she had been out or even where she was. The only thing she knew for sure was the smell—the horrible, damn smell. That, and the darkness. And the nausea. Grasping the side of the cart, she pulled herself up with difficulty and vomited over the side—well, more like dry heaving, for her stomach contained very little that could be emptied.

  Sitting back down and leaning against the rough, wooden planking that comprised the cart’s siding, she realized that added to the dizziness, the headache, and the nausea, was an inexplicable tremor in her left hand.

  “Gotta be gas down here,” she whispered in the obsidian darkness. “I have to get out of here.”

  The cart seemed stable enough but she feared what might happen if she attempted an exit.

  Was the track elevated?

  Would there be another fall? She hoped not, for it was certain that her head could not survive another blow.

  The first thought was to find something with which to probe the area immediately outside, but after running her hands slowly over the entire bottom of the cart she found nothing of use. After thinking through her options, of which there were precisely two—get out of the cart, or stay where she was and die—she decided to climb out over the front, which she did slowly.

  Reaching out in the darkness with her foot in an attempt to find a solid surface seemed to take forever, which caused her mind to flood with wild imaginings, such as, What if the track is built on a trestle and there is nothing beyond except empty space? It was a distinct possibility. Then again, the track could just as well be anchored into solid rock.

  Her foot finally made contact with the track and what felt like solid, packed earth or rock in between the ties. Kneeling down on the tracks for balance she reached out to her right and down, feeling solid ground about six inches below the where the track was laid. However, feeling in the other direction revealed a drop off that exceeded her reach.

  The decision was elementary; she would go to the right.

  Slowly, she crawled forward a few inches at a time feeling her way along and listening carefully for anything that would alert her to danger. Her hand suddenly closed around a blessed discovery: there was a discarded pole of some sort resting in the dirt where it had most likely lain undisturbed for decades. Pulling it toward her, she was thrilled to discover that it wasn’t a pole after all, but the handle of a miner’s pick. Even better! Now, she had something to help support her weight, probe the darkness ahead, and serve as a legitimate weapon should the need arise.

  Keeping to her knees for the time being, she started to move forward only to be seized by another spasm of dry heaves that, in their wake, left her weak and trembling. The hideous odor wafted over her like the fetid breath of some great beast newly wakened from slumber, filling her nostrils and triggering another wave of retching. As she lay panting from the effort, she realized that as bad as smell was, far worse was the fact that through her bloodstream it was slowly becoming part of her on a cellular level.

  “I’ve really got to get out of here!” she said, her voice sounding pathetically small as it echoed throughout the mineshaft.

  After inching a few more feet forward, she came to the horrible realization that the track was the only way in or out and if she were unable to find it again, it would mean certain death. So, she crawled back toward her lifeline, stood slowly with her heels firmly against the rails and began walking perpendicular to them, counting her steps with the pick held out in front of her. When she got to nine, she struck something. Moving carefully forward, she could feel that it was a roughly hewn rock wall.

  Turning ninety degrees to her left, she walked forward two steps and hit another wall.

  “Well, that takes care of that,” she mumbled and turned to retrace her path back toward the tracks, figuring that at some point, the miners must’ve tried digging another tunnel off the main shaft but gave up after nine or ten feet.

  Once back at the tracks, she felt her way to the cart and sat down to consider her options.

  It didn’t take long, for she had none.

  Leaning carefully with her back against the cart she began to cry, each sob tearing painfully at her damaged ribs, which caused her to cry even harder.

  Blackness pressed in from every side, seeming to seep into her very soul and reducing hope to a lone, flickering flame. Insufficient against the impenetrable gloom, hope grew ever more dim as the sheer density of the abysmal darkness threatened to douse it completely.

  After a few agonizing minutes, she decided that perhaps crying was a luxury best saved until later.

  She had been strong thus far, having faced more in the past twenty-four hours than most people are required to face in a lifetime. But now she was completely spent.

  So tired…so very tired.

  Climbing back into the cart—her body wracked with pain, dehydrated and depleted—she collapsed onto the bottom where, clutching the miner’s pick, she curled into a protective ball and fell immediately and deeply asleep caring not whether she would ever awaken.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I have discovered an unassailable fact in my life, the essence of which is this: the simpler a plan starts out being, the greater the likelihood of said plan transmogrifying into complete and utter chaos! Or, as the rank and file in the US Army are fond of saying, “FUBAR.”

  I’ll let you figure out the acronym.

  And yet, I still try.

  After leaving the cabin, we stepped out into a night made suddenly gloomier by an approaching storm front.

  Jerking his head skyward, Washington said, “That don’t look none too friendly.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “Maybe we should hustle it up a little…that is, if you’re able.”

  I flexed my knee a few more times.

  “I’m good to go.”

  As we started off, agent Washington said, “Funny, what we were talking about back there in the cabin.”

  “You mean about the unexplainable stuff we’re experiencing?”

  “Uh-huh. Now, my Pentecostal mamma would say that stuff like that is from the hand of the Lord.”

  “And I’m sure that a lot of people would agree with her.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not for a long, long time.”

  “So, you don’t believe in God?”

  “Oh,” I replied. “I believe in Him. I just don’t think He believes in
me.”

  He was silent for a few beats before replying, “Well, I’m sure you got your reasons. But you got to admit that this is some weird shit going on up in here. Me? I’d like to have an explanation that conforms to some level of logic.”

  “And you’re saying that the only logic is if this is, in fact, the result of an interventionist God?”

  “What other explanation could there be?” he asked.

  “Mount Mitchell.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I said, “Mount Mitchell. In North Carolina.”

  “What about it.”

  “People have claimed for years that there is a sort of nexus of energy there that promotes healing. Same thing for Sedona, Arizona.”

  “But there’s no proof?”

  “Do you consider anecdotal evidence proof?”

  He stopped walking and turned to face me.

  “Now, see? That right there is what bothers me. What you call ‘anecdotal evidence’ is what we called personal testimonies in the church I grew up in. Same thing, right?”

  “Look,” I averred. “You asked if there could be another explanation. Given that—with rare exceptions—the bulk of Christianity’s claims on the legitimacy of miracles is anecdotal, then as a counter I simply offer an equal amount of anecdotal evidence from places where vortices exist.”

  “Vortices?”

  “Yeah, you know, vortexes.”

  “So, you talking about ley lines and shit like that.”

  “Well, that’s part of it, yeah.”

  He resumed walking, his chuckle a deep rumbling in his chest.

  “But that’s all metaphysical. What I’d like to know is…what is the difference between faith in the metaphysical, and faith in God? Seems to me—and granted, I’m a bit prejudiced—that any form of belief requires faith, be it in God or metaphysics.”

  I said, “Please understand that I am in no way an apologist for either, but from what I understand, metaphysics places its faith in the natural order of things while Christianity embraces a reality wherein the supernatural is not only evident but active in human affairs.”