Black Mountain ah-4

by Greig Beck

  Black Mountain

  ( Alex Hunter - 4 )

  Greig Beck

  Alex Hunter, code named Arcadian, wakes up with no knowledge of who he is, in the care of a woman he doesn't recognize, in a country not his own. But there is a calling deep within him, to return home to Black Mountain.

  Formed a billion years ago, the Appalachian's Black Mountain hosts a terrible legend. Only one elder remains to guard its long-forgotten, deadly secret and there is a fear that there is evil lurking again. Some hikers have gone missing, and the rescue team sent to search for them has not returned. Meanwhile, in nearby Ashville, Professor Matt Kearns is drawn into the mystery of an ancient artifact recovered from the mountainside, and an image too grotesque to be real.

  A survivor is then found half-alive, covered in blood — blood revealed to be not quite human.

  Alex must confront an age-old enemy of man and discover the truth about his past, and confront the horror that stalks the frozen mountain, and also the one haunting his very soul.

  Greig Beck

  Black Mountain

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, thank you to Nicola O’Shea, Cate Paterson, and Samantha Sainsbury for all the guidance and advice. Many times I have been asked: ‘does professional editing make a difference?’ My answer has always been: ‘Only 100 per cent of the time!’

  PROLOGUE

  Southern Appalachians, 11,000 BCE

  The creature screamed as the arrow punched into its neck. Ripping it free, it turned to roar in frustration. The wound was deep and bled heavily, but the sticky blood quickly froze on its coarse, blunt fingers.

  The small ones were coming fast, sending more of their arrows flying through the air. The creature roared again, wanting to rush back and fight, to crush those small, loud man-things down to nothing. But that would mean its own death, and then the end of all of them. There were now barely forty members of the group remaining, and some with young; they would be slaughtered. The leader snorted and drew its clan higher, moving quickly now. When it looked back briefly, the man-things were a crawling multitude that whooped and ran and hurled their sharp sticks.

  The time for peaceful coexistence had long since passed. The creature looked to the sky — cold, iron grey with heavy cloud down to the peak — then it grunted, calling the group. There was one place they could go, where they could defend themselves and save their young. The deep, wintering cave that they used for hibernation when the season was unusually long and cold. Down there, deep inside the mountain, where the lichens glowed green and things slid and wormed their way in the darkness, there was safety. Deeper still there was a black river, with pale, sightless things swimming within it — food.

  The leader urged the group to greater speed, forcing them on, higher up the mountain, along the old pathways, steep and narrow tracks on the cliff edge that fell away to a depth so great its bottom was invisible in the heavy mist. Up, up, and into the cave, through the small and narrow opening, into the inner world of the mountain. There was no way out, but they could wait. If the man-things followed them in, then they would have to fight; they’d done it before. The small ones wanted their heads as trophies. If they came into the mountain, then their heads would be taken.

  Deep in the dark they waited, the large adult bodies pressed to the front, the young behind, all breathing heavily, fear sharp and acrid in the air around them. And then the man-things came, but just to the mouth of the cave, throwing fire inside.

  The great beasts waited still, but instead of an attack, there came a scraping, grinding and pounding noise, over and over. Then, to the creatures’ horror, the light from outside began to diminish. A mighty wall rose up before them, stone by stone.

  The adults screamed in rage and surged forward, but were answered with more fire and stinging arrows. They fell back, pounding the ground, their rage loud but impotent as large, interlocking blocks continued to be piled and fixed in place, until the last square of light was blotted out. Still the sounds continued as many more layers were added.

  Finally, there was silence, save for the heavy breaths of the creatures themselves. The leader shuffled forward and rested a large and bloody hand against the stone — it could sense the many thick layers and doubted they could break through. It also sensed the man-things on the other side, waiting for them to try.

  It turned back to its clan, a decision forming in its mind. There was food, and there would be weak light from the lichens in the deeper caves below. They could survive. They would wait, and eventually their world would be given back to them. They had walked its surface before the man-things had arrived, and they would walk it again.

  ONE

  Kowloon, Hong Kong, 1935

  Charles Albert Schroder paused at the bustling intersection. He knew the main streets were too easily picked over, and so it was down the secretive side alleys that he had navigated this day. Being a head taller than the milling crowd, he should be able to spot the type of shop he was searching for without too much trouble. There — the double Chinese symbols for medicine hung from a shingle out the front of a dark cramped space that emanated the mixed odours of a thousand exotic herbs, fungi and dried animal carcasses.

  Schroder watched the doorway for a while. The clientele were a mix of older men, presumably seeking remedies for ailing potency, or young women looking for an elixir to turn a rich man’s head. Each left with a small package wrapped in rice paper and stamped with the shop owner’s symbol.

  Schroder ducked his head as he stepped inside, and blinked a few times to try to adjust his eyes to the gloom of the interior. An ancient Chinese man stood behind a counter, staring at him with a rheumy gaze and resting a pair of reptilian hands on the counter top. Behind him, the wall was completely covered in wooden slots holding powder-filled jars or tiny drawers that were undoubtedly filled with exotic wares. Schroder quickly looked left and right, making sure he was alone with the man. The only other gaze he detected belonged to the milky eyes of a monkey’s head suspended in a jar of yellow fluid.

  Schroder nodded — he didn’t need to look around the shop any further. What he searched for was never on display. He cleared his throat. He didn’t know much of the language but had taken pains to memorise a few phrases. His greeting was delivered with a bow, and on receiving a small nod in return he was encouraged to continue.

  ‘Nǐ yǒu lóng de yáchǐ?’

  The man didn’t move, perhaps pretending not to understand. Schroder repeated the sentence, confident his words and pronunciation were correct. Still nothing more than the flat gaze in return. He lifted his billfold from his breast pocket and slowly removed a single note and placed it on the counter. He bowed and tried again.

  ‘Nǐ yǒu lóng de yáchǐ?’

  The man’s eyes flicked down briefly to look at the purple and yellow bill. After a few seconds he nodded and disappeared behind a string curtain, emerging with a wooden tray covered in a soft cloth. He laid it down on the counter and pulled back two-thirds of the material. He waved his small wrinkled hand over the tray’s contents and said in a surprisingly deep voice, ‘Lóng de yáchǐ?’

  Schroder smiled flatly. His eyes quickly sorted through the tray’s contents, mentally cataloguing the species that the pieces had come from — cave bear, giant deer, a boar the size of a rhinoceros. All excellent fossils, but nothing of real interest to him. He went to push back the cloth that still covered a portion of the tray, but the shopkeeper made a sharp noise in his throat and held his hand up. With the other hand, he pushed the single bill back across the table. His meaning was clear: the covered side of the tray was more expensive.

  Schroder knew the real thing would be. What he sought was unique, and rarely placed in the hands of unappreciative f
oreigners. He bowed again and pulled another two bills from his wallet and laid them on the pile. He made a flat gesture indicating that was all he was going to pay. The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed briefly, then with a flourish that would have impressed a stage conjuror he lifted the cloth to reveal several more specimens.

  Schroder felt his heart thump in his chest. It wouldn’t have mattered if there were a hundred relics laid before him, his paleoanthropologist eyes were immediately drawn to just one. A canine tooth, broken at its base but still easily four inches long from its root to curved tip. With a shaking hand he held it up before him, the breath locked in his chest.

  ‘Lóng de yáchǐ — gāo pǐnzhí.’ The small man pointed one long fingernail at the specimen, obviously satisfied with Schroder’s response.

  ‘Yes, yes… dragon’s teeth.’ He used English without thinking as he brought the fossil close to his face, studying it, mentally calculating, estimating, extrapolating. In his mind, he turned the fragment of a long dead creature into something living — he could see it in all its terrible glory. He held the relic above his head, standing on his toes to reach up above his six-foot-plus frame, adding another four feet to where the mouth would have been.

  He heard the shopkeeper’s voice again. ‘Lóng de yáchǐ. Guàiwù lóng de yáchǐ!’

  Schroder exhaled and lowered his arm. ‘Yes, best quality, but not a dragon. Something just as fantastic.’

  He emptied his wallet onto the counter and leaned in towards the man. ‘Zài nǐlǐ?’ he asked. ‘Where?’

  Present day

  Alex was miles beneath the surface. He stared up at a shimmering mirage of blue light. He clamped his lips shut. Panic was a heartbeat away, and the more he tried to break free, the tighter he was trapped by the black coils of slimy rope that bound his arms and legs, wrapped around his chest and coated his face. He was aware his burning lungs would soon give out, but he dared not open his mouth even to scream, as he knew the mucous-covered strands would find their way inside.

  He was dragged deeper down; his feet sinking into the primordial ooze of the lightless depths. With his last fragments of energy he sprang towards the surface. Last time, last chance — he needed to breathe; he wanted to live.

  TWO

  Southern Appalachians, North Carolina

  ‘I’m cold.’ Amanda Jordan put her gloved fists under her arms and gave a little hop to cross yet another puddle of melting snow, trying to keep pace with the long legs of her new husband. The tiny pink metallic camera she had on a cord around her neck bounced against her parka as she skidded on some dark ice.

  Brad Jordan turned to walk backwards a few steps, the snow squeaking under the tough rubber soles of his new boots. He pulled a face and scoffed, ‘Big baby — and it’ll get colder further up.’ Then added quickly, ‘But it’ll be worth it, I promise.’

  Amanda raised her eyebrows and tried to laugh, but just ended up coughing. She sucked in another stinging breath and exhaled, her breath steaming in the cold, dry air. She grimaced — even stretching her face hurt. When she dabbed her bottom lip with the back of one gloved hand, she saw a dot of red smeared on its waterproof coating. Damn, she thought, regretting not putting on some lip balm before they left.

  Some holiday, she thought grouchily. She felt terrible. Under her bulky clothing, her armpits, back and groin were sweating from the exertion of the climb, but the chilly thirty-degree air was stinging her nose, chin and ears like they were being pricked by a hundred needles. She bet they were as red as beets. If that wasn’t enough, she hadn’t worn her ski cap. Brad liked her thick hair and she’d wanted him to admire it in the sunlight. Now she didn’t care what he thought — she just wanted a big hat she could pull down over her ears to keep them warm.

  ‘Brad, can we at least stop for some coffee soon?’

  He turned and stretched out his arms. ‘Great idea.’ He looked around and spotted a flat rock just off the trail. ‘Over there.’

  Brad shrugged out of the large backpack and lowered it to the stone. He was a big man — six-two, and broad across the back. Amanda often said he looked like a big, jug-eared Ben Affleck. He’d offered to carry everything on their way up and seemed to haul the weight with ease. He eased himself down and patted the rock beside him, then opened the backpack.

  Amanda sat down heavily and frowned. She pulled off one of her gloves and laid her bare hand on the stone. ‘It’s warm.’

  ‘Yep. Sun’s directly overhead, and the stone only needs to catch a few rays to make it a degree or two warmer than the surroundings. Not much, but feels kinda good, huh?’

  He pulled the thermos free and pushed his hand back down into the depths of the backpack.

  Amanda pulled off her other glove, rolled over and hugged the stone, pressing her face to its warm surface. ‘Blissssss,’ she sighed.

  Brad lay down on his side next to her. ‘How’re the feet? We’ve already been trekking for half a day — not bad for a city girl.’

  Amanda rolled onto her back and put her hands behind her head. ‘City slicker, huh? I’m from Greensboro, remember, not New York, and I’ve been hiking before. The feet are just fine.’ She sat up. ‘Now where’s that coffee I ordered, you big moose?’

  He laughed as he handed her a cup of steaming liquid. ‘I forgot, they breed ’em tough in the Boro, and you’re a regular Calamity Jane, aren’t you?’

  She sipped the coffee, and winced as the hot liquid touched her lip. ‘Damn right I’m tough. So, Bill Bunyan, how much further?’

  Brad pulled up his sleeve, displaying a variety of dials strapped to his wrist. He consulted them, then nodded at the landscape. ‘Notice the darker trees, the Fraser fir and red spruce crowns — we’ve been into them for quite a while. Altimeter says we’re at six one-twenty feet — that’s high. Peak’s supposed to be sixty-three twenty-seven… but we’re not going there — way too easy.’

  Amanda’s lip curled in displeasure. ‘Oh really? Brad, I said I was tough, not stupid. I’m cold — how much further?’

  Brad pulled a face back at her and leaned in close, as though worried about being overheard in the isolated wilderness. ‘Did you read about the recent tremors and resulting landslips in the mountains? Well, I have it on good authority that a slip’s opened up a new path to the Black Dome — absolutely the highest point in the whole Southern Appalachians. Think of it — we’ll probably be the first people up there since the mid-1800s… and it’s only a bit further than the lookout peak.’

  Amanda groaned, refusing to be infected by his enthusiasm. ‘Sooo, how much further?’

  He shrugged and turned away to pour himself some coffee, saying something Amanda couldn’t make out.

  ‘What? I didn’t hear you. Come on, Brad, how much higher do we need to go?’

  He turned back to her, his cheeks slightly red. ‘Eight hundred feet.’ He lifted his mug in a salute. ‘Maybe one more hour, max. I promise.’

  Amanda lay back down on the rock. ‘God, where’s the ski lift? You are so rubbing my feet tonight, Bradley Henry Jordan.’

  He tipped out the dregs of his coffee and lay down next to her. ‘I’d have done that anyway — I’ll rub everything, promise. Besides, on the way back its all downhill — eeeeeaasy.’

  She laughed. Putty in his hands, she thought and sighed, knowing she’d just agreed to the extra trek. ‘So how do we get to this Black Dome… and more importantly, is it safe?’

  Brad rummaged around in his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it on the rock next to her and traced some lines with his finger. ‘Here’s where I reckon we are, and this is where we’d normally be able to get access to.’

  The paper showed a rough sketch of the mountain peaks with a trail winding up the east face. It then changed to a dotted line marked with zigzags for rockfalls and an underlined notation that said New Pathway. Amanda noticed some groupings of small red crosses near the mountain’s crest.

  ‘What do these mean?’

  ‘Not
hing important.’

  ‘Well, what? Soda machines, phone booths?’

  Brad cleared his throat. ‘Probably points of interest — lookouts maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘Not sure; it’s not my map.’

  Amanda sat up straight and stared at him for several seconds. He kept his gaze on the map, refusing to look at her even though he must have felt the intensity of her gaze. Eventually he turned to her with his usual infectious grin, his thumb and forefinger held up less than an inch apart.

  ‘This far, that’s all.’

  She nodded slowly, still not convinced he was telling her everything. Still, one more hour can’t hurt, she thought, and tossed him her empty cup.

  * * *

  Brad watched Amanda smack a low branch out of the way as she set off. Even in the bulky cold-weather gear, her tight little figure was visible beneath all the layers. He smiled as he watched for a moment longer, then rolled up his sleeve to check his altimeter and compass again. The dials were illuminated due to the poor light. He looked up and frowned: the sun hadn’t reappeared and the low cloud was darker than he would have liked. If it snowed, or got any colder, Amanda would kill him. The trek was turning out to be miles longer than he’d expected, and now he was thinking that they’d be trekking back in the dark for sure. He chewed his lip. If the advice he’d been given was right, it should be less than an hour now to the landslip that had created a short cut to the top of the Black Dome. Maybe he should lift the pace a bit.

  He hoisted the pack a little higher on his back and adjusted his belt. As he did, the gun he was carrying dug into his gut. The red crosses on the map indicated bear sightings. Seemed the large animals were on the move early this season. On the move away from where we’re going, he thought, which is good. He’d heard that even the wolves had been coming down off the mountain. Even better.