Dark Resurrection

by James Axler

  But it wasn’t enough.

  As Doc Tanner had said, there was hell to pay.

  “For Garwood,” Ryan snarled. “For Garwood Reed…” Grunting from the effort, the one-eyed man slammed the governor-general’s disfigured head against unyielding rock again and again, until the skull finally shattered and flew to pieces. Blood and brains splattered across Ryan’s face and forearms.

  In disgust, Ryan hurled down the rag-doll corpse. As he pushed back from it, his hand brushed the saber al Modo had dropped.

  “Here, Chucho, take his blade,” he said, rising to his feet. He groped a hand in the dark, trying to find the shoulder of his look-alike.

  Before he made contact, a second explosion shook the darkness, this one much closer, much more devastating. The initial shock wave dropped Ryan hard to his knees. In the same instant it wrung an agonized groan from the corridor’s stone ceiling; with a resounding crack it started to cave in.

  A blast of rock dust swept over him. He heard terrible screams. Then something hit him in the head and he passed out.

  Gasping for air, he came to. For a moment he was disoriented. It was black as the pit of hell. He knew he’d hadn’t been unconscious long because the air was still thick with dust. He tried to move his legs and couldn’t; something heavy had fallen across them just above the knees. He reached down and felt the slab of limestone that held him pinned. He tried to move the rock, but it wouldn’t budge. The saber had fallen somewhere in the dark, so he couldn’t use it to get leverage.

  “Chucho?” he called, choking on the dust when he drew breath. “Chucho, are you okay?”

  There was no answer.

  “Chucho!”

  No answer.

  Ryan felt a slight breeze across his cheek. A steady breeze. Which could only mean an exit to the outside had been opened—either the main door, or a breach in the perimeter wall caused by the explosion. He wasn’t the only one who felt the wind and understood what it meant. He could hear red sash and priest survivors stumbling around, turning face-first into the breeze, following it to find the way out. The sounds of their bootsteps grew fainter and fainter.

  A couple of minutes later a flurry of bullets whined down the corridor. There were no gunshot reports. Just bullet flights, zinging and skipping off the stone walls. Someone was firing a silenced automatic weapon. What that meant Ryan had no clue. But he guessed it probably wasn’t good.

  As he tried to free himself again, and again failed, he heard strains of music coming toward him out of the dark. He recognized the instrument and the tune at once; and from the instrument and the tune, the musician. A wide smile spread across his face. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted as loud as he could, “Tom! Tom! This way!”

  A tiny glow appeared in the center of the all-encompassing blackness; it seemed to be a long ways off, but Ryan knew the distance could have been an illusion in the absence of landmarks. The dim light approached, bobbing up and down. It was so faint it didn’t illuminate the sides or ceiling of the corridor. That was because of all the dust in the air. As it got closer, a tightly focused beam grew brighter. It speared through the dark, spotlighting a half-naked man sitting on the rock-and-body littered floor about thirty feet away from where Ryan lay trapped.

  “Ryan?” said a familiar voice.

  “Wrong twin, Tom,” Ryan said. “That’s Chucho. I’m over here. Can’t move my legs out from under this rock.”

  The light turned and pinpointed him. He shielded his good eye from the glare with a hand. The light turned back to Chucho.

  On the other side of the hallway, the double quickly rose to his feet, his manacle nunchakus cocked back. “You know this man?” he asked Ryan.

  “Hell, yes, he knows me,” Tom said, playing the spotlight’s circle over the unmoving human forms half hidden by limestone cave-ins. “I’ve come to break both of you out of this shit pit. Help me get the rock off him so I can finish the job.”

  Together the three of them shifted the slab. As Ryan tested his legs for injuries, Tom set his duffel bag on the floor. From it he took two headlamps, which he gave to Ryan and Chucho. As they adjusted the straps, he dug out a pair of beat-up, Argentine knock-off .45-caliber blasters.

  In the light of his headlamp, Ryan checked his pistol’s mag and then eased back the slide until he saw brass to make sure a live round was chambered.

  “Now let’s go surprise the others,” Tom said to Ryan. “Can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when I waltz up, big as life.”

  Hammer locked back, his index finger resting against the .45’s trigger guard, Ryan said, “Krysty, Mildred, Doc, J.B. and Jak were taken away last night, right after the parade. They were separated from the rest of the galley slaves and marched onto a black ship that was docked at the fort. It sailed off, don’t know where to, but they’ve been gone almost twenty-four hours now. We’re wasting precious time, let’s get out of here.”

  “I have to do something first,” Chucho told him.

  Ryan and Tom watched as he returned to the cell, took a set of keys from the belt of a dead red sash, then walked down the hallway. He unlocked the next cell in the row, freeing the man inside. He spoke softly to the prisoner in Spanish, first handing him the ring of keys, then giving him his headlamp. The man nodded enthusiastically, pulled on the light and hurried off into the dark.

  Chucho cupped hands to mouth and shouted down the corridor after him. Whatever he said, it set the rest of the prisoners cheering and chanting his name.

  When the look-alike returned to Ryan’s side he explained, “I told our neighbor it was his duty to let all our brothers go free. I told our brothers it was their duty not to live their restored lives in vain, but to take back what has been stolen.”

  In a matter of seconds the hallway started echoing with the sounds of cell doors clanking back.

  Then the familiar anthem started up again, this time with a new ferocity.

  “Catchy little tune,” Tom said. He hummed along with the refrain as they headed toward the exit, three abreast, blasters at the ready.

  Ryan’s spotlight picked up crumpled human forms at the foot of the wall, forms in red robes. The ring of illumination played over what was left of Itzamna, the spider priest. His cone hat and blood veil had gone missing, and half of the top of the right side of his head was blown off, from midcrown to temple. Above the corpse, a black splotch of pulverized bone and brains glistened on the wall. Ryan was satisfied with the outcome, even if he didn’t get to do the honors himself, face-to-face.

  The farther they advanced toward the exit, the less dust there was. By the time they reached the anteroom, the air had cleared. As they headed for the doorless portal, Ryan said, “What about red sash reinforcements coming across the bridge?”

  “The Bridge of the Last Sigh,” Chucho said.

  “It’s gone,” Tom told them. “I dropped the far end of the bridge in the water when I blew off the door. The men in the fort will have to swim across the channel to help out. And they won’t do that because they don’t have a clue what’s going on. I made sure none of the prison guards got out alive.”

  “But they can still shoot at us across the gap,” Ryan said.

  “Shut off your headlamp,” Tom said as he turned off his own. “I’ve got the dinghy tied up and waiting outside. Don’t make any noise. We need to scoot out of here without attracting attention to ourselves.”

  With that, the trader led the way, slipping out the front entrance.

  Ryan followed close on his heels and felt the fresh salt air hit his face. He sucked it deep into his lungs. The combustion lanterns scattered here and there along the fort’s ramparts glowed pale yellow. They didn’t throw a strong enough light to expose the channel or the prison island’s quay.

  No more than five minutes had passed since the explosions at the bridge and prison portal. Ryan knew the red sashes were thinking the fort was under a concerted attack. Something they didn’t seem prepared for. He could sense the chaos on t
he battlements. Officers were yelling orders. Lanterns were hurried back and forth. All to no apparent avail. The militiamen were afraid of more demolition on the perimeter. They wanted to keep out of the line of fire. This made defending the walls a challenge.

  Chucho and Ryan hustled into the dinghy. Tom pushed off the bow, then hopped in. The little boat drifted in the dark while the trader picked up the oars. Soundlessly, he turned the dinghy and then began to stroke for the end of the channel.

  As they glided along, Ryan watched the battlements above, blaster in hand. He knew that firing from the dinghy was a desperation measure. It came right before jumping over the side. Shooting would give away their position. Caught in the channel with no cover, they would be turned into bullet sponges.

  The bellowed commands from the red sash officers and the shouted-back answers from the militia covered the soft splashes of the oar strokes.

  As the tiny boat slid out of the channel and into the protected finger of the bay, Tom rowed harder, really putting his back into it. He only eased off after they had reached the quay and the tied-up vessels on the opposite side. Rounding the corner, putting the pier and the boats between them and the fort’s line of sight, Tom spoke, slightly out of breath from the exertion.

  “Turn on your headlamp for a second,” he told Ryan. “Keep me on course. Don’t want to run into anything.”

  Ryan flicked on his lamp, lighting up a narrow strip of black water off the bow. He suggested Tom veer to port a bit, then shut off the lamp. Every few minutes he repeated the procedure, keeping them away from tethered boats and the shoreline, until he saw the familiar masts of Tempest. She sat moored broadside to them, dead ahead. Ryan shut off the light and left it off.

  When they got close, Tom shipped his oars and let the dinghy glide up alongside the hull. He paused, listening for any unusual sound from above, as did Ryan and Chucho. There was nothing, just the creak of the rafted boats rubbing against their fenders and the edge of the dock. They hooked the dinghy to the davit cables and one by one climbed aboard Tempest amidships.

  Only when all three were on deck was the trap sprung. A gruff voice growled an order at them in Spanish.

  “Hold it,” Tom told Ryan and Chucho.

  The warning was unnecessary as they couldn’t see anybody to shoot at.

  More Spanish came at them, from the stern it seemed.

  A lantern suddenly appeared at their feet, its light-proof cover pulled off, apparently by a hidden cord. The weak glow illuminated the three boarders, but little else.

  “He says we’re outnumbered,” Chucho translated. “He says to put our guns on the deck and our hands on top of our heads.”

  “He could be bluffing,” Ryan said, his trigger finger itching. “We don’t even know if he’s armed.”

  Chucho rattled off a terse reply. “I asked him why we should do what he says.”

  A verbal command from the stern caused four other shielded lanterns to be revealed. In the additional light, Ryan could see that there were three red sashes hunkered down in the cockpit, and three others crouched on the far side of the cabin. All of them held blasters braced and leveled.

  The red sashes whispered to one another, repeating a phrase Ryan knew well. Los gemelos heroicos.

  “It’s all right,” Tom said. “Let’s do as he says. Don’t worry, I’ve got this deal covered.”

  Ryan couldn’t see how that was possible, but the trader had gotten them this far, against worse odds. Besides, the only other options were bad and worse: a one-sided gun battle or a late-night swim leaking blood from a dozen buckshot holes. When Harmonica Tom put down his submachine gun and revolver, Ryan did the same. Chucho reluctantly followed suit.

  The leader of the red sash boarding party stood in the cockpit; the others remained behind cover with their weapons trained. The lanky, hatchet-faced man ordered Ryan, Tom and Chucho to come aft; this they did with their hands on top of their heads. The red sash stopped them short of the cockpit, then reached down to the deck and uncovered a shape hidden by a canvas tarp. To make sure they could see what lay there, he picked up the lantern from the companionway roof and held it close.

  Ryan recognized the remains of a human corpse. It had been savagely mauled, gutted from gullet to goobers, arms chewed down to the bare bones, leg bones gnawed off in ragged stumps at the knees. The still-wet crimson sash over its shoulder looked almost black in the lantern light.

  “Goddamn hammerheads,” Tom muttered. “It’s Bob.”

  “Who?” Ryan said.

  “Bob Tothesurface, the red sash I chilled and sank with a couple of concrete blocks yesterday. Before the lights went out, he must’ve popped up. Somebody found what was left of him, mebbe even these triple stupes.”

  The leader snarled something at the captives, jabbing his double barrel at them for emphasis.

  “He says he’s taking us back to the prison,” Chucho said. “He says there will be a big reward for our capture and promotions all around.”

  “You tell him something from me,” Tom said. “Tell him this word for word. There’s an even bigger reward waiting for him and his pals belowdecks, in the cabin. They probably don’t want to have to share it with the priests. Tell him they can have it all to themselves if they let us go.”

  “They can have it, anyway,” Ryan said. “We can’t stop them.”

  “That’s the point I want to get across. It’s theirs for the taking. Just tell him what I said. Tell him I’ll unlock the companionway door for him.”

  Upon hearing the offer, the leader stepped back and waved Tom forward, down into the cockpit with him. As the trader lifted the padlock on its hasp, he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

  “All hell’s about to break loose,” he told Ryan and Chucho. “Get ready to make your move.”

  Tom lifted off the lock and put it in his pocket. He took hold of the door and opened it halfway, then paused. Impatient to get on with it, the leader grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him out of the cockpit, back beside Ryan and Chucho. Eager to see what the big prize was, the other red sashes rose from cover and moved aft.

  The leader ordered two men to keep the prisoners in their sights, while the other three packed in behind him, very excited, indeed. Picking up the lantern from the deck, the leader threw back the door all the way.

  Heavy automatic fire thundered from belowdecks, howling, up-angled hell that Ryan could feel right through his boot soles.

  It blew through the edge of the top step, through-and-throughing the four red sashes, ripping them to shreds. In the strobe-light flashes of sustained autofire, the disintegrating bodies cakewalked in reverse, puppet-jerking out of the cockpit, tumbling backward over the stern rail. The sounds of their splashes were lost in the ravening din.

  The PKM continued burning rounds until it came up empty.

  That took less than ten seconds.

  In the meantime, Ryan, Chucho and Tom jumped the remaining two very surprised red sashes. Their shotguns seized by the barrels, a head butt and an elbow strike, respectively, freed the weapons from their grasp. Then Tom and Ryan turned the scatterguns on their former owners, firing point-blank into their guts. They, too, toppled backward over the side.

  Trapped blaster smoke boiled out of the companionway door. The roar of autofire echoed across the bay.

  “Cast off! Cast off!” Tom told Ryan and Chucho. “There’s no way we’re going to sneak out of here now.”

  Ryan made for the bow; Chucho untied the stern. As the one-eyed man coiled the line on the foredeck, Tempest’s engine rumbled to life.

  “Ryan, I need you back here!” Tom shouted as he backed the sloop away from the pier, spinning the helm hard over.

  To Chucho he said, “Throw those goddamned lanterns over the side. Do it quick!”

  When Ryan jumped down into the cockpit, Tom hit the cabin’s light switch. “Go below,” he said. “Disconnect the trip wire from the PKM. Then reload it. There’s a couple of 100-round magazines on the gall
ey table. Bring the weapon and extra mag up here. We need to put the sting back in Tempest’s tail.”

  Ryan ducked down the steep steps. The footing on the cabin deck was treacherous: spent hulls had rolled every which way. The sloop did a K-turn and accelerated forward; Tom was heading for the harbor entrance as fast as he could go. After unwinding the wire from around the pistol grip and trigger, Ryan dumped the empty magazine and slapped in one of the full ones. Then he released the PKM’s pivot mount from the tripod. Snatching up the extra mag, he lifted the thirty pounds of gun and ammo to his shoulder and carried it up the stairs.

  Tom shut off the cabin lights the moment he appeared on deck. “Use your headlamp to mount the blaster,” he told Ryan. “Then shut it off.”

  Outside, Tempest was sliding through inky blackness. Behind them, as Ryan fitted the PKM into its swivel rail mount, he could see the dim lights along the fort’s ramparts, and brighter wag head-and taillights moving between the fort and Veracruz, but the going directly ahead was almost as pitch-dark as it had been in the prison. The overcast skies had reduced visibility to practically nothing. The green beacon light that marked the entrance had been extinguished. Tom was sailing by the seat of his pants. After he’d locked the heavy blaster in place on the stern rail, Ryan turned off the headlamp.

  Almost immediately loud cracks and piercing whistles rolled over the water from the direction of the fort. High over the harbor, a quartet of red signal flares burst, one after another. As they slowly descended, they cast enough light for Ryan to see one hundred yards or more ahead.

  They cast enough light for the fort’s gunners to see the sloop making for the end of the peninsula and the open sea.

  “Fuck!” Tom said, looking up at the bright pink lights.

  The fort’s cannons punctuated his comment, with more booms than cracks this time. The volley of shells plowed into the sea well ahead and behind them, detonating with stunning force and sending plumes of smoke and water and red-hot shrap skyward.