The Time Hunters and the Lost City (The Final Chapter in the Time Hunters Saga Book 5)

by carl ashmore

  Uncle Percy set off toward the town. Everyone followed.

  As they entered the main street, Becky thought El Dorado was as far removed from its gilded namesake as could be. There were twelve ramshackle wooden buildings, all at different heights, making the town resemble a set of crooked teeth. A wide thoroughfare, ankle deep in mud, cleaved the town in two, and the overpowering smell of horse dung forced her to cover her mouth with her hand.

  Then she saw something that made her stomach turn.

  Wooden gallows had been erected at the far end of the main street. A stretch of rope, taut and rigid, hung down from a timber crossbeam, attached to which was a human body which swayed to and fro in the light breeze.

  Winded, Uncle Percy stopped in his tracks. ‘We’re too late,’ he breathed.

  Immediately, Kenneth’s voice cut the silence. ‘Sir, to allay your fears I can confirm that deceased gentleman is not Bruce Westbrook. My Alto-Radar indicates Mister Westbrook is sitting alone in a jail cell over there.’ He pointed at a small building beside a stables overcrowded with horses.

  Uncle Percy exhaled a sigh of relief. ‘Thank heavens for that.’

  At that moment, the front door of a two story building, ‘The Golden Paradise Hotel’, swung open and four cowboys emerged into daylight, each of them wielding a Winchester rifle.

  Uncle Percy turned toward the men. ‘Okay … let’s see if the natives are friendly,’ he muttered to himself, before waving at the men and shouting, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He approached the man closest to him.

  The cowboy was simply enormous with a gut that rippled over his trouser belt and threatened to drag on the ground. His colossal face was aubergine purple with mean, pointy eyes and a thick walrus-like moustache that seemed to contain the remnants of his last five meals.

  The cowboy hacked up a mouthful of phlegm, swirled it in his mouth for a few seconds like a mouthwash, and then spat it on the ground.

  Becky nearly threw up.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Uncle Percy said, taking off his bowler hat. ‘And how are you today?’

  The cowboy said nothing.

  ‘Not in the mood for a natter, eh?’ Uncle Percy said. ‘Very well … then could you tell me the whereabouts of Clint Calhoun?’

  ‘And wha’ you be wantin’ with Mister Calhoun?’ the cowboy growled.

  ‘I intend to complete a business transaction.’

  The cowboy’s expression changed as if this was one of those rare occasions he had an original thought. ‘Where are yer ‘orses?’

  ‘We don’t have any horses.’

  ‘Then how did you get ‘ere, stranger? Ain’t no stagecoach passes thro’ these parts.’

  ‘We walked.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘None of your business. Now where is Mister Calhoun?’

  ‘A man wants business with the boss, tha’ man ‘as ter get thro’ me.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  The cowboy raised the rifle and pressed its barrel against Uncle Percy’s forehead. ‘Yer can call me Mister Winchester.’

  Uncle Percy didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled, reached slowly into his coat pocket and withdrew the gold bar. ‘Then you can call me Mister Bullion. Now put down your little toy and point me in the direction of Mister Calhoun.’

  Astonishment lined the cowboy’s face. He lowered the gun and nodded at a large building with a wide boardwalk, a gaudy false front and plate glass windows. ‘I-in the saloon,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Excellent.’ Uncle Percy turned and walked off.

  Becky trailed Joe and Kenneth as they followed Uncle Percy across the street toward a sign that read ‘The Toecutter Saloon.’

  As they drew closer, a cacophony of sounds swelled in volume, stabbing their ears: a tuneless melody from a worn-out piano, thunderous shouts and ugly, raucous laughter. The smell of whiskey and tobacco as thick as mustard gas, oozed out from the gaps above and below the saloon’s double doors.

  Uncle Percy pushed the doors open, their rusted brass hinges squealing like a wounded cat. As Becky, Kenneth and Joe followed him in, all sound stopped.

  Becky would have considered this quite the cliché if the room hadn’t been overcrowded with terrifying looking cowboys staring back at them, eyes like lasers, hands hovering above their pistols.

  Uncle Percy, however, didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He paused for a reply, but continued when it wasn’t forthcoming. ‘My name is Percy Halifax and I’m here to see Mister Clint Calhoun.’

  The barman, a spindly man with a worm-like moustache looked over. ‘And wha’ ya want with Mister Calhoun, stranger?’

  Uncle Percy withdrew the gold bar and held it in the air. ‘I’m hoping to do a spot of business.’

  Gasps filled the room.

  All at once, heads turned to face a large man with a full beard of tangled grey hair and a deep scar from his forehead to his right cheekbone. He was sitting at a crowded poker table, a toothpick lodged in the side of his mouth. With a jerk of his head, the others at the table stood up and moved to the side wall.

  ‘It seems like you’ve found Clint Calhoun, Mister Halifax,’ the man said.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Uncle Percy replied.

  As they walked over to the poker table, Clint Calhoun stared at Kenneth and gave a spiteful laugh. ‘What’s with the Mexican Midget?’

  ‘His name is Kenneth. And he’s not Mexican,’ Uncle Percy replied politely. ‘He’s English.’

  ‘I don’t like the English,’ Calhoun replied. ‘And why’s his face covered with a sheet? Wus he born a freak or somethin’?’

  ‘He’s shy.’

  ‘I don’t like shy people…’ Calhoun looked at Becky and his lips warped into the foulest grin. ‘And who’s the pretty girl?’

  Uncle Percy did his best to conceal his rising anger. ‘She’s got nothing to do with you. Now … I hear you’re a business man. Do you want to talk business or am I wasting my time?’ He dropped the gold bar, which slammed onto the table with a shattering thump.

  Greed blazed in Calhoun’s eyes. ‘And what kinda business d’ya wanna be talkin’? Yer don’t look like no rancher ter me.’

  ‘I have no interest in cattle. I’m here for Bruce Westbrook.’

  For a moment, Calhoun was stunned to silence, but then the horselaugh that exploded from his mouth was quickly echoed by all of his men.

  ‘You want Westbrook?’ Calhoun crowed.

  Uncle Percy’s face remained impassive. ‘I do.’

  Calhoun burst into laughter again. It took him a further ten seconds before he had calmed down enough to speak again. ‘Yer hear that, boys?’ he shouted. ‘Mister Halifax is ‘ere to purchase Westbrook’s life…’ In an instant, his face turned to stone. ‘Yer ask a lot, Halifax. Fact is, yer ask too much. Yer see, Bruce Westbrook is plumb weak north o’ his ears if he thinks he won’t answer ter me fer wot he’s done … We’ve had one hangin’ today, and me an’ the boys are keen fer another.’

  ‘And that’s your final answer?’ Uncle Percy said.

  ‘Oh, it is, sir, it is. Watchin’ that son o’ a bitch swing is worth all the gold in California by my reckonin’. Now … yer run along from whence yer came, Mister Halifax, coz any friend o’ that deadbeat’s ain’t no friend o’ mine. Or do ya fancy ter join him in the bone orchard?’ In a flash, he pulled free his Colt revolver and aimed at Uncle Percy. ‘Oh, and yer can leave the gold with me.’

  Uncle Percy, however, didn’t appear fazed at all. ‘You’d shoot an unarmed man in cold blood?’

  ‘Won’t be the first time,’ Calhoun replied, ‘and I wouldn’t lose no sleep on it. That’s the kinda fella I am. Now why don’t ya turn around, take your kids and yer midget with ya and get walkin’ before somethin’ bad happens?’ Calhoun got to his feet and stared at Becky. ‘Come to think of it … maybe after all Westbrook’s done ter me I needs me a new wife ….’ He walked over to Becky, his hand moving a few inches from her face. ‘Maybe the
gold isn’t all yer should be leavin’ behind when yer go.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t touch her if I were you,’ Uncle Percy said through gritted teeth.

  Calhoun chuckled. ‘But you ain’t me.’

  ‘No. I am not,’ Uncle Percy replied coolly. ‘And neither is Kenneth. Now I’m going to let you into a little secret - Kenneth is an Electroic Cognivated Gynoid.’

  Calhoun looked confused. ‘A wha’?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘All you need to know is he is not in any way, shape or form, designed to hurt people. For instance, if he fires an electro pulsar blast into your chest, you’d actually experience no pain whatsoever.’

  ‘What’re yer gassin’ about?’

  ‘Let me finish. No, the actual pulsar blast wouldn’t hurt. However, it would propel you thirty or so feet, through that window and on to the street outside. And the landing would hurt… a lot. However, that’s not strictly Kenneth’s fault … that’s just gravity, pure and simple.’

  Calhoun pulled back the pistol’s hammer. ‘Halifax, the only one gettin’ blasted round ‘ere today is you.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Uncle Percy replied serenely, then he nodded at Kenneth. ‘Kenneth … go to work.’

  Faster than the brain could process, Kenneth’s hand shot up and a laser blast erupted from his palm, slamming into Calhoun’s chest, pitching him through the plate glass window and into the street. He landed hard some distance away.

  At the same time, Uncle Percy gripped the poker table and upturned it. He yelled, ‘DOWN!’, and heaved Becky and Joe to the floor, the table shielding them from sight. Just then, the air was thick with gunfire as Calhoun’s men fired countless bullets into Kenneth.

  A few seconds later, the bombardment stopped. A cloud of black gunsmoke fogged the air, making it impossible to see what had happened. As it settled, the cowboys saw Kenneth standing there, unscathed.

  Kenneth smiled politely at his astonished onlookers, and then said, ‘Master Joe, you might well enjoy this...’

  Behind the table, Joe beamed. ‘Go for it, Kenny boy!’ he shouted back.

  ‘Yes, young sir. I believe I shall…’

  Chapter 20

  Break Out

  Kenneth’s arms shot up, parallel to his body, and the tips of his fingers exploded with dazzling light, like firecrackers, each one discharging a light blast at a different target.

  Becky didn’t see any of it. Her eyes were clamped shut, hands tight over her ears, trying desperately to reduce the assault on her eardrums from the cracks as Kenneth’s shots hit their mark. Before she could process any of it, however, the attack was over. Everything went still, silent, like that last few minutes had never happened.

  Kenneth’s cheery voice replaced the pandemonium. ‘You can come out now.’

  Becky glanced at Joe, who exhaled with relief. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she stood up. With the exception of the barman whose face had turned coconut white, the once crowded saloon was empty.

  Uncle Percy dusted himself down. ‘Well done, Kenneth.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Kenneth replied.

  ‘It worked,’ Joe said as though he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘They’ve all been zapped to the past?’

  ‘They certainly have,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘As we speak Clint Calhoun’s men have arrived on Popov Island, eighty one thousand years ago, with only each other and a Delft vase for company.’

  ‘That is awesome,’ Joe replied, grinning. ‘Well done, Kenny boy.’

  ‘Thank you, young sir.’

  Becky jerked her head at the barman, whose mouth was so far open it practically rested on the counter. ‘What’re we going to do with him?’

  Uncle Percy looked at the man. ‘Kenneth, can I assume this man didn’t shoot at you?’

  ‘He didn’t, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘B-Bertie. Bertie Muldoon.’

  ‘First of all, Bertie, congratulations on not resorting to violence … that’s why you’re still here in the nineteenth century. Secondly, there will soon be more gunfire… and I don’t want you to get hurt.’ Uncle Percy searched in his coat pocket and pulled out what looked like a black torch embellished with a series of buttons, labelled zero to nine. He pressed two digits and aimed it at the barman, who stiffened with terror. ‘Nothing to worry about, Bertie. This is a Memoraser and will eradicate the last twenty minutes from your memory. It’s quite harmless and I’m sure you’ll agree it’s for the best.’ The device hummed and propelled a shaft of silver light into Bertie’s eyes, causing them to swirl in their sockets like marbles.

  A second later, Bertie appeared to waken from a deep sleep. ‘W-wus ‘appened? Where’s Mister Calhoun an’ his boys?’ He stared at Uncle Percy as if he had never seen him before. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘I’m a friend. Now I want you to sit on the floor and count slowly to a thousand. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain. You’ll just have to trust me. Furthermore, a severe earthquake will strike El Dorado tomorrow so later on this afternoon you must leave and get as far away as you can. Do you understand?’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

  Uncle Percy paused for a second. ‘Kenneth, remove your mask.’

  Kenneth unravelled the sheet, looping it over his head, until his metallic face gleamed in the dusky light. ‘Hello, Mister Muldoon.’

  Promptly, Bertie’s head seemed to wobble on his neck, and he fainted, his body hitting the floor with a resounding bam.

  Uncle Percy cast Becky and Joe a weak smile. ‘I think he’ll leave town when he wakes up, don’t you? And with a substantial amount of gold.’ He turned to Kenneth. ‘How many of Calhoun’s men are out there?’

  ‘My Alto-Radar states there are seventeen men, sir, excluding Calhoun, who has now entered the gunsmith’s shop. If I may make a suggestion - perhaps you’ll allow me to take care of Calhoun and his men, whilst you rescue Bruce Westbrook. There is currently no one guarding him in the jail.’

  ‘Excellent idea.’ Uncle Percy lifted his key fob to his mouth and spoke clearly into it, ‘Bertha, if you’d care to join us.’

  Becky knew straight away what he was doing. As she had witnessed with Beryl, Uncle Percy’s Hackney cab in 1920s Chicago, the key fob acted as a dog whistle for time machines.

  ‘Go and do your thing, Kenneth,’ Uncle Percy said.

  Kenneth placed his hat back on his head. ‘Certainly, sir.’ He spun round, headed for the doors, threw them open and stepped outside. The moment he did, bullets struck him from all angles, tearing through his poncho, ricocheting off his body. Calhoun’s men had positioned themselves on roofs, behind windows, in the shadowy gaps between buildings.

  Despite the onslaught, Kenneth kept on walking until he reached the centre of the street. Then he returned fire, hitting a cowboy with nearly every shot. Soon, Calhoun’s men were vanishing in blazes of light.

  In the saloon, the thunder of an engine met Becky’s ears as Bertha screeched to a halt just the other side of the saloon’s dual doors.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ Uncle Percy said to Bertha, racing over and pitching open her side doors. Becky and Joe leapt inside as a volley of shots thumped into her bodywork.

  Uncle Percy clambered into the driver’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

  The campervan powered off like a missile.

  Uncle Percy steered Bertha in the direction of the jail. ‘HOLD ONTO THE HANDRAIL!’ he yelled, his fingers gripping the wheel like a vice.

  Unable to breathe, Becky watched the buildings pass in a blur. She saw the jail approaching. It was then she realised Uncle Percy wasn’t slowing down. ‘WHAT’RE YOU – ’

  The sentence was cut short as - SMASSHHHH – Bertha crashed into the jail wall, which shattered in an eruption of wood and glass, slowing her down to a crawl.

  Uncle Percy bro
ught Bertha to a halt in a heavy cloud of dust and powder. He threw open the driver’s door and leapt out. As the dust cloud settled, a voice rang out from behind a barred cell.

  ‘I gawddamn knew it,’ Bruce Westbrook bellowed. ‘As soon as the blastin’ started I just knew it was sumthin’ ter do with my ol’ buddy, Percy Halifax. Dang, if you ain’t as crazy as popcorn on a hot stove.’

  ‘Afternoon, Bruce. How are you?’

  ‘My neck’s cheerier for seein’ you. How d’you know ‘bout me bein’ ‘ere?’

  ‘Pure fluke,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘You got lucky.’

  ‘Don’t surprise me none. I’ve always been as lucky as a fat turkey in January.’

  ‘Where are the cell keys?’

  ‘Big Jim Cartwright’s got ‘em,’ Bruce replied. ‘He ran outta here with his rifle when the shootin’ started.’

  ‘Not to worry.’ Uncle Percy gestured for Becky to join them.

  Becky and Joe jumped out of the campervan and ran over, smiles on their faces. ‘Hi, Bruce,’ they said simultaneously.

  ‘Well ain’t the pair of you just ‘bout the handsomest sight I ever did see.’

  ‘Becky,’ Uncle Percy said. ‘Could you use your telekinesis to break the lock?’

  ‘Sure.’ Becky focussed her energies on the lock. Immediately, the watery sensation filled her skull, seeping into her eyeballs, giving her a strange, otherworldly feeling that now came as naturally to her as breathing. A second later – crack - the lock shattered.

  ‘Wo-wwwie!’ Bruce hurled open the door. ‘I’d heard ‘bout them powers o’ yours but I never in my life saw anythin’ like it.’ He seized Becky in a mighty hug. ‘Bless you, Missy.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Right,’ Uncle Percy said urgently. ‘Let’s find Kenneth and get out of here.’

  ‘Who’s Kenneth?’ Bruce asked.

  Then another voice filled the air, an ugly, enraged growl. ‘I’m ‘bout thinkin’ tha’ question shud be … What is Kenneth?’

  Becky spun round. To her horror, Calhoun was walking toward them, his eyes wild, a double barrelled shotgun held firmly in his grip.