by David Wood
Jack spat on the ground again. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t take your money. If you’re hell-bent on this, you need to turn south and head into the swamp. I don’t know if you’ll find much of a trail once you get there, but that’s the place you should look.” He paused and looked away. “I don’t never go in there. Nobody does.”
“Thanks,” Bones said.
“You see them two pines that are leaning together?” Jack pointed deeper into the woods. “You want to walk right under them and that’ll put you on the game trail that takes you where you need to go.”
“Got it.” The kid didn’t seem the handshaking type, so Bones made a curt nod and turned the group south. He kept his eyes on the ground, watching for signs to confirm they’d been steered in the right direction.
“You think he knows what he’s talking about?” Slater asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“He seems to know his stuff. Worse case, we retrace our steps and find the trail again.” He glanced back over his shoulder. Jack was gone. “He can move in the woods, I’ll give him that much.”
“There’s the two pine trees. The game trail should be right through there.” Dave quickened his pace and moved ahead of Bones and Slater just as they passed beneath the pine arch.
Bones smirked at the cameraman and returned his eyes to the path in front of him. Something wasn’t right.
“Stop!” He dove forward and grabbed Dave by the belt just as the ground disappeared between the cameraman’s feet.
Dave cried out in alarm, his arms pinwheeling as he slid forward, his fall not fully arrested by Bones’ strong grasp.
Slater sprang to Bones’ side and grabbed hold of one of Dave’s flapping arms. “Hold still,” she hissed. Together, she and Bones pulled the young man out of the dark hole that gaped beneath him. Once he was free, he lay back, breathing hard.
What… was… that?” he gasped.
“A Burmese tiger pit,” Bones said, staring down at the dark hole that had been only partially uncovered by Dave’s fall. “You dig a hole, put sharpened stakes at the bottom, and cover it with twigs, leaves, and dirt. Someone comes along and falls right in.” He knelt for a closer look. “This one is deep and there are no stakes at the bottom, just a lot of muck since we’re so close to the swamp. It’s not a killing pit.”
“So what is it for?” Carly asked.
“Trapping. Bones and Slater exchanged a dark look.
“So, was the kid trying to trap us?” she asked.
“I don’t know. How about I ask him?” Bones made to rise but Slater put a hand on his arm.
“Don’t bother. He’s got a head start and you said he moves well in the woods.”
“You don’t think I can catch that little assclown?”
Slater smiled. “I’m sure you can, but it’ll be a waste of time. He’ll just say he didn’t know the pit was there.”
Bones gritted his teeth and gave a single nod. She wasn’t wrong. “It could be that the pit is just there to make outsiders feel unwelcome.” He sighed. “I guess we go back to where we left Jack and try to pick up the trail again.”
“Um, isn’t that a footprint down there?” Carly pointed down the barely-visible game trail. In the middle of a patch of soft earth lay a single, perfect print.
Chapter 7
They set to work immediately, their spirits buoyed by the discovery. While Dave filmed, Slater took measurements and photographs, all the while discussing her thoughts regarding the print.
“This print is fourteen inches long,” she began. “Not as large as most of the alleged Sasquatch tracks, but certainly large enough to be of interest to us. The toes are elongated, with a pronounced big toe. The depth of the toe prints are not uniform, which is consistent with what we would see with genuine footprints. We don’t tend to evenly distribute our weight when we walk, and certain toes dig in deeper than others, just like this print.”
She looked up and motioned for Dave to move in closer. “You can also see that the extremely moist earth has preserved portions of the foot’s dermal ridges. It requires ideal conditions to preserve these ridges, and the fact that we only see bits of a few here actually adds to the possibility that these prints are genuine. With a forgery, you’re likely to see full ridges.”
She then set about making a plaster cast of the print. She placed a cardboard ring around the print, leaving extra space at the heel and toe. Next, she took out a small bucket, a package of plaster of paris, and a large bottle of water. She mixed the plaster and water and stirred vigorously, explaining to the camera that plaster of paris begins to set the moment it comes into contact with water, therefore speed is of the essence when casting a print.
After banging her mixing bucket on the ground a few times to remove the bubbles, she carefully filled the track, starting with the toes and working her way down. She bit her lip as she concentrated on the task, something Bones found very attractive. When she was finished, she explained that the time required for the plaster to set varied depending on the dryness of the ground and air. In this damp environment, it would take a good hour before they could safely remove the plaster, though the curing process would continue for a few days as moisture leached out of the cast.
They took an early lunch while they waited for the cast to set. Despite Bones’ warnings that they should remain quiet, the crew was unable to contain their excitement. They chatted about their television show, wondering if further discoveries would merit a two-part episode. Bones remained silent, chewing on beef jerky and washing it down with tepid bottled water. When Slater finally proclaimed the casting ready, she covered it in bubble wrap, slid it inside her pack, and they headed farther down the game trail.
The air grew cooler and the vegetation thicker as they proceeded into the swamp. The soft earth beneath their feet gave a little with each step, lending to the feeling of heaviness all around them. The humid air seemed to weigh them down, and the moss-draped, leaning trees only added to the sensation as they trudged on through a maze of greens, grays, and browns. Little by little, the shafts of sunlight grew fewer and farther between until it felt like twilight lay upon them, though it was barely midday.
As they moved deeper, the musky, earthy aroma of the swamp gradually gave way to a dank smell. The scent grew stronger and Bones stopped, crinkled his nose, and sniffed the air.
“What is that odor?” Slater’s face twisted into a ‘Tom Cruise just invited me to church’ grimace.
The scent grew stronger, pungent. Bones shook his head.
“I don’t know. It’s not a… get down!”
Bones dove at the television crew, corralling Slater and Carly in his arms and plowing into Dave. The three fell in a heap to the damp earth as a rock the size of Bones’ fist smashed into a pine tree where Slater had stood only moments before.
Something flashed through the undergrowth—a shadow of indiscernible shape, moving from left to right.
“Get behind that log.” Bones pointed to the remains of a fallen tree a few yards away. Slater and her team scrambled for cover while Bones rolled to his left as another stone flew. It struck the earth with a wet slap like a fist hitting flesh, bounced once, and splashed into the stagnant pool behind him. What living thing could throw that hard? Either Craig Kimbrel had gotten lost on the way to Spring Training or Bones was up against something entirely new. He drew the Recon knife sheathed at his side and crawled in the direction where he’d seen the shadow moments before.
What a time to leave my Glock in the truck.
A third stone came flying out from the dense foliage. This one smashed into a rotten stump a foot from Bones’ outstretched hand and stuck there. Bones snatched it free, rolled to his feet, and hurled it with all his might at the spot from which it had come. He heard a slap as it struck something soft, then a deep, chuffing sound that might have been pain or surprise.
Bones let out a roar of defiance and dashed toward the spot, zigzagging here and there to hopefully avoid getting crushed b
y another flying projectile. Up ahead, the underbrush rustled, the sound fading away as their assailant fled.
Bones chased it a good fifty yards before slowing to a trot and finally stopping. He hadn’t seen a thing. Whatever it was that attacked them had simply melted into the forest. It was gone. He supposed he should go back and check on Slater and the others, and then search for any tracks it might have left behind. He sheathed his knife and mopped his brow.
And cried out in surprise when the earth gave way beneath his feet.
Chapter 8
Bones had only a moment to realize he was falling before his feet hit something solid. Or somewhat solid, because whatever it was his feet struck held for only a moment before it gave way and he plunged deeper into darkness. He landed hard on his feet, pain shooting along his legs. A splintering crack split the air, and for a moment he thought he’d broken a leg, but he realized it was the sound of breaking wood. He rubbed his leg and the pain soon diminished, leaving behind only a dull ache at the base of his spine.
He looked around, the dim light shining through the hole where he’d fallen illuminating a circle about ten feet wide. He stood on a wooden floor, its boards covered in a thin film of dust. Beneath his feet, a series of cracks spread outward, and he took a step back just in case more open space lay beneath him. He took out his Maglite and shone it around.
“No freaking way.”
He was inside a ship, probably sixteenth-century by the looks of the cannon his light fell upon. Sweeping his beam back and forth, he saw several more cannons, some still in their tracks, others lying on the floor. This was the gun deck of a large sailing vessel.
He took a cautious step, and then another. The deck supported his weight. Encouraged, he began to explore. The fact that the deck still hadn’t given way beneath all these cannons gave him hope that the structure was sturdy enough to bear the weight of one big Cherokee. He supposed he would find out.
At the far end of the deck, a ladder led up to an open trapdoor. He tested the first rung, found it sturdy, and climbed up. He emerged in another sizeable space. All around, the moldering remains of hammocks dangled from the beams that supported the main deck. Lying on the floor amidst the accumulated silt from centuries of leakage lay the skeletal remains of the crew. Some held pitted swords or rusted knives, while others lay curled in fetal balls.
The ceiling up above was blackened with soot. Apparently the crew had made their homes here after being run aground, but how in the hell had a ship gotten this far inland?
“Must have been one hell of a storm,” he mumbled.
He shone his beam down to the far end of the deck, where a door hung haphazardly on broken hinges. That would be the officers’ quarters. He picked his way across the deck, reluctant to tread on the remains of the deceased. As he skirted the bones of the soldier nearest him, he did a double-take.
The back of the man’s skull had been smashed in, leaving a baseball-sized hole.
“What in the…” He knelt for a closer look. The back of the skull had been caved in. Fragments of bone lay inside the hollow of the cranium. Whatever had delivered the fatal blow had compressed the skull. The victim had died lying face-down, and as the soft tissue decayed, the fragments of bone had simply fallen into the hollow space once occupied by the brain.
“Sorry, bro,” he said. “That’s a nasty way to die.”
He stood and resumed his careful trek. It quickly became apparent that every member of the crew had died in the same way—their skulls crushed by a blunt object. He shivered, the fresh memory of flying stones strong in his mind. This ship had been here for a good four hundred years. Could there possibly be a connection? He didn’t want to believe it, but he knew better than to dismiss the improbable.
“Bones!” Slater’s voice called out from somewhere above. “Where are you?”
“I’m down here!” he called. “But don’t come any closer. The ground’s not stable.”
He moved toward the hole through which he’d initially tumbled, but before he could get there, a pair of hiking boots slid through the opening, followed by trim, deeply tanned legs. Slater!
“Hold on a second. There’s a hole right below your feet and you’ll fall through if you’re not careful. Believe me, I know from experience.” He hurried over to her, stumbling over the rib cage of a dead sailor. He reached up, grabbed Slater by the waist, and guided her down to the deck.
Her eyes grew wide as she took in their surroundings. “Where are we?” she marveled.
“Inside an old sailing ship. I’m not sure what kind, exactly.”
Slater rounded on him, hands on hips. “A sailing ship? Underground? Are you winding me up?”
“Nope. Check it out.” He swept his light across the deck and over the remains of the crew.
“Wow!” Slater gaped, her voice soft and her eyes wide. “How do you think it got here?”
“The only theory I can come up with is one hell of a hurricane carried them inland and they got stuck here when the water receded. It looks like they decided to live inside the ship. You can see they had fires in here.” He pointed to the blackened beams up above. “Over time, it sank down into the swamp and the mud preserved it.”
“This is amazing. I don’t care if it has nothing to do with the skunk ape, it’s still going to make for an amazing story.” She turned and barked out a sharp command. “Dave! Carly! Get down here. I want this all on video.”
“Be careful,” Bones called. “Let me help…”
With a hollow crack, the main deck above them gave way again and Dave came crashing down on top of them. Bones managed to wrap his arms around the young cameraman and partially slow his fall, but Dave still landed hard on his backside. Bones froze, wondering if the force of the fall would cause the deck to give way again. This time, it held.
Carly followed, more carefully than her colleague. Bones sat her down lightly on her feet, and she stared in wide-eyed amazement at the macabre scene.
“This is like a haunted house,” she breathed.
“More like the Pirates of the Caribbean ride,” Dave said, climbing to his feet. “You know, the part where they all turn into skeletons?”
“How about we focus on doing our jobs?” Slater rode over her crew’s conversation. “You can talk about amusement parks later.”
“Sorry.” Dave’s gaze dropped to the floor, but he brightened almost immediately. “This is going to be some of the best footage we’ve ever gotten.” He made a slow circuit of the deck, recording every inch of the bizarre scene. He lingered over the fire pit in the center. The crew had piled a thick layer of sand on the deck to prevent the wood from catching fire. Chunks of bone poked out of the silt and ash. When Slater was satisfied that they had enough footage, they moved on to the officers’ quarters.
Inside, they found more skeletal remains, all with smashed skulls.
“It’s strange,” Slater observed, “that some are lying curled up in a ball. Do you think they just curled up and waited to be killed?”
“Possibly,” Bones said, “if they were frightened enough. We don’t know how long they holed up here. It’s possible some of the crew were already dead from malnutrition or disease, and whoever did this to them bashed their heads in just to make sure.”
“Scary stuff.” Slater led her crew around the cabin, commenting on the few artifacts she found lying about. The officers’ personal effects were few, but among them were knives, rings, Spanish coins, and crumbling bibles. “It’s clearly a Spanish galleon. And the fact that things like this remain,” she held up a fat gold coin, “proves that we are the first to find it. If its presence had been discovered before, it’s almost a guaranteed the valuables would be long gone.”
They ascended to the captain’s cabin, which lay just above the officer’s quarters. The door was wedged closed, and Bones finally resorted to main force to smash open the top half of the decaying wood.
“Looks like somebody blocked themselves in,” he said, looking down
at the footlocker and small chest that pushed up against the base of the door. But that wasn’t the only thing that had held the door fast. Here, the intrusion of years of silt was clearly evident, as a thick layer of dried black muck caked the floor. Bones climbed over the remaining portion of the door and then helped the others in.
The captain lay on his bed, his empty eye sockets gazing up at the ceiling. Dave moved in with the camera while Slater resumed her hosting duties.
“At first glance it looks like the captain also had his skull smashed.” She pointed his shattered left temple. “But that isn’t the case. If you look at the other side of his head, you’ll see a smaller hole. And then there’s this.” She pointed an object half-buried in the muck. “It’s a pistol, lying roughly where it would have fallen from limp, dead fingers.”
“So he barred himself inside and took his own life.” Dave said the words slowly as if trying to convince himself of their veracity.
“Whatever was outside that door was more terrible than the prospect of suicide.” Slater turned to Bones. “Can you tell u anything about the gun?”
“It’s a matchlock.” Bones knelt beside the weapon but left it untouched. “The matchcord, which was just a burning wick, went here,” he pointed to the hammer. “It came down and hit the flash pan which ignited the gunpowder. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“Does the type of gun give us any clue as to the age of the wreck?”
Bones nodded. “By the early 1600s, matchlocks were out and flintlocks were in, so this is probably sixteenth century.”
An inspection of the captain’s truck revealed little of interest, but the small chest was filled with coins, many of them silver and gold. Bones resisted the urge to pocket a few. Maybe when the camera was no longer rolling.
“Where to next?” Slater asked.
“All the way to the bottom,” Bones said.
“What do you expect to find down there?”
He grinned. “The cargo hold.”
