The Phantom

by Rob MacGregor

“Drums,” Breen said.

  “I know that. But . . . what’s it mean?”

  “Nuthin’,” Quill hissed. “Doesn’t mean nuthin’.” He looked over at Styles lying facedown and the corpse resting in its niche, its empty black eye sockets staring ahead. “But hurry up, c’mon, let’s get outta here.”

  SIX

  The pounding of the drums grew in intensity and echoed through the rain forest. The thunderous beat reached into a hidden cavern decorated with a distinctive skull motif. The drum’s message alerted its sole inhabitant, beckoning him from his hidden lair. But the man remained seated on his throne. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but he was awake and aware.

  He was seeing, hearing, feeling the jungle’s reactions to the drums. Flocks of birds took flight as the beat intensified. Monkeys screeched and swung in packs from tree to tree. A lion lifted its head to listen. Crocodiles basking on the banks of a river, skidded into the water and drifted through the sunlight. The wind howled through the trees and seemed to cry out, Phan-tom, Phantom . . . He heard and saw all of it and more.

  He followed the message inscribed in the beat of the drums and listened to the guidance of forest spirits. Intruders were pillaging a sacred burial place. In his mind’s eye, he saw the cliff and the secret entrance to the cave. He knew exactly where it was. He felt a sense of urgency and blinked open his eyes.

  He stepped away from the Skull Throne and slipped from the shadowy depths of the cavern. His sharp eyes were masked. Like another layer of skin, a purple bodysuit fit his powerful form, rising up over his head in a tight hood. At his waist was a double-holster gunbelt with a skull insignia on the front, and on his feet were black riding boots. The skull ring on his right hand completed the distinctive ensemble.

  “Devil, our help is needed again,” the Phantom’s deep voice resonated.

  A gray Bangallan mountain wolf rose to its feet and lumbered after its master into the forest. There the Phantom whistled softly and a white stallion pranced over to him. He leaped onto its back, slipping his feet into the silver stirrups. A gentle tap at the stallion’s sides sent the horse galloping down the trail, the wolf loping gracefully in his wake.

  The Phantom rode with the wind at his back and breathed in the warm, humid air. It smelled rich, familiar, with all the odors he associated with home. He enjoyed riding Hero, enjoyed the freedom of the outdoors, but at the same time he steeled himself for the confrontation with the grave robbers.

  He had no idea who they were, but he would find out soon enough. He urged his mount on, and they dashed through Whispering Grove en route to the sacred crypt.

  The Phantom arrived at his destination just in time. He watched from a sheltered place as three grizzled men emerged from the cave. One held a black leather satchel close to his chest. The other two carried cloth sacks that looked as if they were heavy with loot from the cave.

  The sight of intruders desecrating any burial site usually enraged the Phantom to action. But this place was special to him, literally a part of his heritage. Among the ancestors resting within the crypt was Buli, the great shaman-priest of the Touganda, who long ago had initiated an outsider into the tribe’s ancient lineage of power.

  “I never thought I’d be glad to see this jungle again, but that place gives me the creeps,” said a man wearing a battered Panama hat.

  “At least that crazed drumming has stopped,” said one with a skull tattoo on his cheek. He took out a cigar and bit off the end of it. “I never cared much for restless natives.”

  At that moment, the Phantom urged Hero forward and the white horse thrashed through the underbrush, hoofs thundering against the turf. Just as the men turned to see what the commotion was about, the majestic stallion reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air several feet over their head. They threw up their arms and scrambled back, panicked and confused.

  “What the heck is that?” Panama Hat yelled, staring up at the purple being.

  “Shoot him!” shouted Skull Tattoo as the cigar fell from his mouth.

  The short stocky man pulled a machine gun from the sack and fired wildly. The Phantom ducked, and with blinding speed drew both of his pistols and fired back. The machine gun flew from the man’s hands.

  “Oh, no!” shouted Panama Hat.

  “Run!” Skull Tattoo yelled.

  The three men darted into the jungle. Hero bolted after them, but the underbrush slowed the horse and gave the men an edge. But not for long. The Phantom found a narrow trail and sent the stallion charging down it toward the man who had fired the machine gun. The gap quickly closed. The man looked back at the horse and dropped his sack of booty to lighten his load. But he was still no match for Hero.

  Without breaking stride, the Phantom reached down, grabbed the man by the back of the collar and jerked him a foot off the ground. The man’s short legs pumped uselessly in the air as the Phantom carried him forward and he screamed in terror.

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  Then he saw what the Phantom had in mind as a huge tree trunk loomed ahead. “Noooo!”

  The Phantom slammed the man’s head into the trunk so hard he would be seeing stars for years to come. He dropped the looter and turned to the wolf. “Watch him, Devil. If he moves, eat him.”

  Devil remained behind as the Phantom galloped onward in pursuit of the other two.

  Quill and Morgan, gasping for breath, burst out of a tangle of jungle and onto the road where the truck was parked. They clambered into the cab; Quill cranked the engine and slapped the accelerator to the floor. The engine promptly flooded. “C’mon, start, you sonuva . . .” The engine popped and rumbled to a start.

  Morgan’s head snapped this way and that, looking for the weirdo on the horse. “What about Breen, man? We can’t leave him back there.”

  “Tough luck. Forget ’im.”

  “What kind of Bangallaman was that back there?” Quill ignored him. He knew exactly what they had just run into, but he didn’t want to think about it right now. It just didn’t make sense. No way could he accept what he’d seen. He’d already killed Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom was dead.

  The truck groaned as he spun the steering wheel and swung into a U-turn. Finally they roared away and Quill patted the leather pouch, feeling the skull inside. It wasn’t exactly a perfect operation, but it was a successful one as far as he was concerned. Mr. Drax would be very pleased. Maybe he’d even get a second skull tattoo to match the one he already had.

  The Phantom knew the jungle—its darkest places, its secrets, its rivers, and the spots where roads intersected. He took the shortest route to the road in order to head off the grave robbers before they reached the rope bridge.

  He rode hard, but Hero was tireless. When he finally emerged on the road, he spurred his mount and galloped ahead, knowing he had outdistanced the truck.

  As he passed underneath a tree, the Phantom stood up in his stirrups and grabbed the lowest branch. He flipped himself over it with the agility of a gymnast and disappeared into the tree’s foliage. Hero raced on down the road.

  Quill gripped the wheel tightly, shifted gears, and stomped on the gas pedal. The truck bounced hard on its bad springs. He’d forgotten all about the rope bridge, but he’d deal with that when the time came. For now he was content to put as much distance as he could between himself and that purple nightmare.

  Morgan was finally catching his breath. He wiped his face and neck with his bandanna, then tossed the sack of gemstones through the opening behind him, into the cargo area. It landed next to Zak, the young native guide, who was still bound and gagged.

  “You know something about that guy back there, don’t you, Quill? What’s going on? Who is he?”

  Quill took out a new cigar and stuck it in his mouth. “He’s somebody I already killed.”

  “What?”

  “It was years go, before your time. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “He didn’t look very dead to me.” Morgan glanced back uneasily, making sure the pu
rple rider wasn’t gaining on them.

  Quill mulled over his last encounter with the Phantom. He’d bled like anyone else, and he’d died. No doubt about it.

  “You may have thought you killed him,” Morgan said, interrupting the silence, “but you must’ve only wounded him, Quill.”

  “I killed him. Period.”

  “Well, guess what—he’s back!”

  “He’s behind us, don’t worry about it.”

  The Phantom crouched low on the branch as the truck approached and waited until the last moment. He timed his leap perfectly and landed on the truck’s hood with a loud thump. He looked straight through the cracked windshield at the two men.

  “Hey, Quill!” Panama Hat shouted. “He’s right in front of us!”

  The cigar dropped from Quill’s mouth. “Holy . . . Shoot him, Morgan! Hurry! Shoot him!”

  Morgan pulled out his gun and fired. The windshield shattered and the Phantom tumbled off the right side of the hood.

  Morgan knocked the jagged slivers of glass from the windshield with the handle of his gun. “Did I get him? You see him anywhere?”

  “I don’t see him. You musta hit him. Unless he fell off. He’s done for, anyhow.”

  “Maybe we should go back and be sure. We’ll finish him off if he’s still breathing.”

  Quill thought about it, but not for long. “Forget it. Let’s just get out of here.”

  The Phantom squatted on the passenger-side fender. Then, staying low, he sidled onto the running board. Suddenly, he sprang up and slammed his fist through the glass, striking Morgan in the side of the face and knocking him senseless.

  In a single swift, fluid motion, the Phantom opened the door, grabbed Morgan’s limp body, and hurled him into the jungle. Then he took Morgan’s place in the passenger seat.

  “Sorry about the window,” the Phantom said. “It couldn’t be helped.” He jerked his thumb toward the smashed side window.

  Surprised but unfazed, Quill swung his shoulder pouch at the Phantom. It struck him against the face. Whatever was inside was hard and heavy. The Phantom shook off the blow and grabbed the satchel by its strap. He jerked on it; Quill jerked back. A brief tug-of-war ensued, and that was when the Phantom spotted a spider-web tattoo on Quill’s forearm.

  Quill twisted and pulled on the pouch, trying to steer the truck at the same time. As he did so, the silver skull rolled out and across the seat.

  The Phantom, already stunned by the sight of the tattoo, was briefly distracted by the skull. In the instant that the Phantom lost his concentration, Quill’s hand slipped into the pouch. He pulled a knife and slashed at the Phantom, stabbing him in the side.

  The pain was sharp, bright, excruciating. The Phantom grabbed the wound and Quill slammed his elbow into the Phantom’s jaw. He was flung backward through the open passenger door and nearly tumbled out. Just in time, he grabbed the door frame, pulling himself part way back into the truck.

  “See ya, pal,” Quill said. “Keep the truck. It’s all yours.” With that, he scooped up the skull and bailed out the door.

  The Phantom glanced up; the truck careened onto the rope bridge, out of control. It would never make it across the bridge. But if he leaped out, he’d plummet into the deep gorge to the rocks below, to an instant death.

  SEVEN

  The front wheels of the truck slipped off the wood planks and the Phantom was pitched out of the cab. But he grabbed the open door again and clung to it as the truck shuddered, stalled, and stopped in the middle of the bridge.

  The bridge’s ropes creaked as it swung above a deep gorge. An endless gorge. If he believed the native lore, then nothing could hurt him, even a plunge from this bridge. But the Phantom knew better. Carefully he shifted his weight and the door swung inward.

  He pulled himself back inside the truck. But the shift of his weight caused it to rock, and the bridge swayed like a tree in high winds. The Phantom looked down only once, but it was enough. His head spun; he nearly puked. The stab wound in his side ached and throbbed. He was losing an alarming amount of blood, and he couldn’t think straight enough to figure out what to do.

  He knew this bridge well, and he knew that it wasn’t strong enough to hold a truck for long. But how much time did he have? Seconds? Minutes?

  He looked through the canvas opening in the back of the cab and was shocked to see a native kid, bound and gagged on the floor of the cargo area. The Phantom struggled toward the opening, climbed through it, and moved over to the kid.

  His side shrieked as he untied the boy. The truck kept rocking, the bridge swaying, his stomach rolling. They moved to get out. The bridge wouldn’t last much longer. Already a part of him could feel its ropes fraying, giving way to the weight.

  “Ghost Who Walks!” the kid gasped as the Phantom pulled out the gag. His eyes had widened with amazement, and he literally looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “You saved me.”

  “Not yet, I haven’t. Who are you?”

  “Zak.” He pointed to the Phantom’s wound and spoke rapidly in Bangalla.

  “Sticker bush,” the Phantom said, dismissing the injury, yet sucking in his breath at a stab of pain.

  A sharp crack echoed through the air; it sounded like a tree splitting in half and jerked the Phantom to full awareness. The truck jerked to one side.

  “The bridge is breaking,” Zak whispered as though the softness of his voice might somehow prevent this from happening. “We need to get out of here.”

  “I know.” The Phantom’s voice sounded more casual than he felt. A gnawing anxiety ripped through him. “We really should be leaving.”

  The truck jerked again, followed by an outbreak of popping and snapping as ropes and vines broke apart, like the crackling of a thousand fires. It tilted to the right, balancing on the edge of the bridge. The Phantom and Zak slid feet-first to the wall. The bridge was now a huge rope swing, swaying under the weight of the truck, moaning like a creature in pain. Then it twisted and the truck flipped over as the Phantom and Zak tumbled onto the canvas roof.

  The truck now seemed to hover above the abyss like a wad of spit in the wind. It was held in place by nothing more than a tangle of ropes and vines.

  The Phantom quickly assessed the gravity of their situation, and it was about as bad as bad could get. The canvas roof was the only thing between them and the abyss. If they didn’t escape, it meant the kid would never see sixteen, and the Phantom’s own death would spell the end of a four hundred-year reign.

  Then the truck stopped moving. The moaning ceased. Air escaped through the kid’s clenched teeth. “I think it’s okay now,” the Phantom said.

  As soon as he spoke, the rotting canvas started to rip apart. The tear spread quickly, unzipping their floor, leaving a gaping hole. Zak started slipping and shrieked, “Help me, I’m falling!”

  His legs vanished through the opening, then his chest and head disappeared. The Phantom lunged for him, grabbed his hand. But the hole ripped wider, and the Phantom tumbled through the roof after him.

  As the abyss rushed toward him and the wind whistled in his ears, the Phantom’s arm shot out and hooked a vine that hung several feet below the bridge. He carefully pulled Zak up onto his back. As they dangled underneath the truck and above the gorge, the Phantom reached up with his free hand and grabbed the vine. The truck shifted. The bridge squeaked and groaned.

  More ropes snapped, and one whipped the Phantom’s leg. Wood planks flipped through the air, just missing their heads. The Phantom gripped the vine more tightly and tried to calm Zak, who was clinging tightly to him. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Zak squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not afraid with you here.”

  You should be, the Phantom thought. He felt blood oozing down his side, over his hip, down his leg. Fast, he thought. The bridge jerked twice under the weight of the truck. The remaining ropes were starting to unravel.

  The Phantom saw one chance. The vine on which they were hanging was connected on one side to the wall o
f the gorge and on the other to the bridge. He pulled out his gun and fired. The bullet snapped the vine’s connection to the bridge, and they swung free just as the bridge broke apart. The tangle of ropes and truck and vines plunged down scarcely a second after they sailed out of its path and landed on a narrow spit of rock that was barely wide enough to stand on.

  The Phantom looked down as he heard the truck smash against a dry riverbed far below.

  “Ungabo!” Zak exclaimed.

  “You can say that again!”

  The Phantom caught his breath, pressed a hand to his injured side. Hanging from the bridge had opened the knife wound even more. He had lost more blood than he cared to think about. His head started to spin again, black stars exploding in the corners of his eyes. He knew he was about to pass out. He dropped to his knees and leaned against the wall.

  “What’s wrong, Ghost Who Walks?” Zak gave him a quizzical look as if he didn’t understand that the Phantom could feel pain or sustain an injury.

  “I’m just a little tired, kid. As soon as I get my second wind, I’ll be all right.”

  He wanted to close his eyes and sleep for a while, but he knew that would be a big mistake. He might never wake up. With an effort, he pulled himself to his feet. He raised his head and looked at the steep cliff rising in front of him. It was nearly vertical, a smooth wall of rock that extended at least a hundred feet to the rim. They were clear of the bridge, but they weren’t out of the abyss. Not yet.

  He felt woozy and tried to focus his mind and reach into the depths of his stamina. But his knees buckled and he collapsed against the wall again.

  “Ghost Who Walks, why don’t you fly out of here like they say you can do?”

  “I don’t fly, Zak,” the Phantom said as he focused his wavering vision on the vine they had swung on, which hung down from the rim. In ordinary circumstances, climbing up the vine would be a snap, even with Zak on his back. But right now he wouldn’t make it up more than a few feet off the ledge.