by Steve Perry
In Bushido, the samurai’s code of behavior, sneak attacks were allowed—and should be expected. If an enemy leaped out of the bushes and cut you down, you had no one to blame but yourself. You knew you had an enemy, and you knew a bush could conceal him. Until he was no longer among the living, he was always a threat, and even gone he might have family or comrades who would avenge him.
Death was not a concern—the way of the samurai was found there—but being caught unprepared? Dishonorable, that, and worse than mere death.
Efreye Village, Zile Muri-yo
The village was bigger than Indy would have guessed. Forty, forty-five small huts, bamboo with palm-thatched roofs, along with a couple of larger communal structures of sturdier wood, one of which was the bathhouse. In the tropics, the heat, humidity, and sweat combined to make you feel pretty grubby even after one day, and a wash would feel good.
The villagers had cooking fires going. They didn’t rush over with enthusiasm to greet the new arrivals, but neither did they start shooting, and Indy saw several shotguns leaning against walls or trees. Subdued was the word that came to mind.
Of course, it was getting near dark, and subsistance villagers generally had long days just to keep food on the table, so maybe they were all tired. Indy was tired, for certain.
Marie introduced them to Batiste, a tall, well-built man of perhaps thirty with dark skin and a very white smile, who wore old but clean and mended khaki trousers and shirt, with a bandanna tied around his forehead. He sported a machete as long as his arm and a holstered pistol on his belt as well as a short lever-action rifle. Batiste spoke French, Creole, English, and whatever the locals mostly used, which seemed to have a lot of glottal stops and a definite singsong tonality to it. African roots, to be sure.
“Bathe or eat first?” Marie asked.
“I’m good either way,” Mac said.
Indy shrugged.
“I think I will use the bathhouse,” Marie said. “Batiste will provide you with food and show you a hut for the night.”
Marie headed off, and Batiste said, “Gentlemen, this way please.”
They followed him to a hut. There was a kerosene lamp inside, short-wicked but bright enough to reveal a circular room sufficient for four or five people to bed down. The floor was of packed earth, no furniture save for some rolled-up sleeping mats. The door was heavy bamboo, and there was a hardwood bar on the inside that slid into hoops on the wall to keep company from walking in unexpectedly.
Indy took notice of that but said nothing.
Back at the large communal fire, people were eating roast beast and some kind of tuber, and both Mac and Indy took wooden platters and served themselves. The meat was good, juicy if a little tough, and seemed vaguely like pork. The tubers tasted like a cross between a yam and a carrot. There was some kind of spicy ale-like drink. Indy had eaten a lot worse. He recalled once drinking an alcoholic brew made by the women in a village in South America—one that was fermented by the women spitting into it. He’d eaten fried scorpion and beetle larvae, too.
Finicky archaeologists didn’t last long, but there were things even the stouthearted would avoid when they could.
Indy wandered around, cataloging the village with an anthropologist’s gaze. Definitely subdued. He didn’t see any small children, and every person he passed, man or woman, would glance at him, take heed of him, and then look away. Not much on foreigners, these folks.
He found himself standing outside one of the larger structures, and even though the big window was covered by a sheet of yellow cotton, he could see the glow of a lamp inside.
A woman moved in front of the window, backlit by the lamp. He couldn’t see details, only a silhouette on the shade, but he could tell by the motions that she was combing her hair, and that she didn’t seem to be wearing any clothes.
This would be the bathhouse, then. And in all likelihood, that would be Marie.
Despite the juicy meat he was still eating, Indy’s mouth seemed suddenly very dry. He turned away. He didn’t want to seem a peeping Tom. Not that he could see anything, not really—but there was nothing wrong with his imagination . . .
Easy, Indy. The woman is young enough to be your daughter. But, said a little voice inside his head, she’s not, is she?
And there is something she’s not telling you. Might be wise to keep your distance, hey?
Next to the ebbing campfire, Indy, Mac, Marie, and Batiste sat or squatted, drinking a bit more more of the local brew. Indy had washed—the bathhouse consisted of a planked bamboo floor and a couple of barrels of clean water. You soaped up, using some kind of local plant to make a lather, poured dippers of water over yourself until you were rinsed clean, then dried with several small towels, which were not much larger than washcloths. The water ran down you, through the slats, and onto a slightly angled floor that allowed it to drain into a small ditch. You blotted what remained and came away with the dirt and sweat cleaned off. It wasn’t a giant, claw-foot enamel tub at the Ritz, but it did the job.
Citronella candles burned, filling the night air with an acrid, lemony-smelling smoke that kept the bugs from swarming you while you stood there wet and naked. This was typical of tropical bathing houses, and looked much like those Indy had seen in Indonesia, where people would wash this way daily, sometimes more than once. There was a jar of lotion near the door, the bug stuff, he guessed, and he slathered on some of that. Didn’t smell too bad, and was less oily than 6-12.
At the fire again, Mac said, “So, you feel confident that you know our destination?”
Batiste shrugged. “Confident, monsieur? No, I cannot say that. There is a place, nearly as far from here as it can be on the island. Nobody goes there, and the story is that bad ju-ju awaits anybody who dares. My father told me this, his father told him, and his father told my grandfather.”
“Never curious?” Mac asked.
“My father had it that anybody who neared the place would go blind, his flesh would rot, his family jewels would fall off, and he would be damned to spend ten thousand years chewed on by ants. As a boy, I was not curious enough to test it.”
“Hmm,” Mac said. “I can understand your reluctance.”
Batiste said, “I am less afraid of such things now. I have some protection against curses.” He reached up and gripped something unseen under his shirt.
“Any idea what it’s supposed to be?” Indy asked. “This place?”
“No. The story speaks of a gris-gris there—what the form is, they do not say. Only that the site is cursed and horrors await unwary visitors.”
Indy nodded. Of course. What else was new?
He knew those terms: Ju-ju. Gris-gris. They came out of Africa, and generally referred to fetishes imbued with magic. Sometimes small leather bags of things blessed by a witch doctor, fingernails, hair, stones, animal teeth, but they could be other items—skulls, bones, or jewels. A black pearl would fit in.
Once, when he was young and thought he knew it all, Indy would have scoffed at such things as magic. He was a scientist, an educated man, not superstitious. But—after dealing with the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail? Seeing men—and a woman—turn into big spotted cats? A dragon? Only an idiot would continue to ignore the possibilities. Science did not have all the answers, and whatever else he might be, he wasn’t an idiot.
Well, not most of the time . . .
“How long do you think it will take us to get there?” That from Marie.
Batiste shrugged again. “I cannot say. We must go through the densest forest—the cliffs on the south side and the northeast corner of the island are impassable on foot, there are ravines and vertical rock faces, so we cannot bypass the jungle that way. We might take a boat to the southeast point and try to ascend the cliff there, but the sea offshore is full of jagged coral reefs, bad currents, and rips, and teems with sharks. More than a few boats have been wrecked on that coast. There is a dead zone in the water—you know the term Langmuir circulation? No fish swim in
it, and a man who drowns there will float in circles for days or weeks until his body rots. Not even the crabs will feed on him.”
“Nice,” Indy said.
Batiste continued: “If we went that way, did not founder, and managed to make shore, the climb would be difficult and risky at best. The rock is rotten—it seems solid, but it can crumble under your feet. Men have fallen attempting it, and carrying supplies and without training? I would not try it.”
“So we take a hike in the woods,” Indy said.
“Oui. There are a few trails for the first part, but the terrain is rough and rugged all the way, beset with streams, rocks, gullies, and most of it heavily forested. We must move with caution.” He paused. “There are many dangers in the jungle.” He glanced at Marie.
Indy caught the look. Marie gave no indication that she had.
Batiste said, “It will not be—how you say?—a walk in le parc.”
“We can walk in the park at home if that’s all we want,” Indy said.
“Two days, three?” Batiste shrugged yet again. “It will take as long as it takes.”
“And on that note, I’m going to turn in,” Indy said. “We want to get started early, while it’s still relatively cool, right?”
Batiste nodded. “Oui.”
“It has been a long day,” Mac said. “I believe I will sack out as well.”
“See you in the morning,” Marie said.
Indy watched her walk away.
He shook his head. A thing of beauty was a joy forever, and it had been a long time since he had passed this much time with an attractive woman who wasn’t trying to kill him . . .
Gruber’s scout reported back, and the doctor noticed that the fellow, a pale-skinned blond, had mosquito bites all over his face.
Gruber looked at Schäefer, who nodded. It was Gruber’s operation.
“Herr Braun, tropical insects carry a number of unpleasant diseases. Why is your skin not coated with indalone?”
“Colonel Doktor,” Braun said, “the repellent has a distinct smell. I did not wish for someone with a sharp nose to catch the odor as I spied upon them and perhaps wonder as to its source.”
Gruber shook his head. Well. You had to give the SS elite their due. That they would suffer was a testament to their stoicism; that they would consider it necessary indicated intelligence and proper training. All reasons why the Reich would eventually prevail. Truly dedicated men would do whatever was necessary for victory, that was the German way.
Too bad the kaiser had not realized this in the Great War—Germany would now run the world and Gruber would not have to be in this particularly nasty part of it . . .
“Very good, Sergeant. I have a lotion for you to treat the bites. Your report, please.”
Sergeant Braun nodded. “Our quarry is at the local village, and they seemed to have bedded down for the night. The two men are in a hut. The woman is in a different hut, alone. A group of locals have collected gear from the store and returned it to the village.”
“And your guess as to their intentions?”
“They will leave the village in the morning. Early, first light, to make best use of the relative coolness before the day heats up.”
Gruber nodded. “Any signs of the Japanese?”
“I did not see any, Doktor. One of our men remains hidden, watching, but trying to trek through the jungle any distance in the dark would seem unlikely. If the Japanese are about, they will likely stay where they are for the night.”
Gruber nodded. Yamada and his people were here, which was bad. Then again, if Gruber’s men had not seen them, perhaps they had not seen the SS troops, either. The advantage might be his—he knew Yamada was here, but Yamada might not know he was.
Any advantage was a good one. Always.
“Good work, Sergeant.”
After Braun and Schäefer had departed, Gruber lay down upon his cot in the small tent. It was dark, and the day’s heat was still oppressive, no breath of wind stirring. Even with a net over the tent’s doorway, insects had gotten inside, and their incessant buzzing was annoying. His repellent kept the bugs from biting him, but their small noises made sleeping difficult. Well. He would have to get used to them, wouldn’t he? They might be here for several days, and staying awake that long would hardly be likely.
TEN
INDY WAS BEING chased by somebody—Nazis, agents of Kali, some South American werecats, all of whom were yelling or roaring for his blood. He moved as if his legs were mired in glue, so s-l-o-w-l-y! but he managed to get to a building and inside. He slammed the door behind him, but his pursuers began pounding on the portal, on the walls, trying to break in—
Indy came awake suddenly, aware of a drumming noise.
Where was he—?
He looked around, saw Mac getting to his feet, drawing his little pistol from his pocket. The dim light of a kerosene lantern suffused the inside of the little hut. Right, yeah, the village—
The hammering on the door and walls grew louder. It vibrated the building, shaking the place like an earthquake.
“What the hell is going on?” Indy said. He reached for his own gun.
Mac shook his head. “I don’t know. But I see why that bar for the door was installed, and I’m glad I slid it into place!”
The pounding grew yet louder, and its sound was joined by something else, a kind of monotonic drone, like that of a man-sized bumblebee.
Oh, man! Now what?
The bar on the door seemed to be holding, but both Mac and Indy pointed their guns in that direction. Whatever it was—or whoever it was—if it came through the door, it was going to be dining on lead . . .
Abruptly, the pounding stopped. The drone continued.
“What the devil is that?”
“Some kind of chant, sounds like,” Indy said.
The sound started to fade.
“Moving away,” Mac said. “Let’s have a look.”
“Are you crazy! Get away from there!”
Too late. Mac already had the door halfway open.
Indy gripped his revolver tightly, his hand sweaty.
Mac stuck his head outside. “Oh, my.”
“What?”
Despite himself, Indy stepped forward to look.
The village fires had all died down, but there was enough of a moon and stars in the clear sky so that they could make out forms moving away from the hut. People, five or six of them, shambling, walking in a slow shuffle.
Who were these guys?
Beyond them, Indy saw Marie. She stood there, dressed in a long white robe, her arms spread wide, speaking softly in a language he didn’t recognize.
Indy pushed the door open and stepped outside. He started for Marie.
Batiste appeared as Indy neared the young woman. “Do not break her concentration, monsieur!”
“What is going on?” Indy said. “Who the hell are these people?” He waved his revolver at the retreating forms.
Marie, Indy saw, had her eyes closed and was still speaking softly. She had what looked like a cross drawn in dark paint on her forehead.
Mac apparently didn’t hear what Batiste had to say:
“Marie?”
Indy looked at Mac. “Shh!”
Too late. Marie’s eyes fluttered open. Then they rolled back, revealing nothing but white, and she collapsed onto the ground.
Passed out—
The drone Indy had heard began to rise again.
The retreating forms stopped, turned around, and began to move toward them.
“Back off!” Indy yelled, pointing his gun at the closest one.
Batiste said, “She has lost them! Help me with her! We must get inside the communal house!”
They, whoever they were, kept coming.
Indy aimed at the nearest one. “Okay, you asked for it!”
He squeezed the trigger. The revolver’s roar was very loud in the night. He saw the man take the bullet, saw the impact, saw it punch a hole in the cloth of his sh
irt over his chest—
—but the wound didn’t bleed. And the guy never slowed a step, he just kept coming in that shuffling walk—
Oh, damn—!
“Help me with her!”
Indy squatted and helped Batiste lift Marie, who was out cold and deadweight. Batiste got her over his shoulder and stood. “This way, quickly!”
Mac fired three fast rounds from his pistol—bam-bam-bam!
Then Indy saw Mac blow by him, headed for the communal building.
What—?
“Our visitors seem to be bulletproof!” he said in passing. “I’ll get the door!”
Well. This explained the big supply of ammunition at the store, didn’t it? How many shots did it take—?
Inside, Mac shut and barred the door as Batiste laid the inert form of Marie onto a pad.
Indy looked around and realized that the place was full of villagers. All of them standing and watching, not saying a word.
The pounding began.
“Some water,” Batiste said. “We must wake her.”
Somebody came forward with a bamboo cup. Batiste sat Marie up, poured the water over her face.
She awoke, sputtering. Looked at Batiste with a glare that would have melted stone, then her face cleared. “I am okay. Give me room.”
Batiste stepped away and motioned for Indy to do the same.
Marie stood, wiped her face with her hands, and began to speak again. Softly, musically. The tone had a hypnotic quality, lulling . . .
The hammering on the door stopped. The drone of the voices from outside began to fade. In the light of the lamps, Indy saw that the water had partially washed away the cross painted on Marie’s forehead. Only it didn’t seem to be paint. He was pretty sure that it was blood—
Yamada was only half asleep when he heard the soldier rush into the campsite. The man’s voice was low but excited to the point of hysteria. Yamada came up, grabbed his Nambu pistol, and opened the mesh flap over the tent’s door. “What is it?”
