The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3)

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Alexei stopped short and knelt to pick up something off the floor. It was a small strip of green fabric, partially soaked in blood. He turned it over, brought it up to his nose, and sniffed it. “Looks like someone had a rougher night than you, son,” he said holding it up to Vasili. Alexei folded the fabric and slid it into his pocket. He began to stand when something caught his eye. Vasili followed his gaze to a small pool of black sludge. Dipping two fingers into the puddle, Alexei scooped up the ooze and placed in it his mouth, tasting it. Grimacing, he stood up and began to walk toward the exit. “I have to talk to the Twins.”

  • • •

  Jethro’s body was on fire, shivering despite the furnace within. He blindly stumbled into his hotel’s bathroom, flipped on the faucet, and tentatively sipped water from his palms. Black bile singed the back of his throat, an aftereffect of several hours’ worth of sickness. Coughing, Jethro wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth and sank to the floor. The bite wounds on his arm pulsed rhythmically, wrist to shoulder growing increasingly stiff. He cautiously pulled back his impromptu bandages, cancerous black veins spreading over his arm like a spider’s web. He couldn’t tell if he had days, hours, perhaps even minutes left before he would succumb to the venom.

  Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his remaining radioactive salts, the vial only three-quarters full. While he had used the salts to heal minor injuries in the past, there was no assurance it would work now, but he was rapidly running out of options. He bit down on the cork and yanked it free, pouring half of its contents onto his injured arm. His arm ignited as salt met the wound, the black and green pus foaming white. Fighting back a scream, he swallowed the remaining salts, the crystals lancing his throat. Seconds passed before he felt the first burst of energy tear through his body, like knives stabbing him from within as the salts went to war. He convulsed to the floor, foam sputtering from his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head, but instead of the blissful blackness of oblivion he found the unblinking eyes of Cthulhu.

  Jethro screamed in horror, praying for release.

  • • •

  The Oberführer chewed the inside of his cheeks as he watched the doctor examine the glowing green artifact beneath a microscope. Gottschalk stood by, watching with childlike curiosity, while Hirsch paced the other side of the tent, nervously hugging his body, reminding the Oberführer of a schoolboy fearfully awaiting his marks.

  The artifact, which the doctor called the Shard, was a fascinating archeological find. To the naked eye it appeared to be nothing more than a serrated piece of shattered green crystal long ago attached to an ornate golden hilt, turning it into an archaic blade. Dried blood could be seen within the crystal’s crevices, giving it a maroon hue. What was perhaps most disquieting was the low thrum and the unearthly glow emanating from the crystal’s opaque center, as if it were moments away from detonation.

  “Yes… Yes… Here they are…” Hammond murmured.

  Gottschalk leaned closer. “Have you found them?” he asked excitedly.

  The doctor grimaced, but didn’t remove himself from the microscope. “Shh… Herr Obergruppenführer… It’s distracting.”

  Gottschalk took several steps back until he was standing next to the Oberführer.

  “What is he looking for, sir?” the Oberführer asked.

  Gottschalk responded in a hushed voice. “The blade is covered in microscopic writing; nearly every centimeter, from base to tip. Apparently, there is some sort of ‘incantation’ inscribed somewhere on the blade.”

  “How is that even possible?” the Oberführer asked in disbelief.

  “Skill,” the doctor replied, his eyes glued to the microscope as he scribbled on a pad with his right hand. “Amazing, amazing skill, or perhaps technology not seen on this planet for a millennia.”

  “Again with the ‘little green men,” the Oberführer huffed.

  “And once again, Herr Oberführer, I never said anything about ‘little green men, ’” the doctor said as he turned to his compatriots. “And unfortunately, Herr Obergruppenführer, what I found is not an incantation, rather it is something much more…” he stroked the tuft of hair on his chin. “…valuable.”

  Gottschalk’s eyebrows shot up with genuine interest.

  The doctor smiled. “Would you like to take a look yourself, Herr Obergruppenführer?” he said, gesturing to the microscope.

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor,” Gottschalk said with a slight bow of his head before walking over to the microscope.

  Hammond turned to face the Oberführer as Gottschalk peered into the lens, a cold smile on his scarred lips. “Do you see them, Herr Obergruppenführer?” the doctor asked.

  Gottschalk frowned in uncertainty. “Yes… What are they?”

  “Numbers,” the doctor replied, while keeping his eyes locked on the Oberführer. “Or at the very least, an archaic representation of numbers. Each number is indicated by the position of dots in a specific quadrant of a cross, moving counter clockwise. A single dot in the right hand quadrant equals one, a dot in all four quadrants equals ten.” He lifted his pad and showed the Oberführer and Hirsch the string of “numbers” he had copied from the crystalline blade.

  “Sounds complicated,” Hirsch said, speaking up for the first time in hours. Hammond shrugged. “I never said it was simple, now did I?” Gottschalk looked up from the microscope. “That’s all very well and good, Fredrick, but what do these numbers mean?” The doctor cleared his throat. “Have any of you heard the phrase:

  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn?”

  The Oberführer shivered, but remained silent. He had heard the phrase before.

  Gottschalk absently scratched his cheek. “Sounds like that gibberish those Twins were mumbling the other night.”

  “Almost. Theirs is a crude bastardized version of the language, spoiled over time,” the doctor said as he paced the tent. “No, this is a pure example, uncorrupted. Written before the world was divided and savage.”

  “What does it mean?” Gottschalk asked.

  “‘In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.’”

  “And, what does that mean?” Hirsch asked.

  “‘Prophecy’ is one word, but… ‘promise’ would be more appropriate.”

  The three Nazi officials stared at Hammond in silent bewilderment until the Oberführer audibly cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, Herr Doktor,” he began, “that you have us at a loss.”

  The doctor placed his hands behind his back and gave them a wry smile. “The Twins, as you call them, are members of a very ancient cult that worships beings known as the ‘the Great Old Ones, ’ who, they believe, came out of the sky centuries before man walked the Earth.”

  “Little green men?” the Oberführer said again, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  Hammond let out a sinister laugh. “According to myth, the Great Old Ones were massive cosmic creatures from outside our…” the doctor waved his hand as he searched for the word, “ ‘reality.’ There are differing accounts as to what exactly the Old Ones looked like, but one thing that is consistent is that the very sight of them would drive a man to insanity.”

  “Sounds like a lovely bunch of gods, Herr Doktor,” Gottschalk commented. “Personally, I prefer mine with a flowing white beard and toga, but once again you fail to enlighten us. What does this all have to do with the Shard?”

  “The story goes that at some point before the rise of man, the Old Ones were imprisoned deep inside the earth; but being cosmic entities, they never really died. The cult believes,” the doctor continued, “that the greatest of the Old Ones, Cthulhu, is locked away in the lost city R’lyeh, waiting for the stars to align so he can awake and free the other gods to reign over this realm once again.

  “There are differing accounts as to how or why the Old Ones were sequestered from this world. Some say it was done by the Elder Gods, while others contend it was beings known as the Outer Gods. Most believe it was the Old Ones who ch
ose to seal themselves off from our reality for reasons we cannot comprehend. However, I believe it was the power manifested by the Jade Tablets that defeated them. This Shard,” he said, indicating the glowing blade, “is the key to R’lyeh and a piece of the final Jade Tablet, once thought lost to the ages…”

  The Oberführer’s stomach dropped as he listened silently.

  “It is the key to giving Germany the power of the gods!” Hammond continued with growing excitement. “I am certain that the numbers I found are the ancient coordinates to R’lyeh, which, if my calculations are correct— and they are correct—translates to: south forty-seven degrees, nine minutes, by west one hundred twenty-six degrees, forty-three minutes.”

  The Oberführer forced a laugh. “South forty-seven degrees, nine minutes, by west one hundred twenty-six degrees, forty-three minutes?” he repeated. “That’s the middle of the ocean.”

  “Just north of the Antarctic!” Hammond said with a manic smile, his voice rising with every word. “And yes, you are correct, Herr Oberführer! You could tread water there for days and not see anything beyond the darkness of the sea. But, in a few days’ time the stars will align and the lost city will rise from the ocean depths. And once we have the Third Jade Tablet we can gain entrance into R’lyeh and we will be able to mold the world as we see fit!”

  The German officials fell into a brief silence as they considered the doctor.

  “This all sounds like the ravings of a madman!” the Oberführer finally exclaimed. “First the ‘Jade Tablets’ and now you speak of ancient alien gods and lost cities? This isn’t some young boy’s adventure story, Herr Doktor! I cannot deny the blade’s craftsmanship nor can I ignore its improbable luminescence, but what you are saying is insane!” He looked to Gottschalk for another voice of reason but found only silence—the Obergruppenführer would not speak against the Führer’s orders.

  Hirsch softly cleared his throat. “Herr Doktor, do you have any proof of these claims?”

  The doctor gave Hirsch a warm smile. “Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer. I do.” He lifted the Shard off the microscope, the crystal ringing as it moved through the air. He whispered three words, “Na’petta R’lyeh fm’ta,” and stabbed the blade forward. The sound of tearing flesh echoed around them as they watched the blade cut a three-dimensional hole in the air. Hammond reached over, curled his thin fingers around the ragged edges of reality, and tugged open the walls of existence like a torn curtain, revealing the terrifying world beyond.

  Hirsch let out a whimper as he stumbled back, his skin pale. “Mein Gott,” he breathed in horror.

  • • •

  “That’s a mountain,” Jean observed.“Nothing gets past you,” Aïas said dryly.

  The pair stood at the base, gazing up at the snow-capped peak. Under normal circumstances this sight would mean little to a girl with Montana running through her veins, but Jean knew they weren’t just taking in the scenery. She ran an exasperated hand through her hair. “You’re gonna ask me to climb a mountain. You never said anything about climbing a mountain! Why would you hide something on top of a mountain?”

  Aïas furrowed his brow. “Thought that would be obvious.”

  “Try me.”

  “Because no one can get up there.”

  Jean nodded her head sideways, conceding the point. She looked up at the mountain and tried to calculate the height. She thought she could see something at the summit, almost like a building with glowing white pillars, but before she could get a better look, a cloud moved past and it was gone.

  “How far up?”

  “Top.”

  “I hate you,” she grumbled as she stormed off.

  “No. No, you don’t,” he said under his breath. “Not yet.”

  • • •

  “So, where is this chap you wanted us to meet, my good man?” Ken asked.

  Petros gulped down a shot of whiskey and shrugged. “Probably out doing whatever it is he is doing, so help yourself to a drink.”

  Ken looked over at Caraway. “What do you think, old boy?”

  “Yar,” Caraway said, an aggravated smile plastered on his face.

  “Two scotches, my friend,” Ken called to the bartender, who responded with a quizzical eyebrow.

  Petros shouted in Greek and the bartender quickly obliged, sliding them two glasses across the bar. Ken caught his easily, but Caraway succeeded only in batting it over with his fingers, spilling most of the liquor.

  “Your friend seems to be having a little trouble there,” Petros commented.

  “Uh… yes,” Ken began. “Lost his eye recently, I’m sad to say. Seagull, you see. Just came down and plopped it out,” he said, miming a bird’s beak attacking his right eye, ending with a demonstrative pop! He turned to Caraway. “Isn’t that right, old boy?”

  “Yar…” Caraway grumbled. He missed New York, but more than anything, he found himself, not for the first time, missing Francesca. He had so long ago given up on their marriage, that there was the promise of a new future together was exhilarating. To be dragged halfway across the world so soon after their renewed commitment just felt unfair. But he hadn’t been dragged… Not really. He could have told the Lama no, turned on his heel, and headed straight back home. But he didn’t. Sure, he had groused and complained, but he had climbed aboard that airship all the same. He hadn’t even hesitated a step when the gangplank came down. Maybe it was just a side effect of working with the Lama, or maybe it was just the badge, but had he been given the same option a hundred times, he knew he would have made the same decision a hundred times over. He sighed. Francesca was definitely going to kill him.

  But not before he killed Ken first. Watching the actor work undercover was a grating experience at best. For all his bluster the boy was clearly over his head, but here they were, dressed up like a couple of dime store pirates so they could… do what, exactly? Find out what happened to Jean? See if anyone knew about this ‘Kookookachoo’ monster? Caraway shook his head. All this supernatural hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo was beginning to get to him, and if this was really tied to Brickman’s golem and the creatures from the Bartlett… What he wouldn’t give for a simple fistfight right now.

  “American, yes?” a woman said behind him.

  Caraway turned begrudgingly on his barstool to find himself face-toface with one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was slender, dressed in a simple yet attractive dress that showed off her figure while revealing nothing. Her raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a thin strand hanging over her left eye. She took a slow drag of her cigarette before she reiterated: “ American, yes?”

  “Yes,” Caraway replied, unintentionally dropping his cover. “How could you tell?”

  “The slouch. Americans always slouch when they drink, like they are lifting heavy weights.”

  Caraway ran his eye up and down her arched back. “And I take it you’re not American?”

  “Is my accent that bad?”

  “It’s pretty noticeable,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “Pity. You would think with all the Limeys and Yankees passing through here I would have at least picked up the accent.” She eyed Caraway as she took another drag of her cigarette. “So, are you going to offer me a drink or am I going to have to ask myself?”

  “You’re on your own, sweetheart. I don’t speak a lick of Greek and the bartender over there doesn’t seem to understand a drop of English.”

  “Iapetos, µ ορεί εσείς να δ σει σε ένα κορίτσι ένα οτό?” the woman called. The bartender rolled his eyes as he poured her a glass of whiskey and slid it over. Deftly catching the glass, she gulped down the amber liquid in a single swig. Caraway had to admit he was impressed. “So, you are with the Limey?” she asked indicating Ken with wave of her cigarette.

  “Billy Shakespeare over there?” Caraway said with a frustrated smile. “Yeah, I’m with him. Not that I have much choice.”

  She frowned, considering Ken as he chatted endlessly
with Petros. “He likes to talk.”

  Caraway laughed. “You noticed that too, eh? Loves the sound of his own voice.”

  Her lips subtly curled at the corners. “What is your name, American?” she asked with a cloud of smoke.

  “John,” Caraway said, raising his glass.

  “Pleasure to meet you, John. Sotiria,” she said with a nod. “What brings you to the beautiful rock of Samothrace?”

  “Work, as in lack of and searching for.”

  Sotiria tilted her head. “Bad time to be looking for work, no?”

  Caraway shrugged. “Not like we have much choice.”

  Sotiria breathed in smoke. “No, I suppose we do not,” she said quietly.

  “Pretty crowded for this time of day, isn’t it?”

  Sotiria looked over the mass of people crowding the bar. “Yes, it should be slower, but then again, we all have something in common.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Work, as in lack of and searching for.”

  “Don’t tell me you worked the docks like these creeps,” he said indicating the riffraff behind him.

  Sotiria raised an eyebrow at him. “I think I should take some offense at that, John.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “None of these men are creeps. Except for those over there,” she said, indicating a particularly rancid group of men. “They are disgusting.”

  Caraway allowed himself a smile. He liked this bird, maybe because she reminded him so much of Francesca. Or probably because she didn’t.

  “But yes,” she continued, “I work the docks. Not in the way you think. I saw the way your eye moved, John. My father was a fisherman, and when my mother died, he brought me aboard. When he passed, the boat became mine and I survived on our—on my own, at least until the storms… I still have my boat, but the fish are gone…”