And a spear arced through the air and buried itself in the animal’s side.
The mountain lion roared once more, then tried to escape. But the spear had punctured a lung and the animal only retreated a few feet before falling on its side, gasping and twitching in agony. Plank looked in amazement at the spear, then turned...to see someone or something approaching. A short, dark "man" covered with fine short hair. The creature made no sound, merely walked to the dying lion and removed the spear. Then it turned and stared at Plank.
Winstead didn’t notice, his attention totally focused on Gannon. "Are you all right?" he asked, helping her sit up.
"I think so," she said between gritted teeth. "Damn, I think it broke some ribs. Where the hell did that asshole come from?"
"From one of the side passages I’m sure. If there’s one here there could be more. Are you bleeding?"
"I’m, I’m not sure." She looked down at her chest. The lion had bitten into her side, yet her vest showed no sign of the attack. She stared at Winstead. "My vest. Look at my vest! How is this possible?"
"I don’t know." Winstead then turned to find Plank. And saw someone else. He swore softly and stood. "We’ll worry about that later. I think we have more important concerns right now."
"More important? You bastard!" Then she turned and saw the stranger as well. "What the hell is that?"
"I don’t know. But he saved your life. Wait here."
Damn straight, she thought, then winced as she took a breath. She looked down at her front. Her leather vest might not show any sign of the attack, but her ribs still throbbed with fire where the animal had bitten her. What had the man said? The vest was supposedly owned by Gilgamesh? A vest that never showed signs of age or dirt or wear . It certainly lived up to his claim from what she could see. I’m never going back in his store.
Meanwhile Winstead had joined Plank and the stranger. He found them staring wordlessly at each other. "What do you think of our savior?" Winstead asked as he stood behind Plank.
Plank kept his eyes on the stranger as he asked, "Who is he? What is he?"
"I suspect we’re looking at one of our earliest ancestors, Cro-Magnon perhaps. He had to enter from one of the rearmost passageways. I wonder how long he’s been here."
No, that is impossible. He must be some type of deformity. An African pygmy or some such. Plank’s rigorous training had prepared him for nearly every eventuality, but a situation like this never was mentioned in the manuals. For the first time since he entered Westchester, Plank felt real fear. "What do we do?"
"If nothing else, try to thank him." Winstead took several slow steps toward the stranger. The primitive reacted immediately; he raised his spear and pointed it at Winstead’s chest. Taking a deep breath, Winstead forced himself to smile but was careful not to bare his teeth lest the action be taken as a challenge. He held his arms wide apart, his hands open. Then he slowly dropped to his knees so he was closer to the stranger’s height. "I know you can’t understand me, but I must thank you for saving Mrs. Gannon," he said softly.
The stranger’s eyes widened at his words. He coughed several times, then said, "Huk."
Winstead frowned. Was he merely clearing his throat? "Huk," he replied.
"Huk."
Winstead nodded. "Huk it is. Huk, you’ve earned this." He reached in his pocket and pulled out the crubbin, then rolled it slowly toward the other.
Huk picked it up, then quickly tossed it back to Winstead. "Huk," he said again.
"I can’t blame him," said Plank, trying to remain in control. "They taste terrible."
Which means our caveman must have tried to eat one. Winstead returned the fruit to his pocket, then looked at Plank. "We better get back to Mrs. Gannon, see if she needs are help."
Plank nodded as Winstead slowly stood, then just as slowly backed away from Huk. "So what do we do with him?"
"Leave him alone."
They had already turned and were walking back to Gannon. "And if he follows us?"
"Let him. He’s already helped us once."
Plank grunted. Whoever or whatever that strange man was, he was going to be harder to kill than the others, he knew. It was not a pleasant thought.
They found her sitting by the pond, her vest and blouse off. She was busy tearing her blouse into strips with the steak knife she had brought from Winstead’s office. "Need any help?" Winstead asked.
"Yes." She ripped another strip from her blouse. "Damn, I paid fifty bucks for this thing. And that was on sale! What are you staring at?" she abruptly asked Plank.
Plank shook his head as he looked down, trying not to look at her.
She noticed and laughed. "Hell, I’m wearing a sports bra! A bikini or tank top reveals more than this! Here," and she handed half her shirt to Winstead. "I need to tie up my ribs."
Plank felt himself blush as the others went to work. It was not right, these women and their Western ways, he thought. They should cover themselves and show subservience as Allah demanded. But he was sure that would happen one glorious, victorious day.
Meanwhile Winstead clumsily helped Gannon with her bandages. "Tie them tight," she said between gritted teeth. "I know that bitch broke at least one of my ribs."
"I’m trying," he said as he struggled with a knot. "Is there anything else we can do?"
"Not here. Not for a broken rib anyway. I’ll deal with it. Damn, I don’t suppose you have any ibuprofen do you? I could do with about 800 milligrams about now."
He forced a smile. "I’m afraidWestchester has no pharmacy."
She snorted. "You don’t have much of anything in this place, do you? Now what the hell is he doing?"
Winstead turned to look where she was pointing. The one who called himself Huk was busy cutting open the mountain lion with his stone spear. "I suspect he’s preparing his supper. I doubt he’s had much meat to eat since he arrived. Whenever that was."
"Gross," and she closed her eyes and shook her head. "What that cat deserves I suppose. Do you think there are any more?"
"I hope not. If there are, this is where they would be I’m afraid."
"Wonderful." She grabbed her vest. "Help me put this on."
He had some difficulty as she could hardly move her right arm, but he finally got it on her. "Is that for modesty?" he asked with a grin.
"Protection. Don’t ask me why but this thing is better than a bulletproof vest. Now help me to my feet." She groaned as he pulled her up. Then she shook herself. "Guess I won’t be doing any power walking for awhile. So what do we do now?"
"I’d like to let you rest, but I don’t think we have the time. And now I think we have something else to do. Excuse me." Winstead approached Plank, who had been silently watching them. "What did you use to drive off that lion?"
"A lighter." He reached in his pocket. "And this." He held up the aerosol paint can. "I saw them do that in a movie once." He didn’t add that it was a terrorism training video.
Winstead looked at the can. "Where did you find this?"
"One of the side tunnels."
Damn it. "Can you show me?"
Plank frowned. "I believe so."
"Did you find a painting as well?"
Plank shivered at the memory. "Yes. It was…very disturbing."
"His work always is." Winstead turned and waved Gannon to them. "Sorry, but we can’t wait here. There’s something we have to do. Can you walk?"
"Yes. Not comfortably," she added quickly.
"I’d let you stay but I don’t know if there are any more lions or other dangerous animals here. Our friend Huk might be able to save you again, but we can’t risk that."
She glanced at the strange little man. He was still busy cleaning his kill and ignoring them. "You’re right about that." She took a deep breath, then took hold of Winstead's arm. "I might have to lean on you a bit."
"No problem. Mr. Plank, show us."
They left the garden and slowly—and painfully for Gannon—neared one side of the chamber. Th
e corridors branching off from the wall all looked the same and Plank wasn’t sure which one was the correct one. One led to the mosque, but he didn’t want to take the others there. Did the station master know about it? he wondered. Best not to mention it at all. "No sense putting her through any more pain if I’m wrong," he said, pausing before one of the tunnels. "Let me check first." Winstead nodded and he entered, only to return shortly. "Not it."
Winstead grimaced. "Let’s keep trying."
But why? Plank wondered as they continued. Yes, the painting was disgusting to the extreme, but that was all it was. But, he realized, apparently not to Winstead. Due to Gannon’s injury, it took them more than an hour and fruitless trips down a half dozen corridors before Plank returned and said, "It’s here."
Winstead followed Plank quickly down the corridor, leaving Gannon outside, confused and angry. "I came this far; I’ll be damned if I’m not going to see what all the fuss is about," she muttered. She stumbled to the wall, then leaned against it before slowly walking after them. She had to pause several times to catch her breath before she finally reached them. Then she understood. She stared silently at the portrait of destruction for several minutes before finally asking, "What is that?"
"An atomic bomb attack on some city, I would say," said Winstead.
"Baghdad," Plank said before he could stop himself. Idiot, he cursed himself. But neither reacted to his words.
"Why, why would anyone paint that?" she asked.
"That’s what he does," Winstead said and shook his head. "Whatever he paints becomes reality. I just hope there are no more here."
Plank suppressed a smile, recalling the depiction of theWorldTradeCenter attack. That small pleasure disappeared when he looked at the painting before them. "What do you mean, becomes reality?"
Winstead pointed at the lower right corner of the painting. "At least he’s not finished yet. We can still stop him."
"You didn’t answer my question," Plank said. Could preventing the attack on our holy ground be the reason I’m here? But how do I do that?
"He painted the lastSan Francisco earthquake. The Black Death. Chernobyl. I’m sure he’s left Westchester just like everyone else. But if he comes back and finishes it…" He left the rest unsaid.
This man is insane, thought Plank. But there was no ignoring the concern in the station master’s voice. Better to humor him for now. He pulled the paint can from his pocket. "Perhaps we can paint over it. If there’s any left."
"No. We have toerase it. Part of it anyway. Somehow. If we do that, he won’t come back. He never finishes a painting that has been interfered with." Winstead pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tried wiping off the paint. But it was thoroughly dry and remained undamaged. He turned to Gannon. "You don’t have any nail polish remover with you I don’t suppose?"
"I doubt it." She dutifully opened her purse. "Eye liner, lipstick, comb, gum, compact. Shit, I left that knife back at the park. Wait, what’s this?" She pulled out the pencil she had bought from the blind beggar. She studied it. It had no lead, but it did have an eraser. "I doubt this will work," she said and handed it to Winstead.
"We can hope." He vigorously attacked a corner of the painting. There’s no way, Gannon thought as she watched. Yet when he stopped after nearly ten minutes, there was an unmistakable bare spot in the middle of the painting. "Not much left of that eraser, I’m afraid," he said as he returned the pencil to her.
Surely that beggar couldn’t have known, she thought as she dropped it back in her purse. Or did he? "Now what?" She pointed at the painting. "Do you think this has anything to do withWestchester?"
"Doubtful. We’re nowhere near done I’m afraid. I just hope we don’t find any more examples of his work. Let’s get back to the garden."
Plank lingered behind as Winstead helped Gannon leave the tunnel. He studied the now-ruined and, according to the station master, impotent painting for another minute. If what the station master said was true, then was it possible the success of theWorldTradeCenter attack could be undone? In memory of the martyrs, he vowed not to let that happen.
When they returned to the garden, they discovered Huk had managed to build a fire and was happily roasting the predator. When he saw them, Huk held out a piece of charred meat. Winstead approached, knelt beside him, smiled and accepted it.
"You’re not going to eat that!" Gannon admonished him when he returned.
"Better I eat it than it eat me," he said as he took a mouthful. "Not bad. Needs some pepper. Here, try it." She shook her head. "Don’t be rude. Take some."
She looked at the dark man watching her. I owe him this much, she decided. Reluctantly she nibbled on a corner before handing it back to Winstead. "Happy now?"
"I think our friend is," he nodded at Huk, who was smiling. "I think we’ve been accepted."
"Oh, so we’re a clan now? Eve and three men ready to repopulate the world or something?"
"Nothing like that," Winstead said and blushed, causing her to laugh.
Then she slowly and painfully sat beside him. "You’re right, it does need pepper." Then she turned her attention to Huk, who was busy chewing on a leg. "Who or what is he?"
"I’m certainly no anthropologist, but judging by his appearance I would guess a Cro-Magnon."
She frowned. "You’re serious?"
"He’s no African or aborigine or anyone like that, I’m sure of that. What do you think, Mr. Plank?"
Plank had been watching them with little interest. "Fools," he said softly in Arabic. He didn’t notice Huk turn at the sound of his voice. "I don’t know," he responded to the question. "I find that impossible to believe." I find most everything you say impossible to believe. "So what do we do now?’
Winstead looked at Gannon. "I think we’re going to have to rest a bit. Until she starts feeling better."
"It will take a week in the hospital to make me feel better," she said. "Do you think we can afford to wait?"
"Not really."
"Perhaps Winstead and I can go alone," Plank said. "You stay and rest." Make it easier for me to eliminate the station master.
She grimaced. "Thanks, but what if there’s another mountain lion? Or worse? There’s safety in numbers."
Plank bowed slightly. "If you wish."
"But," she added quickly, "I could use some sleep before we go on."
"Agreed." Winstead looked at Plank. "I’ll take the first watch. Get some sleep yourself."
"Fine." Plank sat down, then lay back in the grass. He could use a nap as well, he realized. This day had been most trying in many ways. And there was so much he still had to sort out. He closed his eyes but his mind wouldn’t let him sleep.
***
"Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?"
Green paused, then rested against his shovel. He looked at the fruit Magdya was holding. "No. You can have it."
"But you’ve been working for hours! You must be hungry by now."
He laughed. "On the plantation, we ate twice a day. This is no never mind to me."
"Bastards," Magdya muttered. "Why don’t you relax? No one here is going to crack the whip on you. I’m getting tired just watching you."
He looked at the furnace. The fire was burning strongly. "Yes." Instead of resting, however, he went to the coal pile resting against one wall and studied it. It was noticeably shorter than when he had started. At the top was an opening, which he presumed was some type of chute. When he had started, the pile of fuel reached it, but now it was well below it. Yet no more coal was coming out. Taking his shovel, he clambered up the shifting pile to the top, then reached inside the chute. There was some coal there, but not much. He pushed the shovel deeper inside but felt no resistance. Sighing, he shoveled out what little fuel remained, then returned to the floor.
Magdya couldn’t miss the concern on his face. "What is it?"
He pointed at the pile. "That’s all the coal we have left."
She nodded grimly as she realized immediatel
y what that meant. "What do we do?"
"There were some wooden benches. We’ll have to use those." He threw several more shovelfuls in the furnace. "That should give us some time." He looked at her. "I’ll need your help."
"Sure." They left the boiler room and returned to the main chamber. At least these are wooden, she thought as they walked to the nearest bench. "It’s not bolted down or anything," she said, looking at it.
"Take that end," he said and started to lift.
She tried, but dropped her end almost immediately. "I’m sorry," she said and blushed. "I can’t lift that. We’ll have to push it."
Green nodded. "I push, you steer."
The wooden legs groaned as they slid the bench along the concrete floor to the side chamber. "Now what?" Magdya asked when they reached the short flight of stairs to the boiler room. "I can’t help you carry that down."
"Help me push it. Maybe the fall will break it up."
"Wait." She went down and opened the door, then joined him. "At least there is no turn. Maybe we’ll luck out and it will slide right into the room."
"Maybe. Now." They edged the protesting bench forward until gravity took over, and the bench clattered loudly as it bounced off the descending steps. It didn’t go inside, not all the way anyway, but Green climbed over it and they soon had it inside the small room. Green grimaced as he studied it. Despite the abuse, the bench was still solid. "Wish I had an ax." He took the shovel and wedged it between two of the slats, trying to pry them apart. After a few minutes the wood cracked, then gave way. "This will take some time," he said. "But there’s no other way." He started to work on one of the arms.
"What now?" she asked.
"There were other benches there. Push them over here as far as you can. As many as you can."
She grimaced. Physical labor was not on her résumé. "This sucks," she said, but headed back up the stairs.
He grunted as he managed to get the arm of the bench loosened. He had never before told a white woman what to do. And certainly no white woman had ever obeyed his orders. He realized he had an entirely new life to get accustomed to.
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