Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead (20 page)

“Here we go . . .”

He pried the lid up a hair, enough to get his fingers under the edge, and slid the stone, about an inch thick, to the side. He and Mac grabbed the lid and lifted it clear.

“Flashlight,” Indy said.

Batiste offered him one. Indy pressed the switch forward and pointed the beam into the box.

“Looks like oilcloth,” Indy said. He reached into the box. He was careful—sometimes the people who hid their treasures left nasty surprises to protect them. Nothing should still be alive after more than a century and a half under the ground, nothing natural, but a poisoned spike or some kind of sharp-edged trap was possible.

He pulled slowly on the cloth. Came up with a wrapped bundle the size of a concrete block, a dark gray color.

Carefully
—
carefully!
Indy started to unwrap it . . .

The oilcloth, in surprisingly good shape, fell away to reveal a wooden box, of a size that might contain a pair of men’s shoes. The lid to this was attached by copper hinges gone green and a turn-clasp. The wood was carved with symbols all over, something that looked vaguely like runes. The carvings were not in a language that Indy recognized, but they seemed somehow familiar. Akin to Egyptian hieroglyphics, maybe?

Indy turned the clasp and opened the lid, using the flashlight, leaning to one side to avoid something that might be spring-loaded and capable of stabbing his hand or spraying up into his face.

Nothing of that sort erupted from the box.

Inside, a second wooden object, this one a stubby cylinder as big around as a man’s leg, a foot long, and of a darker wood than the outer box, ebony, mahogany, perhaps, and also inscribed with the unfamiliar runes.

The lid on this jar had no hardware on it but seemed snug, and it took Indy but a few seconds to realize the lid was held on with threads, like a screw.

Indy unscrewed it, slowly and carefully.

It moved smoothly, as though lubricated.

No spring-loaded darts or immortal snakes jumped out, another relief . . .

Inside the wooden jar was a piece of black cloth—silk, Indy guessed.

He looked at Mac, who nodded, eyes wide with excitement.

Indy removed it, unwrapped it, and inside that . . .

There it was. A pearl the size of a man’s fist.

And what a glorious thing!

It was less round than egg- or heart-shaped, and the way it caught the light of the afternoon sun was stunning. Indy blinked at the raw beauty of it. It seemed to swirl with bright, iridescent smoke and fire, not really black, but more of a deep, dark, metallic, blue-green shade, an electric gunmetal color . . .

Amazing. Looking at it resting on the black silk in his palm, it was as if he could see miles into it.

He had viewed pearls, of course, many cultures valued them, but nothing close to this gem—

He looked at Marie in triumph—only to see that she had collapsed next to the excavation, as if she had been knocked unconscious by a big hammer.

TWENTY-TWO

T
HE UNLEASHED DYNAMISM
of the thing the
imen blan
had just dug up slammed into Boukman’s
zombi
horse like a giant’s boot. The
zombi
collapsed as if suddenly boneless, overwhelmed by the exposure, and Boukman knew if he didn’t get out of it and back to his own body fast, he, too, would be lost. Any spirit wandering around here would be cooked by the flame of this magical fire!

Such force! It was like opening the door to a raging furnace—he was blasted by the raw etheric heat of it!

Old magic, this, closer to the Grand Source, and still vibrantly potent after all these years. Remarkable. Stunningly so.

He left as quickly as he could, astounded at the energies that now radiated from that clearing below and behind him. It was as if somebody had plucked the sun from the sky and put it on the ground!

He felt weak. As soon as he could get back to his body, he would do what needed to be done. He had to move with care—he could not risk losing this new treasure. Oh, no. He must have this. It would transform him.

It would transform the
world . . .

Indy shoved the treasure at Mac and leaped to attend Marie where she had fallen. Batiste was already kneeling next to her.

The other men in their party had all moved back from the excavation, as if they had found themselves standing next to a sudden bonfire whose heat they couldn’t stand.

Batiste looked down at Mac. “Put it away!” he said. “The pearl!”

Mac frowned at him.

“Do it now!”

Mac wrapped the gem in the silk and put it back into the jar.

As soon as he replaced the lid, Marie moaned, and her eyes fluttered open.

Indy said, “Marie? Are you okay?”

She said something he didn’t understand.

Batiste said, “Yes, even I felt it.”

Marie sat up.
“Mon Dieu. Magie géante.”

Indy knew that term. Giant magic.

She looked at him. “Boukman will be coming for it. This artifact is more than just a pearl—it is lightning in a bottle—old, old magic, and anyone with any power will feel its release. It is like a volcano erupting.”

She looked at the wooden jar. “The container wards it, keeps its power contained. Take it out, and it will shine into the heavens like a searchlight—Boukman will be able to see it half the world away. We cannot hide it from him unless it is warded.”

She scrambled to her feet. “We must go, now.”

“Now? It’ll be getting dark in a few hours—” Mac said.

“We cannot wait. Nor can we go home the same way we came. Boukman will know that route.”

“Not to mention the Japs and the Krauts back there,” Indy said.

She shook her head. “They are not the problem. Boukman will move Heaven and Earth to collect this pearl. And more than anything, he cannot be allowed to do so. Before we let him take it, we should destroy it!”

Mac and Indy both frowned at this. “Hold on a moment,” Mac began. “Let us not be hasty—”

She was no longer listening. “Batiste, pack up. Anything we can leave behind, leave it. We have to move fast, and we have to move
now!”

“Marie—” Mac began.

“Listen to me—if Boukman catches us and gets this pearl, we are all dead, and we will be but the first of many to die. He will lay whole countries low. If you believe nothing else that I say, believe this!”

Indy looked at Mac. “You heard the lady. Grab your backpack and let’s get the hell out of here!”

He had expended too much of himself, Boukman realized when he reattained his body. Travel in the Other Realm always took much energy, one had to return to the real world now and then to recover, and he had seldom been able to project his spirit more than two or three times without a long interval. Fifty years ago, he might have made another immediate leap, but the past two days had drained him. And that brush with the old magic in the clearing had not helped. It had sucked at his fleeing spirit like a vortex, drawing at his essence. He would only be able to manage one more short jaunt now, if that, and he had to make it count.

If he had his
zombis
attack Marie’s
imen blan
to steal the artifact, his slaves would still be at risk from the Germans and Japanese, who also wanted the treasure, albeit for different reasons. Marie and her white men weren’t going to get far in any kind of hurry, and he knew where they were going to go eventually. So . . . it would be best to eliminate the competition now.

Yes. He would find and ride one of the Sons or Daughters of the Potion, one who still had air with which to operate his or her voice, and he would use that one to task the others. He wouldn’t have much time—he would have to hurry before he grew any weaker.

Boukman gathered what power he still had to himself, took a deep breath, and sent his weakened and unsteady
âme
forth. Once more, he could manage that. He had to—there was no other choice.

When their spy reported back, Gruber was most pleased. At last! “I think it is time that we go and collect our prize,
jawohl, mein Kapitän?”

“Ja,”
Schäefer said. He grinned.

All going well, in a few minutes, certainly less than an hour, they would have what they had traveled to this hellhole to get and be on their way home. An unpleasant mission, but with a satisfactory conclusion, and that was the important thing—

Somebody screamed.

Not just a scream, but a sound full of absolute terror—

Gruber’s hand had, without conscious intent, snatched his pistol from its holster, not that ugly, clunky .45 automatic, but a fine Luger Parabellum that he’d gotten from Schäefer. He thumbed the safety off—

—More screams followed, punctuated by rifle fire, several shots in rapid sequence, and whatever the cause, the element of surprise they might have had over the archaeologist’s party was certainly gone. Gunfire was noisy—

“What is this?”

He saw one of the SS men standing ten meters away, his Mauser rifle aimed. The man fired—once, twice, three times, working the bolt frantically—the sound loud and bouncing back from the trees—

The man’s target took the impact of the bullets in the chest not five meters in front of the soldier. Gruber saw him jerk as the bullets smacked into him—but watched in awe as he kept going—

The soldier fired again, twice more—and the attacker was on him, knocking the rifle aside, grabbing the soldier in a bear hug, and sinking his teeth into the man’s throat—!

Around them, other attackers charged in—some of them took bullets and fell, others did not—

Why? How?
Impossible—!

One of the natives, a dark-skinned and bald fellow, came at Gruber. He was unarmed, arms spread wide to grab, and Gruber felt the panic envelop him as he pointed the Luger and squeezed the trigger—one-two-three-four-five—!

The bald man stumbled, fell to his knees, and collapsed—

Next to him, Schäefer, his own Luger raised, fired repeatedly at a woman half his size, but—

Gruber saw the woman take the bullets to the body, four, five, six, and the last round tore a chunk of flesh from her neck—he saw the gap appear as if a child had poked his finger into a clay figure and ripped it, but there was no blood, and she kept coming—

Schäefer dropped his empty pistol and reached for a knife on his belt, managed to get it clear, and thrust it at the woman as she fell on him. It was a long knife—Gruber saw the blade enter her torso near her left hip, saw it sink to the hilt—

—saw the blade emerge from her back—

Schäefer screamed. “Help!”

She bore him down, teeth working, biting his face, his hands as he tried to push her off—

Gruber stood there, frozen. God in Heaven, what kind of thing was this? That could take a magazineful of bullets, a knife stab to the body, and not be stopped? Unreal—

“Gruber! Help me! Aaahh—!”

Gruber ran, in a full panic. It was too late for Schäefer, and he did not wish to suffer the same fate. Behind him, gunfire continued.

As did the screams.

The bullets didn’t seem to affect all of them, Yamada saw, but he had his sword, and when one of them came at him he took its head. The razor-edged steel of his katana cleaved through the rotten flesh and bone without slowing, and whatever evil thing dwelled in the creature, it was not strong enough to keep it going without a head. The severed skull rolled—the monster’s body collapsed.

“The head!” Yamada yelled. “Shoot them in the head!”

Around him, the remainder of his men—some of them—heard and obeyed. Half a dozen shots later, the jungle fell silent . . .

No, that wasn’t true. There was more gunfire, but it was distant, not close to them.

The Germans. Or the archaeologists?

He looked around. Most of his men were down, dead or dying.

Three of them still stood, two soldiers and Captain Suzuki. Suzuki had used his sword to good effect, as well.

“We will grieve for our fallen brothers later,” Yamada said. “For now we need to get away from here, quickly!”

They ran. He regretted having to leave his calligraphy materials behind. If he survived, he could return for them someday. The tent might withstand the wind and rain for a season or two.

If he did not survive, it would not matter.

In the forest, Gruber took stock. He had two men left, the rest . . . well, they were dead, dying, or lost, and he was not going to waste any time looking for survivors. He had replaced his pistol’s spent magazine but he had no faith it in, nor in the second pistol he had tucked away in his pocket, a flat, single-shot 7.65 mm, handmade by a clever Swiss jeweler, thin enough to be tucked into a wallet. Some officers carried a poison pill they could take if captured. Gruber preferred an option, to kill his captor and take his chance on escape. The Swiss pistol was a last resort, and if the Luger wouldn’t stop the attackers, the tiny gun wouldn’t do the job.

Some of the attackers could be stopped with a gun, some not, and you would likely not know which was which until it was too late. Better to avoid them all.

He was still warring with his notion that such a thing could not possibly be.