Read Online The Magdalena Curse by F.G. Cottam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: F.G. Cottam
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it, the pattern of attack. There was no knowing enemy from friend. Behind him, as he looked in horror and something like awe at the massive structure in front of him, Hunter could tell from the grunts and screams that the conflict had descended into close-quarter duels fought hand to hand.
They had commanded eight men. They had possessed company strength in total of eleven. It was nowhere near enough. He wondered how many now were left alive. He judged they were no more than three or four minutes into their disastrously misconceived assault.
Peterson took out his knife and tore a long rent with it in the fabric in front of them. He pulled open the rip and gestured for Hunter to step beyond him inside. Hunter looked and saw that the tear revealed a blackness even inkier than the fabric that surrounded it. It was as though the interior of the canvas cathedral absorbed and swallowed light. He swallowed, wondering what they had blundered into, knowing he had no choice but to keep going on. He could smell the sour secretion of fear on the sweating Peterson. He could smell its sharpness on himself. But there was a pervasive odour, gathering in strength all around the compound. It was the corrupt stench of decomposition. It brought to his mind images of defiled and looted crypts and midnight resurrection men. He felt momentarily less like a soldier than someone colluding in desecration.
‘Go on,’ Peterson said, from behind him. There was raw urgency in the Canadian’s voice. They struggled through the tear in the fabric of their new, dark world.
Silence replaced the sound of martial carnage outside. It was completely quiet in the narrow, fabric corridor in which the two men found themselves groping. Orientation was almost impossible and as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, by the pinprick beam of Peterson’s tiny flashlight, all they could logically do was aim for the centre of the structure they had breached. It was very difficult. A maze of cloth corridors had been stitched into the marquee. They were narrow and claustrophobic. But their walls were taut, which was a mercy. Hunter imagined them slackening, their black canvas closing in and collapsing, the oily burden becoming
flaccid and descending upon them with its silent, suffocating weight. He was not generally prey to such thoughts. Fear and defeatism were strangers to him and he had never known a moment’s panic in his life. It was as though these feelings were a contagion he was picking up from the very fabric of the place he was in. He could not see the face of his comrade in arms. But he would have bet Peterson was prey to feelings at that moment identical to his. You had to fight the infection, he thought. It could unman you and leave you helpless without a strong and sustained effort of will.
They emerged eventually into a central chamber. It seemed vast, after the confinement of their maze of cloth corridors. Peterson chambered a round. It was an encouraging sound, a reminder of the Canadian’s bravery and belligerence and Hunter was glad of it. The man had saved his life, he realised then. But the thought was brief as what lay in front of them clarified in Hunter’s sight and mind.
The scene was candlelit. The light in the chamber was feeble and haphazard, the candle flames seeming to struggle to find the necessary air to feed their flickering life. Pools of illumination dabbed and spat at a figure at the centre of things. She was middle-aged and enormously fat. She was floridly dressed and heavily bejewelled. The light, from a distance, was not strong enough to see her clearly by. It was as though she waxed and waned in the light with the flickering life of the candle flames. She sat at a card table, Hunter saw, as he and Peterson approached. The cards on the table were dull tablets of colour. The game had been set for two players. There was a second chair, more accurately a throne, opposite the one the fat woman occupied. But it was empty.
Spacious
They had commanded eight men. They had possessed company strength in total of eleven. It was nowhere near enough. He wondered how many now were left alive. He judged they were no more than three or four minutes into their disastrously misconceived assault.
Peterson took out his knife and tore a long rent with it in the fabric in front of them. He pulled open the rip and gestured for Hunter to step beyond him inside. Hunter looked and saw that the tear revealed a blackness even inkier than the fabric that surrounded it. It was as though the interior of the canvas cathedral absorbed and swallowed light. He swallowed, wondering what they had blundered into, knowing he had no choice but to keep going on. He could smell the sour secretion of fear on the sweating Peterson. He could smell its sharpness on himself. But there was a pervasive odour, gathering in strength all around the compound. It was the corrupt stench of decomposition. It brought to his mind images of defiled and looted crypts and midnight resurrection men. He felt momentarily less like a soldier than someone colluding in desecration.
‘Go on,’ Peterson said, from behind him. There was raw urgency in the Canadian’s voice. They struggled through the tear in the fabric of their new, dark world.
Silence replaced the sound of martial carnage outside. It was completely quiet in the narrow, fabric corridor in which the two men found themselves groping. Orientation was almost impossible and as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, by the pinprick beam of Peterson’s tiny flashlight, all they could logically do was aim for the centre of the structure they had breached. It was very difficult. A maze of cloth corridors had been stitched into the marquee. They were narrow and claustrophobic. But their walls were taut, which was a mercy. Hunter imagined them slackening, their black canvas closing in and collapsing, the oily burden becoming
flaccid and descending upon them with its silent, suffocating weight. He was not generally prey to such thoughts. Fear and defeatism were strangers to him and he had never known a moment’s panic in his life. It was as though these feelings were a contagion he was picking up from the very fabric of the place he was in. He could not see the face of his comrade in arms. But he would have bet Peterson was prey to feelings at that moment identical to his. You had to fight the infection, he thought. It could unman you and leave you helpless without a strong and sustained effort of will.
They emerged eventually into a central chamber. It seemed vast, after the confinement of their maze of cloth corridors. Peterson chambered a round. It was an encouraging sound, a reminder of the Canadian’s bravery and belligerence and Hunter was glad of it. The man had saved his life, he realised then. But the thought was brief as what lay in front of them clarified in Hunter’s sight and mind.
The scene was candlelit. The light in the chamber was feeble and haphazard, the candle flames seeming to struggle to find the necessary air to feed their flickering life. Pools of illumination dabbed and spat at a figure at the centre of things. She was middle-aged and enormously fat. She was floridly dressed and heavily bejewelled. The light, from a distance, was not strong enough to see her clearly by. It was as though she waxed and waned in the light with the flickering life of the candle flames. She sat at a card table, Hunter saw, as he and Peterson approached. The cards on the table were dull tablets of colour. The game had been set for two players. There was a second chair, more accurately a throne, opposite the one the fat woman occupied. But it was empty.
Spacious
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