the afternoon sun was just beginning to make itself felt when Johnny stopped and stood pole straight. Blaine could feel the Indian’s energy emanating outward like a strobe light, pins and needles dancing about his flesh and turning into daggers as they took to the air.
“What’s wrong, Johnny?”
No reply.
“Johnny?”
Silence.
“Johnny…”
Wareagle turned. “We’re close, Blainey. There’s something up there, beyond those trees.”
They started on again, Johnny moving like a big jungle cat. Where he walked, Blaine figured, there would be no trail, either. Johnny parted a huge thicket of overbrush and waited for Blaine to draw even. McCracken looked where Johnny was pointing and found himself gazing at the impossible.
There, in the thick of the jungle, was a massive building!
Just as quickly as his eyes had focused on the structure, it fluttered from his vision like a mirage in the desert, thanks to its sloping construction and shading. The lines and colors flowed perfectly with the jungle, as if construction had been carried out without disturbing a single tree or bush. Johnny led the way closer; a tall steel-link fence came into focus, camouflaged with brush that virtually swallowed it. None of this belonged here, yet here, undeniably, it was. Perhaps it held the answer to whatever was happening in the jungle.
McCracken looked at Wareagle. “What is this place, Indian?”
“I feel death, Blainey—more terrible than even you and I have experienced. We lived in the hellfire, and it lived in us. The land retained its life in spite of the death we brought to it. But what lies before us is nothing but black, a charred symbol on the crest of man.”
“You’re saying this is some kind of scientific installation?”
Wareagle looked at him. “The birthplace of the Spirit of the Dead.”
Blaine could feel Wareagle’s tension growing. “What’s wrong, Johnny?”
“No one is watching for us. There should be guards, but there are none anywhere.”
“If Norseman’s down here, he’s in charge. We’ll ask him about the oversight when we get the chance.”
Johnny stepped through the parted overbrush. “Walk lightly, Blainey. Follow my every step.”
McCracken did just that. They reached the steel fence; Johnny followed until he came to a gate. The lock was missing. The gate shifted slightly in the breeze. McCracken steadied his Remington pump.
They slid into a courtyard. On the uphill grade that led to the building, McCracken expected guards to lunge out at every turn. But Johnny’s stoic stance ahead of him proved no one was on patrol in the area.
The courtyard ended at a set of rock steps chiseled into the hillside. The structure itself had been painted a bland shade of olive and was totally absorbed by the tangle of flora growing about and partially enveloping it. Finding such a perfect spot must have been difficult.
At the installation’s main entrance, Blaine’s eyes were drawn immediately to the dual cameras mounted over the door. The cameras did not move as they should have to follow their progress. The big Indian worked the latch. It gave, but the door resisted opening. A hefty shove forced it in far enough for them to enter.
Halfway inside it became clear what had been blocking then-way. A guard’s body had been propped against the door. His dead hand still gripped a machine gun. Blood drenched his midsection and the floor beneath him.
“Dead about eighteen hours,” Blaine said after inspecting the body. “A day at the outside.”
“He died barring the door, Blainey.”
Blaine observed the trail of blood that ran down a dimly lit corridor. “But he was killed inside.”
“Let’s head on,” Johnny said.
They walked side by side. The first door they came to was a monitoring station that served as the broadcast point for the many video cameras placed inside and out. Beneath the darkened monitors lay the bodies of three men in the same olive uniforms as the guard. They
“What’s wrong, Johnny?”
No reply.
“Johnny?”
Silence.
“Johnny…”
Wareagle turned. “We’re close, Blainey. There’s something up there, beyond those trees.”
They started on again, Johnny moving like a big jungle cat. Where he walked, Blaine figured, there would be no trail, either. Johnny parted a huge thicket of overbrush and waited for Blaine to draw even. McCracken looked where Johnny was pointing and found himself gazing at the impossible.
There, in the thick of the jungle, was a massive building!
Just as quickly as his eyes had focused on the structure, it fluttered from his vision like a mirage in the desert, thanks to its sloping construction and shading. The lines and colors flowed perfectly with the jungle, as if construction had been carried out without disturbing a single tree or bush. Johnny led the way closer; a tall steel-link fence came into focus, camouflaged with brush that virtually swallowed it. None of this belonged here, yet here, undeniably, it was. Perhaps it held the answer to whatever was happening in the jungle.
McCracken looked at Wareagle. “What is this place, Indian?”
“I feel death, Blainey—more terrible than even you and I have experienced. We lived in the hellfire, and it lived in us. The land retained its life in spite of the death we brought to it. But what lies before us is nothing but black, a charred symbol on the crest of man.”
“You’re saying this is some kind of scientific installation?”
Wareagle looked at him. “The birthplace of the Spirit of the Dead.”
Blaine could feel Wareagle’s tension growing. “What’s wrong, Johnny?”
“No one is watching for us. There should be guards, but there are none anywhere.”
“If Norseman’s down here, he’s in charge. We’ll ask him about the oversight when we get the chance.”
Johnny stepped through the parted overbrush. “Walk lightly, Blainey. Follow my every step.”
McCracken did just that. They reached the steel fence; Johnny followed until he came to a gate. The lock was missing. The gate shifted slightly in the breeze. McCracken steadied his Remington pump.
They slid into a courtyard. On the uphill grade that led to the building, McCracken expected guards to lunge out at every turn. But Johnny’s stoic stance ahead of him proved no one was on patrol in the area.
The courtyard ended at a set of rock steps chiseled into the hillside. The structure itself had been painted a bland shade of olive and was totally absorbed by the tangle of flora growing about and partially enveloping it. Finding such a perfect spot must have been difficult.
At the installation’s main entrance, Blaine’s eyes were drawn immediately to the dual cameras mounted over the door. The cameras did not move as they should have to follow their progress. The big Indian worked the latch. It gave, but the door resisted opening. A hefty shove forced it in far enough for them to enter.
Halfway inside it became clear what had been blocking then-way. A guard’s body had been propped against the door. His dead hand still gripped a machine gun. Blood drenched his midsection and the floor beneath him.
“Dead about eighteen hours,” Blaine said after inspecting the body. “A day at the outside.”
“He died barring the door, Blainey.”
Blaine observed the trail of blood that ran down a dimly lit corridor. “But he was killed inside.”
“Let’s head on,” Johnny said.
They walked side by side. The first door they came to was a monitoring station that served as the broadcast point for the many video cameras placed inside and out. Beneath the darkened monitors lay the bodies of three men in the same olive uniforms as the guard. They
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