Crown of Serpents (41 page)

Joe panned his light over the crates and found they were labeled with
To Be Destroyed
. He frowned. “Hey, check these out.” He walked up to the closest crate.

“What have we here?” asked Jake, his curiosity piqued as he joined Joe. Each of the rectangular crates measured approximately four feet high by seven feet long. He noticed the crates swung open from a side hinge. Handing his light to his uncle and slinging his M4 on his chest harness, Jake took the Halligan off his back and jammed its wedge under a side slat. He pried. The rusted setting nails popped with ease. The crate’s sidewall freely swung open.

Both men bent down. Inside they found a perfectly preserved World War II-era motorcycle sealed in a clear, long-term corrosion inhibiting cosmoline coating.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Jake. He instantly recognized the make and model of the motorcycle. He tapped a white five-pointed star painted on an olive drab fuel tank. “It’s a U.S. Army Indian Scout, a model 841. They stopped making these in 1944. Only about one thousand were ever made.”

Joe whistled. “It looks like it’s fresh from the factory floor.”

“Supposedly, all the surplus bikes were destroyed after the war,” noted Jake. He ran his hands across the frame. “They would have been sent here to the Depot and melted in the incinerator. I bet these were set aside for someone’s rainy day. Wow, look at this leather seat.” He pinched the waxy seal and easily pulled a rubbery chunk off, exposing the true leather underneath. The seat was in pristine condition. He pulled some more of the sealant off the chrome engine parts and front tire, revealing more of the motorcycle. “My God, this is priceless. Come on, let’s check out the other crates!”

Within minutes they had pried open the remaining crates, exposing five more Indian Scouts in the same excellent condition. Although yet another great historical find, Jake didn’t want to waste time enjoying them. He pressed onward with their main mission and went to the bathroom door. “Come on,” he urged his uncle from across the room. “It’s time to hit the head.”

Joe couldn’t resist a jibe. “All hail the porcelain God.”

Jake snickered then turned the old doorknob and let himself in. He took a few steps before starting down a short flight of concrete stairs. At the bottom was a small closet-like room made out of gray cinder blocks. A rusted porcelain sink and crude steel toilet were the only furnishings. The bathroom door opened from behind. More light filled the room as Joe entered, whistling, looking up.

“Watch your step,” warned Jake.

Too late. Joe tripped on the first step and fell.

His flashlight and sledgehammer tumbled through the air. Then his large frame slammed down hard against the concrete steps with a groan. Something cracked. His shotgun jammed against the wall, the barrel bent. Joe rolled down another step and banged his wrist, got hit in the elbow with his sledgehammer, and then turned his ankle before coming to rest at the bottom of the steps. Jake was already at his side holding him steady. Joe moaned through fluttering eyes.

“It’s my fault,” apologized Jake. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. Oh man, what have I done?”

34

Below the Depot.

P
RISONER RAE HART noted that the slippery, winding cave passage was remarkably clear of obstructions as she led Nero’s entourage further below the surface of the earth. A half hour into their subterranean trip, the rocky trail remained in a northerly direction even as it increasingly sloped downward. Rae took her time to carefully illuminate the way ahead as the group descended deeper into the dark new world. Although never losing focus on a chance for escape, she became somewhat fascinated as the journey progressed. It was clearly evident that the route had been maintained over time as larger boulders, shale, and debris had been moved off to the side, allowing a clear avenue on the uneven stone surface. They experienced tight crevices and ceilings so low they were reduced to a crawl. Remarkably, the temperature was much warmer than the outside air. It seemed a constant fifty degrees or so but very damp.

Rae gingerly pushed onward, making sure not to twist an ankle or worse, run across any ancient anti-intruder booby traps. Crumbling shale cave walls soon changed to a smooth yet wet limestone surface marked with ancient man-made images. At several intervals along the way she had even observed the notorious white deer and snake symbol painted on the walls. Nero and Stanton stopped the group whenever these symbols appeared. They consulted an old map in a protected cover. Rae could only assume this as being some type of cave map with the symbols acting as an ancient wayfinding system.

The passage then started revealing actual artifacts of the past Indian culture. Rae stepped beside rotted cornhusk baskets, old wooden boxes, clay pottery, and used fire pits.

After ducking under an outcropping of rock, she emerged into a narrow chamber the size of a tennis court. She panned her dual helmet lights up the rising ceiling and held her breath as the room towered fifty-feet above her. The rest of the spelunking party pushed in behind her amid bouncing flashlight and helmet beams. They stood side-by-side under the vaulted ceiling, Anne Stanton to Rae’s right and a coughing, sweating Alex Nero on her left. A slight draft of air pressed against their faces.

Stanton gasped. “My God, look at this place. It’s beautiful.” Mr. Makowa echoed her thoughts as he moved passed her, mouth agape.

The ceiling was adorned with a half dozen icicle shaped stalactites formed by dripping calcium salt deposits. Directly below the tapering spears were stalagmites protruding up from the floor surface in a hardened wax-like flow of sparkling colors. Two of the forms had actually connected into a petrified-like column of flowing minerals. Makowa stepped over and ran his hand up and down the column.

Transfixed by strange shapes dancing in the shadows of his helmet light beams, the other guard, Mr. George, walked over to a wall. “Mr. Nero,” he asked. “You want some more additions to your scalp collection?” The group turned toward George. He held his helmet beams on a wall completely covered with scalps of hair. Each scalp had a White Deer Society symbol painted over it. What that meant, nobody had a clue.

“Don’t touch a thing,” ordered Nero.

Stanton and Nero proceeded down the slippery cave floor toward the center of the room. Their eyes went ablaze as their lights panned over a marketplace of ancient Iroquois weapons. The overwhelming inventory scattered about revealed war fighting bows and feathered arrows, blood-stained war hammers and chipped tomahawks, spears, daggers, swords, muskets, and powder horns. Stanton even spotted what appeared to be a Viking helmet.

“Some sort of weapons cache,” Nero surmised.

Stanton knelt beside an old wooden crate and extracted a tattered French infantry officer’s blue uniform jacket and white sash. It came complete with the French Army symbol of the Fleur de Lis. She ran her eyes up the brass buttons and found a hole in the chest with a dark red stain. She placed the coat back in the box. “A weapon’s cache that would never see the light of day,” she mumbled.

“Explain,” said Nero.

“Well, white deer were sacred and supposed to be protectors of peace for the tribes within the confederacy. So maybe whoever brought these items down here also despised war, the instruments of war, and trophies of war. Maybe this chamber is a place where Iroquois war items were hidden for good, to never be used or celebrated again.” She shrugged.

Nero cocked his head at her, coughed, ignored her and continued on toward the far end of the chamber. Two dark cave openings appeared. Above each was a wooden false-face mask. Each was painted a dark red, eyes bulging, nose bent, mouth smiling. “Get over here,” he gruffly ordered. “We’ve got a fork in the trail and I can’t tell where it is on the map.”

As Nero’s party explored the room, Rae remained alone near the entrance, drinking water and buying time. She had kept her eye on Nero’s top enforcer Kenny Rousseau, who had also remained slightly back. She caught him in her peripheral vision viewing some cave paintings. Rae realized this was the first good chance she had at escaping back up the passage to the surface — and freedom. She took a quiet step backward, hoping to ease her way back out without being noticed. That also meant killing her headlamp beams. As she reached up on her helmet to switch off her lights she caught movement from Rousseau. She glanced over. His light beams lit her up, his sawed-off shotgun leveled at her head.

“Go ahead. Give me a reason,” he taunted.

Rae sighed, her first attempt foiled. A large paw soon clutched her around the neck, shoving her forward. “Move it, pig!” grunted Rousseau.

“Hey, check this out!” shouted Mr. George from behind several thin stalagmites, which formed prison-like bars. He moved his cigarette lighter over the end of a long stick jutting out from the wall. It was bunched up with rolls of dry grape vine. Flames spread quickly over the wood coils, casting one side of the chamber in an eerie orange glow. “We’ve got ourselves a torch!” He pulled it out of the wall and held it in front of him.

“Looks like they’re all over the room. Light this place up,” ordered Rousseau. He looked around, found Makowa rummaging through a basket, and barked an order for him to help out. He pushed Rae ahead to meet Nero and Stanton at the far end of the chamber. They were trying to decide which route to take next. Rousseau shoved Rae against the wall and joined his boss.

“Left or right passage?” asked Rousseau, looking up at the false faces over each tunnel entrance. He glanced down at the cave map over Nero’s shoulder.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” replied Stanton, as the room lit up behind them. She looked back and noticed a half-dozen flaming torches lining the walls.

“I’m thinking we just follow the terrain and keep heading down,” speculated Nero.

“The left passage seems to climb up, while the right descends,” added Stanton as her helmet beams penetrated into each cave entrance.

Suddenly, a low boom emitted from the right cave passage, followed by three more cannon-like rumbles.

“What the hell was that?” shouted Makowa.

George chimed in, waving his burning torch. “Sounded like thunder.”

“It’s not thunder, you ass,” chided Rousseau. “We’re a good one hundred and fifty feet below the surface.”

“It’s the spirits of underworld warning us not to come any closer to their prize,” said Nero.

“You’re so full of shit,” retorted Rae, leaning against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. “That’s what the locals call the Seneca Lake guns. We hear them all the time. It’s nothing more than your evil spirits having a case of natural gas build up and letting one loose!” Her dirty, bruised face revealed a white, full-toothed smile and a taunting rise of her eyebrows.

Stanton held back laughter. Nero caught her quivering grin. Rousseau, George, and Makowa also snickered at the remark. Embarrassed at the cop showing him up in front of his minions, Nero lashed out at Rae with the back of his hand. She tried to duck, but he was too fast. He caught her in the mouth with a crack, instantly drawing blood on her already fat lip. Makowa sprung up next to her with a drawn Glock, trying to make good for his boss.

“Who the fuck asked your opinion?” Nero boomed at Rae. He then grabbed her by her long auburn hair, twisted her head, and shoved her forward inside the right side passageway. Her helmet banged against rock. “Get going through there!”

Rae stumbled through the dark hole, tripped over a rocky hump, and fell to her knees. She tried getting up, but Makowa had followed right behind, booting her hard in the backside, telling her to get moving. Rae squealed in pain and tumbled ahead, busting her knees again on the rocky surface. As she fell face first, she unknowingly severed a thin fiber cord triggering a crude mechanism hidden in the sidewall.

Makowa again stood over her, waving the Glock. “Get your ass up.”

He caught the full force of the booby trap as three crude spears from each wall sprung out and punctured him through his upper body. Suspended in mid air, Makowa looked down in shock at the six razor sharp spear tips penetrating his coat and pants.

Rae rolled onto her back and looked up as blood squirted down onto her. Shocked that it could have been her skewered on the trap, she lay frozen at the sight above. Makowa screamed down at her, then lost the grip on his pistol. Rae snatched it up, realized it was her very own service-weapon they had taken from her earlier. She squirmed forward out from underneath his legs.

Flashlight beams and a torch flame moved inside the tunnel entrance. Nero and his gang ran in, stopping before the booby-trapped barrier Makowa had formed.

Rae rose to her feet and dashed ahead as the chainsaw ripping of an automatic submachine gun burst out from behind the screaming cage of death. Bullets ricocheted off the limestone walls in a shower rock fragments. A shotgun blast then rang out as Rousseau joined in.

Rae instinctively ducked as an explosion of rock blew out next to her head. Another blast from the shotgun and the top of her helmet caught a spray of buckshot knocking the helmet forward over her eyes. She banged into the wall but managed to raise her re-acquired Glock behind her and fired off three wild shots to keep her attackers at bay. Their return fire stopped.

Taking cover around a corner in the passageway, Rae bent over and caught her breath as Makowa’s wild screaming continued. She felt a sting on her upper thigh. Was she hit? She stood up and patted her thigh for a wound. Nothing. She slipped a hand inside her pant pocket and was completely surprised when she felt what was causing the pain. Pulling out the Cranberry Marsh silver broach, she smiled. She had totally forgotten she stashed the broach when the control tower blew up. And it had even slipped past the frisking Nero’s thugs had given her. She placed the little good luck charm back in her pocket and ejected her service weapon’s magazine clip, checking to see how many rounds she had left. Thirteen.

Another blast from Rousseau’s shotgun smacked the wall next to her. She switched off her helmet lights for better cover just as Rousseau yelled out a prison-yard obscenity.