In the Shadow of Falcon's Wings

CHAPTER 7 WALK WITH THE DEAD

The tree’s collapse ended less violently than he had expected. There was no impact to speak of, only a sudden stop, the whiplash subdued by the thick water. The surface continued to boil with hysterical monkeys trying to flee a watery demise, but below all was as still as the grave. Dodge relaxed his grip and tried to swim away but was immediately caught in a tangle of branches. He tried patiently to free himself, but as the seconds ticked by his anxiety multiplied; he was pinned.

From above his head he heard branched snapping-crocodiles! He struggled harder, knowing that if the relentless devourers caught him here, there would be no escape, knowing also that if he didn’t get free, his last breath would be a lungful of the Congo. Suddenly something as hard as iron closed on his shoulder and he was pulled up through the web of tree branches and once more into the light. He fought, twisting his body in order to rip free of death’s jaws, flailing with his fists to beat the beast away, but all to no avail.

“Dodge! Dodge it’s me!”

“Hurri—” he choked on a mouthful water that he had unwittingly drawn, and the subsequent coughing fit distracted him long enough to realize that he was not being pulled to his death by a crocodile. Instead, he was being pulled to safety by Hurley; his friend was perched on the exposed bough of the toppled tree, safe from the river and safe from its deadly denizens.

Hurricane chuckled. “I gotta hand it to you. Pulling this tree down was a stroke of genius. I told you there was a good reason for letting you tag along.”

Dodge spit out the last of the vile liquid, and then his coughing turned to laughter as well. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

They lingered on the tree trunk only long enough for Hurley to shake the water out of his pistols and reload his empty magazines from the wax-coated box of cartridges in his pocket. He bemoaned the loss of their luggage; his bag, along with several more boxes of ammunition, was still on Marten’s boat while Dodge’s duffel was lazily making its way toward the Atlantic. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere with only the sodden clothes they wore. Nevertheless, once his guns were ready, the big man put aside all complaints.

“Let’s make our way to the village. Maybe one of those poor devils is still alive and can tell us what happened.”

Dodge nodded, and it occurred to him that Hurley had probably already embraced the likelihood that his old comrade in arms was one of the ravaged corpses in the burned out mission. He too felt a pang of grief at the loss; though he had never met the man called ‘the Padre,’ Father Nathan Hobbs seemed like an old friend.

They picked their way through the tangle of exposed roots and waded up onto solid ground. The crocodiles appeared to have lost interest, but they remained wary as they pushed into the dense thicket beneath the boughs of the ancient tropical hardwood forest. It took the better part of an hour for them to reach the perimeter of the settlement, where they encountered a palisade of eight foot-long pointed stakes. Some of the upright timbers were scorched from the flames that had devastated the village, but the defense barrier remained mostly intact.

“Maybe there’s a gate somewhere,” Dodge ventured. “We’ll have to walk around until we find it—”

Hurricane made a face then lashed out with one still damp boot. A ten-foot section of the wall toppled like a child’s Tinkertoy creation.

“—or not.”

The gap revealed a different perspective on the massacre of the settlement, but the images were the same. Smoking heaps where huts and wooden structures had stood, and fly-shrouded shapes that could only be the remains of the residents. Hurley’s face was stoic as he pulled a charred stick from the nearest ruin and fanned its coals into a low flame. He then moved among the corpses, driving away the bloated flies with smoke, just long enough to determine if it was Hobbs. There were a dozen in all, mostly older men and women, all of them native Africans.

“They took the able-bodied alive as captives,” Hurley explained. “Slaves.”

The word gave Dodge a chill despite the heavy tropical heat. “Can’t the authorities do something about it?”

“I’m afraid that what passes for a police force around here is more concerned with meeting rubber quotas than protecting people — especially these people.” Hurricane was uncharacteristically somber. “I’m sure it’s the reason the Padre came back here; to help the natives where no one else would. Come on, let’s find the church.”

As they searched the rubble piles, Dodge tried to distract himself from the grim task by sating his curiosity. “Who is Krieger?’

“My greatest regret. About fifteen years ago, we were chasing a gang of international gunrunners — they called themselves ‘the Ninety-nine.’ I’m not sure why, there was only about twenty-nine of them — but they led us on a merry chase.”

“Krieger was their leader?”

“They didn’t have a leader as such, but there was a pecking order, and Krieger was near the top. He was definitely the brains of the outfit. It all came to a head not too far from here. Krieger was trying to move a boatload of Enfield rifles to a group of Mahdist rebels hiding out in the jungle. Unfortunately for us, he got the guns to them before we caught up with him.

“It was a bloodbath. We took more losses that day then we did in the War.”

“You never wrote about it.” Dodge kept his tone low, sympathetic.

“Lord knows, I tried. Those boys that fell were heroes, and deserved to be remembered; I just couldn’t find the words.” He cleared his throat, as if to bring himself back from the edge of the emotional abyss. “Anyway, when all was said and done, we licked ‘em good. Krieger and his rats took refuge in a cave, so we dynamited the entrance and thought that was the end of it. I guess we should’ve given Krieger more credit, but we never heard about him after that.”

“This is the kind of place you go to lose yourself,” Dodge observed.

“That’s what the Padre was trying to do.” He stopped, pointing to something in the ruins. “That look like a cross to you?”

It was indeed a cross of hammered metal, ash gray now from the flames that had destroyed the chapel. The ruin was no larger than any of the other buildings, but as they started pulling apart the scorched timbers, they found the trappings of a house of worship, and more bodies. Three elderly Africans had perished seeking sanctuary in the church, and their charred remains were laid side-by-side, arms inextricably entwined, as if they had sought to create a human barrier against the invading force.

“They were protecting something,” Dodge realized aloud. “Or someone.”

Hurley shook his head sadly. “Poor souls gave their lives for nothing. They should have run.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Look at how they’re positioned. I don’t think the pirates came in here; they just torched it from outside.” He tried to look past the carnage and view the bodies analytically. “Help me move them out of the way. I think there’s something underneath them.”

Hurricane’s cheek twitched, but he knelt reverently beside the macabre tableau. Dodge placed his hands on the opposite side and together they lifted the arrangement of bodies out of the way. It was a surreal moment for Dodge; he had never touched a dead body before, and the experience was nothing like he expected. The remains were impossibly light, as if the absence of life had somehow subtracted a disproportionate amount of mass from their molecules, the weight of their souls.

“I’ll be damned.”

Hurley’s soft utterance broke the spell. Dodge looked back to see what had prompted his words and saw revealed a flat wooden dais that had been spared the force of fire. The big man probed it experimentally. “It’s covering something… a priest hole.”

He slid his fingers under the plank and heaved it back. There was a flash of movement in the dark hole underneath and Dodge caught a glimpse of something metallic rising toward Hurley.

“Shotgun!” He acted without thinking, grabbing the barrel of the weapon as a snake charmer might seize the head of a viper, and thrust it skyward. The weapon discharged with a deafening boom and the blast of expanding gases from the exploded gunpowder hit his exposed face like a slap. The barrel grew instantly hot in his grip, but he kept a tight hold and tried to wrench it from the hand of the person hiding below the dais.

Hurricane rolled back on his haunches and snatched out his guns, ready to do some damage, but Dodge hastily interposed. He had seen what Hurley had not; the person with the shotgun was no pirate lying in wait, but a frightened survivor. More than that, it was a young woman.

She wore a simple white shirt with faded trousers, and a nun’s wimple covered her hair, but these plain garments could not hide her essential beauty. She wore no cosmetics on her freckle spotted, doe-shaped face, but her thin copper-colored eyebrows perfectly accentuated emerald eyes. Those eyes stared up at Dodge in fierce defiance; she had not yet relinquished her hold on the gun, even though the discharge had rendered it momentarily impotent.

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “We’re the good guys.”

She stopped struggling immediately. “Good guys? English? You’re not with them.”

The last was not a question, and Dodge saw that the message had finally sunk in. He released the weapon and extended a hand to help her out of the priest hole. “They’re gone. But I’ll warn you, it’s not pretty out here.”

A sob escaped her lips, but she still held the shotgun like a ward against evil. Hurley holstered his guns and also reached out to her.

“Come on, miss. Up you go.”

Her green eyes fixed on him and then widened in astonishment. “You? I know you. You’re Hurricane!”

He chuckled. “I am indeed, miss.”

“Guess Captain Falcon even makes the Sunday funnies out here,” Dodge commented as they pulled her from the hide.

“Falcon?” She turned to Dodge. “You?”

He smiled, grateful that her attention was momentarily distracted from the horror that had nearly claimed her. “Good heavens, no. I just write about him.”

“I don’t think she’s one of your readers,” Hurley observed then turned to her. “You know Father Hobbs, don’t you?”

She smiled. “I should say so. He’s my dad.”

Hurley scouted the perimeter of the settlement, while Dodge set to the dismal task of burying the dead. At least he was in good company.

The girl’s name was Molly Rose Shannon. “I grew up here,” she told him as they worked together to clear a space for the hasty grave. “My real parents were missionaries. They brought me here when I was very young, but died in a cholera outbreak. I don’t really remember them.”

“I’m very sorry.”

She shrugged. “It’s a hard place; folks die easy here. You get used to it.”

“I don’t think I could ever get used to this.”

“No, this is…” Her voice trailed off, prompting him to look her in the eye, and he saw emotion welling there. “I should have been here with them, but they pushed me in that hole and covered it with their bodies. They gave their lives for me.”

Dodge didn’t know how to comfort her. The shallow grave they were excavating — an expediency to prevent carrion eaters from defiling the remains — seemed an inappropriate way to honor their sacrifice. “We didn’t find the Padre,” he said. “Father Hobbs; do you think he’s still alive?”

It was the right thing to say. Her eyes brightened and she looked to the jungle, where Hurley was finishing his reconnaissance. He joined them a moment later. “I found a trail.”

Molly however shook her head. “They came from the river; a single boat.”

Hurricane frowned. “The trail I found is fresh, a big group. I’m sure it was the captives being forced to march.”

“You don’t understand. They had to leave by boat; they took our plane.”

Dodge threw a glance toward the river and the empty moorage there. Hurley too pondered this. “Maybe the boat was overcrowded on the return trip. All I know is, there’s a trail in the jungle, and I mean to follow it. If they are running the captives on that trail, it’s a good bet the Padre’s with them.”

Molly straightened at this. “You’re right of course.”

“You two should be safe here. There’s no reason for them to —”

“We’re coming with you,” Molly announced, an instant ahead of Dodge.

Hurley put his hands on his hips. “Sister, when we catch up to them, there’s gonna be some shooting.”

She snatched the headdress off, releasing a cascade of fiery copper ringlets that reached below her shoulders. “Don’t let the habit fool you. I only wear it so the local ruffians will keep their distance.”

“I’ve only got my pistols. That shotgun of yours isn’t going to do much good in a gunfight.”

“Then we’ll keep our heads down,” intoned Dodge. “But Molly’s right. We need to stick together.”

Hurricane gave them both an appraising glance, and then looked skyward. “It will be dark soon. We’ll spend the night here, finish tending to the…” He gestured to the grave Dodge was still digging. “And get some rest. We’ll be a lot faster tomorrow if we get a good night’s sleep.”

Dodge knew that his friend was merely stalling, hoping to let Molly’s emotional tinder cool a bit before attempting to talk her into staying, but decided not to push the issue. Outnumbered and outgunned as they were, for any of them to attempt to pursue the pirate gang seemed patently foolish.

Still, it was hard to imagine Falcon turning his back on a captured comrade.

Molly elected herself to say a few words over the mass grave, then to Dodge’s amazement, named the victims and gave a brief eulogy for each. The crimson-haired girl continued to confound his sensibilities. She wasn’t exactly a tomboy, but Dodge had a feeling that she would be a lot more at ease in a pair of dungarees than the latest Paris fashions. Her rough manner seemed to counterpoint her raw beauty; she was nothing like the girls back home.

Oddly enough, it was Dodge’s own inability to put up with feminine pretensions that had earned him, undeservingly so far as he was concerned, the reputation as a misogynist among the secretaries in the Clarion newsroom. He was similarly impatient with the girls he met at the various public appearances, who seemed more in love with the idea of celebrity worship, than actually interested in him as a person. He envied Hurricane for his ability to simply enjoy empty flirtation while sampling the eye candy.

Molly was certainly easy on the eyes, but he had a feeling that, like her middle name, she was a thorny flower indeed.

Following the brief service, they rooted in the ruins of a building near the chapel and found some canned food that had escaped the flames. Their explorations also yielded up a box of shells for Molly’s shotgun and a battered machete in need of a whetstone. Hurley built up a large, smoky bonfire to drive off the mosquitoes and other jungle denizens, then settled back to enjoy a cheroot as twilight fell, while Molly set to work transforming canned beans and potted meat into a passable meal.

“I haven’t eaten that well in days Miss Molly,” Hurricane declared. “In fact, I was recently a guest of the President of the United States, and let me say, this repast put that meal to shame.”

Dodge laughed before he could stop himself. “As I recall, we never got to eat that meal.”

“Son, you’ve a thing or two to learn about complimenting a lady.” He fired up another hand — rolled cigar and gazed into the darkening sky. “We’ll need to keep a watch.”

Molly gave a little gasp of fear. “Do you think they’ll be back?”

“The pirates? Not likely. As far as they’re concerned, there’s nothing worth returning for. No, I’m more worried about the things with teeth and claws that will come out to feed once it’s dark. But a pair of watchful eyes and Miss Molly’s shotgun should suffice to keep us safe through the night. So, who wants to go first?”

Despite his anxiety about a night surrounded by fearsome creatures and the impenetrable darkness of the jungle, Dodge was on the verge of nodding off when Hurley touched him on the shoulder.

“Rest easy, lad.” He stirred the embers of the fire and threw a large chunk of wood into the blaze. “I thought we might let our feminine friend skip guard duty, what with all she’s been through, but it will mean giving up a little of your own shut eye.”

“Sure.” Dodge nodded blearily, and passed over the shotgun.

“You hang on to it. I’ve got my pistols.” Hurley settled down with his back to the fire and his eyes searching the black woods.

“Hurricane, I’ve been thinking. What happens when we catch up to these pirates? There’s only the three of us.”

“I’ve had worse odds before. Come to think of it, so have you.”

Dodge laughed half-heartedly. “If I’d taken half a second to think it through, I probably would have run the other way.”

Hurley laughed softly. “Sometimes, we find ourselves in a position where the only choice we really have is to do something absolutely, plumb crazy. Krieger and his rats took the Padre; going after them is the only choice I’ve got.”

“Even though we might get killed?”

Dodge already knew the answer, and Hurley knew the question was purely rhetorical, but he answered nonetheless. “They don’t know we’re coming, so the element of surprise is ours. I’ve got a couple other cards up my sleeve too, so it’s not as bad as it might seem. But we’re gonna need to be at our sharpest, so go catch forty winks. I’ll wake you in two hours.”

Dodge nodded again and climbed under the makeshift mosquito netting on the other side of the blaze. He held the shotgun as he might an unruly child, clutching it to his chest. He had never fired such a weapon — in fact, but for the lightning weapons on the metal exoskeletons, he had never fired any sort of weapon — but it seemed simple enough; point in the general direction of the target, brace it against a shoulder and pull the trigger. He wished he felt as confident about the road ahead.

Part of his concern was for Molly. He had no doubt that the fierce redhead would stand and fight with them, and probably acquit herself well in combat. As a lifelong resident of the region, she probably knew more about the jungle than even Hurley. His fear was not that she would freeze at the onset of the battle, but rather that she might get hurt or killed. For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, he was feeling very protective of Molly Rose Shannon.

He drifted off to sleep thinking about her, painfully aware of the fact that she slept only an arm’s length away. Adolescent fantasies fluttered like moths through his semi-conscious state, until sleep stole over him.

Time had no meaning in the sleep state, but he drifted back to wakefulness when he felt a soft touch on his leg. Half asleep, his first thought was that it was Molly looking for comfort in what must be the loneliest of nights. As he gradually came back to the surface, he realized the foolishness of that scenario and that the hand on his leg must be Hurricane, rousing him for his turn at watch.

Except he couldn’t make out Hurley’s silhouette in the dim orange light, nor could he fathom why his friend was letting a hand wander along his right leg. Maybe it is Molly….

“I’m awake,” he mumbled, stretching his arms. The shotgun had slipped from his grasp and as he fumbled for it in the darkness, he wondered why Hurricane had let the fire burn so low.

The hand now crept to his abdomen, moving in a slow sinuous massage that was he imagined, exactly like the movement of a…

“Snake?”

He was instantly wide-awake, yet it required every ounce of self-control for him to remain perfectly still. He didn’t even move his lips, but rather stage whispered through clenched teeth. “There’s a snake on me. Hurricane! A snake.”

He rolled his eyes toward the fire pit, but the glow from the crimson coals cast scant illumination. He looked back down, trying to spot the serpent as it slithered onto his belly. It was big. He could feel its weight pressing against his diaphragm, not enough to prevent him from breathing, but a constant pressure nevertheless.

“Molly, wake up!” She mumbled a reply, but clearly was nowhere near waking.

He would have spat a curse, but the unseen creature had coiled into a knot on his torso, and he feared that even the act of breathing might trigger a deadly strike.

His fingers brushed the stock of the shotgun, lying where it had fallen to his side, but the proximity of the weapon gave him little comfort; he wasn’t about to blast the serpent with buckshot. There was another way the gun might save him though.

He gripped the weapon then manipulated it so that it was stretching away from him, perpendicular to his body, and then pushed out with it until it encountered something unmoving. “Molly!”

It was a risk, but there seemed little alternative. His repeated jabs and hoarse whispers succeeded in rousing her. “What is it?”

“There’s a snake on me.”

“A snake.” She didn’t sound very concerned. “Well, it will probably go away if you leave it alone.”

“Molly!” He jabbed her again.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She sat up, and in the dim light he could just make out her coppery ringlets and the glint of her eyes. “Where’s Hurricane?”

“Molly! There’s a snake on me. Can you focus on that?”

“Hold your horses.” She cut a wide circle around his supine form, then jabbed a long branch into the coals. After a second, bright yellow tongues of fire sprang up on her makeshift torch, throwing light several yards in every direction. Dodge now had no difficulty at all in identifying the arrow-shaped head of the animal coiled on his abdomen; its lidless eyes stared inscrutably back at him.

Molly swept the flaming brand toward him in broad arcs, trying to disturb its rest without unduly rousing its venomous ire. The serpent drew back its head and opened its mouth to reveal hook-like fangs, beading with venom, and on one of her passes, it made a half-hearted strike.

“Jesus, Molly. Be careful.”

She swung the torch again, and the viper relented, slithering away into the darkness. Dodge sagged in place as the adrenaline drained out of his bloodstream.

“Puff adder,” Molly observed. “Good thing you didn’t rile him in your sleep.”

“Poisonous?”

She nodded then held her torch up. “Hurricane!”

Dodge rose and joined her in calling out, but only the chatter of nocturnal jungle animals answered their cries. Hurricane Hurley was gone.