The air grew cooler and the vegetation thicker as they proceeded into the swamp. The soft earth beneath their feet gave a little with each step, lending to the feeling of heaviness all around them. The humid air seemed to weigh them down, and the moss-draped, leaning trees only added to the sensation as they trudged on through a maze of greens, grays, and browns. Little by little, the shafts of sunlight grew fewer and farther between until it felt like twilight lay upon them, though it was barely midday.
As they moved deeper, the musky, earthy aroma of the swamp gradually gave way to a dank smell. The scent grew stronger and Bones stopped, crinkled his nose, and sniffed the air.
“What is that odor?” Slater’s face twisted into a ‘Tom Cruise just invited me to church’ grimace.
The scent grew stronger, pungent. Bones shook his head.
“I don’t know. It’s not a… get down!”
Bones dove at the television crew, corralling Slater and Carly in his arms and plowing into Dave. The three fell in a heap to the damp earth as a rock the size of Bones’ fist smashed into a pine tree where Slater had stood only moments before.
Something flashed through the undergrowth — a shadow of indiscernible shape, moving from left to right.
“Get behind that log.” Bones pointed to the remains of a fallen tree a few yards away. Slater and her team scrambled for cover while Bones rolled to his left as another stone flew. It struck the earth with a wet slap like a fist hitting flesh, bounced once, and splashed into the stagnant pool behind him. What living thing could throw that hard? Either Craig Kimbrel had gotten lost on the way to Spring Training or Bones was up against something entirely new. He drew the Recon knife sheathed at his side and crawled in the direction where he’d seen the shadow moments before.
What a time to leave my Glock in the truck.
A third stone came flying out from the dense foliage. This one smashed into a rotten stump a foot from Bones’ outstretched hand and stuck there. Bones snatched it free, rolled to his feet, and hurled it with all his might at the spot from which it had come. He heard a slap as it struck something soft, then a deep, chuffing sound that might have been pain or surprise.
Bones let out a roar of defiance and dashed toward the spot, zigzagging here and there to hopefully avoid getting crushed by another flying projectile. Up ahead, the underbrush rustled, the sound fading away as their assailant fled.
Bones chased it a good fifty yards before slowing to a trot and finally stopping. He hadn’t seen a thing. Whatever it was that attacked them had simply melted into the forest. It was gone. He supposed he should go back and check on Slater and the others, and then search for any tracks it might have left behind. He sheathed his knife and mopped his brow.
And cried out in surprise when the earth gave way beneath his feet.
Chapter 8
Bones had only a moment to realize he was falling before his feet hit something solid. Or somewhat solid, because whatever it was his feet struck held for only a moment before it gave way and he plunged deeper into darkness. He landed hard on his feet, pain shooting along his legs. A splintering crack split the air, and for a moment he thought he’d broken a leg, but he realized it was the sound of breaking wood. He rubbed his leg and the pain soon diminished, leaving behind only a dull ache at the base of his spine.
He looked around, the dim light shining through the hole where he’d fallen illuminating a circle about ten feet wide. He stood on a wooden floor, its boards covered in a thin film of dust. Beneath his feet, a series of cracks spread outward, and he took a step back just in case more open space lay beneath him. He took out his Maglite and shone it around.
“No freaking way.”
He was inside a ship, probably sixteenth-century by the looks of the cannon his light fell upon. Sweeping his beam back and forth, he saw several more cannons, some still in their tracks, others lying on the floor. This was the gun deck of a large sailing vessel.
He took a cautious step, and then another. The deck supported his weight. Encouraged, he began to explore. The fact that the deck still hadn’t given way beneath all these cannons gave him hope that the structure was sturdy enough to bear the weight of one big Cherokee. He supposed he would find out.
At the far end of the deck, a ladder led up to an open trapdoor. He tested the first rung, found it sturdy, and climbed up. He emerged in another sizeable space. All around, the moldering remains of hammocks dangled from the beams that supported the main deck. Lying on the floor amidst the accumulated silt from centuries of leakage lay the skeletal remains of the crew. Some held pitted swords or rusted knives, while others lay curled in fetal balls.
The ceiling up above was blackened with soot. Apparently the crew had made their homes here after being run aground, but how in the hell had a ship gotten this far inland?
“Must have been one hell of a storm,” he mumbled.
He shone his beam down to the far end of the deck, where a door hung haphazardly on broken hinges. That would be the officers’ quarters. He picked his way across the deck, reluctant to tread on the remains of the deceased. As he skirted the bones of the soldier nearest him, he did a double-take.
The back of the man’s skull had been smashed in, leaving a baseball-sized hole.
“What in the… ” He knelt for a closer look. The back of the skull had been caved in. Fragments of bone lay inside the hollow of the cranium. Whatever had delivered the fatal blow had compressed the skull. The victim had died lying face-down, and as the soft tissue decayed, the fragments of bone had simply fallen into the hollow space once occupied by the brain.
“Sorry, bro,” he said. “That’s a nasty way to die.”
He stood and resumed his careful trek. It quickly became apparent that every member of the crew had died in the same way — their skulls crushed by a blunt object. He shivered, the fresh memory of flying stones strong in his mind. This ship had been here for a good four hundred years. Could there possibly be a connection? He didn’t want to believe it, but he knew better than to dismiss the improbable.
“Bones!” Slater’s voice called out from somewhere above. “Where are you?”
“I’m down here!” he called. “But don’t come any closer. The ground’s not stable.”
He moved toward the hole through which he’d initially tumbled, but before he could get there, a pair of hiking boots slid through the opening, followed by trim, deeply tanned legs. Slater!
“Hold on a second. There’s a hole right below your feet and you’ll fall through if you’re not careful. Believe me, I know from experience.” He hurried over to her, stumbling over the rib cage of a dead sailor. He reached up, grabbed Slater by the waist, and guided her down to the deck.
Her eyes grew wide as she took in their surroundings. “Where are we?” she marveled.
“Inside an old sailing ship. I’m not sure what kind, exactly.”
Slater rounded on him, hands on hips. “A sailing ship? Underground? Are you winding me up?”
“Nope. Check it out.” He swept his light across the deck and over the remains of the crew.
“Wow!” Slater gaped, her voice soft and her eyes wide. “How do you think it got here?”
“The only theory I can come up with is one hell of a hurricane carried them inland and they got stuck here when the water receded. It looks like they decided to live inside the ship. You can see they had fires in here.” He pointed to the blackened beams up above. “Over time, it sank down into the swamp and the mud preserved it.”