“Time to make tracks,” he announced to anyone who might be listening.
“You going to make it all right?” Wayne asked with a touch of indifference.
“Abyssinia!” Sam had picked up the slang term for farewell on a brief visit to New York City. So far it had not caught on in these parts, but he was trying. Not looking back, Sam waved and headed out into the night. The crisp air did not exactly sharpen his senses, but he felt a touch more alert now that he was out of the cramped, smoky bar.
He spared a minute to take a leak against the side of the bar, barely managing to keep his boots clean, and then began the long walk back to camp.
The moon was out, painting the dirt road in a light brushing of silver. As he moved deeper into the forest, though, the way grew dark, with barely enough light to keep from losing his way.
He didn’t care. He could make this trek with his eyes closed. He was tempted to try it, but if he closed his eyes, he’d probably fall asleep. He shouldn’t have stayed out so late or drank so much. He would pay for it tomorrow.
He quickened his pace, lengthened his stride, and hurried on. As he moved along, the scant light melted away as dark clouds drifted over the moon.
“Guess I’ll get to test my theory after all.” He spoke louder than absolutely necessary, the sound of his own voice emboldening him. He was a woodsman, plenty rugged, but being unable to see more than a few feet in front of his face unnerved him.
He remembered sitting on the front porch of his childhood home in southwest Virginia, listening to his grandfather tell stories of witches and haints, the ghosts that haunted the Blue Ridge Mountains. He didn’t believe those stories, at least, not most of the time, but when he was alone in the dark, they suddenly seemed just a touch more plausible.
Sam Price, how did you ever end up over here on the wrong side of the country? he thought. It was an unexpected turn of events. With his hometown caught in the grip of the Great Depression, he had traveled all the way to New York City looking for work, and ended up in Washington of all places. But, the job kept him fed, clothed, and sheltered, with a little left over to send home. Minus drinking money, of course. Still, these mountains had a different feel to those back East. Sometimes he felt like he had traveled to an alien world.
It wasn’t long before he heard it. A single crunch, as if someone who had been moving silently had made a single misstep. Sam froze, listened. Nothing.
He started moving again, ears straining to hear something over the sound of his labored breathing and racing heart.
There it was again. Something was definitely moving.
“Could be anything. Deer, squirrel, wolf. Nothing that’ll give you any trouble.” Despite his feigned confidence, he unsheathed his Bowie knife and clutched it tightly.
He continued on, wondering just how much farther it was to camp. The darkness and his alcohol-polluted mind had deprived him of his senses of time and distance. If he was close to camp, maybe it was one of the fellows out wandering in the forest for some reason of his own. Yes! That made sense.
“Anybody out there?” he called.
Five seconds of heart-pounding silence. And then the footsteps came again, this time from both sides of the road.
“Who the hell is following me?” He wished he didn’t sound so fearful. “It’s late and I don’t have time for your jokes. Come on out.”
And then a new sound came. A sharp, rapping sound, like someone knocking two sticks together. He turned in the direction of the sound. It came again.
“Oh, my God.” He’d heard the stories, knew what it meant. Had he taken a wrong turn?
Like a band tuning up for a show, the sounds now came from several directions, up ahead and off to his left. Sharp staccatos and deep thrums, like someone pounding a tree.
They’re up in front of me, but I am sure camp is that way. What do I do?
Suddenly, his knife seemed a pitiful weapon against whoever was out there.
Where do I go? Can I even outrun them?
His cognitive processes suddenly gummed up and his hindbrain took over. He spun on his heel and dashed blindly back through the darkness. He’d go back to town and sleep it off in the bar, assuming Wayne would let him. Hell, even if he couldn’t find a place to stay, he’d rather sleep in the street than stay in this forest a moment longer than necessary.
He was just getting up a full head of steam when something large and heavy smacked him full in the face. A flash of red light filled his eyes and a loud pop echoed in his ears.
Stunned, he stumbled backward and sat down heavily on the soft, damp earth. His eyes watered, his ears rang, and his nose felt like it had been burned with a hot poker. He put his hands to his face and felt warm blood.
“What hit me?” he groaned.
Suddenly afraid, he kicked out in the direction of whatever had struck him, and his foot connected with something solid. He let out a fresh grunt as pain blossomed in his ankle. He had run full tilt into a tree.
“Jesus Christ and all His disciples. What is wrong with me?” He staggered to his feet, squeezed one nostril closed, and took a deep breath. Just in time, he remembered something he’d learned years ago. Don’t try to blow your nose if you think it’s broken. Your eyes will puff up like balloons.
He settled for wiping the blood with the back of his sleeve. As he recovered from the stunning blow, he suddenly remembered the reason he had been running in the first place.
The clacking sounds continued. He realized he’d dropped his knife. He felt around with his foot for a few seconds, but gave up. The sounds were coming closer.
And then, despite his bloody, broken nose, he caught a whiff of something foul. It was feral, almost like the foul odor of a polecat.
“Lord have mercy! It’s true. It’s all true.”
He took off running again. He kept his hands out in front of him this time, hoping to avoid any further collisions. It took only a few moments to realize he had left the road. Here, the ground was uneven beneath his feet. Leaves crackled and crunched underfoot, low-hanging limbs smacked him. He was running blind, no idea where he was headed, but at least he was still running.
Twice he stumbled and fell, the second time getting a mouthful of dirt for his trouble. Cursing, he pushed himself up to his knees, spitting out soil and bits of leaves and twigs.
It was then that two things happened.
The foul stench grew overwhelming, and the moon broke free of the clouds.
Sam looked up and gasped.
Standing in front of him was the dark outline of something huge.
He didn’t have time to scream before everything went black.
2- The Pyramid
The morning sun shone down on the pyramid that stood just up ahead. Brock Stone parted the foliage to gain a better look. The structure was built in the four-sided Egyptian style and made of granite. Like its Middle Eastern counterparts, it lacked a smooth outer surface. In the case of the Great Pyramids of Egypt, those had once been covered in polished limestone, all of which had been looted over the years, leaving the foundation blocks exposed. Stone knew that this pyramid, however, had not had such an outer covering.
“I can’t believe there is an actual pyramid here.” A tall, red-haired man was peering through binoculars at the object in the distance. He was lanky, his fair skin sunburned and scraped. His left arm ended in a modified hook attached to the stump of his wrist, and it was in this hook that he clutched the binoculars. “It’s just so out of place.” A friend from Stone’s youth, Alex English was his closest friend.
Stone shrugged. “That’s what makes it interesting. That, and it’s in the correct general location. We should investigate. Come on.”