Callsign: Queen - Book I (A Zelda Baker - Chess Team Novella) Page 11

  Thomas sensed something was wrong the moment he entered camp. A quick inspection revealed nothing obvious that might be amiss, but still, things were not right. There was a tension in the air, as if the world were as taut as piano wire.

  Derek and Emily appeared from the shadows on the far side of the encampment and hurried to meet him. They both appeared agitated.

  "Doctor Thornton, I did not sign up for this trip only to be stranded in the middle of nowhere." Emily's freckled face was bright red, but whether from sunburn or anger he could not tell.

  "Wait, what are you talking about? We're not stranded." The psychological toll this place took on travelers sometimes caused a person to crack. He hoped this was not the case with Emily, who, despite having a face and body that screamed 'delicate flower,' had been a trooper up to this point.

  "Victor is gone." Her voice trembled as she spoke and she looked like she was on the verge of tears. "He said he was going to hike back to the lagoon, take one of the boats, and go home."

  The news struck Thomas like a punch to the gut. If their guide was gone, that left him alone to get three students back to civilization. He supposed he could do it, but this meant the expedition was over. Damn. Another day or two might have done it. With serious effort, he regained his composure. Under the circumstances, it would not do to appear rattled in front of the others.

  "But we still have the other boat, so we aren't stranded." He stared through the trees in the direction of the lagoon, as if his eyes could penetrate the miles of tangled greenery and see their remaining boat, their only path back to civilization, waiting there beside its dark waters. "But why did Victor just up and leave? Did he say anything?"

  Emily gave Derek a look that said, "I told you so," and Derek nodded.

  "I think it's been coming on for a few days, Professor," Denesh said. "He didn't like it here, and kept telling us it was a bad place and that we should not stay. He knew it would do no good to say anything to you, though. You were so focused on whatever it is you're still doing out here." He held his hands out to his sides in a gesture of confusion. "I do think Victor was on to something, though. There's a wrongness about this place, and it's got us all spooked."

  "Superstitious nonsense." Thomas was embarrassed that he had been so focused on his search that he had failed to notice that one of his team was on the verge of abandoning the group. "He got into your heads, that's all. He fed you tales about spooky stuff, and it took root in your psyche. Don't let it control you."

  "It's not just that, Professor," Derek said. "I had to kill an opossum today."

  "Chestnut-striped," Emily chimed in, proving she had been paying attention to her field guide.

  "An opossum," Thomas repeated, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. He could not begin to fathom where Derek was headed with this.

  "I know how it sounds," Derek protested. "You had to be there, I suppose, but it's not just that I killed it. I had to kill it. It came marching into camp in the middle of the day, which is strange enough in itself, and it went straight for our food. It ignored me when I tried to shoo it away. Then I kicked it and it…" He swallowed hard. "It attacked me. Turned on me, made this crazy noise, and sprang up like a mountain lion or something. It tore up my pants leg, but I got hold of it by the tail before it could bite me. Even then, it kept snarling at me."

  "An opossum snarled at you." Thomas didn't get it. Perhaps this was all just an elaborate ruse to get him to pack up and leave. Or maybe it was a joke.

  "It was a snarl," Emily added. "It sounded like a ferocious predator."

  "I flung it across the camp and it smashed into that tree over there." Derek nodded at a kapok tree with a trunk nearly ten feet in diameter. "It should have crawled away, but it got up and came right at me again. I kicked it away and it still kept on coming at me. Finally, I had to stomp it to death." Derek's eyes fell, clearly upset by the memory.

  "So you had an encounter with a rabid opossum and now you believe Victor's stories about the bogeyman. I'm disappointed in you."

  "It was not rabid." Frustration was now clear in Derek's every word. "You don't understand. It didn't appear crazed at all. Its actions were purposeful, and, I don't know, it was almost as if it thought it was a giant predator and I was the small animal in its way. It never seemed the least bit frightened, or even wary, just determined. It was like there was no question of it doing what it wanted to do, and I could pose no threat to it in any way."

  "I work at a vet's office every summer," Emily added. "Even in the early stages of rabies, if an animal goes into the aggressive state, it's accompanied by other symptoms, like disorientation, trembling, loss of muscle coordination. I saw none of that. That animal was different. We kept the body if you would like to look at it."

  They led him to the spot where the opossum lay. Thomas took his time examining the disfigured remains of the small mammal, though, in truth, he doubted he would recognize even the late-stage signs of rabies. He kept his features calm, letting the silence and his own serenity settle the nerves of his upset students. Finally, he gave a diagnosis of "perhaps" and rose to his feet.

  "Our notebooks are complete, Doctor Thornton. They have been for two days. Victor took half the remaining supplies. Let's just go home." Emily sounded as if she were on the verge of tears.

  The pleading tone grated on his nerves. They had to leave, he understood that, but that did not mean he had to be happy about it. To have come so close and yet failed. It would be another year, at the soonest, before he could return, and that was assuming his sponsors would fund another trip. He had promised results, and they were not going to be happy when he returned empty-handed. "Fine," he said, rising to his feet. "Pack up as much as you can. We'll leave in the morning."

  Derek's and Emily's faces relaxed, and each thanked him profusely, assuring him that this had been the best field ecology trip ever, and that they couldn't wait to get home and tell their families all about it.

  Denesh did not appear to share in their joy. He frowned, his eyes fixed on a spot deep in the jungle.

  "What's wrong with you?" Emily nudged him. "Lighten up a little."

  "Quiet." The tone of his voice silenced everyone in the group. "Something's coming."

  Thomas turned to look in the direction Denesh indicated in time to see three figures stride out of the jungle. They were short and stocky, with glossy black hair cut short in the Yanomami style. Their bodies were painted orange-brown with black smudges all over that put him to mind of a jaguar. Each was armed with a stone-tipped short spear and a stone axe. They moved directly toward the camp, their faces blank, and their strides resolute.

  "Who are they?" Derek whispered. "There aren't supposed to be any natives in this area."

  Actually, very little was known about this region. The area was so remote that it had remained unexplored in modern times. The satellite photos Thomas had inspected revealed nothing but a blanket of unrelenting green.

  "I have no idea. They must be from an undiscovered tribe." Thomas shook his head. These men had the general look and build of the natives of this region, but he noticed subtle differences. Their faces were narrow, and their noses longer. He could not discern eye color from this distance, but they were definitely not the brown one usually found here. Curious, he took a step forward, but Denesh stopped him with a firm grip on his forearm.

  "Let me do it. I know a smattering of languages from this area. Perhaps I can get them to understand me. If this actually is a tribe that has avoided outside contact, and we can communicate with them, I could write quite the paper on it."

  He walked toward them, his open hands at his sides, and spoke to them in a language Thomas did not recognize. The natives neither acknowledged his words, nor broke their stride. Denesh tried again in three other languages unfamiliar to Thomas, and then in Portuguese. Nothing.

  The men continued their silent approach, their faces still devoid of emotion. Their movements were not exactly robotic, but were steady and measu
red, almost military in their regularity.

  "They're like zombies," Emily whispered.

  Thomas grew more nervous with each step they took. Maybe he too had been spooked by Victor's suspicions, but something was very wrong. His hand itched to take hold of the machete that hung from his belt, but he dared not make any movement that insinuated violence. The results could be deadly.

  Denesh gave up his attempts at verbal communication. He dropped to one knee, slipped off his wristwatch, and held it out as a supplicant would a tribute.

  The men stopped in front of him. The one in the center gazed down at the wristwatch and then, as casually as a businessman would brush lint off of his suit, he raised his hatchet and brought it crashing down on Denesh's head. The young man crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his split scalp.

  Emily screamed at the sight of her friend lying dead on the ground, and she turned and fled. Derek drew his .38 revolver and emptied it in a wild spurt of gunfire. At least two bullets hit one of the warriors, punching through his chest and spraying gore on the man who strode directly behind him—yet the wounded man did not stumble, nor did he so much as blink. He kept coming.

  Derek stood like a statue for a moment that seemed frozen in eternity. With a sudden gasp, he shot a glance at Thomas, and then back to the bloody warriors who bore down upon him, their implacable gazes locked on the frightened young man. Derek shrieked, threw his pistol at the first warrior, watched it bounce harmlessly off his chest, and then fled after Emily.

  Thomas felt for his own pistol and realized he had not even bothered to carry it with him today. He didn't own a gun in his "real life," and still was not in the habit of keeping one at his hip. Now he was quickly altering his opinion on the necessity of firearms.

  As the silent warriors turned their attention to him, he slid the machete from his belt and raised it in what he hoped was a threatening pose, but they stalked after him, undeterred. His courage draining faster than his bladder, he turned on his heel and fled blindly into jungle.

  ###

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  THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop

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  DESCRIPTION:

  In the frigid waters off the Arctic Ocean, north of Greenland, the anti-whaling ship, The Sentinel, and her crew face off against a harpoon ship in search of Humpback whales. When the two ships collide and a suspicious explosion sends both ships to the bottom, the crews take refuge on what they think is a peninsula attached to the mainland, but is actually an island, recently freed from a glacial ice bridge.

  Seeking shelter, the two opposing crews scour the island for resources. Instead, they find Viking artifacts, the preserved remains of an ancient structure and a stone totem warning of horrible creatures buried in the island's caves. Facing violent, frigid storms, a hungry polar bear and the very real possibility that they are stranded without hope of rescue, Jane Harper leads the two crews, who must work together to defend themselves against an ancient evil upon which the modern stories of both zombies and vampires are based upon.

  The original undead are awake and hungry. Beware the Draugar.

  SAMPLE:

  1

  Whales. What can I say about them? As an anti-whaling activist, I'm supposed to have this shtick memorized, supercharged, cocked, locked and ready to fire across the bow of anyone who looks at a whale the wrong way. But here's the simple truth: while I share the same mild affection for the world's largest creatures that most people do, I sort of just fell into this job. I needed work out of college and answered an ad in the paper. Turns out what I lacked in passion, I made up for by having an analytical mind and a knack for pretending to be someone I'm not—a lifetime of moving around the world and trying to fit in can do that to a girl.

  So when I take the glass jar filled with red paint and lob it toward the Bliksem, one of Greenland's few whaling ships, I'm fairly indifferent to whether or not it hits the mark. But I'm currently incognito, so I need the effort to at least look genuine.

  Red gore explodes across the Bliksem's gray hull. I let out a genuine whoop. Some suppressed side of me finds this fun, and for a moment, I understand the appeal that has thirty, mostly college dropouts, heading out to sea to combat whaling for months at a time. It feels like when I egged Jimmy Sweedler's house after he left the prom with Susan Something. A part of me hopes he got her pregnant, was forced to marry her and now lives in a trailer infested by rabid chipmunks. But the thirty-three year old, responsible part of me just feels bad for his parents who had to clean up those two dozen eggs.

  Yeah, two dozen.

  I had anger issues.

  Still do, actually, but I can keep it in check when I'm undercover, or use it to fulfill the act.

  "That's right, you whale killing sons-a-bitches!" I shout, shaking my fist at the Bliksem, which is just a hundred feet away.

  Cheers rise up from the deck crew—aka: my fellow paint bombardiers—standing by my side. There are three men and two women on the deck with me—all at least ten years younger than me. In fact, other than Captain McAfee and his one-man "security" team, an Australian known only as Mr. Jackson, I am the oldest crewmember on board. Much of the young volunteer crew sport dreadlocks, not simply as a fashion statement, but also because fresh water showers are rationed while at sea. As a result, the Sentinel—the anti-whaling ship that's been my home for the past month—smells like it must have when it was an active duty Norwegian whaling ship.

  "Nice shot!" shouts Greg Chase, the scrawny first mate. He's got a big awkward smile on his face, which is covered in patches of facial hair struggling to proclaim him a man. Complimenting his shaggy face is a pair of glasses that sit askew on his nose. The kid—he's twenty three, but I can't help thinking of him as a kid—looks like he should be in his parent's basement playing Dungeons & Dragons, not attacking whaling ships in the Arctic Ocean off the northern coast of Greenland. That said, his brown eyes absolutely gleam with excitement, and he's by far the smartest person on this ship, which makes him a threat. Because if anyone is going to figure out I'm not who I claim to be, it's him.

  So when Chase hands me a second glass jar, I take it with a double flick of my eyebrows that says I'm getting my rocks off, too. Before my first attempt, the other deckhands had loosed a barrage of nearly fifteen paint jars, all of which fell short of the mark. So much so, that the crew of the Bliksem had begun to laugh and mock us with an assortment of hand gestures that universally translates to "cocksuckers."

  They're all frowns now. Dressed in thick sweaters and winter caps, some of the Bliksem's crew leans over the rail to see my handiwork. The crimson stain, which looks eerily like blood, covers the ship's name stenciled on the side and runs in red rivulets toward the sea. It's a gruesome sight, which I suppose is the point. A dead and bled whale pulled into port doesn't do much to turn the stomach, but a ship covered in blood from the hunt might not be so kindly received. And the images being captured by the Sentinel's crew will make great PR. Bold? Yes. But effective? I'm not convinced.

  But judging the effectiveness of the Sentinel's tactics isn't why I'm here. My job—my true job as an undercover investigator for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA)—is to observe and record the less noble actions, if any, of the Sentinel and her crew. The allegations leveled against the Sentinel and her captain are sullying the whaling debate and making the anti-whaling community look like zealots. So I'm here to either vindicate them, or expose them as pirates, turn my evidence and testimony over to the international and Greenland authorities and clear the good name of other anti-whaling organizations. On top of that, I'm tasked with the job of recording the effectiveness of the whaler's hunting techniques. Greenland only recently started hunting humpbacks again and their whalers are out of practice. Many whales take a half hour to die—some as long as six hours (experienced whalers can put a whale out of its misery inside of one minute). Given the dual nature of this mission,
the WSPA needed someone with both undercover experience and a level head.

  Translation: my lack of passion keeps me from freaking out at the sight of whale blood. Call me a cocksucker in sign language and I'll throw red paint at you—or worse if I can get my hands on you. Kill a whale and I'll take notes. I believe in the cause—in a world full of cows, why hunt endangered or even threatened creatures? But I've lived all around the world, have eaten most meats imaginable, including—gasp—whale, and I've seen more than a few animals slaughtered.

  It's the circle of life.

  Hakuna matata.

  Pass the A1.

  I haven't had a bite of meat since stepping foot on the Sentinel, which runs a vegetarian galley. I've lost five pounds and have more energy, but damn, I could go for a cheeseburger. I force the thought of cooked meat from my mind and focus on the task at hand.

  With all eyes on me, I raise the jar over my head, take aim and see a tall man with long blonde hair on the deck of the Bliksem. He's pointing a video camera in my direction. I flinch away from the lens. "Shit!"

  If my face is caught on camera while taking part in this act of high seas vandalism, it could destroy the validity of my testimony. I can see it now; The violence needs to stop says the fist-shaking, paint-throwing, crazy lazy. But they called me a cocksucker by thrusting their hands toward their open mouths and pushing their cheeks out with their tongues! Like this! Sorry, that was rude. We were implying you needed to brush your teeth, say the whalers. Fresh breath is important to a seafood eating culture.

  "What is it?" Chase asks. "You all right?"