Jupiter's Bones (34 page)

She shone a flashlight into the pit.

“Now all of you! Get down on your hands and knees and crawl!”

No one moved. Some of the younger ones began to cry. Marge honed in on the older children—specifically a tall girl with black eyes and short, black curly hair. “Get them inside before it’s too late! Move it or we’re all going to
die
!”

Terrified, the girl remained paralyzed. Marge shook her with all her might. “Do it or I’ll tell Andromeda that you disobeyed!”

The girl nodded, tears streaming down her cheek. Quivering and crying, she began ushering the little ones into the black hole, pushing them inside the bowels of the earth when they refused to go in of their own accord. As they wailed, the older children took the little ones’ shaking hands and dragged them along.

“Go, go, go!” Marge rushed the youngsters inside, holding back the oldest girl. “What’s your name?”

“Centura.”

“I’m Marge, Centura. And you’re not only going to help me, you’re going to be a real hero just like Father Jupiter.” Shoving another tiny child into the black hole. “Go, go!”

When the last of them were underground, Marge handed Centura a flashlight and said, “It’s up to you to get the kids through. Help the little ones make it if they’re too scared to move on their own. There’ll be people waiting to help you out the other end. Now move it!”

The child’s eyes were pouring water. But dutifully, she ducked into the pit. As soon as the children were inside the pipeline, Marge rushed back to help Lauren. She was
leading another group of school-aged kids toward the classroom.

“The last of them?” Marge asked.

“Yes—”

More voices. Adult males. Marge saw them, took aim, shot all of them in the stomach.

Running to freedom with the remaining children. When they were all inside, Marge slammed the classroom door, wedging a chair up against the handle to keep it locked.

Andromeda turned on her miner’s cap and the flashlight. “Let’s go! Down the hole! Move it!”

More cries and wails. Some refused. Marge resorted to brute force, literally hurling them down the squalid void before they could protest, and shoving them back underground when they tried to turn around and pop back through the closet’s trapdoor.

“Go, go, go!”

The moaning was heartrending. Marge felt like an ogre, but horrid visions of murdered infants made her work fast and furiously. Screaming, yelling, physically rough with them until the kids realized they had no choice. The direction was only one way!

Waiting for the last of them to be securely underground! When that final child had been plunged into the pit, Marge tore off her robe, turned on her miner’s cap and thrust herself down the dank, narrow tube.

Once again, panic welled up in her chest as mud and grit surrounded her every pore. But her heart was beating so rapidly, she scarcely noticed her fear. Completely engulfed by muddy earth, she felt as if the tunnel had narrowed within the last two hours. Her body dragged against the slime, the dozens of feet in front of her kicking pools of sullied water into her mouth and face.

Without warning, the ground opened its mews and roared. It shook them fiercely like salt in a shaker, raining down mud and soil, further pinching off the already constricted tubing. High-pitched screams filled the conduit.

Marge coughed up muddy phlegm and spit it from her
mouth. “Keep going!” she screamed, pushing bodies forward. “Keep going, keep going! We’re going to make—”

Another blast!

Hard and furious!

From above the underground belly convulsed! Dirt dropping in chunks and clods, collapsing onto them, tumbling onto the children amid frenetic coughs, sneezes, choking noises, screams, cries and wails. Marge’s lower body was buried beneath an avalanche of loose soil. She couldn’t shake it off—no room. With determination, she dug her nails into the treacherous terrain and clawed her way out of the wreckage.

“
Go, go, go!
” She shrieked as she coughed up muck. “
Faster, faster!
”

Abruptly, the temperature inside the ground began to soar, turning the tube into a steamy mudbath.

“
Quick, before the next one!
” Marge gasped out. “
Hurry!
” All that precious oxygen being used up.

“Hold your breath if you can…” But her head became woozy. Stars danced in front of her face.

No, you’re not going to pass out! The children need…

Deep breaths.

They need you…

Blacker and blacker
.

Stop a moment…

Just a moment…

The stars began to recede. Her head was now pounding. But a pounding head was preferable to a light one.

The temperature continued to climb.

The ground surrounding them hot to the touch.

Baked
alive
.

The child in front of her stopped moving—a boy of around eight. Marge didn’t know if he had frozen or passed out. She didn’t care. With great effort, she began heaving him forward, using the reservoir strength of her palms. His body was heavy, his bones felt leaden, but
there was
no
choice. If she didn’t get him through,
she’d
never make it through.

Heave!

Rest!

Heave!

Rest!

Hot, hot, hot, hot!

Heave!

Heave, heave, heave!

Youch! Hot, hot, hot!

But miracles happen in the most unusual places. The boy suddenly regained consciousness. Though groggy, he was able to move baby steps forward.

“
Go for Father Jupiter!
” Marge urged him between gasps. “Go. Go…”

“Hot!” he moaned.

“We’re almost…”
Don’t talk, Dunn!
Big gasp!
Save your energy
.

The tunnel getting narrower and narrower.

Marge working harder and harder.

No more strength!

Hotter and hotter
.

Baked alive
.

Baked Alaska
.

Delirium, here we come!

No, you can do it!

Go, go…gasp, gasp…go, go…gasp…

The stars coming back…

Her strength ebbing…

A deafening roar followed by violent tremors of the earth. Mud tumbling over her head, interring her weakened body in hot, dungish coals, charring her nostrils, stinging her mouth and cheeks, searing her eyes…

Keep go—

But she had nothing left.

Sinking.

Fading, fading, fading…

The ground trembled, and her limp body gave way to the “other side.”

Feeling a jerk on her leg…

Something on her…pulling on her.

The boy maybe? Grappling for help?

Poor kid
.

Still caring even at her last breath! But what could she do?

With her body buried under pounds of dirt and her lungs suffocating, she gave up. As the last bits of light were snuffed from her consciousness, Marge retained this vague notion that she was somehow breathing real air.

Another fireball exploded
in the charcoal sky, rocking the earth, spewing flames into the cosmos as the sizzling air scorched Decker’s nostrils. Momentarily thrown off balance, he fell backward into the gulley, landing on his hipbone. His clothes had been thickened by layers of ashes and soot, his hands made sore and raw from rooting in the muck. Within moments, the blast was followed by a volley of machine-gun fire in his direction.

“Drop!” he screamed.

He threw himself across the pile of children, the last of the crew that had made it out before the tunnel had collapsed, and the entranceway had caved in. He had about five minutes to rescue Marge before she drowned in sludge.

“Fucking assholes!” Head down, he groped around with his fingers until he felt the handle of the automatic. Getting off the children and onto his knees, he peeked over the top of the trench, then let go with a barrage of bullets. “
Take that, you goddamn motherfuckers!
”

The exchange of gunfire, though seemingly protracted, lasted no longer than thirty seconds. As soon as it subsided, he slithered out of the trench, leaving the children in the hands of the rescue operation. Quickly, while dodging bullets, the joint LAPD/fed SWAT team loaded the youngsters into a shielded truck.

Dawn was coming in fast! Good, because they had light to work by. Bad, because they were all more visible. Creeping on his belly to the crater of mud, Decker plunged his hands into the gook and began digging like a possessed beagle. McCarry, Stone, Oliver, Martinez and Webster were excavating alongside him, all of them prone, their heads covered by hard hats. Oliver, Webster and Martinez were using their bare hands as shovels. Stone and McCarry had the advantage of small tools.

How many minutes had passed?

Two…maybe two and a half?

Maybe three, four minutes left to save her.

“C’mon, Margie, do something to let me know you’re there!” Decker’s arms were elbow-deep in slime, his fingers grabbing to feel something. “Why don’t the jerks leave us alone and just blow themselves to smithereens?”

McCarry swore as he spaded gunk. “The kid said Bob wanted to go out in a big bang. Looks like he’s getting his wish.”

“I got a wish for him,” Decker said. “I wish I could flay him slow—” His fingertips rippled over the smooth surface of skin. He tried to grip it, but the flesh slipped out of his grasp. “
There’s someone down here!
” he yelled. “
I felt something, I felt something
.”

Frantically, the crew began unearthing mud. But hostile gunfire erupted, forcing Decker to pull his arm out and cover his head.

“
Goddamn
them!” Decker said, his face hitting the ground. This time, McCarry and Oliver shot back, allowing Decker to dive back into the bog, trying to salvage whoever was left,
including
his closest friend and partner for the last fucking ten years!

Maybe three minutes left to go.

Work, Decker, work! Work!

“How many kids were there before Marge?” Decker yelled.

Stone answered, “Lauren doesn’t remember—”

“How the hell does she know—”

“She didn’t have time to count—”

“It’s here! I got something, I got…” Decker’s arm had once again disappeared into the mire, his face dancing cheek-to-cheek with the blackened pool. For a second time, he felt flesh, dug his nails in hard and deep. “I’ve got someone! Pull me up, pull me up!”

Webster, Martinez and Oliver wrapped their arms around Decker’s body and began to tow him backward as the others unearthed the soil around his arm.

Decker talked to God. “Just let me hold
on
! Just let them hold
off—
”

Again, the air broke with gunfire blast. But this time, being
so
close, no one stopped working. The men kept dragging, the others kept spading, all of them praying that the bullets’ trajectories would fly off-course.

Grunting as they pulled Decker, who held on with untold strength, trying to draw the body up from the bowels. Soon the buried limb became visible. The men grabbed onto the thin arm, hooking their fingers into the slippery skin, gaffing it like a fish. They tugged on it while the others dug around the flesh. Moments later, a muddrenched youngster was ejected from the boggish hell. A quick wipe of his face showed him to be a preteen boy.

Marge had about two more minutes left! As the others continued their frantic rooting for Marge, Decker shoved open the boy’s mouth, stuck his fingers down the kid’s throat and tried to clear an airway without making him gag. Aspirating muck was a surefire way of giving the kid a very dangerous pneumonia. When he sensed some air space in the throat, he covered the boy’s nose and mouth with his own mouth and gave three quick breaths. He looked down at the child’s body to see if his air had produced a rise in his chest.

Nothing.

Decker jammed his fingers down the boy’s throat a second time, then administered three quick puffs. This time the kid’s thorax swelled.

“I got a fuckin’ airway!” he screamed as sweat
streaked down his sullied face. “Fuckin’ hallelujah! I need a medic! Where are the fuckin’ medics? I need some help with CPR!”

“They’re behind the trench!” Elise cried out as she scooped up goop.

“How far?”

Stone didn’t answer. Distraught, she had finally shattered, allowing herself deep sobs as she spaded muck with her trowel. Oliver glanced at her, trying to keep a lid on his own emotions. But he was losing the battle. Conjuring up images of his partner under pounds of pressure and mud…

“Come on, baby! C’mon!” He spoke to himself. His strength was draining, but pure, raw adrenaline kept him going. “C’mon, honey, you’ve
got
to be there!”

Something crashed and blew up a hundred yards away. The ground responded by vomiting out rocks and chunks of granite.

“Motherfuckers!” Martinez screamed, his arms deep within the ground. “Motherfuck—Oh, Blessed Mary, I think I feel something!” He plunged his arm as deep as he could go. “I’ve got something! I think it’s a piece of clothing! Dig here! Dig around me!”

As dirt flew out in all directions, Decker continued to breathe life into the boy’s lungs. He had called someone for cardiac depressions, so now Webster was at the child’s chest.

“Pulse?” Decker asked.

“Not yet—”

“C’mon, kid, you can—” He looked over at Martinez. “You got her yet?”

“Not yet—”

Webster said, “And one, and two, and three, and four and five.”

Decker breathed into the boy’s mouth, hoping to revive this young and fragile life. He never pictured death as revenge on evil individuals. But as he struggled, as the others sweated and labored, all he could think about was
torturing Bob Russo. It scared him that he found pleasure in the images.

Webster was still counting, “And one, and two, and three, and four and five.”

A breath.

A one, a two, a three, a four, a five…

A breath.

“Faster!” Martinez screamed at those around him. “I’m losing…she’s slipping down…” He was practically facedown in the mire. “
Faster, faster!
”

Like quicksand, the wet hole was covering itself up almost as quickly as they dug. But slowly, slowly, the pit became a bit wider, a bit deeper. At first, it was inches, then a foot. Finally, enough gunk was unearthed to reveal Martinez’s hand gripping onto a small patch of cloth. McCarry and Stone locked onto the fabric and pulled, hoping that the strong protective SWAT garb would hold fast.

Like pulling a dinosaur out of the tar pits.

Tugging harder and harder.

Dig, tug, dig, tug, dig, tug—

Webster saying, “And one, and two, and three, and four and five…” A breath into the lungs. Decker shouting, “You get her?”

“She’s coming.”

“Is her face out?”

“Not yet. It’s coming—”

“And four and five.”

A breath. “Got her?”

Another spew of gunfire.

“Shit!” Decker yelled as he protected his head. “Shit, shit, shit!!”

The police answering the fire.

“Got her—”

“It’s coming!” Martinez said, grunting.

Slowly, the piece of fabric was turning into part of a pant leg, then a leg with a boot. McCarry hammer-locked his arms around the femur, and towed it upward as others
continued to spade around it. Within moments, both legs were exposed. Five men grabbed and pulled.

Webster still shouting, “And one, and two and three—”

Suddenly, the boy hacked up mud, then broke into spasms of coughing. Decker turned him onto his side as the child threw up gunk. Webster broke into unexpected tears, then slithered back to the crater to help shovel away crud from the exposed body.

The boy’s breathing was erratic, the pulse unsteady. But Decker could no longer hold off. He needed to help. He needed to be part of the operation to save his partner and friend!

“Get him to a paramedic!” he ordered Webster.

He gripped her legs along with the others and pulled.

The two legs…then the hips…

Long legs, wide hips…an adult in camouflage. It
had
to be her.

Please, God, let it be her!

About one more minute before oxygen damage kicked into the brain.

Decker tugged with such intensity that he felt the vessels in his face bursting. Screaming, “Pull, pull, pull—”

“We’re pulling, goddammit!” McCarry shouted back.

Two legs and a hip.

The hips and then the stomach, then the chest.

One more goddamn minute.

A second passed, then two, then three…

Suddenly, she was out, sliding with so little friction, that they all fell backward.

She was completely lifeless—without breath, without pulse, without the rudiments of involuntary nervous synapses. So thickly caked in gook, her face had become a smooth, ceramic convex surface of mud. Frantically, Decker wiped away the goo from her face, sticking his fingers down her throat and in her nostrils.

Maybe fifty seconds—maybe less.

With Marge being the last of the lot, McCarry could
only think about getting his people out alive. While attempting to tow Marge into the shielded trench, the special-agent-in-charge snapped commands regarding vehicle clearance of the area. But Decker didn’t hear a thing. He was too busy trying to clear Marge’s nose to get an airway, creeping on his belly as they dragged her amid punctuated bursts of machine-gun fire.

Finally, they returned her to relative safety behind the protective ditch. Twenty feet away stood the pickup vehicles. Seeing the body, a trio of hard-hatted paramedics dropped down from the van’s cargo door, and, while crouching, sprinted a gurney over to the body. As they loaded her into a four-wheel-drive Suburban that had been converted into a bullet-proof ambulance, McCarry ordered his rescue team into the fed’s armored vehicles.

Without hesitation, Decker slipped into the back of the ambulance before the cargo door was slammed shut. His presence made the small working space even more cramped and crowded, but no one protested his being there. The key turned in the ignition, and the motor kicked in. A depression on the gas pedal, and the four-wheel drive lurched forward, reeling over the unsteady, bumpy terrain. Surrounding him were McCarry’s armored trucks, all of them desperately trying to negotiate the unstable earth beneath them.

Dry-eyed, Decker held Marge’s frigid hand in his own cold grip, and stared out the rear window while EMTs toiled frantically on Marge’s unresponsive bulk. They cleared, they cleaned, they intubated, feeding her fresh oxygen with a mask strapped over nose and face. They swabbed, and injected meds while monitoring her flat vitals signs. Immediately, a tech started chest compressions, which were read out on the screen as little spikes resembling Etch-a-Sketch mountains. The doctor over the radio was asking questions. He could barely be heard over the outside noise and internal static.

A paramedic was talking to Decker.

Focus, Pete
. “Pardon?”

“You have to let go of her and move back.”

The EMT was holding resuscitating paddles. Comprehension in Decker’s brain. He couldn’t hold onto her body because he’d get electrically zapped in the process. Reluctantly, he dropped her hand, letting go of the physical connection.

“Paddles in place?”

“In place.”

Abruptly, the jeep was jerked side to side by an explosive outburst. The ground roared, blackening the soft morning light with sand, dirt and grit. Rocks and pebbles stabbed the plastic windows while stones pounded the steel doors. The inside temperature zoomed upward.

The driver cursed as he swerved to the left, then to the right, then to the left again. But he never stopped moving forward. He turned his head and peeked over his shoulder.

“Everyone okay?”

Decker couldn’t answer, couldn’t find sound in his throat. He looked out the side windows. McCarry’s crew still appeared upright; at least the trucks were still on four wheels.

With great courage, he allowed himself to look at her, at her gray, dirt-streaked face now masked and tubed. Yes, air was entering her lungs, but were they still too soggy to absorb life-giving oxygen?

Gunfire pellets hailing onto the vehicle, reverberating inside like an echo chamber.

“Those goddamn fuckheads!” The driver swore while trying to steer the wheels. The car skidded, almost overturning before it landed on all fours with a clunk and fishtailed.

The driver kept going.

Twenty feet…thirty feet…forty feet…the Order’s bunker inching away, slowly receding into the distance.

Drenched with sweat from the soaring, internal temperature, the techs set up the paddles again. Though it must have been close to ninety degrees, Decker was still shaking with cold.

“One more time,” the paramedic gasped.

“Can you go faster?” one man asked the driver.

“Not if you want to get there alive.”

“Eric, paddles in place?”

“Paddles in place, Terry. Fire when ready!”

Zap
.

The body jumped, and all eyes went to the monitor.