Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) (36 page)

One of them, obviously an officer, reacted quickly. His command, whatever it meant, was directed at Raglan. He spoke quickly, sharply. It was obvious the idea that Raglan might not obey was completely beyond his comprehension.

Raglan realized this at the same instant that he saw, hanging on a hook just inside the guardroom door, a ring with several large keys. Reaching up, he took the keys, then stepped back and pulled the door shut.

There was a shout from within but he had already turned away.

There was a narrow passage alongside the guardroom and he stepped into it, running lightly until he faced two doors, one on either side. He moved quickly to the one on his left, thrust the key home, and turned it.

The door came open under his hand but he did not enter. He reached for his flashlight and shot the straight golden beam into the darkness.

On the floor, apparently unconscious, lay Erik Hokart.

At Raglan's feet there was a small ramp. Behind him the door was swinging slowly shut.

Chapter 38

R
AGLAN STEPPED BACK quickly, but in the moment the heavy door swung shut, Erik's eyes opened and looked straight into his. Then the door closed and Raglan stood alone in the passage.

There was a rush of feet behind him and Raglan turned swiftly, drawing his pistol as he turned.

The nearest man was not ten feet away. Lifting his left arm as if to ward off a blow, Raglan fired from under the elbow.

In the rock-walled passage the gun boomed like a cannon, and the bullet caught the charging Varanel in the chest. Whatever armor he might be wearing under that blue jerkin was no defense against the .357.

Raglan fired again, and a second man clutched his stomach and plunged face downward on the floor.

Shocked, the others halted, then scrambled to run, horrified by this unexpected resistance. For so long they had believed themselves invincible and invulnerable, and now two men had been struck down in seconds. The first was dead, the other screaming. Brave though they might be, nothing in their life experience had prepared them for this, but Raglan knew that once the shock was over they would return.

Swiftly, Raglan stooped and caught the dead man by the collar. Again he opened the massive door, but this time he dragged the Varanel's body into the opening to prevent the closing of the door. Stepping over the body, Raglan ran down to where Erik was struggling to rise.

Grasping his arm, Raglan wheeled toward the door, half-dragging Erik behind him. Somebody was outside, trying to pull the dead Varanel from the opening. Letting go of Erik, Raglan leaped over the body, and as the man outside dropped the dead man's foot and reached for a weapon, Raglan drove the muzzle of the heavy gun into the man's face.

The Varanel fell backward, rolled over, and lunged to escape. Raglan reached back, caught Erik's hand, and pulled him through the door.

“Can you walk?”

Erik nodded, but his weakness was obvious. His face was ghastly, and there were bruises as from a beating.

For an instant Mike glanced left to right. On the left lay the maze from which he had emerged, a death trap for a man in a hurry pursued by men who knew the maze. To the right the passage went straight for some fifty feet and then curved away out of sight. What lay beyond he had no idea.

Directly opposite was a door to what he believed was the quarters of The Hand. Gun in hand, he pressed the wooden block imbedded in the stone, and surprisingly, this door, too, swung open. Beyond was a lighted entrance and a screen before a door that looked to be carved from ivory. Raglan stepped through the door, Erik following. Behind them the door swung shut.

Almost instantly a voice boomed out, shouting harsh commands in a language neither understood.

Ducking around the screen they found themselves in a sort of foyer, facing a concave wall in which there were four tall, narrow doors, two on each side of a gigantic figure of a leaping jaguar carved from black basalt.

Frozen in its leap, jaws agape, revealing very real teeth and claws distended. Raglan was appalled and amazed by as frightening a piece of sculpture as he had ever seen. It was awesome, and splendid as well.

Again the voice boomed out, obviously commanding them to leave.

Raglan glanced at Erik. “Are you all right? Can you make it?”

“Go ahead. I'll try.”

Four doors? He tried to remember his map but did not recall anything such as this. In fact, there had been no details of these apartments, if such they could be called. Were these doors traps as well? Obviously at least one of them was not, but which one?

Raglan dropped to his heels to examine the doors as well as the floor. One door had to be used more than the others—perhaps even two doors. If there was a trap here, that door would show the least use.

The building was very ancient and here, as in some of the castles and cathedrals of Europe, the stone itself was worn by the passage of feet. Raglan stood up and pressed the block beside a door. It swung slowly open.

Beyond was light, and they walked through, Mike Raglan, gun in hand. What lay beyond he did not know, but what he wanted now was a way out.

An angry voice boomed at them again, but this time there was a tinge of hysteria.

“What is it?” Erik whispered. Can that be a man's voice?”

“Speaking through some kind of a tube or trumpet,” Raglan suggested. “I doubt if anyone has ever refused to obey its commands before.”

Then, surprised, Raglan looked at Erik. “You mean you have not seen The Hand? I thought you would have been interviewed by him?”

“It was the one called Zipacna. From what I heard, The Hand appears to no one.”

They stood now in a vast domed room. Facing them was a stone wall, not quite waist-high. Beyond it was a vast gulf of emptiness, and beyond that the gigantic head of what must be an idol with bulging eyes, fat cheeks, and a gaping mouth. A tongue was thrust from that mouth, and the tongue was hinged.

“It's like Baal, the god the Carthaginians worshipped. They sacrificed children to him—often as many as five hundred at a time.

“Fires burned in the belly of the monster and the sacrifices were thrown on the tongue, which they tilted back on hinges and dropped the children into the fires.”

This was a nightmare from which Raglan dearly wished to awaken. There were doors to the right and left of the idol, and they took the one on the left, hurrying now.

The door opened onto a passage leading toward the back of the building, not where he had hoped to go. He led the way along the passage, watching for a turn. It came suddenly, and they went to the right. Now he slowed their pace. Erik, his strength weakened by who knew what privations, was making hard going of it.

Erik stopped, leaning against the wall. He shook his head. “Better go without me,” he panted. “No strength.”

“Take your time. We're going out, and we're going together.”

From somewhere deep within the building there was a low rumble. Then the voice spoke, this time in English: “You will
die
! Now there is no escape!”

The Varanel did not seem to have followed. Were they denied entry, even in an emergency? Or was this the precinct of some other force? The Lords of Shibalba, for example?

There was no sound from around them. Raglan thought back to the map on the gold plaque, then to the other from the Archives. There seemed to have been a passage that led from this area back to the old temple that had become the Hall of Archives.

Those maps were very old. How many now knew of that tunnel? He closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail of the maps.

“Starved,” Erik muttered. “Starved me.”

They had to get out of here. Raglan took Erik's arm. “Come on! We've got to keep moving!”

Twice he tried doors, but each time they did not respond to the pressure of his hand upon the wooden blocks. Were these always closed? Or had they some means of locking all doors from some center of control?

Worried, he hurried on, occasionally slowing to allow Erik to catch up. They had to get out of here, and there was so little time!

Yet he saw no one, saw no sign that these passages were even in use. Suppose he encountered another maze? Or was turned back into the one from which he had so recently escaped?

On his left, he was sure, were the apartments of The Hand, but he had no business with him. The sooner they could get out, the better.

Another door on his right, and he pressed the wooden block. The door swung slowly outward. Before him were three steps down, and then a tunnel. Should he chance it?

He hesitated, not liking it. He never liked closed-in feelings, anyway, but this should lead back to the hall. The direction was right.

“Let's go!” he said and, snapping on his flashlight, led the way. No sooner did the door close behind them than he wished he hadn't. The tunnel was walled and roofed in stone, some it cut from natural rock, some fitted stones.

The air was dank, musty. Erik stumbled after him.

Red rock around him now, the tunnel hewn from solid rock. There was dust on the floor, occasional cobwebs. There was no evidence that the passage had been used in a long, long time.

Fear welled up, choking him. He stopped, fighting for control. What if there was no way out? What if this, too, was a trap? He pushed on. The air was bad and it was hot. Sweat poured down his cheeks and neck.

How far had he traveled from the Hall of Archives to where he had found Erik? He had worked through only the edge of the maze until he reached the mirrors and the glass walls, and it was hard to estimate the distance.

Erik stumbled and fell. Helping him to his feet, Mike Raglan could sense that the man was all in. His strength was gone.

“A little farther, Erik? We've got to get out of here.”

“All right. Just…just a minute. This damned air…”

He straightened himself away from the wall, braced himself. “All right,” he said. “I'll make it.”

They started on. The narrow beam of the powerful flashlight pierced the darkness of the tunnel. He should have counted the steps. Should have made some kind of an estimate of distance.

Water dripped from the rocks overhead. They seemed to be climbing. Erik paused again, and Mike stopped, only too ready to rest. His own breath was struggling. It was the air. In this closed-in space…His head was aching.

Suppose the tunnel was closed at the other end? Could they ever make it back? And could they escape from the tunnel if they did? The foul air…They had to get out.

He started on, stumbling a little, and heard Erik coming behind him.

He fell.

For a moment, on his hands and knees, Mike stared at the damp sandstone floor. His breath was coming in great gasps; his head was heavy with a dull ache. He struggled to his feet.

Erik was leaning against the wall. His face was deathly white and he was struggling to breathe through lips turned blue.

They started on, staggering a little. Raglan's chest felt tight, constricted. He breathed with difficulty.

The tunnel curved slightly and they confronted a door. There was the wooden square. Desperately, Raglan pressed it.

Nothing happened.

Filled with panic, he pressed again and again.

Nothing.

“My God!” Erik breathed.

“You'd better pray,” Raglan said. “There's nothing else will get us out of here now.”

He stabbed at the square again, pushing against the door with his shoulder.

It moved. Something moved! Only slightly, but still a movement. He kept a continual pressure on the wooden block while beating against the door with his shoulder. Slowly, the door opened.

“You press it,” he told Erik, and lunged against the door. The crack widened, and there was light—light and air.

Leaning against the door he gasped at the fresh air, breathing deeply, then coughing.

The door opened slowly, stiffly, reluctantly. Erik stumbled past him into the space beyond.

Chapter 39

T
HE ROOM IN which they found themselves was circular. On their right was a sort of divan about eight feet long, on the left, shelves holding a number of books of the sort seen in the Archives. Covered with dust, they showed no sign of having been disturbed for many years.

Directly before them was a rounded cubicle and, about five feet from the floor, a tube like the small end of a megaphone. Curving away on each side of the cubicle, a latticework.

They were behind the lattice screen in the Hall of Archives. This must be the place from which The Voice had once spoken.

On the left and right were steps leading down to a lower level. In the center of the room a fountain bubbled with water. Warily, Mike Raglan tasted it. The water was fresh and cold. He drank deeply, suddenly aware of how desperately thirsty he had become.

Would they guess the route he had used for escape? Did they even remember that the passage existed?

All about were evidences of a dying civilization. Suspicion and hatred, as well as denial of any existence but their own, had sapped their strength and narrowed their intellects. Certainly, the builders of this vast structure had been creative men of great power, and in control of an extensive labor force. Yet he had seen no signs of recent building or even of repair. Confined to routine tasks, the people obviously did what was necessary and no more. There had been no time to study the wide acreages of irrigation surrounding, except to note that they were green and lovely, obviously producing what was needed.

The early civilizations of the Nile, Tigris-Euphrates, and Indus Valley had all been based on irrigation. The same seemed true of the early cultures in Peru.

The descendants of the Anasazi had not only irrigated but had terraced their mountainsides, utilizing every foot of possible soil. Here in their secluded world they had hoped to remain aloof from those who followed The Hand.

“We've got to get out of here,” Raglan said. “Our time's running out.”