Primal Spillane

by Mickey Spillane

  “Wow,” Pete said, “That was close! The curse almost came true!”

  “And that wasn’t accidental, either.” Hamilton added. “That sealed doorway was constructed to come down on the person who tried to dig his way in! It’s not a curse we have to be afraid of, but the tricks a smart king dreamed up to kill anyone who dared to go after his secrets! From now on we’ll be on our toes!”

  AHEAD of them the black hole of the tomb loomed ominously, a dank foreboding place of death. The pair could smell the foul air that was seeping out of the cavity, and before entering strapped on odd-looking masks. To breathe this air might mean death, and the end was too near to take chances. With flashlights in hand Pete nodded to the professor, and together they stepped over the debris and into the inky blackness of the tomb.

  At once they were in another world. Outside was desert and a blistering sun … here they walked amid the trappings of ancient kings, deep in the cool bowels of the earth! Their lamps threw light over things that had been in darkness for thousands of years. Eagerly, they explored the odd furnishings, then … Pete stopped dead in his tracks. There on the floor before him was a grotesque heap of human bones!

  His light shook. Hamilton ran over to see what the matter was, and nodded at the grim sight.

  “Slaves,” he muttered softly. “Killed to prevent them from divulging the burial ground.”

  Pete shuddered. The professor tapped him on the arm. “I found a doorway, follow me.” They walked between the mouldy wooden chairs to a small opening in the wall. It had been hidden behind a portrait, but the professor had uncovered it.

  Not a sound marred the deathly silence. They walked into another room of huge proportions. At one end was a throne, empty, and they walked toward it. In front was a table, set as if for a feast, but those that sat about the table were the crumpled shells of what once were men. Pete gasped. “More of them!” The professor went over to inspect them, poking at them with his flashlight.

  “They were part of the funeral procession. The last noble act of their king was to give them poisoned food. In all probability there was but one man who left here alive … the king’s advisor! For a few moments they stared at the ghastly scene, then the professor spoke. “I can’t make this out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This room seems to be the last one. Some place around here is a hidden door, but I can’t see it. Let’s give it a try, anyway. You take the other side and I’ll take this. Tap those walls carefully!”

  In the bright light of the flashes, Pete and the Professor circled the room, tapping every inch of the wall. They knew that the mummy was here somewhere, the job was finding it! But, their search was to no avail.

  After an hour had passed each came to the blind end in front of the throne. Then it happened! With a squeak of dried wood and the rumbling of ancient mechanism the floor gave way beneath them, plunging them into Stygian darkness! They landed in a heap on the stone floor, many feet below the level above, their breaths wooshed out of them. Pete scrambled to his feet quickly, snapped on his light, and helped the professor up.

  “Well, Pete, we’re done for! This was the trap I meant to look out for. I should have known better then to stand in front of the throne. By the time we get out of this, if we do get out … the sand will have filled in the entrance.

  “We’ve been trapped very nicely … and by a dead man!”

  “THE heck we are!” Pete growled fiercely. “There’s no dead man living that can get the better of me! Come on, let’s look around!”

  The place was stone-walled. Not even a beetle moved about on the cold floor. The sides were vertical, smooth as glass. There was no chance of climbing those walls. Unlike the rooms above, this one was bare of furnishings. Apparently it was but a pit to trap the unwary! But then … Pete’s sharp eyes noticed a strange thing. There in the floor were two identical marks, as if made by a ladder that had borne a great weight.

  He motioned to Hamilton. “Look here, Professor, do you make the same thing out of this that I do?”

  The professor gasped.

  “Ye gods, ladder marks! The mummy room must be off this!”

  Immediately they got to work, and in a moment, by sheer chance, they hit it! A slight indentation marked the secret doorway. Running his fingers over the stone, the Professor touched a concealed spring and a door swung wide. There before their widened eyes, resting on a stone slab, was a sarcophagus of the dead king. This they were sure of, for it was inlaid with precious stones in a royal purple setting!

  Only for a moment were they still, then with a little cry they jumped forward to inspect their treasure. The lid raised under their eager fingers and for the first time in many centuries, human eyes looked upon Tut Ken Amen! His body was wound tightly with what were once white strips of cloth, and in the stiffened hands was a sheaf of papers. The written history of ancient Egypt!

  Suddenly the two grew rigid … although their find was one of the world’s greatest … it was useless, for they were as good as dead!

  Dead, did we say? Not so, for already Pete’s agile mind was planing a way out. For a moment he talked earnestly to Professor Hamilton, then they got busy. Lifting the shriveled body from its resting place, they laid it gently on the floor. Then, getting a good hold, they dragged the mummy case from the slab, letting it thump, to the ground.

  It was a hard task, and time passed swiftly, but with their lives at stake, neither paid any attention to its passage. At any moment the chemicals in their masks might give out, allowing the poisonous air to filter into their lungs. Through the open doorway they dragged the huge case, and set it up against the wall. Then the cover was hauled into position. Standing on top of the bottom of the case, Pete lifted the lid so that it stood on top. The way was clear, but the slightest misstep would spoil every bit of their efforts, for it was balanced precariously.

  Pete helped the professor up, bracing their crude ladder. Using the designs on the casket as hand-holds, Hamilton reached the top. Then, stretching himself to the utmost, he grasped the floor edge above and pulled himself to safety. Pete followed at once, climbing very carefully. When he was within reach, the Professor grabbed his arms and yanked. They had defeated the curse!

  Quickly they made their way to the opening, and stood breathing the fresh air and enjoying the sunlight without speaking for a full five minutes. The sun was low over the horizon, and coming up. They had been in the tomb a whole night!

  Pete turned and grinned at Hamilton. “Kind of thought we wouldn’t make it there for a while. What now?”

  “Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starved,” the professor said. “We’ll come back later and get the old boy out. I don’t think he’ll run away in the meantime!”

  ***

  Flight Over Tokyo

  For the first time in his life, Warren Gates didn’t know what to think. The last three months he had been in Australia, the orders of the day bringing no more excitement than a letter from home. All he ever did was fly routine patrols over the broad expanse of blue water surrounding the continent “down under,” until it got to the point where a navigator on the speedy attack bomber was excess baggage. He could have found his way back from any point a thousand miles away on the local map, he was so used to the place.

  Now he stood anxiously outside the squadron bulletin board, waiting for the orders to be posted. For days, rumors of some great impending event had circulated about the airdrome, and men had been confined to the limits of the field. Whatever was in the wind was important, and every man worried lest he be left out of the proceedings.

  Warren nudged a pilot companion. “Wonder what’s up?”

  “You got me, pal! All I hope is that my name’s there when we read off the score.”

  “Me, too,” Warren answered. “I haven’t seen a Jappo since I’ve been here, and I’m dying for a crack at the punks!”

  Hardly had he spoken when Major Briggs stepped out of the office and tacked a notice on the board:
All flying officers and crew report to assembly this afternoon, 3 P.M. In an instant the bulletin was surrounded by men who stood in hushed silence. This looked like the memorable day!

  The appointed time came quickly enough. Men grouped about the long table, gazing avidly at the maps spread out before them. Major Briggs had the floor.

  “Men, tomorrow you have an important mission to perform. You are raiding Tokyo!”

  The sudden news took them flat-footed. For a moment it looked like a cheer would burst out, but the seriousness of the situation quieted the men.

  “You will follow this course, and the plan that I will outline to you now.” His voice dwindled, and every eye followed his finger as it went across the map.

  Dawn broke clear and warm. On the smooth runway of the field, motors thundered a song of power. Warren climbed into his attack bomber and waited for the signal to go ahead. A green light blinked into his eyes, and the throttle went forward. The raid of Tokyo had begun! With the most precise flying, the group took off and pulled into formation. High up in the blue they leveled off and made themselves comfortable for the ten hour trip.

  Below them the sea was dotted with ships. Some, no doubt, were the enemy’s, but there was no time to be wasted on them. Hour after hour went by, then the squadron leader’s voice came on.

  “In twenty minutes we reach our objective. Dive to the rooftops then let ’em have it, boys!”

  And before they knew it … there was Tokyo, capital city of the invader! In a roaring power dive, the planes swooped down. Faster and faster they went, then pulled out of the dive and went screaming toward the factories of the city, fair military objectives.

  Eyes squinted behind the sights, and bomb toggles were pulled. Thunderous blasts from below spelled perfect timing … direct hits! As Warren swept over his targets, he noticed that the sky was free of enemy planes and anti-aircraft bursts. The surprise had been so complete that there was no resistance! Ahead of him was the last plant that was to taste a bomb. He went over it … felt the plane rise a little as it lost its load of explosives … then the sky was a writhing, glaring sheet of flame!

  That place was a munitions plant! The plane skidded wildly, and pitched like a leaf in the wind. Warren tugged madly at the controls, but there was no response. In front of him the curtain of smoke parted, and he saw the rest of the squadron speeding toward the horizon, and they were alone in a crippled craft! He tried the controls again, and this time the ship responded but slightly. One look at the shattered wing surfaces told the story.

  Greg Holmes, the navigator, poked him and pointed to a hayfield a mile off. Warren nodded and banked that way. The plane was losing altitude fast! It hit the field, bounced, and tore through two haystacks and pulled up against the side of a barn.

  Warren looked around. “Everybody okay?”

  Two voices, a bit breathless, shouted back.

  “Then let’s fire the plane before we have the Jappos on our necks!”

  The men squeezed out. Greg drained some gas out of the tanks and scattered it over the plane. One match and the ship was a pyre of billowing flame and smoke. The Japs wouldn’t copy this design as they did others, that was a sure thing!

  Bill Halsey, the bombardier, turned around and let out a choked shout. “Look, Japs! They’re coming for us. What’ll we do?”

  “Take it easy, Bill. Might be they think we’re in the plane. Let’s duck onto one of these haystacks.”

  The three boys dashed for the mound of yellow grass, and burrowed under it. Right on their heels the Japs, in a fleet of motor trucks, pulled up in front of the burning plane. One, evidently the leader, walked around it, then stopped. He looked into the dust at his feet and the boys’ hearts leaped. He had discovered their tracks which, in their haste, they had failed to conceal!

  At once the Japs spread out. They knew the men had had no chance to flee, and the only place they could hide was either in the barn or in the haystacks. A few of them went into the barn, then a dozen men went to a haystack and stood around it. The commander gave the word and they fired round after round of ammunition into the base of the stack … and in a few minutes they would be at the one that shielded the Americans!

  For some reason, Warren was smiling. “Burrow back to the middle as fast as you can!” he whispered.

  Greg and Bill obeyed without a word. It was a hard task, but they made it. Then from outside came the voices of the Japs. This was it. Warren knew that if he was wrong it would be too bad. One thing was in their favor. Their footprints had been wiped out by the Japs except for the ones by the plane. Warren hoped they wouldn’t fire the hay.

  They heard the commands of the leader, followed by the roar of the guns. Breathlessly, they waited for the slugs to tear into them, but none came. Once the stack shifted as part of its base was disturbed by the power of the shots, but that was all. How long they waited, they never knew. When finally they crawled outside, darkness had settled over the city. Except for the glare of the red of still-burning buildings, Tokyo was in total darkness. They wanted no more of the American made bombs! The boys had to grin a little at this.

  “Where to now?” Greg asked.

  Warren Gates smiled. “Since flying is all we know, the thing to do is head for a flying field and swipe a plane … and if I’m not mistaken, there’s one not far off. Spotted it coming over!”

  And there was. Keeping to the shadows of the buildings, the trio crept steadily to the south side of the city. Occasional outposts and scouting parties presented a problem, but they flattened and melted into the landscape. So far, so good!

  “There she is!” The boys peered into the darkness, and there, directly ahead of them, was the field. Little lights blinked in the operations office, and toward them they made their way. Suddenly motors roared on the tarmac. Planes were being warmed up.

  “Looks like they’re playing right into our hands,” Bill said. “Let’s go!”

  Silently, they crawled under the wire on the edge of the field. About fifty yards away a large bomber, warming up, spat flame into the night.

  Warren pointed. “Now walk as if you owned the place. We’re not liable to be suspected that way.”

  They stood up and walked to the ship. Men passed, but in the darkness none challenged their presence. Walking around the tail, Warren motioned for the others to stay back. A wiry little Jap guarded the ship. He crept up behind him … and the man turned! But before the Jap could utter a word, a fist caught him square on the chin and he crumpled to the ground!

  Waving for the others to come on, Warren opened the door and in he went, the others in back of him. Warren poured the juice to her. Motors roared, and with a sudden lurch the plane jumped the chocks and tore down the field! Instantly the field came to life. Lights winked on, and the plane was caught in the glare of them. Rifles barked, but the shooting was too hurried to be accurate.

  The plane shot into the air … they were off! But the flight was not over. On the field below pilots leaped to the cockpits and gave their ships the gun, but suddenly out of the darkness ahead of them, Warren reversed, and with machine guns spitting a lethal dose of lead, came in on the Japs. Planes of the Rising Sun faltered and crashed. One rose, only to nose dive into the sod when a burst caught the pilot in the chest!

  The Americans wasted no time getting out of there. The trip back was one to make history. All the maps were in Japanese, but Greg puzzled them out. It was late morning when they arrived over the field and started to circle … then the sky was full of gunbursts. They were firing at them! But when their buddies saw that they were trying to land, the firing stopped. The plane came down … only to be surrounded by angry soldiers. However … it took only a moment to clear things up!

  When the shouting finally died down, Greg and Bill came over to Warren.

  “Tell us,” they said, “how did you know we wouldn’t get hit back in that haystack!”

  “Well,” Greg grinned, “I used to be a ballistics expert back in the states, and
I knew that a lot of little things like some rag waste, or closely packed paper could stop a shot easily enough, and firing into all that hay was like shooting at a brick wall!”

  “How come they didn’t set fire to the hay?”

  “Ha! Every inch of the bloomin’ island is cultivated, and they don’t dare waste a thing. Those soldiers would’ve been shot if they did!”

  ***

  Devil Cat

  Sharply, the clang of the steel cage door echoed throughout the big tent. Mark Costel, whip in hand, strode into the emptiness of the barred enclosure. His hand shook. He jumped violently at the noise of the gate shutting on him.

  Two months before he had been the most famed of all animal trainers. His daring in the arena was unsurpassed. Fearlessly, he would stride into a cage full of the most vicious animals of the jungle, beasts that were ready to tear him and each other apart at the slightest provocation. But his whip would crack, his chair would poke into the faces of the lions and tigers, forcing them to do his bidding. They snarled and grimaced, but they were afraid of this man. Afraid of his courage, his strength with his meager weapons, and the look in his eye that they could not stare down.

  Every time he made his appearance, the crowd would roar. His was the feature act. Every person in the stands came to see him, alone, mastering the wild cats of the jungle! Their sleek bodies would come noiselessly down the wooden chute and jump to their positions on the top of their pedestals.

  The whip would crack, the chair would go forward, and the tigers and lions would begin their weird routine. Glittering dangerously, the eyes of the animals would fasten on the slim man who commanded their every movement. If for a moment he relaxed his vigilance, there was the sudden snarl of defiance, a roar, and a yellow blur as one of the great cats shot through the air at him.

  But the chair would come up, the whip crack across a blunt nose, and the cat would retire, snarling, to the stool. The audience ate it up! Even Mark enjoyed his knowledge of superiority over the brutes. Never for a second did he doubt that the cats could beat him at this game! Every one of them hated the man, hated him with all their animal instinct. They waited only for the time when the chair could not be brought into play nor the whip crack.