Then a crash of activity happened behind him and Malvolio turned on his back to see more of the platoon making it to the clearing. Embarrassed at being startled, Malvolio turned to see if the captain had seen this, but he had not. Brenenthal was already on his feet and moving down the path. A second later, the Marines were moving past Malvolio. A young Marine, still in his teens, gently touched Malvolio’s elbow.
“I’d think about moving out with us, sir. It might be better than staying here.”
Malvolio smiled, once again embarrassed-this time at the young warrior’s thoughtfulness and understatement.
Malvolio got to his feet and began the trek down the trail. He looked behind him to see the platoon following—it looked as if most of the men had survived the carnage on the beach. Now their fear was more directed-snipers, booby traps and ambushes replaced the impersonal factoiylike death that was being dealt on the beach. The killing here would be personal and specific, from one man or group of men to another.
Despite the Allied shelling, the jungle still seemed incredibly dense, if not denser. The bombardment had to some degree simply added to it, causing trees to tumble and sprinkling leaves everywhere. Brenenthal continued to move carefully but quickly down the trail. Normally he wouldn’t be at the front of the column-he had more adept men available to do this—but he made this exception because he feared the mission. Something was not right about it and for the first time in his career he secretly wished for a wound that would take him from the responsibility that might come later.
The jungle cut off the light and closed in on the trail and the men. The moisture of the plants gave off a hothouse smell, the sweetness of the rotting fruit and vegetation almost overwhelming. The blazing sun of the beach was replaced by treacherous shadows. Although it wasn’t as blisteringly hot, there was nothing soothing about the shadows and silence of the jungle.
The roar of the battle behind them diminished, as if they had closed the door to a large factory. As they moved along, the stillness of the jungle was broken by an occasional stray bullet, or piece of shrapnel, or a crazed fleeing animal, but they encountered no enemy.
Finally they came to the edge of a clearing. They moved off the trail, and Brenenthal signaled for his squads to break up and move around the perimeter.
The clearing was about a hundred yards in diameter and was completely free of any vegetation. It stood out from the jungle like a bald spot on a hairy man. A series of wooden huts were arranged in the middle of the clearing, and a ten-foot wire fence surrounded the buildings. The fences were meant to keep the POWs in but they appeared almost as symbols—the men were too weak to run and there was no way off the island.
A gate faced northwest, toward the base of the mountain. Brenenthal could see a cave mouth about fifty yards from the gate and toward the dormant volcano. Although the cave appeared to be natural, it had been dug out and modified to accommodate crude wooden carts. These carts had volcanic rock heaped on them, and stood at the mouth of the cave like patient, dumb beasts of burden.
Brenenthal pointed the cave entrance out to Malvolio, who nodded. Gesturing silently, he pointed to his squad leaders and, pantomiming with his hand, indicated that he wanted them to flank the cave entrance and to avoid the clearing.
Malvolio looked up—the sun was past its noonday position. He sensed an impatience, an urgency driven by intuition that someone was closing in on him. As they watched the squads of men stealthily moving through the edge of the jungle toward the cave mouth, he stood up.
Brenenthal looked up at him, surprised. Malvolio stepped out into the clearing and turned to look down at Brenenthal.
“I appreciate your caution and your concern for your men, but I lack the time for this.”
Boldly, Malvolio strode towards the cave mouth. Brenenthal watched him. His lieutenant stared as well.
“What’s the crazy bastard doing? Looks like he’s walking to the corner to pick up a pack of smokes.”
Both squads stopped and watched Malvolio walk the distance toward the cave mouth. The clearing became oddly quiet, as if the battle on the beach had ceased, artillery had stopped firing and American dive bombers and fighters were no longer in the air. The coincidence of the lull added to the strangeness of the moment.
Malvolio walked past the deserted huts but was not interested in them or any of their occupants. In his mind he was walking toward a destiny that would not be denied by a sniper’s bullet. Fear had not been part of him for centuries, and the emotion was as alien as compassion or love.
Alan Scott, the Green Lantern, flew over the incoming wave of Marines who were peering over the ocean water-soaked side of the landing craft, crammed in with men, rifles held vertically. Every man in the LST was locked in his own mind, battling fears, hoping for the best, cursing their luck, praying. Scott felt for them and felt almost lucky to have other issues. His concern was finding Malvolio and keeping him from the power of the rings.
Scott landed on the beach, which was shrouded in the smoke and haze of mass destruction. Japanese mortar shells were still being lobbed in, spraying sand, coral and shrapnel amidst the struggling Marines who were crawling on their bellies towards the clearing like primordial beasts, moving from the water’s edge to some higher form of life inland.
For a brief moment, everything seemed to stop—the shelling, the gunfire, the planes buzzing overhead. It was as if they were in the eye of a steel storm. The next wave of landing craft chugged forward as if it were on a simple mission to shuttle human cargo from one place to the next. They could have been commuters on a ferry, or tourists on a sightseeing boat. The expectance in the silence simply made the dread grow in each man, who by now had no illusions about a neutralized target. The target was still very active, furious and determined to kill them. The silence was disturbed only by their enemies taking a breath.
Malvolio walked toward the cave mouth, unaware of the silence. Brenenthal aimed his carbine at the back of Malvolio’s head, finger on the trigger. He had no idea what the man was up to, but he was ready to end his life the moment he saw that his men were at risk.
Malvolio continued his walk toward the cave mouth. Just as he was about to enter, he was startled by the sight of a man stepping out. The man was Caucasian, haggard and thin. At first Malvolio thought the man was old, but the haggardness in his eyes showed that he was aged beyond his years. His United States Army uniform was torn and bleached by sun and age. The shock of this man emerging from the cave mouth, looking like walking dead, stopped Malvolio in his tracks.
But something else about the man caught Malvolio’s attention: he was wearing one of the rings. It was still dormant and the man was unaffected by its potential power.
Malvolio turned to Brenenthal, smiling. His smile turned to a frown when he saw that the Marine was aiming at him. And that moment, the first mortar round hit yards away from Malvolio, knocking him off his feet.
Scott watched the LSTs lurch forward and nose onto the soft sand of the beach. Ramps dropped and suddenly the tiny steel boxed sanctuaries were exposed to a beach filled with death. The roar blasted toward the onrushing Marines, the lull gone, the killing once again in full force. Screams from the men to move forward mixed with the roar of battle. The screams were war cries, shouts to build courage and instill fear. Every man wanted nothing more than to get out of the killing boxes of the LSTs, even if it meant getting onto the more deadly expanse of beach. So the men pushed, tumbled, tripped and stumbled forward, with no sense of a hero’s grace or skill, animal fear in their eyes, their goal to survive long enough to fear the next moment.
And Scott pushed among them, his boots churning in the soft sand. He could feel and hear the “vip-vip” of bullets from some unseen Nambu machine gun whipping past and through him, the sand flicking around him as bullets hit around the struggling Americans. Scott focused on the clearing that the map had shown to be the fastest way to the cave mouth, and his entire being drove him there.
The shells were drop
ping all around Malvolio—the Japanese were on the hill above the cave and were waiting for him to approach. They had the entrance bracketed by their mortar, and as the rounds exploded around him, he could hear the steady staccato of a machine gun on the hill above him.
The man at the cave entrance moved back as the rounds started exploding. Malvolio lay on his belly, frozen by the killing steel, and he and the man made eye contact.
Paul Shustak thought it was another waking dream, this strange man with long hair walking towards him, healthy and large, without fear and triumphant. Then the whistling of the mortars and the ambush began, and all the old fright came washing back over him, and he moved back in the cave for safety.
But as he saw the proud man crawling and the look of desperation in his eyes, Shustak felt himself moving forward out the cave, towards the man. Then sprinting/hobbling, he made his way to the big man and grabbed him by the arm and helped him to his feet. He could see that the man wasn’t wounded-he had simply frozen as the fire became intense. And because Shustak had accepted his death long ago, it was nothing for him to brave the fire.
Brenenthal was ready to shoot Malvolio, but the sight of him shrinking under fire, literally crawling on his belly, made Brenenthal freeze. Now the POW was helping Malvolio to the cave mouth. He did not know what to do. He was sure Malvolio was walking as if aware of a secret that would have a vicious surprise for them. His look of triumph was smug and awful, and Brenenthal instinctively was ready to end it.
But the POW helped the huge man to the cave entrance to wait out the storm of fire raining down on them. And Brenenthal could do nothing himself but wait as well.
Malvolio saw that the cave’s interior was shored up with timbre and had been meticulously bored out. The Japanese must have been sure of the location of their rings. Deeper inside, in an alcove off the main tunnel, a dozen POWs, American, Australians and Filipino, huddled together, the haunted look of hunger, malnourishment and disease making their eyes appear huge as they watched Malvolio approach them.
He turned to Shustak. “You have my thanks.”
Shustak just shrugged. “No offense, but I’d rather have a hamburger.”
Malvolio walked to Shustak and took his hand in his. Lifting the hand up, Malvolio looked at the yellow ring. He smiled and looked at Paul.
“The ring. Where did you get it?” Malvolio asked.
“One of the other diggers gave it to me before he died,” Paul told him. “That’s all I know.”
Malvolio looked into Paul’s eyes. “Do you know what it can do?” “I just know that these bastards were working us to death to get more of ‘em. That’s why I kept it hidden-I figured it’s going to be worth something, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Shustak looked suspicious and childlike for a moment. “You’re not thinking of taking it, are you?”
“No, by all means I want you to have it. But I do need to do this...”
Malvolio revealed to Paul that he had a similar ring. Then, relishing the moment, Malvolio brought his ring to Shustak’s.
They glowed with energy. The moment was electric, thrilling Malvolio but terrifying the frail soldier.
They broke apart and Shustak fell to the floor. He quickly took the ring off and threw it at Malvolio’s feet.
“You can have it,” Paul said with fear in his voice.
Malvolio studied the frail soldier. “Is there a problem?”
Paul stared at the ring in the dirt. “I didn’t like what it was doing. Something about it... ”
“Yes?” asked Malvolio expectantly.
“... Was wrong. It was wrong.” Paul was at a loss for words.
Malvolio picked up the ring. “You’re simply overwhelmed. But if you insist, I’ll keep it.”
Malvolio pocketed the ring, and for a long moment, enjoyed the glow of his newly restored power.
He turned to Paul. “Now, the other rings—where are they?”
Paul pointed down the tunnel.
Malvolio made his way down the hot wetness of the tunnel, the walls damp with moisture. The smell of jungle rot was even fiercer, gagging.
Finally the tunnel dead-ended, and an array of smoking wicker lamps added soot to the already stifling air. What they lit up made Malvolio sag: an enormous wooden chest was lodged in the wall. The chest was covered with ancient writing, glyphs and pictograms of a long-dead culture. It was impossible to tell if the people who had made this chest and those marks were human or originated elsewhere, but Malvolio was certain that they were warnings.
Furious, Malvolio pounded his fist against the wooden box.
Malvolio turned and saw that the leader of the POWs was standing behind him in the cave.
Malvolio’s look was imploring. “I need to get this box opened.”
As Scott made his way up the jungle path he could hear a battle raging ahead. Lowering his stance and moving quickly, he saw two Marines hunkered down, firing across an expanse of clearing at a bluff fifty feet high. Huts in the clearing were burning from mortar and tracer fire, and the battle seemed to be at a stalemate. The enemy held the high ground, but the Marines were putting up a hell of a fight.
Scott grabbed the shoulder of the officer firing at the bluff. Startled, he whipped around, ready to attack Scott.
Scott quickly held up his hand in peace and yelled over the din. “Malvolio?”
The captain gestured toward the cave mouth. Scott, grim, leaned in to the captain. “I’m going to get him. I have to stop him. Otherwise we’re all dead.”
The captain nodded. “Okay, but we’re coming with. We’ll have more of a chance if we go with you.”
Scott nodded back. He knew that these were once again bad odds, but he had no choice: if Malvolio got those rings, Scott wouldn’t have the power to stop him.
The captain passed the order to the men around him. On his signal they were to rush the cave, line abreast. The men dropped their packs and held their weapons in a crouch, ready to charge forward.
Brenenthal raised his arm—every Marine’s eyes were fixed on him.
But just as Brenenthal was about to drop his arm down, he sensed a change in the battle. Soon every Marine sensed it-the Japanese gunfire was slackening off.
Brenenthal and Scott exchanged glances: this couldn’t be good.
The Japanese shooting stopped altogether, giving the clearing an eerie silence. Then they heard voices—screaming, shrieking in fury. Japanese soldiers were coming down off the bluff, charging towards the encampment and towards the Marines. They were screaming at the top of the lungs, some yelling “Banzai,” others letting out piercing unintelligible war cries, using their voices to quell their own fear and strike fear into the Marines.
Scott turned to the captain. “We have to go-we can’t let them get to the cave.”
Scott was on his feet then, flying towards the Japanese soldiers.
The captain watched him go. “Christ,” he muttered, then got to his feet and leapt over the log.
His men, fear in their throats, saw their captain charge forward and automatically rose to join him.
Scott flew forward, using the energy of his ring to deflect the fire of the charging Japanese. He saw an officer leading them, his uniform orderly, the bright sunlight glinting off his raised samurai sword. As he flew by, Scott swung at him and the man went down, the sword falling into the dust. The soldiers behind him, seeing this, charged faster and with more fuiy, firing their rifles from the hip.
The Marines emerged from the jungle and rushed the Japanese. Gunfire was random, erratic and strangely ineffectual: some men fell from being hit, but most continued forward until finally they merged in a murderous crowd, stabbing at each other with bayonets and Kabar knives, bludgeoning with rifle butts and entrenching tools. They entered the threshold to the primordial. None of the living would emerge unchanged.
Scott used his powers to create a green arc in front of him, trying to sweep away the soldiers bent on killing him. He moved toward
s the cave mouth. He felt a hard thump on the side of his head and fell, his jaw numb, his vision blurred and dizzy from the blow. He turned to see a Japanese soldier bent on smashing him again with his wooden rifle butt, the force enough to cave his skull in, when the young soldier’s face blew open from a bullet entering his skull from behind and blowing his nose and right eye out. The gore sprayed on Scott and he rolled out of the way of his potential killer’s collapsing body.
Scott got to his feet and stumbled toward the cave mouth. Around him, men were locked in hand-to-hand combat, and although there was still gunfire, he could hear screams and incoherent shouts as the two forces struggled to kill each other by any means possible. Scott passed a Marine squeezing his thumbs into a Japanese soldier’s eyes, the rich red blood flowing from the wounds onto the screaming soldier’s face and the Marine’s large, hairy hands.
And as he moved towards the cave, Scott was startled by the sight of thin soldiers-POWs-stumbling from the cave and into the struggle around him. At first he thought they were coming to join the battle, but the expressions on their faces made him realize that they were fleeing from something so terrifying that they were willing to risk running headlong into a firefight to get away from it.
And that could only be Malvolio.
The last person coming from the cave was his old friend Paul. He ran to him, but Paul was barely aware of his surroundings.
Scott pulled Paul to the side of the cave entrance.
“Paul-what’s happened? Where’s Malvolio?”
Paul just stared back, uncomprehending.
Scott grabbed his friend and dragged him out of the fight, away from the cave mouth.
Then an explosion blew from the cave mouth—the force tremendous and ear-splitting. The slap of it sent Paul and Alan tumbling into the jungle, Paul protected from the force of the blast by Alan’s cocoon of green energy.
The other soldiers and POWs had no such protection. Some were decapitated or blown apart by flying rock, their limbs and torsos scattering about. Others were knocked down by slap of the concussion. The explosion was not like others—it seemed to be concentrated, like an outpouring of concentrated energy. Scott recognized this force.
Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2 Page 21