by Layton Green
Lucky tried to cover his face as bottled rage overtook Grey. He dropped his elbow to crush Lucky’s cheekbone, he rocked his face with open-handed blows, he pounded his ribs and liver and kidneys until Lucky’s head became a cabbage and his body a deflated toy.
Grey stopped striking and looked down with baleful eyes, flush with emotion. Lucky blinked and moaned. Grey started, unable to believe he was still conscious.
Grey let Lucky hobble to his feet, unable to stand on his right leg. Lucky managed a smile, lips and teeth stained with blood. “What is it like,” he said, his right leg spasming, face mangled, “to know you will not save her?”
“Shut up.”
“He’s torturing her right now-”
Grey backhanded him in the mouth.
“He will kill her,” Lucky spat, “and he will kill you.”
Grey entered from the side, in a burst of movement. He wrapped his right arm around Lucky’s neck, backed his hips into his midsection, and swept Lucky’s feet out.
As Lucky left his feet, Grey accelerated the throw with his legs and hips. Before Lucky hit the ground, he twisted Lucky’s neck on both axes, sideways and up.
Grey heard the crackle of snapping vertebrae.
• • •
Viktor backed away as the fog dissipated. The crowd erupted at the sight of the empty circle. The bodyguards picked up the altar, and the N’anga’s entourage filed out of the Great Enclosure.
The N’anga and his bodyguards headed up the broader main path towards the Hill Complex. Viktor scurried to the back side of the hill, where a stone-littered footpath wound its way to the inky cliffs above. He climbed in silence through winding corridors of stone, glancing out over the vast and furtive forest stretched out below him. The drums and revelry from below floated on the breeze, but he heard no sound of the N’anga’s entourage.
The walkway turned into a narrow, high-walled passage, then spilled out into a courtyard-sized area at the summit. It was empty. He’d beaten the N’anga’s party to the top.
The remains of a curving brick wall outlined the moonlit courtyard, as sinuous as the rest of the architecture at Great Zimbabwe. The wall stopped and started as it ran into the boulders that littered the top of the hill, the huge stones themselves forming part of the ramparts.
Viktor heard the scuff of foot on rock, and scrambled back into the corridor. In the darkness, his position offered a perfect vantage point.
He wondered why had the N’anga bothered to climb the hill. The site had religious significance—was he going to perform another, more private, ceremony? Perhaps a sacrifice? Viktor grimaced.
The N’anga and his bodyguards filed into the middle of the courtyard. The N’anga stopped and stood imperiously in the center. He was facing a large boulder opposite Viktor.
The bodyguards set the altar down. Viktor held his breath, but no one moved to open it. They don’t know, Viktor thought.
Everyone except the N’anga moved towards the boulder and pushed on it. The gigantic rock swayed back and forth, and then began to roll towards the courtyard.
Viktor’s eyes widened; it had to weigh a couple of tons. The bodyguards strained with exertion as they clung to the boulder. It only moved a few feet—just enough to expose a pinched, roughly hewn doorway recessed into the hillside, its mouth a maw of greedy darkness.
The bodyguards waited until the boulder stabilized, and then moved single-file back the way they’d come. The N’anga glided to the altar, pushed down on the top so it sprung open, and helped the girl climb out of her prison. She moved as she had when she’d entered the ceremony: glossy-eyed, golem-like.
That doorway must lead to the igbo-awo, Viktor thought. It must be another way into the tunnels. Viktor frowned, unhappy with the dilemma before him. This girl’s life probably hung in the balance of his decision, and possibly that of Grey and Nya—if Grey found a different entrance, he would have no way of knowing that the N’anga would be entering from this direction.
How long would it be before the bodyguards returned to replace the boulder? Probably not long—he surmised the N’anga had only made them leave so he could slip the girl into the tunnel. If Viktor’s theory was correct, then the bodyguards would replace the boulder and the N’anga would use a different exit. Yes, that was like him—he would keep the bodyguards guessing.
The N’anga and the girl disappeared inside. Viktor had to decide before the bodyguards came back. Should he step into the lion’s den, without the safety net of faith?
Viktor left his post and hurried to inspect the doorway, shielding himself behind the boulder. He waited a few more minutes, giving the N’anga time to get ahead of him. He gave the trail down a final glance, cursed and slipped inside.
Almost as soon as he did he heard the footsteps of the bodyguards outside. He hurried forward until the moonlight no longer penetrated the tunnel-like pathway. He heard the crunch of the boulder sealing off the doorway, and felt the sense of suffocation that total darkness evokes.
He removed his mask and took a few deep breaths. Should he risk the flashlight? If not, then he’d have to move forward at a snail’s pace, feeling blindly for drop-offs. And if he did use the light, he risked announcing his presence.
He decided on illumination. The N’anga should be far enough ahead that the light wouldn’t reach him. And it was time to take a risk.
He fumbled in the small pouch around his waist until he felt the aluminum shaft of the flashlight. He also withdrew his kris, feeling more secure with his palm curled around the hilt of the ancient dagger.
He flicked on the flashlight, and then almost dropped it. A devil filled the halo of light, a crimson visage of hollow eyes and gaping mouth and cracked skin, topped by the curve of two horns.
Before Viktor could react, liquid erupted into his face. He stumbled back, clawing at his eyes. He opened them to a world spinning out of control, full of phantasmagoric shapes and moving walls. He felt a pinprick on his skin. He lashed out at the N’anga, but his knife swished through air.
A numbing sensation spread through Viktor’s body. He had no choice but to sink to his knees. He fought to regain his mind, but he fought a losing battle. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, at the mercy of the N’anga.
59
Grey stood over Lucky’s limp body and felt the rush of power and shame that flooded him whenever he took a life. The demon had got out again, and this time he’d let it loose himself.
But this rancid thing on the ground beneath him—he had no regrets on this one. He turned his back on the body. There was one more fiend to find.
He searched briefly for the gun, but couldn’t find it. He must have kicked it into the bush. No time to worry about it; hopefully he’d find Nya before the N’anga returned. Lucky was his right hand man. There would be no more guards.
Grey saw a circular opening in the cave floor where the wooden memorial had been. He looked back, and realized Lucky had been sitting on it. He almost laughed. He and Nya had walked right by it.
His shoes mashed into fresh guano, and he understood why Nya hadn’t seen any footprints. Grey shone his flashlight into the hole; rudimentary steps had been carved into one side.
How long had this been here? The British explorer hadn’t excavated this cave, Grey realized, he’d excavated the tunnel underneath it.
Grey descended. A corridor led in one direction, coffin dark, and Grey didn’t hesitate. Only his breathing interrupted the silence.
Five minutes later the tunnel spilled into an enormous, high-ceilinged grotto. A sweep of the flashlight revealed an array of fantastical shapes, solemn and immortal.
Grey followed the perimeter of the wall until he found a new tunnel, directly across from where he’d entered. He shone the light down the tunnel—and then reared backwards.
Hanging in midair from a rope attached to the ceiling, poised in evil splendor, was a horned mask that bore a remarkable resemblance to the mask the N’anga had worn the night of the first cere
mony. Up close it was leathery, eldritch, malefic. Even worse than from afar.
Grey stepped under the mask and into the tunnel. He’d crossed an invisible barrier, marked by the mask, of which he was acutely aware.
He had stepped into the N’anga’s world.
• • •
Grey walked as fast as he could, the twists and turns of the five-foot-wide tunnel keeping him from breaking into an outright run.
The rough-hewn passageway began to widen and smoothen, as if the craftsmanship had improved. He emerged into another chamber, half as big as the last cavern, and extinguished his flashlight. Head-high ensconced torches, spaced evenly about the room, provided illumination.
A tingle ran through Grey. He’s been here. Tonight.
Grey took in his surroundings, and then swore. Three tunnels led out of the far side of the cavern. He hurried over to inspect them. The tunnels were spaced ten feet apart and identical: five-feet wide and rounded, similar to the passage which had led in. Torches illuminated the passageways, and none of them offered a clue as to which might lead to Nya. He chose the middle and strode deeper into the earth.
He knew the possibility existed of becoming horribly lost, but as long as he stayed within the reach of the torches, he felt as if he was within the bounds of the N’anga’s territory.
The tunnel branched once to the right and once to the left. He ignored both branches and, five minutes later, reached a large, sepulchral antechamber where the tunnel dead-ended. This cavern, unlike the last two, was not unadorned.
Grey didn’t need Professor Radek’s pedigree to recognize the work of the N’anga. On the far side of the room two torches illuminated a crude altar. A grotesque sandstone statue, similar in appearance to the masks, dominated a chest-high wooden ledge. Cowrie-bead necklaces hung from the statue’s neck, and the two open-palmed hands of the statue each grasped a carved snake. Two votive candles on either side of the thing poured a sickly-sweet odor into Grey’s nostrils.
Under the ledge sat two chests formed of cracked wood and banded gold. They looked as if they’d arrived centuries earlier, straight from the hold of a pirate ship. Grey moved to open the chest on the left. There might be something useful inside, perhaps something valuable to the N’anga.
He drew back in disgust as he saw what filled the chest: ivory-white orbs piled on top of each other, stuffed like old mementos into the velvet-lined coffer.
Human skulls.
There were at least twenty of them, and the ones he’d seen on top had looked clean, almost shiny. He let the lid fall. He felt safe betting that each of these had recently belonged to a living human being.
He opened the second chest. Clothes and other personal effects filled the chest to the brim: wallets, purses, jewelry, cell phones—whatever the victims had had with them, Grey assumed. He also didn’t need Viktor to tell him this was some sort of unholy shrine, intended to extend the N’anga’s power over his victims to the afterlife.
He moved to close the chest, then stopped. He reached down and picked up an oversized, familiar black wallet. Familiar because he had been issued one just like it. He opened it, took a moment to absorb the import of the contents, and tucked it into his back pocket.
The mystery of the disappearance of William Addison had been solved. And it did not have a happy ending.
He hurried back down the corridor. No more time for gawking at the N’anga’s secrets—he was here for one thing alone. He came to the first side tunnel, the one branching to the right. Should he try this new passage, or return to the main cavern? He opted for the side tunnel. It proved to be a short byway to a longer tunnel that ran parallel to the tunnel he’d already examined, which he guessed was one of the three tunnels leading out of the main cavern.
This tunnel soon ended in a chamber similar in size and shape to the one he’d just left. His eyes canvassed the room. It bore an eerie resemblance to another room he’d recently found himself in. Crude wooden shelves ran along each wall, carefully stacked with jars and containers of all shapes and sizes. Before he averted his eyes he glimpsed body parts, and something moving in one of the jars.
He swept the room. No other exits. He followed the tunnel back to the main chamber, emerging from the tunnel to the left of center. One more to go, and he prayed it led somewhere, because he hadn’t seen any other tunnels.
He ran down the tunnel on the right. How long had it been since he’d left Viktor? Too long. The ceremony had to have ended, and the N’anga would be heading here at any moment, if not here already. It would take the N’anga some time to trek through the bush, unless the N’anga had used another entrance, closer to wherever Nya was. Perhaps a secret passageway, one which Grey had no hopes of finding. A nervous dread overtook him.
The last tunnel spilled out into another room similar to the first two, with one difference: the tunnel continued on the far side of the room. Grey exhaled with relief, until he saw what was in the room.
A collection of surgical tools hung on the wall. In the middle of the room there was a long stone slab, stained dark with the currency of Juju. A young Zimbabwean girl lay on her back on the slab, eyes open and unblinking, staring at the ceiling. No bonds held her down.
Grey approached and waved his hand over her face. No response. He checked for a pulse, and got one. He shook her and gave her a light pinch. She still didn’t respond.
A cold sweat moistened his palms. He whispered to the girl that he’d return. He swept through the room and raced down the new tunnel. He wound through another series of twists and turns, torches lighting the way with menacing spurts and flicks.
Grey could only hope he was on the right track and not wandering aimlessly in this ghastly maze, drawing further and further away from Nya.
He rounded a corner and faced a long tunnel, even wider and more carefully lit with torches than the others. This has to be the way. He inclined his head upwards, seeking the end of the tunnel, and then gripped his dormant flashlight.
Standing at the other end of the tunnel, watching him, was the N’anga.
60
For the briefest of moments, Grey wondered how the N’anga had gotten ahead of him. Then he surged forward.
At first the N’anga simply watched from behind the mask, hands behind his robes, an impassive guardian. As Grey neared the halfway point, the N’anga brought his hands to the front of his body. He was holding a small wooden container.
The N’anga tipped the container in a controlled motion. A dark liquid cascaded to the floor. The N’anga expertly marshaled its movement, creating an even swath running from one side of the cavern wall to the other.
He made a few rapid motions with his hands, waving them through the empty air above the blood, and then stepped back. He turned his back to Grey and walked towards the end of the tunnel, as if unconcerned with what happened next.
Grey knew the significance of the N’anga’s actions. He’d seen the N’anga do this once before, and had heard the same story from others.
Grey wasn’t supposed to be able to cross the line of blood.
He almost laughed as he ran closer, amazed the N’anga thought his superstitious tricks would stop Grey from jumping over that line and tearing him limb from limb. He’d turned his back and left. He wasn’t even bothering to watch!
But as Grey drew closer, flickers of uncertainty began to tear at the rational boundaries of his mind, boundaries he knew shouldn’t be tampered with.
What if he couldn’t cross the line? Hadn’t he seen the other captive—an otherwise rational human being—try and fail? There has to be some explanation, but what is it? Is there some property of the liquid that won’t let people—no, that’s impossible.
This is ridiculous. This is the twenty-first century. I’m not superstitious or religious, I don’t believe in magic, I don’t believe in Juju.
He was almost to the line. He’d step across it, perhaps even scuff it, spread its vile contents across the floor.
But what if?
What if it wasreal? What if—
Smack!
He struck something and bounced backwards, skidding to the floor.
Grey slowly rose. Nothing stood in front of him except the swath of blood on the floor. The N’anga had disappeared down a tunnel to the right.
Grey inched to the edge of the line and put his hand in front of his face. He reached towards the air above the line, closer… closer… and then felt it. Something solid and invisible stopped his palm, something existed where it should not exist, in the middle of the air.
He didn’t stay to watch because he knows. He knows it’s real.
He shoved at the empty space, but it repelled him. He kicked it, beat his fists into it, shouted his anger into the unnatural nothing that was between him and Nya.
Grey took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. He took a few steps back, removed Addison’s wallet, and threw it as hard as he could. The wallet sailed across the red line and thumped dully on the far side.
It wasn’t real! If it couldn’t stop a wallet, how could it stop him? He firmed his mouth and walked towards the line.
The shoe is just an inanimate object. It doesn’t think. Maybe it’s unaffected by the spell. Maybe—he was at the barrier again, and he hesitated in spite of himself before he pushed. His extended finger stopped in midair.
He sank to his knees, hands clenched. He cursed the line, cursed the N’anga, cursed himself. He would sit by this line, like a child ordered not to move by his parents, as the N’anga finished torturing and killing Nya.
Maybe he should go back and try to find a different route. Maybe he’d missed something. Maybe he should -
A scream echoed off the cavern walls, breaking the silence so profoundly that Grey leapt to his feet and crouched. Another scream—Nya.
Grey looked down, prepared to do whatever it took to cross that damnable line—and noticed he was straddling it.
He realized what had happened: just before the scream, he’d been kneeling at the edge of the barrier. He’d reacted to the scream—subconsciously, without thinking—and crossed halfway over the line.