by Mike Miller
“What, are you joking?” Douglas said. “You sound like one of them silly pacifist monks that plague this entire barbaric region like vermin. There is no team or family here. That nonsense is for children and women. There is just me in this world.” When Douglas tapped the gun barrel against his own chest, Conrad half-hoped it would discharge. “And you, dear friend, should feel damned lucky to be a part of that.”
“What about Molor? Would you stab him in the back too?” Conrad hissed quietly. The dark shrouds of night mist cloaked the whereabouts of the rest of the group who may have all been eavesdropping on their treachery. It might be a good thing to have other witnesses to Douglas’ mutinous lunacy, so perhaps Conrad should have taken the opposite approach and projected the conversation more loudly.
“Maybe,” Douglas said, his slow delivery suggesting he was entertaining the thought. “But you listen up, Conrad, because this is it, man. This is the opportunity of your life. There’s still riches out here. Maybe not as much as before, but certainly more than enough for two kings like us. And there’s simply too many other souls to share now. You’re lucky, because I’m letting you have my piece.”
The threatening tone of Douglas’ intimidating demand only riled Conrad to reply with his own seething hostility. “Is that how it is? Even if there was any treasure to divvy, which I sincerely doubt, I still would betray no one here.”
Douglas shook his head forlornly. “Well, you betray me, Connie. I cannot believe you’d rather side with them darkies then your old mate. And I do not believe in second chances either.”
“You don’t have to go--”
Conrad’s words were cut short when Douglas raised his pistol. “But no matter what you believe, your leader says it’s time to thin the herd some more.”
The final word of Douglas’ statement made Conrad pause to contemplate its cryptic meaning. Given Douglas’ confessed penchant for betrayal, it now seemed entirely likely that the bastard had purposefully disposed of Baxter, despite whatever the others might have believed.
While the dastardly realisation slowly struck Conrad in a creeping bout of nausea, Douglas slunk over behind a rock and concealed himself. The soft crinkling of footsteps alerted Conrad that the rest of the party had finally caught up to them. He looked over at Douglas carefully aiming his weapon into the thick mist of the trail behind them.
Douglas had now retrieved another small lump and playfully rolled it about in his fingers like a cricketer preparing to toss. Without looking over to Conrad, he said, “Just the first one through. Just a taste.”
Uncertain of how else to react, Conrad sternly said, “Don’t,” though taking no other course of action.
An indistinct blur began to emerge through the icy vapours. With each step its silhouette became more distinct in their torch light. “Poor bastard,” said Douglas, though his face was alight with joy.
Conrad watched Douglas’ index finger snap and the pistol hammer fall. The thunderous explosion from the barrel made him jump as the boom shredded the silence.
A porter crumpled to the ground. Dressed in full winter wear, the victim did not reveal his exact identity, yet the poor man certainly did not deserve to die from a cold-blooded ambush. The throes of death made the man instinctively clutch at the gaping hole in his chest as he fell face-first to the ground.
With the shot fired, Conrad stepped forward towards Douglas for a firmer rebuking when a volley of gunfire crackled from behind the dead man. The Sherpas began yelling wildly to one another. “Who’s there? Who is it?” Gregory’s voice nervously asked though the blasts, though no one answered him.
Battle instincts forced Conrad to drop flat against the ground first before rolling to the nearest cover, a small outcropping of protective rock from the mountain wall. He drew his own gun from his holster while he warred with himself whether to defend his position by firing on his allies.
“Halt!” Douglas cried aloud, his voice surprisingly loud against the deafening backdrop of roaring gunpowder and cracking stone. “Halt, you hotheads, halt! It’s only us!” His sudden reveal from behind his secure position with hands held high puzzled Conrad. As if surrendering to an enemy, Douglas advanced forwards as the sounds of gunfire had completely quieted, letting the mountain wind reclaim its hold on the scenery’s sound. Standing alone and unprotected in the middle of the road, Douglas waited as the remainder of their caravan eventually revealed themselves from the shrouded path. Many of the men kept their weapons drawn, nervously scanning the landscape for any assailants, but none of the firearms were pointed towards Douglas.
Understanding the bedlam that had so quickly began was now over with equal efficiency, Conrad stood to his feet to disclose himself as well.
Sek and a pair of others rushed to the side of their fallen comrade. Private Gregory appeared distraught, his young face filled with fright as he tried to comprehend everything about him. From the blood-covered ice, the downed porter, he finally managed to cough forward a question that was strangled with distress, “What happened?”
“A damn shame, my friend,” Douglas said, stepping forward and clapping a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder for comforting reassurance. “Unfortunately our treasure is not here. And that discovery so distressed our mate Murray here that, well, I suppose he got infected with trigger-happiness at the approach of...” Douglas’ hand wandered over to gesture at the dead man, and then his wrist twirled about as if sorting through a list names. “Him,” he concluded.
Instantly all eyes narrowed upon Conrad with disgusted rage. The collective hatred was nearly tangible as it sent Conrad staggering backwards at the news. “What?” he exclaimed with a shocked gasp. He wrestled with his vocal chords to say more but, he was speechless, his voice lost in a tempest of confusion. “You damned liar!” charged Conrad. As he angrily advanced upon Douglas, he was greeted with an array of weaponry.
“Please, do not cast blame upon him.” Douglas said, his head hanging with sullen sorrow to grieve the group’s loss. “But the mountain does funny things to men, and this unfortunate incident must be forgiven. Right, Connie?” Conrad was equally tempted to defend himself with either words or fists.
“Where is the treasure?” Molor asked, dispelling the mounting tension over the murder. As always, the Indian’s speech commanded the group with instant gravitas.
Like a train conductor’s switch, Douglas easily flipped his demeanour from grief into a carefree confidence, though Conrad refused to emotionally budge in any new direction. “Not here, not yet. Our prize lies farther up the road still, as the morons who stole it left behind a most obvious trail.” Though that report could have been received with gloom, Douglas delivered the information with a tone of unmitigated optimism. He fetched the small sample of black opium from his pocket and held it aloft before the group.
Its appearance confused the already bewildered Gregory, but brought gratified grins to the rest of the troop. Even the stoic Indian Molor seemed pleased with the display. Like their wily leader, perhaps they too bordered upon madness if they could be so glad to see such a small sample of the drug.
“Please, search the surroundings, and I’m sure we’ll all be rewarded with other gems such as this one. I spy remnants of both brick and oil. It ain’t much for now, but it’s a lovely start. And we know that indeed, it’s out here up there still.” The few men helping their fallen friend were eager to conclude his death, easily abandoning him as they began sniffing across the site like bloodhounds. “Then let us find a proper clearing for a campsite ahead where we can all discuss the final leg of our journey, one happy family of rich men.” With that cheerful proclamation, Douglas packed away the tiny clump of opium. He began his march back up the mountain trail, to lead the group to the glorious destiny he had promised them all.
Chapter XXXVI
Salvation
The snow had fallen steadily for hours, covering Baxter’s fallen body in a white blanket. Buried under the white dust, his pack’s spilled gear resemble
d a miniature mountain range as the contents became a series of jagged peaks splashed over the ground. His tracks had nearly been entirely obscured by the elements since Baxter had stopped moving. But to the most well-trained eyes, the path could still be easily followed, leading right up to the fallen soldier lying dead on the ground.
Farther down along the same path that Baxter had fought to conquer, a cloaked figure approached. Retracing the same steps, the stranger noticed the owner of the trail collapsed in the snow. Dressed from head to toe in black down to his dark boots, the stranger’s identity was masked beneath a large hood which completely obscured his face in absolute darkness. The man had his own meagre satchel wrapped over his shoulder and hanging on his hip, but it was much smaller than the military camping equipment on Baxter. In his left hand, bound in black wrappings like a makeshift glove, the wanderer held a long wooden staff, dark brown in colour. If a reaper’s scythe were affixed to the head of the pole, the character would have borne a striking resemblance to Death itself.
The figure paused in his travels, studying the fallen African for a moment before approaching closer. Now standing over Baxter, the mysterious man continued his visual inspection. Without any signs of life from the fallen man, the character squatted down for a better look. He held out a hand to place it directly beneath the snowy whiskers of Baxter mouth and nose. Then the stranger pulled away the protective scarf bound around Baxter’s neck and felt for a pulse. Next the hand clamped into Baxter’s cheeks, rotating the face upwards for a better view.
The hooded figure stood back upright, yet remained gazing down at the prone soldier. The man tapped his cane against the ground as if the rhythmic tapping helped to sort his thoughts. Then the man nimbly twirled it with his fingers, so that its butt ground along the stone with a soft scraping of wood on rock.
Finally the traveller knelt over again and rested his staff on the ground. He unfastened the pack and weapons from Baxter’s body, then looked to see if there were any other items which could be removed from the man. The figure gathered all the gear to one side in a small pile with his own staff, then returned his attention to the body.
The stranger decided to take Baxter. Reaching one hand under Baxter’s armpit and another through his thighs, the character heaved Baxter’s massive body onto his shoulders. The hooded man dipped at the knees while adjusting to the weight, but didn’t make any noise of discomfort or struggle with the manoeuvre.
With Baxter still unconscious on the man’s back, the traveller began to march up the path. With steady footfalls and arms bracing both Baxter’s head and legs, the man moved along the mountainous terrain at a pace somewhat quicker than a walk, but not quite a jostling trot.
Up and along the winding paths, circling and doubling back on itself as the road spiralled up the mountainside, the two men journeyed, though only one performed any work. The snow continued to dump down from the sky, but that trifle was inconsequential to the stranger who relentlessly climbed the hill with the dead weight on his shoulders. Throughout the trip, Baxter remained entirely motionless, perhaps the lumbering sway of the ride was as soothing as a mother’s lullaby. Or perhaps Baxter did not move because he was dead.
After an hour’s journey, signs of fatigue were apparent on the hooded man. He stooped lower from the weight, his pace had slowed, his legs would quiver on certain steps, but only slightly. From the dark recess of the hood, tiny puffs of exhaustion were rhythmically expelled into the night like a smoking locomotive. But still the man continued forward though encumbered by the weight of a second human being.
The mountains were distressed at the progress of the two, introducing fierce winds and steep roads for them to traverse. Despite the terrain’s obstacles, the figure had no need to pause, even when tugging the lid of his hood down over his eyes as it continued along the path.
When the pair ascended a minor crest, the character finally stopped for the first time in its trek since adopting Baxter. At the end of the next range of hills was a large manmade structure, situated exactly in the middle of a small valley atop this monstrous mountain. The building was like a castle fort with four tall walls built into a box. Atop each of its corners burned lamps providing the only illumination on the horizon beside the stars. Dotting the top perimeter of each wall were dark square windows cut into the stone. A pair of large wooden doors wrought with black iron marked the only passage into the premises.
The hooded man sighed and resumed his walk, shifting Baxter slightly on his shoulders. The black figure marched towards the building.
Chapter XXXVII
The Downfall of Men
The rock was black. Even whilst the party’s campfire illuminated everything under the night moon with strange, golden warmth, the opium stone was a void, almost devouring the light that would touch it. Though Conrad knew the object was covered with tiny dimples, ripples and bumps, he could discern none.
As Douglas moved the tiny sphere about in front of the group’s mesmerised eyes, it was like the man was manoeuvring about a hole, a small piece of space where nothing existed. Even the bonfire in the middle of the group’s circle was secondary in importance compared to this object, as if the men were huddled about Douglas and the drug, and not the warming blaze.
With ceremonial importance, Douglas broke a hunk of opium from the larger nugget, stashing the larger piece away in his coat while retrieving his familiar knife, a vicious dagger of a blade with scars enough to match its master. Its metal skin reflected no light, and was dull from years of wear without care. Taking the point of the machete, Douglas meticulously hacked away at the small lump to shave some bits and flakes of the drug onto a small cloth on the ground. As the tiny drops of opium reassembled as a pile of black chips, the nearby men shifted their backs and bodies over towards Douglas to form a makeshift wall, protectively sacrificing themselves to ensure the safety of this precious and frail substance from the wind.
The short puff of mist that escaped Conrad’s mouth was not smoke, but a rather forceful cough directed at the absurd ritual before him. He had purposefully situated himself on the periphery of the group, where his abstinence would be duly noted as a clear pariah to their proceedings.
Certainly, Conrad was guilty of overindulging in many vices throughout the years, but there was something particularly sick to this dark ceremony which so enthralled his companions. He knew this stuff well, and it was not fun. Rather it just killed any feelings, which many mistook for bliss.
Now a chuckle emerged from Conrad’s dry lips as he realised about how he was solely responsible for all harm which befell him, to a degree no substance alone ever could. It was not the drinking or pugilism which had ruined him over the years, but his decisions to do so. This was a powerful clarity that struck Conrad from observing the absurdity before him, which made him laugh at the benefit of being outside the source of the troublemaking for once.
These minions were truly enslaved to the power of this drug, their eyes growing hollow at the tempting sight of the pending feast. The drug was the only dark god on this mountain that offered any salvation to these believers.
Private Gregory was straddled between the two camps, behind the ring of smokers and before the exiled old man. He had drifted about the larger group if only to curiously study this strange new world of opium aficionados. The lost and haunted faces of the group soon frightened the lad back towards his regimen’s commanding officer. After clearing away the snow from the ground with his glove, Gregory plopped himself down by his senior officer’s side.
With careful concentration, Douglas loaded a long wooden pipe with a mixture of tobacco and opium shavings, reminiscent of a tiny black snowball. Seeing the weapon successfully loaded with its special ammo brought happy grins to all spectators. Though Molor’s immutable expression remained appropriately grim, his dark eyes betrayed his stoicism, flickering with a lively excitement at the proceedings.
When Douglas drew a small match from his coat, the nearby men hurried to offer more she
lter for the prospective flame. However, Douglas confidently shushed them aside with a wave of his hand. With the next flick of his wrist, a tiny flame was birthed upon the matchstick’s head. Though the newborn fire first whimpered and quivered in the cold world of ice, the tiny flame soon triumphed in its existence. The miniature blaze soon roared defiantly with powerful vitality, like a spirit summoned by the combined faith of the assembled believers. Its tiny light helped illuminate the dull greys of the group’s dirty teeth when they smiled.
Douglas shut his eyes as he deeply engulfed the first smoke of the opium. From his solemn expression and expanded chest, it was as if the he had been possessed by a divine magnificence. A dragon’s breath of thick gray unfurled from his lips, leading into a broken grin. When he passed the burning pipe over to Molor, Douglas’ eyes wandered from the immediate crowd to share a smarmy smile aimed in Conrad’s direction.
Unfazed at the silent communication, Conrad inhaled another puff off of his modest cigarette, perhaps an unconscious admission that he wished to belong to the group. Despite the earlier accusations of wanton murder, Conrad still could have readily joined instead of ostracising himself to their outskirts as a harrumphing fuddy-duddy.
After Molor’s smoke, the stoic Indian confirmed the quality of the substance with a knowing nod at Douglas. One by one, the pipe danced around the periphery of the partakers, like the only girl at a ball full of lonely men.
“Is it any good?” Gregory asked. He began the sentence at a levelled tone, but dropped to a hushed whisper as the voice seemed to loudly careen off the stone walls. While some men were startled by the boy’s sudden question, the words signalled the beginning of conversation as the smokers began to casually chatter to also break the silence.