The Babylon Thing

by Peter Ackers

35

  In the salt water, the fleshy arms of the body were floating, the movement of the water giving movement to the hands, making them appear to be reaching, feeling. Jacky stared, letting his fear subside, remembering the video image from 1971. It had also shown a floating human hand, cut off at the wrist. He did not know how the hand had gotten from one chamber to the next, nor did he know yet to which of the many corpses below him it belonged.

  They rested on the bottom of the chamber in a haphazard pile amidst debris composed of rocks, wood and tools. There was nothing else in the chamber. Just bodies, at least fifteen of them. Skeletons wrapped in torn clothing, some still retaining flesh not yet fully eaten by the salt water. Every one, he could see, had a smashed skull. Despite the gruesome scene below him, Jacky smiled. He smiled because the last piece of the jigsaw had just been inserted.

  Fighting off his revulsion, he hauled himself through the hole and swam into the charnal house, down into the murk. From fifteen feet above the pile of corpses, the beams from his torches had widened enough over the distance to illuminate the entire horde. As he swam closer, the area covered by the beams shrank. Corpses disappeared into the gloom outside the circular range of the beams. Unseen, these skeletal remains should have posed no threat to his terrified, sickened mind, but the opposite occurred. Unseen, they were suddenly moving, his mind said, breaking free from the mass, coming around behind him, kicking with their bony heels, moving slowly because although in theory there would be less resistance if water passed right through them, through their ribs and mouths and eye sockets - which would mean more speed - they were not as buoyant as a flesh-covered corpse. But Jacky didn’t dare turn to fight them off, because to turn his back on those illuminated before him was to invite an attack from that quarter.

  His hand delved into the mass, feeling. It pulled out a small satchel. As he tried to swim away with the satchel, a corpse reached for him, its hand brushing his face. He spat out his mouthpiece in terror. As he fumbled to replace it, the hand fell away, the arm snapped off with ease by the strap around its shoulder. The satchel the dead man had carried came away and Jacky turned in the black water, and there behind him was nothingness, and he swam into that nothingness, away from the dead men coming after him, reaching for him, wanting to pull him down to share with them the remainder of eternity in this hellish tomb.

  Jacky entered the chamber above but didn’t slow. He swam fast, hard, towards the exit.

  As he reached the pillar, he stopped and turned, composing himself. His fear was just fear, he knew. He couldn’t let it prevent him from doing what needed to be done. From making sure no other poor soul had to face what he had just faced. And to keep secret what Lawrence Marcellus had needed to keep secret all those years ago. And it involved doing something more profound than just keeping his video camera in its bag.

  He kicked out at the pillar. It moved. More rock dust came down, partly obscuring his view. He kicked again, and a third time, floating on his back and thrusting with both feet. Finally there was a crack, and the pillar snapped. Jacky swam now with all his strength as first the metal plate and then great chunks of rock rained slowly to the floor. As he passed through the trap and into C-20, he felt it rock as the chamber behind him collapsed. Amidst the rumble, he almost thought he heard the voices of the dead wailing their disappointment at being entombed a second time, this time perhaps forever.

  36

  Nova Scotia

  Late that night, Leo finally found Jacky. He was in a bar, drinking. Ever since he’d emerged from the depths of the Pit on Oak Island early that morning and had quickly vanished without a word to anyone, Leo had scoured the whole of Lunenburg County for him. His landlord at the Nova Hotel didn’t know where he was, he said at first. Only when Leo had returned for a second interview did the one-armed man admit that Jacky had sought his advice on the best bars in town. It seemed the Argentinean hadn’t realised that Jacky wasn’t asking just out of idle curiosity.

  “What’s a nice boy like you doing in - actually, this place is okay.”

  Jacky turned, saw Leo. She ordered a drink and then suggested they move to a cubicle. The barman reminded them that last orders was in twenty minutes.

  Sat in the cubicle, Leo stared at Jacky. He wasn’t drunk, not quite. She studied him.

  “Sorrow drowning or celebration?”

  Jacky stared back. “Both. I’m sorrowful about the fact that I’m celebrating.”

  “I think I’ll take that to mean you saw unpleasant things down there today.”

  The satchel removed from the tomb was slung around Jacky’s shoulder. Leo didn’t really notice it until he plonked it on the table before her. She gawped wide-eyed.

  “I thought you didn’t find anything? This is from that pit, isn’t it?” She opened it, felt about inside. There were papers and things inside. She spread a few on the table. Jacky watched, seeing on her face all the same expressions of delight that surely had played on his earlier when he’d made his own analysis.

  “Marcellus was right then,” Leo said. “Not entirely a decoy. The Marcellus family ego is hereditary. Old Lawrence couldn’t resist leaving a few clues.”

  Sarcastically, Jacky said, “Oh yes, he left a few clues alright.”

  Leo was so wrapped up in the things spread on the table that she missed this remark. Jacky was glad.

  “You look like the cat that got the cream,” he said.

  “Just happy for the boss. This means a lot to him.” She stared at something she lifted carefully between thumb and forefinger. Age and water had made it very fragile. “So explain to the laywoman in me. What is all this stuff?”

  Jacky explained.

  “And you worked this out how?” Leo asked afterwards

  “I had scientific help. A phone, a fax machine at the nearest library, and a good friend of mine at the University of Cambridge.”

  “Marcellus will build you a statue the size of Lady Liberty, Jacky. Lady Jacky, he’ll call it. Lord Jacky. This time next year, pigeons will be pooing on your head.

  “Marcellus wants to let animals crap in my hair. I’m flattered beyond words.”

  Leo pulled out her mobile phone. Jacky put his hand on it, also touching her hand. “Tell him tomorrow morning. No rush. The night is young. Let’s celebrate. More drinks.”

  Leo snapped her fingers above her head. “Waiter, two bottles of your finest fermented vegetable juice,” she called.

  “Last orders’s just gone,” came the barman’s drab reply.

  37

  Leo proposed they go to her hotel room where they could enjoy immensely strong Polish vodka, which she had acquired a taste for now that it had almost permanently numbed her tastebuds.

  The alcohol sounded good, but Jacky didn’t want to ruin a good, growing friendship by being in a place where she might get ideas. So he offered instead a visit to the beach - with the vodka, of course.

  Crescent Beach was almost deserted at this time of the night. The only the other occupants were a man and his dog, which limped along in the sand on three legs, the fourth, left back, a short stub, wrapped in bandages.

  Jacky and Leo found an old makeshift raft of logs and rope trapped in the sand and hauled it away from the water. It was wet, but better than the sand. They leaned back on the cold wood and stared into the sky. The moon was invisible behind dark clouds.

  “You have a girlfriend?” Leo asked, handing Jacky the bottle.

  Usually when he didn’t want to answer a question, the person asking received a smart remark. This time - maybe it was the vodka, the night air, the events of the past couple of days, the prospect of the adventure to come - he just gave it straight: “Don’t spoil it, Leo.”

  “You have any pets?”

  “I have goldfish.”

  “Goldfish? Hardly good company for a cold winter’s night.”

  He sensed her trying the girlfriend question again, this time coming in at an unprotected area like a lion attacking from a gazelle’s blin
d spot. “I do have someone back home,” he relented. “Nothing serious. Now, a new subject, please.”

  “Okay. Wanna go to a private party?”

  He turned his head to look at her. Her own head was raised, her eyes on the sea. He looked, too.

  The boat he had seen earlier, the one full of partying people, was out there, lights blazing like the aurora borealis. It was a sleek Broward 113, made in 1995. 114 feet, with a beam of 23 feet. Powered by twin Deutz TBD 616-16 engines, it could reach speeds of 23 knots. It was 8 berth, but there were a lot more people than that on deck, dancing, drinking. The music was loud - Jacky couldn’t believe he’d not heard it before now.

  Leo sat up. “Music. Drink. Men. And drink.”

  Jacky laughed. “I guess you don’t have a boyfriend then.”

  “Don’t need one. I have a loving St. Bernard back home.”

  “And I bet his barrel’s full of Polish vodka.”

  “What better to wake up a hypothermic skier? Come on.” She climbed off the raft, staggering from the effects of the alcohol - 79% volume.

  “What? Where are we going?”

  She got on her knees behind the raft and started pushing, but it wouldn’t move; it was held tight by the wet sand and by Jacky’s weight.

  “Help, man.”

  Jacky rolled off the raft, already feeling giddy. He too knelt behind it and gave it all he had. He laughed. “This is daft. We’ll get lost at sea forever.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll wash up on some undiscovered dinosaur-filled island somewhere. You'd love that, bonedigger.”

  And so, they heaved the raft into the sea and climbed aboard. Until they had distributed their weight evenly, the small craft rocked and bobbed as if it was battling rough waters instead of what was really as smooth as a black mirror.

  The pleasure yacht had its engine turned off, but they hadn’t weighed anchor; the natural movement of the sea was taking the boat away from the raft faster than Jacky and Leo could paddle towards it. When the gap had widened so much they thought they’d never catch up, and the distance back to shore was too great to attempt against the tide, Jacky and Leo got a little scared. Leo because the water was cold and black and deep; Jacky because he was getting quite drunk and didn’t trust his swimming abilities, which were normally excellent. They raised their arms into the air and waved them wildly, shouting.

  Someone on the deck of the yacht pointed; seconds later a spotlight was blinding them. The yacht's engines fired up. Mere minutes after that, a ladder was thrown down and Jacky and Leo climbed aboard. Drunken, topless young men crowded her, fussing over her. Five drinks were thrust at her.

  “Shipwrecked?” one asked.

  “Here for Oak island?” another said.

  “Wanna shag?” a third asked. Leo kissed him on the cheek, not wanting to upset anyone.

  Leo got straight into the swing of things, guzzling beer and dancing with men; Jacky followed suit - except for the dancing with men part.

  The partiers, all law students out of New York on a holiday, were camped at nearby Plum Island, where they had erected a small tent city. Oak Island had seemed like a good place to visit, but they hadn’t realised that it was closed to the public. Entry via the causeway had been blocked by a locked gate with a sign: “Private/No Hunting or Trespassing/Danger”; landing at one of the coves had resulted in first a warning, then the second time forcible ejection. So they had picked the neighbouring island, much smaller, and pleased themselves by sailing around Mahone Bay, trying to see with binoculars what was going on around the Money Pit.

  “You were part of the dig, weren’t you?” a handsome, tanned individual named Jeanette asked Jacky later when they were on a beach of shingle on Plum island, about an hour later. Everyone was coupled up, either romancing or just talking. Jeanette had recently split from Darren, who was further down the beach, roasting sausages on the fire with Leo. Jacky couldn’t help but feel disappointed that Leo had shifted her attentions from him to this new lad, who was blonde and muscular.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy about that,” Jacky said.

  “Oh, come on,” Jeanette said, refilling his glass from a bottle of wine. “You can tell me. I’m a law student offering legal advice about treasure salvage rights. I’m sworn by the attorney-client act. I’ll be disbarred if I tell.”

  “You aren’t even a lawyer yet.”

  “Well, as soon as I pass the bar, they’ll disbar me. Tell, tell, tell.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Well you have a choice. You tell me or you kiss me.”

  “We found the Lost Ark of the Covenant.”

  “Come on.”

  “Which we used the Spear of Destiny to open.”

  “Ho ho.”

  “And inside, the Holy Grail.”

  “Fancy a massage?”

  He did, surprisingly. The alcohol was getting to him. He was not yet feeling horny, and hoped he wouldn’t, but certainly the prospect of having his aching muscles kneaded by this cute young woman was tempting.

  As he lay on his front, moaning softly as his flesh was squeezed, Jacky watched Leo and Darren way across the beach. Darren got up and hauled Leo to her feet by her hand. He led her into a nearby tent. Just before she ducked her head under, she gave Jacky the thumbs-up sign. He laughed.

  “What is it?” Jeanette asked.

  “The feisty lioness.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.”

  The massage was soothing. Jacky felt his worries dissipating with the release of muscular tension. Soon, he fell asleep.

  38

  When he woke, there was sand in his mouth. He spat it out and got up. He had fallen asleep on his front. Jeanette had gone.

  The beach was empty of life except for himself and a man who had fallen asleep with his legs in the sea, a bottle in his hand, make-up badly plastered all over his face as the result of some practical joke. The fire was now nothing more than dying embers. All the tents were quiet and dark, the occupants asleep. The sun was threatening to rise, judging by the red-grey colour of the sky.

  Jacky got to his feet. He swayed slightly, still a little drunk. This early in the morning it was very cold and the wind coming in from across the sea was fast, making it worse.

  Jacky moved across the beach, through the tent town. When he got to the tent that Leo had entered with the guy, he bent low, listening. Didn’t want to disturb them if they were . . . No sounds. Surely asleep.

  He moved one of the door flaps aside and peered in. The guy, Darren, was curled into a ball, sleeping under a blanket. No Leo.

  Jacky looked around the beach. There was no sign of her, but where could she be? Surely she wouldn’t have left the island without first waking him?

  Jacky moved further up the beach, heading into the dense foliage, pushing through it until he had reached the top of a hill. From here he was able to see over the entire island. Plum island was small and green with sandy patches, totally uninhabited due to its size.

  It became obvious that Leo was not on the island.

  Jacky looked round, back down at the tent town below him. That was when he caught the movement.

  The man who’d fallen asleep with his legs in the sea was slowly slipping further into the water, his arms left behind until they were stretched out behind him. It was a strange sight. It was as if he were sliding down an incline, but the beach was virtually flat and the fact that it was sandy made this impossible anyway. Being pulled?

  As his head went under the water, he stirred, coughing water. Then he went under completely. There was a moment of thrashing, then his body was still, floating on the surface, face-down.

  Fascinated, shocked, puzzled, and still disoriented by alcohol, Jacky watched as a black shape emerged from the water, rising, standing. A figure clad in black, wearing a black hood with goggles and something in its mouth, like the mouthpiece a diver wears, except this figure carried no visible oxygen tank.

  In the moonlight reflecting
off the sea, Jacky could see that the water around this figure and the floating man was somehow thicker, darker. He only realised it was blood after he saw the flicker of metal as the dark-clad figure slipped a blade back into its belt.