Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  But instead of hearing the accompanying thunder, Rae experienced a horrendous blast that shattered her windows. She was sprayed with broken glass. She screamed and flipped backward over her chair, still clutching the White Deer Society emblem. Not sure what had exploded outside, she wobbled to her feet and shook off the debris. Blood dripped onto her sweater from several superficial cuts on her face. Without realizing it, she had pocketed the broach in her pants. In a stupor, she rushed out the back exit and stepped outside, just in time to witness a small mushroom cloud lift into the air not two hundred yards from her station.

  She gasped.

  Huge orange balls of flame rolled through black gushing smoke where the uppermost levels of the Depot’s airfield control tower once stood.

  Movement at ground level.

  Miraculously, a figure stumbled from the first floor of the burning building. It looked to Rae like a large set man carrying some type of container. He turned and Rae saw that his back was on fire. The man dropped the can and clutched at his back, spinning wildly. The container on the ground suddenly burst into flames. It was a gas can.

  The arsonist!

  Spurred to action, Rae ducked back inside her office to retrieve her coat and cell phone. She then slammed opened a tool closest and grabbed a pair of bolt cutters. Running back outside at full sprint, she dialed 9-1-1 on her way. Arriving at the newly installed chain-linked gate, she positioned the bolt cutters around the lock and squeezed. With a ping the lock snapped off. She dropped the tool and swung the gate wide open so responding emergency vehicles would not be hindered. As she stepped foot on Nero’s new sovereign territory she made the connection with the emergency dispatcher.

  “Send fire and rescue to the Depot airfield.” She caught her breath. “The control tower just exploded.” Another deep inhale and she ran toward the arsonist who had now dropped to the ground. The man started rolling to douse the spreading flames. He screamed.

  Rae spoke again in her phone. “Male victim on fire. Male victim on fire. Possibly an arsonist.” She slipped the cell phone into her pocket, dropped to her knees, and flung her coat over the burning man’s back and head. She patted him down while fighting his twists and turns.

  Once the flames were extinguished the man’s screaming subsided to whimpers. Rae tried to relax him as he lay facedown in the wet grass, arms sprawled out to his side. She couldn’t help but notice his hands were covered in fragments of burned latex gloves.

  Except for the middle finger of one hand.

  The tip of that finger had been bandaged over. Anger welled in Rae’s chest. Her lip curled. With all of her might she rolled the overweight man onto his back to get a clear look at his face in the bright firelight. She flinched.

  “Bob Wyzinski? What the—” Her words never made it out as the supposedly flu-stricken veteran deputy sheriff cold-cocked her in the mouth. Tiny flashes of white sparks filled her blackened vision. She slumped over with a groan.

  The arsonist cop got up on his knees to finish her off, but the barrel of a pistol stared him in the face. He froze. Rae rose to a sitting position with one hand grasping her Glock. Her other hand, she balled into a hidden fist and with all of her might she punched the cop with a clean connection of hard knuckles. Wyzinski’s nose fractured upon impact. He fell back on the ground. Rae slugged him twice more in the nose and finished him with an elbow to the jaw, knocking him out cold.

  With a bloody smile and heaving chest, Rae stood up, keeping the weapon aimed at Wyzinski’s head. She still couldn’t believe the elusive arsonist-dog killer was a dirty cop she had spent many a law enforcement scene with — including Cranberry Marsh. It boggled her mind that this was one of their own, albeit a deputy sheriff.

  A glance at the coat he was wearing and the rip at his elbow sealed the deal. She holstered her weapon and reached for the handcuff holder on her waist. She unsnapped the flap and in a quick fluid motion she twisted Wyzinski’s arms behind his smoldering, flesh burned back and snapped the cuffs on his wrists.

  So it was Wyzinski all along, thought Rae. Unbelievable. Questions whirled in her head as she slowly put together all the puzzle pieces amid the roaring backdrop of the burning tower. Why the anti-Indian motivation? Was he acting alone or on behalf of some local extremists?

  She fumbled inside her pocket for her cell phone, elated that she bagged the arsonist in the act. But now it was her turn to face the business end of a gun barrel — a sawed-off shotgun. On the other end glared a beaten mask of a face with light blue tattoos under each eye. That was the last image Rae remembered as an unseen thump on the back of her head dropped her where she stood.

  The tattoo-eyed thug was already on his two-way radio with Nero. He pushed the transmit button. “We’ve got some lard ass over here, unconscious. All burnt up. There’s a gas can nearby. He probably lit the building up. And, ah weird, he’s handcuffed too.”

  “Say again,” Nero demanded over a static-filled radio.

  While repeating the message, Rousseau was handed a silver ID badge by his counterpart, Mr. Makowa. He had found it while frisking the woman he just knocked out. Makowa then showed Rousseau a Glock service-weapon he pulled from her holster.

  “We’ve got a female cop here too,” said Rousseau. “Ah, she’s with the state police. Looks like she ran over from their station. Anyways, we knocked the bitch out. She was armed and trespassing.”

  “What is this woman’s name?” asked Nero.

  “Rae Hart, says her badge.”

  “Bring her to me. Leave the man behind.”

  Kendaia cave entrance.

  With a pain-filled moan after having cold water splashed on her face, Rae emerged from her blackout and found herself flanked by two burly men she could hardly see in the darkness. The guards shook her for a response, grabbed her under the armpits and lifted her off the ground. The back of her head pounded as she tried to figure out exactly where she was and what had happened. Under wobbly knees, she leaned into her captors to regain her balance. Through blurry eyes she saw a scene of moving shadows pierced by flashlight beams. She gathered she was near a stream in a wooded ravine. Was she still at the Depot? She heard fire sirens in the distance. But who the hell hit her? And where had they come from? She had gotten a good look at the tattooed face man with the shotgun — obviously an Indian — but he had definitely taken a recent beating. Was he one of the murderers of The Mouth during Nero’s gauntlet recording? And where’s Wyzinski? Her weapon? Cell phone? She realized they had taken everything, leaving her dressed only in her turtleneck sweater, jeans, and boots.

  A silhouetted figure approached under crunching leaves. A wave of confused panic swept through her as she thought she would be executed. Her heart lurched as a flashlight beam struck her in the face. Flinching with pain, she turned her head to shield her eyes.

  “Have any good dreams, Rae Hart?”

  Recognizing the raspy voice of the man behind the light, Rae’s panic changed to rage. Her edgy voice accosted him. “Assault and kidnap of a law enforcement official. You are in deep shit, Alex Nero.”

  “Honey, I’ve been in deep shit all my life,” replied Nero, inching closer. He moved the flashlight under his chin to illuminate his face in a grotesque shadowy glow of red, framed by long strands of hair. He grabbed Rae’s chin and squeezed her jaw, their defiant eyes locked. “You think I care about roughing up some pathetic state police bitch trespassing on sovereign territory? Ray Kantiio should have aimed higher when he popped you.”

  Seething with anger Rae spit in his face.

  Nero shoved her head back and wiped his cheek with a sleeve. “That’s right. I have no qualms about doling out Haudenosaunee justice. Just ask your daddy. Didn’t he take a bullet in the head?” Nero belched laughter as he pressed Rae’s forehead with his middle finger.

  With cat-like reaction Rae broke free from her captors and lunged at Nero. She caught him with a right uppercut squarely under the jaw. Nero’s head lifted upon impact, his jaw slamming shut, bi
ting his tongue. He was momentarily dazed, but kept standing. Rae’s guards grabbed her and slammed her to the ground with a faceplant. Nero merely threw his head back and laughed again, spitting blood. He walked up and placed a muddy boot on her head.

  “Ahh, my feisty little trophy.”

  “Eat shit,” replied Rae, in a muffled voice.

  Nero bent down and clenched the nape of her neck, pressing her face deeper in the mud. His cancerous whisper grated like sandpaper. “Your cowardly father took my mother’s life, so I ordered his hit as payback. It’s the ancient way of our people, an eye for an eye.”

  Spitting mud, Rae grunted a ruder obscenity aimed at his deceased mother.

  Nero motioned the guards to stand her back up. He then slapped her face with a forehand and then a backhand and then another forehand. Mud splattered after each powerful slap. Nero then wiped his hand on her shirt. “Watch your mouth young lady.”

  “What do want from me?” mumbled Rae, her head slumped down.

  Nero lifted her dirty face. “Now that you’re a good girl, let’s talk about you trespassing on sovereign land. You will have to be punished for your criminal activities. I’m thinking a little community service should be a fair, lenient sentence. What do you think?”

  “Whatever, you piece of shit.”

  Nero ignored her insult. “I’m thinking you’re going to be my guest on an underground excursion.” He pointed with his flashlight to a small cave opening just up the creek bank. Several of his security men stood at the dark gaping hole. Nero’s beam panned back to Rae. “You’re going to be my little Miss Guinea Pig leading the way inside that cave. And if you’re a good little piggy I may have mercy on your soul. I might even let you go. But if you’re a naughty little piggy I’m going to take much pleasure in raping you, slowly torturing you to death, and then scalping that nice mane of yours for my collection. And no one will ever find your body down there. So, please be on your best behavior, prisoner.”

  A big bull of a man walked up to Nero, a short-barreled shotgun in a holster strapped to one thigh, a long dagger on the other, a Beretta 92 silenced pistol holstered at his armpit. He was decked out in hiker’s clothing, had a backpack, and wore a spelunking helmet with mini spotlights. Rae recognized this tattoo-eyed warrior freak as the one who pointed the sawed-off shotgun at her over at the burning control tower.

  Anne Stanton stood right behind him. Rae noticed she was not armed, at least not visibly. Stanton caught Rae’s eye and frowned with feigned anger, then gave her an ever-so-subtle wink and twinge of her eyebrow to let her know she would be offering help. Rae breathed a sign of relief.

  The large man told Nero his men were all set to go in.

  “Thank you Kenny,” gruffed Nero. “Keep six men back here as a rear guard. Have them monitor the fire scene. I don’t want anyone venturing this way. Keep pulling routine patrols around the base too. There are probably more arsonists out there.”

  “Yes sir,” acknowledged Rousseau.

  “And tell them to be on the lookout for that bastard Army soldier Tununda. I know he’s out there somewhere.”

  Rae cracked a smile at the corner of her mouth.

  “Then I want you, Makowa, George, and Stanton going in the cave with me,” continued Nero, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “The pig here is taking point in case we run across any booby traps. Get her a helmet with a light. Move out!”

  Same time. 180 feet below Bunker A0101.

  “I’m over here!” shouted Jake. He flashed his light.

  Joe stumbled to the end of the long, dark underground vehicle ramp and collapsed against a pockmarked concrete wall. He set down his gear then shed his backpack. Sweating profusely through a reddened face, he reached for his water bottle and chugged freely. He and his nephew had descended the winding ramp one hundred and fifty feet below the surface. They passed six sub-level bunkers all barricaded with locked double steel entrance doors.

  Jake had explained along the way that the upper two levels were reserved for the lower ranked base personnel and their women and children who once lived at the base housing in Romulus. The next two levels were designated for storage of survival perishables and equipment, and the lowest levels were designated for the upper ranking officers, communications, and weapons storage.

  “You okay there?” asked Jake. “I didn’t bring an automatic electronic defibrillator you know.”

  Joe barely answered through heavy gasps. “Just need a minute.”

  Jake had arrived several minutes earlier at the lowest bunker level. He was in the middle of prying open the locked double steel doors at the entrance to the sub chamber. The dark gray doors were stenciled with faded white letters reading Officers Only.

  “Bastard just won’t budge,” grimaced Jake. Again he wedged the crowbar end of his silver Halligan tool between the door’s locking mechanisms. Used extensively in the fire and rescue service, Jake added the Halligan to the list of their necessary spelunking equipment because of the heavy locked interior barriers he encountered during his recon. As a multipurpose tool for prying, twisting, and striking, this stainless steel bar consisted of a forked claw on one end, and a wedge and curved tapered pick on the other. It was also the proven breaching tool of choice he had issued to his combat teams when raiding houses in Iraq.

  Jake pried at the doorjambs, heard something snap, and with a screech one of the well-rusted doors popped open. The Halligan fell to the floor with a loud clang.

  “Yes! Let’s go!”

  “My God, give me a break,” bitched Joe. He was still huffing as he watched Jake illuminate the interior of a new chamber.

  “Come on man,” Jake said impatiently. He picked up and slung the Halligan over his back. He then pulled out a dog-eared copy of the bunker floor plan and pointed ahead down an ominous-looking hallway. “We’re almost there. This is the weapons storage section. The room we need is at the very end of this hall. There’s a shitter off to the side where the cave void is supposed to be walled up.”

  With shaking legs, Joe gathered up his gear.

  Before entering Jake took a moment to snap a digital photo of the entrance with his trusty little camera. He grasped his M4 rifle and flashlight and proceeded in. “Christ, this is like a concrete coffin,” he announced. His crisp voice bounced off the crumbling walls and low ceiling of a long, wide concrete tunnel. Rusted pipes, electrical conduits, stained cracks, and empty light fixtures filled with spider webs marked the dreary passage. Several open doors to small empty rooms split off from the main access tunnel. “How’d you like to live down here?”

  “I’d go insane,” replied Joe, dragging a bit behind.

  “I’m thinking they probably stored their small arms and ammo in some of these rooms. God knows what else.”

  Joe grumbled.

  The tunnel suddenly came to a dead end at another set of double doors. These were secured tight with a padlock. Jake jiggled the lock, inspected the old rusted clasp it was attached to and smiled. He then positioned his flashlight against the wall in the corner and directed the bright beam on the lock. With a flash of silver he swung the pick end of his Halligan upward, catching the lock clasp perfectly from below. With a bang, the clasp and padlock easily flew free. Jake snatched up his light and pulled the doors open just as his uncle arrived. Joe shook his head with a smirk.

  “What?” Jake said, with a smile. “Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for breaking and entering.”

  Whereas the other unlocked anterooms were completely bare, this one, measuring the size of a single-car garage, contained six large wooden crates of exceptional age. Beyond the crates, against the back wall, stood dilapidated rusted metal shelving holding various paint buckets, containers, and other sundry items covered in dust and thick spider webs. Jake panned his flashlight beam to the right of the shelving and centered it on a wooden door with a pealed sticker of a toilet on it.

  Joe panned his light over the crates and found they were labeled with To Be Destroyed. He fr
owned. “Hey, check these out.” He walked up to the closest crate.

  “What have we here?” asked Jake, his curiosity piqued as he joined Joe. Each of the rectangular crates measured approximately four feet high by seven feet long. He noticed the crates swung open from a side hinge. Handing his light to his uncle and slinging his M4 on his chest harness, Jake took the Halligan off his back and jammed its wedge under a side slat. He pried. The rusted setting nails popped with ease. The crate’s sidewall freely swung open.

  Both men bent down. Inside they found a perfectly preserved World War II-era motorcycle sealed in a clear, long-term corrosion inhibiting cosmoline coating.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Jake. He instantly recognized the make and model of the motorcycle. He tapped a white five-pointed star painted on an olive drab fuel tank. “It’s a U.S. Army Indian Scout, a model 841. They stopped making these in 1944. Only about one thousand were ever made.”

  Joe whistled. “It looks like it’s fresh from the factory floor.”

  “Supposedly, all the surplus bikes were destroyed after the war,” noted Jake. He ran his hands across the frame. “They would have been sent here to the Depot and melted in the incinerator. I bet these were set aside for someone’s rainy day. Wow, look at this leather seat.” He pinched the waxy seal and easily pulled a rubbery chunk off, exposing the true leather underneath. The seat was in pristine condition. He pulled some more of the sealant off the chrome engine parts and front tire, revealing more of the motorcycle. “My God, this is priceless. Come on, let’s check out the other crates!”

  Within minutes they had pried open the remaining crates, exposing five more Indian Scouts in the same excellent condition. Although yet another great historical find, Jake didn’t want to waste time enjoying them. He pressed onward with their main mission and went to the bathroom door. “Come on,” he urged his uncle from across the room. “It’s time to hit the head.”