Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  Nero coughed and looked up with a smile. “I knew it,” he rasped. He rolled over on his back, his chest heaving. Besides some abrasions on his arms and legs, a bloody slice on his cheek was his most serious wound. If not for his helmet staying on during his risk-all underwater escape from Tununda, he would have probably died from a rocky head bashing.

  Rousseau unstrapped Nero’s dented helmet, the dual lights completely shattered. His and George’s were also in similar shape, already discarded up on the bank.

  “Lucky roll of the dice,” Nero gasped. Wet strands of his long gray hair stuck to his bruised face. He looked up at the stream of white water that shot him out from the top of the rock wall.

  “Got that right,” said the crooked-nosed Mr. George. He held his arm and limped up on the bank to grab the flashlight.

  Nero looked about the cave. Broken branches, weeds, and garbage were strewn about. Ancient horizontal water lines marked flood levels on the limestone walls. “You lose any gear?”

  Rousseau grunted and wiped away the wet hair plastered flat against his forehead. The wound from the gauntlet had opened up again. Blood trickled down across his brows. “George lost his Uzi and I lost my shotgun. I still have my Beretta and a hunting knife.” He produced the six-inch dagger in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other. “And we have our backpacks, two working flashlights, extra batteries, and food. That’s it.”

  “My pistol’s gone too,” replied Nero. He sat up, shedding his backpack and pushed back his wet hair. “Any grenades left?” he asked, wiping away blood from the gash on his cheek.

  “We’ve got three,” said Mr. George.

  “I take it that bitch is still alive or you wouldn’t be here,” asked Rousseau. He helped his boss stand up. “We heard gunfire up through that passage after we got out of the water.” He pointed back toward the waterfall at an opening leading upward.

  “Hart’s still alive,” Nero said. “And that Army freak Tununda came outta nowhere — armed with an assault rifle. He probably wasted Stanton. Doesn’t matter though, she’s expendable.”

  “So, we’ve got three grenades and one pistol,” Mr. George remarked. “Tununda’s got a rifle and the bitch has her Glock.”

  “But we’re in the lead,” said Rousseau. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Wait a second,” remarked Nero. “You could hear gunfire you said?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Give me a grenade,” ordered Nero. “And follow me. We’ve got unfinished business.”

  36

  River chamber.

  RAE STEPPED ACROSS the debris footbridge, her Glock lowered in front of her. Her shirt sleeve was pushed up, forearm dripping with blood from the shrapnel wound. She pulled off her helmet and let it drop at her feet. She looked a wreck. Her face was battered and dirty with several cuts. Her long hair was snarled with sweat and mud, her clothes wet and grimy.

  Jake met her near the burning torch. In the flickering light Jake gazed into her weary eyes. She collapsed into his strong arms and buried her head in his shoulder. He hugged her tightly.

  As they pulled apart he looked down at her arm, inspecting the severity of the wound. He told her it was minor, that he would bandage her up. She laughed. Then out of the blue he leaned in and kissed her. She responded initially by pulling away, but his lips were soft, wet, and simply felt good. She gave in, yearning for more.

  Pressing her mouth tight against his, a low pleasurable moaned escaped from her throat. She held the back of his neck with her fingers. He threw his arms around her waist, shoving her up against the cave wall. Their kiss was deep, breathless, and long. Finally, it was Rae who broke the lock.

  “Wow,” she whispered, catching her breath.

  “Tell me about it,” said Jake, clearing his throat. “Ahh, okay then. Well then, um, shall we get back to business? We’ve got find out where this river empties out. We have to see if Nero and his boys are alive.”

  “Lead the way soldier!”

  “Wait, where’s that Stanton woman?” Jake asked.

  He and Rae looked all around.

  “There,” pointed Rae, back across the river, in the same general area where she had just been hiding. A faint light beam reflected off the bullet-ridden limestone walls. Jake raised his rifle and peered down the scope. Her illuminated helmet appeared in the crosshairs of his M4 scope.

  Stanton turned. “Hey lovebirds! I’m over here if you’re done. There’s a passage headed down, hurry up!”

  Jake lowered his weapon. Rae strapped her helmet back on and grabbed the burning torch. The pair scurried back over the river to meet Stanton at the top of what looked like a limestone spiral staircase leading down into a black hole.

  Stanton faced them. “I remember seeing something like this on Nero’s cave map. This river empties into some new chamber.” She gestured to the crude staircase. “He and his men are probably down in there, their bodies at least.”

  “You think they’re still alive?” asked Jake, fumbling in his pocket to pull out his own copy of the map.

  “I hope the hell they aren’t,” said Stanton.

  “Here, I’ve got a copy of that map. It—”

  Stanton chuckled. “I figured you would. Let me show you where I think we are.”

  “Not so fast,” said Rae, grabbing Stanton’s arm. “She’s got some explaining to do first.”

  “Yeah, apparently you and I have a common employer,” quipped Jake. “Miss Lizzie Spiritwalker ring any bells? How about my uncle, Joe Big Bear Tununda?”

  Stanton sighed deeply. She nodded her head.

  “We’ll talk later,” ordered Jake. “Let’s get down there and find the bodies first.” And then, in what seemed like slow motion, he saw movement in the shadows a few steps down around the bend in the stairs. He raised his M4 just as a grenade flew by his head. His feet seemed glued, he couldn’t move fast enough. It was as if he were in a dream sequence. He watched as the metallic ball of death hit a rock behind him and bounced straight up, making a clinking sound as it hit.

  “GRENADE!” Jake reached out with his right hand. His movement now in fast motion, his adrenaline jacked to its fullest. Afghanistan flashed through his mind. He snagged the grenade in mid-air, clutched it for a split second like a baseball player on a double play, and tossed it toward the river. “GET DOWN!”

  Jake knocked the legs out from under both women just as the grenade plopped into the water. It detonated just under the surface with a muffled blast of red-hot shrapnel slicing through a torrent of water. The spray showered the trio.

  Jake stood up first, dripping wet, rifle to his shoulder, beam aimed down the spiral steps. His old forearm wound tingled. He charged in and fired as he advanced. He heard men shouting in front of him, women screaming behind. Shadows danced, lights bounced, bullets cut the air and ricocheted as his trigger finger worked his rifle’s magic. Down a series of naturally carved spiral steps he hit bottom. A small waterfall spilled to his left from a wall. It emptied in a pool of black water. Three damaged spelunking helmets sat on a narrow rocky bank littered with more garbage. He saw movement ahead — three figures racing inside another cave passage. He took a bead on the last figure and pulled the trigger.

  Waterfalls chamber.

  The first bullet ripped through Mr. George’s backpack and into his back. It punctured a lung and exited through his stomach. George threw his hands in the air with a grunt, his flashlight dropped, bounced off the rocky bank, and rolled into the river. Pain shot through his body. His knees weakened.

  Jake’s next bullet struck a shoulder blade and redirected upward through George’s neck, severing an artery. The third round cut clean through the spinal cord. George’s vision went black. His knees buckled. The next round turned his head into an exploding watermelon. His lifeless, blood-spewing body slumped face down with a dull thump.

  “Son of a bitch,” mouthed Rousseau. He was staring back at George from just inside the new passageway.

  “Let’s g
o! Leave him,” ordered Nero, from further up the tunnel. But Rousseau realized that George had on the backpack with the rest of their food and extra flashlight batteries. He needed to retrieve it. Rousseau pulled the pin of the second grenade and tossed it back into the waterfalls chamber, just over George’s limp body. He took cover back inside his tunnel.

  Same time.

  Watching another grenade roll his way, Jake calmly took three steps back up the spiral rock staircase and sought protection around a curve. The grenade exploded in a deafening roar. Shrapnel ripped through the room and took chunks of limestone off the walls. Smoke instantly filled the chamber. Jake switched off his light. Rae and Stanton piled into him from behind.

  “Oh my God, are you alright?” asked Rae.

  “Fine. You two okay?”

  “We’re good,” replied Stanton.

  Jake peered around the corner into the smoky chamber.

  THWACK. THWACK. Two muffled shots struck the wall near his head.

  Jake pulled back. “Kill your lights! Kill your lights!”

  The women complied, Rae stomping furiously to extinguish the torch she carried. The chamber went pitch black.

  “Silenced pistol,” Jake whispered from a kneeling position, his M4 shouldered, eye on scope. He looked back around the corner.

  A light flickered from across the way. It came from just inside a far passageway. There was movement near the downed body. Through a smoky haze, Jake zeroed in with his scope. A hand reached out from the passageway, fumbling with the dead man’s backpack.

  CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three rounds smacked into the body with dull thumps. The hand pulled back.

  “You dirty son of a—” screamed Rousseau, but his voice was drowned out by another burst of fire from Jake’s M4. The next rounds struck just inside the passage where Rousseau was taking cover. Rousseau turned his flashlight off.

  Jake pulled the trigger again, but heard metal on metal. His magazine was empty. He threw a switch and dropped his magazine. “Reloading,” he whispered.

  Rousseau heard the empty click sound too. Flashlight back on, he made another attempt at George’s backpack. He was met by a loud blast from a pistol. A bullet struck the cave wall over George’s body.

  Standing just above Jake, Rae held her smoking Glock steady. While Jake reached into his pocket for another full-metal jacket, she sang out a familiar tune in defiance. “Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do, when they come for you?”

  She received a rage-filled bellow for her efforts. She had flicked Rousseau’s switch. Reloaded, Jake rejoined her. They waited for the thug’s next move.

  THWACK! A round impacted the wall near the pair. Although Rousseau’s aim was off, Rae backed away and sought cover behind Jake. The darkened stand off continued.

  Jake whispered. “I wonder if that’s The Mouth’s silenced pistol?”

  “How do you figure?” asked Rae, squatting behind him, her hand gently holding his waist.

  “We had a little get-together at Conesus Lake. They had that same pistol. Hit me in the head with it.”

  “I knew you were there, dammit!” she replied, whispering in his ear. “We had a report of a gunshot in that same area Ashland had circled on his topo map.”

  “Hey Clown Face? That you over there?” Jake goaded out loud. “Got any glass in your ass?”

  THWACK! Another wild round cracked Jake’s way.

  “Make your move you little prick,” Rousseau yelled back. “And I’ll shove another grenade up your ass!”

  Jake responded with two bullets aimed at the voice.

  A minute went by as they waited for Rousseau’s counterattack. Then two more. The clock ticked.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Stanton. “What if he has more grenades? We can’t go in there.”

  “There’s something in that backpack they want,” said Rae.

  “I’ll take point,” whispered Jake. “Stay here. I’ll tell you when it’s clear.” He moved into the pitch-black chamber taking each step with care not to stumble on any debris. The sound of his steps were masked by the waterfalls spilling into the pool. He watched for any flicker of light ahead where Rousseau was last seen.

  Nothing. No light, no sounds from the far passage as Jake inched closer. It took him a full minute to make it to where he felt the bloody body of Mr. George. He flicked on his rifle’s flashlight and immediately pointed the weapon into the passageway where Rousseau had been.

  Empty.

  Jake covered the tunnel in a kneeling position, eyes glued to his scope. The narrow cave passage traveled straight and far before his beam dissolved into darkness.

  He whistled back toward the women and announced, “Clear.” As they took their time getting over, he checked the area around him for any grenade booby traps. He did the same with Mr. George’s body and the bloody backpack.

  Nothing.

  When the women arrived near him, he resumed his posture, covering the cave tunnel. He told Rae to check inside the backpack. She flicked her headlamp on and unzipped blood smeared pockets. Inside she found several packages of flashlight batteries and energy candy bars.

  “It’s going to suck for them when their batteries run out,” said Stanton. She and Rae stuffed the precious items in their pockets.

  “Miss Stanton,” Jake said, never taking his eyes off the scope. “You’ve got some explaining to do. Now’s a good time.”

  Stanton sat down with a sigh and leaned back against the rock wall. “Alright. I’m Miss Lizzie’s granddaughter…”

  Jake blinked. “What?”

  Stanton continued. “She recruited me years ago when my mother took no interest in the White Deer Society. I moved from Atlanta and went to college near the reservation. Lizzie weaned me to become the head of the secret society as a direct matrilineal next of kin once she passed away.”

  She spoke softly. “When we learned Nero was the direct descendant of Atotarho we needed to keep a close watch on him. I positioned myself to enter his organization as an undercover operative. With my non-Indian looks, expertise in the field of archaeology and preservation, I landed a research position for his collection. When his mother died I became director. I gained his trust. And that’s when he told me he knew of the secret mark of the society — the deer and snake symbol. He had learned it from his mother just before she died. He ordered me to keep an eye on anything that was even remotely associated with it. That’s when we knew what he was really after. The Crown of Serpents.”

  Rae piped up. “Ahh, so that’s this ancient artifact thing you all are after. This crown.”

  “Right,” replied Stanton. “It’s what we are sworn to protect.”

  “And what I unwittingly got myself stuck in!” mentioned Jake.

  Stanton shrugged. “You were meant to be.”

  “I guess there are other forces at work,” said Jake.

  Stanton nodded. “When that news report came out of an Indian grave being found in Seneca County, along with a piece of jewelry with a deer and snake symbol on it, I had no choice but to inform Nero. I needed to show him that I was legit. But secretly, our society was seeking the crown too — and the cave that would lead us to it. Because we lost that location as of 1779.”

  “When Sullivan’s troops burnt Kendaia,” added Jake.

  “Exactly,” agreed Stanton. “And then the discovery of Thomas Boyd’s journal blew everything wide open.”

  “Wait, wait,” said Rae. “Boyd, he’s the one who hid the British gold at Conesus Lake, right.”

  “You’re catching on,” replied Jake. He lowered his rifle to give his arms a rest, but still kept his eyes on the passage ahead.

  Stanton nodded. “Yes, you see, it turns out Thomas Boyd was the last one who knew of the location of the cave that leads to the crown. He wrote about it in his journal. Once Nero read that journal at Old Fort Niagara he bought it on-site. And then he told me straight up of his ultimate grand plan to find Atotarho’s crown or die of cancer trying.

  Rae la
ughed. “Let’s grant the latter wish.”

  Stanton continued with her story. “He gave me full access to the journal. We just had to decipher the Masonic encryptions to find out. At that point, I knew I had the clues to find the crown, protect it, and stop Nero at the same time.

  Jake nodded. He stood up and raised his rifle to look down the scope again. Rae just shook her head in bewilderment.

  Stanton spoke faster. “Because of my research on McTavish’s rifle, Nero sent Ray Kantiio down to Pennsylvania to steal it. But I didn’t know that at the time. And that’s when I heard of Ashland’s murder.”

  Rae rubbed her chest where the two bruises were. She gulped.

  “But Ray failed. Nero had him beaten to death in some gauntlet ceremony. Little did he know that I tape recorded it and I immediately went to the state police with the evidence. I had everything I needed to take that bastard down and send him and his thugs back to jail. And then the whereabouts of the crown would be safe as I continued the search.”

  Jake took his eyes off his scope and glanced at Rae. Her eyes widened and she nodded, confirming Stanton’s account.

  “But the elders — Spiritwalker and Big Bear — kept me in the dark about your initial involvement, Mr. Tununda. I didn’t know who you were at first. Just as they didn’t tell you of my role, I take it.”

  “I didn’t know who you were until I stepped foot in these caves. Big Bear is sitting in an underground Depot survival bunker as we speak, waiting for us to come out. He told me to protect you.”

  “And I need to protect you too, as the star witness against Nero,” said Rae, softly placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “You got here from the Depot?” a confused Stanton asked Jake.

  “Smashed a hole in a wall of a bathroom six levels below ground. A cave tunnel was hidden behind it. Found out about it in some old Depot construction reports. It was a lucky break. I came in just after your firefight, where one of Nero’s guys got skewered in that booby-trap.”