Assault on Atlantis a-5

by Robert Doherty

  Crazy Horse blinked, not certain if this was the vision he had been seeking during his four days of self-torture, or if she was real. She paused at the tree line. Returning his gaze. Her face was lined with. Anxiety, and she appeared as exhausted as he felt.

  He shook his head and blinked once, but she was still ere, although now he could see there was a fog behind her, slowly moving down the hillside toward the glade, passing through the trees. She raised her left hand, her palm open toward him. Then slowly she turned her hand until the back faced him. Then she gestured with her fingers for him to come to her.

  Without hesitation he stepped forward. The lariat tightened. The arrows jamming against the covering layer of muscle and skin. He took another step and the arrows tore through muscle and skin, the blades ripping free. The pain was distant, a dull throbbing, the blood flowing down his chest now unnoticed like the snow that still fell.

  ‘’Warrior,’’ she said in perfect Sioux, even though from her skin and dress he knew she was not of his tribe. You are the one who was named Crazy Horse after your father and born)f Nahimana, the mystic one.”

  Crazy Horse knew it was a statement, not a question.

  “You seek a vision from the spirits,” she continued, “something to guide you in battle against those who encroach on your land. You seek to be reborn as someone who does not have the fate your mother foretold hanging over you.”

  “Are you the one called Earhart?” Crazy Horse asked. He reached down and picked up his hatchet. Feeling more secure with the weapon in his hand. With the other hand he grabbed a spear.

  “Yes.” She was looking over her shoulder at the encroaching fog that was now fewer than a hundred feet away. For the first time Crazy Horse noticed there was something strange about the white mist. Its front was a uniform straight line, and he could not see far into it. There were swirls of yellow on the leading edge. A disconcerting odor preceded the mist, something that made Crazy Horse take an involuntary step back.

  “Danger comes,” she said. “I will help you with the vision you seek-and more-if you will help me.”

  “What help do you need?” Crazy Horse was confused. Should he help her? She was not of his tribe. And according to his mother she was the one who had foretold of his people’s ultimate doom.

  She pointed to the fog. “You must come with me to meet someone. It is part of your destiny as your mother foresaw.”

  Crazy Horse looked at the fog and knew it was dangerous, like a bad patch of snow high on a mountainside that hid unseen crevices.

  “Go!” The woman shoved him in the back, and Crazy Horse bristled at her manner. ‘’There is not time to stand here and think about it.” She turned toward the fog, leading the way.

  He followed her with his spear at the ready, his hatchet tucked into the leather belt around his waist. His shoulders hunched involuntarily as he entered the mist. It felt strange against his bare skin, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of dread and fear, but the warrior in him ignored those feelings and continued forward. He could see barely a few feet, but he could sense movement all around. His stomach rumbled and he staggered, nauseous. He wretched, spitting out acid.

  Crazy Horse twisted and turned nervously. The woman was now at his side, nudging him to move. A scream echoed through the fog. Someone was in extreme fear and pain, worse than Crazy Horse had heard when they’d burned captives at the stake. He tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear.

  Something leapt toward him from the right, and he reacted as he had been trained to since he could walk, spinning, the point of the spear leading. A bizarre animal was spitted on the spear, one he had never seen before and didn’t have time to study, as it struck at him with a scorpion like tail. He twisted the spear, staring at a mouth full of three rows of razor-sharp teeth, the head mounted on the body of — the only thing he could think of was a mountain lion. He let go of the whipping out the hatchet and slamming the edge into the creature’s skull. It collapsed to the ground, but still the barbed tail jerked spasmodically, seeking a target. Crazy Horse gave the body a wide berth.

  He heard movement in several directions. At least he knew the way back out-downhill. He was tempted to turn and run, but duty held him. Plus the woman showed no fear, indicating that he should continue to follow her. He was a Warrior, a Sioux warrior, and his entire upbringing had taught him to stand fast in the face of danger; indeed, this was the time to excel, to earn honor.

  He turned left as he heard something crashing through the trees. A man, dressed in a strange garment, staggered toward him. He held up his arms, and blood sprayed from bloody stumps halfway down his forearms. He reached for Crazy Horse as if he still had hands, smearing blood down Crazy Horse’s chest.

  ‘’Leave him,” the woman yelled over her shoulder as she ran through the trees.

  Crazy Horse hesitated, but then the man slumped over, dead.

  Crazy Horse stepped over the body, but when he looked about, the woman had disappeared into the mist. He heard a yell, the woman’s voice directly ahead. Although it was hard to judge the distance in the fog. Bathed in blood, Crazy Horse let go of his fears and charged forward. A tree limb smashed into his face. Breaking his nose. He snorted, blowing out blood, and continued, dodging limbs. Something snatched at him, something red and long like a whip, and he ducked under, rolled, keeping the hatchet tucked tight across his belly, and sprang to his feet.

  “Hurry!”

  A woman giving orders-it was unheard of. But Crazy Horse didn’t argue. He scrambled to catch up with the woman, following the sound of her voice. He spotted her about ten feet ahead. Beyond her was a black circle about eight feet in diameter. She waved at him to follow and then stepped into the circle. She was gone.

  Crazy Horse reached. The circle and hesitated. He could hear things moving, branches snapping under a heavy Weight. He spun about as a tree crashed to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he saw; a massive snake with seven huge heads, each as large as a horse’s.

  Crazy Horse turned back to the circle and jumped into it.

  He landed bard, rolled, and was on his feet, the hatchet at the ready. There was no sign of the fog, and within a second the black circle he had come through disappeared. All that remained was the woman.

  “What was that?” Crazy Horse demanded. “What happened?”

  “They tried to ambush me, To stop me,” She shook her head. “And someone else was using the gate.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “There are those who invade the world, just like the whites invade your hunting grounds and sacred lands.”

  ‘’Who?’’ Crazy Horse repeated.

  “Those of the Shadow.”

  ‘’What is this Shadow?”

  “Your mother foretold your future. Yours and your brother’s.”

  Crazy Horse spit. “I have no brother.”

  “He is your brother in fate,” she corrected.

  Crazy Horse held back his irritation. “What do you know of my mother’s vision?” he demanded. All his mother had told him was that he would meet his half-brother in a great battle, one that would determine the future of the people, and that while winning the battle, his people would eventually lose the war to the whites.

  “You will fight a great battle that will open a gate through which the salvation of the world will pass.” She paused and looked to the southeast. “Even now, your brother comes closer. Come with me.”

  * * *

  Bouyer woke to the sound of thunder. They were camped on a flat spot high on the side of the creek they’d been following up into the mountains. They were high enough so that if it rained above them, the water coming down wouldn’t flood the site. Bouyer had been in many storms in the mountains and his oil slick that he had wrapped around his body would repel even the heaviest downpour, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He lay still. Listening to the approaching thunder, seeing the immediate area lit up by light
ning strikes higher up. He heard Bridger unwrap from his slick and Bouyer immediately did the same, picking up his Hawkins, his fingers checking the priming, making sure it was ready.

  In the next flash of light, Bouyer saw Bridger kneeling at the edge of the camp, peering upslope to the north, weapon In his hands. Bouyer silently crept up to a position next to the old man.

  “Something’s coming,” Bridger said in a whisper.

  Bouyer glanced hard at his mentor. Something? What did he mean by that? Bridger could tell any animal in the mountains by track, scent and just plain experience. And they’d seen no sign of Indians for more than a week.

  “Something bad,” Bridger added. He nodded to the right and up. A white fog was rolling down the slope. Bouyer had never seen the like. The front edge was smooth, and it moved without a wind to propel it. He felt a knotted ball of fear in his gut. He agreed one hundred percent with Bridger’s comment-his was bad, whatever it was. During the brief moment of illumination from another bolt of lightning, he saw that the fog was a boiling mess of white and yellow, a very unnatural color. It was now about four hundred feet away and approaching slowly.

  “We should leave,” Bouyer suggested.

  But Bridger was looking to his left. Bouyer shifted his attention from the strange fog to that direction. As another bolt lit the mountain, he saw two figures coming toward them. He saw one was a woman, but little detail else. He had to figure the woman was the one who had sent for him. Next to her was a young brave, a hatchet in his hand.

  In the next flash, Bouyer could see that the woman had halted. And she was signaling. Indicating that he and Bridger should come to her.

  Bridger saw the same thing. “Let’s go. Leave everything but your weapon.”

  Bouyer hurried after the mountain man, scrambling along.e steep terrain to where the woman and brave waited. During another flash he could see the woman was middle aged, with short brown hair. She had a pack over one shoulder. When he shifted his gaze to the young warrior, he felt the bond that had always been distant begin to solidify. The brave had blood on his chest and was smeared with war paint. As he got closer, Bouyer could barely make out the images: a lightning bolt on his chest along with hailstones. strange symbols. The brave was staring back at Bouyer, his dark eyes emanating hate.

  The woman raised her hand in a peaceful greeting, but her first words, spoken in Lakota. Contrasted the gesture. “Shoot for the eyes.”

  “Whose eyes?” Bridger asked in the same language.

  “Their eyes.” The woman was pointing behind them at the strange fog.

  Bouyer turned. Three figures were floating in the front edge of the fog, three creatures unlike anything he had ever seen. All white, With red bulging eyes and hands that ended In blades.

  Bridger had his Hawkins tight to his shoulder. Bouyer followed suit, sighting down the long barrel as his mentor fired. He sighted in one movement, smoothly pulling the trigger. The stock bucked against his shoulder as the half-inch-diameter bullet sped down the barrel. It smashed into the left red bulge in the creature’s face. The impact knocked e ~g back a few feet, but it remained upright, even as black smoke-not blood-issued forth from the hole.

  Bouyer was watching the creatures even as he reloaded, his movements so well practiced that he didn’t need his eyes to ensure he was doing it correctly. He saw that Bridger had hit the middle creature in the same spot with the same result. Both were halted, but the third continued forward, fewer than a hundred yards away now. Bouyer packed the powder he’d poured down the muzzle with his ramrod, noting out of the corner of his eyes that he was still slightly behind the older man, who was already tamping a.54-caliber ball in his own gun.

  Both were startled when the brave let out a yell and dashed forward, hatchet raised. Bouyer was so shocked he even paused in his loading, but not Bridger. The old man was Priming his weapon quickly but carefully. The white figure, till moving, had raised both arms, claws extended, accelerating toward the charging brave, moving out of the forward edge of the fog. The two were fewer than five feet apart when Bridger fired. The ball passed just over the brave’s left shoulder and hit the creature’s right eye, smashing through.

  The brave skidded to a halt. Swinging his hatchet at the other eye. It bounced off harmlessly. The fog enveloped both the brave and the creature.

  “Crazy Horse!” The woman’s voice echoed into the darkness.

  The brave stood still for a moment, his figure slowly fading from view in the fog, then Crazy Horse slowly backed up, hatchet at the ready. The fog stopped and Crazy Horse came out of it as Bouyer brought his musket to his shoulder, at the ready. He couldn’t see the first two creatures, as the fog had swallowed them. The third wasn’t moving, black smoke seeping from the hole in its right “eye.”

  Bouyer fired as another creature swooped in from the right toward the damaged one. His bullet hit the left side of its “head” and ricocheted off, causing no apparent damage. This latest creature swept up the damaged one with one taloned hand and disappeared into the haze.

  Slowly the fog began to dissipate, but that didn’t stop Bouyer from quickly reloading. Bridger had taught him never to have an empty rifle in his hands.

  “It’s been a long time,” the woman said to Bridger.

  The mountain man was watching the fog disappear, weapon at the ready. “I’m here like you wanted. With the boy.” As the fog disappeared completely, he turned to her. “And I see you brought his brother.”

  Bouyer could feel both the connection to the warrior and the hate that rode over it.

  “Very courageous charge,” Bridger commented in Lakota, “but not very smart.”

  “A coward stands at a distance and fights his enemies,” Crazy Horse said.

  Bridger chuckled. “A smart warrior uses the best weapons available.”

  Crazy Horse spit at the ground to indicate what he thought of that.

  The woman stepped between the three men. ‘’My name is Amelia Earhart.”

  Bridger made the sign for peace to Crazy Horse, who ignored him. Bouyer did the same, but again, the sign had no effect on the warrior. Bouyer studied Crazy Horse. The war· nor was physically impressive, with broad shoulders and a noble face, marred only by the anger that consumed it. His skin was surprisingly light for a Sioux. A very dangerous man, Bouyer realized, and one full of rage.

  “And your name?” the woman asked, startling Bouyer out of his examination. She was staring at him intently, which made him shift his feet m discomfort, unused to such attention.

  “Mitch Bouyer.”

  Bridger put the stock of his Hawkins rifle on the ground and leaned on the long rifle. He looked from one young man to the other. “Not much resemblance.”

  Crazy Horse spoke for the first time. “’That is because we are not brothers.”

  Earhart reached out and placed a hand over the one Bridger had on his rifle. “I must speak to the young ones alone. I must talk to them of their destiny.” She removed her hand.

  Bridger picked up the rifle and moved off. upslope to an over watch position. The woman slowly sat down on a log, then indicated for Bouyer and Crazy Horse to sit in front of her. They did so, Crazy Horse angling himself so that both Earhart and Bouyer were in front of him.

  “You were born out of the same mother,” Earhart said. “You were connected at birth, and you will be connected in death.”

  “He is not my brother.” Crazy Horse said it flatly, slapping his open palm onto the flat side of his hatchet blade to emphasize the point “He is not of the Lakota. He is white.”

  “So you can see with your eyes if you wish,” Earhart said as she leaned forward and pointed one hand toward Crazy Horse’s face. “Do you see that he has two hands? Two feet? Two eyes? That he is a man just like you?”

  “He is not like me,” Crazy Horse argued. “He has blue eyes and pale skin, and his heart is not like mine.”

  “That is where you are most wrong.” Earhart said. “Your hearts are more alike than
you can imagine.”

  “Why have you summoned him,” Crazy Horse demanded, “and brought me here?”

  “I have been shown things and heard the voices,” Earhart said.

  Crazy Horse interrupted her. “What were those things in white?”

  “Servants of the Shadow.” Earhart said. She held up her hand as Crazy Horse opened his mouth to speak again. “You must listen. You and your brother will meet in a great battle and a victory.”

  It made no sense to Bouyer. But he said nothing, listening as Bridger had taught him.

  “That is the prophecy my mother gave me,” Crazy Horse said. “Which she received from. You. But I do not accept it as my fate. I do not accept the end of our way of life for my people.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you accept it or not,” Earhart said. “It is what will happen.”

  “Not if I don’t allow it to,” Crazy Horse argued, which brought a slight smile to Earhart’s lips.

  “Do not laugh at me, woman,” Crazy Horse spit out. “I do not have to lead anyone into battle. I can ride away.”

  “And be called a coward?” Earhart asked.

  Crazy Horse leapt to his feet, hatchet raised. Bouyer was up as quickly, his Hawkins rifle half aimed toward the warrior.

  “Sit down!” Earhart snapped.

  Surprisingly, both young men reclaimed their position on the ground.

  “I have only been shown so much,” Earhart said. “I have been told by the voices that when enough men come together in a desperate situation they can achieve that which cannot be achieved any other way.”

  Seeing the looks on both men’s faces, Earhart tried to explain as much as she knew. ‘’There are pathways, gates, that lead from one place to another. Paths you cannot see, and gates that only open at certain times.” She looked at Crazy Horse. “You just traveled through one of the gates. Will you deny that?”