by David Wood
TREASURE OF THE DEAD
A Dane and Bones Origin Story
David Wood and Rick Chesler
Treasure of the Dead
Maddock and Bones set off on their first treasure hunting adventure!
1715- Blown far off course, their treasure-laden ship sinking, a crew of Spanish sailors struggles ashore, only to encounter a horror out of their worst nightmares.
Dane Maddock and Bones Bonebrake have left the Navy SEALs and set out on a search for the legendary lost treasure fleet. The search takes them to Haiti, where they encounter the forces of a madman bent on finding the treasure in order to fund his maniacal experiments and help him seize the power he craves. But not all their foes are human. Mystery, history, and legend meet as Maddock and Bones scour ancient ruins, plumb the depths of the sea, and come face to face with pure evil in their quest for the Treasure of the Dead.
Praise for David Wood and the Dane Maddock Adventures!
“Dane and Bones.... Together they're unstoppable. Rip roaring action from start to finish. Wit and humor throughout. Just one question - how soon until the next one? Because I can't wait.”
-Graham Brown, author of Shadows of the Midnight Sun
“What an adventure! A great read that provides lots of action, and thoughtful insight as well, into strange realms that are sometimes best left unexplored.” -Paul Kemprecos, author of Cool Blue Tomb and the NUMA Files
“A page-turning yarn blending high action, Biblical speculation, ancient secrets, and nasty creatures. Indiana Jones better watch his back!”–Jeremy Robinson, author of SecondWorld
“With the thoroughly enjoyable way Mr. Wood has mixed speculative history with our modern day pursuit of truth, he has created a story that thrills and makes one think beyond the boundaries of mere fiction and enter the world of 'why not'?” -David Lynn Golemon, Author of the Event Group series
“A twisty tale of adventure and intrigue that never lets up and never lets go!” -Robert Masello, author of The Einstein Prophecy
“Let there be no confusion: David Wood is the next Clive Cussler. Once you start reading, you won't be able to stop until the last mystery plays out in the final line.”-Edward G. Talbot, author of 2012: The Fifth World
“I like my thrillers with lots of explosions, global locations and a mystery where I learn something new. Wood delivers! Recommended as a fast paced, kick ass read.”-J.F. Penn, author of Desecration
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Copyright
Treasure of the Dead- A Dane and Bones Origins Story
Copyright 2016 by David Wood
Published by Gryphonwood Press
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
1715, Caribbean Sea
Alonso Sanchez paced the deck of the El Señor San Miguel. He scanned the waters ahead of them, searching for signs of the other ships in their fleet. The captain’s decision to leave Havana for Spain after taking on supplies had seemed to be a sound one, for the terrible storms in this part of the world known as hurricanes were not usually known to happen this early in the year. Yet here they were, barely two days out of port, and the weather had taken a severe turn for the worst, heavy rain pelting the ship’s wooden decks, thunderclaps booming in the distance.
They had first lost sight of the fleet about half a day ago, when one of the smaller masts had snapped in the storm. Unable to fully control the ship, they had slipped off course. At the time it had seemed an event of little consequence. All of the fleet’s dozen ships—eleven Spanish and one French—were heading for the same destination, after all. The San Miguel’s crew would make repairs as soon as weather allowed and they would catch up. Sanchez had lost count of the times inclement weather had caused them to become separated from their sister ships. But those separations from the fleet were usually a few hours at most. To lose sight of eleven ships for half a day could mean only one thing: they had fallen irretrievably off course and were now lost. Separated. On their own.
This prospect sent a most uncomfortable chill coursing along Sanchez’s spine. No fewer than half a dozen European nations had warships plying the seas looking for Spanish treasure ships, particularly those making the return voyage to Spain, which would be laden with gold, silver and untold jewels. Even when part of a fleet, they were a target worth pursuing. But a lone treasure ship, holds brimming over with riches such as the San Miguel’s was now? She was a type of vessel known as a carrack—both lighter and faster than a galleon, but also relatively unarmed, meant to be escorted by a fleet, and if necessary, to flee.
Sanchez crossed himself against the terrifying notion. Like all Spanish sailors, he had heard tales of what fates befell Spanish seamen captured at sea, and none of them involved anything other than unyielding torture and eventual death. Many a man would throw himself into an angry tempest of a sea rather than be taken alive by an English ship, or even worse, rogue pirates.
Sanchez turned around and stared nervously into the gray soup that was the northern sky. If they turned around now they could get back to Havana, wait for the weather to clear and then join up with another friendly fleet returning to Europe. Sanchez knew he was but a lowly rank-and-file sailor, though; his opinion mattered not at all to the Crown and the captains to whom they entrusted their precious treasure fleet. He stood and watched as the San Miguel sailed on into the confusing gloom. He thought he could make out a mountainous landform in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure with the swirling clouds and pelting rain.
Making matters worse, Sanchez flinched with a sudden flare-up of pain in his lower jaw. He’d been experiencing an agonizing toothache for the past several weeks, and the ship’s doctor had continually promised to look at it without actually doing so. Sanchez decided to take his mind off of their problematic navigation by going to see him now. He worked his way along the deck, grabbing onto ropes here and masts there for support against the forceful elements, until he reached the entranceway to the rear belowdecks. He descended the ladder and held his breath against the stench of vomit from seasick sailors holed up against the weather.
The ship’s doctor, one Cristobal D'Avila, kept a small private room that doubled as his quarters and office. Many times the crew had been reminded how fortunate they were to have an actual, trained physician on board as opposed to a barber who acted as one simply because he was in possession of cutting implements, as was often the case on many a ship. Yet, Sanchez reflected as he took in the line of men camped outside the doctor’s door, this physician never seemed to be available to help. Sanchez brought his hand up to the outside of his mouth where the pain manifested.
“Who is he seeing?” he asked his fellow sailors who waited by the door.
One of the men, a youngster from Seville, Spain who sought treatment for fever, answered Sanchez. “He has been with the captain for some time now.”
“What ails the captain?”
No sailor liked to hear his captain was anything less than one hundred percent. Especially when things had already gone south.
“Nothing anyone can tell. It seems more like they are having a meeting. I hear it might be t
o discuss—”
Suddenly they heard, and felt, the sound of wood grating over coral reef. It was a sensation sailors who ventured to this part of the New World had grown to fear with a vengeance. If they were lucky, the bottom of the hull would barely scrape over the reef and they would soon be on their way none the worse for wear. But as it happened the ship ground to a halt and Sanchez was thrown into a bulkhead, making it abundantly clear that this time they would not be so lucky.
“We’ve run aground!” one of the men shouted. He pounded on the door to the doctor’s office. “Captain! We’ve run aground!”
“We’ve got water in here!” called a sailor from another part of the ship’s hold.
“Captain? Doctor!” the men continued knocking on the door to no avail. Sanchez pulled a blunderbuss from a scabbard he wore around his waist, one he’d taken off a pirate he’d killed in close quarters battle, and wielded the long gun butt first. He looked to the door, then to his fellow sailors. They nodded in return. “Break it. If something happened in there, we need to know.”
Sanchez backed up with the weapon. He was about to ram the butt of it through the door when the ship canted violently to the port side. Unbelievably, water poured in from above them; a gaping hole in the starboard side of the hull was now exposed to huge breaking waves rolling over the foundering vessel. Two of the sailors ran out past Sanchez, heading for the main deck. One of the two remaining again pounded on the door and tried the knob, but after receiving no response, he, too, turned and fled for safety.
Sanchez also recognized that his life was not worth staying behind to raise the captain. For all he knew, their commander might not even be in there any longer. Holstering his blunderbuss, he high-stepped through the incoming water just as the ship rolled some more.
Any hope he harbored of the situation being improved by being out on deck was dashed the second he thrust his head into the open air. Although mid-afternoon, the sky was dark, making it difficult to see where exactly they had come to lie. Sailors’ screams carried over the crashing of waves against the ship. Many men were washed off the vessel’s tilted decks onto the razor sharp reef where they were shredded to pulp by oncoming seas before being swept away to drown. Sanchez was sure he was about to share their fate when a flash of cloud-to-ground lightning illuminated a shocking sight: trees, not far away. Land! They had not struck some oceanic shoal or shallow reef, but had come to an actual island.
Sanchez gripped some remaining rigging with his eyes fixed on the tree line he had seen, now in darkness once again. He dared not move his head for fear he would lose the position. He waited for one more thunderous wave to explode on the San Miguel, timing his exodus from the ruined vessel. He clutched the wet ropes, knowing that to let go now would mean being carried away to his death. He heard the cries of sailors who had either not managed to find something to hold onto or who had been washed away, regardless.
Rushing water cascaded over his body and then drained off, leaving him still clinging to his precarious hold. He filtered out the screams of the dying in order to listen for another approaching wave. Unable to hear one coming, he leapt from his perch into the water. He was a poor swimmer and so exulted in the feel of the uneven reef beneath his feet. Clutching a loose piece of wood for support and to use as a shield from wayward debris, he began slogging his way toward the dark and mysterious shoreline.
He did not know what island this was, knew only his general location, somewhere in the Caribbean. Behind him, he could hear a few other sailors following in his soggy footsteps, shouting and calling to one another. Sanchez remained quiet for now, terrified that he would lose his fix on the tree line and end up walking to a watery grave.
The sea grew shallower as he made his way, and then it became apparent to Sanchez that others had made the shore before him. He could see people walking in front of the trees. They staggered, no doubt exhausted and injured from their trying ordeal, as was he. He headed for them, pleased that at least some of his shipmates had survived, that he would not face the trials and tribulations of this strange new land, no doubt populated by savages, alone.
“Hey! It’s me, Alonso!” He stepped from the waves onto the coral shore and walked up the beach until dry sand caked his wet feet. “Carlos? Is that you?”
No one answered him. The wind must be carrying my voice away, Sanchez thought. He stepped closer to the trees, beyond which he could make out nothing but impenetrable darkness. One of the figures turned toward him and began to walk away from the trees, an ungainly ambling.
“Let me help.” Sanchez ran to his shipmate’s aid. He reached out for him to lend support, but his hand froze when a bolt of lightning cast the man’s face in an otherworldly glow.
“My God, what happened to you?” Sanchez withdrew his hand, wondering if this man had some sort of communicable disease. But before he could arrive at an answer, the castaway swiped at Sanchez aggressively. Sanchez reached for his blunderbuss only to pass a hand over an empty scabbard. The gun had been ripped away during his escape from the ship.
The assailant lunged at Sanchez, mouth open, eyes wide. His grimy fingers passed through the sailor’s hair and Sanchez spun away from his attacker. He made up his mind right then that flight, rather than fight, was the preferable option here.
Sanchez dashed into the woods, outpacing his strange pursuer, but aware that other figures lurked in the shadows.
Chapter 1
Jacmel, Haiti
The priest sat alone in his church. David Abbe had performed a modest service that morning and then spent quiet time tidying up the place. A small but very old building, the weight of history lay on its two short rows of pews, altar, and simple lectern. An unadorned wooden cross hung on the wall. The decor was functional rather than ornate. The people served by this house of worship were poor, close to the earth, and required no ostentatious displays to feel close to their god.
Though he sometimes longed for a more prestigious appointment in a finer setting, there were some advantages to his current position, Abbe reflected. His current appointment required comparatively little of his time, given that his congregation was so small. This afforded him the luxury of regular rest and reflection, and permitted him time to pursue his other interests. He gazed up at his own podium, trying to see things as his parishioners did, to gain perspective. He had begun to imagine himself delivering a sermon, to let his thoughts drift, when he heard footsteps on the church stairs.
A visitor.
Taking a deep breath, Abbe rose and faced the door. The person who darkened the doorway was tall and slender. He looked as though he could be local, a Haitian black man, like Abbe himself, but the priest did not recognize him. Perhaps this visitor hailed from another village. He addressed the man in Haitian Creole, a French-based language with Portuguese, Spanish, and West African influences that reflected the nation’s diverse history.
“Welcome to this house of God. You are free to sit.” He motioned toward a nearby chair.
The newcomer entered the building but did not take a seat. “Father Abbe,” he replied in English, “I come here not to pray, but to speak with you personally.”
Abbe raised his eyebrows in surprise. This man knew him by name. “Oh? What about?” His best guess was that he wanted money, or perhaps the help of the church for some sort of community fund raiser or charitable act. Or perhaps personal counseling, though that was rare in a place where people were too busy surviving to reflect on things like whether or not they were happy. If it wasn’t one of those three, he had absolutely no idea.
“I would like you to tell me about an exorcism performed by a priest, here in Jacmel.”
“Oh, performed by whom? Father Paulin?” Paulin was a friend of Abbe’s, the priest for the next parish over, and was known to do an exorcism now and again. Contrary to popular belief spawned by Hollywood horror movies, the practice as it was done in Haiti was fairly routine and sometimes little more than easing a tormented soul, a form of therapy, really.
“No, Father Abbe, this particular exorcism was performed in the year 1715.” The visitor paused to let this sink in.
The hairs on Father Abbe’s arms began to stand on end. He told himself to stay calm, that he was getting ahead of himself. He cleared his throat and said, “For historical matters, you would do well to consult the village librarian. I do believe the library is open today.”
“Think hard, Father Abbe. 1715. Exorcism. Tell me what comes to mind.”
The only sound while the two men made eye contact was that of a bird fluttering its wings high in the church’s rafters. Something about the visitor, and not only his odd request, was putting Abbe extremely off balance.
The priest shook his head and held his hands up in a show of emptiness. “Nothing comes to mind, I’m afraid. As I suggested, the librarian might…”
The visitor held up a hand. “Please. There is no need to waste both of our time, not to mention that of the librarian. I am aware of your research into lost treasures. Perhaps if you think about the exorcism in that context, we can enjoy an amicable conversation. If not...”
He let his words hang while watching the invisible noose tighten around Abbe’s neck. This man knows, somehow he knows...But Abbe composed himself and maintained the lie.
“Yes, I have been conducting research for a historical book I’m writing, but I am aware of no connection to an exorcism during that time period, or any exorcism, for that matter.”
The visitor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I will give you a moment to reconsider your answer. Think carefully.”
Abbe did his best to feign indignation and exasperation. He exhaled heavily before saying, “This consultation will have to conclude, sir. I have other duties to attend, and repeating myself over and over is not productive.”