Intulo: The Lost World

by JE Gurley

  Bill frowned. “Why don’t you wait on security? We don’t know what happened.”

  He realized Bill was right and cursed under his breath. He shouldn’t go alone. Walking into an unknown situation could be dangerous. He wasn’t even sure he could find the way back down. “Okay, but when the security team arrives, I’m going down there.”

  Bill nodded, still staring at the bloody knife. “Do you think the guard went crazy or something?”

  Alan said nothing. An intense sense of dread gripped his intestines, twisting them like into balloon animal shapes, but speculation served no purpose. No reason to conjure the Devil. He stared at the bloody knife as if willing it to tell him what had happened.

  Without knocking, four security people burst into the room, all armed with pistols in holsters on their hips. He wondered if he should ask for a weapon as well, and then decided he was being silly. Four armed security men should provide ample protection against anything or anyone they would encounter in the mine.

  One of the two Caucasians, his crisp, blue uniform bearing a captain’s insignia, stepped forward, his gaze directed toward the knife on the screen. “My name is Henri Duchamps,” he said without looking at Alan.

  Alan barely noted Duchamps’ deeply tanned face and muscular arms, but he did take notice of the man’s piercing eyes, which were a shade of flinty brown almost as dark as the rock on the monitor screen and just as cold and unsettling. He had seen such eyes once in an old newsreel clip of Heinrich Himmler, Adolf Hitler’s right-hand man and architect of the Holocaust. They were the cold, calculating eyes of a predator. A scar running from the left corner of his mouth to just below his left ear bisected Duchamps’ cheek, diminishing the effect of his twin, gold-incisored smile.

  Alan suspected the security chief was not a man to underestimate. Despite his unimposing 5’9” frame, his arms bulged with muscle, and he walked with the cocky, self-assured confidence of a man used to getting his way.

  “We’ve come to investigate the disappearance of one of our security men,” he announced.

  “My man is missing, too, Captain,” Alan replied brusquely, irritated by Duchamps’ gruff manner.

  “They cannot leave the mine unobserved,” Duchamps continued, ignoring Alan’s outburst. “There are cameras on each level and on each of the elevators.”

  Alan pointed to the knife on the screen. “I don’t think they left.”

  One of the black guards spoke up. “That is Ntulli Masowe’s knife. He would never leave it. It was a coming-of-age gift from his father. It is a sangoma’s knife, very sacred.”

  Just then, Trace threw open the door and raced in, colliding with the second white guard standing in the doorway. The guard growled under his breath, shoved Trace aside, and then stepped between him and Duchamps. Duchamps glared at the disheveled, young, blond engineer for a moment before dismissing him. He turned to the black guard who had spoken.

  “You’re certain of this?”

  The guard nodded. “Yebo. It is his knife. I have seen it many times.”

  Duchamps faced Alan. Assuming what Alan considered a well-practiced pompous pose with his thumbs thrust into his belt on each side of his waist and his arms cocked outward at a sharp angle, he proclaimed, “We will investigate. You will wait here, ja?”

  “Hell no,” Alan replied. “I’m going with you. Vince is my friend and my employee, not to mention the fact that I have a fifteen-million-dollar piece of equipment sitting down there.”

  “I’m going too,” Trace declared from the doorway. He tried to force his way past the guard blocking his path. The guard glowered at him and refused to move. Trace stared at him, clenching his fists, daring the guard to stop him. Alan, fearing the guard might try, spoke up quickly to prevent a confrontation. They didn’t need a brawl distracting from the missing Vince.

  “He comes with me.”

  The guard’s fingers caressed the butt of the revolver in his holster.

  “Bekker,” Duchamps snapped.

  Bekker grumbled under his breath and moved his hand away. Duchamps promptly ignored the guard and turned to Alan.

  “If you insist,” he said, “but I am in charge. Do not get in my way.”

  Alan resented the security chief’s deprecatory tone, but swallowed his pride. After all, it was Duchamps’ backyard, and he needed him for the search. He wouldn’t piss on another man’s grass. He grabbed a remote headset from the desk and followed the security team out the door. He glanced back at Bill, looking downcast at not being included in the search. He held himself responsible for Vince’s disappearance. It had happened on his watch. Alan knew he needed to ease the engineer’s guilt.

  “Stay here,” he told him. “Keep an eye on the monitors, and keep us posted if you see anything.”

  Immediately, the tension left Bill’s body, and his clenched jaw relaxed at Alan’s vote of confidence. He swiveled his chair around to face the video monitor screen and said, “Be careful down there.”

  “We’ll find him,” he said to assure Bill, but mostly it was to assure himself.

  It took the group an agonizing fifteen minutes to don jumpsuits, helmets, and all the extraneous gear Duchamps insisted they wear – kneepads, shin pads, earplugs, safety glasses, and a self-rescuer pack containing a mask and oxygen supply for emergencies. He made them empty their pockets of anything combustible. When Duchamps wasn’t looking, Alan palmed his precious Zippo. Besides reminding him not to smoke, it served as his good luck charm. Though not overly superstitious, he thought he might need the luck.

  The elevator ride to reach 30 Level took less than four minutes, but seemed like an eternity to Alan in his impatience to reach Vince. They switched to the #3 elevator to reach the lowest level. From there, it took another thirty minutes to wind through the lower tunnels using the electric locos, called cocopan by the Zulu workers, transferring to electric golf carts for the smaller tunnels, and finally walking to the new Cerberus shaft.

  Before, Alan had been too intent upon his job to notice the myriad of smells wafting through the mine: the sharp bite of chemical residue from blasting; the pungent trace of overheated lubricating oil and hydraulic fluid; the flinty taste of blasted rock that coated the tongue with each breath; and the overpowering stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies. Now, even the acrid reek of mineral-laden water seeping from the rock like the Earth’s tears at the violation of her sanctity fought for recognition in the sea of aromas assaulting his nostrils.

  “Anything, Bill?” he asked into his headset mic.

  “Nothing. No sign of anyone,” Bill answered. The link was tenuous, fading in and out because of the density of the rock. “I hacked into the security cameras to review the last few hours. Neither Vince nor the security guard exited the tunnel.”

  Alan was beginning to have a bad feeling. He knew Vince might be prone to wander off in search of Pellucidar or something equally intriguing, and the unexpected opening in the rock face would have been too tempting to ignore. However, the guard was experienced. He would not simply abandon his post. And that damn, bloody knife; what did it mean?

  A crane operator met them at the hole and lowered them in the kibble. Entering the newly bored tunnel, Alan half-heartedly observed the walls as they followed the Cerberus’ path. The tunnel ran as straight as an arrow into the darkness. The new shoring material was stronger than gunite and required no work crew to apply it. The AT10 did it for them.

  At last, they came to the idle drilling rig. The last few meters of earth were of a different composition from the rest of the tunnel. He picked up a handful of the still-warm rock. It was much softer and crumbled easily with very little pressure. That explained the burst of speed during the last few seconds of drilling. It had cut through the softer rock like a warm knife through brie. The lights of the Cerberus outlined the opening in the rock face.

  “It looks like they broke through into a second chamber or shaft,” he said.

  Duchamps shook his head. “No shaft down this deep.
” He leaned into the opening and shined his light about. “It’s a bloody cavern,” he exclaimed.

  Alan’s gaze followed Duchamps’ light. “It’s a volcanic lava tube,” he said, amazed by the discovery. He entered the opening and played his light around the tube, noting the veins of metal ore. “Vince was right.” He confronted Duchamps, who had come up behind him, shining his light in the security chief’s eyes. “Verkhoen must have had some idea this was here. This isn’t gold-bearing stratum.”

  Duchamps stared at Alan, blinking in the bright light. “If he did, he didn’t feel I needed to know. My concern is my man and, of course, your engineer.”

  Alan backed down and lowered the flashlight. He could confront Verkhoen later. Right now, he needed the surly South African. “You’re right, of course.”

  They searched the immediate area inside the lava tube and found nothing but the battery lantern and Vince’s laptop. Alan picked up the laptop, powered it up, and checked the Cerberus readings.

  “The readings look normal. The air is a little stale in here, and the oxygen content is slightly above normal, but there’s no methane.” He addressed Duchamps. “There’s no indication of a volcano above ground, no tuffing from an eruption, or a circular depression. The geological survey maps don’t indicate its presence. This is an ancient volcano, buried by geologic upheavals. How did Verkhoen know about it?”

  Duchamps stared him in the eye and said, “I have no idea.”

  Despite Duchamps’ repeated insistence that he knew nothing of his boss’ plans and his unblinking delivery, Alan didn’t believe him. He doubted anything happened in Van Gotts’ mines of which Duchamps was unaware. If anything, it was a matter of culpability. Duchamps might not know Verkhoen’s exact end game, but he certainly knew something was afoot.

  “If you say so,” Alan said. He placed Vince’s computer in his backpack.

  They split up into two teams. Duchamps sent two of his men upslope. Alan asked Trace to accompany them with a stern warning to avoid a fight with the quarrelsome white guard. He watched them walk away, the reflective patches on their jumpsuits glowing like LED lights, until they disappeared into the darkness.

  He and Duchamps continued downslope with the other two guards, scouring the ground for signs of either missing man. When they reached the diamond pocket, Duchamps’ eyes grew wide, and a big smile creased his lips. At that moment, Alan believed he might be wrong about the security chief. He was sure now that he had not known about the diamonds.

  “Perhaps this explains our missing men,” Duchamps said, nodding his head at the wall of diamonds.

  Alan didn’t believe that possibility. He didn’t like hearing his friend accused of theft. “Vince wouldn’t steal diamonds. He’s more interested in the Cerberus. Maybe your guard was tempted and did away with Vince. After all, your guard had a knife and a gun. Vince was unarmed.”

  “So you say,” Duchamps replied.

  He was tired of Duchamp’s surliness. He strode over to Duchamps and stood in front of him nose-to-nose. Unlike Trace, he despised fighting, but sometimes you had to drive home a point, with your fists in necessary. Neither of them flinched, but neither did they back down. In that moment just before confrontation became conflict, the other guard intervened, his eyes flicking back and forth between them.

  “No one left by the new tunnel,” he said. “I found tracks all over, but no human tracks go back into the new tunnel past the machine.”

  Alan backed away from Duchamps. “How do you know?” he asked the guard.

  “Because he is the best tracker in the company,” Duchamps replied icily. “If he says no one left that way, then no one did.”

  “Where are they?”

  “That’s the big money question, isn’t it? We will continue our search.” Duchamps radioed the other group with his walkie-talkie. “Go back to the machine and watch the tunnel. We will follow the tracks farther downslope.”

  “Wait for me,” Trace yelled into the guard’s walkie-talkie.

  A few minutes later, Alan heard him trotting down the tunnel, his hardhat lantern bobbing, as he weaved around piles of rock and boulders. His loud steps reverberated and echoed until he sounded like a mob racing toward them. Duchamps cast a reproachful glare at him for the noise he made. Trace whistled appreciatively when he saw the cache of diamonds. Alan warned him to silence with a quick gesture. They didn’t need to arouse Duchamps’ suspicions, or he might send them back to the surface.

  They continued downslope, passing several more diamond deposits before the tracker stopped, knelt, and searched the ground, running his hand over the rock. After a few minutes, he whispered in Duchamps’ ear. Duchamps turned and began striding purposefully back to the Cerberus.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Alan yelled after him.

  “Claude says there are no footprints beyond this point, only marks of a kind he has not seen before. We go back to search the area around the Cerberus.”

  Something didn’t sound right to Alan. What was Duchamps hiding? He ran up behind Duchamps, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around to face him. “What did Claude find?”

  Duchamps shrugged off Alan’s hand. “Blood.”

  “Human blood?”

  “I don’t know. It looked as if a struggle took place. The ground is disturbed.” He continued walking, leaving Alan standing there with many questions and few answers. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or more concerned for Vince’s safety.

  At the Cerberus, Duchamps and Claude performed a more careful search of the area, while Alan turned to Vince’s laptop for answers. Trace paced nearby, clearly disturbed by Vince’s disappearance. After ten nervous minutes, he walked over to Alan.

  “Do you think Scarface is lying?” he asked.

  Alan tried to suppress a grin at Trace’s apt nickname for Duchamps. “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now.”

  “You’re too trusting,” Trace replied and stalked off.

  Alan wondered if Trace was right. Should he be more forthright with the security chief? He didn’t want to risk alienating Duchamps based solely on a gut feeling. Thirty minutes later, Duchamps returned. Alan had found nothing on Vince’s computer in his brief scan to indicate what had happened to him. He hoped Duchamps could provide some answers.

  “We found more blood on the rocks nearby,” Duchamps informed him. “Masowe had a revolver. We have not located it or a body. I will not wander around down here aimlessly while someone has a weapon.” Before Alan could protest the veiled accusation against Vince, Duchamps raised his hand to stop him. “Masowe was a big man. I do not believe your man could have taken his weapon from him, nor do I think Masowe would kill for no reason.”

  He paused, staring around the lava tube. “Someone else might have entered the lava tube, seen the diamonds, and killed them both. He might still be here. I will leave two men to guard your machine and to report to me if either missing man shows up. We will return later with enough men to search the area more thoroughly.”

  He picked up the knife with his handkerchief and dropped it into a Ziploc bag. “We will see whose blood is on this.”

  Alan waited for more. When he saw that Duchamps was through speaking, he said, “You’re not telling me everything, Duchamps. Your tracker looked frightened. Why?”

  Duchamps stared at him for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully before replying. “He says he found tracks of a creature he has never seen before, a devil, an Intulo.” He rushed on to add, “These Zulu are a superstitious lot and can’t be believed, but something strange happened down here.” He stopped talking and scrubbed his foot on the ground.

  “What else?” Alan asked, seeing his hesitation.

  “Can’t you smell it?”

  Alan sniffed the air. “Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”

  “Death,” Duchamps replied. “The air smells of death.”

  He spoke quietly with the two guards he was leaving behind and began to walk back down the
tunnel Cerberus had carved. Alan looked at Trace, shook his head, and followed close behind. Along the way, he had the feeling something or someone was watching them. He kept glancing over his shoulder as they made their way back to the surface, but saw no one.

  7

  July 5, 2016, 4:00 a.m. Protea Hotel, Klerksdorp, South Africa –

  Alan spoke with his father over the phone while Duchamps gathered more men for the search. His father was heartbroken at Vince’s disappearance.

  “Do all you can to find him, Alan. Perhaps the poor boy fell down a fissure and needs medical assistance. He’s one of ours, and we need to do everything in our power to find him.”

  Alan agreed with his father, but deep down in his heart he felt Vince was probably dead, maybe at the hands of the security guard, Masowe, in spite of Duchamps’ denial.

  Vince had been missing for over six hours; still, there was no reason to upset his father, at least not yet. “I promise you, if Vince is there, we’ll find him.”

  “Do you need more men or resources?”

  “No, Duchamps is calling in his off-duty officers. He has enough security personnel available. I’ll call when we have something more tangible. Try not to worry,” he added, knowing it was useless advice. He knew his father too well. He treated everyone at Hoffman Industries like members of the family. That was why the company had managed to stay on top for so many years.

  * * * *

  When Alan returned to the control room two hours later, both Trace and Bill sat around the monitors in stony silence. Their dour expressions revealed their belief that Vince was dead. Alan refused to give in to the morose cloud that had descended over them.

  “Trace, I want you and Bill to stay here and watch over things. When we get to the Cerberus, I’ll attach a remote hook-up to the USB port so you can follow us with this.” He pointed to a small camera mounted on a gyrostabilizer attached to the side of the hardhat Duchamps had insisted he wear. Surprisingly, Duchamps had given him the camera as a sort of conciliatory gesture.