Legend: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Rondo, take five men and follow the shoreline and see what you can see. Something has frightened them,” Torrez ordered.

  Rondo pointed to five men. They broke free from the group and started to slowly walk down the slim shoreline, buckling their armor and drawing their swords as they did so. Rondo cocked his two pistols and then placed himself at the head of the small band of Spaniards. They walked cautiously, and then they disappeared around some bushes at the turn in the lagoon.

  Padilla was as calm as the night around them as he advanced on Suarez. He slowly brought his sword up toward the other man’s barrel chest. Suarez smiled and moved deeper into the water while moving his own sword in a slow, deliberate arc, parting the lagoon’s surface with a swish of the blade. When he saw how much anger etched the face of Padilla, he backed deeper into the dark water.

  The remaining men in camp froze when they heard the large man shout out in terror as he was grabbed from beneath the water. His legs were jerked out from under him so hard that in one moment he was screaming, and in the next he had vanished. Suarez surfaced briefly, splashing and in shock, the whites of his eyes showing brightly, then he was quickly pulled into the lagoon before he could utter a second cry of pain or terror at what was happening. He completely disappeared below the rolling surface. Nothing but bubbles and two quick slashes of his shining sword marked his trail to death’s door.

  “What in the name of God was that?” Torrez yelled as he ran to the water’s edge.

  Suddenly the gaping soldiers saw new bubbles and a sharp V-shaped wake along the surface of the water as something else traveled fast toward the far side of the lagoon—toward the spot that Torrez had sent Rondo and the five others. The sounds of splashing and then screams of terror split the quiet night, and then two loud reports followed as Rondo fired his pistols. Then among the screams of men and the dying echo of the gunshots they all heard a sound they would take with them to their graves. The roar was like a deep echo of the worst imaginable enraged demon from their nightmares. The horrid sound reverberated and sent chills down their spine.

  The screams of the six Spaniards ended as suddenly as they had begun, and in an instant the night became still once again.

  Torrez appeared at the stunned Padilla’s side, pressing his armor into his hands. The captain sheathed his sword and slipped the heavy iron onto his back and chest. Then they looked again toward the spot where the men had disappeared just moments before. A dark figure of a man emerged through the bushes and stumbled forward, obviously wounded. Two soldiers ran to him and brought him into the bright circle cast by the firelight. There were deep gouges in the man’s face and arms, as if he had been mauled by a tiger. The punctures in his armor were deep and ragged; his left eye was missing. He cried out, claiming for all to hear that the Devil had risen from the water.

  Padilla ran over and knelt next to his soldier. He grimaced, as the young man’s wounds were some of the worst he had ever seen. The rest of the men turned back toward the lagoon and watched fearfully. The jungle was again quiet around them. The captain heard the man cough out the same words as before, only the ending was different: “The Devil has risen from the water, and he has come for his offering.” Then the wounded soldier’s eyes were devoid of life, as his pain ended and darkness covered him.

  Padilla didn’t hesitate in ordering his men to form up. The sentries had entered the campsite with swords drawn and flintlocks aimed. They had lost seven men in as many minutes to something in the lagoon that he cared never to see or hear again. He would leave this place, retreat, and nevermore venture into the jungle. They would return to Pizarro and tell him they were cowards and that he could punish them however he deemed fit; Padilla would gladly suffer anything not to be sent here again.

  “We march west tonight, and we stop only when we are under the light of the Lord’s sun once again,” he announced.

  The Devil can have his home, Padilla thought, and he prayed that no other man would ever find this place, for humans were not meant to be here. He would give the map he had made of the valley to Father Corinth and warn him that this was truly the playground of demons.

  With the night sentries on the point, Padilla ordered his soldiers forward. But just as they nervously took their first step, the night exploded around them. This time, the murderous animal came at them not from the water, but from the bush. It must have followed the tracks of the soldier who had escaped it. The darkness around the screaming men was rent with the powerful and enraged cry of the beast at it attacked. Padilla felt the warmth of something striking his face and then the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “Captain, into the water while there is time. Fall back, men, into the water and swim for it!” Torrez shouted as he pushed the shocked Padilla into the cool lagoon. “We can gain the trail on the other side.”

  Padilla was still trying to peer into the blackness as he was pulled away by Torrez. That was when the beast stepped closer to one of the open fire pits and swiped its strangely formed hand at one of the men. The soldier was silent as the claws raked down his face and tore through his chest armor. As the Spaniards watched in horror, the animal was struck from behind with a sword, and then a shot rang out from a pistol. The beast did not slow down, even though Padilla saw the ball strike the animal in the upper chest, slinging scales and red meat into the air. The monster screamed a cry of outrage and quickly reached out to grab and disable the hand that wielded the sword. The animal easily lofted the man over its head and then threw him bodily against one of the large trees as if he weighed no more than a piece of firewood.

  Another Spaniard made a break for the trail they had used to enter the valley, and that was when Padilla saw the real speed of the creature. It easily headed off the soldier and attacked from the front, throwing its massive weight against the man and driving him to the ground.

  “Look at the size of this devil,” Padilla mumbled while Torrez pushed him into deeper water. “It is a man!”

  Padilla snapped out of his shock as the cool water closed over his head. He reached for the buckled straps that held his armor in place, and quickly shrugged out of it. The heavy iron was sent to the bottom as Padilla pushed his way to the surface. As his head broke free of the water, he saw Torrez ahead of him swimming for all he was worth for the far side of the lagoon. He started after his lieutenant while the screaming of his remaining men continued on shore.

  Padilla began to lose the strength in his arms after ten minutes of swimming blindly across the lagoon. His ears were now filled with his own struggles and the roar of water ahead of him emanating from the waterfall. His arms were flailing and his knee-high boots had filled with water. He was finding it very difficult to keep the momentum needed to propel him forward. As his head dipped below the surface in his fatigue, he started to swallow more and more of the strangely cool and sweet water. He felt himself go under. He thought he heard shouts as he began to give up his struggle and let the pleasant water embrace him.

  It was comforting because now he wouldn’t have to face Pizarro or any of his men that survived, and he could accompany those that hadn’t on their final journey toward forgiveness for what they had wrought on the innocent Sincaro. Captain Padilla even managed a smile as his lungs took in his last breath of not air but water. Suddenly he felt hands grabbing at him from above. Even his beard was pulled on as he was lifted up out of the water. His eyes rolled as he tried to catch one single blessed breath but found his lungs were full.

  “Captain, Captain,” Torrez shouted.

  Padilla felt ground beneath him as he was forcibly rolled over, his back hit as if it were an anvil. He felt his spine pop as he was pushed on heavily. Torrez had dragged him to shore and was trying desperately to expel the water from his lungs.

  “Breathe, my captain, don’t you leave me here in this black place!” Padilla vomited the now-warm water from his stomach and lungs, and the pain hit him in earnest when he tried to replace the liquid with precious air. He felt
his body spasm as his lungs slowly brought in the needed oxygen. A loud moan escaped his shivering lips, then he slowly brought in another breath.

  Padilla rolled over and tried to sit up but failed miserably. Other hands quickly grabbed for him and he was lifted to his feet. He looked over and saw that the two soldiers were Juan Navarro, a cook’s assistant, and Javier Ramón, a blacksmith. They were only feet from the waterfall. Padilla looked up and saw where the water cascaded from somewhere high above. He coughed, trying to clear his throat of the remaining water he had ingested. Torrez stood on the edge of the small shore, staring out across the lagoon.

  “The screaming of our men has stopped,” he said without turning as Padilla approached. Together, they gazed at the dwindling fires of their destroyed camp flickering in the darkness across the lagoon.

  After a moment, Torrez took his captain by his shoulders and turned him away from the distant scene of destruction. As they walked toward the wall of rock that ascended straight up from the lagoon and bordered the waterfall, Torrez knew they were being watched.

  “Look,” he softly spoke, not wanting to attract the attention of the other men.

  Padilla studied the spot Torrez had indicated. Another statue, here carved into the wall, stared down upon them. It resembled the same beast that had just attacked them, and resembled the two images that guarded the tributary. It had been hidden from their vantage point across the lagoon. This one was larger and it stood alone. How had they missed seeing it during the daylight hours? Padilla didn’t know.

  They both turned as they heard a loud splash in the water. The noise had come from their destroyed campsite. Both men could see the ripples and the large wake that was streaking toward their side of the lagoon.

  “Captain, Lieutenant, there is a cave rising above the waterline under the falls,” Navarro said as he approached. “You won’t believe it—there are stairs.”

  Torrez turned to face the sheer cliff in front of them, which held only the carved figure of the animal that was now their god of judgment. Then he looked down the shoreline at the distant jungle. Surely whatever this creature was that was coming after them, it would surface long before they could reach the trees. He looked around frantically and then pushed Navarro forward.

  “Take us to this cave, soldier,” he shouted, as he pulled Padilla after him.

  The three men joined Ramón the blacksmith, who was waving for them to hurry. He had caught sight of the underwater demon as it sped to their side of the lagoon. As they came upon the waterfall the roar drowned out all talk. In vain, Torrez studied the point where the water struck the lagoon. Then he saw it. The cave was just a darker outline against the cliff face, but it was there. It rose about ten feet above the water and then disappeared into the depths. He saw no other choice. He dove headfirst into the water; the others, including Padilla, followed. They had to dive deeply to avoid the crushing rush of the falls, the vortex of which pushed them even farther into the depths as they fought to reach and enter the dark and foreboding cave. As they disappeared from sight, the creature changed its underwater course and swam toward the whitewater of the falls.

  Two months later, a lone survivor was saved from the river. At first, the Spaniards who had discovered him thought him to be an Indian, but soon realized the man had been part of Captain Padilla’s expedition. The men had struggled to carry the survivor back into Peru but knew they would never make it. Word was sent to Father Corinth; knowing this, the survivor had miraculously clung to life. The man was dying from exposure and a strange sickness the men in camp had never before encountered. His only possession was a book they had mistakenly taken for a Bible, which the survivor held tightly to his injured chest. Every time they tried to relieve him of the book the man would arise like a tiger to protect it. They even tried to pry his fingers from it when he had passed out, but that had proven just as futile.

  When Father Corinth arrived at the small outpost with a rank of Pizarro’s personal guard, the man was still alive, only he waited for the priest on his deathbed. For hours the lone survivor of the expedition spoke softly with Corinth. The priest listened, never interrupting, while he examined the soldier’s wounds and nursed him through the strange sickness. As the man spoke, gasping in inner pain and getting weaker with each word he managed to hiss out through clenched teeth, he reached into his tunic and withdrew two small objects. One was a large golden nugget. The other was a strange green mineral, a chalklike substance imbedded in stone. It was strangely warm to the touch. The soldier pulled Corinth close to him, close enough that the priest could feel his high temperature rising from his face. A dire warning was conveyed by the dying man, barely audible and with fetid breath. Father Corinth wore a handsome cross that was plated with gold not only for beauty but to give its cheap metal base more strength. It was of a sort the church frowned upon as being arrogant, but it was a ceremonial gift his late mother had given to him on the day he took his vows. It was very beautifully engraved and far too large, and she had spent every ounce of her meager savings to present him with it. Corinth took the cross from around his neck and removed the bottom portion. The inside of the pendant was hollow, and he easily slid the small mineral samples into it. He put the end back on the cross and placed it around his neck.

  It was long after sunup when Father Corinth finally emerged from the small hut, and with him he carried the book.

  “How is he, Father?” one of the soldiers asked. “Is there any news of our friends, is Captain Padilla still alive?”

  “The soldier is dead. His name was Ivan Torrez.”

  “Lieutenant Torrez? We know this man; he looked nothing like him,” another soldier said. Many of the soldierly escort had gathered to hear the priest.

  “The plague will change a man’s features so you would not even recognize your own brother.”

  The men stepped away in fear. That one word was enough to weaken their knees and make the brave conquerors cringe; they had no idea, but this was another fatal disease entirely.

  “What of the expedition, Father? Did he give a location of their whereabouts?”

  “Captain Padilla and his men will stay where they are. Get your men ready to break camp, and bury Lieutenant Torrez deep. Honor him; he was a brave man,” he said as he bowed his head and crossed himself. The Padilla diary, which contained the unholy route the doomed expedition had charted, was clutched tightly to his chest.

  He slowly moved away from the stunned men. The priest knew he would have to either destroy the diary and the map that would again fire the greed of man to follow Padilla’s direction, or bury them so deep no one could ever find them. The diary was the only proof of what wonders the captain had found under the falls of that lost lagoon but, because of men like Francisco Pizarro, the contents must never see the light of day. For only death could come to those that ventured into that dark lagoon, and Father Corinth would take it upon himself to make sure the pope sided with his decision.

  A few months before the death of Francisco Pizarro, the general ordered one last expedition sent out to try to trace the route of Captain Padilla’s ill-fated journey. The Spaniards found only helmets, rusted armor, rotted clothing, and broken swords on a path that stretched for thirty miles along the Amazon, which was clear evidence of a running battle with an enemy that had since disappeared into the jungle. The trail leading to the deep tributary that led to that dark and beautiful lagoon was never found. As for the men of Padilla’s brave band, the search party never found a trace of them or the gold they had sought. Pizarro, in what little time remained to him, would continue to lust for El Dorado. But in the end, another generation of explorers and adventurers would have to do the searching.

  Rumors of the lost expedition of Captain Padilla would filter down through the years and even a few old artifacts turned up from time to time as the jungle begrudgingly gave up her digested secrets. Whatever lived in that forgotten lagoon would wait patiently for men to come into its realm once again.

  M
ONTANA TERRITORY

  JUNE 1876

  Captain Myles Keogh was at the head of troops C, I, and L as they made for the river. Captain Yates had gone with troops E and F to support his assault on the village at a point called Deep Coulee. God only knew the situation with Reno and his companies, and Captain Benteen was still off reconnoitering to the south. He figured Benteen would miss the engagement altogether.

  Keogh’s orders had been simple: cross the river and attack the northern end of the village. A hundred yards from the edge of the riverbank, they quickly discovered to their horror that what they thought was the end of the enormous Indian encampment was actually its middle. The burly Irish captain called a halt to the charge just as a hundred hostiles came over the top of the riverbank to mix with the already confused column. Amid the initial assault he turned and spurred his large mount back in the direction of the low-slung hills, followed by all three companies. He had failed to see that, downriver, another band of Cheyenne led by the warrior Lame White Man had already swarmed across Medicine Tail Coulee and rushed forward unseen. Keogh belatedly saw that the hostiles had anticipated his retreat route east and cut it off.

  As he gave the command to turn south, his companies were hit suddenly from the side of a hill that had hidden another group of Cheyenne. Keogh pulled violently on his reins, but not before six of his troopers in the lead had continued headlong into the advancing ranks of hostiles. The attacking Indians drove his men and their mounts to the ground in a frenzied attack that quickly hid their slaughter in a rising dust cloud. The captain immediately signaled for his three companies to turn to the north, hoping to squeeze his units in between the attacking groups, but immediately saw that there was no clear path away from the Cheyenne assault. To continue going forward would only guarantee being picked off piecemeal, so in the madness of the moment and dictated by their predicament, he ordered his men to dismount—a command of last resort for a cavalry unit, because it would take away the only advantage they had, the quickness of horse. But Keogh had no choice. He remembered a successful dismounted defense at Gettysburg thirteen years before under General Buford; they would hold until relief could come.