The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  “You have to hand it to the old bastard, though, he surely did what he told the president he could do. I never would have believed it.” Thomas’s eyes scanned the area beneath that used to be alive with every animal the family of Noah could save. It must have been a horrid and fearful voyage for the family of man.

  “You know, Colonel—”

  “John Henry. It’s about time we drop the formalities, especially since we may end up here for eternity.”

  Claire smiled like she had been complimented by the school’s most eligible boy.

  “Finally, some common sense has been displayed by our fearless leader. John Henry, then. You need to remember something. There are many historians, even those adamantly refusing to believe the tales of the Bible as based on reality, that are coming around to believe that the Bible, though flawed, is the greatest historical text in history. There are men”—she smiled at Thomas—“and women who are making new discoveries every day in the field of archaeology that are being taken as serious revisions to the atheist point of view. In other words, John Henry, it is becoming very evident that every story in the Bible, no matter how outlandish or strange, has a basis in fact. Each tale has an origin, no matter how much that tale has changed as it was handed down, generation by generation.”

  Thomas turned from his high vantage point. “You have placed some deep thought into this, haven’t you?” he asked as she reached down to pick up her brush.

  “I guess the professor has rubbed off on me a bit.”

  “More than a bit, I would say.”

  “Oh, my dear. Allow me to assist in transcribing these symbols.”

  John Henry saw Ollafson in the doorway watching them.

  “Well, on that cheerful note, I’ll be turning in.”

  “I have to get these symbols interpreted.”

  Ollafson returned to the bent and broken doorway and made to get his materials.

  “Not without at least two soldiers in here with you at all times,” Thomas said, capturing Claire with his eyes as he raised his fur-lined hood.

  “I’m not going to argue with that. I wish Gray Dog were here. That boy has a sixth sense when it comes to seeing our angelic host.” She saw the sadness in John Henry’s eyes at the mention of Gray Dog and Claire wished she had not brought it up.

  Thomas took a last look around the room and tried his best to keep his face straight as he thought about the boy and his descent down Ararat with the young Rebel soldier, Private Willard.

  “I wish he were here also,” he said and then looked closely at Claire. “Good night, Miss Claire.”

  “Good night, John Henry.”

  She watched the large man leave and wondered if the colonel would ever be capable of letting go of the vivid memories of his wife. Claire didn’t know if it was deep-seated love, or the fact that he blamed himself for her loss. Perhaps both emotions ruled what the colonel did in life. She sighed and then smiled as the professor came back in full with his former enthusiasm.

  “Shall we get started, my dear?”

  Claire finally tore her eyes away from the spot John Henry had occupied only a moment before and felt that the night was now lacking in some uncertain manner. It was if the man left a vacuum behind him. She shook her head in total confusion about the subject of John Henry Thomas.

  “Yes, let’s see what Noah had to say to God. It could be interesting.”

  * * *

  It took Clair and Ollafson more than two hours of hard searching even to find the starting point of the Angelic text that stretched from deck to ceiling in symbols. Thus far they had deciphered only five percent of the symbols on the hull. Claire could easily see that their earlier assumption about Noah hating the archangel Azrael was spelled out right in front of her and Ollafson. The curse was not on the site, but on the angel of death himself.

  McDonald was there before Claire and Ollafson heard a sound. How long had he been in the dark listening? She didn’t know and was afraid to inquire.

  “I see you are feeling better. It must have been the excellent meal that Captain Jackson ordered for the men. I’m glad that you finally ate.”

  McDonald just smiled at Claire as he entered the room fully and as he did he lowered the hood of his coat and then removed his gloves. He lovingly ran his hand along the carved script that looked as if it had been etched in pure, black stone. His eyes ran along the prayer walls and the smile remained. Claire exchanged worried looks with Ollafson, who also watched McDonald very closely.

  “Yes, who could pass up the chance of hot beans and fatback?” He turned and with that creepy smile still on his face took in both of the people in the darkened room.

  Claire didn’t know where to go from there. McDonald’s eyes were flicking between herself and Ollafson. She cursed under her breath for not having her pistol with her. She wondered where the two soldiers were that John Henry had stationed outside. Her eyes went in that direction.

  “Looking for your Rebel guardian angels?” Steven asked as he continued to smile.

  Claire didn’t respond, but she did notice the blood on the sleeve of McDonald’s coat. Her eyes went briefly to the gloves he held in his hands and she saw they were soaked in red. He moved them to his coat pocket when he saw her eyes.

  Claire waited until Steven sat down and then she slowly removed the ten-inch hairpin from her coiled-up red hair. The long tresses fell around her shoulders and she prayed that McDonald wouldn’t notice. She briefly raised the long pin to show Ollafson. He showed her what he had. She rolled her eyes when all he showed was his tobacco pipe. He looked deflated as he sat down. No use in making a break for the door. Steven was younger and far faster, and if he could murder two soldiers, what chance did they have?

  “As you can see, I’ve been out of sorts somewhat since I was touched by your angel of death.” Steven made as if he were reaching for something under the table.

  “I can see that,” Claire said, realizing that she was facing something other than a British spy, or a human being for that matter.

  Claire’s heart froze when she saw the Webley pistol rise from underneath the table. She reacted by slamming the hairpin deeply into Steven’s right shoulder, making the gun fall from his hand as he screamed in pain. She and Ollafson were moving in a split second. For a man approaching his seventies, Ollafson’s speed was surprising as he shot out of the room after Claire, actually pushing her before him.

  “Run, children, run!” McDonald cried out as he yanked the pin from his shoulder and smiled at the simple weapon the woman had used against him. He quickly retrieved the Webley and started after them.

  Claire stumbled over the bodies of the two young soldiers McDonald had murdered. She held her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming as she ran up the sloped deck. The snow was falling harder and the ice was returning to sheet the slippery slope. She fell and Ollafson was there trying to help her up in the bulky cold-weather clothing.

  A shot rang out and Ollafson grabbed his left shoulder as he released Claire’s hand and allowed her to fall to the ice-covered deck once again. Another shot rang out and she saw the sparks as the bullet ricocheted away harmlessly. Then she saw Steven as he approached. The gun was still smoking as he walked up to a wounded Ollafson.

  “I neglected to thank you for bringing these men to my Ark, Professor.” McDonald was no longer there. It was if she were facing Azrael himself.

  “No!” Claire shouted as McDonald brought the English-made weapon up and pointed it at Ollafson, who bravely stared down its barrel.

  Suddenly McDonald reeled away as a bullet struck the same shoulder the hatpin had damaged. He fell and the gun went flying out of his hand.

  Claire reacted as her training dictated. She stood and even on the slippery ice managed to get Ollafson moving. She practically threw him off the Ark’s upper deck onto the rope ladder. She was about to climb on when she saw the image of John Henry, Jessy Taylor, and Sergeant Major Dugan, still with a smoking Henry rifle clutched in his hands
, climbing over the opposite gunwale. She pointed behind her at the spot Steven had been. He had vanished.

  John Henry quickly holstered his pistol and ran to assist Claire and the professor. Jessy and Dugan continued on into the vast interior of the Ark to track down McDonald.

  “I knew I should have hung that bastard!” he said as he helped get the wounded Ollafson to his feet. Then he held out a hand for Claire. John Henry only had on uniform pants and a long-sleeved white underwear top. The suspenders were flapping at his sides.

  “I agree,” Claire said. “That son of a bitch has completely gone over the cliff of sanity.”

  “He thinks he’s the angel of death!” Ollafson yelled.

  “Well, he will think something else when Jessy catches him,” John Henry said as he started to help Ollafson down the rope ladder.

  “What orders does the colonel have?” Claire asked as she swung one impressively shaped leg over the gunwale. John Henry took notice.

  “Two of my men dead; McDonald is to be … eliminated.”

  “About damned time you made that call, Colonel.”

  “But you said—”

  Claire was already over the side.

  John Henry shook his head at the exasperating woman and then made for the rope ladder. Before going over the side he stopped and looked back down the sloping deck. He needed to know about Taylor and Dugan.

  * * *

  Since the engineers had cleared a great deal of the ice from the confusing passageways of the interior, Jessy quickly decided that an armed and crazed McDonald could be hiding anywhere. He could see by Dugan’s overly cautious way that they were bound to make a mistake they wouldn’t walk away from. The darkness was more complete the lower they went and Jessy hadn’t thought to bring one of the lamps strewn about the deck of the Ark.

  “This is no good, Colonel. That bastard could be hidin’ in any of a thousand places.”

  “There’s nowhere for him to run,” Taylor said as he nodded for Dugan to back out of the tight space they found themselves in. Just as the sergeant major took his first backward step, he was knocked from his feet. Before he hit the petrified deck he felt a tremendous pressure descend onto his chest. It felt as though a large foot was pinning him down. He struggled for breath and flailed with the Henry rifle at the unseen force.

  Jessy could barely make out Dugan as he had been flung backward into the hull and then onto the floor. He saw the flash of brass as the Henry rifle was flung in all directions as Dugan flailed on the deck. Jessy immediately broke the spell he was under and ran toward the struggling sergeant major. Just before reaching him he was stopped dead in his tracks by something that wrapped around his throat. The pressure was great as his body was lifted free of the deck. His boots were kicking out at whatever had him by the throat. It was if some entity were holding down Dugan with a foot and Taylor by the throat with its free hand. They heard the growl as something in the dark seemed to be satisfied. Jessy felt the invisible force shake him like a wayward child. He felt the navy Colt slide from his hand as he felt his larynx start to give way. He brought both hands up and tried to pull the hands off, but when he did his heart froze as he felt the scaly skin of the thing that held him.

  “Jesus,” Jessy managed to say as his breath was fast being depleted by the horrendous pressure being exerted.

  Dugan was having no better success with his situation. As he beat at the foot holding him down, he had the distinct impression that it was not a foot, but a cloven hoof. His eyes widened as he imagined just what it was that was holding him down. He beat harder, bringing the butt plate of the Henry down again and again.

  Taylor’s eyes started to roll into the back of his head as he was quickly losing his battle with consciousness. His gloved hands beat on what felt like large claws that strangled him with what seemed very little effort.

  Dugan felt the first of his ribs snap and he expelled what little breath he had in his lungs. The darkness was growing more complete.

  The growl of pleasure that sounded in the closed room was the one of a being that had never seen the graces of heaven.

  Both men knew that this was the angel of death.

  * * *

  Just as John Henry entered the new areas that had been cleared he heard the struggle coming from somewhere ahead. The blackness was complete as he moved forward. He saw a brief hint of movement ahead and instinctually knew it wasn’t Jessy or Dugan. The shot from the Colt came without thought. He heard a yelp of pain as the man ran farther into the darkness. More movement. Thomas fired again.

  * * *

  Suddenly and without warning the roar of a wounded animal sounded inside the darkened room. Jessy felt the pressure increase, but it was only momentary as the claws dug in, and then they were gone. He fell to the rough deck grasping his throat.

  Dugan also felt the pressure fall away to nothing as whatever was holding him seemed to lose strength and then fade to nothing. The sergeant major rolled over in pain as the broken rib pushed against his lungs as they refilled with air. Then strong hands were helping him up and with a scream he settled onto his feet.

  “You hurt?” asked John Henry.

  Dugan couldn’t make out his face but nodded that he was all right.

  Thomas helped Jessy up and saw that he was having a hard time drawing breath. Once he knew he would be all right, John Henry exited and then came back a moment later with a lantern. He held it up just outside the entrance to the new excavation. He leaned down and felt the deck with his gloved hand. When it came back into the light it was wet with blood. John Henry knew that he had hit his target at least once, but more than likely both shots had found their mark. The amount of blood spread on the deck told him that McDonald was mortally hit from his two shots and Dugan’s one. Thomas knew this wasn’t over. Something was happening that was well out of his expertise to battle.

  It was time to leave the mountain.

  THE PLAIN OF ARARAT, THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE

  Lieutenant Parnell lay in his bunk and counted the minutes. He knew sleep wouldn’t come anymore that night. He had been awakened by the cry of an animal in his dreams. He didn’t even know what the dream was about but it had scared him to wakefulness.

  The lieutenant sat up and started to dress. He knew it was just before dawn and he also knew that with the camp at fifty percent alert status, he had no right to be sleeping while his inexperienced command watched and waited for the Turks to arrive. Until he received instructions from Colonel Thomas he was on his own, and for the first time in his marine career he didn’t know what to expect or what he was to do. He buttoned his thick coat and stepped out into the falling snow. He shook his head as he raised his hood against the falling temperature.

  He saw that the eager band members of the 315th were on guard along with a marine watch commander guiding them and making sure they didn’t shoot at snowflakes. Parnell had never seen troops so anxious to fight, but not one had any idea how to do it.

  “Lieutenant?” said the camp’s mess cook who handed him a tin cup of coffee.

  “Been quiet?” he asked the navy cook as he gratefully sipped the rich brew.

  “I never seen so many nervous boys with guns before in my life, Lieutenant. Every time a rabbit runs from his hole you can hear them musician boys about crap themselves. Yes, sir, mighty tense out there.”

  Parnell knew just how the men were feeling. Ever since his rider arrived with news that the Turks were heading their way, the men had been at the very least antsy, and at the worst comically afraid.

  “Well, these boys are new to being scared. The worst thing they have ever had to deal with was missing music or a wayward instrument. Facing Turkish cavalry is something they hadn’t really signed on for.”

  “Yes, sir, but by the looks they’re eager.”

  Parnell chuckled. “That they are.”

  “Riders approaching from the east!” came the shout from the outer pickets.

  Parnell tossed the coffee from the cup and
threw it to the mess cook as he ran to the perimeter.

  “Hold your fire!” he called.

  “Two men, riding hard, Lieutenant!”

  “Stand down, all pickets, stand down!” came the order as Parnell paced and waited.

  The two men rode in hard. It had taken Gray Dog and Private Willard thirty-one hours to reach the base of Ararat and another ten to get here, going through six sets of horses to do so.

  Gray Dog rode in first just as the dreary sun made its crest of Ararat. Willard was right behind. Both dismounted as if the ride in had been a contest.

  “Whoooee, but that boy can ride now!” Willard said, slapping Gray Dog on his back. His eyes widened as he realized he had just hit the savage Indian.

  Parnell approached quickly.

  “Dispatches?” he hurriedly asked.

  Willard stepped away from Gray Dog, who was confused by Willard’s slap on the back. Instead of taking offense, when the private turned, Gray Dog slapped him on the back, which almost sent the Rebel flying into Parnell. Willard turned and Gray Dog nodded.

  “Report,” Parnell said, eyeing Gray Dog before focusing on Willard.

  “Lieutenant, sir,” the Confederate said as he saluted in the dim dawn light. Parnell could see both he and the Comanche were about rode out. Their thick coats were mud-covered and their horses were spent. “Private Willard, cavalry corps, Army of Northern Virginia, reporting.”

  Parnell returned the salute from the enthusiastic private.

  Willard reached into his coat and brought out the first of the sealed orders. Parnell asked for a lantern as he tore the wax away and read. His brow furrowed as he did.

  “Well, it seems you have one hell of a journey ahead of you, trooper,” he said as he replaced the note and moved it to his own coat pocket.

  “Yes, sir. I would rather stay with the colonel, both colonels, but they said I had to deliver these to Washington,” he said as he moved to his saddle and untied the leather satchel. Parnell started to reach for it and Willard turned away. “No, sir. Colonel Thomas said the only other person to touch this bag is President Lincoln, sir. I have a sealed message also.”