Main Page: Indiana Jones and the Monkey King
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Previous: Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Scraggy's decrepit Model T had been recovered from the raft behind the Adobo before it sank. “Recovered” was a loose term, of course, considering that it still looked like a pile of scrap metal. The pirates were more than happy to let him keep it.
Now it puttered slowly across the plains of Mozambique, early afternoon sunlight streaming through the bullet holes, somehow holding together despite bursting at the seams with Indiana Jones, Clare and Betsy in the front, and Kezure and four pirates in the back. The smell of the latter was nearly fatal in these cramped quarters. Two of Scraggy's crew members straddled the sideboard and three more, including the guitar player, sat on the roof. Various rusted pots, pans, and other utensils dangled from the car with a constant jingling accompaniment to his now ubiquitous strumming.
“Good heavens,” Clare said, trying and failing to reach the sweat on her forehead. “I didn't realize how bad the budget cuts had gotten.”
Normally Indy would have been thrilled by his proximity to her, but her elbow in his diaphragm and the aforementioned odor put a bit of a damper on the mood. “When the going gets tough, we academics are first on the chopping block,” he agreed.
“Hm. What about artists?”
“Okay, we academics are second on the chopping block.”
“You insult my taxi?” Scraggy kept his eyes straight ahead as he spoke. “You rather walk? I not ask for these extra passengers, Indy.”
“None of us did,” Betsy muttered.
“You extra passenger too, Betsy.”
“At least I don't smell like –”
“All right, all right,” Indy said, raising his voice, “let's all calm down and pretend like we're on safari, see what animals we can spot.” Kezure didn't seem bothered by their conversation yet, but he didn't want to push their luck. “You know, I went on safari in British East Africa with Teddy Roosevelt when I was a boy. This landscape brings back memories.”
“Good one, Dr. Jones,” Clare scoffed. “I suppose you out-hunted him too?”
“Actually, I taught him a lesson about moderation in hunting, respect for nature and all that.” Indy thought of Meto, the Maasai boy about his age who had helped him find the fringe-eared oryx. Where is he now? And without that friendship, would I see people like Scraggy and Tyki differently than I do?
“Hunting animals is boring,” Kezure said, speaking up for the first time on this car ride. “Hunting humans is a real sport. To out-think them, to see the fear in their eyes –”
“Look up there, giraffes,” Indy said.
The giraffe herd stared at them in bewilderment as they passed by in its midst. At first he thought they were moaning at the taxi – what sound do giraffes make, anyway? – but then the sound grew louder, and he recognized it as the same unearthly rumbling from the other night, not quite as unnerving in the daytime but still less than welcome. The car's interior seemed to drop several degrees. The giraffes scattered in several directions.
“That sound,” he said mostly to himself. “Again.”
“Still far away,” Scraggy said, his head cocked to one side, “but getting closer.”
It did seem to be getting louder – but could that have been a trick of the imagination?
Indy strained to turn and look at the backseat, but quickly gave up. “Kezure, have you heard this before?”
“Only once,” the pirate king said. “Two nights ago. I don't know what it is.” Was that a trace of fear in his voice?
Scraggy mouthed the word “Banseebaba.”
The sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun, but the feeling in Indy's stomach lingered. Before he could think about it too much Kezure leaned forward and pointed over his shoulder to a clustered area of rainforest, nearly a mile in the distance. “The village is there. Beyond the thick of jungle.”
Scraggy nodded and adjusted course slightly. No sooner had he done so than an arrow whizzed through the passenger window and out the driver's window, just grazing Betsy's nose.
“What the hell!” she sputtered as she rubbed at it.
A moment later, hundreds of half-naked warriors adorned with red and white paint had somehow emerged from the almost featureless landscape, screaming in high-pitched squeals as they ran toward the taxi and fired more arrows. The men on the roof flattened themselves the best they could as everyone inside frantically rolled up the windows. Scraggy floored the gas, and the taxi whined as if it would fall apart on the spot, which wasn't at all unlikely.
Indy glared at Kezure in the rearview mirror. “Thought you said they knew you?”
Kezure looked nonplussed, but only shrugged.
Arrows showered down all around them. So far as Indy could tell, none of the men on the outside had been hit, nor had the tires or anything vital on the taxi. Either these were the most incompetent warriors in the world or they weren't shooting to kill. But if not, then why?
The taxi spun to a stop directly in front of a large opening into the jungle. The men on the roof and sideboards ran for cover, and when they weren't immediately hit the nine passengers decided as one to pile out and take their chances as well. Arrows rushing by their heads and nipping at their heels, they poured into the jungle.
And then the onslaught, like the sound, stopped. The warriors did not pursue.
Indy didn't have time to wonder about the almost perfect path that had been cleared through the jungle as if in anticipation of their visit, but after running down it for a few seconds he noticed the change, came to a halt and motioned the others to stop. “Wait,” he said. “Listen. They're not following us.” Now he heard something else from behind them – laughter.
One of the pirates hadn't stopped, and as he ran, his foot tripped a thin string stretched across the path. With a loud rush of wind, a booby-trapped palm tree swung forward like a giant baseball bat, flinging his already lifeless body through the air. Nobody could see where it landed, but a thump reached them a few moments later.
Indy exchanged a look with the others, all of whom except Kezure looked rather startled at this development. “Right,” he said. “They herded us in here. Watch your step and move slowly. Very slowly.”
Kezure gave him a mock smile and motioned with his hands. “After you, Dr. Jones.”
“If you insist, Your Highness.” Indy moved to the front of the group. “I guess I am the expert on this sort of thing, after all.” His heart beat a little faster, but not from fear – he'd outwitted far more sophisticated traps than this before. And he knew from experiences that where you found traps, you found something worth guarding, if you could get to it. They were on exactly the right track.
He looked all around them with every step, his keen eyes peeled for anything out of place, a leaf or a twig that showed the slightest sign of being disturbed. The traps had to be reset periodically, he presumed. They wouldn't last long in this humidity and must have been sprung on occasion by unwitting animals with the misfortune to pass through this way. The next section of vine stretched across the path wasn't very hidden, but it was at an awkward height that would make it difficult to step over. He opted to crawl under it instead.
One by one the others followed. The guitar player came last, worming through on his stomach. Indy noticed a moment too late that the guitar slung on his back was a little too large. His hand outstretched, he lurched toward the man and called out “Wait –”
The neck of the guitar barely brushed the vine, but it broke nonetheless. With a creaking sound, a set of giant metal jaws over four feet high shot up from the ground. The guitar player dove to safety as they snapped shut, but his instrument was reduced to splinters.
Indy was unable to suppress a smile. I never liked that thing anyway. His smile lasted only a moment as a second trap erupted a few feet closer than the first.
“Run,” he said, and followed his own advice without waiting to see if the others followed, which they did.
One trap after another ejected from the path behind them, nipping at their heels. Cunning, he thought. He no longer had the luxury of looking everywhere before he stepped, but leaving the path into the dense jungle would cost precious seconds they didn't have. They were being herded straight ahead, no doubt toward another trap, like the one that greeted them when they rounded the corner.
Indy screeched to a halt and windmilled his arms, his toes jutting over the edge of a ten foot drop into a pit full of scorpions. Hundreds, maybe thousands of scorpions. At least they aren't snakes, he thought as someone ran into him and pushed him over, moments before a beefy arm grabbed him and pulled him back.
He looked up, scanning for a branch that might support his whip, though he didn't have time to be picky or thoroughly test his options. Kezure acted faster, though, raising his sword and slicing through a bamboo tree with one stroke so that it fell and formed a bridge across the chasm. The pirate king scurried across it with all the grace of a ballerina, and it creaked but held fast. The others followed hand-over-hand, more slowly but more securely, their feet dangling too close for comfort to the stinging arachnids below. Once on the other side Indy got his bearings and retook his place at the head of the group.
“Thanks,” he told Kezure, though he imagined it was just fortuitous that the pirate king's self-preservation could include all of them.
Kezure didn't answer, watching as one of his crew members, the last to cross, grabbed onto the tree just inches ahead of the final set of jaws. The man took a moment to breathe, the danger seeming less urgent now, and when he moved forward again a small bag dropped from his shirt with a jingling sound, directly onto the scorpions.
The pirate paused, looked down, looked back across at where everyone else waited for him. His face fixed in itself in a look of determination. With his right hand he let go of the tree, reached down, fingers of his other hand straining –
The scream when he lost his grip was nothing to the one as he sank into a living, breathing mass of chitinous flesh. His limbs flailed for a moment; then it was as if he had never been.
Indy shook his head and looked at Kezure, who predictably looked unmoved by what he'd just witnessed. “Your men aren't the sharpest swords in the armory, I see.”
Kezure shrugged with one shoulder. “I rely on numbers and I motivate with greed. His death was as superfluous as his life.” Beside him, his remaining two pirates stood unblinking, a bit traumatized but unaware of what their boss was implying about them.
They moved on ahead. As climactic as the pit had seemed, Indy knew they couldn't take it easy yet. That would be too easy. Indeed, there was a wooden trigger sticking out of the ground, looking like an innocuous little stump but just a little too smooth-polished. “Don't touch that,” he said, pointing as he gave it a wide berth.
He walked a few more feet, heard a creaking noise behind him, and spun around.
“I said don't touch that!”
A large bamboo door ejected from the ground behind them, leading to an underground cage that moments before had been so well-hidden even Indy had overlooked it. Three male African lions leaped out, their paws hitting the dirt with deceptive silence, snarling and baring their teeth as they blinked at the sunlight. They registered the presence of prey right in front of them and stepped forward as one.
“All right,” Indy said, hand moving for his whip, “everyone stay calm, and don't –”
Everyone pushed past him and ran for their lives. The lions lunged, forcing Indy to run too as they landed where he'd stood a moment before.
“If you're not going to listen to me,” he shouted at everyone and no one in particular, “then why the hell did you make me your leader?”
Then Clare stopped and turned around.
“Clare!” Indy sputtered, his feet skidding into a U-turn as he shot past her. “What are you –”
The lions halted inches from Clare, intelligent enough to realize that this was not typical prey behavior, and unsure how to respond. They broke ranks and fanned out, forming a circle around her. Indy reached for his gun. He'd wanted to let them live, and it was hard to drop a lion with one shot anyway, but with Clare in danger all thoughts of a non-violent solution fled from his mind.
She held up a hand to forestall him as bizarre purring and cooing sounds emanated from her lips. The lions paused, then something in their gait softened. Still making the sounds, she dropped to her knees and reached out to pet one of the beasts. All three of them snuggled up to her and started licking her face, forcing her to stop making the sounds and dissolve into a fit of giggles instead.
Indy and the others moved closer, awestruck. Even Kezure's eyes were wide. When she could speak, Clare explained, “I imitated the sound of a lion mother calling her babies. I almost forgot, in the heat of the moment, but they're still fluffy little kittens at heart.”
Betsy whistled. “They sure teach you some unorthodox stuff in England.”
“I picked it up myself back at the compound. Used to practice animal noises with Mr. Njagi when we were off-duty. I'll teach you a few.”
“Later,” Indy said, smiling with relief and amusement in spite of himself but unable to relax just yet. “C'mon, let's get outta –”
“Too late, Dr. Jones,” Kezure said.
Indy turned and found himself face to face with one of the ugliest men he'd ever seen. He let out an uncharacteristic gasp and stepped back, then noticed that the man was dead, missing a body, and probably had been more attractive when alive and intact. He was now a shrunken head, worn with various teeth and beads around the neck of a muscular tribal chief who stood at least seven feet tall, dozens of red and white warriors clustered behind him. They all stood silent, but a look of hatred that needed no translation passed over the chief's face.
Indy swallowed and gave Kezure a hopeful glance. “Is this the chief you told me about? Your friend?”
Kezure shook his head. “No.” He pointed to the shrunken head. “That is him.”
Indy could only roll his eyes as the warriors surrounded the group, this time with arrows aimed to kill.
***
The Mongooboo village in the jungle clearing consisted of probably about one hundred and fifty grass huts, simply constructed but each large enough for a family of seven to live comfortably if not luxuriously. They looked lightweight enough to pack up and carry around for a nomadic lifestyle, yet their arrangement suggested careful planning. The tribe was here to stay, or rather, it had been.
Hands tied behind their backs, the group was herded past the penetrating, unfriendly glares of the villagers standing outside the huts, mostly women and children devoid of red and white paint but similarly bare from the waist up. Kezure explained, “This is a different tribe. New. They have taken over the village.”
“What happened to the other tribe?” Indy asked.
Kezure shrugged. “This one probably ate them.”
“Don't we just have all the luck today,” Clare said.
The warriors and some of the villagers murmured to each other in an incomprehensible language. “Can you try talkin' to them anyway?” Indy asked the pirate.
“I always used a translator,” Kezure said. “I don't see him anymore.”
Indy groaned and turned to Scraggy. “You recognize their language?”
“I think it a dialect of Sena, but I not speak in long time.”
“Can you try?”
“I not want to insult chief's sister by mistake, Indy. Our situation not so bad it cannot be worse.”
Fighting to restrain his impatience, Indy snapped, “Can you at least figure out where they're taking us?”
“I think that mystery has been solved,” Clare said, motioning forward with her chin.
No sooner had she spoken then the warriors halted them. They stood in front of a large structure that contrasted with the huts in both shape and texture. It was constructed of stones, irregular and uncut but nonetheless skillfully placed to remain intact in a box shape, with one large circular stone that a pair of warriors now rolled aside to reveal a opening. It could have been a home, except that it had no windows. And then, squinting, Indy was able to see something in the darkness inside. A grille stretched across the floor.
It was an oven.
“I think they say something about dinner,” Scraggy whispered.
The chief barked an order, and the warriors pushed Indy, Scraggy and Kezure forward from the others, pushed them through the opening one at a time. “Hey,” Indy said, “let's talk this over. I'm all for respecting local customs, but –”
The stone rolled back into place behind him and plunged them all into pitch darkness. Outside, Clare's and Betsy's muffled screams of protest faded as they were apparently taken away.
Indy's most immediate concern was Kezure's stench, but second only to that was the stifling heat. Already he felt parched and lightheaded. In minutes, probably, the three of them would be roasted alive by the sun heating the stones. A very effective piece of technology, I have to admit, but I'd prefer to skip the firsthand demonstration.
He walked over to a wall and pushed against the rocks with a shoulder. A moment later he smelled Kezure joining him. Their combined efforts failed to budge the wall a millimeter, and even if they succeeded, he realized, it would bring the ceiling down on them.
“Well,” he said, speaking in the direction he had last seen Scraggy, “do you still think this situation can get worse?”
“No, Indy.” The old man sounded as calm as if he'd been proven wrong about a minor point of trivia. “I try to speak language, but I not sure how to conjugate –”
“Look,” Indy said, “I'm sure they'll be flattered by your effort to learn their language even if you don't speak it flawlessly. Just say something, okay?”
“Okay.” Scraggy cleared his throat, and said something.
Nothing happened.
“Louder,” Indy said. “I don't think they can hear you.”
“My throat parched, Indy.”
“More than our throats are gonna be parched in a minute. Just do it, will you?”
“Right.” Scraggy cleared his throat again, and then boomed out the words in a more commanding voice than Indy would have thought him capable of, one more authoritative even than the chief's. He recognized the words “Sun Wu-Kung” but the rest was gibberish.
For a moment nothing happened, and Indy wondered if it had had any effect at all, or if anyone had even remained posted at the oven to hear it in the first place. Then the door opened and the three of them were rushed outside by a pair of guards, who untied their hands and stepped back as if afraid. Everyone was still here, even Clare and Betsy, who stood several feet away with gags around their mouths and relief shining in their eyes. Indy reached up to touch his fedora, which had already started to smoke.
Visibly furious now, Scraggy shouted at the chief as if the latter were a mere underling. The chief's dark face went pale and he snapped something at the other villagers, who untied Clare, Betsy, and the others. As soon as Betsy's hands were free she slapped the nearest guard across the face and shouted, “Well, I can't say you know how to treat a lady around here!”
Scraggy whispered to Indy, “I tell him we divine messengers of Sun Wu-Kung. If he interfere with our mission, Jade Emperor come down from heavens and destroy his village.”
Indy smiled. Even if these weren't the Mongooboo, they too were familiar with the Chinese legend. A very good sign even if it hadn't just happened to save their lives.
Scraggy turned and again shouted to the chief. Obeying his every word, the chief motioned for Indy and Scraggy to break off from the main group and follow him. He led them to another area of the village as Scraggy translated.
“I tell him we lose path to city. I ask if he have something to help us.”
The chief led them up to a grass hut that stood twice as large as any of the others, clearly his now that its former occupant had no need for living space, and strode inside. Despite its opulent appearance by local standards, its interior held only an elaborate marble altar carved into several monkey heads and various unrecognizable patterns. A dull hand mirror in a crude stone frame sat atop it.
The chief picked it up and handed it to Scraggy. Scraggy looked it over, sniffed, and handed it to Indy. He translated while the chief explained. “He say this will help us. He not know how to use it, but since we are divine messengers, we will know how to use it!”
Indy smirked as he looked at his reflection, then the back. The mirror looked like something one could find for almost nothing in any market from here to Marrakesh. It didn't even have an interesting design on it. Maybe something was hidden behind the glass? He pried at it with his fingernails for a moment, but it was in solid. He'd have to give it a more thorough examination later.
What was the connection between the Mongooboo tribe and the Lost City? Were they related to Tyki's people, or just happened to have settled along the way before these people wiped them out and inherited their legacy? Questions he might ask later, but he didn't actually feel like sticking around here any longer than he had to.
The chief continued to speak, and Scraggy said, “He insist on having us for dinner tonight, to make up for misunderstanding.”
“I thought having us for dinner was the misunderstanding,” Indy deadpanned.
“You think you so funny, Indy. He want to serve us.”
“Again, that could go either way.”
Scraggy shook his head and spoke to the chief. “I tell him we accept his invitation. I not tell him you a smartass.”
Indy slipped the mirror into his satchel and decided to keep it to himself for now. “That's probably for the best,” he admitted.
***
A gorgeous sunrise peaked over the savanna horizon, but nobody witnessed it, busy as they were sleeping off their feast from the night before. Indy wondered how this humble tribe was able to eat so luxuriously, but then again, he knew better than to inquire too much about their recipes.
He slept in a hammock in one of the huts, while outside, Scraggy's Model T now stood parked with several crew members and pirates sleeping in and around it, Kezure himself sprawled across the entire roof and snoring like a banshee. Indy had made a mental note to ask Scraggy which god had blessed that car to make it invincible, and whether the god would be so kind as to do the same for his retirement fund.
A slight tremor surged through the village, shaking the huts and rattling the cooking utensils. Nothing too strong, but enough to wake Indy. As he blinked at the light of dawn, remembering where he was, a figure came sailing through the air and knocked the wind out of him.
“Indy, I'm frightened,” Betsy said, her face inches from his.
“And I'm claustrophobic,” he choked out.
“Do you hear that? There's somethin' out there –”
“It's Kezure's snoring,” Indy snapped, trying to push her away. She resisted, clinging to the hammock, which twisted and became tangled around their bodies.
Clare chose that moment to walk by the hut and glance inside. Indy made eye contact with her just as her mouth fell open.
“Clare! Wait!” He extricated a hand and reached out, but she had already hurried away. He jerked hard to one side, fell onto the floor and rolled away. He pulled himself to his feet with a groan and took a step toward his assailant, still struggling to free herself. “I swear to God, Betsy –”
Then he froze. The vibration was intensifying. The hammock, with Betsy wrapped in it, bobbed up and down before his eyes.
He pulled her down without another word and dragged her outside, where the villagers were also pouring out of their huts and congregating in the middle of town. He found Scraggy, Kezure and the others standing together; Clare raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing as he approached. He realized he was still holding Betsy's hand and cast it aside.
“What's goin' on?” he demanded.
“An earthquake?” Betsy wondered.
The chief stepped forward and said one word that silenced the crowd.
Scraggy translated. “Wildebeest.”
Wildebeest – not what came to most people's minds when they thought of Africa's dangerous wildlife, but more than capable of pounding anyone to a pulp when they were in a hurry. They didn't slow down, they didn't change direction, and they didn't travel alone. By these vibrations it seemed at least a hundred were on their way.
The villagers' silence didn't last long. They cried out as they scattered haphazardly into the surrounding jungle, clearly unprepared for such an eventuality. “We have to get out, or we'll be crushed to death!” Clare exclaimed. “But which way?”
“Scraggy, how close?” Indy asked.
Scraggy put his ear to the trembling ground and concentrated to listen past the fleeing human footsteps around him. “Two miles,” he said. “We have about three minutes.”
An idea was taking form, desperate even by Indiana Jones standards. He was already moving toward the Model T as he spoke. “Where's the softest ground?”
Scraggy asked a passing villager, who shouted something back without breaking stride. Scraggy pointed as he followed Indy. “Over there, Indy. The graveyard.”
Indy grabbed as many shovels as he could carry from the taxi's supply rack and headed in the direction indicated, the others scrambling to keep up, trusting him to get them out of this alive.
The graveyard was a communal one with no headstones to indicate individual burials, but the flowers and monument sign at the front made its purpose clear enough. He threw all but one shovel to the ground and plunged that one into the earth, which was indeed very soft. In fact it seemed to have been recently disturbed. The final resting place of what was left of the Mongooboo? Indy didn't want to think about that. Well, Jones, he thought to himself, you've been called a grave robber, but this is low even for you.
Kezure, Clare, Betsy, and the other pirates and crew members each picked up a shovel and followed his example without being prodded. There was no shovel for Scraggy, which was just as well. His eyes widened as the flung shovelfuls of dirt began to expose pieces of decayed bodies and skeletons, some of them very fresh.
“Oh no!” he said. “Many dead spirits! Bad spirits! We must stay away!”
Indy was not the type under normal circumstances to be intolerant of anyone's beliefs, but the air was filled now with a sound like thunder rising in pitch every moment, and he could hardly keep his footing, so he considered this an extenuating circumstance. He grabbed Scraggy's wrist and pulled him into the hole, where he landed directly in the arms of a skeleton and screamed as if it would take him into the underworld with it.
The hole made the interior of Scraggy's car seem positively luxurious by comparison, but it fit them all. Indy popped up over the edge and started brushing the dirt pile on top of all of them.
“What the hell are you doing?” Betsy shrieked. She had followed his example without question, but now -
“Trust me!” he shouted back.
The last thing he saw before they were all buried alive was a wall of wildebeests burst from the jungle, a wave of rocks and dust and plant detritus going before them, and blasted through the village. The grass huts crumpled like paper and ground into the dirt as the frenzied animals crashed through and over them. The stone oven collapsed without even being touched, like the walls of Jericho, its stones crumbling and rolling in all directions.
Then all was dark. Buried alive – a primal Victorian fear now once again made reality, but for him they brought a worse fear, brought flashbacks of a train car full of snakes threatened to suffocate him. Every muscle in his body screamed with the urge to get out, get out, get out. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, could only feel the dirt pressing down from above and the bodies pressing in from the sides. He heard the hooves go by overhead now with a sound like raindrops on a tin roof, only louder, faster, and more numerous. They seemed to go on for an hour.
Then they faded, the shaking stopped, and the world was silent and still.
The dust still hadn't settled when Indiana Jones burst from the ground, gasping, arms outstretched, looking for all the world like something out of a bad zombie movie. The others followed, coughing, rubbing dirt from their eyes, but alive. He wondered where the villagers had gone off to and how many, if any, had survived. I'll look for them as soon as we get our bearings here, and apologize for this desecration.
“That was very quick thinking, Dr. Jones,” Clare said, brushing off her pants. “You saved us all. Promise me you'll never do that again.”
He grinned and winked at her as he wiped off his fedora. If this little incident had warmed her up to him even a little, it was worth it. “I won't,” he said, “if you come up with a better idea next time.”
Betsy squealed as she ran in circles, trying to detach the skeleton clinging to her back.
The model T lay on its side, sporting a few more dents but still intact unlike the entire village. As Indy and a few of the men pushed it back upright, he asked, “Hey, Scraggy, which god blessed this thing, and can he do the same for my retirement fund?”
Scraggy shook his head sadly. “We need more than blessings, Indy. We disturb bad spirits. We have very bad luck now.”
“I mean, this hasn't been my most fun expedition ever,” Indy said, setting the car in place with a grunt, “but we're not dead. Seems like a good start on luck to me.”
“We're forgetting something,” Clare said as she wandered over. Her flippant tone a moment ago had vanished.
“Oh? What's that?”
“Wildebeests don't just stampede for no reason. And they don't typically come through this way at all, if the villagers' lack of preparedness was any indication. Something provoked them.”
Indy thought about that for a moment. “Um... did those lions from yesterday ever get put back in their cage?”
Before anyone could respond, another sound greeted them, the same low rumbling sound from earlier, the sound that had provoked the wildebeests, the sound Scraggy called Banseebaba. The sound of the stampede had covered it up, and then it had stopped, but now it was louder than ever.
Scraggy swallowed. “This time it is very close, Indy. Very close!”
At that moment, in the same spot where the herd had come through, the jungle erupted in a spray of wood splinters and leaf fragments. Trees crashed to the ground. Indy leaped in one direction while everyone else leaped in another. But with the village flattened, they had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.
A metal monstrosity burst out, over ten times the size of a normal tank, nearly one hundred feet long and over twenty-five feet high. It was stacked in three levels like a Mesopotamian ziggurat, the top level sporting a gun barrel the size of an old-time cannon. Blazing red swastikas adorned both sides of the second level. If this was Scraggy's idea of a giant demon from hell, Indy would be hard pressed to argue.
“The other interested party, Dr. Jones?” Kezure shouted.
“Lucky guess!” Indy shouted back as he scrambled. But I sure didn't expect them to make such a dramatic entrance.
Moving with deceptive speed, the tank ran over Scraggy's Model T and flattened it into an actual pile of scrap metal with a sickening crunch. A strangled sob could be heard even above the roar of its treads.
Next: Chapter Nine
Now it puttered slowly across the plains of Mozambique, early afternoon sunlight streaming through the bullet holes, somehow holding together despite bursting at the seams with Indiana Jones, Clare and Betsy in the front, and Kezure and four pirates in the back. The smell of the latter was nearly fatal in these cramped quarters. Two of Scraggy's crew members straddled the sideboard and three more, including the guitar player, sat on the roof. Various rusted pots, pans, and other utensils dangled from the car with a constant jingling accompaniment to his now ubiquitous strumming.
“Good heavens,” Clare said, trying and failing to reach the sweat on her forehead. “I didn't realize how bad the budget cuts had gotten.”
Normally Indy would have been thrilled by his proximity to her, but her elbow in his diaphragm and the aforementioned odor put a bit of a damper on the mood. “When the going gets tough, we academics are first on the chopping block,” he agreed.
“Hm. What about artists?”
“Okay, we academics are second on the chopping block.”
“You insult my taxi?” Scraggy kept his eyes straight ahead as he spoke. “You rather walk? I not ask for these extra passengers, Indy.”
“None of us did,” Betsy muttered.
“You extra passenger too, Betsy.”
“At least I don't smell like –”
“All right, all right,” Indy said, raising his voice, “let's all calm down and pretend like we're on safari, see what animals we can spot.” Kezure didn't seem bothered by their conversation yet, but he didn't want to push their luck. “You know, I went on safari in British East Africa with Teddy Roosevelt when I was a boy. This landscape brings back memories.”
“Good one, Dr. Jones,” Clare scoffed. “I suppose you out-hunted him too?”
“Actually, I taught him a lesson about moderation in hunting, respect for nature and all that.” Indy thought of Meto, the Maasai boy about his age who had helped him find the fringe-eared oryx. Where is he now? And without that friendship, would I see people like Scraggy and Tyki differently than I do?
“Hunting animals is boring,” Kezure said, speaking up for the first time on this car ride. “Hunting humans is a real sport. To out-think them, to see the fear in their eyes –”
“Look up there, giraffes,” Indy said.
The giraffe herd stared at them in bewilderment as they passed by in its midst. At first he thought they were moaning at the taxi – what sound do giraffes make, anyway? – but then the sound grew louder, and he recognized it as the same unearthly rumbling from the other night, not quite as unnerving in the daytime but still less than welcome. The car's interior seemed to drop several degrees. The giraffes scattered in several directions.
“That sound,” he said mostly to himself. “Again.”
“Still far away,” Scraggy said, his head cocked to one side, “but getting closer.”
It did seem to be getting louder – but could that have been a trick of the imagination?
Indy strained to turn and look at the backseat, but quickly gave up. “Kezure, have you heard this before?”
“Only once,” the pirate king said. “Two nights ago. I don't know what it is.” Was that a trace of fear in his voice?
Scraggy mouthed the word “Banseebaba.”
The sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun, but the feeling in Indy's stomach lingered. Before he could think about it too much Kezure leaned forward and pointed over his shoulder to a clustered area of rainforest, nearly a mile in the distance. “The village is there. Beyond the thick of jungle.”
Scraggy nodded and adjusted course slightly. No sooner had he done so than an arrow whizzed through the passenger window and out the driver's window, just grazing Betsy's nose.
“What the hell!” she sputtered as she rubbed at it.
A moment later, hundreds of half-naked warriors adorned with red and white paint had somehow emerged from the almost featureless landscape, screaming in high-pitched squeals as they ran toward the taxi and fired more arrows. The men on the roof flattened themselves the best they could as everyone inside frantically rolled up the windows. Scraggy floored the gas, and the taxi whined as if it would fall apart on the spot, which wasn't at all unlikely.
Indy glared at Kezure in the rearview mirror. “Thought you said they knew you?”
Kezure looked nonplussed, but only shrugged.
Arrows showered down all around them. So far as Indy could tell, none of the men on the outside had been hit, nor had the tires or anything vital on the taxi. Either these were the most incompetent warriors in the world or they weren't shooting to kill. But if not, then why?
The taxi spun to a stop directly in front of a large opening into the jungle. The men on the roof and sideboards ran for cover, and when they weren't immediately hit the nine passengers decided as one to pile out and take their chances as well. Arrows rushing by their heads and nipping at their heels, they poured into the jungle.
And then the onslaught, like the sound, stopped. The warriors did not pursue.
Indy didn't have time to wonder about the almost perfect path that had been cleared through the jungle as if in anticipation of their visit, but after running down it for a few seconds he noticed the change, came to a halt and motioned the others to stop. “Wait,” he said. “Listen. They're not following us.” Now he heard something else from behind them – laughter.
One of the pirates hadn't stopped, and as he ran, his foot tripped a thin string stretched across the path. With a loud rush of wind, a booby-trapped palm tree swung forward like a giant baseball bat, flinging his already lifeless body through the air. Nobody could see where it landed, but a thump reached them a few moments later.
Indy exchanged a look with the others, all of whom except Kezure looked rather startled at this development. “Right,” he said. “They herded us in here. Watch your step and move slowly. Very slowly.”
Kezure gave him a mock smile and motioned with his hands. “After you, Dr. Jones.”
“If you insist, Your Highness.” Indy moved to the front of the group. “I guess I am the expert on this sort of thing, after all.” His heart beat a little faster, but not from fear – he'd outwitted far more sophisticated traps than this before. And he knew from experiences that where you found traps, you found something worth guarding, if you could get to it. They were on exactly the right track.
He looked all around them with every step, his keen eyes peeled for anything out of place, a leaf or a twig that showed the slightest sign of being disturbed. The traps had to be reset periodically, he presumed. They wouldn't last long in this humidity and must have been sprung on occasion by unwitting animals with the misfortune to pass through this way. The next section of vine stretched across the path wasn't very hidden, but it was at an awkward height that would make it difficult to step over. He opted to crawl under it instead.
One by one the others followed. The guitar player came last, worming through on his stomach. Indy noticed a moment too late that the guitar slung on his back was a little too large. His hand outstretched, he lurched toward the man and called out “Wait –”
The neck of the guitar barely brushed the vine, but it broke nonetheless. With a creaking sound, a set of giant metal jaws over four feet high shot up from the ground. The guitar player dove to safety as they snapped shut, but his instrument was reduced to splinters.
Indy was unable to suppress a smile. I never liked that thing anyway. His smile lasted only a moment as a second trap erupted a few feet closer than the first.
“Run,” he said, and followed his own advice without waiting to see if the others followed, which they did.
One trap after another ejected from the path behind them, nipping at their heels. Cunning, he thought. He no longer had the luxury of looking everywhere before he stepped, but leaving the path into the dense jungle would cost precious seconds they didn't have. They were being herded straight ahead, no doubt toward another trap, like the one that greeted them when they rounded the corner.
Indy screeched to a halt and windmilled his arms, his toes jutting over the edge of a ten foot drop into a pit full of scorpions. Hundreds, maybe thousands of scorpions. At least they aren't snakes, he thought as someone ran into him and pushed him over, moments before a beefy arm grabbed him and pulled him back.
He looked up, scanning for a branch that might support his whip, though he didn't have time to be picky or thoroughly test his options. Kezure acted faster, though, raising his sword and slicing through a bamboo tree with one stroke so that it fell and formed a bridge across the chasm. The pirate king scurried across it with all the grace of a ballerina, and it creaked but held fast. The others followed hand-over-hand, more slowly but more securely, their feet dangling too close for comfort to the stinging arachnids below. Once on the other side Indy got his bearings and retook his place at the head of the group.
“Thanks,” he told Kezure, though he imagined it was just fortuitous that the pirate king's self-preservation could include all of them.
Kezure didn't answer, watching as one of his crew members, the last to cross, grabbed onto the tree just inches ahead of the final set of jaws. The man took a moment to breathe, the danger seeming less urgent now, and when he moved forward again a small bag dropped from his shirt with a jingling sound, directly onto the scorpions.
The pirate paused, looked down, looked back across at where everyone else waited for him. His face fixed in itself in a look of determination. With his right hand he let go of the tree, reached down, fingers of his other hand straining –
The scream when he lost his grip was nothing to the one as he sank into a living, breathing mass of chitinous flesh. His limbs flailed for a moment; then it was as if he had never been.
Indy shook his head and looked at Kezure, who predictably looked unmoved by what he'd just witnessed. “Your men aren't the sharpest swords in the armory, I see.”
Kezure shrugged with one shoulder. “I rely on numbers and I motivate with greed. His death was as superfluous as his life.” Beside him, his remaining two pirates stood unblinking, a bit traumatized but unaware of what their boss was implying about them.
They moved on ahead. As climactic as the pit had seemed, Indy knew they couldn't take it easy yet. That would be too easy. Indeed, there was a wooden trigger sticking out of the ground, looking like an innocuous little stump but just a little too smooth-polished. “Don't touch that,” he said, pointing as he gave it a wide berth.
He walked a few more feet, heard a creaking noise behind him, and spun around.
“I said don't touch that!”
A large bamboo door ejected from the ground behind them, leading to an underground cage that moments before had been so well-hidden even Indy had overlooked it. Three male African lions leaped out, their paws hitting the dirt with deceptive silence, snarling and baring their teeth as they blinked at the sunlight. They registered the presence of prey right in front of them and stepped forward as one.
“All right,” Indy said, hand moving for his whip, “everyone stay calm, and don't –”
Everyone pushed past him and ran for their lives. The lions lunged, forcing Indy to run too as they landed where he'd stood a moment before.
“If you're not going to listen to me,” he shouted at everyone and no one in particular, “then why the hell did you make me your leader?”
Then Clare stopped and turned around.
“Clare!” Indy sputtered, his feet skidding into a U-turn as he shot past her. “What are you –”
The lions halted inches from Clare, intelligent enough to realize that this was not typical prey behavior, and unsure how to respond. They broke ranks and fanned out, forming a circle around her. Indy reached for his gun. He'd wanted to let them live, and it was hard to drop a lion with one shot anyway, but with Clare in danger all thoughts of a non-violent solution fled from his mind.
She held up a hand to forestall him as bizarre purring and cooing sounds emanated from her lips. The lions paused, then something in their gait softened. Still making the sounds, she dropped to her knees and reached out to pet one of the beasts. All three of them snuggled up to her and started licking her face, forcing her to stop making the sounds and dissolve into a fit of giggles instead.
Indy and the others moved closer, awestruck. Even Kezure's eyes were wide. When she could speak, Clare explained, “I imitated the sound of a lion mother calling her babies. I almost forgot, in the heat of the moment, but they're still fluffy little kittens at heart.”
Betsy whistled. “They sure teach you some unorthodox stuff in England.”
“I picked it up myself back at the compound. Used to practice animal noises with Mr. Njagi when we were off-duty. I'll teach you a few.”
“Later,” Indy said, smiling with relief and amusement in spite of himself but unable to relax just yet. “C'mon, let's get outta –”
“Too late, Dr. Jones,” Kezure said.
Indy turned and found himself face to face with one of the ugliest men he'd ever seen. He let out an uncharacteristic gasp and stepped back, then noticed that the man was dead, missing a body, and probably had been more attractive when alive and intact. He was now a shrunken head, worn with various teeth and beads around the neck of a muscular tribal chief who stood at least seven feet tall, dozens of red and white warriors clustered behind him. They all stood silent, but a look of hatred that needed no translation passed over the chief's face.
Indy swallowed and gave Kezure a hopeful glance. “Is this the chief you told me about? Your friend?”
Kezure shook his head. “No.” He pointed to the shrunken head. “That is him.”
Indy could only roll his eyes as the warriors surrounded the group, this time with arrows aimed to kill.
***
The Mongooboo village in the jungle clearing consisted of probably about one hundred and fifty grass huts, simply constructed but each large enough for a family of seven to live comfortably if not luxuriously. They looked lightweight enough to pack up and carry around for a nomadic lifestyle, yet their arrangement suggested careful planning. The tribe was here to stay, or rather, it had been.
Hands tied behind their backs, the group was herded past the penetrating, unfriendly glares of the villagers standing outside the huts, mostly women and children devoid of red and white paint but similarly bare from the waist up. Kezure explained, “This is a different tribe. New. They have taken over the village.”
“What happened to the other tribe?” Indy asked.
Kezure shrugged. “This one probably ate them.”
“Don't we just have all the luck today,” Clare said.
The warriors and some of the villagers murmured to each other in an incomprehensible language. “Can you try talkin' to them anyway?” Indy asked the pirate.
“I always used a translator,” Kezure said. “I don't see him anymore.”
Indy groaned and turned to Scraggy. “You recognize their language?”
“I think it a dialect of Sena, but I not speak in long time.”
“Can you try?”
“I not want to insult chief's sister by mistake, Indy. Our situation not so bad it cannot be worse.”
Fighting to restrain his impatience, Indy snapped, “Can you at least figure out where they're taking us?”
“I think that mystery has been solved,” Clare said, motioning forward with her chin.
No sooner had she spoken then the warriors halted them. They stood in front of a large structure that contrasted with the huts in both shape and texture. It was constructed of stones, irregular and uncut but nonetheless skillfully placed to remain intact in a box shape, with one large circular stone that a pair of warriors now rolled aside to reveal a opening. It could have been a home, except that it had no windows. And then, squinting, Indy was able to see something in the darkness inside. A grille stretched across the floor.
It was an oven.
“I think they say something about dinner,” Scraggy whispered.
The chief barked an order, and the warriors pushed Indy, Scraggy and Kezure forward from the others, pushed them through the opening one at a time. “Hey,” Indy said, “let's talk this over. I'm all for respecting local customs, but –”
The stone rolled back into place behind him and plunged them all into pitch darkness. Outside, Clare's and Betsy's muffled screams of protest faded as they were apparently taken away.
Indy's most immediate concern was Kezure's stench, but second only to that was the stifling heat. Already he felt parched and lightheaded. In minutes, probably, the three of them would be roasted alive by the sun heating the stones. A very effective piece of technology, I have to admit, but I'd prefer to skip the firsthand demonstration.
He walked over to a wall and pushed against the rocks with a shoulder. A moment later he smelled Kezure joining him. Their combined efforts failed to budge the wall a millimeter, and even if they succeeded, he realized, it would bring the ceiling down on them.
“Well,” he said, speaking in the direction he had last seen Scraggy, “do you still think this situation can get worse?”
“No, Indy.” The old man sounded as calm as if he'd been proven wrong about a minor point of trivia. “I try to speak language, but I not sure how to conjugate –”
“Look,” Indy said, “I'm sure they'll be flattered by your effort to learn their language even if you don't speak it flawlessly. Just say something, okay?”
“Okay.” Scraggy cleared his throat, and said something.
Nothing happened.
“Louder,” Indy said. “I don't think they can hear you.”
“My throat parched, Indy.”
“More than our throats are gonna be parched in a minute. Just do it, will you?”
“Right.” Scraggy cleared his throat again, and then boomed out the words in a more commanding voice than Indy would have thought him capable of, one more authoritative even than the chief's. He recognized the words “Sun Wu-Kung” but the rest was gibberish.
For a moment nothing happened, and Indy wondered if it had had any effect at all, or if anyone had even remained posted at the oven to hear it in the first place. Then the door opened and the three of them were rushed outside by a pair of guards, who untied their hands and stepped back as if afraid. Everyone was still here, even Clare and Betsy, who stood several feet away with gags around their mouths and relief shining in their eyes. Indy reached up to touch his fedora, which had already started to smoke.
Visibly furious now, Scraggy shouted at the chief as if the latter were a mere underling. The chief's dark face went pale and he snapped something at the other villagers, who untied Clare, Betsy, and the others. As soon as Betsy's hands were free she slapped the nearest guard across the face and shouted, “Well, I can't say you know how to treat a lady around here!”
Scraggy whispered to Indy, “I tell him we divine messengers of Sun Wu-Kung. If he interfere with our mission, Jade Emperor come down from heavens and destroy his village.”
Indy smiled. Even if these weren't the Mongooboo, they too were familiar with the Chinese legend. A very good sign even if it hadn't just happened to save their lives.
Scraggy turned and again shouted to the chief. Obeying his every word, the chief motioned for Indy and Scraggy to break off from the main group and follow him. He led them to another area of the village as Scraggy translated.
“I tell him we lose path to city. I ask if he have something to help us.”
The chief led them up to a grass hut that stood twice as large as any of the others, clearly his now that its former occupant had no need for living space, and strode inside. Despite its opulent appearance by local standards, its interior held only an elaborate marble altar carved into several monkey heads and various unrecognizable patterns. A dull hand mirror in a crude stone frame sat atop it.
The chief picked it up and handed it to Scraggy. Scraggy looked it over, sniffed, and handed it to Indy. He translated while the chief explained. “He say this will help us. He not know how to use it, but since we are divine messengers, we will know how to use it!”
Indy smirked as he looked at his reflection, then the back. The mirror looked like something one could find for almost nothing in any market from here to Marrakesh. It didn't even have an interesting design on it. Maybe something was hidden behind the glass? He pried at it with his fingernails for a moment, but it was in solid. He'd have to give it a more thorough examination later.
What was the connection between the Mongooboo tribe and the Lost City? Were they related to Tyki's people, or just happened to have settled along the way before these people wiped them out and inherited their legacy? Questions he might ask later, but he didn't actually feel like sticking around here any longer than he had to.
The chief continued to speak, and Scraggy said, “He insist on having us for dinner tonight, to make up for misunderstanding.”
“I thought having us for dinner was the misunderstanding,” Indy deadpanned.
“You think you so funny, Indy. He want to serve us.”
“Again, that could go either way.”
Scraggy shook his head and spoke to the chief. “I tell him we accept his invitation. I not tell him you a smartass.”
Indy slipped the mirror into his satchel and decided to keep it to himself for now. “That's probably for the best,” he admitted.
***
A gorgeous sunrise peaked over the savanna horizon, but nobody witnessed it, busy as they were sleeping off their feast from the night before. Indy wondered how this humble tribe was able to eat so luxuriously, but then again, he knew better than to inquire too much about their recipes.
He slept in a hammock in one of the huts, while outside, Scraggy's Model T now stood parked with several crew members and pirates sleeping in and around it, Kezure himself sprawled across the entire roof and snoring like a banshee. Indy had made a mental note to ask Scraggy which god had blessed that car to make it invincible, and whether the god would be so kind as to do the same for his retirement fund.
A slight tremor surged through the village, shaking the huts and rattling the cooking utensils. Nothing too strong, but enough to wake Indy. As he blinked at the light of dawn, remembering where he was, a figure came sailing through the air and knocked the wind out of him.
“Indy, I'm frightened,” Betsy said, her face inches from his.
“And I'm claustrophobic,” he choked out.
“Do you hear that? There's somethin' out there –”
“It's Kezure's snoring,” Indy snapped, trying to push her away. She resisted, clinging to the hammock, which twisted and became tangled around their bodies.
Clare chose that moment to walk by the hut and glance inside. Indy made eye contact with her just as her mouth fell open.
“Clare! Wait!” He extricated a hand and reached out, but she had already hurried away. He jerked hard to one side, fell onto the floor and rolled away. He pulled himself to his feet with a groan and took a step toward his assailant, still struggling to free herself. “I swear to God, Betsy –”
Then he froze. The vibration was intensifying. The hammock, with Betsy wrapped in it, bobbed up and down before his eyes.
He pulled her down without another word and dragged her outside, where the villagers were also pouring out of their huts and congregating in the middle of town. He found Scraggy, Kezure and the others standing together; Clare raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing as he approached. He realized he was still holding Betsy's hand and cast it aside.
“What's goin' on?” he demanded.
“An earthquake?” Betsy wondered.
The chief stepped forward and said one word that silenced the crowd.
Scraggy translated. “Wildebeest.”
Wildebeest – not what came to most people's minds when they thought of Africa's dangerous wildlife, but more than capable of pounding anyone to a pulp when they were in a hurry. They didn't slow down, they didn't change direction, and they didn't travel alone. By these vibrations it seemed at least a hundred were on their way.
The villagers' silence didn't last long. They cried out as they scattered haphazardly into the surrounding jungle, clearly unprepared for such an eventuality. “We have to get out, or we'll be crushed to death!” Clare exclaimed. “But which way?”
“Scraggy, how close?” Indy asked.
Scraggy put his ear to the trembling ground and concentrated to listen past the fleeing human footsteps around him. “Two miles,” he said. “We have about three minutes.”
An idea was taking form, desperate even by Indiana Jones standards. He was already moving toward the Model T as he spoke. “Where's the softest ground?”
Scraggy asked a passing villager, who shouted something back without breaking stride. Scraggy pointed as he followed Indy. “Over there, Indy. The graveyard.”
Indy grabbed as many shovels as he could carry from the taxi's supply rack and headed in the direction indicated, the others scrambling to keep up, trusting him to get them out of this alive.
The graveyard was a communal one with no headstones to indicate individual burials, but the flowers and monument sign at the front made its purpose clear enough. He threw all but one shovel to the ground and plunged that one into the earth, which was indeed very soft. In fact it seemed to have been recently disturbed. The final resting place of what was left of the Mongooboo? Indy didn't want to think about that. Well, Jones, he thought to himself, you've been called a grave robber, but this is low even for you.
Kezure, Clare, Betsy, and the other pirates and crew members each picked up a shovel and followed his example without being prodded. There was no shovel for Scraggy, which was just as well. His eyes widened as the flung shovelfuls of dirt began to expose pieces of decayed bodies and skeletons, some of them very fresh.
“Oh no!” he said. “Many dead spirits! Bad spirits! We must stay away!”
Indy was not the type under normal circumstances to be intolerant of anyone's beliefs, but the air was filled now with a sound like thunder rising in pitch every moment, and he could hardly keep his footing, so he considered this an extenuating circumstance. He grabbed Scraggy's wrist and pulled him into the hole, where he landed directly in the arms of a skeleton and screamed as if it would take him into the underworld with it.
The hole made the interior of Scraggy's car seem positively luxurious by comparison, but it fit them all. Indy popped up over the edge and started brushing the dirt pile on top of all of them.
“What the hell are you doing?” Betsy shrieked. She had followed his example without question, but now -
“Trust me!” he shouted back.
The last thing he saw before they were all buried alive was a wall of wildebeests burst from the jungle, a wave of rocks and dust and plant detritus going before them, and blasted through the village. The grass huts crumpled like paper and ground into the dirt as the frenzied animals crashed through and over them. The stone oven collapsed without even being touched, like the walls of Jericho, its stones crumbling and rolling in all directions.
Then all was dark. Buried alive – a primal Victorian fear now once again made reality, but for him they brought a worse fear, brought flashbacks of a train car full of snakes threatened to suffocate him. Every muscle in his body screamed with the urge to get out, get out, get out. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, could only feel the dirt pressing down from above and the bodies pressing in from the sides. He heard the hooves go by overhead now with a sound like raindrops on a tin roof, only louder, faster, and more numerous. They seemed to go on for an hour.
Then they faded, the shaking stopped, and the world was silent and still.
The dust still hadn't settled when Indiana Jones burst from the ground, gasping, arms outstretched, looking for all the world like something out of a bad zombie movie. The others followed, coughing, rubbing dirt from their eyes, but alive. He wondered where the villagers had gone off to and how many, if any, had survived. I'll look for them as soon as we get our bearings here, and apologize for this desecration.
“That was very quick thinking, Dr. Jones,” Clare said, brushing off her pants. “You saved us all. Promise me you'll never do that again.”
He grinned and winked at her as he wiped off his fedora. If this little incident had warmed her up to him even a little, it was worth it. “I won't,” he said, “if you come up with a better idea next time.”
Betsy squealed as she ran in circles, trying to detach the skeleton clinging to her back.
The model T lay on its side, sporting a few more dents but still intact unlike the entire village. As Indy and a few of the men pushed it back upright, he asked, “Hey, Scraggy, which god blessed this thing, and can he do the same for my retirement fund?”
Scraggy shook his head sadly. “We need more than blessings, Indy. We disturb bad spirits. We have very bad luck now.”
“I mean, this hasn't been my most fun expedition ever,” Indy said, setting the car in place with a grunt, “but we're not dead. Seems like a good start on luck to me.”
“We're forgetting something,” Clare said as she wandered over. Her flippant tone a moment ago had vanished.
“Oh? What's that?”
“Wildebeests don't just stampede for no reason. And they don't typically come through this way at all, if the villagers' lack of preparedness was any indication. Something provoked them.”
Indy thought about that for a moment. “Um... did those lions from yesterday ever get put back in their cage?”
Before anyone could respond, another sound greeted them, the same low rumbling sound from earlier, the sound that had provoked the wildebeests, the sound Scraggy called Banseebaba. The sound of the stampede had covered it up, and then it had stopped, but now it was louder than ever.
Scraggy swallowed. “This time it is very close, Indy. Very close!”
At that moment, in the same spot where the herd had come through, the jungle erupted in a spray of wood splinters and leaf fragments. Trees crashed to the ground. Indy leaped in one direction while everyone else leaped in another. But with the village flattened, they had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.
A metal monstrosity burst out, over ten times the size of a normal tank, nearly one hundred feet long and over twenty-five feet high. It was stacked in three levels like a Mesopotamian ziggurat, the top level sporting a gun barrel the size of an old-time cannon. Blazing red swastikas adorned both sides of the second level. If this was Scraggy's idea of a giant demon from hell, Indy would be hard pressed to argue.
“The other interested party, Dr. Jones?” Kezure shouted.
“Lucky guess!” Indy shouted back as he scrambled. But I sure didn't expect them to make such a dramatic entrance.
Moving with deceptive speed, the tank ran over Scraggy's Model T and flattened it into an actual pile of scrap metal with a sickening crunch. A strangled sob could be heard even above the roar of its treads.
Next: Chapter Nine
