*****
Some minutes later, McBridle parked in front of the Belk Tower and left the engine running. The dashboard clock indicated the time was 6:55 p.m. Tom saw the evening security guard seated at the front-desk control monitors.
“I’ll pick you up later,” Tom said.
“Don’t worry about getting me. I’ll ask Lankenbury or Mackenzie to drive me home; if not, I’ll take a cab,” McBridle replied, “because these types of meetings could, possibly, last fifteen minutes or four hours so I might not be here when you return.”
The night watchman opened the door for a few of the tower’s regular workaholics. McBridle got out of the vehicle, and Tom slid over to the driver’s side. She looked at him apparently concerned. “Be careful and don’t disappoint me.”
“Don’t worry. I only wreck one car a week; so you’re safe,” Tom replied jokingly.
She straightened out her coat collar; “I’ll see you at my place later on tonight?”
“Of course,” he revved the engine with a heavy shot of gas, “have a warm smile and a cold beer waiting, and let’s talk business,” he replied, as he sped away.
Tom arrived home and got what he needed to complete the mountainous task. He was anxious to find Marsh’s Peak. The dashboard clock now indicated it was 7:38 p.m.; he had to be back at McBridle’s around eleven so there wasn’t plenty of time to search for the Rabbit.
With each minute his heart pounded harder with excitement flowing through his Nukyi-enriched veins. The supernatural wasn’t something he truly believed in; but he was into something unavoidable and could possibly find those missing bodies somewhere in the dirt, which frightened him the most.
The speed limit was 70 mph and traffic was moderately heavy. Tom was in a hurry to get ahead of three slow-moving rigs, but he’d have to excessively exceed the speed limit if he were to pass all three. He accelerated; his speed jumped to ninety in a matter of seconds. He momentarily occupied a portion of the oncoming traffic lane where a semi-rig was barrelling straight ahead. Its floodlights were aimed directly toward him, which complicated his bad luck. He wheeled to the right as hard as he could and was just able to avoid the deadly mistake.
“Man, that was too close for comfort; I’d better cool my foot,” he regurgitated as if he had a catball stuck in his mouth.
The mountain region and the name Marsh’s Peak were clearly marked for sightseers as they crossed the county line. ENJOY THE NORTHERN PEACE OF MIND - WELCOME TO STAMP-LINE COUNTY--POPULATION 5000 AND COUNTING was displayed on a sun-bleached billboard.
Tom slowed his speed as he pulled to the shoulder of the pavement. The area was sort of spooky, like the dead had staked a claim to these mountains. There was a faded sign about twenty car lengths ahead on the opposite side of the road that was partially covered with overgrowth and finger-like tree branches. It was leaning into the embankment but was readable--POSITIVELY NO TRESPASSING (the sign was barely legible except for the bottom) ABSOLUTELY NO DIGGING OR FIREARMS PERMITTED. He ignored the warning and pulled the vehicle into an abandoned service road and drove as far as he could toward the top and parked.
He entered the brush. The thick overhanging branches whipped in his determined face. The digging tools clanged together as he walked and created a sound that someone easily could have heard. He didn’t know the exact direction, but he followed a twisty path that was filling in with young saplings. The wind howled and the loose leaves rustled, creating a ghostly atmosphere. Ghost or no ghost, he hiked onward and up the mountainside.
The narrow path was littered with old metal signs: GROUND UNSTABLE, FOLLOW THE MARKERS, KEEP TO THE LEFT, and WATCH YOUR FOOTING. This was a trail once used by mountain bikers and county maintenance crews and was thought to be safe.
When Tom finally reached the top, he was standing at the edge of a small clearing with a dilapidated old farmhouse and barn positioned in the middle of a weedy acreage. The years of neglect stared him in the face. Beyond the dead structures was the peak extending like an abnormal hand, which jutted out of the ground and overlooked the community and valley below.
There was a foul scent of decaying wood and manure in the air that seemed to come from the barn. Tom stood there and wondered if the Rabbit could be inside, but that would be too easy. A restless owl flew overhead, an omen he thought. His eyes followed its flight until it came to rest on an age-weakened fence post. He stepped over the entanglement of rusted herd wire and entered a clearing. The surroundings appeared like a forgotten graveyard with the remnants of unwanted farm equipment into the ground as if they hadn’t been touched in a hundred and ten years. It was in that general vicinity where he felt the presence of something unearthly.
Tom dropped the digging utensils. A force was guiding him toward a tall cluster of weeds and dead growth. He pulled back the dry limbs and shone the light into the cavity. There was a statue of a man elevated upon a low pedestal. The figure appeared to be cast from blackened iron and stood about five feet in height. The likeness wore buckskins and matching hat and posed with one hand holding a rifle of some sort. The other hand was slung over its shoulder as if it were supporting something. Tom snapped off a handful of branches and looked behind the iron body. The man was holding a long-eared mammal by the hind legs.
“The Rabbit,” Tom whispered as he experienced a head rush that almost caused him to topple and grabbed whatever was around him to keep from falling backwards. A voice warned him there was someone or something behind him, which sent him to the ground in a panic. He scrambled to one weak knee and called, “Who the hell’s there?” He aimed the flashlight in the direction where the voice had originated.
“Don’t be alarmed.”
“And who are you?” Tom demanded while getting to his feet.
“The names Rab Bitter,” he said, and extended a friendly hand.
“You scared the crud out of me.”
“Wasn’t my intentions,” he admitted as he helped the visitor pluck the sticky burrs off his cloths.
Tom straightened up. “You live around here or just out for a night stroll carrying, what I suspect is, a loaded rifle?” he inquired while observing the man’s awful teeth and weathered face, which matched the description of that iron obelisk hiding in the bushes.
“You okay with that, young fella? An old fella like me can’t be too shy about protecting his worth,” the old guy said with a growing hostility.
“I’m fine with the gun; just don’t shoot me in the foot,” Tom replied, and aimed the barrel toward a neutral direction. “That monument thing...” Tom mentioned as he pointed the light at the weeds, “you know who that was?”
“Why ya asking me that question like you’re afraid of the truth?”
“Just that the iron-thing resembles you,” Tom said lightly.
“That’s because it is me; there in that darn thing,” the man replied.
“Oh, you’re telling me it’s a family member from the past who looks like you,” Tom said relieved.
“No, I mean it is me you darn see there.”
Tom leaned inward for a closer look. “That can’t be true,” he said hopefully.
“Get used to it schoolboy. I’ve been trapped in this iron casket for over one-hundred and fourteen miserable years. Now that I’m out, I’m not jumping into that iron pot for nobody.”
“What the hell are you, other than a figment of my warped imagination?” Tom asked. The man’s appearance was obviously neglected, and he stunk like he’d been on a hundred-year drinking binge.
“Why, I’m a man just like ya except shorter height and taller on wisdom.”
Tom estimated the man was about five-two, maybe five-three standing on his toes, and about eighty-nine pounds, if that, soaking wet. “So, you’re telling me that you’re the man in the statue, and you expect me to believe that?”
“That’s what I said. Ya got a hearing problem or something?”
“I can hear you perfectly well, I just don’t believe you’re real,” he said, fully c
onvinced. “I’ve been manifesting some bad insanity, and this episode could be another mind-crash designed to drive me further into the grave.”
The man spit a mouthful of ripe chewing tobacco. “In the years I’ve been imprisoned here, I’ve seen many people come and go. You’ve probably come searching for those graves.” The man was acting more interested in polishing his rifle than telling Tom the whereabouts of the bodies.
“And what do you know about these graves?” Tom asked inquisitively.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this fire-stick in these hands.” He eyed Tom with amazement. “This power ya possess has released me from the iron and has allowed me to walk upon the ground that I once called home.” He pointed across the way. “I was fiddling happy and twenty-two when I built that there house and barn,” the man said, as if he were proud of his forgotten accomplishments. “Now look at it; my work is gone to the soil.”
Tom didn’t care to look. “Who cares about your work--what about these graves?”
The man didn’t reply, he just fired the weapon and severed a thick branch from a skinny tree. There was a streak of fire and an explosive noise but no posse around to record his excellent marksmanship.
“I was told I’d find the Rabbit up here.”
“A high-minded city slicker comes prancing on my turf, I want ta know what’s it to ya?”
“Listen, little man, I was told to find the Rabbit. Do you know what that means?” Tom inquired forcefully.
“Nope; I’ve never heard of such a hairy fable.”
“If you can’t help me, then get back into the iron.”
“Don’t be so quick; I’m trying my best.”
“Then, you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes... of course I know. I know everything. I was known around these parts as... The Rabbit because I was the best shot in all these lands and got me the most rabbits in a season. That’s how I got me name. I was good with a rifle, and my abilities to twist and turn in the deeps of the ground in search for gold made me a legend in these parts.”
“So, then, make yourself useful; tell me where the bodies are resting?” Tom demanded.
The little man acknowledged Tom’s request. “Over there,” Rab said, and pointed to where the grassy land had recently been disturbed.
Tom walked over to inspect the flattened grass near a fallen wire fence. “Whereabouts?” he called to the short man.
“Dig directly below; I promise ya’ll find those bodies four feet down.”
He began to dig; the ground was soft at first. Then he began to cut into a layer of hard clay. He stopped. “Are you sure this is the place? The ground is like century-old concrete.”
Rab tapped his whiskered chin. “I could be mistaken.”
Tom jumped out of the shallow hole, angry as hell. “What do you mean? Don’t play games.” He pointed an angry finger. “Tell me exactly where the grave is or I’ll turn that iron shell into a furnace dinner box. Now spit it out, shorty‑pants.”
“Oh, of course, pardon me, it was a nervous mistake. I remember now,” Rab said diplomatically; he had to rethink.
“Well, where?” Tom asked after a moment of silence.
“Now, I remember. Down the back trail, there’s a mining shaft filled with rusty water. It’s not far from there.” He scampered through the dark over the slippery rocks and between the rooted trees, laughing like a drunken idiot.
“Slow down little man; you’re losing me,” Tom shouted across the darkness. When Tom caught up, Rab was nesting in a tree, adjusting his rifle.
“I promise this is the place,” the little man said and jumped off his perch to the ground.
Tom was annoyed and grabbed the sawn-off runt by the neck. “This is hogwash; tell me where the bodies are buried, or I’ll make sure the Devil eats your soul for a midnight snack?”
Rab began to laugh; the harder he laughed, the harder Tom squeezed Rab’s juggler. When Tom’s mind cleared, he realized he was strangling the handle of the shovel. “You little pipsqueak; tell me where the bodies are because I haven’t got all night,” he shouted into the wind; but he was alone and decided to make his way back to the farmhouse. When he reached there, he gathered up his tools and resumed his search when he heard a voice from behind.
“It was a humid summer night when a crew of big men dug a hole and dropped the tomb inside the ground.”
Tom spun around, “You again; go find another playmate. I don’t have time for your nonsense.”
“I knew those men died a cruel and tormented death; I could smell it in the air.”
“So you decided to tell me the truth?” Tom said as he looked in the direction to where Rab pointed. There was an aged tree with robust limbs that stretched outward like muscular arms standing at the end of the lot. Tom gathered up his things and walked toward the gravesite. “This better be the place, I’m getting sick and tired of your false searches.”
“If ya truly seek what ya come to find, then ya shall find it with ease; if not, ya’ll fail.”
“Don’t give me that poet mouthwash. My week until now has been the backend of a jackass so just save the philosophy for the philosopher,” he said with an aggravated mouth.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed ya but I’m just enjoying what little time I have. I’m sure ya can understand that.”
Tom turned toward Rab with an annoyed face; but the little fella was gone into the wooded darkness, and he stood alone.
This was it. He could feel it. A few feet of soil separated him from the rotten corpses. Tom gripped the shovel firmly and started to dig. He drove the sharp blade into the hallow ground and began to uncover the mystery of those two men who disappeared.
He tossed off his jacket to the ground and rolled up his shirtsleeves. This was hot work and harder than he thought. The sweat dripped from his face, the dust caked on his gloves, and fatigue forced him to stop and rest. And as he slammed the shovel into the soil, it created a hollow noise; he had broken through the top seal. Tom dropped to his knees and began to push the dirt away with the palms of his gloves. Anxiously he brushed aside the remaining clay powder that dusted the box; then he lifted the lid. The bodies were kept in black body bags that didn’t allow him an immediate view of their hideous deformities.
The stench of rotten flesh escaped into the air, and he felt an ill response in the pit of his stomach. He knew there were clues beyond the plastic sacks. He released the zippers, and uncovered their mutilated faces. They were lying face up, stripped of all their worldly possessions. The corpses’ faces barely resembled those of human beings. Their skulls were deformed with what appeared to be caused by blunt-force impact, possibly a heavy pipe or wooden bat. The stench had intensified; Tom could barely contain himself from vomiting.
He backed away from the bodies and leaned up against the old tree. He turned and stared at their mutilated faces trying to determine what they looked like before their gruff deaths. There was a sound of shuffling leaves that alarmed him. He thought he could have been followed so he shone the light into the darkness to confirm he was alone; it was just a discarded plastic shopping bag blowing across the field.
With the flashlight directed at the bodies, he leaned closer to view the shrivelled eyes of the corpse on the right. He heard a voice, and this startled him. He jumped back against the tree. The flashlight fell from his hand and landed in front of the corpse’s face.
The corpse sat up out of the bag and popped its bones into a ghoulish configuration and said in a dead, dry tone. “I knew someone would come and desecrate my truth.”
“You were waiting. Who told you someone was coming?” Tom inquired in a tense tone as he moved closer into the hole and reacquired the flashlight.
“That is not of your importance.”
“Then, tell me why you reactivated to life?”
“The powers of the beyond are a mystified force,” the ghoul said in a monstrous voice.
“I realize that, and I don’t have all night
to chat about the art of evil spells,” Tom said, fully annoyed.
The ghoul pointed its bowed finger. “I worked for Carravecky and Sons for the past nine years,” the regenerated body revealed, “and for four years, I worked on developing a missile guided system for the new L-18 missile. Unofficially, and only in secrecy, was this development called The Carra-Messen Missile.”
“What about this missile?” Tom asked curiously.
“To answer that I must explain,” the ghoul said while chocking up part of its blood-black lung. “Months ago, there were two security breaches,” its voice grew truthful and grim, “each occurred about a month apart.”
“Yeah, I know all about that,” Tom said impatiently.
“The first breach was acknowledged, and security was stepped up.”
“Yeah, so get to the point,” Tom said with a bossy mouth.
“Carravecky ignored the data and said: ‘this would never happen again.’ It wasn’t until the second breach that a potential security problem surfaced. I was the lead scientist for this project sector so it was my decision to run a full diagnostic test on all the equipment to determine if any of the missile programs had been scanned or compromised. Carravecky’s new security system, the TR-110, identified several changes in the activation programs.”
“Then what happened?” Tom asked while ignoring the long-tail rodent that crawled out of the ghoul’s sunken chest cavity.
“These changes were traced back to the company’s satellite up-links. I documented my findings, but it was undetermined who made these unauthorized changes. The problem was corrected, and the system was restored to normal. For some reason, Doctor Carravecky wasn’t willing to acknowledge the first breach or the second and destroyed all the records pertaining to these unexplainable events.”
Tom sat in the grave and leaned closer to the body, “So, he knows exactly what’s going on.”
“Of course he knows; a few years ago, the government pulled funding from this special project, or so they said, and instructed Carravecky to put all development on hold until further notice; that never happened.”
“So the old man is filling us with lots of golden fibs?”
“Carravecky had different plans and secretly continued to develop the weapons. This European group funded the project, which we estimated to cost billions. Every person who worked on the project or knew about it was informed that if they talked, they’d end up dead.”
“The old man said that?”
“The words weren’t so prolific, but he meant business. This was why no one would admit that the project continued.”
“And what about this project? What’s going on with it now?”
“The L-18 Missile was constructed to be used with another device--some type of sky carrier. The only thing I knew was that its exterior body was made from a special organic material, which was extremely lightweight with incalculable tensile strength. This project was named and classified Project Re-Fire. This was because the sky launcher could be reused,” the ghoul said while holding its jaw and keeping it from dropping off.
“Then,” Tom paused, as if in thought, “this is why you were murdered because you were going to talk and expose them?”
“That’s part of the reason,” the ghoul replied and retched its neck; the sound of cracking bones filled the night air. “There is a man; his name is Remmie Take.”
“Yeah, I heard of the guy,” Tom said. “The man’s not a Saint.”
“He and his army of thugs made me an example of what would happen if anyone else attempted to stop Carravecky’s plans to transport this weapon system, which I believe is scheduled for this Friday night. Now Doctor Carravecky is powerless over them and has chosen to close his eyes to everything that has happened in the last few months. I believe this European group is linked to Russian extremists and will stop at nothing to get what they paid for; and if they have to kill someone or everyone in the process, so be it. Watch your back, discover the answers, and don’t get yourself killed.”
“I need a clue--some evidence, anything,” Tom held the ghoul upright.
The ghoul’s exhausted body began to settle back into the grave. “You must find the man with the anchor on his left hand; he will be most helpful,” the dead scientist expelled, almost out of beyond-life.
“What do you mean? Who is this man? Tell me! I must know his whereabouts and identity,” but it was too late; the body was once again stiff and lifeless. He sat back from the bodies and just stared at death for a good ten minutes before he mustered the mental strength to seal the dead Carravecky employees back into the body bags. “Man, this has been a rotten night,” Tom moaned in a dog-tired breath as he began to shovel in the tomb.
A short time later, he stood overlooking the manual excavation with a bad case of heartburn and wondered what to do next. He shook the dirt from his ruined clothes. His business here was complete. He couldn’t go back to McBridle’s house looking like a tramp so, first, he’d go home and clean up. He gathered up the tools and returned to the car.