Ancient Echoes (21 page)

THE HORSES MOVED briskly through
the wilderness area until they reached Devil’s Gulch, some four hours after
leaving Polly Higgins’ ranch.

Charlotte quickly overcame her fear of the gentle gelding
she had been given, but the empty countryside troubled her. She understood the
dangers inherent in big cities with hordes of people packed close together, and
she learned to be alert, careful, and cautious around them. Here, she had no
idea what to expect.

The foursome followed a Forest Service fire trail along one
of the Salmon’s tributaries. The ground rose gradually from stands of lodgepole
pines and Douglas firs with outcrops of granodiorite towering above the creek
to treeless terraces and crumbling granite hillsides. As the miles passed,
cliffs of metamorphic rock sprouted from buck brush and fescue. A few hearty
wildflowers still bloomed before winter’s freeze hit.

Most of Central Idaho had been formed by a mass of granite
called the Idaho Batholith. A geologically active area, the landscape had been
shaped by erupting volcanoes, melting glaciers, and severe earthquakes as
recently as 10,000 years ago. Time hadn’t yet softened the jagged peaks and
ridges of the mountains, eased their vertical walls, or rounded their sharp
edges, and the landscape had a spiky crispness.

Jake pointed out a family of Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep
peering down at them from cliff faces. Several stood in spots that appeared
unapproachable and impenetrable for any animal, two or four-legged.

Every so often, a rise provided a view of the endless,
desolate mountains they were supposed to search. Charlotte admitted she’d never
before felt quite as small and insignificant. Quade sat as if lost in
meditation, the reins lightly held in one hand, his eyelids half shut, and his
pink cupid lips upturned in a mystical smile, while Michael paid close
attention to every detail.

A strange sense of eerie desolation pervaded the land. Even
if the stories of “something bad” were completely false, Michael sensed why
they had started. The cool breeze which had aided their journey throughout the
morning suddenly stopped. Now, the air turned still, and not the faintest
breath of wind stirred a cloudless sky.

As they journeyed ever deeper and higher into the mountains,
the excessive loneliness of the area reminded Michael of the
kurgans
, a
lurking disquiet of something that didn’t belong. At the same time, the
conviction struck that the beings who didn’t belong here were him and his
companions.

The land connected itself to Michael, and drew him
inexorably forward. The mountainous deer path they followed eventually opened
to a sea of grassland. A single tree, now dead, stood at one side. Black crows
lined a branch, peering down on them, while a lone golden eagle circled
overhead. A fox started across their path, saw them, then turned and
disappeared so suddenly it seemed to vanish into the air.

When they finally reached Devil’s Gulch, they found it a
barren indentation that looked like a quarter-mile wide strip of cat litter
laid down between face-to-face cliffs. There, they stopped for lunch. Polly had
sent them off with big roast beef and cheese sandwiches on homemade bread,
telling them to save the beef jerky and dried packaged food until they really
needed it.

As he ate, Michael looked at his Iridium satellite phone and
read the email from Jianjun. “My associate confirmed that a secret expedition
set out to follow Lewis and Clark in hopes of finding
The Book of Abraham
the Jew
out here. They failed, and now Lionel has been paid a lot of money
to do the same thing,” Michael told the others.

“He was paid to do this?” Jake said with disgust. “To bring
a bunch of kids out to this wilderness with no guide, no one who knows how to
handle
himself
in nature when things go bad? How
ironic that money seems to be the root of all the troubles here, and it doesn’t
matter if it comes from gold or is nothing but
paper
.”

o0o

Ted’s legs gave out as he watched his companions disappear,
one by one, as they stepped between the pillars.

Too frightened to move, he sat on the ground and waited,
telling himself it was an optical illusion. They were all right. He would see
them again.

One minute passed.
Two.
Five.

It had to be a joke of some kind, he told himself.
A practical joke.
He limped on tired, sore feet around the
mound, praying he'd find all six of them waiting for him on the opposite side.
They would laugh at him, the way so-called friends and classmates had done all
his life. He didn't care. He'd rather be laughed at than stranded.

He circled the entire mound, but saw no sign of them. No
sign of anyone. All his complaints about hunger and thirst, aching muscles and
blistered feet, disappeared.

Something had happened at the top of that mound. It happened
fast, too fast for them to call for help or do anything to save
themselves
.

If he went up there, the same would happen to him. He was no
dummy. No way was he going to do that to himself.

He wanted to go home.

Besides, he was hungry.
And exhausted.
He had a lot more weight to lug around than the anorexic Vince, and Melisse's
weight look like all muscle.

He hadn't even wanted to come on this stupid trip. "I
want to know what Lionel Rempart's up to," his mother had told him.
"So you're going! You can handle it for five days. You might even lose a
few pounds, which would be good for you...unless you like being known as the
Eric Cartman of BSU," she said, referring to the obnoxious fat boy on
South
Park
.

His mother's slam made him hide his fear. "It'll be a
waste of time," he muttered.

"As if you've got something better to
do!
Besides, if there's anything special out there, I'm not letting some
Easterner claim all the glory."

In the end, she won.
As always.

Ted's muscles ached, his feet were so badly blistered he
could scarcely walk, and he was freezing. He wanted nothing more than to sit in
front of a big fire. No one had even bothered to collect firewood yet.

He decided to wait. Soon, he told himself, soon they would
come back.

But night quickly approached. He didn’t want to be alone out
here at night.

He had two choices, to find a way back home all by himself,
or to go after his friends.

The thought of both filled him with dread, but no way—no way
on earth—would he spend the night alone next to those pillars. If he headed
east, eventually he would reach the north-south highway that ran between Idaho
and Montana. How hard could that be?

But how many days would it take? And what would he do for
food or water? And what about the animals out here, the wolves, bears…and
whatever took Brian?

He didn’t know anything about survival in this wilderness.

His stomach ached from hunger, and his mouth was dry. His
friends weren’t too far away, he told himself. And maybe they were waiting for
him. They wouldn’t leave him, would they?

No! Never!

Too frightened to stay put, he did the only thing he could.
He walked toward the pillars. With each step, lightning flashed and thunder
rolled.

He began to climb the mound. He got up about five feet, but
slid back down again.

Finally, crawling on hands and knees, after about thirty
minutes he managed to make his way to the very top.

Holding his breath, he walked between the pillars.

And nothing happened.

Everywhere he looked, everything appeared the same as
before. And he was still alone.

Sad, miserable, scared, he slipped and slid his way back
down the mound.

At the bottom, he shuddered as he looked out across the
valley, at the high mountains all around. He had to find his way back home.
Somehow, he would make it.

The area, he noticed, had suddenly developed a strange
stench.
A smell of decay.

He guessed he’d been too busy looking at the pillars to
notice it before, but he wanted to get away from it now. It grew stronger
quickly, making it almost hurt to breathe. He began to walk in the direction he
thought was east.

At the edge of the valley, the firs thickened and the ground
began to rise. Something flicked by up ahead.

His instincts told him to run, but what if it was one of the
others? Or maybe even a rescue team? Earlier they had speculated that many
people must be searching for them.

“Help!” he yelled. “I’m over here! Is anyone there?
Haaallooow out there!”

No one answered. He must have been wrong.

Exhausted, he continued on. He would make it to the top of
this mountain and then he’d be able to study the topography, determine the best
route to reach civilization. Yes, that would do it. Everything would look
better up there. He could see into the distance—maybe even find some hunters or
fishermen.
Anyone.

Something moved in the brush to his right. His heart nearly
stopped. He faced there.
Nothing.

He went faster, running, climbing, slipping,
his
breathing hard and labored.
Maybe if
he ignored it, it would go away, leave him alone.

The brush suddenly cleared. A full minute passed before he registered
what he saw on the ground. A small pile of bones that had been picked clean
were neatly stacked to look like a miniature ivory pyramid. What kind of animal
stacked bones of its kill?

The skin on his neck prickled. He was so scared tears sprang
to his eyes. A rustle of leaves sounded nearby.

He ran, almost tripping over his own feet. He didn’t
stop,
his mind a gibbering, screaming mess. The only sounds
were those of his footsteps and his panting.

Tears fell.
Please, please,
he prayed.

Something big, black, and fast streaked out in front of him.

He screamed and came to an abrupt stop, his feet slipping on
the silty ground. He fell on his backside, but quickly scrambled up, eyes wide,
head swiveling back and forth. He saw nothing, heard only the sound of his
wheezing, felt a burning pain in his chest. And then he heard leaves rustling
sharp and fast.
Too fast.

This couldn’t be happening to him. He let out a hysterical
cry and forced leaden legs to run. He sobbed and shouted for help. Grunts and
snarls sounded close behind him, loud and growing louder.

 “No! Leave me alone!” he screamed.

His shoulder burst in red-hot pain. Unbalanced, he spun
around, arms flailing. Except that he didn’t see his left arm. He looked at
where his left arm used to be, and then, horrified, he looked up at his
pursuer. His mind snapped.

What little sanity he had left escaped in one high-pitched
scream.

Washington D.C.

THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTE consisted
of nineteen museums, 144 affiliate museums, and nine research centers in its
public sector, but that wasn't the entire Institute by any means. Many of its
136 million objects, art works, and specimens were not displayed, but tucked
away in special buildings and locations for only researchers and museum employees
to handle and study. These were places the public and most of the Institute's
employees knew nothing about.

On a hunch, Jianjun filled out the document request form
with the information he’d found on Lionel Rempart’s “Smith Inst” note and
twenty minutes later a museum attendant brought him a box of materials.
Success! He carried it to a carrel.

Opening it, he found dishes, rusted spoons, tools, knives,
and penny nails from the failed Mormon community at New Gideon, Idaho. He
wondered why Rempart would care about this old junk. But digging deeper, he
found strange Indian trinkets and then an aged and battered bound journal with
a thick leather cover.

He opened the journal and stared with amazement at the
date—1806, a year after the Lewis and Clark expedition. The writing had turned
so faint over the years, brown-tinged ink on age-darkened pages, and the
formation of letters so curvy and embellished, that he was forced to read
slowly, making out one word at a time. But as he read, his skin rippled with
goose-bumps.

Journal

Property of
Francis Masterson

The
Spring
of Our Lord, 1806

All hope is gone. Evil is victorious.

In the time I have remaining I will, herewith, impart a
tale so filled with Dread and Terror that my heart overflows with immeasurable
Sorrow to tell it.

It began with the highest of Good Will and Promise and,
on my part, great Excitement. I can only trust to Providence that one day this
small account which I leave in a land of unimaginable desolation and Wildness,
may be discovered, and that it will serve to warn others of the wickedness that
may ensnare Good men.

Ours was to be a Secret Expedition, and we were, each and
Every One, to keep our own Journal in accordance with our discipline. As the Journey
continued, however, such writings lessened, and so I have taken upon myself the
sad Burden to record a brief History of our group since I fear we will never
meet our Loved Ones again this side of Heaven.

It all began simply.

President Thomas Jefferson, scandalous rumor to the
contrary, was neither Rosicrucian nor Illuminati, but he had an understanding
of the world beyond the ken of most men. He realized that there are Wonders on
this Earth that Rational Science and the strange Beliefs of the Churched could
not begin to fathom.