Shadows of Shambhala (An Arcane Adventure of Capt. Gideon Argo and The Flying Zombies) Read online

  Captain Gideon Argo and the Flying Zombies vs.

  The Shadows of Shambhala

  TONY SIMMONS

  A Syndicate Studios Publication, Panama City, Florida

  Copyright © 2018 by Tony Simmons

  First ebook and print publication February 2018

  Cover art and design copyright © 2018 by Jayson Kretzer; colors by Andrew Pate

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, places or institutions, living or dead, is coincidental or used for the purpose of satire. Inquiries should be addressed to: The Syndicate Studio, 318 Luverne Ave., Panama City, FL 32401All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  DEDICATION

  For Debra, Nathaniel and Jessica;

  And for Maxwell Grant and James Hilton

  With thanks to the Cheshires:

  Mark, Carole, Ruth, Rich, Marty, and Milinda

  And to The Syndicate:

  Mark, Brady, and Jayson

  WHO ARE THE FLYING ZOMBIES?

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOIN THE CREW!

  THE ARCANE ADVENTURES OF

  CAPT. Gideon Argo

  and the Flying Zombies

  In order of appearance:

  Adventures in the Arcane Vol. 1 (2016)

  “The Lost Lemurians, Chapters 12-13”

  Capt. Gideon Argo and The Flying Zombies vs. The Lost Lemurians (2017); novel-length expansion of short story set in March 1933

  Adventures in the Arcane Vol. 2 (2017)

  “The Slave Bazaar of Zanzibar,” short story set in 1925

  The Shadows of Shambhala (2018); novella set in September 1932

  Soon to come:

  Adventures in the Arcane Vol. 3 (2018)

  “The Blood Beast from Beyond” novella set in October 1931

  And further adventures yet to be chronicled….

  In addition, Argo and the Zombies have been referenced as fictional characters whose books are read by the main characters in The Caliban Cycle novels and This Mortal Flesh. (See ‘About the Author’ for a complete list of his works.)

  WHO ARE THE FLYING ZOMBIES?

  A Primer for those new to the SAGA

  Captain Gideon Argo: Age unknown, possibly in his 50s, though he appears to be in his 30s. Male, 6-foot-4, 230 pounds, lean and muscular. Dusky complexion and black hair hints at Latin origins, though some evidence points to his birth on an island off the coast of Greece. Piercing grey/white eyes. First formed the Flying Zombies during World War I (possibly in his late 20s/early 30s at the time). There are many myths about his origins, some of which he perpetuates, and none of which can be proven.

  The Flying Zombies: Originally the name of a squadron of expatriate pilots flying Sopwith Camels over France and Germany under command of Gideon Argo, who was granted an official military title by the French Foreign Legion. The name was initially bestowed on the squadron by Baron Manfred von Richthofen, as his way of disrespecting those who would challenge his Jagdgeschwader unit, the infamous “Flying Circus.” The Zombies, however, embraced the nickname, because they followed orders, flew suicide missions, and (often) somehow (most of them) returned to fly again. Currently, the name identifies the crew of Shadow, Argo’s support team of specialists, traveling the world in the cause of justice and humanity. Crew members dress in funereal black fatigues. Their motto is “Immortui Pugnam” (Zombies Fight On), and their emblem is a stylized skull with angel wings.

  Cactus Bill: American Indian (won’t specify tribal affiliation), late 30s, red complexion, black hair cut short, brown eyes. Sometimes called “The Sagebrush Bard” for his habit of quoting Shakespeare ad nauseam. Favors “Western” wear (10-gallon hat, leather chaps, cowboy boots, big buckles, and six-shooters). Most people assume he’s lampooning the cowboys, but that would be incorrect. Composes and sings ballads about the Flying Zombies’ adventures. Was a teenager when he met Argo, joined him in France to fight Germany. Skilled tracker and scout.

  “Doc” Riley: Caucasian male, 30, Irish heritage. His older brother flew with Argo in World War I, and later as the designated “Wings” piloting Shadow. Trained as a surgeon but drummed out of residency for unspecified reasons. Recruited as a field medic when both his brother and the crew’s previous “Doc” died on a mission in Romania. From California. About 6-feet, 180 pounds. Brown hair bleached light by sun, chlorine pools and salt water; brown eyes. Surfer. NOTE: Doc narrates the extant adventures because Argo doesn’t have the time, patience or inclination.

  Johnny-D: Caucasian male, 30s. New Yorker. Tells people different things about what the “D” stands for. Crack shot, demolitions specialist. Decent hand-to-hand street fighter. Hair color changes with mood. Hazel eyes. 6-foot-1, 185 pounds. Wiry. Serves as second in command after Argo and leads Team Phantom during infiltration missions. Flew with the original Zombies as a teenager (lied about his age).

  Sparks: African-American male, early 30s, 6 feet tall, 175 pounds. Black hair close cropped (sometimes shaves his head), brown eyes. Radio operator and electrical engineer. From Akron, Ohio. Multilingual. Inventive; dissatisfied with the portable radio backpacks he designed, he’s now working on a long-range personal communications device that could be worn on the hip like a sidearm, no larger than a flare gun.

  Tallahassee (“Tally”): Seminole female. 30s, 5-foot-9. Strong enough to wrestle alligators. Smart enough not to. Weapons specialist. Trains Zombies to shoot. Also, a pacifist who prefers to talk her way out of trouble. This does not make her a liability. Has a soft spot for Johnny-D.

  Wings: Caucasian female, mid-20s, 5-foot-4. Natural pilot. Flies Shadow, the Zombies’ mobile base of operations. Has a bit of a Southern accent, but she’s no debutante. Background a mystery. Joined the Flying Zombies just before Doc Riley; she replaced his deceased brother as Shadow’s pilot.

  Zed: Caucasian male, age possibly 40. Enthusiastic brawler. Big fisted, big emotions. Over 6-feet, 230 pounds of solid muscle. Easy to rile, quick to laugh. Impulsive. London accent; sometimes assumes a Cockney accent for effect. Smarter than he acts. Red hair and beard, pale complexion. Likes knives; fights with them, throws them with great accuracy.

  Shadow: Rigid-frame dirigible. Mobile base of operations for the Flying Zombies. Within the framework of the envelope are the training room, conference/ready room, bunkhouse, and mess. Within the partially enveloped gondola are weapons, communications, sickbay, cockpit, electrical engines. Normally painted black for night/stealth operations and to make an imposing daytime presence; the Flying Zombies symbol prominently displayed on both sides of envelope.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Under the Earth

  23 September 1932

  Sanskrit Month of Asvina, Buddhist Year 2475

  T

  he slim man’s wrists and elbows were bound behind him, and drawn up by a length of hemp rope attached to the cave ceiling in such a way that he was bent forward and only his toes touched the rock floor. His long, aristocratic nose was broken, his eyes almost buried under swollen lids. His winter clothes had been cut off him and lay in tatters on the ground, leaving him wearing only bloodstained boxers and climbing boots in the icy cold.

  “Chin up, Captain
Argo,” the man said to his similarly suspended companion. “This won’t take much longer.”

  Argo grimaced. His shoulders, back, and legs burned from the strain of trying to support himself in this position, and he’d nearly passed out from exhaustion before the dangling man spoke. He wondered when he’d told the man his name, but time and memory had become garbled in his agony. Now he looked around at the narrow cave where they were trapped and saw a hulking guard approach past the eerie glow of crystals embedded in the granite tunnel walls.

  The guard, a Turko-Mongolian with broad shoulders and the arms of a wrestler, wore silk pants and sandals with a crossed bandolier over his bare chest. He paused to remove a blue turban from his bald head, setting it by the wall — well clear of any blood spatter. He’d wrapped strips of leather around his knuckles, and Argo knew what was coming — more of the same beating they’d already endured.

  The guard never spoke. They’d been asked no questions. And Argo had lost track of how many times he’d been pummeled since his capture.

  Squaring off with Argo’s fellow prisoner, the guard grinned and smacked his tongue against his lips as if anticipating a tasty treat. He pumped his arms like a boxer entering the ring, then pounded his ham-sized fist into the dangling man’s ribs. Bones cracked. The man swung off his feet, arms taking all his weight. He coughed, gagged, and wheezed — Argo wondered if his lung was punctured.

  But as the prisoner regained his footing, the wheeze broke, over and over, turning into a hooting exhalation, a sort of ululation that became a ghostly laugh. It echoed in the cave, returning to their ears with weird layers added by the deep earth — the cackle of a demon.

  The guard frowned. He drew back to punch the man again.

  “Leave him alone!” Argo shouted. “You’re killing him!”

  The guard’s fist flew, and though Argo heard the wet impact of flesh against flesh, he saw nothing — the cave went dark as only deep caverns can. The crystal lights winked out, then on and off again, allowing Argo a frightening glimpse of the hanging man’s devilish grin. The mad laughter returned, the flickering continued — and in the moments of light, silhouetted images of a fight appeared before Argo’s eyes.

  … The slim man clutching the rope over his head, his legs enwrapping the guard’s neck.

  … The bodies shifted sideways, the guard toppling.

  … The slim man somehow flipping in the air, heels up, coming free of his bonds.

  … The black shape of a man looming close, his eyes glowing blue-white like the crystals in the wall.

  Then nothing. Darkness. Silence.

  The tension of the ropes holding Argo upright disappeared, and Argo collapsed. He’d have fallen face-first to the stone floor if not for strong arms catching him in the dark.

  “Be still a moment,” the slim man whispered, settling Argo on the ground. “Let me get you untied. It’ll take a few minutes for your circulation and feeling to come back.”

  “You anticipated the blackout,” Argo said.

  “Yes, the Vril that powers the eternal sun is fading. If we don’t correct it, it could mean the end of Shambhala — and possibly civilization as we know it.”

  “Your eyes,” Argo said.

  “What of them?”

  Argo felt the ropes on his wrists and elbows loosen and fall away as the man untied him. He brought his hands in front of his face — nothing. Total darkness. Argo flexed his fingers and arms, worked his shoulders, clenching his teeth as the feeling returned and pain flared. Rather than ask the man about his vision of glowing eyes, Argo said, “I believe you’re the man I’ve been looking for.”

  “I’m flattered, but —”

  “Are you Alan Kenston?” Argo asked.

  Silence. Argo imagined the man nodding in the dark.

  “I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” the man said. “But I’m afraid Alan Kenston died in South America, after the war.”

  “Or so you wanted everyone to believe. You disappeared in the rain forests of Honduras, searching for—”

  “The White City, La Ciudad Blanca,” the man said. “Kenston was looking for El Dorado.”

  “Wrong continent,” Argo said, recalling the last time he’d gazed upon the fabled city of gold.

  “I won’t ask how you can say that with such certainty,” the man said.

  “And I won’t explain. The point is, you are — or were — Alan Kenston.”

  “The man used many names, many identities, and that was one. Kenston is dead,” he said. “But I still live, and have to ask why Captain Gideon Argo, leader of the Flying Zombies, seeks a dead man?”

  “Kind of a long story,” Argo said.

  He heard the sound of movement as Kenston — a name as good as any other — settled on the stony floor beside him. “We can’t move until the crystals re-energize,” the man said. “The wrong step in these tunnels, and you’ll end up at the bottom of a crevasse. So give me the highlights, and I’ll do the same. Maybe we can help each other.”

  “Maybe you can teach me how you did that escape trick?”

  The slim man chuckled. “One miracle at a time.”

  ***

  Paris, France

  Two Months Earlier

  From the Journal of “Doc” Riley:

  The woman waiting in the café booth wore an ankle-length skirt of steel gray over black boots, a gray wool coat with a cinched waist over a white satin blouse — and a pinched expression. She looked like an auburn-haired Carole Lombard, waiting for a spy. A pith helmet sat on the bench at her side, perched atop a bulging brown leather satchel. She nursed a room-temperature beer and glanced out the window by the booth. Her long hair was tied in a bun at the back of her neck such that the pith helmet would sit naturally. Her gray eyes scanned the room, and she rose the moment she spotted Captain Argo, Johnny-D, and me. She did not wave.

  Argo crossed between round café tables where men and women sat chatting, smoking cigarettes, discussing art and politics, and drinking wine. His second, Johnny-D, found a column to lean against and surveyed the room. Unsure where to go, I followed Argo, who extended his hand to the lady.

  “Captain Argo, I’m Constance Dunwich, Special Advisor with Black 23,” she said in the accent of a London professor, taking his hand and frowning. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  He gestured at her seat, and as she settled down he took the bench across from her, leaving room for me to slide in beside him. Dunwich signaled the bartender, and a waitress brought Argo a Scotch. She’d ordered for him already.

  “Sorry, Mister—?” Dunwich offered, squinting at me.

  “This is Doc, our field medic,” Argo said.

  I traded a nod with the lady and waved away the waitress. Johnny D scowled. He’d have ordered a beverage if he was me.

  Argo thanked Dunwich and sipped his drink. “You asked for this meeting, so why the long face?”

  The woman glanced at Johnny-D, who pretended not to notice. She studied Argo’s countenance. “I guess I expected someone — older?”

  “I am older.” Argo took a deep breath. “Madame, you must know I’m no fan of your organization. The only reason I’m here is that our mutual acquaintance vouches for you.”

  Her expression softened, her vision focusing on the past. “And I reached out to you because you’re Bullshark’s friend.”

  Argo chuckled. “Dempsey has called me many things, but ‘friend’ might be exaggerating.”

  She fought a smile. “True. He specifically said you’re the most — how did he put it? — ‘stupidly honest, remarkably capable sonuvabitch’ he’s ever known.’”

  Argo probably couldn’t help but grin. From what I’d heard of Captain Bullshark Dempsey, that description was more flattering, by far, than friend. “How can the Flying Zombies be of service?”

  Dunwich turned, set her helmet on the table, and rummaged in her satchel. She withdrew a sheaf of yellowed papers, thumbed through them, and dropped one on the table between us. It appeared to be
a hand-drawn series of random squiggles and straight line segments, signed “E.C.”

  “Are you familiar with Edgar Cayce, the American mystic?” she asked.

  I shook my head, but Argo chuckled. “Of course,” he said. “Spotty track record. Crackpot racist theories. Guff about Atlantis. Did he scribble this?”

  She nodded. “Automatic writing during one of his trance states, just last June. Alone, it means nothing. But,” and she set another paper beside it with similar odd markings. “This one was drawn by Yelena Petrovna von Hahn—”

  “A.K.A. Madame Blavatsky of the Theosophical Society,” Argo interjected.

  “— in 1890, about six months before she died.” Dunwich flipped both pages upside down and overlapped them, then raised them to the window. The light shining through them rendered the drawings into a single coherent image; the squiggly lines met to form what appeared to be the outlines of a continental coastline, islands along the coast, and rivers inside the land mass. The small line segments met to form crude mountain ranges. Other squiggles now resolved into numbers, some of which I recognized as longitude and latitude coordinates.

  Argo sat forward, pointing at the map. “That’s the Bay of Bengal, and this dotted line leads into Tibet. What is this sun emblem on the mountainside?”

  Dunwich’s gray eyes locked with his. “I believe it marks the fabled city of light, Shambhala. And I must confess that I wish I were going there with you.”

  Argo didn’t respond. He sat back, crossed his arms. I saw him glance at Johnny. Dunwich put away the papers and handed Argo a separate sheet that had the combined image printed upon it. She finished her beer, and paused as if waiting for him to speak.

  When he didn’t, she said, “Mr. Cayce was adamant: ‘Only the Argonauts may restore the Golden Fleece. Only the Eternal Light of Atlantis may salve the Shadows of Shambhala.’ Now, the fleece has many interpretations, chief among them god-granted royal powers or supernatural wisdom, which fits with Cayce’s treatises on the lost lore and power of Atlantis.”