Shadows of Shambhala Page 5
Johnny-D joined us, having scaled the far side of the pyramid. “Did we win?”
“Hell yes, brother,” Zed said, clapping him on the shoulder.
I looked up at the gallery in time to see Tally set aside her rifle and lean her elbows on the railing. Then I asked, “Where’s Captain Argo?”
Pasang said something about the basin under the totem, but Johnny pointed at the foot of the temple, where the crowd was parting to let the tall man through. Argo carried the body of Dr. Alla on his shoulder. Some of the villagers took the limp form from Argo and lowered it into the streaming Vril, and Argo followed, walking into the waters fully clothed.
***
We remained in Shambhala for what felt like a week. Time was difficult to gauge, as the white sun never faded or failed, and the Vril waters poured unabated down the steps of the ziggurat. The priests and temple guards made peace with the villagers, though it seemed likely the former two groups would spend decades working to balance their karma.
I’m proud to note that my surgical skills saved nearly as many wounded as the Vril; it is a miracle that only goes so far. Among the ones I aided was the man we knew as Alan Kenston. The head wounds he suffered — both from Argo’s bullet and their subsequent battle — had creased his skull, chipped the bone, and exposed part of his parietal lobe. He’d also sustained damage to the nerves feeding the musculature of his face.
“You’ll live,” I told him as he lay on a cot in our makeshift hospital by the river. “But you may never recover the ability to display emotion. For now, the muscles are — frozen, for want of a better word. Let me show you.”
As Pasang held a mirror for Kenston to watch, I pressed my fingers into his left cheek and lifted the skin, which pulled his lips into a weird grimace. It was like manipulating modeling clay, pale and cold. His face held the shape when I removed my fingers.
Kenston reached up and ran his hands over his face, smoothing his flesh back into something that resembled his own familiar countenance. Tears threatened in his eyes, but they did not fall.
“At least I know whose face this is,” he said.
***
My comrades and I also bathed in the temple’s holy waters, emerging refreshed and energized. Old scars faded, cuts and bruises healed. Zed appeared happier than even the affections of his crimson-cloaked woman might have fostered, and Johnny-D was free of his desire for alcohol. I felt ten years younger, my mind was clear and sharp, and my body stronger than before we began our climb up Mount Meru. I realized a day or two in that I hadn’t reached for a cigarette.
“There is no illness here,” Pasang said to me as we lay together one endless afternoon. “The Vril provides longevity and health.”
“And beauty,” I added before testing our endurance again.
As Kenston continued to regain his strength, he and Argo spent hours speaking in private. The Captain determined that somehow — and I couldn’t say whether it was the physical trauma of the brain injury, the psychic trauma of seeing all of us in our guises as “Kenston,” or perhaps through the healing effects of the Vril — but somehow, Kenston’s personality had reintegrated. Dr. Alla was gone, perhaps even completely driven out. And when Kenston was well enough to take the Honduras exit by which he’d originally come to Shambhala, we saw him off.
“I have a couple of contacts in New York City that will help me get situated,” he said, shaking Argo’s hand. “I may not be Kalki, but at least I’m me again — more or less. I can take what I’ve learned here and try to balance my debts there. If there’s one thing I know better than most, it’s the darkness that lurks in men’s hearts.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Argo said. “I have friends in New York also. They’ll be watching for you.”
“I wouldn’t blame them at all,” Kenston said. “Next time you’re in Manhattan, look me up under the name Montgomery Carson. My friends call me ‘Monty.’”
As Kenston walked away, men from the village set stones in place to seal the passage behind him. We watched as they brought up buckets of mud from the river to use for mortar.
“Once you are on your way,” Pasang said to me, “we will seal all of the entrances. Shambhala will not open to the outside world again, unless or until the Golden Age comes ’round.”
“Kalki is in the world now,” Argo said, tipping his head toward the Honduras passage.
“Great Spirit protect us,” Tally said.
Johnny put an arm around Tally. “I don’t know. I can’t help feeling maybe it will work out okay.”
“You’re delirious,” Zed said. “But it’s good to see, brother.”
Pasang then led us to a passageway that, she promised, would deposit us at a Shaolin temple in the Gobi Desert. It was the depth of winter where we had entered the mountain in Tibet, and there was no way we could hope to make a safe descent from that hidden cave back to the village, much less to the foothills where the rest of our crew waited for us. But at the desert temple, we could get a signal to them for a rendezvous.
She faced me, reached out and took both of my hands. “You could stay here with us,” she said. “With me.”
I thought about it, the possibility of an extended life span, the opportunity to study the miracle of the Vril plasma and the valley’s nigh-immortal humans. I could make discoveries here that might change the outside world forever. And I would do it all with Pasang ever at my side.
I recalled how she snored when she snuggled against me that first night in the tent, and it made me smile.
But I took a vow as a Flying Zombie, one that dedicated whatever remained of my living days to a greater cause. I knew my path wouldn’t end here in paradise.
I couldn’t speak, but she knew my answer. So I kissed her, tasting her tears. I glanced at the faces of my comrades, then back into her brown eyes. I just shook my head, unable to hold her gaze. I knew I would never see her again.
My eyes fell on the brass emblem on my uniform shirt, the winged skull of the Flying Zombies. I removed it and clipped it onto her scarf with trembling hands. She pressed it with the tips of her fingers, then smiled at me.
I heard the others walking away, and I turned to follow. I dared not look back.
My shadow raced ahead of me into the tunnel.
THE END.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
A PERSONAL HISTORY
OF DARKNESS AND LIGHT
T
he elements that combined to make this adventure are many, but the most obvious might be The Shadow novels of Maxwell Grant, the movie adaptations of Lost Horizon based upon the novel by James Hilton, some elements (such as the Vril) from Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s “The Coming Race,” and a last minute nod to The Avenger novels of Lester Dent.
Oh, yes: Don’t forget Three Dog Night.
I first met Lamont Cranston and his dark alter ego in the pages of DC Comics back in the 1970s. It was some time later before I’d discover the paperback reprints of his pulp magazine adventures and devour them as I had Doc Savage’s exploits earlier.
It was about this same time that I chanced upon the musical adaptation of Lost Horizon (released in 1973) showing on one of the three networks we could receive at my grandparents’ home in Century, Florida. I saw the earlier black-and-white adaptation (released in 1937) in a college class, and in 2017 caught the “restored” version on Turner Classic Movies.
The Tibet connection between the two stories seemed obvious, and the idea that one of the Shadow’s other aliases was a former WWI pilot, Kent Allard, lined up with my image of Gideon Argo’s origins. It was inevitable that they cross paths, and having them do so in the eternal valley seemed a natural intersection.
I don’t pretend to understand all about Shambhala, the name of which I first heard in the chorus of a Three Dog Night song popular in 1975. The decade that also produced the Doc Savage film (1974) seems to have informed so much of my childhood interests and energized my recent writing efforts.
The Avenger, a man with a frozen
face who could rearrange his looks to infiltrate underworld organizations, also appeared in the Shadow comics. Since some versions of the Shadow indicated that his face changed when he changed his aliases, I performed a mash-up of the characters in this tale.
I hope to revisit them in future arcane adventures.
***
I also want to take this opportunity to thank my friend Mark Boss (MarkBoss.net), for the use of his original character, Constance Dunwich, agent for Black 23. We are building a shared world between my Flying Zombie tales and his adventures of Dempsey and Drood; Constance first appeared in his tale, “The Sorcerer of Siam,” in volume 2 of Adventures in the Arcane.
***
Finally, some notes on character names: “Dr. Alla” is obviously Allard spelled backwards; Pasang is named after the woman to have made the most trips to the peak of Everest; Montgomery Carson (“Monty”) is a close cousin to Lamont Cranston; just as Alan Kenston is a play on both Kent Allard and Cranston. I hope those of you familiar with the original character might have decoded those already and gotten a chuckle at my pretzel versions of the names.
And I hope you’ll join me again in future adventures.
Tony Simmons
Panama City Beach
January 2018
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T
ony Simmons is the author of the novels: Welcome to the Dawning of a New Century, The Book of Gabriel; This Mortal Flesh; and Dragon Rising; a collection of short ;stories and miscellany, The Best of Days; a collection of short stories exploring versions of a zombie apocalypse, Tales of the Awakening Dead; and a collection of his award-winning newspaper columns, Dazed and Raving in the Undercurrents.
He edited the two-volume City Limits anthology for the Panama City Centennial; produced 33 Days, a collection of short fiction inspired by the songs of The Offer; and edited two anthologies for the Floriopolis arts center in Panama City — The Space Between Words and Lost in Space. He has had numerous short stories published in anthologies.
His urban fantasy series, The Caliban Cycle, starts with Giants in the Earth and continues with And the Moon Made Blood. A third entry is due in 2018.
Alongside his friends and co-creators in The Syndicate, Tony has written for and co-edited the two volumes of Adventures in the Arcane, where The Flying Zombies first appeared. A third volume, featuring a novella of Capt. Argo and his stalwart crew facing cosmic horror from the Cthulhu Mythos, will be published in 2018.
Tony lives in Panama City Beach, Florida, and works as a Digital Platform Manager, writer and editor with The News Herald, and operations director for Portal Entertainment.
Learn more at Facebook.com/WriterTonySimmons
Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @midnightonmars
Visit his website at TonySimmons.info
JOIN THE CREW!
D
oes the mystery of the unknown and undiscovered tantalize your dreams? Do you have a special talent or skill that might contribute to the battle against the forces of evil and injustice? If so, you, too, may be ready to answer the call to arcane adventure.
The Flying Zombies are looking for a few good men and women willing to take the oath and ally themselves with the team. As a support member, you may one day be called upon to join the active crew on a mission, or to consult with them in your area of expertise. You may also be asked to combat misinformation by spreading the word about newly declassified adventures.
If you would like to be considered for this select company, here’s all you need to do:
Visit the Gideon Argo website (tinyurl.com/captargo) and click the link to join the crew. You will be asked to suggest a codename and explain your area of expertise. Then use the PayPal link to submit a one-time $10 payment to cover the shipping and handling costs of your membership ID card, official certificate, book mark, and winged skull pin denoting your status as an honorary member of The Flying Zombies.
Don’t use PayPal? Then just send a $10 check made out to The Syndicate Studio, and mail it care of CityArts Cooperative, 318 Luverne Ave., Panama City, FL 32408. Allow four weeks for return.
And remember — Zombies Fight On!