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.

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

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

The 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.”

“Surely, he was aware of Blavatsky’s drawing and —”

“No. It has been kept in the Black 23 archives for almost forty years.”

I must have grimaced at her mention of Black 23, as she shot an angry glare my way for a hot second. I knew little about the organization, but I’d been told they played some part in the Romanian affair that took my brother’s life last year.

“Only a handful of people even knew it existed, and I am one of them,” Dunwich continued. Her jaw dropped, as if she suddenly apprehended something that had eluded her. “Dr. Amelia Sind may also know of it. She was a student of Blavatsky’s work, and this would be especially relevant to her interest in an occult revolution.”

The name meant nothing to me, but I saw Argo’s eyes narrow and I filed it for future reference. He finished his drink. I glanced up to catch Johnny-D watching Argo and swallowing in sudden thirst. The younger man had been sober now for little more than a week. Johnny looked away.

“Why would I go on a dangerous expedition to a lost, mythical city on the word of a rubbish soothsayer?” Argo asked Dunwich. “We have work to do here in the real world.”

“And Bullshark said you were smart,” the lady growled. She straightened her satchel, returned her helmet to its perch beside her. When she looked up, frustration broiled in her eyes. “Alan Kenston. Mean anything to you?”

Argo nodded. He recalled Kenston, as he would tell the Zombies when we gathered later. Though both of them were Americans who flew biplanes against the Germans on behalf of France, they never met. Kenston was an ace pilot with a record of kills second only to — well, to Argo’s own. He’d heard that Kenston turned mercenary after the war, used a series of aliases, and did jobs for criminal organizations in Europe, China, and South America — where he died in 1930.

“In 1927,” Dunwich said, “Charles Lindberg reported spotting a gleaming ‘white city’ while flying over the jungles of Honduras. His report reignited the interest of treasure hunters and adventurers who’ve been looking for the place since the time of Hernan Cortez. My research indicates there’s an entrance to Shambhala in ‘La Cuidad Blanca.’ I believe Kenston found it.”

Argo didn’t ask her how that could be. Rather, he spoke to me as if he were actually talking to himself.

“Doc, you need to read up on ancient myths to understand Shambhala. It was believed to exist outside of space and time — accessible from any number of hidden doorways scattered across the planet,” he said. “That a man like Kenston would seek it seems queer, though. It wasn’t known as a source of wealth or worldly power, which is all he seemed to value.”

I leaned toward Dunwich. “I’m still missing the ‘why.’”

Argo’s eyes widened. He waited for her response.

“Kenston was a comrade-at-arms, yes? Shell-shocked and broken by the war,” she said. “And if that’s not enough, then you should know Black 23 dispatched a strike team to Honduras last week, reporting to your friend, Colonel Anton Horatio.”

Argo stiffened. Dunwich stilled her tongue, and Johnny-D put a hand inside his jacket. Argo gave Johnny a slow shake of his head, and he relaxed.

“You’re much too loose with the word ‘friend,’” Argo said. “Horatio is the iron fist of Black 23 in the East. I wouldn’t think he oversaw any activity in the Western Hemisphere.”

Horatio and Argo had struck a truce the previous autumn, during the same deadly expedition in Romania where my brother fell. Strange bedfellows, and all that. But if Horatio saw something of interest in Shambhala, then I could be sure Argo was determined to get there first. The Colonel’s sudden attentiveness couldn’t be benevolent.

Argo gestured for Johnny-D to join us. He made introductions, and Johnny slid in beside Dunwich.

“What does the ‘D’ stand for?” Dunwich asked him.

“Drunkard,” Johnny said. “But not lately.”

Argo ignored him, keeping the focus on the mission. “Tell us everything you know about Shambhala.”

She frowned. “We should order food. This will take a while.”

***

CHAPTER TWO

Under the Earth

23 September 1932

Sanskrit Month of Asvina, Buddhist Year 2475

“Can you see the darkness retreating yet?” Kenston asked. “No? My eyes have learned to adjust rather quickly down here. Another minute, and we can go.”

“We need weapons,” Argo said. “Then I need to find my people.”

“No, we need to reach the temple first. Put Dr. Alla down,” Kenston said. “My sources say he’s planning a human sacrifice to convince his gods to restore the Vril.”

Argo clenched his teeth. “Then we’ll need my crew.”

“If they’re alive, then they’re being held in the old pilgrims’ quarters. Dr. Alla had the rooms converted to hold prisoners.”

A cold light seeped into the cave as the crystals embedded in the rock walls of the tunnel outside began to glow dim and blue. The ghost light flickered like a wick guttering, and Kenston helped Argo to his feet. While Argo waited, Kenston stripped the guard and slipped into his pants.

“Who is this Dr. Alla?” Argo asked.

“No one knows,” Kenston said, bunching the waistband of the oversized pants in one fist. He unwrapped a leather strap from the guard’s hand and used it to tie off the waist. “He appeared one day several months ago, already a master of the Vril. Many of the brothers fought him — and died. Many more joined him in his vision of a world ruled by Kalki, the prophesized ‘destroyer of filth’ that is supposed to appear in the end of days.”

Kenston gestured for Argo to follow as he entered the passageway outside the cave. “I’ve never actually set eyes on him, which may explain how I escaped becoming a thrall. I’ve been running a sort of one-man resistance for months, but they caught me when those Black 23 boys showed up and I tried to help them.”

Argo stumbled. Kenston took his elbow, leading him along dim corridors.

“The man you seek was full of darkness, Argo,” Kenston whispered as they turned down another twisting passage. “Every man has some shade of anger, bitterness, regret. And those shadows don’t fade under the light of Shambhala. It shines truth on all things, revealing secrets, exposing lies, dispelling illusion.”

“I’m familiar with the analogy,” Argo said. “I’m no saint, either. But the darkness we carry is part of what makes us who we are. I would be of no use as a fighter without it.”

Kenston nodded, pointed along a diverging shaft, and Argo followed. “The thing about light, though, is that it also casts shadows when it meets a solid object,” Kenston said. “The brighter the light, the deeper and more pronounced the shadows. The light of the eternal sun here allows one to see his darkness clearly defined. Recognize the shape of it. Accept it, reclaim it, and learn to employ it.”

Argo nearly toppled over when Kenston suddenly stopped moving. The man put a finger to his lips in warning, then crouched and peeked around the next turn. Argo mimicked him, crawling forward to see what Kenston was studying.

Not ten yards away, a guard sat cross-legged on the ground in front of a locked door. A curved sword balanced across his knees, and a pistol protruded from a hip holster. His head hung forward and he snored. Argo wondered if he’d fallen asleep waiting for the light to return.

Argo squinted. He whispered, “That’s my Webley he’s wearing.”

Kenston again gestured for quiet, then he stood and flattened against the wall. Argo brought his knees under him, prepared to run at the guard. Kenston slipped around the corner as the crystals stopped flickering and the dull, blue glow increased to a brighter yellow. Argo looked up—

Kenston was gone.

Argo choked back a gasp. The man had been right beside him, but was now nowhere to be seen.

Something moved on Argo’s periphery, and he glanced aside. Nothing was there. Now a shadow slithered overhead — a trick of the weird light? — then it drifted down the other wall, a silhouette of a man that settled into the recessed doorway beside the guard.

Kenston stepped out of the doorway and snatched the guard’s sword off his lap. Startled awake, the man looked up — and Kenston stabbed the swordpoint through the guard’s gaping mouth, out the back of his neck. The guard’s last breath hissed from his throat as he slipped sideways, eyes rolling back into his skull.

Argo sprinted to Kenston’s side. The man worked at the guard’s gun belt, then handed Argo his Webley, still in its holster. Stripping a key ring from the belt, Kenston soon had the door unlocked and open. Argo stepped over the corpse and trailed Kenston into the chamber.

“Armory,” Kenston said, striding past racks of spears, shields, and swords from dozens of different eras and tribal designs. In the back of the room, shelves held more modern weapons, including the standard-issue Black 23 field rifles and Bowie knives.

“Where are the Black 23 operatives?” Argo asked, taking a rifle and checking its ammunition.

“Dead,” Kenston said. He grabbed something off a dusty shelf in the back, then turned suddenly and snapped his arms to their length, elbows flat. In both hands, he hoisted a pair of nickel-plated 1911 Colt .45s that gleamed in the crystal light.

“That feels right,” he said. “I haven’t held my guns since I arrived. It’s the first thing you have to give up before they’ll allow you to stay.” Kenston’s eyes caught the ambient glow and locked with Argo’s. His lips curled up, showing a toothy grin. “Let’s go kill some bad guys.”

***

The Foothills of Mount Meru, the Tibetan Himalayas

One month earlier

From Doc Riley’s Journal:

I accompanied Captain Argo and Johnny-D into the village, leaving Zed and the other Zombies to tend to Shadow, our airship command center, which we’d landed at a plateau below the settlement. Between wind shear, rarified air, and threatening storm clouds, Shadow couldn’t dare a greater altitude; our pilot, Wings, was lashing her ship to the earth and draining the helium bags into tanks as we sought guides. The rest of the journey would require experienced Sherpas to keep us safe on treacherous snow-covered paths.

We passed women sitting in front of hovels built into the mountainside, many wearing long woolen dresses with colorful aprons and bright silver buckles. Argo spoke to one elderly woman tending a fire pit, but she didn’t understand him. He tried a different dialect, and I think a third before she nodded and pointed us toward the upper slope. He bowed to her, and we followed as he strode past.

A younger woman sitting by the pit glared at us. She was dressed differently from the others, in a sheepskin robe over white trousers and heavy boots wrapped in furs. Her fine, black hair showed beneath the hood of her cloak, outlining smooth cheeks. She turned away when she caught me studying her.

“Keep up, Doc,” Johnny-D said.

I hurried to catch up. Argo had forged ahead, and I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t as intent upon our mission as the rest of the crew; I had only joined them a few weeks before his Paris rendezvous, and had yet to prove myself in a combat situation. Though my skills as a medic were unneeded at the aircraft right now, Argo only begrudgingly acquiesced to me joining him and Johnny-D in the village. He assured me I would stay with Shadow when he and some of the crew climbed the mountain. I hoped his decision was rooted in guilt over my brother’s demise — that he felt a need to protect me — rather than a lack of trust in my abilities.

Outside a large structure that smelled of cook fires and exotic herbs, several men in attire like that of the young woman I’d seen sat drinking from ceramic bottles. Argo spoke to them, and they put on sober faces, nodding at his words.

One of the men stood. “I speak some English,” he said.

“Excellent. We need a Sherpa to lead us up Meru,” Argo said.

“Not this month,” the man said. “Snow coming. Never get to peak.”

“I don’t need to make the peak,” Argo said. He reached in his field coat and produced a map, pointed at a location. “There’s a cave on the eastern face with a sun symbol—”

The man chuckled and pointed at the map. He took it from Argo’s hand and showed it to another of the men. They laughed. Others gathered around, glancing at the map, shoving each other, and crying with laughter. I looked around us, noticing other villagers gathering to assess the uproar.

“You looking for Shambhala!” the man said, returning the map to Argo. He offered Argo the ceramic bottle in his other hand. “Better you look in this. Fermented yak’s milk. You find Shambhala at bottom.”

Argo took a breath and straightened his back, looming over the smaller men. Some of them stepped away, but the spokesman just shook his head.

“Germans come searching,” the man said. “Russians, English. You notice Chinese don’t look for Shambhala? We know difference between dreaming and waking.”

I turned to eye the crowd as it closed ranks. Men and women laughed at us. Children pointed and danced. Then I spotted the young woman from the fire pit standing quietly among the others. Her face pinched as if considering a terrible decision.

While Argo tried speaking over the laughter, I drifted aside. Children jumped around me, the language of begging for treats being international. I reached in my pocket and found some coins, which I scattered on the ground for them. Several of the adults tried to grab for the change as well, opening a gap in the crowd that I slipped through to reach the quiet woman.

“Hello,” I said. “Do you speak—”

“I can take you to Shambhala,” she said, her dark eyes soupy with unshed tears. “I’ve been there. I know the path.”

I offered her my hand, and she took it. Her fingers were warm, her grip strong. Turning back, I saw Argo standing with his fists on his hips and anger in his eyes, staring in my direction. Johnny-D frowned.

“Let me introduce you to my boss,” I told the woman. “I’m called ‘Doc.’ And your name?”

“I am Lhamu Pasang of the Valley of the Eternal Sun.”

***

CHAPTER THREE

Under the Earth

23 September 1932

Sanskrit Month of Asvina, Buddhist Year 2475

Argo waited in a tunnel near the pilgrims’ quarters, where Kenston had left him. He squatted with his back to the wall and held the mirrored side of a cigarette box near the floor, tilting it so he could see around the corner. He watched the four guards in the other corridor, standing at silent attention like the Beefeaters of Buckingham Palace. They held swords in one hand and pistols in the other, ready to do battle. At their backs was a barred cage, but Argo couldn’t see what it held.

When the eerie sound of distant laughter echoed in the hall, the four men glanced at each other and cast nervous stares in both directions.

“What the bloody hell is that?” demanded a voice Argo recognized — Zed was behind those bars.

“Shadow-man,” a guard growled.

The laughter rose an octave, becoming a maniacal cackle. Two of the guards shifted their weight. One shook his sword. Another faced away from Argo, seeking the source of the laughter.

Argo gripped his Webley, sliding his finger inside the trigger guard.

The crystals in the wall flickered. The guards crouched into defensive stances, legs wide. Two of them faced in Argo’s direction.

The laughter climbed to a banshee’s wail.

“Hit the floor!” Argo shouted.

The lights flared, then dimmed and started strobing off and on. Argo rounded the corner, his revolver raised and firing. The guards returned fire, thunder roared in the stone corridor, and muzzle flashes added to the spectacle of flickering light. The darkness seemed to move. There were too many people in the corridor — more bodies and shadows in motion than the six Argo expected.

He saw Kenston now, standing opposite him in a black cloak and slouch hat he’d gathered at the armory. Kenston trained his roaring .45s on the shadow wraiths writhing on walls, floor, and jagged ceiling. Men screamed. Argo fell, saw a dark apparition overhead and fired in the direction he would expect to see the form casting the shadow. His last rounds spent, he rolled up against the wall.

The lights failed completely. Argo popped open his revolver and expelled spent cartridges, grabbed fresh ammo from his pocket, and reloaded blindly. From out of the dark came the sound of a scuffle. Footfalls in retreat. A muzzle flash and bang in the connecting corridor. Then nothing.

Argo called out, “Zombies report in.”

“Johnny-D here, Captain. I think we’re solid.”

“Zed. No injuries.”

“Tally. No injuries.”

“Doc here. I’m A-1. Pasang is all together, too.”

Argo waited. “Kenston?” he called, not expecting an answer. He suspected Kenston had led the other wraiths far away by now. “Kenston?”

No answer. He decided to risk the electric lamp. He placed it on the floor, stepped away from it, and used his toe to toggle the switch, thinking anyone lying in wait would first look at the light before aiming at a target.

No one fired a shot. The light revealed five bodies sprawled in the corridor — the four guards and a fifth that he hadn’t seen, perhaps one of the wraiths he and Kenston targeted. A sixth limp corpse lay crumpled at the intersection where that last gunshot sounded. Argo picked up the lantern and checked the bodies to ensure Kenston wasn’t among them.

He took a key off the belt of one body and unlocked the cage door. Johnny, Tally, and Zed gathered by him. Lhamu Pasang waited at Tally’s elbow. Argo waved off Doc’s attempt to assess his bruises and cuts.

“Grab the guns and swords from the guards, and check them for ammunition,” Argo said. As the others hurried to comply, he added, “Kenston freed me — that was his laughter you heard.”

“Spooky git,” Zed said, rolling a body and reaching in the dead man’s pockets.

Tally and Pasang searched another body. “What about those chindi — the ghost walkers?” Tally asked. “Don’t tell me I imagined them.”

Argo grinned. “This is a strange place. Keep your eyes on the shadows. Those aren’t ghosts — they’re some kind of trick the Vril masters have learned. But remember, shadows are cast, so look to where the shadow might be cast from and target that point.”

The six of them huddled at the intersection. Argo passed Tally the rifle he’d pilfered from the armory. Zed held two of the guards’ short swords that he scraped together, then flipped in the air, catching the hilts; he nodded to himself, satisfied they were proper weapons.

“We have enough ammo for these,” Johnny said, displaying a pistol in each hand.

Pasang had a sword in her grip and a dagger in her belt. Doc just made a fist.

Argo handed Doc the cigarette case. “I think this was yours.”

Doc grinned. When he opened the case, the smile dissolved; the case was empty.

“Kenston must be halfway to the temple by now,” Argo said. “As we go, I’ll fill you in on what I’ve learned.”

“Which way?” Johnny asked.

Argo turned the lantern, adjusted its shutters into a beam. He focused the light on a patch of blood, then farther along the hall at another dark spot.

“This way,” Argo said.

***

Mount Meru, the Tibetan Himalayas

One week earlier

From Doc Riley’s Journal:

The first day of our climb, a slow trudge uphill along marked paths of rock and pack ice, provided wondrous vistas of blue skies and distant mountain peaks shrouded in mist. Argo allowed me to join the trek at Pasang’s urging, leaving only Wings, Sparks, and Cactus Bill with our airship deflated below the village to await our return.

“There may be injured at the city,” Pasang had argued. “And we may need a medic on the climb.”

Friendly talk along the early hours of the journey soon deteriorated to a determined silence as the way became ever more difficult. At our first camp, we shared a group tent to conserve our body heat and other resources. The stars disappeared behind clouds that night, and we awoke to a light snowfall from low gray billows that obscured the summit. The snow, once it started, never relented, growing heavier as the day wore on, occasionally mixed with sleet that rendered the exposed rock treacherous, but for the steel crampons strapped to our boots.

That second night, hunkered in the tent, I thought I might never fall asleep because of the howling wind buffeting the canvas walls of our shelter. It sounded sometimes like a lone wolf’s call, and sometimes like the baying of a banshee. There was little talk among us, except for Argo questioning Pasang and swapping mountaineering tales.

“The English occultist Aleister Crowley searched these mountains from 1902 to 1905,” he said, and I recalled reading something about Crowley’s sex-magick cult or such rot. “He was the first Westerner to try Chogo Ri, but his party met foul weather and turned back at about 22,000 feet. In aught-five, he lost four members of his party to an avalanche on Kangchenjunga and turned back again.”

I was so bone tired that his low voice lulled me to sleep. At some point in the night, I stirred to discover Pasang snuggled beside me under my blanket, her nose in the crook of my neck. Her hands crept inside my overshirt, and she snored lightly. I drifted off again, breathing in the smell of smoke in her hair.

The next day, we lashed ourselves together on a rope and marched on. Pasang led us, followed by Argo, then our sharpshooter Tallahassee, Johnny-D, myself, and the hulking Brit, Zed. Our nimble guide took us along paths no one had mapped or marked, through weather no experienced climber would tempt. We used an anchor system, with Pasang setting an anchor pole; the rope fed through its top ring, and each of us clipped past the anchor as we reached it, with Zed collecting the pole at the end.

At length, we faced an escarpment of ice and granite. Now, I am a man of seashores and wave, and the prospect of scaling such a thing made my freezing bowels curdle. I thought about Crowley’s failed expeditions and wondered if it was too late to return to the airship. But little Pasang took a handhold in a crack my eyes would never have found, and she climbed. At some point, she set a cam in a crack, hammered it tight, and fed rope through it. Argo belayed to that position as she climbed higher, setting another cam and repeating.

In this way, without looking down, I followed in my place in line. My feet, hands, and face burned from the cold, despite the modern mountaineering gear we wore. I was entirely outside my element. An errant gust, a failed anchor, a lost grip — any of these would mean death for myself and probably Zed below me as well. I wondered if I’d made a gigantic mistake joining Argo’s crew. I’d probably wind up like my brother — a memorial marker over an empty grave, my body never recovered. And this time, it would be my own fault for urging him to take me up the mountain.

We reached the top of the wall before nightfall and set up camp once more. That night in the tent, Tally remarked upon the wind: “It sounds different tonight. Is that because of the elevation?”

“That is not wind,” Pasang said. “Or, not only wind. The Yeti come down from the peaks with the snow. They are nocturnal hunters.”

Argo posted Johnny on watch for the first shift. I got the last, after Zed, sitting with Argo’s Webley revolver at the closed tent flap and trying to distinguish wind noise from the approach of something else. I lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the dark. That morning, while the others still slept, Pasang made coffee on our portable camp stove and brought me a cup. We sat quietly to watch the sun rise.

“Tell me about your city,” I said. “Shambhala.”

She leaned close, gauging my meaning. She didn’t try to convince me that we weren’t taking her home, and she didn’t ask me how I’d guessed her origins; if she had, I would have told her it was evident to me from the moment I saw her that she came from another world.

“The City of Light lies both deep in the earth and in another plane of existence, inside a beautiful valley warmed by the Eternal Sun and split by the sacred River Alph,” she said. She clasped both palms to her cup, letting the warmth penetrate her skin. “The people seek beauty, harmony in all things. And they practice a kind of meditation that frees them of their personal darkness.”

“So why did you leave?”

“The darkness took over. The Vril masters, our leaders and healers, were corrupted by a false prophet, Dr. Alla.”

Argo’s voice carried from the far side of the tent, where the others were stirring to wake. “And what makes you think now is the right time to return?”

Pasang glanced at Argo, then stared into my eyes. Her lips twisted up in a hint of smile. “Because you are here, of course.”

***

CHAPTER FOUR

Under the Earth

23 September 1932

Sanskrit Month of Asvina, Buddhist Year 2475

From Doc Riley’s Journal:

The trail of blood spatter and corpses we followed took us deeper into the earth. Rough rock walls gave way to passages carved smooth as marble, with decorative friezes cut into the stone near the dead crystals. With the corridors in darkness, only our lantern illuminated the shapes by casting shadows into the carvings. The weird angles of light and darkness gave the graven images a sepulchral aura.

“These show tales of the Kalacakra Tantra, the Wheel of Time,” Pasang whispered as we passed them. “They tell of the Siddhi, the sun worshippers who founded the City of Light, and of the palace of the god Indra, and the final form of Vishnu — Kalki.”

“Kalki, the destroyer?” Argo asked.

“Destroyer of Filth,” Pasang said. “He will usher in the golden age of Satya Yuga, judge the righteous and unrighteous, and nothing with the shadow of evil will survive.”

Zed grunted. “Bob’s your uncle.”

“Kalki will have to kill everyone on the planet, if that’s the case,” Johnny-D said.

Tally shouldered her rifle, put one hand on Johnny’s back as they walked. “We better hope he keeps busy elsewhere.”

Argo came to a halt, and we gathered close. A black cloak and wide-brimmed hat lay on the floor of the corridor. Argo picked them up and handed them to Pasang.

“These were Kenston’s,” he said. “Any idea why he’d leave them?”

She shook her head, her eyes wide in the lantern light. Her fingers found bullet holes in the fabric of the cape.

“Wait. Is it getting brighter?” Zed asked.

Argo switched off his lantern. We stood in the dark for several seconds, waiting for our vision to adjust. I couldn’t tell a difference, but Argo declared he saw a glow along a narrow passage to our left. Switching the lantern back on, he led us along its sloping floor, which became stairs as we descended. After a sharp turn, even I could see the glimmer of light ahead.

We made another pair of turns and found ourselves at the foot of the stairs, congregated upon a wide observation deck with a floor of jade stones the size of platters and a railing of ivory and pearl. The deck overlooked a vast, green valley. Little white cottages lined a sparkling river that ran toward distant mountain ranges lost in mist. The sounds of jungle birds and wildlife carried on the warm breeze — a macaw flew past, and the deep rumble of a lion’s roar rose from the distance.

Above us, at the apex of a cloudless blue sky, a white star glimmered and warmed our faces. Pasang stripped off her wooly overcoat, and Zed tossed his coat aside, flexing his arms in the sun.

“We can’t be on the surface,” Tally said. “We were going deeper into the mountain all this time.”

“We are inside Meru,” Pasang answered.

“That sky vaults too high,” Johnny said, craning his neck. “This valley, that artificial sun — wouldn’t fit inside the mountain.”

“We are also not inside Meru,” Pasang said.

Directly below the observation platform rose the walls of what appeared to be a temple complex. Seven concentric circles of white stone walls were separated by dry moats and bridged by narrow paths. One of those paths met a stair leading down from the viewing platform. Standing at the compass points on the fourth circle, ivory towers capped in the Eastern style with brass or gold gleamed in the white light of the star. Bridges joined these towers near the apex, like a stone halo surrounding a ziggurat that rose at the center of the complex.

A step-pyramid as might be found in ancient Babylon, the structure was topped with a mirrored totem of some sort that spun clockwise, reflecting the starlight in all directions. The beams penetrated under arches and around columns — shining light into all corners of the valley.

As we watched, a legion of figures in white robes gathered at the foot of the ziggurat. With them stood bare-chested guards in blue turbans, armed with ancient spears, swords, and modern guns. Other people dressed for farming or fishing poured out of the river village and milled behind the guards, who turned on the newcomers. The guards formed a defensive line at the base of the pyramid and brandished their weapons to warn the growing mob to keep back.

From this distance, we couldn’t make out details, but we could hear rhythmic chanting and the occasional shout from the gathering crowd. One of the robed figures started up the steps, his right hand pulling on the bound wrists of a woman in a crimson drape. She swayed drunkenly and ascended the ziggurat with him, followed by a dozen or more other white-robed men and women — the priests and priestesses of Shambhala.

Pasang pointed at the leader. “Dr. Alla,” she said. “And his sacrifice.”

Argo sprinted down the winding stair toward the valley, taking the steps two and three at a time with his long strides. We rushed to catch up. About the same time Dr. Alla and his followers reached the pinnacle of the ziggurat, we crossed the bridges to the fourth ring of the temple grounds. Pasang directed us up a winding stair inside one of the towers, which took us to the “halo” ring — actually, a gallery level that appeared to be designed for worshippers to view events unfolding at the mirrored totem. Dozens of black cloaks like the one Kenston had worn dangled from hooks in an alcove by the passage opening.

Argo raised an eyebrow at Pasang and she explained, “Ceremonial garb for those in the viewing gallery.”

We each took a cloak. Argo placed Kenston’s battered hat on his head.

“I think I’m getting an idea,” he said, and I grinned to image him playing the role of Kenston.

The sounds of chanting from the processional of priests rang clear. We paused and watched as the crowd of robed men and women spread out in a circle around Dr. Alla, near enough now to see the daggers, swords, and firearms many of them carried. Her drape having fallen to pool on the stone around her, the sacrifice was on her knees before the mirrored totem; her slack countenance suggested she was drugged or perhaps mesmerized. Above her, the totem rotated slower and slower, while far below, the people of the river village massed, and the line of defenders backed onto the lowest steps of the pyramid.

The hooded man Pasang had identified as Dr. Alla raised his hands high, and a hush fell, broken only by the wind in the valley. His thin fingers grasped the edges of his hood and drew it back, revealing a face tanned and lined by hard years, the high brow and pointed nose of a man of breeding, and eyes like granite lodged in bruised sockets that made them seem alight with blue fire.

“Kenston,” Argo said.

Having never set eyes on Kenston before, I was slow to realize what he meant.

“Kenston is Dr. Alla,” Pasang whispered. “I wasn’t sure until now.”

A chill settled in my gut. I’d heard of hysterical neurosis, but was no expert. My trade was flesh, bone, and blood, not the workings of the mind. But I also knew history was replete with so-called “exchanged personality” cases — what the superstitious once thought of as demonic possession, or regression to past lives. It certainly explained Kenston’s crazed laughter in times of stress.

“The war broke his mind — I assumed he had shellshock,” Argo said. “He told me Allan Kenston had many names and identities, but I never thought—”

Pasang nodded. “He tried to put himself back together here, through the power of the Vril.”

“But learning to command his own shadow-self,” I said, “must have further dissociated at least one of his personalities. He became his own enemy. One, using darkness as a weapon against the other.”

Argo squatted out of sight of the ziggurat and motioned for us to huddle. He whispered, “I don’t believe Kenston knows he’s fighting himself.”

“Can’t his followers recognize him?” Tally asked.

“A Vril master can cloud men’s minds,” Pasang explained. “We must be careful when we’re in his presence.”

“I don’t plan to get that close,” Argo said, checking his gear — a length of rope and ammo for his pistol on his belt, a Bowie knife sheathed in his boot. “Tally, I want you to set up here with the rifle. If we’re going to get to Dr. Alla, we have to go through his armed followers — and we will not allow him to kill that woman. The rest of you, spread out along the gallery at the compass points.”

He paused to be sure we were listening closely. “Pull up your hoods. We each are Kenston now. We want Dr. Alla to have to face himself, so we’ll laugh like damned hyenas, take turns revealing ourselves and firing into the crowd.”

“He won’t be able to process it,” I said. “Dr. Alla could lose control, and Kenston might take over again.”

Argo nodded. “Tally, we need to take down the guards and priests before they can rally against us.”

“What about the villagers?” Pasang asked. “I believe they will try to join the fight — against Dr. Alla. We must protect them.”

Zed slid his sword blades against each other, making them sing. “I’ll take care of that.”

Argo locked eyes with each of us in turn, allowing us a moment to acknowledge him or pose more questions. None were asked, except from Pasang: “What about me?”

“Stick with me,” he said, “and be ready with your doo-dad.”

We split up, racing along the pathways between the towers to find a position that would allow us to be seen in the archways and galleries. I hadn’t reached my place yet when I heard the laughter echoing in the distance, carried over the open air and distorted through the curving corridors. The sound was unnerving, even though I knew it was Argo’s voice. I took a deep breath and cackled in reply.

A gun shot rang in the passageways, and I glanced through an opening to see a priest topple near the totem. Blood soaked into his white robe. The kneeling woman flinched but didn’t run. Dr. Alla shouted in an unknown tongue.

The mirrored column barely turned now, and the sky was notably dimmer than when we first saw it. The star above flickered like a failing bulb.

Far across from me, on the opposite side of the gallery, a man in a black cloak and slouch hat stepped into the open and fired his pistol, then dropped back behind the archway.

“Kenston!” shouted someone atop the ziggurat. “Shadow-man!” another yelled.

The laughter came from all directions now. We were all laughing. I stepped into the open, tittering and exposing myself, raising an empty hand like a pistol. A man fell in the crowd just as I heard Tally’s rifle bark.

The entire valley went black for a terrifying second as the totem stopped rotating and the sun above turned dark. Then, like a switch being thrown, the light returned with a blinding flare. Shadows danced on the walls for a moment before the mirrored column whirled and light rays erased them all.

Johnny-D stepped into view, fired his pistol, and slid back under cover. Someone in the crowd of followers screamed, several flattened on the floor, and others scattered to run down the sloping stair on the side of the pyramid. From below came shouts of “Kalki!” and “shadow-man!” The murmur and outcries couldn’t drown our laughter, but Dr. Alla’s voice cut through the noise.

“Infidels!” he cried. “Protect me!”

Showing myself again, I pretended to shoot into the crowd and spotted a revelation: The people of the village rushed up the pyramid steps, grappling with the fleeing priests and line of guards — joining the “shadow man” who seemed to be everywhere at once — to destroy the filth that had taken over their eternal valley. Crashing through the mob, his black cloak flapping like a crow’s wings, Zed brought up his swords. They flashed in the fading light as he swept through the white robes, cutting a crimson swath to ascend the tower.

Dr. Alla also must have seen Zed’s blood-splashed visage raging toward the heavens. He screamed, “It can’t be him! It can’t be him!” and dropped into an empty basin under the mirrored totem, disappearing from sight. The woman kneeling in the red folds of cloth fell on her side, and I heard her crying pierce the noise of battle.

A tall, cloaked figure in a slouch hat rushed out of an archway far to my left, followed by Pasang. Grasping her under the shoulders in the hook of his left arm, Argo dropped on a climbing rope secured to the gallery rail and swung out toward the ziggurat. He released the rope at the end of his swing, flinging the two of them through open space. Rolling in the air, they became one black mass under his flapping cloak, which unspooled as they struck the stone steps below the pinnacle of the pyramid.

Argo rolled up onto his knees, pistol raised and looking for a target, as Pasang sprawled beneath him.

I took a breath and ran for the stairs.

***

Mount Meru, the Tibetan Himalayas

Two days earlier

From Doc Riley’s Journal:

We climbed ever higher, with only infrequent pauses for rest when the pathway provided room enough for us to cluster. We traded our crampons for snowshoes. The cloud cover soon enveloped us in a total white-out, and neither time nor distance had any meaning beyond the steps of our feet and the length of rope leading us ever upward. I couldn’t see Pasang at the lead. Sometimes, I couldn’t even see my own feet.

This high above the earth, sunset was delayed. By late evening, a white light gleamed against the white sky that surrounded us, but it seemed too low. Sometimes lower than the ice my boots crunched through. It felt like we were upside-down, and vertigo pulled at me. I stumbled.

“Got you, mate,” Zed said, and I felt his massive hand close on my elbow.

I nodded my thanks for the catch, then felt a tug on the rope joining me to Johnny-D. I straightened up and continued forward, keeping Johnny’s feet in view to ground me in this world without dimensions. I hoped we’d find a place to make camp soon; I didn’t relish the idea of withstanding the storm in the dark.

A shout went up from the front of the line. Argo echoed it, but I didn’t understand. Then Johnny called out over his shoulder to me, “Cave!”

We veered to our left, and a wall of ice and rock rose up suddenly, blocking much of the violent wind. Argo had unclipped from the rope and stood beside a narrow crevice a few feet high, waving us to enter. I squatted to clear the arch, while both Zed and Argo were forced to crawl.

“Thank God,” I gasped. The relief of leaving behind the wind and snow rushed over me like a wave.

A light flared in the cave as Tally switched on an electric lantern from her pack. It revealed a vaulted ceiling of stone and rounded uneven walls. The cave was about fifteen feet across and twenty deep, with a dry rock floor. Toward the back of the space sat bundles of old furs. Pasang opened the bundles, uncovering coils of rope, poles, hammers and other climbing gear.

An empty tin flask clattered onto the floor. Zed snatched it up, shook it, then pitched it to Johnny-D.

“Bastard,” Johnny said, throwing the flask at the far wall, where it clattered against stone.

The cave had been used to store emergency supplies at some point, long ago. The ropes were dry-rotted and much of the other gear just as badly aged. Pasang piled the old ropes and other flammables near the cave mouth, produced a box of matches from under her furs, and set the lot afire. Smoke roiled out into the unending wail of the ice gods warring outside, and we assembled to enjoy the heat while it lasted.

“We must be very near the city entrance,” Argo said, doffing his gloves and holding his hands near the flame.

“What do you mean?” Pasang said. “This is it.”

I spun about, giving the cavern another look. No sun symbol marked a passageway. Indeed, I saw no passage. The cavern curved on itself, offering little room and no exit except into the frozen night.

“The entrance will appear when the morning sun shines through the mouth of the cave,” Pasang said.

“But we’re on the western side of the mountain,” I said. “I watched the sun set below us.”

Pasang grinned. “Ghost lights. Reflections. In a storm like this, it’s easy to be confused. We are on the eastern face. A golden dawn will reveal the path.”

We settled in, making pallets of the old furs. Zed, who carried our heavier supplies, passed out canned rations. While we ate, Pasang told us what to expect in the morning.

“There are many tunnels and passages to traverse before we reach Shambhala,” she said.

“And we won’t be welcome there,” Johnny-D suggested. At Pasang’s glare, he added, “You ran away. They won’t be happy that you return with us in tow.”

Pasang glanced at me. Since taking my hand in the village, she had tended to address me when speaking to us as a group. I thought at the time that she was just shy, and my friendly face reassured her.

“The fountain of Vril energy is failing,” she said as if to me alone. “It is the source of light and life in Shambhala. When it goes, so goes all things. Your world, and mine.”

On our journey across the Middle East to this country, Captain Argo taught us all he knew of the subterranean world we sought. That included a treatise on the energy-form called “Vril,” a sort of energized liquid or “plasma” that could be ingested, applied for healing purposes, used to power machines, and had other amazing properties. Some believed it was not only the basis of Shambhala’s power, but the very origin of life on this planet.

“So we go quietly,” Tally said, nodding to each of us as if she wanted us to agree. “Watch for booby-traps and tripwires. Keep an eye out for sentries.”

Argo squatted beside me, his eyes on Pasang. “Cards on the table, lady. You’re returning for a reason, and not just because we showed up. Spill.”

I turned toward him. “Captain, is it necessary to take that—”

“It’s all right, Doctor,” Pasang said. She again looked at me, then dropped her eyes as if ashamed. She reached into the neck of her blouse and drew out an amulet on a chain. A small silver ring around a white crystal center, it glimmered in the firelight, casting starpoints against the cave walls. Outside, the wind’s lamentations increased.

“This is the Eye of the Sun,” she said. “I — stole it from the temple to avert the rise of Kalki. To forestall the end of the world.”

Argo didn’t reach for the amulet — I believe Pasang would have fought him, if he had, and I don’t know which side I would have joined — but he studied it intently from where he sat.

“So why fetch it home now?” Zed asked.

Again, Pasang couldn’t meet my eyes. “I have been in your world for some time. I’ve seen the darkness there. For all that awaits us in Shambhala, it cannot be worse than that.”

“She’s holding back, Cap,” Johnny-D said, pointing at Pasang. “She’s leading us into a trap.”

“She’s the only reason we made it this far,” I argued. I started to rise, but Argo put a hand on my shoulder and held me in place. I glared at him, surprised to see calm in his eyes.

“You’re both right,” Argo said. “And we’re here now. Get some shut-eye if you can, because we go in at first light.”

We bedded down without posting a guard. Pasang assured us the Yeti had never entered this cave, not since the dawn of time. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep easily, and I dreamed of home. The crash of waves, a surf board under my arm, warm sunshine drying salt water and burning my pale Irish skin. I awoke to the morning light streaming through the cave mouth, and in my transition to wakefulness saw strange shadows moving on the ceiling.

Shouts of alarm brought me upright, and the sick pain of something heavy striking my head turned out the lights again.

The next time I awoke, I was lying on my belly in a tiny stone cell in the dark. Pasang lay beside me, feigning unconsciousness. Her eye lashes fluttered when I stirred. Her lids narrowed and crinkled. Her finger crossed my lips. I lay still.

“They took Argo away,” she whispered. “They took our weapons, but they didn’t check below my clothing or Tally’s.”

I tried to ask her what happened in the cave — what were those shadows I saw? But she guessed my question before I could utter it.

“The shadow-men of Shambhala,” she said.

***

CHAPTER FIVE

Under the Earth

23 September 1932

Sanskrit Month of Asvina, Buddhist Year 2475

Argo fired point-blank, and a white-robed woman brandishing a scimitar fell. She tumbled over the side of the pyramid, her bones cracking on stone steps. The others fled before him in a headlong rush down the opposite incline, falling over each other and taking their chances against the mob of villagers and Zed’s whirling blades.

Argo checked his pistol — one cartridge remained, and his ammo belt was empty. He grasped Pasang’s hand and brought her to her feet. “Where did Dr. Alla go?”

She pointed under the spinning totem at a deep basin carved in the surface of the ziggurat. “There’s a passage below. But when I replace the Eye, the Vril will flow again. The passage will fill, and if you aren’t clear —”

Argo turned away, shaded his eyes against the glare reflected from the totem, and dropped into the depression under it. He marveled for a second when he realized the great mirrored column wasn’t attached to a support — it defied gravity as it rotated under the Eternal Sun. From all around him came the cries of conflict, sounds of gunfire and screams, and yet for a second in time he was in the presence of something magical.

Argo saw Pasang waiting for him to move, then he ducked and entered the tunnel opening. Its floor was smooth and sloped at a steep angle toward the earth. Even his boot treads couldn’t grip the stone, and he slid downward for several yards. The totem light above soon faded, leaving only the blue-white glow of the crystals embedded in the rock walls for illumination.

As Argo slipped further down the trough, a trickle of sparkling water passed his feet. The flow increased, casting watery reflections and brightening the tunnel. When he finally skated to a halt where the trough leveled off, Argo found himself knee-deep in the rising, glowing Vril. Branch tunnels traveled in four directions, and the energized liquid flowed into them toward unknown destinations. Just above the waterline to his right, a closed wooden doorway shaped like the lid of a barrel promised an alternate route for escape.

Argo pushed the door open, carefully peering around the edge until he heard the sound of hurried footsteps retreating along the corridor. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him, then sprinted along the tunnel in pursuit. His wet footprints glowed briefly in his wake, like the phosphorescence of ocean water in the night.

He rounded a turn and felt the air explode from his lungs as something solid crashed against his chest and smashed him backward. Argo fell flat on his back, and his pistol clattered away. Gasping, he saw a Mongolian guard in a blue turban step around the corner and raise his wooden club for a second stroke.

Argo spun toward the guard and planted his right elbow in the man’s groin. The man stumbled backward, causing his swing to fall short. The bludgeon struck the floor and bounced loose from his fingers. When he reached for it, Argo swept his feet from underneath him.

The guard hit the ground hard. Argo rolled on top of him, using his knees to pin the man’s arms. With a sweeping motion, Argo drew his Bowie knife and stabbed it under the guard’s chin, into his brain. He yanked the blade free and wiped it on the dead man’s turban. Sheathing the knife, Argo launched himself away and scooped up his pistol as he ran.

The tunnel widened, opened into a straightaway, and Argo spotted Dr. Alla’s white robe in the distance. Another guard ran alongside him.

“Give it up, Kenston!” Argo shouted.

“I’m not Kenston!” Dr. Alla faltered, stumbled. He turned back to face Argo, who imagined the cloaked vision he presented in pursuit. “You — you’re not Kenston either!”

The guard helped his master to his feet. Even at a run, Argo could see the look of confusion on the guard’s face matching that of his master’s. Dr. Alla pointed at Argo, said a word to the guard, and turned to flee.

The guard brought up his spear, took an offensive stance, and prepared to skewer Argo. Just as the space between them closed, Argo whipped his cloak into the air in front of him, spinning it by one corner so that it opened like a black shield between him and the spear. He dashed forward, threw the cloak before him and dropped onto his hip, sliding like a runner into home base.

The spear pierced the cloak and sliced through empty air where Argo might have been, just as Argo’s boot heels smashed into the guard’s ankles. The man yelped as he fell, and Argo’s clenched fist silenced him. Rotating up on his knees, Argo raised his pistol and sighted down the tunnel at Dr. Alla’s retreating back. The robed man’s form seemed to warp, his long, twisted shadow appearing on the floor behind him.

Argo squeezed the trigger. The gun spoke — Dr. Alla twitched and fell. He lay still, flat on his face, only yards from the maze of passages that might have sheltered him until he could rally again. Argo holstered his Webley and approached the body. He watched as Dr. Alla drew breath and a pool of blood spread across the stone floor. He knelt and grasped the man’s shoulders to turn him over.

Dr. Alla pivoted, stabbing his right arm at Argo like a cobra striking. His extended fingers jabbed into Argo’s neck, and the long nails drew blood. Argo fell backward, choking and clutching at his own throat. Dr. Alla shoved himself atop his pursuer, pinned Argo with his knees, and glared into Argo’s desperate eyes.

The world tipped sideways. Argo sensed gravity shift. The floor was now a wall, and he felt as if he was sliding down it into a deep, spiraling darkness. He tried to look away, but Dr. Alla’s gaze held him — twin inescapable black holes into which he fell headlong. Blind and breathless, Argo recalled Pasang’s warning about Dr. Alla’s power of mesmerism, as well as his own vow not to get close enough to fall prey.

A tug at his boot. A shush of steel on leather. Argo’s head was spinning, but he realized Dr. Alla had taken his Bowie knife from his boot.

Argo lunged to his left, then right. He heard the chink of steel on stone, felt the rush of movement past his ear as the knife just missed its mark. Dr. Alla’s knee slipped — he’d overextended and unbalanced himself when Argo dodged the blade. Argo reared forward, grappling blindly with the man. His hands found Dr. Alla’s arms, then his wrists, and twisted with all his might.

Light returned, and air rushed into his lungs. The world righted itself. Argo shoved away from Dr. Alla, flattened his back against the wall, and raised his hands before him. His vision cleared to see Dr. Alla charging with the blade in hand.

Argo sprang to meet him, swerving past the outstretched knife and grabbing Dr. Alla’s robe. He threw himself backward, pulled Alla with him, and shoved the man further along — face-first into the stone wall.

Bone cracked and blood spurted. When the robed man fell still this time, he barely breathed. Argo sat up and retrieved his knife. He rubbed his sore neck, then kicked Dr. Alla’s leg to be sure he wasn’t faking.

***

Under the Earth and Not Under the Earth

Temple of the Eternal Sun

From Doc Riley’s Journal:

My lungs burned by the time I descended from the gallery and followed Zed’s trail of dead and wounded up the side of the pyramid. I fought my instinct to stop and treat the injured — this was open battle, still. I took a handgun from one of the dead and set my eyes on the pinnacle.

The big ginger-haired brawler stood with his back to the totem, long knives dripping blood. A happy grin cracked his face. The sacrifice, once more draped in her crimson robe, sat at his feet and gazed up at him, one arm gripping his right knee and her face a mix of awe and lust. Zed laughed when he saw me, a deep and hearty bellow, and I laughed back at him despite the madness and death all around us.

Behind Zed, Pasang climbed down the side of the motionless mirrored column. Though it hung still, the sky remained bright. She dropped the last several feet, turning to embrace me with a smile. She pointed at the water filling the depression under the totem, which began to rotate, slowly at first but with building speed.

“I replaced the Eye. The Vril flows once more,” she said.

I shaded my eyes from the blinding reflection to watch the water rise. It reached the lip of the basin and overflowed, draining along tiny paths cut into the stone. Glowing water cascaded down the center of the steps on all four sides of the ziggurat, into the moats between the walls of the complex, and then into the sacred river.

At sight of the Vril, the villagers cheered. Some of them grabbed hold of the wounded — priests, guards, and fellow villagers — and dragged them into the flow of flickering liquid. I thought at first they were drowning the wounded. My heart sank. But they hauled them out again, smiling, and shouting praises.

“What the bloody hell?” Zed growled.

“The Vril is a healing fluid,” Pasang said. “It will make them stronger in body and mind. They will no longer be under the spell of Dr. Alla.”

We watched as the surviving priests and guards put down their weapons and joined the villagers in the coursing waters. Pasang took the hand of the woman at Zed’s feet and led her over to the water bubbling from the basin. The woman dipped her golden face in the Vril.

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

The 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

Tony 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!

Does 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!