Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

  Spalko’s jeep shot over the rise, going airborne. She must have taken the hill at twice the speed Indy had. Sailing high, the jeep crested the sandy mountain—then smashed flat atop its summit, sinking to its bumpers.

  Indy didn’t stop to gawk. He hurried them on.

  Mutt pointed down to his feet. “I told you there were giant ants out here!”

  Indy frowned but looked where the kid pointed. A couple of red fire ants, as long as his outstretched fingers, scurried about their business.

  Indy glanced from the giant pincers of the ants to the sandy mountain behind him. He suddenly understood what they’d crashed into and pushed Mutt even faster. He waved a wild arm to Mac and Oxley.

  “Run!”

  Atop the hill, Irina Spalko straightened in the driver’s seat, still dazed from the impact. She fought through the shock and employed an Inuit deep-breathing technique to focus her full attention back to the situation. Twisting around, she spotted the Americans’ jeep farther down the mound.

  She also noted the flight of Dr. Jones and the others.

  They seemed especially panicked.

  And well they should be.

  She swung to the soldier next to her. He groaned and rubbed his forehead. It was already swelling up into a knot from where he’d struck the dashboard.

  She would have to do this herself.

  Reaching over, Spalko relieved the soldier of his sidearm and turned back toward the fleeing prisoners. She extended her arms and cradled the pistol with both hands. Holding her breath now, she steadied herself and aimed down the sights.

  She centered on Dr. Jones.

  She no longer had to worry about inadvertently sending him—and thus the skull—into the raging river. Having the high ground, she would pick off each one, then collect the skull.

  As if sensing her attention, Dr. Jones suddenly stopped and stared back in her direction. Their gazes locked.

  Good-bye Dr. Jones.

  Before she could fire, the walnut sized head of an insect popped over the end of her gun’s barrel, blocking her view and waving long antennae. Startled, she leaned back as the creature climbed fully into view.

  It was a massive fire ant.

  Aghast, her finger spasmed on the trigger, and a round blasted out into the jungle. The noise surprised her—and the ant.

  The creature raced forward over the weapon and sank its pincers into the meat of her thumb.

  The pain drew an agonized gasp from her.

  She smashed the ant against the doorjamb and scrambled to her feet atop the driver’s seat. More giant ants appeared, crawling from air vents, pushing out from around the pedals. More and more materialized and swarmed into the jeep, coming for her.

  Seeking higher ground, Spalko jumped over the windshield and landed on the hood. All around, ants boiled up out of the sand. Off to the left, from a gaping maw at the top of the hill, poured thousands upon thousands of ants. They writhed out in a churning, pinching pile, spreading in a sea toward the jeep. As they surged forth, a waft of fetid odor came with them, billowing out of the dark tunnel.

  It smelled like rotting meat. Spalko knew what it was.

  Food.

  The horde was carnivorous.

  Seated in the front of the jeep, the dazed soldier suddenly bellowed, pawing at his face. Pain drew him back to full alertness. With a cry, he turned in Spalko’s direction. Half his face was covered in flailing ants. Blood poured down his neck. Frantic to escape, he fell out of the jeep and into the sand.

  A mistake that doomed him.

  Immediately a wave of ants swept over his body.

  He crawled on, blind and screaming.

  FORTY-TWO

  “IT’S A GIANT ANTHILL!” Indy gasped, and pushed them all down the slope.

  “Bloody hell,” Mac moaned.

  As the group reached the bottom of the mound, Indy swung around. He spotted Spalko standing on the hood of her jeep. A surging red sea raged around her and flowed downhill, a boiling volcano of hunger and anger.

  “Siafu,” Indy mumbled.

  Mutt glanced to him.

  “Army ants,” Indy explained and hurried them away. “Even the little ones can strip flesh from bone. We have to get to the river.”

  Indy had encountered army ants before, in the jungles of central Africa and Asia. They formed colonies as large as twenty million. And once on the move, they were an unstoppable force. During feeding swarms, an entire jungle would flee from their path. Even elephants with their tough hides stampeded out of their way.

  And those had been only the small cousins of these giant ants.

  Indy glanced back one more time. Up on the anthill, Spalko still had not moved. She stood in exactly the same position, staying quiet as a statue. She met his gaze across the deadly sea. He sensed her hatred, her desire to kill him. She even held a pistol in one hand, aimed at him—but she dared not shoot it.

  Not if she wanted to live.

  The blast would draw the aggressive ants straight to her. Her only hope for survival was to hide in plain sight, to offer no sign of hostility or threat.

  And it served Indy just as well.

  Safe from her for the moment, he led the others up the neighboring ridgeline. They had to hurry. Mac and Mutt hauled Oxley between them. Reaching the top of the rise, Indy glanced back at the churning red sea. The colony washed to the bottom of the anthill and flowed up the ridge after them, surging at an amazing speed.

  Indy swung around. “Faster!” he screamed.

  As they fled down the far side of the ridge, a strange rumbling roar grew in volume. At first Indy thought it was the surging white water of the river. But it came from the wrong direction. He searched the sky.

  Was it a distant thunderstorm?

  As Indy reached the bottom of the ridgeline, he had his answer. From the jungle to the right, a massive vehicle plowed out of the dark forest and onto the trail, its horn blaring.

  It was the damaged Russian troop transport, its roof missing and shredded.

  The vehicle crashed across their path with a squeal of brakes. It skidded and fishtailed to avoid plunging into the ravine. Then with one last rattle it settled to a stop, spewing exhaust and blocking the way to the river.

  The driver’s door slammed open, and a familiar brute bounded out.

  Colonel Dovchenko.

  The Russian barreled straight at Indy like a runaway locomotive, his face locked in a cold mask of rage and vengeance.

  Backpedaling away from the others to draw the Russian colonel off, Indy yelled to Mac and Mutt. “The river! Get down to the river!

  Oxley nodded and promptly dropped flat to the dirt instead, sprawling out on his stomach amid the weeds, lying on top of the burlap sack.

  Mutt tried to get him back to his feet.

  Indy knew the boy wouldn’t abandon the professor. He yelled to Mac and pointed toward the ravine. “Get the kid down to the river.”

  Mac nodded, grabbed Mutt by the elbow, and hauled him bodily toward the chasm.

  Then the locomotive hit Indy.

  “Let me go, man! I need to get to the Ox!”

  Mutt struggled, but the older British man was stronger than he appeared, though maybe it was a strength born of terror. Still Mutt fought. He wasn’t going anywhere without Oxley.

  Finally Mac pointed toward the neighboring ridgeline. They would be swamped in a matter of moments: Ants were cresting the top and surging downward. “Got company coming, mate! You’re not going to help anyone if you’re ant food. Got it? Leave Oxley to Indiana.”

  Mutt hesitated.

  “You may not know it yet, mate, but your father has gotten out of tougher scrapes than this.”

  Mutt turned in time to see Jones take a fist to the belly that lifted him off his feet.

  Mac tugged Mutt onward. “Okay, maybe not tougher than this. But if anyone can come out of this smelling sweet, it’s Indiana.”

  Mutt finally nodded.

  Together the two barreled towa
rd the ravine. But there was one problem.

  The troop transport.

  It blocked the way, and rifles bristled at them. The soldiers were not going to let them escape again. Mac and Mutt tried flanking to the left, but the rumbling truck edged along with them, keeping them hemmed in.

  Mutt glanced back to the rise.

  The ant army rolled toward them.

  They were trapped.

  Mac frowned at their predicament. “Looks like Indy will have to save us, too.”

  Marion took in the situation with a single glance.

  Her duck idled under her. She had swerved the amphibious vehicle into the shadows when the troop transport blasted out of the jungle.

  Bastard must’ve taken the direct route. Never trust a Commie to play by the rules.

  Marion dared wait no longer.

  She floored the gas, and the idling duck rocketed forward. She arrowed the prow straight between the Russian transport—and her son.

  As she’d hoped, the noise and sudden appearance caught the soldiers aboard the truck off guard. Plus she was riding in one of their own vehicles. The Russians hesitated long enough for her to plow between her son and the guns.

  “Inside!” she yelled to Mutt and Mac.

  Realizing Marion was not one of them, the Russians finally reacted and opened fire. The noise was deafening.

  Marion crouched low in the duck. Rounds ricocheted off its armored side. Shielded behind the bulk of the duck, Mutt and Mac clambered inside and fell flat to the floor.

  “We have to get to the river, Mom!” Mutt hollered.

  “That’s the plan, but first—” Marion popped into reverse. “—we have to fetch Ox and your dad.”

  Mac spoke up. “Marion, Indy ordered us to go to the river without him.”

  She hit the gas. “Mac, since when do I ever listen to Jones?”

  FORTY-THREE

  INDY WAS SORE from head to toe with nothing left to bruise. By now he was definitely well tenderized for the ant army. Though he and Dovchenko had been exchanging blows, Indy’s fists had seemed little more than pats on the back to the Russian.

  A moment ago Indy had heard gunfire and feared to look around.

  Then he heard Marion yell and knew everything was fine.

  Off to the side, Oxley remained sprawled out across the ground on his belly. He had his arms wrapped around the crystal skull. Not far away and moving closer, a river of fire ants poured down the ridge and flowed straight for the prostrate professor.

  Indy positioned himself so that each punch or roundhouse kick from Dovchenko drove him closer to Oxley. He had to get his friend moving.

  Dovchenko bore down on him. The only things bloody on the man were his knuckles, and Indy suspected most of that was not the Russian’s blood.

  Indy swung at Dovchenko, but his arm was just batted aside. A heavy fist followed and struck Indy square in the sternum. Indy flew backward and landed flat on his back next to Oxley.

  “Henry Jones Junior,” Ox said, staring over at him with a winning smile.

  Indy gasped—that’s all he could do. He rubbed his chest.

  Okay, so Dovchenko had found a new part of his body to bruise. He’d felt that blow all the way through to his heart.

  Rolling back to his feet, he coughed and glanced over a shoulder.

  How close were the—?

  —ack—

  Only yards away, the ants swarmed in a wide swath straight at them. There was no chance to get clear in time, but Indy had to try. He bent down and pulled Oxley up. Resisting the effort, the professor shook free and instead raised the crystal skull up into a patch of sunlight.

  The skull fired with brilliance.

  As if shy of the radiant glow, the river of ants parted around the pair and flowed to either side, leaving them in a clear island.

  But they weren’t alone there.

  With a roar, Dovchenko charged like a bull.

  Indy was ready this time. He’d had enough of the Russian colonel. He faced the bull, waited, then ducked under Dovchenko’s long arms.

  As the giant struck, Indy flipped the Russian over his shoulder, letting his opponent’s mass and momentum carry him up and over. Now it was Dovchenko’s turn to land on his back.

  In the middle of the river of ants.

  Dovchenko jerked up onto his elbows, but in a matter of seconds the ants completely swarmed him. He screamed one piercing note—and then his voice was cut off as ants flooded into his mouth, streamed up his nostrils, and dug into his ears. He crashed backward, writhing, consumed under their mass, thrashing in silent agony.

  His body began to slide across the ground.

  At first Indy thought the Russian was crawling, and was amazed at his fortitude. Then he noted that the body seemed to be floating a couple of inches off the ground.

  His large mass headed for the anthill, carried aloft by the sea of ants.

  Apparently the dinner bell had been rung.

  On tonight’s menu:

  Russian.

  Marion drove the duck in reverse.

  In the rearview mirror, she spotted Indy as he picked up Oxley in his arms. The professor held aloft the crystal skull. Burdened by the man’s weight, Indy waded slowly toward her. But with each step, the ants parted from his toes, as if he were Moses crossing the Red Sea.

  She and the others were not so lucky.

  The ants covered the entire plateau in a solid mass. They swarmed over anything in their path, including both the Russian troop transport and the smaller duck.

  Mutt and Mac yelled and slapped.

  Several ants ran up and down Marion’s legs.

  Off by the ravine, the Russians poured out of the swamped transport, fleeing with ropes and climbing gear, anything to escape the ants. They had the same idea as their enemies.

  Get to water.

  Finally Marion reached Indy’s side. “Need a ride, stranger?” she asked, but she had a hard time hiding the relief behind her words.

  He was beaten, bloody, and bruised. Still, she expected some snappy comeback from him . . . but he just smiled, tired, weary, scared around the edges. That frightened her more than anything.

  “Thanks, Marion.”

  Indy passed Oxley to Mac, then scrambled into the front passenger seat.

  As he sat down, Indy’s hand secretly reached across the front seat, found her fingers, and squeezed them. It was a private gesture that warmed through the cold terror clutched around her heart.

  “Where now, beautiful?” he asked.

  Reassured and confident, Marion hit the wipers, scattering ants. She punched the gas and aimed straight for the ravine.

  Noting the direction of their flight, Indy’s fingers tightened harder. “Honey, you gotta stop this thing or we’ll go off the cliff.”

  “That’s the idea, Jones.”

  He turned to her. “That’s a bad idea! Give me the wheel!”

  Marion offered him one of his own devil-may-care grins, an expression she had seen all too often. She also returned the words that usually accompanied that grin: “Trust me!”

  Gunning the engine, she raced faster. Russian soldiers fled to either side. She ignored them, shot straight for the cliff, and sailed off its edge.

  FORTY-FOUR

  SPALKO LISTENED TO THE SCREAMS that flowed over the neighboring rise, but she remained calm. She waited perfectly still atop the hood of her jeep, using techniques developed by Nepalese monks to control heart rate, breath, and body temperature. They had taught her how to achieve nothingness.

  She sought that same state here.

  She was nothing, nothing to notice.

  So far, the ants had ignored her stillness.

  She waited while they emptied from their nest. As she stood quietly, the river flowing out the top of the anthill slowed to a dwindling trickle. Knowing she had a narrow window of opportunity before the colony returned, she finally moved. With great care, she edged off the hood. Stretching down, she tested the loose sand and
dirt—first with one foot, then the other.

  Nothing attacked.

  Satisfied, she headed gingerly across the mound, treading lightly. She slipped cautiously down the slope, still controlling her breathing. She kept an eye on the ant army. Once well enough away from the hill’s opening, she fled faster, skidding to the bottom.

  Reaching solid ground, she stopped and considered the best path. Screams still echoed over the rise. Not that way. She turned her back on the cries and crossed toward the jungle by a different path. She knew the general direction to the river and headed for it. She kept her goal in mind, pushing back fear and doubt.

  She would rejoin her comrades.

  Then find Dr. Jones.

  As the duck flew off the edge of the cliff, Indy clutched Marion’s arm in one hand and his door handle in the other.

  The vehicle shot out into open air and seemed to hang there for a breath—then it dropped in a stomach-in-the-throat plummet. The cliff wall sped past, draped with soldiers on ropes.

  Indy gave a strangled cry. “Marrrrrion!”

  A second later the duck struck something halfway down the cliff and jolted to a stop. Indy was thrown forward, and his forehead struck the dashboard in a stinging blow.

  What the heck . . . ?

  Dazed, Indy pushed back upright in his seat and leaned over the edge of the door. Had they hit some ledge on the cliff face? But peering down, all he saw were branches and leaves, and somewhere beyond that a churn of water over sharp rocks. He gaped back at the cliff, then over to Marion. He realized where they had landed. It stuck straight out of the wall like a leafy catcher’s mitt.

  “A tree?” he gulped out. “You landed us in a bloody tree?”

  With a shrug, Marion goosed the engine. Tires spun in the air and tore leaves off branches. “Saw the tree earlier! When I was driving up! Cliff’s not that high at this spot!”

  Indy craned up. High enough to scare a year off my life.

  And they weren’t out of trouble.

  Russian soldiers continued to drop toward them, sliding down on ropes.

  And behind them—ants swarmed and poured down the wall in a crimson waterfall.