It's quality, not quantity, thought Remo. Sure, and I'm a tenor for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
He tore his eyes away from Mr. Big and made another circuit of the room, saw that a portion of the roof was open to the sky, so moonlight aided the illumination of the torches set into the walls at ten- or twelve-foot intervals. In back, behind the ghastly audience, a pair of massive doors was closed against the night, and Remo guessed the courtyard lay in that direction, with the wall and outer gates beyond.
He was considering a move, convinced that he could drop the chief and liberate at least one prisoner before the audience responded in a screaming, killing rush, when there was a disturbance in the back rows of the amphitheater. Someone was pounding on the massive doors, and two sentries hastened to check it out. These doors were easier to handle than the outer gates, but they still needed muscle, with the two guards getting help from those outside.
As Remo watched, a squad of six more tribesmen trooped in to join the others, every eye in the assembly turned to follow them, weird faces scowling at the interruption, then displaying disapproval as they got a look at the captive boxed in by her guards.
Audrey Moreland.
Remo cursed himself and let it go—no more time for recriminations at the moment. He would have to think of something fast, before the party started heating up.
And from the looks of Mr. Big, his visible reaction to the struggling blonde, there would be little time to waste.
Chapter Seventeen
It was all too much for Audrey's mind to process, pouring in on her without a breather. Being decked by Renton Ward and waking up to find herself alone, trussed up like Grandma's Christmas turkey in the middle of the godforsaken jungle. Struggling to get free and picking up the trail, only to find herself surrounded by a gang who could be poster children for the next Wes Craven movie. Marching through the darkness to an ancient, obviously undiscovered city, where her captors led her past a glowing fountain—the uranium?—to reach a kind of Stone Age auditorium. Her traveling companions kneeling on the stage, tied up, while an ungainly three-eyed giant with a schlong the size of Baja California, shouted gibberish to an assembled audience of living, breathing nightmares.
What was she supposed to do?
Scream, baby, scream—and fight as if her life depended on it, which it obviously did.
She gave a fair impersonation of a grownup temper tantrum, kicking, screaming, spitting, scratching at her captors. She stopped short of biting them, since they were smeared from head to foot with mud or something worse that came from God knew where, but her resistance had its impact Her fingernails plowed bloody furrows down the cheek of Mr. No Nose, after which she kicked him in the loincloth, hard enough to leave him gasping on his knees. The pygmies tried to stick her then, but Audrey grabbed one of the spears and swung the first runt hard into his stubby buddy, dropping both of them.
She had a weapon now, and was prepared to use it, but she never got the chance. Someone came up behind her with a club and tapped her skull just hard enough to dim the lights, turn her legs to rubber, while a swarm of mud-caked hands reached out to grab the spear away from her, pin down her arms and legs.
One chance, she thought. I had one chance, and that was it It's gone.
They dragged her toward the stage, boots scuffing on the stony floor, where Three Eyes waited for her, showing signs of interest that a naked man had difficulty hiding. Hell, with that equipment, his excitement would have been apparent in a suit of armor.
Others noticed his reaction, too, and as the sleeping giant rose to full attention, certain members of the audience began to chant, a rhythmic, off-key dirge.
She reached the dais, borne on eager hands, and was deposited at Long John Silver's feet, his fleshy cudgel aimed directly at her face. No way, thought Audrey. Where the hell is Linda Lovelace when you need her?
Giant drums had fallen silent when the raiding party entered with their captive, but the beat resumed now, throbbing in the amphitheater like some great, cosmic heartbeat. Someone found a length of rope and bound her hands behind her, tied off to her ankles as the others were secured. If Audrey struggled now, she had a choice of four directions she could fall in: right, left, backward or directly on her face.
The three-eyed giant and his one-eyed buddy had begun to sway in front of her, a jerky little dance that matched the rhythm of the drumbeats more or less. She closed her eyes, preferring not to watch, her mind already focused on the prospect of what former generations had described—and accurately, she decided—as "a fate worse than death." There could be no "relax and enjoy it" with this freak, or those who might line up behind him if worse came to worst.
I wonder, Audrey thought, if you can will yourself to die?
The morbid train of thought was interrupted by a new sound, emanating from outside. Behind the chanting of the audience surrounding her, she heard one man, and then another, shouting frantically, their shouts resolving into screams of pain or panic. There was a distant sound of old wood groaning, screeching, splintering, but even that wasn't what riveted her full attention.
Something else.
A loud, unearthly snarling, as of some fantastic beast enraged.
The snarling, roaring, air-stirring sound had barely died away when the assembled natives went berserk. As one, they leaped up from their stony seats and rushed into the aisles, stampeding for the nearest exit. Some of them were shouting, and while Remo didn't speak their language, he could make one word out loud and clear.
"Nagaq! Nagaq!"
There was no time to hesitate or wonder what in hell was going on. He bolted through the trapdoor, charged across the stage and met the three-eyed giant just as Mr. Big turned back to face him, his impressive scepter thrust out like a weapon.
Remo saw his opportunity and seized it with a clutching, twisting move that left his eight-foot adversary standing in a pool of crimson, hitting high notes for the first time in his life. A crushing backhand silenced the soprano aria and closed the three-eyed stare forever. Remo stepped past the chief before he fell and moved on to free the hostages.
A number of the tribesmen saw their leader fall, and three of those were bold enough to leap on-stage, despite their panicky reaction to the noises emanating from outside, and try to dish out instant justice. They walked into a whirlwind of destruction, fists and feet they never saw before the lights went out forever. Their bodies sprawled on the dais while their mud-caked countrymen bailed out with all deliberate speed.
"Nagaq! Nagaq!"
Outside, the noises that had prompted the stampede were getting louder, closer. Remo couldn't place the snarling—if reminded him of King Kong talking tough in Dolby stereo—but something large and angry was advancing on the temple, obviously giving hell to anyone who crossed its path. He wondered if the drums—all silent now—had summoned it, and whether this kind of intrusion was a normal part of tribal gatherings.
From the reactions of the audience, he guessed that it wasn't. Apparently, no evacuation drill had been prepared, no chants or prayers designed for the occasion. They might worship great Nagaq, but they were plainly unaccustomed to its putting in a personal appearance in the middle of the ceremony.