The Call of the Wild: Klondike Cannibals, Vol. 2 by Herbert Ashe Page A
Authors: Herbert Ashe
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suit pocket, finally unlocking the doors, swinging them open, and disappearing into the darkness inside.
Jack ducked through after him.
Just inside the door Merritt grabbed a kerosene lantern hanging on the wall. He struck a long match to light it, then started down a steep staircase into the pitch-blackness below.
Jack fo llowed, carefully navigating the narrow creaking stairs in the flickering light. Where were they leading him? He really had no idea what to expect when they reached the bottom. Would they put him to work shovelling coal? Or maybe—
There was a strange , damp smell down here that he did not like.
Indian Jack slammed the heavy doors shut behind him, and Jack jumped at the sound. The doors were bolted again, this time from the inside.
Jack felt a tightness in his throat. What if they planned to lock him up down here? It would be a perfect way to get rid of him… He immediately thought of Poe’s short story, “The Cask of the Amontillado.” He shuddered, very aware of Indian Jack coming down the stairs right behind him…
They could easily drop my body overboard in a day or two, he thought, in the middle of the night, and no one would be the wiser.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Jack was more than a little jumpy. He could see by the lantern light that they were in a storage hold of some sort, though one seemingly unconnected to the ship’s main hold. Within it were several dozen crates and boxes from all over the world. Many were stamped with the names of their place of origin: Rangoon, Sidi Bou Said, Calcutta…
Merritt hung the lantern next to a wooden crate about the size of a coffin. Then he picked up a crowbar and began prying open the coffin crate.
Jack’s muscles tensed. He half expected some strange creature to emerge, and attack him.
When the top came free, Merritt shifted it to one side. He reached his hand inside the crate to grab something. He straightened up, and put a small, smooth stone in Jack’s hand.
It was a piece of amber. In the flickering lantern light Jack could see the alien forms of prehistoric insects trapped inside the golden liquid, frozen in time…
“ I picked that up from the oddest little curio shop in Cairo.” He took the amber from Jack, and placed it back in the crate. Then he lifted the lid back on, and pounded it into place with his crowbar.
As Jack watched, incredulous, Merritt pointed at the boxes and crates, one by one, listing their contents: “Canned snails from Provence… Watch-spring dolls from Vienna… Bronze astrolabes from Alexandria… Pornographic woodblock prints from Japan… the finest Burmese opium…”
The selection of items was mad, decadent, and as Jack listened the fantastical list grew longer and longer. Merritt explained that he’d just finished a whirlwind trip around the world—in less than 80 days—collecting the Earth’s rarest and most curious luxuries, to outfit the saloon he was building in Dawson City, the Alhambra .
When he finished speaking, Merritt looked up at Jack, triumphantly.
Finally, Jack understood. “You want me to write about you,” he said.
“Very good, my boy,” Merritt said, his eyes glittering. “You see Jack, I’m just like you.”
* * * * *
Jack had no doubt he could do it.
He wouldn’t be starved for material: in fact, he was more than a little surprised that Merritt seemed so interesting. Not exactly what he’d expected the day before, when he was perched on the warehouse roof overlooking the dockyard square, dreaming revenge upon the gang who’d swindled him.
In many ways this was his dream come true. To get to go on the adventure path again by virtue of his pen, rather than by skinning seals or shovelling coal.
It was certainly a step up, maybe even better than landing a position as a newspaper correspondent. Plus Jack was terribly interested in learning more about Merritt and the inner-workings of his gang. This would give him yet another
Jack ducked through after him.
Just inside the door Merritt grabbed a kerosene lantern hanging on the wall. He struck a long match to light it, then started down a steep staircase into the pitch-blackness below.
Jack fo llowed, carefully navigating the narrow creaking stairs in the flickering light. Where were they leading him? He really had no idea what to expect when they reached the bottom. Would they put him to work shovelling coal? Or maybe—
There was a strange , damp smell down here that he did not like.
Indian Jack slammed the heavy doors shut behind him, and Jack jumped at the sound. The doors were bolted again, this time from the inside.
Jack felt a tightness in his throat. What if they planned to lock him up down here? It would be a perfect way to get rid of him… He immediately thought of Poe’s short story, “The Cask of the Amontillado.” He shuddered, very aware of Indian Jack coming down the stairs right behind him…
They could easily drop my body overboard in a day or two, he thought, in the middle of the night, and no one would be the wiser.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Jack was more than a little jumpy. He could see by the lantern light that they were in a storage hold of some sort, though one seemingly unconnected to the ship’s main hold. Within it were several dozen crates and boxes from all over the world. Many were stamped with the names of their place of origin: Rangoon, Sidi Bou Said, Calcutta…
Merritt hung the lantern next to a wooden crate about the size of a coffin. Then he picked up a crowbar and began prying open the coffin crate.
Jack’s muscles tensed. He half expected some strange creature to emerge, and attack him.
When the top came free, Merritt shifted it to one side. He reached his hand inside the crate to grab something. He straightened up, and put a small, smooth stone in Jack’s hand.
It was a piece of amber. In the flickering lantern light Jack could see the alien forms of prehistoric insects trapped inside the golden liquid, frozen in time…
“ I picked that up from the oddest little curio shop in Cairo.” He took the amber from Jack, and placed it back in the crate. Then he lifted the lid back on, and pounded it into place with his crowbar.
As Jack watched, incredulous, Merritt pointed at the boxes and crates, one by one, listing their contents: “Canned snails from Provence… Watch-spring dolls from Vienna… Bronze astrolabes from Alexandria… Pornographic woodblock prints from Japan… the finest Burmese opium…”
The selection of items was mad, decadent, and as Jack listened the fantastical list grew longer and longer. Merritt explained that he’d just finished a whirlwind trip around the world—in less than 80 days—collecting the Earth’s rarest and most curious luxuries, to outfit the saloon he was building in Dawson City, the Alhambra .
When he finished speaking, Merritt looked up at Jack, triumphantly.
Finally, Jack understood. “You want me to write about you,” he said.
“Very good, my boy,” Merritt said, his eyes glittering. “You see Jack, I’m just like you.”
* * * * *
Jack had no doubt he could do it.
He wouldn’t be starved for material: in fact, he was more than a little surprised that Merritt seemed so interesting. Not exactly what he’d expected the day before, when he was perched on the warehouse roof overlooking the dockyard square, dreaming revenge upon the gang who’d swindled him.
In many ways this was his dream come true. To get to go on the adventure path again by virtue of his pen, rather than by skinning seals or shovelling coal.
It was certainly a step up, maybe even better than landing a position as a newspaper correspondent. Plus Jack was terribly interested in learning more about Merritt and the inner-workings of his gang. This would give him yet another
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