CANNIBAL KINGDOM Read online

  CANNIBAL KINGDOM

  A Novel

  JOHN L. CAMPBELL

  This book is an original publication of Wild Highlander Press

  Copyright © 2017 by John L. Campbell

  Cover design by Allen Lawlor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Titles by John L. Campbell

  CANNIBAL KINGDOM

  OMEGA DAYS

  SHIP OF THE DEAD

  DRIFTERS

  CROSSBONES

  THE FERAL ROAD

  RED CIRCUS

  IN THE FALLING LIGHT

  THE MANGROVES

  Writing as Atticus Wulf

  A CRUEL AND BITTER NOTHING

  A JUDGE FROM SALEM

  To Linda,

  the source of my twenty year love affair.

  ORIGIN

  -1-

  The South Pacific – 566 AD

  The king stood in the center of the smoking village, looking at the dead, and at the destruction the enemy had visited upon his people. The heavy jungle air smelled of fire, blood and burnt flesh, and birds concealed in the high trees called out in raucous voices in anticipation of the banquet to come.

  None had been spared. The enemy had slaughtered every last soul, leaving them for the scavengers. No, he corrected himself, not all. Before burning the village, the enemy would have taken a number of slaves, people who would live a brief life of severe labor and torment before ending up on the enemy’s feasting tables. Of course the king and his own people partook of human flesh as well, but only during high ceremonies, and that made it different. The enemy was truly barbaric; human meat was a regular part of their diet.

  Kopi, king of the Galuh people, walked slowly toward the message left for him by the enemy, his warriors moving with him and watching the jungle nervously. At thirty, Kopi was in his prime, tall for his people, naked except for a simple loincloth, the better to display his bronzed and muscled body, covered in sacred tattoos and ritual scarring. In one hand was a heavy spear with intricate carvings running the length of the shaft, the weapon of the Galuh kings since time forgotten. A heavy, fearsome thing, it felt ineffective in his grip, for it had not been able to prevent the destruction that lay all around him.

  The king stopped before a post that had been driven into the ground, and he waved a hand at the black cloud of flies that rose briefly from the thing that was tied there, only to settle back again. The smell was nearly overpowering in the jungle heat. It had been a man, the village elder, now completely peeled of his skin and left for the carpet of flies crawling over the red meat. The chest had been opened and the heart removed. By now it would have been placed in a trophy basket to grace the hall of the enemy king, resting amid similar baskets.

  The remains and their disrespectful treatment had been left as an insult, a show of contempt for the Galuh people. Kopi would have done the same, had done the same with smaller, neighboring tribes, and he had his own collection of trophy baskets around his throne back in Pakung, the royal village. But these were his people, and the insult was unbearable, made more so by the fact that this was the third of his villages destroyed in such a manner, as well as the third elder left by the conquerors as a grisly demonstration of their might.

  Kopi’s people would soon come to believe (if they didn’t think it already) that he was weak, unable to protect them, and the spirits of the kings that had gone before him cried their outrage. Kopi trembled with his own fury. This could not stand.

  But the enemy was so strong. The Sunda people in the west, with their grand temple city and their seemingly endless army of warriors, had been consuming the villages of the Galuh people for more than a year now, feeding their king’s insatiable appetite for power. The regular destruction of villages like this made the Sunda message clear; “Do not oppose us, surrender your king for execution and submit to our rule.” Kopi knew that many tribes had done just that, and with every such capitulation the Sunda Kingdom grew in strength and reach.

  King Kopi glanced at his men. How much more of this would it take before his loyal warriors, fearing for their own families, turned on him and delivered him to the enemy? The Galuh had tried to fight against the Sunda, but his tribe was so small, and the enemy so numerous. He needed help, the kind of strength that only the gods could provide.

  And he knew where to find it.

  Kopi gestured to one of his warriors, a fifteen-year-old boy, the fastest runner among them. “Return to Pakung,” he told the boy. “Summon the priests and have them ready for my return.”

  The boy nodded and raced into the jungle.

  Kopi took a last look at his shattered village and clenched his fists. No, this would not stand.

  The priests waited quietly before Kopi, who was seated on the throne of his fathers and flanked by his two biggest and most fearsome-looking warriors. At the front of the cluster of priests stood an old man with a shaved head, his scalp dyed red, with a trio of crimson, wooden beads piercing his bottom lip. The high holy man of the Galuh scowled deeply as his king spoke.

  “Tapak, God of Darkness and Light,” said Kopi.

  “Lord of the dead,” the priests chanted in unison. “Father of the living.”

  “From his lofty temple he watches over his beloved people.” Kopi gestured at the mountain that overshadowed the village resting at its base, dark green with foliage and its higher elevations obscured by clouds.

  “His reign is eternal,” chanted the priests.

  Kopi nodded. “Since the beginning of my father’s people, we have given Tapak our respect and obedience. We honor his image, offer our prayers and sacrifices in his name. Now his beloved children are in peril, and we call upon his strength.” Kopi pointed to the high holy man. “You will climb the mountain and enter Tapak’s temple. You will summon our dark god and extract the power we need to defeat our enemies. And you will agree to any sacrifice he requires.”

  The gathering of priests paled and glanced at one another. The old man’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head slowly. “One does not make demands of the gods, great king. Their powers are not meant for mortal men, Tapak’s least of all.”

  “And that is why it is necessary, Wise One. Our enemy is powerful, and only a dark gift from Tapak will defeat them. You will bring me that gift.”

  The old man shook his head again. “With the greatest respect, I serve the gods. This should not be done. Will not be done.”

  “You serve me first, old man.”

  The holy man crossed his arms and stared. “My king is mad. I will not tempt the God of Darkness and Light with such insolence.”

  Kopi leaned forward in his throne and looked at the holy man for a moment, and then the hint of a smile touched his lips. “Seize him.”

  The warriors flanking the throne moved at once, gripping the old man by the arms and forcing him to his knees as he cried out. Kopi looked at the other assembled priests. “Do you think me mad as well?”

  One of them stepped forward. “I will go, great king.”

  Kopi eyed the priest, a young man eager for advancement. “Are you capable of such a thing?”

  The young priest nodded nervously. “I know the path to the temple, great king. I know the summoning words and can perform the ritual. I will return with Tapak’s dark gift.”

  Kopi motioned the boy forward and rested a palm on his shaven head. “May the God of Darkness and Light bless and protect you. Return to me with the power I seek,” Kopi said, gesturing at the kneeling old man, “and you shall take his place among our people.”
/>   The boy bowed deeply and ran from the throne room.

  “You will destroy us all,” the old man said, looking up at his king.

  “And you,” Kopi said, “will be the first to feed Tapak’s glory.”

  Three days had passed since the boy left for the mountain, and as promised, he had returned with a dark gift from the God of Darkness and Light, what he declared to be Tapak’s Tears. The entire royal village was gathered at its center now, but the boy remained alone off to one side, his bare head now dyed red, identifying him as the new high holy man of the Galuh people. To Kopi the boy looked distracted, troubled, and that was not a surprise. The summoning of a god was no light matter, and whatever he had seen on that mountain must have been terrifying. Clearly it had left him disturbed.

  Then again, Kopi thought, perhaps the Temple of Tapak had been a disappointment, the reality of it unable to measure up to generations of mystery and lore. To Kopi’s knowledge, no one had actually seen this temple before the boy’s journey, no other priest and certainly no mortal king. Who knew what actually dwelled on that mountain? Kopi didn’t want to know, and in truth did not care. He held in his hands the power of the gods – his new high priest assured it – and very soon Kopi would be victorious over his enemies.

  At the center of the villagers, in a space cleared for them, stood ten of his people; nine who had volunteered for the honor of a journey about to begin, and Kopi’s former high priest, the old man with three red beads piercing his bottom lip. Each of these chosen people had their hands bound before them, and ropes around their necks stringing them together in a chain. The old man was first in line, and it was he whom the king approached first, carrying a simple gourd.

  “The Tears of Tapak!” Kopi cried, holding the gourd aloft.

  The entire village murmured the dark god’s name in unison.

  “You see?” Kopi said to the old man. “You will obey me after all.” The king nodded, and a warrior jerked the old man’s head back, forcing his mouth open. Kopi tipped the gourd and poured a measure of clear liquid down his throat. The former high priest choked, then swallowed.

  When he could speak once again, the old priest said, “I will see you again.”

  “Not in this life.” Then the king moved down the line, offering the gourd to the other nine, bound villagers. Each drank willingly. A pair of warriors drank as well. They were tasked with making the four day journey to deliver the chain of villagers to the Sunda king, an offering of slaves and a sign of submission. The two men knew they would be killed and devoured, of course, but like the villagers they had asked for the honor. The end of their mortal lives meant nothing to them. They would make the ultimate personal sacrifice for their great king, delivering a mighty weapon into the midst of their enemies. Surely glory awaited in the next world.

  “May Tapak guide and protect you,” the king said to them.

  Within two weeks his scouts would report that the royal city of the Sunda king was populated by a scattering of corpses rotting in the jungle heat, but was otherwise deserted. The Galuh were victorious.

  King Kopi ran through the jungle, wounded and alone, limping from a savage tear in his right thigh. His people had been slaughtered, his family ripped apart right before his eyes, and now monsters stalked the royal village. The screams of his dying warriors echoed through the trees, and all Kopi could do was run, run with no idea of where he was going.

  How had it come to this? Why was Tapak angered?

  The screaming cut off abruptly, and then the jungle was silent except for the king’s heavy breathing as he stumbled through the undergrowth. Bleeding and leaving red on every leaf he brushed past, Kopi leaned on his family spear as if it were a crutch.

  And then there was another sound, the laughter of the dead floating through the trees. It seemed to come from all directions, and Kopi froze, the spear trembling in his hands. A figure leaped to a mossy, fallen trunk before him, an old man with three red beads through his lower lip, his head no longer red with dye but with smears of fresh blood.

  The man’s eyes were like silver discs, no longer mortal.

  King Kopi let out a war cry and lunged, plunging the spear into his former high priest’s belly. What came out of the wound was a corrupted mass of red and gray, sticky fluid. The priest made a thick, chuckling sound, then tore the spear from his body and out of the king’s hands, flinging it away. Kopi stumbled backward with his hands raised, as more figures appeared within the trees around him, each of them bloody and grotesque.

  The old man snarled and leaped from the fallen log, and the last thing the king saw was teeth and silver eyes.

  A week later, a massive earthquake sent a tsunami throughout the South Pacific that would claim the lives of ten thousand of the world’s coastal-dwelling population. The violent tremors themselves effectively sealed the cave the Galuh people called Tapak’s temple, high on its mountain.

  For centuries the land would remain quiet and unexplored. Rumors of war and plague made trade attempts unrealistic, and even the Spanish and Portuguese stayed away. The indigenous people of the region considered it an accursed place, a land of the dead, and dared not go there. It was this very isolation that kept Tapak’s dark gift contained, sparing the world from an extinction-level event.

  More than fifteen hundred years after a king attempted to harness the powers of a dark god, another earthquake would unseal the cave. By that time the world was a very different place, and Java, the largest island of what became Indonesia, was no longer isolated.

  EXPOSURE

  -2-

  DEVIL DOG

  The Royal Marriott – October 18

  With a soft groan, Garrison Fox leaned back into the couch, swirling the ice in his gin and tonic. The expansive hotel suite screamed opulence, right at the edge of being overdone. Despite the direction his life had taken him, the man didn’t think he’d ever get used to the constant luxury, hoped not, for his had been a life based on achieving the goal, not the trappings that often went with success.

  At forty-nine, Garrison was fit (he ran almost every day) and had rough good looks; striking blue eyes, lean features and a strong jaw. He still had a full head of dark hair, and could have grown it into a real mane if he’d wanted, but that would fit neither the position nor the man. His wife and those close to him considered it a constant battle preventing him from reducing it to the razor-close, high-and-tight he had worn for so many years. He’d grudgingly compromised with a short but professional, corporate-style cut.

  “I think it went well,” Garrison said to the man seated on the opposite couch, a coffee table between them.

  Thomas Barrow sat in a rumpled gray suit and sipped at a bottled water, looking over his glasses. He needed a shave, as he always seemed to. Barrow was one of those men who needed the razor twice a day in order not to look scruffy, and as a result, certain people referred to him as Werewolf. He not only didn’t mind, but found it amusing.

  “I suppose,” said Barrow. “The press ate it up, but you’re already taking heat from the talking heads. They’re moaning about how the timing of the trip was ill-advised so close to the general. The senator is claiming it was your way of running away from him.”

  Garrison made a face. “When are they not moaning? And who does the senator think he’s fooling? I’ve got him by twenty points.”

  Barrow shrugged. “That’s television. Hannity said it was ‘a demonstration of true leadership, putting the country first.’”

  A chuckle and a sip of gin. “Sean’s a good guy, but he’d be complimentary of Jack the Ripper if he was running against a Democrat.”

  Barrow smiled and shook his head at his friend of more than twenty years.

  “Do you think the Prime Minister was sincere?” Garrison asked.

  The other man thought for a moment. “A cautious yes. I’m just not sure how much change he’ll be able to affect. He’s up against a strong opposition.”

  “He’s a forward thinker.”

 
“And a Muslim,” said Barrow. “Hard to know where his loyalties lie.”

  Fox nodded. They had been through all this before, of course, had gamed out how the conversation and proposal would go, whether the Prime Minister would be receptive and if so, whether he was even capable of following through. So many questions and variables, all leading to an uncertain outcome.

  Garrison had made this trip – arriving early this morning, in fact – in response to the recent bombing in New Orleans, a tragedy that had claimed the lives of twenty-two Americans and foreign tourists. It had been carried out by a home-grown American, a young man who had fallen under the influence of extremists and been trained at a terrorist camp right here in this heavily Islamic nation. Saddened and angry over the attack, instead of directing his fury militarily Fox had chosen to use the incident as an attempt to bridge the differences between their two countries. It was a move that hurt him with his base on the right, but Fox insisted on meeting the Prime Minister here in the hotel for a private dinner and talks. The other head of state had left the meeting with the promise to do more to fight terrorism here in his home, starting with the use of his military to uncover and wipe out their training camps. Garrison wanted to believe him, did believe in the man’s desire to make change, but like his Chief of Staff he had his doubts. A progressive leader in such a faith-based country was something of a blue-eyed-wonder in this part of the world, and killing terrorists was only a small piece of what had to be done. Culture change was the greater challenge, combating generational hatred, and as Barrow had said, the Prime Minister was up against fierce opposition.