Hollow Earth

 

 

  Hollow Earth

  Book 1

  Written by John Macallen Davis

 

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical people, events or places are used fictitiously. Any other names, places, events or characters are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ? 2017 John Michael Davis

  Edited by: Dani?l Lecoq

  All rights reserved, including the right to copy this book or portions of this book in any form. For more information, please email [email protected].

  First edition March 2017

  If you are an author in search of quality professional editing, please email [email protected] and should you encounter any errors during this reading experience, feel free to email us so that we may correct them and improve this work.

  Originally published as Immortal

  Serenity Valley Publishing

 

  Other books by John Macallen Davis:

  Gunship Series

  Fleet Series

  The Blood War Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  Chaotic Worlds Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  The Afterworlds Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  The Run Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  The Great War Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  Vampire Hunters Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  Return of the Fear Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  The Colony Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  Graveyard Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

  johndavisbooks.wordpress.com

 

 

 

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

 

 

  Chapter 1

  I'd like to tell you a story.

  This is a story that was told to me by my dying grandfather. Upon visiting him in the Carrington Place, which is a home for adults in Virginia, he began bestowing onto me information that would prove to change my life. While my cousins would receive his personal belongings, my grandfather said he was giving me the greatest gift of all.

  I was his favorite.

  I always had been, honestly. As a child, he had taken to me. I can remember countless days of watching football with him on the couch. He would always explain that the game of football was very similar to the art of war, without the intrigue that often took place behind the front lines of war. I didn't know what that meant at the time. Now I do.

  The other kids came around as well, but they usually went off somewhere to play, like typical children did before the internet was mainstream. Meanwhile, I saw fascination in my grandfather's eyes. He always told the best stories. My friends learned of World War 2 out of necessity - forced to learn its history by high school teachers. I learned through my grandfather's stories. He often weaved it all together like a good novel and I would gobble it up; listening as I hung from his every word.

  Later in life as my cousins all moved on, only visiting him once a year during the Christmas season - I remained. While I did join the United States Army, I stayed in close contact with my family, which included my grandfather. After eight years of service to my country, I returned home to find him aging quite fast. I cared for him as best I could, when I could.

  Still, there was a look of past adventure in his eyes.

  I'm sad to report that my grandfather went to be with the Lord on February 7th, 2017. But before he did, the man who'd taught me about the second great war divulged a secret onto me that would forever change my life.

  Adolf Hitler was alive.

  I know what you must think, as I thought it too. But a dying grandfather has no need to lie about such things. Especially given the way he grabbed my shirt and tried his best to make me believe. I saw desperation. I believe that everyone who faces their ultimate demise has something to finish. And my grandfather's was this.

  It was our last conversation and he made me swear to seek out the truth. He had seen Adolf Hitler with his own eyes and narrowly escaped with his life. That was back in 1981, according to my grandfather. I can't say that I fully believed him at the time, but I did believe that he believed it. And that was enough for me.

  My cousins, all of whom were distant when it came to our grandfather, received money and titles to his vehicles and sums of cash. His daughter Clarice, who hadn't been to visit him in nearly two decades, was given his large house. Complete with seventeen acres of land, a falling barn and some of the prettiest scenery you could imagine. It was picturesque perfect for a life in the deep south.

  What a shit deal.

  I was straddled with some memory of what he'd seen or what he'd thought he'd seen, along with a leather journal. The type of journal that could have been bought on the cheap at any decent office supply store.

  When I left that retirement home my heart told me that I'd never see him again; a man that I had grown to respect and truly look up to. And he'd shafted me in the end.

  I had half a mind to throw the damn journal away as soon as I got back home. It was only a two-hour drive - I'd still be pissed when I got there.

  Why had he deliberately given me the shit end of the stick? I was the only person outside of his official caretaker to actually care, and she'd been paid to do it. My concern was authentic. It wasn't the worldly possessions themselves - I had enough money. It was the insult of it. My other relatives didn't care about Grandpa Carter. He was a smart man, surely he knew that they didn't care.

  There had to be another reason...and there was.

  As I discovered when I began reading the journal.

  ?

  My grandfather had always been obsessed with the study of World War 2. He'd only been a child during the great war, but I can remember countless times when he'd sit alongside me and begin telling me about the greatest battles and their outcomes. Even the romances of field generals and mistresses.

  According to his journal, Grandpa Carter first read of Hitler's survival beyond World War 2 through a small media outlet in Argentina. Just as I hadn't, or you don't - my grandfather didn't believe what he'd read. It wouldn't be the first time a hoax had been given even the slightest ounce of credibility in the media world.

  But this story was different.

  A man claiming to have received money in exchange for helping one of the worst dictators in modern day history escape, could also name his accomplices. Moreover, he provided several key pieces of paperwork as proof, along with a small tin box filled with pictures of the man he claimed to be Hitler. Though aged, the man in the pictures' look was unmistakable.

  My grandfather had made his money. Aside from distant family, he was alone in this world - alone with the curiosity that resides in so many of us. So my grandfather left for Argentina in order to seek out a man named Adolf Leipzig - presumably Hitler.

  He noted that the FBI themselves were also looking into the numerous eyewitness accounts coming from Argentina. And while their own investigations came up empty, my grandfather, a retired detective, claimed he knew where and how to go about it.

  Is it so hard to believe that Russian, at that time Soviet Union troops, rushed to declare Hitler dead? There would certainly be honor in finding the most hated man in the world. It's possible. If Hitler had the foresight to understand this, then using body doubles which he'd been known to use, p
robably would have satisfied the Soviets temporarily.

  Now imagine the leaders of the Soviet Union, which had lied on previous occasions, coming to the realization that the real Hitler had somehow slipped through their grasp. Is it so hard to believe that they would again lie to their own people in order to deliver Hitler in the proverbial sense and save face in the process?

  My grandfather didn't think so.

  For months at a time, he would leave the beautiful countryside of North Carolina and head to Argentina. Within the journal pages were receipts to testify to the fact. And then, by his own admission, he had frozen up during a chance encounter with Hitler while staying in Argentina and preparing to return home.

  There was absolutely no mistaking it, he'd written. It was Adolf Hitler.

  He'd described Hitler as being much older, but still walking on his own. His hair had lost most of its color, but his soulless eyes remained. Several mysterious men accompanied him. Enough so, that my grandfather was fearful of approaching him. Instead, he chose to place his own life at risk in following them from the gas station in question.

  There, under the timid light of the moon, my grandfather watched the man he believed to be Hitler and his escorts, walk into a large tree inside of the seclusion of thick Argentinian forest. My grandfather waited for nearly an hour before easing closer to investigate. It was no tree at all, but rather a doorway.

  A doorway where?

  My grandfather wasn't sure. Shortly after returning home he began to grow ill and though he fought like hell for many years, it was an illness that would ultimately claim his life. He'd not return to Argentina, except in his own mind.

  But behind the wide smile of a man that I truly respected, was the belief that one day I would be ready to resume his own life's work. He'd included a map with vivid detail and just as important, a set of numbers followed by a second set of numbers. I would later match them to a bank account in Argentina worth exactly $2,871,090. According to Argentinian standards, his account was worth nearly 40 ? million pesos. I'm not sure where this money came from and honestly I don't want to know. The fact was...my grandfather had been living a second life in hopes of catching Hitler.

  I almost collapsed when I realized how much money sat in the bank accounts. I could have taken the money and done whatever I saw fit with it, but my grandfather's instructions were to use the money in order to find Hitler, or his whereabouts. It seems that I was the only realitive he trusted - I shared his love of the second great war.

  Thoughts of brand new cars and even houses bounced around in my head. I was single - never married. I could have easily purchased a yacht and filled it with good booze and women with ample tits. Easily.

  But my grandfather had struck a match to my own interest, just as he'd done so many times before when I was a child, peddling his stories of great heroes and marvelous escapes. The types of stories that I believe are dying too quickly, with the veterans who served during the war, now stranded in a generation that too easily forgets. I suppose that's why my Grandpa Carter left the journal to me, rather than to another family member. Perhaps he saw the same thirst of adventure in my eyes.

  I was at least obligated to give my grandfather's wishes an honest effort. I would conduct one search and give it due diligence. Then, if I was unable to turn up anything on the mysteries of Hitler, I would use the money to pay off my own home, upgrade my car and begin looking into that yacht filled with nude women.

  But before I headed to Argentina, I'd need a plan.

  I trusted them with my life.

  Hunter Shelton and Mitch "Macho" Harris. Childhood friends and, more importantly, men of military service, just like myself.

  "Jack," Macho said. "You've lost it."

  "I know what it sounds like..." I began.

  "Do you?" he asked. "Because to me, it sounds like you want us to go trampling around through Argentina looking for a man that's been dead for decades."

  I took the criticism; it was the least I could do.

  "Hunter?"

  I turned my attention to the larger of the two. Hunter was as well-framed as a man could be. He lifted weights on a regular basis - he lifted at home. Hunter had always made it a point to tell me that. Gyms were full of tanning lotion and beautiful women, and that pissed him off. Not that he didn't like the idea of women, but rather the disrespect for man against weights. For him, it was a ritual of becoming a man.

  Unfortunately, Macho was anything but macho. He'd earned the nickname in high school after standing up to two football players and getting his ass kicked in the process. Macho was as mouthy as the day was long but barely stout enough to hold his own britches up. He also happened to be good with guns. He had been quite the sportsman prior to his military service and they had doubled his proficiency with a decent gun.

  "Well," Hunter began. The North Carolina breeze did little to sway the buzzed hair atop his head as his mind pondered my offer. "Could be trouble if they catch us bringing weapons into the country. We're talking big trouble. But I'm in."

  "You're in?" Macho couldn't believe it.

  Honestly, neither could I.

  "The way I figure it," Hunter replied. "Jack's a friend and he'd do the same for us. I'm not saying I believe the scumbag is out there somewhere, alive...but friends help friends. So yea, I'm in."

  I turned my attention away from the former U.S. Army infantryman and back to our thin friend.

  "Ah shit," Macho grumbled. "The Panthers play the Cowboys on Sunday. I want to be back to watch the game."

  I smiled, understanding that it was as close to saying yes as he'd get.

  Over the course of the next two hours, the three of us began making a list of things we'd need for the trip to Argentina. Most of the supplies would need to be purchased after we landed, otherwise there would be a hell of a lot of explaining to do when we hit customs. Printed information on Adolf Hitler, a bag filled with sidearms and rum soaked cigars would draw the wrong kind of attention.

  The cigars...all Macho's idea.

  Chapter 2

  My first impression of Argentina was the fact that it was absolutely gorgeous.

  After my bout with love at first sight came the realization that I wasn't in the United States anymore. We arrived in Buenos Aires and it was a rather large city, which came complete with the normal problems that large cities face. Buses sped through the streets much faster than I was used to and the sidewalks were heavily cracked. Plus, as I painfully discovered, the ATM machines were few and far between.

  I was essentially a millionaire with no means of getting my money. The few places we found had strict limits on how much cash could be withdrawn. Setting us back even further and factoring in perfectly with the bitching.

  "Damn this heat." Macho complained.

  "It's summertime." Hunter replied.

  "Summertime in Buenos Aires." I added.

  "Y'all can hit me with all of this complicated talk until you're blue in the face," Macho said. "All I know is it's fucking hot."

  We'd take a cab around the city and pretend to be sight seeing. Meanwhile, we each looked for a suitable hotel that was located within walking distance of any stores that we thought might sell the type of equipment we needed.

  Finally, we stopped at the Buenos Aires Grand Hotel. It was very nice. Even Macho couldn't find anything to complain about, which was unusual. He'd quickly gotten out of his traveling clothes and slipped his skinny frame into an overstuffed hotel robe.

  "It's best if we go in one at a time," Hunter said. "It'll look a lot less suspicious if we're not buying everything on this list in a single haul."

  I agreed with a nod. A part of me felt like a common criminal, although we were doing nothing illegal. But our intent was to go off and search for possibly the most notorious man in the history of the world. That carried weight and for a moment, I felt that weight bearing down on me.