Burial Ground (30 page)

"Now isn't the best time, Dr. Russell,"
Colton said.

"This can't wait."

Leo again met Colton's stare and gave a
single nod. They would continue their conversation later. The
portly ornithologist had his panties in a bunch. And knowing Galen,
it had probably taken him several hours to work up the courage to
confront them with such conviction.

"Is there a problem?" Leo asked.

"I know what killed those alpacas back by
the camp," Galen blurted. "And if I'm correct, we need to head back
to safety
right now
."

Leo caught Colton's glance.

Galen held up two feathers, one in each
hand.

"Do you remember that golden skull back in
the burial chamber?"

1:08 p.m.

The Indians were growing more brazen by the
minute. Unlike during the previous night, when they had remained
indistinguishable from the darkness, they now openly stalked his
group from the cover of the forest. Tasker saw only black streaks
knifing from behind one tree to the next from the corner of his
eye. Once he had glimpsed one of their painted black faces,
sharpened teeth bared, for only a split-second before the man
vanished again. They were on all sides of them now, and the net was
closing fast.

He and his men had rounded the far side of
the lake and picked up their prey's trail where it led up toward
the steep mountain to the west. He had thought that once they left
the fortified village behind, their escort would recede. The
opposite had proven true.

Tasker slowed his pace to allow McMasters to
catch up with him. They had formalized a contingency plan for the
eventuality that the natives might attack. Now that the painted men
were showing themselves with increasing frequency, Tasker could
sense that the moment would soon be at hand.

He raised an eyebrow to McMasters, who
replied to his unvoiced question in a whisper.

"At least five. Two in the jungle to the
north. One, maybe two, to the south. One ahead of us on the path,
and another about fifty yards back."

"Are you certain?"

"They're ghosts. For all I know, there could
be a hundred."

"Suppressor?"

McMasters held up his Colt Marine Infantry
Automatic Rifle. The YHM Phantom .223 Quick Detach Sound Suppressor
had been affixed to the barrel. They didn't want to alert their
prey. At least, not yet.

A shadow sped across the furthest extent of
his peripheral vision.

Closer this time.

He glanced back at Reubens, who met his gaze
and nodded his understanding.

"On my mark," Tasker said, and again took
the lead.

The path ahead veered sharply to the right
and vanished into the jungle. A blind bend. The perfect spot for an
ambush.

Silence closed in around them. No birds
called or monkeys screeched. No wind rustled through the canopy.
The only sounds were the soft crunch of detritus underfoot and
their hushed, controlled exhalations.

Tasker steadied his grip on the Colt IAR as
he rounded the corner in the path and found himself staring
straight down the barrel at a man slightly taller and wirier than
him, naked were it not for the short skirt of clumpy gray wool. He
was painted black from head to toe with some sort of substance that
shimmered on his shoulders and pectorals, even in the deep shadows.
Scars covered his body like slender leeches. The man bared his
filed teeth and Tasker squeezed the trigger into the sweet spot. He
felt McMasters ease into position at his right shoulder, while
Reubens fell into formation behind and to his left to create a
triangle with their backs to one another. The sounds of their
breathing grew harsher, more rapid.

The man blocking the trail stood his ground,
that wicked grin affixed to his face. Against the black, the whites
of his eyes stood out like beacons.

From the corners of his vision, Tasker
watched the specters that had been hiding in the jungle materialize
from the foliage and close in on them with arrows notched, bows
drawn. They were all similarly painted and scarred, and all
showcased their sharpened teeth as they approached. He counted at
least two converging on them from either side, but refused to
divert his attention from the man who stood before him long enough
to check their rear. He had to trust that his men would do their
jobs.

Tasker locked stares with the native, whose
bow still hung from his shoulder. He was obviously the leader of
this pack, and the only one wearing feathers braided into his long
hair.

"Eight," McMasters whispered.

The armed indians halted their advance
fifteen feet from the path. If they were even remotely familiar
with their weapons, there was no way they could miss from that
range.

Tasker felt the butt of the rifle snugged
comfortably against his shoulder. The man in his sights appeared
unimpressed.

The silent standoff stretched on. Seconds
became minutes, and still no one moved.

Tasker listened intently for even the
slightest sound to betray the presence of any natives still hiding
out of sight.

The leader remained where he was,
unflinching, yet to draw his bow. His confidence bordered on
arrogance.

After several more tense minutes passed, the
man in front of him raised his arms slowly, turned his palms down,
and mimed for them to lower their rifles.

Tasker made no reply. Neither he nor his men
budged an inch.

The native made a snarling sound that could
have been a word, and again motioned for them to lower their guns.
He bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

Tasker leaned back into McMasters and
Reubens, and made just enough contact to initiate the silent
count.

Three
.

As one, the trio of soldiers slowly lowered
their rifles from their shoulders.

Two
.

Tasker never looked away from the leader's
eyes. He tried to read any recognition of their deception within
his stare.

One
.

With the IAR at his hip, Tasker pulled the
trigger and a fusillade of bullets exploded from the suppressor.
The native bucked as though conducting electricity. Tasker was
rolling before the man even fell. A blur of movement drew his fire.
An arrow shrieked past his ear and hit behind him with a
thuck
that was barely audible over the
pfoot-pfoot-pfoot
of his weapon. The native who had shot at
him was thrown backward into the trees under a crimson rainbow of
his own blood.

Tasker swung the barrel to the right, firing
the whole time. Another black figure dove for cover. The bullets
were faster. They chewed through the man's knee and sent his lower
leg flopping end over end in the opposite direction.

Screams erupted from the bedlam.

Tasker launched himself forward at a crouch,
and raced toward where the wailing native had fallen. An arrow sang
from behind him. Its song was cut short as searing pain blossomed
in his right shoulder. He whirled and fired. Bullets tore apart the
shrubs and climbed up the painted man as he notched another arrow,
lifting him from his feet and tossing him into the underbrush in a
wash of blood.

Warmth flowed down Tasker's upper arm. He
was peripherally aware of the sharp arrowhead poking out from the
meat of his shoulder. The rifle grew exponentially heavier in his
grasp as he staggered through the waist-high shrubs until he
encountered the severed lower leg. He followed the trail of blood
and matted ferns to where the man struggled to crawl deeper into
the jungle.

From behind him, he heard the whispered
puffs of gunfire begin to slow.

The rifle fell from his hand and clattered
to the ground. Spurred by the sound behind him, the wounded man
clawed at the loam, gouging his fingers into the mud to gain any
sort of traction. Tasker unsheathed his knife, grabbed the man by
the braid, and jerked his head back. In one swift motion, he leaned
around and plunged the blade into the man's throat. A rush of blood
flooded over Tasker's hand. The arterial spray painted the forest
in pulsing arcs. He jerked the knife to the side and tore through
the tendons and trachea, nearly decapitating the man were it not
for his spine.

Tasker rose and swiped the blade on his
pants before returning it to its scabbard. Turning, he found his
rifle and hefted it in his left hand. His right arm hung limply at
his side. Blood dripped from his fingertips and pattered on the
ground.

All was quiet now.

Tasker shuffled back to the path, passing
the crumpled carcass of another native before reaching the leader's
remains. The man gurgled and wheezed through the foam of blood
bubbling past his lips. Tasker stood over him and surveyed the
area. McMasters tromped through the weeds on the far side of the
path, kicking aside branches and vines. Three arrows stood at
angles from his backpack, the broken shaft of another from his left
thigh. He looked up and met Tasker's stare.

"All clear," he said, "but I don't think
Reubens is going to make it."

Reubens was sprawled facedown in the middle
of the path, arms pinned beneath him. The feathered ends of arrow
shafts protruded from his backpack and shoulders like the quills of
a porcupine. His rifle lay abandoned at his side.

Tasker walked closer and noticed the
arrowhead poking from the side of Reubens's neck beneath his ear.
He nudged the body with his toe. A rasping sound came from under
the man. Tasker rolled Reubens over. The man's eyes were wide with
fright, his cheeks stained with mud and tears. The broken shaft of
an arrow stood from the left corner of his mouth, where it had torn
away his lips. He bit down on it with a clicking sound as he tried
to swallow back the blood. He looked up at Tasker like a beaten dog
pleading for its master's forgiveness.

Tasker lowered his smoldering barrel to the
soldier's forehead. A tendril of smoke spiraled up from the
sizzling union. With a single squeeze of the trigger, he put
Reubens out of his misery.

"Seven bodies," McMasters said. He reached
the path, stood beside Tasker, and glanced down. "Make that
eight."

One of the savages must have managed to
escape.

Tasker nodded and returned to the leader of
the natives, who gazed up at him through glassy eyes narrowed by
agony.

The man's lips twitched and blood dribbled
over his cheeks.

After several attempts, the man finally
forced an epithet through the burbling blood.

"
Kuntur
..."

The muscles in his face relaxed and the last
hiss of air escaped through one of the bullet wounds in his
chest.

"What's that supposed to mean?" McMasters
asked.

"Does it matter?" Tasker raised his boot and
drove it down onto the man's face with a
crack
, then set
about prying the arrow out of his deltoid muscle.

A bellow of rage and pain echoed through the
still rainforest.

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 30
^th

1:16 p.m. PET

The words poured out of Galen's mouth so
fast that even he could barely keep up with them. He knew how
fantastic his theory sounded, but he became increasingly convinced
each time it played through his head. Sam had said that the golden
skull was far too precisely crafted for the Chachapoya, whose
metallurgical skills were historically limited. Heck, just looking
at the abstract faces of the six
purunmachus
verified their
artistic style and shortcomings. The skull had been anatomically
perfect, from the seating of the gold teeth in the alveolar sockets
to the positioning of the orbital housings, and the irregular
sutures between the cranial bones to the hollow concavities of the
system of sinuses. Even the way the mandible articulated into the
temporomandibular joints reflected an almost medical understanding
of the skeleton. If it were simply a sculpture, then it had to be
based on something the creator could physically see while he was
sculpting it, but Galen didn't think it was anything as mundane as
that. Then there were the feathers incapable of flight, the
avian-hybrid, snake-faced deity carved into the stone walls in the
village, and the immense fortifications and impregnable alpaca pen.
Combined, they painted a picture that was impossible to ignore.

Something had survived in these mountains,
hidden in the dense jungle, something capable of running down and
butchering a jaguar, the crowned king of the Amazonian food
chain.

He didn't vocalize the summation of his
theory. Colton and Leo needed to reach that conclusion on their
own. All he said was that it was a species of raptor, though not
the modern kind that nested high on the cliff-sides and feasted
upon carrion.

From the questions the men posed and the way
they communicated silently in glances while he spoke, he could tell
they didn't necessarily disbelieve him. But they didn't quite
believe him, either.

After Galen finished, he drew a deep breath
and waited for either of them to speak. The crackle of dead
branches and leaves announced the approach of the rest of their
party.

"Have you shared this theory with anyone
else?" Colton finally asked. The hard look in his eyes and firm set
of his jaw indicated that the question was heavily loaded, but for
the life of him, Galen couldn't imagine why. He grew uncomfortable
under the man's scrutiny, and paused to formulate his reply.

"No," he lied.

Leo nodded. "Let's just keep this between us
for the time being. Even if you're right, there's no point in
alarming the others just yet."

"
If
I'm right? We shouldn't even be
here. Lord only knows what these creatures are capable of. Think
about the alpaca bones around that tree. That could easily be
us."