Burial Ground (37 page)

"Nothing," Colton said. "We clean up this
mess and no one's the wiser."

"They're going to demand to know why we
posted guards to keep them from coming in here. We have to tell
them something."

"You could start with the truth," a voice
said from the mouth of the tunnel leading into the cavern.

Leo whirled to see Galen emerge into the
pale lamplight. His face was pale and he visibly shivered. Sorenson
grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a tug in reverse.

"How did he get in here?" Colton
demanded.

"Don't ask me," Sorenson said. "I was doing
what you asked when all of a sudden he was just standing
there."

"He
saw
what you were doing?"

"What was I supposed to do about it? One
minute I'm alone, and the next thing I know, I look up, and there
he is, staring right at the mess."

"There was so much blood," Galen
whispered.

"It doesn't matter," Leo said. "Everyone
would have found out eventually. This just accelerates our
timetable. Besides, we could probably use their combined resources
if we're going to figure out what happened here."

"I already told you what happened here."
Galen's eyes roamed the chamber momentarily before settling on the
dismembered carcass on the ground. He winced and drew the back of
his hand across his mouth and nose. "Can't you see? What else could
possibly have torn these men apart like this? There's no other
explanation."

"All you have is wild speculation," Colton
said. "Where's your proof?"

"In your goddamn hand!" Galen snapped.

Colton raised the feather he had extracted
from the small tunnel at the back of the room.

"This? This is your proof? It's just a
feather."

"Just a feather? Look around you. They're
everywhere."

Leo lowered his gaze to the sloppy ground.
He hadn't noticed at first as he'd been focused on the carnage and
the thought of how much the man must have suffered during his final
moments, but now that he looked closely, he could see feathers
congealed in the tacky puddle of blood and fluids through the skein
of flies.

"Carrion birds," Colton said. "You of all
people should know that the smell of death draws them---"

"Enough," Leo whispered. He looked from one
man to the other. "We need to figure out what really happened.
Something slaughtered these men and killed my son---"

"You said your son drowned," Galen said.
"Why would you lie about---?"

"These men were civilians," Colton
interrupted. "We have four highly-trained soldiers, myself
included. I cherry-picked the other three for their prowess in
combat, and we have enough firepower to launch an assault on a
small army."

"I trust your skill, old friend, and your
judgment," Leo said, "but we need to determine what we're up
against to eliminate the element of surprise. Would you not
agree?"

Colton nodded slowly.

"Then we need to indulge Dr. Russell and
trust his expertise---"

"Expertise? He knows nothing about---"

"Marcus," Leo said. In all the time he had
known Colton, he had only used the man's first name a handful of
times. "Perhaps then you would humor an old man who is ultimately
not only responsible for all of our lives, but for the procurement
of the millions of dollars in gold surrounding us."

"Gold?" Galen nearly shrieked. "You're
willing to risk all of our lives for gold!"

Colton ignored Galen and met Leo's stare for
a long moment before he finally acquiesced with a curt nod.

"But I won't entertain fantasy," Colton
said, his voice firm. "When the time comes to take decisive action,
my orders will not be questioned. Are we in agreement?"

"Of course. That's why I hired you. I would
trust no one else with my life."

It was a small bone, but one that needed to
be thrown.

Colton strode toward Galen, who raised his
hand in front of his eyes to block the beam from the mining helmet,
and thrust the feather toward the ornithologist.

"It's time to put your theory to the test,
Dr. Russell." Galen hesitantly plucked the feather from Colton's
hand, an expression of confusion on his face. "You're going to need
a helmet."

"Why would I need...?"

In response, Colton turned toward the back
wall and spotlighted the shadowed crevice.

"What's back there?" Galen asked, his voice
cracking.

"That's what we're about to find out."

Colton stormed over to the mound of
supplies, rummaged until he found another intact helmet, and held
it out for Galen, who took it in his shaking hands and seated it on
his head. Colton flicked the switch for him and the beam sliced
through the darkness, stirring the flies and bats alike.

"What are we doing?" Galen asked.

"Just a little spelunking," Colton said, and
struck off into the channel leading into the cold depths of the
mountain.

Leo followed with Galen in tow. When the
tunnel terminated, Colton dropped to his stomach and wriggled into
the small hole where he had found the feather, his squirming form
silhouetted by his bright light.

"We shouldn't go in there," Galen whispered.
"Nothing good can come from it."

"Show some backbone, Dr. Russell," Leo said,
and shimmied into the earthen tube behind Colton. He tried not to
think about the sheer tonnage of rock overhead. After perhaps a
minute, Galen's beam shoved aside the darkness behind him and
illuminated the tread of Colton's boots ahead.

They rounded a smooth bend and dragged
themselves by their elbows another fifteen feet before Colton's
light dimmed as it reached into the vast space of whatever lay
beyond. He paused at the end of the tunnel and swept his light from
side to side before finally crawling out and rising to his
feet.

Leo followed his example. From behind,
Galen's beam cast his shadow into an oblivion of darkness.

He took a deep breath, retched, and had to
clap his hand over his mouth and nose.

A different scent entirely accosted him.
While it was vastly preferable to the reek of rotten meat and
decomposition, it was no less unpleasant.

Colton's beam scoured the floor.

It didn't take long to isolate the source of
the stench.

4:14 p.m.

Merritt had seen way more than his share of
corpses. Bullet wounds of all caliber, stabbings, asphyxiations.
Men, women, children. He had witnessed violated bodies left in the
aftermath of bombings, with appendages blasted away and skin
scorched black, weeping pustulates. But none of them compared to
the way the man in the tent had been so thoroughly destroyed. The
sheer savagery with which this poor soul had been butchered scared
him. He had seen the worst mankind had to offer, but compared to
this, it came up wanting.

Arcs of blood formed a black crust on the
inside of the fabric. Some of the puddles on the uneven floor had
contained so much blood that the accumulated rainwater was imbued
with a rust-colored tint. The condition of the body was nearly
identical to the skeletal remains they had found scattered
throughout the village. Perhaps the age of the other bodies
lessened their visceral impact, but there was no such problem with
this one.

Merritt couldn't bear to look at it any
longer. He had to get out of that horrible tent, get some fresh
air. Throwing aside tattered straps of nylon stiff with absorbed
blood, he hurried out from under the overhang, craned his face to
the sky, and allowed the rain to wash over him. The storm had
intensified even in the short while he was inside the tent, but
there wasn't enough water in the sky to wash the touch of death
from his skin.

"This couldn't have happened much more than
a few weeks ago," he said. His gorge rose, but through force of
will alone he forced it back down. "What I don't get though, is why
there aren't scavengers feasting on what's left. Where are the
vultures and coyotes? The smell should have drawn them from miles
away. There's nothing but those filthy flies."

None of the others spoke. Shock had
descended upon their pale features. They had all known that four
men had been lost in this valley from the previous expedition.
Their hope had been to find them alive and unharmed, and simply
unable to contact the outside world. No one had expected to find
them like...this. Four of them. Was it possible there were more
bodies, similarly slaughtered? And if so, it begged the most
terrifying question of all.

Was whatever killed them in such a fashion
still out there, watching them at this very moment?

His skin crawled under the scrutiny of
unseen eyes. Was it a result of the paranoia spawned by his
military training, or were they indeed already surrounded?

"We need to gather the others and get out of
here while we still can," Merritt said, looking to each of them in
turn.

Jay approached the tent and raised the
camera, but Dahlia stayed his arm. There were some things never
meant to be immortalized on film. Instead, he wandered toward the
gap in the fortification wall, where a stone staircase descended to
the forest floor. Leading with the lens, Jay reached the top of the
steps and halted abruptly.

"Holy crap," he whispered, and turned away.
He heaved several times over a sapling tree fern.

Merritt jogged over to where Jay wiped a
strand of saliva from his chin and looked down the stairs, which
were lined to either side by walls that were nearly five feet tall.
Iron cages, like those that housed the torches on the pedestals
encircling the fortress, topped the slanted walls of the thin
trench every few feet. At the bottom, a large rectangular stone
that appeared to have been carved to fit into the opening of the
staircase lay cracked and covered with moss. And on the uneven
steps between, Merritt saw what had caused Jay's reaction.

Another body was sprawled on the staggered
rocks. Or at least what was left of it. The manner in which the man
had been slain reminded Merritt of the jaguar carcass: scattered in
a straight line as though torn apart while in motion. The broken
legs, bereft of flesh, save the black skin on the ankles above the
boots, were closer to the top, while the pelvis and torso rested a
dozen steps down, ribs shattered, spine unnaturally bent and
twisted. The skeletal arms pointed toward where the crushed skull
rested in a puddle of muddy rainwater and hair at the bottom.
Shreds of clothing had blown into the corners of the stairs with
the detritus.

Only the black flies dared to disturb the
unclean bones, though the rain deterred all but the most ambitious
individuals.

The man had been overcome while trying to
flee. He must have seen his assailant coming too late and made a
break for it, but he hadn't been fast enough.

These men had never stood a chance. Merritt
looked into the pallid faces of his companions. Would they?

"What the hell is capable of doing something
like this?" Sam whispered.

"It's irrelevant," Merritt said. He drew a
deep breath, forced aside his fear, and tapped into his training
and instincts. "Right now, we need to focus on rounding up the
others and getting as far from here as we can. Nothing else matters
at this point."

The words of the scarred chieftain returned
unbidden.

Let them pass. They are dead already.

He should have identified the danger sooner.
All of the signs had been there.

Their guides out of Pomacochas had sensed
the threat and abandoned them days ago. Even that hardass Rippeth
had acknowledged it and slipped off during the night. Maybe if they
moved fast enough they would be able to escape the fate to which
the black-painted man had consigned them.

"We can't afford to waste any more time,"
Merritt said. He looked up into the belly of the storm and the mist
that hovered in the canopy, mere feet over their heads. Somewhere
above, the sun was preparing to sneak behind the sharp peak and
turn day to night. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.
They didn't want to still be here when that happened. "Stay close.
Move fast. Don't slow for anything."

With those final words, he turned and ran
back toward the cave where they had last seen the others, listening
to make sure he heard the slap of footsteps on the wet ground
behind him.

4:28 p.m.

The stone floor was covered with mounds of
fecal material. Galen immediately identified it as raptor feces by
look, but certainly not by size. The older droppings had dried and
crumbled, presumably the source of the cloud of dust that lingered
in the cavern. There were fresh piles on top of the old, the
mixture of urine and white urates still runny, the consistency of a
partially fried egg, the fecal matter well-formed pellets nearly
the size of a dog's.

He knelt before a heap that was perhaps a
few days old. It was just dry enough that it no longer glistened
with moisture. He lifted it from the rest, set it on a clear
section of the ground beside him, and set to work.

"What in the world are you doing?" Leo
asked.

"Exactly what it looks like," Galen said,
breaking apart the feces with his fingers. "Didn't you ever dissect
an owl pellet when you were in school? The point was to determine
the diet of the owl. I can remember plucking out mouse bones and
trying to reassemble the skeleton. Very fascinating really."

"So you're trying to figure out what it's
been eating."

"And so much more." Galen's hands trembled
as he sifted through the black matter. He focused solely on the
project, and not on the implications of what he already knew to be
true. "I could tell right away by the fecund scent that we were
dealing with a carnivorous species. The smell of fresh meat
processed through an avian digestive system has a distinct aroma,
which is way different than the smell of digested carrion. It's
like comparing the scent of an eagle's feces to that of a condor.
At first glance, the feces appears to have been formed by a species
of raptor. However, if you look closely, you can see several
crucial distinctions. First of all, size-wise, the pellets are far
larger than that of any known bird of prey. Second, the ratio of
the chalky white urates to feces is totally out of proportion.
Raptor species have a lower ratio than say, pigeons, but even
pigeons don't evacuate such a large volume of urates in relation to
the total mass."