Burial Ground (43 page)

Shift change was nearly upon him, and while
he welcomed the chance to distance himself from the hunters, which
he had no doubt skulked through the foliage mere feet from him, he
trusted no one else with his life. Sending the other men out to the
perimeter could very well mean sentencing them to their deaths, but
worse was the prospect of posting himself in a stationary position
at the mouth of a bottleneck with nothing more than a stone wall at
his back and three-hundred sixty degrees of dark jungle surrounding
him. If they were unable to hold the creatures beyond the
intangible perimeter of light, then they would be forced to fall
back into the inner sanctum with the civilians where there was no
means of escape except through the teeth of the enemy. They would
only be able to fire blindly through the opening until they either
ran out of ammunition or were overwhelmed and slaughtered.

Fortunately, he still had a surprise or two
up his sleeve. These creatures may have become adept at dodging
arrows, and maybe even the occasional bullet, but there was no way
they would be ready for what he had in store for them when worse
came to worst.

Colton felt the comfortable weight of the
grenades in his jacket pockets against his belly.

The hint of a smile curled the corners of
his lips.

He rounded the western portion of the patch
of light. The peak rose above him, stepped with gardens gone feral,
all the way up into the clouds. He wondered briefly how anyone had
lived here long enough to grow anything with this unknown species
running rampant through the wilderness. They must have arrived and
erected their village first, before their presence summoned the
predators from wherever they had been previously. For them to have
been worshipped by tribes as far north as Mexico, the creatures had
to be nomadic. So why then had they stayed here for so long? Was it
possible that the surviving Chachapoya had kept them here by
feeding and protecting them?

Turning back to the east, he weaved through
the foliage toward the line of blazing torches. Morton and Webber
stood like statues to either side of the doorway. He felt their
stares pass over him. Even from the distance, he could sense the
fear radiating from them.

He ascended the muddy slope to the main
entrance, wary of the darkness along the western face of the
building. If only there had been more time to clear the trees away
from the structure. He wished the jungle was dry enough to
burn.

Webber moved away from the wall and struck
off toward the forest without a word. Colton settled in behind him
and watched the man tromp to the edge of the darkness, all the
while expecting black shapes to explode from the underbrush.

What in the name of God were they waiting
for?

9:56 p.m.

Sam watched through the doorway as Morton
and Webber walked across the overgrown courtyard toward the
darkened trees. She felt so impotent, merely waiting for whatever
was about to transpire to play out before her. The air was
positively charged with foreboding. It was no longer a matter of
if
something was going to happen, but when. She looked to
her right, past Merritt, to where Colton stood, his face a mask of
concentration. He directed his rifle toward the trees, moving it
slowly from left to right, absorbing every little detail. She was
certain he could feel it too. Things were about to come to a
head.

To her left, Sorenson followed Colton's
lead, his posture rigid. He didn't once blink.

Merritt's hand found hers and gave a
reassuring squeeze. She held it tightly, grateful for the physical
contact. He had paled considerably and his hair was more unkempt
than usual, but he radiated an aura of calmness that belied the
situation.

"We're going to be all right, aren't we?"
she whispered.

He offered a silent nod, but failed in his
attempt at a smile.

She released his hand and turned back toward
the fire. Uncertainty gnawed at her. There were still several
questions for which she couldn't fathom the answers. She had
originally dismissed them, and yet somehow they had grown more
insistent.

"Why did they need so many torches?" she
asked. "And why did they stockpile so much thermite? Was firelight
alone not enough?"

"My best guess is the creatures are like
owls," Galen said. His voice quivered when he spoke, but not nearly
as badly as his hands. "Physiologically, their eyes are designed
for optimal night vision, as evidenced by the eyeshine. Low levels
of light are amplified by the
tapetum lucidum
so that the
visual receptors accurately glean details from the darkness. Bright
light overwhelms their sense of sight, overstimulating the retinas.
I'd imagine that for them, the glare of the thermite is equivalent
to looking directly into the sun for us."

"So the light blinds them," Merritt
said.

"Definitely an oversimplification, but a
functional assertion nevertheless. It doesn't technically blind
them, but rather prevents them from being able to clearly see,
effectively creating a massive blind spot, rather than a condition
of blindness."

"Then they won't attack because of the
torches," Leo said.

"I wouldn't wager my life on that. A
starving owl will hunt during the day." Galen paused. "You have to
understand that birds of prey hunt with more than just sight. Their
senses of hearing and smell are also highly developed. Carrion
birds follow the stench of rotting meat to find their meals. And
while they may have acute vision, it's largely motion sensitive.
That's why birds like hawks and falcons will emit shrill cries
while circling a field. They can't clearly differentiate their prey
from the weeds until it moves. The recognition of the bird's cry is
ingrained in a rodent's DNA. It triggers the flight mechanism in
their brains, and they run for cover. The raptor then sees the
movement and dives toward the source, claws unfurled."

The ceiling groaned. All eyes rose in time
to watch a small stream of dust and dirt cascade through a curtain
of hair-like roots. They continued to stare at the stone roof for
several long minutes. There was no repeat occurrence.

Something else still troubled Sam. The
scars. All of the Chachapoya men were heavily scarred under the
black body paint. While violence and ritualistic sacrifice were
commonplace among the primitive South American tribes,
self-mutilation was generally limited to piercings and tattoos. The
scars had shown no identifiable patterns and almost appeared as
though they had been inflicted during battle. But with no other
tribe to wage war against, who could have caused such dramatic
wounds? And why the head-to-toe black paint? Was there some sort of
religious significance or was it a cultural sign of status? She
remembered the women tending to the crops. None of them had been
scarred, nor had they been painted. Only the men. What did it mean?
She felt as though the answer was of great consequence, but for the
life of her, she couldn't understand why.

The Chachapoya had managed to survive for
hundreds of years in close proximity to these creatures. Other than
sacrificing livestock to them, what were they doing to protect
themselves? Hiding behind fortified walls and burning torches may
have kept the village secure, but they had originally seen the
painted natives at night. Knowing what lurked in the darkness,
surely they wouldn't have unduly risked their lives without some
way of ensuring their own safety. Was it possible that the dark
paint allowed them to blend into the shadows?

She was just about to vocalize her thoughts
when Merritt pressed a finger to his lips. He furrowed his brow and
turned in a circle. His eyes eventually fixed upon the back wall of
the chamber.

Slowly, he walked toward the row of doorways
they had barricaded with fallen stones.

"What is it?" Galen asked. "Did you
hear---?"

Merritt whirled and shushed him, then crept
closer to the middle mound of rubble. He leaned closer and tilted
his right ear to the jumble of rocks.

Sam followed and leaned over his
shoulder.

She could clearly hear it now. A subdued
shuffling sound. Something soft moving across stone. The faint
trickle of pebbles tumbling through the pile of debris.

"Something's testing the wall from the other
side," Merritt whispered directly into her ear.

This time her hand sought his.

The noises ceased, only to resume moments
later behind the doorway to their right.

More dust shivered from the roof, shimmering
like glitter in the firelight.

Sam turned to see Colton step in front of
the outer doorway, weapon raised toward the jungle.

The muffled noises on the other side of the
rubble grew louder, frantic. It sounded like something was trying
to scratch its way through the stone.

A cloud of dust rained from above.

Sam squeezed Merritt's hand so hard that it
hurt. He cautiously pulled her around behind him and stood between
her and the lone entrance.

"Oh God," she whispered.

Leo and Galen rose from the fireside and
retreated deeper into the room.

The wait was finally over.

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 30
^th

10:00 p.m. PET

After what felt like an eternity of planning
and hunting, the magic hour had finally arrived. Tasker's heartbeat
reached a fluttering crescendo, which he slowed to a calm, metered
rhythm. He mentally centered himself, leaned away from the trunk of
the tree, and balanced on the thick branch with his feet alone in
true predatory fashion. Silently, he slung the rifle back over his
shoulder and unsheathed his knife. He adjusted the grip in his fist
until it felt natural, like a fluid extension of his right arm
through which even his blood flowed. All that remained was to wait
for his prey to walk within range, and then it was all over, except
for the bleeding.

He imagined McMasters poised for the kill in
exactly the same stance. Whose quarry would be the first to fall?
Who would deliver the first killing stroke?

Perhaps he would try to glean that
information from his partner before he dispatched him as well.

Everything had gone so smoothly, so easily,
that it was as if the long forgotten gods who had once lorded over
this land blessed him alone, favoring him with good fortune for the
hunt. Of course, sacrificing his own men might have bought him a
little extra help from the ravenous deities of yore.

Ears attuned to the slightest sound beneath
the thunder and the patter of rainfall, he waited patiently. He
closed his eyes and attempted to become one with the jungle. Flies
droned and mosquitoes hummed. The far off waterfall rumbled, a
sound he could feel more than hear, as though the tree upon which
he crouched were a plucked bass string.

His eyes snapped open at the first hint of
footsteps on the detritus. Thus far, their prey had made little
effort to mask their passage. They made enough noise to wake even
the skeletal dead littering the ground. How many men had died here
through the centuries? And to think that only he would ever walk
away from this burial ground.

Leaves crackled and branches snapped. Soft
exhalations reached him. He even heard the
shush
of pants
between thighs, the tap of raindrops on a poncho.

A shadow stepped into view, farther away
than he would have liked, but still well within range.

He glanced up at the front entrance of the
main structure. The guards were so far away that he could barely
see them, but he could tell that they hadn't raised the alarm.

Focusing on his prey, he leapt from the
branch, arms extended. He swatted aside smaller branches and dodged
a wide limb.

The wiry man below him stopped and looked up
at the commotion. Tasker saw the pale, freckled face of a
Midwestern farmboy through the fanned fingers of his left hand as
he raised the blade in his right.

The man's eyes widened and his shoulders
rose in a futile attempt to draw enough breath to shout a warning.
He barely had time to raise his arms in his defense before Tasker's
weight slammed down onto him. He palmed the man's forehead and
hammered his head against the ground. Ribs cracked and bushes
rustled. He pressed harder, driving his prey's skull into the mud
with such force that the man had no choice but to tip up his
chin.

Fatal mistake.

Tasker slashed his knife across the exposed
throat. A flash of reflected silver and warmth splashed across his
cheek. There was a high-pitched shriek. He clapped his hand over
the man's mouth and nose, but the noise originated from the severed
trachea. The voiceless scream faded to a whistle, and finally to a
gurgle.

The blood no longer spattered Tasker's face
and torso, but poured out onto the wet earth.

He rode out the body's final spasms until it
eventually stilled under him.

Tasker removed his hand from the lower half
of the man's face and rose just high enough to see over the tangle
of shrubs. The two sentries still stood in the blinding light to
either side of the doorway. Neither of them so much as looked in
his direction.

Perfect.

He swiped the blade on his pants, returned
it to its sheath, and swung the rifle around until he cradled it in
his bloody hands.

There was a crashing sound from the west. A
man cried out.

Damn it.

Tasker ducked and sprinted toward the source
of the commotion.

"Webber?" a voice called from across the
clearing. "Morton?"

McMasters had spoiled their advantage. It
would only be a matter of moments before the other guards split up
to investigate. One would head out into the forest, weapon at the
ready, while the other would hold his post.