The Joshua Files - a complete box set: Books 1-5 of the young adult sci-fi adventure series plus techno-thriller prequel

by M. G. Harris

  The rest of is all too familiar. The brujo stands watching as my grandfather slowly chokes to death. He turns purple, his eyes bug out, flecks of spit and vomit appear at the edges of his mouth. His final words are virtually ripped out of him: “Summon the Bakab Ix.”

  The brujo places a finger on my grandfather’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Then he calls out, “Roberto.” A darkly tanned boy in his late teens appears at the door. Sunlight momentarily floods the gloomy surroundings. “He’s dead. Fetch your brother to carry the body. We’ll make an announcement in the town. He looks like a stranger, but maybe someone knows who he is.”

  Roberto looks down at the body, says, “What’s in the backpack? Can I take it?”

  He doesn’t wait for the brujo’s reply. The boy picks up the sisal-weave backpack and opens it. I catch sight of a large volume. It looks like a book. The vision explodes with pain and confusion. I watch the boy gasp, begin to scream in agony. His mouth fills with blood, he retches, blood streams from his nose, even his eyeballs begin to bleed. He staggers around the hut, backing away from the volume in the backpack. The boy collapses face-down; his whole body convulses for a few minutes, then stops. The brujo finally moves slowly, touches the body of his son and rolls the body over. When he sees the boy’s face, he lets out a howl of pain and distress. “My son, my son,” he cries, again and again.

  The images of bloody death in the hut fade. I open my eyes, pull myself up and look directly into the eyes of the old brujo.

  Deep within me something shifts; it’s as though I sense cogs that move, rotate, adjust. On the horizon of my mind there’s an explosion of nuclear proportions as finally, I recognize the truth.

  My grandfather had the codex with him when he died. The Ix Codex is here.

  The old man speaks. “You are the ‘Bakab Ix’?”

  I nod. “His grandson.”

  “But you’re just a child,” he says in wonder. “And a foreigner. How can this be?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Yet it is truth. The dream cannot lie. You will take the Cursed Book far from here,” he says in a flat voice. “It is possessed of tremendous evil. All who touch it die.”

  “I’ll take it.” I swallow hard, think of that poor kid Roberto. What if there’s been a mistake and I’m not really the Bakab Ix?

  Perhaps the brujo detects my fear, because he places a hand on my shoulder, saying, “Consider yourself already dead and there is nothing to lose. Take heart, son. You’ve shown bravery here. We shall take you to the book.”

  In the back seat of the car, I use my shirt to wipe away most of the ointment. We drive to a jungle clearing. The trees are so thick overhead that the canopy blocks out most of the rain. A rattlesnake slithers across our path. The brujo leans over, grabs it in one deft movement, and snaps the neck as if it were no tougher than a twig.

  I become aware that this is no ordinary clearing – it’s some kind of shrine. There’s an inner ring of fat bamboo canes and at one end, a small collection of stone statues on the ground, at the wide base of a tree. The statues are of the same Buddha-like figure I remember from my dream; a cross-looking, chubby, child-like creature.

  The men light two flame torches and place them inside two hollowed-out bamboo shoots which have been sliced open at the right height.

  “Chaneques,” murmurs the brujo, noticing me stare at the stone statues. “A changeling spirit of these forests. These live off the evil that lurks within the Cursed Book. If the Curse of the Book doesn’t destroy you, the chaneques may terrify the very soul from of your body.” He takes a few steps back. “We cannot remain. You must complete this task alone.”

  One of the two men who brought me steps forward. I recognize him for the first time – it’s the bus driver. He just nods. “I’m sorry. But it had to be this way.” He hands me a shovel. “Dig. At the base of the ceiba, beneath the statues of the chaneques. If the curse can’t harm you, neither shall the chaneques. Find the Cursed Book, take it away with you.”

  They all back away, watch as I begin my work. Once they see I’ve started to dig, I notice they’re leaving. “How do I get back?” I yell.

  “Follow the road,” answers the bus driver. “It goes to all the way to the lagoon.”

  I take the shovel and dig. Above me I can hear the canopy of the ceiba tree rattling its leaves as the storm picks up. The rain, already falling at a fierce rate, seems to redouble its effort, as if to say: Now let’s really drop some water. And me, I’m shaking from a mixture of excitement and terror. This is it: the Ix Codex is just a few inches of dirt away.

  I dig like a maniac, toss shovelfuls of leaves and soil over my shoulder. My skin crawls at the thought of being left alone in this place; my ears roar with the sounds of the living jungle. The stone chaneques stare at me, their angry little eyes brimming with accusation. I think I imagine them moving. I can hardly bear to stay. I have visions of them coming to life, swarming over me, scratching at my face, stone fingers digging mercilessly into my flesh. It doesn’t matter how much I tell myself that the ceremonial drug is still in my system. I’m hallucinating, but it seems pretty darn real.

  Sometime after I start digging, I find myself gazing into a pit about two feet deep. I have no sense of how much time has passed. I can’t lean over far enough any more. I jump in, begin digging some more. From nearby I hear the sound of a car, tyres crunching along a gravel track. The headlamps have been switched off to allow a stealthy approach. But there’s no hiding such a mechanical sound in the jungle.

  I pause in my digging, look up and listen. Doors open and slam shut.

  “Mr Garcia. Nice to finally catch up with you.”

  It’s the two NRO agents – the ones who arrested Tyler and Ollie.

  “So, that’s gotta be the lost codex under there, right? Hey, buddy, don’t let me stop you.”

  “That’s right,” says the other. “Dig.”

  It doesn’t take much longer, just long enough for me to wonder how I’ve managed to screw up so badly. Where did I go wrong?

  “How? How did you find me?”

  “A cop called in your description from a bus station in Tabasco. Someone reported a kid who looked like he’d run away from his family. People can be neighbourly that way.”

  I return to my digging, numb with shock and disappointment. I try not to think about what’s going to happen to me now.

  I reach the buried package a few minutes later. It is still wrapped in what are now rotting threads of sisal fibre. I pick them off, hold the dense volume in my hands. It’s a solid box; not exactly a book, more a case. The box is covered with a soft, dry-yet-spongy material that yields to the slightest touch. Incredibly, it is perfectly clean; dust won’t even to stick to it. I’m about to give it a few more prods when one agent shouts, “Cut that out. We’ll take it from here.” He reaches down, snatching the box.

  I try to warn him. “I don’t think you should. . .”

  He ignores me, of course.

  Pandemonium.

  At first I can’t tear my eyes away as one, then the other, agent falls to his knees, clutching first his throat, then his chest, stomach, all the while screaming, a sound so terrible I want to cover my ears to stop listening to the sheer agony. The bleeding starts seconds after. Their screams become muffled as blood bubbles up inside their throats, choking them. They try spitting it out, but more spews up. Into the warm, peaty smell of the forest mingles the rusty odour of fresh blood.

  They’re dying, just as I’d seen the brujo’s son die, in the most agonizing way I can imagine, their insides liquefying, organs rupturing, screaming to the bitter end.

  I feel my legs weaken. I turn away. There’s nothing I can do to help them. I have a feeling those terrible cries of anguish will haunt me for a long time yet.

  Trembling from the horror of what I’ve seen, I climb out of the ditch. I grab the codex. I haven’t even made it out of the jungle clearing when another car pulls up behind the first. Another door slams
. And into view comes the back-up plan: Simon Madison.

  “OK, Josh, nice job, now drop the codex, nice and slow.”

  I hesitate. “I would, but . . . you really want to end up like your mates?”

  Madison glances at the two guys who lie squirming on the floor, still retching and groaning as blood spurts from their mouths, noses and eyes. He seems genuinely shocked.

  “What in hell did you do to them?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. The codex. It’s cursed.”

  To my surprise, he doesn’t laugh or show any sign of disdain. He just waves his pistol at me. “How come you’re not like them?”

  “Immunity?”

  “So you really are one of them. . .” is all he says, with bitterness.

  While I’m wondering what he means, tense seconds pass. He seems to be frozen with indecision, keeps looking at the codex, his eyes full of apprehension.

  “Know what I’m thinking, Madison?” I say, stalling for more time. “I’m wondering how close I need to get to you, to make you die like them.”

  I lunge towards him, hoping desperately that he won’t fire the gun. My gamble pays off. As I approach, Madison lurches backwards in instinctive fear. He trips, falls and lands on his back. His gun goes off, the bullet zinging through the leaves. I lob the codex as far away as possible, vault over his body, clear him with my legs and arms safely out of reach and land with a handstand flip. I stop only to lean over and pick up the codex. I head straight for the blue Nissan, parked behind the first car, a Taurus.

  I have absolutely no idea how to drive, but luckily it’s an automatic. I feel as though I’m in one of those dreams where you want to run but your limbs feel heavy and numb. I want to turn the blue Nissan round, but for the life of me I can’t think how. Driving always looks so easy!

  In a narrow trail between the trees, I try frantically to get a three-point turn out of the car. All that happens is that the car backs up, lurches forward, backs up again until I’m cursing out loud. My hands are so slick with sweat, they barely grip the steering wheel. I finally give up when I see Madison jumping into the other car up ahead. I shift into reverse and slam my foot on to the accelerator.

  The rain has stopped almost as abruptly as it began, like a tap being closed. The downpour has already turned the ground into a mud bath, and for a heart-stopping second, the car doesn’t budge an inch, its wheels spinning like crazy. And then the tyres get some grip and I’m moving, zooming backwards out of the jungle.

  The reversing lights cast a beam deep into the trees. I can’t remember how long it took to get here, but reversing out seems to be painfully slow. Madison is only metres behind me, making exactly the same manouevre. Straight down to the lake, the bus driver told me. Twisted round in the car, peering into the darkness of the jungle, I pray that he’s right.

  The lake springs on me almost too late to avoid it. There are no buildings around, no lights of any kind. Only the sudden absence of trees and the fathomless black ahead give me any warning that the road is about to run out. I stop the car with a violent lunge. I throw myself out, clutching the codex. I’m just in time to see Madison’s car tumble down the same slope out of the jungle, crashing into the Nissan. I don’t stop to see whether he’s survived. There’s a momentary silence. It crosses my mind that I’m free.

  I’m already running along the lakeside, searching the water for any sign of a boat. Back near the town there were craft of all different types moored on the water. In the distance I hear a car door open – Madison is alive. Even running in the dark, I know I’ll never be safe from him – he has a gun. On water I might have a chance to evade him.

  Madison’s bullets must be numbered because he doesn’t waste any shooting at me in the dark. There is just enough starlight to see the water. It’s my only guide to where I’m going. I hear him giving chase – he isn’t far behind. His footsteps sound disturbingly light and fast. After a few minutes I see what I’ve been hoping for – a small rowing boat. And more importantly – only one.

  I jump in, drop the codex on to the hull with a heavy thud. I spend a few seconds untying the mooring knot before Madison catches up. He comes into view at the very last second, about twenty metres behind. Triumph and disappointment combine in one sudden glance when he sees that I’ve found a boat. Seeing him lift his pistol arm, I give the shore a hefty push and hurl myself into the bottom of the boat. He shoots; I hear a bullet crack noisily, splintering wood at the stern.

  I row in small, rapid strokes with no break until the shore recedes. When Madison is as close as he’s going to get, I duck down again. This time there’s no gunshot. I guess that a lucky shot might get me now. Then again, it might just waste another bullet. Plus, I have the feeling I’m worth more to him alive. Whatever Madison knows about Ek Naab, he’s certain that I know much more. He’s desperate for that information.

  Then he disappears, continuing down the shore. My muscles relax automatically. I rest for the first time since digging under the shrine. Only now do I realize how hard my heart is pumping, the blood pounding in my ears. I double over, gasping, trying to catch my breath. I know I shouldn’t stop but it’s impossible not to feel a tiny sense of relief.

  I gaze across the shiny black depths, where thick mist looms ahead. Will the islands be somewhere inside? I don’t see that I have any other option than to aim directly for the heart of that fog. Lying about halfway across the lake, the mist rises like a smoky wall, concealing the lake’s interior.

  I’ve rowed almost four hundred metres across the water. Then I hear the approach of a motor boat. I hold my breath, listening. It’s obvious within seconds that the boat is headed my way. I grab both oars and row hard, pulling the boat closer to the mist. As Madison’s boat approaches, I notice that he’s found a torch. Its long beam reaches out over the water, seeking me out. Just as we disappear before each other’s eyes, a thick column of mist between us, his torchlight locks for one second on to my face. For that brief instant, I’m blind.

  Under dense swirls of grey mist, I change direction. I row to the right, away from the interior, towards the secretive eastern bank of the lake.

  Inside that cloud, sounds seem muffled. The world outside disappears, with all its whirring insect life and distant echoes of howler monkeys. Within, the sounds of my boat are amplified. The splashes of my oars sound riotously loud. Silence is my greatest ally now – Madison’s torch will penetrate less than a few feet inside this mist.

  When his motorboat enters the mist, I know about it. He cuts the engine, keen to gain the element of surprise through stealth. I don’t know for how long we float around, perhaps only a few metres apart.

  Finally, he calls into the gloom, “Josh. It’s the end of the road. Give yourself up.”

  When I don’t reply, he shouts louder, “I’m gonna wait here until morning. You can’t escape, you know it.”

  Making only tiny movements now, I propel the boat forward. I’m inching along now, but it’s still progress. I hear him start up the engine once more.

  “You ever hear of a search grid, Josh? I’m gonna find you, kid. And when I do, you’re gonna tell me everything there is to tell about Ek Naab. Oh, you might hold out a little while, but not for long.”

  From behind the mist, land looms abruptly. An island appears before me, the gnarled branches of its trees close enough to touch. I steer the boat into a snug, tiny cove, jam it into place with the oars. Land stretches in all directions ahead. This is no speck of beach, but a major island – big enough to hide on.

  Taking the codex with me, I climb on to the shore. I pull out the mobile phone. It may be useless as a communication device, but it works as a torch. Fog and darkness have combined to make this a treacherous place to walk at night. And all those poisonous creatures I worried about in the Yucatan jungle – they’ll be here too.

  Madison hovers close by, enough to hear his boat. Any second now he’s going to discover the island. I find a path and break into a run. I’m vaguely th
inking of caves, or a tree; anything that might hide me until morning, when the tourists are sure to arrive on those pale blue launches.

  I pass an area of mounds that could be some archaeological remains – stone platforms and terraces. I’m running so fast now that I almost skid headlong into a swamp. I’m about to turn around when I notice a dark shape moving in the water. I freeze. It couldn’t be. . . Ahead, to my left, another shadow shifts, then another next to it. Soon the whole swamp is a heaving mass of slithering bodies.

  Crocodiles. They’ve picked up my scent. I’m being hunted. I’m faced with a killer on one side and crocodiles on the other. Icy terror grabs hold of me. I feel the same dread I experienced in the sea, fearing a shark would appear, that I would be consumed, alive and screaming, by the razor-like teeth of a wild beast. Now, this is no figment of my imagination; it’s completely real.

  I slowly back up the slope towards drier land. Only steps away there’s a mangrove tree, the roots spread wide around the base. I hurl myself at the tree, manage to land a good distance up the roots and scramble higher. I hear the crocodiles’ teeth scrape at the wood under my feet. For one hideous second I even feel their rancid breath against my ankles. Even from up the tree, I can smell fish rotting in their guts. When I’ve clambered far enough out of reach, I turn my phone light on to them. Hopelessly, I look for an escape route.

  There’s no possible escape. The light seems to make them even crazier, lashing their tails and snarling themselves into a frenzy. The beady, evil eyes of a dozen crocodiles gleam back at me from the ground. I find myself wondering about Madison, and if he has the nerve to tackle the whole crew of crocs.

  As I move to turn off the mobile phone, I notice that there’s one bar of signal showing. It’s such an amazing sight that for a minute I wonder if I’m imagining things. I climb higher into the tree. I graze my legs and arms but I don’t care. A second bar appears on the phone’s display. Relief cascades through me. Almost laughing, I dial Benicio, just as he showed me.