Bones of the Sun God

by Peter Vegas

  Then Sam smelled the smoke.

  Stepping out from the corner, Sam saw the open drawer and one remaining fire warden vest in the bottom. The alarm was still ringing, but the corridor sounded empty. Sam stuck his head out to make sure the coast was clear. Down near the elevators, he saw wisps of black smoke in the air, so he ran the other way, toward the exit. He pushed down on the metal bar and burst out into a loading bay. It was empty, except for a delivery truck, but then the man who had been hiding behind it stepped out into the light. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and he ran toward Sam.

  Stepping back inside, Sam slammed the door and flicked the bolt at the top. Looking back along the corridor to the elevators, he could see a lot more black smoke now. Then the man outside began pounding on the door and shouting in Spanish.

  Sam ran for the elevators. The smoke got thicker as the wall on the left-hand side disappeared to reveal a large kitchen. Steel benches and industrial ovens filled the space. On the far side, a frying pan was sitting on a gas hob with something small and black in it. Matching smoke was wafting into the air forming a thick layer on the ceiling. Sam could tell immediately that it wasn’t the cause of the fire alarm. One of the panicking fire wardens must have been responsible. But it would soon bring people down, so he hurried on.

  He reached the elevators and hit the button before remembering they stopped working during a fire. Cursing himself for wasting time, Sam entered the stairwell beside them. He went up one flight and found himself looking through a strip of glass in the door that opened out into the hotel reception area. There was more smoke, thicker and blacker, coming from the entrance to the bar on the far side of the space. Men in bulky black suits with yellow tanks on their backs and full face masks were walking backward and forward, ferrying equipment and escorting scared guests in pajamas and dressing gowns.

  Sam wanted to get out of the stairwell and out of the hotel, but he resisted the urge to run. He calmed his breathing and kept staring through the window. On the hotel driveway, the flashing lights from two fire engines spread a red glow across the lawn and onto the crowd of spectators lining the footpath. Sam scanned the faces from one end to the other.

  He missed him on the first pass. The Scar-Faced Man had put on a baseball cap and was standing behind the front row of the crowd with his head down, talking into his phone. But Sam saw his small dark eyes watching everyone who left through the hotel’s glass doors. As he watched him, Sam knew the man’s visit to the hotel during the fire was no coincidence.

  Suddenly his view went black, then a face behind a mask peered through the glass strip. The door was ripped open, and the fireman grabbed Sam’s arm.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in accented English.

  Sam could only nod as the man took his arm and steered him toward the entrance. The big glass doors loomed ahead, and Sam knew he’d be spotted the moment he stepped out. Luckily, the reception area was crowded. Beside the front desk, a woman in a waiter’s uniform was lying on a stretcher, breathing into an oxygen mask. It gave Sam an idea. He buckled over, slipped out of the fireman’s grip, and burst into a violent coughing fit.

  “Smoke, smoke,” he gasped between coughs.

  The fireman lifted his mask and called out in Spanish to a medic near the stretcher. The man came running with another oxygen bottle and mask. “Breathe in this,” the man said, slipping the mask over Sam’s face.

  The fireman said something to the medic in Spanish and left.

  “Wait here, please,” the medic said to Sam. He returned to his patient on the stretcher and Sam used the time to pull on his father’s trench coat. He didn’t even bother taking off his backpack. The effect made him look like a hunchback, but Sam was happy with anything that disguised his appearance.

  The medic didn’t seem to notice the change in his patient when he returned, pushing the stretcher. He motioned for Sam to follow, which was fine with him. Head down and collar up, with a hand holding his mask in place, Sam stumbled out behind some other injured guests. The medic led them to an ambulance that shielded him from the crowd on the footpath. Sam waited nervously, expecting to see the Scar-Faced Man coming around the side of the vehicle, but after a few minutes he began to think he had made it without being spotted.

  The medic was busy tending to half a dozen patients. Sam waited until he climbed inside the ambulance, and then he put down the mask and oxygen bottle and stepped back into the garden that ran down the side of the building. Knowing there was a man behind the hotel, Sam only went halfway before he climbed a fence and found himself in a narrow alleyway.

  He didn’t know how long it would take for the Scar-Faced Man to realize Sam had given him the slip again, but he wanted to put as much distance between them as he could. He started running, sticking to the backstreets and hiding whenever a car passed by. Ten minutes later, he reached the river and slowed to walk. He followed it away from town until he came to an old wharf jutting out into the water. Making sure no one was around, he ducked down and crawled under the decaying wooden structure. There was just enough room to sit, and he leaned back against one of the posts and closed his eyes. Despite his situation, he couldn’t help smiling. He’d gotten away, again, and he’d done it on his own. He knew he should be scared, but he felt calm. Tired but calm.

  Sam checked the contents of his backpack. Passport, cash, phone, notebook, and, thanks to Jasper’s mysterious contact TF, his father’s coat. Sam held it to his nose and sniffed, hoping for a scent, a memory of his father and his past. All he got was musty cotton, but that didn’t matter, because he finally had the first physical proof his parents had been there.

  The coat reminded him of long walks with his father; he’d always worn it. Another memory came to Sam: candy. It was his father’s weakness and one his mother tried to prevent. On their walks, his father always had a supply of the banned goodies hidden in the deep pockets of his coat.

  Sam’s mouth watered at the thought. He searched the pockets. There was no candy, but he did find a piece of paper folded into a thin strip and tucked at the very bottom.

  Some of his mother’s research notes—he recognized the handwriting and her doodling at the bottom.

  The Olmecs

  Olmec artists carved large man-jaguar warriors that are similar to the Egyptian sphinxes on display showing lions with the heads of gods or kings.

  The Olmecs disappeared from history sometime before 1000 BC. Despite the best efforts of archaeologists, not a single, solitary sign of anything that could be described as the “developmental phase” of Olmec society had been unearthed anywhere in Mexico (or, for that matter, anywhere in the New World). These people, whose characteristic form of artistic expression was the carving of huge negroid heads, appeared to have come from nowhere.

  The Long Count

  The long count is a sacred calendar handed down to the Maya from the much more ancient Olmecs. The Maya, as with almost all other ancient world cultures, believed that the earth, as part of its natural cycle of being, lives through a series of successive “world ages,” each separated by sudden physical planetary upheaval.

  The long count calendar was established in ancient times to forecast or mark out the very transition points between these world ages.

  The fourth sun ended with “torrential rains and floods.” The fifth sun was said to have begun in darkness in 3114 BC and was known as “   The Sun of Movement.” This 5125-year cycle was divided into thirteen baktun cycles of 144,000 days and is predicted to end on December 21, 2012. It is said the end of the fifth sun will come with the violent movement of the earth.

  There had been a lot of talk about the end of the world in 2012. Sam hadn’t paid much attention to it. His parents had been gone for two years then, and he was adjusting to his new orphaned life. Had his parents taken the threat seriously? Were the Olmecs the connection between Egypt and pyramids in Central America? His parents must have felt they were onto something if they made the effort to hide their res
earch.

  Sam leaned back against the pillar; the rhythmic sound of the lapping water was hypnotic. He was exhausted, his eyes were heavy, and the urge to close them was powerful. He knew that wasn’t a good idea and dug into his backpack for the map of Orange Walk. Flicking it open, he traced his escape route from the hotel to his current position. The scrap yard didn’t look too far away. He remembered Jerry the policeman’s warning about it being private property. But how secure would a scrap yard be? A late-night visit would be the best chance of getting a look at the sub and the best way to take his mind off how tired and hungry he was.

  Sam crawled out from under the wharf, put on the coat and backpack, and headed off to see the submarine that had brought his parents to Belize.

  8

  MIDNIGHT SNACK

  SAM SMELLED THE SCRAP YARD before he saw it. He followed the river away from town for an hour. Old buildings gave way to fields that ran right to the water’s edge. The journey felt much farther than it had looked on the map, and Sam wondered if Mary had gotten the location right.

  He slogged along the riverbank, ankle-deep in sticky mud. It would have been faster using the light on his phone, but he didn’t want to risk being spotted.

  Hundreds of croaking frogs accompanied Sam on his journey, and occasionally, from the darkness overhead, a bird would add its loud screech to the din. But there were no man-made sounds, and that was just how Sam wanted it.

  When he caught the first whiff, he thought he was approaching a farm. It was the smell of something dead. In the darkness, he made out a wall blocking his way. When he reached it, he saw it was a wire fence with hundreds of rusting cars stacked tightly behind it, creating a wall of iron. The fence stretched across the field, disappearing into the night. It also ran the other way, into the river. Coils of rusted barbed wire topped the barrier, and Sam realized he would have to get wet.

  He waded into the river but had only gone a few feet when he saw the end of the fence, anchored in the water with a thick metal pole. Obviously, the builders had decided water-based break-ins weren’t likely. Given the state of the yard, Sam wondered if the fence’s main job was to hold the junk in, rather than keep people out.

  The water was only up to his waist when Sam rounded the end of the fence. He waded back to shore between the shell of an old fishing boat and a half-submerged car chassis. The stink was much worse. It smelled like it was coming from the mud, but it was too dark to see.

  As well as the smell and the mud, Sam had to contend with the small engine parts and other metal objects littering the ground. After almost tripping, he decided to risk using the flashlight on his phone. The first thing he saw in the light was a big dead something. Judging by the feathers scattered around, the thing had been a bird. But not for at least a week.

  With the mystery of the smell solved, Sam moved on. He raised his phone, aiming the beam of light in front of him, and got his first look at submarine 518. It was bigger than it had appeared in the newspaper article. A gigantic black tube sloping down the riverbank into the water, but only the tail fin and propeller were submerged. The conning tower stuck out on top, and on the side he could just make out the numbers 518 in chipped, faded paint.

  The sub was even more impressive up close. The huge curved body rose above Sam, blocking out the night sky. He placed his hand on the hull. The pitted steel plating felt cold and slimy.

  This was the sub that had brought the Ark to Belize in 1942. Five years ago, Sam’s parents had come here looking for answers, and now it had drawn Sam here, searching for answers of his own.

  The body of the sub narrowed at the tail. Sam figured this was the best place to climb on board. As he followed the hull of the sub down into the water, his hands ran across on old rope ladder. Someone had already solved the problem.

  In a place full of metal and junk, it was odd that someone had built a ladder out of old wood and rope. The contraption creaked and groaned as Sam climbed. Each time his feet hit the side of the sub, the dull, echoey thud reminded him he was climbing something big and hollow.

  Finally, his hands found the rusting iron rail the ropes were attached to. Clouds drifted overhead, blocking what little moonlight there had been, and as Sam stood on top of 518, he was forced to use the flashlight on his phone again. He waved it around him low and fast. The scrap yard felt deserted, but from the top of the sub he knew he’d stand out like a human lighthouse to anyone nearby.

  The walkway ran toward the conning tower that rose off the deck like a small metal skyscraper. Steel steps, welded to the side, ran all the way to the top. But just as Sam prepared himself for another perilous climb, he spotted the open hatch a few feet from where he was standing. If he hadn’t used the flashlight, he would have stepped into it.

  Crouching next to the black hole, he shone the beam from his phone down into the sub. A ladder of rusting iron dropped down to a steel-plated floor. The pungent smell of rust, oil, and decay wafted up, and Sam regretted his decision to visit at night. But in the same instant, he knew he’d had no choice. He turned off his flashlight and climbed into the dead machine.

  The blackness of an already dark night got even darker as he descended into the sub. Every scrape of his boots was amplified by the steel walls. Even the sound of his breathing bounced around, making it feel like someone was right next to him on the ladder.

  The moment Sam’s feet touched the steel floor, he reached for his phone. The blackness swirled around him as he fumbled for the button that activated the flashlight. He swung the phone left and right, knowing he was alone but comforted by the act of proving it. The beam lit up curved walls of rusting steel and gauges and switches covered in a layer of black sludge. Aiming forward, he recognized the periscope hanging from the roof, exactly like the ones he had seen in submarine movies.

  To the rear, Sam saw a polished black floor that sloped up toward the roof of the sub the farther back it went. The space didn’t make sense, and Sam moved closer. His feet reached the edge of the polished floor, and ripples ruined the effect. It was water. The river had claimed the back half of the submarine.

  Moving around the ladder, Sam headed up toward the periscope. This was the heart of the ship. Tables stuck out from the wall, covered in a slimy gunk that had once been charts. An old clock was bolted to the hull, its glass cracked, the hands snapped off.

  Sam waved his phone light around, hoping to see a sign his parents had been there, but everything was caked in seventy-three years’ worth of dirt and decay. Then, in the shadows, Sam saw something he recognized. It was a drawing of a crocodile, the same design as the one used at Xibalba.

  As he looked closer, Sam noticed differences. This one had been filled with tiny designs, but someone had tried to remove them, leaving the center of the design a blurry white mess. Sam could still make out some of the details, and his instincts told him this was a clue. He got out his notebook and began to sketch, then remembered his fancy new smartphone had a camera.

  Sam swiped at the screen until he found the app and made sure the flash was on. He took a series of close-ups, and then a final shot of the whole design. As he stepped back to give himself room, he hit the periscope. The phone flew out of his hand, and Sam cried out as the glowing device hit the floor and slid past the ladder. The crash and scraping of the phone sounded like an avalanche on the metal-plated floor, then a plop signaled that it had hit the water.

  Luckily, his fancy phone was waterproof, and it had landed with the light aiming up. Sliding one foot at a time, with his hands out in front, like a blind man, Sam moved toward his lifeline. For the last couple of feet, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled.

  Sam winced as he made contact with the ice-cold water. He edged forward, ignoring the discomfort, and finally got close enough to reach out and grab the phone. Just as he did, the screen died. Sam backed out of the water, got to his feet, and dried the phone on his T-shirt before turning it back on.

  As his breathing settled, Sam could hear the
water sloshing on the steel floor. He accessed the phone’s settings and looked for the screen timer; he wouldn’t get caught out again. The sound of the disturbed water grew, and, curious, Sam pushed the flashlight button. The beam shot out across the black space, but in the light Sam watched wide-eyed in horror as the surface became a churning white mess. Then, from out of the foam, rows of jagged white teeth and an impossibly pink fleshy mouth appeared.

  Sam screamed as he stumbled back. His boot caught on a metal plate, and he fell sideways. The crocodile launched itself out of the water, slamming its jaws together in the exact spot its prey had been a second before. With a meaty thump, the crocodile hit the floor. Sam felt the impact through his body. His fall had saved him. He scrambled to his feet as the hunter twisted its head and locked its eyes on him.

  Sam kept the phone’s flashlight aimed at the crocodile; he put his other arm out behind him, feeling for the ladder. As he moved backward, the crocodile followed him step for step. In the glow of the flashlight, its two big, glassy eyes were locked onto Sam. He wanted to turn and run to the ladder, which was somewhere near in the darkness, but he couldn’t take the light off the crocodile, so he continued with his awkward retreat.

  And then he fell again.

  It was a lump of slime. Sam stepped onto it, and his foot shot out from under him. As he crashed backward, he clutched his phone, blocking the light. There was a soft thud in the darkness as Sam landed on his backpack, then the scramble of claws on steel. The crocodile was coming.

  With no time to get to his feet, all Sam could do was roll. The wall of the hull was only a few feet away; he rolled once and then again, driven by the urge to avoid death. Halfway through his second roll, he didn’t hit the hull as he’d expected; he dropped.