“So,” I say, putting together the pieces myself. “The prince released the plague, whether it be by accident or during a fit of madness, we don’t know, and honestly it really doesn’t matter why. Either way, he performed an act of Mesoamerican genocide and killed almost 200,000 people.”
“You are correct my friend,” Todd agrees, taking the story from there. “The disease spread like wildfire killing everyone. The prince survived by trying to kill himself actually. He threw himself into the central altar’s fire and when his half-eaten arm touched the flame it stopped, cauterizing the wound.”
“Wait, hold on a sec,” Kane says. “So there’s a way to stop it? A real defense against it?”
“Besides water,” Olivia says, adding to the list of possible responses.
“Looks like it,” I say, lost in thought.
“Todd?” I ask, not looking up from my dead stare.
“Yes, Hank?”
“Why is the prince buried here?”
Three sets of eyes snap towards me in shock. Apparently, I was a step ahead of everyone, even Nicole.
“Good question, hang on.”
“Hank—?” Olivia asks, but I cut her off with a finger to my lips and make a chopping motion on my arm. The wide-eyed look that appears on her face indicates that she understands me. The corpse in the golden coffin only had one arm.
“Good catch Hank,” Todd applauds. “After the devastation at Teotihuacan, even a man as ruthless as Xiuhcoatl couldn’t take the consequences. He knew he had single-handedly killed the majority of his people—the people he swore to protect. He may have been a loon, but the prince deep down still acted on behalf of his kingdom’s citizens.”
“Distraught over the deaths of thousands,” Todd continues, reading the translated text. “Xiuhcoatl and the lone surviving priest—the one who authored this diary obviously—set out to Isla de Jaina, returning what is described as a simple clay pot. After they put it back, Xiuhcoatl killed himself, ordering the priest to reseal the tomb and leave the diary here as a reminder and as a warning.”
“A warning?” Nicole asks.
“Yes. A warning,” Todd replies. “It was said that only a drop of the stuff was used to kill the amount of people it did. All it needs is a way to spread.”
The room goes cold around us, but Kane speaks up, “Why didn’t he simply burn the pot and destroy its contents?”
“The Aztec,” I answer, looking up to him, having just finished scanning the last page, “were like a lot of ancient cultures. They were very superstitious and didn’t understand things the same way we do today. Destroying something as volatile as this stuff could be seen as an omen and with the amount of death he just witnessed, Xiuhcoatl probably didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Shit.”
I look up to Kane, but it wasn’t him who just cursed. It was the only other male in the conversation.
“What is it, Todd?” I ask.
“There’s more on the last page and the handwriting doesn’t match that of the priest.”
“Um, what?” Kane asks, confused.
“Someone else had access to this diary, and Hank…”
“Wha—what does it say?” I ask, my heart beating incredibly fast. I almost slip into another panic attack when Todd finishes his statement.
“Have a look for yourself,” Todd instructs. “You should be able to read it.”
My hands shaking, I pick up the skin-made book, opening it to the last page. The possible implications of what I see is mindboggling.
After reading the text, I do in fact succumb to another panic attack. I bolt straight for the tent’s door, tearing it from its hinges, falling atop it, not being able to control myself.
I roll off the thin piece of metal and tumble to a stop, landing in a shallow puddle of the death-mud, stopping next to a discarded sneaker. What I just read sent a feeling of nausea and fear through my body, that of which I haven’t felt before, or at least since the necropolis.
Sitting there in an Aztecan diary that was found in a Mayan tomb and written in perfect Latin was, liberate te ex inferis… Save yourself from hell.
Someone from An’tala had their hands on this book in the past. But who?
DUST TO DUST
“It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.”
~Bram Stoker’s Dracula, 1897
25
Blairsville, Georgia, USA
Frost stared at the red dot on his computer monitor, unnerved at why it was moving west across the Gulf of Mexico and not north, back to states. What are they up to? He thought eyebrow raised. The tracking beacon in Ronin’s phone, the one he now watched, was accurate to within a few feet and was no doubt in Boyd’s possession, which meant Ronin had failed.
BING!
His cell phone chimed, announcing a text message was just received.
Looking down at his phone, Frost began to sweat. It was the first time in his life that he was actually scared for it. So much so, that he had just finished packing an overnight bag, in case he had to leave on short notice.
The message on his screen was a simple one-character query—a question mark to be precise. The number was undoubtedly from Coaxoch, the marionette behind Zero, and they were inquiring about the status of the latest hit.
Frost glanced down to his overnight bag but thought better of running. He knew they could probably find him if they tried hard enough. Disappearing would have to wait.
BING!
Another text came through, this one having two question marks. Gripped by fear, Frost fumbled for his phone, cursing at his weakened demeanor.
He opened the text and quickly replied with his own question mark, asking what they wanted to know, even though he already knew what.
BING!
The next message to come in read, status update.
Frost carefully thought about what he wanted to write back and typed the word, snag.
His phone rang instantly, making him jump to his feet. Instinctively answering it, he closed his eyes and shook his head in defeat. He exhaled and put the device to his ear.
“Good day, Mr. Frost,” said the female voice on the other end, no longer disguised by the digitizing effect from before. The lack of security either meant she trusted him explicitly or that she no longer thought of him as a viable threat. He was leaning towards the latter of the two.
“Hello, Coaxoch.”
“You have something for me, Mr. Frost?”
He tried to come up with an indirect way of telling her that Ronin had indeed failed, but she beat him to the punch.
“Are you out of men, Mr. Frost?” Coaxoch chimed, no doubt reveling in her mental torment of the man.
Was he out of men? No, Frost thought. Out of competent men? Possibly. But he wouldn’t admit it to her either way. He was going to take care of things himself this time.
He stood, reclaiming some of his resolve and turned to walk out of his office, but was cut off by his employer's next statement.
“Don’t bother sending any more men, Mr. Frost. I will deal with them myself.”
Confused and relieved, Frost couldn’t help but ask, “How?”
“I may not be as young as I once was, but I can still do a few things on my own. You still have something to see to now, don’t you?”
Frost looked down to his feet, again visualizing the safe the pot was in. He knew what he needed to do to survive this contract.
“Yes, ma’am I do,” he replied, swallowing hard.
“Good.”
He again looked to his overnight bag and wondered if it wasn’t too late, but his mysterious employer cut off the thought.
“Where are they now?” She asked, business as usual.
Frost sat back down at his computer and pulled up the screen that showed Ronin’s locator. He refreshed the feed and relayed Boyd’s location.
“They are headed due west from
Isla de Jaina directly across the southern part of the gulf. But I’m not sure where they are headed. It could be anywhere and—”
“I know where they are going,” Coaxoch interrupted.
Frost just stared at the red locator dot, confused as to how she could know such a thing. He was about to ask her as much but she answered for him.
“If they found what I think they did,” Coaxoch explained, again laughing softly. “They will head for Teotihuacan.”
“Teotihuacan?” Frost asked, not understanding what was so funny.
She again laughed softly into his ear, like she was enjoying her own joke.
“Yes, Mr. Frost,” she said smoothly. “They are headed home.”
Teotihuacan, Mexico
The Avenue of the Dead is exactly what its name implies right now, dead. It’s completely void of life, that is, except for the four war-machines walking down its central road right this second. Us.
We pass through the long, walled entrance way, each side bordered by twelve-foot high-stepped platforms. There must have been shops or something at the top of each staircase, I think, but look down at my new armaments. The sight of them gives me a nervous smile, recalling how we got these new toys, and forgetting all about the stone walls.
But before we did in fact leave, we needed to break the news to Olivia that she wouldn’t be coming along. Let’s just say, it didn’t exactly go as planned either. She was absolutely adamant about seeing this through to the end.
“Please, Hank,” she begged. “I’m the only survivor of this expedition and I owe it to the families of the people who died here to finish this thing.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” I countered. “The end of this could be the deaths of millions more. Are you sure you want to have a front row seat to that if it happens?”
A single tear streaked down her cheek, but she looked up to me. “I’m in…to the end.”
So, with Kane’s approval, Olivia has joined us until we see this thing through.
After I finished projectile vomiting all over the tent door, we came to the conclusion that we needed to make a pit stop in Teotihuacan, just to check things out. Kane called ahead stating that we had a possible international emergency and that the Aztecan ruins were the target.
The biggest difference in this claim versus the last one we made about Chichen Itza is, that the attack in the Yucatan was all over the news and public knowledge. So requesting the site being cleared wasn’t going to be a problem. Asking that no one enters besides us, on the other hand, was met with some resistance from the Mexican authorities.
Kane simply told them that the last time civilians were present two of them had died. He then threatened to cancel the inspection and leave them to fend for themselves.
Boy did that get them moving.
Another difference in our trip to these ruins compared to the other is, that we are armed to the teeth, ready for war. Per Kane, a mysterious shipment was left for us in front of our privately funded jet.
Inside the coffin-sized container were all sorts of new toys—and by toys I, of course, mean weapons, lots, and lots of weapons.
Being the expert on all things that go BOOM, Kane picked out what he thought each of us could handle and explained what they were and how to use them.
“Hank,” he said, handing me a monster of a weapon. “This is an Atchisson Assault Shotgun, or AA-12, for short. Its drum fed and can fire up to five 12-gauge shotgun shells per second.”
“But,” he continues, not letting me comment. “We aren’t using your standard twelve-ball shell either.”
I lift an eyebrow. “What are we using then?”
“What we have here,” he says smiling. “Is your standard issue steel slug. Perfect for maximum penetration.”
Wide-eyed—and I must admit a little excited—I heft the weapon, surprised to find it lighter than it looks. It looks like a mix of your standard, run-of-the-mill assault rifle, except it has the size and girth of a shotgun. I suppose the twenty-round Tommy gun-style drum magazine attached to the weapon gives it a little flare. Adding to its badassery is its flat-black paint job.
Kane handed me a satchel with six more drums in it and smiled. “Play nice.” Honestly, I can’t help but smile back thinking, Where have you been!
He then retreated back to his weapons cache, removing a futuristic looking rifle of some kind. He handed it to Nicole, her face stoic behind a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses.
“You get a KRISS Vector CRB with forward hand grip and folding stock. Its fire selector is ambidextrous which makes it nice for lefties like yourself.” He turned, but stopped. “Oh, I also have a dozen spare twenty-five-round extended magazines for you too.” He then placed a duffle bag next to Nicole’s feet. She took the weapon and inspected it while Kane continued his explanation. “KRISS designs their weapons to force recoil downward instead of backward towards the handler. With that innovation comes almost no recoil and the barrel will not climb as you shoot. Handy feature.”
“Point and click. Got it,” she said with a grin.
Kane nodded his approval. “I can see why he likes you.” He then gave her one last look and turned to Olivia.
“Unlike her, you are a hard one to read,” he admitted, walking back to the container. “First, you want to take your shirt off, then you don’t—” Olivia tried to argue the point, but was stopped as Kane went on. “But you seem to be able to take care of yourself pretty well. Have you ever handled a weapon before?”
Shaking off the prior comment, Olivia replied, “I took some self-defense classes in college and used to go to the range a couple times a month with some friends back home.”
That made Kane smile a little.
I can see why YOU like this one, big guy, I thought to myself, inwardly laughing a little.
He then offered a smaller, sleeker weapon to Olivia. She took the pistol-sized gun, an uncomfortable look forming on her face.
“Olivia,” he said, getting her full attention. “This is a Swiss-made, Brugger and Thomet MP9.” He regarded her in a calm, smooth voice, noticing her nervousness at handling the machine pistol. “It’s lighter and more compact compared to the weapons I gave Hank and Nicole but is perfect for someone with a basic knowledge of firearms. The forward grip will help you control direction. You’ll be fine.”
Then, Kane reached out and placed one of his big, meaty hands on her shoulder, easing some of her tension.
“Hey.”
She looked back up to him, forgetting about the weapon.
“You’ll be fine, I promise.”
The sincerity in his voice must have done something to Olivia’s nerves, because once he placed his hand on her shoulder, you could instantly see her relax. Her posture even straightened some.
Snapping back into the now, I look over to the geneticist as we continue along the avenue. She has the same resolve I saw in the tomb when she accepted Weaver’s death and forced herself to move on. She’s been nothing short of impressive during this time of mayhem.
We enter the Plaza of the Moon, guns up, ready for anything and stop. At its rear, directly in front of the Great Goddess’ pyramid, stands a cloaked figure.
We cautiously approach, well aware of the order to vacate the park. Whoever this is shouldn’t be here.
As we continue forward, making no attempt at masking our approach, our uninvited guest doesn’t react. The person doesn’t even flinch. This…whoever it is…either doesn’t hear us coming or just plainly doesn’t care that we are here.
Then as we reach the halfway point the person turns, throwing off their robes, revealing themselves to us for the first time.
And boy is it weird.
First off, it’s a she. This woman, and I use that term loosely, is covered from neck to foot in tattoos, and oh, by the way, she’s completely naked. The longer I stare—at the ink, not her body—the more the design comes into definition. She’s colorfully adorned herself in a kaleidoscope of
some sort of pigmented reptile scales. The design runs up the back of her neck, following her spine. It then wraps itself up and over her ears, continuing around her temples, finally meeting across her forehead.
Her hair is a tangle of dark brown with blonde highlights and what looks like some sort of crown built of serpent tails. The crown is made of a jet-black stone of some kind. Kinda’ looks like obsidian, I think, recalling the frozen bonfire that made up Nannot’s prison in the lower cave of the Atlantean necropolis.
But her eyes are what catch me off guard the most, and by the looks on my friend’s faces, they see it too.
The snake woman's eyes are swirling with gold, like mine. An identical match.
“Why hello there. My name is Coaxoch, Queen of Teotihuacan…” She says, narrowing her gaze at me. She burrows those churning eyes into my soul and smiles, revealing a row of fangs. “…and once upon a time, wife…to Nannot.”
26
Teotihuacan, Mexico
“Her name, it means flower serpent,” Todd says over our ear pieces, seeing and hearing as we do, “and apparently, she’s taken that literally.”
“No shit,” Kane murmurs under his breath. “I can see that.”
But I don’t hear either of them, I’m frozen like a statue, unable to move. Wife to Nannot? He had a wife?
I don’t know what to say except, “How?”
She looks back to me and smiles almost lustfully, obviously enjoying herself.
“How what?” She asks, taking a step towards us. “How am I still alive? How was a Priest of An’tala married and no one knew about it?”
I just nod, not being able to articulate a question.
“Well then,” she starts, taking two more strides towards us, towards the plaza’s altar.
“Me being alive is simple,” she says. “My husband granted me immortality the night before he was betrayed, along with a few other…gifts.” She says the last part with clear amusement. “It was an ability even Thoth himself didn’t know he possessed.”
Mayan Darkness (A Hank Boyd Adventure Book 2) (The Hank Boyd Adventures) Page 13