Passage Graves

by Madyson Rush

  Javan peered down at Ian excitedly. Sweat and dirt had formed a layer of gray paste on his neck. “Ian, look at this.”

  Dettorio climbed over the ledge and lifted Ian onto the plateau.

  The view was stunning, an acropolis illuminated by starlight. Walkways of compact sand and uneven stone blocks led to five towering temples. Javan pointed at the largest temple, a step stone pyramid of gray slabs, which stood nearly two-hundred feet high at the center of the ruin.

  “El Castillo,” Javan said. “There are ninety-one steps on each side, and one last step onto the platform at the top. That’s 365 steps in its entirety, one solar year. Maya is a remarkable culture, so precise.”

  He pointed at the foot of the northern balustrade where the face of a snake was carved into the stone. “On the summer and autumn equinoxes, the sun casts triangular shadows off each step, and it looks like a fiery feathered serpent is descending the pyramid.”

  Across the plaza were hundreds of collapsed pillars and bricks from walls. Javan grabbed Ian’s sleeve and pulled him north. “We haven’t come all this way to see Kulkulcan’s pyramids.”

  They stopped at the edge of the ruins. A short hedge marked the perimeter. Just beyond the short stone wall a raised path of limestone stucco disappeared into jungle.

  Javan gestured for the guides to lead.

  “Bolontiku,” one man whispered. His voice quavered. He wouldn’t move.

  Dettorio shoved them forward. One man spun away, dropping his light.

  “Fine, get out of here.” Javan snatched up their lanterns. He stepped onto the walkway, holding a light in each hand.

  Ian hobbled behind him. The bumpy path ran north to south. Copal trees draped over them, their elliptic leaflets hiding the view of the Castillo the farther they traveled away from the acropolis. After ten minutes of walking, the path ended on a wide stone platform that protruded out over a massive pit. Nearly one-hundred feet down and the size of a football stadium, the Mayan cenoté was filled with murky green water that stunk of decay. Even from a distance, Ian could tell the sand walls were impossible to climb. When the sacrificial pit had been excavated in the early 1900s, human bones of all sizes had been recovered from the mud.

  Javan raised an eyebrow. “How about it, Ian? You feel like a swim?”

  He placed the lanterns on the rock hedge, leaned over the waist-high barrier, and tossed a flashlight into the pit. The light hit the water with a tiny splash, disappeared, and then floated to the surface. It flickered below, casting a murky haze across the pool and making visible the sludge growing on top of the water.

  Ian stepped away from the ledge.

  Javan laughed. “Did you really think I’d make you jump?” He pulled the stone ring from its box. It was still attached to David’s chain. “Dettorio, I need the rope.”

  Dettorio set his pack on the ground.

  Ian tightened his grip on the obsidian stone. He slammed it against Dettorio’s forehead.

  Dettorio toppled onto the path. Blood coursed down his face.

  Ian pushed Javan against the hedge and pulled the gun from his holster. He pressed the weapon against Javan’s head and pinched the trigger.

  To his surprise, Javan was laughing.

  Dettorio stood, holding his head. There was a large gash over one eye. Brushing blood off his eyes, he pulled his gun from the backpack and aimed at Ian.

  “Drop it!” Ian yelled.

  “Go ahead,” Javan taunted.

  Ian pointed the gun at Dettorio instead. “Put it down!”

  “Dettorio is expendable, Ian,” Javan said. “Meaningless.”

  It was like the Chancellor was walking him through this. “Shut up!” Ian’s voice cracked. His words sounded more like a plea.

  “Go ahead! Shoot him!”

  Ian fought back tears of frustration. Every muscle was tense, but he could not pull the trigger. Trembling, he moved the gun back to Javan’s head. “Who killed my father?”

  “You ask all the wrong questions.” Javan clicked his tongue.

  A bruise had already formed on Javan’s temple where Ian pressed the barrel of the gun.

  “I’m offering you unimaginable power,” Javan said. “There are forces far more evil than me on this earth, and the seals must be protected. Brenton knew that. He was murdered trying to protect you.”

  Ian’s mind circled around the narrow platform. The ground dropped out from under his feet. He bit open his lip.

  “Just do one thing for me. Go to the edge of the platform and look over—not at the water, but at the Holy of Holies.”

  “The Holy of Holies?” The world stopped spinning.

  Ian pulled Javan across the platform. He looked down into the pit.

  “Below us is another precipice, an outcropping of yellow rock. Do you see it?”

  Halfway between the platform and the bottom of the pit, a narrow finger of rock protruded outward from the wall. Ian squinted, noticing the tip of the ledge.

  “It’s just like the Rabbi said, all you have to do is place the ring on the altar,” Javan insisted. “I will take care of your father’s killer, Ian. I will give you justice.”

  Ian’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Let me help you.”

  Ian looked at Dettorio. “I keep the gun. He gets rid of his gun and goes down before me.”

  Javan nodded in compliance.

  Dettorio threw his gun into the brush. He pulled the rope and a harness from his pack. He pulled on the harness, attached one end of the rope to the base of the platform, and connected the rope to a karabiner at his waist. In a matter of seconds, he dropped over the precipice and rappelled to the base of the pit.

  “Give me your gloves.” Ian pulled the ring on the chain over his neck and tucked the gun into his belt.

  Javan obliged, and Ian pulled the gloves over his hands. He found another harness and tightened it around his waist. He clipped his karabiner to the rope and slowly climbed over the stone barrier. Taking in a deep breath, he emptied his mind, replacing his thoughts with a single goal. Place the ring on the altar.

  Before Ian had descended below the hedge, his arms were already burning. He slid down the line, foot by foot. His gloves clawed at the nylon rope as he tried to control his downward speed. It was hard not to go quickly. Too much momentum and he wouldn’t be able to stop. A rush of adrenaline sustained him. Reaching the crook of rock, he steadied himself and lifted the ring off his neck. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Strapped tightly in the harness, they had gone numb. He reached, his hand trembling, and placed the ring against the ledge.

  Javan leaned over the ledge. “Put the ring on the altar!”

  “I did!” Ian’s arms shook. He wouldn’t be able to maintain this position much longer.

  This was the Holy of Holies? What was supposed to happen?

  He couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He slid the ring across the granite, searching for some magical position, something that would make the Holy of Holies activate or come alive.

  With an exasperated gasp, he yelled up at Javan. “It didn’t work!”

  A sudden wind swept across Chichén Itzà. Rushing from the ruins, it burst over the precipice above and circled inside the cavity. Ian let go of the ring. It settled on his chest. He grabbed the rope with both hands as the noise gained momentum. Displaced whispers, like echoes from the pyramids, reverberated off the walls. The sacrificial pit generated cascading sound upon cascading sound. In the dimness, he could see air fluctuating and moving like a heat wave. Atoms surrounding him split into chaos.

  Above, Ian could see Javan turn and face the ruins, his back to the ledge. He was looking at something, watching something approach. He shrank away from the platform, out of view.

  Gunshots rang out, cast into the sky and finding no target.

  Javan appeared again with Dettorio’s gun. His good ear was bleeding, his eyes large and frantic. “Climb Ian!”

  Ian looked down at Dettorio. Their eyes met. More gu
nshots were swallowed up inside the noise.

  They raced up the line. Ian’s thin biceps burned as he pulled himself upward, arm over arm, inch by inch. Dettorio reached Ian’s feet and started to climb over him. Their weight split the nylon and the rope began to fray, unraveling at the top ledge. They were close to the bottom of the platform.

  Javan shouted over the base of the platform, blood gushing from his ear. His words were lost in the commotion. The sky was charged static discord. Everywhere Ian looked, noise was physically visible.

  The nylon split again, pinning Javan’s hand against the ledge. He screamed as the rope severed his fingers.

  As the rope untangled, Ian grabbed the base of the platform. His hands found holds within the rock. He fought to unclip the karabiner.

  The rope snapped. Dettorio plummeted into the well. His body hit the water with a terrible crash. He surfaced, choking and hacking, trying to yell for help over the noise. His face was pure confusion. The monster of a man was drowning as he tried to swim to the wall. Ian couldn’t hear him, but he saw the sense of panic on Dettorio’s face.

  Clinging to the ledge, Ian struggled to inch upward. His muscles were locked in spasm, his legs still numb. There could be no mind over matter. He simply did not have the energy to climb. He lowered his head against the cliff and stared down at the water.

  Javan reappeared at the ledge, cradling his wounded hand. He grabbed Ian’s arm and pulled him up.

  Ian rested his stomach on the rock hedge. He was safe.

  With a ravaged stump of a hand, Javan tore the ring from Ian’s neck. He stumbled backwards and looked up at Ian. In his other hand was Dettorio’s gun, aimed at Ian’s head.

  “You’re not the Chosen One!” Javan squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 81

  MONDAY, 12:34 a.m.

  Orkney Island, Scotland

  David rested his head against the helicopter window. He searched the fog for familiar landmarks, but the haze was too thick to see much of anything. The world felt strangely out of focus. The earth had stopped its perpetual motion to prepare for the end. The atmosphere smothered the ground in a cloud of hopelessness. Thick, numinous clouds gathered on rolling grasses. A wet chill radiated from the window as water droplets slid diagonally across the glass.

  The chopper dropped in altitude and touched down at Stenness Basecamp. Maeshowe was barely visible through the fog.

  This was it, the grand finale.

  He was forced outside onto the soggy ground. The men were government officials of some kind, although he didn’t recognize their uniforms. Some British Military special operations force. He paused for a moment to take in the landscape. Stenness was reduced to No Man’s Land. It looked worse than he’d pictured from Thatcher’s description, completely obliterated humanity, the wreckage of military haste, hell on earth. There was nothing recognizable.

  They went directly to an elevator shaft. Without a word, the men clipped a harness to David’s waist and belayed him down the vertical tunnel. Steel girders lined the corners of the shaft. The metal was twisted and fractured in places, but mostly intact. Below, pieces of the destroyed boxcar were strewn across the floor.

  Morning light shrank as it became more and more distant. It was merely a rectangular glow by the time he lowered into basecamp. His feet met the floor, and a man stepped forward and unclipped the harness.

  Opaque walls separated the corridor from what David guessed was the morgue. Thatcher said the Stenness dead were still down there. He could see the shadowy outline of body bags lining the wall. Marta, Darwin, and many others, would be buried in this tomb. The smell of death permeated the walls.

  The hulking silhouette of Hummer appeared down the walkway. The width of the man’s shoulders filled the narrow corridor. As he passed below the blue halogen lights, David could see how apt Thatcher’s descriptions were—the man was an imposing presence in any space. Undeniably, Hummer seemed entirely capable of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and without flinching.

  The militiaman handed Hummer the seal.

  Hummer clenched his jaw. He met David with a toxic stare.

  David’s handcuffs were secured. The man disappeared down the corridor as Hummer led David into the helm. Shrapnel cement and rebar obstructed most of the floor. Broken computers, cracked sound equipment, boxes of explosives—everything was in piles against the splitting walls. The place was ready to crumble. He and Hummer were the last remaining occupants.

  They stopped beside a door a short distance from the living quarters. The door was made of metal composite very different from the rest of basecamp, something from the original structure. The underground mine didn’t look anything like the place he had stayed in during his quarantine.

  Hummer unlocked the door and shoved David inside.

  David landed on his knees. The floor was damp. Muddy cement soaked into his pants. It smelled like earthworms and the bodies he’d passed on the way inside. The door slammed shut and he was left in the dark.

  He felt around the room with his hands. It was nothing more than a large closet. He could reach the ceiling with his fingertips.

  The floor chilled his bones.

  For the first time, the end suddenly felt real.

  Would Hummer leave him here to die?

  He closed his eyes. All he could see was the look on Thatcher’s face as the flood swept over her.

  Chapter 82

  Air bubbled from his mouth and nose. He tried to scream but water flooded his throat. There was no up or down. Just water. Murky darkness. He could barely see his hands in front of his face. He flailed his arms, expelling the last amount of air from his lungs. The bubbles percolated upward and broke through the surface. He followed them, gasping and spitting. How long had he been submerged?

  He found the surface. The water was free of debris, anything large enough to keep him afloat. Walls of chalky stone towered overhead on every side. The world was silent. Eerily quiet. That horrible sound had ended. Even the chirping frogs and buzzing crickets had stopped. Above, all he could see were millions of stars. The pin holes of light were more than a trillion miles away. The universe was holding its breath, waiting for him to die.

  He swam for the rock wall, his lungs burning. There was a foul taste in his mouth from swallowing too much water—if it could be called water. He felt sludge on his head and realized it was blood. He wiped it away from his eyes and felt the back of his skull. His head was wet and cold. There was no pain. Above his right temple was a gash deep enough to reveal bone. Firing at point blank range, Javan had grazed him. The laceration wasn’t fatal.

  But the pit was.

  Now death was less of a matter of how and more a matter of when.

  Ian swam to the wall and felt along the surface. There were only a few small divots and cavities, no hanging vines where he could rest his body. His fingers scraped rock. Sand fragmented and crumbled into the water. There was no leverage.

  His next impulse was to scream. But who would hear him so many miles from civilization?

  The ruins would be filled with tourists in the morning. They would find his body floating on the surface of the sacrificial well.

  He kicked his legs to keep adrift. The cold water was stiffening his joints. Soon his muscles would fail.

  The flashlight Javan had tossed into the pit floated just out of reach, its light dim. He swam to it and pulled it back with him to the rock. His heart stopped as he held the beam toward the wall. There were gouges from fingernails cut into the sandy surface, perhaps centuries old, some more than a half-inch deep. Flesh must have been torn from bone. He slammed the end of the flashlight into the cliff. Blow after blow, sand just crumbled into the water. He couldn’t make a dent.

  Time passed. Apathetic and unhurried.

  It was a good hour before the flashlight burned out.

  After that, everything went dark. His legs became lethargic, slowing their kick. It was too hard to stay above the surface. His body star
ted to feel illusively warm. These were the first signs of hypothermia. He was fully aware of this. Nonetheless, the counterfeit heat dimmed his thoughts with unusual comfort, almost with acceptance. He closed his eyes. His head dipped under water.

  He awoke, hacking and gagging. The water was putrid, acidic and dense.

  Flipping onto his back, he gave another effort to float and conserve energy. If he could hold out until morning, people would come. They would see him.

  Pond water ignited the submerged gunshot wound, sending a lightning rod of pain down his spine until he swam upright.

  Ancient legend said that gods had saved some from the pit.

  How had the others escaped? The Chosen Ones. There must be some trick.

  There must be some way out.

  He forced himself to follow the perimeter of the pit again. The hole was a perfect deathtrap. Certainly, his watery tomb. On his third trip around, his fingers were too numb to feel the walls. He succumbed to the sensation and looked up at the stars.

  This was not how he was supposed to die.

  Muscles hardened to rock. Joints stiffened like boards. His body slipped under the surface. Liquid death rushed over him. There was no fear this time. He was numb, and his feet weighted, tied down with sand bags of indifference. He sank and let the Mayans claim him, mind, body, and soul.

  Chapter 83

  MONDAY, 1:00 a.m.

  Stenness Basecamp

  Orkney Island, Scotland

  Hummer sat alone in the basecamp lab—or what was left of it. He stared at the countdown clock. It registered 4 hours, 0 minutes, 0 seconds, and 0 milliseconds remaining before AVX annihilation.

  Javan’s voice sounded over the comlink, cutting through the static. “Abort the operation! I’m returning to Britain. We’ve miscalculated.”

  Hummer lifted his arm radio to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “Ian wasn’t the Firstborn Chosen.”

  Hummer looked over at David’s cell door.

  “Brenton has taken me on a goddamn wild goose chase!” He was furious. “David has to be the Firstborn Chosen.”