EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Three Eye’s work-thickened brown fingers had been resting on the vine-braided rope a long time by then. Through it he could feel the river’s pulse, the steady thump, thump, thump of its watery heart, and the occasional tug as something small struck the netting, found its way through the oversize holes, and continued downstream.

  Some of the things might be edible. If they were, a second net with a much tighter weave was waiting downstream. The donada (lay sister) had responsibility for that one, and she was welcome to it. The river was cold, and she would be in and out of it at least ten times during the night. Three Eye’s job was to nab the larger items, a considerable number of which were tossed, dropped, or jettisoned into the river. Mostly by the aliens but by slaves as well.

  Just during the last couple of weeks Three Eye had snagged a well-sealed first-aid kit marked as the property of the “Navy de Mexico,” some soggy MREs from the United States, and, best of all, a semiconscious Fon who had been slaughtered, roasted, and consumed with great gusto. So, when the rope jumped and pulled suddenly tight, the sobreviviente knew it was a catch of some magnitude.

  The river was too wide to stretch the homemade net all the way across—plus it would have been difficult if not impossible to pull back in. That’s why the netting had been stretched over a tubular framework. One end had been anchored near the riverbank while the other was allowed to swing out into the current.

  Now, with something in the trap, all Three Eye had to do was pull on the anchor rope. It ran back into the jungle, through a tree-anchored block, and out to the net. It was hard work, but thanks to the leverage provided by the pulley, a single man could haul the trap in. The net resisted at first, as if determined to defy him, but gradually surrendered.

  Meanwhile, with the river pushing her against the net, Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones struggled to free herself. But, just as her fingers found the aluminum frame, the entire structure swung inward, the current dropped away, and the anthropologist was swept into the shallows. Then, while the woman still floundered about, a light hit her in the eyes and a voice said, “You’re alive.” It sounded just a little disappointed.

  “Yes,” Jones replied, trying to see past the glare. “Just barely. I escaped from the slave camp.”

  “Me too,” the voice replied as the man placed the light down under his chin. “They shot me,” Three Eye said proudly, “but the dart was fired from a long ways off. It drilled a hole through my skull but didn’t touch my brain.”

  Jones wasn’t so sure about that but managed to nod agreeably. “You were very fortunate.”

  “As were you,” Three Eye responded agreeably. “Welcome to the sobrevivientes.”

  “Gracias,” Jones replied cautiously. “What do the sobrevivientes do?”

  “We survive,” Three Eye replied. “Isn’t that enough? Come, the sun is about to rise, and we must return to the agujero. The aliens avoid the jungle, but there’s no reason to tempt them.”

  Having nothing better to do with herself, and sensing that her companion was harmless if somewhat eccentric, Jones allowed him to lead her into the jungle’s humid embrace. After passing through more than a mile of wet triple-canopy forest, the trail started upward, passing through a labyrinth of rocks and crossing a swiftly flowing stream. But, rather than follow the trail, Three Eye turned to the left and waded upstream. From that point the twosome followed the stair-stepped watercourse upward to the point where it emerged from what looked like solid rock. It was light by then, and Three Eye pointed down at the point where the water issued from the side of the mountain. “You must duck under the ledge, push with your toes, and stand. There’s plenty of air on the other side.”

  The academic checked the man’s expression to see if he was serious, decided he was, and waded forward. Then, waist deep in the pool that marked the spot where the stream emerged into the open, Jones ran out of courage. After all she had been through, after all she had survived, another leap of faith was simply too much to take. That’s when Jones heard the whine of a Sauron shuttle, knew the aircraft was close, and took the plunge. The water was cold, her toes dug at the gravel, and darkness closed all around.

  Then, using her hands to feel for obstacles, the anthropologist pulled and pushed. Her eyes saw light, her head broke the surface of the water, and the ceiling of a cavern arched above. There were holes through which daylight streamed, and just as Jones found a purchase with her feet, she saw a pair of bats swoop into the cave. The night was over, their bellies were full, and it was time to sleep.

  Rainwater, still percolating down through the rock above, plopped into the pool around her. Opposite Jones, at the top of a steeply sloping gravel beach, an encampment could be seen. A roof made from leaves had been erected to protect the inhabitants from the interior “rain,” and from the bat guano that fell from above. That was the moment when the academic realized that the encampment had been used before, that here, hidden right under her nose, were Mayan ruins. She could see blocks of stone, carvings, and there, over to the right, a guano-obscured statue!

  Then, as Jones waded forward, she saw that all manner of boxes, baskets, and net bags had been stacked, placed, and in many cases hung under the thatched roof. None was larger than the underwater hole through which she had passed. A tendril of steam issued from the recently doused fire, and a group of clean if somewhat ragged-looking adult humans watched her approach, while three round-eyed children clung to their mothers’ skirts.

  That was when Three Eye surfaced in noisy fashion, waved at the people on the beach, and waded toward shore. “Come on! Meet the rest of the family! Then, once you are comfortable, we will look out the window.”

  Jones wondered what the man was referring to but never got the chance to ask as the sobrevivientes crowded in around her. They wanted to hear her story, pump her for news of their relatives, and brag about the agujero’s various amenities.

  It was only then, after Jones had heard them out, that Three Eye showed her what everyone referred to as the ventana or “window.” It consisted of a three-foot-long horizontal hole in the cavern’s east wall. A platform had been erected below the opening so that the sobrevivientes could stand and look out.

  Jones followed Three Eye up a short ladder and out onto the walkway. Bright sunlight spilled into the cavern, moisture-laden air hugged her shoulders, and the sobreviviente raised a cautionary hand. With the exception of the half-healed wound in his forehead, Three Eye was a good-looking if somewhat solemn man. His eyes were dark and intense. “There are rules where the ventana is concerned. You must never wear things that could reflect light, make sudden moves, or disturb the vegetation.”

  Jones nodded, stepped forward, and looked out through the window. Some naturally growing vines and plants helped screen the opening, but there were plenty of gaps. That was the moment when the anthropologist had her first overall look at the alien complex. Thanks to what looked like battlements, and the still dry moat, the temple had a castlelike aspect. To see it there, washed with the early-morning light, was a surprise. But so was how she felt. Much to her own amazement the anthropologist experienced a moment of fierce pride, not only for what she and the rest of the slaves had managed to endure, but for what they had accomplished as well.

  More than that Jones found herself thinking about Blackley, about the manner in which she had betrayed him, and felt a sudden sense of sorrow. Tears fell, the citadel shimmered, and the work continued.

  HELL HILL

  José Amocar was running from something he couldn’t see but was deathly afraid of. There were people, lots of people, and they formed a passageway through which he was forced to pass. They pointed at him, made comments about the way he looked, and laughed.

  The agent glanced back over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see. The monster was invisible. Amocar could hear it, however—and ran even faster. Anything to escape the wheezing sound of its carrion-tainted breath and the steady slap, slap, slap of its enormous feet . . .

  Amocar awoke
with a jerk. The .9mm was in his hand. Blood pounded in his head, his body felt cold, and his body shook as if possessed by a fever.

  The agent managed to sit up, placed his back against a cold metal wall, and examined his surroundings. The cube, one of thousands made suddenly available when the majority of the slaves were marched away, was part of the stack called Flat Top. The light, such as it was, issued from a ceiling-hung battery-powered lamp.

  Judging from all the stuff lying around, it appeared as though the previous occupants had been caught by surprise and forced to leave their belongings behind. Then, as sure as night follows day, those who remained looted the place.

  Amazingly enough the woman was still alive. She made a noise, or tried to, but the ball gag made that impossible. Amocar had forced the rubber sphere between her jaws and employed a blue bandanna to tie it in place. Her eyes beseeched him, begging Amocar to show her some mercy, but he had seen such looks before and found them easy to ignore.

  The woman had been pretty once . . . but not anymore. Hak-Bin had given the female to Amocar as a reward . . . to be enjoyed in whatever way he saw fit. She hung where he had left her, naked except for the tatters of the clothes he had cut away from her body, spread-eagled so that every aspect of her anatomy was exposed. Her hair was matted, her face was bruised, and her hands were blue from loss of circulation. Whip marks crisscrossed her body, her nipples had been removed, and a combination of dried blood, sperm, and urine coated the inside surface of her thighs. The place stank, something Amocar hadn’t noticed before, but suddenly found repugnant.

  The agent fought a headache as he struggled to his feet. What time was it anyway? Amocar looked at his watch, swore, and stumbled toward the door. Jack-shit Manning was off on some stupid mission or other, which meant he would have to fill in. Not a problem if it weren’t for Mr. “this is how we did it in the army” Kell, who would not only watch every move Amocar made, but rat him out the moment the opportunity presented itself. Amocar had his hand on the hatch, and was about to push it open, when he remembered the woman. There was no law enforcement, none at all, but it would be stupid to leave the bitch alive.

  The agent turned, drew the hunting knife from its sheath, and returned to his victim. He showed her the blade, saw the fear in her eyes, and laughed. Slowly, so she could have time to think about it, he brought the point down onto the base of her throat.

  The woman shivered and tried to pull back.

  The knife tip left a thin crimson line as Amocar drew it down over her chest, between her bloodied breasts, and down onto the hard flat plane of her stomach.

  Then, with a sharp jab, he opened her up. A length of intestine slithered out, Amocar saw the shock of it hit her eyes, and jerked the knife free.

  Amocar had an erection by then, but time was short, so he wiped the blade on what remained of her blouse and left the cube. It fronted on one of the many terraces that stair-stepped their way up the stack’s flat top. The agent grimaced as the early-morning light hit his eyes, took a quick look around, and hurried off.

  Laundry flapped in the wind, a dog barked somewhere nearby, and the tang of woodsmoke hung in the air. The stack seemed unusually quiet, however . . . like a ghost town dozing in the sun. Ji-Hoon, who had been led to the location by one of the street urchins now in her employ, arrived in time to see the other agent depart. A glance at her watch was sufficient to tell her why. El Segundo was supposed to be on duty.

  Curious as to what Amocar had been up, to Ji-Hoon slipped her latest ten-year-old operative a pack of gum, cautioned the boy to stay well back, and told him to follow the agent home. Then, confident that she knew where Amocar would be for the next twelve hours or so, Ji-Hoon ducked under a clothesline, nodded to a dull-eyed woman, and approached the cube. Hinges groaned as the wind sought to move the hatch, flies buzzed as if eager to enter, and the smell explained why.

  The .9mm filled Ji-Hoon’s hand as she pushed her way into the barely lit murk. That’s when she saw the woman, the blue-black intestines that dangled from her abdomen, and battled the rising nausea. “You bastard,” she whispered hoarsely. “You filthy rotten bastard.”

  Maybe it was the sound of Ji-Hoon’s voice, or perhaps it was the pain, but whatever the reason the woman groaned.

  The ex-FBI agent had assumed that the woman was dead and gave an involuntary start. Her first thought was to call 911—but that was no longer possible. Even Dr. Sool was gone.

  Ji-Hoon returned the weapon to its holster and forced herself to step in closer. The ceiling-hung lantern provided barely enough light to see by. The agent felt nauseous as she released the gag, pried the saliva-covered ball out of the woman’s mouth, and threw it away. The words were so faint they could barely be heard. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll cut you down,” Ji-Hoon said, “and go for help.”

  “No!” the woman croaked emphatically, “in the name of God no. You have a gun—I saw it. Please shoot me.”

  Ji-Hoon looked into the woman’s eyes, saw the pain there, and knew she was correct. There was little to nothing that anyone could do for her. “Are you sure?”

  The woman managed to nod. “The man who did this . . . will you get him?”

  “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” Ji-Hoon answered grimly. “You have my word on it.”

  “Good,” the woman said. “I’m ready.”

  Outside, beyond the confines of the metal walls, the shot made a dull thump. Startled by the noise, a bird fluttered into the air. It circled the stack—and flew away.

  NEAR MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON

  The field was flat, open, and right next to the freeway. Just the sort of spot the Saurons liked best. In spite of the gradually warming weather, it was cold at night. That’s why the slaves had built more than a dozen large bonfires, all fueled by siding torn from the same barn.

  Deac Smith and his fellow reenactors knew that multiple small fires would actually be more useful where heat and cooking were concerned, but were pleased with the large infernos nonetheless. Focused as they were on preventing escapes, and with no external threats to bother them, the Kan had a tendency to look in at the bonfires. Maybe the light would screw with their night vision, and maybe it wouldn’t. All a guy could do was hope. He turned to the man at his side. Both lay on their bellies about fifty yards beyond the alien perimeter. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  Manning, who had ridden a horse for the first time in his life, and walked for another ten miles after that, hurt in places he never had before. “Absolutely . . . I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Then you’re just as crazy as I thought you were,” Smith replied. “Remember, one hour, that’s all we have.”

  Manning grinned. A camo stick had been used to darken his face, but his teeth gleamed white. “So, what are we waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

  Smith chuckled, whispered, “Follow me,” and low-crawled in the direction of the encampment. The security chief followed. There were other resistance fighters, roughly thirty of them, hidden out in the darkness. They would provide fire support if that became necessary—but Smith hoped it wouldn’t. The whole point of the exercise was to access conditions within the encampment. An attack, if any, would come later.

  Careful to keep his head down, the resistance leader followed the edge of an overgrown irrigation ditch in toward the fires. A good way to sneak past humans, but the Kan weren’t human. Rather than walk one section of the perimeter the way a human sentry would, the Saurons jumped from point to point, rarely landing on the same spot twice. That made the aliens unpredictable, which was to say dangerous, which was to say scary. Now, as the two men approached the Kan perimeter, Smith paused. Manning, elbowing his way along behind, had little choice but to do likewise.

  A gentle breeze sprang up, caused the bonfires to shiver, and blew smoke to the northeast. Smith watched the nearest bug complete a jump, pause to take a look around, and bounce into the air.

  Moving quickly in hopes of getting t
o the next way point before the Kan returned, the ex-Ranger left the protection of the irrigation ditch and squirmed into the open. The earth was relatively soft and gave under his elbows.

  Then, with relative safety still a good fifty feet ahead, Smith was forced to pause. The Kan with responsibility for that sector had arrived at the edge of another warrior’s turf. He landed, turned, and went airborne again.

  Smith knew that if he could see the bug, then the bug could see him, especially if he moved. That’s why he froze into immobility, hoped Manning would do the same, and felt his heart pound in his chest.

  The Kan, an individual named Wob-Ree bounced, and took off again. Like his peers the warrior had been trained to survey the surrounding area from the apex of his jump, not from the ground. The fires, which naturally drew his attention, fell away. Then, from a perspective some twenty-five feet up in the air, Wob-Ree eyed the ground below.

  Smith watched the alien rise, ran a quick calculation regarding the bug’s likely trajectory, and gritted his teeth. Now, based on the way things appeared, and contrary to established patterns, it looked as if the godless spawn of the devil was about to land where he had the last time! Right on top of them! All they could do was wait.

  Wob-Ree felt gravity kick in, watched the fires rise, felt his feet hit the ground. His knees flexed to absorb the shock, the Kan scanned the darkness off to his right, but saw nothing. Feral slaves lived out in the woods, everyone knew that, so it was best to be careful.