The 6th Plague

by Darren Hale

  ******

  ‘We’ve christened this site one… the central pyramid…’ said the professor, pointing to a shambles of rock and undergrowth that, to Catherine’s eyes, looked like anything but a pyramid (other than its scale). It was huge.

  ‘How old is it?’ she asked, giving the mound a disparaging eye, while wondering how it could have caused such excitement.

  ‘That my dear is a good question… And one that I’m hoping young Rufus might help me with.’

  ‘It is?’ said Rufus, a little bemused.

  ‘Yes – it is,’ the professor affirmed. ‘If you’d like to come with me…’

  Waving for them to follow, he led them around the side of the mound, to a place where two large slabs of rock lay hidden amongst the weeds. Each one measured some six feet in length and was shaped like an oversized tombstone, to which layers of moss and lichen had adhered.

  Rufus crouched down next to the first of them and picked at the scabrous growths with his fingernail, revealing symbols worn to the point of extinction. ‘Sweet mother of God,’ he exclaimed, in an accent heavy with the lilting tones of his ancestry.

  ‘What is it?’ Catherine enquired.

  ‘It’s a stela. The ancient Maya used tablets like these to record important events in their history and to honour ancient dignitaries. Except this isn’t Mayan…’ he said thoughtfully.

  The professor’s grin disappeared from his face in an instant. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There are lots of similarities,’ Rufus explained, ‘but I don’t recognise these glyphs.’

  ‘But you can decipher them?’

  Rufus shrugged. ‘Maybe – with a bit of time. But I’ll need more examples for comparison.’

  The professor chewed on his pipe but said nothing.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Catherine enquired.

  ‘The professor was hoping, I think, that these stelae might have given us some indication as to the age of this site,’ Rufus explained. ‘The Mayans were exceptional timekeepers and used a calendar that would put our modern-day efforts to shame. He picked away more of the rust-coloured lichen. ‘I don’t know Professor… Some of these symbols might be numbers… They bear some similarities to ancient Mayan scripts, but I can’t be sure. Not without a more thorough examination.’ He stood back up. ‘There is, however, a bright side…’

  ‘There is?’ said the professor, his interest piqued.

  ‘If this isn’t in fact Mayan… It’s something else entirely,’ said Rufus with a smile. ‘So, who knows… You might have discovered something entirely new…’

  Animated once more, the professor ushered them along a path that would have been almost indiscernible, if not for the hop-scotch pattern of flattened rocks that had alluded to the fact this might once have been a more formal right of way. ‘We believe this to be the remains of an ancient causeway,’ he explained. ‘Having recognised the significance of the pyramid I’ve just shown you, we figured there must have been something of equal importance at the other end. So we cut our way through the jungle to see where it would lead us.’

  ‘And I’m assuming you found something?’

  ‘You will see…’ he promised. ‘Although, I’m afraid you will have to endure a short hike through the jungle first.’

  They walked in silence. The heat made everything a chore despite the early hour, and the clouds of flies were relentless, despite their efforts to keep them at bay.

  ‘Welcome to the central plaza…’ said the professor finally, waving his arm around a man-made clearing of more considerable size than the one they’d left behind. ‘So far, we’ve uncovered very little… But whatever this place is, we know it held great significance to the people who lived here… And I’m hoping – now that we have a few more willing hands to help us –

  that we might finally get to expose some of its secrets,’ he said, referencing a tiered platform of rubble that was, in Catherine’s eyes, rather more impressive (though no more glamorous), than the “pyramid” he’d shown them earlier.

  ‘You must have found some clues?’ said Marina, looking upon the scene with awe.

  ‘Not many,’ the professor admitted. ‘One of our workers recovered a few pieces of a jade necklace and a carved stingray spine, from a chamber near the top – before the ceiling threatened to cave in on him. But that’s all. Nevertheless, the few finds we have made, would suggest this might have been a place of worship.’

  ‘A carved stingray spine? What – like a tunic pin or something,’ Catherine speculated.

  The professor chuckled. ‘No... no… my dear. This was a ritual blood-letting device. They used them to pierce certain parts of the body – including the penis…’ he said, apparently delighting in the fact, though he’d clearly failed to get any rise out of her. She’d seen far worse in her career.

  12

  Monday 18th September:

  The de Havilland Canada DHC-3 Otter lurched violently, buffeted by unseen gusts of wind as it crossed the treeline on its final approach to an airfield surreptitiously carved from the heart of the jungle.

  The pilot compensated expertly, bleeding power from the six-hundred horsepower Pratt and Whitney radial engines, as he lowered the aircraft towards the ground. His breathing was shallow; short gasps drawn through clenched teeth as he concentrated on the job in hand.

  Applying a little gentle pressure to the stick, he raised the nose a few degrees, flaring the wings in a desperate bid to shed speed.

  An alarm hooted, warning him of an imminent stall, just moments before the wheels struck the ground with a bone-jarring force that threatened to send the little plane skyward once more.

  He applied the brakes.

  Gently at first…

  And then with more force…

  The trees were approaching fast…

  The engine screamed as he reversed the throttle, bringing the aircraft to a standstill a few scant metres from the edge of the clearing.

  Santiago Rodriguez gasped. Somewhere in the preceding minutes, he’d forgotten to breathe. ‘Well done Rico – a fine landing,’ he said, giving the pilot a hearty slap on the back. Having reached for the handkerchief in his breast pocket, he then dabbed the sweat from his brow, while offering a prayer to whatever god might have taken an interest in his own forsaken soul.

  ******

  Ramon Aguilar adjusted his beret, having witnessed all the drama of the landing from the treeline. ‘Ivan, get that out of here before the DEA decide to pay us a visit,’ he ordered, pointing to the windsock fluttering nearby. There was no point advertising the airfield’s location to the ever-vigilant satellites that scoured the rainforest, though he and his men would be long gone before anyone came looking. ‘And Felipe… You come with me…’

  Together, they marched toward the little aircraft that had by now pirouetted, such that it was now facing back down the airfield, its engines thrumming loudly, ready to propel it into the air at the slightest hint of trouble

  A door opened halfway along the fuselage, swinging downward to form a short flight of steps.

  A voice boomed from the belly of the plane, defying the roar of its engines. ‘Ah Ramon… It is you. I’d been led to believe that you’d met with an unfortunate end at the hand of government troops.’

  ‘I am pleased to say that any such rumours have been gravely exaggerated Senõr Rodriguez,’ said Ramon, recognising the voice instantly.

  ‘I am glad to hear it. I had feared that I might be making this trip in vain…’

  A swarthy looking figure appeared at the top of the steps.

  Ramon knew Santiago – and this was not him.

  Having eschewed the steps completely, the man leapt from the plane, his heavy combat boots cutting scars in the ground as he landed nearby.

  ‘You’ve met my bodyguard Nathan Eades?’ Santiago enquired.

  ‘I am familiar with him by reputation only,’ Ramon admitted. ‘But I must say, I question the wisdom of entrusting your life to a man who so readily bet
rayed his own countrymen.

  Santiago chuckled, his disembodied laughter reaching from inside the plane. ‘And what makes you any different?’

  ‘I am a patriot,’ Ramon protested. ‘I fight for my country – not against it.’

  ‘Yes Ramon – of course…’ said Santiago, mollifying him with a chuckle. ‘And so, Ramon… to business. Do you have my cocaine?’

  ‘Of course, Senõr Rodriguez.’ Ramon turned and signalled to his men lying in wait amongst the trees

  A truck appeared, its wheels jouncing across the rutted earth, and pulled up next to them. Ramon dropped the tailgate, inviting an inspection of the cellophane-wrapped bundles inside. ‘Feel free to inspect them,’ he said, noting the mistrustful look upon Nathan’s face.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ the brawny mercenary replied. Having drawn a broad-bladed combat knife from its sheath, he chose a packet at random, and inserted its tip through the layers of cellophane and foil, liberating a stream of white powder onto its cold metal surface.

  He transferred some of it to a small glass vial of reagent and waited for the colour to change. ‘Looks good,’ he said with a nod to Santiago.

  ‘Good… So, now that you are happy, you can show me what you have for Me,’ said Ramon.

  Nathan wiped his knife against the leg of his combat trousers, before slipping it back in its sheath. ‘Armando… Would you show us what we have on offer today,’ he said, slapping his hand against the plane’s cold metal flank.

  Armando Cortez had been sitting quietly out of sight, perched on one of the half-dozen packing crates crammed into the hold, one hand resting on the nine-millimetre Ingram machine pistol that lay there, ready in case of “complications”. He got up and pushed a crate towards the door.

  Nathan pried it open, revealing a pair of guns swaddled in oiled rags. Selecting one at random, he carefully unwrapped it. ‘Here we have the Soviet RPK machine gun, complete with seventy-five round, drum magazine. It fires the same seven-point-six-two ammunition as the AKM assault rifle and is capable of discharging six-hundred-and-sixty rounds a minute,’ he explained. ‘And you’ll also be pleased to note that its parts are interchangeable with the AKM, which makes it easier to service in the field. He replaced the weapon. ‘And we do of course have a supply of the AKM assault rifles for you… In addition to two sixty-millimetre mortars, complete with ammunition.’ He opened another crate and withdrew a pump-action shotgun.

  ‘And last, but not least, we have my personal favourite, the SPAS-11 combat shotgun. This beauty is capable of firing up to four rounds a second in semi-automatic mode, guaranteeing that it will make a mess of somebody’s day…’

  ‘Enough to start yourself a small war don’t you think?’ Santiago’s voice echoed from inside the hold.

  ‘With these cold war relics?’ said Ramon disdainfully.

  ‘And just what were you expecting?’ Nathan growled. ‘The latest assault weapons, stolen straight off the production line? Weapons so hot, someone is going to take an instant interest in you and your organisation, bringing your little coup to an end before it’s even begun?’ He pumped the shotgun for effect. Ramon’s men froze, uncertain what to do. ‘And here we are, offering you some of the most reliable weapons the modern world has to offer…’ Nathan continued. ‘Weapons that are easy to maintain, and most importantly, will keep on firing, even in this damp shithole of a Jungle!’

  Ramon glared at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, it isn’t loaded,’ Nathan assured him.

  ‘Now then gentlemen… Why don’t we all calm down,’ said Santiago smoothly. ‘If Ramon does not want the weapons, we will simply take them elsewhere, and leave him to find himself a more suitable supplier…’

  ‘That will not be necessary Senõr Rodriguez,’ Ramon assured him. ‘We’ll take what you have to offer – this time…’

  ‘Excellent Ramon. It is a pleasure doing business with you.’

  ******

  A drone turned in large, lazy circles, somewhere in the sky above, its delicate banks of solar panels shimmering like feathers along its wings, as it flew between the clouds, as graceful as an albatross yet as menacing as hawk.

  Guided by some unseen hand, the high-resolution camera hidden within its belly, zoomed in on the tiny figures below, recording everything as it kept its silent vigil.

  13

  Wednesday 11th October:

  ‘Okay – careful now,’ the professor instructed.

  Oki gently lay what appeared to be a human tibia onto the plastic sheeting, positioning it amongst the other bones as if fitting a piece in some macabre jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘What do you reckon Professor?’ he asked, wiping his gloved hands against his jeans so as to dislodge some of the thick mud caked upon them. ‘Any idea what might have killed him?’

  The skeleton was a “him” – they’d determined that much already. A young male of no more than thirty years of age, though that was about as much as they’d managed to learn.

  Professor Ellis sucked on his pipe, savouring the memory of the tobacco within. As usual, it had not been lit. ‘Hard to be sure young man…’ He crouched down and delicately recovered a skull from the piece of sheeting, its blank orbits staring vacantly at the sky. The bone was soft and had an unsettling oily texture, its surface stained with the sediments that had bathed it for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Turning it over in his hands, he hunted for any clues relating to the man’s demise. ‘…But I can’t see anything that would convince me that he died of a head injury. Perhaps we’ll know some more once it's been cleaned up a bit,’ he said, reverently returning the skull to its resting place on the sheet. ‘Which reminds me… How’s Carmen getting on I wonder?’

  ‘She’s doing fine, thank you,’ said Carmen petulantly. Over the weeks they’d been working together, she’d come to the conclusion that the professor was at the very least a sexist bore, and at worst an outright bigot. His notions on how to deal with women were, to her mind, archaic, and his attitude towards the foreign members of the group was even worse. When he wasn’t treating them with disdain, he was outright ignoring them. ‘You know you could have asked me yourself,’ she said.

  The professor smiled warmly, seemingly unaware of any offence he might have caused. ‘Oh, I am sorry my dear. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘That’s quite alright Professor. As it happens, I could do with a break anyway.’ She removed the baseball cap she was wearing (a navy-blue cap with the word ‘Wildcats’ emblazoned on the front in red letters) and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

  The site had been discovered in the early hours of the morning when Miguel had stumbled into it while clearing the brush around the periphery of the plaza ruins. A careless loss of footing had sent him hurtling to the bottom of a steep-sided depression, taking out much of the intervening undergrowth, and leaving him with a deep gash to his forearm in the process. First inspections had traced the source of his injury to what had appeared to be an exposed tree root, though closer examination had determined it to be the weathered end of a human thighbone, protruding from the soil in what had appeared to be a filled-in well. Catherine had been quick to demonstrate her worth, having quickly and expertly cleaned and stitched his wound, though her instructions to “take it easy” had been ignored in the time it had taken him to exit the tent.

  ‘So – have you uncovered anything interesting?’ the professor enquired in a somewhat patronising tone.

  Carmen had been working on another skull, gently brushing the dirt from the exposed facial bones. ‘Come take a look,’ she offered.

  The professor lowered himself into the pit next to her and leaned in to examine the skull. ‘The preservation is remarkable,’ he said pensively.

  ‘Yes, it is. But I think you’ll be more interested in the facial features,’ she said, pointing her brush towards the nasal opening. ‘See here… The broad nasal arch, sturdy maxillae, and prominent forehead…’

  The professor nodded pensively.
‘And just what are your thoughts,’ he asked, clearly reluctant to admit that he didn’t know what she was alluding to.

  ‘As I’m sure you’re well aware,’ she said with exaggerated humility, ‘these features are common to people of African descent.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, that much is evident, but…’

  A cry interrupted him mid-excuse. It had come from somewhere atop the construction behind them…

  He turned and looked up at tiered stone edifice, searching for, and then eventually finding, Miguel, waving from somewhere near its summit. ‘What the hell are you doing up there, you damned fool?’ he exclaimed.

  Miguel shouted something back, but his words were indistinct.

  The professor tried to wave him down. ‘Get back here you idiot!’

  Miguel continued to gesticulate wildly.

  ‘Rufus!’ the professor snapped. ‘Would you be kind enough to go up there and see what that idiot wants?’

  Rufus pointed to the mound. ‘Up there?’

  ‘Yes, up there,’ the professor affirmed haughtily.

  ‘I thought you said it was too dangerous for anyone to go up there?’

  ‘That’s right’

  ‘Except for me?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the professor peevishly. ‘A young mountain goat like you shouldn’t have any problem getting up there after him.’

  ‘Gee thanks...’

  Rufus checked to see if Catherine was standing nearby.

  She was.

  ‘Be seeing you soon – probably...’

  ‘I’ll keep my instruments warm,’ she promised.

  The climb had looked daunting enough from the base of the plaza; an assessment that had, as it turned out, been well-deserved. The surface of the slope consisted of little more than a loose amalgam of roots and rubble that was inclined to give way just when it was needed the most, and the thick foliage seemed to concentrate the oppressive heat and humidity, leaching the strength from already tired muscles.