The 6th Plague

by Darren Hale

  Angus knelt to look underneath.

  ‘So, what do you see?’ Juliet asked excitedly.

  ‘There’s definitely some kind of chamber down there. Hand me a flashlight will yah.’

  Juliet found the flashlight hidden amongst some sacking in the wheelbarrow they’d used to ferry their equipment. She flicked the switch a couple of times to ensure the batteries were still charged, then handed it to him.

  Angus pressed his head against the ground and shone the beam into the tangle of shadows that resided beneath the stone, its light dripping like liquid mercury across bones contorted into the shapes of men.

  Shocked at the sight of them, he whirled away, tearing his scalp against the sharp-edged stone as he did so. ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What is it? What did you see?’ asked Juliet anxiously.

  Angus dabbed a hand against his scalp as he tried to quell the warm trickle of blood that was oozing from the cut. ‘We are not alone…’ he replied absently.

  ‘Damn right we aren’t…’ said Oki, pointing across the clearing.

  They turned to see the professor striding towards them, a small entourage hot on his heels.

  ‘And he doesn’t look very happy…’

  ******

  ‘Come on – put your backs into it,’ yelled the professor, his face as sullen as a winter’s day. Though almost half an hour had passed since Juliet’s attempts to mollify the irascible Professor, his eyes still glowed like hot rocks in a face that seethed like molten lead. His lecture on proper procedures had been short and to the point. Delivered as a schoolmaster might instruct a group of freshmen, it had chaffed all the more for its brevity. ‘Okay now push!’

  Oki pressed his shoulders up against the cover stone. He felt like one of those ancient Egyptian slaves labouring to build the pyramids, and the professor’s tongue stung as cruelly as any lash. With his feet set firmly against the gently yielding soil, he pushed with all his might, adding his strength to the other half-dozen hands positioned next to his.

  The slab inched forward.

  Yielding with agonising slowness, it tore deep gouges in the raft of logs that supported it, liberating thick green sap that leaked like tears from its wounds, bleeding its heady aroma onto the breeze.

  ‘Okay, that’ll do,’ shouted the professor finally.

  Oki slumped against the rock, his arms still trembling with exertion. Their best efforts had exposed an opening barely large enough for a man to squeeze through.

  ‘Right then, Angus, perhaps you would like to follow me?’ the professor instructed.

  Angus brightened visibly. ‘Yes sir!’

  The professor crouched next to the opening and cast an appraising eye into the chamber beneath. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps you would like to lead the way,’ he beamed, handing him a flashlight.

  Angus indulged him with a smile that said ‘gee thanks’ before worming his way through the gap and into the space beyond. His heart raced as he flicked the light across the walls and floor. The skeletal remains of men lay all around him, their limbs hanging at their sides like broken twigs. The bodies were as gnarled and twisted as roots pushing towards the sun, their bones shattered from the unspeakable violence of their passing.

  ‘What do you see?’ the professor asked somewhat impatiently.

  ‘Human bodies – about seven or eight of them – remarkably well preserved… And it looks like they were murdered…’ Angus observed. He swung the light towards an opening at the far end of the chamber, having followed the descent of a series of broad stone stairs. ‘I’m going to push forward a bit. It looks like this is just some sort of stairway into another chamber below.’

  ‘Be careful. And try not to disturb anything will you!’

  Angus pulled himself forward on all fours, while sparing a thought for the ancient masons who’d carved the stone so smoothly as to spare him from anything more than a few minor abrasions.

  Another couple of steps and there was enough room to crouch.

  Boots scuffed and scrabbled for purchase against the ground behind him. ‘Hold there will you my boy,’ wheezed the professor, as he wriggled in behind Angus. ‘And if you’d be good enough to shine the light this way...’

  Angus swung the beam of light back to cover the professor’s approach. ‘Excellent… excellent… I think I’ll take that now, if that’s okay with you,’ he said, dragging himself alongside.

  Angus reluctantly handed him the flashlight.

  ‘Fascinating…’ said the professor, whispering to no one in particular. ‘The preservation is incredible… Somehow desiccated…’ He shone the light towards the ceiling. Thick black stains criss-crossed the under-side of the stone slab.

  Angus shivered in realisation, recognising the faint residue of blood, so old it had permeated the very stone itself. The marks were those of bloody fingers tearing at the giant stone in a futile attempt to escape. The poor devils had not all been dead when they’d been sealed inside. ‘Do you mind if we keep moving professor, I’m beginning to get cramps here,’ he said, the pervasive aura of murder tickling the back of his neck like static.

  ‘Yes… yes… of course – on you go.’

  With nothing more than errant flickers of light to guide his way, Angus made his way to the bottom of the pit, where it was possible to stand once more, with just a reverent bowing of the head.

  The professor dithered for a few moments before moving to join him. ‘Heavens preserve…’

  Light bounced from pearly white stucco plaster beyond the doorway ahead, illuminating the room with an opalescent glow that appeared to emanate from inside walls that were otherwise adorned with panels of hieroglyphics painted in vibrant shades of ochre, peach, and sapphire. A solid stone plinth rose amidst a clutter of clay pots and urns at the far end of the room; a single set of human remains regally deposed upon its surface, flanked on either side by bowl-shaped braziers set on low stone pedestals. In the murky half-light, the bones appeared to be covered in a tar-like residue formed from the withered remnants of its skin, giving it the appearance of a bird caught in an oil spill.

  ‘Well I guess that explains why everything appears so well preserved,’ said the professor, examining the thick black smears that clung like clotted shadows about the walls.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘These marks were made by soot from the braziers. Which means that they were burning right up until the air in this chamber had been completely exhausted.’

  ‘Creating a partial vacuum?’ Angus realised.

  ‘I should think so... The huge stone blocks forming the walls of this chamber have been so well crafted, they would have made it completely airtight.’

  ‘Those bodies… What do you think happened here?’

  ‘My dear lad – I have absolutely no idea. And the more we discover, the more I fear this will be revealed as nothing more than some incredible hoax.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because… If it isn’t… Then this is probably the most significant discovery since Howard Carter discovered the treasures of Tutankhamun!’ The professor’s voice trembled slightly at the prospect.

  ‘Oh – I see…’

  After a short silence, the professor turned his attention to the wall paintings. ‘And what do we have here I wonder?’ He held the light closer to the wall. ‘These look like boats, don’t you think?’

  Angus strained for a closer look. ‘They look very similar to the reed boats of the Uros Indians…’ he said, recalling his gap year with fondness. He’d used it to explore Peru and Lake Titicaca with the then love of his life and fellow student, Helen Latheway. Although their parting could hardly have been described as amicable, it had failed to taint those few fond memories he had of the trip, albeit most of them were of little, if any cultural significance…

  ‘Yes… yes… although these are considerably larger than canoes, wouldn’t you agree?’ The professor removed his pipe from his pocket and deftly charged it with a sco
op of tobacco from his pouch. He then placed the pipe between his lips and started to suck thoughtfully upon the mouthpiece. ‘If anything, I would say these vessels have more in common with the papyrus ships of ancient Egypt – wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Egyptians in South America. Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?’

  ‘Is it? Do you perhaps recall my lecture on the exploits of Dr Thor Heyerdahl, who, in nineteen-seventy, successfully navigated the Atlantic in the Ra II, thus proving that such a journey was indeed feasible?’

  Angus fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Of course I do,’ he lied.

  ‘Good… good… I’m pleased to hear it. And it is worth remembering that the Ancient Egyptians were capable of a lot more than we give them credit for.’

  ‘So… you agree with Carmen’s theory that the skulls might have been North African in origin?’ Angus asked.

  It was the professor’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘I agree there may now be some merit to her observations,’ he acceded.

  They carefully picked their way towards the stone plinth, avoiding the clutter of ceramic pots that littered the floor. Some, Angus noted, still contained offerings to the departed soul – handfuls of dried cereal grains and piles of fruit pits, their delicate flesh long since turned to dust – more than enough to provide them with an accurate dating of the site, if they could only get some samples to the labs back home.

  ‘Jesus! – This place is in more of a mess than my garage,’ Angus observed, having narrowly avoided a stack of pots hidden in the gloom.

  ‘Be careful there my boy!’ huffed the professor.

  ‘You know, there’s something here that strikes me as a bit odd,’ Angus ventured.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Everything we’ve found so far, points to a civilisation far more advanced than any other in South America, yet their sophistication when it comes to burials seems surprisingly primitive don’t you think? The Egyptians were using quite advanced methods of preservation as early as three thousand BC, and the remains of those Chinchorro Indians they found in Chile were even older.’

  The professor scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘An interesting point. But don’t forget, the Maya were inclined to preserve their dead in dry caves – a principal that’s not so different from this tomb.’

  ‘And yet they seem to have gone to so much trouble to build the tomb in the first place…’ Angus struggled to pull the elusive threads of his thoughts together. ‘And what of the bodies in the well? Or the remains of that priest Rufus discovered in the plaza?’

  The professor was clearly intrigued. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘That maybe the citizens didn’t get time to bury their dead...’

  ‘An invasion?’

  ‘It would make sense don’t you think? Our friend the king here… Or… whoever he was… Was evidently buried before his time… And the wall paintings appear to be a long way from finished,’ he said, noting that large portions of the wall had remained undecorated. ‘So… What if, after repelling the first attack, the inhabitants bury their king, then make a run for it before the invaders return?’

  ‘It’s a hostile environment. People often died before their time. There are no marks on this body to suggest he met with a traumatic end. But it is an intriguing notion, nonetheless,’ the professor admitted.

  17

  Friday 13th October:

  The Blue Yonder II heaved itself up the oncoming wave, hovered there for a moment, suspended impossibly atop a seething wall of water, then crashed down again, sending torrents of frothing spray across its deck.

  Hurricane Isabelle was making her presence known…

  According to the satellite maps, the main body of the storm lay hundreds of miles to the north, relegating this squall to something little more than an eddy chasing on the coat tails of the storm. Nevertheless, in Mick’s experience, it was already bad enough, and he could not conceive how things could get any worse. His legs felt like jelly and his stomach convulsed with every lurching movement, leaving his mouth soiled with the acrid tang of bile.

  ‘There you go. That should sort you out.’

  Renata deposited the spent hypodermic into a waste container, along with the empty ampoule that had, minutes ago, contained a single dose of a clear anti-emetic solution. ‘Give it fifteen minutes and you’ll be feeling as right as rain.’

  ‘I sure hope so,’ he groaned, as he fumbled to refasten his belt.

  ‘Are you going to be okay if I head back to the galley?’ Renata asked, her voice somehow failing to convey any real sense of sympathy. Mick had often wondered how the woman had come to be the ship’s medic in the first place. It certainly hadn’t been for her warm personality and good bedside manner – qualities that were significantly lacking.

  ‘I’ll be fine. See you back there in a few minutes,’ he replied, but she was already gone.

  Bracing his feet, he launched himself toward the sink and turned on the cold tap. He let the icy water cascade across his fingertips for a few moments before cupping his hands and splashing some across his face.

  He hated the sea!

  He took a few sips of water and sloshed it around the inside of his mouth to remove the bitter taste of vomit.

  His stomach was settling. The shot was beginning to work

  Then, having regained some of his composure, he thrust himself upright, and following the raucous sounds of laughter echoing up the corridor, he headed towards the galley.

  ‘So, where’s Mick?’

  ‘Still puking his guts up in sickbay I’ll bet.’

  There was a loud and derisive snort. ‘Pussy!’

  And then a voice that was clearly Renata’s.

  ‘I’ve given him a shot of cyclizine. He should be joining us again soon.’

  Mick threw open the galley door and lurched inside. ‘Thank you all for your sympathy,’ he said groggily, ‘but I’m here now.’

  Toni and Raymond snickered like a pair of schoolgirls, having been responsible for the more unflattering comments. Toni had made himself comfortable, chair wedged against the bulkhead and feet upon the table, as he tucked into some cold minestrone soup straight from the tin, while Raymond sat similarly relaxed in a chair opposite. Neither one of them showed any evidence that they’d been disturbed by the ship’s erratic prancings.

  Toni scraped his spoon around the inside of the can, scooped up the last of its content, and shovelled it into his mouth.

  Renata frowned. ‘How the hell can you manage to eat that crap at a time like this?’

  ‘I’m hungry…’ he complained. ‘And I received third degree burns the last time I tried heating anything in this weather.’

  ‘Okay people… looks like we’re all here,’ said Brad, calling them to order. ‘So, Ray, if you’d like to fill us in on our current situation?’

  Toni slapped the empty minestrone can down onto the table. ‘That’s easy,’ he exclaimed. ‘We’re slap bang in the middle of the mother of all storms!’ Ain’t that right Ray?’

  As if on cue, the ship pitched violently, and the empty soup can skidded across the table before launching itself onto the floor.

  Brad ignored his not-so-helpful answer. ‘Ray?’

  ‘Hurricane Isabelle lies about one hundred and sixty miles to the north-east of us, and is slowly moving north, stirring up most of the Caribbean in her wake. I would forecast another sixteen hours or so of these storms before we start to see some calm,’ Raymond reported. He’d been on the crew for almost five years and had seen his fair share of rough seas, nevertheless, he too was looking forward to some calmer weather.

  ‘And what’s the latest from Granite?’ Brad asked.

  ‘He’s located their supply route,’ said Toni, more seriously this time. ‘It would appear that Ramon’s men are moving the cocaine by boat, shipping it from farmers as far out as the Huallaga River valley, then up the Napo and onto the Tamboryacu, though he’s not yet been able to determine the final destination. Nevertheless, it
is his opinion that the Rodriguez cartel is running a number of large processing facilities on the Peruvian side of the border.’ Like the rest of them, he had no idea who the man codenamed “Granite” really was, just that he’d proven to be a lucrative and reliable source of intelligence relating to the activities of the Rodriguez cartel.

  ‘That’s a very busy stretch of waterway…’ Brad observed, recalling some of their earlier briefings. ‘How have they managed to remain beneath the radar?’

  Toni produced a printed sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. It was a photograph of a man in his early forties with thick black hair and bushy moustache – an overweight cross between Groucho Marx and the famous revolutionary Che Guevara. ‘We suspect that’s where this man comes in,’ he said, alluding to a conversation he’d recently had with his superiors on the mainland. ‘Horaldo Gonsalez, the Chief of Police in Iquitos. He was born and spent his early life in Bogota of all places.’

  ‘The same place that Ramon grew up?’

  Toni nodded.

  Brad frowned. ‘So how does a Colombian national get to rise so far in the Peruvian police force – or am I missing something?’

  ‘He has dual nationality. His Mother was originally from Lima.’ Toni shrugged matter-of-factly. Then, knowing that Brad expected more, he embellished his story. ‘According to intelligence reports from our friends in the CIA, this man is a sympathiser to their cause and has been turning a blind eye to their drug-trafficking activities for years.’

  Raymond gave a wry smile. ‘In return for bundles of money of course…’

  Toni jabbed the picture with his index finger. ‘And there’s another problem… It would seem that our friend here has taken objection to a certain expedition and has been looking to get their visas revoked.’

  Brad could feel the slightest tightening in his chest. ‘Does he know about Snake Pit?’

  Toni shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I ran this up the chain of command… It’s their belief that this man is involved in the illegal trafficking of antiquities and is looking at looting the site once Professor Ellis and his team leave.’