by Alten-Steve
“No, señorita—”
“Please. If you happen to run into him, or if you know someone who might know how to get word to him, tell him that Dominique needs to see him. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”
The Mayan guide sees the desperation in her eyes. “The person you seek—is he your boyfriend?”
“A close friend.”
The guide stares off in the distance for several moments, contemplating. “Take the day and enjoy Chichén Itzá. Treat yourself to a hot meal, then wait until dark. The park closes at ten. Hide out in the jungle just before security makes its final rounds. When the last person leaves and the gates are locked, ascend the Kukulcán pyramid and wait.”
“Mick will be there?”
“It’s possible.”
He hands her back the money. “At the front entrance are tourist shops. Buy yourself a wool poncho, you’ll need it for tonight.”
“I want you to keep the money.”
“No. The Gabriels have been friends of my family for a very long time.” He smiles. “When Mick finds you, tell him that Elias Forma says you are far too beautiful to be left alone in the land of green lightning.”
The incessant buzzing of a thousand mosquitoes fills Dominique’s ears. She pulls the hood of her poncho over her head and huddles in the envelope of darkness, the jungle awakening around her.
What the hell am I doing here? She scratches at imaginary insects crawling on her arms. I should be finishing my internship. I should be getting ready to graduate.
The forest rustles around her. A flutter of wings disturbs the canopy of leaves above her head. Somewhere in the distance, a howler monkey screeches into the night. She checks her watch—10:23—then pulls her wool poncho back over her head and shifts her weight on the rock.
Give it another ten minutes.
She closes her eyes, allowing the jungle to wrap its arms around her, just as it had when she was a child. The heavy scent of moss, the sound of palm fronds dancing in the breeze—and she is back in Guatemala, only four, standing by the stucco wall outside her mother’s bedroom window, listening to her grandmother crying within. She waits until her aunt escorts the old woman out before entering through the window.
Dominique stares at the lifeless figure stretched out across the bed. Fingers that had stroked her long hair only hours earlier have turned blue at the tips. The mouth is open, the brown eyes half-closed, fixated at the ceiling. She touches the high cheekbones, feeling the cold, clammy skin.
This was not her madre. This was something else, a frame of inanimate flesh that her mother had worn while part of her world.
Her grandmother enters. She’s with the angels now, Dominique …
The night sky explodes above her head with the chaotic sounds of a thousand vampire bats flapping their wings. Dominique jumps to her feet, her pulse pounding as she tries to blink away the mosquitoes and the memories.
“No! This is not my home. This is not my life!”
She shoves her childhood back into the attic and seals the door shut, then climbs down from the rock and pushes her way through the thicket until she emerges at the mouth of the sacred cenote.
Dominique gazes at the sheer, vertical walls of the sinkhole, which plunge straight down to the surface of its inky, algae-infested waters. The lunar light from the three-quarter moon highlights layers of geological grooves sculpted along the interior of the chalky white limestone pit. She looks up, focusing on an enclosed stone structure suspended over the southern edge of the cenote. One thousand years ago, the Maya, desperate after the sudden departure of their god-king, Kukulcán, had turned to human sacrifice in an effort to forestall the end of humanity. Virgin women had been locked in this primordial steam bath for purification, then led out to its rooftop platform by ceremonial priests. Stripping the young maidens naked, they would stretch them out upon the stone structure, then use their obsidian blades to cut out their hearts or slice their throats. The virgins’ bodies, laden with jewelry, would then be ceremoniously tossed into the sacred well.
The thought causes Dominique to shudder. She circles the pit and hustles down the sache, a wide, elevated footpath of soil and stone which cuts through the dense jungle until it reaches the northern border of the ancient city.
Fifteen minutes and a half dozen stumbles later, Dominique emerges from the path. Standing before her is the northern face of the Kukulcán pyramid, its jagged, dark outline rising nine stories against the star-drenched sky. She approaches the base, which is guarded on either side by the sculpted heads of two enormous serpents.
Dominique looks around. The ancient city is dark and deserted. A cold shiver runs down her spine. She begins climbing.
Midway up, she finds herself gasping for breath. The steps of the Kukulcán are quite narrow, the rise steep, and there is nothing to hold on to. She turns and looks down. A fall from this height would be her last.
“Mick?” Her voice seems to echo across the valley. She waits for a response, then, hearing nothing, continues climbing.
It takes her another five minutes to reach the summit, a flat platform supporting a square two-story stone temple. Feeling dizzy, she leans against the northern wall of the structure to catch her breath, her quadriceps muscles still burning from the climb.
The view is spectacular, with no safety rails. The moonlight reveals shadowed details of every structure in the northern section of the city. Along the outskirts, the jungle canopy spreads out across the horizon like the dark borders of a canvas.
The walkway around the structure is only five feet wide. Staying clear of the precarious ledge, she wipes the sweat from her face and stands before the yawning entrance of the temple’s northern corridor. A massive portal, composed of a lintel flanked by two serpent-columns, towers above her head.
She steps inside, the interior pitch-dark. “Mick, are you in there?”
Her voice sounds dampened. She reaches into her backpack, locates the flashlight she purchased earlier, and enters the dank, limestone chamber.
The northern corridor is an enclosed double-chambered room, a central sanctuary preceded by a vestibule. The interior dead-ends at a massive, central wall. The beam of her flashlight reveals a vaulted ceiling, then a stone floor, its surface charred black from ceremonial fires. Leaving the empty chamber, she follows the platform around to the left and enters the western corridor, a barren passage that zigzags to connect with the southern and eastern corridors.
The temple is deserted.
Dominique checks the time: 11:20. Maybe he’s not coming.
The cool night air causes her to shiver. Seeking warmth, she ducks back into the northern chamber and leans against the central wall, the heavy stone surrounding her sealing out the wind and deadening all noise.
The atmosphere inside seems heavy, as if someone is waiting in the shadows to pounce upon her. She uses the flashlight’s beam to scan the interior, soothing her psyche.
Exhaustion gains a foothold. She lies down on the stone floor and curls up in a ball, closing her eyes, her thoughts haunting her sleep with images of blood and death.
The expanse surrounding the pyramid is a sea of swaying brown bodies and painted faces illuminated by the orange glow of ten thousand torches. From her vantage within the northern corridor, she can see blood running down the stairwell like a crimson waterfall, pooling around a pile of mangled flesh situated between the two serpent heads located at the foot of the pyramid.
A dozen more women are in the temple with her, all dressed in white. They huddle together like frightened lambs, staring at her through vacant eyes.
Two priests enter. Each wears a ceremonial headdress of green feathers and a loincloth cut from a jaguar’s hide. The priests approach, their dark eyes focusing on Dominique. She backs away, her heart pounding, as each priest grabs a wrist, the two men forcibly dragging her out to the temple’s platform.
The night air is heavy with the stench of blood and sweat and smoke.
Facing t
he swooning crowd is an immense Chac Mool, a stone statue of an inclined Mayan demigod. In the Chac Mool’s lap is a ceremonial plate, spilling over with the mangled remains of a dozen severed human hearts.
Dominique screams. She attempts to flee, but two more priests reach out and grab her by the ankles, lifting her high off the ground. The crowd groans as the head priest appears, a muscular redhead whose face remains hidden beneath the mask of a feathered serpent’s head. A devilish yellow smile appears within the serpent mask’s fanged, open mouth.
“Hi, Sunshine.”
Dominique screams as Raymond tears the white cloth from her naked body, then holds the black, obsidian blade up to the crowd. A lustful chant rises from the bloodthirsty mob.
“Kukulcán! Kukulcán!”
At Raymonds nod, four priests lower her to the ground, pinning her against the stone platform.
“Kukulcán! Kukulcán!”
Dominique screams again as Raymond flashes his obsidian blade. She gasps in disbelief as he raises it over his head, then plunges it forcefully into her left breast.
“Kukulcán! Kukulcán!”
She screams in agony, twisting and contorting her outstretched body—
“Dom, wake up—”
—as Raymond pushes his hand into the wound and rips out her still-beating heart, holding it up to the heavens for all to see.
“Dominique!”
Dominique lets go a bloodcurdling scream as she kicks and punches at the terrifying darkness, catching the shadow square in the face. Disoriented, still in the throes of her nightmare, she rolls sideways and springs to her feet, rushing blindly out of the chamber, sprinting toward the ninety-foot drop.
A hand reaches out and tackles her by the ankle. She slams chest-first against the platform, the pain snapping her awake.
“Jesus, Dominique, I’m supposed to be the crazy one.”
“Mick?” She sits up, rubbing her bruised ribs as she catches her breath.
Mick scoots next to her. “You all right?”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“Same here. That must have been some nightmare. You nearly dived off the pyramid.”
She looks out over the precipice, then turns and hugs him, her limbs still shaking. “God, I hate this place. These walls reek of Mayan ghosts.” She pulls back, looking at his face. “Your nose is bleeding. Did I do that?”
“Caught me with a right cross.” He removes a bandanna from his back pocket and pinches off the flow. “This thing’s never going to heal.”
“Serves you right. Why the hell did we have to meet here of all places, and in the middle of the goddam night?”
“I’m a fugitive, remember? Speaking of which, how did you manage to get away from the navy?”
She turns away. “You’re the fugitive, not me. I told the captain I helped you because I was confused about Iz’s death. Guess he felt sorry for me,’ cause he let me go. Come on, we can talk about this later. Right now, I just want to get down off this pyramid.”
“I can’t leave yet. I have work to do.”
“Work? What work? It’s the middle of the night—”
“I’m searching for a passageway into the pyramid. It’s vital that we find it—”
“Mick—”
“My father was right about the Kukulcán. I discovered something—something really incredible. Let me show you.” Mick reaches into his satchel and removes a small electronic device.
“This instrument is called an ultrasonic inspectroscope. It transmits low-amplitude sound waves to determine imperfections in solids.” Mick switches his flashlight on, then takes her by the wrist and drags her back inside the temple to the central wall. He activates the inspectroscope, directing its sound waves at a cross section of stone.
“Take a look. See these wavelengths? There’s definitely another structure concealed behind this central wall. Whatever it is, it’s metallic in nature and rises straight up through the pyramid, clear to the roof of the temple.”
“Okay, I believe you. Can we go now?”
Mick stares at her, incredulous. “Go? Don’t you get it? It’s here—within these walls. All we have to do is figure out how to access it.”
“What’s here? A hunk of metal?”
“A hunk of metal that may turn out to be the instrument that will save humanity. The one left to us by Kukulcán. We have to … hey, wait, where are you going?”
She continues walking out to the platform.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?”
“Believe what? That every man, woman, and child on this planet’s going to die within the next two weeks? No— sorry Mick, I’m still struggling with that one.”
Mick grabs her by the arm. “How can you still doubt me? You saw what’s buried in the Gulf. The two of us were down there together. You saw it for yourself.”
“Saw what? The interior of a lava tube?”
“A lava tube?”
“That’s right. The geologists aboard the Boone explained the whole thing to me. They even showed me infrared satellite photos of the entire Chicxulub crater. What appears to us as a green glow is just a subterranean lava flow passing beneath that hole in the seafloor. The hole opened up when an underwater volcano became active back in September.”
“Volcano? Dominique, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Mick, our minisub was sucked down one of the lava tubes when part of the underground infrastructure collapsed. We must have floated topside when the pressure subsided.” She shakes her head. “You really played me, didn’t you? I’m guessing you heard about the volcano from a CNN report or something. That’s the noise Iz heard over SOSUS.”
She punches him in the chest. “My father died exploring a goddam subterranean volcano—”
“No—”
“You played me, didn’t you? All you wanted was to escape—”
“Dominique, listen to me—”
“No! Listening to you is what got my father killed. Now you listen to me. I helped you because I knew you were being abused and I needed your help in finding out what happened to Iz. Now I know the truth. You set me up!”
“Bullshit! Everything the navy fed you is a goddam lie. That tunnel was no lava tube, it was an artificially created inlet shaft. What your father heard were sounds coming from a series of giant turbines. Our minisub was sucked down an inlet shaft. The submersible jammed the turbine’s rotors. Don’t you remember any of this? I know you were hurt, but you were still conscious when I climbed out of the sub.”
“What did you say?” She looks at him, suddenly confused, disturbed by a distant memory. “Wait—did I hand you a tank of oxygen?”
“Yes! It saved my life.”
“You really climbed out?” She sits down along the edge of the summit. Was the navy lying? “Mick, you couldn’t have climbed out of the sub. We were underwater—”
“The chamber was pressurized. The minisub corked the inlet.”
She shakes her head. Stop it. He’s lying. This is nonsense!
“I bandaged your head. You were scared. You asked me to hold you before I left the sub. You made me promise to return.”
A vague memory swirls in her mind.
Mick sits down at the foot of the summit. “You still don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you?”
“I’m trying to remember.” She sits beside him. “Mick … I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I warned you not to let Iz investigate the Gulf.”
“I know.”
“I would never betray you. Never.”
“Mick, let’s say I believe you. What did you see when you left the minisub? Where did this turbine of yours lead?”
“I located some sort of drainage pipe and managed to climb up inside it. The passage led into this enormous chamber. The atmosphere inside was broiling. Red flames licked the walls.”
Mick stares at the stars. “High above my head swirled this … this magnificent emerald vortex of energy. It moved like a minia
ture spiral galaxy. It was so beautiful.”
“Mick—”
“Wait, there’s more. Spread out before me was a lake of molten energy, undulating like a sea of mercury, only its surface was as reflective as a mirror. And then I heard my father’s voice, speaking to me in the distance.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, only it wasn’t my father, it was some kind of alien life form. I couldn’t see it—it was held within some kind of high-tech chamber, floating above the molten lake in an enormous pod. It looked at me through these blazing red, demonic eyes. I was scared shitless—”
Dominique exhales. There it is. Classic dementia. Christ, Foletta was right. It was there all the time and I just refused to see it. She watches as he stares off in the distance. “Mick, let’s talk about this. These images you saw, they’re quite symbolic, you know. Let’s start with your father’s voice—”
“Wait!” He turns to face her, his eyes wide, like black saucepans. “I just realized something. I know who the life form was.”
“Go on.” She hears weariness in her own voice. “Who was it you think you saw?”
“It was Tezcatilpoca.”
“Who?”
“Tezcatilpoca. The evil deity I told you about on the boat. It’s an Aztec name that translates to ‘Smoking Mirror,’ a description for the deity’s weapon. According to Mesoamerican legend, the Smoking Mirror gave Tezcatilpoca the ability to see into the souls of men.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“The being looked into my soul. He spoke to me as my father, as if he knew me. He was trying to deceive me.”
She places a hand on his shoulder, fingering the dark locks of hair along his neck. “Mick, you know what I think? I think the minisub’s collision knocked both of us woozy, and—”
He pushes her hand away. “Don’t do that! Don’t patronize me. I wasn’t dreaming, and I’m not having schizophrenic delusions either. Every legend possesses its own reality. Aren’t you even familiar with the legends of your own ancestors?”
“They’re not my ancestors.”
“Bullshit.” Mick grabs her wrist. “Like it or not, there’s Quiche Maya blood flowing in these veins.”