PLAZA

by Shane M Brown

  Who just dropped their weapon? Rourke would scalp the careless fool.

  Rourke panned his flashlight around the chamber. Each man still carried their MP5. Wait...he could only count five men. Across the chamber, in the opposite direction from which the red light had appeared, a flashlight was rolling on its side. There was no one near the flashlight, but Rourke was sure there should be.

  What the...?

  A ghastly crunching sound emerged from the archway near the rolling flashlight. Rourke took two sideways steps and peered through the archway. The sight stunned him.

  Something was eating one of his men. Tearing him apart. Blood fountained up the stonework. The man's limp form lay pinned under one scaly foot. A massive mouth found an arm and pulled, tearing the limb from its socket.

  In one gulp the arm was swallowed. No chewing. Just tear and gulp.

  Every flashlight in the chamber moved to pinpoint the dreadful spectacle, and by the added illuminated, Rourke remembered the wall carving he and Kline had studied near the core chamber. The scenes looked nearly identical.

  A second giant animal moved into the corridor behind the first. There were more!

  Rourke shrugged off his initial shock. He fired into the closest animal. His light beam went off target. Three guards joined in firing.

  The closest animal twisted from the onslaught. Bullets holes stuttered over the animal's flank. The guards' mauled body was abandoned. The animal retreated down the corridor.

  From the corner of his eye, Rourke suddenly noticed a blazing red triangle.

  What now?

  The intruders with the red flare had moved. Now they occupied the very next chamber. Just one barrier separated the two forces. The intruders were overtaking Rourke's team by navigating up a series of parallel corridors. They must have heard the gunfire. Now Rourke had hostiles on either side of his team. Thankfully, the Gallery's current orientation provided a new option. There was an open tunnel leading due west.

  'Pull back, pull back,' yelled Rourke, keeping a close eye on the red triangle, which now looked brighter, as though the flare-bearer was peering through into the bedlam surrounding Rourke's team.

  His orders went unheard. Only Rourke had noticed his team was vulnerable to a rear attack from the intruders. Thunderous weapon fire swallowed his shouted orders. His five remaining guards kept pouring gunfire towards the remaining giant animal.

  The gunfire illuminated the scene in flashing orange snatches.

  Rourke caught impressions of the animal's sinuous movements along the corridor ceiling. They could climb the ceilings!

  This is no good - we're too vulnerable!

  Right then, Rourke saw the rifle barrel appear through the blazing red triangle. His team would be cut down.

  He sprinted towards the rifle barrel, straight into harms' way.

  It wasn't self-sacrificing bravery. He had no choice. If he didn't take the initiative, they would all be mowed down. Without the team, he could never complete the operation. Whoever was on the other side of that barrier was a split second away from spraying a horizontal sheet of death into Rourke’s chamber.

  Rourke reached the barrier in four steps.

  He slapped the rifle muzzle aside.

  Only by turning his body at the very last second did he avoid having three of his ribs carbine-shredded from his torso. Rourke jammed the barrel sideways as the intruder fired again. Wedged crossways through the aperture, the rifle unloaded its lethal discharge into the chamber's far corner.

  Bullets ricocheted around the chamber like the inside of Satan’s pinball machine. One man collapsed, hit god-knew-where by an unlucky ricocheted, but Rourke had saved the rest from deadly rear-action gunfire. Had he not charged the barrier, they would all be dead. Pinning the rifle with one hand, he yanked a canister from his hip. He jerked out the arming pin with his teeth. He tossed the canister back through the aperture.

  Suck on that one, Gentlemen.

  He heard yelling. Someone wrenched the carbine rifle back through the hole.

  Rourke swung up his MP5 and fired into the triangular hole after his canister, just in case they were trying to throw it back at him. If the canister ended up back in Rourke's chamber, they were all dead.

  It wasn't a grenade he'd tossed. A grenade would have been the humane choice. The object right now clattering around his enemy’s boots was far worse. A grenade was avoidable. There was no way to hide from the effects of the weapon that Rourke had just deployed. In fact, Rourke needed to evacuate his team from the danger zone lest they fall victim too.

  He saw the second animal, badly wounded, peeling backwards from the ceiling like a twenty-foot-long piece of drooping masonry. His guards had stopped firing.

  'Fire in the hole!' yelled Rourke, sprinting west.

  As his team charged from the chamber, throwing backwards glances towards the falling lizard, the weapon activated behind them.

  #

  Less than sixty seconds before the debacle kicked off, Fontana was holding the flare above his head.

  He and Randerson were arguing again. He spun on Randerson.

  'Come on,' countered Fontana. 'This place ain't that big. We keep moving, stay alive, we'll get squeezed out somewhere eventually. Maybe the entrance on the far side of the Galley has opened.'

  'That's your theory?' asked Randerson. 'Just keep moving and hope it all comes good in the wash?'

  Sounded good to Fontana. In fact, it defined his life up until meeting Spader, and that had all been going OK, hadn't it? Well, best not to dwell on that too much. If Gordon and Spader never mentioned it, then why worry? It was all in the past.

  Fontana waved at the carvings they passed. 'What about that giant lizard, huh? How'd you like to tackle one of those bare-handed? I bet our Aztec brothers would have done better with some modern firepower at their disposal.'

  Randerson seemed to avoid viewing the carvings. 'This place wasn't necessarily built by the Aztecs. No one knows who built it.'

  'Pffft,' countered Fontana. 'Aztec, Maya, Inca - whatever, they're all dead and gone. Little brown fellows who liked carving rocks and poking bones through their noses. They're all the same.'

  Randerson didn't answer. Fontana didn't enjoy the silence.

  'So what's your plan then?' Fontana asked. 'If you've got something better, I'd love to hear it.'

  'I’ve got nothing,' admitted Randerson. He shrugged. 'Find Spader. Get out. Go home.'

  Fontana wacked Randerson's shoulder. 'There ya go. But we'll stick with my plan. Keep moving and shoot anything not wearing a blue shirt. Case closed.'

  Randerson just grunted.

  I wish that guy would perk up, thought Fontana. We're not dead yet. Besides, Fontana had an excellent idea. 'I once heard that if you place your left hand on a wall in a maze and keep walking, you'll eventually find your way out. Apparently it works every time. Foolproof.'

  Even by the red flare-light, Fontana caught Randerson's withering expression. Randerson pinched his nose like he had a migraine. He spoke as though to a child. 'That only works if the walls don't move. And it wouldn’t save us from the chameleons.’

  Fontana shrugged. 'How about that, huh? Real live frigging man-munchers! Who'd have thunk-it? Wonder if they've eaten Spader and the G-man yet.'

  'Well,' started Randerson, ‘if we hear their gunfire, we'll know which way - '

  'Behind you!' yelled Fontana.

  Randerson spun, raising his carbine....only to find a blank barrier behind him. 'Where? What!'

  Fontana smiled at Randerson's back. 'Oops. My bad. False alarm.'

  Randerson tried unsuccessfully to keep the relieved smile from his face. 'You bastard! I nearly crapped my pants!'

  Fontana laughed out loud. 'Dry run. Just keeping you on your toes. If it was a jumbo lizard, I'm pretty sure you'd be toast.'

  Randerson pointed out Fontana's missing body armor. 'You'd know. You were practically in its mouth.'

  Fontana nodded, wishing he hadn't lost his b
ody armor. 'You know I once saw a man kill a bull with his bare hands.'

  Baffled, Randerson stopped mid-stride.

  Fontana held up one hand in case Randerson had forgotten what one looked like. 'His hands, brother.'

  'What has that got to do with anything?'

  Fontana shrugged. 'It just occurred to me. With his bare hands. That's something, huh? This bull kept charging, and this guy just kept taking it in the gut until the bull got tired. The he twisted its head for about five minutes until he broke its neck.'

  'You're talking about a movie. That's in an old movie.'

  'Nah, I lost a bet. My money was on the bull. You should have seen the angry brute. You'd have sworn it was going to tear this guy a new asshole. Ended up hamburgers.'

  Fontana read Randerson's expression. It translated loosely to How did I end up with this freak? Fontana was used to seeing that expression on people. In truth, he spent a good deal of his time intentionally putting it there.

  Randerson said, 'Yeah, well we're going to end up hamburgers if you don't stop talking crap all the time.'

  'Lighten up, why don't you. It's just a story. You’re acting like you've never been chased around a giant stone maze by hungry lizards before.'

  Randerson had to chuckle at that one. It was pretty funny. He said, 'I feel like we've stepped into a movie.'

  'You said it, brother. Last time I ever come to the tropics. I plan on staying home where all it takes to kill a lizard is your boot, not a fucking rocket launcher.’

  Right in the middle of Fontana's sentence, the barriers shifted around them again.

  Both men froze, ready to run or fight as the situation demanded. Standing in the middle of the chamber, Fontana lifted the flare high enough to hopefully illuminate any hostiles within tongue-launching distance. If one grabbed him again, he was going to jam his flare straight down its god-damn mouth. And that was just for starters....

  Fontana spotted movement two chambers away to the east. Unless the reptiles had started carrying flashlights, the immediate threat was of the two-legged variety.

  Spader?

  Fontana squinted through the corridor at the person holding the flashlight. He couldn't see the face, but he saw one thing: No blue shirt.

  Fontana raised his carbine and fired without a moment's hesitation. He fired to kill.

  His target dived away, but not before Fontana squeezed off a spray of lead that he hoped would catch the moving target. Dashing from his exposed position, Fontana came up against the archway opposite Randerson.

  Return fire came blistering back up the corridor towards them.

  'I wasn't kidding that time,' said Fontana. ‘It’s Rourke.’

  As they surveyed their options from this chamber, Fontana heard bedlam breaking out down the corridor. At least half-a-dozen MP5s were firing at the same time.

  'There's no return fire,' declared Randerson, listening. 'The lizards must have found them.'

  Fontana took a quick peek down the corridor again. ‘He must be heading in the same direction as us. Hey, look down there.'

  Randerson shone his flashlight the way Fontana pointed. At least four chambers stood open in a straight line. 'We can get around them. Quick - hurry!'

  Dashing together, both men cut through the corridors and chambers. The noise of gunfire grew louder.

  They're right next to us, realized Fontana. The sound of weapon fire roared from the chamber they were passing. The noise came through a triangle barrier. Fontana saw muzzle flash through the hole. This was too good an opportunity to waste.

  'No. Leave it!' yelled Randerson. 'Come on! They're screwed anyway!'

  Fontana couldn't leave it. It was too good an opportunity to waste. He'd be disrespecting his enemies not to take advantage of their compromised situation. Besides, he might score a few hits on the scaly bastard that nearly nailed him earlier.

  Fontana poked his carbine through the triangle, wishing he could better witness the bedlam he was about to inject into the chamber.

  Cop this for your troubles, Rourke.

  He pulled the trigger, but felt his carbine wrench violently aside.

  Someone's grabbed it! Some cheeky bastard's grabbed my gun!

  The weapon twisted sideways. Fontana pulled the trigger again, hoping the bullets would cut the person in half. If not, he'd fill the chamber with a cloud of ricocheting ammunition. He fired off the entire ammunition clip in one long burst. As the weapon ran empty, he reached for his dagger.

  His opponent proved faster. Before Fontana could stab through the aperture, an incoming metallic canister bounced off his hip.

  'Fire in the hole!' yelled Fontana.

  His rifle came free from the aperture. Dashing two steps, Fontana scooped up the offending article for special delivery back to its owner.

  He had a fair chance of getting the grenade back through the aperture, although it resembled no grenade he'd ever seen....

  As he swung the canister in a sideways throw, it activated.

  The combined screams of a million tortured banshees burst from Fontana's hand. The walls warped. The floor buckled. The ceiling sagged. The inner surface of Fontana's skull flaked shards of bone into his brain. His skeleton vibrated like tensile steel wacked with a hammer

  Across the chamber, Randerson stumbled and fell. He curled into fetal position, clutching his head.

  Someone has sliced into a dimension of pure noise, and what emerged couldn't fit inside the chamber, so it was looking for room in Fontana's head.

  He vomited, seeing the vomit flying before he sensed the act. He should throw the canister back through the triangle, but he couldn't uncover his ears. Instead, he desperately kicked the sonic-weapon away from Randerson.

  Bracing himself, Fontana unclamped his ears. He scooped up Randerson. The increased exposure threatened to shatter his teeth, but he stumbled a mule-headed path away from the weapon, bouncing off the walls twice before he put the first corner between himself and the sonic grenade. Only pure stubbornness prevented him dropping Randerson. Randerson was squirming, but Fontana didn't stop. He'd lost his flare. He ran in the dark. The horrible noise barely abated as he increased the distance. Randerson broke free, and Fontana searched for another flare to escape the still-painful sound.

  A green flare burst to life, Randerson's flare, and without comment they dashed west again. In a split second Fontana was chasing the flare's fizzy green tail, trusting Randerson's superior sense of direction.

  When Randerson stopped running, the noise in Fontana's head was tolerable - barely that of a squealing, retarded piglet hatching from his brain.

  By the green flare-light, Fontana wondered why Randerson was pulling faces at him. After a second, he realized. Randerson was trying to make himself heard.

  Oh, this just gets better and better. Now we're both deaf!

  #

  Merc ran through a haze of numb shock.

  He'd seen Fontana and Randerson blown to pieces. Just like that, both men had been hit by Kline's RPG. And now Kline would be heading into the Gallery to take out Spader and Gordon.

  Merc owed Spader everything.

  Giorgio Mercerelli was seven years into his prison sentence, stale-in-jail, when the books started arriving. Prink, the skinny librarian, just stood with his arm stretched through the bars of Merc's cell. He clutched a fat book with an old crumbling red cover. Merc could smell the book’s age from clear across his cell.

  'I don't want any books,' Mercerelli barked. 'Get your arm out of my space before I rip it off.'

  Prink didn't withdraw his arm. The hand holding the book began to shake. Prink avoided looking at Mercerelli's spare cot. Prison had changed Merc in the last seven years, and his latest cell-mate, Jacobson, had learned that lesson the hard way. If he ever returned from the infirmary, it would be with a permanent limp and an eye-patch. But Merc's 'disagreement' with Jacobson shouldn’t have rattled Prink. Prink looked like he was about to feint with fear.

  'Please, Mercy. I need
to give you this. I've been told to put this book in your hands.'

  'Who sent it?'

  'I don't know who it's from,' answered Prink, at the same time deliberately twitching two fingers slightly with his right hand. The Warden.

  Curious, Merc rose from his cot. He crossed the cell and, without touching it, studied the cover. The title was illegible. It was a very old book, maybe even worth something....

  'Please, Mercy.'

  Merc plucked the book from Prink's shaking hand. Prink yanked his arm back, rubbing his forearm with relief. When Prink moved along, Merc slumped into his cot and searched the book. There was nothing in it. No notes, no underlined sentences, no nothing. Merc tossed it. It struck his cell bars, spread open, then tumbled through the bars and landed with a dull thump a meter into the guards’ corridor.

  Merc sat on his cot, back against the wall, staring into the corridor and thinking. After a minute he knelt and tried to reach the book. It was out of reach. He tried his towel and then, when that didn't work, Jacobson's pillow to drag the book back within reach.

  He took the book back to his cot and started reading from the first page. It was non-fiction, like a text-book or something. The language was very dated. Very formal. The theme of the book seemed to be the search for lost civilizations in India.

  It meant nothing to him. He put the book on the tiny wall-hinged table and decided Prink had some explaining to do.

  Prink provided no explanation, just more books.

  They arrived like clockwork, one a week for the next six months. Magnetic Surveying for Submerged Greek Relics, Archaeology of the Middle East, Chemical Stabilization of Precious Metallic Artifacts - the theme was obvious by the fourth book. By the tenth book, Mercerelli was genuinely interested. Part of that interest stemmed from the mystery of who was sending them (clearly the Warden was having them delivered on behalf of a third party), but part was genuinely down to the subject matter. Merc found himself pouring over the texts. Everything he read seemed to stay in his head, especially the sections on the chemical treatment of artifacts.