His finger tensed on the trigger. He was prepared to swing the barrel to his left at the first indication of the commencement of the impending assault, but he couldn't afford to tip his hand too soon. So far, as he had theorized, the predators clung to the darkness, staying well out of the light. He couldn't trust that advantage to last indefinitely. They were sizing him up, gauging what kind of threat he posed, while simultaneously assessing his weaknesses and plotting the most opportune moment to spring the trap he could feel closing around him with each step.
They were smart, which not only made them more dangerous, but unpredictable. With their sheer numbers and their familiarity with the topography, they could have slain him a hundred times over, and yet they continued to stalk him. The only explanation was that they weren't simply waiting for the perfect opportunity, they were determining the best course of action to take all of them at once.
Shift change was nearly upon him, and while he welcomed the chance to distance himself from the hunters, which he had no doubt skulked through the foliage mere feet from him, he trusted no one else with his life. Sending the other men out to the perimeter could very well mean sentencing them to their deaths, but worse was the prospect of posting himself in a stationary position at the mouth of a bottleneck with nothing more than a stone wall at his back and three-hundred sixty degrees of dark jungle surrounding him. If they were unable to hold the creatures beyond the intangible perimeter of light, then they would be forced to fall back into the inner sanctum with the civilians where there was no means of escape except through the teeth of the enemy. They would only be able to fire blindly through the opening until they either ran out of ammunition or were overwhelmed and slaughtered.
Fortunately, he still had a surprise or two up his sleeve. These creatures may have become adept at dodging arrows, and maybe even the occasional bullet, but there was no way they would be ready for what he had in store for them when worse came to worst.
Colton felt the comfortable weight of the grenades in his jacket pockets against his belly.
The hint of a smile curled the corners of his lips.
He rounded the western portion of the patch of light. The peak rose above him, stepped with gardens gone feral, all the way up into the clouds. He wondered briefly how anyone had lived here long enough to grow anything with this unknown species running rampant through the wilderness. They must have arrived and erected their village first, before their presence summoned the predators from wherever they had been previously. For them to have been worshipped by tribes as far north as Mexico, the creatures had to be nomadic. So why then had they stayed here for so long? Was it possible that the surviving Chachapoya had kept them here by feeding and protecting them?
Turning back to the east, he weaved through the foliage toward the line of blazing torches. Morton and Webber stood like statues to either side of the doorway. He felt their stares pass over him. Even from the distance, he could sense the fear radiating from them.
He ascended the muddy slope to the main entrance, wary of the darkness along the western face of the building. If only there had been more time to clear the trees away from the structure. He wished the jungle was dry enough to burn.
Webber moved away from the wall and struck off toward the forest without a word. Colton settled in behind him and watched the man tromp to the edge of the darkness, all the while expecting black shapes to explode from the underbrush.
What in the name of God were they waiting for?
VI
9:56 p.m.
Sam watched through the doorway as Morton and Webber walked across the overgrown courtyard toward the darkened trees. She felt so impotent, merely waiting for whatever was about to transpire to play out before her. The air was positively charged with foreboding. It was no longer a matter of if something was going to happen, but when. She looked to her right, past Merritt, to where Colton stood, his face a mask of concentration. He directed his rifle toward the trees, moving it slowly from left to right, absorbing every little detail. She was certain he could feel it too. Things were about to come to a head.
To her left, Sorenson followed Colton's lead, his posture rigid. He didn't once blink.
Merritt's hand found hers and gave a reassuring squeeze. She held it tightly, grateful for the physical contact. He had paled considerably and his hair was more unkempt than usual, but he radiated an aura of calmness that belied the situation.
"We're going to be all right, aren't we?" she whispered.
He offered a silent nod, but failed in his attempt at a smile.
She released his hand and turned back toward the fire. Uncertainty gnawed at her. There were still several questions for which she couldn't fathom the answers. She had originally dismissed them, and yet somehow they had grown more insistent.
"Why did they need so many torches?" she asked. "And why did they stockpile so much thermite? Was firelight alone not enough?"
"My best guess is the creatures are like owls," Galen said. His voice quivered when he spoke, but not nearly as badly as his hands. "Physiologically, their eyes are designed for optimal night vision, as evidenced by the eyeshine. Low levels of light are amplified by the tapetum lucidum so that the visual receptors accurately glean details from the darkness. Bright light overwhelms their sense of sight, overstimulating the retinas. I'd imagine that for them, the glare of the thermite is equivalent to looking directly into the sun for us."
"So the light blinds them," Merritt said.
"Definitely an oversimplification, but a functional assertion nevertheless. It doesn't technically blind them, but rather prevents them from being able to clearly see, effectively creating a massive blind spot, rather than a condition of blindness."
"Then they won't attack because of the torches," Leo said.
"I wouldn't wager my life on that. A starving owl will hunt during the day." Galen paused. "You have to understand that birds of prey hunt with more than just sight. Their senses of hearing and smell are also highly developed. Carrion birds follow the stench of rotting meat to find their meals. And while they may have acute vision, it's largely motion sensitive. That's why birds like hawks and falcons will emit shrill cries while circling a field. They can't clearly differentiate their prey from the weeds until it moves. The recognition of the bird's cry is ingrained in a rodent's DNA. It triggers the flight mechanism in their brains, and they run for cover. The raptor then sees the movement and dives toward the source, claws unfurled."
The ceiling groaned. All eyes rose in time to watch a small stream of dust and dirt cascade through a curtain of hair-like roots. They continued to stare at the stone roof for several long minutes. There was no repeat occurrence.
Something else still troubled Sam. The scars. All of the Chachapoya men were heavily scarred under the black body paint. While violence and ritualistic sacrifice were commonplace among the primitive South American tribes, self-mutilation was generally limited to piercings and tattoos. The scars had shown no identifiable patterns and almost appeared as though they had been inflicted during battle. But with no other tribe to wage war against, who could have caused such dramatic wounds? And why the head-to-toe black paint? Was there some sort of religious significance or was it a cultural sign of status? She remembered the women tending to the crops. None of them had been scarred, nor had they been painted. Only the men. What did it mean? She felt as though the answer was of great consequence, but for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.
The Chachapoya had managed to survive for hundreds of years in close proximity to these creatures. Other than sacrificing livestock to them, what were they doing to protect themselves? Hiding behind fortified walls and burning torches may have kept the village secure, but they had originally seen the painted natives at night. Knowing what lurked in the darkness, surely they wouldn't have unduly risked their lives without some way of ensuring their own safety. Was it possible that the dark paint allowed them to blend into the shadows?
She was just about to vo
calize her thoughts when Merritt pressed a finger to his lips. He furrowed his brow and turned in a circle. His eyes eventually fixed upon the back wall of the chamber.
Slowly, he walked toward the row of doorways they had barricaded with fallen stones.
"What is it?" Galen asked. "Did you hear---?"
Merritt whirled and shushed him, then crept closer to the middle mound of rubble. He leaned closer and tilted his right ear to the jumble of rocks.
Sam followed and leaned over his shoulder.
She could clearly hear it now. A subdued shuffling sound. Something soft moving across stone. The faint trickle of pebbles tumbling through the pile of debris.
"Something's testing the wall from the other side," Merritt whispered directly into her ear.
This time her hand sought his.
The noises ceased, only to resume moments later behind the doorway to their right.
More dust shivered from the roof, shimmering like glitter in the firelight.
Sam turned to see Colton step in front of the outer doorway, weapon raised toward the jungle.
The muffled noises on the other side of the rubble grew louder, frantic. It sounded like something was trying to scratch its way through the stone.
A cloud of dust rained from above.
Sam squeezed Merritt's hand so hard that it hurt. He cautiously pulled her around behind him and stood between her and the lone entrance.
"Oh God," she whispered.
Leo and Galen rose from the fireside and retreated deeper into the room.
The wait was finally over.
Chapter Eleven
I
Andes Mountains, Peru
October 30th
10:00 p.m. PET
After what felt like an eternity of planning and hunting, the magic hour had finally arrived. Tasker's heartbeat reached a fluttering crescendo, which he slowed to a calm, metered rhythm. He mentally centered himself, leaned away from the trunk of the tree, and balanced on the thick branch with his feet alone in true predatory fashion. Silently, he slung the rifle back over his shoulder and unsheathed his knife. He adjusted the grip in his fist until it felt natural, like a fluid extension of his right arm through which even his blood flowed. All that remained was to wait for his prey to walk within range, and then it was all over, except for the bleeding.
He imagined McMasters poised for the kill in exactly the same stance. Whose quarry would be the first to fall? Who would deliver the first killing stroke?
Perhaps he would try to glean that information from his partner before he dispatched him as well.
Everything had gone so smoothly, so easily, that it was as if the long forgotten gods who had once lorded over this land blessed him alone, favoring him with good fortune for the hunt. Of course, sacrificing his own men might have bought him a little extra help from the ravenous deities of yore.
Ears attuned to the slightest sound beneath the thunder and the patter of rainfall, he waited patiently. He closed his eyes and attempted to become one with the jungle. Flies droned and mosquitoes hummed. The far off waterfall rumbled, a sound he could feel more than hear, as though the tree upon which he crouched were a plucked bass string.
His eyes snapped open at the first hint of footsteps on the detritus. Thus far, their prey had made little effort to mask their passage. They made enough noise to wake even the skeletal dead littering the ground. How many men had died here through the centuries? And to think that only he would ever walk away from this burial ground.
Leaves crackled and branches snapped. Soft exhalations reached him. He even heard the shush of pants between thighs, the tap of raindrops on a poncho.
A shadow stepped into view, farther away than he would have liked, but still well within range.
He glanced up at the front entrance of the main structure. The guards were so far away that he could barely see them, but he could tell that they hadn't raised the alarm.
Focusing on his prey, he leapt from the branch, arms extended. He swatted aside smaller branches and dodged a wide limb.
The wiry man below him stopped and looked up at the commotion. Tasker saw the pale, freckled face of a Midwestern farmboy through the fanned fingers of his left hand as he raised the blade in his right.
The man's eyes widened and his shoulders rose in a futile attempt to draw enough breath to shout a warning. He barely had time to raise his arms in his defense before Tasker's weight slammed down onto him. He palmed the man's forehead and hammered his head against the ground. Ribs cracked and bushes rustled. He pressed harder, driving his prey's skull into the mud with such force that the man had no choice but to tip up his chin.
Fatal mistake.
Tasker slashed his knife across the exposed throat. A flash of reflected silver and warmth splashed across his cheek. There was a high-pitched shriek. He clapped his hand over the man's mouth and nose, but the noise originated from the severed trachea. The voiceless scream faded to a whistle, and finally to a gurgle.
The blood no longer spattered Tasker's face and torso, but poured out onto the wet earth.
He rode out the body's final spasms until it eventually stilled under him.
Tasker removed his hand from the lower half of the man's face and rose just high enough to see over the tangle of shrubs. The two sentries still stood in the blinding light to either side of the doorway. Neither of them so much as looked in his direction.
Perfect.
He swiped the blade on his pants, returned it to its sheath, and swung the rifle around until he cradled it in his bloody hands.
There was a crashing sound from the west. A man cried out.
Damn it.
Tasker ducked and sprinted toward the source of the commotion.
"Webber?" a voice called from across the clearing. "Morton?"
McMasters had spoiled their advantage. It would only be a matter of moments before the other guards split up to investigate. One would head out into the forest, weapon at the ready, while the other would hold his post.
He heard more thrashing in the bushes. The forest was playing tricks with the acoustics. It almost sounded like the noises originated behind him.
Bursting through the thicket, he nearly slammed into McMasters, who knelt over the bloody mess of what had once been a short Hispanic man.
McMasters looked up at him. The black paint on his face glistened with the fresh application of blood, and it appeared as though a large chunk of his ear had been cut off. No. It had been bitten off, just above the conch. He held his left arm tightly against his chest, a guarding posture that suggested either a broken rib or a dislocated shoulder.
Rage boiled inside of Tasker. He wanted to lash out at McMasters, but now was not the time.
Voices echoed through the forest. It wouldn't be long before they initiated the search for their unresponsive patrolmen.
The swift death he would have granted his subordinate was no longer in the offering. For his carelessness, Tasker promised himself that he would prolong McMasters's suffering and subject him to unendurable agony.
He shoved McMasters ahead of him into a wall of saplings and around the ruins of a hut.
Speed was of the essence.
Behind him, the forest came to life with threshing sounds, as though the trees themselves were being torn apart.
II
10:06 p.m.
Colton called for his men again, but there was still no answer. How long had it been? A minute? Five?
Sorenson looked over at him expectantly, awaiting his orders. His eyes were wide with fear, yet he would do whatever was required of him.
Colton had to decide their course of action right now. He was out of time.
Shrubs rustled at the edge of sight against the jungle, bowing violently in sections. They were out there, and they no longer tried to hide their numbers. He couldn't see them, but with the way the underbrush shook, there had to be dozens of them. Either that or they were fast. Really fast.
"Morton and Webbe
r are dead," Colton finally said.
"Don't you at least want me to try to---?"
"They're dead, soldier. Tell me you have any doubt."
Sorenson opened his mouth to object, then let it fall slowly closed. His jaw muscles bulged several times and his eyes narrowed to slits before he finally found his voice. "What are your orders?"
"Hold your post. Nothing gets past us. If anything moves, you send it right back to hell. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"What's going on?" Merritt asked from behind him.
"Can you still handle a rifle?" Colton asked.
"What happened to the other---?"
"Can you still handle a goddamn rifle or not?" Colton snapped.
"They're gone, aren't they?" Sam asked. Colton could hear the tears in the woman's voice, but he had neither the time nor the patience to coddle her.
"Get in the back of the chamber. Don't come anywhere near this doorway again until I signal that everything is safe." He reached back and shoved her into the room. "Merritt. I need to know right now if you can---"
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