by Leo Romero
“You stupid assholes!” Dom shouted back at them. And just when he did, they stopped. The whirring cogs and mechanics came to an abrupt halt, and it turned as quiet as a library.
Dom frowned. “Huh?”
He got up on his haunches. What happened?
He glanced down. There was a small section of stone that had been depressed when he collapsed down on it. He gave himself an ironic chuckle. He’d hit another pressure plate to turn the mechanism off.
“You crazy Mayans,” he said to himself with a rueful grin. They were ingenious, no doubt about it.
But, as much as he wanted to stay and admire ancient civilizations, he needed to get going. Besides, he wanted to get outta that damn tunnel. He pushed his torch forward. Up ahead was the exit. Now, it was just a case of getting out.
With a grin on his face, he got going. “Stupid spikes, can’t get me now, can you?” he said over his shoulder. He faced the exit, his tongue caught between his teeth, a smugness blossoming inside him. Those spikes weren’t any threat now, they were nothing, and—
His knee sunk into another pressure plate.
He stopped dead, his smile vanishing faster than a magician’s assistant.
The slash-clang of the spikes started up again, this time with more frequency. One after the other. Clang! Clang! Clang! In a relentless motion.
He whipped his head back, pushing his torch over his shoulder behind him to see what was going on.
He gulped in terror. Spikes were shooting out of the side walls in horizontal patterns and they were heading up the tunnel toward him. He spun his head left and right. And now his torch illuminated them: the holes in the walls either side of him, running all the way to the end of the tunnel. Holes housing spikes that were about to be triggered.
His eyes popped. Holy shit!
He dropped his torch, got both palms down on stone, and scuttled along like a wind-up toy, his heart bashing his ribs with everything it had.
Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!
Behind him, the clang of the spikes grew with more intensity as they drew closer. They were catching him up; he had to outrun them or he’d be skewered. He snatched a quick look up; the exit, that haven, that solace was getting bigger, but still oh so far away. So, so far away.
And behind him the sounds of terror were growing louder by the second; swish-clang! Swish-clang! SWISH-CLANG!
Dom raced for that rectangular exit, his body working overtime, sore pain jolting up his hands and knees.
Come on, Dom! he urged himself. Come on! PLEASE!
He kept on going through the darkness, that ominous clang behind him still drawing in, getting closer. Closer. Winning the race.
Swish-clang! Swish-clang! SWISH-CLANG!
Where the hell’s this exit! It was like being chased by a shark and land was just within reach.
Go! Go! Go! Go! his mind gibbered in an insane staccato. Just a little more!
His ears pricked. There was an almighty clang just behind him.
Something cold and hard scraped against the sole of his foot.
A petrified scream bolted from his chest.
The impact caused him to stumble. He went into a leap of faith, desperate to get away from those spikes. With a wail of agony, he pounced like a tiger, his fate a complete mystery. He threw his knees into his chest. His hands came back down, his palms slapping on the stone like dead fish.
Without hesitation, he rolled onto his back, his chest heaving. He was expecting spikes to rip him in half, but everything was silent. No more clangs, no more whir of machinery.
He stared at the darkness. What happened? What happened?
He whipped out his Zippo and sparked her up. The flame burned, lighting up a large room.
He’d somehow made it through the tunnel.
He began touching his body, expecting to find blood on his hand. It was clean; he was in the clear. His head fell back against the stone, a joyful groan escaping him. “Oh, man, I made it.” He balled his free hand into a fist. “Yes! I made it!” he said through clenched teeth.
He sat up and shone his light toward the crawlspace exit ahead of him. It was now blocked by horizontal spikes. He frowned, his eyes falling on something else. He moved in close, his jaw dropping in disbelief. Something had been impaled to the tunnel wall by the last set of spikes. It was a sneaker. His sneaker. He glanced down at his foot; his toes wriggled beneath his sock. A chill shot up his spine from that bare foot. He looked back at his impaled sneaker and gulped. “That could’ve been my foot.”
Or my leg, or my head.
An inescapable laugh burst out of his chest. He pointed at the Nike sneaker and cackled, the sound echoing all around him in that underground dungeon.
“Just do it, huh? Yeah, I just did,” he said. “Just,” he added with a nervy breath.
He got his bearings. His Zippo didn’t light up much of the new chamber he was in. So, he edged along, being so careful not to step on any more goddamned pressure plates. Now with only one sneaker, the coldness of the stone floor was apparent. He shivered.
He wondered what else this place had in store for him.
It’s a fun house, a box of tricks. Aren’t you having fun, Dom? he asked himself.
“Time of my life,” he replied to the dank, ancient atmosphere, looking left and right in the height of paranoia.
He took another step and stopped. A tingle ran up and down his spine. He closed his eyes, taking an involuntary breath. He knew what that was. Vampire venom was nearby.
“Magdalena,” he said in a soft whisper. She was giving off her signal. Calling him. “You are real.” He took a shuddering breath. Fear was working its way into his limbs, but alongside it was something else. Excitement. He was close, so close. He just hoped he didn’t mess up now.
He looked about him. He was worried about walking into another trap. He needed more light. He pushed his Zippo toward the wall. It lit up another torch. Nice.
He went and grabbed it, lit it and turned to face the room he was in. It was around twenty-thirty feet long. Opposite him was a solid wall, but he could make out the outline of a door embedded within it. The doorway to Magdalena’s chamber? He hoped so.
His legs wanted to march right up to it, but his instincts had learned from bitter experience to never do such a thing. He arced his torch left and right; he lit up more of those crazy faces. The Mayan gods were snarling and leering and gesticulating at him from the surrounding walls, left, right, behind and ahead. That meant more blow darts ready to rain on him if he made a bad move.
He bit his lower lip and looked down at his feet. On the floor ahead of him was a tic-tac-toe style grid of many repeating squares, spanning the length and breadth of the room. Each square was slightly protruding. Dom nodded. Pressure plates. Painted on the stones were different faces. Dom recognized Magdalena, but there were others. One looked like the Troy guy from back at the Hermosillo pyramid.
Dom worked it out in his mind. He had no choice but to step on the squares to make it through the room. And yeah, he had to step on the right faces, or it was Skeleton Guy time. But, which squares were the safe ones?
Something then clicked in his mind. Yeah, the same grid but smaller was painted on the wall at the pyramid, and it had the solution!
Dom gave himself an enthusiastic nod. “Nice one, Trix,” he said, joy at her foresight flooding his veins. If she’d never taken those snaps, then he’d have been mincemeat ages ago. He fished her smartphone out of his pocket. All he had to do was check the snap, and step on the stones that were X’ed out. Simple.
With a positive grin, he went to bring up the image. This was gonna be a piece of—
His jaw dropped in horror. The smartphone screen was smashed. A spider web of cracks obscured the screen, making it impossible to check.
I-I-I his mind stammered. What?
He glared at the smartphone in his hand in numb disbelief. It just stared back at him, cracked and broken.
A bolt of anger sp
lit him in two. “Oh, crap!” he shouted at the ceiling. “This can’t be happening!” He wiped the screen on his thigh and checked it. It was still cracked. “Seriously? SERIOUSLY?”
I thought she said these frickin’ things were military grade!
He glanced back at the exit to the mineshaft. He must have smashed it against the wall in there. He turned back, a grim reality now setting into his mind. He stared down at the grid by his feet with unabridged terror.
There was no way of knowing which squares to take to make it through the room alive.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Trixie made it to the end of the dirt track and back out to the river. Their boat was exactly where they left it. She jumped in, just as Rafa and Alicia arrived at the bank.
“Come on!” said Trixie.
Alicia got in first, Rafa following up.
“Get this thing moving!” Trixie ordered.
Rafa leaped to the front of the boat and fired up the engine. It chugged into life. Raised voices by the bank made Trixie’s head spin. The remaining monks and thugs were at the riverbank, gesticulating at them as they pulled away.
“Duck,” Trixie screamed.
Alicia fell back, lying flat on the deck; Trixie fell on her front.
A gunshot split the air.
“Get us outta here, Rafa!” Trixie shouted.
Rafa began veering left and right to make them a more difficult target, all the while the engine pushed them forward through the water.
Trixie peeked out over the edge of the boat. The guys chasing them were clambering into their boat. Trixie groaned. Not another boat chase.
“Step on it, Rafa,” she demanded.
Rafa pushed down on the throttle and the engine began to rumble. Trixie checked on their pursuers. They were gaining. Hard. Their boat was more powerful. A guy was aiming a gun again.
It went off. Wood splintered somewhere around her.
“Alicia!” Rafa shouted above the noise of the engine. Alicia turned his way.
“Take over here!” Rafa ordered. In a bent over position, Alicia scampered to the engine. She took control while Rafa got his crossbow ready. He slipped a skewer into the groove and pulled the string back. He peeked over the frame at the attacking boat. The guy with the gun was aiming again.
Rafa let him have it.
The skewer sliced through the thug’s gun hand and straight into his face. He stood upright, his hand virtually nailed to his face. He screamed and toppled, falling into the river.
“Good shot!” Trixie said to him.
“Gracias.”
The other boat kept up the chase regardless. Another thug was now aiming their gun and taking potshots. Behind him, monks in robes cowered. Trixie knew if they could get rid of that remaining thug, the monks would be easy to handle. It was all down to Rafa.
He slipped another skewer into the groove of his crossbow and aimed. He fired. Trixie peeked over the edge of the boat in anticipation. The skewer missed the thug and hit a monk in the throat. He fell back on the deck, choking.
Rafa groaned in disappointment. “Missed,” he lamented as the gunshots continued. He loaded his crossbow again and fired. This time he hit the frame of the boat. “Ach!” bemoaned Rafa as he went to pull out another skewer from his quiver. “Uh?”
Trixie flicked her eyes his way. “What’s wrong?”
Rafa was looking down at his quiver, his eyes wide with concern. “No more ammo,” he said with a shake of his head. His quiver was dry. No more skewers, no more weapons.
A gunshot went off and Trixie ducked. “Great,” she said to herself, staring at the foliage overhead as they sped beneath it. They had to shake these guys off.
She took another peek over the frame of the boat. There were three of them; one thug, two monks. The thug was aiming his gun. They hit a small wave and he almost lost his balance. While the thug regained his composure, one of the monks picked something up from the deck and handed it to him.
Trixie’s eyes widened.
The thug gleefully took the submachine gun from the monk and jumped to the head of the boat.
“Oh, crap!” Trixie groaned.
“Get down!” Rafa shouted at Alicia.
She threw herself to the deck, the boat veering off of its own accord.
Trixie watched the sick grin spread across the thug’s face before he aimed his new toy and began shooting.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Dom’s head dropped. “Oh, man, what am I gonna do now?” He gazed from the cracked smartphone screen to the contorted faces leering back at him. Dread rose in his heart. The Mayan god depictions were ready to spit their poison into his veins. Man, he was so close, could literally feel Magdalena calling, but was one step away from death. One wrong step.
He stared down at the stones ahead of him like they were hungry alligators skulking in a river, waiting for lunch to come their way. He laid eyes on the image of Magdalena scrawled over the nearest one. When he looked close, he could see her image had been painted over original etchings in the stone. It was the same for all the other stones. The new images had been painted over etchings of Mayan gods like those on the walls sweating him down. The Brotherhood must’ve done it as some point. Whatever, he needed to get across this grid to the opposite wall.
He raised a shaky foot, and went to place it down upon Magdalena’s face. A jolt of fear rocked him and he reeled his foot back in.
His heart began pounding in terror. He was just as close to death as he was to Magdalena.
He gazed down at the myriad of painted faces stretched out on the floor ahead of him. Man, which stones were the right ones?
He closed his eyes, his mind working behind them, the tingle in his spine ongoing. Okay, we’re heading to Magdalena, he rationalized. And I know what she looks like from all the shrines and dedications to her.
He opened his eyes. So, it’s gotta be the pictures of the fine lady herself.
He began nodding. “That makes sense, right?” he asked the empty chamber. He was answered by silence.
He steadied himself, his eyes falling on Magdalena’s crazy face painted on that block ahead of him. He gave the faces in the surrounding walls one final look and raised his sneakerless foot ahead of him. He held it in the air, and licked his lips.
He had a final glance at a face in the wall; it had its fingers in its mouth, pulling it wide in a childish gesture. Ne-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne!
Dom wiggled his toes. He took in a deep breath. Here goes nothing!
He brought his foot down on Magdalena’s face. The stone depressed under his weight. There was a click.
Then a phut!
He gasped in horror, rooted to the spot. A dull thud flicked his wrist back.
His back straightened, his eyes widening in fright. I’ve been hit, I’ve been hit!
His mind raced in a million different directions. He messed up! He pushed the wrong stone and he’d been shot up with poison. This was it, he was done for. He hoped it was fast acting.
But, where did it hit? My leg? My arm?
He looked down his body with frantic eyes. Where are you? Where are you?
There was nothing visibly sticking out of him. And he’d felt no pain, no sharp prick, nothing.
He gazed around him in confusion, those faces still laughing at him, mocking him.
Then, he stared at his hand, the one holding the torch. He ran his eyes up, rotating the torch. His eyes widened. No way...
A dart was sticking out of the torch handle, a couple of inches up from his grip. He shot his free hand up to his forehead and he staggered back, a mix of dread and relief flooding him. His foot came off the stone and it popped back up with a click. He bent over, the raw emotions swirling in his stomach—fear, anxiety, relief, shock, all creating a noxious brew that was like a blast from a shotgun.
He took a look back at the dart embedded in the torch handle, just to make sure it was real. Yep, it was there. If he’d been holding that torch an inch left, right, up, or down, he
’d have caught it right in the chest.
I should be dead, he realized, glaring at that dart in wonderment. He reached out his free hand to pull it out, then thought better of it.
“Just leave it,” he told himself. “Good luck charm.”
He grabbed a few seconds to steady himself, to let the storm of emotions fade away into calm.
He wiped the sweat from his heated face. He glanced back at that dart stuck in the torch handle. It was still there; a stark reminder of how much his life hung by a thread. The more he stared at it, the more surreal it was. He couldn’t believe it. He should be dead.
“You will be if you keep making stupid mistakes like that!” he scolded himself. “Think!”
So, the faces of Magdalena were a no-no, at least he could rule them out, but there were still plenty of other distinct patterns on the stones. There was no way he could risk testing them all out; he got lucky just now, but he was sure he’d used up all his luck in that one moment.
He edged up to the blocks and gazed down at them. There had to be a clue somewhere. Yeah, on the phone you smashed!
He growled in frustration. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek. Then, something popped in his mind. Sitting down at the table with Alicia and her father’s notes. There was that one picture in particular with the Spanish beneath it. What did Alicia translate it as? Something about unholy people being able to pass?
No, no, that wasn’t it. Something about the blood. About... A spark went off in his mind. He clicked his fingers. Unclean blood. Then, he remembered. Only those with unclean blood can face the Unholy Mother.
Yeah, that was it. He gazed down at the images sprawled out ahead of him. He laid eyes on Troy Guy.
Dom nodded. “Troy,” he said to the gloomy chamber. “They’re talking about Troy.” The man with the unclean blood. The one who they brought here to face Magdalena.
Troy’s the key to all of this, he then realized. Somehow, they believe in Troy. They think he’s... a god.
Dom shook his head. “These guys are nuts.” A grim flashback of the last ten minutes trapped in this craphole was more than enough to verify that.