The Devil Colony

by James Rollins

  Monk pointed his rifle.

  Wide-eyed, the kid stared from the weapon to Monk’s face and said, “Shit.” He pointed to an older, rust-pocked Pontiac Firebird and backed away, sliding a bit in the suds. “Listen, man. Keys are in the car.”

  Monk pointed to the Humvee. “So are ours. Feel free to take it.”

  The kid did not seem so inclined. He was no fool. He had taken stock of the situation.

  Gray hurried to the Firebird, threw the priceless plate in the trunk, and got behind the wheel. Keys hung from the ignition, along with a silver skull-shaped fob. He hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.

  The others piled in, with Seichan taking the front passenger seat this time. Monk clambered into the back. A minute later, they were crossing out of the city limits. Gray had them yank the batteries from their cell phones, to keep anyone from tracking them. He couldn’t take any chances, not with the treasure that was sitting in the trunk.

  Before pulling his battery, he noted an unopened voice mail from his parents’ home number. He didn’t have time to deal with it at the moment. He also didn’t want to risk drawing undue attention to himself and the others by calling his parents. Besides, he had supplied his mother with a list of emergency numbers. That should hold them for a while.

  Eventually Gray knew that the three of them would have to buy disposable phones, something that couldn’t be connected to them, in order to reach Sigma and determine the best course of action from this point. But for now they had to keep moving, keep under the radar.

  With all their electronic tails severed, Gray headed due south, using a map he purchased with cash from a gas station. He edged his speed up along the back roads, avoiding major thoroughfares, eking out as much power as the old V-8 engine could muster. The only trail he left behind was oily smoke rising from his tailpipe, coming from a bad cylinder head.

  At least he hoped that was the only trail.

  As he drove, the tiny silver skull kept knocking against the steering wheel column, as if trying to warn him.

  But of what?

  Chapter 29

  May 31, 6:43 P.M.

  Beneath the Arizona desert

  It’ll be okay . . .

  Down on one knee, Hank Kanosh patted Kawtch’s flanks, trying to calm the dog. The explosions a moment ago had set them both to trembling. That and the cold chill of the icy tomb. With only the one flashlight, he sat in a solitary pool of light. The dark tomb loomed over his shoulder as he stared at the tunnel opening.

  What is happening up there?

  He should never have agreed to stay down here.

  Kawtch burst up from his haunches to his paws, hackles bristling. A low growl of warning emanated from his throat. Then Hank heard it, too. Muffled voices, faint and growing louder, echoed out of the tunnel.

  Who is coming? Friend or foe?

  Then the scraping of boots sounded—and a small shape slid on his backside out of the icy passageway. The limber form bounded to his feet. Kawtch barked a greeting while Hank backed a wary step until his mind made sense of the newcomer, recognizing him.

  “Jordan?”

  “Get back!” the young man said. He ran up, grabbed Hank by the arm, and hauled him away from the tunnel.

  “What’s going—?”

  Painter and Kowalski fell out of the opening next.

  They split in opposite directions, diving away.

  Then an impossible sight.

  From the mouth of the passageway, a massive black worm extruded into the cavern, shooting all the way to the ice-encrusted ruins. The tubular shape quickly grew misshapen, melting, sighing out with a sulfurous steam. A large bubble burst, spattering out hotter, molten material from the interior.

  Mud.

  More of the thickening goop poured out of the tunnel, piling and worming into the space, building higher and higher, continually burbling outward in surges and belches of half-molten mud.

  Painter joined Hank and Jordan while Kowalski skirted around the cooling edge.

  “The enemy sealed us in,” Painter explained, gasping a bit, holding his side. He waved them all farther back. “The explosion cracked through the cavern wall, unleashing a lake of flaming mud.”

  Jordan rubbed his arms against the cold chill.

  “We have to keep moving.” Painter eyed the mountain building behind them. “The cold down here is the only thing that saved us. It’s cooling the mud, turning it to sludge, forming a semiplug in the tunnel. But we can’t count on it holding. The lake building above will eventually melt its way down here, or the mounting pressure will blast the plug out. Either way, we don’t want to be here when that happens.”

  Hank agreed. He stared at the Anasazi tomb. The dead souls here would finally get a proper interment, buried in more than just ice.

  Jordan asked an important question. He tried to sound as brave as the others, but a squeak to his voice betrayed his terror. “Where can we go?”

  “This must be a huge cavern system,” Painter said. “So for now we keep moving.”

  Making the necessity for this abundantly clear, at that moment a great gout of fresh mud burst out of the tunnel, swamping across the cavern, steaming, bubbling with gas—before cooling. As they backed away, more and more hot mud flowed into the cavern, flooding in faster.

  Painter pointed to one of the tunnels—the largest—that exited the cave. “Go!”

  They fled at a reckless clip. Painter took the lead with a flashlight; Kowalski kept behind them with another. The tunnel ran deeper underground, still treacherously icy. Hank pictured the ancient flood that had drowned the Anasazi’s hidden settlement, imagining it draining away down this very tunnel, eventually turning to ice.

  Jordan ran a hand along the low ceiling. “I think we’re in an old lava tube. This could keep going down and down forever.”

  “That’s not good,” Painter said. “We need to find a way up. The mud will continue to drain deeper. We have to get clear of its path.”

  “And we’d better find that way fast!” Kowalski called from the back.

  Hank looked over his shoulder, but Kowalski flashed his beam down. It took a breath for Hank to note the water trickling underfoot now, pouring down from above. Kawtch’s paws splashed in the thin stream. The mud must have reached this tunnel’s mouth, melting the ice above and sending it flowing after them.

  Painter set a faster pace.

  After another ten minutes—which seemed more like an hour—they finally reached the tube’s end.

  “Oh no,” Hank moaned, stepping next to Painter.

  The tunnel ended high up a cliff wall. Painter pointed his light over the edge. They couldn’t even see the bottom of the precipitous drop, but a gurgling rush of water was echoing upward. Directly ahead, across an eight-foot gap, stood the opposite cliff. The lava tube continued on that far side. It was like some mighty god had taken a giant cleaver and split this section of the earth, cutting the tunnel in half.

  “It’s a slip fault,” Painter said. “We’ll have to jump. It’s not that far. With a running start, we should be able to dive into that other tunnel.”

  “Are you mad?” Hank asked.

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  Kowalski sided with Hank. “Bullshit. My eyesight’s not that bad.”

  “I can do it,” Jordan said, and waved everyone back. “I’ll go first.”

  “Jordan . . .” Hank cautioned.

  “It’s not like we have any choice,” the young man reminded him.

  No one could argue with that.

  They backed up the tunnel and gave him enough room for a running start.

  “Careful,” Hank said, patting Jordan on the shoulder.

  He gave them a thumbs-up—then ran low, splashing in the growing stream, and leaped headlong across the gap. Like a young muscular arrow, he shot straight through the air and dove cleanly into the far opening, sliding on his belly across the icy bottom of the next tube. He vanished for a bit—then popped back.

&nb
sp; “It’s really not that bad,” he said, panting, wearing a huge smile.

  Easy for him to say . . .

  “I’ll go next,” Painter said. “Once I’m there, Kowalski, you throw me the dog.”

  Kowalski looked at Kawtch; the dog looked at the big man.

  Neither looked happy about that idea.

  After a bit of maneuvering, Painter ran and made the leap as smoothly as Jordan.

  Kowalski then picked up Kawtch, slinging him between his legs. The dog wiggled until Hank got him to calm down with a pat and whispered reassurances.

  “Sheesh, Doc. What are you feeding this guy?”

  “Just be careful,” Hank said, holding a hand to his throat.

  Kowalski stepped to the edge of the drop-off, bent deep at the waist—then heaved upward. Kawtch yelped in surprise, legs splaying out like a flying squirrel. Painter leaned out and caught the dog cleanly. They both fell back into the tunnel amid a rout of barking protest.

  Hank choked out his relief—until Kowalski turned to him.

  “That means you’re next.”

  He swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “It’s that or I throw you across like your dog. Your pick, Doc.”

  Hank couldn’t decide which was worse.

  Painter called from the other side. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

  “Okay, let’s do this,” Hank said, forcing as much bravado into those words as he could.

  He backed up the tunnel alongside Kowalski.

  “I can push you . . . give you a running start,” the large man offered.

  Before he could answer, a low sighing gasp made them both turn. Kowalski pointed his flashlight up the lava tube. The beam ended at a wall of mud about twenty feet away. It had crept up on them silently, like some skilled assassin, oozing down the tube. As they watched, the sludge wall melted open and hot mud began to run out of its center, extending its reach.

  “Now or never, Doc.”

  A low rumble alerted them to trouble.

  The flowing mud suddenly exploded toward them. Hot sludge pelted their bodies, burning skin, stinking of sulfur. Bubbling mud followed in its wake, pouring down at them.

  “Run!” Kowalski said.

  Hank took off, Kowalski at his heels.

  Crouched over, Hank ran as fast as he could, but as he reached the end, the water-slick ice betrayed him. His legs went out from under him and he toppled crookedly over the edge.

  “Got you, Doc!” A beefy arm scooped him around the waist—then carried him in a hurdling tackle across the dark chasm.

  Hank wanted to close his eyes, but that scared him more.

  They failed to hit the tunnel as smoothly as the other two. Kowalski clipped his shoulder, sending them tumbling in a tangle of limbs down the throat of the icy tunnel. They crashed into Painter, who could not get out of the way in time.

  But eventually they came to a halt. After a bit of figuring whose limbs belonged to whom, they gained their feet. Jordan had returned to the tunnel’s mouth, staring across the gap.

  Hank joined him, bruised in odd places.

  A new mud waterfall had been born. From the far tube, they could see sludge gushing in a flowing, sulfurous stream. As Hank watched, he caught a flash of a blackened leg poke out of the flow. It was one of the Anasazi bodies, washed from its icy tomb.

  The corpse, now buried in mud, vanished below.

  Hank said a silent prayer for the lost soul, for all of them—then turned back.

  Kowalski expressed what all of them were thinking. “Now what?”

  7:28 P.M.

  They all sorely needed the rest break.

  “We’ll stop here,” Painter said, and sank to his butt, exhausted.

  After escaping the mud, he had led them to the end of the lava tube. It had dumped them into a growing maze of tunnels, chutes, rock falls, and blind alleys. For the past half hour, Painter kept trying to climb upward, hoping for the best, but each time, they were eventually driven back deeper.

  Needing to collect himself and think, he called for a stop in this small cavern. He searched around. Tunnels branched off in three different directions.

  Where now?

  Painter stared at his mud-coated companions. Hank let the others take turns sipping from his CamelBak water pouch. Kowalski had already drained his, and Painter had lost his pack to that Amazon woman. They kept hearing water but could never find its location. Dehydration, more than anything, threatened them. If the chill didn’t kill them, the lack of water would.

  How long could they keep this up?

  Hank looked one step away from collapsing as he sat next to his dog. Kowalski fared little better. He sweated like a racehorse, losing pints of water every few minutes. Even Jordan looked hollow-eyed and lost.

  Painter knew that what was weighing them all down, making every step harder, was the futility of their situation. He felt doubly crushed. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Kai’s face as she was dragged away, hear her sobbing cries.

  Was she even still alive?

  That worry plagued another. Jordan had voiced similar questions as they hiked, never straying far from that same fear. The two had apparently grown close.

  Jordan leaned his head back against the wall, too tired to move. Painter studied him, suddenly recognizing how truly young he was. Jordan had held up as well as any man, but he was still barely out of boyhood.

  As Painter stared, he noted the youth’s small cowlick—really just a few hairs sticking up—bend ever so slightly, quivering. Jordan scratched his head, perhaps feeling it, too.

  It took Painter a few extra moments to realize the truth.

  That’s the answer . . .

  He sprang up, shedding his exhaustion like so much dead skin. “There’s a breeze blowing through here,” he said. “It’s faint, but it’s here.”

  Kowalski opened one eye. “So?”

  “This is a breathing cavern system. And it’s still breathing.”

  Hank’s eyes widened, the dullness fading. He lifted a damp hand, trying to feel that faint breath.

  Painter explained. “Just because one blowhole got plugged, that doesn’t mean they all did. By following the direction of this breeze, it should lead us to a way out.”

  Kowalski slapped a palm on his thigh and stood. “Then what are we waiting for? Once we’re out of here, I’m looking for the nearest watering hole. And for once in my damned life, I really mean water.”

  With renewed hope, they set off.

  But not before Kowalski made an addendum to that last statement. “Of course, just to be clear, that doesn’t mean I would turn down a cold beer if someone offered.”

  The hike from this point on was no less strenuous or frustrating than what came before, but hope now buoyed their spirits, kept them moving forward. They tested each crossroads with a small match from Hank’s backpack, watching the direction of the smoke. The breeze grew stronger and stronger over the next two hours, which only encouraged them to move faster.

  “We must be near the surface,” Hank said, and sucked on the blue plastic tube to his CamelBak. From the forlorn gurgle as he sucked, he was empty.

  They needed to find the way out.

  Painter checked his watch.

  9:45 P.M.

  After another hour, it still seemed they were no closer to the surface. Out of water, down to one flashlight with working batteries, they were running out of time.

  Hank heard a strange popping-crackle sounding underfoot. A rock had shattered under his boot. He pointed his light down. Bits of black-and-white pottery skittered across the limestone.

  It wasn’t a rock, but a pot.

  He bent down and picked up a shard. “This is Anasazi handiwork.”

  Painter focused his beam up the rocky chute they’d been climbing along the past ten minutes. He spotted more bowls and clay vessels resting on shelves of rock.

  “Look at this,” Jordan said behind him. “Cave art.”
>
  Hank moved down to the youth’s side. Painter had missed seeing the clue when he passed by it a moment ago, exhaustion making him sloppy.

  “Petroglyphs,” Hank said, and stared up the chute. “Painter, could you turn off your flashlight?”

  Painter sensed that the professor was onto something and flicked off his lamp.

  Total darkness closed over them.

  No, not total darkness.

  Painter stared up. Faint light glowed up there, barely more than a grayness against the black backdrop.

  “I think I know where we are,” Hank said out of the darkness.

  Painter turned his light back on.

  Hank’s eyes were huge as he waved Painter forward. “It shouldn’t be much farther.”

  Painter believed him. Their pace became hurried, especially as crude steps appeared, carved into the rock. They led up to a square of moonlight overhead, crosshatched by a steel grate. Painter had seen that grate before—but from the other side.

  “This is the blowhole at Wupatki,” he mumbled. He remembered the park ranger’s estimation of the cavern system beneath it.

  Seven billion cubic feet . . . stretching for miles.

  That had proven to be true—and might even be an underestimation.

  Hank could not restrain his excitement. “This must be how the surviving Anasazi escaped the massacre here. They fled down here, crossed underground through this cavern system, and set up a new home beneath the other blowhole. There they lived until the flood wiped them out.”

  With one mystery solved, Painter faced another.

  He reached up and rattled the grill. “It’s padlocked.”

  “No worries.” Kowalski pushed forward and raised his pistol. “I got the key.”

  Chapter 30

  June 1, 2:08 A.M.

  Nashville, Tennessee

  “They’re still hunting you,” Kat said, her voice sounding tinny through the cheap disposable phone. “They will be all night.”

  Gray sat in the passenger seat of a nondescript white Ford van—the more nondescript the better, it seemed, according to Kat’s report. They’d ditched the muscle car hours ago in a wooded park outside of Bowling Green and hot-wired their new vehicle from a used-car lot. The van shouldn’t be missed until the dealership opened in the morning.