Hurricane Gold

by Charlie Higson

  ‘Were men sacrificed here?’ said James.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ said El Huracán.

  He took James over to a wall that was covered in carvings and inscriptions and the strange pictograms called glyphs that were the Mayans’ way of writing.

  ‘See, here,’ he said, pointing to a row of carvings. ‘These show a victim being taken to the pyramid. It must have been an especially important sacrifice, because he is wearing a beautiful cape of feathers. They have dressed him to be the living embodiment of a god.’

  James looked at the carvings. Further along he could see the victim being given a feast, then he was shown climbing the steps to the altar, and finally, there he was, lying on his back, with a priest cutting out his heart with a stone knife.

  ‘When there was a ceremony,’ said El Huracán, ‘the steps of this pyramid would have run red with blood, like a waterfall of death. This pyramid was sacred to Hurakan, the god of wind and storms. He was also one of the gods who made the world and mankind. He was destroyer and creator both at the same time.

  ‘My father Gaspar was a prisoner on this island when it was a penal colony. He fought in the uprising when the prisoners took over, and later he was the only one to escape when the American navy attacked. He hid inside this pyramid where there was a maze of chambers and corridors. The Americans went in after him, and he ran ahead of them, under the ground, like a cornered rat. In the end he found a tunnel that led down to the sea and he got away. There was a big storm and he was able to steal a boat. That was eighty years ago. He named me in honour of Hurakan, who had protected him. When I came here I opened up the passageways and exposed them to the wind. I use this place now for my own little game. Come.’ He put an arm around James’s shoulders and led him away. ‘This is not for you.’

  ‘These ruins, or the whole island?’

  ‘Both. I like you, James, you should never have come here.’

  ‘But not everyone here is a criminal,’ said James. ‘Your servants, for instance, the guards, the men who work here.’

  ‘No,’ said El Huracán, ‘they are Indians, descendants of the men who built this place. Many of these men I have known all their lives. They are loyal to me. I trust them.’

  ‘And the musicians who play at night?’ said James.

  ‘Study them well,’ said El Huracán. ‘They have been handpicked by my men. Every one of them is blind. They are paid well and they are given strict orders not to talk to anyone. They come for an evening and they leave before the morning. They see nothing. They speak to no one. They can tell no tales. But you and Precious know too much.’

  ‘What if we promised?’ said James. ‘Never to tell anyone anything? What if we promised to forget that we were ever here? Forget all about you, and Mrs Glass, everything. It’s just not fair, keeping us here. We have family, friends…’

  ‘I wonder how many of the captive Mayans who were brought here said the same thing?’ said El Huracán. ‘As they were dragged up the steps to their deaths?’

  ‘I thought they accepted their fate,’ said James. ‘I thought it was part of their religion, a fact of life, or death, I suppose. Wasn’t it meant to be an honour to be sacrificed?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said El Huracán. ‘But deep down I’m sure they were all crying out for their mothers as they went up the steps.’

  ‘Weren’t they sometimes given the best food and treated like gods themselves before they were killed?’ said James.

  ‘Even so, James,’ said El Huracán, ‘would any man willingly allow himself to be sacrificed?’

  James studied the long, winding alleyway, which looked so innocent in the bright sun and he remembered Chunks and Dum-Dum’s gruesome story.

  If this really was the only way off the island, he wondered if he would have the guts to run it.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Precious’s eyes were wide and disbelieving. ‘It’s not worth thinking about even for one second.’

  ‘There is no other way off this island,’ said James. ‘Believe me, I have looked. We can’t swim, we can’t fly. If we try and stowaway on a boat, they’ll shoot us. But anyone who makes it through the rat run is free to go.’

  ‘Yes, and you said that nobody ever has made it through. What’s its proper name?’

  ‘La Avenida de la Muerte,’ said James sheepishly.

  ‘The Avenue of Death,’ said Precious. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘For one person, maybe,’ said James. ‘But there are two of us. If we work together we might just make it. We could practise. We could plot a way through. It’s worth it, Precious. I’m telling you – it’s the only hope we’ve got.’

  It was sunset, and they were walking along the beach. They had both been moved out of their luxurious rooms and into worker dormitories. One for the women, and one for the men, but they still met up in the evenings after work.

  Precious had been assigned to the laundry. She had never worked before in her life and found it boring and exhausting. The only thing she had to look forward to was seeing James at the end of the day.

  They had taken their shoes off and could feel the sand soft and warm between their toes. The palm trees rustled in a breeze. Tiny crabs darted about, popping in and out of their holes on the beach.

  ‘It’s no hope at all,’ said Precious bitterly. ‘There are snakes and scorpions and a jaguar and God knows what else in there. I won’t do it. I can’t.’

  ‘You’ve done a lot of things lately that you never would have dreamt of doing before,’ said James. ‘You can do this.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Precious. ‘Maybe you can, but not me.’

  James grabbed her and looked into her face. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You’re strong and you’re brave. I’ve seen it. You want to stay here and rot forever? I don’t think so.’ He pointed out to sea, towards where the mainland lay over the horizon. ‘Somewhere over there is your home, and your father, and your brother. Think of JJ. Will he be happy never seeing his big sister again? Will you be happy never seeing him again? He loves you, Precious. Your father loves you. And I never met her, but I’m sure your mother loves you too.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t’ said Precious flatly.

  ‘Don’t say that’ said James, taken aback.

  ‘I told you,’ said Precious. ‘She’s gone. I remember the first time she went away. She said she was going back to the States to visit her friends, then it was to see her sister or her mother, or to go shopping, and each time she stayed away longer. The last time, I knew she was never coming back. She hates it in Mexico, but if she loved me she would have stayed.’

  James didn’t know what to say. He could run and fight and climb trees. He could get Precious safely out of the jungle and follow Mrs Glass all the way to hell and back, but when it came to people’s complicated feelings, and their deepest thoughts, he felt useless.

  ‘Why do you think I was such a little bitch?’ said Precious, and she turned away and stalked off up the beach.

  James left her alone. He could think of nothing intelligent to say.

  The next morning, the foreman, Morales, announced that he needed a repair team to go into the ‘túneles’. James asked his friend, Moises, to translate for him.

  ‘The túneles beneath the pirámide,’ he explained.

  ‘Tunnels?’ said James, thinking that they might be going in to maintain the rat run.

  ‘Sí. Los Indios no like to go in there. Is a bad place.’

  As the other men were reluctant to come forward, James easily got himself on the gang. He soon found out, though, that these were maintenance tunnels beneath the rat run. He also found out why the men didn’t like this job. The tunnels were low and cramped and dark and airless. The works crew could only travel in single file, carrying oil lamps and dragging their tools and heavy materials behind them. Occasionally they had to squeeze through tiny gaps on all fours.

  Part of the tunnels had been built by the Mayans. There were glyphs on the walls and carvings of skulls and my
thical creatures. Other parts seemed more recent and had probably been built when El Huracán was creating the rat run. James was impressed by the Mayans, who had constructed this huge building without the use of either wheels or metal tools. It was quite a feat.

  They presently came to a series of grilles and shutters built into the roof, and there was a complicated tangle of rusting pipework. After this, the tunnel followed the course of a long stone channel that was fed by more pipes along the way. James assumed it must be for drainage. In the rainy season the open-topped rat run above would be liable to fill up with water if there was no run-off. He also knew that there was at least one water tank built into it, which would explain the elaborate plumbing.

  Further on they passed an underground chamber filled with machinery; giant wooden cogs and gears, and spindles linked by long leather drive belts. James peered in; the machinery seemed designed to turn three huge stone wheels set high up in the roof. It reminded James of the workings of a mill. He only got a brief glimpse of it, though, as this was not their destination and the men pressed on, eager to get their work done quickly so they could get out of the tunnels.

  It was hot down here and heavy going. They had all stripped down to their shorts and were sweating and panting. By the time they reached their destination they were exhausted and had to sit down to recover.

  They were in a small chamber. To one side a sluice had been carved into the bare rock. It had been worn smooth by water and was covered with thick green algae. James could see it twisting and turning down into darkness. He wondered if this could be the way El Huracán’s father, Gaspar, had escaped from the Americans all those years ago.

  The stone channel drained into it, as did some more gutters from the surface and it was directly opposite a metal door set into the wall. This was much larger than the shutters they had passed earlier. It was a deep, rusty orange colour and stained with mould and algae. It was held shut with a screw wheel but was leaking in several places. Water seeped out from behind it and trickled into the sluice. There was a lot of building work in evidence here. The walls had been shored up with concrete and stone that was crumbling in these damp conditions.

  Moving about was difficult, and James nearly slipped into the sluice. Moises grabbed him.

  ‘Don’ fall in there, Jaime,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You slide all the way down to the sea.’

  In fact everywhere was slippery. The smell of damp and mould was very unpleasant, and it was mixed with a choking, fishy stink that James couldn’t identify.

  Their job was to replace the worst of the stone with new blocks they had painfully lugged behind them all the way from the entrance. James was in charge of mixing the cement for the mortar, while a couple of the men cut the new blocks to size.

  There was nowhere to stand fully upright and James felt like his back was going to break. Today, though, the men worked quickly, anxious to be gone from this foul place. The old stones were eased out and the new ones fitted into place faster than James thought possible.

  ‘What’s on the other side of the door?’ he asked Moises when he got the chance. He had noticed that the men were fearful of it, and didn’t like to go too close.

  ‘Is a monster,’ said his friend. ‘Hun Came. He is in big pool of water.’

  James climbed carefully over the sluice and shuffled over to the door for a closer look.

  ‘Can you open it from the other side?’ he asked.

  ‘No, only here.’

  The fishy smell was stronger here and was obviously coming from the tank. James looked up. There was a sort of chimney stretching about 20 feet to the sky. He stood up inside it and noticed a gap in the wall where a small stone had been removed. He tried to peer through into the tank, but it was too dark to see anything, and the fish smell was appalling.

  ‘Don’ stick your nose through there, Jaime,’ Moises shouted across to him. ‘He will bite it off.’ He then said something in his own language to the other men and they all laughed.

  James heard something move in the dark water and he shuddered.

  Precious had been right.

  It would be an act of utter madness to go into the rat run.

  But what choice did he have?

  27

  Mexican Hat Dance

  Precious hated it in the laundry. Already her hands were red and raw from being constantly immersed in soapy water. She looked at the other women, leaning over the huge sinks, scrubbing dirty sheets with their big, powerful arms and pictured herself like them in ten years’ time, old and tired-looking.

  She could see her life draining away down the plughole with all the filthy, grey water. She used to dream of what she was going to be when she was grown-up. Working in a laundry was not one of her dreams.

  As well as washing she also had to do cleaning duties, usually in the guest rooms, but on the same morning that James was working in the tunnels beneath the rat run, she was sent up to El Huracán’s residence. One of the girls who usually worked there had been taken sick, and, just as the men were reluctant to go into El Huracán’s tunnels, the women were scared to go into his house. Precious was given the job of filling in for the sick girl.

  She crossed the plaza with three short, stout women, none of whom spoke any English and none of whom seemed to particularly like her. Halfway there she nearly bumped into one of the guests and recoiled in horror when she saw it was Mrs Glass. She was wearing a dressing gown and had a towel wrapped around her head. She had evidently just been for a massage and beauty treatment at El Huracán’s clinic. She looked Precious up and down with an expression of utter contempt.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she said coldly. ‘Look who it is. One of Huracán’s little domestics.’ She tilted her head back and laughed. The sound was like shards of broken glass falling on a stone floor.

  Precious bowed her head and hurried to catch up with the other cleaners. She saw them pause in El Huracán’s doorway and cross themselves before going fearfully over the threshold, for all the world as if they were entering the gates of hell.

  Once inside they steered Precious towards a toilet and gave her a mop and bucket, a cloth and a stack of clean hand towels.

  The toilet was the largest Precious had ever seen and was spotlessly clean. She nevertheless resented having to clean it.

  So this was what she had come to: a toilet cleaner.

  Well, she wouldn’t do it. She was Precious Stone, Jack Stone’s daughter.

  She sat on the toilet, folded her arms stubbornly across her chest and stared at the framed picture on the wall opposite

  After a while she realised with a jolt that she was looking at a drawing of ‘La Avenida de la Muerte’. She stood up and went across the tiled floor to look at it more closely. Yes. It appeared to be the original design for the rat run. It was hand drawn, possibly even by El Huracán himself, and showed all the passageways and chambers with notations for each one.

  Her heart was thumping in her chest. She quickly looked at the other framed pictures in the room. They were all different drawings of the building works on the island, but none of them showed the rat run.

  She locked the door, took the picture off the wall and carefully removed the drawing from its frame. She folded it up inside a dirty towel and swapped the empty frame with another one that looked similar.

  Then, quickly and diligently, she cleaned the room, changed the dirty towels for clean ones and stacked the used ones into a neat pile.

  The day seemed like it would never end, but at last she got away, the map now hidden under her clothes, and ran to meet James on the beach.

  ‘You were right,’ she said breathlessly, when she saw him. ‘I can’t go on like this. I was miserable, that’s all, but I won’t give up. And I won’t let that woman have the last laugh, James. I won’t.’

  So saying, she pulled out the drawing and gave it to James.

  He hugged her when he saw what it was.

  ‘I tell you, it’s fate,’ said Precious. ‘I was si
tting there and there it was. This was meant to happen. We’re going to do it. We’re going to get off this island, and somehow we’re going to get those stolen plans back.’

  ‘The plans…’ In his obsession with escaping, James had forgotten all about the plans.

  Well, for now they would have to wait. They would be locked safely away in El Huracán’s bank. There was no way on earth James could ever get them out of there. The important thing right now was to plan their escape. They would have to come back for the plans later.

  The drawing was not as detailed as it had first looked. Each chamber was referred to by the god it was named after rather than by what it contained. But there were enough clues for the two of them to work out what a lot of it meant. There were even measurements and dimensions for each part.

  ‘Look,’ said James, pointing to a spur that went off to the side at one end.

  ‘This is where I was working today. It’s a drainage sluice.’ He told her all about the túneles. ‘Whatever Hun Came is, whatever’s in that big tank, must be the final challenge.’

  They started planning right there and then.

  First they made a copy of the drawing, and in the morning Precious took it back into El Huracán’s residence hidden among some clean towels and returned it to its frame. Then the following evening she and James met at some dilapidated ruins in the trees behind the beach that they had decided would be the perfect place to build a copy of the rat run.

  They cleared away the vines and creepers and piled fallen stones on top of each other. They paced out measurements. They used fallen branches and small palms and lengths of pilfered rope and string. And when it was done they practised running and jumping and climbing. They raced to see who could slither fastest on their belly. They dashed through the trees trying to avoid branches and sharpening their reflexes. They looked at possible short cuts and cheats. They worked on ways to get past each obstacle. They talked long into the night about what they might have to face, in the hope that talking would make it all seem familiar and not something to be terrified of. Because they knew that the hardest thing they would have to face would be their own fear. If they could only keep level heads and not panic, they would have a much better chance of making it through alive.