Douglas Preston - Thunderhead

Briggs watched with disbelief as the horse trailer came sliding down the ramp toward the waiting pontoon boat.

“This can’t be happening,” he murmured.

“Oh, it’s happening,” came the laconic reply. “I’m sure they’ll be calling you, too. Gotta go.”

Briggs punched at the phone furiously, but even as he did so it began to ring: a shrill, insistent chirp over the grinding of gears and the calls of the onlookers.

52

BLACK SANK DOWN BESIDE THE DEAD FIRE, exhausted and soaked through. The belated rain beat its regular cadence upon his shoulders; not as furiously as it had an hour before, but steadily, with large, fat drops. He paid it no heed.

Although the initial surge of the flood had abated, the water continued to roar down the center of the valley, its brown moiling surface like the muscled back of some monstrous beast. Distantly, he watched its wide course, around and over stranded trees, arrowing for the mouth of the smaller slot canyon at the far end of the valley. There, in the confined space, the violence of the water returned, and huge spumes of froth and spray leaped up toward the cloud-heavy sky.

For almost two hours they had hovered at the water’s edge. Sloane had made a valiant rescue effort: roving the banks, spanning the flood with rescue ropes, scanning the water ceaselessly for survivors. Black had never seen such a heroic attempt. Or such a believable piece of acting, for that matter. He passed a hand over his eyes as he sat hunched forward. Perhaps it wasn’t an act; right now, he was too tired to care.

Eventually, all except Sloane had gravitated away from the water’s edge to the camp. The remaining drysacks, scattered by the wind, had been organized; the tents repitched and restaked; the riot of twigs and branches cleared away. Nobody had spoken, but all had lent a hand. It was as if they had to do something, anything, constructive; anything was easier to endure than standing uselessly, staring at the rushing water.

Black sat back, took a deep breath, and looked around. Beside him, in neat rows, lay the gear that had been intended for the trip home: still packed and ready to be hauled out, a silent mockery of the portage out the slot canyon that had never happened. Nothing else remained to be done.

Bonarotti, taking his cue from Black, came over and silently began to unpack his kitchen gear. This, more than anything else, seemed to be a mute statement that hope had been lost. Pulling out a small ring burner and a propane shield, he put on a pot of espresso, protecting it from the rain with his body. Soon Swire came over, looking shocked and subdued. Sloane followed after a few minutes, walking silently up from the rushing waters. Bonarotti pressed a cup of coffee into each of their hands, and Black drank his gratefully, gulping it down, feeling the warmth of the coffee trickle into his aching limbs.

Sloane accepted her cup from Bonarotti, turning her amber eyes toward him. Then she looked at Swire, and then—more significantly—at Black, before returning her gaze to the cook. At last, she broke the silence.

“I think we have to accept the fact that nobody survived the flood.” Her voice was low and a little unsteady. “There just wasn’t time for them to make it through the slot canyon.”

She paused. Black listened to the rush of the water, the patter of rain.

“So what do we do now?” Bonarotti asked.

Sloane sighed. “Our communications gear is destroyed, so we can’t radio for assistance. Even if a rescue mission is mounted, it would take them at least a week to reach the outer valley, maybe more. And our only way out has been blocked by water. We’ll have to wait until it goes down. If the rains continue, that could mean a long time.”

Black glanced around at the others. Bonarotti was looking at Sloane, hands protectively cradling his mug of coffee. Swire was staring blankly, still dazed by what had happened.

“We’ve done everything we can,” Sloane went on. “Fortunately, most of our gear survived the flood. That’s the good news.”

Her voice dropped. “The bad news—the terrible news—is that we’ve lost four teammates, including our expedition leader. And about that, there’s nothing we can do. It’s a tragedy I think none of us yet can fully comprehend.”

She paused. “Our first duty is to mourn their loss. We will have time, in the days and weeks ahead, to remember them in our thoughts. But let’s take a minute now to remember them in our prayers.”

She lowered her head. A silence fell, broken only by the sound of water. Black swallowed. Despite the dampness around him, his throat was painfully dry.

After a few minutes, Sloane looked up again. “Our second duty is to remember who we are, and why we came here. We came here to discover a lost city, to survey it and document it. Luigi, a few minutes ago, you asked what we should do now. There’s only one answer to that. As long as we’re trapped in here, we must carry on.”

She paused to take a sip of coffee. “We cannot allow ourselves to become demoralized, to sit around doing nothing, waiting for a rescue that may or may not come. We need to keep ourselves occupied in productive work.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, taking time to look around at the small group with each new sentence. “And the most productive work of all is still to come: documenting the Sun Kiva.”

At this, the faraway look left Swire’s face. He glanced at Sloane in surprise.

“What happened today was a tragedy,” Sloane continued, more quickly now. “But it’s within our power to keep it from becoming something even worse: a tragic waste. The Sun Kiva is the most miraculous find of a miraculous expedition. It’s the most certain way to ensure that Nora, Peter, Enrique, and Bill are remembered not for their deaths but for their discoveries.” She paused. “It’s what Nora would have wanted done.”

“Is that right?” Swire spoke up suddenly. The surprise and confusion had left his face, replaced with something uglier. “What Nora would have wanted, you say? Tell me, was this before or after she fired you from the expedition?”

Sloane turned to him. “Do you have an objection, Roscoe?” she asked. Her tone was mild, but her eyes glittered.

“I have a question, ” Swire replied. “A question about that weather report of yours.”

Black felt his gut seize up in sudden fear. But Sloane simply returned the cowboy’s gaze with a cool one of her own. “What about it?” she asked.

“That flash flood came down twenty minutes after you reported clear weather.”

Sloane waited, staring at Swire, deliberately letting the uncomfortable tension build. “You of all people know how localized, how unpredictable, the weather is out here,” she said at last, more coldly now.

Black could see the faltering certainty in Swire’s face.

“There’s no way of knowing just where the water came from,” Sloane continued. “The storm could have come from anywhere.”

Swire seemed to digest this for a moment. Then he said, in a lower tone: “You can see a whole lot of anywhere from the top of that canyon.”

Sloane leaned toward him. “Are you calling me a liar, Roscoe?”

There was something so subtly menacing in her silky tone that Black saw Swire draw back. “I ain’t calling you nothing. But last I heard, Nora said we wasn’t to open up that kiva.”

“Last I heard, you were the horse wrangler,” Sloane said icily. “This is a decision that does not concern you.”

Swire looked at her, his jaw working. Then he stood up abruptly, drawing away from the group.

“You say Nora will be remembered if we open this kiva,” he spat out. “But that ain’t true. It’s you that’ll be remembered. And you damn well know it.”