Michael Cordy - The Source

'They were probably for the bodies of the more prestigious sacrificial victims,' said Hackett. 'Minus the hearts, of course.'

Ross saw Juarez's shoulders tremble. The Peruvian hated ruins, so to him this place must be terrifying. And at that moment, in the claustrophobic tomb surrounded by the remains of those who had died in agony more than a thousand years ago, he had some respect for the curse.

Suddenly Juarez yelped and Ross almost dropped his torch. 'Mirada! Mirada! Oro! Oro!' Look! Look! Gold! Gold!

'Fuck!' said Hackett.

Ross turned his beam to meet Juarez's – and saw it. Not piles of treasure strewn around in decadent abandon, as the movies showed, but blocks, each one laid out with architectural precision. The ingots formed a six-foot-high version of the ziggurat they were standing in. A few were missing. Who took them? he wondered. The survivors fleeing to found new cities and new civilizations? Sister Chantal?

Mendoza whistled. 'How much is this worth?'

Hackett was wheezing with excitement. He patted his jacket for his inhaler, took a puff and collected himself. 'The last time I checked, gold was about six hundred and fifty dollars an ounce.' He picked up an ingot. 'Each of these must weigh at least four or five hundred ounces and there are hundreds, if not thousands.'

'So we're all rich, yes?' said Juarez.

'Very,' said Mendoza. 'Hundreds of millions of dollars rich. But how do we move it?'

'The river's only a day and a half away,' said Hackett, replacing the ingot. 'We take some now and get suitable transport, then come back for the rest.'

Ross felt strangely detached from the find. It was thrilling, and he wasn't immune to the giddy prospect of limitless wealth, but this wasn't the treasure he was seeking. He thought of how the ancient inhabitants of this place had spilt blood and presented their gold to save what they regarded as far more precious: the fountain, their city and their lives. He, too, would gladly give up his share of gold to save what he loved.

'Ross, where are you going?'

'To get some fresh air and tell Zeb and Sister Chantal what we found.'

'But don't you want to stay and talk about what to do with it?'

'It's not going anywhere.'

Hackett frowned. 'This is an amazing discovery, Ross, yet you don't seem excited.'

'Of course I'm excited. I just think we can decide what to do with it outside.'

'I come with you,' said Juarez. 'I like gold but I don't like this place.'

'Me too,' said Mendoza.

'We may as well all go, then.' Hackett sounded sulky.

Ross walked back to the stairs. As he passed the coffins, he felt Juarez tense. At the same time, he sensed something to his right: a sudden shift in the air, and a feral smell that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He swivelled round.

Juarez was frozen to the spot, staring into the dark recesses behind the coffins. 'El abuelo,' he rasped, as if his vocal cords no longer obeyed him.

In the beam of Ross's torch a black shape moved behind the coffins and two hungry, malevolent eyes stared at him.

Then it roared and sprang.

Ross dropped to his knees as the creature leapt at Mendoza. Then Juarez, the man who was seemingly scared of his own shadow, jumped in front of Mendoza and fired off a shot. It missed and the beast hit the Peruvian, knocking him to the ground and ripping at his throat. Juarez screamed and Ross felt something warm splash his face. As Hackett levelled his pistol and Mendoza raised his rifle, both trying to get a clear shot without hitting Juarez, Ross kicked at the beast with his Timberlands. His steel toecaps connected with hard muscle and the black creature growled in the torchlight, then shot past him.

Hackett rushed to Juarez, who was clutching his throat, eyes staring into the dark. The pyramid of gold was spattered with blood.

'I need a gun,' said Ross, grabbing Juarez's and racing after the animal.

'Where's it gone?' said Mendoza.

'Up the steps,' said Ross. 'To Zeb and Sister Chantal.'

Zeb had been grateful for the time alone with Sister Chantal. She had no desire to go down those dark stairs into the fetid bowels of the ziggurat and she wanted to quiz the nun on the forsaken city. 'What will they find down there?' she asked.

'Gold.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I do.'

'How? Have you been here before?' Zeb's frustration was growing. 'Why can't you ever just give a straight answer?'

'Because whatever I say won't change what you believe. What does it matter how I know anything? You now know that water from Father Orlando's garden once flowed here. You and Ross have seen the fountain, the carvings of the story and the plants from the Voynich. You have seen proof of the garden's existence, and once the others have found the gold we can leave them and go in search of it. That's all that matters.'

'How close is it from here?'

'A few days' walk.'

'You're sure it's still there?'

A look of fear crossed the nun's features. 'It must be.'

Zeb was studying the carved image of the dried-up fountain. 'But what if-'

She was silenced by a muffled scream and a gunshot that issued from the darkened stairs. She stood up and pulled Sister Chantal to her feet. Another scream. Sister Chantal walked to the stairs and Zeb followed her. As she looked down into the gloom, a black shape leapt, snarling, at the nun, slashing with its claws, throwing her to the floor. Then Ross appeared and fired a shot into the air. The huge cat darted for the doorway and disappeared outside.

As Zeb rushed to Sister Chantal, Ross ran to the exit, raised the rifle and fired into the fading light.

'You get it?' Zeb called.

'It was too fast.' He ran back to help Zeb prop Sister Chantal against the wall. Blood flowed from a cut on her cheek and she had a large contusion on her forehead. Her right shoulder bore two shallow slashes where claws had torn her cotton shirt but, luckily, her shredded backpack had taken the brunt of the attack.

'What the hell was that?' said Zeb.

'A melanistic jaguar.'

'A what?'

'A black-pigmented jaguar. A panther.'

He sounded distracted and Zeb stared up at him. 'There's blood all over your face. You okay?'

'It's not mine,' Ross said, in a monotone. He was holding Sister Chantal's wrist. 'She's out cold and her pulse is weak.'

Zeb helped him lay her on her back, then loosened her collar. 'We'd better get Nigel.'

When she turned, a dazed Mendoza and an ashen-faced Hackett were walking up the stairs, carrying Juarez between them. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. As Hackett tried to staunch Juarez's bleeding, he knew his friend was close to death, and that he was powerless to prevent it. As he opened Juarez's shirt to examine the wounds in his throat and chest, he thought of all the times over the last three years they had sat together on the Discovery, drinking Cusquena beer and talking about their dreams.

Juarez had been born in a remote Amazonian village close to the Ecuadorian border but had always longed to see Europe and North America. Hackett had promised that when he returned to London, having found fame and fortune in the Amazon, he would take Juarez with him. Only last night, asleep in his hammock, Hackett had dreamt of lecturing to the Royal Geographical Society. As the great and good applauded, the beautiful Zeb Quinn – who no longer mocked his idiosyncrasies but understood, admired and desired him – stood at his side.

But now his friend would never leave the jungle to live his dreams and, although Hackett had discovered his lost city and its gold, his own dreams of glory seemed hollow too.

Juarez gripped his arm and tried to speak. 'I'm not scared,' he rasped. 'I'm not a coward.'

'I know, my friend,' said Hackett.