James Rollins - Excavation

Philip drew strength from these words. He had done all he could. He sat up straighter as he continued relating how the Indians were attempting to dig a rescue shaft, and how Sam and the others had discovered a secret tunnel behind a golden idol. He found himself going on and on. He even described Sam’s discovery of the statue’s key. “A gold knife that somehow transformed.”

The friar’s eyes grew wide at this last bit, slowing Philip’s tale. The monk interrupted, “A gold knife and a hidden tunnel into the mountain?” The man’s voice had grown strangely dark and deep.

“Yes,” Philip said tentatively.

The friar was silent a moment, then returned to his normal even demeanor. “Thank the Lord for their salvation. At least your friends found a safe shelter. The Lord always opens a way for those of good heart.”

“I hope to have the rescue shaft completed in two days or so. But if the Indians I sent can fetch more help -?”

Friar Otera suddenly stood. “Fear not. The Lord will watch over all those here. In his eyes, we are all his beloved sheep. No harm will come.”

Philip quickly pushed from his own chair, meaning to accompany the friar.

The man waved him back down. “Rest, Philip, you’ve earned it. You’ve done the Lord’s work here protecting your friends.”

Sinking back into his chair, Philip sighed as Friar Otera bowed his way from the tent. “Thank you,” he called as the monk departed.

Alone in his tent, Philip closed his eyes for a moment. He believed he could sleep. The burden was no longer his own, and the onus for his questionable actions had been absolved.

Philip stared at the closed flap of his tent. He remembered the smoldering power he had sensed in the man.

Friar Otera must be a truly religious man.

Well away from the tents, at the edge of the forest, Friar Otera met with one of his fellow monks. Otera forced his fingers to stop trembling. Could it be true? After so long?

The monk fished through his shoulder pack and passed Otera the radio. Stepping a few paces away under the forest’s eaves, Otera dialed the proper channel and called to his superior.

He reverted to Spanish. “Contact has been made. Over.”

A short burst of static, then a quick response. “And your assessment?”

“Favorable. The site appears golden. I repeat golden.” Friar Otera gave a terse summary of what he had learned from the pasty-faced student.

Even across the airwaves, Friar Otera heard the mutter of shock and the whispered words in Spanish, “ El Sangre del Diablo .”

Friar Otera shuddered with the mere mention of that name. “And your orders?”

“Befriend the student. Earn his trust. Then light a flame under these workers. Dig a way to that tunnel.” A long pause, then his final order. “Once contact is made, clean the site… thoroughly.”

For the first time that day, Friar Otera smiled. He fingered the dagger in its wrist sheath. The haughty student here reminded him of those youths who had once spat upon Otera’s poor upbringing, his mixed blood. It would be a pleasure to see this americano beg for his life. But more important, if what he suspected was true, there were even larger victories at stake. He had waited for so long, borne too many indignities from these Spanish missionaries who thought themselves his superior. No, if he was right, he would show them their mistake, their blindness. He would no longer be shunned and glanced over. Otera raised the radio to his hard lips, playing the good soldier. “Confirm contact and clean the site. I understand. Over and out.”

Otera stepped back from the forest and returned the radio to the monk who stood guard. “And?” the fellow asked, packing away the radio.

Friar Otera straightened his pectoral crucifix. “We have a green light.”

The other monk’s eyes grew aghast. “Then it’s true!” The man made the sign of the cross. “May the Lord protect us.”

Friar Otera trudged back toward the camp. The words from the radio still echoed in his head.

El Sangre del Diablo .

Satan’s Blood.

Maggie fumbled with the second flashlight, her fingers trembling. She thumbed the switch, and light flared out into the black caverns, blinding her for a second. The pale faces of her fellow students and the young Indian boy stared back along the trail. In that minute of darkness, more of the tarantula scouts had scurried onto the gold trail. To the side, more spiders approached, their albino limbs like pale-legged starfish against the black rock.

Sam glanced back toward the toxic bat cavern. “I… I don’t know. The place will be swarming with tarantulas in a few minutes, but we can’t trudge through waist-deep guano in the next cavern without dying from the fumes. There’s got to be another way.”

Maggie strode off the Incan footpath toward the nearby underground stream. It gurgled in its narrow channel, casting up a fine cool mist. “We swim,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing her light at the rapidly flowing water.

“Swim?” Norman asked, his voice cracking. “Are you mad? That water’s from snowmelt. We’ll die of hypothermia.”

Maggie swung around. “The current is swift but relatively smooth through this section of the caverns. We jump in and let the water shoot us through the bat cave and away from the spiders.” She waved a hand across the river’s fine mist. “This may even insulate us a bit from the worst of the toxic fumes.”

Sam approached her side and glanced at her with appreciative eyes. “Maggie’s right. It might work. But we need to stick together for this one. Once past the bats, we’ll need to haul our asses out of this stream ASAP. If the current doesn’t kill us, the cold may.”

Denal sidled to the edge of the river’s carved stone bank. The waters flowed about a meter below the lip. “I go first,” he said, looking back. “Make sure it be safe.”

“No, Denal,” Maggie said and reached for him.

He stepped beyond her reach. “I be strong swimmer. If I make it to the far side, I yell.” He glanced at the other faces. “Then you all come. If no call, then no come.”

Sam moved toward the boy. “I’ll do it, Denal,” Sam said, patting the side pocket of his vest. “I have my Wood’s lamp to light the way.”

Denal pulled the lamp from his own pocket and flicked on the purplish light. “I no ask. I go.” The boy then turned and jumped over the lip’s edge.

“Denal!” Sam yelled, rushing to the river.

Maggie stopped Sam from leaping in after him. She followed the boy’s path in the current. He bobbed in the water as it thrust him back and forth in the narrow channel, but he managed to keep the lamp thrust above the water, its purplish glow a beacon in the dark cave. Then the river carried him past a curve in the wall and down a tunnel.

“Damn kid picked my pocket,” Sam muttered, a mixture of respect and worry in his voice.

“He’ll make it,” Maggie said.

The waiting quickly grew intolerable. None dared speak lest they miss Denal’s call.

Only Ralph hung back at the foot path, keeping an eye on the spiders. “Here comes the main army,” he warned.

Maggie swung around. It was as if a foaming white surf crested just at the edge of their light’s reach. “C’mon, Denal, don’t let us down.”

As if the boy had heard her, a sharp distant cry echoed from farther in the caves. Denal had made it.

“Thank God,” Sam sighed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Norman quickly finished packing his gear into a waterproof case while Ralph climbed over to join them, eyes still on the tarantulas.

Sam unslung the Winchester and nodded for Ralph to do the same with his rifle. “Try to keep your gun above water. The rifles could probably survive a short dip, but I’d rather keep them dry.”