James Rollins - Excavation

Ralph scowled and swung the torch closer to Norman. The frustration in the large man’s face waned to worry. “Shit, Norman, you look like crap.”

“Good, because that’s exactly how I feel.” Norman slid down the cool stone wall and sat on his rump.

Ralph crouched beside Norman, his eyes back to surveying the length of the street. “It can’t be much farther.”

Norman bit his lower lip, then spoke the words he had been trying not to say for the past few minutes. “Ralph, you need to go on alone.”

He shook his head – but not before hesitating a moment, Norman noticed. “I can’t leave you here.”

“Yes, you can.” Norman forced as much false cheer into his voice as possible. “I’m gonna crawl into this tomb, cuddle up with the homey here, and wait for you to fetch that Texan with that big rifle of his.”

Sighing, Ralph pondered his words. “Maybe…” He shoved to his feet. He even took a step away. Then he suddenly swung back. “Fuck that! You didn’t leave me back at the river, and I’m not leaving you now!” Ralph held out his torch. “Take it!”

Norman grabbed the flaming brand. “What are you -?”

Ralph bent down and scooped up Norman under both arms, ignoring his squawk of protest. “I’ll carry your ass out of here if I have to.”

Norman squirmed a moment, then relented. “Let me down… if you’re that determined, I can manage a little longer.”

Lowering him back to his feet, Ralph hissed in his ear. “I don’t want to hear anything else about abandoning you.”

Norman grinned, inwardly relieved that Ralph had refused to leave. “And I didn’t think you cared.”

Ralph’s brows bunched. “Just get your crippled ass moving.”

Norman hopped a step forward, while Ralph’s grip held him steady. “I hope you’re right that it isn’t far to the statue.” Moving another painful step forward, Norman noticed Ralph hesitate. Ralph’s hand remained clamped to Norman’s upper arm, but he wasn’t following.

Ralph’s grip spasmed tighter for a moment, then relaxed.

Norman turned. “What’s the holdup?”

His hand fell limply from Norman’s shoulder. Ralph fingered weakly at his thick neck, disbelief on his face. Blood poured over Ralph’s fingers. The large black man reached for Norman with his other hand, pleading. “R… run!” Ralph gurgled.

Norman was unable to move. He stared transfixed by the spear of sharpened white bone protruding like a branch from the side of his friend’s neck.

Ralph crashed to his knees. “G… Goddammit! Run!”

From behind Ralph, a tall, pale creature rose on spindly limbs. Their tracker had come out of hiding. Huge black eyes glared at Norman as the creature lifted a second spear of bone and leaped toward him, bounding high over Ralph’s back.

Norman danced backward but was too slow on his injured leg. The beast plunged toward him, bone spear raised.

Ducking, Norman braced for the impact.

But Ralph suddenly bellowed with rage and lunged forward. He snatched the ankle of the creature as it flew past, a lineman grabbing a fumbled pass. He yanked the beast clear of Norman and swung the startled creature through the air, swatting it against the neighboring wall.

Its skull shattered like eggshells.

As its carcass collapsed in a tangle of limbs, so did Ralph. He struck the floor hard, too weak to break his own fall.

Norman rushed to his side, ignoring the pain as he fell to his hands. “Don’t move! I’ll get help! Sam can’t be far.” Norman gently turned his friend’s face upward.

Glazed eyes stared back. Empty.

Norman’s hand flinched back. Ralph was already gone. He crawled back, tears blurring his vision.

Around him, the cavern echoed again with the yammering howls and gibbering cries of the beasts. More trackers. They detected fresh blood and were drawn by their ravenous hunger.

Norman pressed his forehead against the cool rock and took several deep breaths. He was too tired to run, but he forced himself up. He would not let Ralph’s sacrifice be for nothing. Glancing at Ralph’s body, he stood unsteadily, torch in hand.

He turned on his good heel and swung around. Only three yards away crouched another of the foul creatures: squat, with thick arms and bent back. It growled at Norman.

Norman’s eyes narrowed with rage. He shoved his torch high. “Fuck you!” he screamed, fists clenched and trembling. He put all his hate and sorrow into his cry, as tears rolled down his cheek.

Like those of a frightened deer, the beast’s eyes flared wide, clearly startled by the unusual reaction of its injured prey. Disconcerted, it crept back, then scampered down a side street.

Norman’s cry ended with a choking sob. He wiped at his face, then shoving his glasses higher on his nose, he limped forward. “You-all sure as hell better not get in my way! I’m not in the fuckin’ mood!”

Maggie knelt by the door in the heel of the great statue. It was a long and narrow silver inset, about half a meter wide and two meters tall, flush almost with the surrounding gold walls. She was surprised Sam had even spotted it.

While Denal shone the flashlight, she once again worked the tip of the golden dagger into the narrow slot in the door’s center. It had to be a keyhole, but so far no amount of manipulation of the gold dagger’s tip would release the catch.

“Miss Maggie,” Denal said quietly behind her, the flashlight’s beam jittering. They rarely spoke, and only in whispers, afraid to attract the ears of the predators out there. “Mister Sam gone a long time.”

She pictured Sam sneaking around the necropolis, alone, and pounded her fist against the unyielding surface in frustration. “I know that, Denal!” she hissed. Besides a flurry of rifle shots, sounding like an asthmatic machine gun, and one screamed shout, there had been no indication that anyone but the creatures still moved out there.

The boy mumbled a meek apology.

Sighing, Maggie leaned back, resting the dagger on her lap. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Denal. I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s… it’s just that I can’t get this damn thing open, and they’re counting on me.” Maggie felt near tears.

He placed his hand on her shoulder.

Even that small bit of solace went a long way to calm her frayed nerves. She took a shuddering breath, forcing herself to calm down. Glancing at Denal, she patted his hand. “Thanks.” She stared into the boy’s scared eyes, then returned to study the door. “Denal, I’m sorry for getting you into this mess.”

“No sorry. It were my choice to spy on Gil. I wanted to help you. My mama, before she die, she say I must help others. Be brave, Denal, she tell me.”

“Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.”

Denal sniffed back tears. “She was.”

Well, by Jesus , she thought silently, I’m not going to let that wonderful woman’s boy die down here .

With renewed determination, she raised the gold dagger; the foot-long blade glittered in the flashlight beam. She remembered Sam’s trick at transforming the dagger. She tilted the knife and examined its sculpted hilt, the fanged god Huamancantac. She ran her fingers along its contoured handle. She found no catch to trigger the change. “How did you do that, Sam?”

Maggie glanced to the door, then back up to the statue. She needed to think. Why a door in the back of the heel? The Greek myth of Achilles came to mind. The invincible warrior’s only weak spot was his heel. But there was no such corresponding myth among the Incas or any of the Peruvian tribes.

Still, the coincidence kept nagging her. Could there be some connection? Many myths crossed cultures and continents. Just because she had never heard of such an Incan myth did not mean it did not exist. Without a written language, much of Incan heritage had been lost over the ages – perhaps tales of the Incan equivalent of Achilles had been lost, too.