Excavation

A heavy figure, his bared chest gleaming with sweat, stood in the doorway. He had shrugged his monk’s robes from his shoulders and let it hang from his sashed belt. He ran a hand over his bald pate, which was also gleaming, and spoke in clipped Spanish. Carlos answered. The big monk nodded his head and waved them inside.

“Go,” Carlos ordered.

With no other choice, Joan followed. The next room was something from old horror movies. To the left was a row of barred cells, straw-floored, with no beds. To the right was a wall upon which were hung neatly coiled chains. A row of leather whips hung from pegs. In the center of the room was a brazier, red hot with flickers of flames. Amid the glowing coals, three long iron poles were embedded.

Branding irons.

Joan glanced around the room. She was in a mock-up of a medieval dungeon. No, she corrected herself. She could smell a familiar scent. Something from her days at the emergency room. Blood and fear. This was no mock-up, no wax museum set. It was real.

“Why… why am I here?” Joan asked aloud, but in her heart she already knew the answer. Henry had made some mistake. As frightening as her surroundings were, Joan felt a twinge of worry for Henry. What had happened to him? She faced Carlos. “Am I to be punished?”

“No,” the friar said, his words as casual as if speaking of the weather. “You are to be killed.”

Joan felt her knees weaken. The heat of the room suddenly sickened her. She could hardly breathe. “I… I don’t understand.”

“And you don’t need to,” Carlos answered. He nodded to the large monk.

Using a pair of leather gloves, the thick man judged his irons. He pulled them from the coals and eyed their glowing tips. He pursed his lips, content, then spoke in Spanish.

Carlos raised his pistol. “Move to the far wall.”

Joan did not trust her legs. She glanced around the room, then back to Carlos. “Why all this? Why this way?” She weakly pointed at his gun. “You could have killed me in the room.”

Carlos’s lips grew grimmer. He studied the tools of interrogation, the tools of the Inquisition, and answered, “We need the practice.”

Maggie stared down her rifle and squeezed the trigger. The pale face flew back, the mouth a bloody ruin. Pivoting on her toe, Maggie swung the barrel at her next target. The blasts of the Winchester had deafened her by now to the screeches and howls. She operated on instinct. She fired again, blowing back one of the pale scouts that had wandered too near. Its high-pitched squeal as it was set upon by its brethren managed finally to slice through her numb ears.

She lowered her rifle, wheezing between clenched teeth. The five beasts she had slain so far were at least keeping the throng momentarily occupied.

Something touched her shoulder. She butted the rifle’s stock at it.

“Whoa!” Sam yelled in her ear. “Hold on! It’s me!” He gripped her shoulder more firmly.

Maggie licked her dry lips, shaking slightly. “What are we going to do?” she moaned. The beasts still had them boxed in the center of the plaza and were not backing down. She had made no headway in blasting a path to freedom. For every creature she shot down, more would leap and scramble to fill the gap.

Sam released his grip. “I’ve been counting. You have only one more round left.”

Maggie glanced at the rifle. “Jesus!” She raised the weapon. Her last shot had better be good. She forced her hands not to tremble.

Sam pushed her gun down. “Let me try.”

“With what?” she hissed at him.

He raised his gold knife. “Remember the creatures at the necropolis?”

“Sam, you’re go

“Maybe not.” Sam stepped in front of her. Taking off his Stetson, he lifted the gold dagger high and waved his hat with his other hand. He screamed a raw bellow of challenge.

Hundreds of eyes lifted from their meals and growled back at Sam.

The Texan replaced his hat, leaving only the dagger held in an upthrust fist. The growls from the massed throats died down as gazes flicked to the gold knife. A trickle of whimpering sounded to one side. Sam seemed to have heard it, too. He swung toward the noise, the weak spot in the throng. He waved his dagger with long sweeping motions, repeating his bellow of anger.

The wall of pale forms began to pull back from him, breaking apart.

“Stick to my back,” Sam whispered at Maggie and Denal.

Maggie waved the naked boy ahead, then covered their rear with the Winchester. One bullet, she kept reminding herself.

Sam began a slow approach toward the throng, brandishing his dagger, jabbing, swiping, growling.

With bleating cries, several of the beasts galloped out of his path. The standoff broke down. More and more of the beasts fled, dragging off the bloody chunks they had managed to scavenge.

“I think it’s working,” Sam said.

Suddenly, something lunged at Sam. Vestigial wings beat on its back, identifying it as one of the hunters. Sam stumbled back, tripping over Denal.

Maggie danced away, keeping her feet and swinging her rifle.

But she was too slow.

Sam fell atop the boy as the creature leaped atop them. Denal screamed in terror. Sam shoved his only weapon up. The dagger. The screeching beast impaled itself on the blade. It seemed a small weapon compared to the hooked claws and shredding fangs of the attacker—but the effect was anything but small.

The tiny wings of the beast seemed suddenly to work. The creature appeared to fly straight up off Sam’s blade, squealing a noise that made even Maggie cringe. It rolled to the stones of the plaza and lay belly up. Small flames could be seen lancing from between the clawed fingers that clutched its wounded abdomen.

Around them, the pale throng froze and became silent, eyes wide, unblinking.

The flames spread from the beast’s belly. Like a wildfire in dry grass, the blaze blew through the creature. It arched and writhed; jaws stretched wide in a silent scream of agony. Flames shot out of its throat, flickering like some fiery tongue, and then its head was consumed. The creature’s bulk collapsed to the stone, dead. Flames still danced along its blackened form, a sick pyre.

Sam and Denal were already on their feet. “Let’s go,” Sam said.

The Texan threatened again with his dagger, but this time, there was no challenge. The remaining beasts in his path cleared out. Huddled in a tight group, they crossed toward the exit. All three held their breath.

Maggie stared at the smoldering form of the attacker. Spontaneous combustion. She tried to add this piece to the growing puzzle. She shook her head. Now was not the time.

She turned her attention forward.

Sam continued to threaten the few beasts who still hovered at the edges of their path. An especially large monster, all muscle and bone, still glared from one side. Its eyes were narrowed with wary hatred. Of all the creatures there, this one appeared well fed. It hunched on one knuckled fist, like some silverback gorilla, but naked and pale. Maggie recognized it as one of the rare “leaders” of the pack. She noticed it lacked any external genitalia. Like Pachacutec’s body, she realized.

One of Maggie’s eyes twitched as a horrible realization began to dawn. She was so shocked that she failed to notice what the hulking beast held in its other clawed fist. “Sam!”

The creature swung his arm and threw a boulder the size of a ripe pumpkin at the Texan. Sam glanced over but could not move in time. The chunk of granite struck Sam’s fist. The dagger flew from his grip. It landed in the middle of a clutch of the beasts.

The giant stone-thrower roared in triumph, raising on its legs and striking its barreled chest with one of its gnarled fists. Its triumphant bellow was echoed by others all across the plaza. Without the dagger, they had no defense now.