by David Wood
He rappelled down until his feet were just barely touching the floor, and then relaxed his grip on the rope, transferring his full weight onto the balls of his feet.
Suddenly the floor wasn’t there anymore.
He lurched, clutching at the rope as he pitched forward toward the glittering floor. The flashlight tumbled from his grasp, and as it landed it revealed movement.
Something was coming out of the floor... No, not something but somethings. A thousand somethings, with gleaming black carapaces and pincers and hook-tipped tails, rushing up at him as he fell.
The floor of the chamber was covered in scorpions.
CHAPTER 18
The first thousand lempira worth of guaro provided Rodrigo with all the liquid reassurance he needed to justify his refusal to show Hector where Diego had probably hidden el Cadejo Negro. But as he drank away the rest of his windfall, he had cause to regret that decision. He couldn’t remember the reason for his reticence, but he was sure of one thing; if Hector was willing to give him 2,000 lempira just to talk about it, he surely had a lot more to offer.
And it wasn’t as if he had to actually take him to Diego’s stash. There were lots of other old ruins he could take him to instead. Hector wouldn’t know the difference, and if he complained...well, the jungle was a dangerous place. Anything could happen.
Rodrigo rose from his stool, leaving the currency notes with the empty bottle, and heaved himself at the door. He couldn’t remember if Hector had mentioned where he would be staying, but it didn’t matter. Palacios was tiny, with just a few hotels. He would find the wealthy stranger.
He staggered outside into the twilight of approaching dusk, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Hector! You son of a whore. I will take you to el Cadejo.”
The only answer he received was silence. The streets were empty of both vehicle and pedestrian traffic.
Rodrigo turned to the right and lurched into motion, careering back and forth across the sidewalk. Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet, but the motion set his guts to churning. As soon as he rounded the corner into the dark alley behind the cantina, he bent over and vomited out a torrent of sour bilious fluid.
Relief was almost instantaneous. His head felt clearer, the nausea now just a dim memory. He coughed, spat out a gob of bitter phlegm, and then filled his lungs and tilted his head back.
“Hect—”
Someone or something seized his arm, yanking him off his feet. His teeth slammed together in his mouth and he tasted blood; he had bitten his tongue. He struggled, trying to wrestle free of his captor, but the grip was too strong and he couldn’t get his feet under him for leverage. The alley was cloaked in shadow and he could barely make out the silhouette of his captor, but then a faint glow appeared in the distance. It was, Rodrigo realized, the interior light of a car, but in its scant illumination, he caught a glimpse of his assailant.
It walked like a man, but instead of skin, it had green and black scales like a lizard or a jungle viper.
There were two more snake-men waiting at the car.
Rodrigo opened his mouth to scream again, but before he could, there was an explosion of light and pain in his head and then he was falling into oblivion.
The respite of unconsciousness was short-lived, or at least it seemed that way. He awoke to the sound of drums, beating out a dull rhythm, accompanied by shrill flutes. The tumult tightened the vise squeezing his skull, a pain that was in equal parts the consequence of too much guaro and a mild concussion from a club wielded by one of the snake-men.
He knew that they were just men, the scales merely painted on their naked bodies, but the realization brought no comfort at all.
He opened his eyes and saw them again, dancing around him now in the ruddy glow of torchlight, chanting in a language that sounded similar to the old Ch’orti’ tongue still used in some of the rural villages.
The snake-men leaned in close, shaking rattles over him, then drew back as another figure—this one wearing an elaborate mask plumed with bright feathers—came into view above him.
The voice that issued from the mask was harsh, but decidedly feminine. The words sounded like an ancient invocation, summoning a devil from hell.
Then the masked figure threw up her arms and barked out a command, and instantly the noise ceased.
For a moment, she stood like that, statue still, painted skin seeming to crawl in the flickering light. In her right hand, she held a black dagger that looked like a long shard of broken glass. But then she brought her hands together on either side of the masked visage, and lifted it away, revealing her true face.
She was beautiful in an exotic and slightly terrifying way, with a splash of freckles on her dark skin and long red hair pulled back away from her face. There was a snake draped around her neck. Its arrow-shaped head seemed to be moving, but he knew that had to be a trick of the light. The woman was breathing heavily, as if winded from the exertion of the ritual dance, but after regarding him for just a few seconds, she spoke.
“You spoke with a man today, in the cantina. What did you tell him?”
The question surprised Rodrigo almost as much as the fact that this woman masquerading as an ancient demon was speaking perfectly comprehensible Spanish.
“I...he wanted to buy relics from me. I told him nothing.”
“Why did he think you would be able to show him relics?”
“That is what I do. I look for things in the jungle.”
“What did you tell him?”
Rodrigo held nothing back. The story poured from his lips like another vomitous eruption—Diego’s discovery, the curse, the arrival of the soldiers in space suits, the death of the village and the fire that followed.
The woman listened intently for a while, but then silenced him with a slash of her hand. “Did you tell the man where to find el Guia?”
“I don’t understand—”
“The thing you call el Cadejo Negro.”
“No. I do not know where Diego hid it.”
Her eyes narrowed, as if stripping bare his soul. “You are lying.”
“No. I swear.”
She leaned closer until her face was just a few inches away. At the corner of his eye, he saw something moving.
The snake. It is alive after all.
The viper’s arrow-shaped head appeared between them, its forked tongue darting in and out of its mouth, probing the air.
“Tell me everything.”
“I did,” Rodrigo cried, tears streaming from his face.
“Then tell me again.”
“At the dawn of the twentieth century,” Alex began, “The world population was 1.6 billion. From 1800 to 1900, the increase was only about half a billion. One hundred years later, it was six billion. In 2011, we hit seven billion, and today, we’re over seven and a half. Developed nations have aging populations and low fertility rates, but the developing nations, the poorest countries where poverty is endemic and health care is virtually non-existent, have astronomically high birth rates. Conservative estimates predict that we will hit 10 billion before the end of the century.
“Ten billion people, Doug. Another three billion souls, fighting over resources that are already too scarce to meet our needs. It’s not sustainable.”
Simpson swallowed nervously. A sick feeling had taken root in his gut as Alex had ticked off the numbers. The conclusion he was driving at seemed inescapable. “Are you talking about...culling?”
Alex’s answer came a little too quickly. “Doug, we’re in the pharma business. That’s a decision for the politicians to make. But that’s not what I’m getting at.
“You’re a biologist, Doug. What happens when a species exceeds carrying capacity?”
“Uh, usually there’s a die-off. Too many consumers, not enough food. The population crashes.”
“Exactly. But something else can trigger a die-off, particularly when a species—like ours—becomes adept at altering its behavior in order to expand its food supply. It’s
happened before. In the 14th Century, the Black Death wiped out sixty percent of the population in Europe. The disease spread quickly because populations were clustered together in cities and were interdependent because of trade and commercial specialization. Just like we are, only the population is larger by an order of magnitude. A pandemic disease agent like the Black Death would flash across the globe like wildfire today.”
“Except we can treat the plague.”
Alex nodded. “Yes. For now. But the increase in population brings with it an increasing chance of new drug-resistant strains of bacteria. Viruses, like influenza, mutate faster than our ability to develop vaccines. And fungal infections like the one we’re researching here may be the worst of all. Viruses and bacterial agents can be contained with quarantine management and sterilization, but fungal spores can be carried on the wind, or lie dormant for centuries. They’re like snakes sleeping in the grass.
“Are you familiar with chytridiomycosis? It’s a fungal disease that’s wreaking havoc in the global amphibian population. One hundred percent fatal in some species of frogs. Imagine if something like that becomes transmissible among human populations, and gets loose in Beijing or Mexico City. And fungal diseases often occur as secondary infections among people whose immune systems are compromised by AIDS or malnutrition.”
He waved a hand, dismissively. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, of course. Finding the treatment for diseases that don’t yet exist is pretty much our mission statement. We’re heroes, fighting microbial monsters.”
Simpson swallowed again. “You said ‘Light and Shadow.’ That makes it sound like there’s a dark side.”
Alex returned a cold smile. “Actually, I said ‘Shadow and Light.’ You can’t have one without the other.”
He paused, as if to emphasize the point. “Shadow is what the ancient Maya called the fungal agent you are now researching. Maldición de la sombra—the Shadow Curse. At least that’s what Carina tells me.” He cocked his head sideways. “Did I introduce you to Carina? Fascinating woman.
“The Shadow all but wiped out the ancient Maya empire in the 10th Century. According to legend, two brave warriors found the cure in a cave somewhere. I believe that, if that cure had not been found, the Shadow would have consumed the world.”
“And you’ve got me messing around with it?” Simpson blurted. “A disease that could kill everyone? Do you even hear what you’re saying?”
Alex shook his head. “You’re missing the point, Doug. The important thing is that a cure can be found. Carina is off trying to find the cave with the cure, but we’re men of science. I have faith that you will beat her to it. Then, we will control both the Shadow and the cure—the Light.”
“Control?” Simpson said, incredulous.
“It’s just good business, Doug. When those Maya warriors returned with the cure, they were revered as gods. Why shouldn’t we at least see a little profit?”
“And that stuff about population? Why did you tell me that?”
“It’s like the old saying, ‘the cure may be worse than the disease.’ The Shadow has a role to play in the future of our species. It’s nature’s way of restoring the balance. If that balance isn’t restored, something much worse than the Shadow may be in the offing. Something we don’t have a cure for.”
“You said ‘control.’ The Shadow and the Light. You’re planning to unleash this disease on the world.” As soon as the words were out, Simpson regretted having spoken it aloud. If Alex was willing to decimate the world population, he surely would not hesitate to make one contrary scientist disappear.
But Alex merely shook his head. “What’s the profit in that? Besides, who am I to decide who lives or dies? No, I’ll probably put the Shadow on the open market. Someone will pay. Probably some lunatic tin pot dictator, like that tub of lard in North Korea. And once someone like that has it, everyone will want it. And they’ll want the cure, and we’ll be able to charge as much as we like.”
“Someone will use it,” Simpson said. “It will get out in the open, and people will die. Millions of people who can’t afford the cure.”
Alex shrugged. “Everybody dies eventually anyway. This way, there’s a chance to save the planet.” He paused a beat. “Don’t worry, Doug. Those loyal to me will of course be the first to be inoculated against the infection.”
He let the implications of that hang in the air between them. “I trust you will find the cure soon, but even if you don’t, Carina is close to finding the source. And I have another agent working on the problem as well. All the bases are covered. So I guess you have a choice to make, Doug. Shadow and Light? Or the darkness?”
CHAPTER 19
The rope went taut, halting Maddock’s fall mere inches above the sea of scorpions, but he had to throw his arms out wide in order to keep from spinning and face-planting into their midst. One glistening black stinger filled his vision, so close that he had to go cross-eyed to bring it into focus.
“Bones,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Pull me up. Very. Slowly.”
Nothing happened. Bones and the others were too far away to hear him.
Yet, in the moment or two it took him to figure this out, he realized something else as well. The scorpions weren’t moving.
“Not real,” he breathed, letting out a sigh of relief.
That wasn’t entirely accurate though. The arachnid bodies covering the floor beneath him weren’t actual scorpions, but they weren’t the product of his imagination, either. They were amazingly life-like reproductions, each one the size of his hand, and carved out of a glossy black substance that reflected the light and revealed edges sharper than the blade of a razor.
Obsidian.
When he had settled his weight on the stone square at the center, it had triggered some kind of pressure-sensitive mechanism, which had in turn caused the carved scorpions to spring up out of the recessed area in the floor, creating the illusion of a living swarm. The little statues were everywhere, covering the floor so densely that there did not appear to be any space large enough to step, let alone ease himself down gently.
But he couldn’t stay like this for much longer.
Moving slowly so as not to become unbalanced, he twisted his body sideways and caught the rope. From this vantage, he could make out the square of bare stone—his original intended landing area—just below his outstretched legs. The block had sunk into the floor, but only to a depth of about six inches. Just enough to throw him off balance at that crucial instant. Gripping the rope, he lifted his upper torso, tilting his legs back until his feet finally made contact.
He braced himself in anticipation of some other elaborate booby-trap, but nothing else happened. The stone floor remained solid beneath him as he brought himself to an upright position. He pulled the rope free of the carabiner he had been using as a rappelling device and shouted up to the others, “I’m down!”
The chamber was filled with echoes.
“You okay?” came the slightly muffled reply—Bones, shouting into the serpent’s mouth.
“Yeah. Triggered some kind of booby-trap. About a million carved scorpions just popped out of the floor.”
There was a pause, and then a fainter voice—Charles Bell—floated down to him. “Did you say ‘scorpions’?”
“Yes. Why? Is that important?”
“In the Popol Vuh, the road to Xibalba crosses three rivers. The first is filled with scorpions.”
“Great,” Maddock replied. “What’s in the other two?”
“Blood and pus.”
Maddock gave an involuntary shudder. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“Be very careful where you step,” Bell went on. “They may only be carvings, but I would hazard a guess that their stingers are tipped in poison.”
Maddock nodded, probing the forest of poised stingers with his light. Now that he wasn’t dangling scant inches above them, he could see gaps in their ranks, large enough to step in if he moved w
ith painstaking caution, but he hesitated.
There were several options for the first step, but he had no idea which direction to go. And he had already tripped one booby-trap; there were almost certainly more.
Then he noticed a mark carved into the stone. It looked like a paw print—a large triangular pad with four evenly spaced oblong toes, all pointing forward. He was no expert, but it looked a lot like a dog paw.
“The lightning dog guides the souls to the Underworld,” he muttered. “All right. Let’s do this.”
He extended a leg out over the frozen swarm and eased his foot down with all the care of someone trying to cross a minefield. The sole of his hiking boot made contact, and then he transferred his weight onto it.
The floor remained solid beneath him, and as he advanced, he saw another paw print a couple feet further ahead. Beyond it was another, set slightly to the left of the others.
“There’s a path through them,” he shouted. “Marked with paw prints. I’m going to follow it.”
“I’m coming down,” Bell replied.
Maddock could hear low voices, Miranda and Bones trying to talk the elderly archaeologist out of his stated decision. He knew they wouldn’t succeed, and even though he agreed with them, he also understood where Bell was coming from.
The argument was eventually resolved, and as Maddock took his fifth step, following a path that seemed to be spiraling out from the center, he glimpsed someone starting down the rope. Not Charles Bell, but Miranda, no doubt going ahead of her father to set a belay for him from below.
Maddock could now see the far edge of the chamber, a stone wall about thirty yards past his present position—fifty or so yards from the center. He kept going, picking his way forward one paw print at a time, curling around the center as Miranda finished her descent.
