by Edward Lee
If Fredrick had to equate a word to this feature, it would have to be…
Demonic, he thought.
“Can’t see anything down here with these damn drug-store flashlights,” Dales griped. “I called up for a goddamn light crew twenty minutes ago.”
“Be patient, son.”
“Hey, piss on patient, boss. Patient can kiss my hairy ass. You and I both know what that thing is. I want to see it now.” Both of their harnesses lay on the floorwall right in the circle of light beneath the drop-hole. Dales put on his radio headset that was connected to the ascending hoist line.
“What the hell is wrong with you people up there! We need that light team down here now! Jesus Christ, the continental drift’ll move Florida over to Texas by the time you numbskulls get your shit together! If that gear’s not down here in five minutes, I’m gonna climb back up and start kicking some ass!”
Laughter could be heard coming from the drop hole.
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh, assholes. See how hard you laugh on grade day when I flunk all your asses.”
The lights and crew started coming down a minute later.
“Dales. Look.”
Along the floor a long curved object lay. It was hardwood, and clearly it had been hand-carved. One end was the handle, and from there it extended, widening and flattening out, to form an edged blade.
“What’s that?” Dales asked. “A Ponoye war hammer?”
“Close. It’s a kirri-manano, the Ponoye ‘Gift-Blade.’ Remember, there was no metallurgy—the Ponoye were masters at affecting blade-sharp edges on hardwoods. There was never blood-letting in a Ponoye sacrifice—the sacrifants were always garroted—but the priests would always bring a kirri-manano to present as a gift. In the event that the incarnation, er, what I mean—”
“You mean if the incarnation worked, and they summoned a demon, they’d give the demon one of those kirri-things as a gift,” Dales said. Then he spared a laugh. “Well, it looks like he didn’t think much of the gift, boss. He pulled the arms, legs, and heads off of the guys who gave it to him!”
Frustrated, Fredrick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dales. I know what you’re considering, I really do, and any other time, I’d be surprised, even disappointed. But under these circumstances, I can understand how even men such as us—men of science—might give solid credence to the possibility—”
“Save it, boss,” Dales interrupted. “Just answer yes or no.” He turned his flashlight back to the stone dolmen on which the young woman lay. “The woman—the priests killed her on the dolmen?”
“On a typical sacrificial dolmen, yes. They choked her to death with a ligature, as was their custom.”
“They sacrificed her in a clearly occult ritual.”
“Yes.”
“A ritual of incarnation.”
“Yes.”
“They were attempting—as did countless ancient tribes of mankind—to incarnate a devil.”
“Yes.”
“In a cenote. Which is what we’re standing in right now.”
“Yes.”
Dales took deep, steady breaths through his following words. “Then…who killed these four priests?”
Fredrick could barely bring himself to answer. “I-I suppose the only logical conclusion would be—”
“Bullshit. That thing killed the priests, that thing that is clearly not human.” Dales’ voice grated down. “Those priests were incarnating a demon—and they succeeded. What else could that thing be…but a demon’s mummified corpse?”
««—»»
Within an hour, the cenote was lit up as daylight; within two, every square foot was graded, gridded, cordoned, photographed, and digigraphed.
Within three, they were getting their first MMADS readings.
“You’d think the damn college would at least spring for one of the newer models,” Dales complained, sitting at the display assembly. “This old hunk of shit takes goddamn forever just to process a prelim read-out.”
“Patience,” Fredrick repeated the advice that had taken him decades to learn himself.
“I know this wall is a deadfall, it has to be.”
“Probably, but not necessarily,” the older man warned.
Dales acted as though he hadn’t even heard his mentor. “Sure, a quake, a tremor? It brought down this end of the cenote, which means that once we excavate we’ll see what else was in here ten thousand years ago.”
Fredrick decided to toy with him. “You seem hopeful.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“If this really is a fall instead of part of the original cenote, then the rest of your demon friend’s body will have been pulverized beneath the rubble. If I were you, I’d be hoping that this isn’t a fall. I’d be hoping that this crevice is intact, in which case the rest of your friend’s corpse might be intact.”
Dales didn’t respond; he kept his face stolid on the MMADS screen. I think he really believes that it’s a demon, Fredrick thought. He’d seen things similar to this happen to younger and more ebullient archeologists in the past: a serious discovery would sometimes corrupt their conceptions. It never lasted long, though. Dales will come back to earth in a short while. I’m sure that a blood disease can explain the hand’s excessive size. Perhaps an impact injury shortly before death. Perhaps the wall fell down on the fellow and didn’t kill him instantly. The bruise-swelling and outpouring of excess creatinine in the blood could account for the size. The explanation would come in time. Fredrick would make an effort not to rub Dales’ embarrassment in his face.
At least not for too long.
What Fredrick didn’t consider, though, was that his hypothesis didn’t account for one thing: how their swollen rock-fall victim had managed to behead and dismember four strong men with his bare hands.
««—»»
MMADS stood for magnetic mass-activated detection system, a relatively new technology in that it was invented in the ‘80s. From round, dinner-plate sized sensors, low-wave sonar was emitted, taking an “x-ray” of whatever might be embedded, for instance, in solid stone, a block of concrete, a shale bed, a clay bed, or simple compacted earth. It would measure discrepancies in the consistency of the object’s solidity. It would work on a pile of stone rubble, too, or in this case, what Fredrick believed was a rock fall from a partial cave-in.
“Wow,” someone said behind them. “Her nipples almost look alive.”
Fredrick frowned behind him. It was the photographers, bending over the sacrifant on the stone dolmen. “Don’t get that close!” he yelled.
Immediately they stepped back.
Someone else: “Yeah, anyone who messes with the Professor’s mummies’ll get his ass kicked by Dales.”
Laughter cackled, but Dales just smiled. “How about we put one of these MMADS sensors on you. Then we can count how many gerbils you got in your rectum today.”
Louder laughter ensued. Boys will be boys, Fredrick thought.
“Hey, Prof? How’re we gonna get these mummies up that drop-hole without damage?”
“With extreme difficulty.” Even Fredrick knew the necessity of some levity on occasion. If you kept them laughing, and occasionally related to them on not-so-scholarly terms, then they’d respect you more, and work harder. “Anyone who so much as harms a single crystalline hair on any of my mummies—I’ll decapitate him and engage in sexual congress with his esophagus.”
Now they were honking. Good spirits would prove essential; there was a lot of hard labor ahead, not just the seemingly impossible removal of the mummified remains, but the entire site needed to be analyzed now, every square inch combed, sifted, and brushed. And then there was always—
Fredrick looked down at the hand. In the bright halogen light, it didn’t look nearly so intimidating. Maybe it’s a glove of some sort. A ceremonial gauntlet? Hell, mold and oxidation could even account for the increased size. Why didn’t I think of that before? And the claw-like appearance of the fingers? Of course, a ritual gaun
tlet with shark’s teeth or animal claws sewn into the fingertips; mold grew over the tips to make them appear homogenized. There’s your demon, Dales.
But he didn’t voice this most recent conclusion; it was best to just leave the over-zealous teaching assistant to his current task at the MMADS dials. The vision of the hand, though, continued to highjack the professor’s attentions. Yes, originally it looked like the hand was reaching out of a hole on the floor’s base but that wasn’t quite the case. It’s a fissure, above floor level. More and more, it seemed that the subject must have been engulfed by a partial collapse of the cenote. Fredrick could only pray that at least some of the body connected to the hand was salvageable. The skull would likely be crushed but maybe the rest of the skeleton would be in good shape.
Poor Dales is probably wasting his time. I’ll bet he gets maximum density readings…
“Unbelievable,” Dales mouthed and looked up.
“Let me guess. Maximum density readings. Fallen stone rubble fifty feet deep.”
Dales shook his head as he scrutinized the readout screen. “It’s just the opposite, Prof. I’m getting a triple zero reading at a meter and a half.”
“What!” Fredrick yelled in shock.
“This isn’t a rockfall. There’s another room behind this.”
Fredrick’s vision seemed to swim as he stared at the inclined wall of broken stone. “Another room,” he muttered. “Another cenote…”
— | — | —
Chapter Eleven
(I)
Joyce drove in her personal vehicle, an old Plymouth convertible whose canvas roof was permanently locked down. This she called her “knocking around” car. She cranked up some hard rock band as she took them both up the coast road. Clare felt immediately awkward by the periodic honks, hoots, and whistles as they drove; the convertible put Joyce out for display. She wore a scoopnecked apricot tank that read GROW YOUR OWN DOPE, PLANT A MAN but it wasn’t the amusing ditty that was nearly causing minor collisions during their drive. Joyce’s buoyant bosom stretched the top’s sheer material to its physical limit. Even the smaller details of the aureola could be discerned. I’d be the happiest woman in the world if I had breasts HALF that size, Clare thought. But Joyce was remarkably attractive. Clare dressed in simple beach shorts and a sleeveless tee. I’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb sitting next to her…
Just another trifling insecurity; she let it pass with the breeze sifting through her golden hair. She also let pass the fairly inexcusable incident at the beach with Adam. I guess if you’re gong to lay around on the beach with no top, you have to expect a creep or two to crawl out of the woodwork every now and then. It didn’t really bother her; she doubted that Adam had cast anything but the briefest glance at her anyway, not with Joyce lounging next to her totally nude. It was too bad about Kari Ann Wells, though. Maybe she’ll pull through, Clare hoped. Maybe she’ll get better.
Soon they were off the coast road and following a waterfront avenue that seemed lined with beach bars. PARTY TILL YOU PUKE! one sign blared. Another: THE WORLD MIGHT END TONIGHT SO… DIE DRUNK. And another: DON’T MISS OUR HAPPY HOUR SH*TFACE SPECIALS!
Clare raised a brow. “That’s what I call enthusiasm.”
“It’s a hard-drinking town,” Joyce said. “The locals take their partying seriously. But these places are pretty redneck. We’re going farther down.”
“What’s that mean?” Clare asked, pointing to a sign on another bar that read FREE T.G.I.G.M.F. SHOOTERS!
“Thank God it’s goddamn motherfuckin’ Friday,” Joyce answered. “Since you asked. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m dragging you to some dive, but relax. We’re going to the only sane bar on the strip. The other places are either sanctuaries for alkies or pick-up joints for the brain-dead.”
Further along, they pulled into a parking lot whose edge ran along a fishing inlet. The first thing Clare saw was a tow truck pulling a white sedan out of the water. Not a good sign, she thought. Next, she noticed several police cars stopped in the middle of the road; officers and several residents gathered round a man who’d passed out cold on the double-yellow line. And next? Someone hung out the window of a second story apartment; he was bent over at the waist, noisily vomiting in front of a life-size cut-out of the Three Stooges. Lastly, a man fishing in the inlet fell into the water when he was reaching for his beer.
“Yeah, I can see, they do take their partying seriously,” Clare said.
“Oh, this is nothing, it’s still early,” Joyce said.
Of the crush of taverns that were crammed along the street, they walked into one with the debatable name of DIABOLICAL DICK’S. Based on what she’d seen of the immediate surroundings, Clare’s hopes were less than high, but she was relieved when they actually entered and she found herself standing in a non-pretentious but nicely appointed tavern full of casually dressed patrons who looked decidedly normal. No one’s throwing up or passed out on the floor, Clare thought. So far, so good. Intelligent alternative rock, not heavy metal or Jimmy Buffet, eddied from the sound system, and Clare was instantly enticed by the aromas drifting from the kitchen. This was clearly several notches up from the typical beer and bar-food joints she expected. Preposterously attractive barmaids and waitresses milled through their tasks, while the Devil Rays were getting butchered on a huge projection TV.
“Damn, all the tables are full,” Joyce noticed. “This place is always so packed. Do you mind sitting at the bar?”
“Fine with me.”
They went around one end, and some guy with a goatee and glasses was citing to a friend, “For one-half second—maybe even three-quarters of a second, you could see the side of Xev’s left nipple. I swear! On Sy-Fy Channel!”
“You don’t say?”
Someone else was making reference to Florida’s governor with a term that began with the prefix mother and ended with the suffix hole, but in a perfect John Wayne imitation. Another guy, drunk, was exclaiming to all that John F. Kennedy was really assassinated by a Marseilles mobster hired by the South Vietnamese executive branch. No one was listening. But across the bar, three more guys argued over Florida’s official state fish. One guy: “It’s grouper.” The next guy: “No, it’s not, it’s Red Snapper.” Third guy: “I thought it was Floating Syringe.”
Just ahead of them, a younger guy in a Devil Rays shirt edged up to the bar and asked for a beer. A bartender appraised him with narrowed eyes, and said, “Sorry, buddy, you look kind of young. I gotta see it.” The guy stood flummoxed, then shrugged. He began to open his fly. “Not that!” yelled the bartender. “Your ID!”
“Oh, look,” Joyce said, as if surprised. “There’s Rick.”
Clare could’ve laughed at the obvious set-up. Now isn’t THAT a coincidence!
“And there’re two seats next to him…”
Of course.
“Hey, all. Fancy meeting you here,” Rick greeted.
“Do you come here a lot?” Clare asked.
Joyce laughed. “Rick lives here. He’s got a cot in the store room.”
“Funny. You know what’s funnier? Joyce keeps her cot out in the back alley. Ten bucks a ride. That’s how she pays her tab.”
Joyce poked him in the ribs. Hard. “Keep it up, Mr. Laughs. How’d you like to try on a pitcher?”
The women sat on either side of Rick. A leggy, amply bosomed barmaid stepped up, size sixish, with honey-blond hair. “What would you like?”
“Shut up and fuck me,” Rick replied.
Clare exploded. “Rick! What is wrong with you!”
But the barmaid tittered. “Sure. Three?”
“Yeah,” Rick said. “And three light drafts, please.”
“Don’t fall off your stool,” Joyce said to Clare. “It’s a shooter.”
Clare couldn’t believe it. “You’re telling me there’s a drink called Shut Up And Fuck Me?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rick affirmed. “This town’s famous for its shooters. My favorites are the Red-Headed Slut,
the Flaming Asshole, and the Leg Spreader. Maybe later we’ll have a Frankenstein’s Jism.”
Clare looked aghast. “I hate to be a party pooper but I’ll have to pass on the Frankenstein’s Jism.”
Joyce and Rick were obviously amused by Clare’s naiveté. “You act like you haven’t been to a bar in ten years,” Joyce said.
“Oh, not that long. More like seven or eight.”
Rick feigned alarm. “Poor girl. Somebody—please—give this girl an Orgasm!”
“All right, I’m not that old. I do remember drinking a few of those in my college days.”
Levity aside, some truth rubbed in. Clare began to fear that too much of her own persona had been damaged by her sense of dedication. It wasn’t just the fact that she hadn’t been to a bar for so many years, it was that in all that time she’d barely been out at all. Not everything in life was work—the relationships with the people close to you were what you worked for. Clare never really had people close to her, she figured that later would be better for all of that, and in the meantime she needed to progress herself as effectively as possible. And she’d been doing exactly that—until it all came to a tragic halt. The rape. The trial. The white-wash. All at once it became clear that living by a standard and a set of rules that anybody would consider commendable had been a mistake. It had left her with nothing, and when the time came when she sorely needed the support of the people close to her, there was no one there. Damn. There I go feeling sorry for myself again. Joyce and Rick are my friends. Dellin’s a friend or at least someone I have a positive working relationship with. Quit whining! You could always be back in the shelter. You’re out with people who like you—don’t be a mopey pud.
She felt better in short order, and when the shooters came she proposed a toast—“to giant cockroaches and frogs”—and downed the shooter in one toss.
“Excellent style and form,” Rick said. “Joyce, there’s hope for her yet. She’s a true party animal in training.”
