by Lee Goldberg
That wasn't good, Matt thought, but there was nothing they could do about it now. If Stephanie Porter was still alive, she needed to crawl into a hole and hide. That was the best chance she had of surviving this bloody night.
Ronnie said, "Maybe we should vote—"
"We're not voting," Matt broke in. "We're going to get whatever we can lay our hands on to fight with, and we're taking the battle to them."
For a second he thought Ronnie might argue with him. The tolerance and diversity of the academic world were all well and good, but tolerance didn't mean shit when you were faced with somebody whose only goal in life was to kill you, and possibly gnaw the flesh off your bones.
Ronnie must have realized that, because she jerked her head in a nod and said, "Fine. Let's go get the bastards."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Matt circled around the ruins, heading back toward the camp. He wished he could drive without headlights, so Hammond and the others couldn't tell right where they were, but it was too dark for that. He couldn't risk driving into a hole and busting an axle.
Ronnie, Ginger, and Maggie had climbed in the back with Jerry. Rich rode in the cab with Matt, the ax lying on the seat between them. He glanced down at the weapon and asked, "You . . . ah . . . carry an ax around with you, Mr. Cahill?"
"I used to work in the timber business," Matt replied, as if that explained it. "My whole family did. That ax belonged to my father, and his father before him."
Rich didn't press the issue. Instead he said, "At first I didn't really think they were dangerous. They just looked sort of crazed, you know. But then they started chasing us, and I knew that if they caught us, bad things would happen."
"That's putting it mildly," Matt said.
"And then they caught Astrid . . ." Rich couldn't go on for a moment. "You think it's all because of some altar that Dr. Varley's group uncovered?"
"I'm pretty sure that's the case."
"That's what made the Anasazi go nuts and start eating each other?"
"Does it matter?"
The tents loomed in front of them, the canvas bright in the night as the headlights swept over them. As Matt slowed the truck, he called to Ronnie and the others in the back, "I think we've beaten them back here, but stay inside the truck until I've taken a quick look around."
"Be careful, Matt," Ronnie called back to him.
The truck had stopped. Matt left the engine running and picked up the ax. He said to Rich, "If anything happens to me, or if you and the others are in danger, don't wait for me. Just grab the wheel and get the hell out of here."
"And then what?"
"Keep moving, I guess. You'll be on your own."
"Mr. Cahill . . . what Dr. Dupre said. Be careful. Please."
"I intend to," Matt promised.
He swung down from the cab. The night was quiet except for the rumbling of the engine.
Then a wind blew across the top of the mesa, and he heard the wailing that Ronnie had described to him earlier. That was just the wind moving through the ruins, he told himself. It wasn't the wailing of lost souls.
He wished he could believe that a hundred percent.
Most of the expedition's supplies were piled near Dr. Varley's tent. Matt didn't remember exactly what was there, but as he looked over the supplies he had a feeling some of the picks were gone. That probably meant Hammond, Scott, April, Noel, and Sierra were armed now.
A couple of picks were left, though, and several shovels. After scanning the night intently for several moments as he stood there gripping the ax, Matt called to the people in the truck, "All right, come grab a shovel or a pick. Make it fast."
Jerry was the first one out of the truck. He picked up one of the long-handled shovels and heaved a sigh.
"I feel better now," he said as he brandished the shovel. "At least we can fight back."
Matt remembered how Jerry had smashed Brad's head with that rock. "I'd say you've already done that."
"Yeah." Jerry's face twisted. "I . . . I can't believe I did that. I was just too scared to stop hitting him."
Jerry had done the right thing, Matt thought. Maybe he would understand that one of these days. If he was lucky enough to survive the night.
The others armed themselves. Matt handed one of the picks to Ronnie and told her, "Give that to Rich. It's shorter than the shovels, so it'll be easier to carry in the cab."
"What are we going to do now?" Ginger asked.
"Stay together and keep your eyes open," Matt said. "I'm going to check Hammond's tent and see if there's any dynamite there. If you see or hear any of the others, let out a yell. Jerry, come with me."
Jerry swallowed hard. Clearly, he would have preferred to stay with the others, but he didn't argue. He hurried along behind Matt toward Hammond's tent.
Matt had the ax ready as he approached the tent. Nothing was moving around it, though. He used the ax to push aside the canvas flap over the entrance.
He halfway expected some horror to come exploding out of the tent at him, but nothing happened. He had matches in his shirt pocket—useful for lighting oil lamps, campfires, and such—so as he stepped inside he fished out one of them with his left hand and snapped it into life with his thumbnail.
The match's flickering glare revealed that the tent was empty. So was the small wooden crate that sat beside Hammond's cot. Matt didn't recall seeing it before. It was possible Hammond himself had unloaded the crate and stashed it in here the first day atop the mesa.
Hammond had already been touched by Mr. Dark at that point. Had he had the whole plan in mind from the beginning? Matt couldn't help but wonder.
He was about to turn away from the empty crate in disgust when he spotted something sticking out from under Hammond's cot. The match burned down to his fingers, and he had to drop it. The flame went out.
Matt knelt and felt around on the ground with his free hand. His fingers closed around some sort of cylinder. It had a slightly greasy feel to it. Matt's hand tightened around the thing.
He knew he was holding a stick of dynamite. It must have fallen on the ground and rolled under the cot while Hammond was scooping the rest of the explosives out of the crate to take with him.
Feeling a little nervous about holding the cylinder—he recalled hearing how unstable dynamite could be—Matt checked both ends of it. The dynamite didn't have a blasting cap attached to it, and no cap meant no fuse, assuming Hammond had even brought along any fuse. Most blasts were set off electronically these days.
So what good was it going to do him? He remembered seeing movies where the hero set off dynamite by shooting at it, but was such a thing even possible?
Anyway, he didn't have a gun. As far as he knew, there wasn't one anywhere on top of the mesa.
Maybe there was some other way. He tried to remember everything he'd ever read or heard about dynamite. The explosive in it was actually nitroglycerin, which was much easier to detonate. Sometimes some of the nitro would sweat out of a stick of dynamite and form a slick coating on it . . .
Sort of like the greasy surface of the stick he was holding.
Matt's heart pounded harder. If some of the nitro had sweated out of this stick, a hard blow might be enough to detonate it and set off the rest of the explosive soaked into the cylinder. Hitting it with a shovel or pick might do the job.
But in order to do that, a man would have to be close enough that the resulting blast would take him out, too. Using this stick of dynamite to blow up the altar would be a suicide mission.
It might come to that, he thought.
For now, he pulled the blanket off Hammond's cot and used the ax to cut off a piece of it. Then he carefully wrapped the dynamite inside the blanket, rolling the fabric around it several times before he slipped it inside his shirt. If he didn't jostle it around too much, and if nobody walloped him with a shovel in just the wrong place, carrying it that way ought to be reasonably safe.
He didn't think he would find anything else useful in here. He w
as about to step out of the tent when he heard Jerry exclaim, "Mr. Cahill! Somebody's coming!"
Matt pushed the flap aside again as Jerry went on, "Oh my God! It's Stephanie! She's all right!"
Matt stepped outside as Jerry hurried to meet the figure stumbling toward them. Starlight reflected off Stephanie's blond ponytail.
Some instinct warned Matt. He called, "Jerry, wait—"
Too late. Jerry had almost reached Stephanie. Suddenly she sprang forward, her arm shooting out. Starlight winked on the blade of the knife just before she plunged it into Jerry's chest.
Stephanie let out a screech of demonic laughter.
Jerry dropped his shovel and stumbled back, pawing futilely at the handle of the knife buried in his body.
"I got him!" Stephanie screamed. She rushed after him, grabbed his arm, and sunk her teeth in it.
Footsteps rushed at Matt from the side. He twisted and brought up the ax with all his strength. The head caught Noel McAlister in the abdomen and ripped on up his torso, opening up his stomach. Noel screamed and ran into Matt, who pulled away as he felt the hot gush of blood and innards spilling out of Noel's body.
Matt wanted to try to get to Jerry, but Scott had appeared out of the darkness, and he and Stephanie were already between Matt and the luckless grad student.
All too aware of the stick of dynamite nestled between his belly and his shirt, Matt turned and ran instead. He had to get back to the truck and then to the excavation where the altar was located. The dynamite was his only real chance to end this.
And he was the only one who could do it. If any of the others got too close to the altar, they would be affected by the evil coming from it, too. He was the only one who seemed to be immune. He wondered why that was, but there was no time to figure it out now.
"Matt!" Ronnie screamed before he reached the truck. He spotted struggling figures around it. As he came closer he saw Ronnie, Ginger, and Maggie slashing wildly at April and Sierra in an attempt to hold them off.
Sierra didn't see Matt coming in time. He swept up the ax and brought it down in the back of her head, sinking the blade deep into her brain. He tried to jerk it loose as Sierra collapsed, but the ax stuck in her skull. He had to plant a foot in her back and wrench it free with a crunching, sucking sound.
April screamed, "You fucker!" and ran off into the darkness.
"Get in the truck!" Matt told Ronnie and the others. "Go!"
He ran to the cab and jerked the door open. Rich was already sliding out from behind the wheel.
"I told them to get in the truck so we could get out of here, like you said for me to do, Mr. Cahill. But Dr. Dupre wouldn't come. Not without you."
Matt nodded as he laid the ax between them. It was sticky with Noel's guts and Sierra's blood and brains.
Such a cost. Such a horrible, tragic cost, because none of the people he had killed tonight actually deserved to die. They hadn't done anything wrong except for being there. Because of that, their blood was on his hands, along with the blood of far too many other people. It would never wash away, either. Only his own death would wipe out the stain.
If things went as he planned, that death might not be too long in coming.
"Everybody in back there?" he yelled.
"We're in!" Ronnie called back. "Go!"
Matt put the truck in gear and tromped the gas. The big truck barreled ahead.
"Where are we going now?" Rich asked.
"To Dr. Varley's excavation," Matt said. "We're going to put an end to this."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Matt wasn't halfway across the mesa when the sudden blaze of lights up ahead made him hit the brake.
"What's that?" Rich asked.
Matt bit back a curse. "Hammond's been busy. He must have used one of the pickups to haul those portable lights and the generator over to Dr. Varley's excavation."
"Why would he do that?"
Matt shook his head. "I don't know."
"Matt, what's wrong?" Ronnie asked from the back of the truck. "Why did we stop?"
"Hammond's got the altar lit up."
"Do you think he's going to have a . . . a sacrifice?"
Matt closed his eyes for a second and tried not to groan. He hadn't thought about that, but it made sense. That's what sacrificial altars were for, after all.
And even more worrisome, if he succeeded, what effect would it have on the altar's power? Was it possible the evil and the madness could get even stronger?
Matt moved his foot from the brake to the gas. At this point, all they could do was plow ahead and hope for the best.
Before he had gone another fifty yards, though, something roared up on the right and smashed against the fender on that side of the truck. Matt caught a glimpse of one of the pickups, running without lights, just before the collision. Then the impact jolted him and made him let go of the steering wheel.
The truck slewed across the ground. It weighed a lot more than the pickup, but the attack had taken Matt by surprise, and striking the truck at an angle like that, the pickup had forced it to veer to the left. The headlights suddenly played across one of those deep crevices that extended in from the edge of the mesa.
Matt grabbed the wheel and hauled hard on it. The pickup had backed off a little, but now it rammed into the truck again, trying to force the truck to plunge into that crevice.
Matt was ready this time. He managed to hold the truck on course . . . which was still going to take it much too close to the brink. He twisted the wheel some more, going on the attack.
With a furious grinding and clash of metal, the truck struck the pickup on the driver's side. In the backwash of lights, Matt saw Scott Conroy behind the wheel, his face contorted by insane hate. Scott struggled to control the pickup, but Matt sent the truck slamming against it again.
The pickup went over, flipping and rolling across the rugged, rocky ground.
Matt hoped it would catch fire and explode, but he didn't have time to see if that happened. He spun the wheel some more, turning away from the crevice just in time. The truck's left wheels missed the rim by less than a yard.
Flipping on the dome light, Matt glanced over at Rich and studied the young man's face. No sign of sores yet, but he knew he couldn't get much closer. If he did, he ran the risk of exposing the people with him to the altar's effect. If they were corrupted, too, the odds against him would be that much higher . . . not to mention the fact that even more innocent blood might wind up on his hands.
He braked. Rich asked, "Why are you stopping?"
"Everybody out!" Matt called by way of answer. He threw the door open as the truck shuddered to a halt.
Taking the ax with him, he climbed out and joined the others at the rear of the truck. He looked at them as closely as he could in the starlight. Everyone seemed to be all right.
"This is as close as you get," he told them. "Rich, the wheel is yours. Everybody else, stay ready for trouble."
"Matt, I don't like the sound of this," Ronnie said. "What are you going to do?"
He smiled and touched his shirt where the cylinder of explosive rested. "I've got a stick of Hammond's dynamite here. I'm going to use it to blow up the altar and see if that will put an end to this."
"You mean you're going to throw away your own life?"
"Not if I can help it," Matt lied. "I'll set the fuse and get the hell away from it before it blows."
What he said wasn't a complete lie. There was no fuse, but he didn't consider giving up his life for this cause to be throwing it away.
"Andrew will try to stop you," Ronnie argued. "We need to go along to give you a chance to set off the explosion."
Matt shook his head. "You can't do that. If you get any closer to the altar, you'll be changed, too."
"And you won't?"
"I was there when the damned thing was uncovered, remember?" he said. "For some reason, it doesn't affect me. This is the way it has to be, and we can't afford to waste any more time. I'm going. Take care of yours
elves."
He turned to walk toward the lights.
Ronnie caught up with him, took hold of his sleeve to stop him. As Matt turned toward her, she leaned in and kissed him, the sort of urgent, passionate kiss that would have shaken him all the way down to his toes under other circumstances.
He was a little too scared for that right now . . . but the kiss helped. No doubt about that.
"I'll say a prayer for you," she whispered.
"Can't hurt," he said.
Then he strode forward again, the ax clutched in his right hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The generator coughed and chattered as Matt approached, providing the power for the lights that threw their stark, brilliant glare down into the pit. He dropped to a knee before he reached that glowing circle and wished he could see what was going on down there without having to crawl right up to the edge.
That was the only way, though. He started forward on hands and knees. The rocky ground was hard on his palms, although his jeans protected his knees to a certain extent.
So far he hadn't been able to hear anything over the racket of the generator, but he began picking up voices now. Were they chanting something?
Matt edged closer, so he could see over the rim of the pit. He knew that what he saw shouldn't have shocked him—he should have been prepared for almost anything—but even so his guts clenched.
Jerry Schultz's body lay on the black altar. A crimson flower of blood stained the front of his shirt. Scott hadn't been killed when the pickup flipped, because he was back in the pit now, standing at Jerry's right while April was on the left. Andrew Hammond was at the foot of the altar, where the face of Mr. Dark was carved. He was facing away from Matt and had taken off his shirt, exposing his pale and somewhat chunky torso.
Hammond's hands were in the air above his head. He was chanting something that was gibberish as far as Matt was concerned, although he supposed it was probably the ancient Anasazi language. Scott and April looked like they were about to have orgasms from listening to Hammond. He held out a knife. "Spread his steaming guts around him and let the blood flow freely," he intoned in English this time.
