by M. G. Harris
While I’m wondering what he means, tense seconds pass. He seems to be frozen with indecision, keeps looking at the codex, his eyes full of apprehension.
“Know what I’m thinking, Madison?” I say, stalling for more time. “I’m wondering how close I need to get to you, to make you die like them.”
Chapter 41
I lunge toward him, hoping desperately that he won’t fire the gun. My gamble pays off. As I approach, Madison lurches backward in instinctive fear. He trips, falls, and lands on his back. His gun goes off, the bullet zinging through the leaves. I lob the codex as far away as possible, vault over his body, clear him with my legs and arms safely out of reach, and land with a handstand flip. I stop only to lean over and pick up the codex. I head straight for the blue Nissan, parked behind the first car, a Taurus.
I have absolutely no idea how to drive, but luckily it’s an automatic. I feel as though I’m in one of those dreams where you want to run but your limbs feel heavy and numb. I want to turn the blue Nissan around, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how. Driving always looks so easy!
In a narrow trail between the trees, I try frantically to get a three-point turn out of the car. All that happens is that the car backs up, lurches forward, and backs up again until I’m cursing out loud. My hands are so slick with sweat, they barely grip the steering wheel. I finally give up when I see Madison jumping into the other car up ahead. I shift into reverse and slam my foot on the accelerator.
The rain has stopped almost as abruptly as it began, like a faucet shutting off. The downpour has already turned the ground into a mud bath, and for a heart-stopping second, the car doesn’t budge an inch, its wheels spinning like crazy. And then the tires get some grip and I’m moving, zooming backward out of the jungle.
The reverse lights cast a beam deep into the trees. I can’t remember how long it took to get here, but backing out seems to be painfully slow. Madison is only yards behind me, making exactly the same maneuver. Straight down to the lake, the bus driver told me. Twisted around in the car, peering into the darkness of the jungle, I pray that he’s right.
The lake springs on me almost too late to avoid it. There are no buildings around, no lights of any kind. Only the sudden absence of trees and the fathomless black ahead give me any warning that the road is about to run out. I stop the car with a violent lunge. I throw myself out, clutching the codex. I’m just in time to see Madison’s car tumble down the same slope out of the jungle, crashing into the Nissan. I don’t stop to see whether he’s survived. There’s a momentary silence. It crosses my mind that I’m free.
I’m already running along the lakeside, searching the water for any sign of a boat. Back near the town there were craft of all different types moored on the water. In the distance I hear a car door open—Madison is alive. Even running in the dark, I know I’ll never be safe from him—he has a gun. On water I might have a chance to evade him.
Madison’s ammunition must be running low because he doesn’t waste any shooting at me in the dark. There is just enough starlight to see the water. It’s my only guide to where I’m going. I hear him giving chase—he isn’t far behind. His footsteps sound disturbingly light and fast. After a few minutes I see what I’ve been hoping for—a small rowboat. And more importantly—only one.
I jump in, drop the codex onto the hull with a heavy thud. I spend a few seconds untying the mooring knot before Madison catches up. He comes into view at the very last second, about twenty yards behind. Triumph and disappointment combine in one sudden glance when he sees that I’ve found a boat. Seeing him lift his pistol arm, I give the shore a hefty push and hurl myself into the bottom of the boat. He shoots; I hear a bullet crack noisily, splintering wood at the stern.
I row in small, rapid strokes with no break until the shore recedes. When Madison is as close as he’s going to get, I duck down again. This time there’s no gunshot. I guess that a lucky shot might get me now. Then again, it might just waste another bullet. Plus, I have the feeling I’m worth more to him alive. Whatever Madison knows about Ek Naab, he’s certain that I know much more. He’s desperate for that information.
Then he disappears, continuing down the shore. My muscles relax automatically. I rest for the first time since digging under the shrine. Only now do I realize how hard my heart is pumping, the blood pounding in my ears. I double over, gasping, trying to catch my breath. I know I shouldn’t stop, but it’s impossible not to feel a tiny sense of relief.
I gaze across the shiny black depths, where thick mist looms ahead. Will the islands be somewhere inside? I don’t see that I have any other option than to aim directly for the heart of that fog. Lying about halfway across the lake, the mist rises like a smoky wall, concealing the lake’s interior.
I’ve rowed almost four hundred yards across the water. Then I hear the approach of a motorboat. I hold my breath, listening. It’s obvious within seconds that the boat is headed my way. I grab both oars and row hard, pulling the boat closer to the mist. As Madison’s boat approaches, I notice that he’s found a flashlight. Its long beam reaches out over the water, seeking me out. Just as we disappear before each other’s eyes, a thick column of mist between us, his flashlight locks for one second onto my face. For that brief instant, I’m blind.
Under dense swirls of gray mist, I change direction. I row to the right, away from the interior, toward the secretive eastern bank of the lake.
Inside that cloud, sounds seem muffled. The world outside disappears, with all its whirring insect life and distant echoes of howler monkeys. Within, the sounds of my boat are amplified. The splashes of my oars sound riotously loud. Silence is my greatest ally now—Madison’s flashlight will penetrate less than a few feet inside this mist.
When his motorboat enters the mist, I know about it. He cuts the engine, trying to gain the element of surprise through stealth. I don’t know for how long we float around, perhaps only a few yards apart.
Finally, he calls into the gloom, “Josh, it’s the end of the road. Give yourself up.”
When I don’t reply, he shouts louder, “I’m gonna wait here until morning. You can’t escape, you know it.”
Making only tiny movements now, I propel the boat forward. I’m inching along now, but it’s still progress. I hear him start up the engine once more.
“You ever hear of a search grid, Josh? I’m gonna find you, kid. And when I do, you’re gonna tell me everything there is to tell about Ek Naab. Oh, you might hold out a little while, but not for long.”
From behind the mist, land looms abruptly. An island appears before me, the gnarled branches of its trees close enough to touch. I steer the boat into a snug, tiny cove, jam it into place with the oars. Land stretches in all directions ahead. This is no speck of beach, but a major island—big enough to hide on.
Taking the codex with me, I climb onto the shore. I pull out the cell phone. It may be useless as a communication device, but it works as a flashlight. Fog and darkness have combined to make this a treacherous place to walk at night. And all those poisonous creatures I worried about in the Yucatán jungle—they’ll be here too.
Madison hovers close by, enough to hear his boat. Any second now he’s going to discover the island. I find a path and break into a run. I’m vaguely thinking of caves, or a tree—anything that might hide me until morning, when the tourists are sure to arrive on those pale blue launches.
I pass an area of mounds that could be some archaeological remains—stone platforms and terraces. I’m running so fast now that I almost skid headlong into a swamp. I’m about to turn around when I notice a dark shape moving in the water. I freeze. It couldn’t be … Ahead, to my left, another shadow shifts, then another next to it. Soon the whole swamp is a heaving mass of slithering bodies.
Crocodiles. They’ve picked up my scent. I’m being hunted.
I’m faced with a killer on one side and crocodiles on the other. Icy terror grabs hold of me. I feel the same dread I experienced in the sea, fearing a
shark would appear, that I would be consumed, alive and screaming, by the razorlike teeth of a wild beast. Now this is no figment of my imagination; it’s completely real.
I slowly back up the slope toward drier land. Only steps away there’s a mangrove tree, the roots spread wide around the base. I hurl myself at the tree, manage to land a good distance up the roots, and scramble higher. I hear the crocodiles’ teeth scrape at the wood under my feet. For one hideous second I even feel their rancid breath against my ankles. Even from up in the tree, I can smell fish rotting in their guts. When I’ve clambered far enough out of reach, I turn my phone light onto them. Hopelessly, I look for an escape route.
There’s no possible escape. The light seems to make them even crazier, lashing their tails and snarling themselves into a frenzy. The beady, evil eyes of a dozen crocodiles gleam back at me from the ground. I find myself wondering about Madison, and if he has the nerve to tackle the whole crew of crocs.
As I move to turn off the cell phone, I notice that there’s one bar of signal showing. It’s such an amazing sight that for a minute I wonder if I’m imagining things. I climb higher into the tree. I scrape my legs and arms but I don’t care. A second bar appears on the phone’s display. Relief cascades through me. Almost laughing, I dial Benicio, just as he showed me.
He picks up without a single ring.
“Where the hell are you?!” he screams, furious.
“In a lake … Catemaco,” I tell him. “On an island.”
I sense his relief, too. Benicio’s voice becomes calmer, serious. “East or west of the town?”
“Um … east, I think.”
“Are there howler monkeys?”
“I think I heard some, yeah.”
He pauses as if to catch his breath. “Are there ruins?”
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”
“Okay. Good. Thank God! You’re on Isla Agaltepec. Don’t move. I’m coming for you.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Good.”
“Benicio … I’m up in a tree.”
“That’s probably a good idea. There are cocodrilos in that lake.”
“And … Simon Madison is looking for me.”
Benicio swears softly under his breath.
“And … Benicio … I’ve got the codex.”
Chapter 42
Benicio’s Muwan drops vertically, coming to a halt several yards above my head. From the outline I see immediately that it’s a Mark II—much larger than the Mark I. It’s like a gigantic bat’s shadow, blocking the rain and creating a faint glow of cloud particles that reflect the Muwan’s lights. I wait for a few seconds, wondering what kind of high-tech tool Benicio will use to get me inside the craft without landing. A sisal-weave bag like the one Ixchel had been carrying lands on my upturned face, attached to a climbing rope. Above, I hear Benicio say, “Put the codex in the bag!”
Once he’s taken the codex safely on board, he lowers the rope for me. A rope ladder would have been even better, but at least this one has a series of thick knots on which I’m able to stand. The Muwan hovers unsteadily, swings lightly with my weight.
I clamber over the cockpit, startled to catch sight of Benicio’s face behind what looks like a gas mask. We stare at each other through the windshield for a second. He beams a big smile, gives me a thumbs-up. When I climb into the passenger seat, he turns around.
“Nice going, cousin!”
“What’s with the mask?”
“With that thing around,” he says, indicating the bag containing the codex, “only you are safe within a yard of it.”
“So it’s … a gas mask?”
“Sure,” he says, his voice distinctly cheery even when muffled. “What did you think? Magic?” And he bursts out laughing. “Josh, dude. This is incredible news!”
The window through which I climbed begins to retract. I strap myself into the seat. The humming noise alters, a subtle harmonic shift. The Muwan lifts. I clutch my seat, almost gag at the next—sudden and violent—lurch, a crazy right-hand spin. The Muwan banks left, flips by 180 degrees in less than a second. Just as being in a Cessna feels more like you’re actually flying than when you ride in a commercial jet, this sensation has an essence to it that’s totally new. Maybe you get that in those really advanced fighter jets—I wouldn’t know. At this moment, however, I’m certain I’ve experienced something beyond what I’ve imagined is possible inside a machine. The Muwan Mark II feels like a bird—simple as that.
“All four codices are kept in the original casings,” Benicio shouts. “They’re thousands of years old! The coating is made of some material we still don’t understand. A matrix of some kind—partly organic, partly synthetic. It’s resistant to destruction by anything except a strong denaturing acid, which would destroy the contents too, obviously.”
“But gas?”
“Released when someone activates the matrix,” he replies. “By simple touch.”
“Gas did that to those guys?”
Benicio seems alarmed. “It killed people?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “I watched it. Horrible.”
It’s clear from his silence—this is a setback.
“Tell me it didn’t kill anyone important.”
“They were agents,” I tell him. “From the NRO. The guys who captured me in Chetumal.”
Benicio seems to go berserk. He drags hard at the controls of the Muwan. We accelerate forward, the sudden G-force pressing me back hard into the seat.
“Josh, I need to know how those agents found you. Did they lead you to the codex? Or was it the other way around?”
“They followed me. They’re the three guys who’ve been following me since I got to Mexico. One of them captured me when you dropped me off.”
“I knew it! That was a stupid thing to do! Didn’t I tell you? And I took the blame, just so you know. So all three are dead?”
“No, Simon Madison isn’t. He chased me all the way onto the island.”
Benicio groans. “So he saw me pick you up.”
“Well, yeah. Him and anyone else who might have been looking out over Lake Catemaco.”
“That’s nothing. There are always UFO sightings out here. No one takes it seriously.”
“Madison will.”
“Yeah, he will.”
But our conversation is cut short. As we fly low over the mountainous terrain, I grasp the fact that we’re not alone in the sky. Three spherical lights appear in the distant sky ahead, crossing our path.
“Those aren’t our planes … are they?”
“No,” Benicio replies grimly. “They are not.”
And one look is enough to tell me that they aren’t your everyday fighter planes either.
Chapter 43
Benicio curses softly when those three lights appear on the horizon.
“Three,” he mutters. “Caramba! I’ve never outrun three.”
“You’ve seen these before?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Sometimes I’ll see one. And it’ll chase me. Never seen three.”
“What are they?”
“You can’t tell? They’re Muwan. That’s how they look from outside, when the antigravity drive is fully engaged.”
“We glow?”
“Yeah. When you get in the mood for a physics lesson, let me know; I’ll give you all the details.”
“I’ll live without them, thanks.”
Wait a minute …
“It’s the NRO, isn’t it?”
“We’ve never been certain of it. But, yeah, I think we can put two and two together here.”
“Are they armed?”
“You bet.”
“Are we armed?”
“Not like them. And if we fire on them, we start the war. So, we run.”
“This is how it happened with my dad, isn’t it? This is how they got him.”
Benicio doesn’t reply. He points the nose of the Muwan upward and accelerates so fast that for a second or two I literally can�
��t breathe. Underneath us, the three glowing lights stop in midair and swoop upward, following.
“Let’s show these guys what they’re missing in their Mark I’s.”
The Muwan shoots up; slams us back into our seats for what seems an unreasonable length of time. Where are we going—the moon? My legs and arms are pinned into position; the urge to move becomes unbearable. If I could make my voice heard, I’d beg Benicio to stop. Outside, the sky turns from a star-speckled, deep navy blue to pitch-black, with a star field so thick, it’s as though the lights just came on. We’ve reached the stratosphere, I guess. At the very least.
The craft decelerates and levels off. I can’t see the spherical lights anywhere now.
“They still on our tail?”
“They are,” comes his terse reply.
“Where?”
“Seven o’clock,” he says, angling the craft so that I can watch their approach.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Them. The Mark I is like a slug at terminal velocity. When we hit rock bottom, they won’t have any idea which direction I’m pulling out.”
“Terminal velocity …?”
“That’s it. Hey, Josh, you like roller coasters?”
And then we drop, just like a stone.
If the gravity was bad on the way up, it’s pure insanity on the descent. My guts smash into my diaphragm and stay there jammed against it. It’s impossible to believe that Benicio’s still in control. Every sense is telling me that we’re hurtling to our deaths. I can’t stop thinking about those people who jumped from the Twin Towers. I really don’t want to think about that; I don’t want those images in my head while I feel this appalling, deadly rush. Eventually I stop holding back. I scream.
Benicio joins in, but he’s not screaming with fear.
“Wooooooooooo-hoooooo!” he yelps as the Muwan brakes sharply and pulls out into a horizontal swoop. “Yabadaba doo!”
Yabadaba doo? Who actually says that?
And then it’s back to all his favorite Mexican curse words, this time belted out with a gusto that I’ve never heard from him before.
