by John Bolin
The bearded man covered her mouth and dragged her around the side of the building, where Peter guessed the four-wheelers were waiting.
Linc started to move, but one of the men stopped him, pressing a gun to his back.
The tattooed man walked in a slow circle around them. “It’s over. You’ve come as far as you’re going to.”
The rest of the black-clad men stood in a circle around Peter’s small team. Each of them had a gun trained on one of them.
“Who are you guys?” Peter said, trying to buy a few moments as he thought through the situation.
The tattooed man sneered through yellowed teeth. He was holding a gun in his hand. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with. This is bigger than all of you. You never should have come here. This was none of your business.”
Peter glanced at Gator, whose eyes were moving around, looking for a way out.
The tattooed man pulled Alex to her feet. “Move away from the others.”
“What do you want with her?” Peter shouted.
“Shut up! Stop asking questions unless you want a bullet through your head,” the tattooed man shouted. “Now, move.”
“It’s okay,” Alex said, her legs shaking as she walked.
Peter lunged toward the man, knocking him over. He got his hand on the man’s gun and—
Something bit him on the neck. A searing hot pain at the base of his skull. He pushed up onto his knees and reached back. Something protruded from his neck. He pulled it out and brought it to his face. He tried to focus on the object in front of him. A dart? He staggered and fell.
On the ground, he could feel the press of a thousand pounds on his chest. He was unable to breathe or move. Dimly he heard Alex scream. His eyes still struggled to focus on the object in his hand.
The last thing he saw were three sets of bright red feathers.
* * *
“Peter!” Alex shouted as Peter fell to the ground.
Gator and Linc both dove forward. An instant later, both men fell to the ground, reaching for their backs in pain.
Alex stood frozen in fear, covering her eyes with her hands. But something was wrong. She’d seen the men pull the triggers and she’d seen Peter and Gator and Linc fall, but she hadn’t heard anything. No crack of gunfire. Slowly, she pulled her hands away and saw three feather-tipped darts sticking out from Gator’s back. Two of the men reached down toward them. For a moment, they were distracted.
Alex shoved her captor, ran, and crashed through the underbrush toward the opposite side of the building. She saw vines and trees ahead of her—open jungle. She ran hard.
Something whizzed by her face. A dart stuck fast in a tree in front of her. She kept moving, faster now.
Her legs wobbled and throbbed as she worked to keep her footing on the spongy jungle floor.
The rain forest exploded with sound. Giant macaws cawed and scattered under the canopy. A family of gibbons shrieked and screamed as Alex blasted her way through the leaves. She could hear the sticks and brush behind her snapping. They were following, gaining on her. She knew they were faster and better suited to handle the jungle terrain, but running was her only hope.
Her senses were all piqued. The smell of the jungle surrounded her. Her eyes shot from tree to tree, searching for a place to hide, to escape. Her ears were filled with noises, and she worked to distinguish them, hoping for an idea. She caught a deep rumbling sound.
The river.
She remembered the tributary was close by. She could hear it getting louder, stronger. If she could just get to the water, maybe she could swim downstream far enough to get away from the men. She’d figure out the rest from there. The sense of hope sent a rush of adrenaline through her body, supercharging her legs.
An explosion behind her sent birds and animals leaping through the trees. Leaves ripped and shredded next to her as another dart missed her by a few feet. Green flashed by her face as she ran. Sharp branches snapped and clawed at her face and arms, cutting her everywhere.
The crashing sounds behind her were getting closer, and the rumbling of the river was getting louder in front of her. She was almost there. Then she saw it—the river—between the trees. A few more steps.
A sharp pain shot up her spine. She clawed at her back as she leapt toward the water.
Her legs suddenly stopped working. She crashed to the ground, only feet from the edge of the roaring water. An icy sensation moved through her body, attacking her senses. She struggled to breathe. Her fingers touched the feather at the end of the dart. Her mind swam and flickered. Her movements were thick and heavy. She could see only shadows.
And then, nothing at all.
* * *
Raul peered over the edge of the cliff. The sun glinted against the three clear caskets as they bobbed up and down in the rancid water. The seasonal rains had created this massive hidden sinkhole. Raul knew it was more than three hundred feet deep, and half of it was filled with water.
If it hadn’t have been for the woman, he would have killed them quickly. But chasing her through the jungle had angered him. Now he’d kill them slowly. And then . . . he shook his head. He’d have his way with the girl and then kill her. But Michael had asked for her. At least her friends would suffer. The sinkhole had been his idea. He’d been careful to allow just enough air into the boxes so that when they regained consciousness, they could watch each other die.
And if they didn’t suffocate, if they somehow managed to get out of their locked boxes, an even greater danger awaited them.
Raul pulled out his phone and typed a text message. It is done. The ones you have selected are on their way. The others are dead.
He dropped a stick into the infested waters below. “Eat well, little friends.”
ACT III
INTO EDEN
Chapter 17
Raul padded through the underground tunnel. The lights illuminated the space with a haunted glow. The tunnel system in Eden was complicated, extending for miles in nearly every direction, well beyond the compound itself. As head of security, he’d memorized every one of the branches, splinters, and caves of the labyrinth. He’d walked between the assembler room and the laboratories nearly every day since he had arrived.
He was growing tired of the artificial lights and the stench of chlorine, but he knew Michael’s scientists were close to their goal, closer than ever. A year ago, he wasn’t so certain. The work had been slow. Often, he had wanted to leave; he had threatened to leave only once. The lack of feeling in his right foot reminded him of the missing toes. A simple reminder, he had been told. It would have been pointless. He of all people knew Michael had eyes and ears everywhere. Even if he ran, he would eventually be found. He shuddered at what that would mean.
Michael did not tolerate disloyalty. Or failure.
The tunnel came to a sudden end and terminated into a giant limestone wall. Raul moved quietly and quickly in the dark, triggering the mechanism, and a moment later, a rumble sounded in the darkness as the giant rock began to swivel in toward him. It moaned until it revealed a small opening, just big enough for a man to pass through. Raul entered. Then the giant slab of granite crunched as the heavy rock ground against the stone floor.
The cave opened up to a large area nearly fifty feet across, Michael’s personal office. Raul scanned the room. The office was lined with bookcases and filled with scientific equipment. Victorian chandeliers had been rigged to the ceiling. Raul flipped off the flashlight and set it on a nearby shelf. A bright fluorescent wash covered the area. The room wasn’t damp or cold like the caves. Temperature-control systems kept the room perfectly comfortable. Classical music sounded from somewhere in the ceiling. His eyes fell on the big aluminum desk at the far side of the cavern.
Michael was there, waiting in a silver chair, his face hidden in the shadows of a jungle of scientific equipment.
“What happened?” Michael asked, leaning forward out of the shadows. The lights situated above his head made Michael’s
eyes appear sunken and dark.
Raul winced. “We found the girl.”
Michael smiled. “Good. What about the others, the Americans?”
“Nothing to worry about. The Indian girl has been returned to the laboratory, and the American woman has been drugged and is asleep in the barracks.”
“And the rest of them?”
“We killed them,” Raul said, crossing his hands over his chest.
Michael nodded slowly and tapped his foot against the stone floor, a jittery little pattern. “Very good. The assembler is almost ready. Soon, the world will realize the power of Eden. That cannot be jeopardized. This American, this Peter Zachary, has already been too much trouble. I don’t want anything interfering with my research; is that clear?”
“Completely,” Raul said. “What should I do with the American woman?”
A short pause.
“Bring her to me.”
* * *
The speakers pulsed gently as Sarah McLachlan’s “Ordinary Miracle” sailed across the room. Alex woke with a start, realizing that her favorite song had been playing for a while. Eyes opened. Something wasn’t right. For an instant, she had the distinct feeling she’d just awakened from a nightmare, but the substance of it totally escaped her.
She pushed the sensation to the back of her thoughts and breathed deep. The air was fresh, scented with flowers. She shook her head. Maybe it was just one of those nights without dreams at all. Maybe she had just been dead to the world. She squinted as the sun crept onto her bed in long shafts of light, shining in from giant windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Just a little more sleep. She pulled the sheets back over her head.
Sheets?
She sat up, trying to orient herself.
The world around her snapped into focus. She was in a giant bed with a down comforter and clean sheets. And she was wearing a fresh nightgown.
Where am I?
It came back to her in waves. The river, the jungle, the morgue, and . . . the dart in her back. She reached around and rubbed it.
Where were Tima and Peter? Or Gator and Linc? Or Skins? She remembered Skins lying on the floor of the morgue, gasping for breath.
Alex pulled back the sheets, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and looked around. There was a bed, a dresser, and a small table and chairs, like a hotel. It was cold and clean, a big departure from the muggy jungles she’d been traipsing through for the past few days. There was no television or phone.
Set out on one of the chairs was a set of fresh clothes. A white jumpsuit.
None of the walls was constructed in a straight line. They all had slight curves, including the windows. The walls had been painted a slightly muted green, Alex’s favorite color, and decorated with modern art featuring random interconnected circles like atoms or molecules.
She noticed an attached bathroom, walked over and snatched the pile of fresh clothes, and headed for the shower.
As she did, a voice suddenly filled the air, coming from a speaker in the corner of the room.
“Dr. Forsythe,” a voice said in perfect Quechua, “Dr. Khang would like to see you now.”
* * *
Peter’s neck hurt. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up.
“Ow!”
He looked up to see what he’d hit his head on. All around him was dull silver. He knew instantly where he was: inside one of the reliquaries.
He banged his fist against the lid, but the cramped box simply didn’t give him enough leverage. He was stuck. The air was hot and close.
A muted silver light illuminated the space outside the box, casting an eerie glow into his small aluminum casket. Though he couldn’t be certain, he guessed the light was from the moon. If so, that meant it was nighttime and he was probably outside.
The foggy feeling in his mind slowly waned, giving way to another sensation. Motion sickness? He was drifting, moving. He turned his head so that he was facing the Plexiglas side of the box.
He was floating.
The reliquary he was in was floating in dark water. He heard it now, slapping gently against the box, sloshing as he moved around.
His neck still ached where the dart had struck him. His muscles were tight, partially from the impossible position he was in but also from the paralyzing chemicals that were still draining from his system. He shook his head and shut his eyes tight. He remembered diving for the tattooed guy and then being struck by the dart, but after that he didn’t know. The men must have put him in this box and left him to die.
As if he needed yet another reason to kill the White Shaman—or Michael Khang or whoever he was—once he got out of here. The list was growing. Bogart, Skins, and now this.
What about the others? Are they alive?
He looked out the window again and tried to make some sense of where he was. Outside, water lapped against the Plexiglas. He lifted himself on his elbow and looked out at the dim gray world around him. As his eyes focused, he saw that he was six inches away from a natural limestone wall, like the wall of a cave. Leaning over, he tried to see how far up the wall went, but it was no use. Just above him the stones seemed to arch inward. Nothing but rock.
It was almost impossible to move. He tried to shift onto his side, careful not to flip the box over, but a loud crack and jolt sent his forehead smashing against the window. His box had floated into the rock wall.
Peter found that he could jostle his body around to make the reliquary move in the water. The box bobbed and splashed, but he was able to edge only a short distance away from the wall.
Foul-smelling water splashed against his face. Water inside the box. Was he taking on water?
His feet were wet. He strained in the dark to see down the length of the box to the end where his feet were. Filmy, gray water formed a pool at his feet, halfway up his boot.
Great.
The air he had to breathe was thin and rank and had a dank septic quality. Then a thought hit him. How much air did he have left? He breathed shallower, careful to conserve as much as he could.
His box hit something again. This time it sounded like metal against metal. He looked out his window.
Another reliquary.
It bobbed gently in the moonlit water. Through the half-submerged Plexiglas panel of the other box, he could see Linc’s face. He wasn’t moving. Either he was already dead or he was still unconscious from the drugs. Putrid water lapped up and down the inside of Linc’s box, splashing against his face.
Peter shouted and pounded the glass with his fist. His voice sounded hollow. Linc didn’t move. Peter worked to calm down. Going nuts would be useless. He knew there was no way Linc would be able to hear him through the Plexiglas. But at least he was accounted for. More than he could say for Gator or Skins.
Or Alex.
Where was Alex? He hated being stuck in a stupid box when she could be floating somewhere nearby, freaked out of her mind. The last time he’d seen her, the tattooed guy had been trying to take her away. Maybe they’d spared her life. His mind flashed to several unpleasant scenarios. Maybe she was dead.
Another metallic thud jolted his box. He turned his head. A face was staring back at him. It caught him by surprise, like turning a corner to find someone you don’t expect.
It was Gator, alive and awake.
Gator looked nervous. He kept shaking his head and pointing up.
“We’re trapped,” Peter said, knowing he couldn’t hear him. “The electronic locks, remember?”
Gator pointed toward Peter’s feet. Peter looked down. The water inside his box had pooled and was now up to the top of his boot. He glanced back at Gator, who mouthed the words, telling Peter what he already knew but couldn’t see: “You’re sinking.”
* * *
A teenage native with a broad smile was waiting for Alex when she opened the door. She said good morning in Quechua. The boy replied. Apparently, it was the only thing he knew how to say in the Quechua dialect. When she began to ask him questions about T
ima and Peter and where she was, the boy lifted his hands and shook his head, as if not understanding her.
He tried to use his native dialect. It looked like he thought it was very important. But Alex couldn’t understand. Finally, she stopped trying and simply reached out, touching the boy on his arm. “It’s okay,” she said, nodding her head, “we can go now.”
She and the boy stood alone in a long hallway. It looked like a hotel hallway with doors on each side. Metallic sconces hung from the walls between doors, casting light up toward the ceiling. White walls met white ceiling and floor, giving the whole space a sort of clinical look and feel. It smelled clean. Classical music wafted through the corridor.
