by Chuck Dixon
The other priests continued their interest in Dwayne. Their hands explored him in a frank, sometimes rude, way. One of them reached into a pouch at his side and blew a handful of dust into the Ranger’s face. It stuck to his sweaty skin in a fine yellow powder. Dwayne realized at once that it was gold dust. The priests were weighted down with the stuff. Necklaces, amulets, bracelets, earrings, and nose rings of soft yellow metal.
Black Mask was getting over his disappointment at losing the bracelet. His chest puffed up at the attention his gift was receiving. He bowed his head to the priests. They showered him with praise. They tossed handfuls of gold dust at him that stuck to his skin and hair.
At the priest’s direction, the goons came forward to take Dwayne by the arms. Their grip was firm, guiding him rather than pulling him, to join the procession of priests following the column of naked girls along a lane that ran before the pyramid. Dwayne looked back at prideful Black Mask and the beaming Heather, standing with the other raiders watching the parade move away. The slaves were being prodded with clubs to shuffle back toward the causeway. A short life of hard labor in the fields awaited them.
Dwayne broke from the grip of his guides. They stepped back; eyes wide. They glanced at one another then at the priests. The old men had stopped to regard the tall stranger with wary expressions.
“I will not go alone!” Dwayne said.
His Nahuatl was certainly wretched. He knew he probably sounded like a backward child to them. They blinked as he pointed back at the line of the slaves. He held up two fingers and pointed again.
“Two men! Two of these men I want!”
One of the priests stepped forward, head tilted toward Dwayne. He had a wooden eagle’s head atop his skull and a long cape of white feathers. He tapped a carved stick on the ground. The goons stepped forward to renew their grip. Dwayne took a step from them.
“Two men! Two men are mine! My slaves! They go with me!”
Eagle Head’s eyes drew down to slits. His chin bobbed. He waved a feeble hand and chirped an order at the goons. They stood, frozen with indecision until the old man pounded the stick on the dust again.
Dwayne took that as permission, and he trotted toward the retreating slave column with the two goons on his heels.
Patrick, his barrel-chested buddy from the march, stepped forward shouting questions. Dwayne ignored him to move along the row of slaves until he found the two Arabs. In broken Aztec, he pointed at the two men and ordered them freed to come with him. The goons cut short the leads from their collars and used them as leashes to jerk them free of the line. Dwayne stepped up and pulled the rope ends from the goons’ fists.
“Come with me or die out there. Your choice,” Dwayne said in Arabic.
The pair of Arabs regarded him with suspicion bordering on hostility.
“Your promises mean nothing,” an Arab said. The one without lash marks on his back. Even half naked and filthy, he had a bearing about him. A man used to finer things. And having his own way.
“I have influence for now. In the fields, you won’t last a month. As my slaves, I can protect you.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
The Arab shrugged. Both men stepped forward to follow the goons back to where the priests stood waiting. The parade moved on past the foot of the great pyramid. Dwayne could see the long gutters that ran up either side of the stone block steps that led to the altar on the summit. The gutters were crusted black with dried blood. At the bottom of each side of the steps lay sticky pools of the stuff with clouds of black flies swarming above. The smell was sickening.
The words of the aristocratic Arab came back to Dwayne.
“Your promises mean nothing.”
12
Swamped
The Rangers and SEAL reached the water tank at the foot of the narrow falls without event and with eighteen feet of hose to spare. The tank was narrow, no more than ten feet across. It ran deep for fifty feet or more following the base of the escarpment. It was clear, the scree of white rocks at the bottom visible even at a depth of twenty feet or more. No sign of life. Nothing with fins, eyes, or teeth. Not even a sign of plant life. The insects were maddening, and the heat draining. Their clothes were sodden with sweat and chafing their skin with every step and every movement. Ranger training and years spent downrange allowed them to compartmentalize, put the discomfort aside, and prioritize the operation.
Chaz set his rifle aside and jumped into the still water. He was out in an instant, gasping and spitting.
“Shit! That water’s hot!”
“You knew that already, you dumb fuck,” Boats said.
“I thought it’d cool off some!” Chaz snapped back.
“Least you got wet,” Lee said.
Boats hooked the butt of the hose to the immersible pump and the pump’s power line to the generator. Two pulls, and the generator kicked into life with a chugging noise. He tabbed the waterproof switch on the pump. It started with a whirling purr. He tossed it into the water. The hose bucked and plumped as it filled under pressure. The length of it became engorged with water, making popping noises as the sheath expanded down the line.
Shan climbed on top of a shelf of rock above the water and sat with his rifle across his knees, eyes on the trees below. A flock of bottle-blue birds with hooked bills flitted among the spiky boughs of the cycads. He watched a centipede as thick around as his forearm lazily slither away between rocks.
“Sixty gallons a minute. The tank’ll be almost full when I get back down there. I’ll ferry it back to the Raj,” Boats said. “Gonna be a long fucking day,” Lee said. He dipped a hand in the water and slapped some on his face. “So, what do we do?” Chaz said.
“Play with yourselves for all I care. But shut the pump down when I tell you to. I’ll radio when I get back so you can start it up again.” The SEAL held up his handheld radio. Lee and Chaz each had one. Jimbo, too.
“Sure you want to go back alone?” Lee said.
“Fewer of us moving around the less attention we draw. I’ll be quiet as a little mouse.” And Boats was gone in the forest gloom.
Less than two minutes after, he departed a boom of thunder rose toward them to echo off the rocks above.
A wet snort and persistent gurgle came from the marsh behind them. Byrus barked something, and Jimbo was moving to swing the big rifle around toward the noise. Bat joined him, a modified M4 rifle to her shoulder.
At first, it looked like a massive log broaching the surface of the black water, some impossibly huge redwood remnant broken free of the ooze below, dredging tangles of vines up with it. Clear of the muddy depths, its movement became more purposeful. A head took shape, an elongated wedge covered in thick scales. On powerful legs, it climbed up the muddy bank. A long tail with a double ridge of spiny protrusions trailed behind it. It stood, all forty feet of it, fully out of the water. Rows of wicked yellow teeth lined the gate-like jaws. Atop its head, a pair of eyes gleamed, reflecting the sun like burnished bronze.
A crocodile. Or a crocodile’s great-granddaddy. Jimbo had seen crocs before but nothing close to this size. Still, he could see no difference other than scale. The croc came to rest in the reeds along the bank in a band of sunlight that streamed down through the conifer tops.
“That’s why the drone didn’t see it. It’s cold-blooded,” Jimbo said.
“That’s forty feet at least,” Bat said in a whisper.
“A dragon,” Byrus said, staring.
Might as well be, Jimbo thought.
A thumping sound made Jimbo turn his head. A second croc had surfaced near the smaller of the Zodiacs. It glided along to bump the raft holding the tank, causing it to bob in the water. The tank was now filling with water from the hose strung through the forest. The tank rose and fell, rose and fell, swinging side to side as the big animal nudged it again and again. If the tank became capsized, they’d have to drain it to right it. A bitch of a job in the best of conditions. Here it would be sheer
hell. If the crocodilians sank both rafts, they were fucked totally.
The Pima threw himself on his belly and sighted the Savage in on the croc nosing at the rafts.
“Cover your ears,” he said. Byrus and Bat clapped hands over their ears.
The boom of the big rifle sent birds flying skyward from the reeds all across the marsh. The spear of lead, the length of an index finger, punched a hole through the big reptile’s head with a meaty slap audible even over the after-roar of the Savage. The croc was dead but didn’t know it yet. It tossed in the water, making the rafts sway violently on their mooring lines atop the brown foam.
“Son bitch,” Jimbo said.
“Too dumb to die,” Bat said. She sent a long spray of fat Beowulf rounds into the monster’s head.
Jimbo sent a second round through the spine just behind the base of the skull. A spray of blood and matter gushed from the fist-sized hole. The enormous animal kicked once or twice before settling in the shallows where it slowly turned on its side to expose its yellow-white belly.
The croc on the shore raised up on its legs and moved with astonishing speed back into the marsh. It slithered to its dead brother, prodding the fresh corpse with its snout. A film of greasy blood was spreading atop the water. The croc hinged open its jaws to bring them closed with a powerful bite on an exposed leg of the carcass. It worried at the limb, tearing it free of the body. Its entire body, tip to tail, convulsed with the fury of feeding. The water churned violently around it, causing the two rafts to collide with one another over and over. The raft holding the tank sank lower in the water as the weight of its contents increased. It was rocking back and forth, threatening to capsize with each swing.
Jimbo sighted and sent two more rounds into the torso of the hungry croc. Chunks of meat and bone exploded from the exit wounds. Bat joined him with controlled bursts. The monster seemed not to notice and continued gnawing at the limb of the carcass, blood gleaming in its teeth. A third round created enough catastrophic damage to cause the croc to release its hold. It slid back in the water away from its meal. Jimbo placed a fresh magazine in the Savage and resighted on the water below them.
“Where’s the brain? I’m loading the skull up, but it’s still moving,” Bat said. She traversed the rippling water, looking for a target.
“It’s just a nub the size of your fist at the top of the spine,” the Pima said, his eye to the cup of the scope.
Some bubbles rose where the second croc had submerged. The first target floated on its back alongside the pair of rafts. Fat flies were already gathering over the water to land on the croc’s pale belly.
“It is dead?” Byrus said. It was a whisper. Jimbo noticed that the Macedonian gripped the gladius, blade naked, in his fist.
“Maybe. But those aren’t,” Jimbo said.
He nodded out over the marshlands where more snouts were surfacing to push themselves through the reeds to the feast.
“Jimbo! Jimmy! Bat? What the fuck?” Lee was shouting into his handheld. His only answer was the rolling thunder from the Savage. The Pima was firing that big gun as fast as he could chamber rounds.
“What do we do?” Chaz said. He was standing now, eyes on the treetops.
“Nothing till we know what’s happening,” Lee said. “Where’s Boats?” Chaz said.
“Boats? You hear me? What can you see?” Lee said.
The SEAL’s voice came from the speaker. They could hear the echoes of the Savage over the transmission.
“That crazy Indian’s shooting at something I can’t see. I’m above the landing site, but there’s still trees in the way.”
“He’s not responding to our calls,” Lee said.
“No fucking way he can hear you over that noise. Jesus, that piece is loud.”
“Recommend you stay put till we have a sit-rep. Jimmy’s in a good position. We’ll all stay as we are till we hear from him.”
“Roger that. If Jimbo’s in trouble that cannon can’t get him out of, then there’s shit-all I can do to help anyway,” Boats said and signed off.
“I don’t like just sitting here like this,” Chaz said.
“And I do?” Lee said. “But we stick right here. He knows what he’s doing. If Jimbo needs us, he’ll holler.”
And Jimmy Smalls was hollering. He was hollering insults at the backs of crocs clambering out of the water and splashing around the pair of rafts. He was calling to Byrus for fresh magazines. He was cursing at the weight and heat of the enormous rifle in his fists. Bat was cursing as well but at her own rifle. A powerful man-stopper on the battlefield, the M4 was just not enough gun for killing dinosaurs.
Jimbo had to stand now, firing the heavy rifle from the hip in a way it was never meant to be used. But the angle from his hide was all wrong. The big animals were too close for him to fire from the recommended prone position. With each explosion of light and sound and fury, the weapon threatened to tear itself from his grasp. The punishing recoil made him feel like he’d gone six rounds in a boxing ring with a heavyweight.
At the base of the hummock of ground they held, the water was crowded with giant crocs dead, dying, and very much alive. The dumb brutes had no clue who was punishing them, punching pie-plate holes in their skulls and torsos. Their tiny brains fixated on the only new things in their environment; the pair of Zodiacs swaying and bobbing in the churning chop. They were attacking the rafts with tooth and claw, buffeting them with the full force of their bodies.
Jimbo worked the Savage hard to discourage the crocs while taking care not to put a hole in either of the rafts. He was down to two mags for the rifle, and there were still a good half-dozen monsters thrashing and gliding below. A few were feeding on the unexpected buffet of the dead while others continued to be curious about the rafts. Jimbo planted a shot between the eyes of a crocodilian nearing the smaller Zodiac with jaws open. Brain matter and blood sprayed back from the ragged hole before the beast sank out of sight. Jimbo stopped to wipe sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and raised the Savage again to sweep the marsh below.
A great mound of water rose beneath the raft holding the water tank. The spiny hide of a croc, muddy water running off its back, rose up under the Zodiac, sending it tumbling onto its side. Filled to near capacity, the top-heavy craft lurched and then turned over. The flat bottom of the raft turned skyward, the zero-buoyant tank partly submerged beneath it. Under the dark water, the croc’s legs became entangled in the heavy canvas hose. The animal spun about, succeeding only in wrapping the hose about its body. The line went taut and then began to slide along the muddy bank. The dumb beast was drawing their pump line into the water with it. The other Zodiac, secured to the first with a mooring line, was drawing toward the tank. If the line became ensnared as the pump line was, they’d lose their only way back to the Raj.
Jimbo turned at a movement by his side. It was Byrus running past him to leap out over the water, the naked blade of the gladius in his fist. Bat called out a wordless warning. With a walloping splash, the Macedonian plunged into the water ass-first. He surfaced to kick for the second Zodiac, the water around him alive with writhing leviathan.
“Fuck!” Jimbo stood and fired the Savage down at an oblique angle to provide his maniac friend cover. Bat could only stand staring in horrified fascination.
The immersible pump came out of the pool with a rush, missing Lee Hammond by inches.
The pump, still whining as it sucked air, vanished into the ferns below. It went banging and clanking against the tree boles as it was drawn back to the marsh. The generator was flipped on its side and dragged fifty feet before the cord came free. The pump went silent, but for the thrashing sound, it made as it was tugged along the forest floor. The booms of the Savage came up through the trees. The Pima was still functioning.
“We’re going, right?” Chaz said, leaping to his feet. “Damn right we’re going,” Lee said.
Shan dropped down from his position to follow the Rangers running back to support their comrades.
>
They found the pump wedged in the roots of a redwood a hundred paces down the trail. The hose had been ripped from it.
Lee lifted the handheld to his mouth. He felt an iron grip on his arm. Chaz was by him, eyes wide. The three men stood listening to the woods around them. A sound was coming from above them. Branches were snapping somewhere in the forest. Something big was approaching on a direct course for the marsh. On an immediate course for the three men in its path.
The two Rangers and Shan ran full out down the slope.
13
The Score
It was the morning after their first night on the sacred ground in the shadow of the grand temple. They were housed in a one-room hut with stone walls and stone floor. A thatched roof covered it, raised above the top of the walls to allow air to circulate. It was clean and dry with a brazier to keep it warm at night. Bowls of fresh fruit and sweet cornbread along with clay jars of mezcal sat in a niche of the wall. There was a stout wooden bed with a down-filled mat over stretched ropes. This was Dwayne’s place of honor. The Arabs slept on the floor the first night. In the morning, the same women who hefted baskets the day before brought food and scented water and reams of fresh-cut flowers. The aristocratic Arab didn’t show up for breakfast, and Dwayne went looking for him.
The Arab was dead.
He appeared to have been strangled. Dwayne found him lying in high weeds behind the lime-washed hut that was their new home. Eyes crimson with burst vessels, black tongue swollen in blood-crusted lips. The ants were already at him, black trails traced over cold flesh.
