Where the hell are you guys?
Sam had to accept the possibility that both were lost. He apologized silently if he was wrong and swung around. He headed back toward the statue at a dead run. No longer having to blindly track the two men, Sam could move faster. He knew the way back to the statue, knew which were the proper turns and which were dead ends.
Sam reached the last street, the straight avenue that aimed for the central plaza. From there, he even spotted the glow of Maggie’s torchlight highlighting the statue’s base. Tugging his Stetson snugly across his brow, he started down the street.
Before he had taken two steps, a cry of pain drew his attention to the right. Sam twisted around, rifle raised. Down a short side street, a figure slid along the left wall, hunched and feeble. The shape was too dark to be one of the cavern predators.
Sam raised his torch and, in turn, was blinded by a sudden explosion of light. Someone screamed at him: “Get away, you fuckin’ shithead!”
Blinking back the glare, Sam lowered his rifle. “Norman?”
The figure had stopped a few yards back; a quieter, meeker voice answered. “Uh, Sam?” Norman lowered the flash which he had used to blind the Texan.
Sam let out a whoop and hurried to Norman’s side. His joy quickly deflated when he took in the photographer’s injury. “Where’s Ralph?”
Norman pocketed his flash and just shook his head. He would not meet Sam’s eyes. Instead, he asked, “How about Maggie and Denal?”
“At the statue,” Sam said, his voice subdued. The loss of Ralph was like a deadweight in his chest—but now was not the time to mourn. He straightened and reached to pull Norman under an arm. “We need to hurry. They may be in trouble.”
Norman backed away, shoving at Sam’s arm. Tears welled up. “I won’t get anyone else killed.”
“Bullshit, it’s just your leg.” Sam bullied up to Norman and scooped the photographer’s shoulder under one arm. “How good were you at a three-legged race?”
Norman opened his mouth, clearly meaning to protest, but a fierce growling rose behind them from deeper down the street. They both glanced back; then Norman leaned more heavily on Sam. “Let’s find out.”
Sam nearly carried the injured photographer, but he was not going to leave the man behind. They returned to the main thoroughfare and headed out at a fast clip, limping and hopping. The yowling rose all around them now. It seemed to be paralleling their track.
“It’s… it’s my leg,” Norman moaned at his ear. He started to lean away. “The blood is attracting them. If you leave me here, they might—”
“Sorry, no meals on this flight,” Sam answered, pulling Norman closer, refusing to let the man sacrifice himself.
They hurried forward amid the escalating cries of the predators. The statue grew too slowly in front of them.
“We’re not going to make it,” Norman said, nodding toward a handful of pale forms leaping along the rooftops behind them, moving with incredible speed. One paused to howl at the cavern roof.
“Scouts,” Sam said. “They’ve spotted us and are calling for reinforcements.” Sam kept going, swinging his Winchester backward, and fired off one round. It was a blind shot. The bullet rebounded off the wall and bounced between the tomb walls to either side. Something yelped past the reach of their light.
Norman mumbled with grim satisfaction, “You’ve really got to watch those damn ricochets.”
Shouldering the rifle, Sam hauled the photographer with him. The Winchester had only one shot in the chamber, then Sam would have to reload—which meant stopping. They would not survive the delay.
A voice called from down the street, drawn by his rifle blast. “Sam! Hurry! I have a way inside the statue!” It was Maggie. He spotted her small form at the end of the street, outlined in torchlight.
“Then get inside! Now!” Sam hollered back.
“Just move your asses! Don’t worry ‘bout me!”
Norman glanced at the mass of beasts upon their tail. “Personally I was worrying more about them,” he said sourly.
Lungs on fire, legs burning, Sam forced them to a faster pace. He fought to close the distance with Maggie. He was now close enough to see her eyes widen at the sight of the company pursuing them.
“Holy shit,” she said. “Hurry!” She ran toward them.
“Get back!” Sam gasped.
But she ignored him. She raced toward them with Denal at her heels. As Maggie drew near, she waved the gold dagger overhead and whistled a piercing note, a sheepherder calling his dogs.
What the hell did she think she was doing?
Sam glanced anxiously behind him. The forefront of the pale legion tumbled from the rooftops onto the street, almost at his heels. Sam shoved Norman forward and swung to face the coming onslaught with the single shell in his Winchester.
Maggie appeared at Sam’s side. “Don’t!” She shoved his rifle down and stepped forward. She brandished the long blade.
“Maggie!” But to Sam’s shock, the squabble of creatures skidded to a stop, claws scraping rock. Black eyes were fixed on the knife. Even overhead, the scouts backed from the roof’s edge, retreating. Those caught on the street crouched against the sight of the blade. They scrabbled slowly away.
Maggie indicated their party should do the same. “I don’t know how long their fear will overwhelm the hunger for fresh meat.” Maggie glanced at their group with concerned eyes. “Where’s Ralph?”
“Dead,” Norman said softly.
“Oh, God, no…” Maggie muttered, returning to guard the group with the dagger.
Sam kept at Maggie’s shoulder. He glanced between the knife and the huddled pack. “Why do they fear it?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie answered tightly, voice strained with the news of Ralph. “Right now, all I care is that it works.”
Sam agreed with her, but he could not keep his mind from working on the beasts’ odd reaction. He remembered his earlier assessment that the creatures might be some inbred line of ape or prehistoric man, cave creatures the Incas had discovered down here and had revered as mallaqui, underworld spirits. But why would they fear this old Incan dagger?
Sam frowned, sensing he was still far from the true answer to the mysteries here. But as Maggie had said, the first thing a good researcher did when investigating something strange was to survive.
To either side, the line of tombs suddenly vanished. They had reached the central plaza.
“Around here,” Maggie said, finally turning her back on the mass of creatures crouched down the street. She quickly led them to the door he had noticed earlier. Skirting around the heel, Sam saw the way now lay open.
“How did you manage to unlock it?” Sam asked.
Maggie passed him back the dagger. “It seems the weapon is also an all-purpose skeleton key. It changed to match this lock, too.”
“You’re kidding?” Sam flipped the dagger back and forth, examining it. “How did you get it to work?”
Maggie’s brows furrowed. “That’s the thing. I don’t truly know.”
Panting and wheezing, Norman pushed beside them, leaning on Denal now like a human crutch. “We’ve got company!” he gasped out, pointing back.
Sam turned. The pale beasts had begun to creep again from the shadowed streets and into the central plaza. Low growls began to flow. Sam herded everyone through the doorway in the golden heel. “It seems their hunger is winning out.”
Maggie ducked in. “Hurry, Sam! Help me with the door!”
Without turning from the slathering pack, Sam backed to the narrow entry. As he struggled through, his rifle’s strap caught on the door’s hinge. Sam yanked on it, but only jammed the leather strap tighter. “Goddammit!”
Sensing his distress, one of the creatures bounded forward, growling and snarling, all teeth and claw. A soldier. As it neared, it hissed at Sam, drool foaming from its mouth, and swiped a razored claw at his throat.
Ducking back, Sam parried the attack with the gold dagger. The knife struck pale flesh, but it was a pinprick in a bull. The creature heaved up, screaming its rage. Blood splattered Sam from the injury, while he fought to unhook the rifle.
“Leave it!” Maggie yelled.
“It’s our only weapon!” With one hand on his rifle, Sam kept the gold dagger between himself and his adversary. Other pale beasts squealed and cried behind the injured one. They had smelled the blood.
Sam met the eyes of the creature looming over him. In those black wells, Sam sensed a dark intelligence. It raised its injured arm, red blood drizzling down its pale flesh from the knife wound. A low growl of hate seeped from its throat. Sam tensed for the blow.
But instead the beast suddenly jerked away as if it were a marionette directed by some unseen hand. The raised arm blackened, starting from the clawed hand, then spreading down the arm like a flaming poison. Wisps of smoke trailed up from the limb. Howling in pain, the creature crashed backward into its brethren. Its arm, now charred, crumbled and fell away to ash, but still the burning spread. The beast rolled on the stone floor. In mere seconds, its pale torso and other limbs blackened to match the granite beneath it. Smoke swirled around the writhing figure; even spats of flame shone through cracks in its flesh.
Sam knew what he was witnessing. The rare phenomenon had been documented in the past, but never witnessed: Spontaneous combustion.
Stunned, Sam backed away, his rifle forgotten. Without him tugging any longer, the gun simply clattered to the floor. He left it where it fell, brandishing the dagger instead.
Beyond the doorway, the pale creatures retreated from their charred brother. The large beast lay unmoving, a sculpture of ash upon the stone floor.
Maggie crouched and grabbed the Winchester’s stock and dragged it into the small chamber with them. “Help me with the door.”
Sam nodded dully. He glanced at the gold dagger, then slipped it carefully into his belt. With his hands free, he joined Maggie in hauling the heavy door closed. Once shut, it snapped tight, the lock clicking in place.
