Burial Ground

VII

11:02 p.m.

They had slowly worked their way to the periphery of the camp, remaining just within earshot, where they had waited patiently until their chance had finally come. Something had distracted the group near the fire, drawing everyone's attention, even the men who scoured the wilderness with their automatic weapons. Santos had sensed that there would be no better opportunity, and they had sprinted away through the jungle until they had traveled far enough to safely return to the path.

Only the faintest hint of moonlight permeated the canopy, but it didn't matter. They ran as fast as their tired bodies would allow, tripping and falling, only to rise and run again. Their knees and elbows bled freely through abrasions thick with dirt, and their panting breaths were the only audible sounds over their slapping, barefooted tread.

Kemen cried out. He stumbled and collapsed yet again. Santos and Naldo slowed only long enough to drag him back to his feet and jerk him forward.

Santos knew that once the men discovered they were gone, the search would commence, but only for a short while, and the hunt would be contained to the immediate area surrounding the camp. No one would stray this far to the northeast for fear of giving up hard-earned ground or sacrificing sleep. He and his friends were in the clear now, but they weren't about to slow for anything in the world.

Damn the money. The half they'd received in advance was more than enough to cover the cost of their time and gas. Besides, Santos knew now that their fare would not be returning to Pomacochas to pay the balance. As long as he and his friends escaped with their lives, that would be more than compensation enough.

While he had forgotten the tales his grandmother had spun in his youth, they had returned in startling clarity upon first sight of the jaguar's savaged carcass. He had thought the old woman mad. Her stories of winged demons in the mountains of her ancestors had always seemed designed to scare him. Even then, though, he had understood that as ridiculous as they had sounded, she had believed them. And after witnessing the carnage in that field, now so did he. There wasn't a man or animal in the entire Andes range that could run down an adult jaguar, overcome it, and tear it to shreds. Perhaps he didn't subscribe to the legend of winged demons, but there was definitely something in the jungle that he didn't want to encounter, especially in the dark.

His companions had felt it too, and the agreement to abandon their party had been struck without reservation.

The youth tripped again. This time when he landed, the shoulder strap of his backpack ripped. Its weight slammed into the back of his head and hammered his face against the ground. Kemen moaned and tried to roll over, his pitiful cries muffled by the loam. Santos stopped to help him. It was then that he noticed how fancy the backpack was. Crouching in the forest, awash with darkness, and running in the lead with the boy at his heels, he hadn't even seen it.

Now they were in real trouble.

"What is wrong with you?" Santos asked in Spanish. He wanted to strike Kemen for his foolishness, but the urge was superseded by the need to keep moving. "You should not have taken this. Now they will definitely come after us."

"Mine was falling apart," Kemen sobbed. He rolled over and blood poured from his nostrils. His nose must have broken when his face struck the earth.

"We leave it," Santos said. "When they find it, they will call off the search."

He wrenched the functional strap off of the boy's shoulder, unfastened the top flap, and dumped the contents onto the ground. Kemen's threadbare canvas satchel was buried in a pile of clothes, notebooks, dehydrated rations, and foil-backed punch-cards of medications and water purification tablets. There was also a brand new digital camera. He held it up and shook his head. The desire to beat some sense into the youth with it was overwhelming.

"This? A camera? You risk our lives so you can steal a camera?"

Tears streamed from Kemen's eyes and he blubbered something unintelligible.

"We are wasting time," Naldo said. He had to double over to catch enough breath to continue. "The forest is still too quiet. We can not afford to delay here any longer."

Santos felt the man's trembling hand on his arm and realized the truth of his words. He dropped the camera onto the clothes, grabbed Kemen's pack, and threw it down onto the boy's chest.

"Get up. We must continue. With or without you."

He turned and sprinted after Naldo, who was already twenty paces ahead on the path, a silhouette against the shadows. Either Kemen followed them or they would leave him. The boy had jeopardized their flight for a stolen camera that would only bring a handful of nuevo sol. What in the name of God had he been---?

With a crash of breaking branches, a dark shape knifed across the path ahead, and just like that, Naldo was gone.

A scream erupted from the trees off to the left, but only for a split-second before it was cut short. It trailed into a wet gurgle that was swallowed by thrashing sounds from the underbrush. The bushes shook violently.

Abruptly, the noises ceased and the branches shivered back into place.

"What was that?" Kemen cried from behind him.

Santos held up a palm to silence the boy, who only continued to sob. He could hear nothing else. The jungle was still, the night unfettered by even the soft whoosh of a breeze. He drew a deep breath and sifted through the myriad scents: soggy earth, rotting kapok fruits, palm buds and cacao pods, and something else...the almost metallic smell of raw meat, which grew stronger with each passing second.

"Santos..." Kemen whined.

A single crackle of dead leaves to his left and Santos threw himself into a jerunga shrub to his right. He crawled toward the trunk of a massive tree framed by wooden liana vines, slipped between them, and huddled against the base of the trunk.

"Santo---!"

Another crash from the brush, but this time there was no scream. The crunching sounds grew louder, building to a ferocious crescendo, before dying as quickly as they had begun.

Santos closed his hands over his mouth to mute the sounds of his breathing. It was a futile effort. The jungle was so silent that he could still clearly hear his frantic respirations. He pressed backward until the bark bit into the bare flesh on his back. His eyes darted from side to side. He could see only darkness beyond the wooden bars of his prison.

A hawk-like shriek pierced the night from the far side of the path. A heartbeat later it was answered by another, this time from the opposite direction.

He held his breath and waited.

The only sound was the rapid thud of his pulse in his temples.

Craning his ear toward the path, he listened for even the subtle crinkle of footsteps on wet leaves.

A faint breeze caressed his cheek, bringing with it the intensified scent of bloody flesh.

Santos turned toward the source.

He didn't even have time to scream.