Burial Ground

I

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 28^th

7:19 a.m. PET

The backpack was crumpled in the middle of the path amid the mess of its dumped contents. Crimson dots spotlighted the jumble from the thin beams of the rising sun that managed to reach through the interwoven branches. The world around them hummed as though with an electrical current. Mosquitoes swarmed over the bushes to either side of the path in greater numbers than he had ever seen in one location in his life. They covered the leaves and filled the air in roiling clouds.

He knelt beside the overturned rucksack. His men surrounded him, automatic rifles pointed into the infested jungle at the four points of the compass. The tracking device was still in the bottom of the outer left pouch where McMasters had pinned it into the lining by the single metal prong. It showed no signs of tampering or manipulation. He moved on to the former contents of the bag, and sifted through long- and short-sleeved shirts, jeans, cargo pants, socks, boxers, and a host of other personal items: toothbrush and toothpaste, eye drops, a small medical kit, and prescriptions for Ambien, BuSpar, and Xanax. The foil punch-cards intrigued him. A sleep aid, an anti-psychotic, and an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant. Whoever the bag belonged to appeared to be a real nut job. He turned over a windbreaker and a spider the size of his hand raised its forelegs at him.

"Christ." He drew his hunting knife and impaled the creature through the thorax, pinning it to the earth. While its legs squirmed and twitched, he evaluated the sections of soil beneath it and between the proliferation of roots and weeds. There. Two distinct sets of footprints, both bare. Interesting.

Tasker yanked the blade from the spider's back, wiped it on his fatigues, and shoved it back into its sheath. He stood again and surveyed the chaos as a whole. Several feet to the west of the path, the groundcover was flattened and uprooted. Beyond were more partial footprints, spaced far enough apart to confirm what they already knew. The men had been running. The one carrying the pack must have tripped and fallen, spilling everything out of his backpack. So why hadn't he repacked his belongings and continued onward? Even an expensive digital camera remained facedown in the dirt.

He turned his attention to the swirling masses of mosquitoes. Now he needed to determine what happened to the men whose footprints terminated right here.

The smell of violated flesh and spilled blood reminded him of the scent of the bodies he had pulled out of the rubble in the aftermath of a market bombing in Baghdad during Desert Storm. It was all around him, which made it impossible to pinpoint the source. Fortunately, he didn't have to look very far. He pushed through a spear-leafed bush tangled with vines that reached the ground from the branches of the ceiba tree above it, and immediately saw the remains through the swarming insects and the carpet of them on the ground. The bones were shattered and spread out over an area ten feet square. A disarticulated foot rested closest to him, skin black, capped with the severed tendons that attached to the stub of the ankle. There was a portion of a knee here, a section of spine there. A broken ribcage crawling with bloated black flies and mosquitoes alike. He skirted the carnage until he reached what was left of the cranium. The crown had been broken to leave just the bowl of the occipital portion of the skull, which was alive with bugs feeding on the residual vessels in the membranous lining. The upper row of teeth was still attached, minus the four in the very front. The conglomeration of bones that formed the bridge of the nose and the orbits was splintered and fragmented. Tatters of clothing were draped over the surrounding branches like garlands. He looked up to see flies fighting over the droplets of blood that had dried on the undersides of the broad leaves in the lower canopy.

Tasker whistled in admiration. Whoever attacked this man had absolutely obliterated him.

Crouching, he studied the mud despite the protests of the startled insects. There wasn't a single discernible human footprint, only a handful of faint impressions that barely compressed the earth. They resembled the imprints of a camel's hooves, only much lighter and with a wider splay. Whoever did this had done an exceptional job of covering their tracks.

"There's another one over here," Telford called from somewhere off to his right.

Tasker rose and fought his way through the snarls of vegetation. Telford hovered over what was left of the body, nervously swinging his rifle from side to side as he watched the forest. The area was similarly littered with bones and ripped clothing.

"This ain't right, man," Telford said. "I can't think of anything that could have possibly done this. Anything."

Beads of sweat drew lines through the mask of mud on Telford's face. The whites of his eyes stood out like beacons. He freed one hand from the weapon and pulled the golden cross out from beneath his shirt so that it dangled over his fatigues.

"Grow some balls, soldier. This is neither the time nor the place for cowardice."

Telford opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. The expression on his face spoke volumes, though.

"I found a third," Reubens shouted from behind them and across the path.

Tasker quickly appraised the ground. There were more prints like the ones he had discovered at the first site, but still no human, or even feline, tracks.

He burst from the jungle, crossed the path, and shoved deeper into the forest, following a series of broken branches and torn vines until he came upon Reubens and McMasters, who stood near the base of a tree with wild, angled roots, several of which had been broken. The ground behind them was carved with eight parallel marks in sets of four. He guessed the man had been hiding in the cage of roots before whoever attacked him broke through and dragged him out into the open while his fingers carved uselessly at the earth. The rest of the scene was the same as the previous two: a scattering of bones in no decipherable pattern, congealing blood over the entire area upon which nearly every insect in the country had been attracted to feast.

Tasker glanced at his watch. 7:31 a.m.. All of this had happened just over eight hours ago. Even more disturbing was the prospect that whoever had attacked with such speed and savagery could still be nearby even now.

The dour expressions on the faces of his comrades reflected the fact that they were probably considering that notion as well.

There was nothing more for them to do or see here. They needed to keep moving. His preliminary assessment had been wrong. These men hadn't discovered the tracking device in the backpack, nor had they been trying to relocate it to throw off their pursuit. If he had to wager a guess, Tasker would have said these men were fleeing from something, attempting to return to their boats and civilization. But what had they seen that could have startled them so badly that they had felt it necessary to run away in the middle of the night?

Tasker had a flash of memory, of what he thought might have been a man in the forest beside him several hours ago. Perhaps he had dismissed the notion too quickly, but could any number of men have done...this?

He didn't have to order his troops to move out. By the time he turned back toward the path, they had already fallen in behind him. Their breathing grew rapid, and he could almost smell their fear even over the reek of death.

When they reached the overturned backpack, Jones and Telford were waiting. Telford rubbed his golden cross between his thumb and forefinger. He took a deep breath and faced Tasker. He was unable to hold eye contact. His gaze darted from one side of the forest to the other like a cornered mouse.

"With all due respect, First Sergeant Tasker," he blurted, voice quavering, "I will be relinquishing my rank and returning to Pomacochas."

Telford stood there, chest puffed out, shaking in his boots.

"With all due respect, Lance Corporal," Tasker said. "I can't allow you to do that." He paced a circle around the terrified man, who suddenly looked like a scared little boy playing soldier in his backyard. "You do remember that our little sojourn here wasn't exactly sanctioned, don't you?"

Telford swallowed hard. His Adam's apple rose and fell, but he could only muster a meek nod.

"So you see," Tasker continued, "if we were to allow you to tuck tail and run, you could put the rest of us in a rather untenable position, and for what? Hmm?" He paced another slow circle around the man. "Or maybe I'm being too hard on you. You won't talk to anyone, will you?"

"N-no, sir."

"I don't know if I believe you, Lance Corporal."

"You have my word, sir. I won't tell a soul."

"There's only one way to guarantee that," Tasker said. He rounded Telford until he was directly behind him. In one fluid motion, he pulled his knife from its sheath, reached around the front of Telford's neck, and yanked the blade to the side.

Telford sputtered and coughed blood. Grasping at his open throat, he wavered in place for a long moment before collapsing to the ground. Blood gurgled in his lacerated trachea.

Tasker leaned over Telford's prone form, wiped the blade on the already bloody jacket, and returned it to his hip.

"Do the rest of you have any reservations about pressing on?" Tasker asked, looking each man directly in the eyes in turn.

"No, sir," they said in unison.

"Good. Then dump this garbage where no one will find it and let's get a move on."