Burial Ground

II

11:13 a.m.

Galen walked in the center of the pack, thankful for the armed men both leading and trailing the group, though he was increasingly aware of the proximity of the jungle to either side. At best, he could see perhaps ten feet into the foliage, and only half that far the majority of the time. The events of the previous night had unnerved him. Their guides vanishing in the middle of the night would have been traumatic enough without the appearance of the native with Hunter's rock hammer. He didn't care what Sam said: he perceived the appearance of the painted man as a genuine threat.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his khaki vest, he stroked the smooth, slender feather.

There was still a mysterious, unclassified raptor out there in the wilds, he reassured himself, and he was going to be the first one in the world to study it, regardless of the consequences. Of course, he not so secretly hoped there wouldn't be any. His nerves were just getting the best of him. After nearly a decade's absence from field work, he had been anxious from the start. Throw in all of the strange happenings and the presence of guns all around him, and who in his right mind wouldn't be on the verge of tasting his bile? He just needed to find a way to relax a little, take the edge off.

He un-shouldered his pack and rummaged through the contents while he walked. There it was. The small hydro-bladder he'd had the foresight to fill with as much vodka as it would hold before they left civilization. Just a nip would dull the stress nicely. Here was one thing to be thankful for. At least it wasn't his backpack that had been stolen from the campsite.

Merritt hiked directly ahead of him, encumbered only by the clothes on his back. Everything the man had brought with him was gone, and they all knew they would never recover any of it.

Good thing the thief hadn't looked in his pack, Galen thought. He had just dropped a good chunk of cash on a brand new, state-of-the-art---

"No, no," Galen whimpered. He rifled through his backpack. When he still couldn't find it, he dropped to his knees and dumped the contents. He scattered everything across the ground and rummaged through the piles. It wasn't there. "My camera. Has anyone seen my camera?"

"So it wasn't just me," Merritt said. Galen looked up to see an almost smug expression on the man's face. He could have punched him right in the nose. "They got you too, huh?"

"This isn't at all funny," Galen said, stuffing his belongings back into his pack. "I spent three thousand dollars on that camera. I need the best technology money can buy for when we find the raptor."

"Relax, Dr. Russell," Colton said. "We have plenty of technologically advanced equipment to properly document anything we encounter." He inclined his head toward the film crew. Jay held up his camera to illustrate the point.

"That's not the point. It was my camera, and they stole it. My camera."

"You'll be fully reimbursed for your loss, Dr. Russell."

"You'd better believe I'll be reimbursed. I wasn't the one who brought those thieves into our midst. I wasn't the one who was supposed to be guarding---"

"Dr. Russell," Leo snapped.

Galen fell silent.

Leo's face turned red with fury and his eyes narrowed to slits. "I take full responsibility for what happened and will personally reimburse you for the camera." His expression softened. "Now, unless you want to turn back and walk for another week to buy a new one, I suggest we keep moving. We're within a couple days of our destination, and I, for one, am anxious to see what awaits us."

Galen nodded and shouldered his pack again.

Merritt clapped him on the back. "At least you still have a change of clothes." He smiled and fell back in line ahead of Galen.

The pilot looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot and set deeply into dark sockets. Galen wondered if Merritt had slept at all over the last few days as he began to walk once more, grumbling under his breath.

They'd been hiking all morning without anything resembling an actual break. The sun hadn't even reached its zenith and it already felt like a sauna under the smothering canopy. He had accidentally ripped the mosquito netting for his hat and was now forced to use Samantha's sticky concoction. The mixture of lemon verbena and pennyroyal made his skin itch, yet still the mosquitoes found a way through his defenses. His legs ached. His back ached. He was tired and thirsty, and since dawn he had only seen five species of birds, all of them flocking so high in the upper branches that he had only caught occasional glimpses and heard their distant calls. Every tree was identical to the last, and he was tired of having to make sure that every vine didn't have eyes and fangs before brushing it aside. Five hours had passed, and they had stumbled upon nothing more exciting than---

Galen barely stopped in time to keep from running into Merritt's back. The entire group stood still. Ahead, he saw Rippeth holding up his fist, the signal to halt.

"Shh!" Morton hissed into his ear from behind.

He held his breath and waited.

No one moved.

What the hell was going on?