Burial Ground

IV

4:14 p.m.

Merritt had seen way more than his share of corpses. Bullet wounds of all caliber, stabbings, asphyxiations. Men, women, children. He had witnessed violated bodies left in the aftermath of bombings, with appendages blasted away and skin scorched black, weeping pustulates. But none of them compared to the way the man in the tent had been so thoroughly destroyed. The sheer savagery with which this poor soul had been butchered scared him. He had seen the worst mankind had to offer, but compared to this, it came up wanting.

Arcs of blood formed a black crust on the inside of the fabric. Some of the puddles on the uneven floor had contained so much blood that the accumulated rainwater was imbued with a rust-colored tint. The condition of the body was nearly identical to the skeletal remains they had found scattered throughout the village. Perhaps the age of the other bodies lessened their visceral impact, but there was no such problem with this one.

Merritt couldn't bear to look at it any longer. He had to get out of that horrible tent, get some fresh air. Throwing aside tattered straps of nylon stiff with absorbed blood, he hurried out from under the overhang, craned his face to the sky, and allowed the rain to wash over him. The storm had intensified even in the short while he was inside the tent, but there wasn't enough water in the sky to wash the touch of death from his skin.

"This couldn't have happened much more than a few weeks ago," he said. His gorge rose, but through force of will alone he forced it back down. "What I don't get though, is why there aren't scavengers feasting on what's left. Where are the vultures and coyotes? The smell should have drawn them from miles away. There's nothing but those filthy flies."

None of the others spoke. Shock had descended upon their pale features. They had all known that four men had been lost in this valley from the previous expedition. Their hope had been to find them alive and unharmed, and simply unable to contact the outside world. No one had expected to find them like...this. Four of them. Was it possible there were more bodies, similarly slaughtered? And if so, it begged the most terrifying question of all.

Was whatever killed them in such a fashion still out there, watching them at this very moment?

His skin crawled under the scrutiny of unseen eyes. Was it a result of the paranoia spawned by his military training, or were they indeed already surrounded?

"We need to gather the others and get out of here while we still can," Merritt said, looking to each of them in turn.

Jay approached the tent and raised the camera, but Dahlia stayed his arm. There were some things never meant to be immortalized on film. Instead, he wandered toward the gap in the fortification wall, where a stone staircase descended to the forest floor. Leading with the lens, Jay reached the top of the steps and halted abruptly.

"Holy crap," he whispered, and turned away. He heaved several times over a sapling tree fern.

Merritt jogged over to where Jay wiped a strand of saliva from his chin and looked down the stairs, which were lined to either side by walls that were nearly five feet tall. Iron cages, like those that housed the torches on the pedestals encircling the fortress, topped the slanted walls of the thin trench every few feet. At the bottom, a large rectangular stone that appeared to have been carved to fit into the opening of the staircase lay cracked and covered with moss. And on the uneven steps between, Merritt saw what had caused Jay's reaction.

Another body was sprawled on the staggered rocks. Or at least what was left of it. The manner in which the man had been slain reminded Merritt of the jaguar carcass: scattered in a straight line as though torn apart while in motion. The broken legs, bereft of flesh, save the black skin on the ankles above the boots, were closer to the top, while the pelvis and torso rested a dozen steps down, ribs shattered, spine unnaturally bent and twisted. The skeletal arms pointed toward where the crushed skull rested in a puddle of muddy rainwater and hair at the bottom. Shreds of clothing had blown into the corners of the stairs with the detritus.

Only the black flies dared to disturb the unclean bones, though the rain deterred all but the most ambitious individuals.

The man had been overcome while trying to flee. He must have seen his assailant coming too late and made a break for it, but he hadn't been fast enough.

These men had never stood a chance. Merritt looked into the pallid faces of his companions. Would they?

"What the hell is capable of doing something like this?" Sam whispered.

"It's irrelevant," Merritt said. He drew a deep breath, forced aside his fear, and tapped into his training and instincts. "Right now, we need to focus on rounding up the others and getting as far from here as we can. Nothing else matters at this point."

The words of the scarred chieftain returned unbidden.

Let them pass. They are dead already.

He should have identified the danger sooner. All of the signs had been there.

Their guides out of Pomacochas had sensed the threat and abandoned them days ago. Even that hardass Rippeth had acknowledged it and slipped off during the night. Maybe if they moved fast enough they would be able to escape the fate to which the black-painted man had consigned them.

"We can't afford to waste any more time," Merritt said. He looked up into the belly of the storm and the mist that hovered in the canopy, mere feet over their heads. Somewhere above, the sun was preparing to sneak behind the sharp peak and turn day to night. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. They didn't want to still be here when that happened. "Stay close. Move fast. Don't slow for anything."

With those final words, he turned and ran back toward the cave where they had last seen the others, listening to make sure he heard the slap of footsteps on the wet ground behind him.