Burial Ground

V

9:48 p.m.

Colton crept through the underbrush at the edge of the wavering light. On one side of him lay a golden wash of tangled scrub interspersed with mighty trees that cast long swatches of shadow over an obstacle course of bushes and rotting trunks, while on the other side, darkness reigned supreme. He could barely distinguish the silhouettes of the ceiba trunks from the collapsed stone ruins. The proliferation of lianas and vines made it impossible to detect the source of the movement he could sense all around him. While he couldn't see them out there, he could definitely hear them. To the untrained ear, it may have sounded like the gentle rustling of leaves at the urging of a weak breeze or the sporadic dripping of rain through the canopy and into the waiting puddles, but to Colton, it sounded as though an entire army converged upon their position, advancing in increments of inches. Even beneath the ruckus of the rain, he noticed the subtle slurping sounds of feet being pried from the muck and carefully replaced with only a slight shift of weight. He'd been doing this for far too long not to know when he was being hunted.

His finger tensed on the trigger. He was prepared to swing the barrel to his left at the first indication of the commencement of the impending assault, but he couldn't afford to tip his hand too soon. So far, as he had theorized, the predators clung to the darkness, staying well out of the light. He couldn't trust that advantage to last indefinitely. They were sizing him up, gauging what kind of threat he posed, while simultaneously assessing his weaknesses and plotting the most opportune moment to spring the trap he could feel closing around him with each step.

They were smart, which not only made them more dangerous, but unpredictable. With their sheer numbers and their familiarity with the topography, they could have slain him a hundred times over, and yet they continued to stalk him. The only explanation was that they weren't simply waiting for the perfect opportunity, they were determining the best course of action to take all of them at once.

Shift change was nearly upon him, and while he welcomed the chance to distance himself from the hunters, which he had no doubt skulked through the foliage mere feet from him, he trusted no one else with his life. Sending the other men out to the perimeter could very well mean sentencing them to their deaths, but worse was the prospect of posting himself in a stationary position at the mouth of a bottleneck with nothing more than a stone wall at his back and three-hundred sixty degrees of dark jungle surrounding him. If they were unable to hold the creatures beyond the intangible perimeter of light, then they would be forced to fall back into the inner sanctum with the civilians where there was no means of escape except through the teeth of the enemy. They would only be able to fire blindly through the opening until they either ran out of ammunition or were overwhelmed and slaughtered.

Fortunately, he still had a surprise or two up his sleeve. These creatures may have become adept at dodging arrows, and maybe even the occasional bullet, but there was no way they would be ready for what he had in store for them when worse came to worst.

Colton felt the comfortable weight of the grenades in his jacket pockets against his belly.

The hint of a smile curled the corners of his lips.

He rounded the western portion of the patch of light. The peak rose above him, stepped with gardens gone feral, all the way up into the clouds. He wondered briefly how anyone had lived here long enough to grow anything with this unknown species running rampant through the wilderness. They must have arrived and erected their village first, before their presence summoned the predators from wherever they had been previously. For them to have been worshipped by tribes as far north as Mexico, the creatures had to be nomadic. So why then had they stayed here for so long? Was it possible that the surviving Chachapoya had kept them here by feeding and protecting them?

Turning back to the east, he weaved through the foliage toward the line of blazing torches. Morton and Webber stood like statues to either side of the doorway. He felt their stares pass over him. Even from the distance, he could sense the fear radiating from them.

He ascended the muddy slope to the main entrance, wary of the darkness along the western face of the building. If only there had been more time to clear the trees away from the structure. He wished the jungle was dry enough to burn.

Webber moved away from the wall and struck off toward the forest without a word. Colton settled in behind him and watched the man tromp to the edge of the darkness, all the while expecting black shapes to explode from the underbrush.

What in the name of God were they waiting for?