He cleared his throat. “Philip and the others must have heard the explosion. When they find our tents empty, they’ll know we’re down here and come looking. They’ll dig us out.”
“Hopefully they’ll do so before we run out of air,” Norman added.
Ralph moved to join the group now huddled before the collapsed section of the tunnel. “I hate putting my life in Philip’s hands.”
Sam agreed. “And if we survive, we’ll never live it down.”
In the dead quiet of the tomb, stones could be heard creaking and groaning overhead. Sam glanced up, raising his lamp. Dirt trickled from between several stones. The explosion had clearly destabilized the ruins of the pyramid. Reexcavating this site to rescue them might bring the entire temple down around their ears, and it was up to Philip Sykes to realize this.
Shaking his head, Sam lowered his lamp. He could not imagine a worse situation.
“Did you hear something?” Norman asked. The photographer was staring now, not at the blockage of debris, but back behind them, deeper into the temples.
Sam listened. Then he heard it too and swung around. A soft sliding noise, like something being dragged along the stone floor of the ruins. It came from farther into the maze of tunnels and rooms. Beyond the edge of his light, from the total darkness, the noise seemed to be coming closer.
Maggie touched his arm. “What is it?”
With her words, the noise abrubtly stopped.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But whatever it is, it now knows we’re here.”
Philip Sykes was hoarse from yelling. He stood in his bare feet at the flap of his tent, robe snugged tight to his slim figure. Why was no one answering him? Outside the tent, the camp was in turmoil after the explosion. Men ran across the shadowy ruins, some armed with bobbing flashlights, others with work tools. No one seemed to know what had happened. Spats of native Indian dialect were shouted from the top of the SunPlaza, where the cloud of dust was finally dissipating. But Philip understood only a smattering of Quechan words. Not enough to decipher the frantic calls and answers.
He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was after midnight, for Christ’s sake. Various scenarios played in his head. The looters from the previous day had returned with better arms, and they were attacking the camp. Or maybe the Quechan laborers themselves, a swarthy and suspicious lot, had mutinied. Or maybe one of the three generators had just exploded.
Philip clutched the collar of his robe tight to his neck. Where were his fellow students? Finally, fear and irritation drove him barefooted from the flap. He took a quick peek around the edge of his tent. Farther back, the three other shelters were dark humps huddled against the night. Why hadn’t the others been roused? Were they hiding in the dark?
Stepping back to his own tent, Philip’s eyes grew wide. Maybe he should do the same. His own lamplit shelter was surely an illuminated target for any aggressor. He darted inside and blew out the lamp. As he turned back to the tent’s entrance, a huge black shadow filled the doorway. Philip gasped.
A flashlight blinded him.
“What do you want?” he moaned, his knees weak.
The light shifted to illuminate the face of one of the Quechan workers. Philip could not say which of the many laborers stood at his tent flap. They all looked the same to him. The man garbled some words of Quecha, but Philip understood none of it. Only the wave of the man’s hand, indicating Philip should follow, was clear.
Still, Philip hesitated. Did the man here mean him harm or was he trying to help? If only Denal, the filthy urchin from Cuzco who had acted as their translator, were there. Unable to communicate, Philip felt defenseless, isolated, and trapped among these foreigners.
Again the shadowy figure waved for Philip to follow, then stepped back and turned to leave. Philip found himself skittering after the man into the darkness. He did not want to be alone any longer. Barefooted still, he hurried to keep up.
Outside the shelter of his tent, the night wind had grown a crisp edge to it. It sliced through Philip’s robe to his bare skin. The man led him to the other students’ tents. Once there, he threw back the flap to Sam’s tent and flashed the light inside for Philip to see. Empty!
Philip backed up a step and surveyed the ruins. If the bastard was out there, why hadn’t Conklin answered his calls? His Quechan guide showed him the other tents. They were empty, too. Sam, Maggie, Ralph, even the photographer Norman, had disappeared. Panic, more than the cold breezes from the mountaintops, set Philip’s limbs to shaking. Where were they?
The worker turned to him. His eyes were dark shadows. He mumbled something in his native tongue. From his tone, the Indian was just as concerned.
Edging farther away, Philip waved an arm behind him. “We… we need to call for help,” he mumbled from behind chattering teeth. “We need to let someone know what’s going on.”
Philip turned and hurried toward the communication tent. The Quechan worker followed with the flashlight. Philip’s shadow jittered across the path ahead of him. He needed to alert the authorities. Whatever was happening, Philip could not handle it himself.
At the tent, Philip worked the zipper and snaps with fumbling fingers. Finally the flap was open, and he crawled within. The worker remained at the entrance, pointing the flashlight inside. In the beam of light, Philip stared wide-eyed at their communication equipment. A pickax was embedded in the heart of the central computer.
Philip slid to his knees with a moan. “Oh, God… no.”
Sam held the Winchester pointed toward the dark corridor that led to the heart of the ruins. A furtive scuffing and shuffling moved toward them through the darkness.
Beside him, Ralph held Sam’s ultraviolet lamp out toward the darkness. Its illumination did little to pierce the well of shadows. What lay within the blackness remained a mystery.
Maggie and Norman stood behind the two men. Leaning forward, Maggie whispered in Sam’s ear, her breath hot on his neck. “Gil was running from something. Something that scared the hell out of him.”
Sam’s arms trembled with her words, his grip on the rifle slipping. “I don’t need to hear this right now,” he hissed back at her, steadying his hand.
Ralph had heard her words, too. The ex–football player swallowed audibly and raised the lamp higher, as if that would spread the glow farther. It didn’t.
Sam tired of this game of silences. He cleared his throat, and called out, “Who’s there!”
His answer was instant and blinding. Light flared up from the dark corridor, so bright it stung the eye. The group tumbled backward. Sam’s finger twitched on the rifle’s trigger, but only instinct drilled into him from hunting trips with his uncle kept him from firing off a round: you never shoot what you can’t see.