Chapter Twenty-Four
Quint fell in line behind KuTu, letting the old king lead the way to the bat-house ruin.
Meanwhile, he practiced swinging the macuahuitl, hefting it back and forth between his hands, testing his grip on the leather-wrapped haft, and feeling the weight of the Maya equivalent of a broad sword before he was forced to use it.
The length of the weapon had to be close to three feet, maybe more.
It was lighter than he’d figured it would be, but heavier than a baseball bat.
What kind of wood had KuTu used? The piece must have been carved from a local tree.
Something relatively easy to cut and carve into a cricket bat shape during his shift on guard each night.
Unless KuTu had brought it in ahead of time and stashed it somewhere, unbeknownst to Raul and Bronko.
The triangular, obsidian blades embedded into both sides of the wooden weapon reminded Quint of shark teeth—sharp with serrated edges.
The blades would rip a foe open when struck, and then a sawing motion would cut even deeper.
What had KuTu used to fix the blades into place?
At a glance, it looked and smelled like some kind of dark pitch or tar, sticky to the touch.
“Well, what do you think?” Angélica whispered from behind him. “Will it fell an army of bats?”
“Maybe in the right hands.” He lowered the weapon, carrying it at his side. “I just wish we knew for certain that my hands are the ones for the job.”
KuTu slowed, looking back. He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head. Then he blocked the beam of his light with his palm, allowing only enough light through to see where he was walking.
Order received, King KuTu!
Truth be told, Quint was still having trouble accepting the guard’s sad reincarnation tale as anything more than a recurring psychotic hallucination. But … in the dark, eerily silent jungle where the shadows kept playing tricks on his rationality, he was glad to have a blade-lined bat at his side.
Quint eased up behind KuTu and killed his own light.
They stood at the edge of the clearing in front of the single-story ruin and nearby sunken temple.
The light of the moon shined down in bright silver rays.
Rotting fruit looked like small rocks peppering the ground.
Nothing moved on the jungle floor, at least nothing that Quint could see, and thank the Maya gods for that.
In the back of his mind, a cloud of unease about what they’d find waiting for them outside the bat-house had been mushrooming with every step.
He should have confirmed with Angélica if this Camazotz god from the Maya myths was of flesh and blood. Or was it some kind of wraith that could choose when to take shape and when to turn into smoke? Or just a ghost, like Marianne?
Quint thought he heard a faint, multi-pitched whistle coming from somewhere in front of them. Or was it whispering? Or wheezing breaths? It was hard to tell for sure.
Angélica and the others caught up to him, staring toward the clearing. As their breaths quieted, and the crackle and crunch of their footfalls on the path stilled, Quint noticed the trees were rustling up high. He looked skyward, but it was too dark to see anything in the thick canopy.
KuTu crept forward a few feet, stepping carefully over a large, downed branch crossing the path. Quint didn’t remember the branch being there a few hours ago when they’d left to head back to camp.
Christ, had that been just hours? It seemed like ages.
Angélica skirted Quint, slipping by him before he could catch her. Flashlight off, she joined KuTu at the edge of the open pool of moonlight, saying something in his ear. KuTu nodded, waving for Quint to join them.
Carefully stepping over the branch, Quint tiptoed to where they stood, both peering up at the dark trees. He stared upward, too, still seeing nothing but darkness.
“What are you two looking at?” he whispered.
She pointed her flashlight toward the tree canopy across the clearing and then clicked it on.
King vultures lined the branches, lots and lots of them. Their heads were lowered, white shoulders hunched.
Quint gasped. He’d never seen so many vultures at once.
Angélica moved her light to the next tree, and the next.
King vultures were perched throughout the trees, staring down at them, watching with their white-and-red-circled dark eyes. But he felt no fear, no heart hippity-hops, only wonderment at the committee of remarkable birds that seemed to be studying them in return.
What were they doing here? Roosting? Or did their “parking” choice have something to do with a Maya death-bat god from Xibalba who KuTu thought might be starring in a cameo role before the night was over?
Wishing he’d brought his camera along, Quint began to count the birds. He’d made it to thirty-two when Angélica leaned over and whispered, “I stopped counting at fifty.”
“Holy shit. What are they all doing here?”
KuTu turned to her, whispering something in Mayan.
She nodded and told Quint. “He says they’re waiting.”
“For me?”
KuTu glanced Quint’s way, shaking his head. He flicked his flashlight on and aimed it at the single-story ruin, saying a single word Quint could understand. “Camazotz.”
Chills crawled up Quint’s arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Is this really happening?”
“It might be,” Angélica said, shaking her head. “I’ve heard of vultures roosting in large groups, but this is the first I’ve ever witnessed it.” She lowered her beam to the ground. “Look at all the downed limbs. Their combined weight is too much for some of the branches.”
Pedro joined them. “I count over eighty big beauties, and I think I saw some moving in the trees beyond the temple.” He shook his head. “This is incredible.”
“And a tad bizarre,” Quint said. He had a feeling they hadn’t seen anything yet.
The multi-pitched whistling he’d heard earlier returned. It was as if a window had been left open just a sliver, and weak, shifting gusts kept blowing through.
What was making that sound? Was it coming from the vultures? One of the sounds they made when roosting? Or felt threatened? Was it their version of hissing?
“Why are they here?” Bronko whispered, his gun out and leveled, alongside his flashlight, as he aimed into one tree canopy and then the next. Quint could hear him counting under his breath.
“KuTu says they’re waiting,” Quint told him.
Bronko glanced his way. “For what?”
“Probably dinner,” Pedro muttered. “Let’s just hope it’s not us before this night is over.”
Quint blew out a breath. “Everyone try to keep living.”
“I used to work at that every day,” Bronko told him. “It’s easier to achieve now, and I’ve come to appreciate the small things, like sunrises and good cigars.” He snorted. “At least it was easier before I came to work at this dig site.”
Quint stared at the sicario for a couple of beats. Bronko must be feeling nervous. He was speaking in complete sentences, and multiple ones at that.
“What’s the plan?” Quint asked Angélica, who’d had her head together with KuTu’s for the last few minutes.
“He wants us to go inside,” she answered.
Of course he did. That place was one long death trap just waiting to cave in on some unlucky sucker.
“That’s going to be a tight fit. Maybe we should just lean in and call out Fernel’s name a few times,” Quint suggested.
“When I say ‘us,’ that doesn’t include Pedro and Bronko.” She turned to Pedro. “You two need to wait outside in case Camazotz mobilizes his army of bats.”
Pedro scoffed. “And do what? Throw rotten papayas at them as they fly at us with their sharp fangs and talons?”
“I don’t know, Pedro,” she answered, sounding exasperated. “KuTu thinks you two have a good chance at keeping the army in check thanks to your regiment perched in the trees.”
“He thinks the birds are going to save us?” Pedro asked.
“I guess.”
“If we die, at least we won’t be left to rot,” Bronko said, back to counting vultures.
Quint grimaced. “Damn, you go dark fast.”
He shrugged. “It comes with the job.”
“Anyway,” Angélica said, latching onto Quint’s wrist. “We’ll follow KuTu inside and see if we can find Dr. Fernel. You two take a look around out here under the trees. Maybe he’s just sitting on a rock somewhere, moon bathing, admiring the stars.”
Quint smirked. “Now you decide to be a comedian?”
“Yeah, you know, try to be the ray of sunshine in the dark of night and all that positive shit, right?” She sniffed. “Oh, and here’s a quote you can include in your article, Mr. Big-time Photojournalist.”
“Who says I’m going to live long enough to write the piece?” Quint interrupted.
“I do.” Her grip tightened on his wrist.
She might not have a choice. “What’s your quote?”
“What did one hot banana say to the other?”
He winced in anticipation. “Don’t say it.”
“What?” Pedro took the bait.
“Let’s peel out, baby.” She grinned. “Quote-unquote.”
“Boo,” Pedro said. “Bronko, shoot her.”
Quint groaned. “That quote seems slippery.”
Bronko chuckled. “I like you, Dr. Angélica.” His gaze shifted to Quint. “Don’t let anything happen to her, Senor Demon.”
“I’ll give it my best sacrifice,” Quint said. “You try not to shoot any of my vulture buddies.”
Angélica tugged on his wrist. “Enough chit-chatting now. KuTu is waiting for us at the steps.”
“Wait.” Quint pulled out his machete and held it toward Pedro, handle first. “Take this. If anything does come out, you might need two blades at once.”
Pedro took it. “What about you?”
“I have a handy-dandy macuahuitl now.”
“Come on, Parker.” Angélica tugged again.
Quint followed her through the moonlight, keeping his sights locked on the dark entrance to the bat-house ruin. He really, really hoped KuTu was off his rocker and all they found inside that place was bat guano and a tarantula or two.
Angélica stopped at the top of the steps and raised her flashlight, angling the beam over the surface of a carving beside the doorway. “I knew it,” she whispered.