Chapter Twenty-Five #3
“What did you do that for?” he asked as he backed away from KuTu. He squeezed his arm, but the blood continued to run—and now drip onto the floor.
“Sacrifice,” KuTu said, pointing at Quint’s arm. “Now Camazotz come.” He looked beyond Quint. “Go.”
The whistling started again. It was close this time—right next to Quint. He looked over. Fernel held the bone with the carvings to his lips, his forehead pinched as he blew through one end.
They’re both in on this, the goddamned motherfu—
A guttural, snarling growl rumbled up from the hole in the floor, rattling Quint’s eardrums.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
He took a step back on wobbly knees, staring down at where he’d been dangling only minutes before.
That didn’t sound like a big old bat.
Angélica led the way into the ruins and down the tunnel, her flashlight beam bouncing as she ran. She had her machete out, in case she ran into any more of those huge bats.
“Quint’s okay,” she kept telling herself under her breath.
He was smart and strong. Not to mention he might possibly be some kind of good demon from Xibalba.
As crazy as that sounded, right now she was banking on it to save his ass.
She had certainly witnessed him healing quickly before from wounds that would land most in dire straits … or dead.
“Angélica, wait up,” Pedro whisper-called from behind her. “Bronko hit his head on a rock sticking out of the ceiling.”
She stopped and turned, shining her light the other way. The two of them were a short distance back, Bronko leaning against the wall, while Pedro inspected the guy’s forehead.
She jogged back, setting her machete on the floor. “Is he okay?” She nudged Pedro aside and checked the wound. It was a jagged gash bleeding freely. “A few stitches might be needed, if you’re worried about ending up with a scar.”
“I’m fine,” Bronko said, wiping at the blood with his shirt sleeve. “Scars are good in my line of work.”
Angélica stepped back. “Pedro, did you look in his eyes?”
Pedro started to raise his flashlight, but Bronko knocked it away. “It’s just a flesh wound.” He tried to stand slightly bent over, but then stumbled sideways into the opposite wall.
“You might be concussed,” Pedro said.
“Just give me a minute. I’ve had my head busted open before. This dizzy feeling will pass.”
Angélica frowned at the sicario. She didn’t doubt him on that, but … “Maybe you should—”
A piercing screech-like scream echoed out from farther back in the tunnel.
The hairs on her neck prickled. She shined her flashlight in that direction. “Quint?” she breathed.
“What was that?” Pedro asked.
“It sounded like a scream from one of those Aztec death whistles,” Bronko said, his voice higher than usual.
Angélica looked back at them both. “You two stay here.”
“No,” Pedro shot back.
“Yes. I’m going to go help Quint. You need to get Bronko out of here and ready to shoot whatever comes out the entrance next.”
“Angélica,” he started.
But she shook her head at whatever he was about to say. “Get him out, Pedro.” She picked up her machete and then grabbed a few of the vine coils. “Be ready to fire,” she ordered, pointing at Bronko. “But don’t shoot if it’s me, sicario.”
“What was that?” Quint asked, his ears ringing from the screech-scream that had blasted out of the hole in the floor.
Rocks clattered below.
Quint took a step back toward the partially opened wall as two huge fur-covered hands gripped the edge of the hole. They were double the size of Quint’s, each with four, multi-jointed, webbed fingers that ended in claws as long as a grizzly bear’s.
He moved back even farther.
Fernel stopped blowing the bone whistle mid-note, his wide eyes fixed on the hole.
Tall, pointy gray ears appeared. Next, below a bald, skeletal-looking head, came sunken dark eyes, a snout with angled vertical nostrils, and a gaping mouth lined with sharp teeth. The creature eyed each of them and then snarled, filling the air with breath reeking of rotting meat and sulfur.
Quint gagged while cringing.
KuTu began to chant under his breath.
The creature pulled itself up and out of the hole, looming in front of them.
Its hulking shoulders filled the tunnel, blocking any chance of escape.
Its body was human-like, but its head, hands, and three-toed feet resembled a bat.
Not to mention the wings, which were folded in the limited space.
The hooked claws at the wings’ top joints were twice as long as the others, probably able to slice off a head with one swoop.
“Camazotz,” KuTu said, pulling off his shirt and then kneeling in front of the thing.
Fernel whimpered, and squeezed behind KuTu, using him as a human shield.
So, this is the death-bat god that everyone was raving about.
Quint gaped at the creature that was sure to be the end of him, since KuTu had made it clear who was to be sacrificed tonight. “Damn, you are one ugly bastard.”
The thing rushed him, pinning Quint against the tunnel wall with one huge hand. The tips of its claws pressed into his neck, almost piercing his skin.
Camazotz might rip your head off if you’re not careful, Angélica’s words replayed in his head as he waited for the creature to squeeze.
Heat came off the giant man-bat like it was burning up from the inside out, along with an odor even more foul than its breath. Nausea stuck in Quint’s throat, just below where his heart was lodged.
The creature sniffed next to Quint’s head, then eased back, lowering its head to sniff again near his bloody arm.
It jerked away, recoiling, and then hissed directly in Quint’s face. Spittle coated him from forehead to chest. He gagged, swallowing to keep the contents of his stomach in place.
The creature let him go and stepped away, turning toward KuTu, who was still kneeling and chanting. It tipped its head slightly and trilled.
KuTu stood, holding his dagger out in front of him. He spoke in another language, and then pressed the tip of the obsidian blade into his sternum.
The death-bat god snorted and swatted KuTu aside, sending the old king tumbling toward the hole. The dagger skidded across the floor.
Quint dodged the creature and rushed to stop KuTu from falling into the lower chamber, catching him by the arm as he was teetering over the edge. He tugged KuTu back to safety, noticing movement on the other side of the hole.
Angélica!
She stared at the death-bat god, her mouth agape, her machete dangling from one hand. Her other hand was clenched at her sternum, as if holding tightly onto her heart. Her flashlight lay on the floor next to what looked like a coil of rope, the beam of light aimed toward them.
No, no, no!
She was supposed to be safe outside! Not in here! Not witnessing him being sacrificed!
A high-pitched scream rang out from behind him.
Quint turned in time to see the creature bearing down on Fernel, who was scuttling backward toward the opening in the wall, the bone whistle still in his hand.
The creature’s arm shot out, his claws digging into Fernel’s shoulders. A squeal filled with pain pierced the air.
Camazotz yanked Fernel up, pulling him close, peering into his face. Its breath steamed Fernel’s glasses.
Tears or sweat—or both—streamed down the trembling man’s cheeks.
“Let him go,” Quint yelled, reaching for the dagger laying on the floor.
The death-bat god looked at Quint, its nostrils flaring. It growled, baring its mouthful of pointy teeth.
“You’re supposed to take me, asshole,” Quint told it.
“No!” Angélica said, stepping closer to the hole. “KuTu wanted this. Take him. He needs to be freed from the cycle.” She looked at the guard, saying something in Mayan.
The creature turned its head toward her, sniffing the air. Then it looked back at Quint and growled again.
“Yes,” Fernel cried. “Take either of them. I changed my mind. I don’t want to die!”
“You not wanting to ever die is what got us into this mess in the first place, you idiot,” Angélica told him. “Humans shouldn’t live forever.”
Fernel whimpered.
The creature shifted its focus back on the man clutched in its claws. It hunched over him, its wings spreading enough to wrap around Fernel from the neck down, cocooning him. From where he stood, Quint saw a long, black tongue slide out and wrap around Fernel’s throat.
The man began to gasp for air, his eyes wide and bulging, his face turning pale and then gray.
The creature leaned even closer to Fernel’s face and breathed in, its whole body shuddering for a couple of seconds. Then its tongue retracted and it stepped back, letting Fernel drop to the floor, his body limp, lifeless.
Christ. It had all happened so quickly.
Quint shook off his shock and rushed the creature, the dagger raised and ready to slice its wing.
KuTu shouted, “No!’
The creature whirled toward Quint. It reached toward him with lightning speed, catching Quint’s wrist mid-swing. Its grip was strong, tight, bruising.
It looked down at Quint’s arm where KuTu had sliced him open, snarling out what sounded like, “Xtaaaa-bay.”
Quint looked down, too. The cut was mostly healed, nothing more than a white scar now amidst the drying blood. He’d always mended relatively quick throughout his life, but he only healed this unnaturally fast when injured by a non-human. Did that mean KuTu wasn’t …
Blood!
If this creature were from the same place as the one at the last dig site, then maybe …
Quint tightened his left hand into a fist, feeling the slick mix of sweat and his own blood on his palm. Then he reached out and rubbed his bloody palm down the side of the death-bat’s face.
The creature reared back, letting out a deafening screech.
Shoving Quint aside, it rushed toward the hole in the floor, dropping through and out of sight. Rocks clattered below. The screeching continued, but grew fainter. Soon, all was quiet, except for the throb of Quint’s own heartbeat in his ears.
“Holy fuck,” he said, looking at Angélica.
She was squatting next to the hole, shining her light into the darkness below. “I don’t see it.”
“It must have run back into the tunnel down there.”
KuTu grunted, rubbing his hand down his face. He said something in Mayan to Angélica, pointing toward where Fernel lay, motionless, his back to them.
She frowned at Quint. “He said that death is necessary before there can be a rebirth, and that sacrifice is essential for all life.”
Quint stared at the dead man. “So, it sounds like Fernel is definitely dead then.” He sighed. “We’re going to have to lift his body over that hole and out of here.”
“I know.”
“And come up with a logical explanation for the rest of the world about how he died.”
“Yeah.” She shook her head, sitting back on her heels. “What the hell was that? It can’t really have been the great Camazotz, can it? He was a myth. I mean, how long has it—”
A gasp for breath came from Fernel’s direction, followed by another gasp and several coughs. His shoulders moved, and then he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He blinked a few times before sitting upright.
“So, not dead?” Quint asked nobody in particular.
“Ouch!” Fernel said, stretching his neck, turning his head one way and then the other. “Damn, I forgot how much living hurts.”
Come again? Quint gaped at the guy as he stood and brushed off his clothes.
“We … uh.” Angélica let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. “We thought you were dead.”
“Oh, I was,” Fernel said, opening and closing his mouth, as if stretching his jaw muscles.
“You were reincarnated?” Quint asked. “You mean this was all part of the ritual? It actually worked?”
KuTu said something to Fernel in what sounded like Mayan. Fernel shrugged in return, replying to the old king in what must have been the same language.
Angélica made a keening sound in her throat, sounding a bit like a sick cat.
Quint stared at the geoarchaeologist. He didn’t remember Fernel knowing how to speak Mayan. Had the guy been hiding that skill along with the whistle of death?
“Oh my god,” Angélica whispered, her face noticeably pale as she stared at Fernel.
“What?” Quint asked. “What did they say?”
KuTu nudged Quint, pointing at the man in question. “No es Fernel,” he said in Spanish.
Quint stared at the guy standing there with the partially swollen face and glasses. “He certainly looks like him.”
“This is going to take some getting used to,” Fernel said, touching his own cheeks, then chin, then chest. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times, squinting in the light.
“Oh my God,” Angélica repeated, louder. She fell back against the wall. “This is impossible. I must be having a nightmare.” She pinched her arm, wincing at the pain, and then pinched it again.
“What the hell is going on?” Quint asked.
“Nothing is impossible, Pik,” Fernel said, and then smiled at Quint. “It appears that something went awry with the reincarnation ritual. KuTu believes it’s due to the moon not being full yet. He said Dr. Fernel was too impatient to wait.”
Dr. Fernel was … huh?
“How can this be so?” Angélica asked, wiping away tears now running down her cheeks.
“Get a grip on it, Pik. Your father will be able to read you like an open book. He’s always been attuned to body language, believe you me.
” Fernel chuckled. “Oh, dear, I forgot how hot it is down here in the jungle.” He fanned his shirt.
“It’s nice to see you again, Quint. Or should I call you ‘Mr. Big-time Photojournalist’? ”
“Again?” Quint shook his head, trying to clear the fog bank clouding his ability to think.
“Yes, again. We met once before, but you thought you were dreaming.” Fernel took off his glasses, blinking in the light. “There, that’s better. These things are way too strong to be readers.”
“Mom,” Angélica said softly, clutching the locket at her throat.
Mom? Quint pointed at Fernel, gaping at Angélica. “You’re telling me that this is now Marianne standing here? As in Marianne, your mother?”
Angélica nodded slowly.
“You can bet your lucky ring that it’s me standing here,” Fernel said, reaching down to pick up the whistle of death. “At least for the time being anyway. Now, where can a gal get a drink around here? My throat is killing me.”