'We'll head back to the camp,' Matt explained. 'There are picks and shovels there we can use as weapons, and I want to see if maybe Hammond left some dynamite in his tent. I'd like to see what blowing up that altar would do.'
Ronnie must have explained to the others about the altar, because they seemed to know what Matt was talking about. She said, 'So we're going on the attack?'
'That's right. We outnumber them now, six to five.'
Ginger spoke up, saying, 'Where's Stephanie?'
In a quivering voice, Maggie said, 'The last time I saw her, she was with Astrid.'
That wasn't good, Matt thought, but there was nothing they could do about it now. If Stephanie Porter was still alive, she needed to crawl into a hole and hide. That was the best chance she had of surviving this bloody night.
Ronnie said, 'Maybe we should vote—'
'We're not voting,' Matt broke in. 'We're going to get whatever we can lay our hands on to fight with, and we're taking the battle to them.'
For a second he thought Ronnie might argue with him. The tolerance and diversity of the academic world were all well and good, but tolerance didn't mean shit when you were faced with somebody whose only goal in life was to kill you, and possibly gnaw the flesh off your bones.
Ronnie must have realized that, because she jerked her head in a nod and said, 'Fine. Let's go get the bastards.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Matt circled around the ruins, heading back toward the camp. He wished he could drive without headlights, so Hammond and the others couldn't tell right where they were, but it was too dark for that. He couldn't risk driving into a hole and busting an axle.
Ronnie, Ginger, and Maggie had climbed in the back with Jerry. Rich rode in the cab with Matt, the ax lying on the seat between them. He glanced down at the weapon and asked, 'You . . . ah . . . carry an ax around with you, Mr. Cahill?'
'I used to work in the timber business,' Matt replied, as if that explained it. 'My whole family did. That ax belonged to my father, and his father before him.'
Rich didn't press the issue. Instead he said, 'At first I didn't really think they were dangerous. They just looked sort of crazed, you know. But then they started chasing us, and I knew that if they caught us, bad things would happen.'
'That's putting it mildly,' Matt said.
'And then they caught Astrid . . .' Rich couldn't go on for a moment. 'You think it's all because of some altar that Dr. Varley's group uncovered?'
'I'm pretty sure that's the case.'
'That's what made the Anasazi go nuts and start eating each other?'
'Does it matter?'
The tents loomed in front of them, the canvas bright in the night as the headlights swept over them. As Matt slowed the truck, he called to Ronnie and the others in the back, 'I think we've beaten them back here, but stay inside the truck until I've taken a quick look around.'
'Be careful, Matt,' Ronnie called back to him.
The truck had stopped. Matt left the engine running and picked up the ax. He said to Rich, 'If anything happens to me, or if you and the others are in danger, don't wait for me. Just grab the wheel and get the hell out of here.'
'And then what?'
'Keep moving, I guess. You'll be on your own.'
'Mr. Cahill . . . what Dr. Dupre said. Be careful. Please.'
'I intend to,' Matt promised.
He swung down from the cab. The night was quiet except for the rumbling of the engine.
Then a wind blew across the top of the mesa, and he heard the wailing that Ronnie had described to him earlier. That was just the wind moving through the ruins, he told himself. It wasn't the wailing of lost souls.
He wished he could believe that a hundred percent.
Most of the expedition's supplies were piled near Dr. Varley's tent. Matt didn't remember exactly what was there, but as he looked over the supplies he had a feeling some of the picks were gone. That probably meant Hammond, Scott, April, Noel, and Sierra were armed now.
A couple of picks were left, though, and several shovels. After scanning the night intently for several moments as he stood there gripping the ax, Matt called to the people in the truck, 'All right, come grab a shovel or a pick. Make it fast.'
Jerry was the first one out of the truck. He picked up one of the long-handled shovels and heaved a sigh.
'I feel better now,' he said as he brandished the shovel. 'At least we can fight back.'
Matt remembered how Jerry had smashed Brad's head with that rock. 'I'd say you've already done that.'
'Yeah.' Jerry's face twisted. 'I . . . I can't believe I did that. I was just too scared to stop hitting him.'
Jerry had done the right thing, Matt thought. Maybe he would understand that one of these days. If he was lucky enough to survive the night.
The others armed themselves. Matt handed one of the picks to Ronnie and told her, 'Give that to Rich. It's shorter than the shovels, so it'll be easier to carry in the cab.'
'What are we going to do now?' Ginger asked.
'Stay together and keep your eyes open,' Matt said. 'I'm going to check Hammond's tent and see if there's any dynamite there. If you see or hear any of the others, let out a yell. Jerry, come with me.'
Jerry swallowed hard. Clearly, he would have preferred to stay with the others, but he didn't argue. He hurried along behind Matt toward Hammond's tent.
Matt had the ax ready as he approached the tent. Nothing was moving around it, though. He used the ax to push aside the canvas flap over the entrance.
He halfway expected some horror to come exploding out of the tent at him, but nothing happened. He had matches in his shirt pocket—useful for lighting oil lamps, campfires, and such—so as he stepped inside he fished out one of them with his left hand and snapped it into life with his thumbnail.
The match's flickering glare revealed that the tent was empty. So was the small wooden crate that sat beside Hammond's cot. Matt didn't recall seeing it before. It was possible Hammond himself had unloaded the crate and stashed it in here the first day atop the mesa.
Hammond had already been touched by Mr. Dark at that point. Had he had the whole plan in mind from the beginning? Matt couldn't help but wonder.
He was about to turn away from the empty crate in disgust when he spotted something sticking out from under Hammond's cot. The match burned down to his fingers, and he had to drop it. The flame went out.
Matt knelt and felt around on the ground with his free hand. His fingers closed around some sort of cylinder. It had a slightly greasy feel to it. Matt's hand tightened around the thing.
He knew he was holding a stick of dynamite. It must have fallen on the ground and rolled under the cot while Hammond was scooping the rest of the explosives out of the crate to take with him.
Feeling a little nervous about holding the cylinder—he recalled hearing how unstable dynamite could be—Matt checked both ends of it. The dynamite didn't have a blasting cap attached to it, and no cap meant no fuse, assuming Hammond had even brought along any fuse. Most blasts were set off electronically these days.
So what good was it going to do him? He remembered seeing movies where the hero set off dynamite by shooting at it, but was such a thing even possible?
Anyway, he didn't have a gun. As far as he knew, there wasn't one anywhere on top of the mesa.
Maybe there was some other way. He tried to remember everything he'd ever read or heard about dynamite. The explosive in it was actually nitroglycerin, which was much easier to detonate. Sometimes some of the nitro
