Burial Ground

'Grow some balls, soldier. This is neither the time nor the place for cowardice.'

Telford opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. The expression on his face spoke volumes, though.

'I found a third,' Reubens shouted from behind them and across the path.

Tasker quickly appraised the ground. There were more prints like the ones he had discovered at the first site, but still no human, or even feline, tracks.

He burst from the jungle, crossed the path, and shoved deeper into the forest, following a series of broken branches and torn vines until he came upon Reubens and McMasters, who stood near the base of a tree with wild, angled roots, several of which had been broken. The ground behind them was carved with eight parallel marks in sets of four. He guessed the man had been hiding in the cage of roots before whoever attacked him broke through and dragged him out into the open while his fingers carved uselessly at the earth. The rest of the scene was the same as the previous two: a scattering of bones in no decipherable pattern, congealing blood over the entire area upon which nearly every insect in the country had been attracted to feast.

Tasker glanced at his watch. 7:31 a.m.. All of this had happened just over eight hours ago. Even more disturbing was the prospect that whoever had attacked with such speed and savagery could still be nearby even now.

The dour expressions on the faces of his comrades reflected the fact that they were probably considering that notion as well.

There was nothing more for them to do or see here. They needed to keep moving. His preliminary assessment had been wrong. These men hadn't discovered the tracking device in the backpack, nor had they been trying to relocate it to throw off their pursuit. If he had to wager a guess, Tasker would have said these men were fleeing from something, attempting to return to their boats and civilization. But what had they seen that could have startled them so badly that they had felt it necessary to run away in the middle of the night?

Tasker had a flash of memory, of what he thought might have been a man in the forest beside him several hours ago. Perhaps he had dismissed the notion too quickly, but could any number of men have done...this?

He didn't have to order his troops to move out. By the time he turned back toward the path, they had already fallen in behind him. Their breathing grew rapid, and he could almost smell their fear even over the reek of death.

When they reached the overturned backpack, Jones and Telford were waiting. Telford rubbed his golden cross between his thumb and forefinger. He took a deep breath and faced Tasker. He was unable to hold eye contact. His gaze darted from one side of the forest to the other like a cornered mouse.

'With all due respect, First Sergeant Tasker,' he blurted, voice quavering, 'I will be relinquishing my rank and returning to Pomacochas.'

Telford stood there, chest puffed out, shaking in his boots.

'With all due respect, Lance Corporal,' Tasker said. 'I can't allow you to do that.' He paced a circle around the terrified man, who suddenly looked like a scared little boy playing soldier in his backyard. 'You do remember that our little sojourn here wasn't exactly sanctioned, don't you?'

Telford swallowed hard. His Adam's apple rose and fell, but he could only muster a meek nod.

'So you see,' Tasker continued, 'if we were to allow you to tuck tail and run, you could put the rest of us in a rather untenable position, and for what? Hmm?' He paced another slow circle around the man. 'Or maybe I'm being too hard on you. You won't talk to anyone, will you?'

'N-no, sir.'

'I don't know if I believe you, Lance Corporal.'

'You have my word, sir. I won't tell a soul.'

'There's only one way to guarantee that,' Tasker said. He rounded Telford until he was directly behind him. In one fluid motion, he pulled his knife from its sheath, reached around the front of Telford's neck, and yanked the blade to the side.

Telford sputtered and coughed blood. Grasping at his open throat, he wavered in place for a long moment before collapsing to the ground. Blood gurgled in his lacerated trachea.

Tasker leaned over Telford's prone form, wiped the blade on the already bloody jacket, and returned it to his hip.

'Do the rest of you have any reservations about pressing on?' Tasker asked, looking each man directly in the eyes in turn.

'No, sir,' they said in unison.

'Good. Then dump this garbage where no one will find it and let's get a move on.'

II

11:13 a.m.

Galen walked in the center of the pack, thankful for the armed men both leading and trailing the group, though he was increasingly aware of the proximity of the jungle to either side. At best, he could see perhaps ten feet into the foliage, and only half that far the majority of the time. The events of the previous night had unnerved him. Their guides vanishing in the middle of the night would have been traumatic enough without the appearance of the native with Hunter's rock hammer. He didn't care what Sam said: he perceived the appearance of the painted man as a genuine threat.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his khaki vest, he stroked the smooth, slender feather.

There was still a mysterious, unclassified raptor out there in the wilds, he reassured himself, and he was going to be the first one in the world to study it, regardless of the consequences. Of course, he not so secretly hoped there wouldn't be any. His nerves were just getting the best of him. After nearly a decade's absence from field work, he had been anxious from the start. Throw in all of the strange happenings and the presence of guns all around him, and who in his right mind wouldn't be on the verge of tasting his bile? He just needed to find a way to relax a little, take the edge off.

He un-shouldered his pack and rummaged through the contents while he walked. There it was. The small hydro-bladder he'd had the foresight to fill with as much vodka as it would hold before they left civilization. Just a nip would dull the stress nicely. Here was one thing to be thankful for. At least it wasn't his backpack that had been stolen from the campsite.

Merritt hiked directly ahead of him, encumbered only by the clothes on his back. Everything the man had brought with him was gone, and they all knew they would never recover any of it.

Good thing the thief hadn't looked in his pack, Galen thought. He had just dropped a good chunk of cash on a brand new, state-of-the-art---

'No, no,' Galen whimpered. He rifled through his backpack. When he still couldn't find it, he dropped to his knees and dumped the contents. He scattered everything across the ground and rummaged through the piles. It wasn't there. 'My camera. Has anyone seen my camera?'

'So it wasn't just me,' Merritt said. Galen looked up to see an almost smug expression on the man's face. He could have punched him right in the nose. 'They got you too, huh?'

'This isn't at all funny,' Galen said, stuffing his belongings back into his pack. 'I spent three thousand dollars on that camera. I need the best technology money can buy for when we find the raptor.'

'Relax, Dr. Russell,' Colton said. 'We have plenty of technologically advanced equipment to properly document anything we encounter.' He inclined his head toward the film crew. Jay held up his camera to illustrate the point.

'That's not the point. It was my camera, and they stole it. My camera.'

'You'll be fully reimbursed for your loss, Dr. Russell.'

'You'd better believe I'll be reimbursed. I wasn't the one who brought those thieves into our midst. I wasn't the one who was supposed to be guarding---'

'Dr. Russell,' Leo snapped.

Galen fell silent.