'Why did they need so many torches?' she asked. 'And why did they stockpile so much thermite? Was firelight alone not enough?'
'My best guess is the creatures are like owls,' Galen said. His voice quivered when he spoke, but not nearly as badly as his hands. 'Physiologically, their eyes are designed for optimal night vision, as evidenced by the eyeshine. Low levels of light are amplified by the
'So the light blinds them,' Merritt said.
'Definitely an oversimplification, but a functional assertion nevertheless. It doesn't technically blind them, but rather prevents them from being able to clearly see, effectively creating a massive blind spot, rather than a condition of blindness.'
'Then they won't attack because of the torches,' Leo said.
'I wouldn't wager my life on that. A starving owl will hunt during the day.' Galen paused. 'You have to understand that birds of prey hunt with more than just sight. Their senses of hearing and smell are also highly developed. Carrion birds follow the stench of rotting meat to find their meals. And while they may have acute vision, it's largely motion sensitive. That's why birds like hawks and falcons will emit shrill cries while circling a field. They can't clearly differentiate their prey from the weeds until it moves. The recognition of the bird's cry is ingrained in a rodent's DNA. It triggers the flight mechanism in their brains, and they run for cover. The raptor then sees the movement and dives toward the source, claws unfurled.'
The ceiling groaned. All eyes rose in time to watch a small stream of dust and dirt cascade through a curtain of hair-like roots. They continued to stare at the stone roof for several long minutes. There was no repeat occurrence.
Something else still troubled Sam. The scars. All of the Chachapoya men were heavily scarred under the black body paint. While violence and ritualistic sacrifice were commonplace among the primitive South American tribes, self-mutilation was generally limited to piercings and tattoos. The scars had shown no identifiable patterns and almost appeared as though they had been inflicted during battle. But with no other tribe to wage war against, who could have caused such dramatic wounds? And why the head-to-toe black paint? Was there some sort of religious significance or was it a cultural sign of status? She remembered the women tending to the crops. None of them had been scarred, nor had they been painted. Only the men. What did it mean? She felt as though the answer was of great consequence, but for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.
The Chachapoya had managed to survive for hundreds of years in close proximity to these creatures. Other than sacrificing livestock to them, what were they doing to protect themselves? Hiding behind fortified walls and burning torches may have kept the village secure, but they had originally seen the painted natives at night. Knowing what lurked in the darkness, surely they wouldn't have unduly risked their lives without some way of ensuring their own safety. Was it possible that the dark paint allowed them to blend into the shadows?
She was just about to vocalize her thoughts when Merritt pressed a finger to his lips. He furrowed his brow and turned in a circle. His eyes eventually fixed upon the back wall of the chamber.
Slowly, he walked toward the row of doorways they had barricaded with fallen stones.
'What is it?' Galen asked. 'Did you hear---?'
Merritt whirled and shushed him, then crept closer to the middle mound of rubble. He leaned closer and tilted his right ear to the jumble of rocks.
Sam followed and leaned over his shoulder.
She could clearly hear it now. A subdued shuffling sound. Something soft moving across stone. The faint trickle of pebbles tumbling through the pile of debris.
'Something's testing the wall from the other side,' Merritt whispered directly into her ear.
This time her hand sought his.
The noises ceased, only to resume moments later behind the doorway to their right.
More dust shivered from the roof, shimmering like glitter in the firelight.
Sam turned to see Colton step in front of the outer doorway, weapon raised toward the jungle.
The muffled noises on the other side of the rubble grew louder, frantic. It sounded like something was trying to scratch its way through the stone.
A cloud of dust rained from above.
Sam squeezed Merritt's hand so hard that it hurt. He cautiously pulled her around behind him and stood between her and the lone entrance.
'Oh God,' she whispered.
Leo and Galen rose from the fireside and retreated deeper into the room.
The wait was finally over.
Chapter Eleven
I
After what felt like an eternity of planning and hunting, the magic hour had finally arrived. Tasker's heartbeat reached a fluttering crescendo, which he slowed to a calm, metered rhythm. He mentally centered himself, leaned away from the trunk of the tree, and balanced on the thick branch with his feet alone in true predatory fashion. Silently, he slung the rifle back over his shoulder and unsheathed his knife. He adjusted the grip in his fist until it felt natural, like a fluid extension of his right arm through which even his blood flowed. All that remained was to wait for his prey to walk within range, and then it was all over, except for the bleeding.
He imagined McMasters poised for the kill in exactly the same stance. Whose quarry would be the first to fall? Who would deliver the first killing stroke?
Perhaps he would try to glean that information from his partner before he dispatched him as well.
Everything had gone so smoothly, so easily, that it was as if the long forgotten gods who had once lorded over this land blessed him alone, favoring him with good fortune for the hunt. Of course, sacrificing his own men might have bought him a little extra help from the ravenous deities of yore.
Ears attuned to the slightest sound beneath the thunder and the patter of rainfall, he waited patiently. He closed his eyes and attempted to become one with the jungle. Flies droned and mosquitoes hummed. The far off waterfall rumbled, a sound he could feel more than hear, as though the tree upon which he crouched were a plucked bass string.
His eyes snapped open at the first hint of footsteps on the detritus. Thus far, their prey had made little effort to mask their passage. They made enough noise to wake even the skeletal dead littering the ground. How many men had died here through the centuries? And to think that only he would ever walk away from this burial ground.
Leaves crackled and branches snapped. Soft exhalations reached him. He even heard the
A shadow stepped into view, farther away than he would have liked, but still well within range.
He glanced up at the front entrance of the main structure. The guards were so far away that he could barely see them, but he could tell that they hadn't raised the alarm.
Focusing on his prey, he leapt from the branch, arms extended. He swatted aside smaller branches and dodged a wide limb.
The wiry man below him stopped and looked up at the commotion. Tasker saw the pale, freckled face of a Midwestern farmboy through the fanned fingers of his left hand as he raised the blade in his right.
The man's eyes widened and his shoulders rose in a futile attempt to draw enough breath to shout a
