Excavation

Halfway across the chamber, the trap was sprung. Juan stepped on a silver tile, and the corresponding gold tile in the roof above snapped open. A cascade of silver-thousands of tiny chains-swept over Gil’s companion. Gasping, Juan ducked as his form was instantly drenched in the fine chains. Once fallen, the chains draped from the open panel, like a frozen waterfall of silver. They clinked brightly as Juan danced among them, shocked but clearly unharmed. His motions only succeeded to enmesh himself further.

“What the-?” Juan started to say, reaching to shove aside the tangling links of silver. His hand darted back. “Shit, they got hooks all over them.”

Gil finally noticed the hundreds of glinting centimeter-long barbs sprouting along the lengths of chain. Their points were all curved upward, hinged, so they caused no harm when they fell from the ceiling.

Gil froze in mid-reach. Fuck, he thought as he suddenly realized the danger. A warning rose too late on his lips.

Suddenly the cascade of chains spun viciously around Juan, ripping upward at the same time. The man screamed, an animal’s cry of panic and fear. Juan was lifted two meters off the ground by the barbed chains, writhing in their hooked grips, before his weight finally dropped him to the floor.

Juan pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Most of his clothes had been ripped from his body, along with large swaths of skin. He raised his face toward Gil. His left ear was gone; his scalp lay torn and flapped over to one side. Both eyes were bloody ruins. Blind, all Juan could do was howl. Even now, Gil saw Juan’s skin begin to blacken where the hooks had dug in.

Poison.

Still Juan wailed in agony, crawling, dragging himself slowly across the floor. He didn’t make it far. The poisons reached his heart, and he collapsed to the gold and silver tiles. The scream ending in mid-rattle.

Miguel went to check on his friend.

Gil grabbed a fistful of Miguel’s shirt and pulled him to a stop. The two men shared a single gold tile on the floor. With their friend’s cries echoing away to nothing, Gil now heard the tick and grind of massive gears hidden behind the tiles and walls all around them. They had walked into a massive booby trap.

Gil glanced around. They stood on the single tile that centered the room. He studied the gold under his feet. “It must have been built to activate only after someone fully entered the room.” He eyed the tiles that led toward the golden idol and those that led back toward the entrance. The ticking of the gears sounded from all around. He suspected neither path was now safe.

Miguel moaned beside him.

Gil scowled at the enormous wealth around him. Knowing death lurked behind its beauty, the luster faded from the gold. “We’re trapped.”

Nestled in his sleeping bag atop a camp cot, Sam awoke to the noise of some animal snuffling by his tent door. At night, opossums and other curious nocturnal creatures were always wandering from the rain forest’s edge to investigate the camp. But whatever was out there now was large. Its shadow, cast by the camp’s spotlights, blotted out a good section of the tent flap. Sam tried to remember if he had snapped the fasteners after zipping up the door against mosquitoes. His first thought was jaguar. A few of the large cats had been spotted along the Urabamba River, which ran through the jungle below the ruins.

As silently as possible, Sam reached for his Winchester rifle, a legacy from his grandfather, passed from father to son through the Conklin family, dating back to 1884. Sam didn’t go anywhere without it. The rifle had not been fired for years, more a keepsake and good-luck charm than a weapon. But right now, unloaded, it might serve as a good club.

His fingers slipped over the wooden butt of the rifle.

Whatever was outside rattled the flap near his toes. Damn, he had forgotten to fasten the door! Sam sprang up in his sleeping bag and snatched the rifle up in his fist.

As he swung the rifle back, the flap was torn open.

“Sam, are you awake?” Maggie peeked her head under the flap and made a halfhearted effort to knock on the canvas side of the tent.

Sam lowered the rifle to his lap, his heart still pounding in his ears. He swallowed hard to clear his throat and forced his voice into a nonchalant tone. “Yeah, I’m up, Maggie. What’s the matter?”

“I couldn’t sleep and got to thinking about those etchings. I needed to run something by you.”

Sam had some fantasies of Maggie sneaking to his tent in the dead of night, but none of them involved discussing ancient Latin etchings. Still, any nighttime visit from Maggie was welcome. “Okay. Give me a sec’.”

Rolling out of his sleeping bag, he slipped his Wranglers over his boxers. With a night this muggy, he wouldn’t normally bother with a shirt, but with Maggie out there, modesty more than comfort mattered. Sam pulled a leather vest over his shoulders.