Excavation

Sam studied the dagger’s gold blade in the feeble light cast by the single flashlight. He had the last guard shift of the night. The others lay sprawled behind him, curled on the flat rock of the cavern floor, pillows made from rumpled shirts and packs. Ralph snored softly, but at least the big man was sleeping. Earlier, Sam had been unable to drowse, except for a brief catnap fraught with terrifying images of falling rocks and unseen monsters. He had been relieved when Norman had nudged him to take his shift.

Sam raised his eyes from the dagger and glanced about the cavern. All around him, silver eyes studied Sam from the dozens of carved pillars, creatures that were half-human, half-animal. Incan gods and spirits. Nearby, the golden path reflected the meager light, a bright vein in the dark rock. Sam imagined the generations of Incan Indians that must have walked this trail. The footpath continued along the river’s bank deeper into the series of caves, and Sam longed to follow it. But the consensus of the group was to make camp there, near a water source and the fissure opening, and await rescue. Exploration could come later.

Glancing at his watch, Sam suspected the sun was just now rising above the Andean mountains. Down there, however, the blackness seemed to grow deeper and more endless. Time lost all meaning; it stretched toward eternity.

Though Sam tried to ignore his hunger, his stomach growled loudly. How long had it been since any of them had anything to eat? Still, he shouldn’t complain. At least, with the stream, they had water.

He just needed to keep himself distracted.

Sam fingered the blade of the dagger, pondering the mystery of its mechanism. How had yesterday’s transformation occurred? He couldn’t even fathom the trigger that unfolded the dagger into a jagged lightning bolt. It had done so with such smoothness and lack of mechanical friction, appearing to melt into the new form. The trick was too damned convincing. How intricate was the technology developed here? Friar de Almagro’s warning of the Serpent of Eden suggested a source of forbidden knowledge, a font of wisdom that could corrupt mankind. Was this an example of it?

A cough drew his attention. Barefoot, Maggie sidled toward him. Even disheveled, she was striking. Covered only by a thin blouse, buttoned loosely, her breasts moved under the fabric. Sam’s mouth grew dry. He dropped his eyes before he embarrassed himself, but his gaze only discovered the soft curves of waist and leg.

“You must quit fondling that thing, Sam,” she said quietly. “People are goin’ to start talking.”

“What?” Sam asked, shocked, glancing up at her.

Maggie offered him a tired smile and nodded toward the dagger.

“Oh…” He tucked it away. “So…so you couldn’t sleep?”

She shrugged, sitting beside him. “Rock doesn’t make such a great mattress.”

Sam nodded, allowing her this tiny falsehood. He suspected her restlessness was the same as his: bone-deep worries and the omnipresent press of the darkness around them. “We’re going to get out of here,” he said plainly.

“By trusting in good ol’ Philip Sykes?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He’s an ass, but he’ll pull us through.”

She stared up at a neighboring pillar and was silent. After a time, she spoke, “Sam, I wanted to thank you again for coming out on the tiles when I had that last…that last seizure.”

He began to protest that no such thanks were needed.

She stopped him with a touch to his hand. “But I need you to know something…I think I owe you that.”

He turned to face her more fully. “What?”

“I am not truly epileptic,” she said softly.

Sam scrunched his face. “What do you mean?”

“The psychologists diagnosed it as post-traumatic stress syndrome, a severe form of panic attack. When tension reaches a certain level”-Maggie waved a hand in the air-“my body rebels. It sends my mind spinning away.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t that a war-trauma thing?”

“Not always…besides there are many forms of war.”

Sam didn’t want to press her any further, but his heart would not let him stay silent. “What happened?”

She studied Sam for a long breath, her eyes judging him, weighing his sincerity. Finally, she glanced away, her voice dull. “When I was twelve years old, I saw a schoolyard friend, Patrick Dugan, shot by a stray bullet from an IRA sniper. He collapsed in my arms as I hid in a roadside ditch.”

“God, how awful…”

“Bullets kept flying. Men and women were screamin’, cryin’. I didn’t know what to do. So I hid under Patrick’s body.” Maggie began to tremble as she continued the story. “His…his blood soaked over me. It was hot, like warm syrup. The smell of a slaughterhouse…”

Sam slid closer to Maggie, pulling her to him. “You don’t have to do this…”