"Get to it then," I replied. "The pump hoses should be finished soon. I'm going to have Dutch send down the buttresses so I can start shoring up these walls."
She ventured into the tunnel for a closer look. Meanwhile, I tilted my flashlight around the shaft. The stonework was simple, not exactly a masterpiece of ancient architecture.
My beam wavered a bit and I clutched the flashlight with both hands to steady it. But it didn't help. My heart beat faster as I realized it wasn't the beam that was wavering.
It was the stonework.
Chapter 4
The ceiling quaked. Dirt dropped onto my head. Warily, I looked around. Numerous buttresses and supports were now in place. But the walls and ceiling continued to crumble anyway.
I rolled the wheelbarrow deeper into the tunnel, guided by light emitted from a battery-operated, freestanding fixture. The water was mostly gone, thanks to Beverly's temporary concrete dam and Graham's pumping apparatus.
I stopped next to a mound of mud, dirt, and stones. Then I stabbed a shovel into the obstruction. I attacked it for several minutes, loading the debris into the wheelbarrow. Ever so slowly, the mound began to shrink.
I'd insisted that Miranda and her colleagues remain on the surface during the salvage operation. Part of me was concerned for their safety. But mostly, I worried for their sanity. Between the shuddering tunnel and our hurried efforts to save it, they would've lost their minds.
I worked at a frenzied pace. Staving off a total collapse was our best possible outcome. But in order to do that, I needed to remove the debris. Then I could shore up the other end of the tunnel as well as the connected chamber.
"I don't like Miranda."
I cringed as Dutch Graham's voice echoed loudly in the tunnel. He had buckets of charm and charisma. But those gifts were often tempered by sheer obliviousness.
Still, I gave him virtually unlimited latitude. These days, he was the closest thing I had to a father. Hell, he was the closest thing I had to a family member.
"She's not so bad," I said.
"She's got a giant stick up her ass."
Graham was an old-time explorer with an almost magnetic attraction to danger. He was the last of an earlier generation when the adventure counted for more than the science. He'd racked up an incredible amount of battle scars in his career and these days, was forced to make do with a patch over his right eye as well as with a mechanical left leg. Nevertheless, he was still the feistiest man I'd ever known.
Although his days of exploration were largely behind him, he found plenty of time to embrace his other passions. He possessed an almost demonic thirst for wine, women, and poker, not always in that order. It was little wonder his former colleagues called him
El Diablo
behind his back. They meant it as an insult. Graham, however, considered it a compliment of the highest order.
Many months ago, he'd set up a new business venture in the field of cryonics. It was called CryoCare and he'd spent a lot of time and energy getting it off the ground. But he'd found time to join me on Miranda's salvage job. Good thing too. He had an uncanny knack for fixing and repurposing broken-down pieces of machinery.
The ceiling shook with the force of an earthquake. "Where's Eve?" I asked.
"Still in the truck."
"Get her down here," I replied. "Now."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
"Use Miranda's tractor. The digging bucket can act as a crane."
As Graham hobbled toward the shaft, I thrust my shovel back into the pile. I proceeded to clear debris for several minutes.
Salvage work was similar to treasure hunting, but with a few added benefits. For one thing, it was perfectly legal. Also, it didn't require intensive research. One just had to show up and start digging. Finally, it was capable of providing a fairly steady stream of income. Treasure hunting, in contrast, was boom or bust.
Usually bust.
But salvage work had its drawbacks. It was labor-intensive. Income, while steady, was capped. And it required working as a hired shovel rather than for oneself.
My shovel struck a hard object. Kneeling down, I picked up an old knife. The top half of its blade had been snapped off. The initials W.H. were carved on its handle.
As I stood up again, I noticed something curious. Someone, presumably W.H., had etched markings onto the wall. They consisted of a large circle surrounded by dozens of vertical lines. An X was hidden within the lines.
I studied the picture for a few seconds. Unable to make sense of it, I returned to my work. The pile shifted under my shovel. Stones and chunks of dirt poured from the top like a mini avalanche.
Light from the freestanding fixture spilled into the rest of the tunnel. My hands started to sweat as I got my first good look at the main chamber. It was a large room.
Large and empty.
Treasure hunters?
The knife and etch marks backed up that theory. But my brain refused to accept it. If treasure hunters had looted the tomb, they would've tripped the flooding mechanism long before Miranda's excavation.
Strange shadows flitted along the rear wall. I squinted. The wall wasn't flat. Instead, it seemed to jut into the chamber.
Is that …?
A slow smile creased my face. Miranda wasn't going to leave the tomb empty-handed after all.
Not when there was a giant stone sarcophagus waiting for her.
Chapter 5
Time, according to modern thinking, was a linear process. It did not begin nor did it end. Instead, it moved, always forward, at a relentless pace.
Scientists measured time by tracking cesium 133 atoms as they transitioned from a positive state to a negative one and back again. And even that wasn't good enough for the eggheads. They continued to seek a more perfect form of measurement. But for all their efforts, scientists didn't really understand time. They didn't know how it worked. And that was why they'd failed to notice the disturbing truth.
Time, for some inexplicable reason, had slipped out of its natural cycle.
Carlos Tum ignored the ruckus arising from the ground. He paid little attention to the nervous archaeologists or the barking dogs. Instead, he tilted his face toward the sky. Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he contemplated the blazing sun.
He missed the rain. He missed the droplets cascading against his face. He missed the pattering noises as they struck the ground. But most of all, he missed the comforting presence of Chaac.
Roman Catholicism and Maya traditions had been blended into a peculiar mix over the years. After invading Central America, the Spaniards had tried to replace the Maya gods with saints. But while the people had embraced the new faith, they'd secretly held onto their old gods as well.
The result was that when the rain didn't fall, Mayas prayed to Saint Thomas for help. If he didn't answer, they turned to Chaac, asking him to strike the clouds with his lightning axe. They saw nothing wrong with this. In their view, Saint Thomas and Chaac were one and the same.
But Tum felt differently. Unlike his fellow Mayas, he didn't believe in Saint Thomas. And he doubted Chaac liked being compared to a false idol.
Tum sniffed. His nose, which had an uncanny ability to detect moisture in the air, came up dry. Frustrated, he turned back to the dig site. A small camera, which dangled from a string wrapped around his neck, swung with him.
He'd nearly forgotten about the camera. Pacho had asked him to hold it several hours earlier.
He lifted it to his face and pushed a few buttons. An image of the shaft appeared on the screen. It was one of many Pacho had taken while being lowered on a rope to check out the flood damage.
Slowly, Tum flipped through the images, going backward in time. His Maya ancestors had understood time. They'd known it wasn't linear or exact. It was cyclical and messy. Knowing the processes of atoms was far less important than being able to identify one's place in nature's vast array of cycles.
Those cycles had played an important role in the Long Count Calendar developed by his distant ancestors. The Mayas had used five separate numbers to describe each day. The largest number was a b'ak'tun, which was equivalent to one hundred and forty-four thousand days, or roughly four hundred years. A natural cycle of time consisted of thirteen b'ak'tuns.
Compared to the Gregorian calendar, the Long Count calendar started on August 11, 3114 BC. Three full cycles had passed since that point. Each cycle represented a world of creation. In the first world, humanity had been made of mud. Wood was next and then maize. Presently, mankind was living in the fourth world of creation.
And that was the problem.
The thirteenth b'ak'tun had been completed on December 21, 2012. The fourth world of creation should've ended at that point. The fifth world should've begun. However, the date had come and gone and the fourth world had continued without change.
But why?
Tum scanned more images, going further back in time. He saw deeper into the shaft. Saw the floodwaters recede. Saw hieroglyphics and other markings became visible on the walls.
He stopped on an image. It was taken from the bottom of the shaft and showed a view of the tunnel leading to the chamber. His heart sped up as he stared at the tiny symbols carved above the tunnel.
He wasn't fluent in Maya hieroglyphics. But he could read numbers. The symbols showed a Long Count date of 10.0.0.0.0. It corresponded to March 13, 830 AD and more importantly, represented the completion of ten full b'ak'tuns.
But it was the next line of symbols that really caught his attention. It displayed a Long Count date of 13.0.0.0.0. His brain went into frenzied overdrive as he realized the date corresponded to December 21, 2012.
Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe the tomb builders had added it for symbolic reasons. Still, a small part of him wondered if it had a different meaning. A meaning meant for him. Perhaps he wasn't meant to stay idle while time continued to slip out of its natural cycle.
Perhaps he was supposed to do something about it.
Chapter 6
A prickly feeling shot down my spine. "This is a bad idea."
"I don't care," Miranda replied. "This is my dig and I want to see it."
I finished securing another buttress inside the tunnel. The vibrations had ceased and for the first time, success seemed within our grasp. "We still need to find a permanent solution for the water trap. The buttresses require additional support. And we haven't even started on—"
"I don't care. I want to see it now."
Exhaling loudly, I put down my tools and led her into the chamber. The space was fairly large, measuring about forty feet long and thirty feet at its widest point. I estimated the ceiling was about ten feet off the floor.
The shaft and tunnel had featured right angles and smooth arcs. But the chamber was designed in a more haphazard fashion. Its walls sloped outward unevenly, giving it the shape of a roughly hewn bowl.
Besides the sarcophagus, the only other object of interest was a large stone statue. It sported a grotesque face and stood quietly in the northeast corner. I did everything in my power to avoid looking at it.
Overall, the chamber was beautiful in its own way. Yet it lacked the glory and majestic stonework of even the most common Maya ruins.
"It's not exactly the Temple of the Inscriptions." Miranda's sour words couldn't cover up her excitement. "But it's definitely unique."
"There's something you need to know." I nodded at the sarcophagus. "About that."
Miranda removed a digital camera from her shoulder bag. She quickly snapped a couple dozen pictures of the chamber. "What about it?"
"I think it's been breached."
She swiveled toward me.
"It wasn't us," I said. "But it was definitely deliberate. The visible end is covered with chisel marks. I can't tell if they cut clear through the stone. But it's certainly possible."
She moistened her lips.
"That's not all. I found a broken knife while I was cleaning the tunnel. It's pretty old, but not old enough to be left here by the builders." I paused to let the words sink in. "Based on the rust, I'd say it's been here for a few decades rather than centuries."
"I see."
Her matter-of-fact tone caught me off guard. I felt a twinge of resentment as I realized she'd been withholding information from me.
As lead archaeologist, Miranda knew everything about the dig. She knew about its occupant, the treasure hunter, and a whole bunch of other things. In contrast, I only had access to a small piece of the excavation. In all likelihood, I'd leave the tomb with unanswered questions.
And I hated unanswered questions.
"The initials W.H. are engraved on the blade," I said. "Unless I miss my guess, he—or she—must've found this tomb years ago. That's why there are no artifacts in here, save for the statue and sarcophagus. Those things were too heavy to carry. Also, I checked the water trap. The shaft leading to the river looks to be of fairly recent construction. W.H. probably built it."
She nodded slowly. "That makes sense."
"Doesn't it strike you as odd?"
"How so?"
"If he'd already cleared out the tomb, why would he go through the trouble of setting up a trap?"
"I don't know." Miranda lowered her camera. A frown appeared on her face. "What is that … that thing?"
I followed her gaze. The sarcophagus was wedged into the wall. Graham knelt underneath it, next to a strange-looking vehicle. A single set of articulated metal arms stuck out of the contraption. They buzzed and trembled with electricity.
"It's not a thing. It's a she. I mean she's a she." Graham gave Miranda a faint grin. "Her name is Eve."
"Eve?"
"Dutch likes to name his gear after old flames," I explained. "Eve's basically a small forklift with plenty of modifications. But there's no need to worry. Most likely, we won't need her."
"Why would you need her?"