Torrent Read online

  Torrent

  By David Meyer

  Torrent Copyright © 2014 by David Meyer

  Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Cover Design Copyright © 2014 by Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Cover Art Copyrights:

  1) Pyramid: Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  2) Canyon: Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  3) Sky: Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  4) Author: Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Publishers Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, uploading, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, or the Internet without prior written permission of the Publisher or copyright owner except where permitted by law. Your support of the author’s rights is greatly appreciated.

  First Edition – March 2014

  Manufactured/Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Julie, Bruce, and Haley

  Thanks for your loving encouragement, the wonderful memories, and all that is to come.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue: The Undertaking

  Part I: The Tomb

  Part II: Ball Lightning

  Part III: The Pyramid

  Part IV: The Library of the Mayas

  Part V: The River

  Epilogue: Simplification

  Don't Leave Just Yet!

  Ice Storm: Cy Reed Adventure (Sample)

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  The Undertaking

  10.0.0.0.0

  In life, they'd carried a fearsome reputation as scavengers, thieves, and murderers. But as Hunahpu laid eyes on their corpses, he was astonished to see they were far shorter than the average Maya warrior. And that wasn't the only odd thing about them. Their eyes were bright red. Dry flakes covered their cheeks. And their skulls were elongated in a way that made his blood run cold.

  Hunahpu lifted his chin. The jungle lacked sunlight, thanks to the strangely persistent cloud cover. Gnats pricked his arms. The air stank of blood and sweat. The sweltering heat made his head hurt. Indeed, the conditions were downright miserable.

  And yet he felt elated.

  Some two-dozen men, their olive bodies plastered in blue paint, glided silently past him. Some carried carved pieces of wood, capable of launching atlatls at long-distance targets. Others held short knives constructed from chert. But most of the warriors wielded long spears topped with sharp-looking obsidian points.

  Hunahpu's bare feet padded against the earth, passing over stones and clumps of dirt. He walked to the edge of a clearing. It was shaped like a bowl, with its sides sloping gently toward a depressed center.

  It was the end of the tenth b'ak'tun and thus, a major cause for celebration. Like his fellow Mayas, he'd eagerly anticipated the rare change in b'ak'tuns. So, it was especially jarring when Wak Kimi Janahb' Pakal, the divine ajaw of Palenque, had ordered him to skip the festivities and instead, accompany the military expedition to the city in which he now stood.

  But he hadn't resented the order. This was, after all, no ordinary job. It was the most important job of his life. The building that would one day fill the clearing would seal his reputation as the greatest architect in the history of the Maya civilization. Nobles, scholars, priests, and other elites would come from as far away as Óoxmáal to study, reflect, and bask in the glory of his creation. The very thought made him shiver with delight.

  He stared out at the clearing, at the sturdy yet pitifully simple limestone buildings left by its former inhabitants. His imagination kicked into high gear as he began to envision a structure that would be remembered and revered far into the future.

  Loud thrashing noises rang out from the surrounding jungle. An ear-splitting scream pierced the air. Hunahpu nervously edged into the clearing as warriors dropped into crouches and veered toward the trees.

  Four warriors darted out of the jungle, carrying something between them. A small crowd surged in their direction.

  "Hunahpu." Xbalanque, a scribe of considerable fame, ran across the clearing. "You need to see this."

  "What happened?" Hunahpu asked.

  "It's one of the warriors. Something attacked him."

  Hunahpu hustled to the crowd. As he pushed through it, he drew a deep breath. The warrior's head had nearly been ripped clean off his body. His chest had been torn open, exposing his bloody organs. "What did this?"

  No one answered.

  Leaves rustled as a soft gust passed overhead. Hunahpu licked his lips, tasting the salt. The clouds thickened, casting more darkness upon the clearing. He sensed evil in the air.

  A strangled shout erupted from the middle of the clearing. Startled, Hunahpu spun toward it. He saw a man crawling across the dry earth. The man tried to shout again, but only managed a hoarse whisper before collapsing to the ground.

  "It's Xmucane." Xbalanque's eyes widened. "He was leading the expedition."

  "How long has he been gone?" Hunahpu asked.

  "Nearly a full k'in."

  Hunahpu hurried forward. Cautiously, he felt Xmucane's forehead. It was hotter than fire. "What happened to you?"

  Xmucane licked his chapped lips. Dried vomit was plastered across his chest. Blotches and other marks covered large portions of his bare arms. "We're …" He licked his lips again and tried to control his quivering mouth. "We're not alone."

  His whisper sent a wave of murmurs through the crowd.

  "I don't understand. Where's the rest of your expedition?"

  "They're dead." Xmucane grabbed Hunahpu's arm and pulled him close. "You have to stop them. They're real. They're …"

  His voice drifted away. His head sagged to the ground. His breathing ceased.

  Hunahpu's chest cinched tight. He could scarcely believe it. And yet, he knew it was true all the same.

  "No, it's impossible." Xbalanque's face turned red. "He must've been mistaken."

  "Their existence would explain many things," Hunahpu replied quietly.

  "But they're just legends."

  "Are they?"

  Hunahpu peered again at the clearing. A vision formed in his brain. But it was different than the previous one.

  His building would require a massive undertaking, far more ambitious than any project ever attempted throughout the Maya kingdom. It would be, without a doubt, his greatest achievement. And yet he no longer felt excited about it. Instead, he felt overwhelming sadness as his dreams collapsed around him.

  He would receive no glory or fame for his efforts. Indeed, no one outside of him, Xbalanque, the workers, and Pakal could ever know about the undertaking.

  The survival of his people, even the very world, depended on it.

  PART I

  The Tomb

  Chapter 1

  "That's him?" The hushed whisper oozed contempt. "Wow. He even looks like a grave robber."

  I gritted my teeth. Inhaled through my nose. Exhaled through my mouth. I'd heard those words before, many times, in a dozen different variations. They all boiled down to the same thing.

  Who the hell is this guy? And why are we letting him near our dig site?

  Beverly Ginger sat in the passenger seat of the old truck, leaning casually against the windowsill. I couldn't help but stare at her. Even after several months together, she still managed to take my breath away. "Well, this should be fun."

  "Don't get me wrong," she
said quietly. "I'm glad we're here. But why'd you pick this job? What's so special about it?"

  I shrugged.

  She turned to face me. A pair of large sunglasses hid her eyes. "It's not even close to the rate we used to get."

  "We've been paid less."

  She lifted her shades, propping them high on her forehead. Her violet eyes sparked with intense curiosity.

  I exhaled. "We should get to work."

  "Fine." Beverly flung open her door and stepped lightly out of the truck. "But we're going to talk about this later."

  I watched her saunter away. She possessed endless curves and long, shapely legs. Her face was perfectly tanned. Her chestnut brown hair had more waves than the ocean. Her violet eyes shone brighter than a pair of lighthouses. But it wasn't just her looks that captivated me. She also possessed something unique, something intangible. She had that rare ability to leave men and women tongue-tied in her wake.

  Shielding my eyes from the hot sun, I climbed out of the truck. Dutch Graham, who'd exited a few moments earlier, stood near the cargo bed. A large object, covered by a tarp and held in place by over two-dozen steel cables and multiple heavy-duty blue straps, sat inside it. He gave me a nod as he started to work on the cables.

  Three other people, two women and a man, stood a short distance away. One woman held a small black Chihuahua. Its loud bark grated on my ears.

  I strode over to them, my boots pressing against the dry earth. "Which one of you is Dr. May?" I asked even though I already knew the answer.

  A woman stepped forward to greet me. She was short, maybe a hair over five feet tall. Her body was wiry and dark-skinned. Her hair, black as tar, was tied back in a ponytail. She emitted a prickly, snobbish vibe and I was nearly certain she'd been the one to lob the grave robber insult.

  "Call me Miranda," she replied. "I'm leading this dig."

  "Cy Reed." My heart raced as I shook her hand. "I've read your books on the Classic Maya Collapse."

  "Really?"

  Despite my best efforts, she awed the hell out of me. I'd read her name hundreds of times over the last several years. She'd been interviewed on television and praised in newspapers. Countless media outlets had cited her work as gospel. She was famous, as close to a celebrity as one could find in the archaeological world.

  "You make an excellent case for the mega-drought theory."

  A confident smile formed on her lips. "Thank you."

  My brain churned as I tried to think of an appropriate response. I wasn't an expert. But I knew the Classic Maya society had sprung up around 200 AD. It quickly became one of the most advanced civilizations in the world, showing renowned expertise in architecture, sculpture, painting, pottery, and astronomy.

  Sometime after 800 AD, the Classic Maya mysteriously vanished from the southern Maya lowlands, abandoning great cities in the process. Close to one hundred theories had been proposed to explain the Classic Maya Collapse, including war, revolts, and disease. But Miranda's extensive work on the subject had convinced most people that human-induced climate change was the primary culprit.

  Still, I didn't want to just parrot her opinions. I wanted her to know I could think for myself. "I'm not convinced though," I replied. "If mega-droughts caused the collapse, why didn't the Mayas abandon their northern cities too?"

  "Most of those cities were close to the coast and had access to seafood. So, they weren't as dependent on agriculture as their southern counterparts."

  "I guess that makes sense. But the mega-drought theory is still hard to imagine. The southern lowlands get so much more rain than the northern ones."

  "That's because you're looking at it through modern lenses. The climate was very different back then." She gave me a superior look. "It's very simple. My work proves that one of the most severe droughts of all time plagued the southern lowlands for roughly two hundred years beginning around 800 AD. At the same time, the Mayas were cutting down the jungle to make room for buildings and crops. Deforestation meant less water was transferred back into the atmosphere. This exacerbated the drought and crop yields decreased. The Mayas tore down more trees to plant more crops. And a vicious cycle commenced."

  "Okay." I held up my hands. "You win."

  "I don't mean to come off as rude. But I take this subject seriously. There's much that modern society needs to learn from the Mayas. Otherwise, we'll repeat their mistakes." She forced a smile. "Well, did you have any trouble getting here?"

  "Our boat nearly capsized halfway down the Candelaria River."

  She cringed. "That's too bad."

  I'd only spent a few minutes with her, but I'd already noticed something curious. Despite her reputation as an environmental guru, she seemed somehow out of place in the jungle.

  "Well, we're obviously the salvage experts." I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. "That's Beverly Ginger. The older gentleman—and I use that term loosely—is Dutch Graham."

  She nodded at each of us in turn. "I know you don't do this type of work anymore. So, thank you for making an exception in our case."

  For the last couple of years, I'd worked as a treasure hunter and salvage expert. But four months ago, I'd quietly pulled myself out of the field.

  "No problem," I replied.

  "Do you have anything you need me to sign?"

  "Not unless we accept the job."

  "I thought you'd already accepted it."

  "You thought wrong."

  "But you came here. We paid your way."

  "And I appreciate that. But I'm not going to accept your job until I see it with my own eyes."

  "I guess I can understand that." She put her hands on her hips. "Well, what do you need from me?"

  "Do you have your INAH paperwork?"

  All excavations on Mexican soil required permission from the INAH, or the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Most archaeologists praised the organization for protecting Mexico's many unexcavated ruins. But having run afoul of it in the past, I saw things a little differently.

  The INAH provided a favored group of people—professional archaeologists—with a monopoly on dig sites. Everyone else was left out in the cold. Even landowners weren't allowed to excavate their own properties.

  But while I didn't care for the INAH, I wasn't about to cross it. The punishment for doing so was steep, up to twelve years in prison.

  "Yes," she said. "Everything is in order."

  "Good." I nodded at her two comrades. "Who are they?"

  "Rigoberta Canul and Jacinto Pacho. They've worked with me for years. If this site bears fruit, they'll be responsible for the actual excavation."

  Miranda was the archaeological equivalent of Alexander Dumas. Dumas had employed a team of assistants to help write most of his works. In fact, The Count of Monte Cristo, one of his most famous creations, was actually the brainchild of Auguste Maquet.

  Like Dumas, Miranda employed assistants. They managed her various excavations throughout Central America. When she wasn't writing books or giving interviews, she traveled back and forth between her excavations, providing management and oversight.

  I turned toward Rigoberta. She was well nourished, but not fat. Her smooth complexion gave her a youthful appearance, but her demeanor and slow reflexes suggested an older age.

  I shook her hand. "And who is this?" I asked with a nod at the tiny Chihuahua cradled in her arms.

  "Yohl Ik'nal," she replied happily. "She's named after the first known female ruler in Maya history."

  Pacho was much younger, probably in his late twenties. Thick glasses obscured his hazel eyes. His face was etched in a permanent scowl.

  He shook my hand with a firm grip. "That's not the only dog around here."

  I followed his gaze to a large tree. An old American foxhound napped beneath it. His coat was a fine mixture of black, white, and bronze. "What's his name?" I asked.

  "Alonzo."

  "He looks tired."

  "Nah. He's just lazy."

  A few voices drifted into
my ears. My gaze shifted to three people standing about twenty feet away from Alonzo. One man stared into the jungle. Meanwhile, the second man and a woman argued loudly. "Who's the loner?" I asked.

  "Carlos Tum," Miranda said. "He's sort of an archaeologist."

  "Sort of?"

  "He doesn't have a degree. But he knows this jungle and its ruins better than anyone. We actually grew up together. I left to pursue archaeology. He stayed behind in order to master the family business."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Shamanism."

  My eyes widened.

  "The couple is Dora and Renau Manero," Miranda continued. "They specialize in deciphering ancient Maya hieroglyphics."

  "Do they always fight like that?"

  "Pretty much."

  I studied the clearing. A single dome-shaped tent with multiple openings occupied one end of it. It housed a long table as well as two racks of shovels, trowels, and other tools. A large yellow tractor was parked nearby.

  "So, when did the flooding start?" I asked.

  "Eighteen hours ago. The tomb has held up so far, but I don't think it'll last much longer."

  "Show me."

  She walked to the dig site. It had been sectioned off into a neat grid. A single layer of topsoil had been stripped from the earth and placed into metal buckets. Those buckets now sat under the dome tent, waiting to be sifted.

  Miranda was one of the most celebrated archaeologists in the world. But since she split her time between multiple dig sites, I'd wondered about the quality of her work. I was pleased to see the site was in excellent shape and the excavation appeared to be proceeding in an efficient manner.

  She stopped next to a large breach in the ground. A thick slab of weathered rock, ten feet square, rested just outside the site. "It's a tomb," she said. "Based on some of the markings we've uncovered as well as the initial stratigraphy tests—"

  I held up a hand to stop her. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not here for a lecture. I'm here to see if I can help you. Nothing more, nothing less."