To the rest of the team, he continually voiced concerns about some Indian boy he had seen earlier running through the jungle, although no one else recalled seeing anyone alive here after the helicopter dropped them off.
Now the Mexican Army helicopter hovered above the clearing, appearing as a huge, wingless iron bird with a silver box resembling a railroad car or double-wide modular home suspended below its belly on thick stainless steel cables.
Lauren listened to Joel Schumacher direct the helicopter downward over the radio as the noise from whirling blades grew louder. Prop wash made the jungle grasses and vines dance with a life of their own as Joel called for the chopper’s slow descent.
This was the mobile lab Dr. Williams had talked about before, and when Lauren saw it she was reminded of something belonging on a lunar landscape. Downdraft from the circling blades whipped everything in sight, blowing the roof off their temporary canopy, scattering odd bits of assorted gear in every direction on mighty gusts of wind as the lab building was lowered toward a small clearing away from the tents and equipment of the ill-fated expedition.
“Tell them to send down the portable generator,” Joel said into his headset to someone aboard the aircraft. “And then lower the containers of gasoline and propane after everything down here is secured.”
The lab settled gently onto a carpet of grass and the massive cables were released. Joel left his radio to join the others helping with guiding more crates and containers being sent down on thin steel lines.
After the massive load of equipment was offloaded, the chopper set down briefly and another orange-suited figure emerged, walking clumsily in the suit as if he wasn’t used to wearing one.
Lauren heard the name “Dr. Matos” mentioned over her helmet radio as the new arrival was greeted by the other scientists. Dr. Matos had apparently kept his word to join them here at the site.
Lauren noticed another member of the team wearing an orange suit hang back a moment, connecting some sort of instrument to Joel’s radio. No one else appeared to be aware of this team member’s absence near the portable laboratory, too busy themselves to pay attention to what was going on. Lauren couldn’t see who it was and it seemed odd at the time, but then what did she know about Wildfire Team procedures?
Chapter 8
Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into the young Indio’s eyes as he trudged through jungle humidity darkening rapidly as dusk approached. Even though centuries of evolution had caused his people’s perspiration to be unappetizing to the horde of mosquitos and other biting insects of the wilderness, they continued to swarm around his head, filling his eyes and nose and making it difficult to breathe without inhaling the noxious creatures.
Their buzzing irritated and distracted him as he listened for the grunt of a night-feeding jaguar or the squeal of a boar protecting its young, either of which could be fatal if he missed their warning signs. He’d been careless once today already, letting the man in the orange clothes spot him as he watched them work.
He froze when he heard the sound of a jeep engine a few hundred yards ahead. The sound suddenly ceased, and he decided to investigate. Stepping nimbly through dense undergrowth without making a sound, he soon parted the leaves of a jacaranda tree and peered into a small clearing next to the narrow stone and gravel road that meandered through the forest.
He saw a tall, thin Anglo gathering wood in the darkening light, preparing a campfire as he laid out a sleeping bag and cooking utensils. In a few moments, the smell of coffee and soup boiling made the boy’s mouth water and his stomach growl. He had eaten nothing other than bananas and berries for two days and was weak with hunger. The sudden sickness and deaths of the Anglos at the camp had made him afraid to eat any more of their food, though they’d been generous with it before the curse came and killed them all.
The tall white man hummed to himself as he prepared his supper, causing the Indio to take a chance that the man would be good natured enough to share his food. After all, he knew he could disappear in the jungle in seconds if necessary. No white man could slip through the undergrowth as nimbly and fast as he could, having done it ever since he could walk.
Taking a deep breath, the boy cried softly, “Hola, señor,” and stepped from his hiding place into the clearing, his hands held out from his body in a nonthreatening manner, his legs quivering, ready to take flight should the man prove unfriendly.
The Anglo was startled, dropping his coffee cup and cursing in surprise. “Goddamn!”
When he saw the small teenage boy, he grinned sheepishly and shook his head. “Shit, boy,” he said, bending to pick up his coffee cup. “You scared me half to death sneaking up on me like that.”
It was a sign of how surprised he was that he instinctively spoke in English rather than Spanish.
The boy answered in broken English he had learned from priests who visited his village, “I am most sorry, señor.” He pointed at the pot bubbling over the fire. “Hungry.”
The man waved an arm in a carefree gesture. “Come on in and join me. There’s plenty for both of us. My name’s Malcolm Fitzhugh. What’s yours?”
“I am called Guatemotzi,” the boy replied as he took a bowl from the ground next to the fire and ladled rich-smelling soup into it. His mouth watered and his stomach growled again, causing him to blush with embarrassment.
The man, playing the generous host, pretended not to notice. He was used to the extreme poverty and hunger that most of the Indians in this part of Mexico lived with daily.
There was little talk for a while as the two squatted in the firelight and ate, Fitzhugh showing Guatemotzi how to dip chunks of bread into the meaty liquid to sop up every last drop of the tasty brew.
When they were finished, Fitzhugh poured coffee for both of them into tin cups, adding large spoonfuls of sugar and a dollop of condensed milk from a can into the thick liquid. He leaned back against a log, lit a cigarette, and peered at Guatemotzi over the rim of his cup as he drank.
“What are you doing wandering out here all alone in the jungle at night, boy? Is your village nearby?”
Guatemotzi shook his head, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it. “No. Is many kilometers south. I work at Americano camp, helping dig until they got sick.”
Fitzhugh raised his eyebrows, smoke trailing from his nostrils. “The archaeological site of the American university professors? That’s where I was heading.”
Guatemotzi shook his head vigorously. “No, señor, you must not go there. All Americanos very sick, and most now dead. It is bad place — is cursed.”
Fitzhugh smiled uncertainly, firelight reflecting off his teeth in the moonlit darkness. “Are you sure they’re dead, not just suffering from dysentery? Those Americans never learn not to drink the local water.”
He didn’t really believe the boy, for he’d been there only last week making acquaintances with workers who would be willing to sell him artifacts from the dig site they’d stolen. They couldn’t all have died in such a short amount of time — the boy must be mistaken.
Guatemotzi lowered his eyes. He knew it was much worse than simple diarrhea. It was the curse of the God Montezuma that had killed the Americanos, but this Anglo would never understand that. Still, he had to try. “No, señor, you must not! I tell you they all dead!”