Black Rain: A Thriller (42 page)

“Same thing,” McCarter replied. “Bad conclusions based on false assumptions.
Fire for fire
, they said, remember.
Fire for the plague
. We assumed that we were the plague. But the fire was for the trees, where we found that thing.” He pointed to the grub. “I’m guessing it was to burn them out, to destroy the nests before the larvae hatched. And then last night we heard their voices and drums again. We assumed they were building a war party or something. But they didn’t attack, and if you remember the sequence, the animals disappeared just as the drums came. I’ll bet the Chollokwan were hunting them then too.”

“With spears and clubs?” Danielle said.

“And pits filled with water,” McCarter replied, reminding them of the strange trap at the wall of skulls.

“But why would they even try?” Danielle asked. “It’s almost suicide.”

“Because they’re not just primitive nomads who live in the rain forest,” he said. “They’re the descendents of the Mayan people who once lived here. The Chollokwan are the ones who stayed behind.”

“In the Tulan Zuyua story?” Danielle asked.

“Yes,” McCarter said. “And in reality as well. In fact, I’m pretty certain that there’s not much of a difference. At least as it concerns this place.”

He turned to Hawker. “Don’t you see,” he said, “it’s the answer to your question. You asked me why they cared about this place. The only response I could come
up with was that they shouldn’t. They should pass it by as if it were just another spot in the forest, ignoring it or at most regarding it as some type of curiosity. But they don’t ignore it, they come here every year, they burn the trees back and keep this place clear of foliage, just like Blackjack Martin said they’d done at the Wall of Skulls. They tend to this place and keep outsiders away, year after year, century after century, because it’s theirs. Blessing or curse, it belongs to them.”

“But you said the city was abandoned,” Danielle reminded him.

“It was,” McCarter told them. “The inhabitants deserted this place. They sealed those animals inside—just like the story of Zipacna being sealed under the mountain of stone—but it’s not a rock-strewn mountain, it’s a structure shaped like a mountain, a pyramid made out of stone blocks.” He turned around. The pyramid of the temple stood behind him.

Hawker stared at it. He understood what McCarter was getting at. “So the legend is real.”

“It’s a version of reality,” McCarter replied, “distorted through time and retelling but essentially true.”

Danielle looked at the temple. “In the legend the Maya left Tulan Zuyua like refugees,” she noted, “while others—unidentified others—stayed behind. You think those remnants were the Chollokwan.”

McCarter nodded. “You paid me to tell you if this place was Tulan Zuyua and in my opinion it is, at least it’s one source of that legend, and the pyramid temple over there is likely to be a form of the Mountain of Stone. In the legend itself the two are not that closely
connected, but legends have a way of morphing. A few thousand years and few thousand miles can wreak a lot of changes. But there are always touchstones of truth that remain, and in our case, we’ve found enough to convince me.

“I think this place was or is Tulan Zuyua,” he reiterated. “And I think those who built it were being tormented by a group of people who seemed only vaguely human to them—the body we found in the temple being one of them. They called those people the wooden people. If you’re right we might know them as our descendents, but to these people they were despots, and if we follow the legend, the people who lived under their tyranny eventually threw off their chains with the help of a thunderous storm. Finally free, but probably fearing it wouldn’t last, they took their possessions and left this place, leaving a band of warriors behind to keep this temple sealed forever. Perhaps they even continued to communicate with the ones who remained behind, but over time and distance it eventually became impossible, actions that are mirrored in the
Popul Vuh
as the departure from Tulan Zuyua, the receiving of different gods and the inability of those who left to communicate with the tribes who stayed behind. Over time the people who left became the Maya, while the warriors who stayed became the Chollokwan, and their one task became a religion of its own.”

“But they don’t write, or keep time, or build anything,” Hawker said.

“If our civilization was wiped out today, no one would be building skyscrapers or jet planes tomorrow. We’d be lucky if we could put up a house without a
leaky roof. All civilizations build up a body of what we call societal knowledge, knowledge that’s only useful as long as the body stays intact; specialization leads to interdependence, interdependence leads to vulnerability. Break up any civilization and the specialized skills are the first to go as the people struggle just to cover the basics.

“In the Mayan world only the priests wrote and understood the calendars. Only the artisans could carve the glyphs and build. That’s how the elite controlled the masses. A legion of warriors wouldn’t have any of those skills. All they would know how to do is fight.”

McCarter’s gaze moved from Hawker to Danielle. “Here’s the proof: eighty-odd years ago Blackjack Martin stole those crystals from the Chollokwan after they were used in a rain-calling ceremony. Now ask yourself why the Chollokwan would even want it to rain. Agricultural societies want the rain, not hunting societies. The Chollokwan aren’t farmers—they’re hunters and gatherers, nomadic and migratory wanderers. The rain makes their lives exponentially more difficult. It turns the ground to mud and keeps the animals hidden in their dens and nests. It allows what game there is to spread far and wide instead of gathering at the edge of the rivers. If the Chollokwan were just simple nomads they would abhor the rains, but they don’t, they pray for them to come, just like the early Maya did.”

“Why?” Danielle asked.

“Partially because of their heritage,” McCarter admitted. “A learned and ingrained behavior. But there’s another reason as well, a more important reason.”

He paused for a moment, and seemed to decide that
actions would speak louder than words. He took the canteen from his belt, unscrewed the top and began to pour the contents over the torpedo-shaped grub in the box.

As water hit the thing, it jumped, shrieking as if it had been zapped with a thousand volts. It banged into the grate covering the box and fell back again, writhing around violently, flipping itself onto its feet and darting from corner to corner in search of safety.

As McCarter kept pouring, the parasite hissed and spat, scratching at the smooth metal walls, trying to climb. It jumped and clung to the grate, falling back as he finished dumping the canteen over it.

By now, the water sloshed an inch deep in the metal box and there was no way for the creature to escape it. It shot to the front corner and tried in vain to climb the wall. It jumped and fell and jumped again. Springing repeatedly, doing all it could to stay out of the water, until it landed on its back and began convulsing in a series of violent spasms. The box shook with its movement as the convulsions became more pronounced. In thirty seconds it was writhing in a death spiral of agony.

Eventually the intensity of the reaction began to wane and the angles of the grub’s body began to soften, deforming into a thick, black ooze. The chemical bonds of its structure were breaking down and separating. It was melting, like a slug coated in a thick layer of salt. The water in the box was turning murky and dark with the residue.

“What the hell happened to it?” Hawker asked.

Danielle answered. “It’s secreting that chemical base I told you about: the dark oil that was destroying Verhoven’s jacket. A substance like that can be as destructive
as sulfuric acid, only in the opposite way. It’s caustic instead of corrosive, but the results are similar.”

McCarter nodded his agreement. “In the temple their secretions were used to counteract the acidic water. But the canteen was filled with distilled water. No acid content. So the animal’s own secretions are destroying it.”

“It rained all day and all through the night,”
he added, quoting the ancient Mayan text.
“And the earth was blackened beneath it
. This is how the wooden people were destroyed, and these are the Zipacna, the sons or creations of the wooden people.”

“From the legend,” Danielle said, and before he could correct her, she added, “and in reality.”

Hawker stared at the animal dissolving in its own fluids. At first it struck him as odd that the creature’s own reaction could destroy it, but even in humans the body’s overreactions were sometimes self-destructive and deadly. Autoimmune disease and allergies were a prime example. Anaphylactic shock could cause a sudden massive drop in blood pressure from a small quantity of otherwise harmless allergen. He could think of other examples, including a friend who’d died when his plane skidded off the runway into shallow but frigidly cold water. Undamaged as the plane was, all Hawker’s friend had to do was pop the canopy and release his seat belt. But the water was so cold that his body instantly restricted the blood flow to his extremities, a natural defense mechanism designed to maintain the body’s core heat. In this case, it caused the pilot’s hands to clench into unusable fists, and Hawker’s friend drowned in ten feet of water, otherwise unharmed by the crash.

As he stared at the dead grub, Hawker guessed that
the thing had met a similar fate. As soon as McCarter had dumped the canteen over it, the grub began releasing the base secretions, manufacturing them as a defense mechanism possibly in proportion to the amount of water hitting it. Only, without the water being acidic, the animal’s secretions had nothing to counteract, and its own defense mechanism destroyed it.

He looked at Danielle, who nodded her agreement as McCarter began to summarize.

“I believe the body in the temple entered Mayan mythology as Seven Macaw. And these animals, as the Zipacna. In the legend, only the wooden people were present for the deluge, but they both came from the same place—or time.” He glanced at Danielle. “And the rain—our rain—will do the same thing to these Zipacna that it did to the wooden people three thousand years ago.”

Danielle had one more question. “And the natives?” she asked. “You think they know this.”

“They know,” McCarter insisted. “They’ve always known.” He jutted his chin toward the forest. “For three thousand years they’ve been coming here in their wanderings. Always to this place, always in the dry season, guarding it, waiting for the rains to come and grant them absolution for the rest of the year. Eighty years ago, when Blackjack Martin took those crystals from them, they were waiting for the rain to come, praying for it out of spiritual dogma, out of sheer habit. Now, somewhere out there, they’re doing the same thing, only this time out of a desperate need. If we want to survive, we have to find them, we have to show them that we know, and beg for their help.”

M
cCarter’s explanation struck a cord with Danielle. And twenty minutes later, she found herself in the rainforest, hiking with Hawker, McCarter and Devers, following a trail to the Chollokwan camp.

Verhoven had volunteered to go in her place, both because the Chollokwan were a strict patriarchy and because her leg was injured, but Danielle had overruled him. To begin with, Verhoven’s hand was worse than her leg, and the jungle hike required almost as much hand work as walking. But more importantly, she had a feeling that this might be their best and possibly last chance to get out of the jungle alive. She wasn’t about to leave a moment like that to anyone else.

McCarter would have preferred it otherwise, and said so. But with little choice in the matter, he could only beg her not to talk unless spoken to. The male-dominated Chollokwan society would not respond to it, he insisted. She’d agreed to let him do the talking, but this was still her show and there was no way was she staying behind.

As they traveled along, the jungle thickened around
them. They hiked through the rainforest proper now, not the edge of the clearing, where McCarter and Hawker had been before. Massive trees with overarching branches created the feeling of walking through a tunnel, while the tangled undergrowth hid scurrying things. It all seemed foreign to her now, as dark and sinister as the cave beneath the temple, and similar in many respects. And it created in her a low-level anxiety that seemed to grow stronger the farther they traveled from the clearing and its relative measure of safety, like the old sailor’s fear of losing touch with the shoreline.

With great effort she forced the thought aside. The animals, McCarter’s Zipacna, were out there somewhere. And while Hawker had guessed them to be nocturnal, they knew from the attack on Kaufman, which had occurred just before sunset, that such was not entirely the case.

After observing the grub in the ammunition box, Danielle concluded that it was not the daytime that the Zipacna avoided, but the daylight itself. The grub had cowered in the one corner that offered shade and when she’d covered half of the box with a rag, the thing had chosen the shadowed side no matter how many times she switched it. If she was right, then the animals could hunt in the forest twenty-four hours a day, for beneath the triple canopy, where the group now trod, less than ten percent of the sunlight made it through to the ground.

Knowing this, Danielle kept her eyes on the move. She walked beside McCarter in a loose formation, her eyes flicking between the jungle, McCarter and
the traitorous William Devers, who traveled a few yards ahead, unencumbered but unarmed. She half expected him to try something, but he seemed to know it would be suicide for him to run off into the jungle alone.

A few yards in front of Devers, Hawker strode with a purpose. There was a strange rhythm to the pace he kept, moving briskly for many minutes, then stopping suddenly, before resuming the rapid walk. At each stop he scanned the jungle ahead and behind, sometimes pausing for agonizing minutes in complete silence and stillness, as if waiting for some spirit to pass over. At other times, he pointed out the marks that enabled him to track the natives—crushed plants, disturbed moss, churned ground. “A hundred
white faces
leave quite a path,” he said.