The Vilcabamba Prophecy: A Nick Randall Novel
Read The Vilcabamba Prophecy: A Nick Randall Novel Online
Authors: Robert Rapoza
THE VILCABAMBA
PROPHECY
by
Robert
Rapoza
Copyright © Robert
Rapoza
2016
Cover Copyright © Ravenswood Publishing 2016
Published by Devil’s Tower
(An Imprint of Ravenswood Publishing)
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of
the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without written permission from the publisher and/or author.
Ravenswood Publishing
Raeford, NC 28376
http://www.ravenswoodpublishing.com
Printed in the U.S.A.
ISBN-13: 978-0692646335
ISBN-10: 0692646337
Dedication
Thank you Holly, Heather and
Ryan for supporting me on this journey. I love you all!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dr. Nicholas Randall could feel the
noose-like effect of the humidity choking the breath from his body.
Perspiration slicked down his back like a sudden waterfall forming after a
heavy spring rain. The conditions were unbearable, but he pushed onward and
ever deeper into the Amazon. Normally, he would have made the trip in the
cooler, drier months, but his benefactor had been specific. The trip had to be
made immediately, or the funding would be forfeited, so Randall and his small group
from the University of Lima found themselves slogging through the lush
vegetation during the hottest and wettest time of the year. They traveled
without speaking, the dwindling sunlight fading through the foliage.
Once considered a gifted
archeology student, Randall was now deemed an outcast in the field for his
controversial theories. Randall believed that someone or something had
intervened in the development of the indigenous population and had helped
propel their technology forward at a staggering rate. He had first conceived
the theory as a graduate student on a field assignment almost thirty years ago.
It had almost destroyed his career. In fact, had it not been for his longtime
friend and colleague, Dr. Francisco Andrade, Randall would have been forced out
of the field years ago. Only Francisco’s support had made this trip possible,
and Randall realized that this excursion was his last chance to redeem his
reputation.
Now he found himself deep
in the rainforest with only his guide, a linguistics expert from the University
of Lima, and his two graduate assistants, Phillip Drew and Mike Gomes, in tow.
They needed to find the ruins quickly, or they would be forced to make camp in
the middle of the jungle before they were consumed by the encroaching darkness.
Making matters worse, they had lost contact with their home base days ago and
were running low on supplies.
“Finally, there’s the entrance up ahead,”
Ernesto, said. A linguistics specialist from the University, Ernesto was
clearly uncomfortable being out in the middle of the jungle during the summer.
He made no effort to mask his feelings as he swatted away a mosquito and threw
his pack to the ground.
Randall stopped next to
Ernesto, rubbing his aching muscles. He strained to see the small opening in an
otherwise solid wall of jungle vines and plants but eventually spotted it. The
entrance was carved into the solid rock in the side of a mountain. After days
of searching, they had finally arrived.
Amaro
Angarra
, the local guide who had led them to the site,
paused, staring into the dark opening. His body language spoke of his
reluctance to enter.
“Ernesto, ask
Amaro
if he’s going in.” Randall said, the salty taste of
dirt and sweat entering his mouth as he spoke.
After a brief exchange,
Ernesto replied. “He says it’s forbidden for his people to enter the sacred
ruins.”
“Phil and Mike, come with
me. Ernesto, wait here with
Amaro
. We’ll scout inside
the ruins and then figure out where to set up camp.”
The three ventured
through the small opening. The passageway wound its way down a twisting ledge,
which had been carefully cut into the stony surface. Randall’s pulse quickened
as he examined the tunnel. He ran his hand along the rock wall, marveling at
how the surface felt as smooth as glass. One thought entered his mind:
This wasn’t done with primitive tools.
He stepped back from the
wall and shined his light straight down the passageway. He realized that the
opening was a perfect square, the corners fitting together with a precision,
unlike any he had seen in past ruins. Next, he trained his light on the floor
and traced the pathway from the entrance as far as his beam would illuminate.
The floor was etched with a repeating diamond pattern and was clear of any dust
and debris. Someone was maintaining the tunnel.
Although the Inca had been skilled
artisans, Randall knew that this tunnel and what lay inside the mountain
weren’t Incan remains. A sense of foreboding mingled with his excitement as he
realized the enormity of the ruins and their implications. Whoever had built
this entrance possessed advanced machining technology.
“Dr. Randall, take a look
at this!” Phil called out.
“What is it? Phil, where
are you?”
“I’m around the corner.
You have to see this!”
Randall turned the corner
then immediately stopped. The path led into a single large room with
intricately carved symbols on one wall. Darkness enveloped the room, broken
only by the beams of their flashlights. Phil stood next to the wall, his light
trained on the strange symbols, as he struggled to decipher the writing.
“What do you think this
is?” Phil asked.
“I’m not sure.”
Randall held up his light
for a closer look and studied the writing carefully. He traced a finger along
the smooth grooves that formed the shapes. Beads of sweat gathered on his temple,
and his mouth went dry.
“It resembles Cuneiform,
but that doesn’t make sense. How could one group of Incans use a completely
different form of writing from the rest of their empire? Besides, Cuneiform was
used in southern
Mesopotamia
, and that’s 8,000 miles away. What’s going on here,
Professor?” Phil asked, as Michael entered the room.
“That’s a good question,
but I don’t think this is Cuneiform. In fact, it doesn’t seem to resemble any
written language I’ve seen before, at least not until I stepped into the tablet
room of
Paititi
,” Randall reflected, remembering the
first time he witnessed the great jungle city of
Amaro’s
tribe.
Randall studied the
symbols intently. There was something almost familiar about the way they were
arranged. They reminded him of something—something so obvious, and
yet so elusive, that the professor couldn’t put his finger on it. Each symbol
was neatly centered in a carved square, almost like …
A distant cracking noise and
a horrific scream echoed from the entrance of the ruins.
“What the hell was that?”
Phil asked.
“Ernesto, are you there?
Come in, over,” Mike said into his radio. The only reply was static.
“Ernesto, can you hear
me?”
Still
no reply.
“I can’t reach anyone on
the radio.”
Suddenly, the group heard other sounds—shuffling boots and
muffled voices. Someone was coming, and the three of
them
were trapped inside the chamber. The only path out was the way they had come
in. Randall’s mind worked feverishly.
“Do you hear that?” Phil asked, jerking up his head. He peered
around the corner and shone his light down the tunnel. Suddenly, the rocky wall
above his head exploded in a hail of gunfire, forcing Phil to duck back behind
the corner.
“Holy crap, someone tried to kill me!” Phil exclaimed, shocked
by the sudden, unexpected threat. “What do we do?”
“Were those gunshots?” Michael called.
“Yes! We need to get out of here!”
Randall’s heart raced. Either someone had followed them and
wanted the contents of the ruins for themselves, or the keepers of the ruins
wanted it to remain a secret.
The footfalls were getting louder—the shooters were almost
in the chamber.
Randall could hear the sound of one gunman giving orders to the
others. They would be there at any moment.
“I don’t want to die here,” Phil whispered.
Randall reached out tentatively and touched one of the symbols. The
wall folded away from him.
Startled, he jumped back. An opening had appeared in the solid
rock.
Randall quickly pushed Phil and Mike through the entrance,
following closely behind. He turned and shined his light, realizing that a
section of rock had swung inward like a door.
“Help me close this!”
The three men pushed with every ounce of strength they could
muster. The rock door swung closed, just as they heard heavy boot steps entering
the outer chamber.
“Where are they?” a voice said from the other side of the wall.
Randall’s pulse pounded in his ears. He bent over, trying to
catch his breath.
Phil tapped his shoulder. “What do we do now?” he whispered.
Randall shone his light around the room. Unlike the outer
chamber, there was writing on three of the four walls. Randall gestured to it.
Phil nodded. The key to their escape was the writing. They were safe for now,
but for how long?
