Sarcophagus: Their mistake wasn’t finding it, it was bringing it back! Read online

  SARCOPHAGUS

  Part 1 – Amazon Jungle - 1924

  CHAPTER 1

  Lost City

  CHAPTER 2

  Sarcophagus

  CHAPTER 3

  Chico

  CHAPTER 4

  Bon Voyage

  CHAPTER 5

  Death

  CHAPTER 6

  Missing

  CHAPTER 7

  Manhunt

  CHAPTER 8

  Carnage

  CHAPTER 9

  Engine Room

  CHAPTER 10

  Kids in Danger

  CHAPTER 11

  Monster Hunt

  CHAPTER 12

  Journey’s End

  PART 2 - HORROR AT THE MUSEUM

  CHAPTER 13

  The Grand Unveiling

  CHAPTER 14

  It’s Alive!

  CHAPTER 15

  Emergency Services

  CHAPTER 16

  Dinosaurs

  CHAPTER 17

  Retreat

  CHAPTER 18

  Plan B

  CHAPTER 19

  Greyson’s Plan

  Horror Island (extract)

  Note from Author

  OTHER BOOKS BY AUTHOR

  SARCOPHAGUS

  Their mistake wasn’t finding it, it was bringing it back!

  Ben Hammott

  SARCOPHAGUS

  Ben Hammott

  Copyright 2017 ©Ben Hammott

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the copyright holders.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Author can be contacted at: [email protected]

  www.benhammottbooks.com

  Cover Design by Robert Ryminiecki

  SARCOPHAGUS

  Part 1 – Amazon Jungle - 1924

  CHAPTER 1

  Lost City

  The lone passenger of the small cargo vessel chugging along the river slapped at another mosquito endeavoring to suck blood from his sweaty neck that was liberally peppered with the inflamed bites of others of its kind. Forlornly, the man examined the squashed creature staining his palm and wondered how such small things could cause him so much discomfort. He scraped the carcass off on the edge of the rail running from bow to stern of the old boat and stared at the thick jungle gliding by.

  Greyson Bradshaw, fully aware he had stepped so far out of his comfort zone he might as well be on Mars, sighed and almost regretted coming to this inhospitable country. For the umpteenth time, he wrung out the sweat-sodden piece of creased cloth that bore no resemblance to the new and expensive neckerchief he had started off with on his journey. He used it to dab his face and neck, cursing the sweat that constantly streamed from his pores and soaked his recently purchased khaki-clothing—the ideal jungle attire according to the salesman, who Greyson now suspected had never set foot anywhere near a tropical climate. The air was hot, thick, hard to breath and so full of hot moisture it was like being in a sauna. Greyson thought the humidity level must be in the nineties.

  He splattered another hopeful mosquito with a slap of his hand and again cursed his decision to accept the assignment that had brought him to this hell that was the Amazon rainforest. He thought back to his cool office in the bowels of the British Museum of Anthropology, Archaeology and Zoology, where three days ago he had been sitting happily at his desk going over the list of exhibits he would request to be brought out of the bowels of the museum’s vast storage rooms chock-full of dust-collecting artifacts. They would then be cleaned and prepared for the forthcoming Maya exhibition set to open to the paying public in three months.

  *****

  Though he had been slightly annoyed by the intrusive knock on his office door, he had sighed and given permission for his visitor to enter with an impatient, “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Greyson, how are you today?” The suit-attired man who entered greeted him.

  “Busy, Charles,” was Greyson’s abrupt reply. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to do you a favor.”

  Irritated that his interest was piqued, Greyson turned his head to his visitor. “And that favor would be?”

  “You’ve mentioned a few times that, if the opportunity arose, you would like to go out in the field on an expedition to see the exhibits in their original setting. Well, you now have your chance if you want it.”

  Greyson’s annoyance dissipated as he removed his reading glasses. “How so?”

  “You know, of course, that Dr. Kramer is currently in the Amazon jungle looking for a yet unknown city he believes some of the Maya may have relocated to after abandoning some of their other cities.”

  “Yes, a fool’s errand if you want my opinion and that of many experts on the subject. What of it?”

  Charles smiled. “I wouldn’t be so hasty in your assumption because, according to Kramer’s latest correspondence we’ve just received, he might have found it.”

  Greyson humphed. “I’ll only believe that when I see it. He’s probably found a few stones piled on top of one another and is calling it a city. You know what Kramer’s like.”

  Charles shrugged. “Admittedly the man is a bit of a maverick and doesn’t always follow the tried and tested archeological guidelines, but we mustn’t forget the interesting discoveries he has made in the past that have since proven invaluable in increasing our knowledge of Mesoamerican culture.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Greyson begrudgingly. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “We need someone to go and check out Kramer’s discovery and ensure the veracity of what he says he has found so the Museum doesn’t waste its limited funds financing the extended expedition Kramer’s asked for. He has also asked for some extra provisions and equipment to be sent to him. He also mentioned he has found some Maya relics, which might be suitable for the exhibition you are organizing, which is another reason I thought you might like to be the one to go.”

  Greyson pondered the information for a few moments before replying. “It’s a damn long way and a waste of my time and museum resources if he’s mistaken, and I have so much to do here. An exhibition doesn’t organize itself, whatever you lot upstairs might think.”

  Charles held out the slim file folder he carried. “I think this might change your mind.”

  Greyson opened the folder, flicked through the four photographs inside and looked at Charles with excitement in his eyes. “How soon can I leave?”

  *****

  Though aware his seeping sweat would rinse it away almost as quickly as it was applied, Greyson sprayed another coating of insect repellant over his exposed skin. He cursed Kramer and his photographs and swore if they didn’t match what he said he had found, he would tie the man to a tree, walk away and let the insects feast on him until he was nothing but bones.

  Captain Duwana Tembi gazed out of the cracked window of the small wheelhouse as he piloted his boat. A grin creased his lips at his passenger’s constant battle with the persistent feasting mosquitoes. He had offered the white man some of his homemade repellant, but Greyson had refused, saying it smelt like manure and urine, and he wasn’t about to put something so foul on
his skin. Duwana shook his head. The white men never learn. The homemade repellant, which he had applied to his exposed skin, contained the crushed and boiled fruit of a tree local to his village. Admittedly it smelled a bit rank, but the mosquitoes hated it and left him alone. Certain the man would be more willing to spread the foul lotion on now he had experienced the insects’ relentless nature for a few hours, he’d offer it to his passenger again, but not until they reached their destination. The captain grinned as another slap and curse rang out.

  The thick jungle lining both banks began to change when they rounded another of the river’s many curves. Previously, the verdant jungle was so thick it was like a wall of impenetrable greenery and impossible to see through, but now it had thinned out, allowing a glimpse past the trees. With more room to grow, the trunks of the trees closest to the river were six feet or more, thick. Their roots, some as wide as Greyson’s waist, snaked down the bank and into the river. Their thick canopies reached over the waterway and joined those on the opposite bank, forming a leafy tunnel for the boat to travel through.

  The canopy’s cooler temperature brought a slight decrease in attacking mosquitoes, a fact for which Greyson was thankful. He stared upstream as he wondered how much farther they had to travel before they reached their destination. Again, he hoped the hellish trip would be worthwhile. He planned to visit the site, and if it was half of what Kramer had implied it was, he would examine and photograph the architecture and Maya artifacts and select those suitable for the forthcoming exhibition to be shipped back to England. With luck, he would only have to spend one or two nights in the hellish jungle and would soon be back on the boat returning to civilization. After arranging transport for the artifacts and a couple of flights later, he would be back at his desk in the museum, and all this would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. After this experience, he wouldn’t be volunteering for any other expeditions, of that he was certain.

  When Greyson noticed a fine mist rolling along the river toward them, he shot a worried glance at the captain in the wheelhouse, who seemed unconcerned. He probably knows these rivers as well as I know the London underground.

  The mist flowed over the bow, crept spookily along the deck and swirled around Greyson’s legs. The cacophony of animal and insect sounds that had ceased, were replaced by an eerie silence only broken by the lap of water against the bow. Greyson wasn’t sure if his involuntary shiver was caused by the even cooler temperature that had arrived with the mist or the spooky atmosphere that now cloaked the river.

  As the mist became denser, the trees lining the banks faded to ghostly shapes. Greyson wondered how the captain managed to see where he was going enshrouded as they were in the foggy blanket, but noticed he kept the boat in the center of the river.

  The chugging engine slowed to a soft idle when the boat angled toward the left bank before straightening out and running parallel with it. Prepared to alert the captain of any obstacles Greyson thought might damage the boat, he concentrated his gaze ahead of the bow. At first, the shapes he glimpsed ahead were too faint to work out what they were, but as they drew closer they became recognizable as rocks towering from the river and the reason why the captain had repositioned the boat. When they were almost level with the rocks, the carvings that adorned them gradually came into focus. Faces appeared out eerily out of the mist and brought an astonished look to Greyson’s face and his first hint that maybe Kramer actually had found something special.

  Before they passed them by, Greyson rushed into the tiny cabin behind the wheelhouse, grabbed his camera and rushed back to the bow. He switched the setting on the expensive professional camera to automatic and quickly snapped off shots of the three heads. There was a skull, a jaguar with its jaws open—its mouth big enough for someone to fit inside—and a Maya deity he didn’t recognize. He thought they would make great exhibition posters when blown up large.

  For the first time since arriving on this continent he felt excited at discovering what Kramer had found. Even though the photos Kramer had sent were impressive, the location of his discovery was all wrong. At its height, the Maya Empire continuously inhabited the lands comprising modern-day Yucatan, Quintana Roo, Campeche, Tabasco, and Chiapas in Mexico and southward through Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador and Honduras. According to Kramer, he had found evidence of a Maya civilization a lot farther south, in Brazil, where no major Maya civilization had ever been discovered. Greyson glanced back at the statues as the mist reclaimed them and knew they were evidence of something even greater. Could it really be a lost city?

  Rays of bright light pierced the tree-tunnel ahead where the canopy thinned. The boat chugged back up to speed, and as soon as they were out of the tunnel, Greyson heard rushing, turbulent water. A spectacular sight greeted Greyson when the boat emerged from the mist and rounded a sharp bend in the river. They had entered a wide lagoon surrounded by narrow waterfalls cascading down stepped, rocky cliffs over one hundred feet high. In the distance, he could see high hills covered in what seemed to be impenetrable jungle. Greyson gave them a concerned look as he hoped his destination didn’t lie that far away.

  The boat turned in a wide circle close enough to catch the refreshing spray from one of the waterfalls. Greyson placed his camera aside, stepped into the shower of cool water and scooped cupped handfuls of the refreshing spray into his mouth. When the boat came out of its one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, it pointed at a smaller sheltered lagoon previously concealed behind a thin outcrop of towering rock. A jetty carved from the rock and stone steps that led up the steep hill came into view. It seemed they had arrived. Greyson’s gaze searched the hill for signs of ancient constructions, but if any were there, rock and foliage hid them from view.

  The captain killed the engine and let momentum glide the boat alongside the jetty. When they were almost in position, he leaned out of the wheelhouse and called out, “Greyson, grab the bow line and tie off the boat.”

  Greyson glanced at the captain, nodded, and collected the neatly coiled rope at the bow. When the boat was close enough, he jumped onto the jetty. He pulled the front of the boat in and tied the rope around one of the stone posts set at intervals.

  “Here’s the stern line,” called out Tembi.

  The coil of rope struck Greyson in the chest. He glared at the grinning captain, and as he secured the stern line, his bag thumped on the jetty beside him.

  “There could have been something breakable in there,” he complained to the unconcerned captain.

  “Was there?”

  “Well, no, but that’s not the point.”

  Tembi smiled and threw his own backpack onto the jetty. “No harm done then.” He leaned over the rail and offered Greyson his homemade insect repellant.

  Greyson glanced at the smirking captain, sighed and took the small jar. “Thank you.” Grimacing from the foul stench, Greyson rubbed the sickly green lotion on any exposed flesh and handed it back.

  “I know it stinks, but trust me, mosquitoes won’t be troubling you now. I’ll grab us some water, and then I’ll take you to your friend.”

  Greyson held back the comment that Kramer was no friend of his. Having only met the archeologist once, briefly, he barely knew the man. However, if the man had found something spectacular, that might change.

  Tembi leapt off the boat and handed Greyson his camera and a water flask. “It’s going to be a hard climb and you’ll need to drink often.”

  Not encouraged by the news, Greyson hung the camera around his neck and slipped the water into a side pocket of his rucksack. “Do we have far to go?”

  “Not as the crow flies, but we’re not crows,” Tembi grinned. “Come on, I want to get there before nightfall.”

  The captain headed for the steps.

  Thanks to the captain’s vague answer, he was none the wiser about the distance they still had to travel, but Greyson didn’t think it worth asking again. However far it was to Kramer’s camp, he had to walk it to find out what the eccentric arche
ologist had discovered. He slipped on his rucksack and glanced forlornly up the ancient steps that weren’t far from vertical in places. Hoping he wouldn’t trip and fall, he followed the captain up the steep stairway.

  The steps followed the curved contours of the rock as they climbed up the hill and varied in width from four feet to barely half that. Greyson hugged the rock and avoided looking over the edge at the precarious drop that grew with every step. Moss and jungle growth covered much of the steps, which Greyson imagined must have been a nightmare to construct. Not for the first time he marveled at the perseverance and hardships ancient civilizations overcame to create their cities in such inhospitable and far-flung corners of the Earth and all without the aid of the wheel.

  Breathless from the exertion he wasn’t used to, Greyson paused to rest under the shade of a tree, whose roots snaked over the steps, and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. He then realized he hadn’t been plagued with mosquitoes since applying the captain’s pungent repellant and regretted he hadn’t used it when the man had first offered.

  As if sensing Greyson had stopped, Tembi halted and turned. “Best have a drink.”

  In an attempt to replace the moisture that continually seeped from their bodies and prevent dehydration, the two men swigged water from their flasks.

  Greyson glanced back down the steps that looked more like a cliff than a staircase, and then up past the captain, but he saw no sign of them ending. Hoping for a more informative reply, he asked, “Is it much farther?”

  “Not far. About an hour’s walk.” The captain restarted his climb.

  Greyson sighed and lifted his tired legs onto the next step, and the next and the next. Forty-three minutes and too many steps to count later, they reached the top and stepped onto level ground. Panting heavily from the climb and the heat, Greyson placed his hands on his knees to recover. He would have liked to collapse onto the lush green grass to rest, but he feared he might not be able to get back up again his body was so tired. Muscles that had lain dormant for years, thanks to his cushy desk job, protested their forced resurgence. Even his aches had aches.