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“All right,” I say. “When you have the camp arranged for the night, please come help me.”
Somchai bows and scurries away.
I turn back to the building and flex my hands, ready for some more hard work. Clearing centuries of undergrowth is going to be a bitch. The skin on my palms feels tender just thinking about it.
“Somchai?” I call.
“Yes, Dr. Spencer?”
“Do we have working gloves in the equipment?”
I need real work gloves; I can’t do this wearing Tucker’s stupid scuba-diving ones.
“Let me check,” Somchai says.
He rummages inside the mule’s sacks and then comes back, handing me two pairs of what are basically gardening gloves. Perfect.
I don one pair, and flap the other in my hands, eyeing Winter.
She’s been fluttering around this entire time taking pictures.
Now she must sense my gaze on her, because she promptly turns, asking, “What?”
I flap the gloves one more time and offer them to her. “Care to help?”
Her eyes widen, while her mouth pouts into a cute little “O” shape.
Did I say cute? I meant annoying.
“You expect us to clear the whole building by hand?”
Yeah, definitely meant annoying.
“No, a dedicated team will have to do the work later,” I explain patiently. We’re in a truce, and I’m not about to jeopardize that. “But I want to remove as many vines as possible at the base and see if we can find an entrance.”
Now she claps excitedly and takes the gloves from me. “This is so like anIndiana Jonesmovie.”
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress a little smirk at her enthusiasm.
She carefully sets her camera on a nearby rock and, side by side, we attack the vegetation. It’s hard work, and we’re already exhausted from the day’s trek. So, when our efforts finally reveal an opening, we don’t have the strength to explore further. Eager as I am, it wouldn’t be safe. We pause for the night, eat a cold dinner, and I don’t even have to bully anyone to go to bed early.
* * *
The next morning, the camp stirs awake at the crack of dawn. Everyone is eager to clear the building entrance and discover what lies underneath. After a quick breakfast of black coffee and protein bars, Somchai and Carter leave with the mule to go back to the base and bring the others and more supplies, leaving me, Winter, and Smith behind.
While Smith is busy “securing the perimeter”—his readymade excuse to avoid any hard work—I clear the entryway of the remaining vines and weeds while Winter documents my efforts. Without the risk of hitting stone, I hack at the residual vegetation with the machete at double speed.
Once the job’s done, we all stare at the dark opening. It’s framed by a solid stone arch, and not a sliver of light comes from within.
“All right.” I break the silence. “Time to go in.”
I pick up two headlamps from the supplies Somchai left behind and hand one to Winter. She adds it to her basic gear: a survival-essentials backpack equipped with food, water, a first-aid kit, and whatever else Tucker put inside; and the camera never missing from around her neck. I don my own survival backpack, secure the headlamp across my forehead, and turn back toward the soldier. “Hey, Smith, you coming?”
“I’d better.” Hands never leaving the precious rifle strung across his chest, he spits on the ground. “In case you find something funny in there.”
“Great,” I say, even if, to be honest, Smith is so creepy I’d feel safer without him. I pick up the last backpack and hand it to him. “Take one of these. Sorry, but we don’t have any more flashlights.”
Smith shrugs, his beady black eyes darker than the emptiness beyond the passage. “Sure.”
