Anasazi Vol 1 City of Bones

“There is a battle of two wolves inside us all. One is evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, lies, inferiority, and ego. The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, kindness, empathy, and truth. The wolf that wins is the one you feed.”

Native American Proverb.

Chapter 1 – Demons of the Wind

Gulf of Mexico 1528

By the light of candle, a Spaniard scribbles fast his notes into a journal he hopes no one will ever find or need to read. For if his words be the only remainder of his voice, their enemy indeed will have won and the world will be on fire once again. Outside, sailors yell. Their panicked voices shouting commands, their boots clomping about as canons fire. The ship takes a hit. Windows shatter. The Spaniard writes.

“We are at the edge of the new world. The Loup-Garou are fast upon us, bound for a free land and those they can enslave once again. They have discovered what I have taken and will not stop until they have it back. I have doomed all who sail with me. Touch not their evil tome and the spells within it for such dark magic will make a desert of the world.”

The Spanish sailor sprinkles sawdust onto the ink, then blows it off making sure the ink is dry. He folds it, slips it under the lip of the front leather cover of the book, slams it shut. The book burns his hands. He looks at them. They're red, fingerprints melted. He grabs a satchel and slips the book inside the burlap sack making sure to keep the cloth between his skin and the tome. The ship rocks and he's thrown off balance. Things tumble about the cabin, bouncing over him, hitting him in the face. The sack slides away. He grabs it and stumbles to the door.

On deck the crew hustles as the captain shouts commands. Wind blasts the Spaniard in the face. He looks up, sees the angry clouds. A storm is all around, and still evil pursues them.

“Dump supplies! All overboard! Dump it all.” The crew moves fast, tossing barrels, tools, food into the sea. Some jump overboard, taking their chances in the angry waves. The first mate cuts loose several sandbags. “Everything!” he commands. “Lighten the ship.” He looks down. Water pours out the lower hull portholes. They’re sinking!

Behind them a black ship follows, catching up fast. Blood-red clouds churn above it, move with it like an evil storm. Its sail bears the Celtic cross, with markings in the circle. Like a blade it cuts through the water. Fast upon the sea it moves like the wind itself.

The Conquistador ships makes for the shore. It crashes into a sandbar. Panicked crewmen jump, swim toward shore. Some sink in their chainmail. A few make it. Most don’t. The Spaniard crawls onto the beach gasping for air. He clutches the knapsack tightly, gets to his feet, scrambles past local natives watching all. As sailors scream, the Spaniard with the knapsack disappears over white sand dunes covered and hides in the tall weedy grass. He shivers as he watches the enemy ship closing fast to land.

The Loup Gouru Captain eagerly watches his prey. His cape rolls in the wind. Long white braids of flaxen hair flail about his shoulders. His sailors work hard. Their long bony hands pull ropes, open sails with the Celtic Cross under a French flag. The black ship catches up to the Conquistadors still at sea. It cuts hard to starboard and comes about careening into them, sheering the Spanish ship in two. The Conquistador Captain looks up in time to see the enemy commander. His nemesis is demonic, with bony cheeks, yellow eyes that glow. A narrow jaw stretches wide as he opens his mouth. Canine teeth spike out from his jaws. He is. . .

LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO

It’s dusk. The sun sinks below the horizon. An orange haze creeps across the sky. Angry clouds tumble above. A storm is coming. On the solemn streets, five dark figures walk down an empty dusty alley. They make no sound.

In a jewelry store on a lonely street corner, all is quiet. It’s hot. Flies buzz at the window, bounce off it. The glass is foggy and dirty. A sweaty Mexican clerk in his fifties sits behind the counter waiting for his shift to end. He’s hungry and looking forward to a hardy meal once he gets home to his family for the night. He dabs his brow as he reads the newspaper headline “Danger On The Border”. The clerk fumbles with the radio, spins the knob until he finds a news channel. He strains to hear the anchor’s voice through static.

“. . . jewelry store robberies along the Mexican American border. And the brazen armed robbers have left only bodies in their wake. Mexican authorities have yet to comment on the grisly and bloody rampage. And the American border patrol has no leads on who the perpetrators may be. Authorities speculate the carnage is the result of Mexican cartels at war. . . “

A bell over the front door rings. Someone has entered. More flies gather outside of the window. The bugs have grown into a swarm. Now they’re inside, buzzing all around. They’re everywhere. The clerk swats at the bugs but can’t get rid of them. He sniffs the air, smells something foul and tries to fan away the stink. But the pungent odor hangs over him.

The clerk looks up and freezes. His eyes bulge at what he sees. Horror and disgust overtake him. Five bald leather clad men stand before him on the other side of the counter. Their skin is sickly pale-blue, the complexion of a corpse. Stitches cover festering wounds all over their bodies. But the wounds don’t bleed. Thick black spidery veins wind around every inch of exposed skin. The strangers are dead-like.

The dead-likes stare at the clerk. Flies buzz around them. The clerk, grimaces. The smell is coming from them. They stink of rotting flesh. His eyes dart from one dead-like to another, hoping against hope that they will leave. But they don’t. Sweat slips down the clerk’s face. He trembles and stutters as he speaks to them.

“Si-si-si, Senor. H-H-How can I help you?” One of them steps closer. He reaches under the glass countertop and takes out trays of silver jewelry. He’s a monster of a man. He stacks the trays on top of the counter until the display shelf is empty. Outside, the dusk has turned to darkness. The tiny store is alone on the horizon below a full moon and blood-red sky. Angry clouds churn above. Then, gunshots! The store windows flash as firearms unload in a blaze. Then silence. The windows go dark.

NAVAJO NATION, SAN JUAN COUNTY

Rows of tables stacked with dusty relics sit beneath tented overhangs. A nearby sign UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO warns onlookers and visitors to stay clear of the excavation. Students carefully clean pottery and other ancient items. Some dust away the years with dry brushes. Other’s clean the pieces with water. Clouds of dust fill the air, swirl around them everywhere. It’s a filthy man-made sandstorm. Among the workers walks a tall, thin woman with long dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She’s athletic, strong with smoldering blue eyes and lightly freckled skin. Her name is Kate Darby, the excavation supervisor. It’s her dig.

Kate strolls down the aisles between the many tables carrying new artifacts to be cleaned, searching the tables. Something catches her eye. She puts down the little pottery treasures in her hands and pulls a dirty and worn leather bag from her pocket, unwraps a silver Celtic cross with a hint of French design. It has a circle around the crux amid ancient markings that belie its heritage. Kate compares the odd cross to an item on the table. Unsatisfied, she wraps her cross back up and pockets it.

She heads outside the tent and into the searing sun. Dozens of poor Native American Navajo locals and Mexican migrant workers toil in the hot sun, shoveling dirt from trenches that are roped off by more yellow tape. The make-shift barrier says ARCHEOLOGICAL DIG SITE. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH.  From afar it looks like a crime scene. Kate hops down into one of the trenches, compares the silver cross from her leather bag to another relic in the dirt. She perks up. They’ve found something.

“This is good,” she ponders aloud as she stands over one of the Navajo excavators. “Three hundred years old at least. If we uncover the Anasazi villa, we’ll re-write Native American history.” The field hand glances up at her and nervously eyes the cross. His eyes betray his confidence as he ponders the trinket in her hands. Kate holds it up. The worker shies away from it, refuses to touch it. His gaze drops back down at the ground to the pile of dirt and sun-dried flaky clay where he stands. The dirt covers his feet up to his ankles. “Good work,” Kate tells him. But he won’t look at her. His body is rigid, his silence obstinate.

Kate doesn’t know what to say. She desperately wants him to be comfortable around her. But this silent barrier that separates her from the locals seems so impenetrable. Try as she might, Kate can’t connect with the Navajo community that fuels her project with much needed labor. She had been on many digs across the United States, in Europe and had even lived in China six months through an exchange program, working on the prestigious Terra Cotta Soldiers excavation. But here, among her own countrymen she’s an outcast – a status based on more than cultural differences. She’d dared to ask the wrong questions. And the cold shoulder treatment reached beyond disagreement between scientists and tribal councils fighting to protect Native American History. They just didn’t want her there.

From the moment she had brought her theories of the Anasazi to the doorstep of the Pueblo and Navajo communities, the Tribal Council had done all it could to undermine her. And why not? Kate had formulated a theory, upon which she had based her master’s thesis, that tribes of the past in this area of North America had once practiced cannibalism. To the Native American population, the thought of it was offensive and unthinkable. Kate had desperately tried to explain that her theories in no way tainted the present-day community or reflected upon their practices in this day and age. But who wants to admit cannibalism was once a family tradition? It tainted the peaceful and loving image of the tribe as protectors of nature and sages of wisdom.

Despite the locals’ loud and boisterous objection, Kate had pushed ahead with her project. She’d won permission to excavate on a technicality – that the location to be explored was located just yards outside the Navajo reservation’s border – and henceforth beyond the reach of the Tribal Council’s power to shut her down. To maintain this barrier and protect her work with legal standing, Kate and her team made sure to steer their efforts away from sacred reservation grounds and in the direction of public lands, an act that cleverly usurped any authority the tribal council might wield. But Kate had gone the extra mile, utilizing a surveyor of Native American descent employed by the state, to mark a clear boundary where Navajo land ends, and federal land begins. Her excavation hugged the line. And remaining within eyesight of the reservation came off as taunting.

It was a pity that things had to be this way. Kate had unearthed a substantial find revealing an undiscovered city in an area previously unknown as Anasazi in Native American culture. What had started with discovering a small abode had led to a multi-family community dwelling. The more she dug, the more she unearthed the subterranean community stretching half a mile in all directions. But a large portion of the ancient villa, complete with thick clay and stone walls, an arena and even a tribal chieftain lodging, ran partially beneath Navajo land. And that’s the way, Kate had decided, things would stay.

What had started as the discovery of a small and humble abode had become multi-family, community dwellings with undertones of military design stretching up to half a mile in all directions. And if her theory holds, the discovery would be the largest in recorded history. But the most important part of the structure, Kate had discovered, runs partially beneath Navajo land rendering that part of it off limits to excavation.

The rest of what lay beneath tribal land would require subterranean tunneling too expensive to even consider. And the legal technicalities could be argued for years in court. To attract investors to cover the cost of underground excavation, Kate must find something amazing. But playing fast and loose with the rules was an unspoken truth ruling Kate Darby’s life. To her, in this endeavor as it had been in many others, the ends always justifies the means. From behind Kate and the worker, a distinct and proper Australian accent cuts through the tension.  

“Anasazi is the Navajo word for enemy,” she hears a male voice declare. Kate looks up and sees Dr. Sabastian McEwen, her dean, family friend and academic mentor. A tag on his shirt identifies him as the excavation’s historical supervisor. Sabastian’s ruddy complexion hints of sunburn and rosacea. Golden ginger locks atop his head fade into long grey out of date sideburns. He looks much older than fifty-one. His Elvis hairstyle doesn’t help. Years of working in the hot sun have worn his youth away. His face is leathery, dry. He blots sweat off his upper lip with the end of a wet kerchief tied around his neck.

He smiles at his prodigy student as he joins Kate with her field hands in the pit. Kate smiles back at him. She’d always had a secret crush on Sabastian since the time she was a girl. It’s a secret she guarded well and never shared with anyone. Now in her mid-twenties and chasing a master’s degree under Sabastian’s loving wing, she can share her life with him as more than a student but less than a lover with a unique bond few people ever enjoy.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Sabastian had been a close friend of Kate’s father. They served in the military together, although Sabastian never let on to exactly what their duties were. And Sabastian long ago promised to protect Kate as if she were his own. Ever since her father lost his battle with cancer, Sabastian had been there every step of the way. It was he who bandaged her scraped knees throughout childhood and inspired her to be a historical treasure hunter. He had wiped the tears from her eyes at daddy’s funeral when she lost her father at the tender age of nine. And Sabastian had stepped in, keeping his promise to love and protect her as if she were his own. Now here they were working in tandem perusing historical accounts of the past, discovering history, bringing forgotten culture back to an eagerly curious world.

Sabastian had never married, and instead had remained true to his one love in life – digging up buried treasures of the ancient world. He’d traveled the globe, become the head of a prestigious archeological program at the University of New Mexico that he had built from the ground up. And with all that burden on his shoulders, he’d cared for Kate as her mother struggled to keep a roof over their heads after her father’s passing.

The stresses of single motherhood had driven a rift between Kate and her mother. Mom had never recovered from losing daddy. She found comfort in alcohol, medicating herself into daily stupors to quell the pain of being alone. She had loved the bottle more than her own baby girl. And Kate had come to resent her for it. Sabastian had tried many times without success to explain to Kate just why her mother drank like she did. Somehow, Kate just couldn’t let go of her ire. She’d watched her mother drown herself in sorrow instead of living life to the fullest. Daddy would never have wasted his life like mom did.

Perhaps someday Kate could forgive her mother, Sabastian hoped, for he too knew the loss of a parent. He understood the impact of crossing onto the harsh reality of no return with things left unsaid, arguments left unresolved. Such is a journey is fraught with regret and cruel finality – one he desperately wants to spare Kate from experiencing. For now, she leans on Sabastian for guidance in her career, which gives him influence, and in turn, allows him to protect her by steering her in the right direction. But his power over Kate is fading fast as she establishes herself in the academic world they both share. Eventually, she will trust him enough to heed his gentle warnings about mum. And secretly, Sabastian hoped that Kate’s mother would not succumb to the cirrhosis building up from years of alcoholic abuse.

Lovingly Kate looks up at Sabastian, wishing he were younger. He wears a university jacket and badge like Kate’s. It flutters in the gentle hot desert breeze. His sand-colored Bermuda shorts leave his knees unprotected. This leg is full of scars – battle wounds he calls them – from his globe-trotting wildlife of antiquity. They look lanky and calcified like the legs of a giraffe.

“Better find something soon,” he quips in half-truth. “The faculty’ll have my head if you don’t. Pulled rank to be here, you know.” Kate chuckles, and ignores his assertion and Sabastian continues, “Who the hell wants to sit at a desk all day spanking students who don’t have any manners?”

“You’re jealous!” Kate replies, knowing it’s more than just a joke. Sabastian shrugs.

“What? Deans can’t do field work? You want to keep all the fun to yourself. Well, I’m not some old fart ya’ know.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

“Even so. I was young once, and not too long ago. What’ve we got today, hmm?” As he speaks, Sabastian pulls a flask from his vest, drinks, then offers it to Kate.

“And still pretending,” she adds. Sabastian frowns, then turns serious at what he sees beyond her in the desert.

“Company’s back,” he says. Kate looks up and sees several elderly Native Americans beyond the yellow tape. One in particular, stands out. He’s hunched, bow-legged. His lower body looks like a skinny horseshoe in blue denim jeans and cowboy boots. His hair is long with salt and pepper streaks. Little wisps of silver locks dance about his eyes in the gentle breeze as he watches Kate and Sabastian. His eyes are intense, black, piercing.

The locals working on the dig take notice of the visitors. They stare back, look away, or pretend not to notice. One by one each worker leaves. Some head to other trenches to get some distance from Kate and Sabastian. Others vacate altogether, gathering down the road at the bus stop. But the shaman pays them no attention. He’s there for Kate and Sabastian who have disturbed this sacred burial ground. And he is unable to stop it. Somehow, he must, for the ground here is foul and poison. It reeks of evil.

Here the mighty and terrifying Anasazi once ruled – and according to Navajo beliefs they still do in many ways. To the Navajo and all other tribes throughout the southwest, the Anasazi are well-known. Fear of this enemy cemented allegiance amongst otherwise warring Native American nations. It’s why the shaman must keep the spotted white woman from unearthing the past, and why she is here in search of it. Both seek out the Anasazi – one to release their secrets and the other to destroy them.

For years, the shaman watched as long-standing tribal tradition gave way to interest in technology and “connecting” with the outside world. Such was the beginning of the end for the Navajo people he believed. No one to remember tradition. No one to remember history. No one to tell the history.  No one to fight the Anasazi when they return.

Tales of the Anasazi once instilled terror of their heinous crimes in all those who listened. Now they are just a ghost story laughed at by children out trick or treating on Halloween. Unlike today’s youths, with their cars, college and travel, his generation had worked knuckle to the bone. He understood famine, disease, catastrophe, pain and death. This experience in turn made appreciation of life a true faith. But todays’ youth had it too easy. For without suffering how could one genuinely appreciate life?

The Navajo culture had slowly eroded through technology and the promise of magical things. But the Anasazi, the Shaman knew, were still here. Walking amongst the people, ever present and hiding in plain sight. Only an experienced seer could identify the threat. Only the shaman knew what to look for. For the Anasazi were not Native American. The Anasazi weren’t even human. The Anasazi culture spawned more than devastation and warfare. Their culture spawned evil itself.

The Shaman had tried to pass down knowledge and tradition through oral history as all his forefathers had done. But unlike in the past, today’s youth had no discipline, no courage, no true measure of life. How could one appreciate the gift of life unless one were truly faced with losing it? How could they learn to sense danger without having faced an enemy? The Anasazi, he knew, will rise up against the Navajo. That time was fast approaching.

The white woman from the university had been tenacious, unyielding, fearless. This was her greatest asset and her greatest weakness. Only a fool has no fear. She did not understand what he had tried to tell her. Now, she had placed the entire tribe in danger, along with herself and her own people. She is blind to the danger before her, as she has not faced true danger, and so does not recognize when the threat appears. This is how the Anasazi descended into the world of the Navajo so many moons ago.

The Navajo had once been a peaceful tribe, hunting only what was needed to eat, taking of the land only what they needed to sow, welcoming trade from many strangers. This was their downfall. They unwittingly invited the curse of the Anasazi into their land and regretted it ever sense. This land is now foul, poisoned, cursed.

Once free, the Anasazi can be controlled no more. The shaman and his tribal elders watch from afar on their side of the boundary as the interlopers near discovering long hidden secrets of this fallow land. They had no idea of the evil lurking below.

To unearth the past meant releasing the Anasazi back into the world to feed without control. White people always do this. They make contact with new people, explore new lands, bring disease, wrath, catastrophe. It is the curse of their race. For all they had accomplished in history, they had equally destroyed.

“The white woman is closer than she knows,” one of the elders admits. The others nod, pray, worry. “She has no idea what lies beneath.” From across the boundary line, Kate and the elders watch each other. This old man left a bad taste in Kate’s mouth. Whenever he appeared, trouble followed. It left Kate at their mercy. She hated losing control.

“He’s brought friends,” Kate warns Sabastian. Sabastian nods.

“They’ve been watching us for days.” He shrugs. “Locals. Par for the course.” Kate looks agitated by his comment. The field hand nearest to them sees the shaman and company. He leaves quickly heads across the lot to another trench at the far end where he’s out of sight. The elders approach, chasing off the last of the workmen all except one.

“Why haven't I seen them before?” Kate asked.

“Kate. You’ll always be fighting folklore with history. It’s the quintessential civil war forever raging.” He bends down to her and whispers into her ear to keep his words from the workers. “Be diplomatic. We’re not on university-owned land. We’re guests here. And your mind belongs on the dig, not public relations. That’s what our grant pays for.”

The old shaman draws in the sand with a coup stick. His colleagues fan out and encircle the camp. Kate tries to ignore them. But the men secretly instill terror within her. She never admitted it, even to herself, that a part of her deep down believes these village elders can call upon the ancient spirits of those long ago buried here. Kate returns her attention to work. She approaches one of the few laborers who’s still hanging around, and points to the onlookers drawing in the dirt around the site.

“Who is that man?” She asks. But the worker walks away fast. Kate approaches other workers as Sabastian watches. One after another they snub her until all but one are a safe distance away. Most of them now hover around the tables pretending to be busy, hide in the shadows watching or have vacated to other trenches to continue working. Above, the sky hints of rain. Dark clouds boil. Thunder rolls. The laborers pack up, happy to leave. Kate grabs one on his way out, gets in his face.

“Who are those men?” She demands, this time louder and ignoring Sabastian’s good advice. The worker darts away.

“Over here!” someone yells. Kate follows the voice calling her toward a trench where she finds a lone man still working. He’s the only one who’s dared to defy social expectations. He’s rugged and muscular with olive skin. He wears a large brim cowboy hat and brown leather shit-kickers that are well worn. He works without worry and has a quiet confidence about him - the kind earned by a battle-weary warrior who’s got nothing more to prove.

“Hey. Excuse me,” Kate says as she approaches him. The man stops, looks up at her. His piercing deep blue eyes take her by surprise. She’s not used to seeing that eye color with Native Americans. Bright blue eyes were a rarity here.

“Yes?” The field hand speaks with an unusual accent. It’s a cross between Cajun and Spanish. Kate composes herself.

“What’d you find?” she asks. He points out a stair step in the dirt beneath a tumbleweed. Kate scoops away some dirt with her foot and uncovers another stair.

“Found it earlier,” he answers. “I was afraid the others would make trouble. So, I kept quiet.” Kate studies him. He reaches out to her, offers his hand. “I’m Carlton.” Kate notices his beautiful bronze physique. He’s a powerful man in his thirties. “Here. Look at this.” Carlton picks up the tumbleweed, shows her that there’s a clean break at the base of its stem. It’s been cut. She eyes it. “This bush didn’t grow here,” he explains. Now she sees that his eyes have a yellow rim around the inside of the iris. They are strangely hypnotizing. She loses what he’s saying as little tingles shoot down her spine. She feels her crotch get warm, then shakes it off, tries to tune out the smooth rhythm of his voice and focus on his words instead. “It was put here to hide the steps,” Carlton continues. “Someone on this team’s not your friend.” His last words shake her from physical desires. Cold reality sets in.

She glances at Sabastian, then sweeps her eyes across the site, and suddenly realizes they’re alone. All the other workers are gone. From afar they hear the old Indian shaman chanting “Who-ye-hey-ya. Ojib-whey-hey-ya . . .” His hair dances in the wind as he paces around deep in a trance, his steps silent, his eyes distant. He seems to float across the desert sand. Kate’s eyes dart from Sabastian’s to Carlton’s. Carlton understands her desire to know what’s happening. He doesn’t wait for her to ask.

“It’s a warning to spirits,” Carlton explains, hoping she’d take comfort in his loyalty.

“You don't seem fazed,” she replies.

“They’re local shaman. Everyone’s afraid. This place is cursed. It’s the home of the hated; the land of the forbidden. They shouldn’t be working here, and they know it. The tribal Chief won’t like it. It’s said that he who disturbs the evil spirits buried here invites the spirits home with them,” he explains. Kate nods.

“Thanks, Carlton.” The chanting stops. All becomes still. They look over. The shaman and his minions are gone. They’ve disappeared into the wind. Kate scans the horizon in all directions. The desert is flat and empty for miles. Nothing but dust, tumbleweeds, and cactus. No shaman.

Kate stands up and puts her foot onto the step. The ground collapses. She falls through. When she opens her eyes all she sees for a few moments is a haze of swirling dusty air. She strains to see through it, espies Carlton and Sabastian standing over her, their faces in shadow as they peer down at her through a hole and into the darkness. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s fallen into an underground cave. Carefully, Kate gets up off her back, sits up, dusts herself off.

“Kate!” Sabastian yells down at her.

“I’m Fine,” she answers. “I’m – “ but then she loses her words as her eyes make out what’s before her. “Oh, God!”

“What? Kate what is it?” Sabastian yells back, “I’m coming down!”

“No!” Kate stares as shock sets in. Just feet from where she landed is a pile of mummified bodies, deformed, mutilated, and perfectly preserved in the dry arid desert climate. They are long and thin, with skin stretched tight upon the bones. And their heads are oddly shaped. Large and pointed much like the traditional head shaping of the Aztec and Mayans. Native Americans indeed, but certainly not from any modern Navajo tribe. They are dressed in torn strips of canvas linen and adorned with silver jewelry that bears Celtic cross symbols – a striking resemblance to what was unearthed earlier in the trenches. Kate pulls the cross from her pocket and compares. The symbols and jewelry are identical in their design.

“Don’t come down, Sabastian!”

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. It’s a mass grave. We shouldn’t disturb anything until we have lights and the right equipment.” As Kate shifts her weight, she feels something crunch beneath her. It’s an arm. She rolls off the bones and sees the skeleton of a child wrapped in a colorful striped blanket of Navajo design. There’s a bracelet on the skeleton’s wrist.

Kate squints to see the trinket in the light beaming down from the opening above. She touches it. Her finger wipes away heavy dust and reveals an Irish Celtic Cross in a silver disk with Navajo animal symbols around it. The bones fall apart in Kate’s hand. The bracelet slips off onto the ground. Kate picks it up and pockets it.

Above ground, outside the cave-pit rain begins to fall. Carlton holds out his hand, catches some of the drops. He eyes the skies and the surrounding land, sees low-rolling clouds headed their way. Worry sets in as the light sprinkle becomes heavier. He yells down.

“Kate, we must hurry!” This region has flash floods. It’s much more dangerous than it looks.” Then Carlton hears chanting. The shaman and his minions are back. It’s as if they never left. The shaman works fast, chants louder, acts possessed as he works his way around the site drawing a giant double-rimmed circle encompassing the cave, with strange hieroglyphs.

From above the heavens watch down as he slowly makes his way around Carlton and Sabastian along with it. Sabastian gets concerned as he sees the last few work trucks heading across the horizon in a dry dusty plume. He scans the landscape. One side of the desert horizon is bright and dry. The other side is dark and forbidding with angry rain clouds tumbling and churning toward them, closing in fast. Sabastian stretches his neck to get a better look at what the shaman is doing. He leans in close to Carlton, whispers.

“What is this?” he asks, motioning to the witch doctor. “It’s foreign to Native American culture. It doesn’t make sense.” Carlton only shrugs.

“It will,” Carlton answers. Sabastian waits, but the worker turns his attention to Kate and the weather. “We’re in trouble,” he warns. “We need to get her out of there.” Before Sabastian can respond, Carlton darts to the tables beneath the tent and returns with a radio handset. He calls for first responders.