A few months ago, Francisco Alvarez, my longtime friend, and colleague requested my assistance on a new archeological survey near Lake Atitlán in Guatemala. Lake Atitlán is an endorheic caldron lake, meaning there is no outflow from the volcano crater. The rich volcanic soil and wet climate made this area beautiful, lush and ideal for farming. It also made it hell on archeologist who toiled in the mud during the rainy season. The terrain was steep, wet, muddy and thick with vines. My machete was a must, and it seemed we had to beat back the forest on a daily basis.

The oppressive heat didn’t bother me as much as being away from my daughter.  Having a child was the best thing that ever happened to my wife and I. Losing my wife to breast cancer two years ago was the worst thing ever to happen to me. Being one of the foremost experts on Mesoamerican languages and a tenured professor at Colorado University meant that periodically my assistance was requested on digs from time to time. Although I tried to avoid extended trips, my sister-in-law, was a champ and would step up to watch her when I had to leave.

Unlike, Indiana Jones films, being an archeologist and linguist was rarely exciting, and the locations were far from glamorous. Snakes, bugs, and other critters were a way of life and couldn’t be avoided when working in Central or South America. Golden idols with booby traps? Not so much. Most of the artifacts found were from broken pieces of pottery or burial jewelry.

I loved my job, and when Ruth and I decided to start a family, I never expected to become a single parent in a profession which required extensive travel. I’ve done my best to limit my trips since my wife’s death by taking on more classwork. However, even being tenured didn’t eliminate the expectation to publish.

Now that my daughter was in high school, I felt this short expedition wouldn’t be too great of a burden on both my daughter and sister-in-law. However, not finding anything significant has gotten me thinking more about home than I’d like. I worried about Crystal frequently, and although I called her every night, I still felt like I was failing her as a father. Ruth was so much better at parenting than I was.

“Señor Haws,” yelled one of the assistants running up the dirt path to my location. “Señor, Francisco found something. He requests your translation expertise.”

I climbed out of my muddy pit and wiped my hands on my shorts. “Francisco speaks Mayan as well as I do.”

“Señor, it’s true, but this isn’t Mayan. It’s—something else. Please señor. I think you’ll be happy.”

I cracked my neck and began climbing down the volcano to where Francisco and his team were currently excavating. The dig site was spread out over a kilometer, not your typical project, but while I worked a burial site, Francisco dug around what we thought was a monolith of some sort. To the casual observer, the monolith looked like a moss and mushroom covered rock. It wasn’t until some local farmer saw a small rune of Kukulcan inscribed on the backside that we even found these ruins. It would have been nice to locate a long lost village, but thus far, only a half-dozen artifacts were discovered. A total waste of my time.

Coming upon Francisco’s team, I called out to my friend. “I sure hope you found the holy grail because I’m not looking forward to climbing back up the mountain today.”

Francisco laughed while climbing out of the monolith pit. He held a crumpled, dirty rag and offered it out to me after giving me a bear hug. I cocked my eyebrow at the embrace and looked down at the cloth in my hand.

“You gave me your handkerchief? How kind?”

Francisco was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Open it up, you donkey!”

Chuckling, I unwrapped the cloth and looked down at a golden orb with strange symbols etched over the entire surface. The sphere was roughly the size of a baseball and gold in color but not gold. It was too lightweight.

“Well, that’s different.”

"Different, Pendejo?”

Francisco snatched the orb from my hand and held it up to the light and rotated it slowly. “Have you seen the symbols before? What language is it?”

I leaned closer to the orb. “Hold it still, idiot. How can I read it while you’re twirling it around?”

The symbols were hieroglyphic but not in any language I’d seen before.

“Well, it could be a form of Egyptian but—”

“It’s not Egyptian.”

“No, but it’s not Mayan or Mesoamerican either. Have you taken pictures of it?”

“Of course. I’ve documented everything before removing it from the ground. I’ll take more pictures when we get back to camp.”

“Well, I can start copying down the hieroglyphs tonight and send some pictures off to a few friends in Cairo.”

“You’re loco, my friend. What makes you think they’d have a clue?”

I laughed and put my arm around his shoulders. “Francisco, I teach this stuff, and I haven’t seen it before. It may be nothing and symbolic like tribal tattoos. The more people who see it, the faster we can translate it. I’ll send it off tonight and see if anyone has an idea where to start.”

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“No John, tonight we celebrate! It’s the first real discovery this crap dig as given us. My treat. I’m pretty sure I just got some Cusqueña brought in. It’s time you drink some real beer.”

###

I was finishing off my third bottle of Cusqueña when I heard the first volley of gunfire. The alcohol didn’t slow my reaction time as I yanked Francisco down moments before his tent was riddled with bullets. Grave robbers have increasingly become a problem in Central America, but this was the first time I’d heard of them shooting first and robbing later.

Shouting and yelling sounded throughout our small camp and I knew it was best to keep down and shut up. They’ll take what they want and be on their way. Most thieves were stupid and didn’t know an artifact versus a dumb rock. I should have felt more anxiety and perhaps the alcohol gave me more courage than it should have but we both laid on the floor with our hands over our heads waiting for them to come.

Sure enough, the tent flaps were thrown open, and three thugs with AR-15 rifles yelled at us to come out with our hands up. I knew the drill. I swear this was the fifth or sixth time I’d been robbed in the last twenty years of fieldwork. We came out, followed their instructions and made our way to the center of the camp. We were forced to kneel down as a group with our fingers interlocked behind our heads.

A large Hispanic man in his late thirties with a long scar down his face slowly walked over and pressed the warm barrel of his rifle against my forehead.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

Apparently, that was the wrong answer as my head exploded in pain when the butt of his rifle swung around and struck me in the face. I fell over, and rough hands pulled me back to my knees. I gave the thug a look of disgust then spat a glob of blood at his feet.

“I’ll ask one more time, Señor. Where is the egg?”

“I don’t know—”

He pulled the trigger, and a young male assistant beside me was shot in the head. The seriousness of the situation finally made it past my addled mind, and I became sober instantly. I barely knew the kid who’s brains were now spilled on the ground. The sight and smell of the situation, along with the beers recently consumed conspired together until the contents of my stomach added to the scene.

A young female grad assistant jumped to her feet and sprinted away from our group. With a nod from the man, I heard rather than saw the others open fire on the fleeing woman. I was still throwing up and didn’t witness her death, but soon others lost their stomachs as well.

After more yelling, I was hauled back up and stared down the barrel of the rifle. I decided at that moment not to give him anything.

“Last chance, Jefe. Where is the—”

“I have it!” Francisco yelled. “I have it in my tent.”

I shot a glance at Francisco but didn’t say anything. Two minutes later, the murderer was tossing the orb like a baseball between his hands.

“Kill them all!”

“No, WAIT!” Francisco yelled. “You need us! We can help you translate the writing. We can help.” The last sentence came out in half a sob as he gestured between himself and me.

“Keep those two. Kill the rest,” Scarface yelled over his shoulder after he turned away.

I screamed as I fought with the men holding me down and watched them execute seven more young college students. A cloth bag covered my head, and my arms were bound, then my head exploded in pain, and everything went black.

###

I woke and found myself in a muddy pit with a wooden grate over the hole. After a dozen beatings, I finally gave up trying to escape. Nobody interrogated me and the only time I saw people was when they either threw food and water down or urinated on me.

The days passed in a haze. I caught bits and pieces of conversation periodically and guessed either a drug cartel or local militia held me captive.  I realized I’d probably never see my daughter ever again.

I woke up one morning with a persistent cough and high fever. Considering my living arrangements and the frequent public urination, I wasn’t surprised I’d finally fallen ill. My condition deteriorated quickly, and I knew my time was short.

I began hallucinating and had frequent visits from my deceased wife. I don’t remember much after I fell ill, but I remember Ruth telling me to hold on and take care of our daughter. We spoke for hours, and she would wake me up if I fell asleep. Luckily, my captors took pity on me one day.

I opened my eyes when the grate was thrown off from my pit, and the ugly man with the scar threw down a hood. “Put the hood on! We’re leaving.”

I wasn’t complying quickly enough, so he ordered another man to jump in and put the hood on me. After complaining about the smell and receiving a punch to the face, a young Hispanic male jumped down and assisted with the hood. I blacked out when they pulled me from the pit and only recall waking to hear one final warning from my captors.

“Leave Guatemala and never come back. If we meet again, I’ll kill you.”

I felt myself being lifted and then thrown. My nose broke when I hit the road, and I found blessed relief when the darkness claimed me once again.

###

“Too bright…,” my scratchy voice said as I started to wake. I held my eyes closed against a light, hoping it would go away. I breathed a sigh of relief when the brightness suddenly faded. “Thanks.”

“Señor,” a young woman said from nearby. “Señor, do you know where you are?”

Her English was horrible, and her accent was latin. I struggle and then succeeded to open my tired eyes. I felt like I’d been run over by a truck and someone had poured sand in my eyes. I blinked and focused on a young Hispanic woman who looked to be approximately in her late teens, early twenties. The walls were bare and in earnest need of paint. A single lightbulb swung from a ceiling fan in the center of the room, and an IV bag hung from a wall hook.

“Señor, do you know your name?”

“J—John. John Haws. Can I have some water please?”

“That’s good, John. Un momento.”

She grabbed a picture of water that was next to the bed and poured me a cup. After, drinking a little and nearly choking to death, she withdrew the cup and sat on the edge of my bed again.

“Señor Haws, do you know where you are?”

“Guatemala.”

“No Señor. You’re in Honduras.”

“Honduras?”

I tried to figure out how I got to Honduras but came up blank. Lake Atitlán was closer to Mexico than Honduras.

“You are very sick. Are you American?”

I nodded.

“Okay. We’ll contact your embassy. Do you have anyone who’ll want to know you’re alive?”

“Alive?”

“Si, Señor. You’ve been in a coma for over a month.”