The Vilcabamba Prophecy: A Nick Randall Novel Read online

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 Pai
titi,” 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?

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the complete darkness of her bedroom, archeologist Dr. Samantha Randall slept soundly in her bed. The stillness was shattered by the ringing of the telephone.

  “What time is it?” Samantha said groggily.

  Searching for her glasses with one hand, as she fumbled for the phone with the other, Samantha glanced at the clock, which read 3:12 a.m.

  “Who is this?” She asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Samantha, is that you?”

  Sam struggled to clear the cobwebs from her mind. The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “Sam, are you there? It’s Francisco.”

  “I’m here. Do you realize what time it is in my neck of the woods?”

  “Sorry to wake you, but I have some urgent news about your father.”

  Sam’s heartbeat quickened. “What’s going on? Is Dad alright?”

  “He’s disappeared. He was leading an expedition in Peru and was supposed to arrive at the site today. We’ve been waiting for him to check in with us, but we haven’t heard from him. In fact, I haven’t spoken with him in over a week. We’ve tried to contact him several times, but we haven’t had any luck. I’m worried, Sam. Your father normally checks in like clockwork.”

  The news hit Samantha like a hard slap to the face. Sam and her father had barely spoken since her mother’s death nearly three years earlier.

  “What can I do?” she said quietly.

  “You understand how your father thinks better than anyone. He left some notes at the base station, but we’re having a hard time interpreting them. We need you to fly down here and join a search team to try to find him. We have his starting point and can put you in contact with someone who can help you retrace his path.”

  Samantha sat in the darkness of her room, contemplating the situation.

  “Sam, please.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I have to pack and find a flight. I should be able to catch a plane by the end of the day.”

  “I booked you on a flight leaving at 6:35 a.m. Time is of the essence; we need to find them quickly. This jungle can be unforgiving.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Randall continued to decipher the writing on the walls. He had decided to start with the far left wall and work his way around. The symbols were arranged in neat rows, forming large pictographs, similar to Egyptian Hieroglyphics. He was amazed by the discovery of this inner chamber, but had no time to enjoy it.

  Minutes earlier, all activity and sounds had ceased from the outer chamber. Something had happened that caused their pursuers to stop searching the room for them. As a result, the inner chamber was cast into an eerie quietness.

  The silence was broken by a high-pitched, static-filled whistling noise coming from Mike’s belt. His radio was still on.

  “The sound came from this direction,” a voice called out from the outer chamber. The words were followed by pounding on the wall separating the two rooms. Their pursuers had located them.

  “Mike, your radio!” Phil yelled.

  Mike switched it off, but it was too late.

  “I can hear them. Get the C-4.”

  Panic replaced concern as Randall raced to decipher the writing, hearing the unmistakable sound of several men exiting the outer chamber.

  “Dr. Randall, hurry!” Mike said.

  Randall struggled to interpret the strange writing. He needed more time.

  “This symbol, I can’t figure it out!” He blurted.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of men entering the outer chamber and placing something against the wall.

  “Everyone clear out.” The words were followed by the sound of shuffling boots exiting the other room.

  “We have to do something!” Phil said.

  “Wait,” Randall said. “If I’m right about this, I think we might have a way out of here!”

  Randall gently pressed against the symbols on the wall. A faint humming sound emanated from somewhere nearby.

  “Did you hear …?” Phil began to say, but before the words were even out of his mouth, the students and the professor felt the sensation of weightlessness. In a moment’s time, their lights went out, and they were engulfed by total darkness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Samantha sat in the business class section of a Boeing 777 bound for Lima. Her seven-hour flight would provide her with plenty of time to think about the many events that had led to this moment and what was to come.

  She could still vividly remember the last conversation she had had with her father so long ago. She had blamed him for sending her mother to retrieve an artifact from a colleague, an errand from which she would never return. After learning of her mother’s death, she had told her father that she never wanted to speak to him again. He had tried on several occasions to reach her by phone and email and had even asked friends to try to reason with her on his behalf. She hadn’t bought any of it. Now, those words spoken to her father nearly three years ago may have been the last she would say to him. Regret washed over her.

  They had been a close family—Sam, her
younger brother, John, and her parents—but everything changed on that fateful day. Her father was away on yet another of his expeditions, trying to prove his crazy and controversial theory that someone, or something, had helped push along the development of human technology. While he was gone, a colleague had called with important information about his research. He claimed he had something that Sam’s dad urgently needed and convinced her mom, Anne, to pick it up for him. Sam remembered speaking to her on the phone right before she left to get the package. Anne was irritated that her husband had gone on the expedition right before their family trip to Italy, but she graciously agreed to pick up his package.

  It was a wet, spring evening as she drove home on Route 51. The rain had fallen for days, the roads were slick, and visibility was terrible as wind gusts carried the rain almost sideways. According to witnesses, a semi had been attempting to merge onto the ramp, and the driver hadn’t seen her mom’s car. The large truck had driven her mother’s small sedan off the side of the road, and the car had flipped several times before bursting into flames. By the time the EMTs had arrived, there were little more than charred remains.

  Sam had blamed her father for going on the trip and causing her mom to go out in such terrible weather to get his stupid package. The last time they spoke had been shortly after the funeral. She had been devastated by the death of her mother, and her father seemed like a good target for her frustrations.

  Sam knew deep inside that no one was to blame for her mother’s death. It had been an accident. She also knew that it was the pain of losing her mother that had caused her anger, but she couldn’t help but blame her father. But now she might lose him, too. It was too much to take, so Sam did the only thing she could do at a time like this; she put her analytical mind to work planning a course of action to find him.

  Since Sam’s silence had made it clear that she would not answer her father’s phone calls or emails, he had begun writing letters to her to let her know what he was doing. At first, she refused to open the letters, but with time, she relented and began reading them. In a small way, knowing what her father was doing gave her comfort. She had read all of his letters except for the most recent one, which had sat unopened on her desk. Now, she was on the plane holding that letter and hoping she could find clues about his disappearance.