Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,60

backing away from the laptop. As soon as the sound starts, she puts her hands over her ears.

The video is jerky, shot with a hand-held camera, but I recognize the room. And the chair. And the man in the chair.

He is being dissected while still alive, and judging by the noise he is making, they aren't using anesthetic.

I'm dimly aware of Mere running out of the room, but I can't move to stop her.

I can only watch as Nigel is taken apart.

Piece by piece.

* * *

“They knew we were coming.”

She's huddled in the stairwell, her back pressed against the stone wall. She doesn't want to look at me, her eyes dart up once—fixating on the oblong shape of the laptop in my right hand—and then return to staring at the floor directly in front of her feet.

“Yes,” I agree.

“They burned this place less than a day ago. Maybe even after you sprung me from Eden Park.”

I agree with that statement too. I put the laptop on the ground and Mere flinches from it.

“I've removed the video,” I say. “At least, it doesn't auto-run anymore. I'm not sure I've wiped it off the drive.”

“And you want me to do it?” Mere stares at me.

“No,” I shake my head, “I want you to see if there's anything else on it.”

“I'm not touching that thing.”

I shrug and hold out my hand. “Give me the flashlight.”

“Why?”

“I'm going to go look for something.”

“I'm coming with you.”

I shake my head. My hand stays outstretched.

“You're going to leave me here?” Her voice rises in pitch. “With that? With God knows what other sadistic shit is lying around for us to find.”

“So don't go looking,” I say. “Stay put.” I nudge the laptop with my toe. “Look. Please.”

“Where are you going?” she asks with a sigh, handing over the flashlight.

“Down,” I say. “I want to know why there is a grate. Why isn't it a solid floor? What's on the other side?”

She looks at me again. “You know, don't you?”

“It's the old temple. The spa, remember?”

“They blocked it off,” she says. “There's nothing down there anymore.”

“I want to see it for myself,” I argue.

“Why?” she asks again.

“I saw something,” I tell her as truthfully as I can, “back there. Before the video started. I saw a… pattern.”

“A what?”

“I'll explain later.” I flap my hand at her. “Flashlight, please. Don't sit in the dark waiting for me to return. Do something to keep busy. Look at this computer. You know more about them than I do. Are you going to let a stupid trick like auto-running a video file keep you from digging for data?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” She slowly offers me the flashlight. She doesn't move toward the laptop, though. I click on the flashlight and head downstairs. I give her a minute or so before she opens the laptop.

At the very least, it'll be a source of light.

As I descend to the grate that lies across the floor at the base of the stairs, I try to remember the temple the way it used to be. Above ground, it had been a simple ring of raised stones—modeled on the old celestial calendars of Central America. In the center, there had been a triangular divot in the ground, a sloped incline that had led down into the first of several natural caves. Sunlight filtered down to the first cave, which was as deep as the native peoples were allowed to go. This was the offering chamber. Below had been a honeycomb of smaller niches, where the steward catalogued and kept the samples: tiny shoots growing in clay urns, long troughs filled with quiescent ferns, and a vast assortment of sealed jars that held seeds and nuts of lost and extinct species. It was a seed bank, and it would be incredibly valuable if it still existed.

So why had they blocked it off, but not sealed it?

The grate is securely wedged between the bottom of the stairwell and a lip of stone directly beneath it. There are a few large iron spikes pounded into the wall ensuring that the grate doesn't shift. I kneel on the metal floor and peer through the narrow gaps. The flashlight beam bounces off worn stone steps and vanishes into the darkness below. On the wall, winding down, is a painted line of narrow-petaled flowers and tiny birds. White sea birds and hyacinths.

I lean my forehead against the cool metal of the grate. The darkness of the stairwell seems more