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  At the first sign of trouble that afternoon, he and the other five members of his crew had scattered off into the jungle, according to plan, soon to regroup at their shuttle landing site.

  Something moved on the trail ahead of him. Something gray, slinking low and fast between the trees. Four legs. Atapul X slowed to a walk. He could hear them moving in the bush, creeping forward, then the snarling and howling began. Then he could see them.

  He stopped.

  All around him, the feral dogs closed in, their coats wet, their ears pinned back. He saw their eyes, their bared teeth, their dripping maws. He saw their hot breath gusting out like steam. There were dozens of them, none smaller than eighty pounds, some half again that large. Creatures who loved to kill, who killed each other out of boredom. Culling the weak was their recreation.

  Atapul X was not weak.

  He reached up and unfastened the clamps that held down his mask. When he removed it, the animals froze, either from the sight or the smell of him. Then he opened the hideous orifice that passed for a mouth and screamed with all his might.

  The hell dogs whimpered in pain and dropped to their stomachs. As he strode past them, some rolled onto their backs and presented their bellies to him, the Alpha of Alphas; others slinked away into the jungle, tails between their legs.

  There was no telling how much longer rescue would take, Atapul X thought as he refastened his mask. He resumed his jog to the rendezvous at the downed shuttle. With the plague weapon destroyed, Tierra de la Muerte was out of reach. Temporarily. He always enjoyed a challenge. It helped pass the time—and time was what he and the others had a surplus of.

  Epilogue

  The off-key music coming from the Bertram’s flybridge made Ryan wince and look up. Tom was teaching Chucho how to play the harmonica as he closed in on the anchored forty-five-foot Hatteras.

  It was a shame and a pity to destroy such a fine and rare ship, but the alternative—running it back to Panama City—was pointless. Ryan knew they’d just have to sink it there. They had already destroyed the boats at the island’s other landing site. The idea was to cut it off from the mainland, permanently if possible.

  Ryan figured that when word got back to Veracruz and the other Mexican city-states that there was no more threat of plague, and the Lords of Death were out of business, the red sashes and priests were going to be in big trouble.

  Their empire would crumble in a matter of days. And it would be real heads on sticks leading the parades.

  When Tom had the Bertram in position in the cove, Ryan and J.B. hefted RPDs and aimed close-range machine guns at the full length of the Hatteras’s waterline. Two hundred rounds turned the fiberglass hull to splinters and made it leak like a sieve. The ship almost immediately began to list hard to port.

  They watched until it settled to the bottom; the water wasn’t deep enough to entirely submerge it. The flybridge and radar mast were still visible above the surface.

  Tom carefully backed the Bertram out of the cove, and Chucho tried another solo on the harmonica, tapping his foot. This time it didn’t sound half-bad. Not so many off-key notes, and he had the rhythm down. He was catching on quick.

  Doc was so moved by the serenade that he broke into an ungainly, impromptu jig on the stern deck. The scarecrow dance made Mildred, J.B. and Jak laugh out loud. They started to clap along, urging him on.

  As Ryan turned to watch the time-traveler’s perilous footwork, out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move on the beach near the cave mouth. Something white on two legs. With a big old head. But when he looked back the beach was empty.

  “What is it, lover?” Krysty asked, noting the concern on his face.

  “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he assured her as he slipped an arm around her narrow waist. “This rad-blasted place has got me seeing things.”

  First edition March 2009

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-3014-3

  DARK RESURRECTION

  Copyright © 2009 by Worldwide Library.

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