The Scar

                                                “The Scar”



         The thick, humid mass of the jungle lay close-pressed to either side of the snaking trail, the twisted limbs and greenery of nature trying desperately to reclaim the crudely hacked path. Robert stumbled through this abysmal hell, struggling to avoid tripping on the cunning undergrowth, and pushing overhanging foliage out of his face, only to have it smack him as he passed. The insect life also seemed intent on defacing his morale, his body spotted with their previous feastings.

         Robert flinched as the butt-end of a spear was thrust hard into his back, prodding him onward. Robert didn't quite understand why the hunter was so intent on bruising his back; he was sure he hadn't shown any sign of stopping. He had learned that lesson the hard way miles ago. At least these people had enough respect to leave his hands unbound, though he doubted he could do much with two-dozen warriors escorting him.

         The spear was once again shoved into his back as Robert struggled to navigate through the tangled roots of a rather large rubber tree. His captor was a good six feet tall, natively tan, and was dressed in a curious loincloth beaded with what looked like animal bones. The youth also sported a plethora of beaded necklaces, some of which shined with what looked to be gold. The rest of the warriors were dressed in a similar manner, except for their leader, who wore a rather magnificent head-dress decorated with colorful feathers of the native bird-life. Robert would've loved to ponder the tribesmen further, but was becoming increasingly annoyed as his captor continued to prod him over the roots.

         “Could ya' give a man a bloody break?!” The young warrior simply gave Robert a glare, the message in his eyes clear as the night sky. “Okay,” Robert continued, tearing his gaze from the youth. “Just thought I'd ask.”

         “It'd probably help if you just shut your mouth,” Vance said sourly, walking a good six feet ahead. Robert could tell by the big man's tone that he was nearly as weary as himself. Of course, Robert always felt it was his duty to express his overly-opinionated personality.

         “Ah, it's not like the bastard can understand a single damn word I'm saying anyways.”

         “Ya, well your tone says it all.”

         Robert scowled, but kept silent all the same. He had been the host of his own show for National Geographic for just over a year, but Vance had been in the business for almost half a decade. Of course, Vance was just the camera-man and somewhat of a translator; it was Robert's charismatic features and rich British accent that brought Amazing Cultures into the public eye. Vance's advice was usually sound however, so Robert found him a rather valuable companion nonetheless.

         The two of them had come to South America in search of descendants of the Incas. Many rumors had told that the civilization still lived on in the deep jungles of the Amazon. The Incas supposedly had migrated east after their decline centuries before. They had spent months investigating the rumors, and, after nearly given up, had come across an old ruin of Incan design. There they had found many manuscripts written in an ancient language they couldn't decipher. However, among the ruins they managed to find a few tablets written in old Spanish, of all languages. Vance, after extensive studying had been able to translate the text, which had spoken of an apocalypse of the Incan people by something known as the “Shadow-man.” The text had also described the general area of the last remains of the civilization. After considerable debate over whether or not to report the find, the two had decided to find the ruined city themselves. “The find of the century,” Robert had told Vance.

         Now Robert was cursing himself a fool. Not only had they failed to find the so called remains of the Incas, he and Vance had managed to get themselves lost. Well, according to Vance, it had been his fault, but Robert liked to believe otherwise. Not like it mattered much now.

         Ambling onward, Robert closed the gap between him and Vance. The warriors around didn't seem to mind. Then again, he hadn't seen the slightest sign of emotion from them since he and Vance were ambushed. Their war cry had sounded like a hawk burned alive.

         Keeping pace with Vance for a few moments, Robert looked around to see if any of the tribesmen were nearby. None were paying much heed, their grim attention seemingly fixed on something else. Satisfied, Robert leaned in toward his comrade.

         “Any idea where we're headed?”

         “Not really. Their Spanish is a bit diluted, though the bigwig up front keeps referring to something called 'The Scar'.”

         “Eh, he probably just sat on his own spear a few years back.”

         Vance said nothing.

         “So how's the mini-cam doing?” Robert asked, gesturing to Vance's vest. A small lens, not much larger than a button on Vance's jacket, was visible through a mesh pocket.

         “She's doing fine. I'd say we still have a good five hours left.” Vance's voice still seemed perturbed.

         Robert sighed. “Well, you might as well cheer up. They don't seem particularly Inc-ish, but I wouldn't be surprised if we're the first civilized people they've seen since Cortez himself.”

         “Cortez wasn't civilized you rug-munch.”

         “Ya, and neither are you with that negative attitude. If they were going to kill us, they would've done it back by that old pile of bones.”

         Another pause.

         The two continued down the path, Robert intent on keeping some distance between him and Mr. Pokes-with-Sticks. The warrior, however had seemed to have his mind on something else.

         “There was something fishy about that grave.”

         Robert was caught off-guard by the camera-man's sudden comment.

         “Grave? You saw the cage. That man was tortured.”

         “His bones were jet-black!”

         “Okay...he was torched.”

         “With no damage to the cage? I don't think so...”

         Annoyed, Robert promptly ignored him. Placing his hand in his pocket, he felt the smooth object he had managed to snatch shortly before the ambush. The small finger-bone was a curiosity, shining like onyx even in the dimness of the night. It also seemed to radiate its own warmth, which although odd, seemed strangely soothing as he caressed its sleek surface. Of course, Robert wouldn't dream of pulling it out with all the tribesmen about. Even Vance didn't know about it, something he had deemed necessary considering the man's prudent nature.

         Leaving the bone deep in his pocket, Robert continued the treacherous journey in silence. Where exactly were they headed? He could only hope these people were more hospitable than they appeared.

         The jungle suddenly ended, rocky ground seeming to erupt beneath Robert's feet. Looking around with a start, he realized that they were mere feet away from a huge fissure in the ground, maybe fifty feet across and nearly four times as long. No vegetation grew around the fissure, as though it itself was a large gash in the living jungle.

         The tribesmen in front of them turned around to face the two outsiders, and Robert could hear the warriors behind him forming a semi-circle. They stood in silence, as though in reverence of the grand crevice before them. Robert could see no bridges crossing the fissure, the observation giving little comfort.

         The leader stepped out into the crude circle of men, regarding Robert and Vance with a cool stare. Then, as though on cue, he turned his face to the night sky, and began yelling in the crude Spanish dialect Robert had become accustomed to hearing.

         Robert shuffled a little closer to Vance.

         “What's he saying?” he asked under his breath, afraid of disturbing the ceremony.

         “Well, he's yelling something about the scar. I'm guessing that's what they call this thing.” Vance gestured grandly at the fissure. “Now he's saying something about the city of the shadows...”

         Robert gave the huge vent in the earth a chilling look. It almost seemed to take on the appearance of a gaping maw, as though prepared to close shut on some unsuspecting prey. Robert could only shudder at the thought. He was, after all, a bit claustrophobic, a fault he tried dearly to hide.

         “Not the city of shadows!” Vance's voice was still hushed, yet Robert could clearly hear his excitement. “The city of the shadow of man. The shadow man!”

         It took Robert a moment to take in Vance's translation, but it was all he required.

         “But that means...THE INCAS?! WE FOUND THE BLOODY INCAS?!” All thought for reverence immediately left the host. “Sweet Jesus! All we have to do now is backtrack the hell out of here, get some kind of proper ground crew. On the other hand-”

         “Robert...”

         “-we could take a few days with the minicam, get some exclusive footage-”

         “Robert.”

         “-I'd say we ought to get to their village, god knows the culture's chang-”

         “Robert!”

         Vance's peculiar tone managed to slice its way through Robert's thoughts. Looking around, he realized he had been ranting rather loudly. The bigwig had stopped chanting and simply stood, eyes closed, his hands raised slightly as though to embrace the air. Every eye was upon him, and as he stood, the seconds seemingly melted into minutes. Not even the jungle stirred the silence.

         Slowly, very slowly, the Incan began to step backwards, maintaining his calm demeanor. Robert stood entranced by the sight. Rarely had he ever seen such tranquil peace come over a man.

         The warrior stopped a good foot from the edge, standing still for another eternal moment. Robert seemed to realize the man's intent right as the Incan inhaled his final breath.

         “NOOO!”

         The warrior jumped back and over the edge of the fissure. Rushing forward, Robert was just able to catch a glimpse of the figure before it was swallowed by the formation's shadowy depths, a few loose feathers following sorrowfully into the void. Robert could only stare in shock.

         A commotion behind him quickly brought him back to his feet. The remaining warriors had raised their spears, and were slowly advancing toward Robert and Vance. The cameraman had begun to backup next to Robert, his expression deathly. Exchanging glances with the man, Robert realized with a jolt of numbness the cold truth. Not all sacrifices were willing.

         Three warriors suddenly rushed at Vance, seeking to force the big bear of a man off balance. Vance managed to grab on to one of the weapons, attempting to relinquish it from its holder. One of the warrior's comrades jumped around the struggle, and stabbed hard into the cameraman's side. A single, blood curdling cry rang through the air, and Robert watched in horror as Vance and two of the warriors slid over the edge.

         “VANCE!”

         Looking over, Robert could only see the darkness before him, the scar having procured a second helping.

         Hearing movement behind him, Robert pivoted around, charging straight at the other warriors. Anger burned in his blood like hot oil, vengeance like the deepest soul of a forge.

         Knocking one of the bastards over, Robert turned just in time to see the butt end of a spear smash into his skull.

         The waking world slid out of focus. Robert could sense being lifted into the air by many hands, his head throbbing with an intense, dull pain. His mind was trying to tell him something, but he was unable to think over the agony.

         He felt them heave him over the edge, but paid little heed. The wind blew around him, the sweet freedom of the fall dominating his senses.

         And then darkness.




         The sound of dripping water filled Robert's groggy mind. His clothes were damp, and his body felt as though it had been beaten by hammers. Thoughts seemed to trickle through his mind like water through a net, his mind unable to grasp on to clarity. He simply laid there, and listened to the natural metronome of the water.

         Robert opened his eyes and stared skyward.

         There was no sky. The simple fact hit Robert like a thunderbolt, flaring his mind with half-twisted memories.

         Struggling to get up, Robert examined his surroundings frantically. Impenetrable darkness peered back from all angles. Breathing hard, he tried to make sense of the sudden influx of thoughts. There had been a jungle; humid, choking. Some sort of chasm, the sense of falling...

         Robert jumped to his feet as he realized where he was. His body protested at such movement, but fear had taken charge. His heart beating like a jackhammer, Robert tried to peer through the darkness, even taking a few steps. The ground was covered in a thick mud, perhaps the only reason he was alive. More memories began to saturate his mind.

         “Vance!” Robert's voice reverberated throughout the darkness, the forlorn echoes revealing the massiveness of his newfound tomb. He began to stumble around in the darkness, searching for signs of his comrade. Feeling through the mud, a tiny glint of light caught his eye, shining like a beacon a few feet away. Scrambling for it, he realized it was the small power-light for the minicam. Pulling off the extended lens, he grabbed palm-sized recorder and hit a button on the side. A narrow beam of light shot from the camcorder, giving Robert his first look at his surroundings.

         The fall had apparently dumped him into a large cavern, its far walls glistening with signs of moisture. Looking upward, Robert saw with disbelief that a solid rock ceiling stood sentinel far above his head, not the large opening of the fissure he had expected. A few cracks marred its surface, but nothing large enough to constitute its lack of an opening.

         Robert could feel a familiar fear begin to stir within him, the air suddenly seeming stale in the enclosed cavern. Gripping the camera tightly, Robert watched in panic as his mind began to subvert to his claustrophobia, the cavern walls bending inwards, shrinking the space around him.

         Closing his eyes, he frantically attempted an exercise taught to him by a Himalayan monk. He severed his senses, losing himself in his mind. Nothing could touch him there, in this ethereal state. Taking deep, timed breaths, Robert counted slowly to twenty and opened his eyes. The cavern had returned to its natural dimensions, solid as ever.

         Exhaling a sigh of relief, Robert turned around and cried out in horror, jumping back from the gruesome sight plastered before him. The pallid light of the camera shone with indifference upon the mangled corpses of two Inca warriors, impaled upon the cavern wall a good ten feet off the ground by their own spears.

         Blood trickled down the length of the corpses, dripping into a dark puddle on the mud below, producing the sound Robert had been hearing. Their limbs seemed oddly twisted, contorted in a convulsive manner as though still wracking with pain. The most horrible aspect, however, was the fact that the spears holding the bodies up pierced through the warriors' faces and out the back of their skulls, the violent gesture shooting waves of nausea through Robert.

         Bending over to purge himself, Robert frantically tried to make sense of the scene. No human could have possibly gotten the warriors that high off the ground, or, for that matter, shove a spear with enough force to stick the damn thing in a bloody rock wall! What could poss...

         Realizing what he was doing, Robert took a deep breath and kept his gaze down at the floor.

         No, feeding his fear wouldn't help him. There were most likely niches in the wall for the spears, and probably some primitive ladder hidden somewhere. It was all just some twisted ceremony the sick bastards had cooked up. He just needed to get the hell out of there before whoever strung up the warriors came back.

         Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, Robert carefully began to scan the rest of the cavern, taking care not to linger long on the former tribesmen.

         Though surprisingly void of stalagmites and stalactites considering the dampness of the chamber, it held a large number of odd rock formations, which were scattered across the muddy bottom. Twisted shadows spread across the far wall as the light played across the formations, slinking back into the darkness as it passed, all the while seeming to keep watch on the lone outsider.

         Trudging through the thick mud, Robert began his trek toward the other end of the cavern, searching vigilantly for some sign of Vance. Even the mud gave no clue, as it quickly reclaimed any  imprints left by Robert's footsteps.

         Finding no sign of his friend, Robert collapsed against one of the odd formations, trying hard to fight the despair slowly taking over his mind. It was his fault they had gotten into the situation, his fault Vance was missing, his fault the...

         The formation behind him suddenly gave in, pitching Robert backward through a large opening in it. The sick impression of falling overtook Robert for much longer than expected, and he landed  roughly on a hard, dusty surface. Coughing weakly, he slowly got up, gasping in pain. None of his bones seemed broken at least.

         The minicam also survived the fall, having been outfitted for treatment of the more neglectful nature. Grasping it, Robert quickly examined his surroundings.

         He had apparently fallen into a rather large room, bare of furnishing, the stone floor dusty with age. Looking up, Robert realized with a shock that the formation he had fallen through had been one of a number of shafts leading out of the room through the ceiling, though he had he feeling they might have been spires at one point in time. Debris littered the room, including the remains of the shaft wall Robert had fallen through. Other than that, the room was remarkably empty.

         Shaking dust of his clothes, along with a little mud, Robert walked around the room, examining the walls. The room was unusually dry considering the moisture-heavy world above, thus leaving the walls well preserved, which were covered in a multitude of glyphs and images.

         Unable to make sense of the glyphs, Robert's attention was quickly caught by a mural taking up most of a nearby wall. A temple of Incan design dominated the left side of the mural, although a number of rather untraditional spires rose from its top. Robert had a feeling he knew where he was now, though how exactly the temple had ended up underground was beyond him. Other magnificent buildings covered the rest of the picture, evidence of a once glorious civilization. The Incans hadn't decayed in exile, apparently, but had thrived in their newfound home.

         Dirt seemed to cake the wall, but upon touching it, Robert realized with a start that it had been intently added to the scene, mixed with something to form a crude paint. A large, cragged line had been added across the lower half of the mural; the fissure. A figure was plastered darkly above it, oddly menacing in its simplicity. It was then that he saw the stained color outlining the additions. The dirt had been mixed with blood.

         Robert backed away from the grisly depiction in disgust, although he felt rather alarmed as well. The figure could only be the supposed Shadow-man. And by the look of things, something cataclysmic had indeed befallen the Incan people. Sure, he was used to speculating on cultural myths, but rarely in his career had he ever come across evidence of such events. Now, it seemed, he was stuck in one.

         A distorted moan sounded in the distance, reverberating through the walls. Robert immediately tensed up at the sound, his pulse racing. The muffled cry repeated, agony incarnate, coming off the mural in waves.

         Robert rushed back to the wall, frantically looking for some niche or sign of a door. Looking down at the floor, he could see disturbances in the dust, as though hefty had been dragged across it, the trail ending at the wall. Another moan sounded in the distance. Scanning the wall again, Robert began punching the wall in frustration, anger welling up inside him. A few paint chips began to flake off, but the wall persisted despite his efforts.

         A cry louder than the others pierced from behind the wall, cutting off with a crescendo. Robert continued to beat on the door with renewed strength, his eyes watering in frustration. They were killing Vance and he couldn't stop it. His soul howled in the hopelessness of it.

         “OPEN...DAMN...YOU!”

         Red began to smear on the wall; testosterone numbed the pain in his knuckles.

         A cold sensation shot from his hip and through Roberts body. Gasping in surprise, he fell to his knees as a section of the stone wall shifted back with a large grating sound, revealing a narrow opening.  Shivering, Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out the trinket within. The smooth finger bone sat innocently in his palm, no cooler than the air around him. Surely his mind was playing tricks with him. There was no way a simple bone could possibly have...

         Another scream split the silence, clear from the opening in the wall. Shoving the finger-bone back into his pocket, Robert squeezed through, his thoughts solely on his comrade.

         The opening led into a narrow tunnel, clearly built into the natural rock, and not a part of the original temple. The passageway was a tight fit, Robert scraping his elbows as he tried to flit through. The moaning grew louder as he traversed, the cries crisper with every step.

         The screams ended suddenly with a deafening silence. Robert stopped for a moment, breathing hard. No sound carried from the tunnel's end. A switch seemed to click in Robert's mind, and he bounded through the tunnel, oblivious to the scrapes the rock walls inflicted on him.

         Robert could see the end of the tunnel, the end somehow illuminated. Slowing his pace, he cautiously approached the exit, and peered into the unknown.

         The tunnel opened into a large cavern, not unlike the first. The darkness was dispelled, however, by a series of torches sticking out of the ground in a large circle. And in the center stood an oddly twisted figure, the flickering firelight not enough to give Robert a clear view. He snuck slowly toward the figure, his heart hammering. Could it possibly be....

         Walking into the firelight, Robert saw that it wasn't Vance. The figure didn't even seem human. It wasn't until he caught the bright flash of a feather that he realized who it was...or had been.

         Robert's stomach clenched at the sight of the Incan, his eyes wide with shock. The Bigwig's head hung low, his head-dress slumped over his face.  Of the body, however, only the torso remained. Stumps protruded from the shoulders, twisted as though something had wrenched the limbs off by force, bits of cracked bone visible through the skin. His legs were also missing, the lower half of his torso impaled upon two wooden poles sticking from the ground.

         Robert simply stood there, fear coursing through his veins. Drool still ran from the Incan's mouth. He hadn't been dead long. Looking around for some unseen fiend, Robert froze as he heard the creak of wood.

         Turning back to the Incan, he yelped as he looked into a pair of bloodied eyes. The Incan seemed to stare through him, his face void of expression. He turned his head slowly, trying to look behind him. Robert jumped as he heard a rustle in the darkness behind the Incan, the soft scraping of something against stone.

         The Incan turned and met Robert's terrified gaze, his eyes suddenly sorrowful.

         “Èl viene.” {i{He comes.

         The warrior's head suddenly twisted one-hundred and eighty degrees to the left as though by some unseen force, the snap of broken vertebrae echoing grimly throughout the cavern.

         Robert back away from the corpse in horror. An unnatural chill began to sweep through the chamber that seemed to permeate the bones; a chill to make the soul quiver. Robert could feel the bone in his pocket echo the cold, as though calling out. The firelight also seemed to dim, giving up against the unholy chill. Robert could only continue to back away, his heart pounding furiously against his chest.

         A scuffle sounded from behind him, stopping him in mid-step. Robert stiffened at the sound and closed his eyes shut, fear rooting him to the spot. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he severed his senses, refusing to acknowledge terror's hold upon him.

         Robert could hear the entity behind him near closer; could feel its presence. He stood patiently, maintaining a grip on his fear as well as the mini-cam. Surprise could work both ways.

         A stone shifted a few feet behind him, acting the trigger. Robert pivoted sharply on his right foot, and brought the mini-cam down on his attacker with every ounce of strength he could muster. A bone crushing thud sounded as the camera made purchase, forcing a large figure to slump to the ground. Robert stood stunned, a cocktail of excitement and fear coursing through his body. Fumbling with the camera, he cast its light on the figure at his feet...

         ...and dropped to his knees in shock.

         There, on the ground, lay Vance, his eyes staring dead into the darkness. Blood from the wound on his side soaked through his traveler's vest, a spear-shaft still visible in its depths. Robert's blow also left its mark, the left side of Vance's face crumpled by the heavy blow.

         Robert sat there, his mind still attempting to take in the gravity of what he'd done. He was responsible for killing a man. No, not a man, a friend. All in cold blood. He felt hollow, an empty shell, the dark stain of murder seeping deeper into his mind.

         The mini-cam lay caressed in his hand, blood caking the case. The light began to flicker, as though leaving the host as well.

         “No...,” Robert moaned, tears wetting his eyes once more.

         The light went out.

         Robert sat there in the dark, aware of a cold sensation at his hip. Grasping blindly, he pulled out the finger-bone. Although want of sight, Robert could feel it in his palm, the cold biting against his skin. Standing up, Robert began to panic as he felt the chill thicken, surround him. Stumbling around, Robert tripped over the rocky floor.

         A sharp pain erupted in his head as he hit the ground for the last time. Merciless thought hounded him no more...




         The darkness swirled in the cavern, watching the outsider with patient hunger. The shadow could sense its essence upon the man, something it hadn't felt in hundreds of years. Although incapable of feeling emotion, it remembered well what it was like to be excited, just as the late Incan had incurred its memory of wrath. How pitiful it was to watch the wretched tribe continually sacrifice warrior after warrior to temporarily close the Scar. How pitiful indeed.

         The shadow carefully exerted its power, lifting the newborn corpse from the floor. It examined the body, probing its secrets. The guilt of murder was written deep within its bones, a guilt the shadow may have once been able to sympathize with. The shadow was amused, however, as the fellow had never committed such an act. The other outsider had been dead long before this one had attacked him, the shadow having controlled the corpse just like the wooden puppets his people used to make for their young so long ago.

         The outsider rotated slowly as he hung in the air, arms hung limp at its sides. Blood matted the back of his skull. The corpse would do.

         The body spasmed as the shadow seeped into it, stretching into every crevice. The skull knitted itself back together as the new soul took over residence.

         The body fell to the floor in a heap. The finger-bone lay nearby, no longer chilled.

         A movement stirred from the corpse. Opening his eyes for the first time in nearly a millennium, the Shadow-man smiled. The heathen gods would be pleased.

         Picking himself up from the ground, the Shadow-man bent over and scooped up the forlorn finger-bone. Even in the darkness he could sense his old body. How horrible that torture had been, his punishment for betraying his people. He clenched his new fist tightly around the bone, true anger filling his emotions. He would get his revenge. He only had to wait for the fissure to reopen.

         After all, no scar ever truly healed.