Terror in the Andes

[Danger Boy]

Out of every aspect of Chile that took getting used to - the language, the society, the mountainous terrain - by far the most difficult thing for the members of the historical research expedition from the University of Amsterdam visiting Antofagasta to get used to was the climate. It was much hotter than their collective home in temperate North Holland, that much they had been expecting. What they hadn't expected, however, was how unbearably dry it was. Being a stone's throw from the Pacific coast, one would naturally expect to almost drown in the humidity. Being from a rather wet climate themselves only made the transition that much more difficult for the Dutch students. They found their lips and throats constantly parched, and their tempers were beginning to fray as well.

The leader of the research team, Doctor Christiaan van Drakmoor, was steadily becoming more and more irritable in particular - and not just because of the air. He issued a low, hopelessly incomprehensible grumble when he dropped his lean frame into the lone open chair at the table around which his students had gathered at a local bar. "Another lead, dry as this whole damned city," he muttered forlornly. A young woman in an apron dropped a frothy mug of beer on the table in front of the professor, as if sensing his distress without needing to understand his words. Doctor van Drakmoor uttered a quick "Gracias," as she passed by, then raised the mug to his lips and drank deeply. With a contented sigh, he set the glass down and turned his attention to a much younger man seated to his left. "What about you, Willem?"

The historian's adopted son gave his shoulders a slight roll of indifference. "I wasn't able to find anyone who would take us into the mountains, even after I offered to provide all the supplies for the trip across the desert and back, as well as to pay more than double what we budgeted for paying the guides." He didn't have to look at the scowl that took up prominence on the professor's wrinkled brow to know it wasn't a report he wanted to hear, so Willem added quickly, "But I did find something interesting in town while I was browsing the pawn shops for extra water canteens."

The elder van Drakmoor's eyes widened slightly, and all gathered around the table leaned forward in unison as Willem produced a thin, yet heavy, object wrapped in a brown rag out of the backpack perched against the side of his chair. Setting his prize down on the table, he carefully unwrapped it to reveal a flat length of steel, pitted with rust and crudely broken off at each end from the main body of whatever object it once belonged to. The doctor fumbled his glasses onto his face and narrowed his eyes. "Part of a sword? Straight blade..." he muttered almost inaudibly.

"Meaning, if it is genuine, it may be a medieval- or renaissance-era weapon." Willem tried as best he could to keep the excitement out of his voice, but wasn't entirely successful. "We'll need to get it into the lab back in Amsterdam to confirm its authenticity, but if it is the real thing... here, look." He snatched the professor's spectacles off the perch of his nose, and before Christiaan could protest he held one of the lenses over the object like a magnifying glass. Barely visible amid the wear of time and the elements on the metal, the team could make out a very faint series of depressions, forming letters. "...rona de Cas..." Willem read.

"Le Corona de Castilla. The Crown of Castille!" Doctor van Drakmoor let out a whoop of triumph and noisily clapped his hands together as he leaned back in his chair. The commotion drew a few glances from the other people in the bar, but it wasn't long before they lost interest and returned to their own drinks and conversations. "The Spanish monarchs only issued a few of these to the leaders of the Conquistador expeditions! This could mean..."

The professor's excitement was infectious, and a broad grin quickly broke out on Willem's unshaven features. "If this is authentic, Professor, it belonged to Francisco Pizarro. He was here. The temple is here." The young man's casual mention of Don Pizarro attracted the attention of the other people in the bar once again, and this time seized it for more than a mere moment. Though the other customers might not have understood the conversation being carried out in Dutch at the research team's table, the name of the Conquistador who conquered the Inca Empire rang clear in their consciousness. Pizarro was a rather controversial figure in this part of the world, and his death was an equally prominent subject of debate. Most academics followed the conclusion that he had been assassinated in Lima by a rival who coveted his position as governor of Peru, but a few on the fringe of the historical community argued that the remains buried under the cathedral there belonged to his brother, and that Pizarro himself fled into the mountains of northern Chile with his personal guard and a small group of supporters, eventually basing themselves in a hidden Inca temple.

The theory didn't hold much water in most circles, but Doctor van Drakmoor staked his highly successful career and professional reputation on its veracity. If it was true, if the rusted piece of steel on the table was indeed a fragment from a five hundred year old Spanish sword, his vindication - and his students' path to world-wide recognition - lay just a few dozen kilometres to the east. "Now if only we could find a damn guide!"

[KingMonkey]

Of the other people sitting around the table, three viewed this discovery and announcement with varying shades of interest. Ilsa Schipper leaned forward to gaze with obvious concentration and wonder on the artifact Willem discovered. Her pretty blue eyes blinked as she listened though the somewhat blank look on her heart shaped face proved that she didn't fully understand what was said. Ilsa was not the sharpest shovel in the shed. In fact, one had to wonder how a girl with her academic record got to come on such a trip and why she was getting a graduate degree in anthropology in the first place. "I like to help people," she would have answered the second question if anyone actually asked. And the answer to the first question was an anthropological fact that anyone could understand: more often than not, pretty girls got to do what they wanted.

Viktor Hakssen couldn't be bothered with asking either question, or particularly paying attention to the academic discussion going on. He was far more interested in the elegant way Ilsa's slender back arched as she leaned forward, the way her small, but pert breasts strained against the light cotton tank top she wore and the way her long, long legs flexed as she repositioned herself in the crude chair she was sitting in. The heat forced everyone in their party to wear only as much as modesty required and in Ilsa's case, that meant shorts that only hinted at covering any of her legs and going without the benefit of a bra. Between studying Ilsa and the many, exotic Latin beauties they'd run into, he hardly cared about the life of a man who'd been dead for 5 centuries.

Of course, Ilona Gruber's sense of modesty was much more developed than Ilsa's. Though she was wearing a tank top as well, her's was heavier and black and there was little doubt that her breasts were being covered and supported by a bra. She was also wearing a pair of black jeans that fully covered her legs and left off their protection of her skin only where her heavy boots took over. Her clothes, her hair, which had been dyed the deepest black and the black lipstick and heavy eyeliner that she wore were in sharp contrast to her pale, porcelain skin. Even after their time here, Ilona's skin appeared as though it'd never seen sunlight. The paleness was only enhanced by the incredibly light blue color of her eyes. From a distance it was almost like her eyes were completely white except for the pupil. Only upon close examination can the faint blue pigment be seen. A dozen piercings were visible on her face and she occasionally hinted that there were more hidden under her clothes. She didn't bother sitting up, or even seem to be paying attention as she slumped in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest. Still, anyone who was a student of human behavior would see the subtle way she perked up and that her eyes changed focus. She was definitely more interested than she seemed.

"That's fascinating, Willem," Ilsa said as breathlessly enthralled as a Hollywood starlet in a black and white adventure film. "Is there really a chance that we could find Pizarro's tomb?"

Viktor was far too busy choreographing Ilsa and their waitress in the rather raunchy movie playing in his head to comment.

"Sure," Ilona said, disdainfully, "if we can get anybody to lead us across the desert. Too bad we're stuck here."

There was no reason for any of them to notice the small boy who ran out of the bar. Ilsa, of course, noticed him when they came in, going to the boy and asking him what such an adorable child was doing in a bar. Given the fact that she didn't speak Spanish (yet another reason it was strange that she'd come) it was uncertain how much he'd understood. He had simply held out a hand hopefully until she filled it with a coin. He was too young to fully appreciate Ilsa's appeal, but even children are fascinated by beauty so it wasn't surprising that he'd watched her from that point on.

His bare, dirty feet slapped rapidly on the cobbles that made up the sidewalks and he ran with impressive speed. Even more impressively, when he reached his destination, he wasn't the least bit out of breath when he delivered his message. The recipient of that message grunted in reply and put more money in that outstretched palm before retracing the boy's steps back to the bar.

"You are looking for Pizarro, Si?" the man says as he steps up to their table. He's dressed in a light cotton shirt with long sleeves but more than half the buttons undone. Old, dingy jeans cover his legs and its hard to tell whether the boots on his feet or cowboy hat on his head are more battered. His dark eyes gleam with intelligence as he studies the group and long, unruly hair streams down from his hat. His skin is dark and obviously accustomed to the sun. A bushy mustache adorns his upper lip and despite how fit he appears to be, his face is fleshy with heavy jowls and a few days growth of beard.

"I can take you there, Gringos," he continues. Despite the recent decline of that nation, everyone in this town assumes that any white people who visit are Americans.

[Danger Boy]

If Willem was a less patient person, or more attentive toward what was happening around him, he might have been slightly irritated by the reactions of some of the other study group members' reactions to his discovery. He couldn't be too hard on Ilsa, of course; she couldn't help that all of this was a little beyond her reach (and it wasn't like he was completely immune to her charms, either). Viktor, on the other hand, was bright enough to follow all of this in his opinion, when he could rip his leering gaze off of every other woman's chest long enough to pay attention. As it was, though, Willem was too absorbed in the object of his own desire to be bothered by some of his fellow students' disinterested attitudes.

In fact, of all the reactions his discovery drew from the team of academics clustered around the table, aside from the professor's, Ilona Gruber's was the only one he acknowledged. Though they didn't look it from the outside - Willem having a more unkempt, suburbanite student sort of style - he thought they had quite a lot in common. She was smart, genuinely interested in the work they were doing, and had a certain outlook that he appreciated. It wasn't a romantic sort of connection, of course. Career-oriented as he was, he didn't have time for that sort of thing. "We've got a very good chance, if this is the genuine article," he chimed in on the tail of Ilsa's contribution. The idea of making such a huge discovery was exciting, but he was still careful not to get ahead of himself. Leaning back in his chair, Willem clasped his hands behind his head. "The desert is going to be a problem. We probably could have planned this better than just counting on someone coming by and offering-"

Before he could finish that last sentence, the very thing he believed they shouldn't have expected occurred: a local man, somewhat shifty looking at that, approached their table and announced that he could lead them across the desert. A puzzled frown knitted Willem's brows, and he straightened in his chair. There was something very strange about what just happened. Something he urgently felt the need to address to the professor... "'Gringo?'" he whispered to the older man next to him in Dutch.

"Common vernacular for 'American' or white people in general across Latin America," Doctor van Drakmoor shot back. "Sometimes it's meant to be derogatory, other times not. I'm not sure which is the case here." The scrawny, middle-aged academic quickly switched to Spanish as he addressed the newcomer, "We appreciate the offer, sir. Of course, we can pay you in pesos or euros. How much do you want?"

[KingMonkey]

Ilsa was completely enthralled with what Willem was saying. Although not the sharpest tool in the shed, she really was interested in what they were doing and fascinated by people who were truly smart. In fact, she no doubt had at least a small crush on each of the van Drakmoors because of their intelligence. She leaned in a bit closer as Willem explained just how big the discovery might be, a bit breathless and with her tulip like lips slightly parted.

Even Viktor began paying more attention as the gravity of the situation began to take hold. After all, while it wasn't as good as being a movie star, successful academics did have a certain appeal with college aged girls and if their discovery was good enough he could even end up rich in the process. It was beginning to sound like there was a chance that he would be guaranteed a steady stream of starry eyed young women well into his old age. He straightened up and scooted forward to take a look at the bit of blade Willem was brandishing.

Thus Ilona was the only one who noticed the man approach their table. She gave him a disdainful, dismissive look that had been known to kill small organisms, but he either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I knew you were serious, I could see that just by looking at you," the man says, turning his battered hat around and around in his hand as he talks. There is a big smile on his face though his teeth are so yellowed and stained by tobacco that they almost get lost against his brown skin. "So many people come down here but aren't ready to do business. It is refreshing to see people who really have a purpose."

He sizes them up and weighs them as he talks, his eyes going from person to person. Like any heterosexual male his gaze pauses on Ilsa, but, unlike most men, it doesn't linger. Instead, he focuses on the elder Dr. Drakmoor. The man sucks on is teeth thoughtfully and it's as though he's picking the man up, turning him upside down and shaking him to see how much money comes tumbling out of his pockets.

"I like you Gringos," he says, breaking into a big smile after a few seconds. "I'll make you a deal."

The quote that follows exceeds their budget for guides by about 10% which either means that his abilities at sizing people up are a little off, or he's begun the classic dance of haggling that seems to be a second profession to everyone down in this part of the world.

[Danger Boy]

There was something about the local man who approached their table - perhaps his gruff appearance, or his tobacco-stained smile - that raised a red flag in Willem's mind. Of course, that was natural: expedition teams like this always had to be cautious of local guides. They were often necessary, but field researchers could find themselves in a tight financial (or worse, physical) situation if the guide they hired was less than scrupulous. From the sound of the figure he quoted for his services, Willem estimated that he was the sort that would lead them to trouble. The student exchanged a round of brief, pointed glances with the other members of the team around the table, then leaned closer to Doctor van Drakmoor and whispered in their shared native tongue, "I think we should be careful, Professor. That's more than our allocated budget for..."

Before he could finish, the professor turned and waved him to silence with a grunt. "Oh, be quiet, Willem," he hissed under his breath. "I've been doing this since you were in diapers. I know how to take care of myself." Turning back to the local man, Doctor van Drakmoor's pleasant smile and his high-brow, academic Spanish returned. "Surely that's a bit much just for a day's trip across the desert, senor. We would agree, however, to pay you eighty percent of your stated price, and provide all the supplies you'll need - water, food, and so on."

[KingMonkey]

Ilona seemed as wary of the man who'd approached their table as Willem was. But then, she was wary and suspicious of pretty much everyone so there was no telling if she got any special sense of danger off this particular person. Ilsa was watching the exchange with the same wide eyed concentration that she turned on just about everything. She seemed to understand what was going on about as well, too. And Viktor was once more distracted by their waitress. The negotiations went right past him.

The smile on the erstwhile guide's face faded a bit as the to Van Drakmoors argued. It took only a moment for him to realize that these were not gringoes at all. He didn't understand, or even recognize the language they were speaking, but it was clearly not English.

The smile returned to it's previous stained brightness when the good doctor made his counter offer, however. He almost seemed pleased that the man was willing to haggle.

"Perhaps you are right, Senor. Forgive me, I got a little greedy. But the price you are offering to pay...truly, Senor, are you not ashamed of yourself just a little?" He removed one of his hands from his hat to hold his fingers an inch or so apart to demonstrate how much he thought Van Drakmoor should be ashamed.

"Surely a little more wouldn't be too much to pay for safe passage to where you want to go." Apparently, a little more equals about what they allocated for guides anyway. The native man watches the group with keen eyes and a hopeful look on his face.

[Danger Boy]

Despite the local man's otherwise convincing hat-in-hand display, Professor Christiaan van Drakmoor didn't feel ashamed of himself in any particular way. Maybe because he knew the score; the people here were just as sharp and savvy as they were anywhere else in the world, and knew how to spot and exploit an advantage. There was an implicit charge in the guide's statement, perhaps that he should be ashamed for more than attempting to take advantage of a local just in this instance. Intentional or not, the professor thought it was a rather clever act of leveraging the historical relationship of colonizer to subject. Someone less experienced than he was might have fallen for it, for fear of treading that forbidden ground. He, on the other hand, had too much respect for the guide's cunning, a fact which showed in the sly grin that he shot back at the man's counter-offer.

"Very well," Professor van Drakmoor finally said at length, after making a show of considering the fee quoted for the man's services. "That ought to be a fair compromise. We wouldn't want to haggle unnecessarily, of course. The last thing I want to do as a respected academic is further the stereotype of us Dutch as heartless speculators." The historian guffawed at his own joke before turning back to his students and switching over to his native tongue. "For those of you who failed their rudimentary Spanish lessons, Viktor, we've secured ourselves a guide. Your job for the rest of the day is to get you things together and be ready to leave the minute he wants to go. We don't want to be rude, after all."

[KingMonkey]

The guide laughs as well, though he doesn't look so certain about the joke. His laugh is full bodied and jovial. He seems quite happy with the compromise.

With a flourish, he clamps his hat back on his head and runs his fingers over the brims. "Excellente, Amigos!" he says, switching immediately to friendly terms. He looks out the window as though he can see the sun and thinks for a moment. "We will leave first thing in the morning, Si? No need to go out in the dark tonight. Besides, Amigos, you should have one more night to enjoy the hospitality of our little town before we go out into the wilderness. I will meet you out front at dawn."

The man even gives a little bow before walking away, leaving the group to their own devices.

Ilsa's look of concentration slowly turns to one of joy, her big blue eyes growing even bigger and her lips parting to display her perfect white teeth. She leaned over, abruptly embracing Christiaan in an excited hug. Any pleasure he might get out of the content is dampened by the high pitched, high volume squeal of joy that she releases almost directly in his ear. As she straightens up, she claps her hands joyously. "Oh Professor, does this really mean that we're going to find Pizzarro's treasure?"

Viktor had a scowl for the Professor. Who cared if he didn't understand Spanish? When did he ever need Spanish? Other than now, that is...In any case, he understood enough to know that they weren't going to be leaving until the next day. Immediately, he switched off, no longer listening to anyone at the table. In fact, he left the table, his wooden chair scraping the tile floor as he rose and sauntered over to the bar to buy another beer and flirt with the waitress.

Ilona watched the retreating guide warily. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion. "We should watch that one close, Willem," she whispered, leaning over to speak quietly to him while Ilsa made her over the top display. "I don't trust him."

[Danger Boy]

The usually rather crotchety professor's features held a pleasant smile as the research team's new guide excused himself and disappeared through the bar's open door, back to the dusty streets from which he had appeared. That expression didn't last long, however. The surest way to make an old, cranky career academic bristle was to say something stupid, and one could always count on Ilsa for that. Ye gods, she was lucky she was cute! "Pizarro's tomb, Ilsa!" Doctor van Drakmoor sighed in exasperation as he turned to face his student. "What do you think this is, Indiana Jones? Do I look like Harrison Ford to you? Hm? We are not treasure hunters, bent on ransacking the Chilean Andes for gold and silver, and we're certainly not..."

While the professor departed on his tirade, which eventually drew in Viktor for his apparently total lack of preparedness for this expedition as far as the elder van Drakmoor saw it, his ward was oddly distracted. His azure eyes were fixed on the door that their newly-hired guide had left through, but his stare was unfocused, far away. There was something about all of this that just didn't seem... right. The man was a little too willing to take them across the desert and into the mountains, considering all the trouble they'd had trying to hire a local before he came out of the blue and made his offer. Willem was buried deep enough in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Ilona lean toward him until she spoke, and he gave a slight start when he heard her voice in his ear. "Yeah, I think you're right," he muttered back, casting a glance in the other student's direction before he returned his attention to the door. "...I'm glad I'm not the only one who's paranoid here."

[KingMonkey]

Ilsa looked suitably contrite during the doctor's tirade. She apologized profusely for her mistake and pouted a bit, but didn't look hurt by his ire. Instead, she looked on him with even more awe, if that were possible. It seemed that this display of his knowledge only made him more godlike in her cornflower blue eyes. Viktor, on the other hand grew more and more surly as the elder van Drakmoor pulled him into the whirlpool of his fury. His shoulders hunched and he sunk further and further down into his chair as though he were inspired by turtles for his defense and hoped to sink into his shell entirely.

Eventually, the doctor had to run out of steam however and the group broke up for the night. Viktor remained in the bar, attempting to enjoy more than just the alcohol they served. Ilsa and Ilona retired back to the room they shared to get plenty of rest for the trip the next day.

And the next day comes early enough. Their guide is just where he said he would be as the sun is cresting the horizon. He's leaning against a battered, dirty truck that looks older than some of the members of their expedition. A canvas cover shades the back and the cab looks big enough to seat four comfortably.

"Buenos dias, Amigos!" he shouts gleefully as soon as he sees the expedition, removing his hat and waving it as though he'd be hard to spot on the nearly deserted streets.

"Buenos dias!" Ilsa replies brightly, smiling and waving back. All that her fellow students can manage are grunts and glares. Viktor is clearly suffering from a hangover and Ilona simply does not like the morning.

Their guide gladly takes Ilsa's bags and loads them up into the truck, an occurrence the other members of the expedition are no doubt accustomed to by now. It seems she hardly ever has to carry or hold her bags when their are men around. What is surprising is that he just as eagerly takes Ilona and Viktor's packs.

"Are we ready to find Pizarro's Treasure, Amigos? Like Indiana Jones, si?" He makes a motion like he's cracking a whip and then hums a few bars of the theme song.

[Danger Boy]

As he was wont to do, Willem retired for the evening even earlier than Ilsa and Ilona, even while the professor was still leaning into Viktor for his over-casual behaviour. Very much like his guardian, the young historian-in-training was an incorrigible workaholic. His devotion to his studies was a facet of his nature that had cost him his relationship with his last girlfriend, and prevented him from getting involved in another one. He didn't really mind; in the long term, he had a career to see to that was more important than goofing off at clubs and bars. In the short term, he had some work to do on the broken allegedly-Conquistador-era blade he picked up - conducting a few field tests and placing a call to the lab back in the Netherlands - otherwise he might have at least joined Viktor for another beer.

It turned out he was right not to take the opportunity to relax right after the meeting broke up. The rudimentary chemical tests he ran on the centuries-old scrap of iron took longer than he first expected, but the results seemed promising at a glance. After he touched base with the archaeological division in Amsterdam over the team's satellite phone, he packed up the object together with his test results and a few hastily-scribbled notes, all to be dropped off at the local post office to be shipped overseas the next morning before he would join up with the rest of the group and their guide for the trip into the mountains. That left him... Willem glanced at his watch and smiled. Seven hours. Plenty of time to rest if I hit the hay now.

Unfortunately for the student, rest was something that was in short supply that night. His sleep was dogged by strange, fitful dreams, a chaotic eruption of abstract feelings, names he didn't recognize, and snippets of sight and sound that just didn't seem to belong in his mind. Gunfire and heavy breathing were most prominent, followed by a game of rock-paper-scissors. Mixed into the midst of it all was the sensation of flying. More than once through the night, he jerked awake from his dreams to the noisy snorting of Professor van Drakmoor asleep in the bed next to him, and burned into his eyelids whenever he blinked or closed his eyes to return to sleep was the image of the mysterious patch on his Dutch Army jacket, now sitting in his room thousands of kilometres away in Amsterdam: 57 Brigade Verkennings Eskadron. A brigade of the Dutch army that didn't exist - and indeed, had never existed. It was a minor mystery that never bothered him in his waking hours, but seemed to be burrowing its way into his dreams more and more in the past few months. More than anything, he found it irritating. It made it hard to get a decent night's sleep.

* * * * * * * *

The next morning saw a slightly bleary-eyed but rested and eager-looking Willlem van Drakmoor arrive at the designated meeting place after dropping his Europe-bound package off at the post office, just in time to hear the professor's exasperated voice shouting, "It's a tomb, not a treasure! This isn't -- argh, forget it! Jesus Christ!" The harsh sound of the elder van Drakmoor's grating, oddly enough, brought a smile to Willem's unshaven features. The dry heat was especially oppressive this morning, doubly so for a crotchety old Dutchman like Christiaan, so it was good to see that the inhospitable climate hadn't dampened his spirits.

Seizing on the moment, Willem eased into the group and slid right up to the professor, unhesitantly delivering a sharp, but still playful slap across the aging academic's right cheek. Doctor van Drakmoor, and more than a few of the other students participating in the expedition, stared at Willem with open surprise and unhinged jaws that practically hit the ground. As if in explanation, the professor's ward flashed him a sly grin and said in the best Scottish accent he could muster, "Thatsh for blashphemy." Before the inevitable retaliation could come, Willem shrugged his backpack into a more comfortable position on his shoulders and quickly stalked off toward the old pickup that waited to ferry them across the desert. "Come on, no time to fool around! We've got a date with a 500-year-old corpse!"

[KingMonkey]

Their guide was perhaps the first person to recover from the shock of seeing the junior van Drakmoor strike the elder van Drakmoor. His gaping mouth split into a big grin. "Ah you Gringos. You're so funny," he said with a guffaw. "Always with your joking."

Shaking his head at the insanity of Caucasian people in general and the group he's picked up in particular, he made his way to the cab of the big truck. The triple axle monstrosity had wide, fat tires that would give a lot of surface area on the sand. He climbed in and immediately hung his left arm out the window, a place it would stay for the vast majority of the trip, even when he was using his right hand to change gears.

Ilona was the first of the students to shake off her shock and she clambered into the truck to sit next to the guide. It wasn't that she particularly liked the man, she simply knew that if she didn't sit there, Ilsa would try to and the last thing any of them needed was the guide to be distracted by Ilsa, or for Ilsa to develop one of her crushes on him. Besides, she wanted to keep a close eye on the man.

Perhaps surprisingly, Ilsa actually wanted to sit in the back of the truck. The wide eyed smile on her face as she climbed in made it obvious that she thought it would be a wonderful adventure, like riding a roller coaster or going on a bus tour of London.

And, of course, Viktor wasn't far behind her, though he slipped once as he climbed in because he wasn't exactly watching what he was doing. He obviously rethought his decision as he looked around the compartment made by the canvas that covered the bed of the truck. There was little room in there for passengers once all of their gear was added to what the guide already had in there and the only seats were on the metal gunwales of the truck. Unfortunately, Dr. van Drakmoor had already taken the seat next to Ilona so he couldn't switch now.

The driver waited just long enough to make sure everyone was in and settled before they were on their way. The truck rumbled and growled through the streets of the town, having to move slow to ease through the pedestrians who were already going about their business. Once he was outside the town, the guide put on the gas and the people in the back would find another amenity of their trip: poor shocks. They could feel every bump and pothole the truck hit and it hit a lot.

Fortunately, the ride got much smoother once they actually hit the desert. Unfortunately, it was noon before they got there. And passing through the desert during the afternoon let them in on another amenity: a complete lack of air conditioning. It was hard to tell where it was hotter, in the cab with no air conditioning and the glass intensifying the sunlight but with the windows down to let in air or in the bed with no glass but no windows. In either case, it was much, much hotter than any of the students were accustomed to and they all wilted in the heat. Viktor no longer stared at Ilsa's bared legs and Ilsa's smile faded into a glassy eyed stare. Even Ilona felt the effects and she removed the long sleeved black shirt she was wearing to reveal a pink camisole underneath. The glare she directed at the guide and Dr. van Drakmoor was practically a dare for them to comment on the garment.

The guide was as good as his word, the trip through the desert went without a hitch, only once or twice did the truck bog down briefly before he maneuvered it through some softer sand. He also talked non-stop, pointing out and discussing landmarks that hardly seemed to be there and talking about his country and his family and his truck and the weather and just about anything else that came into his mind. It was nearing dark when trees appeared on the horizon and they were only able to see them through the headlights when they finally arrived.

The sound of water was welcome relief after the miles and miles and hours and hours of sun and sand. The guide pulled the truck right up to the edge of a pool of water that was the end of a small stream. Above and behind it the land began to climb until it became a mountain and the trees became thicker and thicker as they got more water. The sounds of animals filled the air.

Everyone gratefully got out of the truck, wandering to the pool and staring at it with wonder. As Ilsa passed through the headlights it became obvious that she was pink. Very, very pink. Perhaps sitting near the back of the truck where the sun could shine in on her occassionally wasn't the best idea.

[Danger Boy]

Willem was the last of the expedition group to climb into the truck, opting to help the professor into his seat before bringing up the rear. The act of generosity earned him a sputtering reprimand from the elder historian, but he took it all in stride with nothing more than a patient smile and a nod. Christiaan van Drakmoor would have everyone think that he was as spry and agile as he had ever been, but the truth of the matter was that he wasn't a young man anymore. And if he couldn't stop him from playing a young man's game, the least Willem could do was take care of him. Once everyone was settled into their seats and the rickety old truck started its journey across the thin strip of desert, Willem more or less withdrew into himself, tuning out his guardian's cranky muttering and the local guide's inane rambling - though he did perk up slightly whenever the man mentioned a landmark or a snippet of local history. For the most part, though, the student spent the balance of the trip in contemplative silence. What was this sense of trepidation that he felt? Why was he so nervous now that everything seemed to be falling into place? Was it just him, or was there something to it, since Ilona seemed to feel the same way?

By the time they reached the small pond, Willem had just as many answers to those questions as when he started asking them: that was to say, none. While the others scrambled for the pool of water, Willem was content to simply get out and lean against the side of the vehicle, trusting in the last few sips of the water from his canteen. Even with his travel vaccines, and even without drinking it, he had heard some real horror stories about what sorts of microbes and whatnot lurked in water like this, and decided not to take his chances. He would rather limit his interaction with it to boiling some later to refill his personal supply. Watching the others move toward it, though, he did catch sight of something in the truck's headlights that pulled him out of his pensive mood. Unable to hold down a chuckle, Willem shook his head and declared, "Ilsa, didn't we warn you to wear sunblock?" The relentless sunlight that baked the Chilean landscape really was no friend to Dutch folk, it seemed.

[KingMonkey]

Apparently, their guide had no fear of the water. He moved right up to it, knelt, ducked his head and drank straight from the surface of the pool. Viktor was a bit more circumspect. He simply removed his socks and boots and waded in until the hem of his shorts got damp. Discarding his shirt he then splashed water over his face and chest, washing away the sweat and sand that the trip had deposited on his body.

"But I was in the truck all day, silly," Ilsa replied with shake of her head as though she thought Willem was cute for being so ridiculous.

"It looks like the sun still found you," Ilona replied, clapping Ilsa on the arm and drawing a hiss of pain out of the girl.

Surprised, bewildered, Ilsa looked down at her pink arms and legs. "Oh no!" she wailed as the pain truly set in.

The guide seemed amused by it all, clearly thinking that all foreigners were some degree and manner of crazy. "We'll camp here tonight and start up the mountain first thing in the morning, eh Amigos?" he said as he began rummaging around in the back of the truck and drawing out supplies.

In almost no time and even in the dark, the tents get erected (one for the ladies and one for the gentlemen, while the guide will sleep in his truck,) a fire gets lit and dinner, such as it is, gets started. After a filling meal of beans and canned meat, the guide turns in, suggesting the remaining members of the party do the same and, one by one, the students do.

It's never really quiet here. Beyond the small waterfall's constant rush, there is also a riot of life in the area. Insects, frogs and birds call to each other while small mammals and reptiles rustle the leaves as they pass. The sounds are soothing once one is accustomed to them however.

What's not soothing is the ear piercing, high pitched scream that rips through the camp in the wee hours of the morning or the wild splashes that follow it.

By the time anyone gets out of their tent Ilsa is wading out of the pool as fast as she can, falling a couple times in the process. The crescent moon dimly illuminates her bikini clad body but it is more than bright enough to show the white's of her wide, wild eyes.

"Someone's over there! There are people here!" she shrieks in her native tongue, pointing across the small pool even as she continues to run. Twisted like she is, it is no surprise that she trips again, tumbling to the ground.

[Danger Boy]

The van Drakmoors were among the first to turn in at their guide's prompting, the professor sliding into his own tent while Willem went to the one he was sharing with Viktor. If crossing a desert in a truck had been arduous for the expedition team, hiking into the Andes on foot was bound to be even worse. If they were going to be up to the task of following Pizarro's trail, they needed to be at their best. Willem hoped the others would follow their lead, for their sakes. They were within shooting distance of the prize now, and Professor van Drakmoor would show no mercy to anyone who hindered their progress tomorrow.

Willem was fatigued enough that even with the raucous sounds of wildlife outside, it didn't take him long to drift into a deep sleep. For once, he wasn't plagued by the weird dreams that usually afflicted him at night, and he could enjoy a rare, restful slumber. That only meant that Ilsa's rude awakening aggravated him even more, however. When his colleague's high-pitched shriek pierced the warm night air, Willem's first instinct was to issue a sharp grunt, roll onto his left side, and fold his thin pillow around his head in a futile bid to block her voice out. Probably playing around with Viktor or something, God damn... he concluded wearily, failing to realise in his half-woken state that Viktor was still in the tent with him.

Ilsa's second cry was enough to jolt Willem completely awake, though. People? He wouldn't put it past the airheaded young woman to kick up a fuss this big over some villagers from a nearby hamlet or tribe coming down to check them out, but they could just as likely be bandits or radical militia (although he hadn't heard of any operating in Chile in at least twenty years). Far away from the city, and very far away from home, Willem decided it was best to err on the side of caution; snatching up his shovel from the pile of equipment next to his sleeping bag, he rushed out of the tent and down to the pool. "Who's there?!" he shouted in Spanish across the pool, in the direction that Ilsa was swimming away from.