After they had interred the bodies and he had intoned a few words of parting over his friends, Roger was eager to read the diary, but Hutapec refused to linger in the area. The guide set a quick pace back down the mountain toward Punta Corda where a boat waited on the coast to transport Roger back to Belize City. From there, he would alert the authorities about the deaths. The authorities, he assumed, would exhume the bodies so they could have a proper burial in the States.

The jungle, normally thriving with wildlife and filled with the sounds of predators hunting prey and with raucous territorial calls, was eerily silent. Hutapec remained silent as well, refusing to speak even to Saldo. As they hacked their way through the jungle, Saldo kept his eyes on the surrounding trees. He, too, was strangely reticent, speaking only when Roger initiated conversation, and even then, he answered succinctly, ignoring any of Roger’s attempts to draw him into any discussion pertaining to what they had seen. His nervousness fed Roger’s growing apprehension.

At dusk, they made camp in a small clearing beside a quiet stream. Neither Hutapec nor Saldo laid out their bedrolls for the night, choosing instead to remain awake and watchful through the night. Saldo kept the campfire banked low, as if afraid of attracting unwanted visitors. He kept his rifle across his knees. After a hurried meal, Roger opened Harris’ diary and began reading by flashlight. He skipped the first part concerning the journey and began at the point where Harris had reached the cavern.

* * *

June 6 – Chiquibul

“The caverns are spectacular, true wonders of the world! I have delved the depths of many systems in my lifetime but none as beautiful as these. They remind me of Cumberland Caverns in Tennessee. I hope we will find unplumbed depths.”

June 8 –

“Mapped out a great deal of the cavern. We discovered a new grotto deep within the caverns hidden behind an ancient rock fall. It proved a dead end, but inside, Louis Masters found a strange fungus growth which he claims should not survive in total darkness. Since his field is biology, I don’t doubt his word. He has taken samples for further analysis.”

June10 –

“I am feeling feverish and exhausted, but perhaps it is due to the rapid pace I have set for our expedition. There is much to be done and little time in which to accomplish all our goals. Masters is complaining of chills, and Doug Seals is coughing incessantly. Perhaps my fatigue is related. I issued aspirin and Chloroquine for all of us, just to be safe. I hope we will not have to cut our survey short.”

June 11 –

“Seals has gone insane. I can think of no other word for his state. We awoke to find him missing from camp. We later spotted him rushing through the caverns in complete darkness, screaming like a wild man. He attacked us when we attempted to subdue him. We finally managed to sedate him. The chase weakened me severely. I must rest.

“Masters says he has identified the mushrooms as an unknown species of the genus Orpicordyceps unilateralis, known as the ‘zombie fungus’ because of its bizarre effect on some ants. It produces cyclosporine, an immunosuppressant. Perhaps that is why we feel ill. The jungle is awash with insect-borne diseases. In our weakened condition, our bodies cannot fight them off. I am gravely concerned.”

June 12 –

“My mind reels with insane thoughts. It burns as if on fire. Seals has escaped and I cannot rouse Ellis to help me search for him. I believe this fungus we have discovered is to blame. I found tiny strands of mycelia in my sputum. We are all infected. The native workers are frightened and threaten to abandon us.

“I have been wondering if the presence of this strange fungus is the cause of the sudden disappearance of the ancient Maya from the nearby ruins of Lubaantun and Cahal Pech. Their abandonment was rapid and mysterious. Perhaps, I’m wrong, but the coincidence is frightening. We must leave this place.”

June 13 –

“Now Masters is missing. I feel I am going insane. I can feel this fungus coursing through my body, devouring it bit by bit. It’s in my head. My thoughts are wandering, boiling into bouts of barely controlled rage. It is difficult to concentrate on this journal. I am very ill and I anger easily. I lashed out at McNeil for no reason. We almost came to blows. The damned natives are in the jungle singing some screeching gibberish that is grating on my nerves. I must stop them.”

The journal ended at that point. The last few entries were almost illegible, hastily scribbled in a trembling hand. Roger closed the book with a sickening feeling. An intense sense of dread swept over him. If the fungus had escaped the cavern system, it could even now be flowing in the waters of the Chiquibul River into Guatemala, or riding on the winds into Belize. He wondered if he was infected. He tried hard to convince himself that his aches and pains were due to the hardship of the journey and not the first signs of infection. Sleep did not easily come to him. Instead, dire visions of the end of the world and quivering mushroom men stalking the streets of Nashville played like a horror movie through his head. He awoke exhausted an hour before dawn. Hutapec and Saldo were already breaking camp. Their haste fed his trepidation.

“Leave the equipment,” he snapped at them, “I want to reach Punta Corda as soon as possible.”

Neither man argued. Hutapec dropped the supplies and plunged into the jungle with his machete breaking a trail. Saldo left his pack but cradled his rifle in his arms as he followed Hutapec. With a final glance back toward the Chiquibul Caverns, Roger followed them.

* * *

June 29, Miami, FL –

Roger knew he was infected. Each spasm of coughing racked his chest. His skin itched and burned. He was surprised the TSA people had allowed him through the airport in his obviously ailing condition. The bright lights blinded him through his shades, and the hordes of noisy people punished his eardrums. He couldn’t spend another hour in the confines of a jet or in a crowd. He was weak and feverish. He needed to rest before continuing his journey to Nashville where he would see his doctor.

The desk clerk at the Miami Hilton Airport smiled congenially at him as he staggered through the door, but he knew that her smile was a lie. He could hear her heart beating out blood to each forced muscle around her mouth. She resented his intrusion into her busy day. He stumbled into the red velvet rope separating the desk from the lobby and cursed loudly.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“I need a room,” he replied gruffly.

“We have …”

He cut her off and thrust his credit card at her like a weapon. His hand shook uncontrollably. “Here! Just give me a damn room.”

She dropped her smile but complied with his request. It seemed an interminable amount of time passed as she entered his information in the computer. He ignored the curious stares of the other people in the lobby, suppressing his desire to lash out at them. Finally, she handed him a keycard in a small paper cardholder.

“Room 517, Mr. Curry. I hope you enjoy …”

He snatched the key from her hand before she could finish her statement, stumbled with his bag to the elevator, and stepped inside. The bright overhead light of the elevator drilled into his brain like a laser. His eyes barely focused long enough to see the numbers as he punched the twelfth floor button. Leaning against the rear wall, swiping at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead, he pressed his hand to his aching stomach. It had been hours since he had eaten, but he feared its rumblings were not from hunger. He watched an obese woman, matronly and stern in a high-collared, pale blue dress, approach the elevator. She entered the car, moving to the opposite wall as far away as possible in the small space, and stared at him. He tried to ignore her, but her mere presence annoyed him. He suddenly doubled over in pain, as the convulsions in his belly sought an outlet. He farted loudly. The woman wrinkled her nose at the cloying stench and shot a reproachful glare at him as the doors began to close. She stopped the door with her hand and stepped out saying, “How rude.” He resisted the urge to wring her fat neck.