Pyramid of the Dead: A Zombie Novel Read online

  The Pyramid of the Dead

  By

  John McCuaig

  1-Surrounded

  The year 1532, deep in the heart of the Inca Empire, in what is now called Peru-

  As he got to the small jungle clearing, not far from where he was born, Minco ground to a halt. Enough was enough. Dropping down onto one knee, he gulped the hot, humid air as the pounding deep in his chest felt as if his heart was ready to burst. It had long become clear that he could never outrun them, for they were everywhere. So here, it would have to be. He had to make a stand and this little open spot, near his ancestral home was as good as anywhere was. Closing his eyes, he whispered another prayer to his Gods for their help in the forthcoming battle. He hoped they would answer.

  The trees rustled as the first of the undead soldiers approached and Minco’s eyes snapped open. Although he thought it would be impossible, his heart now raced faster. This was it; they were here. The Ukhu Pacha, the army of the undead were here, heading right for him, and they were coming from all directions.

  Quickly, his hand went in and out of the leather bag tied around his waist and he lined up the sharp stones for his slingshot in front of his knee. He then carefully placed his trusty bronze-head axe and jagged edged golden truncheon in close touching distance, ready to be grabbed when he needed them. The slingshot was soon spinning high around his head.

  Just at that moment, one of the undead soldiers appeared to his left, breaking through the heavy tree line before halting. Moans of delight flowed from its evil mouth as it saw its long sought prey waiting ahead. Its grey, lifeless eyes locked onto Minco, and then it began shuffling towards him.

  It did not get far.

  A flying stone smacked into the forehead of the beast that was once a man, once a member of Minco’s own tribe. However, not one single drop of blood appeared at the gaping wound, for nothing flowed anymore inside its dead and withered veins. The beast started to rock slightly from side to side until without a further sound, it fell backwards and ceased moving.

  Minco managed a little smile as he thanked the Gods for keeping his aim strong and true. This brave warrior was ready for battle, ready for what lay ahead. At least he thought he was until he saw the rest of his foes appear. Two dozen more of this army from hell burst through the heavy foliage that surrounded him and raced towards their target. As they got closer, Minco saw that the only colors on their ashen faces were the dried bloodstains spread around their mouths. They may well have fed recently, but they were still hungry for more and Minco knew only too well that their hunger for flesh would never be satisfied.

  Stones fired off in all directions as the Incan warrior tried his best to keep them back, but it was a hopeless cause. There were just too many and in only a few short seconds the hordes were right upon him. Dropping the slingshot and grabbing his close combat weapons, Minco sprung up, dodging and weaving from the myriad of grabbing hands and snapping jaws. As he fought toe to toe with the beasts, he looked deep into the eyes of his attackers, but could only see his own reflection come rushing back. Skulls cracked open and split wide as he set to work with his faithful tools, his years of training serving him well.

  Then his luck changed. One of his weapons would not budge from its prize. Even after pulling with all of his might, the bronze axe stayed tight and firm. It was imbedded deep in the head of one of his lumbering foes and putrid, dark liquid oozed along the wooden handle and onto his hand. He had no other choice; he had to leave it in its new home. He had to keep moving, as those deadly hands were getting closer.

  He was down to just a solitary weapon but the number of the beasts that surrounded him, wanting a taste of his flesh still grew. He fought bravely but already knew that it was now a lost cause. His next prayer was for the Gods, and his ancestors, to welcome him into heaven.

  “Minco,” a voice called out from far behind him. “Get down!” This time it was not the Gods that had answered his prayers.

  Turning around to face the distant tree line, he saw a group of twenty or so Spaniards spreading out about fifty feet away. Francisco Pizarro, their enigmatic leader, was right at the front with his thin rapier sword held high above his head. It was he who had called out.

  “Get down on the ground now, you damn fool,” the Spaniard shouted again.

  Minco could see a line of muskets being raised then aimed in his direction. Quickly forgetting the beasts around him as he remembered the great power of those fire sticks, he threw himself face down onto the damp grass.

  BANG!

  A volley of shots rang out. All around him the birds and animals of the jungle shrieked, shrilled, roared and howled as they returned that ear splitting noise with interest.

  The next sounds that Minco could hear were the dull thuds of the bodies falling all around him. This was quickly followed by pounding of the rapid footsteps of charging soldiers.

  He looked up just in time to see their swords flash in the sun, as they finished off the remaining handful of the beasts that had not been felled by those streaks of hot lead. Heads were pierced, sliced and removed as cold steel defeated the cold flesh. With their blood red shirts flapping in the slight breeze and their polished silver breastplates gleaming in the sun, the Spaniards were for the first time, a welcome and timely sight. Even considering the deep-rooted hatred that Minco had for them, ever since he first laid eyes on them.

  Pizarro sheathed his sword after wiping the slender blade through the already matted hair of one of the fallen beasts. Looking down at the Incan, anger burned in his eyes as he held out his hand to assist him up.

  “Fool, I told you we had to stay together.” His tone also showed Minco, no doubt quite deliberately he guessed, that he was far from happy. “I need you to take us to this City of the Snake, to Huacas. You won’t be able to do that if you’re dead.”

  Minco had learned the Spaniard’s language well. As head of the defence force for the capital city, Cuzco, he had been ordered to find out everything he could about these visitors. The order had come directly from the King himself when these strangers from a distant land had first set foot on Incan land more than four years before.

  “It was an Incan problem and it had to be fixed by an Incan,” Minco said as he ignored Pizarro’s hand, rose unaided, and began to dust himself down. “You may well have saved my life today, Spaniard, but what I had to do, I had to do alone.”

  Pizarro smiled at the native as he thought to himself. These damn Incans might be many things, but this one was nothing if not brave. He may be more than a little foolhardy, but he was definitely brave. Pizarro dusted Minco’s back as he straightened his face enough to continue.

  “My friend, if you’ve learned anything during these last few days, it’s that we need each other,” he said. “To have any chance of defeating these damn monsters, we’ve got to stick together, no matter what.” He looked around at the jungle that surrounded them, listening for the approach of any more of the undead army. “Come on, we’ve got to get moving. The noise will no doubt bring more of them. We need to get far away from here before they turn up. Now Minco, will you just please tell me which way we need to go?”

  Minco thought long and hard before raising his arm and pointing over towards the west. “Over there, we need to go along that path. One more day and night’s travel and we’ll be at the gates to Huacas,” he said before moving to stand face to face with Pizarro. “I’ll stay with you Spaniard, but only until we’ve succeeded. Then I’ll make you and your kind leave my land forever. That is a promise. All that you have brought to my people is death.”

  Pizarro seemed to ignore the threat. He gave a casual nod before going over and ordering his men down the p
ath. “Full speed,” he shouted. “Double file with swords drawn. There’ll be more of the walking dead around- be prepared.”

  *****

  As they marched along the barely visible path, Pizarro sped up and joined Minco who had taken up a position near the front of the marching soldiers. He had chosen to walk alongside the King’s younger brother, Yupanqui, a man who was so brave he must have hidden away in the bushes when they fought to rescue Minco. Still, as he was part of the royal family, Minco was pledged to protect him with his life.

  “Just remember who it was that raised this undead army. It was not me or any of my men. It was one of you who done it, don’t you ever forget that, my friend,” Pizarro told the Incan as they walked along at pace together. “Don’t you dare try and blame me for all this death. All I want is for peace to return.”

  He was lying, of course. He only wanted to keep Minco on his side for he would be useful in their quest. In truth, all he ever cared about was the gold, his gold. If not for his unending lust for their treasure, he and his men would have sailed off into the sunset a long time ago.

  Minco conceded a little nod to the Spaniard. This too was nothing but a lie. All he wanted was to take his revenge, and he was prepared to wait for as long as it would take.

  2- The Spaniards Return to Inca

  The Port of Puna- almost two months before.

  Pizarro could not help but smile at the sight before him. He stood proudly on the bridge of his flagship as the impressive flotilla edged along the coast and at last, entered the bay. It felt that he had been away from here for far too long, but he had always planned to return to these rich and fertile lands for a second time. Actually, he believed that this journey was always his destiny. It had been almost four years to the day since he first set foot on these shores and gotten that first, small taste of the riches it held. This time he was back with plenty of reinforcements and he was after more than a little appetizer this time. He was back to take his fill of their gold.

  One hundred and eighty well-trained mercenaries, twenty-seven fine Arabian horses and one single, large cannon had joined him on this mission. He was, of course, many things to many people- both good and bad- but not one of them could say he was not always well prepared. And if these damn savages wouldn’t give him exactly what he wanted, he was more than ready to take it all by force. In fact, deep down, as he looked around with pride at his mighty arsenal, he hoped that they would resist.

  As his men disembarked from the six triple-masted ships upon which they had arrived, they quickly and efficiently set up camp in the quaint, semi-circular bay. After close to two months at sea, he could clearly see the delight on his men’s faces to be back at last on terra firma. It was a simple joy that he shared too.

  With his men hard at work beside him, Pizarro stood on the white, sandy beach and watched the villagers with a keen interest. They had seen the line of ships arrive but were still keeping their distance, forming a deep line high up on the nearby hillside that swept up from the edge of the beach. Years of fighting experience triggered a tingle deep within his mind as alarm bells rang in his head. This was a sight he did not like.

  “Almargo, Diego de Almargo,” he called out as he scanned around the lines of his crew for his trusty right hand. A portly, bald, and well-aged man raced over to join his master. He was not what one would expect to see in a recent soldier but Pizarro had, and always would, trust him with his life.

  “Yes, Colonel,” he said as he huffed and puffed over to his side. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Pizarro was no longer a Colonel; he had left the service of his king a few years before; in fact, it was just after his first trip to these Incan lands. Amassed around him now was his own private army and although they no longer had any official ranks, both he and Almargo had served together for many years. Those blood stained days in the light infantry during the long Italian campaigns felt like a lifetime ago, or it did for Pizarro at least.

  “Set up the guards, my friend. We’re going to need to form a defensive line,” Pizarro said, as his eyes scanned the shoreline and then back up to the locals. “I don’t like the look of them; those damn savages seem to be planning something.” He gently placed his hand on his man’s shoulder. “We may have to give them a little lesson. Make sure the cannon is ready. This could be the perfect time to show them our power.”

  Almargo glanced over at the ridge, and then nodded to his master. This was nothing new to them; both of these men had faced and defeated their enemies many times before. Their base back at what is now called Panama, was littered with the unmarked graves of those who had been foolish enough to stand against them. A few more dead savages would not rest too heavily on their souls.

  As the long night came and went, and the morning sun came rolling over those pretty hilltops, the villagers would once again prove that Pizarro was right.

  The first rays of light brought the heavy noise of beating drums and blazing trumpets, an ear-splitting chorus that lasted well over an hour. Pizarro was not sure if the Incans done this to intimidate their enemies, to rally their own troops, or for that matter, a little bit of both. As he looked through his spyglass at the natives with their wooden shields, cloth tunics and animal skin helmets, fear was the last thing on his mind, even if they did have him outnumbered almost ten to one. Almargo was no longer at his masters’ side; he was walking up and down the line ensuring the men were ready.

  The instruments suddenly went quiet, and it was then that the high-pitched screaming began and they were on the move. Swarms of the villagers washed down through the fields from the hills high above. Feathered headdresses waved back and forth as they got closer, forming a beautiful sea of wild colour within the dull shades of green maize.

  “Steady,” Pizarro said to the four men that were standing at the cannon, one had his hand held just above the fuse, ready to set it alight. “Please wait gentlemen; just wait until I tell you.” He kept a watch on the coming army. “Just let them get a little bit closer.”

  His new foes were only a couple of hundred feet away when a still smiling Pizarro finally gave the order.

  “Fire!”

  Like a thunderclap from the gods, the mighty cannon fired and the huge spinning ball of iron flew deep into the mass of rushing bodies.

  There, that’ll give them something to scream about, thought Pizarro.

  The noise around him grew even louder as nearly a hundred muskets fired as one. A line of men immediately knelt down and started to reload, shoving a lead musket ball and a handful of gunpowder down the long barrel. This allowed a second row of the soldiers behind them to fire into the now rapidly thinning crowd. They knelt to reload, and as if without almost any break, the first row was rising up to fire once more. Over and over again, this deadly sequence was repeated while the thunderous cannon continued to beat its periodic cadence of destruction.

  Pizarro watched as an array of body parts flew through the air, ripped apart by an angry cannonball. Underneath them, rows of men, both young and old, dropped lifeless to the ground as the rifle lead riddled their bodies. The air was rancid with the smell of sulphur, blood, and death.

  A few, barely even a handful of the Incans somehow made it through the heavy barrage, but dozens of razor sharp swords were ready for their arrival. There was no real chance of success for them once they got through. All that was waiting was their rapid passage to heaven.

  The first ever Spanish-Incan battle was over almost as quickly as it started. As the smoke and dust started to settle, the full extent of the slaughter was clearly visible to all. However, that was not the end of it, far from it. With a wave of his hand, Pizarro sent Almargo and a group of his soldiers into the fallen bodies.

  *****

  It took quite a while for Almargo to return from his trip into the sea of bodies. He and twenty of his soldiers had carefully walked through the battlefield to ensure that all who had fallen were dead. If any were found to be still breathing, not one drop of me
rcy was shown. A sharp blade was quickly run through their heart. They had dared to face the great Pizarro in battle and they would learn what it meant to defy this Spaniard.

  “Colonel, I have a list of the casualties,” Almargo said as he came over and stood before Pizarro. “We only lost three men, and four more received minor injuries when they got through our firing line. The number of enemy dead is approximately seven hundred, sir.”

  Pizarro proudly looked out at the now still and silent battlefield that spread out before him.

  Only three dead, he thought. Good, very good.

  After making a perfunctory sign of the cross, Pizarro sent his long serving friar, the brown robed and permanently solemn-faced Father Vincente de Valverde, into the carnage to perform the last rites sacrament. Although he truly believed the bodies before him had simply been a bunch of bloodthirsty savages that worshiped false gods, he somehow felt that it was his Christian duty to bestow some grace upon them. He watched contentedly as the friar moved around the battlefield, chanting his payers and sprinkling the bodies with holy water from his silver vial.

  The priest took pride in his task, even in dealing with death, they still showed they were civilised.

  3- The journey to the Capital

  As Pizarro took a few moments to enjoy the handiwork of his men, he still knew that this was not the time to rest on his laurels. He was already thinking ahead. He needed to get his men moving, to get them away from the bay, and to do it quickly. He would never let his confidence get too high; he had fought in far too many battles to indulge in such folly. However, there was one thing he did know for sure; it would be unsafe and unwise to stay here for too long. Defeating the natives would have undoubtedly sent them a message, but it would only be a matter of time before the Incans got their nerve back and their numbers up. They would surely try another attack; they would want to take revenge and rout the Spanish. He took one more look out at the battlefield, at the sea of the fallen. If his forces had been defeated like that, he would already have a new plan in action.