Pyramid of the Dead: A Zombie Novel Read online

  If his mission to claim the gold was to succeed as well as he hoped, he needed to get deep into the empire, to the capital. They had to go to the city they called Cuzco and meet with the Incan leader, the King named Atahualpa. It would be far easier to be given all the gold he desired rather than taking it by force. Pizarro thought he might be able to trick and lie his way to obtain the prize. If not, he was more than prepared to demand the gold. After this show of power, he hoped the threat of even more deaths would sway those negotiations in his favour.

  So before they even had time to be settled in the bay, they set off. A month of hard marching lay ahead for the majority of his men. The great Pizarro, his lieutenants and closest allies, however, would be riding through the jungle in style, astride the fine, white horses they had brought with them.

  *****

  The first two weeks of the journey were uneventful, though the elements were taking their toll, even on Francisco Pizarro. Sweat streamed down his brow as they rode along the jungle paths under the blazing summer sun. He felt as though he were being slowly cooked inside his uniform. Looking at his men as they struggled along in their heavy tunics, breastplates and helmets, he almost felt sorry for them... almost. Almargo had even asked him if they could be allowed to remove some items of clothing, but Pizarro refused his mens request, this was not acceptable.

  They had to show the Incas the full glory of Spain and it would not be long now before they were seen. The only surprise was that it had taken them so long.

  “Have you seen them, sir,” Almargo asked as they led their troops through a long, deep valley. He already suspected what the answer would be.

  “Yes, my friend. There are about a dozen on each of our flanks,” Pizarro replied casually as he kept his eyes forward. “They’ve been following us for the last two miles, and they don’t seem to be worried about being spotted. Actually, I believe they want us to know we’ve seen them. Even so, you need to spread the word along the line, tell the men to expect some trouble.”

  As the hours slowly passed, the numbers surrounding them grew as well. Pizarro had given orders to pick up the pace of the march and by now, they were moving along at almost a brisk jog. He wanted to get his men out of the valley as soon as humanly possible, for they all knew this would be the perfect place for an ambush.

  Just as the warm daylight was giving way to the dullness of the oncoming dusk, they saw the end. The hills around them were beginning to shorten and a large expanse of thick jungle lay directly ahead. But any joy they had at this sight was short lived, as they could also see a mass of several hundred Incans waiting ahead.

  As the Spaniards ground to a halt, a solitary man split away from the vast line of Incan warriors and walked towards them, his arms held out wide to show the Spaniards he was unarmed.

  “Move it,” Pizarro called out to his men. “Hurry, we need to form a defensive line.” He had never trusted a savage before and he certainly wasn’t going to start this day. His men, as always, followed his orders without any hesitation and within moments, a tight square was formed, the soldiers’ muskets were up and at the ready.

  “My name is Minco,” the tall, lean native called out in fluent Spanish as he strode purposefully towards them. “Let me come forward and speak.”

  All of the Spaniards were shocked by the man’s use of their language. They had never heard a savage speak so fluently before. Even the slaves they kept at other ports for years could barely manage a word or two.

  “What in god’s name...” Almargo stuttered. Pizarro put his hand on his man’s shoulder to quiet him, and then walked through the line out into the open.

  He glanced back and whispered another order to his men. “Hold your fire. No one is to shoot unless I say so. I want to hear what this man has got to say.” He had never been afraid of battle, but he was also old and wise enough to know that there was a time and a place for diplomacy. Especially in a situation like this, when the enemy before him held the ground and the advantage.

  In silence, the two men walked towards each other and met directly in the middle of the two mighty armies. They stood six feet apart, each man assessing the other for a moment. Pizarro noted that the man in front of him was a fair bit younger than he- maybe in his early thirties. Even so, his face bore many battle scars, clear evidence that he must have fought in many a conflict.

  “I am called Francisco Pizarro,” he began. “I’ve come from far across the seas to your lands under the flag of Spain and I am here to meet with your King.” He was, of course, on no mission for the King of Spain. This was his own personal undertaking, but he knew that this lie would sound better.

  The Incan nodded gently at his words and then took an exaggerated look over Pizarro’s shoulder at the well-armed men lined up behind him.

  “My name is Minco Ochi. I am the Defender of Cuzco.” The Incan stood tall and spoke with a booming voice. “And what do you wish to do with your army? Have you come to our lands with some thoughts of conquest?”

  “No, my friend,” Pizarro smiled and shook his head. “It’s not that at all, they are for defence only. Would you not go into a foreign land with enough men at your side to protect against an attack?”

  Minco’s thoughts went back to his tribesmen at Puna, his many dead tribesmen. If he could have his way, the floor of this green valley would have been awash with Spanish blood before now. The chasqui, the runners who delivered messages throughout the empire, had brought the news of the slaughter direct to the capital. The army had already amassed over five thousand of its finest men, most still held outside the city, ready for the order to march and destroy this new threat. Even more of them were also on their way from every corner of the empire; however, the King himself had ideas other than battle. Minco had to fight hard to hold back his desire to strike with his axe and open up the Spaniard’s skull. He wanted; he needed to end this conversation quickly.

  “I will take you to meet our King,” he said. “My men and I will escort you on the road to Cuzco.” He held his arm up, pointing further down the path.

  Pizarro bowed down slightly, and gently tugged at the peak of his fancy hat, a half-hearted attempt at thanks. The two hardened warriors stared at each other for a few more seconds before returning to their lines. Deep down, both would have preferred a battle and no matter what words had just been spoken, they both had no doubts, it would only be a matter of time before they got their wish.

  This new army of Minco’s kept the Spaniards under a constant and close watch, keeping them entirely surrounded as they made their way through the thick foliage and deeper into the Empire. Wherever Pizarro or his men looked, whether it was ahead, left, right or behind, there was a line of the Incans nearby. And every one of them looked far from friendly.

  It made for a long and nervous journey.

  *****

  After only walking for a couple of hours during the next morning, they came to a stop outside a quaint and well-kept settlement consisting of no more than a dozen or so buildings. Once the Spaniards had set up their camp on its outskirts, Minco took Pizarro and a few of his men into the town and onto its largest building, set right in the centre. He explained to them that it was called a Tambos, a rest house that was designed to serve the higher classes. Pizarro and Almargo gave each other a little smile, for the first time in many months they would have a little taste of luxury, and they were not going to be disappointed.

  The numerous seats inside the square building were all covered in heavy, plush animal skins and as they sat down, they were treated like some visiting royalty. Several young, and very pretty, local girls brought in a succession of huge copper plates. Each of these plates carried a wide, mouth-watering array of food. The first few contained a selection of meats that Minco described as camelid- cured llama and cuyes, which were what appeared to be slow roasted complete guinea pigs. Other trays of delights contained various types of fish, fresh vegetables, nuts and corn, but the best was still to come. Before they started to eat, sever
al ornate wooden barrels of drink were placed all around; Minco told them this was called chicha, an alcoholic beverage made from fermented maize.

  Most of the Spaniards did not have to be asked twice to sample these gifts. They ate and drank merrily through the rest of the day and long into the night, but Pizarro did not trust this new adversary, Minco. Food was taken but the chicha was left well alone, he needed to keep his head clear and his wits about him. He had a feeling that he would have to keep an eye on the Incan.

  Minco himself sat alone in the opposite corner. He also did not take a taste of the nectar. It appeared that Pizarro’s distrust had some company.

  *****

  A couple of hours after nightfall, a woman’s screams of terror woke everyone in the sleeping settlement. Almost as one, the only sober men, Pizarro and Minco ran out from the Tambos and into the dark central square.

  Peering into the torch lit darkness, Pizarro saw a young woman run into view just as they arrived. Her simple, cloth dress was ripped and torn and she was holding the remnants of it together with both hands in an attempt to cover up her scratched and bleeding flesh. Minco grabbed her as she ran towards him, holding her tightly in his arms as she sobbed an explanation in her native tongue.

  As the two Incans spoke, Pizarro saw one of his men stagger from behind a hut. He was pulling up his trousers as he wove drunkenly towards them. Pizarro’s heart sank at this sight, realising what had just happened.

  When Minco saw the Spanish soldier, his fury was evident as his voice rang out. He roared an order repeatedly and the square quickly filled with dozens of the Incan warriors, each one with a weapon at the ready.

  “Stop,” Pizarro shouted at the top of his voice. “Please stop them, Minco. We need to find out what the hell is going on first!” He knew all too well what had happened, but he was trying to buy time to come up with a plan.

  Unfortunately, Minco was not in the mood for stopping. He drew his own axe and with a white knuckled grip, marched right towards Pizarro’s man.

  The soldier, Juan de Palencia, an old war veteran from the city of Madrid, stood frozen on the spot. The sight of the bloodthirsty savages surging toward him had an amazingly sobering effect. He looked beseechingly to Pizarro, his gaze a helpless plea for salvation.

  “Sir...please Colonel...please ...help me!”

  Crack!

  A single shot rang out in the cold night air. The natives stopped dead in their tracks, heads whipping towards the source of this new and startling sound. They saw the one called Pizarro holding a long stick with smoke seeping out from its end. The rest of Pizarro’s men knew that he had just demonstrated the heavy cost of disorderly conduct under his command.

  Palencia held shaking hands over his large, rotund stomach. Blood seeped between his tightly clasped fingers and dripped down to the ground at his feet, one heavy drop at a time. He stumbled forward one heavy step, and then fell to his knees. Thick blood gurgled from his mouth as he tried to speak.

  Crack!

  Another shot shattered the shocked silence that had followed its predecessor. Pizarro had grabbed the late arriving Almargo’s musket and sent the second shot straight through Palencia’s forehead. The man toppled lifelessly to the ground.

  “Drop your weapons,” Pizarro said to his men who were now all amassed behind him and readying their own weapons. “Do as I say. It’s our only chance to get out of this alive. Do it now!” He raised his musket over his head and then threw it to the ground at his feet.

  Slowly, very slowly, his men did as they were ordered until only Almargo stood with his rapier sword up and at the ready. The old soldier was extremely reluctant to leave himself unarmed, especially considering the palpable tension in the air.

  “Please, my old friend, drop it,” Pizarro said. “You must know they would have killed him anyway. Don’t grieve for him, he was nothing but a stupid fool whose actions may yet cause the death of us all.”

  Gently, he took the long blade from his loyal friends grasp and threw it to the ground too. “Trust me, Almargo,” he whispered in his ear, “please just trust me.”

  The swarm of natives had regained their courage after the shock of the shots and were edging closer again, so Pizarro stepped into the middle of the square, holding his hands skywards.

  “Minco,” he said quietly. “I can do nothing more than apologise to you for what that man did to your woman. He deserved to die, die like a dog. But please remember it was I who took vengeance in your stead,” he said pointing at the blood-soaked corpse beyond them. “Please…please, Minco, don’t let what this one man has done destroy everything that we can build.”

  Minco angrily regarded at the body of the dead Spaniard, then back toward the still crying young woman. Thoughts raced wildly through his mind. The King had ordered him to go and bring these visitors back to Cuzco unharmed. But a girl, an Incan girl had been attacked; one of these so called visitors had forced himself upon her. His own men wanted blood, much more than the life of that one single soldier. Their burning eyes were locked on Minco, waiting for him to give the order to attack, to destroy these evil men.

  For all of his life, the most important thing to Minco had been his loyalty. Loyalty to his people, but even more viral was his loyalty he had to his King. With a heavy heart, he knew what he must do. Through gritted teeth, he turned and faced his own people, speaking to them in his native tongue so that Pizarro and his men would not understand his words.

  “My people, we must wait. We will have our revenge, but it cannot be today. Our King has ordered me to bring these men back to Cuzco to meet with him. We must, as always, obey the word of the King. But I promise you all this- we will take our revenge.”

  It was all too clear that his tribesmen were far from happy with his words, even Pizarro and his men could clearly see that. Murmurs and whispers flew back and forth amongst them as they questioned their leader’s orders. They did not like what he was saying, but they were nearly as loyal to their King as the great Protector was. For now, they would do just as he said. For now Minco guessed, but not for too much longer.

  Minco looked over to Pizarro then marched towards him. Anger was still racing in his eyes when he said, “Spaniard, get the rest of your men together. We’re leaving here now.” He looked to the night sky. “We’re not waiting until the sun comes up.” Without another word, he stormed off into the darkness.

  *****

  The journey to Cuzco got even harder, for in the next two weeks, marching was all that they seemed to do. They never stopped at any of the settlements they passed. Minco was not willing to risk anything else going wrong. If anything like the previous incident happened again, nothing, not even the word of the King himself would be able to stop the Incan warriors from slaughtering the Spaniards.

  Cold, damp and insect ridden nights were spent under the stars with only some meagre dried rations to eat and none of that wondrous chicha to taste. Minco also kept his distance from the Spaniards, setting his own camp apart from Pizarro and his men.

  Eventually Pizarro had enough of the constant silence. Such cold silence. One night, he went to the Incans camp to speak directly to Minco, who he found was warming himself by a fire. He felt the urge, the need, to try to build a bridge between them again. This was of course, so he could keep this Minco as close as possible.

  “Tell me something Minco, how did you manage to learn our language so well?” he asked as he sat down beside the man. It was the only slice of small talk he could think of. “Who was it that taught you?”

  Minco did not want to talk to the Spaniard but as the Defender of Cuzco, he saw it as a chance to learn more about his enemy.

  “What you would call a missionary came to our lands about ten years ago. He was from your country but had travelled up from the lands far to the south.” Minco refused to make eye contact as he spoke, his gaze stuck on the flickering flames. “By the time we found him in the jungle, his companions had already perished and he too was near death. We cared
for him, cured his injuries and in return, he taught some of us your language.”

  “Who is this man,” Pizarro asked, both puzzled and angry by the news that one of his countrymen had managed to get to the City of Cuzco before him. “May I meet him when we get to the capital?”

  “His name was Alfonso de Camorra,” Minco replied in a soft voice, “but I’m afraid you’re a little too late. He died almost two years ago.” Without another word, the Incan rose up and left the fireside.

  Pizarro watched him leave; suspecting that Minco had left before he was asked what had caused this man’s death.

  *****

  Their journey seemed to be a seemingly never ending struggle but just a few nights later, when they kept on marching, even well after the sun had set, Pizarro lost what little patience he had left with this lack of information and moved forward to question the lead Incan.

  “My men need to take some rest,” he told the stoic man. “Minco, please, we have got to stop now before they start to collapse.”

  “No, Spaniard,” Minco replied without breaking his stride. “We’ll keep on going until daybreak. We’re very close now. We’ll reach the city of Cuzco by first light.”

  Pizarro almost broke into a little smile. The gold that he had craved for years was close and the end of their quest was near.

  Minco was true to his word. As the sun rose again, the capital came into view just as they reached the top of a grassy hill. The Spaniards looked down into the sweeping valley before them in total, awed silence as the warm sunlight kissed the tops of the buildings and the sheer beauty of the place stunned the eye.

  A magnificent, huge golden pyramid towered over the back of the huge city, which was walled on three sides by high, sheer cliffs. Tall iron gates protected the front of the city along with a high stonewall that ran from cliff to cliff. Pizarro was not interested in the slightest with the fine architecture or the expertly carved statues that surrounded the larger buildings. All he could see, even from this far distance was the gold and an avaricious smile spread across his face. It looked more than splendid to him. Gold shields the size of his ship’s sails hung high from a central building that clearly dwarfed all the others. He could barely imagine the tons of gold and silver that must have been used to build this city.