“That’s a strange... costume.” Temi pointed to a bear fur cloak that was clasped about the man’s pale shoulders. His muscular chest was bare, with dark blue tattoos running up and down his arms, and he wore some very old-fashioned wool trousers.
“Looks like he was planning to go as a Viking this Halloween,” I said.
There were weapons too. A spear had broken when a rock fell onto it, though a sword leaning against the back of the alcove had survived unscathed, along with a battered and gashed wooden shield. I picked up a leather helmet that had rolled away from the pile and turned it over in my hands.
I must have made some noise, or perhaps stared at it for an inordinately long time, because Simon prodded me.
“Delia?”
“This is bizarre,” I said.
“Tell us something we don’t know. Are you referring to the situation as a whole or that helmet in particular?”
“This. All of it.” I waved toward the weapons and the body. “I don’t think this is a costume.”
“What else would it be?”
A real Viking, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud, because it sounded idiotic. This was the American southwest in the twenty-first century, not medieval Europe. “I don’t know. I guess it has to be a reproduction. Nothing is aged the way it would be if it were a museum piece. Whoever crafted it did a good job making it look real though.” I avoided eyeing the dead fellow. It made me uneasy knowing he’d been alive a half hour ago. At least it seemed that way. I was still mystified at the idea that someone had been down here.
“Shouldn’t there be horns sticking out of the helmet?” Simon asked.
“No, that’s only in the comics and cartoons. This is a much more authentic kit. Look at the shield. There are even teeth marks in it—the berserkers supposedly bit their own shields as part of their warrior fury.”
“Maybe he’s a part of someone’s LARP team,” Simon said.
“And what were they role-playing down here? Viking spelunkers?”
“What are you saying?” Simon asked. “That this guy was a Viking?”
“No, of course not. He just died. How could that be possible?”
“Enh, all sorts of weird stuff is happening in town this week.”
I forced myself to consider the man more closely. I’d have no trouble poking and prodding at a thousand-year-old mummified cadaver, but studying someone with blood still trickling from his wounds was a different story. Summoning the detachment of a scientist—or a morgue worker—wasn’t easy. In addition to the fresh gaping wounds, he had a number of old scars on his arms. I didn’t know enough about sword fighting to proclaim that he’d gotten them that way, but they were a mix of straight lacerations and punctures.
“I don’t know,” I said again, reluctant to commit to anything. As the one with the archaeology degree, I ought to be the last one to posit ridiculous unscientific notions. “For all we know, he might have been made by whoever made the monster.” Speaking of unscientific notions.... “Maybe it’s a robot,” I said helplessly.
“A robot that bleeds?” Temi asked.
I made a throwaway gesture, half dismissal and half frustration, then walked farther down the chamber, only to halt at the next caved-in alcove. This one held a body as well, the gashed remains of a lean, muscular black man with his hair pulled back in tiny braids and his ears pierced with disks of elephant tusk. Streaks of red ochre paint smudged his cheeks, and he wore a dyed garment that I dubbed a toga, though I doubted that was the right word. I’d only had one class that had touched upon African history.
“Masai warrior?” I asked and found myself looking at Temi for her opinion. She offered a blank look in return, and I blushed and gave myself a mental kick in the butt. Right, because she was black, she was automatically an expert on nomadic African tribes from centuries past.
“This one got a weapon out at least.” Temi pointed to his hand.
He’d died holding a knife. But if he’d been fighting the creature, why hadn’t we heard any sounds of combat? Surely he would have yelled or screamed in pain when his flesh was torn asunder. His eyes weren’t even open. The first man’s hadn’t been either. From their calm faces, it appeared as if they’d died in their sleep rather than in battle.
Simon had moved farther down the chamber, and I was of a mind to catch up and leave this mystery until later, but something about the African man’s face snagged my gaze. He appeared to have been about thirty with broad handsome features. Trying to put scientific curiosity ahead of squeamishness, I knelt to examine his teeth. His lips were still warm. I felt sick. If we’d had decent weapons or some kind of plan, we might have been able to stop the predator from slaying all of these people. Whoever they were—had been—I was certain they would have been intriguing to know.