Free Ruins by Kevin Anderson Page B

scent of the fresh warm wetness drove the creatures into a frenzy. The feathered serpents charged toward him with the sound of rushing water, crackling leaves. In the moonlight, feath-ered scales gleamed ... bright teeth ... long claws from vestigial limbs.
    Tonight, Pepe thought, the old gods would get their sacrifice. His machete dropped to the dirt. The feathered serpents fell upon him.
    Cancun, Mexico Thursday, 4:21 p.m.

    With some amusement, Scully watched Mulder heave a sigh of relief as the crowd of partying senior citizens filed off the chartered airplane and ambled toward the baggage claim area and customs station in the Cancun air-port. They waited by a row of stations where uniformed men took their tourist cards and stamped their passports, before turning them loose to retrieve their luggage.
    The man at the counter stamped Mulder's passport and handed it back.
    "If I ever start wearing plaid pants, promise me you'll stop me before I buy a ticket for the Love Boat," Rubicon said, as if forcing a joke. "I'm never going to retire."
    Dozens of people hawking tour packages swarmed among the tourists, stuffing brochures into every empty hand. After conquering their luggage, the senior citizens tour group descended upon the bus aisle outside and climbed aboard their specially chartered Luxury Coach like lost chickens being rounded up and ushered back to the coop. Young men—certainly not airport employees— bustled about to help with the baggage, hoping for a tip. Scully led the way through immigration to the baggage pickup area where they grabbed their luggage, passed through customs without incident, and went to find the courtesy van that would take them to their hotel. Though neither she nor Mulder spoke Spanish, nearly all signs and shops around them catered to English speakers.
    The moment any one of them looked con-fused, two or three Mexicans appeared, smiling warmly and offering their assistance. Rubicon made a show of employing his linguistic abilities to get direc-tions and exchange their money. The old archaeologist seemed delighted to be useful as part of the expedition.
    On the way to the Caribbean Shores hotel, they rode in the small van with a newlywed couple who were entirely preoccupied with each other. The driver played brassy disco music on the car stereo; he hummed along, tapping his fingertips on the steering wheel, the dash-board, or his leg.
    Mulder sat next to Scully, flipping through a handful of colorful brochures the various tour representatives had forced upon him. "Listen to this, Scully," he said. "Welcome to Cancun, 'where the beautiful turquoise Caribbean Sea caresses the silky sand beaches.' The waters are 'filled with romantic coral reefs or mysterious and exciting sunken Spanish galleons.' Somebody must have a good thesaurus to concoct those descriptions."
    "Sounds charming," she said, looking out the win-dow at the bright sun, the vibrant colors. Thick trees lined both sides of the road. "At least this is better than an Arctic research station or an Arkansas chicken-processing plant."
    He flipped through other pamphlets, including a map of the hotel zone, a narrow spit of land between the Caribbean Sea and Nichupte Lagoon. Bright letters pro-claimed, "Nearly every room with an ocean view!"
    Rubicon sat with his duffel across his bony knees. He seemed either to be listening to the disco music or preoccupied with his own thoughts. His blue eyes blinked rapidly against a sheen of dampness. Scully's heart went out to him.
    The van driver honked his horn and muttered curses in Spanish as he swerved to avoid an ersatz old-fashioned motorized buggy that took up more than its lane in the road down into the hotel zone. The laughing American driver of the buggy waved and then honked his horn in return, a loud cartoonish ahooogah.
    The driver of the van forced a smile at the tourists and waved back, then cursed again under his breath.
    In the back of the van, the newlywed couple giggled and