The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER TWO

Baltasar jogged down the double set of steps, feeling the first vibration traveling through the concrete and up his legs. This wasn’t the warning pulse though, this was the real thing. It felt like a small earthquake, and those that felt it froze in place, eyes widening, body language suddenly hesitant. He saw them turning toward each other, looking for some kind of explanation, some solace perhaps, but not a single one of them had an answer.

Not the crowd heading straight toward him, eager to see the museum. Not the bus drivers collected down the road, smoking and drinking and talking about life. Not the school kids to the left, so close to the entrance that they were in danger already.

Another vibration, this one deeper, stronger. Baltasar kept walking, and then felt the earth move once more. It felt like an earthquake to be sure, and that was good. Mimicking the herd — because he knew a man walking away from this and not watching was considered unnatural and would be spotted later by the police — he stared back at the museum as he continued forward. He forced a look of concern onto his visage, maybe even fright.

The museum’s vast multi-columned façade lurched. Mortar crumbled away from the many joints and then a large piece of rubble sheared away from one of the walls. Windows shattered, compressed out of shape. Glass exploded in every direction, littering the swelling floors. A tidal wave almost seemed to pass through the building, raising its enormous bulk and then letting it resettle, and but then the mega damage was already done.

A column fell away from the front, looming over tourists and then crashing into their midst as they scattered. The ground shattered, the column burst apart. Debris shot far and wide. Another column began to sway. People streamed out of the front doors, screaming, waving arms and trying to pull loved ones along. Many fell in the panic, trampled. Others fought and punched and embraced their baser instincts. Baltasar knew this was normal; many would regret it later; a few would not.

The trees that fronted the museum were shaking, the earth turning. Incredibly, people were taking shelter beneath, turning Baltasar’s phony look of amazement into a genuine one.

“One of the greatest museums in the world,” his master had said, shaking his head slowly, regretfully. “A poor choice we have, but our path is greater. We are worthier. It all comes down to our greater good.”

Unquestioning, Baltasar now saw first-hand the incredibly complexity and depth of his master’s belief.

It was truly breathtaking.

The lengthy wings to both ends of the entrance began to crumble. The roof collapsed. Screams of terror and death curdled the air. Invaluable collections of artifacts were destroyed. Men, women and children flew past Baltasar, trying to escape the area. The man thought that might be a very good idea. He walked faster, stopped to blend in, then ran for a while. He looked erratic, scared. The rucksack on his back that contained the small, insignificant artifact that had triggered this staggering event looked like every other rucksack on every other back.

The artifact inside was safe. His master would be pleased. Baltasar took one more moment to study the crumbling edifice, the crash of stone columns, the madness of panic. He listened to the rumble and groan of the earth, the terror in the air. He smelled utter fear and gasoline and powder. He saw pluming dust, chunks of rubble still collapsing. The rumbling had already stopped, but the hell that followed was only just beginning.

Baltasar imagined a nice journey back to the homeland, the easy bus that would eventually get him there. A long trip, but the right trip. Incongruous. Safer than flying because the masters couldn’t accept the minute risk that an aircraft might crash and kill everyone on board.

They would then lose the artifact.

At least if a bus crashed, Baltasar stood a chance.

He wondered what they were doing now and if they thought about his return in approximately forty eight hours.

Then he saw the time of day and knew they would be deep underground, in uniform, headdress attached perhaps, knives gleaming and maybe already streaked with blood. The symbol they worshipped would never let them down — but sacrifice was required. The chanting would be deepening, growing more feral. The fires would be raging.

Baltasar slipped away from the horrifying scene of devastation, unable to keep the smile of pleasure from his face.