I’ve been digging in the dirt for thirty years, but I have never felt primal fear like I did that Tuesday. We were deep in the rainforest, in a zone that doesn’t exist on modern maps. My machete struck something hard, making a dull, thudding sound. I cleared away the wet soil and stared into a face.
It wasn’t the crude carving style we usually find with ancient tribes. This was the face of a man twisted in a grimace of pure agony. The detail was terrifying: I could see pores on the stone skin, flared nostrils, even individual eyelashes. “Evans, get over here!” my partner shouted from the brush.
He had found another one. A woman, clutching what looked like a bundle to her chest. We stood in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by seven statues. They all looked frozen a split second before death. And then I noticed a detail on the first statue’s arm that made my blood run cold.
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