Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (33 page)

“So it all went nothing like the
chingado
plan,” Zamora said. “Yet here I am. And the kids are safe.”

“So they are. And so is my Mother, in the other world. I wonder how she and Buddy are taking it.”

“Buddy?”

“Huitzilopochtli. My brother.”

“Oh. Not so well, I think. Now: I reckon you owe me,
vato
. You said if I did this you'd tell me what Brodie was doing mixed up in all this evil shit.”

“But you know,” Tezcatlipoca said. “Don't you?”

Reluctantly, Zamora nodded. “Yeah. The damn weird-ass High Priestess told me, right before her eyes started going all black and shit. The eagle did that too. What was all that about, anyway? Demonic possession?”

“Close enough.”

“Anyway, I reckon the Priestess was old enough to have watched too many movies before the Change. The ones where the bad guy explains everything to the captive hero, for some damn reason, instead of just offing him.”

He drew a deep breath.

“But that wasn't all you promised.”

“You expected some other reward? I thought knowledge was what you were Seeking.”

“And it's all I want now. I don't got much need for money. Also, I already tossed the camp and the stiffs. How you think I got my own stuff back? But you promised to tell me just what the hell broke the universe.”

“Not the universe, my boy. The sun still burns, doesn't it? The Change is a pocket phenomenon, clearly. So—remember the notion that consciousness was a quantum phenomenon? And that sufficiently intense and particular observation could lead to an ability to resculpt Reality itself?”

“Yeah. But that was all a bunch of bullshit pseudoscience.”

Tezcatlipoca chuckled. “Ah, you mortals. You're so amusing in your presumptive arrogance. When you behold a truth that clashes with your prejudices, you have to turn away. For a generation or two. And in this case—”

From his head movement, Zamora could tell he shrugged.

“You didn't have that much time. You see, you mortals—therefore we gods—had a problem.”

“Which was?”

“Remember the creatures we protected your ancestors from?”

“The monsters below the horizon? We had to feed you guys hearts and blood because you were all that kept them out—and they were even worse than you?”

“Precisely.”

“They fucked up the world?”

“They brought the Change about, let us say.”

“Wait. You said, ‘we gods.' That implies those Montival crazies are right, and all kinds of gods are real.”

“Of course they are.”

“
¡Hijo de la chingada!
The world is even more fucked-up than I thought. So what about human sacrifice? You used to be a big fan of that yourself, back in the day. Are you really any better than Huitzilopochtli and the Rattlesnake Mother?”

“Yes,” Tezcatlipoca said. “I don't want to drown the world in blood and fire. I like the world.”

“But don't you need blood and souls too?”

“That's Arioch, from the Michael Moorcock stories. He wrote about a character—”

“Elric of Melniboné. Yeah, I know. So, blood, anyway. And the smoke of hearts.”

“Our particular type of deity—our
familia
, if you want to call it that—do obtain sustenance from human sacrifice, yes. But all that ended with the conquest of the Spanish, who burnt offerings to different gods.”

“So that really is what made you go away?”

“Not exactly,” Tezcatlipoca said. “There is another kind of sustenance you mortals can provide.”

“Which is?”

“The one thing more powerful than any god. Or rather, the lack of it is: attention.”

Zamora laughed. “So when we forgot about you, you went away?”

“Not all the way. Faded into the background, more.”

“What brought you back?”

“We were forced to act, by what you might consider pooling our wills. Otherwise, your kind would simply have been destroyed. And the Change—well, human sacrifice is a potent energy source for my kind. The attendant loss of life refueled all of us, willy-nilly.”

Zamora was frowning. The gears were turning in his mind. Slowly; he'd had a rough day. But turning.

“So after the Change people started thinking about the old gods again,” he said, “since the technology that supplanted them had failed. And that brought you all the way back?”

“As near as may be, yes.”

“So—I'm feeding you right now.”

“Of course.”

Zamora shuddered.

“So why'd you drag me in on this in the first place? You used to have your own Jaguar Knights. Why not use them?”

“You were already in it up to your shaggy eyebrows,” Tezcatlipoca reminded him. “These days I employ Knights more on a . . . contract basis. What you might call a different enterprise model.”

Zamora's eyes went to slits.

“You don't mean—”

“Of course you're serving as a Jaguar Knight. What did you think you were doing?”

“Acting on my own damn hook.”

“You can show surprising naïveté, for one so crusty, Buscador.”

“Don't you have to go through all kinds of training and rituals and stuff first?”

“I waived all that. I am Tezcatlipoca, after all. And you are a highly useful servant—and so entertaining. Now, are you ready to hear your next assignment?”

“Count me out,
ese
. Just 'cause I'm forced to believe you exist doesn't mean I gotta worship you.”

“Who said anything about worship? I want your strong back and occasionally strong mind, not your good opinion.”

“No way.”

“But you're the Seeker,” Tezcatlipoca said, almost imploringly. “Think of the knowledge I can impart—in dribs and drabs, of course.”

“Because my puny mortal mind can't handle the truth.”

“That, too. Mostly to keep the game going on. It's so much fun for both of us! So be a good little mortal and serve me.”

“Fuck that,” Zamora said. He cocked his arm back and threw the Smoking Mirror out of the camp, as far away into the night as he could.

“You think that's gonna do any good?” asked Recuerdo, who was perched on top of his hat.

“Not a chance in Hell. But it makes me feel better.”

With a startled squawk, the crow leapt into the air. “Whoa! Did you see that? A jaguar just slipped from behind those rocks right outside of camp! Big bastard. Looks like the one we saw by the cantina where you messed those
pendejos
up big-time.”

Zamora heard a sound that might have been a big cat coughing.

Or a god's laughter . . .

by
Terry D.
England

Terry D. England is a former journalist who's covered topics from types of hay to the development of the atomic bomb. He has also reviewed books and movies and did stints as a copy editor. Recently he edited combat narratives as part of the Afghan Study Team for the U.S. Army. One traditionally published novel,
Rewind
, is available as an e-book, and an e-novel;
The Tyranny of Heroes
, is available from online booksellers. Recent projects include writing a descriptive scenario for a top-down video game.

T
he huge ax-head made a mean
sound as it sliced down. Petra screamed as it hit right next to her left ear. She tried to pull away but her hair was snagged. With a grunt, the wild man yanked the blade free. Petra rolled over, tried to claw her way over the books and boxes. The wild man shouted and raised his ax, glittering eyes fixed on her.

“Bastard!” came a scream as someone hurled in from Petra's left and smashed into the wild man, momentum carrying both over the side railing of the wagon. Petra heard their bodies hit the ground, followed by a shout, then a grunt, then nothing. She scrabbled her way to the railing, peeked over carefully. A slim woman in brown and green yanked a sword out of the wild man, wiped it on the man's dirty tunic and sheathed it. She stepped up on the wagon's wheel, locking eyes with Petra.

“You hurt?”

“No, Momma,” Petra said. “He missed.”

“But you didn't. I saw.”

Petra looked down and saw a blue, rectangular object on the ground not far from the body. “I hit him with that dictionary. Daddy will be angry.”

A brief smile formed through the green and brown face paint. Momma leaned over and kissed Petra's forehead. “No, he won't. Now get down and stay alert.” She leaped down.

“You too, Momma,” Petra called.

“Liam!” Momma's voice cut through the sounds of fighting and yelling. A slimmer, shorter figure wearing a helmet ran to her side. He carried a short, curved blade in his right hand.

“You're supposed to stay in the wagon with your sister—”

“Momma, I—”

She grabbed his shoulder, turned him around. “Look. That bone-cracker nearly gutted your sister. And where were you? Not where you were supposed to be. Now get in that wagon!” She shoved him forward.

Liam stiffened, but then his shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mother.”

“And pick that up.” She kicked the book, then dashed off.

As he climbed into the wagon, he tossed the book at Petra, but she dodged.

“Always causing trouble!” he said.

“Not this time, stupid!”

He muttered something and stepped up on a stack of boxes behind the driver's bench. He stood with one foot resting on a box, the sword Blacksmith Gunnarson helped him forge at the ready. In his helmet and long, plated jacket, he looked like a small version of the Wingate Rangers, the irregular coalition militia hired to provide security for the convoy. She climbed to the front of the wagon, keeping her distance from Liam. The wagon shook as the two oxen in harness stamped and huffed, disturbed at the noise and the smell of blood. Most of the fighting had moved beyond a tangle of bushes. Two other bodies sprawled on the ground.

The wild men who had jumped them hadn't figured on a detail of the Rangers shadowing the convoy.

“Sounds like it's over,” Liam eventually said, sheathing his blade. He pulled his helmet off, set it on the seat. He wiped a hand over his long, light hair, but that just made it more tousled. Sweat dripped down his face but he didn't wipe his brow until he'd pulled off his gauntlets and could pull a cloth from a pocket under the coat. From his tone, Petra knew he was angry because once again he'd been shunted off to the side.

The combat master said he had great potential, but he was only fourteen, a fact that irritated Liam. He wanted to be like Momma, a warrior of courage, sharp fighting skills and steely resolve, but her protectiveness of her only son caused him to chafe. Petra could see this in her brother even now, and Momma once said she suspected even the Rangers were going to wonder what hit them when Liam came of age.

A tall man with dark hair tied behind his neck strode rapidly toward the wagon from the direction of the battle. His plated jacket was long and dark brown and he wore a long sword in its scabbard at his side. He climbed into the wagon and looked at his son.

“John and Gary said you jumped into the fray without permission.”

“Poppa, I—”

“Leaving your sister vulnerable.”

“I wasn't going to let anyone near.” The boy stood straight, glaring at his father.

“Then what's that?” Poppa pointed to the wild man's body, the hand-ax lying nearby.

Liam's face and neck turned deep red, but a wave from Father cut him off. “We have no time for this now.”

Petra tried to shrink into a small creature, out of sight and mind. She hated being the source of conflict between Liam and Poppa. Eight years old, not a little baby, certainly, but that's how she was treated. Poppa turned to her.

“Momma said you bopped him one.”

She picked up the dictionary. “I hit his ugly face with this,” she said. “He almost fell off the wagon, but jumped back and tried to hit me with that ax. Mud got on it—”

Father tossed the book onto the pile. “That's all right, it's old, printed well before the Reckoning. Any others?”

“He chopped that one with the green cover.”

Poppa climbed over and picked it up, but it nearly fell apart. “My God! It's been nearly sliced through—what . . . Petra, come here!”

He touched her chin and turned her head to the right. She felt his fingers along her left neck and ear. “Didn't cut skin, but look.”

He held up the book in one hand, lifted a tangle of dark hair with the other. He turned, held the items up for Liam. “See? That's how close—Liam!”

The boy leaped down and ran off. Father took a deep breath, turned back to Petra. “Did you get a good look at his eyes? Were they just, like, black, no whites?”

“I don't think so, Poppa. I—I couldn't tell—”

He placed a hand on her head. “Never mind,
petite fleur
, it's OK.” He began pulling off his gloves. “Almost not worth this trip.”

“But we found Grandpa a gift.”

Poppa looked at her. “Is it still here?”

Petra clambered back forward, reached under the seat, pulled out a cloth bag. She opened it, pulled out a package wrapped in bright purple paper tied with white string.

“Well, that's a plus, I guess,” he said.

One teamster and two Rangers suffered light injuries, but four wild men were dead and the others had fled. As the injured were being tended to, Momma came by the wagon leading two horses.

“Yates is going to be furious,” Poppa said as he opened a clear bottle, took a drink of water. “To him, this side trip is a waste of time and effort.”

“All books are a waste of time to him,” Momma said. “Is he right, Mycroft?”

“I . . . Marian, that old plantation was exactly as described. A half-buried concrete bunker in back, one of the most elaborate I've ever seen. They had moved the whole family's library down there, where it all stayed nice and dry for decades. And this was before the Reckoning hit. And the books, Jesus, honey, some real valuable stuff. The librarians are going to be knocked on their butts. So”—he pointed to the stacks in the wagon—“no, Yates is wrong.”

“What about the black books?”

Poppa shook his head. “They're in the other wagon, untouched. I don't think these guys knew about them.” He gave Petra a hug, picked up the sliced book, left the wagon and mounted one of the horses.

“What I should've done, though, was send the kids with Yates. I didn't expect cultists this far south.”

“Neither did we, but it looks like it was just a small group. Ready, Pettibone?”

“All set, ma'am,” said a stocky, barrel-chested man as he climbed into the wagon, setting his sword and club under the seat. “Where do we meet Yates?”

“On Old 90, or if he's already passed, in Welsh on eye-ten,” Poppa said. “Petra, stay safe.”

“Where's Liam?” She settled at the end of the driver's bench.

“In the other wagon,” Momma said. “I will deal with him later.”

“All right,” Poppa said as he rode away.

“Allez!”
Pettibone shouted as he flicked the reins. The two oxen huffed their displeasure but they started moving. “I know, I know, my pretty ones, you almost ended up in a bone-cracker pot, but you're all OK now, so let's concentrate on our job, eh?”

Petra could see Liam in the lead wagon. He had to be sweltering in his armored gear; she felt the heat and humidity in just a cotton pullover shirt, denim shorts and leather sandals. Shortly after they got under way, though, Momma rode up leading another horse. Liam leaped out of the wagon, climbed on the horse and both rode into the bushes off the trail.

“He gets to go horseback riding again,” she muttered.

“I don't think this is a pleasure ride,” Pettibone said.

They reached Old 90 quickly. Yates had left a message at a way station just south of the intersection saying the convoy had gone on to Welsh. Because of the late hour, Poppa called a halt. The two wagons pulled off the road into a fenced area where two families with horse-drawn wagons had already set up camp. Fresh-killed rabbit and steamed vegetables were prepared over a fire. Momma and Liam soon returned, but Liam just stomped by, looking neither right nor left. His eyes were red and face set in anger. Petra gasped when Mother tossed the cut book into the campfire. Petra looked at Poppa.

“What kind of book was it?” she said as the flames began to devour pages.

“Just some old political tract,” he said.

But “political tracts” were important, weren't they? And here was one burning in a fire. Because of her. And Liam was in trouble. Because of her.

After dinner, Momma sat Petra on a log and began to untangle, then cut her hair. “We can't have you looking off-kilter.”

“And erase Liam's mistake.”

The snipping stopped. “Yes.” The cutting continued.

“But, Momma, he might've been killed—”

“Doing his duty.” Petra looked around at her. “Honey, let's just say he'd been given orders to follow and he didn't. Let it go.”

Momma was combing out her now-short hair when Poppa walked up.

“A new ‘do,' eh?” He squinted at her, hand on chin. “It's gonna take some getting used to not seeing that tangle on your head.”

“It'll grow back,” Petra said.

“I have no doubt.”

“'Croft, we've got to get these kids to Athena. Please, no more side trips.”

“No, no more delays. We join the rest of the convoy tomorrow, then it's a straight shot to Lafayette. Getting to Ezra Hawks' place should be quick 'n easy.”

Just the sound of “getting to eye-ten” excited Petra.

“Why? Is just a big ol' road,” said Pettibone the next day as the wagon rumbled along.

“Because of the eyes.”

“The what?”

“Eye-ten, doesn't that mean there are eyes watching or something?”

“Eyes?” Pettibone whooped. “Yah, that would make it interestin' all right. Whooee!” He laughed again, but worse, Liam joined in.

“Eyeballs all over the road, that'd be a sight all right. Ha, Ha! Squish, squish, squish as we run 'em over. Hah! No, no, missy, no eyes, too bad, eh? The ‘eye' means the letter ‘I.' Just a letter and a number, yes.”

Petra felt heat flush her face. “Well, what does ‘I ten' mean, then?” she said.

Pettibone's laughter stopped and he turned thoughtful, though Liam snickered and jabbed her side.

“I do not know,” Pettibone said. “Just a letter and a number. A road, that's all, one of those huge Before-Reckoning mothers.”

Yates had the main convoy lined up and ready when they arrived in Welsh. Poppa placed the two book wagons as third and fourth, which Yates had anticipated.

Poppa didn't wait; with a “Move out!” the convoy began its ponderous progress. They had to cross the “big road” first, going over it on a bridge.

“Two roads,” Petra said.

“Nope, same road,” Pettibone said. “See? On this side, traffic goes thataway”—he pointed to the right as they passed over it—“an' on the other side, the one we want, it goes thataway.” He pointed left. “Keeps everyone from bumpin' into each other, see?”

The convoy had to travel over the bridge and turn left on a narrow road that angled up until it disappeared into a long ribbon of gray. As they merged into the flat road, which was mostly gray, except where patches of white or red stone had been used for repairs, convoy masters trotted back and forth making sure all the wagons stayed in line.

The convoy stayed to the right, while smaller wagons—some with brightly colored cloth tops—a four-wheeled buggy with covered openings pulled by two dark horses driven by a man in a tall hat, and two men dressed in green riding horses with one leading a pack mule passed on the left. Otherwise, traffic was sparse.

The land changed from hills and forests of their home village on the Calcasieu River to flat fields, some with crops rippling in the light breeze. Sometimes she'd see human figures in these fields bent over in their labors. Other sections were bare where dust devils played. The gray and green flatness was broken up occasionally by passage under bridges, except for a crossing where one had fallen, forcing the traffic on the other lane to go around at surface level.

Progress was rapid despite the rest stops, mostly for the oxen as the teamsters fed and watered them. The final stop was just a field next to the highway. The convoy broke up into four groups of six, except for two that had one extra wagon each, each forming circles, oxen in the middle. The Rangers patrolled along all four groups while the convoy masters and teamsters took up defensive positions along the wagons. It was a no-fire night, so dinner was dried meat, dried vegetables and fruit, crusty bread and a little cheese. The trip the next day was more of the same, so Petra thumbed through a heavy paper book called the
Sears, Roebuck & Company General Merchandise Catalog
, Spring/Summer 1956. She wondered what it'd be like to wear a frilly dress, little pink socks, petticoats and hard shoes.

“What's RV?” Liam asked as the convoy pulled into the Frog City RV Park that night.