Chapter Nineteen

 

 

Ryan awakened early, disturbed by the first fragile tendrils of dawn sunshine peeking through holes in the thatched roof of their hut.

 

He had slept well, though there'd been a disturbing dream about losing handfuls of jack in a room that was burning. Everywhere he looked for the money would burst into flames, scorching his fingers, making him jump back to safety.

 

He and Krysty had made slow, gentle love during the night, bringing each other to a shuddering climax with the skill of long practice.

 

Now she lay by him, hair spread across the woven blanket like living fire.

 

Outside, he could hear the sounds of a community rising to meet the day.

 

Women pounded grain and readied the mixture to make the breakfast tortillas. A dog barked sharply, once, and somewhere in the village a baby was crying. Fires had been lit, and lazy coils of smoke drifted through the beaded doorway of the hut.

 

The acrid smell of the smoke and the cooking of meat brought back the jarring memory of the ritual sacrifices the previous evening.

 

Everyone in their party had been quiet, shaken by the savage, brutish violence of the ceremony, and nobody had felt like staying up late.

 

Now it was time to rise and face another day in the jungle. Ryan lay still, flat on his back, wondering whether they should leave and make their way back to the gateway and jump out, return to Deathlands.

 

Despite the savagery of the killings, Ryan's sense of morality pressed him to try to do something for Itzcoatl's tribe, caught between a rock and a very hard place.

 

Between their warlike Jaguar neighbors and the slavers away to the north.

 

"I think we could help."

 

Krysty had spoken without opening her emerald eyes, without giving the least warning that she had awakened.

 

"Reading my mind again, lover?" Ryan said, grinning sideways at her.

 

"Not exactly. Last thing we talked about last night." She touched him gently on the chest. "Last thing but one that we talked about. So I realized you were lying awake and I figured it was a fair bet you were still puzzling over whether we should go and jump back to Deathlands or stay. I think we should stay a couple more days and see what we can do."

 

He nodded slowly. "Guess so."

 

 

 

FISH STEW WITH TORTILLAS followed by fruit started the day for everyone.

 

Itzcoatl, two priests, Rain Flower and a dozen older men joined the outlanders for breakfast.

 

"You feel better this morning, Jak?" the chief asked.

 

"Yeah."

 

"You are not used to the way we pay our gods?"

 

"No."

 

"You did not like it?"

 

"Not much," the albino teenager admitted, helping himself to a second helping of the stew, ladling it into his wooden bowl. "No, not much."

 

"It is our way," one of the priests said. Some blood remained in his hair from the previous evening's ceremony, though he'd obviously made an effort to try to clean it.

 

"Saying that doesn't make it right," Doc pronounced. "Every religion in the damned world thinks it's the one that's got it right. None of them has. You haven't. To butcher those three helpless, drugged men was murder in any language. And trying to gift wrap it in mumbo jumbo and ancient ritual Well, truth is, it makes me sick to the pit of my stomach, Chief. And that's the fact of it."

 

Itzcoatl looked at him for a dozen heartbeats. "There is a word for going against the gods."

 

"Blasphemy?" Doc suggested, while everyone else remained silent.

 

"I think that is it. In our people there are many bad things. Murder is bad. To force a woman to love is bad. Stealing is bad. Witching is very bad. Blasphemy is a bad thing. A very bad thing. You could feel the noose tighten about your throat if you speak things against the gods."

 

There were warriors standing behind each of the Anglos, something that was already making Ryan uncomfortable. At their chief's words, the men had tensed as though they were readying themselves for violence.

 

Ryan decided that it was time to make things clear.

 

He stood in a single easy movement, drawing the SIG-Sauer, cocking it and pointing it at Itzcoatl's head at point-blank range. "Best you know what's going down," he said.

 

"If I die, then your blood will flow upon mine," the chief said calmly.

 

"This is one of the most powerful blasters in the world," Ryan replied. "I pull the trigger and you get a 9 mm full-metal-jacket round through the side of your head. Hole going in'll be about as big as that girl's little finger." He pointed with his free hand at Rain Flower. "Bullet going out would take half your skull and most all of your brain, Chief, and put it in the grass. All I'm saying is, don't try and threaten us and don't push us. Because we don't like it."

 

"I see that." His voice remained steady, his dark eyes locked to Ryan's face.

 

"I've seen more blood than any of you. Blood doesn't bother me. Death doesn't frighten me, Chief. He's been riding at my shoulder since I was two years old. Understand this?"

 

"Yes. Are you going from us?"

 

"Not yet. We talked it over and we'll give you some help against the Jaguar people. Mebbe against the slavers if the bones fall right for us."

 

Itzcoatl slowly reached up a hand and gently pushed away the muzzle of the gun. "We mean you no evil. Not to any of you. We want very much that you remain to help us. That you all help us. This is why you are the waited ones. The ones we have heard of in our stories."

 

 

 

"I WANT TO TAKE another look at the old base," Ryan said. "If there were grens and those chemicals, mebbe there was something else we missed. Never took a good look around the far side, behind that main building."

 

"Can I come, Dad?"

 

"Possibly."

 

Both Jak and J.B. were suffering from mild stomach upsets.

 

"I don't fancy walking around the jungle this morning," the Armorer stated. "Don't like the idea of diving into the bushes and trying to find some big soft leaves."

 

"Nor me." Jak was sweating with the bug, lying on his back on the floor, massaging his stomach. "They all right, Mildred?" Ryan asked. "I think so." She hesitated a moment. "Don't guess it's cholera or typhoid of any of those tropical nasties. Much more likely to be a touch of good old Montezuma's revenge."

 

"Never heard of that one," Ryan said. "That a predark sickness?"

 

The woman laughed, showing her fine strong teeth. "Just a fancy name for the shits, Ryan. They drink plenty of water, they should be fine." She paused again. "Unless, of course, the thing's already in the water. Still, it'll stop them from dehydrating. That's the main thing. Think it might be better if I hang around the village for today. Keep an eye on them. Just in case. I reckon it'll soon be over."

 

"I'll come with you, lover," Krysty said. "Like to walk off those bad memories from last night."

 

"I'll stay behind, as well." Doc looked a little tired, his skin pallid.

 

"You got the bug, Doc?" Mildred asked.

 

 

"I believe not, thank you. And if I have, then I might take the liberty of treating myself."

 

"Three of us, then," Ryan said. "No need to take any food. Only be gone a couple of hours."

 

Dean had stood and clapped his hands excitedly, then the delighted expression vanished from his face, like a carnival mask being ripped away.

 

"What's wrong?" Jak asked, sensitive to the changing moods of the others. "Nothing. Come on, Dad, let's go." The boy's cheeks were suddenly the color of water-sodden parchment.

 

"I'm" Dean's dark eyes showed sudden horror. His whole body tensed, and he pressed his thighs together. "Gotta go, Dad. Get off without me. See you later."

 

And he was gone, hobbling down the steps of the hut, leaving the wood-beaded curtain swinging and whispering behind him. Ryan watched his son as he made a desperate stumbling dash toward the outhouses. "Sure he'll be all right, Mildred?"

 

"Sure."

 

"Not some disease that's going to"

 

She held up a hand. "I told you, Ryan. You and Krysty get going right now."

 

"And remember about keeping a weather eye open for any bushes with suitable large, soft leaves," Doc said, cackling.

 

 

 

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL MORNING.

 

"That dreadful humidity that was so overpowering near the redoubt seems much better down here by the lake," Krysty said. "Lovely summer day. Reminds me of the best of times when I was a girl back in Harmony ville."

 

"Be nice to go back and visit there sometime." Ryan stretched, looking at the jungle around them. The stepped, four-sided pyramid still loomed against the bright green of the trees, a doleful reminder of the previous night.

 

Krysty nodded, hooking her left arm through his right, striding out, hair flowing free across her broad shoulders.

 

"Think the others are going to be all right?" he asked. "Felt sorry for Dean, taken short like that."

 

She smiled at him. "Mildred isn't worried, so I'm not worried. They'll be fine. Nice to have the forest to ourselves. Just the two of us."

 

"It is."

 

The sun was a little way up on the eastern sector of the flawless blue sky. A flock of green-and-yellow parrots flew noisily into the trees at their approach, and one of the diminutive pigs that seemed to inhabit that part of the jungle darted across the trail a few yards ahead of them.

 

They passed a clump of enormously tall lilies, with bright orange petals and a scent that filled the shimmering air. Butterflies danced among the bushes, in every shade of the rainbow, and hummingbirds floated in the air, long beaks dipping into the pools of nectar. "Paradise," Krysty said. "Shouldn't say that. I know I've said it before, and it always seems to get drenched in blood the next moment."

 

Ryan stopped in midstride and pulled Krysty against him, kissing her first on the side of the neck, then on the cheek, finally on the mouth, the tip of his tongue probing between her parted lips.

 

She responded and for several seconds they clung to each other until they separated, breathless.

 

Krysty ran her fingers down his cheek. "Need a shave, lover."

 

"That put you off?"

 

"No. What's that lovely old song that we heard in that frontier gaudy? Fastwood Bar? Tall blonde woman at a beat-up piano. It had a line about taking me into the tall grass and letting me do my stuff. Something like that."

 

"Why not?"

 

They walked a yard off the trail, pushing through a shrub with a dense mass of brilliant red flowers that released a scent of fresh apples.

 

"Think this is safe, lover?" Krysty asked as she sat in a pool of rich green grass.

 

 

"You mean are you going to get pregnant?"

 

She laughed, sliding her pants down to her ankles. "You know what I mean."

 

"I don't hear anything, except the normal noises around here." He was sitting by her, unbuckling the SIG-Sauer P-226 and placing it close to hand. "Reckon the time to worry is when you suddenly don't hear those noises. Mean something's coming that's double-bad news."

 

Krysty reached and held his swelling erection in her strong fingers. "Only thing coming's this and it's triple good, lover," she whispered.

 

Ryan rolled over in the grass, kissing her, his tongue pushing again at her warm lips, his arms around her, feeling an overwhelming need for her body.

 

Their lovemaking was slow and gentle, both taking their time, exploring each other's familiar bodies, smiling into each other's eyes.

 

"Soon," she whispered.

 

"Wait, wait, wait"

 

He could feel the muscles inside gripping him, beginning to flutter as she neared her own climax. Ryan was slightly slower than her as she came, but his own orgasm was powerful, making him arch his back, unable to restrain the moan of pleasure.

 

There was a long stillness between them, lying side by side in the crushed grass, the warmth of the sun fierce on their exposed bodies.

 

Something moved through the bushes behind them and Ryan pulled up his pants, reaching for the butt of the automatic. Krysty followed his lead, standing and buckling her belt.

 

"What is it, lover?"

 

"Doesn't sound anything too big, but it's going fast away from the east."

 

"Best get on and take a look at the base."

 

Ryan sniffed. "Yeah. If it hadn't been for you and your excessive demands we could've been there a good half hour ago."

 

She raised the middle finger of her right hand with exquisite delicacy and timing. "Below contempt is what you are," she said, answering the smile that played on Ryan's lips, her green eyes dancing with amusement. "Just get real, Ryan."

 

 

 

THE CRATER left by the explosion of the grens was a ragged circle of scorched earth and torn grass beside the frag-shattered remnants of the defensive pillbox. Ryan peered into the hole, fifteen feet across and five or six feet deep, looking at the layer of scummy mud at its bottom.

 

"Lucky," he said.

 

Krysty was at his side. "If it hadn't been one of the slow timers, they'd have been picking bits of us out of the top of the trees. Look like someone had emptied a butcher's shop all over the jungle. Yeah, we were lucky."

 

They walked through the base, paying particular attention to the part of the complex where Dean had discovered the old armament. But there was nothing there, just rotting shelves and worm-eaten closets filled with rusting and burst tins, all of them without labels.

 

Overhead they heard the sound of a large flock of birds, flying low and fast from the east. Krysty wiped away layers of grime and looked out of a splintered window but was too slow to make them out properly.

 

"Think they were herons or something like that. Long legs and big wings."

 

There was a smaller section farther back, past the store that held the containers of chemicals. A corroded shortwave radio was set on a tilting desk, with a corpse seated at it, slumped forward, earphones on his head over the earless skull. One bony hand was reaching for the controls.

 

Ryan pointed wordlessly at the small-caliber bullet hole through the back of the head and the splinters of dark brown bone that were scattered all over the desk.

 

"Took him from behind," Krysty said. "Probably calling for help."

 

Ryan moved across the room, the heels of his combat boots crunching among the shards of dusty broken glass that covered the floor.

 

"There's that big tank I saw from yesterday," he said. "Could be gasoline."

 

"No use to the natives. Bet there's not a wag within five hundred miles of here."

 

"Still"

 

The tank was twenty feet long, cylindrical on top, twelve feet in circumference. It had once been painted a rich deep orange, but nearly a century of tropical humidity had reduced it to a watery yellow, the black-stenciled letter-and-number code now almost totally illegible.

 

Ryan and Krysty made their silent way out of the military catacomb, into the bright sunlight again. They paused, drinking in the fresh warm air, after the strange dank chill of the concrete buildings.

 

"Look." Krysty's word was hardly a whisper.

 

A magnificent jaguar, its glossy coat as black as midnight, stepped out of the wall of green on the eastern flank of the base, where the razor wire had fallen into total decay. Its great head turned and looked at the two human invaders of its domain, its golden eyes blank and unfathomable.

 

"What a fabulous animal," Ryan breathed, hand on the butt of the SIG-Sauer. "See why the natives worship it, can't you? Walking death."

 

"Looks uneasy, lover."

 

The jaguar kept looking over its shoulder, behind it, as though it were being pursued. The tip of its long tail was brushing back and forth over a carpet of dead leaves, and its sharp ears were pricked.

 

"Slavers," Ryan said.

 

"Something bothering it," Krysty agreed.

 

A crowd of gibbering monkeys appeared, swinging through the highest branches, chattering angrily at the jaguar and the man and woman below them.

 

But in moments they were gone, moving westward.

 

After a few seconds the big predator followed them, padding silently off and disappearing into the striped darkness of the forest.

 

Ryan shook his head. "Something going on," he said. "Seems to be rattling the whole forest. Could be slavers, I guess. Keep on double red."

 

He walked over to the yellow tank, squatting by a round handle, trying to turn it and failing.

 

"Want a hand, lover?"

 

"Yeah. Rusted shut for a hundred years. Get both hands on it and give it your best shot."

 

"Want me to use the Gaia power?"

 

"No!" His eyes burned into her.

 

 

"All right, all right."

 

"You know what it does to you, using that power. This isn't the time or the place."

 

"Fine." Krysty held up both hands. "You want to do this yourself, Ryan?"

 

He stepped back, banging a fist hard on the side of the tank, which resounded with a sullen clanging noise. "Full of something, isn't it?"

 

"Gasoline?"

 

He stopped and braced himself against the handle again. The muscles knotted in his forearms, chest and shoulders as he put all of his strength into it. "Moving," he grunted.

 

"Hold it." Krysty knelt and put a finger under the faucet where a thin trickle of oily liquid was seeping out. She touched it to her nose. "Yeah. Gas all right. Shame we don't have the wags to use it."

 

Ryan tightened the handle again, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Predark gasoline's worth more than its weight in jack back in Deathlands," he said. "Modern rough-processed stuffs nothing like as good. Doesn't compare."

 

"Think the slavers might have wags, lover?"

 

"I somehow doubt it. Terrain like this, the highways must be long gone and overgrown."

 

"Guess so."

 

"Trader would've loved finding this. Times he said that only himself and Gert Wolfram and the mutie they called the Magus were ever any good at finding the old gas."

 

Krysty looked around, her head back, closing her eyes, almost as though she were tasting the air.

 

Ryan caught the movement, and his hand went to the butt of the blaster.

 

"Trouble?" he asked.

 

"Yeah. Trouble."