But war is hell, even a wild-haired warrior's private war.
His prayer done, he tensed. If it was quick, good. If not, then he would spit out a final curse against the foes who had robbed a troubled world of its one pure protector. That would be good, too. Not as good as living, true, but-
A low moan ascended to the low-hanging moon.
The rustle and thud of a body falling into vegetation came next. Then another. More moans, followed by a confused rustling and thudding.
A final burst of autofire cut off a muffled curse.
The Extinguisher froze, not knowing what to do. He heard it all. The moans. The sounds of sudden death. The dropping bodies.
But none were his own. He still stood erect against the execution tree.
A slow, measured rustle came from the west, and he sensed a nearing presence, soft and stealthy.
Popping open one eye, he saw the firing squad curled up in the high grass like insects whose bodies had been doused with gasoline and set aflame.
A slow movement caught his eye.
Approaching was a cautious figure wearing a brown uniform, a black ski mask muffling the head. It was a very large head, bloated, almost pulpy, as if it concealed a monstrously deformed skull.
"Shh," the figure hissed. The eyes were luminous in the dark, like black opals.
A knife came out. His bonds were sliced apart.
"Thanks," he hissed, rubbing his wrists.
"Shh. Vamos!"
That last word he understood. It meant come on. Grabbing his gear, the Extinguisher followed the wary figure, casting frequent glances over his backtrail in case pursuit materialized.
None did.
The Extinguisher would live to fight another day.
And if this was one time he hadn't saved himself, what the hell? Breathing was breathing. Besides, there was only one witness, and he wore the guerrilla garb that marked him as a Juarezista.
Once in the clear, it would be child's play to turn the tables on this jungle revolutionary and have his way with him.
It was unfair-cold turnabout. But this was war. And the first thing tossed out the window in war was gratitude.
Chapter 23
Coatlicue and her worshipful train were on the move once more.
With each thunderous step, they grew stronger. The earth, still racked by aftershocks, seemed to quake in sympathy with the goddess's mighty tread. And out of the villages and farms, they poured.
Aztec, Zapotec, Mixtec, Chocho, all united in one mystic purpose.
"We go to liberate Oaxaca, seat of the Zapotec empire," High Priest Rodrigo Lujan proclaimed to one and all. "We go to cast off the chilango yoke. Join us, become one with us, partake of the bounty of your reclaimed homelands. Shrug off your false saints. Tear down your crosses, your churches, your hollow religion that offers you breads and wines with transparent lies that you eat the blood and flesh of your dead god. That falseness is no more. Coatlicue offers no such things. When you follow Coatlicue, you eat real meat, you drink true blood and, in doing this, become one with your forefathers."
They came, they followed and some who heard that all they need do was lay their heavy bodies on the road before the lumbering one and be absorbed into her did that, too.
Coatlicue crushed them in her brutal mercy, without regard to sex or age or other of the so-called civilized niceties.
As they approached the town of Acatlan, she stood ten feet tall.
Once through it, having emptied the town of indio and mestizo alike, she topped twelve feet.
By the time she lumbered on through Huajuapan de Leon, her wary serpent heads straining to reach fifteen feet in height, the rude stone had softened to a warm brown that suggested flesh marbled with fat.
Striding alongside, Rodrigo Lujan reached out to touch her writhing skirt of serpents. It felt pleasantly warm. It was night now. The sun was down. Radiating heat could not explain away the sensation of warmth, nor the sinuousness with which the stone flowed as Coatlicue walked onward.
When he took his finger away, he had to pull hard.
And when he looked at it, Lujan saw he had left behind his entire fingerprint, as men who lived in subzero climates sometimes did when they stupidly touched their moist flesh to cold metal.
Only no phenomenon of cold could account for the patch of Rodrigo's skin that had become one with Coatlicue. She absorbed all flesh that came into contact with her.
Making a mental resolution not to touch or be touched by his goddess again, Lujan quickened his pace. It was harder to keep up with her seven-league strides now that she was growing and growing and growing.
Deep in his heart, he wondered if there was any limit to her ability to increase in size and mass.
Or for that matter, her appetites.
Chapter 24
"Hold up!" the Extinguisher ordered.
The Juarezista guerrilla froze.
"Que?" The voice was soft, like a jungle breeze.
"Something's wrong," he said, grabbing his stomach.
"What is it?" the Juarezista asked, creeping back along the jungle trail to join him.
"I think I'm wounded," he gasped.
Lifting his combat shirt, he exposed his flat abdomen. There was some blood, but no sign of a entry wound. They could be very small, he knew.
Turning around, he asked, "See any sign of an exit wound?"
"No, senor. "
"Damn. My gut feels like it's on fire."
"Jou are an American?"
"Fury's the name. Blaize Fury," he said.
"I have never heard of you."
"You shitting me?"
"I do not know the name. I am sorry."
"Never mind." The Extinguisher was doubled over now. "Man, what is wrong with me?" he moaned.
The guerrilla hovered solicitously. "Jou are not wounded."
"I feel terrible. It's like someone stuck a cold Kabar in my gut."
"Did jou drink of the water?"
"What? Oh, yeah. Awhile back."
"Ah . . . la turistas. "
"Don't call me a tourist. I'm a warrior."
"I am not. Jou are suffering from the tourist disease. The water does not agree with your belly."
"I don't feel like I'm going to throw up."
"That is not the hole through which the disease seeks release, senor. "
"What are you talking about?"
Then he knew. The sharp pain in his stomach traveled south and became an urgency in his bowels.
"Wait here," he said in a strangled voice.
The Extinguisher left the jungle trail and did his business in the dark, where no one would see. He was at his business a long time. Twice he started to pull up his pants, but had to resume squatting as more of the disease flooded from his beleaguered body.
"Oh, man. I hope this doesn't blow the mission."
When he was done, he stowed his emergency reading material back into his rucksack. To his surprise, he discovered his balaclava. He pulled it on. It seemed to give him strength to face what lay in store.
When he returned to the jungle path, he was the Extinguisher again, erect, proud and unbowed by the cruel rigors of the Lacandon jungle.
The eyes of the Juarezista went wide at the sight of his capable, manly figure.
"Jou are-"
"Yes," he said. "Now you understand. I am the Extinguisher."
"Que?"
"The Extinguisher. El Extinguirador. "
"I have never heard that name."
"You've never heard of the Extinguisher, savior of the oppressed? Where have you been living, in a freaking cave?"
"No, but now that I see that jou wear the mask of a Juarezista, I am proud to know you. That is, if jou are truly one of us."