The End of the World Club

by J; P Voelkel

  “A guard shot me as I climbed the rope,” explained Lady Coco. “But he didn’t count on my strong monkey biceps. I could have climbed one-armed if I had to.”

  “How about you, Lord 6-Dog?”

  “A mere flesh wound. That varlet Tzelek caught me in the leg with his sword.”

  “We need to get you both out of here,” said Lola.

  She gathered up Lady Coco, while Max bent down to give Lord 6-Dog a piggyback. “I am so glad to see you, Your Majesty,” he said as the monkey climbed on. “I thought you were—”

  “Dead? I thought I was dead, too,” agreed Lord 6-Dog. “Then an angel found me and nursed me back to life.”

  “An angel?” Max pressed. “What angel?”

  “Ask my mother. She saw her, too.”

  “Lady Coco? What’s this about an angel?” asked Lola. “I would like to meet her and thank her. When Landa kidnapped me, I thought I would never see you again.…”

  “I walked all night trying to find you, Lady Lola. Just when all was lost, the angel found me and gave me hope.”

  “But who was she, this angel?”

  “She’s over there,” said Lady Coco.

  Lola and Max followed her gaze.

  From out of the shadows behind a pillar stepped the red-robed acolyte.

  “Hello, Max,” said Zia as police sirens surrounded the cathedral.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE COAST OF DEATH

  While the police stormed the front doors of the cathedral, Zia led them out a back way, down through tunnels and passageways, to a red sports car haphazardly parked across two spaces in a side street behind the cathedral.

  Max had known Zia all his life as his family’s morose and dowdy housekeeper. Now she had cast off her red robe to reveal a red jacket, a leopard-print T-shirt, and skintight jeans. Her thick, shiny black hair fell loose around her shoulders, and she pushed it out of her eyes with a pair of rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses worn high on her head. She replaced her flat sandals with high heels and, bending over the side mirror, applied a thick coat of red lipstick. When her transformation was complete, she looked twenty years younger than she had in Boston. Not stylish exactly, but full of life and energy.

  “Is it really you, Zia?” asked Max, staring at her like she were an alien. “You look so different.…”

  “So do you. I like your hair. Black suits you.”

  “Wait—you’re Zia?” asked Lola in amazement. Standing in front of her was the most glamorous Maya woman she had ever seen. She’d heard Max’s description of the old Zia, and this bedazzled jet-setter did not match it. “Biix a beel? How are you?” she asked, with a big smile.

  “Ma’alob. Kux teech?” replied Zia, laughing. The old Zia hardly ever laughed. “I’m well, thank you; how are you? It’s a long time since I spoke Mayan with another living person. You must be the famous Lola!”

  Max noticed the strangeness of that phrase, another living person. Who else would she speak with, if not a living person?

  “How did you learn English so quickly?” he asked her.

  Zia winked at him mischievously. “It took me fourteen years.”

  “What? But—”

  “I have a lot to tell you. But first we must get out of here.”

  “But what are you doing here? I mean, how did you know—?”

  “Later. Ko’ox!”

  She ripped up the wad of parking tickets that obscured half the windshield, leapt into the driver’s seat, and revved up the engine. “You get in the front, Max, and make like a tourist.” She threw him a camera. “Bride and monkeys, hide under a blanket in the back until we get out of the city.”

  She turned on some loud, thumping Eurodisco music, and they zoomed through the narrow streets of Santiago, Zia dancing in her seat and Max taking photos of everything, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. They passed several policemen, and not one of them gave them a second look.

  When they squealed to a stop at a traffic light, Zia asked Max, “How do you like my wheels?”

  “Very cool,” he said, surveying the convertible. “But it rains so much here, don’t you get wet?”

  “You sound like your father,” she said disapprovingly. “Live for the moment, that’s my motto. I want to feel the wind in my hair.”

  “You do?”

  Zia had never struck Max as a wind-in-the-hair type of person. In fact, the whole time he’d known her in Boston, her hair had been twisted back in a tight braid. “So where are we headed—?” he began, but the roar of the engine drowned him out as the traffic light changed and they sped off again.

  As far as Max could tell, she was headed north.

  The gray skies turned to night.

  Eventually they entered a wide boulevard lined with palm trees, and Zia followed it until they literally ran out of road. They pulled up outside a grand hotel overlooking the thundering ocean.

  “This is the place,” she said.

  “Hotel Finisterre,” read Lola, combing her windswept hair out of her eyes with her fingers. “It looks nice.”

  “Anything looks nice after Casa Carmela,” snapped Max, “but what are we doing here? Where are we?”

  Zia got out of the car. “Wait here while I see if they have rooms for us.”

  Max groaned. “She’s insane. We need to get to Xibalba, and she’s brought us to a seaside resort. Does she think we’re on vacation or what?”

  “She seemed to know what she was doing in the cathedral,” Lola pointed out. “She was fantastic. Why didn’t you tell me you had a Maya housekeeper?”

  “I only just found out myself.”

  “Well, I think we should give her a chance to explain. Besides, it’s late and I like the look of this place. Just think, Hoop: hot showers, clean sheets, room service.…”

  “I thought you were more of a hammock and grilled iguana kind of girl?”

  “It’s been a tough couple of days.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Max, “it has.” He swallowed. “I … er … I wanted to say sorry for what I said at Landa’s palace, that thing about you not being a princess.”

  Lola shrugged. “I know what I am, Hoop. I’m the kid that nobody wanted. I was left in the forest to be eaten by jaguars. I don’t know why Landa chose me to play his Maya princess. Maybe he thought no one would miss me because I’m an orphan.”

  “It’s because you look like Princess Inez.”

  “No way.”

  And I look like Rodrigo.”

  “That’s so creepy.” Lola closed her eyes and took a deep breath of sea air. “It was horrible, Hoop,” she whispered.

  A wave washed over onto the road.

  “Looks like the tide’s coming in,” said Max.

  Leaving the monkeys to doze in the back of the car, Max and Lola walked over to the seawall. The water boiled and churned beneath them. They could see the lights of fishing boats bobbing wildly on the horizon and, far in the distance, a lighthouse flashed its warning.

  “I wouldn’t want to be out at sea tonight,” said Lola.

  “Me neither,” agreed Max, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the ocean. “I just want get out of Spain. I keep thinking the police are going to swoop in and arrest me again.”

  “Again? What do you mean, again? When were you arrested?”

  “The same day you were kidnapped by Landa.”

  “What were you arrested for?”

  “Murder.”

  Lola clapped a hand over her mouth. The wind whipped her hair into wild strands. “Hoop, what have you done? Who did you murder?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s what Carmela told the police when you disappeared. If Santino hadn’t rescued me, I’d still be in jail.”

  “Poor Santino,” said Lola.

  “Poor Santino? What about poor me? I was the one who was arrested and thrown in jail.”

  “Yes, but Santino came to declare his love for me and ended up nearly sacrificed.” />
  “I think you’ve put him off Maya girls for good,” said Max. “And I don’t think he’ll be talking to strange girls on airplanes again either.”

  “I’m not strange,” said Lola.

  At that moment the monkeys woke up and, instinctively, she called over to the car to reassure them, a rough raspy coughing sound she made through her cupped hands.

  “No, not strange at all,” said Max. “I bet lots of people arrive at this hotel with howler monkeys in tow, wearing a bloodstained wedding dress and a necklet of mystical ancient stones.”

  Lola looked down at herself. “For once, you might have a point.”

  She ripped away at her long skirt until she’d transformed it into a minidress. Then she struck a pose like a model on a catwalk. “What do you think?”

  “Um … Wilma Flintstone meets Lady Gaga? Nice jewelry, though.”

  “It’s so heavy. I can’t wait to take it off.”

  “No! Keep wearing it! If Ah Pukuh himself couldn’t take it from you, at least we know it’s safe.”

  She nodded. “Okay then. I’ll give it to you when we get to Xibalba.”

  When we get to Xibalba.

  They both fell silent as they contemplated the prospect of a visit to that fearsome place.

  “Tomorrow is 6-Death,” said Max.

  “Quick! Quick!” called Zia, running out of the hotel. “Back to the car!”

  What was this? Had Santino tipped off the police?

  “What’s the matter?” asked Max.

  “The car! It’s starting to rain! We must put the top up!”

  “That’s it? I thought you’d had bad news!”

  “Not at all,” Zia assured him as she fiddled with switches to activate the car’s folding roof. “We have the Presidential Suite with three bedrooms and a sea view from every room. The only problem is that they don’t allow animals.”

  The monkeys, who were shivering in the cold night air and looking forward to a warm hotel room, looked crestfallen.

  “Don’t worry,” said Zia, “I have thought about this.”

  She unzipped her suitcase and took out armfuls of designer clothes, many with their price tags still attached.

  “Whose are those?” asked Max. He had the sudden idea that Zia had stolen a stranger’s suitcase. After all, she always wore frumpy clothes in Boston, and this was a wardrobe fit for a movie star.

  “I did a little shopping,” said Zia.

  Max took in the array of bright colors and sequins and shiny fabrics.

  Zia must have seen the surprise in his eyes, because she gave a little chuckle. “What do you think? It’s the new me.”

  Max was lost for words, so Lola quickly stepped in. “It’s very glamorous,” she said. “May I carry it all up to the room for you?”

  Zia passed the clothes to Lola, along with several pairs of high-heeled shoes. “Okay,” she said, showing the monkeys the empty case. “All aboard, and I’ll wheel you to the room.”

  Lady Coco climbed in eagerly, admiring the leopard-print pattern of the lining. She patted the space next to her and waited for her son to follow.

  “I am a king, not a piece of luggage,” said Lord 6-Dog, sounding insulted. “I will climb up to the room.”

  “We’re on the top floor,” Zia warned him, “and you’re wounded.”

  But Lord 6-Dog could not be dissuaded and, minutes later, Max and Lola were standing on the balcony of the Presidential Suite, encouraging him as he hauled himself painfully up a drainpipe. The rain was pouring down now and huge waves crashed on the rocky coast. The fishing boats were gone, pulled into port. There would surely be a storm at sea tonight.

  As soon as Lord 6-Dog made it to the top, they closed the French doors and made themselves at home. While the monkeys rested their battle-weary bodies in one of the bedrooms and Zia fussed around, hanging up her new clothes, Max and Lola inspected all the trappings of the suite.

  When they’d drunk all the soft drinks in the minibar and clicked through every channel on the TV (not that many in this corner of Spain), Max put the little hotel shower cap over his beloved black hair and took the longest and hottest shower of his life. It was bliss.

  “What happened to my clothes?” he asked, when he finally emerged in a fluffy white toweling robe, holding his empty backpack.

  “I took them for washing,” said Zia. “Your mother would have been shocked to see the state you were in.”

  “I was busy battling the forces of evil,” Max pointed out. “Laundry wasn’t at the top of my agenda.”

  A knock at the door made him jump out of his skin.

  “Hide,” said Lola, leaping up and pushing him back into the bathroom.

  Heart thumping in terror that the police had tracked him down to this remote hotel on the wild and rocky coast, Max leaned on the sink and held his breath.

  “Room service!” called a voice.

  And relax.

  All he had to do now was lie low while the waiter set out the food.

  He looked in the mirror. It was all steamed up after his shower, so he wiped a little patch with his hand.

  The face that stared back was not his.

  It was Rodrigo.

  The red-haired conquistador lifted a finger accusingly.

  “I know, I know,” whispered Max. “Time is running out.”

  Rodrigo nodded and faded away as the mirror fogged over again.

  Lola knocked on the bathroom door. “All clear!”

  Max splashed his face with cold water and went out.

  “Are you okay?” asked Lola. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She seemed so happy to be out of Landa’s clutches and safe in a hotel that Max couldn’t bear to tell her that the bathroom was, indeed, haunted.

  “I’m just hungry,” he answered gruffly.

  Luckily, Zia had ordered enough food to feed an army.

  There were bubbling cheese pizzas (scorched at the edges), fried fish, grilled steaks and juicy shrimp, fried potatoes, slabs of garlicky grilled bread rubbed with olive oil and tomatoes, little white anchovies, fat green olives, chocolate mousse, apple cake, fresh peaches, juicy grapes, and two huge bunches of bananas.

  “Hach ki’ a wi’ih! Enjoy!” said Zia.

  “Aren’t you going to eat with us?” asked Lola, making a picnic for the monkeys.

  “Maybe later,” said Zia, “but this laundry won’t do itself and you’ll need clean clothes for the morning.”

  Max had the distinct feeling that Zia was trying to avoid him.

  Later, when they’d eaten as much as they could, and only the anchovies sat untouched, he stood at the window, watching the lightning over the sea.

  “It sure is stormy out there,” he said.

  “It’s always stormy out there,” said Lola. She lay on the sofa, flicking through Nasty’s guidebook. “It says they call this stretch La Costa de la Muerte, the Coast of Death, because so many ships have been wrecked on it.”

  “The Coast of Death? That sounds ominous.”

  “The Coast of Death? That sounds ominous.”

  “I’m sure it’s just the tourist board trying to make things sound more exciting than they are.”

  “Shame they’re not all as honest as the tourist office at Polvoredo,” said Max.

  Lola laughed.

  Somewhere in the night, a pack of dogs howled.

  Hellhounds?

  The windows rattled, with a noise like the scratching of claws on glass.

  Max felt the fear rising in the pit of his stomach. Time was running out.

  He got up to look for Zia.

  He found her in the other room, where she’d set up the hotel ironing board in front of a TV.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “The hotel has a laundry service. You put everything in the bag and they do it for you.”

  “There’s no time for that,” she said. “You need to look presentable tomorrow.” She indicated Mr. Smith-Jones’s blazer had been cleaned and neatly p
ressed.

  “Zia,” he said, “can we talk? You said you’d tell me everything when we got to the hotel.”

  “Did I?” said Zia vaguely, pretending to be engrossed in ironing Max’s socks.

  “Please,” Max begged her.

  “Very well,” sighed Zia. She followed him into the sitting room and perched nervously on the edge of the sofa. “What do you want to know?”

  “What are you doing in Spain?”

  “Your parents were not allowed to help you, so I came.”

  “But how did you find Lord 6-Dog and Lady Coco?”

  “It was not so difficult.”

  “But they’re talking monkeys! You don’t seem very surprised by any of this.”

  “I am Maya. Few things surprise me.”

  “What about the new you? You’re like a different person. I’ve hardly ever heard you speak English before—”

  “Before, I did not want to speak.” Her voice was husky with emotion.

  “What’s changed?”

  Zia looked evasive. “It’s Spain,” she said lamely. “I like it here. Good food, good shopping.”

  Max regarded her suspiciously.

  Something wasn’t adding up.

  In fact, nothing was adding up.

  Max thought back to Boston and Zia’s strange behavior just before he’d left. “You knew the Yellow Jaguar was in Spain,” he mused. “You bought my ticket to Madrid … and before that, the first time, you bought my ticket to San Xavier! How did you know to do that?” He grabbed one of her perfectly manicured hands. “Tell me, Zia. Who’s behind it all?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You have to tell me.” He thought quickly. “Tell me, or I’ll call my parents and make Mom’s hair fall out again.”

  Zia said nothing, and Max reached for the hotel phone.

  He began to dial.

  “It was the owl-man,” said Zia.

  Max put the phone down. “Lord Kuy? The messenger of the Death Lords?”

  “Yes. And before him, the other one, the older one.”

  “Lord Muan? Where? When?”

  “They sometimes come to the kitchen, in Boston,”

  “What? In our kitchen? Why?”