"The only thing yellow I smell is burnt corncobs."
"Close your nostrils to its siren call," said Chiun. "Once you start on the path of corn eating, next you will be drinking its intoxicating juices. The path to slothfulness and ruin is paved with corn and pared fingernails."
"I'd settle for cold rice," Remo said dryly.
A road sign appeared, saying Chi Zotz. There was no milage or direction indicated.
Remo pulled out a map. "Boca Zotz is supposed to be around here, but it's not on this map."
"Perhaps it is near Chi Zotz," Chiun said. "We will stop at the next village and inquire."
"Suits me. Let's hope we can get a line on Verapaz while we're at it. It's a big jungle."
"Bristling with all manner of high dangers and low corn," added the Master of Sinanju sagely.
Chapter 22
When the harsh rattle of autofire came, it sounded amazingly far away.
Maybe it was the terrible sound itself that contributed to the momentary amazement that seized the wild-haired warrior's helpless body.
Always in the past, the Extinguisher had been in situations that would break a lesser man. Many were the traps, ambushes and deaths engineered for him. Yes, he fell into a good many of these. No warrior is perfect. But always and invariably the Extinguisher mustered his jungle-honed combat skills and saved the day-not to mention his battle-hardened butt.
The percussive sound of autofire meant that this was one time that wasn't going to happen.
In the brief moments before the bullets ripped into his steely muscled form with their hot, fatal kisses, the Extinguisher said a silent combat prayer to the red god of battle. This was not the way he had ever imagined it ending. Not here. Not now. Not so soon, with so many battles to be fought and the enemy in this campaign as yet unvanquished.
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."
He nodded, letting his body language relax. He stepped closer. This was going to be easy. The Juarezista stood about five-three and weighed no more than 130 pounds. He was a little thick in the hips, too. Out of shape. No match for the Extinguisher, who balled his fist, intending to coldcock the walking intelligence source before he knew what hit him.
The impulse to strike ignited in his brain.
Some jungle instinct must have seized the Juarezista because his hand suddenly reached up. He was moving to block the blow. Good luck to him. The Extinguisher had once been a Golden Gloves boxer.
In the brief seconds before the Extinguisher's fist connected, the Juarezista tore off his black ski mask and his face was revealed in the blazing moonlight.
The silver light showed an oval face, full, sensuous lips and a cascade of the most gorgeous shimmering black hair he had ever seen.
The fist connected. White teeth clicked shut, and the most gorgeous pair of dark eyes imaginable rolled up in the guerrilla's head as he fell backward, splaying across the jungle trail like a beached khaki starfish.
He lay there breathing rhythmically.
Then and only then did the Extinguisher see that he had a nice set of tits, too.
Chapter 25
Colonel Mauricio Primitivo awoke to the sound of a screech owl. It perched in a tree branch directly over his aching head. It looked down upon him and gave out an ungodly moan.
The Maya called it a moan bird. But to Colonel Primitivo's eyes, it looked like the ghostly soul of death as it regarded him with its slow-winking eyes.
The colonel took stock. He lived. Obviously.
Memories came back to him.
He remembered giving the command to fire. Remembered, too, the rattle of automatic fire that distinctly came from the wrong direction.
The hot breath of supersonic rounds zipping by him had made spiteful sounds like glass rods breaking. His firing squad had crumpled before his eyes, and then he became aware of a dull pain at his own back.
The pain was still there, he realized.
It was the last thing he remembered before his senses were robbed from him and the first thing he felt now.
He tried to stand up. And failed.
Rolling over, he propped himself up on one khaki elbow. Good. He could do that. He could not be mortally wounded and have such strength after lying bleeding into the jungle floor for God alone knew how many hours.
Stripping off his uniform blouse, he exposed an entry wound in his abdomen above the pelvic saddle. It was an angry red. He gave it a ginger squeeze, and it oozed blood like a small, fleshy volcano.
There was no pain. So he reached around, gritting his teeth as he sought the inevitable exit wound.
What he found was actually smaller. It burned when he gathered up the surrounding flesh and squeezed it. His fingers came back crimson. They kneaded the flesh, seeking hardness and bringing a grimace to his face. But no hardness was to be found.
This was good. It meant the bullet had passed cleanly through the flesh, not striking bone and, it was to be hoped, carefully avoiding organs great and small.
A searing pain racked him as Colonel Primitivo clambered to his feet. He winced, his thick whiskbroom mustache bristling. Well, pain was a sign of life after all.
He stood on his booted feet, swaying slightly.
Men lay all about him, dead. They were very dead, he saw. He gave one a kick for deserting him in the hour of national emergency and then, dripping blood from the clearly God-sent wound, he stumbled off toward Chiapas Barracks.
Never again would he take offense if a woman playfully punched his growing paunch and joked about his love handles.
They had saved his life.
Chapter 26
When he realized he had sucker-punched a woman, the Extinguisher raged, "Damn, damn, damn, what a stupid idiot I am!"
It was not his way to strike a woman. It was against his personal code. But he had done it, and there was no recalling the blow.
Kneeling, he checked her pulse. She breathed. Of course. Before he struck, he had calculated the force of the blow in advance. It was possible to kill a human being with one well-placed punch. But that was not the Extinguisher's way, either. The dead give up no Intel.
Cradling her limp head in his lap, he checked her mouth. She hadn't bitten or swallowed her tongue. That was good. No broken teeth, either. Also good. Women were fussy about their teeth.
For over an hour he squatted in the unfamiliar jungle protecting the female Juarezista guerilla, wondering what to do when she woke up.
Somewhere an unseen animal vented a fierce screech.
"Hope that wasn't a jaguar," he said to himself, snapping the Hellfire pistol up in its Whip-it sling.
If it was, the animal didn't approach.
At length, his conquest began to stir.
A cold shock of fear went through him as the Extinguisher realized the acute difficulty of his position.
Carefully he laid her head on a stone and stood up, his mind racing.
An idea struck him in a bolt of inspiration.
Unsheathing his Randall survival knife, he used it to slice open his left bicep, just enough to produce blood.
Then he jammed the point of the blade into a nearby tree. Two tough mahogany trees stubbornly refused to take the blade, so he plunged it into one with a reddish trunk with bark that hung in long pale strips like peeling dead skin.
Then the Extinguisher stood over her, waiting.
Her eyes fluttered open, roved dazedly, finally falling upon his boots. They looked up.
"Que?"
He pitched his voice to its lowest register. "You had a close call."
She shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs of sleep. Abruptly she took it into her hands as the pain told her shaking was a bad idea.
"What happened to me?" she moaned.
"Someone threw a knife at you. The only way to save your life was to knock you out. I caught the bite of the blade along one arm before it hit that tree."
Her eyes went from the streak of blood showing on his arm to the knife hilt protruding from the weird peeling tree.
"Jou-jou saved my life."
"Why not?" he said casually. "You saved mine back there."
With his help she found to her feet again.
She looked around perplexedly. "The one with the knife-where did he go?"
"He didn't get a s
econd throw," the Extinguisher told her, patting his Hellfire.
"You are a brave warrior. You have come to join the Juarez National Liberation Front obviously."
"I fight alongside the good people of this earth wherever I find them," he said truthfully.
Her eyes shone with a mixture of gratitude and frank admiration. It was a look the Extinguisher had seen many, many times. He met it directly, with neither embarrassment nor false modesty.
"Well spoken. My name is Assumpta. I am from a village near here. I go to join the Juarezistas, even though I am but a woman."
"You are a brave woman."
She threw back her head proudly, lifting a defiant chin, tossing her hair with the motion. It was very thick and black. It explained why her head had seemed so large under her ski mask.
"The men of my village do not believe women can fight, nor that they should fight," she explained. "But I go anyway to avenge my brother, Ik, who perished at the hands of the federalistas. "
"Where you go, I go."
And in the darkness they shook hands firmly.
The Extinguisher had an ally. Whether circumstances would force him to betray her was unknown at this time. But for the moment they were a team.
"Subcomandante Verapaz, it is said, is marching on Mexico City," Assumpta said. "That is where I go."
"Lead the way. This jungle is new to me."
As they started off, the Extinguisher recovered his survival knife, sheathing it with a curt "Souvenir. Might come in handy."
They had donned their black masks again. The jungle accepted them into its cool, treacherous embrace. They moved as one, the Juarezista named Assumpta taking point. It was not the Extinguisher's way to let a woman take point, but it was her jungle so he figured it would be okay this time.
Besides, from the rear, he could better keep watch over her.
Not to mention the fact that he was really getting into the easy sway of her olive drab hips.
Chapter 27
The market town called Chi Zotz was nestled in the shadow of a tablelike mountain range. The air was clean and sweet, laden with budding wildflowers.
An English sign said WELCOME TO CHI ZOTZ. TURNING FOR PALENEQUE RUINS. FOOD, COLD SODA AND SAFE CAR PARKING. BIRTHPLACE OF SUBCOMANDANTE VERAPAZ.
Near the entrance to the town, a shawled woman stood outside an adobe home preparing a chicken dinner. She had the struggling chicken by the neck and, spreading her legs apart, wound up her arm.
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