Unite and Conquer td-102

by Warren Murphy

  "That's how you did it!"

  "And people say you're slow on the draw."

  "I resent that!"

  But he took off anyway.

  Behind him the old Korean named Chiun prodded him on the right course with a pointing fingernail that Winston sometimes felt in the small of his back. It felt like a white-hot needle.

  WHEN HE SAW the monster, Winston Smith changed his mind.

  "Holy shit! Look at the size of that mother. Let's blow it up!"

  "No," said Chiun. "I forbid it."

  "But we've got antitank rockets and a Gatling gun. We can pulverize it in its tracks."

  "No," Chiun repeated.

  "Give me one reason why not."

  "I will give you two."

  "Yeah?"

  "The first reason is that the monster cannot be defeated unless his brain is discovered and destroyed. Otherwise, the part of him that can assume other forms will take a new form. We must find the brain first."

  "What's the other reason?"

  "The other reason is that the lightning may do the work we cannot."

  And as they flew closer, a sizzling bolt of eyesearing light slammed the monster in his tracks. It wavered, started to take a step, and a second bolt transfixed it. Green and gold sparks jumped.

  When the noise dissipated, the monster was immobile.

  "Now what?" Winston asked.

  "Land this contraption near the monster," Chiun said. "At Once! Our time may be short."

  "Sure you don't want me to strafe it first?"

  As if in answer, a thick-wristed hand reached up from under the cockpit, grasped the side-mounted Gatling gun and, expending no obvious effort, twisted it off its mount, then flung it away.

  Chapter 52

  It was like marching into the face of cannon fire.

  The detonations came again and again. They split the dull morning, making it bright. They rattled the sky. Their fury was very great. Fear showed on the faces of the Juarezistas who marched behind Alirio Antonio Arcila, their AKs and AR-15s trembling in their rain-wet hands.

  Each time they quailed, he called back encouragement.

  "See!" Alirio Antonio Arcila cried, holding up the TV so all could see. "Behold the monster! She is attracting the lightning. It strikes only at Coatlicue."

  "The gods are just," a man murmured. But there was no enthusiasm. The relentless elements had beaten their courage down.

  Antonio swallowed his sharp corrective words. He believed in no gods. Was he not believed to be godlike by these simple ones? He, the son of a coffee grower?

  Soon the television was no longer necessary.

  The cypress of Tule came into view.

  Antonio had only heard of it. It was said to be some two thousand years old. From a distance it resembled the greatest weeping willow imaginable, its drooping branches weighed down with the imposing freight of its years. Its leaves trembled nervously under the unceasing rain. It was older than the Cross, and even though Antonio did not believe in the Cross, still the obvious age of the oldest living thing on the face of the earth took his breath.

  A bolt forked down and blotted out the impressive sight.

  In the afterimage imprinted on his retina, Antonio saw the tree as a negative film image, stark and threatening.

  And when his blinded eyes cleared once more, he saw for the first time the Coatlicue monster in the flesh.

  She was making for the cypress. The great tree dwarfed her, made her seem less formidable. From this distance, she might have been a clay figure beside an ordinary oak.

  But she was not. She stood wider than three men, taller than five tall men.

  And miracle of miracles, the lightning strikes continually sought her. But still she strove onward, ever onward, seeking the cypress that should have drawn the terrible bolts from the sky but did not.

  Glancing back, Antonio caught his remaining Maya making the sign of the Cross. There were far fewer of them now. In his heart he forgave them. Coatlicue was an unnatural sight, but the way the lightning spurned the mighty tree for the smaller giant was more unnatural still. It suggested greater forces at work.

  "Perhaps our work will be done for us," he told them. All thought of glory and gain fled his reeling brain. This was incredible. Impossible. Unbelievable.

  And still the monster trudged on, the bolts slamming, breaking off the last remaining plates of her gleaming armor, knocking them away, until rude stone and a flexible marbled matter lay exposed.

  Then came a bolt that ripped downward, exploded and blotted out the universe. The thunder sound was great. The resulting shock wave was greater still.

  Antonio and his guerrilleros were thrown off their feet.

  When their sight cleared, Coatlicue stood still. She did not move again.

  "Come," Antonio said, climbing to his feet. "It is time to face this Azteca usurper."

  They advanced cautiously. Now Antonio led a meager handful of men. The others had retreated. No matter. When the cause was won, they would return to the fold. Willingly or not.

  RODRIGO LUJAN STARED up at the ominous heavens that had assaulted his Mother again and again. He saw a greenish white light, but no clouds no sky. When he closed his eyes, the light was still there.

  He heard nothing. His ears were still full of booming thunder. His brain shook with reverberating shock.

  "Mother. Can you hear me?"

  But his Mother Coatlicue responded not.

  Lying helpless beneath her, Lujan wept bitterly, his salty tears mingling with the rain that fell and fell and fell upon him without understanding or mercy.

  ANTONIO APPROACHED ahead of the others. His head pounded. He felt fear yes, but he pushed it back. It was not that he was so brave but that there was no turning back. His future depended upon what transpired here in this place far from the Lacandon jungle.

  Coatlicue, he saw, had almost made the shelter of the great cypress, whose bole was over one hundred feet in circumference. It seemed less like the trunk of a tree than some ancient petrified eruption from deep within the earth. The trunk was horny and rugose with age.

  "Coatlicue," he said. "Greetings, creature of imagination. You almost made it to safety. But you did not. And now you are dead."

  Coatlicue said nothing and moved not. Her ophidian eyes were looking at the tree.

  Antonio walked around her still feet. One was poised in the act of taking a step forward. It seemed gargantuan beside him, but the cypress dwarfed it to insignificance.

  Between the legs lay a nearly nude man.

  Antonio knelt. "Who are you?"

  The man looked in all directions with uncomprehending eyes. "I am blind. The lightning has taken my sight."

  "You are fortunate. For you lie in the path of the monster. Her foot is lifted to take a step. If completed, she would have crushed you like a locust."

  "I would gladly be crushed under the feet of my mother if only I could behold her one last time," the man said dully.

  "Then sadness will be your eternal destiny, because that will never come to pass. Coatlicue has succumbed."

  Weeping, the man crawled under the shelter of the half-lifted foot. On his back, he struggled up to kiss her heel but lacked all strength to complete the absurd action.

  Antonio let him be. He was not important. As he scanned the skies, he saw that helicopters circled above, braving the rain. Strangely the lightning had ceased its dramatic striking, as if considering its job accomplished. The choppers drew closer.

  They were even now broadcasting this sight to all Mexico. Well, Antonio would give them a sight to remember the rest of their days. He faced his loyal cohorts.

  "My Juarezistas, approach with me. The Azteca revolution is over. Their idol walks no more. We are in command now. Let us demonstrate this to a fearful Mexico."

  The Maya approached, walking as if on eggshells.

  "We must topple this usurper so that she breaks into many pieces," Antonio explained. "It will be a political statement
that will prove for all time the righteousness of our cause."

  "How?" asked Kix. "It is so big."

  "See how the monster balances on one foot? Let us push her in one direction, all of us, so that she loses her imperfect balance."

  The Maya shrank from the fearful task. "Show us, Lord Verapaz. Guide our hands that we may do this."

  Laying down his AK, Antonio placed both hands on the lifted elephantine foot of the Coatlicue monster. Why not? Was it not dead?

  The foot was not cold as he expected. Nor was it hard. In fact, it felt weirdly fleshy to the touch. Instantly his hands recoiled.

  His Maya recoiled, too.

  "What is wrong?" Kix hissed.

  Antonio rubbed his fingers together. They felt wet and clammy, as if they had come in contact with the cold clay of a great dead corpse. "You do it. For as a true indio, it is your honor to topple the rival god."

  "But you are Kukulcan. "

  "And as Kukulcan, I offer the honor to you."

  Kix looked doubtful but, urged on by the others, he approached the inert thing. He laid hands upon the upraised foot. To judge by the expression that came over his face, the sensation of moist, dead flesh was very distasteful. But nothing happened to him.

  Emboldened, Kix said, "Help me, O brothers."

  Others gathered around. They got behind the fat ankle and attempted to push this way or that way. But the bulk of the creature was too vast, too obdurate to move. Her eyes regarded the Maya as if they were but ants at her feet.

  While they considered the situation, an army utility helicopter dropped out of the sky to land at the roadside. As it drew closer, a man dangling off one skid released his grip so as not to be crushed.

  REMO CALCULATED THE DROP, let go of the skid and rolled out of the way of the landing chopper.

  When it settled, he opened the door. Winston Smith, Assumpta and Chiun started to get out. Remo pushed Winston back in.

  "Look, let me handle this. Okay?"

  Winston eyed the monster dubiously. "What's to handle? Looks like the party ended before we got here."

  "You don't know what's going on."

  "I can see what's going on. Nothing. That hulk is just standing there, collecting raindrops."

  "Just leave this to the experts, okay? Chiun, watch them. I don't want any more problems with these two. If something goes wrong, take off."

  Chiun nodded. "Be careful, my son. Take no chances."

  Winston blinked. "He's your son?"

  "In spirit."

  And the Master of Sinanju put his face to the cockpit bubble, the better to watch his pupil.

  REMO APPROACHED. The rain was still coming down. There was an adobe church beside the drooping cypress. Its white facade was streaked blackish gray with precipitated volcano ash.

  From inside, a priest emerged. He carried a cross of gold. He, too, approached the monster.

  Remo intercepted him. "You'd better stay clear, Padre. This isn't over."

  "God has struck the monster blind and dumb, but it falls to his children to exorcise the demon that motivated it."

  "Just the same, leave this to the professional monster slayers."

  The priest fell in behind Remo. Considering the circumstances, he didn't seem very frightened.

  A handful of Juarezistas blocked the way. Remo knew they were Juarezistas because in their brown polyester uniforms and black ski masks, they looked like the Serbian Olympic ski team.

  "Come no closer," one of them commanded in good English. "We are about to blow up the demon Coatlicue for all the world to see."

  "Over my dead body. He's mine."

  "This is our monster. We have vanquished him. And it is a she, by the way."

  The speaker was taller than the others. A shortstemmed pipe was clenched in his teeth. He also had green eyes.

  "You Verapaz?" asked Remo.

  "I am Subcomandante Verapaz. Who are you?"

  "Monster extinguisher," Remo said.

  "What nonsense is this?"

  "This is my monster. I saw him first. Just step away and let me handle it."

  Verapaz snapped impatient fingers. "Over my dead body."

  "Thanks for the invitation," said Remo, who began disarming Juarezistas in a novel fashion.

  Two opened fire on him. Remo moved in as if to meet the bullets halfway. That was how it seemed to the men behind the triggers and the priest who dropped to the ground and covered his head with his hands.

  In fact, Remo's blurred hands pushed the rifles straight up so the bullets discharged harmlessly into the lowering sky. Then he stepped back, folded his lean arms and waited.

  While the guerrillas were bringing their weapons back in line for follow-up bursts, the bullets reached the apex of their climb, where they seemed poised momentarily. Gravity brought them back down.

  They perforated the tops of several skulls, and when the bodies crumpled, other Juarezistas moved in to replace them.

  "Can you say 'blunt trauma'?" Remo said.

  Remo moved in on them. He didn't have a lot of time, so he just grabbed two by the hair, masks and all, and spun in place.

  Whirling combat boots collided with the incoming troops, knocking them down. Remo released the hapless pair whose scalps were inexorably separating from sagittal crests. They skidded some five hundred feet in opposite directions before coming to rest in the form of brown polyester sacks filled with bones.

  Subcomandante Verapaz had his AK up to his shoulder and was looking down the barrel at Remo.

  "Come no closer, yanqui. "

  Remo kept walking.

  "I mean business!"

  Remo watched the middle knuckle of Subcomandante Verapaz's trigger finger until it went white. He stepped out of the path of the bullet stream. One burst. Then two. He didn't have to count the bullets. So many AKs had been fired at him over the years he could instinctively gauge when the clip had run dry.

  Knowing that, Remo was able to walk right up to the smoking barrel without fear and twist the muzzle out of shape.

  Verapaz stepped back, his green eyes widening in his mask. His pipe dropped from his mouth.

  "What manner of man are you?"

  "Can you say 'out-of-body experience'?" Remo asked.

  "Yes. But why would I?"

  Remo looked over his shoulder. In the resting helicopter Winston Smith and Assumpta sat placidly, their faces unreadable through the falling rain. His orders were to make Subcomandante Verapaz's death look like natural causes. For that story to wash, there had to be no witnesses.

  "Never mind," Remo said. "Just hang around until I figure out what to do with you."

  Verapaz jammed his pipe back into his mouth. "You cannot order me about. I am a Mexican revolutionary hero. Men fear me. Women adore me. I am in all the magazines. I am the future of Mexico. Politically I cannot be killed, so I will never die."

  Remo was about to deactivate the subcomandante's nervous system when he heard low muttering in what sounded like Latin behind him.

  Turning, Remo saw the priest hovering by the foot of Coatlicue. He held his gold cross high and was intoning some kind of prayer. It sounded to Remo like an exorcism was in progress.

  "Padre, I asked you to stay back."

  At that moment the priest laid the gold cross against the thick ankle. It clinked against the stone.

  All at once the crucifix was taken into the stone as if dropped into a placid brown puddle.

  And with a low groan Coatlicue lurched forward.

  Chapter 53

  The behemoth of stone and flesh took one halting step, and during that jerky movement Remo had faded back three hundred yards. He had the priest tucked under his arm. Now he let him go.

  The priest ran for his church.

  Remo stood his ground, ready to retreat or attack as the situation warranted. Having fought various man-size versions of Mr. Gordons through the years, he had a healthy respect for its inhuman destructive power.

  Nothing in his Sinanju training co
vered thirty-foot high giants. But as he watched, he sized up the possibilities. Gordons had started off balance. The poised foot came down, making contact with the earth. A distinct mushy crackle Remo recognized as a human body being crushed floated over the monotonous drum of falling rain.

  Remo looked around. Verapaz was hanging back. It wasn't him. He looked back.

  At that moment the landing foot lost its traction. Whatever-or whoever-it had crushed must have made a slippery smear because, like a man stepping on a banana peel, Gordons froze, throwing up his stiff, blunt arms.

  It was too late. The foot slid forward, tilting the stone giant backward. Compensating, Gordons tried to lunge forward, toward his objective. The sheltering cypress of Tule.

  He almost made it. But the gap was too great. The flat, square head fell into the hanging mass of branches. A few broke into kindling. The rest sprang back into place, dripping water.

  When Gordons crashed facedown on the ground, he made a thud that felt like a huge aftershock and lay still.

  The black rain beat down on him relentlessly.

  Remo noticed a distinct blob at the bottom of the foot that had stumbled. It looked like a giant wad of chewing gum, except it was the color of strawberries.

  Gordons showed no sign of moving again, so Remo approached.

  "Damn," Remo said. "Wonder who that was."

  "No one important," said Subcomandante Verapaz, who was sneaking up on the inert hulk, too.

  Looking over the situation, Remo saw that Gordons had cracked apart in falling. The head was no longer attached. That was a good sign. Last time the brain was in the head.

  "Uh-oh," he said, noticing one stony shoulder had gouged a gnarled, exposed tree root when it fell.

  "What is wrong?" Verapaz asked. "It has fallen, therefore it is dead again."

  "It's touching a tree root."

  "So?"

  "Whatever it touches, it assimilates."

  "So?"

  "So it might be the tree now."

  "How can it be a tree when it is still there?" Verapaz wondered aloud.

  Remo studied the way the stone shoulder and the tree root were meshed.

  "Damn, damn, damn. Now we're going to have to cut down the whole tree to make sure."

  "Hah! You can no more cut down the cypress of Tule than you can break the moon with your naked fist."