Warren Murphy - Unite and Conquer

He followed her closely down Anillo Periferico, toward the southern outskirts. Toward the mountains. Beyond the mountains lay freedom. Beyond the mountains lay the rich and fecund soil of the Zapotec century to come.

Sturdy Zapotec women dwelt to the south, Lujan knew. In Oaxaca. And when they beheld him approach with the goddess Coatlicue, they would offer themselves-no, throw themselves at him.

He, Rodrigo Lujan, would beget a race of new Zapotec warriors that would sweep across the face of Mexico to usher in a new sun and a brighter tomorrow.

As he flung away the hated confining suit coat, he could taste their chaste, willing kisses.

As they walked, others followed in their wake.

Lujan's great heart seemed to burst with pride to see them follow like an army of ants that know sugar lies near.

The city of twenty million had been clogged with peasants from the countryside. There were the hooknosed Aztecs, the cross-eyed Maya and the barbarian Chichimecs with their thick bodies. The Olmecs were no more. No man knew what had become of them. The Toltecs had long before been assimilated.

But Zapotecs and Mixtec were plentiful.

And all of them, whether Zapotec, Maya or Chichimec, fell in behind the striding behemoth that was Coatlicue, crying, sobbing, dancing, their heart pounding with joy.

Some threw themselves before her juggernaut form, praying, begging guidance, seeking deliverance as the city of wonder broke and splintered all around them.

Her tread broke their prostrate skulls, splintering their living bones as if they were kindling. They died, their souls liberated. They died indio and so died happy.

Lujan wept proud tears to see their blood run. It was like the old days he had never known. Before the Spanish had spilled Zapotec blood and mingled their own with the blood of the women who survived to beget the modern mestizo people of Mexico.

Passing a shattered peasant woman, Lujan paused and reached into the raw kindling that was her rib cage to extract her heart, still warm and beating. And walking backward behind his goddess, he held the dripping, pinkish organ over his head for his growing retinue to behold.

"Behold, children of old Mexico. See your future. The day of the machine is over. The tyranny of the chilangos is over. Time has turned in on itself like a serpent devouring its own tail. A new era dawns. I am Zapotec. I call upon all of my blood and related blood to follow me into the glorious past which now stretches out before us."

And they did. In growing numbers.

The chilangos were struck dumb by the sight. Dazed and whelmed by earthquake, they had shrunk from the sight of the oppressed of the earth throwing off their yoke. Ladino clothes were cast off. Men marched in their underwear or nothing at all. Women walked bare of breast and unashamed of their rich indio skin.

At times police officials, seeing this affront to their so-called civilization that had brought sick air and a quiet desperation of spirit, fell on them.

But their guns held but handfuls of bullets. Some fell. And after they expended their futile lead missiles, they were fallen upon and torn limb from limb by the blood-crazed crowd.

Soon many walked holding the pulsing, bleeding hearts of the oppressor in their hands.

And before them lumbered Coatlicue, implacable, remorseless, all but oblivious to the revolution that she led, her only words the same single-minded incantation droned over and over again: "survive, survive, survive..."

Chapter 13

The Extinguisher was making wicked excellent time. The LAV's lightness was an advantage. It may have been the military equivalent to a Volvo, but it covered road like a speeding-jeep. Its light frame meant gasoline went farther, too.

The towns and villages along the Pan American Highway zipped by. No one stopped or questioned him. For the Extinguisher drove a Mexican police vehicle. No one questioned the Mexican Federal Judicial Police.

Out here the Federal Judicial Police were the only law that mattered.

Now with night falling, even that thin brown line of authority was fading. The law of the jungle was supreme.

That was fine with the Extinguisher. The law of the jungle was his kind of law. Of all the predators in the jungle, he was the most predatory of them all.

Eventually his gas ran out. There were two spare jerricans, which he used to replenish the tanks. That bought him another hundred miles. But by the time the lights of Tapanatepec came into view, the LAV was bone-dry.

Out here gas stations didn't exactly rub shoulders fighting for business. It was the end of the line.

The Extinguisher flicked on the dome light and checked his maps. They were throwaway maps, ripped from magazines, but they were good enough.

Also torn from magazines were photographs of his quarry, Subcomandante Verapaz. Since he had made good time, the Extinguisher had time to refresh his battle memory regarding the foe he sought.

The pictures showed a jaunty man in a black ski mask. The soulful poet's eyes were the same in every picture. That was important. That meant while many wore the black ski mask of the Benito Juarez National Liberation Front, there was only one Subcomandante Verapaz. The man may have doubles, but they did not pose for the press to confuse the issue.

Well, that was Verapaz's mistake. If he didn't understand the fine art of confusing the enemy, that was his tough break.

When they at last came face-to-face, the Extinguisher would know those jungle green eyes. There would be no mistaking them ever.

And when it came time to extinguish them, well, that was what the Extinguisher did.

Chapter 14

The ground had grown quiescent when the retinue of Coatlicue, now thousands strong, had passed through the mountains.

The aftershocks came, making the belly quail, but at greater intervals. Popocateped still smoked. The sky hung brown and brooding, and the air below was filled with warm ash. Men, women and children captured the falling benedictions between their hands like children cavorting in their first snowstorm. They smeared their fleshy, halfnaked bodies with the pungent unguent in blasphemous parody of their castoff Ash Wednesday rituals.

The too-warm air awoke the spring wildflowers early. Birds roosted silent and pensive in the trees. Now night fell. The first night of the new sun. The night after which all nights would be forevermore changed.

"We must stop to rest, Coatlicue," said Rodrigo Lujan, walking backward before his goddess. He wore a cloak trimmed in rabbit fur over a cotton girdle that protected his manly loins. The tyranny of confining garments lay in his past, along with his necktie and shoes.

"Survival dictates continued flight. The terrain is too exposed here. And I am presently unable to assimilate another form."

"Nothing can happen to you now, Coatlicue. The ground has stopped shaking."

"Seismic activity has entered a quiescent phase. There is every reason to assume it will resume anew. Aftershocks continue. Continued survival necessitates seeking stable ground."

"Your followers need rest. They have marched behind you all day. Now they require rest and food."

"I do not require followers."

"But what is a god without followers? It is their secret prayers which have awakened you. It is their unheard yearnings that have warmed the many stone hearts upon your breast."

"I had elected to remain quiescent until my foes had ceased to exist, which I estimate would transpire in approximately 60.8 years at the latest. During my inactive state, I attempted to complete all self-repairs possible. This task is ongoing. The seismic disturbance triggered my self-preservation override. That function is presently being executed."

"Stop, Coatlicue. Stop. You must allow us to sacrifice in your name. It will make you stronger."