Quintana Roo

by Gary Brandner

  “Sorry,” Braithwaite said when he had emptied his stomach.

  “Forget it,” Buzz said. “Can you help me get out of here?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Taking a deep breath, Braithwaite squeezed down under the instrument panel for a closer look at Buzz’s foot. He pushed and pulled at the jagged ends of metal with no effect. When he looked up, the bad news showed clearly in his eyes.

  “The foot is lost, isn’t it,” Buzz said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Buzz felt giddy. “I can’t just sit here. Have you got a knife?”

  Braithwaite shook his head.

  “There’s one in my suitcase. A heavy-bladed Bowie. Would you mind bringing it up to me?”

  Braithwaite started to say something but changed his mind. He nodded briskly and went back down through the hatch. In five minutes, he returned with the knife and a bottle of cognac. Buzz’s leg was on fire.

  “I thought the brandy might help,” Braithwaite said.

  “Good idea.” Buzz drank deeply and let the warmth of the brandy spread through his body. His leg still hurt like fury, but at least he had the strength now to do what he had to.

  “You don’t have to watch this, Mr. Braithwaite.”

  “No, I’ll stay. There might be something I can do to help.”

  Buzz took another swallow of the brandy, then pulled his blood-soaked pant leg up over the knee. Tendons that had been torn loose from his foot twitched in the open air like blinded worms. Buzz probed with the point of the knife until he found the joint of the ruined ankle. He worked the knife in, alternately prying with the point and sawing with the edge of the blade.

  It took twenty minutes, and he passed out twice, but at last it was done. The pulpy, bloody thing still caught in the metal jaws was no longer part of him. With Braithwaite’s help, he wrapped the ragged stump of his leg in gauze from the plane’s first-aid kit. As long as the brandy lasted, he could keep the pain down and close his mind to the ugly reality of what lay ahead. If he had to die there, at least he would not go out like a rat in a trap.

  During the days that followed, Buzz drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, more often dreaming. Nolan Braithwaite tried, but he fought a losing battle against panic. He foolishly used up their ammunition firing Buzz’s gun at the zopilotes, ugly scavenger birds that appeared overhead almost before the dust of the crash had settled. Buzz tried to tell him that the birds were just following their nature, but Braithwaite was beyond reason. He continued to fire and scream obscenities as the birds squeezed their feathered bodies into the cabin to tear at Wilcox’s flesh.

  To give the man credit, Nolan Braithwaite did what he could to make Buzz comfortable. He fashioned a bed in the aisle for him, and he prowled the surrounding jungle to bring back coconuts for them to eat. Buzz continued to fade in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, his leg throbbed as if somebody were hammering the exposed nerves. It also began to smell, which meant that gangrene was setting in. Buzz kept thinking what a really shitty way this was to die.

  On the fourth or fifth day — he couldn’t be sure which — the Indians came. Buzz recognized them immediately as Mayas — short in stature, almond eyed, light brown skin, and silent as stone. Nolan Braithwaite, in his hysteria, thought they had been saved. Buzz knew better and tried to hold the man back, but he ran babbling into the midst of the Mayan party as though they were lodge brothers.

  Naturally, the Indians didn’t understand a word Braithwaite said. Or if they did, they gave no sign. They grabbed him and trussed him up like a chicken before he knew what was happening. Buzz they treated with more respect, maybe because of his missing foot or maybe because he struggled upright in a futile attempt to fight. He was, of course, too weak to punch a dent into a paper bag, and they carried him off as they might a baby.

  • • •

  “That was the last I saw of your husband, Mrs. Braithwaite,” Buzz concluded. “In fact, that was damn near the last I saw of anything until” — he pulled out a stick on which notches had been carved and ran his fingers over it — “twenty-nine days ago.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Then Nolan is alive.”

  It was impossible for Hooker to tell from Connie Braithwaite’s tone whether she was thrilled or disappointed by the idea.

  “He was alive,” Buzz Kaplan said. “Remember, it’s been almost a year since I saw the Indians carry him off. I wouldn’t want to bet any money that they kept him healthy.”

  “It looks like they did all right by you,” Connie said.

  “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “So what happened?” Hooker asked. “What are you doing back here?”

  “After they picked us out of the wreck, the Indians carried us for almost a day along trails that go by just a few yards from here but might as well be invisible if you don’t know where to look. I wasn’t feeling too hot, but I tried to keep track of where they were taking us. By the sun, I judged it to be generally south by southwest. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, we came to a city.”

  “A city?” Hooker said. “Out here in the jungle? Don’t you mean ruins?”

  “I don’t mean ruins; I mean a city. With buildings and people and goats and a sewer system better than some I’ve lived with. There was a wall around the whole thing twice as high as my head and a square in the center with a cultivated garden. They had a temple that must have been three stories high. Ruins, my ass.”

  “Iztal,” Alita said in a hushed tone.

  “What’s that?” Hooker said.

  “Iztal, the great lost city in the jungle. The holy capital of the Mayas before the white men came.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Hooker said, “but I thought it was just another legend.”

  “Legends sometimes come to life.”

  “I’ve noticed that lately,” Hooker said wryly.

  “Believe me, pal, this one is real,” Kaplan said with feeling. “Not that I had much time to look around. They brought me in and dumped me in one of those Indian huts made out of stakes and palm leaves. They fed me and treated my leg with some of the foulest-smelling junk you can imagine.”

  “Turtle fat,” Connie said.

  “Worse. But it did the job. The infection disappeared in a couple of days, and the wound started to heal.”

  Hooker pointed at the carved wooden foot attached to Buzz’s leg. “Where did you get that?”

  Kaplan knocked the end of his cane against the foot. “The Mayas made it for me. Not bad, huh? I’m not going to win any races wearing it, but at least I can get around.”

  “It sounds like they took good care of you,” Hooker said.

  “That’s what I thought. At first. I got plenty to eat; I had my own hammock; they patched up my leg. I even came out with a new suit of clothes.” Buzz spread his arms to display the white pajamalike shirt and pants he wore. “Not fancy, maybe, but I know they made it special ‘cause Mayas don’t come in my size.”

  “And all the time you were there you never saw Nolan?” Connie asked.

  “Not once. Until the last day, I was never left alone, and nobody ever talked to me. Not that I could have understood their lingo if they did, but they acted like talking to me was against the rules. In that society, nobody breaks the rules.

  “The only exercise I got was when they took me out of the hut for a walk. Two mean-looking Indians always went with me, one on each side, carrying spears. We’d walk around the outside of the city wall, about two miles, I’d judge, then back to my hut. Not what you’d call a real exciting life. Then I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see, and everything changed.”

  “This happened twenty-nine days ago?” Hooker “said.

  “Yeah. I was just starting out for my walk with the two nursemaids when we heard a big commotion from another part of the city. I don’t know what was going on, but there was a lot of yelling, and somebody started beating on a gong of some kind. Whatever it was must have been a big eme
rgency, because my guards forgot about me for the first time since I’d been there and started running toward the noise.

  “At first, I just stood there, feeling kind of lost. Not knowing what else to do, I started after my guards. They weren’t a whole lot of fun, but at least they were familiar faces. As I hobbled past the rear of the temple, I saw there was a door open. From inside, I heard kind of a moaning, singsong chant. Then a woman screamed. Like a damn fool, I went in to see what was going on.”

  “Seventh Cavalry to the rescue,” Hooker said.

  “You’ve got to understand I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d been kept in that hut for months with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. So, with a chance for some action, like a damn fool, I grabbed it.”

  “I think you are very brave, Buzz,” Alita said. Then, with a frown at Hooker, she added, “And so does he, the big faker.”

  “Well, thanks, honey,” Kaplan said, “but a man can be brave and still be a damn fool. Anyway, I went into the temple and down a twisty corridor that was lit by oil lamps on posts sticking out of the walls. At the end of the passage, I came to a big room with a ceiling that must have gone all the way to the roof three stories up. There were two rows of men in white robes standing on both sides of an aisle leading up to a slab of stone that looked like an altar. Standing behind it was a Mayan priest or something in a fancy outfit. He was holding a long knife over his head. Stretched out on the altar was a girl of maybe fifteen. She must have been the one who screamed, but I could see by the blood running out of her throat into a big clay bowl that she wouldn’t scream anymore. I turned around to get the hell out of there, and that’s when the guy with the knife saw me. He yelled something, and the jokers wearing the robes turned around to look at me.”

  Kaplan paused in his story to look at the faces of the others. “Hooker, I know you’re not going to believe this, but those people were dead.”

  “You mean the ones in the robes who turned around to look at you?”

  “That’s what I mean. Their faces were empty; their eyes were staring. There was nothing behind them. Zombies.”

  “Muerateros,” Alita whispered.

  Hooker looked at her sharply, but he did not contradict her.

  “But let me tell you, those characters could move,” Buzz continued. “They started coming toward me, and with my wooden foot, I was sure as hell not going to outrun them. I hobbled back up the passage, knocking down the oil lamps as I went. That slowed them down enough to let me get out of the temple. I made for the wall and somehow clambered over the thing and dropped into the jungle. I dug in under a thorn bush and stayed there all night while the crazy Indians ran around looking for me.”

  “Kaplan,” Hooker said, “you do get yourself into the damndest scrapes.”

  “You’re telling me? I figured if the Indians caught me, I’d wind up taking the girl’s place on the slab. Or worse, I’d be wearing one of those white robes and looking out of empty eyes. When it was daylight and they were off looking in another direction, I lit out by memory on what I hoped was the trail that led back here. Lucky for me, it was the right one, and I found the wreck. I figured if anybody was going to come looking for Nolan Braithwaite, they’d start with the airplane.”

  “And you’ve been here alone for the last month?”

  “Most of it. A couple of times the Mayas came sniffing around, but they don’t like to get too close to the plane. I think Wilcox’s bones up in the cockpit make it some kind of a taboo.”

  “How did you live?” Connie asked. “What did you eat?”

  “Coconuts. Iguana. Once a wild pig. I got pretty good with a Mayan spear. I stayed off the trail, because I can’t move very fast, and there was always the chance of running into my pals the Mayas. Then I stumbled on the river that wasn’t supposed to be there, and I started building the raft.”

  “I’d like to have a look at that,” Hooker said.

  “The hell with it. All I want to do is get out of here, and with you to give me a hand, the fastest way for us to make it is on foot.”

  “You’re right,” Hooker said. “We’ll put together some kind of a litter for you and get moving. By sundown we ought to — ”

  Hooker never completed the thought. There was a soft whoosh followed by a thump. Standing a few feet away, Manuel grunted. The shaft of a Mayan spear stuck out like a mast from the center of his chest. He grabbed at it feebly while the blood pumped out of him; then, without another sound, he fell to the ground and moved no more.

  Hooker looked toward the trail and saw a Maya looking back at him. Then another, and another. His hand went to the butt of his pistol, but Connie held his arm.

  “Don’t, Hooker. They’re all around us.”

  He turned in a slow circle and saw they were indeed surrounded. Several of the Indians held their spears aloft, ready to throw. Hooker let his gun hand relax, and the Mayas moved in.

  CHAPTER 22

  Working swiftly and silently, the Mayas disarmed Hooker and the others and took charge of their packs. They examined the weapons with interest, sighting along the barrels of the rifles and expertly swishing the machetes through the air. They went through the clothing of all four, taking the knives from Hooker and Chaco and feeling over the women’s bodies somewhat more than was necessary. Connie kept her eyes averted, while Alita glared at their captors.

  From the moment the spear went through Manuel, the Indians spoke not a word. They communicated with each other through grunts and hand signals. They made their orders clear with short, emphatic jabs of the spears they carried.

  Chaco, the surviving chiclero, was the first of the group to react. He picked out the Maya who seemed to be in charge and began talking to him in the rapid, stuttering dialect Hooker had first heard him use.

  Hooker moved close to Alita. “What’s the little fuck saying?” he asked.

  Alita listened for a moment, then translated. “He is telling their leader that he is a friend and admirer of the Mayas and his only purpose in accompanying the gringos on this trip was to see that you did not desecrate any of the ancient holy shrines. He offers now to be of service to his new friends in anything they might desire.”

  “I never did like that Indian,” Hooker said.

  Two of the Mayas took a cursory look at Manuel, who lay on his back with the spear pointing to the sky. Already the zopilotes circled above. Assured that the big man was dead, they gestured to the leader, who nodded satisfaction. He grunted an order, and two of the Indians sprang forward with lengths of stout hemp twine to bind the wrists of Hooker, Chaco, and the women. The knots were tight, but they left enough slack for reasonable movement of the hands. Buzz was left untied and given his makeshift cane. The Mayas led them back through the brush to the trail. None of the Mayas said anything, but the way they handled the spears made conversation unnecessary.

  At one point, Buzz, limping along in front of Hooker, turned to say, “I think I know where we’re going.”

  “To the city?” Hooker said. “Iztal?”

  “Looks like it.”

  They were nudged into silence by the blunt end of a spear carried by one of the Mayas.

  Up in front, Chaco continued to plead his case in a whiny voice to the leader of the Mayan party while gesturing as best as he could with his bound hands. Hooker kept his mind busy with thoughts of what he would do to the rotten little traitor if he ever got the chance.

  The light was beginning to fail when they reached the wall of the city. It loomed suddenly before them out of the jungle, twelve feet high, made of perfectly fitted ancient stones. It was covered with lichens and vines but seemingly in excellent repair. It curved away from them, vanishing into the jungle growth again within a few feet. They were passed through a heavy wooden gate, which closed solidly behind them.

  In seven years spent in Mexico, Hooker had seen his share of ruins — Aztec, Toltec, Mayan. But he never expected to see an ancient city like this in a state of perfect preservation and with people actually
living in it.

  Behind him, Alita, who had never been particularly religious, crossed herself and muttered a prayer. Connie Braithwaite gazed around wide-eyed.

  Buzz turned and muttered, “This is the place. That big stone building over there, the one that looks like a pyramid, is the temple I told you about. They kept me in a hut way off to the right from here.”

  In the failing light, Hooker could see all or part of a dozen good-sized buildings of stone and mortar. Along the perimeter of the wall were huts of upright stakes and interwoven palm fronds. Most curious of all was a network of leaves and branches suspended on poles so that it covered the buildings and as much as he could see of the surrounding wall. Hooker recognized it as a fairly sophisticated form of camouflage.

  The five captives were herded into a round building with thick stone walls and a single entrance. The top of the doorway was so low that the two men had to stoop to enter. The heads of the women barely cleared. Two spear-carrying Mayas positioned themselves outside the entrance. A third came in with them and took up a station at the doorway.

  Buzz sank to the floor with a sigh and began massaging his leg where the artificial foot was strapped on.

  “You okay?” Hooker asked.

  “Yeah. Just don’t ask me to kick anybody for a while.”

  Hooker touched Alita on the arm. He nodded toward their guard. “See if you can talk to this guy. Find out what gives.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Alita walked over to the guard and spoke rapidly in the Mayan language. She punctuated her conversation with the choppy hand gestures the Mayas used, pointing to herself and to the others to emphasize what she was saying.

  The guard listened impassively, giving no sign that he understood. When Alita had finished, he answered in a burst of rapid talk, pointing for Alita to return to the others.

  “Well?” Hooker said when she returned to his side.

  “He speaks an ancient Mayan tongue that I do not know,” she said. “If he understands what I say, he gives no sign. I tell you one thing; he does not want to be friends.”