“I don’t know,” he responded to the question of soldier strength.
“You are so high ranking and yet you don’t know how many soldiers are in the city?” Page asked doubtfully. It was true, though. He didn’t know. After Quintana made his lack of faith in the king obvious, he had been kept out of certain conversations. He knew the king had sent groups of soldiers out of the city on clandestine missions but Quintana wasn’t privy to actual numbers or assignments.
“It is probably somewhere around two thousand, but there are the Brothers of Tlaxcala as well,” he said.
“The who?” Page asked.
“Tenochtitlan calls them terrorists. They fight for the independence of the surrounding countryside from the capitol. You have done what they could never do. They want no power in the capitol, though. They want it at the colonia, or neighborhood level. They will fight you,” he said.
“How many?” Page asked, as if it were simply a numeric problem.
Quintana snorted. “Tens of thousands. Who knows how many in the city, though? They came in with the refugees and we never got an estimate.”
“That is why we need to get those boats and get our people in the city. This power vacuum concerns me,” Page mused.
Taking the people’s boats? That wouldn’t go over well. Quintana bit his tongue, though. Let these northerners find out the hard way the fickle nature of Tenochtitlan’s favor.
And he was right. Sara’s first act, which was to commandeer boats to transport her army into the city, met with open complaints. The residents of Tenochtitlan were incredibly attached to their boats and had special relationships with them. They were passed down from generation to generation and many a young man sought to improve his in order to attract a future wife. They were given as wedding presents, built to commemorate a birth, and were a part of the family as much as a loved auntie or uncle. To take them was a violation.
“Let them whine. They will be pleased once they see what we can do for them,” Sara said flippantly.
“Do for them? What are we going to do for them?” Dalbec asked. No one in the late night meeting had even noticed him standing there. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, which bothered the strict army men.
“We are going to raise them out of the dark ages, Dalbec,” Sara said glaring at him. “At least that’s how we’ll sell this. Remember, we are here to subjugate this city and rebuild our walker force so we can take the coast. We’ll tell them we’ll improve their wall and defenses. Modernize their agriculture and social programs. Herbert Academy built something remarkable, and everyone should know such a life. We are here to share that, but it will require them to sacrifice up front. By the time they figure out what’s going on, it will be too late.”
Dalbec cocked his head. “What if they don’t want your ‘improvements?’”
“You sound like Commander Drew,” she noted. Some of the men chuckled.
“I just thought…I have read that…”
“You have been extremely helpful, Dalbec, don’t get me wrong. You need to leave the leading to the leaders, though.”
He mumbled something and sulked off.
“My apologies, gentlemen. He brings up fair questions, but we’ve got time and force on our side,” she said.
The men loyally nodded in agreement. If anyone shared Dalbec’s concerns, none of them were willing to say it.
Dalbec hid in his tent.
He stretched out on his back on his cot, trying to block out the meeting. He’d lost all his books in the explosion and had only his imagination to console or entertain himself. In his down time, and especially after unpleasant exchanges with Sara or her leaders, he fantasized about the days before the outbreak. Today he imagined having a family, going to what they called “college,” and working as an expert consultant for a sanitation conglomerate. There were no plumbers in 101 A.Z., as there was no plumbing, so the job sounded somewhat exotic to Dalbec. He chuckled to himself that he already dealt with enough crap.
Plumbing had to have been incredibly important, though, he thought, because no one wanted waste accumulating in their homes or on their land like it did now. Plumbing bureaucrats would have surely needed problem solving skills like his to solve tough logistical challenges. He could have commanded a hefty salary and driven a motorcycle—the ultimate symbol of male virility. The pre-zombie era food would have also put more muscle on his slight frame. He knew men in sanitation needed muscle, as well as brains, to succeed and command respect. Dalbec sighed. He really longed for a family. He felt sure that if he were a brawnier man he would have fulfilled that dream by now. In the post-outbreak world, toughness and physical prowess were the most highly valued traits for men. Guys were farmers, or soldiers, or handlers—all very physical jobs. People like him, smart but slight, didn’t really fit, so women weren’t really interested in or willing to take a chance on them. It was simpler before zombies. You only needed a modest paycheck to attract a mate and have a family. You could just pay taxes for the police and military to protect your loved ones, not dissimilar to the cartels, and spend your days working in a chair if you wanted. Dalbec had the job with a chair but not the family.
Wasting his attentions on Sara hadn’t been helped him, either. It had taken some time to admit it, but he could now see that he’d been chasing a fantasy. Even now, thinking about it, he caught himself believing she would maybe still have him. Dalbec slapped himself back to reality. He was her “pet” and had allowed himself to be treated as such. If that was his lot in the Academy Cartel, so be it. But he was going to make some changes. Sara, despite her leadership abilities, was making poor decisions. He had to save her from them. Not because he was a martyr for her, but because he had a stake in this whole enterprise. This was his cartel too. Whether she liked it or not, Dalbec had been filling the administrative role her husband should have.
This latest scheme, trying to trick the citizens of Tenochtitlan into believing she was there to help them…a perfect example. There was no way the people would buy this. They were no strangers to selfish autocrats. Why did she deceive herself that all her ideas were good?
Dalbec suspected it was because she believed it was impossible for her to fail. She’d read the same history books Dalbec had, and considered herself on par with the mighty world leaders of the past. Foolish, romantic delusion. She was a powerful leader, yes, but a history book for thirteen year olds was not a solid foundation for a paradigm about yourself. Besides, Dalbec had been the idea man behind a significant number of her successes up to this point.
The main threat she wouldn’t acknowledge was Obevens. Why she hadn’t killed him Dalbec couldn’t understand. The “Captain” was a snake in the grass. Dalbec had an idea of how to take care of it, though. It would take a while to execute, but it needed to happen. She wouldn’t like it. And it would be the first time he’d ever crossed her. That was good, though. It was about time he stood up for himself and the cartel.
He drifted back to being a sanitation expert. It was a stupid idea, now that he thought about it.
Chapter 24—March 101 A.Z.
The small mountain town with no name appeared to be comprised of a few huts nestled among the trees. With more thorough survey, however, more and more structures revealed themselves amongst the trees and rugged terrain. For camouflage, they designed the buildings to mimic the jungle. Each building was basically a shallow pit with walls and a ceiling. The dropped floors meant the roofs were about at eye level. Living trees were incorporated into mud walls so a quick glance would only see trunks and forest floor; and the roofs just looked like thick tangles of low branches. Entrances were oriented away from the path, so people could slip in and out of them unseen by travelers if need be.
On the day the Martyrs arrived, the town was a flurry of celebratory preparation. People of all ages dressed in their best bustled around on various projects. A javelina roasted fragrantly in a pit with dahlia tubers, and the smell of chili sauces, fresh corn tortillas, and beans w
afted from numerous fires.
All of this was part of a heroes’ welcome prepared for the Martyrs. As Joaquin led the weary travelers in view of the village, music from ancient and modern instruments struck up. People lined up on both the sides of the path, waiting to hug and touch and bless them. The six were taken aback by the outpour of emotion. Were these the Brothers of Tlaxcala they’d heard about, the bloodthirsty murderers Tenochtitlan feared? Joaquin saw their bafflement and chuckled. After the initial hoopla was over and the Martyrs had been escorted to a fire and seated for the feast, he explained that even though they weren’t heroes in the true sense, these people needed all the heroes they could get. They had been losing against Tenochtitlan for over fifty years. The fact that the Martyrs had joined their cause meant the world.
“What cause have we joined?” Carla asked.
“You are going to help us reclaim Tenochtitlan from all invaders.” An English-speaking elder came forward. There was no irony in his voice, which concerned the group.
As the evening wore on, the Martyrs started to see beyond the optimism. Many people studied them from afar, trying to sift myth from reality. Clearly not everyone was confidently putting all their faith in these foreigners.
John asked the English-speaking elder a question about when the village was started, but he seemed to answer a different question. “Before the first king the city did not revere the dead. It was a sane place where a person could sell their goods from the countryside. Then the king began to require tributes from us in the form of food, lumber, and labor. Those who couldn’t pay were tortured. He took our food and people to support his wars. His son kept the same traditions.”
“This new ruler will continue that,” John chimed in. “I’ve seen what the slavers and the cartel leaders in the north do. They only care about their power.”
“You know this zombie queen?” The elder asked.
“I know her type,” John said.
“She should be fought?”
“If you don’t, no one will be safe.” John paused. “They took my wife and my son. They need to be stopped.”
“You will help us,” the elder said. It wasn’t a question.
“Okay,” John replied.
Lee admired John’s determination but Carla looked at him with concern. This wasn’t his fight, she thought.
“My name is Cesar. We will teach you to run,” the elder said.
Running was an age-old tradition in the mountains. All the Brothers’ villages were connected by a network of winding trails that allowed for communication, surveillance, and the transport of goods. Runners were constantly jogging back and forth. Starting around age six, children would begin running messages back and forth; adults ferried goods and important news. All runners acted as scouts. The result was that there was rarely a piece of ground on their mountainside that was not being patrolled. This system was how they had so long evaded capture by the forces of Tenochtitlan. It also gave them advance warning when large herds were passing through. When a herd was spotted runners were dispatched to lure it downhill, then double back up after the zombies had taken the bait. Since the beginning of the zombie era the mountain people had been using this strategy successfully. The Martyrs were now expected to participate.
“Why do we even stay here?” Tock asked about a week in. He hated the running.
“Where else are we going to go?” Carla responded. It was after dinner. The two were alone, sitting together watching the sunset.
“I don’t know. The coast, where it’s easy. This seems like a hard life,” Tock said. It was more than that, though, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Do you believe in their cause?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you believe in any cause?”
“I always wanted to be like Polo. I always hated Polo, too. When I met him I didn’t think he looked that happy, though. Sure, he had a lot of nice stuff, things I never had, but he still seemed like a jerk. I never wanted to be a jerk. I just wanted people to look up to me. I just wanted to encourage the little kids who had nothing. ‘Look, see what you can become if you fight for it.’ I happened to fight, like literally, cause that’s what I was good at.”
“So what do you want to fight for now?” she asked.
There was a long pause. “You.” He looked at her. It was getting real, lately.
“That’s a good thing to fight for.” Carla reached out and put her hand in his.
“Keep your eyes ahead. Don’t look down. Breathe. Smaller steps. Slower, or you’ll get tired too quickly.” Cesar was coaching John. He had plenty of constructive criticism.
“Could it just be…” John paused to catch his breath. “…that big white guys aren’t made for running a long time?” He was resting, hands on his knees. His feet ached, his knees hurt, and his lungs were on fire.
“Big white man is slow and likes to fight. Small brown man likes to run, is that what you’re saying?”
“Not like that,” John heaved. “Just maybe God made us different. I don’t know.”
“God made you to be here with us, now. We run. That means God made you to run.” Cesar smiled.
John tried to follow the logic, but he was lightheaded. He figured no matter what he said, Cesar would counter it.
“Now, big white man, run that hill again. This time slower and keep your eyes up.”
Cecil and Jamed spent their days running as well, but learning from the trappers. Trappers were responsible for catching animals for food and also for making traps for walkers and intruders. They anchored spikes in holes in the ground, set tripwires that released bludgeons at head level, and placed other various booby traps to ensnare and immobilize intruders. There had been two incursions by Tenochtitlan in the last fifty years. The first was known as the Avocado Plantation Massacre, the second, the Defense by the Nine Tribes. Both had ended with the successful expulsion of the city’s forces but with substantial loss of life. All members of the mountain villages had to be fit enough to run to the northern escape point in case they needed to retreat.. Those who weren’t fit enough had to stay small enough to be carried on someone’s back. All of John’s talk of being a big man had earned him the honor of carrying a grandma on his back.
Lee and Carla learned how to weave from the women. Weaving meant far more than just textiles and baskets. They also wove rudimentary armor, for combat and protection from bites.
Tock sometimes ran with John but had found a more lenient trainer in a younger man named Angel, who spoke no English. Tock didn’t mind logging his training hours, but Cesar was a crazy old man who thought the world revolved around running.
After a few weeks of living and working together, the Martyrs were like family. The skyscraper had brought them together, but the mountains had solidified them. It was as though they spoke their own language, communicating with single words and gestures. A look could tell volumes about what they were thinking, and it became impossible to hide their individual anxieties about the future. One by one, they began to open up to one another and share their personal stories. Each had their own pain they carried about. It became their communal burden to carry each other’s load.
“You want to play football?” one of the locals asked Tock.
“Football, man, I don’t know. I’m not very good at the football.”
“Aww, come on, sissy,” the local chided.
“Oh, I see how it is. Yeah, let’s go.”
Tock huffed and puffed, but couldn’t match the quick footwork the locals possessed. After a few minutes he relegated himself to defense, simply placing his large frame in the way of shots on the goal. It worked sometimes.
As they rested in the shade after an hour of play, a runner approached. He chattered off some words in Spanish and then took off again. The players stood and readied to go.
“What?” Tock asked.
“They found a spy.”
“The queen, she is nervous,” the spy related in Spanish. His a
rms were tied behind his back as he knelt on the ground before his questioners. “They kidnapped my family, to make me come here. If I don’t return, they are all dead.”
“What information does she want?” an elder asked.
“Troop numbers, trails, road conditions, everything. She is very concerned about your strength. I think she is unsure about whether to attack. Please, let me go. I will give her lies, but I must get back to save my family!”
The elder looked at the desperate man before him, a pawn. A victim used as a tool. “Untie him. We’ll think about what false information to pass.”
They untied him. He rubbed his wrists, raw from the ropes. “Thank you,” he said, his hand darting with a weapon they hadn’t seen. The elder blocked the small knife with his arm, shouting in pain as it cut him. Three guards tackled the spy and wrestled the knife from him. They picked him up and carried him off as he shouted for mercy.
Through the Brother’s own spies in the city they learned that people still spoke of the Martyrs. Since the queen had taken over, people were losing their boats and conscripted into labor to heighten the wall. The food and labor taxes were raised dramatically. Those who could not pay had to give up family members as slaves, who were then turned into zombies. This was unheard of. It was barbaric to purposefully turn a person into a zombie. It was only northerners who would think of such methods. The city was on the verge of outright rebellion. The Martyrs had become a symbol of resistance.
“I don’t get it. All we did was escape from a building,” Jamed said one night over a fire.
“The people needed someone to cheer for,” Cesar said. “People they felt were like them—given an impossible situation but able to overcome with the help of friends. That is a powerful hope for a city that has known little.”
“What do we do?” Tock asked.
“We wait. It is still too soon.”
More weeks passed, and John’s running proficiency increased. He and Lee ran across the ridgeline trail every night to the stream and washed their feet together. He felt like he could be himself around her, and she enjoyed his smile. John felt almost happy again, except when he thought about Aaron. His son had been alone now for a year. Aaron had always been softer than Mark, even though he was older. That concerned him. Lee knew by the look on John’s face when he was thinking of Aaron. She understood his need to get to his son…but she knew John was probably happier with her than he’d ever been since his wife’s death.
100 A.Z. (Book 2): Tenochtitlan Page 17
