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The Luck of the Maya
The Luck of the Maya
The Luck of the Maya
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The Luck of the Maya

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About the story.... 'The Luck of the Maya' is an adventure with science fiction overtones and even a love interest. It takes place partly in the Petén jungle of southern México, partly in Houston and Austin with side trips to Chicago and New York and occasionally Las Vegas.

The story is told from the perspective of 2017 and set mostly in the late 1970s, the important target date is December 21, 2012â the end of the 5126 year long-count cycle of the ancient Mayan Calendarâ when unusual things have been predicted to happen.

There are Mayan Elders, gangsters, unpredictable hillbillies, an incredibly beautiful and highly trained Mayan operative, shrimp boats, treks through the jungle, death, and some weddings.
LanguageEnglish
PublishereBookIt.com
Release dateApr 26, 2016
ISBN9781456610197
The Luck of the Maya

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    The Luck of the Maya - Theodore Brazeau

    Guatemala

    PROLOGUE — September 2017

    CARLOS 2017

    I’m sitting on my deck with a beer in my hand, looking at the water in Galveston Bay and the fading day beyond it, contemplating ideas about luck, good and bad. Where it comes from, how it changes. Who doesn’t have it, who does, and where do they get it.

    I’m Carlos Montoya (sometimes), Sam Stockman (other times), and various other people on occasion. I’ve been sitting here doing my contemplating for a while now. I thought about getting up and doing something useful. But when you have no feet, sometimes sitting is easier.

    Lucy has been telling me I should write it all down, and I‘ve been telling her no, what for, but I’m getting a little bored sitting around with a beer in my hand, contemplating things, so I’ll give it a shot. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will pay attention…

    Lucy says if I write it down, she will, too. And she has her diaries to back her up. I’m going to write this story, too. I don’t know if you remember all this stuff right. You didn’t even remember our anniversary last year, she said.

    Well, yeah, I said, but that was because...

    No excuses, she interrupted, this is important stuff. Just don’t forget.

    Forget? Forget what? I asked.

    Forget anything, she said. I won’t. She smiled her off-center smile. I hadn’t seen that for a while.

    The feet? Well, they’re in México somewhere, but we’ll get to that. There’s a lot more to this weird story than feet.

    Chapter One

    THE NO-NAME BAR

    LUCY 1978

    That must be the place, I thought, squinting in the sunlight. It’s ugly enough. The bar had been pointed out to me some time ago. I wasn’t sure I’d remembered correctly and there was no sign to help out.

    How can you have a place of business with no sign, I thought.

    I parked the dumpy little Office car I was driving and hoped it would be stolen. Then they would have to get a new one and I could help pick it out.

    I was dressed very ordinary that day, in practical clothes. Jeans and boots, with one of my Mexican blouses and a little silver. Not trying to impress. Not looking for trouble, either, and I didn’t expect any, even though this was a kind of sleazy part of Houston. I wasn’t even armed.

    Avoiding the worst of the trash in the street, I went to the supposed bar and pushed open the door. It was so dark I couldn’t see a thing. I stood for a minute while my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

    Sure enough, it was a bar. A few barristers slouched up to the bar, sitting crookedly on stools. A couple of them stared at me owlishly, blinking at the bright doorway, the rest stared at their drinks. If I wanted any trouble from this bunch I’d have to help them off their stools.

    Now I could see a little better and I spied my guys in the back booth with a few empties on the table. I hoped they weren’t too far gone into the beer. I wanted to talk to them.

    I’d never met these two before, but I knew who they were. I’d seen them at a disco some months ago. They were sitting at a table on the upper level and caught my eye. I don’t know why, maybe just because they were kind of cute.

    At the time, I was at the disco with Martin and my cousin Gonzalo and I had asked. Gonzalo didn’t know them, but Martin had worked with them a couple of times down on the border. He filled me in a little, and I was surprised to learn we had acquaintances in common. I even knew the uncle of one of them, who had done some cattle business with my father years ago. Martin said they did some low level smuggling out of Brownsville. No drugs, just miscellaneous stuff. Good guys, he said.

    I hoped so, because here I was.

    They were staring at me as I walked over and sat down. They continued to stare, so I said, I am not a whore, just to start the conversation.

    CARLOS 1978

    Jeb and I were sitting in a no name bar in Houston, in the far left booth by the back door. The bar would have had a nice view of a street lined with junk cars if it had had any windows, but that would be far too luxurious for this establishment. It was crummier than most, but Jeb and I hung out here from time to time. We didn’t really like the place, no one could, but the beer was cheap and it was handy. Besides nobody here ever asked any questions. No one was ever sober enough to think of one, and that included the bartender.

    We were on our third beer and hashing out our last job. Semi-successful we concluded. Successful because we made out like the bandits we were and our pockets and bank accounts were fuller than they deserved to be. Unsuccessful because it would be a long time before we’d be able to work or even show our faces in Matamoros. Or even Brownsville. I was crying in my beer about that. Brownsville is my hometown and what little family still speaks to me is down there. Well, Jeb had said, you can write, they can read. A lot he cares, he’s an orphan anyway. We had a good start on some dandy beards and mustaches, but I didn’t think they were good enough to keep us out of trouble on the border.

    And not only on the border, we’d had a little trouble the night before, right here in Houston.

    We’d planned to meet at a bar—not this one—a slightly more upscale one where you might actually find a girl.

    I had just parked the car, Jeb had told me at the time. I looked around and saw this Ford wagon picking up speed and coming real fast toward me. I saw a gun poking out the window, pointing in my direction, so I dove down and rolled between the parked cars. They shot, hit the two cars, and they were gone. He showed me where his new shirt was torn, and the dirt stains.

    Did you see them? I had asked. Or was it too dark?

    Not too dark with all the neon, but it happened too fast, and I was too busy crawling around in the dirt. It’s got to be that bunch from Matamoros, who else?

    We were hashing it over again, but I thought he was right. It wasn’t random, and they were on to us.

    The street door opened and some of the barflies looked up. So did we. This was unusual. Her eyes adjusting to the gloom after the Houston sunshine, a striking looking woman stood just inside. In here? Never happen.

    She stood there for a minute, adjusting to the dimness, and headed right for our booth. She sat down next to Jeb, across from me. This couldn’t be a whore, I thought, not in this place. The few whores that came in here looked more like trolls. This was not a troll.

    She was a little taller than average. A cloud of jet-black hair surrounded an oval face with commanding black eyes and nicely curved lips. Her skin was a translucent brown that exuded good health. I wanted to touch her, just for a minute. Or longer. She was dressed simply. A Mexican blouse, blue jeans tucked into boots, silver Mexican earrings and a wide belt of silver disks to match.

    She looked great!

    I am not a whore, she said. Does this woman read minds? I kept my mouth shut to see what would happen, but Jeb started babbling. A beautiful woman turns him to jelly. Hell, any woman does. I kicked him under the table and he gave me a look, but tapered off on the nonsense.

    I have a job for you, she said, good money. Jeb and I had just been saying we wouldn’t have to work for a good while, that last gig being what it was. And couldn’t if it involved Matamoros or anywhere in the state of Tamaulipas. Or South Texas. Maybe not Houston, either. But, if this woman was in the mix, it might be worthwhile.

    I doubted she was any kind of cop, but who knows. Why us? I asked, suspicious. You come recommended, she said, with a funny kind of off-center smile. Who would do that? I asked. She named three names. I knew two of them. They’re all dead, I said. I had even attended the funeral of the two I knew. From a distance, that is—we were trying to keep out of sight as much as possible after our recent activities in Matamoros. But I had grown up with them and wanted to show a little respect. If that’s the word.

    When, where and how much? Jeb said. One good thing about Jeb, he recovers his equilibrium when money is mentioned.

    Right now, mostly México, and you split two hundred thou, she answered, the little smile still in place. I asked where in México, wondering if it could be somewhere we dared to go. The place is southern Campeche and Quintana Roo, maybe Guatemala. I thought the location was fine, about as far as you can get from Matamoros, but we needed a whole lot more information before we went traipsing off.

    What’s this all about, I asked. The little smile disappeared. It’s about luck, good and bad. Suerte, buena y mala. Could you be a little more specific? I asked.

    There is an item somewhere in that area that needs to be delivered to a place in Houston. We make our money finding it, bringing it to Houston and delivering it. Simple enough, she said, and the smile was back.

    ‘Somewhere’ covers a lot of territory, so does ‘Simple’, I said. And we can’t bring anything through Matamoros or Reynosa, too risky for us.

    No es problema, she said and the little smile held on. You like Juárez and El Paso? Might work, I answered, but I’m still hung up on ‘Somewhere’ and ‘Simple’.

    The ‘Somewhere’ is part of our problem, where we earn our keep, but I have a pretty good idea where we’ll need to go. The ‘Simple’, I’ll admit is a bit of an understatement, it won’t really be all that simple. We will have generous seed money and contacts that know the area. The rest is up to us.

    You’re assuming there is an ‘us’. We’re still a little short on detail, I said. How do we get to ‘Somewhere’? What do we deliver? Who do we deliver to? Who else is involved? And, who are you?

    I was afraid this was about drugs. Jeb and I don’t get into that, not because we are such saints, but because it’s not worth it. Being a mule to cross drugs doesn’t pay much and, once you get involved with those guys, your life expectancy starts getting shorter and shorter. We just stay out of their way and do our own thing.

    I’ve got our route all planned out. Trust me on this part for the moment. I’ll fill in the details in a while, but getting there is the least of our worries. I could believe that.

    She pulled out a Triple-A map of México, folded it to show the Guatemala, Belize and México border region. Pointing to a blank area on the map, she said, We start here. I looked more closely. There was a tiny spot there with a name. ‘El Hormiguero’ I read. ‘The Anthill’. Great. No, she said, there’s a little place near there called ‘Los Muertos’. That’s where we start. Even better: ‘The Dead’.

    What do we do when we get there, I asked. I didn’t think this was going to work out.

    We head south, she said. We’ll get most of our gear in Campeche. I have contacts in the area. These contacts will help and most are people I know. I don’t want them to be any more involved than they have to be. Some will be, though, can’t be helped. They’ll be with us, and they know the area.

    As for me, I’m Lucy, she said as if expecting that to explain everything. María Lucinda Montalvo y Carranza, a su servicio. She shook both our hands Mexican style. I thought Jeb held on a little too long. I know I did. I asked for more information. You can never have too much information, even if you don’t believe any of it.

    Se me han contratado, she said, speaking Spanish now, I have been contracted to form a small expedition to go into the Petén forest in this area. She pointed to the map. There are hundreds of Mayan ruins there and among them are three small pyramids that we are interested in. They are unnamed and unknown even to archeologists. Of course, local people know they exist and they try to avoid them. They say they can feel the old gods there and they don’t want to anger them. Even most of those local people are vague on the exact locations. I have seen only one of the three. The ‘Item’ is at one of them, but we don’t know which one yet. It varies. Varies? I thought. That implies someone is doing the varying and that someone may not be happy with us butting in and carrying off something. I said as much.

    This is true. There may be some local objections. There is some controversy, Lucy said, but it is minor. More important, I should tell you we are not alone. There are others with the same idea. They are not very nice people. I’ve met some of them. Briefly. The off-center smile returned.

    Because of these people, we should move fast, and even faster on the way back. We leave two days from today. I looked at Jeb. He shrugged, his usual response. Lucy explained our route, crossing at Laredo/Nuevo Laredo, then south and east to Veracruz. At least we would avoid Matamoros although not by as much as I would like. Nuevo Laredo is still in Tamaulipas.

    Maybe it was the beer, we were on our fifth by now (only two for Lucy), More likely it was Lucy herself. I am normally a rather suspicious person, not to say paranoid, but Lucy has what you might call a Presence that seemed to override a lot of that. Also she has a look to her that makes a man feel silly all over.

    She gave us some names. Mutual acquaintances, she said. Check me out, she said. We have been, I thought. I looked over the list. As far as I knew them, these were good guys, stand up guys. Hell, one was my uncle in Brownsville, the one who was still speaking to me.

    We’ll need some basic jungle gear, but we’re traveling light, so don’t go overboard. We’ll get most of what we need when we get to Campeche, she said. Car? Guns? I asked. Even though I hate guns, don’t even like to touch them, sometimes they’re your best buddies.

    No guns for now, she said, the fun won’t start for a while. I’ve got the car. You’ll love it. She pushed a shopping list across the table and handed a wad of cash under the table. You don’t wave cash around in a seedy Houston bar. Any Houston bar. We’ll meet here at noon the day after tomorrow. Lucy left. Jeb and I thought about shopping. About going south. About getting rich. About getting dead.

    LUCY

    I told them I had a job for them, and that it was good money. They were a little reluctant at first, but I thought they would come around

    They didn’t know me, of course, and would want to do a little research. I gave them some names I knew they knew, including Carlos’ uncle in Brownsville. I remember the uncle from years ago in Chetumal when he was buying and selling cattle with my father. A large man, I recalled, with a big laugh.

    We ordered beers, and I gave them the condensed version of the job. It was too unlikely and too complicated to lay the whole thing on them at once. I didn’t get much into the stories and legends surrounding the ‘Item’, or, as it is often called, the Lobil—the Badness. It brought bad luck, or good luck. Usually bad, often very bad. I was hoping for the good. It wasn’t that this was secret, or even confidential. It was just too weird and they wouldn’t have believed any of it. Ancient Maya folklore, they would have said. Superstition. Nonsense. They would have written me off as crazy and that would have been the end of it.

    We’ll meet here the day after tomorrow, I said. At noon. I left them to their beer. I had things to do and time was short.

    CARLOS

    I called a couple of the guys on Lucy’s list. They were out. I called my uncle in Brownsville, asked him about María Lucinda Montalvo y Carranza. He shouted (exuberant guy, my uncle), Lucy? You should be so lucky! I knew her Dad. I knew her Mom, Consuelo. Most beautiful woman I ever met. Only bad thing was she was married to Lucy’s Dad. Whatever it is, go for it, Chucho, she’s the best. That whole family is. He always called me Chucho, I never knew why, no one else ever did. He also told me the Matamoros people and their Brownsville friends were thinking Houston in terms of their affection for Jeb and me. I told him we’d already noticed that. He suggested a vacation. Maybe in China. Inner Mongolia was beautiful this time of year, he said. Especially right now.

    That pretty much decided it. Lucy’s plan was starting to look a lot better. We were on our way.

    LUCY

    First of all, I had to get the truck away from Archie. That wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t really his, of course. It belonged to the Company, but it was his hobby. He’d been tinkering with it for years: souped up the motor, put heavy duty suspension and tires on it, special things I don’t even know about, the whole enchilada. That’s why I wanted it. But the truck was his baby and he didn’t want to part with it. Not to anyone, much less to me with my track record on vehicles. This was going to take a lot of sweet talk.

    Then I was going to have to replace a lot of stuff. We had lost most of our equipment on the last venture, when Gonzalo and Martin and Larry were killed. Whenever I think of them, I try not to cry. I get furious instead. This wasn’t over yet and there was going to be payback. Someday.

    So I had a long list of things to get, places to go, people to see, and I’d better get started.

    Chapter Two / Capítulo Dos

    THE BORDER / LA FRONTERA

    LUCY

    I knew the guys wanted to stay away from Brownsville and Matamoros, and it didn’t make any difference to me, so we crossed into México at Laredo and drove south with a jog to avoid the traffic around Monterrey.

    We were enjoying the ride when it happened!

    Jeb and Carlos were telling me about the old days growing up in Brownsville, on the border, and popping in and out of México.

    My childhood was nothing like that, I told them. Our border was totally different. There was no big city on the other side. There was no city at all. Just grass and trees. We never went there, what’s the point? We had our own grass and trees. There wasn’t even another country over there then—it was still British Honduras, an English colony.

    We mostly just stayed home on the rancho. I had my pony, Linda, when I was tiny and, later, my horse Estrella. They were all I needed.

    Then I got into telling them some old bedtime stories my grandfather used to tell us. I probably have forgotten some of the details, it was a long time ago. Someday when I’m in Chetumal, I’ll have to ask some old Taatich about them, and see if I can refresh my memory.

    Jeb didn’t think much of my stories, didn’t think they made sense. Now that I think about it maybe they don’t. I’d better study up.

    I was just about to start another story when everything exploded!

    CARLOS

    We crossed at Nuevo Laredo, a little too close to Matamoros for my peace of mind, but we were decked out with our new budding beards and, courtesy of Lucy, a complete new set of IDs, and a new pickup truck. Well, not quite new, it was twelve years old, but new to us and to the folks in Matamoros and very inconspicuous. The truck didn’t look like much, but it was a 4-wheel drive with reinforced suspension and a powerful motor, and was great fun to drive.

    This truck is Archie’s Pride and Joy, Lucy said. It’s not really his. It belongs to the Company we work for, but he’s spent lots of time tinkering with it. It was like pulling teeth to get it away from him for this trip. I had to make all kinds of unreasonable promises, like not driving over 80, not getting any scratches, checking the oil and stuff like that.

    I didn’t know who Archie was, but if I ever met him, I’d compliment him on the truck.

    We headed south, breezed through the checkpoints with our brand new tourist cards, happily distributing packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes too all and sundry. None of us smoked ourselves, but the cigs made great little happy presents for soldiers, cops and anyone else we might run across that needed a pack. We cut over on 30 to Highway 57 to avoid Monterrey and had a great time on the road drinking Fantas and beer and singing Mexican songs. Lucy had a great voice but Jeb was terrible. Like a frog. I’d like to think I was somewhere in between, but was probably closer to Jeb.

    We spent the night in Saltillo, a pretty town and near Jeb’s old stomping grounds, where he spent time with his cousins, growing up. We didn’t take time to stop for a visit—we had our schedule.

    The trip was fun. With Jeb and me it was usually fun—except when it was terrifying. But with Lucy along, it was really fun. Terrifying could wait. We would be sorry when this trip was over. At least that’s what we thought at the time.

    Jeb and I told tales of our growing up in Brownsville, most of them with at least a grain of truth to them. The time we learned to swim, for instance.

    We used to spend a lot of time sneaking back and forth across the Mexican border, just for fun. It was fairly easy and no one paid much attention to kids. Early training for smugglers.

    One day we were on our way to Matamoros and were planning to wade through the Rio Grande. We could have crossed at the bridge, nobody was stopping us, but this was more fun. Besides the bridge cost a nickel. It had rained up river and the water was way deeper than usual. We would have had to take the bridge after all but there was activity at the riverbank so we had to check it out.

    It was awful. A woman had drowned trying to cross the water and was still floating there, caught on a tree branch wedged into the bank. People were wading out to her with ropes to bring her in.

    We knew, of course, that this happened all the time along the river, but knowing is one thing and actually seeing is another. We resolved, then and there, that we would learn to swim, and swim well.

    We did, too. We went to pools, we went to the beach at Padre Island, we went into the river itself. Jeb turned out to be a better swimmer, but I can hold my own.

    Lucy’s childhood was totally different, out there with the cows and chickens. We did have in common that we both lived on the Mexican border, but hers was México’s border with Belize, which was still British Honduras when she was a tiny girl.

    Lucy agreed, You’re right, my childhood was nothing like that. It’s true we were on the border, but we hardly ever even went into Chetumal, much less across the border. There is nothing there anyway. It’s not like Brownsville, with a big city on the other side and you can’t even cross right there at Chetumal, there’s no road and there is no town or anything to cross to.

    I was mostly at home on the rancho with the cows and chickens and pigs. We did the usual country things, weeding gardens, gathering eggs, shoveling stuff, riding horses. The horses I loved, the rest not so much.

    My grandfather would tell us bedtime stories, mostly old Mayan tales. Some of them were pretty scary.

    Like what? Jeb asked. Tell us one. We’re not busy here.

    Well…OK, Lucy said, but you might not like it.

    Try us, Jeb replied.

    All right, get ready. Here goes.

    This was a time with just a little of the beginning of dawn on the face of the earth. There was not even the Sun.

    But there was one who thought very highly of himself. This one was called Seven-Macaw, or Vukun-Cakix

    The Sky and Earth were already there, but the Sun’s and the Moon’s faces were cloudy. They say that the light was provided by Seven-Macaw.

    But now began the defeat of Seven-Macaw by the two boys, the hero-twins Hun-Ahpu and Xbalanque.

    The hero-twins were gods and they regarded the self-aggrandizement of Seven-Macaw as evil. So they talked about it.

    Let’s get rid of him. We could make him sick. We could kill him while he’s eating. We could get rid of all his brilliance, his metal, his jade and jewels.

    So be it, they said. And so they picked up their blowguns and went off together.

    Now, Seven-Macaw had two sons: Zipacna, the builder of mountains, and Cabrakan, or Earthquake, who tore down mountains. Their mother was Chimalmat, the wife of Seven-Macaw

    Here I Am. I am the Sun, said Seven-Macaw

    Here I am. I am the maker of the Earth, said Zipacna.

    Here I am. I am the destroyer of mountains, said Cabrakan.

    The twins said this was puffed up evil. And then they planned deaths and disappearances of those who practice self-aggrandizement.

    They took up their blowguns and climbed the great nance tree of Seven-Macaw and hid in the leaves and branches. Now Seven-Macaw eats each day of the fruit of the nance tree, and he came there that morning.

    Seven-Macaw was eating the nance fruit when he was shot by Hun-Ahpu. The blowgun dart hit him in the jaw, breaking his mouth, and he fell to the ground.

    Hun-Ahpu ran to Seven-Macaw to grab him, but Seven-Macaw instead grabbed the arm of Hun-Ahpu and tore it out of his shoulder.

    Even so, the twins thought they had done well.

    Seven-Macaw, holding his wounded mouth carefully and carrying Hun-Ahpu’s severed arm, went on home.

    What is going on? What have you got there? asked Chimalmat, his wife.

    The trickster twins shot me in the jaw, he answered. All my teeth are loose and they ache. I have Hun-Ahpu’s arm here and I’ll hang it over the fire.

    Meanwhile, Hun-Ahpu and Xbalanque thought about it. They called upon the First Grandfather, named Great White Peccary, and First Grandmother, named Great White Tapir.

    They said to them, please go with us. We’re going to Seven-Macaw’s to get our arm back. We’ll just follow right behind you.

    You can tell Seven-Macaw, ‘please forgive these children we are bringing with us. Their father and mother are dead. We might give them away because all we seem to do is pull worms from their teeth’.

    They approached Seven-Macaw’s home, where he was out in front yelling loudly because his teeth hurt.

    Where are you going, Grandfather? asked Seven-Macaw.

    Just going around trying to make a living, replied the Grandfather.

    Please take pity on me, cried Seven-Macaw, who’s teeth were very painful. What medicines can you make? What potions will cure me?

    We just pull worms out of teeth, and we cure eyes. We set bones, too, replied the two.

    Good. Please cure my aching teeth. It is horrible. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Those two tricksters shot me and my teeth are loose.

    Very well, sir. There is a worm gnawing at the bone of the teeth. We will merely pull out the teeth and put in a replacement.

    Seven-Macaw thought aloud, but maybe it wouldn’t be good to take my teeth out, since I am a lord whose finery and brilliance are my teeth.

    We’ll put in new teeth made of ground bone. All will be fine, they replied.

    All right, pull them out! I can’t stand the pain! said Seven-Macaw.

    But when they pulled his teeth, instead of ground bone, they replaced them with white corn. Seven-Macaw’s face no longer looked brilliant or handsome. With the last tooth, the jewels of his mouth were no more.

    And then they trimmed back the last of the brilliant metal from his eyes, and he was great no more, just as Hun-Ahpu and Xbalanque had planned.

    And then Seven-Macaw died, and Chamalmat died also, in despair, and so Hun-Ahpu got back his arm. The arm was reattached and healed.

    The two boys went on their way. What they did they had done to obey the word of Heart of Sky.

    There was a short silence. Jeb said, is that it?

    Yes, that’s it for now. The Hero-twins had other adventures at other times, replied Lucy.

    Lucy, Jeb said, I hate to tell you this, but that story makes no sense at all.

    Well, she said, a little defensively. It has a moral. You shouldn’t be a braggart or arrogant. That’s a good rule.

    I suppose, Jeb replied, but the point could be made without tearing peoples arms off and committing murder. Do you really tell these stories to little tiny kids? To cute little girl-kids like you were, hugging a little doll in your arms?

    Of course we do, she huffed. And don’t get so smarty. What about Hansel and Gretel, witches cooking and eating little children. That’s even worse.

    What about Goldilocks, bears eating little child thieves. Horrible story. Or Little Red Riding Hood, wolves eating a cute little girl child and her grandmother, too, not to mention the packed lunch.

    Point taken, Jeb admitted, but I still think the story line needs work. Seem to be some gaps there. And who are those other guys, Zapac and Caber or whatever. What happened with them?

    Zipacna and Cabrakan. Well, that’s another story, but if you are going to be so snotty.

    Sorry, go ahead, maybe it will end the suspense, sighed Jeb.

    OK, Lucy replied, just hang on.

    Hanging on every word. Jeb said, looking out the window.

    Now I’ll tell you the story of Zipacna.

    That didn’t happen.

    Chapter Three / Capítulo Tres

    THE DESERT / EL DESIERTO

    The Desert / El Desierto

    CARLOS

    In the rear-view mirror, I’d had my eye on a big newish looking car that had been hovering back of us for some time. Lucy was just starting one of her stories, when the big car suddenly accelerated. It rushed along our left side, and without warning there were bullets buzzing and plunking all around us. They tore through the roof of the pickup, carved gouges in the hood, shattered the driver’s side window and, fortunately, just missed the driver. That would be me.

    The big car swung half into our lane and its brake lights flashed. It was slowing down to make another pass, or to run us off the road into those rocks. I careened to the right and was able to squeeze past between the car and a solid looking rock formation off to the side of the road. We picked up some more bullet holes as we roared past, but only in the pickup bed with no real damage.

    LUCY

    A big car zoomed past us and I saw guns! Bullets whizzing all around and I didn’t have a gun to shoot back with!

    Our only chance was to get the hell out of here! Carlos had floored the accelerator and the big engine was screaming. A curve in the highway was coming up and I saw a dirt track heading off into the brush.

    There! I shouted as loud as I could over all the noise. I guess Carlos heard me or saw the track himself. He roared onto the little road, almost rolling the truck. We careened down that mostly invisible path at full speed. I don’t know how Carlos was hanging on to the truck, but I was hanging on to him. He felt kind of good, kind of solid, but I didn’t have time to think about that—I was too busy thinking about dying horribly!

    CARLOS

    I stood on the gas pedal and picked up some distance with the motor roaring, but I knew they would still catch us. There, Lucy shouted and pointed to a barely visible dirt road – more of a path – coming up ahead fast as the highway curved slightly.

    I mashed on the brakes, wrenched the wheel, and the truck slammed into the road at a tilt, accompanied by a huge bang as it left the highway. We bounced and banged down the track dangerously fast, but it was even more dangerous to slow down. I hung on to the steering wheel with both hands, wishing I had two more. Jeb gripped the doorframe with white knuckles, and Lucy, in the middle with nothing else to hold on to, held on to me. That was the one happy thing in this whole terrifying experience.

    Through the dust we threw up, I could barely see the big car in the mirrors. It was still there, but it was no longer gaining on us.

    I slowed down slightly. We could easily roll the truck or tear off the oil pan on this kind of road. So could our pursuers, and I hoped they would. Our truck was a far better vehicle for this terrain than that city car was.

    We kept going, slowing more and more

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