James Axler – Deathlands

“Be right there, Doc,” Krysty said.

The bead curtain parted and in came Itzcoatl, his face and body smeared with jagged lightning patterns in vivid vermilion clay. Two of the older warriors accompanied him, both wearing unstrung bows across their shoulders.

“We know that slavers have raided the village of the Jaguar people. Terminated them. Totally fucked them from the eyes of the earth.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s what we heard. Seems likely that they’ll be coming for you real soon.”

“When?”

“Who knows?” Ryan shrugged. “We were lucky to hear as much as we did. Seems the mines are busy and they need slaves. More and more, quicker and quicker.”

The chief nodded slowly. “If the Jaguar people could do nothing to save themselves, then we got no hope.”

“Bullshit!”

“You think that we can be saved? We have talked about it and we can see one chance.”

“What’s that?” Ryan asked.

“We can run. Drive the animals and take our small What is name of things we have?”

“Possessions?” Krysty suggested.

Itzcoatl smiled at her. “That is the word. We take our possessions and run far into the jungle. Run so far and so fast that slavers leave us alone. Then we build a new village and hope gods find us.”

Ryan sighed. “I’m not sure that you can find a place where the slavers won’t track you down.”

Itzcoatl’s smile slipped away. “Not?”

Ryan shook his head. “Not.”

“How not?”

“You have good trackers?”

“Of course. The trackers from this village, aided by the gods, are the best in all the valleys and mountains.”

“Sure. Could they follow a wounded deer through the deep forest?”

Itzcoatl grinned and threw out his chest proudly. “Yes, many times, yes. Even the most crawling baby could do such a thing with eyes closed.”

“Then don’t you think the slavers could follow the trail of a hundred men and women and children and dogs and cattle and pigs and all their possessions?”

The chief considered that for a long time. “Running not good?”

“I think a man who runs for a day simply keeps himself breathing for another day. He holds off death for a while. Not escapes it.”

Doc nodded. “There is the tale told of the man in let us say in the ville of old Boston, who was walking through the marketplace when he was horrified to see the figure of Death, who looked startled to see him. Knowing this was a dreadful omen of his own demise, he immediately want home, packed his possessions and ran as fast as he could. Many hundreds of miles to another city where he felt he would be safe. The new town was called Baltimore. And there he walked in the streets, feeling safe. When, to his horror, Death came for him. And Death looked very surprised, explaining that he had been taken aback seeing my friend in Boston the day before. Because his appointment was for today, in Baltimore.”

Itzcoatl had followed the story with rapt attention, nodding and grinning broadly at the ending. “I understand it, Doc. A man can not escape his own fate.”

“That’s it, my dear fellow. That’s it, absolutely spot on, Chief.”

Outside, the drums had begun their rhythmic beating, interrupted by a blaring trumpet.

“The food is prepared and we can talk,” Itzcoatl said. “Do you have any plan for us, Ryan?”

“Wait and see. Food first and then we can talk. Right now I could eat a water buffalo, horns and all.”

THERE WAS VERY LITTLE fresh meat, as the village hadn’t recovered from using it all to combat the ants. But there were earthenware platters of tortillas, and plenty of fish with some sliced duck and a haunch of venison, slain the previous afternoon by a group of hunters.

“You want octli ?” asked one of the oldest of the warriors, sitting cross-legged across from Ryan, offering him the thick, milky drink from a white glazed jug.

“No, thanks. Need to keep a triple-clear head for the next few days.”

He realized that there was a sudden silence, and that everyone around the low table was looking in his direction, waiting for him to speak.