There was a rustling and shuffling back in the shadows, and more figures walked into the light cast by the torch. There were two separate groups. On one side, ranged behind Holchacán, were his Mayan warriors. They were armed with swords and the short, deadly spears. On the other, moving in nightmarish silence, were the muerateros.
“Nice crowd,” Hooker said. The heavy arms tightened their grip around his chest.
“I want your fate to be an object lesson,” said the Mayan chief. “Word will spread rapidly of what happens to those who challenge Quintana Roo.”
Through the ranks of the muerateros moved one who was taller and more pale than the rest. Patchy gray hair grew like fungus on his head. There was something different about his eyes — a light that was not quite extinguished.
“Nolan!” Connie cried. “Oh, God, Nolan!”
If the tall, pale creature showed a flicker of recognition, it was too faint for Hooker to catch.
“I see you recognize your husband, Mrs. Braithwaite,” said Holchacán. “Perhaps I should say your late husband. He has undergone changes, as you can see.”
“You bastard,” Connie said in a dull voice.
“Actually, he turned out quite well. He has already survived beyond the usual time for these creatures. I’m quite proud of him.”
Holchacán came closer with the torch and peered into the faces of Hooker and Kaplan. “It’s a pity I was not able to finish the job on you two. Both of you have strong constitutions. You might have outlasted them all.”
Hooker said nothing. He had to fight even to breathe.
“Now your value as subjects is destroyed. To satisfy the Germans, I will have to show them your dead bodies. But there will always be fools who venture into the jungle.”
The clamor from down on the beach grew louder. Lights could be seen starting to move up the trail as the Germans organized their search.
“It is time,” said Holchacán. He fixed his eyes on the muerateros, who held the three captives. “Kill them.”
Hooker felt the arms clamped around his rib cage begin to tighten. He put all he had left into a struggle for life, but his blows had no more effect than a baby’s.
From somewhere in the darkening world that closed in on him, Hooker heard a howl that was not quite human but was unlike any animal he knew. The crushing pressure on his chest gradually eased. As the torch-lit scene swam into focus, he saw Nolan Braithwaite, or what was left of him, standing in front of the motionless muerateros. His arms were outstretched in a gesture of command. His mouth gaped. The torchlight glittered in his unblinking eyes.
“What are you doing?” The voice, high and hysterical, was that of Holchacán. “Kill them, I said!” He barked an order in the old Mayan language.
The howl came again. It came from the mouth of Nolan Braithwaite. Into that terrible cry was packed more rage and pain and hatred than any one man should know.
Without warning, the powerful arms around Hooker let go. He collapsed on the ground and gasped for air. Beside him lay Connie and Buzz.
The pale mueratero gestured to the others. The sounds that he made were not words, but they had a pattern, and they brought a response.
Slowly at first, then with more purpose, the walking dead men advanced on Holchacán and his warriors.
The Mayan chief shouted an order. The empty-eyed muerateros did not falter.
“Back!” cried Holchacán in English. “Damn you, get back!”
But it was his own warriors, not the dead ones, who gave ground. The stink of fear was in the air.
Buzz crawled over next to Hooker. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Hooker said, “but I think we better stay out of it.”
Holchacán turned toward his men, who were edging away toward the jungle. He spat out orders in the old Mayan dialect while gesturing toward the muerateros. It was not difficult for Hooker to get the drift: destroy them!
To the credit of the Mayan warriors, they fought bravely. They walked into the advancing army of dead men, slashing at them with their swords and shoving their spears through the unfeeling bodies. Hooker could have told them that the mueratero is hard to hurt.
The scene was like a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. the Mayan warriors inflicted terrible wounds on the muerateros, slicing them open, hacking off limbs, and still the dead ones came on as long as they could drag themselves. When they reached the Mayas, they tore the Indians apart with bare hands. Hooker watched one of the muerateros, with his stomach laid open and a bloody mess of entrails dragging on the ground, crush the throat of a warrior, then fall on top of his victim, truly dead at last.
Hooker turned at the sound of weeping to see Connie Braithwaite hugging herself, staring dazedly at the battle. He put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. She looked at him. In her eyes, the horror dimmed a little.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hooker said. “Where’s Buzz?”
“I-I don’t know. He was here a minute ago.”
“Damn, I hope he didn’t get himself into the fight.”
“Wait!” Connie said.
She was no longer looking at him. Hooker followed her eyes and saw Holchacán, his face twisted in terror, holding the torch out like a fiery sword. Walking toward him, fingers bent into claws, was Nolan Braithwaite.
Holchacán thrust the flaming torch into his face. Hooker could hear the sizzle of flesh all the way over where he crouched next to Connie.
Braithwaite swatted the torch to the ground. Holchacán stepped back and drew his sword. He swung it in a vicious arc. Braithwaite raised an arm to ward off the blow. The blade sliced cleanly through his wrist and the severed hand flopped to the ground.
The Mayan chieftain lunged with the sword, sank it deep into Nolan Braithwaite, and heaved upward on the hilt. Something spilled out of Braithwaite’s stomach. Hooker moved in front of Connie so she couldn’t see.
Braithwaite’s body shuddered. With the sword still in him, he stumbled forward, reached out with his remaining hand, and seized Holchacán by the face. Two of his fingers went into the eye sockets, the thumb into the mouth, strangling the scream of the Mayan chieftain. Braithwaite used his ruined arm, with blood still running from the stump of the wrist, to encircle the Indian’s back. He hugged the body of Holchacán to his own while bending the head backward. The Maya’s neck snapped.
Nolan Braithwaite released the body of the Mayan chief, letting it crumple at his feet like a broken marionette. He turned slowly toward Hooker and Connie, who was now on her knees, staring at him. Braithwaite used his one hand to pull the Mayan sword from his body and drop it to the ground. Then he half raised the hand in a clumsy gesture of farewell and collapsed.
Connie lurched to her feet and started toward him.
Hooker put a hand on her arm, restraining her. “Let him be, Connie. He’s finished now.”
The remaining Mayan warriors, seeing their leader go down, gave up the battle and melted back into the jungle. The muerateros, maimed and mutilated, started to move toward the bluff where the trail led up from the beach.
Hooker yanked Connie to her feet and pulled her in the opposite direction. “I’d love to see how the Germans handle this, but we can’t stay.”
He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted “Buzz!” If there was an answer, he could not hear it over the growing commotion at the top of the trail. He called again without response.
Hooker waited until he heard the first shots fired by the Germans as they met the muerateros. Then he took a firm hold of Connie’s hand and ran for the river.