The Creation: Axis Mundi (The Creation Series Book 1) Page 4

  “Woah, what the hell man?” The Kid barely caught himself from slamming into Zephyr’s headrest. “Why we stoppin’?”

  “Shut up,” Zephyr said.

  On the far side of the road a line of trees came hurtling down, crashing branches hiding what Zephyr knew was coming.

  And then the others heard it.

  The distinct thrum of a helicopter.

  Rojo was the first out, dropping to the ground. He raised his short-barreled machine gun, scanning the treetops and glimpses of sky. Zephyr joined him, grabbing his own Vektor, a futuristic-looking assault rifle manufactured in South Africa. It fit into the crook of his arm like a football; where it belonged.

  He attached the 40mm grenade launcher in a single motion as he climbed onto the roof of the vehicle. He lay prostrate, sighting at where he expected the copter to appear.

  The men in the other Humvee popped out, Dugan opening his door and propping himself up. He looked calm compared to the men scrambling for purchase, beetles scattering at the first drop of rain. The Kid appeared next to Zephyr, sitting on the rear window with his open mouthed sneer. He disappeared briefly inside the Humvee, then was back, raising a heavy barrel up onto his shoulder.

  The Grom.

  A heavy green cylinder with a shoulder harness and black bulb for a trigger, it was a single-use rocket launcher designed specifically for surface-to-air defense. There wasn’t a surprise in the world their team couldn’t handle.

  The whirring of the copter grew into the thundering of a hurricane – wind whipped at the tree tops around them, leaves like flightless birds flapping to no avail. The Venezuelan laborers in the clearing paused, looking upward, mechanical beasts stalled just before the next lunge.

  Through the gaps in branches, Zephyr caught sight of the gravity-defying machine. A faded blue, it had three elongated side windows, typically a feature reserved for commercial purposes. He closed his eyes as the torrential wind cut through the branches overhead, the skin on his face jiggling while his camouflaged clothing flapped.

  As the wind tunnel swept past, he opened his eyes catching a glimpse of the helicopter’s side. Something EXCURSIONES. All he needed to see.

  Still this little copter was far from the Falls.

  It swung out above the clearing, unaware of the artillery tracking its progress from below. The laborers raised their hands, shielding their eyes as wood chips and split branches blasted back at them, the byproduct of their handiwork rising to avenge.

  “Dugan,” the Kid yelled. “It a problem?”

  Anything out of the ordinary was a problem, they all knew it. There was a tension in the air caused by much more than the settling forestry.

  “Dugan?” the Kid called out again.

  Dugan held up a fist.

  Wait.

  Zephyr caught the curse under the Kid’s breath.

  A second copter suddenly joined the first, this one a darker shade of blue. Before Dugan could change his mind, they both passed beyond the clearing, disappearing from sight.

  Two helicopters. More than a problem.

  The Kid’s body turned, still following the trajectory the helicopters had taken.

  “Bang,” he shouted, glancing back at Dugan with a foolish grin. And then the Humvee behind them rocked wildly, glass exploding out its back. Dugan caught himself on the door, barely keeping from a hard tumble.

  Zephyr slid to the edge of the roof to get a better view. Watched as a body hit the ground.

  The native.

  Blood trailed down his arms, dripping onto the grass and brush as he rolled to his feet.

  “You muku,” the Kid shouted. He aimed the rocket launcher at the now fleeing native.

  Without thinking Zephyr launched himself at the Kid. His shoulder struck the Kid’s arm as the rocket released, a loud thwump of hot air compressing into itself. A trail of smoke zipped out as Zephyr and the Kid both fell to the jungle floor. They hit in a tumble of body parts and weaponry, Zephyr’s assault rifle flipping out onto the ground, a knee colliding with his chest.

  The explosion that followed was deafening – a plume of black smoke rose, bark and debris from the trees it had struck raining down in front of them as a wave of heat swept past. A burning palm tilted and fell, crashing mere feet from the Humvee, raising all matter of dust and pollen.

  Applause and sharp whistles sounded from the loggers across the road. The once captive native, having paused at the explosion, now continued to flee.

  “Stop him!” Dugan shouted.

  The Kid ditched the now empty launcher, unclipping Zephyr’s side-arm, an X-2 CO2 pistol. He raised it while still on one knee and fired.

  A dart sunk into the shoulder of the native.

  “Got him!” the Kid shouted. “Ya baby, I got him!”

  The native plucked the dart from his back and dropped it to the ground then continued toward the smoking trees unfazed.

  Zephyr struck the Kid in the face with a right hook just as the honkie turned toward him. Felt the bones in the Kid’s nose shatter behind the force of his swing.

  As the Kid dropped, Zephyr grabbed his arm, raking the dart gun from the Kid’s grasp. He flipped the barrel port, a second dart rotating into the empty steel sleeve with a click. Sighting, he only had a chance to get off one round, the distance between them too far for the pistol.

  The dart struck the fleeing native in the back of one leg. Zephyr flipped the barrel port to the last dart, already knowing it was too late. The native disappeared into the trees.

  “Agh, wahrt the fark,” the Kid said, head between his knees, blood spouting from his nose. His bottom lip was split in two and oozing. He hawked a big glop of blood onto the ground. “Like ta sree you jru that when I’m ready forj it.”

  Zephyr stepped into a kick, his steel-toed boot connecting with the side of the Kid’s head. He went sprawling against the back of the Humvee. Blood spurting against the high bumper.

  “Weren’t ready for that one either? You’re the muku,” Zephyr said. “It takes three darts to drop a Makuxi.”

  The Kid pulled himself up, blood plastered on his face like a poorly shaven goatee. A switchblade sprung into his hand, his eyes wild. He flipped the blade to point outward as he brought his fist up. “One djart will djrop an elephrajnt!”

  Zephyr raised his pistol and fired, point blank.

  The Kid’s head whipped back, a dart protruding from his long neck. The switchblade slipped from his fingers. Without a word, the Kid collapsed.

  “Next time it won’t be a dart.”

  Rojo laughed, coming up beside Zephyr. He spit a glob of chew, part of it landing on the Kid’s pants with a disgusting splat. “Muku. He doesn’t even know what it means.”

  Cy leaned into the back of the second Humvee, breaking off stray pieces of glass. “There’s blood everywhere, Dugan. He must have had something with him, on him. Cut the bonds. Sharp necklace or stone; something.”

  “And the blood?” Dugan asked.

  “His own. Must’a sliced through his wrists and ankles while cutting the ties.”

  “Motivated bastard,” Rojo said.

  “You blame him?” Zephyr looked off in the direction the native had run. More leaves and a burning branch dropped from somewhere above.

  Oso, his long black hair draping his face, tore off a sheet of paper from a small spiral notepad and handed it to Dugan. The ugly native ignored Zephyr’s glare.

  Zephyr understood why Dugan kept the animal around, he needed someone who could communicate with these primitives; what he didn’t know was why Dugan trusted the mute. Anyone who had their tongue cut out was certain to be a traitor. At least in Zephyr’s book.

  “You want us to track him?” Kendall asked, slapping at a mosquito on the back of his hand.

  Zephyr knew the answer before Dugan spoke.

  “We’ll follow the tracer, till it wears off.”

  “Could work out better,” Kendall said. “Homeboy thinks he flew the coop; could lead us right to h
im.”

  Him. The Shaman.

  Kendall’s words were met with an awkward silence, no one willing to voice the concern they all shared.

  All but Dugan.

  And maybe the mute bear.

  No one could deny the miraculous abilities of the tribe they were hunting, distant cousins to the Pemoni’s, a larger clan out of Brazil. Larger and stupider; the clan Oso had been banished from. But months of chasing rumors had led them nowhere as to the supposed being who had divided the two clans, a ghost who, despite two hundred years having passed, was supposedly still alive.

  Dugan insisted if you followed a shadow long enough you eventually caught whatever was casting it.

  Zephyr preferred real targets to shadows. They bled easier.

  Dugan kicked lightly at the Kid’s limp body as he lit a cigarette. “Toss him in the back. We’ll pick up whatever trail remains in the morning.”

  Zephyr moved to obey, but not without adding a kick of his own. It wasn’t nearly as light.

  Verse XI.

  By the time the helicopters touched down in a dirt field in the small village of Santa Elena de Uairen, twilight was approaching. Faye stretched her legs out in the field, a duffel bag in one hand, staring at the changing tapestry in the sky.

  “I’ve never seen so many colors,” she said.

  Donavon paused, hefting a large suitcase, a computer bag hanging from his shoulder. “I’m colorblind; just looks like one big giant swirl to me.”

  “You are not,” Faye said, hitting him.

  “On my mother’s grave,” Donavon said, a wild grin on his face.

  Faye’s smile slipped like the colors of the sky fading to dark purple.

  “That was supposed to be a joke,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Not that I’m colorblind; I really am, but ‘cause my mother’s still alive …”

  “It gets funnier the more you explain it. Hey!”

  A young Venezuelan boy, no older than eight, snatched Faye’s duffel bag from her hand, dragging it behind him through the dirt. He had shaggy hair that fell to his chin, a tattered shirt and no shoes, unless the layers of dirt and grime on his feet offered some form of support.

  Faye ran the few steps to catch him and yanked the bag back. The boy, not expecting resistance, toppled backward, rolling over onto his bottom. Several other young children laughed, calling out either encouragements or insults. Most likely the latter.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Faye asked in Spanish. The bewildered boy looked up at her with wide eyes. “You think you can steal from us just because we’re Americans?”

  Donavon crouched down beside her, offering his hand to the fallen child. “Chamo,” he said, the slang word something he had picked up from one of his admirers in the airport or bus. “Take this one.”

  He unslung his computer bag, handing it to the boy who stood to take it. Donavon slipped the kid a twenty dollar bill. If his eyes had been wide when looking at Faye they now looked like they might pop out of his head.

  The other children ran back to the helicopters, helping Grey and the others unload equipment or bags and truck them across the field.

  “My chamos!” Donavon yelled, the children all hooting and calling back. Several gave Donavon a high-five as he held his hand out for them.

  Faye felt like a complete idiot.

  “He was only trying to help,” Grey said, walking past. He pushed a large dolly filled with crates of the supplies they had brought for the survivors.

  They followed the children toward an unpaved road barely large enough for a single vehicle. Chickens skirted around them. In the distance Faye heard a bird’s cry that sounded almost like a child’s scream.

  “Where are their parents?” Faye asked, catching up with Grey.

  “Drunk on some street corner, who knows? Look I grew up in the Bronx; I know it wasn’t like this, but some things never change no matter where you are. Places like this, as a kid? You learn to fend for yourself or you don’t survive.”

  Faye let Grey continue past, waiting for Donavon. He adjusted his sunglasses as he approached, several of the children marching along at his side. On his face he wore that contagious smile that had probably landed him his first role however many years ago. Behind him, the other two camera men hefted a heavy canvas bag between them, their disproportionate heights not making the task any easier.

  “Figures,” she said, as she joined Donavon. “If you don’t bring an entourage you just contract a new one.”

  Donavon squinted into the setting sun, not responding to her cut. He blew on his glasses, wiping them on his shirt.

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s been a long two days, not that that’s an excuse for my bitchiness.”

  “Hey I had two sisters, I get it. Not saying I understand it, but I get it.” Donavon’s confident and relaxed smile let her know everything was okay. Sometimes she wondered what he saw in her.

  “Comes with the territory, that what you’re saying?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I think everyone’s doing pretty well considering what we’ve gone through to get here. Can’t wait to see what fancy accommodations await us. If we’re lucky they may even have running water.”

  As they turned down the dirt road, hardened tracks where vehicles had passed crusted into grooves, Faye tapped Donavon on the arm, pointing.

  “Over there,” she said.

  Though the location she referred to was hidden from their vantage point, its poison rising into the air was impossible to miss. Twin plumes of black smoke rose like a devil’s prayer, sinking into an ever obscuring night.

  “My god,” Donavon said. “Is that a fire?”

  “I think that’s the lumber mill.”

  The harsh contrast from the colors dancing in the sky to the affront rising in the distance caused them both to fall silent. They weren’t the only ones to have noticed – Grey and one of his helpers, Kenny, Faye thought he was called, were pulling out equipment and cameras.

  This would make for an indelible shot.

  “The equivalent of thirty-five football fields of forest destroyed every minute,” Faye said softly. “People don’t have a clue. What we’re doing to ourselves. The future we’re creating?”

  Donavon found her hand, squeezed it tightly. “You can’t blame people; it’s the agri-corps and governments allowing this to happen.”

  “No. It’s every ignorant person who believes the world will remain the same while we toss our trash into giant heaps and pollute our air with our vehicles and consume and consume with our insatiable appetites, hoping the next generation will figure out a solution. We’re the monsters; we just don’t realize it.”

  A dog yipped at a passing child, a girl with ratted hair and pimples on her arms. Her too-thin frame suggested her nourishment was close to non-existent.

  “I’m glad you’re here with me,” Faye said, squeezing Donavon’s hand back. “I know it probably wasn’t easy, to make it work, but it means a lot.”

  Donavon, who was staring intently at the distant smoke, didn’t seem to hear.

  Verse XII.

  The only hotel in town, the hotel de Maracao, was completely booked. All five of its rooms.

  The local police had requisitioned the building for families who had been displaced during the recent earthquake. To Grey it looked like they were trying to fit a village into each room – he had never seen so many shirtless children pour out of a single door.

  Apparently the damage from the quake had been greater than they had imagined. Back home a five-point-oh earthquake might knock over a few portraits; here it collapsed walls. Then again when your homes were as sturdy as a child’s fort built out of blankets and kitchen chairs, it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise.

  The kids who had been so willing to help with their luggage and equipment vanished after Donavon had emptied his billfold leaving Grey’s team with two truckloads of gear to transport amongst the three of them. Conside
ring they had been wandering rather aimlessly over the past half hour, both Kenny and Malcolm were past complaints – they had shut off their cameras.

  They decided to park the equipment while Faye and Donavon went in search of a place they could stay. Grey was more than happy to oblige. He sat on a step leading up to the city square, literally a square of concrete, with a bronze statue of some historical figure at its center. The statue’s features were so worn it could have passed for anyone.

  If this was the town park it was pretty pathetic; no shade, grass or trees. Not even a bench to sit on. The stickered weeds growing through cracks in the concrete were the only flora in the area. Maybe when you were surrounded by trees and forest you craved something concrete.

  He smiled. He’d have to share that one with the guys.

  Across from the square was a small church in great need of some paint. Homes made of brick and cement ran alongside the square to the left, all standing, unlike the thin metal huts they had seen collapsed near the field. Someone had music playing at an absurd decibel level, the heavy beat of house music only abetting his headache.

  So this is Venezuela, he thought, waving off a drunk man whose eyes were pink instead of white. The man staggered down the remaining step and trailed away. What the hell were we thinking?

  Kenny came back from a small bodega, a tiny store operating out of the front window of someone’s house, with three ice cold beers. He was an ugly dude, six-foot-two with long curly brown hair that hung to his neck and a belly that would have looked seven months pregnant on a woman.

  Grey was one of the few people who knew Kenny still lived at his mother’s, though of course he chalked it up to “caring” for her. As if he was doing more than just living off her dime. In his grey-green plaid button up and aqua denim shorts, Grey wouldn’t have been surprised if Kenny’s mother still dressed him.

  “You’re a godsend,” Malcolm said, grabbing a mud-colored glass bottle and pressing it against his forehead. “Seriously how can it be this hot at night?”

  Malcolm was an intern, another Asian-American protégée that, by being brilliant, had become just like everyone else. A blurred face in a crowd. And so, to be different, he had rebelled, ditching his scholarship at Georgetown to pursue his dreams of being a filmmaker. What the kid had yet to figure out was that he had only traded one insecure crowd for another. His face was destined to remain blurred.