The Black Seas of Infinity (28 page)

The arid terrain is bare for long stretches,
suddenly blossoming into scant signs of civilization before giving
way to wilderness again. I don’t know the distances in Mexico, but
I can’t be too far from my goal. I try to piece it together with
the miles I’ve traveled so far, but the route is too meandering,
with too many stops.

Level savannas give way to wooded foothills
as the Nissan trudges on, whining in an ever-steady pitch as it
climbs the sloping roadway. The orange needle has fallen to less
than a half a tank, and these inclines are only eating up more
gas.

My sides proffer a splendid view. Rolling
vistas of green forest, tumbling into verdant valleys, and then
back up again into tree-covered summits in a flowing crescendo. The
landscape pops in and out of view, seen as a radiant green through
gaps in the trees.

It’s all too short an intermission as I
descend from the charming backwoods into a flat prairie of
subjugated fields.

I roll by the outskirts of Cordoba. The sun
has dropped almost below the horizon, the falling globe a fiery
ball of white nestled amidst a smoldering orange haze. Gossamer
strings of gold stretch out from the core, highlighting the distant
hilltops.

Serene hills and valleys pass in a subdued
procession. The night is absolute out here, the heavens speckled
with the light of countless stars. I flow through the endless
wasteland, rolling down a moonless highway. Small clusters of
households drift in and out of the night, the pale windows
glittering beacons. Highway 150D turns into 145D, then eventually
180 at the small town of Ixhuatian del Sureste. The gas needle has
dipped dangerously low. I really don’t want to, but I should
probably steal another vehicle. I would guess I have a good
two-hundred miles to go until I hit the rain forest, and there is
no way this vehicle will make it that far.

The trees on the roadside recede just ahead,
and I can make out the contours of a house. Slowing down, I pull
off on the shoulder. A dirt lot sprawls out in front of a long,
box-shaped building. There are no lights on and no cars parked in
front. Off to the side, a wide unpaved road wanders into the woods.
It’s a chance, but I take it. Better to run out of gas somewhere
closer to a populated area than in the middle of the
wilderness.

I bounce the truck slowly down the road, the
trees closing in and turning the dirt path into a tunnel. I’ve
traveled only a few feet when a path opens up on my left, the
contours of a house visible beyond. Pulling the truck over, I turn
off the ignition and quietly creep out.

The silence is nearly absolute, the night
cloaking all but the hum of insects and crackle of my footfalls. No
lights are on in the house, but the edges of a vehicle can be seen
jutting out from the far side. Slowly I cross the open lot, every
step way too loud. I feel totally exposed, no tree cover to hide
behind, the starlight a dead giveaway if anyone looks out. I can
make out at least two upper storey windows. I keep scanning for any
glimpse of a human response. Nothing. The shadowed vehicle is an
old Land Rover, a spare tire mounted on the hood. I inch over to
the driver’s side and notice the steering wheel is on the right.
Stupid... I forgot this is a British import. Circling around, I
open the left door. The hinges squeak faintly, and I spin around to
look. The house remains motionless. Ducking under the dash, I feel
for the wires. I grip a cluster, but it’s too dark to make out what
leads to the correct components. Fuckin A. How am I going to figure
this out? I pause for a moment to think it through. I have no
choice. I’ll have to break into the house.

I turn and walk to the front. Climbing two
steps, I examine the door. It sports a modern brass knob. I twist
it slowly, but it’s locked. Apparently nothing is easy. Taking a
step back, I kick the door. The wood shatters, cleaving at the lock
into a torrent of metal and splinters. I hear someone yell in
Spanish, and a middle-aged man, decked out in flannel trousers,
comes running down the mahogany staircase. His light skin tone and
graying ponytail give me the impression he’s a foreign transplant.
He’s almost halfway down before he stops and stares. He must be in
his early forties, a slight beer belly expanding his waistline.
Dark hair carpets his pale chest. Well, damage done. It’s not like
he can do anything. If I could talk I would just ask him for the
keys, but I don’t have that convenience, so I turn my back and
wander toward the kitchen. I hear some more Spanish, followed a
moment later by, “What the hell are you?” I turn and rotate my hand
like I’m twisting a key in a lock. He just stares at me. So much
for communication.

I keep wandering across the hardwood floor
toward the stretch of linoleum that I presume is the kitchen. The
creak of a stair hits me and I spin my head. He’s still frozen in
shock, probably deliberating what a lousy move that one step
forward was. Entering the kitchen, I run my hand up the wall. A
flip of the switch, and the room comes to life, decorous blue tile
stretching out before me. A stained round wooden table commands the
center of the room, a shiny stainless fridge not far behind. And
right there on the wall is a key rack. I reason the largest key,
with the black- plastic-enshrouded head, is for the car. Snatching
it up, I stroll back out into the entrance hall. The man has made
it down to the foot of the stairs, and falls slightly aback as I
walk by, still gaping in wonder. I clamber down the front steps,
around the house, and over to the Land Rover. The key slides into
the ignition, and with a sleepy grumble the engine fires up.
Mashing the pedal, I spin out of the dusty lot and head back toward
the interstate.

It’s a little strange navigating from the
right side of the car, but my muscle memory clicks in faster than
my instincts, and I smoothly roll out onto the road. A glance over
my shoulder, and I can see the British guy has made it to the open
door, witnessing my escape in silence.

A brief tramp through the woods, passing the
abandoned shell of my former truck, looking more battered and
abused than ever, and I’m back out on the highway. A shame I had to
steal a car, but at least no one died. Back on 180, the lonely
boulevard stretches out before me. A shimmering river of black,
splicing a marauding swath through the wild.

Highway 180 bypasses a few rural dwellings
before finally crossing over a giant body of water. I can already
see the dawn creeping up. The sky hasn’t lightened yet, but it’s
coming. The thoroughfare forks into 180D, bypassing the city of
Villahermosa. A last outpost of civilization before the swamplands
that border the rain forest. The old truck grunts and snorts,
vibrating with the stress on its aging valve train. Despite the
fact I can’t smell in any conventional way, I somehow sense the
reek of mold. Poorly lit like all old vehicles, the round gauges
glimmer through a haze of decades old grime, the ancient
three-speed gearbox whining loudly with the ninety kph strain I’m
subjecting it to. The floorboards vibrate stiffly, grousing like a
grumpy old man. If the Land Rover can just make it to the
backwoods, I’ll be happy.

The sun has yet to crest the mountains, but
the sky has paled into the silvery blue of early morning as I pass
Villahermosa. The truck is complaining more vociferously now. The
engine cuts out in worrisome spurts, a tense moment passing before
the gas reignites in a sputtering backfire that convulses the whole
truck. The lights of the city drift by quickly, a flurry of houses
and buildings that I largely ignore because I’m fighting with my
dying truck.

Almost through the city, I look up just in
time to see the avenue splitting into 180 on the left and 186 on
the right. Spinning the wheel quickly, I cut off an ancient white
Honda Civic in a blare of shrieking horns. I cross two lanes,
jerking back at the last minute when I realize I’m heading toward
the ramp for 180. The Civic pulls around me and storms by, just as
my truck gives up the ghost and conks out. Vigorously flipping the
key back and forth, I grind the starter as I try to reignite the
engine. Nothing. Letting it cool for a moment, I coast toward the
side of the road, flipping the key just as I roll onto the shoulder
in a last ditch attempt. Something catches, it sputters to life,
and I pull back out onto the main road just in time to see the
interstate ascending onto a sizable bridge. The lanes further split
into separate spans as they cross the body of water. Pressing the
gas pedal to the floor, I roll forward, hoping for enough momentum
to carry me up the incline. The truck makes the first few feet,
slowing as it struggles up the bank, then falling into a steady
rhythm as the thoroughfare levels out. Made it! In a victorious
descent I ride the clutch, drifting down the other side. A few more
passing buildings, and I’m out of town, sticking to the right as I
round a giant oval curb and finally jettison the last major outpost
of humanity. I’m almost there! This is the beginning of the Mayan
area. I just need to find sufficient jungle to lose the truck and
disappear.

The sun has crested the mountaintops in the
east, casting a pall of misty radiance over the terrain.
Stratocumulus clouds blanket the sky, shifting and twirling in a
graceful billow through the heavens. The tops of trees bloom in the
radiance, their green leaves stretching out to greet the incoming
sun.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky, the fog
shrinks back into the shadowed crevices it spewed from. The glare
of early morning levels the grassland, throwing the woods into a
stark maze of shadow and light. I hear a pop, followed by the
warble of flailing rubber, and the Land Rover starts to drift
erratically. It sounds like a flat tire. As I start to slow down
another tire blows out. Steering to the side of the road, I slowly
grind to a halt.

Cracking the door open, I start to step out,
but movement in the nearby trees catches my eye. As I slowly
emerge, I see another shadow scampering between trees. This feels
like a setup. Focusing my vision, I catch a glimpse of an orange
ski mask fronting beady brown eyes. Suddenly it occurs to me there
are guerrillas in southern Mexico. I stroll across the knee-high
grass toward the wood line. A sharp crack is followed by a forceful
impact against my right shoulder. Oh, so that’s how they want to
play? I pick up the pace, strolling curtly forward. A figure pops
out from behind one of the trees directly before me, brandishing an
AR-15. A black ski mask topped by a brown cadet hat hides his face,
an oval slit for the eyes the only break. A knotted crimson scarf
dangles from the neck, the taut ends resting on a brown military
fatigue shirt. I think that scarf signals membership in some group,
but I forget the specifics.

A gun belt strung across his shoulders
anchors two grenades, matching BDUs grounded by a pair of combat
boots completing the picture. I assume the getup is supposed to
intimidate me. I begin walking forward again, and he opens fire,
accompanying the burst with a primal yell. Rounds pelt me in a
spate of ricochets and clinging leaden clots. The neighboring
blades of grass whistle in dismay as rebounding chunks of metal
tear through them. His eyes widen, and I casually saunter toward
him. He stumbles backwards, just as my arm, every so gracefully,
snaps out, my clenched fist plunging through the middle of his
face. Anchoring my palm on his chest, I pull it free in a spurt of
blood and gristle. Frozen in shock, his gap-toothed comrade stares
open mouth mouthed at me for a moment, then swivels and flees.

A few more rounds pelt me, probably from his
hidden comrades, but then it appears they give up, and all returns
to the ambient noises of the forest.

I wasn’t planning to start here, but I guess
this will do. At least I made it this far. Leisurely I stroll into
the forest. I’m done with the aggravation of the civilized world
for now.

Maybe I’ll come back when I feel like dealing
with its pointless complications and stupidity.

CHAPTER XVIII

FURTHER DEVELOPEMENTS

I know there are whole cities buried down here.
After the Mayans they were largely deserted, having only fairly
recently been visited by looters. The jungle and lack of
professional knowledge make many of the sites jewels awaiting
discovery. Maybe jewels devoid of jade and gold, but I’m not after
whatever precious materials were left behind. I’m after the
knowledge. The remnants of a lost culture.

There are traces of ancient civilizations
possibly pre-dating the Mayans, such as the city of Teotihuacan.
I’m sure the tunnels and clearings made by looters will only make
exploration easier. I only wish I could read the Mayan
hieroglyphics and murals. I’ll have to make do, piecing together
what I can. It’s all a side adventure regardless, while I try to
figure out what to do next. I wonder if there’s even a place for me
in this modern world of spy satellites and camera phones? I’ll see.
I have plenty of time. Unless of course I keel over dead. I have no
idea how long this body will last. I guess time will tell. I keep
walking through the underbrush.