"Jerry Oltion - Laztec" - читать интересную книгу автора (Oltion Jerry)

The cop considered that a moment, then said, "I guess that'd explain the getup. Well, Mister Miltackle, I'm afraid I'm going to have to write you up for reckless driving anyway. You just about took out two cars back there, and that's a mandatory citation."

"Yes, yes, do what you must," Mimilticatl told him, "but be quick about it. I must get to the altar before she--before the museum closes."

The cop narrowed his eyes--a trick long past Mimilticatl's abilities--and looked in through the window at Maria. "You okay, ma'am?" he asked.

"She has taken a vow of silence," Mimilticatl said quickly.

"Has she now? Ma'am, is that right?"

At the questioning tone to his loud voice, Maria turned her head slightly toward the cop, and Mimilticatl exerted his will in an effort to make her nod. His mental command accomplished nothing save sapping her strength, but that alone made her head dip. The cop frowned, but he finally muttered, "Whatever," and went back to his car to write out the ticket.

When the cop came back, Mimilticatl took the flimsy yellow paper from him without even looking at it. By the end of the day, he would be way beyond caring about traffic tickets...one way or the other.


He pulled out onto the freeway again before the cop got back to his car, and accelerated on toward downtown L.A. The traffic got heavier when he made the interchange to 110 going north, and by the time he drew near Exposition Park it had slowed to a crawl. The freeway was packed with cars, and changing lanes was nearly impossible. Fortunately, Mimilticatl had chosen the right lane to begin with, so he crept off the freeway toward the museum, only to find himself directed along with all the other cars to the coliseum next door instead.

The gangly blond high-school kid on roller blades who was directing traffic widened his eyes at Mimilticatl's free-hand face and glided closer to his window. "Way cool head job, dude! You part of the half time show?"

"No," Mimilticatl said irritably. "I'm trying to reach the museum!"

The kid looked over his shoulder past the sea of cars converging on the parking lot. Turning back to Mimilticatl, he said, "No way, man. There's only one direction here, and that's in. Besides, the parking lot over there is probably already packed."

The driver in the car behind them honked his horn, and the kid said, "Come on, you're holding up traffic. You'll have to park over here and walk."

The kid was right. Mimilticatl snarled an ancient curse that in better days would have called forth a wall of flame to encircle an enemy, and he was more surprised than the kid when the air actually shimmered between them and a few sparks leaped from the radio antenna.

"Hey, you really should be in the half time show," the kid said, rolling back a few feet on his skates.

Mimilticatl was too stunned to reply. Where had the power come from to do that, he wondered as he followed the other cars toward the stadium, but the answer became obvious the closer he approached. An aura of sacrificial energy welled up around the amphitheater, bathing him in its rejuvenating spell, lifting years of age from the ailing god. Just like the spectators at the Toltec games in centuries long past, the crowds had come to watch someone die.

Linked as they were, even Maria felt the effect. She sat up in the seat and blinked her eyes, seeing her surroundings for the first time in days. "Where are we?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "What's happening?"

"We have found a ceremonial battle," Mimilticatl told her, hardly daring to believe it, but recognizing the crowd's aura of excitement from years long past. "If we can get close enough, we might be able to draw life from it." And maybe more, he thought. Maybe they could coax rebirth itself from the event. In the old days, at the end of the game, the losing team was sacrificed to feed the gods; if something like that could be made to happen here....

He drove straight to the coliseum, and his aspect was so much improved by the time he got there that the attendant guarding the handicapped spaces didn't even blink when Mimilticatl told him he was part of the half time show. The attendant even went around to the passenger door and helped Maria out.

The ticket-takers were less hospitable, but by now Mimilticatl had power enough to conjure the illusion of two passes from the air. Handing them to the guards, he and Maria walked together through the turnstiles and into the enormous bowl-shaped arena, Maria leaning heavily on her god's shoulder, but even so moving better than she had in months.

"I feel light," she said as Mimilticatl summoned enough of an aspect to scare a couple of skinheads from their seats near the 50-yard line.

"You should," he told her, helping her get comfortable. "We have won a reprieve."

The arena was filled to capacity. Mimilticatl had no idea who was playing, nor did he care. He had only one concern: to channel the crowd's bloodlust into an actual sacrifice. It would be difficult; the American game was a mockery of the one the Aztecs played, but with thousands of people still yearning in their hearts for a violent death, it might be possible. And if the players actually lived for mayhem the way they so often said they did on television interviews, then their sacrifice might even be a willing one. If that happened, then Mimilticatl could live for months on the psychic energy from it.


The game took forever to start, but the crowd's simmering expectation nourished the god and his subject until the opening coin toss, and after that it felt as if the floodgates had been opened. Mimilticatl actually felt his omniscience beginning to stir again, enough so that he could eavesdrop on the inner thoughts of the players. He felt their emotions as they ran the first few plays, listened to them worry about their field positions, or about their standings in the league, or about their multi-million-dollar contracts; but one of them, a tackle for the team in blue, was different. His attention seemed almost entirely focused on the opposing team's quarterback, and the only thought in his brain was the dim, almost reptile-like imperative to bring him down at any cost.

At any cost, Mimilticatl thought at him, attempting to reinforce his attitude.