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

Sure enough, the next play, the tackle leaped straight through the line, or tried to anyway, but the center knocked him off balance and he never got close to the quarterback before the play was over.

Again and again, Mimilticatl's chosen victim leaped heedlessly into the fray, but each time the play ended before he could complete his mission. The quarterback's teammates had become aware that the tackle was out to get him, and now they were banding together to prevent it. Every time the tackle got close, someone on the opposing team would knee him in the groin or stomp him with their cleated shoes, until he was nearly berserk with the pain and the need to commit mayhem in return.

The crowd noticed it, too, and the bloodlust washing over the Aztec god felt like life-force itself. It was a false high, like a drug-induced euphoria, but with a little luck and skillful use of his temporarily enhanced powers, Mimilticatl thought he might be able to make a permanent gain. Pity he couldn't convert the monomaniacal tackle into a believer, so his sacrifice could be dedicated directly to Mimilticatl, but a willing sacrifice to the game would be good enough.

The teams lined up again. The center snapped the ball to the quarterback, and Mimilticatl focused all his power on the tackle. Go, he thought to him, then, caught up in the action, he shouted aloud, "Kill him! Rip his heart out!"

The people around him in the bleachers cheered the notion, and even Maria croaked, "Yes, give us his heart!"

The tackle tried to do just that. When the quarterback threw a pass into the end zone, the tackle collided with him, knocking him to the ground and ripping furiously at his shirt. More of his teammates piled on top of the two, concealing them beneath a crush of blue and white uniformed gorillas.

The crowd went wild, and Mimilticatl jumped up and down excitedly, awaiting the moment of release when either the tackle's or the quarterback's soul was ripped from his body...but the moment never came. The referees blew their whistles and the players slowly disentangled themselves from the heap, finally exposing the two flattened warriors. The quarterback wasn't moving, but he still breathed, the tackle still struggling feebly to tear a hole in his chest.

The referees pulled them apart. "Meddling cowards!" hissed Mimilticatl. "Let them finish it!" The people around him laughed nervously and edged away.

Medics carried away the quarterback on a stretcher, and the referees took the tackle out of the game for unnecessary roughness, but that was the extent of it. The tackle's team was penalized fifteen yards, and the game started again with a first down.

Disappointment drove Mimilticatl once again toward oblivion. He turned to Maria and said, "These people have no spirit. There is nothing more here for us. We must go now, while we still can."

Nodding, Maria tried to stand, but Mimilticatl had to help her to her feet. They hobbled to the exit, leaning on one another, barely better off than they had been when they entered.


The parking lot was nearly deserted now. Clots of people here and there marked tailgate parties, but most of the fans were inside the stadium, watching the ritual violence. Mimilticatl found his car and helped Maria into the passenger seat, then staggered around to the driver's side and fumbled to unlock the door.

He had just managed to fit the key in the slot when he heard footsteps behind him, and a young male voice with the accent of home said, "Hey, old timer, what you doing with my car?"

Mimilticatl turned around. There were five of them, all Hispanic, all boys within a few years of puberty. They slouched casually against the car beside Mimilticatl's, no weapons in evidence, but they all had hands in their pockets and he knew they carried knives.

"This is my car," he told them.

They whitened a bit at his once again nebulous face, and the youngest of them radiated fear that Mimilticatl could pick up even in his drained state. The boy had heard of the old gods; his parents or an uncle or someone had scared him with tales about them when he was a child. The leader showed no fear, though. He wore his shirt unbuttoned, and sticking out his hairless chest, he said, "Not any more it ain't. Gimme the keys, old man. Now."

Mimilticatl nodded, though he knew it wasn't the car the boys wanted. Not entirely, at least. The car was their ultimate goal, but first they wanted him to resist, and if he didn't then they would pretend he had. They would make up some excuse for attacking him, no matter what he did.

He laughed as he held up the keys, letting them dangle from the bright blue nylon pouch that kept them from tearing holes in his pockets. Fitting that it should end this way. The last Aztec god should die in violence. Pity it would have to be an un-dedicated death, and so far from his homeland. At least it would be at the hands of his own people. His own people. He laughed again.

"What you laughing at?" the leader demanded.

So that would be their excuse. Very well, Mimilticatl thought. He would give them their reason to fight. Slapping the keys into his palm to emphasize his words, he said, "I am laughing at you, little boy. You and your pitiful excuse for a gang. Stealing money from the crippled; is that what has become of our once-proud nation?"

"Oooo, big talk," the boy said. He took his hand out of his pocket, and with a snick of unfolding metal his blade sprang out to point at Mimilticatl.

A wave of power swept out of the stadium. Someone had tackled someone else, and the spectators were drinking in their sublimated blood rush. Drawing off their energy, Mimilticatl flung the keys at the gang leader, heating them and their pouch to incandescence in mid-air. The burning nylon struck the boy in the chest and stuck there, sputtering flame and oily black smoke.

"Yeow!" he screamed, batting at the flames with both hands. In his panic, he caught his opposite wrist with his own knife, and blood began pouring out over his hand.

"Get him!" the others shouted, drawing their own knives and lunging toward Mimilticatl. Desperately, he cast more flame at them, but the play inside the stadium was over now, and the ephemeral power the crowd provided had faded again. Only the wounded boy's individual pain fueled his spell, and that barely gave him enough power to singe the other kids' already-curly hair, but it bought him enough time to leap to the hood, then to the top of the car.

The gang leader had succeeded in slapping out the flames. His chest was bright red, where it wasn't charred black, and his hands were covered with melted nylon and blood. "You shouldn't have done that, old man," he snarled, circling around the car to cut off Mimilticatl's escape.