June 30th, 2005


Marcos Ramirez, Zombie Hunter (continued)

The wizened priest signaled for the cab driver to stop, and absentmindedly pressed a pair of bills into the scruffy driver's hand. Opening the door, he stepped from the cool interior of the cab, into the hot, dry weather characteristic to the Yucatan Peninsula. The driver watched the old man hurry off into Chichen Itza, then looked down into the palm of his hand. Two hundred pesos. That night, at the Cantina, drinks were paid for by the lucky Cabbie.

Marcos checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Dominguez was running twenty minutes late, this much was painfully obvious. As for why, though, the former soldier would not hazard a guess. He considered, briefly, just leaving the ruins and going back home, but his conscience prevented him. Dominguez was a man of the Cloth, and Marcos, a devout Catholic, was loath to disrespect that. Still, he was impatient. "Gorrammit, where is he?" Ramirez muttered, his voice a throaty growl. "And why didn't he just stay in his own town?"