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them into the interior
webbing of his helmet for later. He doubted he would need them, though. He felt
strong, competent, and unafraid.
     
    *
* * *
     
    Dantzler stepped carefully
between the hammocks, not wanting to brush against them; it might have been his
imagination, but they seemed to be bulged down lower than before, as if death
had weighed out heavier than life. That heaviness was in the air, pressuring
him. Mist rose like golden steam from the corpses, but the sight no longer
affected him—perhaps because the mist gave the illusion of being their souls.
He picked up a rifle with a full magazine and headed off into the forest.
     
    The
tips of the golden leaves were sharp, and he had to ease past them to avoid
being cut; but he was at the top of his form, moving gracefully, and the
obstacles barely slowed his pace. He was not even anxious about the girl’s
warning to hurry; he was certain the way out would soon present itself. After a
minute or so he heard voices, and after another few seconds he came to a
clearing divided by a stream, one so perfectly reflecting that its banks
appeared to enclose a wedge of golden mist. Moody was squatting to the left of
the stream, staring at the blade of his survival knife and singing under his
breath—a wordless melody that had the erratic rhythm of a trapped fly. Beside
him lay Jerry LeDoux, his throat slashed from ear to ear. DT was sitting on the
other side of the stream; he had been shot just above the knee, and though he
had ripped up his shirt for bandages and tied off the leg with a tourniquet, he
was not in good shape. He was sweating, and a gray chalky pallor infused his
skin. The entire scene had the weird vitality of something that had
materialized in a magic mirror, a bubble of reality enclosed within a gilt
frame.
     
    DT
heard Dantzler’s footfalls and glanced up. “Waste him!” he shouted, pointing to
Moody.
     
    Moody
did not turn from contemplation of the knife. “No,” he said, as if speaking to
someone whose image was held in the blade.
     
    “Waste
him, man!” screamed DT. “He killed LeDoux!”
     
    “Please,”
said Moody to the knife. “I don’t want to.”
     
    There
was blood clotted on his face, more blood on the banana leaves sticking out of
his helmet.
     
    “Did
you kill Jerry?” asked Dantzler; while he addressed the question to Moody, he
did not relate to him as an individual, only as part of a design whose message
he had to unravel.
     
    “Jesus
Christ! Waste him!” DT smashed his fist against the ground in frustration.
     
    “Okay,”
said Moody. With an apologetic look, he sprang to his feet and charged
Dantzler, swinging the knife.
     
    Emotionless,
Dantzler stitched a line of fire across Moody’s chest; he went sideways into
the bushes and down.
     
    “What
the hell was you waitin’ for!” DT tried to rise, but winced and fell back.
“Damn! Don’t know if I can walk.”
     
    “Pop
a few,” Dantzler suggested mildly.
     
    “Yeah.
Good thinkin’, man.” DT fumbled for his dispenser.
     
    Dantzler
peered into the bushes to see where Moody had fallen. He felt nothing, and this
pleased him. He was weary of feeling.
     
    DT
popped an ampule with a flourish, as if making a toast, and inhaled. “Ain’t you
gon’ to do some, man?”
     
    “I
don’t need them,” said Dantzler. “I’m fine.”
     
    The
stream interested him; it did not reflect the mist, as he had supposed, but was
itself a seam of the mist.
     
    “How
many you think they was?” asked DT.
     
    “How
many what?”
     
    “Beaners,
man! I wasted three or four after they hit us, but I couldn’t tell how many
they was.”
     
    Dantzler
considered this in light of his own interpretation of events and Moody’s
conversation with the knife. It made sense. A Santa Ana kind of sense.
     
    “Beats
me,” he said. “But I guess there’s less than there used to be.”
     
    DT
snorted. “You got that right!” He heaved to his feet and limped to the
edge of