The Mayan Codex

112

Oni had been wounded twice early on in the fire fight. Once through the groin, and once through the right buttock as he turned to follow Abi’s party towards the cenote.

It was for this reason that he had repeated the trick he had used at the Balancanche caves. It was more difficult when you were wounded and when you had no one to help you, of course. But Oni knew without a doubt that he would die if he didn’t achieve it.

So he crawled in amongst the agaves and dug himself a trench with the stock of his pump-action shotgun. Then he sank into it, levering the earth out of the way with his hands. When he was satisfied, he pulled the earth back in on top of himself. It didn’t need a heavy covering. He wasn’t about to move anytime soon. Fortunately, the earth in the agave plantation had been burned and turned over recently. It was as soft as thistledown. More or less.

He lay facing upwards, with the shotgun tight to his side. His hip area was numb, and growing more so by the minute. He had left himself a small air-hole through which to breathe. He only hoped that nobody would actually tread on him. He didn’t think he could maintain silence under those circumstances.

He lay there for so long that he started to go to sleep. His whole body closed down on itself like the quiet time at the end of his hatha yoga class. Oni managed to get his breathing so well under control, that, by the end, he was only taking about three breaths a minute. His yoga teacher would have been proud of him.

He heard the explosion at the warehouse. Then his cell phone vibrated. He ignored that for obvious reasons. Then he heard the stun-grenade attacks on the cenote. He knew exactly what was happening. He didn’t need them to draw him a picture. The nine of them had bitten off more than they could chew. It was as simple as that.

After a further quarter of an hour, Oni stood up and brushed himself off. There was another flurry of gunfire from over by the cenote. Using his shotgun as a crutch, he limped past the burnt-out remnants of the warehouse and over to where he knew the Stoner had been positioned. It was still there. But Vau had gone. There was blood on the Stoner and sprinkled over the surrounding dirt. He’d liked Vau. He hadn’t been the brightest button in the bag, but then Oni knew that he was no Einstein either.

Oni looked around for his stash of spare magazines. There were two drum belt containers left. He unclipped the existing magazine and replaced it with one of the drum belts. He put the other drum belt inside his shirt – 300 rounds – 150 rounds apiece. It wasn’t a lot, in the circumstances.

He thought for a moment, and then picked up the used drum belt he’d discarded earlier and tapped it against his arm. Maybe another 50 rounds. Better than nothing. He put that inside his shirt too.

He began to limp in the direction of the cenote.