The Rising Dead by Stella Green Read Free Book Online Page A

politicians running it, if he hadn’t stepped up it could have continued indefinitely. “I’ll help you. I think they have a friend of mine, too.”
    The lost and anguished expression on the girl’s face changed to a doubtful one. She turned to the Stranger. “The White Jaguar must go.”
    The Stranger yelled, “No. Damn it!” and marched outside across the creaking porch.
    More tears rolled down her cheeks as Maria stared at the closed door. Matt also wanted him along for the rescue, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. However, the girl clearly believed that the Stranger was necessary and that alone, Matt would fail.
    Matt caught up with the Stranger, who was headed into the desert. “Go back in there and tell her you’re coming, too.”
    “I’m not.” The Stranger was staring up at the millions of stars covering the sky.
    “Tell her anyway. Give her some hope. Let her at least sleep a bit tonight.”
    The Stranger continued to look upwards. “I’ll tell you what. If I lie and tell her that I’ll try to rescue her sister, then tomorrow we take her somewhere safe and we both keep going—in different directions.”
    Knowing he needed help, Matt tried one last time. “It’s not just Cheryl now. It’s also this girl’s sister and who knows how many others about to be sold as sex slaves.”
    “At least they’re alive.”
    “You bastard.”
    “You’ll cause more harm than good. I know. I’ve tried.” The Stranger’s voice dropped off. He turned toward the dark horizon. “You ever see something so horrible that you think it might drive you mad?”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    El Petén, 1924
    Animals were screaming in the trees. The Stranger wasn’t sure if it was howler monkeys or a flock of scarlet macaws. The jungle on the border of Southern Mexico and Guatemala was lively; the rivers and lush green plants created a home for strange-looking creatures with huge eyes. Some, like the sloth, he recognized. Others were so odd-looking that he suspected no one had given them an English name yet. To avoid the deep mud, he was holding onto branches while he walked on the massive tree roots like they were stepping stones. He had nearly been bitten by a snake that twisted around the heavy foliage waiting for the unwary. The Stranger was on his way to the tip of South America, but even with his knowledge of maps and navigation, he struggled to stay on course as he hacked his way through the tropical forest. A Mexican girl had told him that “Guatemala” meant “land of the trees.” It was aptly named.
    The cries of the fishermen being eaten alive by sharks had still echoed in his head when he started walking south from San Francisco with the idea of mapping a route to the Strait of Magellan. He knew it would be a long, punishing journey, and he was fine with that. Many years had passed and he was still going. The slow trip through Mexico had given him time to learn Spanish. There were so many dialects in Mexico—he couldn’t learn them all, but he could speak enough to get along anywhere in the country.
    He was good with languages. As a child he had hoped to travel Europe and perhaps become a diplomat like Thomas Jefferson, but his father insisted he learn thefamily business of land surveying. It was an important skill in a new country with boundless frontier—even more so after George Washington, the most famous surveyor of all, became president. When he was older he was grateful for his father’s decision. What other respectable profession allowed a man to spend months in the wilderness instead of chained to a desk?
    Most of the Mexicans he met were poor, but quick with an offer to share their food. In the 1920s, Mexico was an easy place to starve, and he declined their offers with gratitude and respect. Northerners like him were a novelty, which usually meant a small throng of children trailing him through villages. He didn’t mind their curiosity. Short conversations with children had become his main contact with