Lion Head Mesa borradura

ever since the evacuation of the cenotes, soto’s mind is an unending gyre of needling thoughts.

he roves north, passing with grit teeth the very place niño’s body remains, cloaked now in snow and the seeping fingers of rot.

northward again; this time prevailing winds carry the rich scent of decay and damp. he follows them to a storm-flattened mesa where evidence of recent flooding still fleck the red halls.

he sees an uprooted sapling held nonsensically against a cliff-face.

a body of a fox turned downward, fur disshelved with the lapping tongue of strong currents.

and everywhere, upended evidence of recent devastation.

he studies the mud-strewn entry for a long time.

it’s dangerous, niño’s shivering voice cautions him.

yet somewhere in those halls another’s voice trickles outward. survivor? scavenger such as himself?

he only need to remember niño’s violent end to steel his resolve. any and all survivors must be routed. he will make a spectacle of them; string their bodies up by the tendons in their hocks.

in a dangerous slouch, soto rounds the corner and it is then he comes face to face with a stone-clad yearling whose shape promises a future of violence.