“Since you killed someone close to me, Cutbirth,” Uno said with a sick grin. “I’m going to repay the favor.” She turned the shotgun toward Emily, who continued to cling to Diego.
“What’s your name, honey?” Uno asked.
Emily remained silent.
“It’s okay, honey. You won’t feel a thing,” Uno said. “What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she whispered.
“Emily,” Uno said in a sugar-sweet voice. “What a nice name for such a pretty girl.”
“Please don’t kill the kid,” Cutbirth pleaded. “Not the kid.”
“She had nothing to do with the death of your brother,” Diego argued.
“Okay,” Uno said, the sick smirk lingering on her lips. “I’ll be fair.” Swinging her shotgun at Cutbirth, and then at each of them, she began, “Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a rabbit by the toe. If he hollers make him pay $50 dollars every day.” The short barrel of the gun was pointed at Emily again. Uno’s grin widened.
“Please, Uno, not the kid,” Cutbirth begged. He stepped between Uno and Emily. “Not the kid!”
“Step aside,” Uno ordered.
Cutbirth paused for one instant, let out a savage growl, then charged.
The first blast from Big Bertha hit Arnold Cutbirth full in the chest and stopped him in his tracks. Teetering, Cutbirth remained standing until the second blast of 000-Buckshot pellets from Uno’s shotgun lifted him off his feet and propelled him through the air. His sling still in place, he landed on his back beside Emily, his chest shredded with buckshot. He was dead before he hit the floor. The beam from his headlamp lit a stalactite above.
Both of Uno’s Double Magnum shot-patterns had been widely dispersed and several of the lead pellets had struck Diego. The force of the marble-sized balls had spun him halfway around, but he had managed to stay on his feet. A burning pain shot up his left arm and into his shoulder and he dropped his flashlight.
Somewhere in Diego’s psyche, buried deep in that primordial place where human instincts have evolved over millions of years, a loud, plain-spoken command was relayed to his frenzied brain: survive! This instinct trumped all others—fear, doubt, and disbelief—and he thrust his hand into the pocket of his coveralls and withdrew the 10mm Glock, his finger glued to the trigger.
Turning to face Uno, Diego’s first shot tore a small crater in the limestone mere inches from his own foot. The second—it came a tenth of a second after the first—ricocheted off the cold rock floor and struck Uno’s right knee at the same instant she was pumping a third shell into the chamber of Big Bertha. Uno’s screams of pain were suffocated by Diego’s third, fourth, and fifth shots, which penetrated Uno’s thigh, stomach, and right collarbone. The powerful recoil from the 10mm Glock raising the angle of each discharge—Diego’s finger was still fastened to the trigger—shot number six found Uno’s forehead. It was the kill shot and had been delivered less than two seconds after the first round had been fired. The seventh shot creased her hairline.
Uno had fired again, but it was wild and inaccurate, and she slumped to the cave floor as Diego’s 10mm slugs eight through ten strayed into the distant wall.
Diego stood motionless, the thundering echoes reverberating through the huge cavern. He had emptied the clip of all ten shots. Six had found their marks. The smell of gunpowder blanketed the cool air.
“My God,” he gasped. “My God.” He held up the Glock and looked at it. He expected the pistol be to shaking in his grasp, but his hand was steady. A thin spiral of gray smoke crawled out of the barrel. Diego tossed the Glock into the dark shadows where it rattled noisily off the cave floor. Then everything was quiet, except for the river gurgling peacefully beneath the arched bridge.
It was only then that Diego became aware of Emily. She lay sprawled on the cave floor in the beam from Uno’s headlamp. Blood spewed from the left side of Emily’s chest. Diego bent down and tried to stop the bleeding with his hands, but it did little to hold back the flow. Blood gushed between his fingers. Emily’s coveralls were soaked red.
“I fell down, Mr. Sanchez,” Emily said, looking up at him with surprised eyes. “I was holding onto you, but I fell down. Did my camera break?” Her fingers fumbled with the invisible camera looped around her neck.
“No, your camera’s fine, Emily,” Diego said, fighting the fear and the mounting horror. He continued to press his hands over the hungry wound.
“How did I fall down, Mr. Sanchez?” Emily asked, her blue-green eyes losing their glare. “How did I…?” A stir of white mist parting her lips, Emily’s eyes flickered, and then fell shut.
Bad shit happens.
The flow of blood pouring through Diego’s fingers slowed to a trickle. He brought his bloody hand up to his nose. Emily’s blood was warm and smelled sweet and musky. Diego smeared her blood on his face. On his nose and chin and both cheeks. On his forehead and neck. And then Diego licked his hand. The blood was warm and tasted like copper. He dipped his hand into the last droplets of blood oozing from Emily’s chest and smeared his face again. Diego liked the feel of Emily’s tepid blood against his skin.
His shoulder throbbing, blood coursing down his arm, Diego went over to where Cutbirth lay dead. He removed Cutbirth’s headlamp, secured it to his own head, and then stepped back over to where Emily lay.
Pushing aside the pain, he lifted Emily into his arms. Diego carried Emily across the stone bridge, out of the Cathedral, and up the tunnel to the Balanced Rock. When he reached the strange cave formation he laid Emily’s little body beside that of her mother’s. He then knelt beside Emily and placed his hand over her sweet, still-warm cheek. Diego kissed her freckled forehead.
Diego left the Balanced Rock and hiked back toward the burial chamber, his right arm hanging limp. The blood he had smeared on his face had dried by the time he reached the small cave. It smelled liked fresh strawberries.
His shoulder spewing blood with each beat of his heart, Diego climbed into the burial chamber and lay down beside Adriana. He took one of her hands and held it gently.
Then Diego wept.
He wept for Arnold Cutbirth, a roguish brute who would never know the joy of exploring that deep cave, the one outside Haute-Savole, France. He wept for Yong Kim and Sam Holiday, two men spurned by the divine spark of social tolerance. He wept for Sissy Frost, a young mother who would never hear the laughter of her healthy child. He wept for Emily Frost, dead at ten and robbed of the quiet pleasure of finding her place in the world. He wept for Rosie Montoya, a religious zealot pushed to the edge by circumstance to commit the worst of all sins: betrayal. He wept for Henry Bilderberg, a conflicted little man driven mad by the trappings of wealth. Diego wept for Uno and her deaf brother Mr. Mustache, two lost souls infected by greed to perform unspeakable acts of horror.
And then Diego wept for himself.
And after he had finished weeping, he slept.
And waited to die.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ron Hutchison, a University of Missouri journalism graduate, began writing fiction full time at the age of 66 after a long career in journalism and public relations. Latitude 38 is his second novel.
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