Threads: A Thriller

by T. R. Ultra

  I tried to get up from the wooden bed to take a look at Renato, at his shoulders, to see how bad his wounds were. But when I tried to jolt myself up, I felt a pang lash out the nape of my neck as though a gash had been opened. I raised my fingers and realized someone had patched it up with rolls of gauze.

  The fat woman rattled off more unintelligible words. I glared at her, the door slammed open and a younger woman came inside. She had big, natural curls, that bounced on every step.

  “Please,” she said, “down, stay down.” She motioned with her hands to emphasize what she meant.

  “Renato . . . how bad is he?” I asked.

  The younger woman came closer.

  “He bad, he bad,” she said with shaking hands.

  Then she gingerly grabbed my shoulders to help me lay down. The aching in my head caused sparkling spots in my vision on every throb. I gave up resisting and reclined.

  Once sprawled on the bed, the pain on my neck receded, but so did my strength. I struggled to stay awake, to keep glaring at the asbestos roof tiles, but before long I wasn’t able to keep my eyelids open, unconsciousness took hold of me. Renato was hurt, so was I—sleeping was my pain reliever.

  Chapter 16

  I hoped sleeping would help get rid of the dizziness and my miserable emotional state. But sleeping only shifted the realm of my suffering, from that of material to a dream-like trance. Asleep, I felt the same pain, same despair, and went through the same life threatening situations that menaced my conscious life—gunfights, machetes and beheading.

  I gaped my eyes open, gasping. In the darkness of night, I found no light bulbs turned on inside the favela. My forehead still drenched in sweat under the unrelenting whir of the screeching fan. No signs of mold could be seen on the ceiling, because the night was pitch-dark and full of terror.

  A cough came from the direction of my feet. I glanced up, and through the darkness I saw a figure of a bed and the silhouette of a man standing over it. Someone else had been put inside that room. Someone also in pain.

  This must be a makeshift clinic tucked inside Gloria Santa.

  Was I getting better? I sensed a portion of my energy, my resolve, had returned to me. The pain biting my neck had been reduced to a numbness running across my back. Any minor shift over the bed was a struggle, but I took that as a hint of improvement nonetheless.

  I had no idea how many hours, days, I rested inside that building, nor how late it was. The deep night resembled of being past midnight. There were no human noises around, except the coughing next to my feet.

  When I tried to get up from the bed, steps approached from outside. They scratched their feet over the ground and chatted. When they got closer to the clinic, I could tell it was two people: a man who brought a scolding inflection to the conversation, and a woman who sounded apologetic.

  I delayed getting up, uncertain of what people outside might be heading to do. Was I a prisoner? I wasn’t shackled. No iron bars on the window by where Renato slept. And the rickety wooden door wouldn’t stop anyone from escaping. But my life was in jeopardy, it would be wise to appear unconscious.

  The door got flew open. I jerked over the bed, startled. A man entered the clinic, followed by a woman. The woman was the one I had seen taking care of Renato’s shoulder. The man coming with her I had never seen before.

  He had a rifle strapped to his torso, a radio hanging on his neck, and a pistol on his hip.

  I pretended to be asleep. My heart pounded and my breath quickened.

  The man and the woman spoke to each other under the door frame. It wasn’t long before their conversation escalated: the woman sounding soft—the man lashing at her with harsh words.

  I narrowly opened my eyelids to the faintest of lights. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the man pointing at Renato. The woman gestured with her hands, pleading him to stop.

  The woman grabbed him by the arm, spoke softly, and as though touched by God, the man conceded and let the woman walk him out of the room. I gasped when the door shut, breathed in, and only then noticed how much I held back my breath. I was sweating even more, my skin sticky.

  I had to get out of there.

  I felt an urge to weep when a picture of my home in Atlanta dawned on me. The comfort of my bed, the cleanness of my bathroom, the scent of my clothes.

  When their voices and steps faded, lost in the streets and alleys of Gloria Santa, I pushed myself up and dragged my body across the room toward Renato.

  I tried to walk, but I staggered, engulfed by darkness. When bright specks flickered on the edges of my vision, I decided to crawl on all fours for safety.

  Renato was laying there shirtless. His torso wrapped in gauze, blemishes around his shoulder that I took as being blood. His bed was rickety like mine, wood slats and a paper-thin mattress. The night was dark, but under the window next to where Renato slept, dim shafts of light entered the room making a small contrast of colors.

  On his face, I noticed peace. He breathed heavily in a deep slumber, regardless of the discomfort of his wound.

  I tapped his forehead to wake him up, but my fingers were running up and down over his scalp. The first time I had ever felt the softness of his hair. Even sleeping, Renato looked beautiful, and for a while I lost myself thinking about his mouth, and then his blood. We could die there.

  Renato tilted his head under my caresses and said, “Emily, is that you?”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard. “How are you feeling?”

  “Wretched,” he replied with a painful smirk.

  “What happened to us?” My mind already back to the matter that had made me crawl over to his bed.

  Renato’s eyes gleamed amid the darkness of the room when he looked at me.

  “I haven’t been able to ask many questions,” he stammered, “but according to Fátima, the woman taking care of us, I have a bullet lodged in my shoulder and you’ve been bashed on the head.”

  “God, we need to take you to a hospital,” I said, looking him over. A gunshot seemed to be an immediate threat to life. “Why are they keeping you here?”

  Renato smirked again, and moaned with pain.

  “Anyone who arrives at Rio’s hospitals with gunshot wounds is immediately reported to the police either as being a victim or a hitman. I couldn’t allow officers Pinto and Rôla to know my location. That would mean our end.”

  “But you need professional treatment. You need a doctor to treat your wounds.”

  “I’ve been through worse, Emily. Don’t worry about me. Besides, according to Fátima, you’ve been hit by quite heavy a man. She thought you were dead when they brought you here.”

  “Have I?” I replied.

  With my legs crossed on the floor, I felt the bandages on my neck. Whatever had hit me, had been heavy and hard, given the amount of cloth used to dress the wound, and the throbbing of what seemed to be a sutured cut beneath it.

  Renato nodded.

  “She told me that a drug soldier, perched on a rooftop above us, was shot dead by a police sniper. ‘His body fell squarely onto your head, knocking you out. There was so much blood around you that Fátima had a hard time figuring out who had the badder wound.’”

  A man falling on me from a rooftop would explain both the pain I had been enduring and that disgusting feeling of having twisted joints inside.

  “We gotta do something,” I said. “We can’t stay here forever.” I remembered the anger carried by the man that, not long ago, had been to the clinic, but I thought it would be best not to mention it right away.

  “You’re right. But we need a bit more time. I need to become stronger, I can´t walk yet.”

  Renato averted his eyes, as though he had made a huge effort to utter his words. And to me, absorbing them was equally hard. I would fight my way out, even ragged. But I did not want to leave him behind. Renato was responsible for driving me into the worst—and hottest—days of my life, but now, inside that dreary clinic somewhere in the labyrinth of Gloria San
ta slum he was also the source of warmth and reassurance.

  “How long before you can walk?” I said. A torrent of images rushed through my mind, unfriendly eyes that had poured over me in the streets outside, distrust etched into the expressions of their bearers. “I’ll get caught, people will give me away to drug dealers.”

  Renato grabbed my forearm. His hand cold, in spite of the heat of the night.

  “It’s good that you now understand. That’s exactly my concern. Local drug dealers already know of you. But Fátima is doing her best to keep us here as long as she can. We will be able to leave before someone hands us over to Flávio Beirario’s faction. Just... give me a bit more time. One or two days,” he said.

  I shivered.

  “But you told me that drug dealers that command Gloria Santa slum are enemies to Flávio Beirario’s faction. You said we’d be safe here.”

  “Flávio Beirario is a powerful drug lord.” Renato sighed as though speaking had been draining his energy. “Local drug dealers are happy about his imprisonment, but they’re not going to set off a war because of you. If word gets out and Flávio’s faction learn you’re hiding in Gloria Santa, they’ll raid the favela with heavy weapons. We’re only here because of Fátima. She’s been telling local drug dealers lies about our health conditions in order to gain us some time.”

  “A man had just come inside here while you were asleep, bragging, pointing at you. A stout woman actually managed to get him out. He was about to hurt you,” I said.

  Renato shifted over his bed and groaned.

  “That woman is Fátima. The man is somewhat a middle-manager inside local drug hierarchy. They don’t take our presence here lightly.”

  “We gotta go now,” I said. I grasped his forearm tightly, his hand still clutched to my arm.

  The other man in the clinic erupted into a coughing fit. I was sure he’d either jolt up or choke to death. But after changing his position on the bed, he turned on his side, faced the wall beside him, and went back to sleep without noticing our conversation.

  We kept our mouths shut for a few moments. Renato was the first one to break the silence.

  “There’s a way out. After five minutes of stairs up there’s clearance, on a high plateau, surrounded by what remained of Mata Atlântica, Rio’s native forest. And—”

  “Why are you telling me that,” I said.

  “You need to know the way in case I faint after we start walking. When we reach the plateau, we must look for a path into the forest. The signs of the trail will be at 2 o’clock. We must be sure to have our backs turned to the slope that led us up there.”

  “I don´t need directions, Renato. Get up, now. You won´t faint, you´ll walk beside me.”

  “Not now, Emily. Not tonight. Just imagine the path. We need to be ready when the time comes. We´ll follow the trail and climb down the hillside opposite to Gloria Santa. It will lead us to Tijuca. Once we jump over the fence at the end of the trail, we’ll see Pão Quente bakery shop’s sign right across the street. Vicente de Castro, the owner, will help us.”

  “Let´s go, now, Renato! God damn, you need a hospital, now!”

  I tried to pull him up, but only pushing myself up made me feel dizzy. Before I could answer Renato, I heard again, filtered by the whir of the fan, the sound of steps scratching the ground coming close to the building.

  I crawled back to my bed, strained my joints, and held back in my throat the agony caused by the injuries I carried over my body. The door opened, Fátima got into the room, turned on the lights, and I faked my sleep, even though Renato had said good things about her.

  Through barely opened eyes I noticed a single light bulb attached to the ceiling, its wires curled round wood shafts. Fátima brought with her a steaming bowl. She poured into a cup what seemed like hot tea. She gently took hold of my head and hoisted it up so as to help me take a sip. I did so without opening my eyes.

  The liquid trailed down my throat, leaving numbness and warmth along it.

  She did the same with Renato and the other man, and left the room after turning the lights off.

  The liquid that Fátima made me drink helped to stop the aching of my injuries. It brought a lightness to my body. I even forgot I had been filling the gaps between wood slats with lumps of my flesh.

  After my conversation with Renato, I pondered whether I should go on alone or wait for him. But I slid into deep sleep as soon as Fátima left the clinic.

  Chapter 17

  I woke up under Fátima’s gentle tapping on my forehead. She brought an uneasy smile to her face, propped my back up on a pile of pillows and offered me a glass of milk and a piece of bread, which I gladly accepted. My empty stomach did not allow for fake sleeping at that moment.

  It was daylight, and my condition seemed to have improved overnight. The man who had laid on the bed next to my feet wasn’t there anymore. Even his bed had disappeared.

  After offering me breakfast, Fátima headed toward Renato. He was still asleep, but the gauze around his torso had been removed, the red spot on his shoulder exposed. Fátima dipped a piece of cloth in a liquid and dabbed his injuries, but her hands seemed to shake. Her face repeatedly turned toward the door, as though she were expecting an undesirable visit.

  I estimated it had been four days since Renato and I were injured in the crossfire. During that time, I woke up only a few times, either to take in the medicines Fátima had gave me, to run from a bad dream, or to dump my physiological needs into an iron bowl. No bathroom in the clinic.

  I wasn’t sure if what I had seen, what I had heard, had been the pictures of dreams or the colors of reality.

  Fátima finished cleaning Renato’s wound. When she started dressing it with gauze, the door slammed open. Two armed men walked in.

  She got up, putting her hands together like she was pleading for mercy. The men who walked inside the room stared coldly at Fátima, their rifles pointed. They glanced at me and started a conversation between themselves. Fátima’s cry had been completely ignored.

  One of the men, the smaller one with a black and red striped t-shirt, reached over for a stool by the door and sat next to Renato. The other one, fatter, shirtless, angrier, stood at the entrance, under the door frame, as a vigilant beast.

  The black and red striped man gestured only once to Fátima, and she, following the direction of her hand, walked past the door without uttering a single word. But before she left the building, she glanced at me with sad eyes, and then I understood there was no hope left.

  Only four days since I got to that clinic, but it seemed like a lifetime since I had written any sentences, since I had lived my life in a proper, regular way. And suddenly a yearning desire to write sprung inside me. I was sure my life was about to end. I faced the sureness of reaching the finish line, yet I had untold stories inside me, unfinished business and unsettled affairs, all of which would require a long time before resolution, time I couldn’t spare anymore. And writing them down was my safest, most durable option to settle them.

  But writing was out of the question. Inside the makeshift clinic, with Renato and two drug soldiers, my thoughts set off and strayed into my former life. I had a catalog full of memories—friends, family, home. But the page that caught my attention was the one with Joanne: had my boss reported me as a missing person to the authorities? And while I tried to fathom whether she did, the man sitting on the stool clutched his pistol, waved it, and poked its grip in Renato’s wound.

  Renato wriggled over his bed, but he did not wake up. The man increased the pressure on his shoulder, twisted his pistol inside the injury, and blood dripped down his skin. When Renato yelled, tilted his head up, fumbled his hand about his torso, I could tell he was in savage pain.

  The black and red striped t-shirt man released the pressure on Renato’s shoulder, leaving him panting. The guard by the door stared at me. I felt the bare brick walls coming closer to crush me, the air thick and sticky under the weight of his sight, the evil of his look.


  Renato groaned again, this time it was a high-pitched sound that dragged my eyes over to him. His voice became tangled with the din of iron scratching and grinding and chipping of his barely coated shoulder bones.

  Under a heavy strain, Renato tried to resist the pain, aware that he would never be able to fight against those men. And while he endured his agony, the drug soldier by his side kept talking to him, repeating sound patterns that I understood as being the same sentences.

  There wasn’t much I could do but to face the world through flooded eyes, and expect that the men would eventually redirect their evil to me.

  The torture continued, and now instead of trying to shove his pistol grip into Renato’s flesh, the man started bashing, punching, and crushing his shoulder. Was there some kind of rule Renato had to follow? Maybe he couldn’t jerk away from any lunge, otherwise, instead of suffering hits to the body, Renato would take a bullet to his head.

  He didn’t look at me. Not once. And it was not due to being ashamed he did so, he took his punishment as a brave man would. He must have wanted to be the only one in that room to feel the brutal punishment from the drug lords. He wanted to save me.

  I couldn’t sit there and watch his beating, could not witness his suffering, every punch he received at his shoulder, each whipping from the pistol grip, I felt my nerves shudder just as much as his flesh ripped in agony.

  His bedsheet got painted red, the ground around him spattered with blood. I swiveled my face to the other side. But not seeing Renato didn’t bring me any relief. The gruesome sounds produced by his joints on every hit and the moaning of his throat lashed out to my ears with even greater harshness. Each one of those noises were like bugle commands that recalled images from my memory, which always appear bigger, grosser, and bloodier than in real life.

  Time dragged forward, if in seconds or hours I couldn’t tell. As Renato’s cry became unbearable, I felt my senses flick off. Seized by a numbness, I floated into the midst of terror and heat of Rio, and then faded away.