Muerte Con Carne

by McKenzie, Shane

  Muerte Con Carne © 2013 by Shane McKenzie

  Cover art copyright © 2013 Alan M. Clark

  All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  For Jeff Burk

  If it wasn’t for you, nobody would give a shit. I am eternally grateful.

  Thank you, as always, to my friends Wrath James White, Nate Southard, and Lee Thomas for your guidance. A huge thanks to Adam Cesare for reading this and not telling me to go fuck myself afterwards. Muchas gracias to Gabino Iglesias for helping me with translations! Thank you to all my friends at Killercon! I wish I got to see you all more than once a year. A big shot out to all my new friends that I met at Bizarrocon. I miss you crazy sons of bitches. Big thanks to Jeff, Carlton, Rose, and Paul for continuously publishing this crazy ass Korean kid. Thank you Brian Keene, Edward Lee, Dallas Mayr, J.F. Gonzalez, Bryan Smith, and the guys mentioned above for being so supportive of my work and for being so goddamn cool. Thanks as always to my wife and daughter, because without them, I’d probably be dead. And a huge, juicy thanks to my readers. You guys make this shit fun. You keep reading, and I’ll keep writing!

  El Gigante

  Armando’s eyes cracked open as consciousness faded in. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and as his eyes focused and the blurriness cleared, he realized he was on the ground, his face pressed against something hard. He coughed and pain ignited in his chest.

  Where am I? What happened?

  He tried to roll over, but his limbs moved slow, as if his muscles had been liquefied to the consistency of syrup.

  He remembered walking. A lot of walking, endless walking. His brother had told him about a spot where it’s as easy as stepping through a barbed wire fence.

  “The fence is old,” he had said. “Just step through and that’s it. Nobody there to stop you. It’s easy.”

  His brother hadn’t mentioned the long stretches of desert along the way. Nothing but dry dirt and cacti and dead trees and buzzards.

  And the sun. Always the sun.

  With the constant, vicious heat blaring down on him, Armando didn’t think he would make it. He hadn’t brought enough food or water, and there were many times along the way he had nearly given up, nearly laid down in the dirt and let the sunrays cook his flesh to putrid perfection for the buzzards to feast on. But he’d pushed forward. Forced his legs to move even though he felt like a shambling, sunburnt corpse.

  But then there was the fence. He’d barely been able to hold his head up at that point, his body weak and shaking.

  He carefully climbed through the barbed wire, suspicious at how easy it was. He had expected La Migra to jump out of the darkness at any minute. Then his feet were on American soil and he kept walking, left his poverty behind him, headed into a new world where he could work. Where he could start over.

  He remembered headlights blinding him. A man, smiling at him, handed him a bottle of water. Clean, crisp, and refreshing. Cold. The best tasting thing that had ever touched his tongue in his entire life. Armando’s arm was then draped over the man’s shoulder, and he was led toward a truck. More water. And food. Heaven, he had thought. I died in the desert and now I’m in heaven and heaven has fresh water and food but I still feel tired and I still hurt all over and…

  And now I’m on the ground.

  Armando blinked, smacked his lips. He was able to turn his head-though it throbbed with ache-and then he was face to face with a skull. He wanted to turn away from it but couldn’t quite muster the strength. It was a human skull with what looked like bungee cords sticking out of either side of the jaw. Two more skulls stood above this one, equally spaced, each with cords stretched tight. Gray, rotting meat clung to the bone in places, flies scuttling across their surfaces and suckling. Maggots writhed within the skulls, some dropping out of the eye sockets like pale, fleshy tears.

  A scream erupted from Armando’s throat. He managed to turn his head again, away from the skulls. His arms began to tingle and he found that he could move them slightly, could wiggle his fingers. The tingle ran down the length of his body and before long he managed to roll onto his back and crawl backward on his elbows. Something cold touched his back and he glanced over his shoulder to find another rotting skull, its black teeth pressed against his skin. Something wet wiped off onto his back and he brushed at it furiously.

  “No!” He pushed himself to his knees, and though his head thumped and his knees wobbled, managed to rise to his feet.

  That’s when he noticed the people watching him, smiling in at him. They sat in metal fold out chairs below him. A small Hispanic family.

  “¿Quié‚n eres tu? ¿Qué‚…qu‚é carajo está pasando?”

  A ring. Armando stood in the middle of what appeared to be a makeshift wrestling ring, three skulls at each corner like morbid totem poles. The bungee cords were stretched tight around the ring, and Armando stared at the spectators through the spaces between them: a man, a woman, a small child, and an elderly woman. The old woman rocked in an oversized wooden chair, her eyes vacant and lost. The child stepped forward, his grin silver with capped teeth, and slapped the mat with an open palm. The others chuckled then quickly went silent as they looked past Armando. Then they clapped, cheered.

  The ring shook. A growl crackled from just over Armando’s shoulder. He flinched, whimpered, spun on his heels to face it.

  A giant towered over Armando, baring long yellow teeth. Gusts of hot, acidic breath burst from the masked head and hit Armando in the face like clouds of gnats. The mask was sparkling blue with teardrop-shaped cuts for eyeholes, wide and bloodshot eyes staring out, and a wide rectangle for the mouth.

  Lucha Libre.

  Armando used to watch the Mexican Wrestling Federation as a kid and recognized the style of mask immediately. He backed away from the giant, still trying to shake the fogginess weighting down his thoughts.

  Arms thick with muscle and bulging veins hung at the giant’s sides, fists the size of human heads heavily knuckled on the ends. A misshapen, gold belt was draped over his shoulder, and he peeled it free, raised it over his head. His massive boot nearly stomped a hole in the ring as he howled.

  The ring shook as the wrestler smashed his boots against the mat again and again, marching around the ring and flaunting his prize. He stopped in the corner furthest from Armando, wrapped his belt around one of the ghastly turn buckles.

  When he turned to face Armando again, his pectorals twitched under his black spandex butcher, stomach like a beer keg but still hard-looking. The wrestler slapped himself on either side of his face, then slammed his fists across his chest like a silverback and roared.

  Armando’s legs still tingled, and he clumsily darted across the ring, tried to slide out from under the bottom bungee cord. But a man was there waiting for him. Armando had a quick moment to realize he recognized this man. The man who gave me water…the man with the truck.

  Then something speared Armando in the neck, shocked him and induced a cry of pain. Armando’s flesh burned where it touched him, and the man hit him again with the cattle prod.

  Zzzzt.

  “Aye…” Armando’s body spasmed for a moment, and he backed away, only to find himself wrapped in muscly, hairy arms from behind.

  “Ding, ding, ding.” The little boy slapped the ring with both hands. “Ding, ding, ding, ding!”

  “No…por favor. ¡Por favor!”

  Armando’s feet left the ground, his rib cage threatening to buckle under the constricting forearms. He kicked his legs, felt them collide with hard muscle, bu
t did nothing to relieve the pressure crushing his torso. Then the world was spinning and he was slammed face first into the hard mat, breaking his nose and shattering teeth. His mouth and nose filled with blood and he choked on it, his torn gums softly chewing on the shards of teeth scattered there. The giant landed on top of him, his weight like a semi-truck falling from the sky.

  Armando wheezed, spat blood, writhed as he tried to bring oxygen into his lungs. The weight lifted and the ring shook as the wrestler stomped in a circle around Armando’s broken body, then dashed toward the bungee cords, bounced off of them, and dropped a stabbing elbow onto Armando’s back, right between the shoulder blades.

  “Ghaa…” Whatever tiny wisps of oxygen he was managing to suck in were pinched off, and Armando’s mouth opened and closed, his feet kicked. He tried to move, tried to get away, but couldn’t make his body do anything but roll slightly from side to side.

  He couldn’t see them now, but he heard the others cheering, clapping. Bits of jagged, red tooth debris lay scattered like broken glass beside him, a couple of them capped with gold. Blood was splattered across the mat, its surface already stained with brown and orange spots. Armando lay on his stomach, his cheek pressed to the mat. His body shook as he cried and groaned, then flinched when a meaty hand reached down beside him. It plucked the gold teeth from the bloody mess and lifted out of sight.

  “Oro.” The voice was rough, deep like a bear’s.

  Armando placed both hands on the mat, whined as he forced himself to his knees. He was able to get a small amount of air through his mouth, and he started to crawl toward the side of the ring nearest him as the giant strolled back toward his belt and set Armando’s teeth beside it. The belt was a mess of melted gold jewelry, sloppily molded into the shape and form of a championship belt.

  Armando slid his body under the lowest bungee cord, had one leg dangling off the side of the ring. But the giant was already sprinting toward him, the mat bouncing and slamming into Armando’s busted chest. Thick fingers dug into his scalp, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled him back in. His eyes watered and a shriek blasted from his bloody mouth, spraying red mist into the wrestler’s masked face. The moonlight sparkled across the mask, shimmering against its reflective surface.

  The wrestler growled, pressed his forehead against Armando’s and peered into his eyes. His breath engulfed Armando, hot and damp and beefy. The pupils shook as if the eyes were boiling, and the veins on the giant’s neck bulged fat like roots under his skin.

  With a surge of adrenaline, Armando threw a punch that collided with the side of the giant’s face. The wrestler’s head didn’t move, absorbed the punch like a stone pillar. Armando cried out, cocked his arm back, and slammed his knuckles into the middle of the man’s face, felt the nose crunch under the blow. A shock traveled through Armando’s hand and up his arm, and he whined as the giant smiled, a trickle of blood running from his nostril and staining his yellow teeth orange.

  The wrestler thrust his head forward and head-butted Armando right between the eyes. Black spots sparkled in his vision and his knees gave out, but the fist gripping his hair held him up. Then he was lifted into the air, over the giant’s head, one of the massive hands now squeezing Armando’s groin, crushing his testicles and sending waves of nauseating pain through his stomach. The wrestler faced his fans, howled, stomped his feet, then slammed Armando to the mat.

  Blood sprayed from Armando’s mouth, along with the small bit of oxygen inflating his lungs. He could only choke and writhe, his eyes starting to roll to the back of his head.

  The small group of spectators began to chant, all smiling, clapping their hands in rhythm. “Gigante, Gigante, Gigante…”

  Armando lay in the center of the ring, his broken teeth beneath him, poking his back like thumb tacks. The blood on the mat was sticky and thick, already cooling in the night air. Armando let his head drop to the side, facing the full moon, the craters like the empty sockets of a glowing skull. The giant wrestler, this Gigante, climbed the turn buckle skulls until he stood atop the highest one, turned so he faced Armando. His massive bulk nearly blocked out the moon completely, framed him in a silver aura-like light. He wobbled for a moment, caught his balance, then stood tall, raised his hands in the air, pounded his chest with his truck tire fists.

  His fans clapped, stomped. “Gigante, Gigante, Gigante…”

  Armando tried to beg, tried to plead for him to stop, for someone to save him, but he only choked and gurgled on his blood, groaned and muttered whispery words.

  Gigante launched himself, arms stretched wide like a giant crucifix. When he landed on top of Armando, there was an eruption of pain, like a comet crashing down on top of him, snapping bones and flattening internal organs. Blood sprayed from his mouth and he only struggled to breathe for a moment before a merciful blackness pulled him under.

  But then he was awake again, hanging upside down. The family of maniacs was still seated, still watching. They licked their lips, stared with wide eyes. The old woman held the child in her arms, stroked his hair, rocked back and forth. The child’s grin was so wide it nearly touched his ears.

  Armando’s body throbbed with unspeakable pain, and he tried to move, but once again found himself unable to. At first, he thought he was paralyzed, his legs useless after his spine was shattered under the weight of Gigante.

  But they were chained down. He could move them slightly, just couldn’t get them loose. He hung from one corner of the ring, the skulls from the other corners watching him, grinning. His legs were crossed over each other, chains wrapped around his shins and biting into his flesh.

  He tried to lift himself up, but didn’t have the strength to do more than dangle, blink the blood out of his eyes.

  Then Gigante was back in front of him, his sparkling blue Lucha Libre mask speckled with blood, now with a rubber apron draped over the front of him. A belt lined with long, gleaming knives was wrapped around his waist, and he stepped forward, placed a rusted metal bucket beneath Armando’s head.

  A dark tongue slithered out of Gigante’s mouth hole, licked the front of his long teeth. The muscles of his arms bulged as he knelt to one knee, ran a gentle hand over Armando’s face. A soft whine seeped out from the wrestler’s mouth as he caressed Armando’s cheek, then he ran his palm over Armando’s blood and sweat covered chest and stomach, pinching here and there as if testing the fat content.

  Armando reached out a shaky hand, but it was slapped away. Gigante grabbed him by the hair again, pulled his head forward, yanked one of his knives from his belt and held it under Armando’s chin.

  “Buen cerdo,” the giant growled, then pressed the blade down, ran it across Armando’s throat.

  Armando’s body thrashed as the blood bubbled out, rushed over his face and splashed into the bucket beneath him. Gigante held Armando’s arms in place as the blood poured out of him. Armando tried to scream, but only managed to cough and gurgle as the blood rushed out.

  The little boy climbed into the ring, crawled forward. Gigante chuckled, released Armando’s arms that now hung limp on either side of his head. The giant pulled the boy into him, messed his hair and wrapped an arm around him. The child giggled, his grin wide and silver, as he watched Armando bleed out.

  As Armando’s vision began to fade and blink out, Gigante pulled another knife from his belt-long and serrated-stepped forward and plunged it into Armando’s soft belly, sawed downward toward his chest as if unzipping his torso. The warm innards rolled out, along with the last shred of life Armando had been clinging to.

  1

  Marta sighed, dismounted. She lay on her back and let the ceiling fan cool the sweat beaded across her body.

  “Sorry,” Felix said.

  “Don’t apologize,” she said as she turned on her side. “It’s not sexy.”

  He tried to drape his leg over her, but she shoved it aside. Too goddamn hot.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes, sat up, drank the rest of th
e water sitting on the nightstand. I was right there, goddamnit. Marta needed an orgasm. Needed anything to keep her mind at ease. The sex was good-good enough anyway-but she found herself annoyed that he couldn’t bring her to climax. She could tell he had been concentrating, trying not to cum, was probably thinking about dead kittens or his naked grandma or something. He couldn’t even look her in the face as she rocked her hips on top of him.

  And I was right there. You only had to hold on another few minutes. Shit…

  “You okay?” He ran his nails down her back, and even though she wished he would stop touching her, wished he would just shut up and let her collect her thoughts, waves of euphoria rippled across her flesh.

  She didn’t answer, looked over her shoulder. He still had the condom on, his semen spilling down into his pubic hair. “Take that thing off, will you? It looks weird.”

  He sort of chuckled, grabbed it by the tip, and yanked it off. “Ah, shit.” The condom emptied its soupy contents, spilling over his thighs and testicles, soaking into the sheets. He shot a stupid grin her way, but she didn’t return it.

  If those were my sheets, I’d kick your ass.

  She knew she was being a bitch, knew she was being unnecessarily cold toward him. But she couldn’t help how she felt. What pissed her off the most was how much he liked her. Probably loved her. She didn’t know why that angered her so much, but it did. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before he expressed his feelings, before he told her that their current arrangement wasn’t enough for him. And then she would leave. Just like always.

  As he jumped out of bed and strolled toward his hamper for a towel, she stood, pulled her panties on, all the while hiding her breasts with her forearm. She plucked her bra from the floor, turned her back to him while she put it on. He continued to chuckle from behind her, an obnoxious little boy giggle.

  She sat on the bed, started pulling her jeans on. She glanced at Felix and he was watching her, obviously confused as to what she was doing. Part of her wanted to stay, peel her clothes back off and snuggle up to him, maybe watch some TV while the euphoria of fucking slowly dissolved. Because she did like him. He was a damn good guy, was crazy about her, and always treated her right. Was a good lay, if not a little quick with it.