Muerte Con Carne

by McKenzie, Shane

  The hum of flies vibrated the air, and Marta scooted across the bed and squinted in the dim light once she saw what appeared to be attracting them. Masks. Lucha Libre, but all different colors and designs. Three long shelves on the wall across the room lined up with the masks, all pulled over some kind of armature. The two top shelves were full, but the bottom one still had space for more.

  Mounted above the shelves was a gold belt. Like a championship belt of some kind, but Marta could tell it was homemade, misshapen. Pieces of jewelry appeared to be melted to its surface, but by an amateur hand. Ring loops and watch faces stood out, gold chain necklaces and bracelets hung from it.

  The flies orbited the shelves, scurried over the masks, in and out of the eye, nose, and mouth holes. The reflective glitter on the masks and the iridescent bodies of the flies sparkled.

  Marta scooted herself off the bed, careful to keep her hand held steady. She approached the wall, but didn’t make it further than a couple of steps. The smell only intensified, and she knew right away why the flies were magnets to the masks. There were no armatures beneath them. She thought about the skulls in the ring outside, with wads of gray flesh clinging to them. Even from where she stood she could see the teeth through the mouth holes, the blackened, dried out flesh through the eye holes. Maggots thrashed from within, dropped out of the mask holes like wiggling mucus.

  Marta knew that it was the meat from these dead men that was being served from the trailer. The giant son of a bitch with the Lucha Libre mask played with them before he killed them, and the heads were his prize. She eyed the gold belt and shook her head when she realized where all the gold was coming from. Sick fuck.

  She couldn’t help but wonder which of these men she had eaten the other day. Whose meat had she savored, whose grease she had licked up. Thinking about chewing the soft, tender meat filled her mouth with the memory of its taste, the juicy succulence, and she leaned over and vomited onto the bed. Another stream spewed forth, added to the pile on the mattress. Flies discovered the new treat and dove into it, suckling and buzzing happily, appreciative of the offering.

  She spat, wiped her mouth with her shirt sleeve. She had to breathe deep to keep from puking again, and she leaned against the edge of the bed and took another long look at the bedroom.

  Beside the shelves were bookcases, different sizes and colors, not one matching another. Each bookcase was jammed full of what looked like VHS tapes. There must have been hundreds of them, all lined up snug against each other, every space on the bookshelves stuffed full.

  They’re not going to kill me…they’re going to keep me here.

  The bedroom door stood to her left, and Marta held her tattered hand to her chest as she sprinted toward it. The door flew open and Marta screamed, her feet sliding out from under her. She landed on her ass and hissed at the igniting pain in her hand.

  Gustavo shuffled in, shut the door softly behind him. At first, she could only see his massive frame, but as he stepped into the room and the frenzied light from the TV hit him, Marta saw his face, his long teeth, and she whimpered, shook her head. He still wore the mask, the spandex, the boots. Something dark speckled his bare, hairy chest-blood she figured-and he took slow, tentative steps toward his bed, couldn’t look at Marta without twitching nervously.

  The scream had burned her already raw esophagus, and she tried to speak, tried to beg this massive man for mercy, but only a whispery, gurgly sound came out. She rubbed her throat, grimaced and squinted.

  Gustavo stepped toward her and she jumped to her feet, scrambled backward and onto the bed. Her hands sunk into the puddle of vomit there, and she shrieked as the acidic mush drenched her mauled hand, soaked into the open and torn flesh. Her throat felt like it had been torn out but she screamed again and fell backward off the bed. The back of her head thumped the floor in the same tender spot she’d hit earlier after being tossed from Gustavo’s shoulder. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, but unconsciousness only teased her, and she remained awake and writhing as her head thumped. Another explosion of pain boiled over her hand, but she held back the scream to spare her throat the agony.

  Gustavo gasped, stomped toward Marta at a run. It felt like the entire room shook. The VHS tapes rattled together. She was sure the giant wrestler was coming to punish her again, maybe kill her this time. And she hoped he would, wanted the nightmare to end.

  I would rather fucking die than stay at this place.

  But when Gustavo rounded the bed and looked down at her, it was concern Marta saw in his eyes. “Te duele,” he mumbled as he hurried to her side. His biceps bulged like grapefruits under his skin as he leaned over and scooped her up. “Te duele.”

  Gustavo lifted her gently, cradled her in his arms, his bare chest warm and wet. He ripped the vomit-coated comforter aside, gently placed her back on the bed. One of his hands reached for her head, and when Marta flinched, so did Gustavo, then he ran his fingers through her hair. One of his nostrils whistled as he breathed, a dribble of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth.

  Marta leaned away from him, whimpering and trying to hold her breath. Her hand lay limp on the bed beside her, and Gustavo saw it, prodded at the mangled flesh with his thick fingertip.

  Marta yelped and Gustavo jumped, then the wrestler stood straight, his masked head swiveling as he searched the room. He shuffled away from the bed, flies following him and crawling across his chest and back. He bent down and swiped something up from the floor.

  “Let me go. Oh god…you have to let me go. I d-don’t want to die. No quiero morir.” The words were no more than a shaky whisper.

  Gustavo returned to the side of the bed with a hand towel. It hung from his grasp, but it looked rigid as if encrusted with some hardened fluid. Marta tried to scoot away from him but he seized her by the ankle, pulled her back toward him.

  “No,” he said, bared his teeth and slapped his self in the side of the head. “No.” He spun her so that her back was to him, then lifted her hand over her head.

  Marta cried out as he tied the crusty towel over her injured hand. Each sob was thumb tacks in her throat. Whatever substance was on the towel stung her wound, and Gustavo wrapped it tight, too tight. He released her and Marta scrambled away from him again, cradling her hand to her chest.

  As he walked toward the television, Marta’s mind raced, filling her head with visions of what would come next.

  He’s going to rape me. He’s going to keep me trapped in this room forever and rape me over and over and over…

  She remembered the way his cock had swelled before, the spandex doing nothing to hide it as it grew and thickened.

  I’ll fucking kill myself. I’ll find a way to kill myself.

  Gustavo pulled the tape from the VCR, stared at its label as he trudged toward the bookcases. He put the tape back into its flamboyantly colored cardboard sleeve, slid it back into its designated slot, then pulled another randomly from the bookcase beside it. A gruff chuckle poured from his mouth as he stared at the cover, then his head turned toward Marta, showed her the tape.

  Marta couldn’t read it, but she saw muscular men on the cover, each of them wearing a Lucha Libre mask and striking a pose.

  The giant man slid the tape into the VCR, then crawled onto the bed beside Marta. For a moment, he stood over her on his knees, his chest heaving. His tongue slid out, basted his lips, and Marta thought this was it. He would dive on top of her now, tear her clothes off, smother her under the flesh of his gigantic body.

  But he giggled instead, clapped, then sat cross-legged beside her, his attention on the TV as the tape began to play. Trumpets played as a graphic dissolved onto the screen. Mexican Wrestling Federation. A ring came into focus, a man in a green mask circled in place, a Mexican flag draped over his shoulders. Men and women surrounded the ring and cheered. Gustavo bounced, hammered at his thighs with his fists.

  Marta hugged her knees, pressed her back to the wall. The cross pendant pressed into her thigh, and she gasped
, held it in her hand. She had forgotten about it.

  Felix will see it. He’ll…he’ll help me.

  She could only hope the thing had been recording. Her finger pressed the small bottom at its base, and she aimed the camera at Gustavo as he grew more and more excited watching his wrestling tape.

  Please, Felix. Find me.

  9

  When Felix cracked his eyes open, the sun’s rays burned into them and straight through to his brain. He slammed them shut again, moaned and tried to roll over away from the harsh glare, but something in his lap prevented him.

  The hair draped over his groin and thighs confused him, and he stared at it with squinted, disoriented eyes. Then the head turned and the Mexican woman’s face appeared, haggard and loose-skinned. Her lipstick, a dark maroon, was smeared across her cheek. She smacked her mouth before a thunderous snore cranked from her throat.

  “What the f…what the fuck!” Saying the words out loud was like a jackhammer in his head. He shoved the woman’s face off him, and she snorted as she woke.

  “Whfcknprblm…man? Chingao…” She laid her face back in the dirt and closed her eyes again.

  It wasn’t until her head was off his lap that Felix realized his pants were unzipped and unbuttoned, his flaccid penis hanging out of it like a newborn mushroom shriveling in the sun. And it was smeared with maroon lipstick.

  Oh jesus god. Oh fuck me.

  The woman’s dress was pulled down at the top, her sagging breasts hanging over her side and covered in dust. The bottom of the dress was hiked up, and her pale brown ass stuck out, no panties in sight.

  What the fuck did I do?

  Ignoring the brand new headache he’d churned up for himself, he used the wall to climb to his feet. They were in an alley, trash cans spilling hot garbage on all sides of them. A rat scurried out of one, its fur wet and dark.

  “Ugh…” Felix covered his mouth as the rat crawled toward the woman, placed a pink hand on her thigh as it sniffed curiously at the crack of her ass.

  The woman stirred, giggled. “Fuck…fuck me, pinche pendejo…” Her voice was deep, scratchy.

  The rat quickly moved away from her, ran off down the alley. Felix did the same in the opposite direction, and once he was out in the open, the sun hit him full force.

  The alley was a tiny space between the back of the bar and another abandoned business. The bar had a Closed sign hanging on the front of it, and Felix made a promise to himself not to have a drink today. He didn’t know if he could survive another headache, and the one hammering in his skull now threatened to kill him.

  He had no idea what time it was, no idea how long he’d been lying there in the dirt with that Mexican goblin drooling in his lap. But the more he moved, the more aware he became of his sunburned flesh. Any movement of his face was stinging agony, so he let it hang loosely from his skull as he took the long trek back toward the motel.

  He wondered what Marta was doing. He hoped that after a night to think about it, after sleeping on it, she had changed her mind. Maybe not about marrying him, but at the very least she wouldn’t hate his guts. He never saw that coming, but then again, Marta was never one to be predictable.

  But look at me.

  He could only hope she wasn’t trying to get a hold of him last night. And if she saw him shambling down the road in his current condition, like some sunburned zombie with a maroon dick, any possible second thoughts she might have had would be shattered.

  With as much tequila as he’d forced down his gullet last night, he knew he deserved the vicious hangover now squeezing his brain. Three days in a row nursing a hangover. Jesus Christ.

  His plan now was to try and speak to Marta one more time, after he cleaned himself up. If she still wanted nothing to do with him or was still planning on heading out for her stupid fucking documentary by herself, he would get in his car and leave. Call the sheriff, fill him in on everything Marta had planned.

  Even though he knew what it meant to her and knew how passionate she was about it, there was no way he would let her go out and get herself killed.

  He stumbled into the parking lot, his already crisp skin baking in the rising heat. His Taurus sat in the same spot in the motel parking lot, and standing beside it was his good, jerky-sucking buddy. The fat man saw Felix coming, and he cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Check out time, asshole! Get yer shit and get the fuck outta my motel!”

  Felix managed to lift his arm far enough to flip the bird, then continued walking toward the parking lot. The man stomped his feet, looked ready to kick the car, then trudged back toward the office like a child having a tantrum.

  “Don’t worry, dickhead. You’ll be rid of me real soon.”

  Something stung at the tip of his penis, and he flinched, rubbed the spot until the feeling subsided. The woman’s shriveled face smashed against his lap, her sagging ass propped up and spread out popped into his mind, and he shook his head as he took the stairs toward his room.

  Fuck…fuck me. Felix, you are a fucking piece of work.

  He would be making an appointment at the clinic once he got home, he knew that for sure. He pulled his key out of his pocket, which he was surprised he remembered to bring, and had it slid halfway into the lock before he pulled it back out and walked toward Marta’s room.

  “Marta?” He knocked twice. “Can we talk?” He knew he looked like dog shit, but he had to know if she still hated him or not.

  He thought he could hear murmuring, but she didn’t answer him. His roaring headache pushed his forehead against the door.

  “Marta, come on. I just…I’m sorry, all right? I fucked up, I admit it. But at least let me talk to you.”

  Crying? Did I just hear her crying?

  “I didn’t mean to…I can’t help how I feel. If you don’t feel the same way, there’s nothing I can do to change that. Look…I’m leaving. I want you to come with me. Not as a couple or anything like that, I just need to know you’ll be safe.”

  Here it comes, he thought. He braced himself for the ‘fuck yous’ and ‘go fuck yourselfs’ but they never came. With his ear pressed to the door now, he said, “You okay? What’s the matter?”

  He thought he heard the word ‘please’ but it was muffled, so quiet it was barely a whisper. She sounded hurt, weak. Then he heard the laughter. A deep, baritone chuckle.

  Does she have a fucking man in there with her?

  “…please…let me go…”

  Another chuckle.

  Felix pounded on the door, tried to turn the knob but it wouldn’t budge. “Marta! What the fuck is going on!”

  He could still hear her crying, but she wouldn’t respond to him. The first thing that came to Felix’s mind was the fucking desk clerk, that the sick motherfucker had pushed his way into the room and was forcing himself onto her.

  “Open this fucking door!” Felix slammed his foot into the doorjamb, but he only bounced off of it. The door held strong, and he kicked it again and again, but nothing.

  “What in the fuck’re you doin’, goddamnit?”

  Felix started at the man’s voice, and he shoved away from Marta’s door and turned toward the fat man glaring up at him from the parking lot. “You have to open this door.”

  “I don’t have to do shit, buddy. But I’ll tell you what. You kick my fuckin’ door one more time and I’ll kick yer fuckin’ teeth in. How’s that sound?”

  “My friend…she’s in trouble in there. There’s someone…there’s no fucking time for this! Open the fucking door!”

  “Tell you what, asshole. Think maybe I’ll call the sheriff back over here, have him haul yer ass off. I’ve had enougha yer shit, ya hear me?” He pulled the jerky from his mouth, spat a brown glob into the dirt.

  “Yeah, call him. Go call the sheriff, but you have to open this door. I’m telling you, my friend is in there. There’s…a man in there. I can fucking hear her right now!” He turned back to the door, started kicking it again. “Marta! Say something, god
damnit!”

  She still wouldn’t answer him. He stopped his assault on the door long enough to press his ear to it. Nothing. No more whimpering and no more laughter.

  Is the TV on? No, there’s no fucking TVs here.

  Felix turned back to the clerk, but he was already stomping up the stairs, his face pinched and twisted into a hard scowl. Sweat slid down his skin and soaked into his yellowed wife beater. He pointed a thick finger at Felix as he came. “That’s it, asshole.”

  Felix nearly attacked the son of a bitch, but instead he put his hands up. “Look, man. I know I’m not your favorite person, okay? But I’m not fucking around. I think my friend is in trouble, and if you don’t open this door…shit we might be too late already. Please, you’ve got-”

  A scream rang out. Then sobbing. Definitely Marta’s voice.

  Felix grabbed the man by the sweaty shirt, nearly tore it off. “Open the fucking door, man. Please.”

  The man’s eyes darted from Felix to the door and his frown softened. “Ah, shit. Shit!”

  Felix stood behind him with fists raised, heart thundering. His mouth went dry and his muscles tightened. “Hurry…hurry the fuck up!”

  “I’m trying goddamnit!” He finally found the right key, slid it in, and swung the door open.

  Felix shoved past him and into the room. “Marta…”

  The room was empty. Felix’s breaths were short and rapid as he ran toward the bathroom, the closet, got on his hands and knees and checked under the bed. Nothing.

  What the fuck?

  He turned toward the man, still on his knees, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for the right words. “You, you heard it, right? You heard the scream, didn’t you?” His headache found new strength and his temples bumped like concert speakers.