Muerte Con Carne

by McKenzie, Shane

  Cristobal threw his hands in the air. “All right, I’m going. Shit…”

  He marched to the desk where the monitors sat and grabbed his keys, shoved them into his jeans pocket. A plain white t-shirt was draped over the back of the chair, and he stretched it over his blood-spattered torso. Just before walking out, he shot Marta a glance, puckered his lips, winked at her.

  The scent of boiling intestine coasted through the air, and Marta breathed through her mouth, stared at the dinner knife lying next to the plate in front of her.

  ***

  Felix finally got the bleeding to stop. His shirt was soaked in blood and sweat. The car seat and steering wheel were inked in red too. The shotgun had found its way from the passenger seat to his hands, and he squeezed the metal as he studied the store.

  That fucking old man knows something, he thought. He’s protecting those fucking bastards. He can tell me where to find them.

  But Felix knew that if he walked into that store covered in blood and holding a shotgun, the old man wouldn’t hesitate to pull his hand cannon back out. A gun fight was the last thing he needed right now. If he got arrested, or killed, he was no good to Marta.

  Be cool, stay calm.

  But the more he thought about it, the urge to kick the door in and stick the barrel of the shotgun up that asshole’s nostril grew stronger.

  Headlights.

  Felix lowered in his seat, laid the gun flat in his lap. He twisted his hands over the steering wheel and held his breath as he watched the vehicle pull in and park in a space right in front of the store. If it was the sheriff, he could only hope the man didn’t see the Taurus tucked into the shadowy alley.

  A car door slammed.

  Felix peeked over the steering wheel. Not the sheriff. A pickup.

  He sat up straight, almost jumped out of the car but took a deep breath and stayed in his seat. The shotgun felt ready to break in half in his tight grip.

  That was the pickup he saw before. The one attached to the food trailer, he was sure of it.

  How do you know for sure? You barely glanced at it.

  He waited a few more minutes, had just about convinced himself to charge into the store when the man stepped out carrying a small plastic bag. He spat into the dirt, adjusted his crotch. His gold tooth gleamed from the blue light of the bug zapper mounted on the wall beside the store’s door.

  You motherfucker.

  Felix thought back to a night ago when he was lying in the dirt, his nose bleeding and cheek bruised, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the knife in the Mexican man’s hands. The hopeless feeling that had swept through him, made him feel pathetic, unmanly. He thought back to Marta’s whimpering, the panicked tone of her voice as he watched her on the laptop, this man’s face materializing on screen, smiling.

  The man got into his truck, the red of his taillights bleeding over the dirt. Felix waited to the count of five, then eased the car out of the alley.

  I’m coming Marta. Please be alive.

  13

  Marta’s mouth watered as the meat sizzled in the pan. Mamá stirred it with a wooden spoon, put the tip to her mouth and tasted. She frowned, added another dash of a red spice. Marta’s stomach gurgled, begged her to feed it. Every time she inhaled the succulent scent, her stomach roared in response.

  Rogelio bounced in his seat, his lips shiny with saliva. Francisca stared wide-eyed at the table, her lips twitching every now and then, but remained still besides that.

  Gustavo had made quick work of the cutting, and the body now lay in neat piles on the island. He had removed his knife belt and apron and circled his finger over the spot on the severed head, twirling the hair, tapping the cranium.

  He held the head with both hands, thrust it toward the old woman. “¿Sesos?” he said. “Sesos.”

  The woman chuckled, emptied the steaming contents of her pan into another silver bowl. She ran her hand over Gustavo’s cheek, pulled his massive head down to her, and kissed his forehead. “Si, mijo. Ándale.”

  The giant chuckled, stomped his feet like a kid who was just told he could eat a bowl of ice cream. His tongue whipped from his mouth and basted his lips as he slammed the head, stump down, and opened a drawer. Pulled out a small mallet and what looked like a chisel.

  Alma’s door opened. Marta glared at the second floor landing, squeezed her thumb tighter around the handle of the knife behind her back. When she had grabbed it, Rogelio had been whispering in Carlos’s ear, covering his face with his own hand to hide his secret. Gustavo and Mamá were busy in the kitchen, and Marta swiped it quick, replaced her hand behind her back.

  Her thumb was the only finger she had control over in that hand any more, and she made sure it was hooked around the handle, pressing it into the meat of her palm as hard as she could.

  Alma’s bedroom door stood open, but the woman never walked out. Marta thought she could hear sniffles coming out of the doorway.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  Marta jumped at the sound, the now loose chains jingling behind her. She used her forearms to stop the chains from swinging and turned toward the noise.

  Gustavo held the chisel to the top of the head and smashed the hammer into the metal base. Chips of bone clattered to the island, tufts of hair fell away.

  The next series of whacks ended in a soft, wet sound. Gustavo set his hammer down, wiggled the chisel from side to side. Bone splintered, separated. He pushed down on the chisel until the skull split at the top. He set his tool down, grabbed both sides of the crack with his fingers and pulled outward. More snapping, cracking. Tongue slid over lips and teeth.

  Mamá handed him another bowl and Gustavo grabbed handfuls of pink, tubey brains, placed them into the bowl. He swirled his hand inside of the head like a kid scraping out pumpkin seeds, plopped the scraps in with the rest.

  Mamá shuffled back to the stove and tossed the meat into the pan, got to sprinkling spices and chopped garlic.

  Gustavo had his knife back out and was sliding it around the hairline, then tore the scalp away like an orange peel. He handed the head to Mamá who tossed it into another pot of boiling water.

  Marta bit her lip, the adrenaline pumping through her body numbing all the pulsing injuries. “Psst.”

  Rogelio’s eyes rolled onto her from the side of Carlos’s face. Marta motioned for him to come to her with a nod of her head.

  He smiled, snickered.

  “Come here,” she whispered. She motioned with her head. “I want you to sit by me. For dinner.”

  Rogelio studied her for a moment, then lifted his friend by the arm, dragged him along like a doll as he rounded the table and approached Marta. The boy sat beside her, that goddamn silver grin never wavering for a second. The dimples on either side of his mouth would have been cute on any other kid in the world.

  Chains rattled.

  Marta thought it was Francisca at first, but the woman stayed as motionless as her dead son. The sound came again, from the second floor.

  Alma walked calmly across the second floor landing, naked except for the chain wrapped around her neck. The rest of the chain dragged behind her, scraped against the wood floor like a long metal tail. Her face was red, eyes swollen. Her nose glistened, looked irritated and puffy. Small breasts sat atop the massive stomach, the skin stretched smooth with maroon stretch marks running up the sides of it.

  “Cristobal!” She faced the table, had her eyes on Marta, then switched them to Francisca. She bent down, grabbed the loose end of the chain. “Cristobal!”

  “Tsss.” Marta flinched as the dot of pain sunk into her thigh.

  Rogelio twisted the needle out, moved it about a centimeter away, and penetrated the meat of her thigh again.

  “Cristobal!”

  Marta growled through the wall of her clenched teeth, stole a glance up at Alma. The woman had the chain looped around and locked to the banister. When she climbed the wooden railing, sniffling, wiping tears from her face, Rogelio stopped his assault on
Marta’s leg to watch her. He leaned over and whispered into Carlos’s ear.

  Mamá wiped her hands on her apron as she shuffled into the dining room from the kitchen. Her mouth fell open when she saw her nude daughter standing on the banister above them, screaming for her brother.

  “Alma, ¿qué‚ estás haciendo? ¿Qu‚é es?” The old woman shambled toward Rogelio, covered his eyes with her vein-covered hands. “¡Ponte la maldita ropa!”

  Alma shook her head, pulled her hair. Her toes curled around the wooden railing, her feet white from the pressure. She resembled a red, wet toad as she sobbed. “Where is Cristobal? I have to talk to him. ¡Donde está el!”

  Gustavo stuffed the last of the brains into his mouth, cheeks bulging as he chewed, and walked into the dining room wiping his lips. He stopped short, glaring up at his baby sister, grunted and whined, rubbed at the top of his head and spun his eyes toward Mamá. “Alma,” he grunted, pointed at his sister. “Aaalllma.”

  Alma slid closer to the edge, nearly lost her balance but twirled her arms and righted herself. She hugged her belly, ran her hands over it lovingly, her tears splashing against the protruding bulge. “Where is he?” She bared her teeth and stabbed her eyes into Francisca who paid no mind to the naked pregnant woman above her. “Where is he, you fucking whore? Where is my brother?”

  “¡Alma!” The old woman’s face was pinched as if she were sucking on a lemon wedge. Rogelio’s eye peered out through the crooked fingers. “¡Agáchate!”

  Alma tilted her head back, stared at the ceiling, screamed and slammed her fists into her belly. “Where is he! I love him! I love him and I want him to love me!”

  The old woman removed her hand from Rogelio’s face, rubbed her palms together. “¿Qué‚? ¿Qué‚ dijiste?”

  Gustavo stomped his feet, whimpered like a caged dog. He slammed his palm on the table, pointed at Alma again.

  Alma glanced down at her belly, cupped it with both hands. Her face went blank-no more crying or sniffling. Her eyes rolled up and landed on her mother. “Lo siento, Mamá. Tell Cristobal that we love him.”

  And she stepped off the banister.

  ***

  Cristobal’s stomach roared as he parked the pickup outside of the house. He couldn’t get Marta’s face out of his head, and as he drove toward home from the store, his hand found itself wrapped around his cock.

  She’s Gustavo’s girl. He claimed her first. She’s going to be his wife. Have his babies.

  But I’m the fucking man of the house!

  He already did a bad thing. Papá would have whipped his ass. You were supposed to win the woman’s love, he would say. But Cristobal always thought that was bullshit. She loves me because I fucking make her love me.

  Francisca had fought, but he did what he had to do, what his instincts told him to do. It had been a long time since the last time, and he finished quick. Too quick. It fucking pissed him off how quick he finished. Next time would be better. With Marta.

  He put his cock back in his pants, his balls aching, and exited the truck.

  The scent of cooking meat pulled him in like ghost fingers, and Cristobal licked his lips as he wrapped his hand around the door knob, the other hand carrying the plastic bag heavy with cans of hominy.

  “…siento, Mamá. Tell Cristobal that we love him.”

  Alma?

  That fucking bitch is telling? She told Mamá?

  Cristobal almost ran back to the truck and just drove away. He didn’t know if he could take the look Mamá was sure to have on her face. And if Papá was around… He knew Papá was looking down on him while he and Alma…misbehaved. Could feel the eyes on him, hear the disappointed tongue clicks.

  But he breathed, calmed his shaking hands, and entered the house.

  Alma was in free fall, but the chain went tight and broke her neck just as Cristobal crossed the threshold. He dropped the cans and watched his naked sister’s swollen body convulse as she swung in violent circles. Her legs kicked spasmodically, toes spread wide, but he could see in her face that she was dead. And her eyes, wide and the color of fresh wounds, were trained right on him. Piercing him, tunneling through his flesh and eating away at his heart like a parasite.

  “A-alma?”

  Mamá screamed, ran around the table, shoved past Cristobal. She tried to run, but only shuffled her hunched-over body until she reached Alma’s swinging feet, fell to her knees and stared up at her daughter. “¡Mi hija! ¡Alma, no!”

  Gustavo punched himself on the side of the head with both fists. Over and over, growling through his teeth. His muscles rippled at his chest and shoulders.

  Cristobal couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Alma’s stomach looked ready to pop, and as Cristobal stared at it, he could have sworn he saw something move. Press up against the skin like a knee under a bed sheet. He took slow steps toward her, eyes welling up with tears.

  Not like this, Alma. You didn’t have to do this.

  Hot rage filled him then, and he dashed to Alma’s feet, wrapped his arms around her legs and lifted, tried to ease the chain around her throat. But he couldn’t get her high enough, couldn’t get any slack.

  She’s already dead, you idiot. And it’s your fucking fault.

  “No!” Cristobal kept pushing, screaming as every muscle in his body tightened and bulged. He looked up at her, but her belly blocked most of her face. He could only see her eyes, and somehow, they were still on him, blaming him, asking him why he let this happen.

  He leaned his forehead against her knees, wept, Mamá's screaming still exploding from behind him. Gustavo slammed his fist through the wall, then his head. Smashed his head into the wall again and again, sheet rock dust sprinkling to the floor, then stormed out of the house and ran into the back yard.

  Cristobal thought he heard another voice somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a slight high-pitched sound, but it was smothered by the thumping of his pulse and Mamá's wailing.

  Then he heard it again.

  Rogelio?

  He let go of Alma’s legs and her body fell those few inches he was able to lift her. There was a crunching sound, then her body rocked as it swung. He turned to face the boy.

  Marta had Rogelio in her lap, a knife to his throat. The point of the knife was already partially in the flesh under the boy’s chin and a dribble of blood bubbled there, rode the metal knife down to the hilt.

  But the boy didn’t cry. He winced and whined a bit, but there were no tears.

  “Unchain me. Do it now, or I’ll stick this whole fucking blade into his fucking head.”

  ***

  Felix cut the lights off as he approached the house. He parked the Taurus behind the pickup, just in case the motherfucker got out somehow and tried to escape. The front door stood open, and Felix squinted as he stared into it.

  Movement. He couldn’t tell what he was seeing, but there was definitely someone moving around. The shadows danced over the front porch, and then the man walked by the doorway. He moved slow, hands out in front of him like he was approaching a poisonous snake.

  Marta’s in there. She’s in there right now. Go fucking get her!

  Felix held the shotgun tight. The wound in his side still bled, and every breath he took was splinters in his lungs. He nearly cried out when he put pressure on his mangled leg, but used the shotgun as a crutch as he crept across the yard and toward the door, doing his best not to make any noise.

  The man wasn’t standing in the doorway anymore, but the shadows still flickered over the wooden porch, and the closer he got, the louder the voices became. A woman sobbed, the cries clearly from an aged throat, gruff and phlegmy.

  “I said do it now, goddamn it!”

  Marta?

  He hurried his pace, then stopped short when something rustled behind him. The shotgun swung around and he nearly fell over, but kept himself steady and squeezed his weapon to calm his shaking hands.

  Nothing there. But then he heard it again, thought he heard breath
ing. The sound of metal tinkling chimed behind him.

  “Now let him go.” The man’s voice was close, right on the other side of the doorframe.

  “Fuck you. Give me your fucking truck keys.”

  That was definitely Marta. Felix gave the clearing one more sweep with his eyes and shotgun before turning back to the house. He limped up the porch steps, winced when the wood creaked beneath his weight. With his back now pressed against the house, he peeked inside.

  A Mexican woman sat in a chair, thick chains wrapped around her body, her arms behind her back. She stared blankly at the table in front of her, an empty white porcelain plate reflecting her monotone face.

  A scream.

  Felix nearly fired a shot when he flinched. With a final deep breath, he pushed himself off the house, shotgun out in front, and stood in the doorway. His gun lowered as quickly as it was raised when he saw it.

  ***

  “Fuck you. Give me your fucking truck keys.” Marta pressed the knife harder against the boy’s neck when Cristobal hesitated.

  A splash of water.

  Marta glanced at the kitchen expecting to see an overturned pot, but there was nothing on the floor. Her head spun quickly back to Cristobal who had taken an extra step toward her.

  Marta tensed up, holding Rogelio around the chest with her sore arm that had just been freed. She could still feel where the chains had squeezed against her, and the various puncture wounds sizzled with pain. The boy hissed when she pressed the knife harder against his soft flesh.

  Mamá screamed. Her voice wavered as the siren-like wail sputtered from her dry lips. She pointed, tried to stand up but couldn’t manage it.

  “Give me the fucking keys. Now!” Marta slashed the knife through the air, then tucked it back under Rogelio’s chin.

  Cristobal had his attention on Alma now, his face pale and slack. He absently shoved his hands into his pocket, dropped the keys to the floor. He took tentative steps away from Marta toward Alma, and once he was a safe distance away, Marta chanced a look.