The Arcturus Man

by John Strauchs

  Jared jumped into the driver’s seat. He kept his headlights off and drove away. He saw the fifth attacker who escaped standing on top of the embankment in the distant tree line. The man who had bumped into Jared earlier in the evening was with him. The sixth man. The sixth man held his arm high in the air. It was a salute to Jared. Jared had been tested.

  Jared pressed the accelerator to the floor and drove Northwest on School Street. He needed to get clear of the area before the police arrived. The car was too far away for anyone to have read the license plate number. Even though he was driving a $80,000 Lexus, not many would recognize it as a Lexus. At a distance, all cars look alike today, even the very expensive ones. They might report the color, but that is probably all that anyone would remember. Jared needed to get to U.S. 95 so he could disappear in the tourist traffic heading south. Boston was about 100 miles away.

  “Are you OK?” asked Jared.

  “Yes! NO! You just killed four men and left a badly burned man.”

  “I told you to get in the car before this all started,” he said.

  “Yes, I remember. I can’t believe you wanted to leave. You wanted to let that man burn to death,” said Jenny. “And I don’t want to hear any more crap about cultivating gardens.”

  Jared now knew that this wasn’t a random act of violence against a homeless man. It was staged just for Jared. They probably hoped to kill him, but if not, they now knew who they were dealing with. It was like wars in the Middle Ages when the front line of men was sent out to test the range of the enemy’s archers. If you had a large army, the death of a few dozen had no affect on the outcome. He didn’t know if he was facing an army. Jared had given away too much. If Jenny had only stayed in the car.

  “Who are you Jared? I don’t know you,” said Jenny.

  “Stop being so damned melodramatic. I don’t need a drama queen right now,” he said.

  Jenny’s eyes teared up again.

  “Would you really have let them burn this man to death?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Jenny stared at Jared in disbelief. She was devastated.

  “You just killed four human beings and it doesn’t seem to have bothered you at all. And you were so efficient. Like a machine.”

  “These homeless winos are prey. If it wasn’t these men, it would have been some others. If they didn’t kill him, he would probably freeze to death this winter. Jenny, he was the walking dead. I don’t have any sympathy for these people. They make their choices or they’re incapable of making choices. Either way it’s their problem. I didn’t want you to see any of this but what choice did I have when you bolted across the field?”

  “Don’t you have any feelings at all?”

  “No, not in this case. I can’t feel sorry for any of them. What should I have done? What did I do that was so terrible?” asked Jared.

  “You don’t care. That’s what’s so horrible. What hurts the most is to see how calm you are about it. You’re not even upset, are you?”

  “What good would that do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m sick about this.” She turned her face away from Jared and stared out the side window. She was still too traumatized to cry the way she wanted to. She couldn’t get the images of what had just happened out of her mind. It was so hideous. She had never seen anything like that before.

  Jared kept the speed down. He didn’t want to attract the attention of any state troopers watching for speeders or a silver car. He didn’t think there would be any along the rural roads, but he was approaching Saco. They probably had one or two in the area.

  In about twenty minutes they were on the Maine Turnpike heading toward Boston. The traffic was bumper to bumper. That would save them. He was in the clear. Jenny would get over it. She just needed time.

  As he drove south, he thought about the man saluting him. He would be back. Another strong wind was coming.

  Chapter Eight – Rubio Ignited

  Venezuela – 1970s & 80s

  Born in 1988, Rubio Collazo Ignacio Matos spent his early years in the El 23 de Enero barrio outside of Caracas. This is the same barrio where his father, Gustavo, was born in 1966. Today, many barrios stretch almost from Simón Bolívar Airport near Maiquetía to Caracas, a distance of more than 17 miles.

  The barrios are an unseen squatter city outside the oil-rich downtown, draped along the mountainsides beneath the verdant misty Avila Mountain. Various corrupt land reformation and anti-poverty programs arranged it so that the wealthy never had to travel anywhere where the slum classes slaved and died. They were the invisible people. Every morning when he went with his brothers to pick the trash heaps of the wealthy for anything of value, young Rubio passed a giant mural of Che Guevara that was painted on the side of the only clinic in the barrio. The mural imprinted into Rubio’s soul. His father admired Che and often spoke of him to the boy. His father was 1 when Che was executed by the Bolivian army in 1967 with the help of the CIA. Rubio wanted to be like his father and his father wanted to be like Che.

  The poor stole from the poor. The weak suckled the strong. The labyrinth of slum alleys was filled with gun shots, disease, drugs, and prostitution. It was a Darwinian caldron of the survival of the fittest. Rubio learned how to survive.

  With the help of his maternal grandfather who had managed to save some money, Rubio’s father, Gustavo, briefly attended the Daniel Florencio O’Leary School. It was far from Caracas in Barinas. He lived with his grandfather and for a short point in time life was easier for Gustavo. He became good friends with another student, Hugo Chávez Frias, the son of school teachers and a bright student. Gustavo spent many weekends with Hugo’s family being tutored in reading and writing. Rubio’s father was a good student and read voraciously. The good time didn’t last. Gustavo’s father became seriously ill, and as the oldest son, the young boy had to return to Caracas to begin to take over his father’s duties in sustaining the family. However, his two years of special schooling and his friendship with Hugo Chavez would unalterably change Gustavo’s life forever and the life of his son, Rubio.

  Colombia 1980’s

  His father, Gustavo, with the help of some education learned to be a good drop forge worker and, in the hope of a better life, moved his family to Cartagena on the Colombian coast in 1990. He had been told that a German-owned foundry was looking for experienced workers. At fifteen dollars for a ten-hour day, the wages weren’t any better, but it least it would be steady work. And so, they became Colombians. They lived in a shanty on a hill side on land that no one else wanted. The house had no water, electricity, or sanitation. It was little more than boards and heavy cardboard nailed together. The roof was made of rusted corrugated iron sheets. It leaked badly but it did keep most of the rain out. They lost their house twice during heavy downpours. Each time his father constructed a new house. The hillside was so crowded by shanties that they were forced to rebuild on the same spot, knowing that the mud slides would eventually strike again.

  Rubio had dysentery so many times growing up that everyone regarded it as a normal condition. A Cuban doctor sometimes attended to the boy, but he had 15,000 slum dwellers to care for. People come to expect what they are accustomed to. So too, the barrio was home to Rubio.

  Every day young Rubio would bring his father his mid-day meal. It was wrapped in a worn red bandana. The meal usually consisted of little more than bread and fruit. These were things his family could afford. Once a week, but not every week, there would be some meat. His father always shared part of the meal with his son.

  The boy adored his father. His father was exceptionally handsome, strong, and virile, the very personification of South American machismo. Cartagena was always hot and sultry and the heat from the foundry made it almost unbearable for Rubio to visit the foundry, but he would do anything for his father. The young boy couldn’t imagine how his father could endure the heat. His father would tell him that each man has his own garden to cultivate. His father had read Voltaire.


  Year after year, he saw his father slowly waste away and age before his young eyes. It broke his heart. He vowed to some day avenge the suffering his father endured for him and his brothers, and most of all for his mother.

  The work never stopped so as his father took a few minutes to eat, another man would come off a break and pick up his father’s job. White hot iron rods were inserted in a series of rolling mills and squeezed into thinner and thinner rods. His father would have to catch the end of the hot iron stock with tongs and to muscle it back into the rollers to pass through again and again as the metal was squeezed thinner and thinner. As the metal was heated by the compression and then cooled in the air, it would whip wildly on the concrete floor of the foundry like it was a writhing steel snake. The workers called it grabbing the anaconda by the head. It was difficult to catch. The only protection his father had was a leather apron. On one of his visits Rubio had witnessed one of the other workers almost cut in two by the white hot snake when he missed a grab. Men died in the foundry every year. On those rare days that the owner would walk to survey his property, the men said nothing, but there was hatred in their eyes. Rubio learned how to show loathing in his eyes too.

  His father would read to his boys from his Bible every night by the light of a candle. And there were other books from time to time. When Rubio was older his father gave him The Minimanual of the Urban Guerilla, by Carlos Marighella. The Brazilians had given it to him many years ago during a rally in São Luis. After his father died, being the eldest son, Rubio kept the thin book and treasured it for the rest of his life.

  When Rubio was ten, in 1998, his father had to attend a labor union party gathering in Bogotá. He was the union leader at the foundry and a devote Marxist. His friends had donated enough money for a bus ticket for him. His father hoped that the bus driver would ignore the fare for a very small boy if he sat in his lap. The driver did. He was a Marxist too.

  Rubio was excited about going to a big city. It was the most famous Andean city in all of South America. The inhabitants were a unique mix of Indio, Negro and Spanish blood. That interested Rubio as well. It was the land of exotic things. Rubio was proud of his Indio blood line and although they would never be permitted to enter the Gold Museum, the Museo del Oro, at least he would see from a distance where the Incan treasures were kept. His ancestors were the Incas. He was proud of his ancestors.

  His father warned him that the air was thin because the city was high in the mountains. He couldn’t wait for the experience. He practiced gasping for air as his jealous brothers watched. He was told to sleep so he wouldn’t be so tired when they arrived in Bogotá, but he just couldn’t. He also wasn’t accustomed to going to bed in the early afternoon. It was too hot and he wasn’t tired. His five brothers had to stay at home. Rubio was the eldest and old enough to travel with his father.

  The bus ride took ten hours. The bus left Cartagena at 7 p.m. They entered the outskirts of Bogotá by 5 a.m. His father said that the traffic in the city was horrible, but in the very early morning hours the streets were almost empty. The bus drove through every red traffic light without slowing down. The boy watched with big eyes as the huge vehicle careened through the intersections. His father told him to think nothing of it. He said that everyone in Bogotá ignored the traffic lights, even during the busiest times. He told him that the government had wasted everyone’s money installing the lights. A man should never be a slave to a machine. He said that the lights were as useful to the city as a bicycle was to a fish. The boy laughed as he visualized a fish on a bicycle. His father laughed too. He rarely saw his father laugh. He couldn’t remember when he saw his father laugh before, but he must have laughed some time. He was pretty sure he laughed sometimes with his mother late at night. He heard them sometimes. He held on to his father’s leg even tighter so the wonderful feeling would last longer.

  “Papa, look at those boys,” His father glanced to the side and saw a group of very young boys squatting inside the portico of a large office building entrance. There were about six of them. They were all leaning over a drip pan from an automobile. They had large ragged towels draped over their heads so that their faces were invisible. They looked like priests.

  “What are they doing, Papá?”

  “They are sniffing the fumes of gasoline,” said Gustavo.

  “I would never do that, Papá. It is a sin.”

  “They are not doing it to become intoxicated by the fumes—or at least not for the

  reasons you are imagining. It is very cold in the morning in this city. It is not like Cartagena. The fumes stupefy them and it helps them bear the cold.”

  “Oh,” said Rubio. He had never heard of such a thing.

  “This city has thousands of boys and girls like that. They live in the streets. They are orphans, or at least many have been abandoned by their families who can’t afford to feed them. They steal for a living and they will even steal from the poor. You must stay away from these children. They are very dangerous,” said Gustavo.

  “Oh,’ said Rubio. He held on to his father even tighter. He didn’t want to be abandoned and forced to live in the street like a bad boy.

  “Always remember, Rubio. There is nothing more dangerous than a man who believes that he has nothing more to lose. It is an important lesson.”

  “I will Papá.” Rubio never forgot any of his father’s lessons.

  “And you must read, Rubio. You must study hard. Remember, knowledge is the enemy of faith. When you are a man, faith will not keep your family warm or feed your children, but education will. Pray to God and read the Bible, but never ask God for a favor…never. It is not God’s work to protect your family. It is the man’s work. Faith is for women.”

  “I will remember, Papá.”

  “It is also important that you be strong. Learn to endure. Learn to be hard. When you cut down a line of trees at the edge of the forest, the trees behind that have never felt a strong wind are the first to fall in a storm. Do not avoid the strong winds in life, Rubio,” said his father.

  “I will remember, Papá.”

  The bus pulled into the Chapineros district. That made Rubio laugh again. That was a funny name.

  His father took the boy by the arm as they climbed off the crowded bus. They entered a small restaurant, La Papa. It specialized in large stuffed potatoes. The two potatoes cost more than they could scarcely afford, but his father told him many times that this was the food of their ancestors. It was virtually a religious experience for the boy. It was wonderful, even this early in the morning. It was filled with meat and cheese. Rubio had never tasted anything so good. His father told him that Pizzaro had described the potato in his journals. The Gods had given the potato to the Incas and now his father had given it to Rubio. Life was good for Rubio.

  They walked the city together for several hours to stay warm. The city could get very cold at night and Rubio and his father weren’t used to the chill. The rally wouldn’t start for hours yet. Gustavo stopped across from the Tequendama Hotel.

  “Look Rubio! Watch your enemy and understand him. We read Sun Tzu Wu many evenings. You must not forget him. He was a very wise man.”

  “Yes, Papa!” Young Rubio read The Art of War as other children were read fairy tales. He also read Voltaire, and Cervantes, and Goethe, and the Greeks. The boy memorized every word of Art of War written by Sun Tzu Wu in 500 B.C.

  “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”

  “All warfare is based on deception.” Rubio never forgot these lessons or any lessons he learned from his father especially that all war was based on deception. They sat on a railing and watched wealthy businessmen in expensive suits and white shirts come streaming out. They had gold watches on their hands that glinted in the morning sun. They all carried expensive leather
attachés. These were the Americans, Germans, Chinese and Japanese. Some had open shirts with gold chains around their necks. They were probably the Mexicans, the Norte Americanos reviled by the poor in South America—no better than the Yankees. They were all soft, fat and sweating. They all looked the same even though they dressed differently. They were the enemy.

  His father pointed across the plaza. Rubio could see dozens of street boys lurking in the shadows of the buildings watching their prey leaving their sanctuary. He pointed again back to the hotel. Rubio could see the armed guards watching over the entrances and chasing away the street boys who got too close. These were things Rubio had not seen before. It was all interesting. Cartagena was a dangerous place, but it was nothing like this. The wealth in Bogotá was flaunted. Every now and then a few men would come out dressed like the locals. They wore suits, but they were simple suits. They flashed no jewelry. They wore no watches. There was no bulge in their back pocket where a wallet might be. If they carried anything, it was bundled together.

  “And these, they are the experienced ones. They understand this city. They are to be watched even closer because they are more dangerous. Many are CIA.”

  “Yes, Papá.”

  Rubio often tried to remember that wonderful morning with his father. Like all memories, it was hollow. He would never feel that safe and happy again.

  Venezuela 1991-2002

  Rubio’s father’s childhood friend, Hugo Chávez, was planning a coup d’état against President Perez in 1991 and asked for the support of all of his friends. Rubio’s father, Gustavo, left the family in Cartagena and joined Chávez in Venezuela. When the coup failed, Chávez and his followers, including Gustavo, were arrested and imprisoned in the infamous Yare Prison for two years. They prayed to the Virgin of Mercedes, the patron saint of prisoners. Rubio was only 3.