And that’s when Guerrera, rising star within the cartel and the lieutenant entrusted with the day-to-day operation of the Mictlan tunnel system, caught wind of his men’s ill-fated side-business, and decided to step in. Step in he did, killing anyone who’d participated in the unsanctioned border-crossing scheme, and placing charges at the mouth of the creature’s chosen lair — the fetid air that emanated from it now heavy with the sickly stench of rotting flesh, of corruption, of violent, messy death — sealing it off forever. Every corner, every chamber, every blind alley and secret hidey-hole of the sprawling tunnel system was then inspected, and no further sign of the creature or its horrid appetites was seen.
For seven months, there was quiet, and — as the war between the cartels and the Mexican government reached a fever pitch — Guerrera came to realize that ensuring safe passage across the US border could be more than simply a profitable, if risky, sideline, it could be a public relations coup. A service the cartel was in a position to provide that the government could not. A way to influence public opinion that slowly turned the populace so thoroughly against them that even fear could not be expected to keep them all in line.
His higher-ups reluctantly agreed, so long as he oversaw the operation himself.
The bodies found on I-83 represented his first shipment.
What the authorities did not realize is that one of the four main spokes to the system let out a mere hundred yards from where the bodies had been dumped, into a storm drain which ran perpendicular to the highway just below. It was as Guerrera and his charges were exiting that the creature struck. And once it took the heads and hearts it came for, it was into that storm drain, and back into the depths of Mictlan, a shattered Guerrera watched the beast return.
Which meant if I was going to kill it, I’d have to go in after it.
When I told these men — Castillo, Alvarez, and Mendoza, as it turns out, the latter being the only English speaker in the group, and therefore my de facto translator — what I needed from them, they balked. I mean, they were happy enough to sketch out a rough map of the tunnels, for no paper map existed, thus ensuring only those familiar with them could successfully navigate their winding, booby-trapped passageways, marking the location of the collapsed side-tunnel and the storm-drain outlet for me as best they could. And they seemed content to part with grenades and additional ammunition as well. In part because I’d presented myself as an American cartel operative embedded as an immigration officer, and in part because they were so scared shitless of what was down there — and of their post directly above it — that they would have clung to any method for eliminating said threat as if it were a life preserver. And you couldn’t blame them. The tunnel system had only five entrances: one here, and four on the Texas side of the border. Which meant these poor bastards stood a one-in-five chance of being this thing’s next meal once it’s stomach started rumblin’ and it caught on they wouldn’t be sending down any more deliveries.
But when I told them they were coming with me, they weren’t too keen.
Guess the way they figured it, that bumped their odds from one-in-five to sure-fucking-thing.
What they didn’t get was I wasn’t asking.
“I do not understand why we cannot simply blow the tunnels,” said Mendoza, “and bury this beast for good.”
“Yes you do. You know damn well it didn’t work before. What makes you think you’d kill it this time?”
“But you cannot expect us to come with you. It is too dangerous.”
“Funny, you seemed just fine with me going down there all by my lonesome.”
Mendoza shrugged. “Whether you live or die is of less consequence to me.”
“And what of the people who will die if this thing gets loose?”
“So long as I am not among them, it is not any of my concern. I would prefer to take my chances on the surface.”
We were sitting around the wooden cable spool that served as the bar’s sole table, drinking tequila from filthy shot glasses as we spoke. Castillo and Alvarez watched the conversation as if it were a tennis match, occasionally interjecting with rapid-fire Spanish that Mendoza would then translate, or requesting that he do the same of my comments for them. Outside, shadows grew long as the fire of day was extinguished, the sun snuffed out like a spent cigarette by the desert sands. Between the tequila and the thought of the job to come, I was hankering for a smoke something fierce, a jones not helped any by the fact these three puffed away like goddamn steam engines. Which, upon reflection, may have had as much to do with inspiring my little demonstration as did their obvious reluctance.
“Look, I don’t think you get it. Guerrera’s orders–”
“–were heard by you and you alone, and that is not enough to convince us to risk our lives.”
“Is that right? Then maybe I can find other means of convincing you.” I pushed back from the table, toppling the rusty folding chair on which I was perched. Mendoza did the same, drawing a 9mm from the small of his back as he did. Castillo and Alvarez were a half-second behind. Three guns trained on me, and my own weapon a good ten feet away atop the bar.
I raised my hands, all casual-like, and smiled. Mendoza smiled back, predatory and triumphant. We were separated by a good six feet of plank floor, and a table far too bulky to be easily tossed aside. They were armed. I was not. The situation didn’t look too good for me.
Which meant I had them exactly where I wanted them.
“Perhaps next time you choose to make a move, you will first consider where your weapon is,” Mendoza said, cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he spoke.
“Perhaps,” I echoed. “But I figured instead I’d just use yours.”
Mendoza eyed me quizzically. His cohorts looked first to me, and then to him, trying to suss out their next play. Their trigger-fingers were getting itchier by the second, their faces ever more worry-lined.
I drew the moment out as long as I could stand, letting the situation simmer. And then I hurled my meat-suit to the floor. And then I struck.
My consciousness hit Mendoza so fast, I scarcely felt the last meat-suit drop away before I was inside. So fast, the Solares body was still falling when I took control. Solares wailed in fright as consciousness returned to him, and covered his head with his hands, waiting for the shots he was certain were to come.
But they didn’t come. I made sure of it.
Mendoza’s stomach clenched. Bile and tequila splashed his boots. His buddies turned toward him instinctually, and I took full advantage. Castillo was to my right. I twisted toward him, and pressed the barrel of Mendoza’s piece to his temple. His gun clattered to the floor. Alvarez stepped in to stop me, and I buried my hand inside his chest. I grasped tight his soul, gave it a little tug. He squealed like a stuck pig, and then collapsed, eyes showing white, fell so fast I almost failed to release his soul in time.
Woulda sucked if I’d held onto it. The boy wasn’t mine to collect. Though the life he led, my guess is he’ll be somebody’s to someday.
Alverez was out. Castillo stood frozen, eyes clenched in anticipation of my bullet. I was puke-streaked and gasping from the sudden exertion, Mendoza’s smoker-lungs struggling to keep up with the demands I made on them. Which reminded me. I looked around, saw his butt lying in a puddle of sick, more tequila than stomach acid. I ground it out with the toe of his boot. Wouldn’t do to have the place go up in flames. That’d attract all manner of attention I’d just as soon avoid. But it did bum me out to have to waste the smoke.
“Siddown,” I said to Alvarez. “I’m not gonna kill you.”
His eyes widened when I spoke to him in unaccented English, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t listen because he didn’t speak a lick of English, but it took me a minute — and a prompt from my former meat-suit — to catch on.
“You know he can’t understand you,” said Solares, eyeing me cautiously from the floor. His English was less stilted and less accented than was Mendoza’s. His face was no less hard. As I watch
ed, his gaze flitted from me to Alvarez’s piece, which skittered to a spot on the floor maybe four feet from where he lay once I kicked it aside.
“I wouldn’t,” I told him. “You’ll make me do something we’ll both regret.” His attention returned instantly to me. “Now, tell this one to take a seat. Tell him I’m not going to hurt him.”
Solares did as I asked. Alvarez relaxed a tad. Righted a chair, dropped heavily into it, and downed two huge gulps of tequila before burying his face in his hands and crying like a child. I gestured with Mendoza’s gun and Solares took a seat as well. Castillo, still unconscious, moaned and twitched as if his dreams were far from pleasant. Can’t say I was surprised. Can’t say I cared much, either.
“What are you?” asked Solares.
“That’s complicated,” I replied. “And I’ve neither the time nor inclination to explain it to you. What’s important is you, and they, have gotten a taste of what I can do.”
Solares smiled humorlessly. “I suppose we have, at that. What now?”
“I assume you heard what I came here to do.”
He nodded. “You came here to kill the beast below.”
“That hasn’t changed.”
“I would not expect it had,” he said. “And how, precisely, do I fit into this plan?”
I heaved a sigh. “Look, you’re a soldier. You know how this shit works. You must realize I can’t let you leave this place until the job is done. It wouldn’t do to have the Mexican Army showing up and making a hash of things.”
“I’ve no intention of leaving,” said Solares. “Those were my people this creature slaughtered. The very people I am sworn to protect. I would like to help you kill it if I can.”
“I can’t ask you to do that. It’s too risky.”
“Unless I’m mistaken, you were going to bring me along without my consent, were you not? And anyways, you’ve asked these men.”
“These men are drug runners. Human traffickers. Murderers. I’ve no problem risking their lives.”
“I’m a soldier. It’s no different.”
“It’s very fucking different. You’re an innocent. And if I’m not in your driver’s seat, I can’t protect you.”
Solares frowned then, and nodded, as if he’d just come to an unpleasant decision. Which, as it turns out, he had. “Then, as you say, drive,” he said.
Jesus. A willing vessel. As fucking awful as possession was for the possessed, I had to admire this dude’s stones.
“You sure?”
“If it helps you kill this beast, I’m sure.”
“All right then. It’s settled. But not just yet,” I said, patting at Mendoza’s pockets. “Because I could really use a fucking cigarette.”
7.
Truth be told, body-hopping back into Solares took a little longer than a cigarette.
First, I sent him out in search of supplies. Watched Castillo tend to Alvarez, his ministrations oddly sweet, while the latter slowly came around. Kept Mendoza’s gun beside me on the table the whole time, but they didn’t give me cause to use it. The fight had gone out of them. They were now victims, not aggressors, and my presence was to be weathered, not contested.
I smoked half Mendoza’s pack before Solares returned with a heavy padlock and a good eight feet of chain, the thickest he could manage. And he managed pretty thick; each clanking link was the size of a woman’s fist, the whole tangle heaped to overflowing in his ropy arms as he wrangled it through the door. He sounded like Marley’s ghost shuffling across the dusty floor while trying his damndest not to drop it. Every time the chain shifted and a portion hit the floor, he winced. I didn’t have to ask him why. Though realistically we all knew the creature could be hiding anywhere, not a one of us could shake the notion it was just below the floorboards, waiting.
Past the screen door, the night had reached full dark. This far out into the desert, there was no blue, just black; stars like chipped diamonds against the velvet of the sky. The air was cold and crisp and thin, the wild swing from the stultifying day enough to make my borrowed heartbeat quicken, lizard-brain instincts kicking in and telling me the atmosphere was thinner and more fragile a protection from the ice-sharp sting of space than by day I might’ve thought. To which I told my lizard-brain instincts chill the fuck out — you’ll be in a tidy little underground hidey-hole soon enough, the perfect burrow in which to weather the chill ache of desert night.
“So,” said Solares. “What now?”
“Now,” I told him, “we go hunting.”
I asked Alvarez if he was up to coming with us. Knew after what he’d been through, he’d be too scared of me to say no. He proved me right, nodding sweat-slick and wan, and eyeing me the whole time like if I didn’t find his answer enthusiastic enough, I might plunge my hand into his chest a second time. Instead, I handed him the remains of the tequila, which he killed in three quick glugs.
On my instructions, Solares gathered up as many guns as he could carry. I scooped up all but one of the rest with my left hand, taking the final one in my right and training it on Castillo and Alvarez. I told them to grab the lanterns and walkie-talkies that I’d found stashed behind the bar. And then it was time to head into the tunnels.
The entrance was behind a low cinderblock fireplace, which looked to be affixed to the far wall. It wasn’t. A switch flipped, a little elbow-grease from Castillo and Alvarez both, and the fireplace slid forward, some kind of runner system keeping it just off the floor so it wouldn’t scrape.
Behind it was a sad little smuggler’s notch, inside which was a rusted cash box and a couple pounds of low-grade ditch weed apportioned into eighths and quarters. I eyed the two of them like, are you kidding me? But the smuggler’s notch proved nothing more than a clever ruse, a rodeo clown to disguise the true reason for the sliding fireplace. Because Castillo dropped to one knee and looped a finger into a gaping knothole in the wooden floor, and next thing I knew, a three-by-three section of it hinged upward. A ladder descended from it into still, quiet darkness. Solares dropped in his pile of guns. I did the same. The clatter of their landing was swallowed almost immediately by the insulating earth. That done, Solares clanked down the ladder rungs. Once he reached the bottom, he called up to me, and then covered Castillo and Alvarez with one of their own weapons while they climbed down the ladder. Soon the tunnel entrance glowed like pirate treasure as they fired up their lamps.
I entered the tunnel last, yanking closed the hatch by the rusted iron loop bolted into its underside. Then I chained that loop to the ladder such that the hatch could not be opened, and set the lock. Below me, Alvarez said something in rapid-fire Spanish. I asked Solares what he was going on about.
“He says you do not need to do that. They are brave, and will not run.”
I shook my head. “He only says that cause right this sec, he’s more afraid of me than he is of what’s down here. I can’t take the chance that once I’m out of sight he’ll change his mind. So we lock the hatch, and the question’s settled.”
Solares translated what I’d said. Alvarez replied.
“He asks, ‘What now?’” said Solares.
“There are four main tunnels out of here,” I said, “and four of us. Tell him all he’s got to do is follow one of ’em right out of here. He can take whatever guns he wants — there’s no point shooting me and doubling back, since I left the padlock key topside. The only way out is through. We’ll each take a different tunnel, and a radio as well. If anybody sees anything, they’re to call me, and I’ll be there in an instant, like with Mendoza in the bar. I promise I can protect you all, so long as you give me half a chance. And I promise I can kill this thing. We do this right, and no one but the creature has to die down here tonight, okay?”
Solares translated once more. Castillo and Alvarez looked doubtful, but still, they nodded their assent. Then Solares turned to me.
“Is it time?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m afraid it is.”
He handled it
like a champ. When I took over, his mind was quiet. He didn’t protest, didn’t scream. And once again, he didn’t puke, though once again, it was a near thing. When I was well and truly back in control of him, I turned my attention to a dazed and fuming Mendoza.
“You get all that?” I asked him.
“I understood your plan,” he spat. “What I do not understand is why you left my cigarettes back in the bar.”
“I need you sharp,” I told him. “That means your eyesight can’t be compromised by lighter-flicks. That means your nostrils need to pick up more than smoky full-flavored goodness.”
“When this is through,” he told me, “I will kill you for what you’ve done to me and my men.”
“You’re welcome to try,” I told him. “But you’ll have to take a number and get in line.”
We split up then. Each of us with a small camp lantern, doused for now on account of the dangling light bulbs trailing off in all directions, as well as a radio, an automatic rifle (two, in Castillo’s case), and a handgun. Castillo brandished his rifles one in each hand like some kind of gangster as he sauntered out of sight down the eastward spoke. All I could think was if he tried to fire the fucking things holding them like that, he was gonna break his thumbs with the recoil and spray bullets wide to either side. Mendoza, the most senior of the men, walked calmly but with purpose down the western one, battle-weary but determined, and he held his rifle like he meant to use it. Alvarez, clearly frightened, hugged his tight to his body to hide his trembling as he trundled reluctantly into the northeast tunnel. He was also the only one of us to fire up his lantern straight away, despite the burning bulbs. Its aperture was open as far as it would go, letting enough air in the wick glowed pure white, and he held its wire-thin handle with the same white-knuckled hand that clutched his gunstock. I worried his mind would give out long before he reached the other side of the tunnel. I — in the tight, responsive Solares once more — took the northwest tunnel, from which I was told the creature’s collapsed lair once stretched, and through which the slaughtered group had passed on their way to their brief, doomed taste of so-called freedom. I wore my automatic slung across my back, and my handgun at the ready. Seemed to me the quarters were close enough, I was likelier to get off a shot if I had a shorter barrel to bring around, and anyways, when it came to killing this thing, I had less faith in these glorified pea-shooters than I did in my own bare hands. The unlit lantern I affixed by its lanyard to my belt to keep one of the aforementioned bare hands free.
The Big Reap tc-3 Page 9