by Steve Curry
From the spray, I figured it caught the jugular or maybe the carotid. Whatever was cut, it was a beauty. I gave him just minutes before the compromised blood flow to his head did irreparable brain damage. I mean more brain damage than he’d probably inflicted through years of pharmaceutical recreation. With all of that going on, he wasn’t even the worst injured.
The guard standing behind me was probably the main reason I only got clipped by the one rock and enough noise to leave my ears ringing. His position had just by coincidence shielded me from the worst of the explosion and architectural shrapnel. I saw him lying to my side with his upturned face almost touching my leg. That wouldn’t have been so bad if his chest hadn’t been to the floor. The explosion must have been close enough to kill him almost immediately. His expression showed no pain, just surprise, and puzzlement.
The other cartel guy was stumbling across the room towards the door. He didn’t even pause to render aid to his boss on the way out. I looked away from that mess and checked my six. My urgency increased several-fold almost immediately. I became acutely aware of the chains holding me in place when I saw what looked suspiciously like smoke and reflected flames through the now absent wall behind me. It only bothered me a little that I didn’t hear the next explosion though I saw dust and smoke fly from somewhere further down the exterior wall.
All of those observations probably took no more than two or three seconds. The nature of an adrenalin rush though stretched that time out to seem much longer. That same adrenalin rush made me decide to take a gamble. Nobody in the room seemed concerned about me or even watching.
Bracing my forearms against my thighs I rose to a crouch and gripped the chains in either hand. In a slow steady surge of recently renewed muscle, I tried to stand erect and drag the eyebolt free of its concrete anchor. No doubt anyone taking the time to look over would think I was wounded or having a seizure of some sort. I could feel cords and blood vessels in my head, neck and chest strain with the effort. The strain in my chest translated to a searing pain in my ribs. It didn’t seem like a time to baby myself though. Not if I wanted to avoid becoming a Mexican barbecue.
Spots started to swim in front of me as my breath ran out and the strain became too much to bear. I felt the chains slipping through damp palms until I fell back with a jerk of the manacles at my wrists. With the release of that effort, I dragged in a ragged breath and felt sound slowly start to return after the calamitous explosion.
Now I could hear several types of alarms. Bells, whistles, claxons, and gunfire were all prevalent once the ringing let up enough. That’s also when I heard the hammer go back on that big revolver somewhere nearby.
I was amazed to see ole Mateo sitting up and giving out an A-plus effort to get that hand cannon lined up on my skull. With the limited amount of play in my chains, there was no chance of dodging a punch much less a bullet. I stood frozen for the first time in a long time while Valhalla loomed ahead. His A plus was downgraded to a B minus when the bullet burned past my arm and hit the Mexican intelligence officer behind me with an authoritative splat. A brief glance showed me that El Capitan was no longer a worry. The hole in his cheek was ugly enough that I didn’t care to take a longer look at what was left of the back of his head. Another shot rang out from Mateo’s oversized toy.
Bubbling Spanish profanities and the sound of rubble moving brought me back to the cartel gunsel. His second shot had knocked him off balance and kicked the heavy revolver out of his grip. Half reclined on his side, Mateo drug the little Skorpion out of his shoulder holster and aimed it in shaking hands.
That was just the incentive I needed to make a better effort at those chains. Stooping low I gripped them again and started straining as the low caliber bullets began spitting out of the machine pistol with angry whines. I had no cover and could only keep jerking against the chains as deadly little metal hornets swarmed all around me.
I felt at least two of them nick me somewhere in the torso. My left leg and the opposite arm both screamed fiery pain at me from their own wounds. For a wild spray of shots that was pretty good. It made me want to give up and lay on the cold concrete floor. It was not however enough to knock me down. I kept exerting every ounce of will and strength I could summon into those chains. It seemed hopeless though, right up until the eye bolt snapped off somewhere at its base.
The various small caliber holes and burns Mateo had given me all shot their own individual spikes of agony when I fell. I had been straining so hard I never saw the shots hit my chains or the one that weakened the bolt. That might have been the last .454 he fired. The unnoticed damage to restraints, in turn, meant I never expected the strain to release so abruptly and toss me on the floor. I was laying there partially dazed and in a red haze of pain when even more reddish or pink colors invaded my field of vision.
I followed the movement, as a vision in pink, white and purple stuck her head around the corner. I saw her eyes dart all around the room pausing briefly on each corpse or near corpse before she caught my return gaze. Studying me with her head tilted oddly, the girl with the blond ponytail and “muddy girl” camouflage fatigues blew a big pink bubblegum bubble before shouting. “Hey! Like, your name isn’t Mr. Moose is it?”
10
I watched motes of dust settle while I tried to reconcile the last few violent and tense minutes with the completely incongruous appearance of my apparent rescuer. She didn’t wait for me to decide if this was reality or the effect of too many blows to the head recently. Blondie rolled her eyes like a teenager being lectured and leaned away from the opening in the wall.
“Hey, Mr. sleaze weasel! I think your dudes in this one! He’s like deaf and stupid or something though.” I was wondering if she meant deaf and dumb since I hadn’t answered her. The other option was that she was a few apples short a bushel herself. She gave me a friendly wave and a big cheerleader smile before strolling blissfully down the exterior wall and out of my sight.
I had made it to my feet and was stumbling over the remains of my ankle chains when yet another visitor showed up through the new “door” in my cell. This one was at least familiar. Pedro swaggered through the dust with a self-amused smirk.
The expression of self-satisfaction barely altered when he saw my sorry state. He hauled me to my feet with barely any hint of consideration for any trauma or wounds I happened to be suffering. When I hissed out my displeasure I got an eye roll almost as good as the girl. “Don’t be a little girl Moose, we gotta get moving. You get caught in a cell with all them dead guys and I won’t get another shot at getting you rescued eh?”
I guess bullet wounds just aren’t worthy of concern these days. He leaned me against the wall near the jagged opening and wandered back to the dead people. The whole time he searched bloody pockets and torn uniforms I could hear a litany of profanity in both English and Spanish. Finally, he came back with the keys to strip off my mangled chains and restraints. “Ok there we go, now let’s hurry up eh?”
He led me straight through the hole and towards a further opening ripped in the fence nearby. Behind it, I saw a big tan SUV idling with the front doors open. “You ain’t in good shape for driving but can you sit upfront or do you need to lie in the back?”
“I’ll take shotgun. Let the girl and whoever she’s looking for a ride in the back.” I clambered into the front seat and jerked the door shut with a couple of feeble efforts. By the time I had the door shut Pedro was behind the wheel. He didn’t give me time to buckle my safety belt before he shoved us into gear and started down the road in a surprisingly sedate manner.
“We got no shotguns or guns at all to get us in trouble. And they got their own ride.” Pedro seemed calm and unfazed by the noise and chaos erupting behind us. He also seemed pretty nonchalant about the whereabouts or activities of the girl who had presumably helped him with the abruptly explosive evacuation of the entire correction facility.
We passed no few guards and prisoners alike stumbling through the dust and smoke as fla
mes erupted from more than part of the rubble we were in the process of leaving. I kept an eye out for the vibrantly pink and purple fatigues but didn’t catch another glimpse of her. “So Pedro. Why are we escaping instead of bribing my way out and what’s the deal with Commando Barbie?”
He kept his eyes on the road and his voice level but without most of the amused at the world tone he normally used. “ Heh, I didn’t much like those people enough to pay em. I got the money from your guy though. Damn, he must be made of the stuff. He was on a boat or something but got the message and emailed me back. Said he was sailing his new Yacht. You got some nice friends to have there Moose.”
Without pausing his visual sweep of the roads and alleys around us he dug into the back seat and handed me a bag. “Clothes in there. Also a few gauze and stuff. Those prison rags might get some bad attention eh?”
I had more questions but he was right. The quicker I got rid of the evidence the less likely I was to be “accidentally” shot for escaping or resisting arrest. Shot any more that is. Still, I could talk while I got rid of the clothes.
“Okay, so you had some kind of reasons. I guess they made sense to you. But what now? And you still haven’t said anything about the blond in barbie-doll camouflage. My voice was muffled as I stripped off my prison uniform and taped pads of gauze over anyplace oozing from low powered .32 rounds. There was a hole above my collar bone that made lifting my arm a profanity enhanced experience. A similar hole above my hip barely went through a couple of inches of meat before popping out on the side. Add a burn across my ribs and the little nick of meat taken from my thigh and you get the worst of the injuries. The grazing hit on my left bicep had already stopped bleeding. I put a small bandage on it anyway since it still looked alot like a bullet graze. With the worst of my leakages plugged I dug out my replacement shirt. The knock-off football jersey fit my chest and shoulders but that meant it hit me a little above the knees in length. It took a minute to get all of that excess material settled right.
Pedro looked over with a grin and shake of his head at my predicament. “Nice dress. We got a rendezvous. Hang on.” He fumbled in his leather jacket for a cell phone and hit a speed dial number.
“Yea there’s way more people around than I planned.” He didn’t even start with a greeting or normal pleasantries. “Forget plan A. We’re gonna skip ahead. Okay so you told me so, but shut up a minute.”
He took the phone from his ear to pinch his nose at the bridge. It looked like maybe he was dealing with his own headache. I couldn’t feel too sorry for the guy who seemed to make me feel just the same every other time he spoke. I heard a teeth grating giggle come out of the phone. It seemed an awfully odd time to be giggling, but who am I to judge? I was still trying to make heads or tails of what was going on most of the time. The giggles turned into a breathy and excited voice with a distinct accent from somewhere in Southern California. Finally, she had to pause for breath or had reached a stopping place. Pedro jumped in before she could resume.
“Yea. Plans B and C don’t seem great either. Go with D. Don’t call again, I’m ditchin’ this phone. Just be careful until the rendezvous.” He didn’t wait for a response but turned off the phone and took a brief detour to toss it out of the window and into a barrel full of burning refuse in a nearby alley.
By that time we were out of town a ways. Most of the mayhem seemed behind us but Perro kept a wary eye all the way around us. I had also managed to get into some brightly floral swim trunks that were barely long enough to peek out from under the red and black college football jersey. At least the trunks had that mesh inner lining. I wasn’t quite ready to toss on used undies from some stall in a Mexican flea market. To finish off my ensemble he’d picked up some canvas boat shoes with the rubber soles. Twenty years ago you saw the “cool” guys all over wearing em without socks. Now they pretty much just show up on boats. These were only a size or two bigger than my feet.
“So we have a plan for tomorrow? Some rendezvous with the raspberry beret bimbo. In the meantime, we have no guns and I still have very little idea where I am or what the overall plan is. Not to mention what we’re doing until this rendezvous.” I gave him my stern and foreboding look. Maybe prison had taken some of my edge away. He didn’t even look aware of it much less intimidated.
“I got some friends out here. Just a few miles and we’ll stop for the night. Probably have a different vehicle tomorrow and then we’ll meet with the blonde you’re so interested in and her people. Also might have a few others join us.” He stopped talking to turn on the lights and veer off down a barely visible track in the thicker trees we had reached. “Hey when we get there, just be quiet man. I’ll do the talking and you keep your head down. Try to look, how you call it? inconspicuous eh?”
I spared a glance for my brilliant swim shorts and dresslike college jersey. “Inconspicuous, right. I’ll blend right in I bet.”
11
Pedro's friends seemed to be simple farmers. At least they appeared that way until you noticed how many various and interesting firearms were worn or just laying around. I saw one guy with a brand new high-end SCAR-L assault rifle. Countering that super modern firepower was an old guy with what looked like a worn and ancient blunderbuss. There were at least a dozen other guns within sight and probably three times that many machetes.
Of course, the machete’s might have been working tools. That didn’t prevent them from being handy at removing bits of anatomy from offensive interlopers. As the newest interloper, I worked at being as inoffensive as possible. It’s not easy being invisible and subservient looking in vibrant hibiscus shorts and an oversized basketball jersey. But I went with it.
The easiest tactic for reducing your annoyance factor always seems to involve speaking. To best remain inoffensive and thus unmodified by machete or gunplay, try to remain silent. I clenched my jaw shut and followed Pedro as he walked through and greeted half the people in the collection of worn old buildings. He slapped a couple of shoulders and even gave one old granny a big hug before we reached the largest adobe building.
The fellow that stepped out of that building was composed of sinew and leather. There was barely enough meat on him to round out the knobby orbs of his elbows and knees under the rainbow-colored serape. Despite the lack of muscle, he looked like one of those old men that would put a piano on their back and walk it upstairs by themselves. Whipcord muscle and more willpower than common sense. It was fairly easy to identify that last trait. Maybe because I’ve also been accused of being more stubborn than smart.
He stared me up and down with a cigar dangling from his clenched jaw. When I stood there and kept my mouth shut he nodded. “Good senor. I don’t wanna know nothin’. Not even your name. Pedro is not a bad man. But he sometimes makes confusing decisions. We don’t need to get involved. We got enough problems of our own no?”
He turned with a wave and mumbled something to the old Abuela Pedro Perro had hugged. She gathered the two of us up with a flip of her apron. “This way. We bring you some tamales and frijoles. Beer and tequila are in the hut. You eat in there, stay out of sight. Tomorrow you leave again. Si?”
Just like that, we were left alone in a one-room adobe building. There were cots with old military surplus sleeping bags and a crate with a sputtering lantern. More importantly, there was a box of first aid gear and a styrofoam cooler with beer. The tequila wasn’t that intriguing. It might work to clean out some wounds if necessary but that was about my only interest in it at that point.
I found myself pulling the tab on a beer and fortifying myself for a more thorough first aid session. In the meager lantern light, I couldn’t really read the beer label. It was dark, rich and more filling than anything I’d eaten since that helicopter landed, however many days ago. It also took just enough tension away to let me deal with the bullet wounds.
My “enhanced” hardiness had already taken care of the grazes and burns. There was little to see but raw skin and dried blood where the little subma
chine gun rounds had chewed at me. The wound above my hip was closed enough to take off the bandage as was the one in my shoulder. Still, it seemed like a good idea to clean them up and maybe touch up my thoroughly degraded runework.
“Hey People smuggler,” I tossed Pedro a beer just to make sure I got his attention. “You got a sharpie or some markers or something?” I tried to keep the request light. There was little benefit in trying to explain to him how my runic tattoos and artwork could help with healing or even less believable endeavors. If I was lucky he’d just think I was crazy. It didn’t seem very likely he’d embrace the whole idea.
“Nope Gringo. No markers or anything. If it’s important we’ll pick them up tomorrow. We have to meet some people a few hours away in a decent-sized little tourist town. Got ya reservations in a good hotel. Nice view, real luxury digs comprende? Anyway, we should be able to get just about anything ya need there. Real nice place and I got some good friends there.” He finished his commentary by shoving a tamale in his face before handing me a warm cloth wrapped around half a dozen of the southwestern version of energy bars and a bowl of beans. “That’s manana though. Eat up and then rack out man. Or do you need help patching up?”
I gave him a shake of the head as my own face was promptly stuffed with shredded pork and steamed masa flour. I didn’t know if old Abuela out there had done these herself or if she’d just taught a daughter or granddaughter the goods. They were some of the best things I’d ever shoved down my half-starved throat though. Say what you want about this cuisine or that culinary tradition, when it comes down to revitalizing simple fare, it’s hard to beat tamales and beans. Of course, they also induce a certain sedative effect when added to days of abuse and poor nutrition as well as multiple bruises, abrasions, lacerations, and wounds.