Retribution Road

by Jon Coon

  Paul held his hand up to his ear like he was holding a phone and then turned both palms up and mouthed, “Do you have a phone?”

  She shook her head no.

  He took her arm and with his other hand lifted the bottom of her scrubs. Her abdomen was purple and yellow. He pointed to her stomach, but she shook her head and pulled away. Paul reached out to her, and when she turned back, there were tears in her eyes. She let him hold her for only a moment before pushing him back. He had expected soft. She was solid like a lean animal. She shook her head sadly and again said, “Eat,” then wiped her eyes and pointed to the note and then the bathroom. He nodded that he understood. She gave him a half-smile, left the room, and locked the door.

  Angelica walked the hall of the several-hundred-year-old building. Only small parts of which had been renovated … sort of. Electrical wiring hung from the sagging timber ceiling and rusting iron gates blocked halls and most doors.

  Most windows were vacant holes and some rooms were dank enough to have green moss flourishing on the damp stone floors. During the rainy season, only a few of the newly petitioned rooms were actually livable, and only one floor had plumbing. That floor contained the primitive operating room, three other rooms like the one Paul was in, and a bunk room shared by all the staff. A generator that ran eighteen hours a day provided power to this and three other ancient buildings and provided refrigeration and hot water to the community shower.

  She went into the bunk room and to her corner beneath the window. This was one of the few rooms that had glass in it. She had saved Paul’s clothing, had washed and mended his bloody shirt, and salvaged other items he would need for their escape. She gathered his things together, approached the door, and checked the hallway. When it looked safe, she took the bundle and stepped out into the hall. Three steps later she walked headlong into Raúl, who emerged from the galley carrying a cup of coffee that spilled onto them both. He yelled in pain and she fell back.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, puta?” he growled. He pulled off his shirt and used the dry portion to pat down his chest and arms. He was a brawny, hairy man, thick chested with strong arms and mean hands. Hands she knew only too well.

  “I’ll get you a towel,” she said and tried to slip away. He grabbed her arm and slapped her hard. “I thought you would have learned by now not to mess with me.”

  “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

  “You were the accident, puta.” His laughter echoed through the hall. “What have you got there?” He pointed to the bundle of Paul’s clothes and shoes.

  “The patient needs a shower and clean clothes. It’s been weeks and he stinks. This is all we have.”

  “He stinks? Then the two of you should get along very well. Bueno, now get out of my sight.”

  Her face was still burning from his slap as she unlocked Paul’s door and put the clothes on the only chair. She came close to the bed as he stepped to the floor.

  Paul pointed to the handprint on the side of her face.

  She shook her head and put a finger to his lips.

  “You need a shower,” she said in a half whisper. “Bring your clothes and come with me.”

  He touched her face gently. She put her hand over his and moved both to her heart. She said nothing, but the message was clearly understood. Paul’s heart heard her, felt her, and believed.

  She held the door open for him and, as they stepped into the hall, they were met by one of the guards. She explained, and they walked together to the end of the hall into an open room with shower heads along one wall.

  “Get out of those clothes and put these on when you’re done. There’s soap in that can and towels in that cabinet.”

  “Are you staying?”

  His innocence was a surprise. She laughed at his modesty. It was a luxury she was not accustomed to. “Let me tape your stitches,” she said and motioned for him to come to her.

  She covered the wounds with pieces of a plastic bread wrapper and taped them in place with surgical tape. As she worked, she whispered, “Tonight we go. Be ready.” She leaned her head against his chest and stayed quiet for a moment. Then she looked up at him and smiled. She called the guard back in, then went out to wait in the hall.

  The shower was strong and hot. He melted beneath the blast and scrubbed with the abrasive soap until his skin felt raw. He rinsed, turned off the water, toweled, and put on his clean clothes. He felt renewed. “I’m ready,” he said to the guard, who nodded and opened the door.

  “Let me see your stitches,” she said.

  He removed his shirt and turned his back to her. Without warning, she pulled off the tape.

  “Ouch!”

  “Don’t worry, tough guy. Mama won’t do that again.” She laughed. She examined the wounds carefully. The stitches were clean and dry with no hint of infection. Both wounds had healed well.

  “Let’s get those out now. We can do that in the OR.” She led the way down the stone hallway beneath the arched ceiling to the operating room. She thanked the guard, and he left with the same expressionless visage he’d maintained throughout their time together. She pushed open the windowless metal doors and held one open for him. It was the most modern room in the building, but that wasn’t saying much. American Civil War physicians would have felt comfortable beneath the lights over the single table.

  She had him take off his shirt and lie on his stomach on the thin mattress. “It’s not much,” she said. “But I keep it clean. The instruments are sterile, and everything is disinfected the way it should be on a regular basis. Otherwise you would not have healed as well as you have.”

  “Thank you.”

  She pulled up a stainless stool on wheels and had an emesis basin with a forceps and small pointed scissor. She put on surgical gloves and a head lamp that cavers or campers would wear, wiped down the two wound sites with a brown disinfectant, and then said, “This could tickle a little. Try not to move.”

  She picked up the first suture with the forceps and pulled it high enough to get the scissor on the monofilament thread. He raised up from the table as she pulled the thread out.

  “There’s one. You okay?”

  “It tickles, like you said.”

  “Just a few more. Relax if you can.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  When she finished, she surprised him: She kissed his back and then smiled. As usual, it was a half-smile to hide her teeth. Then she helped him off the table. She leaned in as he stepped down, and whispered, “Now you are ready. Sleep if you can. I’ll come for you after midnight.”

  Paul lay on his hospital bed staring at the moonlight coming through the single high window. Too high for him to see out of it, but large enough to flood the room with moonlight tonight. He wondered about the events of the day: his closeness with Angelica, her hard body and gentle scent. Like tropical flowers.

  He wondered about her bruises, the handprint on her face, and the dark circles on her abdomen. What must her life be like in a place like this? Obviously she wanted out, but could he trust her? Could he risk going with her tonight? Could he risk not going? He thought about his mother and sister in Florida and grandfather in Texas. Would he ever see them again? And then there was Gabe.

  Gabe, who intruded; Gabe who had rescued his sister from that flooded decompression chamber at the bottom of the river; Gabe who kept talking about finding a cave diver’s gold line that would guide you out of darkness no matter what went wrong; Gabe who said he believed in God more than in electricity, more than anything.

  Where was that God now? Now, when he was so desperately needed? What else was it Gabe had told him? Oh yeah, his three things to live by: “All have sinned and fallen short of what God demands. All are sinners in need of a savior and Jesus is that savior, and that by God’s grace those who believe will be saved.” Maybe that was four things. Not that it mattered. But the other thing Gabe said made sense now, “There are no atheists in foxholes. If you’re not a believer, it just may b
e that you haven’t been threatened enough, terrified enough, close enough to death to cry out for help.”

  I think I’m there. This was the most scared he’d ever been. He looked up at the window and the pure white light pouring in. He realized that he was shaking, freezing, in fact, and it was a tropical night. He sat up, got out of the bed, down on his knees and began. “Dear God, I’m so sorry. I got myself into this mess, and there’s no one to blame but me. Now my whole family is threatened. Please, God, help us tonight, and I promise I’ll do better. Please. I promise.”

  Chapter 20

  TOM AND GABE SAT IN beach chairs watching the sunset. It was a safe place to talk, as Tom suspected their rooms and hotel phones were bugged.

  “Carol thinks I’m crazy for doing this,” Tom said. He was staring deeply into a half glass of good bourbon and watching sadly as the ice melted. “She called me Don Quixote. And she’s probably right. Do you know the cartels have 450 thousand people on their payroll? And their profits may be thirty billion dollars a year.”

  “That’s a big windmill,” Gabe observed. He was drinking a Coke and therefore not feeling as philosophical.

  “Ninety percent of the cocaine in the US comes in from Mexico, and a big percentage of that comes across the Texas border. And now they’re bringing in Fentanyl, a dozen times more lethal than coke.”

  Gabe just listened.

  “And I saw on the news that the Mexican government says it’s no longer focused on taking out the heads of the cartels because as soon as they do a worse one takes his place. But did you know there have been more killed in the Mexican drug wars than in Afghanistan and Iraq combined? I saw a report that said the estimate is 165 thousand since 2007. How can any government, much less an honest one, combat numbers like that? That’s three times the number we lost in Nam. It’s staggering.”

  Gabe nodded without speaking.

  “And the scary thing for us,” Tom continued, “is if we don’t stop it, we could have the same thing going on at home. The insanity of the Chicago killings could be just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Do you see any way to stop it?” Gabe asked.

  “We have to make a statement, loud enough that it will be taken seriously. If our government won’t stop it, won’t close the borders and get serious, we will.”

  “That’s a tall order.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know it. But we still have to try. If we don’t, we’re giving away our kids’ futures. Handing our country over to drug lords.”

  “And you have a plan?” Gabe twisted in his chair to face Tom.

  “It’s more of a goal than a plan. I have a vision of what needs to happen—I just don’t have all the parts assembled yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “It must be one hell of a plan,” Gabe offered.

  A fleeting smile passed Tom’s rugged visage as he looked at Gabe briefly and then stared back out over the water. His one-word answer would have made John Wayne proud. “Yep.”

  They watched the evening sun sink into the sea in a final blaze of glory. Tom got up, nodded to Gabe, and marched back to the hotel. Gabe lingered a while longer and wondered about what he had just heard. He wished he could remember how Don Quixote ended. Did he survive or did the windmill win? I’m sure Carol will know. Tomorrow.

  Angelica went to Paul’s room just after one. She was still dressed in scrubs and carried in a tray of food. She put it down by his bed and motioned. “Eat.” There were several bananas and sandwiches. Paul helped himself with relish.

  She sat beside him in the silence of the moonlit room and ate as well. Between bites, she smiled, and once rubbed his head. She could tell how anxious he was, and without speaking, which would have alarmed the listening guard, she tried to encourage him and lift his spirits. She glanced at her watch frequently, and shortly before two she motioned him to the door. Very quietly they left the room and moved cautiously down the hall. In the hall, they heard men’s voices and ducked into the shadows while two guards crossed from the galley to the bunk room, and when the creaking iron gate had closed, they continued to the end of the hall and down the stair. On the second floor, the old building remained as it had been built hundreds of years before. The stone floors were rough and the walls uneven. Angelica knelt and motioned him down beside her. “When we go out, there is TV, television. Don’t talk and stay in the shadows behind me. Comprende?”

  “Yes. I mean, si. I’ve got it.”

  She eased out of the archway gate and stayed close to the wall as they entered a large courtyard. She moved slowly, taking advantage of every hiding place in darkness until they came to an archway beneath a high balcony. They rested for a moment in the shadows and they were close enough that she could feel him tremble. She took his hand and kissed it. She let him rest until he had his breathing under control and the trembling stopped.

  She squeezed his hand and pulled him forward.

  Once under the cover of the arch, she pulled open a rotting, wooden door and motioned him inside. The smell of decay was pervasive. Once inside, she eased the door closed and turned on a small flashlight.

  Fragments of rotting wood covered the floor and the remains of what had been wood paneling was losing its grip on the walls. There were a few rows of benches and a table and pulpit at the back. “It was a chapel,” she said quietly. “Built by the monks three hundred years ago. They didn’t last. At least not here. Help me get our bikes, and I need to change.”

  They stepped over debris to a small room in the back and found two bicycles with fat, knobby tires, along with two backpacks. “Take these to the door while I change.”

  He took the first and rolled it to the door. When he returned, she had her back to him and was changing shirts. On her back was a large tattoo of a white python climbing from her buttock to her shoulder. “For good luck,” she said. “The ancients believed they were very powerful spirits. I guess we’ll see.”

  “Nice,” Paul said. He stepped close and gently touched her bare shoulder. She turned and slapped him with enough force to nearly knock him down.

  “Don’t ever touch me like that. The men here, they take anything they want. Never again. I’ll die first. I will never be treated like that again.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Now you know. Don’t do it again.” She pulled on jeans and a black, long-sleeved tee shirt and put a black hoodie on over that. “There’s another one in your bag. I think you’re going to want it.”

  “Okay.” He opened the pack and found the shirt on top. “Where are we going?”

  “Tulum is thirty miles. If we can get there by morning, we should be able to blend in with the tourists. But the cartel has people everywhere. We won’t be safe until we’re out of Mexico.”

  “Just get me to a phone. My grandfather will know what to do.”

  “We can buy one in Tulum. I have a little money. Not much, but enough for a phone.”

  “Could we sell the bikes?”

  “Probably not a good idea. I sort of borrowed them.”

  “Will the roads be safe?”

  “Not once they realize we’re gone. You are very valuable to them. They’re going to be really pissed. So there are trails in the jungle. We’ll stay on the trails.”

  “Do you have a map?”

  “No maps. I grew up here. I know the trails.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  “Bueno, let’s get going. We’ll take it easy at first, let you get in the rhythm.”

  She put on her backpack and eased the bike out the door. He followed, and as they worked their way around the courtyard, they heard shouting from the clinic and floodlights came on in the courtyard. “So much for easy,” she said and bolted across the yard to a locked iron gate at the far end. “Let’s go. They have motorbikes.”

  As she said the words, they could hear several bikes fire to life. They reached the gate and she produced a key. She opened the gate and they eased through before she relocked it. “You don’t
want to know what I had to do to get that key.” She laughed under her breath. Then they were on the road, riding hard past more old stone buildings, and then to an open square with an ancient pyramid.

  Nearby was a Maya basketball court. No time for lectures from a tour guide; she led them down narrow stone back roads until they came to a larger one that seemed to glow in the dark. They crossed over and quickly hid as two jeeps full of soldiers roared past. Breathing heavily and in pain, Paul asked, “Are they looking for us?”

  “Yes. No more questions, we have to get into the jungle.”

  She led and kept a fast pace. Out of shape and out of breath, he had a hard time keeping up. The buildings, most of which were long abandoned and many with collapsed roofs and walls, became fewer and the trees taller, and finally there were only trees and they were on a narrow trail. He’d been sweating, but now the air was cooler, heavier. He could taste it, like a pungent blanket of a nursery hothouse, but cold. When they’d ridden about two miles, he heard a whirring sound.

  She stopped, jumped off her bike, and lay with it off the trail. Without asking why, he did the same. A drone flew overhead, carefully searching. When it passed, she said, “The trails are not safe, we may need to make our own way. But we’ll make as much progress as we can before we make that decision. Try to keep up, the more ground we cover the better.”

  “Could the drone have seen us?”

  “I don’t know, but we need to keep moving. You okay?”

  “Guess so. It hurts, but I’m still moving.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  They rode and walked for another hour until they came to a highway. She stopped still in the cover of the jungle and watched quietly. The cries of night birds and howler monkeys filled the night. When suddenly they stopped, she dropped and motioned for him to do the same.

  From out of the shadows, several armed men appeared. They split into two groups, one going north, the other south. They stayed off the road, working the edges. Angelica motioned for him to back up, and slowly they dissolved into the underbrush. The soldiers passed within feet, feet that felt like inches, and continued their sweep. The jungle remained deathly quiet, and Paul realized he was sweating profusely in the black hoodie, but was afraid to move.