Awake

by Fernando Iglesias Meléndez

  Anita and Diana walk in behind Gerardo. Anita looks around, smiling, in spite of everything. She doesn’t catch what this place is, Diana knows, only sees a community, people sticking together and hunkering down to wait for the end. But Diana and the others know: it’s a parasite, one that’ll drain you of your money and kick you out the second you can’t pay for anything.

  The stores around the parking lot are lit from the inside. Signs advertise pots of ‘GLUE,’ a boiling, gunky mixture of alcohol, coffee, candy, and aspirin. Diana’s seen people kill themselves with it, sit down at a bar somewhere and drink cup after cup until their lips and cheeks are slathered and shining with the honey-like leftovers. Then they keel over, the syrupy mixture dribbling out of their mouths, their hearts giving out, unable to keep up with the psychotic, hyper-active, up-and-down concoction.

  Gerardo struts toward one of the bar storefronts like he belongs here. In a way, he does. This isn’t a nice place, a good place. It’s a place like him, hard, cynical, ruthless, willing to take from you what you won’t be able to use anyway. Or use for long. He stoops over the counter. The bartender behind it is so gnarled by age and lack of sleep he looks more like an orc or a wraith than a human being.

  “Looking for Armando,” Gerardo says, smiling a fake salesman’s smile.

  The bartender nods. He steps to one side, flipping the counter’s door up and letting Gerardo through.

  ◆◆◆

  What was once a storage room is now a lounge. Every surface holds bottles. Most of them are labeled, ‘BLACK COFEE’ and ‘GLUE.’ A group of languid party-goers lies on the ground in front of bags of marijuana, cocaine, and injectable vials. Armando sits on a couch. He straightens as he catches sight of Gerardo, almost busting out of his too-small suit jacket. He’s got greasy long hair and a well-maintained goatee. He puffs on a joint casually. He’s cool, like a gangster from an old film, only scabby and scraggly enough to be a pirate…but he has something going for him, something worth killing over: he looks less exhausted than everyone else in the room. His eyes are clearer. The whites whiter. The darks brighter. More alert, more like eyes used to look before all this…he’s been sleeping.

  Across from him, a nervous partier sits on a chair. He’s staring into Armando’s eyes. Neither of them blinks. Gerardo shakes his head, but smiles like he knows exactly what’s going on, and doesn’t necessarily disapprove. He cocks his head, interested in the outcome.

  A shifty-looking guard in a bulletproof vest and army fatigues looks Gerardo up and down as he walks up to Armando and the partier. His gaze shifts from defensive to nervous as soon as it lands on Gerardo’s face, like he knows who he is, knows what he’s done. The guard’s eyes are clear too, not as sharp and vivid as Armando’s, but more there, more defined than Gerardo’s.

  “Y’know, the Red Eyes do this as an initiation? ‘Cept they do it for days,” Armando says, speaking to Gerardo without turning, a smile adding spice to his voice, pepping it up for a sales pitch. Armando blows joint smoke into the partier’s eyes. The man coughs, blinking and losing the game.

  “I know. And the losers have to eat their eyeballs,” Gerardo says, looking right at the partier with faux sympathy.

  The partier looks from Gerardo to Armando in horror. Armando just laughs and points at the man’s pocket. The man digs a plastic baggie full of pills out of it and drops it into Armando’s outstretched hand. He stands up, rubbing his eyes. He nods at Gerardo, seemingly in respect, and walks out. Gerardo doesn't even notice. He’s staring at the pills like they’re diamonds or water in the desert.

  “What can I do for you, Gerardo?” Armando asks, cooly. He holds out the joint. Gerardo takes it and inhales, some of the weariness on his face melting away.

  “Remember Old John?” Gerardo asks, coughing a little before taking another drag.

  Armando laughs the laugh of nostalgic recognition, like he’s remembering a particularly good meal or a particularly good fuck. “‘Course,” he says.

  “He still alive?” Gerardo asks, handing the joint back.

  “Probably. Deserting from Uncle Sam’s army is probably dangerous…but only if the world’s not tearing itself apart. He runs pretty much all of San Benito now.”

  “Still got the CDC people in tow?”

  “Yeah. But, word to the not-so-wise, he’s off his fucking rocker. Not much better than dealing with the Red Eyes. Why do you wanna do business with him anyway?”

  “Because I’ve got a Sleeper in my truck.”

  Armando bursts out laughing. Gerardo doesn’t blink. Armando gets the message. “You’re serious? How do you know they’re telling the truth? You seen them sleep?”

  “No, but it’s a kid and she’s still alive. She’s either got a stash of pills or she’s telling the truth.”

  “Or you’re putting her up to it,” Armando says, suspicion snaking its dark tendrils across his face.

  “She’ll prove it to you. Says she sees the Place and everything. Take her off me. Pay me a twenty percent cut of whatever you know John and the CDC’ll pay you later. But you give her to him and only him. I find out you gave her to the Red Eyes, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Armando sighs, turning the charm off and the focus on. He smothers the joint on a cigarette cemetery. “I don’t buy this shit. You’re smarter than this, motherfucker. Why’re you being so reckless?”

  “You’d be reckless too if all your pills got stolen by someone you trusted.”

  Gerardo looks at the baggie of pills in Armando’s hand. Armando stashes it in his pocket, away from prying eyes. “I wouldn’t lose my fucking pills. I also wouldn’t trust anybody,” he says, more to himself than Gerardo.

  “Good for you. Help me out. Take her. Let’s just say the CDC pays half of what they said at the start, that’s still enough for four tickets to the Haven.”

  “The Pill Haven?” Armando chuckles, “that’s a sucker’s dream, man. Fucking scam.”

  “Not what my guy said. Give me my cut now and I’ll prove you wrong.”

  “Now? Fuck, bro, I won’t know if she’s good or not for at least a week. The CDC won’t pay up if she’s a fake, and you’ll be long gone by then.”

  “Then you’re out twenty-five G’s. But you’ll know exactly where to find me.”

  “Arrgh! You fucker! You always make me fucking gamble. S’why I love you. Okay. Fine. You know, if you’re right, old Johnny Boy’s people are gonna be happy. Haven’t had a fresh one since the beginning. Who knows, maybe your contribution will cure all of us, huh? Where is she?”

  “Got the reward?”

  Armando motions to the guard. He walks over to the edge of Armando’s little office, right next to the crowd of people dancing and getting high, and pulls two large curtains shut, hiding Gerardo and Armando from the party. Then the guard rushes out without reacting. He’s still got the same blank expression. As he turns, Gerardo spots that the guard’s got a pair of earbuds in. A neon pink pair, for some reason. He breathes a little easier.

  Armando pulls out a lockbox from under the couch he was sitting on just seconds ago. He rolls the combination dials and the box clicks open. Inside are dozens of baggies of pills and stacks of cash.

  Gerardo stares at the treasure in front of him. Relief courses through his body like a more potent version of what’s in the joint. He’s smiling, sitting up straighter, like the world’s been lifted off his shoulders. A stay of execution, for real this time.

  ◆◆◆

  Anita wanders through a crowd of dazed ‘survivors.’ She averts her gaze from the undressed ones collapsed on crowded sleeping bags and the men and women trading company for pills.

  Diana hurries behind her. “Hey,” she says, “stick close to me, alright? We shouldn’t have brought you here. It’s no place for a kid.”

  “Yeah, I’d say,” Anita says, looking at a naked man tripping over an icebox full of beer. “Kinda trashy.”

  “Listen,” Diana says, suddenly serious, “why do you want to go to t
he Sleepin’ Place? You can already sleep, right? Is it just about helpin’ people?”

  “That’s part of it,” Anita says, regarding the people in front of her with a combination of sadness and contempt. It’s amazing how many of them are naked, or about to be, and how exactly none of them are sober. “But it’s also for me. I’ve dreamt about it. Now I wanna go see if it’s real.”

  “Maybe we can convince Gerardo after he gets the money for the Pill Haven.”

  “Why are you still with him?” Anita says, turning that soul-piercing gaze on Diana.

  Diana sighs like she’s asked herself that same question about a thousand times in general, and a thousand times just today. “At the beginnin’, people either stuck with their family or made a new one that was basically just a fuckin’ gang. We were somewhere in between. I guess we’re still together cause we’ve been through so much. Done so much.”

  “Like kill people?” Anita asks. There’s that look again. It belongs on a Jesus statue on a crucifix, the holy martyr who’s got a kind, forgiving gaze, but is just so fucking sad because He knows you’re a piece of shit.

  “You get used to it. It gets much easier when you realize they’d do much worse to you. And it brought us together I guess, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Anita says, shrugging. “I guess that makes sense. Is he a total a-hole to everyone? Or just me?”

  “It’s not just you, honey. Look, we had a stash of pills before all this. Enough for all of us. It was what we’d worked for. Done…all that for. And Gerardo was keepin’ it safe. But he trusted someone he shouldn’t have.”

  “Who?” Anita asks.

  “Someone close to him,” Diana says after some hesitation. “He was part of our group until we found him and his pals stealin’ our pills. Some got away, we killed some, then Gerardo grabbed him and...he killed him too. He was our friend, for years before. Gerardo hasn’t been the same since. None of us have.”

  “God…” Anita says.

  “That’s why he doesn’t trust anyone, and I don’t know if I trust him either. But maybe if we see you sleep he’d believe—”

  An explosion rocks the storefronts, impossibly loud through the haze of sleep deprivation and headaches. The tarp-tent flaps wildly, ruffling with the aftershock.

  Diana grabs Anita’s hand. She runs past the cowering crowd and toward the storefront Gerardo went into.

  ◆◆◆

  Armando suddenly snaps his lockbox shut, almost taking a couple of Gerardo’s fingers along with it. The money, Gerardo’s money, Gerardo’s way out, is still tucked safely inside. Armando cradles the box like a baby, backing away, then running for a back room.

  Gerardo goes to rush after him. “Wait! We had a fucking deal!” he shouts. Then he hears it.

  “Gerardo! Gerardo!” Diana’s voice, from just outside, somehow audible above all the other screams. He deflates, defeate, another chance for salvation having slipped from his grasp. He turns and sprints out of Armando’s store toward the explosion outside.

  ◆◆◆

  It’s chaos. Where before a crowd of people were lying on their blankets and in their parked cars, getting drunk and high and enjoying a daze that was almost as good as sleep, but not quite, not coming even a little close…now there's a stampede of bloodied bodies, each trying to grab whatever they can or beat it out of someone else’s hands, and run for their lives.

  Gerardo pushes his way through the raging sea of bodies. He spots Diana and Anita and runs past them. “Back to Gloria, come on!” he shouts.

  Diana grabs Anita by the hand and runs after him.

  Gloria swerves as Edu rolls her backward toward the Café. He moves like a machine, determined and decisive despite the weariness enveloping him, as thick as syrup. There’s a charging army of Red Eyes on the other side of the street. A Molotov cocktail shatters onto Gloria’s hood, bursting into a ball of flame.

  A crowd of feral Red Eyes sprints behind a line of hunters on dirt bikes. Behind them, stepping out of the cloud of dirt the bikes and the bloodied, naked bodies are kicking up, is Chief. He’s riding a skeletally-thin horse with bleeding eyes. His face is patterned with dried blood like war paint.

  Gerardo steps backward, trying to block Diana and Anita from Chief’s view. But Chief spots Anita anyway. Those red eyes of his, so hazy they have the dull look of cataracts, are never-wavering, as accurate and piercing as infrared scopes.

  “Sleeper!” Chief shouts, “do we look like your nightmares?”

  Chief slaps the horse’s side. The bikers at his sides rev their engines. Then Chief’s horse shoots forwards, galloping through the dust, bloody eyes never blinking, skeletal body working a million miles an hour, heart as powerful as an engine.

  Gerardo pulls the handgun out of his belt. “Run to the truck!” he shouts.

  Diana grabs Anita, lifting her off the ground and cradling her in her arms.

  A biker slings a bow and arrow off his shoulder. He balances the arrow over the handles, his legs steadying the rattling dirt bike beneath him.

  A Molotov cocktail explodes next to Anita. As she runs, Diana turns and shields her from the fountain of fire that spurts out of it. She dodges it but doesn’t get very far. Diana stumbles, screaming in pain and spilling onto the sidewalk, dropping Anita. She clutches an arrow jutting out of her leg.

  “Keep runnin’!” Diana says. Anita gives her a remorseful, wide-eyed look, then turns around and stumbles toward Gloria.

  Edu pushes the driver’s side door open and smacks a wet rag over the fiery puddle on Gloria’s hood. In front of him, the line of bikes is getting closer and closer.

  Gerardo ducks, thrusting his arm under Diana’s and pulling her up. They run awkwardly, like two kids with one of their legs tied together in some stupid contest. Behind them, Chief shouts as his horse gallops down the street. His horse flexes every tendon and emaciated muscle, somehow outrunning the zooming dirt bikes.

  Gerardo turns, raises his handgun at Chief and shoots. The bullet stabs through the cloud of dirt, so thick now it’s like a brown wave has flooded the street in front of him.

  Chief emerges from the billowing cloud. Unscathed. From this angle, Gerardo can see that the horse Chief’s riding has a spear sticking out of its side. Chief grabs it, pulling it out casually as if it were in a sheath instead of in a horse’s flesh. Then he cocks an arm back and tosses the spear like an Olympic athlete.

  The spear flies through the air in a perfect arch—and digs into Gloria’s hood.

  Gerardo and Diana keep running. She’s even using her bad leg now, and it’s spraying blood all over her jeans and onto the street below. Just when she’s about to collapse on the ground, she falls into the semi’s open driver’s side door instead and climbs inside. She disappears into the open hatch immediately. Gerardo’s about to follow her when—crash!

  A Molotov cocktail splatters in front of him, between him and the open door. Gerardo doesn’t stop. He lunges through the flames, faltering just long enough for the fire to sear one of his legs. He hisses in pain, slapping at his leg until the flames are gone. He climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. There are several arrows stuck to the other side.

  In between Gerardo and Edu, the hatch leading to the trailer is open. Anita’s head peeks out of it. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you wanna get an arrow in the eye? Shut that door!” Gerardo shouts. Anita scoffs, then does what he says anyway.

  Gerardo floors it. The semi shoots away from the crowd of charging Red Eyes. Chief and the bikers break out of the dust cloud, the bikes gunning it down the sidewalks.

  Gabo shoots at the bikers, hitting one in the wheel and unnerving the rider enough to send him crashing through a storefront window.

  Gerardo turns the truck into another street. Just as he does, one of the bikes rides up to his door. Gerardo moves to shoot the rider but stops. It’s the Pale Man, smiling and riding the dirt bike without ever looking at the road ahead.

  Gloria swerves from side to side as Gerardo
falters. On the left side of the street, a burnt-out husk of a car smashes into Gloria’s side, taking a chunk of Gloria’s side skirt with it.

  “Steady, man, fuck!” Edu shouts.

  Gerardo’s dazed, but he shakes his head, moving through it. He rubs his burnt leg absent-mindedly and drives forward. When the bike behind them appears in his side mirror, the Pale Man is no longer on it.

  The narrow street is crammed with abandoned cars. Gloria’s metal grill butts past them, like a wrecking ball swinging and smashing, racing down like a bowling ball down a crowded lane. One of the dirt bikes swoops over the wreckage and zooms toward the trailer.

  Gabo shoots. The biker swerves. The passenger on the rear of his bike raises a bow with a flaming arrow.

  The arrow zips through the rifle slit, slicing past Gabo’s shoulder and singeing his flesh. Gabo grunts, holding his wound just long enough for the bike to ride up closer to the rear of the trailer, so close the rider could jump off the bike and land on it if he wanted to. Instead, the bike’s rear passenger loads another arrow.

  Gerardo catches the bright orange flame on the arrowhead from his side mirror. “Hang on!” he shouts at Edu.

  Gloria’s tail lights become glowing red eyes as the truck shrieks to a sudden halt. The trailer bucks against the truck bed. The dirt bike behind it guns forward, the sleep-deprived rider unaware that the truck has stopped. His red eyes widen at the last second just before the bike crashes into the trailer.

  The riders slide under the truck bed, which is still moving, caught between the momentum of the semi’s sudden brake and the impact of the bike on the trailer. Crunch. The wheels move over one biker’s arm, crushing it and popping out all the crackly, splintery bits inside. Then the wheels accelerate, moving forward and crunching into the rider’s chest. The passenger flips, flying over the trailer and landing on the asphalt beside it. Headfirst.

  Hooves clatter over a dented car hood. Chief watches as Gloria starts up again, moving away from the wrecked bike and its dead riders and speeding off into the distance.