The rage reinvigorates Gerardo like a drug, burning delicious adrenaline through his system and spreading lucidity to whatever it touches. Gerardo’s eyes are wide, wild, red like Chief’s. “Yes! You were my brother and you stole from us anyway! From your friends!”
The Pale Man raises both his arms toward Gerardo as if he wants a hug. Instead, the air around Gerardo begins to shimmer, to thicken and distort as if syrup is being poured into the night itself, or as if he’s falling into a dream. Gerardo rubs his eyes again and again, but it’s still happening, the syrupy honey so thick now he can’t even see past it. He pants, beginning to weep and hyperventilate in horror. He knows where he’s going. “No! Please! I can’t!” But he’s fading fast, falling into darkness...
TWENTY-TWO
It’s nighttime, but the moon is so high in the clear sky that it blankets the darkness in an even, pale light that might as well be television studio lighting. Gerardo lies on the roof of a bus whose cabin is flattened against a concrete wall. Hundreds of bullet holes pepper the roof and the wall around him in frantic clusters. He’s looking through a pair of dirty binoculars. He adjusts them once, twice, then smiles.
“Alright, you’ve looked at it enough. My turn,” a voice next to him says.
“Knock yourself out,” Gerardo says, lowering the binoculars from his eyes. It’s Gerardo alright, but he looks five years younger than he did on the volcano. He looks fresher, more alert, more alive. The whites in his eyes are really white, the bags underneath them are absent, his face is tighter, more elastic, less wrinkled, less droopy.
Gerardo hands the binoculars to a man lying next to him. He’s got Gerardo’s black hair, his dark eyes, his same thin, hooked nose. This is Diego, Gerardo’s younger brother. Cut from the same cloth, one that’s so tough it might as well be leather.
“Bingo,” Diego says, chuckling.
“What’d I say? The fuckers are on their last legs,” Gerardo says.
Diego adjusts the binoculars. Through them, rendered in twin, gleaming circles, is a rusted pedestrian bridge looming over a graveyard of abandoned cars faded by the sun. The bridge itself is a metal plank sandwiched between two chainlink fences, and right now that plank is crowded with dozens of black leather bags in a vaguely human shape. The bags themselves are peppered with dozens upon dozens of tiny golden cylinders like the world’s deadliest confetti. Bullet casings. “What’s your plan?” he asks.
“Actually it’s yours,” Gerardo says, waiting for Diego to lower the peepers, then pointing to a plastic tarp flapping around a street light.
Diego shakes his head in confusion.
Gerardo sighs. “Solid Snake, remember?”
Diego smiles. Now he’s shaking his head in disbelief.
◆◆◆
The Beastie Boys’, ‘No Sleep Till Brooklyn’ blares out of a handheld radio balanced on a metal handrail. The song’s almost drowned out by a symphony of buzzes and furious, tiny whining. Hundreds of flies swarm through the air around the radio, hundreds of others crawl around the mountain range of black body bags. The bags are arranged like sandbags against the chainlink fences enclosing the pedestrian walkway. There, in the center, between both walls of body bags, is a makeshift throne.
The throne is one of those high-end leather massage chairs. It’s surrounded by towers of cardboard boxes housing all manner of consumer electronics. There’s a seventy-inch TV box behind the chair, a couple of Playstations, Nintendo Switches, and Xboxes on either side and a pile of collectible action figures in the middle of a circle of ice coolers spilling hundreds of beer cans. Sitting on the chair is a burly man wearing a tuxedo jacket around an oversized bra, a pair of desert camo army fatigue pants, and two gore-polished boots. His face is caked in white paint so thick he not only doesn’t have skin pores, he doesn’t have wrinkles of any kind. The paint extends down to a black beard so thick only the outer layer of hairs is dusted by the paint, like the thinnest blanket of snow. On his head, the man wears a fast food chicken bucket like a top hat.
All around him are piles of men wearing the same desert fatigues but touched up in an eclectic fashion. Some of them are wearing child-sized superhero masks, the cheap, flimsy, plastic kind sold at pharmacies and supermarkets. Others have caked their faces with black face paint. Others wear feathers in their hair and red stripes over their eyes.
A soldier wearing a plastic clown mask lies on his stomach, half-holding an M4 carbine. His head’s slumped to one side, his breathing is a phlegmy rattle that makes his plastic mask tremble with each exhale. Something catches his eye and he tilts his head up slightly. There, next to an ambulance spilling a pile of black body bags, is a plastic tarp draped over two bundles. The soldier cocks his head, as if pondering something, then slumps back down to rest it on a body bag.
A few moments pass. Flies buzz over the clown soldier. He swats them away lazily and scratches his face. He lifts his head again to scan his surroundings…then stops. The plastic tarp wrapped over the two bundles is now in front of the stairs leading to the pedestrian bridge. The soldier begins to rise, but it’s a slow process. His arms shake with the effort, his legs are basically useless noodles draped behind him. He sticks the M4’s barrel beneath him to prop himself up.
The tarp flies away, curling as the wind flips it and rolls it down the street. The clown soldier looks up to see the barrel of Gerardo’s gun press against his mask’s eyehole. “Shut your fucking mouth,” Gerardo whispers in accented English, then slams his boot against the plastic mask, crumpling it and driving it into the soldier’s head on the other side.
The man in the throne scratches at his paint-smeared face. The paint’s laid so thick, and has been there so long, that the skin underneath is a mess of acne and rashes so raw they’re open wounds. A fly skitters around one of them, dipping its lightning-fast legs into the pus seeping out of it. The man swats it away, only for it and every fly in the vicinity to fly away in one mass migration, prompted by a single blast. The man’s so far gone he doesn’t notice it’s a gunshot until he feels the hot blood pouring out of his shoulder.
Gerardo and Diego walk over body bags and dead soldiers on their way to the throne. The man on the chair collapses, spilling over one of the stacks of Nintendo boxes as he flops to the metal floor underneath him and writhes on his back in pain. To the untrained eye, that’s all he’s doing, but if you paid attention, you’d spot one of his hands shooting underneath the throne.
“Don’t!” Gerardo shouts, his English rough but the man stops, so it gets the job done.
“Please,” the man says in broken Spanish. “I’ll give you anything.”
“Pills?” Gerardo asks, in English again as if to prove he can speak it.
“Yeah,” the man says in English this time.
“Show them to me,” Gerardo says.
“I…don’t have them here,” the man says.
“Bull—” Gerardo begins.
“Can’t trust these fuckers!” the man shouts suddenly, pointing to the dead soldiers blanketing the floor around him. “They’re at the Mister Donut by the embassy.”
“Diego,” Gerardo says, motioning to the man casually. Just as Diego begins walking toward him, the man shoots his hand under the throne and pulls out another M4 carbine.
Gerardo’s eyes widen. He runs ahead of Diego, pushes him back, and stands in front of him as the man brings the rifle down. A hail of gunfire shoots out of the barrel and flies harmlessly somewhere over Gerardo’s shoulder. Then the shooting stops. The man’s finger’s still pressing the trigger down, but only dry, useless clicks come out on the other end.
Gerardo chuckles but there’s a sigh hidden underneath. “Jesus, you guys really are burnt out,” he says, walking over to the man. Gerardo cracks the barrel of his handgun into the man’s nose. Something snaps and a scarlet river gushes out as if a dam’s been broken. In a way, it has. “Uncle fucking Sam,” Gerardo says, shaking his head. “Should’ve stayed in the embassy with your smarter friends.”
>
Gerardo grabs Uncle Sam by the collar and pulls him up with a single, brutal motion.
“What’s the plan?” Diego asks.
“Our new friend and I are going to see about those pills. You go back to the site. If I’m not back in an hour, you come looking for me.” There, next to Gerardo’s feet, is a soldier wearing a superhero mask. Gerardo lifts him, uncoils his camouflaged jacket off his torso, and puts it on himself.
“You sure about this?” Diego asks.
Gerardo sticks his handgun in Uncle Sam’s stomach and pulls the trigger. The man’s legs go slack. “Yeah.”
◆◆◆
It’s the same construction site from all those hours ago. A dirt field sits beneath the shadow of a concrete skeleton. The massive semi-truck known as Gloria sits in the center of an abandoned construction yard. Some tools are lying on the ground as if dropped there suddenly in a hurry, others are propped up and waiting for their owners.
Gunshots blare out of Gloria’s trailer. Edu peeks out of a rifle slit, then ducks to reload. He peeks out and fires again. It’s a dance he’s been doing for a while, one with rhythms so set they’re practically muscle memory by now. A bullet sparks against the trailer’s side and Edu drops once more.
Gabo’s huddled inside next to him, hugging his rifle as if it were a teddy bear. Of course, it isn’t and there isn’t much comfort to be strained from cold steel and unyielding wooden stocks. “I don’t know if I can shoot them, Edu,” Gabo says, “I don’t—”
“Shut the fuck up and help me!” Edu growls, shooting back up again to peek out of his rifle slit.
A bang echoes through the site. Someone howls in pain. A gang member marred by angry tattoos, not unlike Edu’s, crawls through the dirt. He’s weeping, sputtering pleas and leaking out of every orifice in his face. Another man walks up to him, the darkness hiding his face. The gang member on the ground tries to crawl away, but the man grabs his shirt collar and yanks him closer. “Please!” the gang member cries, “I can—”
Bang. The now dead gang member drops in front of the man’s feet. The man checks the gang member’s pockets, then rises to stand in the dim moonlight. It’s Gerardo. Smoke rises from a hole in the center of the gangbanger’s head. Gerardo walks away from the man he just killed, rushing toward the construction office tucked away in one corner of the site.
◆◆◆
Two gang members, their flesh covered in the same wild, ugly tattoos, flank Diana. She’s taking cover behind a turned-over desk. As one of them charges toward her, she raises a handgun and bang! She nails the gangbanger in the shoulder.
“Aw!” the man howls, dropping to his knees. Droplets of scarlet blood drum against the linoleum tiles underneath him. “Stupid bitch!” he shouts.
“Stop!” Diana screams, “stop right now! I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna—”
The other gang member sneaks around the desk, raising his own revolver at Diana. She catches a glimpse of it glinting at the right time and kicks it. The gun goes off, the bullet shattering the desk’s wooden surface right next to Diana’s head.
In the corner of the room, a man pats Diego on the back. He’s much older than the rest, scars and faded tattoos scrawled across his mangled flesh like an old stray dog who’s survived in the gutters by baring its teeth.
Diego’s shaking, tears falling from his red eyes. He’s stooped over a safe, turning the dials between wiping his dripping nose. “You said you wouldn’t hurt them…” Diego says, “you said you just needed help.”
“Shh...it’s alright,” the gang leader says, “just open that now and we’ll be even for all the guns and the product you stole on the first day. After all, that's why you’re still alive, isn’t it?”
Diego turns the dials on the safe one last time. It clicks open. “Bingo.” The older man reaches into the safe and pulls a backpack off his shoulders. He unzips it and begins stashing the contents of the safe inside. There are dozens of plastic bags emblazoned with the names of several pharmacies. ‘THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS,’ one of them says, showing a smiling doctor emoji. When he’s done stashing the loot, the man zips up his pack and stands. “Hurry up!” he shouts, “leave the bitch! We—”
The gang member moving around Diana’s desk raises his gun again. Diana grabs it at the last moment. His finger presses down onto the trigger as he angles the gun toward her face. Just as his index finger reaches the death spot on the trigger, Diana slams her elbow against his forearm, cocking it, and the gun, back toward the man’s mouth.
Bang! The gang member yelps. He falls over, gurgling as blood pours out of his shattered jaw. The older man curses, sprinting for a side door, hauling the pack with the stash as he goes.
“Oh fuck!” the remaining gang member says, having recovered. He reaches for his gun. Just as he pulls it out of his belt he stops and screeches. A jet of blood spurts out from between his legs. The gangbanger collapses, passing out from shock.
Gerardo steps over him, moving directly for the safe, ignoring everyone and everything else in the room. He finds the steel box defiled with its opened door and its dark, empty interior. It’s a gut-wrenching sight, disgusting, offensive, blasphemous to his eyes…and Diego’s kneeling right in front of it.
“I’m sorry, Gerardo. I didn’t mean to,” Diego says, trying to stand and finding it very hard because he’s shaking so badly. “I talked to one of them because he said he needed help! I didn’t know they’d do—” Gerardo charges at Diego, pinning his back against the safe so hard the thick, impenetrable metal shakes with the impact.
“You called them here? After all we’ve done? You betrayed us! You betrayed me!”
“No! Gerry! I wouldn’t!”
“You opened the gate, let them through! Look at what they did!” Gerardo shouts, grabbing Diego by the hair and twisting his head so he can look at the opened safe.
“I—” Diego begins.
“You’ve killed us. Look, it’s empty. There wasn’t anything by the embassy. The fucker lied to us and now you’ve left us with nothing! Without pills, we’re as good as dead!” Gerardo lets go of Diego and holds his head in his hands. He wipes his eyes, finding it somewhat difficult with a gun still in one of his hands.
“We can get them back! I can call them, like I did before—”
Bang. Diego’s face freezes in place. His mouth’s stuck in a nervous half-smile. His eyes still leaking tears. Then his arms drop, taking his shoulders with them as he crumples.
Gerardo’s aiming his gun right at Diego. There’s a straight, invisible line going from the end of the barrel all the way to Diego’s forehead, where a red dot about the size of the eraser on a pencil leaks blood.
Diego collapses, his tongue flopping out of his open mouth, his body going slack as it folds in on itself on the cold linoleum. There’s a sound a little like the wet chug of a dying motor. It takes Gerardo a few seconds to realize that it’s the sound of his own breathing.
“Gerardo…” Diana says, “no…what’ve you…”
Gerardo’s eyes widen. Regret shoots through his face. He’s looking at a nightmare, only he’s awake. Awake for good.
“Oh...God...no. Diego. No…” Gerardo gags, collapsing into a vomiting, weeping mess. Suddenly, Diego springs back to his feet. All the color has drained from his face…turning him into the Pale Man. Gerardo tries backing away, but the Pale Man grabs his gun hand and holds it, thrusting Gerardo’s gun back onto his forehead “Diego, stop!” Gerardo shrieks, “stop it!”
“All your fault…” Diana says. Gerardo turns his wide, unblinking gaze. Diana’s no longer behind the desk, instead, she’s right up to his face. She’s a pale, ghoulish imitation of her former self. Her hair’s streaked with blood and bits of flesh. Her upper body floats above a pair of flattened legs, twisted and as thin as socks. Her midsection’s gone. Diana wraps her rotting arms around Gerardo’s neck.
“Go away!” Gerardo cries, “I can’t! I don’t deserve this fucking—”
A pair of b
loody hands flop over Gerardo’s shoulders. He closes his eyes, shaking uncontrollably as Gabo’s pale face appears over one of his shoulders. “You’re a killer,” Gabo says, “I’m starting to be afraid of you, Gerry.”
Gerardo shrieks in horror. Darkness drifts up Gerardo’s legs, swallowing him inch by inch until it snuffs him out…and only his panicked breathing remains.
◆◆◆
The darkness is dispelled by moonlight. Gerardo’s back on the volcano, back on the road he was on before. “God…” Gerardo says, collapsing onto the asphalt. He punches the ground, gasping for air as he bawls, coughing out the regret he’s drowning in.
Men like Gerardo are built like fortresses, painstakingly planned and faithfully guarded by their fragile egos. He’s lived an entire life erecting that fortress brick by brick, learning to craft it to perfection so that when he walked out onto the yard or on the street, there were no obvious cracks in his defenses. Now there’s been a devastating explosion deep inside the foundations, gutting the insides and dropping the bottom out from within. The walls on the outside are the last to crumble away and when they’re gone Gerardo, the real Gerardo lies broken and exposed for all the world to see.
“I’m sorry, Diego,” Gerardo says, crying like he hasn’t since he was a kid. “I didn’t mean to…forgive me. Please.”
The Pale Man walks right up to him, mere inches from his face. Gerardo forces himself to open his eyes and look at the specter of the brother he killed. The Pale Man’s angry, wraith-like face blooms with color. The gunshot wound disappears from his head. He’s Diego again. Slowly, he brings his arms up and wraps them around Gerardo. Gerardo returns his hug. “I forgive you,” Diego says.
Gerardo cries softly, his chin trembling as his eyes and nose leak all over his shirt. For a second, he’s glad nobody’s here to see this. Then he doesn’t care anymore. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes…only to see that Diego is gone. He's hugging thin air.
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