South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  It was a small structure, and it was the same color as the ground. He might have missed it had he not been looking right at it. He turned and looked at his path. He saw a massive straight line, miles long, beginning on a forgotten road from days ago. It led him directly here.

  The house was nothing but walls and a roof. There were holes in the roof. The walls were clay and stone. The door was made of beaten, broken wood slats.

  He didn’t wonder how old this place was, or how it had come to be here. This had obviously been the barn. Long ago, some man came here for solitude and a place to make his mark. Curtis had no doubt how it had ended. Men weren’t meant to live here.

  He opened the door and saw sweet, calm shade. Sunlight poured in through the gaping holes in the ceiling. It was fifteen degrees cooler inside the barn. He stepped into the dark room, and the sun let go of him.

  Curtis felt as if steam were rising from his body. The cool of the dark was like a blanket. He had been awake for days. He had walked for miles, carrying an inhuman load. A revenge-filled boy with a rifle had traveled miles to kill him. All of it turned to mist and evaporated.

  Something stopped him. He reached for his gun before he looked. He laughed. The huge, ragged bundle of money couldn’t fit through the door. Curtis pulled and tugged and kicked, and finally the load eased its way inside.

  Curtis let go of the ropes. He watched through the open front door. He saw no boy. He pulled the rickety old door shut and lay down on the money.

  He had been awake for days. He needed to rest. It would only be for a moment, he told himself.

  ***

  The boy sipped water. He had sand and tiny rocks in his pants. They had worked their way in as he slithered over yard after yard to approach the old barn. The place was falling apart, but it was still standing. There were no windows. The door was broken and there were beams missing, but he couldn’t see through it.

  It was quiet here, and the wind was dead. He watched and waited. It might have been another trick, but he didn’t think so. Sound travelled, and what the boy heard was the steady sound of deep sleep. It was snoring.

  He remembered his father’s snoring. How many times had his father jumped from the depth of sleep to wide awake and ready to fire, shotgun to his shoulder? He held the bolt action rifle in his hands. It was a small game gun. He remembered the advice from the man Strauss.

  He reached into the bag. He had more water. He reached in again, this time finding the phone Strauss had given him. He wanted very much to kill this American, but he wanted more than anything to see him dead.

  He compared the compass and studied the old map. He made a note in pencil. Then he was on his back, keeping his head down, slipping his shoulders through the straps of his bag. He listened to the snoring. It remained deep and heavy. He rolled to his belly, jumped to his feet, and ran. He had the rifle in one hand, the phone in the other. He ran until the phone began to ring.

  ***

  Curtis opened his eyes, and the light was a different color. He understood immediately what had happened. He was angry with himself. He rolled to his side and slid on more money. He tried to stand, but the bills moved under his feet. He felt money falling around him.

  Then he realized what had woken him.

  He shot to his feet. The speed was agonizing. His whole body ached, and his joints refused to bend. Painfully, he hobbled straight legged to the door. He didn’t dare open it.

  The noise had been brakes. They were old and needed changing. He peered through a broken slat in the door and saw a white truck fifty yards in the field. Four men climbed out of it. Then the driver did too. He had a rifle.

  It wasn’t the only vehicle. There was Jeep on the right. The roof was loose, and it flapped in the breeze. A teenager sat on the hood, his feet dangling and kicking in the air. He held a shotgun in his lap. A bottle of water rested next to him. Another man leaned on the open door, smoking a cigarette. A pickup stood in the distance.

  Then Curtis saw him, and he knew how this had happened. He was crouched behind the Jeep, a small black shadow, much smaller than the others. The boy had been there all along. Curtis smiled a little smile. He had been undone by a twelve -year old boy.

  The boy had dug in tight. The rest wandered about in front like fearless targets. They carried guns as if they were toys and without a care in the world. They knew he was here. Curtis wanted to know why they hadn’t come to get him, but he knew. They had been told to wait.

  Behind them, in the distance, a plume of dust rose into the sky. Someone else was coming. He thought of the last words that Eduardo Mendes had spoken to him back in Monterrey, and the gruesome fate he had planned. Eduardo Mendes was riding at the forefront of that cloud.

  Curtis sat down on his soft pile of money. He thought it might have been the most expensive chair in history. He held the shotgun, broke it open, and removed the shells. He blew sand from the barrel and put it back together again. He thought about water and the life he had lived.

  ***

  “Which American is in there?” Eduardo asked. Anger and desperation filled his voice.

  The boy didn’t answer. Eduardo sighed and swore. Strauss interrupted.

  “The man who you followed. What was he wearing?”

  “A black shirt.”

  “And the other man who you did not follow. Where is he?”

  The boy pointed north.

  “What was he wearing?” Strauss asked.

  “A silly yellow shirt.”

  “Very good,” said Strauss. “This man in the black shirt. Did he have anything with him? Maybe a bag?”

  “Yes. He was dragging it.”

  “How big was it?” Strauss asked.

  “Good work, boy,” said Eduardo suddenly, cutting him off before he could answer. Eduardo had a huge smile on his face. None of this escaped Strauss.

  “How big was the bag?” he asked the boy again, this time in a softer tone.

  “He found the right man,” said Eduardo. “Who cares how big it is?”

  “Your new friends will,” said Strauss. Eduardo pretended he hadn’t heard him.

  ***

  A gray Ford Bronco roared through the group and stopped directly in front of the barn. Ordo and The Russian were in the cab. There was a blood on the driver’s side door. Ordo jumped out with his arms in the air, as if he were expecting applause.

  “What do you got there?” Ordo asked as he laid eyes on Guillermo’s Uzi.

  “It was my grandmother’s,” said Guillermo.

  As if on cue, the Russian pulled a large duffel bag from the Bronco and set it on the hood of the Jeep. The Russian opened the bag and handed Ordo a long, sleek, unblemished black rifle. Ordo held it to his lips and kissed it.

  Strauss watched the Russian remove another rifle. It was a cut down AR with iron sights and black tape on the grip. It was scratched and battered, and the Russian had screwed a silencer onto the barrel. Strauss watched the entire process. He had no doubt this rifle had been fired before.

  “What are we doing?” Eduardo asked. He was speaking to Strauss. Strauss pointed at Ordo.

  “My opinion doesn’t matter here, Mister Mendes. What I do is subtle. Subtlety has no place in what we’re about to do.”

  “You said we,” pointed out Eduardo.

  “There are no clean hands here,” said Strauss.

  The Russian came directly to Strauss and stood on the same side of the truck, keeping his eyes on the old barn. Ordo came over, laughing and talking, making it seem careless and indirect. The others wandered over, hovering near Ordo, taking none of it seriously. “What do we have?” the Russian asked.

  “One barricaded American,” answered Strauss.

  “How do we get him out?” Eduardo asked.

  “He isn’t coming out,” shouted Ordo, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

  Eduardo looked to Strauss to see if that was true.

  “After your comments to Agent Curtis in regard to what you planne
d to do to him, I doubt he’ll believe we’re going to let him go,” said Strauss.

  “The boy said he walked through the desert by himself?” Ordo asked.

  “He did.”

  “He must be almost dead. Why not walk in and kill him?”

  “Be my guest,” said Strauss, motioning toward the barn.

  The Russian volunteered.

  “The roof is broken. You can see right through. I can climb up, shoot him through the opening.”

  “It’s dangerous,” said Strauss. The Russian shrugged.

  Strauss pointed to the huge GMC Denali. It had been the second truck to arrive.

  “If I had a stake in this,” started Strauss, still leaning on the Navigator, “I would find a brave man and drive that truck right through the barn. Take out that wall. Go straight on through. Have your shooters in the field. When the wall comes down, the roof is going with it. Open up with everything you have. There shouldn’t be much left of him after that.”

  Ordo waited for Eduardo’s reaction. Eduardo had no idea, but he had raised an intrigued eyebrow. That was enough.

  Some of the men filtered back to their cars. The Russian seemed to prefer his idea. He continued to study the little building, moving further from the group. The boy stayed by Strauss’s side. He was almost invisible.

  “Ordo,” said Strauss. He waved him closer so he could speak quietly.

  “Mister Mendes is watching,” was all Strauss said. They both turned.

  Eduardo couldn’t hear them. Eduardo was hopelessly out of place in his silk shirt and black suit pants, and anyone should have seen it. Ordo didn’t. Ordo saw who he wanted to be. He turned back to Strauss.

  “He’s looking for a man with balls,” said Strauss. “Show him something.”

  Ordo spent some time thinking on it. His eyes darted when thinking, and his lips moved with his thoughts. Strauss wondered if he was dumb enough to drive the truck into the barn all by himself.

  Ordo pulled his shirt off and was bare-chested. He hung the expensive shirt on the radio antenna. Then he grabbed the gun by the grip and held it straight to the sky. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “There he is!” It was Eduardo’s voice. Everyone turned. There was no one outside the little structure. However, in the late afternoon light, and through the broken slats in the door, shadows and figures could be seen moving, clear as day. The light jumped and ran, high and low, back and forth.

  “What am I seeing?” Eduardo asked.

  It looked like wild dancing. The shadows bounced on the inside of the door, the cracks spilling its secrets. It showed a crazy, irrational man. It showed a man who had walked into the desert with a fortune and lost his mind in the process.

  “Smoke,” said the Russian.

  They could see tendrils of smoke rising through the gaps in the roof. One hole in the center had the most, but small tips of smoke were sneaking through the others, slipping into the open air. Eduardo saw a wisp of smoke appear at the front door.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Ordo said loudly.

  They all stood and watched, their guns useless at their sides, dumbfounded.

  Suddenly, Eduardo knew what he was doing. He knew why smoke was rising through the holes in the roof and through the door. He knew why there were wild and unpredictable shadows being cast.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mind wouldn’t allow it. He felt like he had awoken and found he had been thrown from an airplane. His mind struggled to process it all.

  “He’s burning it,” Eduardo mumbled. He thought of the implications. Curtis was in there, he had a fortune in US Currency, and he had set fire to it.

  “Who the hell burns three million dollars?” gasped Ordo.

  “There’s twenty million dollars in there,” said Eduardo, as if in a trance. Every man heard him. Every man turned to see if they heard him correctly, or to see if he had lost his mind.

  Eduardo had not lost his mind. He was simply overcome by emotion. He was overcome by a single-minded desire to not lose, not to the little man inside that barn who had made a fool of him.

  “There’s twenty million dollars in there,” repeated Eduardo. The news landed among them like grenades. It took a moment for the news to detonate. When it did, the frenzy began.

  In an instant, the same terrible idea formed in every man’s head. They turned to look at one another. All of their eyes went wide. Some of their jaws hung open. There was twenty million dollars on the other side of a rickety door, where a skinny madman was feeding it to a fire.

  Guillermo was the first spark. All he did was pivot. He was fast for a man his age, even with the extra weight. He broke into a run. Then the others did too. They all did. They exploded in a feverish sprint toward the flames.

  ***

  Curtis felt the force of the fire licking at his back. It had grown faster than expected. Outside, he saw the desired effect.

  He began to count them, but when they started moving, he lost it. He had a dozen, but he knew there were more. They were running straight at him.

  He stayed close to the door, and to the cracks. He breathed fresh air. They had to know he was there, and yet they came anyway.

  Curtis studied the crowd. There was one man with an AK-47. There were two with AR-15s, but one of them was out of sight. He had no time to worry about where that man had gone. He looked through the crowd for the AK-47. The man holding it had a hard face that looked as if a knife had been sharpened against it. He saw a shotgun, then another. He looked and lost the AK. He saw an Uzi in the front row. It was held in dark, brown hands and arms shining with sweat. He looked no higher. The Uzi would get there first.

  Curtis pushed the door open. The men who were running had no time to stop or to understand what was happening. They came on full force. Curtis fired.

  The shotgun slug was a bolt of metal the size of his thumb, and it hit Guillermo in the throat. It spun inside then exploded through the back of his neck. Blood sailed into the air. It floated like a mist as the men behind him ran through it. It landed wet and heavy on their faces and clothes. Guillermo landed on his back.

  The Mexicans stopped. Some ducked. Their feet kicked up dirt. Guillermo choked and jerked. Curtis looked for the AK. He found it. The man who held it looked away from Guillermo in time. He moved behind one of Ordo’s teenage fighters, who held his pistol grip shotgun at the waist. Curtis shot that boy in the stomach. Then he ran.

  The door to the barn exploded. He felt stone dust and pebbles bounce against his head and shoulders. Each rifle blast reverberated through his chest.

  Then they were all firing. Daylight filtered through the door, and tiny shards of wood and rock shook through the air. Curtis crouched and broke open the shotgun. He had the satchel around his neck, but had two rounds perched in his back pocket. He snapped it back together.

  An unseen hand flung the door open. Another hand pushed a handgun across the threshold. It fired blindly.

  Curtis heard a machine gun. He saw the stream of fire, then he saw the gun. Ordo ran through the door, unloading the clip on full automatic. His foot slid into a trench just past the threshold to the doorway. It caught the earth on the other side. Ordo dropped the rifle, doubled at the waist, and stumbled uncontrollably face first into the pile of burning money. His face and hands went into the flames.

  Curtis had dug three long slits in the ground. Each was the length of the doorway. Each had been designed with that purpose in mind. Curtis brought his gun up to eye level and breathed.

  The AK appeared. The man holding it stopped before his foot sank into the trench, his free hand gripping the door to hold his balance. Ordo sat up and began screaming. Curtis leveled his shotgun on the man with the AK. His hard face showed only surprise. Curtis shot him in the chest.

  He told himself to move. He rushed out of the corner. The hand appeared again, and this time, the gun it held unloaded into the corner where Curtis had just been. He swung the shotgun toward the hand and tried to ali
gn his sights. He heard another explosion. He saw a thin little man fly over the trenches.

  ***

  When the shooting started, the Russian ran. He ran fast and dove hard into the base of the little building. The stone walls shook from the heavy rifle rounds landing. He heard one fly over his head with a zip.

  He was counting. The shotgun blasts had started it. He was on the other side and had no way to know, not this fast, but he bet the shotgun belonged to the American. The American was trained. He was not to be underestimated.

  He climbed. Smoke hit him in the face. He heard gun shots. Part of the roof blew away on the other side of the barn. There were many others, but he listened. He distinctly heard .40 caliber. No one in the world carried .40 caliber except for American police. He heard six of them. He reared back to clear his eyes and breathe. The smoke was black now, thick and ugly. There was a big hole in the roof. He could drop through it, but the smoke obscured his vision. He would be dropping blind.

  ***

  Ordo screamed again. The man danced right over him. His foot landed in the low flames, touched ground for a second, sent sparks flying, and took flight once more. He had a gun in his hand. Curtis fired at his head.

  The round flew past him and blew part of the roof into the air. The dancing man hadn’t seen Curtis, but he did now. He turned in mid air. He came down hard but couldn’t stop. Curtis threw the shotgun at him and drew his second gun. The dancing man tried to adjust on the fly, but no man can dance forever. Curtis shot him in the shoulder.

  It didn’t knock him off his feet, but it did knock him back. The dancing man fired his gun into the wall. Curtis heard an explosion from the field. Then he shot the dancing man five times in the chest.

  Curtis saw the muzzle flash, and it came from the first man he had killed. He brought his gun up and saw a Mexican with a shotgun using the dead body for cover. He fired twice, and the Mexican ducked. The hand came around the corner once more. The gun it held was long and silver. He fired blindly throughout the room. Curtis fired twice at him too, and the gun slid behind the corner again. When he fired, he watched the man hiding behind the dead body.