South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  He saw the shotgun tilted to the sky, and the hand came up and racked another round into the chamber. He brought his head up and the gun down and searched for a target over Guillermo’s body. Toxic black smoke filled the small room.

  Curtis fired, and the head went down, seeking cover. He fired into Guillermo’s body, which wouldn’t stop all of his bullets. He fired until he was empty. He heard screaming.

  ***

  The Russian knew guns. He knew their sounds. He knew killing people. He heard thirteen rounds. He let go of the wall, took the fore grip in his hand, and prepared himself. He heard two more shots. Empty. He dropped into the black smoke.

  ***

  He needed to move. The training had buried it in Curtis’ mind. His left hand went to his belt for the extra clip. It was in his pocket. He fumbled. Curtis sensed movement. He turned and saw a man fall from the ceiling.

  The man had a rifle and held it like a soldier. He brought it level. Curtis tried to get the magazine. He knew he was in his sights. Instinctively, he let go of the clip and put his hand in front of him, as if that would stop a bullet.

  The Russian shot him twice.

  ***

  Curtis lay on the ground, clutching his wounded stomach. He expected the Russian to calmly walk over and put another round into his head. He saw the Russian approach with the rifle in hand, preparing to do just that. He waited to be executed. He refused to close his eyes.

  Sparks flew. Then gunshots. He saw tiny dots of daylight through the ceiling. The Russian dove.

  “Stop,” he heard the Russian shouting.

  “Who is it?” a distant voice called.

  “The Russian. Stop shooting.”

  Curtis had been shot in the hand, but refused to look. He tried to move it, and lightning bolts of pain shot through his nervous system. He had a hole in his upper abdomen. He had another in his lower chest. He breathed. He could still breathe.

  He had pain in his back. It didn’t hurt like he knew it should, and he knew that was bad. Curtis could still feel his feet, which hurt, and his knees, which hurt. He wasn’t paralyzed.

  Curtis realized how hot he was. He was facing the fire. The whole pile was engulfed now. He saw the blue tarp curling at the edges. There was a man in the barn who was going to kill him. Suddenly, he realized that there were two.

  “Is he dead?” a voice asked from far too close.

  “I have him,” said the Russian. “Help me.”

  The fire was so close. He had seen a man fall into it and survive. That man was also still in the room somewhere.

  “Where is the money?” the voice called, almost immediately behind him. Curtis couldn’t see the man, but he could see parts of him. He pushed away from the fire and had a hand up to his face. The other hand was at his side, and it held a large silver gun.

  “I cannot see,” said the Russian.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, he is dead. I have smoke in my eyes,” he said. Curtis couldn’t see him. The Russian was somewhere behind him. He saw that man take the long silver gun and tuck it into the back of his pants.

  Curtis wondered if he could sneak out of this. All he had to do was wait out the fire. As soon as he thought it, the tarp folded into itself and brought fresh, unburned cash into the heat of the flame. The fire roared.

  In the light of the sudden burst of heat, Curtis found his gun. It was on the ground just an arm’s length away from him.

  “Where are you?” the voice called. Black smoke had choked the lighter smoke into submission. The fire was fat and greedy.

  Curtis had the gun in his hand. It was empty.

  “Here,” said the Russian. He was close.

  Curtis tried to work his left hand. There was a huge hole in the middle of his palm. His fingers flexed wide, but that was all they did. Curtis couldn’t move them or make a fist. He looked through his hand and saw fire.

  He was still curled up in a ball. Curtis tucked the gun between his knees. With his good hand, he reached into the pocket of his pants for the spare magazine.

  He slid it into the open end of the grip between his knees. He felt it connect. He took the gun, still at lock back, and felt for the slide release.

  “Here,” said the other man.

  Curtis pressed down on the tiny lever, and the slide loudly slid forward, slamming another round into the chamber, ready to fire.

  “What was that?” said the Russian, somehow, impossibly, hearing the sound of the gun working.

  Curtis rolled. His ribs were tiny razors that cut into his insides. His left hand felt like it was breaking again. The two men were next to each other, but only the Russian was looking. He opened his lips, either as a warning or a protest, just in time for a bullet to fly between them. A halo of red mist instantly appeared behind his head.

  The man with the silver gun began to run at him. His hand was behind his back. The gun was coming out of his pants. Curtis fired, but he kept coming. He fired again and again, and the man dove. Curtis anticipated feeling his hands around his throat any second, but the man soared over and past him. Curtis fired the entire time.

  He rolled again, his gun up, and ready to keep fighting this man. His long silver gun was in the dirt. His head was in the fire. His legs were not even twitching.

  ***

  When the shooting started, Eduardo scrambled desperately to the top of the Navigator so he wouldn’t miss a shot. The boy had hidden under the truck. Strauss hadn’t moved, staying safely where he was, sipping coffee, and watching it all happen.

  Dead bodies lay piled up outside the little barn. Smoke was racing out from every crack in the roof in dark plumes. A man was crawling away with one arm. His other arm was dragging beside him, bloody and useless. He called to Ordo’s men for help, but none of them came. They went the other way. All around, men with guns crouched or tucked themselves behind trucks, waiting for whatever was inside to come out for them.

  ***

  When the boy saw what was happening, he dove. He crawled gun first into a secure spot. He threw his pack down and rested the stock of the rifle on top. He kept his head up and shifted into a natural firing position.

  He had seen the look of disdain on the rich man’s face. The boy could read his face, and he knew the man called Eduardo thought he was hiding. There was a world of difference between hiding and hunting. Eduardo was the man who didn’t want to get dirty. He should have stayed out of Mexico.

  The boy watched as man after man fell outside the barn or ran inside and never returned. This American was vicious. He realized in that instant that he had somehow been fooled.

  He pointed the rifle at the door. He looked over the sights. He told his eyes not to see the fire.

  ***

  Curtis moved in slow, tiny footsteps, each of which was more painful than the last. He lowered himself to his knees just outside the door by the trenches. This was where it had started.

  Opposite him on the other side, Ordo sat with his back to the wall. He held his ruined hands up and stared at them. His flesh was red and black. Ordo shivered uncontrollably. Curtis saw bone.

  He told himself not to scream when he pulled his shirt over his head. He used the shirt to wrap his wounded hand.

  He inspected the wounds on his torso. He looked up to see Ordo staring at him. Curtis looked at the man who had come to kill him. His voice was rough, and he had very little air left in his lungs. The fire behind him crackled and roared as it spread to the roof.

  “What if I told you there was three million dollars buried in the desert?” Curtis asked.

  ***

  One of Ordo’s men had dropped to the ground and stayed down for the gunfight. It had been a good decision. Then he had moved, and Eduardo had seen him. Eduardo shouted and demanded that he pick up a gun and go into the barn. The young man chose the Uzi, and looked back for Eduardo’s approval. He turned just in time for Curtis to send a bullet through his forehead.

  Walter Curtis walked out of the fire and into th
e field. Every man took a step back.

  He stood bare-chested with open wounds and soft wisps of smoke rising from his shoulders. He had soot and blood splashed across his body, and the ropes had cut a large X in ragged flesh across his chest. He walked slowly into the field and stopped in front of all of them.

  The desert was silent save for the fire. None of the men spoke or moved or raised a weapon. Curtis looked at them. He saw men young and old, men with handguns or shotguns, and one with a rifle. They were hard Mexican killers, all of them, and he was holding them at bay with a look.

  One man was without a gun. Curtis knew the slim profile and the luxurious head of hair at a glance. He had met this man in America, come here at his invitation, and walked himself to death to avoid him.

  For the first time in his life, Walter Curtis gave no weight to doubt or hesitation.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Mendes,” he said, and he shot Eduardo in the face.

  A flash came from under the truck. He felt it. Then he heard it. Curtis stumbled. A bullet flew into his neck, ricocheted off his spine, and burst out the other side. He saw Eduardo Mendes fall. He felt his own blood spurting out of his neck. He saw Ordo crawling away frantically on his knees and elbows. Then he found himself falling inside the walls of the barn.

  The fire was everywhere. Even the stone was burning. Curtis had stopped worrying about dying. He had let go of panic. His nose filled with smoke. His throat filled with blood. Just before the lights went out, he realized he was drowning.

  ***

  They watched it burn until there was nothing left but black smoke, cinders, and scorched roofless walls. Even the door burned.

  Those who had survived and weren’t injured studied the dead from a distance until the roof collapsed and no one else came out and it was clearly, definitely over and done. They asked themselves what they should do with the bodies, whether they should leave them or stack them or cut off their hands so they could never be identified. One Mexican suggested burial, but no one responded and it wasn’t brought up again. Finally, when Strauss could take no more, he said they should burn them.

  The first two men had their belongings stripped and sorted into little piles next to their bodies. They all had guns, some money, and a little gold. The pile next to the third man was smaller than the first two, and the fourth smaller than that. When Strauss looked back at the first two bodies, their piles were gone. Guillermo had eight US dollars in his pocket, and a bunch of Mexican coins. Strauss thought for a moment that he should be the one to throw him to the fire, but he thought too long. Two Mexicans took Guillermo by the feet and the hands and did it for him.

  Eduardo was tossed roughly into the back of a pickup truck. He lay in the fetal position, saying nothing and not moving, though he was very much alive. He had a horrible gash that started just after his mouth, ran the length of his face, and had severed his ear. His expensive coat was his bandage. He held his eyes shut tight. The tailgate was flipped up and locked.

  Strauss found the boy waiting for him. He had the rifle in one hand and by the forestock, far away from the trigger. The sun was almost down, and he looked cold.

  “You killed him,” said Strauss.

  The boy said nothing. Strauss understood that he was both immensely proud and terribly sad. He said it and let the boy think about it for a time.

  Strauss opened the front passenger side door.

  “Get in,” he said.

  ***

  It was midnight in the ER. Doctors shouted orders. There was blood on the floor, and a man was losing consciousness. Jefe said nothing, but calmly busied himself with the shreds of the black suit that had been cut off the man on the table. The man was Eduardo Mendes.

  At the end of the hall, a police officer in an ornate uniform screamed into a phone. He was the comandante of the station from which the Americans had escaped. He was in a rage.

  Jefe found a scrap of paper in the coat pocket. There was one drop of blood in the corner. On it, the name Felipe was written, along with an address and a number.

  Jefe’s fat fingers punched numbers into the phone. Dejo came up, covered in sweat. “The comandante says he’s not taking the blame for this. He says he’s going to tell people about us.”

  “Us?” asked Jefe, barely paying attention.

  “You,” said Dejo. “He says someone has to pay for this.” He saw one man in a suit enter the hall. He had bushy hair and tired, honest eyes.

  “An agent from the Federal Police just showed up,” said Dejo, who saw him shake hands with the comandante and look in their direction. “This is bad.”

  Jefe put the phone to his ear. He listened for a time.

  Jefe looked at the little comandante and his chest covered with metal. He looked at Eduardo Mendes. He couldn’t see him through the scrum of doctors, but he could see his blood on the floor below. He looked back at the note in his hand.

  “What is that?” Dejo asked.

  Jefe smiled. His teeth were brown.

  “Salvation,” he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Virgil – Nuevo Leon, MX

  He was sharp enough now to understand that he was going to die. If he didn’t get medical attention, he would be dead before the sun came up, and all the Coca-Cola in Mexico wouldn’t stop it. He laughed. He stumbled and staggered, chuckling to himself amid a sea of identical homes, when he opened his eyes to see a brutally injured man.

  “I know him,” said Virgil.

  The man was bleeding from the feet, the side, and his head. His arms had been stretched out painfully. The look on his face was grotesque. It was a statue, but whoever had built it had gone to great artistic lengths to capture a look of pure agony.

  Virgil looked at where he was. The sign read La Iglesia de San Miguel. He knew what Miguel meant.

  It was a small white building with a cross affixed to the very top. The front doors were nine feet tall and formed an arch. There was a steeple in the back. There was a cross on that too.

  Virgil remembered what Curtis had said about landmarks.

  With one leg almost completely useless, he moved to the back of the little church and looked around. There was a house in the distance, and the lights were on, but in between there were space, grass, and bushes. He found an ancient tree in the back.

  “They ain’t making fire wood out of you any time soon.”

  Virgil got on his knees and dug a hole with his bare hands. He didn’t expect it to be so hard, and when he was done, he was thirsty. One of these houses had Coca-Cola. He was sure of it.

  Slowly, he pulled off the shirt he was wearing. He remembered it as yellow, but now it looked brown. He could still see little hula girls, dancing and smiling in between the grime and the blood. He flattened it out on the ground. He put his gun on it. He put in the money he had in his pockets and the money he had in his sock. He found money in his pants, but he remembered that he might need money to get around, so he put that back. Finally, he put the passports on the shirt, which he twisted up and tied into a ball and then buried in the ground by the tree behind the church.

  When he found the road, Virgil walked shirtless right down the middle. Cars honked as they passed him. Men swore. The lights blinded him, but he kept his thumb out where people could see it. Eventually, a yellow car stopped for him. Virgil had almost forgotten why he wanted it.

  The driver spoke to him in Spanish. “I need to go to the doctor,” he said. The man only spoke more rapid Spanish.

  From a hazy dream that had happened a hundred years ago, he remembered something Curtis had said to a stranger on the road on a rainy, violent night.

  “Medico.”

  “Si,” said the driver, clearly understanding what Virgil needed. “Muestreme el dinero.”

  The man was talking about money. He reached into his pants and took out his last stack of money. He had no idea how much it was. He handed it to the driver.

  At first, the driver recoiled. His face showed disgust. Then his eyes had
opened, and he realized what was being offered. He looked from the money to Virgil and back again, then took the stack and pushed Virgil into his car.

  The ride was short and full of lights. He realized he was downtown in some city, but he had no idea which one. The lights were dazzling and hypnotic. The cab never seemed to stop, cutting through lines and traffic. Then, just as he began to sleep, it stopped abruptly, and he was being pulled out of the car.

  Virgil saw the driver clearly for the first time. He was sweaty, overweight, and smelled like cigarettes. He hadn’t shaved. He smiled, but it was a bad smile, one nobody should trust.

  “You good,” he said in English. He patted Virgil on the shoulder. Then he hurried back into his cab. Virgil heard the engine rise.

  Virgil looked up at the sign to see where he was. The blazing blue light in front of his face said hospital.

  Virgil laughed. They drove around Mexico asking for medical attention in broken English, trying new and creative ways to express themselves, when all along, the word was the same. It made him very happy and very sleepy. He didn’t have to walk anymore. He was here. He felt his eyes close while he was standing. He felt his body drifting.

  ***

  When Virgil came to in the hospital, the nice one with the clean walls and orderlies who didn’t steal his dope, the doctors came and spoke to him in Spanish. Virgil could barely move, and half his face was wrapped. He could only see from one eye. His skin was horribly damaged from its time in the sun. It hurt to move at his hips, but he couldn’t see why.

  He knew. He knew the sun had damn near killed him. He knew the burns were severe. He knew they had operated on his leg or hip. The pain was like it had just happened, as if they had shot him again, except this time stabbed him as well.

  There was a policeman in an ornate uniform beside his bed. The man was stuffy and officious and yelled in short, stocky sentences. The doctor yelled back at him. Virgil had no idea what they were saying, but he could gather enough. The police had come to take his fingerprints. His hands were too badly burned. The doctor refused.