The man had his arms crossed, sucking on his beef strip. “I’m callin’ the fuckin’ sheriff. This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit.”
“Wait…you…” Felix jumped to his feet, ran to the door, and watched as the clerk trudged down the stairs, throwing acidic glances at Felix every other step.
“…Felix…” Marta’s voice again. Followed by whispery sobs.
Felix’s stomach dropped, and he spun toward the sound. The laptop. The computer sat on the bedside table, half-open. He rushed toward it, unfolded it. The black screen lit up and he nearly cracked the monitor in half with his shaking hands as he watched.
He didn’t know what he was seeing at first. A TV? A small television screen displayed static, and from the light flashing from the monitor…what was that? A foot? The camera shook, and Felix realized it was because Marta was crying. His heart squeezed and he wiped the tears from his eyes.
What the hell is going on here? What’s happened?
The foot moved slightly, the toes curling and uncurling. A massive, hairy leg was attached to it.
“Oh jesus.” Felix understood all at once. She went out last night. After their argument, she walked out to the border, just like she said she would, and she proceeded with her plans without Felix.
And now what? That is no prison. Where is she?
A knock at the door. Felix flinched, swung his head toward the front door expecting to see the sheriff, but the door still stood open and nobody was there. The knock came again, from the laptop speakers. The leg and foot on the screen were bathed in brighter light, showing the brown skin and thick muscle structure of the thigh.
Marta must have turned because now Felix was looking at a doorway, a figure standing in it. As the figure stepped closer to Marta, its features began to take shape, and Felix saw the face. The gold tooth gleamed, and the man from the taco trailer grinned.
“Breakfast time, bonita.”
Marta didn’t respond, but her ragged breaths huffed from the laptop’s speakers. Then something lifted into the camera’s view, blocking out the taco man. All Felix could see was brown skin covered with thick, curly hair. Sweat glistened from its surface as it moved across the screen.
Just as the face appeared, the camera stopped recording. The blurred image remained on the screen as the computer automatically saved the footage. Felix squinted at the monitor, unable to peel his eyes away from the face, covered in some kind of blue mask.
What the fuck am I looking at?
The image saved and minimized. A new video began recording immediately and Marta’s cries hissed from the speakers.
Felix growled and pulled his hair. “Marta…oh jesus…”
The previous video file had minimized and saved into a file at the bottom of the screen. Felix slid his fingertip over the touchpad, opened the file.
He gasped at the amount of videos there, each one of them ten minutes long. He cupped his face in his palms and wept as Marta screamed again.
***
Marta was hauled carefully down the stairs by Gustavo. Cristobal walked in front of them with the Mexican woman’s hand wrapped tightly in his. The woman looked to be in worse shape than Marta, even though she had no physical trauma. Her eyes were bright red, and every breath she took was a sob, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Low moans seeped from her shaking lips, and Marta figured the woman hadn’t slept, same as her.
“¿D-donde está mi hijo?” The woman collapsed on the stairs, tried to yank her hand from Cristobal’s. “Mi hiiijooo…” Her voice was hoarse, torn up as she wailed. “¡Alejandro! ¡Ayúdame!”
Cristobal spun on her, wrapped his fingers around her throat. “You say that name one more fuckin’ time and I’ll kill him in front of you. You understand me, Francisca? ¡Lo voy a matar! Didn’t I tell you not to say his fuckin’ name!” He released her neck and grabbed her by the wrist, pulled her down the remaining stairs. Francisca was dragged forward, her knees cracking against steps as she tried to gain her footing. “You’re mine now. He’s not your husband anymore.”
Marta didn’t attempt to escape from Gustavo as he led her down the stairs by the small of her back, and she held back the screams that wanted to trumpet from her aching throat. She was just thankful to breathe air that wasn’t swimming with rot, vomit, and swarming flies. Her hand continued to pulse, and she still couldn’t swallow without considerable pain. There was a fat knot on the back of her head, and her vision swam from lack of sleep, but she took the stairs obediently and walked toward the table where Mamá and Rogelio sat.
Alma shuffled toward the table carrying a large silver bowl with a spoon handle sticking out of it. She placed it on the table among two other bowls. Alma’s eyes landed on Cristobal, then rolled to Francisca. Alma’s eyebrows lowered and she sucked her teeth as she cradled her swollen belly.
Gustavo, still wearing his mask, sat at the table and Marta sat beside him. He had kept the mask on the whole time they were in his bedroom, even as he slept, and Marta wouldn’t be surprised if it never came off. Rogelio sat across from her, Francisca’s boy beside him. Rogelio tittered as he stared at the side of the boy’s face. The boy could barely keep his eyes open, his head tilting from front to back as if he could pass out at any second. Soft whimpers escaped his tiny, thin lips, flakes of skin scaled across them.
“¡Carlos!” Francisca thrust herself forward, her hand reaching for her child, but Cristobal caught her by the hair and yanked her backward. She wept, ignored the fist twisted into her long black strands. “Carlos. ¡Mi bebé está enfermo! ¡Déjame ir!”
Cristobal lifted her back to her feet by her hair, grabbed her by her shoulders, and forced her into the seat beside Marta. When she tried to stand again, he shoved her back down, dug his fingers into her shoulder blades. Francisca bared her teeth, stopped moving.
“It’s time for breakfast. Mamá has been up all morning preparing this food. Carlos just needs to eat, ain’t that right, Carlos?” Cristobal had his cheek pressed against Francisca’s, and he nodded at the barely-conscious boy.
Rogelio’s silver grin stretched wide, and he appeared to be slapping the boy on the leg to get his attention.
Carlos’s eyes burst open and a wail exploded from his mouth as if waking from a fit of night terrors. Fresh tears spilled over his dirty cheeks. He noticed his mother sitting across from him for the first time and his cries intensified as he reached out to her. A metal cuff was locked over his wrist, the chain connected to another cuff that was locked to Rogelio’s. Marta saw the sewing needle, painted red, pinched between Rogelio’s thumb and forefinger. Rogelio pulled the boys arm back down with a yank of the chain, then stuck him in the leg again.
Carlos screamed, tears and mucus pouring from his face, his eyes tired and half-lidded.
Mamá pulled the wooden spoon from the silver bowl closest to her, smacked Rogelio in the side of the head. “Para ya, Rogelio. Es hora de comer.”
Rogelio rubbed the spot on his head, stuck out his lower lip.
Marta flinched when the sandpapery fingertips rubbed against her shoulder. Gustavo smiled at her, his teeth the color of half-ripe bananas. A dumb chuckle rumbled from his mouth, and he wiped away the drool collecting on his lip.
“Carne,” he said as he grabbed the spoon from the bowl in front of him. White spirals of steam swirled off it, and Marta noticed the smell for the first time.
Her mouth watered, and she was sickened by her response. Groans echoed from her stomach, loud enough that Cristobal turned his head and smiled, licked his lips and patted his belly. Marta turned away from his eyes, saw into the kitchen. A huge island sat in the middle with a thick wooden cutting block on top. A slab of meat lay there, sliced open to show the pork-colored meat and bone within. Marta gasped when she realized she was looking at a human torso, the skin brown and spattered with dark, dried blood.
“Don’t fight it, Marta. You already got the taste. I can tell. Nothing you eat from now on will compare to Mamá's cooking.” He laughed,
massaged Francisca’s shoulder. “But that don’t matter. Cuz both of you are family now.”
Francisca wept, her eyes never once leaving her son.
Cristobal placed his lips over her ear. “Just wait til you taste it, baby. You’ll love it. Just like Marta did.”
Oh god, is this Francisca’s husband? Is that slab of meat Alejandro?
Gustavo shoveled a spoonful of carnitas onto her plate, slick and shining and cooked to perfection. A puddle of grease formed beneath them, and the smell wafting from the chunks of meat filled Marta with revulsion and ravenous hunger at the same time.
A low moan ghosted in from behind her, and Marta turned to see Alejandro, still whole, still alive, though black and purple and covered with dried blood. He was stripped down to his underwear and tied to a chair, his arms pulled behind his back and secured by chains that were wrapped so tightly around his torso that his flesh dimpled. The man struggled to keep his head raised, but he stared at the family at the dinner table, his face shaking with pain and rage while sweat and blood dripped from his chin and nose. He spoke, but Marta couldn’t decipher the low mumbling.
When Marta turned away from him, she found more meat piled onto her plate, along with a helping of eggs, some fried potatoes, and a couple of tortillas. The rest of the family had already begun eating. Forks scraped plates and mouths smacked as they excitedly chewed.
Gustavo elbowed Marta in the side, picked up a hunk of meat, and pushed it to her lips. The brown gravy oozed into her mouth, and as he pushed harder, she squeezed her eye shut and took the morsel in. She had the urge to spit right back out, but forced herself to swallow it without chewing. She didn’t want to taste it, but her tongue brushed against it just enough to give her a sample.
And it was delicious.
Gustavo bumped her again, and she leaned over, started shoveling eggs into her mouth. The big man turned to his own plate then and enthusiastically started to eat, using only a tortilla for a utensil. As Marta chewed on the eggs and potatoes, she shot a side glance at Francisca. Cristobal held her by the back of the neck as he pushed bits of food past her tight lips with the tip of his finger. Across the table, Rogelio ignored Carlos’s whimpers as he chewed his meat with an open mouth.
Alma had eyes only for Francisca, and she chewed slow as she scowled at her. Mamá sipped from a bowl, the brown broth dribbling down her craggy chin. She smiled at her family, her eyes full of love. Her front teeth were missing and the gums were dark and spotted.
Marta had been staring at her when another portion of meat was pressed against her mouth. She hadn’t been prepared for it, and it scraped against her teeth and landed on her taste buds. The meat’s juices soaked in, and the flavor sent her stomach into a roar.
“Mmmm.” Gustavo rubbed Marta’s belly, pushing so hard that it knocked the breath out of her. “Carne.”
Marta wanted to chew it. She wanted to taste it, let her tongue bathe in the succulence of it. But she spat it out, collected the flavor from her mouth and spat again.
A low rattle clicked from Gustavo’s chest. All eyes at the table landed on her.
“Fuck you!” She tossed her plate into Gustavo’s lap, and in the same motion, plucked her fork from the tabletop and jammed it into his shoulder.
Gustavo didn’t even flinch. He blinked, stared down at the utensil protruding from his flesh, at the food piled on his stomach and thighs.
With a quick swing of her arm, Marta knocked the bowl of meat and eggs across the table. The eggs exploded out, rained over Rogelio and Alma while the silver bowl full of meat slid the length of the table and collided with Mamá's broth bowl. The hot soup poured into her lap, and the old woman wailed.
“Ayyye!” The wrinkles on her face deepened as she grimaced. What teeth she had left were bared as her children jumped to her aid.
“Kill that puta!” Alma screamed, brushing eggs from her face and neck as she struggled to stand, hand pressed to the small of her back.
Cristobal was on his knees beside Mamá, sopping up the soup with napkin after napkin. He held Francisca by the wrist, growling as he shot continuous glances at Marta.
Marta backed toward the door, compelled to do something to help the man, woman, and child, but her instinct to save herself grew more potent by the second.
When Gustavo yanked the fork from his bleeding shoulder and threw it across the room, Marta turned and sprinted toward the door.
It was locked and Marta’s fumbling hands couldn’t grip the deadbolt to turn it and she threw a glance toward Gustavo who slammed his meaty fists onto the table and kicked his chair backward. He lowered his eyes, his thick wide chest heaving as he took thundering steps toward her. A scream belted from her tender throat as she finally got the door open and sprinted into the yard.
***
Felix paced in front of the laptop as his eyes took in the images playing on the screen. He’d seen Marta at the border by the abandoned house, then giving water to a Mexican family that looked nearly dead from exhaustion. Then headlights. It was too dark for Felix to make out what happened, but he thought he heard some kind of gun go off, maybe one with a silencer.
There was a lot of footage of nothing, just darkness, with the humming of an engine in the background. He skipped over them until more images flashed on screen, and that’s when he saw the wrestler. The fucking biggest son of a bitch he’d ever seen, wearing a blue Lucha Libre mask and enough muscle to crush rock with. When the man from the taco trailer came back into view, Felix shoved away from the laptop, punched the air with both fists.
“Fuuuck!”
He stomped back and forth for a moment before sprinting out of the room and down the stairs. The clerk was just stepping out of the office and Felix blew by him, bumping shoulders as he passed and knocking the fat man into the wall.
“G’damnit!”
Felix ignored him and shot off into the road, pumped his legs as fast as they would go.
“Sheriff’s on the way, asshole!”
His body felt numb as he rounded the corner and found the lot beside the store empty. No pickup and no trailer. A few Mexican men sat at the picnic table, and Felix made a beeline right for them. They tensed up as he nearly slammed into the side of the table, panting and sweating.
“Taco trailer? ¿Donde está? Where is the fucking trailer?”
They shared a look, then both shook their heads, shrugged. Felix couldn’t tell if they were telling him they didn’t know where it was or they didn’t understand him.
He pushed away from the table and jogged into the store. The old man at the counter started when Felix burst in, put his hands up and smirked.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa there. What’s this all about?” The man wore an old trucker’s hat with a red bill, and his gnarled hands looked oil-stained.
“The taco trailer. Where the hell is it?” Felix didn’t realize he was crying until the snot dripping from his nose oozed over his lips. He wiped his face, took a long deep, rattling breath.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, boy. Scared me half to death runnin’ up in here like that-”
“Just tell me where it is!” Felix slammed his knuckles onto the counter, nearly catching the man’s hand. “Please…it’s an emergency.”
Whatever smirk the man had worn only a second before was gone, and he straightened his posture and widened his nostrils, flicked the bill of his cap. “Now you wait just a goddamn second there, boy. I don’t know what in the hell this is about, and you runnin’ up in my store like you wanna do sumpin’ to me.”
“No, I mean…I’m sorry. A friend of mine, she could be in trouble. She is in trouble.”
“And what in the hell does that have to do with the food truck?”
“That man, he took her. The same son of a bitch that pulled a knife on me just yesterday. He’s got her and…oh god!” More tears came now and Felix covered his face, tilted his head back, and screamed into his hands.
“You tellin’ me ol’ Cristobal and Alma got your friend k
idnapped? Nah, not them, boy. You got your shit all mixed up.”
Felix stomped forward, and before he had a chance to slam his fists to the counter again, the old man pulled a pistol out from under the register and had it pointed at the middle of Felix’s face.
“I’m thinkin’ you should leave, boy.”
***
The sun was like an open flame, licking her flesh with heat as she ran across the dirt yard and toward the pickup. She checked over her shoulder and Gustavo burst through the door. Blood trickled from the four prong wounds on his shoulder. The crotch of his blue spandex pants was dark with grease where the food had spilled.
The wrestler smashed his fist into the side of his head, then again as he snarled at her. He raised both fists into the air and circled in place, slapped both pectoral muscles with open palms, then lowered his head and charged her.
“No!” Marta reached the truck and tugged on the door handle with her injured hand but had no time to register the pain as the door pulled open and she dove into the driver’s seat and slammed the door and locked it.
No keys. Her hand leaked fresh blood into the hardened towel wrapped around it, and it dripped onto her bruised shin.
Gustavo slammed his body into the driver’s door like a parading rhino. The truck shook, tossing Marta into the center console.
She flipped down the sun visor, checked the floorboards, under the seats, popped open the glove compartment. No keys.
“Shit! Shitshitshitshit!”
Gustavo rattled the door, then threw his shoulder into it again. It felt like he could roll the goddamn thing over if he wanted to.
“Leave me alone! Get away!” Marta scooted into the passenger seat, reached over her shoulder and locked the door.
Gustavo pressed his face into the glass of the driver’s door window, his breath fogging it, drool running down in clear, bubbly trails. He cocked his head back, his face blurring through the haze he’d created on the glass, and then his head smashed into the window.
Muerte Con Carne Page 11
