“Must been going way fuckin' fast,” the older man said in his thick Brazilian accent. Tito spoke English the same way most Brazilians did, quickly and with a edge, the words tumbling over each other in their fight to be heard. Most didn't learn the language from a text book. If they learned at all, they learned from Hollywood movies, gangster rap, and the street. As a consequence the average Brazilian didn't know a noun from an adjective, but could abuse the English language like a Marine and talk smack with the best of them.
His younger partner nodded, surveying the area around them.“Yeah. No other vehicles involved, unless it was a hit n' run case. Must've just lost it on the bend back there, skidded, and came off.”
“Prob'ly drunk or high on drugs. Maybe both,” Tito surmised. Judging by his ever-neutral tone, it was unclear whether this was an evaluation, an observation, or a condemnation.
“Maybe,” Jimmy replied, not wanting to be drawn into a making a judgement about the recently deceased rider. It was none of his business.
But actually it was his business.
Now, it was.
Staring down at the battered, lifeless body in the ditch, Jimmy grimaced. The rider wasn't wearing a helmet. Not that it would have done him much good. His body appeared to have struck the ground so hard it was pulverized on impact. In a dozen or more places, pieces of white bone protruded through the greying skin, which had ruptured and split like a ripe tomato. His face was contorted into a ghastly death mask, one eyeball glazed and lifeless while the other had become dislodged somehow and now rested midway down his cheek. It was held there by bloated red strings that disappeared into a dark cavity in his ruined face.
“Must've just happened...”
“Bet your lily-white ass it just happened,” Tito said.“Or some other crew would've been along and scraped his ass up by now. Guess it's our lucky night, huh?”
“Guess so,” Jimmy agreed, struggling to control his gag reflex. He wasn't feeling very lucky.
“Looks like this guy is beyond help, anyways. Jesus Christ, look at him. I doubt if there's a single bone left in his fuckin' body that ain't been fuckin' broken. He would have died as soon as he hit the ground. The guy be nothing but a pile of fuckin' rotting meat now. Road kill.”
Jimmy shuddered. He didn't think he would ever get used to Tito's insensitivity. But sensitivity wasn't part of their job description. On the contrary, callous insensitivity would probably be a bonus. It would help your mental state immensely if you weren't burdened by compassion and saw other people only as chunks of meat.
“So what're we going to do with him?”
Tito sniffed.“Way this boy sees it is we got two fuckin' choices. Scoop the guy up, deliver him to the nearest hospital 'bout twenty minutes from here, and wait for the insurance payout. If there is one. Or...”
“Or what?” Jimmy pressed.
“Or we take a longer drive, across the city over to Trinity hospital.”
“Why?” asked Jimmy. He needed to know exactly what he was getting himself into.
“I know a guy,” Tito said simply.
“Oh, you know a guy?” Jimmy scoffed.“Good for you, Tito. I know plenty of guys, too. I may not know as many faces as you, your ass being a local boy and everything, but I got contacts. What does your guy do, exactly?”
Tito shrugged.“Buys fresh body parts and sells 'em on, I guess. Or he eats 'em. Who gives a fuck?”
Jimmy tutted loudly.“We both know that shit's Illegal, dude. Even in Brazil.”
“What? Eating body parts?”
“No, not that,” Jimmy said.“Though I guess that is, too. In fact, that's probably illegal pretty much fucking everywhere. No, you know what I mean. Selling organs and shit. For that you're supposed to have special permission. You need documents, paperwork, all kinds of licenses and permits.”
Tito emitted a loud, humourless laugh.“We provide a service, white bro. And get paid for our trouble. What's wrong with that? We ain't hurting nobody. We're just getting by, doin' what people do. Makin' money. If we didn't make a buck from this sucker, you can bet yo ass someone else will. If you hadn't noticed, this is Brazil, Jimmy Blue. Everything's legal here. For the right price. You understand?”
Jimmy nodded. He understood. And his partner was right. He had been here long enough to realize that. What started as a backpacking trip had turned into an extended sabbatical in a strange alternate world where he could be someone else, live a different life. Back home in Tom's River, New Jersey, he was plain old Jimmy Bean. He had a boring job in a near-bankrupt ceramics factory and a whole load of aspirations, made bitter by the cold realization that that was all they would ever be unless he got off his ass and did something with his life. Here in Brazil he was Jimmy Blue. And he saved lives. Sometimes.
He and his partner Tito made up one of Rio De Jinero's freelance ambulance crews that patrolled the city's streets at night looking for road accidents, bar fights, victims of shootings, stabbings, and street robberies. Basically, anybody in need of medical assistance. They worked in tandem with the state-run Servico de Atendimento Movel de Urgencia, but SAMU, as they were known, were woefully overstretched. Sometimes they didn't turn up at the scene for hours. If at all. These inadequacies left the way open for legal 'private ambulances,' which were much better equipped and more reliable.
However, they were expensive. And of course, wherever there are 'legal' services there are illegal alternatives. Illegal in the sense that they weren't registered. Or even qualified. This was the area of expertise Jimmy had stumbled into.
When shit happened, Tito and he would pull up in their makeshift ambulance, which Tito had christened Cigano, Brazilian for 'Gypsy,' because he said it had been so many places, and clean up the mess. They would ferry the injured to hospitals and the dead to the morgue. It didn't make much difference to them. Either way, they got paid by somebody.
Live ones took precedence, obviously. A dead man can't pay his bills, even if his family can. Problem was that sometimes they weren't keen on doing so. Especially extended family. Imagine getting a call one night informing you that some crazy uncle you hadn't seen for a ten years had been murdered, and as a result you owed somebody $4,000. Those were the kind of unexpected expenses anybody could do without.
Tonight was a slow night. The job paid relatively well. Much better than the ceramics factory ever did. But more than that, it was exciting. Life in Brazil was exciting. Dangerous, too. But every day was full of fresh challenges. It could be shocking, horrifying, sickening, rewarding, gratifying and humbling, all within the blink of an eye.
Whatever, it was all part of the experience.
The one thing Jimmy came to realize pretty damned soon was how fragile life is. It can all be rubbed out in an instant.
Jimmy just fell into the job the way he fell into most things. After travelling around south America for three months he arrived in Rio flat broke. Needing money to continue his adventure he picked up some work as an English teacher. But he soon got bored of that. All those lazy rich kids that couldn't be bothered to learn, safe in the knowledge that their lives were already set. If they couldn't give a shit, why should he?
He met Tito while he was drowning his considerable sorrows in a cheap bar one night. The big friendly Brazilian, twelve years older and sixty pounds heavier than him, was one of the few locals Jimmy met in that part of town that spoke serviceable English. Over beers he told Jimmy about a job opportunity that had come up, seeing as his last partner had recently left the city, and explained that he would be prepared to give Jimmy the chance on the condition that he help Tito practice his English as they worked. It seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement, which is the best arrangement a guy can hope for. When opportunity knocks, the least you can do is open the fucking door.
Even before he met Tito, Jimmy had heard all about the freelance ambulance crews working the streets of Brazil. Far from assuming they performed an important public service, most of them looked at their occupation as a busin
ess operation. Medical training was not a job requirement. In many respects, it was more like refuse collection.
For the most part, the rival crews co-existed harmoniously, living by a strict 'first on the scene' rule. But they were very territorial. Sometimes, the boundaries got blurred and the rivalry spilled over. It wasn't unusual to see two competing crews having a fist fight by the side of the road amidst the debris of a wreck, sometimes as the very lives of the ones they should be helping ebbed away. There were even rumours of less scrupulous crews orchestrating accidents themselves just so they could get paid.
Selling fresh cadavers to hospitals who then harvested the organs for transplant was generally frowned upon, and with good reason. Jimmy had never been involved with anything like it before. But in a country where the gulf between rich and poor was as big as it was in Brazil, there could be no doubt it was common practice.
“How much do they pay?” Jimmy asked, a tingle of anticipation running through him.
“With that much damage, who fuckin' knows? If all the dude's insides are still working we can maybe get five G's a-piece? The heart is the big one. Sell the heart and we can get a shit loada money. If it's healthy.”
Jimmy suspected Tito's actual cut would be a lot more than his, but five grand would still be a nice little unexpected bonus.“Okay, let's do it,” he said.“Before someone else turns up and asks what the fuck we're doing.”
Working together, the two men heaved the wrecked motorcycle to the side of the road, then hurriedly retrieved the broken body from the drainage ditch and strapped it to a plastic-covered stretcher.
Jimmy pretended not to notice as his partner swiftly rifled through the victim's pockets. When he found a wallet, Tito opened it and took out most of the bills, leaving only a few crumpled lower denomination notes behind for effect, then put the wallet back in the same pocket he found it. They carried the stretcher over to Cigano, slid it onto the runners in the back, and slammed the door closed.
In Cigano's cab, Tito took the driver's seat, as he invariably did. This was his operation. Jimmy was a mere hired hand, just there for fetching and carrying, he guessed. And maybe companionship.
The cab was fitted with speakers and a police scanner, which they used to get a head's-up on the latest accidents and disturbances. But tonight, Tito didn't turn the rig on. No need. They already had a cargo. Instead, he turned on the radio, which was tuned into some generic commercial rock station. He did that sometimes. He said it helped kill the time. He was right. What he didn't mention was that sometimes, the music also helped drown out the screams and moans of the mortally-injured but conscious passengers they often carried.
They were on the move now, Tito expertly steering them through the night on the narrow winding mountainous roads that traversed the outskirts of the city. All things considered, it was decided that it would be in their best interests to take the quieter, less travelled route. Their blue lights flashed a warning to other road users, but Tito kept the speed steady. There was no desperate hurry. Not for this victim, anyway.
Jimmy watched the scenery whiz by, always keeping a keen eye open for another incident or accident. There was room for one more stretcher case in the back, and if they could stand or sit they could be packed in like sardines. Road safety laws were non-existent in Brazil. That was what kept them and the other freelance ambulance crews in business.
Soon, Jimmy and Tito slipped into the easy, comfortable silence that came from people being brought together through circumstance rather than choice. When you were doing a job, there wasn't always need for small talk. You didn't have to entertain people. That was one reason why he liked working with Tito. The guy only spoke when he had something to say, and Jimmy usually tried to return the favour.
A few miles into the journey, Jimmy became aware of a strange noise. Kind of a sporadic bumping, knocking, tapping. He glanced at Tito to see if he had registered it. If he had, it didn't show. Tito's face was a picture of concentration as he negotiated the difficult roads.
At first, Jimmy dismissed the sounds as engine noise. Cigano was twenty-five years old if she were a day, and a vehicle that old was prone to the odd groan.
But the noises were persistent.
Eventually, Jimmy turned down the radio.“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Tito grumbled.“I was hearing some bangin' tunes 'til you just cut them off.”
Both men listened. For a few seconds they heard nothing but the engine and the sound of tires on tarmac. Then, it came again.
Knock, knock.
Tentative, but clearly audible. This time, Jimmy was able to identify the source. It was coming from the back.
“What the fuck?” Tito exclaimed.“I thought that guy was dead meat, already,”
“For sure,” Jimmy agreed.“So who else is back there?”
“Nobody, dude. Ya know that as well as I do,” Tito sounded offended.“It must be Roadkill. He must just have been unconscious when we picked him up or summin. Sounds like he just woke up.”
“Roadkill? That's what you're calling the guy now?”
“Well I don't know his fuckin' name. Do you?”
“Guess I don't,” Jimmy conceded, resisting the urge to remind his friend that he hadn't been the one rifling through the guy's wallet. Whatever, in the absence of anything better, Roadkill fit the bill.“But the dude was dead, Tito. You saw. How can he even fucking stand up? Did you see the state of his legs? Broken isn't the word. They were mangled.”
“I Dunno,” Tito shrugged,“I ain't no doctor. Maybe the guy took a shit load of coke right before he took a dive, knocked himself unconscious, and woke up still whizzing his tits off. Ain't you ever done that? Get so wasted you pass out and still be wasted when you wake up? We get the good shit here. Take enough and a man can think himself invisible.”
“Invisible? I think you mean invincible.”
“Do I? Okay, teacher. I remember for next time.” That was what Tito always said. The impressive thing being that he generally did remember the next time.
As if in response to the duo's conversation, the knocking became steadily louder and more urgent.
Thump, thump, thump!
Finally, Jimmy could stand it no longer.“Okay, pull over, Tito,” he said.“I'll go out back and take a look. See what's what.”
“Yeah, you do dat,” Tito said, slowing Cigano down and pulling over to the side of the deserted road.“Give him a sedative. Something to calm the motherfucker down. And don't hold nothin' back, either.”
“Right,” Jimmy agreed.“Poor guy must be in agony.”
“Fuck his agony!” Retorted Tito.“My man over at Trinity won't touch the dude unless he's dead. He likes his organs fresh, but not that damn fresh.”
Jimmy was shocked.“You mean you want me to OD him?”
“Sure, why not?” Tito shrugged.“Guy's fucked anyways.”
“Because I'm not a murderer. That's why not!”
“Yo, what's the big problem here?” Tito asked, with what looked like genuine confusion.“He'll probably be dead by the time we get to where we're going. Put him outta his misery. You'd be doing the guy a good turn.”
“If he dies,” Jimmy reasoned,“Then it's God's will. But the guy sure as hell ain't dying because I shoot him up with drugs. I don't want that on my conscience.”
“Even if he's in bad pain?”
“Even if he's in the worst pain imaginable,” Jimmy confirmed, though he begrudgingly admired Tito for trying to justify his warped rationale.
“Pussy white boy,” Tito taunted as he cut the engine and plucked the keys from the ignition, handing the set to the American as his companion opened his door and climbed out of the passenger side.
The gentle night breeze ruffled Jimmy's hair as he made the short journey to the rear end of Cigano. En route he tried, unsuccessfully, to convince himself that it was also the breeze making his skin crawl, rather than the creeping uneasiness that was enveloping him.
Slipping a ke
y into the lock fixed to the back door of the vehicle, Jimmy took a deep breath and pulled it open.
The crash victim Tito had charmingly dubbed Roadkill wasn't safely strapped to the stretcher any more. Now, he lay face-down on Cigano's floor.
“What the...” Jimmy spluttered, trying to make sense of the scene.
Evidently, the crash victim had managed to untie the straps binding him to the stretcher and, broken bones and all, risen up and pounded his fists against the drivers partition hard and long enough to leave a calling card of smeared blood and gore. Something Jimmy would have to clean up after his shift was over.
When the door opened, Roadkill flinched and reached up a feeble hand as if for help. A single drop of blood ran from the end of his finger to land on the floor. It was such a pitiful sight to behold that Jimmy's first reaction was to run to the vic's aid.
But something held him back.
Instead of rushing to help, Jimmy froze. Some inner sense implored him to stay away. No, not just stay away. Run away!
Deep down, he knew that what he was seeing simply couldn't be true. Nobody could crawl around with those kinds of injuries. It wasn't just improbable, it was impossible.
“What's goin' on back there?” Tito's impatient voice drifted on the breeze.“Come on white boy, stick that fucker and lets get the fuck outta here!”
Jimmy found he was rooted to the spot. Couldn't move. He felt his lips pull back over his teeth in disgust as Roadkill gurgled and lurched a few centimetres closer to him. It was all he could do to keep from recoiling.
Summoning up all his strength, he climbed in back, quickly took a syringe from the first aid kit, and loaded it with the sedative. Then he addressed Roadkill, trying desperately to sound calm and authoritative. Or at least in control of the situation.“Okay sir, sit on the bench, please. You've been in an accident. I'm gonna give you something for the pain...”
Jimmy had discovered that even if the vics couldn't understand English, they responded well to a calm, soothing tone.
At the sound of the voice, Roadkill cocked his head. The remaining eye was dead and lifeless, while the other still dangled against his cheek. In the crash he had suffered massive head trauma. The entire right side of his skull was caved in, the brown skin and exposed flesh adorned with glistening white shards of bone. Jimmy had to look away as a large flap of skin, hair still attached, came away from Roadkill's scalp and landed on the floor at his feet
X2: Another Collection of Horror Page 8
