Adobe Flats

by Colin Campbell

  “That right? I thought it’d be more like Sam J in Pulp Fiction.”

  “That too. Point is, muthafucka crosses all borders.”

  “Glad we got that cleared up. You still feeling angry?”

  The Mexican looked surprised. “No, I’m not.”

  Grant kept his tone light. His usual tactic. “Point I’m making is, I wasn’t racially stereotyping.”

  “No. You was just stereotyping me.”

  “As a wife beater. Yes. That wasn’t hard. Since your wife was being seen by the doctor for burns and bruises at the time.”

  The Mexican knotted his eyebrows in a frown. “The same doctor that treated you for cuts and bruises and three broken ribs. Does that mean you were the victim of spousal abuse?”

  Grant felt a tickle of gooseflesh run down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was from wondering how the Mexican knew about being seen by Doc Cruz or the surprising use of good English. He prepared for things to get ugly and flexed his sore knees, ready to defend once the Mexican took the bait. An angry lunge was preferable to a considered attack.

  “You saying you didn’t grab her? Push her against the stove? Is that it?”

  The Mexican took a deep breath while he chose his next words.

  “Imagine this. A child leans against a hot radiator. Burns himself. A man grabs his arms to pull him away. How you gonna tell if the bruises and the burns are from him being pushed against the fire or pulled off it?”

  “Is that what you’re saying? You pulled her away from the stove?”

  “I’m saying you should be careful who you listen to.”

  “Your wife?”

  “The doctor.”

  Again that tickle of gooseflesh.

  “So why’d you try to run me off the road?”

  “This is Texas. You don’t choke a guy out in front of his wife and son.”

  Grant could feel the temperature rising. Same tactic as before. Get the man angry, then defend against the thoughtless lunge.

  “Technically they were outside.”

  The Mexican’s voice grew louder. “They were there. Near enough.”

  Grant turned his legs slightly towards the threat. “Okay, I get that. In Texas. But are you a Texan or a Mexican?”

  The big man moved towards the light switch. “I’m a Mexican in Texas. What you got to understand is Mexicans in Texas stick together.”

  He flicked the switch and the overhead fluorescent flickered into life. The room was lit by harsh yellow light. The same room that Grant had been treated in before. Remember the Alamo. Not the real Alamo but Fort Pena Colorado Park. Staff quarters, not the derelict cabins. The other two shadows stepped aside, and another man came into the room. Grant’s eyes blurred as he tried to fight off the fever. The man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I told you the climb was not good for your condition.”

  twenty-nine

  Grant felt deflated and betrayed by the father of the woman he’d come to Texas to honor. A shiver that had nothing to do with portent shook his body. The fever was taking hold again. His stomach cramped but there was nothing to bring up. His elbows slipped, and he lay back down. He rested his eyes and heard the rustle of clothes as someone approached the bed. Cool hands checked the temperature of his forehead.

  “Relax. Pilar chose you for a reason. I respect her choice.”

  Grant’s eyes flickered open. Eduardo Cruz was leaning over him, making soothing noises. Grant tried to glare at him, but his vision was swimming in and out of focus.

  “Then why…”

  His voice faded.

  Cruz raised Grant’s head and tipped the glass of water to his lips. Cool liquid eased his throat and moistened his lips, but his voice didn’t return. The room began to spin again.

  The doctor spoke quietly.

  “Jim Grant. You have nothing to fear here.”

  The spinning grew faster.

  “You are among friends.”

  Grant’s mind couldn’t grasp that. The staff quarters of Fort Pena Colorado Park became a dark smudge as his vision dimmed. The doctor deployed his best bedside manner. Soothing voice and gentle words.

  “Let me explain.”

  So he did.

  What happened was this. Cruz was getting in the car at the bottom of the hill. Iron Mountain Road stretched out in the distance, all the way back to Absolution. The factory had no view of it, but Cruz could see the cloud of dust racing towards him in the evening sun. He checked his watch. Grant had been gone twenty minutes. It was time to get in position for the pickup.

  The cloud grew closer. Its shadow was long and low across the desert floor. Cruz couldn’t make out the car hidden in the dust. Sun glinted off the windshield. That was all he could see. It couldn’t be Macready’s men. The trucks had headed north towards Fort Stockton. Grant had said so, and Cruz had no reason to think he was mistaken. So who would be speeding along the desert road at this time of day?

  Cruz stood in the open door of his car. He couldn’t wait. Grant would be needing him soon, around the mountain where the gully came out. He threw one more glance at the approaching cloud and realized it wasn’t one vehicle but two. He thought he recognized one of them, but it was only a glimpse.

  Why would Hunter Athey be driving the hearse towards the factory?

  Then he saw the second vehicle. A battered pickup with a repaired radiator. Doc Cruz got in the car and slammed the door. He started the engine and reversed out of the cutting. Too late. The cloud engulfed him as both vehicles turned off the road into the cutting and skidded to a halt, blocking him in. Tony Sabata got out of the pickup, his wife beater vest covered by a flapping shirt. Hunter Athey got out of the hearse, waving for Cruz not to panic.

  Cruz wasn’t convinced. “What you mean, don’t panic?”

  Sabata spoke for Athey. “He means I hate Tripp Macready more than I want Jim Grant.”

  Athey approached his friend. “They came looking for Mr. Jim.”

  Cruz raised his eyebrows. “Why come to you?”

  Sabata stepped forward. “Because he’s the only one around here who drives a hearse.”

  The cloud dissipated and the hearse came into view. The bullet holes and broken window were rimmed with dust. Even the pickup’s new radiator looked like it had been on the road for years. That’s the thing about driving in desert country: everything looks old. Cruz felt old as he sagged against the side of his car.

  “And why have you come here?”

  Sabata glowered at the doctor. “Because I want to know what Macready is bringing across the border.”

  He nodded towards the mountain. “Is he inside now?”

  Cruz let out a sigh. “He should be coming out the front anytime now.”

  “Out front?”

  “Along the gully.”

  “Then he’ll be able to answer a few questions. Won’t he?”

  A gentle breeze whistled across the plains, blowing the rest of the dust cloud away. It wasn’t as hot now, and the engines ticked as they cooled. The sun was low in the west. The three men stood in silence for a moment, then Sabata jerked a thumb towards the factory.

  “Let’s give him a—”

  The factory siren cut off his words. It echoed around the cutting. Everybody dived into their vehicles and started the engines. The pickup turned around quickest. It was speeding back to join the road before Cruz and Athey got their handbrakes off. It disappeared around the corner just as an enormous blast thumped the air. The second explosion was even bigger.

  Dawn filtered through the curtains, but the fog in Grant’s mind didn’t clear. The world had stopped spinning, but pain still invaded his body. He felt weak and shivery. He wasn’t sure how much of what he’d taken in was Cruz’s story and how much was simply fever dreams. It sounded plausible enough. His brain wasn’t sharp enough to te
ll right now.

  He ungummed his eyes long enough to see it was daytime, but he couldn’t keep them open. The next time he opened them, the light was stronger and higher. Midday? It was hard to tell. The only thing he was certain of was that the Mexicans weren’t in the room. Grant was alone. Then everything went dark. In the darkness, visions of his past played like home movies. A specific past that included gunfire and machetes and bloodshed. He had no control over which images he saw. He couldn’t help the injured or the dying.

  By the time he opened his eyes again, Grant had lost an entire day. The sun was low in the sky, but his world felt more stable. A hand checked his forehead. The touch startled him. Soothing noises and a gentle hand on his shoulder put him at ease. The fever had reduced to mild sweats. The shivering had stopped. He still felt weak, but the pain that held his body prisoner was reduced to a dull ache. The ache was all-pervading but at least it was bearable.

  Spicy cooking smells drifted in from the other room. Grant remembered them from a Mexican restaurant he’d once visited. The aromas made his mouth water but triggered his defenses. Mexican food meant Mexicans. Grant could only remember the gist of Doc Cruz’s explanation, but he did know that the wife beater disliked Grant only slightly less than he hated Tripp Macready. That wasn’t a glowing endorsement. It would behoove him to be careful.

  A figure stepped into his field of vision carrying a glass of water. Grant looked up at the doctor and prepared for more bad news. Doc Cruz placated him with gentle hands and soothing words.

  “Sshhh. Take it easy. Drink.”

  Grant sat up on the makeshift cot that had been his bed for the last twenty-four hours. He swung his feet off the mattress and felt solid ground that didn’t sway underfoot for the first time since he’d climbed Iron Mountain’s hillside. He took the proffered glass and nodded his thanks. This time he gulped down the water. His mouth was as dry as the desert that had almost claimed his life. His throat felt as rough as the riverbed that had tripped him up.

  Cruz refilled the glass. Grant drank it all again. He passed it back to the doctor, then surveyed the room. It was the back room of the Fort Pena Colorado Park staff quarters. No doubt the place where Hunter Athey rested his head when taking a break from Macready town. The furnishings were faded but clean. The main office was through the door, where the food smells were coming from. Grant took a deep breath, then looked at the doctor.

  “How long?”

  Doc Cruz glanced at his watch out of habit. “A day. We brought you here last night.”

  Grant checked his wrist, then remembered his watch had come off during his tumble from the high road. That dangerous escape felt like a lifetime ago. The same as some other memories that he preferred to keep hidden.

  “You were right.”

  Doc Cruz put the glass on the bedside cabinet. “About what?”

  “I should have waited until dark.”

  “Enemy action is always better after dark. Pilar told me that once.”

  The mention of her name reminded Grant why he was here in the first place—the promise he had made and the price she had paid. It reminded him that she too had been a soldier, even if her chosen field had been medical, like her father. Grant looked at his feet to avoid Doc Cruz’s eyes. He remembered boarding the Chinook in the predawn darkness.

  “Doesn’t always work out that way.”

  Doc Cruz reversed the wooden chair from the desk and sat opposite Grant with his arms folded across the top. He stared at Grant until Grant was forced to look up from the floor. Sadness creased the doctor’s face.

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Grant braced himself but didn’t speak.

  “You shouted my daughter’s name.”

  Grant blinked instead of nodding. He still didn’t speak.

  “When you gave me her stethoscope, you told me she was killed in action. Not by mechanical failure.”

  Doc Cruz paused, plucking up courage to ask what he shouldn’t really ask. “How did she die?”

  Grant let out a sigh. “Does it matter?”

  Grant had never held with the grieving-relatives-needing-closure theory. He didn’t understand the urge to leave flowers at the scene of an accident or to go visit where their son or daughter had been killed. As far as he was concerned, you simply grieved and then moved on. The fact that he didn’t agree with it didn’t make it any less important for some people, Doc Cruz included.

  “It matters to me.”

  He removed his arms from the top of the chair and sat up straight.

  “How did Pilar die?”

  Grant thought long and hard about how much to tell the grieving father. How much Grant needed to unburden himself. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath, then decided to tell it all. He looked Doc Cruz in the eye.

  “I killed her.”

  the past

  Can you take the shot?

  —Pilar Cruz

  thirty

  They ran into the man with the machete as the sun was dipping towards the horizon. After a long, hard day playing cat and mouse with the hoards of local militia. Militia in the broadest sense, in that they were armed and dangerous and aligned to a common purpose, supporting the warlord who ruled the township. They wore no uniforms and only a few had automatic weapons, but what they lacked in firepower they made up for in enthusiasm. And machetes.

  Grant and Cruz kept alternating the lead and rear guard. They’d been zigzagging across town ever since the street café and were no nearer the safe zone than when they’d started. Every time Grant thought they’d made some headway, they had to divert around the mob that was searching the back streets for them. Grant had shot five so far. Lone searchers who were sweeping the alleyways behind the main force. Three they’d run into around blind corners, and two had come up behind them when Cruz had stopped to catch her breath. If Grant had been taking the lead this time, things might have turned out different, but it was his turn to be rear guard.

  Cruz kept her back to the wall as she sidled along the shady side of the street. Shade was easy to come by now that the sun was so low. The baking heat that had been draining them all day was replaced by the gentle warmth of early evening. Dying embers of sunlight picked out the top of the crumbling buildings across the street, but the ground was gray and colorless without the bright yellow torch.

  She paused at the intersection with a battle-scarred alley. Listened to the distant crackle of gunfire as the mob vented their frustrations, shooting at the sky. There was no sound around the corner. This was the tenth junction she had scouted, but it might as well have been the hundredth. Every corner was the same. The sameness bred complacency. Cruz threw a casual glance round the edge of the crumbling building, then looked back at Grant as she stepped into the mouth of the alley.

  The shadows were deeper there. Grant was checking behind him as he joined her in the narrow opening. Cruz barely glanced into the shadows. Grant was two steps behind her. Then sudden movement and a gasp of surprise snapped his head forward, and Cruz let out a shout of pain.

  The man had been checking the alley when they’d surprised him. Instinct had taken over, and he’d slashed with the machete—a swift downward stroke that missed Cruz’s gun hand but sliced flesh on the meaty part of her thigh. The pain forced a spasm through her fingers, and she dropped the gun. She was a medic, not a combat soldier. Reflex action was to put pressure on the wound. Grant’s reflex was to fire twice. Center mass. Critical injury. The man was blasted backwards into the alley, his chest a tangled mess of blood and bone.

  Cruz dropped to the ground, her leg unable to support her. Blood seeped through her desert fatigues, standing out against the sandy colors and camouflage pattern. It didn’t take a doctor to realize it was serious. It didn’t take a tactician to know they couldn’t stay here while they treated the wound.

  Grant picked up h
er gun and shoved it into his webbing. He scooped her up with one arm around her waist and hurried across the street in the opposite direction. Away from the dead man and the dying echoes of the gunshots. Down one alley, then across to another. A left turn, then a right. Two hundred yards farther on, he found a building that was almost intact apart from the door hanging from its hinges. He helped Cruz through the opening and lowered her to the ground. The door creaked as he wedged it shut.

  Cruz leaned back against the wall. “I’m sorry, Jim.”

  Grant ignored the apology and tore her trouser leg open.

  “You’re the medic. What do you need?”

  Cruz barked a laugh. “A vacation.”

  Grant smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d settle for an exit strategy. For now, let’s make sure you don’t bleed to death. You’re the medic. Get it done.”

  Cruz responded to the steel in Grant’s tone. She swung her kitbag onto the ground and unsnapped the fastenings. Grant watched as she sprinkled powder over the six-inch gash in her leg, then laid a field dressing over the cut. He knew what to do next. Using both hands he applied pressure to the wound while Cruz tied it down with a length of bandage. Blood soaked through the dressing, so she applied another one over the top and tied that one down too. Tight. The blood flow slowed but didn’t stop. Grant knelt beside her and wiped his bloody hands on his trousers. Camouflage wasn’t an issue anymore.

  “Give yourself the jab.”

  Cruz shook her head. “Better save it.”

  “What for? You don’t have any other patients.”

  “Yet.”

  This time Grant’s smile was ironic.

  “Now there’s a positive attitude for you. Give yourself the fucking jab. We’re gonna have to move fast. Pain slows you down.”

  Cruz took a morphine ampoule out of the bag and snapped the end off. She stabbed herself in the leg and almost screamed at the pain. Sweat broke out on her brow. Tears leaked from her eyes. She clenched her jaw and nodded. Done.