by Bowie Ibarra
He let loose on the trigger, knowing that he would have to unleash it again and again if the action in the living room was any indication.
In his arms, the baby nuzzled up against him as if seeking a breast to suckle. Finding a pacifier nearby, he placed it in the baby’s mouth. Though it was not providing nutrients, it was still very comforting.
But comfort was not what Mike was feeling. Peace was nowhere near his heart. Another force was banging its fists against the walls inside him, punching away with hate and anger, striking with sadness and woe. But it was not the woman’s soul. No.
It was his own.
Pulling the trigger again, punishing the mother with the torturous voltage, Mike wept.
* * *
Help arrived after what seemed an eternity, and the mother and the boy were cuffed and gagged. The tazing didn’t stop, either, even after the cuffing. The crowd of people still watching the events unfold didn’t take too kindly to that. So the two crazed family members were eventually hogtied and tossed into a patrol car. They never stopped rustling.
The medics from the ambulance treated the wounds of the young girl and placed her on a gurney. Mike approached her.
“Thank you for saving me,” the girl whispered, tired as she rested on a white pillow.
Mike looked at the wrapped wound, then looked at the girl. She was now very pale and low on energy. She looked to have a fever.
“You’re welcome, miss.”
Mike hurriedly made his way to a nearby medic. He had a suggestion to make, but wasn’t quite sure how well it was going to go over.
“Sir, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I think you guys could be
in danger.”
The medic’s face briefly showed confusion, then switched to indifference. “I thought ya’ll cuffed the lunatics already?” he said.
Mike grimaced at the inconsiderate remark, but continued, “We cuffed them. But I’m talking about the girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need ya’ll to cuff the girl to her gurney.” He handed the medic two cuffs and a key. “I also recommend you gag her.”
“Do what?”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on or what happened in there, but I think it might have something to do with the bites.”
“You mean like rabies or something?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
The medic looked to the police car where the two suspects were bound and still fighting inside the vehicle in a relentless attempt to escape their bonds.
“Who’s going to tell her?” the medic asked, openly refusing to do it himself.
Mike sighed, then approached the girl again. She looked like she was asleep. He looked at her somehow calm and serene face. Then her eyes opened suddenly. Mike shook in surprise. But a small, very warm smile spread across her lips.
“What’s your name?” Mike asked.
“Brandi.”
“Hi, Brandi. My name’s Mike. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” She was very polite.
“Brandi, I’m afraid you’re in grave danger—” Shit, bad start, he thought. “—I’m afraid the people around you might be in danger, too.” That wasn’t so great, either.
Brandi, exhausted, simply nodded.
Mike worked the cuffs on her wrists and onto the gurney. “I’m afraid you might get sick like your mom and brother. Very sick.”
“She’s not my mom. She’s my stepmom.” Obvious disdain peppered her comment.
“Brandi, the medics are going to put something over your mouth in case you get sick like your family. Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be A-okay.” Mike hated lying.
“Say a prayer for me and my family,” she whispered. “And thank you.”
“I will,” Mike said. “And you’re welcome.”
Mike signaled to the medic, who was ready with a makeshift gag of gauze, wrapping it around her head and mouth.
Mike walked away. He couldn’t look back.
“I tazed that little bastard at least fifteen times, Mike,” Derek said, frowning in disbelief as Mike approached. “He should be dead.” The two watched as the Crime Scene Unit began yellow-taping the area.
“I hit the mom at least ten times,” Mike said.
Derek asked what was on both of their minds. “So what the fuck is going on here, anyway?”
CHAPTER FOUR
7:31 PM
Travis County Jail, Cell Block 4
Survival has a way of honing one’s skills, of making you hard, of desensitizing you to pain, violence, even death. Civilized nations typically do not have to deal with these kinds of human realities. Most civilized nations unleash their aggression and frustrations in civilized ways. They go to the gym and lift weights, peddle elliptical machines in a civilized way to release energy and keep fit to attract the civilized man or woman with dollars or sex, respectively, and not with a caveman’s club. They play or cheer for organized sports and other games in their community that substitute for the wholesale slaughter of people; games that prove the dominance of one city’s people over another. In Texas, nothing comes close to the jingoistic fanaticism of high school football. Despite its roots in tribal conquests, sport is a healthy way of releasing aggression.
But Hector ‘Sleepy’ Arana did not have the opportunity to participate in civilized sports. Going to the gym to work out was an opportunity he had only in jail. And any sort of conditioning exercise came from running from authorities or gunfire from rivals on the steamy roads of El Salvador. This was his life as early as the age of nine, when most American children were still trying to coax their parents to buy them Hannah Montana dolls or Transformer toys. There would be no playing in Hector Arana’s life. Running day and night, getting into fights, and robbing and thieving to survive made Hector a very tired boy. That’s why the Mara Salvatrucha gang he eventually joined called him “Sleepy.” Whenever he had a chance, whenever he felt safe, he would sleep.
His crimes in El Salvador made him run to Los Angeles. Entering as an illegal alien, his potential for a profitable job was minimal. After killing two gang members in defense of the L.A.-based Mara, it took little time for him to join the ranks of some of the city’s top drug runners.
But with murders executed by his command and by his own hands stacking up, even his ruthlessness needed to be curtailed. Captured twice by LAPD, but released both times by lack of evidence (and a good lawyer in the pocket of the Mara,) he was ordered to journey to Texas, where the Mara was close to setting up shop. Within days, he traveled to the Lone Star State, with a new outlook and a new attitude. Having experienced the consequences of his actions firsthand, he learned that the ruthless road had a high price. If it wasn’t for the lawyer, he would most certainly be in San Quentin. But he was given two chances at freedom, and he wasn’t going to spoil it.
That was, of course, until the double cross in the dark alley of Sixth Street. Just a learning curve, balancing ruthless efficiency with measured risks.
So when he arrived at jail, he anticipated the attacks from the mob of strangers restlessly imprisoned within its walls. Survival teaches you to find weapons, to make them. And before he was released into the general population, he was armed.
It was two men he had never seen before and would never see again. It was only a matter of seconds before both were sent to the morgue by his hands and a crude but effective shiv. To his surprise, he was not punished. Nick Lopez, Travis County Jail security guard, had watched the attack, and was there to help break it up—that is, restrain Sleepy after the men had their throats ripped open and faces pounded to meat pie.
Nick vouched for him, having enough influence within the ranks of the proper leadership as well as the inmates. He informed the officials that Sleepy acted in self-defense.
The influence and respect of Sleepy was quickly building within the facility. And the alliance between Nick and Sleepy was forming swiftly as well, all in the course of a day
.
The iron bars to the prison cells clicked, then rattled open. The inmates of Cell Block 4 stepped out, forming a line in front of their cells. Racial tensions were high, and though the deputies did not admit it, the meal times for inmates had been split along racial lines. The line for dinner Sleepy was now in was predominantly Hispanic.
The security guards led the line of Hispanics to the mess hall where they were served food under the watchful eyes of mirrored sunglasses worn by stout men holding riot shotguns.
Dressed from top to bottom in an orange jump suit, Sleepy pulled up a chair to dine on the jail’s fine cuisine.
His long hair was tied and held up by a hairnet, exposing his bushy moustache and pockmarked face. The tattoos, signifying his eternal allegiance to MS-13, were covered by the orange jump suit. Ink on his hands and neck were the only indication of his gang membership.
He was given no special treatment for his meal and was expected to sit among the general population. He had already sat with them once, where the initial contact with the men he killed occurred. The guards, however, kept a close eye on him. Quietly, Sleepy took note of his surroundings, intuitively connecting to the vibe of his immediate area. No one seemed to be threatening, posing, or challenging his status. Once everyone seemed settled, he began to eat.
Three Hispanic men out of his sight stood up from their table and approached Sleepy’s. They sat down next to him in spaces that immediately opened up by men who had quickly scooted over. Sleepy held tight to his plastic spoon, quietly gauging the men’s intentions.
“Bienvenidos, Sleepy,” one of them said.
“What’s your name?” Sleepy demanded, still curious as to their motivations.
“Tiny.” He was, in truth, tiny; five foot-three and perhaps one hundred fifteen pounds. “And this is Ducky, and this is Mousetrap. We’re down with you. And all my other boys are, too.” He indicated a table two places away from theirs. The men there nodded in acknowledgment.
“Y este cabron Lopez?”
Tiny knew just who he was talking about. “Con nosotros.”
“Que bueno,” Sleepy said, holding back his glee that Nick Lopez was, indeed, in the pocket of the gangs. “Que bueno.”
“He’s even been slipping us guard schedules, maps of this place. Everything.”
“Why the fuck is he doing that shit?”
“We don’t fuckin’ know, and don’t ask questions. Sabes como te digo?”
“Si, mon.”
Before the men could continue their conversation, a fight broke out between two inmates. One was swinging wild at his foe who he had pushed up against the wall. Blood was sprinkling around the fighters as one guy pummeled the other man’s face into a bloody mess. It was a sound Sleepy had heard many times before. Cracking skulls. It reminded him of eggs breaking, and somehow made him hungry for an egg sandwich.
Watching the scene unfold, one could describe it as a prison version of the start of World War I. Like the nations that had formed defensive pacts with one another before the start of the Great War, one inmate came to the aid of the man getting pulverized. Another came to the other man’s aid, and another to the other’s, and so on. Before long, the fight had numerous participants.
Sleepy, Tiny, and his other compatriots wisely moved away from the fracas and watched security jump in to squelch the mini-riot. By the time the guards reached the original combatants, the puncher had mounted his foe and had beaten the man’s face into a bloody mush that looked like several tomatoes had been stomped in preparation for a guacamole dip. There was no resistance from the man on the bottom. It was clear he was dead.
“Motherfucker bit me!” yelled the puncher as he allowed himself to be subdued by the guards.
Distracted by the action, no one cared to view or listen to the news report on the television screen above the lunchroom.
“…in other news, a San Antonio woman claims her mother rose from her
death bed at Brook Army Medical Center and violently attacked staff members
before being subdued by law enforcement officials. Dory Brewster has more…”
CHAPTER FIVE
11:37 PM
Quates Liquor, William Cannon and Congress
Suspicious Activity Call
“Watched Saw III last night when I couldn’t sleep,” Derek said over his cell phone.
Mike was turning his cruiser into William Cannon off of IH-35 south. After the catastrophe of their last call, Mike had convinced Derek to take out a separate cruiser. He hoped the alone time would give him ample opportunity to meditate on what had happened, and also so Derek would stop getting on his nerves, at least for a while. But it was a brave new world out there—a world with cellular phones.
Mike sighed before replying, “Saw III, huh? So what did you think?”
“I think I could come up with some better devices.”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked, taking a sip of coffee.
“Whoa. You mean you haven’t seen it?” Derek asked. He turned into William Cannon, en route to the same location Mike was headed.
“Not much for horror movies. Give me a chick-flick any day.”
Derek took a bite from his Snickers bar and talked with his mouth full. “This guy picks on people who make really bad choices and forces them…” he took a moment to swallow the rich nougat, peanuts, chocolate, and caramel concoction. “…He forces them to make hard choices that costs them or other people their lives. Anyway—”
“You notice something strange tonight?”
“What?”
“I’ve counted at least four military hummers out-and-about,” Mike said. “I’m talking mounted guns and all, driving up 35.”
“You heard the all-call at four o’clock, right?”
“What all-call?”
“Dispatch called and mentioned that Homeland Security would be
leading some relief exercises around town.”
“I didn’t get that memo.”
“I heard it loud and clear over the walkie-talkie.”
“Aw, shit,” Mike said. “I turned mine down when I was talking to the mechanic at Jiffy Lube. That was around four.”
“What were you doing at Jiffy Lube?”
Minding my own business, Mike thought, but instead said, “I think they fucked up the oil filter on my truck last week. I wanted to know if they were going to charge me to return it and fix it.”
“Why didn’t you fix it?”
“They messed it up. They need to fix it.”
“Mike, Mike, Mike. I love ya man, but you’re a gee-golly naïve sort of fellow. Just because they should fix it doesn’t mean they can’t talk circles around you instead.”
They pulled in at their destination, Quates Liquor, within seconds of each other. The small, narrow alley behind the store had a growing reputation of being a regular hangout for drug users and dealers, and this was at least the third time Mike and Derek had been called here.
They stepped out of their cruisers and clicked on their flashlights. The clouds tonight were thick and gloomy, like a heavy crocheted blanket of black and gray yarn spread across the sky. The concentrated beams from the flashlights danced on the pavement and walls of the liquor store like drunken specters.
“864 to dispatch. We’ve arrived at Quates Liquor. William Cannon and Congress. Over.”
Dispatch buzzed back. “Roger, 864. Use caution.”
Mike and Derek turned the corner and spotted two white males sitting on overturned trash cans. The first man immediately raised his hands in an unconscious show of guilt and obvious experience with police, (or having watched too many episodes of Cops,) while the other jumped up and started running.
Derek was already chasing after him. He shouted, “Stop!”
Mike shone his flashlight beam directly at the first suspect’s face. “Stand up, sir.” Familiar with this routine, the man obliged with no more encouragement. Mike secured his compliant suspect on the ground, face down on his belly, while D
erek was in the process of tackling his own suspect some twenty yards up the alley.
Mike and his suspect waited in awkward silence as they listened to the scuffle. Mike was reminded of a time when he was a child and was sleeping over at his friend’s house next door—in particular, the time when his friend broke the cookie jar—and Mike had had to sit in his friend’s living room while the parents gave his friend a drawn-out spanking in the garage at the end of the hall. The yelping was certainly similar.
Within moments, the familiar crackle of Derek’s tazer could be heard. The man on the ground in front of Mike cringed.
“Don’t taze me, bro,” the man said with a wry chuckle.
Mike sighed. “We’re fine here, friend,” he said.
The crackling of the tazer then stopped, but the noises that followed sounded a lot like swift kicks into blubbery guts.
Mike decided some conversation might drown out the disharmony of Derek’s brand of justice being administered in the distance. “What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Why did your friend feel he had to run, Charlie?”
“Heck if I know.”
The crackle of the tazer sounded again, accompanied by more yelping, and stopped after several seconds. The yelps turned to whimpers.
“So, Charlie, mind telling me what you were doing back here?”
“Just hangin’ with my friend.”
“You been doing any drugs tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“Stand up.”
The demonic laughter of the sinister tazer was reverberating through the narrow alley yet again as Charlie went through the process of standing up.
Mike shone the concentrated beam of his flashlight into his eyes. They were bloodshot and glazed.
“Turn around.”
Mike reached into the back pocket of Charlie’s Levis and plucked out his wallet. He flipped it open and inspected the Texas driver’s license inside. It revealed that Charlie’s full name was Charles Roth, currently nineteen years old, and he lived here in the city.
