He shut the water off and used wads of fresh paper towels to clean up the bloody residue in the sink. When he was done the results weren't half bad. His nose was still slightly swollen and had a bruise on it, but it wasn't broken as he'd originally suspected. There was the beginning of a fresh shiner starting to form under his right eye but the worst of it wouldn't be fully visible for a couple more days. Other than the covered wounds on his hand and ear he looked like he'd been through no worse than a spirited bar fight.
“All you have to do is get on a plane,” Zack told his reflection in the mirror. “There will be time to sort out everything when you're back home safe and sound but if the cops catch you before then you're spending the rest of your life rotting away in a Mexican prison so be fucking cool.”
He nodded to himself, took a deep breath, and headed back out into the main terminal. With the suit jacket on and dress shirt over jeans and sneakers he looked like a young professional who'd maybe come down on business and managed to work in just enough recreational time to himself get in an adventure. Scanning across the crowded room he saw several police officers and a few Federales, but none of them seemed worked up. They were busy going about their jobs or simply standing guard, their eyes unblinking, their hands resting idly on their menacing black automatic rifles.
Keep it together, he told himself. You're almost out of this nightmare.
He stopped in front of the arrivals and departures board. There were two flights headed back to Los Angeles on American and one on Alaska Airlines. Since they'd come down just the day before on American he thought it might be safer to try returning with a different carrier. He passed a gift store on his way to the ticket counter and ducked inside. He picked up a pair of aviator shades, a few popular magazines, a plush neck pillow, and a computer bag. While the clerk was ringing him up Zack threw in a couple of almond Snickers and a pack of chewing gum.
“Will there be anything else sir?” the clerk asked in a polished voice.
Zack shook his head no. He paid in cash, stuffing the magazines and the pillow into the computer bag. The clerk gave him his change and he slipped the shades on and left eating the candy. He didn't realize how hungry he was but the candy tasted amazing and the sugar gave him a boost that hit his system right away. By the time he'd made his way over to the Alaska Airlines counter he'd scarfed down both bars. A very young looking Mexican woman with big bright eyes and a wide friendly smile was more than happy to issue him a ticket.
“How many bags are you checking today sir?” she asked.
“Just the one,” he said, putting the bag he'd taken from the back of the limo up on the scale. He patted the new computer bag he'd just bought and smiled at her. “I'm taking this one with me as my carry on.”
“Perfect,” the perky brunette said, putting her hand out for his passport. He did his best to keep his hand from shaking as he passed it to her. Zack felt her eyes briefly roam from his face to his hands as she entered his passport information into her computer. Her well-manicured nails raced over the keys, clicking away like a snake's rattle. She paused suddenly and he held his breath. She looked up and he felt like his heart was going to jump out of his chest.
She's on to me, he thought suddenly, the urge to drop everything and run rising back up in him like a deadly viper. He casually glanced around trying to decide on the best escape route should it come to that, but saw little hope. There were too many witnesses, too many people swarming through the airport for him to make a clean get away. They would be on him in seconds if he bolted. He was sure of it. If they took him in he'd never see any of the people he loved ever again, including his parents.
“Sir?” Zack turned back to the woman behind the counter. She smiled politely and he felt the stitch in his chest relax just slightly. “I said how would you like to pay?”
“Try this one,” Zack said, his voice trembling as he tried to remain calm. He slid a credit card across the counter to her. “I can use the points.”
She took the card without hesitation and ran it through her machine with a swipe of her delicate wrist. He held his breath as she waited for approval. He expected at any moment a swarm of armed Federales to descend on him, automatic weapons drawn, ready to take down a wanted cop killer. Instead the machine erupted in a series of beeps as it spit out a new boarding pass. The young woman tore part of the pass off and wrapped it around his suitcase handle before placing it on a conveyor behind her. She slipped the paper ticket into a folded booklet and handed it to him.
“Your flight is already boarding at gate seven,” she said with a beaming smile. “Have a nice trip home!”
“Thank you,” he replied, already slinking away with his new computer bag tucked under his arm. He held his passport and the boarding pass in his sweaty palm and tried to look casual as he made his way towards gate seven and got in line. Glancing at the mirror overhead he saw a series of police officers walking side by side up the terminal. He felt the pit of his stomach drop out as he saw them fan out and begin searching the gates. The urge to turn and run came crashing over him like a rogue wave, but his feet wouldn't cooperate. They felt nailed to the floor. Any minute now they would be on him.
“Ticket please,” a voice close to him said, shaking him back to reality. Zack looked up to see the male flight attendant with his hand out waiting for his pass.
“Here,” was all he could manage to say as he willed his hand to rise up and hand the passport and boarding pass to the overly chipper attendant.
“Gracias amigo,” the man smiled, tearing the back end off of the pass and running it through a machine. He handed it to back to Zack. “You're all set. Welcome aboard sir.”
Zack stumbled forward clumsily feeling like a man who'd been pardoned at the last minute for a second time. There was a fat woman in an obscenely short yellow dress arguing with a female flight attendant near the entrance to the plane, causing the line of people boarding to slow down. Zack turned back cautiously to sneak a peek at the terminal behind him. There was a loud commotion, followed by yelling and a woman's high pitch screams. Zack strained to see what the source of the commotion was. Several of the officers had tackled a man to the ground and were wrestling with him to get their suspect under control. Zack felt his stomach muscles clench up as he waited in anticipation. After what felt like a small eternity they lifted the man up to his feet. Zack saw at once that it was Oscar. They were patting him down when Zack heard a woman's voice behind him.
“Excuse me,” the female attendant sweetly sang. “We need for you to take your seat please.”
Zack turned to see that the line of people in front of him had cleared and now he was holding up several anxious passengers trying to board. They glared at him in annoyance. He quickly turned back to the flight attendant.
“Sorry,” he said in a deep voice, turning and marching onto the plane.
Chapter Sixteen
He was back home in his own childhood bed. The doorbell was ringing loudly again and again. He sat up and stretched, looking around. His parents had left everything the exact same way he'd left it when he went off to college, right down to the Ferrari and Lamborghini posters on the wall with bikini models draped over the exotic cars. Warm sunlight beamed in through his bedroom window.
Must be well into the afternoon, Zack thought as he stretched and basked in the warmth. Maybe that's why no one is home to answer the door.
He got up and pulled on a pair of freshly washed jeans. One thing he loved about coming home from school was having clean clothes all the time. Living on campus he was lucky if he managed to do laundry once a week. His mom, on the other hand, did several loads every single day. He lifted his shirt and inhaled. The fabric was soft and clean and smelled like some kind of perfume.
Ocean breeze, he thought as he pulled it on over his head. That's what the company who makes the fabric softener calls it, but it smells more like flowery lotion than anything.
The doorbell was still ringing as he stumbled out of his roo
m and down the hallway past his little sister Gwen's room. At sixteen she was one of the most popular kid in his her high school which meant she wasn't around much, but when she was the door would be closed with either Demi Lovato or Taylor Swift cranked up behind it. A secret world none of us can ever really penetrate or understand, he thought. His sister's door was now wide open and he could see her dirty clothes strewn on the floor as he passed.
The doorbell didn't slack. It kept ringing over and over, the sound somehow growing louder as it did.
“I'm coming,” he groused, gingerly padding down the hallway towards the door. He'd been lost in the most realistic dream, something about a beach vacation gone wrong with his best friend, but it was slipping away from him in pieces. The more he struggled to remember details the faster it faded.
It had something to do with Mexico, he vaguely recalled. And Dave was in it. And there was a beautiful girl but I can't remember her name, just her face.
The doorbell grew louder still, accompanied now by a series of fierce knocks that made Zack's stomach churn in dread.
“I said I'm coming,” Zack shouted, reaching for the shiny knob.
He threw the door open but no words came out. Standing before him on his parent's porch covered in blood and broken glass from head to toe was none other than Angel. His eyes burned with a murderous rage as he sprang at Zack with both hands out, knocking him on his back. Zack punched and kicked at him but it was no use. It was like Angel was made out of some foreign, unyielding metal that seemed to suck all of the energy from inside of him. Angel wrapped his stubby fingers around Zack's throat and began to choke the life out of him.
“You cannot escape us,” Angel laughed, his voice now a dark, demonic rattle. “There is nowhere you can run, no place on Earth or hell you can hide that we won't find you. You're going to pay for what you did! YOU'RE WHOLE FAMILY IS GOING TO PAY!”
Zack fought with all his might but it was no use. He was slipping away, his eyes bulging out of his head as he fought for air. Looking over Angel's shoulder he saw Reyes and Maria appear in ghostly form, their bodies made from a swirling mass of black clouds. They laughed at Zack's pain and goaded their evil son on.
“Drink in his suffering,” Maria cackled, her face contorting into dark smoke.
“Finish him off son,” Officer Reyes urged as Angel clamped his hands down with all his strength, crushing Zack's windpipe. As he lay there waiting for death to take him Reyes leaned down until their faces were almost touching, ice cold tendrils of hellish black smoke coiling off of him like writhing serpents.
“I told you,” he boomed, a flickering serpent’s tongue flicking in and out of his mouth. “You're going to pay for what you did to my family, starting with your little sister.”
A burst of energy from deep inside of him exploded and he began to thrash around once more, kicking and punching and screaming at the top of his lungs.
“NOOOOO!!!”
Zack shot up in his seat and nervously looked around. His hand and his ear throbbed with pain. The roar of the plane’s engines was a steady rumble that brought him back to reality. He looked down to see that he'd bled through his hand bandage and a crimson trail was leaking down his hand and dripping on the plastic covered aisle lights. When he gazed back up he saw an old white guy wearing a cowboy hat staring at him with amusement from across the aisle.
“Looks like you were having one hell of a dream,” the man guffawed. “You were thrashing around punching the armrest and mumbling to yourself.”
“Where are we?” Zack asked in a stupor.
“Good old You Ess of Eh. Just crossed over the border,” the man replied matter-of-factly. “We're out over the ocean just past San Diego or thereabouts. Shouldn't be long now until we land back at LAX. I hope it doesn't take too long to get through customs. I've got dinner plans in Calabasas.”
“Excuse me,” Zack said, unfastening his lap belt and headed back towards the lavatories. He passed the overly-friendly male flight attendant who'd taken his ticket.
“Sir the fasten seat belts sign is still on,” the airline employee informed him with an exaggerated sigh. “Can you please return to your seat until the Captain turns it off. Sir!”
Zack didn't respond. He slid into the open bathroom and locked the door behind him. Reaching carefully into his front right pocket he fished the last of the painkillers out and popped them in his mouth, rinsing them down with some water from the sink. Carefully he unwound the soiled bandage on his hand and stared at the gaping puncture wound.
It looks like a little red mouth, he thought absentmindedly as he watched the fresh blood pool back into the gash admiring the way it glistened.
He'd need stitches, no doubt about it, but as far as he was concerned that was a problem he could live with. He'd survived. So long as the plane didn't crash before they got back to LAX he was going to be okay.
“I'm alive,” he said, his voice shaky as he let the words sink in. “Dear God I made it out alive.”
He sat on the toilet and began to sob as he waited for the little yellow pills to kick in and wash his memory away.
-THE END-
Afterword
I had the original idea to write Saint Death back in 2004 as a screenplay. I'd just written and sold a horror script called “Shock Therapy” that never ended up seeing the light of day, despite being shot and edited as part of a seed deal for a major Hollywood studio. Although I knew the basic plot line I was missing many of the details that would coalesce over the next decade to make it a reality as the short novel you (presumably) just read. Among them are my travels through Mexico including a road trip from Nogales to Saylita, an unforgettable trip to Cabo San Lucas, and my time in Puerto Vallarta.
While I never had any experience more sinister than petty theft befall me in my travels through Mexico, and the vast majority of people I encountered were friendly and kind, not everyone visiting from the United States has the same to say about their time south of the border. There actually are dozens of websites online that describe the types of police corruption I portray in Saint Death, and unfortunately they report shake downs and scams like the ones I describe in nearly every single popular beach town in Mexico. A simple internet search of Cabo San Lucas will reveal elements I cribbed to spin this yarn for a more realistic feel. Though far-fetched at points it might have seemed it was, believe it or not, always based on real events.
I was also influenced by the horrifying true story of Adolfo Constanzo, a black magic practitioner in Mexico City who performed grim sacrificial rituals on behalf of cartel bosses and their hit men to supposedly make them invincible against police and impervious to bullets. Along with his appointed High Priestess Sara Maria Aldrete their cult sold voodoo protection packages to superstitious gangsters for around $40,000 a pop.
The evil duo's reign of terror ended when, working on their behalf, a group of their devotees abducted an American college student named Mark Kilroy from outside a bar in Mexico he was partying at while on Spring Break. Kilroy was brought to the cult's ranch and sacrificed. When the Mexican authorities eventually raided the property they discovered fifteen chopped up human bodies buried on the premises. Constanzo died in a literal hail of bullets, by his own request, and Aldrete surrendered and was given sixty years in prison.
And then there is the Skinny Lady herself, Saint Death. I became aware of Santa Muerte over the last few years from news articles and pop culture references like the infamous one in Breaking Bad. I decided the growing practice of her worship, particularly the darker aspect that has emerged, would make a great post for my bimonthly horror column Dark Dreams on The Escapist. I’ve included that article here at the end so you the reader can see just how real and terrifying the worship of Saint Death can be when it takes this darker form. As you will see much of what I learned in my studies was incorporated into the story itself, and rightly so. It is chilling in an unimaginable way and proves yet again that reality is far scarier than anything a horror writer cou
ld ever dream up.
Devan Sagliani
9/04/15
DARK DREAMS: The Rise in Popularity of Saint Death
Nacozari, Mexico is a quiet little copper mining town nestled into the northeast part of Sonora, not far from the U.S. Border crossing in Nogales. The last time anyone bothered to do a census, back around the turn of the century, the humble city boasted just over fourteen thousand residents, a fair number who were both poor and living in shacks. 44-year-old Silvia Meraz, along with seven people associated with her, were among these destitute – including her boyfriend Eduardo Sanchez, her father, her son, three daughters and a daughter-in-law. In fact they were so poor that both the government and the church regularly took pity on them, offering free food, used clothes and even farm animals. The men were known to dig through the trash looking for scraps of food or valuable items they could resell while many of the women were presumed to be prostitutes. Mexican officials became suspicious that Meraz was using her residence for sex tourism after seeing strange men from out of town frequently visiting, but never gathered enough evidence to arrest anyone.
When Martin Rios, a 10-year-old boy, went missing in July 2010, his mother told authorities that friends of theirs had seen him begging in the streets near the border of Douglas, Arizona. After searching for months there was still no sign of him. He was never seen again. In early March of 2011 another 10-year-old boy, Jesus Martinez, went missing, prompting Sonora State's missing persons unit to send a couple agents to Nacozari to find out what was going on. They discovered that the boys knew several of the same people. Martin Rios was the son of the ex-girlfriend of Sanchez. Jesus Martinez was the step-grandson of Meraz. Both boys were frequent visitors at Meraz's residence on the outskirts of town. Desperate for answers the agents began to put pressure on Meraz and her family until one of them slipped up or admitted what they knew. Eventually their persistence paid off.
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