Mules:: A Novel

by Jarred Martin

  “Okay.”

  Seve pulled the covers down to her waist and ripped through the sheath of bandages around her chest. He looked down at her and grimaced. “No, don’t try to look. Trust me, you don’t want to see.”

  He inserted the needle into the soft flesh at the top of one breast and carefully depressed the plunger. He pulled the needle out and did the same to her other breast. And finally, he injected her a third and fourth time near the bottoms of her breasts.

  Within a few seconds Els could no longer feel the pain. In fact, she couldn’t feel her chest at all. It was as if that battered part of herself had been transported miles away from her. The entire front of her body hung from her like some benumbed weight she was only vaguely aware of.

  “Feel better?”

  “Yes, lots,” Els said, sitting up.

  “Yeah, he told me it was some good shit. He said it would last for three or four hours. He gave me some more. I guess you’re going to need it.”

  “Did he give you something? For your head?”

  “No. I don’t think there’s much anyone can do for that.”

  “That’s too bad,” Els said, honestly. “My chest feels like my foot’s asleep. But it isn’t tingling.” She kicked off the covers and stood up.

  “Would you care to escort me to lunch, young lady? Or, I guess it’s breakfast for you.”

  “That sounds lovely.” She followed him through the door, stopping to bend down and pick up the box from the carpet. “Seve?”

  “Yes?”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days.”

  “Has anything. . . happened? Anything I should know about?”

  Seve stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. Even with his sunglasses on, she could see his face was wrought with grief. “We can talk about it later.”

  Downstairs in the kitchen it was dark as everything else in the house. Els sat down at the table. Karlstad padded across the floor and sat down at her feet, resting his head on her thigh while she scratched him behind his ear.

  “Breakfast or dinner?” asked Seve.

  Els thought a moment and said, “Breakfast.”

  “Good choice. Steak and eggs sound okay?”

  “You eat a lot of eggs, dude. Did you ever notice?”

  “Mhmm. Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Seve got two steaks wrapped in paper out of the fridge, plopped them down onto an iron skillet and looked back to Els. “This might take a minuet. Go ahead and turn on the TV if you want. Keep the volume down, though, my head.”

  Els picked up the remote from the counter top and clicked the TV on.

  There was little to see. She flipped through channels, all of them in Spanish, and landed on a telenovella. She watched while the room filled with the smell of cooking meat. On the screen there was a heated conversation between a good-looking man and a woman in an evening gown, all the while another woman, dressed as a maid, spied on them from a closet. Els didn’t understand any of it and changed the channel after a couple of minuets.

  She flipped around some more until she found something that made her pause.

  He face fell slack as she stared the screen.

  “Seve.”

  He paid her no attention, poked at a sizzling cut of steak, blood pooling around the top.

  “Seve!” Els shouted.

  Seve grimaced like he had been struck, dropped the fork and ran around the kitchen island to her. Els stood stock still, crippled by horror.

  “Elizabeth, what is it?” And then he followed her gaze to the television.

  It was a news program. A female reporter stood on a deserted dirt road, old wooden fence running off into the background, dust and weeds shooting up from the hard earth.

  She spoke in a frenzy of Spanish that Els could not understand: inserts of the road and long sweeping shots along the ground. As the camera panned along, a white arm came into frame and the camera followed it It was lying in the dirt, attached to nothing. Next came a leg, bloody, mottled with purple contusions, severed high at the thigh. A naked torso with a single arm attached, and nothing else. A hand, cut off at the wrist, fingers splayed in the dirt, eternally reaching. The camera moved upward to reveal the fence. Every other post for several feet held a severed head. They were all female, long hair stiff with dried blood, eyes pale milk white, mouths open in silent screams. The camera moved back to the ground in a wide shot. In the center of the road was a scattered tangle of limbs and torsos spread out the width of the road. It was surreal. Els felt like she was looking at a jumble of doll parts strewn along the ground, but they were real. Everywhere body parts were heaped together like the aftermath of some battle where primitives descended upon a group of unsuspecting women and left their remains to rot under the sun as some sort of gesture of their dominance.

  “Oh my God,” said Els. “It’s them. It’s the women they were holding at the house.”

  Seve tried to wrap his arms around her, tried to block her view of the screen. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you.”

  Els pushed him away. The camera panned up once more to focus on one head in close up. The lifeless eyes stared out at Els, in the wide hanging mouth Els could see the bottom row of teeth curving back toward the black tunnel of throat.

  “You shouldn’t have to see this,” said Seve, reaching for the remote.

  Els snatched it away from him. “Yes, I should. I should see what I did. They’re all dead because of me.”

  “No,” said Seve finally wrestling the remote from her and shutting the TV off. “You didn’t kill them. Don’t even think that. They were killed by animals. Animals that wear the skins of men, not by you. You were trying to save them. And you did save their companions.”

  “I’m a fool,” Els said, fighting back tears. “No matter what happens now, I’ve failed. I made a promise to save them, and now they’re dead. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing I can do will bring them back.”

  “No,” said Seve sternly. “What you do matters. Regrettably, lives were lost, yes, but that doesn’t mean you’ve been defeated. It’s not a simple as that. This is a fucking war, don’t you see? There are no clean victories in war. How many more women will this happen to if you do nothing? If you stop now. You’re fighting on the side of right. And no matter what they do, they only win if you stop fighting. If you decide to let them continue.”

  Els wiped a tear away. “But is it so right? If I’m right then why won’t you join me? Why won’t you fight with me. You’ve got just as much invested in this as I have. It’s just as personal for you. And if you help me, if together we can tear them down, cripple them, and people see, don’t you think others will begin to realize that something can be done?”

  Seve hung his head and reached up to take off his sunglasses. He looked up at Els, right into her eyes even though it caused him great pain. “I can’t. Don’t you see that? I’m broken. They broke me. I have no desire to hurt anyone, to take revenge. That part of me was beaten out of my head and it leaked all over the ground behind a barn somewhere in the country. It’s just not in me anymore.”

  “Or maybe you’re afraid. Maybe they showed you what it’s like to really hurt, and you’re afraid to feel that again. You’re not afraid to kill. You’re afraid to die.” Els went to the package on the countertop and peeled away the strip of tape holding the top flaps together. She tore them open and a rush of putrescence crept out of the box. Els reached inside and pulled out what Seve had already known to be in there: Neesha’s rotting head.

  The skin was dry and cracked and gray-looking, her eyes were dull globs that looked like petroleum jelly, and Els held her by the hair. Held her up so that Seve had no choice but to see. “This is what it looks like in person. Take a long look. This is what they do. They do it to innocent people and they don’t care. This is what it looks like to be made small and weak. This is what happens when people dominate others, because they’re bigger and stron
ger. This is what happens when people like us, people that can do something, stand by and let it happen. If you’re right, if this is a war, then I guess all I have left to fight for is revenge. And that’s as good a reason as any. So I have a reason to fight, do you have a reason not to? Think about it, Seve. And if you find the answer, you know where I’ll be.”

  And then she was gone. She walked out the door. To what, Seve was afraid to think of.

  He stood there in the kitchen, holding his sunglasses in his hand. He stood there for a long time until he was forced to move by the smoke coming off the burning steak on the stove top.

  FIFTY SEVEN

  Primo let the last car roll past and locked the gate behind it. He pushed up the sleeve of his black suit jacket to expose the gold colored Rolex, the band, stretched to capacity around his massive wrist, still managed to trap little arm hairs and pinch him, but he wore it proudly, like the suit. It was too dark to see the face, but it wouldn’t have done him any good anyway, he couldn’t tell time, neither, for that matter, could the watch.

  He walked up the drive, the little sliver of moon above him cast no light but only seemed to make the shadows darker. Some unidentifiable insects buzzed away somewhere on the hill that rose above the house to the East. Cars and trucks lined the path and he walked past them, only dark silhouettes of metal and shining paint. He thought that he would like a new car, but he didn’t know how to hot wire one like in the movies, and people rarely ever left their keys in them anymore. It was sad, nobody seemed to trust anyone these days.

  He walked in the front door. Tehano music blared. The house was packed full. Everyone had been meeting at the house the last few days, and he really enjoyed it. People brought cases of tequila and tonight there was food. He came to the kitchen table, on it were aluminum trays of meat, tortillas, a tray of fried vegetables, onions and hot chili peppers.

  He used a plastic spoon to load a tortilla with shredded pork and vegetables, folded it over with big, clumsy hands. He took a bite.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  He turned to see Gusano standing behind him. Primo did not answer him, he only stood chewing. What he was doing should have seemed obvious.

  “Why the fuck are you in here?” Gusano asked again.

  Still Primo said nothing. Why was he in there? Because everyone else was. It was where you go. It was in. He took another bite.

  “Stop standing there like a retard and say something.” Gusano reached out to take the tortilla away from him, peppery grease leaked out one end as his hand squeezed around it.

  “Hey, I was eating that.”

  “It speaks,” said Gusano, sarcastically. “You aren't supposed to be in here eating, though, are you? You’re supposed to be outside doing the gate.”

  Primo’s eyes never left the squished burrito in Gusano’s hand. “I did the gate already. Everyone’s here. Now I’m gonna eat some of this food.”

  “You ain’t eating shit. Go back out there and do the gate like you were told. Go on. Get the fuck out of here.”

  “But I already did it. If I go back out there, all the food’s gonna be gone when I come back.”

  “Who cares? It’s shit anyway. Now go.”

  Primo cast one last longing glance at the table. “What are you gonna do?”

  Gusano was getting annoyed. “I’ve got to feed some of this shit to those bitches we got locked in the back room. I don’t really want to, but we all got shit we gotta do.”

  “I’ll do it if you let me eat.”

  “No. You’re doing the gate. But, since you’re so eager to help, I’ll let you dump out their shit bucket. How’s that sound?”

  “No. I’ll go do the gate.”

  “Good boy. Get to it then.”

  Gusano watched the giant thug slouch away. He threw the squished, half-eaten burrito down on the table and loaded up another with a sadistic amount of chilies.

  Fucking bitches.

  He walked to the room, snapped the padlock open and pushed in the door.

  As always when the door opened, they cringed and hid in the corners. They were like wild animals, defenseless and overcome with fear, locked in a strange cage they could never begin to understand. Like mice when you put your hand in their cage, thought Gusano.

  There were only two of them left now, both with their tits full of heroin. A lot easier to manage now than when the room had been filled with over a dozen other women. Gusano could still smell the stink of their collective shit lingering in the room like ghosts with unfinished business.

  The girls had both fully recovered from the surgery, but they stayed behind because with Spears gone, there were few willing to drive them across the border. That was putting a serious damper on productivity, but Gusano had faith that Calisto would iron out the details. The room would be full of bitches again, filling the house with their shit. But that was okay. That shit smell was the smell of cash rolling in, and Gusano could hardly object to that.

  He threw the food down on the floor. “Dinner time, you unlucky sluts. Eat the fuck up.”

  He didn’t stay to watch and see if they ate. He didn’t care. They would eat if they were hungry. If not, well, that wasn’t his problem. His only problem was that those bitches were earning zero income at the moment. If Calisto didn’t get the distribution angle figured out soon, Gusano thought maybe he could talk him into letting him sell the girls’ pussies. Be better than nothing. Calisto probably wouldn’t go for that shit though. It couldn’t hurt to ask.

  He left the room and and snapped the lock back on the door.

  Gusano went back to the table. There were plastic cups and bottles of tequila there. He filled the bottom of a cup and drank it back slow. As he lowered the cup, he noticed a face staring at him. Some youngblood punk Gusano couldn’t name.

  “What?” Gusano demanded.

  “Nothing, man. It’s just, uh, some fucked up shit happening lately.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know. First Leandro, a few weeks later the boys keeping those bitches locked up in the cages getting killed and shit. It’s just fucked, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. Happens though, don’t it?”

  “Well yeah, for sure, but it’s like, I heard some shit about it. People talk and, you know, some people get worried. Not me, though, I’m just saying.”

  “What the fuck are you babbling about? What are people saying?”

  “Well, just, you know, about who did them all, I guess.”

  Gusano gave him a prodding look.

  “Well, it’s like, they shot tear gas through the windows with, like, grenade launchers or some shit, right? When they came in to clean up, they found the smoke cans, the grenades, you know? And they said American Army or something like that on them. And just, some people thought that that might mean that, like, the Americans are getting involved. I mean, I ain’t scared or nothing, it’s just that, like, some people worry. Not me, but, you hear anything like that? About Americans?”

  “That’s bullshit. Where’d you hear that, huh? America ain’t doing shit. Maybe on the border, but not down here. Just cause you find a tear gas cannister that says America on it, doesn’t mean anything. I can get you a fucking case of tear bombs or anything else stamped with a dozen countries on it if you want. Don’t mean shit. The next motherfucker you hear spreading rumors, you tell them come talk to me directly. I’ll sort them out. They won’t be saying shit after that.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool, man. Me, myself, personally, I don’t repeat shit like that to nobody, like I say. I just heard it, that’s all.”

  Gusano looked down, pouring himself a second drink. “See that you don’t. Now get the fuck out of here, I’m tired of looking at you. And if you see Primo, tell him I said to empty out the shit bucket. And don’t just dump it out, you gotta wash it off, too, or it won’t do any good about the smell.”

  “Right. I’ll tell him.”

  Gusano drained the cup and nodded to himself as the kid
walked away.

  He poured another. Fuck. He didn’t know how much stock to put in the kid’s story, but if it was true, if America was starting to get involved with the cartels, if they were supplying paramilitary outfits, it was definitely cause for concern. He needed to talk to Calisto about this. Fuck. He hadn’t heard a goddamned thing about the tear gas cannisters. Maybe that meant it wasn’t true. Maybe it meant Calisto was keeping it from him. Why? He’s worried, that’s why. Fuck. Where was he? Where was Calisto? Somewhere in the house. In one of the bedrooms. Spending a lot of time alone lately. Something was up with that, too. Why would Calisto come here to be alone? He hates it here. And if he wanted be alone, why demand everyone else show up? Fuck. This was starting to make sense now. Making everyone come here, the booze and food to keep everyone occupied. Gusano had played enough games of chess to realize what he was doing: it was like the beginning of the game. Calisto was the king and he was surrounding himself with pawns and knights. Fuck. Calisto was expecting something bad to happen. He was waiting for them to make the first move. It would be soon, too. Americans. Fuck. He needed to talk with Calisto right away.

  Gusano set the cup down and made to leave, but just then, the youngblood punk came hurrying up to him, face too pale like the sunless pallor of gringos who lived way up north.

  “What is it? You talk to Primo.”

  The kid was flustered. “Yes, I mean, no. I saw him but. . . you gotta come see this, man. It’s fucked up.”

  Run. His first instinct. He had to swallow the urge and it went down like a poorly chewed piece of fried tortilla. “What is it?”

  “Man, it’s better if you just come and see. Oh shit, man.”

  Gusano followed the kid to the front door and looked out without stepping outside.

  Fuck.

  He looked down the hill and saw Primo. Even in the dark of night he was impossible to miss.