by Joe Nobody
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Bella Dona decided some air would help to clear the last remnants of the nightmare from her mind. Taking one last glance at the previous evening’s entertainment, she smiled knowingly and then pulled a robe from the nightstand. After splashing some water on her face and pulling a brush through her hair, she made for the porch.
Despite the early hour, the guard posted outside the master suite was awake and alert. That wasn’t surprising. Being assigned to house duty was the ultimate career path at the plantation. Besides, everyone knew that sentries who were caught sleeping would be whipped until no flesh remained on their backs. Most died during the administration, and even if they survived the lashes, the almost-certain infection that followed was the ultimate punishment.
“Good morning, Señorita. Is everything okay?” the burly guard inquired.
“Yes, everything is fine. I just need some air,” Bella Dona replied with a matter of fact tone.
The house was absolutely silent as she navigated the long hall and then descended the massive staircase that dominated the great room. The hardwood beneath her bare feet was as solid as the day it had been laid over 200 years prior.
The plantation’s matriarch knew the morning’s tranquility wouldn’t last long. Word of her waking would rapidly spread through the servants’ quarters. The aroma of coffee and breakfast would soon waft through the air as the news of her pre-dawn rising spread.
The hands of slaves had built El Castillo well, the estate having weathered sun, storm, revolution, and apocalypse with grace and dignity. Built in the early 1800s to mimic the massive plantations that dotted the Deep South of the U.S., Bella’s forefathers had wanted to imitate what were the most economically successful agro-businesses in the world at the time. That had included antebellum architecture and forced labor.
The castle had initially drawn scorn and skepticism from her neighbors who believed the massive structure was an eyesore at worst, visual oddity at best. Over the years, that sentiment disappeared as those competing operations were bought out or absorbed by the estate’s expansion.
Bella Dona’s ancestors had been ruthless, sage businessmen who thrived while others failed. Neither drought, nor war, nor recession seemed to slow the plantation’s relentless spread. When Mexico abolished slavery in 1830, the Castle’s masters had been ready to purchase neighboring operations as they plunged into financial ruin. Opportunists to their core, El Castillo’s kitchens had produced baguettes as well as tortillas when the French cavalry pillaged the countryside.
The front door opened before she could reach for the knob, another sentry trying to impress her with his alertness.
She stepped out onto the verandah, still having trouble shaking the foreboding residue of the nightmare. In the early light of pre-dawn, she immediately verified that the fields were indeed green and that no river of blood flowed across the volcanic-rich soil.
There was still something in the air, however … something that polluted the normally refreshing richness of thriving crops and freshly tilled earth.
“Is everything all right, madam?” the guard asked, seeming to sense her discomfort.
“Has the night been quiet?”
“Yes, madam. All is well,” he replied with confidence.
She wandered to the end of the porch and surveyed the hills, still unable to shake the nightmare’s echo. As her gaze swept the horizon, a pair of headlights radiated in the distance, their bouncing beams obviously heading for the big house.
After exchanging troubled looks with the attending guard, Bella Dona watched the approaching truck with apprehension. While the plantation’s operations often included motor vehicles of all shapes and sizes, the hour and driver’s urgency were out of the ordinary.
Ignoring the additional sentries summoned by the unusual occurrence, Bella Dona waited patiently as the pickup closed the distance.
A ring of security men encircled El Castillo’s mistress when the truck finally came to a stop in the main drive. While it was extremely unlikely that any unauthorized person could get within five kilometers of the big house, Bella Dona’s bodyguards weren’t taking any chances.
A familiar face exited the truck, and for a moment, Bella Dona thought the event would prove anticlimactic.
Castro’s appearance engendered a wave of relief through the gathered security men, but that quickly dissipated. “You’re already awake, my lady. Good. I was dreading the thought of interrupting your rest,” announced Bella Dona’s top lieutenant.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, now wondering if the dream had truly been a premonition or if she even believed in such nonsense.
Castro waited until the throng of guards dissipated, marching toward the porch wearing the scowl of a man who was dreading the delivery of bad news. For an instant, he considered couching his report. Perhaps delaying his proclamation until the kitchen offered coffee might be the wiser course.
After brief consideration, he decided to get it over with. Bella was famous for her lack of patience. “There’s been an incident,” he stated, trying to temper the apprehension in his voice.
“Go on.”
“One of the teams searching for the banditos has been ambushed. All of them are dead.”
A fire blazed in Bella Dona’s eyes, and for a moment, Castro braced his hefty frame for the eruption that was sure to follow. The plantation’s mistress was well known for a blistering temper, such outbursts often resulting in an extremely painful death for those who displeased her.
Instead, a cool anger filled Bella Dona’s throat. “The villagers?”
“Yes, they were involved.”
“Burn that shithole to the ground. I don’t want there to be two bricks left standing. Wipe that slum off the face of the earth. Send men and exterminate them all. They have been warned,” she commanded with an icy tone.
“There’s more.”
“Yes?”
“Gringos,” Castro replied, again preparing for the fiery outburst.
Now Bella Dona understood Castro’s hesitation. “From the United States?”
“No, mistress. The villagers we interrogated claimed a group of Tejas crossed the river and were involved in the gunfight.”
“Military?”
“That is unclear. The peasants claim that a woman was with the Texans. Another of the men we questioned stated that the intruders had military grade weapons and fought like demons. He even went so far as to claim that the Tejas attacked both our men and those from the village.”
As anticipated, Castro’s words troubled his boss deeply. Rumors and wild stories of a new organization called the Alliance had reached Central Mexico several months ago. As Bella Dona’s influence and control expanded, the plantation’s managers had encountered several farmers, traders, and others who spoke of a government reorganizing north of the Rio Grande.
These accounts had been confused by the arrival of a representative from Washington. When the Americans had first arrived at the plantation, Bella Dona and her men had assumed that the U.S. government was doing its best to reestablish the rule of law across the anarchical landscape that dominated the once-great superpower.
Bella Dona and her extensive management team didn’t trust the Yankees for many reasons.
First, like any predator, there was a natural tendency to protect territory. Since the apocalypse, the ecosystem of the plantation was reinvented, delicate, and far from established. Like all immature organizations, the men and woman who ran El Castillo’s ever-expanding operations feared competition, influence, and any outside meddling that might interfere with their recovery and growth.
Central Mexico’s people had suffered as badly as any on the planet, and the memories of the apocalypse’s aftermath were still fresh in the survivors’ minds. All of them had lost family members to the starvation and violence. Millions had perished horribly, with children and the elderly suffering the worst. Over half of the population had succumbed to disease or malnutrition …
or worse yet, at the hand of their fellow man.
Bella’s leadership, brutal discipline, and shrewd management had pulled the local people away from the edge of the abyss. Word spread like the firestorms that ravaged Mexico City and other metropolitan areas. Food, shelter, and sanctuary were available at the plantation.
That news brought both those who desperately needed help as well as those who lived by the barrel of a gun. The plantation had to defend itself almost daily. Bella Dona and her men survived, but barely.
There were too many starving souls, the sheer numbers constantly threatening to overwhelm Bella Dona’s resources. Those multitudes, combined with the roving bands of armed raiders and nomadic gangs, had nearly spelled the end on more occasions than she could remember.
Early on, she tried to frighten the people away. She and her men became harsh, grew mean and intolerant. Still, the metro cities’ refugees streamed to the plantation and stayed no matter how miserable things became. Indentured servitude was better than starvation, rape gangs, dehydration, or the illnesses that flourished outside of Bella Dona’s territory.
Anyone who was willing to work … to do anything for a full belly and a roof overhead, was welcome at the plantation. Even then, people tried to game the communal system. Many arrived at the edge of her property too weak for labor. Bella had lost count of the thousands that she had fed and nursed back to health only to find that they had snuck away in the night, often stealing anything they could carry. Again, the rules were tightened to the point where a long-term commitment was required to stay. Breaking that promise carried the penalty of death. There were no rights, no pay, no privileges – only servitude, hard labor, and unflinching loyalty to Bella Dona and her managers.
Many called it slavery, and the world had hardened Bella Dona to the point where she was comfortable with the term. History was thick with great civilizations that had survived, and even thrived, on forced labor after cataclysmic events. Why should Central Mexico be any different?
Terri and Bishop found a comfortable spot in the sun and settled in as Grim piloted them north across the lake. Using the bright rays and warm air to dry, the couple tried to digest what had just happened.
“We have more questions now than we did before crossing the border,” Bishop complained. “Rather than solve the mystery, we’ve only managed to wander deeper into murky waters.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Terri refuted. “We know that there are at least two organized groups in Mexico and that they don’t like each other very much.”
“I think there are at least three groups. I ‘m pretty sure we haven’t met the people who shot up the convoy.”
Terri had to consider her husband’s comment for a bit before finally agreeing. “You’re right about that. And we still don’t have a clear motive for their attack.”
“Set them free,” Bishop mumbled, barely audible over the big boat’s motors. “We have no idea why the attackers scrawled that on the earthmover. It just doesn’t make any sense. Why burn the food instead of stealing it? Why massacre the truckers when they could have just robbed them at gunpoint?”
Butter appeared just then, relaying a message from the bridge that they were almost back to the marina. “Grim wants everyone ready to help with the dock lines. He’s never driven a boat this big, and he is worried because the wind has picked up a bit.”
Evidently, Hannah had spotted them gliding across the lake, the marina’s owner and a young woman waving Grim toward an open pier. A few minutes later, the dock lines were being pulled tight as the captain shut down the massive engines.
“You found her!” Hannah shouted as the SAINT team disembarked. “Where was she? Where did all these bullet holes come from?”
Without going into a lot of detail, Bishop explained the approximate location where they’d discovered the boat. “Sorry about all the holes,” he added. “We weren’t the one doing the shooting … at least not in the direction of your boat.”
With an experienced eye, Hannah scanned her vessel fore to aft, finally pronouncing, “We’ll have her ship shape and good as new in less than a month. My sincere thanks to all of you for bringing her back to me.”
As Hannah boarded the damaged houseboat to take an inventory of its contents, Bishop decided it was a good time to debrief his team. It was always productive to discuss what had gone wrong, what could be done better, and to compliment his men on what they had done well.
He found Grim and Kevin taking their equipment to their home-boat, but Butter was nowhere to be found. “Anybody seen the big guy?” he asked his teammates.
“He was here a minute ago,” Grim responded, looking up and down the pier with just a hint of concern in his voice. “Not like him to wander off unless he discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“Maybe he fell overboard?” Bishop offered, his eyes scanning the water despite the comment being mostly in jest.
“He was talking to that girl with Hannah a minute ago,” Kevin added.
Bishop and Grim exchanged knowing, fatherly looks. “Who is that young lady, anyway?”
“That is Hannah’s daughter, May,” Kevin answered.
Again, Bishop and Grim exchanged a knowing glance. “At least we solved one mystery today,” the Texan chuckled.
Grim obviously didn’t like it, mumbling something about kids, and how somebody ought to pass a law as he disappeared below deck with an armful of equipment.
Terri sauntered up a moment later. “Who’s that girl I just saw sashaying around with Butter?”
Before Bishop could answer his wife’s question, Grim rumbled up the steps, his boisterous voice belting out, “I once knew a girl named May, who was rumored to be good in the hay.…”
“Grim!” Bishop snapped, stopping the old soldier’s limerick before things got out of hand.
Seeing Terri, Grim’s face flashed red before he mumbled, “I’ll go retrieve our wayward team member. If it's not food or arm wrestling, it’s a damn girl. Kids. Until that boy’s frontal lobe finishes developing, he’s likely to get in trouble without my sage guidance. Someone needs to have a word with him about.…”
Bishop shook his head, “No, let him go. He did well today. You all did. The debriefing can wait.”
Grim paused, throwing a confused stare that said, “Are you sure?”
“He may die tomorrow, my friend. Any of us can be carried out in a bag on any given day. Let him go,” Bishop added in a low, but friendly tone.
For a moment, Bishop thought Grim was going to debate the decision, but the older man merely shrugged. “You’re the boss. I suppose nature is going to take its course no matter how pervasive my argument against such distractions.”
There had been a fair share of females around the Beltran Ranch where Butter had been raised. Many of the hands were married, some of the hired help being of the fairer sex. There were girls his age who attended the private school erected to educate the sons and daughters of the outfit’s small army of employees. Still, he’d never encountered anyone who looked, smelled, or moved quite like May.
She asked questions about his work and mission, seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and looked at him with eyes that bewildered the big man unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Butter’s mother had died during childbirth, his father killed by a loco mare before he was four years old. Other than a worn, black and white photograph, he had no memory of either parent. Yet, it wasn’t a sad story. He felt no remorse, had never considered himself shortchanged in any way. Carlos Beltran may have ramrodded his spread with an iron fist, but the ranch was a community. The people who worked there were family.
An orphaned child wasn’t all that rare. Life on a working spread was difficult at best and often dangerous. In additional to laboring around large, unpredictable animals and deadly machines, Beltran men went to war when their country called. Many never returned. When such tragedies did occur, the young ones were absorbed without question, accepted into
the loving, social fabric of what was essentially a small town in the vast isolation of the West Texas desert.
Like many boys, Butter had neither the time nor the inclination for female companionship. His world revolved around rugged men, horses, cattle, and the modern machinery used on a working ranch. His life was the land, his environment the great outdoors, his heroes the multitude of father figures who treated the young lad like one of their own.
Puberty’s arrival modified that behavior somewhat, the oversized teen finding his eye drifting toward the hourglass shape, softer hair, and smoother skin of the women who operated in various roles around the ranch. He began to listen more intently to the stories and conversations of the older men, dialog that just a few short years before wouldn’t have held his interest.
Secondary school meant leaving the ranch’s friendly confines and entering the Alpha, Texas Independent School District. Butter’s amazing size, herculean strength, and nimble agility immediately drew the eye of every coach at the small school. Within hours, he was being recruited for football and wrestling.
Intense training regiments, private instruction, national competitions, and doing his fair share around the ranch left little time for the now-massive youth to develop social skills or chase girls. Still, Butter was happy and content. His co-workers often consumed a majority of the bleacher seats during home matches. Even Mr. Beltran had taken to setting his beef-empire aside and attending the events.
By the time his senior year was rolling around, every major college west of the Mississippi offered scholarships and promises of professional football recruitment or Olympic-level participation in wrestling. Butter had never been bested on the high school mat and had exhausted all of the competition his coaches could provide.
