Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1)

by Mark Wheaton

  Electrified. Damn.

  As the guys in the truck chatted with the men at the checkpoint, Luis reached the electrified fence. He was deliberating on the best way to make it over when he spotted notches on a nearby fence post. They were on the side facing him. Easy access. That’s when he realized the fence was there to keep something in, not out.

  Holding his breath in case he was wrong, Luis jabbed his toe into the first foothold. When a fatal electric current didn’t surge through his body, he leapfrogged the rest of the way over.

  The truck started up again. Luis had to run to catch up. Less than a minute later he saw that the truck was heading toward what looked like a sprawling, haphazardly constructed apartment complex. The first few cinder-block units on the bottom floor on the west side of the building looked the oldest but also the best constructed. Units had been added on to it all the way to the far end of the concrete foundation that ran along the front. After running out of room, the builders seemed to just pile more of the same-sized units on top of the first level, using building material of lesser and lesser quality. Taken all together they looked like a stack of children’s blocks.

  The Blocks, Luis realized. He tried to count how many units there were based on front doors and windows but gave up after fifty.

  The phantom workers. Here they all are. My Lord.

  There were a handful of work lights set up out on the slab. Near them about a dozen men were gathered around tables set with food and drinks. The truck parked alongside the tables, and the driver and the sharp-featured man hopped out.

  Luis flattened himself on the ground. He had to come up with a plan. He could stay in the field all night and try to join the workers as they were brought out in the morning, but there were too many variables. He could try and shadow them to the fields the next morning and simply appear in the rows, but that didn’t seem like a good idea, either. There had to be a count, and getting onto the Marshak fields couldn’t be so easy.

  He had one chance. He had to pray they hadn’t opened the container at the port. They must have been told how many men were put in the container down in Mexico, but there had to be some margin for error.

  Doesn’t there?

  Two of the men by the tables edged to the rear of the container, followed by the driver. He put his hand on the lever that bolted it shut and gave it a sharp upwards jab. Though the men affected relaxed poses, Luis could see they were all armed, their hands inches from the grips.

  “Your journey is over, my friends,” the driver said in Zapotec as he opened the container doors. “I am sorry for the hardships you may have endured along the way. But that’s all over. If you’re here to work, we’ve got plenty of that. Tonight, however, is to refresh and replenish your spirits. Get some food and drink in you. Then get some rest.”

  At first there was no response. Luis peered into the dark container and wondered if it had all been an illusion. Then a few men shuffled forward and into the light. They were bleary-eyed and looked sickly. They were joined by a dozen and a half more, all of whom moved awkwardly on legs that probably hadn’t touched solid ground for days.

  Once they were out of the truck and all eyes were on the newcomers, Luis made his move. He scrambled to his feet and raced to the concrete slab extending from the buildings. He worried the sound of his feet pounding against the flat terrain would alert the men to his presence, but he had only seconds to make the distance.

  The field was no problem, and he crossed that in less than forty long strides. Knowing it would make the loudest sound, he leapt across the gravel road without touching so much as a stone. When he was thirty yards from the truck, he thought he saw someone glance his way and he froze.

  They turned and he kept moving.

  When there was only ten feet between him and the truck, he felt a twinge of doubt. He shook this off and kept going. He reached the cab’s front wheel and ducked low.

  A terrible thought occurred to him. The overseers might recognize him even in the dim light. Not from the market but the church. He took his hat from his pack and pulled it low over his head. He was rising to come around the truck when he heard a shout.

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing over here?” a voice yelled out in Spanish.

  Luis turned, trying to look more confused than scared. The speaker, a lithe man with angular features and copper eyes, came around the back of the trailer, hand on a gun in his belt.

  “You trying to run away?” the man barked, advancing on Luis. “You think you can pull a fast one?”

  “No, boss!” Luis replied in Zapotec. “I’m hungry. And . . .”

  The man waited, as if willing to give Luis one more second to plead his case before shooting him dead. One of the others punched him in the back of the head. It was hardly at full strength, but Luis’s head shot forward. The gunman took out his pistol.

  “What the fuck is all this?”

  The men went quiet as the copper-eyed man joined them. He looked from face to face, until he settled on Luis.

  “You think you don’t have to do what the others do?” he asked calmly.

  “I’m sorry, boss!”

  “I think he was trying to run away,” said the gunman.

  “I wasn’t!” Luis protested. “I want to work!”

  The man pulled his own gun and placed it against Luis’s throat.

  “You think I won’t make an example out of you right now? I’d thank you for the chance.”

  “I swear! I’m here to work. I don’t want to run away. I just wanted a moment to pray. Thank God for getting us here safely.”

  The man sighed and lowered the gun. He then swung his leg around and kicked Luis under his chin with the heel of his cowboy boot. Luis flew backwards, landing on his ass. He gasped as the air was forced from his lungs and he tasted blood.

  After the copper-eyed man moved back to the others, two of the overseers lifted Luis to his feet.

  “What he meant to say is that security’s a big deal here. We have an understanding with local law enforcement, but you’re still in this country illegally. If one of you gets caught out there, everyone can lose their jobs and get kicked back to Mexico the next day. Make sense?”

  “Yes, yes,” Luis said quickly.

  “Good. Now grab yourself a beer or two. You can pray when you get in your room.”

  There were hot dogs, chips, beer, and burritos. The men devoured the convenience-store fare laid out on the tables in about fifteen minutes and were then escorted to the two apartment units they were to share. The other newcomers eyed Luis with hostility and suspicion. They knew he hadn’t been in the container with them, but they were too intimidated to say anything. If they started pointing fingers at him, there was no knowing the potential blowback on them.

  The Blocks looked deserted. Every door was locked from the outside with a slide bolt as well as a thick metal jamb near the base that was bolted onto the door and then to the ground to prevent it being kicked open from the inside. Every blacked-out window was covered with burglar bars. The fire safety releases were welded shut on the outside. Blackout curtains hung on the inside. Not a single sound emanated from within the apartments.

  “Everybody’s out the door by six, no exceptions,” the overseer said as he let the men into the one-bedroom apartment. “I’d suggest you get up a good half hour before. Shower, get dressed, eat breakfast—you’ll find food in the cupboards—but be lined up at the door when we come for you or there’ll be trouble. Cool?”

  He hadn’t said this with any real malice, but the sounds of the door bolting shut, locking, and the jamb dropping onto its strike plate punctuated the remarks.

  The men fanned out to inspect their quarters. There were ten of them, five to sleep in the bedroom, five to the living room. There was a single bathroom off the hall, with a sink, toilet, and shower stall. The kitchen had a sink and several cabinets tha
t turned out to be filled with dry cereal, soup, dried fruit, and other snacks, but there was no refrigerator or stove.

  “Guess they don’t want you burning down the place,” one of the men joked.

  Luis found a spot in the corner of the living room to lay down his pack. He took off his hat and boots and got ready to go to sleep.

  “Who are you?”

  He looked up and saw the faces of nine men staring down at him.

  “My name is Luis Dedios,” he said. “I’m here to work.”

  “You weren’t in Mexico with us, you weren’t on the boat with us. So who are you?”

  The speaker was a heavyset, gray-bearded man, his voice grave and full of suspicion.

  “I heard there was work. So I snuck out here and waited for the next truck.”

  The old man gestured toward Luis. Three of the others shot forward, two grabbing Luis’s arms and pinning him down, while the third tossed his backpack.

  “What’re you doing?” Luis cried, struggling to free himself.

  No one spoke as the contents of his backpack were spread across the floor. No one paid any attention to the clothes, but when a Bible was uncovered, it was passed to the old man.

  “This is in English,” the old man said, flipping it open. “‘Father Chavez?’ You stole a Bible off a priest?”

  “No,” Luis admitted. “I am a priest.”

  “You?” the old man asked, incredulous.

  “Yes. I’m sorry for the deception, but I am here to work,” Luis said.

  “Ah, I see,” the old man scoffed. “A few men doing honest labor, but the church still wants its tithing, no? We have no money here. Look around you.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Luis retorted. “And I am here to work. If in the course of that I can lessen anyone’s burden by providing the sacraments of the church, so be it.”

  A couple of the men seemed moved by this, but the old man remained nonplussed. He threw the Bible back to Luis.

  “In my experience a priest means trouble. If you’re here to work, work. But stay out of our affairs, Father.”

  The men released Luis, and everyone went back to finding a place to sleep. Luis sank onto the wood floor and stared up at the ceiling. He feared the prison-like atmosphere would make it hard to fall asleep, but exhaustion pulled him under a second later.

  XXII

  There was an accident on the freeway. Maria checked the map app on her phone. Traffic through the hills was stopped in both directions for miles. She was already exhausted and could feel herself nodding off. After the fourth or fifth time jerking awake, she gave in and passed the stopped traffic on the shoulder, took the next exit, and turned around.

  She didn’t particularly want to spend another night at her brother’s farm, but there weren’t many alternatives. She could stay on the road for the next three hours and possibly kill herself behind the wheel. Or she could collapse into a bed waiting nearby and hit the road the next morning.

  It also meant that she’d be close by in case Luis needed help. He didn’t have a phone and had no reason to believe she’d be at Santiago’s farm, but he’d certainly proven himself resourceful. If he somehow sent a carrier pigeon to her doorstep with a message, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  The drive to the farm took fifteen minutes. The fields were empty when she arrived, though she thought she could make out the glow of cooking fires emanating from the tarp city. She made her way into Santiago’s old house, texted Miguel about her detour, and headed to bed.

  Though she’d been tired on the road, thoughts poured into her mind. The most rational one told her that she should drive home the next morning, pack Miguel into the car, and drive as far away as possible, maybe to Mexico, maybe all the way to Florida. This competed with, among others, an irrational desire to purchase a weapon, drive to the offices of the Marshak company, and . . . what? Seek out anyone with that last name and punish them for killing her brother? For turning him into some kind of criminal? She couldn’t even prove they were involved, so what would be the point?

  Out of all these, the one thought that kept returning to the fore was the most simple: she wished her brother were still alive. This was the exact kind of situation he was perfect for. He’d not only know what to do, he’d also make her feel safe.

  Luis seemed like a good enough guy, but he’d never be Santiago.

  When she heard knocking, she thought it was a dream. It was a tentative, distant sound, like a cat at a stranger’s door. When it came again, this time stronger, she woke up enough to check her phone. She’d been asleep for four hours.

  The knocking continued louder now. Maria sighed. They weren’t going away.

  She swung her legs out of bed and reached for her shoes. It suddenly occurred to her that it could be danger. She needed a weapon.

  Wait. How do they even know I’m here?

  Her car. It was parked right out front.

  She made her way to the kitchen but couldn’t find a knife. She remembered seeing a broom with a screw-on head and retrieved it from the pantry. She spun the bristle head off with her toe and weighed the improvised club in her hand. It wasn’t much, but she could clock a guy pretty good with it.

  “I’m coming,” she said, hiding her apprehension.

  “I’m sorry, Maria,” came the voice of Alberto. “One of the irrigation pipes burst. It’s flooding the eastern side of the field. We’re already losing rows.”

  What in God’s name can I do to help that? Maria wondered, though she was relieved it wasn’t something worse.

  “How’d it happen?” she asked, throwing open the door. “Can we call somebody?”

  She froze. Alberto stood on the doorstep, right eye swollen shut, face caked in dried blood. His other eye was dark and hollow, as if it had burrowed back into his skull after witnessing something unspeakable. He could barely stand.

  “I’m sor—” he whispered.

  The world burst to light. It was only then, in the split second glow of the muzzle flash, that Maria saw the man standing behind Alberto. Having caught the full force of a shotgun blast to the back, Alberto flew heavenward before his body flopped forward. Maria felt splintered bone and hot shotgun pellets slash into her skin.

  She inhaled sharply. A wiry man with a skull-face bandanna covering the lower half of his face ejected the empty casing. He chambered another round, wheeled the barrel around to her, and squeezed the trigger.

  Maria had already launched herself backwards, half jumping, half falling through the doorway. She felt the hot wind of the blast pass over her, chewing up the door frame and cabinets, as she landed on her ass. The killer chambered another round and followed her in, only to trip on Alberto’s outstretched leg.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  In those few precious seconds, Maria skittered farther into the dark house. When she reached the hall, she rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled to the bedroom. The shotgun roared again, and the wall above her exploded as if it had been hit by a bomb. She heard another shell snapped into the chamber and wished she’d had the presence of mind to grab the broom handle.

  God help me.

  It was panic and prayer. She didn’t think God would intervene, but what else is there to hope for when you thought yourself seconds from death?

  Then something happened. Her body rose to its feet. She picked up the nightstand alongside Santiago’s bed and charged to the doorway. As if it were choreographed, she swung the nightstand just as the gunman stepped into the room. It hit with such force that three of the stand’s legs cracked off and went flying.

  The damage was done.

  The assassin’s face was caved in. He’d tripped back at an awkward angle. Splinters of wood were embedded in his flesh. He hit the wall and slid to the floor.

  Maria didn’t wait to find out if he was dead or alive. She grabbed h
er car keys, picked up the shotgun, and ran toward the front door. As she exited, she aimed the shotgun into the dark and pulled the trigger. She figured anyone expecting the assassin to emerge triumphant would hit the deck.

  She unlocked the car and was behind the wheel a second later. The engine turned on immediately and she threw the car in drive. She hit the gas, expecting the car to lurch forward, but heard only the rev of the engine as her flattened tires spun uselessly in the muddy soil.

  No!

  As she scrambled to find the door handle, a thick cord flew around her neck from the backseat. She managed to get a finger under it before it was pulled taut, but there was no way to stop the makeshift noose from constricting her airway. As it tightened, she flailed wildly, instinctually trying to fight off her unseen attacker.

  She kicked the windshield so hard it cracked the safety glass.

  Miguel! she thought.

  Then nothing.

  No one woke up Luis. He finally heard the flurry of activity in the room and from the unit directly above and sat up straight. The men had dressed, finished their breakfasts, and lined up by the door. Though they had to have noticed him waking, none met his gaze.

  They seemed amused.

  Luis could already hear the trucks outside and the doors unlocking down the rows. He tossed his blanket aside, threw on his shoes, and reached for his hat. He had to pee, but that’s when the front door opened.

  “Everybody out.”

  Luis laced up his shoes as best he could as the first men hurried outside. The overseer already had his hand on the door to close it.

  “Come on, guys,” he urged.

  A dozen flatbed trucks with extended beds and modified rails waited to take them to the fields. Luis followed the other men onto the truck and took a seat.

  “Hold on to something,” the man next to him whispered.

  Luis curled his arm under the rail as the truck lurched forward, pulling away from the Blocks.