by Derek Blass
Cruz watched the others and noticed his hands were shaking again. Martinez saw it and held his hand up to Cruz, “See...mine does it too.” Cruz's countenance changed for the better. He squatted down and ran his hands through his hair, emitting a loan groan as he did. He grabbed a chunk of dirt and grass, held it to his nose and breathed in deeply. The richness of the soil mixed with the pungent odor of the grass woke his senses and grounded him. The clicking around him stopped.
“On our way then,” Martinez ordered. Raul led the group out while Martinez brought up the rear. They walked in single file, every now and again the rhythm of their footsteps was broken by someone dragging a foot. As they made their way, the pitch-black sky around them began to transform in color. Cruz noted the minute change from black to deep purple and watched as the deep purple yielded to a shade of lighter purple. “Cuidado!” came a hushed warning when Cruz bumped into the man in front of him.
The line had stopped. Cruz made out the shape of Shaver's home. It was like a bunker, low and square. The windows were dark and there were no streetlights on the dirt road. The quarter moon provided the only illumination and tended to make the home look more daunting than it probably was. They moved closer as Martinez sped up to the front of the line. They stopped again when Martinez held up one finger and pointed to the left of the house, held up two fingers and pointed at the driveway, held up three fingers flicked them toward the right side of the house.
Cruz and Raul crouch-ran in an arc while staying several hundred feet from the house. Cruz felt more rugged than he ever had in his life, crouch-running. Where was Sandra to see him now? He breathed heavily as they both came to a stop, the flashbang pressing its cold, steel body against his leg. Very rugged. They both watched as Alfonso and the Chief slowly made their way down the driveway, slightly hunched over. Martinez and his group were barely visible on their side. They sat silently, chests heaving in unison, gazing intently until an eruption forced them backwards onto the ground. Cruz's ears rung and he fought to take a breath but it felt like someone was sitting on his chest. Raul was laying next to him, sprawled out on the ground. He was making futile attempts to get up, drunk attempts. The taste of blood filled Cruz's mouth. Seconds later he sucked in a lungful of air and rolled onto his side. Raul managed to get onto all fours and was coughing violently.
Cruz pushed up off of the ground and rested on one knee. He ran a finger in his mouth, and when he pulled it out could see a dark stain. There were no figures standing in the driveway anymore. As the ringing cleared from Cruz's ears, a ghastly screaming replaced it. It sounded like Alfonso. The screams penetrated the still of the night and then faded as he drew another breath. Cruz started to head toward the noise but Raul grabbed the back of his foot.
“Don't move that way.”
“What do you mean? We've got to go help Alfonso.”
“We have no idea what's out there—it could be a trap. That was either a set explosive or a mine and we have no idea where the rest of them are.”
The thought of stepping on a mine confounded Cruz. “A mine?”
“May have been.”
“What the fuck is this?”
“I don't know Cruz, but we can't go that direction.” The screams were spaced out further now and had transformed into wails. Cruz didn't realize it but he kept running a hand over his body to make sure everything was intact.
“What now?” Cruz asked with a heavy feeling of regret and guilt. Leaving Alfonso out there to suffer alone seemed inhuman.
“We move to our position, carefully. There may be more mines to look out for. Stay directly behind me as I move and only step where I step.” Raul stood up slowly and stretched his legs. He stood up and bent down, stood up and bent down. “Damn...damn!”
“What is it?” Cruz whispered.
“I'm having trouble putting any weight on my right leg. I've got an old knee injury. I think that blast aggravated it.”
“That means you want me to go first?”
“Not want—you have to.”
Cruz shook his head and a small helping of dust fluttered off. “Can you tell me what the hell I'm looking for?” The ridiculousness of the situation frustrated Cruz. Two men possibly dead a hundred feet away. Raul standing in front of him with a knee injury. God-knows-what other fucking booby traps laid out in front, around or behind them. Through all of this, the flashbang grenade hung relentlessly out in his pocket—a reminder of further conflict and possible fuckups to come.
“Wires, laser lines, small circular objects. Look for piles of leaves, mounds of dirt or anything else that doesn't look flat.”
Cruz took his first step, muttering “Hail Mary, full of grace...” while extending one leg in front of the other as if the bottom half of his body was immersed in quicksand. Some remote quadrant of his brain—not paralyzed by fear—was tickled to hear the prayer come out of his mouth. A firm nonbeliever temporarily transformed on these solitary, moonlit plains. Cruz took step after step while watching for anything that looked out of the ordinary. He stopped several times and unsuccessfully tried to slow his breathing. The beat of his heart filled his ears like a rubber mallet pounding on an empty metal tank. Everything looked like a threat. Simple piles of dirt became land mines. Leaves were hiding trip wires. He felt light-headed and nauseous as the threat of death loomed over him. Raul's hand was on his shoulder providing a mixture of support and condolence.
“Steady as she goes, steady, steady, steady as she goes...” Cruz hummed.
“We are almost there,” Raul said.
Cruz stopped and wiped sweat off of his forehead. He looked back to see Raul's status. Just as he did, a red dot fluttered on Raul's chest and then disappeared.
“Down, get down!” Cruz yelled as he ducked to the ground and pulled Raul down with him. They heard a puff of air and then dirt kicked up right next to them. Both of them started a mad rush to the house. They re-prioritized dangers and brushed aside the possibility of stepping onto something explosive. Cruz heard one more puff of air and felt something burning his right shoulder. The front of the house was feet away. Cruz vaulted a row of shrubs wrapped around the perimeter of the home and dove to the corner of the house. He turned his head and watched Raul tumble over the shrub, an accelerated trip to the ground, and then crawl the last few feet to Cruz's side.
The two men sat against the side of the house, chests heaving, their chins in their chests. Raul looked over at Cruz, “You're shot,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Where?” Then the pain returned. “Oh shit. That happened when we were running,” Cruz said as he put a finger onto the wound.
“Doesn't look too bad—let me feel it.” Raul touched the wound. “Grazed.”
“That's a first.”
“Shaver popped your cherry,” Raul laughed. Cruz snickered before they both sobered up and realized where they were sitting. Raul climbed over Cruz and looked around the edge of the house. “I don't see Martinez.”
“How do we know when to move?”
Raul didn't respond immediately. He continued to look around the side of the house for Martinez. Cruz tuned his ears into the sounds around him. The house was silent. Insects made noises barely audible above the buzz of the world. Plains stretched out in front of him into a pitch black. Stars filled almost every inch of the globe over him. He felt Raul climb back over him and rest against the house with a sigh.
“We'll have to wait for some sign of...” Both men snapped their heads to the right.
“Did you hear that?” Cruz asked.
“Yes.”
They sat dead still, straining their eyes to pick up some movement down the length of the house. Seconds seemingly stretched into minutes before they saw it. A face popped out around the corner and then slid back into the darkness.
“Fuck—fucking-a, who is that?!” Cruz exclaimed. Raul shook his head and pulled his gun out. He shifted down onto his stomach and took aim down to where they had seen the face. As he did Cruz heard something from aro
und the corner of the house next to them.
“I heard something else, Raul.”
“I'm not taking my eyes of this corner. You deal with the other shit.”
“Cruz?? Raul??”
“Who is it?”
“I'm not taking my eyes off it.”
“It's Martinez.”
“Martinez! Hey, what the hell happened to Alfonso and the Chief?”
“Not sure, but we don't have time for that now. Give me thirty seconds to get back on the other side of the house and we'll charge in.”
“There's no fucking deception anymore, Martinez. Something freakish just saw us from over there,” Cruz said, pointing to where Raul was transfixed.
“Stick to the fucking plan, Cruz. It's what we got and we aren't changing.”
“You two shut the fuck up and let's do this shit,” Raul stammered. His Spanish accent sounded whiny when emphasizing English swear words.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Okay, then I'll toss this into the house...”
“Yes, thirty seconds.” Martinez bolted back to the other side of the house.
“Twenty...ten...five...” Cruz pulled the pin, stood up and turned to the window behind him. He lifted his hand up just as someone's face moved back from the window. It was the same face he had seen peek out from behind the house. Pale skin, long black hair, egg-white eyes. There was no body, just a white face in the darkness.
“Throw the fucking grenade!” Raul yelled.
Cruz threw the grenade. It crashed through the window and bounced inside the house. He knelt down just as the grenade exploded and burst light out onto the plains behind them. Raul ran to the front of the house with Cruz in tow. They both stopped next to the front door. Martinez and his group busted through a side door and were greeted by a chorus of bullets. Despite Martinez's orders, Raul shouldered his way through the front door and into the house. Cruz stayed perched on the front porch, his own gun rattling in his hands. He saw Raul backing out to him, dragging something big.
“It's him, it's the freak we saw,” Raul gasped as he pulled the body through the threshold and next to Cruz.
“Is he dead?”
“Stunned. I'll be right back.”
“Wait!! Give me something to keep him here!” But Raul was already back in the house. Cruz looked at the man. He was slender but muscular. Jet black hair fell over his face in a mess. A streak of blood from a wound on his head streamed down his cheek, a crimson ribbon down the otherwise pale canvas. The man's lips quivered and startled Cruz. He looked around and picked up a stone.
Several more gunshots rang out, followed by silence, then more gunshots and a deafening explosion. Cruz jumped up and peered down into the house. He saw a person stumbling down the hall toward him, banging into walls while moving. As the person neared, Cruz tried to pick out who it was. It didn't appear to be any of their people.
“Who is that?”
The person kept stumbling down the hall. The moment Cruz realized who it was, Shaver opened his bloody eyes and raised his gun at Cruz. Frozen in place, Cruz could only draw what he thought would be his last breath. Shaver pulled the trigger and his gun clicked. Click, click-click. Then Shaver tripped over the doorway and fell onto the ground in front of Cruz.
And there he was, the man Cruz didn't know he knew.
P A R T T W O
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T H E T R I A L
T W E N T Y-N I N E
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Sandra stood behind Cruz rubbing his shoulders. Her face was nearly healed. Only upon the closest scrutiny were light pink spots visible.
The two had grown closer in the weeks following the raid on Shaver's home. After the run in with Shaver and Cruz's recognition of who he was, Cruz took some time off from work to unwind. Sandra stopped by his house, often bringing him little gifts of pastries or meals until he recovered his energy. The care they demonstrated for each other in those stressful times sparked the beginnings of strong emotion.
“So who is Shaver?”
“The same pig that beat me and Eduardo—you remember Eduardo—when I was a teenager.”
“You're sure of it?”
“Positive. Same face. Same eyes...same hate.”
“Wow. He's always been like this then.”
“A powerful one.”
Cruz also went to visit Martinez when he had the chance, and visa versa. Martinez recounted what happened once he kicked open Shaver's side door.
“It was a hail of bullets. Something fully automatic and the bullets just tore through everything in the doorway. I was hit two times—once in the leg and the chest. The Kevlar vest is why I'm here. Two out of three of Raul's men were killed almost instantaneously. I ducked into the house and was basically immobilized. It was so dark I couldn't see a damn thing, to tell you the truth.”
“So if Shaver had the upper hand, why'd he come out like he did?”
“Raul—Raul flanked him. Shit, Raul saved the day. He grabbed that freak Tyler out of a side room...”
“That part I saw.”
“..and then went back in and flanked Shaver. I think Shaver was slightly disoriented from the combination of the flashbang you threw and our attack on the side of the house. Raul managed to land a shot on him before he charged. That's when he shot Raul...and...well, you know how that turned out.”
“How's Carmen?”
“Oh, she's hanging in there as much as possible. She's been by Raul's bedside night and day, hoping for some sign of life.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing so far.”
Their conversations vacillated between sharing bits and pieces of the joint trauma and the more mundane topics. They could only revisit those details so often and for so long before they were overwhelmed. Like any trauma, those moments were as vivid as life itself.
“What happens next for Shaver?” Sandra asked, bringing Cruz back into the present.
“Huh?”
“Shaver...what next?”
“He's sitting in the city jail right now awaiting processing.” Sandra stopped rubbing his shoulders and played with the tag on his shirt. He discounted this as hapless drifting off, fiddling, but he still felt blood rush to his face. As if she caught herself being too personal, she tousled his normally brushed back black hair, which was unkempt and disheveled. Cruz heard her walking around his office. Instead of turning around, he imagined how she moved. Her legs close together in her tight, black skirt. Heels clicking on the tile floor as she strolled around the office. She paused and he imagined her rubbing her soft neckline.
“Did you go to Alfonso's service?”
“No.” Cruz let his answer bounce around the room to get a feel of whether he felt guilty. “It was so soon after we caught Shaver—I wanted to get as far away from all of it as possible.” He felt her turn back around to him. He thought of them stepping close together. Warm breaths barely reaching each other. Slow, rhythmic breathing, tantric, in time. Absolution through touch.
“Cruz?...Cruz?” A hand on his shoulder. He turned his head around to her. “Are you okay?”
Cruz let out a long, slow breath, pursing his lips and pushing air out. “I've hardly slept since we caught him. My head feels foreign, pressure from within pushing out. Weirdest dreams too. I see Shaver everywhere. Awake and asleep. I'm sorry.” She rubbed his shoulders again.
“Don't be sorry. I understand what you're talking about.”
“You do?”
“Please.” The corner of her red lips quivered, shining in the overhead light, a small, celestial movement. “I see Shaver too, even though I've never seen him in person. I've been able to construct him from his voice, his actions. He's a newborn in my mind. I build him and then he hovers over me. They all do, light pressed close to my face. Just glare and hum as I feel my skin start to boil, literally ripple as it pulls away.” A glistening tear escaped from her long eyelashes and wound a black cours
e across her cheekbone and to her chin where she wiped it away. “They wake me every night. Or, I wake and they scurry back into where they woke me up from...I don't think they'll ever leave.”
* * * *
Shaver slumped in the back of the squad car. His shoulders ached from being pinned behind his back. The trip from the hospital to the city jail was fifteen minutes, or about twenty-five with traffic. He'd run back and forth to that goddamn jail so many times when he was a rookie. Now, irony and shame drizzled over him as he made his own way there.
“Could you roll your windows down some? It's hot as hell back here.”
“Sure, Sarge,” the young cop answered. The over-filled city only added to the summer swell. Exhaust fumes plus engine heat plus thousands of swarming bodies. As Shaver jostled on the black vinyl seat he felt the range of his wounds. Each brought back the tumult of the last several weeks. The gunshot wounds he suffered at his house stood out as the most painful, but his whole body felt brittle and worn down.
He didn't know if it was Martinez or the other spic that had inflicted the wounds. He remembered hearing the explosion out in his driveway, figuring that had taken care of most of the ensemble. That's when he sent Tyler out the back of the house via a passageway in his basement. Shaver set up his M14 assault rifle in the only hallway leading to the back of his house. Down an offshoot to his right was the front door. Directly in front of him, probably six or seven man-length paces, the side door. He would cover both.
Tyler came running back in and shouted to him that there were guys on both sides of the house. Shaver noticed Tyler was frantic so he clamped a bear-like hand around Tyler's neck and slammed him against a wall.
“You're gonna calm down because if you don't, we're fucked,” Shaver growled, an inch away from Tyler's face. “Now, go to the front room of the house and ambush anyone that comes in the front door.” And this was his mistake, Shaver recognized. Putting that prick in charge of something as significant as protecting a point of entry.
