Even The Dead Will Bleed

by Steven Ramirez

  “Do you want to die?”

  “Yes! After I kill my enemies.”

  “Killing your enemies won’t bring Holly back.”

  She took my hand and walked me over to one of the storage containers. Then she waited for me to sit. She was so small and frail next to me and looked like she didn’t weigh anything. Why would God send me a child instead of a warrior?

  “The grey-suits are dangerous,” she said. “But there is one much more dangerous.”

  “Trower? Is he the one who’s going to kill me?”

  “Stay in the light, Dave. And protect the girl.”

  “Dammit, answer my question! Is he going to kill me?”

  “‘No one knows the day or hour when these things will happen, not even the angels in heaven.’”

  “Fine. I’ll see that Sasha is safe but she can’t stay with me. I’m taking her to her brother. He can deal with her.”

  “Dave?”

  I turned to find Sasha standing at the entrance, silhouetted by the outside security lights, her warm breath visible. When I looked back, I saw that I was alone.

  “I was resting,” I said and got to my feet.

  I grabbed the handle of one of the heavy containers and dragged it over the rough, wet ground towards the rear of the Tahoe. Ignoring the rain, I opened the rear door and removed the floor panel. Jeong had anticipated me and taken out everything—including the spare.

  When I turned around, Sasha was inspecting the contents of the black box. Long guns and hand guns lay neatly stacked, along with black nylon bags filled with ammo and cash.

  “Expecting big war?” she said.

  “Something like that.”

  I closed the lid and tried lifting the container by myself. With my injury it proved to be too difficult. Then Sasha touched my arm.

  “That will not fit in there. We can move guns.”

  “I knew that,” I said, irritated that I’d missed the obvious.

  She helped me fill the back with weapons and, by the time we finished, we were soaking wet. I replaced the floor panel and closed the back door. Then I returned the container, locked up the storage space and drove us off into the cold night.

  “Do you still have my phone?” I said.

  She reached into her back pocket, pulled it out and handed it to me. I called Cuco to let him know the score. He gave me his address in Highland Park and promised to wait for us. This was how it was going to be—back to the life I was used to. No regular place to sleep. Just me moving frantically from one safe house to another to stay alive.

  And now I had the Russian girl to worry about. I needed to get her back to her brother and out of my life. And I had to find a way to stay alive long enough to find Walt Freeman before Trower could take me out. Fun times ahead.

  The street was tree-lined and pleasant-looking—completely unlike what I had pictured, based on newspaper stories. When we arrived at the small post-war bungalow, Cuco was standing on the porch. I took in the manicured lawn, wrought iron fence surrounding the property and white awning over the front windows. And I recognized his car on the street.

  He rolled the gate back and, after I pulled into the wet driveway and parked, we got out. Cuco took the keys, turned the Tahoe around and backed it into the garage. He was about to close the garage door when he noticed something. Kneeling down, he examined the front bumper and, shaking his head, he closed the garage door and the gate and brought us inside.

  The rain had let up, but it was cold. The house smelled like Mexican cooking. The place was modestly furnished with inexpensive furniture and beige walls that were devoid of pictures. I got the sense that, like me, Cuco was a loner. Though he had a family in Mexico who he sent money to, he probably lived his life in a perpetual shadow of unbelonging. Except for the large flatscreen TV, the house could have been vacant. I was pretty sure that I had been the only person in the apartment building who had ever engaged him, other than to ask him to fix something.

  “I’ll get that bumper fixed. Something to eat?”

  Sasha looked at me hopefully. “That would be great,” I said.

  We followed our host into the kitchen where we found a young Latino boy, sitting at the kitchen table drinking milk, the remains of a PB&J on a plate in front of him.

  “This is Ernie. He’s my neighbor.”

  “You’re taking care of him?” I said, concerned that we were bringing someone else into the situation.

  “His mother has to work three jobs. I try to look after him when I can.”

  Cuco tousled the boy’s hair and said something to him in Spanish. He wiped away his milk moustache, got up and ran out the back door.

  Cuco had prepared spicy beef that we rolled into tacos, along with the ever-present beans and rice. He was aware that I didn’t drink and offered me a soda. Taking two beers from the refrigerator, he offered one to Sasha. Eagerly she took it.

  “How long have you lived here?” I said.

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Lot of burglaries in the area. But they know to leave me alone.”

  Sasha looked like she was in heaven as she helped herself to more of everything. “Best food I ever ate.”

  “In Juarez, my wife did the cooking. Here, I am on my own. I had to learn.”

  “Well, you really have a talent for it,” I said, helping myself to more.

  Cuco took a long swallow of beer and belched, making Sasha giggle. Then she did the same. This hilarity went on a couple of more times. Then Cuco put down his empty beer bottle and looked at me with a baleful expression.

  “So what’s the plan?” he said.

  I washed down my meal with soda and pushed away the plate. “I don’t want us to be a burden,” I said. “Can we stay a few days, till I can sort things out? Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Sure.”

  “Awesome. Thank you.” I looked at Sasha. “Tomorrow, I’m calling your brother.” She looked away. “I won’t tell him where you are.”

  “I know.”

  “I just want you to be safe.”

  “I am safe,” she said, her eyes darkening. “With you.”

  Cuco’s expression told me that he saw trouble ahead—as I did. But he kept silent. The last thing anyone wanted was for Sasha to run away. We had to be very careful about how we handled the situation.

  “Sasha,” I said. “If there is even the slightest hint that Vlad will be a problem, I swear I will get out of there and never speak to him again. But he’s your only family. And I owe it to him to let him know that you’re alive and safe.”

  Though she didn’t say anything, it was obvious that the thought of seeing her brother was upsetting her. Cuco got to his feet and left the kitchen. When he returned, he was carrying a box of tissues. Silently he set them down on the table in front of the Russian girl. Without looking, she grabbed a few and blew her nose.

  “I am such a . . . girl.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” I said. “You know that.”

  She shook her head violently and, grabbing the tissue box, ran out of the kitchen. I heard a door slam, followed by a click.

  “She’s locked herself in the bathroom,” Cuco said. As I got to my feet he grabbed my arm. “Déjala en paz,” he said.

  “Fine, I’ll leave her alone. I hope she doesn’t try to kill herself.”

  “She’s in love with you.”

  “Perfect. Are you sure it isn’t Stockholm syndrome?” I sat down again, shaking my head. “She won’t tell me what happened to her. But whatever it is, she’s terrified of her brother finding out.”

  “Give her time. What do you know about her?”

  “Only that she’s an immigrant. And that she was taken off the streets and held captive.”

  “Human trafficking?”

  “Worse. Experimentation.”

  I told Cuco everything—how the plague had begun in Tres Marias and how, along with my wife and friends, we’d battled the und
ead for months, as well as an assortment of other evil characters. And though I was hesitant to continue, I told him about Walt Freeman and the mayor and about Holly’s death.

  “At least you know what happened to her,” Cuco said. “In Mexico, she might have been a victim of feminicidio.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The killing of women and girls.”

  “Oh, right. I heard about that. The, um, maqui . . .”

  “Maquiladoras”

  The sweat shops in Juarez, right? Did you lose a family member?”

  Cuco looked away. “My younger sister.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He got up and cleared the table. Then he began rinsing off plates and placing them in the dishwasher. “So now, you come to LA to die.”

  “I hope to take a few others with me.”

  Suddenly Cuco hurled a glass into the sink, sending wet shards everywhere. “Pendejo,” he said.

  “I happen to know what that word means. Why did you call me that?”

  He abandoned the dishes, grabbed another beer from the fridge and pulled up a chair next to me. “Don’t you think I would give anything to find the evil ones who killed my sister?” he said. “Not a day goes by that I don’t imagine tearing their throats out with my bare hands. But that’s not living, amigo. I have a wife and children in Mexico. And my parents and her parents. My job is to keep going.”

  I could feel the heat of embarrassment on my cheeks. Here I was, acting like I was the only person in the world who had ever lost someone close. I tried to recover.

  “I get it,” I said. “But I don’t have anyone.”

  “Alli está, te va a morder,” Cuco said, tilting his head towards the bathroom. “Any closer, it’ll bite you.”

  “What? Sasha? No way. Look, I promised to help her, but once I find her brother, I’m out.”

  “What if it was El Señor who brought her to you?”

  “God? Come on!”

  He showed me his missing molar through a big grin, finished off his beer and went back to cleaning up. Angry, I slipped away and went into the living room, turned on the television and watched SpongeBob SquarePants. “The Camping Episode” was on—my favorite. I laughed out loud as Squidward was repeatedly mauled by the sea-bear because he wouldn’t remain inside the anti sea-bear circle.

  Sasha cried out from inside the bathroom. Thinking someone had broken into the house, I rushed over and banged on the door. A moment later, Cuco appeared.

  “Sasha? Are you okay?” I said.

  “Dave . . .”

  I tried the door. It was locked. Then I turned to Cuco. “Should we break it down?”

  He pushed past me, reached up to the top of the door frame and removed a small emergency key. Then he unlocked the door. When he opened it, we found Sasha on the floor next to the toilet, holding her stomach. I knelt beside her and she grabbed my hand and held it tight.

  “It hurts,” she said.

  “Are you nauseous?” Then to Cuco, “Could the food have been too spicy?”

  “Not food,” she said. “It’s happen for a while. Only now, it feels worse.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She gritted her teeth and squeezed my hand harder. “I thought it would get better.”

  “When you were being held, did they give you anything?”

  “Drugged me sometimes.”

  “You need to rest. Can you walk?”

  She nodded fiercely and I helped her to her feet. “Come on,” I said. Then to Cuco, “Where can she rest?”

  “Follow me.”

  Once we were out of the bathroom, I ignored my own wound and carried Sasha as Cuco led us to one of the bedrooms. Everything was made up. There was one double bed with nightstands, a dresser and pretty yellow curtains on the windows. It looked like a girl’s room.

  I laid Sasha on the bed, removed her boots and gently covered her with the duvet. Cuco left the room and returned with a glass of water. He set it on the night stand. As he did, he tilted his head towards the door like he wanted to speak to me alone. When I tried to leave, Sasha—still feverish—grabbed my hand.

  “Ostavat’sya,” she said.

  “I’ll be right back—I promise.”

  Slowly I withdrew my hand and followed Cuco out of the room.

  We sat at the kitchen table. Cuco’s expression was grim.

  “They did something to that girl,” he said.

  “Yeah, for sure. And either she doesn’t know because she was drugged, or she’s afraid to tell us.”

  “Do you think she’s contagious?”

  “I don’t think so. If it is a virus and it’s related to the experiments in Tres Marias, it would have to be passed by blood and maybe saliva. Those creatures we fought up there bit people. That’s how the plague spread. Whatever this is, she needs a doctor. But I can’t risk it.”

  “I know a doctor. Un buen hombre. Won’t ask questions. He’s used to dealing with illegals. Very discreet.”

  “Okay. We’ll need blood tests—the works. Can you arrange it?”

  “I’ll call him now.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “What about the brother?”

  “That will have to wait.”

  He got up and grabbed his car keys. “I have to go out for a while. I’ll call the doctor on the way.”

  After Cuco had gone, I sat at the table rubbing my eyes, trying to deal with the curve balls God was throwing me. I felt so tired. My side aching, I got up and returned to the bedroom.

  Sasha was asleep, snoring softly. She looked like a child, lying there. Emotion welled up in me and, though my brain told me I needed to get her off my hands as soon as possible, my heart said that I needed to protect her with my life. I pulled off my shoes and lay on the bed beside her. Sensing me, she groaned and turned towards me. Then she threw her arm across my chest and snuggled her head against my shoulder. As much as I wanted the feeling to be unpleasant, it wasn’t.

  I had intended to keep watch all night. But somewhere along the way, I drifted into sleep, Sasha’s fragrant body warming me, her gentle breathing and the soft cascade of unconscious Russian whispering making me calm.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After Effects

  When I awoke, Ernie was standing next to the bed, gnawing on a rolled-up flour tortilla.

  “Está despierto!” he said and ran out of the room.

  The yellow curtains glowed in the morning light. Voices drifted in from another room. I heard Sasha laughing. Sitting up, I felt a sharp pain in my side. I looked down to find my wound leaking through the dressing.

  When I entered the kitchen, Sasha, Cuco and Ernie were eating a breakfast of chorizo with eggs, beans and rice.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling.

  Cuco got up. “Want some coffee?”

  Sasha pushed him back down and went to get me a cup. I felt feverish and sank into a chair. “Coffee would be great. Okay if I turn on the TV?” I switched on the small set on the counter and tuned to Channel 7. The morning show had broken away to local news. Maritza was on the screen now, reporting from the murder scene in the park. It was night and a mob of locals were pressing up against the police tape, watching the activities of the police officers, firefighters and EMTs. As Maritza continued, the scene switched to an overhead shot from what I assumed was a news helicopter. The police had cordoned off the streets bounding the park. The camera switched back to Maritza.

  “Police still have no leads,” she said. “Mari Lopez reporting.”

  The news station segued to footage of the crime scene outside Holy Grounds. The female victim was being loaded into the ambulance, followed by Maritza’s interview with the police captain. I turned off the TV and looked at Sasha. She seemed to know what was going on.

  “You look bad,” Cuco said.

  “I think I might have an infection.”

  “Pues, we have an appointment with the doctor I told you about. I can drive you both over there.”
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br />   “Great.”

  Sasha set a cup in front of me, along with a plate of food. I pushed the plate away and went for the coffee.

  “Let me see the wound,” she said, taking hold of my shirt and lifting it up.

  Too weak to protest, I pushed back from the table as she knelt next to me. With the efficiency of a high school nurse, she peeled away the bandage and let her mouth fall open. When I looked down, I saw the livid wound oozing yellow pus, which caused Ernie to make a face.

  “Disgusting,” she said, backing away. “And it smells.” Cuco stood and came over to look. “I will clean it now.” Then to Cuco, “Do you have plastic wrap?”

  “Why,” I said.

  “So you can take shower.” As she rose, she touched my face and went to get some medical supplies.

  Cuco swallowed the last of his coffee and smiled like a feeb.

  “What?” I said.

  “Gonna bite you.”

  “Shut up.”

  The small waiting room was packed with Spanish-speaking patients—mostly children and the elderly. Cuco had checked us in and the three of us sat there, trying to look inconspicuous. I was surprised that we hadn’t been asked to fill out any paperwork, then realized that this visit was “off the books.” Strictly a cash deal.

  Sasha looked nervous. On the ride over, she had been focused on me and my infection. But now that she was about to be examined, reality set in.

  “Señorita Castillo?” a young woman with long, curly dark hair called out, holding a door open.

  “That’s you,” Cuco said to Sasha.

  She gave me a concerned look and took my hand. I got up and walked her to the door.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said.

  Reluctantly she followed the woman into the back. In a few minutes, that same woman called for Señor Wales. I got up and followed her into a small examination room where I found an examination table covered in butcher paper, a plastic chair and a stainless steel sink with white cabinets above it. The notices and medical diagrams on the pale blue walls were in Spanish and from what I could gather, they warned the dangers of HIV, DUI and head lice.

  In a few minutes, a middle-aged physician’s assistant knocked and entered, wearing a stethoscope around her neck. The name Rios was printed on her nameplate. She seemed to be all business as she smiled professionally and extended her hand.