him again.
Closes his eyes and mouth tightly, vowing to die before he swallows shit again, but soon he’s thrashing, his lungs demanding air, his brain threatening to explode, and he opens his mouth again and then he’s drowning in filth and they lift him out and toss him on the ground.
“Now who eats shit?”
“I do.”
“Hose him off.”
The blast of water stings, but Adán is grateful. He’s on all fours, gagging and vomiting, but the water feels wonderful.
Navarres’s pride restored, he’s fatherly now as he leans over Adán and asks, “Now … where is Don Pedro?”
Adán cries, “I … don’t … know.”
Navarres shakes his head.
“Get the other one,” he orders his men. A few moments later the federales come out of the tent dragging the campesino. His white pants are bloody and torn. His left leg drags at an odd, broken angle and a jagged piece of bone sticks through the flesh.
Adán sees it and pukes on the spot.
He feels even sicker when they start to drag him toward a helicopter.
Art pulls a kerchief tightly over his nose.
The smoke and ash are getting to him, stinging his eyes, settling in his mouth. And God knows, Art thinks, what toxic shit I’m sucking into my lungs.
He comes to a small village perched on a curve in the road. The campesinos stand on the other side of the road and watch as soldiers get ready to put the torch to the thatched roofs of their casitas. Young soldiers nervously hold them back from trying to get their belongings out of the burning houses.
Then Art sees a lunatic.
A tall, stout man with a full head of white hair, his unshaven face rough with white stubble, wearing an untucked denim shirt over blue jeans and tennis shoes, holds a wooden crucifix in front of him like a bad actor in a B-level vampire movie. He pushes his way through the crowd of campesinos and brushes right past the soldiers.
The soldiers must think he’s crazy, too, because they stand back and let him pass. Art watches as the man strides across the road and gets between two torch-bearing soldiers and a house.
“In the name of your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” the man yells, “I forbid you to do this!”
He’s like somebody’s dotty uncle, Art thinks, who’s usually kept in the house but got out in the chaos and is now wandering around with his messiah complex unleashed. The two soldiers just stand there looking at the man, unsure of what to do.
Their sergeant tells them; he walks over and screams at them to quit staring like two fregados and set fire to the chingada house. The soldiers try to move around the crazy man but he slides over to block them.
Quick feet for a fat man, Art thinks.
The sergeant takes his rifle and raises its butt toward the crazy man as though he’s going to crack the man’s skull if he doesn’t move.
The lunatic doesn’t move. He just stands there invoking the name of God.
Art sighs, stops the Jeep, and gets out.
He knows he has no business interfering, but he just can’t let a crazy guy get his melon smashed without at least trying to stop it. He walks over to the sergeant, tells him that he’ll take care of it, then grabs the lunatic by the elbow and tries to walk him away.
“Come on, viejo,” Art says. “Jesus told me he wants to see you across the road.”
“Really?” the man answers. “Because Jesus told me to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
The man looks at him with amazing gray eyes. Art sees them and knows right away that this guy is no nut job, but something altogether different. Sometimes you see a person’s eyes and you know, you just know, that the bullshit hour is over.
These eyes have seen things, and not flinched or looked away.
Now the man looks at the DEA on Art’s cap.
“Proud of yourself?” he asks.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m just doing mine.” He turns back
Closes his eyes and mouth tightly, vowing to die before he swallows shit again, but soon he’s thrashing, his lungs demanding air, his brain threatening to explode, and he opens his mouth again and then he’s drowning in filth and they lift him out and toss him on the ground.
“Now who eats shit?”
“I do.”
“Hose him off.”
The blast of water stings, but Adán is grateful. He’s on all fours, gagging and vomiting, but the water feels wonderful.
Navarres’s pride restored, he’s fatherly now as he leans over Adán and asks, “Now … where is Don Pedro?”
Adán cries, “I … don’t … know.”
Navarres shakes his head.
“Get the other one,” he orders his men. A few moments later the federales come out of the tent dragging the campesino. His white pants are bloody and torn. His left leg drags at an odd, broken angle and a jagged piece of bone sticks through the flesh.
Adán sees it and pukes on the spot.
He feels even sicker when they start to drag him toward a helicopter.
Art pulls a kerchief tightly over his nose.
The smoke and ash are getting to him, stinging his eyes, settling in his mouth. And God knows, Art thinks, what toxic shit I’m sucking into my lungs.
He comes to a small village perched on a curve in the road. The campesinos stand on the other side of the road and watch as soldiers get ready to put the torch to the thatched roofs of their casitas. Young soldiers nervously hold them back from trying to get their belongings out of the burning houses.
Then Art sees a lunatic.
A tall, stout man with a full head of white hair, his unshaven face rough with white stubble, wearing an untucked denim shirt over blue jeans and tennis shoes, holds a wooden crucifix in front of him like a bad actor in a B-level vampire movie. He pushes his way through the crowd of campesinos and brushes right past the soldiers.
The soldiers must think he’s crazy, too, because they stand back and let him pass. Art watches as the man strides across the road and gets between two torch-bearing soldiers and a house.
“In the name of your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” the man yells, “I forbid you to do this!”
He’s like somebody’s dotty uncle, Art thinks, who’s usually kept in the house but got out in the chaos and is now wandering around with his messiah complex unleashed. The two soldiers just stand there looking at the man, unsure of what to do.
Their sergeant tells them; he walks over and screams at them to quit staring like two fregados and set fire to the chingada house. The soldiers try to move around the crazy man but he slides over to block them.
Quick feet for a fat man, Art thinks.
The sergeant takes his rifle and raises its butt toward the crazy man as though he’s going to crack the man’s skull if he doesn’t move.
The lunatic doesn’t move. He just stands there invoking the name of God.
Art sighs, stops the Jeep, and gets out.
He knows he has no business interfering, but he just can’t let a crazy guy get his melon smashed without at least trying to stop it. He walks over to the sergeant, tells him that he’ll take care of it, then grabs the lunatic by the elbow and tries to walk him away.
“Come on, viejo,” Art says. “Jesus told me he wants to see you across the road.”
“Really?” the man answers. “Because Jesus told me to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
The man looks at him with amazing gray eyes. Art sees them and knows right away that this guy is no nut job, but something altogether different. Sometimes you see a person’s eyes and you know, you just know, that the bullshit hour is over.
These eyes have seen things, and not flinched or looked away.
Now the man looks at the DEA on Art’s cap.
“Proud of yourself?” he asks.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m just doing mine.” He turns back
Similar Books
