Zero Saints (11 page)
It was empty.
I’d have to get my ass up and go finish this thing.
I prayed.
Santa Muerte, por favor deja que sólo sean cuatro.
If there was more than one marero in those rooms, I was muerto.
Consuelo. I needed her voice. It didn’t come.
I looked down at my arm. The two dogs were still there. She was there.
I stood up and pressed myself against the wall. The ringing was slowly subsiding, but not fast enough. If someone was whispering or moving around in those rooms, I wouldn’t be able to hear them.
My eyes went to El Príncipe’s body. I thought about grabbing his vest, but moving his body around was a sure way to get killed.
Santa Muerte, protégeme.
I said it out loud. Then I moved into the hallway, my gun leading the way with its dark belly still pregnant with some blessed balas.
The first door was on the left. It was open. Darkness ruled beyond the doorway. The second door and third doors were on the right. The last door had to be the room we’d seen from the back of the house. The light was still on. The door before it had to be the bathroom. It was dark, but enough light from the last room was spilling out for me to make out a white counter.
Indio had to be in that last room.
Consuelo’s slashed neck came to me. Her body slumped against the kitchen cabinets like some discarded piece of garbage. I needed the anger to come back and kick the fear out like a tenant who won’t pay rent.
Santa Muerte, protégeme.
Short and simple. Un mantra personal e immediato.
Santa Muerte, protégeme.
A breeze came in and caressed my sweaty arms. I thought it was un mensaje divino. I closed my eyes, whispered a thank you. Then the breeze came again.
The window.
Indio was escaping.
I heard laughter coming from behind me. I turned, gun raised. There was no one there. Then the laughter came again, but from behind me.
I ran into the room. There was a mattress on the floor and a few bottles next to it. It smelled like weed smoke and sweat. The window was open. The blinds were moving gently in the breeze. El pinche hijueputa se había fugado. I had to go after him.
I moved to the window, moved the blinds out of the way, and placed my hands on the windowsill so I could lift a leg and jump out.
My right leg touched the grass and something came at me fast. I saw white balls of light all around me.
Indio.
He’d been waiting for me.
The butt of his gun came down on my head again. The balls of light clicked off. My legs bent. My right hand let go of the gun. Indio grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me the rest of the way out, let go. My body hit the ground. Air left my lungs. Indio growled and kicked me. Something in my chest cracked. It felt like someone had put a blade in me.
“Lo nuestro es matar a bala, marica.”
His voice would’ve made wolves run away.
“Tu no eres nadie, cabrón. Nadie jode con la Salvatrucha. Nadie jode conmigo.”
He kicked me again. The knife in my ribs went in deeper. My eyes were open, but all I saw for two seconds was absolute darkness.
Indio’s hand was on me again. He pulled me by up by my shirt and screamed something in a strange language. The sound was something physical. It hit me like a gust of hot air. My feet left the ground for a few seconds. His strength wasn’t human.
He was angry. Spit was flying out of his mouth. His words ran into each other and became growls. Then he stopped, shoved me down, and stood straight. He threw his head back and started speaking in that bizarre tongue again, but now it sounded like three or four people talking at once.
I looked up. His mouth wasn’t moving, but I could still hear him. What looked like tiny hands were pushing against the skin in his stomach from the inside. The skin stretched like a ballon and then retreated. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t.
The black eye of Indio’s gun was down looking at me.
I wanted to get up, take that gun from him, shove it up his ass, and pull the trigger. I couldn’t. Todo lo que podia hacer era sentir dolor. My favorite prayer came to me.
Señora Blanca, Señora Negra, a tus pies me postro para pedirte, para suplicarte, que hagas sentir tu fuerza, tu poder y tu omnipotencia contra los que intenten destruirme.
Before I could continue in my head, Indio spoke. His voice belonged to a monster, but it was loud and clear over the mumbled nonsense of those other voices that were coming from everywhere and nowhere.
“Ogún oko dara obaniché…”
His eyes were filled with blackness. The tiny hands were gone replaced by the outlines of faces. A few flies flew out of his mouth.
“…aguanile ichegún...”
A thin black tube appeared next to Indio’s head.
Thup.
His head snapped sideways. The arm holding the gun dropped down. He followed.
A black 9mm was attached to the silencer. Holding both of them and looking down at me was the Russian. He looked at Indio’s body, lowered the gun a bit, and put two more bullets in his skull. His eyes were now normal. A few more flies came from his mouth. His stomach and chest no longer moved.
“He bleeds,” said the Russian.
I coughed. Grunted from the pain.
“You and your friend are very stupid men, Nando.”
I wasn’t about to argue with him. He was absolutely right.
“You are lucky that I am curious. You are lucky that running away a second time made me feel bad. You should thank my mother. She talked me into coming here without saying a single word. Pray for her dusha.”
I nodded.
“I will get out of here now. Too much noise. Cops will be here soon. I suggest you disappear as well. Don’t take that car you came in. Do you need to come with me?”
I nodded again. I wanted to thank him, but words wouldn’t come. The Russian reached out to me. I grabbed his hand. He yanked me up as if I weighed nothing. White hot pain flared in my chest. I leaned on him. We started walking.
“The Tchort that was following you, he is dead now.”
“He… he is. Thank you.”
“This man with the black eyes, I did not kill him for you, Nando, I killed him for me.”
That statement didn’t require an answer.
We walked around T.B.’s Lounge. The Russian’s car was the same big beast I’d seen earlier. He opened the door and helped me get inside. Then he climbed in and we took off. The Russian didn’t ask me where I lived.
“Your boss, he is dead. What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure that out soon, but first I want to buy some apples, take something for the pain, and then pray. I want to pray to mi Santa Muerte for an entire day. Then I might take my neighbor out for some tacos or something. I don’t know.”
The Russian didn’t say anything. He looked at the road ahead of us with eyes that were entirely white.
Acknowledgemets
I want to thank J David Osborne for believing in my weird words. Working with you is an honor and a pleasure. Much love, hermano. You and Rios son familia.
I want to thank Ady and Gabi, por lo de siempre, por todo.
Rios de la Luz and Steve Lowe looked at chunks of this novel early on and made it better. You two are awesome people, friends, and writers. If anything here is good, it is because of them.
Matthew Revert, where would I be without you? Thanks for everything.
For their friendship, words, and inspiration, big hugs and thanks to Jeremy Robert Johnson, Brian Allen Carr, Bill Minutaglio, Jerry Stahl, and Cody Goodfellow, the fucking madman genius you can blame for that mysterious bucket. Un abrazo enorme para Isaac Kirkman, a visionary man of words who became a part of this in many ways. One of them is the unblinking visionero in this book. Keep the light flowing, street poet.
There’s a group of fantastic people who have become a community for me. They keep me inspired and humble, so thanks to Cameron Pierce, Adam Cesare, Michael Kazepis (this book’s title? His doing), Michael J. Seidlinger, D. Foy, Constance Ann Fitzgerald, Ryan W. Bradley, Eddy Rathke, Tiffany Scandal, David James Keaton, Carlton Mellick III (I wouldn’t be here without you, man), Sean and Jessica Leonard, Noah Cicero, John Skipp, Laura Lee Bahr (squee!), Grant Wamack, Michael Allen Rose, Sauda Namir, Shane Cartledge, Ryan Harding, Joseph Bouthiette Jr., Josh Myers, Jeff Burk, Brian Keene, David Bowles, William Pauley III, Jamie Iredell, Kelby Losack, Dyer Wilk, Brian Allan Ellis, Jim Ruland, and David W. Barbee.
Thanks to the folks who always support what I do in ways that are as undeserved as they are unexpected: Steve “Boo” Pattee, Daniel LaPonsie, Micheal Sean LeSueur, Benoit Lelievre, Vincenzo Bilof, Scott Cole, Tim Marquitz, Adrian Shotbolt, Christoph Paul, Reagan Butcher, and Jackson Ellis, who has made Verbicide feel like home.
Since this is my first “crime” novel, a shout out to Jedidiah Ayres, Nik Korpon, Joe Clifford, Tom Pitts, Anthony Neil Smith, Keith Rawson, Craig T. McNeely, Court Merrigan, Rob Hart, and Paul J. Garth.
Gracias a los amigos de siempre: Trobi, Manu, Gambi, Perla, Willie. Se les quiere, cabrones.
A todos los barrios del mundo y su gente buena. A Mexico, Puerto Rico, Austin, and those who, like me, came to this country to follow a dream. Hope y’all find what you’re looking for. And gracias a la Santa Muerte.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Gabino Iglesias lives in Austin, TX. This is his second novel.
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