"!Como queso con el movimiento alterado,puro twins!" Garbled the young man out into the cold nights air of the potpourie scented cabin living room.
The whites of Marcos's eyes were now a soft pink, a blood shot ruby red around his wobbling brown pupils. He slowly closed his eyes, pulled a burgundy fleece blanket tighter against his squat body, while his feet swayed left, right, stepping to the beat of his favorite Movimiento song. A bobbing sensation had taken over his body, rolling to the nacro-corrido music which was blaring out the stereo. A hazy waft of liquid nitrogen tickled in the nose of the young Mexican American man. He could almost taste the wheat odor of bodies, under the potent buzz of white rum and Coca-Cola. Marcos let his mind slip back into a memory; fragments of a moment in a club packed with Latin bodies gyrating, posing and jump all around him.
The song crooned to its big accordion finish as the young man allowed his saggy eyes lids to peal open. Shafts of harsh white light broke through Marcos's blurred vision. He reclinched in a woozy attempt to stabilize himself. He eased his eyes open again, this time to see the swirling crags and knots along fridge and hard yellow log walls. Marcos unsaddles the nearly finished bottle of Hennessey from the cradle in his arms and stumbles to the stereo. The old disk player sat atop of a cheap old pine dresser. With great concentration, Marcos landed the bottle between three empty clear bottles of Corona, which littered the wood panel table top next to an old green, red, blue and brown thatch patterned couch.
He rewrapped himself in the smooth blanket, trapping in a plum of body heat. He hated the cold and hated the fact that he had to spend four more days on this mountain, where it was either freezing cold or kind of chilly. The young Mexican rested his back against the dresser as he inspected where all the heat from the sandstone mounted fire place was going. Mumbling inaudible, Marcos ignored the dying flames of the fire and refocused his attention to the stereo, which was now silent. He jabbed at the device, searching for the button that said "repeat."
The glassy wobbling bulbs which were his eyes followed his right hand which unfolded from under the purple blanket and waved at the bourbon bottle just out of his posture's reach. Too drunk or too uncoordinated to bend over for the bottle, the short man belches out a small whisper of a sound and shimmied forward towards his bedroom. Marcos felt the cool pings of the chilly air from the living room slide off the back of his exposed neck as he stumbled into the brownish yellow log box in which he had slept in for the last six weeks. Falling face first into flannel sheets, Marcos curled and twisted himself underneath layers of thick gentle covers. He adjusted his penis, rolled over to his back and was asleep before the blaring sounds of Movimiento rattled throughout the cabin once again.
"…for the homies…" gurgled Marcos from out his drunken exhaustion.
"Where were you two days ago Carlo?" asked a masked face barked out.
The face was a collection of features; the top of a broad nose, angry penetrating eyes with vibrant green pupils, shielded by a thick fore-brow, a misshaped forehead and a short red crop of hair. Three line were dashed into the hair of his dark ginger brows above the face's left eye. The cuts stood out, accents against the milky darkness which made up the backdrop of the dream.
"Nowhere homes. What the fuck Marcos? Aye bro. We're brothers homie. What the fuck?" Whimpered a short young man on the verge of tears.
Carlo's words plumed out in a frosted steam, spelt out in text, each word replaced by the following, drifting in the air between the three gang bangers.
An old Mavericks basketball team shirt clung to Carlo's body. Marcos had seen it a million times.
"He loved that shit." Marcos thought.
The quirky sound of the Carlo's voice clattered off the abandoned building on an unbelievably cold night for south Texas. People where calling it the "Polar Vortex". It made the sky compact and ashen like a brick, the whole world around the three was washed out and dull.
Breaking the grey tinting film was a vibrantly golden crucifixion which hung at the end of a long and intricately decorated studded gold chain from around Carlo's neck. Its color glowed through the shaded foreground and background. The bright yellow jewelry twinkled over Carlo's blue and white Mavs t-shirt. "Don't let Spider take that." Marcos commanded focusing on the chain.
Marcos watched as his gloved hand wrapped around a large silver revolver. It was his old .45. The boys face was Carlo Marquez, another Azteca and his homie.
"He marked the homies fool, and fingered Guopo to the "chanchos"." That's what Malo said and then gave Spider a glock. Marcos's thoughts and visual memories played out before him.
Carlo was cryin like a putta. "That aint my vato, acting a bitch like that." "Las ratas ir a la suciedad." Sang out Spider who's words couldn't press through from under his black and white patterned bandanna. The white swirls and hooks shun too, like the gold of Carlo's chain.
"Don't look at him homie, he aint gonna save you. You died when you opened your snitchin ass mouth. Down for life, you pieza de mierda!" Rattled out Spider.
Marcos attempted to fasten a steely face. The off white of cocaine clung to the rim of his nose as his hands shook and flexed around the glowing silver hand gun.
"On my mom Spider. No hablé con nadie!" Whimpered the teenage Carlo through a sobby hiccup.
Time rippled and the dream like quality of the moment melded a crackling sound with a piercing ring tone of a phone. Each blare fading in to the sharpening sound an alarming sound. The sound of a chirping ringer pulled Marcos from his sleep and sucked his mind back into that wooden box.
"Jimenez! Marcos! Wake uuuuppppp!" Agent Cleaves shouted from out the phone's ear piece. Collecting himself from his half sleep state, Marcos overheard Cleaves speaking to someone else; "…in 3 days and he's on a bender….Yeah, he's still sleeping. Hey fuck face, check in." jeered Deputy U.S Marshal Lewis Cleaves.
"I'm up. You don't need to shout." Bemoaned Marcos into a cordless phone.
"No I do have to shout Jimenez because you're a fucking degenerate, who is sleeping at 3 in the afternoon and you need to check in. You got me, homie?" berated Deputy Cleaves.
"I picked up." retorted Marcos half asleep.
"Yeah but you were a man of a few words this morning so I thought I'd get you speaking. Aye, don't spend all day in bed son." Cleaves chuckled. "You know your next check in?" Asked the marshal.
"10" The young man spat out the number.
-"Yeah, tonight. Hey, hey on a serious note. You need to be presentable in 3 days. I need you to clean yourself up and cut it down with the brown. You can do whatever the fuck you like after that. These next few days you need to get your shit together. So once again, when is your next check in?" Cleaves lowered his voice to a stern sober tone.
"10 homes. I got you." Proclaimed Marcos and with his last word Marcos ended the call with a shaky index finger.
Off the phone and finally out of bad, Marcos spent 45 min crafting a fire, chopping bits of wood, stoking kindling with newspapers to ward of the ever pressing chill, which slithered its way through the nearly air tight bindings between the wall logs and floor boards. The young Mexican American fortified himself in front of the TV where he sank into the oversized rustic colored plaid couch, swaddled in layers of tweedy blankets. From under his cushion of comfort the young man nestled a sturdy tall glass cup of Sprite and whiskey, then he allowed "Caught on Video" shows and liquor to meld into an ever slipping flow of gulps and nods.
A drunken cough wrestled its way out of Marcos's throat and pulled the young man out of a late afternoon stupor. The cabin was completely dark, trapped under the wintery mountain's shadow. The fire he toiled over lost its battle to the frosty thin air and died hours ago. Woozy, Marcos rose to his feet, checking the watery mixture that now made up his drink. He downed the whiskey and melted ice and using the glow of the tube tv, which was silently rerunning infomercials, he shuffled forward to turn on the light to the living room.
Marcos walked to the kitchen, a clean white light cascaded from ceiling fixtures and casted shadows against the bare wood panel walls of the cabin. Marcos dropped 3 cubes of ice into his empty collectable El Pollo Loco cup. Turning back to the TV, his peripheral vision snatched out the shape of a figure off in the snowy blackness outside the cabin. In a groggy startle, the onetime gangbanger released his glass cup to shatter upon the brisk linoleum floor of the kitchen.
Clear shards exploded across the floor as the cubes swam out sliding along the patterned white and gray flooring. Instinctively, Marcos's left hand swiped the wall switch, returning the front of the cabin to the hazing yellow glow of more infomercials. Marcos slunk down and duck walked to the edge of the window facing out to the cabin's service road.
Marcos focused on the figure all the way to the window, praying it didn't see him. There it was, a human figure darkly outlined and fixed into the wintery landscape. The chill from beyond the window pane met Marcos face like a frosty blot from off the glass. Marcos's heart raced, he pressed his hands against the wall. A drawing cool quickly began to leach heat from his sweaty palms. He pushed his face even closer to the insolated window as an avalanche of heat flashed from his head to his gut. Trembling breaths stuttered from out his nostrils. Peering through a steady stream of tall snow drifts, Marcos saw a grayish blue statue, dusted in white flakes around its head and shoulders some yards away from the cabin.
"It wasn't moving but it gotta of seen the lights." Marcos thought to himself.
His eyes bore deeper into the mysterious image until an exhale fogged the chilly glass obscuring his view. Afraid to move his hands to clear the condensation, Marcos shifted his head to the left of the steamy cloud. Marcos saw nothing but snow, trees and blackness down the service road. A rush of adrenaline exploded into his head squeezing the space around his eyes, sending a fizzing sensation shooting throughout his body. The figure was gone.
"He saw me." The dreadful thought zipped across Marcus's mind.
The young man sprang to his feet and scrambled towards the bedroom, kicking broken glass and a cube of ice. At the nightstand he seized the cordless phone receiver. His hands trembling, Marcos struggled to press the numbers for Cleaves's cell. His vision quaked in a wrenching spasm blossoming out of panic. Marcos gagged as his throat constricted. Violent warm sweats ran down the side of his face and forehead. Thin watery saliva seeped from his tongue and roof of his mouth. Marcos refocused his head to the cordless phone in his hand. A fat salty droplet tumbled from the tip of his nose, Marcos watched as the wobbling glob of sweat glided through the air. The heavy drop splashed against the 9 of the phone's dial pad. With it came a contorting jerk which ran up Marcos's stomach, surging through this upper chest and throat. A torrent of choppy brown vomit projected all over the night stand and phone base. Thin wisps of steam emitted from the splattering bits and pools which spread onto the nightstand and along the wall behind. The first purge was a short splash of stew and Henney. The second heaved up with it long strings of binding thick white flem.
Marcos dropped to his knees, his right hand clutching the phone receiver, his left forearm and hand catching his body weight on edge of the bed's disheveled mattress. Teary eyed, the young man struggled to breathe. A series of growingly painful wretches doubled him over. Wads of thick saliva warped themselves around the corners of his mouth and bottom lip. Disgusted and wavering, Marcos peeled off small square nubs from last night's dinner stuck to his face.
Waddling to the bathroom sink to rinse, he labored to clean himself. After dashing warm water onto his face, Marcos checked himself in the mirror. A bit refreshed his mind eased some as fresh streams of tap water tumbled down his face, Marcos scanned his face. He drug his eyes over the rough field of stubble that had began to show over his chin and neck.
His pupils encased in their soft brown retinas, sank down into their reflected blackness.
"Fuck are you doing here homes! Why am I in fucking California! What the fuck?"Crept in and expanded as he gawked further into his own eyes. The condemning words nearly pulled Marcos's gaze from the mirror.
"They were going to kill me." Another part of his mind lashed out.
Fighting not to look away Marcos fixed his sight on the blacks of his eyes. He resisted and dared himself to continue in the mirror.
"I did what I had to." Resolved the latter segment of his thoughts.
Marcos allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up into a smug frown. Uncomfortable at first but his crooked lips transformed into a hard pecking. Lifting his hand to his chest, Marcos twisted his fingers for the Barrio Aztecas. Before realizing, he flashed four fingers then quickly clinched his left hand into the shape of an L. He posed a bit longer, looking deeper into his own reflection.
Gathering himself, Marcos cleared the hair from his face. He took a few deep breaths before a subtle bead of light drew his attention. He pulled himself close to his reflection in the mirror noticing a tiny grey speck at the corners of each pupil. Marcos stared with more intent, driving his sight into what looked like an oblong shape dotted in his eye. It was long and slender at the top, the more he examined more the specter seemed to rise. The spot seemed to fuse into a figure, one with a head, shoulders and block like legs.
Rooted into his own likeness, a growing chill tugged on Marcos's eyes. They had been open and peering long at the sharpening image, which grow finer and finer as each moment passed. Lighter impressions rose from across the body of the figure, a thin V of soft grey. A reassuring sensation came over him; "It's coming." He thought, concentrating on the object in the reflection.
SHWAP!
The clunking sound of a large tree branch clattering against the bed room window startled Marcos. The craggy racket jeered him out of his hypnotizing study of the figure. Marcos remembering his phone call, scrambled back to the night stand, grabbing the receiver from the floor, he could hear Cleaves screaming.
"Gad damn it! Hey! Marcos! Are you there gad damn it?" Deputy Cleaves shouted in frustration.
"There's someone outside!" Marcos blathered in a hushed tone.
"What? Say that again?" Cooling from the confirmation by Marcos's words, Cleaves asked for further explanation.
"I don't know man, There is a guy down the road. He was there one second than he was gone." Marcos stammered while sitting on the bed, back to the bedroom's windows.
"We are on our way Marcos. Where is he now?" Returned Deputy Marshal Lewis Cleaves.
"Lock all the doors and windows. Turn off the lights and get into the bathroom. 10 minutes. We will be there. 10 Minutes!" He insisted.
"I don't know, Got to be one of Guopo's vatos right?" Marcos forced the question before Cleaves could hang up. The marshal took a moment to process the idea.
"By himself? Marcos, it doesn't matter. Get into that room and lock it." Cleaves reassured Marcos in a calm and assertive voice.
"I don't know homes. I saw the first fool and called you." Marcos answered in anxiously.
"It's going to be ok. Get to the bathroom. We will be there in 10." Deputy Cleaves stated.
"Okay. Okay" Marcos replied.
After the second confirmation Marcos heard Deputy Cleaves turn over a heavy SUV engine and hang up. Bewildered Marcos's sluggish mind struggled to keep up with what just happened. He darted to various wall switches throughout the cabin. Room by room he set himself in blackness and grabbed a small hatchet from next to the fireplace. Coddled in the bathroom, Marcos mounted himself on the toilet seat lid and stared at the locked door knob.
The small room fell silent under the rapping sound of tree branches scrapping along the roof and siding of the log cabin. The young man breathed slowly to avoid masking the sound of a possible approaching intruder.
Marcos struggled to sit patently and be saved. All his life he had spent these moments with his homies, ready for whatever, not giving a fuck. But he can't be there anymore. That's all gone. He was tucked away on some mountain in California. Miles away from the nearest city, if a person could call Sierra City a city.
"Where the fuck are the Sierras? Why was he here?" The thoughts had been driving Marcos crazy for the last 6 weeks. They floated in from the recesses of Marcos's brain whenever he found himself benignly stationed in front of a mindless TV show triple layered in his cloths, braving biting cold wind to bringing in firewood or taking a lukewarm shower in the tiny shower he was now sitting a foot from.
Protective custody, that meant he was a snitch and he deserves a bullet.
"I can't do 25 years." Marcos knew he couldn't survive that amount of time in prison. He knew what he had done and knew everyone hated him for it.
A wiping mountain gust swept over the roof of the cabin. The sound of icy snow rattled along the bedroom window and perched Marcos's ears. His eye darted in the darkness to the corner of the bathroom. He held his breath. His heart boomed against his rib cage. Sweat ran down his face as his wet palms gripped the small ax and cordless phone receiver. A droning beat coursed through his chest as the hollowing wind carved hard through trees outside. A cold breath crept into the bathroom from underneath the door and fingered its way up Marcos's sweatpants. Marcos thoughts grew clammy and paranoid as an un-sourced pressure seemed to shrink the tight bathroom and accented the soft creaking sound of wood bending.
"Floor boards? Foot sets!" Marcos silently dreaded.
His eyes bulged wide as he inspected the cheap metal door knob to the bathroom for any movement. The drumming beat of his pounding heart had transformed into pulsating waves of static. Each oncoming crest of tension drove into Marcos's sternum. The air froze around him as the wind fell still and Marcos could almost feel a presence on the other side of the bathroom door.
…"Marcos"… A queer bubble of disbelief parted Marcos's lips as his wide eyes dissolved into a frown of unnerving disbelief.
-BANG, smacked the cabin's front door as it bounced against the thick wooden log wall of the living room. The loud clamor launched Marcos to his feet. Two sets of heavy footsteps could be heard rushing through the living room of the cabin.
"Marcos!? You ok?" Yelled out Deputy Cleaves in a cool reassuring tone.
"Yeah. Here! I'm here." Returned Marcos from behind the bathroom door.
Moments later Marcos could hear Cleaves and his partner sweeping into the bed room.
"We're clear." Stated the second deputy marshal.
A blade of light shun from underneath the bathroom door. Marcos took a moment to compose himself, unlocked the door and walked out into the bed room. Deputy Cleaves stood with a half disgusted smirk on his face as he reviewed Marcos's cooling vomit. His lanky partner eased down a cracked window in the corner of the room as Cleaves chuckled.
" Jesus, Jimenez, there's more fire water here than burrito." Laughed out Cleaves. "So where is your intruder?"
"I don't fucking know homes! The fool out front. I crept up to the window and peeped the him just standing out there. Like a statue in the snow n shit." Urged Marcos.
Looking over to Reich, Cleaves nodded.
"Show daddy where." Quip Cleaves.
Marcos led the two agents out of the bedroom to the spot he knelt, looking out onto the service road.
"Right there homes. Bout 100 feet down or so. He was there. No lie. Just, just standing there." Explained Marcos
"Alright, Alright. I'm going to ignore the fact you look like hell and smell like shit. But this is what you signed up for homie. Just know you came to us." Insulted Cleaves.
"Aye homes, I got real shit for you. Guope de Santos aint no fucking hood hoper. He knows people homes. He's put bounties on cops, DEA agents and fools in the pen. Aint no place safe. You know-"
"Ok, ok...We are going to go take a look down the road. See if we can find anything. Once we close this door, you lock it. Grab some shit of yours. We're all gonna take a little ride back to the motel." Proclaimed Cleaves.
Marcos sealed the door behind the two agents as a ribbon of cold air rushed through the closing gap. Securing the door, he stepped back in front of the window to watch the two agents brandishing their Mag-lights and side arms methodically trekking down the service road. Every few feet, each agent would swing his cone of white light through the clear winter air. Illuminated snow dusted trees and underbrush shun under the bright lights. Marcos watched till the two stopped at where he imaged the figure stood. Quickly he dashed back into the bedroom to grab a black duffle bag. He anxiously filled it with clothing and toiletries. He wrestled to swap his sweatpants for a pair of baggy black jeans. He exited the room hopping to place on his left tennis shoe and avoiding shards of glass. Landing the foot into shoe, Marcos stood back at the window watching the two agents strolling back, both still scanning the area with the cutting beams of light. With their guns at their sides, the deputies approached twenty feet from the cabin porch.
Agent Reich's eyes swept from his left to right, jutting in and out of the tree line guided by his flash light. The thick mat of snow that rose up to his lower shins seemed to still the night entirely. But for the sporadic interruption of a blast from an easterly wind, the mountain slope was in an eerie din of silence. Just three feet behind his partner, Lucas Reich broke his visual sweep to watch the huffs of warm air blow out from Cleaves's mouth and sift around the back of his head.
"Marcos, don't see your homie, homie." Joked Cleaves. "It's all good, saved us from coming back for you on Sunday. Let's go." Demanded Cleaves.
Still strolling forward, Agent Reich swept his eye back to the illuminated white patch of snow captured in his flash light.
"Lou." Chirped Deputy Reich in a puzzled tone.
Marcos watched as Reich's plume of words called Cleaves's attention to something off to the side of the cabin. Both concerned faces paused Marcos in his place. A flash of heat exploded in his chest. He swallowed hard as Deputy Cleaves lifted up his palm signaling halt to Marcos. Drawing their guns, the Marshals shot their flashlights through the crisp winter mountain air.
Reich furrowed his brow peering analytically into a deep depression in the snow but six feet from his left. Cleaves's flashlight darted across the ground, searching, looking, grabbing for the next depression. The Deputies exchanged weary glances as they edged towards a solitary foot print.
"Grab Jimenez." Reich instructed Cleaves, who was now back-stepping to the front of the porch. Both words bursting into thrusts of white frost.
Reich's flashlight danced across the snow, from the foot print to surrounding brush, hitting a tree trunk, up the tree, lining the white coated limb in the shaft of light, Reich's eyes followed the branch.
"Time to go Marcos." Tiny crystallized clouds puffed from out of Deputy Cleaves's mouth as he made the top clearing of the porch. His eyes met Marcos's, which were leering in shock at his partner, Reich.
Ignoring the words of the approaching U.S Deputy, Marcos felt that familiar gut wrenching curl in his pit. He looked deep into Deputy Reich's face as his eyes flexed tight then pulled wide. His gun swung up to point just above where Marcos was standing.
Breaking the upper cone of light, two black feet fluttered behind a darting hunk up into the night's sky. Reich clinched his stubble covered jaw as he concentrated, searching the air above him for any movement. Projecting the object's trajectory, he rang out two loud shots which shattered the silence of the snow capped forest scene.
The gun's flashes and breaking pops sent quivering jolts of excitement coursing around Deputy Cleaves, who spun, gun raised to the sky, attempting to follow his partner's target. For a moment silence retook the world around the cabin. The snow packed floor and dense trees muffled the two booms from the steaming barrel of Reich's 9mm pistol.
Marcos, flush and panic stricken, eagerly looked on as the two U.S Marshals scanned the space above them, searching for something.
"Where is it?" Rattled off Deputy Cleaves.
Reich's sternly grimaced and stared into the air, scanning with hawkish eyes.
"Where?" The single word shot out as Cleaves insisted.
"I don't-"Reich was interrupted.
The yelping bellows wafted out of Deputy Reich's screams, which erupted into the forest as a falling dark mass severed his hand at the mid forearm. A ruggedly coarse black void instantly shifted down into Cleaves's vision, cutting off the line of sight between Reich in the snow and himself on the porch. Cleaves witnessed the figure's speedy decent as a blurry apparition. Pop, pop, pop. Cleaves unleashed a volley of bullets into the darkened figure, which now was wrenching down onto his wailing partner. Bullets shredded into the navy blue wool cloak that was draped wet and heavy over the figure. Reich's screams had stopped under the barrage of semi automatic handgun fire. A second round of loud bangs rapped into the night as Deputy Cleaves emptied the remainder of his clip into the cloaked figure. Its head and shoulders wrap themselves around the dead marshal, encasing him underneath the attacker and its consuming cape. Only plumes of heat radiated from out under the dark body.
Cleaves watched in complete shocking horror as each of his bullets went unnoticed by the attacker. His right hand instinctively released his side arm's magazine as his left hand dropped to grab his last clip. Instantaneously the downed figure twisted itself up into an erect standing position facing Cleaves on the cabin's porch. It was a slender dark haired man, with a gaunt pale face. His skin looked a frosty light blue. Thick steaming red blood drained from around his mouth as white vapor funneled off from where the warm blood covered. A current of crimson coated from the man's thin upper lip, soaking a short trimmed beard which covered the man's chin and neck, down along his chest, staining a twill light blue wool sweater.
The unknown man's twitching hands followed a queer smirk which shaped its blood slathered lips. Fluttering eye lids blinked over the monster's deathly excited gaze, which seemed to bore into Agent Cleaves' chest. Cleaves slid the cold metal of the final clip into his steaming fire arm and moved to squeeze the trigger as the attacker spring forward with extraordinary speed. The fired round met the frozen man's chest, inches away from the barrel of the gun. Ramming violently hard into Cleaves, the inhuman attacker sent the agent instantaneously slamming into the wooden door of the cabin. Sending the cowering Marcos, who stood behind the door attempting to secure its lock, tumbling back underneath the entryway's exploding force, which ripped the heavy door from its frame and hinges.
Marcos's vision blurred and sharpened as he looked up from his back to the gapping wide threshold. A curling whip of snow spun into the cabin, hundreds of tiny white flakes drifted softly at the entrance only to be sucked back outside by a passing gale of mountain air. The sheer speed and violence of him being on the cabin's floor baffled Marcos.
"How did I get here?" His mind attempted to piece together what just happened in a concussive haze.
A surreal filter had slowed Marcos processing ability since seeing Agent Reich's hand torn off and thrown to the ground by the monster. Marcos couldn't believe what he was seeing as Cleaves's slumped body squatted, his feet flat underneath his back and butt, all halfway against the side of the porch wall and the open doorway.
Wheezing threads of frosted breath became shallower and shallower, Cleaves's blooded head dangled and bounced against his quickly ballooning and depressing upper chest. His arms draped down to his side like a doll. His pistol lay inches from his motionless right hand. Towering over the dying deputy stood a bristly, long haired man, covered in blood from his cheeks and down. In a violently quick snatching motion, the attacker yanked Cleaves up against the cabin wall and drove his free right hand hard against the agent's chest, sending a clattering tremor thundering through the wall behind Cleaves. Yanking his blood soaked hand back, the frozen man released Deputy Cleaves's body to collapse in a cooling heap of lifelessness on the porch.
"No! Ahhhhh!" Screamed out Marcos, his billowy sounds like his feet, attempted to back away from the cabin's opening.
The bloodied attacker leered at the whimpering boy as he kicked and squirmed backwards. The man turned looking down the side of the porch.
"Remember, you must eat or you will die." Proclaimed the attacker; waving the upward open palm of his right hand steeped in dark blood towards the downed Marcos.
"No homes, I don't want any of this rata." Replied a squeaky voice rounding the corner of the doorway.
Strolling in the cabin came a young man, short, oddly dressed in just a blood stained blue and white Mav's t-shirt. A long gold chain anchored by a yellow cross slung at the lower stomach of Carlos Marquez.
"Carlo...What the fuck!" Uttered Marcos's words met the cooling air to conjure a frozen film which lingered in the space above him. Marcos felt a leaching cold breeze climb up his body, starting at his feet.
Carlo swooped down to grab hold of Agent Cleaves's gun. The little man saunters towards the fallen Marcos, who was fluttering in disbelief and terror. The soft thumps of Carlo's white shell toed tennis shoes steps seem to carry a constant flow of chilly winter gusts, edging in from the icy Sierras behind him.
"¿Cómo puede estar aquí?¿Cómo es esto posible? It's not possible homes. We killed you homes. I shot you. You were the rat. You were the rat. I told them." Whimpered Marcos in stunted wisps.
"No putta! You were the dirty fuckin rat. I was down for the homies and you give up "El Jefe," homes. But you had to snake me right? You had to put me out there for Guopo. Cover your ass. I get it homes. I see now Marcos. I see it all." Explained Carlo musing over to the dead deputy and up to the cabin surrounding.
"But we shot you. Youre muerto. Muerto! There aint no comin back. How are you back homes? Why are you here?" Huffed Marcos in a fit of fearful frustration.
Carlo pulled back the hammer on Cleaves's sidearm, staring down onto Marcos with a hardened glare.
"A ver morir." Carlo grimly explained.
"Ahhh! No! Please no. I took care of your family homes. I did you right afterwards. Carlo. Somos hermanos." Marcos raised his hand cutting through the misty words of his pleading, hoping to shield his face from the barrel of the 9 mm pistol.
Pop! Rang out the gun. A solitary bullet ripped through the side of Marcos's left palm and exploded just above his left eye. Fragments of his skull and brain launched from underneath the young man's head. A wet and grainy crown of blood, hair and brain matter erected itself behind Marcos's now steaming skull.
Carlo dropped the gun inches from the dead man's right hip and curled thigh. He drew in a full bodied snort from the lower center of his throat and conjured up a thick wad of saliva. He then launched the glob of spit onto the chest of Marcos Jimenez. The short man turned and walked for the shattered entry of the cabin. With each step he forced drifting snow flakes from his path, a steady breeze to serve a frigid blast around his feet and over his once dead friend.