Salem winced as the scarred man roughly snapped the thick, ballistic collar into place around the back of his neck. He looked down at the heavy tactical vest, and metal shoulder pads strapped to his upper body over his fresh, white sleeveless shirt. His recently acquired, faded blue jeans fell in thick folds around his canvas boot-clad feet. Apart from the leaden panoply weighing down his emaciated body, the clothes felt comfortable, natural, as if he had pulled them from his own dresser drawer back in his Miami apartment.
He shook the painful thoughts of his old life from his mind, cursing himself for mentally bringing it up. The places and people he regarded as his home were gone now, dead, and if he'd learned anything in his life it was that once something was dead, it was better left that way. The pains of the past were better forgotten and locked away where they couldn't touch him, couldn't hurt him anymore, but for some things that was easier said than done.
Grazing a gloved hand over the right front pocket of his jeans, he could feel the hard, thin square shape of the folded photograph he had hastily hidden away when he was told to change out of his formal attire. Salem feared Bautista would have reclaimed the crumpled picture, stealing away one of the last tangible mementos tying him to his old life, as well as his closest friend. He had just learned of Rios' death hours ago, and he wasn't ready to say goodbye. Everything seemed to be moving so fast, and he felt himself slipping away with every second he was in the compound. He was losing control of his life fast, falling under seemingly everyone's will but his own, and he wanted to hold on to just a little piece, even if it was something relating to the man that abandoned him here in the first place.
"It suits ya, hon," he heard the blonde woman's velvety voice say from behind. Her heels tapped loudly against the home's tile floor as she slowly approached him. "Makes ya look like ya have some meat on yer bones. Can't have ya lookin' like a twig in front of this crowd."
Bautista chuckled, watching them from a deep, leather chair off-centered in the sun-kissed living room. "Don't listen to her, 'mano. You're one of us now, and tonight everyone's gonna see that. You listening, amigo?"
Salem, distracted by his thoughts, was staring blankly out one of the wide, casement windows at the desert expanse stretching across the darkening horizon. He snapped back to attention, yanked from his mournful brooding by Bautista's question. "Huh? Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I was... Wh-what happens tonight, exactly?"
"Just a little initiation ceremony," Bautista explained. "A rite of passage, if you will."
"More like a wild party to me," Jezebel added with a smirk, lightly scratching her bright red fingernails over Salem's metal shoulder pad as she came around to his front. "They can be like a bunch a animals, real eager for some fresh meat. I know I am."
"I'll agree with you there, ramera," Bautista said with a laugh. "The guys like to have a little fun with new recruits. They can get a bit...theatrical. Look, don't worry about it, amigo. It's something all novatos gotta do. No te preocupes."
"And, uh, how 'bout afterwards?" Salem asked meekly. "Where do I go?"
"Thought you were gonna stay with me, sugar," the woman said kittenishly, gently running a crimson claw along the unburned side of his jaw, inclining his chin. "We could have a lotta fun, you and I. You need some attention, Southern boy. Poor thing. Been alone this whole time."
Salem found himself extremely tempted to lean into her delicate touch, but refrained, still completely distrusting of his surroundings. He was so tired of hurting, and this sudden tenderness seemed about as out of place as he was. He could sense this whole situation was wrong, and though his body ached for just a tinge of warm affection, he remained phlegmatic at the woman's touch, albeit anxiously rigid.
"My promising new addition's not getting a nasty bruja like you," Bautista scolded, standing up from his chair. "He's getting a girl of his own, remember?" He strolled across the room to one of the long end tables set against the wall, and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. Plucking the filled glass into his hand, Bautista walked casually toward Salem, taking a small sip of his alcohol as he went.
"As for where to stay," he continued, motioning to the entirety of the room. "How about this old place?"
Salem's eyes widened. "What, you mean-"
"Sí," Bautista smirked, clasping him on his armored shoulder. "It's yours now, my friend. Welcome home."
"Uh, I don't..." Salem muttered, licking his chapped lips. He was wary of accepting the immense endowment. Every tinge of hospitality felt as if he was greatly overstepping his bounds. Just this morning he was living like a worthless animal, and now he was being waited on by staff in a luxurious mansion his captives claimed to now be his. Much like Jezebel's flirtation, it all seemed, well, off. "That's, uh, real generous of ya."
The woman snickered. "He's got, what, three other ones? Compared to his place in Guadalajara, this is a-"
"Now, let's not boast, Jesse," Bautista interrupted. "Señor Guerras, the time?"
The armed cartel member that leaned silently against the back wall of the living room, seemingly stultified by the small group, briefly eyed his MTM Black Cobra watch, then looked back to his boss. "8:47."
"Good, good," the drug lord muttered to himself. "We better get going, amigo. Party's already started."
2.7 Klicks to the South
Salem warily followed Bautista and the woman, occasionally peering over his shoulder at the two other cartel members walking behind him on either side. He scrutinized the abandoned industrial park littered with aged buildings and the skeletons of old cars eaten away by rust and coated in peeling paint, the only signs of life being the numerous, muffled voices and a steady bass carrying over from a tin warehouse across the lot. He could make out low lights scarcely shining through the building's cracked, splotchy windows, as well as faded graffiti sprayed haphazardly over its dilapidated exterior. The armed cartel member behind him moved a little ahead to open one of the rusted, steel doors of the warehouse for Bautista and the woman on his arm, then flashed Salem an unnerving smirk as the big, scarred man ushered him in after them.
Inside, a boisterous, rowdy throng gathered on the two lower levels of the building, idly chatting, laughing, drinking, and leaning over the crooked railings of the top floor where the five had entered, watching and occasionally cheering at whatever spectacle lay below. Salem became rigid, uneasy about the idea of getting consumed by the raucous crowd, and startled slightly when he felt a rough nudge against his armor-plated back. The armed cartel member, Guerras Bautista had called him, motioned him forward with a slight nod of the head.
"Bienvenido al Hoyo."
Salem swallowed, then moved apprehensively toward the metal railing, gently pushing through the pack of cartel youths. He slowly peered over the edge of the balcony, placing a gloved hand on the rusted banister, and bracing himself for what may lie beneath.
Encircled in an arena of clamoring, shouting bodies trading crumpled bills and clanking bottles, two dogs, one jet black, the other brown and speckled with white, rolled and tumbled in the dirt floor, clashing teeth and tearing flesh. Their malicious, feral snarls, and sharp cries sent a chill down Salem's spine, and made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck much like the brawling hounds below. The dirt under their paws was spotted with blood from both parties, and more dripped behind the dogs as they slowly circled each other, their heads low to the floor, and their lips curling up to reveal their yellow, bloodied fangs.
The brown speckled one, a sort of shorthaired pointer mutt, pounced and rolled the black shepherd, igniting more ecstatic shouts from the crowd. The black dog lay pinned by his chained neck, and scratched feverishly at the other hound's pink belly with its hind legs. The two flipped again, kicking up a thick cloud of dust as they scrambled to overpower their opponent. The brown was thrown on his side, and struggled to regain his footing as the other dog charged. The shepherd pounced, clamping his jaw tightly around the downed hound's jugular. The black gave a violent jerk with his head, shaking and twisting the pointer's neck. The afflicted dog shrieked, then went limp in the shepherd's hold, and again the cartel horde hollered in unison at the grim victory. As the crowd began trading folds of money, the shepherd loosened his hold on the dead mutt. He kept his head low, snarling and flashing his dripping teeth over the corpse lying in the dirt.
Salem closed his eyes, and released a shaky breath, unaware that he was holding it in the first place. He warily looked back down at the arena, and watched as two men entered the ring. One snapped an order to the shepherd, and hooked a leash to its thick chain collar. The other hauled the dead hound off to the side to clear the scene, leaving a crimson trail like a gruesome paint stroke. Approaching footsteps send tremors across the rickety balcony, and felt the scarred man's familiar, large hand push him toward a creaking staircase. As they made their way downstairs, Salem felt multiple sets of eyes on him, and kept his gaze averted from the wild crowd that had now begun to notice him. They reached the foot of the steps, and the big man shoved Salem through the throng encircling the downstairs arena, where Bautista stood in the center, grinning and motioning him forward. He approached the cartel leader with a straightened, more confident appearing posture, trying his best to hide the slight limp from an earlier inflicted wound that forced him to favor his left leg. The drug lord patted him on the back, and began shouting lightheartedly at the numerous tattooed men and woman that watched him and Salem from above. With another charismatic sounding, Spanish comment, the crowd laughed and roared, shouting back with amusement. Salem, unable to understand what anyone was saying, was lost. His eyes wandered, landing on the black dog standing stoically by his master, his head still low to the ground as he stared back with amber colored eyes.
Salem found it strange how the shepherd seemed more human-like and real than the any of the people he'd met since being left behind, and even stranger just how much he sympathized with him. It seemed everyone he had met shrouded their true intentions behind amiable masks, friendly facades, but the dog's pain and past and life was shown in the deep scars and gashes across his muzzle, and his bloodied left paw that he held off the ground. The animal was easily labeled as a killer, his master's victor, but Salem saw a survivor. He saw a poor soul thrust into a life of violence and death, but tenaciously refused to be the one pinned to the ground and left to bleed out in the dirt. In that moment, the black dog that stared back at him was more of a person than any of the clamoring, shouting bodies that laughed and screamed for blood. Or maybe, Salem considered, he was becoming more of an animal.
Another hard pat on the back from Bautista pulled him from his thoughts, and he watched as the drug lord stepped back and disappeared into the throng. The blonde woman eyes him from the sidelines, flashing a sinister grin as she lazily blew him a kiss.
"¡Agárralo!" a familiar voice called.
Sounding like an order, Salem turned to face the speaker, and caught the black object that flew toward him. Opening his palm, he examined, with confusion, the knife sheath clutched in his hand. He slowly pulled the black grip, revealing a gleaming, curved blade cased inside the thick, cloth scabbard. Salem swallowed, and looked up to see the armed cartel member smirking back at him.
"¡Buena suerte!" the man called with a laugh.
Seeing the situation at hand, Salem furrowed his brow, trying to push down the panic that started building within him. More voices and laughter caught his ear, and he quickly turned back around. Sauntering casually from the rowdy crowd were three thugs, each brandishing blades of their own, snickering and spitting Spanish taunts as they neared. The center man the rolling his bare shoulders, and cracking his tattooed neck, flipped the wicked-looking blade around his fingers as he sneered, "Eh, gringo. You the new hombre everybody's been talking about, Flaco?"
"Am I the skinniest fuck in Mexico, or somethin'?" Salem muttered to himself, tossing aside the sheath.
"Not real impressed, are we boys?"
The other two laughed, still attempting to flank their opponent. Salem's eyes darted from one man to the next, and he began quickly running possible scenarios and attacks through his head. He figured he shouldn't talk back. Men like these fed on weakness, but appearing feeble may cause them to become overconfident and lower their guard. He gave up hiding his limp as he backed away toward the edge of the arena, all while keeping a safe distance from the crowd.
"Aw, you okay?" the center man asked with mock concern. "Leg's not looking so good. What happened to the big, bad Americano? The, uh, número dos, huh? Guess he's not such a tough guy after all. You want in La Guadaña, 'mano? Ha, so do we."
The thug on his right charged, screaming as he swung his blade at Salem's middle. Elliot drew back, ducked, then blocked another strike with his forearm, finally slamming his left elbow up under the attacker's chin, causing him to stumble back. Growling, Salem buried his blade into the side of the man's neck, and kicked him to the dirt. The gangster collapsed, softly sputtering and convulsing as he gripped his fatal wound. Salem huffed, and pushed his hair off of his sweat-dampened forehead. He scooped the dying man's weapon into his free hand, then took a defensive stance, both blades pointing downward in his clenched fists, his eyes filled with a building rage and bloodlust. The crowd roared in shrieking cheers, an antithesis to the silent shock of the two remaining men in the ring. The cartel recruit that had spoken to him barked an order to the man at his side, then the two stalked forward, more cautiously this time.
Almost overcome with lightheadedness, Salem stumbled slightly. He blinked in an attempt to clear his head, and quickly regained his footing. His exhausted body felt nearly spent from the first kill. He was still so weak, and he felt weighed down by the armor and recent loss of his friend. The thought of having to push his weary muscles twice more to take out his attackers nearly brought tears to his eyes. He shook the idea of simply giving up from his clouded mind, promising himself he wouldn't be dragged off to the side, and that his blood wouldn't streak the dirt under their boots. He had survived too much to go out like this, to die like a dog for their entertainment, even if it did mean killing for it. Salem took a deep breath through his nose, and exhaling slowly out his mouth, then adjusted his grip on the blades.
The warehouse was suddenly seemed very small, restricting. The stifling, muggy air felt suffocating, like inhaling smoke. The painfully familiar stench of death assaulted his nostrils, and churned his stomach as the vile scent brought on flashes of past firefights, battles, Rios. In his muddled mind, he was back in Iraq, Somalia, Kosovo, Shanghai and countless other war zones all at once. He could feel the sting of gunshots ringing in his ears, and taste foreign sands on his cracked lips. The fear in his chest turned to hatred, rage, and the men approaching him became, in his mindset, everyone that had wronged him, and every combatant that had made an attempt on his life. In that moment, these two thugs became Clyde, Dalton, Jonah, Ferrell, Rivas and even Rios. Salem's blood boiled, and his nostrils flared as his ferocity grew with each step the cartel members took. Feeling as if he was about to explode, he released a scream that shook his entire body, then charged.
He lunged first at the one that had spoken to him, erratically slicing his blades through the stale air. The man swiftly jumped back, bobbing and weaving to evade the crazed man's blows. Feeling of one of the weapons bite a deep gash into his forearm, the thug clenched his teeth in pain. The second gangster crouched silently behind their assailant, then pounced, growling as he swung his knife at the enraged man's lower back. Salem, hearing the guttural sound, spun and knelt on one knee, before digging one of his knives into the man's left leg just above his knee cap. The cartel member cried out, and fell on his back, pawing at the blade jutting from his lower thigh.
A hard, dull blow to the back of his neck forced Salem on his hands and knees. His vision blurred, disorienting him long enough for the first thug to land a powerful kick to his stomach. He rolled on his back, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from his aching lungs.
"¡Agárralo¡" the first thug snapped to his surviving partner, his shouts barely heard over the roar of the crowd. He pressed his heavy boot to Salem's neck, and examined his bleeding arm with a pained hiss. The man wiped his bloody palm on the front of his jeans, and waited for the second gangster to grab his pinned victim's ankles before speaking in an airy, gruff voice.
"You're fuckin' crazy," he chuckled, wiping his brow as he watched the man beneath him weakly claw at his boot. "Oh, man. I'm gonna fuck you up."
Salem felt himself slipping out of consciousness. The lack of oxygen made the room spin, and his eyes heavy. He considered releasing his grip on the man's shoe, and simply falling to sleep, ending it right then and there, but seeing the leering faces of the cartel gathered around the arena and leaning over the balcony above in anticipation of his death sparked another wave of defiance within him. Weakly turning his head, he caught sight of the black shepherd tugging against his leash, barking and snarling at the brawling men. Salem clenched his jaw, filled with a new determination and fury. Growling, he took a firm grip of the boot on his throat, and gave it a sharp twist. The man screamed, and thudded to the ground, dropping his weapon to grasp his broken joint. The second thug, distracted by the debacle, briefly released their captive's legs. Salem kicked upward under the man's jaw, knocking him on his back. Grabbing an abandoned knife, he jumped to his feet, stumbling slightly as he caught his breath. When his head cleared, Salem threw the blade, lodging it deep into the second gangster's chest. He wiped the corner of his mouth as he approached the dying man, and crouched next to him. Taking the hilt of the weapon on his hand, he ripped it from the man's ribs, then stood, feeling somewhat satisfied to see the life leave his eyes. Salem then peered over his shoulder at the last thug, watching as he slid backward toward the edge of the arena.
"Hey, come on, man," the cartel member laughed shakily, fear welling up inside him at the sight of the burned man's stony glare as he drew closer. "Just-"
Exploiting his enemy's incapacity, Elliot kicked him hard in the cheek, knocking him back to the ground. The gangster clumsily struggled to get up, only to collapse on his back. Salem followed through with a stomp to the man's chest, knocking the breath out of him, and snapping his ribs. He then positioned his feet next to either side of the man's abdomen, then took a raptorial, crouching stance, examining his silent, agonized screams with intrigue. He lightly grazed his bloodied knife across the petrified man's cheek, barely breaking the skin.
"You think I'm crazy?" he muttered, a tinge of pain in his voice.
The man didn't respond, only eyed him in fearful anticipation for the final blow.
Salem chuckled tremulously, biting his lip as he scrutinized the cheering men and women around him. "Yeah, well, I'm startin' to think so, too."
In a swift motion, he flipped the blade downward in his palm, and raised it above his head, before finally plunging it in his attacker's heart. More whoops and hollers erupted from the crowd, their bloodlust satisfied for the night. Salem shakily got to his feet, and stumbled toward the center of the ring, unsure of what to do next. All of a sudden, he became aware of the sweat, blood, grime, and sand that had collected on his spent body, making him feel disgusting. He clenched his weary eyes shut, not even opening them when Bautista lifted his aching arm up in a symbol of victory, and patted him on the back in congratulations.
He vaguely remembered being guided up the creaking stairs of the warehouse, and the young, dark-haired woman timidly looping her arm around his, and being driven back to the luxurious mansion the drug lord had claimed was now his new home. The time it took to get to the palatial abode had passed in a blurred haze, and he awoke from his strange, time-altering trance sitting under a tepid stream of water running from a silver shower nozzle, resting his scraped forearms on his knees. Salem slowly stood, then with some reluctance, turned off the water. Stepping out into the steamy master bathroom, he grabbed a towel from the rack and clumsily dried himself. A fresh t-shirt and pair of boxer shorts folded neatly on the toilet seat caught his eye, and he scooped up the fresh clothing, unable to recall where exactly he had gotten them. Bunglingly, he slipped on the soft, cotton underwear and shirt, then staggered out of the bathroom into what he assumed was the adjoining master bedroom.
He froze in the doorframe when he saw a woman sitting on the far edge of the king-sized bed, hugging her bare legs to her chest. She was dressed in a revealing, scarlet dress that tightly hugged her curves, and her dark hair fell in lengthy waves over her shoulder. Salem figured she was in her mid to late twenties, but the dark, thick make-up shadowing her puffy, tear-filled eyes made it difficult to tell. He swallowed, and nodded awkwardly.
"Uh, hey," he murmured, his voice a bit slurred from pure exhaustion. He stepped forward, causing her to flinch. "No, no, I...ain't into that sort of thing. I'm just tired, okay? Look, I'd love to find another room, sure this place's got fifty other ones, but I'm too tired to wander around looking for one, so-"
He sighed heavily, and ran a hand through his damp hair. "You even speak English?"
The woman bit her lip, and nodded anxiously.
"Okay, just checkin'. Just, I don't wanna sleep on the floor either, okay? I've had to sleep on a floor for two months. I just... Shit."
He plopped down on the edge of the mattress, and held his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his thighs. "The hell am I doing?"
His eyes began to burn, then well up with tears. His small sniffles turned to body-shuddering cries as the day's events replayed through his muddled brain. He became lightheaded, and queasy, then shakily laid on his side, wishing the room would stop spinning, and that the pain would cease. "Just wanna go home," he muttered between sobs.
He felt idiotic for saying it, knowing there was no home left to go to, let alone the option to leave. There was no rescue, no one to help him escape this mendacious hellhole he'd been abandoned in. The lavished home and duplicitous refinement made him feel like a bird in a sumptuous cage. He had lost his freedom in exchange for his life. The ones that pulled him from the burning wreckage to spare it now claimed it as their own.
Minutes passed, then he felt a hand gently lay on his trembling shoulder. He didn't dare peer around at the woman, too abashed by his sudden display of weakness to face her, a complete stranger. Though he was still unnerved by unfamiliar touches, he didn't pull away. It was a minuscule gesture, but a kindhearted, reassuring one, something sadly more foreign to him than ballistic wounds. He felt her hand pull away, and the mattress shift. She walked past his field of vision, disappearing into the bathroom, where the trickling of the sink faucet caught his ear. Hearing the water shut off, and the soft patter of her bare feet across the tile floor, he watched her approach wordlessly, a damp washcloth in hand, and take a seat on the edge of the bed in front of him. He shamefully avoided her gaze as she dabbed the cloth over his forehead, and tear-streaked, scared cheek. Sobbing had drained the last iota of energy he had left in his fatigued, enervated frame, and he felt himself begin to sink deeper into the plush, downy pillow as he listened to the woman's comforting voice, as warming and soporific as the morphine fed into his veins that morning.
"Está bien," she whispered soothingly, watching as his eyes began to flutter shut, and his cries subsided. "Estàs a salvo ahora. Vaya a dormir."
