Chapter 6
Breaking
Disclaimer: I do not own El and Sands. They belong to Robert Rodriguez.
Rating: A very strong R for language and violence. This is a *very* dark chapter. I cannot emphasize that enough. Please be warned.
Summary: El has visitors.
Author's Notes: I owe an enormous thank you to Rainwoman for the start of this chapter. She idly mentioned something about Fideo one day in an e-mail, and my brain just took it and ran with it. The beginning of this chapter is the result. I'm sure she never imagined I'd come up with this, however.
Many thanks also are due to Melody my lovely beta reader, for assuring me that I was doing the right thing by these next two chapters, and more importantly for keeping me honest, and true to the characters. And to Merrie, who provided feedback on the last half of this chapter, and who made sure I was going in the right direction, when I was feeling rather lost.
Okay. This is the chapter many of you have been waiting for. This is the chapter where we learn what happened to Sands to make him the man he is today. It is not pretty, and I am warning you all now to be prepared for some very dark stuff ahead. Keep in mind, this is just my vision of how things went down. I feel strongly that something like this would be a trigger for Sands' madness. You don't have to believe it. It just happens to be true for "my" Sands. In your world, if you prefer, he can be happier.
Sadly, in my world, such a thing looks to be less and less likely, as time goes on...
****
El stared at his old friend. "Hello, Fideo," he said.
Fideo did not smell of drink, and that was the first surprising thing. The second surprise was the hand he held out. "Forgive me?"
El did not look away from the mariachi's eyes. Fideo had always been the most open of the three of them, reminding him of Campa in that respect. Fideo had trouble hiding what he was feeling, especially when he had been drinking. There had never been any trouble looking at him and telling what he was thinking.
In Fideo's eyes right now El saw remorse and fear.
He could understand the remorse, but the fear bothered him. Did Fideo think he would shoot him for daring to stand there and ask for forgiveness?
He glanced behind him. Chiclet had stood up and backed away so that he stood beside Sands' chair. Sands' right hand had crept toward the pistol on his hip.
That was the third surprise. That after the past two weeks, apparently all was forgiven between him and Sands. The first hint of a threat, and Sands was ready to back him up, as though the ugliness of Christmas Day had never happened. He wondered vaguely what would have happened if Fideo had showed up before Chiclet did, then decided that was a question best left unanswered.
"Why have you come here?" El asked.
Fideo did not lower his hand. "I was looking for work," he said. "I was near here, and I wanted to see you." He licked his lips, glanced at Sands and then looked back at El. "I wanted to apologize."
"So," El said, "you do not hold me responsible for Lorenzo's death anymore?" He felt proud of himself, that he could say the words without flinching.
Fideo did flinch. He finally dropped his hand. "No," he said quietly. "It wasn't your fault."
"No," El repeated, as quietly as Fideo had.
He stepped forward and embraced his old friend. He clapped Fideo on the back. "It is good to see you again."
Fideo hugged him hard. "I thought you might shoot me," he confessed.
El took a step back and shrugged. "I hoped I would not have to."
Fideo gave him an alarmed look, then relaxed. "I see you haven't changed," he chuckled.
"And you?" El gestured to the car. "You are looking for work? What happened to all your money?"
"Ah, it's a long story," Fideo said. "Could I stay with you for a day or two, while I look in this area?"
El turned to look at Sands. The house belonged to the agent, after all; it was not his decision to make.
Chiclet had relaxed; he was smiling tentatively at Fideo, who returned the smile. Sands, on the other hand, had not moved. His fingertips still brushed his gun. "Still drinking?" he asked brightly.
Fideo flushed. "No," he said tersely. "That is another long story."
"Can't be that long," Sands said. "It's only been four months since we saw you last."
"You saw me..." Fideo repeated in bewilderment. He shook his head. He turned to El. "Can I stay or not?"
"It is not my house," El said.
Fideo looked back at Sands, who was clearly delighted to be in a position of power over the mariachi. "What do you think, Chiclet?"
The boy's eyes widened in astonishment. "Me?"
"What do you say? Should I let El's mariachi buddy stay with us for a little while?"
Fideo's mouth drew into a thin line. He did not like being mocked. He never had, which had made for some tense nights on occasion, when a drunk patron had heckled them. Lorenzo had always been able to shrug it off, but Fideo had taken such things to heart. More than once they had gotten in a fight because of it, and ended up owing their night's take back to the bar's owner to pay for broken chairs and shattered bottles.
Chiclet shrugged. "Sure," he said. "He said he was sorry."
Sands shook his head. "The magic words. All right, Fideo. You can stay here. But I want you gone in three days, whether you find work or not."
Fideo nodded. He looked like he had just bitten into a very sour lemon. But he managed to say, "Thanks."
El watched him walk back down to his car to retrieve his bag. "What do you think he really wants?"
"El, my dear friend, I have no fucking idea. But I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."
****
Fideo, as it turned out, wanted nothing. He woke early the next morning and drove off, intent on finding work. While he was gone, El searched the spare room, where the mariachi had spent the night. He felt bad for doing it, but not bad enough to stop.
"Well?" Sands asked.
"Nothing," El said. "Clothes, shoes, toiletries. Nothing else."
"No guns?"
"No."
"Could still be in the car."
"They could," El agreed. He scowled. He had always liked Fideo. He didn't want to mistrust his friend.
When Fideo returned that evening he was disgruntled and frustrated. "No one in this shitass town appreciates true talent."
El sat back and waited for it.
"Actually they do," Sands drawled. "So why would anyone in this shitass town need someone like you, when they've got El Mariachi?"
And it was surprising, the warmth he felt at that moment toward Sands. Sometimes the man really was all right. He had missed this kind of banter, he realized, during the dark days after the disaster at Christmas. It was good to have things back to normal.
Or as normal as they came, around here.
Fideo flushed again. He did not smell like drink, but El suspected he had been hitting the bottle anyway. "Shut up," he muttered.
El gave a mental groan, but for a wonder, Sands did not take the bait. He just sat there, smirking a little. His barb had hit home, and he knew it.
"What about Mazatlán?" El asked.
"Yeah, I figured I'd head there next," Fideo said.
"Well, it was nice seeing you," Sands said with fake cheer. He rose from the armchair and started off toward his room. "Lots of luck, and all that."
Fideo waited until he was gone before asking, "How do you stand living with him?"
The question amused El. Even a week ago that would not have been the case. He shrugged. "You get used to it," he said.
****
He dreams about Carolina that night. She smiles and waves up at him, just like she always does.
And like he always does, he sees the jeeps approaching, and he screams down to her. He runs from the roof, leaping down several stairs at a time in his haste to save her.
He runs out onto the street, and slides to a shocked halt.
The jeeps are frozen in the act of driving forward. Men are arrested in the middle of readying their weapons. Marquez is staring at Carolina, unmoving.
Carolina stands in the middle of the street, holding their daughter's hand. She beckons him over.
Hardly daring to breathe, he runs out to meet her. "Carolina!"
"Shh." She puts her finger over his lips. "There is not much time."
"What do you mean, not much time?" He looks wildly around him, seeing the entire town frozen into tableau. Only he and Carolina are moving, only the two of them are living, at this moment. "We have all the time in the world!"
"No." She shakes her head. "This must end. Let us go. We do not need you anymore, querido. We are safe now."
He kneels down and takes his daughter into his arms. "No," he says desperately. "No." He stands up, holding the girl in one arm, reaching out with the other for his wife. "Come with me. Now. We can make it!"
Carolina just gazes at him sadly. "Someone else needs you now." She smiles. "You always were so stubborn. You will not see what is right in front of you."
"No!" he cries. "Stay with me!" He takes a step toward her, and she takes a corresponding step back.
"Adios, mi querido." She blows him a kiss.
He is losing his grip on his daughter. Carolina is fading. "Que quieres en la vida?" she asks.
"No!" he screams.
"Good-bye," Carolina whispers.
He knows he will never dream of her again. Not like this, at least. He refuses to accept it. "Come back! No!"
But it is too late. He is suddenly staggering from the doorway again, out onto the sunlit afternoon. Carolina and his daughter are dead in the street, their blood soaking into the dust.
Marquez opens fire, and the bullets rip into him. He falls, and still he is screaming for her.
****
He woke with a cry stuck in his throat.
His hand trembled as he reached up to wipe his face. She was gone. His beautiful, passionate Carolina was gone. All he had left of her was her memory, and his dreams, and now she had decided to leave his dreams forever.
He sat up, thinking suddenly that now might be a good time for a drink.
The clock on the nightstand said four-thirty. Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. El pulled himself out of bed and headed for the door.
His hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard voices. Low, coming from the living room.
He frowned, and pressed his ear to the door. It didn't sound like the TV, but it was hard to know for sure. Sands would have known in an instant, but El had not his hearing. He could not tell if those voices were real or taped.
There was one way to find out. He reversed direction and found his gunbelts, right where he had left them by the bed. He pulled on a black T-shirt over his jeans, and picked up one of the guns.
Cautiously, he opened the door.
The house was dark, except for blue light flickering in the living room, and one lamp in the corner. El slumped a little in relief, and made his way toward the source of that light.
As he came near, he saw. Fideo was sitting on the couch, watching TV.
Four armed men were with him.
Instantly El raised his gun, and the sound of four weapons being cocked and aimed filled the room. "Drop it," one of them said.
El snarled in silent frustration. He felt sick. He had allowed this to happen, the moment he had embraced Fideo as a brother.
"Drop it," the man warned again.
"Do it," Fideo said. He stood up, but kept a distance between himself and the cartel members. His eyes pleaded with El to listen to him. "They're not here for you."
El frowned. Almost every cartel in Mexico was howling for his blood. These men looked like cartel. How could they not want him?
And then he knew. He was not the only person in this house being hunted by the cartels.
Oh Fideo, how could you? Do I mean so little to you, after all? That you would take your revenge on me by hurting my friend?
"No," he said. All four men tensed, a heartbeat away from shooting him.
He heard footsteps behind him, and he turned around, but he was a moment too slow. The gun butt came down on the top of his skull. The whole world exploded in raucous color and sound. El's knees buckled, and he collapsed.
He felt the gun plucked from his hand. Someone gripped his upper arms and hauled him to his feet. He tried to stand on his own, but his head had become a shooting ground, and every movement he made sent a new explosion of pain through him.
"I'm sorry," Fideo said. "But they are offering a large reward. How could I pass that up? Did you even know you were harboring a wanted criminal in your house?"
The words penetrated the daze of pain that surrounded him. Incredibly, Fideo was protecting him. He was not going to be handed over to the cartels. He wanted to laugh, but he was afraid that if he did, his skull would split in two.
With an effort he lifted his head. Blood ran down his forehead from a cut near his hairline. "Fuck you."
The man holding him up gave him a hard shake. "Keep quiet." He jerked his chin, and one of the men on the couch got up and came to his aid. They both took one of El's arms and held him between them.
The other three men rose from the couch. "Be careful," Fideo warned in a low voice. "He's dangerous."
"He's blind," one of the men scoffed.
"He's still dangerous!" Fideo snapped.
The men shrugged, then went to go collect Sands.
Despite the pain in his head, El began to struggle against his captors. "Fideo, what are you doing?" he gasped. "This is madness."
"Madness?" Fideo pointed an angry finger at him. "Madness is seeing your friend dead on the ground!" The finger now pointed toward the back of the house. "And it's his fault! Lorenzo wouldn't even have come here if it wasn't for him."
Furious noises emanated from the rear of the house. Gunshots rang out, and someone screamed. El tried again to pull free. The man who had hit him rapped him hard on the side of the head with his knuckles, and El nearly passed out from the pain. His stomach gave a great lurch, and for a terrible moment he thought he was going to vomit, then his insides settled down again, and the urge passed.
Shuffling footsteps approached. El tried to turn his head and see, but a wave of pain rolled over him and the world grayed out; he sagged in his captors' grip.
When he could see again, the living room had become more crowded. A heavyset man had dragged Sands forward. Sands was bleeding from his nose and mouth, but the blows seemed to have had no effect him. He was cursing and struggling ineffectually against the man holding him.
And there were only two men, El saw with a flash of vicious satisfaction. Three had gone to fetch Sands, but only two had returned. One of them had Sands in a chokehold, his gun pressed to the agent's temple. The other one was limping badly, trailing behind his partner. El saw the bloody footprints this man was leaving as he hobbled up the hall, and his spirits rose even more.
Sands had obviously been sleeping when the cartel members had entered his room – he was not wearing his sunglasses, but the black blindfold. The loose ends fluttered against his hair as he twisted and pulled at the arm about his neck. "If I ever get my hands on you," he swore, "I'm going to rip your fucking balls off and stuff them back in the bloody hole! Let go of me!" The heavyset man yanked backward and Sands choked, his words abruptly cutting off.
The man on El's right, the one who had struck him, said, "It's him." He nodded to his companion. "Let's go."
"What about him?" asked the other man holding El. "He's seen us."
"He won't say anything," said the first man. He gave El a shake, making the mariachi's head loll on his neck. El groaned. "If he does, we'll come back for him. And this time he will be the blind one."
El did not doubt the sincerity of the threat. He went very still. "I will say nothing," he promised. He wanted them to think he was not a danger to them, that he was just a nobody who had had the bad luck of sheltering a criminal in his house out of pity. Let them lower their guard, just a little. All he needed was one chance.
"You fuckers!" Sands shouted. He gave a furious pull at the arm about his neck and nearly got free, before the man yanked him backward again.
"Take him outside, Marco," said the man who had hit El. "We must decide what to do with this one." He gave El another shake.
Marco dragged the gun down the side of Sands' face. "Hey, Leon. Are we going to kill him right away?"
"No," said Leon, from El's right. "That is not for us to do."
"Good," said Marco. He grinned. "He's pretty. I want to keep him for a while." He bumped his crotch against Sands' backside.
All the color drained from Sands' face. He went limp in his captor's grasp, his arms dropping to his sides. El thought he was going to faint.
Marco and the man with the limp laughed.
Leon did not find this so funny. "Cut that out," he snapped. "Just take him outside and wait for us."
"Sure thing," Marco said, and ground his crotch against Sands again.
Sands looked like he was going to be sick. He was shaking all over, and terribly pale.
El took one look at him, and it was like a revelation. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. This was it. The last mystery solved, the last secret revealed.
Oh my friend, I am so sorry.
Now I know why you will never trust me completely.
Quietly, but very clearly, in a small voice unlike his natural one, Sands said, "I don't want to, Uncle Tommy."
Marco laughed again. "What the fuck?"
Leon's face twisted with revulsion. "Just get him out of here."
El could not bear it. It was not enough that they had resurrected demons here tonight. Now they were laughing about it.
He gathered himself. "Sands!" he said sharply. "Are you still standing?"
The man on his left gave him a shake. "Shut up!"
Leon was more succinct. He drove his pistol across El's face, and El cried out as his nose broke and blood sprayed.
But his words had the desired effect. Sands' head turned from side to side, and a little color came back into his face. "El?" He sounded very confused.
El slumped in defeat. He had not thought things could get worse, but he had just been proven wrong.
Fideo's eyes went very wide. "Get him out of here!" he shouted.
Leon gave El a long, hard look. "El?" he asked. "You are El Mariachi?"
"He's no one. It's just a nickname! You see, his name is Miguel," Fideo lied. "He isn't involved in this, I told you already."
On one level El could appreciate Fideo lying to protect him, but really, it hardly mattered. There was no point in hiding anymore. He raised his head with an effort. "There is no El Mariachi," he said. "The man is a myth, a legend."
"Bullshit!" snapped the man with the hurt foot. "You are him!"
It was the first time that man had spoken all night. Everyone turned to look at him. And for that split-second, they were not paying any attention to El.
It was the best chance he would have. Maybe the only chance he would have.
He concentrated on his left arm, and pulled with all his strength. And because the man holding him on that side was looking at his injured companion, El was able to get free.
The man shouted in alarm, of course, and immediately all attention swiveled back to El.
But he had been given his chance. He did not let it pass him by. Ignoring the man on his left, he spun toward Leon, his hand reaching for the second pistol at the man's hip.
And from the corner of his eye, he saw Sands grab Marco's arm and neatly flip the man over his head. The cartel man landed hard on his back, and Sands stooped down to pluck the pistol from his hand.
El's hand closed over Leon's second gun. It was tiny, the kind of gun that Lorenzo had always joked would belong to little old abuelas who would keep them in their huge handbags, ready to shoot the crazy muggers on the street. It was the size of the gun Sands had been carrying on the day of the coup, a gun that had long ago been lost during their hunt for Escalante's cartel.
El started to pull it free of the holster. Behind him, the other man hit him hard in the kidneys, trying to make him let go. His body wanted to fold over with the pain, but he stubbornly refused to give in to it.
Shots rang out. Marco screamed in agony, and El glanced over in time to see the man's hands waving pleadingly over the bloody holes in his crotch.
Leon's gun cleared the holster. The moment it did, El pulled the trigger. Leon flew backward, a smoking hole in his belly.
The small gun nestled in the palm of his hand, a perfect fit. El whirled around. In quick succession, he shot the man with the limp, who had been preparing to shoot Sands; the man on his left; and Fideo.
Fideo fell to the floor, his hand still held out, begging for peace.
El checked the men he had shot. Two of them were dead. Leon was still alive, however, and he was trying to aim the gun he had been holding on El.
El shot him again. Then a third time, just to be sure.
He looked up. While he had been doing his own killing, Sands had emptied the clip of Marco's gun, and was now dry-firing at the man's corpse. He was breathing heavily, an expression of dazed shock on his face.
El looked at Fideo. The mariachi lay on his back, one hand clapped to the wound in his abdomen. He stared up at El through wide, pained eyes. "I didn't want them to hurt you," he whispered.
He was already dying. El walked over and stared down at him. Fideo had been his friend for seven years. Yet at this moment, he felt nothing.
"Don't kill me," Fideo begged. "I'm your friend."
"You were my friend," El said, and pulled the trigger.
Fideo's hand fell back. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes still open, forever pleading with the one who had taken his life.
El lowered the gun. He dragged his arm across his forehead, wiping away the blood that was running into his eyes. Thick blood dripped down the back of his throat from his broken nose. Pain hammered at his skull, and he staggered. "Sands."
Sands did not reply. He was still standing over Marco, pulling the trigger of the empty gun.
He started forward. "Sands."
Sands gave an exaggerated startle of surprise. He raised the gun and aimed it at El, holding it in both hands. "Stop! Don't fucking move!" There was a jagged note to his voice El had never heard before.
El stopped dead. "I'm sorry," he said.
"You're sorry," Sands sneered. "Fuck you!"
Does he even know it's me? "Sands, listen to me."
"I said, don't fucking move!" Sands shouted. He waved the gun threateningly.
He doesn't know it's empty, El thought. He thinks he has control of this situation. What will he do when he realizes he does not?
El absolutely did not want to find out.
"I am not moving," he said quietly. "But you must listen to me."
"Yeah, yeah, you know what? I don't fucking think so!" Sands began to back away, circling to his right. When his foot bumped the dead body of the man whose foot he had shot, he cursed loudly. "What the fuck? You stay away from me!" He gestured with the gun again. Not at El, but at a phantom in front of him.
El just stared at him in horror. Sands had snapped. Well and truly snapped. The demons within had been released, and his mind had broken under the onslaught. This was worse than Puerto Vallarta, worse even than the day El had come to collect him from this very house and Sands had thrown a fit in the backyard.
This was insanity, looking him right in the face.
"It's only me," El said, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture. He spoke his name. He tried to keep his voice steady. "El Mariachi. You know me." He knew there was very little right now standing between Sands and complete madness. Sands had fought these battles before, but El was not so sure his friend would prove stronger this time. He thought this time, the battle had been lost before it had even begun.
"Fuck you," Sands snarled. "Stay back!" He continued circling through the living room. In another moment he was going to run into the armchair, and El cringed in anticipation.
He began sidling forward, hoping to place himself in Sands' path. He did not want the man running away now, not when he was like this. He had to keep Sands in the house, and calm him down. "Please. Listen to me."
Sands pulled the trigger. El ducked, out of sheer reflex. He knew the gun was empty, but all the knowledge in the world could not make him stand still while another man shot at him.
The dry click sounded as loud as an explosion in the still room.
"Fuck!" Sands screamed in fury. He threw the gun at El, who dodged it easily. "Stay back! Don't you fucking touch me!" His voice rose with sheer panic.
"I won't," El whispered. Dodging the gun had been a very bad idea. His skull was filled with fire now, the flames eating at him from the inside out. He swayed on his feet and said thickly, "If that's what you want."
"If that's what I want." Sands laughed hysterically. "Yeah, right. Since when has it mattered what I want?"
He started to run for the back of the house.
El swore under his breath. He dared not let Sands get away. Biting hard on his lip so he would not scream, he leaped at the agent. They went down together in a flurry of limbs.
Sands fought and kicked, a man possessed. El wrapped his arms about Sands from behind, preventing him from striking out. Sands screamed and thrashed about, but El held on grimly, his teeth clenched against the scream that wanted to burst from his throat. The fire in his head grew to unimaginable heights, burning away his consciousness.
"No!" Sands cried. "No!" His struggles grew weaker. "No."
El relaxed his arms a little. "It's only me," he said.
Sands threw his head back in one last attempt to free himself. The top of his head connected with El's nose. Brilliant pain exploded in El's vision, and he felt himself falling backward, fading as he went.
The last thing he heard was Sands, pleading.
"Don't."
El faded out completely.
******
Author's Note: Technically speaking chapter 6 and chapter 7 are just one long chapter. But I had to split things up somewhere. I decided to post both chapters at once, to keep this feeling of one long chapter. It's better that way, I think, to get the full sense of what has really happened here.
By the way, if you go back and read chapter 10 of WAISAD, Sands himself comes right out and tells us what happened to him. I was writing that chapter when I learned the ugly truth -- what you've just learned now too.