He was back in the dirty street, only this time, the perspective was unfamiliar. Looking up, he could see the blue sky, fractions of white drifting slowly across its surface, the ruthless sun like a fist hammering repeatedly on his head. He closed his eyes. He felt odd, detached, not connected to his body, and when he tentatively tried to lift an arm or move a leg, he found that he couldn't. It was as if someone had tied him to the ground with invisible ropes. Frustrated, he tried to move his head, but the muscles in his neck wouldn't obey him. Starting to panic, he averted his eyes from the stinging sun, and fought to turn his sight right. Something came into his blurry vision, and at first he couldn't quite make out what it was, but the image grew clearer and...
A gunslinger, all dressed in black, sprawled on his back just a few yards away from him. The black sunglasses across his forehead, broken, and the gaping hollows staring directly into the sun. A sickening grin, lips caked with blood, both from his eyes and from within his mouth. A myriad of machinegun tip-toes across his chest.
El turned his eyes back towards the sun. The heat engulfed him, it was getting difficult to breathe, and the increasing panic was clawing at his chest, ripping through his soul, tugging at his mind, trying to eat him alive. Except...he wasn't actually alive, he realized with a start. They were both dead, shot down and left bleeding in the deserted Acuña street. He tried to lift his head again, to see what they had done to him, to his body, but to no avail. His head was as firmly planted to the ground as the roots of a tree.
With an effort that was almost overwhelming, and made his vision blur dangerously close to blacking out completely, he forced his lifeless eyes to watch Sands again. A bright yellow dandelion was growing next to the man's left ear, slowly swaying in the breeze like a gift from the messengers of Hell.
"Don't worry, manito, we've got him right where he belongs."
"Take me."
"It's not your time. But we will come for you."
El jumped from his bed, screaming, clasping his head in both hands, trying to drown out the cackling voices. He walked back and forth in the room, restlessly, and finally made up his mind. This was ridiculous. He had to do something; he couldn't fall asleep again. He mustn't. Lighting another candle, looking around the room, his straining eyes fell on his guitar case. He picked the guns from it, one by one, and spread them out on the bed. Sitting on the rickety chair, he carefully cleaned and polished each one before putting them back into the case. The touch of cold steel had its usual soothing effect on him, and by the time he was finished, his breathing had almost returned to normal, and he could no longer feel the deafening rush of blood in his ears.
A gunslinger, all dressed in black, sprawled on his back just a few yards away from him. The black sunglasses across his forehead, broken, and the gaping hollows staring directly into the sun. A sickening grin, lips caked with blood, both from his eyes and from within his mouth. A myriad of machinegun tip-toes across his chest.
El turned his eyes back towards the sun. The heat engulfed him, it was getting difficult to breathe, and the increasing panic was clawing at his chest, ripping through his soul, tugging at his mind, trying to eat him alive. Except...he wasn't actually alive, he realized with a start. They were both dead, shot down and left bleeding in the deserted Acuña street. He tried to lift his head again, to see what they had done to him, to his body, but to no avail. His head was as firmly planted to the ground as the roots of a tree.
With an effort that was almost overwhelming, and made his vision blur dangerously close to blacking out completely, he forced his lifeless eyes to watch Sands again. A bright yellow dandelion was growing next to the man's left ear, slowly swaying in the breeze like a gift from the messengers of Hell.
"Don't worry, manito, we've got him right where he belongs."
"Take me."
"It's not your time. But we will come for you."
El jumped from his bed, screaming, clasping his head in both hands, trying to drown out the cackling voices. He walked back and forth in the room, restlessly, and finally made up his mind. This was ridiculous. He had to do something; he couldn't fall asleep again. He mustn't. Lighting another candle, looking around the room, his straining eyes fell on his guitar case. He picked the guns from it, one by one, and spread them out on the bed. Sitting on the rickety chair, he carefully cleaned and polished each one before putting them back into the case. The touch of cold steel had its usual soothing effect on him, and by the time he was finished, his breathing had almost returned to normal, and he could no longer feel the deafening rush of blood in his ears.