On the Outskirts of Town
Disclaimer: El and Sands belong to the sheer genius of Robert Rodriguez.
Rating: A strong PG-13 for violence and language
Summary: El and Sands meet up again
****
El had never made a very good patient. Within two days he had made such a nuisance of himself that the hospital released him.
Actually, what happened was that he was given a supply of painkillers and told to get the hell out. He didn't care. He had better things to do than lie in bed all day, nursing a painful-but-not-serious head wound.
The first thing he did was get away from the town where the gunfight had happened. Far away. He drove well into the night and finally stopped only when the pain in his skull threatened to reach atomic proportions. He pulled over at a motel with hourly rates that catered to pimps and whores, and booked a room.
"How long you want it for?" asked the bored desk clerk.
El glared at him. "The rest of the night," he said.
The clerk shrugged and handed him a key.
Once inside, he shoved a chair under the doorknob. He put one of his pistols under the pillow. Then, still fully clothed, he stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.
****
The next morning he woke up to a killer headache. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. It was an oven in the room, which smelled of old sex and cabbage. Grimacing, he sat up slowly, one hand pressed to his head. Beneath his palm, a bandage covered the long gash that had been left by the passage of Sands' bullet. A little to the left and El would have died in that courtyard.
But he had lived. And Sands had just made his last mistake. El was going to hunt him down, and when he found his prey, he was going to make Sands wish he had never come to Mexico.
He staggered over to the phone and placed a call. The man who answered sounded hungover and pissed off. "What?"
"What do you know about Sands?" El asked.
"What the fuck do you mean, what do I know?" Lorenzo asked. His voice became muffled, as if he was scrubbing at his face, trying to dispel the last of his hangover.
"He's alive," El said. "Or at least he was, three days ago." He named the town where the shoot-out had occurred. He hesitated, then said, "He has a vendetta of his own. He took out most of the cartel."
"Well, yeah," Lorenzo said. He yawned into El's ear. "Everybody knows that."
This gave El pause. Everybody knew? Well, he sure as hell hadn't known. He glared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like shit, his hair in sweaty clumps, his shirt dirty and bloodstained. It was a wonder the desk clerk had not called the police after seeing him.
"And by the way, nice to hear from you again," Lorenzo said sarcastically. "It's only been, what? Two years?"
El did not bother to reply to this. His mind was working fast. "If you know so much about him, why didn't tell me?"
"I figured you already knew," Lorenzo said. He gave a short laugh. "What's this about? Are you pissed because he didn't let the cartel kill you? Or because he got away before you could kill him?"
El said nothing. He would let Lorenzo figure that one out on his own.
"Were you hurt?" Lorenzo asked.
"More or less," El said. He fingered the bandage on his head again, then deliberately lowered his hand. "If I ever see him again, I will kill him."
"Well," Lorenzo said, "if you act fast enough, you might just get your wish."
"What are you talking about?" El scowled.
"Rumor has it, he's just arrived in town," Lorenzo said. "No one knows why. He's holed up in the old Salazar estate. Waiting for something. Or someone. Nobody knows."
Within ten minutes, El Mariachi was on the road again.
****
The old Salazar estate. It had been two years since El had been to the town where Lorenzo and Fideo lived and played their music, but he could envision the house without any trouble. It sat on the outskirts of the town, a rambling yellow stone monstrosity. When El had lived in town, sharing a house and many many bottles of tequila with Lorenzo and Fideo, a succession of fading For Sale signs had stood out in the front yard of the old Salazar house. Most of the windows were gone, and there was a large hole in the roof near the back. But the house itself was still intact, and it was big. It would make a fine hideout for someone who wasn't bothered by things like aesthetics.
Early the next morning – the fourth since the shoot-out – he parked his car on a street behind the house. He approached from the rear. He couldn't see any signs that anyone was living here, but that meant nothing. After all, Sands was clever.
The back door was boarded over. El shrugged. He had never been one to take no for an answer.
Halfway down the side wall of the house there was a square opening where shards of broken glass still clung to a wooden frame. El peered inside. He could see a moldy mattress in the corner, a broken heap of wood that had probably once been a dresser, and nothing else.
Carefully he crawled in through the window.
The instant he set his foot down, he knew it was a trap. Bits of broken glass and wood scrunched beneath his boot, as loud as a gunshot in the stillness of the house.
"Shit," El muttered. He hurried to bring his other leg inside, so he could meet the inevitable attack head-on. He moved into the corner, where the shadows in the room provided at least some cover. When Sands came in, his eyes would naturally be drawn to the window first. In those precious moments when his attention was elsewhere, El might be able to kill him.
But Sands did not come into the room. Silence reigned throughout the house.
At last El decided that Sands wasn't coming. Either he wasn't there, or he wanted El to think that. Whichever it was, there was nothing to be gained by cowering in the shadows.
He crept through the room, watching where he stepped this time. The door to the room was ajar, and he pushed it open slowly, half-expecting to hear the squeal of rusty hinges.
The door was silent. Just like the rest of the house.
El was not reassured. Over the years he had come to trust his instincts, and right now they were telling him that Sands was in the house.
There was only one way to find out. He began to make his way down the hall, a pistol in front and leading the way.
He had just stepped into the kitchen when the trap finally sprang shut. His leg hit something fine and yielding. He realized it was a wire the same instant he saw the man standing in the corner.
It was Sands. The CIA officer was still dressed all in black, and despite the gloom in the kitchen, he still had sunglasses on. He was wearing at least four guns that El could see, two at his hips and two more in shoulder holsters. And probably there were others.
El started to raise his gun, when something over his head gave an ominous creak. He didn't even bother looking up. He leaped to one side, just as the jagged block of yellow stone came crashing down. It missed his head and struck him on the right shoulder, smashing into pieces as it hit him. Immediately his right arm went numb. The gun dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
From the corner of the kitchen, Sands fired. El, who had already been falling because of the brick, threw himself facedown on the floor.
A bullet buried itself in the wall not three inches above him.
And Sands was preparing to fire again.
El rolled along the floor. Every nerve ending along the gash in his head was alive and screaming with pain, setting off bright lights in his vision. His right arm would not obey him, so he reached out with his left and grabbed a chunk of the yellow stone that had been meant to kill him.
He threw. Sands fired again. The bullet pulverized the stone. Rock and dust showered down on Sands, who did not even flinch. He just moved his wrist a fraction downward, so the gun was now aimed at El's head.
El rolled again, this time in the opposite direction, back toward the doorway. He tumbled over chunks of stone, barely even feeling the pain as their rough edges dug into his back and shoulders. Bullets traced along the floor just behind him as Sands continued to fire.
As he rolled past the largest remainder of the block that had fallen from over the door, El seized it in his left hand. There was no time to aim. He simply threw it as hard as he could.
The rock struck Sands right in the forehead. He fell backward, thumping into the wall.
El took advantage of the only chance he was likely to get. He dove forward, reaching out with both hands, intending to choke Sands.
Sands was ready for him. As El came within striking distance, Sands sprang at him. A new gun had materialized in his hand.
Without thinking, El grabbed the barrel of the gun. He twisted it viciously, and Sands let go with a snarled curse. El reversed the direction his arm was moving in, and drove the butt of the pistol across Sands' face.
Sands fell to the floor, his dark hair covering his face, the palm of one hand striking the tile with a loud smack. His sunglasses went flying, skittering across the floor to fetch up against the stove.
Feeling was just beginning to return to El's right arm. His head throbbed sickly, making him want to retch. Fully enraged, he shifted the gun to his dominant hand. With his left he reached down, grasped a handful of Sands' shirt, and yanked the man upright. He socked the barrel of the pistol under Sands' jaw and prepared to pull the trigger.
And then he saw.
Sheer horror washed over him, weakening his muscles. He released Sands with a shove. "My God."
Sands uttered a mirthless chuckle. "Why El, surely you can do better than that." He leaned against the wall with one shoulder, half-sitting up. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth where the pistol had struck him.
El could only stare at the empty hollows where Sands' eyes had been. He was both repulsed and morbidly fascinated by the bizarre image. "Who did that?" he asked.
"Fuck you," Sands spat. He reached up and probed at the cut on his lip with one finger.
"I could shoot you now," El offered.
"Go ahead," Sands said wearily. He pushed against the wall so he could sit upright, then promptly fell back against it again. "Make my day."
El's eyes narrowed. For the first time he noticed how pale Sands was, and the sheen of sweat on his skin. In the dim light, and with the black fabric, it was difficult to tell, but he thought Sands was still bleeding from the gunshot wound he had received in the hotel courtyard four days ago.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Well," Sands drawled, "I thought I'd open up a little restaurant. You know, cater to the tourists while still keeping the locals happy. I'll serve roadkill and call it the Chef's Special. Hey, if you're real good, you can be my mariachi. I'll pay you two bucks a day, plus tips. What do you say?"
El ignored all this. He was suddenly remembering things he had heard over the last three years. Really only the last two years, but even before then. Stories, rumors, whispers. Tales of a blind gunfighter.
The stories were legendary. Almost as mythical as his own tale. Stories of a man dressed all in black arriving in a town where cartel had a presence. Stories of gunfights, of ambushes. Every story was different, but they all ended the same, with the smoking ruin of the cartel in that town, and the disappearance of the blind man who always wore black.
"That was you," he murmured. He could not believe it. He had dismissed most of the tales as fantastical legends with no more truth than the stories about himself. But apparently the stories had not been wrong.
"What?" The detached amusement was gone from Sands' voice. Now he just sounded hurt, and pissed.
"You're the blind gunfighter," El said. He looked down at the gun he was holding, the gun he had taken from Sands.
"Gosh, El, I can't put anything past you," Sands said acidly.
El scowled. He raised the gun and tapped his fingers along the barrel, creating enough sound for Sands to hear. "I am going to ask you one last time," he said. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm going to turn this place into an orphanage," Sands said. "The town fathers will love me, and I'll run a sweatshop in the basement. The kids will slave away all day sewing wallets that I'll sell to the US for a thousand percent markup, thus making a ton of dough." He smirked. "Fuck you, El, if you think I'm telling you anything."
With some surprise, El suddenly realized that Sands wanted him to pull the trigger.
He could not comprehend the workings of a mind that could be so self-destructive. He was not sure he wanted to. In disgust, he lowered the gun to the floor, taking care to be as quiet as possible, so Sands would not know what he was doing. "Tell me what you are doing here," he said, for the third time.
Sands started to reply, no doubt with something equally as charming as his first answers, but before he could get more than a word out, he broke off in a gasp of pain. He went deathly white, and he pressed one hand to his abdomen. When he did, El could see the wetness shining on his shirt. He was definitely bleeding.
Sympathetic pain twinged along his skull, waking the hurt that had just begun to subside. He frowned. "Have you seen a doctor?"
Shocking him, Sands let out a cackle. There wasn't much in the way of sanity in that laugh. Hearing it sent chills up El's spine. "Have I seen a doctor? That's a good one, El! Why I'll have you know, the last thing I ever saw was a doctor."
"There is a man in town," El said lamely. He clamped his jaw shut. What was he doing? He had come here to kill this man, and now he was offering the services of a doctor? That bullet must really have scrambled his brains, he thought sourly, if it had come to this.
"Get out of here," Sands said wearily. "If you're not going to kill me, then just get the fuck out of here."
"I am not going to kill you," El said. But he frowned as he said it. He wondered just exactly what he was going to do, then.
"Good." With lightning speed, Sands crossed his hands in front of his chest and drew the guns from his shoulder holsters. Looking at both barrels was like looking into dark, unforgiving eyes.
Those guns were Sands' eyes now, El thought. The only eyes he would ever have.
"Bye-bye, El," Sands said cheerfully. "It's been nice seeing you. But now it's time for you to toddle off to wherever you mariachis go at the end of a long hard day."
"It's morning," El said.
"Whatever," Sands snarled. He punctuated his point with a sharp jab of the guns. "You have until the count of three. Then I can't be responsible for what happens. One."
El got up and ran.
He disappeared through the doorway just as Sands shouted, "Two!" Bullets embedded themselves in the doorframe, splintering wood.
El went down the hall and out the front door. It was loose on its hinges, and as he knocked it open, the top hinge tore free of the frame. The door sagged downward drunkenly.
El ran. He did not look back.
****
Ten minutes later he shoved open the door to Lorenzo's house. "Why didn't you tell me," he panted, "that Sands was the blind gunfighter?"
Lorenzo was in the middle of eating a burrito. He paused with it halfway to his mouth. Meat and tomato fell out and splatted on his plate.
He shrugged. "I thought you knew," he said.
******
