The Walking Wounded
Disclaimer: El and Sands are probably quite glad they don't belong to me.
Rating: R for violence and language
Summary: What happens after the accident. This is a long chapter. That's because it was originally two shorter chapters, but I decided to combine them into a single long one, so the action would not get broken up.
Author's Note: To everyone who asked how I was going to get El and Sands back together…you'll be sorry you asked. eg
As an aside, I know very little about mudslides, but every time I see footage of them on TV, they scare me to death…
Last, many hugs to Melody. For beta reading, and for offering the theory that El poses to Sands later, about dreams. I don't know who originally thought of this idea, but I think it's very cool, so I wanted to use it.
****
Maybe, El thought faintly, this was the end of the world. The Apocalypse he had been taught about as a child. All the signs were there. Fire. Flood. And the most telling sign of all: a man who hated him had saved his life.
He lay on his back, blinking up into the rain. He had to turn his head to the side so he could see. It hurt when he moved his head, and he groaned a little.
He was at the bottom of a hill. Water flowed in thick muddy streams down the slope and dumped into a small river that was being born even as El stared dully at it. The water level of that river was rising fast. Mud and dirt were washing down the hill, splashing into the river, but not throttling it.
El tried to remember what had happened. His last truly clear memory was of sitting in the car, watching Sands bandage his bleeding wrist. After that, things had happened so fast, they existed in his memory only as still-frames, like photographs.
They had been pursued by the cartel. He knew that much. Possibly Carlos Alvarado himself, the man who had laughed when El had screamed in pain. Whoever they were, their pursuers had shot at them. Sands had returned fire. Ramirez had tried to outmaneuver them, but on the hilly roads west of Culiacan, there was not much room for such tactics.
One of their tires had been shot out. The pursuers' car had rammed them from behind.
And then, one image in his memory that was larger than all the others. A guardrail. Coming close. Too close.
The awful crunch of impact. Being thrown. Ramirez suddenly gone, out the windshield.
Sliding down the hill. Sands yelling.
And above, on the road, another crash. An explosion. Fireball blooming toward the sky.
And then nothing. Black. Unconsciousness.
El rolled onto his side and got his first good look at the aftermath of the crash.
Above, on the road, the car belonging to the cartel burned merrily in a tangle of metal and black smoke. Their pursuers had slammed right into them. The rain and the wet road had made it hard to stop, maybe. Or maybe Ramirez had hit the guardrail so suddenly, and they had been following so closely behind, that there had simply been no time for them to stop.
Directly ahead of him was the remains of Ramirez's car. It was crumpled on both ends, and only the side windows were still intact, although a crack zigzagged up the back passenger window. The entire front end was smashed in like an accordion.
A hand dangled in front of one shattered headlight. Sands lay on the hood of the car. He had been thrown through the windshield, but instead of coming free of the car, as El had, he had remained half inside the vehicle. It was fortunate for him that the car had not rolled as it had slid down the hill.
El groaned again. He hurt all over. His captors had not cared what bones they broke, or what damage they inflicted. His health had not been a high priority for them. All they had cared about was keeping him alive until they could turn him over to the Colombians for the reward. That, and hurting him.
He made a convulsive heave and managed to get up on his knees. Pain seized him, and he went absolutely still, riding it out, breathing through tightly clenched teeth. A long gash ran across his cheek, but the rain was washing away the blood. His right shoulder was on fire, and he knew without looking that the joint had come dislocated again. All the old injuries of his body had been re-awakened by the violence of the crash, and they cried out in pain, reminding him that they were still not healed.
It hurt to stay where he was. But kneeling was better than lying in the mud. The rising river was not so close to his face anymore.
He looked up at the hill. Mud was oozing downward at a faster rate, sliding into the water that churned at the base of the hill.
Abruptly it occurred to him that it was very dangerous to stay where he was. If the hill did not collapse first, the police would arrive on the scene soon. There would be an investigation of the accident. The six o'clock news would report it, and soon all of Mexico would know the great El Mariachi had been involved.
He wondered if Ramirez was alive. The FBI agent had gone through the windshield before the car had made its last ride down the hill. He only hoped Ramirez had not been a part of that fireball he had seen.
He tried to stand, and fell back, gasping. Every inch of him hurt. He had no idea how long he had been the cartel's prisoner, but he knew it had been at least three weeks. Maybe more. Long enough to lose track of time. Long enough for his body to weaken with pain and hunger.
Again he tried to rise, and this time, after an endless period where he had to stop and ride the pain out again, he made it. He stood there swaying, rain dripping from the ends of his hair and rolling off his nose. Thunder rumbled, but it was softer and in the distance.
He had to get out of here. There was no chance of scaling the hill in this weather, and not in his condition. So he would walk. He would follow the new river and see where it took him. Not back toward town, however. The opposite direction. He didn't know where the river would lead him, but he had faith that he would eventually reach civilization. This part of the state was well-populated; sooner or later he would find someone to help him.
He staggered forward, his boots splashing up water from the river that was steadily rising. Mud poured down the side of the hill in a steady stream. On the road above his head the fire in the car was beginning to burn out.
Just as he neared the car, Sands groaned and stirred. El looked at him, and suddenly saw the reason he had not been thrown clear of the car. A slender twist of metal had speared him through the leg just above the knee, keeping him attached to the car. It looked like it had once been the windshield wiper, maybe, but it was hard to tell.
Sands started to rise, and then suddenly froze. His face whitened in pain. He made a hoarse noise unlike anything El had ever heard from him before. "Jorge?"
He was facedown on the hood. He had lost his sunglasses. The empty hollows where his eyes had been seemed to stare bleakly into the rain. "Jorge?" He tried to reach down for his leg and could not bring himself to do it. "Jorge, are you there?" He swallowed hard. "El?
El remained where he was, unmoving. At that particular moment he could not have moved even if he had wanted. He hurt too badly.
Sands took a deep breath and one inch at a time, slowly sat up. His wet hair hung in his face, and his jaw was clenched. He fingered a long cut on his neck, then with agonizing slowness he slid a trembling hand down his leg until he encountered the piece of metal. He drew his hand back with a hissing intake of breath.
In the west, lightning flashed. El's knees wanted to buckle, and he straightened them with a great effort.
He watched as Sands cautiously explored the metal, and the wounds where it entered his leg and then exited again. He was amazed by the courage Sands displayed. The man was blind and he believed himself to be alone, the sole survivor of a car crash he probably barely understood. Yet here he was, fighting for his life like always, refusing to surrender.
El was about to speak up, when the hill chose that moment to let loose a minor avalanche. Copious amounts of thick brown mud poured down the hill and slapped into Ramirez's car, rocking it back and forth. Atop the hood, Sands' head snapped up and he appeared to be listening hard, although there was nothing to hear except the steady drumbeat of rain and the oozing flow of mud. Quietly, but very clearly, he said, "Oh shit."
El braced himself against the flow of thick mud. It washed over his boots and covered his feet to the ankles. He swayed backward and silver pain shot through his shoulder, making him gasp.
Sands did not waste another second. He reached down and ripped the metal from his leg. Blood ran out onto the warped surface of the hood. He threw his head back and cried out.
El winced in sympathy. He tried to call out, and could only produce a froggy croaking noise.
More of the hillside tore free. Mud and rock tumbled downward. This time the car rocked severely, and was actually forced farther down the slope. El watched it coming toward him, and knew he should run, but he still could not move.
The force of the wave knocked him off his feet. He was thrown to his knees, and then borne down, helplessly flailing and shouting. The river that the rain and runoff had created drew closer, and then he was plunged underwater in a churning mass of brown mud and bleak water.
He kicked and struggled, fighting to stand up. The current carried him along for a little ways, but the river was not yet that deep. If he could get his feet under him, he would stand a chance.
Thick mud covered his feet and legs, bringing his motion down the river to a halt. He could not kick anymore. His head broke the surface, and he shouted, then he was dragged under again by the heavy weight of the mud.
Not too long ago he had lain down beside the graves of his wife and daughter, hoping to die. Now, faced with imminent death, El Mariachi fought it with every ounce of his strength. He no longer felt the pain of his battered body, or noticed that his right arm was useless. He fought with everything he had, and nothing else mattered except surviving.
He got his head above water. He tasted fresh air. He shouted, and then water flooded his mouth as he sank again.
He thrashed about, but the weight on his feet and legs was growing heavier as more mud slid into the river. And the water level was rising fast. His flailing hand barely skimmed the surface now.
There was no air. He couldn't breathe. Buzzing filled his head. Lights flashed in front of his eyes. With the last of his strength, he made one final effort to escape the clutches of his prison. He clawed at the water, as though he could somehow push it aside with his hand and create a space for him to breathe.
His desperate fingers touched something. He grabbed for it, and the something twisted under his grip and suddenly became a hand holding his left wrist. The hand pulled and his head broke free of the water. He coughed and gasped, breathing in great gulps of air.
The mud was reluctant to give him up. He felt like he was being torn in two, with the upper half of his body rising from the water, and the lower half sealed to the riverbed by an immovable weight. He wanted to kick and push with his feet, but he could not even feel them.
"Help me, damnit!" Sands shouted. "Swim!"
The pull on his arm was unbearable. In another moment his shoulder would separate and then he would have matching useless arms. Frantically El threw himself forward, trying to tear free of the sucking pull of the mud. To his immense relief, one foot came loose. Choking and gasping, he kicked as hard as he could.
And then he was there. He had made it. He collapsed onto the ground, feeling it shift and ooze beneath him. In alarm he looked up, but the current had carried him downstream. The sliding avalanche of mud was to his left now, and the ground here seemed stable enough, just soaked and puddled.
Sands lay up the slope, stretched flat on the mud. He had not let go of El's wrist. Every inch of him was covered in mud, but already the rain was washing the worst of it away. Without picking his head up, he mumbled, "You okay?"
El swallowed and grimaced. His throat hurt and the inside of his mouth was grimy. "Yes," he croaked.
Sands looked up. Confusion wrinkled his brow. "El?" He shook his head. "Oh hell. I thought you were Jorge."
El was too surprised and breathless to answer this right away. He didn't know if Sands was being serious or not. But if it was true, Sands had just inadvertently revealed a side of himself El had never even suspected existed. Despite his callous disregard for most human life, evidently Sands had become fond of Jorge Ramirez. Enough to worry about him. Enough to try to save his life.
"He is not here," El wheezed. He coughed and choked some more. Now that he was free of the river's grasp, he could feel the pain of his body again, and it paralyzed him. "He was thrown from the car before it slid down the hill."
"Jesus," Sands whispered. He rested his forehead on his outstretched arm.
He still had not let go of El's wrist. El decided that was because he probably didn't even feel the grip anymore, he was holding on so tight.
"We have to go," he sighed. At any moment the hill above their heads could decide to join its brother and dump itself into the river. And the police would arrive on the scene of the accident soon, and someone would see them down here. They had to flee, but at the moment El could not see how they would manage this.
"You know," Sands said, "in all the time I've known you, I think that's the first intelligent thing you've said." He let go of El's wrist and rolled onto his back. "However, you picked one hell of a time to grow a brain, El. I can't walk."
El turned his head and saw the trail in the mud. Most of it was already washing away in the rain, but he could still see it well enough to piece together what had happened. Sands had let himself drop from the car to the ground and then he had heard El's struggles in the river. He had crawled to the water and pulled El out, and now here they were, filthy, soaked to the skin, in danger of being spotted by the wrong people, and too hurt and exhausted to do anything about.
It was almost funny, when you thought about it.
"I will help you," he said, "if you help me."
Sands thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded. "All right."
****
Arms about each other's waists, they staggered away from the car and the river and the mudslide. El's right arm hung numbly at his side, and with every stride the natural pendulum motion in the limb set off fireworks of pain in his shoulder and burned hand. Sands limped heavily, his normal grace brought up short by pain. He was forced to lean on El with every step. El was none too steady on his feet himself, but he made himself keep walking.
What a pair we make, he thought.
The rain had not slackened at all. They worked their way along the base of the hills, heading in a northwesterly direction. The landscape here was craggy and pockmarked with ravines. El had hoped they could find a natural overhang where they could take shelter, but so far nothing seemed promising.
"I want you to know," Sands said, "that I voted against rescuing you. Now I know why. I should have listened to myself." His voice was taut with pain, and he spoke in breathless bursts of words, falling silent when he tried to put weight on his left leg.
"Why did you?" El asked.
"You want me to take you back?" Sands snapped.
El shook his head. He had heard of prisoners who reported having only hazy memories of their captivity, but unfortunately that was not his experience. He remembered all too well what they had done to him.
His foot slipped in the mud and he stumbled, trying desperately to stay upright. If he fell, he would not get back up. "Whatever your reasons for doing it," he panted, "I am grateful you did."
"Well I'm glad you feel that way," Sands said. "Because that makes a nice little segue into the topic of debts, and who owes who."
El winced. Thunder rumbled in the west. He had behaved abominably toward Sands, and he knew it. But worse was what he had done to the young boy who had never asked to be trapped between two killers.
And as he staggered through the mud with his bitterest enemy by his side, he reflected that maybe a month of captivity and torment was what he had needed all along. The emptiness inside him had been filled up. He wasn't quite sure what was in the gaping hole that had taken over his soul, but there were definitely feelings in there.
"Did you hear me?" Sands demanded.
El nodded. "Sí."
"Good." Thunder whipcracked overhead, startling both of them. Sands flinched, and El's breath caught as his own body jolted in consequence. Oh God how he hurt!
"So this is what I want," Sands said. The hard edge was rapidly fading from his voice, making him sound more human. "I want you to leave me alone. Savvy?"
"Right now?" El couldn't resist asking.
"Fuck you," Sands said. "You know what I mean. When this is all over, I want you gone. I want you to forget you ever even knew me."
That's impossible, El wanted to say. You never forgot a man like Sands. He was unique, so different from most other men that even after all this time, El could not say how Sands' mind worked.
"Are you listening to me?" Sands asked peevishly.
"I am listening," El said.
"Good."
They walked on for a bit. El focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Rain dripped down the back of his neck. His clothes hung off him, and even the jingle of the chains on his pants sounded dispirited. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a week.
He was thirsty. He tipped his head back and let the rainwater collect in his open mouth. The cartel had fed him, but reluctantly, and the food had been cold and nasty. What had they cared if he got sick, or lost weight? As long as he stayed alive so the Colombians would pay the reward, they had been happy.
A shudder worked through him. He had never been tortured before. He had not known what it felt like to lose his self-control and scream. He had not known the limits of what he could endure, or what it felt like to be driven far beyond those limits so that he begged them to stop.
Sands felt him shudder. "What is it?"
He remembered how callous he had been, asking for details about the day the cartel had blinded Sands. And suddenly one of the emotions that now resided in his chest rose to the forefront, making him bow his head. It was shame, and it was heavy.
"You're not going to faint, are you?"
"No," he whispered. But he wanted to. Oh God he wanted to.
"Good," Sands said. "Because I think I might." The volume of his voice dropped alarmingly, and his knees suddenly buckled.
The pull on El's left side was too much. He sank to his knees in the mud. His head sagged forward. Beside him, Sands knelt on all fours, muttering something to himself that sounded violent.
We need shelter, he thought. Quickly.
He looked up, blinking several times to get his eyes to focus. There. Barely glimpsed through the rain, but still visible. A building. A house, or a shed. Small and crude, but there nonetheless.
"Sands." He placed the heel of his left hand on Sands' shoulder. Nothing more. His left hand was not as badly burned as the right, but it had not escaped damage. "Get up. There's a house."
"You better be right," Sands said. "I don't have the energy to go chasing one of your hallucinations."
"Maybe this is all a hallucination," El said. He was suddenly struck by an idea that was both marvelous and terrible. "Maybe I am not here at all. Maybe I am actually dying, lying in the dust beside my Carolina, and I am imagining all this."
"No offense, El," Sands said. "But if someone was going to hallucinate me, I'd like to think it would be someone a bit cooler than you. Not someone who wears chains on their clothes like some reject from a bad S&M club." He took a deep breath and climbed to his feet. He reeled to one side, but somehow stayed erect. "Besides, I think I'm pretty fucking real. Now get up here and help me."
Somehow El stood up; he was never quite sure how he found the strength. All he knew was one minute he was kneeling in the mud, and in the next he was standing, Sands' arm slung about his waist.
They started forward. After only a step, Sands stopped. "Wait. Wait."
Obediently El stopped. His body thanked him.
"I can't lean down," Sands said. "But in my boot, my right boot, there's a knife. Get it for me."
"I can't," El said.
"What?" Sands snapped.
"My hands," El said. He remembered going to the doctor after Moco had shot him through the hand. He had asked if he would be crippled for the rest of his life, and the doctor had laughed at him. Now he looked at his burned hands and wondered the same thing.
"Just. Get. It." Sands' voice was tight with tension. El suddenly realized that Sands had lost his guns in the crash, and felt weak with relief. It would have been a cruel irony if he survived the accident only to be gunned down by an angry ex-CIA officer.
As carefully as he could, he knelt down. He fumbled with his left hand for the knife, finding it after three tries. He drew it out, still sheathed. "Now what?"
"Give it to me," Sands said. He held out his hand.
"Help me up," El said. Now that he was down here, he didn't want to get back up again.
Sands swore under his breath. He patted down El's arm until he found the mariachi's wrist, and then he seized it and pulled.
El tottered to his feet. "What do you need the knife for?"
"Well I was thinking of slitting your throat if you kept asking stupid questions," Sands said lightly. "How's that?"
El considered. He could bury the knife in Sands's chest before the other man even knew what was happening. Sands was blind. His hearing was good, but it was raining, and he was hurt. He was at a distinct disadvantage now, and he knew it.
Maybe that was why he wanted the knife, El thought. It would make Sands feel better to have the weapon. It would restore some of his confidence. Then he thought of the mocking tone in which Sands had talked about slitting his throat, and changed his mind. Sands was already plenty confident.
He held out the knife. "Here."
Sands took it. "Done picking your nose?" he asked snidely. He pulled his sodden shirt out from his jeans and began sawing at the hem. When he had made a good cut in the material, he changed the direction of the blade, and began cutting longwise.
El watched all this in silent fascination.
Sands cut a long strip of black fabric from the bottom of his shirt. When he was finished, he didn't bother tucking it back in, but let it hang loosely at his hips. He slid the knife back into its sheath, and the sheath into the waistband of his jeans. He doubled over the strip of fabric and then tied it about his head like a blindfold. In response to El's unasked question he said, "Very unsanitary to be walking around like that. Plus, I don't like you fucking staring at me."
Since he hadn't been staring at all, El was vaguely offended by this. He said, "Does it hurt, when the rain goes into the sockets?"
"No," Sands said. He uttered a humorless bark of laughter. "I almost wish it would, you know?"
El understood. No pain meant an old wound, one long healed. It meant something over and done with it, something with no hope of changing.
He knew Sands paid attention to politics and news about the cartel, but he wondered if that interest in current events extended to the field of medicine. Was Sands perhaps holding out hope that one day science would be able to help him see again?
"Let's go," Sands said. The ends of the makeshift blindfold were ragged, and black threads clung wetly to his cheek. He made a vague gesture ahead of him. "Our carriage awaits, and all that jazz."
El stared at him for a moment longer, then turned so he could squint through the rain. The house he had seen earlier was still there. "All right," he said. He slid his arm about Sands' waist and Sands did the same for him. "Let's go."
****
They limped and stumbled toward the house. For an endless time it seemed to draw no nearer, and El stared at it in a panic. Maybe it didn't exist. Maybe he really was hallucinating. Then at last lightning flashed and the house was suddenly there, surprisingly close. Fortified by the sight, he pushed himself to go faster.
"Hey," Sands said weakly. He was leaning on El more than ever, scarcely putting any weight at all on his wounded leg. "I can't…"
Neither can I, El thought. But we have to.
The house looked solid enough, constructed of stone, and with a flat roof. It was small, promising only three or four rooms altogether. The windows were intact and there was no graffiti on the walls, and its condition plus its remote location told El that this place had been built for illegal purposes. The cartel used this house, or other criminals in the area. Right now it appeared empty, however, and El breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
"Almost there," he panted.
"Shut up," Sands mumbled.
El tried the door, but without much hope. The knob did not turn under his hand. "It's locked."
"Well of course it is," Sands said wearily. "Haven't you ever heard of Murphy's Law?"
El had to admit he had not.
"Whatever. Look, just smash in a window."
"That will let the rain in."
"Oh my Christ." Sands gave him a shove, disentangling them.
El went down in a wet heap. Sands reeled to the left until his outstretched hand found the stone wall. He began feeling for the window. When his fingers encountered glass, he drew his arm back and smashed in the window with his elbow. He turned and smirked at El. Or rather, in El's general direction. "Apres vous."
"What?" The ground was wet and muddy and his landing had not been particularly hard, but it had hurt, nonetheless. The desire to close his eyes and sleep was overwhelming.
"I can't see, fuckmook," Sands said lightly. "So get your ass inside and unlock the door."
El stared up at him. During the long trek through the rain and mud to reach the house he had not really thought much about his chosen traveling companion. But now he found himself gazing appraisingly at Sands. Did he really want to share any more time with this man?
It was obvious that Sands still hated him. Already Sands had threatened his life. But did he think Sands would follow through on that threat? No, he didn't. Not just because Sands needed him alive for his own survival. His life was safe because it had already been spared. When Sands had told him to stay away. He had been pardoned then, given his penance and told to get the fuck out. That was why. If Sands wanted him dead, he would have died at the river, the moment Sands realized who he had pulled from the water.
"El?" Sands' head cocked to one side. "Did you pass out on me?"
He sighed. "No," he said. "But I am not sure I can get up."
"Well you better," Sands said. "Because if you make me go in there first, I'm not coming back to unlock the door. Once I'm inside, I'm staying inside."
From deep within, another emotion floated to the surface. This one was anger, and El welcomed it, because it gave him the strength to heave himself to his feet. "You know," he said, "at the river, I thought you had changed. Now I see you are still the same asshole you always were."
Sands grinned. "Well, yeah."
The window looked onto a small, dim room. By squinting carefully, El could discern the shapes and outlines of vague furniture. A doorway stood directly opposite the window. That was all.
He hooked one leg over the windowsill. "Wait here," he said.
Sands shook his head. Wherever his eyes were right now, El was sure he was rolling them. "Just hurry up."
El moved quickly through the room, holding his right arm to his body with his left hand. Being out of the rain was having a marvelous effect on his energy levels, he discovered. He suddenly felt much stronger.
So much stronger, in fact, that out of sheer spite he decided to leave Sands standing out in the rain, and explore the house.
Sadly there was not much to see. Calling this place a house was doing it a kindness. Whoever used this place obviously did not stay in it for long. It reeked of furtive meetings and whispered words. It had two big rooms and a small one that contained a gas stove and several kerosene lamps. There was no bathroom. No electricity. A few couches, a few armchairs, a few tables, a battery-powered radio in one of the rooms.
And under each couch, a cache of guns.
El debated with himself for all of five seconds before admitting that he would have to tell Sands about the guns. If he didn't, Sands would find them anyway, and then Sands would be pissed that El hadn't told him, and El wanted to avoid pissing off his new roommate at all costs.
First, however, he had to let said roommate into the house. He made his way to the front door and unlocked it. Most of the furniture was secondhand, stained and pocked with cigarette burns – but this lock was brand-new.
He opened the door. "I found some things," he said.
Sands walked in and punched him in the face. "Asshole."
El reeled backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell. Blood ran from his nose, and bright lights danced in front of his eyes. The blow had reawakened every half-healed wound he had, and even some that he had forgotten he had. Pain swept over him, taking his consciousness with it.
But before he passed out he said, "There are guns. Don't kill me."
The last thing he heard was Sands saying thoughtfully, "And why not?"
******
