Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.
A/N: A little background on Sands. Signs of a change of heart -- well, kind of. This IS Sands we're talking about!
3. Immersion
It was two more days until the fever broke. Sands lived a light-headed routine of wound cleaning, chicken soup straight from the can, and carefully scheduled pills for several more. After ten days, he quit the painkillers entirely. There were some left, but he refused to let himself drift away on some chemical cloud. Plain old aspirin as needed, and he tried to limit that, belatedly remembering that they'd interfere with blood clotting.
Sands wasn't quite sure if he'd adopted Manolo, or if Manolo had adopted him, but the kid was there almost every day, sometimes skipping school if Sands needed something done. The story about supporting his family by selling bubble gum was phony--Manolo lived with an aunt and uncle, and every week, his uncle gave him a box of gum from his news stand, and now, sold him cigarettes for his American friend. His mama was dead--he couldn't remember her--and his papa was in jail for stabbing someone in a knife fight. There were two cousins littler than him--girls--but they liked girlie things and didn't bother him too much.
Manolo brought him food and water, clean shorts, and he was tolerable for company, when he was around. His childhood was far different from the agent's--Sands clearly remembered his mother's death when he was eight--his father the bigshot plastic surgeon never had any legal troubles aside from the usual malpractice hassles, but he hadn't exactly been there, either, had he? His dad's new trophy-wife--his stepmother--already had two daughters older than Sheldon, and wasted no time presenting Dr. Sands with a baby boy to secure her status. Lenore had favored her daughters, Dr. Sands had discovered renewed youth through his infant son, and young Sheldon was forgotten in the background. He'd retaliated by becoming moody and withdrawn--or, when he had to interact with people, as obnoxious as possible. Being obnoxious wasn't such a good strategy now, though, and he found himself biting back his habitual repartee. When had it gotten to be quite so habitual?
A few short weeks ago, he'd've recoiled in horror at the idea of spending an afternoon listening to a young boy ramble on about a fishing trip with his uncle. Now, it was the most interesting diversion he had. (He'd finally gotten so sick of mariachi music that he unplugged the radio.) It was easy to find life's pleasures when everything was stripped to its essentials: the modest meals Manolo brought him, the sweetness of birdsong in the overgrown garden outside, the rich fragrance of a gardinia bush drifting in through the window. His remaining senses delighted in their newfound awakening, as if long overwhelmed by visual stimuli.
As the fourth week flowed into the fifth, Sands awoke from a doze to hear voices coming closer. He palmed his knife and listened tensely. Two---no, three male voices, probably teenagers...subject under discussion, a place to get stoned. And they were headed for the garage, by the sound of it.
The door swung inward, there was a scuffle of feet, a yell, echoed by another, more scuffling, and the door banged closed again. "What, what?" the third voice was saying.
"There's a dead guy in there!" one of the others was saying.
"Oh come on, you were in there for two seconds, how do you know he's dead?"
"Cos he's all dried up like a skeleton and something ate his eyes!" The kid sounded hysterical, and Sands almost laughed outright. "Vamanos!" The boys retreated, and Sands smirked.
Slowly, his amusement died. He knew he'd dropped some weight, between the scanty meals and his precarious physical condition, but only now that it had been called to his attention did he inventory how many of his ribs he could count. Wasting away? Had he survived his wounds only to let himself die a slow death by apathy? Not fucking likely! How much longer was Sheldon J. Sands going to hole up, licking his wounds like a frightened animal? When was he going to strike back?
He rose and paced the shed. By now, its dimensions were engraved on his muscles; three steps to the wall across from the chair, or eight steps the long way. Apparently, he looked pretty scary without the shades. That could work to his advantage for intimidation and/or shock value. First, though, he'd get cleaned up, get some real clothes. Five weeks of sitting around in his shorts was enough. He really needed long, hot bath, a shave, and he craved a big plate of puerco pibil. If it was good enough, he might plant a wet, sloppy kiss on the cook.
Manolo knew of a cheap hotel that rented rooms by the hour. Since Sands's cheif interest was in hot water and a tub, hourly was fine by him. It wasn't until they were crossing the lobby, his hand on Manolo's shoulder, that a coarse comment from the desk clerk made him realize what they looked like. Sands clenched his teeth against sudden rage.
"Don't let anybody past you," Sands told the kid as he entered the bathroom upstairs, intended to be shared by the whole floor. "Anybody that walks in that door is gonna get smoked.'
"Si, Senor Sands." As soon as the door closed behind him, it rattled slightly as Manolo sat down with his back to it.
He scoped out the layout of the room and arranged his toiletries accordingly. It seemed incredible that something as ordinary as taking a bath had assumed such epic proportions. He immersed himself chest deep in the steaming water. Hot water...had there ever been a time when he'd taken hot water--hell, running water!--for granted? A simple detail like being clean...when had he last been clean? Physically or spiritually?
Somewhere in Culiacan, the shadowy room he saw in his nightmares was still lit with a single, unshaded bulb, and beneath its light, people did unspeakable things. Guevara's shiny device still whined, the lights still went out for how many innocents? Sands didn't count himself as an innocent. He had truly seen too much for that. But very few people lived the life he had lived; they were creatures of the light who needed protection from the darkness and those who would bring it to them.
During the long, sybaritic ritual, cleansing himself meticulously from head to toe, Sands felt more than one kind of soil slipping away. Pain and suffering, privation--nothing in his past life had prepared him for the last month. It seemed like a wholly different plane of existance, and the loss of his eyes alone didn't account for the difference. His own mistakes had brought him to a crossroads, but the cartel's actions had set him on a road from which there was no return. The indecision that had dogged him was gone; a new resolve possessed him. Barillo's organization couldn't be allowed to re-form. Culiacan was going to stay a cartel-free zone, and he was going to be the man who kept it that way--whatever it took. Not as a company man--there was no way in hell they'd take him back in his condition--but with his own brand of justice, with all the deadly skills the company had forged in him.
Could he do it alone? His conclusion, reluctantly, was no. Not even with Manolo's help--even if he wanted to risk the boy, he was far too young and completely untrained. It would be easy for Manolo to overlook some slight but crucial detail that would cost their lives. No, for this he was going to need help, professional help. Not from the company; he'd already reached that conclusion. Reviewing the individuals he knew who were up to the task, one stood out, and sitting there in the slowing cooling water, cigarette dangling from his lips, Sands felt a spasm of dread.
The immaculately groomed man who strode through the lobby at three PM bore little resemblance to the scruffy deviant who'd entered two hours before. Only the sunglasses and his companion were the same. "Wait for me outside," he said to the boy as they reached the door. He turned to his left and strolled toward the front desk.
"Like the sign says, no refunds," the clerk said in a bored tone, and Sands heard the rustle of a newspaper's pages. "I don't care if you did pay for three hours."
Sands held up his key. "Checkout time." As the other man reached for the key, Sands raised his pistol and fired a single shot. He heard the man drop; there were a few spastic twitches, and the unmistakable sound of a final exhalation.
"If you're so worried I'm a pervert, fuckmook, then you shouldn't've rented me a room." Turning on his heel, Sands counted his steps back to the door and pushed it open.
"Where now, Senor?" Manolo greeted him.
"To lunch. Take me to Tarantula Azul."
On the way there, Sands purposely bumped into several people until he found one who had what he wanted: a cell phone. Swiping it deftly, he allowed Manolo to lead him to the restaurant.