Dreams

He woke many times, but never fully. Hands and voices and pain . . . somewhere someone screamed. He hoped it was not him, for he had vowed not to give them that satisfaction ...

Pain, he had learned to deal with pain, hadn't he? But it hurt so much. Would it never end? The pain had a landscape; if he writhed in his torment, this movement hit a wall of agony, that movement sent him off a precipice into darkness, but never a darkness of escape, only of nightmare and distant pain.

He dreamed. His dreams had handguns and hopelessness. Time after time he faced confident enemies only to discover he had forgotten to bring his own guns. People died, old friends, women and children, because of his negligence. Some dreams were more fractured, less coherent. He was blind, and trying to find something in the dark - something important. Diamonds the size of boulders rolled like giants' dice, and he had to dodge them or be crushed. His leg felt crushed - one diamond held a prisoner inside, a huge, red-colored spider that scrabbled in its prison, then broke free. It bore down on El, whose leg was trapped in a crevice, and somehow shrank and went in his mouth and down his throat. Agent Sands, his laughing eyes intact, shot him, but the bullet only exploded his guitar and then ruined his hand . . .

Thirsty, he was thirsty. And so hot, if only he could move away from the volcano's rim…

He'd been here before, shot, feverish, fearful and in pain. It was familiar territory, so when he realized hands were putting something in his mouth, he struggled to swallow it. Water he swallowed gratefully, too, though at times there seemed to be a tube in his throat where the spider had gone.

Finally he surfaced, though the pain sharpened with returning consciousness, back to reality. He heard women's voices. Not Carolina. Carolina was dead - the grief stabbed him as if the memory were fresh, then muted when he remembered this was a different time, a different grief. Betrayed . . . betrayed for money. Fucking Sands.

He cracked open his eyes and saw his bedroom. He lay in his own bed, the bed he had shared with Carolina. The light was dim, though it was day. Rain, he realized. Outside it was raining. One arm lay on top of the covers, an IV needle in his vein. Whatever was entering his blood came from a plastic bag hanging on an IV pole beside his arm. That was surprising. Not his usual bedroom décor. Also strange was the fact that someone was licking his hand. El tipped his head minutely, enough to see D'Artagnan on the bed below his arm, licking and wagging his voluminous tail.

Señora Perez and Isabel were talking beside the bed, toward the foot. As he moved his gaze around, adjusting to this reality, El saw Sands sitting on a chair by the door.

Sands? Dammit, hadn't Father Soto ordered him away?

El tried to speak, but his throat was dry and sore. Also, now that he was fully conscious, pain from his leg grew into a wave that overtook him, so that he barely noticed as the dog barked and Señora Perez bustled to his side, fussing. He did notice when she gave him water and a pill, though, and he accepted both, not hearing whatever she was saying. He closed his eyes then, waiting. He knew this routine; the pain pill would restore him to some semblance of coherence in time. Meanwhile, he had to endure.

He heard the women's voices around him grow excited and then fade. Throughout it all, the calculating, ever protective part of El's mind stayed focused on Sands. Where he was, any movement he made, anything he said - Sands was the threat here, and El kept his mind's eye on him.

When the pain dulled to a manageable level, El found himself alone with Sands and the dog. Now able to focus more beyond himself, El noticed that Sands was cleaning a gun, a collection of handguns and rifles piled neatly at the foot of his chair.

"Sands," he whispered through his sore throat. The dog, excited to hear his voice, leapt up the bed and began licking El's face. The exuberant bouncing on his bed shot bolts of agony through El's thigh.

Sands, still imitating motions made by the sighted, tipped his head as if he were looking up at El. "It's alive," he said.

El rolled his head so he could breathe something other than dog breath. "Give me a gun," he said, his voice clearer, though still thick.

"You don't have to shoot it, just push the dog off you."

"I was going to shoot you."

"Wal, that's a fine how-d'ya-do for the guy who saved your life."

As they spoke, El was smothered with dog kisses. One hand was free, and El tried to capture and remove the dog with it. "If you'd shot sooner, you could have saved my leg. You waited to see who ended up with the stones."

"Geez, if you really want the warm fuzzy, remember I could have shot that guy after he finished you off."

There was truth in that, El's tactical brain told him, treacherously. It also unhelpfully provided an image of the battle scene, with Sands at the doorway with almost no cover. Had he shot while many gunmen still lived, he would have drawn fire he had no protection from. Still, he clearly hadn't cared whether El was one of those who went down or not. And the whole situation was his fault.

"Would you … take the dog?" El was forced to beg. He almost couldn't breathe, and the dog was hurting him with every bounce.

"I'm not touching that mutt. He's bit me twice."

"Good boy," said El.