The Condemned: Part Four
A Serialized Novella
XVI
Roberto tapped the wrench in his palm, while watching Francisco’s car rocket into the driveway. With one finger, he scratched an itch — right near the darkened tear drop tattoo. He gazed directly into the car’s headlights, planting his feet, ready to pounce at his tardy cousins.
José popped out the car first, stowing the gun in his waistband. Francisco debated even leaving the car. Just another second, he repeated. But Roberto’s widened eyes — despite the headlights — lured him out of fear for retribution. The wrench glistened. Francisco’s knuckles ached after loosening his grip from the steering wheel. Every fiber of his being screamed as he opened the car door. His heavy steps quaked the earth — or was it only in his mind, he wondered.
“Where the hell have you been?” Roberto coldly asked.
“Francisco was talking it up with the priest,” José mechanically stated.
Francisco halted his steps only after feeling a gust of wind nearly knock him backward. He could perceive Roberto’s ire on the cusp of erupting. He readied his defensive posture, positioning his hands as though a lion were to lunge at him.
“He was at my grandmother’s. She asked me to give him a ride back to the church. What could I do? I didn’t want her to ask too many questions. I thought it would be better to appease her.”
Roberto’s eyes cooled. Without looking, he tossed the wrench into the garage. The steel smashed against the siding, piercing Francisco’s ears. Roberto hopped into the Jeep, ignited the engine, and cracked his neck. The chilling sound made Francisco’s skin crawl, as it morphed into his grandmother’s sobbing. José eagerly followed, jumping into the passenger seat. Francisco stared at the door handle. He struggled to reach out his hand to open it.
“Get in. We’re going to be late.”
Francisco felt Roberto’s mind revving — calling him a coward. His cousin’s animalistic stare affirmed that suspicion. He couldn’t distinguish whether Roberto was salivating or sweating around his lips. Reluctantly, Francisco opened the door and sat in the backseat. This was the life he chose. He was condemned to it.
Without a word, Roberto wildly shifted into reverse, swerving out of the driveway.
“This will be our night gentlemen. Let’s make it count,” he said through bared teeth.
Like a bat out of hell, the cousins thundered toward the mountains, now cast in darkness and the weak moonlight. Francisco despairingly looked up to the heavens — and prayed for all the stars to fall on him. If he was going to hell tonight, he’d rather be killed by an accident than in a battle. He resisted an urge to hurl. He felt his heart could accompany whatever he ate that day. Then he remembered, he hadn’t eaten anything.
The journey across the uninhabited badlands, up to the slopes of the mountains, felt like a descent. Francisco was shocked Roberto could even see. Without the headlights, the trio were driving into an abyss. He thought of the well outside his abuela’s home.
Suddenly, Francisco spotted other vehicles in a ring formation — as though they were spawned from the desert floor. His sinuses began to throb, and he irregularly blinked attempting to clear his vision. Nothing helped. There would be no help, he believed. He should’ve listened to the Priest.
A group of armed men swarmed Roberto’s Jeep. Their eyes glowed in the headlights. They reminded Francisco of hyenas. One of them, a stout, younger man approached Roberto. He had facial markings made by claws — whether by an animal or a helpless victim was unknown. His skin was tightly stretched on his stout frame. Surprisingly, for a heavier man, he glided across the dirt, as if he were a specter.
“You’re late.”
“We got caught up,” Roberto irritatingly said.
“By who?”
“These dumbasses over here.”
“Well Lobo is waiting —”
The swarm parted as the cartel members accompanied Roberto, Francisco, and José deeper into the circle. A cold wind rushed up Francisco’s spine. The air felt devoid of any substance, yet he could sense his soul being pulverized into the dirt. In the center circle, there sat a formless figure on a truck bed with its arm draped over a machine gun. It lurked in the shadows, puffing wafts of cigarette smoke which cloaked its face. The cigarette embers made the form have red, enrapturing eyes. When the eyes peered at Francisco, every cell in his body evaporated as if the form siphoned his essence. He could not escape the eyes’ menacing glow. He knew evil existed.
The form craned its head from out of the darkness into a headlight beam to get a closer look at the trio. The red eyes rolled over black instantaneously. Francisco noticed a poorly healed deep scar on the left side of its mouth — unseen by a proper doctor. An engulfed, skeletal tattoo of Our Lady of Guadalupe peeked from beneath his white beater. Even though he was irreligious, the image rattled the remnants of Francisco’s soul. It mocked an icon prominently featured in his abuela’s house. Meanwhile the form’s cutting vision snaked from Roberto to José, resting on Francisco once again. Its disfigured mouth curled, while the cigarette clung to its lips. As it crept closer, Francisco felt his head was in its mouth — about to be eaten by the sharpened teeth.
“Such innocent eyes,” the form finally snarled mischievously. Even its voice sounded dead. Francisco knew this was Lobo. Don’t panic, he repeated. Out of the corner of his eye, Francisco saw that even Roberto — standing at attention — was nervous. His twitching muscles gave him away. He imagined a dog shaking awaiting his master’s punishment.
“So, these are the pups you told me about,” Lobo remarked while blowing smoke into Roberto’s face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not rats?”
“No, sir.”
Effortlessly, Lobo rose from his seated position, standing over the trio and the rest of the cartel members present. His stare was affixed on Francisco again, which petrified the young man. He felt his mouth open, voicelessly crying out for help. He could feel his soul dying.
“I’ve seen innocent faces before, mi muchacho. Don’t fail me.”
“We won’t, sir,” José shouted while stiffening his posture.
Lobo’s glance slid to José. His sharpened teeth curled into a grin. Don’t attract attention José, Francisco internalized. As Lobo’s piercing eyes gazed at José, Francisco swore his younger brother’s face morph into something unrecognizable. His features deepened, revealing the skull underneath, and his eyes darkened, shining like volcanic rock. What have I done, Francisco regretted.
The leader turned his attention to the other members, raising his arms like a preacher. His grin vanished as every muscle sunk inward into his face. He looked inhuman to Francisco.
“Amigos. For too long we’ve allowed the Caballeros to steal from us, taking what is ours. Right now, they are at the border, coming into our land and making a bed in it. This insult cannot be forgiven.”
The red eyes scanned the troops. With a knowing glance, Lobo studied Francisco. Why me? Francisco thought. The stars had yet to fall as he prayed.
“Let’s move,” Lobo commanded as he sunk down into the truck bed.
Cartel members roared, while brandishing their weapons. In the frenzy, Francisco was swept into Roberto’s Jeep. He couldn’t remember consciously making any movements. Some other power clutched him, forcing the young man into the backseat. A cold weight dropped into his hands — an automatic rifle thrust upon him by José.
“You’ll need this,” the younger brother stated.
Francisco couldn’t speak, yet his mouth was agape from delirium. Meanwhile, the unrecognizable brother — was he even his brother — twisted in the passenger seat, inspecting his weapon while Roberto sped off across the desert with the caravan. Francisco wanted to weep, but he had no tears to give. As they drove to meet the Caballeros, Francisco looked back catching the tiny glimmers of light from San Juan Diego’s church. The Priest’s meeting must have started. Immense regret weighed on his broken spirits.
There is no hope, he resigned.
XVII
Maria knelt in front of the monstrance. Her prayers were laborious, disrupted by an anguished perception that a terrible fate would befall San Juan Diego that evening. The silence only drove her further into pain as she pled for God to protect the vulnerable. Her mind drifted to Antonio. To her aunt and grandmother. To the Priest. The bartender. The older woman. And lingered on Francisco. His innocent eyes pierced the space between her words.
Her concentration was further broken when a door opened. The Priest walked in, his steps echoing off the stone floor. He could see the grief Maria suffered, noticing her radiate spirit dimming. What had happened in between Mass and now, he wondered. The Priest sidled into the pew.
“Is everything ok Maria?”
Maria’s attention drifted back to the present, back to the space, back to the monstrance. She wiped her right eye, made the sign of the cross, and leaned back into the pew. After a moment of silence, she slowly pivoted her head, which was weighed down by heavy thoughts. She looked into the Priest’s reassuring eyes.
“Can you keep a secret Father?”
“What’s the secret, Maria?”
The Priest saw her lips quivering, struggling to form her words honestly. For a feistier spirit he encountered in San Juan Diego, her pain slightly unnerved the Priest. He wondered if he could help comfort his friend.
“You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Father, something terrible is about to happen tonight.”
The Priest’s mind turned to Francisco and the other young men, but he halted his presumption.
“What do you mean?”
Maria shivered. She shifted in the pew, looking back at the monstrance.
“I heard Roberto talking earlier today —”
“What? When did you see Roberto?”
Maria’s head dropped. Every muscle in the back of her neck dangled and she sunk deeper inward. The worst scenario swept past the Priest’s mind if the cross she bore was this burdensome. He kept his mouth shut, deciding to wait for her to speak instead.
“After you asked me to invite parishioners to the meeting tonight, I followed Francisco. I wanted to see what he knew about Antonio —”
She paused. That is only a half-truth, and half the truth is half a lie, she thought to herself. She couldn’t lie to the Priest. Meanwhile, the monstrance captured the light from the few candles burning in the church.
“And I wanted to see him, Father,” she said with an air of shame.
Early in the day, Maria crept into the backdoor of Roberto’s garage and witnessed the meeting between the cousins. She overheard the muffled conversation, especially Roberto talking about eliminating the Caballeros while intimidating Francisco. Those eyes — deep and pure — lured her. He wasn’t committed to the cartel life, yet she could feel he was trapped. She felt compelled to act, to defend the young man from the bullying — but she wasn’t sure how.
“Although Francisco tried to hide it, I saw the fear in his eyes when Roberto mentioned you. Roberto is wild, nearly paranoid,” she recounted to the Priest.
However, she remained hidden in the back of the garage. Suddenly, the stray dog crept in the threshold, blocking the escape. The dog scanned her — like a piece of meat. The adrenaline pumped rapidly, as Maria unsuccessfully shooed the lurking creature. It stood like a statue. She tried shooing again with the same result. As she moved closer, the dog lurched back. The few hairs on its spine darkened and raised. Maria knew an attack was imminent. There would be no fight, only flight. With full force, she hopped over the barking dog and headed to an abandoned car on the lot. There was nowhere else to go — and the fear swarmed her. Surely, Roberto would find her. Would he kill her? What would Francisco do?
She hid behind the car. Please God, help me, she prayed. The dog barked incessantly, ringing in her impending doom. With no time and in a last ditch effort to hide, she pulled the driver seat car door. Miraculously, it opened. She dove into the front seats, her arm smacking the stick shift, and her feet kicking the keys in the ignition. She clenched her teeth, wincing in pain, as she twisted into the passenger seat. The dog unrelentingly barked. Then she felt a cold presence. She could sense eyes were scanning the area. Looking up, Maria caught sight of Roberto in the side mirror. She curled further into the foot of the seat. He must be able to see me, she worried.
Please God, don’t let him find me. Please, don’t let him find me. The mongrel’s howling pounded louder and louder. Her innards twisted while heat radiated through every nerve — like molten liquid pouring into her veins. She didn’t fear death, but she feared Roberto. Why was I so stupid, she thought. She continued praying.
Suddenly, the pounding deadened. This is it, Maria thought. The car door will open. I’ll be dragged by my hair. That’s the least of my worries. God, help me to help them. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, bracing for Roberto. A few seconds went by — nothing. Through the window, she heard Roberto’s cold, malicious voice say, “Stupid dog.”
The heat subsided. Unfurling from the passenger seat, Maria peeked to the garage’s back door. Roberto was gone. The dog was scampering to town. She couldn’t believe it. She rubbed her now tender arm and caught a glimpse of the keys, reflecting the sun’s light. Cautiously, she surveyed the grounds to confirm Roberto’s absence. As softly as she could, Maria slunk out of the car, shut the door, and ran back to the town — not far behind from the mongrel.
“I thought the worst would happen, Father,” she said, still rubbing her arm in the pew. “I was so scared he would find me. And that he would hurt Francisco. I’m ashamed I didn’t stand there and tell Roberto to stop antagonizing the boy.”
The Priest reflected on Maria’s story. He couldn’t fathom the fear she experienced in those moments, but knew her actions — for a bright young woman — were foolish. However, he kept that close to his heart. Then he was engulfed by worry. The young men would be in a firefight tonight. One of them, if not all, could die in the ensuing battle. Francisco’s reticence to accompany his brother and cousin haunted him. What more could I have done, the Priest wondered. Guilt plagued his mind. God forgave me once, could he forgive me for this? Yet, somewhere in his soul, he knew this night was only beginning. He then noticed Maria carefully rubbing her arm. Focus on the person in front of you.
“Is your arm alright?”
“It’s just a bruise, I’ll be okay.”
“Do you want anything cold to help with the swelling?”
Maria nodded her head. The Priest patted her on the back.
“I’m just glad you’re here. But next time you do something like that, bring another fool — like me,” he said with a grin. Maria cracked a smile momentarily, but it quickly evaporated. The Priest decided it best to give her space — time with the Eucharist — at least for a few minutes while he went to the cantina to get something cold. Then Maria’s voice beckoned him from behind. He never heard a voice so quiet.
“Father, should I be shameful?”
He turned to face the suffering soul in the pew. How could she feel this guilt for no wrong doing, he believed. The candles’ flickering danced off the monstrance, catching the Priest’s eye. He became lost in the sight. In the alluring silence. We are not orphaned.
“No. Risky, yes. I wouldn’t necessarily go find trouble, but you don’t have to be ashamed. The time will come when you will have to make a stand for someone in need. You have great faith and strength within you Maria. And you will know what to do when that time comes — I have a feeling this will be a long night. And he’s going to need your help before then.”
Maria soaked in the Priest’s words. She ceased rubbing her arm, wiped away a tear, while unburying her head from her chest. She looked at the Priest — her friend. Here is a good man, she thought. She noticed the flickering candle light bounce off the monstrance over his cassock. The Priest, meanwhile, could see relief sweep through her passionate eyes.
Then the bartender, with an urgent force, knocked the doors open. The Priest was amazed by his neighbor’s presence, thinking he might not attend the meeting. However, the amazement dissipated when he noticed the bartender’s strained face. The man looked anxious, wringing his hands. Sweat beads poured down his face. The peaceful silence morphed into one of anguish. What plagued this man, the Priest wondered.
“I was just going to see you. Is something wrong,” the Priest said breaking the silence.
“Padre, I think you should see this —”
XVIII
Francisco wasn’t sure whether he could still see the glimmer of San Juan Diego or if the stars finally fell on the earth, as the night sky melded with the horizon. Nevertheless, he was in dissociative state in the backseat of the Jeep. No fear. No empathy. No aspirations. Only emptiness while clutching the icy weapon. He wasn’t sure how far the caravan had driven. He couldn’t remember answering anything Roberto or José asked. All he knew was that the stampeding cars halted.
There were a dozen headlights blasting through the Jeep’s windshield, which awoke Francisco from his torpor. Fear flooded his mind. This would not end well, he believed.
“Time to go boys,” Roberto growled devilishly. José leapt out of the car as did Roberto. Francisco, reluctantly, followed. Behind the blinding lights, he saw figures weave in the darkness. One of them — a short man with slicked back hair, a goatee, and a glass eye — stepped in front, veiling his face. The rings and chains shimmered. The man would readjust them constantly. This was Rafael, the head of the Caballeros.
Meanwhile, Lobo floated off the truck bed toward his rival. Despite the relatively few lights, Francisco could not see any of Lobo’s footsteps in the dust, yet the red, hungry eyes were vibrant — more illuminating than before.
“We thought you wouldn’t show,” Rafael said, finicking with his wrist chains.
Lobo took one more puff of the cigarette and flicked it into the oblivion. “And I thought you wouldn’t be armed.”
“Aren’t your men armed? I can see a few young bloods with guns slung over their backs,” the Caballeros leader stated while pointing at José, Roberto, and Francisco.
“Well I see that pistol in your boot, muchacho,” Lobo sneered. He motioned to his body, turning around, to show he was unarmed. The golden chains shook. Rafael acquiesced, bent down, and revealed a pistol stowed in his boot. He begrudgingly tossed it in the desert. The pistol made no sound on impact with the sand.
“I have nothing else.”
“Good. Now we can talk,” Lobo replied with devilish delight while striding toward his rival. To Francisco, the Perros’ leader was a hulking mass, dwarfing Rafael. The air between the two men was strained — pulled to its ultimate limit. If snapped, Francisco knew he would be in a firefight. And he was exposed. So was José, whose furrowed brow deepened in the heightened headlights. His brother’s finger loomed over the trigger, while Roberto, surprisingly, looked unfazed — yet Francisco could sense the gears were calculating. His attention veered back to Lobo, whose stature stretched seemingly beyond the height of a normal man.
“I want to know, where did you get the cohones to start working in my territory?” Lobo coldly asked. His hot spit sprinkled Rafael’s flinching face. The Caballeros leader slightly waved his hand, motioning his men to remain composed. He readjusted his wrist chains.
“Where did you get the cohones to start killing off your own men?”
Lobo’s eyes widened like a cornered animal. Even in the darkness, Francisco noticed the effect of Rafael’s response. However, the initial fear vanished as Lobo’s demeanor slid back into a charming snake. With his arms outstretched, he looked back and forth at his armed men, exhibiting the firepower standing before the Caballeros.
“My men are loyal. They’re not clinging to a lifeless owner, but I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to tell you, if you keep operating on my territory, there will be a fight. And it won’t just end there. I’m not one to be trifled with. And I’m not one easily betrayed. If a man is not loyal to his word, then he isn’t really a man. And I am a man of my word.”
“A man of your word? What good is your word? You preach, but you don’t practice, especially toward your own men. You betray their trust like you did with that young boy.”
Antonio? Was Rafael referring to Antonio, Francisco wondered. Who else could it be? Why was he killed? Francisco inched toward the car, sensing a firefight was imminent. He could feel Roberto’s bloodless eyes dart in his direction. Let him think I’m a coward, Francisco thought. He knew he had to run if fighting started — but he couldn’t leave his brother behind. Meanwhile, he witnessed the rage boiling within Lobo. The truth cut him.
“When dogs get sick, they should be put down rather than linger. Don’t you agree?”
He bared his teeth, arched his back, and shrunk inwardly like a wolf primed to pounce. Any charm disappeared, revealing the true Lobo. Francisco wondered if the man had any remnants of humanity left.
“What is it like to betray one’s brother?” Lobo sneered to Rafael, the words escaping like ash. The comment confused Rafael, who twisted his feet into the sand, planting him in the spot.
“I only have these brothers behind me.”
Lobo’s teeth curled. Fear swirled within Francisco. This is it, he believed. The air was on the verge of snapping. Rafael quickly scanned the darkness to find the gun without trying to give away his thoughts. The obscured figures all readied for an outbreak.
“I don’t take insults lightly, muchacho,” Lobo snarled. “And I hate when I’m betrayed. I feel almost sorry for your men. The last thing they’ll see is there leader begging for death.”
At that, Lobo’s arm shot skyward and the Perros open fired. Rafael dove into the sand, wiping the ground to find the gun. Francisco quickly moved behind Roberto’s Jeep. The gun bursts were deafening. He covered his ears, praying the fighting would end. In the mayhem, he noticed Lobo standing erect — slowly walking toward Rafael, who was prone on the ground. Every bullet missed him. Was this man human? He hectically search for Roberto and José, who he finally saw firing their weapons. Roberto was coldly enjoying the decimation, as he expected, grinning while mowing down the Caballeros. José, meanwhile, shot erratically. The gun bursts’ flashes revealed glimpses of a lost soul, spiraling.
Suddenly, José collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. A stone dropped in Francisco’s stomach. A rush of fear rose from his toes to his head. Without thinking, Francisco crouched from behind his cover, weaving through the fire to retrieve his brother.
“It hurts! It hurts!” José cried.
“Stay calm,” Francisco said wiping his brother’s body to find the wound. A bullet ripped through José’s left shoulder. Francisco tore off his shirt, putting pressure on the spot. He couldn’t see the amount of blood lost, but he felt it in the shirt — which rapidly soaked through. How do I get him to safety?
“Press down hard, I’m getting you out of here.”
“Don’t leave me,” José cried.
“I’m not going to leave you. Keep your head and voice down.” Crouching, Francisco grabbed José’s feet and dragged him behind Roberto’s Jeep, out of the way of immediate danger. The crying diminished. Francisco knew his brother was losing consciousness. He needed a doctor, and fast. He couldn’t carry José back to San Juan Diego. But where would he go, he frantically strategized.
In the firefight, a shot completely shattered the Jeep’s windshield. Francisco covered his brother from the shards. He felt the warm cuts intensifying and blood foaming on his back — but he couldn’t pay attention to that now. He had to get José to safety. As he looked toward the damaged car, he noticed the keys on the driver’s seat. Did he dare steal the Jeep now? This was the only opportunity for escape. Was Roberto even still alive, he questioned.
As he lugged José into the backseat, the gun smoke that shrouded the battlefield dissipated, and the bursts subsided. A wind wafted the clouds away uncovering dead bodies, already buried by sand. Lobo, however, remained unscathed. He prowled over the bullet riddled Rafael, who continued scrambling for his gun with all the strength he had left. The image haunted Francisco — it was like a predator playing with his meal. Without bending over, Lobo clawed the gun off the ground and blew away the sand into Rafael’s glass eye. His twisted smile bared once more as he lurched over his rival.
“Take one last look. All your men are dead. And you killed them by disrespecting me. How did you think this would end, muchacho? You can’t beat the devil at his own game.”
Rafael flipped over. Tears trickled down his dirtied cheeks as he soaked in the carnage. He had failed his brothers — and he resigned to not striving to live any longer. The devil had beaten him. This was the life. In one last act of defiance, he spat blood in Lobo’s face. Lobo licked the corner of his lips.
“Go to hell,” Rafael struggled with his dying breaths.
The insult amused Lobo, like adding oxygen to the flaming fire. He pointed the gun in Rafael’s quivering face, at his glass eye.
“I’ve already been there, muchacho.”
A final burst reverberated into the darkness. Lobo rose, silhouetted by the few remaining headlights not destroyed in the firefight. His volcanic eyes were sharper as he basked in the Caballeros’ glorious defeat. Without any signal, the remaining Perros looted the bodies. Using the bottom of his boot, Lobo rolled Rafael’s headless body over. The execution horrified Francisco, who watched it from the driver’s seat. If he fled now, he would meet a similar fate. If he stayed, José would die. I couldn’t fail him further. He ignited the engine, which roared into the soundless night. It was then, Francisco noticed Roberto was still alive. His cousin aimed at Francisco, but the gun jammed.
Francisco peeled away, kicking up more dust. He felt the force of bullets ricocheting off the Jeep, which nearly tipped the car over. He heard one of the tires pop — with the air escaping rapidly. His foot never pushed on a gas pedal harder. In the rearview mirror, he saw bursts of light and heard pops as the men scrambled to get to their vehicles. Lobo stood there, stone cold. His eyes clawed at Francisco’s soul.
Francisco was now a deserter. There was no turning back. He peeked at his brother, who still breathed. On the horizon, he saw the lights of San Juan Diego — which illuminated the church. Can the Priest help José?
Meanwhile, Roberto threw his gun and ragefully kicked the dirt. The dust sprinkled Lobo, who watched the taillights shrink toward the horizon. He snorted fire.
“The innocent boy?”
Roberto stopped his kicking, instead being drawn to his master. He dared looked Lobo in the eye, hunching over — trying to contain his own anger and shame.
“They’re heading back to San Juan Diego. Most likely to the church.”
“The church?”
“There’s a new priest. He’s warped my cousin’s mind.”
A howl erupted from Lobo, who wrapped his arm around Roberto’s neck. His weight crushed Roberto.
“You know what we do with deserters —”
The hypnotizing words rippled through Roberto, darkening the tattoo underneath his eye. He knew what he had to do. He had been asked to do the same with Antonio — and he was willing to sacrifice his cousins.
“I haven’t been to Mass in some time. Maybe I should stop by,” Lobo wryly stated.
The Perros assembled in the remaining cars and awaited Lobo to board the truck bed. With a tilted head, he glanced over at Rafael’s decapitated corpse spewed in the desert. He shot at the body one more time, relishing it shaking from the impact. He leapt in the truck. The caravan’s roar thundered, beginning the hunt.
Francisco heard the deafening engines, despite creating separation. His own engine was dying as it sputtered. The hood was riddled. Lobo and his men would be breathing down his neck shortly. He repeatedly peeked in the backseat again to check his brother, telling him to hold on. Francisco’s back ached. It was wet from blood.
“I’m sorry José,” Francisco muttered through tears.
As San Juan Diego’s lights expanded, no longer on the horizon, he quieted his mind. All the sound and fury evaporated into silence. In that brief silence, he prayed for a miracle.
XIX
The Priest saw the fleeting light flashes far in the desert, while he stood on the graveyard path with Maria and the bartender. His soul pained. He arched his shoulders, bracing for the imminent force.
“Do you know what it is, padre?” the bartender timidly asked.
“It’s a gun fight,” the Priest rationalized. “The cartel is headed this way.”
The bartender nearly leapt out of his shoes as he surveyed the surroundings for shelter. Maria instinctively grabbed the Priest’s arm, gripping it tightly for comfort. Her eyes looked out into the darkness, wondering what happened to the young men.
“We can’t stay here father,” the bartender replied. “And there’s no one coming to help us. You’re the only semblance of law and order in this town.”
The Priest turned to the bartender with a reproving stare.
“And what would you have me do? Abandon the people? Run?”
He couldn’t run. But he was one man. And the bits of lights were approaching at greater speed. The wind carried echoes of the gun blasts, which rattled the dead tree’s branches — a sound loud enough to wake the dead. He paused his mind. What must I do, he prayed. He felt Maria grip his arm even tighter.
“There are no police Father,” she hopelessly whispered.
The Priest paternally patted Maria’s hand, which loosened her grip. The despair slunk back to the depths of her soul as she gazed into his assured face. He noticed a tear on her cheek and wiped it away with his hand.
“Despair is the greatest sin. Trust in Him.”
Within the darkness, the Priest detected another form approaching, practically on the doorsteps of San Juan Diego. There were no lights illuminating the mysterious shape, which looked bulky. A force within the Priest convinced him to greet it. He sensed a pain, like it was a creature critically wounded during a hunt, futilely moving to stay alive. Then he saw them — those innocent eyes. It was Francisco carrying José. The latter was unconscious and bloodied. The former struggled. His energy depleted.
The Priest rushed over to the young men, followed by Maria and the bartender. Francisco collapsed face down in the dirt, gasping for air. The Priest rolled Francisco over, propping him upright. The young man aged since he last saw him, the Priest thought.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I think he’s dying,” Francisco labored.
Without a word, the Priest picked up José and brought him into the rectory bedroom. Maria and the bartender carried Francisco into the living room. She checked Francisco’s body for injuries — finding glass shard fragments in his back.
“Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy,” Maria said as she rushed to the kitchen for a bowl of water and towels. “You’ll have to wait.”
She ran into the bedroom, examining José. She could see he lost a lot of blood, but the bullet was not lodged in his shoulder. She pressed the towels on the wound.
“If you have any vodka, get it quick! We need to clean the wound,” Maria ordered the bartender. He dashed out of the rectory. The Priest marveled at her swift commanding ability, as though she were in a field hospital. He left her to care for José, while he tended to Francisco. The young man was hunched over, resisting the urge to sit upright. His back felt ablaze.
The Priest knelt in front of Francisco, but the boy couldn’t look the man in the eye. Francisco knew he failed. He burrowed his face into his arms.
“You told me not to go. I wish I listened,” Francisco regretfully said.
The Priest remained silent for a few moments. He took one of the few remaining towels and soaked it in water. With a pair of tweezers, the Priest began removing bits of glass, dropping them into a cup. Francisco flinched with every move. He buried his head even deeper.
“What happened?”
The Priest’s voice was tender to Francisco. He couldn’t believe it. He deserved no tenderness. No care. He only wished José would live to realize their erroneous lifestyle, and escape San Juan Diego with their abuela.
“Just let me die, Father,” Francisco said with a weightless breath.
The Priest continued removing shards, ignoring Francisco’s request. He could see a scared young man scorched from battle. Francisco’s muscles constricted every time his tweezers moved closers, as if resisting any assistance.
“What about Lobo?” he asked.
Francisco was a dead man, yet the angst against the Church dominated his spirit. How could he be truthful or even speak with this man — what good had any priest done for San Juan Diego in the past? All the anxiety scarred his stomach. But if Lobo found him, he would be executed like Rafael. Like Antonio. What hope was there? What good could be done now? However, his brother was still alive. He had to fight. He then asked himself, why did I come here seeking his help in the first place? There is something different about this stranger. He had to relent and trust the Priest.
“He killed the Caballeros. José was hit in the firefight. We escaped in my cousin’s Jeep which broke down not too far from the main road. I know they’re following us. And Lobo has killed for less. And I had no where else to go Father.”
The word ‘Father’ rang in his ears. It was a word he never uttered, at least not since his own father passed away. In the meantime, the bartender burst into the rectory with a bottle of vodka. He gave it to Maria, who administered some into the wound. Francisco noticed his brother’s silence. His worst fear nearly realized.
“Father, is my brother going to die?” he said on the verge of weeping.
The Priest turned to the bedroom. He watched Maria delicately tend to José, whose chest subtlety rose and fell.
“He’s in capable hands for now,” as he plucked another shard from the young man’s back. Maria instructed the bartender to continue pressuring the wound, as she rushed to the Priest.
“I’ve done all I can do here. We have to bring him to a hospital.”
“Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“About 20 to 30 miles, padre,” yelled the bartender from the bedroom. “I can drive him, but we have to move fast.”
With Lobo and the rest of the Perros barreling toward San Juan Diego, the Priest knew he couldn’t accompany the patients — that wasn’t his mission. He had to stay. The cartel would savagely search for Francisco and José, and, in bloodthirsty rage, kill them — or anyone in their path. The young men, Maria, the bartender and the other townsfolk would need time to escape or hide. He couldn’t fail them. He couldn’t fail the young men. And he had to see him. He had to see Lobo face-to-face.
“Drive him out of here. Maria, I suggest also going with him.”
“But what about you Father?” Maria worriedly asked.
“Don’t worry about me, just get to safety. I have to make a phone call.”
“But padre, the law won’t come. They won’t make it in time to protect you or the town,” the bartender responded.
“The cartel doesn’t scare me. This town is not theirs.”
The Priest gave the tweezers to Maria. The young girl continued the Priest’s work, removing shards from Francisco’s back. His smooth skin was scraped and bruised, covered in dried blood. She knew he would need stitches as well.
“Boys. Foolish boys! Do you want to get killed?”
Francisco lifted his head, feeling her soft, careful hands. He couldn’t retort. She was right. He was foolish. Her spirit electrified his own. She rung out a towel and knelt in front of Francisco. Those innocent eyes — hardened, yet sad — once again enraptured her. Her initial frustration diminished into pity as she wiped his face.
“Thank you for helping my brother,” he said in a low, remorseful voice.
“I’m just doing what anyone would do,” she modestly said.
The Priest smirked forlornly at Maria and Francisco, although they didn’t see it. In that brief moment, he felt isolated. Would he ever witness the pair reach their potential? Francisco and Maria were youthful, spirited. But they’ve seen enough hardships — they deserve a chance at life. Watching them grow was not his path. As he dialed the phone, he glanced at the chipped statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the kitchen counter. Trust, he prayed.
XX
Father Miguel was orchestrating the final security preparations for the Holy Father’s apostolic visit in the Mexico City cathedral. He led a group of law enforcement down the nave, showing to areas where dignitaries and laymen would be seated, as well as vantage points for camera crews.
“We expect several thousands for the opening Mass, just inside the cathedral. The President and his family as well, will be seated in this pew, in case if, God forbid, something happens, they can quickly evacuate out the door to the cathedral offices.”
Echoing against the stone pillars, he heard anxious footsteps race toward him. They belonged to a seminarian, who had a pained appearance. Probably a frivolous question, he thought.
“Father Miguel!”
“Can it wait? I’m sorry, I’m a little busy with the security here. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“But Father —”
“A minute.”
Father Miguel turned back to the officers, and proceeded with his instructions for the Holy Father’s Mass. Even as he walked away, he felt the young man’s presence lingering in the aisle. When he decided to look back, he saw the visibly troubled state of the seminarian — who swayed in place, affixed to his panicked position. He rubbed his hands. His eyes were dilated, while his jaw clenched with immense force. Patience, Father Miguel thought. Best to tend to his needs first.
“What’s the issue? Something with the preparations,” Father Miguel said when approaching the seminarian.
“No Father, it’s a call from San Juan Diego.”
Father Miguel stopped in his tracks. The whole cathedral seemed to quake, as if the roof would collapse on him. His friend was in trouble — it’s the only reason why he’d call now. He rushed back to the officers, excusing himself, and proceeded to follow the seminarian to the phone. His hand trembled as he picked up the receiver.
“What’s the matter? Are you in trouble?”
The Priest’s voice broke over a static line. The anticipation only intensified Father Miguel’s fear.
“I don’t have much time. The cartel is coming. Can you alert any law enforcement to San Juan Diego?”
“Can you get yourself out of there?”
“I’m staying to give the people more time to escape.”
The deepest pit in Father Miguel’s spirit caved in.
“Padre, but that’s suicide. You have to get out.”
“This town already had a priest that fled, and look where that got them. I won’t abandon my people to be slaughtered. Now can you please send anyone to help?”
The Holy Father’s preparations swirled in his mind. Was there anyone he could spare without sacrificing security for the opening Mass? However, his friend was in trouble — on a road to martyrdom. He looked at the seminarian, who swayed at the threshold of his office. The young man still appeared anxious. He reminded Father Miguel of the Priest when the latter entered seminary — an unsure, raw, yet dedicated man. He couldn’t abandon his friend to die. He scanned his adorned office, and imagined the destitution in San Juan Diego. This man is more of a priest than I’ll ever be, he thought.
“I’m not sure who we can spare, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you, Miguel,” the Priest said through the static.
“Be careful. God keep you,” Father Miguel tearfully said.
The line disconnected. With his sleeves, Father Miguel wiped his eyes while hanging the receiver. Was this the last time I’ll hear his voice, he wondered. The seminarian continued swaying.
“Son.”
The seminarian stopped moving, firmly standing at attention.
“Please get the officers in here, quickly!”
XXI
The Priest gingerly placed José in the backseat of the bartender’s truck. He could only hear the roaring engines and gun blasts approaching. Maria carried Francisco, who leaned on her — he couldn’t stand on his own. The wounds depleted his strength.
“You have to go now!” the Priest commanded.
“We can’t leave you behind,” Maria said, her eyes pleading for the Priest to accompany them.
“There’s no time to argue Maria. You have to be strong — for them,” he responded, motioning to José and Francisco, who teetered in and out of consciousness. Francisco hallucinated, seeing his abuela crying at the foot of her bed. The sound pounded his mind like storm waves on the shore. He feared the cartel would surely use her as bait.
“Wait, what about my abuela?”
“Can we pick her up?” Maria asked.
“It’s too far out of the way from the hospital,” the bartender responded as he revved the engine. The Priest noticed Francisco panicking, motioning to throw himself out of the truck. He put his hand out, forcing the young man to remain seated.
“Nothing will happen to her. I promise.”
“But Father, I have to go. She’s in danger and it’s all my fault.”
The engine roars rang louder in the Priest’s ears. But the pain in Francisco’s eyes moved him almost to tears, yet he dammed them — he had to be strong. He tenderly pushed Francisco back into his seat, who acquiesced to the Priest’s request.
“I’ll do what I can here. Help your brother.”
As the Priest backed away into the main street, Francisco knew the man was on a fatal path. This would be the last time he’d see him, he thought. The Priest was only a stranger a few days before, but, somehow, he did more for José and his abuela than anyone he had ever known. Just who was he? What moved him, he wondered. Francisco buried his head into his chest. Meanwhile, Maria leaned out the window to grab the Priest’s cassock once more, but failed to do so — as he was out of reach.
“God bless you,” Maria shouted over the truck’s engine.
The truck peeled away from the church and down the main stretch of town. The Priest watched the clouds of dust whirl over San Juan Diego, which were thick enough to cloak the truck’s taillights. Now to warn the others. Like the wind, he rushed inside the church and rang the bell — whose echo chimed into every window, alley and crevice of the town. The bell drowned the sound of the incoming swarm. He noticed lights turning on and the few remaining folks peeking out their apartments. The older, petite woman shuffled onto the road. Even from a distance, the Priest could see the worry in her eyes.
Remain composed, he prayed.
As the Priest walked onto the main road, the older woman saw the dirt clouds swirl around him — yet nothing clung to his cassock — and the dim moonlight silhouetted him, as if it moved with his steps. He stood there defiant. Unafraid. Composed. The bell’s chime began to diminish. The swarm was louder than ever.
“The cartel is coming,” the Priest said in a controlled voice. “They are looking for some deserters. They will tear this town apart until they find them. You must hide or leave.”
At the warning, the older woman slunk back into her apartment, prepared to hide, but not before she saw another cloud of dust — like a sandstorm — engulfing the outskirts of town. Before locking her door, she caught a last glimpse of the Priest calmly entering the church, propping the doors open. God protect him, she prayed.
With heavy steps, the Priest breathed deeply. He quieted his mind, silencing the buzzing hive. There was nothing else before him, except for the crucified Jesus. Its shadow cascaded over the altar and the Priest. He knelt before it, gazing at the red drippings underneath the wooden eyes. They darkened. Were they from anguish or the crown of thorns?
There he prayed. The engines howled as they circled in front of the church, but it did not disturb him.