Muerte Con Carne (12 page)

“He likes you.” The voice came from Marta’s right, and she turned, saw the man from the taco trailer, shirtless, his torso covered with a tattooed ribcage and spinal cord. Black ink depictions of his humerus, radius, and ulna bones ran the length of both arms. He was knelt over the Mexican family that she’d met at the border, his fist clutching a fistful of the woman’s hair. The child lay in a crumpled heap beside him, and the woman had her eyes pinned on her son. “Gustavo is a good boy, but always been shy around pretty girls.”

The pregnant woman waddled in from another room, her stomach perfectly round and too big for her shirt to cover. The belly button stuck out like a brown marble, surrounded by maroon stretch marks. When she saw her brother knelt there beside the woman, she paused, squinted and scowled as she ran her palms over her bulge.

The Mexican man looked like he’d been beaten, and he continued to beg through his blood encrusted lips as he watched the taco trailer man sniff the woman’s neck. His left eye was swollen, purple, bloody tears swimming down his cheeks. His nose and mouth were busted up and painted with blood, and every time he whimpered or spoke, blood would mist from his lips.

“What…what are you people doing? What the hell is this?” Marta let her eyes dart around the room and took in the faces of the family. All Hispanic. The big one in the mask seemed to be retarded or mentally ill in some way, and from the looks of him he was probably the oldest. The man and woman from the taco trailer were pretty close to the same age, maybe mid-thirties or so. The boy smiling at her sitting in front of the ancient old woman couldn’t have been more than twelve.

“Carne,” the old woman said. Her tired eyes landed on the beaten man, stayed there for a moment. “Carne para mi familia.”

“What is your name?” the taco man said, dropping the woman back to the floor, stepping over her, and kneeling beside Marta. He grabbed the hair at the back of her head, twisted it, pulled her face so close to his she could smell his breath. “Tell me your name.”

“M-marta…please.”

“Marta. I like that.” He dropped her, strutted toward the old woman who continued to steadily rock in her chair. “I’m Cristobal. Remember me, bonita? Did you like Mamá's menudo? The best, right?” He pointed at the beaten Mexican man who had crawled his way beside his wife. The woman now cradled her child, the small scrawny boy coughing and whining. “Just wait til you try this one. They always taste better when they got family to worry about.”

Marta shook her head as the reality of what Cristobal was telling her set in. She remembered the succulent tripas, how perfect and delicious they were. The grease from the barbacoa tacos dribbling down her chin as she gorged herself on the meat. Her stomach gurgled and the sting of acid squirted from her throat.

“What’s the problem, Marta? I know you loved Mamá's cooking. Everybody loves Mamá's cooking. Now, bonita, you’ll get all you can eat.” He chuckled, bent at the knees to be face-level with the old woman, leaned over and kissed her cheek. The woman pressed the side of her face into Cristobal’s lips, her eyes still on the Mexican man. “This is Mamá. You already met mi hermano. Gustavo? Say hi.” He patted the big man’s masked face, and the wrestler lifted his head from Mamá's shoulder, waved at Marta. “Wow, he really likes you, Marta. I can tell.”

Marta jumped to her feet and sprinted toward the door. She knew where the truck was, and she could only hope that for some reason Cristobal had left the keys in it. If not, she would just run, run as fast and long as she could.

Rapid footsteps followed her to the door, and just as she grabbed the knob, the little boy with the silver grin cocked back and kicked her in the shin. He made a hissing sound, giggled, kicked her again.

Marta lifted her hand to slap him, hit him, rake her nails across his eyes, whatever she had to do to get him out of her way. From the corner of her vision, she saw Gustavo jump to his feet. The floor shook as he roared and stomped toward her.

Marta caught another kick to the leg just before shoving the boy out of the way, and she tried to swing the door open. Had it cracked, her fingers wrapped around the edge, but it was slammed shut before she could throw it open. Her fingers were smashed between the door and the doorframe, mashed tight into the thin crevice.

The pain exploded into her fingertips, rode up her hand and into her wrist. A series of screams and grunts oozed from her mouth as she tried to jerk her hand free, but the door had clicked shut and she was stuck. Blood trickled down the wood in crooked lines. Her fingers throbbed, but she continued to yank on them, trying desperately to free herself.

A massive hand shot forward and wrapped around her throat, squeezed until the pressure forced her bleeding tongue out of her mouth. Gustavo leaned his face toward hers, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her neck. His breath was humid, thick like steam.

“Gustavo might have a crush on you, bonita” Cristobal said from across the room. “But he’s very protective of his family.”

The little boy kicked her again at the same spot on her shin, and this one hurt, sent tremors of agony up and down her leg. Gustavo lifted her by her throat. When her feet left the ground, his grip tightened, and she thought her head was going to tear free. He lifted her up and up until her trapped fingers wouldn’t let him anymore. The wrestler gripped her wrist with the hand that wasn’t choking the life out of her, and yanked. Bones snapped, flesh tore, peeled off the top and bottom of her fingers, but her hand still held. Gustavo yanked again, then again and again until her hand ripped free, dripping with blood. Tattered ribbons of flesh hung down like raw bacon.

Marta wanted to scream at the agony sizzling in her hand, but barely held onto consciousness. She thought she heard voices, but it was dwarfed and drowned out by the throbbing in her head. Then she was dropped, her body hitting the floor like a broken mannequin. The side of her face smacked the floor, but she sucked at the air in quick, deep gasps. Her mouth tasted like blood and bile, but the oxygen was sweet, and she concentrated on catching her breath as the rest of her body screamed with pain.

Black spots and stars sparkled at the edges of her vision, and then the boy’s face was inches from hers, that same grin plastered there. Gustavo stood over her, his chest heaving as he glared at her, muscles tight with bulging veins worming across them.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Marta. But you try that shit again, and we’ll let Gustavo take you to the ring.” Cristobal stepped between the boy and Marta, messed the boy’s hair. “This is Rogelio. Mi primito. If I was you, bonita, I wouldn’t lift your hand to him again.”

Marta wept as she continued to breathe, the fingers of her good hand shaking as she lightly rubbed her aching neck. She couldn’t move the other hand, attempted to bend her fingers only to be greeted by twisting anguish.

“And that’s my sister Alma over there.” He pointed to the pregnant woman who was now standing beside Mamá. The old woman appeared to have dozed off, though she continued to rock in the large wooden chair.

Marta lifted her face off the floor, hugged her knees as she stared up into the faces of her captors. “Please. P-please don’t kill me. Don’t…don’t k-kill me.”

Gustavo picked up Rogelio, lifted him over his head, and placed him on his shoulders. The boy giggled.

“Kill you?” Cristobal said. “You’re family now, Marta.”

***

Marta must have fainted because when she opened her eyes, she was in a different room than she remembered. Cristobal had been standing over her, and the giant masked man was twirling in place behind him, making the child on his shoulder laugh and laugh. The Mexican family she had met at the border had been huddled together across the living room of the house, crying and mumbling things to one another between their sobs.

You’re family now, Marta.

Those were the last words she remembered hearing. But now she lay on a bed, her face pointed toward a wall. For a brief moment, she thought the entire thing was some terrible nightmare, that she was in her motel room, that Felix was in the room just beside her.

The smell of rot brought her back to reality. Then the pain in her hand, hot and searing, threw her into a sitting position. She couldn’t move it, her first and third fingers crooked and misshapen. The chewed up, exposed meat throbbed in rhythm with her pounding heart. She wept as she pressed the strips of skin back over the exposed muscle of her hand and fingers, every touch like fire against her raw nerves. Felix’s ring shone from the ring finger of her good hand, and a painful whimper sputtered from her mouth. She tried to swallow to dampen her aching throat, but winced at the scraping pain.

I’m so sorry, Felix.

She put the ring to her lips as she wept, wanting nothing more than to melt into Felix’s arms, tell him how she truly felt. The look on his face after she rejected him, yelled at him, burned its way into her thoughts.

Every breath she took filled her head with the essence of putrid meat. Flies buzzed through the air, a few landing on her body, scuttling across her sweat-coated skin. They suckled at their tiny legs, twitched their wings.

The bed she lay on was big, maybe a California King. The sheets were a dark blue, covered with white stains that she could only hope were sweat and drool. Sitting just in front of the bed on a short wooden desk was a television-an old one with dials and two antennae sticking out the back of it. The screen was static, the only light source in the windowless, dark room. White noise crackled out of its small speakers as chaotic light danced across the surface of everything. A VCR sat on top of the TV, a tape sticking out of it like a short, rectangular black tongue.

The hum of flies vibrated the air, and Marta scooted across the bed and squinted in the dim light once she saw what appeared to be attracting them. Masks. Lucha Libre, but all different colors and designs. Three long shelves on the wall across the room lined up with the masks, all pulled over some kind of armature. The two top shelves were full, but the bottom one still had space for more.

Mounted above the shelves was a gold belt. Like a championship belt of some kind, but Marta could tell it was homemade, misshapen. Pieces of jewelry appeared to be melted to its surface, but by an amateur hand. Ring loops and watch faces stood out, gold chain necklaces and bracelets hung from it.

The flies orbited the shelves, scurried over the masks, in and out of the eye, nose, and mouth holes. The reflective glitter on the masks and the iridescent bodies of the flies sparkled.

Marta scooted herself off the bed, careful to keep her hand held steady. She approached the wall, but didn’t make it further than a couple of steps. The smell only intensified, and she knew right away why the flies were magnets to the masks. There were no armatures beneath them. She thought about the skulls in the ring outside, with wads of gray flesh clinging to them. Even from where she stood she could see the teeth through the mouth holes, the blackened, dried out flesh through the eye holes. Maggots thrashed from within, dropped out of the mask holes like wiggling mucus.

Marta knew that it was the meat from these dead men that was being served from the trailer. The giant son of a bitch with the Lucha Libre mask played with them before he killed them, and the heads were his prize. She eyed the gold belt and shook her head when she realized where all the gold was coming from.
Sick fuck.

She couldn’t help but wonder which of these men she had eaten the other day. Whose meat had she savored, whose grease she had licked up. Thinking about chewing the soft, tender meat filled her mouth with the memory of its taste, the juicy succulence, and she leaned over and vomited onto the bed. Another stream spewed forth, added to the pile on the mattress. Flies discovered the new treat and dove into it, suckling and buzzing happily, appreciative of the offering.

She spat, wiped her mouth with her shirt sleeve. She had to breathe deep to keep from puking again, and she leaned against the edge of the bed and took another long look at the bedroom.

Beside the shelves were bookcases, different sizes and colors, not one matching another. Each bookcase was jammed full of what looked like VHS tapes. There must have been hundreds of them, all lined up snug against each other, every space on the bookshelves stuffed full.

They’re not going to kill me…they’re going to keep me here.

The bedroom door stood to her left, and Marta held her tattered hand to her chest as she sprinted toward it. The door flew open and Marta screamed, her feet sliding out from under her. She landed on her ass and hissed at the igniting pain in her hand.

Gustavo shuffled in, shut the door softly behind him. At first, she could only see his massive frame, but as he stepped into the room and the frenzied light from the TV hit him, Marta saw his face, his long teeth, and she whimpered, shook her head. He still wore the mask, the spandex, the boots. Something dark speckled his bare, hairy chest-blood she figured-and he took slow, tentative steps toward his bed, couldn’t look at Marta without twitching nervously.

The scream had burned her already raw esophagus, and she tried to speak, tried to beg this massive man for mercy, but only a whispery, gurgly sound came out. She rubbed her throat, grimaced and squinted.

Gustavo stepped toward her and she jumped to her feet, scrambled backward and onto the bed. Her hands sunk into the puddle of vomit there, and she shrieked as the acidic mush drenched her mauled hand, soaked into the open and torn flesh. Her throat felt like it had been torn out but she screamed again and fell backward off the bed. The back of her head thumped the floor in the same tender spot she’d hit earlier after being tossed from Gustavo’s shoulder. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, but unconsciousness only teased her, and she remained awake and writhing as her head thumped. Another explosion of pain boiled over her hand, but she held back the scream to spare her throat the agony.

Gustavo gasped, stomped toward Marta at a run. It felt like the entire room shook. The VHS tapes rattled together. She was sure the giant wrestler was coming to punish her again, maybe kill her this time. And she hoped he would, wanted the nightmare to end.