Authors: Shane McKenzie
Marta kept her hand behind her back, fighting the urge to jab her thumb into Cristobal’s eye. He lifted his face toward hers, and she turned her head. His nose pressed against her neck and he nuzzled for a moment before sniffing long and hard. When he stood, his erection tented his pants, and he checked over his shoulder to make sure Gustavo wasn’t looking before he pushed the bulge into Marta’s face, rubbed it over her cheek as if using it to apply makeup.
“Me and you, bonita. That’s how it’s gonna be.” He kissed her forehead before trudging toward the old woman. He held her by the elbow as he led her across the yard and back toward the house.
Mamá smiled, her pale tongue sliding across chapped lips as she eyed Gustavo cleaning the meat. “Bueno,” she said. “Encuentra a tu padre. Dile qué la cena estará lista pronto.”
“Si, Mamá. Se lo dire,” Cristobal said as he rubbed her back in a circular motion with his free hand. Rogelio trailed behind, carrying Carlos on his back. He spun in circles, giggled as he went, as if he were only giving his new friend a piggyback ride. The bloody needle protruded from his mouth like a toothpick and he disappeared into the house.
Marta swung her gaze toward Gustavo who now ran his fingertips over the smooth, pink flesh of the carcass. A long serrated blade was pulled from the belt and Gustavo dropped to his knees, lifted the upside-down body by the space between the shoulder blades, cut into the neck and sawed his way around.
Francisca began to rock her body, her head shaking as if trying to ward off a cloud of gnats. But she still made no sound. Her mouth worked up and down, but nothing came out. Marta wondered if the woman had screamed her voice away.
With Gustavo concentrating on his task, Marta began working her arm free. Her hand throbbed, and when she tried to flex her fingers, the bolts of pain nearly made her shout, but she held it to a light whimper. She winced at the jingling sound the chains made as she wiggled her arm, but there was no response from Gustavo.
The chain was still tight, but she was able to lift her shoulder high enough for her arm to pull free of another row of metal links. She jerked her forearm, hoping to free it completely, but it still held, her elbow catching the chain. When she straightened the elbow she didn’t have enough leverage to pull the arm out, so she took deep breaths through her nostrils and strained her jaw as she bent the elbow and pulled. The loose flesh on her elbow grinded against the metal links, and Marta ignored the pain exploding there as she pulled harder, hoping the blood would make it slippery enough to pull out. The skin tore, and as she pulled harder, it tore more. Blood oozed, warm trickles running down her forearm.
And then the arm was out. A celebratory gasp sputtered from her lips when her arm swung to her lap. She looked at her hand, barely recognized it as her own. She could wiggle her thumb, but the other four fingers were broken, the flesh flayed from the tops of them. The middle and ring finger were both missing nails and the meat on the underside of the fingers was swollen and purple.
Her arm was freckled with needle holes, covered in blood.
“Francisca, you’re in for a treat. Your husband has never been so delicious, I promise you that.”
Marta flinched, quickly threw her arm back behind her. She slowly turned her eyes toward Cristobal, scared to see the look on his face.
But the man had his attention on Francisca, held her head up by the hair and had it aimed toward Gustavo who held the severed head by the gore ribbons in the neck stump. He bounced it a few times, then placed it on the ring’s mat. The knife was plunged into the corpse’s groin, pulled down across the stomach and chest until it reached the neck. Gustavo sawed at the breastbone, pulling the ribs apart as he went.
Marta’s gorge began to rise. Acid stung the back of her throat and her eyes watered, and when the entrails spilled out and plopped into the tub, she turned her head and held her breath to keep the vomit from streamlining.
Cristobal lifted the hysterical, silent woman and marched her back into the house, chair and all.
The wet, slippery sounds continued to her left, and Marta tried not to imagine what Gustavo was doing now.
Gravel crunched as footsteps grew closer and closer to her. She turned her head to find Gustavo towering over her, that goofy smile still on his face. His rubber apron was covered and dripping with blood, his hands and arms painted red up to the elbow. A rank, meaty scent swirled off of him.
He got that shy demeanor again, couldn’t look Marta in the eye. One hand rubbed at the back of his head as he leaned forward. He lowered his mouth toward hers and tried to pucker his thick lips but could hardly make it past the long teeth. He chuckled stupidly, circling his tongue to dampen his mouth. Humid breath hit Marta in waves. Blood dripped from his apron and sprinkled over her legs.
Marta tried to turn her head but couldn’t escape his kiss. Her mouth was instantly filled with the sour taste of gum disease and tartar and bad meat. He held his mouth against hers for a long time, drool oozing from his lips onto hers, dripping from her chin in long stretching strings.
“Carne,” he said when he pulled away from her. He pointed toward the dead, gutted man behind him. “Carne fresca.”
Marta let her head hang as she wept silently. Her mouth hung open in disgust, and she tried to spit the taste from her tongue but it remained thick and potent in her mouth.
Gustavo chuckled again, then wrapped his arms around her and lifted her, carried her into the house. He sat her at the table beside Francisca, the same spot as before. Rogelio and Carlos sat together across from her, Carlos’s head resting on Rogelio’s shoulder. His dead, whitening eyes were directed right at his mother. He looked almost alive, as if he were begging her to help him. But then his head slipped and his forehead smacked the edge of the table. Rogelio picked him back up, replaced his head to its previous position.
Francisca stared at her son, still shaking her head, muttering soundless words. The chains rattled as her body trembled.
Gustavo gave Marta another loving look before trudging back toward the yard.
Cristobal pounded on Alma’s door again. “Come on, Alma. That’s enough of this, okay? I’m sorry, all right?” Cristobal pounded harder when there was no response. “Alma, open the fucking door!”
Gustavo traipsed back into the house, Alejandro’s hollowed out body slung over one shoulder while he carried the tin tub with both hands. The meaty smell of blood and entrails clouded the room at once. Gustavo set the tub on the counter beside the sink where Mamá immediately dug her hands in. The carcass was laid out on the island and spread wide. Gustavo plucked the severed, masked head from the tub and set it beside the body, lifted the mask and tore it free, snapping the thread sewed to the neck skin. The tongue hung loose from the mouth like a wad of grape bubble gum and the eyes were half rolled to the back of the head.
A small knife was unsheathed from his belt and pressed it to the head’s left cheek, just under the eye. He sliced into the soft cheek meat, carving out a fat, circular chunk. The same was done to the other side until the molars were visible on either side of the head. He tapped his finger at the back of the skull where the black, curly hair stuck out in all directions.
Mamá had a tube of intestine in her wrinkled hands and ran a blade sideways across the surface. A translucent film scraped off, and once she finished with that, the old woman hooked one end onto the sink faucet and turned the water on. Black and brown substance oozed out of the intestine, and Marta turned away, felt her stomach heave.
Rogelio whispered into Carlos’s ear, snickered, then placed the dead boy’s mouth to his own ear as if being told a secret. He nodded, eyes sideways as he pretended to listen.
Cristobal descended the stairs, his face red and muscles tense. He rubbed his stomach as he approached the kitchen.
Mamá cut the intestine into pieces and dropped them into a boiling pot, and after Cristobal wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head, she pushed him away, hissed and waved her hands. “Pozole,” she said. “Traigame el pozole.”
Menudo
, Marta thought.
She’s making menudo.
Marta remembered how delicious the soup was, how perfectly tender the tripas were. She went lightheaded for a moment, twinkles of light sparkled at the corners of her vision.
“We’re out,” Cristobal said from the cupboard, his hands shuffling things around and his back muscles rippling as he searched. “No más pozole, Mamá.”
Gustavo had the body in nine pieces now. The arms and legs were each cut in half at the joint, and he worked at the shoulders on the torso, plopped the chunks of meat on the counter where Mamá scooped them into a large silver bowl.
“Ándale,” the old woman said. She pointed at the front door with her chin, then began sprinkling spices and oil into the bowl, kneading the fresh meat.
Cristobal glanced at Marta, furrowed his brow, bit his lip.
Marta turned away from him. Something banged from upstairs. Alma’s room. Another bang and what sounded like a frustrated cry.
“Come on, Mamá. Can I go in the morning?
¿
En la mañana? Early, I’ll go real early. Muy temprano.”
“Ahora, Cristobal. Tu padre ya no puede conducir, tú ya sabes eso.” Her voice was weak, as if every syllable was draining what energy she had left. Gustavo continued to cut the body into roasts and steaks and chops. He paused, knife midway through thigh meat, and stared at his brother.
Cristobal threw his hands in the air. “All right, I’m going. Shit…”
He marched to the desk where the monitors sat and grabbed his keys, shoved them into his jeans pocket. A plain white t-shirt was draped over the back of the chair, and he stretched it over his blood-spattered torso. Just before walking out, he shot Marta a glance, puckered his lips, winked at her.
The scent of boiling intestine coasted through the air, and Marta breathed through her mouth, stared at the dinner knife lying next to the plate in front of her.
***
Felix finally got the bleeding to stop. His shirt was soaked in blood and sweat. The car seat and steering wheel were inked in red too. The shotgun had found its way from the passenger seat to his hands, and he squeezed the metal as he studied the store.
That fucking old man knows something, he thought. He’s protecting those fucking bastards. He can tell me where to find them.
But Felix knew that if he walked into that store covered in blood and holding a shotgun, the old man wouldn’t hesitate to pull his hand cannon back out. A gun fight was the last thing he needed right now. If he got arrested, or killed, he was no good to Marta.
Be cool, stay calm.
But the more he thought about it, the urge to kick the door in and stick the barrel of the shotgun up that asshole’s nostril grew stronger.
Headlights.
Felix lowered in his seat, laid the gun flat in his lap. He twisted his hands over the steering wheel and held his breath as he watched the vehicle pull in and park in a space right in front of the store. If it was the sheriff, he could only hope the man didn’t see the Taurus tucked into the shadowy alley.
A car door slammed.
Felix peeked over the steering wheel. Not the sheriff. A pickup.
He sat up straight, almost jumped out of the car but took a deep breath and stayed in his seat. The shotgun felt ready to break in half in his tight grip.
That was the pickup he saw before. The one attached to the food trailer, he was sure of it.
How do you know for sure? You barely glanced at it.
He waited a few more minutes, had just about convinced himself to charge into the store when the man stepped out carrying a small plastic bag. He spat into the dirt, adjusted his crotch. His gold tooth gleamed from the blue light of the bug zapper mounted on the wall beside the store’s door.
You motherfucker.
Felix thought back to a night ago when he was lying in the dirt, his nose bleeding and cheek bruised, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the knife in the Mexican man’s hands. The hopeless feeling that had swept through him, made him feel pathetic, unmanly. He thought back to Marta’s whimpering, the panicked tone of her voice as he watched her on the laptop, this man’s face materializing on screen, smiling.
The man got into his truck, the red of his taillights bleeding over the dirt. Felix waited to the count of five, then eased the car out of the alley.
I’m coming Marta. Please be alive.
13
Marta’s mouth watered as the meat sizzled in the pan. Mamá stirred it with a wooden spoon, put the tip to her mouth and tasted. She frowned, added another dash of a red spice. Marta’s stomach gurgled, begged her to feed it. Every time she inhaled the succulent scent, her stomach roared in response.
Rogelio bounced in his seat, his lips shiny with saliva. Francisca stared wide-eyed at the table, her lips twitching every now and then, but remained still besides that.
Gustavo had made quick work of the cutting, and the body now lay in neat piles on the island. He had removed his knife belt and apron and circled his finger over the spot on the severed head, twirling the hair, tapping the cranium.
He held the head with both hands, thrust it toward the old woman. “
¿
Sesos?” he said. “Sesos.”
The woman chuckled, emptied the steaming contents of her pan into another silver bowl. She ran her hand over Gustavo’s cheek, pulled his massive head down to her, and kissed his forehead. “Si, mijo. Ándale.”
The giant chuckled, stomped his feet like a kid who was just told he could eat a bowl of ice cream. His tongue whipped from his mouth and basted his lips as he slammed the head, stump down, and opened a drawer. Pulled out a small mallet and what looked like a chisel.
Alma’s door opened. Marta glared at the second floor landing, squeezed her thumb tighter around the handle of the knife behind her back. When she had grabbed it, Rogelio had been whispering in Carlos’s ear, covering his face with his own hand to hide his secret. Gustavo and Mamá were busy in the kitchen, and Marta swiped it quick, replaced her hand behind her back.