Jackie turned to him and crossed her arms. “I think we’ll need more than a prayer, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
𓂓
As the evening approached, Dewey sat on the bed in his holding cell, head drooped, face drawn. How had it come to this? The events of the day had been sobering to say the least. One minute, he was enjoying the high life with plenty of weed, any other drug he wanted, and plenty of extra cash for the ‘gentlemen’s’ club. Now, he was trapped in a nightmare he never thought he would be a part of, likely facing an ugly death while waiting in a cell at Little Guantanamo. Everyone he knew in ABCs’ network spoke of it as a place of horrors. He had taken these accounts and descriptions with a grain of salt. Just like many people attributed The Alphabet King’s ability to sway legal proceedings to an exaggerated influence on local officials, so he assumed the stories coming out of Little Guantanamo had been similarly inflated. Now he knew. He’d been dead wrong.
Earlier, he heard the thunderous roar of The Alphabet King as he stormed down the hallway, screaming, “Liar!” The doors and windows seemed to rattle as he passed. Dewey couldn’t help but stare out the window as he stomped by. He had caught a glimpse of a monster possessed with absolute fury, a red tinge leaking from the seams around his eyes. He had jumped when he heard the door to John’s holding cell get kicked open, the frame coming apart in a sick splintering sound as if the bones of the room had been broken. John’s pleas were clearly audible as he begged his last words, “No, no, NOOOO!” The screams were chilling as he heard John’s voice descend into muffled cries. The sounds of ABCs’ punches began as sharp sick wet blows landing on a cowering victim, each followed by an inhumane grunt. Dewey didn’t try to count how many as the sharp blows faded to dull thuds and the grunting ceased.
Dewey feared he would be next, knew it in his bones. He had backed into the corner of his room, legs kicking on the bed as he sought the last few millimeters of distance from the door. He’d heard footsteps coming out of the cell next door and couldn’t bring himself to look up through the small window for a glimpse. Hearing the labored breathing of a man possessed by his anger, Dewey’s gaze cast down to the gap at the bottom of his door and saw shadows move by without stopping. The heavy footsteps seemed to move the shades in slow motion, fading as they progressed down the hall and away from that afternoon’s violent display.
Had ABCs forgotten about him? Why hadn’t he said anything? Questions like these raced through Dewey’s mind as he did his best to unfold from his cringing pose in the corner. “Gawd, I need a cigarette,” he whispered to himself. Then the horror returned when he heard boots marching in unison down the hall. He managed enough courage to look through the small window and saw two figures pass quickly by, both in desert camo, matching caps, and sunglasses. Dewey heard curses of disgust, then thick plastic being unfolded. Wordlessly, they had rolled John’s lifeless form onto what sounded like a tarp, and then dragged him up the hallway. The plastic of the tarp made a gruesome scratching sound as it slid on the concrete floor. The muffled curses of the men in camo could be heard as they passed Dewey’s door. The scratching lasted an unnerving amount of time as it faded slowly down the hall, the men laboring to drag the heavy lifeless form.
Dewey lowered himself down from the corner and sat on the edge of the bed in despair, his fate sealed. He would certainly be next. Excruciatingly long minutes passed until he heard the motor of an SUV start and the gear driven sound of the vehicle backing out of the courtyard. As it sped off, he heard the hatch pop on another SUV, men grunting as they loaded up the tarped mass that had been John. The hatch slammed shut and the vehicle backed out of the courtyard, probably heading to an unmarked burial ground for the victims of Little Guantanamo.
Dewey got up and paced around his holding cell. Maybe they’d left him alone. Maybe he could risk a cigarette. The pack appeared in his hand, a motion of habit. He stared at it longingly, then slowly reached for one, but the sound of a door, more footsteps, and another ominous sliding scraping sound startled him. They were coming back. I’m dead. Screw it. If I’m going down, then I’m having one last smoke. He lit the long slim tube of tobacco and sucked in deeply, his eyes closing in a surge of pleasure and relief. When the dragging-scraping sound reached his door, he sat on the bed to take another pull. But the sound passed his room and to the next, then he understood as he heard the distinctive sound of water on concrete. He looked at the grate in the floor of his room wondering how much of his life’s blood would be washed down it when his time came.
The cleanup completed, the scraping sound of a dragged hose followed that of the nozzle clinking against the wall as the guard made his way back up the hall. Then the sounds paused at his door.
Dewey looked up at the window to see a guard staring back through the same sunglasses they all wore. Why is he wearing them inside?
Then the guard pounded on the door a few times. “No smoking in here.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Dewey replied.
“I don’t care. If he comes back and smells smoke, he will take the pack and shove it down your throat until you choke to death. Not to mention what he’ll do to me.”
“O-okay,” Dewey stammered. He quickly stubbed it out on his shoe and pushed the butt into the grate as the guard resumed dragging the hose.
Dewey paced the room for a while as the invigorating buzz from the nicotine fired in his mind. How am I going to survive this? Since being hauled out of ABCs’ warehouse, he had not considered the possibility of survival. First things first, he needed to take a leak, now. No one had told him what to do. Should I just go into the grate? Wait...
He didn’t remember the door being locked when they shoved him in. Energized by the thought, he walked up to the door and tried it. The door moved slightly as he tried to swing it inward but seemed to be stuck in the frame. He set his feet and gave it a pull and the door popped open so quickly, it swung on the hinge and knocked him in the side of his head. Dewey cursed and rubbed his noggin before looking tentatively out into the hallway. Empty.
He moved out of the cell and walked up to the end of the long hall to another closed door. His gaze drifted to the windows on his left as he passed them. A rundown basketball court, a few metal trash cans, the same windows and wall running down the other side. A gap at the end. Ohhh, a U-shaped building. For a moment, he wondered what might be on the other side and shuddered at the thought. He approached the door and stopped to look through the small rectangular window. An armed guard stood sentry just outside. He risked a knock and the guard’s head flicked around as he brought the weapon up to point it at the source of the sharp sound of boney knuckles on metal. Dewey stepped back, hands raised, “I gotta take a leak.” The guard hesitated, then reached up and turned the bolt lock, releasing the door. He waved Dewey through and motioned his head toward the bathroom. “Make it quick.”
As Dewey made his way, he risked a glance around the main entrance into the building. Nothing much. Another armed guard on the other side watched the door leading down the other hall. Another room in the far corner that looked like a small break room. “No way out,” he mumbled as he passed out of sight of the guard and into the bathroom.
𓂓
Armando stood before the Shaman, still dressed in his new outfit. The off-white jacket and pants now dirty from his efforts and travels.
“So, poco hefe, in a fit of rage, you just took these women?!” the Shaman yelled, clearly incensed by his pupil’s audacity.
“They are hidden in one of our houses for now, but we need to move soon,” Armando said.
The Shaman paced back and forth. He pointed a finger and shouted, “You have put our plans in jeopardy!”
“Our plans are still going to unfold, we just need to start sooner.”
The Shaman looked at him doubtfully. “You are not ready. You have more to learn. You need to develop your tactical skills, basic military training, hand-to-hand combat—”
Armando scoffed. “Forget all that for now. I have what I need. It is time.”
“You do not understand, poco hefe. America is complex. You need more skills to survive long-term there. You need to develop your strategic instincts. You need to hone your fighting ability.”
“I defeated the knife cartel,” Armando said.
“Those men were drunken clowns compared to the average American. You do not understand. Like many other nations, the Americans, they rose up against oppressors and won their freedom. There, and worldwide, resides an undeniable spirit among such nations.”
“I will deny this American spirit,” Armando snarled.
“This spirit... It has been passed down through the generations—an energy you do not comprehend until you experience it,” the Shaman said.
“You speak as if you admire them.” Armando looked incensed. “You are going to talk of the Americans like this? The same ones who have the most police yet more crime than anywhere else in the world a-a-and...” Armando looked around the dwelling, searching his mind for the statistics he had come to know so well. “With... with prisons overflowing like no place else? The same Americans who watch more TV than anyone else? The same country that has the most illegal drug users aannnnd,“ Armando dragged out the word with a sneer, making a line in the air with his finger, “the most prescription drug users than anywhere else?”
The Shaman did not argue.
“Almost all pornography is made there! Like, 90-something-percent. Ole-chingar! They need women and drugs and someone with enough guts to provide these things,” Armando pounded his chest. “Without fear of this... American spirit you speak so highly of.” His face twisted into a derisive look. “It is a fallen land and it will be a fertile playground for me.” Armando seized the Ouija board and held it out between them. “As long as I have this, I will not fail.”
Although it seemed like the boy had come apart, the Shaman sensed a coolness that reassured him.
Armando kept going. “I met with the leader of the Scorpion Cartel before I came here. We agree. The border passage and tunnels have been poorly run for too long. He has been grooming me for this. He is ready for me to take over.”
“I’m sure he is. You will make him even more wealthy. But you have been neglecting your practice with me.”
“I am ready,” Armando insisted. “I am ready to trap my demon.”
“This is what I mean,” the Shaman replied. “You are NOT trapping a demon. You are trapping an energetic entity from the Ocean of Tar within the mythological construct of a demon. It is not a physical...”
“I know. I know. I understand. Named demons like boogeymen are human myths. Constructs are given strength through storytelling and belief. We are freeing the remnant energy of one of the condemned, which can be channeled through La Luz Mala to actualize the demonic construct of the pishtaco. You’ve explained all this a hundred times already. I’m just... We need to hurry,” Armando pleaded.
