Chapter 12
“Torture him,” said Joana as she tapped her fingers against the wheel.
The gasoline had, suddenly, run dry, but only in some stations.
There was no chaos yet, and after Joana had shouted at Tadeo for massacring the soldiers, she’d sighed nervously, then checked her phone, then said that it would take at least a day, maybe a few, before all the stations in town were affected, before the residents realized this was a much graver situation than they currently realized.
For now, those people with empty tanks simply traveled further to where the fuel still flowed.
They didn’t know that Tadeo was responsible yet, or that they were being collectively punished for not condemning him.
So, he had time to act, to get the gasoline back, but how?
Tensely, Tadeo swallowed, sitting in the passenger’s seat, not daring to turn his head and look at Joana.
Instead, he listened to the shuffling behind him, then turned his single eye up toward the rearview mirror — which a rosary was hanging from — to see the angel in the backseat.
Dina, sitting near the window, watching some boys play soccer and two women selling popsicles.
“Can you,” Tadeo whispered to Joana, though he still looked to the angel, “take Dina with you while I do this?” The angel had remained rather quiet, and Tadeo still had yet to know how Dina wanted him to save the world.
He’d gotten distracted trying to find a place to put the soldier and ensuring he’d live.
Joana stomped on the brake, tires squealing, but the pedal was weak and needed that level of violence to stop, even slowly.
“Why?” she asked as if she didn’t know; she was Tadeo’s mindreader, and he was certain that she asked him to explain sometimes not because she needed the answer but to shame him, to force Tadeo to listen to himself.
And as the car, with a huff of its engine, crept to a halt, she visibly chewed on the inside of her cheeks and turned her head to Tadeo, brown eyes half-covered by half-fallen eyelids.
On their right, there was a familiar house of boarded up windows and graffiti, some freckles on its walls of bullet holes; the same one that Tadeo had found Dina in.
Past its ceiling, the sun was falling, the sky painted in a red sprawl with some hints of playful yellow and pink and pastel blue over the quiet neighborhood.
Tadeo thought again of how many people had abandoned town when the violence began.
Much of them had managed to cross the border into the northern nation before it became as militarized as it was now.
It was better over there, they said. It was all they said, really.
It was not good, but it was better; he supposed that some people learned to be happy with better, rather than good.
“I don’t want him to see,” Tadeo finally said, “or you.”
Joana snorted at that. “You don’t know how to torture.”
“I know enough.”
The angel, slowly, turned toward the two humans at the front seats of the parked car.
Today, he was dressed in loose shorts and a baggy t-shirt with an advertisement printed over his chest; over his head, he wore a cap with yet another company name printed across it, but the lettering was so faded by now that he couldn’t read it.
His hair was in two dark braids, braids which Tadeo’s grandmother and cousin had happily made for him, speaking of how they missed doing the hair of a girl in the family that must’ve disappeared or died.
Just as Dina had begun asking where the granddaughter was, Tadeo hurried him out the door to meet Joana at the car.
“Is this,” Dina called, “where you’re keeping the boy you spoke of? ”
“He’s not a boy,” Tadeo corrected, though gently, for he was speaking to one of God’s messengers. “He could be my age.” He hesitated; he felt like a boy still. “I need to get some information out of him to fix this gasoline problem. But, I want to do it alone.”
Joana snorted. “You don’t even know the questions to ask.”
“I do,” Tadeo insisted, but his brow was furrowing as he reached for the door, pulled on the handle, then pushed it open roughly. “Stay in the car with Dina.”
“Order me around like that again, and I’ll cut your other eye out,” Joana snapped but didn’t stop Tadeo as he stepped onto the sidewalk and went for the pistol and ammo he’d been holding by his feet.
“But I’ll take the chance to go to the gas station we passed by.
I haven’t checked that one.” Tadeo frowned deep as the ocean.
“My guess is they’re probably going one-by-one, but who knows.
The private companies might last longer.
If you can get this motherfucker to tell you who you can kill to get the gasoline back — that’s all we need.
” Firmly, Tadeo nodded. “I’ll be back soon.
” Then, before Tadeo could shut the door, Joana craned her face back and barked, “Angel, come up here! I’m not your chauffeur. ”
Jolting, Dina swished his head in Tadeo’s direction, as if to ask for permission, but Tadeo simply stepped further into the sidewalk, leaving the door open and turning around as he walked past the broken gate, moved along the path.
“Tadeo! Tadeo!”
The man in question glanced to his right, seeing some children who’d been playing, waving their hands and cheering for him, one of them saluting if he were doing it to a flag.
‘What?’ Tadeo shifted uncomfortably, strangely warm over his cheeks, then raised a hand to wave.
‘Do I salute back? Do they know who I am?’ Of course they did, many knew, in whispers; he imagined the children listening to their parents’ warnings of a beast but reacting with awe, wanting to turn into monsters as well.
Impulsively, Tadeo saluted, but the children broke out into squeals of laughter, turning to one another and mimicking him immediately.
Then, he sighed. Whether Tadeo was turning into a saint in their eyes or not, he supposed one could never escape the bullying of children.
Behind him, he heard the car door shut, and he looked to see Dina in the passenger’s, staring at him again whereas Joana maintained her sight on the road.
Before long, the car coughed some exhaust behind itself, and the two were speeding down the street, turning rather sharply onto the main road.
After this, Tadeo finally headed for the door, his breath uneven, his heart beginning to knock on his chest and ask if he was here.
He was, he was. ‘Somehow.’ He was still alive, though he had died.
Reaching into his pocket, the anti-Christ pulled out a keyring, used it on the multiple locks he’d attached to the entrance, then stepped inside, locking the way in behind him.
Stopping at a red light, abrupt and harsh, Joana remained in place while Dina swung forward then back into his chair with a little surprised, almost frightened noise.
The too-long line of vehicles before them indicated what might’ve been a crash up ahead or some other road blockage — criminals used to leave burning cars along the streets to frighten civilians and lead them away, but it had been maybe a year or two since then.
“Dina…” Joana rolled the name over her tongue, watching Dina turn his head from her periphery as she reached to turn up the radio, wondering if there would be anything about the massacre Tadeo had committed, but her hearing was overwhelmed by static and regional music blasting from a car beside them.
“I’m curious about you.” The angel parted his lips.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what you want.
If you haven’t killed Tadeo already, then what could you want? ”
At the same time, Tadeo was turning the dial on an electric lamp on a pale plastic table he’d found the same day he brought the injured soldier here.
The yellow-ish glow swelled to fill the darkness of the small, square room like an inkblot, and soon, Tadeo found himself staring at the hunched-over figure whose wrists were tied behind a plastic chair whereas his ankles were tied to the legs.
He remained in the same camouflage pants as before, but his jacket had been removed to leave him in a stained, sweated, bloodied white undershirt; two metal dog tags were laid against his strong chest, rising with each unnaturally steady breath.
Engravings on the silver read Dante Perez, as well as offered a number and blood type.
Now that they were not shooting at one another, Tadeo could examine his features better — the black hair fading to a buzzed trim at his neck, the darker brown skin, the almost black eyes, the strong jaw, and the thicker brows, a bead of sweat dribbling down from them.
One of his hands was bandaged, rather amateurishly.
“Dante,” Tadeo tried for the first time, though he had read that name before. He’d noticed it as the soldier kept fighting against losing consciousness and against Tadeo’s grip on his jacket as he dragged him across the mud, heading back into town.
“Get it over with,” came a low, husky grunt.
Tadeo stared, feeling the dryness in his throat harden into beads he had no choice but to swallow down into his stomach, however much it weighed him down.
“Get what over with?” He did what he always did when he had the urge to tremble: he clenched his teeth and lifted his other hand, the one with the firearm, setting it on the table, far from the man’s reach if he miraculously managed to escape his bindings.
Tadeo always had to plan for miracles; he was a miracle himself. “Do you think I’m here to kill you?”
“I’m not going to tell you anything.”
Tadeo swallowed. “That would be stupid of you.”
“Chop my legs off and I still wouldn’t tell you shit.”
“What if I chopped that head of yours off?”
“Then I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything even if I wanted to, dumbass.”