Why do I feel compelled to apologize for previous posts rather than just deleting them? I'm not really sure, but well, here I go again.
The last post was akin to the angry letters you're supposed to write and throw away. My apologies. I suppose I am still treating this blog as my quasi-private journal which should stop. I am always surprised to find little reminders that people actually read this dribble.
So to you, the reader I neglected, I am sorry. I don't mean to waste your time. I just always assumed that my stuff might be picked up by someone who has already worked their way through all noteworthy literature, finished reading the backs of all the cereal boxes in the pantry, and still had time leftover. That's my time to shine.
With that in mind, I thought I would include a chapter from the first draft of the book I've been working on. Some of you have expressed mild interest so hopefully this will be considered a gesture of gratitude.
The original idea was to start the book with a one or two page prologue to introduce the creature. Instead, it turned out to be a fine example of how your characters surprise you. I ended up giving Miguel much more time than I'd originally planned and started to really like him.
That said, feel free to read further if you have the time... and you've finished all your cereal boxes. Also, please don't forget that this is a first draft - riddled with adverbs and free-form writing. If you do happen to make your way through the whole thing, please leave a short comment with any (and I mean ANY) feedback you might have. Be honest, be brutal, tell me not to quit my day job - I like my criticism piping hot and sugar-free. --
Prologue
Miguel Guzman awoke abruptly to an angry buzzing sound. The right front bumper of his truck dipped off the interstate shoulder and kissed an agave cactus, splattering the windshield with pale, green goo.
"¡Ché Madre!" the note of panic in his voice more pronounced than he wanted to hear.
As he jerked the wheel to the left, his elbow collided with the driver-side window with almost enough force to shatter it.
"¡Ay CABRÓN!" Miguel cried out - a lightning bolt of pain branching through his arm in both directions. Dust and gravel erupted from the ground under the passenger side of the truck as Miguel continued to yank the wheels back toward the road. The truck shuddered and bucked as it failed to climb back up the steep shoulder.
The horn of a Volkswagen “Bug” bleated out a feeble warning as it blew past in the southbound lane. All sleep wrung from his eyes, Miguel strained against all six of the screaming tires. At last, the buzzing sound returned as Miguel coaxed the truck back over the rumble strip and onto the road. All ten of his big knuckles strained against his sun-baked skin. Miguel managed to let his foot off the gas, but could not loosen his painfully tight grasp on the steering wheel. Eventually, the speedometer needle began winding counter-clockwise. Even after the truck coasted to a stop, Miguel still sat rigid in seat. The RPM gauge in his heart's racing engine finally stopped its redlining acceleration and followed the example of the now-idling truck.
It seemed like hours before Miguel was able to relax the piano wire fibers of his shoulder and arm muscles. With great effort, he began willing his fingers to uncurl one at a time. For a brief moment, he worried he might have actually left grooves in the steering wheel. His hands in his lap, Miguel felt the adrenaline drain out of him like used bathwater. A flood of despair filled the void. Josefina, Carla, and pequeño Miguelito - he could’ve lost them all.
"¡Estupido!" he scolded himself. 15 hours of nonstop driving; no wonder he was dozing at the wheel.
"Gracias a la Virgin," he said, thankful to still be in one piece. Regaining his composure, he vowed to plan his trips better and never again push his limits (or luck) this far.
The door opened with the shriek of rusty hinges. Miguel clicked on his hazard lights before jumping down to the blacktop. His legs tingled with the remnants of adrenaline and the resulting burst of endorphins. The cool desert air did him good. He walked toward the rear of the truck, extracting the smaller, second set of keys from his pocket. Unlocking the padlock, he whispered another prayer to Guadalupe that the shipment would not be ruined. Grunting, Miguel raised the rollup door - which also rebelled against his effort with rusted bearings. How many more trips would he be able to make before the truck finally refused another mile? Miguel tried not to think about it. The strong scent of mangoes washed over him. After so many negative thoughts, Miguel tried to focus on the fortunate state of his crates. All stood intact and in the stacks he had arduously erected. Only three or four of the oblong fruits had spilled from the top crates to the narrow aisle below.
Miguel reached in and scooped up the fallen mangoes. A little sugar would do him good. Before returning to the captain’s chair with his midnight snack, Miguel suddenly recognized the intense pressure in his lower abdomen. The 44 ounces of Pepsi he'd consumed a few hours earlier now pounded relentlessly on the inner walls of his bladder, longing to escape. Miguel walked gingerly into the desert, leaving the storage compartment of his truck open in an exaggerated yawn.
The sliver of moon provided no reflective light to the arid terrain. No matter, Miguel was over a hundred miles from any real city glow. The uninhibited endless sea of stars cast sufficient light for Miguel to navigate the sparse forest of prickly pear and barrel cacti.
With urgent fingers, Miguel fumbled his way out of the jeans and sighed at the relief of evacuation. The stream of rented soda seemed to make much more noise than usual when it hit the desert floor. Not more noise, Miguel realized, just the only noise.
Miguel was far enough away from the truck to not hear the grumbling engine. What most surprised him was the absence of wildlife sounds. The desert was filled with nocturnal creatures. To unforgiving heat of the day kept most of the animals burrowed into the shade. Once the scorching conditions bedded down with the setting sun, the desert community stretched its waking limbs and joined for breakfast by moonlight. Yet even when he strained his ears and concentrated, Miguel was only met with an unnerving stillness. No coyote howl; no chirping toads; no swooping, screeching bats; not even the cooing melodies of the rock owls. Miguel supposed that perhaps his presence had silenced all of the vertebrates in the vicinity, though it never had before. However, he could not ignore the absence of insect noises. He should have been surrounded by a chorus of cicadas and crickets. Nothing.
As a farmer, Miguel knew that unusual weather patterns could cause this type unusual stillness. He gazed upward, expecting to find looming thunderheads. The night sky was clear.
Like an unwelcome reply to a rhetorical question, a gurgling sound broke the silence behind him. Miguel almost soaked his shoes as he spun to investigate. Hurriedly, he reminded himself to finish the task at hand. Zipped up and satisfyingly drained, Miguel crept toward the bundle of mesquite he thought the sound had originated from.
Immediately to his right, the gurgling sound arose and faded as something ran past him. Miguel had never heard anything like it. Not a purring sound or even a growl - the noise more resembled boiling water. No, that still wasn't right. There was a vocal hum involved that made the sound much more threatening than mere boiling water. Spinning, scanning, Miguel continued to flip through the index cards of his memory, trying to place the sound.
Miguel pictured his wife Josefina getting ready for bed. Josefina had always loved to sing. She constantly sang to the children, to the chickens, even to the plants in their humble garden. Josefina sang so much that sometimes she would try to continue her tune even as she gargled mouthwash at the bathroom sink.
Lacking a better comparison, this was as close as he was going to get the alien susurration. The two sounds had similar qualities, but were also so very different. His love, Josefina, represented grace, goodness, hospitality and warmth in Miguel's life. He felt guilty for relating this malevolent sound to her adorable bedtime routine. This sound (he heard it again, scurrying into the brush to his left) was something cold, menacing, and evil.
Miguel was not a small man. Although he was shy of 6 feet tall, he was still built like a brick chimney. He had spent almost his entire life in desert just like this. His "Papa" had taught him as a boy how to travel across the cracked desert floor while avoiding scorpions and snakes. Throughout the following years, Miguel had taken his father's advice to heart. With a balance of confidence and respect, Miguel had never before felt endangered by his desert home. Well, almost never.
At twelve, Miguel had taken Avenamar (his little brother) camping. The two hermanos enjoyed their weekend exploring the washed out caverns of a rocky outcrop. They took breaks from the heat often, eating the maroon pears that decorated the many barrel cacti in the area. Miguel and Avenamar had long before invented a game for harvesting the pears. Each boy would select three cacti and three rocks.
Riding the line between strength and accuracy, each boy would get three attempts to strike the cactus directly below the pears. Whichever boy ended up with more pears won. They would then divvy the entire bounty equally and the loser would earn the delicate task of peeling the pears. Anybody could learn to enjoy cactus pears with practice, a steady hand, and a sharp knife. On the other hand, an amateur would end up with fingers, lips and a tongue filled with tiny, hair-like spikes. The condition was miserable for days. The slivers embedded easily and simply broke off in the skin when the victim tried to remove them. Too small to dig out, you simply had to wait for your body to push them out on its own. Needless to say, riding out the 72 hours or so felt much longer than it actually was.
On the third night, bored of the small sweet fruits, the brothers decided to try for a jackrabbit. With a shoelace and the pear peelings from lunch, the boys rigged up a snare in the sage about 600 yards from their camp. They followed their father's instructions well, because upon inspection shortly after dusk, they found a good-sized rabbit squirming against its noose. Miguel told Avenamar to turn around and clubbed their dinner over the head with merciful swiftness. Miguel always made sure the first blow counted, keeping the suffering to a minimum.
They returned to their camp and told ghost stories while they waited for the meat to roast on the makeshift mesquite spit. After dinner, bellies filled with the heavy protein of the dark meat, both brothers slept deeply. Miguel had not replenished the firewood before falling asleep. His father had taught him better.
Avenamar's piercing scream ripped Miguel out of his deep slumber the way a spear fisherman jerks flounders from the surf. At first, Miguel thought that he had simply gone too far with the ghost stories and given the poor kid a nightmare. When he tried to console his brother by wrapping him in the blanket, he found that he was sitting up - and shaking. Miguel propped himself up onto his elbow and pushed his back against the small rock ledge. His gazed followed Avenamar's extended trembling arm. At first, he wasn't sure what the kid was pointing at - and then he saw them.
Hunched, lanky, loping across his range of vision, were at least three dark forms. Taller than dogs, smaller than wolves - coyotes. For a moment, Miguel felt relieved. Coyotes were timid creatures by nature. During his solo ventures to this place, he had seen them on several occasions. They seemed pathetic. The moment they had been aware of his presence they had scuttled away in an absurd c-shaped posture; tucked tails racing their noses. Then again, these encounters had been with one coyote at a time, and during the day.
Miguel's relief fled, making way for the mudslide of fear. This trio of sinister shadows was closing in, each pass closer than the one before. Miguel clamped a hand over Avenamar's mouth, telling him not to make any loud noises or sudden movements that might excite the pack.
"Solamente quieren el conejo" he whispered, directing Avenamar's attention to the bones and scraps of leftover meat from their supper. Miguel cursed his carelessness, he should have buried those morsels, and far from camp.
Miguel placed a hand under each of his brother's arms. With as few words as possible, Miguel indicated that he wanted to stand slowly, and in unison. When Miguel began shifting his weight to pull his feet under him, a low snarling sound froze him in his tracks. Avenamar did not freeze. Instead, he looked up to confirm the source of the snarl. Disregarding his brother's instructions, Avenamar screamed again.
Miguel did not need to look up; he already knew what he would find. Miguel could easily picture this ledge of rock as he had seen it from a distance. The pack leader would be peering down at them, his front paws an insignificant 18 inches from their heads. The trio they had been watching was not posed for attack; it was a distraction. The three had done their jobs well.
Miguel cut off Avenamar's scream, snapping the boy to his feet by a fistful of his hoodie. Miguel pulled his brother toward the fire pit as he heard the pack leader chomping and snarling from the ledge. Arriving to the smoldering remnants of the campfire in a few steps, Miguel spun. With the same momentum, he pushed Avenamar behind him and swept his foot through the glowing embers. The pack leader leapt from the ledge, only to be met with a shower of sparks. Disoriented, the big coyote fell short his mark.
Fanning left and right, the sparks resembled water droplets when the pack leader shook them from his coat. Miguel took advantage of this extra second to pick up one of the large stones they had selected to contain the fire. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard the meat of his palm sizzle or if the sound was imagined. He didn't pause long enough to find out. Since he'd awaken, Miguel had not issued a sound louder than a whisper. With a shout of rage and pain he broke his streak of silence; hurling the broiling rock at the pack leader with every ounce of strength he possessed. The practice gained from collecting cactus pears paid off. The smoking stone flew true, thudding into the big coyote between its shoulders and haunches. The pack leader yelped, the heavy stone tipping it off balance like a carnival milk bottle. Avenamar joined Miguel with the primal scream, all fear in his voice replaced by anger. Miguel turned and found that the three hunting partners had been closing ground behind them. Avenamar flung a handful of gravel in their direction. They were more skittish after hearing the cry of pain knocked from their pack leader. Miguel searched the dark horizon frantically, finally located the nearby mesquite tree. Signaling to Avenamar, he shouted "Corre!"
The pack leader painfully got to its feet. The other three hunters watched the boys sprint toward the tree, not sure how to proceed. The pack leader snarled and took chase, the three smaller coyotes followed close behind it.
Miguel pushed Avenamar to run faster. He would only have two or three seconds to help his brother into the tree. Luckily, Avenamar spent a great deal of his time on the farm in the mango and pomegranate trees and was an excellent climber. Without slowing his pace, Avenamar jumped, grasping one of the lower hanging branches. Before his legs could lose their forward momentum and leave him dangling, Miguel shoved him hard, flipping him over the branch. With Avenamar out of reach of the coyotes, Miguel rounded the tree, putting it between him and the advancing pack. He jumped, trying to grasp a reachable branch, but forgot about his burned hand. The tender burnt flesh tore on the rough bark. Miguel cried out in pain, dropping back to the ground just as the pack reached the tree. Avenamar, safely out of reach, began shouting in an effort to draw the attention of the pack. The coyotes were not deterred.
Miguel jumped again, reaching with his left hand this time. His grasp on the branch was not strong, but he held himself above the ground. The coyotes snapped at his kicking legs without any of their previous hesitation. It almost seemed as if they enjoyed the concept of a dangling morsel. Miguel caught one of the smaller ones with a solid kick from his left foot. He planted his right foot on the tree for leverage and managed to hook his right elbow over the nearest branch. Miguel continued swinging his left foot, but failed to make contact a second time. As he brought it back for a third attempt, the pack leader latched onto it, sinking its teeth through the fabric of his sneaker and into his foot. Miguel screamed in pain, but managed to maintain his hold. The big coyote seemed as though he wanted to eat Miguel in the fashion of a python; whole, from one end to the other.
A long dead stick was thrust past Miguel, directly into the snout of the chomping pack leader. Miguel looked up through tear-filled eyes and saw his valiant little brother lying on the branch above him. Avenamar was stabbing with the dead stick he'd scavenged from the tree. His determined gaze reminded Miguel of the Robin Hood stories their "Papa" sometimes read to them. Avenamar's persistence triumphed. With its snout bloodied and one eye blinded, the pack leader loosened his hold. Miguel cried out again as the pack leader fell away with his shoe, grating his foot with its teeth.
As soon as Miguel was free, he pulled himself over the branch to his right. Avenamar pulled at his clothes, helping his big brother arrive at the same prone position. They both faced downward and watched the four angry jowls leap up toward them, clamp closed on the dry desert air, and fall away. The two brothers lay like that, crying softly until after dawn.
Eventually, their fruitless efforts slowed the coyotes' frenzied snapping. What followed was worse. The determined pack simply sat patiently, licking their lips and staring directly at the boys. Miguel and Avenamar tried yelling at the coyotes until their voices were hoarse. The pack didn't seem to care.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the brothers climbed carefully into the higher branches. They lifted their shirts and grimaced at each other's scraped and bruised abdomens. Miguel noticed Avenamar's cracked lips and began worrying about dehydration. Before noon, Avenamar pointed out a dust devil toward the south. Unlike the normal dust devils, this one traveled in only one direction and did not seem to fade.
At once, both boys recognized the hum of their dad's Toyota pickup. Miguel nearly lost his footing in the tree as he stood to start shouting. With his left had held fast to a branch, he waived his swollen, blood-crusted right hand, drawing his dad's attention. The Toyota crested the hill in front of them and stopped. The door opened and Miguel thought he saw the flash of something long and metallic. He actually heard the smack of the bullet a split second before the actual gunshot. One of the smaller coyotes crumpled to the ground beneath them, dead. The other three scattered in every direction with that usual c-shaped retreat.
The pack leader did not make it far before a second gunshot tumbled it in mid-step. Their father got back into the pickup and drove down to the tree. Miguel did not remember much of the exchange that took place. He only remembers the reunion being filled with tears and hugs. He and Avenamar took turns on the ride home sipping from their dad's canteen and recounting the events of the night before. Miguel remembered being terrified that his dad would be disappointed in his carelessness with the fire and chicken bones. Instead, his dad appeared to be brimming with pride.
That was 22 years ago. Miguel's father's farm was over 300 miles to the south. He would not be arriving to Miguel's aid tonight with that antique 30-30 rifle. Avenamar lived in Guadalajara. He worked as a professor of history. He'd kept that dead stick at his side for weeks after their confrontation with the coyotes. Now that Miguel thought about it, Avenamar actually had that silly old dead stick hung in his study. Miguel had not paid any attention to it - had nearly forgotten about it - until now.
As he stood alone in the desert night trying to keep his wits about him, the memory of that night flooded over Miguel. The gurgling sound was coming from multiple points of origin now. Whatever unholy creature made that wretched sound; there were more than one of them. Behind him, Miguel heard a strange chirping sound. He took a deep breath and looked down at the smoothed, ridged scars that adorned his right palm. The foot-long centipede of fear stopped running laps up and down his spine.
About 15 feet in front of him, Miguel saw a small round shadow on the ground. He issued a small prayer that the shape would prove to be a stone rather than a sleeping chinchilla. Whatever it was, it would have to do. The gurgling sound closed in on either side of him, the chirping was still behind him, but the sound carried so strangely that Miguel could not discern the distance.
Miguel focused on the round object and skipped all intermediate gears; breaking into a sprint from a stand still. The gurgling sounds intensified and the chirps seemed to mutate into some type of reptilian barking sound.
Reaching down while doing his best to keep his speed, Miguel scooped up the object. Again, he thanked the Virgin. It was a stone, not a chinchilla. Sadly, Miguel realized that even if it had been a small nocturnal mammal, he would have still thrown it. Rotating, Miguel changed direction toward the road and hurled the rock toward the dark object that pursued him. A dull smack, like a baseball hitting a hard leather mitt, was followed by a faster, higher-pitched chirping sound. Miguel did not slow to examine his aim. The gurgling sounds seemed to fade as the road broke into view. Miguel took no chances and pushed his legs even harder.
He burst onto the desolate road, gasping for breath. His nerves were still firing on their own random sequences, but he saw no movement as he scanned the desert floor beyond the road. He wasted no time in returning to his truck. At a jog, he ran up the two steps at the rear door, grasped the strap at the bottom, and dropped to ground, letting his weight pull the rollup door shut.
As the door rolled to a close, Miguel thought he saw two shining points at the back of the row between the crates. He locked the padlock and returned to the driver's seat. As he turned off the emergency flashers and put the truck into gear, he thought about the reflective glint he’d imagined. Just the nerves.
He took a deep breath as he pulled back onto the road. He tried not to think about cat’s eyes in headlights, or those of coyotes in the moonlight. Again, he told himself it was just the nerves.
