Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

Beth stared at the stone chair, knowing that if they didn’t work fast, Jen and little Andy would soon be sitting in it, waiting to die.

Cristo cut abruptly to the right. Beth turned quickly to make sure that Vargas and Ortiz were behind her, then followed the boy out of the crowd toward yet another tunnel.

Stopping at the mouth of the tunnel, Cristo waited for Beth and the others to catch up, then pointed past the crowd toward a small stone archway on the far right side of the sacrificial altar.

“In there,” he said. “She will be alone with the baby. Given a last moment of reflection before the final walk.”

Moving deeper into the tunnel, Cristo shoved a large rock aside and came away carrying another black robe and gold skull mask.

“She will be dressed in red,” he told Beth. “You must change her into this and hide the baby under your robe.”

Nodding, Beth took the robe and mask from him as Cristo turned to Vargas and Ortiz. “I will go with Elizabeth. Do you have the map?”

Vargas reached under his robe and brought out the drawing. Cristo traced their route with an index finger.

“You must follow this tunnel to the cages,” he said. “Then go here, where the children sleep. Many of them will not want to come, but you must tell them that Cristo says it is safe.”

Vargas nodded, then reached under his robe again and brought out the Glock, offering it to Beth. “I don’t want you going in there without protection.”

Beth stared at it a moment, then took it from him and tucked it into the top of her pants, beneath her robe.

Suddenly the loud, musical blast of a horn echoed through the cave and excited murmurs rose from the crowd. Then a tall female figure in a gold robe and red skull mask stepped out from behind one of the statues and the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.

The woman raised her arms, signaling for them to quiet down. Then she began to sing, her sweet, soulful voice filling the air.

At the sound of that voice, Beth felt a chill of recognition run through her. Images of her night aboard the cruise liner filled her head: sitting with Rafael in the jazz bar.

The singer was Marta Santiago.

“We must hurry,” Cristo whispered. “Next El Santo will speak and then the sacrifice will begin.”

As Marta continued to sing, all eyes riveted to her, Beth nodded, then followed Cristo to the stone archway.

Gesturing her inside, Cristo stepped back into the shadows to wait.

When she entered the small chamber, Beth felt her heart skip a beat.

Jen was sitting on a wooden cot, wearing a red hooded robe, a black skull mask covering her face.

Little Andy was in her arms, sleeping quietly.

Outside, Marta finished singing her song and the crowd cheered and applauded, and Beth knew she had to work fast.

“Hello, Jen.”

The hooded head jerked up sharply. The baby stirred in her arms.

“Who’s there? Who are you?”

“It’s me, Jen, Beth. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

Beth’s first instinct was to throw her arms around her sister and hug her. But there was time for that later. Instead, Beth reached up and lifted her mask.

Outside, the crowd began to chant, “Santo, Santo, Santo, Santo…”

And Beth heard Cristo’s voice behind her in the doorway:

“Hurry. We must hurry.”

Jen was looking at her, eyes wide behind the mask. “Is this some kind of trick? Beth is dead.”

So they hadn’t told Jen. Probably thought she’d be easier to handle this way.

“Look at me,” Beth said. “Do I look dead to you?”

“You’re not Beth. Beth was shot.”

Her speech was slow, lethargic. It occurred to Beth that Jen may have been drugged in preparation for the ceremony. She moved closer, crouching down in front of Jen, stroking little Andy’s head.

He didn’t stir. Had he been drugged, too?

“It’s me,” she said to Jen. “I’m here. They may have stopped me, but they couldn’t kill me.”

Jen pulled the baby away from Beth and hugged him to her breast. She began muttering rapidly in Spanish. Words Beth didn’t understand. A prayer of some kind.

What the hell had they done to her?

But then Beth knew, didn’t she? Cristo had told her what El Santo did to his women, and the irony of all this suddenly came home to her. A man who worships an all-powerful female saint yet treats the women in his life like dogs.

Then again, judging by the burns on Rafael and Cristo, maybe this was equal-opportunity degradation.

“We have to hurry,” she said to Jen. “You need to change into this mask and robe.”

Beth reached to remove Jen’s mask, but Jen brought a hand up, stopping her.

“No,” she said, her voice rising. “You’re not Beth.”

“We don’t have time to argue about this,” Beth told her, then reached for the mask again, grabbing it firmly.

But as she pulled it off, Jen said, “Beth is dead. I know she is. I know because I shot her.”

And then the mask came off and Jen’s hood fell away, revealing a sight so shocking that Beth felt her heart freeze in her chest and she stood up, stumbling backward.

Jen’s hair was gone, her bald scalp shining in the candlelight. But that was nothing. That wasn’t the worst of it. That was something that could be remedied with time.

But what couldn’t be remedied was Jen’s face.

Every inch of it was covered with burn scars, as if she’d been dipped in acid and left to dry. She had no nose, no lips, no eyebrows, no ears, her skin a blotchy, waxy, melted mass of flesh.

And suddenly Beth felt it. The switch being flipped. And all the dark shapes that had been struggling to get through finally came to the surface, and she saw herself huddled in that desolate house in the desert, little Andy in her arms, Sisters Imelda and Christina and Miranda and Lasarte standing around her as the door flew open and two men entered the room, followed by Marta and the hideous creature who had once been Jen. Then the guns started blazing and the sisters were screaming as Jen snatched the baby from Beth’s arms, then pushed her toward the mattress, raised a pistol, and shot her twice in the chest.

And Beth fell in slow motion, landing next to Sister Christina-who was surely as dead as Beth would soon be-blood spreading out beneath her, her energy draining away as Jen looked down at her, only the eyes recognizable, a fierce, untamed hatred in them as she spat on Beth and said, “He’s mine, you fucking whore.”

And then she was gone.

Beth looked at her sister now, sitting there in the candlelight, clutching the baby, and the weight of those final moments came crashing down on her, disbelief spreading through her as the crowd continued to chant, “Santo, Santo, Santo, Santo,” and Beth heard Cristo shout behind her:

“Elizabeth! Look out!”

And as she turned, she saw Marta coming straight for her, swinging something heavy at her head, and before she could duck, it connected, knocking her sideways.

The gun in her waistband clattered to the floor and she went down.

Hard.

“ What are you doing?”

The drug they had given Jennifer seemed to have worn off a bit.

But that didn’t matter now.

“What does it look like?” Marta said. “I’m taking her robe off.”

“But why?”

Marta looked up at Jennifer. She was no longer the beautiful young woman Marta had met at that party in Los Angeles so long ago. Would never again be the object of desire that she was that night-using her hands and body and mouth and tongue to spread the joy of God-but Marta still loved Jennifer with her heart and soul and did not want to see her die.