Tim Pratt - Sympathy for the Devil

The rain of blood begins midmorning and continues all day. Under the canopies they have fashioned from the Hellsnake skins, the concrete crews begin pouring. Roy and the sleeping workers are lulled by the patter and hiss of smoking drops on the impervious hides.

By early afternoon Roy wakes. He dons a chemical protection suit to go out into the bloody downpour to check the progress of the pour. They are using a quick-setting formulation of Portland cement and crushed brimstone that would harden even under water; the rain of blood has no effect on it except to tint the topmost layer a bright pink. Roy chats with the workers for a time as they swing the concrete chutes about and level and smooth the slabs. They swap stories of rains of blood past. “I was in a hurricane of blood once in Veracruz…”

“That’s nothing! I was in a blood tornado!”

“My abuelo told me he was working cattle on a rancho near Harlingen once when there was a flash blood flood, and that’s how come Santa Gertrudis cattle are red.”

By nightfall the blood eases off to a drizzle and by midnight it is over. Felipe reports to Roy that the first aid unit has treated a few burns, and everyone has a headache from the noxious smell, but no equipment has been lost, and they are still on the timetable.

“Rain of blood-no problemo, Jefe. Now a rain of frogs-that would have been nasty!”

All night and all the next morning the concrete crews pour slabs, while the finishers follow behind smoothing, edging, cutting expansion joints and filling them with asphalt so the concrete can expand and contract through the blazing days and freezing nights without heaving.

The construction teams, having finished making concrete forms, start building the tollbooths and toll plaza.

By the time lunch is over, the concrete work is done, there have been no more problems, and Roy is getting more and more tense as he anticipates some further disaster. Only the finish work is left. The stripers load up with paint and start out at one o’clock. Behind them, crews set the adhesive reflectors to mark the roadway center lines and lane lines. The construction teams finish the tollbooths and the electronics crew installs and tests the automatic toll counters.

We are going to make it, Roy thinks, as he watches the sun slide down the sky. We are going to win the biggest payoff of all.

And then Felipe is at his side. “Jefe, we gotta problem.”

No, thinks Roy. Not now. Now when we were so close.

“It’s the striping paint, Jefe, the midline yellow. We were running low, so I sent some boys to the depot in Lubbock. The supplier was out, said somebody came in yesterday and bought up every barrel. And there’s no time to order some delivered from Houston.”

“How much do we need?”

“I figure we’ll be short only about a hundred and fifty feet. About two quarts.”

One hundred and fifty feet, Roy thinks. It might as well be a mile. Or the distance between Paraíso and Infierno.

Roy looks at the sun. The bottom edge of the disc is touching the horizon. A sulfurous wind is rising, and inside his head he hears a vast voice intone softly, Tick, tock.

He has never failed to bring a project in on time. He isn’t going to start now. “Follow me!” he yells at Felipe as he swings into his pickup and floors it, racing for the striper as it approaches the end of the route. He slams to a stop behind the slow-moving machine and swings up onto the fender. At his gesture, Felipe jumps up beside him. Roy pries the lid off the paint reservoir; the last dregs of yellow paint are draining toward the outlet to the roller. “Steady me,” Roy orders Felipe as he yanks his edging tool from his belt. He shoves his arm into the reservoir and slashes open his wrist.

“Keep going!” Felipe yells to the driver as yellow fluid pours out of Roy’s arm into the reservoir. Roy wraps his free arm around a handhold and leans over the reservoir. “Whatever happens,” he tells Felipe, “don’t stop short.”

Distant voices float through the blackness.

“Tío Roy, can you hear me? Is he going to be okay, Felipe?”

“Sure, muchacho. A few days of your mamá’s barbacoa and some cervezas, he’ll be bien. El tigre, that’s your tío.”

The blackness is starting to lighten to gray. Roy can feel he is lying down; something cold is being pressed to his forehead.

Then there is another voice, and Roy must, now must, open his eyes.

“Well, well, Mr. Sandoval. That was very clever of you. It was something I did not anticipate, and that is saying a lot.”

There is a crowd around him, but Roy knows the owner of that voice. “All Sandovals bleed highway-marking yellow, Señor. Paving is in our blood. Help me up,” he says to his crew. Ramón protests, but Felipe and Kath shush him and haul Roy to his feet.

Roy feels as empty as a broken piñata. Someone has bound his wrist tightly with a bandana. He leans on Felipe and raises his eyes anxiously to the horizon-the last sliver of a scarlet sun disappears as he looks.

“Yes, Mr. Sandoval. You have completed the project as per the specifications. Your payment is being credited to your account even as we speak.”

Roy straightens and turns to look at the client. The Big Man does not look happy, but now Roy is not afraid.

“And our bonus?” he asks.

“Here.” The client hands over a thick sheaf of documents. “‘Get Out Of Hell Free’ passes for everyone on your crew. And their families. Now I suggest you had all better be going, while I am still in the mood to honor our contract.”

The heavy equipment and RVs are waiting for Roy’s signal. The first souls are already lining up at the tollbooths. As each passes through, a sepulchral wail rings out.

Roy turns to leave, then turns back. “If I may ask one question, Señor.”

The client glowers. “One.”

“Why a divided six-lane superhighway? There’s not going to be any return traffic, no?”

The Big Man regards Roy as dispassionately as though he is just another mote already broiling in Hell’s infernos. “I appreciate the irony, Mr. Sandoval.” He turns to watch the ever-lengthening lines at the tollbooths. “I expect my… guests… will appreciate it also, though not perhaps with the same pleasure. Now go.” He stamps a hoof and disappears with a sulfurous blast.

“Vaya con Dios, Señor,” Roy whispers, “though you would not thank me to hear me say it.”

Roy turns to his crew crowded around, and his heart swells with pride in these men and women. “¡Vamanos con Dios, amigos!” he cries, lifting the sheaf of passes into the air. Cheering, whistling, and clapping greet his announcement before the crew scatters to their vehicles.

The conga line forms up again, heading back to civilization. Roy limps to Felipe’s pickup and climbs wearily into the passenger seat. As the truck joins the end of the line of departing machinery, Roy turns to take what he trusts will be his last look at the entrance ramp to Hell. Someone on the crew has taken the time to erect the customary project notification:

THIS CAPITAL IMPROVEMENT PROJECT COMPLETED BY:

SANDOVAL PAVING CO.

ROY SANDOVAL, PROP.

YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK

Someone has crossed out the “Sandoval” before “Paving” and carefully lettered “Buenos Intenciones.” Roy laughs, and Felipe raises an eyebrow at him. “Want me to fix it, Jefe?”

“Hell, no!” Roy says. “I think I’ll change it permanently!”

Felipe grins. “¡No problemo!” he whoops and floors the accelerator.

If you wanta learn you somethin’, go on down to a place where two roads cross. Get there Saturday ’round midnight, and wait there ’til Sunday morning-do that for nine Sundays, all in a row. The dark man, he’ll send his dog to watch on you while you wait. And on the ninth morning, the dark man will meet you. And he will learn you-anything you wanta learn. But you remember this: that dark man, he don’t work for free.