Gayne Young - The Tunnel

“Not demons,” Tom scoffed.

“Not demons. No. But something. What do you think it was?”

“We don’t know if the missing children part of the story is real or not,” Tom explained. “All we know is that there was a story told that warned kids to stay away from the cave…”

“A story they’ve been telling for, like, five generations he said…”

“That doesn’t mean it’s true. Or was true.”

Tom tested the mattress once more and, finding it filled to his liking, turned off the air pump and removed it from the valve. He folded the mattress and shoved it into the tent.

“There we go,” Tom announced.

“You’re such a real man.” Megan laughed. “What would I do without you?”

“Sleep on the rock-hard ground, I guess,” Tom replied, chuckling.

He took his seat next to Megan and leaned in to kiss her. She playfully pushed him away saying she was too sweaty. Tom said he didn’t care but Megan kept him at bay.

“So, what do you think could live in that cave?” Megan began again. “That could take kids?”

“I told you, I don’t think that’s—”

“Amuse me,” Megan scoffed.

Tom thought for a moment then sighed and offered his thoughts.

“Back that long ago. Cougar or bear. Maybe a jaguar…”

“A jaguar?!” Megan scoffed. “In Texas?”

“Yeah,” Tom assured her. “Texas has been home to lots of big cats. Prehistoric and in modern times.”

Megan scanned the campsite as if looking for predators. Seeing only fellow college students setting up their campsites, she returned to Tom.

“Modern times, like, now?” Megan asked.

“Ranchers spot a jaguar every now and again over near Big Bend, but not around here. No,” Tom promised. “Listen, the only danger that can come from the cave is falling in or us not finding anything worthwhile in it.”

Megan smiled and Tom took it as an invitation.

“So… you wanna try out the air mattress? See how it holds up?” Tom asked.

Megan rolled her eyes and said, “God no! It’s way too hot for anything like that.”

Hunter spent the last 20 minutes of the short flight from Austin to El Paso detailing the massacre in the tunnel to Taylor. Hunter explained the facts as he knew them. Thirteen Mexican laborers had been digging a tunnel large enough to drive a truck and trailer through from a nondescript ranch house in Mexico toward a nondescript ranch house in Texas. The tunnel was sparse with minimal supports, an unpaved road, and a string of lights that hung from the bare ceiling above. The crew worked slave labor hours for little pay but still took great pride in their work and did so diligently. During their relatively short time underground, the crew had dug a mile and a half of tunnel and only had another three-quarters of a mile before they would hit the Texas ranch that would serve as the exit point. A hundred or so yards past the Rio Grande and into the United States, the crew cut into a large cavern. Shortly thereafter, they were attacked by someone.

Or something.

Twelve of the 13 laborers were killed.

“I’ve only seen one of the bodies,” Hunter explained. “And it was torn to hell. I tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Taylor’s stare demanded more details

“Guy looked like he been through a meat grinder. Ears pulled off. His eyes gouged out of their sockets and his nose and most of his fingers gone.”

Taylor furrowed his brow in question.

“You said pulled off, like with rope or pliers?”

“No. They look like someone went at them with a dammed cheese grater. Just went to town until they were all shredded off.”

Taylor shook his head in disgust. He had seen the evil that men could do in Afghanistan. He had encountered children as young as eight that had been gang-raped, men and women branded on their faces or carved beyond recognition for crimes against their religion, and others interrogated by having the soles of their feet beaten with sticks or pipes or removed completely. They were scenes that haunted him to this day, and he couldn’t imagine how what Hunter was describing could be worse.

“My boss thinks it was a rival cartel or gang,” Hunter continued. “That they tunneled in from the opposite side and ambushed our boys.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t buy any of it,” Hunter admitted. “The only survivor is a fella named Julio. He said what they cut into was a huge cave a couple of soccer fields large. Plus, I don’t think the wounds on the body I saw were caused by a blade or a chainsaw even.”

“So, he wasn’t Scarfaced?” Taylor joked, trying not to laugh.

“Nope.” Hunter joined in on the joke. “No Scarfacing.”

Taylor killed the remainder of his beer and stood to toss the bottle in the trash. Hunter finished his beer and handed it to Taylor.

“So what do you think happened?” Taylor asked, returning to his seat. “If not a band of rivals?”

Hunter ran his hands over his face and then threw his short-cropped hair. He started to speak then paused then began again.

“Julio said it was monkeys.”

“Monkeys!” Taylor scoffed.

“Monkeys,” Hunter assured Taylor. “Well, baboons actually.”

“I freakin’ hate monkeys… Wait a minute, you don’t believe this guy, do you? That there’s monkeys down there?”

“Julio says his brother killed one,” Hunter offered. “That its body is down there along with the digging crew.”

Taylor rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Again, you believe him?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow when we head down there.”

Hunter and Taylor were met at the airport by José Luis, a man who Hunter explained served as his, “Quartermaster, logistics expert, driver, and all around go-for.”

Following introductions, José took Taylor’s single carry-on bag and placed it in the rear of the late-model, nondescript Suburban. He then pulled one of several bags from the front seat and asked Taylor in broken English, “You want change?”

“Might as well,” Hunter offered. “And I’d rather you made sure everything is right before we drive across the border.”

Taylor agreed and the three men loaded into the Suburban. José drove from the runway to the private airport’s main lodge. Taylor exited the vehicle, entered the building, and made his way to the men’s room. He disrobed and put on his new clothing.

It had been a long time since he bought clothing for himself and he was pleasantly surprised that the sizes he’d given to José through Hunter had been correct. Everything Taylor put on fit him to a T. His coyote-brown tactical pants were long enough—not always an easy task given his 6’2” height—his boots were snug yet didn’t rub anywhere they shouldn’t, and his black shooter’s shirt put function over fashion. The only problem with the clothes had nothing to do with their style or fit but what they had to fit over. Taylor’s stomach had grown, albeit slightly, since his exiting the military. He thought back to Hunter’s mention that they had both gone soft around the middle and he immediately countered this with a thought of his own.

Not too bad for a guy in his mid-40s.

Taylor gathered the clothing he changed from and all the bags and tags and made his way back to the Suburban.

“Don’t you look nice?” Hunter laughed. “Your mom get you some new school clothes?”

“Not my mom. Your mom,” Taylor cracked. “And it wasn’t even my birthday. Go figure.”

José laughed at the joke and Taylor took note that Hunter’s quartermaster perhaps understood more English than he could speak.

Or let on.

“Appreciate the clothes, but where’re my weapons?” Taylor began again.