Jeanne Stein - Haunted

The far-off sound of a motor snaps me to attention. It’s full light out now. A plume of dust rises from the eastern radial of the roads stretching from the well. The timbre and decibel level of the engine marks it as a big vehicle—a truck, maybe. I lean forward to get a better look.

And pull back immediately. From my left, from one of the shacks closest to my hiding place, a man sticks his head out a window. He watches the truck approach and when it has reached the center of the village and come to a stop by the well, he leans back inside and yells.

“Las muchachas. Ahora.”

The door opens. A man steps out first, an AK-47 strapped bandolier style across his chest by a loose cord. He’s barrel-chested and squat, hair secured by a handkerchief tied around his head. He wears sweatpants and a T-shirt straining over a big belly. He’s barefoot.

The toadie I’ve been looking for?

He has a cigarette in his hand and he waves it in a come-along motion. He stands beside the door and barks something sharp.

As if propelled from behind, three young women stumble out. They blink at the light and clutch at blankets thrown over their shoulders. They are barefoot and dirty, hair unkempt, faces smudged. None of them could be older than sixteen. They cower together, eyes on the toadie. He gets behind them and uses the stock of the rifle still tied across his chest to move them forward.

“Muévan, putas,” he says.

They remain close, moving as one, trying to keep as far away from the guard as they dare. He keeps prodding them toward the well and the waiting truck.

The arrival of the truck has awakened a few of the inhabitants and curious faces poke from windows and doors. As soon as they see who is behind the wheel, see who is approaching from the shack with the girls, they disappear back inside like wisps of smoke.

The driver’s door opens and a man who could be the toadie’s twin—overweight, dirty T-shirt, jeans hung so low I can’t imagine what’s holding them up—jumps to the ground. They embrace, patting each other on the back, mumbling something in Spanish too rapidly for me to catch. Then they go to the back of the panel truck and the driver opens the rear doors.

“¿Cuatro este vez, huh?”

“Al jefe le crece el apetito por las chicas. Esta aburrido,” the toadie replies with a laugh.

I understand the boss is bored but he wants four this time? Four what?

In a moment, I know. The driver yells something through the open doors and four girls appear from inside. Roughly, the driver drags one after the other to the ground and shoves them toward the waiting toadie. The girls are all dressed in simple dresses, sandals on their feet. They are thin, young, younger even than the three standing in the front of the truck, and big-eyed with fear.

The toadie steps up to each, and in turn, lifts a chin, cups a breast, runs a hand up between legs and pinches. The startled girls yelp and pull back. The toadie grins and spits out his cigarette.

“El Jefe estará contento,” he says. He jabs a thumb toward the front of the truck where the other three girls wait, their faces drawn with uncertainty. “La basura está lista para hechar afuera.”

The garbage is ready to be taken out. My guts churn as the two pigs laugh. Another round of backslapping and jokes aimed at the “education” the new girls are about to receive and then the guard moves the new arrivals back toward the shack.

The driver watches a moment, then he snaps at the three to come to the back of the truck. He lifts each one into the back, a hand snaking under the blanket of the first, pulling it down to expose the breasts of the second and finally ripping the blanket completely off the third. He bends that one back against the bumper, grinding himself into her until she cries for him to stop. He laughs and turns her around, using a hand under her ass to propel her roughly into the truck. “Más adelante, chica,” he says, slamming the door.

I CAN’T WRAP MY HEAD AROUND WHAT I JUST WITNESSED. The new girls can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. Are they being fed like takeout to someone in that shack and then thrown out like garbage when he’s ready for the next course?

Is that someone Santiago?

This is the person Culebra swore allegiance to? That Ramon works for?

As soon as the truck with the girls departs, a van pulls into the village and stops in front of the church. This time, the villagers begin drifting outside. My rage extends to them, too, the ones who withdrew quickly when they saw what was happening.

Or does this happen every week? Every day? Are they afraid for their own wives and daughters? Is that why they raise no objection?

I remember what Ramon said. The village has been bought and paid for.

I now have a decision to make. Do I go after the truck? I could free the girls, see they make it to safety. Kill the driver.

Then what?

There is most likely someone waiting for the truck to return. I could make the driver talk and tell me where and when.

I peek out. The bell in the steeple begins to ring. The villagers move toward the open church door, including the toadie, who shuts and locks the door to the shack where he brought the girls. Three men are hauling bags from the back of the van and bringing them into the church.

I can’t remember. Is it Sunday? Are the villagers going to mass? They actually have a priest in this devil’s playground? Where was the priest when the girls were being abused by the toadie and his buddy?

The bags being unloaded are too big and heavy-looking to hold communion wafers. Should I move closer?

I look toward the shack where the girls were taken. The door remains closed. It’s quiet inside. I’m torn between attempting to get a look inside the church and rescuing those girls. Part of me wants to burst in, haul the girls out before the pig gets his hands on them. But the saner, logical part of me says there’s another reason I’m here.

The village courtyard is deserted. The church bell has stopped ringing. Whatever was being delivered, is now inside the church. Everyone in the village seems to be inside, too. The van stands open and empty. I can do more good in the long run if I go after the truck that took the girls and get the driver to tell me what’s going on.

If I’m going to get away, it will have to be now.

I slip out of my hiding place, pulling brush tamped down back into place. I keep an eye out for any strays, but everyone seems to have marched like good little ants into the church. I only have to scurry a little deeper into the brush before I can safely pick up speed. I run parallel to the road, watching for the truck.

It hasn’t gone far.

The truck has been pulled off to the side of the road. I don’t have to use vampire hearing to know what is going on. The driver has climbed into the back, the cries of his victim shattering the early morning quiet. When I leap inside, I can scarcely believe what I see.

Two of the girls are lying in pools of blood, their throats slashed. The third is barely visible under the half-naked body of the man on top of her. He is pushing at her and grunting, a knife at her cheek.

I feel my control slipping. Fight to get it back.

You need the man. Take control, Anna.

It’s too late. The smell of spilled blood turns my mind as black as night. Vampire roars in blood lust and rage. I can’t hold back.

The driver turns to look at what beast screams in a human voice but with such inhuman fury. His eyes widen and he pulls away from the girl, backing himself into a corner. His member shrivels and the sharp smell of urine staining the front of his pants is evidence that his fear has made him lose control.