Chris Holm - The Big Reap

“Yes you do. You know damn well it didn’t work before. What makes you think you’d kill it this time?”

“But you cannot expect us to come with you. It is too dangerous.”

“Funny, you seemed just fine with me going down there all by my lonesome.”

Mendoza shrugged. “Whether you live or die is of less consequence to me.”

“And what of the people who will die if this thing gets loose?”

“So long as I am not among them, it is not any of my concern. I would prefer to take my chances on the surface.”

We were sitting around the wooden cable spool that served as the bar’s sole table, drinking tequila from filthy shot glasses as we spoke. Castillo and Alvarez watched the conversation as if it were a tennis match, occasionally interjecting with rapid-fire Spanish that Mendoza would then translate, or requesting that he do the same of my comments for them. Outside, shadows grew long as the fire of day was extinguished, the sun snuffed out like a spent cigarette by the desert sands. Between the tequila and the thought of the job to come, I was hankering for a smoke something fierce, a jones not helped any by the fact these three puffed away like goddamn steam engines. Which, upon reflection, may have had as much to do with inspiring my little demonstration as did their obvious reluctance.

“Look, I don’t think you get it. Guerrera’s orders–”

“–were heard by you and you alone, and that is not enough to convince us to risk our lives.”

“Is that right? Then maybe I can find other means of convincing you.” I pushed back from the table, toppling the rusty folding chair on which I was perched. Mendoza did the same, drawing a 9mm from the small of his back as he did. Castillo and Alvarez were a half-second behind. Three guns trained on me, and my own weapon a good ten feet away atop the bar.

I raised my hands, all casual-like, and smiled. Mendoza smiled back, predatory and triumphant. We were separated by a good six feet of plank floor, and a table far too bulky to be easily tossed aside. They were armed. I was not. The situation didn’t look too good for me.

Which meant I had them exactly where I wanted them.

“Perhaps next time you choose to make a move, you will first consider where your weapon is,” Mendoza said, cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he spoke.

“Perhaps,” I echoed. “But I figured instead I’d just use yours.”

Mendoza eyed me quizzically. His cohorts looked first to me, and then to him, trying to suss out their next play. Their trigger-fingers were getting itchier by the second, their faces ever more worry-lined.

I drew the moment out as long as I could stand, letting the situation simmer. And then I hurled my meat-suit to the floor. And then I struck.

My consciousness hit Mendoza so fast, I scarcely felt the last meat-suit drop away before I was inside. So fast, the Solares body was still falling when I took control. Solares wailed in fright as consciousness returned to him, and covered his head with his hands, waiting for the shots he was certain were to come.

But they didn’t come. I made sure of it.

Mendoza’s stomach clenched. Bile and tequila splashed his boots. His buddies turned toward him instinctually, and I took full advantage. Castillo was to my right. I twisted toward him, and pressed the barrel of Mendoza’s piece to his temple. His gun clattered to the floor. Alvarez stepped in to stop me, and I buried my hand inside his chest. I grasped tight his soul, gave it a little tug. He squealed like a stuck pig, and then collapsed, eyes showing white, fell so fast I almost failed to release his soul in time.

Woulda sucked if I’d held onto it. The boy wasn’t mine to collect. Though the life he led, my guess is he’ll be somebody’s to someday.

Alverez was out. Castillo stood frozen, eyes clenched in anticipation of my bullet. I was puke-streaked and gasping from the sudden exertion, Mendoza’s smoker-lungs struggling to keep up with the demands I made on them. Which reminded me. I looked around, saw his butt lying in a puddle of sick, more tequila than stomach acid. I ground it out with the toe of his boot. Wouldn’t do to have the place go up in flames. That’d attract all manner of attention I’d just as soon avoid. But it did bum me out to have to waste the smoke.

“Siddown,” I said to Alvarez. “I’m not gonna kill you.”

His eyes widened when I spoke to him in unaccented English, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t listen because he didn’t speak a lick of English, but it took me a minute — and a prompt from my former meat-suit — to catch on.

“You know he can’t understand you,” said Solares, eyeing me cautiously from the floor. His English was less stilted and less accented than was Mendoza’s. His face was no less hard. As I watched, his gaze flitted from me to Alvarez’s piece, which skittered to a spot on the floor maybe four feet from where he lay once I kicked it aside.

“I wouldn’t,” I told him. “You’ll make me do something we’ll both regret.” His attention returned instantly to me. “Now, tell this one to take a seat. Tell him I’m not going to hurt him.”

Solares did as I asked. Alvarez relaxed a tad. Righted a chair, dropped heavily into it, and downed two huge gulps of tequila before burying his face in his hands and crying like a child. I gestured with Mendoza’s gun and Solares took a seat as well. Castillo, still unconscious, moaned and twitched as if his dreams were far from pleasant. Can’t say I was surprised. Can’t say I cared much, either.

“What are you?” asked Solares.

“That’s complicated,” I replied. “And I’ve neither the time nor inclination to explain it to you. What’s important is you, and they, have gotten a taste of what I can do.”

Solares smiled humorlessly. “I suppose we have, at that. What now?”

“I assume you heard what I came here to do.”

He nodded. “You came here to kill the beast below.”

“That hasn’t changed.”

“I would not expect it had,” he said. “And how, precisely, do I fit into this plan?”

I heaved a sigh. “Look, you’re a soldier. You know how this shit works. You must realize I can’t let you leave this place until the job is done. It wouldn’t do to have the Mexican Army showing up and making a hash of things.”

“I’ve no intention of leaving,” said Solares. “Those were my people this creature slaughtered. The very people I am sworn to protect. I would like to help you kill it if I can.”

“I can’t ask you to do that. It’s too risky.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, you were going to bring me along without my consent, were you not? And anyways, you’ve asked these men.”

“These men are drug runners. Human traffickers. Murderers. I’ve no problem risking their lives.”

“I’m a soldier. It’s no different.”

“It’s very fucking different. You’re an innocent. And if I’m not in your driver’s seat, I can’t protect you.”

Solares frowned then, and nodded, as if he’d just come to an unpleasant decision. Which, as it turns out, he had. “Then, as you say, drive,” he said.

Jesus. A willing vessel. As fucking awful as possession was for the possessed, I had to admire this dude’s stones.

“You sure?”

“If it helps you kill this beast, I’m sure.”

“All right then. It’s settled. But not just yet,” I said, patting at Mendoza’s pockets. “Because I could really use a fucking cigarette.”

Truth be told, body-hopping back into Solares took a little longer than a cigarette.

First, I sent him out in search of supplies. Watched Castillo tend to Alvarez, his ministrations oddly sweet, while the latter slowly came around. Kept Mendoza’s gun beside me on the table the whole time, but they didn’t give me cause to use it. The fight had gone out of them. They were now victims, not aggressors, and my presence was to be weathered, not contested.