(A/N: One more brief check in with Diablo, and then we meet Maribel. Translations at the end, and I might re-edit because hey, it's what I do. This might be the shortest thing I've ever published- I promise the next one will be uber long to make up for it!)
The Chihuahua desert is the largest in North America and covers 200,000 square miles of territory in the US and Mexico. It is a harsh environment where only the hardiest species survive. Native peoples like the Aztecs would send criminals into the desert on death marches as opposed to giving them the honor of being sacrificed, knowing they had no chance of making it to the other side alive.
Chato Santana wondered when he would just be allowed to fucking die already.
Not that he was exactly excited to see where he'd end up- even though he was pretty sure he had a clue, but maybe el jefe would cut him some slack- and he wasn't overly suicidal. If he was, he would've pulled a guero and eaten a bullet after the house fire, instead of facing the music and trying to repent for it the long, miserable way.
Harley had been right, in that regard. Her words cut him to the quick with how true they were, at least relating to what he had done. Taking himself out or blaming anyone else for what happened wouldn't make his kids less dead, or his own ass less responsible. He didn't recall much from the few frantic seconds before he'd given over to the beast inside him and jumped on the witch's helper, but he did know that he hadn't been thinking about himself at all. In those seconds, he'd had a clear moment free of self pity, and he'd done what needed to be done for his family- for both his families.
He wasn't sure how he was alive, but he quickly began to wish that he wasn't. And had he been normal, that wish would have been granted fairly easily.
The thing inside him had a different agenda, apparently. It wasn't even giving him the option of checking out, forcing him to keep trekking further and further into the wherever-the-hell-he-was desert. He hadn't seen another person since he'd woken up half buried in a dune in the middle of sandy, cactus filled fucking nowhere with a full body sunburn, achingly sore limbs and no shoes whatsoever, no sign of el escuadrón or anything else he remembered happening before his memory was cut with agony and blackness.
He was certain death would have been better than blistering, oozing feet and sucking in dry, grit filled gasps that felt like barbed wire being force-fed down his throat. His eyes boiled in their reddened sockets even when he closed them and hunger clawed at his insides like a wild animal, to the point where it turned to nausea and he started throwing up everything in his stomach- which at that point, was just sour shit and water.
There were no signs, no buildings, nothing to indicate that the world was either saved or scrapped. Nothing but sun and heat he didn't feel until it was peeling in thick layers off of his shoulders at night, thorn filled feet and cracked, bleeding lips.
Cuarenta días y cuarenta noches...
The bible had to have been about white boys, not Mexicans, and definitely not Mexicans from L.A. If this was his test, then he wasn't going to pass. He was weak. He was drained. He was ready to lay it down and have it all be done with, dalegas y vete a hogar.
And still, every time he staggered to a stop as the sun set and the temperature dropped low enough to create halos of frost around his face, vehemently wishing that the cold and the coyotes and the vultures might finally end his hike from Hell, he'd wake up the next morning in a different section of desert with a glassy path burned into the sand behind him and no recollection of ever moving.
El Diablo wasn't letting him go, and truth be told was really pissing him off. For whatever reason, the monster wasn't done with him. He could hear it in his head sometimes, in his less lucid moments, muttering angrily in a language he didn't understand and stewing in resentment separate from his own wrung out emotions. But it refused to say anything directly to him.
He probably wouldn't have known what it was talking about even if it did, but he still would have appreciated the fucking effort. An explanation would have been nice, or maybe an apology. 'Lo siento por su vida follando hasta, Chato.' Unless, of course, he was hallucinating about it talking at all. He was supposed to be loco after all, and he doubted the 100 degree exposure was helping.
He wondered if the others were dead, and if his dumb-ass martyr move had saved them or been for absolutely nothing. He wondered if maybe he was dead, and this was the eternal torment his abuela always threatened him with when she got in his ass about leaving the streets alone. He wondered and thought until he didn't have the energy to think.
By the time the sun went down for the tenth time, he was barely in control of his own movements, half consciously sleepwalking como un zombi . The pain in his gut had spread up his spine and out to the rest of him, compounding a clenching, vein deep numbness built from starvation, thirst and exhaustion that was worse than being caught in the rain he'd always avoided like the plague.
He sensed the shed looming out of the inky darkness more than he saw it, nearly walking straight past it. There was no point in hoping it would protect him from anything, but he thought he might as well bite it with a roof over his damn head. He took one step towards it with the last of the energy in his lower half and felt his legs give out, bringing him collapsing to his knees in the sharp gravel with a hoarse yell.
Shaking, struggling to draw in one strangled breath after another, he watched in horrified fascination as his arms and legs scrabbled desperately at the ground, clawing and kicking and dragging him into the tiny shack at a slug's crawl against his own will. He begged, pleaded, prayed with it to let him go.
He wanted his cage back. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to see his family, even for just a second, if it was truly el fuego that waited on him. He wanted...
Dejame morir, Cabrón. Dejame morir. Dejame...
It ignored him, and he almost had to laugh about it. When was the last time he'd gotten what he wanted?
Deserved, sure, but never wanted.
With the last of the strength in his muscles, he slowly curled up on his side on the floor of the shelter and pressed his cheek into the dirt, breathing in the dry dust with relish, happy just from the sensation of laying down. His bones and muscles screamed with overstretched, overworked pain that slowly faded as unconsciousness crept nearer.
He figured this was it, and all he could think was finally, finally, finally.
Better here than Waller's cell. Better with his last act as something good. Better while he was alone, with his thoughts and su dios.
On the verge of passing out, he felt a warm vibration in his bones as the monster stirred, creeping through and over his flesh the way it did whenever he lost control. He waited for the structure around him to catch fire as the feeling built- thinking deliriously how ironic that shit would be, him dying in a giant bonfire- but instead of igniting his surroundings like he expected it squirmed, coiled, gathered, and pushed before eventually falling still, with no damage dealt.
A wave of dizziness crashed over him as the air around him heated and rippled like jello, shuddering with strange contractions that were almost audible, but he only had eyes for the tiny, valiantly flickering flame cupped in his outstretched fingers that was struggling to maintain a human shape, blinking back tears as it dipped and swayed for him one last time.
When he had nothing, he'd had her. He'd been there for her last moments- only right that she be there for his.
Soy viniendo, Vieja. Espérame...
El jefe: Boss
Guero: Slang for white person, "white boy"
El escuadrón: The squad
Abuela: Grandmother
El Fuego: The Fire
Dlegas y vete a hogar: Let it go and go home
Lo siento por su vida follando hasta: Sorry for fucking up your life.
Como un zombi: Like a zombie
Dejame morir: Let me die
Su dios: His god
"Soy viniendo, vieja. Espérame...": I'm coming. Wait for me...
(NOTE: Vieja literally means old lady, but it's used to signify a girlfriend or wife. Member the movie when Diablo said 'my old lady'? Yup.)