When she weeps, p.1
When She Weeps, page 1
Copyright © 2022 Jon Athan
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Cover illustration by Pedro Bianchi Guerra: https://www.artstation.com/predo
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Proofreading provided by Karen Bennett: kbennett4653@gmail.com
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First Edition
ALSO BY JON ATHAN
The Girl in the Attic (2021)
Am I Beautiful? (2021)
Do Not Disturb (2020)
The Groomer (2020)
Into the Wolves’ Den (2019)
Lovesick (2019)
The Good, the Bad, and the Sadistic (2018)
Grandfather’s House (2018)
The Abuse of Ashley Collins (2017)
A Family of Violence (2016)
The legend of La Llorona has been part of my life since my childhood. It is one of the first horror stories I was ever told. It is responsible for sparking my love for the genre. For that, I dedicate this book to my family and my culture.
WARNING
This book contains scenes of intense violence and some disturbing themes. Some parts of this book may be considered violent, cruel, disturbing, or unusual. This book is not intended for those easily offended or appalled. Please enjoy at your own discretion.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part III
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
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Dear Reader
PART I
1
GUSTAVO ‘EL EMPALADOR’ RIVERA
The Hustle by Van McCoy echoed through the compound’s empty hallways and rooms. Harsh, guttural screams disrupted the feel-good disco music every few seconds. All of the noise died out in the desert before reaching the tall brick partition surrounding the compound. There were no other buildings in the area—only shrubs, cacti, and dirt.
In one of the compound’s hallways, a trail of fresh blood led from a doorway to a wide archway. In the hallway a console table had been knocked over. The shards from a broken blue-and-white vase were scattered across the floor, dyed red by the blood. In the doorway at the start of the bloody trail lay a big, bare, amputated foot. It was being used to prop the door open.
The foot had been chopped clean off at the ankle. Slits of white—bone, tendon, cartilage—were visible amidst the blood at the stump.
The wide archway opened up to a spacious kitchen. Like the hallway, the linoleum floor appeared to have been mopped with blood. There was a severed hand on the long rectangular table in the kitchen. At the base of the hand, a bloody cleaver was lodged in the table. A clean machete lay next to it.
The music played from an old radio on a shelf above the stove. A crucifix hung on the wall above the kitchen archway, Jesus Christ frowning at the carnage below him. It looked like a massacre had occurred in the compound. All of the blood, all of the extremities, and all of the screams, however, came from one man: Francisco Fuentes.
Around the corner in the kitchen, tucked under a flight of stairs, there was a bathroom. Francisco lay on the bathroom floor, wearing only a frayed tank top and plaid boxers. With one of its straps torn, the shirt was stamped with muddy footprints from a brutal stomping. There were welts and bruises and red marks across his arms, back, and chest.
His head was beaten to a bloody, swollen pulp. Wedges of inflated flesh hid his eyes. The large lumps on his head were clearly visible thanks to his buzz cut hair. His left hand and his right foot were severed, blood spouting from the stumps at the ends of his limbs. He was flopping around on the floor, slipping and sliding on his own blood.
“No tenía que ser así, güey,” Gustavo Rivera said in Spanish.
‘It didn’t have to be like this, dumbass.’
‘Güey’ was used as an insult, but it was also frequently used in informal conversations to refer to someone without using their name.
Gustavo was a 38-year-old Mexican man. His curly black hair—streaked with gray—was slicked back under his trucker cap. He had a thick mustache with peppered stubble across his jaw. He wore a dark windbreaker, jeans, and brown leather boots. There was a long scar on the left side of his neck. It was given to him by a rival cartel member during an attempted beheading.
He was standing in the bathroom next to Francisco. Gustavo’s colleague and cousin, Ricardo Rivera, stood behind him, pushing down on an animal control pole to pin Francisco to the floor. The customized pole’s barbed-wire noose was wrapped tightly around Francisco’s neck. The barbed wire ate away at the captive’s throat as he struggled.
Gustavo crouched next to him and said, “Oye. Escúchame, joven. Háblame de ese gringo, ‘El Ken.’ O, mejor aún, háblame de tu patrón. ¿Dónde está Rafa?”
‘Hey. Listen to me, youngster. Tell me about that foreigner, ‘El Ken.’ Or, better yet, tell me about your boss. Where’s Rafa?’
“No se… nada,” Francisco whimpered.
‘I don’t know… anything.’
He yelped and flinched as a barb on the noose pierced his neck next to his Adam’s apple. His flinching motion inadvertently caused the barb to saw into his neck. He felt it grinding against his thyroid cartilage before brushing up against his jugular. The pain sent him into another frenzy, which only caused the noose to tear deeper into his neck.
Gustavo pulled a table knife out of his pocket. He crouched, then held the knife out in front of his captive and wagged it.
He said, “Está bien, amigo, está bien. Vamos a hacerlo por las malas.”
‘Fine, friend, fine. We’ll do this the hard way.’
In a raspy voice, Francisco said, “Gus... Mátame... Mata–”
‘Gus… Kill me… Kill–’
Gustavo knelt on his upper back. Francisco gagged as the barbs dug into his throat, then he screamed. Blood spouted from his neck, landing in the walk-in shower in front of him.
Gustavo pulled the man’s right arm back as if he were going to try to handcuff him. With a firm grip on his forearm, he started sawing into Francisco’s inner wrist with the serrated edge of the table knife. Francisco’s clenched fist came undone as the blade went through his flexor tendons and veins. It gave him a case of involuntary spirit fingers, his digits shaking uncontrollably. Then the blade stopped in his wrist, stuck amidst his carpal bones, bursae, and ligaments. Blood squirted out from the arteries at the sides of his wrists. It splashed on the cupboard to their left and the wall to their right.
“¿Necesitas una mano?” Ricardo asked as he tightened his grip on the animal pole.
‘Need a hand?’
Wiggling the knife around, Gustavo said, “No… no…” He grunted as he pushed the knife, breaking some bones and tearing a ligament with an unnerving crunching sound. While pulling on the silverware, he repeated, “No, no.”
Francisco gasped for air, although it sounded like he was hiccupping. His vision blurred and darkened. He still caught sight of the blood swirling down the drain, though. For a moment he didn’t recognize it as his own. It looked like the blood from his slain comrades, from his murdered family members, from his victims. All blood looked the same. The tremendous pain shooting through his right arm also made him forget about his mutilated neck. Yet, he found himself incapable of falling unconscious. He had been injected with amphetamines and other drugs prior to the torture to ensure he remained awake and felt everything.
The music changed to Funkytown by Lipps Inc.
The blade came to a stop again a little over halfway through his wrist. Gustavo stood on one foot on top of Francisco’s back. With his other foot, he stomped on the knife’s handle. A geyser of blood leapt out of Francisco’s wrist. He stomped on the handle two more times, missed the third kick and planted his boot on Francisco’s palm instead, then kicked the handle a fourth time. Francisco’s hand was severed, leaving a jagged stump at the end of his arm. The captive screamed for a measly three seconds, then began to gasp for air again.
Gustavo picked up the hand and, chuckling, he said, “No necesito una mano, primo. Tengo uno aquí mismo.”
‘I don’t need a hand, cousin. I have one right here.’
Ricardo laughed with him. The gore didn’t faze them. Violence was part of their everyday lives, as if written in thei r job descriptions or embedded in their DNA. Murder was an occupational hazard. Sicarios—hitmen—like Gustavo amputated more limbs than lifelong surgeons and murdered more people than the average serial killer. Francisco was just a slab of meat to them.
Gustavo slapped the back of Francisco’s head with the amputated hand, then shouted, “¡Mira lo que me estás haciendo hacerte, güey! ¡Háblame de El Ken o Rafa y te terminaré con una bala en la cabeza! ¿Dónde están? ¡Dime!”
‘Look at what you’re making me do to you, idiot! Tell me about El Ken or Rafa and I’ll finish you with a bullet to the head! Where are they? Tell me!’
He smacked the back of Francisco’s head with his own amputated hand repeatedly while saying his last word—¡Dime! ¡Dime!—over and over. He wanted Francisco to talk, but the victim could only mumble and whine and gasp in response.
“Pinche pendejo. ¿Crees que esto ha terminado? Todavía tienes un pie más, puta,” Gustavo said.
‘Fucking idiot. You think this is over? You still have one more foot, bitch.’
He grabbed the table knife. As he reached for his captive’s ankle, he noticed the blade was bent. He tossed it aside, letting it clang on the floor.
He looked at the doorway and yelled, “¡David! ¡David, trae el machete!”
‘David! David, bring the machete!’
David Carrillo, a pudgy guy with a mullet, stood in the kitchen. He was making a sandwich at a counter. Despite all of the gore and screaming around him, his appetite remained healthy.
He sighed as he tossed another slice of ham on his sandwich, then he muttered, “Chingada madre…”
The term translated to ‘motherfucker’ or ‘damn it.’
He grabbed the machete from the table in the kitchen. While walking over to the bathroom, the song on the radio changed to Maniac by Michael Sembello.
“¿Aún no has terminado con él?” he asked as he handed the machete to Gustavo.
‘You’re not finished with him yet?’
Gustavo responded, “Cállate la boca, güey.”
‘Shut the hell up, asshole.’
David said, “Solo–”
In Spanish, he was about to say ‘I’m just saying’ when Gustavo raised the machete and looked daggers at him. David puckered his lips, raised his hands in surrender, and stepped back.
“Cállate,” Gustavo said sternly.
He swung the machete at Francisco’s left heel. His Achilles tendon was immediately severed. Francisco felt it bobbling around in his leg like a bungee cord. He gritted his teeth and held his breath as he convulsed violently. The barbed-wire noose, tightening as he fought, was now partially obscured under folds of his bloody, torn skin. With Gustavo’s second mighty swing, the victim’s foot was lopped off.
Francisco’s head fell limp. He continued grinding his teeth, thick strings of foamy saliva hanging from his mouth. The amputation happened so fast and the pain was so immense that he didn’t even realize he had lost all of his extremities. He knew one thing and one thing only: Agony. He felt the hot pain flowing through every inch of his body, as if his blood had been replaced with acid.
Yet, he remained conscious.
Gustavo grabbed the back of Francisco’s head and lifted it up to stop him from inadvertently suffocating and cutting himself with the noose. Ricardo stood on his tiptoes and moved the animal pole to his left to give Gustavo some space. Meanwhile, David went back to the kitchen, topped his sandwich off with another slice of bread, then returned to the bathroom doorway. He took a bite of his sandwich just as Maniac was coming to an end on the radio. What is Love by Haddaway was up next.
Leaning close to Francisco’s ear, Gustavo said, “¿No quieres hablarme de tu patrón? Está bien, amigo. Háblame de Él Ken. ¿Cuál es el verdadero nombre del gringo? ¿Cuáles son sus rutas? Dime algo y te daré una bala en vez de esto.”
‘You don’t want to tell me about your boss? Fine, friend. Tell me about El Ken. What’s the American’s real name? What are his routes? Tell me something and I’ll give you a bullet instead of this.’
Eyelids flickering, Francisco stared vacantly at the shower drain. He mouthed: ‘Mátame.’ He sought death—nothing more, nothing less.
“Chingada madre,” Gustavo said.
He got up to a half crouch and directed his attention to his captive’s lower body. He swung the machete at the back of his right knee. The blade tore through the flesh and bone with ease. It only took three powerful chops to detach his lower leg. Split ligaments and veins hung from the stumps. Blood spewed out and puddled under them, reaching the cupboard and the toilet.
Gustavo picked up the hairy lower leg. He swung it down at Francisco’s upper back and barked, “¡Pinche idiota! ¡Habla! ¡Habla, cabrón! ¡Habla!”
‘Fucking idiot! Talk! Talk, bastard! Talk!’
Francisco could only groan and whine. The sound of his ribs and spine cracking was louder, though. Large red marks and knots developed across his upper back. And with each blow, the barbed-wire noose slid around in his neck, widening and stretching the massive gash across his throat. A piece of his thyroid cartilage was visible in the wound.
Frustrated, Gustavo threw the severed leg to the side. It hit the mirror above the sink, shattering it upon impact. He took the animal pole out of Ricardo’s hands and tossed it aside. The noose was still wrapped around Francisco’s neck, so the pole landed on the toilet next to them. Then he rolled Francisco onto his back.
“Deberías haber dicho algo, hijo de puta,” Gustavo said as he took a utility knife out of his pocket. It translated to: ‘You should have said something, you son of a bitch.’ He beckoned to his cousin and said, “Ayúdame.”
‘Help me.’
Gustavo thumbed the utility knife’s slider, causing the blade to shoot out of the handle with a rapid succession of clicks. He swung it at Francisco’s mutilated neck, unwittingly cutting the noose. With his own box cutter, Ricardo joined him. They sliced away at his neck with the sharp blades, one after the other.
Within seconds Francisco’s neck resembled the jagged, craggy surface of a mountain, crisscrossed with deep, bloody crevices. He tried to scream, his mouth open as wide as humanly possible, but his larynx was ruptured by one of the blades. Awful gurgling and squelching and groaning sounds came out of the wounds on his throat instead.
Francisco reached for his neck, as if he had forgotten he had no hands. His arms shook on his chest, blood spraying out from the stumps and splashing on his face. Blood fountained out of his severed jugulars in wide crimson arcs, too. It hit his executioners, the shower door, the toilet, and the walls. Some drops from one of the blades even hit the ceiling.
In a sudden jerk, he curled up into the fetal position. He rolled onto his side while his head swung every which way. It was a last-ditch effort to hide from the blades—a subconscious effort to survive.
Gustavo kicked him in the chest twice, then pushed him onto his back with his foot. Ricardo stepped on Francisco’s face, pinning the back of his head down against the shower floor, and continued slicing away at his neck. By then, David was more than halfway done with his sandwich and the song on the radio changed again.
A Fifth of Beethoven by Walter Murphy.
Gustavo stopped two minutes later after hearing his blade screech against Francisco’s spine. Ricardo kept going. Francisco’s limbs trembled, but his torso finally stopped moving. The loud gurgling noise continued to come out of Francisco’s neck, but he was no longer breathing. His head, which was sliding under Ricardo’s boot like a wet bar of soap, was only attached to his body by his spinal cord and some flimsy flaps of flesh.
