| From Toromillo the Hunted by John Cunyus, iUniverse, 2007. Home Tales of the Drug War Miguel Escalante was a collector of sounds, a by-product of five years in the jungle where subtle variations in sound – a twig breaking, an odd animal cry, even an unexpected silence – were warning signs from a nearby enemy. He unconsciously committed to memory the footsteps of everyone around him. He could hear Ana coming in bare feet three carpeted rooms away. He’d memorized the footsteps of the Colombian commandant on the island, the soldier who attended them, and the valet who brought them their meals. Ana was sound asleep on the seat beside him. Miguel leaned back, letting the sun warm and soothe his aching limbs, basking in the sound of gentle surf. Then he heard unfamiliar footsteps. He was instantly fully awake, fully alert, listening with every fabric of his being. Last night’s warning echoed through his mind. The footsteps kept coming. Miguel reached inside his pocket, pulled out his pistol, and cocked it. Ana snored gently beside him. The footsteps reached the veranda of his room, fifteen meters behind him. Miguel decided to dive left, away from Ana. The footsteps crossed the veranda and reached the top of the steps down to the beach. Miguel leapt off the chair and rolled onto his stomach, pistol in firing position. In the same instant, a figure in Colombian army olive green leapt to the sand from a hiding place in a tree no more than twenty meters away. Miguel recognized the shape immediately – Sergeant Victorio Lopez from his unit, who’d fought at his side the last five years. In one continuous motion, Lopez pulled back the lever on his AK-47 and threw himself toward Ana and Miguel. He ducked a shoulder, rolled in the sand, and rose up in a firing crouch, his body between Ana and whoever was coming across the veranda. An unfamiliar Colombian soldier, hardly more than a kid, froze terrified at the top of the steps. Miguel’s and Lopez’s weapons were aimed straight at his heart. In the same instant, two more soldiers, each also instantly recognized by Miguel, leapt down from the trees, pulling back the levers on their rifles. Both positioned themselves out of the line of fire of the two men on the beach, as they’d done in ambush for years. The poor Colombian soldier heard the men behind him and shrieked with fear. He glanced over his shoulder to see two more rifles pointing at him, peed in his pants, and fainted dead away down the steps onto the beach. “Sergeant,” Miguel said completely deadpan, “he’s obviously one of ours.” “I’d say so, sir,” Lopez replied. Ana awakened with a start when the man fell. She saw Miguel flat on his stomach on the beach, gun drawn, and began to pull herself upright from the fully reclined beach chair. It’s hard to do that quickly. As she did, Lopez stood up from his firing crouch too. He never took his eye off the sprawled figure on the beach. He simply reached behind him with one arm to make sure he stayed between Ana and the fallen man. “What the . . .” she sputtered, hair tousled from sleep, trying to take it all in. “Who the . . . what the hell is going on here?” she finally managed to spit out. Miguel’s voice was perfectly calm. “Martin,” he said to one of the two soldiers on the veranda, “secure the man.” Martin (pronounced Mar-TEEN in Spanish) Diego straddled the fallen soldier, pointing his gun directly at the man’s head. The soldier stirred, looked up into the barrel of Martin’s rifle, and fainted again. “Colombia’s finest,” Martin sneered. “Eduardo,” Miguel commanded the other, “search him.” Eduardo leapt down from the veranda and quickly went through the soldier’s pockets. “He’s got a letter, sir.” “Bring it to me.” Eduardo brought it down. Miguel took it. The pain in his legs from the jump and roll was so intense, though, he couldn’t force his eyes to focus. His voice remained completely calm. “Mrs. Escalante,” he ordered, “read the letter.” Ana reached over and took it from him with a trembling hand. Before she could read it, they heard the sound of footsteps running toward them. Lopez pushed Ana back down, then he, Martin, and Eduardo formed an arc with their bodies to shield her. They calmly aimed their rifles at whatever was coming their way. “It’s the doctor,” Miguel said, recognizing the footsteps. “He’s coming with the commandant and some soldiers,” Lopez added. An instant later the doctor and the soldiers burst onto the veranda. Just as suddenly, they skidded to a terrified halt. The doctor’s voice was frantic. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s us!” “Come out where we can see you,” Miguel ordered. The doctor and the commandant stepped into view, hands high in the air. The other soldiers stood back. “Clear?” Lopez asked. “Clear?” Martin asked. Miguel looked the doctor and commandant over for a moment and said, “Clear.” “Stand down, boys,” Lopez ordered. Martin and Eduardo released the levers on their assault rifles. They didn’t lower them. The doctor and commandant walked very slowly toward them. “What happened?” the doctor asked, his heart pounding in his ears. Lopez answered, “We didn’t recognize the footsteps.” If Miguel hadn’t been in such pain by this time he would have smiled. He and Lopez had been together so long they could almost think each other’s thoughts. “My God,” the doctor cried when he saw the other man lying in a heap on the beach. “Is he dead?” “No,” Miguel said. “Passed out.” At that point Miguel closed his eyes and lowered his weapon. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Martin,” he said. “Sir!” “See to Mrs. Escalante.” “Yes, sir.” “Sergeant,” he said. “Sir.” “Help me get inside. I don’t think I can get up.” Lopez, Ana, and the doctor each stepped to his side. Lopez slung his rifle over his shoulder, pushed the doctor out of the way, and picked Miguel up bodily off the beach. “Where to, Major?” Miguel couldn’t answer. Ana said, “Into the room. Take him to the couch” Eduardo and Martin, weapons still raised, shielded Lopez, Miguel, and Ana as Lopez carried him inside. Someone on the island had tipped somebody off. They were taking no chances. Lopez, sweat and sand mixed together on his face, laid Miguel gently on the couch. Miguel was struggling to stay conscious against the whirlwind of pain. “What does the letter say?” he asked weakly. “What?” Ana asked. She hadn’t quite heard him. “He wants to know what the letter says,” Lopez repeated. Ana opened it and gasped. “My God,” she said. “The guerrillas murdered two of Hernan Virrey’s grandchildren.” Home Tales of the Drug War |
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©2007, John G. Cunyus
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John Cunyus is freelance writer
working in North Texas. His work
may be viewed online at
www.johncunyus.com
