Close. Too fucking close for my liking.
There's no way in hell I'm just gonna hand myself over by walking into this goddamn place. It's a bastion—that's what they called it. Not a "fortress," but it's badass. It's one of those housing units where people live in shitty little eggshells, no more than sixty meters, with two crappy bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. But it's got its perks.
I wasn't the one hitting on that chick from unit 12; el Güero was. Hell yeah, that's what idiots like him are for. Thanks to him, we got in. The brat let us in right where we needed to be: at the very back, in the last houses where there's nothing behind them. It's not even woods; there's a penitentiary nearby, and these morons, thinking they were keeping themselves safe, built walls all around the place. One long, long, high, high wall. Idiots. Now they're trapped in here with us. They know it, they all know it: nobody gets out.
There's only five of us; we don't need anyone else. El Güero, his Otaco, el Tiras, the little brat—who's the one telling us who the hell is talking shit about us—and me. But we're not gonna hit them; no, that would ruin the whole point of being here. We're not interested in wiping these people out; there are too many empty houses. People who left for the States or looking for a better life. And now, we have a better life. Every one of us has taken over one of the houses.
I already took care of chasing off those losers who were running the street. Street by street, we've taken them out, and now all that's left is a ridiculous old lady who shakes with fear every time she sees me. I won't hit them; no one's gonna have a reason to look at us sideways or start any shit. They're old, most of them retired; some work, but just like anyone else, they put up a little stand out on the street and live off their pathetic pensions. We're not gonna be like that.
We've already got someone to bring us "product," we're starting to sell, and obviously, we came here to hide out. Because outside… outside, those two pistols we've got aren't worth shit. Outside, you're running scared; in here, we've got our own little safe space. A happy, risk-free space. This is fucking heaven. We've been enjoying this for so many weeks I don't even know when we got here. El Güero keeps the girl happy, I don't give a damn; we've made a lot of money.
Pretty soon we'll be able to start hitting the other units nearby—well, the ones closer to the city—because this place gives us the certainty that no one's gonna come poking around. The cops have come by, but from a distance. Why would they bother? It's a community of retired old folks.
There were carpenters. There weren't any butchers… but there's this goddamn old man who won't stop staring at me. I think he's the local carpenter, a cabinetmaker or some shit. But that bastard hasn't stopped watching me, as if he could actually intimidate me. Let him try. Let the old fuck try. The street ain't easy; I'd go toe-to-toe with anyone, but it's time to be more chill, more secure. I'm not gonna be some punk kid my whole life, and I don't want to be a goddamn old man rotting in a house waiting for death. No, I'm going higher. Once we're settled and get a couple more pieces, we're gonna take over the whole area. Everyone's gonna know us.
Well, we gotta keep the party going peacefully, even if the old hags give us dirty looks. One of them already bailed; she had a little shack at the entrance, but the food she served was garbage. Now the only one left… well, we gotta eat with her. None of us actually knows how to cook and everyone here orders from her. That's why we go and push to the front. I don't give a shit; I want to be served first.
Anyway, let's go grab dinner.
¡Ay, hijo de la taaa…!
Something's happening. The pain is too much. This isn't normal. My stomach hurts, bad. Run.
Ah, you fat bastard! Why did you go into the house bathroom? No, another one, another one! The carpenter's bathroom is right next to us, fuck him. Get the hell out of here, old man, I gotta go… This is horrible. It hurts so much. What the fuck did this lady cook? I was defending her, goddamn old hag. Just wait 'til I get out of here, I'm gonna take care of her. She's never selling here again. I don't know, I think I'm gonna have to call for…
Who screamed? Who screamed?! That's not normal. Those aren't local screams. Everyone here is old as fuck; even when they complain about us taking shit from their stores, it's a tired-sounding scream. This isn't normal. It sounds like el Tiras. It sounds just like fucking Tiras. Oh no, wait, hold on, man, don't go.
Now the old bitch… What the hell is going on? That scream sounds horrible. No, no, no, this isn't normal. Who the fuck had the guns? Oh no, they're in the house! They're in the house! I gotta get out, it's right here…
There's a ton of people outside. Holy shit, that butcher's cleaver looks insane—it's massive. Fuck, I could take one or two of them, but I can't do this alone. Where the fuck are my boys? Why aren't they here? Why are they leaving me alone? No, I gotta get out, I gotta get out.
Where, where, where?! The back patio, yeah, fuck yeah, there's a little alley behind the patio. Let's see, the window is small, but yeah, I can fit through here. It looks fucking creepy. No, I gotta go, one jump, one jump… it hurts, it hurts… motherfucker! Too much time sitting still. Run, run, run! Where?
To my house? No… That old lady's wall—the one who "left" us the house… well, she didn't leave it. It's too high. How the fuck did they put up walls if they're supposed to be a community that trusts each other? The next one, the next one. This one's empty. I'm over.
The guns, the guns, I gotta get to them.
Quiet, quiet… I heard that. That's el Tiras. That's el Llantas. The fat one. It's el Gordo. What a nightmare! What are they doing to him? Not even when we got jumped by that gang… No, that's not the scream of someone getting a beating. El Gordo isn't coming out of that one. It sounds fucking horrible.
No, I can't stay here. If I can't find the guns, I'm out of here. Yeah, while they're busy with them. No, no… Who's there? Oh, it's you, you little brat. Where's el Güero? Why the fuck isn't he with you?
Wait, it's not you. Actually, you're not even in one piece anymore. What did they do to you? More importantly: what did they do it with? Fucking hell. No, no, no, I gotta run. It's ten blocks. I'll dodge them. Yeah, there's fewer now, fewer… There's another bunch of old men.
That was the last of my crew. I see the gun; one of these fucking geezers has it. No, forget it, I'm not being stupid; let's get out of here. We gotta get to the gate. The gate is locked tight. That's not a normal lock. It's welded shut! Kick it. Another kick. Please, open up, you piece of shit!
I'm climbing. The back patios must connect, they gotta let me through. Who the fuck puts broken glass on top of the wall? They heard me, they heard me, goddamn it. Run! I gotta go back.
They're all here. It's the carpenter. That goddamn old man is right behind them. What is he showing? What is that? Why do they look like us?
Our heads…
Fuck! I should never have come here. No, let me go, I promise. Look, we'll behave, I'll even… No! Keep that away from…
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Portraits in Wood
My work compels me to give it shape in the absolute silence of the night, when all distractions die away. I choose the early hours of the morning so that my blade can trace cuts so precise and fine that a block of wood ceases to be an inert object. I want it to come to life, to show the world what it is truly made of.
However, I have just ruined a piece. And it is all because of those bastards.
They arrived a couple of months ago, invited by the daughter of the lady in house 12. The mother is no longer with us; we never found out what happened to her. One day she was right here, mocking the neighbor's dog for biting through another cable, and the next, she had abandoned our precious housing unit. There is a cross in her honor, but her daughter... she is not a good soul. She is nothing like her mother. With her, chaos arrived.
Months of conflict followed. Music at full volume, finding her drunk on every corner. Does it bother me to see her like that? No, why should it bother me that someone is enjoying themselves? The problem is that it wasn't time for a party. Most of us used to leave for work, though now many of us don't even cross the gate. The situation became so heavy that we prefer to work from here, sending our products out in taxis or with some boy on a bicycle desperate for a few coins. Even the boy who helped me the most stopped showing up. My workshop is small—more of a sanctuary to pass the time than a business—but I can't find peace even there.
I cannot concentrate. That girl brought bad people; you can see it in their stance. They are thugs, the kind you don't want near anyone you value, but she wants them. She says one is her boyfriend. To me, they all look the same: saturated with drugs, reeking of violence. They are doing bad things, I know it. I've seen them eliminate the leaders of every street, one by one.
The lack of sleep is making me lose my steady hand; I've already cut myself several times with my knives. This cannot continue. I have to talk to the others. I am old, I am stubborn, and I have a foul temper, but I know that these kinds of people do not belong here.
When I look out, I notice the neighbors are just like me, but no one speaks to me. Perhaps they think I will betray them, or that I will be the first to flee. But I am not just a carpenter; my life has been about capturing beauty, and now that I cannot, despair gnaws at me. They have guns, I've seen them. But we will find a way. I'd try to call the police, but we are forgotten on the edge of town. In this housing unit, which we built brick by brick with high, sturdy walls, we now have the trash locked inside with us.
I haven't slept in a week. Those idiots took over the house next door; a property that was once a tomb of silence and is now a nest where they plan to become the new cartel lords. They are just children with two pistols, but that is enough. One of the food ladies already closed her stand to head north. We are running out of time.
What do we do? No one trusts anyone, but the silence of the families is suspicious. Are they planning something, or has fear silenced them forever? I hope not, because if necessary, those guys are going down with me.
I fell asleep. A scream jolted me awake, but it wasn't the usual noise. There was no celebration, no alcohol. I hear them screaming from the bathroom of the neighboring house; it sounds horrific. Fast footsteps. Blood. There are bloodstains in the hallway, and this is no longer normal.
When I step out, I see the butcher and the mechanic. I always knew they had large knives, but now they seem giant, and they aren't exactly cutting meat. They emerge from the neighbor's house in a deathly silence. Those two thugs are gone. If they think they escaped, they are mistaken. The neighbors took their guns; they must have put something in their food while they were distracted. Now they are hunting them down. They won't make it.
I have to hurry with my work. This gets settled tonight. As the silence spreads, I hear the scream of my old friend's daughter. She is on her way to meet her mother; I hope she can straighten her path in the next life.
Then I hear the other one... that wretch who tried to steal my chisels. I remember his superior gaze well, thinking himself stronger just because he was young. It does him no good now. I have to work faster. Carefully. Each piece of wood is the link. This one has to come out right on the first try. There are only three left, and there is no escape: the walls are high, the door was welded shut by the blacksmith, and it won't yield even if they kick the lock.
Two left. One tried to flee across the rooftops, but there is nowhere to hide here. He keeps screaming; he surely fell onto the sharp spikes on the windows. I must hurry. Even if it costs me my life, this ends today.
At dawn, silence returns. Neighbors greet each other; some head to work, others—the retirees—go to rest. It is a great day. They did it. I remain in my workshop; I am sure they will appreciate my contribution.
The leader of the unit came looking for me. He was pale. He says someone decapitated those subjects and displayed their heads at the entrance. Of course—it was the only way to ensure no one else like them would want to come in. It doesn't matter what they think; those things won't happen here.
And don't worry, I only have her left to finish.
I cut those heads. I needed the details for my work. Now, when the police come and take away the "remains," they will find that I have identical warnings carved in wood. They have the same expression of terror they wore when they decided to mock us. This place will be safe. We will all do our part to keep it that way.