The House of Dust - 2nd Chapter

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ESPERANZA

John

John felt helpless. He’d been driving the entire day, only to reach nowhere — The whole time hearing his mother’s voice echoing in his head. “Take your brother’s life as your own,” she said, like I could draw any example from this beggar! To be like Mark? What a joke!

Why would John, a sophisticated man, a noble breed, try to be like Mark, someone just... blah?

That trip was perdition, not the life John was living. Well, maybe both... but indeed, that trip was a pointless request from a senile old woman.

Why did I accept this trip to nowhere land, a pointless cause, with this beggar by my side?

John knew why, even though he never dared to admit it. If only she knew what I was going through, I’m sure Mom would never ask me this. Not like this, driving forever in the desert sun.

They could’ve flown to the coast, but no! “Mom said we must drive there,” Mark said. Cheap little bastard, can’t you afford the tickets? I hope this wind on your face is pricy enough! John thought begrudgingly.

Every day away from his hometown was a day John lost not planning his trial. And for what? Cleaning up bugs from the windshield and mourning in silence about his mother’s death, broken marriage, and dying career? Instead, John should have been in his office, working his way out of the charges, as he did with so many people on several other occasions.

Hours passed, and quickly the evening had come, then finally, the black night. John was lost, trying to figure out the road ahead with low-beam headlights, barely any fuel, and his nerves under pressure. It was hopeless, so his heart sunk in sorrow.

But then John saw the tunnel, that narrow gap in the mountains, and wondered, at the same time the car leaned the hill upward, Is that Esperanza?

They entered the tunnel, driving slowly, and for a moment, darkness became darker. John could no longer dodge thinking about his sorrows.

John’s life became a downward slope three years before.

Everything started to fall with a ghost from the past, a leech feeding on John’s blood.

After John’s graduation, the young lawyer looked for clients eager to grow with astronomic ambitions. Someone told him that criminal justice could be very lucrative if you know to charge, but not any criminal justice: white-collar crimes. John was born a bright strategist, good with words, and quickly built up his fame.

One day, someone approached him with an offer. A city councilor was charged with embezzlement, drug trafficking, and money laundering. That was precisely what John prepared himself for, so he represented the councilor with everything he could offer.

The politician was guilty, admittedly, but promised to pay whatever was necessary for walking free, a price justice could not cash. So, playing on the fringes, John organized bribery of high-rank officers and judges and turned the trial into a stage, breaking every line on the lawyer’s oath. There was bribery, evidence planting, witness tampering, jury coercion... you name it! All assisted by the councilor’s older son.

John won the case, and the councilor walked free. The reward had become John’s luxurious apartment and his own law firm. Still, John’s price wasn’t yet fully paid, not until many years later, when John realized that, like justice, it was a price he too couldn’t cash.

The city councilor was charged again six years later, with irrefutable evidence, by a prosecutor much more serious and ambitious than the first trial. John first heard about the case by reading on the news that the same man he’d freed years before was now involved with drugs, weaponry, militia, and domestic terrorism. The councilor was arrested, and on the very next day, John got a call from his son, asking for the same service John had provided six years before.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you this time,” were John’s last words before he laid down the phone. A week later, John got a surprise visit from the councilor’s son. If the gun the man put on the table wasn’t enough to intimidate, the file he brought would: a packet of evidence implicating John in the misconducts six years before. John was an accomplice.

Mark called John a few days later after leaving five unheard messages. They never talked properly after Mark’s overdose, and John wasn’t interested in anything Mark had to say. Still, John picked up the phone and learned about his mother’s cancer for the first time. Of course, John didn’t know what to do with that information.

After a few seconds of driving in the dark, John saw the light at the end of the tunnel, but it wasn’t light, just a different shade of black. They finally crossed the gap, and for a moment, John felt the warm blood rushing in his heart.

John could see the mountains surrounding the valley from the review mirror, like a fortress, and a city resting on the bottom of the valley, ten kilometers ahead. The air chilled as the car descended the smooth ramp.

“Is that a city?” Mark said.

“It sure looks like it. Thank God! I told you we ought to find a place to stop!” John said.

“John, look at the fuel gauge.”

“Holy shit, perfect timing! We couldn’t drive much more on the reserve.”

The county lights were weak, only pale-yellow spots backlighting here and there, covering the rest with a blanket of darkness.

They drove past a sign that said: “Esperanza: in 5km.”

There was light at the end of the tunnel, after all! Esperanza. John could eat and finally call Vic, his partner, to ask about the trial preparations.

The sheer thought of the trial brought back John’s memories.

There was a bullet with John’s name on it, which he could dodge, so he took the case. His mother would have to wait.

But the waiting took two years, during which the councilor’s maniac visited John’s apartment twice a week. John grew sick of threats, mainly involving Amanda, John’s ex-wife. It was good that John kept his mother distant, for she would’ve become another liability.

Amanda didn’t know about the threats, and that strange man showing up every once in a while was just another worried client. She was a lawyer too and awfully familiar with desperate clients and confidentiality privileges. Amanda never tried to sneak into John’s office when the councilor’s son was around but consistently inquired. She couldn’t understand John’s relationship with that case but was intelligent enough to realize something else was in play.

That second trial implicated John even more. John cut a deal with the justice department, sentencing the councilor to home prison as long as he cooperated with other investigations. The case was over, but John was still in debt as long as the politician held the evidence file.

John never accepted any payment for that service, trying to distance himself from the politician. Still, one morning he found a new convertible Jaguar in his garage with a note directed to him.

That was enough for Amanda to snap, and John told her everything.

Amanda was a human-rights lawyer and knew the councilor very well. After learning about John’s relationship with that man, she remained quiet for months. John was desperate to fix his marriage and look after his mother, but the councilor was still cashing, and John was forced to keep working.

Every two weeks, the councilor’s son paid him a visit. John altered proofs to shield the politician associates and advised several small cases. He was often dragged to crime scenes to give legal advice or watch them torture dissidents.

John couldn’t sleep unless he got wasted, so he spent most nights drinking, drugging, and trashing his personal life. When Amanda left, John felt conflicted. It was good that she distanced herself from the danger, but she was a bitch for leaving him alone.

Every time John had a cup in his hand, he knew everything that was happening to him was his fault. While the councilor was free on his beach house, enjoying the sun, John was locked in a dark psychological trap.

One day John received divorce papers. It was rock bottom.

After drinking and snarking enough cocaine to raise a dead body, John was ready to confront his wife. John drove to Amanda’s hotel, but she got a cab when he arrived.

John followed Amanda to a restaurant. She met a fancy pretty-looking guy with a malicious smile, shooting poison into John’s heart. The bitch is having an affair! He remembered thinking.

The restaurant had a big glass window, so John could watch them from outside. John’s mind raced with hurtful thoughts of them kissing and fucking so much that his unshattered eyes dried red, and his hand bled with sunken nails.

Finally, John snapped.

The nice-dressing guy touched Amanda’s hand across the table.

John exploded, knocking down everything and everyone that stood in his way. Everything was red. It took several arms to stop John from killing that pretty man.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Amanda shouted, and that brought John back to his senses. The sign of disaster was around him: tables, people, food, and blood. Amanda knelt by broken glass, holding a handkerchief on her lover’s nose, with nothing else to dry her tears.

The manager shouted, other people cried, and the sirens sounded closer.

So, John ran away.

The nice-looking man was Amanda’s divorce lawyer, but John only learned that after getting the subpoena.

“What the fuck did you do? Get your ass here, right now!” Vic, his partner, screamed on the phone. John got served: Amanda, the restaurant, the concierge, and the lawyer.

John told his partner everything a week later.

“Oh my God, John, you can go to jail... I can go to jail! For fuck’s sake, why? You fucked us! You fucking fucked us, Fuck, Fuck!”

Vic was the calmest person John ever knew, and having a reaction like that made John feel small. On a dark-clouded summer day, John and Vic spent hours drafting the defense strategy. The first reaction was to call the justice department to get more details on the prosecution and influence the judge selection but to no use. John had no more friends in the justice department after the councilor case. So finally, John agreed to apply for witness protection, using the insights on the councilor business as leverage. It was the only way, but also a big gamble, for if the councilor suspected of John’s plan, he was a dead man.

When John left Vic’s office that evening, he noticed several calls from his mother’s phone. It was Mark who often used their mother’s phone. A storm broke loose when Mark called him again. John picked up but couldn’t hear anything, for the rain, engines, horns, and street chaos muffled his brother’s voice. Short in patience, John shouted, “What do you want?”

There was a long pause full of tension on the other side of the line. Finally, Mark said that Hera was dead and turned off the phone.

John’s heart failed at that moment, and his vision blurred. It was a shock. He walked dumbly down the road with no direction, mumbling, barely aware of a driver honking and shouting, “Get out of the way, you idiot!”

John stopped the traffic when he fainted in the middle of the road. He woke up minutes later, soaked in rain and sweat, surrounded by strangers on the sidewalk. Unable to bear much more, John threw up soundly.

John could still feel the taste of bile from the memory as they approached the city of Esperanza.

The town looked small, with the highway cutting it straight from end to end. There was something about that place, something familiar but scary. John felt so tired that he had the impression that the pale city lights pulsed slowly like a dying heart. Still, despite his weariness, John felt on his bones that he shouldn’t stay in that place more than necessary. They would need to find a hotel somewhere else.

But there wasn’t any alternative road, so John would need to cross that dark place either way.

“Looks strange, doesn’t it?” Mark said.

“Creepy and cheap. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

It was hard to hide the tension in their voices.

An old board with scratched letters announced: “Welcome to Esperanza.”

The first building was a gas station, so John felt lucky for the first time that day. Finally, they could fuel up, eat, drink, and use the bathroom. After that, they would only need a map to hit the road.

They found the rusted, decayed gas station abandoned, barely lit by a single flicking fluorescent lamp. The two gas pumps didn’t seem to work, and behind them, a grimy shack stood alone, with lights off and a few broken windows.

“What a shit hole!”

John tried the pumps while Mark checked out the building.

The pumps were old Shells from early that century, red but darkened by rust. A sign hung from the hose, flapping with the wind, saying: “No fuel, come tomorrow.” John tried to move the valve, but it didn’t budge, locked by a massive old padlock. The handle was so dirty that, by barely touching it, John’s hands got full of oil and sand.

“You got to be fucking kidding me. Mark, the fucking pumps are locked!” John screamed.

But then John had the impression that everything got quieter, like someone put fingers on his ears, like entering a soundproofed chamber. There was no more wind, crickets, or the sound of his own heart.

What’s going on? John thought.

“The sign here say’s it’s open,” Mark replied, breaking the silence.

John came by his brother and took a long look at the shack. It was, in fact, two buildings, one made from rusted corrugated metal sheets like a garage or a workshop and the other in wood and wearied concrete. There were two glass windows with the blinds closed, one broken with a cereal box paperboard covering the hole. Either way, John couldn’t see inside, for the glass was covered in dirt. Two signs attached to the door welcomed the travelers, saying: “OPEN” and “FOR SERVICE, PLEASE RING BELL.”

“This place is clearly abandoned, dumbass,” John said.

“There’s only one way to find out.” Mark pushed the button.

The bell rang loudly like a hammer to the head, making the flimsy shack shake like a snake. John was happily surprised to see that the bell worked, but his heart raced with regret when everything went silent again. The brothers looked at each other, afraid of what was about to come out of the door.

It took forever, and yet no one answered.

“See? It’s abandoned, dumbass!” John said.

“I’ll try again.” But before Mark could touch the button, a light turned on inside the building, and they heard steps. It sounded like a massive horse trotting inside the building. It could only be a huge man, with a hundred and odd kilos, using heavy cowboy boots or hoofs. The character walked patiently throughout the building, one step after another, feeling its own heavyweight. It took another eternity until it reached the door, like the building was a large storeroom inside, echoing the steps in very distant walls. Finally, an oversized silhouette formed behind the blinds in the glass door.

For a second, John regretted pushing the doorbell. What else would live in such a tomb if not a colossal demon? Or worse, a fat dirty simpleton?

The silhouette kept making noises, rattling his keychain and scratching the wall with filthy hands. Suddenly many lamps in the gas station turned on, and John could see the station better. But to no use, for it still looked like shit.

The door finally opened, and an incredibly tall, thin old man stood with many missing teeth in his ignorant smile. His head was bald in the middle, but his long messy gray hair grew irregularly around his ears and back. By the number of wrinkles on his face and hands, John would guess he was at least a hundred years old, and he smelled wrong, like a sweaty mummy who just walked out of a sandy catacomb, moldy and ochre.

“Lost in her’ ain ya?” the man said, his voice sounding hoarser than Mark’s, an old smoker. He looked amused at seeing new people in his shitty establishment.

But the thing that caught John’s attention the most were his eyes since they had different colors. Grayish blue and pale green. He was a low-class old version of David Bowie, with fewer teeth, hair, and no charm.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Dr. Rodriguez, and I am a lawyer. This is my...” John coughed, “brother.”

“Brothers, eh? Thought ya cake eaters, eh,” the old man said.

John felt bothered by the comment. People seemed to confuse Mark and John for a gay couple everywhere they went.

The old man stood by the door, looking dull, scratching his irregular-growing facial hair.

“Pardon the interruption, sir, but we’re out of fuel. We need diesel, preferably, and to buy some supplies. Perhaps you could offer us a map too?” John said.

“Diesel, y’all say?” the man said.

“Yes, diesel! This is a gas station after all, isn’t it?” John said.

The man pointed to the sign hanging from the pump and said, “Ya half-wit, can’y’all read the sign? No fuel!”

“But sir, we don’t need much. We’ll take whatever you have. We can pay premium; we just need enough to reach the next city,” John said.

The old man didn’t seem to understand what John said.

“We’ll take what you have, sir,” Mark said.

“Ar’y’all deaf? I have non’, eh. Com’ tmorrow’.”

The old man turned his back to enter the shack.

“Sir, wait! How far is the next city?” Mark said.

The old man turned back and scratched his cheek. “‘Bout two, three hundred k’s.”

“Sir, is there any hotel in town?” Mark said.

The old man screeched his cheek again.

“Ther’s a farm. Lots of yokels is lost hir’, eh. Gerbert’ll help y’all, for a good man he is. Drive ‘till the big crossroad, then turn right until the dirt path. Bull Farm, it calls. Check ‘em sighs’, eh,” the old man said.

“Can we use your phone?” Mark said.

“Don’t have it.”

But before Mark could start the next question, the old man went inside, hitting the shack door in Mark’s face and turning off all the lights, including the flickering one. After that, everything was darker and dream-like, and John believed that the dialog they shared with the old creature never happened.

“Let’s find this farm and rest. I’m sure we’ll find a way tomorrow,” Mark said.

“A fucking farm! That’s all I need right now,” John said.

John was miserable; his nerves and bones ached, his sight blurred, and his mind felt apathetic. He was so exhausted that he couldn’t even make a simple judgment call, only repeating to himself,

Why did I accept this fucking trip?

The streetlights were extremely old and could barely light two meters around them; only the highway had light poles. The rest of the streets were pitch dark, like the houses. The buildings looked like Rorschach tests, giant bats, and large disfigured tits. It was a ghost town, hopeless. John turned right on the crossroad, and soon they reached a dirt path by the end of the road.

“I think we’re lost. I can’t see the signs that the old man mentioned,” John said.

“Well, he did say something about a dirt path. It must be this one,” Mark said.

“We’re in the desert, dumbass. Everything is a dirt path!”

John drove slowly on the rugged path, walking speed, believing that the holes would damage his precious Jaguar’s suspension.

The dirt path looked like a black hole, a tunnel. Even the Jaguar light seemed to be dimmed by a dense fog. It was hard to understand the surrounding, for John had the impression of seeing bushes and trees after the fig, which was impossible in the middle of the desert.

But John was tired, and he could be hallucinating. The car moved steadily, bump after bump, feeling like a mother swinging her kid to sleep.

“Watch out!” Mark suddenly screamed, taking the wheel.

John braked, and the car stopped. The smell of burnt rubber and dust got inside. Looking forward, John saw a pole a few centimeters away, trying to make sense of his confusion.

“What happened?”

“You just fall asleep! Don’t you want me to drive?” Mark said.

“Hell no! What now? Left, or right? There is no sign on that pole!”

Mark stepped out and looked around. He bent in front of the car and grabbed a sign on the ground, returning quickly to the vehicle, shaking from the cold. “Turn right. Bull Farm is up ahead. I saw some lights in the distance.”

As they approached the farm, the fog became less dense, and John could now see the details around the car. There were bushes and trees and, not long after, a fenced cornfield. John opened the window to let the cold in, trying to be awake and alert. The air brought smells in, moist soil and pasture, grains, and manure.

Bulls cried lazily somewhere in the distance, a softly sporadic low humming sound. But when the brothers reached the middle of the cornfield, the cries became louder and more urgent. The animals were probably bothered by the car’s engine noise, waking them from their dull sleep.

“This must be the place,” Mark sighed, but John was too tired to answer.

They crossed the cornfield, following a dimmed spotlight, and reached a courtyard. A hundred meters in front of the road stood an old house with spotlights hanging from the porch ceiling.

The road was divided into two, one left and one right, and the cornfield followed the street until the edge of sight. There was a parking lot ahead and a pine grove surrounding the whole property on both sides.

Everything looked alive and welcoming.

The trees seemed to dance with the winds and the sound of the animals. It was a calm, pastoral scene, crickets chirped, and coyotes sang. The air was fresh with wheat and corn, moistened by water from a close river. John’s muscles relaxed from the sound and atmosphere, and his neck and bones hurt less.

How could a place like that be? They’d seen only sand, rocks, and dead bushes for the past few days, but this was an oasis!

“I just hope they’ll take us in.” John was worried, and Mark agreed with a nod of his head.

John parked between an old pick-up and a small compact rented car. The pick-up was from early in the century, orange from rust, a non-functional relic. The compact car was new, a small FIAT, with the rental company sign hanging from the rearview mirror. Someone else was lost here.

Either way, that place looked terrible, so John left his Rolex in the glove compartment after some thought. Just to be safe.

The parking’s pavement was gravel, rattling every step they gave.

The brothers walked towards the house, but as soon as John’s fancy shoes touched the porch stairs, several lights turned on, and a dog started to bark frenetically.

The whole farm was lit, and the lights were so strong that John couldn’t see his car anymore. The tension was back, and his heart filled in with adrenaline. John became defensive and borderline hostile. They just trespassed, and the farmer could send the dogs on them if he wanted. So, John tried to find some sort of weapon around, like a rod or a chair, noticing the old furniture on the front porch, straw chairs and hammocks, the big windows, and many hanging lamps. The front double door was elegantly carved in wood, with a screen door to hold the mosquitos.

Suddenly, the door opened violently, and a bald man carrying a rifle stood behind the mosquito screen. He wore denim farm overalls, no shirt underneath, with only the right strap shoulder keeping the clothes in place.

The farmer aimed the double-barreled rifle at the visitors, intimidating, barely aware that what frightened John the most was the enormous hound growling by his side. A huge black dog with glowing yellow eyes, displaying its pointy teeth, drooling and barking frenetically.

John froze in terror. That beast was about to rip their throats at the slightest command.