The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
‘Jornada del Muerto — chapter one‘ by Alejandro Bastidas
If you ever need some fellow forever resting, silent and feeding the worms, you call La Dama de Miraflores.
But before you go yelling her name across the streets of Cienfuegos, make sure your pockets are plump and bulging, and your resolve unsullied and firm. I ought to warn you, the woman holds no fondness for wasting her time on cowards who presume to be her clients but quaver at the thought of inviting Mother Murder to dance. A woman of business, through and through. Notorious for her efficiency, wealth, and continuous presence in the nightmares of men. Her Cuban blood burning hotter than the muzzle of her pistol after it spits out a bullet. Kids who misbehave are often told La Damawill will add their names to her killing list and the brats learn quickly how to be silent. Little do they know that she has a code, and that are no children. Even the coldest of mercenaries must stand up for something, don’t you think? But one right never erases an extensive history of wrongs, dear friends. If it did, life would be less miserable and confessions before a priest would be actually worth a damn.
The Administration I so loyally serve has made it their priority to capture and execute La Dama de Miraflores, ever since one of her targets included some bastard in the good graces of the Ministry of Defense. Or was it his brother? I’m not really sure. Thing is, folks who legislate all the laws want the woman dead and I’m the one they turned to for said purpose. Told you life was miserable.
As captain of La Guardia Estatalit is my duty to protect the people of my city from all peril and its violent authors, and I’ve been doing just that for over fifteen years. I still keep the photograph from the first day I wore the uniform. Javier Altamira, 1952, etched on ink at the backside for me to never forget why I joined the force. Now prisons are full of criminals who despise me and hell is packed with burning souls who curse me, but that has never kept me up at night. The only thing that ever has, occurred two days ago when life told me to fuck right off.
“You have two weeks to arrest or kill La Dama, Captain. We’re postponing all previous operations and focusing all the Guardia’sefforts on a single target. President’s orders,” said Garzón, my commanding officer.
I saw in the man’s eyes that he liked it even less than I did, but when those up top open their fancy mouths, what’s a man like me to do? Refusing direct orders would result in the exact same thing as going after La Dama.
Death.
“Streets gonna get bloody, chief. We’ll bury more of our own, spread panic among the people, and one way or another the Mafia’s gonna get involved,” I said as I reached for one of the thick cigars Garzón kept on his desk.
“The Mafia always gets involved, our boys will keep on dying anyway, and the people are always afraid in Cienfuegos.” Garzón offered me a light and drilled his dark eyes into mine, making sure I’d listen to his every word. “You get that bitch and you cripple the Mafia. Without their favorite assassin, less cops will die and the people won’t fear getting stabbed in the neck near some alley. I know it won’t be easy, but it has to be done.”
I allowed the smoke to haze my head for an instant, then gave Garzón a gentle nod and offered no more arguments. 1952. Remember 1952, I told myself.
La Dama butchered a dozen of my own men so that should be motivation enough for me to go out and hunt her, right? Go out and wrap a chain around her neck, then drag her across the city to El Palacio del Sol so the president herself can choose how the woman should die. I walked out of the office counting my steps, pretending not to notice how the other officers lined up on the sides of the precinct as I made my way out. Their silence hung heavy in the air while dozens of blank pupils stalked me. I’ve always hated this tradition of theirs.
La Jornada del Muerto, journey of the dead man.
Whenever a captain got assigned to a mission tied to the scum of the underworld, everyone would watch him leave in silence as if paying their respects. As if it were the man’s requiem and he no longer walked among them.
“Go home, all of you,” I snarled before reaching the exit. “Say goodbye to your families, eat your favorite meals. Tomorrow we go hunting.”
