THE UNNATURAL
By
Alan Nayes
* * *

 

CHAPTER 1

 

            Ignacio stood in the shadows in his faded, baggy chinos and tennis shoes, doing his best to keep dry in the May rain.  He’d pledged an oath to Roberto that he’d take care of her.  And like most homeboys in the barrios of East Los Angeles, he meant to keep his oath.  Roberto was gone, at least the Roberto he’d grown up with, but Ignacio waited, sheltered under the eaves of a building he didn’t know the name of, in a city he’d come to despise, performing the job he’d promised.

            A police car approached, rain angling across its twin beams like tiny silvery darts.  Ignacio pushed against the brick.  The black and white passed and pulled into a Circle K convenience mart a half block down.  Ignacio waited for the uniform to enter the store, then turned back to resume his vigil.

            Although the nursing school stood just around the corner and across the street from where Ignacio waited, he had a clear view of its front steps.  One of his hands rested on the handlebars of the stolen bicycle at his side; the other caressed the small caliber pistol in his windbreaker pocket.  He usually preferred something heavier like a 9mm or a .38, but a .22 packing long rifle hollow points could be just as effective.  Especially at close range.

            Ignacio stood perfectly still, waiting for her to show.  She was late.  He ignored the raindrops creeping down his hair and neck, moistening the T-shirt that now clung to his back.  A crack of thunder startled him.   Behind him, a car revved.  Ignacio swung around.

Good, the uniform was leaving.

 

 

            When the woman stepped out of El Centro Medical College, she realized it’d been a mistake to leave her umbrella at home.

            She worked for Tempstar Personnel Services during the day, cleaning soiled sheets, greasy kitchens, floors, and toilets.  At night, she attended school, studying to be a licensed vocational nurse.

            One month shy of twenty-six, she had a soft brown complexion, full lips, and dark eyes that made her a much sought-after commodity by the local barrio pimps.  Of course she’d have none of it, even if it meant extra money for Roberto’s care and Carlito.  She considered herself religious and had a steady boyfriend.

            The rain was cascading down in sheets and it was now late, past ten-thirty.  She weighed the decision to make a dash for her car.  Her class in intravenous techniques should have ended at ten but she had stayed an extra thirty minutes to practice drawing blood on Nancy.  She had already missed the mannequin’s large plastic vein twice this week.  To make matters worse, she’d blown the same vein again tonight with a twenty-gauge angiocath.  The teacher had called her effort “suboptimal.”

            Three months ago the teacher’s critical use of the word “suboptimal” would have had little effect on her.  But now it seemed synonymous with her younger brother, who could neither speak nor feed himself.  Roberto had been reduced to a shell, ignored by an uncaring, unmerciful God.  It wasn’t fair, but la vida no es muy justa.  Life isn’t fair.

            As if a higher power had been listening, the force of the rain suddenly eased.  It was time.

            Switching two of her five textbooks to her right hand and with her purse hanging from her right shoulder, the woman hurried down the twenty steps to the sidewalk.  Once on the wet pavement, she picked up her pace as the downpour resumed.

            A streetlight flickered some fifty yards ahead at the corner of Sheridan and Louis.  She had parked midway down Louis.

            As she took a right onto Louis, a white Chevy four-by-four honked and went by.  She didn’t recognize the truck.  Probably the school’s security guard.  He was always the last to leave.

            A half-block away, she could see the silhouette of her old Honda Civic next to the curb.  She’d purposely parked under a street lamp, but as luck would have it, the one she’d picked had burned out, leaving her car in the dark.

            “Mierda,” she cursed.

She always spoke her birth language when she became upset.  If the evening didn’t change for the better, she’d never speak English again.

            Overhead, another crackle of thunder followed a short lightning burst.  As the flash illuminated her car’s interior, she stopped mid-stride.  For a split-second, she thought someone was sitting in her front seat.  Reflexively, she held all her books under her left arm and reached into her purse for her .38 Smith and Wesson.  She’d purchased it at a local gun shop, filing the proper papers one day after her brother’s accident.  Fifteen days later, she had become a gun owner.  Could she actually shoot someone?  Standing on the sidewalk drenched to the bone and on her own, she suddenly knew without a doubt she could pull the trigger if things became nasty.

            She stepped into the street, ignoring the rush of water that filled her nursing shoes as her feet fell in a torrent running along the curb and into the sewer.  She crouched for a better view, blinking the water from her eyes.  As another flash of lightning froze the car’s back window in a silvery veil, she felt foolish.

            “Get some sleep, senorita.”

What she had thought was someone’s head was nothing more than her headrest.  She released the pistol and searched her purse.  Finding the key chain with the whistle, she approached her car.

            At the other end of Louis Street, another vehicle turned the corner.  Its headlights illumined her as it crawled her way.  She’d just unlocked the door when the car stopped.  A spotlight bathed her in a white light.

            “Need any help, miss?”  The voice sounded friendly.

            She turned and squinted.

            The vehicle was a police car.  The officer moved the light out of her eyes.

            “No, thanks, officer.  I was studying late.  I’m leaving now.”

            The policeman studied her lab coat briefly.  He was young, perhaps late twenties.  “Sure thing, ma’am.  Drive carefully.  It’s wet out here.”    

            The officer rolled up his window, turned left, and was gone.

            The woman wasted little time in climbing in out of the rain.  She tossed her books and purse to the passenger side and slammed the door shut, locking it.

            “Finalmente.”  She leaned her head on the steering wheel and inhaled deeply.

            Suddenly, she jerked her head up at a loud grating noise.  It sounded like metal on concrete.  She could see nothing but the rain sluicing down her windshield.  Then she heard — even felt — it again.  She looked to the left.  The side window was fogged.  Quickly, she turned the key in the ignition and the Civic’s little engine fired.

            Almost simultaneously, a third metallic clang resounded from the center of the street.

            She turned on her headlights and wipers, illuminating nothing except wet pavement.  Only when the car shook did she realize she was no longer alone.  She attempted to shift into gear.

            Two powerful blows shattered her driver’s side window.  She screamed as she felt her head violently yanked through the shards of glass.  Her scalp burned where the long black hair was torn out by its roots.

            “No, por favor, no!” she cried.  “Ayudame, por favor, ayudame!”

            With brutal force, her body left the seat and she was pulled halfway from her car.

            “No, ayudame!”

            A thick arm encircled her neck, choking off her air.

            She tried to turn her head but saw nothing except rain and broken glass.  As she struggled in vain against her abductor, her nostrils filled with a horrifying stench.  It smelled worse than a dying animal.

With one, final, hyperadrenalized effort, she managed to reach in her purse.  She clawed for her pistol.  A single earsplitting explosion blasted into the night.  Then the pistol left her hand.  The woman cried out in dismay.

            She’d missed.

            La vida no es muy justa.  Life wasn’t fair.