Bordo Blanco was a great valley of darkness. No streets here, no lampposts, just a vast swath of gray and black interrupted only by the faint light emanating from the shacks of the trash pickers who lived there, rummaging through the mountains of garbage and selecting items suitable for recycling. Broken computers, diapers, soda cans, plastic bags, orange peels, the corpses of dead dogs, they formed hills of different sizes, some tiny and others monumental. One day, maybe, they’d turn this landfill into a luxury suburb like Santa Fe, “American-style,” and everyone would be kicked out and everything would change. It was hard to imagine such a thing now. A foul smell permeated the land, and flies, terrifying in their size, buzzed around during the day. Also during the day came the trucks, and there was the rumble of the tractors with their great rubber wheels, maneuvering through the garbage, squashing it.
At night, there was only the full moon leaning down, caressing the bitter earth. The people who made their home there, out of the same garbage they collected, were asleep or preparing for bed. Bordo Blanco was quiet, eerie, and Domingo wished he could listen to his music, he was so nervous.
“Come,” Domingo said.
He led them into the landfill, through what amounted to a semidecent path, but they had barely walked more than a few meters when a shot rang in the dark. The bullet hit Bernardino and he grunted, pausing in his steps. Laughter, behind them.
“Shit,” whispered Atl.
“Come on, hurry. Over there,” said Domingo, pointing at the separation plant, a vast shed where workers could sift through the garbage. It had been a gift from a charitable foundation, supposed to ease the life of the garbage collectors, though Domingo could see no rhyme or reason for it. Perhaps it was nicer to go through the garbage under a shed during the rainy season, but it was faster to simply drag the big collection bags through the landfill. He’d heard that they had a real separation plant at another landfill, one that had a conveyor belt fed by the hands of hundreds of garbage workers, but Bordo Blanco was smaller, more modest in its intent.
At least now it had a practical use: they could shield themselves, because Domingo doubted they’d last very long out in the open with people shooting at them.
As they approached the shed Domingo saw the shacks that were set near it, tiny abodes of cardboard and tin.
“We need to go into the shed,” he told Atl, pointing at it.
“You go,” she said.
“What?”
“Go and hide,” she told him. “Take the dog with you. Bernardino and I can fight them. You can’t.”
Domingo glanced at Bernardino, who was moving swiftly for a man who had been shot twice. The older vampire nodded at him.
“Better get in there,” Bernardino told him, and when Domingo did not move he added, “I can’t protect two people at the same time.”
He didn’t want to leave their side, but recognized the wisdom of the suggestion. Domingo rushed past the shacks and into the gloom of the shed, Cualli right behind him. He veered away from a collection of rusty shopping carts, entangled together. He almost stumbled into a large container full of plastic dolls that had their faces sliced off, limbs and torsos missing. More containers, with similar bounties, were arranged against the walls. He crouched behind one of them. The dog hid next to him.
He heard gunfire outside.
Domingo clutched the knife Atl had given him in his sweaty hands. He was trembling and doubted very much he’d be able to use it, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“Hey, I know you’re in here!” yelled someone.
Domingo did not move. He could hear someone walking into the shed. A flashlight bounced around the walls. He pressed himself closer to the wall.
The flashlight passed by and he sighed with relief.
… And then the flashlight returned, aimed straight at his face.
“I see you, kid. Stand up slowly,” said a voice.
Domingo did as he was told, but as he rose the dog growled and jumped onto the man. The man let out a loud scream and tried to pry the dog off his leg. He was a huge meaty guy, towering above Domingo, but he seemed unable to deal with the dog, which was firmly biting into his flesh. The man pulled out a gun.
The dog.
Domingo did not think. He simply pressed forward, plunging the knife into the man’s back with all his strength. The man didn’t collapse, he didn’t even seem to be badly hurt, he just spun around, gun in hand. The dog jumped up and bit his hand. The man screamed again, stepped back, lost his footing, and fell heavily. The dog now went for his throat, tearing it with powerful jaws.
The man gurgled, unable to yell a third time.
Domingo stood there, staring at the spectacle, watching as the man twitched, then went suddenly still. The dog kept biting him and he could hear it chewing.
“Cualli, enough,” he said.
The dog stopped and withdrew from the dead man. Domingo knelt down, looking at the man’s face. He didn’t panic, but there was a knot inside him, weighing him down. Domingo closed his eyes but it didn’t help, so he snapped them open again.
He swallowed and rolled the corpse over. Domingo pulled out the knife and slipped it back in his pocket. A sudden wave of disgust hit him. He thought about the old man in La Merced and his dolls, which he kept to ward off the ghosts of the people he’d killed. But there was no time for disgust or stupid thoughts. No time now.
He looked again at the corpse at his feet and Cualli raised his head and growled.
A bullet hit the dog. Cualli whimpered and moved away.
Domingo hardly had a chance to take a breath before he felt the barrel of a gun nestled against his back.
“Tell your dog to stay. You’re needed outside,” said a woman. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER