Cargo

Avocado

The white villa atop the arid hill stood like a sentinel, its pristine facade stark against the rugged backdrop of the desert valley. It overlooked the vast expanse below, a silent observer of both time and memory. Returning to Villa 1, a sense of urgency gnaws at me, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and trepidation as we approach what should have been a haven of familiarity.

Yet, as the dust-covered SUV crosses the threshold into the grandeur that had once buzzed with life, an eerie quietness envelopes us. The air itself feels dense, charged with an unsettling deadness that left a bitter taste on my tongue. The grand entrance lays wide open, the emptiness inside and the outer premises indicate an absence of the cajeros.

"Bastardoj," cries Miĉjo, his pale blood-drained face in utter distress.

The compound seems like a ghost town, the harsh native weather wasting no time to render premises barren. Miĉjo's eyes, usually a reflection of his unwavering confidence, mirror my own unease as we exchange uneasy glances. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I notice that the garage doors stood ajar as if they have been hastily left open in the wake of a panicked evacuation. The space where luxurious cars had once been meticulously parked is now vacant, a chilling void that echoes the sudden disappearance of the cajeros.

"Bastardoj," emphasises Miĉjo. "They wrote me off, so they pillaged me. Fikuloj!"

The sinking feeling turns into a burning dread as I realise my truck is nowhere to be seen.

"Motherfuckers," growls Miĉjo, amplifying my own sentiment.

I turn to the one-armed man covered in blood and reassess my immediate prerogatives. My voice breaks the heavy silence, "We need to get you to a hospital. We should take the pickup. It may have enough fuel to get us to the highway." But Miĉjo's gaze remains fixed on the empty expanse before us.

"You are going to die," I plead, hoping to get a ride out of this nightmare, hoping that this gangster had some alternative, much faster, mode of transport.

Miĉjo snaps out of his weariness and marches with wobbly knees towards the back of the villa. We cautiously traverse the opulent gardens, towards a terrace overlooking the valley nestled between the jagged ridges of the Black Mountain range.

"Why are you still here, cajero?" Miĉjo's resolve was unwavering, a beacon of strength amidst the uncertainty. "You have difficulty letting this remain a mystery?"

As we step out onto the villa's balcony, the valley stretches before us, bathed in the soft glow of the desert sun. The wind carries with it a whisper of secrets, and the land seems to pre-emptively mourn the fate about to befall us.

"Fine!" I murmur and toss the statue onto the pavement. It tumbles across Miĉjo's feet, not breaking, its solid bounce audible against the backdrop of the desert's whispering wind. "Fuck you and your pet. I'm outer here." And then, as if emerging from a mirage, I spot an oasis of water, pale blue as the desert sky, glistening inside a circular stone-paved pool.

A human form is submerged in its depths; a woman, her tanned skin enhanced by her white one-piece swimsuit.

"Amelia," groans Miĉjo. "Let's go!"

The woman emerged from the water, her raven hair cascading like liquid silk down her shoulders. Her steely eyes hold a shadow of apprehension. Amelia pulls herself out of the water and steps over to the banana chair. She rummages into a Lucrece handbag and takes out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one up, taking a deep drag before asking, "What happened to you, baby?

Miĉjo unleashes a pained smile, "My gift has arrived."

Amelia doesn't seem impressed. "The Zarathun," she scoffs, but her voice betrays a hint of fear, yet she remains overtly nonplussed at the sight of the bloody mess that confronts her. "Who's this?"