The Black Eagle (Part 3)
Heavy boots echoed across the front porch. The small ray of sunlight shining through the hole in the door went black. The front door creaked open. A Zapatista soldier helping an injured man to walk stood in the doorway. The injured man moaned in pain. The unwounded soldier pushed the door aside with the barrel of his rifle. He trained the gun on Carlos, then me, for a second. I quietly told Carlos to raise his hands like I was doing to show the soldier we had no weapons. Seeing we were unarmed he ordered us against the back wall. I observed the man closely. He wore green and black fatigues stained with black mud, dark green foliage and blood. A small dented gray canteen hanging in a green mess pocket from his belt dripped tiny beads of water down his leg. He looked as young as the dead American, but less naïve. “Oh no, combat eyes,” I thought to myself.
Stepping over the dead American the soldier helped the wounded man over to the middle table where Carlos and I had taken cover.
A bullet hole the size of peso in his lower belly gushed dark blood. The rotten smell of his innards was beginning to drift around the tavern. The wounded man writhed on the table like a wounded snake. The soldier removed his canteen from the mesh pocket. He watched us closely as he poured water on the wound to clean it. The wounded man shrieked and batted the canteen away with his arm. He rolled over on his side.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
The soldier turned his rifle on me, aiming it at my chest. I began rolling my shirtsleeve up revealing my forearm. The soldier quickly brought the rifle to his shoulder and his finger tightened on the trigger. I stopped and raised my hands to show I had no tricks.
“I only want to show you my tattoo Amigo.” I said shaking a bit more.
I waited until the soldier’s finger relaxed on the trigger. I rolled my shirt sleeve a little past the elbow. The soldier stared at the four inch black eagle that was tattooed on the inside of my forearm. “Tlatelolco,” he said softly. With a rough shake of his head he invited me over to the table.
“What can you do old man?”
“How long ago was he shot?”
“One half hour ago. I think the bullet is still inside him.”
“We have to stop the bleeding. Carlos please bring us some towels and whiskey from behind the counter.” I said, worried the man would bleed to death soon.
Carlos left the wall slowly; I think he feared the soldier might shoot him if he made a sudden move. The soldier watched him closely, but did not aim his rifle in his direction. He brought three white bar towels and a bottle of cheap brown whiskey to soak the wound with. The sun had moved to the west away from the window facing the mountain making the tavern even darker. The weak fluorescent lights on the ceiling tried to fight the shadows, but the darkness had to strong of a foothold established.
The wounded soldier began howling in pain again. I could not keep the towels against the wound long enough to stop the bleeding. The wounded soldiers skin turned egg white and hot sweat poured out of his body. He gripped the side of the table scarring the wood with his dirty nails. His breath came in short steamy rasps. I knew he would die soon if he remained here.
“The pain, the pain.”
I took the soldier named aside and asked him if he had any morphine. I heard a familiar snuffle behind me. Nikos had overcome his fear and was sniffing the dead American. I was afraid he might lap the dark pool of blood that was forming on the floor near the remains of the Americans head. “Nikos,” I yelled at the dog to distract his attention away from the dead man. My angry voice drove him back behind the counter. Carlos walked over to the dead American and started to move the body outdoors, but the soldier shouted for him to stop. He harshly explained a dead body outside the tavern would alert the government soldiers to his presence.
