The Holy Death

Chapter 1

A hot wind came howling across the arid sands of the Chihuahuan desert as the sun began to set over the ruins of the old mission, casting long shadows upon the desert. The ancient stone structure, surrounded by decaying adobe, no longer served its original purpose; now it served as a home to lizards, snakes, and bats. No other life could be found there, except the creosote, cactus, and lechuguilla that stood as silent sentinels, guarding nothing of value. No human ever came out to this desolate corner of northern Mexico; no human would want to. There was nothing here but sand and heat and death.

The puzzling approach of a long black limousine, kicking up dust as it drove down a long-abandoned wagon road, caused a coyote to stop in its tracks and stare at the odd newcomer as if to ask why it had come to this barren wasteland. Its curiosity unsatisfied, the coyote scampered away from the unusual scene. A buzzard that had been picking at the meager remains of an antelope remained, only now he glared at the newcomers: ah, there's more meat to be had on you. Soon, soon...

The limousine came to a stop just beyond the low adobe wall that surrounded the ruins of the old mission. Two large men stepped out of the driver's compartment of the black vehicle, both wearing sunglasses and dark suit jackets, garb chosen less for its comfort in the heat of the desert and more for its ability to conceal the various firearms the two large men carried on themselves. One of the large men opened the rear door, and a smaller, balding man, wearing a light seersucker jacket and white dress shirt, stepped out, dabbing the sweat from his broad forehead with a handkerchief before placing it back in his jacket pocket. The smaller man looked the decaying structure over, as if looking for something that could not be seen with human eyes.

"Let us go with you, Senor Ochoa," One of the large men said to the smaller man.

"No," Ochoa commanded. "I am to do this alone. It is what the bruja told me; I must present myself, and only myself, before the Santa Muerte. To do otherwise would be a blasphemy. You men are to remain here. Is this understood?"

The first large man nodded, signaling his understanding. Ochoa nodded back to his guard. I would take you with me if I could. Believe me, I would. He then began walking into the enclosure, each step a laborious process, his wingtips sinking into the desert sands as he proceeded.

He came to the portico of the mission chapel, the entry way still secured by a well-worn double wooden door banded with iron. With much trepidation, Ochoa knocked on the door. He did not think he struck the wood door that forcefully, as his knocks reverberated into the ancient structure as deep hollow thuds.

He stood there for a few seconds. There was no answer. With great relief, Ochoa began to turn from the door, but as he did so, the doors began to open with a loud, grinding groan, signaling to Ochoa that perhaps he should not be so hasty. He turned, his eyes wide, his heart racing. He stood peering into the black void beyond the door.

"Um, hello?" He asked. There was no answer. "Excuse me?" He said again, a bit louder but no less fearful. Again, there was no answer, so he waited. He did not want to drop his guard so soon, as he did the last time. He stood there for five harrowing, silent minutes. It was a silence that was soon enough – too soon, in his estimation – broken.

"Senor Ochoa!" came a voice from within. The masculine voice sounded light, almost cheerful, even welcoming. "Please! Come within!"

Ochoa said nothing as he stepped over the threshold into the dark, cavernous ruins. He looked up at the ceiling, at the obvious gaps in the roof where time and weather had taken their toll, causing the roof to decay and several roof beams to collapse. Ochoa thought that the gaps in the ceiling would allow some of the remaining sunlight to enter the darkness of the mission, and yet, oddly, the light did not seem to penetrate beyond those open spaces. As he walked further into the gloom, Ochoa also noticed that it grew increasingly cold, as though the ruins were air-conditioned, which of course Ochoa knew could not be. He stepped further and further into the sepulcher.