CRYING OUT IN VENGEANCE

PROLOGUE

PLAZA MEXICO

The crowd had not yet been coaxed into frenzy, but the volume in

the largest bullring in Mexico was like a rising tide and the hum

pushed an electric buzz into the air throughout the arena.

The lancing third or the tercio de varas had begun. The bull

charged at the picador, the man atop a white and brown horse, as he

galloped by and tossed his lance into the creature’s back.

The sharp end pierced the thick hide, the bull bucked and let out

a huff of air and a moan. The man on horseback circled the bull, the

blood dripping down its side barely visible against the dark black

fur. The bull swung its head from side to side at its attacker and

then charged, its large horns grazing the peto, the protective

covering that shielded the horse from harm. The strike had been

purpose filled and if it had not been for the peto, the horse would

have been gored.

The matador stood at a safe distance continuing to watch the bull. Drawing from the animal’s movements which side the bull would favor, thus allowing him to approximate his own future attacks and defenses.

A second picador rushed in and planted a secondary lance into the

hump of muscle just beyond the bull’s neck. These stabs were not to

kill the beast, but their goal was to weaken the hard, dense muscle.

Eventually the strength of the muscles would fade and it would give the bull a considerable struggle to hold his own head high. In the

end, it would be how the animal would die, as if it purposefully

offered the neck to the matador for the killing stroke.

The matador flashed his red cape and the eyes of the bull caught

the movement and lunged after it. The matador gracefully swept the

cape aside and spun his body avoiding contact for the third time

during the bout. And the crowd roared in unison: OLE!

After a few more feints of the cape and his deft maneuvers the

second stage of the battle began: tercio de banderillas.

Three banderillas began to gain the animal’s fury as they stuck and moved and dodged the bull’s attacks. Each attempting to stab two

of their sharp barbed sticks into the shoulder muscles. Again, this is

not to kill, but to slow the beast further.

The red cape fluttered from the breeze and hand movements of the

matador and the bull engaged him again. This time the matador twisted to the opposite direction, the one that was the animal’s stronger side. A true show of courage and pierced the bull with his own stick.

The crowd thundered in their approval.

The time had come for the final part of the duel between bull and

man: tercio de muerte. The third of death. This would be the final

stand for the bull. This would be where the matador lived to see a new day and the bull did not.

Victor Calavera, the matador, entered the ring alone for what

would be the final time of the day. He was hot and perspiring greatly

from the sun above and the exertion of the contest of superiority. The

crowd cheered and he could feel the rhythmic pulse in his feet, both

from the vibrations from the crowd surrounding him and from the hoof

beats of El Rebelde. He thought to himself; the bull had been aptly

named and had put on quite a show today, but as Victor could tell the

animal had grown tired. Now was almost his time to bask in the glory

once again. He still needed to run El Rebelde down perhaps a small

fraction more, but not too much. The crowd would not be pleased if he killed a near defenseless animal, he was to show his victory over a

worthy adversary.

Another charge came and he stabbed at El Rebelde with his wooden sword. This too was for show, to indicate his prowess and to

antagonize the bull further. Rebelde ran at him again, followed by a

second and third. Now, it was time he thought. He exchanged the wooden sword for the real one, the estoque de veridad and readied himself. He initiated Rebelde, almost forcing the bull to attack and the bull complied. Victor Calavera twisted with near effortlessness and struck true as he felt the blade slide into his opponent, knowing well from experience it had entered the heart.

El Rebelde had been bested and slumped to the dirt releasing his

final breath into the earth below.

The arena had come alive. The cheers so loud and blending

together that Victor could only register a distinct whistle here and

there. He bowed to the crowd and the roar intensified. He turned and

bowed again, and then the crowd became silent. He was confused. Had he not entertained them. He opened his eyes and gazed upon the crowd. But it was evident that all eyes were fixed on one thing, and it was not him. He turned slowly and what he saw threw his mind into discord. El Rebelde was standing again. But something was different in the animal this time. He looked fresh. He looked strong. He head was held high, and his fierce eyes were glaring directly at Victor.

Gathering himself quickly, he grabbed his cape and flaunted it

about. He began thinking, perhaps his kill stroke had been slightly

off. The bull continued to stare, and then walked closer to him as if

the mere thought of charging the farthest from El Rebelde’s mind.

Victor continued to feint with the cape, Rebelde’s focus still upon

only him, the cape an afterthought. The distance had been closed to

the point where he could almost taste Rebelde’s breath and smell the

blood in the air.

The bull charged, and tilted its head down and to the left in an attempt to stab him with his horns as it would bring his head up and

to the right. Victor spun left to avoid the collision, but something

changed. But then something remarkable occurred, El Rebelde faked his movements, if that were even possible, just when his head began moving to the right the bull shifted its footing and struck to the left. The horn tore through soft flesh and Victor felt the innards of his belly shift. The horn continued rip through tissue, disemboweling him.

He felt the ground rush up towards him. He was near to the point

of passing out but managed to look up and see the giant frame of the

black bull hovering over him. He heard screaming in the distance but

it seemed so far away. He could hear voices yelling at each other. It

was the picadors and banderillas. They were coming to his aid.

It was then that he looked into the bull’s eyes, and saw something. Something that was there, and perhaps something that shouldn’t be. The eyes. They were dead eyes, as if deep inside they held, nothing. He seemed to be watching him. Watching him die. Victor had never envisioned the tables turning like this.

The bull reared up and brought the full weight of its body upon

him, crushing his chest cavity. His bones snapped like twings under

the assault.

The audience in the arena had never seen ferociousness like this. The previous frenzy had turned into hysteria as the bull continued to

trample the matador into the ground. The display didn’t stop even as the picadors and the banderillas attempted to draw his focus, El

Rebelde's attention on Victor Calavera was unfaltering. The matador’s screams had long since stopped and finally so did El Rebelde. The black beast stood unmoving in the dust cloud that had formed around him and the decimated body of Victor Calavera. Behind the brown cloudthe hollow mask of El Rebelde glared at the crowd and then as if passing through the eye of a storm; all was quiet and the bull dropped dead, for the second time that day.

This is from my current work in progress. Hopefully I can finish and publish this novel in the upcoming future.