The Lord of Opium

On the floor, in front of the screen, was the Bug.

“What are you doing here?” cried Matt. He knelt by the child and felt his head. A ripple of energy like a low electric current ran through him.

The Bug moved feebly and held up his right hand. Matt saw to his horror that it had melted. All that was left was a sticky-looking knob of flesh. “He wouldn’t take me,” whimpered the little boy.

“You put your hand on the screen, didn’t you,” said Matt.

“Dr. Rivas told me to open it. And I did—I did—” El Bicho’s voice trailed off.

“Does it hurt?” Matt didn’t know what he would do if the boy said yes.

“It feels—funny. Like ants crawling. Will it grow back?”

No, thought Matt. Not unless you really are a bug. “I’ll ask the doctors.”

“He wouldn’t take me,” said the Bug.

“Take you where?” Matt said, although he knew.

“To the Scorpion Star.”

And that was how Dr. Rivas had tricked the boy. He knew how much El Bicho longed to be in that ideal world. But the boy’s hand was too small for the scanner to recognize. It must have partially accepted him, or else he’d be a puddle on the floor.

The Bug touched Matt’s face with the knob. It was an instinctive gesture, a child reaching out for comfort, but Matt jerked away. It was disgusting, the feel of that boneless mass of flesh. He felt bile come into his mouth.

“Are you strong enough to walk?”

“I tried. I can’t stand up.”

Matt was confounded. He didn’t have time to carry the boy to Malverde’s chapel. He had to locate Cienfuegos and find out what those large hovercrafts were doing and why someone was firing machine guns. And then he noticed that the portal had changed. The edge of the screen was supposed to be red. Part of it turned green when Matt opened a section of the border to allow the passage of supplies, but now it was all green.

That was what the doctor had been up to. That was why he’d sacrificed the child. He’d ended the lockdown and left Opium defenseless.

Matt restored the lockdown at once. “How long has this been open?” he demanded.

“Don’t be angry,” wailed the Bug.

“I’m not angry, but we may have been invaded.” Matt realized that the little boy was too shocked to answer questions. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I have to get help. I have to rally the Farm Patrol. The whole country is in danger. Do you understand?”

“Don’t leave me,” cried El Bicho. He grabbed Matt’s sleeve with his good hand.

Matt pulled away. “None of us is going to survive if I don’t get help. I won’t forget you. You’re my brother, and I won’t desert you. Try to stay strong.”

“Don’t leave me!” screamed the boy.

Matt fled the room. The Bug’s screams followed him. He slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Being a drug lord isn’t all guitar playing and pachangas, said the old, old voice in Matt’s head. I left my dying mother to build an empire. I sacrificed my son Felipe to the drug wars. I shot down a passenger plane to preserve the peace.

Be quiet, said Matt.

El Patrón chuckled. I am the cat with nine lives. I’ve had eight, and you are the ninth.

Leave me alone!

Matt realized that he hadn’t contacted Esperanza, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back into that room. He ran to the armory, hoping to find Cienfuegos or Daft Donald, but it was deserted. Where is everyone? Matt thought. The silence was unnatural.

He selected a stun gun. He’d never fired one and now cursed himself for overlooking a basic drug-lord skill. He strapped a knife to his leg and another to his upper arm. He filled his pockets with tranquilizer beads. When you threw them at someone, they exploded, and the gas knocked the person out. That was how the Farm Patrol had captured Cienfuegos when he was trying to reach the United States.

Matt had never used a weapon in his life or even gone hunting. He didn’t know whether he could kill someone. You’d better make your mind up fast, advised El Patrón. We’re not playing soccer here. This is pok-a-tok.

Matt crossed the gardens, heading for the nursery, where he thought Listen and Mbongeni were. He felt the hidden knives pressed against his skin and mentally copied the swift movement that Cienfuegos used to produce a stiletto. He knew that he could never equal it. He’d seen Daft Donald pull a switchblade from a pant leg. It wasn’t simply a matter of practice, but will. You had to want to kill someone. You think too much, complained El Patrón.