Roachkiller and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF

rope around my wrists. I wanted to get up and hit him, I really did, but my body seemed to like being just where it was, thanks, while my bones had taken off for somewhere far away.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I lay there for a thousand years. The sky got brighter and brighter then dimmed like a flame going out. At the edge of my face tiny insects crawled up and onto my eyes and under my eyelids. I heard the sound of coquis, first low and quiet, then it grew and grew until I thought my eardrums would pop and bleed. I saw a dark beach, black water, black sky. The waves jumped onto the shore like the claws of a giant animal, tearing at the sand, reaching for me. There was a sound like a gunshot, and I tried to shut my eyes, and then I thought I was crying, and I looked up and saw a dog licking my face. Small, hairless. It moved its mouth like it was barking but no sound came out. My face felt so wet I thought the dog was drooling all over me, then I realized it was rain.
    It was raining. There was no dog. I was on the ground outside of the hut. My head felt split open.
    Then I heard sirens.
    I tried to get up, then I realized there was a gun in my hand. I saw the body, still lying there. The sirens came closer.
    “Fuck,” I said.
    The dark sky was circling, moving fast. Set up. The gun in my hand—it was a setup.
    “Fuck,” I said.
    I pushed myself up, felt nauseous.
    I got up, threw the gun away, then I said, “Stupid. Stupid.” I went to pick it up again, had to look for it in the grass, fell down, got up again, began running.
    I ran past the batey court. I fell. I heard the sirens coming closer. I got up and ran toward where I thought we had come through the trees.
    I pushed through them, saw the big space in the fence, tripped, got up, got to my car. I opened the door, sat down, wiped the powder off my face, checked the back of my head. There was a little blood.
    I went to start the car. “Keys,” I said. Itaba had the keys. “Fucking fuck fuck fuck.”
    I grabbed my duffle bag then wobbled away from the car. How far was I from San Juan? Blackjack, I thought. Julie. Blackjack. The cops. I had to get out of there.
    I walked five feet, got down on my knees and felt the hard, wet, cold road, considered laying down, considered throwing up again. Then a truck stopped in front of me.
     
    *  *  *
     
    There was a long refrigerator on the back of the man’s truck. He was an old man, with white kinky hair, and his skin was as dark as an over-ripe banana.
    “¿Necesita ayuda?” the man said.
    “I need to go to San Juan,” I said. My voice sounded thick, garbled.
    “Venga. Entre,” the man said.
    I got in the truck. I thought I looked normal but I was worried that I looked slow, drunk. The man asked if I was okay.
    “I need to get to San Juan,” I said.
    In a thick accent, the man said, “You look bad, my friend. You better see a doctor.”
    “I’ll be all right.”
    “Okay, my friend.”
    “My name is Papo,” I said.
    “Angel Luis,” the man said. He kept on driving. He drove fast. I liked that.
    There was a big crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. The radio played old songs, singers picking at a cuatro. The saddest music ever, the kind of music to slice your wrists to. One song after another.
    We drove on, and I concentrated on the blacktop and the highway signs, mile after mile. I saw two more dead dogs, ripped open, lying there like pieces of meat on the road. I had the kind of aching hangover that makes you want to split your own head open and take your brain out to rinse it in cold, clear water. My mouth didn’t feel like it belonged to me. My head was numb, throbbed.
    All of a sudden a brown dog came from out of the trees on the side of the road and started trotting across the highway. The man didn’t slow down, not for a second. The dog and the truck headed right for each other, like destiny.
    “Watch out,” I said.
    The dog disappeared in front of the truck. There was a small thump, a slight