by Salvador Ayala

When Robbie Austin carelessly flicked his cigarette butt into the side of a hiking trail in the Los Angeles National Forest, he could not have known that he would bring a day of bloodshed and terror to a fiery close.

Nor could Elisa Martinez have anticipated that her plan to seek revenge for her grandparents would receive help from an unexpected quarter.

Elisa was the only one in her family who still made time every Sunday to drive Abuela to church and then take her out for brunch before returning her to the cramped apartment in the senior living community. Abuela could be thorny and never minced words, but Elisa didn’t mind. When Elisa’s parents had thrown her out of the house at sixteen for daring to have a boyfriend, Abuela had welcomed her with open arms. When Elisa spent a weekend in jail for breaking a beer bottle over her abusive brother-in-law’s head, everyone else tut-tutted, but Abuela gave her a long hug and said, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “I’m glad you rearranged that puto’s face.”

So, when Abuela sunk into a dark depression, Elisa was the only one who noticed and cared. It took three Sundays for Elisa to get even a hint out of her, with Abuelita simply muttering, “It’s just something I saw on Facebook.” It took another three Sundays for her to finally reveal what was bothering her.

“It has to do with Camp Bava.”

Those two words were forbidden in the house when Elisa was growing up, but everyone in the family knew the broad strokes of the story. In 1971, Abuelita’s boyfriend had snapped and killed eleven teenagers at a summer camp. She was the only one who survived the slaughter. At first, Abuela had insisted that he was innocent, that someone else had done it. The police ignored her pleas because they were more than happy to pin the crime on a convenient scapegoat. That that scapegoat was some pesky-ass Brown Beret was icing on the cake. To make matters worse, her parents refused to believe her account of events and later disowned her when they discovered she was pregnant with a murderer’s baby. Abuela went on to have other children and the semblance of an ordinary life, but she shut down whenever anyone mentioned the summer of 1971, so her family learned to stop bringing it up. Over the years, she refused interviews from curious reporters and bloggers, many of whom painted her out to be an accomplice.

“You want to talk about it?” Elisa asked.

“No. Not if you’re going to make fun of me like everyone else.”

“Come on. You know me better than that.”

“Fine. Here goes. Lalo and I were camp counselors. It was supposed to be a way for all these Chicano kids who couldn’t afford Boy Scouts to get this nice camping experience. We were there less than three days when campers started to disappear. On the fourth day, we found one of the missing girls. You should have seen her. All shriveled up. The poor thing looked like a dried apricot. That’s a detail the cops never released, you know? It didn’t fit their story. After we found her, we packed up to leave. We were all trying not to panic, and Lalo kept us levelheaded. He was always a natural leader. Sometimes I wonder where he would have ended up if...” Elisa could see the tears beginning to well up in her grandma’s eyes. Her mother always said that Abuela was a cold, unfeeling woman, but Elisa knew there was a deep reservoir of feeling beneath the surface.

“Anyway,” Abuela continued and gulped down what might have been the start of a sob. “This is the part the cops refused to believe. Everyone tried to convince me I imagined it, that I had tried to make sense of the trauma by making up some boogeyman. I didn’t. I never stopped believing in what I saw. We were about to get into our bus when one of the campers screamed. Standing between us and the bus was that thing. He was a stringy-looking guy, all dried up, almost like that poor girl we found. He was dressed funny, you know? In a kind of tux. The kind you imagine those people in old, black-and-white Hollywood movies wear. Except the tux was all torn up and eaten away at parts. Probably the worst was his face, especially the eyes. They glowed red even in broad daylight. And the glow only got stronger when he grabbed hold of the screaming camper and started to feed.”

“Feed? Like a vampire?”

“No. No un vampiro. I mean, it attacked us in the middle of the day. But…I don’t even know if feeding is the right word. I just remember it taking hold of Rocky—that was the camper’s name—and Rocky screaming and then not screaming because it was like the thing had drained all the life out of him. That was the only time I saw it feed. When it came after the rest of us, it just attacked us with its bare hands.”

“How did you survive?”

“I got lucky. El Dandy. That’s what I remember calling it ‘cause of the way it was dressed. El Dandy cornered me and Lalo and the last surviving camper at a dock off the lake.”

She paused, and Elisa noticed a flicker of pride in Abuela’s eyes. “I don’t think that monster was expecting a fight. We had a little bit of combat training. We were going to be the revolutionary vanguard, after all. Lalo came at it with an axe. The one we used to chop wood for the campfire, I think. But the monster caught him by the neck, and Lalo dropped the axe. It was choking the life out of him. I had to do something, so I grabbed the axe and swung. Managed to hack off the arm just beneath the elbow. Here’s the messed up thing, mija. No blood came out. Nothing. Como si nunca le hubiera corrido sangre entre las venas. It looked surprised and then angry, and it swatted me away. It was so strong. It sent me flying into the lake.”

Abuela began shivering as if telling the story was purging her of years of fear, anger, survivor’s guilt, all sorts of bad feelings that had coagulated inside her. “Broke a couple of my ribs. Never really healed right. Sometimes, I have a hard time breathing.”

“You don’t have to keep telling me this,” Elisa said, “Not if it’s too much for you.”

“I have to.” Abuela sighed, “I don’t know why it didn’t come after me. I sank and then washed up on a far corner of the lake, and then I passed out from the pain of my broken ribs. When I came to, some cops were wrapping a blanket around me. They’d question me later, but I don’t know why they bothered. They found the last camper, Bennie. I remember his name now. They found him bleeding out right next to Lalo. The thing had buried the axe in Lalo’s chest and returned to wherever it came from. From there, it was easy for the pigs to piece together what happened. Lalo snapped, they said. Bennie had died defending himself and ended Lalo’s rampage—supposedly. My mind, unable to recognize that my boyfriend was a psycho, had concocted this whole monster story. They closed the case and shut down the camp, and everyone moved on.”

“But you didn’t.”

“How could I? Lalo was the love of my life. No disrespect to your other grandpa—que en paz descanse.”

“What happened with the monster?”

“El Dandy is still out there. I’ve kept tabs on missing people over the years. A hiker or two every decade or so. Nothing big enough to draw anyone’s attention, but I know he’s still out there. And then there’s this.”

She showed Elisa what had sent her into a spiral so many weeks ago. It was a Facebook ad from an up-and-coming True Crime podcast. It read:

Join Ethan and Karlie, hosts of THE MURDER BUDDIES podcast, for a weekend of chills! We’re doing a live recording at the site of the 1971 Eduardo Velez murders! Bring your graham crackers and marshmallows and bug spray! Join us for a spooky good time at Camp Bava! CLICK HERE FOR PRICING. VIP PACKAGES AVAILABLE.

“Fucking gringos,” Elisa muttered darkly. “A bunch of brown kids get hacked to pieces, and they turn it into a sleepover party.”

“I’m not mad about that. I mean, I am. But I’m also not. You live as long as I have, and you get used to this sort of thing. Our suffering don’t matter to them. I’m just worried for these people. If they go through with it, that demon out there is going to tear right through them. I feel so…powerless.”

But Elisa didn’t feel powerless. Abuela had basically raised her and imparted on her these words of wisdom from an early age: “You can be a lot of things, mija. You can be smart. You can be successful. You can be a bitch. But what I never ever want you to be is a victim.” As soon as she was old enough for it, Elisa enrolled in several self-defense classes. In high school, she gained a reputation for clobbering bullies and racists, much to her mother’s chagrin. Elisa later enlisted and started a business training stunt actors for filming fight scenes with weapons. She would not be caught unprepared for a fight.

The Murder Buddies didn’t deserve her protection, but she couldn’t let history repeat itself. She hoped that she could discourage them from recording their episode. Part of her hoped El Dandy wouldn’t show up at all. But a larger part of her wished he would. Nothing would make her happier than ending his reign of terror. El Dandy robbed her grandmother of her youth, joy, and health. He had killed Elisa’s grandfather, who was never properly mourned and had his name dragged through the mud. El Dandy had to be stopped, and the circle of her grandmother’s tragic story had to be closed.

That is why she bought a VIP package and a small but sturdy axe and drove up to the ruins of Camp Bava on a hot, windy September afternoon.

On the drive up, she listened to the episode on the murders. The hosts, bubbly and irreverent, floated theories about Lalo’s mental breakdown in between ads for mattresses and food delivery services. They pointed out that he came from a broken home, that his best friend was killed by police, that mental illness ran in his family. There was barely any mention of his activism and no mention at all of Abuela’s account of events.

Since she was listening to The Murder Buddies, she missed a very important announcement about precautionary evacuations that were underway in response to a sudden wildfire in Porter Ranch.

By the time she marched up to the fire pit at the center of the camp, she was ready to give the podcast hosts a piece of her mind. The festivities were already well under way. Everyone gathered around a crafts table with all kinds of summer camp inspired treats: deconstructed PB & J sandwiches, sloppy joes on buttered brioche, chocolate martinis lined with graham cracker crumbs, and so on. No expenses had been spared.

All the other guests were dressed appropriately, sporting cutesy backpacks, tiny shorts, and their complementary CAMP MURDER BUDDIES t-shirts. The dilapidated cabins encircled the communal fire pit, looming over the proceedings like creaking, rotten grave markers. The sun glared down on the campers without a single cloud in the sky to shield them from the intense rays. The breeze that occasionally passed through the dry, brittle tree leaves brought no relief from the heat. Somewhere in the distance was a thin plume of smoke, but everyone including Elisa was too busy milling about to notice it. Elisa set down her knapsack, which contained her axe, and began trying to locate the podcast hosts. Sweat stung her eyes, and she could feel the sun block she hastily applied already starting to melt away. She heard some rustling down the trail but assumed it was another latecomer like her.

As she milled about trying to find Karlie and Ethan, she picked up snatches of conversation.

“…yeah, I totally think the girlfriend was in on it…”

“…okay, but it’s weird that those three people went missing like four years later…”

“…I heard she said that Bigfoot did it, but the cops didn’t believe her…”

“…the real hero of all this. I’m such a Bennie stan…”

Elisa grimaced. Here was her family’s suffering transformed into a decades-long game of telephone.

She heard the Murder Buddies before she saw them. Karlie, a conventionally attractive white woman in her early thirties, was haranguing her cohost. Elisa wondered how Karlie managed to keep her makeup looking impeccable in the unbearable heat, and her eyes drifted down to Karlie’s semi-exposed upper thigh, which bore a detailed tattoo of a rose. Ethan stood by scowling as Karlie pointed angrily in his face. Their show made them out to be cheerful and spontaneous, but the reality was far from that. As Elisa got closer, she heard what they were arguing about.
“We’re already here, and we already blew all this money.”

“They’re evacuating people, Ethan!”

“A few cities over! Let’s record the episode at least. They’re too busy to even notice. Besides…” But he didn’t finish his sentence because he saw Elisa approaching. It was like a switch flipped inside his head, and Ethan’s glower immediately transitioned into a jovial grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey there!” he said almost too cheerfully as he scanned and failed to locate Elisa’s name tag. “What can we do for you?”

“We need to leave,” Elisa warned.

“Shit! I told you someone would find out! We should have…” Karlie’s complaint was cut off by Ethan, whose face was mirthless again.

“I’ve got this,” he said through gritted teeth. “You can leave if you want, but if you check the purchase agreement, you’ll see you that you get no refund. It’s just a small fire.”

“Fire?” Elisa said. “No! That’s not what this is about.”

She was about to continue when a loud cheer erupted over by the campfire pit. The assembled hipsters whooped and hollered at a lanky figure that emerged from the forest. It looked just like Abuela had described, though a little worse for the wear given the passage of time. Its tuxedo, which was probably last pristine when Citizen Kane still played in theaters, was frayed. Holes in the pants and shirt gave everyone glimpses of desiccated flesh the color of a spoiled Bartlett pear. As Elisa expected, it was missing most of one of its arms. At some point between 1971 and now, it had tied what looked like a railroad spike to the ruined flesh of its stub. Bits of skull peered from the places where its scalp had rotted off. Even in broad daylight, its eyes glowed red as if someone had placed a crimson-tinted flashlight inside its skull.

El Dandy. 

Elisa had promised to take her grandmother seriously. On the drive up, she secretly wished that this cadaverous nightmare had really been a figment of Abuela’s imagination. No such luck. An unforgivingly arid gust of wind accompanied El Dandy as he shambled towards the assembled true crime fans. Abuela always said that los vientos de Santa Ana brought not only forest fires but violence and hatred with them. Elisa doubted her less than ever.

“You hired an actor?” Karlie squealed in delight.

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie! I don’t get why it’s a zombie though. But whatever.” The wheels turned inside Karlie’s head. “Wait!” she added furiously, “Is this why we’re over budget?!”

“Get away from him!” Elisa cautioned.

But she was too late. Already the podcast crowd, some of whom shrieked with amused faux terror, were surrounding El Dandy and snapping pictures with their smartphones and commenting on the excellent makeup work. The more squeamish fans shrunk away in real fear. A tall fan who had already cut the sleeves off his camp t-shirt, swung his arm around the ghoul’s neck.

“Let’s take a selfie, bro!”

El Dandy turned to stare at the man’s cell phone, tilted its head in mild confusion, and then put its arm around the man’s neck.

“Ooooh! Cool pose!”

Just as he said this, a malevolent smile came over the creature’s face, revealing less than a handful of black, rotten teeth. It dug its scraggly fingers into the flesh of the man’s neck and then violently ripped a patch of skin right off, soaking the surrounding podcast enthusiasts with arterial spray.

The selfie-taker dropped to his knees and then collapsed face-first in the dirt, staining the ground around him a sickly maroon shade. A few campers stood rooted to the ground in disbelief, perhaps some of them even entertaining the notion that this, too, was part of an act, that these were just exceptionally well-executed special effects. This might have been what a young woman in a neon-blue miniskirt was considering when El Dandy rammed its spike straight through her chest. As her body went limp, he casually tossed her aside and set his sights on Elisa and the podcast hosts.

Before he could go any further, though, a burly man put the creature in a sleeper hold. Elisa recognized him as the one who had proclaimed himself a Bennie stan.

“You killed my girlfriend! You fucker! You killed her!” he howled at the inhuman thing, spittle flying out of his grieving, enraged mouth.

Elisa took advantage of this momentary distraction and made a beeline towards her knapsack. As she scrambled to pull the axe out of her bag, she noticed the unmistakable smell of smoke hanging in the air. 

El Dandy was at a disadvantage trying to pluck the man of its back. Even for a preternaturally strong fiend, it would have been no easy feat, and trying to do so with one working arm made it even harder. Still, brute strength and evil cunning won out. El Dandy grabbed hold of the man’s lower jaw and squeezed tight enough for Elisa to hear the crunch of bone even several feet away. In one fluid motion, it yanked the boyfriend’s jaw right off its hinges. The man’s grip slackened, and he dropped off El Dandy, writhing and gurgling until he grew still. The creature carelessly hurled the ruined jaw aside and turned to look at Elisa. She stood before him, defiant and wielding an axe.

Having “lived” as long as it had, its memories tended to flow into one another, years of stalking, killing, and sleeping coalescing into one big, dark ocean. Only a handful of events stuck out in El Dandy’s mind like lighthouses dotting a midnight shore. Though it didn’t always remember which memories were months, years, or even decades apart, it still clung to these with the same tenacity that a drowning man clings to a board when adrift at sea. It remembered when it was still a man who used to hold séances and sell crystals and other mystical items to all the gullible transplants, all those times reading the fortunes of impressionable young starlets thinking they’d be the next Katharine Hepburn. It remembered the night a gunrunner didn’t take too kindly to getting conned. It remembered the resulting gutshot even if pain was now a concept alien to it. It remembered the long car ride, jammed in someone’s trunk, and then the fall off the side of a cliff, seeming to hit every rock on the way down. It remembered the voice in its head, older than the hills, predating the boosters that came out to Los Angeles to make it the next big thing, predating even the Serrano and Cahuilla tribes. It remembered the voice’s offer: Kill on my behalf, spill blood for me, and you will never have to die.

Most of all, it remembered the greaser bitch that had hacked off its arm. It remembered her fury, which had caught it off guard. It remembered its annoyance and then the satisfaction of killing her boyfriend. Its hatred and prejudice burned brightly in the shriveled lump of meat that was now its heart. For a second, El Dandy confused the past with the present. But then a realization dawned in its decrepit head. This wasn’t her standing before El Dandy right now. Not exactly. But she had the same eyes. A descendant most likely. An opportunity to tie up loose ends across time. The thing that used to be Gregory the Mystic and who had long ago lost the power of speech communicated its rage through a long, baleful hiss.

“This is for my grandparents, you ugly piece of shit,” Elisa hissed right back at it.

She swung the axe in a downward arc, hoping to bury it in the wight’s head and end the fight early, but it reacted quickly and blocked the swing with its weaponized half-arm. Steel rang on rusted iron, and Elisa’s attack at least managed to sever some of the ropes keeping the spike in place, and it dropped onto the ground with a clang, still covered in ichor and with some slats of the creature’s flesh clinging to it.

But a one-armed El Dandy was still dangerous. He swung at her with his remaining arm, and she rolled out of its way and buried the axe in his back. El Dandy turned to face her and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her several feet in the air. She struggled to free herself and fruitlessly flung kicks his way. His grip tightened. Soon he would snuff her out.

And then several shots rang out. Few of them managed to hit anything, but one of them blasted right under El Dandy’s collarbone, spraying Elisa with bone shards and whatever it is that passed for blood in that monstrous body.

El Dandy dropped Elisa to face his new attacker, a flustered Karlie struggling to reload her gun.

“Why do you have a gun?!” her cohost stammered.

“We do a show about serial killers who kill women, Ethan. Why the fuck wouldn’t I have one?”

“Please. You live in Bel Air,” Ethan answered and then hid behind her.

El Dandy marched resolutely towards them. It had decided to save the Mexican girl for later, maybe even drain her lifeforce to replenish its own. The two podcasters broke into a run deeper into the forest.

Good. It loved a chase.

Meanwhile, Elisa struggled to draw air back into her lungs and spent several minutes trying to normalize her breathing. Her throat felt raw. He had almost gotten her, and she considered calling it a day. Let these two dorks get what was coming to them. But she couldn’t do that. She staggered to her feet and saw that her axe was nowhere to be found. It was still stuck in El Dandy’s back, so she picked up his fallen spike and followed down the trail after them.

The sunlight seemed to dim somewhat. By now, the fire must be completely out of control. Flecks of ash whirled lazily in the reddening sky. The event should have been canceled.

“Those irresponsible bastards.” Elisa’s seething was interrupted by the sound of more gunshots. They weren’t far ahead.

When she finally caught up to them in a clearing, she could see the blaze snaking down a hillside towards her. In the center of the clearing, El Dandy had its claws dug into Karlie’s shoulders. Her eyes were rolling in the back of her head, and a strange, reddish glow emanated from both their bodies. A few feet away lay Ethan, his head a bloody ruin and Karlie’s gore-encrusted gun resting right next to the mushy mess. In the end, the firearm had been worse than useless.

Elisa prayed that the spike would be more help and rammed it into the back of El Dandy’s skull as it fed. It dropped what was left of Karlie and let out an ear-piercing shriek.

“Now it ends,” Elisa said gravely.

Except it didn’t.

El Dandy turned to face her, the pointed end of the spike protruding right through one of his eye sockets. He pulled out the spike and contemptuously threw it over his shoulder. Elisa stared in shock at the hole in the creature’s face through which the orange, smoke-choked sunlight shone. It was unclear what actually kept the abomination going, but Elisa realized, to her dismay, that it certainly wasn’t his brain.

She had exhausted her options, and the fire from the hillside now approached the clearing at an alarming speed. She turned towards a path to her right and retreated, pursued by both monster and fire, two equally unrelenting forces. The path she followed took her to the dock where her grandparents faced down El Dandy all those years ago.

“Everything comes full circle,” she whispered to herself. “I die here, or he does. Or we both do.” The flames caught up to her before El Dandy did, encircling the lake and creating a blazing arena for the combatants. Black smoke started to blot out the sun’s harsh rays as El Dandy shuffled menacingly towards her, taking his sweet time despite the conflagration surrounding them.

Elisa figured that she could lop off his head if she could just free that axe from El Dandy’s back. It was a long shot, but a hope in hell was all that she had left.

She raced towards El Dandy and ducked under a swing of his claw. She could feel victory in her grasp as she dislodged the axe, but this feeling was short-lived. With unnatural agility, El Dandy grabbed her wrist. Her bones groaned and splintered in his hand, and her grasp failed—her weapon and hopes now both out of reach.

Then El Dandy began to “feed.” The pain in Elisa’s wrist was replaced by a coldness she could feel throughout her entire body. She felt more tired than she had ever felt. “I’m sorry, Abuela,” she whispered hoarsely and looked up, hoping that Heaven, if nothing else, would intervene to save her. As she did, she saw through the hole in El Dandy’s head that the tree behind them had a charred branch hanging on by a knotty thread. With one final burst of energy, she wailed a primal scream and shoved El Dandy as hard as possible into the path of the collapsing, blazing branch. El Dandy seemed to humor her efforts and mockingly grinned at her, but his arrogant sneer was soon replaced by bewilderment when the branch snapped and collapsed on top of the pair.

El Dandy caught most of the branch’s impact, and Elisa rapidly crawled backwards, not even noticing that her left pants leg had caught fire. She was having an easier time than the undead killer, who was now pinned down by the flaming branch. It writhed and screeched and grew blacker and smaller until it stopped moving. A pale, red light snaked out of where its mouth used to be and was swallowed up by the flames.

She was so caught up in watching El Dandy’s death throes that she failed to notice the fire on her leg, but the pain snapped her out of her stupor, and she furiously swatted at her jeans with her working hand. When she finally put the flames out, she looked around with weary eyes. There was no way to get back to her car. No way to go anywhere, really.

Elisa staggered over to the dock. She had no doubt that the fire would soon eat that up as well. She wondered how long she could float in the lake, perhaps long enough to be rescued, perhaps not long enough to avoid suffocating on the smoke darkening the late afternoon sky.

She stood on the edge of the dock, expecting El Dandy to spring back to life any moment, but the threat of that nightmare had passed.

Elisa allowed herself a brief smile before sliding gingerly into the waters awaiting her. The sound of her splash was met by the steady roar of the flames eating away at the wooden dock.
​
Somewhere above her, the buzz of helicopters and the howling of los vientos de Santa Ana fought to decide the forest’s fate.

Salvador Ayala is a PhD Candidate at Rutgers University, where he works on twentieth-century U.S. and Latin American literature. He was born in Mexico, grew up in Los Angeles, and resides in Philadelphia. Salvador is an avid fan of slasher movies. His work has been featured in Nightmare Sky: Stories of Astronomical Horror from Death Knell Press. ​

by Robert Martin

The homies always told her “Trouble Man” couldn’t be her favorite song because she wasn’t a man. Whenever they said that, she gave them the finger, laughed, and answered, “Yeah, but I’m still Trouble.” And she was, Trouble from East Side Belvedere, or at least she would be if the Belvedere still let in girls.
 
“Carmen!”
 
She ignored the first yell, and rolled over on her couch bed, pressing the headphones she wore close to her ears, the song, “Trouble Man” on repeat, drowning out the heavy knocks on her door.
 
“Carmen! Don’t fucking make me go in there.”
 
The knocks came again, this time hard enough to shake her wooden door. What time was it? Trouble asked herself, the adobe walls of her room keeping her cool and hiding her from the day.
 
“Carmen…”
 
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her Tía Huera standing over her. Tía Huera never called her Trouble, saying that type of drama was before Trouble’s time and that she had no business getting involved.
 
“I know you can hear me, Carmen…”
 
Rolling over to face her, Trouble greeted her aunt, “Good morning Tía.”
 
Annoyed, Tía Huera answered, “Morning, it’s 1 o’clock and I need you today.”
 
“Need me?” Trouble feigned confusion.
 
Tía Huera snatched the headphones off Trouble’s head, “Yeah, I need you, I got a big order due, so come on.”
 
“I was listening to something,” Trouble protested.
 
“I don’t care, now the shop, let’s go.”
 
“You said I was too young.”
 
“I said that when you were eight, you’re sixteen or did that mota you smoke make you forget?”
 
“But you said I’m too clumsy, that I break things.”
 
“I’m going to say you’re fucking lazy, and I just need you to quench.”
 
Trouble’s confused look returned, “Quench?”
 
“Keep acting dumb...”
 
“I’m going, I’m going, shit,” Trouble sat up on her couch, her thin blanket falling to the floor.
 
Tía Huera smiled, “Thank you, Carmen,” and started to leave, stopping at the door, “Don’t make me wait,” then leaving her to dress.
 
Pulling the plug of her headphones so the music could play out loud, Trouble found her pants, black khakis, she slid them on and clasped her belt with a B on the buckle. Baggy, cuffed, and creased, they suited her as did her black and white shoes. Chuck Taylors, sold cheap and mass produced, everyone in the barrio had ‘em, their design even older than her favorite song.
 
Trouble picked out a shirt she stole from her brother, choosing a black and white plaid button up that draped down to her knees. Putting on dark sunglasses, also stolen from her brother, she ran her hand over her short hair. Not many homegirls had the heart to go bald or pelón like the homeboys, but she did. Not fully shaven, her black hair was crew cut, and to protect her from the sun she wore a black fedora she took off some hyna from the Low Bottoms Barrio, still a little bent from the altercation.
 
In Old Los Angeles, everything was a thousand years old and practically ancient. Everything that was new was reserved for the gringo colonies up in space. Earth and its old cities were only good for their resources, the poor and their labor included. In 2992, Raza like her did what they could to survive, and from the Raza history she knew, it had always been like that.
 
Tía Huera’s shop was built into the back of their adobe house. In the Chicano barrios of Old L.A., the houses were adobe, with no access to gringo building materials, la Raza returned to the ways of their ancestors. Walking to the shop, Trouble could hear her aunt working without her, slamming her hammer down on layered steel, forming what would soon be a sword.
 
Trouble had heard stories of ancient times, when barrios used to shoot each other up with cuetes, but that was back before anyone alive could remember. Ever since the world became a ghetto there hadn’t been a gun on the planet, even the gringo Corporation and its goons had to use swords, spears, or axes.
 
“What happened to you? Getting all dolled up for your vato?” her Tía teased her, still hammering away.
 
“Chale! I don’t get dolled up or nothing for no one,” replied Trouble.
 
All the boys in the barrio were from the Locos clique of Belvedere, that meant they were her brother’s friends, and she’d be damned if she went with one of them.
 
“Don’t be like me, Carmen.”
 
“Why not, Tía, you're firme, you got your own shop, you make your own coin, you were a Belvedere Loca, you kick ass.”
 
“I’ll kick your ass if you keep talking that homie shit with me, now take this and…”
 
Knowing what her aunt wanted, Trouble pulled on a heavy glove and took the heated steel and quenched it in a bucket of oil. Fiery, she held it and then pulled it as soon as it was ready.

The sword was going to be a gladius. A short sword with a blocky guard and rounded pummel, it was also cheap. Unlike other swords like sabers or claymores, the gladius required little skill, just slash or stick ’em with the pointy end. This made them popular in the streets because, as her brother always said, “too many homies are too lazy to train.”
 
Thinking of him, she asked, “Hey Tía, where’s Hugo?”
 
“He’s not here, keep working,” her Tía replied, showing her another sword that needed quenching.
 
A dozen quenched swords later and Listo, a youngster from Belvedere, strolled into the shop, bald headed, with a white tee and his button up folded over his shoulder.
 
“You’re too sexy to be working, how come you don’t let me sweep that ass, my bad, I mean sweep you off your feet?”
 
Trouble caught her Tía rolling her eyes, answering him, she snapped, “Nobody fucking cares, Listo.”
 
“Trouble, you’re breaking my heart,” Listo, the neighborhood player, pressed a finger beneath his eye then dragged it down his cheek like a teardrop.
 
“Nobody fucking cares, Listo,” she said again, “Now what the fuck you want?”
 
“To tell you that your brother is good.”
 
“Good? What the fuck happened?”
 
“Corpses in the barrio, you know what it is, homegirl.”

Trouble hid her anxiety, Corpse was a diss name for the Corporation and the Corporation was not to be messed with. They were the gringos that controlled the valley and raided the barrios to the East and South like vikings.
 
“Don’t trip, the corpses are gone,” Listo pulled a cigarette he kept tucked behind his ear and started to smoke, “They might come back though.”
 
Tía Huera interrupted, “Ey! You want to talk that bullshit, then take it out of my shop!”
 
“Outside,” Trouble shot her hand with a pointed finger outwards directing Listo to the street.

“Whatever,” Listo turned and walked out.
 
Once alone, Troubles asked, “Are you sure, Tía? I could keep helping you if you want.”
 
“You remind me of the old days sometimes, I swear, now go, you’re clumsy like you said anyway.”
 
Stepping out into the street and leaving her Tía to her work, she saw that Listo had already left. In school, her teacher had told her that all the streets in Old L.A used to be paved, even the river, but that was ancient history. The streets, now dirt roads, flooded nasty, with centuries of trash lining them like curbs and broken gravel sidewalks. All except for the gringo valley run by the Corporation, they kept everything like it was or even better, or so she was told. Chicanas like her weren’t allowed in the valley.
 
The Belvedere Barrio wasn’t very big, not like the Willowbrook or Hollenbeck, but it was theirs. It had a park that they had taken over and a corner store that sold liquor and smokes. When she was a little girl, her big brother would walk her to get candy, sour worms and chili powder. She would never go alone, even now, Trouble still didn’t like walking around by herself. Other barrios knew who she was and could catch her slipping, running her down and stabbing her up, not that she’d ever admit to fearing for her life.
 
Walking first to her homegirl’s house, another flat-topped adobe, she knocked on the door and called out, “Muñeca! Muñeca!”
 
The door opened and it was Ms. Rodriguez, Muñeca’s mom, “Letty is busy, studying.”
 
That was a lie, Muñeca had dropped out with Trouble last year.
 
“I said she’s studying, so leave.”
 
“Ms. Rodriguez…”
 
“I wish you’d forget my daughter lived here, you’re trouble.”
 
Trouble smirked, “I know I am.”
 
Ms. Rordguez stood firm at the door as if to hide all that was behind her.
 
“Mom, it’s just Carmen,” said Muñeca, squeezing herself past her mother and outside.

“She just said she was trouble.”
 
“She’s my friend Mom, I’ll be back,” Muñeca leaned back towards her mother to give her a hug, one her mother reluctantly accepted.
 
Close to her daughter, Ms. Rodriguez whispered in her ear, “Don’t be out all night.”
 
Muñeca gave her mother a kiss goodbye without agreeing to anything, then joined Trouble outside, dressed similarly only she kept her hair in a long single braid that went down her back and her shirt was solid blue not plaid.
 
“Your mom doesn’t like me,” said Trouble, walking with her best friend.

“It’s cuz you’re a crazy bitch,” teased Muñeca.
 
“Fuck you,” Trouble teased back.
 
Exchanging shoves until Muñeca, the smaller of the two, fell into the street. Together they met their homegirl, Bashful, the oldest of the three and sporting a big blue sweater and dyed red hair. The homegirls, occupying the sidewalk, walked shoulder to shoulder in search of Trouble’s brother and the vatos from Belvedere.
 
As expected, her brother had the homeboys training. Not every barrio trained, a lot of barrios didn’t even have swords for all their homies. Belvedere was different, her brother didn’t let no one in unless they had a blade, and when all the other barrios were out drinking and getting high, he had them working, learning techniques, and practicing their footwork. The homies hated him for it, until they got in a scrap and survived using what he taught them.
 
When Trouble was a little girl, a viejo with some money built a rancho. He raised animals and planned to sell their meat, eggs, and milk in the barrio, but he forgot about the Corporation. The corpses sold their own fake meat, eggs, and milk, and they wouldn’t suffer any competition, so one night they killed the viejo and burned everything he had down to the ground, animals too. Since then, her brother and Belvedere took over, burying the viejo’s body, and using the remains of his rancho to train at.
 
The Locas were a clique, a subset of Belvedere that had been all Chicana, and once upon a time they trained with the Locos and fought with them against rival barrios, but that had all ended after her Tía Huera’s generation. Now the Locos thought the homegirls were only good for polishing their swords. But the homegirls didn’t care, they marched up to the wooden fence of the old animal pen the homeboys were training in and peered over.
 
The Locos were deep, twenty of them sitting on the floor crossed legged around the rectangular pen. The homeboys mostly went bald, some wearing fedoras, they all wore baggy pants and Chuck Taylors and white tees under button ups. Their shirts, plaid or a solid dark color, worn extra long to conceal the swords at their waist. Just ahead of them in the middle sat her brother, a legend at twenty, they called him Dreamer from Belvedere.
 
Hair slicked back with pomade, Dreamer’s plaid shirt was blue and white, worn open allowing his sword, slung at his side to peek out. A katana, Japanese steel in Chicano hands, it was hard to get and dangerous to use. A vato could just as easily cut off their own hand by accident than fighting the enemies. To wield it, made him feared and respected, even by Belvedere’s rivals like Calle Eastern. And his ability as a barrio warrior earned him the title, the Sword of the East.
 
At the center, stood two homeboys, Listo from earlier and another homeboy called Shorty. Both were holding training swords made of wood, stepping awkwardly they exchanged blows, neither very skilled. Trouble could tell Shorty was intimidated and it made him skittish. Listo, overly confident, took too many risks and swung wildly.
 
“Aagh!” cried out Listo, charging Shorty at full speed and making the mistake of running into the point of Shorty’s wooden sword. Seeing him fall, groaning and cursing in pain, Trouble laughed loudly, getting not only Listo’s attention but all of Belvedere.
 
“Who let the hoodrats watch?!” questioned a vato her brother’s age named Stretch, a gigantic homeboy from Belvedere.
 
From the floor, Listo made his excuses, “You all saw that shit, I got distracted by them sexy ass hynas.”
 
Shorty scowled, “Fuck that, I beat your ass, them hynas saw it too,” shifting towards Trouble and her homegirls, “Who gonna give me a victory kiss?”
 
Trouble hated when the homies acted stupid, even more so she hated the way Shorty was looking at Muñeca and when Listo started to give her the same look, she snapped, “What victory? You got lucky Shorty, and Stretch, call me and the homegirls hoodrats again and I’ma fuck you up.”
 
The homeboys erupted in laughter, embarrassing Shorty and Listo, and making Stretch angry, “I don’t fight hynas, but I’ll consider your ugly ass a vato,” he then stood up aggressively.
 
Muñeca and Bashful couldn’t stop her in time, Trouble, hopping the fence and shouting, “You want to fight, motherfucker!”
 
Trouble didn’t have the voluptuous bottle shape the Locos were into and they punished her for it, teasing her at every opportunity. Having what her Tía called a warrior’s build, she was lean and well-muscled, with calloused hands and a broken nose. Taking offense at being called an ugly hoodrat, she pressed the issue, “You big son of a bitch!”
 
Stretch, leaving his real weapon, a cross guarded longsword, he picked up a wooden one. Shirtless, Belvedere tattooed across his chest, he stepped into the center of the pen.
 
“This is going to be bad,” said Shorty as he helped Listo to his feet. Listo, grinning, exclaimed, “Ooo, Trouble, your ass is going to get it now!”
 
“Shut the fuck up, Listo,” called out Bashful, and leaning over the fence, Muñeca taunted, “Fuck ’em up, Trouble don’t let Stretch get away with that shit!”
 
Happy that her homegirls had her back, Trouble stepped further into the pen, “I need a training sword, who got one I can use?”
 
All the homies from Belvedere turned to her brother Dreamer, silently asking if they could give her one, none of them moving without his say. Her brother pretended to think it over, eyes hidden behind his own dark sunglasses. Rising to his feet, “The homie Stretch vs Trouble,” he declared, “that’s not a fair fight.”
 
Stretch protested, “What the fuck you mean?”
 
Dreamer let slip a sly smile beneath his thin mustache, “Listo, Shorty, will join Stretch in fighting my sister.”
 
Shorty choked, “What?!”
 
“I said you three versus my sister.”
 
“Nah, that’s fucked up, we’d beat the shit out of her,” Listo argued.
 
“Sure about that?” warned Dreamer, walking over to his sister with his wooden training sword.
 
Handing it to her, he said in a low voice, “Don’t embarrass me.”
 
Taking the wooden sword from him, Trouble replied, “You taught me everything I know, it’s your fault if I lose.”
 
The fighters took their positions, Trouble standing across from the homeboys with Stretch in the center and Listo and Shorty on his right and left. Dreamer, retaking his seat, waited till he had all of their attention before saying, “Alright go.”
 
“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle, I don’t want nothing to happen to that pretty face,” taunted Listo.
 
Rushing her, his wooden sword raised above his head, he screamed a bird-like battle cry and was taken down with one swift blow. With an instantaneous switch of stance followed by the delivery of a well-timed strike, Trouble left Listo dazed in the dirt.
 
“I yield!” Shorty fell to his knees and raised his wooden sword above his head as if to offer to her.
 
“Leva,” muttered Stretch, knocking Shorty over as he passed him to take on Trouble.
 
When Stretch charged, Trouble couldn’t believe how fast the big man was moving, the strike she had planned became a dodge as she pivoted out of his way. Frustrated at missing her, he whirled himself back at her in a long sweeping motion, but she ducked and felt her fedora take the hit that was meant for her head. Kneeling, she stabbed and missed. Regaining control of his weapon, Stretch brought it down on her like a hammer, but sensing the attack coming, she rolled out of the way.
 
Back on her feet, Trouble skipped backwards to put distance between them and for a moment they caught their breaths then went at it again. Raising her wooden sword to meet his, his strength made blocking his attacks difficult. After an exchange that left her hands pulsating in pain around the grip of her weapon, she slowed down and used herself as bait. Thinking she was tired, Stretch hoped to make an example of her in front of her homegirls, still anxiously watching from the sidelines. Bringing his wooden sword up over his head, poised to bring down on her, he put all his force into it only to see her roll away at the very last moment. Too late for him to stop his attack, he hit the dirt floor of the pen so hard his wooden sword snapped and splintered.
 
Trouble, catching Stretch exposed and stunned by his miss, swung and cracked him at his right knee. The strike brought Stretch down, but not completely, so with another roll, she struck at his left knee, this time bringing him all the way down to her level.
 
Refusing to give up, Stretch smacked the broken end of his wooden sword into the side of her head, dizzying her and making her bleed. Stabbing in response, Trouble hit Stretch in the chest and took the air from his lungs.
 
I’ve got you now, you big motherfucker, she thought to herself. Leveling her wooden sword, she meant for one final attack that would bust his head wide open, making an example of him to all the other Locos.
 
“Ya Estuvo!” her brother called out to her.
 
Hearing her brother’s voice, mid strike, Trouble stopped herself a hair’s length from Stretch’s head, letting the wooden sword slip harmlessly from her hands.

“You’ve won,” Dreamer paused as Stretch fell over and stared down all of Belvedere, “All you vatos better have learned something.”
 
Trouble beating Stretch in front of the whole barrio had changed the atmosphere, although Stretch, when revived, was gracious in defeat, the other homeboys weren’t. Calling for a meeting to discuss an issue that the homie Roach conveniently remembered allowed the Locos to demand Trouble’s exit and for her to take Muñeca and Bashful with her.
 
Her brother couldn’t help her this time, and she understood, hated it but understood. Only homies from Belvedere were allowed in meetings and no matter who she beat, she still wasn’t from it. Catching a sigh on her brother’s face, she nodded, showing him that she didn’t blame him.
 
“That’s fucking bullshit!” yelled Muñeca over the fence.
 
“You’re all mad cuz she smacked up your homeboy!” followed Bashful.
 
“Fuck ’em,” shouted Trouble, giving Belvedere the finger.
 
Not all the Locos wanted Trouble and the homegirls out, and those that didn’t laughed and poked fun at their homeboy for his defeat and praised her for her victory.
 
“What happened, Stretch?”
 
“Stretch got rocked by the homegirl Trouble!”
 
“The homegirl Trouble got hands!"
 
Walking to her brother, still seated, Trouble’s bent down and gave him a hug, “See you.”
 
Dreamer returned her hug, “Don’t let them get to you, they're stupid.”
 
“I know,” Trouble backed away and started towards the fence.
 
“Carmen!” her brother called out to her.
 
Stopping, embarrassed by the use of her given name, “What, Hugo?”
 
“Trucha!” Dreamer warned her.
 
Trouble rolled her eyes, her brother could be so paranoid, “Always,” she replied, and hopped the fence back to her homegirls.
 
With Muñeca and Bashful, she left the viejo’s rancho and the Locos in their pen, together they walked down the street, quiet and mad.
 
“The homies are fucking haters,” Muñeca declared.
 
Bashful looked over her shoulder before speaking, “They don’t want us there because they know Trouble makes them look bad.”
 
“Yeah, you fucked up Stretch, and he’s like the biggest one, chale, that shit fucking intimidates them,” Muñeca reasoned.
 
Exhaling in frustration, Trouble snapped, “Yeah, but what the fuck you want me to do about it?”
 
Muñeca and Bashful didn’t know what to say, the homeboys didn’t want another Locas click, only a Locos.
 
“Ey, let’s get something, I got coin on it.” Bashful’s tone had changed and was now excited, reaching into her front pocket she produced a handful of coins.
 
“If you got drink, I got smoke,” Muñeca said, reaching into her pocket and retrieving a sack of mota.
 
Trouble appeared defeated, “I don’t got shit.”
 
Both homegirls put a hand to her shoulder, “You don’t need shit, we got you,” said Bashful.
 
Muñeca, already laughing at the recent memory, followed, “Yeah, you deserve a party for what you did to Stretch.”
 
“I fucked him up?” Trouble asked humbly.
 
“You laid him out!”
 
“Yup, right on his humongous dumbass.”

The Little Store was a liquor store and served the Belvedere barrio since Tía Huera was a kid, it was owned and operated by the Corporation so it wasn’t adobe. Corpse funded, it was a small square building made of concrete with a steel door and a reinforced glass window.
 
Bashful knocked on the window, “Wake up or I’ma leave.”

An elderly gringo came to the window, he was new, none of the homegirls recognized him, “What can I get you?”
 
“Pack of Red Seven frajos, a big bag of…”

The man interrupted Bashful's order, voice trembling, “Excuse me, what are frahoes?”
 
The Corporation owned The Little Store and stores just like it in every barrio, employing old gringos in debt for no pay. Most of them had never been out of the valley before and all of them were scared of anyone Black or Brown.
 
“Cigarettes,” replied Bashful, seeing the man nod, she went on, “a big bag of Green Chili Chips, and three Old…”
 
Bashful stopped, interrupted now by Muñeca, “The blunt, get a blunt.”
 
“Right,” Bashful nodded, then finished her order, “A pack of Murrieta Cigarillos and three bottles of Old Hispanic.”
 
It took the old man working the store unbearably long to get their items but when he retrieved them all, Bashful paid him with her coins, sliding them through a small slot cut into the glass. Counting them, he slid their things through another larger slot on the opposite end of the store.
 
Leaving, Muñeca spilled the tobacco guts from the cigarillo and started to roll the blunt, and Trouble could smell Bashful’s frajo. She held her Old Hispanic out in front of her, studying its conquistador logo before taking a swig. The brand was the Corporation’s attempt to market its liquor to Raza, suddenly she dropped the bottle and paid no attention to it shattering at her feet.
 
In front of her, moving at a fast pace were three Tolucas, riding on their motorcycles coming toward them. “Ah shit!” shouted Muñeca, dropping the mota and the blunt and starting to run. Bashful, still smoking, took a drag, and followed.
 
“Hey! Get the fuck back over here!” yelled a Toluca, seeing them in their headlights.
 
Racing at them, they were surrounded by three Tolucas, one in front of them, one behind, and another at their side forcing them against the side of a tall adobe building.
 
“Where the hell do you little ladies think you’re going?” said the Toluca at their side, stopping his bike.
 
The Tolucas, or Toluca Rangers, were one of the many security groups that the Corporation contracted with to keep the so-called peace in Old Los Angeles. All gringo, they wore nothing but blackened leather with a lot of fringe and they kept their hair blonde, bleached if not natural, styled with product that made it stand and shine.
 
“The fuck you want with us?!” shouted Trouble, but she knew it was a stupid question, Tolucas like all the security groups tortured and robbed anyone they caught who wasn’t rich or gringo.
 
The Toluca in front of them stepped off his motorcycle, “Whatever you got to give us.”
 
“We don’t got shit,” Muñeca tried to hide her worry but her homegirls could hear it.
 
“Oh, I’m sure you got something,” said the Toluca behind them, stepping off his bike and retrieving the short spear all Tolucas carried on their back.
 
The Tolucas to their front and side, following the last’s example, pulled their spears, wooden shafts with sharp leaf shaped points, and started to stab at the homegirls.
 
Forcefully batting the spear away with her hand, not caring if it cut her, Trouble yelled, “Fuck, Corpse.”
 
“Ladies,” the last Toluca raised his hand and the others stopped their poking, “Let’s start over, I’m Steve, that’s Tony,” he gestured to the Toluca at their front, “and that’s Bruce,” he gestured to the Toluca at their side, “Now either you girls cough up some coin or we start getting to know each other.”
 
“You ain’t getting to know nobody, you fucking corpse!” Bashful pulled the gladius she kept concealed beneath her baggy blue sweater. She was the only one of the homegirls to own a sword, having taken it from a vato from Westside Westlake.
 
Like alarms the Tolucas went off.

“She’s got a fucking sword!”
 
“Model Gladius!”
 
Steve got the last word, “Bad move.”
 
The Tolucas all at once lunged at Bashful. Overwhelmed by the three, they speared her to death.
 
“Bashful!” screamed Muñeca, watching her homegirl’s body stabbed and pinned and bleeding against the adobe building.

Trouble thought and felt only vengeance; the Tolucas had come into her barrio and took her homegirl’s life. Like she was nothing, how dare they! she raged in her mind.
 
Dropping, she grabbed Bashful’s gladius, fallen by her feet, and brought it upwards into the jaw and through the head of Tony. She left no time for the Tolucas to react; pulling it, she slashed at Bruce, cutting him at the belly and spilling his guts. Her momentum was stopped by Steve, who pulled his spear from Bashful, finally letting her body drop, and stabbing it into Trouble’s shoulder.
 
Muñeca swung as hard as she could and yelled, “Fucker!”
 
Steve turned his head to meet her coming first, the punch giving her the precious seconds needed to pick up Tony’s spear. Steve, still tearing at the eye and bleeding from the nose, Muñeca charged him, running him through with the spear and toppling him over.
 
Holding the place where she’d been stabbed, Trouble locked eyes with Muñeca, looking back at her from skewering the Toluca, then they both looked at Bashful's body. Both homegirls stuck between sadness and relief.
 
They didn’t have too much time to think, a voice on the radio of one of the dead Toluca’s motorcycles echoed, “Boys? You there, boys? Steve? Bruce? Listen. If you’re alive? Help is coming, if you’re dead, expect revenge, the Corporation is sending in the Blue Eyes.”
 
The Blue Eyed White Knights were known as the white axe of Corporate, they left the valley and cut down anything or anyone that dared to stand up. Hearing the engines of their motorcycles, the homegirls huddled together their backs to the adobe building.
 
Needing heavy motorcycles to carry them, the White Knights kept their faces hidden behind snow white pig face helmets, worn atop blued plate armor and carried double sided battle axes, snow white like their helmets with blue steel blades. Reaching the homegirls first and stepping off his bike, a White Knight came towards them, his white axe at the ready.
 
“Belvedere!” yelled Muñeca, charging the White Knight she jammed her spear into his chest, but it uselessly deflected off his armor.
 
“ Muñeca, run!” shouted Trouble.
 
Too late, the White Knight’s axe came down, taking both of her homegirl’s arms off with one chop, severing them right below the elbow.
 
Teetering backwards in shock, Muñeca fell, but Trouble rushed in to catch her. “Pendeja,” she mumbled woefully, looking up to see the White Knight already bearing down upon them.
 
Thinking she was distracted by her wounded friend, the White Knight raised his axe high for one massive attack. Trouble, seizing the opportunity, let go of Muñeca, and took hold of Bashful's sword, slashing up at the neck and in between the knight’s armor. Stepping away from the homegirls as if suddenly disinterested, the White Knight turned to face his fellow Blue Eyes and fell, his head rolling away from his body when he landed.
 
“Cute,” echoed one of the Knights, and three, almost on command, unseated their bikes and pulled their axes. That was when Trouble heard the roaring engines of her salvation, Barrio Belvedere was coming.
 
Dreamer and the Locos fixed their motorcycles to be fast, and that made them loud, shaking windows as they flew in from the side opposite of the Blue Eyes. Swarming, they protectively wedged themselves between the homegirls and the White Knights.
 
Her big brother had come, but Trouble’s pride wasn’t going to let her call it a rescue. Riding with Dreamer were Listo, Roach, and Stretch. Already pulling their swords, Roach and Stretch started facing down the knights.
 
“They got Bashful! ” called out Listo, then running to Muñeca, “They fucked up the homegirl pretty bad, she needs help.”
 
Dreamer, off his bike, ordered, “Stretch, get Muñeca, get her out of here,”
 
“But fucking Corpses, the fucking Blue Eyes…” he started to argue but Dreamer stopped him, “I said get her and go!”
 
“Fuck it,” Stretch hated his orders but still followed them, sheathing his longsword and taking Muñeca in his arms and carrying her to his bike.
 
As Stretch and Muñeca sped off, Dreamer turned to Listo but before he could give him orders, his attention was called to Roach.
 
One of the Knights was inching their way towards Roach. Alarmed, he shifted his stance and shouted, “Get the fuck back!”
 
The White Knight, picking up on his fear, came at him with his axe. Roach carried a thin bladed rapier, failing to block, the white axe broke his sword in half and embedding in his chest in one hard chop.
 
“Roach!” yelled Listo, his homeboy falling over and bleeding out.
 
“Listo!” Dreamer got his attention, “Get my sister, and go.”
 
Trouble, her voice stricken with pain, protested “Dreamer let me fight with you.”
 
Dreamer smiled in admiration of his little sister’s courage, “Chale.”
 
“Dreamer?” It was the knight who had called Trouble’s beheading of his fellow Blue Eyes cute.
 
“I’m Dreamer from Belvedere,” he answered, placing a hand on his katana.
 
The White Knight sneered through his snow white helmet, “Known as the Sword of the East?”
 
“I am,” Dreamer followed with the unsheathing of his katana and directing it towards the knight.

Seeing the katana wielded by her brother, Trouble remembered the legends every youngster in the Chicano L.A learned coming up. Only the oldest barrios had a katana, the Belvedere katana dating all the way back to 1942, when it was used by the first vato from the barrio to learn the way of the sword. Since then Belvedere katana was always passed down to the Sword of the East.
 
“Excellent,” the condescending voice of White Knight had a piercing tone, “I’ll have them put your head on display. I’m William, Lord Percy to you and Captain of the Blue Eyes.”
 
The three Knights, including the one that killed Roach, all attacked Dreamer, thinking it by surprise, but with three strikes much faster than theirs he took them all down, their bodies piling in a heap of bleeding armor.
 
“Fools,” Lord Percy had started with a dozen Knights, eight now with those just cut down, he directed the rest to attack Dreamer all at once.
 
“Trouble, go with Listo!” Dreamer yelled to his sister as the rest of the White Knights left their motorcycles and pulled their white axes.
 
“No, don’t make me!” pleaded Trouble.
 
“Listo!”
 
Hearing his big homie, Listo grabbed Trouble, and helped by her weakness from her wound, he was able to pull her onto his motorcycle.
 
Held by Listo and speeding away, Trouble looked back and saw her brother engage the Blue Eyes. Dreamer waded into the White Knights like water, his katana dipping into the gaps in their armor and cutting them to pieces. None of the Knights made it past him, falling one by one and losing limbs and heads on their way down. What was left of them lay scattered, turning the dirt road beneath them into a blood soaked mud.
 
When Dreamer was through, only he and Lord Percy were standing. Getting smaller as Listo took her farther away, a bump made Trouble bounce and gaze further out and into the distance. There, she saw the snake of headlights slithering towards her brother from the valley. More White Knights, all of the Blue Eyes it seemed, were coming to put down the Sword of the East.
 
She couldn’t let him die, not over her, telling her homeboy, “Dispensa,” and barely hearing his confused, “What?” Trouble reverse headbutted Listo, breaking his nose, making him swerve and struggle not to crash. Letting her go, she fell from the motorcycle, rolled and felt bones break. So she crawled until she willed herself up into a limp, all to get back to her brother. But Trouble was too late.
 
Tripping, she caught herself on her knees and elbows, scraping them both. Finding the legs that tripped her she saw that they were plate armored and missing the rest of their body. Panic straightened her back and turned her melodic limp into a run, and she next found the body belonging to the legs, its armor dented and crusted with bloody dirt. A Chicano barrio warrior defeated a White Knight, and when she stumbled upon Lord Percy’s severed head, his helmet hacked off, the look on his face told her he died shocked.
 
Where was her brother? The nervous thought gripped her mind and Trouble called out, “Hugo! Dreamer!”
 
“Carmen!” She heard her brother's voice and followed it.
 
Dreamer was laying on his back, arms and legs spread like a fallen star, the blade of the White Knight’s snow-white axe broken off into his chest and stomach. Trouble ran to him, “What the fuck do I do?!”
 
“Trouble,” he started to speak but his voice failed.
 
Hearing their engines, she saw the snake of lights coming their way, “Dreamer,” she said his name like a warning then she started to drag him,
 
“Chale,” Dreamer stopped her, gripping his sword one last time, then pushing it into his sister’s hands. When Trouble took hold of it, he pulled her to him and whispered.
 
She laid her brother to rest and did as he said, taking the katana of Belvedere and running, his last words echoing to her as she made her escape, “Trouble from Belvedere must live, she’s the Sword of the East now.”

Robert “Wizard” Martin is a Chicano writer, whose work is influenced by his experiences growing up in Los Angeles and his activism. Through his stories he seeks to counter mainstream narratives and assumptions by calling into question what is “canon” or “orthodox” through the historized placement of Chicano/a/xs in roles and spaces from which they have long been erased or excluded. His themes include Chicano Noir, Chicano Futurism, and Alternative Chicano History.

by M.R. Subias

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