Chapter 36: Santos Part 1

A jolt of plummeting yanked me from the feverish void, my body swaying as rough hands gripped the cross and eased it down from its upright torment. The creak of ropes and wood filled my ears, mingling with the thud of my pulse. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Miguel’s gravelly tone cut through the haze. ‘This bitch is still alive—I figured she’d croaked by now.’ Carlos snorted nearby. ‘Yeah, fucking insane. Three days up there.’ His boot prodded my side, the impact sending fire through cracked ribs. ‘She’s wheezing like a dying animal. How the hell?’ ‘She looks like shit, man. Skin hanging off bones.’ ‘What now? Finish her off? Dig a hole and dump the corpse?’ I jerked my head side to side, the noose biting into my neck as far as the coarse rope permitted, a desperate rattle escaping my raw throat.

‘Better hydrate the slut first,’ someone muttered. They yanked the gag from between my lips, the sudden freedom making my jaw ache from disuse. Zips rasped open—two, maybe three—and I craned my neck upward, mouth gaping like a beggar’s bowl. Hot streams of piss splattered my face, cascading over my shaved scalp, trickling into the parched and sunken cavern of my mouth. The sharp tang of ammonia seared the sores and fissures lining my gums, my toothless maw bubbling with the foul liquid. It burned like acid on my ulcers, but moisture was life; I gulped down every dribble that hit my tongue, the forked tip flicking instinctively to catch more, my forked tongue slurring against the salty flood.

As awareness clawed back, fragments of reality pieced together amid the delirium. That vile enema Santos had forced into me—thick ropes of horse cum mixed with electrolytes—had perversely sustained my life, preventing total organ shutdown. And the thunderstorm, soaking through my bonds, had dripped into my mouth just enough to stave off the final dry heave of death. Without them, my kidneys would’ve seized, organs liquefying from thirst. But now, the crash hit harder than any whip: I was jonesing fierce for the next hit, veins screaming for meth or coke or whatever I could get. The roaches swarmed across my body, receding at the touch of someone undoing my bonds. Maybe I was just imagining this all, maybe I was still asleep and it had all been a dream? The men’s voices warped, echoing as if from underwater, their boot squelching in the mud around me. I wondere if I’d wake strapped to the T-bar again, or if this was the mercy kill I’d half-prayed for in the dark.

The men finally finished untying my bonds and yanked off the blindfold. I cracked my eyes open, crusted with dust and dried gunk, the harsh sunlight stabbing like needles. They fiddled with the chain threaded through my labia piercings, unlocking it with a click, then gripped the beaded urethral sound lodged in my piss hole and eased out the massive dildo and sound together, a slick, wet pop echoing as they withdrew. They tugged the butt plug free next, leaving my ass gaping wide—cool wind rushed into both my wrecked holes, my pussy and rectum so stretched and dilated I felt like a hollowed-out rag doll. The sun beat down mercilessly, but my vision swam in a blurry haze, refusing to sharpen. I tried to shift, to do anything, but my body was drained, utterly spent, muscles like dead weight.

‘Diego did say he didn’t give a shit what happened to her,’ Miguel muttered. ‘We’re heading out today. Maybe we take her with us?’ ‘She can’t travel in this state,’ Carlos shot back. ‘Shit, she won’t survive the crossing.’ ‘I can’t believe we’re even debating it,’ Miguel said with a scoff. ‘She’s just some random slut we scooped up.’ ‘Hell’s Angels’ whore,’ Carlos added. ‘They chased us for a bit but lost the trail. Could be trouble if they find her with us again.’ My ears perked at that—maybe, just maybe—but I smothered the flicker of hope before it could take root. ‘If you men don’t mind, I’ll keep her,’ Santos said, his voice slithering through the air like poison. Santos, the bastard who’d orchestrated my agony. ‘I like her. She’s tough.’ Miguel and Carlos exchanged a glance. ‘She’s worthless to us. Go ahead.’ I tried to shake my head, a feeble twitch of protest—I’d rather die than end up alone with Santos. But all it did was drag me under, blackness swallowing me whole as I passed out again.

When I woke up, I was strapped down on a rickety hospital trolley, the thin mattress creaking under my weight. An IV needle pierced the vein in my hand, a steady drip of yellow fluid seeping into my bloodstream, making my limbs feel strangely alive and less like lead weights. I glanced down and saw a threadbare blanket draped over me—it stirred a faint memory of Maria’s gentle touch. ‘You’re awake,’ Santos said, his voice softer than I expected. He unbuckled the straps holding me in place and helped me sit up, then carefully unhooked the IV line. ‘Come, eat a little. This is my special concoction—it’s like a hangover cure. Electrolytes, multivitamins, glucose—everything you need to get back on your feet.’

I scanned the space around us: his cramped shed divided into two rough rooms. One held that nightmare dental-slash-gynecology chair surrounded by gleaming torture tools—pliers, needles, and worse—while the other was his living quarters: a sagging bed piled with rumpled sheets, a cluttered desk stacked with books, a basic toilet in the corner, a humming microwave, and a simple table with two mismatched chairs. The whole place reeked of stale sweat and neglect, the ultimate unhygienic bachelor’s den, complete with that hospital trolley shoved against the wall. He guided me to the chairs, but as I stood, a dizzy spell hit me hard, the room spinning like a vortex, and I nearly crumpled to the floor. He caught me under the arms, steadying me with surprising care. ‘Postural hypotension,’ he explained calmly. ‘You’re still not 100%. Better take it easy for the next few days.’ I studied him closer now, his bald head scarred from old fights, his eyes lacking the feral gleam from when he’d ripped out my teeth and fingernails without a flicker of mercy. He popped a container into the microwave—beans, rice, chunks of meat—and the savory aroma filled the air, making my empty stomach clench with hunger. He spooned out a small portion onto a chipped plate, took a deliberate bite first, chewing slowly as if to prove it wasn’t laced with poison. ‘Come, eat, but slowly. You could get refeeding syndrome.’

I tilted my head, my voice coming out as a hoarse rasp: ‘An educated torturer.’ ‘Yes,’ Santos replied, nodding. ‘I’m the most educated man on this farm—and I can see you are too. You’re strong-willed. I’m impressed.’ ‘

What do you want with me?’ I asked, my words measured and wary. As far as these men went, no kindness came free. But I lifted the spoon anyway, sliding the warm food into my mouth. It was heavenly—simple, nourishing, bursting with flavor after days of nothing but pain and deprivation. I forced myself to savor it in tiny, disciplined bites, sipping water from a dented cup between each one to keep the nausea at bay.

‘Eh,’ Santos rubbed his bald head and flashed a gummy smile, his missing teeth making it oddly disarming. ‘I guess I didn’t want you to die. And I’ll be frank, I’m lonely. Could do with someone to talk to, some company.’ My gaze drifted around the room again, landing on the books scattered across his desk—thick tomes on chemistry, pharmacology, mass spectrometry, biology, medicine, dentistry, their spines cracked from heavy use. ‘You’re not just the torturer. You’re the cook here too. The one who makes the drugs.’ ‘I oversee it, yes,’ Santos said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m also the doctor, dentist, vet, torturer, and as you can see—very single.’ He let out a short, bitter laugh. ‘Diego keeps me busy.’ It hit me then, like a cold splash of clarity: as much as I was trapped here, Santos was a prisoner on this farm too, his skills chaining him to Diego’s whims. ‘Can you leave here?’ I asked, probing gently. Santos cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he read the calculations flickering through my mind. ‘You’re a clever one. I was right to keep you. I can leave, but only when Diego lets me, for his reasons. You should steer clear of him though.’