December 25, 2029
The sun was setting over the plains, casting its final rays across the desert, where a truck moved calmly toward the U.S.–Mexico border.
Behind it, two SUVs followed at a cautious distance—a Ford Explorer and a Toyota—making sure not to draw attention.
After waiting a couple of hours in traffic, they finally reached the border checkpoint.
The border officer lifted his dark sunglasses and, with his sharp blue eyes, scanned the truck. It had the logo of a meat distribution company he’d never heard of. Behind the wheel sat a thin Latino man—
too skinny to be a trucker
, the officer thought—wearing a striped polo shirt and a red cap.
“Well, my friend, what brings you back to your México?” the officer asked in English, his accent heavy.
“Back?” the driver echoed, puzzled.
“You speak English, right?” the officer pressed, while a couple of German Shepherds sniffed along the truck’s sides, searching for suspicious scents. Some of them barked, uneasy.
The driver nodded slowly.
“Smells a little like blood,” the officer noted.
“Well, it’s meat truck. I don’t know what else it should smell, señor,” the driver replied, his English clumsy but understandable.
The officer nodded, just as the two SUVs pulled into a separate lane, their windows tinted as dark as obsidian.
“This gonna take long?” the driver asked, trying to stay polite. “I have to pick up another load, and I want to sleep before midnight. You know... Navidad.”
“Of course, just routine questions,” the officer said, tapping the side of the truck with his baton. The metallic sound echoed. “We just have to make sure nobody’s doing anything… out of line.”
“¿You’re going to pay the paint job or what? No haga eso,” the driver said, annoyed.
The officer smirked mockingly, then moved around to the front of the truck—and noticed the passenger.
He was slumped in the seat, apparently asleep, wearing a beige poncho, a cap pulled low over his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses. Something about him felt… unsettling.
“Never heard of this company…
Carnes Mario
,” the officer muttered.
“Yeah, last distributor had a problema, and our boss, he’s… very good making calls,” the driver replied with a neutral tone.
The officer eyed him sideways—just as his fellow guards signaled that the dogs hadn’t picked up anything suspicious.
“Looks like everything’s in order. Go ahead…”
A dull thump came from inside the truck.
The officer narrowed his eyes and reached for his weapon.
“That must’ve been…” the driver started, trying to sound casual, “you know, just some tool or something in there.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“I’m just the driver, amigo.”
The officer began signaling to his team to open the truck’s rear doors—when a voice interrupted him from behind.
He turned around and saw one of the SUVs lowering its dark-tinted windows. Inside sat two calm-looking Latino men. The one closest to the officer stared him straight in the eyes and spoke in firm English:
“Let them through.”
The officer opened his mouth to respond, but just then a sharp, static-laced shout came through his radio—his superior barking something urgent.
He hesitated but ignored it for the moment and stepped toward the SUV.
“And why the hell do
you
care?” he asked, resting one hand on the vehicle and glaring at the man.
Without a word, the man calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He handed it to the officer, who took it with a skeptical look… until he read it.
His face went pale. The blood drained from his cheeks.
Without another word, he stepped aside and waved off his team, signaling for them to let the truck through.
The truck driver shot him a smug smile as he shifted into gear and drove on.
They rolled forward a few hundred feet, leaving the border behind.
“You know,” the driver muttered to his passenger, slipping back into his native Spanish, “a little help back there would’ve been nice, don’t you think?”
The two SUVs fell into position behind them, no longer bothering to look inconspicuous.
“I don’t speak English,” the passenger replied, sitting up from his fake nap.
“Then what the hell are you here for?”
From the side of the road came the roar of another engine.
They looked over to see a white Ford Lobo kicking up dust as it merged onto the highway ahead of the truck. In the bed of the pickup, a mounted machine gun gleamed—manned by a guy in a white tank top.
They kept driving for several miles, far enough from the border that nobody would care what they were doing anymore.
Then, the truck driver made a series of hand signals to the vehicles behind him and slammed the brakes.
“Why are we stopping? Are we there already?” the copilot asked as the driver opened the door and stepped out.
“No, still a few kilometers left.”
“Then why stop? It’s almost dark,” he added, hopping down after him.
“Relax,
wey
. We’ve got until midnight,” the driver shouted from the other side of the truck. “I’m just checking the merchandise.”
They walked toward the back of the truck. The modified pickup stayed in front, keeping watch for any unwanted visitors. Behind them, the doors of the two trailing SUVs opened, and eight men stepped out—some wearing suits, others dressed like average civilians. All of them were armed to the teeth, practically flaunting their toys. The ones in the back carried military-grade M4 rifles, while the drivers casually unholstered their Glocks.
“Nice,” the copilot muttered, slipping his hands under his poncho as he watched.
The driver knocked on the cargo door with a specific rhythm. A few seconds passed. Then a latch clicked from the other side.
The door creaked open slowly. First to appear was the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. A cautious face peeked through the shadows. After a quick scan, the guard fully opened the door.
The copilot held his breath.
Inside the trailer, a mass of trembling bodies huddled together. Naked, skinny, their eyes blank. Young men and women, their pale skin clinging to bone.
“How many in the shipment?” the driver asked.
“Twenty-six men, twenty-eight women.”
“Wasn’t fifty the number we needed?”
“We brought extras. In case something went wrong. Better safe than sorry, no?”
“They meet the criteria?” he asked, scanning the group. “Virgins? No scars, no deformities?”
“Yeah. All clean. Not a single blemish.”
“How long since they last ate?”
“Instructions said 48 hours without food. We pushed it to four days. Didn’t want to risk anything,” he replied, pointing at a few whose bones were pressing against their skin like blades. “Could pass for gringa models.”
“All of them born in the first quarter of the year?”
“Checked every single one. It was a damn miracle we got them in time. We almost missed the ritual’s exact date.”
The driver glanced back at the men behind him. They gave him cold, silent nods.
“And that noise earlier?” he asked, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. “We’re gonna draw unnecessary attention.”
“Ah, yeah, about that…” one of the men replied, climbing back into the trailer.
A few seconds passed in silence.
Then came a sharp, desperate scream from inside.
The man emerged, dragging a girl by the hair. He threw her violently from the truck. She landed right in front of the driver.
Black hair. Pale skin, almost flawless. She barely managed to hold onto a dirty blanket that kept slipping from her trembling body. The copilot glanced sideways. The calm expression he’d kept until now cracked slightly. He clenched his teeth but kept up the act.
The second man stepped down from the container.
“This little brat’s been a pain in the ass since we picked her up,” he said, pulling up his sleeve to show a small, bloody bite mark on his forearm. “She even bit me.”
The driver crouched down and grabbed her by the chin. The girl whimpered in pain. He blew a cloud of smoke into her face. She recoiled, grimacing in disgust.
“Carajo… how old is she?”
“She’s young. Barely eighteen, I think. One of the last we picked up. Her parents were a problem, so we killed them,” the man replied, flipping through a grimy notebook where he kept record of everything. “Maybe that’s why she’s so riled up.”
“They’re getting younger every time…” the driver muttered, forcing her to stand. He looked her up and down with the twisted focus of a butcher sizing up a carcass.
The girl shut her eyes tight, filled with both disgust and rage.
“They lose their virginity earlier, get piercings, tattoos, all kinds of shit… Makes them ineligible for sacrifice,” the man explained coldly.
The copilot stood in silence, fighting the urge to vomit.
Stick to the plan
, he kept repeating to himself.
“Although… this one isn’t bad at all,” the driver said, letting his hand trail along her figure. The girl tried to back away, but he gripped her tight. “Would be a shame to waste her. Maybe I should take her inside and have some fun first. What do you think,
novato
?” he threw a glance at the copilot.
“Don’t you think that’s… inappropriate? With the
merchandise
, I mean,” the copilot replied, trying hard to keep his tone neutral. “You know the patrones are strict about that stuff.”
“Didn’t you hear? We’ve got extras. We can play with a few. I doubt our lord Quetzalcóatl would mind…”
The copilot flinched. For a split second, his mask cracked, revealing his disgust.
The driver noticed.
“Still…”
“Do whatever the hell you want,” the driver scoffed, yanking the girl again as she struggled desperately. A disturbing image flashed through the copilot’s mind—the girl’s face shifting into someone else’s, someone he knew all too well. Faint memories. But the weight of what had been done hit him hard. He furrowed his brow, trying to snap back to the present. “Just don’t interrupt me.”
The men from the SUVs began climbing back into their vehicles. The guy with the notebook hopped back onto the truck. The girl kept screaming, tears rolling down her face as she tried to break free from the driver’s grip.
The driver pulled out a knife. The girl collapsed, gasping.
“She’ll be a problem if we run into anyone. Maybe I should just cut out her tongue…”
The copilot let out a long, disgusted sigh.
“Why the hell do I always end up halfway through this mierda…” he muttered.
The driver barely turned his head, curious.
“What was that?”
Too late.
In the blink of an eye, the scene froze.
The copilot’s hand slipped from beneath his poncho in a fluid, unnatural motion. Somehow, he was now holding a massive piece of carved wood—shaped like a blade—with razor-sharp obsidian embedded along its edges: a
macuahuitl
, over two meters long. There was no way it could’ve been hidden under his clothes.
With a single strike, the driver was split in two.
His body exploded into a shower of gore that splattered the truck and drenched the girl, who barely managed to shield herself with her arms.
The man inside the container whipped around at the sickening crunch. He raised his shotgun as fast as he could—but it wasn’t fast enough. The copilot spun, and in a single arc, both flesh and steel were cleaved clean through. The container’s walls were left scarred, and the man’s torso dropped like a bag of meat.
“¡Puta madre!” one of the guys near the SUVs yelled.
In seconds, every gun was aimed at the copilot.
He stood there, calm and deadpan, then drove the
macuahuitl
into the dirt.
He muttered something in a strange dialect—nothing anyone could place or understand.
Then came the bullets.
A storm of lead rained down on him. The barrage slammed against the weapon without pause, but not a single bullet pierced it. Though it looked like simple wood, it absorbed and deflected every round. Sparks flew as rounds struck the obsidian blades, ricocheting in all directions. The weapon was so massive, it created a kind of barrier—some of the bullets even struck the truck, drawing muffled screams from inside.
And yet, the copilot didn’t flinch.
Then—silence.
Out of ammo, the gunmen scrambled to reload their M4s.
But when they looked up...
The copilot was no longer on the ground.
He was in the air. Suspended above them.
Had he just leapt several meters while carrying that massive weapon? It was absurd. Inhuman. A chill ran down the men’s spines as they watched his figure descend—posture calm, movements effortless, like he wasn’t even trying.
Then, like he was swinging a twig, the
macuahuitl
came down.
One man’s head was split clean in half. Before his feet even hit the ground, he decapitated the next with a single stroke.
A few Glock rounds flew at him—he blocked them with ease. Then, with two more sweeps of the blade, the SUV and the men in front of it were reduced to chunks of meat and twisted metal.
From the rear vehicle, the remaining survivors opened fire.
The copilot raised his hand.
The air thickened. The pressure shifted. The bullets froze mid-flight, suspended in the air, trembling.
He formed a pistol with his fingers. And “fired.”
The bullets spun around—and shot back.
One drilled into the forehead of the first man. Another pierced the second through the heart. The third took it in the gut and collapsed, writhing. The last was hit in the shoulder and clung to the SUV’s door, gasping for air.
“What the hell are you... some kind of demon?” he croaked, clutching his wound to stop the bleeding.
“Oh... I don’t think you’re the ones who get to throw that word around, cabrón,” the copilot answered with pure disdain.
The man raised his weapon, hands shaking—but it didn’t matter. The top of the SUV—and his neck—were sliced clean off by the
macuahuitl
.
His body dropped instantly, lifeless.
The copilot turned, but he didn’t react in time to the gunshot from the last survivor.
The revolver’s blast echoed across the desert.
The bullet hit him square in the forehead.
His cap flew off, revealing tousled black hair that fell over his face. His dark sunglasses dropped from the impact.
But there was no blood.
The copilot raised his gaze, revealing one emerald eye... and one golden.
Calmly, he brushed his forehead with his hand—and pulled out the bullet, now flattened like a coin.
He let it drop to the ground with a soft clink.
“No way...” the man stammered, trembling from head to toe.
The copilot crouched down, stared him in the eyes and with no effort at all, gripped his head and ripped it clean off. No flourish. No rage. Just cold, mechanical precision.
He sighed in frustration and tossed the severed head aside. It rolled a few times, leaving a bloody trail in the dirt.
The girl was still on the ground, trembling, trying to process what she'd just witnessed.
"Good thing it was a small caliber," he muttered to himself, brushing his forehead with clear annoyance—completely ignoring the threat speeding straight toward him.
The modified pickup skidded to a stop just in front of him, spraying gravel and dust into the air. The mounted turret screeched as it swiveled and locked onto the copilot’s chest.
The gunner stared at him with fury—and a wicked grin.
He pulled the trigger.
The roar of bullets tore through the air. The copilot tried to react, but it was too late. Lead tore through him mercilessly. Each round ripped into his body like paper, some ricocheting off the pavement, others punching through the truck behind him.
The noise was deafening. The copilot let out a low grunt of pain. The bullets stopped. The barrel of the gun smoked.
He remained standing, a figure barely holding itself together. His body, now a leaking sieve, dripped with a fluid that... wasn’t red.
The gunner narrowed his eyes in confusion.
What came out of those wounds wasn’t blood. It was golden. Thick and glowing like molten metal, it traced liquid light across the asphalt.
“You’re a…” the gunner stammered, unable to finish. His hands trembled. He could no longer control the weapon. Something deep inside him screamed not to look any further.
The copilot raised one finger and pressed it gently to his lips.
"Shh. You can't say it out loud."
From the shredded fabric of his clothing, a necklace swung into view. At its center, a solar symbol blazed with supernatural intensity. And then, like time itself was rewinding, his wounds began to heal—first the surface, then deeper, until not a single trace remained.
Not even a scar.
Inside the truck, the driver was shouting, panicked, demanding he keep firing. But the gunner... couldn't.
It wasn’t fear. It was reverence. Divine terror.
The copilot opened his hand.
The ground beneath the truck began to tremble—softening, liquefying like melting clay. As he closed his fist tightly, something erupted from the depths.
A long, sinuous creature with gaping jaws. It looked like a serpent… but feathered plumes fluttered behind its skull.
The beast snatched the front of the vehicle and crushed it like cardboard, swallowing the driver whole—his scream was drowned out by a supernatural roar. Then the creature dissolved into mist, leaving only silence and trembling ground.
The back half of the truck crashed down with a loud bang, just as the gunner was thrown from the turret—straight toward the copilot.
Without hesitation, the copilot raised his weapon and with a swift motion, thrust the
macuahuitl
upward like a spear.
The gunner didn’t even have time to scream. He was impaled mid-air. The obsidian blades ripped through him mercilessly, shredding his insides until only a hollow moan escaped before death claimed him.
His body hung there for a moment, skewered. Then the weapon was lowered, and the corpse slid off and hit the ground with a dull thud.
“Sometimes I forget how fragile mortals are,” the copilot muttered, brushing dust off his clothes in annoyance.
“You should put that on a mug,” said a woman’s voice behind him.
He rolled his eyes in deep exasperation.
“That way you won’t forget,
mon seigneur
.”
The copilot rolled his eyes in deep irritation — of all people, that infuriating woman was the last one he wanted to see right now.
Sitting cross-legged atop the wrecked truck was an athletic-looking woman, watching him with obvious amusement. She wore a skirt of overlapping metal plates that barely reached mid-thigh, and a matching armored top. Her straight blonde hair fell to her shoulders, and her glowing purple eyes shimmered with a mix of mockery and danger.
She smiled at the copilot and said,
“Pleasure to see you again, Lord Quetzalcoatl.”