Death by Chocolate

Guillermo swallowed thickly and clutched his assault rifle closer to his body. The night air was chilly and bit at the few inches of exposed skin on his face. For once, he was glad to have so much gear on. He crept forward as quietly as he could. This was his first mission with CONSEP, and he wanted to impress his superiors. This was the best paying job he’d ever had and his family was depending on him.

He crept below the cacao trees, silent as a ghost but still nervous someone was going to hear him. The orchard was massive, with thousands of trees, but Guillermo and his brothers at arms weren’t there for cacao. Somewhere in that mix of branches, leaves, and fragrant fruit, the cartel was growing something else, something the government wanted and the cartel would kill to protect.

Guillermo couldn’t see the others, but he knew they were there. They had his back. They would come running if he found danger. Mama’s eyes would sparkle in that way when he made her proud. He would-

Guillermo never saw the person that fired on him. The last things that went through his head were the image of his smiling mother, then a bullet. It was a clean shot – the bullet passed through his head and kept going. It grazed one of the cacao fruits behind him, cracking the rind but not destroying it. Guillermo’s body was hit four more times: once in the neck, twice in the abdomen, and a final time in the thigh. His blood glittered like stars for a moment as it exploded out of him, then splattered on the tree.

Guillermo was dead by the time he hit the ground. His blood sank deeper into the cacao rind and onto the fruit within until it coagulated, then dried. The night went on silently. It grew chillier; the moon passed overhead, casting shadows through the orchard that moved like they were chasing ghosts. Occasional bouts of gunfire erupted throughout the trees for another hour, then ceased. The stars twinkled coldly above until the rosy fingers of dawn dimmed them. The chill lingered until the warmth of day banished it. The only thing the night left behind was a million clinging dewdrops and the body of Guillermo.

The women were coming to harvest, and they left footprints in the dew wherever they went. Two women were working in the blood-splattered cacao tree – Bianca and Victoria. They had been harvesting for many years, and nothing phased them anymore. The only notice they gave to the dead man was to avoid tripping over him. Bianca didn’t hesitate to hack the gory fruit from the branch and toss it into her basket. Dried flakes of blood danced away as it soared through the air, then covered the other fruit in her basket like a fungus dispersing its spores.

Bianca was reaching to whack another pod from the tree when her friend Mary called her name. She stepped back to look, a smile already on her face. Victoria twisted to put more fruit in her basket. She lost her balance and almost tripped over her tangled feet. The hand she carried her machete in came down hard as she tried to regain her balance – and her blade embedded deep in Bianca’s neck. The women screamed and gathered around their friend as she choked on her own blood.

The women were given the rest of the day off to deal with what had happened. The cacao, including the bloody one, was picked up by a group of men irritated they had to drive all the way out there just because a couple women couldn’t hold it together. The bloody pod was whisked away to a processing house, where it finally lost its bloodstained rind. It was processed with its siblings until it was finally ready to ship.

Carlos enjoyed working the shipments. It was easy work, and he was paid well for it. It came with some risk, but as long as he was careful, he’d be fine. All Carlos had to do was pack the cocaine in the middle, wrap it with plastic, then pack the cocoa beans around it. He made it look like an innocent chocolate shipment.

Be thorough, he thought to himself. Failing the cartel would mean the end.

The bean was loaded into a dark, cool airplane, and there it sat. It sat as other pallets filled in around it. It sat as a dangerous man approached Carlos, with his hands tucked casually in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. Carlos recognized the man while he was in the middle of moving a box. He slowed, stared at the man, then carefully set the box down. The man in the bomber said a few words. Carlos didn’t argue, only said something sadly. The man in the bomber pulled a .45 Beretta from his pocket, aimed it between Carlos’ eyes, and pulled the trigger. Carlos collapsed against his pallet, and the man shot him again.

The journey to America was uneventful. The forklift driver responsible for unloading the plane in LA was a man named Hector. Unbeknownst to his legitimate employers, Hector had a second job working for a much more important boss. That boss paid him three times more and there was virtually no risk to Hector. All he had to do was look out for the specially marked pallets and set those aside for “local delivery”. He never asked questions and never knew what was in the shipments.

Once Hector had everything sorted, he waited for the pick up. He dreamt of playing softball with his son that weekend. Fifteen minutes later (and a few imaginary homeruns), a box truck backed into the dock. With practiced efficiency, Hector loaded the marked pallets into the truck. Once he was done, he nodded to the driver. The driver nodded back and pulled away from the dock slowly. Hector watched the truck pull away, knowing he’d just made three grand. Suddenly, his chest tightened with excruciating pain. He clutched a hand to his chest and tried to cry out. Hector’s father had died of a heart attack, he knew this day would come for him eventually. He just didn’t expect it to be so soon.

“Oh my God!” someone from within the warehouse shouted as Hector slumped, then fell from his forklift. “Somebody call 911!”

The box truck sped down the freeway, anxious to get its deliveries done. Tony wanted to be finished by 6 – his girlfriend was waiting with concert tickets. He pushed the speed limit and didn’t bother to check the orders he was delivering. The boss wouldn’t be mad if he messed up the cocoa beans – only the good stuff mattered. So, he hopped in and out of his truck at lightning speed. He tossed boxes to buyers and shouted he’d sign the paperwork for them. He didn’t bother with his seatbelt – his stops averaged less than a mile apart – and skipped his parking brake.

His last stop was a bakery owned by a nice woman named Stacy. She usually gave Tony cupcakes, but her sons were accepting the delivery today. Tony didn’t mind, he’d save a few minutes on the delivery. He handed the eldest, Will, the box of cocoa beans while the other son, Jack, signed for it. In a blink of an eye, Tony was back on the road. He was on the road for exactly six minutes, thirteen seconds, and speeding towards an embankment when his brakes stopped working. Tony pumped them hard and tried to swerve away, but the truck wasn’t responding. He crashed over the embankment just as he remembered he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.

Will and Jack brought the cocoa beans to their mother. Stacy didn’t normally buy cocoa beans straight from the source, but it was a special occasion. Her husband just got a huge promotion – their family would never struggle with money again.

“Thanks, boys.”

“No prob, Mom. We’re going fishing for a few hours, but we’ll be back to grab Dad’s cake.”

“Try not to be late,” Stacy said. “Dad’s party is after I close up here.”

Hours later, the cake was ready and the boys were late. Stacy didn’t mind waiting for them. She played absentmindedly on her phone when she heard the front door open. I guess they can’t read the sign, she thought. The bakery had been closed for twenty minutes.

“Sorry, we’re closed!” she shouted.

“I’m not a customer,” a man replied. “I’m here to talk to you.” Confused, Stacy found a man in a long jacket standing in the sales room. He had a pleasant smile, but something about him put her on edge.

“You have a lovely bakery,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you know who paid for it?”

“My husband got a loan from the bank,” she answered hesitantly. The man smiled in a way that said he pitied her.

“I’m afraid not. Your husband got a loan from my boss, and he hasn’t been paying it back. He owes us twenty grand, and he doesn’t want to come up with it.” Silence fell between them, thick like custard.

“You…want money from me?” she finally asked. “I have a little in the register-“

“Sorry,” the man said. “We’re beyond that. I’m here to send a message to your husband.” He pulled a shiny revolver from his pocket and pointed it at her. Stacy froze, paralyzed with fear and confusion. “If it makes you feel any better, it was between you and your sons.”

That does make me feel a little better, she thought, and then died when the man shot her in the heart.

The man stared down at her lifeless body and felt terrible. He hated killing women and avoided it as often as he could. When the boss wanted someone dead, however, that person ended up dead. The man turned to leave but paused. On the counter, in a pink box, was the most delectable-looking chocolate cake he’d ever seen. It was wrong, it was despicable, it’d probably be the sin that pushed him into hell, but he couldn’t help it. He took the cake.

The man presented it to the guys back at Jim’s house. He placed it on the table, and they gathered around it like worshippers at an altar.

“It’s a really pretty cake,” George said.

“Really is,” Mark added. He was already drooling.

“Someone get a knife,” the man said, then cut a huge slice from it.

“You want some, too?” he asked the blonde sitting away from everyone else.

“No thanks,” Connor said. “I’m allergic to chocolate.” The other men shrugged – that was more for them – when the back door burst open.

Will and Jack had found their mother on the bakery floor. Their distraught father told them where to find her murderer and swore them to get revenge. Armed with shotguns, they didn’t wait to hear what their mother’s murderer had to say – they started firing. The man was hit immediately and fell to the ground in a heap. The rest of the room had time to get their guns out and return fire. Each of the cake thieves got blasted. The boys were hit, too – Jack in the throat and Will twice in the chest.

As quickly as it started, it was over. Six bodies crowded the kitchen floor, their blood pooling underneath the table. Only Connor remained alive, panting with adrenaline with his back against the wall. He looked around him at the carnage, then took another look at the cake. It seemed to stare back at him with malicious intent, beckoning him to eat.

He didn’t say anything else – he ran from the house and into the night.

The cake with one slice removed remained untouched by the violence on the table, except for one splotch of cherry-red blood on the dark chocolate frosting.