Encajuelados—bodies stuffed in car trunks.

Encobijados—bodies wrapped in blankets.

Entambados—bodies stuffed in metal barrels, often with acid or wet concrete.

Enteipados—bodies wrapped in industrial tape.

“This is the new vocabulary,” the article goes on to say, “of our journalism, of our nation. We need specific new words to describe the many varieties of slaughter, for our language, our former concepts of death, fail us. The Black Plague gave us ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ as a children’s game; the war on drugs gives us a new chant for children in our colonias—‘encajuelados, encobijados, entambados, enteipados—all fall down.’ ”

But Esta Vida doesn’t restrict itself to Juárez, or even Chihuahua—it reports on La Familia in Michoacán, the Zetas, it takes on the Sinaloa cartel, the police, the federales, the army, the marines, city, state, and national governments.

The post “Who Picks the Winner?” causes a national outrage and debate, such as debates exist in the now highly constricted press. Almost blatantly accusing the national government of siding with the Sinaloa cartel to create a “pax narcotica,” it runs a statistical analysis—of some 97,516 arrests by federal authorities, only 1,512 have been associated with the Sinaloa cartel, and many of them were people who had fallen into the bad graces of Adán Barrera and Nacho Esparza.

Los Pinos responds with fury and indignation in a nationally televised press conference. The president gets on the screen in defense of his federal police and talks about the sacrifices in blood, and how this “cowardly anonymous verbal sniper” has made a mockery of martyrs.

The result is that thousands of people start logging on to Esta Vida, and the susurro is that it’s the only place where you can get “the real news on the drug war.”

The next day, Esta Vida runs a story about a woman in Nuevo Laredo whom the Zetas executed for calling the authorities about their extortion business. The accompanying photo shows the woman’s head set between her legs, her skirt pulled up. It’s as obscene as any pornographic snuff film, and what makes it even more so is the narcomensaje left by the body: “We killed this damn old lady because she pointed the police in our direction. This will happen to all careless assholes. Sincerely, the Z Company.”

A new development happens the next day, and this time it’s Ana who calls Pablo over to her monitor.

“Check this out.”

Esta Vida has posted a letter from the Zetas to the Wild Child. “Thank you for doing our public relations work for us. You are helping us spread our message to the world.”

But the Z Company isn’t so thrilled with the next post, “Eight Zetas Beheaded,” which shows the decapitated bodies of eight Zetas in the back of a pickup truck with the message “This is what happens when you support Los Zetas. Here are your halcones, you filthy bastards. Sincerely, the CDG.”

The blogs start a ferocious debate in the city room.

“You have to ask yourself,” Óscar lectures, “whether Esta Vida is now reporting on murders or stimulating them. To wit, are the narcos now committing atrocities specifically to have them publicized on this blog? Have we reached the point where murders don’t really exist unless and until they appear on social media? Are we now going to have Facebook murders, Twitter murders?”

Not for the first time in his career, Óscar is prophetic. All of that comes to pass in the autumn of 2010, but Esta Vida is the star of the Internet, “water cooler talk,” to the extent that there is such a thing anymore. Television reporters and social media followers ask the question “Who Is the Wild Child?” and it becomes a national game.

And the Wild Child keeps it up.

Every post graphic, every post provocative.

“Do the Marines Execute Prisoners?” “Families Abandon Ciudad Mier.” “Don Alejo de Castillo—An Elderly Hero.” “The Women of the Juárez Valley Stand Up to the Cartels.” “Whatever Happened to Crazy Eddie?”

But then new narcomensajes appear on bridges, monuments, and street corners around the country: WILD CHILD—IF YOU SHOW OUR DEAD AGAIN, YOU WILL BE NEXT—SINCERELY, THE Z COMPANY. WILD CHILD—YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE PLAYING WITH. THE NUEVA GENTE. TAME YOURSELF, WILD CHILD. And, ominously, WILD CHILD, WE’RE TRACKING YOU DOWN AND WE WILL FIND YOU.

Wild Child doesn’t back down.

Esta Vida reports that 191 Zetas “disappeared like so many Houdinis” from a Nuevo Laredo prison, and the arrest of 42 guards for “facilitating the escape.” It shows a photo of two men whose faces had been skinned off left outside an Acapulco bar. It tells the story of a Christmas party in Monterrey where gunmen came in and took away four university students, who have not been seen since.

There’s a New Year’s Eve party at Cafebrería, but Pablo can’t help but observe what a shrunken group they are. Jimena is gone, Giorgio is gone, Óscar diminished, Marisol in pain, Ana in grief, himself in what…malaise? Ennui? Depression?

The gathering is symbolic of the city.

In an article that Óscar did let him write, Pablo reported that as of the end of 2010, there have been 7,000 people killed in Juárez, 10,000 businesses closed, 130,000 jobs lost, and 250,000 people “displaced.”

My city, Pablo thinks.

My city of ruins.

And my bleeding country.

Hard to believe that 2010, the annus horribilis of the Mexican drug war, has finally come to an end.

The final tally of drug-related deaths in Mexico in 2010 came to 15,273.

That’s what we count now, Pablo thinks, instead of counting down to midnight.

We count deaths.

3 Each New Morn

…each new morn

New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows

Strike heaven on the face.

—Shakespeare

Macbeth, act 4, scene 3

Acapulco, Guerrero

2011

Eddie’s tired.

Tired of moving, tired of running, tired of fighting.

The fact that he’s winning almost doesn’t matter.

Like, winning what? The right to move, run, and fight more?

I’m a multimillionaire, he thinks as he settles into yet another safe house, this one in Acapulco, and I live like a bum.

A homeless man with twenty luxury houses.

Just last week, four decapitated bodies that used to be his guys hung from a Cuernavaca bridge with the message THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO SUPPORT THE TRAITOR CRAZY EDDIE RUIZ.

It was signed by Martín Tapia and “the South Pacific cartel.” The cheap motherfucker can’t buy a map? Eddie thinks. How close is Cuernavaca to the Pacific Ocean?

Eddie feels aggrieved that Martín thinks he’s the informer who betrayed Diego. It’s true, but Martín has no reason to believe it’s true, so it’s not fair. Tapia has this grudge against him, for no good reason at all.

So do the Zetas, but they have a reason.

Same reason they’ve always had.

They want what I have.

First it was Laredo, now it’s Monterrey, Veracruz, and Acapulco. They also want my head on a stick, and they ain’t gonna get that either.

He thinks back to, what’s it been, shit, five years now when he sat in a car back in Nuevo Laredo with those sleazy cocksuckers. I should have put a bullet in their heads then, except for I wasn’t carrying a gun.

Speaking of cocksuckers, he’s pretty sure that Ochoa plays for the other team. I mean, I like to keep it tight, but that guy—the hair, the skin products, the military gear. If “the Executioner” showed up dressed like a construction worker, an Indian chief, a biker, or a cop, I wouldn’t be surprised.