by Ryan Schow
She turned away from him and leaned against the window, her little body huffing. He smiled, but inside he was frowning. He stayed quiet for the better part of two years, not joking with people, not engaging in enjoyable conversation, not really even allowing the old Isadoro to emerge. He was too saddened by what happened. Too ruined. But now everything had changed. Now they were really in the thick of it and he didn’t know if they were going to be so lucky next time they faced off with the drones. So the best thing he could do was start being his old self again, if not for her, for himself.
The road north held lots of small towns that weren’t being attacked like Alamogordo, and Isadoro came to believe the strike was due to its close proximity to the Air Force Base. But if those were US drones, and the US clearly wouldn’t attack itself, then who was operating them? Had they been hacked and compromised? It seemed plausible knowing today’s tech was way more advanced than the Average Joe would understand.
That was also the least likely scenario.
There could have been a system’s breach that locked out…what?—the entire US military? No. That made no sense.
Ice took them through Tularosa, Carrizozo, and Corona—a handful of towns so small if you blinked you’d miss them. The road was two lanes with enough places to pass stalled or stopped traffic, so he tried not to worry too much. Other than that, he was surrounded by a rust-colored desert floor with green ground cover splotched here and there, and cloudless blue skies in every direction.
In Vaughn, they stopped at this tiny, tiny roadside dive on the side of Hwy 285 called Pedro’s Burrito’s. He bought food for everyone and they sat outside on yellow and black picnic tables in the heat. They ate in silence, each of them trying not to have PTSD over what they’d just endured.
When it was time to get back on the road, the boy walked around the side of the burrito building, saddled up next to a big dirt berm by a fifty-five gallon drum full of trash and pulled down his pants to take a dump.
Eliana and Ice exchanged baffled looks.
“Should I take him something to wipe his butt with, or do we just pretend we’re not seeing what we’re seeing?” Ice asked.
She pulled a napkin from the tray and handed it to Ice. “Go do something good, Mr. Comic Relief.”
“Will do, Princess Poopy-Face.”
He walked over to the boy, who was really huffing one out, then handed him the napkin and said, “So you don’t paint your pants brown.”
He took it, then looked away, hiding his face.
“You know, you can’t just take a crap wherever you feel like it in this country,” Ice said. “They actually have bathrooms here, with toilets that flush.”
The kid kept straining, still not looking at him. With a subtle harrumph, Ice left him there, went to the car and got it going while the kid did his thing. Eliana joined Ice and together they waited for the kid to finish.
“My father once said that behind every wise cracking man is a man with many nightmares,” Eliana said in a lost, almost whimsical voice. It was a beautiful voice, completely the opposite of the way she looked right then.
“He was right,” Ice said.
“I’m sorry for being rude back there. I was scared. And I was mad at you because you didn’t seem scared.”
“I was.”
“What are your nightmares, Isadoro?” she asked, turning her face to his.
He couldn’t seem to get this woman out of his mind. She could look so ugly, so plain, so downtrodden, yet when he saw her the night she killed Pablo Cubidero, he swore he’d never seen a woman so beautiful. He left her though, with that man, never expecting to see her again. But he did. She was bloody and victorious, and not dead. It was a miracle! If he hadn’t just killed all of Cubidero’s guards, if he hadn’t had his wits about him just then, that would have been it—he would have fallen for her right where she stood.
Maybe he already did.
“You want to know about my nightmares?” he asked, casually. “This conversation is the start of one, if you’re taking notes.”
She socked him in the arm pretty hard. It was like she punched it without an ounce of guilt or remorse.
“What the hell?” he asked, shrinking away from her.
“Be straight with me,” she said. “We’re going a long way and if I have to deal with your childish humor all the way, the trip will feel twice as long and twice the burden.”
“Maybe I don’t want to share anything personal with you,” he said, his offended face saying it all. “Maybe I like keeping to myself. And maybe I like my sense of humor just fine.”
“Who hurt you?” she asked, really wanting to know.
“You did just now,” he said.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
“Don’t use that word around the boy,” Ice said, the kid heading back this way.
“And what if I do? He will only look around hoping to see a cat.”
“Why are you so angry?” he said, deflecting.
“If you don’t know that by now,” she said, feigning sadness, “then you are a terrible listener.”
“Well I’m not as transparent as you.”
“Clearly,” she said.
The boy got into the car and Eliana looked at me, frowned, then made little mewling cat noises to which Ice showed Eliana a subtle middle finger. Quick as a pick-pocket, she grabbed Ice’s extended finger and gave it a violent twist. He jerked it back with a yelp, but couldn’t stop glaring at her as she laughed and laughed and laughed at him.
Was she actually trying to break it?
“Has anyone ever told you to not play rough with the boys?” he said, curling his finger in and out to make sure it wasn’t dislocated, or worse, broken.
“Just the little kitty cats in the neighborhood.”
“Oh, you had cats?” the boy said in Spanish, suddenly excited.
Chapter Nineteen
America was officially burning according to every available radio station. No one could say why this was happening. Even more confusing, no one could say who was responsible for this.
“I don’t understand,” Eliana said.
“That makes two of us,” Ice replied.
Washington D.C. was hit with a massive drone strike and the President was evacuated. New York, Pittsburgh, Miami, Houston, El Paso, Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Denver, Salt Lake City, Albuquerque, Phoenix, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Sacramento, San Diego were still under assault. This was but a sampling of the major cities being hit. The smaller cities were being obliterated, too, although not to the same degree as the big cities.
All across the nation, military installations had been besieged in what was being called the most well-timed and violent attack ever coordinated, which was practically unheard of for a country of America’s size. It was even more astounding that this should happen to a country with a military as potent as the US military. Drone targets included jet fighters, helicopters, troop transports, administrations offices, base hospitals and base housing.
According to these same reports, the drones were doing incredible damage. Areas of dense human population continued to be secondary targets. High schools and colleges, hotels, apartment towers, convention centers, high rise office buildings.
The truly chilling bit of information, however, the part that really sent ice water charging through Isadoro’s veins was, as of this moment, there had been no military response beyond some basic defense of the military installations. Ice took this to mean the surviving soldiers went after their enemy with small arms fire.
“We picked a hell of a day to come to America,” Ice said to Eliana, who was listening to the same reports and catching bits and pieces of it.
Isadoro, having been born and raised in Chicago, knew this day was never supposed to come. America was a military juggernaut. The only way she could ever fall would be by a stealth attack from within the country where the full military could be requisitioned and used against those who once controlled it.
; It seemed someone else figured this out and was actually making it happen.
Isadoro switched to a.m. radio, ran a station search, landed on conspiracy host Max Dorland. The shock jock claimed inside sources warned him that the Pentagon’s entire communications grid was leveled by a massive hack, rendering it useless.
“The military not only lost control of their drones,” Dorland continued, “ninety percent of the military itself, beyond the personnel and a few transport helos, has been handicapped, possibly even made useless. People want this to be Russia, or China. Some people even want this to be North Korea. It could never be North Korea. My guess is that Silicon Valley finally built a monster and lost control of it.”
Eliana shut off the radio as they rolled into the small town of Tucumucari (pop. 5503). She looked at Ice and said, “Shower, food, sleep.”
That’s it. He got it.
They stopped at the first motel and he didn’t know how things would go. Would they be open? Taking guests? Ice, Eliana and the kid would be considered illegals. Even though Isadoro was a US citizen, he had no ID. He’d tossed it when someone broke into his place back in Juarez just over a year ago. That “someone” had nothing to say for himself when Ice got to him because the bullet in his head made talking a little tough. After that night, Ice got rid of all evidence of his former self, including his looks. He grew out his hair and beard, bulked up, got some tattoos, took a new career path, one where he didn’t need to punch a clock or have a boss. Back then, he was doing anything and everything he could to forget the past. Anything and everything to tear away all the pain haunting him relentlessly.
But now, in a country under attack, he had no idea what to expect. The first five motels said they needed ID, but the real problem was Eliana and the kid. Eliana was dirty, which she said was done on purpose so she wouldn’t get hassled and raped on the way up through Mexico. And the kid? He was the poster child for a South American refugee.
Finally, at the Fairfield Inn and Suites, he went inside by himself.
“I have had the worst day ever, my friend,” he told the night clerk. “Fortunately I have my cash, but I was beat up and mugged during all this mayhem down in El Paso. I’m telling you this because I don’t have ID, but like I said, I have cash.”
“Normally I’d ask that you find another place, but in light of the attacks, we expect to have guests with some different circumstances—”
He stopped mid-sentence, looked over Isadoro’s shoulder and said, “Can I help you?”
Ice turned around and saw Eliana walking in with the kid. The kid’s eyes were wide open. He’d obviously never seen a place this big or this nice.
“I’m sorry, Isadoro, he wanted to see inside,” Eliana said in Spanish. “It’s so beautiful in here!”
“Oh,” the clerk said, the entire air of him shifting, “I didn’t realize they were with you.”
“Are there any air force bases or military bases nearby?” Eliana asked in English, taking off her hat and trying to straighten the mess of hair she’d shoved up in there.
Swallowing, unable to pull his eyes off her because she was not clean in the slightest, he said, “Uh, yeah. Cannon AFB down by Clovis. It’s about eighty miles from here.”
“Have you had any drone activity here?” Ice asked, thinking this guy was about to change his mind and kick them out.
He tried not to show his agitation with Eliana’s poor timing. She was tired. She was also angry at him because they’d done nothing but crawl from one crisis to the next. It wasn’t his fault, but to her that didn’t matter. To some degree they’d saved each other’s butts enough times to not turn on each other, right?
“I’d heard about it happening in Amarillo and Lubbock,” he said, “but not here.”
“So you haven’t seen anything?”
He shook his head. Then: “Have they got ID’s?”
“No,” Eliana said.
“Is that your son?” he asked, a smile on his face, but his intentions clear. He didn’t want to give them a room and Ice knew it.
“Yes, he’s mine.”
“But not yours?” he asked Ice.
“No.”
The clerk looked between all of them, then finally made a judgement call to let them stay. He punched their information into his computer, waited a second, then tapped the side of his monitor with a sheepish grin.
“Been having problems with this thing all day long.”
“I get it,” Ice said.
Refusing to meet their eyes, but clear in voice and message, the clerk said: “You know being in the country illegally is still illegal to some folks, yes?”
“We understand,” Ice said, deciding not to lie.
“And your…companion…she needs a bath.”
He reached down under the counter, rustled around for something, then handed Ice a handful of Band-Aids and a wrapped bar of soap. “The bandages are for you, but the bar of soap is for your friend, just in case the soap in the room isn’t sufficient for her needs. We don’t like dirty people being dirty here. It kind of leaves a stain on an otherwise stellar reputation. I hope you understand.”
“Are you new here?” Ice asked.
“Yes.”
“How about I pretend you took my bags to my room for me and you pretend to take a generous tip.”
Ice opened his pocket, withdrew a wad of cash, peeled off a one dollar bill and slid it the clerk’s way. For a second there, when he reached for the cash, Ice was going to grab the kid’s hand, yank him forward and crack him in the jaw.
He changed his mind, though. The kid was right, and as a former ICE agent, he knew that.
“Where you coming from?” the clerk asked, frowning.
No one said anything.
“So you’re fresh out of the wrapper,” he said. No one smiled. He handed over the key then said, “Where you headed?”
Eliana reached for the room key; he snapped it away and grinned. “C’mon, where you folks headed?”
“Chicago,” the little boy said, much to Ice’s chagrin.
He handed the key over, finally, and Eliana grabbed it with a frown.
“Chicago’s the ninth circle of hell right now,” he said, calm and cool, like we got one over on him, and now he’s getting one over on us.
Eliana started to walk away, but she looked back at him, caught him grinning and said, “Culero.”
“Make sure you use that shower, sir,” he said to Eliana.
Ice grabbed her arm in time to feel her start to jerk away from him and go after the clerk. “We don’t solve problems that way here,” he warned.
She rattled off something in her own language that went too quick for even him to pick up, be he knew the energy. Her verbal retaliation needed no translation.
Outside, she shook off his arm, then turned and said, “People like that—”
“Exist everywhere in America. This isn’t some third world country, Eliana. We have the right to say anything we want. It’s in the Constitution!”
“And I have the right to react!”
“Not if it includes violence against another person. You can’t buy off the police here. You can’t hide. And the laws here are strict for people like you who break them, so knock it off!”
Frowning deeper still, she went back to the car, gathered a few things, then said, “Let’s go.”
Isadoro led them back inside, opened the door to the second story room, then moved aside to let Eliana decide which bed she wanted. He knew she’d want her own bed, and he was fine with that. He already knew the score—Ice and the boy get one bed, Eliana gets the other.
“I’ll sleep with the boy,” Eliana said.
“I was going to say the same thing,” he said, baffled because he didn’t expect that. “You two having been traveling companions and all. If you want the bed to yourself…”
“I’m going to shower,” she finally said, clearly upset with him.
“Why are you so mad at me?”
“I’m not
mad at you,” she said. Then, in a more humble tone: “I’m scared. Scared my niece is dead. Scared I’m going to die. Scared I’m relying on a guy I don’t know—a hitman for Christ’s sake! A sicario with a stupid sense of humor!”
“Well on that note,” he said, sufficiently sober, “I’m going to try to wind down.”
She saw his face drop, and that made her face drop. He wondered if she just realized she’d been rude to someone on her side. She had that look, though, the one your face makes when you can’t think of anything to say. Scowling, she turned around, went in the bathroom, shut the door and started the shower.
As he checked out the room, he let his mind wander, and in the end he found himself thinking only of Eliana and the kid. What happened that made her this obstinate? She wasn’t like this just because of the kidnapping. The girl could fight. She could kill. And she had no problem with cross-gender warfare. Having spent a couple of years in Juarez, he had the utmost respect for the struggles of third world nations, specifically the people who had it worst. But damn…
Isadoro never had a problem being a sicario because when the law refused to work, when the law in Juarez sided with the criminals, sometimes you had to take matters into your own hands. He was happy to do that. For him it was personal. The cartels cost him everything, so he wanted to take everything from them. He wanted to take their lives.
But hate only acts as fuel for so long before it eventually turns on the bearer. It took him awhile to figure this out, but when he did—which was only recently—the lesson felt branded to the surface of his brain.
He hadn’t cracked a joke in months, but now that he left Juarez, it was like dragging himself out of the bowels of hell. The idea that he was coming home started to work its way inside him. He almost wanted to smile. He didn’t. Not for real. But he did let that good feeling permeate a little longer than he would have say, last week. The truth was, even in the midst of this blistering attack across the nation, as horrifying as his own experience had been with it, he was anxious to be going home. He was anxious and excited, even if his brothers wouldn’t be happy to see him. Mostly though, he was hoping his brother wouldn’t shoot him again.