by David Lovato
God bless,
Tobias Menchin
Day 2012… This is all I will be doing with this. This cursed retelling of my daily events is sucking the life out of me. What little there is to suck. Fuck me, if I write one more entry…
After I finish this last one up, I’m just going to leave it here for you. For whoever stumbles across this scattered mess that is my journal. Sorry about the lack of organization, by the way, not to mention the lost entries. I’m sure it won’t matter anyway. Even if someone does find these pages, they probably won’t take the time to look at them. What will be will be.
My family is on my mind. The remainder of them probably woke up with worry burning in their hearts. Breath catching in their throats. There must have been tears, but it was for the best. I didn’t want them to see me like this. I would have died from the shame. I don’t even know if they’re alive right now. I hope so. I hope they’re doing well. God, let it be so.
Today was pretty fucking much the opposite of noteworthy. I sat all day, thinking. Thinking, and thinking about what I did. At one point, I found myself in my corner with my nose against the wall. I actually pressed so fucking hard that my nose began to drip blood. It was surprisingly relieving, and warm. It reminded me of a memory from my past. I held it fondly as it flickered into my mind like a match.
I had been rough-housing with my dog, and I hit my face on the fireplace. My nose broke, and I was gushing blood. My mother rushed to me promptly, and hummed. She hummed, and was surprisingly calm. After she plugged up my nose as best as she could, she held me near her for a moment, until I grew nearly as calm as she was. Then, she took me to the hospital to get my nose fixed. That was a wonderful moment, even with the negative aspect of my nose. I wish my mother was here. Actually, she shouldn’t see me like this.
I sat on a chair facing the boarded-up window in my room, and rocked back and forth. I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and hummed that same tune, “Oh, Susannah.” I was calm, and feeling all right for just a little while.
I think it’s time for some sleep, and after this one here, I will no longer write about my days on this rock among the Dark Ones.
I have Erin with me. She’s nestled gently on my lap. The lid is clamped down tight, and I think we’ll go to sleep now. We’ll leave in the morning, to find the most abandoned stretch of land we can find. It’ll be romantic, and we’ll be alone together. I look forward to it.
Two Worlds
The youngest of three brothers raced across the rocky ground. He was tired, but he had little water left, and wasn’t sure how long it would be before he found more, so he refrained from drinking.
It had been nearly a year since his eldest brother, Mateo, had left their home in Matamoros, headed along the Rio Grande, following the river until it had led him to the hills, where it was easier to slip in. They had heard very little from Mateo since then, but the Reyes family did receive money from time to time. And it was helpful.
The sun had been set for a long while, and the third brother, Manuel, had not seen a sign in some time. He wondered if he had wandered off the route; as the youngest brother, he had never studied the maps and routes, and wasn’t sure where the checkpoints were.
It was then that he saw something. It was small, but it was surely a sign: down near the edge of the river, almost invisible in the night, was a backpack hanging from a bush.
Manuel rushed toward it, nearly pouncing upon it like a starved animal upon its fallen prey. He nearly ripped the bag open as he stuffed his fist inside, searching for what he hoped would be there. Sure enough, he found a small, folded piece of notebook paper. It was dirty, but it was legible. Manuel couldn’t read as well as his older brothers, but he knew enough to get by. He traced the area near the top of the paper, just like he’d been taught. It was easy to spot; the top was where the big white space was largest. He found the heading and read it. Manuel smiled. It was a note from the second brother, as promised.
The second brother was Miguel. He had left for the border only a few days prior to Manuel’s own departure. While Mateo had left to find work, Miguel had left to find Mateo.
Miguel and Manuel had spent the time of their older brother’s absence doing what little they could, but there was no work around town. Miguel had been lucky enough to find a fishing job, and Manuel had accompanied him several times, when the work load was at its highest. Manuel didn’t get paid, at least not individually. Whatever money Miguel brought home, as well as whatever money Mateo sent home, wasn’t for any of them, it was for all of them.
The fishing job was in the gulf, and it was almost like torture. It wasn’t that the hours were long, or that the sun was unbearable for almost the entirety of the year, but that they were so close to something better. The trip home brought them along the border, and they could see it.
It didn’t look special at all. There was a lot of dirt, and not much vegetation. If not for the fence, it would’ve looked like they were staring at any random patch of desert (which they never had a deficit of), but the prospect alone made it somehow different, somehow more beautiful: they were looking at America.
The land of the free, where jobs were more plentiful and paid much better for fewer hours, where parents could let their children play in the streets without fear of them becoming the next third-page headline in the local paper, another statistic added to a section marked “gang violence.” America, where everything was just better. They were so close to it, yet so far away.
Mateo had applied for citizenship, but one night, Miguel had woken Manuel from his sleep, told him to be quiet and follow, and they had crept across the tiny room to the doorway and seen their mother weeping at the kitchen table. Mateo stood near her, rubbing her shoulders.
“Mamá,” he had said, “it will be all right. Please, don’t weep. You’ll wake the boys.”
“Mateo,” their mother had lifted her head and said, “Mateo… we will lose the house. There’s no money.”
“I’ll find work, Mamá.”
“There’s no work here, Mateo,” their mother had said, and then pressed her head into the table once more.
“My citizenship will be granted soon, Mamá. I’ll get a job in America. America, Mamá!”
“Mateo, we don’t have time.” Their mother had not even lifted her head. “They’ll take the house at the end of the month.”
The boys could hear no more, and had hurried back to bed, though unable to sleep. It was then that Mateo had begun to plan, had started meeting with people who were strange to Manuel and Miguel. It was then that they woke up one morning, days later, to find Mateo gone, and their mother unwilling to tell them where he went. After a few weeks, they received a letter in the mail, and at the end of the month, no one had taken their house.
And it was only a few weeks after that when they received another letter in the mail. Mateo’s citizenship had been granted, but he would never get to enjoy it, and since the Reyes family had no way of contacting Mateo, he would probably never even know.
Manuel searched the letter from the backpack up and down, carefully trying to read each word.
Manuel,
Even though I know what it must mean, I pray you find this letter. I pray you haven’t gotten lost… or worse.
If you’ve found this, you’re on the right trail. Keep following the river, until the hills become larger, and the fence is no more.
Don’t cross just then. It isn’t safe. There’s a checkpoint later on, you’ll know it when you see it. Wait there for two days. A man, an American, stops there to pick people like us up.
If he doesn’t arrive after two days, continue on foot. Try to cross, if you think it’s safe. Make your way to El Paso. I’ll find you there. I’ll leave a trail, like we agreed.
I wish I could tell you more. After all that’s happened, it might even be safe to cross at any time. I really can’t say. But it’s safest to follow the route. There are people who might find you, and kill you. Keep your distance f
rom anyone you see.
I hope to see you soon, Manuel. I love you.
Your brother, Miguel
Neither Miguel nor Manuel had ever planned on following in Mateo’s footsteps, but the situation had called for it one night, when people had suddenly become demons, attacking each other, killing each other. Even family members ate the flesh of their own. Nobody knew what had happened.
Miguel had decided to go, then. It had been a hard decision to leave Manuel and their mother, but he needed to find Mateo, needed to bring him back home.
Manuel was to stay behind and watch their mother. If anything happened to her, he was to follow the same route. Miguel had hardly known it, and Manuel had known it even less, so Miguel had promised to leave a trail.
Manuel and his mother had held out for nearly two days before the demons had broken in. What happened after that was only a blur to Manuel; all he could remember was his mother screaming, bleeding terribly, the demons’ hands all over her. He remembered grabbing a small canteen that had been filled with water, remembered diving out through the window, pushing past a crowd of the demons, somehow escaping unharmed, and he could remember running. And that was all.
Manuel continued along the trail. It was still late, but things were quiet. Every now and then, Manuel heard gunshots. He wasn’t sure if they came from people trying to defend themselves from the demons, or if they came from the other people he’d heard about, the ones that watched the border, the ones who tried to make sure no one got through.
The route became more and more rocky, which was a good sign in the grand scheme of things, but also meant harder travel. Manuel tripped on a rock and fell, the hard ground below catching him with no remorse. His hands and knees were scraped and cut, but he stopped himself from hitting his head.
Manuel looked to the side, still on his hands and knees. He screamed and jumped backward, as he saw something under a shrub. It was a person, Manuel could tell that much from the clothes. At first he thought it was one of the demons, because it was moving.
But it wasn’t one of the demons, and when he looked closer, Manuel could tell that it wasn’t moving. Not exactly. The eye sockets moved about, and a flurry of bugs flew around, which had been what caused it to look like it was moving.
Was it Miguel? No, it couldn’t have been. This person had been dead for months. Manuel had heard about this, too. Some people never made it along the route. Some died of thirst, or of hunger, or from an animal attack. Some simply died. They became little more than ghosts out there; nobody would come to find them. Nobody could.
Manuel continued along the path. He searched for more signs from his brother. He wanted water very badly, but knew better than to drink at night. The sun would come up, and if he had no water then, he would surely not make it.
It was around the middle of the next day when Manuel finally gave in to his thirst and emptied the rest of his canteen into his mouth. The canteen was little more than dead weight, then, so he threw it on the ground, and continued walking.
Two hours later, Manuel found the checkpoint. Miguel had been right, Manuel knew it when he saw it. There were piles of discarded items: trash, clothes, cans and bottles. Many before Manuel had been through this path, had rested here.
Manuel began to search the bottles for any water left behind. He found a bottle with a small amount left in it. The water was dirty, but it was still water. Manuel opened the bottle, which was so old the plastic lid nearly disintegrated as he rotated it, and bits of plastic powder and fragments flaked off onto his hands and into the water. Manuel pressed the bottle to his lips and drank. It was only a sip, but to Manuel, it felt like he was drinking life.
Manuel waited. He found a button-up shirt among the discarded things, and held it over his head to block the sun. He would wait two days, as Miguel had told him to. If the American didn’t show up, he would continue along the trail.
Once the sun had gone down, Manuel searched for more water. He found some trace amounts left in bottles and canteens, and as badly as he wanted to drink it right then, he knew he would have to save it. In the best case scenario, he had two days of waiting before him. He would need it then.
While searching, Manuel found another piece of notebook paper. It had been poked through the branch of a nearby shrub, and Manuel had nearly missed it as it fluttered softly in the warm breeze. Manuel took it, and found that it was another letter.
Manuel,
This is the checkpoint. I’ve left you a full canteen of water, it’s in a blue bag under the biggest pile of clothes here.
Wait for the American. If he doesn’t come, you know what to do.
Keep following the trail. If you see a cross, go to it. It means I’ve left you something.
I love you, Manuel. I will see you as soon as I can.
Your brother, Miguel
After a bit of searching, Manuel found the blue bag, and searched through it to find the canteen. He kept the rest of the water he’d found as well, which he poured into a single bottle, filling it almost a fourth of the way.
Manuel tried to stay out of sight during the day, although there didn’t appear to be anything around to see him. He would try to stay in the shade, and tried to conserve his water. He found trace amounts of food, but most of it had rotted. He had gotten lucky and found some bread under a pile of clothes, and though it was moldy and hard around the edges, Manuel had eaten it.
The day the American was supposed to arrive, Manuel waited. Early in the day, he heard something. It sounded like a vehicle. Manuel watched from the shrubbery as a truck pulled up along the road, moving carefully among the sharp rocks, and stopped a few yards from where the piles of refuse were.
A bald man with sunglasses got out of the truck, spat something onto the ground, and then pulled a shotgun from inside. He slammed the door shut.
“Manuel?” the man shouted. Manuel stood from his hiding spot, still a bit shaky, still a little afraid.
“Sí,” Manuel said. He thought for a moment. He knew very little English. “Yes,” he said. “Manuel,” and pointed to himself.
“I have something for you,” the man said. He pulled a folded, dirty, somewhat tattered piece of paper from his back pocket and held it out. Manuel approached carefully, and then took it.
“It’s from your brother,” the man said. “Hermano.”
Manuel unfolded the paper and carefully read it. He took a long time to read, and he had a feeling that the American was somewhat annoyed by it, but the man said nothing.
Manuel,
I pray this reaches you. The man you see is not the American we spoke of, but a different one. I’ve run into someone.
I met a man. An American. He was one of the ones we talked about, the ones who kill people like us.
But he didn’t kill me. He saved my life.
There’s a lot I wish I could tell you. This man and I have traveled together for a while now. He helped get me to America… it’s just like we imagined. It’s beautiful, Manuel. Even the ground here is beautiful.
But there isn’t any time for that, now. I asked this man, Buddy, if he could take me to El Paso. You can’t go to El Paso, Manuel. It’s completely overrun by the demons.
Buddy has agreed to help me find Mateo, and then to find you, if we need to. Buddy has other friends, like the man who brought you this letter. But neither of us is sure how deeply we can trust his friends. Some of them are still angry with people like us, Manuel. Some of them have lost their jobs to people like us. Can you believe it, Manuel? There are less jobs in America than we thought. Being in America isn’t as easy as we thought. We share some of the same problems.
Be careful about who you run into. The man who hopefully found you is named Carl. It’s like ‘Carlos,’ but without the ending. He should take you to a small gas station on the outskirts of El Paso, where I’m writing this, now. Buddy and I are going to move on, in the morning. Hopefully, we’ll meet up, soon.
I love you, Manuel. I’ll always love yo
u.
Your brother, Miguel
Manuel finished reading. He tucked the note into his pocket.
“Finished?” Carl said. Manuel didn’t understand. The man spat on the ground again. He opened the door to his truck and got inside. He started it up, and then poked his head back out through the opened door.
“Don’t just stand there, get in the fuckin’ truck!” he said. Manuel didn’t understand much of it, but he got from the tone that Carl wanted him to hurry up. Manuel approached the truck and opened the door, then looked inside, at Carl.
“Sit down,” Carl said. “We don’t have forever.”
Manuel was unsure of what to do. He looked at Carl, and he noticed a small sparkle. He looked closer and saw that Carl was wearing a small necklace, a crucifix. Just like Miguel had said.
Manuel got into the truck and buckled himself in. Carl closed his door and pulled backward, not bothering with his seatbelt. He turned the truck around and headed along the path. Once they had gotten moving, Carl rolled down his window to spit out of it.
“So you’re Manuel,” Carl said, trying to make small talk.
“Manuel,” Manuel said. “Carl?”
“Yep, I’m Carl,” Carl replied. “Sí.”
The hills began to smooth out a bit, and the truck was able to move faster. After a while, Carl spoke again.
“Congratulations,” he said. “We just passed the border. Welcome to America. Land of the free and home of the batshit crazy cannibals.”
Manuel wasn’t sure what Carl was saying, but he understood one word, at least: America. He thought about it, smiling. He had finally made it. Carl laughed.
“Well, kid, you made it. You crossed the border. I’d be pissed, if things were different. I guess we’re all legal, now.”
The truck went on, eventually joining a larger path that was less of a trail and closer to a road. There were tire treads along it, but it wasn’t paved, and wasn’t a real street.