“I don’t like this,” she said. “I think you should close up.”
Don was paralyzed, seemingly torn between his duty to the store and his instinct for self-preservation. The man with no throat turned his head, tracking slowly across the front of the building. He stopped and focused on Alicia, his empty gaze boring into her. He began to moan, the sound increasing in intensity until it became a full-fledged roar. He took a shaky step toward her. The other man licked his lips and followed.
Alicia screamed, “Close the fucking doors, Don!”
Six
Cesar smiled, recalling his first journey north—the heat, the people, the sense of hope laced with desperation. What he remembered most vividly was the overwhelming satisfaction of embarking on a grand adventure, of shrugging off his old life and gambling everything on his ability to survive the wilderness and avoid the patrulla fronteriza, the border patrol.
The path undulated like an angry serpent, shattered red and brown rocks fading away to smooth desert floor before abruptly returning. Pebble-filled arroyos crisscrossed the landscape at random intervals, torturing him with constant reminders of nonexistent water.
He got a small sense of comfort from being on this path again, from knowing he wasn’t alone in his quest for a better life. The mental image of thousands of feet marching north on this trail helped put him at ease despite the monumental task ahead.
The sun rode low in the eastern sky. Already blazing, Cesar knew the day would be long and brutal. He figured they had covered twenty-five or thirty kilometers since exiting the old Chevy on the Mexican side of the border. They were well inside the United States by now, far past the point of no return.
The going was slow. His ragtag group consisted of three men like himself, young, fit, and accustomed to working in the hot afternoon sun. However, unlike his first crossing, four women and two small children had also chosen to make the trip.
Cesar was prepared for the journey, had been for as long as he could remember. Ever since his deportation a year earlier following an Immigration and Customs Enforcement raid in Kansas City, he had focused every waking moment on preparations for his return. He had worked three jobs to raise enough cash to pay his coyotero and yet, he had fallen short. A five-hundred-dollar loan from his uncle had carried him over the top.
But the others? He knew little about whether they would survive the heat, the blistering pace, and the abject brutality of the Sonoran desert in the middle of the summer. He hoped so. He felt responsible for them, as if his previous experience north of the border had bestowed some sort of divine responsibility, an unseen burden he dared not abandon.
He took a sip of water and hitched up his jeans. At five-foot-four, with shoulder-length black hair tied in a loose ponytail, Cesar looked like a million other brown men toiling in the American service economy. His most distinguishing feature was his easy grin, an infectious, toothy smile that instantly put people at ease.
He started to spit, and then thought better of it, swallowing his saliva instead. Need to conserve water out here, he chastised himself. Every drop counts…
He took another step and kicked a rock to the side. His thoughts shifted to his family in Mexico. His mother, always overprotective of her youngest son, had gotten hysterical when he told her he was going north again. She had begged and pleaded with him, trying to convince him the Americans would put him in jail this time, lock him away for the rest of his life if he was caught.
His father, an unemployed mechanic, had taken a different approach. He understood the economic realities of Mexico; he saw firsthand the desperation of young men with nowhere to go, with nothing to do. He feared the lure of the drug cartels and realized it was only a matter of time before they swept his son into a life from which he would never return.
“The gringos love us when times are good,” his father had said. “But if things are bad, like now, they will turn on you and make your life miserable. Don’t ever forget that.”
There was a rustling off to Cesar’s right, on the other side of a patch of barrel cactus. Conejo. “Rabbit,” Cesar whispered to himself, practicing his English.
He thought of his cousin Efrain. Is he here? Is he lying feet from me, only bones, or did he make it? Maybe he was caught and is sitting in jail? Efrain had left for Idaho three months earlier, but had never reached his destination. His disappearance, another sad example of the risks involved in going north, had been the talk of the town.
Cesar banished the thought from his mind and continued walking. A short, rock-covered hill rose in front of him. He started climbing. From the other side, below his line of sight, he heard shouting. Cocking his head, he tried to catch the words. It took him a moment to realize they were speaking English. What?
A crippling spike of fear tore through his gut as he crested the rise and got his first glimpse of the scene below. Two white men stood at the front of the line talking to Miguel, the coyotero. They carried menacing assault rifles and were dressed in desert camouflage from head to toe.
Cesar’s first impression was border patrol, but upon closer inspection, he realized he was wrong. Neither man wore insignia on their uniform, nor did they have the close-shaved, professional look he associated with the patrol. Also, one was grossly obese, his belly tumbling over his belt like a sack of flour.
The fat man pointed at him. “You! Up there! Get down here!”
Cesar complied, picking his way carefully down the hill until he joined the rest of the group. As Cesar watched, the fat man barked at Miguel in staccato English, gesturing wildly with the barrel of his gun. His jowls shook like fresh jalea every time he moved his head.
Even more than the sun and the heat, Cesar feared bandits. But these men were something else—something new.
“What do you think is happening?” whispered the woman behind him. Cesar shrugged, trying to remain calm despite the ball of nausea percolating in his gut.
The fat man fired a short burst into the air. Everyone stopped talking. The woman moved closer, and her fingers sought out his arm. “Tengo miedo,” she whispered. I’m scared.
“It’s okay,” Cesar lied.
The gunmen turned away and conversed in hushed tones, gesturing repeatedly at Cesar’s terrified group and pointing north.
Cesar put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Get ready to run.” She shook her head vigorously and gestured at the other woman standing to the side with one of the children. “I can’t. That’s my sister and her daughter.” Closing his eyes, Cesar said a quick prayer for the woman and her child.
He checked his rear, looking for other gunmen. It was clear. He visualized a canyon system they had passed a half-kilometer back where he could hide.
Miguel took a step forward, got in the slim gunman’s face, and poked him in the chest. The man laughed and nudged his partner in the ribs. Cesar tensed, preparing for the worst. Faster than Cesar would have expected for a man his size, the fat man raised his rifle and leveled it at Miguel’s face.
One of the children began to cry, calling for his father. Time slowed to a crawl. The gun against Miguel’s head became his everything for an interminable instant, the bridge between the life and death. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Crack! Miguel spun away and fell to the ground. A hawk cried out far above them.
“Does anyone else have a problem?” the shooter bellowed.
Cesar swallowed, his throat his own desert. As the murderer trained his gun on the remaining survivors, his partner kneeled beside Miguel’s body and rolled it over. He rifled through the pockets until he found the dead man’s wallet. Flipping it open, he pulled out a handful of pesos and American dollars and dropped them on the corpse’s chest.
We’re going to die now, Cesar realized with sudden clarity. Right here. My family will never know what happened to me. Like Efrain.
Behind him, the woman was praying, repeating the same bible verse. “Padre me protege porque he pecado…”
The man finished his se
arch, and finding nothing of value, got to his feet. He whispered something to his partner.
With a wave of his gun, the fat man pointed at a towering saguaro. “Okay, everyone. By that cactus! Turn out your pockets!” The time to run had passed. Cesar had no choice but to comply. He cursed his cowardice and went to stand beside the cactus.
“On your knees!” the gunman screamed, his high-pitched voice sounding like one from a little girl on a playground. Cesar fell to his knees, closed his eyes, and tried to think about his family.
The men raised their weapons.
Seven
Taos, New Mexico
Jack realized Becka had reached the end of her patience when she hauled herself from the pit and plopped down in the grass. She stripped off her gloves, drew her knees up to her chin, and sighed.
“Okay, Bob Vila,” she said with a tired grin. “If that’s a fuel-oil tank, then tell me why it’s buried in our front yard.”
Jack shrugged and gazed at the ground between the house and the barrier, mentally tracing a long-dormant oil supply line to the furnace, which now ran on propane. “I guess that’s how they did things—”
The phone rang, interrupting him
Jack scanned the yard, searching for the phone, then spied it on the front porch where he had left it earlier.
“I’ll get it.” He climbed to his feet. “I need to hit the bathroom anyway.”
Grabbing the cordless phone from the top step, he answered the call.
“Jack! Oh, my God! I’m so glad I got you!” his mother cried from the receiver.
He straightened up, suddenly alert. Something’s wrong with the girls. Before he could ask, she uttered the magic words, “Don’t worry. Maddie and Ellie are fine.”
Jack breathed a sigh of relief.
Her voice reedy with concern, his mother asked, “Have you seen the news this morning?”
“No. We’ve been—”
“Well, turn it on. Now.” Jack’s mother was not one to argue with. At sixty-four, and after raising six children, she knew what she wanted, and she didn’t take no for an answer.
Jack made his way through the door and grabbed the remote. When he turned on the television, the flatscreen snapped to life, filling the room with the saccharine soundtrack from the girls’ favorite cartoon series. He hit the mute button.
Ellie, he thought with a smile. Oldest by a minute and a half, Ellie had an all-consuming passion for everything on the Cartoon Network.
“Ok, Mom. The TV’s on.”
“Good. Now go to CNN.”
Jack fumbled with the buttons, landing first on a gardening show. Cursing, he punched in the numbers again and was rewarded with the CNN logo. A thick red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen. The words ‘Martial law declared,’ printed in tall, bold, white letters, screamed for attention. What the hell? He cranked up the volume.
The camera cut to a long-distance shot. The commentator babbled frantically, talking over the remote reporter. Jack recognized Times Square. It looked nothing like he remembered. The camera swooped to street level.
Chaos. That was the only word he could think of to describe the events playing out on the screen. The streets seethed with people struggling with each other, dashing every which way. The faint pop-pop-pop of gunshots echoed somewhere off-camera.
Wait. He moved forward, trying to get a better view. Is that…? As if reading his mind, the camera panned and tightened on a man in a business suit sawing into the neck of a police officer who was lying in the middle of the street. Jack stared in fascinated disgust as two women joined the scene. One went for the officer’s midsection, and the other latched onto an upper thigh. Blood arced through the air, and the man on the ground writhed in pain. Then he was still.
Jack gasped. “What’s happening, Ma? Did someone attack New York again?”
She let out a low sob. “No… No one knows. Several hours ago, people started getting sick and attacking each other... It’s everywhere. It’s awful…”
Jack was incredulous. His heart pounded. He felt sick to his stomach. “That’s impossible! Everywhere? Who…?”
“Yes. Everywhere. All over the world. Washington, London, Cairo…. everywhere.”
He couldn’t process what she was saying. “Hold on, Mom.”
He went to the front door. “Becka! Something’s going on. Come inside! Quick!”
As he returned his attention to the television, the live shot vanished, replaced by the scrolling ‘Martial law declared’ message and a studio shot. A frazzled-looking young man, not an anchor Jack recognized, fiddled with his tie from his seat behind the main desk.
From off-camera, a staffer appeared and handed the anchorman a slip of paper before dashing back out of sight. The commentator scanned the note and frowned. He reached to his neck and loosened his tie, then wiped his brow. He seemed to age ten years in an instant.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just learned the president has declared Washington a complete loss. The government is evacuating.” He gave a nervous cough and looked to one side. A million thoughts ran through Jack’s mind. He had friends on the east coast, some in Washington. Becka touched his arm, and he jumped.
“Sorry,” she said. “What’s up?”
He gestured at the television. “There’s something going on back east.”
“It’s everywhere!” his mother corrected. He had forgotten he was still on the phone.
Becka flipped over to MSNBC. Then Fox. The same story was playing on every channel.
Massive simultaneous attacks were occurring around the globe. People were turning on each other and acting like cannibals for no apparent reason.
“The kids!” Becka exclaimed, concern lining her face.
“Mom says they’re fine.” Jack took her hand.
“I’m scared.” Becka said with her eyes still glued to the screen.
He returned his attention to the phone. “We’ll be over in a few, Mom.”
“Okay.” She sounded distracted.
“What is it, Ma?”
She paused for a heartbeat, then answered, “There’s someone at the door.”
Jack’s breath hitched in his throat. “Don’t open it. Lock it and wait for us to get there,” he ordered.
“I’ll see you soon, dear,” she replied. The line went dead.
Jack handed the phone to Becka and went to the kitchen to get his keys. She was still standing there, staring at the television, when he returned. He put his arm around her shoulder. “Becka, honey, we need to go now.”
~~~
Five minutes later, he was banging on his mother’s front door. “Ma! It’s us! Let us in!”
The lock snapped loudly, and the door swung open. His mother motioned them through, slamming the door behind them and throwing the deadbolt once they were inside. “Did you see anything?” she asked, peering through the peephole.
Confused, Jack shook his head. “No. Everything looks normal.”
“Is that your son?” a man’s voice called out from the next room.
Jack’s pulse quickened. “Who’s that?”
His mother waved him off. “Don’t worry. It’s only Mr. Carhart, from next door. He can’t get in touch with his family in Atlanta.”
She ushered them into the living room where they found Mr. Carhart sitting in an easy chair nursing an enormous glass of scotch. He looked miserable.
“Where are the girls?” Becka asked immediately.
Jack’s mom pointed at the ceiling. “Upstairs, napping.”
“I’m going to go check on them.” Becka looked at Jack with an obvious invitation to join her.
Jack hesitated, looked at his mom and then back at Becka. “I’ll be right up.”
“Okay,” Becka said.
As Becka climbed out of sight, Jack turned to his mother. “Have you heard anything else about what’s going on?”
She motioned towards the couch. “Yes. But you’re going to want to sit for this…”
Eight
Boise, Idaho
Bump.
“Welcome to Boise, ladies and gentleman. The time here is ten forty-three AM. The temperature is seventy-eight degrees. We hope you enjoyed your flight and that you choose to fly with us again.”
Huh?
“Please remain in your seat with your belts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop.”
Kevin Salerno opened his eyes and blinked.
His mouth was gummy and dry, as if someone had stuffed it with damp wool.
“You must’ve had a long trip,” a voice on his right said. Kevin turned his head, following the sound. Sitting next to him was a middle-aged woman with big hair and a little too much makeup for her age. She held a paperback on her lap with her thumb tucked in to save her place. She looked like she was expecting an answer.
“Uh huh,” he said noncommittally.
The plane was still rolling, but Kevin unbuckled his seatbelt anyway. His seatmate gave him a disapproving frown. The plane bumped to a stop, inched forward a few feet, then stopped again. The plane repeated the process twice more before they reached the gate. A chime sounded overhead, and all of the cabin lights flickered to life. The air conditioning kicked in, sending a stream of cool air against his forehead.
“Long trip,” Kevin offered up to his nosy neighbor.
The woman smiled. “I’m going to see my grandkids. What about you?”
Kevin rolled his eyes. Why do people always wait until landing to start talking? Can’t they just leave well enough alone? “Well, I hope you have a good visit,” he said, ignoring her question and fiddling with his seatback.
She smiled, obviously believing he really gave a shit. “Me, too. Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Neither,” he said, offering no explanation.
She gave him a puzzled look.
Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) Page 3