Tears of the River

by Gordon L. Rottman

  “You clean up real nice,” she said in English. It was true, Lomara was a very pretty girl, with sparkling dark eyes, straight thick brown hair with natural sandy streaks, and healthy looking. Karen cleaned their clothes as best she could and they donned them still wet. The girl’s knee-length shorts were grimy bright blue. Karen was wearing jeans, her old khaki cap, and a mud-stained emerald green T-shirt proclaiming International Medical Aid Alliance in yellow on the front and Alianza Internacional de Ayuda Médica on the back.

  She’d keep the girl with her this time, she decided. They continued downhill. It was clearer ahead. She knew the pepper and coffee fields were where the ground terraced out. There was not much hope of finding anyone this far down, she thought.

  There was an odd sound, indistinct. Karen stopped in her tracks.

  Karen literally jumped when a coarse, unseen voice croaked, “¿Vas a quedarte ahí todo el día?” —Are you going to stand there all day?

  Lomara shouted, “¡Tía Ramona!” and ran toward a crushed bush.

  Karen followed and found an older woman curled up on her side on a mud-covered mattress. The woman was mud-covered too. She wore a long, once white T-shirt, reaching almost to her knees, and a formerly pink slip.

  Karen remembered the woman. She was the aunt of one on the farmers, the oldest woman in the farmstead. Kneeling beside her, Karen asked what was wrong. She couldn’t follow all of her answer, but both of her arms were hurt, badly. The mud hid any injuries. She held her arms folded across her chest with agony clouding her eyes edged with pain crinkles. Clean up the lady so I can check her out, she told herself.

  “¿Puedes caminar?”—Can you walk? Karen asked.

  “No quiero,” —I do not want to, was her reply.

  “You have to,” begged Karen. “Vámonos.”

  Karen helped her sit up—with a severe grimace—then onto her knees, then to her feet, groaning. Lomara even tried to help her up. Karen grabbed the mattress’s corner and started dragging it.

  The little crowd of survivors stumbled their way up the slope. Karen was surprised she still had some tears. There were people alive—they all hadn’t disappeared from the Earth. It gave her a great deal of hope. She wasn’t alone. She was weeping tears of sad joy. But then she thought about the woman’s injuries. How bad were they? This could be a real problem.

  At the new springhead they partly washed the woman. She’d worry about cleaning her clothes later.

  Washing off the woman’s arms was a trial. She was in a great deal of pain and she didn’t hesitate to complain. Both arms are probably broken, Karen thought. She’d check them out later. At least her arms were not bent weird and no compound fractures…that is, no bones protruded.

  They slowly made their way to the road. Karen would occasionally shout “Hola?” and Lomara piped it out each time she did. There were only faint echoes and the lonely breeze.

  On the road, the restrained chickens looked flustered and sat huddled together occasionally looking up. Vultures circled high overhead already, attracted by the scent of death.

  After collecting the chickens and goat, they moved down the road, leaving the smell behind. Karen laid the muddy mattress under a tree in a little grove and helped the woman lie down.

  Karen eyed the ridge side across the road weary of another mudslide. There was very little water trickling across the road here. Not as in the farmstead this morning when it had flowed like streams between and under the houses.

  Karen looked at the refugees. They, we, are a mess. An energetic six-year old girl—fortunately with no injuries—and a grumpy old woman, probably with both arms broken. At least both could walk. She was grateful for not being hurt herself.

  “And guess what,” she muttered to herself, “guess who’s in charge?” Realization hit her right between the eyes. It was the last thing she wanted. Can I deal with this? She was the one told she was lacking in the leadership department.

  Like it or not, it’s a fact. She was the leader of this little band of refugees. She knew some medical stuff, a little more than basic first aid. She knew a thing or two about survival and she’d done it in practice. She’d done a lot of camping and was comfortable in the woods, well, “civilized” woods back at home where they had cell phone contact, vehicles nearby, and adult advisors who knew what to do in case of real trouble.

  It wasn’t the same out here. None of that was here, just herself, her wits…and what these two knew. That settled her mind somewhat. They lived here and the way they lived, well, it was like a lifelong camping trip for them. She couldn’t imagine living like they did. There was the language barrier, but she hoped she knew enough to get by.

  Would anybody come looking for them? The chances were slim…at least not anytime soon, she reasoned. She’d heard stories of previous hurricanes and earthquakes here. The remote villages had been on their own. The government didn’t have the resources to go everywhere at once.

  They didn’t have anything to survive with. They had the goat and chickens. And water, but nothing to carry it in. She’d have to look for something. On her belt she had a leather case holding her multi-tool with its knife-blades, screwdrivers, saw, file, and can-opener, but nothing to start a fire with.

  The van…there was lots of stuff in the van. She realized she’d have to go to the van, if she could get down to it and back up. She shuddered at the thought of having to go down there and what she’d see.

  Chapter Six

  Dread filled Karen’s mind. She peered down the road in the direction of the bridge with anticipation. She knew they desperately needed what was in the van—the medical bags, backpacks with essential gear, tools, bottled water, what food there was.

  Karen knew there was no way around it. She’d have to descend into the gorge and there was no one else to do it. The others were depending on her.

  That didn’t make it any easier. Even had she been alone, she would have to go.

  She was trying to mentally prepare herself, but it didn’t help. She didn’t really know how. She thought about what she might find; what she could expect.

  She’d never seen a dead person and funerals didn’t count. CSI and NCIS, those were only TV. These were people she’d known, her friends, even Jennifer and Jay, even if she didn’t really know much about them.

  She did her best to explain to the woman where she was going and why.

  The woman nodded, but Karen didn’t know if she really understood what she was talking about.

  Lomara asked her to hurry back and then set about collecting firewood and kindling with the woman directing her from the mattress.

  Going totally alone, that sucked. She trudged down the road, dwelling in agony.

  The scene hadn’t changed. Water still roared through, but the battered van was above it. Tree limbs had hung up on its grill.

  Karen stood rooted to the gorge’s lip staring at the sight. Having to crawl into the van was bad enough, but simply getting down there was going to be tough, and plain dangerous. The steep sides were crumbly mud, at least mostly sun and wind-dried now.

  Karen surveyed the gorge sides, walked uphill a ways and found the sides were not as steep or the crevasse as deep as at the road. She picked out a route, telling herself this was like choosing a path down the side of a West Texas arroyo as they frequently did on Big Bend trips.

  She worked her way over the edge and found firm footing. Using the long walking stick as a brace on the down-slope side, she started edging down. The mud bank may have appeared dried, but the surface crust crumbled. There were a few scary slips, but the walking stick kept her from taking a tumble. She made it faster than she’d expected, although at one point with a sudden slip she’d thought she’d make it to the bottom in a flashing second.

  Working her way toward the van, she stomped a path in the crumbly slope just above the water. She had to be really careful. A blunder and she’d plunge into the current before she could stop. It would sweep her away.

  Karen stood
a few feet from the van. It was on its left side, the undercarriage facing her. Limbs, tree stumps, mud, piles of leaves and twigs were heaped against it. The backdoor, where everything they needed was located, was jammed up against the gorge’s wall. She would climb up onto the side using the drive shaft and under-framing. Once up there, she’d slide open the side door and drop inside.

  “I can do this,” she said. Just to be sure, still clutching at hope, she shouted, “Johnny? Cris? Anyone?”

  Only the water answered.

  “Do it, girl!” she demanded.

  She gripped an underside brace and pulled herself up onto the driveshaft. Hands on the van’s side, she swung a leg up and was on all fours atop the van.

  She looked into the glassless side door window. “Oh, God.” They were all in there. Like you expected them to be someplace else? She asked herself.

  Karen closed her eyes, gripped the door handle and pulled. It was jammed solid. She saw big dents creasing the side and door.

  Sitting on the door with her legs inside, she gingerly lowered herself through the door window. It smelled really bad, like the outhouse she’d used that morning. The inside was dim, the cracked windshield covered with mud. Disturbed flies swarmed into the air. The burn of bile scalded her throat. She was standing on the van’s left side, now its floor, one foot on the seat’s armrest, where she’d sat this morning. It seemed so long ago.

  Cris was in the backseat. She’s last seen him in the cargo compartment. All she could see was one of his legs over the seatback, twisted at an unnatural angle. Jay’s back there somewhere too.

  With her head bent low, she turned and looked into Jennifer’s startled blue eyes. She was so white, colorless. Her head hung back upside-down, half between the two front seats, her neck obviously broken. Jennifer was still strapped in her seat.

  Karen gasped for breath, rapid sharp pants, flies buzzed around her face. Covering her nose and mouth, the thought of inhaling any flies was beyond gross.

  Johnny was wadded up in a ball under the steering wheel. Had he thrown himself there for protection? She gratefully couldn’t see his face.

  She had to work past Cris to get into the back. He was ghastly twisted, his eyes half open and his mouth slack. Karen began trembling, gasping again. Splintered thighbones had torn through his pants legs. That could have been me, her mind screamed.

  She made out Jay’s crumpled form under Cris. A fist gripped the seatback, the one she’d been in, like he had tried to catch himself as the van tumbled.

  Flinging herself up through the window, she hurled everything out of her stomach and convulsed into dry heaves, her fingers going dumb. Tears streamed from her eyes she barfed so hard. Clinging to the window frame, her quivering legs couldn’t hold her up.

  “Get a grip,” she muttered hoarsely and forced herself back in.

  Karen steadied herself pressing a hand against the van’s side, now the “roof.” Two backpacks were at her feet. She spit and sucked in air regardless of how it smelled. Waving away flies, she stooped to pick up the packs and tossed them up through the shattered window. Her head spun. Moving into the cargo compartment past Cris and Jay, she dragged the two heavy medical bags forward under the side door. It felt like she’d barfed what strength she’d had out of her. She managed to lift them up onto the outside and went back for another backpack. That was when she found a floor compartment cracked open. Pulling it open, a coiled rope fell out. She immediately knew how she was going to get all this treasure up the side of the gorge. Focus on what you’re doing, ignore anything else.

  There was also a small canvas tool bag in the compartment, a rolled up yellow webbing strap with hooks on its ends, a jack and tire iron, and a machete. “Excellent!” The jack and iron she left, but everything else was precious.

  There was a partly full case of bottled water, plus a mostly full two-liter bottle of Coke.

  Brushing flies off her face, even as badly as she wanted out of here; she tried to think if there was anything else she could recover. She didn’t want to have to come back in.

  A flashlight. There was one in the console between the front seats. Making every effort to avoid touching Jennifer, she opened the lid and the flashlight rolled out hitting the driver’s door—now the “floor.”

  Karen had to hang over the seat arm, her face inches from Johnny’s body with Jennifer’s hair brushing her back. She grabbed the light and wiggled out. Gross. She shuddered. Coming out, she’d seen Jennifer’s running shoes. The old woman could use those, if they had to walk out. Karen shut her eyes. Can I even do that? Nicaraguans go barefoot most of the time, but they may have to walk a long way over rough ground she counter-argued.

  She did it, gingerly taking off Jennifer’s blue shoes.

  The vinyl seat covers. Using her multi-tool’s knife, she cut out sections of the seat’s cover she’d been sitting in.

  Karen sat atop the van shaking, her guts roiling. There were so many things in her mind she would forever remember, smell, and taste. She desperately wanted a hot shower with lots of lavender soap and shampoo. Forget it, it’s not happening. Try and not think about what you can’t have, she ordered herself.

  That’s when she realized there were only three packs. There were still two inside. Where? She’d not seen them.

  She double-reluctantly lowered herself inside. Were there even more flies now?

  Beneath Cris’ and Jay’s twisted bodies she made out Jay’s and Johnny’s packs. Do we really need them…yes. Give me strength.

  Their bodies were stiff and cold. It was hot, damp, and close in the crumpled van, a coffin.

  Face scrunched up, holding her breath, hands shaking, she tugged Cris’ body out from between the seats. She had to get out of there. Thrusting herself up through the window, she guzzled a bottle of water, after spitting out the first mouthful.

  “Okay, go back in there. We need those packs.” She shuttered at the thought. “I can’t sit and fret.” Other people are counting on me.

  She couldn’t bury her friends. There was no place to down here and no shovel. Even if there were, it would take hours. She lacked the energy and couldn’t get them out of the van. They had to stay the way they were. It sickened Karen and left her feeling she was wronging them.

  Racing through her mind were thoughts of their families she’d never met, the swiftness and finality of their deaths, of all their dreams and hopes and plans and deeds and things left undone.

  Karen thought of the scrapbook lying on her desk in her comfy bedroom. What she wouldn’t give to lie sprawled across her bed on her grandmother’s quilt of pink and white clouds. On her desk, beside the scissors and glue stick, were clippings, photos, cards, and stage play programs never to be pasted in if she had been three seconds slower. Just three seconds, the time it took to pull on a T-shirt, three seconds stood between separating her from all she knew and oblivion.

  Stop thinking like that! She demanded. Now go, go back in there!

  Jay’s legs were doubled up to his chest. His head was covered with dried blood. Fortunately, it partly masked his face. The two packs were under him, against the van’s bottom side.

  All I have to do is push him to the side off the seat. OMG, just push him to the side. She was panting so hard she felt like she’d hyperventilate. His right arm gripped the back of the center seat. She’d have to pull it loose. She’d heard about death grips.

  Karen swatted importantly at the flies, took a breath, and wrapped both hands around his wrist. It wasn’t cold.

  She recoiled from the scream. A fist punched into her face cracking her head against the van’s upper side.

  Chapter Seven

  Karen slammed back against the vertical floor not knowing whether to shout in surprise or pain—hitting her head first on the overhead van’s side then the vertical floor and cracking her elbow against the seat armrest. The punch clipped her jaw.

  “OMG, you’re alive!” She was muddled. That was not supposed to be. “Are you okay, J
ay?” Nominated as the stupidest question ever.

  He stared at her with a the-lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home look. Staring into his eyes, it appeared some of the lights might be burned out. His hair and face were covered by gummy and crusted blood. He was still bleeding.

  “Great.”

  He made no effort to move, just stared at her like he didn’t know who she was.

  “Can you move, Jay?”

  Nothing.

  “Just freakin’ great.” She grabbed Johnny’s pack and tugged it out from under Jay. He took a swat at her. “Whoa boy! I’m trying to help you.”

  She pulled a T-shirt out of the pack. Jay put his hand to his bloody head, looking confused. She lifted his hand and placed the folded tee under it for him to hold down.

  “Jeez, you freaked me out. Now what?”

  Holding her left arm up to fend off any punches, she dragged the other pack out. The two packs and Cris’ body must have protected him from the plunge.

  She shoved the packs out the window.

  “We need to get you out of here.” And me too, she thought, waving away flies in the rank air.

  She knelt cautiously. “Is anything broken? Can you get up? I’ll help.”

  Ready to duck, she took his right hand and tugged gently. “Come on. We’ll take it easy.”

  He rose slowly, hesitated, and with a wobble, stood. She patted the armrest. “Put a foot here.” She took the bloody tee. “Hands up here. I’ll give you a boost.”

  He slowly wormed through the window. It took some doing to get him on the ground.

  At least he could follow instructions and was capable of moving on his own. Probably a concussion, she thought. Nothing was broken if he could climb out. That was a gift. If he had a broken arm or leg there was no way she could have gotten him out of the van much less up the gorge’s side.

  That’s when Jay puked, scaring Karen, but she remembered it was “normal” with a concussion. She reluctantly looked at the puddle. “Gross.” At least there was no blood in it. No internal bleeding…maybe.