America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  The working poor were forced to head north in search of jobs. Households dependent on government aid saw their subsidies disappear as government workers fled the region and postal service became unreliable. Like predators following the migration of their prey, criminals followed their victims north. Before long, only a few isolated individuals remained, scavenging the desolate urban landscape to survive. Most were indigents who soon acquired the name “dregs.”

  The events in Los Angeles were not unique. Similar diasporas were taking place around the Quarantine Zones in Albuquerque, Brownsville, Dallas, El Paso, Houston, Phoenix, San Antonio, San Diego, Santa Fe, and Tucson.

  In Atlanta, Chicago, Charlotte, Miami, New York, and Tampa, the areas adjacent to the Quarantine Zones remained relatively stable, but with preparations for additional Relocation Communities lagging far behind schedule, government control within the Quarantine Zones was rapidly deteriorating.

  Most Washington insiders knew the Hispanic issue had always been a sideshow for the Brenner White House. President Brenner felt his success in the global arena would be his true legacy. In spite of the extensive media coverage given to the turmoil, the administration’s sights had remained on the loftier stage of international affairs. Now the Hispanic issue was escalating into the central crisis of the Brenner administration. The Hispanic unrest was changing from a thorn in their side to a dagger at their throat.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 13, Day 3

  Walking along the narrow dirt path, Rosa tried to brush the dust off the sleeve of Elena’s white dress, but her efforts were useless. Each step she and the children took stirred up more of the powdery soil that seemed to cling to everything.

  When Rosa and the children had arrived last April, the problem at Community Number Eight had been mud. Back then, the rain-soaked clay had clung to their shoes in heavy clumps. Now, in late July, the obstinate soil had transformed itself into a gray powder sent airborne by the slightest provocation and transported into every crack by the perpetual wind.

  “Tuck your shirttail in, Pedro,” Rosa said to her son, who complied without protest. They were nearing the Prados’ trailer, and Rosa was eager to make a good impression.

  Unlike the rest of the camp’s detainees, who were packed into communal Quonset huts, the Prados had somehow managed to obtain their own dwelling. By outside standards, it was a pitiful place. The trailer’s faded sides were rusted and dented, the glass of its small windows replaced by yellow plastic sheeting. But in Community Number Eight, the trailer was a choice residence.

  Rosa looked west, beyond the trailer. In the distance, she could see a large fenced-in compound. Patrolled by guards, it was where more Quonset huts were under construction. The authorities wanted to keep construction tools out of the hands of the Community members, afraid the implements might be used as weapons. Outside the construction areas, the Community was still without walls or fences. The nearest town was a trek of nearly sixty miles over a waterless prairie. Even if someone trying to escape had reached a settlement, the clannish locals would have immediately spotted an outsider.

  Rosa’s visit to the Prados had been prompted by Elena. Maria Prado had approached Rosa as she was picking up Elena at the camp’s preschool the week before.

  “Hola!” Maria had said cheerfully. “I’m Maria Prado. You must be Mrs. Suarez. My daughter Andrea has really taken to your Elena. She’s insisting that Elena come to her birthday party. It’s this coming Saturday at two. Do you think you can make it? You can bring your son as well if you like,” Maria said, gesturing to Pedro.

  Rosa was flattered. The Prados appeared to be among the elite of the Community.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Prado. I’d be happy to bring Elena.”

  “Please, call me Maria.”

  “Thanks, Maria. My name is Rosa.”

  “Wonderful, Rosa. We’ll see you Saturday.”

  Shortly after agreeing to the visit, Rosa began having second thoughts. What could she possibly give the Prado child as a birthday present?

  Rosa had left Los Angeles with twenty thousand in cash. Three days after arriving at the camp, she awoke to a demoralizing blow: the suitcases under her bunk had been stolen during the night, including the scuffed brown Tourister in which she had placed the money. The only possessions she and the children had left were her gold wedding band, the clothes on their backs, and her statuette of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Not wanting to frighten the children, she endured the setback without complaint.

  By this time, Rosa had become accustomed to being penniless. Thankfully, hunger was not a problem—the Community’s kitchen served adequate portions of tasteless but nutritious food. But the absence of the minor luxuries of life Rosa had always taken for granted—like gentle soaps, deodorant, makeup, and skin cream—made for a grim existence.

  Elena finally solved the problem of a gift for her friend with the uncanny insight of a young girl. Two days before the party, she brought a drawing to Rosa.

  “It’s a Priscilla Percival doll,” Elena announced, thrusting her artwork toward Rosa. “Andrea said it’s what she wants for her birthday. I know we can’t get Andrea a real one, so I made her this one instead.”

  “I think Andrea will love your present, Elena.”

  Approaching the door to the Prados’ trailer, Elena carried the Priscilla Percival drawing wrapped in an ancient Sunday comics page adorned with a bow made from a discarded dressing gown hem.

  With her two children flanking her, Rosa knocked on the trailer’s door.

  “Buenos días,” Maria said, smiling as she opened the door. “Come in. Come in. It’s hot in here, but it sure beats standing outside in the dust.”

  On the kitchen counter was a small cake with six candles. Rosa had no idea how Maria had managed this extravagance, but she was grateful Maria was willing to share it with her children.

  “Francisco, this is Rosa Suarez, Elena’s mother,” Maria said to her husband.

  “Welcome to our home, Señora,” Francisco said politely, then retreated to the small bedroom at the back of the trailer, leaving the main room to the women and children.

  After occupying the youngsters with a game, Maria took a seat next to Rosa. Following a few pleasantries, Maria startled Rosa with the direction of her conversation.

  “I think I’m familiar with your husband, Rosa,” Maria said, lowering her voice. “He’s Manolo Suarez, right? He worked for the Green Planet Recycling Company?”

  “Oh… yes,” Rosa said, the questions about Mano making her uneasy.

  Maria leaned closer. “Well, I just want you to know that if you want to get in touch with him, I have a way of getting messages out of this place without the censors getting their hands on it.”

  “I don’t know where he is or how to reach him, Maria,” Rosa said truthfully. She knew her husband was involved in the resistance, but she wasn’t sure in what capacity.

  “OK, OK, I understand you might be reluctant to tell me where he’s hiding. But if you change your mind about contacting him, just let me know.”

  The way Maria had steered their conversation made Rosa wary. Something about this situation did not add up. The separate quarters, the extra food, the perks—all clearly suggested the Prados were in the good graces of the authorities. Yet Maria seemed to imply she was somehow part of the resistance.

  Then the answer struck Rosa. Maria is a snitch. This had to be the source of these petty privileges. Rosa’s invitation to this party was probably a scheme to uncover Mano’s whereabouts.

  Rosa suddenly rose from the bench and called out to her children. “Elena… Pedro… it’s time for us to go.”

  Maria begged her to stay, but Rosa politely insisted.

  Walking back toward her dormitory, Rosa wondered once again about Mano.

  Was he alive? Clearly, the Prado woman believed that. Even so, he was probably with her. Would she ever see her husband again? Her life seemed on hold, suspended
by events beyond her knowledge and control. The sense of unreality had not ended there.

  Since arriving at the camp, Rosa had found something inside her missing, a thing she’d taken for granted like the air or the sun: the feeling of having a country. Being treated like an enemy who could not be trusted was a constant reminder that she was an outsider. Rosa knew most of the soldiers were not really cruel. They were simply doing a job and had little time to be personal. All the same, their mistrust had taken its toll.

  The soldiers no longer considered her an American—and now she felt the same.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 13, Day 5

  Guillermo walked into the room, proudly carrying a tray with three brimming cups. Delicate wafts of steam rose from the fawn-colored drinks.

  “Viejo loco! You forgot the sugar!” Juana yelled, following her husband out of the kitchen with a plastic sugar bowl.

  “Go back, old woman. Atras! It’s my turn to serve Mano’s guests,” Guillermo said to his wife, placing the tray on the table before Ramon, Jo, and Mano.

  “Buenos días, amigos,” Guillermo said brightly to the group, handing each of them a cup. The old man moved nimbly despite his stooped posture, the cups steady in his gnarled hands.

  “Ah, café con leche. Guillermo, you spoil us,” Ramon said graciously, accepting the drink.

  The old man beamed. “You three fight for our people every day. The least Juana and I can do is serve you a little coffee.” Guillermo wagged his finger at Mano. “I would be fighting for our people too, if only this one would let me,” he said with a smile.

  Mano laughed softly. “You’ve done your share of fighting, viejito. Raising seven children is enough of a battle for anybody,” he said, bringing the cup to his lips, warmed by the fresh coffee and Guillermo’s rough affection.

  Guillermo and Juana Ortega, Mano’s former neighbors, had moved into his new house and become Mano’s self-appointed housekeepers shortly after Rosa and the children had left for the camp. Without asking for payment, the aging couple had adopted the lone man, taking on many domestic tasks in his house and showering him with affection that fell like fresh rain on parched soil. In return, Mano shared his food with Guillermo and Juana, and that was payment enough for them.

  Guillermo and Juana typified the changes the quarantine had brought to Mano’s barrio. After nearly a year inside the quarantine walls, a new spirit of harmony was flourishing in a community where people had once been isolated by despair. They now had a reason to pull together. In a society with few role models, the insurgents had become the heroes of the barrios, their exploits talked about and celebrated. Those who fell were mourned as martyrs; those who triumphed were embraced with the fervor of a small town cheering on its football team. The passion was infectious.

  Children acted as lookouts. Mothers reported information on government troop movements. Old people ferried messages. Families sheltered insurgents on the run. From active resistance to simply keeping silent, almost everyone was united against government control, which was growing weaker every day.

  Peacekeeping in the zones was now the duty of heavily armed troops; ordinary law enforcement was nonexistent. Yet Mano had noticed that crime was diminishing. As supplies dried up, drug abuse had plummeted. Even the gang wars had declined.

  Still, life was hard. Most city services had been shut down. Water and electricity were sporadically available, maintained for humanitarian reasons—and to support the troop garrisons surrounding the zones.

  Most hospital employees within the zones had stopped reporting for work. A few intrepid nurses and physicians now made up the skeleton crews that offered rudimentary medical treatment. No major outbreaks of disease had been reported, but experts thought an epidemic inevitable.

  Food and medicine had become the government’s only leverage within the zones. Even here, the government’s role was tenuous. Cornmeal, grain, and rice, along with antibiotics and medical supplies, were periodically trucked to delivery points at the periphery of the zones. From there, La Defensa del Pueblo supervised their distribution. This quasi-official role for the DDP was an arrangement the government accepted uneasily. As Jo and Ramon had envisioned, the DDP was filling the power vacuum left by the collapse of city government.

  The headquarters of La Defensa del Pueblo was now a well-known site where residents of the barrios sought help and support. The DDP’s public facilities, however, were managed by minor functionaries. The real leadership of La Defensa del Pueblo remained behind the scenes.

  Today, the leaders of this shadow regime were gathered in Mano’s quarters to discuss their agenda. After Guillermo retreated to the kitchen, Jo got down to business.

  “When is the next issue of La Voz del Pueblo due?” Jo asked Ramon.

  “You must not have heard yet. A baldie patrol knocked out our printing facility on Second Street yesterday,” Ramon reported glumly.

  Mano looked puzzled. “What’s a ‘baldie’?”

  “That’s what Spanish-only Eslos have started calling the soldiers,” Jo explained with a smile. “It’s because of their helmets. A ‘balde’ is a bucket in Spanish.”

  “In any case,” Ramon continued, “the good news is that with all the abandoned print shops, presses we got aplenty. We’re refurbishing another one, and La Voz should be out again next week.”

  “Good,” Jo said, handing Ramon a DVD. “When you’re ready to publish again, here’s an article on vegetable gardening in vacant lots. We’ve got good soil under all this pavement and a long growing season. We need to find ways to start feeding ourselves.”

  “That’s excellent, Jo,” Ramon replied. “It’s only a matter of time before the government cuts off the food.”

  “I’ve got a long list of items to cover,” Jo announced. “Before I get to them, is there anything either of you want to bring up?”

  “Yes, I’ve got something,” Ramon said, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his cup. “As you know, we’re going to need the manpower of the gangs to continue our resistance. However, several of the meros I recruited earlier have started getting cold feet since the Army began their tank patrols. They won’t admit it, but I think they’re afraid. Any thoughts on how much more cash we should pony up to persuade them?”

  “None,” Mano replied.

  “What?” Ramon said, almost spilling his coffee. “How can we get the meros to join us if we don’t pay them?”

  “Take out one of the tanks.”

  “Que dices, hombre? Are you joking?”

  “Once we show the meros we can take out a tank,” Mano said steadily, “they’ll lose their fear of them, Ramon.”

  “Did Guillermo put something in your café con leche, Mano? How in the hell are we supposed to destroy a tank?”

  “Deploying tanks in a city without infantry support is very risky,” Mano explained. “Armored vehicles are built to fight in the open. They can be taken out in a close fight.” It had been a lesson drilled into him during his military training.

  “And you think we can do this?” Jo asked.

  “Yes.” Mano nodded. “It won’t be easy. But if we can get the RPGs from Nesto again, we have a chance. Four RPGs would work. More would be better.”

  “That’s going to cost us—a lot,” Ramon said.

  “You’re right, Ray,” Jo agreed. “But remember, you were ready to pay the meros more money on a regular basis. Paying Nesto once will cost us less in the long run. What do you say, Ramon? Do we have the cojones to do this?”

  Ramon scratched his chin. “It’s risky, Jo. If we fail, we’ll look weak.”

  “We look weak already,” Mano said.

  “Mano’s right,” Jo agreed. “I think it’s a risk we have to take.”

  “There’s still a flaw in this plan. Even if we manage to destroy one of the tanks, how will anybody know about it?” Ramon asked. “If the attack takes place inside the zone, the military will do everything they can to cover it up.”<
br />
  All three fell silent, pondering the problem. Then Jo snapped her fingers. “Simon Potts!”

  Ramon nodded slowly. “Yes, Simon would be perfect.”

  “Who’s Simon Potts?” Mano asked.

  “Potts is a freelance cinematographer Maggie and I know,” Ramon explained. “He’s a real maverick… filmed wars and revolutions all over the world. He’d jump at the chance to shoot an exclusive documentary about us. It’d probably get him an Oscar.”

  “How soon can we get him?” Jo asked.

  “I can have Maggie get in touch with him.”

  Jo pounded her fist on the table like a gavel. “Then let’s do it!”

  “All right,” Ramon agreed. “I’ll talk to Nesto about the weapons, too.”

  Mano put his hand gently on the older man’s shoulder. “There’s something else, Ramon. Don’t accept Nesto’s first price this time; he’ll lower it if you bargain with him.”

  At first, Ramon glared at Mano, but his expression softened when he realized Mano was right—he hadn’t haggled with Nesto the last time. This was a luxury they could no longer afford. Anticipating the quarantine, Ramon and Margaret had arranged for a divorce that had awarded her sole legal authority over the bulk of their wealth. No longer married to a Hispanic, Margaret was exempt from the quarantine. This “divorce of convenience,” as Maggie called it, allowed her to remain outside the Quarantine Zone—and in control of their money. Maggie’s money, however, was available sporadically and only in small amounts. The government kept tabs on the bank accounts of people like her.

  Jo had converted most of her wealth into gold bullion and cash. But the government had confiscated a sizable portion of her estate. The compensation process would likely drag on for years. With Jo now underground and unable to recover the money, her wealth had been nearly halved.

  “Not haggling with Nesto was a mistake,” Ramon said, managing a tight smile. “Our pockets aren’t as deep as they used to be. I’ll be more of a cranky old miser in the future.”

  “One more thing,” Mano began. “As long as possible, we need to keep Nesto in the dark about the time and place of the attack. I don’t trust him.”