by Ryan Schow
“Or what? Are you going to do my job for me? Lead these people to safety? You’re as desperate as they are to get across, but do you know where to go when you get there? Can you tell these people what they must do next?”
“Actually yes, but that’s not why I’m here,” he replied, his body temperature rising a few degrees and showing as splotches of red on his cheeks.
“You’re here because of our scouts,” he said with a knowing look. “You need them.”
Héctor was an ugly man. A brash man. A man with an ego the size of Texas. But he was also correct, in part. Ice did need the scouts for a clean entry into America. The other half of his motivation was Eliana. The woman killed Pablo Cubidero! And reportedly, she made one hell of a mess. Eliana was an enigma, an unending curiosity, a marvelous creature who would not leave his thoughts. If she was in a group heading to the border, then so was he.
This, of course, perplexed him.
Since his wife, he had not been this intrigued by a woman, but at this point, he flatly refused to admit this to himself. There would come a time when he would have to deal with these emotions head on. Just not now.
Not today.
“I can’t argue that, Héctor,” Ice finally consented. Today especially, the scouts would earn their wage.
“Alright everyone,” Héctor announced, clearly frustrated. “Now that we have that out of the way, gather your things and follow me!”
The group followed Héctor to a light green bus and a double cab Ford truck with a long, open bed. The bigger men, including Isadoro, piled into the truck while the women and children boarded the bus. When Héctor was sure everyone was in, he joined the women and kids on the bus and gave the driver his directions.
When they reached their destination, Héctor gathered everyone around and said, “We must stay together, but loosely. If we are seen traveling in a pack—should there be eyes upon us—we will look suspicious and we will not be able to cross there.”
“Where are your lookouts?” Eliana asked.
“Just do as you’re told and everything will go smoothly,” he said, brushing her off.
He made a quick call on his cell phone, then hung up and kept his eyes as much on the skies as he did the landscape ahead of him.
“What are you looking for?” one woman asked.
“Drones,” he answered.
According to yesterday’s news, thousands were massacred all along on the border. All four points of entry from Mexico into the US were hit. If what Héctor was saying was true about the mass casualties all along Hwy 45’s port of entry, the given estimate could be woefully inaccurate.
From what little Ice had seen on TV before setting out for America—voices from both sides of the border (locals, business owners and politicians)—everyone remained shocked by the extreme violence that occurred.
Yet no one had any answers.
One news anchor said hundreds of new drones were delivered to the US Border Patrol months ago as part of an expanded enforcement initiative, and that it looked like they’d gone rogue, or were hacked. The talking head made a compelling case, but then followed up with the truth: he couldn’t be sure what had transpired. Another anchor used the word “autonomous” which gave Ice pause.
This was the terrifying part of technology, the thing so many great minds in Silicon Valley had warned both their colleagues and the informed public about.
Machine learning technology gone rogue.
If the drones had been tasked with a wider security initiative and were able to make their own decisions within the set parameters—in other words, create their own tasks free of the purview of the programmers—then everything he’d been taught about the rules of engagement as an ICE agent had now gone out the window.
Why hadn’t they seen a military response yet? And why would the military target its own citizens?
Héctor loosely separated the people, staggering the small groups so they did not look like one giant, moving hoard.
Even to Isadoro, this looked silly.
Whatever crowds of people Héctor expected simply weren’t there. Everyone was scared to be out in the open and so close to a war zone, which was what the site of yesterday’s massacre sounded like.
Through the many shade trees, smoke was still on the rise, although it was not billowing as was expected. Rather it represented the gasping plumes of more than a few piles of smoldering embers.
Whatever he let himself imagine, it had to be worse.
Héctor put Eliana, the boy and Isadoro together, thinking he was getting one over on the both of them, but the coyote was stupid because he didn’t realize he’d just paired the only two people who disagreed with him together.
Then again, it was now easy to watch them all, so perhaps he wasn’t so stupid after all.
Behind Ice and Eliana—who was holding the boy’s hand and not looking at him or talking with him—Jose and his family joined Héctor.
What is he up to?
Did he just expect Ice to kill the family out in the open? Everything had changed. They were in a thicket of trees and everyone was spread wide when Isadoro decided he needed to talk with Héctor, or at least get a sense of what the man expected of him.
He opened his mouth to tell Eliana he’d be right back when Héctor said to him, “Hang back for a moment.”
The coyote moved quietly, enough to startle Isadoro. No one ever snuck up on Ice, but admittedly his guard was down. He was playing offense and forgetting entirely about defense. His sudden shortsightedness concerned him. He was not a sloppy man by trade or otherwise, yet Héctor snuck into his personal space below the radar.
“Sure thing,” he said, slowing down to separate himself from Eliana and the boy.
“The people with me, their kid is yours. Got it?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You have the money, yes?”
“I do.”
“And a weapon? A knife or something you can use?” he asked.
“No,” he lied. “I will need one.”
In truth, he had a concealed knife, a short blade he could use in close combat. He wasn’t about to reveal that bit of information though.
“Be as quiet as you can when you do it,” the coyote said without a trace of emotion.
“What about the bodies?” Isadoro asked.
“There are shallow graves all long the border,” Héctor said, continuing to whisper. “Nearly two hundred thousand corpses line the US/Mexican border. No one will care about two more. Besides, with yesterday’s attacks, a couple of dead parents are going to rate less than say, a dead beaver, or a run-over dog.”
With that he laughed; Isadoro forced an unconvincing smile. Héctor held out his hand, said, “Quick, slide me the money. Exactly what we agreed upon. And don’t worry, I have a knife you can use when the time’s right.”
When he looked down, Ice saw Héctor had his other hand on something in his pocket. The butt end of a pistol flashed long enough for him to know the score.
Ice pulled out the cash he’d separated for this moment, handed it over to him. Héctor fell back and Ice returned to Eliana and the boy, who still refused to look at him. This was a terrible plan. Then again he was used to having time to lay things out, measure the risks, calculate the odds and potential reactions of his subjects.
“What were you talking about?” Eliana asked, her eyes low and ahead.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, turning his face away from her. “Logistics.”
Eliana said something else, but all Ice was doing was thinking about Héctor, that bloodsucking leech. Ice underestimated him. For a moment, he ignored Eliana because he knew in his heart that what he did next would determ—
His brain scrambled the second something hard crashed down on the back of his skull. He weaved a bit from the blow and his legs gave out. He buckled forward, went down on the freshly cut lawn in a loose grove of shade trees. On hands and knees, wracked with dizziness, Isadoro reached for his knife.
He was struck again, this time right on his shoulder blade.
Disoriented, he weathered a flurry of kicks and punches, a few of them connecting with his head just right. Black spots appeared. Time skipped. The beatings did not slow, though. He managed to get to his feet only to turn into three wild shots to his face.
He back peddled, his jaw slack, his cheekbones smarting.
When his eyes finally cleared, he saw his attacker: Jose. Actually he saw two identical men with his blurred vision, both Jose, and he couldn’t quite stand right.
“You want to kill me and my wife?!” he screamed, a rock in his hand.
In that moment, Ice knew what happened. Héctor must have told the man what Ice was planning to do to his wife and daughter. Now that the coyote had the cash, he’d turned on Ice.
“I…I—”
But Jose was after him again, joined this time by Héctor who started screaming, “I’m not that kind of a guide!”
He managed to fend off Jose, refusing to end him because he was a pawn in this scam, but that didn’t mean Ice wouldn’t hurt him. The man was a freight train. In his mind, he was fighting for his life, for his wife’s life, for their daughter’s life.
Fortunately his eyes were clearing and he was only seeing one Jose. He’d also managed to avoid the man enough to get his legs back, and not too soon.
But now he was pissed.
Héctor was in the mix before Ice knew it. The coyote had a big blade in hand and took three vicious swipes at him (nearly clipping Jose’s generous ear lobe in the process), but Isadoro was now moving with increased stamina and stability.
Jose charged him haphazardly, visibly winded; Ice stepped left, drove a clean shot to his chin (lights out).
Héctor’s blade shot out, heading straight for his gut.
Ice parried left.
Héctor was quick, though, and Ice wasn’t in top form. Still, Ice knew what was coming. It happened fast.
The coyote turned the blade and swung away from his body, the arc heading for Ice’s throat in a horizontal slash. Ice ducked under the blade and stepped inside, checking Héctor’s arm from inside the coyote’s guard. In one fluid motion, Ice drove a blade of his own straight up into Héctor’s throat.
The coyote’s eyes flashed wide and the strain in his body halved, then halved again. Feeling insane, like a madman with his unbridled rage, Ice stood there face-to-face, his Charles Manson stare locking down the weakening resolve he saw in Héctor’s dying eyes.
There was so much story in those eyes, too many tales to tell. What he did not see, however, was a man familiar with surprise. Héctor did not expect this from him.
“Cagaste y saltaste en la caca,” he growled. “Puta.”
As the light in Héctor’s eyes dimmed under bobbing eyelids, the big man became heavy on the end of Ice’s blade. Isadoro jerked the knife out and stepped back. Héctor fell like a sack of rocks. He’d be dead in minutes.
Jose was coming around and Eliana was suddenly at his side. He spun on her, blade out front, ready to defend himself from her, too. She put her arms up in surrender, the kid a few feet away, terrified.
“Logistics, huh?” she mused.
Isadoro touched his forehead, felt the blood from where Jose’s ring caught him flush. There was a rolling drizzle coming from his punched nose, and another on the back of his head where he’d been clobbered with the rock. Talk about embarrassing.
Ice was on his feet, but he wasn’t standing on solid ground. The beating had taken a steep toll. In a few minutes, the adrenaline dump would compound the draining feeling and he’d feel depleted.
Ahead, most of the group had stopped to watch all this unfold in abject horror.
“It’s not so bad,” Eliana said, looking at his forehead.
Jose was now on his feet with his wife’s help. He was wobbly, scowling, slurring out more foul protestations.
“He paid to have me and my wife killed,” he was trying to say.
He sounded drunk.
Dazed.
In his exaggerated Hispanic accent, Isadoro said, “This is somewhat true what he said. I paid Héctor. But I’m not a killer. I just wanted to come to America and have a different life.”
“We all want that,” Eliana said, not looking at him, but at his cuts.
“Leave me alone, please,” he said, hand to his face, an utter refusal to look up at her, let alone show her his eyes.
She let him be, and again he found himself wondering that much harder if she was on to him. Of course she was. She had to be!
Then again, she refused to look at people for fear of meeting their eyes. She had her own secrets to keep, and perhaps in trying with such desperation to hide her identity, she missed his completely.
Jose, the chubby scrapper, shook off his wife’s hand, breaking free of her. Pointing his finger at Ice, he screamed, “Stay away from my wife and daughter!”
Ice leaned down, tore the pistol and his cash from Héctor’s pocket. He pocketed the cash, but he showed Jose the gun.
“Cálmate, pendejo” Isadoro called out.
In a huff, Jose rejoined his family, looking winded and beat, but still angry.
“You killed him,” Eliana said as she was walking away. There was neither feeling nor judgment in her tone. He got the impression that if he hadn’t done it, she would have.
Ice glanced down at Héctor, his eyes glassed over, blood soaking the grass in a sopping wet circle.
Eliana took the boy’s hand, calming him, saying something reassuring, then she looked back at Ice once more. Everyone was looking at him. Tucking the blade and the stolen gun away, he walked past the horrified crowd, and then Eliana. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “Follow me if you want to make it across. Or go back home. I don’t care.”
He knew Eliana would follow him. He didn’t expect Jose and his family to come with him and he didn’t blame them when they broke from the group. The rest followed, albeit at a safe distance.
Ice knew from personal experience that most people would follow a confident person they didn’t know because most people lacked the knowledge and confidence to cut their own path in the world.
This crowd was not much different.
When they got to the canal, the Mexican side had a wide run of muddy water, which they trekked through. To the right was the Port of Entry. There was no movement at all. Only the diminishing smoke rising from the cars and buildings destroyed just yesterday. The bridge was packed tight with vehicles, and though none of them were active, there were people moving through them with purpose.
These were looters.
Just then, one of the lookouts joined them. He was dragging a long length of rope connected to what looked like an iron baseball.
“Where’s Héctor?” he asked, looking past Ice, Eliana and the kid.
“Got shanked.”
“Héctor’s dead?!” the guy asked, taking in the whole of the group.
“Yeah.”
“He’s supposed to pay me.”
“Well you can go get your money back in the park. That’s where he died and if he owes you money, and he’s good for it, then it’s on him back there.”
Bowing up, he said, “You get the money and bring it back or you don’t cross.”
Eliana’s gun was in her hand and aimed at the lookout’s head so quick it startled Ice’s already wonky brain.
“We cross and you live. If you insist otherwise, I turn your head into a canoe, take your rope and we cross anyway. It’s your choice.”
He held up a hand, backing her off and said, “My God, take it easy. It’s okay. I can get it after.”
He turned and led them to the canal, which he said many a desperate migrant had drown in. They cut through a break in the first of three chain link fences. After crossing a canal road wide enough for two cars to fit side-by-side, the group came to the second fence. Beyond that was the canal, another fence and what looked like the American liaison. The Mexican’s head was constantly in motion,
his chin lifting every so often to check for drones or helicopters.
“What’s it like over there?” Isadoro asked. He nodded to the Port of Entry.
“There are dead people everywhere,” he said dispassionately. “All the cars are either shot or abandoned.”
“Really?”
The lookout fired him a surprised look. Isadoro didn’t look impoverished, but if he was crossing the border illegally with these folks, the layman wouldn’t think it spoke well of his money situation. In truth, Isadoro had nearly twenty grand on him, but he wasn’t with the coyotes for lack of money or credentials. He was there for Eliana.
There, he thought to himself. You finally admitted it. You’re here for Eliana.
It both felt good and stung at the same time.
“You think this was a random strike?” the scout asked, pulling away a section of the fence. “These strikes are all down the border. All four ports. Someone’s attacking America.”
“You don’t know who?” Ice asked.
“No one does.”
The group crawled through the second fence. When they reached the third fence, the lookout wound up his arm, then threw the iron baseball and rope with all his might across the canal. The American liaison backed up a few steps and caught it with a large catcher’s mitt.
Both men hooked their ends of the rope to sturdy poles on the fence line. When they were done, the scout said, “Women and children first.”
“What if we fall?” one of the women asked. In her defense, it looked like she hadn’t been missing any meals.
“There are two people at each end. If you fall, we will toss you a life line. Just hang on to it and we will pull you out.”
“Has anyone fallen yet?”
“Not with us.”
“What happens if I do?”
She had the look like she was concerned about both her weight and her strength.
“I already told you, chica, we’ll throw you a rope.”
“What if I can’t catch it?” she asked, unadulterated fear in her eyes.
“Then you will drown.”
“I don’t know—” she started to say.
“Then go home. Or get on the rope. The longer you sit here thinking about it, the worse it will be for all of us.”
