Not My Home

by Ed Hurst

  Outside, Michael led Burk in the other direction than their arrival. Once on the street, they turned and headed toward a park where children frolicked on old playground equipment. It had obviously been repaired, and was still functional, though hardly with original parts. They sat on a shaded concrete bench, which had been taken from some bus stop somewhere. These were the tiny kids, too young to be in school yet. A few mothers with cheap, gaudy strollers, and a couple with modified shopping carts, stood or sat watching. Occasionally one or another would yell something at the kids. One was comforting a crying tot.

  They watched for a moment, feeling like visiting tourists in a foreign country. Turning to Burk, Michael asked, “Where do hobos go around here this time of year?”

  “I don’t know,” Burk said, with a rising tone. “You see, hobos are fairly democratic, but they are organized almost along feudal lines. There are established communities, and a few groups floating between them. There’s a couple of really crooked gangs, but they’re well known. They know better than to mess with the established communities. There’s a truce as long as their actions don’t present a risk to the community.” He paused a moment, then went on. “But the whole thing is still rather territorial. The region I’ve lived in is sort of a northern, mostly white culture, but nothing of middle class habits. Where we’re sitting right now is just beyond the southern end of that region.”

  “You don’t have connections in this area?”

  “I don’t think there are too many hobos here, not as I know them. Maybe some honorary members of the community who live in the city, and keep a regular life. They keep their membership up by paying dues, so to speak. They supply the community with things that can’t be found, made or traded. Sometimes they’ll take a bunch to breakfast when we have gatherings.” Looking around at the totally urban environment, he said, “These folks here take up the spaces and resources northern hobos would need to use. Hobos can pass through, but they have to be careful. This isn’t hobo country.”

  “It’s a shame our government has let this happen. This isn’t immigration; it’s migration. A whole nation moving in to displace another. On the other hand, our predecessors pushed them out in the first place, a hundred-fifty years ago. The Shadow Government has decreed we shall all be united in a single continental super-state. Borders don’t mean anything. This silent invasion isn’t something we can fight. Don’t you find them in the northern region, too?”

  “To some degree, but not like here. For hobos, this is just northern Mexico. Mexico has its own hobos.”

  “Okay, so it’s up to me. I’d rather not stay in the barrio, either. I need to find an ATM for the card I don’t use much. I think we’ll pass through the local Chinatown for that, then stay in a motel I know. Ready for a long hike?”

  They headed west, where a major highway divided the barrio from a pricier beach front area. Lunch was fast food, served with stares from the well-heeled and hip. The two made a game of holding a conversation which included their backpacks, sitting upright in booth seats next to them, like girlfriends on a double date. Burk offered his some fries. Michael stuffed a packaged pastry in the outer pocket of his and asked if it was yummy.

  In Chinatown, Burk stood guard while Michael got some cash from the ATM. While the oriental setting was entertaining, and the smells quite exotic, they both agreed it was a tough hike on concrete and asphalt. They could move faster, but it made the feet and legs much more tired than forest paths carpeted with pine needles. They were making almost four miles per hour, but with the sudden rush of school-aged children released from the government’s daytime warehousing, they decided to stop and rest at a cafe. The mist blowing in from the ocean was blocked by the building and its generous awning, so they sat at the last table on one end of the sidewalk section. The house tea served hot was just right.

  “This should hold us `til dinner time. There’s a decent cafe a block from the motel,” Michael promised.

  “Will it take us that long to walk there?” Burk asked.

  “No. But we can sit here for an hour, then catch a city bus. I haven’t ridden one in years, but I saw a schedule posted at a stop on our way here, and we can go back and wait there. It’ll take us that long to ride there, though.”

  Putting his cup down, Burk held it in both hands. “I like city buses. You don’t feel so out of place dressed like we are. Even with gas pushing six dollars, prissy folks won’t ride the bus very much. Real traveling hobos tell me in some areas of the country, you can ride city buses across state lines because of how the routes run.”

  “Well, I’ve never liked them much in the past,” Michael said. “Maybe I can get used to it. Even if they look clean, it seems they all smell like dirty diapers. But then, I haven’t bathed in over a week, so maybe I won’t notice.” Then he added, “At least the motel will have showers.”

  Chapter 10

  When Michael awoke the next morning, the sun was in his eyes. He rubbed them, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper. Finally he could see clearly, and he noticed by the angle of the sun it was mid-morning.

  Burk was sitting in chair, feet on his bed, reading a Gideon’s Bible. “I heard a lot of hotels and motels have been bought up by Muslims. They removed the Gideon Bibles, sometimes replacing them with copies of the Quran.” He gestured at the open page, “I wanted to find the story of Ehud assassinating the King of Moab. I’m glad they still have Bibles in this one, and the Berkeley Translation at that.”

  Michael fumbled in his backpack for clean clothes. “Why did you want to know about that? Oh, and sorry about making you skip breakfast.”

  “I ate your pie from yesterday’s lunch,” he said absently. Moving to an upright position, he picked up a styrofoam cup from the floor beside him and walked over to the little counter near the bathroom where the “in-room coffee” consisted of a water heating pot and packets of instant coffee. As he dumped a packet of black granules in the cup, he said, “I was looking at the motive.” After pouring hot water on top of the granules, he stirred it with a little plastic straw. Turning to sit back down, he continued, “Ehud is called a hero. He rescued his people from oppression. He took advantage of his talents, including being a lefty in a time and place where it was rather unusual. He also took full advantage of the evil king’s constant fear and suspicion about his own court.” He sat down still holding his cup, then slumped and put his feet back up on the edge of his bed, just as Michael had found him upon waking.

  Pulling on his hiking boots, Michael asked, “So let me play Devil’s advocate for a moment. How does this carry over into the New Testament, where it’s about grace instead of law?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that, but I’m noticing these ancient Semites took a totally different view of assassination than we in the Post-Modern West. We call it cowardly. They called it heroic.”

  Standing up again, Michael responded, “Yes, and Jesus was a Semite. However, He was not about fighting political enemies of His nation. His mission was otherwise. Yet again, His cousin John the Baptist never told the penitent Roman soldiers they had get out of military service. Nothing in the Gospels condemns the Roman soldiers for being soldiers. They were condemned for being cruel to Jesus after His arrest, but not for doing their job.”

  “Are we trying to be some kind of soldiers?”

  “Rebels,” Michael answered. “Soldiers or not, we’ll be fighting a war against our own Moabites. I rather think Ehud’s methods will work for us, too.”

  They walked down to the cafe and enjoyed a large brunch. As if discussing the change in weather from wet to sunny, Michael explained how, in return for the website and so forth, the Latino gang boss was putting them in touch with a munitions supplier from Mexico. “How much stuff do we need?” Burk asked, sipping his milk.

  “I think it’s more a matter of what kind. My editor back at the paper was a retired Marine. During social occasions, it was sometimes possible to get him talking about tactics and such. Once, he even took me to
a private range to fire various weapons. I’m pretty decent with a rifle and scope...”

  “I’m pretty good without the scope,” Burk interrupted.

  Laughing, Michael went on, “Anyway, assassins will probably need at least one good sniper rifle, and surely some explosives. I don’t know how much the gang leader will get us, but he promised to see if any of his connections needed something similar to what I offered him. I’m not sure I could actually pay outright for much.”

  They had frittered the day away reading newspapers and watching TV, while taking turns on the laptop. They had managed to pick up a wireless signal, and ran the Linux CD to tap it. There was a more concrete discussion of identifying suitable targets. At one point, Burk stumbled on a patriot forum. Most of the chatter seemed bluffing, big talk from armchair generals who probably never wore a uniform with dirt and sweat. However, there was one member who clearly knew what he was talking about. Michael commented he wouldn’t be surprised if it was his old editor, but if not, it was surely someone like him. The tone and content was consistent with some of the numerous conversations they’d had.

  One forum comment rang a bell with Michael and Burk: “If you’re going to do assassinations, you’d better work a long way from where you plan to hide out.”

  It was late evening, and they were about to retire, when Michael’s cell phone rang. The deal was on! The conversation was short. Putting his phone away, Michael opened the laptop and booted into Windows. “Rest if you can, Burk. I’ve got a couple of websites to build, emails to send, and I won’t be sleeping until I get it all done.” He waited impatiently for the busy cursor to go away, then began clicking and typing feverishly.

  Something in the Italian dinner they ate didn’t set well on Burk’s stomach. He woke from a nightmare about dodging bullets, being chased by rabid dogs with faceless demons holding them on leashes, and other un-pleasantries he didn’t remember. It must have been well past midnight, but Michael still had his face to the glowing laptop screen.

  Chapter 11

  Coming out of the cramped bathroom, Burk found Michael stumbling around trying to get dressed. He insisted they had no time to waste, and encourage Burk to get dressed and packed. It was just past dawn, but the renewed cloud cover tinged it with red. They stumbled out into a somewhat cool breeze and headed to the nearest bus stop. Even the poorest people had cell phones these days, and Michael wasn’t the only one chatting away on the ride back south.

  Four changes later, the bus line ran out just a few blocks from the barrio. They had been standing on the last bus, as workers had crowded the seats before they got on. Michael had trouble hearing, and lost the signal twice. He kept checking as they walked into the barrio, in an area bearing little resemblance to where they had been two days before. In front of a dingy convenience store, which bore not a word of English, Michael felt he had a sufficient signal, and dialed. During the conversation in the street patois, he turned suddenly, looking east. He shaded his eyes, not from the sun, which was hidden behind clouds, but from the drifting mist which had just begun. He hesitated a moment, then spoke a couple of words, and began walking down the street as he put the phone away.

  Dodging a sign advertising cerveza, Burk caught up. “We have to catch the guy before he leaves,” Michael informed him. “He’s going to make a re-supply run, but has some stuff in stock, which apparently includes the items you and I had discussed. He’s going to give us as much as we can carry, and it’s up to us keep it out of sight. If we get caught, we’re on our own.”

  “They use that stuff around here?” Burk wondered out loud.

  “Oh, no. This is just a transit point. The stock comes into a Chinese freight company, at a terminal they own all to themselves near here. This is the same company caught supplying gangs a couple of years ago with Chinese arms. To avoid such close inspection in the future, they made a secret deal with the federal government to buy out a run-down port of their own. You might recall the big brouhaha over them trying to get the old Long Beach Naval Base.”

  “Oh yeah. Some of the veterans in the hobo community were cussing about that.”

  “Yes, veterans groups made a lot of noise about that. Anyway, this guy works out of his truck. He picks up arms here, drives them down to Nuevo Laredo, and exchanges them for drugs. He makes several drops on the way back, then brings the rest of it here. Several drug gangs are working in a sort of co-op.”

  Burk frowned at the idea of drug dealing. “I wonder how he avoids searches and stuff.”

  “Let’s ask him! He’s right there.”

  They had rounded a corner. Peeking out of an alleyway was the nose of what turned out to be a bob-tailed refrigeration truck. It appeared just barely safe to drive. A man jumped out of the driver’s seat and waited for them. Michael greeted him in the street dialect. As they walked around the truck, Burk was surprised there were no guards, until he spotted dark eyes peering at him out from under a filthy baseball cap on top of the cargo box. The driver was all business. He opened the side door, with just an inch to spare against the wall of the building. Inside, there was nothing but a couple of wooden cases. Both had been opened. From the top one, he produced a bundle wrapped in newspaper covered with tiny oriental printing in columns.

  Michael unwrapped it part way, just enough to see what was inside. His eyebrows shot up. He wrapped it back up, and raised his head with a smile on his face. A little more chatter, and the man passed him what had to be a few ammo boxes. These Michael passed to Burk, who shed his backpack. They were followed by an odd looking cartridge magazine. He poked these and the first bundle into his pack, making sure the clothing was against the outside surface.

  The driver moved the now empty crate off the top, and removed the loose lid on the bottom one. There was a green bag, with a bundle of wire peeking out of one exterior pocket. There were also three squat, round canisters with black paper walls and metal lids. These last Michael passed to Burk, whose pack was pretty tightly stuffed once he pushed them in place. Michael shrugged off his pack and pushed the green nylon bag inside, plus a long cylinder with odd-looking ends, a square ridge running down one side and a bulge on top of that at one end. Burk wondered to himself, rocket launcher?

  As if he almost forgot, the driver handed over two small automatic pistols. They were used, but still in good condition. He finally handed over a paper sack, about the size of a good lunch, but obviously heavier. Burk found out later it held loaded pistol magazines and ammo boxes. Just before they turned to climb down, Michael asked a long question, followed by a couple of sentences of explanation. The driver burst out laughing. After he got his breath back, he said a few rapid sentences, at one point making a sort of pedaling motion with his hands. At least twice he shrugged broadly and turned his palms face up. Then he finished with a dismissive wave in their direction. Michael half smiled, then shook his head and lead the way out the little side door. The whole thing was so comical, Burk laughed, even without a clue to what was said.

  They walked briskly back toward the railroad tracks. From where they collected the weapons, it was about two miles. Moving north along the tracks, they were trying to find the place where they thought it would cross a creek. Sure enough, just a quarter mile up, there was a sturdy wooden rail bridge. While the creek hardly held any water, its bed was nearly fifty yards across. The bridge was not wide, but along one side there as a low railing, with a narrow walking space outside that. Somehow – he didn’t explain – Burk could tell by the engines and the load when a train was heading back in the direction of the campsite upstate where they left the truck. Burk had been adamant it was safe to leave it there. They let two trains pass overhead while they sat through the middle of the day. It was hard to avoid being nervous about the weapons they had.

  Burk took a seat just under the edge of the walkway, high up on the bank. Michael sat down near the edge of the creek. He hauled some foil-wrapped burritos from an outer pocket of his backpack, tossing one to his friend. Burk chewed th
oughtfully, then sipped a wine cooler he had produced from somewhere, and said, “So what did the driver say when you asked?”

  Michael stared at the bottle in Burk’s hand, and couldn’t remember when they had bought one. Losing the puzzled look no his face, he looked up and said. “CIA.”

  “CIA? What about the CIA?”

  “He said he was contracted by the CIA to move the drugs from the Rio Grande Valley out to southwestern markets. He carries a regular manifest, accounts for everything he delivers and how much he’s paid. He gets here, calls some number from any of a couple dozen pay phones, and tells them where he’s parked. Within an hour, some guy comes by on one of those three-wheeled Mexican Ice bicycles, checks the manifest, takes a flat percentage, and rides off. In return, they get even his speeding tickets thrown out on the grounds of national security. He’s never had his truck searched in two years.”

  “Then why all the cloak and dagger?”

  “Other gangs not a part of the co-op.” Michael stuffed the last of his burrito in his mouth, folded the foil neatly and put it back in the outside pocket of his pack.

  There was the silent vibration in the bridge indicating another train approaching. Michael looked on hopefully as Burk stood and glanced both ways. He crouched back down, and signaled to be ready. Michael turned and jumped the narrow trickle of water in the creek bed, then sprinted up the slope just under the far end of the bridge. With their packs in their hands, they watched as the engines passed overhead on the bridge. Once they made the turn, Burk popped up, looking back along the line of cars. Motioning with his hand, he hopped up on the bridge, clambered up on the rail, and then steadied himself. Michael was up onto the bridge on the far side, waiting. With consummate grace, Burk leaped onto a passing flat car, tossed his pack on the deck, grabbed a tie-down strap and leaned out with one hand. Michael was wearing his pack as he jumped up on the railing just in time to be scooped up in Burk’s free arm.