by Nancy Cupp
15
Exodus
He still had to move fast, but for now the heat was off. Carlos walked in broad daylight for the first time in days. He still kept looking for any sign he was being watched. He needed money, he needed more water and food, and he needed to get out. He slipped into the back door of the garage where he worked.
“Hi Manny,” he said, to the feet that stuck out from beneath a twenty-year-old Peterbuilt.
A voice from underneath said, “Carlos—stay right there a minute, I just gotta tighten this up, I can’t let go right now.” Manuel Rodriguez wheeled himself out from under the truck on a battered wooden creeper. He lay there for a moment looking up at Carlos. “Where the heck you been? You’re gonna lose your job if you don’t show up once in a while, even if you are the only guy that can get this thing running. How’s Rosa?”
“Please Manny, you got any money I can borrow?”
“What’s going on? There was some guys here lookin’ for you. You in trouble?”
“Yeah, I gotta get out. I don’t know if Rosa made it, she hasn’t called. You got a charger for an old Nokia?”
“Not a Nokia, unless the one from my phone works. What do you mean—if she made it? Made it where?”
“I paid a guy to take her across the border. We had to leave, we saw something by mistake. Don’t tell anybody you saw me. Do you have any money?”
“You know I don’t get paid until next week, I’ll give you what I have on me,” he dug in his pocket.
“Have you got a car I can use?”
“Did you go to the Polícia? I don’t have a car, unless you can get that to run,” he pointed to an ancient delivery truck with a low tire.
“No Polícia, I’m not sure they’re on my side. I’ll get it going, is there gas?”
“I’ve got some diesel in cans over there. You look hungry, come home and have lunch with me. You could get a shower.”
“I’m starving, but I have to get out of here. Thanks Manny, I owe you. I don’t want anybody to bother your wife and kids, better if she doesn’t know I was here.”
Carlos propped open the dented hood on the delivery truck and got to work. He worked for two hours in the hot sun until there was finally a spark of life in the old wreck.
Manny returned with a bag full of food and several jugs of water filled from the tap in his kitchen. The truck quit running twice while they loaded the supplies in the cab, but Carlos was able to coax it over to the air hose to fill the low tire. Manny helped him empty the cans of diesel fuel into the tank.
“I found these old chargers in a drawer at home, I don’t know what kind of phone they fit. Take care Carlos.” He tossed the chargers on the torn seat of the truck and shoved hard to get the stiff hinges of the passenger door closed.
Carlos waved to his friend and jammed the truck into third gear, the first two were gone, and he sputtered out to the road.
He knew where he was going now. He’d passed a school yard on the way to the garage. Some children were there playing with rusty Tonka toys.
He remembered years ago, when he and Enrico played in the dirt as children near the open pit copper mine where their fathers had worked. The mine near Agua Prieta was spent long ago, but he felt Enrico would be there. When they were boys they climbed on top of the discarded rock and rubble and looked at America on the far side of the pit.
The old truck creaked and groaned on the nearly deserted road. Carlos kept a watchful eye on his left side mirror. It was cracked and peeling, but the one on the right was hanging, banging against the door. He had the windows down as far as he could get them. Hot air blasted him as he drove.
Luke-warm water dribbled down his chin as he drank out of the wide mouth jar Manny had given him. He nibbled on rice and beans wrapped in a tortilla, grateful to his friend for the meal.
The chargers lay tangled on the seat. He tried to determine if any of them would work on his phone, but then realized he’d have to find somewhere he could stay long enough to plug it in. There’d be no electricity in the shack where he hoped Enrico was.
The truck’s engine coughed, missed a few times, then died. “No,” yelled Carlos banging his hand on the dash. The full ashtray fell out on the floor, spilling stale butts all over. He wished it was something he could tinker with and fix, but he knew he was out of fuel. Staying in the hot truck wasn’t an option. He gathered what he could use and stuffed it in Enrico’s canvas bag.
As far as he could guess, he was still ten or twelve kilometers from Auga Prieta. The mountains he could see to the north were in America. Waves of heat distorted the sunlight on the road and desert. Carlos walked, wishing for a car to pick him up. At the same time, he was afraid one might come. He could feel his neck burning in the relentless heat. The truck became a smaller dot on the edge of the road each time he turned to look.
He bent down to adjust his shoe where a blister was starting. When Carlos stood up his head reeled for a moment as he squinted in the sun at the abandoned truck. He thought there was something else, a movement, a glint of sun on an open door. He stepped off the road and sat by a pile of tumble weeds caught on a patch of Prickly Pear cactus.
The weeds offered little protection from the sun, but as least he wouldn’t be a beacon standing in the road. He watched, trying to decide if he was really seeing a car or if it was just his own paranoia.
His fear was soon justified when an older, white car zipped past on the road. Carlos didn’t recognize the driver, but it was impossible to know who was connected with Machete. It could have been driven by someone who would have helped him, but Carlos was afraid to find out.
He waited until dark before he continued to walk. At night it was easy to spot the occasional headlights long before they reached him. He simply stepped off the road and lay on the warm dirt until they were gone.
He thought about heading north into the desert. America was only a short distance, but there was a wide desert before he’d get to a road. The chance of being caught by the American Border Patrol was almost certain.
The sweet fragrance of some desert plant reached him, making him think of Rosa. He weighed the few supplies in his bag against the risk of crossing the desert alone. There wasn’t enough water to get all the way across, but he had to make a choice. Carlos walked toward the dark shadow of the American mountains outlined in the moonlight.
Thorns and yucca tore at his skin and clothes as he pushed through, stumbling on rocks and plants. At times it was hard to tell if he was still heading the right direction, the moon was temporarily obscured by clouds. He fell several times, each time he thought of just lying there until death or coyotes found him.
He pushed on until he saw lights twisting and bouncing in his direction. He knew he couldn’t outrun the border patrol on four wheelers, and he wondered if he was on American soil for the first time in his life. He sat down and waited for them to find him.
☙
Plastic zip ties cut into his wrists as he waited in the bright light of the interrogation room. In Spanish, the officers asked him many questions. They told him he would be deported back to Mexico and Carlos broke down, telling his story between sobs.
“So this Machete is running guns and drugs across the border with some teen-agers. Why is he after you, is it a drug deal?”
“No senõr, I was only hiking with my wife when he saw us. I think we were close to his hideout, he knows who I am. We went to school together.”
“Where is your wife?”
Carlos hung his head and let the tears flow, “I don’t know, I tried to get her to safety. I paid a gringo to bring her across. I haven’t heard from her. Can you tell me if she was arrested at the border?”
“We’ll look into it. In the meantime you’ll be incarcerated until your case is processed. Since you had no guns or drugs and this is your first offense, things should go smoothly. If you have any more information on this Machete you need to give it to us.”
“My wife is Rosa Santos, her father w
as an important advisor to the president. They, her parents, disappeared five years ago. Rosa thought they may have been exploring where Machete saw us.”
“Ramos Santos?”
“Sí, his wife is Nicolette.”
The two officers spoke quietly where Carlos couldn’t hear, then one of them said, “That’s interesting information. We’re moving you to a holding cell for now. You can get some rest there. We’ll talk to you again soon.”
16
The Wreck
Bruce headed west toward Salt Lake City where they’d pick up the empty container to exchange in California. Margret subdued a smirk when Bruce scratched a couple of gears. He gave her a look in the dark, daring her to say anything about it. She tried to stay awake for a while, but then her head got heavy as she dozed off.
With a start a few minutes later, Margret woke as Bruce signaled to pass another truck. It seemed like he sailed right past, unusual, in a vehicle governed at sixty-five miles per hour. Margret snuck a peek at the dash, the speedometer registered almost eighty.
“Wow, did you do something to soup-up this truck? I don’t remember it going that fast before.”
Bruce answered with pride, “I told ya I was good at this kind of stuff.”
“Aren’t you worried about getting a ticket?”
“Dammit, I don’t need a back-seat driver. Why don’t you go back in the bunk and get some sleep? You’re driving when I get tired.”
Margret crawled into the bunk, she felt the truck slow a little, and smiled that she’d had some influence. The tattoo on her arm hurt, she was helpless to do anything about that, or much of anything else. She managed to doze off, but woke several times when Bruce tailgated, activating the warning device, which triggered his cussing about it.
The first streaks of light were in the sky when Margret felt the truck slow to a stop. She popped her head up enough to see brake lights in both lanes in front of them. Taking the passenger seat, she said, “Where are we?”
“Just outside of Salt Lake City. I thought we’d get there before dawn, but not if this traffic doesn’t move. Why doesn’t this truck have a CB radio?”
“Joyce said she doesn’t like ‘em. Too much cussing and stuff.”
Bruce swore and pulled the parking brake on. “I’m going out to take a piss. I guess you can’t go anywhere anyway.”
Traffic was stopped on a winding mountain downgrade. They sat for more than an hour before traffic started to move. Bruce had inched forward for a mile or so when they came to the source of the problem. In the rocky median, on a sharp curve, lay a truck twisted on its side. The trailer was ripped open, freight littered both sides of the road where it had been pushed aside to allow traffic to get by. The truck, a classic Kenworth, was smashed up against a rock wall. The front wheels had been torn off, the big engine exposed, laying on the ground.
Police cars stood by, blue lights ricocheted off faces and wreckage as traffic was waved on. Bruce seemed sombre, Margret took the hint and held her tongue. They crossed into Utah and Bruce pulled into the rest area, got out of the truck without saying a word and loudly vomited. When he climbed back in, he gestured for her to drive.
“You okay?”
“I will be.”
“Can I do a pre-trip?”
“Just drive.”
Bruce had her stop for fuel when they got to Salt Lake City. He filled the tanks while Margret scrubbed the windshield. Bruce paid for the fuel with cash, keeping a close eye on Margret. He bought breakfast, and the two of them shared a pot of coffee. Bruce wasn’t very talkative, so Margret filled the void with chatter.
“I was surprised to see mountains in Salt Lake, you usually just hear about salt flats and the Great Salt Lake. I’ve read books about it, but you don’t get the whole picture. It seems like these mountains come right to the edge of the highway, and go straight up from there. The Salt Flats must be further west, are we going that way?”
“We’re going south on fifteen after we pick up our load.”
“I’m sure that’ll be pretty too,” Margret trailed off, her plan of getting Bruce talking and friendly wasn’t working—she finished her bacon.
When they stepped back outside, the day was bright and the air clear. It was warm, but Margret could see small patches of snow clinging to crevices on the peaks of the mountains. Under different circumstances, she would have been excited.
Bruce drove to the address where they’d pick up the empty container to exchange at NuPower. Margret sat in the truck while Bruce supervised the loading. Alone in the truck, she changed clothes. After a quick look in the tiny mirror, she transferred Rosa’s compact to the pocket of her clean jeans, careful not to disturb the phone number scratched on the hard-pressed powder.
With the container loaded, the forklift driver speared a giant bale of hay and pushed it into the trailer behind the container. Several more bales followed until it looked like the trailer was full of nothing but hay. Bruce was closing the trailer doors when a worker brought the bill-of-lading to the truck.
“Just sign here ma’am, and you’ll be ready to go.”
“Oh—okay,” Margret took the bills and was about to sign her name when Bruce yanked open the door.
“I’ll sign those.” Bruce signed with an unrecognizable scribble and handed the shipper’s copy back to the worker.
“Uh—thanks. Weird load, ain’t it? Who’d order a container, and have it welded shut?Whatever they want I guess. I’ll put the seal on, and wave when you can go. Drive safe now.”
Margret was in the driver’s seat, and watched for the dock worker’s wave in the mirror. “How heavy is this load?” She picked up the BOL and looked for the weight, only the hay was listed. “Thirty-three thousand pounds, we better weigh this to be sure we’re legal.”
“It ought to be all-right,” said Bruce.
“What if the DOT pulls us in for being overweight on the rear axles or something.”
“You know how to do it?”
“Sure, I’ve weighed loads with my trainer before.”
“Okay, we’ll weigh it. Don’t try anything cute.”
“I won’t, I’m the one that wants to keep us from getting stopped.” Margret put the truck in gear, she noticed how hard it pulled right away. She drove back to the truck-stop and pulled on the scale.
“First weigh, or reweigh,” the scratchy voice said over the intercom.
“First weigh,” replied Margret.
“Truck number?”
“3-5-2-4-Ouch…”
Bruce grabbed her arm and glared. “Don’t give that number, it’s 002,” he hissed.
“Truck number?”crackled the voice on the intercom.
“Sorry ma’am, the truck number is 0-0-2.”
“Thank you, pull off the scale and come inside for your weights.”
“What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you changed the truck’s number,” said Margret, her voice shaking.
“Don’t screw up again, or I’ll let Arnold know—Rosa will pay.”
They went in to get the weights, Bruce gave the company name as SuperTrans, and the truck number 002. He softened up a little when he saw the read out. “We have thirty-five thousand pounds on the trailer tandems, and twenty-six-five hundred on the drives,” he read off the ticket. “What’s legal again?”
Margret was pleased to be asked, rules and regulations were her strong suit. “Thirty-four thousand, we’re a thousand pounds over on the trailer. They’d stop us for sure.”
“So how do we fix it?”
“We just slide the tandems back, that should take weight off the trailer tires and put it on the drives. Joyce showed me how to move them.”
“Good thing, because I’ve never done it.”
They made adjustments and reweighed the load. This time it was just right.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to let me do a pre-trip before we go,” said Margret.
“Uh—okay, go ahead i
f it makes you feel better.”
Margret was shocked he allowed it. She tried to be quick about it, she didn’t want to press her luck. She used the tire gauge to check all the tires while Bruce looked on, smoking.
“We have a low tire back here on the trailer,” she said.
“How low?”
“It’s sixty-five pounds, should be a hundred.”
“Forget about it. We’ve been here messing around long enough.”
Margret wanted to argue, but he seemed in a good mood so she decided not to. Once they were on the highway, Bruce went to bed. Margret was happy to be unsupervised for a while. She tuned the radio to a station playing lite rock, a welcome change from the heavy rap Bruce liked.
One side of the highway offered views of desert and a few irrigated fields. The other side had spectacular red cliffs and mountains. In some places, she could see an entire train far in the distance.
The scenery kept her from thinking too much about the trouble she was in. Not used to the ungoverned truck, she caught herself speeding as confidence in her ability to handle the truck grew.
Hours later, she pulled into the only rest area she had seen since they left Salt Lake. She hoped Bruce wouldn’t be angry, but she really needed to stop.
He was groggy with sleep when he woke up at the sound of the parking brake. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry, I need to use the rest room.”
“Yeah, me too, just sit there a minute, I gotta get my pants on.”
Margret shuddered, but she kept herself busy updating the log book. The rest area was primitive, with only two small out houses. Theirs was the only vehicle in the lot. Bruce locked the truck and took the keys, but he allowed Margret to use the privy by herself while he used the other one.
Margret still had a pen in her hand when she got out of the truck. She slipped it in her back pocket, and pulled her T-shirt over it. The odor from the toilets met them halfway as they walked across the dry sandy soil.
Once inside, Margret recoiled a little at the prospect of using a pit toilet, but she knew there was no alternative. When she was done, she quickly wrote on the wall, Margret Malone, Call Police, and added the date. She knew the chance of someone picking her message out of all the other graffiti was slim, and even slimmer they would act.
