Off the Rails

by Jill Sorenson

  “I don’t know.”

  He fell silent beside her, not pressing. He’d tried to kiss her again last night, when they were alone in the dark. She’d been tempted to take the sweet escape he offered, but she couldn’t afford to get carried away. She already felt lost and uncertain. Everything was out of her control. She was barely holding on to herself.

  Although he’d seemed crushed by the rejection, he didn’t sulk or act angry. He hadn’t argued that she owed him kisses. He’d told her about his sisters. She’d told him about her mother. Then she’d fallen asleep in his arms again.

  “I’m not Sayra,” she said finally.

  “What?”

  “My name is Sarai. My father works for the Tijuana cartel. He has enemies in Los Rojos. They’re looking for him, and me. That’s why I’m on the train.”

  His brows rose with surprise. The black eye he’d been sporting two days ago had faded into a pale purple crescent. Without the swelling and discoloration, he was even more handsome. His wavy hair brushed his collar, thick and unruly. “Qué chingón,” he said, letting out a low whistle.

  She shook her head sadly. “It’s not badass. He’s going to die.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “He says he’s better, but I think his days are numbered.”

  “Why?”

  After a short hesitation, she removed the bloodstained envelope from her pocket. “He had a woman deliver this letter to me last week. It explains everything. He killed three men in the Los Rojos cartel because they were responsible for my mother’s death. According to my father, they’d planned to target me next. So he eliminated the threat.”

  “Why did those men want to kill you?”

  “My father was in the PFM, and wouldn’t take bribes.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  “Yes. After he carried out his vendetta, he joined the rival cartel as an undercover agent. Then his boss got assassinated, but he didn’t return to Mexico. He chose to stand by Carlos Moreno and stay in San Diego. He became the kind of man he hated.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  So was she. “He said he couldn’t come back, and that I’d be safer without him.”

  “Maybe that’s true.”

  “I don’t care if it’s true or not. He left me.”

  Hugo put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder. She told him about the strange messages on her phone.

  “Sounds like someone hacked it,” he said. “They could be tracking your location.”

  She traced the familiar shape in her pocket, troubled by the idea. The phone was her baby. It had been her constant companion, her link to her father, a connection to the outside world. Now it felt like a ticking time bomb on her body. She considered throwing it over the side of the train, right then and there.

  “Write down the number he called you from. Then get a new phone and call him.”

  “I’m not sure I want to call him.”

  This statement gave him pause. “I’d give anything to talk to my father again.”

  “Was your father a cold-blooded killer?”

  “For all I know, he was. He died when I was seven. The only memory I have is of him leaving to go to the U.S.”

  She contemplated that for a few moments, swamped by melancholy. She’d been on the run for five days and she was done. This was no way to live. She couldn’t ride the rails anymore. She wanted to go home, but she didn’t have one.

  She wanted her mother.

  Her face crumpled at the thought. She shut her eyes and took deep breaths until she got a grip on her emotions. Then a familiar numbness crept over her and the pain faded away. Although it was a relief to not feel, shutting down had its drawbacks. She couldn’t stay sharp and be numb at the same time. She didn’t know how her father managed. His heart was a block of ice, impenetrable.

  And yet, revenge was a crime of passion.

  The train passed Hermosillo and continued north. She had to make a decision before they reached the fork in the tracks. Tijuana or Nogales?

  “We’ll be in Benjamín Hill soon,” Hugo said.

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to toss your phone?”

  “I’m going to toss myself.”

  “What?”

  She brought the phone out of her pocket and replied to the last message from her father:

  Can’t stop at BH. Heading to Nogales. See you there.

  Then she called the number to speak to him in person. It rang five times. Each ring echoed in her ears like a death toll. A generic voicemail picked up. She had to leave a message, but not one that revealed her true intentions. “I’m still on the train. I’ll be at the border soon. I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.”

  When she ended the call, she almost burst into tears. The only place he wrote about in his letter was the Del Mar Crematorium in Tijuana. He’d paid in advance for the services. They would ship his ashes to the cemetery where her mother was buried. He’d bought a plot for himself, and one for Sarai. Because that wasn’t creepy at all.

  It struck her as bad luck to make such a macabre reference, but she didn’t know how else to communicate her plans to come west. She blinked to clear her vision and surveyed the passengers. There were two boys about Hugo’s age on the opposite end of the train. She needed someone to take her phone north in case it was being tracked.

  “Ask those boys if they’re going to Nogales,” she said to Hugo, handing him her phone. “Trade this for whatever they have.”

  He hopped to his feet and walked toward them in easy steps, as if he was strolling down the street instead of navigating the surface of a moving train. The boys gave him a handwoven nylon bag. They looked pretty happy about the deal. Hugo returned with the bag and sat down.

  “What did you get?”

  “Two oranges and a bottle of water.”

  She nodded her approval. They’d entered a long, flat stretch of sage-speckled desert. She couldn’t stay on the train. If she jumped, she’d have to walk through this unforgiving terrain. He started peeling one of the oranges, unaware of her dilemma.

  “I guess this is goodbye.”

  He almost choked on the fruit slice. It reminded her of his surprised face as she climbed out of the river in Mazatlán.

  “I have to jump off the train now.”

  He chewed and swallowed. “I’ll jump with you.”

  She couldn’t believe he wanted to stay with her. Didn’t he understand the danger she was in? “Why would you do that?”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t give you anything.”

  He offered her a slice of orange. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

  She shared the fruit with him, studying the landscape. There was a cluster of hills in the west. They could walk around them and continue toward Benjamín Hill. When they reached the fork, they could board the train again.

  “My sister tried to cross the border when she was eighteen. She didn’t make it through the desert. Some men stopped the group she was with. They attacked her.” He threw the orange peel off the train. “I couldn’t help her. I can help you.”

  The tears she’d been fighting all day streaked down her face, unbidden. “So you think of me like a sister?”

  “No,” he said, smiling.

  She wiped her cheeks and got ready to go. He gathered his belongings. They climbed down the ladder together. The ground rushed by at a dizzying velocity. There was a gravel slope along the tracks that offered a hard, unsteady landing. She couldn’t even look at the wheels. The thought of getting crushed under them terrified her.

  “I’ll go first, and you jump right after me,” he said. “Jump out as far as you can.”

  “Okay.”

  “On three.”

  He stood poised at the edge of the metal grate. She balanced her weight on the balls of her feet, pulse racing with adrenaline. “One. Two. Three!”

  And then he flew into space, with her hurtling after him.

  —


  Armando decided not to steal another vehicle in Puerto Peñasco.

  The town was too small. He couldn’t commit grand theft and disappear into the crowd. So he hit the road on foot and stuck out his thumb. His plan was to hitchhike east until he reached Santa Ana. Then he’d head south to Benjamín Hill, one of the last stops on the coastal route. If Sarai was still on the train, she’d show up there at some point.

  This remote desert area wasn’t the best place to hitch a ride. He walked for an hour in the blazing heat with no luck. Ironically, the man in the Jesus car picked him up again. Armando didn’t have the luxury of refusing. He climbed into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead, tuning out the driver’s attempts to save his soul.

  As the sun set over the parched earth, his thoughts turned dark. He hadn’t heard from Sarai. He felt dead inside. What if he was dead and didn’t know it? He’d seen a movie like that once. Maybe he’d died behind that bush on the highway, like roadkill. Maybe this was purgatory, and the driver was taking him to hell. They hooked a right in Santa Ana, heading south.

  The grim reaper collected two more souls from the side of the road. They were brothers from Guatemala, Temoc and Tonio. Armando spoke to them in their native language, which was the same as his mother’s. They said they’d boarded the wrong train and gone to Nogales instead of Tijuana. They had to return to Benjamín Hill and try again.

  “How far to Benjamín Hill?” Armando asked the driver.

  “Not far,” he said, sipping from an aluminum canteen. The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air. It was the cheapest rotgut you could buy.

  Armando kept his eyes on the road, saying nothing. Who was he to tell this religious nomad not to drink and drive? They were close to their final destination.

  The man’s behavior became more and more erratic as night fell. He told incoherent Bible stories, chugged booze, and drifted across lanes. He veered onto the shoulder several times. After a near head-on collision, Armando decided he’d had enough.

  “Pull over. I want out.”

  The man stepped on the gas, obstinate.

  Armando showed him his fist. “Pull over, motherfucker. I’m not playing.”

  “Just a minute,” he grumbled, sipping from his canteen. He slowed down, but only a little. Armando slid across the seat, stomped on the brake and grabbed the wheel. They screeched to an abrupt halt on the shoulder. A cloud of dust flew up around the vehicle. Armando turned off the ignition in disgust. He thought about shoving the drunk old man out the door and driving away. But the car was too recognizable, and it felt like a bad omen. He’d rather take his chances on foot.

  “Go on, then,” the man yelled.

  Armando opened the passenger door and exited the vehicle. Temoc and Tonio followed him. They seemed relieved to make an escape. The driver started the engine and took off again, swerving all over the road. Then he steadied the wheel and puttered away.

  Unfortunately, they weren’t much safer outside the car than in it. Walking along the highway after dark attracted attention. Any passing patrol car would stop to investigate. Armando didn’t know how close they were to their destination, either.

  Benjamín Hill was on the west side of the highway, so they headed that direction, away from the shoulder and deeper into the desert. The terrain was difficult to navigate without a full moon. There were boulders, sand-covered hills, and cactus groves at regular intervals. Burrs littered the ground, clinging to his sweatpants. Cactus needles penetrated the fabric. He’d have killed for some heavy denim.

  “Do you have any other pants?” he asked.

  Tonio was wearing two pairs of jeans, one on top of the other. He gave Armando his outer layer but refused payment. “You saved our lives.”

  Temoc nodded his agreement.

  Armando put on the jeans and kept walking, uncomfortable with their gratitude. He was uncomfortable, period. His wound ached from too much exertion. The dead animal stench grew stronger, almost as if his own flesh was rotting. He suspected that it was. His bandage needed to be changed. He felt like a zombie, lumbering forward on stiff legs.

  Then the sun rose, and he could see where he was going again. That was a relief—until the temperature climbed to record levels. They stumbled upon a dirt road that ran alongside the tracks and followed it for several more miles.

  “You don’t look so good,” Temoc said.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and admitted defeat. There was an acacia tree nearby. He stumbled toward it, desperate for shade. They shared a bottle of water. Then he removed his jacket and the rancid T-shirt. His bandage was wet with seepage. He tore it off and tossed it away. Both brothers grimaced as reddish fluid dribbled down his side.

  “I can help,” Temoc told him, taking some supplies out of his backpack. He rinsed the wound with water and covered it with crushed herbs. Armando didn’t know if this native remedy would help, but it smelled nice. Temoc made a new bandage with a clean, folded sock and duct tape. “How’s that?”

  “Better,” he said, surprised. “Thank you.”

  After a short break, Armando eased the jacket back onto his shoulders and started off again. He was beginning to think they should have stayed in the deathwagon, or at least near the highway. Then they came to a fork in the tracks. Just beyond that, there was a little town. Benjamín Hill.

  If he hadn’t been so dead on his feet, he might have noticed the sentry. There was a federal police officer standing beneath a palm tree less than thirty feet away. They’d strolled right into his view. The officer stood and walked toward them, gun raised.

  Temoc and Tonio both froze and put their hands up. Armando followed suit.

  When the officer got closer, he studied the trio without a flicker of recognition. “You boys are a long way from home, aren’t you?”

  Armando was no boy at forty-one, but those words were music to his ears. This officer thought he was a Guatemalan immigrant, like Tonio and Temoc. Armando started speaking to him in their native language, claiming he’d lost his papers.

  The officer holstered his weapon and removed a radio from his belt. “I’ve got three Guatemalans here on the north side of the tracks. Should I detain them?”

  “Just sit them down. I’ll send someone over.”

  Armando didn’t like the sound of that. He couldn’t afford to get apprehended. He waited until after the officer replied to strike. When the officer glanced down to reattach the radio to his belt, Armando stepped forward. He used the blade of his right hand to jab the man in the neck with swift ferocity. The officer made a choking sound and stumbled backward.

  “Run,” Armando said to the brothers, advancing again. Although he wasn’t operating at full strength, his attack was vicious. He punched the officer in the stomach, causing him to double over. Then he brought his knee to the man’s face and crushed his nose. Blood streamed from his nostrils, but he didn’t go down. Armando jumped on his back and put him in a headlock.

  The officer put up a pretty good fight. Armando wrapped his legs around the man’s torso to prevent him from reaching for his weapon. The officer bucked and kicked and tried to shake him off. Then he slammed him against the tree with shocking force. Pain exploded in Armando’s side, as if he’d been shot all over again. His grip loosened.

  Chingado. He was going to pass out.

  Bells sounded, tinkling merrily to celebrate his demise. It took him a few seconds to realize his phone was ringing.

  Sarai was calling him.

  Armando dug deep into his strength reserves. He rallied, tightening his chokehold. He applied pressure with his arms and legs like a boa constrictor until the officer weakened.

  Finally, the officer fell down. Armando released him, completely spent. The officer was unconscious. Armando’s head was spinning. He collected the officer’s weapon and his radio. He didn’t see anyone else coming. Temoc and Tonio had fled. Armando stumbled west, away from the tracks. He pressed his fingertips to his side. They came away wet with blood.<
br />
  Fuck.

  After he’d gone several hundred yards, he ducked behind a boulder and flattened his back against the stone. If more officers came for him, he was done for. He took his phone out of his pocket. His heart pounded as he listened to Sarai’s voicemail.

  “I’m still on the train. I’ll be at the border soon. I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.”

  He couldn’t remember writing about any specific place. He’d told her to stay in school. If she’d listened to him, he wouldn’t be in this godforsaken shithole. Gritting his teeth, he hit the reply button. The call wouldn’t go through. No service.

  Armando slumped against the boulder, defeated. He didn’t know where to go. He needed a minute to catch his breath. While he rested there, sweating and bleeding, the train rumbled into town. Although he couldn’t see the faces of the passengers, he assumed Sarai was among them.

  He was too late to warn her.

  I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.

  It dawned on him that he’d mentioned Del Mar Crematorium. Shipping bodies was expensive, and he didn’t need to rest in peace, so he’d opted for cremation. He’d made the arrangements because he hadn’t wanted to dump the responsibility on her.

  She’d meet him at the crematorium? Was that her sneaky way of telling him to burn in hell? Or did she mean that she’d meet him in the afterlife?

  No. He rejected both possibilities. Vehemently.

  He would not meet Sarai at the crematorium. He would not see her in the afterlife. Because she wasn’t going to die, and she wasn’t coming to Tijuana. She was going to a nice place where she would be safe, find happiness, and grow old. That was the reason he’d done all of this. He’d gone on a killing spree so that she could live, goddamn it.

  Dragging himself upright, he put away his phone. He looked up and down the tracks. He couldn’t go into town. He couldn’t survive in the desert. He was between a rock and a hard place, literally.

  Then a voice came over the radio he’d taken from the officer:

  “She’s not on the train, General. We’ve checked every passenger.”

  Armando perked up at this news. They were talking about Sarai. They were here to intercept her. He couldn’t believe the sentry hadn’t recognized him. Maybe he’d been keeping an eye out for another threat—some scumbags from Los Rojos, perhaps.