When he regained the ability to move, Dugan raised his arm to push against the coffin lid and discovered it had no give. He pushed harder still, and it would not budge. For a moment, he flashed back in terror to those nightmare weeks of being buried alive in the cold mountain dirt of Colorado. Repressing his rising panic, he scooched his way to the bottom of the box until his knees were halfway against his chest, leaving him enough leverage to let go with a vicious kick against the rotted wood. It gave way easily. Scooting down to the newly created exit, he silently thanked his co-occupant for allowing him to use his resting place, though knowing the poor man’s body had all but disintegrated in the tremors. Shame, too, Dugan thought. He’d been holding up rather nicely.
When he finally exited the box, he noted the complete destruction of the mausoleum and understood that his instincts had been correct. The ceiling and walls of the otherwise solid enclosure had come down on top of him. With a shiver, he saw moonlight streaming into the now open space, and realized that daylight too must have swept perilously close to, if not on top of, where he’d been sleeping. Then again, you couldn’t plan for everything, he told himself. Sometimes, things just happen.
Stepping out of the ruined building, Dugan saw that most of those around it had come down as well, explaining the powdered flesh and bone matter he had sensed in the air. Most of the tombstones had been leveled as well, as if the earth had turned liquid and could no longer hold them upright. Bizarrely, he noticed too that a number of caskets had somehow wormed their way to the surface, and only then did he comprehend the enormity of the event that had happened as he slept.
Jesus, he thought. The city must be . . .
The city. He turned toward Mexico City and saw only pockets of bright lights burning here and there, revealing much of the power had gone out or been otherwise interrupted. In many places, orange glows revealed that fires still blazed. Oddly, even the skyline seemed different, like a comb that had lost some of its teeth, and he knew in that moment that buildings had come down.
Jesus, he thought again.
Finally wrenching his eyes from the scene, he started putting one foot in front of the other, hoping he could quickly scare up a ride that would get him closer, and began his journey toward the city, toward Esquinaldo’s estate, and to his long overdue reunion with his uncle.
4
It was well after sunset by the time Dan began making his way out of the shattered city. After his lurid discovery at Esquinaldo’s, he ranged west across much of the same doomsday landscape he’d traversed before. He was struck then that hours after the quake, he saw very little evidence of a coordinated government response. The few policeman he did pass appeared to be guarding property, and doing very little else. He had seen no firefighters other than those poor men who had come to Hotel Regis only to find no ready water. But he was inspired to see the good people of the city swinging into action.
While passing one mammoth compressed pile of rubble, he saw a bucket brigade of stouthearted citizens had already taken shape. Those without buckets used their bare hands to carry medium sized chunks of concrete away from the pile. When he stopped to ask one man what was the place, he was told it was a hospital. Dropping his bag, Dan followed after him and stayed until dusk, having carted away more than his share of twisted metal and fractured concrete, and carried out dozens of crushed and decapitated bodies, lining them on the street below.
Later in the day, from somewhere, a generator appeared. Technicians began stringing portable lights around the block so rescue efforts could continue into darkness. He was heartened to see a police officer carrying buckets, so at least some of them had their priorities straight. Probably most, he realized soon after with a pinch of self-reproach. By early evening, scores more volunteer rescuers had arrived, things were getting organized, and he could barely lift his arms. After walking away, he had gone a dozen blocks before he remembered his bag. Smiling for the first time since that morning, he recollected then there was nothing inside that could not be replaced.
He was now in a long line of ghostly apparitions making their exodus from Mexico City. Every muscle in his body ached. He could hardly lift his legs. Occasionally, he would close his eyes and walk on autopilot, but every time he shut them only brought back vivid nightmare images of this horrific day. He soon thought it better to just stare at the ground or at the feet of the people walking in front of him.
Only a few cars moved in their direction, but the road into the city was jammed with construction trucks and heavy equipment being mobilized to assist in rescue efforts. It seemed every third vehicle was a private pickup truck, crammed with people and packed with shovels and buckets and any other tool they thought might come in handy. It looked to Dan that it would be the nameless, faceless people of Mexico that would be the heroes in this effort. So far, at least from what he had seen, they were facing this crisis alone. The words of Rosa Lopez and her lament about her country’s culture of corruption came to mind:
“Our presidents? Ha! Every one of them is more corrupt than the last, leaving office far richer and fatter than when they entered.”
Well, Dan thought. Best of luck to them if they don’t quickly come to the aid of these poor people. If they don’t, there will be hell to pay.
Only occasionally did he allow his thoughts to roam back to the scene at Esquinaldo’s house. He wasn’t at all certain what to make of that. Some part of him wondered if it might just be looters taking advantage of the situation. He supposed that might even be how the deaths were accounted for. What were two more deaths on top of tens of thousands? But he couldn’t help but posit that Esquinaldo himself might have been one of the loose ends in whatever the scheme had been. Perhaps his work was all done. Eventually, he thought, screw it. Whatever it had been, it was no longer his concern.
He guessed it was sometime after midnight. He was probably no more than twenty miles away from where he had started his day, just outside Hotel Regis. He wasn’t prepared to fully contemplate that, not yet ready to think about how close he had come to being inside when the quake struck. Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer for the soul of Agent Winthrop and for all those who had suffered and died this day, who were even now suffering and dying beneath piles of mangled steel and broken concrete.
Then, while his eyes were closed, the crushed face of a dead nurse he had pulled from the rubble came to the forefront of his mind, and he opened his eyes again to stare at the feet of the people in front of him.
5
It was past midnight when Dugan found himself in a long shamble of vacant-eyed people fleeing to the west. Very few vehicles moved in their direction, though that was okay with him. After the nightmare visions he had experienced inside the city, the brisk walk was doing him good.
It had taken him hours to find his way to Esquinaldo’s, given the extent of the catastrophe and the fact he had only been there the one time. But he recalled the name of the military base, and had been able to wend his way through the destruction to the cloistered neighborhood where the man had made his home. Inside the house, he found the butler dead beneath the chandelier, and Esquinaldo himself shot not far away, and knew immediately that Richards had beaten him there.
With a shudder, he bolted outside and ran around back, past the pool to the guest cottage, but found it empty. While there, he did detect the sweaty, foul aura of men who had been there recently, sensing their frustration about something. He thought he might have sensed too that Richards had stopped in to say a quick hello. But he detected no residue of violence or other misfortune that might have entangled his uncle, and for that, he was profoundly grateful.
Upon leaving the estate, he did mull for a brief moment going to the military base and commandeering a helicopter. It was about two-hundred miles to San Marcos and home, though on the way here he had learned it was barely ninety minutes by air. But he instantly jettisoned that idea, knowing those helicopters could be put to far better use on this night than taxiing him home. They
had better be, he thought, for all concerned.
Ranging west, he made his way past thousands of crushed automobiles and climbed small mountains of twisted metal and smashed concrete. He walked past one mound the size of a city block that was brilliantly lit by floodlights powered by a generator. An army of people worked ant-like, carrying buckets and concrete and corpses away from the scene. Occasionally, an order would go out for silence so that those above could listen for the cries of trapped and injured people. Within that silence, Dugan alone knew they were there. He could hear quiet moans and timorous shouts and worse, the hungry squeal of newborn babies.
Praying for the best, he made his way to El Centro, the historic downtown district, where the devastation was most severe. Museums and apartment complexes and hotels were all a total loss. Where the Hotel Regis once stood was now a smoking pile of rubble. He watched courageous firefighters battle the blaze, knowing it would probably burn for days.
He turned his face once more to take a long last look at this city of seventeen million, give or take, now that tens of thousands were or soon would be dead. Hundreds of thousands would be left homeless. Property damage in this already impoverished country would be unimaginable. Dugan could only shake his head sadly before turning and heading west, joining a long line of people also making their way in that direction, while thinking about all that had been lost on this terrible, terrible journey.
6
Well past the point of exhaustion, Dan had no idea what time it was. He recalled looking at his watch outside the hotel that morning and seeing it was seven-nineteen. When he next glanced at it hours later, he saw it was still seven-nineteen, and learned that his watch had stopped when the earthquake struck. When he discovered the thing was forever frozen in that moment, he tore it off his wrist and threw it away.
The procession of refugees had thinned over the past few hours, some taking off-ramps, others collapsing in sleep by the side of the road. A number had set up campsites, and fires blazed in the low hills that abutted the road, sending columns of firefly sparks into the darkness. But vehicular traffic going toward the city had only grown heavier, with volunteers from the countryside rushing to join their city brethren with the horrific, but necessary tasks ahead. About an hour earlier, he saw the first of the army vehicles start to arrive. That was good, he thought, if long past time.
He had barely lifted his head the last few hours. Dawn was an hour or so away, he guessed. He considered just laying down on the grass like so many others, but feared once he did, he would never get up again. No, he would wait for the sun to rise before deciding what course of action to take. Maybe he’d stick his thumb out for a ride. He hadn’t hitchhiked since college. It might even be fun.
For all that, there was one unusual phenomenon he had been dealing with. For the past several minutes, while walking mostly with his eyes closed, he got the sense there was someone beside him. When he raised his head to glance over, whoever it was, was gone. After it happened a third time, he quickly looked right and again saw no one.
Stopping, he whirled around to see his nearest companions were a family of four walking ten or so feet behind. The man was pushing a cart that Dan figured might contain all his family’s worldly possessions. Upon seeing Dan jump crazily, he stopped his cart suddenly and raised his eyebrows. Embarrassed, Dan smiled and waved and turned to start walking again.
When next it happened, he was ready. Keeping his head down, he shifted just his eyes to the right and saw walking in lockstep with him were a dusty pair of black boots that had obviously spent time in the city that day. Raising his eyes a bit farther, he saw a pair of black pants; a little higher and he saw a leather, bomber type jacket. When he lifted his head all the way and saw the grinning face of his nephew staring back, he stopped and stared, stunned for only a moment before he took him in his arms, broke down, and wept.
Chapter Fifteen
1
With the morning sun less than half an hour away, after a short-lived and mostly wordless reunion, Dan and Dugan left the highway to make their way through the woods and into a nearby suburb, where damage seemed to be minimal. A few signs were down, one or two buildings had been knocked off their foundations in the poverty-stricken neighborhood, but they saw nothing like the cataclysm that had befallen the city.
A few blocks in, they stumbled upon a squat structure that had all the earmarks of a long abandoned gas station. Going around back, Dugan smashed the glass above the doorknob and they let themselves in. Stepping into what had been the office, in the moonlit darkness they saw the only furniture was an empty desk and a rusted filing cabinet. A 1982 pinup calendar hung crookedly on the wall from which Miss May winked seductively.
In the vacant space where the bays had been, the garage windows were thickly soaped. A handful of old tools were left laying on the concrete floor. In a far corner beside a stack of bald tires was a pile of greasy rags and oily tarps, one or two that looked substantial enough to provide Dugan with the requisite auxiliary cover. The place would do nicely.
“This gonna be alright for you?” Dugan asked his uncle.
Dan smiled reflexively, knowing at that moment he could collapse just about anywhere. “It’ll do fine,” he answered, stifling a yawn. Catching a glimpse of his nephew’s colorless face in the wan moonlight that snuck its way in, he said, “You look tired.”
Dugan turned to him with a smile. “Not half as much as you do, I’ll wager.”
Dan chuckled, thinking that was probably true. “Hey, where did you end up going?” he asked, curiosity finally getting the better of him.
After a brooding few seconds, Dugan answered. “El Salvador, mostly.”
Dan shuddered to consider that. “Is it as bad as they say?”
“It’s worse,” Dugan replied with barely concealed disgust.
Dan could only frown. He couldn’t even imagine. After thinking some more, he asked, “Did you get what you went there for?”
Dugan only shook his head. The two stood there another quiet few seconds before Dan finally asked the question.
“Just what the hell was it all about?”
After some deliberation, Dugan answered, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Dan sent him a crooked smile. “I might, you know. I just might.”
Scott turned and raised his eyebrows, but Dan decided to let it go for now. They’d have plenty of time to swap war stories in the days ahead.
Instead, he asked, “Did you stop by Esquinaldo’s?”
Dugan nodded, and in his nod Dan learned all he needed to know on that score. Scant seconds later, he saw his nephew flinch, and recognized it immediately as his reaction to the oncoming day.
“Well,” Dan said clumsily. “We can talk about it later.” Taking one last scan around the bare space, he asked, “Are you gonna be alright?”
He watched his nephew issue a wry smile and shake his head before turning toward him with a full on grin.
Understanding he had just asked something colossally stupid, Dan answered with his own headshake and returned a self-deprecating smile.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, backing out of the space to give the boy some privacy. “See you tomorrow, then. And sleep well.”
“You too, Uncle Dan,” Dugan said to his departing back.
He was already halfway through the door and about to swing it shut when he heard a softly spoken, “Uncle Dan?” Stopping, he stood and waited. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” Scott said quietly.
Dan smiled and held back his choking sob.
“Right back at ya, kid,” he replied across his shoulder, masking his emotions pretty damn well, if you asked him.
Closing the door behind him, he went to the office and lay down in a far corner, where he fell almost instantly into a blissfully dreamless and deep sleep.
2
After darkness fell, the two left their gas station sanctuary and walked into the street, where they were greeted by the mouthwaterin
g smell of delicious cooking from somewhere close by. Following their nose, only a block away they found a small restaurant inside a private residence that was packed with people, but still managed to find a place for two more. At a cozy table in the corner, Dan filled up on rice and beans and an excellent pork enchilada. Dugan partook of his usual two helpings of flan. After each took some time in the bathroom to make themselves halfway presentable, they paid their bill and made their way through the woods and back to the highway.
The parade of sad and desperate people that took to the road last evening had subsided. The two were alone. Traffic leading toward the city remained heavy with construction equipment and military vehicles. Traffic coming their way also seemed to have returned to something approaching normal.
Though his nephew was dubious, Dan insisted on at least attempting to hitch a ride, and no sooner had he stuck out his thumb when a late model Trans Am screeched to a stop a few feet ahead of them. In its twin bucket seats were two young men, American exchange students who were getting the hell out of the shattered city for a while and looking forward to a weekend at the beach.
In a stroke of dumb luck, their destination was a surfing mecca just north of San Marcos, and given the unusual circumstances, they said they’d be more than happy to take Dan and Dugan all the way home. In fact, they insisted upon it. After the two climbed in the back seat and they were on their way, Dan couldn’t help but send a triumphant smile his nephew’s way.
Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between Page 27
