Desolation

His hand went right to the .45 he now wore all the time, as he walked briskly to the door. “Where’s Sally?” he asked her.

“I believe she’s at Max’s, probably still in the safe room,” she answered.

Bill looked out the peephole and saw Miguel Fernandez and his wife.

21. Baby on Board

Rocky Point, Mexico

“I think… they’re right behind us.” Maria’s words coming between ragged breaths.

“Don’t worry, mija, we left early enough. They did not see us, but I want to keep moving anyway.” Miguel reassured her, also breathless. He cradled their thirty-day-old daughter, Ana, in his arms. They were walking, sometimes jogging south of the city.

Once the local cartel started pillaging homes in the neighborhood for food and supplies, Miguel knew it was only a matter of time before they came knocking on their door, so they were prepared for this day. He had heard of this group and their murderous ways from the community around him. They would kick in the door and take what they wanted: the food, the water, the women, and whatever else they thought valuable. The thieves often forced the men to carry their own household supplies to the cartel’s complex. If anyone resisted even slightly, that person was summarily executed as an example to others, without exceptions. The day he heard the gunshots less than a block away, he knew they had to leave rather than try to defend the indefensible. He had one revolver, they had automatic weapons; he was one person, they were many; he had never killed, they killed for their own sick enjoyment. On that day they left, ahead of the cartel, and headed to the one place where they could be safe: Max’s home.

A few days ago, he had told his wife this day was coming, explaining his plan and showing her their “bug-out bags,” as Señor Max called them. They were packed with medicines, a change of clothes, about a day’s worth of water and a week’s of food. The trip to Max’s house was maybe two hours, but they had to plan on being followed, like Miguel believed they were now. Max had said to him so many times, “Plan for the worst, Miguel, but pray for the best. That way, it will most likely be better than what you planned for.” Water was too heavy to carry for multiple days, but the extra rations of food could be used to bargain for water. A lot of people were not connected to the city’s water system, but most had a gravity-fed water system holding fifty- to one-hundred-fifty-gallons, and most were rationing so they hadn’t run out. Food was a different story. Most folks had run out of food now, so it was Miguel and Maria’s most valuable asset. They had about another mile to go, and he was sure that they had slipped away in time, unseen by the gang.

~~~

“¡Ay, no chingues!” said a voice from inside Miguel and Maria’s home. Danny “Diablo” Diaz—his men just called him El Diablo or the devil—walked into the spare bedroom and saw floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with food, water, and other supplies. It was enough to sustain this family for months, maybe longer. So much food and water for so few people. El Diablo considered why some common worker would know to store up so much.

“Where are these people?” he demanded of his men.

“Don’t know, Jefe,” another man said from the kitchen. “But I think they leave today,” he reasoned. “Look, no dust on the sink.”

How did they know? He wondered. He and his men rifled through a desk in the storage room, full of papers, craving an answer to this question. Some papers told him the owner’s name was Miguel Fernandez. Searching further, they found a hand-drawn, folded map. El Diablo glanced at it and recognized the location immediately. “I know this place. This is where they are. And this is where we’ll find all the supplies we need. Get our men and meet me back in front in two minutes,” El Diablo ordered his man in Spanish. He dropped the map on the desk and left. The map showed the ocean and several beach houses. One house had an “X” over it, and the name “Max” written on it.

~~~

Miguel knocked on Max’s door again. He and Maria waited patiently.

“Where is Señor Max? Why doesn’t he answer?” She was rocking Ana, swaddled from the sun, and keeping her quiet. She and her husband wore clothes more suited to the winter: hoodies, long pants, and sunglasses. Yet, it was at least a hundred degrees today, probably a lot more. They were hot, sweaty, and very tired, but they were protected from the sun.

“Maybe Max’s friends, Señor King and his family, are home,” Miguel beckoned his wife, as he advanced quickly to the house next door. Maria seemed unwilling to step out of the shadows and into the baking sunlight once more, but reluctantly followed.