A miracle. I am aboard The Beast.
At first, by the ladder, I swing in the wind, my body thumping the metal car that I cling to. Next thing, I heave myself up and am on top, thumped all round with bravos by other riders. They are grubby and stinking of sweat and urine and filth, and prickly with beards, like cactus—except the women and children—but I do not care. I like cactus.
There is nothing to hold on to so I cling to anybody I can, seeking a place to sit. Nothing is still. Nothing is safe. I crouch to keep my balance. The Beast lurches. My stomach lurches. I pray I will not fall off and be sliced to pieces.
One man must see my fear. “Here!” He shouts and squeezes some room for me. The train noise is so terrible, you always must shout.
We are squashed together, gripping each other, on top of The Beast. Our smells, our breaths, our fears, mingling. Many grip the sides also, by ladders. The thing churns on its way, roaring as it goes, careening sometimes side to side like a drunken dragon, leaning, nearly tipping I think with horror, always screaming, while the wind hurls itself over the long and mourning monster. A-hoooooooo!
Soot from the engine fills my mouth, blankets my clothes, sifts down my neck. When I spit, my spit is black. Already I want a bath.
Apart from the brotherhood of riders here, there is also here a brotherhood of rateros, thieves, swarming The Beast like rats. And gangs of asesinos. Preying on others’ misery. These would kill in a finger snap for one single tortilla. Or for nothing. They would maul me for my pesitos, then how would I get a phone card to call my home, or Toño?
I have heard these things in the tiendita. Now I learn them for real. Suddenly a voice comes from close close.
“So what do we have here?” says the guy, his eyes burning at me, and laughing in a most ugly way. “¿Un pollito?” A chick?
Apart from The Beast itself, I feel more fear leaking into my heart. So soon a thief! This one, with weasel eyes, if he was cold he would burn his own grandmother to make a fire, I believe.
I can hardly speak. But finally I struggle out in answer, “You have a Flores,” gathering my family name up for courage.
“Flowers!” The guy roars with evil. “A ramo of roses! How sweet!”
He has friends who jeer along with him, as if he is the boss. My heart is thundering as with his grubby hands he roughs me up. Inside myself I shriek, Toño! But I am a Flores, so into the night not a peep do I make.
“He is a boy. Leave him be.” An ice voice speaks.
The thieves and I turn to see a thin man appear from nowhere, one who looks like he is made all of wire. He is the grubbiest person I have ever seen, his skin dark with the dirt of years it seems. His eyes, deep green, are as cold as his voice, and look ancient ancient, as though he has traveled this earth since time and time. In his hand he holds a machete—blade bitten from who knows what terrible deeds—which gleams with the light of the stars.
My attackers must feel like I do about this guy. That he is from some Otherwhere.
“Okay okay,” the boss-one mumbles. He and his pals slink away. Nimble as rats they jump from car to car, into the deepening dark. And I am left alone with this cold personage holding the machete. Even in Papi’s sweater, I shiver. I grasp The Beast, balancing the best I can. And I hold my breath, believing in spite of his words to those bad ones that this guy may be Death.
“I am Gabriel” is all he says.
“I am Manuel,” I whisper. “Gracias.”
“Come, let us eat.” His eyes now hold a kindly look.
My terror melts—mostly.
“I have tortillitas,” I say, still finding my breath. I look for my bag, to share with him.
It is not here. I look up again, horrified. “I am sorry,” I say bleakly, “I can give you nothing. My food, it is gone.”