We need to run, but where? None of us have an answer. So none of us even ask the question. We are paralyzed, each trapped in our own abyss, trying to gauge its depth as we fall. To call this shock feels like an understatement. If you break a finger, you can go into shock. Grief, rage, confusion, disgust, fear, regret, hopelessness, isolation, fatigue—they all overtake me until I’m numb. It’s like some heinous grand finale of emotional fireworks, marking the end of everything that was important to me.
Marcos lies flat on his back in the dirt, staring into the emptiness above.
Gladys is turned on her side, curled next to Marcos, her head resting on his chest. I can’t see her face, but from her sniffles, I can imagine her tears.
Arbo sobs on the bench with his head buried between his knees. His body convulses, staying still for several seconds, then balling up in a spastic but muted wail, as if he’s stuck in a loop of denying and remembering what has happened.
As for me, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I just want to die. I don’t want to be here. I have nothing, not even the will to push beyond this moment. It’s ironic. I survived because I was a coward, and now this same lack of courage has taken my desire to live. But I’m not going to grab the gun from Marcos to end it. Not now, at least. I don’t have that kind of determination. I don’t care about anything. I can’t even move.
I don’t know how long we stay here. One minute? Ten minutes? If I were alone, I’d probably stay here forever.
It’s Gladys who finally speaks.
“We need to go somewhere safe.”
“Like where?” Arbo asks. “Your house? How long do you think it’ll take them to find out where that is and bust in looking for our pistolero?” He looks toward Marcos, who still grips the gun in his hand.
“You were a second away from having a bullet in your ear,” Marcos says.
“I know. I wasn’t blaming you…”
“Good. Because they’re not looking only for me.”
“I was just saying that they know your name.”
“They’ll figure out who all of us are.”
Marcos’s words linger as we think about this. He’s probably right. He slaps his hand against the dirt, causing Gladys to jump, and says, “I should have shot him. I should have snuck back to the wall and put a bullet in his forehead.”
“You were the only one of us who did anything,” Gladys says. “So stop. But we can’t stay here.”
“She’s right,” Marcos says to Arbo and me. “We can’t stay.”
We don’t need to ask why. When you live in northern Mexico, you come to know certain things. There is a reason why the police haven’t arrived yet. The line between the law and the lawless is so thin it hardly exists. I’m not saying the gunmen were police. But the police were involved. Somehow. Through bribes or threats, maybe moles. We’re taught from a young age to approach the police with the same caution as we would anything in the desert that rattles. It would be unwise to be here when they arrive.
“So what now?” Arbo asks.
“We can’t go to any of our houses,” Marcos says. “Or to any of our friends…or family. We can’t bring this into their lives.”
“So nobody we know. Great,” Arbo says.
“Like we have any family left,” I blurt out. I’m an only child. And now I have no family. Of course, Marcos meant aunts and uncles and grandparents, and I have those, the same as the rest of them. But as of this moment, my parents are gone. It’s hard to see past that.
“Stop,” Marcos says.
“Stop what? It’s true,” I say.
“You know what I meant. We’re not talking about”—his head turns slightly toward the house—“them right now.”
“Who made you king?” Arbo asks. “My family is lying dead in the dirt back there. I’ll talk about whoever I want.”
“I made me king when I was the only one with enough sense to run inside and find your dad’s gun.”
I had no idea my uncle even had a gun. Welcome to northern Mexico.
Marcos continues, “You think I don’t get that…that”—he stumbles—“that we’re orphans? Well I do. But now isn’t the time for it. We have to get the hell out of here, or we’re going to join them. Does anybody have any money? Maybe we can get a place for the night.”
We check our pockets. Altogether we have about fifty pesos, not even enough to buy four tamales.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, thinking through our lack of options. As we do, our gazes turn toward Arbo’s backyard, as if we’re all considering the same question that no one wants to ask.
The police will steal whatever money they find on the bodies, but even so, there are limits to what we’re willing to do.
Lights from the neighboring houses begin to flicker on, as silence and curiosity lures those who had not attended from the safety of their homes.
“We can’t let the neighbors see us,” Marcos says. “We don’t know who talks to who around here. We need to leave. Now. I don’t care where we go.”
Marcos waits for someone else to contribute. I have an idea, but planning our escape feels too practical right now. I’m not ready to move.
“Come on, Gladys,” Marcos says. He stands and pulls Gladys up with him. They take several steps along the path.
Arbo looks to me to move. I don’t. He elbows me, beginning to panic as Marcos and Gladys leave us behind.
I break.
“I know where we can go,” I offer.
“Where?” Marcos asks, turning.
“Arbo, do you remember Señor Ortíz? What do you think? Would he help us?”
“If he’s still alive,” Arbo says. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“How do you know him?” Marcos asks.
“School sent us to his house on one of those volunteer days. He lives by himself outside of town,” I say.
About two years ago, our school sent groups of us out into the community to help others. Most kids went to churches, homeless shelters, or other organizations, but Arbo and I went about ten kilometers outside of town with one of our teachers to visit an older man. I think his wife had died a few years before. He put us to work tending a few animals and the small plot of land he farmed. He worked beside us, and we spent much of the afternoon talking. He seemed lonely.
We promised to visit but haven’t been back since.
“Would he tell anybody?” Marcos asks.
“I don’t think he has anybody to tell.” The parallel between our situations occurs to me, and I feel guilty for not having visited.
“Okay, next question. How do we get there?” Marcos asks.
“I know the way. We should drive. The truck is in front of the driveway.”
“And the keys?”
“¡Dios mío!” A shrill cry comes from the backyard. The neighbors have discovered the scene. More screams follow. “¡Qué demonios!”
My pulse quickens. Their cries sound too familiar, like ours only minutes ago. I lose myself in them.
“The keys, Pato! Where are they?”
“They’re behind the gas tank door,” Arbo says.
I nod.
Marcos stands and we follow. Arbo takes the lead, and we sneak along a separate desert trail that winds behind several other houses, eventually dumping us into the street.
As we approach the truck, I see several neighbors cautiously approaching the backyard. I look away. I can’t watch. Marcos grabs the keys and jumps in the driver’s seat, while Gladys gets in the front passenger seat. There is no back seat, so Arbo and I climb into the rusty bed of the truck. I open the small window in the back of the cab so we can give Marcos directions.
He starts the engine and we crawl down the street. A few blocks later, we pass my house. As it disappears into the distance, I watch one more piece of my life slip away. We turn toward the desert and ride into the void ahead.