America Libre (26 page)

The sound of the rain let up slightly and Rosa glanced outside. From what she could see through the downpour, the landscape
had not changed. For the last day, the countryside had been the same: a flat, featureless grassland stretching to the horizon.
Except for a lonely cluster of trees every few miles, nothing broke the monotony. “It’s a green desert,” Rosa had overheard
someone say. “Nobody can survive out there alone.” The only human signs they’d passed were the gray, splintered remains of
two abandoned farms.

Pedro pointed to a series of dark shapes on the other side of the bus. “What’s that, Mami?”

Rosa squinted, trying to make out the semicircular objects in the heavy rain. “I think they’re some kind of buildings, m’hijo.”

“Listen up, people,” said the guard over the bus’s scratchy speakers. “Collect all your belongings. This is Relocation Community
Number Eight.”

Emerging from the bus in the downpour, Rosa was surprised to find the camp had no fences. Carrying her suitcases with the
children in tow, she followed the other detainees as they were herded into a line before a pair of military clerks seated
under a tent. For two hours, they waited in the rain to be processed. Rosa was grateful the children had ponchos, but they
were still shivering in the cold April air. Unable to hold their suitcases aloft any longer, they were forced to place them
on the ground, which the crowd had churned into mud.

While they waited, Rosa got a better look at the odd-shaped buildings they’d seen from the bus. They looked like giant half-buried
soup cans lying on their sides. A man near her said they were called Quonset huts.

“I’m hungry,” Elena said, tugging on Rosa’s skirt.

Glancing at her watch, Rosa saw it was after five. There was not much chance they’d get fed anytime soon. “Here,” she said,
handing Elena and Pedro the packages of peanut butter crackers she’d been saving in her travel bag. “This is an emergency.
Don’t expect food like this every day.”

The rain was down to a drizzle when Rosa and the children finally reached one of the clerks. After wordlessly shuffling through
her documents, the soldier pecked at his laptop and said, “You’re assigned to Dormitory 171.”

“Can you tell me where that is, please?”

“Just follow the line and ask somebody,” he answered without looking up, then called out, “Next!”

The sky was dark when Rosa finally found Dormitory 171, a newly built Quonset hut at the far edge of the mile-wide camp. Opening
the door, she saw scores of women and children milling lifelessly amid two rows of bunk beds in a long, dimly lit room. Apparently
she had been assigned to the single mothers’ quarters.

She found three empty beds near the fire exit. Not surprisingly, they were quite far from the bathrooms. While she unpacked
her mud-caked suitcases, a woman approached her.

“You better get your kids ready for bed, chica,” she said. “The lights go out at eight on the dot.”

Rosa looked at her watch, suddenly alarmed. She had ten minutes. “Would you watch my suitcases while I take my children to
the bathroom?”

“Sure. You go right ahead.”

When Rosa returned, she hurriedly got out pajamas for the children and dressed them for bed. She put Pedro in the bunk above
her and Elena on the bed beside her. As she was tucking in her daughter, an alarm bell sounded. Seconds later, the lights
went out.

“I don’t like this place, Mami,” Elena whimpered in the darkness. “When are we going home?”

Rosa stroked her daughter’s hair, trying to hide her own despair. They no longer had a home—but there was no reason to burden
her child with the truth. “We’ll be home soon, m’hijita,” she whispered soothingly. “We’ll be home soon.”

A government is an illusion, a collective idea that resides primarily in the public imagination. Few realize how quickly this
fragile fantasy can evaporate.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1981
Translated by J. M. Herrera

C
rouching low to avoid being seen, Nesto led Mano to the crest of the hill. “There it is, ese,” the mero said, pointing toward
the military facility on the other side of the slope.

The garrison in the scrubby valley below looked like a miniature diorama. Except for an irregular cluster of buildings at
its center, the facility was laid out with the military’s fondness for symmetry—rectangular wire fencing, tidy rows of Quonset
huts, and neatly parked military vehicles, all laid out in textbook precision.

“So this is Outpost Bravo,” Mano said, studying the camp. “What are the buildings in the middle? They don’t look military.”

“I think it used to be some kind of school. That’s what Tony said, anyway.”

Mano’s eyebrow rose in suspicion. Nesto’s story of how he’d learned about the location of the garrison had sounded doubtful
from the beginning. “This is pretty far outside Zone B for your boys to wander.”

“Hey, ese. I was just doing like you said. Sending out my vatos to scout the area.”

“All right,” Mano said, unconvinced. “I’m grateful you brought me here.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mano said, rubbing his chin.
Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you
. “We should head back. I’m sure they patrol this area.”

As they retreated through the deserted neighborhoods, Mano weighed what he had seen. The site for the garrison was a smart
choice, he had to admit. It stood between Zone B and the mountains to the north, an ideal place to wage a guerrilla war. Just
the same, Outpost Bravo was a sign of the precarious situation the government now faced in Southern California—a change that
had come faster than anyone could have imagined.

Just over two years after the Rio Grande Incident, a transformation of unprecedented proportions was under way in Southern
California. Triggered by the Blackout Sunday bombings that had rocked downtown Los Angeles four months earlier, a massive
exodus was vacating what had once been the sixth most populous area on the planet.

It began in the beach communities west of the L.A. Quarantine Zones.

Fearful of the insurgents’ continuing forays outside the walls, homeowners began a wave of panic selling. Property values
plummeted, but sellers found few takers. The desperation spiraled.

Neighborhoods dwindled daily, creating a shortage of moving vans and rental trucks. Those left behind became frantic. Eventually
they simply abandoned their homes, hauling away all the belongings their vehicles could hold and joining thousands of others
jamming the freeways heading north. Left without customers, area merchants and businesses pulled up stakes.

The pattern of flight in the beach communities quickly spread to other affluent areas. The mass departures in suburbia also
uprooted working-class enclaves around the Quarantine Zones.

The working poor were forced to head north in search of jobs. Households dependent on government aid saw their subsidies disappear
as government workers fled the region and postal service became unreliable. Like predators following the migration of their
prey, criminals followed their victims north. Before long, only a few isolated individuals remained, scavenging the desolate
urban landscape to survive. Most were indigents who soon acquired the name “dregs.”

The events in Los Angeles were not unique. Similar diasporas were taking place around the Quarantine Zones in Albuquerque,
Brownsville, Dallas, El Paso, Houston, Phoenix, San Antonio, San Diego, Santa Fe, and Tucson.

In Atlanta, Chicago, Charlotte, Miami, New York, and Tampa, the areas adjacent to the Quarantine Zones remained relatively
stable, but with preparations for additional Relocation Communities lagging far behind schedule, government control within
the Quarantine Zones was rapidly deteriorating.

Most Washington insiders knew the Hispanic issue had always been a sideshow for the Brenner White House. President Brenner
felt his success in the global arena would be his true legacy. In spite of the extensive media coverage given to the turmoil,
the administration’s sights had remained on the loftier stage of international affairs. Now the Hispanic issue was escalating
into the central crisis of the Brenner administration. The Hispanic unrest was changing from a thorn in their side to a dagger
at their throat.

W
alking along the narrow dirt path, Rosa tried to brush the dust off the sleeve of Elena’s white dress, but her efforts were
useless. Each step she and the children took stirred up more of the powdery soil that seemed to cling to everything.

When Rosa and the children had arrived last April, the problem at Community Number Eight had been mud. Back then, the rain-soaked
clay had clung to their shoes in heavy clumps. Now, in late July, the obstinate soil had transformed itself into a gray powder
sent airborne by the slightest provocation and transported into every crack by the perpetual wind.

“Tuck your shirttail in, Pedro,” Rosa said to her son, who complied without protest. They were nearing the Prados’ trailer,
and Rosa was eager to make a good impression.

Unlike the rest of the camp’s detainees, who were packed into communal Quonset huts, the Prados had somehow managed to obtain
their own dwelling. By outside standards, it was a pitiful place. The trailer’s faded sides were rusted and dented, the glass
of its small windows replaced by yellow plastic sheeting. But in Community Number Eight, the trailer was a choice residence.

Rosa looked west, beyond the trailer. In the distance, she could see a large fenced-in compound. Patrolled by guards, it was
where more Quonset huts were under construction. The authorities wanted to keep construction tools out of the hands of the
Community members, afraid the implements might be used as weapons. Outside the construction areas, the Community was still
without walls or fences. The nearest town was a trek of nearly sixty miles over a waterless prairie. Even if someone trying
to escape had reached a settlement, the clannish locals would have immediately spotted an outsider.

Rosa’s visit to the Prados had been prompted by Elena. Maria Prado had approached Rosa as she was picking up Elena at the
camp’s preschool the week before.

“Hola!” Maria had said cheerfully. “I’m Maria Prado. You must be Mrs. Suarez. My daughter Andrea has really taken to your
Elena. She’s insisting that Elena come to her birthday party. It’s this coming Saturday at two. Do you think you can make
it? You can bring your son as well if you like,” Maria said, gesturing to Pedro.

Rosa was flattered. The Prados appeared to be among the elite of the Community.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Prado. I’d be happy to bring Elena.”

“Please, call me Maria.”

“Thanks, Maria. My name is Rosa.”

“Wonderful, Rosa. We’ll see you Saturday.”

Shortly after agreeing to the visit, Rosa began having second thoughts. What could she possibly give the Prado child as a
birthday present?

Rosa had left Los Angeles with twenty thousand in cash. Three days after arriving at the camp, she awoke to a demoralizing
blow: the suitcases under her bunk had been stolen during the night, including the scuffed brown Tourister in which she had
placed the money. The only possessions she and the children had left were her gold wedding band, the clothes on their backs,
and her statuette of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Not wanting to frighten the children, she endured the setback without complaint.

By this time, Rosa had become accustomed to being penniless. Thankfully, hunger was not a problem—the Community’s kitchen
served adequate portions of tasteless but nutritious food. But the absence of the minor luxuries of life Rosa had always taken
for granted—like gentle soaps, deodorant, makeup, and skin cream—made for a grim existence.

Elena finally solved the problem of a gift for her friend with the uncanny insight of a young girl. Two days before the party,
she brought a drawing to Rosa.

“It’s a Priscilla Percival doll,” Elena announced, thrusting her artwork toward Rosa. “Andrea said it’s what she wants for
her birthday. I know we can’t get Andrea a real one, so I made her this one instead.”

“I think Andrea will love your present, Elena.”

Approaching the door to the Prados’ trailer, Elena carried the Priscilla Percival drawing wrapped in an ancient Sunday comics
page adorned with a bow made from a discarded dressing gown hem.

With her two children flanking her, Rosa knocked on the trailer’s door.

“Buenos días,” Maria said, smiling as she opened the door. “Come in. Come in. It’s hot in here, but it sure beats standing
outside in the dust.”

On the kitchen counter was a small cake with six candles. Rosa had no idea how Maria had managed this extravagance, but she
was grateful Maria was willing to share it with her children.

“Francisco, this is Rosa Suarez, Elena’s mother,” Maria said to her husband.