The Only Road (18 page)

Jaime didn't know what to say. For once, Rafa seemed to have a very practical idea.

•  •  •

There were about forty people huddled under the third bridge in small groups when they got back. Old, young, in between. Some were missing teeth or limbs. Some had gashes so deep or beatings so bad Jaime wondered if there was a doctor they could go see. One man had had all his clothes stolen hours before and sat naked, asking everyone who came if they had a spare pair of pants. It was like being surrounded by the homeless, which Jaime supposed they all were. From the sound of their accents there were a few southern Mexicans, but most were Central American from Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras; at least half of them had given up hope on ever getting to El Norte and had resolved to stay in Ciudad México or return home. The Promised Land, they decided, was a dream for other fools.

The food wagon was run by a local charity. It fed them mushy chicken-flavored rice with some beans mixed in, which was better than the legless man suggested, and powdered lemonade. After a few days of barely eating anything, Jaime liked the feeling of finally having a full stomach.

The five of them were tucked away where the
underside of the bridge met the concrete hill at the top of the bridge. Dirt had been hollowed out, giving them more cave than exposure. A good thing because many of the others under the bridge were getting drunk on cheap liquor or high on glue. So far, they were leaving Jaime and his friends alone. Jaime hoped Rafa wouldn't provoke anyone with his big mouth.

Light from a streetlamp shone enough for Jaime to sketch out their little group—Joaquín fast asleep with his head on Ángela's lap and his arm around Vida, who also had her head on Ángela; Ángela leaning against the concrete, her hand stroking Joaquín's hair; Rafa looking through a dirty magazine he found; Xavi lying down with his knees bent and arms behind his head. Jaime could hear him as he told Ángela about their experience on the train.

“We were lucky. The train kept stopping to load and unload cargo, or sometimes for security checkpoints. A lot of people would jump off when the train slowed down, not knowing what kind of danger was up ahead. Then after we passed the town or the checkpoint, new people would get on.”

“But you didn't get off. Were people scared and jumping off for no reason?” Ángela asked.

Xavi took a while to answer. Jaime put down his sketchbook to stare at the older boy.

“No, there was a reason,” he said to the concrete road
above his head. “Gangs run the tracks.
Migra
officers sometimes work with them. It was dark and we were either still in Chiapas or just into Oaxaca when twenty gang members got on board. They demanded money and threatened anyone who didn't pay up. One boy about Jaime's age insulted them. They caught him, threw him off the train, and shot him in the air like a pigeon. I don't even think they killed him. I imagine him lying helpless by the tracks, bleeding to death.”

Ángela removed the hand that had been petting Joaquín's hair to place it on Xavi's shoulder. “You couldn't have done anything for him.”

“I know, but he wasn't the only one. Another boy tried to get on board, slipped, and was gobbled up by the train in an instant. Didn't even derail the car.” Xavi turned away from the underside of the bridge to roll over on his side, one hand holding up his head as the other took Ángela's hand. “I'm glad you weren't there. The gang was horrible to one girl. We kept hearing her screams. If we had tried to help her, they would have done the same to us. Joaquín didn't stop shaking for hours afterward. I don't think he's slept in days.”

The young boy didn't even shift at the sound of his name. His breathing remained deep and steady as if he were on a feather mattress in a grand hotel instead of under a concrete bridge with a leg for a pillow.

“How did you three avoid the gangs?” Jaime asked softly, not sure if he wanted to know. He couldn't think of any explanation that didn't involve bribery or agreeing to join the gang themselves.

Again Xavi took a few seconds to respond, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to relive what happened. “I helped out César. Remember him from the
fútbol
games? He tripped trying to board the train, but somehow I caught him and got him on safely. He'd been on the trains six times already, but kept getting deported back to the Guatemalan border once he got farther north. One of those times he must have gotten friendly with the train gang; I didn't notice until we were riding with him that he had their tattoo of a bleeding heart on the underside of his wrist. The gang left him alone and because we were next to him, they left us alone too. With
la migra
, he pointed out where immigrants were hiding and gave them other information in exchange for our safety. I almost wish we had jumped off at each stop along with the rest of the people.”

Ángela lifted Xavi's hand and shook it to show him she wasn't letting go. “But then we wouldn't have seen you again.”

Xavi tried to smile but then shook his head no. He didn't release Ángela's hand either. “Back home I never would have associated with a bottom-feeder like that. Here
I hate feeling so helpless, like I have no choice. Is it worth going against your morals just to stay alive? I don't know.”

While Ángela consoled Xavi, Jaime opened up his sketchbook and glanced through the pages. There were drawings of Miguel's funeral and the people on the bus. Of Ángela and Xavi dancing in front of the bonfire, and the blind sketches he'd done in the dark train car, slightly distorted and creepy with elongated skulls and askew mouths half on the face, half floating in the air beside the person. He went back to the beginning and found the drawings of his family—Papá, Mamá, Abuela, Miguel, Tíos Daniel and Rosario, Rosita with her baby, Quico. He missed them. Maybe he should have let the Alphas recruit him, just to see his family every day.

But then they would have made him someone he wasn't. And what would have happened if the Alphas had made him hurt someone he loved? Ángela, or another cousin. He wouldn't have been able to do it. Like Xavi, he could only hope that this whole journey would be worth it. He owed his family that much.

•  •  •

Whether it was the low growl from Vida or the click of a gun being cocked, the five woke up with a start from their puppy-pile sleeping arrangements.

Dawn wasn't too far off and the streetlight that shone into their bridge cave was still on. Jaime didn't need to
blink for his eyes to register a teen with a shaved head holding a pistol at them.

“Good morning.” He grinned as if he were holding out a cup of
café
instead of a pistol. He glared at them with red eyes that didn't seem to focus. “Which of you wants to do us a favor?”

No one said anything. Jaime held his breath, unable to move. It was like he was a clay model, waiting for a sculptor to mold him into shape. Even Miguel wouldn't know what to do.

The bald teen laughed and pointed the gun directly at Joaquín's head. “What about you, little boy. Don't you want to reach El Norte? We'll help you, if you help us.”

Joaquín cowered but kept his wide eyes on the gun. Everyone did. The word “help” stabbed Jaime like a bad memory.

“What kind of favor are we talking about?” Rafa asked slowly. The gun shifted to him in an instant.

Jaime cringed. Couldn't Rafa for once just keep his mouth shut?

“Ah, a volunteer,” the guy said with a cackle like an evil witch.

Rafa paled slightly but pretended to keep his cool. “No, just want more information.”

The pistol waved up and down in Rafa's direction as if to remind him of what it could do. “Information is costly.”

“Yeah, but if you kill me, who's going to do your favor?” Rafa crossed his arms over his chest.

Santa María, Madre de Dios
. The prayer ran through Jaime's head. He wished he had the courage to cross himself before Rafa got them all killed.

Either the thug thought Rafa had made a valid point or he figured by holding the gun he had nothing to lose, but he went ahead and answered the question. “We have something we want you to carry over the border. You do that, and we get you across.”

Rafa stroked the few hairs he had growing out of his chin as if he were mocking the gangster by pondering the proposal.
“Bueno,
I can be your mule.”

“
¡Rafa, no!
” Ángela exclaimed through closed mouth. The gun shifted to her.

Jaime kept reciting Hail Mary in his head even though he was sure his heart had stopped.
Not Ángela, please not Ángela.
He hated to pick someone, but if he had to, better Rafa than any of the others. He was the one who had gotten them into this anyway. Or rather, he was the one who had volunteered to get them out of it.

“It'll be fun,” Rafa said as he stood up. But behind his forced overconfidence, Jaime saw a scared boy who had left home because his mamá preferred to get drunk rather than feed her children.

“Yeah, fun.” The thug smirked. He grabbed Rafa's arm
with one hand while still pointing the gun with the other. “Anyone else want to have some fun?”

They said nothing, and he shrugged. He pulled Rafa down the bridge, where they were met with another armed boy who had recruited a few other “volunteers.”

Jaime sent another prayer, this one to San Francisco and Miguel.
Please take care of this crazy boy.

“Send me a message on Facebook when you get there.” Rafa waved his ball cap with one last attempt of his carefree tone. No one answered aloud, but said their good-byes and well wishes through thoughts and prayers.

Within seconds he was gone, and Jaime got the feeling they would never see or hear from him again. Instead he left behind a great act of chivalry and two packs of cigarettes.

It took the whole day
to walk to Huehuetoca. They left Lechería behind and followed the train tracks littered with plastic bags and scraps of clothes through boroughs and empty grasslands, then villages and a couple farms.

What started out as a nice warm day turned to light rain in the afternoon. Still they kept walking. Tired, Jaime dragged his feet, not paying attention to where he was going except that it was north. Always north. A few times a plastic bottle lined the tracks and he or Joaquín would kick it out of the way for something to break up the endless walking. A single tennis shoe lay on its side near the steel rail. Jaime swung his leg and gave the shoe a forceful punt.

The shoe was a lot heavier than he expected, and not just because it was waterlogged. It only traveled over the
rail before rolling down the slope. When it stopped, it exposed a brown-and-red mass with a pale rod protruding from inside the shoe.

Jaime's stomach wrenched and Xavi's arm flew out to stop the others from getting closer. Too late. Everyone saw the mangled foot inside the shoe.

Vida crept forward to give it a sniff before Xavi uttered a reprimanding hiss and she returned to his side.

Not far from where the shoe had landed, two police officers with their backs toward them huddled around something in the tall grass near the tracks.

Xavi motioned them off the tracks, skirting through the undergrowth and mud to avoid attention. The officers' voices carried.

“Dead.
El tren se lo comió
.”

Jaime's stomach lurched some more. They were talking as if the train were alive, gobbling people up . . .

“Do you want me to look for the rest of the pieces?”

. . . and spitting them back out.

“No need. Stray dogs or birds will take care of him. But take a picture of the head to put up at the station, in case anyone comes looking for him. They never do, though.”

Ángela seized Jaime and Joaquín's arms and hauled them away before any of them caught sight of something else they didn't want to see. Xavi paused to make the sign of the cross before catching up with them.

Jaime forced himself to take deep breaths.

Ever since the news of Miguel, Jaime had thought death was the worst thing that could happen to a person, whether it was being beaten to death by people who had once been friends or suffocating in a soulless train. Jaime hated remembering how Miguel had looked in his coffin, his face distorted and grotesque. At least Jaime had been there, had known his cousin's fate. But this unidentified person chopped to bits by the train, that was worse. He'd died by himself, in a strange country, and his family would never know.

•  •  •

As the day progressed, others joined them: a young couple, then a man whose face looked like it had been burned. A sign on a rundown building said they were in the small town of Huehuetoca, but rumor had it that the ideal place to get on the train was a few kilometers farther north.

“Right here the tracks form a straight line and the train just zips by,” said the man with the burned face. “Once clear of the town, the tracks curve and that's where it slows down.”