Jon Evans - Swarm

Moments later a huge bus whistled past, honking loudly, probably at the wrecked state of my vehicle. Even by Mexican standards it wasn’t suitable for highway driving. But I nursed it onwards at seventy kilometres per hour until the mountains surrounding us were red with incipient dawn, a red that matched the warning lights winking on my dashboard; until the clopping became a clunking, and something seized, and the Escalade slewed to a final halt on the highway shoulder with smoke spewing from its engine.

I felt an irrational sorrow, almost like I had lost a friend. But I couldn’t stay, couldn’t afford to be associated with my fallen steed. So I got out and walked. I was covered with bruises I didn’t remember suffering, and my joints felt soldered shut, especially my neck and painful left hip. But I limped onwards, my thumb out and erect in the hopefully universal symbol for Ride Wanted.

Long minutes passed before a rusting Volkswagen Beetle pulled to a halt ahead of me. A head poked out of its window to regard me. I jogged towards it, ignoring the pain stabbing in my hip. The occupants were three teenage boys with long hair and all-black goth garb. I must have looked pretty rough; they stared at me like I was some kind of drug-induced hallucination.

“Mexico City?” I asked, then remembered the Spanish. “ Ciudad de Mexico? ”

They exchanged a bemused look, then asked me a question.

I shrugged. “ No comprendo. No comprendo nada. ” I pointed at myself. “Canadian.” I pointed back down the highway. “Accident.”

After a brief and amazed conferral the back door swung open. I got in before they could change their mind. The car reeked of pot, and the seat belts had long ceased to function. I was in no position to complain, but I spent the ride, which involved a good deal of distracted conversation and inadvertent weaving between lanes, all too aware of how bitterly ironic it would be to survive the night’s previous exertions only to be killed by a stoned driver.

They lit another joint and offered me a toke. I accepted; at that point, why not? Eventually, as the buildings around us grew thicker and taller, they asked me a question, and when I stared at them uncomprehendingly, repeated it with increasing exasperation.

I figured they wanted a more specific destination, but had no answer. The Canadian embassy? But I didn’t want to jump out of Ortega’s fire into the frying pan of Guantanamo Bay. Not when I had at least one potential option. So I said “Downtown, centre-ville ,” and hoped the French translated.

Mexico City was a vast and swarming metropolis, a kaleidoscopic mix of ancient and modern, civilized and backwards. The streets were clogged with ancient vehicles that were mostly rust and gleaming new Mercedes. We travelled down a majestic boulevard lined with skyscrapers, passed ragged potholed alleys covered with spaghetti tangles of improvised wiring. The only constants were noise and chaos.

The VW Bug wove through dense and crazed morning traffic and suddenly emerged onto a ring road around one of the largest public squares I had ever seen, with a massive cathedral on one side and walls of magnificent old buildings on the other three. Crowds teemed everywhere, like army ants.

The Beetle pulled to a halt. “Zocalo,” the driver said helpfully.

I supposed that meant ‘downtown.’ I hesitated, looked at the kids who had rescued me. I didn’t want to ask them for more, but I had to. “ No dinero, ” I said, pointing at myself. “ No dinero, nada. Por favor. Por favor. ”

Their expressions twisted and hardened into disgust. I fled the car with no money and new sympathy for beggars.

For what seemed a very long time I stood in that vast open square and gaped at its colossal architecture and hustling crowds of morning commuters, feeling half-dazed, as if in a lucid dream, knowing I was doomed to soon awaken. After what I had just been through, this sudden immersion in everyday normality, a city full of ordinary people, seemed so unreal that it was hard to accept. I felt like Rip van Winkle, or an escapee from a parallel universe.

When my brain finally kicked into gear again I realized I had no idea what to do. I was battered and exhausted and starving and parched. I knew no one in Mexico City, spoke no Spanish, didn’t really know where I was, and dared not go to any authority; I was wanted by Ortega, everyone he had ever corrupted, and every police force on the planet. I had planned for my escape but not my freedom.

There were pay phones near the cathedral, a pair of booths that looked a little like ears. I limped over and tried to use one. Eventually I got an operator, but she spoke no English.

I caught sight of a keeningly familiar symbol across the road, on the perimeter of the square: the golden arches of McDonald’s. They were open for breakfast. I limped there as if drawn by an irresistible force. Once inside I sat down, hoping to rest a moment and maybe poach an abandoned half-empty coffee or orange juice. The staff gave me wary looks but didn’t order me out. My gringo skin, even bruised and bloodied, still carried with it unwritten privileges.

“Christ, mate,” an Australian voice said, “what happened to you?”

I looked up at a big muscular man and his cute blonde girlfriend.

“Did you get mugged?” she asked.

“Mugged. Yeah. Yeah, they took everything.” Which was true. Even the clothes on my back were Ortega’s, not mine.

“What are you going to do?” the Aussie man asked.

His girlfriend said, “You should go to the police.”

I shook my head quickly. “They were police.”

Both seemed appalled but not surprised.

“I just got into town,” I said, “I don’t even know where I am. Do you guys have a map? Or a guidebook?”

“Of course, mate.” He produced a Lonely Planet Mexico guidebook.

“Can we get you some breakfast?” the girl asked.

I looked at her longingly. “Could you? That would, that would be great.”

They trusted me enough to leave their book in my possession while they ordered. I flipped to the Collect Calls subsection, and memorized the number I needed. They came back with a Big Breakfast for me. I have never felt gratitude more keenly: the world’s finest chef could not have crafted a meal as delicious and satisfying as that tray of fast food.

I disengaged from the Australians soon afterwards, told them I had friends staying at a nearby hostel and I would be fine. Back at the pay phone in the shadow of the cathedral, I gave the US operator a number from memory: that of the one person on Earth I knew I could trust.

“This is a collect call,” a robotic voice informed me. “At the sound of the prompt, please say your name.”

I croaked, “Maverick.”

“Sir.” A gentle hand gripped my shoulder. “Sir, I’m sorry.”

I opened my eyes and looked up into a beautiful face framed with dark hair.

“Uh,” I managed.

I had slept so deeply that for long seconds I didn’t know where I was. A long, narrow, oddly tubular room, lushly appointed with wood panelling and tasteful art. There was a faint rushing sound everywhere, the whole room seemed to be softly vibrating, my bed had a seatbelt, and a willowy supermodel had her hand on my shoulder.

“Mr. Ruby told me to awaken you,” she said apologetically. Her Russian accent was thick and charming.

“Uh.” This time I accompanied it with a nod, which seemed to release her into action. She reached down, worked some control, and my bed folded up smoothly into an upright seat. From my new vantage point I could see, through the airplane’s nearest porthole, the island of Hispaniola surrounded by the turquoise Caribbean. The border between the forested Dominican Republic and denuded Haiti was clearly visible.