Yuri Herrera: Signs Preceding the End of the World

The anglo had pulled up ahead and parked a few yards from the shack. He stood by his truck, fingering the grip of a handgun tucked into his waistband. As soon as they went inside Chucho said Gotta be quick, no telling what we’re in for now, best leave behind anything might weigh you down. In the shack all there was was a cot and a stove, and on the cot a pair of pants, a t-shirt with an anglo print, and a denim jacket; on the stove, a pot of scalded water. Makina began to undress with her back to Chucho, who stood smoking and staring out the window at the goon on guard outside, and thought how strange it was not to feel scared or angry at having to strip naked with no wall to separate them. She took off her blouse. She could have put on the t-shirt before taking off her pants but she didn’t. She took off her pants. She took off her bra and panties, too, though Chucho hadn’t told her to, and stood there, looking down at the clothes spread out on the cot, with something almost like an urge to pee and something almost like a bated breath tingling up and down her body. Quick, Chucho insisted; Makina knew he was still staring out the window but his voice enveloped her. She felt that moment of tension without fear go on and on, and then was surprised how much time had passed without her feeling guilty for wanting what she wanted. More than leaving her boyfriend behind she was casting off her guilt the way you might shed belongings. But even those interminable seconds came to an end. She said ok, got dressed. Chucho turned around.

What did you say to that person on the phone? she asked.

Just what I reckon, he said, jerking his head toward outside. Like not only is our rancher here a patriot but he’s got his own lil undercover business, like it’s not so much he’s bothered bout us not having papers as he is bout us muscling in on his act.

You sure?

Chucho shrugged. Maybe the dumbfuck is just in up to his neck.

They stood there a moment, Makina staring at him, Chucho absorbed in his thoughts, one eye on the window the whole time. Then he said Well, whatever’s going down, time for it to go down, so if the shit hits the fan you head for that mountain pass and stay on the trail, keep the sun on your back.

She waited for him to start for the door before she took from her rucksack a plastic bag with the note Cora had given her and the package Mr. Aitch had entrusted to her and slipped them into her jacket, and then she went after him. Soon as they versed the rancher approached, revolver in hand, though not pointing it at them.

You just took your last trip, coyote.

I’m no coyote, Chucho said.

Ha! I seen you crossing folks, the man said. And looks like now I caught you in the act.

Not the act I’m denying, said Chucho, tho I’m no coyote.

The anglo’s expression indicated that he was engaged in a mighty struggle with the nuances of the concept. He scanned Chucho’s face for a few seconds, waiting for clarification. And now, yessir, chose to point the gun at them.

What I’m denying, Chucho went on, Is that you caught us.

Then they all registered the fact they had company. Two police trucks were haring across the open country, top speed but no flashing lights. The minute the rancher was distracted by turning to look, Chucho pounced and grabbed the arm that was holding the gun. The rancher shot to kill but it was a waste of bullets since Chucho had wrestled the muzzle away from the two spots where there were bodies. The rancher was big and strong but all his strength was not enough to regain his balance. In the end Chucho stuck one foot between his two and they both fell to the sand. The police trucks had stopped a dozen yards away and the cops inside took aim from behind the open doors.

Git! said Chucho. Makina moved toward him because even though she knew he was talking to her she thought he was asking her for help. He must be asking for help. Makina wasn’t used to having people say Run away.

One more bullet exploded from the revolver; Makina saw the barrel head-on, saw the way it dilated the split second it spat fire and the way it contracted just as the bullet clipped her side. The impact caused her to whirl but not fall, and as she span she took two steps forward and dealt the rancher a kick in the jaw. He was still moving but had lost his sense of direction: he was aiming, like his bullets, for Chucho’s neck but where he clawed, all there was was air. Chucho punched him in the chin, which didn’t knock the man out but did curb his momentum, and said, stressing each word, I can take care of this. Makina looked to the trucks, then again to the men on the sand, then to the mountains, colliding endlessly before her, and started to run, guns and evil bastards on both sides. She heard them behind her, ordering Freeze, on the ground, but didn’t turn, not even when she heard another shot that must have come from a police gun because it sounded different, less powerful than the rancher’s.

She ran uphill till she could no longer hear shouting behind her, then she turned to look. The cops had the two men in their sights, Chucho’s hands on the back of his head and the rancher seemingly unconscious. Another cop looked in Makina’s direction but showed no sign of following. Only then did Makina inspect her side. The bullet had entered and versed between two ribs, ignoring her lung, as if it had simply skimmed beneath the surface of her skin so as not to get stuck in her body. She could see the gash of the bullet’s path, but it didn’t hurt and barely bled. She looked once more to where the men were arguing. Now there was no cop watching her. Chucho was on the ground talking; they stood listening in a semicircle around him. The rancher was still face down.

Makina remembered Chucho’s mouth saying I can take care of this. She guessed that he was talking, more than anything, about her, and decided to keep on climbing.

Rucksacks. What do people whose life stops here take with them? Makina could see their rucksacks crammed with time. Amulets, letters, sometimes a huapango violin, sometimes a jaranera harp. Jackets. People who left took jackets because they’d been told that if there was one thing they could be sure of over there, it was the freezing cold, even if it was desert all the way. They hid what little money they had in their underwear and stuck a knife in their back pocket. Photos, photos, photos. They carried photos like promises but by the time they came back they were in tatters.

In hers, as soon as she’d agreed to go get the kid for Cora, she packed:

a small blue metal flashlight, for the darkness she might encounter,

one white blouse and one with colorful embroidery, in case she came across any parties,

three pairs of panties so she’d always have a clean one even if it took a while to find a washhouse,

a latin — anglo dictionary (those things were by old men and for old men, outdated the second they left the press, true, but they still helped, like people who don’t really know where a street is and yet point you in the right direction),

a picture her little sister had drawn in fat, round strokes that featured herself, Makina and Cora in ascending order, left to right and short to tall,

a bar of xithé soap,

a lipstick that was more long-lasting than it was dark and,

as provisions: amaranth cakes and peanut brittle.

She was coming right back, that’s why that was all she took.

When she reached the top of the saddle between the two mountains it began to snow. Makina had never seen snow before and the first thing that struck her as she stopped to watch the weightless crystals raining down was that something was burning. One came to perch on her eyelashes; it looked like a stack of crosses or the map of a palace, a solid and intricate marvel at any rate, and when it dissolved a few seconds later she wondered how it was that some things in the world — some countries, some people — could seem eternal when everything was actually like that miniature ice palace: one-of-a-kind, precious, fragile. She felt a sudden stab of disappointment but also a slight subsiding of the fear that had been building since she’d versed from home.