The Manuscript

Prologue

The rickety seventies-era van bounced its way down the washboard dirt road, its mismatched tires throwing up a cloud of dust visible for miles, which in this case meant visible to the odd lizard sunning itself between the sickly cactus and shrubs in the barren landscape. The suspension creaked ominously whenever an axle slammed over a particularly ugly rut, the shocks long ago having lost any capacity for softening the ride.

Calloused hands gripped the grimy cracked-vinyl wheel, directing the vehicle’s journey ever further into the nothingness that characterized the U.S./Mexican border as it meandered away from the cool coastal breezes of the Pacific Ocean and wound east towards Arizona. It wasn’t unusual for the temperature to hit 120 or higher in late summer, and this year was no exception.

If the driver felt any discomfort from the heat, he didn’t show it, other than to occasionally mop at the network of pock marks and small scars on his face with a soiled black bandana. His gritty countenance betrayed nothing and was unmoved by the meager relief from a sweltering breeze wafting through his lowered window. The air-conditioning had ceased working about when every gauge on the dashboard had failed a decade before, so blistering heat in the cab was a given in September.

The drone of the tired motor drowned out most of the lone stereo speaker’s strident melody; an accordion, tuba and out-of-tune voice bemoaning the loss of sincere love in a cruel and uncaring world. An occasional ‘Corazon’ made it over the labouring of the engine, causing the driver’s companion to smile. The air might be arid and hot as a blast furnace, and the uneven surface of the rural track they were hurtling down might be pummelling his sacroiliac and kidneys like he was in a bar brawl, but as long as there was unrequited love memorialized by dissonant guitars and trumpets, life still had hope.

Which wasn’t the case for the family of five bound and gagged in the rear of the van. The youngest, a toddler of four, had lost consciousness when her head smacked into the van roofline as she was bundled into the back along with the others, which was a blessing of sorts — she was mercifully oblivious to the scorching stagnation of the unventilated area. A makeshift plywood wall separated the rear from the two passenger seats, leaving the cargo compartment bereft of fresh air, which created a preview of hell for the unfortunate abductees. After forty-five minutes on the unpaved trail, the stink of proximity and failed attempts to contain their bodily functions was overwhelming — the cross ventilation from the open front windows failed to evict the stench wafting from the rear compartment.

“Look, there’s the spot,” the driver muttered in Spanish as he pulled onto an even more rural satellite road marked by an ancient rusted road sign peppered with bullet holes.

“About time. Let’s get them out and get it over with,” his companion replied in Spanish. His leg was stiff from the drive and hurting like hell from lack of movement.

They drew to a stop behind a silver Ford Lobo crew cab with Sonora plates. Upon spotting the van, three men exited the pristine truck and donned cowboy hats, hoping to shield their faces from the worst of the midday sun. As the dust settled around the assembled group, the van’s occupants got out, nodded at the three, and went to the rear to unload their unfortunate cargo.

The driver and his companion unceremoniously dumped the family onto the hard-packed dirt; with an exclamation of pain, the little girl momentarily regained consciousness from the impact.

The driver tore the duct tape off the mouth of the father, perhaps to offer him an opportunity to speak, or beg for mercy. Instead, he spat a bloody tooth at his assailant and uttered a venomous curse in a hoarse rasp. The driver instinctively backhanded the man, gashing his cheek with the sharp edge of one of his nugget rings.

Bueno. So be it.

The driver’s companion limped to the passenger side of the van and returned moments later with a machete. As the driver maintained the gaze of the bound father, the machete made an arc through the air, terminating when it intersected with the young boy’s spinal cord.

Necks could be a problem. It often required several attempts to completely sever the head.

The driver stepped aside a few feet in a practiced move to avoid the arterial spray, his eyes never leaving those of the father.

Next was the oldest daughter, who was maybe eleven, and then the mother. Throughout it all, the father’s glare radiated fury and cold hatred, but he uttered not a syllable, even when it was his turn for the filthy blade’s caress. He understood the code, and there was nothing he could say or do that would save their lives, so he used his final moments to silently condemn his executioners to eternal damnation.

One of the men from the truck approached the still bound toddler and kicked her head. “This one’s a goner, compadre. Do El Jefe over there and let’s get out of here before we get snake bit,” the man said, his Spanish tinged with a South American accent.

The father expended his last breath insulting the men in an explosion of Spanish, which was abruptly terminated when the battered blade severed his throat with a brutal swipe.

“Hey, look at that…I finally got a clean one!” the executioner exclaimed as he watched the kneeling torso fall slowly over, absent the head, which rolled a few feet before coming to rest near the van’s back tire.

The men exchanged glances then returned to their vehicles for the long drive back, leaving the remains to the efficient ministrations of the desert scavengers. Whenever the remains were discovered, there might be enough left for whoever found them to notify the authorities; their identification would serve as a cautionary tale for others considering betraying their employer. It was all a necessary day’s work, one of thousands of mass slayings every year in the land of tacos and mariachis — an episode so unremarkable it would barely warrant mention in the local papers.

Such was the reality of the increased competition for turf dominance — brought about by the heightened war on drugs; an inevitable by-product of trafficking a thousand percent profit substance in a country where the average worker made four dollars a day.

The buzzards were already descending as the trucks spirited the men into the shimmering heat of the horizon. Nature wasted nothing in the brutal, arid wasteland they called home.