The Ravaged, page 22
Shit, he’s going mad. Losing his grip. He didn’t think it would be quite this easy. He has built companies up from nothing, saved others from bankruptcy. He can do this. But then, he never even took the stairs at work. Always an elevator. Pushing buttons. The easy route. Now look at him. Pathetic.
Stopping, Matías turns and asks Jack, “What are you fighting with yourself about back here, Jack?”
Son of a bitch has been leading the way, eavesdropping while Jack has been talking out loud. Thinking openly without realizing it. He really is losing the plot. Hardest part of living is knowing you are going to die and then getting placed in this lethal situation you may have caused sooner than expected. Maybe that’s why people become thrill seekers. To overcome that. To push above and beyond what they believe to be a limit. Until you have no limits. At that point, you have conditioned yourself. Hardened yourself. Overcome what was humanly possible to overcome.
Jack asks Matías, “Am I talking aloud?”
“Only for the past two hours. On and on. Is this how you figure things out at your work?”
It is official, then: Jack has lost it. “I guess I do. I’ve been alone for some time. After my wife died, I just withdrew internally. I started to have conversations with myself. You know, just talking problems out. Dilemmas. Things that had happened at work. Interactions, occurrences, dynamics. I don’t know, I guess it became a habit. It’s very liberating to get the words out into the open.”
“Out into the open, with no one to reply? And you withdrew to here, Peru? To the Vrae Valley, cocaine central? Ha! Jack, you’re one crazy guy. You Americans—I don’t get it. You have everything at your fingertips. Now look at us, out in the jungle, fleeing drug runners and soldiers, like Tango and Cash.”
“Who?” Jack questions.
“Stallone and Kurt Russell—it’s a movie from the US.”
“Never seen it.”
“What? How about Big Trouble in Little China?”
“Nope.”
“Jack, you’re shitting me. This is un-American. Are you communist?”
“No, I’m not communist. I just never had time for leisure activities.”
“Ah, work, work, work. You never made time. Now look at you. Lost in a jungle in Peru, with a crazy soccer-loving truck-driver father. Abducted and forced to make cocaine. We’re making our own movie, huh, Jack?”
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Something like that. You know, when my mother said to run away and leave it all behind, I didn’t heed her words quick enough. I ran too late. I’m retirement age now. I’m just an old man. This is too much for a man my age to endure.”
“Ah, Jack, quit feeling sorry for yourself. There are people older than you in this jungle who survive on pure grit. Just keep moving. You’re seeing the world for what it really is. That’s good. We’re like Indiana Jones.”
From a distance down the stream come voices. Children. Men and women. Their words and laughter, splashing and bouncing through the trees, cause Jack and Matías to smile, move a bit quicker, even feel a little spark of hope. Pain subsides and is forgotten. Birds singing in the trees become audible. And as they make their way around the zigzag of the curving stream bank, passing large smoke-colored river boulders that block their view, they behold the figures of men and women and scampering kids. All eyes are on Jack and Matías.
The people are spread out along both sides of the stream. Washing. Bathing. Seated, their feet in the water, cooling off. There are piles of clothing. Wheelbarrows. Buckets and tubs. Jack is still amazed at how people live in such low-tech simplicity. But rising up through all his doubts and misgivings comes something he has not felt in some time: Joy. Hope. A surge of relief.
Matías leads the way up the stream, limping and waving at a man. Off to Jack’s right, he sees a snake basking on a rock, its beige-and-black pattern unmoving, eyes watching their movement. Feeling revulsion and fear, Jack moves quickly—he despises snakes. But for the first time, he actually wonders about the snake’s experience of the encounter. Did it fear him as much as he feared it? Or did it even deign to consider his existence at all?
Matías is approaching a man in a tattered Maradona T-shirt and stained dungarees. They shake hands. Exchange words. The man rests his hands on his hips. He has a potbelly and bony limbs. Pursing his lips. Nodding his head. The man then waves Matías and Jack to follow him. Leads them from the stream, where kids stand watching. Taking them into the jungle, where they follow a trail that opens up to a village. A woman hands them a bucket of water. It is the sweetest, most delicious thing he has ever tasted.
All that struggle to get here. Jack will never again take painless walking for granted. All his hurt starts to ease when he bites into a mango. Feels the juice that runs down his chin. Savoring the sweetness. The sugar. His mother’s words play through his mind. Run. Run away from all of it. And he didn’t, instead contenting himself to earn more and more. But more wasn’t helping him, and he got weak. And now the only thing that will help Jack is pure will.
The locals wangle a lift from a visitor to the village, telling Matías it would be in everyone’s best interest if he and his gringo friend left as fast as they were able. Loading into the bed of a Toyota truck, they share space with a crate of live chickens bound for a small town alongside a muddy river. The ride is rough with potholes, roots, and rocks the size of an engine block, and the truck creaks and groans at the abuse. Jack expects it to split in half, but it never does.
Pulling into the town. Getting out of the truck, they thank the driver and walk along the dirt main street, drawing looks from every eye. Jack gets the sense of being spied on, surveilled. It makes him feel jittery, uneasy.
Women in woven vests, with brimmed hats over their dark locks, sell fruit and meat pies as kids run and play. Eyeing it all, Jack has no money for the food that looks and smells so good. He realizes he is of lower social standing than these peasants. They have much to offer; he has nothing.
Matías believes they can find a way to contact his boss. Maybe his wife. Get someone to pick them up. They just need to find a phone.
Jack wonders about his work. Someone has to be wondering where he is. He has not kept in contact with anyone, hasn’t even checked in since he went MIA.
As he walks along, more eyes look at him, then turn away amid whispers. He studies the buildings in the distance. Old mud-block structures with roofs of corrugated metal. They’re unlike anything Jack has ever seen. Their boots scuff and scrabble over loose rock. Matías tells him of the flood season, how it washes out roads and entire hillsides, causing mudslides, burying roadways.
The sun is beating directly down on them now, and sweat burns their eyes. Matías forearms moisture from his face as he speaks with locals. Jack understands a word or two in every sentence—not enough to get a clue what’s being said. A barrier. Fingers point, directing them away from the market, up toward the buildings above the town.
Jack is tired of walking. Every step hurts every part of him. Walking past a shop window, he notices handbills taped to the glass and stapled to door frames. Pages with his face on them. Matías rips one down. “You’re famous, my friend. Look.”
“What does it say?” Jack asks.
“Businessman missing. Reward for his whereabouts.”
“Reward?” Jack asks.
He goes to rip one of the pages down, and the next thing he knows, hands are pulling on him. Other hands push Matías out of the way. It seems he is of no concern to them. Uneasiness flows in Jack’s veins. Pulling and pushing the grips and restraints away, he tries to run away. But suddenly, there’s a hood over his head, and he gets a punch to the gut. Wrists are crossed and zip-tied, and he is being pushed into a vehicle.
ANNE
Actions play and replay like a movie reel in Anne’s mind, moving forward, then rewinding. The look on Dredd’s face. Stepping forward. Stepping backward. Forward, back. Knowing he had lost. She should have warned him. She felt guilt as some part of her emotionally reflected on right and wrong. Call it moral judgment. In the end, he was fucked. Beaten. Watching his quarter second of free fall. It came quick, the impact of his body meeting the trees. The thud. Smacking the wind right out of him. It was only sounds. Afterward, it was as if he had never existed.
Cinnamon’s arms wrap around Anne, warming her ribs. They lie on their sides, Cinnamon’s chest expanding behind her, pressing into her back. Feeling the constant rattle of steel wheels over joints in the rails, she looks out at the landscape of flat pastureland with a train of clouds floating above. Three strands of rusted barbed wire.
Cinnamon whispers into Anne’s ear. “It’s a relief. He’s really gone.”
“We’ve been freed,” Canary says. She’s sitting cross-legged with the kids lying off to the side. “All the things we had imagined, daydreamed about but never spoke aloud, like maybe he’d OD, get hit by a car, beat by someone who’s fed up with him, someone stronger than any of us. And it’s a girl with some grit who comes to lift off the burden.”
Anne lies silent, appreciating the moment. Lost in her thoughts as she reviews her actions. She dealt with her anger. Cheeks burning, she felt it rise and immediately released it. Let go of it. Searched and found her inner quiet. But her violence rattled her. Violence she had inflicted on a member of her own family. She has her own demons, but what she isn’t, is a pushover. A person can take only so much abuse before they either go under or rise above the abuse. Or they stand their ground and create change. She realizes that now.
And Cinnamon squeezes her, tells her, “You stood up to oppression. You realize that, right?”
“Violence begets violence,” Anne replies. “There will no longer be a division of people. We’re a family.” Reaching for Cinnamon’s hand, squeezing it, she says, “I need this.” Lifting her head, looking at Canary, she says, “We need this. We need one another.”
From the opposite side, Trot says, “We’re so different but the same.”
They fall silent, and there is only the sound of air rustling in the open door. Anne and Cinnamon get up. Anne presses her hands against the rusted metal of the car. Running her fingertips over the scrawls, trying to imagine the years and decades of hauling every sort of cargo imaginable and the procession of train hoppers, anonymous but for the initials etched or scribbled on these walls. How many of those who traveled here before her were also breaking away from an abusive or oppressive home life? Uprooting themselves from everything familiar just to take back control and walk away from a life they no longer accepted.
Closing her eyes, she can’t unsee it. Dredd’s face keeps appearing in her mind’s eye. Anne knows that she’s on a hormonal roller-coaster ride. And it seems that Cinnamon can sense her unease. The girl grabs her shoulder, tells her, “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I might’ve killed him—killed someone else.”
“Like your brother? Look, I don’t think you killed either of them. If you did, it was self-defense. You’re a strong person. They were weak people, trying to make themselves feel strong by bullying others. You were protecting us—all of us.”
“I’m a confused person. My life has been tense and confrontational, filled with nothing but friction.”
“Not anymore. Everything that has happened to you was preparation for this moment.”
There is something about Cinnamon’s touch—something that Anne has never experienced, never felt. Is it love? It is an emotion—Anne knows that. And it feels good. It is also a form of caring. Desire. Something her family never knew. They kept her down for so long, in a shell within walls built around all kinds of bad. A mother who never cooked or cleaned, never expressed concern or affection for her children. A father who worked, only to come home and drink and order everyone around, making demands, putting others down with all sorts of derogatory comments, stealing from them any vestige of self-esteem or confidence.
Turning around to embrace Cinnamon, Anne tells her, “I feel like a soldier who’s been in battle since birth. For seventeen years. But being with you and Canary and Trot, I feel alive.”
Cinnamon hugs her tight. Feels the warmth of her embrace. Her arms. Her body.
Anne wonders where she would be if Trot’s family hadn’t relocated to Tennessee. Where would she have ended up? In school she had people she called friends, but were they really? People she could trust? She had always questioned that. Like her followers on Facebook or Twitter. Fake friends. Just names that really didn’t know her, making snarky puns, one-liners, and comments for likes and follows. Fakes, all of them. Just a bunch of nobodies sitting behind a keyboard casting judgment, saying things they would never say to your face. It was toxic. None of them had any real concern for her. And the feeling was mutual.
They release each other. Even with all the dirt and stink, there is something beautiful about Cinnamon besides her smooth skin, her petite build, her toughness.
And she asks, “What’s the plan? Where we headed?”
They will ride the train until they see the sign for Sanger, Texas, where they’ll hop off. Divert eyes and attention. Gather some supplies. Find a place to camp. Then catch back out. Travel through Texas and head for Arizona. By Cinnamon’s best guess, they’re in Oklahoma now.
What Anne really wants is a bath. Just for a night. To clean up. Lie on a bed with fresh sheets, lie with Cinnamon.
“What about a hotel?” Her heart skips at her own suggestion.
“A hotel?”
“I got money. We could find a cheap one for the night. Shower and relax. Catch out after that.”
“Girl, you done lost your mind? That’s food. That money is for your survival. We’re called ‘dirty kids’ for a reason.”
That glimmer of hope hidden beneath despair dwindles and drifts. Anne says, “I get it. Was just a thought.”
Smiling, Cinnamon tells Anne, “I know we been riding for who knows how long. Feels like days mixed into months. But that’s the rail. It’s a grind. Like I said, once we get into Texas, we’ll hop off in Sanger, get out and get some supplies. You’ll forget all about Dredd. Move forward.”
“I get it,” Anne says. “I just . . .” She hesitates.
Concerned, Cinnamon touches her face. “You what?”
“I never been outside of Tennessee.”
With a look of surprise, Cinnamon says, “Now you’re shitting me for sure.”
“No. Everything I’ve seen so far—it’s all new. Breathtaking. It’s magical, and it’s frightening. It’s all these feelings and emotions rolled up into a ball, tugging and pulling me in all directions. My family never took us much farther than the grocery store, or one of my dad’s friends’ places in the country to shoot guns while they drank beer and played cards.”
“Holy shit. You never visited relatives?”
“No. Nothing interesting about my upbringing. No culture, unless you mean the culture of pissing and moaning and the occasional ass-whipping.”
“I’m without words, in total shock.”
Trot sits with his legs hanging out of the boxcar, smoking a cigarette. Turns back to Anne and Cinnamon and says, “It’s true. She told me that, and I said, ‘You gotta get out of this town. There’s an entire world out there you ain’t ever seen.’”
The day passes. Everyone sits with their backs pressed into the car’s wall. Digging into their packs, sharing what snacks they have. Snickers bars. Apples.
Passing through landscapes and towns, they watch for signs. The train slows, stops to reconnect to other tracks. They wait and watch, see a sign for Durant. Then there’s the crunch of gravel. Feet digging in. Lungs huffing. Trot glances out of the boxcar as a backpack tumbles in through the door opening. One hand braces on the door; the other slaps down on the floor. With a grunt, a young man swings up, hooks a heel on the floor, and lizard-crawls into the car.
Eyes meet as he flops onto his back on the stained and splintered floor. Cinnamon stands over him and yells, “Doc?”
Rolling over onto his elbows, he grins. Gets to his feet and says, “Well, I’ll be dipped in dog shit. Cinnamon?”
Behind him comes more heavy breathing, and another pack thuds into the boxcar, followed by another body. Another and another. One by one, more train hoppers share space with Anne, Cinnamon, Canary, and Trot. Bringing more life, more energy, to the band of travelers.
Doc’s black derby hat makes him look like a bartender in a Wild West saloon but for the orange feather stuck in it. He has tattoos under his eyes, but they are too smudged by dirt for Anne to make out the images. A thick, curly beard and mustache, dirty bandanna around the neck, T-shirt and vest, and raggedy Carhartts with a hammer loop. Combat boots complete the ensemble. His arms spread wide, wrapping around Cinnamon. “Oh my Lord, where have you been? It’s been six months or better. Thought that crazy you bunked with from time to time had maybe eaten you.”
“Good news is there’s no more Dredd!” Cinnamon bubbles. “These are my friends, my new family.”
Doc eyes Anne, Trot, and Canary with her brother and sister, hand in hand. Tips his hat. “Nice to make everyone’s acquaintance.” Then he introduces his crew of misfits. There’s Spider, with his head shaved on each side up to the temples, where his locks go wild and wavy. Inferno is a youngish man with burnt-sienna skin and a spiked Mohawk that looks like black flames. He wears a sleeveless leather jacket, camo track suit, and combat boots. Sours is the lone female—dark hair with blond tips down to her shoulders, a stud through her nasal septum, a tie-dyed T-shirt cut just above a navel with a silver belly ring through it. She wears a baby face caught in a continuous pout. The Conductor has a face of stone, tattooed with ink lines that look like scratches under the patchy beard. He wears a cotton ball cap with fishhooks on one side of the bill and a small tire weight on the other side. He looks lean and sinewy in his sleeveless jean jacket, no shirt. Tattooed arms. He has an acoustic guitar strapped over his shoulder. Where did that come from? Anne wonders. Each of them nods. Everyone sits. Some put their packs behind their heads, stretch their legs out.
