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I shake my head as I turn around and look for my next move. To the left leads downhill towards the tourist shops and hotels. That is closer to home. Off to the right is desert but going that way would mean going away from home. Straight ahead is more local houses, but I’m thinking once I pass this town I’ll be in the desert, and I’ll at least be headed for California. I just have to get out of this territory.
Straight it is then.
If they find me, I’ll be too weak to defend myself. The knife attached to my ankle won’t help me much. The gun in the back of my pants only has one clip in it. I might get a few hits, but my aim is shit right now.
I stick to the shadows, holding the purse and quietly walking through alleyways. It’s got to be the middle of the night, considering the moon lies directly above my head. The lights are off inside the little homes and the only sounds to be heard are stray cats going through trash bins and the occasional car driving by in the distance.
It takes me longer than it should to walk through town. I’m more injured than I realized, and walking even just a few blocks puts into perspective that I’m in the roughest shape I’ve ever been in my life.
An hour goes by of sliding through neighborhoods and the town of Salvatierra. But once I’m past the last row of houses, the only thing that’s in front of me is desert. Maybe it’s a good thing, and maybe it’s a bad thing. I’ll be exposed, but I don’t imagine there will be many people over this way.
I’m thirsty, though, and hungry. My body aches and my eyes are throbbing. Looking down at my shirt and hands, all I see is red. I made a mess taking Santiago’s head. My knife is good, but it’s not meant for dismemberment.
My feet drag across the sand and dirt. They’re starting to protest these ridiculous shoes but being without them I’d only be in worse shape.
I wish I could trust hitchhiking. I could make it home by tomorrow. But I can’t. I don’t trust a soul in Mexico. They might all be tied to Santiago. One wrong move and I’ll be dead.
It might take me days, weeks even, to get home.
But I’ll get there.
* * *
Fuck.
I hope like hell it’s not a mirage that I see in front of me, but the abandoned looking gas station up ahead is exactly what I need right now.
I’ve stumbled more times than I can count. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but I think the sun has came up and went down again. It’s barely risen now, the sun just beginning to peak over the hills in the distance.
I can barely swallow at this point, it feels like cotton has filled my mouth, my tongue so swollen I can’t even open my mouth.
I make it to the abandoned station, pushing open the glass door that has an ancient bell attached to the top. It barely rings, just makes a flatpingin protest before tunelessly rattling around. There’s inches of dust and grime covering every surface, and it looks like this place was already ransacked ages ago.
My heart sinks with dread. I don’t think I’ll make it if I don’t get something to drink soon. I look around, hating that the windowless building makes it impossible to see. I lost my phone back at the house before the explosion. I’m shit out of luck.
I don’t know what kind of shit might be crawling around here in the dark. Poisonous spiders, snakes, or other nasty ass critters that can kill me with one bite. That shit doesn’t bother me, but it’s also how I don’t want to bow out in this world.
I fall behind the counter, seeing the cash register already busted open and emptied. Stray newspapers and other items litter the shelves and floor. Nothing of use. No food. No water. My arm sweeps a shelf underneath the register, blindly searching for something. Anything.
When I hear atink, I freeze.
My stiff fingers wrap around a glass bottle, and pulling it out, I see a half empty bottle of very, very old bourbon.
This isn’t what I need. It’s probably going to be shit, anyway. But I’m near dehydration and can’t take much more. I twist off the rusted cap and guzzle down the contents, the liquid tasting off and not fresh in the slightest. I gag through the swallows, and only pull the bottle away from my lips when I’ve swallowed the last drop.
My arm falls, and my fingers release the bottle. It falls to the ground with a crash, the glass breaking as if it was on its last leg.
Gripping the purse in one hand, I stumble towards the bathroom in the back. The door has been broken off its hinges, and the bathroom is nothing more than a sink and toilet, the bowl empty and stained brown from rust and years of misuse. I turn the sink, frowning but not even surprised when nothing comes out.
I glance in the mirror that has a large crack right down the middle, my eyes widening at the sight in front of me. The face paint from days ago is still on but smeared and wore off in some spots. Blood paints my face is other areas. I look like a sick version of the Joker, I realize. My dress shirt has blood splatter on it. I had to get rid of the coat yesterday. When the sun was at its hottest, it was unbearable to have that extra layer on.
I drop the purse on the side of the toilet. Letting my feet slide out from under me, my back drops down the wall until my ass hits the dirty ground.
Maybe I can just rest a few minutes, I think.
I’m so fucking tired.
* * *
